Come With Me On A Crazy Journey – Operation IVF Sibling Part 2

If you didn’t catch Operation IVF Sibling Part 1 you can find it here in my last post: http://wp.me/p3DEbq-2P. The abridged version to bring you up to speed is that we’re halfway through the IVF rollercoaster with my eggs being extracted this morning. Yes, extracted with a big fuck off needle into my ovaries, although on the bright side I got some awesome anaesthetic induced sleep. Which brings us to now.

Day 14 – Part 2: A nurse from the clinic calls in the afternoon and I have a minor internal panic as husband hands me the phone – why is she calling already? Has something gone horribly wrong? Did all the eggs die on the way back to the clinic? Did someone in the lab drop them? Are all my eggs broken???!!! No to all of the above as it turns out, she’s just calling to check how I’m feeling. I’m so relieved I feel a bit sick. I tell her I’m fine (minor mental instability aside), nope, no pain and no need for painkillers thank you. She sounds dubious and advises a dose of panadol. I politely but knowingly decline; I just don’t seem to feel pain.

7pm, I feel pain, quite a bit of pain. I succumb to the lure of drugs and fall asleep on the sofa at 8:30pm drooling attractively on husband’s shoulder.

Day 15: I wake up feeling a bit like I’ve been run over by a small bus, maybe a minivan, right through my abdomen. Apparently my body didn’t get the memo that I’m not affected by pain. Zara joins us in bed for early morning snuggles and kicks me in the stomach to further humble me on that front.

Today is the start of what will be just over two weeks of pretty agonising suspense. There’s a lot of feeling tense and useless, waiting, hoping, wondering… In my experience this is the hardest part of the IVF process, I’ll take the needles over the not knowing any day. We’ll receive a call from the embryologists today to tell us how many eggs have fertilised to become embryos, but this is just the first hurdle. There’s a natural attrition rate at each stage so not all of the embryos will survive til the subsequent day. The worst thing about all of it is that there’s nothing, but nothing we can do to influence the outcome. It’s entirely out of our control and, for a minor control freak like me, that’s complete torture.

I spent the morning with my phone firmly attached to my palm waiting for the call then nearly forget how to answer the damn thing when it did ring. Of the 16 eggs retrieved 12 were suitable for fertilisation, the other four were either too small or had mutations that would prevent them being productive. Now I’m told that of those 12, eight have successfully fertilised. While this is a fantastic starting point I’m careful to temper my excitement. First time around we started with nine fertilised eggs and ended up with two that reached five day old blastocyst stage. The first was transferred but didn’t implant and the second was later defrosted to become our hardy little girl. Clearly she was meant to be and I just hope there’s another tough little trooper in this batch.

Day 17: Day three in the embryo development calendar, we get an update from the clinic to let us know how they’re progressing. I’m honestly expecting that we might have four or five from the eight that fertilised still going strong so it’s a bit of a shock, albeit a pleasant one, to be told that they’re all still alive and dividing as good growing embryos should. Although I know we only need one goodie it’s reassuring news to hear that, at the moment at least, we have a decent buffer. Conversation over lunch with husband is pleasantly optimistic; we talk about when the baby would be due, I start to lay seeds about the schmick (read: eye-wateringly expensive) double stroller I’ve been eyeing up and we wonder about the process for transferring frozen embryos back to New Zealand. Sure it’s all still a little premature given I haven’t even had the transfer yet but it’s nice to let myself feel like it’s a more plausible reality. My mood is light and I don’t even want to slap husband for having a glass of wine with his meal. Would’ve been a different story if he’d said yes to the second glass though.

Day 18: After the embryo transfer tomorrow I have to act like I’m pregnant in terms of abiding by all the stupid dietary rules that put the kaibosh on pretty much anything good, so I’ve spent most of the weekend gorging on soon to be forbidden foods. Smoked salmon four times in two days isn’t excessive right? And runny soft poached eggs. God I love them.

Day 19: This is it, transfer day. I haven’t had a call from the clinic this morning so I’m working on the basis that no news is good news and there’s at least one still alive to be put back where it belongs – i.e. in me! The walk from home to the clinic takes about an hour and the whole time it’s a very strange, almost surreal feeling thinking that I’m on my way to maybe, hopefully be impregnated by someone who is not my husband while my daughter is in the room. How odd.

