Progesterone and Bed Rest

That is what saved my second child's life. Some would argue it was prayer, or God's will, but to be honest I don't put much stock in either of those things these days. No, I put my faith in modern medicine, and my faith was rewarded.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

On the 16th of November I found out I was pregnant again.

It was a mere six weeks after my second miscarriage, and I was patiently awaiting my first period post-D&C. While I had dealt with the emotional fallout from yet another loss, I would be lying if I said it hadn't left me feeling a little nervous about falling pregnant again. Rod and I had agreed to wait until the new year before even thinking about trying for another child, and we hadn't been intimate since I had last fallen pregnant. I just wasn't ready. After my last post - my cleansing - with my confidence renewed and my burdens lifted, we indulged in a little morning delight. I thought nothing of it; after all, it had been a month since my D&C, and any day my cycle would resume its monthly dance across the calendar.

But when Fate intervenes, she always has her way.

D and C are silent letters

I have always considered myself a brave person. Not in the traditional "ride my faithful steed into battle" sense (although, if it came down to it, I don't think I'd have any trouble ending someone), but in the sense that I've never had trouble facing situations bigger than myself. I take pride in my Viking blood. I might shake in my boots, but steadfast I stand. I am open and honest about who I am, I am willing to make myself vulnerable at the risk of mockery and abuse, I am willing to take on any responsibility that may find itself at my door, and I am willing to admit my faults and my mistakes. Every time life has stuck a lance through me, I've stood back up, wiped off the blood, and snarled "come at me, bro". I like to think I do this with grace, but more often than not it is a bloody affair, grotesque to behold. I value my scars. I take strength from my courage.

But today I don't feel strong, and I don't feel brave.

As I type this I am shaking, my palms are sweaty, and my heart is pounding.

I have many reasons for writing about this now. None of them are for attention or pity. I despise both of these things. I write this because, while I may be private, I am not secretive. I write this to hopefully curb insensitive questions. I write this because there is therapy in confession. I write this because I am not ashamed. I write this because it is my truth. And the truth will always out.

On the 1st of April I suffered my first miscarriage.

Busy Days and Sleepless Nights: Bunking With My Hooligan

For my sins, I have never been a good sleeper.  The interior of my skull is a noisy place, and it is seldom that I am able to ignore the noise sufficiently to put together 8 contiguous hours of sleep.  From a child-rearing point of view, this is fantastic, because every parent in the world has entered into the unwritten agreement with their children that sleep is a thing of the past, banished to the same realm as dinner in quiet restaurants and furniture not decorated with brown handprints.  While my son is not as bad as some of the protagonists of horror stories I have heard from friends and colleagues, when he decides sleep is simply not part of his schedule, he certainly sticks to that decision.

Never was this more evident than the recent holiday I took with my wife and son to the majestic Natal Midlands.  For my wife and I, this was to be four days of bliss in (Relative) silence in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.  For my 2-year-old son Ricky, however, this was a whole new set of shit to climb on and break and explore and drag into the house and put in his mouth and break some more.  I have never seen him as turnt up as he was during this holiday, and his normally endless reservoir of energy seemed even more endless, like some ungodly perpetual motion machine.  You would think that all that activity would tucker him out, but no sirree, when bedtime rolled around the little bugger was just as amped as ever.

Ricky's First Holiday {In Pictures}

On the 26th of February Rod and I had officially been together for ten years. To mark the occasion we thought we'd take a trip back to the Midlands where Rod had proposed five years earlier. We also thought it would be the perfect place for Ricky's first holiday, since we had yet to take a family trip after his birth nearly two years ago! The Midlands is a beautiful part of our diverse country, and definitely one of my favourite places to holiday, and the endless green proved popular with our little man who ran around like a crazy person, exploring every nook and cranny. We booked a cottage at Caversham Mill for three nights, and were told upon arrival that we had been moved to a bigger cottage. Our "backyard" led right down to the Lions River, with beautiful views stretching across miles of endless green. I didn't object. 

