Being normal

So much has happened in the past year that I have neglected to record... how can I ever hope to catch up? There are a few sporadic entries in my journal, but most of it is stored in my unreliable brain, clinging desperately to misfiring neurons and hoping not to get lost. I’ll begin my updates with a précis version of moments, events and observations, in a vain attempt to fill some of the gaps.
Orla’s fourth month brought packers to our Istanbul home, where we parcelled up our life and posted it to Penang, where we would begin again two months into the future. I watched the blooming relationship between daddy and daughter with - I admit - a twinge of envy; their shared belly laughs and rough and tumble seemed so much more fun than my pedestrian trips to the park on sunny afternoons, where we played and napped in the shade of the trees. She amazed everyone with her alert curiosity, her determination to explore her world, and her experimentation with different sounds for communication. We ended the month with a farewell to Istanbul and a quiet family holiday in Spain, introducing Orla to sand, sea and swimming - all of which became immediate, firm favourites.
I had to share Orla throughout the summer - something I hadn’t had to do much of while Giles was working. It took a little getting used to. I loved being the centre of her world, and had to make a conscious effort to let him do what he is so good at - being a Daddy. Even though seeing them together made me glow with pleasure - Giles; playful, strong and funny, babbling nonsense and inventing mad games to make her laugh at changing time, and Orla; transfixed, delighted, chortling hard and waving her arms with glee - I felt moments of jealousy. I was more cautious, more afraid that something unknown and awful might take her away from us, and because of that, I worried that I would be less fun than Daddy, that Mummy would become the wet blanket who smothered the blaze of adventure and excitement they would create between them as she grows up.
But watching them together was good for me. Only by seeing Giles’ capability, by witnessing how very much she enjoyed her daddy’s company, could I increase my trust that other people were able to care for my precious baby for a while without it affecting my bond with her. I realised that she would need different people as she grows - maybe Giles’ role IS to be the fun one, with whom she can be wild, free and fearless. Maybe he will teach her to swim and to ride a bike, or who will help her to climb a tree or to paddle a kayak... but I will always have my own - very different, but just as necessary - role to play, too. Sharing parenting with Giles means that we can play to our strengths, and that Orla will have at least one of us to turn to, no matter what she needs or wants.
It wasn’t all a joyful love-in, though. There have been plenty of moments when I have dissolved into tears, wondering what on earth I’d done and raging against the monotonous reality of caring for a small baby, 24/7. The first weeks were easy, with Giles on leave, and my being so entirely besotted with the warm, sleeping miracle in my arms that I didn’t want to do anything but sit on the couch and hold her, gazing at her as she slept for hours on end. Who needs to pee or eat, anyway? Nature is brilliantly cunning.
Colic was the first real wake-up call. I began to dread mid-afternoon, when Orla’s knees would contract up to her tummy, her tiny hands would curl into fists and her face would crumple. I was helpless, unable to alleviate the pain; I endlessly swayed, rocked, massaged, worked her legs, lay her on my forearm to try to dislodge the trapped wind, all the while knowing that it was entirely normal for babies to suffer so, and that it might last up to 12 weeks, or even longer.
I found myself limited by my own anxieties. I was afraid to take her into the city on the bus in case she began to scream. I was plagued by the fear of her crying in public and being unable to help her, and of other people’s reactions. When I finally found the courage to take her to busy streets and cafes, and when one day she screamed inconsolably when she became overheated, I couldn’t have cared less what other people thought. I wasn’t aware of anyone else but her.
As she became older and heavier, I realised that sometimes I needed two hands - or two minutes - that were baby-free. I felt flashes of hurt and resentment when it seemed that my role was reduced to mere functionality. If she cried in someone else’s arms, it was clearly because she was hungry, so Mummy had better have her back. “She’s tired,” I would say. “She has colic.” My words fell on deaf ears. What would I know? After months of attention when pregnant, I was nothing more than a feeding machine. My self-esteem sagged as I became Just A Mum, and my silent fears simmered more insistently. My novel lay unfinished, a handful of chapters still to be written. Any motivation I had dwindled and I spent hours looking for reassurance and sharing experiences with other rookie mums on the internet. I made many friends whom I may never meet - we understood one another, and often, we were able to share emotions and thoughts that we felt we couldn’t speak aloud to even those closest to us. Terrible scenarios flashed into my brain without warning; dreadful accidents that could take Orla away from me. I was haunted by a woman whose baby boy was ‘born asleep’. I had to check Orla’s breathing as she slept and couldn’t stand on the balcony with her in my arms without my knees buckling. How would I cope - how would I live? - if anything happened to her?
A borderline smear test heightened my terror. What did it mean? A nasty little voice in my head told me that I wouldn’t live to see my daughter grow up. I fought it so hard, pushing it down, telling it - and myself - that I was fine, I was not afraid. But I was - terribly afraid - until the repeat test results came back clear. I was fully aware of the dull spite of depression lurking in the corners, and over the past year, I have had to draw on help from many friends and family to hold it at bay.
Gradually the darkness lifted. Infacol and Orla reaching ten weeks banished colic. I began to trust my instincts, instead of worrying about what Orla ‘should’ be doing by whatever date. Giles and I took a sleeping Orla to restaurants with friends, and if she woke and cried, I was unaware if anyone ever was bothered by it. I was not Just A Mum - I had become A Mother, but in addition to the whole gamut of people I was before, and still am. I realised that all of those facets of me were still there, even if I didn’t have as much time to dedicate to them as before.
Through my friends online, I came to see that my ghastly thoughts and horrors, and flashes of frustration and anger were completely normal - a part of coming to terms with the sudden, awesome responsibility our tiny additions had brought to our lives. A steep, hard learning curve; the hardest, but most rewarding and beautiful stage of my life. The dark moments were nothing more than parts of the process of change and adjustment. I was fully aware that these would not be the only low moments I would experience in the hurly burly carnival of chaos ahead, and that I must learn to embrace the fears, anxieties and negativity and cherish them in the same way as I would smiles, hugs and myriad little achievements. After all, they, too, would form part of our closeness and depth of love for one another. I knew that I would forget these insights and would rail against the trials of raising a child, and hoped that I would not be too hard on myself until I remembered these detached pearls of wisdom. Through all of these lessons, I realised that every dark cloud shall eventually pass. I am normal.

