Confinement Diaries Week 4: Reality smells like a stinky armpit

A bit late with this week's instalment, because the confinement nanny left (finally!) Which means we have survived 4 weeks, Layla is a whopping 4.65kg now and 1 month old, my husband is again back in my bed, and for real we now have to work out how to deal on our own.

In some ways it's better without help - I am not tempted to second-guess myself. I can eat what I want when I want (within limits). I can fumble my own way through and learn, provided I can stand the lengthier bouts of crying.

It's also a sobering realization that what I'm dealing with now, is what will be for months and years to come. Not just the emotive part of parenting, but the humdrum chores and physical tasks that come out of nowhere and don't seem to end. Bottles to be sterilized, again and again. Baby laundry to be washed. Bath to be readied (and cleaned up after). Change after change after change. No one else to soothe a crying baby but you. Feed after feed after feed.

That's not even counting the regular household chores like floors, garbage, dishes, bills, and more.  I barely had time to eat or drink, let alone shower, or sleep. I have lost count of the number of times I was close to tears from exhaustion or went to bed smelling like an athlete's sock.

I'm sure some of this will regularise as a routine is established. In the meantime I have a new appreciation for the following people: 1. Single mums that work (especially feeling it now that my husband is stuck in office chasing deadlines); 2. Stay at home mums who do not have household help (eg. my mum).

One wonders how our mothers did it in days past. To hear them tell it (including my own) - childrearing was taught by experience from raising younger siblings, in their day - whereas it is taught by books and classes in today's world. Extended families were also a boon to their generation - more hands to help, less worries about life, more time at home.

So can we count on extended families these days? As the old saying goes, you can choose your friends but not your family. What if there were family members whose influence/participation you would rather keep at arms length? What if older relatives want to enjoy their third age in peace and quiet, not re-living parenting? Which way do the childraising scales tip - stranger that has an objective clear relationship, or familial assistance including all its baggage?

As an independent person who has led a very independent life, I tended to go for the nuclear family model (circa 80s) rather than the extended family model (which the government is trying to encourage these days). When our values and lifestyles have taken firm shapes to govern how we wish to raise our child, perhaps well-intentioned relatives will become one ingredient too many in the long, slow stewing process of childraising and family formation.

Most Singaporean new families I know have the compromise model - live as a nuclear family but be physically near extended families. For us, that would be somewhere in the middle between Tampines and Melbourne. So unless there was an Indonesian island equidistant that we could build our
own Mediterranean villa on, we still have to muddle through this on our own.

A routine is slowly being established - even the fussy periods and the diaper-changing cycles. I don't quite have the hang of it yet - but I'm not panicking as much as I did 4 weeks ago.

In the meantime, Layla has gotten used to the smell of my stinky armpit because that, in today's reality, is the smell of mother's love.

Affirmations:
- Layla has gained weight well and passed her 1st month physical checkup with flying colours!
- Mummy and Daddy have learned to dress Layla in long-sleeved tops or baby onesies without breaking a sweat
- 1 more week until Daddy's deadlines are done and we can go on a little family outing

Confinement Diaries Week 3: Parenthood, Motherhood and Couplehood

As much as I emoted over pregnancy, breastfeeding and confinement, I realize that those were temporary conditions that in several months would pass. Even the fussy stages that Layla is going through, I've
been told, will also pass.

What will linger is what I'm starting to feel - the bond of motherhood. It's not the pink and fluffy cotton candy ribbon-wrapped mother's day card sentiment you see on TV.

It's the tear-jerking tenderness you feel when you look at a sleeping baby's contented face and know you made her inside your body.

It's the terrible fear of making a mistake that will scar her for life, whether it's the accidental flash from the camera or when she chokes on her milk (future milk phobia?)

It's the inevitable resentment when some other woman seems to be better able to soothe her, or burp her, or make her smile, when you've done what you could to no avail.

It's the relief you feel when someone does take her off your hands before you lose your temper and say something stupid, after she's been alternatively nursing and crying for 90 minutes.

I'm not certain what makes a good mum. I catch myself at these moments wondering about how people learn to become parents - I'm not on trial run, nor am I experimenting with dolls - these are little humans whose future characters and bodies are shaped by our fumbling moves now. Should we trust nature to take its course? Is what I'm feeling the presence, or the lack of, maternal instinct?

