Expanding and contracting and expanding again

I was so sure it would be the Tuesday.  No particular reason, just a hunch. 

Due date was the first or second of September; the midwife seemed to waggle back and forth between them.  I was full and heavy, the most pregnant I'd ever been before.  Maybe I thought Tuesday because I wanted the pregnant part to be over.  I was very apprehensive about the labour part though, so I just kept pushing it away in my mind. 

Magically this process was going to be:

1. Pregnant
2. ????
3. Baby and mother healthy and well

I hadn't laboured at all with Wriggly, not a single contraction, in a story I told in three parts several years ago.  I was partly looking forward to giving labour a go, but pretty nervous, especially in regard to what I consider one of the scariest medical words in the English language, "crowning".  And I knew if labour didn't come on spontaneously soon it would be off to surgery for another sunroof delivery, with nary a uterus quiver experienced, and no chance of labouring with any future pregnancies either.

By 10.30pm I'd given up waiting to feel my first ever contraction and I headed to bed.

Breast vs formula: a false dichotomy

One of the things that bugs me most about much of the discussion about feeding babies is the way that it paints breastmilk and formula as mutually exclusive options. 

There's a lot of guilt inducement all tied up in it too, much as a result of personal experiences of judgyness that cannot and should not be denied.  Many many mothers have felt the discomfort of the You Shouldn't Be Doing That stare, whether it be directed at their breastfeeding or the bottle they whip out to deliver formula (or indeed expressed breastmilk).

Shelley Bridgeman's ill-advised column in the Herald this week has brought out all sorts of feministy outrage, all over the interweb, not least in Giarne's guest post and the comments to that.  I've seen discussions on Facebook, Twitter, on other blogs, the comment section on the article itself, and heard them in real life too, all critiquing Bridgeman's bizarre take on it.  It has touched a raw nerve, which is not surprising given the factual inaccuracies and really quite out there conclusions drawn from a life experience that seems pretty rare.

I really liked this comment, which Nikkin made on Giarne's post:

It is sad to read of the "putting baby first" vs "putting mummy first". The mother/baby dichotomy is counterintuitive. The wellbeing of baby is caught up in the wellbeing of the mother and vice versa.

This has been so true for me.  And it has lead me to the conclusion that for me it isn't breast or formula that works, it is both. 

With Wriggly the formula started in the hospital.  My milk wasn't coming in, we were both struggling with feeding, and he was losing too much weight.  But it wasn't the end of breastfeeding for us; far from it, after three months, when most of our troubles came right, he was mostly breastfed until I went back to work at nine months.  After that it was a slow realisation that first expressing at work wasn't going to be practical (dropped lunch feed), then I had too much evening work (dropped dinner feed) and finally I just didn't have much left and he wasn't all that interested.  We made it to precisely a year. 

And it was formula that helped us make it.  It took the pressure off the breastfeeding and meant I could concentrate on increasing my supply, getting our latching right, and kicking the thrush to the curb, plus it slowed my unhealthy weight loss. 

Second time around and while the experience has been different in some respects (we made it to three months of exclusive breastmilk), again formula has enabled me to continue breastfeeding when the nipples just would not come right.   It has curbed weight loss, for both of us, and given me some flexibility for my mental health as well, on those days when the idea of being attached to Snuffly by a very short tether has simply been too overwhelming with everything else I have to get done.  He's just hit eight months and is having one breastfeed a day, along with two of formula and a fair few servings of solids.  It's likely I'll have to wean in the next month or two, due to commitments that will take me away from him overnight, and that's ok with me.

For me the Great Feeding Debate is not a debate at all, because it's an And not an Or.  These are the choices that have worked for me, for my body, for my babies.  They may or may not work for anyone else.

And for the record I don't feel a great desire to get breast implants post-breastfeeding.  Although I would quite like to go out and buy some beautiful new bras.

Guest post: Middle/upper class privilege gone crazy

Many thanks to Giarne for this restrained response to an outrageous column in today's Herald.

Shelley Bridgeman’s opinion piece in the NZ Herald today “Not all families are equal” really got my blood boiling!

I must preface this with some information about me. I’m 33 weeks pregnant with our first child. I have no direct experience with breastfeeding nor parenting. My comments are based on discussions with friends and family and all the new things I’m hearing at antenatal classes and from our midwife.

Bridgeman’s article is a prime example of middle/upper class privilege gone crazy.

I’ve had many a debate with friends around the pressures of pregnancy – to breastfeed or not to breastfeed; how long to breastfeed for; how much weight they put on during pregnancy; how fast they lost it afterwards; how many stretch marks they had; how they feel about those stretch marks that are left; whether they are comfortable whipping their breast out in public; raising the ‘perfect’ child; dealing with colic, disability; whether to have a drug free birth or interventions that might be wanted/needed. Just the start of the list I’d say.

I want information about many of these topics, but I don’t want anything rammed down my throat. I have a great deal of respect for Plunket, the World Health Organisation and the Parents Centre; I also have an enormous amount of respect and time for the experiences of my friends and family.

Bridgeman is pushing her experiences down our throats in this article. She makes revolting, patronising comments about how other families raise their children and it is obvious that she is most disparaging of lower socio-economic families and mothers in developing nations. How hypocritical that she says "not all families are created equal" and then in the next breathe extols her way as the only way to go.

WHO's recommendations about breastfeeding are about the best start you can give children, the milk that comes from women is a very nourishing, complete food and I would suggest from the women I know that not breastfeeding has more to do with issues they might have (infection, pain, latching problems etc) rather than some upper class notion that they will need breast surgery afterwards or can't find good quality water in which to mix formula.

The author’s focus on the superficial issues with breastfeeding shows that Bridgeman and her peers need just as much advice as the lower class and developing nations – just maybe they need advice about body acceptance, the way advertisers manipulate our environment and they desperately need some assistance being empathetic to others’ lives.

She states:

I have reliable anecdotal evidence that there exists a small and privileged sector of society for whom the act of breast-feeding leads to the acquisition of breast implants a few years later. WHO's recommendations, while a godsend for women in developing countries, aren't doing their counterparts in Remuera and Herne Bay any favours by inadvertently leading some of them to undergo major surgical intervention in order to remedy their dissatisfaction in their post-feeding breasts.

She continues to say “Once the risks and costs of surgery are factored in, bottle feeding would seem a no-brainer for this particular subset of women.” So, her needs come first and she feels validated by other peers saying that they too have put themselves before their children. I’m not sure she read WHO’s 10 facts on breastfeeding in much depth. Colostrum contains antibodies that help protect infants from common childhood illnesses, later in life it is shown the breastfed babies have lower blood pressure, lower rates of overweight, obesity and type-2 diabetes; and for the mother it reduces the risks of breast and ovarian cancer, helps a return to pre-pregnancy weight faster, and lowers obesity rates.