On the second day we ventured into Pietermaritzburg to visit my Grammy before heading into Durban for a couple hours. My aunt Anne lives in Durbs, so we met up with her for a coffee and a catch up on the promenade before letting Ricky barrel head first into the ocean. If there are two things that Ricky loves, it's sand and water, so he was in hog heaven! We didn't even have a chance to change him into his cozzie before he was waist deep in waves, so we just let him at it. I was quite impressed with his boldness; not once did he cry or run (except into the sea), and when a big wave took his feet out from under him, he just laughed and stood up for more. Needless to say, his battery was flattened by such a busy day and he slept like a log.

What Binds Us Together, What Tears Us Apart

"The moment the child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new."

No matter how many times you may read that, how many times you may meditate on the sentiment, until you are born as a mother you will and can never understand it. I don't say this out of arrogance or self-conceit, it is a simple truth. The birth of a child means the rebirth of a woman. She is taken apart and remoulded, in the blink of an eye. On the outside we look the same, but on the inside we are changed, left open and vulnerable, at the mercy of this tiny child we hold in our arms. Yes, motherhood, it is one of the great deciders. A decider of who we are, what we will become. It makes us or it breaks us. It is a glorious journey of self rediscovery, a journey we gladly embark on, filled with hope and possibility. We meet not only our child, but the new us. The us we call mother.

But despite the wonder of motherhood, for many, including myself, it can be a time of great loneliness. Where unshakable relationships once stood, now chasms gape. The distance between mother and non-mother widens, by no fault of anyone, but by the simple passing of time. Canyons eroded by priority and misunderstanding. Yes, motherhood, it is what binds us together, and what tears us apart.

Why I've Chosen To Raise My Son Away From The Church (or, Hit Me With Your Comments About How I'm Going To Hell)

I am not an atheist. Neither is my husband. Rod is Christian Lebanese, which is just another way of saying he was raised Catholic, while both of my mother's parents were Wesleyan missionaries, my Grammy still being an active member of her church. I was raised in a moderately Christian home, attending a wide variety of churches throughout my formative years, and schools that encouraged prayer and the singing of hymns at our weekly assembly.

Yet, from a young age I knew the route I wanted to take in terms of raising my children. And it was not to be a religious one. When it came time for Rod and I to discuss our ideas, I was overjoyed to find that his sentiments echoed my own. Church has never been for me. In fact, religion is not for me. I have tried, a number of times, but have never found solace in ritual or dogma. If anything, they set my teeth on edge. I am, I suppose, what one might label as spiritual. I have very strong beliefs, but they are not to be contained within four walls on consecrated ground. Rod, on the other hand, attended a Catholic school for his entire career and, as a result, has chosen to part ways with Mother Mary and her rosaries, but not with the concept of a God. It has been suggested that I was the catalyst for his departure but, if you'll allow me to address that theory, he hadn't considered himself a Catholic for a number of years before we even met.

Momma's Getting Her Groove Back

One of the hardest things about motherhood, possibly THE hardest, at least from where I'm sitting, is seeing yourself as a woman again after baby. Too many of us slip into the habit of being "just a mother", and forget that there are many mantles we must wear. Mommy, wife, lover, friend, companion, WOMAN. Too often we forget what we were before we had a baby asleep in its crib and a lounge floor covered in scattered toys and bread crumbs. I had an amazing pregnancy, I adored carrying my tiny bundle around inside of me. And I felt empowered by my little man's tiny and growing presence. I took strength from him when I felt weak, and shared all of my thoughts and dreams with him before he'd drawn his first breath. And I loved the way my pregnant body grew and changed. I enjoyed all the new curves - the fullness of my thighs, the weight of my breasts. I felt, for the first time in my life, that I had purpose. True purpose. A calling. I felt calm, at peace, and full. I was woman. But, after a few months of erratic sleep patterns, feeding bras and ponytails, not to mention a year of being little more than a milk dispenser to a very hungry child, it's not hard to see why the former womanly you may take a back seat.

