Gabrielle Gassin

A mother’s musings on life

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  • A mother’s lifeline.

    I’m standing at the breakfast bench typing this and my eyes are flicking to my one o’clock every few seconds. The baby monitor is in the corner there and I see a sleeping face in black and white amidst the tschhhhhhh sound of white noise. The little face is no longer sobbing; it’s been a while and he’s in a deep sleep now. Seeing that calm, peaceful face is what reminds me that having children is not entirely what I expected, but at the moment I need more reminders of the good side among the rest of the chaos, to make everything seem okay.

    The last six months has been madness. When you have a dependant infant that regularly wakes at one and two and three hour intervals, the repercussions of sleep deprivation make themselves known to your everyday existence. At a time that could be seen as “prime-of-my-life,” I have found myself sinking further and further into the well of a deep existential crisis, where time moves very slowly and there is no horizon. The clouds and the ocean meet and blend; an ominous storm seeking to stifle me – challenging me to break the shackles that bind the limbs of my mind. I feel that each day, I am simply surviving.

    I struggle to think like my well slept self. It takes my mind precious seconds to locate files, to categorise and to create. I start sentences with intention and with minor distraction find myself lost, unable to remember the target of my diatribe. There are times when it doesn’t return until much later on, once the lights are off and the friends have gone home to their full night’s rest, uncountable in number.

    Each night before bed, I manifest a reality that tonight will be the one that everybody sleeps uninterrupted and we all reunite at seven AM. And then at eleven thirty I groan inwardly, disappointed yet not surprised that nothing has changed. In the minutes that tick by between two and five am and wake up after wake up, I wonder if this will ever truly end. The sour pessimism that coats my mind is difficult to control with un-slept, unregulated emotions.

    The cries of my baby used to tear me quickly from the sheets, but now my heart does little more than drag my body upward and forward; the call of duty of a mother unyielding. The skills acquired from five months of sleep destruction are refined, even amongst the fatigue that plagues my brain. Changing a baby entirely in the dark from nappy up to sleep suit is easy. Throw a swaddle across a bed with one hand whilst safely holding a sleeping baby in the other arm? No help required. Wrap him swiftly and gently, and replace in cot…done. My body remembers exactly where to step, even in the pitch black of a room desperately encouraging consistent sleep. The stairs are not obstacles, only the wind trapped in my baby’s tummy is the true enemy.

    For some this might seem dramatic, but I’m sure there are others that know the place I frequent in the corners of my mind. Seemingly relentless, no end in sight, can’t give up, can’t have a break. Must simply go on. I am waiting for someone to rescue me, to tell me the secrets and answers, to whisper the advice that will be my salvation. As each day dawns, however, a second little boy climbing into my bed and kissing my hands and face reminds me to stand boldly up. The sun has risen, we are alive and I have two incredible children to care for. Despite how gruelling this is now, one day it will all be a distant memory, when my boys will no longer be babies. They won’t sleep in my bedroom, they won’t rely on my body to comfort, to feed and to nourish them. And then my longing will be for another realm I’m sure, though I’ll feel relief that I made it out the other side of this one. It seems that after all, like always and for ever, it is this love between mother and child that is the true lifeline.

  • Shower Thoughts

    Shower time is thinking time. And time to pause, strain my ears and wonder if I can hear a baby screaming outside or just in my head.

    Last night I pondered something that I’ve never spoken with anybody about. It’s the use of a bath towel. Usually you use your towel 2-3 times before washing it, or even more (is this just me? What is the normal amount of towel uses before washing?) however my issue is this. You dry your body with your towel. Your whole body, including your bottom and V or P is exposed to some part of the towel. You dry your face with it and in between your toes. Behind your ears. Your underarms. Then you hang it on the rack to dry, ready for use again in the morning.

