What Mothers Do

…especially when it looks like nothing

In the first few weeks of the Little Prince’s life, when my life revolved mostly around sitting on the sofa (feeding, changing, being a comfortable resting place), my husband, being a good man that he is, bought me a book which was supposed to make me “feel better”. Not that I was feeling bad or anything, or at least, not that I realised. The book was one of those motivational scraps, you know the kind. The kind that I passionately detest.

The title was What Mothers Do – especially when it looks like nothing. Written by Naomi Stadlen.

Initially I just wanted to shove the whole 258 pages back into mu beloved husband's… bottom. But then the baby started crying, the world became crazy again and the thought was delayed until it eventually vanished. The life took its course. The book, pushed aside, eventually disappeared somewhere and for a long time I completely forgot about it. That was until last Monday, when (eight months later) I was doing some cleaning and found the book perched in the gap between the sofa and a bookshelf.

I picked it up wanting to bin it straight away but then, having a few spare minutes while my husband took the rest of the family out, I opened the book on a random page and started reading.

What a little gem it was!

Simply written, undemanding and relevant. I could relate to so many situations. It even made me laugh few times. The book talks about all the feelings I had had and keep having. Being lost, uncertain and lonely. Lacking sleep and support. Being exhausted and yet feeling guilty about neglecting so many chores. Thinking I must be doing something wrong…

The greatest thing about this book? It confirms that all the above feelings are completly normal. Not only that, it glorifies us mothers for getting through this with the persistence and angelic patience. There is no advise of how to do things better, proving that what You do must be wrong. There is no magic formula, no rule, no way of doing things. Motherhood is just that. Guilt, tiredness, endless time on the sofa. Getting to know that precious little darling to the point where every prod of a finger means pages of information. Just plough on and you will soon get where other mothers, whose stories are the reason of your imaginary incompetence, are. This book is pricelessly reassuring, making the motherhood and the chaos around normal! Enjoyable even! Definitely less stressful.

Routine, pattern, baby sleeping at night, it all comes… later. The first few months of the baby's life are absolutely mad, crazy and there is nothing you can do about it.  

I do recommend reading the book, if you have time, I really do. I also recommend this book to your partners. Hopefully after reading the countless testimonies they’ll not have to play the guessing game anymore. They will understand exactly what you are trying to tell them.

Baby On Plane

There is one thing that used to annoy me more than anything else in the world. Babies on plane. Nightmare! Having my seat contaminated with a baby, within a proximity of less than four rows, used to send shivers down my spine. I accept a lot on planes, peanuts, cold hotdogs, rude staff, drunks and snorers… snakes even – anything but a baby.

It does not matter where the baby is sat, as soon as you sit down, they find a way to interrupt your journey. The kicking, the dribbling, the staring, accompanied by screams and cries and a bunch of stupid questions, are all very carefully designed arms of mass destruction. And they are all directed at YOU.

What can you do? You can roll your eyes. You can give the Mother a disapproving look, or consult quietly with other passengers. Nothing helps. You can complain to the stewardess, although... just one look at her warns you off. She is ignoring you, turning away every time you want to speak to her. You know that she knows what you are about to do. She can too hear the baby. Oh yes, everybody can. But what do you want her to do about it? Risk an argument with another customer? Put the baby in the toilet and lock the door? Swap places with you?

And so the bullying continues and murderous thoughts start forming in your head. Within half an hour your imagination takes you to dark and sinful places. Every technique, every minute, every move carefully planned and accounted for. First the Mother, then the baby.

Oh, the Mother! She is the worst! How rude and inconsiderate? Just sitting there doing absolutely nothing. Bluntly ignoring your pain and discomfort. Useless woman, fat and brainless. If it was your child, it would not behave like this. You would know exactly what to do. You would show her, this dirty scrap of humanity. What a waste. Not even a word, not a shush.

…

The boarding pass in my hand is burning my fingers… Mother and infant, seat 7A. My hands are trembling and I almost shit myself. I go through every scenario, they are all black. He will cry, I am certain. He will be tired, His ears will pop, He will be scared. His distress raising my own anxieties. My stress, increasing His, the tension and trauma feeding of each other. The whole plane is going to hate us.

…

So, dear fellow passenger, if it happens that I am on your plane, with my baby, and His crying is driving you insane, just think how I feel. Just think, that not only my ears are aching, my head wants to explode, my nerves are on ends but also my heart is breaking, because my baby is unhappy and suffering. And when you will get off in two hours’ time, I will spend the next eighteen years apologising for His behaviour. I am not asking for you to understand, or to sympathise. I am simply asking for you to trust me that I am doing my best. And if you absolutely must turn around to give me a dirty look, give me a smile instead. I will try so much harder.

Mother Goes on Holiday

Ho, ho, holiday. Hoo, hoo, hooray!

