nearly six months later

Last night I slept without a bra on for the first time in months and woke up dry.  God, it felt good.  Old shit tit (lefty) did spring a leak when I was feeding W from the right this morning so, lesson learned, but if I can now sleep unfettered, I think I will be at least 50% less cranky in the morning.  Let it be so! cried her husband.

Body-wise, things are heading back to normal post-pregnancy and birth.  I mean, I'm still carrying some extra weight and a joey pouch on my front, but that's probably got a direct correlation with the fact I'm still eating like its my job.  True too that my boobs will never be the same (when they're empty I think they land somewhere south of their prebaby position). There's a scar from the episiotomy, but it's not big. Otherwise, I think my body has resumed the status quo (unfit, slightly pudgy, but generally operational and mine, all mine.)

I lost my marbles for a period postpartum. I don't think I had post natal depression - we were on the look out for that given other events in my life last year - but I was certainly fucked up by the postpartum hormone cocktail for a while. Not all bad, the rush of love and elation that is magnified by hormones still lingers with me. However, there was some Craziness, with a solid dose of Barely Holding Shit Together for a bit there. By way of example, breakfast related rage was notable (WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE'RE OUT OF YOGHURT), as was my inability to deal with my MiL (who was nothing but helpful, I should say, but I was so on edge that I thought everything could be a criticism and I had this perverse 'I'll do it myself' thing going on).

W is now eating three solid meals a day and I'm feeding him five times.  He sleeps from 6ish to 6ish (he'd like to get up earlier in the morning, the fink, but ain't no one got time for wake up calls that begin with a five.)  He naps three times a day, around 40 minutes a time (utterly inadequate, says his mother who treasures naps of longer than an hour like water in a desert). He has been rolling front to back for quite a while but has shown basically no interest in rolling back to front.  I mean, he has us minions at his beck and call for toy retrieval and entertainment, so why bother? I think sitting up unaided is reasonably close, though it's made harder by his large head (91st percentile for noggin, huuuuuuge). He weighs as much as a small dump truck (approx. 8kgs) and is a very tall baby (69cm in early December). We have packed away the bassinet and the capsule (sob, passage of time, where's mah tiny baybee gone etc).

He's freaking adorable. Highly recommend having a baby, if you think you'd be into it.

a new year

Welcome to 2016, everyone.  

I'm starting out a new year on the right foot by being an asshole to my husband (I believe my eyes just rolled right back into my head and I exhaled all of the air in my lungs, heavily, because he dared comment on the fact the carrots were probably boiling dry.  The carrots were, in fact, boiling dry). But assholery aside, I'm hoping 2016 isn't too bad, because 2015 was a bit of a shitbag, frankly.

We survived Christmas, you'll be pleased to know.  It was better than I expected it to be.  Leaving Mum on her own a couple of days ago was the hard part and I've been in a bit of a funk since we got home.

We also survived a five and a half hour drive each way with the Fink, too. Caught up with old friends and their delicious little baby girl on the way down, and ate lunch by Lake Taupo on the way back.  I breastfed in the backseat parked on the side of the road on at least three occasions.  Notably, we pulled over once next to another car on a roadside verge near some foals. One of the female occupants was heaving her guts onto the roadside, poor lass.  I felt her pain, having only just recovered from a bout of food poisoning that had me biffing my bikkies for a while -- triggered on one occasion by W's selfish desire to eat from his main food source.  (Babies, man, they're dependent).  I wistfully wondered whether it was a hangover that had her spewing bile on the pastoral scene. I wasn't  envious exactly, but remembering the ghosts of hangovers past on summer holidays, preceded by ruckus and general misbehaviour. 

I spent the whole day at home yesterday, lawn mowing and clearing out, bathing W alfresco under the sun umbrella, snipping lavender heads, boiling spinach and potatoes and carrots for the baby. The baby has taken to solid food with relish, by the by.  He can house a banana in under 10 minutes and go looking for the rider, or peel, or something. It was nice to be home, despite the funk and though I've been shadowed by the cats at all times.  I wonder sometimes if I'll ever be alone again.  

Anyway, here's to 2016. What to expect? Raising a baby, then a toddler.  A return to work at some point, I guess.  A few more trips to be with family.  Supporting P's push for the next step in his career.  We hadn't forward planned anything much, honestly, not knowing what 2016 was going to hold for Dad for a long time.  2016 stretches open ahead of us.