    The morning comes and you do your routine. You need to dry your face again because naturally it is wet from the shower, but how do you know which part of the towel you used last night on your bot? Are you happy to dab dry your face this morning with the part of towel you used on your V or P last night? Is this like using the same chopping board for meat as for vegetables? Are we cross-contaminating here? Despite being “clean” from the showering, the skin itself carries millions of little living things on its surface. The more hidden parts of the human body even more so, and the parts that live in underwear, well…

    It would be a ridiculous luxury to fetch a fresh, clean towel for every shower, surely. Until I find a way to get around this perplexing problem, I shall remain thwarted and confused each time I shower. Will post again when a solution is imminent; am open to suggestions or advice.

    Enjoy your shower tonight!

  • When you have a baby…

    When you have a baby, no one gives you a manual. They give you some documents, they scribble on paper with medical words and lots of boxes. And then they send you on your way, in a daze of fatigue from a long and excruciating labour, to strap a fragile new life into a big metal machine and head for shelter within the confines of your ever changed home.

    When you have a baby, no one gives you a manual. Many people tell you their story; they share fragments of experience that you won’t really be able to make sense of until years later, once you have been there yourself. By then you will have replicated this practice to other new parents, time after time after time.

    When you have a baby, no one gives you a manual. Is this not like any other learning experience? Where are the official guides and mentors? The midwife who shared your pregnancy and labour has disappeared and here you are, babe in arms, a curve in your lower back and not a clue in your head.

    When you have a baby, no one gives you a manual. How are you to know which cry means what, how to quiet, calm and soothe an infant? They tell you how to put him in his cot, how to swaddle and wrap him, but not how to read his tired signs and that if you see them, it’s too late. That he’ll stop using his maternal melatonin at 12 weeks and that’s where the baby bubble ends but by then you haven’t slept more than three hours at once for three months straight so what’s another sleepless night anyway.

    When you have a baby, no one gives you a manual. The baby screaming in pain leaves you constantly questioning yourself; what you’ve eaten that could cause him such agony. The whole experience is a perpetual search for answers that seem uncatchable to the grasping hand of a mother in distress. But to give up on breastfeeding is not an option so you soldier on, nipples wrecked, bra wet, daggers at anyone daring to come close.

    When you have a baby, no one gives you a manual. You see shapes in the shower tiles and hear crying in the silence, and you pick up your phone only to forget why you needed it. Some nights you’re up every darn hour; the baby’s cry pierces lucid sleep that evades, evades, evades. There isn’t a single time you don’t do it though, in the depths of your soul you know that baby needs you and not responding isn’t physically possible.

    When you have a baby, no one gives you a manual. But complaining might be seen as ungrateful; you’re lucky to have been able to bear a child, when some women have not the body nor the time left to fill such maternal desires. The struggle is commonplace as nights turn to day and weeks to months and things get little by little, easier to manage. In time it’s all a distant memory; he turns one, two then three and by now you’re ready to take it on again. Mother Nature has succeeded, the lens of time foggy as you try to recall what being in the thick of it was really like.

    When you have your second baby, everything has changed. You have that marvellous and sought after thing – experience – and it’s here that you realise that when you have a baby, no, no one gives you a manual. It is you, who writes that manual for yourself. You, the mother, did the work. Now you know… until you realise that in fact this is not the same child. It’s a new life, a new story, a new experience. And you smile, for not many things in life could be both more magical and more difficult, than having a baby.

  • The Simpson.

    I am currently in awe of a purchase we made recently, which took a long long time to occur. It’s an item that always seemed a bit haughty to me; it’s The Clothes Dryer. In the years before new neural pathways grew and I realised what a dryer would do for my time management, I would scowl upon seeing one tossing things about on a day that the sky was being blasted with sunshine. Like, what is wrong with hanging clothes outside on a clothes line, I would think. I knew the dryer made your clothes feel soft, but it was an unnecessary luxury for people who cared not for the environment and were too lazy to peg their clothing outdoors. Now, as I type these words I am serenaded by the sweet sweet sounds of The Simpsons spinning drum; its third load today. I’m 30, and I have come to my senses.

