There are few things better than having your baby asleep peacefully in the next room. Not because it's preferable to having them awake - though this may occasionally be true - but because you know you have done your job.
Sleep. Only a parent can understand the sheer gravitas of slumber. We've had our fair share of shattered nights and I have shouldered much of the burden of night feeds, but in general Felix has been a good sleeper from the outset. I credit this largely to him being in a solid routine and to the tactic of feeding in enough milk that it's spilling back out of him by the end of the feed. Empty belly, no sleepy. I know couples who have really battled
with the issue. With babies who simply would not sleep, or would
only sleep in the day, or in twenty minute intervals. Others seem to
have acquired babies who sleep right through the night from 8 weeks
onwards, which to me seems
nothing short of miraculous. Felix is somewhere between the two. Always
able to manage a stoical four hours, occasionally batting it out of the
ballpark with a massive eight.
Sleep. Only a parent can appreciate how precious it is. I'm not talking about baby's sleep but yours. Having a baby throws a giant spanner in the lie-in factory. Suddenly a lazy morning constitutes anything after - or even near - 8am. Languorous days spent in bed are a distant memory, and occasional late nights out are severely punished by sleep deprivation the following day.
I recently awoke to a room filled with the clear light of morning and an unfamiliar sensation of well restedness. Had I fed him and forgotten? Nope, a full bottle glared at me from the dresser. An avalanche of fear swept over me as I leapt from the bed and peered down into the cot, every nightmare scenario playing simultaneously through my mind. The sight that met my eyes was the sweetest imaginable. A pair of sea-blue eyes twinkled back at me and his little body wriggled with pleasure. 'Hello Mummy' he seemed to be saying, I'm awake and it's a new day and it's lovely to see you! At that moment I swore I would never again complain about lack of sleep, that I would try to celebrate every waking up and give thanks to God for a happy, healthy baby whose evident delight in seeing me is a tonic to the soul. This resolution, however admirable, does not mean I feel less tired. There are days when a dull ache squats behind my eyes like a sullen toad. My solution, perhaps paradoxically, is exercise. Not a day goes by that I don't take Felix for a walk to the park or down the river. Weather conditions recently have been extreme; mighty winds, sudden storms, vicious hail and drenching rains have been punctuated by bursts of brilliant sunshine. One day I saw not one but two rainbows. Any day that has two rainbows is a good one.
Sleep. Perhaps ironically I dream of it. Now and then, when Felix sleeps through the night, I savour the feeling of having had a full nights worth as a sommelier would a fine wine. Yet no vintage could taste as good as sleep feels. Oh the sweet caress of the duvet, the yielding softness of the pillow, the sheer relief of being horizontal. Mr Sandman, never was a dream so sweet...
For our conjoined birthday we
organised a weekend away to Easter Cottage in Rye, East Sussex. Having
curated a select group of friends including baby Teddy, offspring of Wicki, we set about the challenge of
integrating two young babies into a weekend of drinking, debate, and
late night jamming. Perhaps surprisingly, these conflicting
elements slotted together as neatly as jigsaw pieces.
As
enjoyable as sitting around discussing the application of anthropology, making
vast communal shepherds pies and consuming our own body weight in cheese and port undoubtably was, the highlight
of the weekend for me was always going to be our trip to Camber Sands.
This beautiful sand dune backed beach is a short drive from Rye and a world
away from the creature comforts of the cottage.
By Sunday I had about
as much rich food and conversation as I could take; what I needed was a
brisk and bracing walk along a windswept beach. Babies
strapped into holders we left the relative safety of the cars and
entered another world. Waves crashed on the hard golden sands, wind
whipped through the grassy dunes, and the smell of brine was strong in
the air. Clutching our takeaway teas we made our way onto the beach,
buffeted by powerful offshore winds that tore at our hair and reddened
our cheeks.
It
was a perfect day to fly a kite, especially a bold box kite in
triumphantly luminous rainbow colours. It had been years since I had
flown a kite, and I was unprepared for the sheer wonder of it. On a
count of three Natalia threw the kite into the air and it soared
immediately, taut as a guitar string. Up up and up it flew, and with it
my spirit. We reeled it out till it was just a day glo dot in the sky
above and when I grasped the handle I was shocked at the power of the wind. Oh what energy, what joy! KITE!!!
I
raced down the beach clutching the handle firmly in both hands, wellies
stomping through the shallows, yellow mac bright as a buttercup.
