So how do we justify a decision to bear children?

I recall a discussion with my brother a couple of years ago, when we were in the decision-making phase of child number two, and wrestling justifications for either side of the to-have or not-to-have argument. He didn’t agree with some of my rationale, nor I with his…so who was right? Clearly, I was. I always am. I cited reasons such as having a sibling for child number one and wanting to see if I could cope better with those early days second time around.  Admittedly, the former justification weighed a little more heavily and probably sits more comfortably with most, but the latter is also truth.

And so I got to wondering about what justifications for having kids other people provide, either stated overtly or swimming silently through their minds. Is it a basic obligation to prop-up the population? An egotistical desire to see our genes laid before us? A desperate attempt to be needed, dependent upon and loved unconditionally? A mere excuse to escape paid employment for a period of time? A misguided decision to get enlarged breasts on the cheap or receive money from the government?

Parenting is full of dodgy decisions and even more appalling justifications. But the eased guilt or remedied indecision is justification enough. Right?

My body weakens, my mind resembles an icecream, clumsily dropped on the pavement, succumbing to the warmth of the sun – my capacity to make decisions, to plan, melts away. The pendulum of emotion begins to swing less wildly, rather hanging limply with barely perceptible movement. I am nearing Point Break.

It’s not one thing or another. If I could decompartmentalise my life and experience each aspect in isolation, I would be fine.

If all I had to deal with was one task or one challenge or one crisis at a time, there would be no blog post.

If all I had to do was deal with a clingy baby, with no need for doing the washing or vacuuming…

If all I had to do was come home from work and make dinner with no thought for bathing or lunch preparation…

If I had an entire day to devote soley to being enthusiastic, energetic and loving towards my volatile school boy with no thought for making beds, doing the shopping or dealing with a clingy baby…done.Well, done better, anyway.

But the reality is that life is not so neat or manageable.

Point Break is the snapping of ligaments as a consequence of being pulled in multiple directions, simultaneously. It is failing to re-fuel when the red light indicates a near-empty tank. It is wading through deep, murky water, unsure of your footing and what lies ahead.

But I sit, reassured in the knowledge that Point Break is not to be confused with The Point of No Return. All I need is a map, clear directions and a full tank*. That’s all.

*A house cleaner, cook, live-in nanny for the middle of the night wakenings, daily massages and hot baths wouldn’t be wasted either.

I have recently finished using your product ‘Liquid Gold’ (scientifically known as ‘breastmilk’), and so am writing to provide some feedback.

What I love about Liquid Gold is its portability. In my experience it has been readily on tap – at the right temperature and in the right amount. Both its incredible cost effectiveness and its ease of use makes it a stand out product in its category.

There are however, a few frustrating aspects of Liquid Gold that I would like to draw to your attention:
1. Whilst it can, with much time, effort and mess, be provided to the baby by a man, its great dependence on mothers can be burdensome. Is it possible that you could look into somehow making it ‘on tap’ by men as well?
2. No where on the packaging does it state the potential for addiction. I am convinced that my youngest child developed an addiction of sorts, perhaps to Liquid Gold itself, but also to the method by which it is delivered (even more reason to look into the issue above)
3. The well advertised benefits of increased protection against all things nasty (germs, allergies etc) have eluded my youngest. He has seen very few days in his 11 months of ‘good health’ – coughs, snuffles, tummy upsets – and has shown signs of eczema from early on. Are the benefits supposed to be immediate and for the duration of the product’s use, or is this ‘protection’ only evident in later years? Do the benefits cease to apply if the child has an older sibling who attends child care or school, or the child himself attends child care with all of its festering ill health?
4. When a decsion has been made to stop using Liquid Gold, I have had issues with pipe blockages. Is there an inbuilt mechanism within the product that makes it difficult to stop using it, or is there a fault somewhere along the tubes?

Thank you for your time.

Regards,
P. Runes

And that’s the end of that chapter.

He is all over me, like a fly on fresh poo, all the time. It’s not enough for me to be in the same room or within eyesight, he has to be ON me. And no, it’s not my husband.

The Baby loves me dearly, as I do him, but I’m starting to wonder if there is actually some magnetic mechanism connecting the two of us. Something that results in pain for him if the physical distance is too great, and overwhelming joy and relief if he is in direct contact with me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my reactions are the polar opposite, but I don’t seem to suffer the effects of the magnets quite so acutely.

The funny thing is that this only works if he knows I’m around. If I’m not in the house at all, he does not suffer a complete meltdown, balling inconsolably until my return. But the moment I’m within view or sound – BANG! – the magnets fire up and he charges, rather slowly and awkwardly in his crawl-come-bum shuffle way, towards me, crying and whinging until the pain subsides upon contact.

