“Grief does not change you… it reveals you.” – John Green

Blessed. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over. Double portion.

My walls are closing in on me. I resent the 5^th sink-full of dishes I’ve washed. I loathe the 4^th load of washing I’ve done in this 5kg washing machine. The fridge is a step up from a bar fridge. I’m paying someone else’s mortgage for the 4^th year. The door is still leaking. I’m on maternity leave. We’re living off one income. Sydney prices are exorbitant. We are still the lucky ones. We have all we need. We are blessed. We don’t have a loan, but I have a resolve. I start packing.

We have nowhere to move, but I start wrapping the fragiles and stacking packed boxes. I refuse to accept this lot any longer. Do people think I’ve gone mad? I live in a half packed house for the next 2 months.

It’s January 29^th 2014. It’s my 27^th birthday when we receive the paperwork; “Congratulations on the approval of your loan”. The events leading to this moment don’t seem real. The sun was really shining down on us. Within the week, we make a low, affordable offer. It’s a house we’re driven past multiple times a day for the last 5 years.

They accept it.

Within a few weeks, we’re sitting in our new home. For the first time in 5 years I stack the dishes into our dishwasher. Heavenly dry hands! Our new washing machine can hold an entire weeks worth of clothes in one load. Oh em gee. We have a glorious fridge that holds a whole weeks worth of groceries plus more. We really are the lucky ones. We have all we need. We are blessed.

I tell God to go “stick it”.

Reflecting on the last 12 months, I’d been blessed with a permanent position at work, the safe arrival of Little One, and our very own home with all the extra luxuries making my day-to-day life easier. I find myself again in a war of gratitude and resentment. It’s comfortable… but I know that I would give it all back just to feel normal again.  Never trust your tongue when your heart is bitter. I plea: “You can take it all back. I don’t need Your sympathy. I don’t need Your blessing. I don’t need You to try and make up for what You did to us. We cannot be ‘bought’ over.” I scream in His face as He embraces me like a tired child, violently swinging, desperately reaching for the people we once were. As He holds my arms back, He whispers, “Let them go.”

I just can’t do it yet.

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” – Winnie the Pooh

“There is no such thing as ready… you just jump on the moving train and hope not to die.”- What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

We are hard on ourselves. I will definitely give us that one! We want to do what’s right. We want to do what’s best, but what are the answers? It’s never black and white. It’s filled with ever changing variables. No one has the answer. No one.

Am I the only one overwhelmed by this evident reality; my own mortality? Is it the sleep deprivation or just the fact that I have biologically moved a notch closer? I’ve progressed on the timeline; child has morphed into parent. I now belong to a legacy that for once has not come before me, but will follow behind me. An existence expected to live beyond me.

One day I am going to die.

Not exactly the thoughts I expected motherhood to bring.

Nor did I expect what a terrible “home-maker” I’d be. I took on the role quite literally, with expectation of transforming into some ‘Martha Steward’ type figure. I’ve set myself up for failure.

Cloth nappies remain wrapped in their box. My natural/biodegradable baby wipes and nappies can be best described as “sucking” (but have been great kitchen wipe alternatives… waste not, want not!) My resistance to not conform to the ‘big companies’ has bitten me on my rear. I am officially eating my words. Huggies. is. best. No rashes, no leaks, and perfectly strong, moist wipes. Big corporate nappy heaven. I won’t fight it. They win.

My delicate little flower of a child, however, is a sensitive one. He reacts to anything cheap. He’s obviously got impeccable taste. Chemical free are his only alternatives. Bye-bye cheap baby wash. Hello eco-organic-cool-taxed lotions.

We are so obsessed for an answer, for a reason, for a label. It’s reflux. It’s colic. He’s lactose intolerant. The suggestions don’t stop. All the noise makes me question my own judgement. A judgement I thought never existed within me. Maybe he’s just a baby? Trust yourself.

It wasn’t a hernia, it was just an umbilical granuloma. You’re telling me you never noticed that he always looks to the left? I never noticed. Me, mother, provider… never once noticed. A helmet is threatened. He has an infant torticollis, suspected to be caused by his delivery. He’s developed a slight positional plagiocephaly. We’re booked for physio.

