These days I become wildly protective of new mums whenever I meet one. Panting like an over-enthusiastic fat labrador in my efforts it can get a bit embarrassing if the new mum looks at me nonplussed and says she is absolutely loving every minute…Better safe than sorry though, eh…
I do feel bad when this happens though. I feel like the angry person scowling in the corner of the tastefully decorated monochrome gender-neutral nursery, spoiling the ambiance with my CLASHING SWIRLS OF RAGING COLOUR grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, whereas
occasionally most of the time, being a mum is easily the best thing ever for me too.
My assumption of the worst for new mums in fact comes only from a good place. I’m several years past those precious early days (treasure every minute, they’ll be gone before you know it bleurgh… sorry just vommed a little – gone soon, you say? Er, yes please) but the memories of the unsettling storm of rampaging hormones, sleep deprivation, uncertainty, anxiety and the pressure of keeping a whole other human alive rocked, rolled and turned my world upside down.
Not least to turn me inside out was the fact that my previously reptilian skin, thickened by years of catering to that toughest of crowds – The Teenager – was not immune to the pummice stone that is motherhood. Like the best exfoliator the friction of parenthood sloughed away cell by cell, layer after layer, my bullshit identity – the person I thought was me – until there was nothing left except a tissue veneer loosely keeping my organs from jelly-like splashing all over the floor.
I might have become a bit “sensitive”.
On one occasion, I cried because a family member wondered whether pregnancy yoga relaxed my first baby so much that she didn’t want to be born. In the fragile emotional state I was in, knowing that this was absolutely bloody bonkers was not enough to have me rolling my eyes and moving on. She continued to wonder whether this was why my labour was so (fucking horrendous – my word, definitely not her’s) challenging and my bullshit-deflectors failed me completely.
I just heard yet another shitty judgement on me, my body and my ability to be a mother. And I cried. And I cried. And I cried.
Part of the problem is that much of the shit that gets fanned in a new mum’s direction often originates in helpful intentions. It’s really hard to say “Oh just fuck off would you” when you know this would be seen as an “over-reaction”, not to mention the fact that lots of the most hurtful things are said by family members (no escape), or (even harder to negotiate) your partner’s family members, or even your friends.
These will probably be the people you have to draft in at some point or other to babysit. Piss them off at your peril.
Instead, tell yourself that they don’t realise their offer of unsolicited advice is not going to evoke feelings of gratitude. That your response might in fact be, “Oh well, if s/he thinks I need to be told this then I must look like I can’t cope”, won’t have occurred to them.
Tell yourself this so you don’t drive yourself crazy, or sad, or both.
The fact is that some people left their sensitivity bone behind back when two cells were becoming four, so protect yourself. Tell the boneless ones “Thanks” or “because I want to”, and entertain yourself by reading some of these internal rants that otherwise will never see the light of day because I need babysitters…
You should/ you must/ you will… Oh just fuck off would you? There is no should, must, will about it. This is my baby and I am going to do it my way. I don’t give two flying fingers of fudge that you have three children of your own, have cared for the entire under-5 population of a small Pacific island, nor that you have a PHD in offering unsolicited advice to anyone unfortunate enough to have ears and a baby, this is STILL not your baby and I’m STILL going to do it my way.
And besides, I have spent the last four night’s at ninety minute intervals reading ev-er-y-thing in the internet so I already know there are approximately seven THOUSAND conflicting pieces of advice out there about how to get my DC/ DS/ DD2 (wtf?) to sleep through the night. AND I’ve already tried eight thousand of them.
What works for one baby, might not work for ten others so please go and file your “expertise” under sh for “shut up”.
You’ve got to be strong now… Ok then, look at me. Look me right in the face – it might be a little drippy right now, but this <circle your head with a very pointy forefinger> has also just grown a person and pushed it out of her body/had it hoisted from the escape hatch.
Do you see me?
I AM the dictionary definition of strength – I am a chuffing HERO.
And if you don’t believe me, take a look at my strung-together under-carriage. Like an abandoned Halloween mask left draped over the pumpkin flame five minutes too long, that thing is terrifying right now, and who KNOWS if it will ever mould back into shape.
Still need convincing? Well how about I flash you my cracked and bleeding nipples – it’s not just milk dribbling out of those butt-ends right now, you know… Was that a WINCE? These are WORDS motherchuffer, just imagine how it FEELS.
I am a WARRIOR – who may be feeling a little unstable because, hormones – BUT Bow. DOWN.
Reassess your judgement of me as WEAK because I am crying a little – I am a GODLY-GOD-DAMN-GODDESS.
The baby is ok – that’s the main thing… Oh is it? So me, mum, the person who changed her life, wardrobe, eating and drinking habits, who has not slept properly for months (sleep in the late stages of pregnancy is a cruel, cruel joke – like preparing for a freaking famine by going on a diet) and who has just had her body torn apart in countless ways so that “the main event” can journey earthside, is not the most important person?
Are you high?
I’m a freaking hero (there may be a theme developing here). And if I tell you that the birth was hard, just fucking listen, people. It was HARD. I have just been through the most traumatic hours of my entire life and you need to make space for me to talk about it.
I might talk about it a lot at first, I might bore the tits off you. But as my tits are being pulled and pummelled, are growing and shrinking, stinging, cracking, bleeding and oh, yes lactating; as MY tits are doing all of this a little bit of boredom for your’s is no big deal.
So no: the main thing is not that the baby is ok – the main thing is that I am ok. An ok mother is an ok baby.
He/ she is/not hungry/ tired… I DON’T CARE. Even if you KNOW-KNOW – you’ve had seven children of your own, bottle fed three, breast fed four and tandem fed two of those, if you’ve co-slept AND cot-slept, sleep-trained AND gone insane, this baby is NOT YOUR’S so BACK OFF.
Let’s face it, there is a VERY small list of things that can go wrong – hungry, tired, wet, poo-y, hungry, hungry, wind, hungry – so even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter because we’ll get there eventually, without being made to feel like a twat for not knowing immediately like you do, apparently.
*Also see You should/ you must/ you will…*
You’re making a rod for your own back… Maybe. But it’s my back, right? I’m not going to actively “teach” my child to sleep nowhere except at a precise angle of 45degrees on top of me, but only when I’m wearing the green pyjamas and have the top two buttons undone so his little shell-like can rest on my pumping life-force, just so I can leave him/ her with you to scream for a few days while I go and party in Ibiza, am I?
So why are you so bothered?
Besides, maybe I don’t care. Maybe right now stuffing enough rods to build Trump’s fence down the back of my breastfeedingfriendly shirt is worth it, if that is all that stands between getting some sleep and getting none.
Maybe picking him/ her up whenever he/she cries makes ME feel calmer.
Maybe carrying him/ her in a sling all day instead of in the pushchair means that no one has to listen to the screams.
Maybe this is all just MY way and is none of YOUR business.
And maybe, just maybe, you do have something valid to add to the conversation.
But maybe just maybe, I’m not ready to hear it.
And maybe, just maybe, you need to respect that, button it, and say “You’re amazing. Well done.”