The Moment

In the end it was a C-section. So we had to be at the hospital for at least five days for recovery, but it ended up being six because of the issues we had with breastfeeding. I, like many other women, wanted to give it my all in the breastfeeding department for many of the positive reasons out there. Being that most members of my immediate family and circle of friends (yes, this is sad) were very uncomfortable with the idea of breastfeeding, this determination of mine was very isolated. So my mission to breast feed and recover was a difficult journey and one that I want to share with you.

This is how I spent those six days after Lo was born:
• Grabbing my nipples.
• Squeezing my nipples and my son’s head simultaneously.
• Almost strangling my little one.
• Almost dropping my little one. Many times.
• Holding my arms at a 90 degree angle for hours.
• Attending numerous breastfeeding clinics.
• Trying out all the crazy external contraptions meant to assist in breastfeeding.
• Throwing the contraptions across the room.
• Milking...literally, with the support of a machine. (Disgusting!)
• Being naked from the waist up for most of the day.
• Yelling at the nurses to stop giving me conflicting advice.
• Giving nasty glares to a very inexperienced nurse who kept asking me, “Are you afraid to
go home?”
• Drinking a crap load of water, or any fluids (while dying for a glass of wine).
• Barely eating, because hospital food is sooo terrible.
• Barely sleeping, because we opted out of the private room. (Next time we will pay the
extra!)
• Sleeping in a very short hospital bed, with my partner stuck sleeping in a chair.
• Sitting or lying in a number of positions in the hopes of finding a comfortable one.
• Being unable to walk for at least four of those days.
• Popping very weak pills for pain.
• Fighting with my partner — in front of my parents (we were all crying by the end).
• Actually telling my partner, “You don’t have nipples so you don’t know what you’re
talking about” when he attempted to give me advice.
• Contemplating why the hell we started this whole thing in the first place.
• Thanking my sister and wondering what I would have done if she had not been there.
• Crying — both happy and sad.
• Feeling disappointed that I did not get to hold my baby on my chest after the birth.
• Feeling proud of myself.
• Feeling proud of my partner for not falling to the ground when he saw my opened belly.
• Wondering who my little boy will be.

Within the chaos and blur there was a moment of clarity and peace that gave me the courage
and confidence to realize that everything would eventually be okay. It was the morning of our
last day at the hospital. I was exhausted, I had still not mastered breastfeeding, Lo was still
losing weight, the nurses were as confusing as ever, the lactation consultant was away, and I was scared to go home (that nurse was right).

It was about five in the morning, my partner had passed out in the chair beside the bed, and
a nurse came in and encouraged me to lay Lo on my chest so he could sleep and I could
lie down and rest. (Finally some good advice.) As I lay there all cozy with my new family, I
experienced this overwhelming feeling of calm. I looked out the window and noticed the sun
peeking between the buildings. An angelic stream of light shone through, and in that moment I had a feeling that everything was going to be okay: I will make it through, and we as a family will be okay.

And then we slept for five blissful hours.

-Gray Mama

[sunshine onesie by: iota illustration]

Powerless

I just found out I didn’t get a job in the small Ontario town where I am moving with
Sir Dick and the Guppins.

In the small Ontario town, there is only one game that suits my profession and it’s
a biggie.

It was a good position, one that I felt I deserved, and indeed I was short-listed.

It’s possible that, had I not been woefully sleep-deprived and vaguely depressed,
I may have had the energy to prep more for the telephone interview. Prepped at
all, really. Okay, I would say by my standards I winged it. And I blew it. I wasn’t
surprised to get the very polite, if not encouraging, rejection letter. It would have
made things easy. Things haven’t been easy, professionally. I work in the arts.
Which is what I was doing when I was pregnant — discovered I was pregnant.
I was on track to take over a fantastic position. I was being groomed. I found
out I was pregnant exactly one week after my first day covering my colleagues’
maternity leave who would soon be resigning. I had driven across the continent
with belongings and dog with the full intention of moving, forever.

It took me a while to figure out what was going on; I thought maybe it was
menopause. Not unheard of at age 40. My older, wiser friend urged a pregnancy
test. Ridiculous, I thought. It’s the flu.

But no, I was pregnant. I phoned Sir Dick, he reacted negatively, and I cut him
out of my life. How could I do this to him? 3,000 kilometres’ distance, and a lot
of ignored emails. I was experiencing an extreme sense of self-preservation- it
apparently kicks in with pregnancy. A friend described it as “the bullshit meter” in
low tolerance/ high detection mode.

While I was pregnant, I planned. I planned to get my job. I planned childcare, I
planned finances, I planned letters of reference, and I planned an amazing plan.
I made the final interview. It was down to three. It should have been a slam dunk.
I flew home to have the baby, prepared to fly back in five months to start my job,
single mother, Leader, actualized woman of the millennium.

But it didn’t happen. For some horrible terrible tragic reason it didn’t happen.
Despite the fact that I put in ten hours a day for seven months, worked my butt
off, worked my relationships, raised funds for the company, and weathered crisis
after crisis. I lived like pioneer in a cabin in the woods with a wood stove and
no electricity, chopping kindling, getting my water delivered in a garbage can.

(At this point you might be asking what is it exactly that would make her want
this job, right? I know.) I gave it my all. I did my best. But they gave the job to
someone else.

What followed was devastation, pure and simple. And no one back home could
understand. Because I had done it alone. I had planned alone, and I lost alone.

I am not seven months pregnant at this interview. …no, this time my rising belly
gives no rising questions. This time I want the job less. It’s an easier job, easier
than full-time mothering. I would have Sir Dick living with me, helping. I would
have support in this small Ontario town.

But not to be.

The Guppins recently began throwing little fits. Tossing her self on the floor and
scooting away from me. Crying out.

“She’s not even two,” I question a friend.

She tells me,

“At this age, they begin to discover how they are powerless.”

I am more careful. I no longer expect The Guppins to do what I want, what is
convenient. I try to provide options. I am more careful. “She is not a sack of
potatoes,” I tell myself. “I can’t just toss her around.”

And I never leave her alone.

The tantrums are becoming less frequent.

So how do I stop tearing myself up inside? Banging my fists? Crying out?

I tell my Momma friends the advice I try so hard to give to myself:

Be gentle. Tell yourself you love yourself many, many times a day. Say it out
loud even though it feels stupid. I love you I love you I love you. We are our best
advocate and friend. We are our biggest critic.

And if my Grey Mamma can take the easy-ride seat for pregnant ladies even though she isn't pregnant anymore, but then one morning turn it around and bravely tell some lady to F off because she’s NOT pregnant, then I can deal with this. I can deal with being powerless.
I can turn it around.

-Drama Mama