'Yippppeeeee!!!' I screamed as the kites vivacity flowed through the
string into my heart. You would have to be made of stone to
resist the lure of a beautiful kite on a sunny day, and as I ran past
people stared up and smiled. They pointed into the sky and laughed as
their dogs barked, crazed by its fluttering shadow. The kite flew as
high and proud as a flag, a beacon of brightness against the
forget-me-not sky. My heart raced with sheer joy and laughter bubbled out of me. I was a woman mad with kite.
And
Felix? What did he make of all this? Well as it happened he slept
soundly through the majority of the action, cushioned cozily in daddy's
coat. But later on, while the group lolled in a beachfront cafe gorging
on fresh donuts and sheltering from the wind, I took him out for a walk.
Forming my body into a shield I sat down on the sand facing out to sea.
His face shone with interest as he took in the pounding surf, cheeks
and nose growing ruddy with the briny wind. His amazed eyes reflected
the ocean; a thousand shades of blue dancing with the waves. His mouth
formed an O of wonder and I clutched him closely to me. Back in the car
he laughed
uproariously.
'He he he' he giggled, body wriggling with pleasure, shoulders shaking
with mirth. It was a laugh born of exhilaration, bobbing on waves of delight and discovery.
“My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me". Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
They say the first month is your babymoon. I disagree. The first month is a not entirely pleasant blur. The pain of labour and trauma of birth. Hospital. A tiny wrinkled baby that is now suddenly your constant responsibility.
The reality that you're likely to be struggling to sit up, that stitches may be all that is holding your nether regions together, especially if it's your first baby.
Home. Now what? Your partners leave is all too brief and then off they trot back to work. Hi Ho Hi Ho and all that. And there you are, all alone, at home with your newborn. Shock. A whole day may pass where you barely leave the bedroom. An endless cycle of feeds and changes and snatched sleep and meals for you. Where pyjamas become the new daywear. Before you know it a month has passed and you're no longer a complete novice. Feeding, changing and burping can all now be done in double time, and exhaustion has become a permanant state of being.
The second month you're settling in. You're even starting to own it a little. Motherhood. You've gotten the hang of unfolding your pram (hopefully) and have established a little route for your daily walk. Your battle scars are healing (hopefully). You are starting to understand your baby and experience occasional blinding glimpses of insight. Your motherly intuition is tuning up, gradually and with infinite precision, like a mighty and precious organ.
By the time the third month rolls around you're in cruise control. At least some of the time. Both you and baby have had your six week checks and with any luck are on the road to recovery. Baby is starting to hold their head up, a fact which marks a massive change in how you handle them. Their little body is filling out like bread rising; spindly legs grow chubby and strong and cheeks become rounded and rosy. Delightful rolls of baby fat appear around their thighs and their neck, and their skin takes on a powder-puff softness that demands a constant rain of kisses. Your baby is officially no longer a newborn but has become an infant.
Three months was a turning point for me. A picture swimming into focus like an old fashioned photo in a tray of developer. It was the first time Felix laughed, a tentative chuckle that seemed almost to startle him. It was also when the babbling started, a gutteral primative bubbling monologue, his tiny tongue moving around the mouth exploring the sounds. Copying my lips. Felix is no longer a tiny baby but a very small and perfectly formed little boy. His face is his own. He has lost the slightly odd squashed look of the newborn. His nose has become a perfect button and his blue eyes have widened, framed with curling blonde lashes. With his pink puffy cheeks and downy new hair he has become overwhelmingly, crushingly cute. I find myself clutching him in a hug that I never want to end. His body brings me sensual delight unlike any other I have experienced.
It is not only Felix who is developing however, mummy is also on her own journey of discovery. Our bond has strengthened and deepened, like an anchor on a thick chain of iron. Even the slightest pull registers. We have become synchronised, and I can read his cries like a menu. Tired, hungry, bored. Whingy. The honest and high pitched screams of pain. I am perfectly attuned to him; like a broken radio I am stuck on a single station and I wouldn't have it any other way. I stand and watch him sleep, his cheek a mellow curve of wonder. Like every other foolish mother who has ever walked the earth I creep into the room and put my ear to his mouth just to make sure he is breathing.
At just over four months Felix is simply the most splendid creature that ever lived. I have become a devoted, doting, lovesick mother. I adore him. I caress him. I protect him. Bizarre morbid thoughts pop up like molehills on a perfect lawn. I imagine scenarios where someone wants to harm him and I plan my grotesque revenge; how I will pull them limb from limb and tug out every strand of hair before setting them alight and watching them burn. I am like a layer of ozone, every molecule of my being aches to protect and care for him. If he is restless I am too. If he doesn't want to feed I become distraught and cannot relax till he is fed and happy. Far from finding them disgusting I await his poos like precious gifts, and I praise him for them. I clean him and comfort him and sing to him. I sterilise and wipe and massage and change and carry. I spend hours staring into his sweet face, smiling and coaxing out laughter. I try and fail to let him cry for long; every sob and gasp tears into my heart like a lion bringing down its prey. His pain has become my pain and cannot disconnect myself. I cannot untune my radio. I have become utterly stuck on a single station called Felix, and I love it. As they used to say on the good old pirate radio 'don't touch that dial'. We're on our babymoon folks, do not disturb.
