July 27, 2010
BIRTHDAY CHEERS TO BABIES OVER BOURBON

Give me Harry over a bottle of bourbon any day.

As my birthday ticked nearer and plans for the day were laid, I couldn't help smile to myself as I began to plan my perfect birthday.

How perfection for me has changed over the years.

What once would have been a night drinking to oblivion and wondering post birthday why my right knee hurt so much and how I ended up with a stamp on my hand from a nightclub I'd never heard of, has turned into a pathetic soppy kind of happiness.

The kind of happiness that would make a passer by do a little vomit in their mouth.

The kind of happiness that I once believed was fictional - created by writers to make an overwhelming portion of the population feel inadequate and discontent with their lives.

The kind of happiness that when described, is greeted with a roll of the eyes, a raised eyebrow and an unwillingness to believe that anyone could derive that much satisfaction from a movie, a home cooked meal, and a baby.

Having ascertained the face you are most likely to exhibit upon reading this, perhaps take a moment now to breath, relax, and loosen those tightly constricted facial muscles.

It is really not that hard to believe.

Never have presents been so fun to open, than with the clumsy help of 10 podgy little baby boy fingers.

Never have I felt like I have accomplished more in a year, than now with the little life I created looking up at me from the floor.

Never has a birthday night been so enjoyable, than with my two boys to cuddle, a glass of wine to sip, a movie I couldn't stay awake for...

...and let's not forget a baby that sleeps through the night.

Cheers to another year.

July 18, 2010
THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE, NOW SLEEPS THROUGH THE NIGHT

To all those who judged me, please enjoy swallowing the bitter bile of your discontent.

Seven days ago I began controlled crying, and today baby, mum, and dad are well slept and sporting smiles that could make the sternest opposer doubt their conviction, if only for a second.

I have endured the darkness of those first few nights and come out at the glorious seven o'clock sun on the other side (yes, he now sleeps until seven!).

I won't lie, it was far from easy. I have tried it before and fallen short of the discipline needed to succeed, but like so many people had told me, it really is only a few nights in hell for a lifetime in heaven (here's hoping).

Harry knows the routine now - what times he has solids, a breastfeed and a nap. He is content knowing what comes next, and sleep is no longer a losing battle. The icing on the cake is he is very rarely tired now, which means our time together is spent giggling and playing rather than pacing hallways patting his bottom and listening to the pained cords of his cries.

To all those who remain sceptics, I understand. Up until seven days ago I too toyed with the idea that controlled crying was a brutally cruel concept created by sadistic baby haters.

Let me assure you, it's not.

Harry is happier now than he ever was, and has 12 uninterrupted hours of sleep a night! Dan and I have left the night walkers to there broken sleep and grumpy moods and are once again enjoying the blissful feeling that comes from snuggling into your warm bed and knowing you will not rise again until after the sun.

I know you won't believe me until you try, and supposing that you never do, please at least try to be kinder to the mother's that do.

At the end of the night we are all just trying to do the best for our bubs, it's just that for some of us those nights run a little smoother.

To all those tired mum's reading this and hating me, please know I understand how you feel. But after seven months of broken sleep and endless rocking, I think I've earned the right to gloat just a little.

Ok, I'm done now.

July 11, 2010
MY WAR ON SLEEP CONTINUES. MUM 1. HARRY 1.
Dear Harry, forgive me.

Imagine a plaster being ripped from an open wound. This is how much it hurt, and no, I'm not referring to labour.

Controlled crying. It saddens me to say, but last night we tried it. Seems an ironic name considering I was anything but controlled.

An hour and a half. Like a spur digging into my chest and twisting, each heart breaking cry made me whimper a little more. For an hour and a half my muscles scrunched up tighter and my thick choking breath grew heavy in my chest.

Poor Harry, I can only imagine what your little muscles must have felt like.

Every 10 minutes I ran to your room to comfort your cries and wipe the tears from your flushed cheeks, only to have to pull myself away a minute later. I lay face buried in the cushions as I willed the minutes to pass quickly so I could hold you once again.

For your own good I told myself. I was doing this for your own good.

Those cries did not say “mummy where are you?”, no they said “I want to sleep but I can't, mummy why can't I sleep?”.

Too many sleepless nights, and a sad little boy who fought shut eye to the tip of exhaustion and back is what led me to consider more drastic actions.

Actions for your own good my little Harry. I promise it was all for your own good.

To be able to shut your eyes with a smile on your face and an excited anticipation for the dreams that will follow, this is what I wanted to give you.

I used to curse the concept of control crying like so many of you out there will be cursing me now.

I endured it last night, and doubted my ability to ever do it again.

To my pleasant surprise as I carried my little boy to bed tonight, I noticed a smile on his face. He fell asleep in his cot without uttering a single cry.

Three hours later the house still sits in a strange silence, and I struggle to believe that my war with sleep is over. It could not have been that easy.

I hope that it was.

Until morning, goodnight and hopefully...sleep tight.

July 1, 2010
MY BOY THE BUBBLE-BUTT

I'm the proud mum of a bubble-butt son.

We have dared to ditch the disposable diaper, and join the growing crowd of elite cloth nappy users.

I know, shock horror!

A few decades ago a disposable diaper was a guilty privilege rarely indulged in by the average mother – or so my mum tells me.

The popularity of the disposable grew until the words 'cloth nappy' were so foreign that when muttered in a circle of mums, they would be greeted with nothing but blank expressions and looks of confusion.

It appears the winds have changed once again, and are now being caught more often by the cushion comfort of the cloth nappy.

Today cloth is the new cool crowd (this is not why I switched...I swear), and the colours, shapes and styles are mind boggling! Yet so very exciting.

