Three words that can change everything

Before you start guessing, it’s not ‘I love you’.  No, the words I want to tell you about are far more powerful and I discovered them purely by accident.

I would class my six year old daughter as high maintenance.  That may be unwarranted. She may be just like every child but my only other example is autistic and believe it or not, his needs are pretty straight forward – keep everything exactly the same, only feed him crisps, let him be naked from the waist down and we’re onto a winner.

My daughter has the ability to take me from calm to rage in a very short space of time, usually when she’s being so bloody ungrateful.  I try to cater for all her quirks as much as possible in a way to ensure her life is nourished; full of adventures and experiences that will fill her brain with wonderful memories.  But no matter what I do, she seems to always find something to complain about, using those immortal words, “it’s not fair!”  (They’re not the three words, by the way.  I’m keeping you hanging on for those just a bit longer.)

The reason I want to fill my daughter’s life with happiness is to ensure she knows she’s loved.  I suffer with, as the wonderful Jack Monroe put it, a wonky head.  It’s on perfectly straight but my brain likes to make me feel very sad sometimes.  During these times, I’m not a great parent.  I have no patience.  I’m emotionally distant.  I tumble into a black hole and disappear from view from my children.  I know this because my usually happy to go to school girl finds it hard to get through the day without an emotional wobble about missing me.  These children are a lot more attuned to our feelings than we give them credit for.

‘Attuned’ is a word I’ve only recently become accustomed to.  It’s a word that has helped shift my wonky head into seeing there is a something more than love.

During my low periods (and I’m not talking about my menstruation), I try to tell my daughter as much as possible how much I love her.  The guilt I feel about not having the energy or inclination to bake cakes or ride bikes or just sit with her and listen to what she has to say overwhelms me, but I know that as long as she knows she’s loved, she’ll be okay.  So sometimes, when she’s irritating me, I’ll tell her, “I love you, but that thing you’re doing…please stop.”

It was when she was feeling a bit poorly, and my wonky head was starting to metaphorically straighten up.  She was desperately telling me all of her symptoms. She felt hot, her tummy ached, her head hurt and she couldn’t sleep.  I was giving her all my usual concerned patter, getting her medicine, giving her a cold flannel for her head, rubbing her tummy, but nothing was making her feel better.  She looked up at me, her eyes full of urgency and discomfort and something compelled me to softly say, “I believe you”.

I saw her exhausted, tensed up body visibly loosen and she finally laid her head on the pillow and was able to succumb to her tiredness.  As I laid with her and she fell asleep, I reflected on those three words.  Why had they made such a difference when all of my acts of love hadn’t?

I have surmised it was because of this.  In that moment, I had actually attuned to what she needed.  To just have me say, “I hear you”, “I get it”.  She had probably got so used to me ‘listening’ when I’m a million miles away in my head, that the confirmation I was actually present in the here and now and completely understood, helped her cope with her symptoms.  Or perhaps she just needed me to be in the here and now because that’s where she was.  Where all children are.  In the moment.

It’s made me realise that she’s not actually that ungrateful or high maintenance.  There’s me naively thinking I’m loving her unconditionally, but it’s entirely dependant on her being grateful for all these wonderful, exciting experiences I’m providing her – these things that aren’t happening till tomorrow, or three hours later. She’s not thinking about that.  She’s a child living in the moment and at that moment, something catastrophic may have rocked her world.  Like, I’ve given her the wrong temperature water to drink, or the swing didn’t swing enough.

I’ve used “I believe you” a number of times now, all with the same effect and all in different circumstances.  Not to fob her off  – she’s already proved she’s far too attuned for that.  But when I can see I haven’t really been present.  I get easily absorbed in looking at my phone, or needing to answer that email, or trying to tidy the shit tip that is my house and actually, she really needs to know I’m here. In the here and now, present in the moment and I totally get her.  No ‘I love you, but…’, just unconditional, ‘I hear you’.

I can’t always fix her feelings.  I can’t always fix mine.  I suppose sometimes, it’s just about letting them be.

Sleeping with a peacock on her head. Because peacock.

 

 

 

 

 

Redefining Motherhood

As my four year old daughter laid sunning herself on the garden lounger, covering her nakedness with a sun-soaked fleece blanket and sporting a deliciously contented grin on her face, I peered over at my boy. He was silently playing with his cars, as he does, autistically driving them backwards and forwards across the same piece of surface obviously delighting in all the sensory pleasures it was giving him. We were all silent for some time. Content in our own little universe. Just feeling warm and loved.

“I am a good mum,” I said to myself. We may not have been making, creating, baking, crafting or talking, but we were all happy in our silent, collective moments.

As I relayed those words to the counsellor, I sobbed. Those unspoken words had acted like a dam; building up a pressurised tsunami of emotion, waiting to burst through it’s fragile wall. Not only had I never been able to say those words before, I hadn’t even allowed myself to think them. There was too much that occurred daily to prove on the contrary. Everything I read backed that up and paralysed me from even being able to give myself the smallest of thumbs up.

I occasionally put my children to bed without reading them a story. Some days, all they ate was crap because I couldn’t muster the energy to cook from scratch. I lied to them on occasion to manipulate their behaviour for my benefit. I couldn’t control my temper when I was really tired and would raise my voice. My pushchair was facing the wrong way so my children couldn’t see me when I pushed them. There was an endless list of failings.

