5 intentional ways to cultivate yutori in your life

Instead of hurrying home after the school run I had another mission. At the top of my very long to-do list was a pilgrimage to visit the lilacs.

Withdean park houses the second largest collections of lilacs in the world with around 200 different varieties. Next to one of the main roads into Brighton & Hove, I had driven past the lilacs for years, never stopping. The park was largely empty except for dog walkers and me. The hum of the insects mingled with the distant sound of cars on the motorway. Spread in clusters at the edges of the cut grass lawn where lilac bushes. They had large cones of blooming petals in hues of white, violets, blues, magenta’s, pastel pinks, and even palest primrose. The smell was incredible: heady and syrupy sweet.

The detour took a little over an hour and then I was back home working. Rather than taking anything away from my day I felt like I accomplished more. When I finished work, instead of feeling exhausted I felt replenished. This was one of my first attempts at consciously practicing the Japanese principle of yutori.

Yutori: the art of creating a spacious life

“Yutori (ゆとり) is a Japanese concept that translates to ‘spaciousness,’ ‘leeway,’ or ‘room to breathe’. It’s more than just physical space; it encompasses mental, emotional, and temporal room, encouraging a more balanced and less stressful way of living. Nihongo Master translates yutori as ‘elbowroom; leeway; room; reserve; margin; allowance; latitude; time’”

I am somebody who desperately needs more yutori in my life.

I do want to acknowledge that for some people yutori is easier to achieve than for others. I am aware that I have financial privilege and a relatively flexible schedule. There were times in my life: when I was working three jobs, when I had a newborn and a toddler, when my mother was seriously ill: where yutori would have been almost impossible. If this is the season you are currently in, extend yourself kindness. We do not all have the same 24 hours. Some of us are more able to make time available in our schedule than others.

Yutori: the antidote to toxic productivity

Yutori is a counterpoint to our culture of toxic productivity. This compulsion to be constantly achieving and busy does not stop at work but extends to our leisure time too. This can lead to shame around rest, an inability to switch off and in the end: burnout.

Oliver Burkeman’s amazing book Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals talks about this existential dilemma better than I ever can.

“Productivity is a trap. Becoming more efficient just makes you more rushed, and trying to clear the decks simply makes them fill up again faster. Nobody in the history of humanity has ever achieved “work-life balance,” whatever that might be, and you certainly won’t get there by copying the “six things successful people do before 7:00 a.m.” The day will never arrive when you finally have everything under control—when the flood of emails has been contained; when your to-do lists have stopped getting longer; when you’re meeting all your obligations at work and in your home life; when nobody’s angry with you for missing a deadline or dropping the ball; and when the fully optimized person you’ve become can turn, at long last, to the things life is really supposed to be about. Let’s start by admitting defeat: none of this is ever going to happen. But you know what? That’s excellent news.”
― Oliver Burkeman, Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals

All of which was all too familiar to me, somebody who had always valued myself on what I do rather than who I am. I was constantly rushing through life rather than experiencing it. I had become a human doing rather than a human being. And in this process, I had lost sight of what truly mattered. I was getting stuff done but missing the things in life which give it colour and meaning.

Often rushing behaviour is learnt in childhood. In Transactional Analysis, different aspects of our personality are called drivers. Drivers are early personality adaptations that help us get our needs met as children. One of mine is the Hurry up driver. People who have a Hurry up driver are constantly rushing and find it extremely difficult to stop. When we are in our driver, we tell ourselves – ‘I am okay because I am getting lots of things done’. Rushing performs a function, it stops our ability to feel or think clearly. Stuff may get done but often it is rushed and sloppy because we jump from task to task. People with this driver feel tired and unable to relax.

To counteract this we must recognise that we are not machines built merely to produce, we are animals. And animals need rest, fuel and space in between tasks. Our to do list will always multiply, there will always be more to do than we could ever accomplish. In Oliver Burkeman’s great book Meditations on Mortality, he talks about how obsessive productivity is a way to mitigate our anxiety about death and our finite lives. The answer, isn’t to double down and do more but to accept this. To incorporate more yutori into my daily life, I came up with a plan.

5 ways I intentionally practise yutori

Slow down. Because rushing has become a habitual behaviour, I will often notice I am speeding up when there is no need. I use taking a drink of water as a yutori ritual and a waypoint throughout my day to slow down. Every time I drink water, which I must do 10-15 times a day. I try to pause and feel the texture of the cold glass underneath my fingertips. To sense the taste and temperature of the water as it slips down my throat. By going slowly I am soothing my nervous system telling it: I am safe now. I can take my time. There is no need to rush.
Build a buffer. Because I hated ‘wasting time’ when I had appointments I would often try to arrive exactly on time. But there would be traffic or it would take more time to leave the house than I expected. And I would be late which I found immensely stressful. Now I deliberately build in some cushion time. If I bump into a friend, I have time to chat. If I want to look at something I find interesting, I have time to do so. If the journey takes longer than expected, I have time for that. I want a schedule that has room to breathe.
Under commit. I have a tendency to over commit and over estimate my capacity. I often try to do too much with the kids because I don’t want them to feel deprived. But it is too much for my nervous system to handle and then I turn into shouty mummy. (And nobody likes shouty mummy.) Even when a day is filled with enjoyable tasks, if they are all crammed together it becomes not enjoyable. So I am getting into the habit of giving myself time to think before making any commitments. I will often sanity check events with my husband as he is more realistic and able to see what is actually achievable. I want to accept that I am human and can only do so much.
Schedule joy. Listen as a Virgo and a perimenopausal woman, I love a to do list. If I don’t write it down, I won’t remember it and it won’t get done. But I began to notice that I was fulfilling my external obligations to others but not my internal obligations to myself. I needed to start scheduling joy. I have started writing down: walks, breath exercises, tiny but enjoyable side quests. Because yes filing my tax return is important. But so is taking my nine year old sea glass hunting. Buying new toilet rolls is just as essential as watching the murmurations of the starlings. I want a life that holds space for both.
Be childlike again. One of my children is sloth-like in his speed and does not like to be rushed. Watching him eat is a geological process. Repeatedly I have to regulate myself and remind myself that although there are times I need to rush him (hai external agony that is the school run). Often I don’t, what does it matter if we take 20 minutes to walk to the shops because he was looking at bugs instead of 5. Instead of fighting to hurry him up, it is often more enjoyable to allow myself to drop to his speed. He is a great reminder that I can afford to take my time. What am I rushing for anyway?

I want to build a spacious life. Where there is time to take the scenic route. To go on enjoyable little side quests. To lie in the grass watching the cloud’s shifting shapes above me. Like Tolkien said, ‘not all who wander are lost.’

Yes, there will be times when I am too busy to spend an hour wandering through the park looking at lilacs. But today, in this moment, I have the time and I will take it. A vase of lilacs sits on my kitchen counter filling the room with their heady fragrance. A visual reminder to gift myself with yutori.

If you are based in Brighton & Hove area and interested in taking your own pilgrimage to visit the lilacs, Withdean Park is located here. The Friends of Withdean Park helpfully have a map of the lilacs and a trail you can do.

Have you heard of yutori before? Is it allowing yourself spaciousness and room to breathe something you would like to try in your own life?

Stupid girl

Growing up when I made silly mistakes my parents would call me stupid, an imbecile, or thick. Not on a daily basis, but enough.

And to be fair, often I was not being the wisest little spoon in the drawer. Leaving my passport at home, not once but two years in a row. Not my finest hour! Piercing my nose days before I left school which had a strict no facial piercings policy. Can you tell my frontal lobe had not fully developed yet?

Let me be clear, my parents loved me. They were, and are, good parents and good people. They were far harsher to themselves when they made mistakes than anything they ever said to us.

When I had children, I resolved that I would make different choices. (*Laughs in hindsight as I immediately made a lot of new and different mistakes that were distinctly my own*).

