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The 90 Days of Darkness

In my mind, I never stopped writing this blog. In my mind, I’ve been writing posts whilst suffering from pregnancy insomnia, in doctors waiting rooms, on hospital beds, whilst suffering from post pregnancy insomnia and during midnight feeds. In my mind, this blog has been a running commentary on motherhood. But in reality, its been ten whole months since I’ve actually sat down in front of the computer to write a post.

Towards the end of my pregnancy, I turned into a giant whale full of fluid, chocolate and hormones. I gained 26kgs and even the shoes I purchased (which were two sizes bigger) stopped fitting me. I lived in tent like clothes and even though it was the middle of winter, I squeezed my puffa-fish feet into some flip flops when I had to leave the house. I was utterly miserable. But that misery soon turned into elation when our little bundle of gorgeousness was born. Little A-Man arrived with hardly a whimper (him not me) and my husband and I cried our eyes out. At least I’m pretty sure that’s how it went down, I had suffered several agonising hours of labour and was given my fair share of drugs. But he arrived safe and perfect and our lives were complete.

And then we came home from hospital.

The day we got home from hospital.

The day we got home from hospital.

A friend recently described the first three months of motherhood as “The 90 Days of Darkness”. During that time, I didn’t know who I was, where I was or what I was doing. Days turned into nights and back into days. It was one continual blur of feeding, changing, burping, settling. And round and round we went. The first time I left the house with Little A by myself, I was terrified. It was if the shops had suddenly turned into a hostile environment and if I didn’t figure out how to get him into the pram before he cried, the world would come tumbling down.

And then something happened. We got past 12 weeks and we were more confident. Baby was more settled. We had a routine. It doesn’t mean that some days, the sound of his crying makes me feel like crawling into a little ball and rocking back and forth until he stops. Or the thought of having a day by myself fills me with both excitement and sadness. But we’re making progress. And honestly, he is just the most perfect piece of magic I’ve ever seen. I recently said being a mother is like getting to open a present every day. He’s always growing, changing and becoming more wonderful.

The thing is, no one could have ever prepared me for those first three months. No matter how hard they tried. I’m not sure if that’s because if women truly knew what it was like beforehand, we might never do it. So if we did hear “the first three months are hell” we interpret it as “the first three months are challenging but so is shopping in the post ChristmasĀ sales, I can totes do it”. Whatever it is, I’m glad I didn’t know. I’m glad I went through the 90 days of darkness and came out the other side to see a rainbow…even if the rainbow is sometimes smeared with poop.

 
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Posted by on November 23, 2013 in Project Bebe

 

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The only time I’ll touch a wild boars testicles.

I make no secret about wanting a few of my own chubby legged kids one day. And today I was given this little nugget of advice. There is a statue in front of the Sydney Hospital in Macquarie Street called Il Porcellino. My friend said that the legend goes if you rub his wild boar grapes, it will help your fertility. After further research, apparently only rubbing his snout is recommended for good luck. Oh well, next time I’m in the big smoke, I’ll be sure to rub his man-junk just in case.

The incredibly harassed pig.

Which brings me to my next topic…the overly fertile women in my life. I’m telling you, it’s an epidemic (of the good kind naturally). One good friend of mine just gave birth to a healthy baby boy two weeks ago, and another five of my friends are set to follow suit in the coming months. So as the next cab is patiently waiting to drop off her fair…which is already a week overdue, I got to chatting to another one of those lovely ladies about the joys of pregnancy. I was going to re-write it from my perspective…but her words are too good not to share as is. WARNING: do not proceed if you have a weak stomach and/or wish to know nothing about the truth of pregnancy.

Without further adieu, I introduce Dee – our topical expert! She says…

  1. Right, so…when you are pregnant you lose ownership of your body.
  2. The life growing inside you that takes what it wants regardless of how much you have to give.
  3. Your body becomes public property, especially during your first pregnancy. Note: it’s not ok to touch other people. Especially if you’re not really sure what their name is, or if they are looking at you as if they are about to kill you but the only thing holding them back is making a messy scene at work.
  4. Your Dr will do things to you and make you feel discomfort you never knew existed.The dreaded strip and stretch, meant to help your body kick labour off when you are at or past due date, actually just makes you realize you do have Spiderman-esque powers and you can crawl up a wall backwards.
  5. Many women take delight in trying to scare the hell out of you with horrific labour stories, and some just like to give you really bad and condescending advice, such asĀ ‘if you think your tired now, wait till the baby comes’ in that ever knowing voice of a woman who excels at whipping up over cooked-meat and packet rice every night.
  6. Pregnancy brings with it bladder weakness, flatulence, weight gain, fatigue, mood swings.
  7. Magazines try to convince you that being pregnant is like an illness and you need to purchase the entire catalogue of baby kingdom or you will fail as a mother.
  8. Maternity clothing is a complete chapter to be dealt with separately, it’s bad, expensive and designed by men.
  9. The actual process of going through labour is designed to push you to your utter limits, your body will do and feel things you can’t imagine possible, but after you have bared all in a room full of people you barely know, done a poo without even knowing and demanded a hysterectomy you will be handed a red, slimy, screaming creature that will depend on you completely make you fall in love and drive you insane everyday for the best part of your life.

Thanks Dee! I’m sure Number 3. was a technique used in the 1600’s as a punishment against treason. “You said what about the King??? Bend over! Its punishment by the strip and stretch!!!”

I was seriously considering by-passing my manly bacon friend above until I read the very last part of Number 9. It was really touch and go for a while there. Rub-a-dub-dub!

 
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Posted by on May 21, 2012 in Charmed, I'm Sure

 

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