It wasn’t that long ago that it seems parenting practices consisted of having your baby washed and dressed before being handed to you. Advancements in formula milk meant that mothers had a ‘choice’ about how they fed their children and infant deaths, previously due to failure to thrive, were given a lifeline. Women who breastfed were held in low esteem and were usually from a poor background. Bottle babies were kept at arms length when fed to avoid eye contact. Babies were left in push chairs at the bottom of the garden because the fresh air was good for them. Babies were swaddled and left to cry routinely. Children had nannies that cared for them so their parents could continue with their adult duties. Fathers were aloof, unemotional and disciplinarians. Mothers were equally as harsh in handing out the punishments but at least it was occasionally diluted with a comforting cuddle. It was important for children to be seen and not heard. To be passive and successful whilst not causing too much trouble. Parenting seemed to be parent-centred.

Along came John Bowlby et al who carried out some essential and ground-breaking research which showed the huge amount of detrimental effects on infant mental health that some of these practices had. He demonstrated the importance of early bonding on emotional well being for babies and infants. Breastfeeding was encouraged due to the relationship that was created from closeness. Babies were brought back from the bottom of the garden and back in the arms of their primary caregiver.

The attachment theory was born.

Jump to modern day and we now seem to have parenting practices that are the polar opposite; Babies are left coated in vernix and blood whilst they lay in skin to skin with their mothers for at least an hour. Breastfeeding is held in such high esteem that hospitals are judged on their abilities to create breastfeeding relationships. Feeding choice is vilified but not quite as much as formula feeding. Babies are carried as much as is humanly possible in fact face to face time with the mother is encouraged continually. Fathers are encouraged to be as nurturing as the mothers – when they’re allowed a look in. Mothers are to be emotionally available at all times. Parenting is now completely child-centred.

There is always a problem with polar opposites. Neither are ideal and to me are equally as damaging in their own right. To maintain such extremes, there always has to be a sacrifice. Pre-attachment theory, the sacrifice was infant mental health. Post AT, I think the sacrifice is parental mental health.

That sounds a bit dramatic, doesn’t it? What I mean is, maternal mental health is declining with postnatal depression increasing at an exponential rate. Fathers are being diagnosed too. Attachment theory is being taken out of context from it’s original form and intention and has somehow become a giant stick that parents (although mostly mothers) beat themselves with.  The sole responsibility of parenting outcome, ergo, whether or not your child turns into a murderous rapist, seems to have been planted firmly on the mother’s shoulders. The criteria for parenting failure or success is a very rigid set of rules that sees women berating other women if they step outside the perimeters outlined by prominent internet forums.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing and we could look through history to try and pinpoint why we’re at the stage we’re at now, but the fact of the matter is this: Some women work. Some women don’t. Some women have a workplace where pumping and storing breastmilk is an achievable option. Some women don’t. Some women have twelve months maternity leave. Some women don’t. Some governments are supportive of motherhood. Some governments aren’t. Some women want to breastfeed. Some women don’t. Some women have to use full time childcare. Some women don’t. The list is endless as is the myriad of circumstances that parents find themselves in post-babydom.

I sought help when I could feel myself becoming consumed by my thoughts on how I just wasn’t up to the standard of ‘mother’ that my children deserved. I couldn’t live up to the expectations laid down before me on my news feed every hour.

I’m so bloody glad I did.

Yes, some days we don’t get dressed and slob all day watching too many Disney films. Yes, some days I don’t engage with my children every second of the day because I’m doing a bit of house work. Yes, some days I’m not even home because I work. Yes, some days I let my children open up food in a supermarket before it’s been paid for. Yes, I occasionally lose my temper. Yes, not everything they eat is organic…in fact very little. Yes, they don’t always have a story before bed time. Yes, I have been known to tell a little white lie to get my own way. And despite all this, I AM A GOOD MUM and I totally believe it.

I want you all to believe it too. Not that I am, that YOU are. Because once you do, you can stop obsessing about all the ‘wrongs’ and can be free to enjoy the ‘rights’.  You can stop being obsessed with tiredness, frustration, resentment and anger. They lose their power when you know it doesn’t really matter anyway. Settling down to sleep at night is no longer reliving the guilt and regret of the day, but rejoicing in all the little things that made you smile. The self talk, the subtext, the analysis all disappears. It’s all a matter of finding the healthy balance and it’s so much easier than you might think…

 

I’m so glad my second wasn’t born first

I’ve been having a lot of, “ahhhhhhhh, so that’s why…” moments of late, all concerning The Boy especially surrounding the first twelve months. I have a lot of (what I think) dark secrets about my boy but now I can make so much more sense of them, I think I want to share them, just in case someone out there relates.

My boy hasn’t *yet* been diagnosed with anything, however, he is in the process of assessments. I noticed things not progressing as they should when he was around 15 months old. Since he has started his assessments, I have had to answer (approximately) more questions than Andy Coulson has in the last several months, all relating to pregnancy, birth and beyond.

What I have discovered so far is that my boy may have a sensory processing disorder which means he is undersensitive to certain senses and over sensitive to others. The ones he is undersensitive to are very much related to touch and movement. This means he seems to need more of it. For example, liking to sleep with the top of his head pushed against his headboard/have his ‘draggy’ wrapped around the top of his head/his head pushed against a pillow.  It also means that he still constantly mouths and chews things, seeking out deep pressure in his mouth.

So what has this to do with my ‘dark secrets’? Well they are thus:

• I co-slept. I co-slept in a way that was probably against the guidelines in order to get a good nights sleep.
• I bottle propped. Especially at his nap times.
• I stopped breastfeeding to suit me.

Actually…writing it down seems far more pathetic than the massive swirling guilt whirlwind that was in my head but I’ll carry on anyway.

