You know you have a child at Christmas when...

It's that time of the year again where we long for peace on earth... or in our own homes at least. Christmas is all about family, but no Christmas will ever be the same again once you have little ones to share it with. Here's how you know you have a child around at Christmas time:


Your Christmas tree looks like it's been vomited on by a tinsel monster
Gone are the days of a beautiful pine tree with baubles that are colour coordinated with your Farrow and Ball feature wall. No, you now have a practical plastic tree to avoid unwanted pine needles spread around the entire house – or worse, being eaten by small children. Not only this, but try telling your little one that, no, they can't have their misshaped, glittery Santa decoration they made at nursery on the tree. Have a heart. The trouble is they've made several of them, and you don't think they will forget about last year's efforts do you? It's okay, you think, I'll just place them neatly behind the more tasteful ones, but now you have a handy helper whose distribution skills are on a par with a drunken postman. Before you know it, your tree is looking rather lopsided and full of multicoloured tinsel that is more suited to one of dame Edna's dresses than your Farrow and Ball paint.  

Your children resemble Duracell bunnies
In the weeks up to christmas it's like they have been gradually wound up until they are more hyperactive than a puppy on sherbert. So much for peace on earth. And whose idea was advent calendars?! As if kids need any more reminders of how many days they have left to go completely and utterly bonkers. A countdown to Christmas is one thing, but then some evil manufacturer decided to add chocolate into the mix too: that little bit of extra sugar to just tip them right over the edge. Thanks a million. 

You consider a less traditional Christmas dinner
Imagine how many hours a year parents spend trying to get their kids to eat vegetables. Now imagine a day when they are expected to eat a whole meal full of every variety possible. Not only this, but some smartass decided to introduce a one-off extra just to piss kids and parents off everywhere: sprouts. Geez, why not just make them eat Grandma's ear wax, that'd probably go down better. I don't know about you but whenever I plan a family meal out I go for the meal with the lowest risk of tantrums: pizza. Is pizza express open on Christmas Day?

You hope to God for gift receipts
Every family with have that one relative who gets your kids the most annoying presents known to mankind. Such relatives have no concern for how much space you have in your living room for a plastic slide, or how much mental capacity you have for a toy that plays jingle bells on repeat. It's all very well on Christmas Day but this relative has no idea how irritating it is to hear jingle bells in the middle of March. Still, at least their all-singing, all-dancing toys will save you a trip to Vegas. 

There are tears before 3pm
Christmas is a day of heightened emotions and all that excitement is sure to land with a crash- usually at 3pm when grandma is trying to listen to the queen's speech. You try to keep your cool but you realise that you have nothing left to bribe them with because they've already had more treats than a circus chimp. Instead you have to resort to distracting them with uncle Brian's jingle bell toy until you eventually have a melt down yourself. 

You secretly like resorting to a little kid at Christmas
Not only do you have a legitimate excuse to watch Polar express on repeat, you get to play with the scalextric you never had as a child. Deep down you have to admit that Christmas has never been better. Go on, admit it, there's nothing quite like seeing a child's excitement on Christmas morning. 

Post Natal Bodies: Does my bump look big in this?

I was told on several occasions how much pregnancy suited me; that I was 'blooming' or 'glowing'. There is something about a baby bump that makes people see a woman's body differently; she is beautiful because of the life she is creating. Her body reflects the awe we see in nature; the miracle of life (that and the lovely skin, hair and the temporary boob job, of course).

But what if I told you this photo was taken one week after the birth of my second baby? Would it change your opinion of how I look? Does my bump become less beautiful?

As soon as I'd had my first baby, eyes would wander to my waistline. It seemed almost instinctive for people to assess my post-natal figure, even when I felt at my most vulnerable. A few months down the line I got a few "You've done well to lose the baby weight" lines, as though I then merited some sort of validation for what merely time had done on it's own; as though losing my bump was as much of an achievement as growing a life itself.

I remember going to the theatre soon after I'd had my first baby and watching some young dancers wearing crop tops, flaunting their flat little midriffs. A friend turned to me and said "do you remember when your belly looked like that?" Short of bursting into a bout of hormonal tears, I accepted that my friend, along with most people who have not had children, had no idea how a post natal belly should look – nor how long it would take to go down, if at all. In fact, I had no real clue myself because I'd never known anyone open enough to tell me. I felt a little bit disappointed with the way that I looked.