Maybe if I stopped looking at the clock, I may have noticed.

Today I award myself Mother of the Year. There are certainly more trophies to come.

We are hard on ourselves. I will definitely give us that one! We want to do what’s right. We want to do what’s best, but what are the answers? It’s never black and white. It’s filled with ever changing variables. Welcome to motherhood. Your trophy awaits.

“Embrace the glorious mess that you are.” – Elizabeth Gilbert

“Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out.”

The first rule about mum-code is you don’t speak about the mum-code. Ok, I may be confusing the bro-code with fight club, but the idea is similar. These are a few things I have learnt along the way, either through conversation or observation.

Welcome to the ever-growing list of the mum-code.

1. If one is at the park, be sure to not make eye contact, let alone throw a pleasantry smile or nod at the new mother sitting by herself. In such situations, as her child slip from the swing and is caught upside down by one leg, be sure to glare unapprovingly.
2. If one has not attempted to control-cry child, one is an overbearing mother.
3. If child happens to have soiled during controlled-crying attempt, you are neglectful.
4. If one breastfeeds child, you are overbearing.
5. If one bottle-feeds child, you are a quitter.
6. If one co-sleeps, you are overbearing.
7. If one sleeps on one’s own, you’re neglectful.
8. If one complains about the unpleasant experiences of pregnancy, childbirth or childrearing, you are an ungrateful person who is purposely rubbing in one’s conception successes to others who are wishing for such things. You should not voice any discomfort or ill feelings.
9. If one asks another if they are going to have children, or if they are having any more children, you are inconsiderate and should not be prying into other’s reproductive ventures. You should keep such matters quiet and further the silent stigma of infertility and miscarriage.
10. If you use cloth nappies, you’re a dirty hippie.
11. If you use disposables, you are killing the planet.
12. If you make child’s food from scratch, you have too much time.
13. If you use jarred food, you’re neglectful.
14. If your house is messy, you’re neglectful.
15. If your house is clean, you’re neglectful.
16. If you return to work, you’re neglectful.
17. If you stay home, you have too much time. Go get a job.

I’m hoping for a new code. I’ve heard the whispers. I’ve seen the acts of kindness and words of encouragement. I know some of these women of greatness. Welcome to the new mum-code. I really hope this catches on.

1. Loved it best.

“The world is changed by your example, not your opinion”- Paulo Coelho

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Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing” -Benjamin Franklin

So… I started a blog. I can hear the sighs from here. Great, another mummy blog. Aren’t our portals already bursting at the seams, polluted with overtly opinionated rubbish! I hear you, but I did it.

It’s September 2013. Little One is 2 months old. I’m bored. I clearly need some type of therapy. I begin to write. I have no method. I have no plan. I just sit and write. I write my first ever post – The Non-Human Kind– and hesitantly show Husband. I’m embarrassed. I’m surprised by his reaction; “Do it”, he encourages. It’s one thing to write; It’s a completely different thing to share your thoughts publicly. After mulling the idea for a few days, I do it. I feel compelled to. I don’t want to be this person anymore, walking on eggshells. The band-aid hasn’t been working. Besides, it’s much cheaper than therapy.

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” – Ernest Hemingway

This has to be one of my most favourite quotes. Write hard. Write clear. I’m not too sure if I have been able to do this eloquently. I know it’s laced with grammatical imperfections and writing convention flaws, but I can honestly say, it certainly hurt.

With each post, I have been made to re-live every single moment. No, I didn’t keep a journal. This is it. Through tears (ok, sobs), shaking hands, thumping chest and hollow stomach, I’d write. I don’t know why- I just did. I would often be surprised with what I mustered to get down. Each step a new revelation, a new level of acceptance, a new depth of understanding… a move closer to forgiveness.

I run and hide from the world each time I click ‘share’. I feel sick. I feel embarrassed. The feelings repeat themselves after each post. I feel like a real idiot, completely overwhelmed by thoughts of inferiority and judgment. My head hurts from the relentless eye rolls I continue to give myself. I’d confess to husband, “This is definitely my last post!”, as I sit overcome with fear. Every single time I’d make such a declaration, I’d receive a private message of appreciation or encouragement by the most unsuspecting people. I’m still in awe. It spurred me on. 

