5 minutes

I'm sitting on a sandy beach. It's not quite warm but it feels nice when the sun hits. In the distance I can see Tom walking with Olive taking her to the ocean to dip her feet. I resist every urge to run over and tell him that it is too cold. Instead I sit, I watch and I remember.
I am 10, standing on a balcony overlooking the sea. I see myself, I had a thick and uneven fringe. My mum comes out to join me. She pulls me into her. She has the sides of her held back with tortoiseshell comb grips and she is beautiful.
I see myself in Spain. It is dark and I can hear the sound of the sea inbetween the jukebox switching records. I turn and see a table littered with empty bottles and shot glasses and three people laughing at something that none of us will remember but all of us will never forget.
I am wrapped up, holding hands, mind full, mouth shut, just married.

He has her feet in the water and she is fearless, laughing as he dips her in and out. My heart is so full it hurts my throat.

I think I get it.

This too shall pass...

When was the last time you peed yourself?

As you stretch your mind back to a time when you would perhaps find yourself standing on a towel, while the school nurse rummages through the lost property for a pair of navy blue PE knickers, let me share with you a more recent memory...say yesterday.

Yesterday I realized that I was a woman. Now, I know the breasts, childbirth, vagina thing should have been a giveaway but what I mean is that yesterday I moved from being a normal woman to a bit of a weirdo woman/grown up.

I went to the gym and in a bout of unexplained bravery opted to take a class...because somehow after you have a baby you care a whole lot less what people think about you. You care what they think about your child and what they think about you as a parent, but in terms of your general appearance (did I shower this week?) and trying out new things - it's as though you download the independence app on the iPhone of life. It's simply a case of - I've had a baby and I don't care if people laugh at me. Yep - that's it - after flapping your legs open at anyone that even walked past your hospital room it now takes a lot to cause a mother honest embarrassment. Or so I told myself...

I arrived a haggard mess - rushing from work, sipping an iced coffee...because that's what I used to do in New York and somehow I thought I looked cool sipping a drink as I walked in, clutching my gym kit. After rummaging around in my bag for my ID huffing and sighing, the receptionist offered to look me up in the system. She smacked of pity...but it's okay because I've had a baby and it doesn't matter if people laugh at me. I try to redeem myself by striking up conversation with the young girl. I ask about the class "Turbo Kick" that I plan on taking. "Is it suitable for beginners?", and then I sort of pulled my lower lip down in a mock nervous pose. She smiles and tells me that she doesn't know, she has never taken the class. Fifty percent of my brain gets the hint that she doesn't want to talk - the remaining 50% has a stroke and I find myself winking at the girl before adding, "I'm sure I'll be fine". Erm, am I Magnum PI? Am I an Internet web cam pervert? I shake my head and hurry to get changed. Good lord - who am I? I hate strangers and small talk yet just found myself being a complete weirdo.

I have birthed a child...it doesn't matter if people laugh at me.

I pull on my sports bra from 2003 and some old capri pants and a tank top that I usually sleep in/slept in last night and just threw in my bag. My bra has lost all elasticity so my fish head breasts are set to swing in the wind. However, I'm excited.

Knowing that my bladder is unstable I rush to the loo to squeeze out anything that might be there before the ice coffee trickles through. Trying to do two things at once I hover over the loo, (but give up mid stream - weak thighs), then drop my hairtie on the pee encrusted floor as I try to tie up my hair. I lean down and as I reach for my elastic band my head rests on the side of the cubicle. Then I realise that my head/hair is actually resting on that vile swing bin where people discard their tampons. Deep breath. Onwards.
I wipe, wipe again. Pull up my scrag pants and then reach down and give an extra wipe for security.

I pushed for 32 hours...it doesn't matter if people laugh at me.

I rush upstairs and (deep breath) enter the room. I know I'm in trouble because all the people that look like me, in old gym clothes, are flanking the walls. I am forced to take a somewhat central position surrounded by women that have been poured into their workout gear. POURED. They are wearing Tour De France pants and I am not even in a spinning class. Their calf muscles are pronounced and they are not even on their toes. There are towels and water bottles everywhere. I put my half empty grande cup of ice coffee to the back of the room and wished I was wearing something that said New York or Brooklyn on it so I could feel a little cool. God, even typing that sentence is a travesty.

The woman walked in. I think she was a woman. She looked around the room and asked if this was anyone's first time. I hate this sort of thing. I hate it in church. I hate it anywhere. Why does anyone need to know? I just give a lips together smile and look around the room. I have done a TaeBo DVD with Billy Blank - I can do this.

And so it began...

