On why I write

This is one of those blog-linkup things, wherein I've been nominated by another blogger (thank you Rachiebee) to write a blogpost about why I write.  And at the end I'll nominate two more bloggers to do the same.  If you follow the trail back you find some quite interesting blogs.  First in the virtual breadcrumb trail is Rachiebee - her blog really is true to its description of being a picnic of thoughts.  When I read Rachel's blog it's like she's right there in the room with me, as it's written exactly how she talks, which is to say in a bubbling stream of consciousness, full of delight and wonder at life.  I love listening to Rachel talk, mostly because I'm sort of quite introverted and don't do chatter, but I'm very happy to listen to someone who likes to give voice to all their thoughts.  And I could listen to Rachel all day.

Why do I write?

I write, I think mostly, to make sense of, and make fun of, my world.  At age thirty, I found myself in charge of a small human being, and very much not in charge of the thoughts and feelings that accompanied that new role.  My first blog posts were timid, a testing of the waters.  I kept my blog secret for quite a while, before sharing it with my mum.  Buoyed by her encouragement, I pressed on, finding a voice and style that suited me.  My blog posts often, but not always, use some combination of humour, some research, and some pithy reflection on the whole subject.  I like the discipline of a blog post, of having to get my ideas out there in 1000 words, to bring everything together in a neat, organised and thoughtful way, and having to find some pictures which neatly illustrate what I'm saying.  And secretly, I quite like watching my blog stats, and seeing how many people stumble on my blog every day.  It's not many, but hey, at least it's being read by someone.  And maybe, just maybe, my sons will one day read my blog and gain a new appreciation of the young woman who was their mother (and why she so frequently lost her shizz with them).

How does my writing differ from others in its genre?

My blog is most definitely a "mummy blog" (or a "mommy blog" if you're in North America), though there is a part of me that feels quite uncomfortable about that label.  There are many different types of mummy blogs.  I would say that one point of difference in mine is that I make a point, usually, of not blogging directly about my kids.  Usually I use something about their development or recent behaviour as a jumping off point for a post - but I try not to prattle on about the clever thing they did today.  Some stories are too good not to share, but for the most part I use them to mull over some aspect of the broader context or relevant research.

How does my writing process work?

It's pretty stop/start.  If I have an idea for a post, I try and get it down as soon as possible, with some notes on what I was thinking.  Then, when I have time to come back to it, I will write a bit more.  At any one time I have around 4-5 pieces I am actively working on, and I have another 30 or so draft posts in various states of completion, some of which will never see the light of day.  When one is getting near to completion, I'll often stay up late feverishly working on it, reading it, rereading it, adding photos, and checking it.  Even once a blog post is finished, I'll often leave it overnight before I post it, just to be sure I'm happy with it.  My time alone is minimal, so I write when, and where, I can.  Today I'm writing this post from the waiting room at the doctor's surgery, where I'm waiting to be seen for what I suspect is tonsillitis.  Writing is better than reading those germ-laden and outdated mags anyway, and it is a welcome distraction from people-watching.  The waiting room is crowded and there's a young woman across from me sobbing into her hands while her friend rubs her back.  I'm trying not to stare and hoping she gets seen by a doctor really soon, since we all know it's bad when you can't hold it together in front of 30 people in the waiting room. 

What am I working on?

Urgh, too much.  Lately I'm working on balancing motherhood with working, and trying not to lose my shit with my kids because of the sleep deprivation.  Did I mention that I'm really tired?  I'm working on getting more sleep.

Nominations

I am struggling with this, first because I don't have many blogger friends, and second because I don't like to force this self-expose of bloggery on the ones I do know.  However, if you're looking for some interesting reads, I recommend Tui Mamaki's blog on her adventures in Bulgaria - her writing is lush, like her gorgeous singing, or this new blog by another mama - she has an original and irreverent approach to healthy food.  Blog on!

My two cents on the paid parental leave debate

This post got really complicated.  I went down all sorts of wormholes, and argued with myself over children being a choice, delayed gratification, the widening gap between rich and poor, whether institutional childcare is better than parent-care (conclusion: you're going to screw your kids up one way or another), and the pay gap between men and women being caused by women quitting their jobs to raise children. 

[SPOILER ALERT]  So before we go on, and you see the remains of my complicated meanderings, I'm just going to come out with it:

We should allow parents to "cash in" a few years of their superannuation while they raise children.

Since, as the diagram shows, New Zealand's doing pretty piss-poorly in comparison to other countries when it comes to giving parents a financial helping hand.