    The exact foundation of my very stern frown toward the dryer is easy to pinpoint and that location is definitely within the realms of my childhood. Our clothes line was always full and still to this day I have never seen either of my parents put a load of washing on and stick it straight in the dryer upon completion. The dryer was always an extreme last resort; used when washing had weathered the start of rain or a late winter afternoon and needed a few minutes of heat to get the damp out. It was expensive to run and “bad for the environment.” Without looking any further into this, it was my contra-dryer theory for many years.

    Recently, however, I became a mother of two, and I am all about convenience now. Any parent knows that laundry is a huge part of, um, life, when you have children, because of how feral kids can be. They play in sand, dirt, mud. They pee themselves. They poo themselves. They vomit on themselves, and you. They drop food on everything and they dribble, just to name a few of their strengths. So when we increased our household to four people, our washing naturally increased too. We needed a drying mechanism for the coming winter…and holy cow. How my life has changed since it’s arrival. Now, I cannot believe how many hundreds of hours I can look back upon, having spent WASTING my PRECIOUS time HANGING WASHING OUTSIDE, and bringing it in. No. Those days are gone, my friend, gone gone gone.

    Never again will I spend my winter minutes hanging bits and pieces outside in the snippets of sunshine, only to dash back at the onset of rain. Never again will I hang stuff outside and leave it out there for days and days due to recurrent rain and intermittent sunshine. My washing basket will never again overflow due to weeks of rain. Rain, rain, rain. Causing havoc for clothes washing slaves everywhere. But now, my life is complete. Who knew you could be best friends with a piece of machinery?

    Rant over.

  • A day in the life of; “mummy”

    I started the day changing a poop filled nappy with a ten week old baby smiling up at me. Seconds later his brother walked in carrying his pyjama pants and wearing a low flying pull up that was filled with 12 hours worth of pee, and unbeknownst to me – a fresh three year old poo. Upon its removal, aforementioned poo overflowed and left a nice thick swab on each inner thigh, resulting in a direct-to-shower order. With toddler in the shower and fresh baby bottom, I cleaned up the paraphernalia and proceeded to my other four legged children to release them from the laundry where they sleep. Alas, the morning of shits was incomplete. The laundry floor was punctuated by dog poo, and four eyes looking innocently up at me. Hoorah! Record set for most number of defecations before 8am.

    The morning proceeded surprisingly well following this exciting beginning, with toddler playing independently and baby sleeping when required. Miraculously, I did my own exercise! I know. NOTE: none of these successes would have been at all possible without our aupair Rose, who made breakfast for both toddler and myself and then played with toddler when requested.

    The time arrived to run some errands. Departing at midday and cutting a long and repetitive story short, it took me two hours to get to two different locations due to the angle of baby’s car seat and it’s incredible ability to produce a screaming baby. And I don’t mean a crying baby, when I say a screaming baby. I mean the sort of scream that makes you ram the car into park before it’s actually stationary. The sort that makes you jump out of the car at a busy set of traffic lights, looking calm but really panicking. The kind that sees you pulling very quickly onto the shoulder of the freeway, hazards on, eyes narrowed at the oncoming trucks. The sort that can make you cry, but you can’t because you’re handling a large and dangerous machine and there are three other living beings relying on your unhindered skill. I binned the last errand and took my infant home, put him in the baby carrier and held him close to my chest until he got up the wind that had caused so much pain, and fell, exhausted, to sleep.

    With baby attached and toddler occupied, I moved into attack mode at home. A new dryer arrived; I cleared the space and gave directions. I located a missing toy and cleaned up the bookshelf on top of the fridge – on a step ladder. Yes, baby still attached. I whizzed around like a little rocket until my back was complaining too much to continue, so I removed baby from carrier and placed in bed where he remained, peacefully, until the next feed. A dream!