Ted was a high maintenance baby. He was very kinaesthetic and so touch and movement played a big role very early on. He spent a very large proportion of his time attached to me, either in the sling or on my boob. Those first 8 months, I think he slept with a nipple in his mouth pretty much for the full 12 hours. He is still very much attached to me and I carry him around like a baby chimp, which has quite an impact on my spine as he is a tall, 3 stone, two and a half year old. I have a left bicep like Arnie and a right hip like a 90 year old. Not really a necessary part of the story but I thought if I martyr myself slightly, you’ll a) feel sorry for me and b) forgive me for my parenting fails *according to many parenting forums*.

He would fall asleep with his face pushed against my chest then I would have to have to move his face to the side once he was asleep

Had my boy been my first child, I would have definitely had a breakdown. The physical, emotional and psychological demands of having a baby attached to you day and night really takes its toll. But this was baby number two. And with that you don’t analyse anything. You’ve already paralysed yourself with analysis the first time round so second time, you just do it. I’m not planning on a third but I can only imagine I’d be practically apathetic.

So, I just got on and co-slept without worrying about smothering or suffocating. Just as well because unbeknownst to me, the boy required deep pressure when sleeping which often meant he would be wedged under my head or just sleep in the sling with the stretchy material over the top of his head, because I somehow knew he preferred it. I would have NEVER dared try this first time round.

Generally on a pillow, under my duvet, under my chin. NOT ISIS guidelines but we slept and that was all I cared about during those early sleep deprived months

Also unbeknownst to me, the boy seeked deep pressure stimulation in his mouth, hence the attached to nipple so often and also the biting – which for the record, was not a ‘phase’ anyone could work through. He would clamp through the nipple and not even care/notice the blood covering his face. I however did, and decided to stop feeding from source when he was ten months old. I’d previously put this down to his bottle chewing habit, but actually, it was all part of the same thing.

Then started the bottle propping. This is the bit that I feel most ashamed about. As soon as the full conversion to bottle happened, the boy no longer wanted to be held close. At the time, it seemed that he loathed being moved once he was asleep. I would lovingly cuddle him close with his bottle until he fell asleep then attempt the ninja-like transfer but he would become almost rageful at the disturbance until after just a few nights I just laid him in his cot, placed the bottle in his hand and left the room with a heart so heavy, full of self loathing and remorse. But he fell asleep and stayed asleep (apart from still waking several times a night for more milk but there was no rage at least).

There was a few days when he was about 18 months when I was ‘allowed’ to cuddle him with a bottle, and I hung onto every second, willing it to remain in my memory bank for all time.

I would sneak into his room and remove the bottle from his bed and stare at him. He is two and a half now and still so reliant on his bottles of milk at nap times. But instead of having to use my night vision to pick out the bottle shape from his bed, I now have to search on the floor as it generally gets launched across the room like a missile once it’s been drained. This is the time my husband and I become frozen to the spot, as the thud sounds and we try and determine whether he’s actually asleep or just silently playing, neither of us actually daring to go and check just in case we’re spotted.

There are risks of increased weight gain with prolonged bottle use, and this is definitely something I am witnessing with the boy. However, I know it is temporary. There will be a day he no longer needs a bottle and then I can just sign him up to a boot camp, or something. Ergo, I’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

So all in all, I suppose by writing this all down, I can let go of the guilt over how I have ultimately fed the boy. I have a valid reason for stopping breastfeeding when I did (and quite frankly, after all I blog about, it is utter lunacy that I should feel that way). I can also feel proud that I followed his lead and didn’t become a crazed loon at the fact he was in my bed, sleeping on my actual body or trussed up in a sling/attached to my nipple for most part of the day.

I also want to say to first time mums out there. Don’t start panicking that you might have a spectrum child on your hands just because they’re a bit high maintenance, but trust them to know what they want and only you will know that. So no matter what the forums say is ‘right’, how the old school did it, what opinions people have, don’t be afraid to follow your child’s lead. You will not make a rod for your own back but can hopefully break up that rod and bury it when you discover it was just what your baby needed.

PND week – A mother’s letter to herself

It was entirely unexpected that when I embarked on researching and collecting stories for PND week, that I would come face to face with my own dark emotions, mirrored perfectly in the words that shone out from the computer screen. I wasn’t even aware of how deep into the murky waters I had submerged but reading these words, despite their desperation and heart ache, were what threw me the life jacket of acknowledgement and the realisation of how isolated in my own head I had become.  What have I done since? Talked. To my husband. To my family. To my friends. To strangers via my blog. But it has given me enough power to keep my enemy at bay.  Sometimes that is all it needs. To reinstate your voice and for that voice to be validated and I hope, like me, you find that validation here….

I tried to write about Post Natal Depression but I couldn’t do it. It was too hard. As I started to write I was pulled down, pulled back into those emotions and into that dark place as if it was happening to me right now. It was overwhelming. Maybe I’m still fighting my way out of the tail end of it or maybe I’m just hormonal and sleep deprived, or both! So instead I’ve written myself a letter…

“Dear Me

I know that right now you feel like you will be stuck in this black hole forever, I know that you can’t see a chink of light. But I am writing to you to tell you that the light will come. Slowly, with an ebb and flow that at times will make you feel worse than if it had never been, but it will come. In fact, although you can’t feel it, you are crawling towards it right now. You don’t have the energy to lift your head so all you can see is the dripping of your own silent tears and all you can hear are the barrage of hateful voices inside your head but soon, soon, you will have a moment when you think, ‘you know, I didn’t hate myself quite so much today’ and then you will have a small smile.

