My Heart

I rest my hand against her chest and can feel her heart beat fast and hard. It amazes me that less than 10 weeks ago, that beating heart was inside me.

I remember the first time I heard her heart, beating in a sea of black at the ultra-sound, the confirmation that there was life inside me. She was all heart then.

And the first time I heard her heart beat after my operation, anxiously waiting for the midwife to find it, my own heart had stopped until I was sure she had survived.

And then when she was placed on my chest, purple and warm, her heart beating against mine.

Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow

Breastfeeding for the most part has gone really well. The first two weeks of course were hell. I imagine those first weeks are only fun to women who live in latex and nipple clamps with a list of favorite safety words. There's a lot of crying in the early days, and it's not just the raging hormones, it's having a small snorting newbie chomp on your nipples like her life depended on it, because, oh that's right, her life depends on it. But then the pain slowly goes away, and you don't dread the feedings as much. And now at two months of this feeding another human with liquid from your body, I can say that the sensation is not all together unpleasant. It even tickles at times. And oh the sophomoric joy at seeing how far I can squirt milk out of my boob. I figure if Eloise is going to spit up so much of it, I can waste some too. So when the pamphlets and the midwives and the doctors and the magazines and the websites all tell you that breastfeeding should not be painful, they are right. But they don't tell you that it takes weeks to get there.

However holding on to an ever growing bundle of joy for hours on end while she feeds is not the most comfortable. And sure, we use strategically placed pillows to ease the back ache, but sometimes mama needs to read the newspaper and sometimes she wants to read it at the kitchen table and not the giant arm chair she now spends the large slice of the pie chart in. Either way by the end of the day my arms and back are feeling the breastfeeding pain.

So after a few earlier failed attempts I decided to give breastfeeding lying down another try - look Ma! No Hands!. And it works a treat. My DreamGenii pillow underneath my shoulders and Eloise's head, we snuggle up together and she feeds. Not only do we both get to have a rest in this position, it gives Eloise a bit more freedom. I help her latch on at first, but then she comes off when she wants to, takes a moment to contemplate the meaning life and/or burp and can latch right back on again when she feels like it with no help from me. These feeds have a more of a all-you-can-eat buffet feel with no restrictions on helpings. Of course letting her fall asleep like this then sneaking her into her crib may not be the best in long run and I'm sure we'll pay for it when I have a 4 year old who can only fall asleep by spooning her mother, but we'll deal with that issue when we get to it.

My only problem with breastfeeding is doing it in public. Now I'm not uncomfortable popping my boob out in public and feeding my daughter, but I am uncomfortable with other people being uncomfortable. You hear these horror stories of evil stares or restaurant managers kicking you out on the grounds that you can't bring in your own food (WTF!!!). So when Eloise and I are out and about I get such horrible nerves when she starts crying, worrying about whether I'll have to feed her and what people's reactions will be if I do. I don't like the idea of blankets or hooter hiders to cover us up though. A) It feels like I'm ashamed of giving my child a good meal, which I am not. B) I sure as hell wouldn't want to eat a meal with a blanket over my head unless it's that sacred bird and I'm at some underground banquet with French VIPs so I don't see why my kid would.

At home I spend most of the day half topless. The ever sexy look of one tit dangling out of a milk stained low-cut T-Shirt. Ahh, motherhood is so hot. And my fear is that one day I will answer the door in this half dressed state. Hello Mr. Postman. Oh that? That's just my daughter's mid-morning snack, why - did you want some? Seriously. Motherhood. So hot.

It's a shame though that while at home I am terribly at ease with it all, I live in fear of having to whip out boob in public. Any suggestions on how to get over this fear or what to say to anyone who gives me hassle for daring to feed a hungry child in front of them? Have any of you ever had bad experiences breastfeeding in public? I mean part of me doesn't see too much of a problem staying inside for the next 6 months or so watching reruns of The Hills, but I don't think I'd like Eloise's first words to be"I hate Spiedi".

Deuxieme mois avec Mademoiselle Eloise

Eloise -

You have survived another month with your father and me. You are smiling more and you even grace us with the occasional laugh. Though I wouldn't call you a smiley baby. You seem to put thought into your smiles and have a refined palate for what you find humorous - not one to give a goofy grin just to please those around you, we need to earn those perfectly upturned little lips. How tres French of you.

Speaking of perfect lips, you have quickly mastered the pout, and I swear these past few days you have been pouting with purpose, aware of the effect your little down turned mouth has. Here's a little tip kid, that pout is going to work a hell of a lot better on your father than me. In fact your father is physically unable to turn his lips downwards, so its no surprise that you inherited this from me. I am a master pouter. Use this pout wisely my child, for it is a powerful tool when used correctly. In fact, you wouldn't be here if it weren't for my pout.

