Not Clever

Have you ever noticed that one of the things people say to pregnant or just-given-birth mums is: "You clever thing"... ever noticed that? I have.

I know that the phrase is well intentioned but whenever I hear it I cringe. I cannot help it because:

A) Falling pregnant did not take any of my brains, nor any of my planning and no real effort..... A little engaging and fun exertion, but no effort.

And:

B) Giving birth took endurance, strength, stamina and a million other nuanced yet unnamable states .... but, cleverness was not one of them.



 So, I gently decline that particular praise for its misunderstanding and gently pose the question, "where does saying one is 'clever' leave those who face difficulty getting pregnant, or giving birth?"

As dumb?

I think you'd all agree that is certainly is not the case. So lets remove that word from the pregnant vernacular shall we. Come up with another word to praise a woman’s fecundity and endurance.

I tell you what is clever .... realising if you dress your two year old in shorts that are too big for him (upon his insistence), he has to hold them up as he bolts around the stupid market and thus is unable to pull nearly as much from the shelves.. Score! That discovery was up there with the discovery that pushing the pram in the direction of the sun forces the child's eyes closed and forced closed eyes force sleep and voila... Cleverness!

How my children found the warrior in me

This is my story, my little one amongst the many. It is not unique because every mother carries her own tale, and this is just mine.

 I wear the scars of my children.

 I realised this five days ago as I lay mostly immobile, and fitted with tubes, stroking the hair of Samson James- cut into this world the morning before. I was feeling good; blissful and light but a little guilty. Guilty that I hadn’t felt this good when his brother Leo Peter had been cut into the world two years ago. Back then I had felt detached, uncomfortable and hurting as my body reacted in shock to the surgery; throbbed with the pain of a half-finished, abscessing root canal and struggled with tiredness.

Aware of the need to not attach and feed negative emotions; I pocketed the guilt. I let it drift to the corner of my mind and focussed instead on the beauty of my new limpet child until memory caught up with me.

I remembered two years ago, I remembered being amongst the crisp white sheets, amongst the pain and the mild, drug induced detachment stroking  in wonder and curiosity the pale head of Leo but feeling guilty. Guilty that I hadn’t been able to be hold Maxwell  William when he was a day old.  Instead he had been in the sterile, life-protecting, transparent confines of a humidity crib three hours away. As the memories coalesced, so did the realisations that guilt was a common factor in my births and that each child’s coming carried a scar.

There was the trauma of Maxwell’s emergency ceaser.  Of seeing a blue child hoisted into the world, of the four long minutes that he didn’t breathe. There was the precious relief and the beauty of his alert twitching self when he decided  he was here to stay. The tender delight of our first cuddle and the tearful, trusting goodbye as he was taken to Melbourne to be cared for and the next day and night: the longest in my life.  I slept with a photo of him held tight in my fist: now a mother with no child next to me to touch- to prove it. No child to hug and validate the first thin pink scar across the bottom of my abdomen.

My second pink scar bore Leo to the world via an elective ceaser, the procedure full of fear and nausea. My first week of being Leo’s  mother was tainted by the distaste, shock  and reeling recovery of the operation. The realisation of what my body had to endure without adrenalin to buffet the experience. There was the toothache as a root shrivelled and died with a distractingly sharp pain that this breast feeding mum could barely medicate against. And then there was the jaundice and the decision to flush it from my son’s vulnerable body with hourly feeds. Every hour. On the hour: all day and all night.

The last, not yet pink, gash belongs to Samson. Samson, whose surgical birth felt fine, smooth even, despite its mild complications but whose in utero journey had caused me and my loved ones the torment that was the depression. He will be my last scar.

However to say that these scars have hurt me would be a lie for as you all know they’ve left me anything but empty handed. However it’s not just the blessing of their little lives in mine I wish to celebrate. It is that thanks to my children I found the warrior in me. Before they were born I never knew I had the strength to walk one day after my insides had been sliced apart to prove that I was fit enough to be reunited with my child. I didn’t know that I could rouse and rise through the thick of tired pain to give my child the means and the strength to flush the poisonous bilirubin from his system. Before their birth I did not know that I could wake each day when my brain demanded I be flattened by the world and had turned into my enemy hating and wanting to hurt the flesh I travelled in. I didn’t know that the will to preserve another outweighed the will to preserve myself and how I could channel that will to recovery. Until my children were born I didn’t know how strong I was: I don’t think any mother or any parent does.

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.

Its okay #1

If you’re a parent you have been here:  You’re stuck on the lounge room floor wrestling a squirming, patience-testing child from a pooh-ridden nappy whilst trying to stop them from stepping in it. Meanwhile, your elder child is thirsty and would like a glass of milk, and you are calling from the other room…” just wait for Mummy, I’ll be there in a minute….  just wait..”  But no, you call in vain. Because your cocksure and fixated eldest impatiently insists on pouring their own milk. And, of course, they either miss the glass completely, or fill it till it pours over the top and on to the breakfast clad table. Or, they may simply upturn the carton onto the kitchen floor… did you know that it is ok to cry over spilt milk: all the rules bend with only 3 hours of sleep. Have you been there?

Then you may have been here too: You Blow Your Top…the soda bottle of emotion you were trying to keep corked explodes and for one barking minute you get mad: Really mad …and it feels nice, sorta.

