I’m back. Over two years of not posting here, because I was in my head.
I’m sitting here with my baby, my little girl. She has been the focus of so much of my time over the last three years, yet she’s only six months old. How does that work, you ask?
Infertility. That’s how it works.
It’s such a hard thing to talk about. Secondary infertility. It took a while to have our son, so we thought we’d start trying early for a second child. So when our son turned one in late 2021, it began. And nothing happened. For over a year, no luck. No miscarriages or losses or anything. Just a negative line, month after month. So we signed up with Fertility Associates, only to be faced with a months-long wait for our first apppointment. That came and went, and we found out that my egg numbers were low. That was a kick in the teeth. I was an older mum, yes, but only 35. So not especially old.
The vitamin routine began. We signed up for IUI. We did it. It didn’t work. Then a bout of covid-19 wiped out the sperm count (turns out fevers and viruses can do that, and it takes at least 3 months to build numbers back up again. Did you know? We didn’t). We continued. Every month, a negative test. It became all I thought about.
It saps your energy, having things like this sitting on your mind, weighing it down. It’s lonely. How do you talk about it? There’s nothing to say. And in the meantime, people are suffering pregnancy losses and trying to cope with them in silence. Maybe we need to talk about all of it more – the whole journey, every struggle. I told close friends some parts about what was going on, so I wasn’t totally alone. But it’s still isolating.
I’ve blocked a lot of those two and a half years out now. It’s just a blur of appointments, daily blood tests to check hormone levels, vitamins, supplements, old wives’ tales. We were finally accepted into a study of people with secondary infertility, and were put into a group and given a free round of IVF. By now, it was January 2024. I got the IVF hormone medication and awaited my period so I could start the whole elaborate process on Day 1. But the period never came. That second line on the test finally, finally appeared. They tactfully kept me in the study with the hint that we could still do the IVF if this pregnancy didn’t go to term. But she did, and now she’s here. She’s got her dad’s eyes but otherwise looks exactly like her brother.
She arrived the day after my dad’s birthday. I spent his birthday evening quietly having contractions on the couch as I ate cake. The contractions continued into the night as I counted the minutes and breathed quietly through them. Then we left my mum to look after our son, drove to the birth centre in Hamilton, and she was born an hour after arrival, in the birth pool, without pain relief (I’d arrived too late to get any gas, haha!). Of course it happened while my midwife was away for the week. But she arrived early, early enough that Josh was able to go to his sister’s wedding ,which was happening on the original due date. This baby is considerate like that.
She was possibly early because a week earlier, we’d done an ECV (external cephalic version), which is a procedure to turn breech babies into the correct position. This can sometimes trigger the baby to get into birthing position. We had it done at 37 weeks, which meant the last week of my pregnancy was extremely comfortable despite being enormous, because she was finally in the correct position instead of having her head above my belly button. It meant I could give birth in the pool at the birth centre the way I’d always wanted to and never gotten to with my son due to complications.
So everything worked out nicely. I’m finally finding myself again. I often think of those whose infertility journey is much longer and more unsuccessful than mine. I think of those who don’t struggle to get pregnant but who instead struggle to keep it, a whole different level of grief and loss. I think of how those with secondary infertility exist in this weird limbo, where they already have a child, so people think they should just be grateful. We’re not “really” infertile. It’s a weird position to be in. I had a friend experiencing it at the same time as me, which I think helped us both. We could share complaints and stupid jokes to get through. When she told me she finally got pregnant, she was very considerate, knowing how it might make me feel, but luckily I was able to share my news at the same time. Our daughters were born only a month apart.
So now I am coming out from underneath that all-consuming cloud. I’m sending love and baby dust to anyone still walking underneath it.
My love of reading really backslid in 2021 as I struggled with sleeplessness, parenting, and that bloody pandemic, but I got back into it this year in a big way (cheers for being so easy to read, Bridgerton series!) So here are my favourite books for this year, in three categories – Fiction, Memoir and Non-Fiction. Yes, I know memoirs ARE non-fiction, but I read so many good ones that they deserve their own category. so without further ado, here we go:
MEMOIRS:
Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands by Kate Beaton I love Kate’s work. She wrote the comic series “Hark! A Vagrant!” that tickles my fancy no end. This memoir has funny moments for sure, but it’s also so heartbreaking. Pretty much every woman who reads this will find it extremely relatable, and every guy who reads it will hopefully learn something. It’s so good. And the art is lovely – really captures the sparseness of the Canadian oil sands (which I haven’t visited of course but can now picture so clearly). Kate is such a talented artist and writer and I recommend this to literally everyone. It’s massive but y’know, it’s a graphic novel so you’ll zoom through it.
Tell Me Again by Amy Thunig Okay, I technically finished this at the start of January, but I’m including it here because it’s bloody amazing. This is a memoir written by Dr Amy Thunig, a Gomeroi education academic. They tell the story of their life growing up in poverty in Australia with two addicts as parents. Despite challenges, Amy follows their dreams to go to university. A beautiful, nuanced reflection on a life where they were let down by every authority figure who should have been there to help and support them. It’s heartbreaking and powerful. I listened to the audiobook and it was lovely – Amy has such a serene voice. I will definitely be buying this to read it again at a later date, and to prominently display on my bookshelf so people can say “ooh what’s that one?” and I can say “oh gosh! Buy it! It’s beautiful!”
