Lost in Luca Land

So just what has little Potatoe Head been up too?

Well have so much to tell you, yet at the same time… it’s really not much at all.

I just feel like I should post because its been soooo long and the festive season is kicking off and I’m all amped up about it so I thought I’d let out some creative energy by writing.

I love this time of year. I know it can be a sad and lonely time for some but I just love getting all up and around it. Gimme all the decorations, all the gingerbread, all the carols, all the screaming kids and all the twinkling lights. Gimme the expensive wrapping paper that make my presents look like they’re wrapped in art work. Gimme the KK’s, the secret santas and  gimme that stupid, scary looking elf on the shelf.

 

So it’s been over 3 months since my last post. I know this because it’s the last time I had my hair done and I’ve just booked in for it to be done next week, which means its been like over 12 weeks. Needless to say my hair is looking a frightful mess. This time I have sworn to myself to get a mum appropriate hair do that I can maintain and up keep. No more bleach.

Everyday on my travels, I’ll stumble across something funny or horrendous that happens as a Mum and I say to myself, “I must write that in my next blog post”. But then of course in true Mum style, I forget and here we are 3 months later, still not clear on what I’m about to write.

 

I’ll start with…

 

Today our little birdie is officially 18 months old. (That’s 1 and half years old to people who don’t have babies) Before Luca came along I never understood the whole “My baby is 14 months old thing. Why didn’t people just say “She’s a year and a bit.” But of course I totes get this now. Development happens so quickly in little ones with each month bringing new leaps and bounds in growth and abilities.

Like this week for example. Luca has been pulling away from me a bit lately and my heart is a little wounded from that. She’s a toddler now. She doesn’t need me as much… or so she thinks. And when Lach holds her and cuddles her I swear she’s looking at me as if to say ‘Har har! Look at me having so much fun with Dadda and not you.’

I’m not imagining this. She actually pushes my face away when I try to get in on the action. I’m wounded. Little minx!

We’ve only just stopped breastfeeding too. Because , well, she’s a big girl now and doesn’t need it. She just took a suck one night and then spat it in my face, yelled “No’ and rolled off the bed. And that was it. After I wiped my own milk juice from my face, I went into shock. I felt like she’d just slapped me in the face and I also felt that sad emotion sweep over me knowing that my little baby isn’t a baby anymore. Where has she gone? One minute she was a tiny doll, and then ‘BOOM’…a face slapper!

So she’s a year and a half old and already so tall. She looks like she could be 3. Everyone tells me she’s going to be a basketball player. I don’t even like basket ball. I hope they’re all wrong.

I do know that she will be that lanky prep kid that looms a foot taller than all the other cute, little preps when she starts school. No doubt she will be in the back row for all her school photos. (I always wanted to be in the back row)

But I am totally and utterly in love with her. Like completely in love with her. Everything she does and says has my undivided attention. I eye google her like I eye googled my husband back when I first met him. I’m so in love. Sickly in love. Her little face, her soft skin, her warm, vinegary breath.

Everything about her at the moment has me all gooey. I sniff her every chance I can get. I literally chase her all over the house and tackle her to the ground just to get a good sniff. Her smell makes my eyes roll back in my head. It’s that good.

 

My voice now vibrates at a decibel higher because I talk with such excitement and enthusiasm to her. Like I’m an actor on playschool or something. I say the silliest stuff and do the stupidest of things. Over and over and over again just to hear her giggle. I do it so much that she gets over me and doesn’t find me funny anymore. I get a little heartbreak every time she does this too. Like another slap in the face.

She really is breaking my heart these days but I’m so in love with her that… (oh my gosh, I’m actually going to say this)… I’m clucky!

There it is.

I said it.

Wow!

A year and half ago when I was deep in the newborn storm, I was like

“Oh my lordy. How. On. Earth. Do. People. Have. More. Than. 1?”

“This is insane”.

“My parents were crazy.”

“Everyones crazy.”

“No way!”

“Never, never, never could I do this again”, I thought.

 

But now look at me. I’m saying it.

I could go round 2. (Not until I’ve been on my yoga retreat in Bali next May though of course)

It’s like she has me in a love trance. She has me so wrapped up in her at the moment. I don’t want her to grow up any more so my stupid brain starts thinking the answer is to have another one so I can preserve this feeling a little longer. What mind games she’s playing with me. Clever little genius.

We’re at that perfect age now, where she’s all chatty but can’t talk properly yet (so we cant argue). She’s eager to help out around the house by helping throw the washing around, weeding the flowers from the garden and taking the rubbish out to be strewn around the yard.

She lets me know when she’s finished eating by throwing it on the floor. Pure genius.

I wish I could do that too.

Just imagine…taking that last mouth full, throwing down your cutlery in utter contentment and violently swiping your plate onto the floor in a swift yet spectacular motion and yelling ‘Done’.

Everything she says and does is pure genius.

Like when she lets me know she’s been to the toilet by whispering ‘pooh-pooh’. I tell her how clever she is. (I wonder when that will stop? When does a parent stop thinking it genius and being proud of pooh-pooh moments?)

When will I stop being so surprised with everything she says. I’m guessing when she learns the word and concept of “Why?” Why, why why.

But seriously, she’s making life so good at the moment. And with Summer Solstice about begin and Mariah Careys Christmas album on repeat, there’s so much good juju around.

My house smells like a gingerbread house with all my oils being diffused, there’s presents to wrapped, baking to be done, festivities to be planned, glasses to be toasted, treats to be eaten, laughs to be had, BBQ’s to be burnt, beaches to be baking on.

So, so much good stuff going on.

If someone isn’t wearing a smile…lend them yours and let’s all be merry. Ho, ho, ho!

That’s what I’ve been doing of late. Surrendering to the fact that I just can not do it all… not right now anyway. And when I finally tore up the paperwork, (that’s a metaphor for my desires), put my hands in the air, gave in and surrendered, I felt an almighty shift in my mind. And it felt good.

I was going to start up a small business. I still might one day, but not right now. This business idea had me excited, pumped, fuelled. It bubbled with success… but along with that came that shit head, Anxiety.

Of course it came. I was about to launch my life into a whole new direction. It always lurks its filthy head upon change. “Peek-a-boo,” that cheeky fu*ker says as it horrifically, yet gently squeezed at my wind pipes.

I put it down to being nervous about the beginnings of a business. It’s totally normal to feel a bit cautious and nervous I kept telling myself. And I went on planning and dreaming up the idea with my buddy Anxiety, who was always hovering over my shoulder, slowly sipping at my soul.

 

I get a bit airy-fairy, shwarmy hippy here… bare with me.

I’d been doing lots of yoga of late and one particular week we were working on our throat chakras. It’s all about speaking your inner truth. You know, your REAL voice. The one that’s not being trampled on or being overpowered by negative self talk, lust, greed, envy, more, more, more and all that. Anyhow, I love all that hippy shit but anyway..

