The pursuit of happiness

As I sat in the front row of a jazz club the other night, within spitting distance of the brass section (their saliva, not mine, being the main concern), second glass of wine in hand, the thought struck me: this is what other people do. People who are not me. Other people know what they enjoy and go about doing it as often as possible.

I have been challenged to come up with a list of enjoyable activities, not just to refer to wistfully, but to implement regularly. I didn't realise it would be so hard. Having started by including such items as 'manicure' and 'facial', as I have heard these are the sorts of things women do to relax, I soon abandoned them in favour of things I actually like the sound of. For example, playing with my Hello Kitty sticker book. (Yes, I am 6). Or, having a cup of tea on my own. Or, practising my eyeliner skills, which, if I can help it, nobody will ever see.

All this enforced thinking about What I Like has reminded me that once upon a time, I had a casual, everyday sense of fun. I may not have been exactly carefree but I wore a frivolous, multi coloured striped top with a large bow on it from Miss Selfridge. I dyed my hair bright red for ages. Now my clothes are functional and the hair dye I have just purchased is as close to my natural colour (minus the greys) as I could find. Invisible colour, you might say. Invisible, sensible, don't-look-at-me colour. If I catch anyone looking at me at the supermarket I hope to God I've managed to fully dress myself in the mayhem that is life with a toddler. If not, well, it's too late, isn't it. 

I have already been working on retrieving my mojo, as inspired by Ministry of Mum and The Secret Life of Kate, but my efforts have been largely concentrated on weight loss and a pathetic attempt at fitness. It didn't occur to me that doing what I enjoy could be an important part of the bigger picture, and help me feel like 'me' again.

So, raise your glasses! Here's to more music, Merlot and the long-delayed acquisition of my mojo.

photo credit: ♥ KawaiiCloud ♥ via photopin cc

Perfect parenting

We all know that perfection is unattainable. Right? Then why are so many of us perfectionists? 

Perfectionism crops up in various areas of my life. For a long time I let it stop me from doing what I desperately wanted to do, until I made a conscious effort to do it anyway. It was scary, because I really didn't want it to be crap. I'm still not convinced it wasn't. That's not the point. I had to reject a long-held belief that unless I could do something perfectly, it wasn't worth doing.

Before M was born, I had a special daydream. I was holding my smiling, beatific baby, and we were dancing together in his/her nursery as the sunlight streamed through the window. The song playing was something by Ronan Keating. I can't remember which one. Something about rollercoasters. This was my picture of impending motherhood. It was going to be magnificent and full of cuddles and the joy of togetherness.

If you're a reader of my blog, you may know that the reality was somewhat different. It still is somewhat different. There is laughter but there is also a fair bit of crying. I get cross a lot. Mainly, I suppose, because I want my toddler to behave like a grown up. I want him to appreciate everything I work so hard to do for him. Things I try to do perfectly. When he makes a mess, my first thought is, "I've just washed / tidied / arranged that nicely". When he gets frustrated that I'm giving something or someone else my attention, I think, "Can I not just do This One Thing without you getting uppity? It's not all about you, kiddo!" 

My son isn't conforming to the original image I had of him. Neither am I conforming to the image of a serene, well-adjusted me. We're just muddling through. Which is why I get irate (my favourite activity, it seems) when I see this sort of headline on a parenting magazine: "Perfect Play Dates - less fights, more fun". Our children's play dates are meant to be perfect now?! Here follows my letter of protest.

"Dear Coles Baby & Toddler Magazine

"I'm writing with regard to a headline on the cover of your Spring 2012 edition. 'Perfect Play Dates' is an irresponsible title for the article.

"Parents, especially first-timers, are under an enormous amount of pressure to live up to an ideal largely perpetuated by the media.

"If you were genuinely interested in offering advice and support to parents alongside self-promotion, perhaps you could consider your use of alliteration in future. Stop pressuring parents to strive for perfection. It doesn't exist."

May I encourage you also to fight against the tyranny of perfection. You will need to start by forcibly restraining me from arranging things nicely.

The difference a decade makes

One of these days someone's going to tell me that my blog title doesn't make sense. I don't mind, but if anyone asks, it's metaphorical. Or something.