How We Love by Clementine Ford This is another memoir that I listened to as an audiobook. I especially like listening to memoirs in audiobook form when they’re read by the author. It’s powerful. I have read all of Clementine’s books, I think she’s fabulous. How We Love touched my heart. It had so many relatable stories. There were several passages where I teared up because it was like she was speaking to my younger self, struggling with some of the same things she did. Listening to how gentle she was to her younger self, how kind she was, it made me feel kinder towards my awkward, insecure, lonely early-teen self too. Which of course, then reminds me to be kinder to my modern self. We all need to be doing that, really.
I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy I think everyone read this in 2022! I listened to it, it was rough! Her mum was a shocker. It was a fascinating insight into Hollywood and how child stars are often treated and let down by the very same people who are supposed to be looking out for them. Which we all knew already, but it put a lot into very sharp focus. Jennette’s story is so brutal, and yet she makes so many moments so funny. Awesome stuff.
Nothing Like I Imagined by Mindy Kaling This was really funny little collection of stories from Mindy’s life that I really enjoyed, but the one about becoming a mother (“Help is on the Way”) hit different and make me cry. How dare you, Mindy. HOW DARE YOU.
FICTION:
Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams This novel was such a stunning portrayal of anxiety and the challenges of being a young woman, especially being a woman of colour. Queenie is a fantastic character – she doesn’t always make the right/healthiest decisions, but you support her and sympathise with her. Watching her growth throughout the novel was a beautiful thing. Amazingly written.
How High We Go In The Dark by Sequoia Nagamatsu This is such a hard novel to describe. It’s like a collection of interconnected short stories, set after a brutal plague is unleashed from the melting Arctic ice. Some stories are heartbreaking, some weird, all excellent. A lot of them could be novels in their own right. It’s got its flaws – quite a few of the narrative voices are similar sounding – but I found it so compelling.
You Made a Fool of Death With Your Beauty by Akwaeke Emezi This is a story about a woman finding healing after grief… with the worst partner choice possible. This had some really mixed reviews on Goodreads but the cover was so pretty and the title so poetic, so I dived in anyway. It was worth it. I personally thought the characters were making terrible decisions, but the story was told in a way that made it totally understandable. It was also a really beautiful look at navigating grief. Another thing I really liked was the lead character’s refusal to get intimidated or pushed around by anyone. She was confident in her artistic talent, and I found that really appealing.
Idol by Louise O’Neill A clever critque of influencer culture and the challenges of trial by social media. The main character is such a mess, so flawed and hypocritical. Her story, and that of her best friend, is so interesting. I flew through this in a couple of days, I found it so hard to put down.
7 Husbands of Evelyn Hugo / Daisy Jones & the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid I can’t choose which one to put on my list, so here they both are! Both excellent tales of old Hollywood. These have both been hugely popular. The characters feel so real. I’m so looking forward to reading more by Taylor Jenkins Reid.
NON FICTION:
Facts and Other Lies by Ed Coper This was a smart and seriously funny look at misinformation and the strategies of how to push against it. Definitely worth reading for those who are science-minded! There’s even Simpsons jokes, which defnitely dates me as an early millennial but I don’t care. Five stars!
QAnon and On by Van Badham Van Badham, and Aussie-based journalist, takes a deep dive into the insanity of QAnon. This was a rough read, especially the parts where she talks about the misogynistic online abuse she’s personally suffered, but the book is great. Really insightful, well-written, and genuinely sympathetic to the people who get caught up in the lies peddled by bad faith actors in politics, news, and entertainment. Smart stuff, go buy it if you want to know what all on earth all that weird conspiracy nonsense that your weird uncle rants about at holiday BBQs.
Men Who Hate Women by Laura Bates A brutal but important look at the various misogynistic groups and viewpoints found across society and the internet, and how they all tie together. I’d previously read Laura Bates’s book Misogynation, which I found really smart and insightful. This was another winner.
How to be Perfect by Michael Schur Michael Schur is the creator of The Good Place (and also one of the creators of my fave, Parks and Recreation), and this book is about the philosophical ideas he learned about when doing The Good Place, and how they fit into modern life. The chapter titles had me cracking up (e.g. Should I Lie And Tell My Friend I Like Her Ugly Shirt?) This is Michael’s endeavour to become a better person, and it’s a fun ride.
Five Books I Didn’t Get Time To Read in 2022 But Am Totally On For 2023:
The Ninth Life of a Diamond Miner: a Memoir by Grace Tame
I’ve barely posted this year. It wasn’t deliberate. I just often feel like I don’t have a lot to say that people are interested in hearing. I’m sure everyone feels like that at times, or even all of the time. It’s not true. Everyone has something valuable to say.
I’ve been watching the collapse of Twitter, which is to the joy of some people and the sadness of others. I’m a mixed bag. I formed a Twitter account back in 2009, and used it as a fun place to chat and share news until about 2018, when it started turning into a real time suck for me. It gradually got overrun with negativity and anger – you couldn’t escape Donald Trump’s rambling nonsense and the people retweeting it, either to fawn and declare war on the “libs”, or to reply with a smug comment about just how wrong and dumb Trump was. (Important note, people: when you amplify horrible things by retweeting them, you promote those views. I’ve had to learn this lesson a dozen times, and I still don’t always get it. I try to make an effort now to amplify positive things and people I agree with, people who are achieving things. But the temptation to get mad at something shitty for likes is pretty strong. )
I was scrolling too much and I hated it, so I deleted my account completely. Then my username was promptly grabbed by an anti-trans dickhead who tweeted some yuck stuff before they got banned. So now my old username looks like I got booted for being awful. But whatever, I wasn’t exactly a high-interest person so no one really noticed too much when I left. And honestly, it was super freeing.