Things That Really Piss Me Off (Now That I'm a Mom)

It's no secret that becoming a parent really shifts one's world view. Pick up any mom and baby magazine, chat to any new mom or dad, they all say the same thing - the world just looks different. When a child is born, so is a parent. It's as if a switch is flipped in your head, sharpening your vision, forcing you to confront those things that have only ever been peripheral to you. The days seem shorter, the failing education system scares the crap out of you, small dangers are vastly more terrifying. And things you took for granted, or never even really thought about, piss you off.

Over the past 15 months my own world view has been radically altered. The manner of my little man's arrival certainly jostled my brain into high gear but, if I'm honest with myself, the true eye opener happened a little over a month before I first saw his precious face.

Ricky's First Birthday - In Pictures

A party with the family...

Mommy worked hard on this birthday cake!

It's Been Way Too Long...

It's been a little while since I last posted here. It's not that I forgot about this little blog of mine, or that I've been lazy or busy, or whatever other excuse modern mothers use. I've simply not known what to write about.

I could have told you about Ricky weaning himself two weeks early. I could have told you all about his first birthday. I could have told you about his first steps, the fact that he's not only walking but running, or the way he climbs everything he lays his eyes on. But I just never found myself sitting down with my laptop to say any of these things. So allow me to catch you up on the goings on in Mommy's life.

Weaning Baby

When Rod and I first found out that Ricky was on the way, I made the promise to myself and my unborn child that I would breastfeed for a year. I know the experts claim that a child should be breastfed for at least two years but, all due respect to them and my son, that just isn't going to happen. I miss pretty, lacy bras! I miss low-cut tops! I miss feeling that special sort of sexy that feeding bras just don't lend to an outfit, no matter how well put together. Right after Ricky was born I was given about a million and one clothing vouchers - which I spent in record time on some gorgeous stuff! - but I am yet to even wear some of it! Hell, don't get me wrong, Carriwell makes a damn comfortable feeding bra! But they don't really fit under that pretty, lacy cami. I despise seeing a new mother walking in the mall with her babe in her arms and her bra on display for all to admire. Shoulder straps are an inevitable part of life, but when I can see the back strap with the catches sticking out above the back of a shirt, or the top of a cup peeking out of a dress, I feel ill. Having a newborn is no reason to look slovenly! And so I patiently sit with a closet full of gorgeous new clothing waiting for the day I can again don La Senza!

The Things I Learned This Christmas

And a happy new year!

Boy, am I glad it's a new year!! Not that 2013 wasn't an awesome year for me (obviously), but as soon as the year begins to draw to a close, I become decidedly restless. I'm one of those people whose energy levels begin to dip towards the festive season, not because I hate Christmas - au contraire! - but because I know how much energy and obligation comes with the Christmas period. And a part of me suffers those emotions long before the first mince pies are out of the oven!

This year, because it was Ricky's first Christmas, we headed off to Rod's folks' place in Klerksdorp, my mom in the back seat and a boot full of presents, so that all the grandparents could have the privilege of spending this time with the first grandchild of this generation. I had made the (foolish) assumption that three days with grandparents, aunt and uncle would provide Rod and I a few moments to ourselves to relax, but I couldn't have been more off the mark. This Christmas marked the hardest I have worked as a parent thus far, including the sleepless nights in the early days. And taught me a couple valuable lessons.

