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Birth Centre Arrival

2010-10-29T21:33:00.000-07:00

So, Baby Girl has finally arrived. While Boy was born four and a half years ago in a labour ward in Sydney, Girl arrived in the Birth Centre of a hospital in Melbourne – and what a different experience it all was. I won’t put the easier labour (five and a half hours from pre-labour to birth as opposed to around thirty) wholly down to the Birth Centre as I know second babies usually come ‘easier’, but I’m absolutely convinced it played a significant part in reducing my labour time.

The whole Birth Centre approach from start to finish was beautifully relaxed. For every midwife appointment, had to wait no longer than about five or ten minutes (I have nightmarish memories of waiting hours past my appointment time, at times, to see midwifes on the labour ward with Boy). Oh, there were the usual haters: the family members who commented on about how I should have an obstetrician, how I might be putting the baby at risk and so on and so forth. There were also the sceptics who thought the Birth Centre approach of sending patient home within 24 hours after Birth (assuming no complications) was risky and ludicrous.

My reasoning for choosing a Birth Centre was this: I had a low risk pregnancy, my first birth was ‘natural’, though lengthy (I had pethidine and a bit of gas), I detest hospitals, and decided that as was pregnant and not ill, hospital probably wasn’t the best place to be with a newborn baby, I had lots of help at home (Tarzan, Boy, my mother, and my Best Friend, who amazingly agreed to be a Birth Partner along with Tarzan in addition to staying with us for six weeks to help out with Boy and Girl while Tarzan was at work), we live 10 minutes drive from the hospital and the Birth Centre offered 3 home visits with midwives in the weeks after the birth. After exploring my available birth options, the question soon became: why wouldn’t I use the Birth Centre?

Labour onset was at about 3.30pm. After about an hour of semi-denial, with contractions about 8 minutes apart, Tarzan dropped Boy off at his mates house for a sleepover as planned, and BF strapped the TENS machine we’d hired to my back. The TENS machine was an absolute GODSEND. It enabled me to labour at home for 3 hours before going in to the hospital. I used the TENS machine all the way through the labour, using gas in the last hour when the contractions hit really hard. I must confess though, I liked the gas a little too much, with a midwife having to confiscate it when I got so high that I asked where the baby was (the answer, I believe was ‘Ummm...it’s not born yet. Now you have to let go of that gas!’) Girl was born, I believe, about ten minutes after this lengthy negotiation.

With Boy, I remember various midwives continually checking whether or not I was dilating and how much (through internal examinations), constantly hooking me up to monitors and generally having their hands all over me during the labour. With Girl, the Birth Centre midwives were generally just there to catch and check the baby and provide help if I asked for it, which was a welcome change. Basically they said just go with your body: when you feel the urge to push, then push. Girl was born at 9.27pm on October 3, weighing 3.07 kilos (Boy was 3.06) and 48cm long (same as boy), and came out with her mouth wide open waiting for her dinner – just as Boy did...

One of the midwives said to me that birthing a second child can be incredibly healing and I’d definitely agree. After the first birth four years or so ago, I was very clear on what I didn’t want to happen (a long agonising labour), researched pain relief in early labour (hence the TENS machine), and was much more psychologically prepared. During early labour, I kept visualising my son’s first years: the day he learnt to walk, hands held out in front of him like a zombie as he toddled across the polished wooden floor dressed in the silk kimono my brother had just brought back from Thailand, the way he used to scream ‘More please! More please!’ and frantically try and climb back out of his stroller whenever we left a park, even if we’d been there the entire day...I feel excited and privileged that I’ll get all these moment over again with my daughter.

From Bump to Baby

2010-09-11T03:21:00.000-07:00

So, it’s finally on for young and mum. The TENS machine has been hired, the bassinette has been bought, the cot has been set up in Boy’s room, the birth partners and Boy-minder are on standby and tomorrow I am officially full term (meaning 37 weeks). Part of me can’t wait to meet my daughter (and get rid of this enormous, wriggling, bulging, misbehaving bump), and part of me randomly bemoans Oh my God, what were we THINKING? I’m trying to enjoy the last few weeks (or few days as the case may be) of this pregnancy though, because it will definitely be my last. Two children are more than enough for me (no offence to all those superwomen out there with many more).

This pregnancy has been completely different from the last. More morning sickness for many more (almost seven) months, much less weight gain (though who didn’t do the whole I’m pregnant, pass me the buttered popcorn and family sized chocolate block thing first time round, right?), my upper back has been killing me, whereas with Boy is was my lower back. I went off chocolate for the first time in memory.

