The Princess and the Pea-Brain

The Princess and the Pea-Brain

The Art of Co-Parenting with Someone you Hate

Part One

 

It’s 9am on the 22^nd of January 2010, the official due date for my daughter.  I am lying in the bath staring at a reply to my last text message, asking my Ex if our son can come home from his house if I go into labor during his access time this weekend. The message says one word.

 

No.

 

This is further proof, as if I needed it, that my son’s father is let’s face it, an Ass-Hole.

 

For those of you who may be in the same situation as me, I will commit my experiences, and whatever life lessons I have managed to glean from them and send the out into the blogosphere. Hopefully they find someone who, like me, has at times felt adrift in a galaxy of confusion and frustration.

 

Here Goes;

 

After managing to impregnate me at the age of 17, him being 10 years my senior, My Ex – Who shall be affectionately referred to as A.H -  hounded me to have an abortion. Unlike the 3 other girls that he had managed to persuade into this in the past, I adamantly refused. We remained in contact through out my pregnancy, me blithely ignoring his dire warnings of my future as a single Mum. In his eyes I would end up fat and alone, wasting my energy on some screaming brat. Luckily for me and my unborn son, I had a loving family and dear friends who loudly and repeatedly disagreed.

His highness attended the birth 0n the 18/7/2005. Effortlessly making my 37 hours of labor pale in comparison to the fact the He was tired and uncomfortable sitting on the floor beside me, holding my hand like the Martyr he is.

His disgust at the cord cutting was clear, although he was the one that severed the link between mother and son. An act he has no doubt tried to replicate through out the years. But it was the day after our son came into the world that he really out did himself. I had been resting up in hospital, trying to come to terms with this incredible change in my life and so high on New mummy hormones that I literally felt like I was on Valium. I had spent the entire day falling madly in love with this tiny little life that had already changed mine so much, and there he was, stinking of cigarette smoke and dressed head to toe in black like some kind of fairytale villain. “Your exhausted, in pain and look like shit” He tells me, making a dismissive gesture towards the bassinet where our baby lies swaddled. “Was it really worth it? I mean, I know everyone told me I’d feel different when the baby was born but I have to say – I still feel nothing for It.”

I didn’t see him again for 7 weeks.

 

During my little boys infancy he would come and go, showing up for an overnight visit every fortnight or so. He would whine about the lack of edible food in my house (I am a life long vegetarian, he is a blood sucking carnivore). He would sneer at my family, berate me for my choice of friends and pick fights with me if I didn’t have sex with him. I should have told him to get fucked. But I was young, and stupid and our relationship had a twisted power structure. And deep down, I wanted to my son to have 2 parents.

 

He had refused to tell his parents about my being pregnant, claiming that they had abused him as a child and he was adamant that that would not happen to his son. Thinking that perhaps this was why he was the way he was, I felt sorry for him and respected his wish to keep his family out of it. However, when my son was 6 months old A.H began to speak of suicide. “I want to see my son one last time before I die” He told me over the phone. I panicked and told my mother, a social worker by profession, who had been telling me since the beginning that A.H’s parents should know. She took me to my fathers and we all discussed what was to be done. My mother rang A.H’s brother after finding his number in the phone book and explained the situation. She asked if they had been abused as children? Not at all, was his reply. Next she rang A.H’s mother and had the unfortunate task of telling her that not only was he son in extremis but that she was also and grandmother. His mother just cried and cried.

He was moved into her house by his parents soon after and has remained there ever since.

 

For the next 18 months it was business as usual. A.H would visit occasionally, offering very little in the way of practical support. His mother and I got on well and my boy seemed t enjoy his new found family members. A.H and I were neither here nor there in terms of being together. Things were kind of peaceful, until we decided to move in together.

I had been living on my own in a cottage in my home time, about an hours drive from his mothers house in the city. It was decided that I would break my lease and move into my fathers tiny two bedroom flat to save up some money so we could rent out a nice place together. Within a week of being at my dads house I realized this plan was not going to work. I had been used to living on my own and being solely responsible for the running of a house. , Living with my dad, there was suddenly someone else to take the trash out and someone else to make sure there was milk in the fridge. It became increasingly obvious to me that if I moved lout with A.H as planned I would be harnessing myself with yet another ‘child’ to care for. No thank you. So I finally broke it off. No moving in. No more sleeping together. No more No-Mans-Land of a relationship status. Just me, the single mother I had always been but now with the title to match it. I moved out with a close friend and began enjoying my freedom.