I came back to Twitter in 2022 and just lurked. I didn’t tweet as much, and just followed people I thought were cool. One of my besties got banned for complaining about men, which sucked because she was one of my main reasons for going on the damn site. It never really felt like a friendly spot anymore though, because my tweets vanished into the ether, with the algorithm deciding that as a new account, my tweets weren’t something my followers wanted to see.
So while I won’t miss Twitter, it will be a loss. It’s been a great site for activists and protesters. I follow people who depend on Twitter to advertise their art, who need their circle of friends on there because they’re isolated in real life, who have years and years of friendships and interesting things they’ve said. I feel for them because losing your community sucks, and there’s no real replacement online.
Mastodon seems okay, but I don’t know many people there. Hopefully it’ll grow. Facebook’s dead, which is annoying because I have events I need to promote (HI, COME TO THE SUMMER SHAKESPEARE 2023 PLEASE!), and because I liked the fun conversations I used to have before the algorithm prioritised memes and angry responses to news articles. Snapchat was great until it sold a few years back and just became hot garbage. Instagram is slowly going the same way, although it’s not too bad yet. I’m way too old for Tiktok.
What’s a mid-thirties girl to do?
I, like most people, want an online spot where you can talk to your friends, see what they’ve been up to, see fun pictures, and share events to the wider public. I want a community. But social networks don’t seem to be about that, which is super ironic. It sucks, because my friends are busy with their families and their jobs and everything else important. I like seeing the little bits of their lives that social media offers. It’s not high school anymore, so I don’t get to see them in person as much as I’d like, especially not with a toddler.
It’ll be interesting to see where it’s all at in 5 years. Maybe we’ll all give up and end up on Zuckerberg’s garbage metaverse. Maybe there’ll be something totally new. Maybe we’ll all be back on blogs like this. Hey, maybe Tom will bring MySpace back.
Coming back to teaching after a long stretch away is a big decision.
I love teaching. I really do. The kids are fun, they make me laugh and I enjoy making them laugh. I like seeing that lightbulb moment when they ‘get’ a concept. I like the pride in their eyes when they make huge improvements or receive a certificate. I like when the things I teach inspire them to do independent learning, and then they come back to me with all the new things they know. It’s fun to see them find a passion or persevere with a challenge.
I’ve been out of full-time teaching for nearly three years now. That’s so weird to think about. I resigned from my last full-time position at the end of 2019, planning to do some volunteer teaching work in Laos over the summer and then move to Australia with my husband so he could be closer to his family. But then Covid hit, and lockdowns happened, and I got pregnant. So we stayed. We relocated to the Waikato instead and I began relieving, not particularly keen to apply for a full-time position during what turned out to be a tiring pregnancy.
And now my son turns two soon, and I’ve been at home with him the whole time. And I have loved it. It was exhausting and scary and stressful, but also exciting and relaxing and joyful. It’s a real mixed bag. I had the immense help and privilege of a working-from-home husband, and we have a nice little routine going. We visit the local playcentre, we go swimming, we take long walks, we visit relatives.
I had originally planned to get back into full-time teaching around now. Part of me still wants to. But part of me is very nervous about re-entering a profession that eats your lifestyle the way teaching does. I don’t want to be marking papers well into the night, missing out on time with my boy. Ideally I would love a job share position, allowing me to only work two or three days a week, but they are vanishingly rare and management don’t seem to be very keen generally.
I’ve been relieving a bit this year, but unavailability at the local ECE centres means I haven’t had regular care for my son, so it’s been intermittent. I spent a term helping establish a bush school, then a term regularly covering some BT leave at another school, and I’ve sprinkled some day relief days in there. I prefer regular relief because you get to know the kids a bit more.
Spaces have finally opened up at a local kindy, so my son is going to go a couple of days a week next year, freeing me up for… teaching? Writing? Who knows?
New Year’s is always a weird time. Coming up fast after that post-Christmas blur, when no one knows what day it is, and you’re plowing through the leftovers in the fridge.
Second-day trifle doesn’t quite have the same look as Christmas Day trifle, but let’s face it, it tastes a lot better than the effort of making fresh food. I actually hate trifle usually. But this year my sister made a sherry-free one she saw on Instagram which was mostly ambrosia and it was the TITS.
All the local gyms are screeching “NEW YEAR, NEW YOU!” Which is all well and good, but at the start of 2020 I *was* a gym bunny. The “new year, new me” promptly got pregnant and spend months in lockdown on the couch, feeling nauseated and migrainey and living on carrot sticks and grated cheese (and for a random week, Rashuns).
Don’t listen to gyms – if you want to join one then go for it, but don’t just do it in January because you feel like you have to. If you want to pay for a gym that you never visit, just transfer me $5 a week and you can use the weights and skipping rope in my garage. You can cancel anytime, promise.
