Category: The Life of Lara

It’s all here. Adventures in extreme knitting, the house of poop, and suburban permaculture. You may also find rants about politics, ecology, humanitarianism, responsible living, toe floss, and other topics not covered here. Expect profanity and irreverence. You have been warned.

Inigo is OK.

Still skinny – he is still 5.06kg, which he has been hovering around for the past five weeks, but the tests were pretty much clear.

The urine test showed possible contamination, so we have done a re-test (it was my cleaning Emily!), but she is pretty sure it will be fine. The other thing that we discussed is his iron levels – they should be between ten and thirty. At seventeen, the paed thinks it should be a little higher.

So tomorrow I am off to get another foul tasting liquid to give him twice a day to make up for the reflux meds that he isn’t taking any more (with no noticeable change in behaviour).

And I’m to wake him up for an 11pm feed – hopefully feeding him once more per day will start to make a bit of a difference to his weight.

He grew more than a centimetre in the 10 days since she last saw him, and his head got bigger too. He’s bright and active and alert, and apparently shows early signs of being a challenging toddler.

Hopefully, by the time he’s a toddler he won’t look like a chuppa chup any more.

So, on to me.

This last few weeks has been rough on me. Hearing that my little guy doesn’t have some foul wasting disease has been a huge weight off my shoulders, and also knowing that it’s not my fault is good too. Of course the first thing that you think of with something like this is that you have done something to cause the problem. Rationality is next to impossible.

In the last week I’ve tried feeding him more, feeding him more often, and obsessed about every little thing. Nothing made the slightest bit of difference, except that he spewed more and was grumpier. He is still 5.06kg.

Mum has been worried too. Unfortunately she chose tonight to grill me about my diet, and I wasn’t capable of hearing any criticism tonight. Then Mark had a grump at me when I asked him to put away his laptop and play with his son.

And I realised, with a crashing thud, that I have unrealistic expectations.

I realise that I won’t have a body like Kate Moss six weeks after I had a baby. Especially since I didn’t have one before.

I realise that having a clean house is something that is almost impossible to maintain at a high level once you have a child sharing your space. Especially since I was somewhat of a grot before.

I realise that I won’t always have perfect communication with my partner or my mother, they won’t always understand what I need unless I tell them, and there are some things about them that I will never understand. This one is something I have got better at, but we can all use some work in this area, right?

Now here’s what I don’t really get. I don’t get why a woman of my generation, who is supposed to “have it all”, is still controlled by guilt and fear of exposing a less than perfect underbelly. My mum had help from her mum in raising my brother and myself, and it’s her expectation that I will need help too. She wants to help. She has arranged to take time off from her highly stressful, very well paying job to help me clean up baby vomit. She offers to help all the time.

So why can’t I say yes?

Because women all over the country, and the world – my peers, don’t have help. They work full time, they clean their own toilets, they raise kids and they cook meals. They may be stressed, and they may be medicating their way through each and every day (or they may cope without pharmaceutical help, who knows), but they do it. And I don’t even have a job.

And when I ask Mark to help out with housework, I wish I didn’t feel that it’s unfair of me to ask him to do it after he’s been at work all day. That’s just plain stupid. He works for 8 hours a day, I’m on call for 24. He can have a bad day at work and break some code, if I have a bad day at work the consequences can be much worse.

So though I usually have a pretty healthy self esteem, there is something about this motherhood gig that raises the stakes, it not only makes us care more, it also makes us more vulnerable to self criticism.

My thinking brain knows that Inigo is a lot of work, and that if I don’t get some help I might not be able to cope in the long term, and yet I still feel like I don’t deserve help, that I should be able to welcome Mark home every night to a gourmet meal and a happy smiling baby.

The reality is that even if other women can cope, I can’t. And some help would be great. I just wish I could believe that I deserve it, that accepting it doesn’t make me a failure, and that Inigo will have a much better life if his mother gets a little R&R.

And now I am going off to have a little cry. Tomorrow will be better.