Three amazing months

I’ve done a fair few incredible things in my life – I’ve trekked to Kala Pattar, just above Base Camp Everest, been scuba diving with hammerheads and snorkelling with whale sharks, sailed around the Galapagos and written the first draft of a novel – but quite possibly nothing so exhilarating, exhausting and emotional as being a new mummy.

Just as with all of my most memorable travel adventures, I have had outstanding material to work with. Orla is extraordinary and I have watched her sleeping with as much wonder as I watched the light change the marble a myriad of colours on the Taj Mahal, listened to her coo and gurgle with more excitement and delight than the howler monkeys’ dawn chorus in the Guatemalan jungle. Her demands and needs can be just as challenging as a trek to Everest, but the smile she gives me each morning when she wakes up is even more rewarding.

We made a decision before she was born – not to buy any of the ‘How to…’ books by so-called experts. They work very well for many people, but I have never liked being told what to do or how to do it! We decided to trust our instincts, to listen to what Orla tells us and if something isn’t working, to try something else. The only times I have felt out of my depth, or that I am doing something wrong, have been when I have succumbed to temptation and peeked at what those experts have to say. I’ve tried a few of their techniques and found that they didn’t work as well as the ones Giles and I have worked out for ourselves; I haven’t read anywhere that putting your baby on an exercise ball and rolling her back and forth is a great soother for colic!

