The Lesser Spotted Breast Feeder

Whenever I see a fellow breast feeder Out and About I do “the stare” and I throw in “the smile” for good measure.  But first I usually get the David Attenborough of spying breast feeding mothers, Mister Husband, elbowing me in the ribs to inform me he has found a Lesser Spotted Breast Feeder. We must make a right pair.  I love to see a teeny tiny newborn baby enjoying their breakfast/lunch.  It’s enough to put the yearning on me!  But it’s becoming increasingly rare to see anyone feeding their baby in public.  I know lots of us still do it, I’ve chatted to you, but it must all be under the cover of darkness.  Where are you all?   Are we a dying breed; reluctant to feed our older children in public because society might frown upon it?  I get that because I was that Lesser Spotted Breast Feeder some years back.  When Screecher Creature No. 1 reached toddlerhood I was reluctant to feed him in public.  I used to bring a bottle of expressed milk for him and keep the cosy, uninterrupted feeds for at home.  Similarly when he was but a babe in arms, the day arrived when I was about to feed him in public for the first time. Again, I was very nervous, on edge, waiting for someone to pass a negative comment.    I selected a seat in the corner of the room and sat with my back to everyone.  Mister Husband was with me and I looked down at my feet the entire time.  Even though I was discreet, I felt every eye in the room was on me.  Of course that wasn’t the case at all.  We were in a public place and I would be willing to bet that no-one noticed me at all.  Hardly anyone does unless they’re familiar with “the hold.”  I discovered this when I had a friend visit me and I happened to be nursing. As is normal for a newborn, he was enjoying a lengthy feed and remained latched on for the duration of the visit.  She wasn’t even aware that I was feeding him and it only occurred to me afterwards that she was dying for “a hold.”   Another time with another Screecher Creature, I was signing some legal documents and the solicitor almost gave himself whiplash, recoiling when he realised the boy was having his lunch.  He, the solicitor, had leaned across to hand me the writ and copped a discreet eyeful.  I did laugh a little.  Today I would not hesitate to feed Screecher Creature No. 4, who is 13 months old, in public if he wanted.   I just challenge anyone to come within spitting distance of me with either a negative comment or so much as a disproving look.  Mama bear will come out in full protective force and that person could very well feel the taste of my wrath. But it has been months since he nursed in public.  He is just too afraid he will miss anything and I kind of miss it.  See, I’m a lot more confident about breastfeeding in pubic now and I also know my rights.  It sounds crazy but there is actually a law in place to protect mothers who nurse in public and might have the misfortune to encounter another who is not so comfortable with this normal way of life.  The first time I heard about this law I was a little relieved to be honest.  In a crazy kind of way I was thankful to have something there to speak out for me in the event that I wouldn’t be able to myself.  But then the other part of me, the one that can see the bigger picture, was all, “What?  But that’s crazy?  Why would there be a law for nursing mothers?”  It’s there because, unfortunately, some women have had to defend their right to breastfeed in public.  I remember hearing of one lady being asked to stop nursing her baby in a swimming pool because, wait for it, there was no food or drink allowed on the pool side.  I kid you not.   There are two pieces of legislation that protect breastfeeding mothers from discrimination or harassment whilst breastfeeding; The Equal Status Act (2000) and The Intoxicating Liquor Act (2003).  In a nutshell, a mother can nurse her baby whenever and wherever she needs to and with this law on her side, she can have anyone who discriminates against her or harasses her for doing so, removed from the premises.  If she is not protected from this harassment by management of the establishment, they, the management, could find themselves with a date for a hearing at a District Court for failing to abide the law.  Unfortunately for some, this isn’t sufficient enough to make them comfortable about nursing in public.  It’s a pity but there are lots of people out there doing wonderful things and not shouting about it publicly.  I suppose breast feeding in the privacy of your own home is just an extension of that. 

