Oooooh, ahhhhh

LGO will soon be eight months old. Shocking, isn't it? Well, it is a shock to me at least. The time has both flown and, at times, dragged. It feels, if not exactly an eternity, that we have known this little man our entire lives. All the cliches, about not knowing what it is to be a mother until you are one, unfortunately ring true. I love him fiercely, but at times I am less enamoured by how unrecognizable my life is with him in it. Sometimes it would be nice to have leisure time, time for the brain to idle just a bit instead of revving through the gears. Time enough for boredom to set in... and sleep to nourish. Ah!

Still, every week is marked by some amazing progress in his development. Funny how every minute milestone becomes a mammoth event in a parent's eyes: the famous firsts. How he can sit now without toppling over. How his two bottom teeth sparkle when he smiles up at you. How he giggles over some silly expression you've just pulled, and how you willingly make a fool of yourself over and over again so he'll keep smiling. And you're convinced all the while that that little smile is the most beautiful smile you've ever seen... The wonders are seriously manifold, and true to form, words seldom do them justice. His quirks are as remarkable to me as they are mundane to others. The way he rubs his bare feet together as if to generate sparks. How he delights in nibbling his toes and thus despises having socks on. How he has discovered how to squeal, and click his tongue. You memorize every last detail about him the way you do when you first fall in love. A baby has the power to infatuate. Deep down, I think I never really believed this, even though I hoped it to be so.

Enraptured, you notice all his little quirks, and the same spell is cast over you as if fairy dust were blown into your eyes. He is yours; he is divine and beautiful. The smell of his soft, pure skin intoxicates you, just as with a new lover. And through the hectic routine and the cumulative early morning exhaustion that at once distances you, he has somehow drawn you and your partner closer together. Between you, you feel an almost godly power, for together you have created this little prince, who is a wonder and a thrill to you both. You are in love again, and even though it is with a third party this new love unites you in a way you never thought possible. That is the magic of children. There is an addictive element to it, a magnetic pull that I now understand, though the element of hardship remains very fresh, very real in my mind. And despite everything, I scarcely believe I have the mental or physical wherewithal to do it all over again.

For us, Little Green is it. He is precious, and he is enough.

Little Green and Dick the Parrot

Was the last post date really 9 November? I can believe it, and yet I can't. Time has flown by at times, and virtually stopped at others... As I type this, Little Green is sat in a bouncy chair getting better acquainted with his new best friend: a colourful, as-yet-nameless parrot. Only now, three months in, can I truly see what all the fuss is about. All the tears and fears (no, not the band). All this stepping out in front of a bus business... Kids. Flesh and blood. Offspring. I really would give my left arm, and my right for that matter, for this little creature. I would give my spleen and my liver, too. I would become nothing more than a torso, for him. It's incredible when you think about it. Best not to dwell there, then. Just watching him stare in amazement at his parrot fills me with an unspeakable delight. Tears well, honestly. I'm not shitting.

That first smile, the first giggle, and every single one thereafter make the labour and ensuing colic almost bearable, almost forgettable. Okay, well, not quite. But I can see how, after months pass and the infatuation with your progeny grows in time with their little limbs and their teeny intellects, you may be mad enough to do it all over again. Nature's sly that way. We still will happily start and stop with LG. (Figure it's better to pour all of your love and resources into one human being than shatter and divide and kill yourself over two or three... The sibling argument is just that. An argument. You never hear the expression 'sibling love' or sibling affection' for a reason. Many sibs I know hate each other with a passion or are, worse, estranged. Case dismissed.)

God, he's just LOVING that parrot! Sorry, where was I? Three months is truly a revelation. Knock knock. There is a mini person in there. At last. And that little person is finally sleeping a 7-8-hour stretch of a night. That little person still cries at times but only at times, with real tears, for real reasons, or reasons that can almost be fathomed. Now the only obstacle in parenthood is other people. Well-meaning interfering people, who undermine you at every turn because surely that baby can't be warm enough, fed enough, loved enough. One of my own blood relatives -- who shall remain nameless for the purpose of this blog -- actually suggested we give Little Green up for adoption if we couldn't look after him properly. At the time Mr Green and I were contemplating where we should spend our 10-year anniversary, which falls shortly after LG's first birthday, assuming he would stay with grandparents for a week or a long weekend. Hurry, contact social services... I'm not quite sure what the etiquette is for dealing with well-intentioned, poorly delivered 'advice', or indeed, those who deliver it, but I am more than open to advice on this front.

Only other struggle is vis-a-vis reclaiming a sense of self, which no doubt will come -- it will come, won't it? -- at some point as Little G gets older. I love being a mother, am coming to love it more than I thought I might (even though, admittedly, the singsong mummy is a shoe that fits like a stiletto). And yet, I don't want to be slave to it either. I don't want it to be the sum of all I am. Not a shadow of a doubt that the most radical transformation in becoming a mother is this sudden loss of identity, which is not so much removed but lobotomised. How do you get it back? Do you ever? I know that an integral part of being a mother, no matter what age your child is, is being taken for granted. Is bending over backwards, being compromised, repeatedly, in the name of love. Women have done it for centuries, and will continue to do so for centuries more. And while I feel proud to have joined this selfless tribe, I fear I still have a long way to go to qualify in their ranks. To become selfless enough.

