No More Free Passes

My MA thesis revolved around Sylvia Plath’s work, where I discussed the autobiographical elements in prose, comparing The Bell Jar and her short stories to her personal journals and letters. It was a dark year for me, one that found me crawling under my own bell jar, convinced that I was better off alone rather than surrounded by my friends. I began to resent Plath, her personal essays soul-sucking, selfish, full of anger and hatred. I found solace in Ted Hughes’ poetry, her husband and the one person who caused so much of her pain, anger, and grief. His words made me feel like I was soaring while hers, once burnt into my heart as a shield we’re bringing me down with her spirit. For some reason her darkness didn’t jive with mine anymore, and I pushed her away. Last year I finally had the courage to read Ariel again, and found that raw beauty that has attracted me to her work in the first place, and cried because I had missed the place that she held in my heart. And then, just around that time I also read a long article detailing how violent Ted Hughes was with Plath, and it broke my heart. It had crossed my mind that it was strange that both of his wives committed suicide, but at the same time, Plath had been severely depressive before she ever met him, so while tragic, it wasn’t the first time she had attempted to end her life.

I don’t know why I didn’t dig deeper into Plath and Hughes’ marriage from an outsider’s standpoint. I think I was so immersed in her darkest moments and also the fake happy times she described in her letters home, that I forgot to take a larger step outside of her writing and look into what was probably obvious.

I’ve witnessed domestic violence through the eyes of a child and a young adult, I know the signs and I know the ways of hiding it. I also understand the trauma it creates. So why was I oblivious to the obvious signs that Plath gave us? It’s very possible I was too stuck under my own bell jar at that time that I didn’t look for the clues. And then I refused to read her work after I presented my thesis, dancing the stress of a whole year suffocating in anxiety away in a rain shower, promising myself that I would bury that year under a headstone. That year marked the end of academia for me, once the only route I envisioned for myself, because I realized that track was not for me anymore. I probably should have taken that year as a sign that I needed to do a lot of processing for myself, but burying it down was easier. I continued to turn to Ted Hughes though, finding some peace in his words, searching through his 1998 collection of poems entitled The Birthday Letters for some possible insight into Plath and suicide. My own experience of parental suicide definitely clouded my thoughts on Plath (“how on earth could she have done that while her kids were at home?!”), and possibly also my own depressive state that has a tendency to reappear from time to time, unexpectedly.

But why was it so hard for me to see Ted Hughes for who he really was? To understand that one can be a talented human being, capable of writing a most beautiful story of love and passion, but also a monster, a predator? I feel that Polanski receives the same treatment (and I have been guilty of this too in the past, even writing on here about my favorite Polanski movies back in 2011, neatly pushing what I actually thought about him as a person aside). I never had this issue with Woody Allen though: he always seems to fill me with disgust, however talented he may be, probably because I’ve never been a fan of his work. Nowadays, however, I find it difficult to separate both entities: artist and human, human and artist. As more and more people are being revealed as perpetrators of harassment, abuse, and assault it’s on all of us to recognize and call out those who abuse others, because if we don’t then who else is going to stop them? Look at Terry Richardson; he was basically given free rein to prey on young models, because to be photographed by him could also be your catapult to fame. Weinstein used his power to get whatever he wanted from people, assaulting so many women the final numbers will most likely be in the 100’s. It happens everywhere though. There was a man at a company I used to work at who I always avoided like the plague because he gave off major predator vibes. I found out that a few years later he assaulted someone and I guess it never went to court (not sure on the real story as I can’t find any legal documentation online). In any case although he doesn’t seem to work for the company anymore they still quashed the story, and this company is lead by a woman.

And now Kevin Spacey, with another PR spin to it. “Oh I’m sorry I was drunk, it was 30 years ago, oh and I guess I had better come out now so let’s talk about that instead people!”

It’s just everywhere.

And I strongly feel that if we give one person a pass because they may have a certain talent that we admire, then we are just giving the rest of them a pass too. The young girl in me tells me that even if I couldn’t speak up back then I can now. We ALL can. We no longer need to tolerate this crap, these feelings of shame and anger. We no longer have to hide our feelings. Because if we don’t act now, we will just continue to be directed by predators who are so sure of their power they won’t care whether we know about their crimes or not. Let’s never forget who the current president of the US is.

We are coming to the end of Domestic Violence Awareness Month, and I have been writing about a lot of things in regards to this, as well as sexual assault and abuse over the past few months. A lot of it is very triggering for me, but also very enlightening. We CAN start putting an end to this, by standing proud, and giving those who cannot yet speak about their pain a voice. We can also stop giving abusers a free pass, a slap on the hand and a get out of jail free card. And we can show our children that they don’t have to live in silence, be subjected to any kind of abuse or harassment, as well as teaching them what respect and consent mean.  No Ted Hughes, you don’t get a free pass anymore. I don’t care how much your poetry moved me before, now your words just fall flat in a dank bucket of drain water.

(Just as I was about to post this I googled Plath and abuse and found this gem of an article by Emily Van Duyne – I wish I hadn’t given up on my teenage idol so fast, just like so many of her contemporaries did. One day I will type up my thesis again, the floppy disc it was on lost somewhere in my moves. I’m still pretty proud of it).

We Just Get It Done (The Blessing of the Strong Woman)

This is part one of a two part series that I have been playing around with in my head over the past few days. I have a tendency to balance thoughts out in my head, always looking for the grey rather than the black and white. We grow into ourselves over time, through experiences and through the influence of others around us, and I often think about all of the different people that have had some kind of positive or negative impact on my life over the years, playing a part in helping me become myself.

I was taking a long, hot shower yesterday (it sometimes happens, when the stars align right, maybe once a year) and suddenly an old friend and coworker popped into my head. Just before that I had been having a conversation with an aunt on strong women and the idea of just “getting on with it” despite everything, and for some reason Mary, amongst others, came up in my thoughts. I worked with Mary when I was in my late teens and early 20’s in a pub in Rutland, where I spent every summer. She was a tiny little Irish lady, with the physique of a bird and the mettle of steel. She was in her 70’s when we met, coming out of retirement because she couldn’t stand “doing nothing” at home anymore. Mary smoked Silk Cut after Silk Cut, told us stories of hardships and war, family and love, and doled out kindness after kindness, always making sure that everyone around her was happy.

I’ve been lucky in my life as I have often found myself surrounded by extremely strong women. Women who have or who had stories to tell for days, who accomplished the impossible despite everything, and who always get back on their feet again, no matter what. All of those summers spent in Rutland were also spent with my Nana whose legacy will live on forever. She became a mother so early in life, lived through divorce and husbands, more children, losing one child in the post-divorce post-war world, and one through death, reuniting with her firstborn 50 years later, saying goodbye to sisters, welcoming grandchildren and nurturing them as her own. And even after her knees gave out and her heart stopped working so well, she would still be found standing on the foot rest dusting the top of the fridge or vacuuming the stairs. Nana’s home always smelt of fresh linen, fresh air, and cleanliness. But a lived and loved in cleanliness. It always felt like home. She was the type of person to have a child one day and be standing in front of the stove cooking a full Sunday dinner the next, without even thinking that wasn’t normal. She was also the person who would tell you how her and her sisters would bike like maniacs down a hill in Kent when they were kids, flying over the handle bars when their brakes went out.

It’s not just the women born several generations before me, but I have always been surrounded by people who don’t complain and who just get it done. I remember coming home from school at the age of 9 to find my mother had given birth to our little (big) brother up there in that tiny bedroom, and just a few days later she was off back at work, taking the baby with her in a little bassinet so that she could continue to breastfeed on demand. A few months later she also took on another job at night so that we could make ends meet. My other half tells me stories of his mother, a single mother just like mine but across the world from each other, working three jobs around the clock to make ends meet. This is the norm for me, we remain strong because everything happens for a reason, and no one will save you except for yourself. And while there are certain downsides to this mentality, which I will explore later, I consider it a blessing. At the end of the day you will always be OK, because something will fall into place somewhere along the line.

I have no qualms about working any type of job. I may have been the first person in my general family to get a degree, it still doesn’t mean that I can’t get down on my hands and knees and scrub a floor. Actually, if I am really honest with myself I much prefer manual labour to working in an office. I was much happier bartending than I was ever working in a fast-paced NYC firm. I feel like a clown when I have to dress up in business clothes, a parody of myself, but put me in shorts and biker boots and I feel like a normal human being. My hands have been rubbed raw from scrubbing toilets with bleach in all types of different places, but I have better memories of those jobs than I do of sitting at a desk all day stressing out about clients and meeting deadlines and answering emails. Writing is my passion and also my job nowadays, but ask me to choose between working as a server or an account manager and I will always choose the former. But I digress. All that to say that I was brought up to believe that we can always figure things out, even when at rock bottom, and that going to work is a necessity and not one that you can skip out on when you are tired, hungover or bored. Years ago when I was 16 my aunt told me that I had a choice: either I went to school or worked, or I would end up relying on others for the rest of my life. I’m glad I chose the right way to go.