Or the paternal instinct, ie. the other parent in the picture. Johann is in the unenviable position of being exiled to sleep in the living room for a month, while still taking care of all other matters big and small in the house, AND juggling tight work deadlines, AND taking on soothing or burping duty when needed. He has less physical time and proximity with Layla (no judgment please you need to understand the 10,000 things he juggles daily to get it), yet is indispensible to the family unit we are becoming. Not to mention running interference for all other obligations that are outside our little circle of 3.

Is this what parenthood is meant to be in the modern age? Still can't step away from the "outside-inside" dichotomy, such that when both parents are "outside" ie. full time jobs, someone else (eg. Nanny or
maid) has to be "inside". In effect the modern child has 3 or more parents?

We are grappling with this now as we ponder childcare solutions after my maternity leave is over. External childcare appears to be both uneconomical and fraught with diseases - is a live-in helper unavoidable?

In the forseeable future anyway, couplehood appears to be a thing of the past. Jo and I had been trying - an hour or two while Layla is napping to watch a footie match or a TV movie together, 30min of quiet time in the mornings just the 3 of us.

Something tells me that I need to find a way to preserve couplehood within the definitions of our new family circle. Ironically the quiet time exists because there is a nanny at the moment to watch over Layla - God knows what will happen when she leaves in 1 week's time.

That said, I find that the tried-and-true "How was your day?" and actually listening and responding to the answer, does make a very big difference - we become interesting adults and individuals again, not just another parental unit.

All of the above may sound like small potatoes to those of you who have been parents for some time. Apologies for making a mountain out of a molehill. When one is under confinement-arrest (and can't sleep)
there's not much else to do when faced with a sleeping baby and cheap data connection but express one's thoughts in a blog entry. Perhaps you care to share your views.

Affirmations:
- Watched Ron Howard's "Parenthood" again and was struck by how more meaningful it is now;
- Layla is gaining weight well and is taking almost 100ml per feed; Layla survived her first social occasion with nothing more than a cranky temper.
- Mum has figured how to switch sides when breastfeeding without disturbing Layla; Mum has come to terms with the breastmilk-formula conundrum;
- Daddy has changed his first diaper;

Confinement Diaries Week 2: On Breasts and Nannies

Oh get over yourselves - the reality is nowhere as titillating as the title (pun intended)

I once suggested to help a friend with a project while I was on maternity leave. "I'll be stuck at home anyway," I said blithely.

Her response was pointed. "Don't try and be hero lah, the 1st month you are nothing more than a cow either with real breasts or bottled milk, you'll be so tired you'll just be walking around the house like a zombie in your pyjamas, everything will be about the baby and you won't be able to think more than 1 week at a time. Puh-leese." (She was also the one that suggested I take stock 1 week at a time and don't look further than that - great advice - or I'll be insane by now.)

In week 2, must say her description wasn't that far off from the truth. I wanted to breastfeed Layla exclusively based on all the health recommendation theory.  Little did I know breastfeeding has become so much more than a form of sustenance - in some circles it has been elevated to the status of 'liquid gold', in others it is an indication of how much perserverance you have as a mother. It is entirely possible breasts sag over time from this additional 'burden of expectation'...

Despite my best intentions, my attempt at total breastfeeding in the 1st week has resulted in Layla dropping almost 20% in weight since birth, lack of bowel movement and slight dehydration. My lack of sleep probably didn't help milk production either.
I am now grappling with the appropriate combination of nursing, expressing into bottle, formula supplements and getting enough rest.

But what an emotional decision to change the feeding approach. What guilt! Such angst over my breastmilk production, and whether I am an adequate mother. So so so tired. Trying to stay upbeat when the baby is crying at every turn. Told by all corners (including peds doctor) that I'm not producing enough milk. Each side of the breastfeeding debate debunking myths from the other side. Torn between scientific evidence and prevailing collective wisdom from other mothers. 

In this part of the world, the motherly wisdom is also meant to come from Confinement Nannies.  For 1 month, new mothers post partum are under the care of women who are supposedly well-versed in the art/science of recovering from childbirth in a way that preserves the woman's long term health. A combination of folklore, holistic and traditional medicine, and motherly help with baby, confinement nannies are a cottage industry. In Singapore it has gotten to the levels of placement agencies, user contracts, work permits, etc.  Going rate is in the region of S$2000 for 4 weeks (+/- for quality, live-in vs. not, experience, etc.)

