Book Report 9

War Child by Emmanuel Jal

This is Jal’s story of growing up during the Sudanese Civil War as a child soldier.  Unlike the typical tale of abduction and forced service, Jal’s father was a rebel commander who sent him to a training camp, and Jal was an eager participant until a particularly brutal raid made him recoil.  A British aid worker formed a relationship with Jal and helped him to start a new life in Kenya before being killed in an auto accident.  Instead of telling a rosy rags-to-riches story, Jal is honest about his struggles on the road to rehabilitation, which made his story more believable.  Still, it does have a happy “ending”, with Jal’s rap career allowing him to perform with Peter Gabriel and other noted musicians at the Live 8 aid concert.

IQ84 by Haruki Murakami

Originally published as three separate books in Japan, I avoided this book for a long time due to its length despite having really enjoyed the other two books I’ve read by Murkami, Kafka on the Shore and The Wind Up Bird Chronicle.  All of his books begin with scenarios that seem grounded in reality and slowly devolve into fantasy.  While I usually don’t enjoy fantasy, I think it’s his compelling description of his characters that leads me to make an exception for Murakami.  This book alternates the chapters with the tales of two characters whose stories seem unrelated but whose paths are eventually linked through their relationship to a bizarre pseudo-religious cult.  I spent entire days of the end of my pregnancy devouring this book, so it didn’t seem so long after all.

Mad About the Boy by Helen Fielding

I don’t know many women my age who didn’t eagerly devour Bridget Jones Diary, and even they probably saw the film.  I also read Fielding’s non-Jones-oriented books and found them entertaining, so I was checking Amazon before this book was even published.  It follows Bridget into her 40s as the mum of two small children, which like me, probably made the book less relatable to some of the readers who felt like Bridget’s story was their own in the original books.  Whereas Bridget’s adventures were somewhat exceptional in the early books, her conversations and actions in this book seemed to exceed the bounds of possible reality.  While it was a fun, throwaway read, I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it to even the most hard-core Bridget fan.  Then again, I read it in the hospital and during feeds in the first days home with Genevieve, so it’s possible my sour outlook is tinged by sleep deprivation.

The Book of Margery Kempe by Margery Kempe

I’ll be honest that I only made it half-way through this book, but I include it here because I found it interesting despite not being able to finish it.  Margery’s book is the first autobiographical account recorded in English, which is even more revolutionary given that she was female.  Although her father was mayor of her English town and well-respected, like most women (and people more generally) born in 1373, Margery was unable to read or write.  As such, her story was dictated to monks who were devoted to telling the world about her piety, which lead her to sob uncontrollably for hours at the thought of Christ’s birth or the passion, and her personal relationship with Jesus, which was creepily described with strong sexual overtones – bride of Christ indeed!  After bearing 13 children and then receiving a message from God that she should no longer have sexual relations with her husband (no kidding!), she made pilgrimages all over Europe and even to Jerusalem trusting the kindness of strangers.  Hilariously, she keeps giving away the money she borrows to the poor, which really irritates her debtors.  The flowery early writing style and what passed for good Christian behaviour (sobbing more so than helping others) make the book interesting, but at half-way through I found her adventures seemed to repeat themselves, and I could understand why her travelling companions kept abandoning her for being so sanctimonious and weepy.

By Myself and Then Some by Lauren Bacall

It’s funny how I lump everyone who appeared in a black-and-white film in the same era, when in reality Bacall grew up idolizing Bette Davis and saw Casablanca in the cinema when she was 17 years old.  She makes light of hardships as a child of single mother but is refreshingly honest about her struggles to enter the theatre with no experience and minimal training.  Her voice is direct and disarming, and I kept reading a number of times when I really should have been napping.  I was left wanting to watch every old Bacall and Bogart film, which has to be a positive review.

