Bonkers Page 13
Unfortunately, she had been rushed up to neonatal. She was gone with my hubby and the doctors whilst I had an agonising wait for the go-ahead from the midwives to join them.
HAVING A PREMATURE BABY
Not having your baby where they should be (with you) for their first precious moments is quite simply heartbreaking (as any of you mums who have been through the same will know all too well). It was the most surreal feeling that this tiny person who had been part of me, sharing every moment with me for the last several months, was now in the world but not with me. I was not the one protecting her and taking care of her.
I quickly became a nightmare patient. I ended up telling the midwives in my best French that, if they’d done all they needed to do with me, then there was no way I was waiting around for the standard two-hour rest time post-baby, that I was getting off this labour bed and was going to see my baby. I remember swinging my still recovering-from-the-epidural legs around and trying to stand because I was so determined to get to her even if it meant walking on my numb legs. I think this showed them I was not going to take no for an answer, so they got me a wheelchair and wheeled me to the neonatal unit.
It was heartbreaking seeing her brand new and tiny little self, cocooned in her plastic incubator, surrounded by lots of scary-looking and -sounding machines. Lots of wires were attached to her teeny tiny chest, arms and head and she had what looked like a huge mask over her beautiful and delicate little face to help her breathe. I felt helpless and just distraught that this was how she was having to spend the first few hours of her brand-new life, surrounded by machines rather than being in her mummy’s arms receiving reassuring cuddles and kisses.
It was around 6 a.m. at this point and the nurses told me that I needed to leave her and get some rest, reassuring me that as soon as I was awake I could come straight back down and be with her. This tipped me over the edge: I told them repeatedly that I was not leaving her and sobbed that I was not going anywhere. I’d been awake for thirty-six hours, had just given birth and all I wanted was to hold and look after my baby. I could not possibly leave her. What if something happened? What if she needed me? She surely knew I hadn’t been with her so far and was already probably wondering where I was.
Both the staff and my hubby were amazing with me, telling me I needed to rest to be strong enough for her and reassuring me that I would see her the moment I had rested. I held onto this thought, that by going and getting rest I was doing what was best for her. That I could not be there for her unless I was well. That getting some much needed rest was taking care of my physical and mental wellbeing. From past experience I knew how vital this was. She needed me to be strong and together for her. So, still sobbing and distraught, I was wheeled back to my room and tucked up in bed.
Three hours later I was awake and determined to go and see my little girl as fast as my wheelchair wheels would get me there.
Seeing my daughter again for the first time, I felt a weird mix of emotions: love, fear, anxiety and Wow, is that tiny human surrounded by all these tubes and funny beeping machines really mine? Does she know that I’m her mummy? Does she know that, despite all this medical paraphernalia keeping us apart, she is part of me? Does she know that the voice she hears between the steady and regular puff of the breathing machine is her mummy’s, promising her the world, moon and stars? Does she know she’s not alone? That I’m right here with her and not going anywhere?
Seeing her properly for the first time and wondering if she knew she was not alone was one of the hardest things to deal with. That I was not able to spend the hours doing what the other mums and their newborns were doing – feeding, cuddling and breathing each other in; getting to know and feel every little movement, gurgle and tiny breath – was quite simply soul-destroying. I held onto her little hand and willed for her to know that the hand holding hers tentatively through the hole in the incubator was her mummy’s, who was sending all these feelings through her fingertips along with a promise. That as soon as she was well enough and away from the tubes we would be making up tenfold for the moments we were missing currently.
When you have a premature baby cocooned away and on lots of different machines, it goes against every natural fibre in your body for your baby to be away from you. To not be able to hold them, cover them in kisses and do all the things you would be doing for them under normal circumstances.
