Birth Love

The universe has a cheeky sense of humour. As I was reading back through my blog - which I have neglected for a little while - I came across my 'Round Two' post on whether or not to have another baby. Unbeknownst to me, when I posted that I was approximately two days pregnant - surprise! The morning sickness and distraction explains my lack of posting, but now heading into my 34th week of pregnancy my mind is starting to loop-de-loop on the old birthing roller coaster again.

My birthing experience was ok, but never fear, I won't go into stories and tales here. Having been through it once though I now have a level of expectation around what I might encounter. I've tested my pain threshold and I know that if I have a bunch of synthetic contraction inducing hormones charging through my system I need pain relief to help me through it. I do wish that I had been worded up a little more that induction doesn't really give your body time to adjust to the pain. I am in awe at women who have been induced and can birth their child without any pain relief. I suspect they also take their casseroles out of the oven without potholders and stub out their husbands cigarettes on their thigh.

I also have quite a few friends who have either just given birth or will be in the next six months, which has provided birthing stories of cars breaking down in peak hour traffic in mad dashes to the hospital and many discussions around the ideal birth experience. I feel lucky to have people in my life who are open minded and can embrace all the different possibilities that bringing bub into the world can create.

Sadly, I still feel as though this isn't always the case for the wider community.

It's an indirect impression I get, through comments in the media, people's posts on Facebook and the comments you hear women make when discussing another woman's birth experience.

I think I'm sensitive to it, because my reality somewhat contradicts what I like to think my philosophies are. I like to think that I am a woman of the earth, a woman who recognises the natural process that pregnancy and birth is, and who is capable of bringing her baby into the world on the grass by a babbling brook chewing on a sprig of lavender. (That's probably going a tad far but you get what I mean.)

When people ask me what I am doing for the birth - home or hospital, drugs or no drugs  - I find myself prefacing my answer with things like, "Because I have these clotting disorders, I'm considered high risk, so I have to go hospital." That is 100% true, I don't really have a choice in it, but my answer could have easily been, "Hospital birth for me".

Something in me needs to defend my choice to give birth in the mainstream hospital environment.

It makes me wonder how many other women feel like that? Women who feel like they are letting their fellow sisters down by saying, "I don't feel confident enough to do this in my home, or in a birthing centre, and I'd like to have the medical help there for me if I need it."

I really admire women like Chrissie Swan who openly discusses her choice to have elective ceasarian births. Let's be clear here, her abdomen is being cut open to bring her baby into the world, she's not delicately sneezing the baby out of her nostril. This isn't the "easy" option. But by being open about her decisions she is making things a little bit easier for the women who also have c-sections but felt the Judge Judy eyes of the 'natural' birthing crew.

And let's not forget the home birthers - they cop a whole other wrath of disapproving tisk tisks. Endangering their baby, putting stress on the hospital system with emergency admissions, being a crazy hippie...when in reality most give birth with no fuss, no issue and a healthy bublette.

It seems that if it's not what you're doing, then it's the wrong thing to do.

It's the same for pain relief. I've received many a text message or read a status update on Facebook announcing the happy arrival of a beautiful little human into the world coupled with the proud exclamation that mum went completely without drugs. It is a freaking awesome achievement and I am always so impressed with these women and the control they have over their bodies and minds. You deserve to be celebrated girlfriend - you just brought a real, live person into the world!!

There is occasion though where the comment is laced with a sense of judgement that belittles the women who haven't charged through the baby birthing tough mudder and come through the other side with mud on their face but no pharmaceuticals in their blood.

For some women it just hurts too much. It's as simple as that.

A midwife once said to me, "It perplexes me these women who are so against pain relief. I've never seen someone who had to have their appendix out saying 'No thanks, I'd rather not have any anaesthetic - just cut me open and get it out.' - Medicine has advanced like everything else, why not utilise it!" Of course I understand that having an organ cut out is very different to delivering a child, and many women are simply being protective of their baby's wellbeing by not wanting substances charging through their system as they enter the world. It is however interesting food for thought.

In all of this I just keep coming back to the same thought - Why does it matter what anyone else does?