I had broken the cycle enough that I don’t use the s-word or call my kids names. Even when I really, really want to. (Yes, I am thinking about the curious incident of the willy trapped in the letterbox. No, I do not want to discuss it further.)

But in my head and sometimes out loud, I would call myself stupid. Not on a daily basis, but enough.

I’ve written before about my long-standing habit of talking to myself like a sergeant major addressing the greenest recruit. It was like I was being harsh as motivational tool. Occasionally, somebody would kindly point out that I was quite hard on myself. Then I would unkindly try and berate myself into being nicer to myself.

In recent years, my attitude towards myself has shifted. Thanks to copious amounts of trauma therapy, internal family systems work and neurofeedback. Instead of berating myself for being self critical, I shifted to a position of curiosity. I began to ask what purpose was this behaviour serving for me? The part of me that was overly harsh was trying in her misguided way to protect me. ‘You cannot be any harder on me than I am’, I was saying. I genuinely believed that for me to be accepted I had to be perfect and not make mistakes.

What made the biggest difference, was instead of trying to stop the unwanted behaviour. I first looked at the purpose it served (self protection). Then I began to implement healthier coping mechanisms that met the same need. What if, revolutionary thought, I could be acceptable just as I was, mistakes and all. Mind blown!

Think of a building covered in scaffolding where the scaffolding is our old coping mechanisms. We cannot just get rid of the scaffolding, even if it irritates us, even if we feel it’s no longer necessary. The scaffolding or old coping mechanism is performing a function. Instead we need to add in some supporting beams (healthier coping mechanisms) and over time the scaffolding (the old unwanted behaviour) is no longer needed.

Even though it took years I am proud to say that I am kinder to myself. I have more realistic expectations of what I can achieve. I recognise that I am a flawed human being who is mostly doing my best in often adverse conditions. But especially when we are stressed out our psyche is restored to factory settings and old defence mechanisms creep back in.

I may not have noticed that I was calling myself ‘s-word’ if it hadn’t been for that time I macerated my finger in the hand blender. 0/10 out of ten, do not recommend.

The first thing I did with my finger spraying blood everywhere was to call myself stupid. I said it to the nurses and doctors in the hospital. And then as I walked around with a bandaged finger for a month and everybody asked me how I’d injured myself, I called myself stupid, again and again.

I was so angry at myself. A moment of distraction had led to a month of pain, discomfort and endless visits to the doctors for wound reviews and antibiotics. I now had a gnarly scar, numbness, and it could have been much worse!

Because of the very visible bandage I had to retell the story whether I wanted to or not. So to hide my embarrassment, I would call myself stupid before anyone else had the chance to.

And so I might have continued obliviously, calling myself stupid if it wasn’t for my five year old. He was playing at the park while I chatted with a mum friend. She asked me about my finger and when I had finished rattling through the familiar routine. When my five year old laid his hand on my arm and said solemnly, ‘Mummy you mustn’t call yourself unkind names. You wouldn’t like it, if I called myself stupid.’

And I took a deep breath felled as I so often am by the wisdom of my children

He had been watching me and noticed that I was saying one thing to them and doing the opposite to myself. Our kids are mirrors and they pay far more attention to what we do, than to what we say.

I have worked so hard in therapy to be kinder to myself but there are kernels of self hatred still buried deep within. Often as therapists we seen change as a spiral or peeling back the layers of an onion. We make a change and then months or sometimes years later, we spiral round again moving into a deeper layer.

So, I was reminded to talk to myself like I talk to my children. That I need to offer myself kindness especially when I feel like least deserve it. I do not have to earn kindness and compassion, it is how I treat myself. To offer myself acceptance even when I’ve made mistakes is to recognise I’m only human after all.

This reminds me how far I’ve come and that the work will always be ongoing. Do you also struggle to be kind with yourself? Sending you love, if this resonates. Let’s hold ourselves as gently as we would cradle a baby chick in our hands. Let’s walk into the world today being ludicrously kind to others and ourselves.

The reality of buying our dream house

A year ago today, we received the keys for our new home.*

I’d been in tears the day of the exchange, certain the whole deal was about to fall apart. Our solicitor, consistently useless throughout, trumped himself by faxing important documents to the wrong number within the mortgage company and not checking whether they’d been received.

(Heads up if you are in the Brighton area do not work with Neil Hayes of Taylor Rose, unless you want your property deal to crash and burn.)

Finally, we had the keys to our new house.

I remember feeling so nervous as we turned the keys in the door, that all I would feel was regret.

House buying in England is such an odd process. You are spending the most money you will ever spend on something – that you’ve viewed twice for about 30 minutes in total.

You have to love the property enough to make an offer on it. Yet also hold it lightly, because until you complete the house purchase months later – it could all fall through.

We had been longing to move for years. Building a picture of what our dream house would look like. That over time got increasingly elaborate and fantastical. As we are both self employed it took years for our finances to be healthy enough to apply for a mortgage.

Which happened to be the week Liz Truss decided to crash the UK economy. Truly epic timing!

Options were limited. People weren’t putting their houses on the market unless they had to. We also wanted our house to be accessible for my younger sister who is in a wheelchair. Which in hilly historic Brighton & Hove ruled out a lot of properties with a narrow entrance or up flights of stairs.

The house was the sixth house we viewed. A white late Victorian house close to the sea. It had, to borrow from a poem I love, ‘good bones. This place could be beautiful right? You could make this place beautiful.’

We put in an offer and finally after five months of surveys and contracts – it was ours.

After putting in the offer I had cold feet. What if I’d been wrong? What if this was a very expensive mistake? What if the first time we got the keys and I walked inside I felt like somebody had dumped ice cold water over me?

(This is actually my ‘I can’t find where I packed the kettle face’ not my ‘I regret buying this house face’.)

Sometimes love hits you like a bolt, instantaneous and life changing. It has rarely been like that for me. Other times, it’s a slow growing love that develops over time.

I love our house.

I love the way light floods through the stained glass front door in the evening.

I love to lie on the sofa in the kitchen diner staring up at the changing sky.

I love that the ground floor is accessible for when my sister comes to visit.

I love the wisteria over the back door and the surprise of seeing what springs up in the garden.

I love that when the wind blows in the right direction, the house fills with the brackish reek of the sea.

I love walking around my new neighbourhood and buying fruit and veg at the ridiculously overpriced green grocers.

Mostly I love that the sea is at the end of our road. That going for a swim is as easy as popping my costume on.

After years of renting, I knew I would feel different when we bought our own place. But what surprised me was how big of a difference this has made.

When you rent, there is always the possibility that the landlord will suddenly give you notice. You have little control over your environment, whether it’s as simple as the colour of the walls or as complex as fixing that damp problem.

If there is a continuum between safety and freedom, I am firmly at the safety end. HWSNBN unsurprisingly is the opposite. I like certainty. I thrive on routines. I hate surprises.

So it shouldn’t surprise me how different I feel now we own the house we live in. I feel more centred and deeply rooted. I like imagining how we will change our use of the space over time. I have planted climbing roses knowing I will be here long enough to see them. That this must be the place. That if I am lucky, this is the house my children will grow up in.

The existentialists always talk about choices. How when we chose one door, others swing closed. And there is something about entering mid-life that makes you realise in a very visceral way, that because you have chosen certain things other doors are closed for you now. Because I chose my husband, I closed off the other romantic possibilities that were open for me. I chose one career and that meant the time and opportunities to pursue other careers faded.

I chose this house and I am 99% happy with that choice. But there is the realisation that I am not going to raise my children in another country, or live communally, but here in this quiet street in this rainbow city by the sea.

Moving into this house didn’t transform me into a magically different person. (Sadly). I am still somebody who can spend years dreaming about doing something, rather than picking up a paintbrush and doing it.