I know this because I am you. Today I still fight against those sad and angry voices, that paralysing black cloud of depression and the self loathing that feels all consuming but now I can see them coming. I can look at those thoughts, feel those emotions and see them for what they are. They are not you. They aren’t even a true reflection of reality. Yes, yes, you believe every negative thought and can’t accept that you’re doing anything right but I ask you, is that realistic? What you have is a dementor living in your head, sucking the colour and joy out of your world and leaving behind a fragile skeleton of despair. I need you to know that the black things the dementor tells you about your mind, your body, your house, your life, your parenting, your relationships, they aren’t true. Don’t believe them.

I know you look around at your messy, dirty house and hate yourself for it. I know you think you are judged on those cobwebs and that pile of washing up and maybe by some people you are. But you are surrounded by people who want to help you if only you’ll ask. You know who I mean. They’d be round in a shot with a cupcake, a kind word and their rubber gloves and never think any less of you. You don’t want to trouble them, in your mind you’re a burden on the world enough but here’s a newsflash, that’s what friends are for. You’d do the same for them, you know you would.

You think you are unlovable, I know. You say hateful things to yourself, replay conversations in your head and wish you’d never opened your mouth, you worry all the time, every day that your friends are angry with you and don’t know how to make it better. The truth though, is that some of them are doing the same. And the rest? They haven’t given that conversation another thought! Seriously, not one thought!

Ok, we have to talk about going out. You haven’t been doing that as much lately have you? And because I love you I’m telling you that you must. I know it’s hard, I know all three of you end up crying every time. I know it doesn’t feel worth it. But it is. So put your shoes on, tuck the baby in the sling and the boy in the buggy and leave the house. Go and see one of those friends we’ve been talking about, walk to the park, go to tesco, whatever. This one is non-negotiable because it WILL help.

I know you’ll go to the doctor and talk about all of this. You’ll put on the mask you show the world and talk professionally about your depression and anxiety as if you’re talking about someone else. He’ll tell you that you are heading towards agoraphobia just to add to the fun and you’ll calmly acknowledge that. You’ll discuss medication and how you don’t want to take it because some days you feel like breastfeeding is the only thing in your entire existence you can do right and you don’t want the drugs going to the baby. I’m here to tall you that the HOURS of agonising are not necessary. There are drugs you can take and still feed your boy if you want to or you don’t have to take them but please, PLEASE stop torturing yourself over the decision.

So what I want you to do now is cuddle your big boy next to you on the sofa, give your baby boy another dose of Mummy milk, watch reruns of Thomas on youtube and tell yourself, ‘this is ok’. I understand this isn’t what you want your life to look like forever, but it won’t, it really won’t.

Today things are better. Not perfect by any means, there’s still too much washing in the basket and yes, I cried yesterday but the dementor has gone so I can forgive myself for those things. The world is still often grey, sometimes dark but I am clinging on to the light and I WON’T let it go. It’s a hard road but we’re doing well and the most important thing I can say to you is this…

You are loved. And when you love in return, really, what else matters?”

PND Week – You’re never alone

I truly believe that some women suffer with a form of PTSD following the birth of their children, especially if it wasn’t at all how they had hoped or that it was traumatic and totally out of their control.  Here are just a couple of symptoms of PTSD that mirror those of PND:

“Some people attempt to deal with their feelings by trying not to feel anything at all. This is known as emotional numbing. This can lead to the person becoming isolated and withdrawn, and they may also give up pursuing the activities that they used to enjoy.

Some people will have constant negative thoughts about their experience, repeatedly asking themselves questions that prevent them from coming to terms with the event. For example, they may wonder why the event happened to them and if they could have done anything to stop it, which can lead to feelings of guilt or shame.”

These feelings can lead to depression, anxiety, anger and physical pain – sound familiar?

The paradox of PND is that you do things to try and feel in control but the more it sucks you in, the less control you feel and thus a vicious cycle occurs.

PANDAS offers great help and advice should you feel that something is not quite right.  Remember, don’t think that what you’re feeling is nothing compared to those poor mothers that lead to taking their own lives.  You are still worthy of a voice and to be listened to.

You can also contact your local health team/midwife to discuss the finer details of your childbirth.  Sometimes finding out the reasons why it happened that way can bring closure to a birthplan that went spectacularly out the window.  Or why breastfeeding went completely tits up. Your local children’s centre will also be able to offer support for you and your whole family.  Support is out there, just like today’s story describes….

I have suffered with depression on and off for years…since I was about 14 so my chances of getting PND was quite high and this terrified me. Depression is hard enough to deal with let alone with a baby to look after.

My labour was very stressful and lasted 38 hours and ended in a c section. The minute my beautiful baby girl was born that’s when the PND started to set in. I was in recovery for 5 days and those 5 days being alone with my girl were very strange. I felt like I was outside my body looking on to my life around me. I could not get my head around the fact I had had a baby. When the day came to take her home (which at that time was my partner’s mum’s house, because we had to move out of ours just before I gave birth due to very bad damp and mould) I was terrified. – whilst in hospital I had nurses at my every need – I already started to wonder how I would cope.

Having a baby was such a huge responsibility and I was determined to make sure I never let her down. Weeks passed of me being almost bed bound and not being able to completely look after my daughter. My partner was great with both of us and was very supportive. Then the feeling of not being able to cope gradually got worse…I felt trapped, scared and alone. This little girl needed me and I was stuck in my own mind feeling completely out of control. I remember getting ready to take my girl out for a walk and couldn’t get the pram or something to work and I just blew…I became an emotional wreck, I couldn’t breathe, and all I could think about was “what was happening to me??” I called my health visitor at the time crying my eyes out feeling completely helpless and worthless. The hardest thing was dealing with the overwhelming guilt I had for feeling I was letting my girl down by allowing myself to get to this state.