My mother did a computer programming course in the early 80’s, hoping that it would lead to better job prospects (as well as being really interested in it). She worked her backside off for years and years, taking us to different countries in order to raise our quality of life, and ended up making a real name for herself in the industry she helped build. And she’s still doing all that and touring the world shooting music festivals and concerts, spending time with her grandkids, helping her kids, and creating homes from scratch. Oh and did I mention working on our family tree, going back centuries through all of the branches? We haven’t done badly, coming from miners and farmers and ending up where we are. And I have a large conviction I come from a long line of strong women ancestors, and our family tree seems to show this. In any case, I get my work ethic from my mother and the other women in my family, and I hope to pass this along to my children. I hope that they will also learn how to be good, kind, gentle and strong, like their ancestors. The trait of strength seems to run straight line through the female lines on both sides of my family tree.

I think a lot of these thoughts on strength and life in general have all stemmed from the fact that I’ve been writing my last birth story, and it’s my toughest one to write to date. I somehow feel compelled to explain why I opted to go through another birth without anything to take the edge off; that even 34 hours in I still refused to ask for pain relief, even though there is nothing actually wrong with opting for a pain-free birth. While most of it comes from the fact that I know how much better I feel after birth when I do it unmedicated, another part also thinks that if my mother, my grandmothers, my great-grandmothers and so on did it there is no reason why I shouldn’t. And right at the very centre of it all is a place where everything is so primal, where your strength is tested over and over again, but where your heart is stripped bare and vulnerable – and that is the one moment I never wanted to miss. While, for all intents and purposes, I will never reach that moment again, it makes me happy that I did, and that I can tell the story. And anyway, I will continue to push the barriers of my strength from time to time, just to prove to myself that I am strong enough. It’s in my nature to do so.

I do feel like I am blessed with this trait to always stay strong despite everything, but all the same it can also be a curse, one that I am sure many women (and men) relate to. The next part will be more of a discussion on that side of the mirror.

Immigration Series: Serial Immigrant

This week's story is my own mother's... We have lived thousands and thousands of miles away from each other for many years, but now all live together in sunny California. 

Serial Immigrant

I am an immigrant. I have been an immigrant, and an émigré, for much of my adult life: not because of dire need, or suffering, but from a desire to travel, to experience the world, and to provide a good life for my family. I’d always dreamed of travelling; as a child it was to Canada and France, or exploring the South Pole, as a teen I wanted to work on a kibbutz or travel the desert on the back of a camel; as an adult, to visit the ancient sites of Greece and Turkey and Jerusalem and Egypt and Japan. (I’ve been lucky enough to be able to do all of those, except Greece the South Pole, and while a visit to the Galapagos is still on the bucket list, I’m a little more wary of the cold these days.)

It all began when I was offered a short-term contract in the Netherlands when I was looking for full-time employment in Thatcher’s UK. The idea of spending a few months outside of what had become a depressed and gloomy Britain under Thatcher’s iron rule, in the country of windmills and clogs and Edam, was exciting and liberating. We packed a very few belongings into a mini-bus and took the ferry from Harwich to Hook of Holland, and never looked back. The children went to Dutch schools and my daughters were fluent in the language within a very few months. The short-term contract became three years, we experienced life as Europeans, and then a new job offer came along, from an American multinational with a large site in France.

Nine years in France, a country full of culture and life and history and strong friendships, and then, once again, I’m offered another job—with the same company, but this time, in the mothership—in the USA. Moving between European countries, pre-Brexit, was one thing. Across the world was another. It was a major decision: three children, divorced parents, oldest child already in university in France… but it was another adventure, it felt right, and it was an opportunity to experience yet-another way of life.

I entered the USA on an L-1 visa. That’s a visa specifically for “management transfers”: companies can bring in their managerial staff and workers with specialized knowledge, transferring them from overseas locations to a (new) location in the USA.

My employer provided help with the visa. They also provided legal help to make sure that the green card I applied for, for myself and children, were expedited, because my second child would celebrate their twenty-first birthday a few months after our arrival in the USA. Wait. Why is that important??? Because after 21, a child is considered “just another relative”, and you have to petition for them to join you, and wait years. But what about my eldest child, who is already over 21, yet still in full-time education and supported by me? Oh tough. They’ve “aged out”. No green card. You have to petition for them to join you, once you have a green card yourself, and then wait. And wait. And wait. At least seven or ten or more years.

My eldest was denied a visa to visit the USA for a few months, on the grounds that, “All your family is in the USA and you might be tempted stay.” Well duh… yes, all close family was in the USA. So you deny a child the right to stay with their only surviving parent???”

We found a work-around. My eldest was able to claim Canadian citizenship due to her father’s own citizenship, and then work in the USA on an annual TN visa, which wasn’t without stress. We waited and waited for her green card to be approved. We paid all the fees. Eventually, after several years, the green card was approved… but there would be another seven or more years before “the number would come up”, and the card would be issued. I learned that if I became a US citizen—by this time I was eligible, having held a green card for five years—then the wait for my daughter’s green card would be cut to just a few months.

So I paid all the fees, studied for the exam, and became a US Citizen. I now hold two passports, British and USA. My daughter has a green card, issued a few months after I became a citizen, and can live and work in the USA. The family is together. But am I a proud US citizen? Do I feel this glowing patriotism, and the need to put hand-on-heart when the Stars and Stripes are played? The belief in the right to bear arms? Not for one second… Do I feel somewhat compromised, and coerced into embracing a nationality, just to enable my family to be together? Some days, indeed I do. Resentful? No… I’m happy with the life we have, though I miss the history, the discussions, the cultural richness that is outside the USA. I don’t understand the American money-based mentality that drives everything and blinds people to the fact that there are better ways to manage health care and social welfare and ensure that everyone – EVERYONE – is taken care of. I don’t understand the shoot first mentality. And I really, really don’t want to live in the USA that Trump is proposing. I’m disturbed by the way the world is turning, whether it’s insulting click-bait political lies here in the USA, Brexit votes in the UK that will deny future generations the freedom of movement we enjoyed, and the rise in fear and hatred and intolerance around the globe… Maybe once you’ve seen more of different cultures and languages, you ask more questions, and are more frustrated by a brick wall of ignorance. I don’t know.

Those people who talk about immigration “done the right way”, obviously have no clue about how broken the “right way” is, how it can divide families, how much stress and anguish it can cause, how many years of wondering if your child will be allowed safely through the airport “this time”, or if they will be deported, or worse… and yes, that’s doing immigration “the right way”.

#iamanimmigrant. But I’m one of the lucky ones who had a choice, and tried to make the right decision. Was it? Ask my kids. I think you’ll get mixed answers.

In addition to being a wonderful parent and all-around great person, my mother (Alison Toon) is also a fantastic photographer and you can check out her work on her website, Facebook page and Instagram.

Ramblings: A Story of Nursing Two

This ended up being a lot longer than I intended it to be… But I really wanted to take a moment to put my breastfeeding journey down in words, for myself, for others, to remind myself later on in life, maybe even for my daughters to read in the years to come.

A little over a year and a half ago, or maybe more than that, I wrote an article on breastfeeding, after randomly reading an excellent article by Annie Reneau from Motherhood and More that popped up on my newsfeed. I was new to the whole motherhood thing and new to breastfeeding and having a baby attached to me 24/7. Breastfeeding was a no brainer for me while pregnant, my mother breastfed us all, and I was going to breastfeed mine. Such a natural act should be as easy as pie, no? (If the pie is one of those intricate models of patisserie artistry maybe).  A couple of people warned me that it wasn’t as easy as I expected it would be, and a family friend suggested I read a book before I gave birth to help navigate any difficulties with latching and all the rest, so I skimmed through it and hoped for the best. I’ve always been stubborn. In some ways it can be a downfall, but in many ways it just means I will persevere until I get something right. This trait really helped me in those early days.

And here we are nearly 2 years later, a 23 month old, still breastfeeding, and a 6 month old, exclusively breastfed. I breastfed Luna through my entire pregnancy and have now been tandem nursing for the past 6 months, with no end in sight really. Both births were very different, and so were the girls’ breastfeeding stories. Luna’s birth was long and difficult and breastfeeding was so hard for several reasons, Aurora’s was fast, easy and completely unmedicated, and breastfeeding was the most natural thing in the world. Everything that didn’t happen after Luna’s birth happened after Aurora’s: I got to see her crawl instinctively towards my breast and latch on without any issue. The latter was also due to several reasons, most importantly that I learnt what not to let happen. Breastfeeding is completely natural – but if you don’t have the support of your medical professionals, family and/or friends, then it can become a lot harder than it appears to be. This support goes the same way however you feed your child – no one should judge a parent by how he or she feeds their child – as long as a child is thriving, healthy and happy, and as long as parents have found a way that suits them, then as fellow parents (or non parents) we should not provide unsolicited advice or “concerns”. I’ve read way too many mean-spirited comments bashing mothers on how they “should” be feeding their children and it always makes me want to slap people. Exclusively breastfeeding as well as what is apparently called “extended” breastfeeding works for our family, and I hope to help normalize this again without insulting anyone.

Pregnant while breastfeeding my one year old on a glorious NYC spring day

Nursing Aurora in our hotel room on the LES right before we left for California. I didn't put her finger there, promise!