I underestimated both my motivation for making changes (missing).

My level of DIY skill (non-existent).

And also how much things actually cost (‘you don’t really need that second kidney- do you?’).

There is stuff we need to do to the house (the roof). And stuff we want to do to the house (the attic), if we ever have enough money.

Just as with everything, there will probably always be niggly things that annoy me about the house. That in a perfect world I would fix with a snap of my fingers. But we don’t live in a perfect world.

The real test is this.

A month after moving we went on holiday. Driving back from the airport, up to the blue front door, the sea glistening at the end of the road – I felt so happy to return home.

*Footnote.

We are so lucky and so privileged in this economic climate to buy a house. I do not ever take it for granted. And I really do not want this post to read as ‘there’s a fly in my champagne.’

I was and am so grateful that we were able to buy our own house.

People had told me that it was stressful. And it was.

People had told me it would be a dream come true. And it was.

And yet like most dreams made flesh, the reality was more complicated than I anticipated.

What I hadn’t heard other people talk about was the doubt as we questioned: ‘if we were making the right choice?’ Often when we talk about the big life changing decisions: it is with the benefit of hindsight. When we look back the path is clear and easy, whitewashed by hindsight.

But in my experience, the big life moments are often more ambivalent, confused and yes better in their beautiful complexity than I could ever imagine.

Has a big milestone hit differently than you imagined? Am I the only one to get cold feet in the process of buying a house? Let me know what your experience has been in the comments?

You

Dearest you,

I was on the other side of the world watching the cherry blossoms bloom when I began to feel odd. Sick and woozy, as if I’d eaten something bad. I almost passed out on packed tubes and in scorching onsens. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind that this felt very familiar and only mentioned it in a joking way to your father – I couldn’t bear to hope and be disappointed.

A week later, jet-lagged and home again, I took a pregnancy test and within seconds two pink lines blossomed. It was the first sign I had of you. Almost three years exactly from learning I was pregnant with your brother, I was pregnant with you.

It had been the longest winter. April is the cruellest month and it was then things finally snapped with a family member. The crisis team was called and there was talk of secure psychiatric units. Things were so bad I wasn’t sure if I should go to Japan at all. How could I go? I felt so ill with stress I was barely sleeping, on the verge of fragmenting myself. To survive I would need to dredge every bit of my energy and resources. How could I stay?

So we went to Japan, your father, your brother, me and you – my little stowaway. And among the mountains and the cherry trees, I felt something in me emerge from hibernation that I thought was long dead – hope.

With your brother, I could think of nothing else. With you, there were long periods when I forgot about you. Not because you were any less wanted, but because I wanted you so much it hurt.

It was as if I couldn’t look at you directly. I worried if I did you’d disappear as if you were never there. You shimmered like a moonbeam at the corner of my eye so precious and yet so ephemeral.

It hasn’t been an easy pregnancy. I have sat heavily bleeding in the Early Pregnancy Unit (EPU) more times than I can count, convinced that you were gone. Only to see you moving in flickery black and white, busy with growing and utterly indifferent to my panic. My love for you has only grown in tandem with my fear of losing you. I’ve struggled through gestational diabetes, more recently high blood pressure and anxiety that has never quite left me. Externally this pregnancy has coincided with some of the most challenging events within my extended family. Much as I have tried to protect myself and by extension you from the stresses I cannot help but worry about how you will have been affected. I have felt so anxious this pregnancy about losing you, I haven’t been able to shout as loudly as I would want about your presence. But step by step, day by day we have made it to 38 weeks and you are almost ready to enter the world.

I am so in awe and completely poleaxed by my love for you. I am so utterly terrified of the capriciousness of this world I am bringing you into.

You are moon-skulled with star-fish hands and your brother’s nose. Your favourite position is wedged securely under my ribs as close to my heart as you can get. You are never more active than when I am in the water, shifting from side to side like a tiny Kraken. The feeling as I wait to meet you is like every childhood Christmas rolled into one. Oh the anticipation as if my body can barely contain it. I cannot wait to see your face, to hold your tiny hands, to feel the soft susurration of your breath. Until then stay and grow, my baby,

Love your mummy.

The Promise

One night I dreamt I visited Santorini. I didn’t know what it was called then – just that it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. Closer to the sky, it seemed god-touched. The azure blue domes made the bright white walls shine even higher. The town tumbled down the hill vertiginously. Below the wine-dark sea sparkled stretching to infinity.

In my dream, I was old my hands wrinkled and covered in sunspots. HWSNBN was stooped, his hands gnarled and weathered as mine. We walked haltingly down the cobbled paths curving between the cave buildings until we reached the sea. We sat in the comfortable silence watching the children play it on the docks.

The strangest part of this dream was how I knew two things: we had never been able to have children. And I was happy.

When I woke up I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How could I be happy and not have children? This dream came to me when infertility was killing me slowly. If it hasn’t happened to you that may seem hyperbolic – but it has you will know exactly what I mean. I wasn’t sure how many more months I could stay on this cycle of hope and despair. How many more times I could be torn apart and slowly piece myself back together?

Then I dreamt of Santorini and I knew, the way I knew my own face, that whatever happened I would find a way to be OK. Maybe that longing to be a mother would never fade, would twinge like an old wound when I thought back on my life. Maybe life wouldn’t look anything like I envisaged. But somehow, in some way it was possible to build a life among the wreckage. A good life with joy as well as sorrow.

If I was reading this I was struggling to have a baby I’d think ‘Fuck her’ of course she’d say that now. How can she know that? She got her happy ending.

And I did. I am so unbelievably lucky to have Nibs.

But I know that because this year when struggling with a different tragedy there was only one place I wanted to visit. Last month we went to Santorini: He Who Shall Not be Named, the toddler and me. And it was even more beautiful than in my dream. But more important than its beauty was the promise Santorini held – that healing was possible.

My visit to Santorini was very different than how I had pictured. I wasn’t visiting to heal a heart broken by infertility but by trauma. It wasn’t a couples trip, but one with the family I wasn’t sure I would ever have. Instead of spending evenings staring lovingly into each other eyes, we spent our time tackling our toddler as he tried to repeatedly throw himself into the caldera. We swam in the sea, we sat and watched the sunset, we marvelled at how beautiful it all was.

The details had changed but the promise remained the same. That one day, somehow I would find my way back to OK.

The one thing that I know is true is that life is both beautiful and brutal. Sometimes even at the same time. I remember sitting next to my sister in intensive care laughing more than I could ever remember I had. I also remember weeping in a corner of a garden centre so much that I didn’t have any tears left. Beautiful. Brutal. Brutiful

What happened to my sister’s is always going to hurt. Just how losing Lianne will always kill me. It will always be the wound that never completely heals. The ‘what if’ that haunts my life. There are things that hurt us so badly the only thing we can do is figure out how to live with them.

Some days distracted by the joy of watching Nibs the pain fades into the background. Still, present like a background ache but not at the forefront of my mind. Some days the pain is so excruciating – it’s all I can do is to breathe through it. Still, I have days when it fells me anew. Both my sisters I think, both of them?

‘No, no, no life?
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life,
And thou no breath at all?’

A holiday couldn’t cure that. How could anything? But it did remind me that I had felt like this before: lost, broken and hopeless. And before that and again before that many times. And yet I am still here. I have survived 100% of my worst days so far.

Out of sheer bloody-minded stubbornness and with a lot of work I know now that I can find my way back to OK. I am not there yet. I may never be entirely there. But slowly piece by piece I am putting myself back together. The promise of Santorini showed me that no matter what life throws at me and those I love there will always be a path back to OK if we search hard enough. There has to be.

One year of you

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A year ago exactly you were placed in my arms. You were blanched white with wrinkled star fish hands. You looked stunned like a fish flipped from the water and onto my chest. You didn’t cry but just regarded me through eyes as dark as galaxies. And I stared back.

