Every so often I will see something in a news article, on TV or on social media that makes me feel like I've been punched in the gut. Hard.
This week, a mother in a local mother's Facebook group I belong to posted a photo of a little boy, 4 months old with a caption that read something like, "my friend had to say goodbye to her beautiful baby boy. He died in his sleep. Please help as we raise some money to help out with the costs of this unexpected tragedy".
I stood there, frozen in my kitchen over the steamed broccoli I was preparing for Little L. My eyes went watery and I'm certain that if I'd spoken my voice would have cracked. Instantly thought of my own mother, 25 years ago.
This is the story of my baby sister.
PictureMe, my dad and Phoebe. One of only two photos I have of her.
Phoebe was born on 11 October 1988, just over 15 months after me. I have no memory of her. We do have some photos, home videos and stories from parents, grandparent, aunts and uncles. When Phoebe was born, she had a shock of long hair and it always stood up in a Mohawk-y fashion. Tiny and cute. Phoebe passed away when she was just 9 weeks old. That afternoon was apparently pretty typical. A woman frazzled from attending to a newborn baby as well as wrestling with the mighty toddler. After both babies went to bed and the house was quiet, my mum took herself to bed and fell deeply asleep. My dad is in the fire brigade and that week he was working the day shift. As was the norm, he came upstairs, checked on both of his daughters and went to bed. the rest of their story is vague, probably because it is just too painful to re-live. From what I can gather, my mum woke in the early hours of the morning, engorged and ready to feed Phoebe. She went in to find her still, cold body. The next few days were filled with police visits, an autopsy and a memorial service. In other words, utter, pure hell. My paternal grandmother said that I stopped speaking, and began biting, amongst other serious anti-social behaviours. Phoebe's death took a toll on our family that we could not come back from.

PictureMy mum and Hannah - Red Nose Day 1990.
14 months after Phoebe passed away, Hannah was born. Hannah was a beautiful, angelic, gentle soul and she still is to this very day. I can only imagine what it was like for my mum and dad back then. My uncle told me that they invested in a hospital grade sensor pad which probably cost an arm and a leg back in the 90's. Phoebe's death, took its toll on my parents marriage and, in my opinion lead to the breakdown of it. My mother never, ever recovered. Do I blame her? Not. One. Tiny. Bit.

I was the most paranoid pregnant woman. No hot baths or showers, no soft cheeses, no nothing. Now I have Little L, the first few months were spent holding my finger under her nose to check she was breathing. In the hospital I was afraid to fall asleep because I was so scared. If I could have wrapped her in cotton wool I would have. The initial anxiety has worn off, but I still check her several times a night.
I'm not telling this story to cast a morbid cloud on your day. I'm telling this story because I need to. I need to let the world know that my baby sister's short time on this earth has shaped me forever. I have no memory of her, but I still think about her all the time.
We know a lot more about SIDS (or cot death as it was known as back then). Sids and Kids provide education to parents and councelling for bereaved mother's and fathers. I thank them for that from the bottom of my heart. They caught my mother just in time and saved her from a truly dark place.
 
I never knew how much your life would change once you had a baby. Yes, people always say it, but until you walk a mile in a mummy's shoes, you won't know. Since my maternity pay and paid parental leave has all but dried up, things have been tight for a little while.
My husband; a good honest man who works hard for his family is often taken advantage of. He is not completely innocent, and is far too trusting for his own good, and that opens the door for people to screw him over. Waiting on money from a job that concluded nearly 8 weeks ago is a bit of a joke really, and I'm fed up and feel completely helpless.
Besides the fact that we are moving out of our inner suburbs shoe box to a more family friendly area close to the beach (with a stint at the Mother-In Laws place in between), I thought I should sell some of Little L's things she no longer uses to get some extra cash to stretch us further. Her old bassinet has been for sale for quite some time and last night I had a reply from a lady who was interested in it. After she offered me half of my asking price I asked her if she could go $10 more. Her response pulled a heartstring: "I really wanted to offer $40, $50 even but I honestly just don't have it. I'm sorry if I offended you". I felt guilty. So I responded, saying, "As I am in a similar situation I'll take it for $30, completely empathise". Anyway. Not here to big-note myself on how charitable I am, because I'm not really. But I had a revelation. She was helping me out too, so why shouldn't I help her?
Picture
The mother is the strongest kind of woman. Let's help each other out. There's
such thing as Karma, it will be good to you.

 
Wise words from Hans Christian Andersen.