So I went to my rad mates salon for my 3 monthly hair do. Seriously, what mum has time to have their hair done every 6 weeks? Everytime I go there, I keep meaning to get a haircut that can be managed easily that doesn’t require regular fixing up. Like shaving it all off!. But every damn time I keep going blonder and  shorter and more styled like an idiot and I’m naturally dark brown so by the time 3 months sneaks up, my head looks like a cadbury’s topdeck block.

So continuing on, I was sitting there on my chair getting my topdeck fixed when I started talking about this business idea with my mate. (I tell everyone who will listen.) And I don’t know what happened but I started out the conversation all excited as usual, explaining what the business was going to be like, where it would be, what it’s going to be called, what would happen there. Allllll the plans.

Rad mate was listening intently and eagerly. And then my thoughts and words started to change and unravel. The voice I was scared to listen to, the one I had pushed down and buried, heaved its way up my throat demanding to be spoken. The words just kept spewing out of my mouth.

Nek minut, crazy person. I’m telling her it’s going to be too much on me, I wouldn’t be able to spend quality time with my baby girl, I’d be on the phone and computers all the time organising stuff and I don’t want Luca to see me like that, it was already putting pressure on my hubby and me, I’d have to be ‘ON’ all the time, there’d be no down time, I’d miss so much of Luca’s childhood, I’d be wearing so many ‘hats’ and basically,  I just wouldn’t be able to give %100 in any of the areas of my life. Every sentence I spoke made me feel lighter as I released them.

 

It was one of those light bulb moments. By the end of that hair sesh with Rad mate, I had so swiftly and confidently changed my mind about starting this business. Regardless of its success. My mind was so clear to let this opportunity go. And it felt so right.

I’d previously been telling myself and shit mate, Anxiety,  “If I don’t do it now, someone else will” “I’ll miss the boat”, “Do it, do it do it”

I never wanted to admit defeat that I didn’t or couldn’t do it, but here I was, admitting to myself that it was ok to NOT go ahead with the business. And like magic. Pure fu*king magic, I kid you not, Shit Mate (Anxiety) instantly left me. “Poof.”  “Be gone bitch”. “Your train has left”….(for now)

I literally skipped out of that salon a new woman. A new woman with a new outlook…with a new hairy.

A relief had been lifted from me. The heaviness I never even knew I was carrying left me… and even though Lach had my back %100 throughout the whole planning I could feel his relief lift as I proceeded to tell him that I didn’t want to go through with it anymore.

I guess I’d been feeling a bit lonely or dare I say, ‘bored’ with just being a mum. (There’s only so much pretending eagerly to be a helicopter I can tolerate before getting tired. Honestly, you try make a helicopter sound for more than 5 minutes. Even 1) Everyday I come up with an interesting activity for her, whether it’s a play date, walk, coffee, beach, park or just exploring. It’s tiring and sometimes I think its a bit boring… but underneath,  I really do truly love it. I need to be more grateful in this time.

 

And I know it’s ok to just be a Mum because that’s what I had always really and truly dreamed of being since I was a little girl. It’s what I wished for. My dream already came true.

Of course I have those days when I just want to say “Fuck it” and join in with throwing my weetbix all over the kitchen. (It really does look quite fun) and I know I’m more than ‘just’ a mum. But even being ‘just’ a mum is way, way, way, way, way more than enough. Mums make the world go round. (Literally-not-literally)

I want to be the best mum I can possibly be.

I’m already a Mum/wife/teacher/friend/artist/cleaner/cook/organiser/creatrix/allroundsuperstar. I don’t need to add more pressure by adding another hat of ‘Business Owner’.

Underneath I knew I couldn’t be the Mum I want to be if I went down this business path. I truly admire those woman who can successfully do it all. I see you all over Instagram. You’re inspiring. Some of my best GF’s do it…and do it incredibly well. They make it look fun. They make it look easy. It’s admirable but for me right now, the thought of it makes my Shit Mate (Anxiety) drool and rub his hands together with anticipation.

 

I’m not ready.  Not now….

There’s still plenty of time to do my business one day… And funnily enough,  since I closed the door to that opportunity , it allowed room for me to get creative, pick up my brushes and paint again which feels so, so right… And to top it off, another of my super rad mates offered to buy the painting fromme.

So I’m super stoked.

As one door closes, another opens.

 

So thanks Rad Mates. Thanks for being so rad and allowing me to bounce that off you, for fixing my hair, for purchasing my art… and for reading this  xxx

               

  I surrender myself to being your mum Luca… and I’m totally down with that ‘my little minnow’.

 

 

Nice work throat chakra. 

 

The day has come to an end. The sun has set, the birds are tucked away in their nests and everyone has a warm, full belly.  We’re all freshly washed and smell of calming lavender which marks the end of another day. Baby girl is tucked up in her cosy cot and her humidifier is humming quietly next to her. She easily dozes off, rubbing the fur of her teddies ear to gently soothe her to sleep. Ahhhh, ‘Me Time’’ starts now. 7pm, on the dot, every night. Another day as a mother is done.

 

This is the time when ‘most’ of us mothers can take a deep breathe, release it and sit to eat a decent meal – and perhaps even use cutlery instead of shoveling anything we manage to find into our faces with our fingers. Maybe even pour a wine or 2 and have an adult conversation with our spouses….or not!

 

I’m always in my pj’s at this time and thoroughly looking forward to zoning out in front of a good book or TV series after our dinner is done and put away.

I relax, get cosy, get dozy and unwind. We close down the house around 9.30-10pm. Yawning and content we turn off the lights, switch the heater to night mode, brush our pegs and quietly drag our tired bums into our bedroom to the snuggly vehicle that awaits us to take us to sleepyland…..

 

 

But wait, what’s that?

Is that the aroma of lavender blended with a hint of faeces?

Yes. Yes it is. The night pooper strikes again!

 

Every night this has been happening lately. Baby girl is poohing in her sleep. She’s saving them up all day and then, right when old mumma jugs is about to retire for the night, she locks and loads and ‘BOOM!’. She fires…

 

It’s an ordeal.

 

I have to change her without waking her up too much so she drifts back to sleep straight away. I have to be fully focussed, yet super calm. I have to do this with minimal lighting. I have to do this without smearing poop under my fingernails or getting it on her clothes. Sometimes I can do this stealthily but other times she wakes and mocks me by laughing at me.  If she wakes up fully, then I’m stuffed because then I can’t sleep and have to lie in bed and listen to her talking and moaning and winging until she falls asleep again. Which can take a while some nights.

 

My tummy gets all knotted up because just when there’s been enough silence to falsely elude me into thinking she’s fallen asleep, I slowly drift off… and then a sharp “Wahhhh” shocks me back into the land of the awake. My body jolts, my stomach lurches and my heart jumps out of my throat. Like I kind of get a mix between a real bad fright and a minor electric shock. Totally awake now, there’s no chance of falling easily into slumber.

 

Honestly, who poohs in the night? (scoff)

 

I know I shouldn’t complain of her going poop in the night. I’m well aware that some bubbas don’t even like going to sleep.