Anyway, then 2021 began, and the “new year, new me” was a new mum in the midst of the 4th trimester, blearily stumbling through sleep deprivation, starting to get into a habit of long walks, but otherwise living in front of the air conditioning and rewatching The Office because if I fell asleep in the middle of an episode, I wouldn’t miss any vital plot points.
I used to be good with words. Then I stopped reading books, and now my mum-brain is like that Simpsons episode where Homer forgets the word “spoon”.
Now, 2022. New Year, new me? I think this year I’m going to work on getting the old me back, not a new me. Back into reading books, writing plays and blogs, visiting friends more (Covid-willing, of course!), getting fitter and stronger. Getting back into the classroom. Finding myself again, so I’m not just Leo’s mum, which is what I have been this year. I can be Leo’s mum while also being myself. And maybe I can even get some help for that ol’ ADHD.
I better fix my hair first, though. It’s been six months since I was last in a salon. Any Waikato recommendations?
People don’t tend to believe me when I say I have ADHD.
I don’t fit the stereotype at first glance. I’m a grown woman in her 30s. I have a first class honours degree. I hold down a challenging job. I was a smart bookworm at school. I was a Good Kid.
But then, when you read about adult ADHD in women, and you know a bit more than the basics about me, it becomes more apparent.
I’m impulsive. I want to do what you just suggested – right now! Are we shopping? Buy it! Buy it in every colour! You want to stage that play one day? Let’s do it! Quick!
I’m disorganised. My teaching desk was always stacked with paper. I got frazzled when I couldn’t find things. It earned Comments from my superiors. I would tidy it up occasionally, and within a day it would be stacked again.
I have problems prioritising. I start one task, then drift to another before the first task is done, then switch again. Or I lie on the couch unable to move. All while avoiding the biggest and most imminent tasks.
My time management sucks. I have half an hour to finish marking? Well, I’m going to spend at least half of that going through my sticker collection and choosing stickers for my students based on what ones suit their personality.
I have trouble multitasking. If you’ve hung out with me while I’m doing something you’ll be familiar with the traditional tune-out – when I stop talking mid-sentence and literally can’t hear what you’re saying.
Restlessness. Yep. When I’m resting I want to be doing something. But when I’m doing something I want to be resting.
Problems focusing on a task? Heck yes. That’s why this blog exists. To actually give me something to attempt to concentrate on. It’s not working, but every now and then I get a burst of hyperfocus.
Poor planning. Yep. Just ask all my mentor teachers why I can’t submit my planning on time. Every. Single. Week.
Frequent mood swings and hot temper? Temper yes, mood swings not as much. But those might be hormonal anyway.
I have low frustration tolerance. I work better in groups when I have to do stuff I don’t like, because I can talk out issues and I can’t skip out.
Problems following through and completing tasks. Hello, giant google drive full of half-finished play notes and random scenes. Hello, screeds of teaching ideas. Hello, this half-assed blog that I barely contribute to. Hello, Leo’s baby book that I was supposed to fill with letters to my beloved son.
Trouble coping with stress. Ooh! I have a whole chronic illness that is exacerbated by my inability to process stress. I can handle any stressful situation at the time, but then crumple with a migraine in the days following. I’m good in a crisis. But give me some standard university forms or creative arts funding paperwork? Hahahahaha I will sit on that for months, completely unable to do it, even if it’s for a scholarship or grant that will literally give me free money.
I hope no future bosses read this. I’ll never get hired.
But I’m a good teacher. I really am. I can improv on the spot, I explain things well, I’m flexible with interruptions or changes, and I build amazing relationships with students and parents, especially the quirky ones. I’m just sucky at the paperwork side.
It’s the same when you know me in a non-work capacity. I’m a good friend, I swear. I will help you with whatever you need. My love languages are words and gifts. I don’t know how else to show people I love them, because I’m basically useless at the “acts of service” love language.
When you tell me things about yourself, I chime in with “me too!” It probably sounds like I’m trying to one-up your story, but I’m not. I’m just trying to tell you that I can empathise because I have experienced something similar. Except sometimes I’m excited to tell you and scared I’ll forget, so I’ll cut you off. Sorry about that.
My main trouble here is that I struggle to keep in contact with people. The fun side effect of ADHD is it comes with extreme rejection-sensitivity. This is worsened in my case with a shitty first-half-of-high-school experience that has left me with fun trauma scars that take the form of me thinking people don’t actually like me. It’s incredibly self-indulgent and stupid, but I tend to not contact people first because I think I’m unwanted. So I don’t always want to offer to video chat or meet up, or drop by, because my default mode is thinking that people don’t want to hang out with me. I’m aware that this is absolutely cooked, but I can’t really help it. My biggest fear is being a burden to others. So I hide away, but then I get sad and miss people and cry to my partner and he pushes me to contact people.
Maybe that’s why I’m writing this. So you know why I am the way I am. At least social media comments offer me a way of telling people I love them without feeling like I’m horning in on their personal time.
One way to treat ADHD is through routine. Intense, regular routine. Something that’s really hard with a baby. Another way to treat it is with meds. Which I can’t currently take, because I’m breastfeeding my baby. So I don’t know what to do, and I just muddle through with the help of my husband, who is also ADHD. Another way is with therapy, which I suck at.