It’s not stacking up as a no-brainer for me yet when breast surgery costs thousands of dollars and has a heck of a lot of risks. It seems to me after my little bit of research that we could be saving thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars in health care costs over a child’s lifetime if they get at least a little breast milk. Plus, there are benefits for the mother, one of them is even superficial about getting back to a pre-pregnancy weight.

I won’t really get into the ‘flat head syndrome’ – I’ve heard many theories – that babies spend too much time in car seats (as many of them now clip into pram bases); that sometimes they just come out with some flat bits on their head ... oh hang on, do I really care if my baby has a flat piece or two on its head but its healthy and happy? No I don’t! If that’s all the Bridgeman family has to worry about then aren’t they lucky!

Bridgeman decided that we all needed to hear the superficial reasons why she didn’t breastfeed when she could have taken the opportunity to give some information from some experts and her friends and family about how they navigated the amount of information about how to care for their infant.

Baby on the Board

The last six months, since I was somewhat surprisingly elected to the Puketapapa Local Board, have been such a whirlwind that my intended post on what it was like at the start, as a woman and as a mother (not to mention as a centre-leftie) went by the by.  Maybe I'll write it Next Week.

However I can share some observations about Snuffly's involvement as the unofficial seventh member of the Board.  He's been at most things, as he was five weeks' old when both his parents were elected.  Three year old Wriggly struggled quite a bit with his younger brother going to meetings with Mummy and Daddy, but now that often they both stay home for the night events, with a friendly babysitter, he's more relaxed.  Still cries when poor S1 or S2 arrive, which must be quite disconcerting, then he's usually happily playing and forgets to say goodbye or wave at us from the window as promised earlier in the evening. 

Snuffly has been a smiley cuddly dream for anyone looking after him, including me.  I simply couldn't be doing this* if he was sick, had a disability, was a reflux baby or had colic.  I'm very aware that his good health, and our good level of resources, are what enables me to be a Local Board member. 

I've breastfed him in all sorts of odd spots - in the kitchen at Tradeshall during the City Vision results party, while I was on the phone to a mate in Wellington who wanted the goss, and didn't tell me the General Secretary of the Labour Party was listening in; in the old Auckland City Council chambers, with portraits of the Queen and her hubby looking on; at the tech training, as the only woman other than one of the facilitators, with a bunch of mainly older men including George Hawkins MP struggling with the new laptops; in a back room at a public meeting angry residents worried that a "The Warehouse" would radically change their neighbourhood; during a hearing on a resource consent for aforementioned "The Warehouse" proposal; and, most uncomfortably, during our inauguration at the start of November, when Snuffly was just two months old and basically none of my business-y clothes fitted.  While it was nice to have several hundred people turn up to celebrate our election, especially my whanau and friends, it was incredibly daunting to have to sit at the front, side-on to the crowd so I couldn't hide behind the table, and feed my small baby at the start of the night.  . 

Generally when I'm feeding Snuffly in public I'm keen to be as discreet as possible.  I can't think of a time with this child or the previous one when I've been at all interested in people seeing my breasts in that brief period when baby is going on or coming off the nipple.  And unfortunately I find breastfeeding really hard, and so with Snuffly I'm still using nipple shields which make discretion tricky.  Luckily I've got quite adept at it, I think; working out which clothes are going to give me the flexibility I need and not flash the world, and how to best manoeurve them and Snuffly in the right dance to minimise pain, maximise milk, and eliminate skin shows. 

I've not had a single complaint to date.  Someone did make a somewhat snarky comment that I could have taken a couple of ways, a month or so back, but I can't remember it now so it can't have been that bad.  Staff in particular, as well as other members of the City Vision ticket, have been amazingly supportive.  Snuffly has been very good about cuddles with others, which has been a relief, and of course his father is often around to share the duties which is immeasurably helpful. 

One of the things I've been careful to do is assume that whatever Snuffly and I need is just going to be ok.  I've stopped myself from asking if I can have a room to put the portacot in, near the meeting venue, and just checked that they know I need one.  We've just turned up, and started to feed when necessary, because at this point we are simply a package deal;  it's only recently that he's been having a bottle enough of the time for me to go into the office without him for a significant period.  Oddly I am now less comfortable about feeding him with the bottle at an event than I am about breastfeeding.  I suspect if I hadn't been so tired and overwhelmed when this all started I might have had the energy to be more worried about feeding in public.  Seems the oddest things have a silver lining.

And I've got amazingly good at assessing the wheeled access of a zillion places, along with which venues have bathrooms where you can change nappies and which don't (*cough* Auckland Town Hall *cough*).  All useful knowledge, and not just for those with young babies either.

I'm not doing this to make a point about breastfeeding in public or how when babies are welcome mothers can participate. I'm doing it because it is the only way I can do it. I hope it does break down some barriers around babies (and their parents) being acceptable in public life, and knowing that it might does make it a bit easier for me to keep going. But honestly if I could not be doing it this way I would. Because it is HARD. To be trying to work, trying to have difficult conversations about politics and learning so much new stuff, when I'm jiggling Snuffly to stop him crying, attempting to judge if he needs to go down yet, needs a nappy change or perhaps will have to be fed early, is really tricky. I don't recommend it.






*  By which I mean what is effectively a half time (plus) job.  They're paying elected members on my Board around $35K pa, equipping us with laptops, vodems and Blackberries, so to me that means this is a significant part time commitment that should be approached professionally and not as just something I do on the side of everything else.  As the Local Boards are a unique structure in local government, and operating for the first time, many members are taking different approaches, as we all struggle to work it out, and to fit our old lives around the new commitment.  It's a great privilege to be on the Board.  I just wish Rodney Hide et al hadn't rushed it all in, because it's a bit of a mess as a result.

Boobs about boobies

I thought the second time would be easy.  It should be shouldn't it?  After all Wriggly was breastfed to a year and he had a pretty bad start, what with the elective caesar for breech, the lack of milk, the mix feeding, the pain, and a large weight loss on my part.  This time was going to be better, because I was going to labour, I was going to know what to expect and I was going to be kinder to myself. 