Awaiting holiday is the best feeling EVER! No sex (or shower, no matter how great) can possibly compare. The anticipation, the planning, the excitement. Ohhh, just bring it on! The travel, the adventure, the change. And that amazing feeling of relaxation. Stress-less freedom from every day routines. HO-LI-DAY here we come!

I get into a holiday mood like a slug into a beer trap. Greedily, fast and careless about the consequences. I am easily drowned in the promises of something amazing. And although normally I seek an adventure, this time I’ll settle for some lazy mornings and putting my feet up (occasionally).

Just around the corner, the promise of the holiday is only one packing away.

The packing. A jumper for staying in, an outfit for going out. A scarf to accessorise, trousers, underwear and toiletries. Bag packed.

The travel cot for the little one. The nappies, the wet wipes and the changing mat. The blankets and the sleeping bag. Clothes (a set for each day), bibs (hundreds), toys (just scoop them all into a bag). Pyjamas. Some more clothes, just in case. The rocker, the walker and the door swing. The sun hat, the fat hat. Maybe another jumper? Bottles of medicine and tubs of creams. Breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks. The beaker cups. The pram and the rain cover. The sling and the back pack carrier just in case. The this, the that, the amount of stuff directly correlated to the deterioration of my mental state.

Once the boot of the car is kicked closed with passion, the promise of the holiday is just one journey away.

Fun of travelling. Loud music, open windows, wind smacked excited faces. Forget it all! Traveling Mother will have none of that. Peace and quiet, right temperature and the twinkling stars in the name of the sleeping baby. Long and boring drive to hell, but the promise of the holiday is just at the end of the road.

Finally we arrive. I salivate like a bulldog dreaming about a glass of red, chilling in the garden and loosing myself in the tranquillity of the cottage… The promise of the holiday is just one unpacking away.

The travel cot, the blankets, the nappies, the toys. The clothes, the meals, the bibs and the cups. The rocker, the walker and the hanging swing. With the bored baby crying, the superhero Mother splits herself into five to achieve her simple goals. My sanity is kept only by the promise of the cold beer awaiting once the baby is finally asleep.

While stressed and exhausted the Mother alternates between setting up and feeding the baby, her co-holidaying buddies get out of Her way, straight to the pub around the corner. They deserve it, it’s their holiday.

I hear them come back at two am, just after the Mother had put the baby to sleep for the third time. They are talking and laughing and for a split second I consider joining the fun. But the heavy eyelids refuse to open and the sleepy legs don’t want to move. With the last of my consciousness I realise how naïve I was, how premature were my hopes, the promises misleading.

This is as good as it gets. Between now and the next time His cry awakes me, this is my holiday and I need to make the most of it.

So the Mother goes to sleep, because in few hours she is back on duty.

The Twin Love Equation

My friend has recently got pregnant. It’s a wonderful news!!! I am really happy for her, especially that last week the scan revealed not one, but two hearts beating in her womb.

I always wanted to have twins. One pregnancy, one birth giving, one time of nappies and crying. One teething. Double fun and reward at the old age. I'd wanted to have twins a lot, but that was before I fell in love with my little prince.

This is what I am thinking. I love my little boy with all my heart. He gets 100% of love I am able to produce. So, if I had twins, would I be able to love them both the same? Where would the love for the second one come from? Would I have to share my 100% of love between them? Each baby could only get 50%. What if they were triplets? Do the portions get smaller? By the time we get to four, each baby is receiving only a quarter of what my little man is getting at the moment.

Unless, of course, I got it all wrong.

What if the equation is not division but multiplication? What if a Mother is able to love each of the babies as much as I love my single one. 100% of love per head. That would mean a set of twins would get 200% of love. 300% if there were triplets. This is twice/three times as much as I love my baby now.

Suddenly my 100% of love seems somehow… insignificant.

In comparison to twins, who get 100% of love each, the love I am giving to my baby is only 50%. It is even less with triplets and, by the time we get to four babies, my love is only 25% of what their mother is able to produce. This means I could actually be loving my baby 4 times more.

Could I double the 50% of love my baby is getting, compared to a set of twins, to make it a 100%? And then, if I had twins, would I have to share the new 100% between them? Or will I be producing the bigger 100% for each baby? In which case I am back to a bigger and better 200% per the set of twins.

And so the story goes...
 

Let’s Talk About Sex

Three months ago I pushed my baby’s head, the size of a hand-ball, through my vagina. The push tore me apart. The pain was excruciating. My muscles contracted and stretched in an unusual way. The stretch so damaging I will never be able to hold my pee again. Ten stiches held my bits together.

How long will it be, before I want something shoved back in that hole again?

