Nine Months Old, Nine Months On

Tonight, you’re sleeping in my arms. It’s taken a while for you to settle but not because you’ve been distressed, you’ve been so full of life. 
You’re 9 months old now and I marvel at how far you’ve come. 

9 months already! The age your brother was when you were born. I think back to when he was your age, it makes me smile with delight to remember him so small. It feels like a lifetime away, I suppose it was – your lifetime away. Then it makes me sad. 


This is Tristan while you were in Hospital, his eyes are heavy and that makes me sad.
Your birth was such a heartbreaking time for us, especially your brother. His ninth month of life was tainted with abandonment and upheaval. Your stay in hospital forced us to choose between you both. Although the choice was harsh, the reality was easy. You needed us more.

But he needed us too, just as you need me now. 

9 months old. When you were 1st born, I felt as though your brother was old enough to cope without me. Old enough to accept change. He’d never been a ‘needy’ baby. We’d been able to leave him with his grandparents overnight without any upset or withdrawal. Yet, I had always known that our situation wouldn’t be ideal (even when there should have been nearly 12 months between you), that it would be a transition we’d all have to adjust to. I expected turbulent times, was prepared for the jealousy and the anger, the frustration and the confusion. However, I could never have been ready to mend his broken heart. 

Those emotions I’d been preparing for never showed their ugly head. From the moment we brought you home, he was besotted. A ready made friend, a companion and an ally. He loved you instinctively and I beamed with pride (I still do, he makes me proud every day) but bringing you home was only the start of his recovery. 

Having you with us eventually meant that we could start our lives together, eventually establish a new routine. It meant that there would be no more days spent away from him, no more nights he’d go without his bedtime cuddle and story. It took him a while but soon, he learnt to trust that we weren’t leaving him if he fell asleep. Eventually, he relearnt how to settle at night. How to close his eyes and know that we’d be there when he woke back up.

The most noticeable affect your birth had on Tristan was in his eating habits. During your time in Hospital, Tristan learnt that there wasn’t many things in life that he could control (it kills me that he learnt this cruel life lesson at such a young age)…but he could control his eating. So he stopped. He closed his mouth and took back the power. He intelligently realised that this earned him some attention. 

We’d spend hours pleading with him to eat, we’d spend days worrying about how little he’d consume. He’d spend feeding times throwing food in our faces, ripping it from his mouth with such intent and disgust. He’d cry at the sight of his high chair, throw tantrums to avoid meal times at all costs. 

Then, one day, he ate. 

Then, the next day, he ate again.

To me, this was our biggest break through. I read it as a sign of his heart mending. I saw in his eyes that he was starting to relinquish his control and allow us to parent him again. He was starting to trust us again. There’s been plenty of relapses, plenty of times he’s used food to manipulate us but now these times don’t worry me so much. 
Your time in NICU also made Tristan anxious. Before you were born, he was care free. He’d trust us implicitly, from dunking his head underwater, to swinging him upside down. Then we left him and he became nervous. Bath times became problematic. He’d cling to us as though he were afraid we were going to let go. He’d cling to us in most places, in most social situations. Last Saturday, he jumped into the pool on his own, he trusted that my arms would catch him. Last week, at his 1st nursery visit, he ran off to play with the other children.

He didn’t look back for me once.

You’re 9 months old now and every day there’s fewer signs of your premature birth. Less evidence that our lives were ever rocked upside down. You still have a heart murmur (or so we concluded from your last stint in hospital) but although your heart hasn’t mended, ours are beginning to. Your brother has started to play again. His smiles grow bigger every day. 

I may always harbour guilt for the way your brother felt but having you here makes me feel better. So, tonight as you sleep in my arms, I’m going to snuggle you harder. I’m going to make sure that your ninth month of living is much much sweeter. Then, when I can, I’m going to snuggle into Tristan and make sure his eighteenth month of living is just as sweet too.

It’s true what they say ‘time is a healer’. I’m going to make sure both your hearts mend, I’m just going to need a little more time. 



Did I Steal Your Childhood?

  You were 10 weeks old when your sister was conceived. It was not something we’d planned for so soon but something we’d definitely hoped for in the future. You were our firstborn and had shown us a different way of life. Before you, there had been laziness and selfishness. You’d opened our eyes to what life was all about and your newborn radiance was simply addictive. Suddenly, we knew that we needed more children.

