As I lurched through the latter days of my pregnancy, addicted to ice chips and 3.00am feasts, an expert at the ‘Heave ‘n Roll’ bed exit, and an endless entertainment for my husband, who liked me to lumber down an imaginary catwalk-for-troglodytes for his amusement, I consoled myself with the knowledge that my baby would soon be born, and I could have a rest from the marathon that is pregnancy.
Not only could I have a rest, I thought, and hand over the baby business to my husband for a while, I could finish my PhD while the baby slept for the first three months. That’s right. Knock the damn thing off during afternoon nap time. Even bash out a couple of journal articles on the side, seeing as I’d been too preoccupied with eating ice and being Australia’s Next Troglodyte Model to focus on writing up my research.
“You’ll be very busy,” people warned. “It’d be better to get it done before you have the baby.”
“Busy schmizzy,” I said, getting jiggy with my sofa and closing my eyes. “I’m good at busy. Give me five projects to juggle and watch me get productive.”
My Mum-friends shook their heads. “Looking after a newborn is like participating in an Extreme Sport. You need a lot of endurance and it’s hard to concentrate on anything else. Try to finish your project before bub comes.”
“Being a famished troglodyte takes endurance too,” I said. “Have you seen how much I have to eat to keep this baby happy? You try lugging my belly around 24/7. Then we’ll talk about Extreme Sports.”
My mother rang. “Have you finished that PhD, yet?” she said. “Your time won’t be your own when you have your child.”
“Mum,” I said. “You had four children under the age of four, cloth nappies without insert thingies and no washing machine. I am not judging you, but this has coloured your perspective on many, many things. I will have one child and a disproportionate number of mod cons. I will finish my PhD when the baby is sleeping.”
“Hmmm,” muttered my mother. “We’ll see.”
A few weeks later, when I’m recovering from an emergency c-section and feeding every ninety minutes, I have a fuzzy and uncomfortable insight into the true meaning of delusion. What the hell was I thinking – I’ll finish my PhD when the baby is sleeping?! When the baby is sleeping I am expressing milk, or sterilising bottles, or staring at the clumps of laundry mushrooming at such at rate you’d think I was fertilizing it. If I get time to finish a cup of tea, it’s a good day. If I can have a shower as well, it’s a multi-tasking miracle and I should be made PM!
My friends were right. Mothering’s an Extreme Sport - without the sponsorship, ripped body, or million-dollar-payday. It demands focus and discipline, and the kind of heroic endurance displayed by people who cycle up mountains in blizzards. Not to mention the design flaws that have, like an episode of Survivor, been thrown into the mix to spice things up.
Take birth, for example. Someone? Anyone? Oh, I know. There are women who find squeezing out a ten pound baby with a head the size of a small nation the ultimate in I Am Woman Hear Me Roar, but I am not one of them. Personally, I think yelling in agony for hours while strangers hang around your nether regions getting personal with your cervix is over-rated. If I ever do this baby thing again, I’d like some other options. What’s wrong with the Stork concept, anyway?
Ironically, if ever anyone deserves a Bex and a good lie down with no interruptions, it’s after Giving Birth. This, of course, is impossible. It has remained impossible for me for many, many, many months. Bub may sleep an eight hour stint every now and then, but I always wake up at the half way mark to make sure Nothing’s Wrong. He might need feeding, or a blanket, or for me to hover over his bed and stare at him, snoozing and grinning like a baby Cheshire Cat.
When I’m not changing, or bathing, or hurtling - eyes closed to maintain the illusion of sleep - down to bub’s room at 3.00am, I’m batting off another sporting mainstay, the Commentator. Make that plural. Available anywhere and at any time, the Commentators inform me of how I’m stacking up against the competition, and they double as Coach if I’m going off course. This has proved dangerous for obvious reasons.
- Lady with a baby. Baby belongs to lady.
- Hormones flying around like locust swarms. Hormones belong to lady.
- Baby likes company at 3.00am. Baby prefers lady.
That’s three red flags right there. I do not need to know what Commentator X thinks of my breastfeeding technique (bad posture, apparently) or Commentator Y thinks of my milk-filled breasts (looks like I’ve had a boob job, apparently, go figure) or Commentator Z thinks of the nutritional quality of my milk (poor, apparently – who knew?). My bub is chubby and happy and full of pre-dawn smiles, and that’s medal enough for me.
As for that PhD I was going to knock off in my free afternoons? I’m still, ahem, finding the time. And my mother, in a startling display of restraint, hasn’t mentioned the damn thing once. Now, that’s Extreme.
Chat with other new mums on the Essential Baby Forums.
