A day in the life

If your home has never been invaded by a newborn, the following blog post is likely to be as interesting for you as listening to a group of mums cluck over their children’s poo consistency.  Sorry for that, but this is really just my self-indulgent way of clearing out the gunk and making sure I have a few mental snapshots for future reminiscence.

Genevieve and I attempted our first mums and bubs yoga class this morning, and I was so pleased to see a mate I’ve been trying to catch up with since both our lives were upended by little sleep terrorists.  Apparently Emma’s phone exploded two months ago, so she hasn’t been getting my messages and wasn’t sure how to contact me.  That’s much better than my previous hypotheses, which were that she was avoiding me or really struggling with Eli, who was born a month after Genevieve.

Emma and I took yoga and pilates classes for expectant mothers together back in the day.  It’s funny that pregnant women are called “expectant” when they really have no idea whatsoever to expect.  Just before Eli was born, I sent Emma a text saying that being a mum was so much harder than I ever anticipated, but that it was getting a little easier every day.  I just felt compelled to warn her.  Once Eli was out in the world, she replied in hearty agreement.  We had a laugh about that this morning and agreed that the warning system for new mums is severely lacking.  Instead of telling you something helpful, like “The first ten weeks will seem like a year, and you’ll wonder if you’ll ever figure out what the hell you’re doing, but it really does get better”, everyone just says, “Oh, sleep while you can!” like you can bank sleep.  To me, sleep deprivation magnifies the effects of my anxiety and frustration, but it’s feeling like I’m making this up as I go along that makes me crazy.

Another thing everyone says is that parenthood is the toughest and yet the most rewarding job, which is horribly cliché but has the distinction of being the truest thing I’ve ever heard.  Today was the perfect example.  Genevieve woke up early, but that allowed me to race through breastfeed so I’d have time to charge around the mountain bike tracks for a little over an hour before the next activity.  I constantly feel like I need to be multi-tasking or watching the clock, even when it’s the fun stuff.  Eric is still laughing after finding me trying to wash dishes while still eating dinner last week.

Being her own little woman, Genevieve opted out of her morning nap.  I had hoped she’d be distracted for at least half of the yoga class, mainly so I could leave the prison of this apartment and interact with the other mummies.  Having a new baby in a town where you only know a handful of people can be really isolating, compounded by a baby who refuses to adhere to any kind of schedule but also eschews napping outside of her bed.  Every time we attempt a planned outing, it seems like it falls at just the right time for Genevieve to eat or nap, in part because those activities constitute at least 60% of our waking hours.  I’m left deciding between becoming a bag-eyed shut in or that mother who inflicts her screaming child on others.  It’s a bit like roulette, and I’m hoping to get that rare spin that makes Genevieve the child who is gurgling in her pram or kicking happily on the floor while I chat to the ladies.

Genevieve was not that child at yoga this morning.  She screamed from the moment I laid her down and refused to be settled despite several attempts.  Ten minutes into the class, we bailed, both of us crying on the walk home.  To make it worse, I felt guilty for being so angry with her.  It’s not like she was deliberately trying to f#ck with my morning; she doesn’t even know her feet belong to her.   

Even though he’d strongly suggested I leave Genevieve with him during my yoga class, Eric was sympathetic rather than smug.  Then, bless him, he told me to get the hell out of house as soon as she was fed.  I had a lovely 45 minutes of coffee and toast down the road followed by a leisurely stroll around the supermarket.  It’s the little things that seem luxurious when you get to do them without a little marsupial attached to you.

Compared to most new mums, I am incredibly lucky to have such a supportive partner who forces me to do things for myself even when I’m stubbornly intent on martyring myself or when I’m just too tired to make reasonable decisions.  He invests as much time trying to find ways for me to have time on my own as I do making excuses about why it won’t work.  I’m also aware that Eric working 9-5 four days a week and my being able to focus on Genevieve full time is beyond lucky.  It’s impossible to think that in the US, I’d almost certainly be back at work by now.  I’m not sure how I’d go having an infant if I had a normal life instead of being able to get out on either the road or mountain bike three or four times a week.

Genevieve consented to a short nap, and we got back in the saddle and took a leisurely drive to a few local beaches.  By all rights, she should still have been tired and getting hungry (again), but she happily talked to her herself for over an hour as we drove around and even called in at a winery.  Then, when we got home, she unleased such an adorable stream of coos and squeals that Eric and I both dropped what we were doing to join her on the floor.  Realising she had an audience, she then flipped herself over about ten times, having just done it for the first time yesterday. 

