Posted on September 29, 2015
Three
Tomorrow my little boy will be three.
I’ll have been a mother for three years. Wife to a father for three years. Student, advocate, defender, friend, supporter, champion, apprentice, guardian, and teacher to a beautiful little soul for three years.
Co-leader of Team Awesome established 30 September, 2012.
It’s all feels so big. Like I am the luckiest person on the planet. Like this is momentous. Enormous. I know it’s just a birthday – and three isn’t even one of those birthdays like five or 18 or 21.
But it is big. Three years of being a mother when I never thought I’d be a mother. Three years for a little boy who has laid on an operating table three times without me to touch his hair and with all of these people working on him to help him breathe. And he made it to three when at any time he could have caught something worse than the cold that collapsed his trachea. Or in ICU with a machine to help him breathe – what if he’d not recovered? I ask that, but I can’t imagine it. My mind will not allow me to think of a life without my baby.
It’s impossible to express the gratitude I feel for the people who saved his life so many times – by diagnosing him, treating him, operating on him, healing him.
I catch him intently drawing, his face pressed close to the page like I used to draw, and I see him stare at the sun to think, and I watch him stick his tongue out while he concentrates and I feel like I could fall. And I do fall, in love with him more and more and more until I feel like my heart could burst at any moment. Each day I think I’ve definitely hit my limit of adoration for him – but then he still takes my breath away by his ordinary wonderfulness.
It’s amazing that parenting is literally something so many, many people do. One of the most shared experiences in life really. Yet when you become a parent it feels as if nobody has ever felt the way you do. That this is an experience that is fundamentally different to any other thing – it’s unique. There’s a baby born every minute but when you give birth it’s like it has never happened before.
I remember my first post-Eddie outing and I wondered if strangers could see I was different. I had a baby! I’m a mum now! I’m a mum! I felt like everything about me said mum. And there could have been another parent in the supermarket, shell-shocked, staring at the veges and trying to remember what they were here for. But we didn’t see each other and everyone went about their lives because that’s what you do.
Because it’s not special in the way society measures special – but it’s so special if you break it down. You’re raising a child. That’s huge!
Sometimes when someone shares a photo on Facebook of that classic “putting the baby capsule in the car for the first time” moment, I get a little electric shock. Almost every parent has that moment. We are so tied together as parents – all of this love, so similar, even when our lives, our cultures, our ways, our values, are so different.
Almost all of us – thank goodness – love our babies in that painful way. That – HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE THEY’RE SO PERFECT IT’S AMAZING – way.
There are third birthdays all over the world. Parents all over the world laying in bed and thinking – where did the time go? Their hearts bursting with pride as they think about the last three years. The next three years. Life with this little being.
And that love that brings tears to your eyes.
How grateful I am to have had that love, my little sweet boy, for three years.
Happy birthday my sunshine. Happy birthday to all of the children who steal the breath from the people who raise them. May you continue to make your parents cry forever.
I’m a mum!
***
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Posted on September 21, 2015
When we share
Occasionally, I see comments from grumpy people who are very offended. Not by what I’ve written necessarily – more just, that I’ve written at all. They can usually be found on Facebook, when someone else has shared my post. They never seem to have the guts to tell me on my page or on this blog. And there was one on my first post in the NZ Herald (I know, I said I wouldn’t read the comments, but people kept telling me they were nice so I went back…and they were nice, so thank you everyone who said nice things).
Anyway, these responses to me writing (not my writing) are variations on:
HOW VERY DARE YOU TELL EVERYONE ABOUT YOUR LIFE ON SOCIAL MEDIA.
I thought about writing about these people a while back. These people who are just obsessed with telling you via social media that this thing that you’re doing – via social media – is just EVERYTHING WRONG IN THE WORLD WITH PARENTS. Nobody wants to read about what you have to say, they say, as they read what you have to say.
They say that “normal” people don’t share ALL OF THEIR LIVES on social media. That they – anonymous angry people – only tell “close friends” about their lives (heh – I find it hard to believe any of them have friends let alone close friends). They certainly don’t SPEW EVERY MOMENT OF THEIR LIVES all over the internet.
Is this spew? I don’t think so. Well actually, sometimes I feel like I have to get these posts out – so maybe they are a tad vomitous. Isn’t that just writing in general though? I sure hope so.
One very important man who can’t let an opinion different to his stand says I’m pathetic. He says parenting is private. All of it. Or maybe just some of the bits – Jeff didn’t specify what parts you’re allowed to talk about and on which platforms. Which is utterly devastating for me as a grown woman who deeply wants to please Jeff.
I don’t really understand this idea that there are some things we are allowed to talk about and some things we are not allowed to talk about. It seems to suggest you’re allowed to say you’re a parent, but not what parenting is like for you. There doesn’t seem to be a master list that says which topics are OK and which ones aren’t. You’re allowed to tell family and friends about your life but only in person?
Are my friends on Twitter imaginary? Are the people I’ve met through this blog and become close friends with somehow less real than other friends? Just because we don’t talk face to face?
Parenting makes your world bigger as it makes it smaller. There’s nothing quite so isolating as parenting – being up during the night rocking your baby to sleep alone. But when you pull out your phone and talk to other parents on Twitter – even if it’s just:
“wow I’m so tired”
“Same! It’s 4am here and he’s been feeding for three hours!”
“I feel you – it’s midnight here and mine has a cold”
“Cluster feeding sucks!”
You’ve expanded your tiny world. Reaching across oceans and giving a weak and tired thumbs up to another parent is special. It’s important. It makes us feel less alone, less lonely. It connects us. Binds us. How can you see so much negativity in that?
How can you think sharing is wrong when half the time as parents we are drilling into our kids that they have to share?
In a little Facebook group someone says ‘is this normal?’ and they’re scared, and they’re worried, and they’re not sure if they should be scared and worried and someone in Picton tells them that their baby did that too and it was fine and don’t be worried and it’s OK to be scared. And you can almost feel the relief from the mum in Tuakau.
Or when you see a mum say that she can’t cope and she feels like she can’t be alone right now because maybe, maybe she can’t take this anymore. And suddenly a little community springs into action and they go to her house and they take her to the GP and while she’s there other mums clean her house and look after her baby and drop over some cooked meals.
In a group for parents who make their own baby food, or whose kids wear cloth nappies, or in a group for buying and selling kids books, or a group for parents of kids with disabilities or in a group of mums from the UK, someone says they can’t stop crying because their six year-old is sick and their four-year-old is sick and they have mastitis, another mum says she will get her some pain killers and some cabbage from the supermarket. She’ll be over in half an hour and she’ll bring lunch for the kids.
