When you’ve got a baby who is a crap sleeper it’s easy to question yourself as a mother. What the freck am I doing wrong? Why is that 8 week old sleeping through the night when my 6-month-old (or older) still wakes multiple times? It can really put you off your mum-game – if that is, you ever felt on it.

But the thing is, your mothering is not defined by how well your baby sleeps. You are not a better mother if your baby sleeps through the night, and you are not a better mother if you co-sleep with a baby permanently attached to your nipple. It makes no difference.

We all mother to the beat of our own drum, following the tune of our own baby.

My first born was a top of the class sleeper from about five months, 7pm-7am, nothing would interrupt his slumber. Prior to that he was pretty woeful, but once he clicked there was no turning back. He would pump out his 12 hours regardless of teething, illness, or a loud bang in the night. And I thought I was a freakin’ parenting Goddess (that’s a total lie, but I did think I had the sleep thing down pat).

Baby number two, by comparison, is a complete lemon when it comes to sleeping at night time. Bottom of the class. Wooden spoon recipient.

In terms of sleep cues I have treated them both the same. I am not naturally a co-sleeping type of person, so from the very early days they were both taught to self-settle without the use of sleep aids (no rocking, patting, feeding to sleep).  They both sleep in their own cots without dummies and I don’t rush straight to them at the slightest grizzle. If we were to examine parenting styles, I would probably align myself to the more ‘right wing’ routine style, no doubt due to the teacher in me. I loosely follow ‘the rules’.

So basically the same mothering style but with very different outcomes.

Why?

For us, the difference is in their temperament.

Our beloved Bobby was born a cantankerous old man who needed his space right from the get go. He would cry whether he was rocked in our arms or put down to sleep in his cot. He was an independent sleeper who didn’t like mucking around with any of that cuddling rubbish.

Sid, on the other hand, is a snuggly little koala who just wants to be nestled up on my chest. He would happily live like a joey in my cesarean pouch if I could only unstitch the scar for him. I definitely tread more softly with Sid because he needs me to, I can feel it. And I’m more comfortable with sleep deprivation second time around, so I do bend the rules a little.

Of course the result is, I’m f%*king tired.

Surprisingly though, and despite my often dog-tired exhaustion, I don’t really want to change much. Yes I would like more sleep, I won’t lie about it, it’s bloody draining. But for the most part, in my own little wanky-spiritual way, I just feel kind of blessed to be getting to know two very different souls. I see how things ebb and flow with the oldest, who despite having ‘strong leadership qualities’, is now far more likely to seek out the reassurance of our cuddles. And I know life will be a series of transitions for each of them, as it is with all of us. Soon enough this phase will be over and we’ll be on to the next one. I won’t say I’ll be sad to get more sleep but I will be sad to say goodbye to the snuggly koala cuddles.

We all have our own little struggles on the journey of early parenthood. Some mothers find the newborn stage a period of pure joy, while others find it completely overwhelming. Some mothers absolutely love staying at home with a baby, while others find the isolation crippling. Some mothers love the anarchy and chaos of a bustling household, while others just want to regain some peace and order.

I guess the point of this piece is just to reassure those mothers out there, who are going through the struggle of sleep deprivation and feeling off their mum-game, that you’re doing an amazing job – whether your baby sleeps the 12 hours or not. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, have a little meltdown if you need to, take help when it’s offered, and then pick yourself up and keep swimming (to a sleep school if needed ha ha!)

When people ask me if Sid is a ‘good’ baby, I just laugh and say, ‘No he’s a total lemon, but we love him anyway.’

Eliza xx

 

 

 

 

My favourite place to sit in our house is an old retro-green armchair that Mum got us from the Salvo’s when we first moved in. This house has more living spaces than we had furniture and given that we’d just sold our soul for a mortgage, we weren’t in a position to buy lots of new things. Six years later it still hasn’t been replaced and we turn a blind eye to its ugliness because it’s so comfortable. The seat is well worn and is hugged either side by wooden armrests who are always ready to hold your coffee or wine or a cold beer. I get the feeling these armrests would’ve been home to a few ashtrays in their time and I like that the chair has a story before ours, even if it is a seedy one.