I’d be prepared not to feel anything at first. Mum friends had warned me it can take a while to feel a connection. Or I’d hoped I’d have a strong feeling that you were mine. Instead I just looked at you looking at me as if you were trying to memorise my face and thought ‘Oh it’s you.’ Like you were somebody I had known a long time ago and always longed to see again. You weren’t mine anymore than the stars and the moon were mine. From the beginning you were a hundred per cent yourself.

How to describe you? Most babies seem to take a while to come into focus; their fourth trimester happening outside the womb. But from the beginning you clearly communicated what you did and didn’t want. I have to be quick to keep up with you. You’ve always been mercurial smiling and babbling one minute then throwing yourself to the floor as if your heart is breaking the next. As an introvert it’s fascinating to see how much you love being around other people. At Christmas you herded the family from room to room like a tiny sheepdog. You talk constantly, even in your sleep.

I see pieces of both families in you. You have your daddies love of puzzles and cautious methodical approach of wanting to take the world apart to see how it works. But you feel things deeply and intensely like me, and love books.

During that endless first night as a mother, where I didn’t dare sleep in case you disappeared like fairies gold in the sunlight, I said to the midwife ‘I don’t know what I am doing’

I still don’t. But I have faith that we will figure it out together.

So here’s to one year of you. To one year of cuddles and over excited clawing at my face. To one year of night feeds, kissing your warm downy head. To one year of navigating the brave new world of Mum’s groups, baby sensory and soft play. To one year of watching you learn how to lift your head, roll, sit up, crawl and stand. To one year of soaking up the moments because you are growing so fast.

Here’s one year of you my Nibsie of the Noos. I love you more than words can ever say. Never stop being you.

Why my baby is crying (as told by him…)

Inspired by this I haz Staff do the transcribings. Yor welcomez!

Staff put me down
Staff pickz me up
Staff only spent 22.45 minutes with me today. I iz lonely
Look at this sound I cans make Staff. I cans do it louder
I iz hangry
Not this boob, the ovah one. The OVAH ONE!
Staff iz late/eating/paying ovah staff affection/doing the sleeps. Commenz paddy.
MA TEEF OWHIE.
I kick Staff in tit and they do the shouting and I haz a scared.
I no like the wallpaper
Staff looks at me funny
Staff no look at me. Staff haz eyes closed and is making the snorings. Staff, STAFF!
COLDZ. Staff, STAFF Ma furz.
HOT. I no order this weather. Staff send it back and commenz the fanning.
Stupid Staff I wanted to wear the yallow frock coot. THE YALLOW WIZ THE BUNNIES.
I iz making the water. I iz making the water go high. I invent a water fountain! I iz clev- NOES IN THE FASCE.
Oh dearz I have disgrazed maself in ma pantaloons. Again.
Staff lowered me into the cold pit of despair, aka the cots.
I dreamz there was no moar milk. I haz a sad.
NOT HAIRY STAFF. OVAH STAFF. WIF THE MILK!!!
I iz practising ma sleep screaming skillz. Whadja mean Staff do the sleeps too. I iz no paying Staff to do the sleeps.
I WAH cannae WAH do WAH the WAH rememberings
Ma chariot dipped below 30 fathoms and I do the wakenings.
NO! I iz not an imbecile I wants the other toy.
I iz having the funz times with the Staff. So much funz. Too much funz… FUNZ OVERLOAD… ERUPT
STAFF! STAFF! The nipple is no in my mouth
It iz between five of the clock PM and the midnight, so iz time for the grizzles and wailing. What?! Iz in the handbook. What do you mean I no come wiv a handbook. Staff is making a funs wiv me.
I rooted on the barren dessert where baby dreamz die. Aka hairy Staff’s chest.
Guess…
You have chosen pourly. WAAAAH
Reasonz

Newborn baby essentials for first time parents

So you’re having a baby. You’ve read all the books, your due date is looming and you’ve bought everything you’ll need for yourself postpartum but what does your newborn baby need? Before you give into that excited urge to buy all the things (yes, those baby shoes are gorgeous, and no they aren’t really necessary) remember newborn babies don’t really need much beyond a boob or bottle, something to wear and most importantly a pair of arms to hold them. However, there are some essential products out there that can make your life as a new parent a thousand times easier. As an *ahem* experienced parent of a four-month old, here are the newborn baby essentials I could not do without during those early days.

Water wipes

Have you tried to wipe meconium aka tar off a baby’s bottom using nothing but a bit of cotton wool and water, after 48 hours of no sleep while your baby screams like you’re cutting off an appendage? Learn from my mistake – get water wipes. A mix of water and fruit extracts they are safe to be used on newborn bottoms and they won’t leave you picking off bits of cotton wool off a tiny behind. Pro-tip: liberal applications of coconut oil after every nappy change makes meconium wipeable.

The Happiest Baby on the Block by Harvey Karp

I read so many pregnancy and baby books covering theories from as attachment parenting to sleep training. The one book I want to buy and give to all my pregnant friends is The Happiest Baby on the Block: The New Way to Calm Crying and Help Your Newborn Baby Sleep Longer by Harvey Karp. If you have a baby that is colicky, cries uncontrollably or turns from an angel into screaming bat-baby come 5pm (raises hand sheepishly), this book is for you. You can read more about the theory in this blog post but to summarise here. Pediatrician Dr Harvey Karp argues that unlike other animals babies are born before they are developmentally ready because of the size of their heads in relation to the pelvis. This means that the first three months are a fourth trimester outside of the womb as babies need to rapidly develop to function in the outside world. All babies had an evolved calming reflex to keep them from damaging themselves or mum in the womb, and if we can recreate these outside of the womb we can calm babies in minutes. These are called the five s’s: swaddle, side or stomach, shush, swing, suck. I was sceptical at first but the five s’s helped calm our fractious newborn in minutes. You can watch Karp in action here. The next five essentials are all ones that use the five s’s.

Co sleeper

My lovely friend Claudia lent me her co-sleeper which is a crib that attaches to the side of the bed. It was godsend for three very important reasons:

Newborns have really odd breathing patterns and frequently take very looooong pauses in between breaths. A co sleeper allows you to check on your baby without leaving your bed. This saves you from diving across the room twenty times in one night in a move I like to call the ‘Why isn’t my baby breathing dive? Oh no, he’s fine.’
Breastfeeding is made so much easier once you can do it lying down. No more getting out of your warm bed, arranging pillows behind you or even sitting up to grab your baby. Instead release boob, roll baby onto boob, doze while baby sucks then roll baby back into the co-sleeper. Or yaknow…
Don’t. My sure fire way of waking Nibs up whether I wanted to or not was to put him down after breastfeeding. The way he reacted was as if I had lowered him into the pits of hell not an expensive, lovingly crafted crib. I had a choice hold him for twenty minutes until he’d fell into a deeper sleep or lie him next then very gradually inch him back into his crib. Having the crib as his back meant I didn’t have to worry that he would roll out of bed when feeding and he felt close to me. Which brings us nicely onto the…

Sling

I bought a Moby fabric sling initially. It may have been the sleep deprivation or the fact that I have worse block designs skills than my son. Who is four months old. But I could not put it together without putting my baby down, which defeated the point, as he’d then wake up. I needed a sling that I could strap my sleeping baby into using only one hand.

Enter the Beco Gemini which even this mama could put together in her sleep. What I should have done before buying this was: go to a sling library and try on a couple before buying. What I did: ask my friend Jo sling obsessive which one she recommended for a novice like me. Both He Who Shall Not Be Named (HWSNBN) and I love it because the crossing straps distribute the babies weight and Nibs can be worn in a number of different positions as he gets older. The sling is brilliant for getting housework done while his Nibs naps. It allows me to get out and about without worrying if the buggy will fit through doors or on buses. And at grizzle o’clock it calms him down and will, if the stars are aligned, even send him to sleep if we walk around swiftly with him in the sling.

