Reflecting.

When John was around 7 months old, I returned to education. At school, I was a nightmare student. I hated school and made it my aim to everyone show that. As a result, I came away with little qualifications. So in 2012, I decided to start an evening class in Higher English to try and pass one of the (many) exams I failed whilst at school. It was hard work but I loved it - it was something just for me. Unfortunately, when I became pregnant with David and endured a HG pregnancy, I had to drop out weeks before the final exams.

However, part of the course was to write a Reflective Essay on a personal experience of significance. I wrote about our first night home with John. And seeing as it never made it into a final portfolio for a Higher English Qualification, and it seems a shame for it just to remain saved to my hard drive, I thought I'd share it here...

First Night Home.

Giving birth is one of the most emotionally demanding experiences anyone can live and once it's over you expect life to be perfect. In January 2012 I found that this wasn't the case. As Iain scurried up the stairs to our first floor flat with the brand new carseat in hand, I slowly dragged myself behind. Every thing ached. “Sciatica” they told me. “A pain in my arse whatever it's called,” I thought. I hadn't stood for this long since Monday as Tuesday through to Thursday I'd been subject to bed 16 on the Post-natal Ward with a cot that resembled a fish tank next to me. The fish was a helpless little boy that we'd waited 9 long months to meet and were now able to bring home. Walking through our door was when the terrifying realisation hit me: This it it - the rest of our lives. My apprehension was only short lived as Iain's tears of happiness from having his family home were contagious. Looking back at that first night home, if we'd known what we were in for he would have most definitely been crying for other reasons.

Everyone tells you that when you have a baby you feel tiredness you never thought possible but I'd always thought they were exaggerating – how naïve I was! The desire to sleep was hanging heavy on my shoulders, weighing me down, making it impossible to even sit-up straight. Thank God Iain was there to care for me because without him I would have starved to death over the coming weeks. I'd been told breastfeeding was the best way to lose the baby weight but what no one had mentioned this was because you literally have no time to feed yourself. But when you have a tiny defenceless human staring up at you, their eyes begging you to love them, the pressure of being their only source of nourishment is not a daunting prospect but an honour. I was a mother now and like my mother would for me, I'd kill for this child. As if an inner animal instinct had taken over me. This realisation didn't keep me going for long however as the infamous 'Baby Blues' soon kicked in. I found myself sobbing because I loved my son too much and then sobbing again 10 minutes later because I'd changed my mind and couldn't do this, whilst asking Iain to take the baby back and we'd just pretend I was pregnant again. Thankfully Iain didn't my request seriously, although I do often think that some nights after the sixth night-waking due to teething, that he wishes he had.

Despite me thinking it was still lunchtime it turned dark outside. At only a few days old and used to a life of eternal darkness, we forgave this baby boy for not knowing that night time is generally meant for sleeping. Even now the events of the early hours of the following morning are a sleep deprived blur but the cocktail of emotions are still painfully raw.

By 4am both my brand new son and I were in floods of tears. I felt as though I was failing him already. He was hungry, crying out like a baby bird; begging for food and the one thing that should have been natural to me as a mother had become impossible. My own mother had warned me about the initial engorgement you experience with a new baby, describing it as having “two rocks strapped to your chest” but these were like two throbbing boulders, ready to feed my child but in some cruel irony also making it impossible. Iain was frantically and rather hopelessly trying to find a solution: Searching the internet for advice, suggesting a trip to the 24 hour supermarket for formula milk, trying to get through the La Leche League on the phone. He eventually phoned the hospital that we'd left only 12 hours previously who told us to make our way back in. As far as I was concerned that was the proof that I was a failure.

I sat in the back of the car dressed only in my pyjamas. Tears were streaming down my transparent cheeks, falling into a pool of guilt on my chest. I kept glancing over the baby beside me, fast asleep in the protective embrace of his carseat. My mind had become awash with thoughts: Did I really think I could do this? Was I really enough for this baby? What if we got to the hospital and they didn’t think I was cut out for being a Mother? Could they take him away from me? Of course I knew the answers to this questions but when I was already feeling like an inadequate mother it seemed like things kept going from bad to worse.

When we arrived, Iain leapt out of the car, grabbed the car seat and rushed off without me. It was clear to me at that point that it wasn't just my priorities that have shifted with our new arrival. I limped behind them – a position I found myself in for the following six weeks thanks to the Sciatica. Once we eventually made it to the depressingly familiar hospital ward we were greeted by a larger-than-life Midwife. Even now her positivity at 5am whilst working on a Post-natal Ward swamped with hormonal women and screaming babies amazes me, especially after she later admitted to being desperate for a cigarette having quit smoking earlier that week. If she hadn't been such a saviour to us I'd probably have judged her on this confession.

After a lengthy discussion on the different options available to us I had found myself hooked up to the hospital's breast pump. I can only imagine I looked like neglected cattle at that point, drained of my colour and shaking from exhaustion. The midwife promptly threw Iain a bottle to feed our starving son and it felt like the weight was lifted from my shoulders. I was so thankful that my dream of breastfeeding was still intact, albeit bruised and beaten. One of the best decisions we made that night was seeking help and not taking the trip to the supermarket as I now realise if we had it would have spelt the emotional and regretful end of breastfeeding, as well as an inevitable bout of mastitis.

As we said our goodbyes and tried to find the words to thank our saviour Midwife my mind started to empty. By this point I hadn't slept in nearly 4 days and I didn't think I could cope any longer without rest but as I'd find out over the coming weeks, I could function on even less sleep. On the dark drive home my emotions drew a blank. In these past few sleep deprived days I'd felt every possible feeling, including all the positives and all the negatives; it was as if my emotions had now decided to pack-up and take a well needed holiday.

Despite our problematic start into the emotional world of parenting, I think back on that night as my motivation. We made it through all the tears, exhaustion and feelings of failure. And even when breastfeeding continued to be unbearable at times, and I dreaded our son waking up knowing he'd be hungry, I'd now adopted a stubborn attitude and refused to accept failure as an option. The sleepless nights still occur from time to time but they'll never be nearly as emotional as our first night home.