 

And I don’t all together dread it. Some nights when I’m on my origami pooh wiping missions in the dark (I say origami because, Oh My Lord, just how efficient can we mums be with those wet wipes? We can manipulate those wipes to just keep on wiping. Sometimes I even have a little competition with myself as to how many wipes I actually have to use to clean up a dirty bum. I think I’ve mastered it with two) Also, I secretly like it because I get to hold her so tightly. She gives the best cuddliest cuddles when she’s all dozy and half asleep.

 

In the dead of the night, when all is dark and quiet, this is when my heart sings the most and the mother-game in me is strong..

 

I hold her in the silence, nuzzle into her neck and take her allllll in.

Bit of a rant this one… but upon reflection, for me, I’m now gonna say that having a baby is the easy part… Continuing to have a happy relationship with your partner is the challenging part.

 

Now don’t go jumping to any conclusions here. I’m extremely head over heels happy with the man I have chosen to spend the rest of my life with. He’s supportive, sensitive, generous, loving, handsome, loyal and works his butt off to provide the beautiful life we live…  but sometimes I visualise punching him the face.

I love him the most of anyone but he has the knack to make me the most angry,  the most upset and the most crazed. And then can make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world too.

 

But when I became a mum, my title or job of being a wife slipped. Out of all my titles, it is the one I forget to nurture the most. And it’s the one that needs the most nurturing of all.

 

I really want to be that fun, loving wife I see in the magazines. You know the one. The well rested, smiley one. The one out in the field spinning around and around in the long, glorious grass with her offspring as her husband doats at her in the background. But instead I’m the tired, greasy haired, sunken eyed, hairy legged one, wearing smacky trackies that yaps like a small crazed dog when spoken to. I don’t want to be her. I don’t mean to be her. But I am her. I’m a cow.

 

I’m dubious about those ‘happy’ families I see in the streets. There must be some resentful feelings lurking under those happy, weekend smiles. I don’t understand how some women have a tribe of children and still manage to keep the relationship with their partner all sparkly and peachy keen. And exactly how does one’s marriage stay intact for decades when they have a litter  of children? This baffles me. Truly, it does. We have only have one child and we have to work hard at it.

 

I struggle to keep the balance. I am a mother, a teacher, a cleaner, a chef,  a daughter, a sister, a friend, an event organiser and a wife. I feel like I don’t give %100 to any of my titles. I feel like I can’t.

 

When I catch up with my girlfriends I feel like I never finish a conversation. I jump from one topic to another flippantly and then feel like I have to send a text message later in the day aplogising for not making any sense and I’m so on edge at 5pm when my husband gets home from work that I can’t help snapping at him or ignoring his poor tired face while I’m feeding the little lady, preparing her bedtime routine and not letting our dinner burn on the stove.

Sometimes I just feel like a shit wife.

 

Hugs. plain old, simple hugs. Hugs between husband and wife. Long, meaningful ones. They are rare these days. Or in the least, very fleeting. I hold our baby girl all day. She’s on me all the time. Up, down, up down. When she’s off me I enjoy the freedom of movement and don’t want another human smothering me. I forget that my husband needs to be held too… and I forget that that’s probably exactly what I need too. To receive a strong, loving cuddle from the one who loves me. To let me know that everything is ‘OK’ and that I still look fine in my smacky trackies and oily hair.

 

Sometimes I feel like I’m doing it all on my own. The washing, the food, the organising, the everything… but I have to remember we’re in it together. Being a husband and a Dad must be tough too. They kinda lose their best friend when baby comes along.  

 

And I don’t take the time to take care of myself or look pretty anymore.I don’t make that extra effort to impress him anymore. (Not that he cares but it makes me feel better when I do) The other night I was lying in bed, arms up behind my head, resting when something dark caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. My arm pits. My long, hairy arm pits. In shock, I jolted my arms down with the stealth of a ninja and sat there horrified. How did I let them get so long? I had forgotten hair even grew there. I hadn’t shaven them for weeks. I’d been too preoccupied.

 

I either don’t have time or completely forget to shave my legs, (or pits) blow dry my hair or even wash my hair. I want too but my priorities and time are other places. I’d always heard people say that women let themselves ‘go’ when they marry and have children but it wasn’t relevant to me at the time so it didn’t sink in. It does now though. It’s not that we want to let ourselves go. We have too.

Just the other day one of my girlfriends whom has 2 children had her mumma stop by her house to look after the bubbas so she could wash and blow dry her hair.

So it’s not that we chose to let ourselves go but we prioritise and organise our time differently now. Something’s gotta give so we adjust ourselves to what is really important. And funnily enough the way we look just isn’t that important any more. So we don’t shave. Don’t wax. Don’t moisturise. Don’t fuss about what to wear. Don’t wash our hair. I don’t even exercise anymore. I don’t do a lot of things I used to do.

Washing my hair these days is a luxury. Slipping into a pretty outfit…Heaven! Shaving my legs…oooooo so slippery, everyone touch them! Having a facial… Drool.  Doing 1 pilates session… I’m the fittest person on earth.

 

So once a happy, neat and tidy wife is now…untidy and grumpy. And that’s ok…because I know it’s temporary. It won’t last forever. I’ll get my ‘me’ time back… we’ll get our ‘us’ time back…eventually. But right now she needs us. She needs me. She needs everything from me and I’m gonna give it to her. And that’s ok.

 

And you know what else is ok? Packing up the fam and heading to the middle of nowhere for fireside snuggly cuddles and some much needed ‘us’ time…which is exactly what we did.

 

Hug your hubbies and pash your partners extra long tonight ladies.

8 Reasons Why We Need Human Touch More Than Ever | Psychology …

 

And just where do the days go? The months? The year? The entire year! It’s gone.

Luca is about to turn one. I can’t believe it. One minute I was a lost deer in a fog of headlights not knowing what on earth to do with a newborn and nek minute… BOOM! She One!

So much change and growing has been happening. With both Luca and myself. I’ve struggled to keep up with everything. Especially this writing thing.

With all this growing and learning I’m finding it hard to write about the past. To go back and remember what it was like at the very beginning. I had planned to write so much more. More about breast feeding, about her hip dysplasia and that heartbreaking brace we had to put on her. But there’s been so much development I can’t get on top of anything. All my jobs are only half done. If I do a load of washing it sits in the basket for days until I put it away.

 

I’ve been back at work for a while now. My mat leave all run out. That was a sad week. A real reality check. A big slap in the face that my baby was no longer a newborn and I had to snap myself out of the newborn storm and get back into reality. That sucked.
Some weeks I work 1 day, other weeks I work 4.

4 days work is way too much for me.

3 is bad.

2 is perfect and 1, well 1 is good.

I take my hat off to those full time working mums out there. My house turns into a dump when I work 3 or more days a week. Nothing gets done, Lucas food stays spluttered on the walls all week, we eat meals outta the freezer and I don’t get to spend quality time with my baby, which makes me sad.

I like working between 1-2 days a week. That’s my balance.

Luca is crawling, nearly walking. She’s got teeth. She repeatedly whispers “Dadda” in my ear all day long (which of course plays on my insecurities. ‘Does she love him more?’ ‘Why doesn’t she say my name damn it. I’m with her all day long, slaving and loving over her).

