Postnatal bodies: "Letting yourself go"

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Body image is something that is a problem for pretty much every woman alive. I'm sure there are a million theories as to why the female sex feels the need to care so much about their appearance or why they are so heavily criticised, but as a female myself I have lived with years of preening myself, trying endless make-up testers and detox programmes. I have struggled to go out without makeup on. I have battled with acne, lifeless hair and chubby thighs.

It's everywhere isn't it? You can't walk past a magazine without seeing a celebrity being criticised for having a roll of fat whilst she ties her shoelace, and next month she'll be praised again because she now looks like a wafer (without the ice-cream). We're led to believe that this is somehow normal; that our bodies should look a certain way and that we're all continually falling short of it. God forbid you'd make any changes in your life that would encourage cellulite or fatter waists or saggy boobs.

Like motherhood.

I was never under any illusion that motherhood would do my body any good and, if I'm honest, I became sick of the constant whinging of mothers who complained about what it had done to their bodies. Still, it was no wonder I was not so keen to put myself through such self-harm – I mean, a beautiful body is high on everyone's priorities, right? God forbid you choose something that makes your tummy wrinkle. Older mothers would tell me how skinny I was and then follow with "Well, you haven't had kids yet have you, love." (Cue evil cackle.) So for some reason I was slightly unenthusiastic about the prospect of having a child and turning into a heffalump over night.

And then I had a baby.

Something happened in me after I joined 'The Motherhood' (that elite group more lethal than the mafia) that, despite all the self-criticism, suddenly made me aware of how amazing my body was to complete such a ridiculous task as to grow a whole human being in nine months. Sure, my body had changed but I worked very hard to lose the baby weight and I became the fittest and most toned I'd ever been in my life (cue older mothers chucking bricks at my head). Yes, my body had changed – I had scars and stretched skin to prove it, but I felt surprisingly okay about it.

And then I got pregnant again.

And my body has stretched a little bit more, and I have less time for exercise and I eat. Lots. And I'm left with wondering how my body will change for the second time and how I will deal with the criticism and the stares at my belly three days after I've given birth (as though that huge, nine-month-old bulge should somehow magically disappear overnight). I'm wondering if I will look at other young, childless women and envy their stomachs and their pert little bosoms; I wonder if I'll tell them they're only like it because they haven't had children yet (cue evil cackle). And my younger friends will look at my body with slightly more curves and lumps and discuss behind my back how I have let myself go.

Letting yourself go – that phrase associated with becoming less beautiful, less physically attractive, as though you can't be bothered to make an effort. Women with children don't get a choice in this matter it seems; they are lumped into this category without warning, unless they become obsessive about surviving motherhood on a lettuce leaf a day, wearing their heels to 'mums and tots' groups and spending a small fortune on push-up bras.

As I approach the birth of my next child I am faced with a choice. Do I let myself go? And if you think by that I mean eating Macdonalds for breakfast and wearing my baby-sick-stained tracksuit bottoms all day then you'd be wrong because I consider my 'self' to be worth more than just my appearance. I consider that 'self' includes things like respect and dignity. I consider that my 'self' is worth more than a few stretch marks. I consider that my body deserves respect; respect enough to eat well and look after it and dignity in the folds and the wrinkles that my life story has bestowed on me. I have a choice, see, to tell you how crap my body is compared to when I was sixteen, or to empower women of all ages to feel beautiful and respected.

When I did life drawing at art college I always hoped that the model I had to draw was not a beautiful, young woman – her body was too smooth to add texture; her frame too slight to add character; her skin too fresh to tell a story. Sometimes imperfections are the very things that make us interesting; they make us beautiful. Your scars and your imperfections are important; they are the layers of your history. No one criticises The Grand Canyon for it's ridges, right? Why should we give ourselves such a bad rap?

So no, I will not be letting myself go, but by that I do not mean I will be body perfect or without criticism. What I mean is that I have enough integrity to hold onto that which is truly me and develop it. I want to be a good mother, a good friend. I want to laugh, even at myself. Becoming a parent gives you the option to be more of yourself than you've ever been; the inevitable hard times can develop character, the good times can develop deeper thankfulness, the unexpected times can give you more grace, and you can be all the more beautiful because of it. So please, please, ladies, don't let yourselves go. But feel free to eat a chocolate eclair every now and again, you've bloody earned it.

