the problem with breastfeeding

 

 

Over the past week or so, breastfeeding has been under a deluge of attack from certain media sources. First we had Farage calling for an end to 'ostentatious breastfeeding' and most recently Jeremy 'I hate Mexicans' Clarkson took a break from being our unoffcial Prime Minister by comparing breastfeeding with taking a piss. Certain tabloids seem infatuated with the way in which mothers choose to feed their babies and like a wave of nausea that just won't stop; we see them querying their readers again and again on what they think about a perfectly legal act that is protected by the Equality Law. It seems as though every idiot with access to a keyboard is desperate to share their barely legible and pretty unwelcome viewpoint that the people what have vaginas need to stop getting out of bed in the morning/walking down the street/eating Kitkats Chunkies in public/ drinking coffee/ watching Emmerdale/ visiting their dying relative/ nourishing their babies because quite frankly they're OBVIOUSLY flaunting it.

This deep rooted and very real concern that women can sometimes be a little bit sexy is echoed by Nigel Farage whom a few days ago called an end to 'ostentatious breastfeeding'. Presumably this is some new fangled trend that involves nipple tassles and the hypnotic truthful hips of Shakira. I for one hate it when I'm going about my everyday business; trying to manipulate a despondent British nation with hard hitting policies on immigration and all I can see around me is sleep deprived women shaking their breasts at me to the tune of 'Mambo No. 5'.

Another completely relevant and credible opinion spews forth from Jeremy Clarkson's latest offering to Beelzebub in 'The Sun' in which he makes the tiresome and disturbing comparison between breastfeeding and taking a piss arguing that '..When we want to do that. We go to a little room, and do it in private'. I'd like to counteract his commendable analogy by suggesting that it is plausible that countless women would be incredibly shocked (and mildly aroused) at the sight of Jeremy sitting down for a meal at Claridge's hotel in London and taking part in the most natural act a human can do. 

 

Close your eyes and imagine Jeremy sitting in a bustling dining room with legs splayed (to remind us that he does indeed possess a penis.  Of course, he'd be enjoying an intimate lunch with James May about how television nowadays is full of burkhas and people with names he finds a little bit tricky and scary to pronounce; when a familiar cry disturbs them from the thresholds of a stately Bugaboo pram. Jeremy smiles apologetically at James who raises his hands and folds his arms as a sign that it's no matter. This jovial conversation can wait. There are more important things. 

 

Jeremy carefully lifts his hungry newborn babe and sets the bundle of joy across one arm. With the other hand he clumsily fiddles with his shirt buttons and blushes as he makes eye contact with James across the table. James wisely senses the tension or perhaps the rumbling of his own man-cave and excuses himself to the gentlemen's room.

Feeling a tad more relaxed, Jeremy unhooks the clip from his nursing bra and cups his boob. He can see that baby is getting restless now and the cries are becoming more and more shrill. Hurriedly he cups one sagging man breast and gentle touches his hairy nipple to the tip of baby's nose. Baby knows it's time. He latches. Jeremy breathes a sigh of relief. 

As if by magic; James returns from the now uninhabitable stench of the gentlemen's room and smiles at this beautiful scene of motherhood. He couldn't be prouder or feel more in love with Jeremy than he does right now. As James sits down he can see that baby has fallen asleep at the breast. Jeremy whom until now has looked on adoringly at little Richard's over stylised crown of hair bob up and down with each suckle, gives a little chuckle and discretely puts his bosom away. Holding little Richard tight he finally removes his gaze and looks at James as if he is about to close this perfect scene with something even more wonderful. 

 

James can feel his heart skipping a beat as he waits in anticipation for something delightfully beautiful to end a wonderful afternoon. Jeremy softly whispers so as not to wake the slumbering Richard, 'I was just thinking but you know, when 'Johnny Suicide' decides to jump in front of a train. Why can't we you know, just carry on and let it drive on through their mangled corpse. Cos.. you know. It won't make them any better'. James leant forward cross the table and then back again. Rubbing his stubbly chin. He furrowed his brow and then smiles sheepishly as that one nugget of wisdom reminds. It reminds him of the man he fell in love with. As if he had forgotten..

for Josh

 

 

Motherhood is swell; swell in the sense of all consuming, continually pulsating; the constant reminder that this is not all about you anymore.  This may sound harsh to some but I'm keen to leave romanticised depictions of parenthood at the door. No one wants to read the mushy, glistening side of parenthood. Mush is divisive and alienating.  People are either happy for you (because they are going through the sunbeams and rainbow phase) or they are quietly plotting how to poison you and your entire family.