You see, the media would have you believe that when a celebrity gives birth, her belly shrinks back to the flat, toned stomach she had pre-pregnancy. The true nature of a post natal belly has become a taboo subject, making women ashamed of their rotund midriffs. Women who give birth for the first time look down in shock when they see their little paunch with now no 'miracle of life' inside to validate it, rushing to the H&M sales to stock up on oversized jumpers.

But why do we feel the need the need to hide our bumps? Mine is still the same one that worked a miracle, why should I disguise it with control pants and baggy jumpers? Why should I add to the taboo and make more women feel less comfortable about their bodies, when they should be proud of what their bodies have been through? Let's not believe the celebrity tripe that we're fed with. I'm sure their bellies are bound look a lot flatter than mine with a personal trainer on hand, a full-time nanny and money for all the cosmetic surgery they want.

Actually, a year or so after I'd had my first baby my stomach looked better than it ever had because I worked hard at getting my figure back, but we need to give ourselves a realistic expectation as to how long it takes for our bodies to adjust. I'll update you on my blog how long it takes for my bump to go down this time (all be it with less time and energy to exercise!) but in the process I need to respect what nature has put me through. We need to give ourselves credit for the body changes bestowed upon us, not be ashamed of them. This is just part of life and the sooner we, as individuals, are ready to accept that, the more accepted women will feel about themselves on the whole.

So yes, my bump does look big in this but I refuse to be told I am less beautiful because of it. I'm learning to accept myself and what life throws at me, and this is just one of those things. Sure, I'd rather have my flat tummy back, but it's not unachievable, it will just take time. Lets give ourselves a break and learn to be proud of what we've gone through and the miracle of life we have created.

Get Your Baps Out: Feminism and Breastfeeding

I remember walking home from school, aged fourteen, and being shouted at from across the road by two lads telling me to "get my baps out" - and no, they weren't enquiring about what I had in my packed lunch box. Of course when you're younger and boys say things like this to you you shake it off as immaturity, until you reach adulthood and realise that some men still have no problem with these inappropriate requests. 

I grew up in a home where sex was rarely spoken off; where anything remotely sexual on TV was turned off with tuts before I'd had chance to question anything. I remember asking what a condom was, aged seven, and my mum told me I was too young to know. I went to school the next day and asked a boy in class, whilst gluing and sticking, and he informed me that it was "what a man puts on his willy when having sex." "Oh," I said, carrying on with my collage, satisfied with his answer. I've no idea how I knew what sex was but no doubt this education was also from the school playground.

Growing up i had two contrasting views about sex; one extreme was liberal and crude, the other was conservative and prudish. I never knew quite which camp I was in or how I should see my body. Was it something to hide or expose? On top of this, the media told me that I needed to look a certain way and make myself more attractive. Women's magazines criticised female celebrities for putting on too much weight; men's magazines were plastered with women with ample bosoms, flaunting their curvaceous figures. My body became subject to scrutiny from others and I started to feel very self conscious about the way that I looked. 

There have been plenty of challenging situations for me concerning my identity and self-worth as a women but none more so than when I became a mother. Everyone was telling me to get my baps out and now it was a perfectly acceptable thing to do. Not only was it acceptable, it was expected of me. Before I knew it I had every midwife under the sun grabbing my boobs and showing me how to shove them in my baby's mouth. I was told to feed on demand, to get them out whenever was asked of me, I had no control over it, or where this happened. I would go out in public and try to be discrete about feeding but my little boy was hardly that, fussing and pulling away from me every five minutes and exposing me to the world. I would visit my work office and the same men who freely commented on women's chests before I'd had children were now telling me it was fine to feed in front of them if I needed to. 

Suddenly I was being asked to ignore everything I was told in life - both that my body was sexual and that it should be hidden. It didn't quite compute with me. I was told that breastfeeding was the most natural thing in the world but it certainly didn't feel that way. It felt weird that my parents were such advocates for breastfeeding and expected me to do so too, despite my father acting very awkward around me when I did. I would go out of the room instead and feed in isolation which wasn't much fun either.

To make things worse, celebrities were catching on to the breast is best bandwagon and flaunting themselves doing so, wearing flirtatious outfits and half exposing a breast. They give the message that breastfeeding is now somehow both nurturing and sexual which somehow doesn't sit right with me. Maybe they're right to portray such an image to bridge the gap mothers feel when we breastfeed, but I'd like to know if there really are any women who find breastfeeding sexy because I certainly don't. Is this how we want mothers to be portrayed? 