She’s everywhere and in everything. I leave her in the teepee only to  find her in the pantry. Leave her in the wardrobe, find her in the bathroom playing with the toilet seat. It feels like I have even less time now. Boss baby sleeps less during the day and when awake, demands entertainment. I’m her living, breathing Wiggle. I sing and dance and speak stupidly to her all day. I pop out of hidey holes and contort and climb under tables just for her pure amusement. My face constantly resembles one of those stupidly frustrating clowns with the ball mouth thingy you see at the show. But there’s so much pleasure in doing it. Just to hear her giggle is so rewarding. So I keep being a dickhead.

IMG_8188

 

I haven’t posted in awhile cause I just can’t finish typing an entire post. I’ve had one prepped for months about the overwhelming love, gifts, cards and kind words we received from everyone when we first ‘had’ her…  but I just couldn’t find the time to sit in peace and edit it. I feel like it’s too historical to post now. So I’m banging out this one.

Time has just gotten away from me and when I have a spare minute these days I’d rather just flop on the couch for a sec, stare at the wall and drool a little bit…or create shopping carts online that I never commit too.

That newborn feeling is lost to the past now. History. So much so, I’ve forgotten just how intense I found it and feelings of wanting another are lurking. Just kidding. One is enough right now.

She bit my nipple last week. More than once and very hard.  It was enough to remind me of the bodily sacrifices I endure creating human… and I’m not ready for more bodily harm just yet.

My stomach still resembles a thick packet of crepe paper no matter how much pilates I do… that’s a lie. I don’t do that much pilates. I’m too busy staring at the wall drooling for that. I keep telling myself ‘One day I’ll be fit again’ but deep down I know that’s a lie too.

 

I’m cooking. ALL the time. All day, everyday. Cook, cook, cook.  All I do is cook for her, pack it away into tiny little portion sized tupperwares and freeze it. I feed her, then clean her feed up off the floor, then I play with her, walk her, sing to her, beach her, put her down for naps, tidy the house, do the washing and then repeat it all again until the next sleep cycle. Its full on groundhog day. But I strangely like it. Its comforting in a way. She’ll change things  up every now and then by throwing in a new trick, nipple bite or tantrum just to spice things up a bit, but mainly it’s all just food related and counting down to her next nap so I can clean up the food related stuff and prepare for the next round.

She eats better than us.

For her dinner tonight it’s red lentil dahl with yoghurt and a sprinkling of fresh coriander followed by organic stewed, cinnamon apples and for us, well  I’m cooking a braised bit of nothing and serving it with a side of not much else. Yummo!

 

Anyway, thanks for reading me. It’s nice to finally have posted again… regardless of who reads it… or not. It feels good to be sitting vertically on the couch typing rather than horizontally passing out.

The boobs aren’t yours anymore. Hell, they’re not even mine. They’re hers. Don’t touch them, don’t look at them, don’t even think about them. Is now what I tell my husband.

 Those once youthful, perky sacks of fat on my chest are now soft flaps of stretchy skin that gather sweat underneath them and highlight my body with the miraculous side effect of creating life.

The ordeal a woman goes through with her boobs when supporting life is incredible. During pregnancy they’re full and bountiful and once the initial uncomfortable soreness goes away, you’re quite proud of them. Your tummy is swelling and your bosoms are the lushest and fullest they’ve ever been. You feel good.

 And then your placenta is taken out and holy shit, a cement truck backs on in and dumps a full load in each one of em. Unfortunately this doesn’t happen to EVERY mother. For some women their milk takes days, even up to a week and for some it never comes in due to a whole list of  colourful reasons.

 In my drug fueled high the night of Lucas birth, my midwife proceeded to milk my nipples. I wasn’t really prepared for that but I did feel a little uneducated with the whole breast feeding saga so I let her continue. At 2 am, sitting upright in my bed, covered in Lucas pooh and bits of my uterus my midwife proceeded to milk me. “This is how we get your colostrum out” she said smiling down at me. I awkwardly smiled back. She was sucking up droplets of my golden liquid into a syringe as she squeezed, pulled and tugged at my nipples.

Lucas mouth was too small and she was too weak to be able to suckle from me and this is how we were to feed her until she gathered her strength.

Wowsers! I didn’t see that coming.

I automatically thought she would just feed from me, but no. I had to milk myself for days. I had to learn how to milk myself and catch it in the syringe at the same time. It was a long, torturous process and when lazy, I pressed the buzzer for the nurses to come and do it for me!

They were so good at it.

“Buzzzzzz” went the buzzer and in would come a nurse.

“How can I help Sarah?”

“Could you please help milk me?” I would ask them.

 And just like that, there I was sitting up right in my bed being milked by an adult human.

A couple of days went by before I had mastered the whole catching colostrum thing. The liquid started getting thinner and paler and by day 3 my milk came in and I was told I would be able to breastfeed properly now…But no, Luca still wouldn’t suckle properly. My boobs ached and were begging to be emptied.

 I remember when my milk properly came in. The feeling of the milk ‘dropping’. Woman had told me I’d be able to feel it ‘drop’ but I never really understood until I felt it for myself.

It felt like a million, thousand tiny ants were trying to bite their way into my nipple. Like tiny electric currents surging through my nipples. Ouch! Milk started dripping out of my boobs.

 I remember I had woken up peacefully in my room, stretched out and yawned  and then I felt them. Hard, solid boulders and a soggy pyjama top sticking to my chest. I never imagined them to feel like that. I could literally knock on them like a piece of wood. They were ‘that’ hard.

Huge, blue veins pulsed under the thin skin. Ew!

My neck became an extension of my breasts.

Holy moly! They. were. HUUUUUGE.

And sore…

Oh my god!

So, so sore.

The pain hit me.

I had to empty them asap but baby girl still wouldn’t latch properly. I tried and tried attaching her and ended up causing ourselves so much grief. She was crying from frustration and hunger. I was crying because I felt pangs of failure, guilt, confusion and panic.

 The nurses were attempting to attach her to me by shoving and squishing her innocent little face against my rock solid boulders. She was choking on my nipples. It was horrendous. I wanted them to stop but I knew she had to feed.

 This went on all day. The shoving and crying.

 I felt really anxious that I wasn’t doing things right. Why wouldn’t she attach? She so desperately needed to feed from me but couldn’t.

 A searing, white hot, burning pain flooded my nipples as she tried and failed to suckle from me each time.

It felt like everyone was pressuring me to keep trying to put her on.

“Try again”

“Try again”

“It’s important you try again”

 Again and again and again her face was forced and smushed into me.

I tried and failed each time. And with each time came more pain and more tears. I held myself together with each attempt but silently whimpered when the nurses left.

I hated seeing her like that.

As a feeding time would approach,  I would get so anxious and the feeling of dread would bubble up inside me. This wasn’t in my plan.

 And then….. A lactation consultant was doing her rounds one morning and came to see me.

She offered me a nipple shield.

It worked.