    I tidied. I rearranged two pantry shelves. I made dinner. I answered two phone calls and lent an ear to those that needed one. I bathed my toddler and fed him dinner with one hand, baby drinking milk from my breast in the other. I dealt with an explosive poo, I sponge bathed one baby and cleaned the teeth of my other child. I read a bedtime story, I fed baby again. Once the children were sleeping, I shifted gears in order to rectify the sty my home had become. I cleaned the kitchen. I emptied three garbages, I packed up a play pen and one million plastic toys I wish we didn’t have. I vacuumed. I tidied the living room, I hung a load of washing, I made a cup of tea. I collected stray toys and found a home for all of them inside wardrobes, in baskets and ready to be upended all again tomorrow.

    I fed the dogs, administered medicine, took them for a wee, put them to bed. Finally, I showered. In the shower I emptied the shelves holding shower products and cleaned out the soap scum that had been pressed through the little holes because it felt squishy and fun. After a few more bits and pieces I got into bed, knowing I need to sleep as soon as possible because I would be up to feed in a few hours time. And then I wrote this.

  • waiting for a baby

    waiting for a baby

    In the very last stages of pregnancy, all seems to go a little bit quiet. It’s easy to compare, because the three to four weeks prior to hitting “term” (37 weeks) are filled with activity; preparations for the baby, you frantically trying to *do all the things* before the addition to your life comes and flips it upside down. Anticipation of the forthcoming labour is prominent, and continuous thoughts about the big changes ahead fill your day to day empty moments. If this is your first baby, the days at home are quiet and spare time is paramount – you don’t realise that you should be relishing it until years later. If it’s round two for you, your mind manifests a great big day nap for your elder child upon first rise and you wonder how long you will last on your feet today.

    There’s a suspenseful excitement in the air, sort of like the weeks surrounding Christmas time. When the baby does not arrive early, before your 40 week due date or even before 39, a more relaxed demeanour embraces you; a sort of acceptance that you’re in this for another few weeks. Gripping as it is, wondering every day when you will finally meet your baby in your first pregnancy, things are different the second time around. What you realise is that soon, your life will never be the same again. Surrendering to this notion is what allows you to finally take heed of all the advice to slow down, stop rushing through every moment, and cease wishing the days away until your next little bundle arrives.

    During this time that feels like a slow warp, you approach certain things differently. When your first child talks to you, you squat down (with great difficulty) to look directly into his eyes and hear the unfolding drama among his toys. When he tugs your hand to please come and play, you allow yourself to be guided by him. When his daily routines go out the window, you don’t wonder what is wrong with him…you understand that there is a different scent in the air; all he has ever known in his big three years is about to be redesigned in an almighty way.

    You personally take any time to yourself and hold it with a gentle but firm grip. You receive your normal duties with grace, but you don’t fill your days with more than they truly need. For once, you actually take time to do some minor deeds for yourself. This is a big deal for you, after having sacrificed most of those long long ago when you had your first child.

    This time, being the second, sees your due date arrive and pass with little fuss. You know a little bit more about the natural process of labour, and you’re okay with seeing that through. That isn’t to say each day is easy, though. Everything at this point in the pregnancy is difficult…sleeping comfortably is impossible, your feet don’t know what is going on when you stand in the morning and now, the baby is sitting so low down in your pelvis that you are visibly waddling. But the finish line is in sight, and why rush towards it now?

    When the baby still isn’t in your arms past 40 weeks, you start incorporating all the little “labour induction” DIY hacks everyone advises. You know in your heart, however, that none of them will work. The baby will come when he or she is ready, yes, but you bounce and walk and rub essential oils anyway, in the vague hope that something might encourage the process.

    How incredibly marvellous it is to be pregnant, to grow your offspring from a basically invisible cell, into a person. We call it a miracle, but the science behind it epitomises perfection. How spectacular, the way our female bodies work in synchronicity with their male counterparts to begin, and then take over to produce a life. The pure precision of it all ceases to amaze me, despite it being universally prevalent and the most ancient practice to ever exist.

