Snap?

Unless you're a celebprity, pregnancy and birth and breastfeeding all change a woman's body in ways weird and definitely-not wonderful. If you're a celebprity, you 'snap' back into shape within hours of birth (I'm still waiting for the 'snap' - I think I am the world's largest rubber band). Celebprities don't seem to suffer from the after-shocks of mortal mothering that still measuring high on the Richter years and years after the event.* But, if you're a normal person and not a mirage, you'll know what I'm talking about here.

There's the stretch marks. I remember running off a list to my doctor of all the creams and lotions and potions I was using on my stomach to prevent stretch marks and she said, "that's great, you'll have really well-moisturised stretch marks."

There's the boob flop. If you're over a C-cup pre-babies, all the bra engineering in the world can't save you.

There's the dry hair and skin. The stretchies might be moisturised, but the rest of you is drying up like a back paddock at noon in summer. You go through litres and litres of moisturiser but still, the paddock cracks and shrivels.

There's the sharpeiesque tum. If you're skinny, it's just lots of loose skin, but if you're bigger like me you get the added advantage of your fat filling out the excess skin to form a sort of permanent apron. Is this why we all get so into baking after our babies are born?

There's the pelvic floorless issue. I'm lucky to have escaped this one touchwoodcrossmyfingers. Turns out that travelling for months through Africa and the Middle East was exceptionally good training for pregnancy (have you seen their toilets?).

But the bit about post-preggy/birthy/booby bodies that I really don't understand is the downy face. Mother Duck indeed. A little layer of hair popped up across my face while pregnant and has never, ever gone away. Of course I get that no-one else notices except me, but that still doesn't stop me from eyeing my husband's razor wistfully from time to time (and then freaking out totally that I was ever even remotely wistful). I am so glad that I am fair and not dark. I don't quite know what I'd do if the downy hairs were dark...

What's the worst thing that being preggy/birthy/booby did to you?

* However, did you see the awesomeness that was Katie Holmes splashed across mags last week? Her apparently too-skinny weight is her own business, but how delightful to see what looked to be a real-live 'I have given birth' stretchy f-off tum! I suddenly love her.

[Image via weheartit]

Dummy parenting

Yeah, so The Badoo still has a "dummer". The only thing dummer than the dummer in this house is the parents for letting their three year old continue the habit. The rule is that it's for bedtime only, but the reality is that the bloody thing is hanging out of her mouth more often than not. She really, really loves it.

She asked for dummers for her birthday. Aside from nail polish and shoes and world peace, that's all she wanted. Who could resist?

Well, probably 99% of the good parents out there, but secretly I can't really see the harm. There's the teeth thing, of course, but she already has an overbite on her that could rival Freddie Mercury's, so I think the dental damage is done. Really, unless you're going to wean your very young baby off the dummy (or, of course, never give it to them in the first place - heelllllo first baby!), it's just a fact of life that you're going to be buying them braces at some point.

Maxi-Taxi never took a dummy. This was mainly because back before I knew what I was getting myself into with this whole parenting gig, I was adamant that no child of mine was going to have a dummy. I'm not exactly sure why, but I just knew dummies were 'bad' and parenting without them was 'good'. By the time I woke up to myself he was six weeks old and not having a bar of it. I spent ridiculous amounts of time popping the dummy in and watching it instantly pop back out - he was like the world's kindest poker machine. For the record, the kid took three months to learn how to breastfeed and then wouldn't ever take a bottle, so maybe he was just annoying in general.

Needless to say, Cappers was plugged before we even left the delivery room. "What're you lookin' at," I recall growling at the disapproving midwife (I later blamed my rudeness on the post-birth drugs, but we all know that was a lie). Cappers, who is of course the self-raising baby, spat the dummy out at about 4 months old and that was the end of that.

And then along came The Badoo. Grumpy. Third Born. Addict.

The only time it really drives me crazy is when she talks with it in.