We're at ten weeks now and I have mastitis.  It feels very unfair indeed.  After weeks of pain and nipple shields and sterilising and cracks and blisters and fissures and tears and advice things were finally, finally, coming right and then the red flare comes up, the flu-y feeling starts and this morning my partner had to drive me to the doctor because I was too ill to go by myself.  I nearly cried when I got there and the lift wasn't working.  I did cry as I explained it all to the doctor. 

I'm just not very good at breastfeeding a newborn.  I can't get the latch right, and I hate just sitting around while I'm being sucked on.  I need to read a book, or be online, or play a game, or make a phone call.  None of which is conducive to good positioning.  I do seem to have very sensitive nipples as well, and having already fed Snuffly's big brother for a year hasn't changed that. 

I asked myself earlier on in this process why I was so determined to breastfeed; what were the actual reasons why I was persevering.  Thinking hard there were two main ones;  because it gives me a sense of achievement and because it is so much more convenient for my life than dealing with formula and bottles.  Because of the nature of the way I live, Snuffly has been fed publicly many times already - in meetings, large and small, mainly.  No one has batted an eyelid to date, which is good because I'd hate to have to be rude to them.

Last time I had to start giving Wriggly formula in hospital, as I simply didn't make enough milk.  We mix fed until about three or four months, I can't really remember precisely, and then formula became a rarity, until I went back to work at nine months and had to be out a lot over the evening feed.  On his first birthday he gave up, but my supply had been dwindling for months.

I swore this time would be different.  My concerns about the pain have certainly been taken a lot more seriously than they were two and a half years ago.  The fact that I have already fed one baby for a year seems to give me a bit of standing, plus my Lead Maternity Carer has been a revelation of good midwifery compared to the last one.  But it was around this point last time that the pain lifted and feeding started to become an easy joy.  And that hasn't happened yet. 

It scares me - what if this time will be different because it will be worse?  Now that I've got antibiotics for the mastitis it seems to be clearing fast, but what about the thrush which we seem unable to shake?  Is this going to hurt forever? 

And am I going to have to give up?

Who owns breasts?

Cross posted, because I've just found this nonsense on Stuff too

Brendan Black is a new daddy, and he's had an astonishing revelation. He has found that he needs to get over his semi-embarrassment, in public, about his partner breastfeeding their little boy. He's urging all men to do the same, in an opinion piece that appears in both The Sydney Morning Herald, and The Age. and is now on Stuff too, because it's much cheaper to fill NZ newspapers with second-hand columns from Australia.

Grow up men! Breasts are for babies

His ostensible purpose is laudable: he wants men to get over the idea that there is something wrong with women breastfeeding in public.

Once my son was born, I quickly realised what I had long dreaded: my wife's breasts had to be shared with someone else, even though he had a greater need for them than me.

He sets out some fairly standard ideas about the confusion between the sexualisation of breasts, and the need to feed babies. There's nothing new in what he writes, except that he is addressing men. And yes, it's jolly nice that he's supporting breastfeeding. Of course, you will note the privilege that's on display: because it's being said by a man, it might get taken seriously, and even get published in a couple of big newspapers, but when women have made the same arguments, that's just those wretched feminists getting whiny and shrill again.

But what really, really annoyed me about the article was his assumption of ownership.

Nevertheless, seeing my wife's naked breasts several times a day, even with lessened ownership rights and in a new context, is still enjoyable...*

Oh, he asks for permission before he looks, but he still assumes ownership. And that's the flavour of the entire article. He used to own his partner's breasts, but now he has to share them, and hey, he's okay with that.

Dude, it's simple. The person who owns a woman's breasts is the woman herself. Not her partner. Not any man who cares to walk by and take a look. Not even her babies. But the woman herself. That's one of the basic notions of bodily integrity we have in Western liberal democracies. And once you understand that notion of bodily integrity, then whether or not a woman uses her breasts for sexual pleasure, or for titillation, or for feeding a baby, is none of your business whatsoever. Start with the notion that women own their own breasts, and then you don't even need to worry about whether your "ownership" rights have been affected, because you never had those rights in the first place.

And by the way, this sort of behaviour...

We love to sneak a peek at a woman's cleavage, cop a feel when we're allowed to (and even when we're not)...*

... is not a matter for joking. That's sexual assault. 'Though no doubt it would be more properly regarded as stealing from the man who owns them.

* Emphasis mine

Public support for public breastfeeding

From the Herald this morning:

More than half of New Zealanders are okay with mothers breastfeeding in public, but a minority still prefer babies be fed in the restroom.

Results from the Breastmates breastfeeding survey, released yesterday, show 61 per cent feel comfortable with women breastfeeding in public.

However 19 per cent of those surveyed are not so keen.

Out of those who were not comfortable, 25 per cent agreed that when mothers were at a restaurant, they should be encouraged to breastfeed in the restroom - rather than at the table.

The remaining 23 per cent of that group believed that children aged 12 months and more should be breastfed in public.

Click through for the rest of the article.

I feel like those figures are a bit confusing, in the way the Herald has stated them, but putting that to one side, so you may want to check out the actual media statement from Breastmates instead, which states:

Most New Zealanders feel comfortable with women breastfeeding in public and six in ten (61%) disagreed with the statement ‘I feel uncomfortable when women breastfeed in public’.

However, a level of discomfort still exists for some, with just under two in ten (19%) agreeing that they ‘feel uncomfortable when women breastfeed in public’.

When asked about specific situations, this level of discomfort becomes somewhat more apparent, specifically:

• 25% agree that ‘at restaurants women should be encouraged to breastfeed in the restroom rather than at the table’, and;
• 23% agree that ‘infants over the age of 12 months should never be breastfed in public.

So looks like there is a missing "never" in that Herald story?

The gender split was pretty strong, with women feeling much more comfortable about breastfeeding happening in public than men. Personally I don't understand why people who are uncomfortable can't look at something else for a while.

What isn't reported on in the Herald story, but is in the Breastmates release, is some polling around attitudes to breast-feeding versus bottle-feeding. It's not clear to me from reading it whether they are equating bottle with formula, or bottle with anything other than direct from breast (where would bottle feeding with expressed milk sit?):

...there isn’t a strong preference for breast or bottle-feeding in relation to the healthiness and happiness of babies:

• Similar levels agreed (33%) as disagreed (31%) that ‘babies who are bottle-fed tend to be just as health and happy as those who are breastfed’.

Surprisingly, men are more likely than women to consider breastfeeding the healthiest option for the baby, 43% of the women surveyed agreed that bottle fed babies tend to be as healthy and happy as those who are breastfed, whereas only 21% of males agreed with this. Of note, males express some lack of knowledge in this area and are twice as likely to say that they do not know if ‘babies who are bottle fed tend to be just as happy as those who are breastfed’.