Learning to embrace suffering

I’ve always been pretty idealistic about life; I’ve sought out the good things; the things that bring happiness, fun and fulfilment (well, doesn’t everyone?). When it came to trouble or pain I would run a million miles away, to the point where if there was any risk of suffering I would steer clear, no matter how good the potential outcome. I became trapped by my own fear of pain and heartache and essentially I couldn’t face reality. I wanted life to be perfect. I walked around like a little kid in the face of pain, sulking that life was not fair. But a funny thing happens when you run away from pain; you not only avoid your own suffering but other people’s too.

Now, you may think that I’m hardly apt to speak about suffering, but I would tell you that I am perfectly knowledgeable about such a subject because I am, in fact, human. Admittedly my suffering may dim in comparison to someone who’s fighting cancer or dealing with horrendous loss, but I think that my human condition gives me permission to write about suffering.  I’ve had to face up to emotional as well as physical pain, which has been, quite frankly, shit. I don’t want to write about things that are painful, or disappointing, or less than perfect. But I’m human. So I write.

And I guess that’s one of the hardest things about pain, is that people judge you in your darkest moments, telling you that you should be able to handle this because so-and-so did, or that you should count yourself lucky that it’s not any worse. And right in an instant, those words are like a punch where you’re already bleeding. We’ve turned sceptical of people’s pain, turning a blind eye to it because it means we have to carry some of it ourselves. Deep down we’re all running away from suffering.

Recently I have had a pretty tough time. I’m currently sat in pain writing this, and for the last two weeks my husband has had to help dress me, aid me on the toilet and get me in and out of bed. The worst of it though is that I’m still unable to give my son a cuddle. It’s killing me. No, I’m not dying, but I have experienced suffering.  And no doubt you have too, because no one is exempt.

It all sounds pretty dire doesn’t it, facing all this doom and gloom? Yet in the midst of suffering I have become more alive than I have ever been. We have a choice, see, to run from suffering: to be defeated by it, or to embrace it: to let it shape us. Throughout times of suffering I have become aware of true friendship, of the depths of love of someone willing to hold you while you pee, of someone squeezing your hand when they can’t take the pain away, of someone hugging you when they have nothing to say. And somehow there is a something amazing about the hugs from those who have truly allowed suffering to shape and humble them, because they don’t come at you with how much more they’ve suffered than you, they just hold out their hand to you – really good people who have really suffered, and they’re not even bitter about it. They simply reach out to you and help to carry your pain too.

And so I am trying not to let suffering define me, but let it shape me. I’m determined not to run from it, but to embrace it – embracing others who suffer and not trying to give them solutions or tell them how much harder I’ve had it. I’m not sure I’m quite there yet – you know me, I tend to wallow in my own self-pity, but  I have come out the other side thinking that life is a pretty good place to be and I’m glad to still be here.  The pain has given me a greater understanding of happiness. I’m not exempt from suffering, but I’ve experienced horrendous pain and known peace, extreme frustration and known comfort. The fear of pain is often worse than it actually is. I now have deeper relationships and a greater understanding of humanity and I want to be able to reach out my hand to pain without judgement, not hide it away in fear.

And if you’re reading this and you’re in the midst of suffering, whether you’re close to death or you’ve simply got a headache, your pain is valid. Your suffering counts. But don’t let it define you, let it shape you so that you too can help to ease the weight of suffering and experience freedom in spite of it all.

“Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape.”― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

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Five tips for developing a love of hospitals.

Hospital is not exactly a place you wish to find yourself (for obvious reasons). A place that is full of experiences of illness and pain does not really make it on my top-ten-places-to-visit-before-I'm-40 list. Going to hospital to give birth, however, is a whole new ball game – both a blessing and a curse; the inevitable suffering followed by, hopefully, unspeakable joy.

So, when I found myself in hospital five months early, at 17 weeks pregnant, I was forced to prepare myself in advance for a few nights stay on a ward, facing my fears of those white corridors and sterilised aromas – this time without a baby delivered at the end of it. It's an interesting experience being in hospital with no reward other than the blessing of a pain free existence, or a great appreciation for non-hospital food. It actually made me appreciate that, despite a rather traumatic birth experience with my first, being in hospital to have a baby is a blessing – you go home with a prize for your sufferings (all be it one that may rob you of dignity and sleep for a while!).