Boy was born in Sydney, and the system there is slightly different than the one in Melbourne. I was able to get all of my ultrasounds done in the hospital rather than having to find an outside clinic, but on the other hand, perhaps because I was a first time mum and went with the labour ward rather than the birth centre, appointments at the hospital took hours, rather than minutes.

And now, it’s all nearly over. We’re bunkered down, and the hurricane is about to hit. Truth be told though, I'm not afraid of a little strong wind: this house is fairly sturdy and I’m looking forward to it.

Kids Say the Darndest Things #1

2010-09-09T02:24:00.000-07:00

A short conversation between myself and four-and-a-half year old Boy. Setting: at the kitchen snack table after kinder one recent afternoon.

Boy: Josephine at school, when her dad comes to pick her up, he doesn’t call her Josephine.
He calls her something else.
Me: What does he call her.
Boy: He calls her Jay Jay.
Me: Oh. Well, that must be his nickname for her I suppose.
Boy: Can I have a nickname that you call me?
Me: Of course, what would you like your nickname to be? You already have a few. I call you darling sometimes, don’t I?
Boy: I’d like my nickname to be Alice.

Hush

2010-03-01T03:46:00.000-08:00

hush

mama / don’t go out to say
poems / without me tonight
he leaks at me / with those
drooping chocolate eyes / two
& half a years / is too little time
to have known the word
sacrifice / so i try hush
knowing hush won’t stop
the crying / little stricken chest
draws rasping breath at
hush / i will be back soon
we both know hush can’t read

the bedtime story / hush
won’t twirl that afrocurl
to sleep / or let him dip
licked peter rabbit spoon
deep down in the milo tin / hush
can’t snuggle warm in bed
& smell like me / still i say
hush / pretending maybe
that he will / but
every mother knows / when
her child’s heart is breaking
& i felt the weight of his / hanging
chubby off my ankle
okay / hush
hush / okay
okay / pumpkin
i will stay

two years & some
is too little time
to have known the word
sacrifice / so i try i’ll stay
& arms flung around my neck
he says / no silly
take me with you
on the stage

Hush is published in my new poetry collection Gil Scott Heron is On Parole, which is available for order from the publisher here

Toddlers and Gender

2010-02-10T21:09:00.000-08:00

Text from Junior magazine, 2005

School Bullying

2010-02-06T19:33:00.000-08:00

I am eleven years old, in grade five. The boy behind me has been whispering out of the corner of his mouth all afternoon. I have tried to ignore it, but he has been getting louder and louder. Other kids in the class are starting to stare at both him and me. I dare not turn around and confront him. It's hot: sticky hot, which is adding to my aggravation.

I stand up from my seat and make the way to the teacher's desk at the front of the classroom. She has her head down, marking our school journal entries for the morning. It is supposed to be quiet reading time. She looks up, exasperated. I like Mrs Howard. I had her in third grade also, and quietly cheered at the start of the year when I found out she was going to be my teacher again. Mrs Howard puts down her pen. What is it?, she asks. The whole class is watching while pretending not to, books hiding interested faces. Umm, it's Matthew, I gesture nervously, he keeps calling me Blackie. And I don't like it.

Mrs Howard looks at me with an enormous frown on her face So what? she says, you are, aren't you?

Visit http://www.bullyingnoway.com.au/ for more information about how to combat bullying in Australian schools.

Birthing Poetry

2010-02-05T01:50:00.000-08:00

I'm getting ready to launch a new book of poetry in Melbourne in just under two weeks. Speaking to friend yesterday, I noted how extraordinarily like giving birth producing this book, Gil Scott Heron is On Parole, has been.

I was excited when I found out it was going to happen, waited till it was a sure thing to tell absolutely everybody (including total strangers) about it. I got exhausted, jaded and somewhat tired around the halfway mark, and now that the time is finally here, I'm eager, but in an odd, resigned 'Yes this will be fantastic, but what if something goes wrong?' kind of way.

I'm hoping I'll have much more time to post here and properly develop this blog over the next few months, when my writing and promotional commitments settle down.

For details regarding the launch, or to order a copy of Gil Scott Heron is on Parole, visit here.

Boxing Birthday Boy

2009-10-29T20:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-29T05:18:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-28T04:34:00.000-07:00

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?