It’s funny, my husband and I bonded originally because we had so much in common, and really felt like we “got” each other. In hindsight, it was probably the ADHD commonalities. It might be why it took us both so long to get diagnosed – because both of us had the same traits, we thought they were normal. We didn’t realise we might both be broken in the same way.
Several of our friends have been diagnosed as adults with ADHD. Maybe that’s why we’re all friends. Like attracts like.
The tough thing with diagnosing ADHD is how many traits are just traits of being human. Everyone’s restless sometimes. Everyone hates boring tasks. But the executive dysfunction is really tough. When I figure out how to overcome it, I’ll let you know.
A few days ago, we passed the point where Leo has been out in the world for longer than he’d been in the womb, and I remembered that I had a half-written birth story on the computer. So here we go: a finished, muddled recollection of a couple of very powerful days. So I thought I’d share for people who like this sort of thing. Feel free to leave a comment if you’ve experienced any of this stuff too. Birth is intense, and I think we all need to talk about it.
I went into labour around noon on Labour Day, three days after my due date. I appreciated the irony. It was also my best friend’s due date, so our kids had the possibility of sharing a birthday (that didn’t end up happening, her son was born a week later).
Around 8.30pm, after lightly labouring with a TENS machine throughout the day, my waters broke. I was quite excited by this because hello! It was real labour now! I quickly messaged my midwife, because it was late, and I figured I’d have to wake her up sometime in the night, so it would be nice to give a bit of warning.
“Are your waters clear?” she asked.
“I think so?”
“Let me know if you get more and they’re discoloured. If not, just keep going, you’re doing great.”
Ha. Waters don’t keep breaking, right? That was a full gush, not a trickle. Surely that’s all the water I could fit in me. Well, I was wrong. It happened again. This time I put on one of my reusable cotton pads, and as I reached the toilet and yanked down the pants, my plans fell apart. The pad was soaked in a greenish-brown goo. Meconium. Worse, it was thick meconium.
There goes my peaceful water birth, I thought. Meconium rules that out, I’d had that explained to me at my midwife visits.
So that was the first thing that went wrong.
I called my midwife and confirmed that yes, my waters had some meconium. She recommended that I come into the birth centre for an examination. So that was fine. I put on a clean pad, undies and pants, and we headed out for an extremely uncomfortable but fortunately only ten minute drive to the birth centre. Josh drove so carefully, knowing I was cringing over every bump. He handled the suitcase and the giant bag of snacks (the bag was big enough for a week at the hospital, which came in handy after the birth, as you’ll see.)
As I climbed out of the car, my waters broke. Again. It was like I was the liquid equivalent of a trick candle. A trick water balloon. How much liquid was in me? Was this whole thing just an elaborate psych-out, and I wasn’t pregnant at all, just retaining a ton of water that mysteriously looked baby-shaped on my frequent ultrasounds? Was my son actually a merman?
I waddled in, acutely aware that I was leaking onto their carpet. I apologised to the receptionist, who was not at all bothered. To be honest, I was mostly concerned about my Allbird sneakers. I mean, I’m sure a lot of women had leaked body fluids onto their carpet and they expected that sort of thing, but my shoes were brand-new, man. I have no idea why Í chose that evening to wear them.
The lovely women at River Ridge Birth Centre helped me into an examination room (where I took off my sneaks and saw that the goop had hit my socks but had travelled no further, yaassss). My midwife examined me as the contractions kept coming and confirmed that yes, there was actually quite a lot of meconium, so the birth would have to be at the hospital. So much for the cute, photogenic River Ridge birthing tub. (Maybe next baby? Hahahaha oh god that means doing this again…)
So we drove to the hospital. We checked in and were assigned a delivery room. I have it on good authority that my room was the best one – it’s bigger and has the nicest view.
I did not see the view.
I assume other people enjoyed it?
The birthing suite, obnoxiously, had a big tub that I couldn’t use. It taunted me with promises of hot, soothing water. I wanted to kick it, but it was ceramic or metal or something and I didn’t feel like adding more pain on what was a swiftly increasing level of discomfort.
Baby was posterior, which means he was facing forward. I knew that in advance. He had also been breech up until a couple weeks before birth, but thankfully he’d changed that.Posterior positioning usually means that labour takes longer, because the baby has to rotate around to being in the correct birthing position before he comes out. That involves his spine scraping up against mine. And that hurts in a way I really can’t describe without losing this light, breezy tone and ending up putting women off giving birth. So let’s just say it was a bit sore.
I stood under a hot shower for about half an hour, bending over a chair so the water hit my hips and lower back. It was the closest I could get to a tub and it felt so good. As each contraction hit, I strangely embraced them. Every one brought me closer to having a baby. But then they got worse and the novelty wore off.
“FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!” I bellowed, a couple hours in. My midwife suggested I try the gas. I insisted it didn’t work – it just made me feel nauseous.
“That’s because you’re not breathing it in deep enough.” She gently encouraged the proper technique – breathing long deep breaths. Once you hit about 8 breaths the gas hits juuuuust right. After a couple of contractions worth of this, I had it down pat and the NO2 became my best buddy. It was definitely better than staunching it out. Anyone who manages posterior labour without pain relief is a superhero but also isn’t someone you should trust, because they’re not normal. Josh held my hand and handed the gas hose to me whenever I dropped it. He looked so worried, and I remember thinking that this was rough for him. Oh, girl.