That’s why I feel today is representative of my life as a mum for the past few weeks: we shared some challenging hours, for which Genevieve more than compensated by leaving me in awe this afternoon that I have this amazing little individual in my life.  I can’t believe she’s ours to look after every day, and it’s a rare morning that I’m so tired I don’t look forward to the day ahead.  I truly believe we’re just here to keep her safe while she becomes her own person, because she already so clearly has her own ideas about what she wants to do.  She must be the child of two very stubborn people. 

While I want a few hours away every week, I come back every time delighted to see her again.  I can’t imagine anything more enjoyable than laying on a blanket with her at the park staring at the trees like we’ve never seen them before or finding out by accident that her neck is ticklish or that she loves my singing (off-key) to her. 

I swear I will never be one of those mums who says that her life lacked meaning before she gave birth, because my life was full of meaning: being good at my job, pushing myself on the bike, supporting my friends, having new adventures with Eric.  Giving birth is biology, not a saintly mission.  But the element of surprise that exists in every day now has added a richness that I didn’t know I was missing.  Now I’m really expectant; I expect every day to have at least one great moment that I couldn’t possibly have foreseen. 

But you’d better believe that I’ll be telling any expectant parents I meet that for the first ten weeks, the shit outweighs the reward, and they just have to keep their heads down and count the days.  Oh, and they have to sleep while they can. 

What a difference a year makes!

It seems like so much longer than a year since we boarded the ferry for Tasmania.  If someone had told me we’d celebrate this anniversary in Margaret River with a baby, I never would have believed them.   The trip was nothing like what we had planned; it was so much better.  Thinking about how real life measured up to my expectations made me curious to re-visit the fears and expectations I wrote about before we set sail:

1. I will get eaten by a shark. Or worse, Eric will get eaten by a shark as I watch. 

and

2. Scaling back from the drama of a shark attack, I worry about one of us getting seriously injured or killed along the way.

Phew!  The only scar sustained during this trip was from baby extraction, and that one is rather discreet.  However, the neighbour living just behind us here in Margaret River was eaten by a shark.  He was a father of two in his mid-30s, heightening the perception of danger and reinforcing just how lucky we’ve been.

3. While we're away, we won't be taking any step NOT to get pregnant. Although it would a surprising, happy event if I got knocked up given my defective ovaries, I worry it will happen in the first few months, and in addition to not getting to do all of the fun stuff we have planned, I'll spend a few miserable months feeling puking in a van.

Yup, that happened!  Who knew we’d find out a week in that I was already a month pregnant?  Although I wasn’t puking, those were some rough weeks of early pregnancy in the van.  That being said, how much better was it to be staring at gorgeous scenery from the van than to be nauseous at work?  And how awesome is it that we’re enjoying the first few months as a family in such an idyllic spot?  There were some moments of feeling cheated out of happy hours on the bike or in the waves, but the hours I’ve spent staring at little Genevieve more than compensate for those.  I just can’t believe she’s ours.  As we get more laughs and lingering stares, I find I love her more and more.

4. After all of Eric's hard work on Turquey, she'll blow up in the first month.

As expected, Eric was more than capable of keeping Turquey on the road.  We’ve justified our inability to let her go by imagining family holidays in her once Genevieve is a wee bit older.  Fun, right?

5. Eric and I will kill each other.

Even with the pregnancy hormones pumping, if anything, we strengthened our relationship.  When we were two people living independent lives, focused on our own interests and careers, often in different towns, it was easy to avoid conflict and its attendant lessons.  In a van, facing a major life change like a baby, avoidance was impossible.   

6. Otis, my 13-year-old cat, will die while we're away. At least I know he'd die happy since he's going to be with the best foster parents ever who are going to spoil him rotten. Maybe I should just be afraid he won't want to come back and live with me!

Having visited Otis in January, I now realise the latter is more of a concern than the former!  It was wonderful to see Otis so healthy, content, and well loved.