Jumping in front of a bus

Incredibly, another week has passed. No wonder everyone tells you to take lots of photographs of your newborn; it is shocking how they grow before your eyes -- not like weeds exactly but more like bamboo! Right now the little bub is sleeping peacefully in his new bouncy/vibrating chair and even though I feel like a bad mother for leaving him in it, he looks far too peaceful to be roused. Yet more days of high highs and low lows in the Green household. The battle against the dark forces of colic rages on, and we are no nearer to a solution. (If anyone has suggestions, by all means...) The only thing worse than the incessant screaming that steals away his breath and the sheer pain that turns his face scarlet is how helpless we feel as parents to alleviate the discomfort. Amazing what the need to fart can do! But as usual on this blog, in my quest to vent and paint an accurate picture of events, I fear I have skimmed the surface of the happy and magical times -- when it is just the two of us in a darkened room in the wee hours and he is wide awake and staring deep into my eyes... Or when I am holding him, stroking his back and nuzzling his cheek and the downy hair on the back of his neck. Words can't describe the intimacy of those stolen, private moments. And you can't seem to do them justice in a few lines on a website. So I'll try no further. But it just seemed right for me to try to redress the balance somewhat after so much negativity in recent posts. If giving birth and the early weeks that follow are infernal, then there is no doubt, to coin a cliche, they are worth every minute.

A friend recently told me the reason babies start smiling at around the 6-week mark is no coincidence but a clever biological trick: they serve to charm their carers into continuing to care for them at a time when patience and accrued sleep are both wearing perilously thin. During the health visitor's last visit she asked whether I had yet experienced the overwhelming sensation most new mothers experience -- i.e. would I jump in front of a bus to save Little Green? At the time I was too ashamed and numb to admit that all I could think about was jumping in front of that bus myself. But now I am beginning to understand the powerful range of emotions that belong to mother(and father)hood. With each new day, there is a new challenge, for sure. Yet there is also a new delight waiting around each and every corner that is enough to compel you to keep on moving forward.

I would nurse but I don't have the equipment

Wow. Have 3 weeks really passed since LGO's birth day? When you have a baby the clocks seem to stop and day and night merge in a senseless blur... In hospital the midwife advised that we new parents ought resist the urge to think of night and day as two distinct lunar phases and to disregard the clock altogether, and now I can see why. To say that the days since his birth have been the hardest of my 30-odd years is no word of a lie. Newborns who have no knowledge of the outside world tend to operate in sleeping/shitting/eating cycles around every 2-3 hours which -- surprise, surprise -- causes the worst kind of sleep deprivation in a parent who (with the exception of teenagers, uni students or rock n' rollers) is accustomed to sleeping in blocks through the night.

After the first week, when I was over and done with grieving about not being able to breastfeed (still a sore point if I'm honest, but at least my nipples, if not my psyche, have healed up), I could see the benefit in the bottle: the misery/loneliness of night feeds can be shared by dad or some unsuspecting friend or family member; sleeping on one's stomach can be resumed after nearly a year of being off limits due to the bump and engorgement; boobs can be enjoyed by husband again even though they have shrunk from Jordan-like proportions; ugly nursing bras can be done away with in favour of old favourites... However, for all its perks, the bottle still holds its fair share of conundrums. Constipation. Like every day with a newborn, we only learned about what was ailing LGO through a process of trial and error. And believe me, there is nothing worse than seeing your little helpless baby wail himself red-faced with his eyes pinched and his gums showing for hours on end, and not having a clue what to do to make it better. Some cooled boiled water before feeds eventually sorted out his little bowels but not before his prolonged screams split mummy and daddy's eardrums and cut our hearts to the core.

And we weren't even alone, like some. We had support from Mr Green's parents and my own flew in from Canada and stayed with us for 2 weeks. With the best possible intentions, having seen how wrecked I was from the breastfeeding/labour and still in need of recovery, they took over most of the feeds and baby care so I could rest. Eventually I managed to catch up with sleep while paradoxically my mental state deteriorated. One night I didn't get up to feed him at all, and I think an afternoon passed without me even holding him in my arms. None of this was intentional or obvious of course. And it only became a problem once I noticed my increasing detachment towards him. The more they did for their grandson, the less competent and confident I felt as a new mother. Catch-22. The perk -- and the trouble -- with bottles is that anyone can feed and look after your baby. As a mom your job is made redundant. You are not special anymore. Your baby doesn't need you per se. Or at least this is how I felt at the time. Pride is a terrible, terrible thing. Even though Little Green was by now thriving and healthy on formula, which should have delighted me after his rough start on the breast, I hit rock bottom during the second week of his life. I sobbed the minute someone looked at me sideways. I sobbed several times a day; the slightest thing would set me off. And I was convinced, though everyone kept telling me how 'normal' I was, that I was going mad. That I couldn't cope. That I'd made a mistake thinking I could be a decent mother, now or ever.