Witch in a Tea-Cup

I think it’s time I accepted it. The drugs aren’t working.  By drugs I mean my Super Evening Primrose and vitamin B6.  I have been taking both for the last 5 months now in an effort to combat brutal PMS. “That time” has rolled round again and I am still like a witch in a teacup, so I am going to invest my twenty plus euro in something else.  Maybe chocolate, a girly read or stick it in a tin can and save it up for a rainy day.  Although I did read something that was of great interest to me the other day. Apparently PMS is a Western phenomenon.   The feature wasn’t making light of those who suffer or saying that the experience does not exist.  Rather making the point that the reasons behind [the phenomenon] should be examined. Another theory on the subject fascinated me; we can blame artificial man made light for interfering with our natural cycle when once upon a time, everything was governed by the moon.   I have to admit that, today, I am all at sea when it comes to reading my body.  See, I was “chemically controlled” for over a decade and this made everything so nice and easy for me.  When we started our family, we opted to keep going with gaps of just 18 to 22 months between our four boys.  Breastfeeding is Mother Nature’s idea of natural family planning and it can delay your cycle until the baby is weaned entirely, sometimes up to three years even if it is just a morning and/or evening feed.  I breastfed the older three for 16 months and was 6 months pregnant on two occasions when they fully weaned.    Our youngest is almost 13 months and this year alone, it has come as a shock to find myself being held ransom to powerful hormones, sugar cravings, tiredness, impatience, bloating and the odd snot crying bout.   I have no recollection of these manifestations being so strong before I had children.  I realise my body has and still is changing.  PMS (Permanent Mental Stress!) might be a Western phenomenon but it’s proving to be a regular curiosity in my world!     I am very familiar with and a big believer in the expression that it takes a year to make a baby and a year for your body to “return” after your baby.  That old pregnancy buddy relaxin, the dote that makes everything all stretchy and relaxed in order for you to actually give birth to your baby, is still alive and well in your system up to 5 months later. You will be much more prone to injuries during this time.  I went over on my ankle a couple of weeks after my last birth so I know all about that.  Prolactin, an appetite stimulant, is still my frenemy.  Oxytocin and the gorgeous happy hormone, endorphin are still let loose in my body several times a day because I am nursing.  I love these.  No problems with my body thus far.   Even the sleep issue is not so much of an issue any more.  No, I am still not getting that other phenomenon, a full night yet, but close enough to.  Enough, at least, to have the presence of mind to slap a little bit of tinted stuff on my face in the morning and remember to drag a brush through my hair.  Sometimes I even remember to brush my teeth.  Yes, it’s an improvement.  I am healthier, having taken up running.  I have lost a little over two stone in 10 months.  I still have not reached that elusive two and a half stone which makes me fear that dropping another full stone is totally unobtainable.  If only I could stop eating chocolate I suspect I could reach it a lot quicker.  And therein lies the problem I think.  Chocolate.  Sugar in disguise.   Unfortunately it is just not disguised well enough.  I think we are all aware of the wham-bam-thank-you-mam rush that sugar gives.  Up, up, up we go and then crashing back down to earth seconds later. Instead we are advised to snack (Snack? Who snacks when they’re nursing?) on slow release foods like oats, whole grains, beans, pulses and other yokes that need chocolate poured on them to taste good.  In a nutshell, when it’s your witch in a tea-cup time, the body craves sugar to increase energy levels. This is the beginning of the vicious cycle.  (All about cycles, isn’t it?)  The more sugar that is consumed, the further sugar levels drop.  This plunge is what causes fatigue, bloating and mood swings.  I’m sick reading up on this.  Tired of doing research.  At this stage in the game, I know what causes it but I am helpless to do anything.  Or should I say, not strong enough.  I do not possess the will power that is required to say no to chocolate.  There are days where I would go through glass to get at a piece of the stuff.  I believe salt can help fight off a sugar craving but I’d have to pour the whole container on top of my food in order to prevent me from eating it.  What you’re really supposed to do is drink a quarter of a teaspoon of salt in warm water.  It knocks that sugar craving right on the head, so it does.  I don’t doubt it.  If I wanted a mouthful of warm, salty water I’d take the kids to the beach.  See how contrary and irritable I can be?  Witch in a tea-cup.  I just witch, I mean, wish I could cast a spell and make it all go away. 