Source (edits to put NZ on the map by yours truly)

So why is it that we don't value what parents are doing enough to give them a financial helping hand for much longer than a baby's sneeze?  

The short answer is, supposedly, the country can't afford it. 

Underlying this excuse is the implication that having children is a choice.  And yes, for most people it is.  A difficult one.

As we all know, the time to bear children is when you're young and healthy.  For a start, your fertility is less impaired (unless you count all that pot you smoked at university).  And you have the energy to run around after the little terrors.  Nights out partying are not such a distant memory that you can hack the sleep deprivation.  Mostly.

However, for many people, the time you're expected to produce a family is also around the same time that you're trying to make a bit of a life for yourself and gain some financial independence.  Perhaps pay off a student loan, buy a house, sort out some semblance of a career.  Taking unpaid time off work really hurts your chances in all of these endeavours.  It's simply the worst possible time.  

It's too bad the human body is not designed to have kids upon retirement.  Think of this: you've more than paid off your student loan, you're financially secure, and you suddenly have time on your hands. The only problem is, your knees don't work so well any more, and you need more nana-naps than a toddler.

So why not allow people to cash in a few years of their superannuation to enable their financial security while they take time off work to raise kids?  The average superannuation is around $350/week, which is probably about the average paid parental leave.  It's not huge, but for some people would make the difference between working and paying for childcare or staying home with their kids a bit longer.  

Frankly, I would happily give up a few years of retirement to have a little more paid time with my monsters.  Or maybe this just shows that I would have failed that delayed gratification test they do on 4-year-olds.  Gimme that marshmallow!

**Disclaimer: I should note that I get absolutely nothing out of promoting extended paid parental leave, as we are SO done with having babies.

Why toddlers are like teenagers

The toddler in our house is almost four, which I guess means he's about to graduate from official toddlerhood into a preschooler.  Friends of ours have a teenager in their house, and we occasionally swap stories about behaviours that are making us tear our hair out.  Last time we did this, we noticed some striking similarities.

They are utter hedonists.  The toddler: I want ketchup with my muffin.  I will only eat the icing off the cake.  I demand that you wrap me in that fluffy towel and carry me around like a baby.  The teenager: I'll eat frozen berries all day, while lounging in my dressing gown in a darkened room.

They are experimenting with the world.  The toddler: I want to see how that ketchup feels rubbed over my cheeks and legs.  I want to see what happens when I overflow the bathroom sink.  I like to unravel all the toilet paper.  The teenager: I wonder what happens when I eat frozen berries all day, in a darkened room.

The defiance.  The toddler: I won't get in that side of the car.  I want Daddy to read me a story, not you!  I wanted jam on that other piece of toast, not this one!  The teenager:  Yeah I'll tidy my room, like, never.

Incentives don't work.  The toddler: If you don't get your pyjamas on now, there won't be any bedtime stories.  I don't want a bedtime story!!  The teenager: If you don't do your chores, you can't go over to X's house. [Nonchalant shrug].

You may have difficulty getting them to bathe.   The toddler: I don't want a bath!  Don't wash my face!  The teenager: Lynx is my friend, showers are not.

Finding Emo

They are so emo.  So emo.  Need I say more?

They have strange sleep habits.  The toddler: likes to go to sleep with the light on, would prefer to stay up late and will still wake you in the night, occasionally has difficulty rising in the morning.  The teenager: will fall asleep in front of the computer if you let him, wants to stay up late, is almost impossible to get out of bed in the mornings.

In short, they will drive you crazy.  But every once in a while, they will let their guard down, and stop being defiant, emo and difficult.  Perhaps while they're asleep, perhaps at a creche or school dropoff where they're suddenly struck with uncertainty on not seeing their friends. You will get a glimpse of their achingly gorgeous vulnerability, and it will make your breath catch in your throat.

What you forget

There is a vignette in Anne Enright's book Making Babies, where she recounts a conversation with her mother.  I am probably going to make a hash of the retelling as I can't find the book (I blame baby brain), but in short, she asks her mother why kept having children (she had four).  Her mother responds simply: "you forget".

It is these words I keep returning to as I relearn how to dance with my newborn babe.  Even in labour I thought, with some indignance, "holy crap I don't remember it being THIS painful!". There is good evidence to suggest that if you've had a positive childbirth experience, your memory of the pain will diminish over time.  In my case, as soon as he was born, the relief was so immediate I wondered what all the yelling was about, and I have since struggled to recollect the pain of giving birth - much more so than the pain of a paper cut, a stubbed toe or a grazed knee.

