Hail the Mighty Cabbage

Here is an unkind equation: Breastfeeding = Pain. At least at the beginning, when your breasts do not know how to manage the amount of food they are producing. They get full and, YES, this can hurt. Your breasts get to the size of a melon, so hard you could hit a nail with them, so heavy that you need to hold them when turn in bed, so full that they spray milk in all directions when you lift your bra. Don’t mention the time when the milk ducts get clogged. Ouch!!!

My sister in law was not sympathetic. She simply said “cabbage leaves”. Just wash them, roll them to soften and slap them under your bra before it gets any worse. Hearing this I am thanking the gods that we live in the twenty first century. Otherwise this poor girl would be burned alive for heresy and witchcraft. Surely, cabbage leaves are not a medicine and cannot remedy anything? Except maybe mild hunger. The fact that none of the midwifes mentioned it only proves my point.

But then I go to the doctor and, in passing conversation, mention my engorged milk dispensers. He says simply “cabbage leaves”. Put them on before it gets any more serious. Straight from the doctor’s office I run to the local shop and get a nice round white cabbage. I wash the leaves, soften them with a roller and slap them on, under my bra. With this I massage, and keep feeding the baby from the affected breast. Within a few hours my breasts are back to soft kittens and the pain is gone. I repeat the cabbage treatment every time my breasts feel uncomfortably engorged or the milk ducts get clogged. Although there is no medical proof to support cabbage leaves in my bra, I thank the grandma that first stuffed them in. I am just glad it wasn't rhubarb.

Memories of a happy childhood

Being a mother makes me think obsessively about the relationship I want to have with my little boy. Though He is too small to recall the events of His current life, He will eventually have His first memories and I want them to be good ones. This makes me think a lot about my own childhood and the memories in my head.   

Mine was not an unhappy childhood. Could I say it was a happy one? Probably, although part of me does not want to admit it freely. There are some memories that, I have no doubt, are a true reflection of what happened in the past. Some, however, are foggy and need interpretation. For this reason I am swamped with questions. Are the pictures in my head made out of real memories or did I choose the memories to fit the pictures? What is the real effect of my selective consciousness on the perception of my own childhood? How many people can openly, without hesitation, say their childhood was a happy one?

Does “happy” for one person mean “happy” for another?

I shared my feelings with a friend. She has children of her own. Two boys aged nine and six. She tries her best to be a good mother. She reads books and learns from others, trying to better the rigid methods our parents inherited from their own. Good childhood memories for her two sons are high up on her priorities list. Recently the whole family went on holiday. They spent two weeks in Spain. The whole holiday was planned for the kids to have a nice time and good fun. On the way back from the airport my friend filled with fond memories happily asked the boys what was their favourite thing out of all the holiday. They unanimously shouted “Hot dogs on the plane!”. Obviously this surprised my friend. They’d had lots of fun and laughs during the two week period but for the boys the hot dogs were worth memorising. It was only when she asked them specifically if they’d liked jumping in the pool, building sand castles on the beach, going on the slides in the water park and swimming with dolphins, that the boys shouted YES to every forgotten attraction.

Yesterday, I asked another friend if she had a “happy childhood”. She answered “no”. I asked about her first childhood memory. She told me a story about two little girls playing outside after dinner. They were about five and six. Their mother was sitting in the chair watching them play. Suddenly the mother stood up and with the big sigh of a victim said: “I suppose I will have to do the dishes myself.” She said it in a tone that left the girls feeling guilty and disciplined, but not knowing why. Mummy was disappointed in them, that much they knew.

This little moment left a big imprint on my friend’s memory. It shaped her perception and in later years magnified her mother’s needy character. Did the mother ever realise how much this moment meant to her daughter and her future feelings? Would she do anything different if she did? Part of me wants to defend the mother. Maybe my friend was just too picky, choosing this event out of many others where the mother was the perfect parent?

Both stories, and my own experiences, make me think how much of our childhood memories are true to what really happened? Do we choose what we remember, or do our memories choose us? Can one traumatic memory turn even the best childhood upside down?

Parents are only humans and can’t be on their best behaviour all of the time. Sometimes they’ll be caught off guard. In that case can they influence what their children remember? Can they ensure that the child remembers the good things that happen often instead of an odd bad thing that happened once?

My son’s happy memories are my main goal as a mother. In the future I want Him to be able to say without hesitation “I had a happy childhood.” I want it to be my gift for Him. But I am petrified of the task ahead of me.

Language Barrier

Three weeks after the birth I am still in emotional distress. The baby I hold in my hands is fully dependent on me. I care for Him and I like Him a lot but my deeper feelings towards Him are still confusing. It is hard to say "I love you" when you don't know a person and they do not love you back. Do I love my baby purely because He is mine? Regardless of His character and traits? Or do I love Him for being Him? And if that’s the case when will He be Him?  

Even though my LOVE dilemma continues, I do not feel like a bad mother anymore, because I know I am trying hard. However I also understand how someone else could. The trick is to remember you are doing all you can to start this little life in the most comfortable way. You feed Him and comfort Him and change His nappy. You get up at night without complaining. You feel like a zombie, you look like a zombie and you are probably turning into a zombie. But it is all right. You are a mother now.

He doesn’t need much and He doesn’t give much. He doesn’t cuddle, He doesn’t smile, He doesn’t look lovingly into my eyes. He would go with anyone if I let Him. I am the slave and He is the master. If something is not how He wants, He will soon let me (and the whole street) know.

A baby’s cry is a powerful weapon. It does not only break my heart, pierces my ears and makes me feel helpless and guilty. It makes me stressed. And angry. Why, why, WHY does baby’s cry get into you so much? The worst is at night, when everyone else is sleeping blissfully. It can drive you to the edge and the images in your head get a bit scary. A few nights ago I was so tired that my resistance to my crying baby dropped to a minimal level. I was on the verge of patience and shouted “shut up” into His little face. Instantly I felt bad and stupid. My hands were shaking and I apologised. He only cried more.

It took me a while to understand. I mean REALLY understand. My poor baby is trying to communicate with me in a language in which we are both just beginners. Hypothetically His cry means “I am hungry, mummy” but I change His nappy instead. If He stopped crying then He would still be hungry. He needs to let me know I am on the wrong track. The more I try, the more I understand. I will never say “Shut up” to Him again. I will let Him teach me.