Anyway, I’m sitting in my favourite old chair, takeaway coffee in hand, and computer on my lap, enjoying a rare moment of ‘empty house time’. Ash is at work, Bobby is in day care and Sid is no doubt being cuddled to sleep by his Nan as we speak. Winter sunshine is coming through the window and birds are gargling their conversation across the road in the park. I should be doing housework but I’m just not. I thought I’d spin a yarn instead.

When I was a young’un I was the shyest little thing you’d ever meet. As a toddler my head was permanently buried between my Mum’s knees, lest anyone dare try talking to me. The only person more shy than me was my younger brother. Man did we put our parents through some outrageous tantrums, as the pent up frustration of hiding ourselves from the outside world was unleashed at home. Going to friend’s houses always brought a mixture of excitement and anxiety. And sleepovers were just completely out of the question.

The only place I felt truly comfortable, aside from the sanctuary of home, was with my grandparents, Marsie and Pa. Kids are intuitive little creatures, they feel things even if they can’t yet label them. And I felt their love for me like a warm hug, safe and unyielding. Marsie’s soft body was the perfect place to rest your head and I can still feel the fabric of her blouse against my cheek. I can smell the chicory essence that sat like syrup in her bottomless coffee cup. I can hear her husky laugh as it fell from her mouth and wrapped its hands around my heart. I don’t care how corny that sounds, in my memory that’s how I feel it. Always nurturing, never belittling. My grandparents are the taste of too many icy poles, vegemite saladas, sponge cake, shell noodles with butter, cups of tea and All Bran cereal heaped with sugar. I even dabbled in a few of their Quick-Eze lollies over the years.

The trees in their garden were the ‘jungle’ of our imaginations. So many hours spent playing there with our cousins, so many happy memories. Our walks along the river track were treasure-finding ‘adventures’, with no sense of time or need to hurry.

Sleepovers at their house meant ice cream for dessert and lollies from the milk bar. There were mud pies in the garden and cubby houses built everywhere we shouldn’t. There were gruff, bristly goodnight kisses from Pa and wet lipstick marks from Marsie. We had the choice of squeaky single beds or co-sleeping with a snoring grandmother. I usually chose the latter and just prodded her when she got too noisy.

I’m all grown up now and my grandparents are very old. Marsie is well-looked after in the local aged-care facility and Pa rides his tricycle down to sit with her every day, accompanied by her skittish Maltese Terrier. They bicker like only old people can, though they’ve done that their whole lives. I want them to last forever, as we do with everyone we hold dear.

As incredible as it seems, I now have my own children, which has brought me to a new stage where my parents, and Ash’s parents, have moved into the role of grandparents. And that’s what got me thinking about all of this in the first place. Because here I sit, just feeling so blessed that I can have some time to myself, while my littlest feels all the love of his Dad’s parents. Grandparents are a gift from God. And I’m not even religious.

The time I spent (and continue to spend) with my grandparents cannot be undervalued in the way that it has shaped who I am, and I know that the influence of grandparents in our boys’ lives will have the same impact.

Because while parents enforce the rules; grandparents soften them.

While parents plant imagination; grandparents let it flourish.

While parents build confidence; grandparents nurture it.

While parents teach respect; grandparents help to practise it.

While parents give security; grandparents provide the backup.

While parents give love; grandparents make it whole. No gaps.

Bobby and Sid are so lucky to have four healthy, active, loving grandparents in their lives. And Ash and I know we are just as lucky. Our boys’ grandparents are there to love them when we get tired. Love them when we need a night out. Love them when they’re naughty. Love them when they’re good. Love them when they just want to love them for loving them’s sake. How incredible.

