Only You...?

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman in possession of one child must be in want of another.

Ok, so perhaps skewing the famous opening line of one of Austen’s pieces of literary genius might make me sound a little aggressive about this situation I find myself thrust into, but I am bewildered at the barrage of unprompted questions of this nature that I’ve been fielding of late.

It actually feels as if I’ve been deflecting this interrogation since Harrison was knee-high to a butterfly. But the closer he crept to the age of two, the more frequent the inquiries became. It’s as awkward as when a childless couple, secretly trying to fall pregnant, face an onslaught of ill-timed, intrusive, questions regarding their offspring-free state. To me it’s just as delicate and personal a position and one that I struggle to articulate eloquently just why I may decide to be a mum of one.

Friends and family, who know the score of why I am hesitant to head towards a number two child, are forgiven for their questioning – I know it comes from a place of care. It’s the relative strangers (usually smugly in possession of a brood of three or more) who someone manage to make this insecure mum of one feel like a failure for not going forth and increasing the world’s population.

The weekly playgroup I attend is littered with mums of multiple children. Harrison is an anomaly in a sea of several offspring. I know it’s a case of me being silly and insecure but it feels as if I am secretly judged for taking the so-called easy route (no pun intended). I often stare, incredulously, as these brave women patrol their numerous children without so much a sigh or dark circled eye in sight and am bewildered by the conundrum of some who contemplate going back for a third, or God forbid, FOURTH child. I feel like shrivelling into insignificance in their midst. What do they have that I lack, that made them able to go back for more?

Admittedly, I’ll get the occasional flutter of desire to have a second child, but more frequently the thought results in a cold fisted clench of dread encircling my heart, and my mind racing with “do I really have to go through it all again?” To those people who roll their eyes and remark nonchalantly that “you forget the pain of labour the minute its over”, I have three words: third degree tear. Deal with one of those for six months and come back to me and tell me how quickly it was you wiped the agony from your memory.

So you combine the trauma and complications of labour, with failure to breastfeed and a bone fide catnapping child, and viola, it’s a recipe for a single child family.

Perhaps, for me it is also the isolation issue. I think if you have a super support network surrounding you, it might be easier to decide you are up for the challenge to take on the parenthood triathlon yet again… However the lifestyle we have translates into much seclusion for me, meaning some days it feels like I need superhuman strength to survive the 13-hour solo stretches amusing one demanding child – throw a needy newborn into the mix and my sanity might take a beating!  Although I do concede welcoming a second child may be the key to unlocking a social support circle in our new community... 

I am sure many conclude the only child is the “nouveau selfish”, or the “easy road” that this millennium’s adults are opting to take. It’s their answer to the childless couple of the 90’s who greedily want to have it all, but not have to also change nappies along the way.

The picture painted is that this is the far too easy option in life and if you are going to give birth only once, why bother to do it at all? They extol the belief that this is bound to induce a life of silver-spoon-esque style of doting on said singular offspring. But what of the financial security you can promise them, having only their education and interests at heart? I mean, there’s a reason that birth control is one of the only industries to have experienced boom times during the GFC – and its not because we have all suddenly become sensible when it comes to sex. Its super expensive to raise one child, let alone two.

Then there is the promise that your undivided attention will always fall to only them, therefore they should flourish under your exclusive concentration. Plus, they need not ever have to vie for your affections – or top spot as the favourite child (c’mon mums and dads, don’t lie, we know you got yours too!). Or, how to save them the embarrassment of having a clingy younger sister/brother constantly begging to be included on their play dates, or the weekends filled to bursting as the scheduled extracurricular activities of multiple children see you trying to go seven different directions in the same timeframe.

And lets face it, being a one-child family would mean one less mini-van or four-wheel drive on the road. Bliss!

I’m aware I’ll be better emotionally equipped the second time around, with the benefit of first hand experience and hindsight offering a huge advantage to heading for number two. But whether all the psychological preparation in the universe can set me up for a successful stab at giving Harrison a sibling remains to be seen.

Some days I’m not unsure a good slap across the face might just do the trick to snap me out of this funk and tell me to just get over it already – its in the past and long may it stay that way (though I am rather stubborn so success is not guaranteed!). I mean my Nan, God bless her, also proclaimed to be only ever having the one child; and she then proceeded to go back for nine more. I suppose, dear Husband, there is small hope for your footy team yet!

So Gisele, If Breast Is Best, What About The Rest?

Being in the public eye can afford you many privileges and put upon you great expectation to shine as a role model. Why then, would one such celebrity abuse this special power by making extreme and insensitive comments that are bound to offend a majority of women the world over?