Well, it doesn't, or it doesn't have to. But I think the key to this is being able to understand and support the decisions made by others, even if they are so diametrically opposed to your own. To trust yourself to choose what is going to be the best decision for YOU and YOUR BABY.

For me making the decision to have an epidural was absolutely without a doubt the right decision for us. It was only after I had made the decision that I realised how much pressure and judgment I was placing on myself. Somewhere deep down I had the belief that I wasn't a good mother to my unborn child if I needed drugs to get through the birth. I believed that I would be letting my partner down because I wasn't the strong warrior woman that I wanted him to see me being. I would be selling out on my sisterhood and everything that I believed. And I know deep down that there's a bunch of women out there who would read that and still believe all those things to be true.

In my reality my body was struggling to cope with the instantaneous surge of hormones running through me and as a result was shutting up shop. After the epidural I dilated 6cm in a wonderfully short amount of time because my body had released the intense shock response it was in and had allowed itself to relax. As a result mini muffin arrived in the world without stress and I was able to enjoy the experience.

That was my journey, and I still think it would be so great to experience that spontaneous birth where you feel subtle contractions start and have to call your husband home from work. Where you get to the point when you scream for pain relief and the midwife laughs and says, "I don't think so kiddo, too late, you're about to have this baby". Maybe that's why I still buffer my answers with explanations of clots and inductions.

As always, all it ever comes down to is a healthy mum and healthy bub.

So I guess I'm just hoping we can all share the birth love and celebrate each other for whatever choices we make.

And I'm going to be open about my choices:

I'm having a hospital birth.
There's a good chance I'll have an epidural.
I hope I can give birth naturally but if there's any issues of safety for me and bub I'm comfortable with having a c-section.
I will live vicariously through my drug free, spontaneously birthing friends. (Especially the ones down by the stream with the lavender)

Don't worry though, I'll still be the lady on the post-natal ward with the essential oils wafting out of her room and the crystals hanging from the IV stand.

You can take the girl out of her hippie wonderland but you can't take the hippie wonderland out of the girl.

(Gorgeous pic from kindnessgirl.com)

Since when did we eat our own?

Plenty of fish do it, and so do some insects, but sadly it has become very clear to me that we eat our own too.

To be fair I’m speaking metaphorically.

A few months ago one of my older posts from Tree Bambino was published on the Mamamia website. A big deal for me as it meant that thousands of women would be processing the article in their minds and possibly talking about the topic with those in their lives.

Just to preface, I wrote that article after experiencing two miscarriages at a time when I wasn’t pregnant and didn’t know if I’d ever have children.

I was well prepared once it was published for people to have an opposing viewpoint to my own. We all live our lives differently. Some people experience a miscarriage without too much trauma. Often these women already have at least one child and aren’t facing down the barrel of a childless future. Other women are particularly private and find the thought of discussing their personal issues extremely confronting. What I wasn’t prepared for was the woman eat woman microcosm that exists in the murky comments section below.

I got off reasonably lightly with just a few women wielding their acidic word-swords my way. Out of curiosity to see if my article was any different to others I began reading the comments sections of other articles written on the site.

Oh my!

We’ve got cyber jugulars being gnashed all over the place!

I’m completely fascinated. Have these people ever spoken their thoughts in a space where they have been vulnerable before? Are they generally unhappy people or does the content matter unleash a tormented she-demon that was hiding in the darkness?

Some of the comments aren’t even offensive, just more frustrating as they demonstrate that somebody has missed the point of your sentiment.

Specifically in my case one person commented in reference to the question “why don’t they tell us this stuff?” –

“…I don’t really understand how anyone could not have at least an inkling, between media stories and whisperings amongst friends/relatives/work colleagues…”

Well, Crackerpants, (nice username by the way) that was my exact point. These topics are spoken about as either sensationalized celebrity gossip or shameful whispers amongst the real people you know. In a way you’ve reiterated my thoughts for me. It would be nice if we were able to discuss these topics openly and supportively not as separate from the things that happen in our everyday lives.