And so, this little magnet of mine clings to me as though his life depends on it. I guess it’s understandable, given that his life did actually depend on it when he was solely breastfed. And I do give a damn fine hug. But it wears a little thin at times, not only with me but with the School Boy, who battles for my attention and hugs. We may well need an examination to locate these magnets and surgery to remove them, but that sounds a little scary. He is my baby, and, as I’m constantly informed by mothers who are further along the journey than I am, the magnets will likely begin to repel at some stage and I won’t be able to get him close enough for a hug.

So perhaps, rather than the more invasive and drastic treatment, we’ll opt for the conservative approach  -

1. distraction
2. sneaking (so as not to be heard or seen when I actually need to complete a task without a 10kg leech attached to me)

I am otherwise clung.

And you know that depth of fatigue that convinces you to forget about the state of the house and rest while the Baby does? And the luck of the day that means that the Baby wakes a painful 10 minutes after you have raised those aching feet off the ground and rested that throbbing head on the pillow?

And the all consuming fatigue that nearly causes you to fall asleep during dinner, even though it is scrumptious and you have the appetite of a horse?

Sympathy cards most welcome.

We recently welcomed the newest member of our extended family into the world. He is gorgeous and squeaks like a little bird. Only a week old, he sleeps, feeds and squirts. He is oh so cuddly and has major potential to wreak havoc on women who are prone to the clucks.

Mother nature cannot be trusted. She has ulterior motives – namely, to expand the population. She brings these adorable little people into the world, complete with something (yet to be discovered) that sends pulses of motherly urges into unsuspecting minds. Before we know it, we are growing feathers and pecking at bugs. Memories of sickly or immobile pregnancies - wiped. Vivid recollections of labour and birth – majorly suppressed (to suggest that this could be erased would be a lie). The teary fog of sleeplessness – forgotten. The challenges of toddlerhood – tucked away in an awkward little corner of your mind.

If you’re not on guard, these impulses of the clucks can grab hold and turn into temporary insanity, during which you begin to seriously consider donating your body, your mind, emotions and hip pocket to another being. True stuff.

The thing is, these little cuddly squeakers grow, change and become real people with needs and impulses of their own. Unlike dogs they cannot be motivated or rewarded with cardboard-like snacks, locked up, kept on a leash or micro-chipped. They won’t be obedient just because you are their master, and they can’t be de-sexed. Kids can’t be booked into the Kennels when the travel bug bites, and the consequences of poor training are a little more significant than torn cushions and puddles on the carpet.

A dog is for life and so is a kid. So to all those ladies of child bearing age, BE ON GUARD (and consider getting a dog). Mother nature is after you.

Oh, and for those who may be wondering if the clucks have got me yet? NO CHANCE! I purchased an all-weather, cluck-resistant suit of armor that has a lifetime guarantee.

Pregnant women gets piles… of attention. Interested parties asking after her health, the baby’s growth, ideas for names. The bulge is like a beacon for attention, and with that often comes support. The woman continues to get some attention when the baby is first born, until the novelty of a new baby and mum wears off. Then the phone calls slow down, visitors dry up and casseroles cease to appear miraculously on the door mat.

Problem is, after those first couple of months the novelty of it all may have worn off for the woman too. Days at home with a gorgeous, unpredictable, sweet-smelling, pooing, spewing, crying baby can be long…really long. Lonely too… and boring. All too soon the reality of the transition into new parenthood sets in. And who’s there to check in on her? Please note: I am absolutely not forgetting the men, who never even get the attention and support to start with.

First time around I was the master of deception, of brave-facedness. I had a talent for smiling and laughing at the right time, of talking only about happy things and saving the tears and truth until Neighbours (or something of a similarly high caliber and emotive storyline) was on. Those closest to me knew what was going on for me, because keeping up appearances was too exhausting to maintain with everyone (and you figure that your family has seen you at your worst already…namely, in your somewhat emotional, horrid teens). But most people remained oblivious to my struggle.

Why? People don’t ask. People don’t delve. Perhaps people are more comfortable with the simple supermarket exchange. Or maybe they don’t  even consider that this mum is not finding her new gig as exciting and glossy as is often falsely portrayed. So, what I ask of you is this: if you know a new mum, or even one who has been at it for a while (let’s face it, the gig doesn’t get any easier) think about checking in with her.

Yes, the girls at child care love him, but I don’t think he’s broken any hearts there yet – they seem quite happy to share the four year old love and craziness. It’s my heart he’s breaking, and not because of his big brown eyes, cheeky nature or strange kisses. It’s because I’m not only his mummy now. I have another boy who demands a lot of my time, attention and affection (oh, and there’s the baby too). I have been well and truly shoved to the outer since his baby brother arrived.