Not only do you forget how painful labour is, you actually forget a lot about babies.  Luckily, it all comes rushing back to you, whether you want to remember it or not.  Like my total novice mistake last night of taking an unfed baby into the bath with me and Milkbaby.  I figured feeding him in the bath would relax him.  And it did, a little too much.  In no time the bath was full of baby poop.  I've never seen Milkbaby get out of the bath so quickly.

What you forget

What you forget is the utter simplicity of baby sleep
And the complexity sometimes involved in getting him there
Whisper incantations in his ear, hold him just right, bounce on one leg and hold your tongue right - and maybe, just maybe, he'll go down without a fuss
What you forget is the snuffling and sighing and snoring that will keep you awake at night
As well as how still and black it is, when it's just you and him, nursing
What you forget is the sheer physicality of new motherhood
How your body, still recovering, aches throughout the day, and each night
Your arms ache for holding, and then when empty, ache to hold again
What you forget is that a baby will not be rushed
You're on his timeframes now.
But what you won't forget is the downy feel of his head against your nose and lips
As you lean in for a kiss
And that new baby smell
Of moses basket, sour milk and fresh laundry
What you won't forget is the warm snugness of your babe nestled into your chest, learning your heartbeat.

Don't worry - you know nothing

Captain Boringvoice has a habit of asking questions to which:

a) the answer is blindingly obvious if he just thought about it for a minute; or
b) there is no true answer, only pointless speculation.

Never have questions which call into category (b) above been more infuriating than when they pertain to Milkbaby or some aspect of his behaviour.  I am also averse to answering the Captain Boringvoice's philosophical questions that fall into category (b) - but usually I can wave these off with a "hmm, interesting question".

Perhaps the infuriating bit is not the question itself, but the fact that I don't know the answer.  After all, mothers are supposed to know almost everything, or at least have a skerrick of maternal intuition that would suggest an answer.  But unfortunately becoming a parent doesn't come with a manual of helpful hints (though there are shelves of them at your local bookstore).

Or even to be found on your own bookshelf!
Contains choice child-rearing advice on favourite topics
 such as sleeping, eating, and crying.  More on this later.

Here are a few of my I-don't-have-a-bloody-clue-and-don't-ask-me-again favourites:

Why's he crying?
Unsure.  [Honey, if I knew, I would have solved the problem and he'd have stopped crying by now - right??!!]

Why didn't he like the baby food?
Not sure, he just didn't like it. [Probably because it wasn't breastmilk - duh!]

Well do you think it was the taste or the texture?
Why don't you ask him? [And good luck with getting a straight answer out of an 8-month-old].

If he eats more dinner, he'll sleep better tonight, right?
I have no idea how he's going to sleep tonight. [And no, there doesn't seem to be a scientific correlation between eating and sleeping].

How long will he sleep for?
Anywhere between 45 minutes and 3 hours. [See? No idea.]

Will he sleep through the night?
Probably not. [Has he ever??!!  Where have you been for the last year?!]

Thankfully, these types of questions have become fewer and further between (Captain Boringvoice has been treated to a few ascerbic responses along the lines of the ones above).  I've also become less concerned about the fact that I don't know all the answers.  Here's my conclusion:

You can't call in sick

"hi, it's me, is the boss there?"

"hi boss, it's me.  Yeah look, I'm not coming in to work today... yeah I've got a cold, I think I'll just stay in bed and sleep it off.  I'll try and come in tomorrow."

"No, nothing due today, you'll barely miss me."

[source]

NOT!

As I groggily climbed back into bed after a midnight feed, I thought momentarily, "I'll have to call in sick tomorrow."  I then realised that I had no one to call in to - and that I certainly could not call in sick or take a rest from the relentlessness of motherhood.

Nothing that Vitamin C and a couple of panadols won't fix.

Swimming lessons here we come!

Secret society of parenthood

Becoming a parent is like entering a secret society.

Before initiation, other parents are strangely excited for you.  Truthfully, I always found all the excitement and congratulations a bit unnatural - like they wanted some company in the hell that they're going (or have gone) through.  Sometimes I got the distinct impression that the excitement was all an act - to your face they're saying "congratulations - when are you due?" and behind your back, they're muttering "ha, suckers".

After initiation, I have become one of those parents - a member of the secret society of parenthood.  While I now know that the excitement is not a farce (I am excited for you, really), I do have to admit to thinking smugly "ha, they have absolutely NO idea of what they're in for".

There actually was a secret parent society ("keeping kids clueless for 382 years"), though it now appears to be defunct.  I think it's probably gone underground.