In Praise of our Menfolk

No matter which way we look at it and whether we like it or not, we have evolved from a hunter gatherer society.  Since time immemorial, our roles as men and women are very different, very specialised and pertinent to the capabilities of our gender.  There is no getting away from the fact that we are very different.  Both mentally and physically.  We don’t think the same way, we don’t approach situations the same way and we don’t act the same way.   Men are simply physically stronger than women, and the argument could be made that some women are mentally stronger than men.  It’s widely known that men can’t multi task whereas women seem to do this with ease.  Think feeding the baby, talking on the phone and drinking coffee.  All at once.  When men take a phone call, they stand up to do it.  They stop peering at the computer screen to sign for a DHL document.  Genetics can be held to account for a lot of things; for example, eyebrows from Great Granddad Joe, or height from Great Aunt Maud, but it gets much more specific than that when it comes to the doing of everyday things. Let’s go back to the days of the caveman men, where they allegedly dragged their mate around by the hair.  Remember that Britvic ad- the original of the species?  Basically, men are the hunters, the providers.  Back then, light was natural and came from the sky; the only manmade light was due to a roaring great caveman fire and not a little switch on the wall.  Mr. Cave Man left at 9am carrying not a briefcase and a set of car keys but a club for bashing his prey.  According to Steve Biddulph in Raising Boys hunting was very much a team activity, requiring ruthlessness, a certain amount of recklessness and a lot of muscle work.  “Once the chase was on, there was no time for discussion.  Someone was in charge, and you did what you were told or else.”  So in other words, if he loses his concentration, he dies.  Multi-tasking had no safe place for men back in pre-historic times; the hunter could lose his concentration and die.  Back in the home place (some things never change) the work of the woman was equally important.  Who can argue that raising a family is one of the biggest and challenging jobs, and back then Mrs. Cave Woman did not have the luxury of television to keep the bairns occupied whilst she skinned a tiger for dinner.  The women folk had very different jobs to do; jobs that required dexterity which was handy for berry picking.  Women were sensitive which is necessary for childcare.  A bit like that movie “How to make an American Quilt” women had the opportunity for group discussions, similar to today’s stich and bitch sessions.  So in a nutshell, Mrs. Cave Woman’s work called for consistency, lots of caution and attention to detail.  Think feeding kids at regular intervals, making sure they are wearing suitable clothing and keeping little socks on little feet.  Mr. Cave Man’s job came with a certain amount of risk and danger to their lives. They needed to be ruthless and never take their eye off the ball or they could pay with their life and the family would perish as a result.  Because of the way cave women worked, evolution saw to it that our bodies became smaller.  But we are better able to continue and put up with things.  Men’s bodies were and still are superior when it comes to strength but small things like flu hits them harder than women.  Nice get out of jail clause there; don’t blame the men when they complain about man flu, blame the ancestors.  So back to today now that we’ve looked at where we came from and how we think.  When a woman discovers she is pregnant, especially with her first baby, she immediately starts nesting.  The house must be just so, the baby’s room has to be perfect and that nappy bucket which is on offer in Lidl at the weekend, is suddenly the most vital piece of baby equipment, why doesn’t he understand? And him, the poor feker, what he’s really thinking is, “shit!  How am I going to provide for this baby?  I might be unemployed next week!”  even when faced with The Big Stuff, our priorities are just different.  We’ve all got our own individual idiosyncrasies, our little quirks that drive each other mad.  But I reckon it’s easy to put up with half a dozen silly little things, like mucky boots trekked in over the floor, rolled up socks in the wash, changing the mirror in the car when he drives it (grrr!), not refilling the kettle, putting empty cartons back in the fridge and using the last of the shampoo. But who’s counting?    Years ago, it wasn’t the done thing for the man to be seen helping around the house.  Through no fault of their own, probably because they were never made do it, they didn’t know what a nappy looked like, let alone put one on a child.  But today it is expected of them.  And that is a good thing.    Most of our menfolk do it without argument.  So a lot of the time they may not do it the way we would like them to, but mismatching socks and the four year old wearing the two year olds clothes are not the end of the world.  Just comical.  In the same way that we as mothers are never going to change in our approach to raising our babies, the menfolk and their laid back attitude are pretty much set in stone too.  We have to accept them in pretty much the same fashion we expect them to accept us.       

Couldn't be Arsed-itis

I wrote this last week when I was going through a bit of a bad patch.  It seemed like the end of the world at the time, but reading back over it now, before posting, it seems to have lost its air of hopelessness.