The Transition to Parenthood: How a First Child Changes a Marriage (Why Some Couples Grow Closer and Others Apart) by Jay Belsky, PhD and John Kelly

This book was a gift from one of my mothers-in-law, Anne, who is a family counsellor.  Belsky carried out an extensive longitudinal study of first-time parents, focusing on the first year but following up through the child’s seventh birthday.  From this study, he identified six variables that tended to impact whether the parents’ relationship improved, maintained, or declined: self-awareness of each parent, communication skills, realism of expectations of parenthood, gender ideology (whether both parents shared an ideology, rather than there being a “correct” ideology), emotionality/positivity, and social support.  He illustrates how these variables play out by describing his interactions with three very different couples, which makes it a compelling read, although I would hate to be one of the couples whose dirty laundry is aired in such detail!  Nothing in the findings in the book were particularly surprising, but I found reading it an extremely valuable reminder of some of the behaviours I could control that could impact how Eric and I come out of this year.  There are lots of things I know I should do but still tend to do otherwise because it’s easier; a gentle reminder to be more mindful about my words and actions is always appreciated.

Having a Child Without Losing Yourself by Amy Richards

Richards defines herself as a feminist and is so labelled by the media, and this book presents her thoughts on how pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing can be approached from a feminist perspective.  The book was also a gift from Anne, one of my mothers-in-law, and I was interested to read it from the moment I read Gloria Steinem’s endorsement on the cover: “If Amy Richards’s example and writing had been around earlier even I might have had children.”  Hearing Steinem speak during my Master’s program was electrifying, and I think many would be surprised to know that her remarks centred around more rights and social acceptance of active parenting for fathers as critical to achieving gender equality. 

Similar to what I expect Steinem would promote, Richards primarily argues that feminism should mean greater acceptance of a range of choices for women in all of these areas, rather than a militant adherence to a set of proscribed “feminist” choices, which seems a sane argument to me.  Frankly, I didn’t even realise that the feminist community had weighed in on issues like IVF or foetal testing.  As someone who identifies strongly with that community, it was brave of Richards to go into detail about why she chose to behave contrary to feminist “rules” on some of these issues.  While I found her arguments a bit loosely supported in some areas, and some of her chapters seemed to jump from topic to topic without a clear trajectory, she presented some facts of which I was unaware and some perspectives that I just hadn’t ever considered.

Introducing Genevieve Elise

Prying her loose

How was THAT in THERE?

Cutting the cord (or splattering the nurse, depending on where you're standing)

Daddy and me

First family photo - Eric got the better cap

First bath

First tummy time

Our little tree star

I think she has something to say

In Auntie Anna's awesome beanie

Too cozy to resist a little chest nap every once in a while

Watching sci-fi

At her first surf competition with a bleary-eyed mum

Nekkid time

Too hot for clothes this week

Yes, I know I'm adorable

Blowing bubbles

Not a morning person

As the baby’s due date came and went, Eric and I grew increasingly anxious to have her out.  We were excited to meet her, but we also just wanted to move on to the next phase of figuring things out.  At ten days overdue, the doctor scheduled in a C-section for the following Monday morning, believing that induction wouldn’t be useful in my case since the baby hadn’t even descended yet. 

Apparently bub got the message, because I woke up Sunday morning at 5 am to contractions about ten minutes apart.  I’d had some contractions Saturday evening but was disappointed when they seemed to stop.  We spent the gorgeous, sunny day having a nice breakfast at the Busselton jetty, attending the Yallingup Malibu Classic (surf competition), and having delicious fish and chips at Clancy’s.  I was having contractions pretty regularly, but they just required a little pause and few deep breaths.  I was even able to take Oscar, my adopted dog, and Sienna, my adopted ten-year-old girl, for a walk around 4 pm, although I had one contraction while Sienna was demonstrating front handsprings in the grass that almost bowled me over. 

By Sunday night around 9 pm, I was no longer able to focus long enough to watch television.  The contractions were coming with two or even three peaks, making it difficult to distinguish between one and the next.  No matter since by midnight I could no longer legibly write down the time they started. 

We called the midwife at the hospital, who encouraged us to wait it out.  Figuring we had a long slog ahead of us, I got Eric to go have a nap.  When I heard him rustling around 3 am, though, I all but dragged him out of bed and down to the car.  It was a long 40-minute drive to Busselton, with conscientious Eric slowing down for every speed zone even though no one was out but the cows.

I had been afraid that upon arrival at the hospital they’d find I was only dilated to 2 cm (out of 10) and secretly mock me at the nurses’ station, but I was relieved to find out I was at a very respectable 6 cm.  We wouldn’t have wanted to leave it much longer living as far from the hospital as we do.  For the next few hours, I went from tub to floor on all fours as Eric rubbed my back and told me how great I was doing. 