So I huffed on the gas a lot, but the contractions got worse. They got really bad. I like to think I’m reasonably tough due to years of working through migraines (which are like mega-hangovers without the fun of alcohol) but this was next level. It stopped being funny. It just became about bracing for the pain. I screamed. The gas hose would fall out of my mouth. Someone, usually Josh, would pass it back, I would huff. I would scream. Cycle repeat. Over and over.
“Lou, you’re only 3 centimetres dilated,” I was told. I thought of Ross on Friends, and that quote during Rachel’s labour. Three? I’m dilated three! Except there was no laugh track, there was just the misery of realising I was hours into a very slow labour that also had a time limit.
Apparently if there’s old meconium in your waters when they break, you need to give birth within 18 hours or you’re at high risk of infection. Or maybe that’s unrelated to the meconium. I don’t know. At this point my memory gets a bit unreliable and I might recount things in the wrong order.
My midwife gently suggested an epidural as a possibility, to let me rest while my body did the work of dilating. And even though I hadn’t intended to get an epidural (you can’t have them at birth centres and that was my original plan), the offer was like a life preserver. So I accepted, even though the idea of them had made me nervous at my antenatal class. (Tip for future mothers: antenatal you is an innocent lamb. Appreciate her, but don’t try to follow her instructions. Just do what feels right for you in the moment.) At some point during labour I was given oxytocin to speed the process, which helped. It was done on a drip.
So the epidural, thankfully, came immediately. I sat as still as I could for the rather large injection, and asked the anesthesiologist if I’d fucked up (by moving). She misheard me and thought I’d asked if she fucked up. She was very gracious and tried to explain that she’d done it correctly, but Josh thankfully clarified, and she immediately said “oh honey no, you did it just right.” Cringe. Sorry, anesthesiologist, that was my bad. I’d like to say I’m not always that awkward, but that would be a lie.
Anyway, the epidural worked. There was a patch near my hip which didn’t quite numb, which meant I felt a tiny twinge of each contraction. I found that weirdly comforting, like I was still connected to a process that felt like my body was going through without me.
The next few hours were relatively peaceful, yet still tiring. They continued monitoring the baby, who was surprisingly chill. There were a couple of periods where they thought he was in distress, but it turned out that his monitoring equipment wasn’t in the right position. So that scared us, but it was all good. So far, there was no need for a caesarean section. I was very clear that I only wanted a c-section if the baby was in distress, not me.
(C-section mums: please note that I am NOT one of those people who thinks they’re “not real birth” or any of that bollocks. That wasn’t my issue. I was just really scared of getting major abdominal surgery and adding to the healing time. Zero judgement here of whatever way you choose to birth, it’s an intense experience no matter what!)
The hospital midwives changed shifts, and my midwife and student midwife went home to get some sleep. When they returned later, I had managed a nap, and I was eight centimetres dilated. Mention of the c-section popped up again, and I refused again.
My mum called, and I finally had a cry, so she and Dad headed over to the hospital to come and talk to me while I waited out the last couple centimetres. Originally I hadn’t planned to have them come see me, but hey, a lot of things hadn’t worked out the way I thought.
This was when I was told that my cervical lip was blocking his head from being able to get past. This was aired as another reason for a c-section. I was still really not keen, but the OB-GYN said if it didn’t fix itself soon I would be out of options. He left to start prepping. In the time he was out, my midwife tried a tactic called “manually reducing” which involves turning baby’s head, I think? It apparently is super painful but I couldn’t feel it, it was just uncomfortable. But it worked! Lip gone. OB-GYN came back in and was really happy that it had worked.
My parents arrived half an hour later, and my mum teared up as soon as she saw me. I must’ve looked like a wreck. My student midwife was rubbing my numb leg, which was incredibly comforting, and there were people everywhere. My midwife (who was friends with my mum and babysat me as a toddler!) took my folks out to update them while I got examined by the OB-GYN, who told me yet again that if I wasn’t at 10cm, we were out of time and natural labour was off the table. He was right, but I didn’t like it.
But yay! Family returned to the room in time to hear the OB-GYN announce that I had hit 10 centimetres! We were good to go. So the fam vanished, and the pushing began.
I pushed for two hours.
Apparently at first I made great progress – good, strong pushes that had him moving really well. But then he got stuck. Turns out he had his arm up by his face. (He still sleeps like that now. But it’s cuter now. It wasn’t cute that day.) Because of this, he was jammed. And he was going to need forceps or a ventouse, because the two hours pushing was done, over 18 hours had passed since the waters broke, and he needed to be out. So I chose the ventouse, they attached it, and I pushed again. A couple minutes later, I heard a loud pop!
“His head’s out, Lou, you’re nearly done! One more push!”
Around me, all the voices were urging me to push. It was such a weird moment. So I cried out that I was going to puke. Then I threw up. Amazing timing. A smart midwife was there in time with a bowl. Then I pushed again, and suddenly a huge, beautiful, surprisingly un-gunky baby, all squirms and smoosh, with a faint head of hair and a not-so-faint yell, was on my chest.
“Hi baby!” I managed to say. I couldn’t see his face. But I assumed he was cute. My midwife noticed immediately and adjusted him so I could see his gorgeous, scrunched-up face.