I meet with the nurse who fills me in on the embryo status and I’m stunned to learn that they’re all still alive although there’s one that hasn’t progressed past seven cell stage so he/she/it is looking dubious to survive. We go through a chart detailing where each one is in the stages of development, there are three early blastocysts, two morulas, and the rest are still at embryo stage.

They’ve selected Early Blastocyst number 3 to transfer today, who I nickname EB. This leaves seven that they’ll keep an eye on over the next two days to determine which are suitable for freezing. Given that we only had one to ice last time I’m buoyed by this news although again, I also know a lot can change in two days.

The transfer process itself is ridiculously quick and easy considering its potential outcome. It’s basically like having a smear test but with something being put in rather than taken out. Once I’m hoisted into the stirrups I make polite chit chat with my doctor while he sits between my thighs and Zara gurgles away in the corner like this is all just the most natural thing in the world. It’s not, it’s fucking weird. EB is delivered in a catheter that’s inserted into my uterus, squirted in and, once they’ve checked the catheter under a microscope to ensure EB has left the building that’s it. Pants on and off you go thanks luv. I feel like we should share a post-coital cigarette or something except I don’t smoke and I’ve heard it’s bad for unborn babies too.

I’m free to get up and walk around straight away but it feels like a strange thing to do with my delicate new cargo on board. I find myself subconsciously squeezing my thighs together and contracting my pelvic muscles in an attempt to stop EB falling out even though I know that’s a physical impossibility. Ultimately it just makes me walk strangely but I’m pretty sure the post-transfer waddle is a common sight for the lovely receptionist, at least she’s polite enough not to snicker.

There’s no reason I couldn’t walk home again but the crazy lady in my head can’t quite cope with that concept so husband arrives to collect us and chats cheerily with our doctor who just put a maybe-baby in my womb. Like I said, fucking weird.

There is a lot of research to support the efficacy of acupuncture to increase the success rate of IVF and this is the one complimentary medicine fertility specialists are happy to endorse. Last time I went for sessions all throughout the injection stage (because obviously I wasn’t putting enough fucking needles in me on a daily basis) but this time, between just having moved cities, full time Zara and husband’s work hours I haven’t been able to fit it in. The good news is that apparently the treatment immediately post-transfer is the most important to help with implantation so at least I can go for a session this evening. Husband thinks it’s all witch-doctoring and it could well be for all I know but I figure it can’t hurt and I’m willing to do anything that might help our chances. Also I get to have an uninterrupted 45-minute nap, which is a total bonus.

Day 20: There is a huge range of advice for what’s acceptable in terms of physical activity post-transfer. The very conservative end of the scale is zero exercise in the two weeks following to keep the heart rate below 120 and avoid raising the core temperature too high. No exercise for two weeks is my hell on earth. Movement is my meditation and the idea of sitting on my arse for two weeks makes me feel physically ill. Fortunately my doctor is totally fine with me continuing to exercise provided I step the intensity down a bit from my usual. So while there’s none of my beloved kettle bells, burpees or hot and sweaty RPM I can at least get out for some decent walks and yoga which is good for both body and mind at this stage. I’ll take any distractions I can over the next couple of weeks.

Day 21: Final update from the clinic. The embryologist calls mid-morning and prefaces the conversation by saying ‘I have some good news for you’ which gives me a sudden jolt of excitement. I find myself half hoping, half expecting her to tell me they’ve frozen six of the remaining seven embryos, so when she tells me it was actually two I feel irrationally disappointed and momentarily tearful. I know this is ridiculous; two is a really good result but I can’t help the slightly sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I just need to take a moment to let myself feel sad.

The others had failed to develop any further, so on the bright side it means the two that have been frozen are tough little nuggets with the best chance of survival if and/or when we decide to use them. Of course I’m hoping that little EB will stick and we won’t need these guys for a while but it creates a bit of panic and more ‘what ifs’. With only two more chances on ice there’s a bit more pressure but, to keep it in perspective, it’s two more chances than we had to start with. The Monty Python philosophy to always look on the bright side comes in pretty handy about now!

Day 22: In the interest of taking it easy on the exercise front I start doing the yoga I’ve been promising myself I’d do for months. I get a bit caught up in the zen vibe and find myself talking out loud to EB, welcoming him/her/it into my body with an invitation to make a home in my womb where I will offer love and nourishment. I feel like a fucking weirdo but at least it’s in the privacy of my own lounge room.