Our nanny is mediocre - she has a lot to say about what to do or not do post childbirth. What she says is not always in sync with what my mother says, which makes for some very confusing instructions. I rather go with my mum on the side of caution, but I am still unsure about the purported "long-term effects" of drinking a cold drink, not wearing slippers on tiled floors, taking regular showers, or - gasp - heaven forbid I eat/drink while standing up.  For as many people that tell me this is hokum, there are just as many that I know who blame their elderly ailments on lack of compliance with confinement instructions. Do I want to wait 20 years to find out? 

In the meantime, I'm straddling the comfort/confinement spectrum by negotiating for small bonuses like... daily baths provided I use herb-infused hot water (it's not aromatherapy.. or rather, not nice aromas), wearing a tank top around the house but agreeing to only take warm/hot food/drink, etc.  

In the end, Layla is doing what babies do (I think) - eat, cry, sleep, poop, pee, cry, eat, sleep - and not in that order. It really doesn't matter to her when complications abound about confinement, breastfeeding, etc. - she gets a clean nappy and plenty of cuddles, she smiles at mummy and daddy and we're all just in bits over her. 

Shout out to Daddy who has done more than anyone can expect while juggling seriously tight work deadlines - there are too many that underestimate the importance of Daddy-hood when it comes to taking care of EVERYTHING ELSE. More on that in week 3. 

Affirmations for week 2: Layla is pooping well, fussing more as she is growing faster, she loves her rocker from Grandpa, Daddy is getting lots of work, Mummy is recovering well from c-section.  

Confinement Diaries Week 1: The Show Begins

I was reading on a pregnancy website (seemed so long ago) about maintaining a pregnancy journal. Between the physical changes of being pregnant, starting a new job and getting ourselves ready, i barely started an email to the baby (see below), forget a journal.... so i thought it may be more appropriate to the topic at hand to ruminate over motherhood, a lifetime commitment, rather than 9 months of discomfort. Why not start chronicling it while i'm under house arrest - i mean confinement - for a month.

Our daughter Layla binte Johann wasn't a daughter until she was born. As in, her unknown gender had been debated and became the central subject of a charity drive. In a way we wanted a surprise and well... in another, for me it became a way to think 'hey, not yet, still not there yet'.

It was a way to cope with what i know will be life-changing for us. Already it was changing my life by putting me under the knife for the 1st time ever for an emergency cesarean after my attempt at natural labour. I, who thought I was so healthy and strong to 'push' through an estimated 4kg baby, and was never subject to anything more invasive than a bout of pneumonia when I was 4 plus a mammogram in recent years. The abject fear that my baby was going to be CUT out of me, greeted into the world with needles and scalpels, was more debilitating than any epidural. Jo held my hand while I cried silent tears and prayed as the doctor got ready. The few min of pre-op was the longest in my life.. even the sight of Jo in full blue scrubs couldn't make me laugh.

We held hands and breaths while prodding and cutting continued in the Star Trek operating room, all white and blue and sterile lights. I waited and tried to not wait at the same time - till there was the 1st blessed lusty indignant cry that told us things were finally looking up since labour began 16 hrs ago.

"We have a girl!" Jo shouted excitedly. "and she has a lot of hair!"

I couldnt help but sob in relief at that first loud wail, and I cried even harder when they brought her over to see me. Jo was bouncing around like an excited puppy - talking to baby and to me at the same time. "No man will ever be good enough for you!" he proclaimed. "Go see mummy, mummy wants to see you..."

The nurse brought her over, and our daughter's face came close to my face. Her eyes were open, the wailing stopped, and that look on her face was already a challenge to us:

C'mon Mummy and Daddy, are you ready?

****************
I still don't know what you'll be called, or what you'll look like. I just know that I'm terrified and excited and distraught and panicked and filled with love all at the same time. I can't even begin to imagine what life will be like when you get here - I look at friends that have just had new babies and they all say the same thing - "Your life will never be the same again" - but it's such a vague statement - never be the same good? or bad? And their motions don't seem to reflect this life-changing statement.. still picking up babies, swaddling them, nursing them, like it's no big deal, like they were born doing it.

How do They even get started?!