"Urg wruf moo gun," she says.

"I love you too, don't talk with your dummy in!"

She has this trick where she twists the dummy around and around using her tongue. You'd swear you can hear the faint sounds of carnival music while she does it. Da da dah dah dah dah da da dah dah. Roll up, roll up and see the fantastical, the magical, the amaaaaaaazing three year old Freddie Mercury lookalike!

Cracks me up every time.

Anyway.

I know it's bad, but we're not even close to working our way free of this dummy vice. She likes it, it gives her comfort... where's the harm I say. Should I feel guilty about that?


[Image of the Pacifier Tree - where kids go to hang their dummies when they've finished with them (unfortunately all the way over in Sweden which seems a little far for The Badoo to travel) -  by Camilla Engman - cool blog by the way!]

Blogliciousness: the {tiny} satorialist

 

Blogliciousness v 1 Desirable, yummy, inspiring and/ or entertaining blog. 2 A potential new blog to love.

Anyone who knows me knows I can't stand kids in grown-up clothes. I see a kid in a fedora and I just feel the bile start to rise. Skinny jeans, biker boots, high-heels on tots... no, I'm not a fan of the 'fash for kids' pack one little bit.

Which is why I was extremely surprised to fall in love with Marshall Ace. Marshall Ace and the clothes he wears is the sole preoccupation of the {tiny} satorialist. This tot is so cutely attired I can't help but want to see more, more, more.

What is it about this blog? There really is just something about Marshall Ace...

Do you have a new blog find to share? And what are your thoughts on 'trendy kids'?

[Image via the{tiny}satorialist]

The day I hired a hubby

Fondly reminiscing about my encounter with Dave the Vaccum last week has reminded me about the time I hired a hubby.

In Sydney there is a company called, you guessed it, Hire a Hubby. The premise it that while your own hubby is abundantly skilled and highly motivated to do all of the maintenance and reno work about the house, he is simply too busy. If he wasn't so darn busy, that new roof would be up, the bathroom tiled and the chicken coop built quick smart. But while he's cursing his busyness, this business is here to help. They have experienced, skilled, qualified 'hubbys' on their books ready and willing to come over and do the work for money. It's like the housewife's equivalent of a prostitute, really.

Anyway, I'm sure Hire a Hubby is a very good, reliable company but I cannot vouch for that. When I 'hired a hubby' I really got one.

I was nine-months pregnant with number two and in crisis reno mode. The Nest needed an updated kitchen quick-smart because no fresh baby of mine was going to grow up thinking that an acceptable kitchen included exposed brick walls, brown tiles and cupboards, green formica benchtops and green plastic flooring. It was enough that Maxi-Taxi had already been exposed to this style desert.

The floor man handled the floors, the renderer man handled the walls, my real and gorgeous hubby LOML and his mate Ric painted every brown cabinet white and Hire a Hubby sent Michael-Call-Me-Mike to get the benchtops and tiling done.

Michael was as big as my own hubby (which is to say, very, very big). He looked very professional with his toolbelt and his measuring tape. He had pencils tucked above both ears. Things were looking good.

He ripped out the old benchtops and tore down the brown tiles as if he found them as offensive as I did. He looked so engrossed that I popped out with Maxi-Taxi for a the rest of the day to get some last minute baby wrap shopping done (you can never have enough wraps).

I excitedly arrived home to view the completed benchtop and tiles and stood aghast in the kitchen doorway, one hand clasped protectively over my belly, the other shielding Maxi's vulnerable toddler eyes.

It was a MESS. The benchtops were fitted, but a large corner section of one bench had obviously been broken off and glued hurriedly back on. The tiling job was the worst tiling job in the history of tilers (and that is a very, very long history indeed). The grouting was smeared like toothpaste and dripped out between the tiles as if they were oozing pus. They were nicely almost dry.

I was speechless. I was massively pregnant. I could have done a better job myself. Maxi could have done a better job himself. But I said nothing.