Even still, we’d hoped to wait a little longer than we did.  When Siena chose us as parents, the feeling was completely surreal. With you, there had only been joy. From the tiny pink line that indicated you were baking, love and excitement had ran through our blood. We were changing, getting ready for parenthood and couldn’t wait for your arrival. When the tiny pink line appeared only 15 weeks after your birth, we were left momentarily petrified.  Not because we didn’t want Siena, we wanted her more than our hearts could imagine. We were petrified for you. You were so young, just budding and you needed us so much.

Although still overjoyed, It was very clear that your happiness was at the heart of everyone’s thoughts. I’ll never forget the reactions we encountered as we broke the news of our second bundle. ‘What about poor Tristan?’ They chorused. ‘He’s too young’ they said. We sensed their anxieties, heard them muffled in their throats. They stood out louder because they were all anxieties we’d dealt with to begin. The most upsetting reaction we encountered left me tormented throughout your sister’s pregnancy. ‘Tristan will have to grow up on his own, he’ll have to grow up very quickly now’. It tormented me because it made me feel so guilty. I’d loved every sleepless second of your childhood (okay, maybe that’s rose tinted, you’d been hard work but completely worth it). I didn’t want to put an end to the fun we’d been having, I didn’t want you to ever become anything less than my main priority. I certainly didn’t want you to feels as though I didn’t care about watching you grow, I cared so much.

You should have been nearly one by the time Siena would arrive – old enough to recognise change but not old enough to understand. This gave us time, time to form that inseparable bond I hope we never lose. I didn’t want to deprive you of your childhood, I wanted to dedicate ever waking second to you. I didn’t want to rush you to grow, I wanted to slow time down and keep a hold of you. You were by far the most precious jewel in my possession. I wanted to nurse you and protect you for all eternity. I made a promise that until Siena arrived, your every need would be my main priority. I was determined that having a pregnant Mam wouldn’t affect you in any sense.

So, until the day I delivered (and even in the delivery room), I was there for you. I lay on the floor and stared into your eyes as I encouraged you to do Tummy Time, I sat legs apart and passed the ball back and forth, back and forth a million times. I carried you on my hip through supermarkets and shops, beaches, parks and riversides. I gave you your bottle and snuggled into you each night, stretched over your cot to make sure you didn’t stir as I put your sleepy body back to bed. I was your Mother and there wasn’t one thing that would stop me from caring for you the way that you needed me to.

Then Siena arrived and our world suddenly came to a halt.

She was so poorly and needed me so badly. I had no choice but to break our deal and make her my priority. Momentarily, you were forced to ‘grow up on your own’ and it broke my heart. Now you’re 15 months old and we’re back to trying our best. Siena still needs me but we all need each other just as much. I watch you with her, gentle and caring. You beam when she enters the room, love to be near her. There’ll come an age when you’ll play wit each other, I used to worry but now I know I needn’t. I dedicate my time to making sure you cherish each second of your childhood. I make sure each day is spent making memories and living experiences. I’ve maintained your baby routine, make sure it’s me that gives you your bottle, make sure it’s me that puts you to bed.     Throughout it all, I listen to your giggle, I marvel at your smile and I ask myself, how could I have stolen your childhood? It’s still very much your own.   

Twinkly Tuesday

Why I Could Never Preach About Breastfeeding


There’s plenty controversy surrounding the issue of Breastfeeding in the Media of recent. The debate over bottle v breastfed babies is spiralling out of control, it’s to the point of teetering on ridiculous. As a mother of two, I have my own opinions on this matter. Opinions that rival those of millions.