It's kind of a false dichotomy anyway, as there are plenty of babies who are mix-fed (i.e. both bottle and breast, both formula and breastmilk) at various stages. Black and white survey options don't recognise that reality.

More boob-related controversy!

THMers recently had a lively debate over a poster aimed at promoting breastfeeding, featuring a mum breastfeeding her toddler in a park. As you'd expect in a debate, some were for, and others against. I concluded that I have no problem with breastfeeding toddlers, but somehow I found the poster confronting - as if it was asking me to make a political statement with my body, when all I ever wanted as a breastfeeding mum was to be able to feed comfortably wherever I needed to.

What, then, to make of this poster? You'll excuse the quality of image - it features a little girl pretending to breastfeed her doll. The handmade poster carries the caption, `It's Normal - children copy their mothers, teenagers do it! Celebrities do it!'.

Locals of Manchester, where the poster originates from, seem to find it terribly offensive. Said one woman, "The picture is shocking and it isn't normal. Children copy their parents but I don't think any little girls should be breastfeeding their dolls." (I had to chuckle at this - this disapproving woman is a 39-year-old grandmother according to the article, and there are plenty of busy-bodies around who would tut-tut at that.)

I actually don't find this confronting in the same way as the previous poster - and I don't think it's any sort of 'shock tactic'. In fact, I think it's cute. My daughter imitated me when I breastfed her baby brother, and I'm sure little kids all around the world do the same. And why would we find this offensive? Is there some sort of 'little girls + pretend breasts = sexualisation' type of equation going on in the minds of Manchester residents?

For me, growing up around a breastfeeding mother and aunt was important to my own decision to breastfeed. In fact, it never occurred to me that I wouldn't - I didn't lack confidence in the way that a woman with no experience of breastfeeding might do.

Is this poster offensive? Personally, I don't think so. But is it an effective pro-breastfeeding campaign? That's a whole different argument...

Too much of a good thing?

A friend tipped me off to this poster, which promotes World Breastfeeding Week (apologies for the quality of the image). She'd seen it at her daughter's creche in all it's A2 glory, and although a feminist, she found it 'confronting'.

The Women's Health Action Trust website features an interesting article about the poster, which discusses public discomfort with the poster. The article concludes that breastfeeding in public is permissable so long as women are discreet about it - and breastfeeding a toddler, by definition it seems, is not discreet.

I completely support the right of mothers to breastfeed for as long as they please (with a bit of a proviso: if the child is old enough to be alienated from his/her peers by breastfeeding, then I think it's time to stop). I breastfed my own kids until 20 and 16 months respectively, when they lost interest, and I've not doubt this made some people uncomfortable.

And yet, I too found the poster somehow confronting. There are social expectations around what we ladies do with our boobies. When our children are small, we get a dispensation to stop regarding our breasts as sexual items only. Beyond a certain point in a baby's growth, however, it's expected that we'll stop using our breasts as a source of food, and return them to their rightful place in the realm of the sexual.

Maybe the ultimate question is this: who owns our boobs?

Quick hit: Breastfeeding and dehydration

Here's a snippet from a lengthier article on Stuff today:

The World Health Organisation recommends exclusive breastfeeding until about six months of age and continuing breastfeeding with other foods to at least two years.

In England, it was reported that the push to exclusively breastfeed in the early months could increase the number of dehydrated babies because people were hesitant about criticising the practice.

Dr Sam Richmond, a consultant neonatologist at Sunderland Royal Hospital, said there had become something of a "religious affiliation" to breastfeeding,

Otago University Associate Professor of Human Nutrition Winsome Parnell said past research had suggested topping up with water in hot climates.

"New Zealand is temperate, so it's not the usual route. If a mother doesn't have enough breastmilk then formula must be given because giving water does not solve the energy problem."

I seem to recall being advised by several health professionals that it was ok to give Wriggly some teaspoons of cooled boiled water when it was really really hot, not long after he was born. He was breastfeeding and taking everything I had, and then still hungry, so until my milk supply came up enough we would top him up with some formula when he needed it. I felt pretty awful that I didn't have enough milk, but I got over it when it became apparent he was thriving anyway. I would have thought dehydration was pretty uncommon in breast fed babies, because they are pretty assertive about wanting more!

What a great idea

The below message has come to me via various routes from the Maternity Services Consumer Council:

The Okahu Bay (Auckland) Waitangi Day Festival:
In 1841 Ngati Whatua o Orakei welcomed Governor Hobson at Okahu Bay and gifted him all of the land now known as Auckland's CBD. Okahu Bay is once again a site of celebration,168 years on. This alcohol, smoke free, breastfeeding friendly family event is enriched with tradition, culture, food, art and live entertainment. A tent will be available for breastfeeding mothers. Please pass the word on it would be fabulous to have the tent full of mums.(my emphasis added.)

While personally I wasn't that uncomfortable feeding in front of others, from the time Wriggly was about four months old, this is a fantastic move from the organisers. Big progress from when my mum was turned away by the St John's people at the Boat Show back in the late 1970s, and told to find a toilet to breastfeed me instead.

Wired

Is it feminist to be pleased to be back in an underwire bra after 15 months of soft cup boredom? Wriggly has been slowly but surely losing interest in his breakfast feed of breast milky goodness, to the point where this morning he had the shortest suck ever and would not even latch on at the second attempt. He has weened himself at the grand age of one year. Can't walk, can't talk, but he doesn't need no boobies anymore.

He's still totally into formula from a bottle though; he gets all flappy with excitement when he sees the plastic boob-replacement. Even when it's just sitting upside down on the bench drying after a clean. He gobbles the formula down, and keeps sucking even after it's all gone, although he's actually not all that hungry. Fortunately he is easily distracted by that other modern wonder; the toothbrush.

In other wire-related news, we've been watching the first season of The Wire, graciously loaned to us over a year ago by Mr R P Studmuffin. We watched episode four last night. Now that's a patient friend.

Almost as forgiving is poor old Apathy Jack, who came round with two boxed sets of watching pleasure (the complete Yes Minister, including Yes Prime Minister, and every episode of Babylon Five ever made) when Wriggly was a couple of weeks old. Sensitive to the needs of new parents, he dropped them off at the doorstep quietly one morning and sneaked away again to avoid waking the baby or me. He'll be waiting a while yet but I won't forget the DVDs were his to start with.