After Luna’s birth I got to hold her for a few minutes and then she was whisked away for a few hours. I was so overwhelmed and exhausted that I couldn’t find my voice, and when she was finally brought to my room I couldn’t get her to latch on. I had repeatedly asked to see the lactation consultant, but when she arrived she didn’t do anything. Luckily one of the nurses was there and showed me what a proper latch looked like. From that moment onwards, by trial and error, Luna and I figured it out together, through being told I was starving my child by a nurse, through cracked nipples and pain, through clogged ducts and endless hours of nursing. Ten weeks later and all of that was forgotten, apart from the endless hours of nursing. Luna was gaining fast and breastfeeding had become a second nature to me. Nursing in public was hard at first as I was uncomfortable, and Luna would scream if covered (she still hates to be covered in any capacity, especially while sleeping), but in the end I gave up worrying about it. I sometimes received a strange look, but nobody has ever said anything to me. I suppose there is always a first, but I’m not concerned about that… Luna now can request to nurse herself by saying “dootie!!!” and requests it pretty often still. I say to myself that if we both managed to get through a pregnancy while nursing then it’s for a reason. She’s definitely not ready to give it up just yet.

Nursing through a pregnancy is interesting. Strange, normal and somewhat painful towards the end. When I found out I was pregnant with Aurora Luna was only 8 months old and I was so worried that I was going to have to deprive her of those last few months of breast milk. “As long as we can make it until her first birthday” became my benchmark. My (new) doctors had no issues with me nursing while pregnant (some OBs don’t recommend it) and told me to continue for as long as I felt comfortable. Around 15 weeks Luna became very agitated whenever she nursed and I thought that my supply had disappeared but now I realize it was most likely the combination of a growth spurt on her end and a slight drop on my end. Everything evened out again and we made it past her birthday and all the way to 36 weeks where I had to spend a night in hospital, the first night that Luna spent without me. No issues, she went right back to nursing again, but at that point we were down to two or three times a day and night, before naps and bed time. I thought that was perfect – a great transition point. I laugh at myself now with hindsight as she now nurses all throughout the day again (but finally less at night). Anyway, if you have a tenacious child who will not give up then be aware that nursing is not comfortable during the last weeks of a pregnancy. Latching on is painful. Luna started putting on a little weight again so I assumed my milk had reverted to colostrum, and she didn’t have an issue with it. I didn’t really have any problems with contractions, some Braxton Hicks here and there but nothing real until I was in labour. I also think I am a great example of how the whole breastfeeding as birth control DOESN’T work. We followed all of the “rules”, no bottles or pacifiers, breastfeeding around the clock (literally), exclusive breastfeeding etc etc, and Aurora still arrived a little over 16 months later…

Left - Taken by Cesar just a few minutes after Aurora was born. Right - A tiny Luna a few weeks after birth.

Aurora’s labour was so easy, so fast and so intense that I still remember it as a blur: one moment I was waking up to a contraction, the next I was in a hospital bed, half dressed with one part of a monitor stuck to my tummy, the other hanging on the side as the nurse hadn’t had time to place it. As I mentioned previously, Aurora latched on all by herself and nursed for 20 minutes before she was taken to the nursery to be checked (she was born in meconium stained waters). Cesar took a photo of me right then, tired but wide awake, so happy, and so peaceful. Aurora was brought back to me within the hour. I tandem nursed for the first time that afternoon, both children together, holding this tiny baby above my tiny toddler, hoping that I would be able to get the hang of it without any issues. With Aurora breastfeeding came completely naturally, she ate and unlatched when full, there was no round the clock nursing or cluster feeding – very efficient. From day one, despite her jaundice, she has thrived, weighing in at 20lbs at 6 months. I do feel that tandem nursing ensured that there was always more than enough milk waiting for both of them. Aurora started sleeping 6 plus hours a night very early, and Luna helped keep any engorgement at bay. I’m assuming that I will just keep nursing Aurora until she is ready to wean too, whether that be at one year, two, or three.

Tandem nursing isn’t easy. I don’t feel like a superwoman or powerful, but I do feel like it is completely normal. Sometimes though, I just want to sleep for 4 hours without having a child attached to my breast. Sometimes I want to be able to go out by myself for a few hours without worrying about a child who refuses to take a bottle. Sometimes I really want to be able to write for an hour without being interrupted by the words “DOOTIE!!!!!”. Other times I am so grateful to still be able to comfort Luna whenever she needs it. And to make sure that she is still getting some kind of nutrition even on the days that she refuses to eat. I am happy that I can help Aurora through growth spurts, teething pains and any other worries she has by providing her with what she now feels is comforting. I am happy that I don’t have to actually get out of bed when one of them wakes up. I’m really happy that I don’t have to pack or clean bottles or have to worry about making sure that the diaper bag always contains more than a few diapers, wipes and clean baby clothes. I sometimes think that I must just be lazy, because I’ve made everything about ease for all of us. I’m so happy that I don’t have to spend money on formula, because it’s so expensive. This does also mean that my inability to actually make Aurora drink from a bottle results in me not being able to leave her for more than a few hours. And that Luna may rely on her “dootie” every time she feels even the slightest bit upset or uncomfortable, and every time she wakes up at night. It also makes me wonder how long I will be nursing two, because I am so adamant that I will let them self-wean, but at the same time I have no idea when that will happen. I think I need to find a cut-off point, maybe three years old, but at the same time I am pretty sure they will both be less reliant on me by then. Maybe Luna will decide in a few months that she doesn’t need her dootie anymore. Who knows? I do know that I’m not interested in nursing three children at the same time, so if we do end up having a third then some serious decisions will need to be made. But we aren’t there yet, and I’m not making any plans on that subject. I’m sure anything is possible though, women breastfeed triplets and quadruplets (I always wonder how they do it; it’s so interesting and intriguing). In the meantime I feel like I should finally start working on that breastfeeding counseling course that I have wanted to do for a while, and obtain a certificate so that I can officially help people.

©Alison Toon - the acrobatics of a nursing toddler

Nursing a toddler is both easy and annoying. Easy because you don’t need to actually do anything, and there are no worries about making sure they are getting enough milk. It is annoying because it often becomes an acrobatic art, swatting away pinching fingers and feet that find their way kicking you in the head. And annoying because you lose the ability to “time” feedings yourself, or at least work your activities around nursing times. Most of the time Luna will all of a sudden drop everything she is doing, wherever we are, and demand “dootie” right then and there, for reasons unknown to anyone except for herself. Sometimes a”not right now love” works, other times the demands become more insistent and the only way to avoid a tantrum is to give in. Nursing a toddler is never boring and rarely relaxing.

All the above to basically say that breastfeeding can be hard but it can also be very easy. If you are a first time mother I advise that you make sure you are surrounded by people who support you, including medical professionals who understand that it is important for you and your baby. La Leche League is a great support group and you can go to a meeting before you have your child, just to make friends and learn from other mothers. And lastly, it’s important to believe in yourself. Just because your baby is feeding every hour doesn’t mean you don’t have enough milk… If your baby is producing the correct amount of diapers and putting on weight there is no need to worry. Real supply issues are actually pretty rare as long as you nurse on demand, eat well, drink your water and try to rest and relax. I wish I had known a lot of those things during those first weeks with Luna; it would have saved me so much worry, stress and pain. I pushed through it, but it would have been so easy to give up too. Everyone is different, and every family is different, but if breastfeeding is really important to you, don’t give up on a bad day. I’ve posted some links below to articles and groups that really helped me along the way, with the first few weeks, nursing in public, “extended” breastfeeding, tandem nursing, nursing through pregnancy and any other question that I may have had along the way. And I still have questions and feel very lucky that I have friends who also breastfed or still feed who I can call to ask for advice, give advice to or just to commiserate with.

©Alison Toon - my 6 month and 23 month old beauties

And lastly, take pictures! I regret that I don’t have many photos of breastfeeding both girls as tiny babies and none of me breastfeeding Luna as a toddler (must work on this). I love the #normalizebreastfeeding movement and have no issues posting photos of myself breastfeeding online now (I was very nervous about doing it a few years ago though), but photos don’t have to be for the world, they can just be for you - these years are so fleeting and while one, two or three years may seem like a long time in the moment, they aren’t in the grand scheme of a life. I love capturing memories on the fly, moments captured in time for oneself and for others. And now I am off to ask Cesar or my mother to take some photos of us before I post this!

Resources:

• Kellymom.com
• Dr Sears on Breastfeeding 
• Dr Sears on Extended Breastfeeding

Ramblings: Golden, Rusty Days

This is actually a combination of two unfinished pieces that I thought worked well together. So many half-finished pieces "in process", I'm going to try to finish what I can this year!

When I think back to those days they seem golden, hazy and golden, like a fluffy white cloud surrounded by late afternoon sun rays. Even though I know they weren’t really, they were full of unnecessary worry and timidity and longing and soul searching (as well as fun and games and friendship and love and passion and many a bottle of wine). If I close my eyes I see myself back then: slim (even though I thought I wasn’t), scared (of everything), worried (I wasn’t good enough for anything), unsure about my looks (wishing I were prettier), happy (because I had wonderful friends), in love (I feel like I was always in love in my late teens and early 20’s), sad (because I only fell in love with the guys who were not in love with me), bored (because I had no idea what I was going to do with my life) and crazy (the number of stories I have regarding my group of friends and our nights out is phenomenal).