This isn’t new – parents have needed help and connection and love forever. We just have new ways of sharing and supporting and caring now.
It’s a common theme to say we don’t have villages anymore. But I think we do. I think our villages are online – and they’re scoffed at, just because they’re online. And that’s BS.
Because – Aren’t you glad she has someone to reach out to? How can you begrudge that? What would she have done if she’d followed your advice? Shut up. Suffer in silence. Stop being so pathetic.
I have written about some really personal things – my prenatal depression being one of them. And it was really hard to write about. I felt like I was going to vomit as I pressed publish – so you know, maybe that spew comment isn’t far off the mark. But you know what – my inbox was flooded with mums who had either been through the same thing or were going through the same thing.
And three mothers told me it saved their life.
So the “how very dare you” mob can bugger off. We CAN talk about this stuff. WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS STUFF. We can support each other and reject this ridiculous narrative that people force on us.
I’m sick of the idea that there are mummy wars and parents these days share too much and they overthink everything and in days gone by you just got on with it and this and that and we’re all just doing everything wrong.
We do get on with it. But shit, we help each other while we are getting on with it. And sending a tweet saying “You doing OK? Rough night?” is no different to leaning over the fence and saying “Want a cuppa?”
We’re not doing everything wrong. We’re doing this solidarity thing right. Every day I see beautiful, breathtaking kindness online – I’ve never seen a parent ask for help online and not get it.
When you’re in pain you can talk about it. You can ask for help. You can share your stories and help others. Your friends online are just as real as any other friends. The community you create – on Twitter, Facebook, a blog, a forum – it’s real, don’t let anyone tell you it’s not.
And you can talk about whatever the fuck you want whenever the fuck you want wherever the fuck you want.
I can take nasty comments. I don’t like them, but I can take them. There will always be people in the world who are mortally offended by the fact that you wrote a blog and they didn’t agree with it. I know that. I’ve dealt with it and I know I’ll continue to deal with it.
But it’s worth it. It’s more than worth it.
And it’s how I want to parent. I don’t want my sons to feel like they need to hold in their emotions. To only share their lives with a tiny few. Closed in and closed up is not the way I want them to be. I don’t want them to build walls, I want them to knock them down.
I print every post I write and put it into a little folder. When the boys are older I would love it if they wanted to read them. I will feel proud to tell them that I got to share our lives a little, and that by sharing we made our world a little bigger and brighter. And I will tell them about Abi in the UK and how we are mum friends even though we will never meet, and I will tell them that their best friends are children whose mothers I met in Facebook groups and who are now my nearest and dearest friends, I will show them the emails from mums in Denmark and Japan and Johannesburg saying these stories make them smile. I will tell Eddie that we set up a charity for kids like him – that dozens of kids dance every week because his love of life (that never diminishes no matter what he faces) inspired so many that they donated over a thousand dollars for the cause. That there were donations to the children’s hospital in his name after each of his surgeries. I’ll tell Ham that his birth made me a writer and brought all of these wonderful opportunities for our family. That his birth made someone on Twitter fart-laugh (I reckon at aged two that’s going to be a real winner story for him so I might crack it out sooner).
I’ll tell them both that we’re all part of something bigger – and that when we share we bring people together and there’s never anything wrong with doing that. No matter what anyone says.
Here I am oversharing again.
***
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Posted on September 20, 2015
GUEST POST: It’s OK to say yes
This guest post was sent to me at exactly the right time. I get lots of emails from mums around the world, sometimes they write just to say hi, or to share their thoughts on sleep or other important parenting things, and other times they ask for advice. I recently had two emails from mums asking about mental health treatment. Then the very next day I was sent this guest post. Perfect! Thank you to the mama who wrote it and sent it through. It’s really going to help others – we don’t talk about mental health nearly enough. Especially mental health and parenting. Sharing our stories as parents is so important. Thank you to everyone who writes guest posts to be shared here. If you’d like to share you story – email me at EmilyWritesNZ@gmail.com. Arohanui xox
Trigger warning: Discussion of mental health.
Drugs.
Sweet, sweet drugs.
Prescription drugs for mental health, that is.
There is such a stigma when it comes to talking about medication for depression or anxiety, especially among those of us with young children. Postnatal depression effects 13% of new mothers in New Zealand according to Plunket. That is a shitload – yet among friends of mine, I would say that number is closer to 50%. The number of those who chose to medicate? Maybe 10% of that. But why? Why are we so loathe to take the magic little pills that can make all the difference?
Many of us are too ashamed to admit we need help, either due to unsupportive partners or extended families. It can be a huge struggle to talk honestly about what you need when you are in charge of everyone else’s needs. It’s so easy to put ourselves last when there are little people to keep alive, and partners to connect with; when those around us tell us how happy we must be to have such beautiful babies, how lucky we are, how perfect our new families are.
Some are scared of what it means to be taking chemical medication, preferring to go down the natural remedies track. This involves strategies such as taking herbal supplements, cutting out certain foods or trying new diets, relaxing the mind and body with essential oils, or filling alone time with exercise.
I identified with both of these (although not the exercise – who am I kidding).
With my first born I had a hell of a birth. It threatened both my son’s life and my own, and traumatized my partner. I have blacked out the majority of the event (self-preservation I think) and I do have fond memories of our first few days together as a new family. I was in a lot of physical pain, breastfeeding was agony, and I had an unsupportive midwife; this led to me deciding to quit while I was ahead, and go with the bottle to feed my son. But despite his entry into the world, and lacking the bonding that comes with a breastfeeding relationship (as well as unsupportive LMC and Plunket nurses due to being a teen mum, but that’s a whole other story!) I was on cloud nine.
Two-and-a-half years of happy families passed, and then Son No.2 was due to arrive. Opting to skip the carnage of the birthing suite this time around, I turned up for my elective cesarean with my private obstetrician and had my delicious newborn in my arms an hour later. After a few hours of separation (due to some drug reactions from me, and breathing difficulties for him) we were reunited and I waited for euphoria to set in.
But it did not.
While I waited, I pushed through the searing nipple pain. I was determined to breastfeed this child if it was the last thing I did. The 24/7 attached-at-the-boob routine was in place and still I waited for my babymoon to start. In the following weeks my partner’s business collapsed, we lost all income, and my two-year-old transformed from an angel child into Lucifer reincarnated. We made the decision to jump ship and move house and cities.
At our new place, I left the house about 4 times in 3 months. I literally couldn’t walk past the letterbox without wanting to throw up with anxiety. For 3 months I baked bread from scratch, handmade every single Christmas present and crafted elaborate birthday cakes. Yet I lay in bed awake all night, a baby attached to me, and sat my toddler in front of The Wiggles six hours a day. I was a zombie. Despite over-achieving on the outside, I was a walking zombie. Eventually, my husband marched me to the GP and I was set up with a fabulous counsellor through Maternal Mental Health. I looked forward to our weekly sessions, still in the comfort of my own house because I couldn’t leave. But I still said no to medication. I can’t even remember why.