  

one whole year

You know, I thought I'd be feeling very reflective one year on since the diagnosis and initial biopsy.  That I'd write something profound (ha) about life, death, what's changed for me.  But the well is dry on those subjects.  It's with disbelief that I look at the calendar and realise that it was a year ago my life was fundamentally altered by a phone call, taken in my office after hours. A whole year.

I'm sitting with my son on his sheepskin right now, while he grabs his toes and works on a tooth (I think). (Do not even start with the put down your device and enjoy him crap.  I enjoy him a lot.  I also am an adult and there's only so long I can admire him unswervingly while slobbering on a rubber butterfly). He's just finished a tasty lunch of avocado, preceded by some boob.  We went for a long walk in the sunshine this morning.  In less than a week his father is on holiday for two and a bit weeks.  So, aside from the obvious, life isn't too shabby for me right now. That leads to a lot of guilt.

Christ it's hard writing about the minutiae at the moment.  I don't want to delve into Big Feelings but I can't find a happy place in prattling about what I did today, or what I ate, or what I saw, etc etc.

Call it a day.

fink

Editing my own writing is difficult. As you may be able to tell, I don't do a lot of it. I think it's what scares me most about a big word splurge-y post.  I feel like there's one of those welling up; I barely know where to begin. 

Presently Fink is on the floor, attempting to roll onto his front, sucking his fingers and making wee talking noises. Consummate multitasker, my son. I'm sitting on the couch next to him, benignly neglectful (at least I hope it's benign neglect, would be terrible were it malignant) and trying to work out what to write next. 

Now that I've started, it's easy.  Fink.

Finky is four months and two days old. He enjoys putting things in his mouth, wriggling, pooping at 5am to get out of bed, nappy changes, raspberries (both blowing and receiving), nakedness, baths and his parents' eyes on him at all times. He dislikes sleeping in, stopping at the lights in the car, the sun in his eyes and when I try to bite his fingernails (you think I'm going to use those scary ass baby nail clippers and take the top of a finger off?! Thank you very much but I'd prefer to leave my child intact!)

Personality: chill. I cannot believe I have such a relaxed baby.  I mean, neither his father nor I are particularly chill people.  In fact, I'd probably describe myself as fairly highly strung.  But Fink appears (touch wood) to have avoided that trait. He doesn't grizzle or cry that much, he goes to bed at a reasonable hour and goes back to sleep after night wake ups quite happily, wakes up chirpy and goes with the flow. Last week he spent a considerable amount of time hanging out at the hospice and having to travel/nap in his car seat -- he just chirped along chewing his toys and cuddling his mama/gran/grandad and making solemn faces at all the other hospice residents and staff. 

He's smiley with his family and people he knows, discernment only having arrived in he past couple of weeks). You have to work for a laugh but with a good arsenal of fart and animal noises, you'll get there.

W rolls from front to back but hasn't quite managed the opposite direction yet, though I'm sure it's not far away. He works harder on it if you take his nappy off.

Finky poops half way through all his morning feeds (the fink) which is getting pretty tedious. He thinks it's funny. He's now very distractible while feeding, having most definitely inherited his father's fear of missing out, leaving me flashing tit and lovely silicone nipple shield all over the place.  Yes, we're still using a shield -- he can latch, but is lazy as am I, and my boobs are often still so engorged it's far easier to get a nursing session underway with the shield.

He's tall. Somewhere around 70cm now.  At his last Plunket appointment he was at the top of the charts. He's becoming slightly leaner than the pudding he was originally but still has a nice fat head. We go back to Plunket in early December when I suspect he'll be in excess of 8kg, the wee dumpling.

His face is changing. I never thought he looked particularly like his father (though he has the M family face shape and hairline - wearing a cheesecutter he is his paternal grandfather to the life), but now he's better at tummy time I see a resemblance to a baby me - we have a picture of me on my tummy at four months, and my cheeks fall down my face in the same way W's do.  The eyes are similar too. There is no doubt he has his father's feet - he even self soothes using them in the way P has done into adulthood.

He is a delight.

november online

I am here, here I am. 

My technological issues are now sorted and I am back, bursting with so many words I hardly know where to begin.  

In brief:

- my son W is four months old. 

- my dad is still alive.  Just.

I think those are the most important things. My life revolves around W (or Fink, if you prefer. As in Rat Fink, the finky wee boy he is), trying to support Mum as best I can and spending time with Dad. 

Other, less important matters of note since we spoke last:

- postpartum is no joke. 