The amount of freedom we had in those days in incredible. Even more incredible is the fact that we didn’t even realize it. We had no real responsibilities apart from turning up to our classes at university and passing the year and making it to work on time (if we had jobs). For the first two years I lived at home, the last two shared an apartment in the city with my best friend at the time. We both worked part time and spent the rest of the time on “campus”, going to class, hanging out with our friends in our regular bars, and roaming the city at night drinking wine and causing all types of mayhem. Those days come with a soundtrack by The Cure, Mylene Farmer, Bob Dylan, Muse, Placebo, Marilyn Manson, Bauhaus, and mixed tapes, rolling down hills in the dark and many a long night discussing everything that we would like to change one day.

I love how easy it is to look at everything more clearly but coincidentally through rose-tinted glasses, gold-edged but slightly rusty, sepia-toned in the light of the afternoon. Strings of happiness, sometimes thinning out, sometimes broken, some areas rugged with knots, but pulled tight through the years. Lanes that span through the countryside and the hills, through the cities and over beaches and oceans, coming across dead ends and turning back to choose the other side of the fork in the road that had appeared a few miles or a few hundred miles earlier. Pulling those strings with every step, stopping to reinforce them or to tie two broken ends back together again. So is life, we just never know what a right turn may bring, and such is the beauty of it all.

It was half a lifetime ago, that 18 year old me. 18 years later and while so much has changed, I am still her, just a lot older, a lot less scared, more knowledgeable (I hope), more cynical and less trusting. Nowadays I stand up for myself without even thinking about it, not worrying what someone else is going to think if I open my mouth.

You know that thing you do when you are able to pretend that you are all sorted and together on the outside when your insides are melting in anguish? That won’t really go away. It just gets a little easier to let go sometimes and stop pretending that everything is OK. Nothing bad will happen the day that you drop everything and burst into tears in front of a bunch of strangers. We are all human and the only person you have to prove something to is to yourself. Remember that.

Don’t change anything; everything has its own way of working out just fine in the end. You are going to make some wonderful decisions and some really, really stupid ones. You are going to travel to places and meet people, fall in and out of love. You are going to smoke too many cigarettes and drink too many glasses of straight vodka (my head hurts even thinking about it). You are going to hurt some people and some people are going to hurt you. You are also going to make some people very, very happy, and others are going to make you happy too.

There are days when you will not want to leave your bed, but you do. It is worth it. All those mornings getting up at the crack of dawn after a few hours sleep. It is worth it. All those late nights, working, in bars, reading books, dancing in the streets, they are all worth it. All those journal entries, day after day of rambling thoughts, they are all worth it. All those words left unsaid, they are all worth it.

I promise you, you will fall in love again. Many times. You will get your heart broken again, quite a few times, and you will also break a few hearts yourself. It may take time, but when the real thing hits you, it will hit you with such power that you will fall over. Love isn’t always all happiness and birds of paradise, but once you have it you will never let go. Never lose hope. Just continue to do what you always do, when life gets tough, hug those you have close to you, look after them, pick up the pieces and continue on your path.

There will be forks in the road, and there will be times when you get lost and go round in circles. There will be times when you turn back in your footsteps, backwards towards the last fork so you can take another direction. Some things just won’t work out, no matter how hard you try, and other things will just have a knack of falling into place without any effort at all.

I can’t say “don’t do that” or “watch out for that” because everything that you go through is part of learning to be yourself and how to deal with whatever life throws at you. Just know that whatever happens, it will all work out in the end, even though there are times when everything seems worthless and wrong. I promise you, it will all be OK in the end. You will turn out OK. Well, I am still working on that part now, but I suppose that is a continuous work in progress, right? I am more than OK.

I suppose that one day these current days will feel so far away and I will look at them in the same way, remembering life in New York City, pregnant with my second child while cuddling and kissing my first. Every moment full of beauty and joy. May we all aim to live and love a life full of everything we aspire to, the simple and the complicated, because in the end it is all worth it.

Ramblings: Ho, ho, ho and a bottle of Whiskey

Ho, ho, ho and a bottle of Whiskey

The first time I had a “real” drink (as opposed to sipping the foam off a beer, or that half a glass of champagne at a NYE party) I drank a bottle of white wine, a bottle of cider and ¾ of a bottle of Baileys. It was a NYE and I was 16 years old. My mother was at a friend’s NYE party and my sister and I had a few friends over, smuggled the alcohol in and some of us drank (come to think of it, the younger ones didn’t really drink; only the “older” ones – we were still kind of responsible). Needless to say, my head was firmly welded to the toilet seat within 90 minutes, and I rang the New Year in by crawling to the phone and trying to pretend I was fine when my mother called us to see how we were. It served as a lesson. A big lesson. Just not the one you are probably thinking.

Never mix your drinks. If you want to keep your head out of the toilet and with the party, be smart. Stick to one type of drink and you will be grand. That was the lesson I taught myself. And after that one incident, during the next 20 years of drinking and not drinking, I threw up from alcohol less than 5 times. Great accomplishment, no? I cannot, however, count the amount of times I blacked out, said stupid things, acted very drunk, cried in a bar or probably made a fool out of myself. Black outs are scary. One moment you are having a blast, and the next you are waking up in your bed, in your sleeping clothes, wondering how on earth you got home. What happened between the last moment you remember and waking up in the morning? How did you make it home by yourself in a cab, pay the cab, get into your apartment, fold your clothes and put on sleeping clothes? It’s as if your brain shuts off and your body goes on autopilot. Very, very scary when you think of it.

During the past 20 years I have had times when I will drink now and then, times when I am completely sober, times when I drink a lot and am fine and times when I drink a lot and am not fine. I’ve been sober for over 16 months now, and that Guinness and that shot of Jameson I had right at the time I guessed I was probably pregnant are the last drinks I will probably have in a long time, maybe forever. I have learnt to never say never as it often comes back to bite you in the face, but I have always made a promise to myself that if I ever become a mother all drinking and partying goes out the window. This is a personal choice based on my childhood and in no way to be seen as anything else. I also don’t see this anymore as being sober, just as part of my life that changed when I got pregnant. Everything is different now, and that is not a bad thing. Nowadays what I really, really crave, instead of a cigarette and a shot, is a really good cup of coffee.

My up and down relationship with alcohol has been a love/hate, thwarted and twisted, calm and happy, relationship. Paradoxical, I know. Alcohol gave me wings, or so I thought. In the beginning alcohol helped me get past my shyness and be a more vocal, more fun, more extreme version of myself. Or, actually more truthfully, alcohol allowed me to show who I was without hiding behind my shy exterior. It enabled me to let go of that façade and just BE. We were all doing it, all of us in our teens and early 20’s. My group was a little more extreme than others, maybe because we were all pretty much outcasts and never fit in anywhere, but we were in no way over the top. The only drugs we ever did as kids were to smoke hash. I never knew of anything really being available anyway, and drugs always scared me. I never wanted to become like my dad, let drugs ruin me. But alcohol never scared me. So many stories of drinking wine in the streets of Grenoble, sitting on statues and singing, hanging out in parks at night and crashing random people’s parties just for fun. (There is a recollection of those nights here if you want to read it). Wine meant some kind of freedom, a slight loss of control but not enough to feel out of control. I never blacked out in those days.

Then came a time when I just stopped drinking, for a few years, a time of terrible social anxiety and depression and too many existential questions, and all I had the energy to do was finish my MA thesis, go to work and read novels in bed. I think that all started with a bad reaction to only a few drinks in England that summer, a panic attack that I had never had before, but that would often come back to haunt me later on in heavily stressful periods of my life. About a year later, after I had been in Israel for a few months, I finally felt at ease enough to drink again, and not so worried that I would have another panic attack, and guess what? It was wonderful. Pure, straight vodka. Amazing. I danced all night, had so much fun, and didn’t even have a hangover the next day. We liked to party, us volunteers at Kibbutz Evron. Every Friday night we would get the liquor and the beer (10 shekels for a cheap bottle of Russian vodka – bargain!), crank up the tunes and dance at the volunteer house until it was time to go to the pub. Every Saturday we would sleep in the sun and try to get rid of our hangovers. My affair with vodka lasted for years. I drank a lot in Israel, some in California, a little in London and a LOT in NYC. I think the amount of times I left half-drunken glasses of Stoli-on-the-rocks at Darkroom or at Motorcity is in the hundreds, always running between one and the other.  Vodka made everything OK. Running up and down Ludlow Street on vodka-fueled energy became a normal part of my life.

Vodka was also very, very bad for me. Especially once I was living in NYC. What was always fun and easy became very difficult. It became a vicious circle, I was stressed at work and felt trapped in my job so I would stay out all night drinking, trying to forget about it. But once the morning arrived, I would have to go back to work on little or no sleep and act as a responsible and hardworking adult. The more stressed I was, the more I went out. The more I went out, the more money I spent on stupid things (who has time to do laundry when they need to sleep and party at the weekends; new clothes can just be purchased at Urban Outfitters down the street anyway). The more I went out, the more I blacked out, until I felt, and probably acted (seeing as I don’t really remember), like I was going crazy. And I felt like one night I did. I don’t remember anything, but it was a few nights after a wonderful New Years Eve party that I remember all of. My friends were worried about me, took me out for dinner to talk to me about it, but I had already made up my mind that I was done with it all.

