Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

Breast is best, according to the experts, but gee it would be nice to have the power to transfer these breasts of mine to someone else for a day.

I am breastfeeding and proud of it. Proud in the knowledge that my breasts alone are able to sustain another human life. Proud that I am boosting my child’s health, present and future. Proud that this feeding has facilitated my recovery from pregnancy and birth (though the effectiveness of breastfeeding in vanishing stretch marks is yet to be demonstrated). But most of all I am proud that I am managing to make myself available to this child 24 hours a day, 7 days a week…ALL THE TIME. I’m on-call, on alert, on demand.

Proud, but somewhat resentful. Can’t I just have a wee break? I wasn’t feeling quite so disgruntled until recently, when a fellow mummy sighed, citing new parent fatigue. I nodded enthusiastically and released a mammoth sigh of my own, setting myself up for a whinge about breastfeeding on demand and the broken sleep and limited independence it necessitated. That discussion never eventuated because my conversation partner went on to state that her baby fed like clockwork, every four hours, and that, with the assistance of her husband, she was able to sleep from 9pm til 4am. I was dumbfounded and insanely jealous. Her trick? Bottle feeding.

My breast pride melted away and I felt cheated. Why couldn’t I get that much sleep? Why couldn’t I just up and leave the house, not having to worry about being back within two hours in case my udder was required or requested? And remind me, why, why did I choose to breastfeed? Oh, that’s right, the health benefits, the cost benefits, the convenience. Convenience? I’ll tell you what would be convenient – to give my breasts to someone else for a day and get some rest!

I hadn’t really appreciated how physically and emotionally draining breastfeeding can be. It is a sacrifice, a selfless gift to my child. So to all breastfeeding women out there, charge your glasses. Here’s to us leaking, lumpy, squirty, sleepy dairy cattle. Three cheers! Cue chink of glasses and, of course, spilt milk.

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Don’t cringe…this one isn’t about me.

It’s a precious commodity with many important functions: keeping lounge rooms warm, boiling water on the stove…  If it wasn’t for gas I’d be cold, hungry and certainly not soaking in the bath. The problem with gas is when it’s stored in a baby’s system and has trouble escaping. It gets trapped, not knowing whether to head north with some milk, or south with some mustard. It lingers midway, causing all sorts of pain for its host and his parents.

We sit him up straight (trying to keep his head from rolling off) and throw him over the shoulder, patting, rubbing, willing the gas to move. We lie him on his back and row the boat and cycle with his legs. We lie him on his tummy hoping to squish the gas forward or backward. We pace and brace our nerves, calling on any morsels of patience that could be tucked away or stored deep within. And this is during the day.

At night I plead with the gas, begging it to make a hasty exit so that my sanity doesn’t. When minutes pass with no burp or pop, I get a little impatient. ‘It’s cold and this isn’t funny. I’m giving you two more minutes to make yourself scarce and then I’m going back to bed!’ I can almost hear the gas bubbles laughing as they bounce around my baby’s insides…I think I may have to work on my negotiation skills.

In searching for answers to our gassy problem (because all parenting challenges have definitive solutions, don’t they? Just ask any of those books…) my husband managed to offer a reason that was sensible, possible and cruel. ‘Your milk comes out too fast. He’s choking on it.’ ‘And what am I supposed to do about that? He’s lucky that he’s got so much milk!’ Now, without wanting to offend any males who may be reading, I do believe that my husband’s solution could only have come from a man. ‘You need a valve.’ We’re currently googling it and if our search reveals no such item for fast flowing feeders like myself, then we may have found our new business venture. Stay tuned.

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I’m trying hard not to. Really, I am. But when he begins his wind up in the dark of night, my hand inevitably reaches out from under the cosiness of the doona for the small black alarm clock.

The maternal and child health nurse told me not to feed my first son any more frequently than three hourly…two and a half if I absolutely had to.  Because of this I watched the clock obsessively and did many laps of the block with my Phil & Teds in order to stretch out his next feed.  It did my head in and I vowed this time to just go with the flow, to feed on demand (within reason…whatever that is). But it takes extreme willpower and a nudge or three from my husband to get me out of bed during the night to feed, so needless to say, I want to know that my effort is in response to a reasonable request, and the clock guides my reaction to the squawk from the nursery.

In the first week or so I tried using the time thing overnight to nudge my husband out of bed for settling duties, stating firmly in my husky voice that I simply couldn’t fulfil that role because our child would smell my delicious milkiness and decide, regardless of the actual reason for awakening, that he wanted to feed. Doesn’t work now…my husband is on to me and sees it for what it is…procrastination and denial.

During the day I try to glance at the clock only fleetingly, avoiding lengthy (purely due to the heaviness of The Fog) time calculations. If the hour hand has moved roughly two numbers along, I relent and unclip the bra. If it’s moved three or more numbers along I feel relieved and proud (of him or me, I’m not sure).  If it’s moved even further than four numbers around the clock face I feel like the luckiest person alive – a slightly different reaction to my ‘Oh god, what if he’s dead in in his cot?’ frame of mind when my first born had a lengthy sleeping stint.

Oh, and sometimes I check the clock to work  out when my next feed is due, and whether it is reasonable to squeeze in a chocolatey snack before the next main meal (for the record, it is always reasonable, according to the objective clock).

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There’s plenty to whinge about when it comes to life with a newborn, but there are some benefits associated with this chaotic, exhausting time.

Larger breasts and cleavage have been a novelty for me. Unfortunately I know from experience that not only will these full, life-giving organs shrink when breastfeeding ceases, but I will be rendered even less womanly than I was before pregnancy! Perhaps the World Health Organisation is onto something when it suggests breastfeeding for two years…

Wearing trackies and Ugg boots is another benefit, as is showering in the second half of the day. Any excuse to wear my comfy clothes is warmly welcomed, but when does the newborn-in-the-house concession expire? When will I be expected to dress up a bit more, perhaps upgrading to jeans and slip-ons? Maybe the time has already passed and I’m just oblivious to the disapproving vibes from my more decently clad family and friends. And what about the shower thing? When will I have to be showered and shampooed before lunch, even in the absence of a morning appointment or outing?

I see other mums at the shops and can’t help but note their appearance, generally in stark contrast to my loose, elastic, sensible clothing. I wonder if they have been planted there by a higher power to make a point…something along the lines of ,’There ain’t no excuse woman!”. These mothers have shiny hair and wear eyeshadow,  jewelery and heels. They are showered, probably wearing perfume and looking calm. God damn them, making me look bad. Don’t they know about the unspoken concessions of trackies and Uggs? If they do, then the only possible explanation is that they have 24 hour nannies, in house stylists and predictable, perfect babies. God damn them!

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