I paid Michael's bill when it arrived a week later. I said nothing. I went in and gave birth and dear LOML and my sisters fixed what they could and made it all look presentable. Bless that hubby that I didn't even have to hire.

Years and years and years later I am still livid. I have actually moved house and I am still livid. It is embarrassing how livid I still am but for some reason it is like an unscratched itc... gaping wound.

The question is. Am I furious at Michael for passing himself off as a qualified Hubby when clearly he was just a regular hubby? Am I angry at Hire a Hubby for sending me Michael in the first place? Or am I livid at myself because I said nothing?

Yes, you're right. But I will say nothing more.

[Image from here]

Dealing with Difficult People #1: Newborns

Excuse me while I detour from my usual Friday post - I am starting to agree with Maxi- Taxi: "learning stuff is boring". (He will go far.)

I'm not the most tactful person in the world which is less than ideal given that I work with some of the most arrogant and annoying people on earth (see "I'm not the most tactful person..."). Ergo, I've had loads of experience picking my way through social and political minefields so I thought I'd share my top tips on Dealing with Difficult People.

I'm starting with Newborns.

I've only ever worked with three of them, but I've seen quite a few in my time and let me tell you, without exception, they are all Difficult. They're selfish, cranky, demanding.... they're mean. They cry until you're blue in the face and then they zap you with one of those windy little smiles like that's supposed to make up for weeks of sleep drip torture, poo, mastitis and vomit. Worse, that windy smile works like a charm and we fall in love with them despite their general unloveliness. Like I said, Difficult.

But, here are my top five tips for managing these pesky newcomers:

1. Handle with confidence.
Do not, under any circumstances, let them know that you don't know what you're doing. They can smell fear and they will vomit on it.  A very tight wrap administered brusquely will help immensely until you've genuinely got a handle on things. Watch your midwife to get an idea of what brusque looks like. Watch her also for tips on how to handle the newborn - watching Rugby Union can also help here.


2.  Don't play with them, they don't like it.
Don't make the mistake of thinking that newborns are capable of doing anything more exhausting than eating. Every minute you spend dangling a toy in front of their face and gooing and gagaohlalaing is ten extra minutes they will spend screaming in their cot because they are so over stimulated. I learned this the hard way with Maxi-Taxi.

For the first eight weeks, cuddle them on waking, cuddle them before you put them to bed (preferably skin on skin), but if they're not actually eating (preferably skin on skin), ensure they are lying in their cot or pram ready for sleep. Playing comes later (and never, ever ends).


3. You're a family now and forevermore
Batten down the hatches and for now just fold yourself into a little family package. Some visitors are lovely and easy and leave the home in a more relaxed state than they found it it. Most are not like that. You have more important things to do than serve drinks and tidy the house for guests. Like sleep.

It's also about keeping the overstimulation down to a manageable size. Faces are MAJOR work when you're freshly minted. Know that the more people your baby sees and is held by, the crazier he will be. Guests go home, you get left with the crank all by your lonesome.


4. Newborns cry, that's what they do.
Newborns are all different, but they have two things in common. They're all mysteriously adorable and they all cry. Maxi-Taxi was an overstimulated mess. He cried every night from 6pm until 9pm, non stop. All we could do was hold him and cry right along with him. Cappers was an angel who rarely cried but when she did it she would set car alarms off in the street. The embarrassment of her screeching when we were out in public had to be experienced to be believed. The Badoo just grizzled permanently from sun down until sun up. Grumpy was her middle name and while she rarely cried, she rarely smiled either.

Your newborn will cry too and that's okay. It's up to you whether you pick them up every time they cry. Just know that they can cry in the bed just as easily as in your arms. And they'll be crying in their bed for a lot, lot longer if they get used to crying in your arms...