My son, my first born, never took to the breast. Before he was born, I had an idealised version of Motherhood. In this, my child took to my breast harmoniously and worked in sync with my body. There were no tears over his inability to latch, no guilt over my poor milk supply. I was going to breastfeed, I was 100% sure of it.
So when it didn’t happen, I was left tormented by the whole ordeal. At 24 hours old, Tristan was diagnosed with Jaundice. Although common in newborns (and even more so in those born before 40 weeks), Tristan’s bilirubin levels plotted high above the treatment line, leaving him under U.V lights for 6 days. In this time, Tristan was made to take formula every 2 hours to wash out the infection. I wasn’t allowed to hold him unless trying to feed. Even when he screamed for my affection, I had to deny him. The roll on effect of this was that, due to not being able to give him skin to skin, my milk supply was practically non-existant. It also meant that when in my arms, Tristan took comfort in my embrace instead of trying to work. Lastly, like many boys, he was also incredibly lazy and didn’t understand why he had to work when milk had been given to him for free without demand.
Once out of hospital, I persevered, I even scheduled my days around expressing to make sure he got the ‘liquid gold’ but it was hard and tiring. Tristan’s one week check up confirmed that he had lost 10% of his body weight. My ultimatum was either continue trying and risk him being hospitalised or give up the ghost and turn to formula. I’d tortured myself for seven days and eventually, I saw what I had to do.
Turning to formula was a decision I didn’t take lightly but it was also I decision I knew was right for Tristan and for me. Still, I wept and wept over the abrupt ending to breastfeeding. For weeks, I felt deprived of that ‘special bond’ breastfeeding allows you to form. I felt rejected and useless.
Having a baby is a crazy experience but having your 1st baby is on a whole different level of surreal. It’s a time when emotions run high and the slightest thing can be magnified intensely. I’d been preached at by so many midwives and nurses before Tristan’s birth that failing to breastfeed made me feel like a failure. It confirmed that I was already going to be a rubbish Mother, that I was already not good enough. But of course, this wasn’t the truth. Turning to formula was actually the act of a ‘good’ mother because I refused to let my baby starve. It was the act of a ‘good’ mother because I put my own selfish wants and desires aside to do what was best for my baby. I wish I’d realised that at the time.
Bottle feeding my baby made me feel dirty, like I was breaking the rules. I dreaded seeing people  I knew because I dreaded the question ‘how are you feeding him?’ I mean, what a thing to ask…and yet, it was nearly the 1st thing on everyone’s mind. I felt embarrassed to admit that I was giving Tristan formula, always felt as though I had to justify why.
When I fell pregnant with my second, breastfeeding didn’t even enter my mind. I’d already decided that I wasn’t going to try. The hardest part of having a newborn was the mental torment I endured over feeding, I’d already realised that having a newborn was stressful enough without inflicting even more duress on myself. Plus, I’d seen the benefits of formula. My son was rarely starving, he was satisfied and a satisfied baby is definitely a happy one. My husband could take over, giving me time to shower (or at least, let’s admit it, use the toilet in peace). Tristan’s immune system was never effected, he’d never caught a bug. He was also always in line with the 50th percentile, the myth of formula making babies obese just didn’t seem truthful.
Then my daughter arrived prematurely and my plans were, once again, turned on their head. Breastmilk was part of my daughter’s treatment. I was told by the doctors at North Tees Hospital (Doctors by name but Angels by profession, their care and expertise was simply amazing) that I wouldn’t be allowed to formula feed even if I wanted to. The thing is, I suddenly didn’t want to.
Siena was incubated for 17 days, fed through a feeding tube for 4 weeks. The only think I could possibly do to help her was breastfeed. So, once again, I centred my days around expressing. I even set my alarm twice through the night to get up and express. During the day, I made time at hospital to leave Siena’s side and express. If out somewhere else, I carried my breast pump with me. I was that determined to do this for my daughter, I once even expressed in the changing room of H&M. When the time came at 35 weeks gestation, I was nervous about whether Siena would refuse me just like her brother. She didn’t, I eventually had the harmonious experience I’d craved. It was like fate, like destiny. Siena’s release from hospital depended on her ability to feed from me, I’d been warned that this might not come naturally or quickly and that Siena might have to be trained how to feed. I was told to expect up to a month until she’d be released from hospital. Only two days later, we were on our way home. It seemed as though Siena was just as determined as I was. Although completely overjoyed, I knew I’d never preach breastfeeding.
I’d never preach it because I don’t believe we should. As women, we need to support and encourage each other to do whatever is best. And let’s face it, breast isn’t always best. Having a newborn is daunting enough, we shouldn’t add extra pressure to new mothers. Everyone is entitled to their opinions and those whose opinion is strictly pro-breastmilk are freely allowed to express these but not look down upon those who don’t. The Mothers who choose to bottle feed should feel confident about their decision but remember that not all women who choose to breastfeed will disagree with formula. Having experiences in both, I’m well aware that breastfeeding carries its own stigma.
At the end of the day, we do what we do for the sake of our children. Whatever decision that we choose, we should be applauded for caring and doing the right thing. To those breastfeeding Mothers, well done for feeding your baby. To those formula feeding Mothers, once again, well done for feeding your baby. Our methods may differ but we essentially have the same outcome in mind.