Maybe I’ll just write one more… 

I’m not interested in any type of fame. My blog has no mention of names or faces. There are no identifiable features ever written. Despite the comments of ‘raw’ and ‘truth’, everything I have written is censored. It is but a snapshot. There is so much more to the story that will remain sacred. There are some things that words cannot define, nor would I be able to ever share in this manner.

I am extremely lucky to have been raised by wise parents, who have taught me the 10-80-10 principle; 10% of people will hate you and will take delight in your downfalls. Ignore them. 80% are completely impartial to you. They don’t delight in your downfalls, but at the same time, just don’t care. Don’t worry about them. The remaining 10% are your people. They are your tribe. They are for you, regardless. They cheer your every success and mourn your every loss. Focus on them.

As I write this, it’s now September 2015. This is my first ever ‘real time’ blog. Little One is now 2 years old and this month marks 2 whole years of ‘The Mummy Wagon’. So this is a shout out to my 10%. My tribe. My people. Yes, this even includes you, phantom Facebook users. We know you are there, scrolling through our pages, taking your feed and leaving without a trace. But mainly, thank you to all those brave people who have used this blog to start ‘those’ conversations. Although the support has been extremely overwhelming at times, thank you to all those who sent those messages, who have liked, commented or even shared these posts. I know it is trivial, but I feel truly humbled that you would do that for me. My 10%.

Thank you.

“Don’t worry about other people’s opinions of you. God never told us to impress people, only to love them.” – Dave Willis

“The secret of change is to focus all your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new.” -Socrates

I sit, like every other day, feeding and settling Little One, when the announcement arrives. Little One is now 2 weeks old and the arrival of the new ‘Prince’ has been announced. No, not my prince… the ‘real’ prince! Baby Prince George is presented to the world through the paparazzi lens, and Princess Kate emerges in all her sweet, royal glory. I gaze on in admiration and excitement (and relief that we [ok, more like “I”] bumped “George” off our baby name short-list only weeks earlier. *phew*) She exudes elegance, poise and calm as she faces the scrutinising eyes of the public. She moves swiftly and comfortably. I look at myself, in my exhausted delirium, still wearing my pyjamas, trying to remember if I’ve had a shower yet, thinking: “I wish I was her”. In the same breath I’m relieved that there are no cameras trying to get a glimpse of this current train-wreck. Headlines would read, “Injured Yeti sighted in Sydney suburb with young infant.”

“I hope I look like Princess Kate after I’ve had a baby… oh wait… hmmm… that’s awkward.”

As I pass the “6 week” mark, I’m surprised that my life hasn’t yet gone back to normal as everyone promised. This magical 6 week mark, where normal life recommences. The 6 week mark when celebrities reveal their ‘post-baby bod’. The 6 week mark where gym enthusiasts recommence their combat and yoga classes. The 6 week mark when our bodies should have bounced back to health. I still look pregnant and there is nothing ‘normal’ about anything. I haven’t worked out this motherhood thing yet, pain and aches are a new norm, my body feels like it’s been ruined for good, I have no clothes that fit me, but I am finding myself warming up to this needy little creature.

I remember those forceful jumps during pregnancy as Little One use to hiccup in my stomach; the fear and relief. I’m in awe each time he now hiccups in my arms. It’s surreal; that was in there! I feel my heart leaning towards him often and I’m convinced that he knows me. I watch him all the time. As I check on him for the ten-thousandth time in the hour, it’s clears his wellbeing is my current life purpose. I even poke him at times to ensure he’s still ‘breathing’. I’m assured this is ‘normal’ first-time-mother behaviour. He stares at me differently than others. It sounds crazy, but I feel that he “smiles” at me with his eyes. These claims are often dismissed by others; “he’s too young, it’s probably gas… wishful thinking!” What a way to kill the joy, but I’m convinced he’s telling me something. I’m not going crazy.

It’s starting to make a little more sense. I finally understand a bit more of the fuss. Just when I began to think that this misery was my new lot in life, that moment happened. That moment when he looked at me with that same stare, and he smiled at me for the first time.