Now, try to imagine a really embarrassing moment. Perhaps when your OBGYN checked you for hemorrhoids in front of your partner? Perhaps pooping your pants whilst making a daisy chain at lower school? Then mix it with say the memory of kissing someone whose lips were so dry they were flaking off into your mouth. That was the first 30 minutes of that class. I felt like I was in Cocoon but I was the geriatric that hadn't yet swum in the pool. These people were serious punch, skip, ski, kickers. I just knew how to do that speed bag move and that was covered in the warm up.

To be fair, there was a guy in the front row that was clearly insane and was just jumping around doing his own routine. People were no doubt switching their disbelief between the two of us. I kept checking the clock. This too will pass.

Forty minutes of sheer cringing pass and then I just let go. I became a crazy, grown up weirdo. I started whooping. Yes, I started whooping. And then, in one of the bits the instructor started slapping her bum (punch, punch, ski, ski, slap bum). It was just her - nobody else was doing it but I was delirious. I had no water, no towel, I had drained my ice coffee, and was just sucking the ice dregs. I was reminded of a homeless lady on new years eve 1999, kicking a receipt down Exeter High Street. I started slapping my butt too. And then I started laughing. Not like the clown in poltergeist, more like the drunk person on the subway that is laughing at their own joke. I was officially giddy and the more I looked at my Ribena face the more I found myself hilarious.

And that is when I peed myself.

She said "jumping jack" and between a giggle and an arm flap I just dribbled. What's worse is that made me giggle/dribble more. I stopped the jump out part, squeezed my kegels for dear life and conspicuously tried to rub my legs together. Thank God my legs were hairy - that was bound to slow the flow. The class ended at some point after that. To be fair I was so sweaty that one could be forgiven for thinking that the wet between my legs was just some deep thigh perspiration. Right?

So now, I just laugh at myself. I encourage Depends, Tena lady, full bottom knickers, black pants. I heavily promote kegel muscle exercises whilst pregnant. I now totally understand why celebrities have C-sections. Can you imagine them getting snapped by the pap with wee stains post workout or strutting their stuff on the red carpet and suddenly realizing that their pee is streaking their fake tan legs? And,think of that poor Duggar lady (and her husband) with 19 children - she must permanenetly smell like a park toilet.

Now, don't worry I'm not incontinent. You could hang out with me without wondering if you were wearing damp clothing or sitting near a wet dog. I'm just a little less wink happy and more understanding to the people browsing the fragranced panty liner aisle.

** The writer of this blog would like it to be noted that she had a vaginal delivery of an 8lb 11oz baby.

Long Days, Short Years

I graduated. One year. One amazing, exhilarating, emotionally debilitating, utterly exhausting year that changed my life forever. Now, before I get all crazy, drink one too many glasses of frixy in celebration and convince myself that if we survived one why not have another...I have to take a moment betwixt the giddiness and remember. Just remember. Of course, it's easy to say that the year flew by if you conveniently forget those long days and the longer nights in those first few weeks. The nights where you would just pray for the sun to come up because somehow it was easier in the day. Time wasn't flying as the teething began and the laundry pile grew. Time stood still as the silent debate raged as to whose turn it was to get up for the umpteenth time in the middle of the night. The days when you wouldn't get to shower, might get to brush your teeth. When you would look at the clock and see just how many hours you had left before the cavalry arrived and you could thrust your child into your husband's arms. When you would look at your child and amidst all that love you silently wondered, will my life ever be the same again? The weeks where the George Michael designer stubble became a full grown Barry Gibb beard on your legs. When your eyes would sting. When your breasts would ache. If you were wet you didn't know which body part was leaking. When your hemorrhoids would act as a plectrum on your G-string. No, no, no, time didn't just fly. As the very wise, Dr. Bernie Russell, medicine woman, once said, "parenthood - long days, short years."
Of course, as I look back I am forcing myself to remember it this way. The truth is that the rose tinted glasses are firmly on and things are so rosy I hot flash my way around town. I see babies on the street and I hear my ovaries clicking. I gravitate towards pregnant women and (I know, I know) I have even found myself striking up conversation with perfect strangers pushing pink babies - desperate to share that I too, have a daughter at home. Pre-baby I would finish work and do 1 of 2 things: hit happy hour or nap. Sometimes both. Yesterday, I raced home, stripped off work clothes, strapped Olive on and raced to the park. I cannot describe the sheer joy I experienced in watching her explore the play frame, the slide, the swing. Despite an uncomfortably close proximity to nature, I felt like every ounce of me was being poured into her.
Yet the journey wasn't smooth - I was terrified about becoming a mother, I was devastated to struggle with breastfeeding, I was disappointed that my depression returned after giving birth. I didn't understand a lot of things, I still don't. I'm learning every day. I only know that motherhood is an incredibly levelling experience. I love wholeheartedly and am fiercely protective of my family. (Insert sunburned bald headed Mancunian at Alicante airport "I'd serve time if anyone touched my child" here).
So, upon graduation, I would like to transport myself back to February 2009, about a week before Olive was born, when inbetween gobbling pineapple curry and forcing my husband to mount me, I would pontificate as to what sort of parent I was going to be. As the ghost of parenthood yet to come, I would jangle my chains and offer the following pearl of wisdom...
Dear (you have no idea what tired is) Paula,
You may think you'll never have an epidural. You'll never give your child a pacifier. You will make your own organic baby food. You think you'll never bottle feed. You will absolutely never share a bed. You think a smack bottom will be easy and letting them cry it out a breeze. You will never go away and leave your child with anyone else.
Nobody likes a smug new parent, so never say never....except for never judging another parent.
Kind regards,
Your much more tired and even more wrinkled self.