    I am so very grateful to be able to experience the journey that is pregnancy, though it’s really only the very beginning of personal growth in a major way. Parenthood is exquisite; a beautiful and crazy adventure that can intensely change a person. It allows us to experience a love that is so pure, so previously unmatched and so powerful all at once, it truly is wondrous. Knowing this is what allows the sense of acceptance for enduring a very long pregnancy to prevail over the discomfort of it all. And when the time finally comes and the incomparable agony of labour passes, you have a beautiful, brand new human to hold in your arms. What an absolute treat.

  • Being Pregnant is Hard Work.

    Being Pregnant is Hard Work.

    Pregnant women deserve more credit.

    Okay, yes. Millions of billions of trillions of women have been knocked up before us. They’ve all been there, through easy pregnancy or difficult. Many of their pregnancies even ended along with their lives, back in the days of old. A very crappy situation, particularly if the pregnancy she endured had been extra arduous. As we all know though, the birthing end of the experience is not nearly as risky in a first world country, with comfort options everywhere we look and perpetually advancing western medicine.

    However, let us just take a moment to acknowledge something. BEING PREGNANT IS HARD WORK.

    To begin, many of us spend an illogical amount of time trying to become pregnant in the first place. If it doesn’t happen naturally and quickly, we question our biological ability to procreate. It goes from something that will hopefully happen, to a conscious thought-consuming burden, weighing all the other ceilings on top of us already, down.

    When we finally fall, using whatever method that may be, life throws the very next step at us, challenging us to jump an unsettling hurdle, for which we have absolutely zero experience. Make it to twelve weeks. God, if only we knew whether there was something we could do to make certain we would get there. In the time between peeing on a stick and seeing two lines up until the birth announcement (many of us decide not to spread the news until we’re certain a baby is going to be the end point of this experience, and not a D&C) an unfathomable amount of women endure what we all refer to as “morning sickness,” that which often lasts all day. Some very unfortunate women are forced to tolerate this horror for their ENTIRE PREGNANCY. That is basically ten months of feeling nauseous ALL OF THE TIME, and following that horrendous feeling up with actual vomiting. WHAT. JOY.

    And, my god we are gracious during this period. We diplomatically accept all of the unsolicited information donated to us by every person in sight, detailing anything from how to be pregnant, to the gender of the infant, to how to raise it, to how much time we are going to NOT have, so make the most of what you have right now.

    Also, there are the many, many dramas that ensue, beginning with the absolute thrill of being pregnant, but not looking pregnant, thus needing to explain food and drink related choices. The sacrifice of small pleasures, like a nice glass of red at any time of year or a very cold pint, also at any time of year.

    There is the anxiety that comes with worrying about not getting enough nutrients in our diet to produce a smart and happy child, or doing enough exercise for our bodies to manufacture a person with a stable metabolism. we’re told to make sure stress is kept under wraps, so that our offspring does not grow into an anxiety-ridden mess. We question ourselves constantly – am I doing this right? Even consecutive pregnancies cannot guarantee a safety net from these menacing injections on our every day life.

    It does not stop there. Once we have bypassed the first and second trimester respectively and our clothes no longer fit our lumpy bodies, we begin to feel impeded by an enormous basketball in the stomach region. We endure all sorts of little bodily pains which come naturally with undergoing a magnificent task, but which can be extremely uncomfortable and taxing, making each simple movement a test. And the questions begin again. Can I stand up from sitting without help? Can I balance this beverage on my tummy? And, the hindrances! Cannot stand up fast, must wait for blood to resettle after sleeping in the same position all night – cannot lay on back or will not be able to breathe, cannot lay on right side for fear of cutting off oxygen supply to baby, cannot sit with legs crossed due to onset of intense pins and needles, cannot sit upright as lungs are obstructed by giant uterus-containing baby. And, don’t even get me started on all the extra, potentially embarrassing and surprising symptoms of pregnancy…see here, here and here for more details. There are too many to go into here.

    Grunting with motion becomes a part of our every day lives. If we already have children, we spend an unprecedented amount of time bending to clean up after them. It seems that somehow, they’ve made it their single point of focus to erase all traces of tidiness in our home just because we are struggling to shift from vertical to horizontal.