5. Remember, you're a newborn too.
Be gentle and kind to both your baby and yourself. You're a newborn mum and you deserve to give yourself the same loving care that you are giving your baby. Sometimes that means co-sleeping when you didn't plan to co-sleep. It means giving a bottle when you wanted to breastfeed exclusively. It means calling your neighbour and asking them to come right over to mind Cranky Pants so you can run away.

Treat yourself as you'd like your baby to treat you. With love, with kindness, with compassion, with sleep.

And remember, above all else: This, too, shall pass.

How were your newborn days? What are your best tips to share?

___________________________________________

PS - Come flog with me come flog come flog away... 

[Image by Suse Bauer of one of her many amazing Revoluzzza monster softies!]

The Badoo and the Possums

Recently The Badoo's independent, cheeky streak has come in very, very handy.

She was in the baby room (the Joeys) at her daycare and she wanted to move up to the big kid room (the Possums).  The Possums is for 3 - 4 year olds, but The Badoo doesn't believe in age appropriateness. She wanted out of the baby room and in with those Possums.

For a while now we've had the potty in the lounge room - proudly being referred to as the 'place where big girls who don't wear nappies go'. The Badoo was glancing over at the potty with a 'yeah, whatever' shrug for a week or so.

Then one Saturday she grabbed me by the hand and took me over to the potty. Proudly she gestured to the wee in the bowl. She beamed her Badoo smile and said "I'm a big girl, I need undies". We were beyond proud. Especially when she didn't miss a beat the entire weekend without nappies. Numbers 1 and 2 were dutifully deposited into the potty without any reminder (to be honest it all happened so suddenly that LOML and I kept forgetting that she was in the middle of toilet training). It was like magic.

So, Monday she fronts up to daycare and announces that she'll be going into the Possums room thank you very much. "Look!" she said to the Possum teacher, lifting up her skirt. "No nappies! I'm ready to be a Possum." The Possum teacher must have hesitated slightly. "The toilets are in the Possum room," The Badoo said pointedly. "I need to be a Possum."

What can you say to that? The Badoo is now proudly mixing it up with the Possums and flashing her undies at every opportunity. Ah, that Badoo. She's a little bit mental, she's a little bit grumpy but she's a whole lotta clever.

Have your children ever surprised you beyond words with their ability to adapt and conquer? Are you afraid, very afraid?

The best bits are the little bits: part 2

It's true that the little bits make up the best bits of memories! Not always postitive, but imprinted forever! ♥

I’m standing in line at the check-out wailing to my friend about having been up two, three times a night for about five years FIVE YEARS and that sleep deprivation has become just plain DEPRIVATION and I’m really going nuts because I’m just so bloody tired and just so bloody over the agonising nights when I felt a tap on my arm.

I turn around.

“Have you tried hot milk?” the biddy behind me asked.

I only stabbed her 37 times. My friend stopped me then.

Tell me, what's the most useless piece of parenting advice you've ever been given?

[Image by farmgirl in flipflops]

The birth of me, every which way

I'm in the unenviable position of having experienced three types of birthing. I've done your 40 hour labour  followed by an emergency cs.  I've done your standard vaginal delivery. I've done your planned cs. So, without ever really wanting it, I'm really the 'go to' girl for discussing which 'method' is 'best'.

Now, before we go on, I wholeheartedly apologise if I am about to offend anyone, that's really not my intention. All I can do is speak about my own experiences and how they made me feel. That's what makes the blogging world go around, after all. We're here to speak our truth.

For me, birthing is the most primal, most all-encompassing, most living thing you ever get to do. It's bloody horrendous, really, but in the best possible way. A bit like a running a marathon (I imagine). But you can take your 'runners high' and multiply it by about 1000 and that's the high you get when you've worked and worked and worked and the agony of contractions finally goes away and you're holding your prized bubba in your arms. It's a moment that swallows you whole.