Yes, Gisele Buchden, with your impossibly long legs and lithe model’s physique, but apparently little brain power, I am referring to you.

Your recent inflammatory comments regarding instating a mandatory 6-month breastfeeding sentence on all mothers has sparked an inferno that no amount of backpedalling can put out. It’s akin to saying all women should be a size 10 – the same level of absurdity applies.

The simple, inescapable fact is that not all women CAN breastfeed. Period. For so many, like me, It.Just.Does.Not.Work. Do you then let your infant go hungry, less it be exposed to the so-called perilous evils of Baby Formula? And while I am no medical expert, my son now aged two, appears to be the epitome of health and happiness!

Many of us would have loved nothing more than to be able to share this special experience with their newborn. Try as you might, often persevering to the detriment of your own physical and emotional health, you eventually get to breaking point where something has got to give. And if it comes to a choice between your sanity and duelling with a dwindling milk supply I recall only too clearly which one I was forced to opt for. PND is a very real looming presence amongst new mothers, and with statistics showing that one in ten will succumb to this insidious ailment, it threatens to strike the most vulnerable. They are the Mums already struggling with the cataclysmic change in dynamics to their once ordered world; you couple that with breastfeeding issues and they can swiftly find themselves toppling over into a big black abyss of pain, that can be avoided by switching to bottle feeding.

Controversial comments such as those from Gisele do women, who are already donning a heavy necklace of Mother’s guilt, no favours at all. At a time when you are just trying to adapt to “the new normal” life that has becomes yours, after the trauma of childbirth, with hormones rampantly raging through you, and you find you have a baby who wont latch, wont sufficiently suck and therefore wont take a proper feed, you DO NOT, on top of this heavy burden, also require a complete stranger remonstrating you for failing at something that just does not come naturally to many. As one nurse so succinctly put it, as a part of an online forum; “I am a huge advocate of Breast is Best, but could she be anymore self-righteous about it? The women of the world do not need to be dictated to by a "super"model. Bugger off Gisele. New mothers are conflicted enough as it is”.

I can recall a similar agonising moment of unwanted interference. I was in an elevator with my three-month-old son when a stranger started nosily inquiring if I was breastfeeding him. She then proceeded to make hurtful, and extremely insensitive remarks about his being bottle fed, without knowing at all why we had resorted to it. I was inconsolable for hours after… What fragile first time mother needs that sort of weight hanging like a noose around her neck, ready to constrict at any moment?

And let us not forget the mums, so brave, who give birth amidst the trials of extreme illness. Surely it is ill-advised to breastfeed when there are chemicals coursing through your veins or you are undergoing intense medical treatments to be cured? Or this mum, who remarked “I literally popped a lung when I gave birth and tried so hard for so long to breastfeed and simply couldn't because my body was too busy repairing my lung to make milk properly. I had no other choice but to feed my son formula as there was no other option”.

What of the Mothers who are forced to return to the workforce only mere weeks or months after giving birth? How does one breastfeed exclusively and on demand if you must be out earning an income to survive? Not all of us are able to earn a seven figure salary for flashing our flesh to the world and therefore able to stay at home til baby starts solids.

So Gisele, perched high above in your ivory tower of self righteousness, let it be known that for many mums, this excruciating inability to breastfeed your baby is far from some selfish choice, but more so a necessity for your child to ultimately survive and thrive. Many bubs are born premature and the mother will not as yet have had her milk come in – these delicate little souls need nourishment more than any other. Would you deny them this because of your bewildering belief that baby formula is riddled with chemicals?

Whilst valiantly advocating you are that worried about the health benefits attached to choosing bottle feeding over breast, I envisage its more so proclamation that performing this task helped your body “bounce back” into shape after the baby was born. Rest assured, if we all had access to a team of chefs, personal trainers and nutritionists, there is no doubt we would all give you a run for your model money.

And instead of adapting this ridiculous notion and overflowing our prisons with apparently delinquent formula feeding mothers (and therefore creating a separate and much larger issue of detaching the mother from her child) how about we encourage these frustrated new mums and comfort them when they cry? Because I believe its much more crucial to have a happy, emotionally stable mother than a child who is suckling breast milk over formula.

The Godfather and his gorgeous wife

It is quite an amazing treat to see your child garner an instant repore with people who he has never known in his “aware” life. To clarify a little more clearly, that while Harrison has met these two super special beings before, the last time we were all together, he was but 9 months old and could not have comprehended having a unique relationship with these two.

I’m referring of course to “The Godfather” and his gorgeous wife; Matty and Tessa, who blessed us with a fun filled visit this past weekend.

