Category: Spawn

This article talks about the good stuff associated with having to have a c/s. Mainly, a living baby.

The article raises a lot of issues for me – mainly because I still feel crap about not experiencing the labour I had imagined. And worse, experiencing a procedure that was about as far from the what I had imagined as it could be. Of course, having a live baby is very important, of course I would be feeling a lot worse today if I didn’t have the squishy guy around, of course I acknowledge that his life is of primary importance.

But if, for a second, we can separate the outcome for Inigo, and the outcome for me, the C/S was a horrible experience for me. Still 18 months later, I think of those minutes of fear, and huddles of medical personnel, the haste which overcame the importance of treating me like a person instead of a host organism, the LOSS OF CONTROL, and I can’t read that article dispassionately.

And when I hear of someone cheerfully planning a C/S, being upbeat about the positives (I can make dinner for my husband before I go in to the hospital!), I feel sick inside. I’m sure that a rational me would be fine about all of this – but that’s the point. I lost that rational part of me in the confusion 18 months ago, and I don’t know where to find it again.

I’ve bought “Birth Crisis” by Sheila Kitzinger, now I just have to psyche myself into reading it.

He talks, he plays the recorder. He dances, he is obsessed with cheese, and he gives the wettest kisses.

18 months have turned this beautiful baby into an amazing little person.

Tantrums, an embarrassing obsession with “In The Night Garden”, amazingly good fine motor skills, and not so advanced gross motor skills. He can put all his shapes in the shape sorter, but falls flat on his face when he tries to run.

His communication skills are fantastic. He seems to be learning new words (multiple) every day, and this morning said quite clearly “ball gone”, a two word combination, which is pretty good for an 18 month old.

He still gets very cross when either Mark or I leave him, and still becomes absolutely desolate at the gym. We’ve been going at least twice a week for the past few weeks, and is now playing happily with the toys, interacting with the child care worker, and has a wonderful time, until I stand up to go. He ramps up into an desperate wail, which takes some minutes to calm. I suppose I can use my gym membership to get some study done!

A ball flying through the air is still the funniest thing he has ever seen, loving Daisy is a new obsession (one that Daisy isn’t too keen to comply with), and there is nothing more satisfying than spreading the recycling from one end of the house to the other.

Equal parts of determination and delight, life with Inigo is a rollercoaster of laughter and tears, and though it’s hard to know where he’s heading, it’s the best ride of m life.

And in case you can’t tell from the photo, I think he’s beautiful.

So far, my Mothers Day experiences haven’t lived up to the “Hallmark Commercial” expectation. Last year, Inigo decided to stop breastfeeding, preferring to scream until he got the formula that he knew I had to give him.

This year, he woke up screaming at 4am, and alternated screaming and using me as a chew toy for over an hour, before I gave up and asked mark to deal with him. Some panadol later, and we got to sleep in until 8am.

For many of us, Mothers Day has an expectation that we will be appreciated for what we do every day, year in, year out, and rarely get thanked for. For some, it’s time to put your feet up, expect breakfast in bed, delivered by clean angelic children in pristine white clothing, accompanied by a ruggedly handsome man with a twinkle in his eye. But for most, it’s a day like every other day, with, perhaps, a card, and a special lunch, and that’s about it.

So what is it really about?

After reading this post, I know what it’s about. It’s about introspection, and thinking about the good parts of mothering, and glossing over the crap. It’s about recognising the freaking awesome it is to know the love of a child. And knowing that no matter how much they love you, you’ll always love them more.

Years ago, when I was adamant that I was never going to have a baby, my mum said that she worried that I would miss out on “something”. She never articulated any more than that, just that there was a certain something that I would never experience if I didn’t have a child.

And today, I understand. You were right mum.

After a nice nap in the car, he wasn’t ready to run riot, so an extended snuggle was in order.

Found this article today. If you’ve ever been cranky at me for forgetting to call you, here is a good explanation. It’s not an excuse, but it might give those of you without children some insight into the life of a full time parent.

For what it’s worth, I could have written that letter myself, a few years back 😉

We’re damned if we go back to work and put the kid in childcare, and we’re damned if we stay at home and contribute nothing to society (except -hopefully- a well rounded citizen!).

Since I’ve made the choice to make Inigo my full time job, I’ve been worried that Inigo will miss out on all sorts of things because he’s not getting professional childcare. He misses out on finger painting, on craft projects, on organised play, on group sing-a-longs, and he misses out on play with large numbers of other kids.

Every second Tuesday, he spends the whole day with his cousin Ella at Bev Ted’s, and as often as we can arrange it, he gets to play with Alex, and Oscar, and Owen. But he very rarely spends time with groups of kids, barring playgroup, which we often miss because he is sleeping.

I’ve found out that traumatic birth can often have a deleterious effect on long term emotional well being. Apparently many children that have early maternal deprivation can tend to be fearful and clingy as children. I’ve wondered if maybe sending him to childcare might be a good thing, to draw him out and help him develop socially. I’ve worried about everything. And since he spends 24 hours a day with me, 6 days a week, I worry that our closeness means that he is missing out on other social opportunities.

The other part of my brain wouldn’t have it any other way, and I firmly believe that close attachment is important, especially while he is little, and especially because of his rough start.

And yesterday, I met up with the sling mammas at Broadway shopping centre, and Inigo got to spend an extended time in the centre’s play area. He is happy to toddle off and play with others, he loves being independent, he assumes every other kid adores him (and most of them do), and he is thrilled to discover a new skill, always looking to me to share the joy with a little “Yay!”.

Apparently, despite my fears, he’s secure.

Inigo learned to go down a slippery dip yesterday. Sometimes, he even went down the right way, but I was too proud to remember to take a picture.

And when we arrived at the shopping centre, I went to get him out of his car seat, and he proudly presented me with a finger full of snot. He’s learned to pick his own nose. His father is very proud.