The Other Side of the Story

I have had writer's block.  Frustrating times where I can’t seem to find an interesting idea or coherent plan.  I stare at the screen.  I surf the internet for stuff I don’t need.  I organize the sock drawer.  I procrastinate. 

But niggling in the back of my brain is a voice reminding me of the reason for my block.  I know it, and I choose ignore it.  It’s that voice reminding me that there are things I really want to write about, but am afraid of facing.  Afraid of seeing as black and white text and of it all leaving me to travel over the electronic space to other people who will read it.  Afraid that all that makes it more real.   So I don’t write it, but consequently I grind to a halt.  The voice gets louder and I start to argue back like a teenager, saying, ‘I KNOW! I’ll do it when I’m ready!’

Through all of this, a passage I remember reading about group therapy in a book by Yalom keeps coming to mind.  Something about, if the group isn't talking about what’s important, then nothing gets talked about.  He doesn't mean that nothing is said and groups sit through their time in silence, but that they go about chattering worthless, meaningless words.  I admit that many, many of my blogs are like that.  Chattering about nothing, trying to put a happy spin and find a sort of circuit for completion.  But life isn’t really like that all the time. 

So I sit here now to write about the other side of the story.

It’s been almost 3 and a half years since Ethan came into my life.  And 3 and half years since his brother Noah died.  I must share with you that I cry most days.  Although it feels an improvement from crying every single day, I realize it is a sign that this pain doesn’t really ever go away.  And I wonder sometimes, if it’s becoming somewhat of a friend of mine.  A constant companion.  A sort of shadow against the sunshine of everyday life.  It’s so hard to describe, but life is a wonderful, bursting bright ray of sunshine from the moment I wake up to Ethan’s beautiful face, through the day of 3 year old ups-and-downs and straight to the snugly bedtime kisses, I am amazed that such a sweet, amazing person came into my life.  And I am happy to just be near him.  Yet, without taking away one ounce of his glittering wonderfulness, I feel depths of sadness – just like shadows seem darker on the brightest of days.  It’s almost as though when Ethan’s beauty strikes me most, I also feel the most grief.  For Noah, who should be here, and who would have been just as beautiful a person as Ethan. 

It screws with my mind a lot.  I think maybe I didn’t deserve to be that happy.  I still imagine ways to get him back.  I still dream as though he’s here.  I’ve wanted to still be pregnant with him, holding him inside – safe from harm – forever.  And it takes my imagination to all the other terrible, horrific things that I cannot provide protection from for Ethan.  Illnesses, bullying, tragedies, sadness, failures.  Normal, everyday difficulties people face, but I am also beset by paranoia that people will break in and kill us, we might die from carbon monoxide poisoning in the night or that I’ll lose him and Thom in a car crash.  So deeply has the unexpected, unjust loss of Noah punctuated my life, that I have turned into a catastrophic worrier.  I’m practising with letting these ideas go and not letting fear get in the way of life, but it is just that – a constant practice.  Sometimes it goes well, and others not so much. 

Listening to that voice, and breaking my writers block silence, is a step in that, I suppose.  Thom also recently helped with another step.  I cannot have my babies safely tucked inside for eternity, for obvious reasons, but also it would not be fair to deny them their lives, no matter how short or how difficult they might be.  And even though I let them go, they are part of me forever, inexplicably but certainly.  To symbolize this and to bring some closure, Thom carefully made ink from some of Noah’s ashes and tattooed me.  It doesn’t change situations or my feelings, but it reminds me that he is part of me, as much as my own cells and skin and blood.  It’s a symbol to last me forever – or at least as long as I last. 

So there it’s out there –real and raw.  I hope that the electronic world and readers don’t find my sadness a turn off.  And I hope that facing fear means less writer’s block. 

Let me explain you something: You don’t have to live up to the crazy ideal of ‘Yummy Mummy’

I am admittedly reading too much feminist literature at the moment.  An upcoming project on body image in female weightlifters has me surrounded by a pile of books from the 70's.  It has me thinking far too much and too deeply about the origin of our society's body norms.  But these now old women with no bras have some pretty good points.  We women spend our entire youth learning the art of feminine wiles with the ultimate aim of being attractive enough to bag a fella who's successful enough to keep us housed and fed.  And then you breed, while hopefully maintaining enough of your looks to keep him hooked.