My child can be rather selective about who he chooses to subject his affections to. Like a tight fisted scrooge who still possesses his first dollar, Harrison keeps his cards close to his chest and only allows in close a small number of people. So while Matty and Tessa mean the world to The Husband and I, it was no guarantee that my boy would heed the same preference. I mean, just ask his disgruntled Aunty Shez, one of my all time most loved and favoured people, and Harrison treats her with a distinct nonchalance! His lukewarm behaviour is thankfully thawing but the distance we have between our homes doesn’t help. Slowly however the relationship is forming – I’ll keep pushing to help it grow strong!

But with Matty George, it was instant. Akin to an unconditional love at first sight type of attraction, where their personalities just clicked. You’d have been forgiven for thinking they saw one another on a daily basis, such was the tight bond they instantly formed. For 48 hours, it was “Matty coming…”, “Look Matty…”, “Matty, Matty, MATTY!” at every available opportunity! Hell, he even climbed into bed with he and Tess to read a story Sunday morning – something the Husband and I have NEVER had the pleasure of enjoying. I even hesitantly attempted to instate this action Monday morning, but alas, to no avail. It would seem unless you are a 6-foot plus giant with ginger hair it’s really just not the same…

And Tess did get a look in eventually too. With her being so beautifully fond of him, I was relieved he returned her affections. Being a boy’s boy though denoted his devotion to his Godfather but Aunty Tess sure got given a shining too as well!

The toughest thing is the absence that we now have in our lives. Living so far apart is hard on us, but its just plain heartbreaking for Harrison. How do you explain to him that these people, who he clearly adores, have swept in like a hurricane of happiness into his little world, only to vanish again after 48 hours? It’s the same with all the people we hold near and dear. I struggle to reconcile the fact myself when I know I wont see people I cherish again for some time, so I can only imagine its triple the distress for my son.

The only perspective I can take from all of this is that while we don’t have quantity time with the ones we love the most, when we share time together, its always quality. You never get a chance to take a moment for granted because you know how very precious and rare these chances to be together are.

So Matty and Tess, our truly beautiful friends, thank you for a fun filled few days, overflowing with much laughter and love. Rest assured you have secured a special place in Harrison’s heart forever more.

Harrison Webeck, Here's Cheers To You For Turning Two!

My beautiful boy, how it amazes me that we have already reached this milestone of your second birthday. It feels like only weeks ago that we met for the first time, you nuzzling me, seeking warmth, nourishment and strength after being thrust into a strange new world; and me clinging to you for dear life as the shock of labour and the daunting revelation of immense responsibilities reverberated through me.

Two years on and its hard to reconcile you with the baby that you were; the serious, wide eyed little man who was busy soaking up so much of this world that sleep during the day seemed like too much of a chance to miss out on what might happen next. Yet here we are today and you have strung together a complete three hour stretch! What isn’t so much of a surprise is that the constant babbler has become the non-stop chatterbox. But be assured its one of the things we love most about you!

One evening last week, after creeping in to wish you a final goodnight before my own bedtime, I suddenly felt compelled to sit by your cot and cradle the errant hand that had wandered out from beneath your sheets. Stroking your soft skin, I was overwhelmed with love for you. Wiped away were the more unpleasant memories of the day, which involved some scolding, some frustration, some tears (possibly from us both!) and all that remain was a deep-seated strength of love that resonated throughout my body. Sometimes life gets so busy, and, ironically, so “the same”, that we forget to take time out and soak up the essence of what it is that matters; the things that make our hearts sing and our souls smile. Things like the simple act of staring at your precious, still face as you sleep.

Mesmerised by the sight of my sleeping beauty that is you, it all came flooding back to me. The recollections of the day that were peppered with love and laughter, that cheeky grin; the songs that you launch into at any given time; or the adult witticisms that you seem to make your own. The moments when you rush to me and thrust your arms around my legs and proclaim “Mummy, I’m happy I found you”, or softly cradle my face, with the palm of your hand wanting nothing more than a rare minute to sit still and have a cuddle with me. They are the moments that matter, and the ones, when you are a teen and cannot bear me to hold you close, that I’ll unfurl from my memory and treasure the most.

My beautiful Harrison, we did get off to a rocky start two years ago, you and I. Not that it was your fault, oh no. I only wish I knew then what I know now. That while you think you may never cope, not to mention enjoy a full night of unbroken sleep ever again, it DOES get easier (although the jury is still out on exactly how you define “easy” once you become a Mum!!) and that you do eventually learn to adjust to the “new normal” that life has morphed into. Sure, its never exactly plain sailing and you can guarantee the minute you start to think its all a little too straightforward, it’s a catalyst for calamity to strike your world. But I never doubted that I would fall head over heels in love with you. And now two years on since this roller coaster of parenthood commenced, I can only hope you are as content as we are with you in our world.