 

A.H had assured me that we were fine, that he had also had misgivings about moving in together and agreed that it was in both our best interests to end our ‘relationship’. But we both agreed to remain good friends, and to respect each other as parents. This all went along fine until six months later when I began dating someone else.  At first there was a token attempt to overcome this obstacle and make our parenting arrangement a bit more formal. He started taking our son for over night visits (Our son being 2 ½ at the time and he had never had him overnight until then) and we began to bring finances into it. A.H was supposed to be paying my something like $6 a fortnight in child support but had refused to offer up even that pittance as I got a parenting payment to raise our son and he only got half of what I did from social security. Soon after A.H began taking overnights, his mother and he appeared on my doorstep asking for money. The extra time spent with Grand/Son was costing too much and I was asked to fork over the $$$ for the extra food, nappies, etc that he was going through. As diplomatically as possible, I declined by saying we should check with Centrelink as to what payments A.H may now be entitled to. Of course, this task fell to me, but I did it and arranged for $50 to be taken out of my parenting payment and handed over to A.H, as per the letter of the law. When I suggested that as I had arranged for A.H to receive what he was entitled to, perhaps he should do the same in kind and organize for me to start receiving the child support I was entitled to I was met with disdain. “That money is for our son, not for you” he hissed at me. Err, I know Dumb-Ass, exactly where do you think all my money goes? But I took it on the chin and rang up the Child Support Agency and arranged to have it taken out of his payments anyway. This was to be the starting point of a long and glorious battle.

Am I an Attachment Parent, or just a Slack-Ass?