Although it seems a pretty harsh way to look at something that for many of us is our personal love story, it does offer some perspective on the pressures faced by modern mums, and the dilemmas posed by the modern social archetype of the Yummy Mummy.  The books on my desk from the 80's mourn the death of feminism and that from the 60's, in a brief 15-20 years, it was dropped from political and social consciousness like an ugly prom date. And indeed, most women I know wouldn't count themselves as feminists, even though they'd be all up for equal pay.  So feminism got forgotten as soon as women were allowed to work and sexual harassment became an actual crime, rather than just the normal way chicks got spoken to by men.  Now feminism is kind of like a dirty word, as if pointing out any potential inequality still lurking between the genders is just being a grumpy man-hater.

But the feminists nowadays, if there are any left, would surely have something to say about the Yummy Mummy obsession in modern media and society.  It's not enough to have got pregnant, endured the birth, the sleepless nights, the contentious breastfeeding decisions, the relationship changes.  Oh no, what's important is that you looked good doing it.  It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the immaculately turned out mum.  The one with perfectly toned tummy, despite the three month old cooing away contentedly in her coordinated designer buggy/car seat/nappy bag combo.  Flowing, freshly washed tresses of expensive looking highlights framing a surprisingly glowing and well-rested complexion.  She's had the time to wash her jeans and that shirt looks downright ironed!  And all that before we even start with the well turned out baby.  Hot damn, how does she do it?  And what's wrong with the rest of us?  Trudging zombie-like to the corner shop with Rice Krispies in our hair.  Somebody else's Rice Krispies.  From yesterday's breakfast. 

And I guess the problem with the Yummy Mummy is that it is a concept used against the rest of the Rice Krispie encrusted ones; one that keeps us all chasing an impossible and ridiculous ideal.  A kind of measuring stick against which we all fall short.  It’s an unfair expectation, and one that places the value of a mum on her appearance primarily.  Her sexual appeal is still the most important and defining factor in her value, over and above the other million strengths, abilities and sacrifices she makes daily.  It's a distraction from the important stuff, like actually raising the kids.  As with the term MILF, which inelegantly implies that mothers fall neatly into two categories - ones that you'd still do it with and ones you wouldn't.  And as crude as it is, modern mothers would rather be a MILF than not.  But you can hardly blame them as it's an image that we are bombarded with in the media - how beautiful so-and-so looks and how fast she dropped the baby weight and how bloody happy she is.  Sorry, but I call bullshit. 

What can I say about the frumpy mum?  The fat mum? The frazzled, haggard, one trying to hold down whatever career a person can manage on three hours sleep and un-brushed teeth while still having to be the spring of eternal patience and love for little junior.  The ones that haven't lost the baby weight, can't be bothered to match their socks and let their children wear whatever scabby bits of ill-fitting clothes are clean.  These kind are ignored, although they are the real deal.  They are less represented in what we read and see and maybe even are kind of frowned upon, if we're all honest with ourselves.  Or at least it’s pretty true that the ones who appear to have all together and look good doing it are praised as the shining examples of womanhood. 

It's not fair, and I'd even go so far as to say that the label of Yummy Mummy is sexist.   I'm not blaming men.  After all, we can decide what media to read, what to believe and choose to value ourselves for more than our sexual appeal.  It's just that collectively, maybe even without realising it, we all expect a lot from a mother.  That she has it all, does it all and manages to look good doing it.  For me, I'm giving myself permission to dry shampoo another day so I can focus on what's important rather than whether or not it's attractive. 

Let me explain you something: Things that really don't fuss you about parenthood

Before baby, the things parents do seemed unthinkable.  I used to wonder how someone could possibly tolerate wiping the bum of another human being for years.  Surely, they must hate that!  

