Why Books are Magic, Especially for Children

When I was a child, my nickname was Booka Book. I repeated the phrase over and over again: "Booka booka booka booka", whenever I wanted a book. My parents gave me books, they let me flip through the pages and absorb them, they read to me. Golden books and Lady Bird books were favourites and I still have many of them, that I have now passed on to my children. 

My kids are at the age, (my eldest is three and a half and the twins are almost two), that they are finally appreciating books. They no longer squirm and lose interest and become distracted when I try to read to them. They will sit together immersed in a pile of books, alone with the pages and the stories inside. Sometimes swapping between themselves, the eldest 'reads' to the siblings, reciting from memory what happens on each page. Sometimes word for word from those stories that rhyme or making up sentences as the pictures come to life in the mind. The twins are transfixed when they listen and jibber away in their own baby language, when they have a book to themselves. 

We have finally nailed down the bedtime story ritual. Whatever happens with books during the day, at bedtime we choose one or two books, sometimes three if it's early, and I sit on their bedroom floor and read to them. For the most part, they listen and join in. They know the last words of a familiar rhyming sentence and we say it together:

"...and his favourite food is roasted....?"
"FOX"

That's from The Gruffalo. It's a favourite in our house. So is The Gruffalo's Child, Room on the Broom, The Paper Dolls, in fact anything written by the incredible Julia Donaldson. 

Another staple in our house is anything by the incomparable Lynley Dodd. Hairy Maclary and his friends visit our place often and they are as familiar as family members.

These days, our children are so lucky. Not only do they get to delve deep into their own imaginations through the magic of these stories, the books come to life in animated reality. Some of their most beloved tales have been made into cartoons that not only bring the pictures and words from the pages to life, they fill the gaps in the stories, highlighting the nuances that can be easily overlooked. Like in Room on the Broom. The dragon flies low and menacingly over a bog filled with a large toad and her babies. As he passes, they fart bubbles into the mud. That isn't in the book!

As fantastic as technology is, and it is, despite how much whining and criticism we hear about how everyone's face is stuck in a screen these days. So what! They once said novels would destroy young people's souls too. As fantastic as technology is, it still doesn't compare to flipping the paper pages of a colourful book. Children slow down. They go places while sitting still. They do it alone and independently and they grow as a result.

Solitude, self sufficiency, a quiet space to let the cogs of your brain turn and link up happens in a special way when you hold that bundle of paper and absorb it, letting it seep into your psyche and do what it needs to without distraction. Because that, to me, is the biggest difference between reading anything on the internet and reading a book. It's the volume of messages and pathways reaching out for your attention all at the same time when you're on an electronic device that makes your brain and your being travel too fast sometimes. That's not always a bad thing. It teaches you to be discerning and efficient. With practice you learn to skim and only take in the stuff that you need, the important information you require and discard the junk. But it's only when you're focused and expert at skimming that this works. Other times all sorts of junk falls through the cracks and derails your thinking. Again, not necessarily a bad thing. Who knows what you might learn by mistake!

A book, on the other hand, well it's a kinder journey. It's a cruise not a speed boat and sometimes the adrenaline flood is best put aside. 

I'm scared of dirty loos

Image credit via Pinterest.com

Nothing makes me happier than a clean bathroom. Shiny tiles, the smell of pine, soft folded towels. Nothing disgusts and terrifies me more than a dirty one. I hate public toilets. I hate them to the point of phobia. Ordinarily, I avoid them, but sometimes it's something I just have to close my eyes, hold my breath and survive. To me, all public toilets look like the one in the movie Trainspotting. I hate this image in my mind so much that I couldn't even bring myself to find a still from the movie to put in this post to show you, because I know what other images I may have to look at and I'm nauseous just thinking about it.

When I am having an anxious time in my life; whenever I have things going on that are worrying me or if I am under the weather; I dream about dirty bathrooms. I dream that I am desperate to go and that I have to navigate all sorts of horror to relieve myself. The images stay with me all day. It's worse than any nightmare. I'm sure I should probably speak to a therapist about it. I'm sure they'd be rubbing their hands together with dollar signs in their eyes at the thought of unraveling that knot.

Which is why right now, any kind of public outing is filled with dread and apprehension. You see I have just toilet trained my almost three year old and public toilets are now not only a necessity, but one that I must make a pleasant experience for her. I don't want to instill the same level of fear and reluctance in her that I feel. At the same time I don't want her to get too comfortable in there.