So, imagine if you never went into labour. If you went to hospital as a healthy, pregnant woman and suddenly became a patient. They wheel you in, the lights go bright, they stick a needle in your spine, you get hooked up to machines, they cut you open and pull out your bubba and... well, it's still an impossibly amazing moment but... but.

It's no secret that I prefered the draining, ripping, screeching agony of 40 hours of contractions only to be given an epidural and an emergency cs to the planned cs. The outcome was the same. Bright lights, let's open her up, here's your baby. But the labour was missing. The labour that grounds you. That makes you whole and strong and invincible and able to say "I'm ready, baby. I'm ready to take on the world for you."

And, oh, a vaginal birth. The satisfaction, the sheer relief of birthing that baby down the vaginal canal. It's like crawling for days to reach the summit of a mountain and then being given a tobaggon at the top. Sheer, blessed, outrageous joy. Every sense alive. Every nerve in your being at one with the wind.

A momentous ride and then an even bigger gift: the recovery takes days rather than weeks. You're a new mother, not a new patient. Things just work. Even with an episotomy, even with stitches, even with the inability to sit properly. Healing is easier, breastfeeding is easier, caring for your baby is easier. Things just work.

If I was given one wish for mothers everywhere, it wouldn't be for easy breastfeeding, or support for all or even for a sleeping baby - although all these things would be amazing. Instead, it would be for every mother to be given the luxury of experiencing labour followed by a vaginal birth.

[Image from Focus Pictures]

♥ Loving chunkychooky

So, I'm over the recipes. I might go back to them a bit later... From now on, Sundays will be devoted to ♥Much Love♥ Mondays. I'm a day early with my post, but I'm sure Anna won't mind... do you mind, Anna?

Today I'm loving gorgeous little baby rattles handmade by Cath at chunkychooky. Just look at that little face!

Happy Sunday!

The sun shines on The Badoo

The Badoo was a cranky baby. Really, really grumpy. She didn't smile until she was about ten weeks old and even then it was fleeting. Was it wind? No, no a genuine smile... but that was last week and we haven't seen another.

I mentioned this distinct lack of mirth to our Paediatrican, Dr Lilystone. Yes, he of the 'She's French' line from the breastfeeding post last week. This time he said to me, "Has she smiled at all?"

"Yes," I answered. "But not much."

"Hmmm... well, if she's come through with a genuine smile or two we can only conclude that it's not developmental."

"Okay," said I, primed for some scary medical explanation. "Then what could it be?"

"She's grumpy," he concluded. "Just plain old grumpy."

Yikes.

And she remained grumpy for about a year.

These days, people comment on how sunny she is. The Badoo, sunny. Who'd have thought?

They say she is smiley, happy, bright and full of beans. They say she's like a little ray of sunshine. The world smiles on that one, they say.

The Badoo. Really, who'd have thought?

If you're struggling with a cranky pants baby, know this: The sun comes out eventually and when it does it shines and shines and shines.



PS - if you find a moment, visit my witty, talented sister at Life In A Pink Fibro and if you like her blog as much as I do, vote for her in the kidspot 50 Top Bloggers awards by clicking on the button in her sidebar...

The Bundchen Booby debate

The  unexpected Women Supporting Women Trilogy (Friendship, Fark off* and Frenemies) last week really took it out of me. It's hard for me to sustain thoughtful and deep. I'm much better at frivolous and shallow. However, there is a sad matter that I briefly mentioned on Friday and has stayed sad all over the weekend. It's Gisele Bundchen and the booby debate.

I'm sad because I don't understand why breastfeeding is such a loaded topic. It's such a personal, personal thing, yet as a society we judge, we criticise, we gloat, we complain and we sneer. I'm not going to go further into what I think of Gisele Bundchen and her thoughtless remarks (she is, after all, recovering from being runover by a Bugaboo) but I am going to tell you about my own experience with breastfeeding. I feel the need to share.

I struggled with breastfeeding. Struggled and struggled. I did everything I possibly could for every one of my three children, but it's never felt enough.