Very little sleep, spending all your money on the sprog, being fat and pregnant - all things I expected to find difficult, or just plain hate.  But the reality is so far from my imagination.  Here's the contenders for things that most surprised me about parenthood - the things I thought I would hate but actually didn't mind too much:

1) Welcome to Poo-tasia! - Are you someone who is fascinated by poo? Could you discuss poo size, smell, shape, colour and consistency on a daily basis?  If not, don't worry.  It probably means you're just not a parent yet.  When you are, the information gleaned from poo reading is invaluable.  And far from being the pile of steaming stink bomb you'd expect, somehow it becomes as normal and mundane as clipping your own toe nails.  I swear I don't even smell them sometimes.  I remember the poos not in terms of which ones were grossest, but which ones were the funniest.  Thom and I have whiled away many evenings discussing the contents of Ethan's nappy.  Good times.  On a related note: No one told us how much babies fart.  Not little, innocent puffs, but huge, ripping man farts.  These also are not as much of a concern as I would have imagined if someone had told me that a stranger is about to move in and fart on me several times a day. 

2) Money,who needs it anyways -  Little junior is like a money sponge.  I'm sure he's soaked it up somehow, but I'll be dammed if I can figure out how such a little guy absorbed so much of our cash. Babies are expensive, and that scares off lots of people.  Fair enough, I think, because luxuries in life with a baby in tow look more like a night in with a new DVD and less like a long haul holiday.  But, surprisingly, we don’t mind nearly as much as I thought we would.  Somehow, when we’ve blown our beer money on marbles, crayons and lollipops, we don’t miss it.

3) Boogers, Snot and other mucus related splats – Ever had an irresistible urge to sick your finger up someone’s nose to clear a crusty green blob so they could breathe better?  Despite choking back the puke as I write, these urges sprang up within me like instincts of a cheetah to chase an antelope.  And without thinking, or grossing myself out, boom!  I’m picking someone else's nose.  When their poor little noses are blocked, they can’t sleep, they can’t eat and they are miserable.  Somehow digging in there seems like the natural thing to do, rather than the disgusting thing it actually is.  We even had a plastic contraption of tubes that was for sucking the ‘blockage’ out.  It had a filter to catch the green bastards.   Sometimes they were so big that they would land against the filter with a big ‘thud’.  I feel I’ve lost my mind to even have done this, but there it is.

4) Saying goodbye to your old life - Janis Joplin once sang, 'Time keeps moving on. Friends, they turn away.' Sounds sad, but it's another one that didn't fuss me as much as I thought it would.  So now a good night is defined as one with a lack of puking, rather than someone overdoing it so much that they vomit.  And hangovers feel like so much hassle that the wine tastes less appealing.  And so what.  Your old friends don't call anymore and rather than feel upset, you start to see them for the immature douche-bags they are.  And it's all ok.  Life goes like that - we evolve and adjust and accept.  I don't miss the high heel blisters, little friendship dramas or over priced neon coloured shooters.  That just seems all a little bit insane compared to the crayon and play dough parties we enjoy now. 

I surprise myself.  Life is full of surprises, and I guess that's what makes it wonderful. 

Let me explain you something: Children crying

There are certain times that you don’t need the shrill crying of a child in your ear.  When you’re on a long haul flight.  When you’re having a root canal.  When you’re hiding from zombies and not wanting to give your location away to the undead.  

But the rest of the time, I’d suggest you get over it.  Children cry.  It's something they're supposed to do.  All that unashamed emotional expression tells us that a kid is normal.  It's the non crying, all too calm ones you have to watch out for, like the little scheming, blonde mini-psychopaths in children of the corn. 

Then again, babies also need to travel across oceans sometimes, visit the dentist and escape zombies, too, so maybe just get all the way over their crying.  

As with my personal enlightenment about aggressive buggy pushers (aggressive buggy barging), I’ve walked a mile in the shoes of the judgemental, eye brow raising, 'Can't you control them!' brigade.  I've been on flights, with nothing to worry about other than when the drinks trolley will make an appearance, feeling like a jet-setting superstar, when you see a hunch-backed giant making its awkward way down the aisle.  As they get nearer, you see that it’s not a hunchback, but a pretty normal albeit unkempt and tired-looking person weighed down with bags and juice cups and teddy bears and a little excited snot bucket of a child.  You look at the empty seats next to you in panic and you say a fervent silent prayer, ‘Please, Lord, not next to me! Send the obese guy instead!’