7. Transitioning back into work will be impossible.

This is even more of a lurking fear now than it was when I wrote it, given that I’m not sure when or where or even what that will be.  We so love Margaret River that we considered staying here, with Eric continuing as a bike mechanic while I squeeze out a sibling for Genevieve and re-train as a secondary school teacher.  However, reality set in when we ran the numbers.  On a good day, we both love the careers we’ve worked so long to establish, and that investment was in part to ensure that we never had to count pennies.  Hitting the re-set button would mean returning to where we were in life almost 20 years ago.  God, we’re old.  It’s hard to believe I was about to graduate from high school when my parents were my age.

8. I'll get tired of being dirty and living out of a bag in the first two weeks and want to come home.

I’d be lying if I said there weren’t days when I craved a few more creature comforts, particularly during those long early weeks of pregnancy.  Fortunately, Eric and I both tended to think longingly about showers every 7-10 days.  I don’t think anyone ever got more mileage out of a hotel room than we did every time we splurged.  We would check in as early as possible and get takeaway for dinner to maximise the hours we could enjoy the room.

9. All of our stuff in storage will burn/rot/get stolen. To be fair, though, I was disgusted as I was packing at how much CRAP we have. 

On our visit to Melbourne just after Christmas, we made a mad dash to the storage unit to dig out our good bicycles…in the rain…with a screaming baby in the car.  As Eric pulled out bag after bag of my clothes, I had to remind myself that we used to engage in much more varied activities, each requiring its own costume change.  With our current lifestyle, I get by quite happily with two pairs of shorts and a pair of thongs.

10. I'll get fat.
x

Oh, the irony.  Thank God no one told me I’d gain 45 pounds!  At least I’ve lost 30 of it so far.

Now for the things I'm looking forward to:
1. Living in the same place with Eric.

I really couldn’t have asked for a better partner to take care of me, physically and emotionally, over the past year.  Throughout the nausea, but even more so the introspection and anxiety, he’s been so incredibly patient and more often than not thought of just the right thing to say or do. 

2. Reading, reading, reading

I’m so lucky to married to a man who can also happily spend an entire day only putting down what he’s reading to eat and wee.

3. Listening to podcasts

Most of this happened during the long nights when I couldn’t quite get my fat belly settled in a comfortable position, but there’s no better way to while away the long, dark hours without bothering the person sleeping next to you.

4. Not wearing heels or makeup or fixing my hair or...you get the point
and
5. Wearing whatever feels comfortable in the morning, even if it's the same thing I've been wearing all week

That certainly happened!

6. Riding my bike without having to turn to get to work on time
and
7. Surfing only when the conditions look good

Sigh.  That’s the only regret.  God, I got sick of taking walks.  I realise how lucky I was to have the time and scenic motivation to remain fit during the pregnancy, but it got so boooooring.  At least I had my little buddy, Oscar, to keep me company during the last couple of months.  I so miss him, although the time I spent with him made me think realistically about the investment of time required to have a dog, especially an active breed like a kelpie.

8. Seeing how little money we can get by on - it's like a game!

and

9. Having a meal out or even just a beer be a treat

Pregnancy was a convenient excuse to indulge ourselves with hotels and meals out more than we planned, although somehow we still spent less than we anticipated before settling in Margaret River.  Even if I hadn’t been pregnant, I suspect Eric and I had become too accustomed to spending money freely to be truly thrifty.

10. Watching all of the movies and TV shows we've been saving

I’m not sure how guilty I should feel that Boardwalk Empire and The Wire will always remind me of rainy days in South Australia and Justified will remind me of cold mornings in southern WA when one of us would get up to make coffee before snuggling back up to the laptop until it got warmer…sometimes at 11 am.  There’s nothing more luxurious than watching one episode after another of an engrossing television drama. 

11. Meeting new people

Disappointingly, we didn’t meet nearly as many people as we hoped.  Until we hit Exmouth, we were often the only winter campers in national parks, and it was too cold at night to sit out in lawn chairs and count the stars.  Instead, we had lots of cosy nights listening to rain on the pop top.

12. Eating when and what we feel like

When your only anchor points are meal times, it’s amazing how much thought, and consequently conflict, can arise at the supermarket.  There’s also a degree of creativity required to fit a week’s worth of groceries in a tiny cupboard and dorm fridge that may only run a few hours a day whilst driving.  I was impressed by the cuisine I was capable of producing in our tiny “kitchen” by the end, though.

13. Not being on a timetable

It’s probably good that doctor’s appointments provided some structure for our travels or we might never have made it out of South Australia.  There really is just so much to see in this amazing country.