Chewing on Mistletoe

And, just like that, we're thirteen days from Christmas! Where has the year gone!? I'm looking especially forward to the festive season this year - I simply cannot wait to celebrate with my little man! We're heading off to Rod's folks' place in Klerksdorp for a few days to put our feet up and eat ourselves silly. And, of course, open the millions of gifts that everyone has bought for Ricky. My mom is sharing the car ride with us and I'm already starting to question where we'll put everything... But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. On the first, as per tradition, our Christmas tree went up, and the next morning over breakfast my little magpie did nothing but stare at the bright and shiny ornaments. He was quite simply enamored with it. It's going to be lovely watching him rip the wrapping paper from his gifts, before shoving it in his mouth by the fistful. The toys will come in handy in a few months, but for now the paper will be his entertainment. He can't seem to get enough of it!

Skinny Bitch

When a woman falls pregnant - and I feel particularly well-placed to make this statement, having been pregnant - it seems that all the naysayers she has ever known crawl out of the woodwork to pour acid on the special time, as if it somehow makes them better or wiser for having seen the world for what it really is. At least that was my experience. What it really made them was rude and uncultured shitheads. Instead of wishing me well, I was showered with comments such as "You know you're giving up sleep for the next five years, right?" and "You're going to lose your figure, I hope you like being fat!" I laughed off most of these brazen and bitter comments, I was ready for a change! I wanted it! If I wanted to sleep through the night or not have the responsibility of caring for another human being 24/7, I would never have had a child. I didn't make this decision blindly.

Babies Don't Come With Hands-Free Kits

So I mentioned last week that I was headed for the doctor's office to check out the root of my aching finger joints, and we have an answer to the million dollar question. I'm pleased to report that it is not arthritis. Nor is is repetitive strain injury. I was quite surprised to discover what was (and still is) causing me excruciating pain - something called Raynaud's phenomenon. If I cast my mind back to high school, I do recall hearing the term in biology class, back when schools still taught actual subjects instead of pretending to. I will, however, not pretend to know everything there is to know about it, and so I did a little extra reading.

There are several contributing factors but, in my case, this is how my doctor explained it to me. When one's blood pressure is low, the body responds by constricting the peripheral blood vessels (in the fingers and toes) to keep blood circulating closer to the heart. This causes cramping and joint pain in the digits due to the lack of blood circulation. On Friday my blood pressure was 85 over 50. To put this into perspective, average blood pressure is about 120 over 80. Throw into the mix the fact that I am anaemic - largely due to a history of anaemia and partially due to the fact that I am still breastfeeding - and the situation is exacerbated.

The Most Boring Post Ever

Here's a photo that has absolutely nothing to do with this post at all.

Oh, it has really just been one of those weeks. Last week I found I just had nothing to share and so, instead of forcing the issue for the sake of posting, I chose rather to take the week off. Go me! But, despite the fact that I have as little to say this week as I did last, I felt I could not neglect my little blog yet again! And so here I am! Prepare to be dazzled by the most tedious of news items!

A few weeks back I broke my little toe on Ricky's pram. I don't think I've mentioned it, mostly because it's such a lame thing to break. My hardcore reputation would have been better upheld if I'd perhaps been driven through with a lance while fighting dragons but, alas, a broken digit is all I was afforded. After a few days of limping around and a further few of tentative walking, it was sufficiently healed for a more normal mode of locomotion and slightly sexier shoes. And the heavens rejoiced. Something as small and insignificant as a broken toe is somewhat amplified when one's day consists of carting a 9kg baby up and down stairs, I was surprised to discover. I've had more fun.