A few months ago I bumped into a woman I used to tutor. During the course of our conversation I mentioned that we were moving abroad. "With a baby?" she asked, incredulously. "Sure! Ha ha! Why not?" I replied. I gave the impression, I suppose, that this is the sort of thing I take in my stride.

And I did, the first time around. When I was 21 and carefree (in as much as someone racked with insecurities can be carefree). With a suitcase and a plane ticket, I had all I needed. Friends? To be made! Paid employment? To be found! It didn't occur to me that what I was embarking on was a major life change. It was just an adventure.

A decade (and a half) later and I'm doing it all again, this time in reverse. I've done this before, so it's no big deal. Right? Ah. Well. That's the thing. It is. I'm not 21 anymore. This has nothing to do with age and everything to do with experience. I have commitments and responsibilities which mean that it's no longer just about me. I have more items in my possession which means a suitcase is not sufficient. I have people in my British life who I've grown with who can't come with me. I know how hard it's going to be to leave them. When I did this the first time, I didn't.

I'm scared and excited and apprehensive and many more things that I can't even begin to articulate.

It wasn't meant to be like this.

I didn't think I was ever going to cover this topic, and even as I write I'm still not sure. What follows is a summary of my birth story. I'm going to keep it brief and devoid of detail. However, if you feel this isn't for you, now's the time to make a swift exit.

My son was born at 11:07pm on Wednesday 5 October 2011. I had been admitted to hospital the previous evening to be induced, as he was around a week and a half late. When my waters broke meconium was discovered. It meant that there was a chance our baby was distressed. There was a lot of waiting around after that but when things kicked off Wednesday lunchtime, it was the start of a very difficult birth.

I started off on gas and air which, if you have never had it, made me feel as though I was having an out of body experience every 30 seconds. I didn't like it very much but it helped to ease the pain of the contractions. After a while I had to progress to pethidine. I don't think it really agreed with me, but again, it helped to ease the pain. I have no recollection of what happened between that stage and the end stage of labour, as I was drugged up to my eyeballs.

Despite the coaching of the midwives, and despite my best efforts, our little boy wasn't able to make an entrance on his own. All of a sudden, the numbers in the room swelled from two or three to ten. There wasn't time to do an emergency cesarean so the doctors decided to use another procedure.

By the time M arrived and was whisked out of the room due to possible infection, I was exhausted and in shock. My husband was concerned (understatement) as no-one had told him what was going on and had himself been whisked out of the room at one point.

Now, the purpose of this disclosure is not to elicit kind feedback such as, 'poor you - what a rotten time you had', so please don't feel that you have to respond in this way. Rather, I wanted to give a context for what follows, namely an explanation of my psychological state after the birth.

When our son was brought back in, I felt detached. I just couldn't connect him with the bump that I had bonded with for the past nine months. I felt as if I knew my bump, or Bun, as we called him/her. I didn't know this creature, lying there staring out at the world. I knew how I supposed to feel. There was supposed to be a golden ray of light shining down from the heavens. There was supposed to be a choir of angels singing the Hallelujah chorus. There was supposed to be adoration and smiling and sudden onset amnesia regarding the recent unpleasantness. There wasn't any of that.

In the days and weeks that followed, I struggled to bond with my baby. Breastfeeding was difficult. The lack of sleep was difficult. I went through the motions, doing what I had to do, but I didn't know how to connect with my son. What made it exceptionally painful was the fact we had experienced a miscarriage. Here was our long-awaited baby, the baby we had been through so much heartache to meet, and yet I felt at best, numb, and at worst, wanting to run away.

In time, gradually, I was able to bond with my son. Now, I can honestly say that I love him with all my heart and we have a beautiful relationship.

With permission, I want to share something that helped me recently; a quote from Fleur Bickford (@NurturedChild on Twitter).

It's ok to love your baby but hate the way they came into the world.

Maybe your birth didn't go the way you had hoped or expected it would. Maybe after the birth you didn't feel the way you thought you should. Maybe you're finding it difficult to come to terms with your new life and the new responsibilities it brings.

It's ok.

You're not the first person to feel like this, and you won't be the last. You may be surprised at how many of your friends and people you know had similar experiences. Why do we pretend that everything's fine? That we're coping well when clearly we're not? Sometimes life is hard. We should be able to share our grief as well as our happiness. The good times and the bad.