Another move, this time 5 hours away, more depression.
Another year another move, same depression.
By this time I thought it was just normal to feel this way. My baby was now nearly 3, I had a 5-year-old at school, and I had finally convinced my husband for a third baby. Her pregnancy was very different to her brothers. I found the most amazing midwife and had a plan for my last birth to be empowering and on my terms. Despite all our best intentions, for a magical VBAC, my long-awaited daughter arrived by emergency cesarean and completed our family. Months went by, another business ended its course and again we decided to move back to Wellington. It was the best decision we ever made.
For the next (nearly) three years I thought things were better. However, I suffered from numerous health issues. So many tests, so many inconclusive results. I was so used to my new normal I never suspected my mental health to be a factor in my physical health. Eventually, it became too much and I had a nervous breakdown. Complete “what am I doing with my life?”, “my family is better off without me”, “I’m living a lie” – that kind of breakdown.
So I went to the GP, and said, “I’m ready for drugs.”
And they saved my life.
Three months later I am a different person. I am happy – truly happy. I am a better mother to my kids. I am a better, more present and more loving partner. My new-found passions are opening up my world to new people and experiences. I am making the most beautiful and interesting friends.
The fence that my anxiety had built, and the fog that my depression had made around me, are both gone and anything is possible. I know how fucking cheesy that sounds, but I cannot express my love for my magic little pills enough.
I regret the years I have wasted being unhappy, the years of my children’s childhood that I wasn’t really present for.
I want to share my story because I want to say, it is okay to say yes to the drugs. By all means talk about it. Drink those herbal teas. Do that cross fit class. But it’s okay – it’s okay to say yes to the drugs too.
It is more than okay.
Posted on September 14, 2015
The A to Z of sleep
Posted on September 7, 2015
Before I was his mum
Oh, I was such a great parent before I had kids. I knew exactly how to parent.
I was supermarket tutter (I would never give my child a kinder surprise just because they asked for it), I was a smirker on planes (I would never put a child on a plane late at night – I mean you’re just asking for trouble), I was a eye roller over my latte (my child would be well behaved in cafes!)
And I was so breathtakingly wrong. I don’t even know where to begin. Here are some of my dumbest pre-kid ideas:
No screen time for my babies!
Don’t you know? Screen time is The Worst. You may as well let your child play with broken glass covered in wasps. It’d be safer. Kids turn into zombies in front of the TV. Get them outside! Get them in NATURE.
Fuck nature. It’s always fucking raining. The fact that TV turns kids into zombies for five seconds is the whole point. That’s what you want so you can make them a nourishing meal for them to throw on the floor.
Which brings me to my next DUMB IDEA.
They’ll eat what they’re given and they’ll stay at the table until they’re finished!
I will not be pandering to my toddler. If he won’t eat what has been made for him he’ll go to bed hungry. He needs to learn that we are not his servants. I was forced to eat my veges and he will too.
We are his servants. He can eat whatever he wants as long as it’s something. Because not eating means waking us up at 2am then 3am then 4am then 5.30am because he wants 600g of luncheon. Just luncheon. Nothing else. He wants the worst not-even-meat there is. He loves that crushed up every-part-of-the-animal crap. It’s better than cheese. Which he will also eat if it’s just cheese on its own.
Pre-kids I knew how to deal with picky eaters – you force them to eat. Whatever is in front of them. Then they won’t be picky.
Except that when you’re actually staring at your child you actually can’t force them to eat because you realise how messed up it is to force anyone to eat when they don’t want to. Don’t get me wrong I’ve thought about it. And I once made him cry when in frustration I said “For God’s Sake JUST EAT”. Not my best parenting moment.
A stressed out dinner time is not what we want. He picks up on it, we feel shit, and he doesn’t eat. So we don’t push it.
When he’s 18 30 he won’t still be eating luncheon. In all seriousness, it feels like a long-game. I don’t want him to have messed up attitudes toward food. We grow veges together as a family, and we cook them up and eat them – or he picks beans or cherry tomatoes straight from the garden and eats them raw. You win some, you lose some. Some weeks it’s all plain rice crackers and cucumber. The next it’s eating 4/7 of the meals made for him.
Now the next one is ridiculous.
I want the lounge to stay ours.
I don’t want us to be one of those houses where there’s just toys and shit everywhere. The lounge is an adult space. I want a basket of toys (wooden, heuristic, just a few – kids don’t really need many toys) that can be slid under a coffee table or something. Out of sight, out of mind. Then we can have time not being parents. You know, in the evening, after they go to bed at a reasonable time. We can have a glass of wine and toast what great parents we are.
Here’s my lounge:
The balloons are from a party about a month ago.
When the kids are finally in bed. We try to do a quick clean-up which involves me throwing all the cheap, plastic, hideous toys into cheap, plastic, hideous crates ready to be upended at 6am in the next morning. We then try to have a conversation that goes sort of like:
I’m real tired.
Yeah. So tired.
Yeah I might just…
Yeah. I’m just gonna…
Go to bed.
Yeah. Bed.
I mean it’s almost 9.30…
Shit is it that late?
The only wooden toys we own are the ones I bought when I was pregnant with my first. Eddie picked them up once. And then put them back down again.
Yesterday, he played with those awful fucking Countdown dominoes for an hour and a half! And still – many, many months after I put all his Countdown cards on Trademe in a fit of rage – he asks me for his “faveybit cards dear mama? Wea they gone my mama?”
I don’t know son. They’re just gone.
I will never have my kids in bed with me. They’re meant to be in a cot.
*wheeze laugh that turns into sobbing*
I will never let my kid into the toilet while I’m going. It’s weird. I don’t understand these parents who let their kids watch them.
Aged 3 months: Peeing and holding a screaming baby because the decibel level is slightly lower when you’re holding them compared to when they’re on the floor. Internal monologue: I am so tired I think I’ve forgotten how to pee.
Aged one year: Little hands under the door. Heavy breathing/screaming/banging on bottom of the door. Internal monologue: I am so tired it feels so good to sit down! External monologue: Mama is coming honey! Hold on! Hold on my beautiful angel baby sweetheart! Hold on! Ok hol-wait…No tears I’ll be out sooon…Ok hol-wait…
Aged one and a half: Door suddenly opens to ecstatic toddler looking like a teenager that just found their parents’ booze stash. External monologue: HOW DID YOU OPEN THE DOOR?!?!