The Importance of Getting Dirty

A healthy diet of leaves and dirt

For those of you who haven't been paying close attention, let me state for the record that I am a decidedly old-fashioned kind of mom. I believe in the old style of parenting. No prenatal classes or any of that jazzy crap for us. No Baby Gym to help us celebrate our child's mediocre (and inevitable) achievements as though they've just won the Nobel Prize in Physics. No hand sanitiser in the nursery, no wildly expensive organic baby food for our little man, no sterilising every little thing he may happen to lay his hands on. I am often agitated when visitors keep telling me what Ricky is doing or where he is going, as though I am not watching. "He's going toward the coffee table!" Yeah, and? "What if he bumps his head?" Then he bumps his head and he feels a little pain, or not, and learns to be more careful. Life happens. Sure, I don't intend leaving power tools or a barrel of scorpions or a set of newly sharpened Shogun knives lying around where Ricky can get to them, but I refuse to envelop my home in bubble wrap for fear that my child may actually experience a little of what we call living. If a parent chooses to wrap their own child in cotton wool and hide them away from the world for fear it may actually impact them in some way, that is their prerogative; but I am the parent who can't remember the last time I sterilised a bottle or sippy cup, and I let my son roll around on the floor with the cat. He enjoys the freedom, and that makes me happy. Don't mistake my relaxed attitude for neglect, though. I have taken every precaution to latch cupboards that may house anything detrimental to the well-being of my little explorer, and I keep an ever-watchful eye on the goings-on in my home. I just believe in getting dirty.

A Little Sad, But a Little Relieved

Once upon a time, before I was Mommy, I was approached by a woman who was starting an online magazine for moms in business. She was trying to get a few people interested in writing articles, and asked if I was keen. Of course I was! I have no clue how she got my name, and I didn't ask. The magazine, I was told, would touch on all things woman - health, beauty, food, home, children, you name it - and it seemed like the perfect place to cut my teeth with regards to writing. This was not long before Ricky was born, and I was still intent on continuing with a career in events, so I was perfectly placed to write about being a new mom in business - the ups and downs of new mommyhood, juggling a business and a new baby, amusing anecdotes of day-to-day life... We went back and forth for a little while, and eventually it was decided that I would be a regular contributor. We both felt that my style would work better as a column rather than a once-off article - there is just so much happening in a new mom's life! And so, at my suggestion, I submitted a couple articles for her to read to get a feel for my style and content - she gave me absolutely no direction in this regard, so I went with what I considered safe topics, hoping she would give me a little feedback for editing. Well, that was three weeks after Ricky's birth - and I'm still waiting.

Om nom nom nom, CHICKEN!

Can you believe we're already nearing the end of October!? It seems every time I look up I have to change the page on our kitchen calendar! Tomorrow our little man is 7 months old - how time flies! He's mastered the art of sitting unsupported, making me one very happy and proud mommy!

Look at that handsome man!

Ricky's still experiencing severe separation anxiety - he is now permanently glued to my side throughout the day to assuage his fears. I don't mind in the least, I love spending time with my little man, but it does break my heart when he cries for me if I leave the room. Earlier today I took advantage of his cheerful mood and left him playing on his mat to grab a quick bite to eat. I couldn't have been in the kitchen for more than a minute when he started crying. That crying turned to wailing which turned to shrieking, all in a period of about 30 seconds, and I grabbed everything I needed to finish off in the lounge. That's when I realised that Ricky's cries sounded closer than the lounge. A LOT closer. I stuck my head out of the kitchen to see that he had leopard crawled his way out of the lounge and most of the way to the kitchen in search of me. My heart shattered. His face was streaked with tears and the look of utter despair I found there made me want to cry. I could do nothing but sweep him up in my arms and just hold him.

Separation Anxiety and a Pearly White

Momma and her little man - then and now
1 day old and 6 months old 

When Ricky was born, there were a few concerns among the people around me that I may struggle to bond with my new little bundle. Due to a few complications I spent the first day and a half of Ricky's life tucked away in what appeared to be a storage room in High Care while he was safely ensconced in the nursery in the light and airy Maternity Ward. But, despite a separation that felt like eons, all I could think about was my little man and how much I wanted to see him. And when I did, the bond was instant. Of course, for the first few weeks of Ricky's life, I was little more to him than a milk machine and changer of nappies, but something in his eyes when he looked at me let me know that he knew I was Mommy. Now, six and a half months down the line, I have my incontrovertible proof - the onset of separation anxiety.