Yes, I confess my lack of compassion.  I guess I had to learn through being on both sides of the fence.  But I also admit that a child crying is a horrible sound.  It’s horrible because it’s supposed to be horrible.  A child’s cry is meant to evoke action.  And even if that action is motivated by sheer selfish desperation for peace and quiet, it’s effective.  It's mother nature’s own natural panic alarm.

But once you hear the cry of your own child, it drives a pain so deep into your body that you feel convinced that their unique cry is coded into your DNA.  Like somehow your bloods mingled so that their pain and discomfort is felt in your flesh.  It feels so physically painful that you forgo food and sleep, offer them your painful, beaten up boobs to feed on and deprive yourself of batteries for the TV remote to get the magic lullaby sleep buddy working again.  You'll do all manner of seemingly insane things, but not just to stop the noise.  You'll feel genuinely driven to protect them from the pain, discomfort, hunger and loneliness that makes them cry. 

Somewhere along they way, the cries change from meaning I'm hungry, I'm sick, I'm cold, I'm dirty to things like I'm ticked off that I can't wear lipstick, chuck myself off this wall, stay in the grocery store, keep that dog.  And that's when people seem the most annoyed by the crying child.  They are louder and more angry.  And they are usually unreasonable.  So child will be crying and the parents will be doing those things that annoy onlookers even more than the crying.  They will be ignoring, trying placate, offering sweets, even just not caring.  Why don't they stop their child crying?  Because they can't.

Life with a two year old is all about that little person you love more than anything, but whose delicate emotional balance is as changeable as their diaper and as predictable as the lottery.  You still have to do all the daily things you need to do, but you'll have the additional job of keeping them calm, happy and as inoffensive as possible to the rest of polite society.  So sometimes when you see a parent and crying child, and they are just calmly ordering their latte or strolling through the grocery store with a screaming, red-eyed demon child, you’d assume they are stupid, deaf or insane.  Nope, they’re probably in their 'happy place' where patience springs eternal.  Or they're just pleased that this isn't as bad as little Junior can get.

We’ve all cried and screamed at some point in our lives.  And we probably would still until we learned how much it can get on the nerves of strangers.  These parents aren't immune to the sound of crying.  They just know that their time for crying is over and their little people are having their time now.  

Let me explain you something: Aggressive buggy barging

When I moved to the UK in my 20’s I was struck by how much more walking they do over here.  And I was also struck by buggies.  Strollers, as I would have called them back then.  Strollers being pushed by terrifying, frazzled women hunched over their buggies, loaded down with shopping bags.  They had the look of a demon in their eyes and pushed their buggies with the ferocity of a linebacker at the Super Bowl.  Get in their way and you’re losing a toe.    

‘What’s the matter with these rude people?’ I’d wonder, ’As if having a kid gives them the right!’  I was self righteous and oh-so incredibly stupid.  I know this now because I am the frazzled shell of a woman ploughing down those who fail to jump out of the way.  And let me tell you what exactly is wrong with people like me and what gives me the right:  pushing that buggy is bloody hard! 

So for anyone out there who’s lost a toe to the woman pushing the buggy, let me explain some things to you. 

1) It might be 10 am, but she’s been trying to get out the door with that damn buggy since before you were awake.  – It may be unbelievable that someone who’s been awake since 6am hasn't even managed to do her hair and forgot to brush her teeth.  She’s been making sure the baby’s fed, cleaned, re-cleaned and probably re-re-cleaned.  Then she has to gather nappies, wipes, bottles or snacks, toys, extra clothes.  It’ll have been a miracle if she remembers her purse, let alone her lip gloss.  And those are the easy days when there are no tantrums, teething or baby colds – those days are harder.  She’s trucking that buggy that way because she’s exhausted and lugging more baggage than Rihanna. 