Taking my little one to the toilet in public has become a careful journey through a labyrinth of germs and wet funk the reality of which doesn't even compare to the degradation and mayhem that exists in my imagination. In my defense, I don't think my worst imaginings are far off the mark. Public toilets are a fucking nightmare. 

I use the parent rooms in most places where I can. They have a miniature hell hole designed for tiny little bottoms. You'd think they'd be relatively clean; I mean how much mess can a toddler make if they are carefully placed on there and taken off. You'd be surprised. Piss on the seat, not flushed, over used and under cleaned. What do you expect from a public toilet, I hear you ask. Not much more, I know that. I just hate it. I can't be alone and I think things should change. It's not impossible.

That part I manage. Wipe down the seat, repeat "hands on heads" over and over again like a jolly drill sergeant, make it quick, hope for the best and get the hell out. 


Parent rooms are mostly pretty awful. Yes they have some lovely pictures on the walls, all the amenities like a microwave, comfy chairs, change tables; some even have a tv and play equipment in a fenced off area for the older ones. Unfortunately they see a lot of traffic and I imagine it is difficult to maintain them. The level of maintenance never matches the level of use and in some cases abuse, because people treat those places carelessly. They make a mess and leave it there for someone else to correct. I wonder if it's because they're rushed to leave the putrid place just like I am or they just live like that and have zero respect for other human beings whether they will be using the place after them or have to do the butt clenching, soul destroying task of cleaning them.

I spent a lot of time in those rooms. With my first I took my time. I'd sit and feed her, burp her and change her. With the twins it was a little harder to negotiate tandem feeding while watching a toddler, so unless I had help, I timed my outings around feeds. There is nothing worse than trying to feed your baby surrounded by nappy bins filled to the brim. Who else is expected to eat in a fucking toilet, but babies! And I have witnessed people using those rooms like a cafe. No word of a lie. Shopping center employees will heat up their food in the microwave and sit and eat their lunch in there, mothers with older children will bring their kids to have lunch.....IN THERE! There are food courts, parks with trees outside, your car. Anywhere, but a toilet room! 

I sometimes felt brave enough to feed my baby in the food court, not giving a fuck who saw my boob. But even I have to admit, especially when the kids were small, I needed a quiet and intimate space without distraction. I think that's an entitlement.

I remember the first time I traveled to Europe as an adult, using the public restrooms with attendants. You had to give a donation to buy toilet paper. My initial reaction was surprise and confusion at having to pay for toilet paper. I mean how stingy! But the more I needed them while I traveled the more pleasant the experience became. Without exception, the toilets looked after by an attendant were spotless. I still haven't reconciled the classist and sexist conundrum that this kind of employment brings about, but the concept is valid. When there is someone there to oversee the behaviour of people and to take care of the space, it creates a culture of common care.

If you need to relieve yourself in public, do it in a civilised manner. Piss, shit, vomit, wank, change your tampon, whatever. Do it in the privacy of a cubicle and clean up after yourself. How hard is that.

My vision of parent rooms are utopian. I imagine an abundance of curtained off cubicles with a comfy chair, a small table, enough room for a pram, another seat for a 'guest', a small wall puzzle apparatus for older kids, a change table and a bin that is frequently emptied. A permanent attendant - male or female - with dignified working conditions to ensure the area is respected and maintained. I truly believe that when those conditions already exist and are encouraged, people adapt. Isn't it what everyone wants? If you go to a fancy hotel or restaurant, it never ends up looking like a McDonald's at 3am does it.

One final thing. I don't give a fuck if you have a penis or a vagina or both or neither or any other combination. If you need to relieve yourself or tend to a child or baby, everyone should be able to do that with privacy, good hygiene and free from harrassment. I don't get the segregation. I never have. At music festivals, I used the men's room on more than one occasion, when the queue for the women's was out the door and into the carpark. 

I want to revolutionise public rest rooms. Because of the nature of the acts that go on in there, that is more of a reason for us as a domesticated and civilised species to work harder to make the whole experience more accommodating. Yes flowers and soft music. Yes aromatherapy, yes waste management and comfort. It's time to pimp up the custodial industry. It's important. Pay cleaners what they are worth. They make magic every day. And show some respect, help out by not being a disgrace. Leave a place as you found it. Leave no trace. It's a metaphor for how we should live generally.   

Gwen Stefani nearly killed me

Some days start off normal. Same old routine; get up, feed the twins, change three kids while husband makes breakfast, eat together, husband goes to work, change three shits, clean up breakfast dishes, move all three kids into the bedroom while I shower, chill, morning tea, nap the babies, have a cuppa on the balcony while the big one plays, babies wake up and we're ready for lunch.

