On parenting

On maternity leave and figuring out what it means to be you now

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I spent so much time thinking about giving birth that I didn’t have a moment to wonder what maternity leave would be like. It was just the bit that would come next. Maybe I’d go out for coffee sometimes, who knew.

And when I had given birth, the recovery (from a caesarean section) and the process of learning to look after our baby was so brutal that I believed I’d never do anything else again.

I remember standing in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror, and not recognising the woman staring back at me. I remember thinking through every hobby and activity I’d ever enjoyed before – writing, eating in restaurants, washing my hair – and metaphorically hurling every one of them out of the window. You won’t be doing that any more, I thought, it’s just sweating and surviving for you now. If you get to eat a meal every now and then too, that’ll just be a bonus.

But then as time passed, the baby put on weight, and my scar began to heal, a major need to leave the house started to kick in.

But where the hell are you supposed to go?

Once the thrill of making it to your local supermarket, around the park, and to a café with the pram wears off, you start wanting to branch out. To see other people, to visit another part of town, and maybe even to do something energetic or creative. The baby needs to get out, too. They need fresh air, the option of a nap on the move, and the chance to look at other faces and things. My features are only so interesting, I realise that.

Whilst you know that you’ll be responsible for looking after the baby everyday, you don’t appreciate that how you both spend the hours around that will be up to you as well. Weeks can look long and daunting if you don’t have a plan or two to look forward to, or places you know you can go. You can feel a bit lost and alone.

I found it really, really hard to express this for a while because I couldn’t get passed the need to make it clear that I love my daughter. I felt so guilty for needing more in my day than just changing and feeding and napping etc. that I feared that I was being ungrateful and letting her down. But I realise now that when we have a varied week and we socialise it’s good for both of us, and not a selfish act, as my hormones might suggest.

On maternity leave and figuring out what it means to be you nowSeeking activities and groups to join can make you feel a bit vulnerable. You basically have to build yourself a whole new community; one that’s available during the day, ideally nearby, and willing to spend time with you. It’s a bit like dating, except in many cases you see people’s breasts before you know their name (or maybe that is what dating’s like nowadays, I’ve been out of the game a long time).

Antenatal classes were great and gave us a lovely little group of friends in the same boat. The internet has also been a massive help. When the weeks were starting to look a bit empty, I went online (Hoop.co.uk lists activities to do with children by location) with a policy that if anything interested me even slightly, I’d try it once. I felt the need to be brave for myself and for my daughter. I want her to grow up believing that she can walk into a room and participate with confidence, so I need to start modelling that for her now.

So I went for it. I joined a boxing class, a parents choir, and started baby-wearing dance lessons. We started going to a nursery rhymes session, and to baby cinema for a much-needed sit down in the dark. I’m doing things I’d previously have been too afraid to do in front of other people – singing, dancing, exercising – and I’m doing it with my daughter – because of my daughter – and we’re both happier for it. We’re not doing activities everyday, I’ve just found some ways to give us a bit of variation.

Not everybody you meet at classes is going to be your pal and that’s fine, there are only so many more WhatsApp groups I can handle anyway. But you never know, you might make a friend or two, or at least find nice people to chat to whilst you’re there. Most of all it’s about knowing that you need to be somewhere at a certain time, that people are expecting to see you, and that you and your child will have a good time out of the house.

Of course, it’s important to strike the right balance between doing stuff and resting. Parenting is exhausting, so as much as I’ll say that we need to get out, we need to be at home too. We need sofa time and cuddles and to catch up with Grey’s Anatomy. We need a bit of time to do our own thing – in the same room but in our own space. I’m learning more everyday about us as a duo and what we need to get by.

You spend a lot of time in your head when you’ve just had a baby – alone but in company, at home with your small person – and it can take a while to give yourself permission to prioritise what you both need, and to find the courage to put yourself out there.

But when you do start, and you see the benefits it brings to you and your child, you know for sure there’s nothing to feel guilty about at all.

What I did not expect when I was expecting

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What i did not expect when i was expectingOur baby is three months old now and I’ve finally found time to sit down and write, as it’s true what they say about it all starting to get a bit easier by this point. And thank goodness for that.

I wrote before our daughter was born about how impossible it was to be ready for something this life changing. And I know now that I was definitely right about that. But there are some things that have been particularly unexpected, which I wanted to share.

That feeding a baby would be the hardest work I’ve ever done

You just put your breast in their mouth, right? They’ll smell the milk and just automatically start suckling, yeah? You’ll be able to cook a meal, ride a bike, and write a 12-novel series with a child attached to your body, eh boys?

Breastfeeding comes naturally for many, but for us it has been tricky, and I did not see that coming. I gave birth via c-section and with that can come a slow or reduced milk supply. It also brings with it a mother who is recovering from major surgery. And you’re working with a newborn baby who doesn’t necessarily know that they need to eat, so you have to wake them up for each feed. We did get there – we put the hours in and we got our girl’s weight up – but I wasn’t expecting that element of becoming a mum to be so difficult.

I also didn’t expect to give myself such a hard time along the way. We do combination feeding – meaning our baby has formula and breast milk. It’s a pretty unremarkable sentence to read, but it remains a battle everyday to forgive myself for it. I don’t have enough milk for her, and she requires a lot, so there we have it. But people can be very hard on new parents about feeding, and we can therefore be tough on ourselves, too. But we can only do what we can with what we have.

The opportunity to help a little baby grow is a gift, and it’s important not to confuse having to come up with a Plan B with doing a bad job.

That I would feel so guilty

I feel guilty when I’m pleased that she’s asleep because it means that I can eat breakfast/take a shower/sit down and stare into the abyss.