By 7 am and 26 hours in labour, though, I no longer felt I was doing great.  The contractions were still peaking two or three times, which meant there was barely any time between them.  I told the midwife I wanted an epidural, but Ms Granola insisted I’d be pushing a baby out before it could be arranged.  To be fair, I was at 8 cm, but I told her I just needed to know some pain relief was on the way, even if I didn’t end up using it.  In the judgy way of midwives, she still refused and told me to ask the next midwife who was coming on duty shortly. 

I must’ve had the crazy eyes by then, because when Elaine came on duty and I demanded the epidural, she didn’t even question it.  Sadly, the epidural was only about 50% effective, but it at least took the edge off the pain, and I was right to request it as seven hours later I was still at 8 cm. 

Elaine was amazing and only left the room for about ten minutes to scarf down some lunch, but Eric was the most critical source of support, rubbing my back and continuing to tell me I was doing great even as I was projectile vomiting or trying to remember to breathe.  As much as I didn’t enjoy being in labour, it must also be really hard to stand by and watch someone you love panting through contractions, knowing there’s really nothing you can do to ease the pain. 

By about 2 pm, I had been awake and having contractions for 33 hours, and we hadn’t made any progress since 7 am.  The doctor asked if I was going to be emotionally crushed if we proceeded with a C-section, and I communicated to him through a series of grunts that the only thing I’d find emotionally distressing was continuing to have a baby in me.  I'm still not sure why she didn't fit out the chute, given that she was only 7 lbs 2 oz, but I really wasn't that devastated on missing out on pushing.  I was just disappointed we had cancelled the C-section for that morning!

Unfortunately, even after doubling and tripling the drugs pumping into the epidural, I could still feel the ice cube they were running up and down my legs to test sensation.  I could have kissed the anaesthesiologist when three minutes after he inserted the spinal in the operating theatre I was blissfully numb below the waist.  I could still feel a bit of tugging as Dr. Ginbey, who was alarmingly clad in knee-high gum boots, dug the baby out, but it wasn’t at all painful.

Anyway, the whole ordeal was worth it when he held little Genevieve over the drape at my waist.  Her two most noticeable features were her thick, dark hair and her giant, super-alert, deep-blue eyes.  As cheesy as it sounds, I was just so overwhelmed with emotion at seeing her that I started sobbing and couldn’t stop to respond to the congratulations coming from the large audience of medical staff in attendance.  Eric got to cut her cord, squirting the nurse with blood, as they cleaned Genevieve up and started putting me back together again.  I was no longer exhausted when Eric laid Genevieve next to me and I could rub my cheek against hers.  It was such a lovely 30 minutes to start being a family as more practical things were happening on the business end of the drape.

After a short time in the recovery room, we were deposited in our room, which wasn’t fancy but had a mini-fridge, sink, table and chairs, and sofa.  It was nice to have a little studio apartment with a window out onto the bike path since we were there from Monday til Saturday.  Although I got frustrated with each new midwife suggesting a new way to feed her and implying that the way I was doing it previously was dead wrong, it was really nice not to feel like we were being rushed out the door.

Those first days were pretty rough, trying to figure out why Genevieve was crying (and more importantly how we could make her stop).  Because the small Busselton hospital doesn’t have a nursery, she stayed in the room with us at all times.  In theory, this is a great way to give new parents a crash course in baby management, but having been awake for 38 hours and being woken every hour to check my vital signs, we could have used some respite.  I was just lucky to have Eric since I wasn’t allowed out of bed for 24 hours, and he took care of all of Genevieve’s needs that didn’t involve a boob.

On day two, we were laughing at the idea of my turning into a crying mess on day three.  However, that baby blues timetable is no joke.  Eric ran home to grab some things, and our neighbour, Jason (who visited every day, even stationing Oscar outside my window for a greeting bark), came in to find me blubbering.  I’m so glad he ignored the “do not disturb” sign on the door, because I was silently losing my mind trying to figure out how to get my face to stop leaking tears.  He made me a coffee, which helped me to pull myself together (somewhat) and to realise I needed to reach out for some support.  I rang my friend, Narelle, whose baby was born just a couple of months earlier, and my sister, Angela, who had been delivering babies for the past few weeks, and they both helped me to acknowledge that hormones gone haywire can make anyone mental…and fortunately don’t last forever.  Unfortunately, my unhinged state did last the remainder of that day, which meant Eric didn’t have the happiest of birthdays, not that it was ever going to be a party in the hospital.  (He’s not-so-secretly relieved that Genevieve arrived so near to his own birthday to deflect attention from him, although he hopes she doesn’t suffer from the same “It’s your birthday and your Christmas present!” disappointment that he did as a child.)