Then on a whim I decide to take all three to the local shopping centre to have lunch and a stroll around the shops, a play on the rides and pirate ship, visit the pet shop. 

All hell breaks loose.

While I get ready and by that I mean get our stuff together and scribble on some eye brows and eyeliner, one of the twins decides to howl as loud as possible, fat tears streaming down her cheeks the entire time. The other twin tips over the bucket of toys I just packed up and distributes the neat pile of books I just stacked around the entire lounge room floor. The eldest decides to follow me around so closely she is practically crawling back up into my uterus. I bump and knock her over several times and she still walks around glued to the backs of my knees; giggling every time she lands flat on the floor as I rocket around the house with gusto trying to get ready before I change my mind. I always vow to travel light, but I still need a whole bunch of shit 'just in case'. The day I don't take something with me is the day I need it.

Anyway, I'm finally ready to walk out the door; twins in their capsules, one clipped on to one side of the double pram, the other capsule needs to be carried out; the eldest sitting on the other side of the pram. Got my wallet, phone and lippy (as if I'll reapply) in my back pack on my back. I've packed three water cups, three bibs, three jumpers, a stocked up nappy bag and my house and car keys. No one is naked, me and the big one have shoes on, all have clean nappies, I've peed. I'm sweating profusely by now, I think I've smeared one eye brow, one twin is red faced from her heartfelt meltdown; sniff sniffing so sincerely and broken heartedly, you'd think I'd just flogged her, the other twin is squirming profusely and about to pick up where the other left off. The eldest is calm; well actually she's shocked into silence; I've put her in the pram awkwardly and scraped her arm by accident. She thinks I've done it on purpose; toddlers don't understand apologies for being flustered. But we're out the door. I push the behemoth of a pram with one baby and one toddler out the door while carrying the other baby in the other hand; we're all in the lift to go down to the garage. I park everyone near the door and get the car out of the garage. I put everything in the car. First the toddler, then both capsules, then all my crap (hand bag, phone, nappy bag and sundries), then fold the pram and put it in the boot. It is now 40 minutes since I decided to go out and we are all very hungry.

I am calm when I drive. Everyone is strapped in and safe and I'm in control; the air con is on and my body temperature has stabilised. I'm breathing calmly again. I get to the shops and the car park is full. I want to cry, but instead I drive off trying to think of what else to do. Do I go home or go to the other, duller shopping centre. I drive around the block and think to myself "I can turn this shit around!"

I glimpse my toddler in the back through the rear vision mirror. She's dozing. This used to panic me, but now I welcome it as a resting snooze she will benefit from instead of a sleep that will ruin her for the rest of the day. I drive into the car park again and as I'm entering a car pulls out of a spot so I wack my indicator on with such force I nearly snap the thing off. I park. I rest for a bit, because now I have to get all the shit and kids back out of the car. Only now I have it down to a fine art, everything in reverse. Pram out of the boot, nappy bag and all paraphernalia loaded onto the pram, kids last. Babies out of the capsules and into the pram from either side of the back seat, pull one capsule out and extract the toddler then trap her between the car and my body while I replace the capsule, in case she runs off in the car park. She doesn't ever, I make sure of it. Then I sit her on the handle bars of the pram and sing the song I made up until we are out of the car park. "Hold on to mum and you won't fall off, hold on to mum and you won't fall off..." etc.

Once in the shops she's walking again, she holds my hand and we go to the supermarket to buy the babies some packet food. Of course it is right up the back of the fucking shop. I can't just pop in. I have to maneuver the double pram and the toddler, dodging other shoppers and their trolleys, display shelves and all manner of obstacles to get to the right isle. And then back to the self serve where the pram just fits. I pay and head to the food court. It is now a good hour and a half since I decided to go out and we're starving. No one has died.

I get to the healthy take away shop, order mine and the toddler's sandwiches and a smoothie and chat to another mum with a toddler and baby. She inflates my ego immensely as she considers her own struggles and thinks mine must be so much worse. I assure her they are not. Whether you have one, two, three or sixteen, kids are hard work and sometimes they aren't and you're organised and it's fine. You just do it. Sometimes shit goes smoothly, sometimes it hits the fan.

I find an empty table and park the twins; I leave them momentarily while I fetch a high chair from nearby, taking the toddler with me. We return and I sit her in it and assemble everyone within my reach. I take everything I need out. Wipes, spoon, three cups, three bibs.