You know you're a new member of the secret society of parenthood when:

• you freely exchange knowing/friendly smiles with other parents/people carrying babies
• you can identify the brand of their frontpack or buggy from 50 feet (or you surreptitiously try to spot its brand if you haven't seen it before)
• you'd describe yourself as an expert on carseats and cloth nappies
• you have no qualms about starting up a conversation with other parents in an elevator
• you find yourself giving unsolicited maternity bra advice to the uninitiated
• you happily talk about bodily functions and substances (mostly baby poop) to anyone who looks vaguely interested (and even those who don't)
• you've gone to work with baby puke on your shoulder (and no one's mentioned it)
• you can belt out at least three children's songs loudly enough to last the car ride home (and you know that Twinkle Twinkle will get you from the bottom of the hill to your house)
• things that would normally have embarrassed you (ie, all of the above) now don't faze you in the least.

Those who have been members of the secret society for a longer period will be familiar with all of the above, but for most, the novelty has worn off.  Older members of the society are generally wiser in most parenting matters, though some have a habit of giving outdated advice to newer members.  There are also some taboos - in particular, older male members of the society should refrain from giving unsolicited advice about breastfeeding to the uninitiated (more on this later).

Secret societies often have their own language and jargon, and this one is no exception - especially if you're an internet-trawling parent.  Acronyms like DD, DS, DH (darling daughter, darling son, darling/damn husband), LO (little one), EBF (exclusively breastfed), FF (formula fed) are littered throughout facebook pages and forums.  It takes a while but eventually you master the jargon, perhaps enough to have a sensible conversation - once you're not so sleep deprived.

Can I hold your baby?

The question is, does the baby want to be held by you?

Everyone wants to hold babies.  They're so snuggly, they smell delicious, and their skin is so soft.

But this motherhood caper has given me a new perspective on when, whether and how you should ask to hold someone's baby.  I've had the full range, and there are a few that stand out:

• not being asked at all and having baby grabbed from behind off my lap (how would you like it if I grabbed you from behind, hmm?)
• being asked when baby was obviously just about asleep on mumma's shoulder
• while trying to comfort an overwrought baby (the Christmas carols were too much) an old work colleague asked if baby would come to her, saying that she could give me a break - it was obvious to me that he didn't want to be held by anyone EXCEPT mumma at that point - but this person persisted and then seem confused when he didn't like "flying".

There are also those people (all strangers) who think it's okay to touch baby, on the cheeks and chin, or stroke an arm or foot.  These approaches generally get a wide-eyed stare from baby.  And no wonder!  If the checkout chick reached out and stroked my cheek without asking, I'd be a bit weirded out too.

You might think that asking a baby if they'd like to be held by you is hippy claptrap, but next time you'd like to hold a baby, just ask her and wait - the answer will be fairly obvious.

The best contraception

At one of my last midwife visits, she raised the whole contraception thing, reminding me that while breastfeeding does provide some protection, it is possible to get pregnant before you get your period back.  I smiled politely at her and said I'd read the brochure.  Inside I was screaming "ARE YOU KIDDING?!!! I'M NEVER HAVING SEX AGAIN!!!"  I agreed to let her prescribe me some condoms.

Baby on Board

I always swore I'd never have one of those ridiculous Baby on Board signs on my car.  I mean, why tell the world you're carrying such precious cargo?  And why would said world care?

But now I do.  And when I see another car with a Baby on Board sign, I give it a wide berth, since I know it means:
(a) driver is likely to be suffering from extreme fatigue
(b) driver may swerve wildly while trying to crane neck into The Exorcist position to view baby
(c) driver may do bunnyhops at traffic lights to keep the car moving so as not to wake baby
(d) all of the above.

Why?

Why a blog?  Unsure.  A place to share my musings and ramblings I guess, without:
(a) the awkwardness of a polite laugh I might get from one of the mums in my antenatal group
(b) boring my husband to tears
(c) the bewildered look I get from from my younger sister when describing a recent parenting challenge (eg, number threes)
(d) backchat and opinions that I must feign interest in from friends/family who have already been there/done that.

A small, deluded part of my preggy/postpartum brain is secretly hoping this blog will make me famous (a la Julie and Juliet).  Luckily I'm in control of my faculties enough to know that this is a delusion and will pass, in time.

This is my way of connecting with the world, just a little "hello, I'm here and I've got a few things to say".  Hence the title No Mum is an Island.  It is my hope that this blog may (I repeat, MAY) allow my brain to thrive while I am in a haze of baby-induced isolation from the real world.

So, here goes nothing.