Aged two: Toddler playing at your feet. Occasionally staring into bowl. THERE IS NO OTHER MONOLOGUE BUT TODDLER MONOLOGUE: Why you pee dear mama? Why? Why you down like dat? Why you sit? Wea you bum is? Wea you toilet? You nee paper? Me see? Me see you bum? Mama? Wha choo doin? Wha choo doin now? (It’s still a monologue because you’re not even able to answer)
Aged almost three: External monologue: My darling! Mama is going to the toilet! Come and see! Everybody poos on the toilet because pooing on the toilet is so fun! Look! Do you want to poo on the toilet? Digger drivers poo! Elsa poos! Ballet dancers poo! Bob the Builder poos! Nanna poos! Teddy poos! Everybody poos! *slightly hysterical now* EVERYBODY POOS OK?!
My kids are going to listen to real music
No they’re not. They’re going to listen to Let it Go a thousand times a day and you’re going to deal with it.
I like to think most people aren’t as moronic as I was pre-kids. I really had lots of ideas that disappeared along with my waist and ability to sleep seven hours uninterrupted. But the biggest one for me was this one:
I won’t change
Having children has been the most profound and incredible experience of my life and it has changed every little and big bit of my being. Every bit.
Holding my baby for the first time shattered me into a million pieces, quickly reordered by his first breath into someone willing to lay my life down for him a million times over.
Seeing my husband curled around our babies, rocking them to sleep and humming gently, swelled my heart until the blood rushed into my cheeks. A warm glow I still feel every time he lovingly cuddles them back to slumber.
My son’s first surgery ripped me into shredded ribbons that I quickly threaded back together ready to be the whole person he needed when he came back to me.
The first time someone said something hurtful about my child – turned my spine to ice, set my bones to concrete, my blood to fire.
When we held our second baby in our arms – who knew it would be that same crushing feeling? That overwhelming almost painful joy?
The pride that makes me feel bigger and stronger than I am when I see our little boy show kindness and compassion for others. That wonder – How on Earth did we get so lucky?
And all the little times we reassess and change or decimate or ignore the silly little ideas we had on what kind of parents we thought we would be – almost every hour, always every day. The values stay the same – we want kind kids that feel safe and loved. But all the little ideas are blown away by an imaginary leaf blower, powered by a little boy who is almost three and knows a lot more than his mum a lot of the time.
Certainly knows more than his mum did before she became his mum.
***
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Posted on August 25, 2015
Getting my life back
This is a post about anxiety and depression. It might be triggering for you if you’re currently struggling with your mental health. If you read this and it strikes a chord with you or you think you might need help – please see your midwife or GP or if you’re in New Zealand call Healthline on 0800 611 116. This is just my journey, every one has a different journey. It’s scary to post this publicly so please consider that before you comment.
I bought a book and I was scared of opening it. I don’t want to curl the pages. Read a book once and it’s read. I wanted to keep it perfect. Even when it meant I would miss out on the wonder in its pages.
…
When I woke the room was dark and silent. I reached over to touch my best friend and lover’s chest. I wanted to feel it rise and fall. I was scared I would not feel it.
….
My heart beat so fast I could feel the blood. I could hear it raging. I felt cold and tried to feel my feet on the ground to bring me back to the earth. But it pulled me down too far and everything went black.
…
I had a dream of a raging river. I filled my pockets with stones. It was romantic. They found my baby safe in a basket by the river. She had flowers in her hair.
…
When I was about six months pregnant with my second child I woke up one day and I couldn’t move. I thought I must have had a stroke or something. My husband asked me if I was OK and I burst into tears.
I’m not ok I said.
He said he knew. And he asked if we could call the midwife together. I was terrified. Telling our midwife I needed help was absolutely the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I was sure they would take me away or worse – take my children away. But I had made a promise to myself when we decided to try to start a family – I would be the best mother I could be. I would protect us by protecting myself. My midwife was amazing. Things happened quickly. I was put under the care of maternal mental health.
For me, in Wellington, under this service – it saved us. I know this is not the case for everyone, and that in many places mental health support is under-resourced and over-subscribed. I also know I was lucky to have a strong support network around me – including a manager who cared about me so I did not lose my job and a husband who had committed many years before to always care for me so I didn’t lose anything more important than a job. I was never at risk of hurting myself or my baby. But I needed help to cope. I felt it wasn’t fair for me to let something that I could manage with help steal my quality of life. To steal happiness and joy from me and my children. Treatment is difficult – finding what works and what doesn’t isn’t easy. Actually, it’s fucking hard. It’s work. Hard work. But asking for help was the only way I could begin that journey and my doctor was able to quickly get me on the right track in time for my baby to be born.
There’s a lot of talk out there about post-natal depression – and there needs to be. But there isn’t much talk about antenatal and prenatal mental health. I was unwell during my first pregnancy but I put it down to being upset about how physically unwell I was and “mood swings”. I didn’t know it was possible to have antenatal depression or prenatal anxiety or any other pregnancy-related mental health issues. It was only the second time – when my illness became debilitating that I had a name for what I was going through. I wonder if I’d had a name for what I was going through the first time, I would have been more prepared the second time.
I wish I’d known, and I wish I’d sought help sooner. But mostly I’m glad that I could access help and that I did reach out. I’m grateful to my husband for helping me get the help I needed and my friends and manager for supporting me through the process.
It’s important to know that while it’s usual to feel blue occasionally or have ups and downs in your pregnancy – it’s not normal to feel overwhelmed most of the time, or to have more bad days than good.
When I look back, some of the thoughts and feelings I had showed I was unwell really clearly. I was obsessed with counting the movements of my baby because I thought he was dying inside me. I thought sleeping might hurt him so I used to try and stay awake all night. I was convinced he didn’t want me to be his mother. Clearly, they’re not the thoughts of a healthy person.
But other thoughts were subtle, and I want to share them with you because I want to suggest you talk to your midwife if you’re having any of these feelings while you’re pregnant.
I cried in the shower most days. I put this down to hormones. But actually, you shouldn’t cry that much while you’re pregnant. I put a lot down to hormones when what I was actually experiencing was depression and anxiety – feeling worried every day about finances, how we would manage, what kind of parent I would be with two children. It is normal to worry a little bit, it could be a sign of something bigger if you’re constantly worried. I felt emotionally numb a lot and sometimes didn’t even think about being pregnant. I felt it was hard to make a connection with my baby.
I had a lot of feelings about my upbringing. I think it’s normal to consider how you were raised when you’re about to start a family – but you should be able to process those fairly easily. If those feelings have a weight too heavy for you to carry, you should talk to someone.