Ewan the dream sheep

White noise is a parent’s best friend. Whether it’s the dishwasher, car or even the sea, white noise mimics the sound of the wound and sends our baby Nibs into a deeper sleep. My little sister bought us Ewan the Dream Sheep which emits a soothing red pulse and has a number of different white noise tracks to choose from. Our favourite is a track we’ve nicknamed the haunted womb.

Gro swaddle

I was decidedly anti swaddle before having a baby. They seemed so restrictive and Victorian. Until I witnessed how my sons flailing limbs would wake him up multiple times a night and read about the Moro instinct. As soon as he was swaddled, he calmed down his little face relaxing and the swaddle seemed less like a medieval torture device and more like a full body hug. I credit the swaddle with helping our son sleep like less like an actual baby and more like a metaphorical baby from early on. We loved the Gro Ladybird Spot Swaddle for being so simple even this mama could use.

Love to Dream Swaddle

Now Nibs is a little bigger we’ve graduated to this Love to Dream Swaddle which is like a swaddle just for his arms. This helps restrain his natural impulse to violently batter himself in the face with his arms as sleeps. Plus when he’s wearing it he looks like he has wings providing many a hilarious photo opportunity.

Swing

Here’s the thing. As a new parent you get many a piece of useless advice of which the mos useless is sleep when your baby sleeps. The problem was like many newborns Nibs would only sleep when in motion as he was used to being lulled to sleep by the constant motion in the womb. In utero his most active time was 2am when all was still and I was trying to sleep and he commenced his kick mummy in the ribs done. So unless I mastered sleepwalking/sleep driving that advice was pretty useless. Until we bought the Joie Serina 2 in 1 Baby Swing second hand on ebay, aka the best money I ever spent. Save the money you could spend on a bouncer and get this electric swing. Like magic the swing on its most vigorous setting would send him to sleep in minutes allowing me to nap too. It also comes with white noise, vibrates, the swing works in two directions, and the seat can be taken off and used as a bouncer too. Seriously buy this, you won’t regret it.

Products for your first aid cabinet like:

A thermometer – ideally the no touch scan thermometer so you don’t have to keep your wriggling baby still while you check for a fever.

Nosefrida – this ridiculously gross invention the Nosefrida Nasal Aspirator allows you to alleviate a congested nose in seconds with the aid of saline drops and a suction tube. Its disgusting but essential especially if you have a baby in the season of the snot aka winter like we did.

Metanium – the yellow Metanium is like kryptonite for nappy rash. Most of the time we use a thin layer of sudocreme on our babies bum. But when he had a nasty nappy rash due to thrush a thin layer of this cream cleared up the rash in days.

Isofix base

Three door car + sleep deprivation= going anywhere is a hurry is a hassle. When you add in a screaming baby its amazing how a simple procedure of threading a car belt through a car seat becomes mensa level difficult. Get a Isofix Base for your car seat and you simply clip and unclip the car seat from your car. I held off buying one for three months until I finally gave in on the advice of my very wise friend Katy and I wish I’d done it a lot sooner.

1,000 muslins

Nibs is a silent posseter. You’ll be holding him and suddenly your lap will be suspiciously warm. Before giving birth, my mother in law asked me how many muslins we had and I naively replied ten and she gave me the look. The look that meant haha, you’ll learn.

Within days of the birth we were on ebay ordering more and now I think we have close to 50 at least. Muslins are great as well as clearing up posset and protecting your shoulder when burping, they can be used to swaddle your baby, to tuck under your boob for hands free feeding and as nursing cover. Ours where just cheapo ones but if I had the money I’d get these gorgeous Faye and Lou Rainbow Muslins.

Trial amazon family membership

No matter how well you prepare by reading helpful new parent lists like this and faithfully buying everything on them (right? Right.), once the baby arrives you’ll realise, always at 3am, that you’ve missed some essential item. Amazon family have a free month trial with next day delivery, £20 off when you spend over £60 and deals on nappies and other products. It was ideal for those middle of the night ‘I need new bits for my breastpump’ purchases.

A village

*Mounts soap box* Postnatal depression is at a record high in this country. And I strongly believe its because we aren’t meant to raise babies alone. It takes a village. At first I tried so hard to show that I could do it all. Hadn’t I longed for this? Then why was I finding it so hard. Things became easier when I started asking for help from my loving partner and co-parent HWSNBN, from my parents and his, from my sister and new mum friends. Workout what you need whether it’s food or a spare pair of arms so you can shower – and ask for help prior to giving birth.

Fellow survivors of the newborn stage, what would you add to the list? Mummas and dad’s to be, you got this!

Birth, motherhood and me

So I had a baby! And as expected I have many thoughts about birth, motherhood, and babies.

On birth

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Birth is like an event horizon. When you’re pregnant for the first time, it is almost impossible to visualise what lies beyond it. But one of the things I forgot is even if I was exceptionally unlucky, at most it would be 72 hours out of my life. I spent a lot of time and energy thinking about the birth. I wish I had thought more about what would happen afterwards.

As a mum-to-be you hear a LOT of labour horror stories. Looking back now, it’s amazing how much of my memory of the labour has faded replaced by what came afterwards. Yes, it was painful but I had a baby at the end of it.

I find it interesting how much of being ready to give birth is about physical readiness versus psychological readiness. I spent the day before I went into labour sewing Nib’s mobile. ‘It’s the last thing on my maternity leave to do list.’ I announced brightly to HWSNBN. Somewhere in my head a tick had been placed on the list and there was just one last item:
Have a baby.

I woke up at 1am contracting three minutes apart. But I’d had Braxton Hicks for days so I wasn’t sure this was it. Then half an hour later I turned over in bed and my waters broke with a sudden pop and I knew it was time.

Our NCT teacher told us your waters breaking wasn’t like in the movies – it just a trickle. DUDE, it was exactly like in the movies. It felt like I had Niagara falls in my knickers and out of the biological indignities that were to come it was almost the grossest.

The grossest was the vomiting. Imagine having a contraction, perhaps the worse pain you have ever experienced and as you are trying to breathe your way through it you projectile vomit. Again. The midwives were thrilled ‘open mouth, open cervix’. I was less than happy. I’d never imagined I’d met my child covered in green bile. But nobody ever said labour was glamourous.

As somebody whose always been self conscious about her body I worried beforehand about how I would feel lots of strangers seeing it. I can’t count how many people saw my poonani, nor did I care.

I had gathered together so many supplies for my birth – aromatherapy oils, playlists and birth balls. What I actually wanted was a dark room, a bucket to throw up in, to be on all fours, and for HWSNBN to push on my spine so hard it gave him bruises.

Which brings us to… back labour. From the moment I woke up contracting and felt that Nibs, after being in the optimal position since week 20, had turned so his back was grinding up against mine, I knew I was in for a rocky ride. Back labour feels like the baby is trying to exit via your spine. It isn’t only extraordinarily painful but the pressure is almost unbearable and it turns out is visible from the outside. HWSNBN described afterwards as like a scene from alien as my coccyx pulsated and bulged outwards.

There are lots of things you can do to try and turn a back to back baby. I tried them all (not knowing that he had the cord tangled around him and he was stuck). Being in the birth pool helped for a bit. Being in on all fours helped for a while. But as he descended I began having back to back contractions. I would breathe my way over the hill of a contraction and just as the pain began to fade the intensity would slam back up to the peak again. I was getting tired and we had a choice. Stay at home for another hour and try and turn him or transfer to hospital. I asked to be examined. If I was in transition I’d stay at home and bear it out. But I was only six centimetres. I cried, despite the midwives comforting me. Six centimetres at home in this time was amazing, they said. But I was done – we made the decision to transfer.