I was put on 100mg of sertraline, an anti depressant to see if that made a difference. And I am pleased to say it did… I still have my moments but I dread to think how bad things could have got if I had not of got the help when I did. You should not be ashamed if you have PND – your body goes through so much both physically and mentally when having a child that sometimes it gets the better of you. But it’s important to remember you’re not on your own and you can beat it.

PND is horrible and scary but that is mainly because it is not spoken of a lot in today’s society. I was ashamed at first but I am no longer that and I can stand up tall and say that I’m on the road to beating it and now I can enjoy seeing my daughter grow.

So many women experience PND without knowing, do not suffer alone…there are many people out there that share the same story; there are medics that can help. Therefore as long as those people carry on helping PND sufferers, you’re never alone.

PND Week – My depression gave me some of the best friendships I have.

This week is postnatal depression week.  You have already had the pleasure of viewing a small amount of my crazy (I’m doing much better now, thank you for asking). Postnatal depression is a complex disease and I use that word in it’s literal form…dis-ease because when you’re in it, nothing feels right.  

Mine can probably be blamed on my personality traits of perfectionism and need for control.  A control freak trying to allow a baby to lead the way is no easy task – responsive feeding was kept in control by a white board with times fed, duration and how many boobs (there are phone apps that do that now…I probably would have been sent over the edge with pie charts and statistics).  

Sleeping (or lack of it) was a huge anxiety inducer.  Perhaps if I had spent more time reading my baby instead of reading books on how to control my baby’s behaviour, my anxiety would have decreased (slightly).  It certainly did with baby #2 when I had already learned the lesson the hard way – baby knows best and regularly changes the goal posts.  Everything is a phase and everything passes. All baby knows is how it feels, not how to rationalise their thoughts or control yours.  They’re actually fairly innocent despite being given bad press by the likes of GF.

Anyway, I digress.  This week is not about me.  It’s about you.  You have sent me some heartwrenching and beautiful stories of struggles with PND and have been brave enough to share them with the world.  Because PND needs to be normalised too, in order for mother’s struggling with their inner demons to feel safe enough to seek the help that is available to them. 

When my son was about 6 months old I ran away, not many people know that.

As it turned out I wasn’t even gone long enough for him to miss a feed. I left because I had an overwhelming feeling that he didn’t need me, that he would be better off without me and that I was messing everything up. I wasn’t brave enough to ‘end it all’ so I got in my car and drove away.

My son was at home with his dad and quite safe. I don’t think I even said goodbye, just left sobbing.

To rewind a bit he was my first child, born by emergency section, taken away before I touched him, kept in a different room for me for the first five days of his life, taken away from me again for a week when I was too ill to look after him, formula fed whilst I was in hospital even though I didn’t want him to be. I had no sleep, 3 bouts of mastitis, endless antibiotics and a breast abscess. All in four months.

I think lots of mums get at least a touch of postnatal depression with their first babies; I ended up with a ton of it on my head. It wasn’t dramatic, it crept up on me, most of my friends and family didn’t even know there was anything wrong. I felt really, really out of control and overwhelmed, I cried quite a lot and stared at the wall a lot. I wasn’t unhappy – I loved my son and I loved being with him but the more overwhelmed I felt, the less I thought he needed me, that I couldn’t do anything that anyone else couldn’t do just as well.

I lined things up because it made me feel better. I hung all my washing on my line the right way round and in ‘the right’ order because it made me feel better. I home cooked enough puree to fed all the babies in Exmouth – organically, and sugar free, because it made me feel better. Those were just some of the habits I got into.

I lost my car in car parks, I lost my trolley in Tesco’s, I often left my front door unlocked, sometimes even open. I had less and less to say to people and felt like I was in a complete bubble, separate from the world. I had everything I ever wanted but I wasn’t happy and that made me feel really, really guilty. Actually everything made me feel guilty. I also couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get it ‘right’ why it was so easy for everyone else.

I couldn’t go back to work and that was what forced my hand with seeing the doctor. He was lovely, really supportive, referred me for counselling and talked to me about medication. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t because I wanted to keep breast feeding and I didn’t want to share the medication with my son.

I had talking therapy, it definitely helped. I was given self-help strategies, and they also helped. I had the most amazing tolerance from my husband – I have no idea how he got through that time either, he must have dreaded coming home and never knowing what he was coming home to. He was a rock, for me and for my son. I talked to my friends, and my family, that helped to.

I was lucky it did shift and pass. Life got much brighter. When I got pregnant with my second son I had already had two missed miscarriages and wasn’t in a great mental place, in fact, I did my pregnancy test because if I wasn’t pregnant I wanted to take the anti-depressants I had been prescribed. But I was, and I stayed pregnant, that helped me feel better.

I had the VBAC I desperately wanted and that helped me feel better. I was terrified of getting PND for a second time but I was prepared, I had a plan, my family were monitoring me for ‘the signs’. As it turned out it was ok. I am certain that one of my main saving graces was the group of lovely friends I met at a breastfeeding support group.

I kept putting myself outside of my comfort zone because I was so scared of what could happen if I stayed in it. I made myself go out most days, I made myself go to groups, I made myself ask for phone numbers. I knew I couldn’t do it alone.