Don’t let people tell you it’s “just hormones”. Talk to someone who actually knows what they’re talking about – a medical professional. It doesn’t matter if it’s your first pregnancy or your tenth – prenatal depression and anxiety can strike at any time.
If you feel like it’s impossible to find joy in being pregnant – talk to the person looking after you, your midwife, obstetrician, lead maternity carer – anyone with a medical background. They’ll be able to refer you to your GP or someone who can help work out whether what you’re feeling is standard pregnancy stuff, or something more serious. And if it’s more serious – that’s OK.
I felt like I’d already failed as a mother when I was put under maternal mental health. I thought I was a terrible mother who shouldn’t be allowed to have children. I thought horrible things about myself and actually considered that maybe I should just leave my husband to have both children – as I was so useless they wouldn’t even notice if I wasn’t there. I thought they’d be better off if I wasn’t there.
I struggle sometimes still with the guilt of being unwell at a time when I should have been happy, but I was once told by my doctor to imagine how I would view another mother who had sought help for mental health issues. He asked me to write down a message to her.
Dear mother,
You are brave.
You are strong.
It is a sign of your love for your children and your partner that you’re getting help so that you can be the best mother you can be.
It will be OK.
And it was.
Posted on August 14, 2015
What if you’re not doing it all wrong?
Attempting to watch the news while having my temperature taken by the toddler doctor and making smooching noises at the Christmas Ham (aka the baby – pink and delicious) an ad came on for a current affairs show. Something alarming: ARE YOU BUILDING UP YOUR CHILDREN TOO MUCH? DO THEY HAVE TOO MUCH CONFIDENCE? And some soundbites from experts telling us about the new way we are ruining our kids by loving them too much.
And I thought to myself – without even thinking it if you get my drift – Hmmm I should watch that. I am always encouraging Eddie and I do build him up what if I’m hurting him what if I’m doing the opposite…Then suddenly, like a lightening bolt to my sleep deprived brain I realised how fucking absurd it was that I was even considering watching some BS from parenting “experts” who want to tell me how to love my child (but not too much that they become serial killers or something).
I’m saying no to experts.
I’m saying no to the countless people who make money from telling parents they’re doing everything wrong. By not putting them to sleep the right way. By using the wrong product. By not feeding them the way that expert says they should be fed. By not putting them on a schedule or by putting them in a routine. Or letting them dress themselves or not using time out or not setting the right boundaries in the right places. It’s never ending. It’s relentless. It’s bullshit.
I can’t keep up with the advice and 99% of it goes against what I feel is right. And if it doesn’t feel right – why the fuck am I doing it? Who knows my sons better than I do? Nobody. Nobody does. Why would I ever consider that building up my sensitive child is hurting him? Why would I believe some expert who is trying to sell me something over what I know is true about my little boy?
Why would I leave my little one to cry at night just because someone who has never met him insists it’s the only way to get him to sleep? I know this isn’t true because my older one sleeps (most of the time) and I always cuddled him and rocked him and fed him to sleep. I co-slept and he doesn’t sleep with us (most nights) anymore. So why do I ever consider for a moment that an expert who will charge me $150 a “consultation” is correct when they say co-sleeping means he’ll never sleep on his own?
I think maybe I know why. I think it’s the same reason any of us look to books or experts or websites – We will do anything for our kids and we’re desperate to do the right thing by them. We don’t ever want to hurt them. We want them to sleep. We need them to sleep. We want them to feel confident, but also safe, and loved. What parent doesn’t want that? And if we think the answer lies in a book well of course we will bloody read it.
But reading everything and listening to every expert isn’t helping me – it’s making me stop trusting myself. It’s making me anxious.
So no more experts. I’m trusting my gut. I’m surrendering to where I’m at now with sleep. I’m listening to myself when I remind myself at 2am that we’ve been through this before and all kids eventually sleep. I am refusing to listen to things that make no logical sense like “loving your kids to much” or “babies don’t need milk overnight after X weeks”. I’m reminding myself that these experts make money from my fear and my love for my children.
I’m tired of people telling parents they’re not doing it right so that they can tell them how to do it.
I’m choosing my own experts. I’m listening to my sister who parents bravely and honestly. I can see her children are growing up in an environment where they’re built up to be strong and resilient but also allowed to own and honour their feelings. I’m listening to my friends who are mums – who give their perspectives without judgement, who share their joy and their pain with me so I know I’m not alone. I’m listening to mums in this community who reach out across the world to say – Hey, you’re doing great, it’s OK, this worked for me – I don’t know if it will work for you but let’s share our experiences here so we can do this together.
I’m also choosing the experts who don’t call themselves experts. They’re the ones who aren’t constantly pushing their products and forcing clickbait bullshit “the 10 ways you’re destroying your kids” to get you to buy their book.
I’m choosing experts like Pinky Mckay. Pinky was the first expert I saw who told me to trust my instincts. To ask myself questions about parenting and then to actually respect and honour my answers. This, from Pinky, is the best advice I’ve ever received about….ummm…taking advice:
Whenever you hear advice that doesn’t feel quite right to you or if you hear about a new approach and you aren’t quite certain about it, it is good to put this through your filters and do a check in. To make this simple I have three questions you can ask yourself:
Is it safe? Is it respectful? Does it feel right?
So, nope, I won’t be tuning into this show that is all about telling me I need to build up my child’s confidence by saying they’re great but not too great and only great when they’re doing something great and *screams forever*.
I know my sons. I know the Ham loves milk. I know he loves kisses behind his ears. I know that when he screams at night and I go to him and he’s wound tight like a little spring and he’s sweaty and scared and I hold him to me – I know he stops crying. I know his little body softens in my arms. I know he stops flailing about as soon as we touch. That’s all the evidence I need that I’m doing the right thing by him and by me by going to him again and again and again and again.
I know my Eddie has nightmares and he needs to tell me about it even if it’s 4am. And once he’s told me and we have had a cuddle he can go back to sleep. My evidence is that when he’s scared and shaking and he leaps into my arms his breathing stops being laboured as he presses his cheek to my cheek and his shoulders drop and his hands stop wringing. I can see that letting him come to us is working for us.
Every family is different. Every child is different. What works for my child won’t work for yours. What works for yours won’t work for mine. Or maybe it will. Either way – it doesn’t matter. We might all be muddling through, trying to be good parents, but that’s enough I reckon – we’re trying to do our best.
We are the experts when it comes to our kids – Let’s trust ourselves. Let’s ask for help when we need it. Support each other. Share our experiences. But remember we know our kids best. If it’s safe, and respectful, and it feels right by us – then we can’t be doing it all wrong.
***
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Posted on August 10, 2015
Glowing
About three seconds after I had my second child somebody said “Do you miss being pregnant?” and I thought – Awww that’s cute.
