Will we ever pass this way again? (Does it matter?)

4 km waddle

Post-ride debrief at Swings with the Dirt(y) Fairies

Sunset on our balcony

Oscar the wonder dog

Our little furnished apartment

Family beach day

Thanksgiving feast

Yoga in the park - note the giant banana leading us in song

When I was eight years old, my parents woke me up early on the first day of Spring Break and told me we were going to Disneyland.  After I figured out this wasn't just cruel humour, I was vibrating with excitement.  While the trip was everything I could have hoped, it was the first time I remember thinking about how temporary my enjoyment was and how important it was to capture every moment.  Not in a positive way, but in an anxious, not-quite-normal way.

Since then, I've remained obsessed with how fleeting good times are, trying to capture or extend them beyond their natural duration.  If I enjoy something, I want to make it a regular part of my routine, only to find out on repetition that some of the magic is gone. 

I started thinking about this today as Genevieve and I enjoyed a coffee at the Brew Shack.  It was a perfect early winter afternoon, too cold for the park but perfect for sitting on their lumpy sofa with a warm drink cooing at the sunbeams.  I immediately thought, "We should come here every day at this time!" and was then slapped in the face with the reality of our departing Margaret River next week.

Why is it that I wasted any of those golden moments worrying about the fact that once they passed they were gone forever?  When Eric and I were leaving Colorado, I was desperately worried we would never have such a perfect life together again.  Ditto Minnesota.  Ditto Cronulla.  Ditto Melbourne.  Surely even I should begin to detect a pattern; life only seems to get better, in large part because it doesn't stay the same.

Is it because we moved so much when I was growing up that I anxiously grasp at permanence?  My similarly afflicted youngest sister, Piglet, declared everything that happened more than once to be a "tradition".  Seriously, you had to be careful not to use the toilet at the same time two days in a row around that kid.  Or is it just a personality flaw not to be able to realise how fortunate I am during those best moments?  And is our culture trending more and more in that direction, with the need to document our activities in photos on Facebook and narcissistic, self-obsessed blogs (natch)?  

I read back over my entries for this past year's travels recently, and there were definitely fond memories that would already have been lost forever if I hadn't documented them.  Does that mean they would have been less worthwhile or would have added less to my life, particularly if I missed some other golden moments squirreled away in the van scribbling them down?

As I stared down at Genevieve's mesmerized face this afternoon, I knew one thing for sure.  She lives in every moment (and then forgets it).  She'll never be  6 months, 2 weeks, and 1 day old again.  She's a new person every 72 hours at the moment, so if I don't enjoy each moment for what it is, I should be slapped.  I have found that to be a big lesson she's taught me: sometimes the magic moments are brief and followed immediately with shit (often literally), so I'd better revel in them when they come.  I had to box up the anxiety about never being at the Brew Shack at 3:18 pm again and go back to nibbling on her tiny toes.

More than just lucky...

I was chatting with a fellow heathen the other day who was saying how blessed she felt, but then stumbled as neither of us really believes there is a bearded white guy in the clouds waving a wand and deciding our fates.  I've been struggling since to find a more appropriate word, because it describes my almost constant state of mind at the moment.

Lucky isn't it.  That's finding $10 on the ground.  Fortunate comes closer, but it still doesn't go quite far enough to describe seeing Genevieve smiling up at me from her cot in the morning or lying across my lap contentedly chatting to herself after a breastfeed.

I do know we're very lucky to have such a delightful baby.  With the exception of a few rough days here and there, she's the giggliest, most engaged littler person I could imagine.  We certainly can't take much credit; I've known too many amazing parents and devilish children to believe that!

And how great is it that we get to spend so much time with her?  Not only are we spared the pain of leaving her at childcare, as much as I understand that is just reality for most people, but I have Eric home so I also get out to play: the best of both worlds.

We might not draw such an easy baby next time, and we certainly won't have the idyllic lifestyle we do here in Margaret River.  In my new attempt to live in the moment, though, I'm just trying to appreciate what we have now and trust that we will figure out how to maximise whatever comes in the future.  I'm always worrying that what comes next won't be as good as the present, but somehow things just seem to get better and better.

Off to huff some more happy gas....

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.

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.