Your repertoire of noises has trebled over the past few weeks. Little girl sighs, squeals, coos. You have also developed a new cry. While the first cries you made were instinctual and based on your needs for survival, this new cry has you actively using your vocal chords to express a want. You will cry because you need to be fed or need to be changed, but now you can also cry because you want to sleep with me and not alone or because you want to see what's going on in a different room. I was hoping for another month before this level of manipulation took place, but I'm glad to see that you're learning to let the world know what you want, not just what you need.

Your father has started repeating the noises you make and you guys are able to hold a conversation together. He apologizes if he's saying anything offensive since we were never given a French-Baby dictionary, but you seem to enjoy your little chats with him so I don't think he's saying anything too controversial.

Sometimes I forget that you are a baby. You seem so wise and so aware that I am sure that you will have more to teach me than I you. I have known for a long time that I wanted to be a mother. Since I was probably 12 or younger I would imagine what my children would be like, their dark hair and blue eyes. I would have make-believe conversations with them. Imagining how they would make me laugh, how I would tell them off when they were naughty, the games we would play. The kids in my mind were smart and funny and with an acute awareness of the world around them.

Eloise, in the two months that you have been living with me you have proved to be so much better than I ever could have imagined. I can never thank you enough for not only making me a mother, but making me your mother and I only hope that by the end of it all I will have lived up to your dreams too.


Eloise has moved up in the rankings since her first month

Je t'aime,


Maman

Gee Whiz! I'm dreaming my life away.

Yesterday I laid Eloise down on our bed so that I could get some stuff done around the house. I turned on the radio to keep her company (Smooth FM - formerly Saga FM, the old people's station). The song All I Have to do is Dream by the Everly Brothers was playing. So instead of doing my chores, I did an impromptu dance for my child as she stared at me wide eyed and curious.

I used to dance to songs all the time when I was a kid - a pastime that was made all the more entertaining if I had an audience. At one of my birthday parties I once made all my friends sit in my room and watch me dance and lip-synch to the soundtrack of Stand By Me. And I cannot tell you how excited I am to have a stationary audience in Eloise. And how much more excited I am at the idea that one day she'll dance with me. And even more excited that one day I will do an impromptu dance in front of her and her surly teenage friends and make her die of embarrassment.

But I digress. The song All I Have to do is Dream reminded me of a blog post I had swirling around my head last week that I plum forgot to write. All about the pathetically literal state of my dreams.

Once I found out I was pregnant, I was pregnant in all my dreams. This was fine in the earlier stages, when I was naive and enjoying the state of being knocked up. Towards the end, when I was huge and miserable, waking up oh so many times in the night, I would have loved to have been able to close my eyes and imagine myself unburdened by the growing life inside me, long and slender (hey. It's a dream) and free. Instead my subconscious refused to give me even a mental respite from my physical state. Every dream I had I was pregnant in. Lumbering around in my dream world, just as unable to bend over and tie my shoes as in reality. Even in my sex dreams I was apologizing for my protruding belly, or if they baby accidentally kicked my lover and ruined the moment.

And then I had a baby, and I was excited that the pregnancy dreams would be over, and I could go back to normal. One would think. But no. Not little miss unimaginative subconscious. My first sex dream after having Eloise? I broke away from the passionate kissing to warn the guy to be careful of my stitches and to ignore the bleeding. Hot, huh?

And then there was none

Wahey! I am done. Finally finally done with the horrible shedding of blood that happens after you give birth. It took 6 weeks for my body to expunge the blood. And it is as horrid as it sounds. A 6 week long period to make up for the 9 months you stopped giving money to the Tampax people. Because you know mother nature gives us woman folk such an easy time already that it would be daft for us to think that a 9 month suspension on our monthly visitor would go unpunished.

No longer do I smell of rust. Just regurgitated breast milk. Ahh, the joys of motherhood, they just keep on coming don't they?

Sacrifice

There are many things you sacrifice when you become a mother. The ability to fart or sneeze without the fear of wetting yourself a little bit. The freedom to go out at night and get drunk with friends whenever the mood strikes you (and trust me when I say that in my previous life the mood struck hard and often). A body that can withstand the effects of gravity. When I roll over in bed, my stomach stays put like a deflated pancake sleeping next to me. A sharp mind that has the capacity to think thoughts that do not revolve around baby poo or regurgitated milk or the safety of your child.

But oh what you gain. The chance to be woken up by thin little baby noises only to have her stop and smile at you as soon as you stick your head in her bassinet, her face honestly excited at seeing yours. The sight of your child sleeping soundly on her father’s chest. To have created a family. A warm little body to pick up and hold against you whenever your heart aches for her. The hope at what she will become, a clean slate with every possibility before her. The knowledge that your life is forever linked with this tiny being who will one day grow into a woman.

I've got something in my pocket...

La petite bête finally smiles. Or rather, her mother finally manages to break away from the love spell Eloise has her under long enough to grab the camera and capture one of her toothless grins. It's a good thing she cries sometimes, because if she made this face all day long I would have to hand her over to child protection services for fear of eating her.



Brownie points to anyone who can tell me what song the title is referring to. Pun intended.