Having a baby is challenging and sometimes it can feel as if it has completely warped your life.  I think the biggest change, to me personally, as a person, who thinks personal things, is the ups and downs of my relationship that once felt like it was made out of marshmallows, personalised playlists and the voice of Jeff Buckley has now been relegated to a meandering but steady (ish) heap of those coloured plastic balls from a ball pit and practical wall fittings.  Not too shabby but not what either of us expected at this juncture.

I claim to be a feminist and so the thing I am still unable to reconcile with is being the main carer for our son and making sure he remains alive as well as being responsible for making sure we don't eat too much pasta, the house doesn't become infested with cockroaches and crucially that our once adored cat doesn't become too starved of attention that she feels the need to hurl herself under a passing Renault Megane.   The responsibility is all encompassing and it can be hard to breathe. 

Arguably since becoming a father, Josh has escaped  relatively unscathed.  He remains the same athletic build and weight, has the exact same social group, the same work pattern (ish) and gets to.. leave the house.. alone.  He can walk up and down steps without clutching a tiny wrist as this small person insists on navigating up the stairs,  facing forward, standing up. One tiny hand precariously holding the bannister as big brown eyes adventurously peep through the slats.  It's okay for Josh to comfortable zone off at work without feeling a familiar stab of guilt that you are neglecting your child for checking the newsfeed on Facebook.  If Josh did this at work he would risk a disapproving stare from the boss, perhaps a reminder that he is not to check it during work hours. I risk (at least in my head) fucking our kid up for life. 

Whilst I'm sweating over a washing up bowl filled with hot soapy liquid; he is sweating over a new, rigorous exercise regime.  Sometimes we are worlds apart and he feels beyond reach but then once our son is in bed, we resume our evening position on the sofa with my legs over his and his arm around me, we lean in together close and gaze at our phones whispering love sick incantations at the photos of this tiny but magnificent little boy called Baxter.   And the divide and difference is all but forgotten.

PND: A Fiction

Although this blog entry uses some examples from my personal experience I just wanted to let any readers (hello) know that it is mostly a work of fiction with a bit of pop culture melodrama thrown in.  I had PND for the first 7 or so months but am now off my medication (under the advice of a doctor) and feeling a lot more myself. I have had a few messages from kind friends with support but also letting me know that I'm not alone.  This entry isn't meant to be upsetting. 

I remember the health visitor dutifully mentioning post-natal depression during the first antenatal check. I shrugged it off.  After having bouts of depression during my adolescence I was determined not to let it get its grubby mits on motherhood.  I'd been through enough rounds of cognitive behavioural therapy to spot the warning signs.  I was 'aware'.

'Any history of mental illness?' my midwife with the Pat Butcher makeup asked.  That is not meant as an insult. I really liked her a lot. Pale blue eye-shadow carefully and expertly marked her lids all the way upto the thin, arched eyebrows.  Her voice didn't match.  She had the gentle sensible lull of the woman from Peep Show with the brown eyes. Olivia Coleman.

I was truthful and reeled out the usual spiel of it happening a few years ago during the hazy 'teenage years' as if that made it seem more distant; the relegation to 'teenage years' I hoped insinuated short lived rebellion as if it was some undesirable ex boyfriend corrupting me.  A relationship never to be repeated. 

My Olivia/Pat amalgamation scribbled something in my medical notes.  I'd check what it was later. 
'Can you tell me a bit more?' She smiled apologetically.  I threw in the savvy buzz word 'self harm' just to be done with it.  Her eyes were still on me, expecting more.  No point drudging it up.  It was dead. Leave it.  After what felt like a millennia she smiled again, rubbed the nail on her thumb and said 'Because of your past experience with depression it increases the chance of you  getting post-natal depression.   But of course, it isn't a given!'
Exchange over.  She smiled sweetly and asked me my blood type.  A negative.  I think. 

