Fiona*, 36, had sailed through life, excelling in everything she did. But when she became a mother, she barely recognised herself.
‘Just one more push,’ the midwife cried. ‘You’re almost there!’ Mustering up every bit of energy I had left, I gave one last roar and, finally, after 12 gruelling hours, out it came with a whoosh. I pulled the tiny bundle onto my chest, frantically checking for signs of life. Then it came: a low mewl that was the most beautiful, life-affirming sound I’d ever heard.
‘Look,’ I marvelled at my husband, Mark. ‘It’s our son.’ It was an incredible moment. A moment I’d been waiting for for the best part of 10 years – to be a mother.
I was 36 and it had taken me a while to get there. Mr Right hadn’t turned up until three years earlier and, in the meantime, I became what my mother called ‘an independent career woman’. I had a successful job in publishing, a lovely garden flat in North London, a savings account, a pension, a great bunch of friends, and all the free time I could wish for. But I watched my three married sisters raising their kids and playing happy families with misty-eyed envy, getting more worried as the years went by that I’d soon be joining the growing number of left-it-too-late career women having their eggs frozen. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll happen,’ my mum said. ‘And you’ll be a great mum, just like you’re great at everything else.’ And, deep down, I suspected she was right. I would be a good mum. How could I not be? I was good at most things I set my mind to (apart from ice-skating, hardly a necessary life skill) and I was a great aunt to my nieces and nephews, so that was pretty telling, wasn’t it? So when I met Mark and fell pregnant on honeymoon, I was overjoyed. At last, my time had come.
For the first day or two after Josh’s birth, I rode high on happy hormones, feeling empowered by the whole natural birth experience and the fact my son was alive and healthy. Then, on the third day, I woke with breasts as hard as rocks and I couldn’t stop crying. ‘It’s just baby blues,’ the health visitor told me. ‘Everyone gets them on day three.’
She was right. The next day I did feel a bit better – until my nipples cracked and I started to get shooting pains while breastfeeding. ‘Just feed through the pain,’ the health visitor told me. ‘It’s the only way.’ So, night after night, I fed, writhing around the bed, praying for the pain to go away. Meanwhile, there were periods in the day and night when Josh just wouldn’t stop crying. At two, three, four in the morning, we were holding him, rocking him, feeding him – but still he wailed inconsolably. ‘He’s a newborn,’ the health visitor smiled knowingly. ‘It’ll get better.’
But weeks went by and little changed. Josh thrived and grew but my life became unrecognisable. I now barely had time to brush my teeth, never mind get dressed or sit down for a cup of tea. I felt like this little tiny baby had come into our lives and was calling the shots 24/7. You want breakfast? Sorry, Mum, but I’d like a long cuddle and nappy-change first. Need the loo? I don’t think so, Mum. You’ll just have to wait until I have my three-minute nap and squeeze it in then.
The nights were interminable. In between the feeding, crying and settling, there was a window of maybe one or two hours’ sleep, most of which was spent on the cusp of wakefulness, listening out for the dreaded cry.
In the mornings, Mark would often find me on the sofa, Josh at my breast, tears streaming down my cheeks. I’d never seen him look so worried. He went out of his way to help, cooking dinner every night, taking Josh out for long walks at the weekend so I could rest, but I was always snapping and picking arguments. I knew he dreaded coming home from work, scared about the state he’d find me in.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love my son. I did. He was coming up to 10 weeks and cooing, smiling, squealing – a real bundle of fun. It was the reality of motherhood and all the uncontrollable variables that went with it that I found so hard.
For some strange reason, when I’d pictured myself as a mother, I’d seen myself calm and serene, smiling over my angel baby as he slept in his crib – not as a wild-eyed, haggard woman panicking every time he squawked, trying to think of ways to cure him, solve him, do something to make him ‘work’. ‘Babies cry and don’t sleep,’ said my mum (who’d had five and should have known). ‘Just ride with it.’ But I couldn’t.
I bought Tracy Hogg’s famous book, The Baby Whisperer Solves All Your Problems, and frantically speed-read it in search of answers. There was so much we’d been doing wrong. For a start, it said, whatever you do, don’t use props, like rocking. ‘But we’ve been rocking him every night!’ I cried to Mark. ‘We have to stop.’ So we did. And, that night, he wailed even more. Determined, I insisted we try swaddling, shush-patting, stretching out his feeds… But nothing seemed to work. ‘He’s a baby, not a robot,’ Mark yelled one night. ‘You can’t control him so stop trying to.’
And therein lay the problem. Up until this point in my life, I could master anything thrown my way. Problems at work, issues with friends, even working out the Sky+ – they were all easily solved. But now a little boy with an almighty pair of lungs was in control, not me, and it was this ‘failing’ at something that was making me feel so desperate. My dad, a retired GP, said he’d seen it dozens of times in his surgery – thirtysomething career women used to running their own life and being totally thrown by the experience of having a baby.
It wasn’t post-natal depression. I didn’t feel numb, hostile or indifferent to Josh. It was more like post-natal shock.
And, as time passed, the more I realised it was me who had the problem, not Josh. I had to stop thinking I could control him and learn to change, adjust, let go. He was a tiny human being with his own (albeit very loud) voice and somehow we had to fall into each other’s rhythm, rather than think of it as one person, ie, me, controlling the other.
Once I accepted this, I started to relax and, amazingly, so did Josh. His crying lessened and his sleeping started to improve, too.
I also introduced a formula bottle – or poison as I jokingly called it – for Josh’s 11pm feed, so Mark could take over and I could get to bed early and have some uninterrupted sleep. It made me feel guilty as hell but, within days, I felt less frazzled.
Now Josh is five months old and the most gorgeous, happy little boy. As for me, I’m certainly not the perfect mother – I still have my shrieking, pulling-hair-out moments after an up-every-hour night, but I’m getting there. And at least I’ll be prepared for the next one. That distant scream you can hear? Oh, don’t worry about that, it’s just Mark.
*All names have been changed
Coping with post-natal shock
Psychologist Dr Sandra Wheatley says post-natal shock is about expectation: ‘If you’d built up this rosy picture and the reality doesn’t match, you blame yourself.’
– Talk to your health visitor, mum or a friend. Once you voice your fears, you’ll realise lots of mums feel this way and it will get better.
– Hang on to your sense of self. Think of difficulties you’ve faced before and remember how you coped.
– Share responsibility. Lean on your partner or mum. You can’t be a perfect mother on three hours’ sleep – give yourself a break.
– Go for a swim or walk – the endorphin boost will help.
– If symptoms are severe, it could be post-natal depression. If for two weeks you constantly feel out of control, apathetic towards the baby and yourself, and excessively tearful, seek professional help.
The Daily Waffle 