While drinking was all about losing control, sobriety was all about maintaining control.

The first few months were very, very hard. I had the support of family and friends, but at the same time I felt very alone. My friends were all still doing the same thing as before, going out and partying, and I wasn’t going to ask them to change just because I was, but it was often hard. I had to force myself to deal with work stress sober. I actually threw myself into work as a way to counter the need to go out and drink. I started writing more again, took up photography. I would go out to visit my mother who lived on Long Island at the time, every weekend, just to get away from all of the triggers. I lost weight from my already slim frame; I smoked even more and drank even more coffee than before. Little by little I eased myself into public situations that I used to deal with tipsy, and made it through them. After all, I could always leave and go home if it got too much. I would like to say that I got more sleep, but that isn’t actually true. I slept on and off, erratic nights filled with stress and anxiety. And then, about 6 months into it, I felt much better. I was myself. I was myself all the time, everywhere. I talked to people. I even went on a few dates (awkward). I laughed, I cried, I had a few minor panic attacks, but I was finally feeling healthy and able to face everything full on again. Birthdays became a little more inventive and I felt like I was being really productive too. I saw an old friend who I had been very close with a few years before, who had moved away and who had stopped drinking too, and he told me something that struck me. He knew I would always be OK, because as much as I was going to strike rock bottom it was because I wanted to, in order to climb back up again. He was right in a sense. I had actually really liked that dark freefall, losing control and falling into a strange abyss, but I was all the more happy to climb back out of it, one step at a time.

Sobriety became a main part of my life. Once I hit the one year mark it wasn’t even something I thought about that often anymore. I just didn’t drink. I worked harder than I had before, sometimes pulling all nighters because I was stacking up the projects and always feeling overwhelmed. I still went out a lot, not wanting to give up the night life because I wasn’t drinking anymore. I actually didn’t even WANT to drink. I liked the control I had over myself, over my life. I thought I had a good rhythm going, work, friends, fun, writing, photography. Lots of time spent with my mother in her house on Long Island, early mornings, late nights, books devoured and many a 35mm film developed. After 2 years it was just my life, I had so much to feel grateful for, but in hindsight I never thought about why I was drinking just about why I had to stop. Instead of drinking to alleviate the stress I was feeling and the constant worry that I wasn’t doing what I had always wanted to in life, I used work as an excuse. I took on too many projects, never said no, never drew any borders or limits. I would check my email at all time of the day and night, made myself constantly available 24/7, and literally drove myself into the ground. I would wake up in the morning after a few hours sleep where I had dreamt of ongoing projects and issues that did or didn’t exist. I tried to write, but nothing except resentment came out. I tried to take a step away but there was always someone who needed me, a call to take, an issue to figure out. And then one day I just couldn’t live like that anymore, and I walked away. It took me a long time, but I finally gave myself the strength and the reasons to live my life as I had always wanted to. I don’t think I would have been able to do that if I hadn’t have been sober, or I may have done it in a very different way and not have been able to pick myself up and figure out my next steps afterwards.

In any case, I remained sober for exactly 3 years. I had been working in a bar for a while with absolutely no pull towards drinking when one day I just said “oh fuck it, a few won’t hurt, will they?”. A few weeks of that and I decided to try AA. It helped, slightly, but I felt like it never really was for me. I had had my moments, but I could easily stop, right? I mean, I was never going to be as bad as I had been before… Right? I wasn’t depressed because of my job anymore, so I wasn’t drinking for all of the wrong reasons. So it wasn’t going to hurt me anymore, right? Well, you see, this is where it gets tricky. For some these may be questions that you can easily answer with a yes or a no. I can’t, and I shall try to explain why.

It’s not hard for me to stop drinking. It’s not hard for me to have just one drink and go home. It’s also not hard for me to have a lot more than one drink and stay out way past closing time. It’s not hard for me to drink and be a normally functioning human being. It’s also not hard for me to get so drunk that I don’t remember how I got home. All of the above never depended on how much I would drink, but always on the frame of mind I was in when I was drinking, or if I had slept enough the night before, eaten properly, etc, etc.

A break up, sad news or an argument with someone would usually mean a black-out night. Happy times would usually mean fun times. But sometimes it would get blurry, and as much as I would tell myself I could control it, I couldn’t always. Sometimes I could. Some weeks I could, but then it would slowly spiral out of my control again. I could easily work without drinking, and have a lot of fun. But it was just as easy to drink while working, have just as much fun, if not more, and finish up the night pretty sober. Or drunk. I didn’t like to get drunk at work though, it was just better to have a little buzz to get through the night and then maybe get drunk afterwards. Or not. It’s a lot easier to work back to back shifts without a hangover. But it’s also easy to get rid of said hangover with a couple of shots of whiskey. I love bartending, always will, and have never had an issue with bartending sober. Or drunk.

I’ve had a lot of fun drinking. I’ve also had a lot of fun sober. I’ve had moments when I wasn’t much fun drinking and moments where I wasn’t much fun sober. I’ve been depressed when drunk and depressed when sober. I’ve been a happy drunk and a sad drunk and a crazy drunk. I’ve also been happy and sad and crazy while sober, just a lot more contained about it. At times I have been a worry to myself and a worry to others. From day one alcohol was a way for me to express certain feelings and actions and sides of me that I was too shy to expose to the world. It was a tool to liberate myself from certain binds that I had tied around myself. I always promised myself that I wouldn’t let it get the better of me, not like addiction had done to other people in my family. I was stronger than that. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. But I can say with conviction that that life is behind me now.

The day I found out I was pregnant was the day that I consciously made significant changes in my life. These were not changes that were only meant to last 40 weeks, but different paths that I wanted to take in my life. I’ve known for a very, very long time that I cannot always control my drinking when I am drinking. I’ve also known for a very long time that for someone with a slight frame I can ingest way too much alcohol and still function (this is not really a positive thing, believe me). I have also known for a very, very, very long time that I will not be raising a child and subjecting her to my drinking habits, even if they are contained and few and far between. So when I immediately stopped drinking and smoking due to my pregnancy it was for the long haul.

As I said earlier, I can’t or won’t say the word never. I can’t say I will never have a drink again. I can however say that I will never be that person drinking whiskey in a bar at 5am again. I don’t want to drink again. I don’t feel like drinking again. I don’t even think about drinking again, and I’m not even kidding myself about this. I love bars and pubs and nighttime, and I am more than comfortable hanging out in them sober. I’m not doing this for anyone else but myself – I didn’t stop drinking for my daughter or for my boyfriend. I stopped drinking for myself, so I could be the mother I always dreamed of being. I will never be perfect, but at least I can strive to avoid showing what could be the worst side of me. I’ve now been sober for over 16 months and although for 9 of those months I was pregnant and for the rest I have been breastfeeding, it’s been very easy. And if it ever gets hard then I will go to a meeting, find a sponsor and stick with it. I will never lie to my daughter about who I am and what I have done in my life, because it’s a part of me and a part of my past and my education, and I won’t lie about my reasons for not drinking either.

I feel that I have only really touched upon the subject to be honest, there is so much more to say about it, but maybe that can be said in all of the little stories and anecdotes and essays that I have slowly been compiling over the years. Sad, happy, funny, silly, compelling, embarrassing, lovely, heartwarming and interesting stories. I have many of them that should, could and also maybe shouldn’t be told.

Ramblings: The Return of Social Awkwardness

After starting this the other day I realize that this is really a piece in two parts, very loosely assembled parts. I have already started part two so will aim to finish it later this week (as long as my little crawling munchkin lets me!). As always, these personal pieces are never really finished and tend to evolve the longer I take to write them. This part is a lot less serious than the “second” part, so I expect the latter to take a little bit longer to put together.

I was a really shy child. I preferred my books and my journals and my stories to people. I got nervous around other people and never felt quite “right” in any kind of situation, apart from the times that I was with my closest friends and didn’t feel like I had to hide anything. I was shy as a teen too, but that kind of changed into rebellion once I hit the age of 15. I could hide behind my hair and my cigarette smoke and my loud music. There were so many times that I wanted to say things in certain social situations, even amidst my closest friends who I trusted with all my heart, but I just couldn’t. Mainly out of an irrational fear of looking like an idiot. I remember a friend of mine once saying that it is better to look like an idiot than come across as stupid, and that helped me come out of my shell slightly, but never as much as alcohol did (and that’s a story for next time, the one that I am also currently writing). In hindsight you know that awkwardness is a prevalent part of life as a teen, and people deal with it in different ways, but when you are actually living it, it feels like you against the rest of the world. You know that feeling where it appears that everyone has it together and you are the only one who hasn’t figured anything else out? That. My journals from 15-18 are filled with angst-ridden posts, really well written stories that I thought would never be good enough for anything and so many questions.