Depression has affected me on and off during adolescence; rearing its ugly head during the start of secondary school before submerging itself and resurfacing during GCSE's and the illness of my dad.  It came and went during periods of teenage heartbreak and those dramatic but inevitable arguments with friends but it was far easier to write it off as a phase or even better, to belittle it as a teenage angst thing. 

The pregnancy went surprisingly well despite spending the majority of the time googling any uncomfortable symptoms and convincing myself the baby was going to die. At 12 weeks the threat of miscarriage is miniscule, another 12 weeks and if baby decided to pop out for a hidey-hi then it would be considered 'viable'. One of those defiant, amazing 'premie babies' that refuse to give up and go on to live normal lives, get married and drive a car to and from work.  32 weeks in my head was deemed, 'pretty much born already'. 

My point is that during my pregnancy I never remember getting that warm, mellow slightly smug feeling that some women just seem to radiate.  I became obsessed with readying myself for a health professional to tell me my baby was dead.  I was fortunate enough to be met with welcome answers such as 'healthy heartbeat' and 'good weight gain' but every scan seemed like an escaped opportunity for my heart to be irrevocably broken. Trapped by these painful thoughts and what at times felt like premonitions I was unable to tell anyone because that would jinx it and my baby would die. Everyday chores began to be regarded as obstacles to be completed to the best of my ability; or else.  If I didn't hang my clothes in the right way then my baby would die, if I folded up the bathroom towels in a shoddy way; dead baby, if I didn't close my underwear drawer properly.. my baby dead. You get the jist.  I have no idea why the life or death of my baby was dictated by my laundry but it was.  You'd think that this would flash up warning signs, maybe something akin to 'what the fuck is wrong with you..?' At the time it didn't seem exactly normal; but these rituals were private and I couldn't risk stopping them.  The thought of having any type of depression once baby was here terrified me.  I can fuck up my GCSEs, I can fuck up a doomed relationship, I can fuck up a friendship that would have faded out but I can't fuck up motherhood. I cannot fail at this.  This is it.

The lights from the studio shine into my eyes as I stare mesmerised by the sea of faces in front of me.  All expectant, close-mouthed and waiting for me to crumble. And so it begins.

What kind of mother would abandon her own daughter?' 
We didn't actually know where you'd be a boy or girl.  Your father argued that it would be one of the few unadulterated surprises left in life. I sighed, feigning disappointment but was secretly pleased that he held such strong views that I knew I could not backtrack out of.

I turn to my right, your long hair dangled protectively around you.  Shielding one side of your face.  I could tell you were trying to contain a cry because your shoulders shook.  When the midwife whisked you away from us so suddenly without saying a word.  I couldn't breathe.  I looked at your father.  Being firm and forthright wouldn't help now.  A different midwife, maybe a student returned after what felt like a lifetime to tell us that your shoulders were wide and combined with my efforts you got stuck.  Everything became nothing.  The student panicked and came over to the bed words muddling together.  Key ones standing out like sunshine beams. 'Fine, Back, Soon. Good pair. Haha. Of lungs'.  I breathed and looked at your father, smiling.

You finally look at me, hold my gaze for a second, snort and then turn away. Choked. The talk show host still standing tall, puts his hand on your shoulder; you look up at him.  The perfect camera angle to show a neglected girl seeking comfort and guidance from the Father of ITV and ITV2 Daytime. It was perfect.

Sitting in the headmaster's office I begin to feel edgy and run my thumb along the edge of my handbag.  I panic when he tells me that you are perceived as 'closed off' and 'being uncomfortable during social situations'.  I shudder. Suddenly the word 'autism' is suggested.  A few weeks later you are forever entwined with the label 'Asperger's Syndrome'.  I try to hug you after another of my 'down days' and you wince. I cling to the tagline 'Aspergers Syndrome' like a snail clings onto its shell.  It wasn't my fault.