Leo.
He was beautiful.
I did it. I did it.
Five minutes later, the placenta was out and the cord had stopped pulsing. Josh got to cut it. They finished Leo’s APGAR tests, and he latched for a feed. He latched perfectly from the first moment, which redeemed him somewhat for that hand-up-by-his-face-during-birth nonsense. I got stitched up for my 3A tear. Ouch. After that, I fell asleep. I assume that was when Josh got to cuddle him. I dunno. I was tired, man.
After that was a night at the hospital, then two nights as a family at River Ridge, and then a night at home before Leo turned bright orange and needed 8 days in a locked-down NICU for jaundice. Josh and I both stayed in the hospital with him because I was EBF. That was a tough week. But he’s fine now.
People have often mentioned my birth being traumatic. I wouldn’t personally call it that. I know that there were a lot of complications, but thanks to my amazing midwife and her focus on informed consent, I felt in control of a lot of what happened. I don’t regret any decisions I made. If my next birth went the same way, I would make the same choices. Well, I’d probably get the epidural earlier, and I’d huff the gas properly from the start. I also wouldn’t wear wool sneakers.
So thank you to everyone who was a part of Leo’s birth story. You all helped me and reassured me, and most of all, you respected me. That’s how every birth should go.
When my husband is feeling a bit melancholy and needs a reminder of how great he is, I tell him stories from my Facebook pregnancy group. They make him feel like Superman. Why? Because the bar of being a capable husband and father is set so low these days, he stubs his toe on it.
Don’t get me wrong, the stories aren’t uplifting. They’re sad. They’re stories of women who were told “I’m not celebrating you, you’re not MY mother” on Mother’s Day by the father of their children. It’s stories of women who were told to “harden up” during pregnancy, who were woken up in early labour by partners wanting dinner cooked. Women whose partners come home from work and spent hours gaming instead of participating in family life. Women whose partners say “I don’t know what to do with a baby” and who have changed three nappies in six months and gagged their way through it. Women with a 24/7 job who were expected to mind their tired partners who only worked 8/5.
It hurts to read these stories of regular, kind, hard-working women being neglected by the people who are supposed to love, understand and appreciate them best.
What the heck, men?
Yes, I know, I know. Not ALL men! Of course not, but a significant percentage. Of course I know it’s not all men – I’m happily married to a beautiful example of a person who does all the cooking and easily half of the cleaning – he’s seen more with the vacuum than I am. He’s not whipped, he’s not manipulated – he just appreciates a clean house and understands that everyone who lives in a house is expected to maintain it. He’s not “helping” me by doing chores – they’re his chores too.
Let’s be clear: plenty of my friends and plenty of women generally are partnered up with capable, considerate human beings. They are not the target of this post. They are great.
The men I’m talking about, they don’t do anything. They’re getting a maid they can bang for free. Why should they do half the cleaning, they ask? Uh, maybe because it’s your house? Why shouldn’t they do half the childcare during the hours when they’re not at their job? It’s their children too!
No one should be settling for less. No one.
Why do these men stagnate in their development? Why do they not look at a chore they’re bad at, like laundry, and go, “I’d like to not suck at this. I’d like to reach a minimum standard of cleanliness as a human being.”
So you can’t read the laundry tabs on a shirt, boys? Well here’s news: no one fucking can. Those little icons are totally confusing. But hey – did you know, you can just Google them? Amazing! Or if that’s too hard, just put your clothes in a warm wash with a lidful of detergent. You don’t know how to use your washing machine, you say? Take notes as your partner graciously shows you. Or hell, READ THE MANUAL. Or, again, GOOGLE! We live in a world of immediate information. You know how to use other tech, surely you can learn appliances.
You’d be an absolute laughingstock with your mates if you didn’t know how to start the lawnmower. Why is the washing machine any different?
Why do these particular men not bother to learn? Because they have someone doing it for them. For free. EVERY time.
Women, just STOP. Please, just stop. Stop babying them. They are functioning adults. They should be able to make their own food, clean their environment, and manage to meet their children’s needs without depending on you to tell them how to prepare their formula (it fucking SAYS IT ON THE FUCKING TIN OH MY GOD)
I teach my primary students to have a growth mindset, to know that learning new things never stops. That they’re smart and capable and can do anything they set their minds to.
Dudes who can’t clean a microwave: catch up, already. Otherwise she’s gonna leave your unwashed butt and you’re not going to know how to squeeze water out of the mop you’ll be using to wipe up your tears.
And please, let’s not let our sons leave for university without knowing how to do these things. Don’t leave this task to their future partners.
I didn’t do it because of societal pressure, although believe me, there’s plenty of that out there. I had a few reasons.
This adorable lady doll is about to waste a lot of time filling out forms. The gentleman doll is going to do sweet F A.
Firstly, I liked my husband’s name. It sounded nice. It worked. I liked the idea of sharing that name with my future children.
Secondly, kids at school had trouble with my maiden name (ugh, that’s such a weird name for it. “Maiden” name. Is my married name my “crone” name?). My maiden name is Scottish and consonant-heavy. It’s not difficult or anything, but kids still stumbled.
Thirdly, I liked the idea of separating my writing from my teaching. My playwriting is all under my birth name. My teaching under my married name. A nom de plume! Boom, easy!