You see, I have been dreading my inevitable hospital stay - "The Birth". I found myself thinking of ways to cheat the system and leave the ward early (hell, I even considered a home birth). I didn't want to be prodded and poked and have tubes stuck in funny places. I did not want to be in pain. I did not want to have to sleep on a ward with the world's loudest snorer, or someone who listens to Techno music on their headphones at full volume.

And then I had to face reality: I collapsed in pain on my living room floor one day and all that prodding and poking and tubes in your veins turned out to be a pretty god-damn good thing or I wouldn't still be here. There's nothing better to prepare you for childbirth than a ruptured appendix. Thankfully I was found and an ambulance was called and my condition was dealt with quickly by amazing health professionals (who I cannot thank enough).

Of course, that doesn't take away the fact that hospitals are never going to be rated next to a 5* hotel and consequently you have to find ways to deal with the downsides of having your life saved, or bringing one into the world. Here are my top five reasons to appreciate hospitals and to milk your birthing experience for all its worth:

No. 1:
Drugs. On tap. You're like a kid in a sweet shop. Of course there is obviously a reason why you are on drugs, but once you've been in severe pain and there are ways to take it away for you (other than the dismal 50p paracetamol you've been talking for months) you will have more of an appreciation for pain relief than you have ever had in your life. I fell in love with both my anaesthetists, and one was a woman.

No. 2:
A call bell. Need a cup of tea? No problem, just press that little buzzer and all your wishes will be granted... well, sort of. You can have the nurses fluffing your pillows and mopping your brow. Milk it, ladies.

No. 3:
Diet. Worried about losing the baby weight? Worry no further. The NHS have a specially prepared diet for you to ensure that the weight stays off. You won't believe how little food you eat.

No. 4:
That said, the tea and toast in hospital is the best you will ever have in your life. Order ten slices. And tea in a drip.

No. 5:
Characters. You will meet some utterly atrocious people, alongside the absolute gems. You suddenly have a warmth for human existence - the lady that farts in her sleep, or the nurse who's obsessed with the latest bargains at Aldi would at one point do your head in, but instead they give you a giggle on an otherwise dull day. You learn to laugh in the face of vulnerability and empathise with those who you would never otherwise have chance to meet. A mix of classes and races all brought down to the same category of flesh and blood; of sweat and tears.

Thankfully my operation was a success and my condition was caught just in time, thanks to the amazing medical professionals at The Northern General. I'm still in a lot of pain and struggling to walk but I am hoping that, little by little, I will be back to my old self – or, to my new, braver and more fearless self ;) Now at least I have far less apprehensions about my next hospital stay and I'm looking forward to the prize at the end.

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Mind the gap: What is the perfect age gap anyway?

When I have broken the news to people of my pregnant state, they have responded in a number of ways. Obviously there's the knee-jerk "congratulations", often followed by the more sobering "was it planned?" Sometimes I have been met with disbelief, other times a what-the-hell-are-you-doing kind of look. But after the initial reaction, the real judgements on birth and childrearing come to light. You realise that most people have very strong, deep-rooted opinions on when to have children (or when not to, for that matter).

So far my favourite judgement has been "well, you couldn't have left it much longer, could you?" Actually, rather than implying that my ovaries were deteriorating at the rate of Jude Law's hairline, they meant that I couldn't possibly leave a sizeable age gap between my children. I have never understood this myself: the 'perfect age-gap' analysis, as though my children would explode if I left more than four years between them. And so follow the analysis on your parenting choices.

Until my son was about two and a half years old, I was continually asked when I would be having another child. That was the cut off point, apparently, because after this time it was rare that anyone ever asked me such a question again. Presumably, because they thought I didn't want anymore children, or that I was having trouble conceiving (because obviously there couldn't be an option of having a child any later, right?). Although I was glad I was off the hook, I was starting to wonder why I didn't ever think the magic two-year age gap was an option for me. More so, I was starting to wonder how that ever became the 'norm'.

The problem with this invented 'norm' is that I felt tremendous pressure once my son had turned one to make my mind up about whether I wanted any more children or not. Each year, the bags of baby clothes I'd kept 'just in case' I wanted another became more of a millstone around my neck. Every time I went to throw something away there would be this niggle – this feeling of a ticking clock, as though the clothes would self combust once Albie turned three. Every year I waited I knew the baby would potentially be less of a 'play-mate' for Albie in years to come. I waited for the desire to have another child and it never came. I heard of people having a kid anyway and that just didn't sit with me – I couldn't make a decision that meant putting myself though some sort of self-torture. I couldn't go through it again. So I started to give stuff away.