I smiled and said no but I could have provided a list of all of the things I prefer to being pregnant. It’s a short list:
ANYTHING.
There are many magical women out there who have amazingly easy, symptom-free pregnancies. These women are rare beings. I have met two. One of them, when drunk (well after the baby had exited the womb) admitted it wasn’t that great “It was kind of OK some days and then other days I wanted to die a little bit”. Oh alcohol! So good for honesty.
I was SO EXCITED about getting pregnant. I cannot even tell you. I basically spent half of my life imagining myself as a pregnant woman. Daydreaming about being pregnant was a full time preoccupation for me for around four years. It was a painful time too. So many negative pregnancy tests, so many tears. I vowed I would never be one of those ungrateful women who complains about being pregnant. When I got pregnant I would enjoy it. Every second. And I was beyond grateful when I finally got that positive test.
My fantasy didn’t just cover how I would feel (grateful, constantly ecstatic, blissful, at peace with my place in the world) though, the How I Would Be When I’m Pregnant fantasy covered everything: I would be me, with a beautiful bump, glowing (obviously), just kind of quietly amazing you know? I’d wear floaty dresses – gorgeous ones. In my fantasy I wore a lot of chiffon and I frolicked in fields of lavender. I’d have glossy hair – I knew pregnancy gave you beautiful hair. I might feel nauseous – but just enough in the early stages to make sure the baby was healthy. You know, just enough to be able to say ‘Oh yeah, I do have a bit of morning sickness’. I’d be uncomfortable sure. But not like really uncomfortable. It’s only the last week or so that you’re really uncomfortable right?
Well, it wasn’t quite like that. Not quite.
Pregnancy was difficult. Hahaha actually let me rephrase that:
PREGNANCY WAS HELL ON EARTH LIKE ACTUALLY THE WORST THING I’VE EVER BEEN THROUGH IN MY ENTIRE LIFE AND ALL OTHER LIVES I HAVE LIVED EVEN THOUGH I DON’T ACTUALLY BELIEVE IN PAST LIVES BUT PREGNANCY WAS SO BAD I THOUGHT MAYBE THERE WERE PAST LIVES AND I HAD KILLED LOTS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE AND THIS WAS MY PAYBACK BECAUSE WHAT COULD I HAVE DONE TO MAKE MY LIFE SO INTOLERABLE FOR 37 EXCRUCIATING WEEKS.
A little nausea you say?
I puked every single day of my pregnancy, including on the way to the hospital to give birth. I once puked in the sacred waters of the Court of Appeal on my way to work (I’m sorry New Zealand). I slept holding a bowl so that when I woke up during the night to vomit I wouldn’t vomit in bed (again). I lost so much weight in my first trimester that I got used to people saying “What’s your secret? You look amazing!”
Here’s my secret – vomit so much that you are scared you actually spewed out some of your insides and you yell out to your husband that you need him to check your puke because you’re worried your gall bladder is in there.
You think that’s gross? I haven’t even said the word discharge yet.
I vomited until my throat bled. My gums swelled. I felt so weak that my husband had to help me into the car in the mornings and after work. We would drive to work with me vomiting into an ice cream container. I could barely keep down water.
Things improved though, and by the middle of my second trimester I was puking only twice a day and once or twice overnight. Bliss.
My hair? It fell out. Basically I was malnourished so I had clumps of hair falling out. It was awesome.
I was huge. Like a whale ate a whale. I had imagined a cute little bump but I was basically needing a wheelbarrow to get my massive bump around from 25 weeks.
When I slept it was basically just from blacking out from lack of energy so insomnia wasn’t really that much of a problem until 30 weeks. People are really helpful about insomnia in pregnancy.
“Sleep now! Soon you won’t be getting any sleep!”
Oh thanks! So helpful! I’ll just tell myself to sleep and then I’ll sleep. And reminding me when I’m exhausted that I’m going to be more exhausted? Wow, thank you! That’s not something a sadist would say at all!
YOU THINK THIS IS BAD? WAIT UNTIL DEATH.
To be honest, I got more sleep after the baby was born. I wasn’t peeing every eight seconds for a start. For the whole second half of pregnancy you basically pee and then you pee again and then you’re like, I definitely can’t pee more, but you pee once more. And then the effort of standing up from the toilet makes you pee.
I’m a lady so I’m not going to talk about poop.
But I will say that once at work, I almost called emergency services because I thought I was having the baby. I wasn’t. It was a poo. It was just as much effort as giving birth. It was only slightly less painful.
To help you with all of this amazing joyous joy – you have lots of people telling you how to be pregnant. Frankly, I enjoyed crapping more than I enjoyed the endless advice:
Have you tried ginger? YES IT MADE MY VOMIT SMELL LIKE GINGER.
Have you tried yoga? YES IT REALLY HELPED ME VOMIT IN A NEW PLACE.
Have you tried highly concentrated bull semen? NO. NO I AM NOT INTERESTED IN SEMEN OF ANY KIND RIGHT NOW.
Or it’s just random statements that you didn’t ask for:
The vomiting stops after the first trimester. COOL I’M 28 WEEKS HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE EVIL?
It’s not that bad, I did it five times! OK BUT I’M NOT SURE WHAT YOUR POOR LIFE CHOICES HAVE TO DO WITH ME?
Just enjoy it! OK SINCE YOU SAID THAT I WILL.
Pregnancy is a miracle. You should feel blessed. I FEEL BLOATED. GO AWAY BEFORE I STAB YOU.
You’re lucky you know. YES. I KNOW THAT. I KNOW. BUT THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME FEEL WORSE THAN I CURRENTLY DO. THAT IS REALLY NICE.
Don’t even get me started about people touching you. I felt like I wasn’t just carrying a baby – I was carrying 10 pounds of pure rage. Everything made me angry. Once a colleague put the milk back into the work fridge with only a tiny bit left in it and I had to walk around the building because I was worried I might actually physically hurt him.
Emotionally I was wrecked during my first pregnancy. My second was far worse (I will blog at some point about getting help for this – because you can get help and I did). I was constantly terrified I’d lose the baby. Every time I went to the toilet I looked down at my underwear in terror – would there be blood? This never stopped. Even in labour I worried the baby would be stillborn. I worried when the baby didn’t move. I worried when it did. I worried that my worry would make the baby sick. Every scan I could barely look at the screen.
I felt guilty all of the time. I should be loving this! I’d wanted this! I had been desperate to be pregnant. We had tried for so long. Why couldn’t I enjoy it? What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I trying hard enough to just “go with the flow”. To just “embrace” being with child? To celebrate this special time? Did everyone else hate being pregnant? I kept being told it was such a short time. That it would be over and I’d miss it.