Get out of the house, get out of my head and talk to people became my daily mission. I was lucky enough to meet a group of honest, supportive mums who shared their experiences with me, took the piss out of me in right amounts and some days just stared at walls with me. They helped me save me from myself. Having a baby can be amazing, it really can, but it can also be isolating and really, really scary. If you need help, ask for it – child rearing is NOT a one person job. I think I have pretty much recovered from my baby shock now my youngest is three, my marriage is also recovering. I still have ‘stuff going on’ in my head; I just can’t put it down to the boys anymore! Share your head with the people around you, my depression has given some of the best friendships I have.

I chose formula

I chose to formula feed my baby. From birth.

There, I said it. Possibly one of the most debated parenting decisions there is! I know this debate often sparks up very strong opinions and debates, but I felt I needed to be honest and finally explain my choice.

Before I had Alice, I was completely convinced and decided on breastfeeding. So much so, that I didn’t even purchase any bottles or formula or even sterilizing equipment. I knew, no matter what, that I was going to breastfeed for at least 6 weeks. So my decision not to was nothing to do with me being selfish, or being a bad mother and not giving my baby what was best. I had read the material, listened to midwives and I completely understood and agreed with the benefits of breastfeeding. I wanted what was best, and I knew that breast was it!

The birth did not go to plan (does anyones?!) It was a very quick labour. When Alice was born, she was not breathing and needed resuscitation. So she was whisked away to the other side of the room where I couldn’t even see her. Meanwhile, my placenta decided to get stuck and I was at risk of haemorrhaging. For my own safety I was taken through to surgery immediately after giving birth, where I underwent an hour of surgery which left me emotionally shattered. I was wheeled back into the room where I had given birth. I could not feel anything from my chest down, I felt utterly exhausted and I hadn’t even seen my baby.

Alice was handed to me. It was horrible. I couldn’t hold her properly so she was propped up on a pillow. I looked at her. She looked at me. I felt… nothing. Not the over whelming love you are supposed to. Not even happiness that my baby was here. I didn’t understand where she had come from. She just didn’t feel like mine at all. So when the midwife said she needed feeding and was I going to breastfeed, I answered without any hesitation. No.

Alice needed feeding and I was handed a bottle. But I couldn’t do it, and so she was handed to Dave instead. I had to stay in hospital overnight and Dave had to leave. I was left on my own with a baby I didn’t think was mine, utterly exhausted and without knowing what I was going to do.

Luckily I had the most amazing midwife who stayed with me nearly all night. With her support and kindness, I began to bond with Alice. I fed her from a bottle, looking into her eyes and by the end of the night I was utterly smitten. It was as though a fog had lifted and finally I could see my baby! Focussing on feeding her the bottles, remembering how long they had been opened and how much I had given her really helped me to focus on looking after Alice and to stop worrying about any negative thoughts I was having.

When I got her home, we were bottle feeding. That was it. It sounds ridiculous, but the routine of making up a bottle made me feel more in control of things. I guess because I had not bonded with Alice straight away, I felt like my motherly instincts hadn’t kicked in. Breastfeeding is incredibly natural, and when you don’t feel any emotional connection to your baby it is very hard to in envision doing it. The bottle made me feel like a mum. Like I was in control of looking after Alice and there was no pressure on us.

As the trauma of the birth faded away and I spent time with Alice in our home environment, I really began to feel that emotional connection. 3 weeks after she was born, I remember looking at her and thinking, “I wish I could breastfeed you now”. Of course, it was too late by then.

Do I regret not breastfeeding? Absolutely not. I wrote down everything I was feeling at the time (I’m obsessed with keeping diaries!), and reading it back, I was in no fit state to breastfeed. I was emotional, traumatised and struggling to come to terms with having a newborn. It was not right for me.

One question I can predict I will be asked is: What about what’s right for your baby? It shouldn’t matter how you feel, it’s all about what is in your babies best interest.
The thing is, when I had Alice, I couldn’t quite believe she was mine. As I didn’t see her for an hour after she was born, I didn’t get that emotional connection straight away. It sounds terrible but, I was thinking about myself! I was totally overwhelmed and felt completely under prepared for what had happened. I just wanted to go home. That was it! The birth was nothing like I had predicted. And I couldn’t predict my feelings. I had no idea I would feel the way i did after having her, so I could only react to it as it happened. I wasn’t thinking straight and I just had to do what felt right at the time. Which is why I stand by my decision.

I do not regret formula feeding Alice. It was what was right for me, and for her, at the time I made my decision. However, if I ever have anymore children, I would love to breastfeed as I really do believe it is what is best for your baby.

How you feed your baby is down to you, and it makes me sad that parents are made to feel guilty for whatever choice they decide to make.

 

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours

*Filling out antenatal hospital form, reads* “History of mental illness?”

Hmmmm…well I suffered with an eating disorder for ten years.  Suffered with depression in my 20’s and occasional crippling anxiety.  Have extreme perfectionist issues, massively controlling and contingent self esteem.  But mental?  I think I’ll tick no, just in case ticking yes means I get put on some kind of danger register and my baby is taken away the moment it plops from my vagina.

So taking the above into consideration, some might say I was at risk of postnatal depression.  There was absolutely NO WAY I was going to get it though.  Postnatal depression was that really tragic condition that lead women to take their own lives.  I’m way too chicken to do that.

Looking back, after my little girl was born, I did go a bit crazy.  I can see that now.  It was all because of two things: I didn’t push her out – I needed assistance.  I stopped breastfeeding for four days – I needed assistance.  Big deal I hear you cry.  But for a slightly unhinged perfectionist, that just wouldn’t do.