Happy 2nd birthday my beautiful baby boy, may you forever know you are truly, madly, deeply loved by me.

Yours eternally,

Mummy xxxxxxxxxxx

Flights of Fancy

Last week we waved goodbye to a significant chapter of our lives - free flights!

 

Countless complimentray air journeys have been enjoyed over the last two years; in fact there have been too numerous to count! On my maternity leave it was a Godsend to be able to pack up our sideshow and hitch a ride on The Husband’s work wagon, wherever he may need to travel, or escape to the blissful haven where Grandparent help is on tap. And while the twelve months since I returned to the paid working world saw the opportunities to take flight at a moment’s notice dry up, we are only a little sad that we have now seen the culmination of the no cost air travel.

Cramped conditions en route only worsen as the child grows so sitting on my lap really wouldn’t be too comfortable for either of us from here on in! And as much as Harrison was fairly well behaved for me, I won’t miss the anxious build up to the event where I psyche myself up for the courage to go it alone with him. No more manhandling luggage, prams and child that are equivalent to my body weight and my size, no more attempting to reason with an either over excited or overtired child, and no more holding my breath the entire flight praying he wont scream the whole way.

You see it in the face of my fellow travellers (and prospective flight neighbours) – they are all internally pleading with the powers that be to NOT be afforded the seat next to me and my rambunctious child. Some will still be pleasant en route, some rare gems even resort to being helpful; but mostly, like the last candidate, visibly shudder as they slide apprehensively into the cramped airline chair adjacent to ours. He squeezed his eyes tight and forced a grim smile – and that was it, for the entire trip (which was delayed, en route, no doubt much to his immense displeasure). Sure it probably didn’t impress him when I accidentally doused us all with contents of Harrison’s juice, which must have aerated mid flight. Flipping the lid, it proceeded to spray as if a freshly corked bottle of champagne, right across Harrison & I, the portable DVD player, plus the seat in front. Apologising profusely as I mopped up the contents, he offered but a mere grimace in acknowledgement, and inched further away from our soaking selves.

Really we have been lucky. In the countless flights we have taken there are only three that stand out on the excruciating list. There was a solo flight from Brisbane that I had to make when my boy was 11 months old and I was suffering from a tummy bug and head cold from hell; the flight when Harrison was 15 months old and unable to comprehend my demands that he NOT kick the passenger seat in front, or scream, or wriggle endlessly on my lap in an attempt to escape the confines of our seat; and finally, there was a rather restless five hour journey back from Fiji where it eventually took Panadol to placate my agitated boy.

But I suppose I should offer a special mention to the over friendly male Virgin flight attendant who flirted with this completely disinterested Mummy and saw to it Harrison and I were given a right royal looking after. Nice as it was to be noticed, it was all so unexpected, and unnecessary, if you ask me, as it was quite obvious from the wedding ring and child I was rather otherwise attached! Still, I could breathe easy no one was going to give us a hard time or completely ignore on that trip!

Overall the ratio is in favour of many successful, complimentary flights and if nothing else, I think it has built character that I was able to tackle this somewhat daunting challenge alone, over and over again.

So, pack away the overhead oxygen masks; its automobile air bags to protect us en route on driving holidays from here on in!

Indiana Jones Webeck?

As this blog was born to record all my little boy’s magic memories, I must then take a moment to make testimony to his latest (and lasting!) obsession with the most feared creatures of our time: dinosaurs!


Initially I suspected this was just another passing phase (he is prone to them, a bit fickle like his Mummy when it comes to fads!) but this craze continues to keep him enthralled and enlightened – and us amazed. Now the shock has spread to his day-care teachers, after a science day at school on Thursday.

Apparently my little palaeontologist in the making blew them all away when he proceeded to reel off the names of various dinosaurs on display – so much so that I had four different teachers go out of their way individually to tell me how astonished they were by it!

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact we have recorded about a dozen different episodes of his new favourite show, “Dino Dan” which seems to be on high rotation on the DVD hard drive. Any chance he gets, he is asking for it to be played (I think I can recite the scenes myself by rote now...) and he will then sit and stare, absolutely entranced for the entire ten minutes its on. So far he can identify the T Rex (complete with growling roar each time he utters this one’s name and always labelled “scary”); the Stegosaurus (sometimes called Steggy for short); Triceratops; Brachiosaurus; Spinosaurus; and my personal favourite I hear him say – the Euoplocephalus (well, he pronounces Euocopolus, and thats good enough for me!). Yes, not quite two years old and already more knowledgeable than his Mummy when it comes to these ancient, and thankfully extinct creatures!

