New Year’s Resolution number one: to blog more. Well, to actually blog at all. Given that much of my husband’s Christmas break was spent firefighting the billion hack attempts on this site, I owe it to him, at least, to put up some content.
I won’t blather on about why the last couple of years have been a bit thin on the blog side (two kids born in 2013!), I’ll just get on with it…
This is what I’m up to as we break into 2015…
It’s been a while since I blogged, and even longer since I blogged regularly. Somehow, having kids and all that that entails, has seen my writing slip to one side and I fear I’m not as good at it as I once was. I’m out of practice. So, stealing inspiration from this post, here’s one to ease myself back in…
Reading: Well, I’m not actually reading anything at the moment, in anticipation of the publication of The Atlas of Us – tomorrow! It’s author, my good friend Tracy Buchanan, had two dreams: to have a baby and to get a UK publishing deal. Typically, both arrived at the same time but she’s so super talented (and a bit bonkers) that she’s managed to write a book and raise a lovely little girl all at the same time. Hats off to Buchy! The last book I read was The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult and it’s utterly amazing. I urge anyone to read it and not want to change their life for the better afterwards. It’s just fantastic.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all was still, except for… the fact I was in labour in Milton Keynes General Hospital.
After rolling over in bed on the morning of Christmas Eve, I didn’t feel excitement that Santa was coming that night. What I did feel was my waters break. I was 38 weeks and five days pregnant – and this is exactly the point when I had my daughter in January of the same year. That’s right folks, I was definitely having two children in 2013, despite my early 2014 due date for number two. Crazy, huh!? I would have said we couldn’t have planned it better, but we didn’t plan this at all!
After dropping Halle at nursery and Ralphie (the dog) with a super helpful friend, we headed over to the hospital to get checked out. Yes, my waters had broken, they said, and if labour didn’t start naturally within 24 hours I’d be back in hospital to be induced on Christmas morning! Timing!
Feckety feck. I’ve FINALLY gotten around to writing a blog post – my first in the best part of a year – only to find out my website has been hacked. And I have no idea how long for! Note to self: even if not blogging regularly, check your website!
So, while my magnificent husband has managed to reclaim my site from the gremiins, I’ve lost a couple of posts. Quite important ones too: the story of the birth of my first child, and one on breastfeeding. I was amazed by the huge response I got to the latter post and was hugely saddened to find my breastfeeding story is the norm, rather than the exception, and that so many women out there face pressure, guilt, and extreme pain trying to feed their children. (Both posts have been reposted below, as they were).
But a lot’s happened since that first post, not just the fact my boobs are now purely ornamental and not for touching, I can’t stand it. My daughter, now 11 months old, accidentally pinched a nipple while trying to climb me the other day and if she wasn’t my child and I didn’t love her terribly, I may well have flung her across the room. God, it hurt.
Another post I lost due to evil hackers, so here it is again, being posted around eight months after I wrote it…
Warning: This blog post is long, and mentions the word “boob” a lot . When a baby pukes up blood from your shredded nipples, opinions start forming. Here they are…
I’ll start from the beginning. I’d always said I’d give breastfeeding a go – it’s free, after all, and supposed to help lose the baby blubber – but pledged if it didn’t work I wouldn’t beat myself up about it. But I never really thought it wouldn’t work, and therein the problem lies.
The NCT breastfeeding lady (for want of a better title) gave us a lovely three-hour talk as part of our antenatal class, in which we kneaded knitted boobs and held dolls with googly eyes to our breasts. And she made it sound utterly wonderful; a joyous way to bond with your baby. And she explicitly said breastfeeding wouldn’t hurt if you got the latch right. So I left with not a fear in the world that feeding my firstborn would be so UTTERLY HORRIFIC.
Chop them off!
Baby H got 10 days of breast milk from me before we hit the bottle. It was either that, or delve further into a pit of depression and pain and, as happy mums equal happy babies, neither of us was particularly cheery at feeding time. We both screamed, me in pain and baby H in hunger and frustration. If someone had handed me a machete I probably would have chopped my boobs off to end the misery.