“Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.”

“Only good stories.” As women, we hear it our whole lives growing up. At baby showers, around expecting mothers, you’ll be sure to hear it, “only good stories.” And I get it. No one wants to hear your battle story. I get it. No one wants to know when things don’t go to plan. I get it. No one wants to hear that it can be hard. I completely get it. I know there are websites and blogs and articles and books all dedicated to sharing only positive birth stories. I get it. I understand that good stories are seen as a magic key. I get it. 

No one wants to hear your story. Only good stories, please. I get it, but what happens if your experience doesn’t meet the expectation? I don’t believe struggles should be worn as a badge of honour, but they should at least be acknowledged. Struggles are part of our story. Good stories, bad stories… they all paint a bigger picture. We are not martyrs for a cause, but we are silenced to think that for some reason our experiences are less important. That our stories invoke fear… but speaking the truth shouldn’t induce fear, but instead, truth sets us free! Free from what? Freedom from those haunting thoughts that you’ve failed. You didn’t have enough faith. You didn’t want it enough. You weren’t positive enough. You didn’t speak it enough. You weren’t educated enough. You’re not motherly enough. You’re not womanly enough. Freedom from feelings that one needs to lie about (yes, it happens) or justify their experiences, freedom from being silenced, freedom from feeling that we must be perceived in a certain light. Freedom from the idea that we are in this alone. Instead of being so obsessed with the good stories, maybe for once we can all just be honest with each other. Grab a tissue, because the French are on to something here… sometimes shit. just. happens. (excuse the french).  Sometimes it has nothing to do with our birth plan or that we happened to listen to ‘that’ story, or that we didn’t visualise properly or that we didn’t eat enough curry powder… but in fact, we are just subject to life.

Someone build a time machine, come and visit me with that ‘wet fish’ again… give me an old fashioned slap on the face and tell me, warn me, show me … that shit happens. Shit will happen…and things might not be ok, but it’s ok not to be ok, for a short while… you following?! Someone warn me of the guilt I’d have to deal with when breastfeeding didn’t work out. All I saw was ‘Miss Miranda’ on Instagram in all her glory smiling sweetly while cradling her babe on her perfectly perky breast. If  she can do it, then certainly I can… but guess what? Sometimes shit just happens. When you’re suffocated with the paraphernalia that breast is best and how dare you even entertain the idea of giving that scientifically manufactured powdery stuff in a plastic bottle! Heaven forbid! oh, well… shit happens. I wish you were there dear friend, to tell me that sometimes… just sometimes… shit just happens… but it in no way makes your experience less valid. Poo makes the trees grow stronger and the grass grow greener. It makes the flowers all that more sweeter and the fresh air more valued. Make your plans, surround yourself with positivity, but if the poo decides to drop on you, know we are here with you and for you. Knowing the good and the bad allows you to feel that whatever the circumstance, you’re never alone in it. Maybe next time you hear, “Good stories only”, consider exploring them all. I’ve learned that the process of motherhood, in all its ups and downs, are actually all quite inspiring, regardless.

I’m up to day 5 in hospital. Nothing this week has been how I’d ever imagined. I didn’t even get that nice hospital photo everyone seems to have…You know the smiley announcement to the world, “look what I made”, while glowing with newborn hormones, joy and love. The only photo I do have is Little Man lying next to me while we both sleep. I’m sure there was dribble involved and no doubt I’m completely covered in Little Man’s wee. Everything is covered in his wee. I guess it will just have to do.

I’ve also developed a new phobia while in here. I’ve never been so fearful of the toilet as I am now… and anyone who has given birth will understand. The toilet is terrifying. I continue to be harassed by nurses and lactation consultants, with one even saying, “you’re struggling because you’re a teacher, and teachers feel the need to have everything measured…” Well, isn’t that just a gross generalisation. Watch out teacher friends! You are all destined for failure according to this particular medical professional. It was only later discovered that the ‘damage’ had already been done, both physically and mentally (anyone order a side of chunky bleeding nipple?). The nice consultant I eventually ended up with suggested that as a ‘mental health decision’, that formula would be the right move, not that any justification or approval was needed (I must point that out!). It actually worked out to be a blessing, as my longer recovery enabled others to help out. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but when you’re in the moment, for all those months to come, I was overcome with guilt. It was only when I was able to process the intentions of the World Health Organisation’s relentless campaign on Breast is Best that I was able to let it go. You see, formula kills children. Well, no it doesn’t… water kills children. Water without sanitation in developing nations kills children. Formula companies pushing their product onto families in developing nations who do not have access to proper water sanitation kills children. Formula sold in Australia, where there is access to clean, safe drinking water and advanced sanitation practices, does not kill children, let alone put them at any developmental disadvantage. Children have and will continue to thrive on formula. Don’t get me wrong, I’m an advocate that breast is best and I understand the advantages, but sometimes it’s just not. Nevertheless, the conversations, judgements and banter will continue… and thanks to the free access we all have to social platforms, opinions will continue to be circulated, despite how helpful, cruel, informed or truthful they may be. Oh well, shit happens.

It’s night 6 and we’ve been informed we can spend our first night at home, but need to return back to the hospital in the morning for a check up. Little Man is gently inserted into his ridiculously expensive over-the-top car seat. I watch him for a while before my attention is focused on Dr Google. I have this small car trip to transform this breastfeeding expert into a formula expert. The first of my research: “How do you make baby formula.” I’ve got some serious learning to do…

“There is only one way to avoid criticism. Do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.” -Aristotle