And you know what? They were right.
Nah just joking. They were fucking full of it. I didn’t miss it at all. I willed that sucker (I mean my beloved firstborn) out of me by sheer hatred of being pregnant. Come 37 weeks I just went – NO. And my Eddie was born. I just needed to not be pregnant any more. He knew. I knew. My body knew. It was all over.
And I didn’t miss it at all. I’d never been happier than when I held him in my arms because 1) I wasn’t pregnant anymore and 2) He was here, and safe.
I vowed I would never, ever, ever, do it again. But I am not a smart person. And everyone said it would be different. So I thought…yes, it will be different. It’s totally worth it for the baby so maybe I should try again. The second pregnancy won’t be the same. It won’t be easy, but it might be easier.
And I was right!
No, I wasn’t. It was fucking terrible. Even worse than the first time. Except this time I took anti-nausea medication which I recommend. First time around I didn’t because I was a martyr or something.
Anyway – the one thing I learned from all of that is this:
Nothing. I didn’t learn anything. I mean I did it again! I would do it again! Ridiculous! So don’t listen to me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.
Oh wait – actually I do have a message. I changed my mind. My message is this:
It’s OK to hate it. It’s OK to hate being pregnant. Pregnancy sucks. I mean it’s a miracle or whatever but it’s also awful. And you’re not a bad mother for hating it. For wishing it was over. You’re wishing for an end to the horrible parts of it, not your baby. That’s OK! That’s a totally understandable reaction! It’s OK to want it to be over. That’s normal. If you’re in pain, if you’re sick, if you are exhausted – it’s perfectly normal to not want to be. Think about it – if someone said they were really sick, would you tell them to suck it up because they’re alive so whatever? No! You wouldn’t. So be nice to yourself. Beating yourself up makes everything worse. You don’t have to enjoy it. How you react to pregnancy doesn’t have any impact on what type of parent you’ll be. I was an awful pregnant person. I am an OK sometimes quite good parent. Don’t let people make you feel guilty. Ignore bullshit advice (including this if it doesn’t ring true for you). Don’t listen when family tell you how great it was for them – they probably don’t remember how shit it was. Your baby will be born and that will be the amazing bit. It’s OK to hate every second of your pregnancy – it won’t mean a thing when you hold your baby in your arms.
That’s the best bit.
***
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Posted on August 3, 2015
Why?
I have a constant (relentless) stream of commentary in my life from my exuberant two-year-old. We have recently hit the WHY stage, a stage other parents had told (warned) me about.
My day usually starts with me trying very hard to respectfully and earnestly answer his questions in a patient and kind way befitting the kind of parent I like to imagine I am before reality smacks me in the face.
For example:
The Toddler picks up the back of an earring: “Was that?”
Me: “It’s the back of an earring”
“Was that?”
“It holds the earring in your ear so the earring doesn’t fall out of your ear”
“Why?”
“Why do you not want an earring to fall out? Because you’d lose it”
“No WHY?”
“Why would you wear an earring? Because earrings look nice”
“Why?”
“Because they can be shiny or pretty or have colours. You like your shoes because they look cool. Mumma likes her earrings because they look cool”
“WHY?”
By the end of the day the conversation is:
“Was that?”
“I dunno Eddie it’s a thing”
“Why?”
“It just is”
Sometimes I end up having an existential crisis trying to work out how to answer him.
“Was that?”
“A razor”
“What you doing?”
“Shaving my legs”
“Why?”
“Because…I…ummm I don’t like them hairy”
“Why?”
“I umm…well…patriarchial standards of beauty dictate…ummm probably subconscious societal pressures..I am…mummy is a feminist but…there’s…well…”
“Was that?” *points to piece of fluff on the ground*
“What choo doing dear mama?” is heard around 67,000 times a day in my whare. I have started to provide a gratingly chipper commentary myself to attempt to pre-empt his interrogation:
“Mama is making a coffee”
“Mama is soaking onesies after a poo explosion!”
“Mama is rocking and shushing and singing to the baby”
“Mama is trying to get you to eat just one thing that isn’t a biscuit”
“Mama is losing her will to live”
“Mama is imagining Jason Mamoa naked changing the sheets on the bed” (I’m too tired to even imagine anything more than that and frankly not having to change the sheets is quite a turn on in itself)
STILL even though I’m providing constant updates, I get WAS THAT? WHAT CHOO DOING? WHY?
And don’t toddlers just have a wonderful way of expressing themselves in public when they practice their language skills? A while back I changed his nappy in the back of the car because he refuses to go into a public toilet without freaking out. The next day I told him we would need to do a nappy change and he yelled in the middle of the Warehouse:
“PLEASE DON PUT ME INNA BOOT DEAR MAMA I SORRY!”
All of these alarmed shoppers stared at me. I tried to explain but it just came out as “I don’t…I mean I put him in the boot once…but I was…He wasn’t in the boot….”
Last week – his father yelled from the shower that the water had gone cold. I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the shower so he yelled to Eddie: “Tell mama the shower is cold!” Eddie has decided to inform every single person we have met since that day: “My deddy did yell at my dear mama and he did yell vewy loud at her. Den he did yell at Eddie vewy loud and he did yell at us a lot”.
We tried to explain there is “bad yelling” which is angry. And “raised voices because you can’t hear because it’s noisy, like when someone is in the shower”. That of course turned into telling strangers: “My deddy said Eddie not say he yelling but he done yell”.
Thanks kid.
So I figure I’m just going to be more like my kid and just start relentlessly harrassing everyone by asking WHY WHY WHY all the time. I thought I’d start with a list (because everyone likes lists right?) Here’s the QUESTIONS THAT ARE IMPOSSIBLE TO ANSWER MAMA EDITION:
- Why do toilets with change tables have hair dryers in them? They may as well have an actual fire in there. Kids would be less terrified.
- How is it that babies KNOW when you pour a glass of wine? You can time it perfectly with feeds but as soon as the parent juice (oh dear God that sounds revolting but I’m going to keep it) hits the glass they’re like “you rang?” Except instead of saying that they just scream as if they’re being tortured.
- Would you get jail time if you hit your partner with a shovel for saying “baby slept well last night?” in the morning when you woke up 800 times? Or would the judge see that as justifiable?
- Is there a line you can cross with food bribery? The other day I told my son I would buy him a lawnmower if he had one more bite of his toast. They’re like $800.
- Are people who buy toddlers Dora the Explorer sticker sets that have 10,000 stickers in them actually the Antichrist? Rhetorical question obviously – they are.
- Where did you put the pegs???