So for two years I battled with inner voices.  A black cloud that loomed menacingly behind me – not above me – I wasn’t postnatally depressed remember? Just clearly not really cut out for this mothering lark.  I was never really fully present. Just going through the motions. Doing everything as perfectly as I could. Not ever letting my daughter cry – I must telepathically pre-empt her every need.  Stimulating her to ensure she reached all her milestones – the book says she must be batting things with her hands by 9 weeks. Walking.  Lot’s of walking.  Newborns get bored, don’t they? Let’s go walking again. She needs a sleep for 30 minutes precisely every three hours preferably in the sling, she’s just not happy otherwise. Must keep her HAPPY!

 I used to dread questions like, “do you love being a mum?” “Isn’t being a Mum the best thing in the world?”

I would attempt to muster some semblance of a grin and nod benignly but inwardly be thinking, “what is wrong with me? Why can’t I just say yes?”

I would cry after leaving children’s parties because another mum wore nail polish and someone made cupcakes.  Why don’t you ever make cupcakes? Real mums bake cakes. When was the last time you washed your hair? You disgust me. You should take a long hard look at yourself.  You’re not a proper mother, you’re shit. And you’re looking fat. Go home and bake a cake.

I was so focussed obsessed with keeping The girl happy, I knew what every facial gesture meant. I knew exactly the moment she needed a poo. I knew when she was too hot. I knew when she was too cold.  I knew that she didn’t like having her arm like that when she slept. I knew that noise meant she needed to swap sides she was sleeping on – she liked sleeping on her side. Mostly the left, but occasionally changing her onto her right to stop pressure sores, and then changing her back again. Always making sure she was breathing. None of this made me feel like a good mother. In fact, it made me feel worse. She cried today. You could have prevented that. You weren’t listening to her. Why weren’t you listening, you cretin?

I fell pregnant when my daughter was 14 months old.  I was devastated.  You can’t even look after one child properly, how are you going to cope with two? You’re going to ruin her life. You’ll have to share yourself between two children and how do you expect to be able to do that exactly?

But then the boy was born. Naturally. Like it should could have been the first time round. The cloud instantly disappeared. It was amazing.  I could finally say I LOVED being a mum.  Had that gloomy shadow really been following me around just because I didn’t have an entirely natural birth last time? I wondered how many other mums had a malevolent figure following them because things hadn’t gone the way they planned? You’re pathetic. You’ve ruined the first two years of your daughter’s life just because you didn’t push her out all by yourself.

I hadn’t realised the insidious voice was still there.  Just quietly whispering in the background so I didn’t really notice it.  I felt great and loved being able to relax about decisions regarding The Boy. Not sleeping in a routine? No problem, I can cope. Not sleeping at all? I can deal with that. Feeds completely differently to The Girl? I’m on it like a car bonnet.

16 months passed and The Boy was doing brilliantly.  He seemed to be hitting all his milestones… apart from when I compared him to one or two of his peers – he wasn’t using words as much. In fact not at all. But I was fine with that. Babies all develop differently and I knew he wasn’t going to be as quick at talking as his sister because girls are quicker than boys… aren’t they?

17 months. 18 months. Still the same. Whilst his peers developed speech and signing skills enabling them to communicate their wants and needs, The Boy didn’t and became increasingly frustrated and angry. I’ve been waiting for you to fuck up. You’re so busy being ‘relaxed and so-good-at-this-mothering that you’ve not been paying enough attention to him and now he can’t speak. Shhhhhhhhhhh. I wasn’t going to let the voice win.

I looked in The Girl’s red book – I had written down all the things she could do at 18 months – I’ll compare it. “Singing 20-30 songs in sign” What??? Really??? “Saying 20-30 words” “Counting 1-10” That’s ridiculous… The boy couldn’t even properly pronounce one word. See I told you. You’ve fucked up. 

Over the following months leading up to today, the voice has slowly been winning. Wearing me down till I feel like I’m not me anymore. I’m back to just existing and going through the motions.  It has sucked the joy out of everything.

Perhaps if that question had been “do you think you could be at risk of postnatal depression?” I might have been tempted to tick the ‘yes’ box….. Naahhh. I won’t get postnatal depression.

Postnatal depression week is November 17th to 23rd.  For this week I will be posting one story a day and have already received some amazing posts from brilliant mums battling with their inner voices.  The difference is, like me, they’re not ‘a risk’.  Stories in the press about mothers driven to suicide are horrific to read and are very real.  But like with everything, it is just the extreme and fortunately the minority. Many mothers don’t speak out about how they’re feeling because of fear of others judging them as the extreme, when in fact, just feeling safe and able to talk about it gives The Dark Cloud far less power. 

I’m taking the power back so if motherhood is not turning out how you’d hoped, don’t be afraid to regain your power and say it, because they’ll be thousands just like you.  You can write to evidencebasedtitsandteeth@gmail.com.

Moving away from all or nothing

Many excellent, well-informed doctors helped me take care of my mental health before, during and after my pregnancy, and I feel both grateful to them and proud that I have become such a good advocate for myself. My talent for advocacy came in particularly handy when it came to making decisions about how we would feed our baby, because I received so much conflicting advice that I once burst into tears at the idea of another doctor giving me more information. To be fair, I did a lot of planning before we even tried to get pregnant, because I depend on twice-weekly therapy, anti-anxiety meds and antidepressants in order to function as a human being. In other words, there were many people over many months with many opportunities to offer advice, information and opinions, solicited and unsolicited.