It is a relief… sorta… for a second. However, there is now milk on the floor, a poohey nappy in your hand and two hysterical children to deal with, as well as a lovely, shiny, new coat of guilt surrounding you.

It is ok to loose it, but as with everything else moderation is the key, though the guilt is always pretty useless. Let’s face it; the kids shoulda listened to Mum. Today they learnt that if you push and push and push and push Mum will loose it. They learnt that everyone has their limit.

Having said that, it didn’t really solve anything. I know kids have no concept of  “I’ll be there in a minute”, they seem to think that it means never and now they’re both stressed out and crying. So, after I’ve disposed of the nappy and whilst trying to clean my hands and the floor- I also have to comfort everyone or tolerate the noise. However, despite all that, it is still ok to blow your top.  You are human. Me too.

 Sometimes I think we, (this generation of parents), have inherited a whole lotta crap parenting malarkey, (namely guilt).  Maybe because we are so aware of the “mistakes” generations behind us made. I mean, I don’t know about you but growing up I heard all about the misconceptions of my grandparent’s time. Or, maybe it is political correctness gone mad. Maybe it is because there is a wad of books and telly shows and articles that tell us what is best for our child, (or in other words: here is what you are doing wrong).

I don’t know, but the pressure to be perfect can feel huge because you know- who wants to stuff up their kids?

A little while ago my son was crying about something and to distract and console him I offered him a ginger nut  bickie. “Tsk tsk,” said a snarky judgemental voice in my head. “you’re creating an emotional eater here”. Then another, more defiant, voice piped, (rather boldly for a piping voice) “lord woman get a grip…”

Because, you see that defiant voice realised that with adulthood comes the rather wonderful notion of responsibility, (at least it is meant to). To have responsibility, one must also “take” responsibility. It is with this in mind that the only thing I really hope for my children is that they become comfortable adults who can perhaps forgive their folks or at least get the fuck over it.
It would also be nice if they got really, really, really wealthy and took their ma and pa on exotic holidays in far off tropical islands. Saving that growing up and being able to get over it is a good place to be.

R U OK

Remember in the last post I said I would write about "loosing it"? I was referring then to blowing ones cork in the line of parental duty. However, as it is R U OK Day in Australia,  I have decided to write briefly on a different loosing it instead. And one that is still OK to do.

A quick bit of background information is necessary here.
First: in the words of Eve Ensler "I am an emotional creature".
Second: three months ago I discovered I was pregnant. It explained a few things: like why I hadn't had a period, (don't look at me like that: I commonly didn't since having two kids) and my reactions to certain situations which had felt extreme to say the least.

I was stunned: why hadn't I noticed? Is this what we wanted? This was my third pregnancy, how would I cope...... I would have three kids under 5... How would we all cope?  And then the first trimester tireds kicked in, followed by mild nausea, then anger, followed by listlessness, followed by joylessness, followed by fear; nightmares and a deepening deadening numbness.

Meanwhile, my brain had upped and left me floundering. I couldn't remember; couldn't think straight, the shopping was a struggle...everything was a struggle. I couldn't write or draw or even begin to do the Saturday Sudoku.  Everyday was a fight and the fighting spirit in me was dissolving.

That is when the tears began: long, long hours of unstoppable tears...................... Yup, that's how it was folks. So, in a moment of desperation I looked up the signs of anti-natal depression and found I was exhibiting 10 out of 12 symptoms....that was confronting. (I found the information at PANDA though I was stunned by how little information there was on depression during pregnancy). I booked a doctors appointment: I didn't want to be like this anymore and certainly not when my baby was born.

The doctors wasn't great, she prescribed me anti-depressants. I am not against medication, but it wasn't the path I wanted to take, especially without the guidance and support of professional help and a detailed explanation of the effects to my unborn child. I went home: numb and foggy and I did as many of us would in this situation -I rang my MUM.

During the day my Mum had elicited some great advice from a colleague which was basically that three pregnancies and two year long stints of breastfeeding is tough on a body. And with baby getting first dibs on your body's goodies, (think fatty acids and vit d etc etc) she recommended a naturopath. I went, I got loaded up with vitamins and I almost immediately felt better. There was either some ripper placebo magic at work or truth to the advice my mum had got. I still get moody and I still, (if i get tired) have some pretty full on mood drops: but everyday I get better.

It is why I started writing this blog: some days you don't want to hear how fabulous someone's life is and how happy they are, (other days you do). I wanted a place that had a different tone. One that acknowledged the difficulty, loneliness and the sometimes isolation. One that never used the word fabulous and one that said it was OK to not be perfect, together and happy all the time even if only to convince myself.

So in the spirit of R U OK Day I am breaking the film of silence that so often covers these experiences: I reiterate- it is OK to loose it. But do seek help if you do, if you can. And don't flog yourself. You do that and I'll continue to learn the importance of vulnerability and surrender; as well as drinking lots of water and listening to the Beatles: because that seems to help.

So, does dancing and yelling at the radio news..

why you ask?

I blog hop: you know kill precious time by flopping about on the intraweb reading and exploring the oft narcissistic blogs of others, (tis the nature of the medium : I get that...I participate in that), but I get sooooo fed up ..... stupid perfect mums who knit and have immaculate hair, pale blogs with pretty things on them and eco friendly everything and  pushbikes and fancy holidays and a disposable income..... This is why. I get peeved: bewitched, bothered and bewilded. Next post; the validity in loosing it.... it is ok you know