So I don’t care if the rule book goes out the window when our boys go to play at their Nan and Pop’s or their Mama’s or Poppa Spidge’s. I don’t care if they eat chocolate or watch telly or get cuddled to sleep instead of put in their cot. I don’t care if they stay up late or have pancakes for tea. I don’t care because grandparents are a warm snuggle on a cold day. They are the stuff of picture storybooks. They are the cloudy dreams that conquer scary nightmares. And they’re just bloody awesome.

If our boys can get a little of their Nan’s gentleness, their Pop’s generosity, their Mama’s spirit and their Poppa’s kind temperament – well they will be the luckiest little boys in the world.

I know not everyone is fortunate enough to have such wonderful grandparents, or even have grandparents around at all. So today I am grateful for all of the loving grandparents that walk among us, and taking a little moment to remember those that have become the treasure of our memories. Even if they are no longer here, their stories live on through their family. Their values get passed on.

Grandparents, they’re really the Grand Parents to all of us.

Thank goodness for them.

Eliza xx

Since starting this blog a couple of months ago, I have been fighting an internal battle with myself about whether it’s the right thing to be doing or not. On the one hand, I absolutely love connecting with people and am overjoyed that so many of you are relating to my experiences, whether you are parents or not. On the other hand, I have my two little boys and my partner who mean the world to me, and the thought of impacting them in any way fills me with anxiety. Thankfully my partner is very supportive about the whole thing and quite enjoys featuring as the loveable goofball in many of my posts. But my absolute worst nightmare would be my boys growing up with an image of their mother with her face in her phone, so I try very hard not to check social media while they are with me or take a billion unnecessary photos. I worry about this a lot. Every new ‘liker’ I get brings me a feeling of happiness closely followed by a ‘Gawd how many people do I want looking at my life!’ But having the opportunity to write for my own purpose is incredible, I’ve never done it before I’ve only ever written for school or uni – never just to express my own thoughts and feelings. I don’t have to follow any rules! The fact that people actually want to read it is amazing, and everyone has been so bloody supportive and kind. Sharing the funny stuff is easy, but putting your serious thoughts out into the world is quite terrifying, particularly when you’re someone who cares what other people think of you. And let me just say that blogging in a small country town is completely different to blogging in a big anonymous city, if I’m honest I have to admit I sometimes get a bit anxious walking down the street now, not knowing who is following along and who isn’t! Contrary to how it probably seems with all of my cyber over sharing, I actually hate being the focus of attention. I hate the thought of people looking at me. Put it down to all of my years as an uncoordinated giraffe and my propensity to attract embarrassing situations. It’s part of the reason Ash and I aren’t married – too many eyes! I’ll wet my pants when we actually do it! So there’s a bit of a common theme of anxiety coming through here – and I usually reserve my anxiety for health related issues (Dr Google has caused more sleepless nights than I care to mention!!) So I think to myself, is it worth it? But then I get a message from someone who has related to a story or some beautiful person comes up to me and introduces themselves, which is actually incredible, and I feel like it IS something worth doing. And the overwhelming feeling I’m left with is excitement. I actually feel excited because I feel a change coming on and I feel a part of it.

What’s changing is that people are sharing their feelings more, honest feelings about what’s really going on for them. They’re talking about it, they’re laughing, they’re feeling a tiny bit understood. And that’s just so important. It’s important because the decline in our mental health, as a human race, is nothing short of alarming. The statistics are brutal and as a parent it’s terrifying! We’re watching the news shaking our heads at terrorism, when some of our best and brightest stars are struggling through a silent epidemic that’s right under our noses. It’s creeping through towns and cities everywhere like the plague. I know I’m not immune to it, crikey if I look into the branches of my family tree, mental health issues are rife. If it were a type of reproductive cancer I’d be getting my bloody ovaries removed and having a full blown hysterectomy. But you can’t remove parts of your brain. You can’t remove your feelings or your worries or your serotonin gland (yeah probably not a thing). So the only thing I know of is to talk. Because, shit, words are powerful. So if it’s helping people, I’ll keep talking and sharing for a while yet.