Tamara Ecclestone breastfeeding

When did breastfeeding become such a controversial issue anyway? You only have to write a facebook post about it to know that everyone has an opinion on it. One woman will tell you it's her right to feed in public, another that it's her right to formula feed. Another will ask what about the right of the child to have natural milk from her mother? Another will question whether breast milk is actually best for her contented formula-fed baby and rested family. 

You will notice that all of the above are about the women making choices. I am all about independent women, but it seems slightly unfair that when myself and my husband decided to formula feed our firstborn after four months of agony that any judgement was directed solely at me. It seems that there is too much placed on women to be the sole provider and decision maker for their child. What about the right of the father and his responsibility to support and encourage his wife and family? 

Our society is one that tells me I am a sexual object to be looked at by men; the same society that tells me how my post natal body should look; how I should raise my children; how I should apply myself at work. This is the same society that pays women less than men; that often portrays that my influence is far less important than a male 'equivalent'. So why are my feeding decisions so important to you and why should you care? Or is it because I'm raising boys and I need to teach them that women should get their baps out anytime they demand? 

I've no idea how you tackle an issue that has unnecessarily come under the scrutiny of such public opinion. It is no one's business how a family chooses to feed their child. If you ask my opinion, women need to feel supported no matter what method of feeding they (and their partners) choose. It's a shame that society focusses so much on the physical and not on the mental and emotional transition that motherhood involves. 

The not-so-perfect, perfect birth

There is a lot of pressure on expectant mothers to have the perfect birth. They are encouraged to write detailed birthing plans, from pain relief options down to aromatherapy and whale music; as though to make your experience as close to a spa day as humanly possible. After suffering from post traumatic stress after my first birth, I have struggled with the thought of giving birth again; the thought of going through what I did the first time around seemed unthinkable to me. Throughout this pregnancy I have felt very low, wondering if I could cope with a newborn again, let alone the pain of childbirth. Opting for an elective cesarean this time around was something that was not an easy decision, but seemed right for me and my family. Now I should know, of all people, that births rarely go to plan but I somehow thought I was exempt from that by having an elective cesarean. 

A week before my planned cesarean, and two weeks before my due date, I started to get a lot of pain. I felt I was unlikely to go into labour early as I was two days over with my first so I figured the pain was just Braxton hicks. At my last appointment with the midwife I asked her about the pain I was in - extreme lower back pain and bad nerve-type pain when I walked and contractions seemed to be happening often but weren't regular. The midwife told me that the pains sounded like 'head fitting pain' – the pain of the baby's head getting lower into my pelvis. Despite my previous irregular contractions with my first labour I still opted to trust a professional over my own instincts. It probably sounds silly to you but I have no idea how to take my own pain seriously. I have learnt to deal with pain - both physically and emotionally - by trying to squash it, as though it was some kind of weakness. I walked the mile long walk home with my 3 year old, stopping every few minutes to deal with the pain.

The day went on and the pain got worse, but the contractions did not seem to follow any pattern. The pain also felt a very different pain compared to my first born's - much lower down and pelvic, as opposed to higher, more period-like pain. I rang the hospital triage about it to see if I could be examined and they told me it sounded like head-fitting pain too. Two professionals, who was I to doubt them? 

So I battled on through the night, taking cocodamol and using breathing techniques to cope with the pain. What the hell is this 'head fitting pain'? And how come no one told me about it before?! I didn't get much sleep but once I was up the pain eased a little and I felt relieved that I would probably be able to have my elective cesarean as planned. But things soon heated up again. I tried to time these so called contractions but got frustrated and gave up because they were all over the place - roughly every five minutes but didn't seem to be getting longer or closer together. The pain was so intense though and I was mentally feeling like I couldn't take much more - how long was this going to go on for? No one seemed to be able to tell me. I rang another midwife for advice. Yep, head fitting pain. They all must have some sort of handbook on head fitting pain and who was I to doubt them? 

By the second evening I was close to tears and exhausted at the thought of another sleepless night. I tried ringing the labour police again (aka. triage) but no reply. I decided that I was going into hospital no matter what, they'd at least be able to refer me to page twenty four in the head fitting pain handbook, telling me when the appropriate times to question symptoms and waste hospital time were. 