Speaking of which, support people for being brave enough to talk about what’s going on for them in general. It is absolutely 100% totally fine for you to not agree with them, and by all means have your say, but appreciate the cowardice of hiding behind a username login that guarantees you pretty much complete anonymity. Plenty of the comments are measured and deliver their disagreement with the topics just fine. For those of you who would prefer to take down your fellow women, I wonder if you had to submit your full name and a photograph of yourself if all these comments would remain the same?

Frustratingly for the author the comments are often fueled by a misread of the article itself or a pre-loaded comment that was going to be shot as soon as the topic was mentioned.

Would you make those same comments if that person stood before you in all their honesty and vulnerability and told you their story?

http://www.mamamia.com.au/parenting/why-dont-they-tell-us-this-stuff/

And then Santa comes down the chimney….Hang on.

DISCLAIMER: You probably shouldn’t let your kids read my posts anyway…but  you definitely shouldn’t let them read this one. I refuse to be the Grinch who stole Christmas.

Ok. So as I was wrapping Christmas presents for our little puff pastry I began to think about what Christmas would be like for her – not so much this year, but in a few years time. This year I’m well aware that the cheaply printed Christmas paper and excessive package protectors (aka bubble wrap) will be the highlight of her day. So I bought her some new womens Mavi jeans. Kidding! Anyway. I started writing on her little present tag and thought, “Maybe this one should be from Santa?”

Can I tell you the cyclonic short circuit this caused in my mind.

I thought, “Well, maybe it could be from Santa…but she doesn’t even know who Santa is (never mind the fact that she doesn’t know that she knows who we are)…and when am I going to tell her?...and WHAT am I going to tell her?”

Bam. There it was. I was conflicted about introducing my little chubby cheeks to the imaginary man with the big sack. When I re-read that sentence I can see why.

I immediately flashed back to my memories as a little kid and my parents telling me the infamous “Santa isn’t real”. I’m fairly sure I cried and I definitely chastised my parents for lying to me all those years. Poor Dad was out mowing the lawns while Mum broke the news to me only to come inside to cop the wrath of an eight year old who had her dreams destroyed.

I can so clearly remember at the time feeling terribly confused through my tiny tears – why would parents do this? Why would they make up such a delightful story that they know they will have to rip away from you right when you need it most? Wasn’t being at school and beginning the first real motions of routine and responsibility enough, without telling us that Santa never existed. And while we’re at it neither did the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. WHAT???!!!! But what about the letter the Easter Bunny left saying he knew that we’d gone away for the weekend so he left the eggs for us? Dad wrote it?! Are you kidding me?! I told everyone in the street that I had a legit letter from the B-Man himself. More fool I.

Deep breath. The pain will go away one day.

Understandably after that little plunge back into childhood trauma I was even less sure about whether or not I should plant the seeds of this untruthful game. Some of you may ask – but don’t you believe in fairies? Why, yes, I do. I’m certain they flit about in the garden helping the flowers grow. So I’ll tell hubba bubba that, but I won’t then wait until she’s older and then tell her she can’t believe in them anymore.

But what if I didn’t want to tell her about old Mr Claus? Would she then become the mini Grinch running around daycare telling the mini elves that Santa isn’t real? I'm aware that there are many families who don't spin the Santa story, but they don't celebrate Christmas full stop. It's much easier for a little kid confronted with a non-believing munchkin from a Christmas free family to think "Well, you don't even have a Christmas...that's just code for Santa not wanting to give you presents. I see through your story."

I feel trapped. On the one hand if I don’t embark upon the Father Christmas fantasy I might up her chances of being involved in Childcare Fight Club; but if I do allow the charade am I supposed to tell her that an obese man that no-one really knows will wait until we’re all asleep and somehow break into our house, eat our food and if he’s feeling festive and we’ve behaved ourselves, he’ll leave us a present? It seems a little weird.

I’m fairly sure that bubbikin’s cousins will grow up listening out for the old “Ho, Ho Ho!” and we spend our Christmas days with them. Maybe we just have to raise her to be a little spy baby that lives a double life of Santa belief. She knows the truth, but she also knows your kids can’t handle the truth.

Whilst all this was nutcrackering around in my mind I still had a present unlabelled that needed a tag.

So I wrote on the label...“from Santa”. 

I like to keep my options open.

I figure this year she still doesn’t recognise the words ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ – Santa aint gonna stick in there. 