The Twinkle Diaries

Don’t Let Me Go to Sleep

  Don’t let me go to sleep Mammy, I don’t like it when it’s dark. I can’t see your beautiful face. I search for it Mammy but all I see is black. I try my hardest to recall you, to summon your features, to picture you exactly as you are but its hard. Sometimes I manage and can’t but help smile. Even though I’m sleeping, it’s you that makes me happy. That smile that you’ll claim is simply ‘just wind’ is because I saw you in my mind but it doesn’t last Mammy, you vanish quickly then I’m left feeling alone again, abandoned without your face. 

Don’t let me go to sleep Mammy, unless I’m in your arms. My cot is so vast and I feel vulnerable on my own. I feel so secure on your chest. You protect me, I don’t need to worry about mean monsters or scary snakes. I feel safest in your embrace. I can close my eyes and let myself drift off into the world of slumber. Your scent reminds me that you’re close by so I snuggle in tight and dream peacefully. Then you put me down and I’m left feeling alone again, abandoned without your touch.
Don’t let me go to sleep Mammy, not without your sweet song. This world can be a scary place. When I was in your womb, I listened to your heart beating and it lulled me to sleep. It was a delicious noise that let me know you would always be there. It was constant,  a definite, reliable. Now I can’t hear it, I try and try to remember the soft sound but I can’t. I get upset trying then you sing to me and I no longer even try. The best thing about this world is that there’s even better sounds for me to hear. Your song is my favourite. I enjoy it more because I can hear the tenderness and love in your voice. You sing to me and, once again, I know you are mine forever. Then you stop and I’m left feeling alone again, abandoned without your melody.
Don’t let me sleep Mammy even though I’m tired. I miss you when I’m sleeping, I’d rather stay awake. I can feel you rocking me Mammy, the sensation is mild and pleasant. I know what you’re doing but please don’t let it work. I’m just not ready yet. I’m fighting and fighting but you’re trying and trying. I can’t tell you’re getting mad at me Mammy but please don’t. I won’t be small forever and I promise I won’t need you in this way for long. Just hold me while I’m small Mammy, let me listen to that song. Let me lie in your arms and feel the warmth of your body just for a few more minutes more. I promise I’ll sleep tomorrow. 
When my son, Tristan, was born he didn’t sleep for at least 3 weeks. Although frustrating and tiring, I would see the fear in his eyes. This is what I imagine he’d say. At 5 months old, he started sleeping through. Now, at 15 months old, I’d do anything for one of his midnight snuggles. For all those Mammies in the ‘newborn’ period, I wish you luck and the strength to find enjoyment in the 4am snuggles – they disappear far too quickly.

I Survived the Baby Blues

 Before my children were born, I lived in a world of ignorant bliss. My idealistic views of Motherhood stemmed from American Soap Operas and Chick Flicks. They were, in truth, Disney influenced. 