2) She’s in a bigger hurry than you – Everyone has somewhere important to go, but going out with a baby is like being sent out to the shops with a time bomb.  That bundle of joy has no audible ticking, nor is there any red wire we can cut to diffuse it, but he is defiantly set to blow at a specific time.  Mums get good at sensing it in the air.  They know that if lil’ junior doesn't get fed or napped or changed or home by a certain time, there will be hell to pay.   If you don’t make your bus, you’ll be a bit bummed, write a tweet about how it sucks and get on with waiting for the next one.  If that mum with the wild-eyed crazy determined stare on doesn't make the bus, she’s sat with a screaming baby in the bus shelter for the next half hour.   Your glares will let her know it’s no fun for you, but trust me, it’s far worse for her. 

3) She doesn't care about the point you’re trying to prove – She’s just pushed buggy, baby and all 50kg of necessary baby stuff up a hill, over broken pavement and through puddles.  She’s dressed like a hobo, and her hobo rags are covered in baby puke and little crusty bits of baby snot.  She’s had 2-3 hours sleep.  She’s not had sex in 3 months.  She’s remembered the rain cover for the baby buggy, but not her own umbrella.  So when you meet her on the narrow pavement and stay on the side where you are, even though she’s trucking along towards you, she’s not going to move.  It’s not that she’s being a bitch.  It’s not a game of chicken to her.  She really can’t maneouver that buggy as well as you want her to, so be warned.  Move it, or say bye-bye big toe.

4) She’s been dealing with hundreds of pavement hogs already today – She’s also been dealing with doors that aren't big enough for the buggy, shops that are impassable because of steps at the entrance, feeling like a frumpy mess and even feeling guilty that everyone is pissed off that her buggy is in the way.  She really doesn't want to ruin your day.  She really doesn't think she and her child are more important than you.  She’s just trying to make her way through another day filled with obstacles – physical and metaphorical.  She may not have noticed you there amongst all that, or she may have hoped that your common decency would have had you step to one side. 

I know I've been the one on the other side, failing to appreciate the plight of the buggy mum.  Sorry to all those I didn't get right out of the way for - I should have given you all a medal!  Or at least a hug.

Potty training: Adventures in wee puddles

The changing table sits in the corner of the living room - an overflowing, all-purpose trap for all things diaper and cleaning related.  Wipes, towels, clothing changes and random bits of baby equipment fill its shelves.  It was a life saver in the early days, but is beginning to out live its nesessitiy. And it's charm.  

Ethan has been able to request nappy changes when needed for a few months and has even taken to climbing to the top the changing table on his own.   We can all tell it's time for the next stage.  

We bought the potty, made a big thing about how cool it was, but he could smell us out.  You could almost see his little cogs turning, thinking, 'So now you want me to do something new, do you? Well, we'll see.'  Ethan has never been one to do things in demand.  It's all on his schedule.  There was a long period where we knew he could walk, he knew he could walk, but he just didn't want to, almost as response to our wide-eyed, you-can-do-it encouragement.   But in the end, he did it when he was ready.  Not a moment sooner.

And the same seems to be unfolding with potty training.  Every attempt to talk about the potty has been met with a sort of 'Yeah, whatever!' as he trundles off towards something else.  But I know the key to all attention - M&Ms! So we made a big deal of it - going to buy the big boy pants, placing the M&Ms in sight but out of reach like a colourful, enticing temptation.   We put a his favourite shows on the iPad, whipped that nappy off and waited.  

We waited for 2 hours.  He drank juice.  He drank milk.  He sat on the potty intermittently, but preferred to roll his full bladder around on the sofa and other soft furnishings.  Turns out, that boy can hold it.  Finally, the smallest trickle of wee made it into the potty, and at a time when he just happened to be perching on it.  Hurray!  Lots of M&Ms and snuggles!  I put his new tiger-print big boy undies on him and said that if he had to do another wee, we could use the potty instead of a nappy.  He nodded, but looked a little stunned.

I went to the kitchen for a moment, feeling like super mom, but I had no idea a little guy could have such a massive bladder.  As I returned to the living room, he was awkwardly trying to sit back on the potty, as he peed with full hurricane force through his new tiger pants.  Still I was proud of him aiming for the potty, so even more M&Ms which he stuffed in as fast he could.  