We eat. I'm now completely confident and relaxed. The hard shit is over. That's it. Whatever happens from now doesn't matter. We're sitting down and eating, my brain is now functioning optimally and I have this. I banter with the elderly couple sitting near our table. They have twins on both sides of their families, the husband is a twin himself. They didn't have children just in case. They were both terrified. They ask me if there are twins in the family. I tell them apparently yes on my dad's side, but I only found out after I had mine. It wouldn't have stopped me having babies.

I spend the rest of the afternoon strolling around the shops to kill time, letting the toddler play on the rides and play equipment. On a whim I walk to the park at the end of the street, leaving the car in the car park. As we walk we meet twin men, probably in their late 50s. They are besotted with my twins and I with them. They tell me my girls are beautiful and twins are heaps of fun, I add "...and it appears, best friends for life!"

At the park the toddler plays. We meet a young mum with a smaller toddler who my daughter instantly befriends. Her mum and I chat and compare stories, we have a laugh and part company. As I'm leaving the park, a woman with twin boys holds the gate open for me. We exchange meaningful looks. I'm euphoric. I really did turn the shit around today. The babies are tired, but content. The toddler is giggly and obedient. We walk calmly back to the shops and I point out wildlife and chat to her about road safety. I'm feeling very bloody smug.

I buy a giant coffee with hazelnut syrup and re pack the car. I decide to go for a long drive so I can hold onto this feeling of smugness achievement and calm and let the kids all have a sleep. I know they will. All three can't resist sleeping in the car.

As I'm driving home Gwen Stefani comes on the radio....

It's perfect. It epitomises everything I'm feeling in that moment. I don't know all the words, but the ones I do know I sing with enthusiasm and volume. The chorus happens on a particularly bendy and descending road. I nearly lost control, but I turned that shit around.

My Fling with PND

My fling with PND lasted about an hour. I say fling because it wasn’t a full blown relationship. We met, we checked each other out, we had a bit of a pash and then I realised PND was a complete bastard and wanted nothing to do with it, so I dumped it.

When I had my first baby, I was so thrilled that I’d finally conceived after a year of trying and getting really close to intervention, that I literally threw myself into mothering her. I jumped every time she squawked. I leaped out of bed enthusiastically in the middle of the night to feed and soothe her. I prolonged every phase of her development; mostly because I was too inexperienced to read the signs that she needed to change, but also because I indulged in the established routine and was afraid to alter it. With support and information, we got there in the end. She ate solid food and weaned off the breast easily, she slept through the night, she rolled, crawled and walked, she got teeth, she’s talking and she even sits on the loo every now and then and actually goes. Even when I was tired and frustrated and confused though, I was never really depressed. I never felt utter despair. I didn’t feel rage. I wasn’t confused to the point of sobbing. I was content and happy. For the majority of the time it was me and her in the trenches. Her dad at work during the day and during the night, I insisted he sleep so he could function at work the next day, knowing I could rest when she napped.

When the twins came along she was 18 months old. Again we were thrilled to be having not only another baby; a much wanted sibling for her, but two healthy little girls. Our family was going to be full, abundant; something we dreamed of, but weren’t sure we were going to achieve. Despite everyone’s shocked warnings of how busy we would be and the necessary banter about the chaos that would ensue, we were truly excited and thrilled. We weren’t under any illusions that it was going to be easy, but we felt prepared. Raising our first through that first year was still fresh in our minds and we learned a lot. We knew it wouldn’t be the same though. There were two babies at the same time and a toddler who’s nurturing still needed to be observed and progressed milestone by milestone. We were going to become masters of multi tasking, champions of triage, expert jugglers. Well I was mostly, because let’s face it, I’m the primary carer whether I care to admit it or not. Yes I have support; my husband and parents do their best to help me. However, the majority of care giving for all three children at this early stage is my sole responsibility. It was my choice, my preference and I can do it. I do it pretty well. But it’s bloody hard and sometimes, it doesn’t have to be, but it is. Sometimes there are more obstacles and hurdles to jump than there needs to be.  