That tiny latex nipple was a god send. It suctioned onto me and hallelujah! Luca started to feed.

She fed and fed and fed. A feeling of relief flooded over me. The weight, guilt, panic and frustration had been lifted. No more tears from either of us.Luca was a happy feeding bubba and I was a happy, relieved Mumma.

We fed like this all day.  

Untill…

Another bloody lactation nurse came in 12 hours later and scoffed at me for using a nipple shield.

“Who gave you that? Your milk is going to dry up if you continue to use that thing. Your baby will never learn how to feed from you using that”

 And she took it off me.

 I was so confused. So, so confused.

 One lactation consultant gave it to me, and another took it off me.

I began to panic and dread feeding time again. The tears came back. The anxiety, the feeling of failure and syringe feeding returned as she couldn’t feed from me.

 The nipple shield had solved all of our problems and now it was taken from me and the fear of god had been drilled into me for using it.

 I did the only thing I had to left to do.

The group text.

I got on my phone and sent out a message to my friend mummas asking their thoughts on the use of the ‘sinful’ nipple shield. And you know what?… 4 outta 5 of them had used a nipple shield for AT LEAST the first few months of giving birth and they had no problems what so ever with their milk drying up.

 It all of a sudden seemed so common to use one.

So right then and there I squashed my fearful feelings of dread and pain away, threw down my phone and stormed out (more like shuffled) in search of my nipple shield.

 God damn it, milk was seeping through my pyjama top as I shuffled through the corridor. The waft of oatmealy sogginess trailing behind me.

Using the shield was NOT gonna dry these puppies up, I thought. I had an overload of milk.

 I found the lactation consultant, demanded my nipple shield back and set off to feed my baby girl in peace.

I was successfully breastfeeding again…with a little latex help. But it felt so good to be feeding her in my arms.  

 And I continued to used the nipple shield for 5 months.

And my baby did not die of starvation.

And my milk did not dry up.

And she did learn how to suckle without it.

And I never felt anxious about breastfeeding again.

And we all lived happily ever after.

The end.

Driving home with The Boss (AKA, Luca) was an experience like no other. We tip toed across the bitumen, carefully carring her out of the hospital like she was going to break. Our hands awkwardly protecting her face from the harsh sun light, arms burning from the weight of her in the capsule, (Lifting dead weight. A sacrifice of bodily pain mothers do to make sure their cubs are comfortable) 

We strategically placed her in the car, strapped her in while fussing all over her.

Limbs, straps and buckles going everywhere.

We had practiced doing this at home but without the body.  It was way more awkies with a blobby baby body. She was so tiny that the capsule swallowed her and there was a lot of triple chin action happening.

She didn’t look very comfy in the thing.

 

On edge and full of excitement to get home, Lach and I belted up and began the drive home with the little human who made our family now three. I became incredibly protective.

Everyone on the road all of a sudden became a threat to us. “Indicate you idiot”, “Don’t you think you can cut us off like that”, “Slow down you moron” my hormonal mouth snapped.

I now realised what those ‘baby on board’ stickers were about. I always scoffed at them in the past. “As if that’s going to make people drive safer”. They don’t, but I felt like we needed one. I felt like everybody should know we had precious cargo on board for the very first time and that the traffic should part way for us to safely get our newborn home. An arch of olive leafs for us to drive under also.

Maybe even an applause.

 

Pulling into the driveway, alive and well, I heard myself say,

“This is it. This is really it. Shit’s about to get real”.

 

We nervously carried her into the house, through the kitchen and into our bedroom where we plonked her in her capsule on the floor and just stood back and stared at her.

And stared.

And stared.

“What do we do now”? I said.

“I guess we wait” Lach replied.

“Wait for what?”

“For the boss to tell us what to do”.

And that’s what we’ve been doing ever since she got home. Doing exactly what she tell us to.

We spend that first, cosy week sleeping, cuddling and feeding baby Luca. We didn’t leave the house. We didn’t want to. Long mornings were spent snuggling in the sheets, obeying her every sweet command.

 

But that did take me awhile to get used to. Her commands. Her being the boss of me. It was almost like I went through a grieving period for myself. Like I was mourning the departure of a part of me. Realising that I wasn’t number one in my life anymore. She was. Realising I couldn’t just do things when I wanted. Allowing someone to have complete authority over me. Making me let my cup of tea go cold. Not letting me have a shower, a pee, watch a full tv show, cook dinner, eat dinner, sleep, talk, breathe, live! I was now in her command.

 

Life was different.

If you yourself have had a baby then you will know, that nothing, no-one, no advice, opinion, book, blog, documentary of sorts can prepare you for those first few weeks at home.

On night six, I clearly remember sitting – no not sitting, slumping – slumping on the couch in a soggy breast milked, exhausted zombified state and grieving for myself. My freedom, our relationship, our life as we knew it. I don’t think I’d cuddled Lach properly in that six days until that moment of grieving. I held him so violently tight and just let it all go. It rumbled up so deeply through my entire body, it shook my insides as it came up out of my throat. I howled, and howled and howled. “What have we done” I sobbed. “What have we done?”.

 

I was exhausted, I was hungry, I was sore, emotional and hormonal.

 

I had been warned about the baby blues. Was this it? I’d never felt anything like it before. I was so incredibly sad. I was probably scaring the shit out of Lachlan. He must have been thinking I was losing it. Cascading headfirst into post natal depression or something (which mind you, I was terrified I would get because of my anxiety.) He held me tightly back and I swear he was also crying . He felt it too. The giving in and sacrifice of his life. I (we) lost it for an entire 15 minutes before I suddenly sat up, wiped the snot on my sleeve, took a deep breath and realised there was no going back. I couldn’t just shove her back into my guts and sew it up again. I picked myself up and took myself into the shower and let the hot water wash the freedom and life as I knew it off me. I watched the old me swirl down the drain. And I haven’t felt those feelings again since.

 

I feel new feelings. Good feelings. Ooey,  gooey lovey feelings.

Now we can’t imagine life without her. In fact life is much better with her.

We have substance. A purpose. Fulfilment.

Our relationship is at another level. Our love for each other changed. It grew, deeper.  I admire Lach as a father. He is beautiful with her. We are parents. We created.

 

We would race through house when we heard her waking from naps to see who could get to her for the first cuddle. Pushing and shoving each other all the way through the house to her basinet. Trying to be the last one to touch her as she drifted off to sleep. I’d pat her head then go to leave only realising Lach had just patted her after me, so then I’d pat her back, then Lach would, then me… Back forth, back forth like idiots until one of us would laugh a bit too loud and she would wake. Idiots!

 

We were so in love with her. With us. We were a family. The cycle is complete with her.
But don’t get me wrong, keeping the relationship all peachy is hard work. Come the end of the day when we climb into bed, our goodnight kiss is a mere smudge of a thing these days. Barely just lips touching from pure exhaustion. I can barely manage saying goodnight before I start dribbling and pass out. “Goonigh…”

 

 

Liked it? Then ‘like’ it.

