Public Property?

I have a question for my mother and her sisters and her friends that are mothers and their mothers and any dads that might be reading (cough)...was parenting always public property? Is it because our tribe is this huge smelting pot of other tribes and so, your one tribal approach, which would have had tribal support and encouragement, is thrown in constant contrast to another tribe's?
When I had bubba one I broke down in balling, racking, hysterical tears (I since found out this might otherwise be called the three day blues...no one told me about them), but, at the time the tears centred on the fear of judgement. I felt as soon as I left that hospital I would be walking into the role that'd I'd be most judged for, most criticised for..... I was right. And the epidermis one has to develop to survive the judging looks is thicker then a rhinos. I fight fiercely for the right to parent as I see fit, but..... its a tough, judged journey and God forbid you make an error of judgement in the local park!

Have you guys seen that show Outnubered? Its hilarious. Honest and at times painful. I read a review the other day that said the parents "were bad parents"..... right,  now we a judging fictional parenting too! Blimey and how are they bad? Seriously they love their kids, they are real (representations of)people and they try: how on earth is that bad?

 I tell you though Outnumbered is only funny when it doesn't mirror one's life:

Yesterday I was getting rather strong braxton hicks, (I am huge people, nearly a foot of flesh protrudes from me). I was taking Max to the toilet as he had said he was busting for number twos, (turns out he wasn't). I went as well, (because I am hugely pregnant and always need the loo). But I had to be quick because Leo decided he wanted to climb an ornament the cafe owner thought made the loos look pretty (and it does, as long as there are no toddlers there). And so, I hiked my undies up, (but not my dress down) and lurched for the monkey and caught the vase toppling as the four year old who doesn't like to listen decided to open the door: And got his finger jammed as my hip slammed it shut because no I didn't feel like greeting the gaze of the kitchen staff and group of chatting tourist with a squirming two year old under one arm  and bunched up dress framing a stretched belly and some twisted knickers......

And its for this reason that I disagree with many others and say : yes, "Because I Said So!" is an entirely valid reason to insist that your kids listen to you. Because you have the right to protect them from danger or save a bit of  your dignity with out justifying yourself to a four year old . And if parenting has become public property, and if  jamming my son's finger in a door makes me the public's bad mum then fine because the thick skinned rhino mummy prefers to keep her knickers (as often as she can) to herself.

Recovery......

 I have neglected this blog more than even my art website… why?  Why, because I couldn’t write anymore…why? Because I thought I was already at the bottom and it turned out I wasn’t. I look back at that fog; I look back incredibly confused as to how the family and I coped.

 My husband, how  did he do it ? I was distant, cold, fragile, unpredictable, removed; trapped in an internal battle fighting tears and the urge to….. well, to do so much that doesn’t bare thinking about, does it. I was afraid: afraid to drive the car, leave the house, be near glass…..

 Which is why I didn’t write.

I tried sunshine, naturopathy, large amounts of steak, exercise, endless distracting telephone calls to friends and family and massive quantities of sleep.  It all helped…a bit. Some days I’d be well- happy even- coping almost.  And for a while, for a couple of days, (once even nine days in a row), I thought it was over. I saw a psychologist; Felicity was wonderfully supportive and taught me heaps. I found a new doctor: one who didn’t just throw me a prescription, but was happy to guide me through a process. Though she did make me agree that if she felt I was suicidal she got the final say on treatment….I agreed: she did. I read most of Buddhism for Mothers. I wrote, I rested, I didn’t leave the house. But the black kept rearing its ugly head...just as I would think I had it beat:  a raging despondency that saw me locked in my room….  and we all got tireder and tireder. So,  I went to my doctor, rang a perinatal pharmacist  and I came home with a packet of tiny pills and I faced my fear.

My fear that the side effects would be worse then what I was suffering. That it was better the devil I know. That’s what my fear was…..not weakness… I think. Not that I had given up….. I think…..not that people would judge me…I think

And then the most miraculous thing happened, (not really, it’s called modern science and involves many clever people….,) but my half a tablet made me feel better immediately. I mean immediately: there was a slight nausea, a slight headache, a slight whooshing feeling when I stood up, but there wasn’t the tiredness and here was no edge of abyss hovering just there, just out of sight…none of that . No weight , no darkness. I could think and make choices and I stopped sweating every move I made. I could function. I was ME!

Me! all those large, cumbersome,  honourably, intentioned multivitamins and there I was trapped in half a sugary white pill….. The relief was utterly, utterly immense. And over the next few days I unravelled from my tight coil of tension and began to connect back to the world. To my children. To my husband. To the sky and the ground and the world.

People stopped me in the street saying “geez your looking well”,  I live in a country town  people do that here. I hadn”t realised how drawn and pale and taught I had looked.  My husband kept looking at me sideways, “it’s you, isn’t it?...your back”. He gave me a week to be sure….then he purged all the pent up tension he had. His worry, his fear: for me, for us.  We hugged, we touched, we kissed and together we began rebuilding.

My children’s shoulders dropped. We started to have fun together, we hugged more: it felt right. We left the house. And the family began to heal: for the first time I could enjoy the pregnancy. I loved my incubating child’s internal rumblings, I looked forward to it joining our clan: to loving it.

I still saw Felicity but I stopped having as much to say. I stopped fearing whether I could mother three kids, whether I could cope. I didn’t need to call people as often. I still needed to manage the tiredness and to rest and to not take on too much. I tearily pulled out of all art commitments: all exhibitions and commissions. But after the initial heartache I grew to be proud of my decision …to revel in the idea of creative play. To realise without anger that my role, my life needed to just hang with the family and our friends and place no demands upon myself.

Which is why I didn’t write

I have written this piece so that I might tell you that with bub arriving by the seventh (no later). I am well. Tired, but no longer afraid. It’s a good place to be.