There’s a fantastic quote by Maya Angelou – ‘People will forget what you did, people will forget what you said, but people will never forget how you made them feel.’ I love that quote, in fact it’s on one of my walls, but I disagree slightly in that I think people will remember what you said if it was something they really needed to hear at the time. You cannot underestimate the power of your words. There are things people have said to me over the years that I can remember vividly, though the person saying them probably has no recollection. If you’ve read my ‘Would you trade places with them?’ blog you’ll know what I mean. But on a smaller scale, last weekend my cousin (who does not have kids yet) was up from Melbourne, I was despairing at the state of my house and embarrassed that she would see it, but all she said was ‘You have two kids, if you’re house wasn’t a mess I’d be worried something was wrong’ – she would have no idea how much I needed to hear that simple sentence. I remember seeing an acquaintance in a fish and chip shop about a month after Bobby’s birth, I was knee deep in sleep deprivation and dirty nappies, and she said ‘Just survive. The first few months are f#$king hard, just take each day as it comes and survive.’ At that moment it was exactly what I needed to hear, so I remember it. Words are so, so powerful.

Not all of us are talkers though. I had the best catch up with a good friend this morning and it made me realize, we’re not all comfortable with talking and sharing. You’re either a talker or your not. So all of you talkers out there, it comes down to us to share the realities! Share the triumphs and frustrations, share the wins and the losses, share the exhaustion and worries. Because the non-talkers are listening and it’s making them feel better too.

I’ve gotta end abrubtly because Sid’s stirring and Bobby will no doubt wake any second. More on this to come, but in the meantime, thanks for the support. The words of encouragement you say to me are not only relished by myself, but by others who read them too – so thank you, thank you.

Back to it now.

Eliza xx

It’s hard to watch the news,

As another tragedy unfolds.

It’s hard to look at the faces,

Of whose story must be told.

 

So much hate and destruction,

Sadness and aching grief.

There’s overwhelming darkness,

Using hatred as its thief.

 

It would be easy to be dragged,

Down, down, down into the hate.

To throw our hands in the air,

To eat what they’ve given us as bait.

 

But then I walk outside,

And I breathe in our country air,

From the gum trees of the river bank,

To the winter’s ocean bare.

 

And I remember we’re the lucky ones,

Because we still get to choose,

If we want to be looking at the stars,

Or staring down at our shoes.

 

So I start looking up,

And you wonder what I see?

I see that goodness is everywhere,

It’s in him and her, you and me.

 

There’s goodness in the tradie,

Who waits to hold the door.

There’s goodness in the doctor,

Who says ‘bring your child once more.’

 

There’s goodness in the neighbour,

Bringing milk when you’re in need.

There’s goodness in the pharmacist,

Whose advice you warmly heed.

 

There’s goodness in the shopkeeper,

Who’s smiling at your child,

Even when it’s clear to them,

They’ve gone completely wild.

 

There’s goodness in the friend,

Who drops in just for a chat,

And in the stranger’s welcome face,

Whose dog would like a pat.

 

There’s goodness in the banter,

Of opposition teams.

It’s in the voice of a teacher,

Who nurtures children’s dreams.

 

There’s goodness in the nod,

Of the old man walking by.

It’s there in the love,

Of a tired mother’s sigh.

 

There’s goodness in the nurse,

Who squeezes your shaking hand,

When they sense that the pain,

Is more than you can stand.

 

There’s goodness in the volunteers,

Fighting fires every day.

Leaving their jobs and families,

For only thanks as pay.

 

So I know that there are those,

Who ignite the flame of hate.

But how lucky we can choose,

With whose values we relate.

 

I know it takes more than kindness,

To make the world go round,

But I’d rather be searching for the moon,

Then digging in the ground.

 

Just a smile or a g’day,

Or do you need a hand?

Is all that it takes,

To let goodness make a stand.

 

It doesn’t matter where you come from,

Who you love, or if you pray,

Just make a choice to be kind,

When you step outside each day.