I’ve been super slack with the blog lately. At the beginning all I wanted to do was share my new experiences and shout them out to anyone who would listen.  But lately I started to lose my mojo for writing and as I lay in my bed in the wee early hours of the morning, trying to get back to sleep after dummy-ing baby bird back to sleep for the fiftieth freakin time, I found myself asking myself why I was writing the blog at all? And after pondering this for a bit, my answer was, ‘I write them for Luca’.  I write them because I want to create something special for our baby girl to look back on when she’s all grown up. I want her to know what we went through. What she was like to bring home, how we as parents coped and how we all grew together as a little family.

I remember myself as an 80’s kid, spending many Saturday mornings sifting through our family photo albums. Rummaging through the cupboards, spreading the albums all over the lounge room floor, admiring myself as a baby, reading the little quotes and dates my mother had written under each photo. I always asked my mum to tell me the story about how I was born. I used to love those albums and I appreciated my mum for putting them together. I want Luca to have the same, only now in this day and age the family photo album is a bit different. She’ll have a novel of her life to read (this blog) and an Instagram account to admire herself as a baby. So thats why I write them.

That being said, lets talk about the hospital experience. Everyones is different.

Baby bird was pulled, tugged and ripped out of my womb and placed on my chest, and in a groggy, thick cloud of drugs I held her closely as my body uncontrollably convulsed. (side effect of epidurals) Her little head bounced on my chest, my jaw chattered as I tried to caress my newborn with a shaking hand. Nausea and light headedness flooded my body.

I welcomed her to the world and held her for 5 minutes, new and fresh as she suckled from me but the world around me started caving in. I couldn’t breathe and I felt like I was going to vomit and pass out at the same time. This was not how I wanted to hold my newborn for the first time. The convulsions came hard and fast as my entire body vibrated on the surgeon’s table.”I’m going to be sick” I heard myself say. “Can you take her off me”. I can’t believe I actually said that. They’re definitely not the words I had imagined myself saying in that moment. Lachlan gently took Luca from my chest and was gone. I lay there watching my body move from being tugged at on the other side of the curtain. ‘Just breathe” I told myself. Yuk! It was an unsettling feeling but this is how most c-sections are. The sick nauseous feeling, the convulsing, and the drugs taking over your mind and body.

Finally they wheeled me out on the bed and as we turned the corner I saw the most beautiful sight I’d ever witnessed. Lachlan sitting on a chair, shirt off, holding our baby girl against his bare chest. He looked up at me and I swear in that moment all his guards were down and I was staring straight into his soul. He was so vulnerable and in love with the baby girl in his arms. The relief that swept across his face was visible, knowing that I was ok and we were all going to be alright. He gently placed Luca back on my chest and we both just stared and smiled like idiots for what seemed like forever.

After forever ended, I was wheeled into a room where I would spend the next 3 nights. I hadn’t planned to be staying at hospital. I was expecting the in-and-out, calm, water birth. I expected to be home the same day I gave birth. I hadn’t wanted to stay in the hospital but I was glad that I did, for a few reasons. Obviously the first is that I had just been slashed open in surgery and needed monitoring and drugs. Secondly, I could press a button and midwives would come to my call and give me whatever I was asking for. Thirdly, I needed help breast feeding. Baby bird couldn’t strongly latch onto my silly little nipples so after much controversy and a small shit fight with the lactation consultants, I ended up using a nipple shield. (Ooooahhh. Shock, horror!) Fourth, I love getting food that’s wrapped in stupid little containers and plastic – cereals, two fruits, triangle cut sandwiches, custards, jelly. I love plane food and hospital food is similar. And Lastly, I didn’t have to get out of bed much. And when I did it was to go to the bathroom. And holy moly catching the first glimpse of myself in the mirror was a bit of a shock. Seeing my ‘bits’ for the first time in a while was scary. After all the poking, pushing and prodding down there, it was looking as battered as a 19 year old leaving a rave at 6am!

In the middle of the night as I held Luca so tenderly, she poohed on me. 3 times! Thick and black like tar. It just kept coming. So much so, that by the third pooh, I just dusted it off and lay in it. I never would of thought I would do that. Ew! But I did and I didn’t care. She could’ve pooh over me all night and I wouldn’t have cared. She was amazing.

I knew Luca was going to be a good baby from the time we spent in hospital because I had to share a room with another lady which was testing. Well she was more like a girl. She was young and well, lets see, how do I explain her with out insulting her… She lived in Corio. A young, new mumma from Corio. I spent my entire stay listening to her and her visitors. Very entertaining. She lived with her boyfriend’s mum and she kept telling her boyfriend he had to get rid of the dogs before she brought her baby home. Poor dogs! Her boobs didn’t make any milk and her baby screamed and shrieked the entire stay as he was starving. She left him screaming in his cot too. My heart bled for that little baby. The midwives took him away from her at night because he just screamed and screamed and screamed from starvation. He ended up having to be formula fed to keep him satisfied. I didn’t even know that some of us couldn’t make milk. I thought breastfeeding was guaranteed. But no.

Baby Luca slept through the screaming the entire time. Our shared room was like a yin/yang room. At night my side was quiet and calm with soft, relaxing, seaside music playing, and at day clean, tidy, flower strewn and sun-lit. No crying baby just little murmurs. Bless.

The other side was the opposite. 

Fluorescent lights beaming down on her and her baby the entire time. Loud visitors and arguments with her boyfriend. She was actually really rude to the midwives too. I didn’t like her but felt sorry for her that she couldn’t breast feed. She did give Lach and I plenty of laughs though the curtain though. We’d sit there trying to not laugh out loud at some of their uncouth banter.

Over all, I had a pretty good experience in hospital.  Partly because I was so high on Endone and partly because I have a lazy personality and I like staying in bed and having people bring me things. I literally sat in bed for 3 days staring at my toes at the end of the sheets, then staring to my left at Luca sleeping soundly in her basinet, then back at my toes, back at the basinet, toes, basinet, toes, basinet. I was completely amazed at myself for what I had made and still in disbelief.

The midwives at Geelong hospital were all super lovely to me, gushing at Luca every time they came in my room, checking my boobs were making milk, joking and laughing at me for all the stupid things the Endone was making me say and do. And of course they loved Lach too. A handsome new Dad playing the roll like a boss. How attractive.

Its not all roses for everyone though. One of my close mates who recently gave birth had a not so good experience there. Everybody is different.

I had asked Lach to bring me some big knickers that wouldn’t irritate and rub against my scar. You know, like nana knickers. I woke up from a nap with Lach standing at the end of the bed all serious looking. “I bought you some pads, some strawberries, bananas and these… as he held up the biggest, sloppiest, rank, nana knickers I’d ever seen. That was it. I lost it. My stitches nearly popped. I thought they were the most hilarious things I’d seen. I never imagined myself wearing those. I was in so much pain from laughing. Turns out they are the most comfortable knickers I’ve ever worn. Size 18 white nana knickers. In fact I still sometimes wear them now, 7 months on. They’re THAT comfy… and I have 3 pairs.