I detect a glint in his eye as he takes in your vulnerability, lapping it up.  'You've got a beautiful kid'.  He tears his eyes from you back to me.  Briefly I am thankful.  He removes his hand from your shoulder and walks slowly towards me, 'She's got her head screwed on right. No thanks to you'.  He narrows his eyes.  I look at my palms nestled on my lap and take deep, long breaths. Faint but entirely recognisable scars on my wrist bounce back at me.  I turn my hands over.  'Not always' I whisper.

The talk show host looks visibly confused.  A cough emits from the audience of faces. Garett growls into his mouthpiece 'Fucking sort it'. He can sort it.  He was born to do this.  Fuck Garett and fuck every scumbag watching this show.  They should be at work.  He touches his earpiece and turns to the audience scoffing a laugh and raises his killer eyebrows.   The audience titter alongside, comforted at last by someone who truly gets them.  Someone who says it like it is.  One of them. 

It's all under control now; I've told your school and the health visitor that I am feeling much better and it won't happen again.  I slipped up.  This time I shouted at you to give me peace otherwise I would kill myself.  You were eight, maybe nine.  Your eyes went wide and your bottom lip started to wobble.  I couldn't stand it, the crying anymore.  I rang your father.  He couldn't leave now. They had jobs to get out for a client and it had to be done today.  Ever the pragmatist he suggested going to the park to let off some steam and added that you'd probably appreciate a trip to the local fastfood chain.  Chicken nuggets don't work on you anymore. I agreed to the plan just to satisfy him and put the phone down.  Just you and me now.

'So you agree that you could have done more?' a voice niggles at me from nowhere.  He saunters into view.  'I mean, to be honest love, we've all been in a bad place... physically..spiritually..emotionally..mentally, but, believe me when I tell you this; I've been there, I've fought my demons and if I can do it so can you.  Don't do it for her or him or them. Not even for me.  Do it. For You'. 

Someone, somewhere starts to clap and it joins into a crescendo of hands smacking together like an army of seals. He crouches down in front of me and I look into his blue eyes. I am barely past what was left of his crow's feet before he motions the audience to cease.  He turns back to me and smiles, one that could easily be misconstrued as knowing and wise, the kind of smile elicited from a man who has 'emotional baggage' but has overcome it, against all the odds.  But, I can see it for what it is; satisfaction.  He kneels in front of me and everything sounds slow and drawn out 'But unlike you, I would have walked through burning deserts and hot coal just to see my kids.  I would have made it my life's work'. 

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.  It's too late.  He walks away with his back turned with the confidence of a man that knew without a doubt that the shell that he had left behind on the chair poses no threat; whatsoever.  The camera stops rolling and the door slams shut. 

Poor us (cough cough)

 

 

This week has mostly been spent coughing, taking my temperature repeatedly and singing the 'Poor Us' song with/at Baxter. 

Feel free to try at home; the lyrics are as follows

Poor us (cough cough)
Please make a fuss
Poor us (cough cough)
Can't get on the bus
Poor us (cough cough)
But we don't have puss
(..Repeat till fade until physically stopped by someone..)

After a lot of TLC from Josh it now looks like his immune system has finally been compromised because he has it too.  This is no good.  This never happens.  Both of us can't be ill.  With an ill one year old. Well, this IS a fine mess we've got ourselves into. Blargh.

So now I'm doing what I usually do when there is a crisis to be ignored.  I'm looking at the Cats in Crisis facebook page and staring longingly at the cute 'Cats in Crisis'. There is nothing perverted about this plus they don't actually look too desperate. Just a bit needy.  I'm more in crisis than they are.  I have a cold for god's sake. 

From Rachael in Crisis (maybe even the plural... crisises..a flock of crisis, crises) wotever. Cough.

Hello Impregnated Friend.

'belly's gonna get yer..'

This is a parenting piece I wrote for the thrifty, money saving blog My Fabulous Broke Life.  Since my last entry here was way back in October; I thought this would be a neat bridging thing for further rambles.

...