I wasn’t one of those people who was too shy to speak, who hid away from everything. I actually tried to hide my shyness as much as possible, and it did help that I had a wonderful group of friends and that we all felt a little like outsiders. I have so many good memories of times spent growing up with my friends, doing stupid things, drinking too much, having endless conversations about things that mattered so much to us. But my self confidence was always super low. It was never really because of something that had happened to me, more just part of me – I had always been quiet, even as a child. It was just a long and torturous path, trying to accept myself and live the life that I really wanted to live.

There were those months when I didn’t want to leave the house and doing the daily tasks such as classes and work were the only things I could actually do – anything else made me feel physically ill. And then, finally, there was the time that I let go, and just started to be myself. After a year of feeling so lost and with no idea where I was going with my life I went to stay with my aunt and her family in Israel, and ended up staying there for a year, for the most part as a volunteer on a kibbutz. The experience completely changed my life – I was in a place where no one knew me or my past and where I could be myself and believe in myself. And it worked! I finally used my voice, had a lot of fun, made sure I experienced so many different things and made some lifelong friends. It was in my mid twenties that I learnt to be myself in front of everyone, in all social situations. I forced myself to do things that I absolutely hated (speaking in public, still hate it, won’t do it again, but it was great to actually do it).

In my early 30’s I learnt to be myself without any aids such as alcohol. I managed to confront all types of social situations sober, which was a great accomplishment. It was hard, but had to be done. And even though I did start drinking again for a while after 3 years (again, more on that in another piece), I didn’t lose any of the confidence I had found. It took me to turn 30 to finally be completely happy with whom I had become. Of course, there were moments that I doubted myself and moments that I wanted to crawl into a hole, but I wasn’t afraid to open my mouth and speak anymore.

Before I gave birth I could talk to anyone, voice my opinion when needed without any worry, carry on interesting conversations with people, act on impulse, and conquer the unknown, without any fear. Large social gatherings were not a problem, telling annoying customers (politely) to eff off out of my bar and restaurant, just part of a normal day. I even had no problem speaking in public. I would never have been able to do any of this in my teens and with a pit of fear in my stomach during my early 20’s. I will always remember the day I had to present my MA thesis – I don’t think I had eaten for days before and was literally a nervous wreck. I sometimes wish I had known then that it didn’t really matter anyway. Ah hindsight and time and age, there are times that I could have benefitted from it in my youth, just to quell my nerves a little.

A few days ago a friend of mine posted a Facebook status about how she felt like an alien in social situations since she had had her child. It totally hit home because that is exactly as I have been feeling! It’s such a strange feeling, and I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. It’s not really that all the shyness I had fought to conquer has come back again, I still feel the same, don’t have a problem going into social situations, speaking my mind or going out and about. I’m very confident as to how we are raising our child, and taking her out and about into busy areas, breastfeeding her in public. But I often feel like a deer in headlights when I am in large social gatherings and find it really hard to find the exact words I want to use when I’m trying to have a conversation with someone! It’s a mix of post partum baby brain and a light form of anxiety that I can’t quite put my finger on. Someone will ask me a question and I will look at them all wide eyed and stumble over my words. I’m not anxious about going outside or being amongst other people, I just feel exactly how my friend so aptly put it, like an alien.

It’s possible that no one can see it; I have become pretty adept at hiding my shyness since I was a kid, but I feel so awkward! What happened to that person who could actually string an interesting sentence of words together and interact in public? Is it possible that all my energy is spent on interacting and stimulating and tending to my child that I just don’t have any left for public interaction? I’m so glad I can still write – I don’t know how I would express myself otherwise! At least I have time to think about a sentence for a day or so, so that it actually makes sense and doesn’t sound like “that thing I was talking about the other day, remember that?”. I suppose sleep deprivation could also be part of the cause, although that is getting a lot better nowadays that I have resigned myself to going to bed at 8 or 9 and getting a 5 hour stretch at the same time as Luna.

I’m assuming it shall pass with time and I shall become as funny, witty and engaging as I was before (hahaha), but until then just pretend you understand what I mean when I stare at you with wide eyes and mutter something about that thing that I have wanted to talk to you about for ages. It was important, I promise!

The next “part” will deal with the more serious topics of alcohol and sobriety.

Ramblings: Ode to a "fussy" baby

I have learnt that “fussy” is not a bad word. That having a “fussy” child does not mean that said child isn’t a happy child. I’ve also learnt that the word “fussy” tends to be used to describe a child who doesn’t sleep through the night after 2 months, who won’t learn to self soothe around the same time, who needs to be held constantly and who gets frustrated and cries when they aren’t fully comfortable.

Nowadays, at 5 months, I can leave Luna to play on her floor mat for 15-30 minutes, and she will play quite happily, as long as I am sitting nearby and she knows that I am not just leaving her there (if I go to the loo or to the kitchen she usually realizes it and makes it heard). I can now put her in her bouncy chair in the bathroom and have a shower (long gone are those days when I would get her to sleep, put the shower on, start getting undressed and hear her crying, or those days when I would wake up after one hour of sleep to shower before Cesar went to work). But these moments won’t last longer than 30 minutes, as she starts to miss being in my arms, or she just gets frustrated with something on her mat and needs a cuddle.

Back when she was a newborn it was easy to distinguish between her needs and her reasons for crying: hungry, tired, dirty diaper, gassy tummy. Once we hit the 3 month mark there were times that she would get grumpy just because she was bored or wanted to be held. I’ve heard too many people mention that you shouldn’t pick up a baby every time that you hear them cry as it will spoil them. That’s not the way that we work in this household. If Luna cries, she gets picked up. Even if it is sometimes annoying and I am dying to pee or to finish writing something I started 10 days ago. This is when those perfect things like slings, carriers, wraps come into play. Without them we wouldn’t get anything done. First off, I can’t bear to hear her cry, because crying means some kind of discomfort and I don’t want my child to feel any discomfort. Secondly, by picking her up I think we are showing her that she is always going to be secure with us, and can always ask us for anything. That is so much more important than worrying about possibly “spoiling” our child (which I don’t agree can happen anyway). And… There really isn’t anything that can make you happier than knowing that your child feels happy, secure and loved in your arms.

One day in the very near future she will decide that she doesn’t always need my help and my cuddles. She will want to play by herself and with her friends, choose her own clothes and go to the loo by herself. I want to take every single advantage of this time when she wants to be held 24/7. I know I will be a little happy-sad when she gains more independence, so I am going to cuddle and hold her as much as I can right now. Everything else (cooking, cleaning, writing, showering etc) just goes on a backburner in these moments. For example yesterday I was trying to help her take a nap and she was screaming from being overtired and refusing to sleep (one of our ongoing issues), when she finally relaxed and fell asleep in my arms I didn’t want to take her to her bed and risk waking her. So I stayed on the couch for 90 minutes while she slept peacefully and read some of a book on my phone. And those 90 minutes of sleep were so important because they set the tone for the rest of the day and night (yes, sleep does beget sleep somehow). All that to say that she is not spoilt, just cared for in the way that she wants to be cared for. And if she needs to sleep with us until she is one then so be it.

I actually dislike the phrase “fussy child”. I would rather use the word “sensitive”. I think that some children are just more sensitive to change than other children, and it affects them in different ways (I read a really good article about that this week written by Pinky McKay, The Myth of Sleep Regressions). I know for a fact that when Luna is trying to learn something new she wakes up all through the night. Once she is comfortable with the new “trick” (finding her arms, rolling, finding her feet, babbling etc), she will go to sleep easily and rest properly. I started tracking her sleep tendencies and she will usually have one good day and night and 3 terrible nights. By terrible I mean that she will wake up on the hour, and if I make any sign that I am awake (apart from nursing her) she will think it’s play time and refuse to go back to sleep. She has started making up her own babbling words and sings them all day long “lalalamamamagagagadadadalalal”. Last night she woke up in the middle of the night, rolled over, looked up at me and said “mamamamgaga”, and then went back to sleep again. As we need to save for the new bed, we recently transformed the crib into a type of cosleeper, meaning that she can roll over to be closer to me, but still be sleeping in her bed. If she had been in her crib on the other side of the room last night she would have started crying as she needed me. But instead, she went back to sleep because my presence close by reassured her. And that is honestly the most important thing for us all right now – sleep. Because sleep means healthy baby and healthy parents.

Babies are all born as different people and not all the same and I feel like we should be in tune to their sensitivities and not make them follow our routines. This is, of course, my own personal opinion. Some babies are “easy” and “calm”, others cry constantly, and others are “needy” or “fussy”. Instead of trying to make a child conform to what we think should be right I am completely convinced that we should bend our own rules or preferences or conveniences so they work with our child’s. I really really doubt that our children are going to become spoilt brats because we rocked/nursed them to sleep or picked them up every time they cried for the first year of their lives. I suppose you can come back in a few years and ask me if I was wrong ;). I believe that every time a child cries it is for a very specific reason and not to be “annoying”.

I used to be one of those people who hated making plans and then cancelling on them, but nowadays I have been cancelling more often than I feel comfortable with. But I came to terms with the fact that I have a sensitive baby and sometimes it’s hard to go places when I am tired and when I don’t know if she will be comfortable. She really, really dislikes the heat and especially having the sun in her eyes, so at least it’s a lot more pleasurable to go out and about in September. Luna is also really bothered by her teeth, and I cannot wait for those first teeth to come out so she can catch a break! That said, she doesn’t really cry very often, she gets grumpy and yells, but doesn’t really cry. Maybe because I just don’t let her. And if that’s a bad thing then I will just continue doing this “bad thing”. I’m pretty sure my mother did the same with me, and her mother with her.