Something very odd happened recently. I
bought a pair of ordinary jeans. 'Medium rise'
pale blue skinnyish jeans. Having thought of myself as a low rise girl
since the 1990's I recently made the disturbing discovery that they are too low
for mummydom. They gape too much at the back and let cold winds penetrate as
you bend over. Builders crack is not a good look with a pram...too close to
original pramface for comfort.
My new jeans are perfectly pale, the
pastel soft hue of the Mediterranean at dusk.
They are made of some kind of uber soft lightly brushed denim and are
deliciously comfortable. They sit in the perfect place between my knicker line
and my bellybutton. They don't pinch. They caress my buttocks softly like a
sensitive lover. They look great with my yellow wellies, naturally.
Friends who know me well will be surprised
by this admission. I've never been a jeans and tops kind of girl, not since I
was a teenager. It pays to know your assets and I've always have a cracking
pair of pins. Never one to hide my light under a bushel I have paraded these
shamelessly. Tights in the winter and bare legs in summer. I love a dress. A
single, ultimately versatile piece of clothing.
What could be easier? I find women who claim to hate dresses odd
creatures, and I resent the assumption that if you wear a lot of dresses you
are somehow less thrusting, less serious. A dress can be the ultimate weapon;
the right dress makes everything possible. But I digress. The point is that in
the last decade I have rarely been seen in jeans, especially not sensible,
medium rise, mummy jeans. But there is absolutely no way that you can
breastfeed in a dress, unless it's some kind of maternity number. You cannot
pull your dress up to your chest and whop out a boob. It's just not the done
thing. And pulling your neckline down to feed would look equally odd. No, I
have discovered that you simply don’t want to be wearing a dress if you are
regularly breastfeeding your baby.
My many dresses droop forlornly on their hangers like flags on a windless day. They
know this is not their time. Instead I have found myself wearing the same pair
of jeans on a daily basis, chucked on with wellies and mac ready for bracing
park walks. I had to bite the bullet and admit the truth. It was time to buy a
pair of mummy jeans.
I agonised over this purchase the way
women agonise over their wedding dress. How would I find a pair that fulfilled
the demanding brief; practical yet flattering, comfortable yet stylish. What I
needed was a pair of jeans that transcended the fickle demands of fashion, that
were classic. Jeans that whispered milf, not fashion victim. That channeled
Cindy Crawford on the school run. The kind of jeans the sexy Guess girl would
wear on her day off. Not too tight, not too baggy, and definitely not too low.
I am not one for high rise jeans; those raised waistbands give me the heebie
jeebies. Thus I strode out in search of a mummy jean that would fulfill my wish
list and grant me the perfect 'jean butt' whilst giving great milf.
Feeling a little like Goldilocks I trawled
the rails of sale jeans. These too small, those too large. These too trashy,
those too frumpy. And then I saw them. A pair of pale blue jeans that looked
perfect. I read the label; size 10, medium rise, skinny jeans. Not uber tight,
just slim. I felt the cotton. Soft. I considered the colour. Yes they were
pale, and therefore possibly not the most practical shade. And yet somehow they
were. I took them to the changing room, and as the smooth denim slid silkily
onto my thighs I was suddenly transformed into Cinderella. You will go to the
ball. You will be a milf.
Everyday as I stroll down the high street
or through the park with Felix in his pram I am struck by the fact that I have
joined the formidable force that is the Chiswick Motherhood. Sometimes I feel I
am but a tiny wave in a fathomless sea of strollers,
a pawn in an army of prams.
How do I feel about joining the buggy brigade
of W4? At first I felt I had assumed an identity I was not ready for, as if I
was wearing a mask. Due to the nature of my delivery I was not able to
ride my bike for six weeks, and I ached for my more familiar wheels. If the
bike is the hare; agile, efficient and speedy, the pram is the tortoise;
cumbersome, trundling, slow. How heavy I felt the first time I stepped out
with the pram. Used as I am to the nippy nature of my
'everywhere in five minutes' bike, the pram felt like a brace; holding me back.
Ballast to my balloon. I longed to throw off the extra weight and sail off in a
blaze of glory...