Of course, as the graduate of parenting 101, I now embark on a new course and am still welcoming any and all crib notes. I am completely in awe of those on the accelerated course with more than one child.
However, as I hear the faint strumming from the inside of the back of my pants I am reminded that it will take another couple of 'short years' before I can forget enough to return to those 'long nights'.

Smug as a bug...

I've always hated smug people. Anyone that even faintly whiffed of Sandi Toksvig or Jeremy Beadle had me running out the door. Yet, I confess, last night I smacked of smug. I'm not talking about sitting around counting my blessings smug, just a sort of self imposed authority on those around me.

I confess...I've reached the age where I sit as an adult and discuss my parents. I sat last night with my husband and we discussed why we thought our parents were the way they were, I looked at my daughter and realized that one day she will do the same. One day, this girl that I gave life to and will gladly die for will discuss me with her friends, her family and make idle suggestions and incorrect assumptions as to why I am the way I am. Now, not maliciously...at least I hope not. Dear God, I hope not. But, at some point in her adult life, she will, as I have, discuss, dissect and give weighted opinion on her parents. The way we all do.

I took my daughter swimming for the first time yesterday. My heart was full as I watched her fearlessly splash and squeal. I wiped her tears a day earlier when she bumped her head, my heart breaking as she sought to catch her breath between sobs. This girl holds the key to my heart. She is my heart. It's painful to imagine that there will be a time when she'll discuss my faults, my annoying habits, and share stories that she remembers from her childhood. Stories that cement our relationship good and bad. She will not remember that I forgot to pack a towel at swim class so dried her with my clothes whilst standing shivering in my own wet suit.
Her memories will of course be different to mine.

The more entrenched I am in parenthood the more I realize one thing - we are all just trying to do our best. That's it. I'm on a wing and a prayer and all I ask when my head hits that pillow is simply that - Please God, just let me do my best. It's hard to fault your parents when you realize just what unconditional love is.

A helping hand

I was late for work this morning. This is my worst trait and consequently, I spend each commute conjuring excuses and responses should my tardiness be called into question. I have yet to use any of them.
However, this morning was different. This was legitimate. This wasn't the extra 5 minutes in bed, the indecision over my wardrobe, the last minute root through the laundry basket, not even an accident on a freeway - who can argue with traffic? No, this morning motherhood beckoned on my way out of the door. My daughter cried and only a mother could help. And so, when I rolled into work 15 minutes late, I did so loudly, hoping that my boss might ask, hoping that someone might wonder, might miss me...perhaps? I was ready. I was fired up. I am a mother first. A working woman second. Yet...Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not even a voicemail!
And so, I say to you world - "Sorry I was late this morning, I had my finger lubed in vaseline trying to help my daughter poop in order to stop the salty tears rolling down her poor little red cheeks. On ejection, the said item flew out onto my sleeve and I had to find another jacket that would work with this ensemble".
My Olive. I left her smiling and I see her face beaming up at me right now from her framed picture in my office. Yet, unsurprisingly, it is my finger clicking on my mouse today that keeps her fresh in my mind.

Mother's Little Helper

It's not everyday that you compare yourself to Brooke Shields. Now, granted I am the fatter, slightly less bushy-eyebrowed, a lot less famous actress version but when it comes to battling (post-partum) depression I'm right up there alongside her.

Now, it's an ongoing battle and I've been at war for a number of years. However, it is only in the past year since becoming a mother that I have taken the fight a lot more seriously.
You see there was something almost bohemian about being an actress in New York city that battled depression. You say crazy, I say genius. I could write tortured entries in my battered journal whilst sipping dollar coffee from the street carts. I was brilliant but misunderstood. I could lie for days unable to get out of bed, only able to text or email people to make excuses for my inability to appear at scheduled functions, work, auditions. I would let time slip away and a mantra would run through my head telling me that I would be 'better off gone'. I would eventually come out of it, rejoin the real world, and wait in fear for the next time.