Growing up, music was an integral part of my life. My Mother’s father was a music teacher and known widely amongst the educators in the ACT where I grew up. Every time I was with him, if I said something that reminded him of a song, he’d sing the whole thing to me. There was always music playing in my house: from the clarinet and trumpet scales (my sister and I), to ABBA (my mum’s favourite), to U2 (my dad’s favourite) to Roxette (it was the early 90s) to Pavarotti.
PictureLittle L and her Daddy sharing a moment
When still in utereo, my husband would play his guitar to my bulging belly every day and I’d feel the kicks and jumps of reception to it. He even wrote Little L her very own song which is still in the process of being perfected. My husband is no great poet or musician but the point is he wanted Little L to have a song, just about her. It’s a statement of love, and it’s not a new thing. All of these people have written songs about their kids too:

John Lennon wrote ‘Beautiful Boy’ for his son Sean;

Billy Joel wrote ‘Lullabye (Goodnight My Angel)’ for his daughter Alexa Ray;
      
Thom Yorke from the band Radiohead wrote ‘Sail To The Moon’ for his son
Noah;

Eric Clapton wrote ‘Tears In Heaven’ for his son Connor (warning: if you don’t already know the story behind this song and you want to know, Google it. It’s far too tragic to note on this blog);

Keith Richards wrote ‘Wild Horses’ for his son Marlon and performed it with his band the Rolling Stones;

Stevie Wonder wrote ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ for his daughter Aisha;
        
Delores O'Riordan from The Cranberries wrote ‘Animal Instinct’ for her son Taylor;

Bob Carlisle wrote ‘Butterfly Kisses’ for his daughter Brooke;

Ben Folds wrote ‘Gracie’ for his daughter, well, Gracie;

Will Smith wrote ‘Just The Two Of Us’ for his son Trey;

Jack Johnson wrote ‘My Little Girl’ for his daughter. Like her two brothers, her name has never been disclosed to media. And my personal favourite; 
 
John Butler wrote ‘Peaches And Cream’ for his daughter Banjo.

Today I’ve had music on all day. I am far more productive when it comes to housework if I have it playing and Little L loves to tap her feet to it while playing on the floor. It gives another dimension to the atmosphere and everyone at my house loves that. A while ago I made Little L a playlist with a stupidly eclectic spectrum. There’s more than a hundred songs, but I’ll list a few (if you can’t tell from the above paragraph, I do love lists):

‘The Dog Days Are Over’, Florence and the Machine – I put Little L on my lap and sing her this loudly while alternating between moving her arms and legs and bouncing her to the music. She thinks this is hilarious.
    
‘(I’ve Had)’ The Time Of My Life’, Bill Medley and Jenifer Warnes – because it’s the Dirty Dancing song and it sounds great. Nuff said.

 ‘Love Is Endless’, Mozilla – the title says it all really

 ‘The Scientist’, Coldplay – Chris Martin’s silky vanilla vocals and the melodic piano makes this a great tune for quiet time.
 
‘Sea Of Love’, Cat Power – This is from the Juno soundtrack. When this song played in the movie, I was incredibly moved and I always knew I’d play it to my baby someday.

‘Splish Splash’, Bobby Darin – Best.Bathtime.Song.Ever.
        
‘Clair De Lune’, Debussy – A beautiful, classical piece.

'Sweet Child Of Mine', Guns N Roses - a classic rock and roll ballad with a soft centre. Good on you Axl Rose.

‘A Thousand Years’, Christina Perri – from the last instalment of the Twilight Saga (Saga alright… anyone?!) Corny, Yes. But whenever it plays and I sing it I get really chocked up. Oh God I get emotional.
“The day we met, frozen I
held my breath...


Right from the start I knew
that I found a home for my heart…


Beats fast, colours and
promises”.
I’m sure you know the rest. It’s been played within an inch of its life.  

Music, just like books is so very, very important to a child’s development. I hope you have fun making your own playlist for your little one – they’ll remember the afternoons dancing around the lounge room to the songs you  both loved, forever. 

Love to all you mums with bubs on this first day of winter. Enjoy your snuggles, keep each other warm.

The Emotional Mum

 
We went to Tresillian today. Mainly for Little L’s sleep. Lately she hasn’t slept past the first sleep cycle during the day, and wakes frequently at night. But talking to healthcare professionals always has a way of bringing up sneaky little emotions you never knew were lurking just below the surface.

By chance the weather was awful in Sydney, so my tradie hubby had the day off and volunteered to come with. 10 minutes into the day I saw the look of regret in his face. Don’t get me wrong, he is all for anything that will help
Little L sleep for longer but my husband is the silent, stoic type who runs for his man cave at the first sight of tears. Once the questions about both family’s history of physical and mental health were done came the questions about life
events and anything that is contributing to, in my case, anxiety. As I rattled off thing after thing, I could see the nurse doing her very best not to raise her eyebrows.