Before labour in our long discussions I’d asked HWSNBN to be my advocate as I have been known to be less than assertive. But apparently (I have no memory of this) when everybody was milling around the ambulance, they kept offering me pillows and water for the journey, I snapped ‘JUST DRIVE.’ They did.

Putting my clothes on and leaving the house was hell. I had to stop for each contraction. I kept my eyes closed in the ambulance. And I didn’t even care as people stared at me as I waddled through A + E or in the lift up to the labour ward as I panted sucking on the gas and air.

In hospital I had an epidural which alleviated some of the pain but none of the pressure – thanks back labour! However, the contractions began to space out so I could breathe in between them.

It became clear that the baby wasn’t coping very well as his heartbeat was dipping during contractions. I could tell that the doctors and midwives were worried. All I could do was lie there helpless and ask over and over again ‘Is my baby OK?’

A lot of the things I worried would happen did. I got transferred to hospital, the pain was, at times, so unbearable I lost control during contractions, I tore. But in the end only one thing mattered that my baby was safe and well. When his heartbeat kept dipping, if a scalpel had been in reach I would have cut him out myself.

My labour was short by first labour standards at around 20 hours. But it felt like no time at all – the day a brief window of light before the darkness fell again. Midwives kept changing shifts and I’d look at the clock and see that hours had passed.

In labour the world retreats. The room had one of the best views over Brighton but I barely saw it. There was nothing but this small room, this breath in between contractions, this baby and me working together so he could be born.

You never forget the midwives who delivered your child. During the long night and day and night I was in labour we had lots of different midwives. I was so glad that it was the last two who delivered my baby. They were brilliant, compassionate, open about what was going on, and so encouraging as I pushed the baby out.

As the baby was getting so tired and his heart wasn’t returning to normal in between contractions, they gave me half an hour to push him out. I put my chin down and focused. Although I knew that after an epidural it can be harder to push – there was no doubt in my mind that I could do this. One advantage of having back labour was I always felt the pressure of baby. And as I began pushing I could feel the baby moving down with each push and even when he finally flipped round the right way in my pelvis. As he was crowning and I was panting through the stinging, doctors barrelled into the room with a gurney. They took one look in between my legs, told me to ‘Good job, carry on!’ And left again.

As soon as I saw him I knew it would be OK. He was silent, a colour not found in nature and a midwife was furiously palpitating his back as the other worked the cord free as it tangled around his neck. I cried and I think they thought it was because I was worried. I wasn’t. I knew he was OK, in a weird way deep down in my bones. I cried because he was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

They put him in my arms and we just stared at each other and I thought ‘Oh, there you are.’ There was an immediate feeling of recognition, like running into somebody beloved I had not seen for centuries. He was tiny, blanched white and smelt of clementines. His eyes were universe dark and he had an expression like he’d been here before. We stared at each other for hours and he didn’t make a sound.

I pushed out the placenta, they sewed me up, people came and went but HWSNBN and I just stared at this perfect being we’d made and he stared back in a trifecta of love.

On postpartum

Apres the birth was the biggest high, followed by the deepest come down of my life. There were moments of being caught up in the most blissful love bubble ‘Look what we made. I love him so much my body can barely contain it.’ and moments of being snagged on the rocks of despair ‘This is so hard. I can’t do this. I’m a shit mum.’

I didn’t think motherhood would be easy. But when I imagined it I saw it through the filter of pre-baby me. Well rested, non bruised and not on a hormone crash from hell me.

A friend described it best when she said postpartum is like being in a car crash and then being handed the most precious and fragile being you ever saw and told not to drop him. How can you look after somebody else when you need looking after yourself?

As we walked up to the postnatal ward, I heard another mum being bought in howling. Just the sound of another woman in labour made me feel like I was going to throw up again.

Word up to all the expectant mothers, even if you don’t tear you’re going to feel bruised and tender for at least ten days post birth. Good thing you’re not going to be spending a huge amount of time sitting on your behind breastfeeding a newborn. Oh… wait. To add to the mix I had a huge purple bruise from where Nib’s head had engaged in a prolonged battle with my spine, that meant putting any pressure on my back was toe-curlingly painful. Breastfeeding involved arranging an elaborate system of pillows and a piles cushions around and under me while the baby howled for his dinner.

Ah, the post labour poo. Read this mamas-to-be and god be with you.

Good friends bring pressies for the baby. Amazing friends send pressies for the baby and for you. My lovely fairy godmother Ros sent me a postpartum package including tinctures and arnica, cool packs and a savoy cabbage. Yes, really. It was hands down the best present I received.

Night sweats – because what every woman wants to do with less than ideal pelvic floor control post birth is ask herself the question in the middle of the night ‘Is that puddle I’m lying in pee or sweat?’

I expected to get postpartum depression (ever the optimist). I didn’t. What I did experience was postpartum anxiety. It did not last long but it felt endless at the time. A lifelong sleepaholic I suddenly had horrific insomnia my thoughts racing so fast I could not follow them. I jumped at every sound convinced that there was something wrong with my baby. After a couple of days of me not sleeping more than an hour at a time, HWSNBN took Nibs in the other room promising to bring him in for feeds. But every time I closed my eyes I heard the baby crying. Yet whenever I went to check, he was fast asleep. ‘He’s OK.’ HWSNBN would tell me. But I could not shake the conviction that he wasn’t and that I had to be hypervigilant to prevent anything from happening to him.

The insomnia did not help. My baby was sleeping, my husband was sleeping but I could not sleep except when the exhaustion grabbed and I fell into darkness for a hour or so. I haunted the flat like a little ghost. During one conversation in the middle of the night I realised I was so sleep deprived it felt like I was having a stroke. I could tell I wasn’t making sense but I couldn’t articulate that thought. I could not articulate anything.

Day fucking five really sucked. Mention into the other mums and you get the shudder of been there, endured the hormone crash. In perfect storm of shittiness events conspired to make mine pretty awful.

Picture the scene me manic from not sleeping more than a hour at a time when the midwife comes to weigh the baby. I’d expected that he would have lost some weight. He was still quite jaundiced, sleepy and had to be woken to feed and throughout the feed. But the night before he’d fed almost constantly – surely he was starting to put weight back on? I knew as soon as she placed him on the scales that something was wrong. ‘He’s lost too much weight.’ But he was feeding constantly the night before, I said. ‘Yes, he was feeding constantly because there wasn’t enough milk. We need to see how much milk you’re creating and make a plan to get his weight back up and if that doesn’t work we’ll admit him into hospital.’ I pumped and we stared at the measly amount of milk that dribbled out and then she wrote out a plan: breastfeeding every three hours, expressing breast milk and then supplementing with formula. I could barely hear her at this point over the siren blare of my baby is starving and it’s all my fault.

After she left, HWSNBN was sent out to get formula and pumping equipment. ‘You’ll be OK?’ He asked as I stood in the doorway, rocking the baby and weeping. There was nobody I could call to come sit with me. My family were over the other side of the world. His were an hour and a half away. And as I tried to feed Nibs it became clear that the milk wasn’t coming. I felt like the shittest mum ever. How could I have missed that he was starving? He cried frantically until his little body was exhausted and he fell asleep in my arms. This was the nadir.

HWSNBN and I embarked on the fatten the baby up plan. I’d breastfeed on one side and express on the other while HWSNBN fed me sips of water and food. After the baby had finished we’d offer him the milk I’d expressed earlier and then formula if he was still hungry. Before setting an alarm to wake up in an hour and half and do it again. I remember it being hard but I also remember the love and that feeling of being on the same team.

I’ve always been notoriously talented at hiding when things are wrong. My leg could be hanging off and I would still insist that I was ‘Fine. Oh that? It’s nothing. Tell me about you?’ Birth robbed me of that skill – I lost my filter entirely. I sent out messages into the ether to my friends spilling my emotional guts. The responses, ah me, they make me want to cry even now. They were so lovely. In my vulnerability came honesty and connection. Sadly the filter is firmly back in place now. This is one thing I miss from the postpartum period.