On the last day, I became overwhelmed. A bit flustered. A single tear. A slight rage. Only for a moment though. Maybe it was those baby blues I’d been warned about, maybe it was the breast feeding and the so many (conflicting) opinions from the midwives, maybe it was from the physicians rough handling my tiny Lucas hips or maybe it was being told that our perfect baby girl had displaced hips.

We knew it was coming. We were dreading hearing it.

“She has severe hip dysplasia like her father. She’s going to need to wear a brace. For 3 months. “.

The definition of birth.

1. An act or instance of being born:
2. The act or process of bearing or bringing forth offspring
3. Lineage; extraction; descent.

Let’s focus on point 3 here. ‘Extraction’.

For a little while I felt really disappointed in myself for having to have an emergency caesar. It made me feel like I didn’t give birth like a real woman should. Like I cheated, copped out, gave up. And I did give up. 30 hours of contractions did me in. Being at 7 cm dilatation for 6 hours was enough to break me.

I had to get out of the bath pool and say goodbye to our little sanctuary. Feeling sorry for myself, I hung my head as Lach guided me to the more clinical hospital room where they could stab my spine with a huge arse needle and monitor me. I was going to be induced now too, cause they said I’d been going for too long now.

Walking past the reception in the maternity ward I felt as if all the midwives had eyes on me. “Another one bites the dust” I imagined they were thinking.

I was looking forward to the relief the needle was going to give me. My girlfriends had told me about the bliss they felt when they had an epidural. And now I wanted that bliss.

Lach was petrified. He’s one of those people that won’t eat panadol and takes medication reluctantly. So a needle into my spine was freaking him out. I had to sign a consent form. The one that says if you get paralysed from the epidural, we can’t blame the hospital. Lach was hesitant but I signed that sucker without a second thought.

Give it to me now.

Over I bent, head resting on Lach’s shoulder and in comes the doctor…with a student. She administered the needle as she was explaining what she was doing. She was taking her time cause she was showing and explaining just what the fuck she was doing. I was slumped on the edge of the bed like a limp puppet as wave after wave of contraction hit me. “Giiiiiive it toooooo meeeeeee”.

She had to keep stopping whenever I had a contraction. Needle flopping about in my back and all. Poor Lach was so scared for me. I could feel his rage towards the doctor. Finally it was done and they laid me back down on the bed. It took a while for the epidural to work but slowly I could feel only one of my legs… which meant I could still feel the contractions but only on half of my uterus. So I was still in agony. Then my midwife rolled me onto my side and let the drugs drip down through my blood into the unaffected side.

And that bloody worked. So now I was just a head. A big dumb head on a bed. ‘Hello’. I was back. No pain. I couldn’t feel my legs, my body, nothin. Just a head lolling about on a bed. The relief I felt. I could talk now, look at Lach and comfort him that I was ok. I could even crack jokes again and play games with myself, like, ‘Wiggle your big toe’. ‘Nope, nothin’.

I was delirious. Asking the doctors what they were up to as they fossicked around down below. “To get things moving we just broke your waters” she said …. “Really? Wow! How much water is there?” “Now what are you doing?” I watched as my legs appeared under the sheets like mountains before me without even feeling them move. “Whhooaa, did you just move my legs? Now what are you doing?” I swear the doctor probably had her entire fist up ‘there’ and I didn’t even feel a thing.

Lach was in and out of the room at this stage, talking to the doctors. A nurse came in and rushed over to me. “Oh sweetie, your leg fell off the bed, let me just pick that up for you”. I think she even laughed a little. I had no idea. Just a dumb head on a bed.

Doctors and midwives were in and out of the room. There were beeps from the heart monitor which were monitoring baby birds heart rate. Breaking my waters did nothing so they shot me up with man made oxytocin (hormones) to induce me. I just lay there in a daze as Lach paced the room chasing the doctors around making sure they were doing their job properly.

Apparently my contractions skyrocketed (didn’t feel it) but little birdie’s heart rate dropped and slowed significantly. It was a scary sound hearing the heart machines alarm going off. Doctors raced in again and shot me up with something else to counteract the hormone and baby’s heart rate returned to normal. Lach was calmly panicking by now. He was so worried. His wife was a drugged out head on a bed and alarms and monitors were beeping all over the place. Our little baby didn’t want to come out and I couldn’t help it.

I felt helpless.

Finally the Doctor came in again and gave me two options.

1- Attempt the hormone induction for a second time with the risk that baby’s heart rate will drop again

Or

2- Take you in for an emergency caesarean

Option 1 was a definite NO. I didn’t want to hear my baby in distress again. Even so, I still had 3 cm to dilate before pushing out the baby in a posterior position.

I was tired and scared. “Cut it out of me” I whimpered.

At this point I was numb. Numb because of the copious amount of drugs in me but also numb because I had been defeated. I gave up. I had failed what our bodies are created to do. Give birth.

They wooshed me up under the fluorescent lights to surgery. Put a stupid hair net on me, dressed Lach in some stupid scrubs and into the surgery room we slid. Surgeons and nurses incessantly talking to me. Lach squeezing my hand. I shut down. I was in such a daze I remember water leaking out of my eyes but no sound coming out. I started to feel nauseous from all the drugs and my body was shaking and convulsing rapidly. I had no control over anything now. The sheet went up over my legs, guarding Lach and I from seeing my insides being taken out of me. I remember shaking hard, staring into Lach’s eyes, he looked so scared.  

I had no emotion. Just… nothing.

And then we heard it.

I’ll never forget it.

A baby’s cry.

Our babies cry.

Our baby’s first breaths, gasping for air.

And all of a sudden my emotions leaped up out of their druggy coma and came flooding out of my face. Out of my eyes and out of my mouth. I was a watery mess. The first thing we saw was a little vagina being lifted up over the sheet.

“It’s Luca” Lach managed to cry out. “It’s a girl, it’s Luca”.

And within seconds she was put on my chest, her tiny, wheezy cry filled our ears as she snuggled into me. Tired, in shock and relieved, the three of us lay there, just breathing each other in.

And even though my birth plan went to absolute, tear up the paperwork, ‘extracted’ shit…

I still gave birth. Incredibly.

And 6 months later, to the day, here we are. Baby girl, Lach and me. Just us 3. And we can’t imagine life without her now. You complete us. Happy half year Baby Bird.

Our final birth plan read like something you would read in a book called ‘How to Birth Organically’. No drugs, no needles, no doctors, no noise, no pain, no nursing students, no pooh. No, no, no, no, NO!

But heres how it really went down…

In the lead up to our due date I went through two boxes of raspberry tea in 2 weeks.

I was guzzling the concoction every minute of the day. Hot, lukewarm and cold. There were cups of the stuff strewn around our house on every ledge, table and flat surface possible. I drank so much the very thought of it makes me gag a little.

Apparently it’s suppose to get your uterus contracting and start your labor.

But so is walking briskly, climbing stairs, eating hot curries and ’a bit of attacking the ol pink fortress’;).

None of that worked for me.

The due date came and went. May 27. That day turned out to be hands down one of the saddest, heart breaking and darkest days Lachlan and I have experienced together.