- P has taken to fatherhood like a pig in muck, no surprises there. He's a gem.

- I'm trying to write a select committee submission on the medically assisted suicide provisions of a new bill in Parliament. I want my lawyer self to do it, applying her reasoned and dispassionate mind, but my emotional self is a giant hindrance.

- Fink is adorable and I want to say so many trite things about motherhood and our relationship that have been said a million times before but oh! I didn't understand them before there was a Finky in my life! 

- Work, motherhood, parental leave: I've been thinking (yes, it hurt).

No doubt all of the above will be explored in days to come, now I've been enabled with access to this here blog and the means to write. Why yes, I've no doubt this blog will smack of tedious mumsiness, but it has always been more personal journal than anything else, so no surprises there. I mum, therefore I wax mumsical. It will also be mournful, I expect. 

I've missed this.

stocktake

I am working on a magnum opus about W's birth (HOLY SHIT I GAVE BIRTH TO A REAL LIVE HUMAN BABY, I am so impressed with myself) but in the meantime, some short updates:

- W is already over a month old and is the giantest baby of all time. Not really, but he has amazing cheese rolls under his chin which I could eat with a spoon.  He's over 5 kilos now and has burned through all the newborn clothing.

- So I had a baby out of my vagina [soz, spoiler alert for the birth story] and ended up with a few tears.  Recovery has been not too bad, actually, but when will I ever feel brave enough to, you know, do it again? I told the midwife that abstinence was a particularly effective form of birth control when she went there last week.

- The sleep thing is shithouse, no?  I hate daysleep so I'm going to bed by 8pm which seems to be keeping me functional.  He's pretty reasonable at night and has developed a good three hourly pattern (eat, poop, sleep) but not so much keen on the sleeping during the day.  I've just spent an hour letting him doze off on me and failing to transfer him to the bassinet.  Can't say I blame him, cuddling is far nicer.

- Also shithouse: engorgement.  Fuck me that was horrific.  My left breast is markedly bigger than old righty and I not-so-fondly refer to it as the shit tit - there's always some lump and its always full to
bursting.  I cannot wait for them to regulate.

- We had another weekend with my parents, with us travelling to them this time.  W was three weeks and managed nicely, but Dad caught bronchitis on his trip to Auckland and was in hospice while we were
there.  The last two or three weeks have seen quite a deterioration
for him, which is likely the effects of the tumour growing.  It's
awful.  We're there again next weekend.  I feel time clutching at my
throat.

- Mum is doing it tough.  God, I wish I could help.

- My MiL is here and my house has never been so spotless.  I feel
terribly guilty as I fanny about cuddling the baby and she does all
the housework and cooks the meals and wishes I'd relax enough to let
her get paws on the baby.  I should just relax and enjoy but the sight
of someone else handling my smalls is stressing me out.

- P continues to be the father I knew he'd be.  He was fabulous onparental leave.  Each day when he gets home from work he's genuinely
devastated when W is already in bed.  He sits up for at least one
night feeding, marvelling at W.  I have a feeling that watching P
watch W will be one of my favourite memories.  I'm trying so hard to
imprint some of these things on my brain - the dim light, P's wonder,
W's lovely noises.

- I was doing the deliberate memory stocktake for Dad, for a long time
post-diagnosis.  I've stopped, somewhere along the line.  Somewhere
where the essence of Dad changed and he retreated to help himself
survive, as contradictory as that sounds.  The only thing I cling to
now is the feel of his hands and the 'love you very muches' that end
each visit.  That, and watching Dad with W.  It breaks my heart as it
mends it too - the contradiction is profound.

when he was 5 days old

I was cradling my newborn son in my arms when I stepped out onto the front verandah and found my father in the front yard. I burst into tears. I hadn't known he was coming and there he was, wheelchair bound, steroid bloated, but with his arms open to meet his first grandson.

I had known Mum was keeping secrets from me, but I thought she was shielding me from info about his declining health, not planning the best surprise I've ever had. As I write this, two weeks later, Dad is having a bad day and I've been crying on and off. W is still in my arms, his warm, solid weight reassurance of life. We take W to see Mum and Dad on Thursday. I'm so glad he didn't wait for our visit - I will cherish that memory and the pictures of him drinking in his grandson for the rest of my life.

I was feverish with engorgment for the duration of his visit and my hormones had unbalanced me beyond belief, so the whole two days feels like a crazy, tear-stained dream. I was so lucky to have that, to have W, to still have Dad.