Day 23: Already I’ve forgotten about all the stupid pregnancy food rules (of which there are far too many by the way) that I now have to abide by just in case. I cook a truly beautiful medium rare butterfly lamb leg then realise I should be eating it cooked to oblivion. I resentfully allocate all the lovely pink bits to husband’s plate then shove a lump of it in my mouth when he’s not looking.

Day 24: The drug induced HH threat (that’s Hormone Hazard, please refer to the chart in my previous post for full explanation) has largely dissipated but there are still moments of emotional irrationality from the pressure of wondering and not knowing what EB is up to. This morning I threatened to stab husband for his endearing habit of using 27 different cups and glasses a day. He simply laughed which implies that I use violence as an empty threat far too often around here. This is a bit shameful really, I’m his wife and he should have the decency to be appropriately scared of me dammit! Perhaps I’m going to have to start following through on some of those threats so he takes me seriously.

Day 26: One week post transfer. This was my Facebook status update today:

 You know when you have a genius idea to rearrange all the shelving in the kitchen which requires removing everything, only when you get halfway through you realise it isn’t quite as awesome as it was in your head and now the microwave is on the floor and you can’t get it back and your husband is going to be home soon…? Fuck.

I don’t know what got into me but I spent a large part of the day making ‘improvements’ (read: leaving unresolved trails of destruction) throughout the house. It started at 6:30am when it was suddenly urgent that I hang fairy lights in Zara’s room, then the sunshine inspired me to sort out summer clothes, until the clouds came over and I got bored and moved my attention to the kitchen resulting in the chaos above. A friend suggested it might be a burst of the nesting instinct, and while I’d love to believe that’s the case I think the more likely explanation is a combination of my inability to sit still combined with a complete lack of spatial awareness and a short attention span. Still, it killed most of the day and anything to occupy my mind right now is a good thing.

Days 28 – 31: I’m doing that thing that every woman who has been through the pain of trying to conceive through any means does – analysing every little thing that could be a potential indication of implantation and pregnancy. I’ve reignited my relationship with my old buddy Dr Google to remind myself what the possible symptoms are. They include twinges, cramps, light spotting, headaches, backaches, sore boobs, nausea, metallic taste or absolutely nothing at all, so I can pretty much find a sign in every damn gas bubble travelling through my body.

I’m rubbing my belly wondering if it’s swollen or I just ate too much (probably the latter), squeezing my boobs to figure out if they’re sore because I’m pregnant or because I keep harassing them, trying to decide if I’m oversensitive to smells and feeling squiffy while cooking or if I just need to empty the kitchen bin. I have a headache that goes on for days alternating between heavy pounding and a background thud, I’m secretly (and perversely) taking some enjoyment from it because it could be hormonally induced which would be a good sign, so of course I’m woeful when it stops. I feel like I’m peeing all day every day, annoying but reassuring because that’s a pregnancy thing right? Or it could be all the sparkling water I’m drinking.

This madness will go on for the rest of the week until I pee on a stick – which I’m really trying to avoid the temptation to do just yet. I know logically it’s too early to get a reliable result so a negative test could be totally meaningless at this stage but even knowing that, I don’t think I can take the heartache of seeing that one lonely line I’ve seen too many times before. So for now, the box remains securely sealed in the bathroom. For now…

Day 32: Twas the night before test day and all through the flat, there was pacing and prowling but rest? No, there’d be none of that…

Tomorrow it becomes official, we’ll find out if EB was meant to be. The nurse at the clinic told me told that if I go for the blood test before 10am I can get the results the same day. Seriously? You’re telling me after two weeks of torture there are people who can actually wait another day for the result? Not fucking me, I can assure you of that. Tomorrow morning I’ll be there waiting for the doors to open, fighting off anyone who threatens to delay me one second longer.

And then the result will come.

I know this is a really shitty thing to do but that’s where I’m leaving this for now. Whatever the outcome is both husband and I will need a bit of time to digest it. While I’m obviously a put-it-all-out-there, open-book kind of girl, husband is not so much and I need to respect his desire for a bit more privacy. Although, through physiological necessity it’s my body in question here, it’s his maybe-baby too and he needs to have a say in when and how we share any news about it.