Thankfully this is not one of those cringey, twee ‘Welcome to Motherhood’ guides that are cluttered with aspirational images of the must-have baby product of the month.  Nor is it one of those ultra organised bullet-pointed shopping lists that conveniently coaxes you to purchase all the ‘essentials’ at some supermarket’s Baby Event Extravaganza.  This little piece is based entirely on what I would tell my best friend if she were to fall into a drain, with a man at the bottom; who just happened to have an erect penis and wind up pregnant.  

However whilst hind-sight is a wonderful and beautiful thing; sometimes you just have to mess up/waste money/ melt a dummy in the microwave in an attempt to sterilise it more efficiently (ho hum) before you find out what works best for you. If I were to meet my pregnant self again; (RUN FOR THE HILLS) then this is my narrowed down short list of what I’d like to tell her:

1)

Use what yo mama gave you.  Seriously. Breast feed.  I could just regurgitate the ole’ saying ‘breast is best’ but frankly that means zilch.  The number one reason I love feeding from the boob is that it makes me feel like a G when I can whip it out and satisfy my crying hell baby in three seconds flat.  Plus a little part of me wants to be one of those Save the World hippies and stick two fingers and two erect nipples up at the formula companies who con some women out of what nature gave them.  I feel a longer blog about booby feeding coming on later but let’s keep it succinct for now.. it’s free and there are a lot of pro boob feeding groups out there who want to help get new mums started on what could turn out to be the biggest time and money saver ever. 

2)

Use and abuse your local Children’s Centres.  They’re FREE.  Initially you may feel wary about going but after a few baby massage groups you’ll be comparing bags under the eyes with all the other mummies in no time.  Also some have sensory rooms which are a little like being on some sort of  acid trip what with the lights, different textures and glowy bits.  Seriously, it’s important to get out and meet others in the same confusing, new mother haze that magically seems to clear after a few long months.  Be kind to yourself and get out the house. You may feel like mourning your previous, care-free life but you belong to a new club now.  The Parent Club.  And by golly you’ve earnt your membership.. 

3)
 
It can be really easy to get carried away and do a ‘Super Market Sweep’ in shops like Mamas and Papas. And in no way would I want to begrudge you that captivating sailor suit with a seagull motif because c’mon, we have to get our kicks somehow.  But if you are a few Sainsbury’s Basics baked beans away from the poor house like yours truly than I can highly recommend popping into your local charity shops.  The leg work of sourcing cutesy clothes and paying extortionate prices has already been done (heh..suckers) and I’ve found some pretty cutesy garments as well as toys for under a pound.  Ker-ching.  Plus after your sproglett has outgrown it and if the item is still in a passable condition  (not partly digested) then you simply return it to the charity shop and spread the love and make the world go round.

4)

Again this one is tempting for the new parent, but shelling out on professional photos of your little one spread eagle on a giant Furby is not always necessary.  Believe me there will be many photos taken by yourself and your nearest and dearest that your little one will probably have to take out an injunction against you and anyway,  the candid moments captured always seem to be the most memorable.  One of the upsides of having a baby is that you will no longer be stuck with what to get the doting grandparents for Christmas every year because your baby’s mug can be fashioned onto all kinds of things thanks to websites that rhyme with spoondig.bomb.  Although there will inevitably come a time when all this ‘personalising’ will have to stop because it may be a tad inappropriate to bribe my future 18 year old son to wear a delightful teddy bear onesie for a photo but I like a challenge.  Oh dear.

5)
 
I saw this fantastic meme (pronounced me-me or meem??) on Facebook which suggested reading the baby and parenting books and then binning them and following your instinct. Yippy ki yay! Although understandably, sometimes having something in print can give you the confidence to do what you would have done instinctively so a foray into a few books wouldn't hurt but my thoughts are that unless you are trying to deliberately mess up your kid then… you probably won’t.  Listen to advice and ignore it if it makes you feel uncomfortable but delve into a few books just for the craic to see what other options there are for fun, timeless classics like sleep training, weaning yada yada and then do it your way.   Because whether you decide to breast feed or formula feed, splash out on a gorgeous moses basket or have your baby sleeping with you in your own bed- you are more than likely already doing or are going to do a great job. High five.