I have a severe case of couldn’t be arsed-it is.  One of those ones that just sneaks up on you.  One day I was grand, running for Ireland and not feeling too deprived at being on a Lenten fast.  Then from out of nowhere, bam! I feel like a deflated balloon, I have no energy and just couldn’t be bothered.  I feel guilty because I didn’t go for a run this evening and now, as I type, I am stuffing my face with toast and Nutella Chocolate Spread. Fuck off Davina (McCaul) and Ruth (Field, author of Run Fat B!tch Run), I have a new best friend.  It’s called chocolate.   I feel like shite because today I roared at Screecher Creature No. 3 who is only a little over two and a half.  And in typical I-need-lots-of-reassurance fashion, he has spent the afternoon hugging the shit out of me.  I feel like a bad mother because I let the baby sleep for over two hours in his rock-a-tot this morning.  He is too big for the seat but we don’t have anything else at the moment and as he has the cold from hell, sleeping upright is the only way he can breathe without being suffocated in his own snot.  He has been waking up every couple of hours each night this week and nursing like a newborn which is why I am so bastard tired.   Things have come full circle for the fourth time and I recognise that he has reached that awareness of “shite! She’s not a part of me and must not be let out of my sight, even for a second,” stage.  Touched out?  Jesus that’s only the beginning.  I’m pissed off because, for the moment, I’ve had to give up my breakfast coffee and scone in the coffee shop.  And I miss my simple, daily interaction with the other patrons.  Some days, most days, it is the only adult conversation I get.  I can literally feel my brain cells, on these self-pitying days, keel over and die from lack of stimulation.   I am hugely dis-agreeable because last Friday I was unable to give five euros towards the schools voluntary contribution.  The next day, Saturday, Mister Husband and I, raided money boxes and scrabbled about on the floor of the car to scrape together four euros for a gym fee.  I’m pissed off because I didn’t bring Screecher Creature Numbers three and four to the doctor over the last fortnight because I didn’t have the money for it.  Although, small consolation this morning; the GP cards which we applied for almost a year ago, arrived in the post.  A week too late for Screecher Creature No. 4 who broke out in a frightening head to toe rash last Thursday.  I’m stressed out and pissed off at myself mainly.  Six years ago I jumped in at the deep end with this parenthood lark and I stayed there.  I never did find the delicate balance between being a mother and a person in my own right.  And now I fear it’s too late.  I’ve been “capable” and in charge for so long, I don’t think I know how to let go myself.    Noise levels are hurting my too sensitive brain.  The kids and their never-ending demands make me want to run for the hills.  Patience levels are at an all-time low.  Feelings of claustrophobia, anger, resentment, frustration, boredom, hopelessness and that all-encompassing bastard, tiredness, jangle my already tattered nerves and threaten to detonate an already simmering person.  There is no respite.  I hate myself because lately every day I wish the next five years would just go by in a flash.  I have no time for those who tell me not to wish it away.  They have come out the other side and find it easy to talk.  I do wish it away.  I think we all do at some stage.   I had a little moment this morning and cried at breakfast.  Part of me panicked and worried that it wasn’t my heart beating like mad but depression thumping to get back in.  This afternoon when I found myself running to the bedroom to grab a pillow, stuff my face into it and scream as loudly as I could, it wasn’t depression I feared, but madness.  I thought of the people who have approached me about my blog and used the word admire when speaking of the Serious Stuff and I thought how’s that for honesty.  Screaming your head off into a pillow at 4pm of an afternoon.  A glorious, sunny, March afternoon at that.  And in the midst of it all how can I explain what is wrong without sounding like a total and utter, drama queen, bitch diva?  Mister Husband has the world and his wife sitting on his shoulders with work at the moment and an illness in the family.  How can I tell him what I am feeling in the face of that?  How can I tell him that I wanted to run for the hills and never stop when it would be a slap in the face to him and all that he has worked for, to give us?  But you know what; I think it’s ok to feel like this.   Tomorrow will be another day and I will either still feel like shit or I’ll have gotten over myself.  The baby will peer at me through the bars of the cot, fuzzy red hair sticking up all over the place, dried snot all over his little face and perfect teeth flashing at me, a little hand reaching out through the bars, fingers wiggling hello.  Maybe he will make everything ok again and I’ll get up and get on with things the way I always do.  The way I have to because we all have our crap moments.  Children’s allowance is in on Tuesday and we’ll be grand for another couple of weeks until something else turns up.  Easter holidays are next week too.  Part of me is dreading them but if the weather is anything like it has been this week so far, we can do anything we want to.  Maybe even go swimming.  The Screecher Creatures would love that!  It’s ok to feel like crap.  And it’s ok to admit to it.  I suppose it’s what we do about it that’s the main thing.  For me, a banshee scream into a pillow helps (slightly).  I touched, very broadly on this at Group on Tuesday.  I mentioned that I am finding it all a bit much at the moment and am struggling to enjoy it when one of the other lovely mothers said “thank God.  I thought I was the only one who felt like that!”  Looks like I’m in good company!  On Thursday, in an effort to outrun the blues, I went to Carlow.  The Screecher Creatures were playing in a ride on bus when a little girl approached.  There was plenty of room so I invited her on to be the bus driver and I got talking to her mother. Aoife is a four year old twin with a nine year old big brother.  The gap, her mother confided, was a nice one especially when the girls arrived.  And then I heard a loud and distinct echo.  “There were days,” Aoife’s mammy said, “when I cried more than they did.” Words I have spoken out loud myself.  It was weird and strangely comforting to hear someone else say them.  There was a moment of companionable silent agreement.  It all passes though, Aoife’s mammy told me.  “It’s hard when you’re in the thick of it and you think it will never end, but it does.”  Thank you, Aoife’s mammy.  And thank you to all the wonderful mothers I have had the massive fortune to meet on “off” days such as the ones I have been feeling this week.