End note:
I would really, really love to hear from anyone who has shared my traumatic dilemma and found a solution. I may have bought myself a year people…but time is ticking. 

Round 2?

James and I had an interesting conversation a few weeks ago. It began something like this:

James - "Let's have another baby"

Me - "Are you serious?"

James - "Yeah, I want her to have siblings so they can grow up together."

I was a bit shocked, a bit taken aback. But then I thought, well I guess it's a possibility.

You see I'm from a family of two. My brother is nine and a half years older than me - he a pleasant surprise and me a much more considered arrival further down the track. So I grew up with the belief that once you've had one bub you wait quite a long time before you get back on the baby bandwagon. James is pretty much the exact opposite. He was just shy of his 13-month birthday when his little bro came along.

This really got me thinking - what's the ‘right’ time for us to be trying to have another child?

If I were one of those ‘look at me and I fall pregnant’ girls then it would all just come down to the age gap we wanted our babes to have. But I’m not one of those girls. At least, I haven’t been up to this point. It took us over a year and a half of really ‘earnest’ trying, with a couple of miscarriages thrown in, before our little mini muffin started baking.

Some people will tell you that once you’ve had one your body knows how to do it, so it’ll be heaps easier next time round. Unfortunately it seems this little post pregnancy perk can be pretty easily cancelled out by the fact that LAB (life after birth) equals less sleep, less romantic getaways…and generally less activity that gets the baby there in the first place. Yeah, sex. I was just being coy.

I was talking with a friend of mine the other day speculating what it would be like if we did bring another tiny tot into the world and she gasped and replied, “You can’t. I know this woman who had her first two really close together and she reckons the eldest never quite got over it. Grew up too fast, you know?” Is that the case for all kids born close together, or just this poor little tacker? Then I remembered James and his bro. James swears that his brother is still his best mate to this day because they grew up so close in age. Seems to me that it’s just luck of the draw?

After my second miscarriage I was diagnosed with two autoimmune clotting disorders which makes me part of a cool club called the ‘high risk group’. My obstetrician joked at my 6-week check up, “Right, you’re good to get going again then. We’ll have a sibling for Sunday this time next year.” I laughed it off as a man ensuring the sustainability of his business but, on reflection, I’m just not sure now if there was something more to it? I suppose in a way, if you’re going to put your body through a high risk situation, you’re smarter doing it while you’re young and presumably at your healthiest?

So I thought about it. If I fell pregnant right this second, (which I couldn’t -‘cause James isn’t even in the room) but let’s just say IF I could…that would make me 32 when baby #2 rolls into town. And then I was reminded of that thing that haunts every woman wanting to have a child in her 30’s (or beyond) - The Biological Birthday Cake Police. If they count up the candles on your cake and you’ve got 35 or more, then you get a big asterisk put next to your name in their Biological Birthday Cake Police Notepad. Talk about gender-age racist. There’s nothing like the fear of the ‘you’re just too old I’m afraid’ speech to put the wind in your sails.

So do the sum of all those factors equal us trying to procreate again?

At the end of the day, I’m incredibly grateful that we have one gorgeous, perfect, amazing child. If that’s all we get, then fine. I’m well aware that only just over a year ago my acceptance was around the possibility of not having a child at all.

For the time being I’m just happy delighting in every moment our little bag of fairy floss smiles, burps or makes some kind of completely unintelligible sound. 

The neighbour's dog

Look, for the most part he’s a lovely dog. One of those oafish, friendly Labrador-Golden Retriever type pooches. He enjoys his home and often likes to partake in the neighbourhood canine conversation. Which is fine, except he chooses to place his doggy soapbox by the fence right underneath our gorgeous girl’s bedroom window.

So I’m playing sounds of the Serengeti to our little world child as she drifts off into peaceful bliss land and he’s lecturing the pups down the road on the current state of the economy. Or that’s what it sounds like, I don’t really understand dog language that well. 

He obviously can’t stand anyone disagreeing with him either ‘cause whenever one of his pals in the street has something to say he feels compelled to shout it right back at them. But ten times louder.