But back to The Wire. I find it quite compelling watching. It's the sort of programme where I get to the end of an episode and I'm disappointed it was so short. I want to watch the next one immediately. I haven't felt this way since Battlestar Galactica. I don't know if it reflects NZ's police force at all, but I suspect not. Surely it can't be that desperate in Nga Pirihimana O Aotearoa?

The Wire paints a picture of boys (and one girl so far) in blue who are over-stretched, under-resourced, under-paid, and generally encouraged to quit if they have any smarts whatsoever. I wonder how the real-life Baltimore police felt about it when it came out? Too close to the bone? Or a million miles away from their truth? The high level of corruption portrayed (and the high level of incompetence and stupidity on display) is astonishing to me, despite my high level of cynicism about law enforcement.

As I've only seen a limited portion of the series so far it may be unfair to comment on the male dominance of the cast. In many ways it is probably a natural reflection of the environment on the screen; women in the drug world seem to be drug users and/or prostitutes, while on the other side there's been one police prosecutor (who also serves as a sex interest for the main male character), and one female police officer, Detective Shakima Greggs.

Kima's character is so prominent that I almost felt like there were lots of women in the show. She's smart, she's good at her job, she's teamed with two complete idiots, and she's an African-American lesbian. One part of me thinks it's fantastic that there is a woman of colour, a lesbian woman of colour no less, in this part. Another wonders a little if that was a way of shoe-horning two minorities, and one majority, in for the price of one character. Perhaps in a future episode she'll end up blind or in a wheelchair? Sonja Sohn will still be fantastic to watch in the role, and if they keep writing her character the way they have been I'm not sure I'll care too much.

The undeniable selfishness of the breastfeeding mother

Lauredhel has a fantastic post at Hoyden About Town on the strange case of Salma Hayek's breastfeeding. Apparently the fact that she is "still" breastfeeding her daughter at 14 months of age is not only news-worthy it is also cringe-worthy for many many people. Harsh judgements have been made; that Hayek is somehow unhinged, abusing her child, and of course (most importantly) not keeping her breasts available for their much more important role, namely being a passive and willing recipient of lustful gazes. Actually, judging by some of the comments Lauredhel has gathered, many are still indulging in said leering, but somehow the idea that there is a little girl also accessing those boobies gets in the way of their mental masturbation. It must be hard to be them.

Like Undomestic Goddess before me, I'm now in the land of "why haven't you weaned yet". Wriggly is over 10 months old and while we've significantly reduced the feeds since I went back to work, and a lot of people are keen that I give up altogether for my own health, he's still getting his breakfast drink from me. We had a lot of trouble to start with and now I really want to make it to a year. I'm not sure quite why, I just do. I don't think Wriggly would mind much either way; he gets very excited now when he sees the milky bottle coming his way at lunch and dinner times.

Having read Lauredhel's excellent summation of the situation for Salma Hayek I'm now wondering if there are people I know personally who think I'm somehow abusing my son by continuing to breastfeed him. :-(

Milk

I've been avoiding the melamine milk powder disaster. I just can't think too much about the dead babies, the damaged babies, the parents who thought they were sustaining their children, nurturing them, when in fact the formula they were giving them was poisonous. It's too sad, so I turn away. I suspect I shouldn't, but I do it all the same.

I'm disappointed that much of the media coverage has focused on the business outcomes for Fonterra, in a manner that ignores the personal element. This is tragedy that has grown from the inexorable greed for bigger and bigger profits, I have no doubt, and I wish that there was somehow a balance between reporting what it means for Fonterra's balance sheet and what it means for the thousands of families affected. Mostly it seems to be relegated to the business news now, in our country at least. Homepaddock, a farmer herself, has been writing a lot about this story, so you might want to check out her blog for more detail on it all.

We've got Wriggly down to three milk feeds a day now, each one almost always delivered via the time-honoured method of breastfeeding. On Monday I go back to my full time job, which means my boobs won't be here at lunchtime. I'm going to try to express, however given how exhausted I've got recently I'm not sure that will be a realistic option. So that means a formula feed a day (and sometimes two) for my son. I was quite relaxed about it until the San Lu story broke.

Rationally I know that the formula supply in New Zealand is safe. But we're not always fully rational beings all the time, are we? We're emotional too, and having an emotional response, as much as many people try to degrade it, is still valid.

There's enough guilt attached to using formula already, without this; without this horrible trepidation. And if I'm anxious, thousands of miles away where the milk powder is always tested and we have a rigorous food safety scheme, I can only imagine the fear of Chinese mums and dads.

Big ups for Sue Bradford

Green MP Sue Bradford is without doubt my favourite Member of the current Parliament. She's walked the talk on child discipline, as the prime mover behind the amendement of s59 of the Crimes Act, and pushed our lawmakers to take meaningful steps towards abolishing the youth minimum wage. Not to mention her contribution to the general leftwingedness of the Greens, and her willingness to discuss and debate her politics in a civilised and open-hearted manner in the media as well as in the House.

This week she had another victory, which will mean a significant improvement for some of the most vulnerable women and children in our community, with the passage of her Corrections (Mothers with Babies) Amendment Bill into law yesterday. You can read Bradford's speech on the final reading at the Greens' website. Here's an extract:

There are heart rending stories, some of which we heard during the Select Committee process, of mothers who went through the emotional rollercoaster of being told, while pregnant, that they could and then couldn’t keep their baby in an on-again off-again fashion that is absolutely devastating. We heard of the grief and trauma of having your baby taken from your arms after the allocated time was up.

We heard of women who have turned their lives around after being allowed the privilege of keeping their babies with them – evidence came to us that for some women, the opportunity to keep their baby with them in prison was lifechangingly positive. We’ve also heard of the opposite effect on the chances of rehabilitation when your baby is torn away from you.

Bradford's latest bill will change that environment and give those mothers, and their children, a chance. They'll be able to breastfeed, and babies will be able to live with their mothers, which will have a big impact on rehabilitation for Mum and feeling loved and connected for Bubs.

I don't know Bradford at all really, although I have talked to her at a few things, and we've exchanged the odd email about various matters over the years. What always strikes me about her is her compassion, which seems to me, as an outsider looking in, to be motivating her to achieve positive change for those so often marginalised in our society.

As Idiot/Savant points out, Sue has done an amazing job with her strategy of seeking improvement through the Members' Bill process:

...this means that Sue Bradford has hit the trifecta, and had three members' bills passed in a single term. This is an incredible achievement - looking back, no single MP has had more than a single bill passed in the whole 1996 - 2008 period. Getting three through is a testament to Bradford's skill at picking issues, negotiating compromises, and assembling majorities. These are all vital skills under MMP, and other parties could learn a lot from her.