I first flirted with PND shortly after settling back at home from hospital with the twins. I’d had another caesarean and was in a fair bit of pain, but luckily the hospital sent me home with a small supply of Endone. I have a lot of feelings and rationalisations about both my caesarean birthing experiences. Bottom line is I did not give birth vaginally. I say vaginally not naturally because that implies that it’s a competition between natural and artificial birth simply defined by which part of your body the baby came out of. And people are too shy and uptight to say the word vaginally....vagina. It is so much more complicated than that. Yes, a caesarean operation is medicalised and involves a lot of artificial intervention for want of better words, but vaginal births are rarely without assistance too. I am completely in awe of women who go into labour naturally and give birth without any drugs and no intervention like episiotomy, forceps, vacuums, tearing and no assistance to the baby afterwards either. Heaps of women do it and have done throughout history. More women are aiming for that these days and when everything aligns and there is a perfectly healthy, low risk pregnancy, strong supportive networks around the pregnant woman, intelligent and woman focused midwifery and doula services, progressive medical systems to fall back on, education, money, comfort, time, peace of mind – so many factors; when all those circumstances combine and harmonise, it is definitely more possible and desirable for a completely natural birth to happen. When it doesn’t go completely perfectly, we are lucky enough to live in a country where medical birthing support is available and accessible and whether a woman needs a little help or a lot, her birthing experience can still be positive with the desired end result that everyone aims for; a healthy, safe AND HAPPY mum and baby. I needed a lot of medical support both times. The first time I wasn’t prepared for it, the second time with the twins I was, but still needed more than I thought I would. I was in excellent hands. I was surrounded by incredibly kind and capable people at both hospitals; one was public the other private and I learned a massive lesson; that so many expectations are placed on birthing women, so many false assumptions are promoted and there is a lot of misinformation out there. We as a species are still evolving biologically, emotionally, psychologically and culturally and all these factors contribute to our birthing experience. It is the single most important and profound human experience there is; perpetuation of our species and next to death and physical illness or injury the hardest thing a human will have to endure. Really. What else is harder or more profound? Don’t get me wrong. In saying that, I am not saying that a choice or otherwise not to experience that leaves you lacking; there are other human endeavours that are just as challenging in other ways, but giving birth and raising a child is intense and unique. We need to honour that better as a species and acknowledge what is necessary in a collective way to ensure that the experience has the best possible outcome for everyone. At the moment we don’t do that all the time. This is reflected in so many aspects of society. The administration of medical support to pregnant women to facilitate self determination in their birthing experience, the gender inequality women experience in the workplace and in society generally, how public spaces cater to parents, children and families and how we address issues surrounding depression and mental illness to name a few. We don’t look after our planet either, we don’t look after each other. We need a Revolution. Right now I’m reading Russell Brand’s book by the same name. It says everything I am trying to say so much more concisely. 

So the drugs ran out, I was making sense of my birthing experience; mine and the whole idea of birth generally and at the same time trying to fall into a new routine with two newborns and a toddler. When I say I was thinking about it generally, I was thinking how lucky I was, even though I felt obligated to explain or defend my experience of a very medicalised birth to many people. When you have a caesarean you have to explain what went wrong. It is not how I experienced it. Everything went right. I didn’t die and neither did my babies. I was surrounded by kindness and made comfortable in every possible way and I was surrounded by the love of the closest people in my life at all times. What more did I want? What more did I have to do to demonstrate and prove to people that although I would have liked to have given birth vaginally both times and everything I came across – people and information – preparing me for birth was telling me that was the proper way to do it, I actually had no control over how my body behaved and could only trust that the intervention I received would ensure a good outcome? I thought about women who have none of that. They may give birth vaginally and drug free, euphorically and safely, but they may have no other choice and if something goes wrong, it goes terribly wrong. They may be living in a remote community or in a war zone or a refugee camp. They may have no family or medical experts to cajole them through the pain and terror and have to muster the strength through their own self determination and survive the consequences no matter what happens. I started to think about birth on a global scale and this was magnified with every little experience I confronted. Whenever I found myself lamenting over a particular aspect of my experience, I imagined the alternatives. I found gratitude. I reasoned that it could be worse and how can I make it better for myself and for others. This story helped me immensely.

 

I took the babies and continued to take the toddler to the health clinic for their periodical check ups. At the end you do a little tick a box quiz, which I love and have absolutely no cynicism about how leading they are (eye roll) and I always scored pretty well. I always answered completely honestly, because I am up for the discussion with the nurse and ready to rant about how I feel about the label Post Natal Depression. Again, it’s not that I don’t believe it exists. I am certain it does and that there is a spectrum. However I understand where I’m at on that spectrum and my critical analysis is that you can’t put a woman in a pressure cooker and expect her to remain cool as a cucumber in a crisper all the time. That’s just madness. I always answered the questions truthfully and I especially loved the one about the sense of humour. That is my measure for my state of mind. Can I still laugh at things? Am I still able to find the comedy? The answer is almost always yes. The other good ones are about crying and raging. Do I cry and rage often? Not like the normal amount that is expected when you are elbow deep in shit most days, when you are exhausted from broken sleep and waking through the night sometimes hourly, when your body is being ravaged by breastfeeding and mastitis – I’m on my sixth bout and this time the site of infection was right behind the nipple and one of the twins has teeth…..yep excruciating. When you are alone with three babies most days and you’re doing most of the feeding, lifting, napping (them not me), changing, cleaning, singing, entertaining, routine monitoring, cooking and food preparation, thinking and planning and observing….what do they call that these days? Hypervigilance. 