On arrival I was directed into a waiting room and told do a urine sample. There's something about medical surroundings that make my body react; my contractions slowed right down again and I couldn't even pee in a pot. What pregnant lady can't pee in a pot?! I may as well have had hyperchondriac stamped on my forehead. I looked down at my belly and convinced myself that, yes, I was in fact pregnant, and quite possibly in labour. Once I'd been taken to be examined the little monitoring machine showed a graph which measured my contractions. And there it was on a bit of paper: Science. I felt like taking it and framing it on my bathroom wall for the next time I considered avoiding going to the doctors. Science says I should trust my body. 

It turns out I was 7cm dilated. Ring any bells? Yes, the exact same thing as with my first born. Each medic I saw questioned my decision for a cesarean - "do you not want to try for a natural delivery now?" As though 30 hours of labour had really sold it to me again. No, thank you. I somehow knew I would not be able to deliver naturally. But as each person asked I grew slightly weaker. I've come this far, maybe I should continue? Maybe going into labour naturally was a sign I should deliver naturally too? Neil started to speak for me, knowing I would be deluded with thoughts of what I should be doing instead of what's right for me. I started to feel anxious, wondering how long the pain would last and whether there'd even be time for a cesarean. And that's when something amazing happened for me; a word of encouragement at just the right time. 

During my appointments with my psychologist, she gave me a number of exercises in order to help me to deal with post traumatic stress from my first birth. She gave me cognitive behavioural therapy techniques and meditation exercises in order to deal with stressful situations more effectively. One of these exercises was to develop my 'compassionate self' - in other words, to learn to be kind to myself and override the critical thoughts that I have about myself. She told me I needed to imagine a compassionate figure in these meditations and to record what positive words of affirmation the figure had. I opted for an angel: a muscular, tall, protective angel. I felt a little stupid imagining this figure standing there and listening to what he said, but it helped to have an image to refer to that would calm me in times of anxiety. 

One time the angel showed me a picture in my head of a huge storm at sea. I felt quite scared by this image as the waves crashed and did nothing to ease my anxiety. Then he took me to the eye of the storm - a place where I was still surrounded by chaos but almost encased in a room of glass, looking out and protected. The angel told me that I was not exempt from pain but that I could be protected within it, that I somehow did not have to carry the weight of it - that was not my responsibility. 

So in the midst of labour, when I was laid in pain and wondering how long this was going to go on for, I received a message from a friend. Not knowing anything of my 'imaginary angel,' she sent me a message after finding out I was in labour and it gave me a sort of inner strength at just the right moment. She said "I'm praying you know peace in the middle of all that's happening. It's like you're in the eye of a storm." I immediately felt calm, as though there was a tangible presence next to me. Who knows if there was really an angel, or if I was high on drugs, but something changed after that.

So, thanks to the help of a friend, an angel, and a shot of diamorphine, I felt all the tension go and an excitement that I have not felt in a long time. I was close to meeting my baby – the baby I very nearly didn't have due to my fears. I was wheeled to theatre, my heart's desire – though in reality I had no heart for any of it, just a baby at the end. Neil was asked to leave theatre until they were ready to operate. It felt strange to be given a spinal when I was not delirious with pain like my first birth –  It all felt very sane, 'normal' in fact. Neil was invited back in as though we were in fact there for a tv show, under the bright lights the stage was set. Neil held my hand. 

There seemed to be a lot more tugging and pulling than last time - I think my memories of the first cesarean are distorted by the fact that being out of pain was all I cared about at the time. Now all I cared about was the whole thing being over as quickly as possible. I tried to overhear what the surgeons were uttering. Was the baby ok? Was my anatomy in order? Would they be kind enough to give me a nip and tuck while they were at it? 

I remember the moment my firstborn was delivered: the deepest tug from the pit of my womb and an unforgettable cry. This time there was lots of tugging about, feeling my whole body vibrate with each tussle, as though they were in some sort of tug of war with the baby. It turns out they were because fourceps had to be used to remove him as he was stuck deep in my womb. I now know that having a cesarean was a very good decision indeed - this labour would not have progressed and would have resulted in a cesarean anyway. 

Eventually feint gargled cries could be heard. They took him for checks and I waited while they told me it would take about thirty minutes to stitch me back up. Eventually Neil brought him to me and I strained my head to get a look at him. I could just about make out his tiny little face: his beautiful, beautiful face. And he was talking to me; making little noises at me. It's quite an incredible thing to meet your baby for the first time.