Weighty Issues

Two months ago, I was concerned about Inigo and decided to try to find a paediatrician that was sympathetic to, and supportive of breastfeeding. I was worried that his weight gain was a little slow, but I didn’t think that putting him on formula was the answer.

I did some research, and found a woman with a clinic at Westmead called Dr Patricia McVeagh. I had to wait two months for an appointment, and considered cancelling on more than one occasion. The initial consultation was quoted as “up to $300”, so we were obviously a little concerned about spending that much money when we could see the hospital paed for free.

So the 3rd of April comes around, and I hadn’t cancelled the appointment, so we went.

The same morning we also had an appointment with the hospital paediatrician, who said to up the dose of Losec, keep his head elevated for an hour after each feed, and give him rice cereal at his midday feed. I left in tears, mute, unable to express my frustration and powerlessness in the face of his paternalistic manner.

Thank god I had kept the other appointment!

Emily and I had planned to spend the day together, she found me in the waiting room before the second appointment, and she and Josephine were able to mind Inigo while the doctor chatted to me.

She spent ages with me, asked about his entire life story, and said that she doesn’t think he has reflux, that he DOES have a tongue tie, he DOES have a high palate, and she isn’t surprised that I had trouble breastfeeding!

She couldn’t find any obvious reason for his slow weight gain, but since he was the same weight that he had been 4 weeks previously, she is concerned. That one word was both a validation of everything I had been worried about, and an invitation to have all sorts of horrible fears traipse through my head.

The World Health Organisation recommends starting “family foods” (AKA solids) at 6 months, or when your baby shows interest. Starting earlier has long been recommended by doctors concerned about slow weight gain, but it isn’t an answer when you don’t yet know the question. We were sent for a series of blood tests, a urine sample was collected, and I collected a poo sample for pathology the next day.

Josephine was wonderfully supportive and helpful, and Emily was a star – she read the pathology request and interpreted the medical jargon for me. J babysat the boy while Mark and I went out to dinner with Emily and Clare, which was a splendid end to a horribly stressful day. Who better to reassure a paranoid mother than two doctors 🙂

So we have a follow up appointment on thursday, and this time I feel comfortable that I won’t be fobbed off and patronised, and that we WILL get to the bottom of what is happening for my poor skinny little guy.

The baby is asleep!

In his cot!

And I am not carrying him around the house in a sling, doing my poor crippled back in! And, for the first time in months, he fell asleep in the cot, without me having to cuddle him to sleep. I did sit in a chair beside the cot, and keep a hand on his chest as he fell asleep, but I was able to read a book at the same time.

It may not sound like much, but to me it is a minor miracle. Over the past few months he has been getting more and more dependant on me putting him to sleep, rather than him falling asleep on his own, and I was feeling more and more despair each day at the prospect of getting him to sleep. Last Tuesday, I decided that I was going to go back to the Tresillian method, and just wait out the inevitable pain.

Obviously, last week got the better of me, and I was gibbering mess by Wednesday afternoon. I gave up, and spent the last few days trying the “whatever it takes to get through the day” method. I hear this method is very popular with full time parents, but can lead to some long term issues!

It’s now an hour later, and he is still asleep! This must be the longest day sleep he has had in ages – barring those times when I have either slept with him, or just sat with him in the sling until he woke up.

And I have used my time constructively of course – I had a civilised lunch (with actual fresh vegetables – beats eating out of a can!), caught up on some email, chatted on the phone with a friend, and written a blog post.

I’ll clean up the kitchen during his next nap 😉

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Update: 8pm and he is asleep again after waking at 5.30pm for a meal. Again in his cot, with me sitting by his side. I did have to prop him up on a triangular pillow, which isn’t safe for overnight, so I’ll wait till he’s a little deeper asleep and take the pillow away.

Hard work

Img 1113

It’s very hard work trying to lift such a huge head off those tiny little shoulders!

Inigo was much better yesterday (no spewing after expressed breast milk that had been in the freezer, but spewed after I fed him). Mum and dad took him for a few hours while I went to the RTA and Medicare to get stuff replaced. He slept well all night, and today it’s been more of the same. Sleeps well in the sling, but spews if I try to lay him in the cot.

