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Two very different love stories

I wrote this on New Years Eve as the calendar switched to 2017. Reading it again now, as life feels far fuller of hope and enjoyment, it breaks my heart that I felt so low and desperate. I wanted to publish it incase it might be helpful for anyone – feel free to share. I want to break the taboo of ‘instant newborn love’ and encourage mothers for whom the love doesn’t flood so freely so quickly. It’s okay. You’re doing an amazing job. One foot in front of the other. This happy pic was taken on C’s first birthday. A time of joy and celebration that I made it through. 

The assumption is often that Mothers experience an instant flood of love for their newborns. An unbreakable, incomparable, maternal bond. Is this always true?  Is this a healthy assumption? Or does it just add pressure and negate the fact that it’s not always about the immediacy of falling in love with your baby, but it can be something that grows and enriches. After I’d had little O, I couldn’t have fathomed it being any other way than an overwhelming sense of adoration. But my second experience was very different.

Baby O

I caught you in my hands and swept you up through the water, hugging you into my chest. Your first cry escaped from your little, gaping, blue mouth. Your scrawny body, your folded limbs and wrinkled skin flooded with a soft pink hue as you took your first, hungry breaths. You rose and fell with the sobs that escaped my exhausted lips. I did it.

I fell into my hospital bed after cold, anaemic toast and sugary, tepid tea. Such an unappealing meal never tasted so divine. Despite being awake for 2 solid days, I ushered sleep away that night. All I wanted to do was to stare in pure wonderment at your sleeping face, bathed in the blue glow of my hospital room. I lay gazing, to the soundtrack of soft footsteps and distant digital beeps. I was high on a ferocious love in which my heart groaned with a sudden, stretching increase in capacity. It would swell every time my eyes met your face, or each time you came to mind. You’d not done a single thing, but you’d won me wholeheartedly.

I loved you immediately, hopelessly, vulnerably. And just when I didn’t believe I could possible love any more, I fell more in love as I discovered you.

Baby C

You entered the world in that very same pool, a mere 20 months later. Instead of winter darkness veiling the windows, summer sunshine danced in slivers through the slatted blinds. Your quiet birth gave way to chaos as people crowded the room, urgently attempting to remove a stubborn placenta. They were successful, and we carried you out, small and so new, a mere 5 hours later. Moments down the road, we arrived home to the welcome of family. We sipped champagne whilst your brother cooed over your blinking little face.

I didn’t devour a night alone with you or gaze upon your face in soft blue light. There were no lazy lie-ins. We didn’t spend your Daddy’s paternity leave recovering from long nights with box-set binges whilst you lay nestled between us on crumpled white sheets.

The first three weeks at home passed, fuelled by adrenaline, and a crash course in learning how to manage two young children. I had extra hands of support, before all help left, back to work and normal life. The usual toe curling, breastfeeding pain of the early days didn’t stop. And your frustration and pain became increasingly evident. Health Visitors, lactation consultants, midwives and GP’s were kind, and well meaning, but none could explain or understand the cause or effect of your constant cries. It took months to label your distress.

I wanted so desperately to love you more, to feel compelled to nuzzle your face and neck. I felt a fierce, lioness protectiveness. You were my young. On one hand I had your chatty, affectionate brother, and on the other, a baby who did little more than scream or claw at my chest. There was little reverie, only survival. I didn’t know you, and it seemed that you didn’t like me.

Your first six months sauntered by. A mixture of troubleshooting, frantic google searches, confusion and second guessing.

And then, one day, the sun broke through the clouds. A rainbow of rich and potent colour threw a prism against a grey and stubborn sky.  Change, world-changing change had been just a breath away and I didn’t know it.

Suddenly, your smiles brightened your face more freely. Your back arching screams ceased You gobbled up hungrily every morsel I put in front of you. I delighted in cooking for you, finding such joy that my efforts pleased you. You started to look at me with a look of love, as if you were finding your comfort in my presence. I started to know you, to enjoy you, to see flickers of character in your generous giggles, and the way you gazed at your brother. I began to learn that you adored your baths, that lots of kisses made you grin a big, old man, toothless grin, and you delight in being naked!