    Pregnancy is hard. We want to be that woman on Instagram that makes it look easy and glamorous. We want to be that woman whose hair grows thick and glossy, whose skin is radiant. We want to just grow a tummy, and stay otherwise in shape. We want to be able to move with ease, because despite the enormous and wonderful task that we are performing, we still have to go to work, look after our families, take care of our pets and our home, and be emotionally stable. But above all of this, we want a healthy, stress-free pregnancy and a beautiful, happy baby at the end of it. And then, we want to recover properly and well from the mighty, mighty job we have done…so please, let us.

    We women are lucky to be able to produce humans inside our sublime and lovely bodies. No man will ever be granted such an honourable assignment, and some women either choose not to, or cannot. It is for this reason, that perhaps those who do not partake, will never truly understand the gravity of such a duty. My message is this. Let us pull up a chair for the pregnant mother. Let us not skip her when buying a round of drinks, but instead order and bring her a sparkling water, with ice and lime please. Let us offer to load her shopping into the car, or carry that cumbersome item inside. Let us massage her feet and her back; let us encourage her to sit down and rest. Let us simply give her a break every now and then, and when she has finally given birth, let us focus on her, acknowledging what it is that she has just accomplished.

  • dreams, deaths and disloyalties

    dreams, deaths and disloyalties

    It’s a strange feeling, waking with fragments of vivid dreams having tarnished the supposed clean slate of a new day. What is the purpose of dreaming? Why, sometimes, do our minds delve beyond what is real world and into this cosmic abyss, which can sometimes be eclipsed by what seems like proper horror?

    Think of a bad dream you’ve had. How bad was it? Did somebody close to you die? Did you kill someone? I know that these sorts of dreams exist. Personally I’ve never murdered anyone in my dreams, but family members and pets have died horrific deaths, my husband has turned into an appalling infidel with a non-existent heart and some other downright awful things have happened. What drives our minds to these places of darkness?

    Most people are familiar with that weighted feeling of regaining consciousness in the deep of the night, having grown so unsettled by a dream that sleep is no longer possible. It’s as if we need rebooting – awaken, breathe deeply, acknowledge that it was all a dream and everything is truly as it should be. Then often, the remaining hours of what should be pure rest are blemished; bodies toss and turn in a restless chasm of ambiguity and confusion until finally, another day dawns. You sit up, gazing quizzically at nothing in particular, pensive about the origin of such creations, your mind boggled as you begin a new day. Today, the slate will not begin as clean.

    At night, the brain becomes similar to that of an electric car wash. It removes grime from the day, it polishes a clean surface once the muck is gone. Build up of amyloid plaque is scrubbed back, memories are removed from short term and stored in long term. It seems though, that the mind becomes more susceptible to both genres (good and bad) of thoughts and dreams during this time. Have you ever been in a half-woke sleep state, and suddenly the weight of the world is bearing down on you? Conundrums of the day are amplified and your feet are glued to the patch of grass in front of the speaker. You wear no ear plugs and through your restless sleep, you sense no escape from the discomfort and unrelenting noise in your head.

    This morning my son awoke in a state of distress. He removed his little body from bed and advanced to the two corridors and three doors blockading his access to safety. He managed 20 steps before tears could be retained no longer and a little voice perforated the morning quiet. “Mummy,” though much longer and slower and with sorrow in his tone… “I don’t want to go to school.” He sobbed, briefly explaining the source of his upset. I wonder if I really do need to reconsider my child’s one-day-a-week expedition to daycare, with it now being the origin of his nightmares. All our issues are relative, I suppose.

    I dare you to anonymously (or not) comment on this post with your most baffling dream to date. Have you ever bludgeoned someone to death with a sledgehammer, feeling and hearing the crush of his skull under your destructive force? My gentle, compassionate husband has. Have you ever woken to see your spouse sleeping peacefully after they’ve just spent 8 hours destroying your life and ripping your soul apart with their promiscuous  treachery, your eyes swollen from crying tears of utter heartache? I have.