- How do kids have a shedload of toys and yet they have a meltdown if you chuck out the empty tissue box because that’s their “favroit waaaan”. HOW DO THEY NOTICE THAT YOU THREW IT AWAY? Or is that just mine? Please say it’s not just mine?
Finally – do you think they time out their best lines for maximum impact? The other night I was so tired, almost to the point of tears, and the toddler climbed on my lap and said “fank you dear mama for keep Eddie safe and love Eddie”.
I mean HEART MELT.
I will buy you a lawnmower my love. And replace the tissue box. And I promise I’ll never put you in the boot again.
Xox
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Posted on July 28, 2015
How to get your baby to sleep
Getting your baby to sleep is really quite simple.
Tired signs
Some people say look for tired signs but actually you should look for signs that they might be about to do tired signs. Before there are tired signs make sure you put your baby down to sleep. Immediately.
Try to connect telepathically to your child – ask them: Are you tired but not so tired that you’re showing tired signs?
Tired but not too tired signs are varied. They generally sound like cooing, screaming, crying, blowing raspberries, strong language, and singing R&B classics from the 90s.
Sometimes there is no sound.
Is baby biting their fist? Opening their mouth? Sticking out their tongue. Do they have a tongue? Are their eyes open? Are they closed? Did they blink? Did they move their body in any way? Did their foot twitch? Did they move their arm?
These are tired signs.
This means baby is tired.
You have a .36th of a second window to get your baby into their cot.
Sleeping environment
DO NOT LET THEM SLEEP IN YOUR BED OR ROOM OR THEY WILL NEVER LEAVE HOME. They’ll be 57 and you’ll be on your death bed but you won’t be actually in your death bed because they’ll be in your bed. You’ll be on the floor. Miserable, and not because you’re dying. Death will be a sweet release.
DO NOT LET THEM SLEEP IN THE BOUNCER. They will grow up to be one of those people who doesn’t stand up for old ladies on the bus. They’ll call you from London on their OE and say they just need to borrow $8k. And they’ll always forget your birthday and they won’t call till really late on Mother’s Day. They’ll borrow the car but never put petrol in it. You’re going to have to be buying their clothes when they’re 49. Is that what you want? All because you let them sleep in the bouncer.
DO NOT LET THEM SLEEP IN A MINI-CRIB OR MOSES BASKET PAST 39.7 days old. You will regret it. They will literally, literally, literally never sleep again and it will be your fault because you’re a terrible mother.
Let them sleep in the buggy if you want them to be held back in third grade and never be able to do basic arithmetic.
Get back to nature. Leave them in a tree.
The ideal sleep environment is Nanna’s house.
Sleep routine
Once they’re in the cot, hold your hand above them and kiss their forehead but not with too much affection. Kind of like if someone else’s child went to kiss you on the lips but you know they had a vomiting bug a few days before so you kind of dodge them while still letting them kiss you. Kiss your baby like that.
Take a step to the right, put your hands on your hips, and pull your knees in tight.
If they wake, pick them up. Then put them down. Then pick them up. Then put them down. Then pick them up. Then put them down. Then pick them up. Then put them down. Then pick them up. Then pick them up. WAIT! IF YOU COULD DO THAT, THAT MEANS YOU PUT THEM DOWN AGAIN. You’ve got to start over now.
Pick them up, put them down, then pick them up, down, up, put them down now. Pick them up.
Then put them down.
Do this for around 72 hours.
If your baby still isn’t sleeping, it’s likely they’re overstimulated. Remove all furniture including their cot from your house. Put in white carpet. Put white padding on the walls. Doesn’t that look better? Now you can sit in the corner and rock in peace.
Place baby in the centre of a pentagram and finish sacrificing your goat to the sleep Gods.
Baby is also understimulated. You need to get the sweet spot where they’re just stimulated. Pop up and down from behind the cot – if this terrifies baby, you’re overstimulating them. If they don’t scream, you’ve understimulated baby.
Rocking and shushing can help – rock your baby for around 22 hours. Then shush your baby. Try to shush every six seconds. If you shush every seven seconds you will have to repeat the process over again. Do this for around eight months.
Put them down awake but a bit asleep. Baby should have one eye open and one eye closed and one eye kind of half open and half closed so you’re not sure if they’re awake or asleep.
Feeding and weaning
Feed them to sleep.
JUST KIDDING. Never feed them to sleep. ARE YOU CRAZY? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
Shoot breast milk across the room into their mouth. Make them beg for a bottle. Otherwise they’ll grow up soft.
Don’t spoil them with food. Food is not a necessity. It’s a luxury. A luxury your greedy baby can quite frankly do without.
Think about it – have you ever climbed into bed and then wanted a glass of water or a snack? Have you ever woken up during the night and wanted a sip of water? Been suddenly hungry? No, that has never, ever happened.
Use logic – is it more likely that your tiny baby is manipulating you and actually hates your guts and wants you to never sleep? Or are they maybe a bit thirsty?
Exactly, they’re all manipulating jerk babies that hate you and sleep.
Give them solids even if they’re six hours old. If it was good enough for a cave baby with a life expectancy of 17 it’s good enough for your baby.
Sleep aids
Use sleep drops or opium.
Swaddle your baby until they’re 22 minutes old. And then until they’re 4.92 months old. Swaddle them tightly enough that they feel like they’re trapped in a cold and cruel world, but not so tight that their circulation is cut off.
Only use muslin wraps. Clean the wraps with your bitter tears.
Put on some (Barry) White noise.
But remember, if you use white noise they’ll never be able to sleep without it ever and you’ve created a rod for your back and really you should have thought about that before you had children. Isn’t it a shame that you can’t do anything right when that other mum in your coffee group has a baby that actually asks her in three different languages to put him down for a sleep?
Your baby may settle when you cuddle them but this is just your baby being spiteful. When you’re not around they call their baby friends and laugh about you behind their back.
Check the temperature of the room. It’s probably too hot and too cold.
Get a night light, but never turn it on.
Now that you know how to get your baby to sleep – make sure you tell other mums how to get their babies to sleep. If yours sleeps, theirs should too. Because all babies are the same. Here are some helpful things you can say to mothers of babies about sleep:
“I slept through the night from birth”
“My child basically hasn’t woken up since I got home from the hospital”
“That’s interesting, my friend’s baby was like that and it turned out the baby had Horrible Disease with Awful Prognosis”
“Babies need sleep or else they won’t develop properly”
“I think babies need tough love”
“I don’t know why people become parents if they’re not willing to die or become severely ill from sleep deprivation”
“It’s actually easy to get babies to sleep, other mums just overthink it”
“My child sleeps TOO much! It’s a nightmare”
If none of these suit you – you could just randomly yell incoherently about “mums these days”.
Goodnight. See you in 45 minutes.
***
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