Your brother shocked me with an increased capacity for love, whereas you taught me the incredible lesson of perseverance and alerted me to a strength I never knew I possessed. My love for you has grown, as deep as it has wide. You are my labour of love. We have won each other, and found our way deep into each others hearts.

But, my darling, you were worth every single moment.
And I cant, for love nor money, stop kissing your gorgeous little face.

If you want to contact me for a telephone PND/Anxiety/Depression coaching session, please find more info here. 

Watch your language!

FullSizeRender (1)We often think about how we talk to others. We watch our language and re-play our words. We care.

We jump to defend if someone speaks cruelly to someone we love. If we were to witness the bullying of a friend, our heart would leap with a desire to protect and argue against words viciously spoken.

Right?

So, why is it okay to bully yourself?

Why is it okay to criticise yourself? Why is it permitted to speak harshly and for cruel words to trip off your tongue in the dialogue hidden within your mind?

We have a constant, internal dialogue with ourselves and that’s what I want to encourage you to think about. It’s something you may not even notice or think to change, but I believe it’s the single, most powerful, ongoing conversation of our lives. In the eight years I’ve worked with clients in my Psychotherapy practice, this has had a part to play in every single one. It’s vitally important. It feeds directly into self-esteem, value and worth. It dictates how we love ourselves (or not), and how much we allow ourselves to be loved (or whether we sabotage it). For how can we allow ourselves to be loved, and to revel in affection from those who love us when we believe at our core we are unloveable? And when we speak to ourselves as if we lack such worth?

This secret, ongoing, internal voice dictates so much. Arguably, everything.

What tone does yours take? Is it forgiving, compassionate and patient? Or is it critical, bullying and quick to anger? Does it remind you of someone in your life who’s had impact and authority perhaps? A parent or a teacher? We start to develop this internal dialogue as a child, approximately between the ages of three and five. I could go into the physiology and science of it, but I don’t want to lose you (here’s a scientifically grounded article). We build this internal voice out of our experience of the way people speak to us. If your parents or caregivers were kind and loving, patient and reassuring, that’s a great start! But if there has been verbal abuse or bullying, then the work is a little harder.

Think of someone you love. Like, really love. Now imagine that you heard someone speaking to them in the manner you speak with yourself. Is it okay? How does it feel to consider that? If they heard that dialogue day on day, year on year, would it benefit or damage their sense of self-worth and esteem?

So, what does it do to your sense of worth and self-esteem to hear your dialogue and to have certain messages reinforced?

What can you do?

I will talk about this in more detail in other posts, but I believe the first stage is to start becoming aware of this dialogue, and asking yourselves these questions. The second step is the most valuable but hardest undertaking you can make, but can be one of the most life giving and affirming efforts you can invest in.

  • Start talking back to the negative voice. Start introducing a kinder, more patient, more loving dialogue. If you have to think of the most loving person in your life, and how they would respond to you speaking out these harsh words, then imagine what they would say, and repeat itto yourself!
  • Do this over and over until it the compassionate dialogue becomes more intentional and more familiar. Do it when you can and when you remember, even if you don’t believe it for a long long time, even if it feels stupid. Trust me, it will gradually chip away at your low-self worth and low sense of value, and you’ll start to believe it, feel it, live it.
  • Imagine a tractor ploughing the same field daily – etching great furrows into the soil, deeper and deeper as the days go by. Its wheels slide comfortably into these self-made trenches. Then imagine that one day, you turn to the farmer and ask him to direct the wheels only to turn over the apex of these ditches. What a challenge! The huge, muddy wheels slip and slide into the familiar depths. BUT – over time, as the farmer perseveres, he forms new furrows bit by bit. That’s what you’re asking your mind to do when you address and desire to change the way that you talk with yourself. It takes time and perseverance. It’s uncomfortable and awkward. But…one day the balance will tip and the grind won’t be quite so hard. And then, you’ll start living in more of a belief that you’re so so worth (oh, EVER so worth, the good things in your life, the love that people give, the time that people give), and life will become less of a dialogue about how ‘if they only KNEW me’…)

So, a little something to think about, and a taste perhaps of what’s to come.
Anna x