I have to confess though, whilst pretty freaking annoying, it doesn’t affect me the way that it did while I was pregnant. For some reason the hormones turned me into a hyper sensitive sound detector. I would be sitting in the lounge cooking my little bundle of life (AKA sitting on the couch part way between snooze and watching the Bold & The Beautiful - or Huey’s Kitchen, I can’t remember) and he’d let out of one of his flustered and emphatic speeches regarding the US dog dollar. I would catch myself mid sentence yelling (you know when you yell but you gradually get slower and quieter as you realise you sound totally crazy?), “Shut your f$#king dog up or I’ll…BE GIVING him A…‘SPECIAL’… meal.” Now that’s not nice. Especially when I really like our neighbours. (I tried to write that like it sounded. I’m not sure it translates.)

Then there’s the other embarrassing issue I’m sure he doesn’t want me to talk about. His neuroses for his owner.  Whenever the familiar ute pulls up into the driveway (also conveniently placed under the above mentioned window) he bursts into fits of “OMG!!! I TOTALLY can’t believe you’re home!!! my life has changed forever!!! just come play with me right now!!!!”

Don’t get the wrong impression; this is no man-dog bark. These are shrillish, desperate, lady-dog screams. No dog his size could possibly be proud of that. I’m embarrassed for him. Imagine what the other dogs think?

But you know what? Most of the time the little mini person upstairs just sleeps through it. So chill out Mum. The dog can bark. Maybe she just dreams about lions and giraffes that sound like lady-dogs? And she also learns a hell of a lot about doggy dollars while she’s at it.

The other day he caused quite the kerfuffle. Out of nowhere amidst the familiar barks and chatter he introduced a new, much more manlier sound - the growl. I was a mixture of regular annoyance that mini munch was trying to sleep upstairs and joy ridden pride that our furry friend had discovered his manhood. 

Until I looked over the fence to see what was going on. 

Mr Macho was standing there gripped with fear as a teency, tiny baby bird lay confused and frightened on the ground in front of him. I'm not sure how Tweety got there but she certainly was NOT feeling the love. 

It was time for me to take control of the situation.

I coaxed and comforted Mr T, congratulating him on his find and reassuring him that everything was going to be just fine. As he edged closer to the fence to hear more about how fabulous he was, Tweety looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and made the slow mo dash to the bushes under the fence. It was that way you walk when you're playing What's The Time Mr Wolf? and you have to make as much ground as possible but be ready to freeze at any given moment. She did it well. 

Before I could finish my speech of "You're so clever, yes you are. Yes you are." Tweets had disappeared off into a fort of foliage, hopefully never to be seen again by our canine captor. 

Crisis confusion averted and Doggy Wall Street was back in business barking up a stock market storm. 

True to form babycakes slept her way right on through it. 

(I must stop lacing her milk with whiskey.)

(Of course I'm kidding.)

(p.s. how ridiculous is that picture I found?!)

mother's guilt

There’s something that happens when you have a miscarriage. Speaking to other women who have suffered in the same circumstances creates an unspoken bond. We all feel it differently but the truth is, unless you’ve had a miscarriage, there’s no way you can truly appreciate the effect it can have on you – physically, mentally and emotionally.

That’s not in any way a criticism, just the reality of the experience versus the imagination.

I expect it’s similar with women who have embarked on that good old fun-ship called IVF. I’m deliberately sarcastic about the ‘joy’ of IVF because by all accounts I’ve been given, it’s one of the most grueling journeys you can take yourself on.

It always makes me wonder about people who are against the premise of IVF from an ethical standpoint (and if you are, that’s fine, we’re all here to speak our truth). My take is, if you have a couple, and most particularly a woman, who is willing to put her body through that amount of pain and stress in order to have a child, then you’ve got a woman who really, really, REALLY wants a baby. Surely they’re the kind of people we want to be having babies in our world? Not just the girls who are walking fertilization machines and have kids because the baby bonus sounds like a good deal. I DIGRESS.

Where was I?  Ah, yes.

These bonds that we form through our shared struggles  - be it miscarriage, infertility or IVF, can be incredibly comforting, especially at times where the future of ‘family’ is blurry to say the least. These are the people who you know ‘get it’. No awkward conversations, no not knowing what to say – no well meaning but really frustrating advice.