You feel helpless and out on a limb as you hover around the incubator, trying to drink in every moment, every facial expression – and having to ask if it’s OK to hold your baby’s hand. It’s heartbreaking to ask when you will be able to hold your baby for the first time, when they have been on this earth for twenty-four hours and you still haven’t been able to hold them. It’s all so weird and frustrating and at times awkward as you look longingly at the nurses, asking when things will be happening, when you will be able to have them with you and taking care of them all on your own. Your brain is telling you that of course your baby needs to be kept where they are to get strong and well, but your heart is longing with every beat to have them with you, back where they belong.
Going through this, not having my tiny human with me from the start, could have tipped me back over the edge of my illness. It could have triggered the start of a second battle, but somehow it didn’t. Despite the anxiety and not being able to have her with me at all times, I felt extremely calm, strong and in control. I felt empowered and energised to keep as well and as strong as possible for this new little life. I made sure I spent as much time as I could next to her incubator, holding her hand, stroking her head and tiny toes – all so she knew that despite a plastic barrier between us there was nothing separating us.
I asked the midwife what their schedule was so I could be there for all her feeds, to help clean her and change her nappy. Through the days and nights I would set my alarm for every two to three hours, to express as much milk as I could for her. This all helped keep me sane. Although I was not yet able to do all the normal things for her as fully as I wanted to do, I knew that anything else I could be doing for her, I was.
Thankfully, this separation was only for a matter of days and when the midwife said the magical words I’d been longing to hear since giving birth to her – that yes, I could have her with me – I cried with happiness and hugged and kissed her repeatedly, overjoyed with the thought of being able to have her all to myself finally!
We stayed in hospital for around two weeks and I was able to stay in hospital with her in our own ensuite room (thanks to the French healthcare system). Pretty bloody amazing and I will be forever grateful for that time we had there. The midwives were on constant hand to help with breast-feeding and expressing milk as she was initially fed through a tube that went up her tiny nose and into her tiny tummy, with my breastmilk being syringed through. They then gave me one-on-one sessions to help me get to grips with breast-feeding. There was never any pressure to breast-feed or to stop and bottle-feed; it was all about what was best for me and her.
I think one of the things that really helped ward off any demons and any sense of guilt at not being able to have her with me initially, was the time we spent together, just me and her, during those weeks in hospital. After one of the midwives showed me how a body bandage makes a perfect sling device to carry a premature baby around in safely, thus enabling us to have that all-important skin-on-skin time, Isla-Mai and I went skin-on-skin at every chance possible; she snuggled safely in the bandage with her head popping out the top of my T-shirt. Our ritual evening promenade around the neonatal unit became a familiar sight to the midwives. We were together 24/7 and she was in my arms, next to me sleeping, or secure on my chest, held in place by my makeshift baby-carrying accessory.
These two weeks are some of my favourite of all time, and today I realise why. It was because I felt well and happy to be a mum. I was feeling all the emotions that I’d heard about when you become a new mum. I was experiencing what I should have experienced the first time around. I was relieved, happy
and confident as a mum. I cannot put into words how thankful I was. I remember telling my husband how great and just how happy I was feeling. He looked at me with such heartbreaking relief and asked: ‘Really?’ I don’t quite think he could quite get his head around it all, either. His wife, his best friend was back – and, like me, he didn’t dare believe it.
I remember being so excited about having people come to visit us in hospital. I couldn’t wait to show her off to people and celebrate how well she was doing. Things were how they should be when you have a baby. I was finally getting the experience other mums had been telling me about and I was hoping beyond hope that this really was my new norm. My new way of life. That my mind had been fixed – and what was currently holding it together so well wouldn’t fail.
When I was asked about my birth experience this time round, rather than replying: ‘Never again’, I said: ‘I would do it again tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 10
IN CHARGE OF TWO TINY HUMANS
JUGGLING TWO TINY HUMANS UNDER TWO
One of the things I struggled with the most being the new mum of two-under-two was the mind-warping logistics required to get anything done or go anywhere. Even if ‘anything’ meant only one of us dressed and ‘going anywhere’ meant sitting in the garden. S.E.R.I.O.U.S.L.Y. When I was stumbling my way through the early days, I would look at the clock one minute, and it would be 6 a.m. with us all sitting in front of CBeebies, dressed in PJs pebbledashed with porridge, and then the next minute it would be 3 p.m. and we’d now be half-dressed, still covered in porridge and still watching CBeebies, while I had no idea of how the hell it was that time already and we still hadn’t managed to leave the sofa, let alone the house.