Our pup Ash was getting real old but we asked her to hold on till the baby was due. May 27. She listened and obeyed the command like the beautiful obedient pup she was. Always wanting to please her masters. We wanted her to meet our new baby and be a big happy family together. But sadly the baby didn’t come that day and our beloved Ash looked up at us, so tired and told us she couldn’t wait any longer and she was ready to go.

Quiet tears streamed down our faces as we spend the long morning cuddling her in front of the fireplace until the vet arrived. The deep and painful sadness of saying goodbye to a beloved pet stays with you forever.

So on the day our baby was due to arrive in this world our other baby left it…and us.

The timing was uncanny. It was if our little girl Ash was making room for the new baby in our house and hearts. There’s no such thing as perfect timing when saying goodbye to our loved ones but this felt right. Our fur baby Ash required and had 100% of our love and affection and she would have come second fiddle when we bought the baby home. I imagine she would have been confused and sad that we couldn’t give her as much time as we once did and gave it all to the baby instead. So I feel like it was a blessing Ash left us when she did. I get wobbly chin every time I talk about it. Like now!

So moving on, pheeew, heavy!…

The only reason my labor began was because I went and had my uterus electrocuted. (Last blog post for those who don’t know what I’m talking about) followed by a second stretch and sweep. Our little bubba didn’t want to come out. It wasn’t ready, not cooked enough. But the doctors had me booked in for an induction at 42 weeks and I didn’t want drugs and man made hormones to be interfering with my birth.

I also didn’t want to go from feeling completely ‘no-pain normal’ to having intense and excruciating contractions within seconds. I didn’t think I could handle such agony all of a sudden and wanted it to be a gradual process. I reckon I would have been a full on throwing things, screaming, swearing and out of control birthing mother if that happened. I couldn’t imagine myself being all ‘calm-birth’ with that option. So I opted for the induction through acupuncture the day before the hospital was to induce me.

And, well, that went pear shaped but I did go into labor that evening.

I remember talking to my osteo, Amy, in the lead up to my due date. She told me that she absolutely loved her births, it was the best experience of her life and she would do it again and again if she could. I was shocked at this. I never knew woman could love giving birth so much. I’d only ever been warned of the pain and screaming. I’d seen it on the telly, in the movies, on the docos. Puffing, panting, screaming, blue faced pushing lying on a bed with legs spread.

So after hearing her stories I felt really positive that I was going to enjoy this. I became excited and impatient…and then finally the first pangs of a contraction hit me.

I was ready. Baby not so much. But my forced labor began anyway.

My midwife told me to try and go to bed at the first sign of labor. Get as much rest as you can before it gets too intense because you’re going to run a marathon.

“Nah, not me I thought, I’m going to cough this sucker out”, but I went to bed anyway.

When I woke up in the night I was beginning to contort my body into the fetal position at every contraction and my breathing became heavier. Bed became uncomfortable and I moved to the floor where I wiggled around and did the exact same movements.

Lach made me a little bed of towels in front of the heater panel at the end of our bed and by now I couldn’t lie and felt most comfortable on all fours, rocking back and forth, breathing in rhythm to the sensations my body was now riddled with. I started to make a strange sound along with each breath.. A sound that surprised me. A low, deep, throaty sound that I’d never made before. It was an embarrassing sound really. I thought I would be the silent type! But I went with it cause it felt good.

So I let it rip.

It got louder and more intense as the sensations became closer. I felt really calm. Like really calm. So calm that my eyes began to roll back in their sockets. Like I was on a really good high. I looked a real treat. In my saggy jumper, knickers, rocking back and forth, moaning like a koala on heat (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BMXBV9oLbVk ) with my eyes rolling back into my skull while creepily whispering “I’m ok” to myself.  

Without me knowing or giving a shit, Lach filmed me on his iphone, which has been quite traumatising to look back on. 

I moved from my little nest of towels to the shower and back and forth throughout the night. Lach would pat my head and bring me little plates of food and try to get me to eat. “You need your energy”. I would suck on a strawberry and spit it out. I was trying to get something out of my body and putting things in it felt weird. This went on for 13hrs before my midwife came over to check on me.

The relief when I saw her! I was sure she was going to take one look at me and send me to hospital, but no, I was only 5cm dilated. “I’ll come back in a few hours and check where you’re at then”. She came back 5 hrs later and checked again. “Only 6cm still, wait for two more hours and then come to hospital”.  I’ll meet you there” she said. That was the shittest news I’d heard. Two more hours sounded like a life sentence when in that state.

I’d been dealing with this shit, calmly for 20 hrs now.

I was still at home and I wasn’t dilating because baby was in the stupid, wrong, tasered uterus position. So I persevered. Another two hours and then we made our way in to hospital. I lay awkwardly in the back of the car as Lach casually cruised his precious cargo into G-town. I was in a zone, so focussed on and enjoying my super hormone high, that I don’t even remember the drive very much.  I imagine I was just lying there in the car having a quiet chat to myself.

I talked to myself a lot during labor. Kept panting to myself ‘I’m ok’. ‘This is normal’. ‘This is good pain’ ‘I’ve got this”. And I kept whispering to my vagina to ‘keep opening’.

Walking while in labor is real fun. It feels exactly like a small child is going to drop out between your legs… because obviously, that’s exactly what’s trying to happen. I hobbled on Lach’s arm into the hospital where we were greeted by Helen our midwife who led us to our suite. A quiet, dim lit space just for us.

This is where my baby would be born.

She had set it up perfectly. Soft, relaxing music was playing, the salt lamps were on and I could smell the familiar scent of clary sage burning in the oil burner. The pool was full and ready for the whale to enter its domain. She checked me again and I was only at 7cm.

Still a bit to go…

Helen our midwife, suggested I walk the stairs to try to get my baby to move into position. I really didn’t want too. I wanted to get in the warm water but I did what I was told. I was slipping out of my natural high by being in the bright lights of the staircase. The sensations were getting stronger and I was struggling to keep control. My throaty calls magnified by the acoustics of the staircase echoed through my entire body. It felt like little baby was armed with a hunting knife inside me and gashing at my womb trying to escape. Up, down, up, down the staircase I went until I could no more.

Back into the birthing suite, my sanctuary awaited me. The bath pool, my saviour. The warmth and pressure of the water felt like it melted my body as I floated around in there. Another dose of my hormones flooded my system as my eyes lulled back in their sockets. I was having a full out of body experience. I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

Another two hours passed.. Still at 7cm. I wasn’t dilating.

All that was happening down there was little boss baby still slashing around with that hunting knife like a little womb raider. ‘Wham, wham, slish, slash’

I was so exhausted and so tired that I couldn’t focus myself calmly through the sensations any longer. They were excruciating. The pressure on my back was too much. I felt like I was going to push out a pooh (literally, a pooh!) in the water and then drown in the nardy, murky water.

28 hrs in, I leaned into Lach’s lap and whispered the words I had been dreading to hear myself say.

“I can’t do this anymore. I need an epidural”. I was defeated.

 

 

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