Still fairly pleased, I set about mopping up the wee puddles.  Wondering what kind of cleaner one uses for these things and if they make a special one for potty training, like the cleaners for dog messes.  But the seal had been broken, and I was only in the eye of the wee hurricane. He sat himself on the floor - in another pair of new dry pants - and an even larger puddle starts to spread from under him.  I must say, I really underestimated the amount of wee those nappies must hold.  I used up almost a whole roll of kitchen towels!

But we are off to a start.  We revisit the potty most days and expect he will just decide when he's ready to make the change.  Even the M&Ms don't fool him, he's on to us and our tactics.  In the meantime, I'm enjoying the last bit of babyhood before we pack that changing table away and reclaim the living room.  Truth is, I don't know whether to smile or cry.

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Transatlantic Two Year Old

I'm a good long haul flyer.  I can fall asleep before take off, stay hydrated and turn up feeling ready for anything.  Now that I am a mommy, everything is naturally more complicated.  And it is not a question of whether I'm good at it, but how well I can manage the embodiment of hurricane force tantrums at 30,000 feet.

 

 

Ethan and I are now in the states, visiting my parents and I am amazed to say that I have survived a solo transatlantic flight with a two year old.  My husband couldn't make it with us, but we decided it would still be a good time for Ethan to see his grandparents.

In the days leading up to the flight, I panicked a little.  On an everyday shopping trip on a hot day before the flight, I gave Ethan an ice cream.  He didn't eat it, just held it, until it melted all over his hands and dripped down his legs.  I took it away, and he threw a massive tantrum complete with flailing arms smacking my face and full body convulsions.  He seemed to want to chuck himself headfirst onto the ground.  As people stared, I held back my impulse to blurt out, 'Just eat the damn ice cream!'

Ethan was deaf to anything I had to say, anyways.  Many tears later and covered in sticky melted ice cream juice, I thought, 'how am I ever going to manage this flight alone?'

That evening, I told Thom that I was worried.  His advice -Man up.  And after being a bit miffed about it, I decided he was right.  I am the mom. I'm not going to be pushed around by the two year old in tantrum mode.   In fact, if I wanted to make sure he didn't actually crack his head open mid-tantrum, I needed to wo-Man up!

I had many more carry on's than I would in the old days - filled  with snacks, toys, extra clothes and kilos of nappies and baby wipes.  I felt like a commando approaching a potentially deadly mission.  The day started before the sun came up and tiredness alone could have turned my little cherub into a screaming banshee in a moment.  I had to be sharp and ready to improvise.  Being soft would not do.

As soon as we waved goodbye to dad, I took a deep breath, got down to look Ethan in the eyes and said, 'Now, I want you to be good and listen to mama. We are going on the plane.' He nodded, maybe a little surprised, but did exactly that, even to the point of letting the security people frisk him (we set off the metal detector) and holding his baby-chino very carefully with two hands as we waited at Starbucks for our gate to be announced. 

I was impressed by what I could see.  He was a pretty switched on, grown up boy in the seat next to me.  But he is a two year old after all, and probably entitled to his fair share of tantrums.  The funniest ones, in hindsight, were after looking out the window as the plane took off, saying 'done' and that he wanted to go in the car now.  He was not pleased that we had to stay where we were for what is an eternity in two year old time.  And also in those seemingly endless minutes when the pilot demands everyone stay seated with seatbelts on after landing, Ethan yelled 'Go? 1, 2, 3...Go!'  And then when it was time to leave the plane, he decided he wanted to stay and fell to the floor at the exit screaming that he wanted to stay on the plane, as all the other weary passengers were piling up behind us. 

It wasn't all about being tough, though I learned.  It is also about a good dose of keeping him engaged when he's bored and relaxed when he's upset.  Finding ways to have fun when you're cramped into two small seats for 9 hours takes creativity and lots of energy.  So different from my long haul sleeps of my pre-child life.   Finding  and enjoying the sweetness in him was essential. Things like when he yelled, 'Weeee!' after some bumpy turbulence and yelling 'Crash!' just before the landing.  Gotta love that funny child outlook!

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