So I have 2 clues. Either whatever was in the older milk didn’t disagree with him, or limiting the amount he gets minimises the spew. Of course it’s hard to control the amount he gets when breastfeeding, and that’s against the whole principle of breastfeeding being easy and convenient.

Or the spewing is psychosomatic? He’s punishing me for putting him in the cot?

Faaaaaark.

Anyway, I refuse to let it get me down (for too long), and I refuse to be the mother that obsesses over every little thing the offspring does. I am keeping a food diary, and will attempt to track his good and bad days, and I’ll blog about it when I need to vent. But he isn’t dying, he isn’t losing (too much) weight, and we will get through this.

Thanks for the support and suggestions, I am OK, and Inigo will be too.

Another reason why parenting sucks

It is not possible to know all the answers. You can think that you have a clue, and then something happens to prove that instead of being a prodigy, you are instead in need of remedial help.

I “think” that the Losec has been helping. Inigo is screaming less, but still doing a good bit of crying. He has developed a bizarre addiction to infacol, and he stops crying instantly when I give it to him. I have a theory that the mint flavour reminds him of the Mylanta that used to make him feel better when her was refluxing, but of course, I could be insane (in fact, that is becoming more and more likely!).

Yesterday, I decided that only sleeping when he is being held won’t work for me long term, so I tried to get him to sleep in his cot during the day. I spent a long time settling, finally got him to sleep, only to have him wake up screaming.

I picked him up, he burped, and I tried to resettle him. And then he cried again, then spewed, then cried, then burped, then spewed, and then it was time for another feed. He hadn’t slept much since the last fed, and was really tired, so after burping him, I put him down again to sleep. Poor baby needed another burp, and had another spew. And again. The third or fourth time he spewed, it went all over my shoulder, down my back, down my jeans and splattered on the floor. A huge amount from little guy who had already had a couple of small chucks. On closer inspection, the spew was full of mucous.

He then went to sleep for a while, was unsettled for a bit longer, then had his last feed of the day, and eventually went to bed for the night. He slept well last night, but today has been a repeat of yesterday afternoon. While waiting for the GP today, he spewed down my jeans and onto the floor, via a puddle in my right shoe.

The GP thinks he is fine – it’s just a reaction to “something” I ate.

So now I suppose I have to research food intolerance and breastfeeding, and perhaps try an elimination diet. I’m not keen on the elimination diet idea, because it’s very likely to mess with my fragile mental health.

When is this supposed to start being fun exactly?

Apparently, I’m just rude

Somebody who I think is very polite just pissed off about 150 people by politely posting an opinion on a parenting message board. I hate the name “Hunter” too, and I’d feel physically ill if I meet a poor defenceless baby that was saddled with the name. But I was surprised at the venom directed at this very polite person.

So I suppose I am risking a little vitriol by posting this…

But it is funny 😉

What’s creepier?

A strange man asking to photograph your baby in a shop? Or finding your wallet isn’t in your bag a little while later?

I hate the idea of a stranger going through my stuff. There wasn’t any money in the wallet, but it’s a hassle to get a new drivers licence, medicare card, credit cards, etc… And a possibly irreplaceable photograph of my grandmother.

But a wierdo hanging around the baby while my back was turned really freaks me out. Whether he took my wallet or not, it was a really horrible feeling, and I am reminded that my sunny desire to see the world as a happy place isn’t always realistic.

Of course, Inigo was looking spectacular yesterday as we cruised Broadway shops (Miriam and I took the babies to a French film in the morning). He was wearing a new Jam Tot’s Berry Plush nappy, with a jaguar print. And no shirt, because it was hot. Like a mini Johnny Weisemuller. Or “George of the Jungle” for the younger folk. The boy had loads of admirers, in one shop it got quite embarrassing. Before my wallet got pinched, I bought him a classy t-shirt that says “Chicks Dig Me”.