Or so I thought.
TURNS OUT THAT’S A FILTHY LIE.
Society pressures you to change your name, to conform, to fit in. Then it financially penalises you and you suffer for years, dragged into a legal pit of doom.
I got married in 2014. Seven years later, I still get asked for copies of my marriage certificate to prove I am who I say I am. Why? Because my degree and diploma are in my birth name. Because I thought I’d wait until my driver’s license and passport expired before renewing them. Because my job requires a police check every three years and needs documentation so you can be tracked under both names. Because despite changing your name being the norm for women, every government department is stunned that you’ve done it and requires proof that you’re not a dirty liar.
Side note: why do government departments not communicate with each other? Why can’t I just provide proof of identity to the IRD and have it automatically updated everywhere else? This also applies to changing my address. I can’t remember everywhere I need to update my details every time I need to move in this housing-insecure country. It’s really annoying.
It’s just such a catch-22. And no one talks about it. No one tells you that you’re going to have to pay for a new passport and driver’s licence and that you’re going to have to track down a Justice of the Peace to sign a million copies of your marriage licence so that you can prove your existence to your bank, government departments (who need to share information, dammit) and any school you want to work at. It’s a TRAP. It just follows you around, adding an extra layer of hassle and complexity anytime you need to do something official, like buy a house.
I chose to change my name. My husband didn’t pressure me – he was happy either way. If he had a hideously awkward or boring surname, he would’ve changed to mine. We would’ve hyphenated if both names together hadn’t been such a Scottish mouthful. I chose to do it. And I like my name – both my names. But I wish someone had told me what an utter rigamarole it is, because my ADHD means official forms are super frazzling and intimidating for me.
Oh, and I still need to update my licence. Maybe everything would’ve been easier if I’d done it all at once. But I was poor as a church mouse when I married, and documentation is EXPENSIVE.
So yeah, don’t change your name. Or if you do, don’t do it officially. Our society seems to want women to conform to the norm, but then punishes you financially for doing it.
One major thing with cloth nappies that I’m hyper aware of is the initial cost of a setup. Although cloth nappies wind up thousands of dollars cheaper than disposable nappies in the long run, not everyone can afford a big upfront payment. And not everyone knows which brand they want to invest in! Recommendations are hugely helpful, but ultimately it comes down to what you like and can afford and what fits your child best.
It’s like Terry Pratchett’s “Boots” theory. Having more money saves you money.
Been there. It’s one of the many, many ways people get trapped in poverty.
But if you haven’t got the cash for a bulk payment, here are some ways to get into the cloth game anyway.
Start small
Remember, you do not need to be all or nothing. You don’t need a full stash of 28 nappies from Day 1. I think that expectation is one of the things that puts people off using cloth. If you only have two nappies to start with, that’s fine! That’s two nappies you save from landfill every time you use them. Do what you need to do for your budget, and if cloth works for you, you can continue to build up.
Go part-time
You don’t need to go full-time if you don’t want to. Ever. Some cloth parents just use cloth during the day and go for disposable at night. Some do two days on, one day off. Some just have a few nappies that they use when they can. All of these options are fine! I use disposables when I’m on longer trips to visit family, because I don’t want to spend my holiday at the laundromat. Do what works for you and your family! You can always add more later if you want to.
Buy secondhand
This is not as gross as it sounds, I promise. There are Facebook groups like NZ Buy and Sell MCNs where you can get great deals on secondhand nappies. Ads will state the condition of the nappies. If you’re buying secondhand, it’s definitely worth sanitising them with a bleach solution before putting on your baby. Groups like Clean Cloth Nappies will guide you through that, or just ask a fellow cloth user! We’re always happy to help. Secondhand is also a great way to get out of stock prints that you like from good quality brands.
Use brand rep discount codes
A lot of nappy brands have brand rep codes that can offer you 10 or 15% off. Feel free to message the company and ask, or search the company’s hashtag on social media.
My Wren & Myrtle stash – Junior Tribe, Boho Babes, and Baby Beehinds.
Take advantage of bundles
Most brands have bundle deals, where you’ll get a discount for buying 6, 12 or 24 nappies. These are fantastic if you know which brand you like and want to commit to! Many brands and sites also have trial packs, where you will get a one-off discount for buying 2 or 3 nappies.
Buy flats/prefolds and covers
Flat nappies are the old-school style of nappies, a bit like what our parents would’ve used in the good old days. They’re folded around the baby and held in place with a fastener (you can use Snappis these days though, not big old safety pins!) Flats and prefolds with covers are more cost-effective than a full stash of pocket nappies, as you can use the covers more than once before washing them. Flat nappies and covers also dry much more quickly, so you don’t need as many in your stash.
Sell nappies you don’t need or want
Yes, those same secondhand groups are a great way to pass on what you don’t use or what didn’t work for your child! Cloth nappies hold value well, especially if they’re a popular brand. You may not get back the full amount you paid, but you will get some, which is definitely not the case for used disposable nappies!
Ask a mate
Do you have a cool friend who uses cloth? They might be able to loan you a couple of nappy brands to try! Feel free to ask.
Hopefully these tips help you feel a bit better about taking the first step to using cloth. Have you got any other ideas to do cloth cheap? Feel free to share them in the comments!