Thank you so much for all your kind thoughts, good vibes and well wishes so far, here’s hoping that I’ll have some good news to share with you next post. xx

Navel Gazing

I should preface this by warning you this is an uncharacteristically earnest post, the result of a scare last night that sent me into a little bout of introspection. Don’t worry, serious and me are strange bedfellows so this won’t last long, irreverence will be restored next post…

Last night the apnea alarm on Zara’s baby monitor went off.  Fortunately it was a false alarm but the sick fear and shock that I felt in those few seconds of panic was almost unparalleled by any other moment in my life.  It’s amazing how quickly the brain can make the leap from calm to catastrophe and suddenly my mind was awash with what ifs and worst possibles. In just five short months this child has made herself a part of my life that I cannot contemplate being without, she is the embodiment of joy and my heart exists in her – although I think she cemented that in the first five minutes of knowing her.

Becoming a mother has changed my priorities and perspective on life.  It’s also given me a whole lot more to worry about in the world but I’ve come to the harsh realisation that there are only so many of these things I can protect my daughter from. When I think about the some of the most dubious situations I’ve found myself in, it’s pretty clear that so much of it has been my own doing, the result of ill-advised decisions, acts of willful defiance and a general belief in my being ten foot tall and bulletproof. Obviously I’ve survived (with a few battle scars) and I want to make sure Zara is able to do the same.

I can’t shelter her from having her own adventures and the fuck ups that will be inherent in those and nor do I want to; it’s those experiences that shape our personalities and make us a bit windswept and interesting. What I can do is equip her to (hopefully) make the best choices in those situations that will allow her to have her own journey – and live to tell the tale.

I figure the best way I can do this is to parent by example and be the type of person I want her to grow into. I’ve no doubt that even at her young age she is taking in far more than we realise (this also makes me pretty certain her first word will be ‘fuck’ – note to self, initiate swear jar).  I want her to be loving, kind, generous, patient, thoughtful and forgiving, I want her to feel gratitude for her life and I want those qualities to influence the decisions she makes.

If you’re thinking this sounds suspiciously like a self-improvement list you’re right because I’m well aware that though my intentions are good I’m quite patently not all of these things all the time! But I’ve no desire to berate or otherwise beat myself up over my shortcomings; I’ve done enough of that in the past to know that self-flagellation is an exercise in futility and I also want my daughter to learn self forgiveness that is so vital to happiness.

Of course all this betterment is highly aspirational but it’s good to have goals right? So when I squeeze my delicious little girl and tell her how much I love her, I’ll also borrow one of my favourite movie lines and tell her ‘you make me wanna be a better [wo]man’. Of course it doesn’t have the same cool factor when it’s not being delivered awkwardly deadpan by Jack Nicholson (http://youtu.be/THtv5VM5LSY) but the sentiment is there!

‘I’d like to take my lunch break now’ and other hilarious notions

Yesterday I told my seven and half week old daughter she was pissing me off. Not my finest hour but in my defence this was at the exasperated end of several hours of arguing about whether or not she was going to have an afternoon sleep (in her opinion the answer was ‘not’) and what I was actually thinking was: “forfucksakechildenoughwiththescreamingandgrizzlingandwrigglingandgrunting
fortheloveofallthasisunholypleasejustshutupandgotofuckingsleepforonefreakinghour”, so I think ‘pissing me off’ was stating it rather mildly. And then the little clever bugger did this:

Clever because only moments earlier I was ready to give her away to the gypsies, or at least the lady next door who seems pretty fond of her, and all of a sudden, in a second I melted. Anyone who has had a baby snuggle into their neck and go to sleep with their soft baby skin and delicious baby scent will tell you that it is utterly irresistible and makes it pretty hard to stay mad.

As I said, I’m not especially proud of my little outburst but show me a parent who hasn’t thought the same (although maybe with less profanity) at least once in those early sleep deprived, time poor weeks and I’ll show you a dirty, dirty liar because this shit is hard. It’s a 24-hour job with no clear job description other than the very broad ‘keep child alive’, there’s no weekends, no holidays and certainly no overtime perks. Husband has had this explained to him firmly but fairly when he dared sleep in on a Sunday morning after I’d been up for hours with the usual 6am feeding call. You’ve heard of the bitchy resting face phenomenon? This is more like the bitchy un-resting face, as in you’re resting and I’m not and I’m feeling quite bitchy about that.