I remember times after my second miscarriage where I felt like these were the only people I wanted to talk to, that it was just too heartbreaking to speak to other people who loved me dearly, but who didn’t know what to say.

But then something happened.

I fell pregnant.

And this time it stuck.

I embarked on such a ridiculously happy time in my life. All those dreams and wishes were finally coming true. But through all the elation, excitement and joy there was a pang of guilt, and if I’m to be honest, a little bit of fear. How was I going to tell those women that I knew and loved that I had broken the curse? What had I done differently that scored me a golden ticket into the baby factory? I knew for the most part that they would be over-the-moon happy for me. I also knew a little part of their heart would break as they were reminded that their journey was still unfolding....and they might have a really, really long way to go.

The reason I know this is because I’ve felt that very same heart break before.

I know that there’s also a heap of women out there who want babies but who haven’t yet met that special person they want to bring tiny little people into the world with. But there’s something different, something even cruel, about putting so much of your heartfelt energy into trying to make life – to even get a glimpse of what it would be like – then to have it stolen away from you again. It’s for those beautiful people, who have been told by the universe that their efforts aren’t good enough that I ache.

It can all be negative though, right? I guess on the flipside I can serve as a beacon of hope. While I’m feeling guilty for finally getting my embryo to talk to my uterus, maybe they are thinking, “Well, if she can do it, so can I”?

Or maybe they're not even thinking about me at all.

Because let’s be honest, as any woman who has been trying to fall pregnant will tell you, no story about some miracle feat by another women falling pregnant makes one teency bit of difference to you when you keep getting a single pink line on that little stick.

I then have to ask myself if it’s really guilt I’m feeling, or just fear? Do I feel reluctant to share my happy news with them to protect their feelings or am I just trying to avoid the relationships that connect me to a particular set of memories? Am I trying not to feed the fear that tells me my new life is a dream and if I’m not careful I’ll wake up from it?

Maybe it’s a bit of both.

I can tell you one thing for sure though. If I could, I’d play mother stork and drop a gorgeous little bublette onto each one of their doorsteps.  With a little note attached saying:

 “You deserve this. xx”

Sorry…Sorry…Sorry.

I don’t think I’ve ever said “sorry” so much in my entire life.

To be fair, I’m not the most spatially aware individual when it comes to gross motor skills. I have been known on more than one occasion to walk into a doorframe or a wall. I put it down to my long limbs. It should be no surprise to me then that I am equally inept when it comes to driving a pram.

Look, I realize that we didn’t buy the smallest pram available, but I think it’s the best thing ever. I feel like an elite athlete as I’m pushing First Class passenger #1 down to the shops…or the cricket ground…anywhere really. It’s one of those all terrain prams that has a matching all terrain sunshade and storm cover. I’m a little bit in love with it. Cue sponsorship deal with Mountain Buggy. Mini Michael Schumacher loves it too. She lets the wind rush through her poppet Mohawk, taking a breath only to draw back for a little sneeze from the hay fever laden air. Not only does it give her the thrill of her life, this thing is so amazing that it will have her asleep within 4.45min of getting on the road. Amazing indeed.

So whilst I’m totally infatuated by it, I’m not sure if the rest of the world is.

I would consider our suburb a reasonably ‘pram friendly’ suburb. Most shops have enough room in their aisles for you to twinkle toe your way through. I like the term ‘twinkle toe’. It’s what I think my pram looks like as I tip it forward onto its front wheel only to squeeze it through those pesky narrow spaces.  But while in theory many places accommodate our F1, in reality I feel like a big shade clothed nuisance.

The other day in the little organic shop where I buy our coffees I had to ask the shop assistant to mind the kit and kaboodle (baby being kaboodle) while I went down the back to order the drinks. There were just too many crates of Bonsoy and perfectly organic bananas in my way. Every time I tried to twinkle toe I’d bash clumsily into another crate, potentially adding another bruise to those already well bruised bananas. Why do organic bananas always look bruised? I know they are chemical free, but what are they doing – beating the bugs off with a cricket bat?