As we settled Little L into her room for the day she helped us with the tiniest things we never knew would contribute to her shorter sleeps. Then we walked out and waited at the door for the protest to start. Sure enough, we hear her, 30 seconds later. I say something to the nurse, I cant remember exactly what but was met with the reply, “you seem very,very anxious, no offence. No offence. OK it’s not exactly offensive, but the sleep deprived, anxiety ridden mother that’s just well… there aren’t words. Only tears and “I’m sorry’s” from me.

The day gets progressively worse, or more progressive, depending on which way you look at it. I spend half an hour patting Little L through her awakening in her sleep cycle with no luck. We get her up and watch some DVD’s on
settling. All in all these DVD’s are fantastic, although I’m not sure how practical.

Towards the end of the day I go and have a chat to the residential social worker/psychologist on recommendation of my nurse. Here, I use up the last bit of energy in my emotional reserves. We talk about my relationships, my family, the baby, my birth experience, my miscarriage and my anxiety. My hubby also had a chat to her too. I am also booked in to see her two more times, possible more should I need it. And I probably will, because as the day wore on, I realised I may just have Post Natal Depression. This was a pretty hard pill to swallow at first but it’s not like I hadn’t entertained the idea that I might. I can still go about my day, but that doesn’t mean that I can cope wonderfully all of the time. There have been times where I have been at the end of my rope and locked myself in the laundry for 15 minutes at a time.

To any mums who are dealing with, or have experienced PND or anxiety, I know how you feel now and I send much love and good vibes your way. 

Today I was pretty close to hitting rock bottom. But the good thing is that the only real way from here is up.  

CC
PictureTresillian Wollstonecraft - a relic from the past.

 
I love telling this story. It’s the story about how I found out I was pregnant. Maybe to some, it’s just another story but I’ll love telling it for the rest of my life. 

Friday, 20 January 2012. Work is back in full swing after the Christmas break and all executives are back on deck. 3 shopping centre projects are in the pipeline, two with open dates in October. One word: punishing My boss is busy re-allocating work and calls me in to a meeting room. “You’re my most experienced Lease Administrator, so I’m giving you Wollongong”. I leave the room, mad that my current project is being taken off me and I’m being loaded with all this additional work. Everyone feels the same way. My friend and colleague comes to my desk and says, “I’m going to the DJ’s food court, going to go and smash a cheesecake”. Ooooh. Cheesecake sounds good. Cheesecake. Yes. I get distracted and forget all about the cheesecake until she says to me an hour later, “I know why I wanted it so bad, I just got my period a week early”. Another chimes in, “Me too, Oh my god it’s early”, then another. Domino effect. I sit quietly and ponder. I don’t feel crampy? In my all female team of 13 we are all in sync. 

Exhausted from the week from hell, I pack my desk up at 5pm and leave the office. I catch the bus up to my local Woolies and bottle-o and get myself a nice bottle of champagne and go into the supermarket to get some dinner. Browsing the health and beauty isle, I casually pick up a box of First Response pregnancy tests. Then I put it back. Then I pick it up again. No, better get a 3 pack. I’m not pregnant. I get home and put the Champagne in the freezer to chill
and go to the toilet. One line, negative; two, positive. Nothing yet. Look at it about 10 times in two minutes. Still nothing. I wipe away a little tear and do a few things around the house and then take out my champagne from the freezer. Then I remember  I haven’t put the test in the bin. I look at the thing again and the faintest little pink line is staring back at me. I chuck it in the bin and don’t think about it anymore. But I don’t drink my champagne. 

I tell my husband who goes and buys a different brand of test and I do it again the next day. Pregnant. 1-2 weeks. We can’t believe it - happy and scared as hell

Still grieving the loss of a pregnancy that ended less than 3 months beforehand, we don’t really know what to say or do
we look at each other and stare. Then we hold each other for a long time. 

I make the decision to tell my boss on Monday. She tells me a secret, she’s pregnant too! They happily take me off the project assigned to me 3 days earlier and give me back my old one, far less stress. “We want a serene environment for your little embryo”. My throat is closing up. Can’t cry, the meeting room hasn’t got walls, only floor to ceiling windows. 

I’m the emotional mum. My little girl, my little rainbow baby, our most beautiful creation was born on 2 October 2012. You may think that ‘emotional’ means I cry at the drop of a hat. Well, actually I do sometimes. But emotion is so much more than that. Everything I do, I put my heart and soul into. I just turned 26 yesterday and by today’s standards that’s still quite young to be a mother. I would like to say I’m pretty mature for someone my age and I always
have been, even at 14. My life experiences have shaped me this way. 

I’m blunt and honest. You’ll probably see that through my blog. But I hope that you can glean something from what I write. 

Here’s to all the mums who are emotional. That's all of us.

 CC

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    I'm a mum to one darling, vivacious little girl, let's call her Little L -  and I treasure every day I spend with her.

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