And you know, we will do exactly the same thing over again if our next one is just as sensitive, because I completely believe in fully showing my love to my child. I really doubt that she will want her face covered in kisses by the time she is 5 years old, so I might as well do it now when she enjoys it. I guess I should just apologise to those we have cancelled on in the past 5 months. It’s just easier to stay at home sometimes. My fussy” child has already taught me so many new things about myself and the world.

Ramblings: There is no perfect!

Ramblings, rant and essay on body image, education, teaching children, the internet, airbrushing and selfies.

I wrote a piece on weight gain after pregnancy a while ago, and how I was dealing with that. I personally have never had any real issues with my weight in my life. By “issues” I mean anything spanning from being under or overweight to eating disorders. Of course, there have been times in life where I have wished I were skinnier, or where I have wished I were a little bigger, but I have never held back from eating, or at the same time overeaten (unless you count giving me a bag of chips… I really must eat lots of those!). In our family we eat mainly healthy, simple foods, but like to indulge at times, but all in all we have a balanced diet. Now that I am home I am also trying to expand in the kitchen somewhat, nothing too over the top right now as Luna doesn’t really let me spend too much time cooking, but my plan is to make everything from scratch all the time at some point (even bread if possible). But basically, food has never been an issue, unless you count the times when I was really poor and needed to figure out how to make those pennies stretch until the next pay check.

I think that I have always been lucky enough to go through life eating what I want, with a healthy attitude towards food (part fuel part pleasure). I do thank my mother for this, for introducing me to all types of food as a child, and then for letting me become a vegetarian without any questions, and for helping me find a balanced diet that way. That’s the way it should be, right? Is it all about education, or is it because I am just lucky? I have been known to utter the words “I’m fat” now and again, but never really believing them, just because I feel a bit larger than I am normally. At the same time I have been known to say the words “I’m too skinny” too, when I’ve been stressed out and worried about things and spent too much time drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and not eating enough. But all in all I’ve mainly felt comfortable in my body, even during those teenage years when we never feel good enough for anything.

Since becoming a mother I have questioned many things, and one big one is the ability to teach my daughter to always accept who she is and what she looks like. When I was a kid we didn’t have any form of social media, photos were taken with film and you didn’t get to see them until they were developed. The word “selfie” didn’t even exist. Today I scroll through my Facebook or Instagram feed and see so many of these “selfies”, people taking pictures of themselves at the perfect angle, with the perfect pose and the perfect lighting. We’ve all been guilty of it now and again, but I feel that it’s really becoming an epidemic; natural, fun pictures are being replaced by posed pictures of someone’s face. “At the beach!” has gone from a picture of the beach to a picture of someone posing with a little bit of water and blue sky in the background. Anyway, in the end it doesn’t matter what I prefer, people can post what they want and I can choose to look or not look at it, it just worries me. Not for me, but for my daughter.

You watch the TV and you see so many commercials containing “perfect”, flawless women. Open a magazine and it’s the same thing. Trends change over time, when I was a skinny teenager Kate Moss came on the scene and I was happy that my shape was fashionable again. Nowadays I am a lot curvier and I actually love it too. Skinny or curvy, slim, fat, chubby, everything is human and everything is beautiful. What bothers me is the “perfection” attribute. With all the photo-editing on photos nowadays, there are no imperfections, nothing that actually make us human. I get that this is done on models in magazines, but people can nowadays do it on their own selfies before posting them to the internet. Again, this worries me. Not for me, I actually prefer the completely natural look in my photography, preferring to catch someone off-guard and am not one for much editing. But it worries me for my daughter.

How am I going to be able to ensure that my daughter grows up with a healthy body image when in fact we are surrounded by people and images and fad diets that are trying to make us think otherwise? Where do you draw the line between healthy and unhealthy? I know that at home I can teach her to have a healthy relationship with food, by introducing all types of food, maintaining a healthy but interesting diet and at the same time not withholding treats. We don’t use non fat in our family, that’s not how we were raised and I am fully convinced that the full fat version of something tastes better and is more filling than the non-fat version. We eat sugar and butter and eggs and cream and cheese here, always have and always will. But we also eat beans and veggies and fruit and rice and hummus and pasta. We eat a healthy amount of anything and don’t restrict ourselves (although I don’t eat meat or fish as I just don’t like them). No food is “the enemy”, just as no food is eaten in excess. I would love for my daughter to see fruit and veggies as something delicious like I do. Of course I would also love her to prefer a salad to Taco Bell. And it is entirely up to me to make sure that happens.

At the same time, as much as we, as parents, can educate our child to have a healthy outlook on food and body in general, how can we make sure our kids are strong enough to not be influenced by negative images or people in the outside world? How does one go about telling a child what is “normal” and what is “not normal”? I don’t even want to use the word “normal”!! I can’t even imagine what it’s like nowadays, growing up with all of that immediate communication around you, Facebook, Instagram and the likes. I struggle with it a lot myself, I like to share photos of my gorgeous little daughter with my family (which is spread out around the world) and my friends, I share my writing, which is often very personal, with the public, but I like to control what I share and what people know about me. I especially dislike being checked in to places online… Why on earth would I like random people to know where I am?! It took me a while to learn what I do and what I don’t want to share though, and a while to learn to keep personal writing and photography OFF of Facebook proper by only linking it from other platforms. And I suppose that one day I will be able to help Luna learn what to keep private and what she can make public, but how do I teach her how to weed through everything she sees online and see it for what it really is? That all of those articles containing images of the “perfect woman” are not real life and all of those pretty selfies are usually posed and not real life. That nobody is perfect, and anyway what is perfect? What those magazines tell us? That’s not even real.

It was hard enough growing up without being bombarded by images on the internet every day, so I can’t even imagine it now! I don’t want to keep Luna from being exposed to any outside or negative images, but I do want to give her the tools to be strong enough to know that she is wonderful just the way she is, and that so are other people, and that we don’t judge people on what their appearance is. I’ve made a conscious decision to make sure I don’t say things like “oh my god I feel so fat today!” and the like anymore. If I make it sound like I don’t accept my body, then how on earth can I teach my daughter to? And that also goes for anyone that she is close to – I shall be asking them to be aware of what they say about weight and food and exercise, about themselves or about others. And if they can’t or won’t, then I’m afraid that contact will become limited.

I know that may sound a little over the top, but I grew up so aware from such an early age, with worries and fears that I should never have had, so I just want to bring my child up so that she doesn’t go through the same, or at least never, ever thinks that she isn’t good enough. Maybe I’m worrying about things a little too prematurely, or maybe a little too much, but when it comes to the happiness of my child I want to make sure I’m prepared to get rid of any obstacles!

It’s taken me quite a few days to write this as Luna has been teething and a little bit more clingy than usual (yes, this is possible), and a few days ago I saw a really disturbing image going around the internet, a picture of a child with a magazine at her feet and a huge pair of scissors in her hand, ready to cut flesh from her own body. I would repost here but I can’t seem to find where the image is originally from or whose copyright it is, so here is a link where you can find it (you have to scroll down a bit as I can't get a link to the actual image).

Of course this image is not something that is happening in real life, but it is a powerful image on what may go through a child’s head when they see picture after picture of flawlessly airbrushed models in magazines and online. Food for thought.

Writing: An Evolution of Love

I used to write a journal. Now I hammer out mini stories and pages on real-life experiences and feelings on my laptop and save them away in a folder for future reference. I usually forget about them for a while, and sometimes, over time, the stories fit together like a written jigsaw puzzle. The following four stories were each written at the exact moment they happened, and together form an evolution of some sort, a story that is still in writing.

Just One Drink After Work

“You tell me you don't love me over a cup of coffee, And I just have to look away, A million miles between us, Planets crashing to dust, I just let it fade away” – Garbage, Cup of Coffee

Although it was me telling you that this wasn’t going to work out, over a pint of Guinness, and you telling me that you just wanted to see me happy, and if that meant me being alone or with another man, then that was what needed to happen. Then we both cried and hugged and decided that we could spend one more night together before it was all over, one more night where we held each other tightly, one more day spent cuddling and laughing before it was time to let go. And yes, it’s been a few days, and yes, we see each other at work, but it’s still hard. I do miss you, I do miss you holding me tight and telling me you love me and that there is no one else that makes you feel the way I do. But we have to be strong, we have to pull through this, I have to go and figure out what I really want from my life and you need to do the same. Maybe this is just a break and that next week we will be right back where we started again. But what I haven’t told you is that I am late, and I need to bite the bullet and take this test, hoping and praying that it is negative.

It first happened months ago. A group of us went to a random bar in the East Village after work, and after multiple beers and shots we ended up kissing in the bar, in front of everyone. You stayed with me that night, and I was adamant it wouldn’t happen again. We had obviously been attracted to each other for a while before this happened, we would chat and talk about music and life in general. But the whole Valentine’s Day incident started a slow running roller coaster ride that neither of us could stop, especially when it gained momentum and started speeding down hills and climbing back up other ones. There is something to say about feeling lonely and knowing that there will always be someone to answer your calls, at whatever time of day or night (and this works both ways). But were we just lonely or was it more than that at this point?