When Bradford was first elected there were many who thought her public history of controntation and protest would be ill-suited to life in the House. Yet now her achievements show how well she has adapted, whilst still staying true to her values, and the reasons she ran for Parliament in the first place. Surely she could now be seen as Jeanette Fitzsimmons' successor in the Greens' co-leadership role, or am I just too optimistic?

Your body must fit within the chalk outline at all times - pregnancy is no excuse!

I'm always a bit nervous writing about this stuff, as I have thin priviledge in spades. However when I heard this interview on Nine to Noon about pregorexia and read homepaddock's post about it, I was hurtled back, mentally, to an odd encounter I had about a year ago.

I was meeting with a woman I frequently deal with in the course of my paid work. As soon as I walked in to her office she looked at me with a big smile on her face and said "you're getting fat!" She was clearly quite gleeful about this, rubbing her hands together with the pleasure that my weight gain brought her. I said "actually I'm pregnant", which was something she already knew and had known for some weeks. She responded "oh yes, I know, but you're fat!" I was so stunned by this conversation, so unable to think of any response but physical violence, that I just sat there for a moment, deflated (although still fat I presume) in the chair, and then I changed the subject and started talking about the work matter. She was considerably chirpier than usual for the rest of the day.

It seemed that to this woman weight loss was a matter of Olympic level competition, and by getting pregnant, and thus putting on weight, I was her inferior in thinness. Assumedly my expanding waistline would throw her silhouette into svelte relief, and make her look skinnier to those who would compare us. I'm pretty sure she was the only person comparing us, but I guess it must have been very important to her, to weigh less than me, for my inflation to have brought her such pleasure.

To be fair this was the only experience like this that I had during my gravid months. But I did notice all the shots of pregnant celebrities who apparently have only two stages of pregnancy; 1) the "We spy a baby bump" pre-announcement period, when magazines compete to be first to spot a bun in the oven, and 2) the glowing ship asail in full length glamour at an awards ceremony, looking radiant and beautiful, and still somehow thin everywhere but at the belly.

Where are the shots between four and seven months when people you see in the street have that awkward moment of trying to decide whether you are pregnant or just bigger? Where are the pictures of famous women with swollen ankles, unable to wear any shoes but their fluffy slippers? What about those days when everything is too big or too small and the only option is your patched dressing gown? It seems we are supposed to morph from thin with a slight bump to thin with a big bump, with no intermediate stage, and then once we have expelled the baby the bump must disappear instantly so that we are simply thin again.

Shortland Street didn't help much. Maia was about two weeks ahead of me with her pregnancy. She went from thin and throwing up a bit, to slightly thick around the waist and glowing, to balloon like (only in the belly) and overdue, all within six months. That's right - they severely truncated Jay's gestation and actually when his aunt delivered him in the back of the car he should have been about three month's premature, not a little bit late. Talk about misrepresenting the realities of pregnancy!* And of course Maia bounced back to her usual slenderness within days, despite a haemorrhage and other dramas. I guess it's not practical to expect those playing pregnant women to fatten up their arms and legs, but it would be more true to life to at least put them in some floaty clothes a bit.

It gets me down. This idea that women should weigh less, be less, take up less space in the world. And it used to be that pregnancy was a time when you could cut loose, not worry about weight gain, and eat like you'd never eaten before, without the usual barrage of unsolicited dietary advice. I was looking forward to that, until I read the What To Expect When You're Expecting diet and discovered I was only allowed to have ice cream once a month. There appears to be a growing list of foods that the pregnant are supposed to avoid; no longer just alcohol, or soft cheeses and shellfish, it now extends to any deli-type foods and even lettuce that has not been washed immediately before consumption.

So I really wasn't that surprised to hear about the rise of pregorexia, and the pressure some women feel to keep their weight down even when they are single-handedly growing another human being. It's unrealistic and dangerous, and when you're pregnant the ability to exert control over your body is even less likely. Then after you've delivered the baby your body is recovering from the trauma (and for around one in three women that trauma is equivalent to a major car accident) and you are probably breast feeding.

I've written about the mother sucking before. What I haven't really mentioned is that for some women, me among them, it is an incredibly physically draining experience which makes it hard to maintain your own bodily integrity. I now weigh a sixth less than I did before I got pregnant. After seven months of breast feeding I am eating more than I ever have before, and yet I am still losing weight. My body is not very happy about this, and I'm doing my best to arrest the slide because I know that this is a dangerous path that leads to other health problems. I don't want to lose weight, I am fully aware that it is bad for both me and Wriggly, and, as I've written before, I could do without the judging thanks very much.

And so I find it all too easy to understand the mindset of those who feel they shouldn't gain weight during pregnancy, that they need to maintain an iron grip of control over their bodies at all times. I'm trying to battle for control myself, albeit to plump my body up rather than slim it down. The process of being pregnant is so all-consumedly about a woman's changing body, about the woman as baby-maker, that it is understandable to attempt to dictate how that change will happen. Largely impossible of course, but understandable none the less. I guess the lack of control during pregnancy is useful preparation for the loss of independence and power once the baby arrives?

Perhaps if we could have some positive and true media images of women during their pregnancies, and stop commenting on other people's weight gain or loss (pregnant or otherwise), and just love our friends and whanau regardless of their size, maybe we would start eroding those messages that tell women and girls that you can never be too thin. Because you can.


* I'm really hoping they don't do the same with Alice. And it all reminds me of how in Gone With the Wind Scarlett is pregnant with her first baby for something like 11 months, so that she can give birth to the dramatic background of the fall of Atlanta (iirc).

The villagers, sans pitchforks

I've been meaning to write about this for a while, and Hannah's post about her search for a solution to her childcare problems just spurred me to stop procrastinating and start tip tapping away at the little black keys.*

Back in the mists of time, when Hilary Clinton was "just" the American President's wife, she wrote a book about child-rearing called It Takes A Village to Raise a Child. The very phrase has become a bit of naffness and I've never read the book, but since Wriggly's arrival it's run through my head not in the sarcastic tones it used to, but as a reflection of the reality I am living in; I'm not the only person raising this baby, and I'm not the only person he is vitally important to.

First and foremost there is Wriggly's other parent, his father. He's actively involved; he changes nappies, he plays with him, and when I go out of an evening it's Daddy who tries to convince Wriggly that the formula from the bottle is yummy, yummy, yummy. In the night we tend to alternate who gets up, regardless of the fact that one of us has to head off to paid employment most mornings. Wriggly's dad makes time in his work schedule to be there, whenever possible, for jabs and Plunket visits, and in a couple of months' time, when I go back to work, it'll be his turn to be at home as the primary care-giver.