Little Man, that just made these last few horrendous weeks a little more bearable. The puzzle pieces are slowly beginning to reveal a bigger picture…

And then my soul saw you and it kind of went, “oh there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Dear God, I would have loved to have held her on my lap and told her about You, but since I didn’t get the chance, would You please hold her on Your lap and tell her about me?

“Is this your first?” Through clenched teeth, “yes he’s my first”. I’m a first time mum…with first time jitters. First time anxieties. First time quirks. First time stubbornness. First time over-‘preparedness’. First time baby-paraphernalia hyper-overload. First time ‘deer in headlights’. I’m an obvious first-timer.

It’s a time of many firsts. A time of intrigue and wonder… and it’s a time for that commonly asked question by new friends, acquaintances and strangers; “Is he your first?”. You think I’d be over it by now, but every time I’m faced with that apparent simple question, I’m taken straight back to her. I take a deep breath and through my clenched jaw and winded stomach; “yes, he’s my first.”

He’s my first, but he’s not the first to hold my hand.

I’ve come to understand that everyone deals with loss differently. Some deal with it by embracing their new circumstance. They throw themselves into the cause; join the balls and knitting clubs. It’s wonderful. We need those strong, admirable women who want to have their babies remembered. Who want to make others experiences less lonely… and then there’s me. I still don’t like to hear her name. The term ‘angel baby’ and ‘rainbow baby’ makes me cringe. I don’t want to join a club. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to compare notes. The sentiment that she’s still mine doesn’t bring me any peace. Her memory has been reduced to a box. I don’t want to ever look at her photos (note: this is the first time I’ve ever shared this photo. It still makes me feel ill to my stomach when I see it. At least I’m making progress, right?) I’m not a mother of two, like others have told me. It may sound heartless, but I just want to pretend it never happened. It’s all I’ve got energy for. I’m not compelled to help anyone. My answer will continue to be “I’m fine”. So far, my tactic isn’t working. I’m just as broken holding my new Little One as I was just over a year ago, but at least now I have a sleep-depriving distraction.

Regardless, I’ll continue to rehearse and verse the guilt-laced response; ‘He’s my first’. I’m bound to be asked for a good while to come.

“His Grace is sufficient for me for His power is made perfect in my weakness.” – 2 Corinthians 12:9

2am’s were made for poets, lovers, writers, visionaries, photographers, painters, over thinkers, silent seekers. These are my favourite hours…

…until I became a mother.

Child is home and dog, nor cat, have attempted to eat him. We’re winning thus far. I’m anticipating the next few months to be greater than the previous days gone by. I’m excited about all this spare time I will now have being a stay-at-home mum… the walks in the park, the extra time for pampering myself, my new and improved spotless house… domesticated goddess, here I come! I’ve seen the advertising. New mums pushing the designer prams along the garden paths, smiling with manicured hair and perfect make up. They radiate life. Child stares lovingly with a gummy grin at new mum. This is love. Mum exudes fulfilment. This is the greatest time in a women’s life. I will glow with destiny and purpose. Over the next few weeks, everything in life, everything that has happened, will finally make sense. People will say how “natural” I am. My maternal instincts will roar like a lioness. It will be my greatest accomplishment. I will finally feel whole again.

*Insert hysterically, sleep deprived, wee saturated, powdery substance covered, dry milk splattered, cry-laugh right here*

The best way I could describe the next 10 weeks (at least) would be: FALSE ADVERTISING. This is not what I read in the brochure. I didn’t sign up for this gig. There, I’ve said it. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t actually believe I’m allowed to look after him by myself. What’s wrong with this world, releasing us into the wild to fend for ourselves?

“Trust your intuition”. I hear it over and over. You know, this so-called motherly one that is just expected to appear. He cries for no reason, eats and sleeps. Then the cycle begins again. He sings us the song of his people every night… for hours. To me, all the cries sound the same. During the day he puts on the charm for dotting visitors… usually just sleeping or snuggling. If he happens to become unsettled I’m looked upon as if I should have the answers. “You probably have more of a clue than I do…” I’m told he’s a good boy. I don’t know what that means. He probably is but I’m not in any state to look after myself, let alone this needy creature. I’m still in excruciating pain, still unable to move freely. I just want what was advertised. There are no garden walks, no clean house and definitely no radiant glow to be found. There have been more tears, than laughter… that’s the truth.

