So that’s a lone piece of cheese. I was going to eat it with crackers but we were fresh out. Then I thought perhaps a lovely pear would make a nice accompaniment but they were eaten in a (happily more nutritious) breakfast. Sandwich seemed a waste because it’s a really flavourful lovely aged cheddar.
So essentially I ate a block of mouldy old cheese for lunch.
Admittedly, four months and one week and a few days can still be considered early, but I’m referring to those raw and blistering first few weeks. You know, the ones where your old life has been picked up, stomped on, rolled about and thrown out the window and replaced by the dictation of a brand new teeny tiny overlord. Everyone told me it would go terribly quickly and that I’d barely remember the first three months. This was impossible to believe at the time, caught in the thick of it, but it’s true. My memories have already started to soften and fade into a haze of summer; the summer our girl came to join us. I want to record them while I still have a close perspective, to capture that time with the awe it deserves but also without the rose glasses of retrospect.
We had hoped for a baby for a long time. It was an abstract hope in many ways. My images of what parenthood would be like were not dissimilar to the old Gillette commercials – happy family on a picnic, at the beach, laughing and playing games, throwing gorgeous child into air, and somehow my partner and I had lost about ten kilos each without having to cut back on delicious wine. I focused a lot on actually falling pregnant, and once we were there the pregnancy itself was difficult (our bub was diagnosed with a bunch of potential health issues) which made focusing on the future even more challenging. I’m not suggesting that anything at all can prepare you for the onslaught of parenthood; just noting that I hadn’t really considered the reality of it.
So when she arrived, after a hard and fast labour that made me rue ever laying eyes on my partner, I was hit for six. The crazy birth hormones weren’t what I expected. I was euphoric, yes, but not happy or overwhelmed with love as you hear you will be. I was attached to our girl, but it was an academic, biological attachment. I knew that I would do absolutely anything I could for her, be there for her always, keenly feel anything that may affect her wellbeing…but I didn’t love her, as such. It pains me a little to say it, but the primary feeling I had over the first few weeks was overwhelmed regret.
The best way to describe it is that I just couldn’t see what would happen next. Not the next minute, the next hour or the next decade. I dreaded everything. The baby waking up, feeding her, leaving the house. I managed to do all these things but I lived with constant anxiety around whatever the next requirement might be; I could barely sleep due to overtiredness and concern about starting the whole haphazard mess again when I woke. The tiniest thing seemed monumental, insurmountable. I was completely overwhelmed with not knowing what to do – the only thing I was sure of was that our lives would never be the same again and I felt so guilty for wishing them back the way they were. I started mourning friendships that still existed because I assumed they could not continue in this new world – I barely knew how I would continue, let alone hold together relationships. It seemed she would never grow, never smile, never change and that I would never be me again. I kept a diary of this time at the insistence of my concerned partner. I can’t quite read it yet.
There were positive moments. I tried to savour the small things, like a few grams of weight gain (hers; I remain quite capable of gaining weight aplenty myself), a coffee run that didn’t end in tears (mine), getting the laundry done, a walk home on a late summer’s afternoon with my partner cuddling our girl as I moseyed slowly behind. But generally I felt lost, out of control and ungrateful.
It’s no surprise at all that I was diagnosed with post natal depression fairly early on; what was surprising and extraordinarily fortunate was that it lifted of its own accord when she was about ten weeks old. I’m not sure whether this was the alleviation of post-pregnancy hormones, us growing into each other, the fact that I could see her changing and developing, or a combination of these. I cannot imagine the impact of such feelings for a longer period; I could barely stand the time I had. That many mothers can carry this for months and years and be wonderful parents while doing so is testimony to the strength that normal, everyday people have and the obstacles they can overcome.
Around the three month mark, the end of the alleged fourth trimester, things became easier for us. Not easy, by any stretch of imagination, but the love I have for her is no longer theoretical, obligatory. Our future is not shadowy and frightening (although it is laced with lots of tears and under-eye-bags, given the current sleep woes we’re having). Put simply, she delights me. And that’s a feeling that in those early terrifying days, I never thought I’d have.
Country Cheese biscuits, because my body is a temple. (And don’t be deceived, I didn’t just eat these three. Half the pack – BAM!)