I feel guilty when I spend the morning preparing us to go out and I’m concentrating more on keeping us on schedule than I am on her beautiful face.

I feel guilty when she’s napping on me and we’re having the nicest cuddle but I’m desperate for the toilet so I have to put her down.

I feel guilty when I get nostalgic for how little she was as a newborn, when she is absolutely perfect as she is right now.

I feel guilty when I feel guilty because I’m wasting time that I should just spend enjoying her.

I didn’t expect to fall so hard into this trap, but I’m slowly starting to manage the feeling better. This baby needs a mother who is clean, who interacts with other human beings, and who has the opportunity to empty her bladder. I’m sure she wouldn’t really expect me to feel guilty about that.

That every person we spoke to at the start had the potential to make or break our day

You’re a mess of hormones and exhaustion at the beginning and, in the mother’s case, you’re probably also in a fair amount of pain. That makes you vulnerable, so when people speak to you about your baby – how they’re fed, what they’re wearing, how much they weigh – what they say and how they say it has a big impact on how you feel.

One minute we’d think we were doing a good job, and the next we’d think we were the worst parents in the world. And though it was partly because we’d never done it before, that feeling was also hugely influenced by the interactions we had with hospital staff and other baby-related professionals.

Some people were incredible, just amazing, and some really could and should have been gentler. I didn’t expect to hang on perfect strangers’ every word like we did, or to be so desperate for approval.

But with time you learn who to listen to and who to ignore, and you stop feeling like you need permission to do things a particular way for your baby. You fear that confidence will never come, but it does.

That wind would become our greatest enemy

If you’d asked me what I’d got up to on a Friday night last year, I’d have told you that I’d been out for a meal, or to the cinema, or that I’d fallen asleep on the sofa after Coronation Street.

Ask me this year and I’ll say that Leon and I spent all evening trying to get our baby girl to burp. Life is wild.

The funny thing about having a baby is that you want them to do things that in later years you’ll have to explain are socially unacceptable. I want her to do the loudest burp she can muster, and I’ll happily have her do it in my face. If it gets it out of her body and stops her crying from the pain, mate, she can record it and set it as my ringtone.

It’s a strange moment when you find yourself thinking that the best present your child could give you right now is a large gust of wind, but here we are.

That love and pain are so closely linked

I didn’t expect it to be possible to feel such joy and such agony at the same time.

The love is so huge, so intense, that my whole body aches with it. When our daughter cries, I feel like I’m dying and I would do anything – ANYTHING – to make it stop. And it’s not because it’s loud (though it IS, her lungs are not kidding), it’s because it hurts my heart.

Before you have a baby, babies only exist in general terms. You know that babies cry, babies poo, babies are rather partial to milk… but once you’ve had one, there’s no longer anything general about it. There’s just this very specific child whose every movement, every sound, and every need becomes your world.

I didn’t expect to feel it all so physically, for my body to react so strongly to her existence. But I guess that’s what it is to be this connected to somebody, and to love them with all you have.

The drama of it all is so consuming – the highs and the lows, the smiles and the cries – but there’s no such thing as a part-package deal. We’re here for all of it, every emotion and every pain. And for the opportunity to feel it for this girl, this beautiful baby girl who’s come along and taken over our lives, I’m grateful every single day.

Perhaps you’ve had a similar experience or you’ve found other things surprising. Either way, I’d love to know. 

I remember

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I remember my alarm going off at 5.30am like we were getting up to go on holiday. But we weren’t. We were getting up to go and have a baby.

I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room and the midwife coming to say we were first on the list and we’d be going down to theatre soon. That c-section we’d talked about, it was going to be happening soon.

I remember going onto the ward and putting on a gown and compression stockings and Leon getting into scrubs. We took a selfie. We look terrified.

I remember walking down to theatre and entering a room filled with strangers and implements and bright lights. I remember remembering to be brave.

I remember placing my trust and my heart into the hands of an anaesthetist I’d just met. I remember she was nothing but amazing throughout.

I remember what it feels like to park your phobias at the door – of needles, of incisions, of surgery – in the spirit of the greater good. Our baby.

I remember having a catheter inserted and realising that when I thought the upside of having to have the baby this way was that there’d be fewer opportunities for me to lose my dignity, I was wrong.

I remember losing all feeling from the chest down. I remember panicking. I remember calming down. I remember hearing “You’re doing really well, Charlotte” again and again and needing to hear it. Needing to be the child in the room for just a few minutes more.

I remember a sheet going up and it starting.

I remember suddenly chilling right out. I remember making jokes, people laughing. They weren’t funny I’m sure, but when a woman with her bikini line cut open makes a joke YOU LAUGH.

I remember feeling some pushing and some pulling and being absolutely able to handle it. I was doing this. Somehow I was letting this happen.

I remember that I’d almost forgotten what this whole procedure was for until the anaesthetist said “I can see a foot”.

I remember nothing and then everything. Time stopping and then speeding by. I heard “You’ve got to see this,” the sheet came down and our baby was there in front of us. A girl, they said, you’ve got a baby girl.

I remember that we laughed. A deranged, euphoric, overwhelmed guffaw at the sight of our giant, gooey, bright pink and white baby daughter, shattering our hearts with her very first cry.

I remember her disappearing out of sight and calling “Mummy’s here” as she shrieked from the scales. Mummy. Because that’s my name now.

I remember the moment she was placed into my arms, the softest, most precious bundle I’ve ever held.

I remember her looking straight at me, with these enormous, beautiful eyes that I couldn’t believe the two of us had made.

I remember looking at Leon and the world feeling smaller than ever before. There’s just three of us in it now. That’s it.

I remember the moment our lives changed forever.