When we left the hospital on Saturday after having my staples removed, we felt like we were stealing the baby.  Being such a small public hospital, we just swung by the midwives’ office to say goodbye and waltzed out the front door without signing any forms or paying a bill.  Barely having left the hospital room for five days, I felt like I’d broken out of prison.  It felt like we were the first new parents in the world, and it was strange to see people going about their business without craning their necks to see our tiny bundle sleeping in her car seat.  We stopped at Target for me to pick up a few things, and I felt invisible as I wandered the store with my hospital bracelet still on.

Today is Genevieve’s three-week birthday, and all of that seems impossibly long ago.  The learning curve was steep, especially at first, but we figured out new tricks every day.  As the boob haver, and because Eric returned to work full time after four days home to help with the manic Christmas rush for bikes to put under the tree, I spent more hours with Genevieve…and, let’s face it, I’m a control freak.  That made it tough to bite my tongue when Eric did things differently than I would have, but over time I realised he was more effective than I was at soothing her. 

It helped that he was able to stay calm when I more quickly escalated to frustrated or distressed.  I’d like to blame that on my more severe sleep deprivation from doing the night-time feedings, but in reality Eric is always the less neurotic half of our partnership.  Communicating openly and operating in a real partnership has been one of the most fulfilling parts of these early weeks.  Anne, Eric’s stepmum, is a family counsellor and sent me a book about a large-scale longitudinal study investigating the variables implicated in whether new parents’ relationship improved, maintained, or declined during the first year and then over the subsequent 3, 5, and 7 years.  Reading it reminded me of some of my weaknesses (being crazy but still wanting to tell everyone what to do, finding something to worry about in almost any situation) and Eric’s strengths (not being crazy…and not liking to be told what to do), which was really helpful.  Despite my stubborn insistence on doing things the hard way, Eric has really been amazing at making me accept his full partnership in keeping all of us clean, fed, and sane, even when that means sending me to bed with earplugs while he experiments with new ways to stop Genevieve screaming.

Beyond how to hopefully work in better partnership with Eric, I think Genevieve has also helped me to grow in other ways.  I’ve had to relinquish some control and accept that some things are going to happen in their own way and on their own timetable, regardless of my attempts to control them.  I’ve also experienced a gratifying sense of self-confidence as I stretch my parenting limbs and achieve some small victories.  For someone who lacks self-confidence outside of a few specific arenas, it felt amazing to bathe Genevieve alone for the first time without scalding or drowning her.  I’ve also had to discard all of my previous measures of success and live more to enjoy each moment; I swear I could spend all day just staring into Genevieve’s eyes as she makes little baby faces.

Making all of this possible is the fact that we have an impossibly good baby.  Barring her growth spurt these last few days and a couple of exorcist-style vomit attacks, Genevieve is a remarkably happy, alert, predictable baby who spends more time staring into your eyes (or, let’s be honest, out into space) than crying.  She still doesn’t settle easily at night, but once she’s down, she just wakes twice to feed, meaning that I get six or seven hours of sleep most nights.  Having lots of friends with new babies over the past few years, I realise just how lucky I am in being able to make that statement.  Things can still be rough when she gets thrown off her schedule, and Eric’s come home to find both of us in tears at least once, but overall I think we’re all coping with this new life pretty well.  

My biggest issues have been isolation given that we know so few people here and feeling trapped in this apartment and the monotony of the feeding/sleeping routine.  Visits from Melbourne friends this week have helped tremendously, though, and we have several more visits in the coming months to which we can look forward, as well as our trip to Melbourne on NYE.  When Jen and Martin of Overland Track helicopter rescue fame were here this weekend, Eric generously stayed home while I went out for dinner and then breakfast with them.  For the moment, I'm feeling almost like a real person, and that's the best Christmas present I could hope for...aside from my place in our new little family.