At the tender age of 17 I learnt that I was going to be a (single) parent. I quickly went about reading everything I could on pregnancy, labor and birth. Just as quickly, I decided that I would have everything but an epidural (I’m just not cool with anything being injected into my spine) when my little bundle of joy decided to come into the world. Despite my Mothers reassurance that she had gone through “Natural Labor” 3 times with no problems, the idea of giving birth without mass amounts of pain killers seemed far from ‘Natural” to me.
In the books I read breastfeeding was mentioned many times, as was bottle-feeding. I decided to give it a go but didn’t have my heart set on it the way so many others have. Again, my Mother advocated for the better choice. Trying to appeal to my teenage vanity, she assured me that I would lose the baby weight faster if I breastfed. I took it under advisement.
My dear friend and flat-mate at the time, Amanda, bought me a baby book at the local used bookstore. This was my first introduction to the idea of “Attachment parenting” I read through it thinking to myself “Seriously? What idiot wouldn’t pick up their baby when it cried? Or feed it when it was hungry?”
I went into labor two weeks early at my best friends house. She was so excited. I was calmly petrified. She drove me to hospital, where I was swept up to the delivery suite on oxygen, as the baby seemed to be in distress. Luckily, this resolved itself quickly and I was allowed to continue on with my labor for the most part unfettered.
I had 10, yes, 10 friends and family members with me through my labor. My parents, brothers (One of whom was wearing every piece of clothing he owned due to a psychotic breakdown), the chosen godparents, the baby’s father, plus a few mates who decided to come along for the show. During my 37 hours of labor I was asked repeatedly if I would like some pain relief (mostly by a friend of mine) and every time I found myself refusing. Not out of concern about what the drugs would do to me or the baby, but more because I knew they would make me throw up, and on top of being in pain and really uncomfortable and sick (I had the flu when I went into labor), I didn’t want to be nauseas as well.
After 36 and a half hours of labor they told me they would break my waters for me, as I was not progressing. They had asked me to do this earlier and I had put them off. Not because I wanted my labor to proceed without intervention, but because I had read the contractions would get even more painful if your waters were broken manually. Eventually I agreed and requested some Gas.
I had one puff before the combination threw me instantly into transition. I leapt up off the bed (managing to elbow Amanda in the stomach as I did so), turned in a panicked little circle on the spot and promptly dropped to all fours in front of the sink. My son was born 40 minutes (and a lot of swearing) later. 7 lbs 14 ounces.
I stayed in hospital with him for 6 days. He was healthy, we just had a host of little problems. He was jaundiced. Not enough for treatment but enough for them to be wary. He had thrush in his mouth (so I had thrush on my nipples). We were both having trouble getting the whole breastfeeding thing sorted, and he wouldn’t settle well (which was the nurses way of saying he wouldn’t sleep without me holding him).
Despite being told by a friend that I should because it was ‘cleaner’, I didn’t get him circumcised. Not because I had done any research into it whatsoever, but because to me the idea of paying someone to carve bits off my newborn seemed a tad strange.
One night I was up rocking him, on the verge of tears out of pure exhaustion, and a midwife came in and told me “Honey, if he’s not settling, pop the sides of your bed up, pad them down with pillows and go to sleep with him in there. You both need the rest”. I took her advice and after an hour of blissful co-sleeping the shifts changed and another midwife came in to check on me. She hurried across the room and scooped my little boy off my chest and into his bassinet. We both woke up, he protesting louder than I. “You must never sleep with your baby in bed with you!” She declared, “It’s very dangerous!”
And so I was set back in my journey as a new parent learning what worked best for My baby and Me. I went back to sitting up all night, rocking him to keep him asleep.
We were finally released and went home to my mothers as I had moved back to her house during the last few months of my pregnancy. I was quite surprised at how supportive the majority of my friends and family were of breastfeeding. I thought at least my brothers would be weird about it but no, they would happily sing-song that it was ‘Boob-Time’ when the baby started crying. My friend, Graham, had come over from Melbourne to help out in the weeks after the birth. He had taken to hovering over my son as he fed, watching the transaction with amazement. I thought this was funny, my son, however, watched him suspiciously.
One of my mother’s friends was a midwife and she came to see the baby and me soon after we came home as we were still having trouble feeding.
“Don’t worry about not getting it straightaway.” She told me kindly “Breastfeeding is a new skill you’re both learning. You’re meant to be exposed to it from the moment you’re born. You’re meant to watch your mother, aunts and sisters breastfeed but in our society it’s all secreted away. So don’t feel bad.”
Soon after I began to relax. The words of one midwife were erased, to be replaced by another. When my son awoke in the night for a feed, I would tuck him in next to me on the breast and go back to sleep. Not because I knew that co-sleeping actually encouraged young babies to continue breathing during the night, or that it was fabulous for mother-child bonding, but because it was a lot easier than sitting up to feed him than re-settling him in his crib. I was soon wondering why everyone had warned me about ‘Night Feeds’. It all seemed like an urban baby myth to me.
There were, of course, times when my baby would just cry and cry and cry. My best friend would sit with me and try to problem solve. Inevitably, she always came back to the idea that I should give him a bottle. “He’s hungry. Feed him.” She’d say, looking at me reproachfully. But stubbornly, and it was stubbornness, I would refuse. “I breastfeed.” I’d retort “EXCLUSIVLY”.
I’d watch other mothers at Young Mums group preparing bottles for their baby’s. The idea seemed silly to me. Not because I was a major ‘Lactivist’ at the time, but because breastfeeding was SO much easier. True, it had taken my son and I awhile to learn the ropes, but by the time he was 3 weeks old we’d gotten into a nice rhythm with each other. I’d listen to them complain about how tired they were and wonder to myself, Why? The thought of waking up at night to prepare and heat a bottle was ludicrous to me when I would awake, attach and go back to sleep. How simple was that?
The other mums would talk about ‘Controlled Crying’ and how that was working for them. Again, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Letting your baby scream it’s lungs out when you were perfectly capable of attending to them seemed wrong. My son screamed every time I put him down and to me, it seemed the much easier option to just carry him with me everywhere. Not because I had read about all the benefits of ‘Baby wearing’ but because that was what seemed to make him happy and making him happy seemed a lot easier than listening to him cry. I didn’t have a sling when he was a baby, so I literally carried him everywhere with me. I learnt very quickly how to do everything I needed to do with one hand. I also developed very well muscled arms.
My friends at the time told me that I shouldn’t hold him all the time. I was making him ‘Co-Dependent’, a ‘Rod for my own back’, a real ’Mamas Boy’. I ignored them all, not because I knew that allowing your child to be as close to you as they need for as long as they need actually promotes independence and security, but because it was what worked for Me and My baby and I didn’t see them coming up with any better alternatives.
I had several friends who had had babies around the same time as me. We all breastfed. But once we hit the six-month mark, one by one they began weaning their babies off. In the end, it was just me and my son who continued on past one year and then past two.
I have breastfed pretty much everywhere. At supermarkets, restaurants, parks, cinemas, in Target, Big W and K-Mart, in taxis, planes and even in a courtroom on one occasion. Whenever my son was hungry, I would feed him. I have been asked once to cover myself up. I was with a friend who was also breastfeeding at the time. We pointedly ignored the store assistant who approached us and both switched our baby to the other breast. I have also been called ‘Brave’ and ‘Beautiful’ by perfect strangers who noticed me breastfeeding.
I breastfed and Co-slept with my son for 2+ years. Not because I had heard about the World Health Organizations recommendations but because my son had incredible difficulty surrounding sleep and breastfeeding was the quickest, easiest way to get him to go to sleep and Co-sleeping was the easiest way to get him to sleep through the night.
When my son was 2 he was diagnosed with Obstructive Sleep Apnea. This is a condition that caused him to stop breathing in his sleep for 30 second periods. His Pulmonary specialist assured me that he would have had the condition since birth and that, in his opinion, it is one of the causes of ‘SIDS’.
I am convinced that Co-sleeping saved my sons life.
So there you have it. It would be easy for me to say that I was a devoted Attachment Parent because I knew how beneficial breastfeeding, co-sleeping and baby wearing were for my child right from the start. But in reality, I’m just a Slack-Ass Parent who took the easier route whilst caring for my child every time. And if you’re like me, I’d like to congratulate you for being a Slack-Ass too!