I didn’t want a secret relationship with you, and I didn’t want a relationship with someone I worked with. I resisted and told myself I wasn’t falling in love, and you just waited patiently, confused about why, but still there. And neither of us seemed to give up; I knew the passion between us was like a fire that couldn’t be stomped out just like that. I don’t know why I am always trying to run away, but that is the story of my life. Protect myself from anything that may end in sadness.

For the past month or so things have started to change. We have spent a lot of nights together, drinking, hanging out, going on “adventures” to different places, seeing different things. Laughing and having fun, you carrying me home when I was too drunk to walk, me making sure that I got you home when you were too drunk to make sense. You looking after me when my cat passed away, and telling me to not cry anymore because you couldn’t stand seeing me so sad. Us hiding away in our favourite secret bar after work, keeping up our secret relationship, although everyone knew something was going on, even if they couldn’t actually confirm it. There was something that tied us together, looks, smiles, and a force that neither of us could push away, not right then. But then it all became too much for me. You live life day to day; I need to plan some kind of future for myself. I was getting scared of what I was ultimately feeling and I realised I needed to free us both from this, so that we could move on in different directions, while still remaining friends and excellent work colleagues. But how?

I began to get upset and angry about everything, and you began to try to make me angry and hurt me. And it came to a point where neither of us were happy anymore, and if we didn’t sort it out we were both going to end up hating each other, which would make work the worst place on earth for both of us. So as the adults that we sometimes were we decided to talk about it properly, to part ways, to let each other go and to let our hearts fix themselves. I was surprised at how well we both reacted, and how well we have been keeping to our promise since. It helps that I haven’t been drinking this week, as it makes it easier to go straight home after work and not give in to the “one drink” which leads to three and then a cab home together and sometimes sex, sometimes not. I want to keep this momentum going, and not fail and fall into your arms again, as I have been doing over the past few months. You deserve so much better than this.

And so the test is positive. How did I get to the age of 35 without this ever happening, and now have to deal with this? And no, I cannot have a child and will not have a child right now. I feel so damn stupid. What on earth was I thinking?? So now I will have to go through another experience I have wanted to avoid for most of my adult life. This isn’t really an adventure, more like a nightmare while awake.

“All the lilies bloomed and blossomed, Wilted and they're shivering, I can't stop their withering, Oh, this world is a war” – Hole, Petals

One more cup of (herbal) tea

This time a few months ago I would usually wake up on Monday’s with a splitting headache and a nauseous stomach as well as achy legs. Two doubles followed by Guinness and multiple large shots of whiskey being the culprits. You can stop drinking for years but you never, ever forget what a hangover feels like, do you? That sick feeling that you did this to yourself, so there is no way you can’t wallow in it and feel sorry for yourself. You have to get up and walk out that door and function like a normal person at work, and hope that you make it through to the end of the night. Tomorrow will always be another day, a day when you will feel like yourself again. And then it all starts over, like a vicious circle you really don’t want to break, because it is way too much fun (until it becomes less fun, but that is an entirely different chapter, or book).

The last time I sat down to write an essay about life in general I had just taken a pregnancy test. A positive pregnancy test. A test so positive that the two lines appeared within a second of me peeing on the tip; telling me that I was under no circumstance not pregnant and that the achy boobs and the fact that literally anything could start tears rolling down my face at any given moment, were not just signs that I was going to have a really bad period, worse than I have ever had before. No, this wasn’t just a scare. I was really pregnant. And my first thoughts were “I can’t do this – please get this out of me as soon as possible – how can I have a child – I am never going to be able to do this!!!”.

Those thoughts lasted about 12 hours.

And now I am nearly 12 weeks pregnant, and my Monday mornings consist of me waking up with achy legs from the two doubles I did over the weekend and a bottomless pit of hunger because if I don’t eat every 4 hours of so my body screams at me for MORE. You know that type of hunger when you haven’t eaten for a day and your head hurts and you feel like you are going to collapse? Yes, that’s how I feel after four hours of not eating. Little fig-sized munchkin definitely has a voracious appetite! Which doesn’t bother me in the slightest because all this not drinking and not smoking and not going out is actually leaving me with spare money that I can spend on good food in restaurants. Eating out! FOOD. Everything tastes so much better and my sense of smell is so good that any type of fragrant smell makes me gasp and any type of slight stink makes me want to vomit. I’m so glad my near constant nausea has not lead to any vomiting, because if it had I would literally be stuck with my face in the toilet all day due to all of the strong smells I walk through. Take the subway, for example, at any given time there will always be the following in your car: someone smelling of BO, someone eating something that smells really strongly, someone who poured a bottle of perfume all over themselves and someone who bought a jacket at a secondhand shop and didn’t bother to have it dry-cleaned. Thankfully there are also bakeries and flowers and laundries and Lush shops and other places that smell so deliciously delicious that they counter the smell of garbage on the streets and the blocked drains after a rain storm and the smell of dust from all of the construction on the street. City smells… Nothing like them!

Six more months and I will give birth to a little boy or a little girl. My own child that I will love and care for and educate and promise to give as good of a life as I can to. A little being that is half of me and half of him that I already love more than anything or anyone I have ever loved in my life. Over the next six months I am going to get bigger, and happier, and grumpier and more and more tired of the city. I am going to continue being a vegetarian (I mean it’s been 17 years already), as the idea of ingesting any meat or fish still makes me want to vomit, but I am a lot more aware of what I eat nowadays and what I should be eating more of. And I also had forgotten how happy I was when I was sober (minus the times that I felt alienated and alone because all of my friends were out drinking and partying). I am so much more productive, and sleep better and just am generally happier. Of course, this time round I am sober for a very different reason than I was last time, and it makes it all the more exciting and important. Right now in my life there is nothing more important than this little munchkin that is growing inside of me. I’ve also noticed that my bullshit acceptance tolerance factor has lowered itself so much that I don’t accept any. Not anymore. Either I will walk away or just open my mouth and tell you quite plainly to stop bullshitting and to leave me alone. It’s quite liberating, this telling people exactly how I feel and think about things. I should have tried it much earlier!

Once again, herbal tea has replaced the post-work beer and shot, and bed with a book (and crackers and crisps and string cheese) has replaced hanging out until 4am. And nothing feels better than sipping that chamomile tea, knowing that this is life as it is going to be for the foreseeable future (minus the crying and the lack of sleep that will come in six months). To be honest the whole idea of even being in a bar at 4am just made me feel like vomiting. Thanks morning-which-should-be-all-day sickness!

Love is Everything

This is the story of a story that could have never happened, or at least could have not panned out the way it did, and still is. One day, last Valentine’s Day to be more precise, you and I had a night that we thought would only be that: one night. Instead it turned into a few nights here and there, and then more frequent nights, and then days, and then it was us. You and me together, for real, in a proper relationship.

I can’t imagine not waking up next to you every morning and tickling you so that you wake up too and kiss me and tell me that you love me. I can’t imagine going to sleep at night without you holding me tight and making sure I dream special dreams. I can’t imagine spending any holiday without you. And I can’t imagine life without the rapidly growing little human that we created inside me. And then life together with our little daughter, loving her and loving each other.

Who would have thought last year that by Thanksgiving of this year I would not only be telling a man that I loved him and meaning it with all my heart, but that I would also be pregnant and so very, very, very happy?

Who would have thought that Christmas would have been spent together, that you would bring me a tree home late at night as a surprise and that I would show you all my own personal Christmas traditions? This one was just a taste for all those that will come in the future together: you, me and our child.

This is not a story that can fit on one page, two or even three. This is the beginning of a life time of stories and anecdotes and images and changes. This is one that will be updated as life goes on, with additions and departures, with moves and with aging. This is the story of two lives and then three and maybe more, together under one roof and bound by something that had up to now only played hide and seek with me. What used to be torturous and unfair is now what makes my heart beat every day.

Our next steps are being created together, a home for us and a home for our child, a place of peace and quiet and music and art and creativity, a place where we can be ourselves, together or alone. Space that will be for everyone. Clean and pretty and happy and most importantly: ours.

It’s finally time to live life to its full extent: no regrets and no more running away. This is what it was always meant to be like; it just took me a while to make my way here.

One more cup of very strong coffee please

It’s been exactly a year. Exactly a year since I had that dream that I was having a baby, a year since I woke up and ran to Walgreens in my pyjamas. A year since I went to Planned Parenthood and listened to the nurse give me the results of my test. A year since my life turned upside down and most definitely for the better. Our little Luna is now four months old and I actually can’t imagine my life, our life, without her in it. I wake up in the morning thinking of her, I go to sleep thinking of her, I dream of her, and every waking moment is with her. I don’t WANT to be without her. She’s our little wonder, our munchkin, our actual reason for living.

I say “our life” because that is what it is. Me, you, her, us. We now form a unit, a united front, together as one. I don’t care if that sounds soppy or silly, it’s just what it is. And we couldn’t be happier! This is what it was always meant to be like. And I really, really hope that everyone finds this in their lifetime, because everything I may have lived before this just pales in comparison.