After a shaky, emotional, difficult eight weeks, I finally got Maxi-Taxi feeding and happy and maintained breastfeeding until just after 12 months (thank you ABA!). My milk supply was never great and we needed a nipple shield to begin with, so feeding, especially in the early months, took forever. I dedicated myself completely to getting the feeding going. I kept a feeding journal (I'm that kinda gal) and some days that child was on the boob for up to 14 hours a day. Really. But we got the milk going and everything was calm and lovely after those first weeks. I even picked up the night feeds again at eight months when I went back to work in an effort to keep the breastfeeding going for as long as we could (WMG? Yes, a little!)

Cappers went straight on and was breastfed until almost six months when she self-weaned. Bit mortifying, but a bit of a relief, really. She hadn't been thriving on the boob as my milk supply was dodgy and I just couldn't devote the same amount of time to my second born as I could to my first born. Reality bites. By six months, we were both really over it and she was close to eating 'real food' anyway. Putting her onto bottled milk at that stage just felt right. Consequently, I didn't contact the ABA about her self-weaning because as much as I had valued their support in the past, I just didn't feel like a big lecture. We both moved on to bottles without a hitch.

Then along came The Badoo. She was a sluggish, enormous newborn She had been breech and 'stuck' so she didn't move much in utero and was consequently... er... fat. And hungry. And The Badoo. On first presentation of the breast, a little hand leapt out of the wrap and slapped the boob away. I couldn't believe my eyes and nor could the midwife. We both burst out laughing.

I stopped laughing very quickly because The Badoo wouldn't go near the boob at all. She would get her mouth to the nipple and... nothing. Her sucking reflex sucked. She just never caught on and consequently breastfeeding just wasn't an option. She preferred having a bottle poured down her throat.

I didn't take the news lightly. For over eight weeks I expressed milk. Remember that low milk supply? It would take me over an hour to pump 150mls. I would get up for the night feeds, attempt to get her on the breast, feed her a bottle and then sit there with my electric pump for hours, pump, pump, pump. To this day, when I hear the suck and wheeze of an electric breastpump, I feel cold and lonely and tired and defeated.

The Badoo had a few other 'breechy' birth issues and at eight weeks we were due to go back to her Paediatrician for a check-up. Dr Lilystone is an ancient, kindly, old-school kind of doctor and.. get this... he bulk-bills. A specialist who bulk-bills? Immediately you can tell that he's one of the good guys.

I poured it all out to him. How sad I was at this failure to provide basic nourishment to my child. How I had managed with her siblings and I felt I was really letting her down. How I worried that she wouldn't be as clever, as beautiful, as happy because she would be formula-fed. How she just wasn't interested, even though I had been trying and trying and trying. His response was simply, "Maybe she's French".

"I beg your pardon?" I said, thinking did he not hear me?; thinking maybe it's time he retired.

"Well, only a really small minority of French women breastfeed," he explained. "And the French seem to be doing okay."

The relief I felt was instantaneous. He's right, I thought. The Badoo will be okay, breast or none. It's not the end of the world. I'll just make an extra effort to ensure I feed her right for the other 17 some years that I'm in charge of the food.  French, yes. Maybe she's French.

As parents, we will make millions of choices on behalf of our children. Many of these choices are carefully planned and executed. Many of them are not. Still others are choices we thought we could carefully plan, but found out that we had to improvise and adapt and change the way we felt as we went along.

Breastfeeding was like that for me. I'm a huge believer in it, huge. But I'm even more of a believer in letting the parent decide how they will feed their child. Most of all, I believe that the choice they would like to make is often not possible. Let's not judge such a personal matter lest we stir up a whole tangle of emotion. Please.


* Not being coy, really. It's just that Mum reads my blog and she might be a tad upset if I said the word fuck. Oh fuck, I said fuck. Sorry Mum.

[Image by Nicole Canto chosen to represent freedom of choice]