 

Because we are still the lucky ones,

Who wake each morning here.

In this sun drenched country of ours,

The Australia we hold so dear.

 

I am writing this the day after, The Day After. You know The Day After? Of course you do. We all know THE DAY AFTER. The one where you went out last night and had THE BEST time and now you want to chop your head off and pour bulk panadol syrup down your open neck. One of those wake-me-up-when-it’s-over-I-don’t-think-this-could-possibly-just-be-a-hangover-I-must-have-the-bubonic-plague kind of days.

Yesterday was my The Day After. And it got me good.

As most of you would know, we attended our local footy club’s annual ball on Saturday night. As most of you would also know, we have two little boys under 2.5 years. As most of you would know THIS. IS. NOT. A. GOOD. COMBINATION.

Holy Mary Mother of Sweet Baby Jesus it was a long day.

When your 6-month-old wakes ONE HOUR after you’ve strewn your ball gown in a crumpled heap and collapsed into bed, well that doth not a good sleep make. When your toddler wakes you with this face at 6am:

That also doth not a good sleep make.

Yes my friends, the days of the lazy, watch movies and drink Gatorade hangovers have gone. They are officially over. And nothing makes you realise your responsibilities more than caring for your offspring whilst holding your 10 tonne head up and rubbing your sand-filled eyes.

When you are hungover with little kids, the day that would usually go for about 12 sleepy hours, tends to go for roughly 734 hours. It therefore becomes paramount that you break those long hours up into units of time. Watching The Wiggles, for example, takes up one unit (about 45 minutes). Nursery Rhymes on the laptop can go for another unit. Me lying on the couch peeling stickers off the sticker book so the toddler can stick them to the carpet, my face, his tongue – also one unit. Providing semi-nutritious snacks by method of drip feeding (ie handing out one sultana at a time) counts for one unit.

Essential domestic duties pitch partner against partner. Husband against wife.

Nappy change needed? I’ll paper, scissors, rock you for it.

Greasy takeaway need picking up? I changed the nappy, you’re doing it.

Meal need preparing? I’ll do this one if you do the next one.

You will also go to great lengths to search out respite. Without mentioning any names, a good friend of mine has been known to casually walk past his parent’s house with toddler in pusher and just happen to drop in with his pasty face and husky voice. He then magically appears back at home sans toddler. And I can’t say I’m not appreciative of his survivor-style tactics, we honest to goodness would not have made it through the day without them.

But here we are, the day after The Day After, and shit I’m thankful we did it! What was one small step for the social regulars, was one giant leap for the social isolates like myself and mothers everywhere. Because when you spend all of your days caring for babies and negotiating with terrorists (or toddlers, however you like to pronounce it) you can lose a bit of your identity. More than a little bit actually. And yes I wouldn’t change it for the world, I shouldn’t even need to say that, but it’s still hard to swallow sometimes. I promise I’m not being ungrateful, I adore being a mum, I’m just being honest.

I used to be able to talk about work, education, netball, politics, current affairs, great TV shows, world events. Now I literally talk about bowel movements, teething and lack of sleep. It can be hard to hold an engaging conversation with someone when you literally have nothing else to talk about. You can see the glazed look in their eyes as soon as the word baby is mentioned, and I absolutely do not blame them, other people’s kids really aren’t that interesting. I actually had to ask the pharmacy assistant what month we were in when I dated a script today, not what day, what MONTH. Holy heck girl, get out more!

So I did get out, and it was just as all of you beautiful, supportive, encouraging friends said it would be. It was bloody wonderful. I laughed, I over-shared, I gossiped, I danced, I drank and I was just downright merry.

And now I return to my beautiful, busy boys with a renewed sense of self.

Yes we are mothers (and fathers), and yes our children are absolutely everything, everything, everything to us…but we are also everything, everything, everything to them so we’ve gotta look after their parents too!

Just not too often, lawdy I couldn’t take The Day After again anytime soon.

Eliza xx