Our nightly ritual commences. 10pm: cue in the relentless crying. I’m tired. I’m disappointed. I’m in over my head. I try to appease him with all the tricks in the book. I must be a broken mum; nothing works. It’s our nightly dance, but tonight is different. It’s been 1 week at home and husband is summoned back to his work duties. It’s a Sunday night and hubby needs to get sleep for his early start in the morning. It’s all me from now on. No tag outs. I am required to fulfil my motherly duty. Quiet child so man may sleep. I’m in a complete daze. I hold him in front of me and just stare as he continues to cry in my face. I cry in his. Husband emerges from his attempted slumber and finds me… cheeks flooded with tears as I hold Little Man straight-armed as if I’m presenting him as Simba from the Lion King… not quite the lioness I thought I would be. I’m ordered to bed. I’m failing miserably. I don’t think he likes me very much.

Listen to your intuition… but the voices are so loud. I’m overcome with conflicting advice left, right and centre; current guidelines verse the ways of old… books, articles and internet searches, well meaning words of wisdom and advice. Everyone claims to have the answers. No one seems to want to listen. I find myself ‘googling’ during the day, “will this get better”, “will the pain go away”, “post-natal depression”. I am overcome with fear and worry… but also overcome with an overwhelming ‘pull’ to protect, to take away his pain, to make things right, to watch him, to be near him. In saying that, is there any chance of a refund?

“Love me when I least deserve it because that is when I really need it” –Swedish Proverb

“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 

Have I gone mad? “I’m afraid so, you’re entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret… all the best people are.” – Alice in Wonderland

After the not-so-much-to-plan arrival of Little Man, I’d have to say things got better. I was only in hospital overnight and was able to go straight home. Loving life, I took to motherhood like a duck to water. The sun in shining from my face and I have truly found my purpose in life. Yeah ok, I’m lying. Things were terrible, and I spent the next 6 days in hospital mulling over what had just happened, finding myself in an even bigger hole than what I started in.

After being wheeled into the shower and a minor fainting spell, I secure the last bed in the maternity ward. Garden view. It’s 3am. The extremely eccentric night-shift nurse meets me. As my bed is pushed to my side of the room, she exclaims, “Oh, he’s done a shit! This is the last time I change your shitty bum.” My jaw drops. As she changes his nappy, she continues on with her strange chatter, completely ignoring hubby and I. I lay there wide-eyed. Little One’s poor innocent ears being corrupted by a strange lady. She then abruptly turns to hubby and orders him home. He collects his things and leaves, pail faced and confused. I ask the lady to pass me my bag so I can get my nursing singlet to change into. I’d imagined this. I bought this bonds singlet just for this moment in time. It has come. As I go to put it on, she scoffs at me hissing, “Don’t even think that you’ll fit into that!” Seriously lady, I don’t think you realise what I’ve just experienced (or maybe she does). I’m so shocked. I’m exhausted. I put it down and leave my husbands ugly, washed out, grey t-shirt on. She then wheels Little Man over next to my bed and starts to walk out. I’m surprised and plead, “What do I do with him?” She replies with a simple statement, “He’s all yours now!” and she leaves the room. The lights are on full power. I’m completely alone. I still cannot move. I don’t know where the beeper is. I don’t know what I’m doing. I spend the night just staring at him through the clear bassinet, checking every few moments that he’s still breathing. Am I dreaming or did this really happen? I wait for daylight. At 9am hubby is allowed back.

Due to my physical state, I miss a few firsts. His first nappy, his hearing tests, injections and the nurse gives him his first bath. Over the next 6 days I remain at the mercy of the hospital staff, where I learn not only the absolutely conflicting advice between nurses, but also the immense pressure they’re all under. I’ve been told to do one hundred different things for feeding. My lactation consultants and nurses are at ends with each other. No documentation was recorded of any lactation advice. I am yelled at, I’m forgotten about, however, the drugs keep coming. For the first 3 days, I’m unable to leave my room. I can only walk supported as far as the bathroom. I’m a human slinky. The pain is immense and my muscles non-existent. There are 2 of us to each room and over the next week, I have 3 different neighbours, all third time mothers. All are in and out straight away. All seem to have it together.