See, I’m a planner, I like to be organised, I like to have a strategy and I love me a good spreadsheet. In the fine line between anally retentive and happy go lucky I have to admit I’d fall on the uptight side because I like to know what’s going on. Babies, on the other hand don’t give a rat’s arse about your silly schedule, quite the contrary, if they get a sniff of a plan in the air they will go out of their way to exert their tiny but mighty power to turn that shit on its head. They’ll watch quietly as you race about the house packing the 47 kilos of crap required for an outing into the baby bag. They’ll wait until that moment you’re poised ready to leave the house and then they’ll break out a tantrum screaming blue bloody murder making their little bodies a rigid as a board that will not bend to go into a car seat. Or they’ll shit up their back. And front, through three layers of clothing. And then spew in your hair for good measure. And that my friends, is why you can kiss your life of organisation goodbye the minute that little creature emerges from your coochie.

Almost eight weeks in and I should know this. It would certainly make for a lot less frustration when things (‘things’ being more specifically the little person) don’t fall into my nicely plotted line. The child will sleep. Eventually. Shit will get done when it gets done. Or it won’t. I’ll shower later. Or I won’t. The beauty of spending 24 hours a day in the company (or should that be service?) of an undiscerning two month old is that along with plans, she also doesn’t give a rats arse about appearance or personal grooming. She still smiles at me with my unkempt hair and weary 4am face that hasn’t seen makeup in almost as long as she’s been alive, and you know what? When I’m looking at that little gummy smile greeting me in the dark early morning hours all is instantly forgiven. Go on then child, fuck up my plans and drive me to distraction, damn sure you’re going to do it for the next 18 years or so, I may as well get used to it and you may as well capitalise on your cuteness while you can!

A sucker for punishment

Fig: Someone who just can’t get enough; someone who is eager for a burden or some sort of difficulty; someone who is under the influence of post-partum insanity

Six weeks. My daughter is six weeks old and husband and I have are already talking about number two. I know what you’re thinking, that is some crazy arsed shit, is having one arse to wipe other than my own not enough right now? Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation making me delusional or the magical concoction of herbs I’ve been knocking back is having hallucinogenic effects but for some reason, it doesn’t seem like a totally unreasonable idea. Let me explain…

1. Backing the outsider: Given the clusterfuck it would appear that my endocrine and reproductive system is, the chances of me getting knocked up naturally are pretty slim so if it did happen it’d really be a nice surprise more than anything – and a bit of a coup on my body’s part! It’s kind of like backing the roughie in the horse race (Melbourne Cup week, gambling on the mind); it’d be exciting if it came in, but as a long shot you’re not going to put the family fortune on it.

2. Making lemonade out of lemons: Right now my body is already bearing the battle scars of number one. Where once I had abs my core now resembles a loosely filled bag of jelly. Seeing as it’s pre-stretched ready to go so we could probably just skip the growing bit and slip a full term baby in there I reckon. The way I see it, if I slave my arse off to get those abs back it’s really going to rip my undies to then find out they’re going to be trashed again, may as well just make use of the current vacancy right? Same goes for my hooha. I’m honestly not sure what sort of state that’s in, I haven’t inspected the damage myself (shudder) and I dare not ask husband about the destruction to his favourite toy but I do know what came out of there and there’s gotta be some sort of fallout (although not bloody literally I hope!). The fanny farts at pilates would indicate a questionable pelvic floor but this could be a bonus – surely having another sprog in quick succession will mean the birth is an easier process if the exit path is already opened up, that kid should just slide on out, right? Right?

3. I am a lazy cow: Sadly, exclusive breastfeeding turned out to be a physical impossibility for me this time around which means I don’t have the contraceptive properties working in my favour. Frankly I’m far too lazy and forgetful to bother with alternatives so if there’s going to be any rumpy pumpy it should be entered into (no pun intended, really!) with the knowledge that there may be a small screaming consequence. That probably sounds like I’m laying down some sort of baby ultimatum but let’s be honest, husband is a red blooded male, we’re married and have a 6 week old baby, he’s lucky to be getting any action whatsoever and is highly unlikely to be questioning the fine print!