I have no affiliation with them but if any of this is relevant to you, visit the Birth Trauma Association (@BirthTrauma on Twitter). It's all too easy to feel isolated, but we don't have to stay that way.

Should it stay or should it go?

Moving house is one thing. Moving country is quite another.

You haven't truly decluttered until you've stared down the barrel of a miscellaneous toiletries collection and agonised over the destiny of each item. Is it: a) in date, b) worth using up, c) worth giving away, d) worth shipping over, or e) none of the above? All those bits and pieces carefully stockpiled during Christmases, birthdays and special offers on Soap and Glory at Boots, then hidden away and forgotten about until newly purchased, identical products join them in the darkness. Not for me, the luxury of shoving it all into a box and shifting it a few miles down the road. I now have to make a decision on every single thing I own. Every. Single. Thing.

Never mind the bath bombs. What about the books? Trinny and Susannah's sage words may have languished in the garage for many a year (we never did get around to installing a bookcase) but what if I need to identify the shape of my bottom at some indeterminate point in the future? It may be a life or death situation (sartorially speaking, of course) in which access to that particular book is crucial. Do I take it? Do I store it? Do I give it away? You can see the bind I'm in. Likewise with my collection of cookbooks. I imagine I could be the sort of person who enjoys entertaining (still waiting for that personality trait to emerge) and naturally, I don't need to tell you that it would be beneficial to have a little bit of Nigella on hand to see me through.

Nevertheless, we have to be ruthless. There is no point in taking two sets of salad servers, regardless of the fact they were both gifts, as I have maybe used a set only once, no doubt trying to impress upon a hapless dinner guest that I was indeed a seasoned giver of hospitality. So, neither will make the journey. The same fate awaits the cast iron tea press, the crystal candle holder and the red faux leather magazine basket I was so chuffed to find as it matched the rug, giving the illusion of a co-ordinated design effort in the lounge.

In stark contrast, all of M's possessions will go with us, including a wardrobe that would put Derek Zoolander's to shame. In starting our new adventure we may have nary a scatter cushion between us, but our son will look fabulous. That's all that matters, surely.

Everything is changing and I don't feel the same

One of the many, many things I wasn't prepared for was the tiredness.

At the beginning, the kind that hits you like a bus. The kind that induces migraines, uncontrollable sobbing and sharp words to visiting mothers who were only trying to help. Now, the kind that settles into your bones. I wonder if I will ever sleep properly again. I wonder if M will ever have a bedtime earlier than ours. I wonder if we will ever be able to watch The King's Speech from start to finish. At the moment it's only snatched episodes from Gavin & Stacey or Sean Lock's 15 Storeys High (which is brilliant by the way).

Everything from my life pre-baby seems to have changed. Not a complaint - just an observation. I used to read books. For fun. To pass the time. Now if I can get in a paragraph from the NHS Birth to Five booklet during the evening feed I consider it successful. I used to be able to dedicate a few hours, consecutively, to cleaning the house and admiring my sparkling windows/mirrors/hair. Now if anyone comes to visit I panic about the state of the hand basin. When did I last wave an all purpose wipe in its direction? Will they notice the state of the rug? Will they notice the state of me?

Everything is different and I'm just not used to it yet. I wonder if I will ever be.

Give me the inspection criteria. Somebody. Hello?

Being a new mum feels strange. At times I feel more like a primary caregiver. It hasn't quite sunk in that I'm somebody's mother. It stands to reason that I must also be a grown-up by now. I'm not sure which I find more alarming.

Having recently left a profession ruled by exams, inspections and reams of seemingly pointless paperwork, I'm wondering how to find evidence of my progress so far. All I have to go on is the to-do lists in my head. Get fully dressed. Tick. Intercept nappy contents before they make contact with the outside world. Tick. Intercept baby vomit with sleeve of cardigan. Tick. Change cardigan. Tick. Complete one daily and one non-daily housework task per day. Tick/Fail. Read at least one baby book to M per day. Fail. Read one article from the Guardian per day, thereby exercising brain. Fail. My days are made up of, and rated by, tiny successes and failures.

The trouble is, I don't know what the heck I'm meant to be doing, and I'm sure to be doing it wrong.

I guess this is one transition that will take a little longer than I thought.