There’ s no escaping that a baby and an eighteen-month-old toddler is a total headscrew at times, careering you from being overwhelmed with love and pride for these gorgeous two tiny humans to being just overwhelmed. Looking at the epic portion of motherhood now served up on your already brimming-over, running-everywhere plate.
With all of this in mind, I have put together a few sanity and survival tips that I stumbled across in my sleep-deprived, trying-to-keep-my-shit-together-and-the-kids-entertained state. So, from one knackered mother to another, here are my tips for juggling two tiny humans:
• Shit-hot organisation
As boring as this may sound – and bloody condescendingly obvious – I’ve found that if the three of you are going to have any chance of enjoying the day, then the type of shit-hot organisation that would do the military proud is vital! Vital, I tell you! Therefore, whatever it takes to ensure you are able to get them up and out the door the next morning, do it! Pack their lunches, pack the car, pack games for the park, pack toys for potential coffee stops, sleep in your clothes. As I said, WHATEVER it takes, get it done so all you have to worry about when you get up the next day is getting through the bedlam of breakfast and then you are out on the open road for a day filled with a load of tiny human fun to wear both you and the tiny humans right out.
• Don’t be fooled
So if the bit above has you fooled that I am this supermum who lives her life with military precision – think again! I am so rubbish at getting organised, though I do occasionally, on a few days of the year, manage to get my dishevelled form and wild tiny humans out the house for a day filled with a year’s worth of child-friendly, supermum activities. Which is a good job since it makes up for the other 363 days of the year when I can be found half-dressed, chasing naked bottoms around my house, screaming: ‘Get your fingers out your bum and put your shoes on!’ and ‘If you don’t let me get your nappy on, I’m calling Peppa’. It is an exhausting fight on every level and anyone who proclaims otherwise is a liar-liar-maternity-pants-on-fire or has a butler and a team of nannies.
So, go easy on yourself! If it’s just too much of an exhausting task to get them out of the house, then sod it, have a PJ day, get out the colouring books, stick on a film and eat cake. There have been sooo many days where I have been in tears, beating myself with a discarded rusk and screaming I am a crap mum because the tiny humans have not been on the swings all week or we haven’t made rockets out of discarded loo rolls at the local craft group.
GIVE YOURSELF A BREAK!
All your tiny humans need is to be with you, having cuddles and, preferably, eating cake. Therefore, let’s lower the bar and just hang out, rather than hanging our already knackered selves out to dry.
• Snacks, snacks, snacks! Did you hear me? SNACKS!
NEVER and I repeat NEVER leave the house, the kitchen, the lounge without being fully armed with them. NEVER. I once made the fatal error of not packing anything of the snack variety and I almost lost a limb. Oh yes, my tiny human is not called the Biting Viking for no reason. I am now always sure to pack a chocolate finger – to reduce the risk of losing one of my own.
• Keep the little suckers contained
Baby carrier, double buggy, high chairs, car seats, gaffer tape, cardboard box. Whatever it is that can keep them both restrained, safe and not killing themselves or each other – buy in BULK. Oh yes, anything that allows you to get yourselves around the house/park/supermarket and cracking on with everyday life with at least one free hand and without the fear of God that they’ll be running amok, hurting themselves or going missing was a win for me in my mum-of-two-under-two days.