Deep down I'd always wanted another child, but it didn't feel right to have one based on an age gap, or for a playmate for my son, or to fit in with some sort of 'norm'. Someone once told me that I would just know when the time was right, if at all, to have another. I hoped that were true. In hindsight I realise that this was not the magical, chemical reaction in my brain that I first thought it would be, but a sense of 'rightness' in the decision I was to take ownership of. Once I'd decided to let go of my hang-ups, I realised that I did want another child and that I didn't have to wait for feelings of broodiness to make that decision. I didn't have to wait for feelings at all, in fact, but a knowledge that I could make good decisions based on the future we wanted as a family. I had a sense of rightness; a peace. The decision didn't own me anymore, I owned it.

So I don't believe in the perfect age gap or the perfect time to have a child, because everyone will be different. There are no guarantees that your children will get on if they are close in age; there are no promises of an easier life either way. We need to stop limiting people's choices and allow people to just live. I wish I hadn't wasted so much of my time worrying about the decision – it robbed me of some of the joy of just enjoying my son. And let me make this perfectly clear, Albie does not need a brother or a sister. He is perfectly happy without, as are we, but we made a choice that meant investing more into our family. Now when we have 'family snugs', as Albie calls them, he cuddles my tummy too. He's happy to be part of the journey that will be no less challenging, but all the more rewarding for us all.

Wrinkly, Little, Screaming, Bald Things

If you haven't read my last post 'Love and Fear' you'll probably want to read that first ;)

If you were to ask me the one reason for choosing to have another child I'm not sure I could quite put my finger on it. It's probably a decision that's been heavily influenced by the way my day starts with my three year old jumping on my bed for morning snuggles, or the way I'm faced with finding ways to deal with his cheekiness without erupting into laughter, or the way he tells me about his day at nursery and I'm lapping his little stories up like they're gold dust. I just love him. I love chatting with him, hanging out with him and making up stupid songs with him.

And then I'm faced with the fact that all I really want is another child, not a baby.

People told me not to wish my time away when my son was a baby, they told me to 'cherish every moment' because it doesn't last long. Well, my first year with him was the longest year of my whole entire life, and although I loved him with more love than you can imagine, I would not like to have that year back again. Sure, I'm grateful for the journey and the things I've learnt but when will people realise that some people just do not enjoy listening to a screaming baby all day? Babies are babies for a year – it seems slightly odd to base a lifetime of parenting on a year long experience. But somehow when you say you want kids, people start shoving babies in your arms as though you're Mary Poppins or something, desperate to coo over wrinkly, little, screaming, bald things.

Give me a boisterous three year old any day.

Well, maybe a little less boisterous.

Suddenly you're a parent and there are all sorts of assumptions put on you. Before you know it you've been signed up for leading the community play group and volunteering at the local infant school. Word got around that you had a kid so they're on your case with workshop manuals and inside info about where to buy PVA glue in bulk.

I start wondering why I'm not a 'mumsy' mum, where did I go wrong? And then I realise that for me it's never really been about having babies at all, but about nurturing little people. That's why I enjoy having my own child; it's about getting to know someone; it's a journey of nurturing a relationship that I do not have with any other child. No, if Im honest, I'm not overly enamoured with hanging out with babies, but I do like hanging out with Albie. He makes me laugh, he's fun to be around, I'm enjoying getting to know him, to learn each day what makes him tick.

So no, I do not want a wrinkly, little, screaming, bald thing; I just want to get to know another little person really well. I want to journey with them so I can teach them things, and so they can challenge me on how to live my life more freely and creatively. No other child can do this in the same way for me because I have not opened up my heart to them in the way I will with my own. I can deal with the hard times, the strops and the tantrums because these are weighed up with the words spoken before bedtime when I'm told I'm loved and sloppy kisses are planted on my cheek. I am prepared for the differences we will have, the future rejections and potential heart ache because I figure that this person is worth fighting for. And although a baby can't do very much and may seem unrewarding, I am buying into the journey of seeing them develop into the unique individual that God intended them to be.

If you haven't read my story about why we decided to have another child you can read it here.