Weigh in day arrived. The midwives wanted to see a weight gain of 60 otherwise we’d be admitted to hospital. Luckily the January genes for putting on a shit-ton of weight are strong and he had gained 300. I tried and failed to not cry on the midwife.

Like it had never been the anxiety began to fade and I slept for three blessed hours in a row and it was wonderful. I’m not sure why it went. Was it simply hormonal and the hormones had began to fade? Or was it emotional? It wasn’t until the midwives told me that my baby wasn’t putting on weight that I realised I had been carrying the fear from the birth that my baby was not OK. Plan fatten baby up gave me somewhere to challenge my anxiety and like that it dissipated. Looking back I realise how lucky I was in comparison to other women whose babies were seriously unwell. But at the time my anxiety seemed so real, so valid.

On breastfeeding

I thought breastfeeding would be as simple as take boob, pop boob in babies mouth, baby feeds – done. Insert hollow laughter here.

Breastfeeding is one of the hardest things I have ever done. None of it was easy. In the first three weeks I cried almost daily about how hard it was. The temptation to say fuck it and only give him formula was almost overwhelming. But a small voice inside me said just try another day and I did.

If I wasn’t supported in the people around me I would not have persisted. From the kind midwife who suggested giving him a tiny bit of expressed milk to satiate his hunger, then breastfeeding him when he was so hangry he refused to latch. To all the other women my friends and at the breastfeeding clinics who said yes breastfeeding is really, really hard but it gets better. To HWSNBN who did everything so I could feed our baby. From bringing me endless glasses of water and food, to changing nappies and taking him around the park so I could give my sore boobs a rest. And for encouraging me to keep going when things were tough.

The first challenge I faced when it came breastfeeding was physics. Nibs was born on the small side and my boobs are anything but small. He’s seven weeks old now and much to my little sister’s amusement my boobs still dwarf his head.

The second challenge was genetics, I was the most uncoordinated person I know until I met… my son. Latching was like trying to touch opposing magnets. In the early weeks it would take up to half an hour and HWSNBN’s help to get him to latch. Where he would feed for a couple of minutes and fall asleep, and then the whole process started again.

The third challenge was medical. I have PCOS which means that my breastmilk supply is lower than average . Nibs like many babies had jaundice which equates to one sleepy baby who doesn’t really want to feed. As breastfeeding works on a supply and demand basis, having a sleepy baby who didn’t really want to feed meant my already low supply dwindled further.

My boobs the day milk came in two words: rock tits.

They say breastfeeding isn’t meant to be painful. Seriously? Tell that to my fucking nipples. It gets less painful as your nipples get more desentised but still sometimes when he latched I have to count to ten.

Getting newborn to latch is like trying to put a sock on a snake.
‘Hey baby, here’s the nipple.’
Baby turns head in the opposite direction.
‘Baby the nipple, it’s here.’
Baby bobs frantically headbutting nipple.
Baby manages to get nipple in his mouth (yay), and his hand too (no).
Baby latches on and while latched whips his head back and forth still searching for the nipple. Yep Nipple whiplash, it’s a thing.

Years ago I read about Melanie Klein’s theory of the good/bad breast and the concept of splitting. I thought it was bullshit. But Klein was right on. Sometimes Nibs loves the boob and sometimes he hates it. Being a mother is about being able to withstand both.

The breastfeeding books speak about being in a comfortable position. But I’d stay contorted in the most awkward positions because I had finally got him to latch and who cared that I was bent double over my baby. And if the remote control was out of reach well, love meant enduring Jeremy Kyle.

I’ve breastfeed through thrush, engorgement, blocked milk ducts (twice), cracked nipples… I’m just waiting for mastisis and then I’ll have the full set.

In some ways, having to introduce a bottle so early was a blessing in disguise. It has meant that HWSNBN can feed the baby and have that bonding time together. Even better it means I get a blessed hour off. Bliss

The best thing about my breastfeeding app. It tells me how long I’ve been feeding for and which breast I last fed from. The worst thing about my breastfeeding app it tells me how long I’ve been feeding for. 8 and a half hours! No wonder my arse is numb.

Cluster feeding was demoralising as hell and it hit in week three just as HWSNBN headed back to work. Unless HWSNBN or his mother were there, I couldn’t eat, or wee or even take a sip of water. I didn’t leave the house for days because he would not stop feeding and as he was finally putting on weight I did not want to interrupt him. He still cluster feeds at night but it isn’t all day so I am so thankful for it.

I quickly learnt to prioritise in those brief moments when I wasn’t physically attached to Nibs. Have a wee, drink water, eat something and perhaps if you’re really lucky nap. Fuck housework.

Some babies are into fast food. Feeding my baby is like trying to feed a narcoleptic drunk gourmand who ordered the fucking tasting menu goddamn it and he will finish it. Even if it takes him three hours actual time (thirty minutes effective feeding time) A sample feed looks like this.
Feed frantically for four minutes.
Fall asleep.
Get put down.
Howls indignantly.
Come back for a two minute soupcon.
Fall asleep while possetting on self. Handed to daddy.
Howls while rooting on daddy’s nose.
Repeat until mummy declares the boob restaurant is closed. Baby does not understand language yet so ignores this.

Stuff Nibs hates:
Being put down
Having his nappy changed
People touching his feet
Having his cheesy armpits cleaned
Being stripped naked
Falling asleep on the boob and waking up to discover the boob is no longer there.

Stuff I will do to get him to feed (because I am eviiiiiiiil):
See all of the above

They said it takes six weeks to get breastfeeding established. By week four it was noticably easier (barring the really painful thrush episode). It’s the end of week six now and I finally feel like we are in a rhythm. What I would say is you need to what is best for your baby AND you! Whether that’s breastfeeding, combi-feeding or giving formula your emotional and physical wellbeing matters too.

On motherhood

Pre motherhood me would judge the fuck out of some of the choices I’m making. Mother-me would pour me a gin, give me a hug and tell me I’m doing my best.

Having a child unearths a lot of shit from your psyche. I am not somebody who likes being dependent and I hate asking for help. Having a sister who needs extra help, I think I made me grow up fast and decide that I didn’t want to burden people by being too needy. Since having a baby I am physically, financially and emotionally dependent on the people around me and I hate it. I feel incredibly uncomfortable which I think indicates growth.

It takes a village to raise a child. We aren’t meant to do this alone.

You will welcome the people who come over and want to hold your baby. You will want to worship the people who come over with food, pop a load of laundry on, and make you a drink while you hold your baby.

There are a lot of nasty jokes made about mother-in-laws but mine has been amazing. In those early days when I was a walking zombie and later when HWSNBN went back to work she would come over every couple of days and help out.

Being a mum eclipses everything else. I lose hours staring into his eyes. There isn’t a to do list anymore.

Being perpertually late person naturally is exacerbated by having a baby. Leaving this house is like martialling an army. An army that waits until you are just picking up your car keys before pooing up it’s back.

Saying it’s hard doesn’t mean it isn’t also wonderful. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

One day he may be 33 too and taller than I will ever be, but he will always, always, always be my baby.

During the birth, he was born but a new me also emerged. I am not sure what mother Rowan looks like. But I can’t wait to find out.

Sometimes you have no choice but to put your screaming child down and have a wee. It doesn’t make you a bad mum – it makes you somebody who values continence.

On marriage

When I met HWSNBN I was 21. I wasn’t sure I wanted to even get married, let alone have children. I never chose him thinking about what kind of father he’d make. Luckily those qualities I fell in love with as a partner map perfectly onto being a dad.