As fixated as Harrison is on the subject, I somehow I don’t think he is ready to take in a viewing of any of the Jurassic Park trilogy just yet – hell I was scared witless even as a teenager watching it (though it might have had something to do with my Sister’s high-school boyfriend deciding to growl in my ear at every hair raising opportunity!). I’d imagine it would both put an end to his obsession and cause nightmares under the cloak of darkness that would equate to no sleep for anyone!

So as far as childhood infatuations go, there could be worse, I am sure, and anything that helps knowledge blossom in his ever expanding brain I am eager to encourage. Personally, I am hoping it does take him on some wild adventures down the track – I’ve always quite fancied seeing some of the prehistoric wonders of the world so would be willing to volunteer as his baggage handler! We could have the next Indiana Jones on our hands – or at the other end of the fictional celebrity spectrum, the new Ross Geller of Friends fame… Let’s hope he leans more towards the first option as poor Ross was a bit ridiculed for his passion while Indiana was the epitome of swagger and cool…

Nigella Lawson, I'll Never Be...

I’ve always been an advocate of the fact that one person can’t be singularly spectacular at everything they try their hands at. The excuse of “you’re skills lie in other areas” has never rung more true than on The Husband’s birthday, when I, his domestically challenged (and ailing with a nasty cold!) wife decided to try and bake him a cake.

The last time I can clearly remember baking anything, other than Mum’s Chocolate Slice, was approximately 18 years ago. It was school holidays and I was at a friend’s house when we decided to try our hands at a gateaux gastronomic exercise– from scratch AND with no recipe. Ambitious, I assure you! Sure, that meant everything from vanilla essence to vinegar got a start and unsurprisingly, it failed to rise very high (I couldn’t actually tell you if we even put flour in that creation, come to think of it…). But I do distinctly remember decorating its outer edges with Rolo chocolates and that did make all the difference to the end taste to this uncultured patisserie palate!

So, after a recent discussion with a work colleague about how as a Mother I really ought to be partaking in this traditional role, I decided my first attempt would be to surprise The Husband with a home-made birthday cake. She eagerly encouraged me it would be a lovely activity for Harrison and I to share in. And she may have been right, had the boy and I both not been suffering from miserable colds, and a severe lack of sleep…

You’d like you couldn’t go too wrong with a packet mix right? Wrong.

Who knew you needed other ingredients like vegetable oil when you were using a packet mix? Not this little brown duck! Thankfully I had some stashed away in the cupboard, along with luckily having 3 eggs left (that I assumed had not gone out of date) and we were on our way. Well, that was until it came time to “combine” the damn thing.

Electric mixer, it stated, was what I needed to blend it all together, set to low. Improvising with the whisk attachment that belongs to our food processor, I could not, for the love of all things sweet and savoury, work out which was the slower of the two settings. Seemed there was a “fast” and a “faster” option!

Opting, of course, for the slower of the two speedy choices, I gingerly placed the whisk into the contents and braced myself for the mixing to commence. And PUFF. Like a mushroom cloud after an atomic bomb, so was my kitchen, and my clothes, covered in a fine film of chocolate cake mixture.

Making a rapid decision to swap to a bigger bowl and see if that helped contain the ingredients within, I  winced in anticipation as my finger pressed down on go. POOF, showering down like a dust storm in the outback we again sent plumes of cocoa dust raining upon us. By this stage, with my nose running like a tap and my eyes stinging not only from the lack of sleep the two nights previous and not the grit lodged in them from the explosions, my son decided to try and get involved in the festivities. Unfortunately for him, with me now unable to read the instructions on the back of the box as they were “caked” in soggy mixture, I wasn’t really in a state to have him acting as my assistant chef. Though goodness knows he might have given it a better shot than me! I’d save him the all important role of licking the bowl clean, to make up for my misgivings as a teacher!

As the end result was put to the test (after a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday TO YOU DADDY from Harrison) I thankfully got the thumbs up from my Masterchef judges. Mind you Harrison would enjoy chocolate scraped from the inside of a garbage bin and Tone wouldn’t have been game to state otherwise, seeing as how his sick wife had gone to so much effort. And I couldn’t realistically tell, having lost all tastebuds and appetite.

So while it may have taken longer to clean up the sprawling mess I’d made than to actually bake the cake, and given that any OH&S organisaton would have named and shamed my cooking school due to the germ ridden state of the chef, I am hopeful that later this month when it’s the son’s second birthday, I will have honed my Nigella Lawson baking skills to produce a picture perfect birthday cake!