Ironically, once I'd come to the realisation that my parents' involvement had actually helped the baby's development but hindered my own, things got easier. Of course they only wanted to help me and to maximise the time spent getting to know their grandson. Then they left, and I felt like a terrified and abandoned little girl clinging to the hem of my mother's skirt. But being forced to deal with a new baby, you have no choice but to rise above how you feel in order to look after him. Everything else comes a distant second, including brushing your teeth and hair and sometimes even emptying your bladder! In a way, in doing more and taking care of him, even though I am still fumbling to some extent, has given me more confidence. I am not perfect by any stretch but I am trying and concentrating on just getting through every hour of every day with each new trial and tribulation it inevitably brings. I've stopped crying, though I am often frustrated that babies are not straightforward creatures and come with no clear-cut instruction manual that I could digest from cover to cover. In time it will get easier. This is my mantra, and so I share it here for all mums at any stage and for those to follow... It will get easier.

The Aftermath

Mr Green and I recovered in a nearby delivery suite, sipping on tea and munching on toast and, it goes without saying, ogling our new son while the midwives prepared the paperwork. Mr Green returned to the pool room to fetch my CD and was horrified to see, now that the lights were up, the bloodbath left behind. (Thank God or whoever for the invention of the dimmer switch). On wonky legs, I trundled across the hall to have a much-needed shower. By about 11pm we made our way to the ward, and it was sad partings between Mr Green and me. If the adrenaline hadn't quite worn off, then the lack of entonox made the night seem very long indeed. I was given a few paracetamols and tried to rest, but the various screaming babies weren't having any of that. For hours I gazed over at my own newbie, contentedly sleeping through the ruckus, filled with pride that he was such a beautiful lamb. All of that changed a few hours later when he stirred. I put him to my breast every hour or so when he demanded it, and rang the buzzer so the midwife on duty could check that he had properly latched (most problems with breastfeeding are down to an incorrect latch on the nipple). It was a long night to say the least. LGO had worked up quite the appetite, and I was exhausted. At one point it seemed relentless. As soon as he fed (sometimes for up to an hour), he was inconsolable again. Eventually dawn broke, and I counted down the hours until Mr Green's return. I had the option of staying in the ward a second night, but despite the support on offer I couldn't bear the thought.

In the morning one of the midwives showed us how to bathe and change LGO, and we were discharged around 4pm. Being at home was wonderful yet disquieting. Our little angel slept peacefully during the day, and was a complete terror from 10pm onwards. No matter how long I fed him, he never seemed satisfied. In distress, I rang the ward. The midwife believed it was trapped wind, but no matter how long we burped him he refused to settle. Hearing his little cry escalating to the point of a squawk was so upsetting, not least of which because we felt powerless to soothe him. Mr Green's mother came to stay a night, then my own mother arrived to help. But after a few nights of this, I was beside myself. The more frustrated LGO became, the more aggressive he was on the breast. Painful cracks on my nipples split and then bled. Eventually raw, open sores developed on my nipples, and despite several desperate phone calls and visits from breastfeeding counsellors and midwives I ultimately had to throw up my hands and admit defeat. Even with nipple shields, I could no longer feed my son. He had stopped pooing; he had stopped peeing.

As a last ditch resort, armed with a breast pump, I decided if I couldn't bring the baby to my milk, I would bring my milk to the baby. After 45 minutes, I expressed milk a measly 20ml -- about a quarter of his intake in a single feed (he feeds roughly every 3 hours). Seeing what little came from such an effort was illuminating. For his own sake, I switched him to formula to stave against dehydration. The result was an utterly different baby. Contended. It was a scary, emotionally and physically draining week. The adrenaline of labour had worn off, and the culmination of sleepless nights and strain on my body had taken its toll. Despite the fact that the baby either had an adverse reaction to my milk, or that I was not producing enough to meet his needs, I felt incredibly guilt-stricken. After all, a mother's ability to nourish her baby seems so fundamental that failure to do so felt like a first, crushing failure as a mother. Common sense says that making sure your baby is sated and hydrated by any means is surely of foremost importance than the means by which he feeds. Still, it took me a few days to come to terms with the bottle -- as real as any physical impediment -- coming between us. And I felt cheated of that closeness. When the midwife visited the other day, she reassured me that I had given him the best start since during the first few days of feeding he received colostrum: a substance packed with antibodies that the hind milk comes in around day 3.

To say that these past few days have been the hardest, far harder than the relatively brief period of labour, is no exaggeration. But I feel like we have come through a dark patch together, and I need only give myself space and time to heal and enjoy my baby now that he is thriving. I owe it to him.