So far, the ‘Ginnie and Giles Guide to Bringing Up Orla’ has been working well for all three of us. I hate the term ‘co-sleeping’, but I adore the practise of it! I can honestly say that I think it’s the most important, and one of the most successful decisions we made. Giles was initially far keener than I was; I was afraid that, for the first few weeks, Orla would simply be too small. However, when Giles said a reluctant goodbye and had to leave us alone in the maternity ward that first night, I fed Orla and put her down in her clinical Perspex cot – and she began to cry. Anxious about her waking the other, exhausted new mothers – and desperate to hold her again – I picked her up, and slept with her cradled safely in my arms, my elbow supported by a pillow. Waking the next morning with my tiny, new treasure nuzzling at my breast was maybe the most moving moment of my life.

We continued as we began. Orla has spent every night of her life in our bed, and none of us have had a sleepless night yet. It’s almost sad that I am so accustomed to her little body, curled into mine as she feeds herself back to sleep, that I seldom gaze at her with the same wonder before I fall asleep. But in place of that is the warm and comfortable familiarity of her stirring as I get quietly into bed, reaching out her little hands and opening her mouth like a hungry hatchling, ready for a sleepy feed that will take her through until morning. Giles and I rise, go through the morning ritual of tea, preparing breakfast and seeing him off to work before she wakes and I go back to greet her and am blessed again by the light of her smile.
There are plenty of people who seem to think that we’re ‘making a rod for our own backs’ by not leaving her to sleep in a cot of her own. I think there’s plenty of time for that. I have a shadowy idea of how the transition may occur, a good many months into the future, and if it doesn’t work out that way, we’ll find another – hopefully one that, again, works for all of us. Until then, I’ll relish the closeness of my arms encircling my sleeping baby and the soft, regular sigh of her breathing next to me.

We ‘flout the rules’ in other ways and seem to be getting away these transgressions, too. I worried for a couple of days that we didn’t have a set ‘routine’, complete with scheduled feeds, naps, playtimes, bathtimes and bedtimes… until I realised that Orla is perfectly capable of letting me know what her natural routine is. It’s evolved of its own accord, without any interference from me, and is surprisingly flexible. We still visit friends in the evenings, go out for meals, go travelling… Orla will sleep anywhere, if she feels like it! Things take a little more planning or need to be adapted slightly, but Orla has proved to be a most compliant traveller. At twelve weeks, she had racked up three flights between London and Istanbul, a return journey from London to Newcastle (incorporating a full house clearance) in a transit van and a long-distance trip to the Phrygian Valley in Turkey. This summer, she’ll be touring Spain, Eastern Turkey and the UK before we fly to our new home in Penang, Malaysia. Giles and I don’t subscribe to the school of thought that states that we have to give up doing the things we love now that we have a baby; neither do we believe that we can carry on merrily as before, leaving Orla with a nanny while we try to prove to ourselves that ‘Having a baby hasn’t changed us!’. We want Orla to enhance our lives, and that means a balance between including her in as much of what we do as possible and ensuring that we’re fulfilling all of her needs, too. I may have travelled to a fair number of countries so far, but I’m so excited by the prospect of rediscovering the world through her eyes in years to come.

Sometimes Giles and I have forgotten to talk to one another, and those have been the times that have been most challenging. We’re making an extra effort to let each other in on our thoughts, triumphs and anxieties; we discuss our days, try to remember to do little things for one another that mean a lot and share the responsibilities and pleasures of raising our little girl. Because Giles works all day, he was concerned that his bond with Orla may not be as strong as the one that she and I share. I was missing having quiet time to write each day, so we agreed on some time each evening, dedicated to what each of us felt we needed most. Now Giles leaves his work until Orla has gone to bed and spends a couple of hours playing with his daughter; judging by the gurgles and chortles and other sounds of riotous play that drift into the room where I’m working, he has little to fear about the strength of their bond. I have space and time to write, or to focus on jobs that are awkward to do with a baby in my arms. We try to make sure that there’s time for us, too – not as much as before, inevitably, but we still share the laughter, love and affection that made us want to bring up Orla together in the first place.

We’re not doing everything according to the books, but we’re acting on a blend of our instinct, intuition and old-fashioned common sense. We’re blessed with an easygoing and accommodating child, but perhaps somehow, on some level, we’re getting a few things right, too.