Giving birth is underrated. It is done too often. With excellent rates of survival, the respect for the act has been lost in its frequency. When you give birth to a kidney stone, the size of a nut, it is a big deal, but make the stone a hundred times bigger and it goes unnoticed. Let's get this straight.The fact that so many women give birth every day does NOT make it less painful; or… easier to recover from.

And although they’ve been there, they saw it all, they felt your pain, they held your hand and now they tell their friends; the fact is this: Men recover quicker from childbirth, than Women.

“You are so sexy.” They say three months after the birth.

Fat, with vomit down your shirt, saggy bottoms barely covering your arse. Unconscious, tired, with dark circles under your eyes. Walking into walls. Scarecrow hair, dragon’s breath, setting fire to all things pretty.  

“You are so sexy.” They say when you’ve been up since five.

With the baby in your hands, constantly feeding, administering medicine, nursing to sleep, wiping bottom, worrying, shouting, losing patience. Playing, farting, laughing, reaching, holding, changing, nursing, wiping bottom, losing patience. Always for Him, never for yourself.

“You are so sexy.” They say looking down your top.

Your breasts engorged, their pain not for fun. They have a purpose now, serve a higher end. They are taken, protected, reserved. Not theirs. Not a sexual statement anymore. Distant past, near future (I hope). Hide, hide, do not tempt. Undress in the dark, wear a potato bag, cover yourself.

“You are so sexy.” They say in the dark.

The night fell two hours ago. You crawl into bed, unconscious, craving the warm duvet, the concave of the pillow. Muscles stretched, weightless. Peace. You drift beyond this world. Happy. Stressed. Sleep Mother, sleep. The baby will wake you soon.

“You are so sexy.” They demand.

Pretend you’re not there. Close your eyes tightly wishing it away, for another six months. Sleep, sleep.

“You are so sexy.” It's right next to you, closing in. There is only one way. The quicker you deal with it ,the quicker you can go back to sleep. You’re a Mother, you’re a Wife.

I Am in Love with My Baby

It is here finally. So true, so strong, so simple and effortless. Nothing in return, this is it. My love for my baby. Oh, how powerful are the feelings in my head! His single smile worth every effort. His beautiful smile…

The love has found me now. I can say it, whisper it, shout it to the world. I LOVE my baby! There are no expectations, just happiness to spend time together. To hold Him and care for Him. Complete and unconditional. Love. Everything about Him is perfect. He is clever, funny and handsome. I could go on forever. Intelligent… His little feet kick about with pleasure. A true sportsman.

Our relationship is simple. He demands, I supply. Often based on trial and error, we find our way. His curiosity increasing daily, adding to the challenge. I am still learning.

At night He wakes me but I’ve learned to cherish the sleepy minutes in the dark. Just Him and me. Together. The day will come when He will not need me anymore and I already miss Him.

Do not grow little baby, stay mine forever.

Sylvia's Choice

A few weeks ago I was listening to a Jeremy Vine’s show. One of the topics was women’s sterilisation. The main guest was a girl that is trying to get sterilised on the NHS. Let’s pretend her name is Sylvia.

Sylvia is 29. She is a career oriented high achiever that is certain that she will never want to have children. Not now, not EVER!!! She is currently on the pill but finds it such a hardship to swallow it EVERY day. She has asked her GP on four different occasions to prescribe the sterilisation procedure but was refused… mercilessly. The rules for female sterilisation in UK are completely discretionary and depend on the doctor. Most likely, however, it is to be prescribed to women who are above thirty years old and have had children before. 

Listening to Sylvia pisses me off. First off all: why is this transmitted on a national radio? Do we not have any more pressing issues to discuss? I admit the situation sounds familiar. The pregnancy and breastfeeding were not my idea of fun at 29. And if you told me I was ever going to be a mother I would LOL straight into your face. But did I ever publicly look for sympathy? No, because here’s an interesting fact – nobody gives a monkey.

Taking a pill is not difficult, thousands of us do it. We are just very lucky that it is free in this country. But if you don’t trust the pill (or yourself) get a coil (effective for 5 years but can be taken out anytime), or an implant (3 years effectiveness and you don’t even get periods), or a vaginal ring. There are so many choices before you decide on an invasive (often irreversible) procedure that still has 1 in 200 failure rate. Just man up, do your research and don’t brag about it.

Then there is Sylvia’s attitude. Opinionated and fast spoken, well-rehearsed youth that “knows it all”. She KNOWS. For CERTAIN.  The doctors are stupid, everybody else is stupid. I am just about to change the channel when Sylvia (intentionally or not) slips an interesting life fact: her own mum was sterilised at a young age, before she had any children. Now, this is intriguing. So where did Sylvia come from? I listen carefully and finally it makes sense. After she’d changed her mind about NOT wanting to have children, Sylvia’s mum had a reversal procedure done. Now, isn’t it just a bit too much to make a statement?

Is it possible that history repeats itself?