Six
weeks passed and I have the all clear to ride my bike, and the first time I did
I felt as if I was flying. Such speed, such efficiency, such ease of motion!!!
And yet my daily pram walk is a firm fixture in the daily routine of motherhood
and I have grown to love it. Gradually I have adjusted to pram pace. Nevertheless, I long for the day when I
can secure Felix in his bike seat and ride off with him, the two of us united
in our need for speed. Make no mistake; this is a baby who has already
travelled a great distance 'in utero'. Being as I cycled each and every day of
my pregnancy, until the very last afternoon, I have calculated that together we
covered at least five hundred and fifty miles. Felix was the foetal eqivalent
of Bradley Wiggins, and I'm sure that when the big day arrives he will feel it
all strangely familiar, like a baby bird that flies the nest and finds that it
knows exactly how to use its wings.
My musings regarding buggies have resulted
in a strange phenomenon induced by constant close contact with a
multitude of stylish strollers.
I
have nicknamed this 'pram envy'. I push a respectable Mamas and Papas
pramette in light blue and grey, and I used to be perfectly content with it.
However when faced with a confection of
strollers in tempting ice cream shades - lemon sorbet, pistachio, raspberry
ripple - something stirs in me. A monster with gleaming green eyes rears its
head. All those shining Silvercrosses and Bugaboos with their matching livery
of bags and accessories make me feel
inadequate. Have I really started to envy other mothers buggies? Is this who I
am ?
***
Less disturbingly, the other day London experienced a
proper pea souper, a
truly foggy day when the mists barely thinned all day
long. I loved every second. I have always adored fog; its photographic
qualities, its mysterious nature, its ability to render the familiar
unfamiliar. Just like its more boisterous cousin snow, fog is transformative.
Ethereal. Transcendent. This being Felix's first fog I took the chance to have
a really long walk. We took the river path, only to find the water utterly
obfuscated by thick blue mists that swirled alluringly. A heron loomed out of
nowwhere like an apparition, while ghostly boats slid along the white wafting
water like the vessel in the Phantom of the Opera. All was muffled and
wonderful and magical.
And then a phrase popped unbidden into my
mind. Pram Face. A cruel and ugly expression from my school days, used to
describe the kind of girl who leaves school early and seems immediately to be
pregnant. Thereafter she produces a succession of raucous, squalling infants,
each seemingly more unruly than the last. The poor girl is deemed to be a Pram
Face due to the premature aging associated with having children when you are
still a child yourself, and the copious cigarettes and cheap alcopops she
consumes in order to bear her burden. So goes the theory anyway. It’s a mean
and horrid little phrase and is terribly unfashionable and unPC – rightly so –
but there it was, lodged in my mind like an annoying stone in the bottom of
your shoe that refuses to budge.
So I decided on the spur of the moment to
reclaim Pram Face, to resurrect her as an icon of motherhood. My name is Kat
Kowalewska and I am a Pram Face. All of us pushing our buggies, whether they be
box fresh and glossy or second hand and slightly down at heel, we are all Pram
Faces. For every mother has her story, every mother has the right to hold her
head high and say ‘I bear the burden of being a mother. I surf the dizzy
heights and suffer the crushing lows of motherhood. Let us unite! For who am I
to judge when is the right time to have a child, and who is the right person?
Let she who is without sin cast the first stone. Pram Face and Proud'.
Writing this latest blog has been a
real strugge. Nearly a fortnight has passed during which I have half
composed several entries but
scrapped every one. Nothing has felt right. The words have refused to
flow. A
touch of writers block perhaps?
I tried listing my daily itinerary
and scaffolding some observations of daily life on top. This merely came over
as a pathetic 'poor me' bleat, for it is impossible to convey the fullness of a
day spent in the company of your nine week old baby. It may be an impressively
repetitive list of tasks but it is the spaces between the tasks that are so
difficult to convey. The niggling cry that interrupts the morning nap and which
effectively ensures you can't get anything done. The extensive burping session
after a tricky feed that bleeds into two hours. The afternoon walk that you
left too late and which ends in you running the half mile home with a bawling
banshee in the pram.
So I have decided to come clean about how
I'm really feeling at the moment. Crushingly, brutally tired. The cumulative effect of never sleeping more than four hours at any
time is starting to take its toll. I worry that I haven’t had proper REM sleep
for weeks, and that the exhaustion is drying up my creative juices like a
drought in the desert. Until now I have powered through, refusing to surrender
to the despotic routine of the baby. The tiny tyrant who dictates the ebb and
flow of each day and night. Whose needs are so vast and so urgent, whose moods
are so unpredictable.