My birth was not pain free; I felt misunderstood; I felt overwhelmed at times. But, to quote the Kung Fu Panda, I felt an 'inner peace' throughout it all. My birth was far from perfect, but the things I've learnt from it have been invaluable. The name we had already chosen for our baby was Freddie; his name means "Rules with peace." He is a lesson to me to choose peace over anxiety - to let it 'rule' over me despite my circumstances. 

I'm not posh but I'm not pushing

www.lisamaltby.com

"Too posh to push"

I'm not sure who invented that phrase or why class has anything to do with giving birth. It assumes that, if you're privileged, birth can become something on a par with getting your bikini line waxed. The nitty-gritty births – the 'natural' kind – are for the hardcore, working class mothers who are prepared for a bit of hard graft; popping out their babies in time to make meat and potato pie for tea. And along with the people who consider c-sections something for snobs, there are also the mothers who rave about giving birth naturally. You hear their stories of how wonderful it was to have a four hour water birth on nothing but half a paracetamol. "I did it!" They say. It's no wonder that when my first birth resulted in an emergency c-section that I felt like a failure.

I always thought that if I were ever to give birth again (and maybe because I thought I never would), that I would give birth naturally, as though to prove something to the world. I'd actually got pretty good at blocking out all things birth and babies and when I found out I was pregnant again, four years later, the memories of a difficult birth were all too raw. I was referred for help to deal with post traumatic stress but despite my obvious anxiety this did not stop the consultant recommending that I try for a natural birth 'because it's best.'

Best. People are very good at telling mothers what is best, and at no other point in a woman's life is she told more about what is 'best' for her than when she decides to have children. Best for what? Statistics? Finances? Respectability? If you are considering my medical health then my mind comes into that equation too. Usually the people who seem to be most forthcoming with advice about what is best are the people who have never been through what you have.

Now don't get me wrong, I am not one to shy away from a bit of pain. After having experienced a burst appendix during my current pregnancy I can safely say that was the most intense pain I've ever been in. It was, however, a lot less traumatic than my first birth, and despite a mere 32 hours of labour I still wondered whether to try for a natural birth again. After all, c-sections are by no means an 'easy' option; they involve intensive surgery, pain and weeks of prolonged recovery. They involve scaring, body disfigurement, self-injecting and wearing rather fetching embolism stockings for about a week. People who have never experienced one say to me "Oh, just opt for a c-section," as though it really is on a par with getting your bikini line waxed. The truth is, there is no easy way to give birth and no right way at that. What is best for one woman will be entirely different for another.

What has struck me about being given an option this time around is how much pressure there is on women to have the perfect birth experience. There are many women who have had positive experiences, but a lot of these women do not have grace for those who do not – it's as though they can take credit for their genetics and circumstances; as though birth is purely about mind over matter and determination. This attitude makes the rest of us feel penalised if we have complications; looked down upon if we opt for more medicalised ways to deal with childbirth.

The thing is, I need to have grace too. Grace to accept that some women do find childbirth wonderful and that I was just one of the unfortunate ones. I need to learn to listen to their stories and accept them as encouraging experiences. I need to know that a difficult birth experience does not necessarily equate to another, it just might. But every women is different, and one woman's motive for having a natural birth will be entirely different to another's. I have come to realise that, for me, giving birth naturally had become more about identity and self-worth than about actually doing what is best for me or my family. It's not like I didn't give it a good go the first time round – my problem, if anything, is that I push myself too much. Refusing pain relief at 8cm dilated is just damn-right stupid. I could do that again; display my working class roots to the full, but what that would do for my mental health is another thing entirely. At what point would I be kind to myself and say I needed pain relief? At what point would I accept things not going to plan? At what point would I be proud of myself? What would it take to say "I did it!"? You see, I did it the first time around. I don't need your applause for that; I don't get a medal. No one looks on my child any differently because of the way I birthed him.

So, this time I am having an elective c-section and you have no idea how hard it has been for me to make that choice. It is not, as some may think, an easy way out for me or a means of avoidance – it is about giving myself the birth I really want. It is about choosing a birth where I can be more prepared for the pain and the healing and know roughly what that involves. It is about being in a good place mentally when my baby arrives. It is about giving myself a birth that fits my preference for planning and knowing roughly what's around the corner. It is about choosing a birth that means I can prepare my son for the impending arrival of his sibling and make sure he is cared for. It is about accepting that long labours and big babies run in my family of small-framed women. And yes, it is about having a better night's sleep before the chaos starts. Above all, it is about being kind to myself. Call me posh all you like, but I, along with all women, deserve to have a good birth. I'm not posh, but I'm not pushing.