My bestie asked me what I was doing for Valentine’s day and I replied sarcastically that HWSNBN and I were playing the ultra romantic game of pass the screaming baby. But it’s true I have never loved HWSNBN more than when he sees me pacing with a screaming Nibs and says ‘Let me take over for a bit’ and I go cry-sob in the shower. It isn’t roses and chocolates but it is love.

On the dark side, I have never hated him more when he complained in all seriousness ‘I never got out anymore.’ The baby was four weeks old. Complaining to a new mother about never going out, is like bitching to people in a famine regime that the size of Quality Street tins are a bit skimped. Know your audience!

I don’t mind admitting that HWSNBN is better at settling him that I am. He seems less affected by Nibs’ crying whereas to me it’s like an alarm saying do something! One of the downsides of having boobs is that I use them as a pacifier. Whereas HWSNBN has a whole host of tricks at his disposal.

It’s ridiculous that dad’s only get two weeks of paid paternity leave. I was lucky because HWSNBN works for himself he could work from home most days or ask his mum to come down when he wasn’t able. I don’t know how other women do it. 5.30pm has become my favourite time of day.

I am a better parent with him around.

On babies

I never knew much about babies and to me they all seemed alike. Tiny, sleepy bundles that looked and acted like drunk old men. Now I have one I see the differences.

The first night Nibs threw up every half an hour gobs of yellow mucus. I sat and watched over him terrified he would choke and drown. It was first experience of motherhood that sometimes there is nothing you can do but bear witness and be there for your baby.

If you have a baby that screams uncontrollably for hours, it can almost unbearable. The one that helped was imagining the screams were him talking. Very loudly. For hours.

It’s OK to think your child looks a bit weird sometimes. Sometimes I think he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Other times I think he looks like a cross between Pob and a monkey.

The principle of the fourth trimester governs many of my early parenting decisions. Nibs has gone to never being cold, or hungry, or not held to experiencing all of those things. No wonder it is overwhelming.

He loves staring at me the most. Followed shortly by the curtains.

Nibs hates to be put down. If he could he would cling to me (preferably) or Johnny at all times. At 7pm when I’ve been feeding for hours and he’s howling, I would do anything to be alone. I miss having my body to myself. But sometimes in the dead of night when I feel his warmth on me I think nobody will ever love and need me like you do and it makes me want to cry with the tenderness of it all.

You can’t spoil a baby. A child yes, but not a baby.

Babies noises are deceiving. Throughout the night he will frequently sound as if he is choking on his own vomit only when you turn on the light – there is no posset to be seen. Paradoxically when he does posset it dribbles from his mouth silently like Bishop at the end of the Aliens movie. Frequently while fast asleep he will emit a sleep screech that is so terrifying it alone makes me glad I religiously did my pelvic floor exercises. We’ll just settle him for the night when he will start hiccuping in his sleep. Loudly. His favourite thing to do is lie there asleep making snuffling, snorting and burbling noises. HWSNBN calls this his ‘look mummy I am sleeping. Look at me sleep. I iz very good at the sleeping’ noise. I call this fucking irritating. Other times I will wake in the night and he will be lying silently in the dark staring at me. #mybabyiscreepierthanyourbaby

Babies are gross and because you love them you become gross too. He has possetted on my hair, stomach and nipple. Once he threw up on his fist then sucked it like it was a lollipop. I took a photo. Sometimes I don’t even know myself anymore.

When pregnant I read in the newborn book that babies feed on average every two hours. That’s not too bad, thought me. At least your getting around two stretches of sleep. What I didn’t realise is that’s two hours from the start of the feed and by the time you put them down you have forty-five minutes before the whole cycle starts again.

You win some, you lose some. I hesitate to write this because I am so tempting the baby gods to curse me for my hubris. But Nibs sleeps absurdly well for a newborn. WINNING

I expected the nights to be bad – but the first fortnight aside they have been bearable. The evenings on the other hand… ah dios madre. When the clock turns 5pm my angel child turns into the bat baby from hell. He has a full agenda of screaming and feeding or screamfeeding and he isn’t going to stop until he’s done. This is coincidentally the time when my reserves and patience are at their lowest. Luckily it is also the time when HWSNBN comes home.

The days are long but the years are short. As I write this Nibs is six weeks old. He is smiling and burbling. He loves to be held upright so he admire the curtains. He’s grown almost 30 centimeters. I can’t wait to witness the little person he grows into.

I thought I would have this strong feeling of ‘mine’ when I saw him. But he doesn’t feel like he came from me. He feels like a gift from the stars and the sky and I am just looking after him for as long as he will have me.

They didn’t say it would be easy, they said it would be worth it. And it is so worth it.

2014: the ask and the answer

So 2014 is dead, long live 2015. For at least 363 more days at least. In what’s become a little bit of a tradition (2013, 2012, 2011) around these parts here’s my year in review. In January I, along with my bestie Ros, had our hair chopped off in memory of dearest Lianne who is gone but never forgotten. So many lovely people I knew (and a couple I didn’t) donated money to help the Phyllis Tuckwell Hospice. You are all awesome people. Group hug? I also dabbled in veganism and gave up cheese for ONE WHOLE MONTH. It was really fricken hard, you guys? In February we travelled to see our friend’s Gareth and Akie get married in Tokyo. Just looking through the pictures makes me want to go back. We ate sushi, we visited temples, we went to Tokyo Disney. But I need to see the cherry blossoms bloom, I need to go to a cat cafe, I need to have another creme brulee pancake. As if one awesome holiday wasn’t enough, we then flew down to Australia to see the Great Barrier Reef, drive down the great Ocean Road and caught up with our friends Roger and Sarah nine years on from our last visit down under. It was the trip of a lifetime and being back in the dead of winter makes me wish even more I was back under blue skies with Roger and Sarah. In March I celebrated my ten year anniversary with the love of my life HWSNBN In April suffering from a post holiday hungover of epic proportions I began 100 happy days. Which I totally will blog around. One day. Soon. Ish. Maybe? I had one of the best summers on record spending most of my time in Pells Pool. Although I still haven’t been to a drive in *sad face*. One of my personal highlights was leaving my job after seven years. Although I missed my lovely colleagues it was time to move on taking a role within a NHS mental health service. Having more time and space allowed me to grow my private practice in leaps and bounds. And I’m cutting my hours down even further at work because of how much my practice has started to grow. 2014 was the year my career really started to thrive. I turned 32 and shared 32 hard fought life lessons. Trust me on the absinthe. I missed Lianne Irayla Munaf very much. HWSNBN and I travelled to France to stay in a chateau and watch our friends Amelie and Joey get married (yep 2014 was the year of the destination wedding). There was sun, there was wine, and there was streaking. And it was so awesome, we’re going back again this year. After much deliberation, I came out of the closet and talked about the difficulties HWSNBN and I have been having trying to conceive. Although those dreams of being parents still feel very far away talking about this openly has been an extraordinarily healing process. Thank you for all your messages and kind words. They have meant more than I can ever say. In a not unrelated note I spent much of November and December working out like a mofo. So far with the help of the body coach and Jillian Michaels dvd’s I’ve lost just under two stone even with time off for good behaviour over Christmas. 10448234_773253149415290_3495426446452203943_n I’m back on the exercise wagon today and I want to die. Looking back over 2014 has been really interesting. If the last couple of years have been full of questions, 2014 had the answer: turn towards, turn towards, turn towards. It felt like this year all the work I’ve been putting in on myself began paying off. I got unstuck. I believed that I was good enough. And instead of waiting for a knight in white and shining armour I saved myself (with a little help from a group of strangers, one or two friends and a bearded guru called Steve). Despite myself I still get excited by the possibility that new years brings –the chance to wipe the slate clean and start over. But this new years, I looked over my life and felt content. So much of what I want I already have or am I working towards. There are certainly some dreams I wish would come to fruitation sooner rather than later. But although I hope the more I learn about infertility and life how much I realise this stuff is in the lap of the gods.