What have I learnt in the past ten days
that I can communicate to you, my dear reader? I have learnt that motherhood is
relentless. Overwhelming. It demands 100% and nothing less; for you cannot half
feed your baby. You cannot half comfort them or half dress them or half love
them. It is all-consuming, impenetrable, stifling, and yet wonderful, rewarding
and incomparable. It is unique and cannot be explained, cannot be taught. It
can only be learnt through cold hard experience and trial and error. You earn your
mothering stripes through graft alone, and though you can be supported no one
else can do the job for you. You alone are the mother. You are the centre of
your baby’s universe and therefore must be their sun and their moon. There is
no shortcut, no substitute, no 30 day return policy. There is simply a long and
sometimes cruel road, one with plenty of blind corners and hairpin bends that
test the mettle of even the most diligent driver. There are potholes aplenty
and never a hard shoulder to pull onto when you really need one. There are
sheer drops and excruciating hills and endless irritating bumps. And yet the
views are magnificent. Life-affirming. Unsurpassed. Only a mother sees the
whole view, and in her heart of hearts she nurses the secret truth; that she
would never exchange the journey for anything else the world can offer.
This morning as I gazed down into his cot
Felix opened his eyes and smiled.
A
real smile, not a copy cat smile. My heart swelled with a love so deep it was
fathomless, a love that could eclipse the sun.
In the last few days I have noticed a
profound psychological change materialising, a process that began with Felix's
birth and has slowly and inexorably been gathering pace in the eight weeks
since. The self centered only child is being written over with something
different, something better. I am finding a patience and selflessness that I
never thought I could posses. An urge to care for and nurture my baby and my
family that overcomes the tiredness I feel, that gives me new strength when I
am all wrung out.
A new me is emerging from the chrysalis of
the selfish child. A deeply caring, nurturing, patient and loving person whose
primary concern is the welfare of her three boys (cat included) In other words,
a mother. Until now I have at times been going through the motions, indulging
in resentment at the sabotaging of my sleep, at the trauma to my body, at the
constant tidying and sterilizing and feeding. Grimacing at the crying, the face
turned away from the bottle, the arms that rail and nails that scratch at my
chest. The hard labour of true motherhood.
During my pregnancy I worried that
I was incapable of sacrificing myself for someone else. I feared having a tiny
dependant that constantly needed me, a helpless being whose entire welfare was
my responsibility. I was terrified of it, fearing that I simply did not posses
the right qualities and the emotional resources to care for an infant. Yet this
morning, as I gazed into his deep blue eyes with their whites so pure that they appear almost blue, like the snow at the poles, I realised that the
qualities I sought were already in place. All I needed to do was let go of the
little blonde green eyed girl who made her mother walk the long way home. Who demanded a chocolate éclair after school every single day, the
best ones from the bakery. Who would sit and refuse to eat a plate of food for
hours on end. Who insisted on riding her scooter for miles until her weary legs
could push her no further and had to be carried home in her mother’s arms,
scooter and all. I had to let go of that little girl who was me, for now it was
Felix's turn to be the child. The centre of the universe had shifted and a new
equilibrium had to be found.
To my surprise I welcome it. My
metamorphosis, painful as it is at times. I wave goodbye to the little
girl knowing that truly I am not bidding her farewell, as she will always live
on inside my heart. It turns out my heart has an infinite capacity for love,
and space inside for both the child I was and the child to whom I had given
birth. As the moon pours its silver light onto the page of my notebook I shed a
tear for the closing of my childhood. The end of the era of selfishness, of
being number one. And yet I embrace the new era, of being a mother. Of being
the carer, the worrier. The shoelace tier. The dribble wiper. The one who
kisses it better. I know in my heart of hearts that it is time. I have lived my
wild times, my endless lazy days of summer, my halcyon days of happy go lucky
frippery. I have fallen in love and in lust, had my heart broken more than
once, made and lost friends, lived on different continents and discovered and
nurtured passions. I have tried and failed and studied and worked, and now I am
ready to invest myself, to pour all this experience into my treasure, my child.
It is time to share with him all these joys and passions, to awaken in him the
love for nature and the wonders of the universe. To look through his eyes at
the world afresh.
Dearest Felix. My sweet fair prince. My
fresh green acorn. I am ready to be your mother. I will not hold back. I will
surrender myself to caring for you, to nurturing you, to being your number one.
For as I look into your deep blue eyes, as you smile at me so sweetly, full of all
the innocence and goodness of childhood, I realise that the circle of life is
never-ending, a truth both beautiful and bittersweet.