That’s why, when my children were born, I suffered so badly with guilt. As a new Mam, I’d no idea of the trials and tribulations each day would hold. My visions were cloud lined with images of me cradling my newborn, cheesy grinning, prancing abound my living room like Mary Poppins. It wasn’t that I expected it to be easy, it was how the Media had led me to believe.
I expected that my son, Tristan, would be placed in my arms and I’d cry with happiness. That I’d scoop him up in a loving embrace and declare to the rest of the world ‘it’s okay, I’ve got this’. I expected that when he cried, I’d know instinctively what he wanted and how to handle him. I expected him to latch to my breast harmonious and feed like he’d been waiting for me forever. Only now, a full year on, am I ready to speak the truth.
Tristan’s birth had been slightly traumatic. I pushed for hours upon end without any medication. I’d been allowed to continue pushing because his heart rate had not faltered, he was not feeling the same distress as I. However, it became apparent that something wasn’t right. Tristan was lying on an angle that would prohibit him from coming naturally. I was taken to theatre and given a spinal block in preparation for an emergency C-Section if his heart rate plummeted whilst moving him. In the end, no C-Section was required but I was left paralysed from the armpits down.
As I lay exhausted and convulsing from the medication, the midwife cleaned Tristan up then rested him on my chest. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. The moment where I was meant to kiss his blood stained head and cry. Instead, I froze. ‘Somebody take him’ I sobbed. I didn’t have the confidence. I was tired and didn’t have control of my arms. How would I protect him if he rolled?
So there it was, the most important moment in my life and I was already a failure. But was I? The dream is, and always has been, that you’ll look dotingly into your baby’s eyes and immediately bond. I loved my son immediately, intensively but I didn’t bond with him as quickly as I’d hoped. I remember being scared of him, thinking that I wasn’t what he wanted, thinking that he didn’t like me (I know, ridiculous right?) However, many mothers feel this way. Many new mothers have experiences like myself.  This doesn’t seem to stop us lying through our teeth and saying aloud what society wants us to say. We all contribute to the Media’s representation of immediate Motherhood.
So what else do we lie about? I remember being asked a million times whether my son was ‘good’. ‘Oh he’s a dream’ I’d state ‘he’s just the best baby EVER’. What I meant was ‘he cries…all the time. I don’t know what I’m doing. If he’s good then it’s definitely me that’s bad. Oh god, I must be rubbish’. I remember one awkward moment with my male next door neighbour who dared ask me this question on the wrong day at the wrong time. He got my honest response. ‘Welcome to parenthood’ he declared. ‘We all felt that way to begin’. This was a revelation. If we all feel this way, why don’t we say it?
The guilt I felt in the 1st few months will never leave me. There’ll always be a part of me that feels massively ashamed. I felt guilty that I didn’t know how to soothe my crying baby within milliseconds. I felt guilty that I didn’t know how to read his mind. I felt guilty that I struggled to wake four times a night for feeds. I felt guilty that I wanted to cry so much. I felt guilty for feeling so scared. I felt guilty that I no longer had time to listen to my husband. I felt guilty for giving birth when I so clearly wasn’t equipt. I felt guilty because sometimes I found it hard to smile. I felt guilty because I was, so clearly, a million miles away from the Mary Poppins Mother I’d dreamt of being. On the whole, I felt guilty because I was the only one feeling like this. I looked at other mothers, I saw the way the beamed and glowed. I felt low and anxious that I’d never be like them. I looked at other mothers and saw the way the looked at me. I immediately believed that they’d guessed my secret, they knew how utterly weak I was.
With my second child, I vowed that I’d do things
completely differently. I wanted, because I knew the score by now, to be in control. When she arrived 9 weeks early, I was thrust into a new turmoil. Yet again, I missed my movie moment of feeling her against my chest (I had her for 30 seconds and we did cry this time, through joy that she was breathing). I thought that when she came home, I’d take over from the NICU nurses and be exactly what she wanted/needed. Yet again, I found myself pacing the floor at times unable to satisfy her and doubting myself.

It took me three weeks to fully adjust to Motherhood. That was, three weeks of making myself Ill with torture. Don’t get me wrong, and I know you’ll understand me, I LOVED my babies. I loved them so much that my heart would literally beat outside of my chest. The worry and anxiety I felt was all BECAUSE I loved them more that I’d ever known possible. The pressure I put on myself was all because I wanted to be the very best for them. It took me three weeks to learn that these feelings were normal, that many new mothers feel exactly that same as I did. It’s taken me a full year to say this out loud. And even now, I know there’ll be some who judge me. Some who will never understand because they never felt that way. I envy them but only for their ‘perfect’ transition. A full year on and I’m confident in my abilities. I hold my head high (even throughout the tantrums) and KNOW that I’m good. My children are happy, they’re blessed with a loving home. Their laughter and smiles reassure me that I’m on track and…eventually…I can say ‘it’s okay, I’ve got this’.