The paediatrician came to check on him. Little Man arrived with a birthmark on the front and back of his head, known as a “stork bite”. It was explained that they fade with time and are similar to a bruise, likely caused by the back and forth friction of his head and my pelvic bone, putting stress on the capillaries. He also has a hematoma on the left side of his head from the vacuum. His ‘jaundice’ levels are above what they should be, a side effect of his delivery, and is monitored. He has regular blood taken from his feet for testing, and as a result, his little feet are bruised blue. The nurse compliments that he is ‘an excellent bleeder’, which makes the whole process a little easier for them. Wow, his first accolade! What a proud mum moment! Eccentric night-nurse rears her head again, just as the paediatrician checks Little Man’s ‘boy’ area. She exclaims, “Oh, he’s missing one!” My heart sinks. The doc leans down to him and says, “Don’t listen to that silly, crazy lady.” *Phew* Seriously, why is she still here? Another nurse enters for a cuddle and inspects over him also. “Oh yes, the stork has definitely dropped him. The poor fellow has hit every branch on the way down.” Wait; did she just call him ugly?

For the next week I’m subjected to a feeding regime, which comes under constant scrutiny. The consultant initially requests for Little Man to be fed on each side. After he’s evidently not satisfied, I’m directed to ‘pump’ after each feed for 50 minutes and give him anything expressed via syringe. Once that’s evaluated, it suggested that he be given small ‘top ups’ of formula. Thus my schedule is confined to feeding, pumping, or watching others (or the bassinet) cradle him during his moments of peace. I’m still in too much discomfort to rock or hold him; otherwise, the only viable option is to lay him next to me in bed, despite the stern warning regarding the ‘risks’ of co-sleeping.

I am also experiencing the phenomenon known as the ‘Witching Hour’, or in our case ‘HOURS’. Every night at around 11pm until any crazy hour of the morning he’d cry… excessively! I wasn’t able to hold him, or rock him in my current state and hubby again, is kicked out at 9pm each night. I’m alone in my corner once more, and then the crying begins. Why does he hate me so much? During the day he’s so good for the visitors and nurses, but when it’s just you and I, you do this? Eccentric nurse is back. She takes him and wanders the ward, hitting him on the bum saying, “Stop being such a naughty boy for mum”. Thank you, crazy lady. I think she noticed how much I wasn’t coping. The night after, the nurses took him to the reception desk for the night so I could sleep… thank goodness for that.

By day 4, I’m over it. I don’t want to do this anymore and I want them to put him back where they found him. I cringe when he is brought near me. The thought of feeding or pumping or the crying makes me flinch. I thought I knew what I was getting myself in for… and it wasn’t this. He hates me… and I don’t think I particularly fancy him either now. So far he has brought nothing but pain. I feel so alone once again. My body doesn’t work… my boobs don’t work… nothing is working. … and then there was that garden. Every morning I’d wake to it. Everyday I’d look out on it. That garden. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You see, I’m sitting on the opposite end of the same ward Sienna was in. I’m staring at the same garden in a parallel universe. The same garden; that garden. I think I’m actually going crazy. I watch him lay next to the window that looks out to that garden. The same one I stared numbly at just over a year ago. The same one I gazed upon when my heart was ripped from my chest. I need to get home. I’ve had enough of this place. I’ve had enough of these nurses, this room, this garden and hearing her name. I told you from the beginning, I’m not made for this… and this week has just proven it.

My roommate number 3 was a lovely Assyrian lady. I’m assuming she’s heard the conversations with the nurses, she can hear him and sees me staggering to even move. In the late hours of the night, she pulls the curtain back and sits with me. She told me I was doing brilliantly, she said it all was normal. That I was normal. She kept me company, as she sat their cradling her own baby girl, Sienna.

No, really… I can’t do this.

“In the quiet of the night, when the world around me is asleep, the tears still flow freely as the memories flood my heart and mind. It is then that the silence and stillness remind me of you.”