Here is a list of my decision, in chronological order, based on the advice of various “professionals” and “experts”–

1. Exclusive breastfeeding.
2. Exclusive bottlefeeding: formula.
3. Exclusive bottlefeeding: donated breastmilk from a close friend.
4. Exclusive bottlefeeding: the hospital’s donated breastmilk during our stay (lawyers refuse to allow us to bring our own, but the head nurse in postpartum recovery managed to get permission to get me access to the milk bank because the whole thing was patently absurd) followed by our friend’s donated milk when we got home.
5. Short-term breastfeeding, followed by bottlefeeding: a team of midwives, nurses and lactation consultants meet to discuss the stupidity of the hospital’s liability fears dictating our choices about feeding our son and it occurs to someone that a few days of my colostrum might actually do more good than harm, for me, my baby and everyone’s stress levels.
6. Breastfeeding and bottlefeeding, followed by exclusive breastfeeding, once we have established that our son and his tiny liver are doing ok with the medicine that is in my breastmilk.
7. Breastfeeding with intermittent Dad-administered bottles of my own pumped milk or formula.

The point of it all, really, is that this combination of my milk, donated breastmilk and formula has worked really well for us. But a combination like that would never have occurred to me without all the expert help and opinions I had, and I don’t think that many mothers consider doing anything like what we have done. Shouldn’t it at least be an option? Why is it breastfeed or formula feed? And why does “bottlefeeding” always mean formula?

My midwives talked with nurses and lactation consultants, because I had so much anxiety about feeding my baby. That wonderful team directed me to a pediatrician who specializes in breastfeeding medicine, and it is she who changed my entire outlook. The psychiatrists who warned against breastfeeding on meds meant well, but they knew about adult-sized doses and side-effects. My first clue should have been that one of them actually said, “Lots of our generation, including me, had formula, and we are all fine!” Can I get an eye roll for that line? This was hardly the evidence-based reassurance I was used to getting from the same doctor who had once handed me a whole stack of pages of medical journal articles on pregnancy and psychiatric medications. The pediatrician who helped us, an actual expert in actually feeding actual babies told me that the nursing relationship only works well if everyone is relaxed and happy. This is why she was thrilled to tell me that I could breastfeed on my medicine with safety, as far as the evidence showed, and that we could use our freezer full of precious donor milk to give us peace of mind.

She also taught me to relax about breastfeeding before I gave birth, because in her experience, a mother/infant pair can learn to breastfeed even if (heaven help us!) an infant should have a bottle or pacifier early in his life. That came in really handy when my son was born with a tongue tie that the hospital staff failed to notice. He could not, would not latch. The nurses fretted. I pumped colostrum and tried to stay calm, but it wasn’t until our breastfeeding expert clipped that tongue tie that we could nurse comfortably. In the meantime, we were happy to feed him from a syringe or a bottle, and we loved seeing his grandparents participate.

For the first three months of his life, my son had bottles of donor milk, and he breastfed, every day. I pumped for the ounces he drank to keep up my supply. By the time we ran out of donor milk, we were thrilled to see that he was showing no sign of any side effect from the medication in my milk. Unfortunately, he quickly began cluster feeding for hours right around the time I was getting used to exclusively breastfeeding. I had no time to pump for bottles; he was always nursing. After a night during which he nursed from 11 pm to 4:00 am, stopping only to switch sides or scream while his diaper was changed, I arrived at my therapist’s office in despair. I can’t manage my anxiety without sleep. Every doctor had told me that without at least a four-hours-in-a-row chunk of sleep every night, my mental health would suffer. My therapist asked about formula. I cried about how hard I had worked to feed my son only breastmilk. Then, I thought about sleeping, and bought formula immediately after leaving my therapist’s office.

I ask my husband to give our son a bottle when I’m feeling very anxious or stressed, or when I would just like a break, or when I would like to finish what I am writing. When I need to sleep or recover from a migraine, all I need to worry about is keeping myself comfortable, because I know that our son will be fine with the loved ones who care for him and feed him. Usually, I find that breastfeeding strengthens my bond with my son, that we both enjoy it and, for us, it’s extremely convenient. I also find that my anxiety and depression are much easier to manage when I have had enough sleep. My husband and I both get at least one break, every day, when we are “off-duty” and responsible for none of the parenting. When it’s my turn, that often means a bottle of formula. I am still trying to figure out why so very many people get so very upset about that. I honestly do not understand.

Mom, Dad and Baby are happier with the way our family does feedings. That short-lived experiment with “EBF” was absolutely miserable for me. It was a huge moment for me when that switch in my head flipped from “breastmilk or formula” to “do whatever it takes to be healthy and happy,” because I stopped believing that I could sacrifice my mental health for my child. All three of us suffered when I made myself a martyr.

Everything we learned about feeding babies along our rather strange journey has helped my husband and I in other areas of our relationship and family life. We check in with each other and stay creative in how we try to balance the trickier parts of this child-raising business. Sometimes, that means that one of us takes on responsibilities that may be uncomfortable so that the person who is ill or exhausted can try to get from “miserable” to “uncomfortable. A few bottles of formula have not transformed us into people who are happy all the time. But our approach to feeding our son has made us more creative problem-solvers, and that has definitely made us happier.

You can read more from Anne Marie on her blog, Do Not Faint, where she tackles issues on pregnancy, motherhood and mental health.  It’s brilliant.

For more information on donor breast milk, you can visit Human Milk for Human Babies, a wonderful informal milk sharing network.