Everyone tells me it’s ‘normal’ and it probably is. Still, when your Big Boy brings home a drawing of his family, complete with him, dad and the baby…hang on, complete? Ah, there’s the small omission of your mother, son. Or when he tells me to stay home while he goes to the park with dad, because it’s my job to look after the baby and the house (note: he has always known me as a working mummy). Or when he delights in telling me that him and daddy are going to have blue plates for dinner and I’m going to have a brown plate. Or when he wants dad to tell him ‘all those things’ (our little bedtime routine thing of talking about what we’ve done that day), every night. And the most recent, another drawing. At least I was in this one. Everyone else was drawn in pink pencil and I was drawn in grey. His explanation? ‘You got burnt in the fire mum’.

I’m trying not to break down in tears anymore, or let myself completely lose the plot in anger and frustration. I compliment him on his wonderful drawings and state indifference to the different coloured plate. With the help of a brilliant, calm husband, a baby who smiles at me no matter what and a newly acquired family nurse, I will ride the heart break and look forward to the day when it’s another girl’s heart he’s shattering.

Thing is, I rarely get to drink the deliciously dark, sweet guilt – I mean tea. Before even getting to the point of putting mug to lips, the kettle may boil half a dozen times. I either get distracted (life really is a series of distractions) or hear the little man call out from his cot as soon as  the ‘click’ of boiled water sounds. So, if I get to the point of adding hot water and a smallish (okay, generous) teaspoon of sugar (it’s raw…does that make it better?) to a mug with an Earl Grey teabag dangling innocently inside, it’s a miracle.

If the Gods are on my side I get to pick up the cup, sniff, blow and then sip. If the God’s are on my side. Generally that cup of saving grace remains on the kitchen bench getting stronger and colder until it’s beyond redemption. Life just interferes. I used to sigh and tip the cold, golden-brown liquid down the drain. Now, I do one of two things:

1. I pick it up, sniff, blow (not sure why…habit I guess, and distraction) and sip. But that’s as far as the guilty affair goes. Indulgence doesn’t taste as good when it’s been left to sit too long.
2. Avoid cold black tea by:

• leaving another task half-finished and sipping serenely
• letting the baby cry and gulping/choking the hot tea down
• drinking scolding hot tea while precariously clutching onto the rescued baby with the other hand, supported somewhat by a hip and held over the cushy rug (in case I drop the mug…or the baby).

The problem with these scenarios is that guilt and Earl Grey don’t mix too well.

It seems that cold black tea acts as a metaphor for life with kids – guilty intentions to indulge in a feel-good activity, interrupted; attempts to complete a task from start to finish, severed; plans, hopes, dreams left to sit on the bench, going cold (okay, a little exaggerated, but it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to). Perhaps I should stick to eating too much chocolate (that’s also in the Top 1000 list).

The Baby had his second round of jabs last week, so I guess that tells you what our stance on the subject matter is. It’s not nice really – hold him still while two nurses, one on either side, arm themselves with nasty looking needles and on the count of three plunge them into his chubby thighs. Pause. Silence. Drop of blood. SCREAM (his, not mine. I manage to keep it together…just). A feed soon comforts him for a little while, but he remains ‘precious’ (read: clingy, needy, whingy) for the rest of the day, and the day after that, and the day after that too.

So, why on earth would I put my son and myself through such trauma? Isn’t it just cruel and unnecessary? If someone was interrogating me across a small wooden table with steel legs and a two way mirror behind me, harassing me to justify putting my children through such experiences, I would pull a crisp white piece of paper, neatly folded in four, out of my pocket (because that’s the beauty of being a Control Freak…). It would read like this:

1. you shouldn’t discipline your kids, in case they get upset and that makes you feel bad
2. you shouldn’t deny your kids anything,  in case they get upset and that makes you feel bad
3. you shouldn’t give your child his antibiotics because he hates having to take it, and that makes you feel bad
4. show me the evidence (proper research, statistics and all) that I am causing harm to my child beyond short term discomfort and angst, and the evidence that the jab and its contents is more harmful to him than the disease itself (the interrogator will most likely look blank, shuffle his paperwork, shift in his chair, clear his throat and then excuse himself from the room, muttering something about a smart arse)
5. I was immunised as a child and there is nothing wrong with me (aside from the occasional brain fade…but don’t say that bit aloud)

You probably get my drift:

• short term pain, long term gain
• it’s not about me and my mother guilt, it’s about him and his future health
• prevention, not cure (a brief session of Google Imaging the other day, in an attempt to identify my Big Boy’s rash revealed hideous, painful looking photos of children with various preventable diseases… it just didn’t seem right or fair).

So, when December 2nd rolls around, we’ll be lining up again with a laminated number in a church hall, awaiting another round of jabs and an almighty scream at the conclusion of it. Tough love.