14. Trying to learn Spanish...again

Hahahaha.  The Spanish books got dumped along with my bike and surfboard when we swung back through Melbourne after Tassie.  In my horrendously nauseous state, I couldn’t imagine ever having the energy to do anything besides stare forlornly out the sliding door.

Book report 10

Lost in Shangri-La by Mitchell Zuckoff

This was hands down the best book I’ve read in ages; I cannot recommend it highly enough if you enjoy adventure stories, history, or just well-written non-fiction.  This is the true story of a weekend flight over a remote valley in Papua New Guinea to distract the WACs and airmen stationed there during WWII from their general discomfort and long working hours.  I don’t think it requires a spoiler alert to tell you that they crash, but I’ll leave it to you to read about the crazy adventures they have trying to get as many of their party back to civilization alive.

Farewell, My Queen by Chantal Thomas

Written as a fictional memoir of a low-level member of Marie Antionette’s court, this book recounts the handful of days just prior to and following Bastille Day.  Most of the book is consumed with detailed descriptions of the grounds, costumes, and daily customs at Versailles, which is interesting in parts but can tend to drag on a bit.  The most striking thing is how remote a palace that is now only 20 minutes from central Paris by rail was when there was no reliable mass communication.  Reactions were based on rumours and wild stories from the gentry as they sought refuge in the palace, only to find that the court was fleeing with all they could carry.  For all the rich descriptions, the author’s premise seems to be that the lavish lifestyle of the wealthy in comparison to the conditions of the other 99% meant revolution was inevitable.  Apparently a movie was just released based on this book, so I’d recommend seeing the costumes and scenery in that rather than just reading about them for pages and pages.

Super Sad Love Story by Gary Shteyngart

This book is set in the sufficiently near future to make it a cautionary tale to Americans already obsessed with image and retail consumption.  The story follows an unlikely couple as they navigate life in the shallowest possible conceptualization of the US under a government slowly drifting into dictatorship.  While the extension of Facebook and consumer culture to their most dire conclusions was interesting, the book was horribly depressing.  Never one to enjoy a falsely happy ending, I still found myself hoping for at least some glimmer of optimism that never came.  I purchased two of the author’s books in a package deal, and I find myself avoiding the other one now.

Miss Wyoming by Douglas Coupland

Like all of Coupland’s books I’ve read, this book is an engaging satire of life in modern times that does offer some triumph of human nature, unlike the book above.  A former pageant queen turned 1980s sitcom actress and washed up visionary film director meet in the opening scene and spend the rest of the book trying to find each other again.

All Joy and No Fun by Jennifer Senior

Rather than offer advice on how not to screw up your kids, this is a parenting book about the effect of children on their parents.  Most interesting are the passages that explain the historical aspects of parenting and how those affect parents today.  For example, children used to be expected to entertain themselves most of the time, but we’ve somehow arrived at a point where we feel we need to engage with them during every waking moment, which just leads to guilt-ridden parents and children who don’t know how to cope with boredom.  It was an interesting enough read, but there wasn’t sufficient new information that I would choose to read it again if I could go back in time.  The very positive reviews on Amazon must’ve been written by people who haven’t read as many parenting books as I have in the past few months.  Maybe I need to stop reading about parenting and just get on with it.

The Master’s Muse by Valery O’Connor

Contrary to the book above, I really enjoyed this book despite expecting not to based on some negative reviews.  The book is a fictional memoir of Tanaquil Le Clerq, the fifth wife of ballet choreographer George Balanchine, and a couple of reviewers suggested it was a depressing story of another female remaining hopelessly devoted to a man who treated her badly.  While Balanchine wasn’t any more capable of remaining faithful to Tanaquil than he was to any of his other wives, I wouldn’t expect someone whose best friend was wife #4 despite being the reason for the dissolution of that union to be surprised at that.  Instead, I found the descriptions of Balanchine’s care for Tanaquil after she was paralysed by polio and the closeness of their relationship through to his death despite their own divorce really touching.  Although clearly self-obsessed and disloyal, you can’t fault a man too much who remains on close terms with five ex-wives and several other long-term partners besides.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

This book is a bit too much fantasy for me, but overall I’ve enjoyed it due to the author’s ability to capture his main character’s struggles growing up a shy bookworm.