Then there's the broader whanau - grandparents in particular, but also aunts and uncles, great-grandparents, cousins (first and removed and all that guff that I can never get my head around). Wriggly and I usually spend at least a day a week with my Mum (and my Dad too, before he passed away), and the help that they offered during the pregnancy and since has been overwhelming in its generosity. Practical aid, like coming around to clear-out and decorate Wriggly's room, cooking us meals, offering to help financially with some of the bigger items like the cot, and the emotional support that has kept me going so many times when this mothering thing just seemed unbelievably hard. Wriggly's paternal grandparents have been great too, particularly since the total number of grandparents went down by one, and they lovingly babysit whenever we ask. Wriggly's Grandma is a Plunket nurse and I've really appreciated the perfect balance she has found between being my mother-in-law and being an expert on child care and development. Her supportive advice has been a great tonic for the worrier in me.

So far, so ho hum. You'd expect family to support a newborn and their parents, or at least you'd hope they would. I'm very aware of the advantages we have; the closeness of our families (geographically and emotionally) means that support is offered and asked for with ease. We are lucky.

What makes us even luckier is the broader network of friends who have been stellar. A few days after we came home from hospital Apathy Jack dropped around some DVDs cos he'd heard new parents didn't get out much.** Homemade meals turned up from all over the place, including from members of my partner's church, mostly people who had never met me. We didn't have to buy much clothing for Wriggly because of the kind donations of those whose children were older now, and due to the amazing mountain of baby clothes we were given as presents. The same with books and toys. All of those presents, whether pre-loved or brand new, made the financial stress of a new baby that little bit easier to cope with, and meant that from the very first day he was carried into the house our son has been surrounded by objects that show how loved he is, and reflect the huge number of people who are so pleased to know him.

Many friends have offered to baby-sit, not least our amazing neighbours, who lend us their lawnmower whenever we ask, and look after the cat too. Sometimes I try to repay their kindness a little by letting Mr S have a rant at me about the 5-star softness of our prisons, but mostly I try to balance the favour ledger a tiny bit by letting them have lots of cuddles with Wriggly. Apparently that's a currency that is valued higher than black gold.

And the mothers of friends have been great support too, telling me about their own experiences and reinforcing my sense of belief in my approach to parenting. So many mums, and early childhood teachers, have instilled a confidence in me that I had feared would elude me for some time. They have helped me realise, just through the osmosis of being around them and hearing them talk about the children they have cared for and educated, that my son will develop in his own time, and at his own pace, and that the most important thing is to care for him, love him, and encourage him as he discovers.

I haven't even mentioned yet the numerous people involved in the health system who have looked after Wriggly in various ways - everyone at Waitakere Hospital back in January (more on this another time), the two independent midwives who looked after us for the first six weeks, the two Plunket nurses at the Plunket Family Centre who rescued me from mastitis and helped both of us learn to breastfeed, the regular Plunket nurse who I suspect is visiting us a few extra times,*** our GP and the nurses there who have given Wriggly his jabs, two paedeatricians at Starship who checked his heart murmur, the ECG operators, the radiographer who x-rayed his chest, the two cardiologists who further checked his heart murmur, I'm sure I've forgotten someone. And that's without listing all the people behind the scenes who we maybe never saw, but whose work is so crucial to keeping the wheels of our health system going - the cleaners, the orderlies, the receptionists, the admin staff, the cooks.

Other new mums truly have kept me sane, with their admissions of their divergence from perfect motherhood. Deborah (who isn't a new mum of course) revealed to me several things by email which relaxed me a great deal, in particular the news that at this point in time Wriggly can learn much from simply watching me have a snack. This might seem pretty straightforward to you, but that one comment from my co-blogger has been instrumental in helping me keep making breastmilk for my baby, by keeping my food intake up. And you too, dear bloggers, with your writings about how it was for you and how it is now, be it by comment, email or on your own blog. Plus there are the other mums I've met at the Plunket parenting class (with yet another very helpful Plunket nurse presiding) - we're trying to keep in touch, attend a playgroup together, have coffees from time to time, and email about milestones.

This post probably only scratches the surface. I could mention the people who are supporting us too, by giving Wriggly's dad leave at the time of the birth, by helping my family to cope when Dad died, by doing a million things for us and with us that give us the strength to be parents, and those who run the free or donation based activities we head along to, like Mainly Music and the Greyfriars playgroup. Typing it all out now it just seems to be this never-ending list of those who surround us and support us, with the aim of giving Wriggly the best childhood possible.

We are talking about a community of support that far exceeds the bounds of a village. Some people will leave, as their time to help passes, and new folk will arrive as we go out into the world more and more. I'm sure that our village will grow just as Wriggly does.

And writing this all I'm aware of our good fortune. That we have these people, these opportunities, in our lives is in part a reflection of our Pakeha middle-class-ness. I wish all babies, and all parents, had it this good.



* Although to be honest I actually had to stop at this point and go feed Wriggly, organise his bath, clean-out the cupboard in his room while his father bathed him, etc etc.
** We still haven't finished watching them, but we're trying!
*** I think this is probably because I am at pretty high risk of Post Natal Depression.

Boobilicious

Breast is best, unless…

There are many advantages to breastfeeding. The World Health Organisation so strongly recommends it that in NZ, and many other countries, it is actually illegal to actively advertise or promote formula feeding to babies under 6 months of age. Breastmilk is generally accepted as the “perfect” baby food to about the 8 month mark when purees and mashes solids start to overtake the liquid lunches and sucked suppers.

Before Wriggly arrived I had already decided that I would be doing the breast thing, unless there was a good reason to go the formula route. Then we had all sorts of troubles, and on my part rather a lot of pain. Tubes, bottles, breast pumps, nipple shields, formula mixes and various creams all became a part of my life. For some odd reason, that I still don’t really understand, I persevered despite blocked milk ducts and a bathtub full of tears, and slowly the pain subsided. Now it seems very easy and convenient, but if you’d asked me a few months ago I would have had quite a different opinion of “the most natural thing in the world.”

Part of my frustration was the lack of support offered by my Lead Maternity Carer. I had fantastic help from the hospital midwives, who were caring and pragmatic. After five days under their tuition it was a shock to be home with the training wheels off and an independent midwife who seemed to be instructing me to ride around in ever decreasing circles. With no lactation consultants available until February at the hospital or Birthcare we headed to a Plunket Family Centre for wonderful practical support, which slowly turned things around.