Of course the shop assistant was incredibly gracious and pretended to keep an eye on her until I arrived back. Happily for everyone Ms Schumacher was well and truly into her 4.45 pit stop so was none the wiser.

Off the topic completely, but interesting nonetheless – our little miss likes to have the sunshade down when we’re out and she’s ready for a snooze. If I don’t put it all the way down she feels obliged to stay all wide owl eyes and stare off into the blur of objects that whizz past her. We roll the piece down and off she goes into happy cocoon land. So we’re often cruising around in this state and I realised today that I was getting curious looks from other mums and dads with their bubs. 

Then it hit me – they think our baby girl is a celebrity tot! 

It’s true, she does look like she’s trawling incognito around the leafy streets. It’s a dark and menacing piece of shade-cloth apparatus; reminiscent of some big black Hummer you’d see dropping P.Diddy off at a red carpet event. You can’t see her in there at all - happily for her if she wasn’t so lulled into it’s blissful sleepiness, she’d be able to see everything going on outside of it. So I figure we’ve got the streets around home completely owned. These other parents must be thinking, “Who has she got in there? The new Honey Boo Boo?” – either that or they’re thinking, “It’s not even that sunny today. She must be one of those hardcore helicopter parents”.

Anyway, I’ve realised whilst I might think this pram is totally rad, I’m not actually that good at driving it, and I’m fairly sure I’ve pissed a few people off with it. I have to confess the other day I ran over James’ feet. I say ‘feet’ instead of ‘foot’ because both copped a crushing. First one, then the other. Once you’re in a situation like that though you’ve got to commit. No reverse and recorrect – you just end up looking like that scene out of Austin Powers. A full ram raid is the only way to get through it. James stood there in disbelief and amusement as after running over the initial foot I remained focused and unshaken, rolling straight over the second. That’s just the way it’s gotta be.

BUT.

Some people are really pram racist.

When you’re walking down an obviously two-way footpath, my feeling is that it’s one per direction. I can happily pass you with your bag of groceries, but I’m not going to cop being faced with you and your flower-carrying friend. That’s not fair. Just because I’m wheeling the goods doesn’t mean I should have to get out of your way. And I often find that I’m prone to giving way to compensate for my insecurity of being a less than amazing driver. But why should I have to apologise for myself? I’m just trying to be a functioning human who’s allowed to leave the house to buy a few groceries without breaking the law for leaving the bublette at home on her own. Nevertheless I find myself sadly sputtering “sorry” out of my mouth every time I negotiate past a duo of less than caring shoppers.

I ALWAYS say "thank you" if someone obligingly drops into line so we can fulfill my one per direction dream. I consider myself very polite. I find myself a little disheartened when someone eyes off the baby machine and opts to make my life even harder, like I should be punished for needing to use a pram for my baby. “You were a baby once too lady! I’m sure at some point someone wheeled you around and I bet you weren’t ostracized for it!” 

Here I am feeling as though I’m doing my little bit by not taking the car and giving bubsicle some fresh, blowaving air, and for some people out there I’m public enemy number one. It doesn’t seem very fair, or more to the point, very sensible. 

We should be embracing our wheely friends people!

Happily there’s a group of society that don’t despise me for my three-wheeler wielding ways. For the most part I find there’s an unspoken understanding between fellow pram pushers – even if it’s a narrow, rickety footpath we all find a way to become the let-in or the let-inerer. (Technical road terms of course)

A nod and a smile and we’re on our merry way; cognisant of the “sorry” each of us may have begrudgingly offered on our way to this spot in the road.

So I’ve decided, no more Mrs Nice Pram Lady Guy. Did I mix my references? 

I am taking a stand – for myself, and for all other baby wheel challenged people out there. If you try your two down the one-way tricks, from now on I will proudly and unashamedly take my place on the path.

I will not swerve.

I will not twinkle toe.

I will not say sorry.

I hope that you all will support me in my endeavour.

And FYI – I’m one of the best reverse parkers you’ll ever meet. I’ll take on any guy who thinks he can do a better job than me. In ANY car. 

I feel better after saying that. 


(Pic: http://www.boatdesign.net/forums/attachments/sailboats/38148d1260417491-dinghy-foiling-hummer-h3-wooden-wagon-wheels.jpg)