To all you childless folk out there with your mouths open in disgust, you can shut them now. I know what you are thinking! No amount of pretty patterns and trendy studs could make the idea of washing poo off a soiled diaper any less cringe worthy.

To that I can say only one thing. You have obviously never had to buy disposable diapers.

Disposable nappies are so expensive that when I used to change Harry's nappy, I actually took my time in the hope that he'd do a wee on me! This way he'd soil me instead of a nappy, and save me a whopping 48 cents.

Hey it adds up, trust me.

Granted I would then smell like wee, but these are the sacrifices we unemployed mums have to make! That was however, until I found the glorious cloth nappy.

Ok, so I may need to use cloth nappies for a little more than a few weeks before publicly shouting my excitement from this blog page. But if nothing else, damn his butt looks cute in those nappies!

I have a feeling this cloth nappy thing will be a piece of piss! Sorry, I couldn't help myself.

June 23, 2010
RIPPED PYJAMA PANTS AND A CUP OF TEA
What a week; Harry has barely slept a peep, and consequently neither have I.

There is a feeling that comes from having an inconsolable screaming baby in the middle of the night; you begin to feel a little loopy. It feels as though the whole world is sleeping, and that sleep is a sweet drug you cannot afford.

Like a drug addict you begin to think crazy thoughts; your mind wanders to the lengths you'd venture to get your fix.

When you do go to bed you are expecting to be woken at any minute. The concept of falling asleep would be laughable if only you weren't so damn tired.

Your eyelids touch at the same moment baby whimpers creep into your consciousness. Like a beam of sunlight through the bedroom curtain, they mark the end of any dreams you'd hoped to have that night.

An unwashed quilt cover and three week old sheets never felt so soft and inviting against your cheek, Dan's snoring so soothing, nor the bed so warm.

You peel yourself away and prepare for a night of walking the dark cool lounge room floor in your ripped pink star pyjama pants and fluffy bunny slippers.

The next day when you're feeling broken and all used up, your savours appear.

Cake is dished out and tea is poured, a crying Harry is passed into well slept arms whilst yours settle down for a rest.

Once again you are reminded of how wrong you were about mother's groups, and you can't help but wonder how you ever survived before.

Thank you mummies!

June 16, 2010
LET MY SON SHINE THROUGH

My family and some of my closest friends don't know this yet, for that I am sorry.

Only now that I have begun to admit it to myself do I feel strong enough to admit it to others.

That's not to say that I feel strong. No, this is very hard.

I had depression.

What a yucky stigma there is attached to that word. Depression. A stigma that makes you feel a little less than those around you.

Depression is a heavy blanket to burden, and from beneath it the world looks a little hazy. I don't think it is a blanket I could have lifted on my own, and for that I wish to thank Dan with all my heart.

He was the hand that picked up the corner and allowed a little sunlight in. He gave me the taste of life I had forgotten, and the hand I needed to rise from my slump in the corner.

That blanket looks very different from the outside.

I used to think postnatal depression meant you hated your baby, you were suicidal or crazy.

It very rarely means this.

I think we are so quick to make assumptions on that blanket and those beneath it. For me, it was knowing that others made these assumptions that made coming out from under my blanket that much harder.

I felt like I was living someone else's life. I was playing mum and hoping my act was convincing. I could tell no one. When I finally began to admit this to myself I felt lighter.

For every person I told a little weight lifted, and my blanket became easier to bare.

Thank you to everyone who helped a little more light shine in, and for letting me see that in so many cases you were carrying a blanket of your own.

To my beautiful Harry, please know I never stopped loving you. You have and always will be the sunshine that sparkles through my day, I just needed a little help to make a sparkle that would match yours.

And I did.

June 10, 2010
THE FUN POLICE WITH BREASTS
I am the Fun Police and all because I have boobs!

Like many a small chested girl, I relished in the fact that as my belly grew so would my bust, but I gave little thought to the responsibility that would come with my new cleavage.

See it seems that boobs are the only thing that comfort my crying baby. My boobs are the tools used to quieten his cries, be it day or night, in a packed restaurant or a supermarket aisle.

Like a spanner or a hammer my boobs are just tools, and given Dan's lack of mammary glands, the onus on comforting Harry often falls on my sore, forever exposed boobs.

The responsibility however, of NEVER waking Harry, has fallen like a loud chiming church bell in Dan's ears... that I have made sure of.

A flush of the toilet is sometimes all it takes to spin a peacefully sleeping house into a baby screaming fiasco, and send a sleepy mother to the nursery with her tools out and ready to go.

So with this in mind, if in his sleepy stupor Dan accidentally flushes the toilet, I am up like a bolt of lightening, whisper cursing in the poor man's ear. Peeking out at me from behind sleep crusted eyes, and with the fogginess of dreams still floating in his mind, one might forgive his bemused scared expression....not me though.

Nope, I am the Fun Police.

The same reaction, but on a louder scale and with a more clear minded Dan, can be seen during our car trips. A familiar cord is all it takes for Dan to turn the volume nob up and brace his vocals for a tune he loves. I am quick to chastise him for nearly stirring a sleeping Harry.

Yep, I am definitely the Fun Police.

It seems ironic to think that my baby, who's incapable of self soothing – a product of my failed parenting I'm sure – seeks comfort in the exact thing that helped lead to his creation.

Given the responsibility attached to my newly found chest, I am no longer so sure about my desire to have big boobs.

They may have been small before, but at least when I got them out in a car park they weren't greeted with the same nonchalance usually reserved for a carton of milk.

I'm sure as Dan eagerly awaited my growing bust line, he never anticipated the enormous change that would follow.

They may have been small before, but at least I was fun and they didn't leak when he touched them.

Sorry Dan. Sorry.