My experience is not universal. I have friends and whanau who have turned to the bottle, from the birth, after trying breastfeeding for a few days or weeks, or when baby is a few months old. In my parenting class probably half of the women attending were bottle-feeding their babies with formula, and I’m glad that no one in our group* looked askance at them for bringing out the plastic.

I don’t understand why there is such disapproval when women take advantage of the scientific and social advances we have made. Formula, caesarean, fathers as primary caregivers (and mothers who go back to paid work) all have their stern detractors, many of whom aren’t afraid to share their pronouncements about other people’s lives. But without formula women and their babies would be worse off. Yes we got by without it for thousands and thousands of years, but that was when women were chained to their children, lived in communities where wet nursing was possible, and died from mastitis. Breast may be an A+, but formula is a perfectly good A, not an F.

Conversely I know of women still breastfeeding as they approach the one year mark, despite the public disapproval. Anyone who thinks women should be confined to the private sphere, and have no part to play in debating points of policy or practice, has clearly not encountered the political minefield of motherhood.

Those who end up relying on formula are not lesser Mums and they have not failed. Breastfeeding is only best if it works for both baby and mother. As with choices about whether or not to have a baby in the first place, I trust my fellow XXers to make the decision that works best for them and for their family.



* Including the Plunket nurse who ran the classes. To date I’ve encountered five different Plunket nurses (one of whom is a relative), and all of them have been pragmatic about formula. However I have friends who have not had such a supportive response from Plunket nurses in their area, which is a shame.

Illogic + self interest = Business New Zealand

According to Business New Zealand, mothers don't need legislation ensuring their employers make provision for them to breastfeed. Phil O'Reilly, Chief Executive of Business NZ, claims 'employers [are] naturally in favour of adequate meal and rest breaks and provision for breastfeeding mothers', but sees no evidence that breaks are required. Says Phil, 'in thousands of workplaces across the country employers and employees make sensible agreements in their mutual interests without having written rules'. There's no problem, so there's nothing to fix.

Workplaces differ, but in my experience there aren't many in which women feel comfortably able to breastfeed, and still fewer where employers and workers hold hands and sing Kum Ba Ya as Phil seems to imagine. The workforce is a social institution which has made few changes to accommodate women and our home responsibilities. Only a few short years ago, women fought for the right to paid parental leave. If a man could sustain a rugby injury and receive 80% of his wage from ACC, we argued, a woman surely ought to get paid leave for doing something almost as valuable as playing rugby: bringing a child into the world.

Of course, women workers have made some gains, including paid parental leave, but the expectation remains that when a worker arrives at work, he or she leaves his home life at the door. I think this is harder for women, not just because women tend to do more work in the home than men, but also – whether because of nature or nurture – women often can't emotionally disengage from their kids readily. Leaving my daughter in care for the first time was one of the worst moments of my life; and during almost every work day I've had since, I've carried out my employment while simultaneously fretting about whether my daughter is wearing her school jersey in this chilly weather, or wondering if my son's nose is running or he's refusing to eat his sandwiches.

The right to breastfeed at work is about a great deal more than ensuring babies receive the health benefits of breast milk. If that was all that mattered, women could express milk and drop it off at crèches with their babies. Breastfeeding at work is about asserting that workers aren't automatons whose emotions and responsibilities disappear when they clock on; and that women should not have to forfeit the right to bond with their babies if they also choose to work. It's also an issue of employers acknowledging their responsibilities to support public health, unpaid work and women workers' wellbeing.

These are not responsibilities which Business NZ is too eager to meet – hence Phil O'Reilly's spasms of illogic. If employers are adequately supporting breastfeeding mothers, you'd think there would be no harm in matching law to existing practice. Not so: Phil warns us that calls for breastfeeding breaks are not based on objective evidence, and cautions of a shadowy 'danger of getting prescriptive rules that make things worse'.

Read on, though, and you'll soon find the real reason for Business NZ's objection to breastfeeding breaks: regulation 'harms the profitability of firms'. And given the choice between profitability and a small concession to the welfare of mothers, babies and the community, it's pretty clear which Business NZ chooses.

Dear Ambivalent of Auckland

Hey Me,

I know what you’re thinking.

You reckon life is going pretty well so why make any big changes? Why halve our household income overnight, and increase the expenses at the same time? Why upset the cat by introducing someone new to her house? Why radically change the body you’ve finally come to accept? Why put yourself in the position of having to take significant unpaid leave from a job that’s really quite rewarding? Why take the risk of irrevocably attaching a new person to your life when there’s a possibility you might not like them? Why put yourself in a different place from so many of your friends, somewhere they might not want to visit anymore? Why screw with the equilibrium of a relationship that’s nicely balanced, by adding a third person to the equation?

You’re full of doubt, not least of it a big dollop of self-doubt about becoming a mother, and so you’re consciously pushing away thoughts and conversations about breeding. After all, you’re even not thirty yet, no need to rush.

Here’s a little truth about where you’ll be in a couple of years time. You’ll be so glad to have Wriggly in your life. You’ll be unable to stop yourself from telling people how wonderful he is, even when you’ve just told them five minutes earlier. You’ll feel a sense of achievement, not just because you’re keeping him alive and healthy and happy, but also because you built him with your body, and you’re continuing to do so by breastfeeding (oh and by the way, although that’ll be incredibly hard for several months it will get easier and you’ll be so relieved you persevered). Wriggly will be someone to cuddle and cry with when times are hard, and someone whose laughs and smiles will brighten your day, even when they’re directed at someone else (including the peacock lamp in the lounge).

A baby is a scary thing. It’s scary before it’s real, it’s scary when you’re pregnant, it’s scary when it first arrives and looks so fragile and vulnerable and puzzling. It’s still scary even when you have a pretty good handle on what’s going on (which will take at least three months). It’s scary every time something changes, and change is constant. At times it will be so scary that you’ll doubt yourself more than you have in many many years. But it’s worth it because scary is only part of the picture.

Adding a child adds more love. More love for you, more love for your partner, more love for your family and friends, even more love for the cat. Sometimes you’ll feel that the love is filling you so entirely, to the very ends of your fingertips and toes, that you’ll explode. It won’t always be like that, but when it is close your eyes tight and store that sensation away securely. That memory will get you through a lot.

You probably won’t believe this. You’ll want to see for yourself, even while you worry that there is no exchange card for your own progeny. And in a while you’ll be where I am now, writing this letter to myself and reflecting on how much better this mothering thing is than I ever thought it could be when I was you.

Arohanui,
Me.