So at around the babies’ 6 month check, which was really at 8 months because we were delayed after one of them had a minor cleft operation at 4 months; it was at this appointment that I answered truthfully; I hadn’t had a good belly laugh in ages. I cry more than normal – when the babies refuse to sleep, when I am in pain, when I feel unfit and frumpy, when I haven’t got time to write or crochet, when I’m bored of the same three rooms and I despair at a world that is cruel to women and girls and I am raising three. I rage more often than I used to. I nag my husband and my toddler; I pick fights with them and my parents. I get the shits with the general public (OK I did this most of my adult life, but now it’s for different reasons like why are they taking up the pram parking when they don’t have children, why is their trolley abandoned in the middle of the isle, why is the neighbour continually slamming doors or using power tools beneath my bedroom window, why do people have to mow lawns so often, why are people so impolite, rude, indifferent, conceited, incompetent, complacent….why am I so angry all the time.)

The baby health nurse listened to me and validated my feelings. She said everything I was going through was understandable. I’m in the thick of it and she recognised that I am very self aware. I made a commitment to take some time out and go back to looking after my body and mind through yoga. I have now bought a ten class pass and started classes.

When the teacher asked at the first class if there was anything in particular we wanted to address at the session I had to bite my tongue. People said their lower backs and neck hurt, some wanted a good stretch – I wanted to address my deep seeded rage and existential confusion; I didn’t say it out loud. At one part of the class we were lying on our backs and he asked us to take a deep breath and release it with a loud sigh; I fought the urge to scream out MOTHERFUCKER.

It’s a start. I’m trying to do one or two sessions a week and I’m already seeing the benefits. For some people who are experiencing Post Natal Depression it is much more serious and complicated than that. Maybe they don’t have the tools to critically analyse and understand what they are experiencing and only see the symptoms independent of the causes. For me it isn’t like that. I can’t control feeling like crap; crying and getting angry, feeling overwhelmed and confused, feeling lonely and isolated and desperate that everything is bleak and hopeless. But when the moment passes I can make sense of it and I understand that I feel those things not because of something inside me that is dysfunctional or broken, but instead I see it as a very normal response to what I am experiencing being a stay at home mum to three babies under the age of two. I think that if mums didn’t respond with the emotional and psychological behaviours that we associate with depression after making a human or two or more in their bodies, having given birth and being suddenly bombarded with the immense responsibility of taking care of babies; if they were all calm and positive and well groomed and happy all the time; that would be psychotic. That would be dysfunctional and not a normal response to the stimuli. 

For some women, medication is absolutely appropriate. I am afraid to take anti depressants because I think I will like them too much. I recognised something very sinister in myself when the Endone ran out and I faced the prospect of having no more pain killers. I felt a bit like a junky that needed their next fix and was not going to be able to score. I have an indulgent and addictive streak that I need to keep an eye on. I am very good at utilising tools like wine for example, to self medicate and keep me calm. This hasn’t been an option until recently because I don’t like to drink at all while I’m breastfeeding, but the babies have cut back on feeds and I’ve been allowing a glass or two each night and it has made an immense difference. I can get a good buzz on with just a small amount and it is helping me get through the nights. The babies still don’t sleep through and I think the nights are the hardest for people who experience depression. On second thought, the nights are hard on most normal human people who are engaged with the nature of existing and have a mind and emotions. The nights are dark and silent and the self and the mind are alone to dwell and reflect. The self is awake to dance up a storm of despair and uncertainty that the day time can easily mute and hide in the light. If it was legal, I’d smoke a joint once in a while.

I guess my point is this. PND is very real and very debilitating for some women, but it isn’t a flaw in them. It isn’t a condition that is inherent in their nature. It is a response to a situation that will push any normal person to their absolute limit. Women all deal with this pressure differently and we all make choices and sometimes have no control over how we experience pregnancy, child birth and parenting.

I’ll end with one of my favourite quotes.