When you are a mother, you don't get to hit the self destruct button. You have to function. After giving birth, I was dizzy with joy. In fact, I think they must have slipped something into my IV because as my doctor was stitching me I was telling Tom that I couldn't wait to have another baby...but after a few weeks the familiar anxiety and fear crept in. I knew that I couldn't wait for the inevitable to cripple me. I couldn't wallow. Because I wouldn't be 'better off gone' - I now had a role and a purpose in this world.

Of course, that's easy for me to say when I am healthy or not in the throngs of an attack but when it happens for the first time or comes out of nowhere it can be very difficult to accept that you have an illness to fight and you are not crazy. For friends and family around you it can be hard for them to understand that it is not 'just the baby blues', you are not 'just tired', 'not lazy', and not 'having a bad day'. Yes, we all have days that we don't want to get out of bed but our difference is we can't. We are paralyzed by our sadness, our fear, our anger and anxiety and utterly overwhelmed and confused as to what caused it. Living in the depths of depression is to experience a hell on earth. It's irrational, unexpected and unexplained. Often we know we have no reason to feel this way. This only makes us feel worse.

I had two friends this week share with me their struggle with depression and with an almost painfully embarrassed admission that they had gone on medication. They were terribly ashamed, which in turn made me terribly sad. Now, not 'depressed sad', just 'sad sad'. Still with me?

I'm not going to spout on about how depression is like having a cold and just like having a cold you take medicine - I don't know nor do I pretend to understand the best course of action, be it medication, prayer, vitamins or exercise. However, I will tell you that gobbling a lot of St. John's Wort didn't help so much...thank you anyway for that suggestion Tom Cruise.

I have taken medication off and on for a number of years. Don't feel sorry for me. This is not a cry for help. I promise you that I am not wearing a mask of happiness silently singing "Send In The Clowns". People that have this disease are not miseries (at least not all of the time), unless of course they are just plain old miserable people in the first place. We are still the fun loving people you once thought we were. We are just like nurses, lawyers and perverts - we could live next door to you and you wouldn't necessarily know it.

I'm not advocating anything here nor am I preaching to the choir. I know that depression was once so taboo that mention a peep and they'll have you tied to a gurney getting electric shock treatment faster than you can sign up for Scientology. I don't think it is as much taboo now as it is misunderstood. Our parents generation was told to 'get on with it' and if you opened a dialogue with them about it now, they might tell you to cheer up and count your blessings. They might also reveal that they too have struggled for years.

I am not an expert but I am more than prepared to say that this is my illness, my disease in life and when I take care of myself, I live a happy and optimal existence. I function. And as a mother and a wife I need to. I am neither proud nor ashamed. I am however, medicated and happy.


Finally, I wanted to share a letter that the brilliant actor/writer/comedian Stephen Fry had written to a woman in response to a letter that she had sent him about depression. I find his words honest and refreshing. In turn I am forced to laugh at my recent move to the pacific northwest...roll on summer... ;)

To Mothers...

My dear friend lost her child this week. She was 17 weeks pregnant and already every bit as much of a mother that I aspire to be each day.

I'm not interested in getting into a discussion on when life begins. I will tell you though that for me motherhood began when I started making choices for myself based on my baby. It was when you'd find yourself turning down that glass of wine because you 'never know', when you'd opt for cheddar instead of Gorgonzola 'just because' and when you could actually summon a smile when requesting decaf. It's when old wives tales would have you taking warm showers instead of soaking in hot baths. It's when you are sick and tired of being sick and tired, yet you still catch yourself rubbing your bump on the subway. Motherhood is instinctual, it is primal, and no matter how long it lasts, be it 1 week, 17 weeks, 3 years or until the end of your time on earth, it is with you forever.

In the 9 months before the rest of the world meets your baby, you are likely already best friends. You walk together, talk together, you do a lot of peeing and perhaps puking together. And, if it walks like a duck, waddles like a duck...well, it's already a mother.

It almost feels as though the actual 'having a baby' is when the rest of the world is let in on the joy but the private pleasures of motherhood begin way before. Nobody else in the whole world felt my daughter kick the first time. No one. And nothing can ever take that away from me.
It is this realization that makes me feel so strongly in the acknowledgment of the pain that mothers feel when losing their babies early on. Today, my heart is broken for my friend and I can only imagine that her ache is just as real and painful as if I lost my Olive tomorrow. Grief is surely just as much about the loss of what memories you didn’t make, as well as as mourning the ones you remember.

In fact, I felt a bit like I was running an egg and spoon race when I was pregnant, or playing a giant game of Jenga...if that makes any sense. The longer you go, the giddier you get and yet just seeing the finish line didn't hold any guarantees. It was my constant focus. Utterly all consuming.

Today was a reminder of not only what a gift life is but just how cruel it can be. My heart and prayers are full of love and strength to mothers today, no matter where your children are.