• Get outta the house
Whatever it takes, whatever the time, get out of the house with them. Take them to a free open space and let those little supercharged tiny humans run wild and free, for as long as you can – and then some. Take their lunch or dinner with you, feed them out there, and then (singing/chatting/screaming ‘LOOK Cinderella on a flying unicorn!’ – whatever it takes to keep them from falling to sleep in the car), get them home, and into the house, into their PJs and into their beds. And relax, preferably with a glass of Pinot G.
• Bath them together
As soon as it’s safe, get them bathing together. I know sometimes you would rather cut your arm off than go through bath time, but the way I look at it, it’s another activity for them to do, one they can do together, one that (if they are anything like my splashing demons) burns off energy and makes them happy. And once they are old enough, you can watch them from the comfort of the loo whilst enjoying some me-time. Please tell me I’m not the only one that does bath and bubbles of the Prosecco variety? WIN-WIN.
• Buy them the same stuff
Buy them everything the same, identical, matching, THE SAME! I once scoffed, ‘My tiny humans will be individuals in their own right, they will have toys that reflect their personality.’ Fast forward to last Christmas and them trying to strangle each other with the lead of a yapping electronic puppy and shouting ‘MINE, MINE, MINE!’ and I vowed NEVER AGAIN!
Remember, everything is ‘just a phase’ and it too will pass
Like bad wind, teething, sleepless nights and hopefully post-baby piles, everything has its day and then before you know it, the time has passed and you can’t even remember how exhausting it actually was. OK, so some of the brutal realities of juggling two tiny humans will stay with you forever (don’t think I’ll ever forget the pain of having a chunk taken out of my leg from my tiny human’s jaws of steel and dribble), but even these memories will eventually be funny tales to tell in front of their future spouse. Every knackered mummy cloud, and all that. Also, I don’t know about you, but despite the chaos, when I feel their two squidgy hands in mine or when we are all cuddled up under a mountain of grubby hands, dribble kisses and chocolate biscuits, all the rest is forgotten and the world feels right again (even if only for a few minutes).
The World Can Wait
(A Poem for My Babies)
The world can wait, the world can wait,
I’ve nowhere to be and no chance to be late,
No schedule to run to, no washer to load,
No important meeting, or clothes to fold,
No outing, no class and no play date.
Y
ou see, for once, darling, the world can wait.
If the world can turn, then the world can wait,
For I’ve something more precious than life on my plate,
Brighter than the universe and the Milky Way.
I no longer need the sun to mark the start of my day.
No rush, no hurry, no time-up to make,
You see, for once, darling, the world can wait.
The world can wait, the world can wait,
Stop all the clocks and hold time in its place,
Freeze that smile, that moment unplanned,
Keep those little fingers in the palm of my hand,
Cuddles, bath time and tiny dreams to make.
You see, for once, darling, the world can wait.
If the world can turn, then the world can wait,
Masters of our little universe, our destiny ours to create,
I choose to slow down and share mine with you,
To remember all the tiny things that you do,
Belly laughs and smiles that make my heart break.
You see, for once, darling, the world can wait.
The world can wait, the world can wait,
‘Us time’ is the new commodity I cannot waste,
You see, this precious gift won’t always be mine,
Life will move on but, little darling, that’s fine.
One day you won’t turn and throw that gaze my way,
Your cry will no longer be what marks the start of my day,
Night-time feeds and day-long hugs will be no more,
No tiny toys or discarded food to clear from the floor,
No squidgy folds to behold and no hair to brush.
So hold on, world, I don’t want to rush.
CHAPTER 11
POSTPARTUM PSYCHOSIS – THE DANGER OF THE UNKNOWN
I often talk about my PND and now, more often than not, I’m able to talk about my experiences without breaking down or without it triggering some of the deep-seated and inevitably hurtful memories that still have the power to knock the air out of my lungs and leave me emotionally exhausted. However, there is another element to what I went through with my mental health that is not as easy to think about. Nor is it easy to find the words to relive it in a way that others can understand, words that will not leave my family and friends reeling with guilt that they had no idea it was happening to me or viewing me in a different light because of it.