4. The pursuit of perfection: In six short weeks the list of things we’ll do better, or at least differently has already begun. I’m a bit of a perfectionist and I like to know I’ve done a good job, which of course now extends to my new role as a parent. I do feel a bit of guilt when I think that poor Zara is basically our parenting guinea pig. The poor kid is going to bear the brunt of our experimentation, learning and inevitable fuck ups – the joy of being the first-born. Of course the upside to that is that there’s a lot that we’ll do first time round that just won’t happen with number two for reasons of practicality or pragmatism.

Wow, when I lay it all out like that, if anything does come of this it’s really going to make a beautiful story of conception we can tell number two one day: “Well darling, we made some fuck ups with your big sister we wanted to make up for so we were looking for a second chance. Mummy was so lazy she was looking for any excuse not to whip her body back into shape and Daddy was just happy to have the chance to get a leg over”. Touching, really it is. Almost as much as “a nice scientist made you in a petrie dish” that we can tell Zara – welcome to modern parenting!

The one thing all new parents need to know

It’s official, we’ve unlocked an achievement badge and survived our first month as parents. By survived I mean muddled through in a sleep deprived, fumbling, bumbling, what-the-fuck-does-that-cry-mean and what-the-fuck-are-we-doing sort of fashion. But the point is we’ve made it. I’m not entirely sure where four weeks have gone but when you’re living life in three to four hour increments of feed/play/settle (settle, settle, settle some more, jaysusmaryandjoseph pleeeeease settle)/ sleep, the days have a habit of merging into one. It’s been some of the most challenging and definitely most rewarding days of my life and despite at times feeling lost, exhausted and like the worst parent in the world, I wouldn’t change a thing.

When you’re expecting a baby, advice (often unsolicited) comes from all angles. It starts to feel like every know-all bastard wants to tell you the best way to raise your unborn child. Of course I know they all mean well, but there were times I nearly bit through my tongue trying to hold it while I was subjected to a barrage of ‘interesting’ guidance. But in what I consider a triumph of my already minimal patience I nodded and smiled politely whilst mentally filing all this information (and misinformation) into three categories: useful – retain; borderline dubious but has potential – hold; and, bullshit – discard.

Since Zara’s birth I’ve had the chance to delve into these archives to really sort the fact from fiction. So when I was having a month one debrief with a friend over a glass of wine – yes, you read that correctly and let’s just pause here to applaud the fact that I was out, in the world with real people having a wine – virtual high five! But I digress, the fact is I was able to tell her what the real actual need to know shit is about life with a newborn. From my recent experience the holy grail I’ve drawn on daily is this: ‘lower your standards’. There is it folks, gild it, frame it, hang it on the wall and your life will be infinitely easier. Then when it feels like everything is going to shit remind yourself of the rule and apply it to everything – the state of your house, personal hygiene and grooming, your post-baby body, your expectations of yourself, your partner and your baby as a new family. Then, when you think you’ve done that, do it again.

I used to take some pride in my appearance; I wouldn’t say I’m a princess but I do like to be at least presentable when I leave the house and in the name of vanity this usually includes at least some mascara, bronzer and a dab lipgloss. Surely I thought to myself pre-baby, surely there’s always going to be time for a makeup routine that minimal?! And now, as I try to brush my teeth and apply moisturiser at the same time, I think back and I laugh and I laugh at my naïveté. A word to the wise on that note, do not try to hold your electric toothbrush between your teeth while it’s going or you’ll also have to find time to have the filling that is knocked out replaced. And never again will I take showering for granted. Don’t get me wrong I still wash, my standards haven’t fallen that far, but it’s just that some days I actually have long enough to get wet in the shower rather than just diving between the drops on the way in and out.

In four short weeks I’ve managed to undo years of painstaking good work training myself to take my time with my meals, delicately putting my knife and fork down between bites, savouring flavours. Now my food is not so much eaten as inhaled in a frenzied panic that the peace may soon be shattered. Either that, or I’ve been eating over a baby snoozing happily in a sling and then had a second meal from the debris I’ve discovered on de-cocoocing her.

