Boxing Birthday Boy

Boy was born on Boxing Day. As birth stories go, it’s a long one, but I won’t bore you with the details – suffice it to say there was no way in hell I was letting that baby out on Christmas day.

In any case, for the last three years this has meant two consecutive days of being bombarded with presents and attention: wandering around in wrapping paper up to his knees with his eyes glazed over, stoned into a pudding and birthday cake haze.

To boot, in Mother’s Group that I am part of, all of the children have birthdays in December – which means packed-in parties from November to January. We haven’t done the birthday thing yet, as we’re always away with family in Sydney, but this year everyone’s coming to us for Christmas, so there’s time to throw a proper kiddie birthday party.

Perhaps insanely, I recently asked Boy what kind of a four-year-old party he wants. The kids would arrive on circus animals. There would be a Thomas the Tank engine train riding around the house and garden on specially laid tracks, and he would be the driver. There would be continous kids shows, all of which he would be the star. The lolly bags would be as big as shopping bags and have a tub of ice-cream in them. Everybody we have ever met on earth would come. Oh - and the party would never end.

'Umm...you've been thinking about this for a while, haven't you darling?'

I now find myself looking at the article I wrote for Kindred some time ago on planning child-friendly parties. Of course, now I’m looking back it was so easy to write these fantastic ideas, and maybe might not be quite so easy to pull them off.

At the moment I’m thinking of an African drumming party (but would have to pay for a 'host' who would bring a drum for each child and teach them some beats) or a craft party…which I could host solely on my own, but which could get very messy. I’d love to hear from people about their kiddie party nightmares and triumphs.

An Odd Kind of Blankie

Okay so here's the thing: kids sometimes get obsessed with things. Not only commercial products like Dora and Thomas the Tank Engine toys and that huge purple suspiciously bubbly dinosaur, but everyday things: ratty blankies, ugly stuffed owls. And when kids get obsessed with something, they show a love unlike any other. They become enraged and perplexed when they can't have it, or it's out of their reach, or they've left it behind. They look so adoringly and lustily at their love-objects it's frightening (except, of course, when they look at us like that. Then it's just plain adorable).

For me, as a child, I was very attached to a little koala bear. It was furry and had a music box inside. My mother still has it in her home, only now it looks like a cross between a bald baby owl and a dead rat, it's once-shiny black nose is all grey and stratched within an inch of it's life. When you shake what used to be my owl, it kind of rattles oddly.

Well, my four year old Boy has had a number of passing obsessions, which I'll no doubt embarrass him by filling you in on at some point: including nakedness, (much) older girls, cheese and buddha statues. But the latest one takes the cake - icing and all. I was in JB Hi-Fi getting the latest Microsoft Windows gear for my laptop last week when, to divert his attention from the racks upon racks of kids DVD's, I handed him a paper JB Hi-Fi catalogue to look at. It was love at first sight. Boy gazed amazed at the thin, bright pages filled with pictures of televisions, computer hardware and DVD box sets. In the last week, this catalogue has been on a picnic with us, has substituted for a bedroom story, has been taken to childcare, and he has slept with it under his pillow. I catch him, lovingly flicking through and stroking the pages.

Yesterday, the unfathomable happened. The catalogue ripped. Despite my assurance that we could probably 'walk outside right now and get another one out of someone's letterbox', Boy wanted that catalogue: his catalogue, to be mended right now please. Out came the sticky-tape and Boy's new blankie is as good as new junk mail. I dare say though, if it ever hits the bath or the washing machine, there might be devastation.

What about yours? What kinds of odd things do they get attached to?

Breastfeeding in Public

In a cafe today I came across an article on breastfeeding in the Western world.The article summarises the fight, in Western countries, for breastfeeding to be seen as acceptable in public. It suggests that the inappropriateness with which breastfeeding is viewed by the general public is linked to the fact that breasts are seen to be for the sole purpose of, well, the gratification of men. The article also points out certain ironies: that breastfeeding is first and foremost the function of breasts, and that the sexual acts breasts are supposedly solely meant for lead to, well...little bouncing ones.

For me, the article was of particular interest. I know that many women, indeed many I know, have had immense problems breastfeeding. Many intend to breastfeed for an extended period of time and find the whole ordeal so excruciating that after persevering for months, they decide it best for mother and baby to switch to the bottle. Fanatic breast-feeding enthusiasts continue to expound the benefits of breastfeeding, instigating mother-guilt in what are often already the most stressful of circumstances. I stand in the middle. Obviously, breast milk is without question the best food for a baby, but not at the expense of a baby or mother’s physical or emotional nourishment.

As a first time mother I found myself in an odd situation: my newborn point blank refused a bottle. Day three home from the hospital saw my milk come in. And come in and come in and come in. I walked around the house leaking, milk soaking both cloth and cotton breast pads and every post-pregnancy shirt I owned. My son’s suck was like a vacuum and he consumed extraordinary amounts. The milk still kept coming. He started to put on weight at an alarming weight. The maternal nurse at our local clinic looked back and forth between me and my enormous baby suspiciously when I told her he only fed every three to four hours for about five minutes, as if I was feeding him Kentucky Fried potato mash on the sly.

And then, at month three, with my milk still plenty in supply and my baby having more than doubled his 3 kilo birth weight, we tried the bottle. This was purely for practical reasons: I was working from home about eight hours a week, but was required to attend a meeting for several hours. My partner was still on leave, and was going to look after my son for the day. Two weeks prior to the planned meeting, I started trying to get my son accustomed to the bottle. Several bottles of breast milk were stored in the freezer. My son wouldn’t take them. We tried different temperatures. I expressed warm milk directly into the bottle. We tried every bottle teat available within a twenty kilometre radius. We gouged bigger holes in the bottles, tried smaller holes, tried dream-feeds (when he was half asleep), conned different friends and family members into trying with the bottle when we were out of sight. The response was the same. A screeching, indignant howl, as if being stabbed by a nappy pin. Eventually, on the advice of our GP, I stopped breast-feeding him for a day. Fourteen hours he held out, before I collapsed and gave in to him. Starving my own child seemed fairly inhumane.

So for, nine months (which was when he finally started taking solid food), every four hours my child was at my breast. We could not be separated for more than three hours, or he’d start looking around for his food source, nervously. For nine months, I didn’t sleep more than three hours in a row.

I don’t drive, but travel about a lot, so you can imagine the amount of public breast feeding: on buses, trains, and planes. I breastfed in parks, cinemas, cafe`s. I breastfed at bus stops and on trams. I breastfed during meetings and in front of friends, family and strangers. I was winked at by perverts, chastised by prudes and scowled at by some bottle-feeding parents. I was tut-tutted by family members and praised by breast-feeding fanatics. My baby though, was happy, healthy (albeit enormous) and rarely issued a cry of complaint.

So this article hit a real nerve with me. As a breastfeeding mother, I had no choice but to breastfeed in public or let my baby howl with hunger until I managed to find a suitably enclosed feeding space. I breastfed my son for eighteen months. Given my situation, I simply decided I couldn’t afford to even consider being reserved about the issue. It is absolutely ridiculous that any mother has to think about where and when they are ‘permitted’ to breastfeed their child.

Up to 1/3 of Australians believe mothers should not breastfeed in public. What do you think?