Because we’re first time parents and only have the one bundle of joy, we have subscribed heavily to the night time routine process, including a post-bath massage. I don’t remember ever having a massage as a kid myself (or even regular baths); not to say my folks didn’t do it when I was tiny but if they did, it ceased prior to me recording any memory of it (possibly about the time my brother came along – I’m not sure that you have time for massaging two Precious Snowflakes, let alone the four my parents eventually had). However, because we have no idea what we’re doing and They tell us a routine, including massage, is great for babies, we do it nightly.
My ‘massage’ technique is as follows:
On the plus side, the expensive organic oil smells divine and has perfumed the whole room. The downside, of course, is that neither of us are particularly soothed and the baby is surely onto the fact that I have no idea whatsoever about how to care for a small human. And that my knowledge of body parts is also slightly suspect (‘bottom leg’ is, on reflection, known as the calf).
Luckily, my mothers’ group organised a baby massage class to support our babies through such trials and tribulations. There’s a specialist mama and baby massage centre down the road – Damara Massage – and we organised a class for a bunch of us and our little ones.
(An aside: Damara’s website claims that ‘Babies are always welcome in the clinic as they sleep peacefully while mum gets her massage.’ I love the sentiment but I’m not sure why I wasted good money on a sleep consultant if all I needed to do was rock up for a massage.)
The things I learned?
Of course, this is all in theory because once again, my girl slept through the whole thing.
Although quoting ‘The Sound of Music’ isn’t, perhaps.
Where is the actual beginning? Is it when I decided to resurrect a blog, something I’ve not dabbled with for some time? Or when I found out I was pregnant, that Easter over a year ago which was notable for its distinct lack of alcoholic beverages, a phenomenon rarely associated with me? Or more recently when the (sometimes paralysing) boredom of daily housewife and mother duties kicked in? It doesn’t matter, I suppose – as far as Hey Mamalaide is concerned, the beginning is a cold and wet Wednesday morning in Sydney. We’re in the middle of the wildest week, weather wise, we’ve had in this usually fair town in some time. I’m waiting on the baby to wake up with that mixture of anxiety (don’t wake up! Get more sleep!) and anticipation (let’s cuddle and play!) that I have now come to associate with my daughter’s nap times.
So, a flashback to sunnier times! We ventured out last weekend to Art Baby, an initiative of the Museum of Contemporary Art. It’s a tour specifically designed for parents and their children under 12 months, and focuses on a few specific installations in the gallery. It aims to give the parents a bit of fodder on the art itself, but also direct them on how to support their wee poppet to interact with various aspects of the art.
We chose to go as Hotel loves the MCA; we get down there for most exhibitions but also for the odd cheeky beverage overlooking the harbour. It’s also nice to get out of the ‘burbs and hit the city – prior to the bub arriving I was there most days and I miss the pace of it, the buzz of my old life. We also wanted something to do with the baby that wasn’t…well, too ‘baby’!
Our guide was great; she’d a kid herself and had studied art history so was familiar with both areas. The tour was focused on light and illumination and showcased several different pieces with which the children could interact. One played off shadows and light, and Hotel spent some time in it with our girl, who was mesmerised with the contrast. Another had different coloured fluorescent beams, and we were given coloured blocks to play with and match to coloured lights. As our girl is only just starting to recognise colour (apparently; I always wonder how They know these things) this was also a hit.
There were further exhibits, including one on the floor with old school TVs that kids could crawl around and play with, almost becoming part of the community centre that was being broadcast on screen, and one where shimmery strips of silver and colour hung from the wall and allowed the light and our reflections to dance across them. A chandelier that we had seen on numerous previous occasions was pointed out to be covered in ice (we’re so unobservant) and was titled, ominously, ‘The door was open…’. However these went completely unnoticed by our girl, who fell asleep ten minutes into the tour. A budding art critic, clearly.
The tour concluded with a coffee upstairs at the MCA cafe, a lovely opportunity to meet other middle class tossers like minded parents. Possibly the best tip we received from the guide – other than interesting art discussion of course – was for breastfeeding the baby. There’s a resource room on Level 2 that is rarely used by the greater public and women are welcome to breastfeed their little ones there. The baby change room downstairs only has toilet and change facilities (not a very pleasant eating environment) so this was welcome advice.
Word on the street is the MCA holds a free playgroup every Wednesday morning between 10 and 12; we’ll be heading there if our girl ever decides not to sleep through The Art.
Hey Mamalaide 