The domestic pride I discovered over the previous three months while waiting for Zara’s arrival has also gone swiftly by the wayside. I used to clean the kitchen drawers once a week, at the same time I’d painstakingly polish all the cutlery to get rid of those pesky dishwasher smudges – an idea I now find flat out hilarious. However, this week I did go to the effort of shoving the vacuum cleaner in the drawer and rattling it around the cutlery to clean out the worst of the food rubble that had fallen in. At the time it occurred to me that it was possibly a bit grubby putting something I’d just cleaned the floor with amongst our eating implements, then I remembered the golden rule and thought, fuck it, the fact that I was vacuuming at all was a coup.

But of course the most important application of the rule is in reference to the three of us and figuring our how we work together as a new little family. I’ve come to accept that we are not perfect parents and nor is our darling new baby a perfectly behaved cherub because these are entirely fictional ideas – there ain’t no such thing people! The more I remind myself of this fact the easier life is when things aren’t going according to the idealistic images I had about parenthood. The more I understand and accept that we’re all wonderfully flawed the more I can enjoy this delicious, amazing little amalgamation of our genes – even as she elevates her vocal protests to a whole new decibel level and irrevocably damages my hearing!

Assumption is the mother of all fuck ups

That’s a charming turn of phrase favoured by my lovely and very pragmatic husband. As it turns out he’s right, it’s also been the mother of all tears, tantrums and general episodes of ‘woe is me’ over the last few weeks.

When I got pregnant I assumed (foolishly as it turns out) that we were over the hard bit, that now things would go ‘normally and naturally’ which for me included breastfeeding – surely one of the most natural things in the world right? Wrong apparently. I spent the first week after birth waiting for my milk to come in with assurances from all angles that any day now I would wake up with two milk filled melons ready to spill forth and feed my offspring. So far I’m still waiting.

I’ve consulted my obstetrician, GP, almost all of the staff midwives at the hospital, several naturopaths and the dangerous Doctor Google. The result is a kitchen bench covered with an eclectic collection of prescription pills and witch-doctoring potions. My diet is dictated by the magical milk making properties of foods, one of the culinary highlights of this menu being Brewers Yeast. If you haven’t had the misfortune to sample this treat I’d strongly advise you keep it that way. It tastes like pure evil. However, sources tell me its consumption may play a role in curing lacklustre lactation so every morning I drink a smoothie laced with the vile tasting shit and chase it down at morning tea time with specially baked lactation cookies – among other things.

Milk production, I’ve learned, works on a supply and demand basis. The more demand there is, the more the body will make, so sometimes it’s necessary to create artificial demand by way of a breast pump. As a result my tits are taking a hammering. If I’m not shoving them in poor Zara’s face at every given opportunity I’m hooked up to an industrial grade milking machine like a dairy cow trying to extract any lingering droplets from my underperforming mammaries.

Despite my days (and nights) being totally tit focused I’m still not producing enough to sustain a little person’s growth so we’re having to do combined feeding with formula to meet daily requirements. While I’m going through the tit-bottle-pump rigmarole at 2am the temptation is pretty strong to say, fuck it, life would be so much easier right now if I just admitted defeat and went to full time bottle-feeding. But at the same time there’s the very stubborn part of me that’s not willing to roll over just yet. It’s partly a reaction to the feeling that my treacherous body has let me down again – first with its refusal to procreate normally and now this – I feel like I quite literally got the booby prize (pun totally intended).

I have to admit a certain amount of resentment towards the bottle of formula. Somehow it adds insult to injury watching it so easily do the job of satisfying and sustaining my daughter that I should be able to do, but am struggling to. I’ve cried ‘it’s not fair’ tears and cursed my faulty body, however the flipside is seeing her grow and thrive as she should. It’s pretty difficult to resent something that’s enabling that growth to happen and it’s certainly preferable to a hungry, crying baby.

This, I’m learning is the fine balance of being a mother, putting my pride and ideals aside for the welfare of my child. I know this because I’ve seen it in practice with my own mum as she’s been here as an invaluable source of support and sanity over these first few weeks. While I’ve been consoling my baby and trying to soothe her tears, my mum has been doing the same for me. When my heart has been aching because my little girl needs me, I know that Mum has been feeling the same ache wanting to wave a magic wand to make things better for me. And I know that this is just the beginning of a lifetime of worry, sacrifices and sleepless nights. Although it may sting a bit at the time, I’ve also discovered that as a parent you’ll do anything possible if it is in the best interest of your baby. Even when your baby is 33 years old and living in another country – right mum? x x x