HerFamily.ie contributor, Sharyn Hayden has written a book. You know, along with being a stand-up comedian, presenter, actress, mother to two kids and a dog and creating and running the brilliant website RaisingIreland.com, she’s written a book.
We’re feeling impressed and exhausted in equal measure. Sharyn lives in Dublin with her husband, Alan (AKA ‘Ass Monkey’) and children. Her weakness is Meanies crisps combined with grated cheddar in a white roll with butter for lunch. Fact.
All week we will have exclusive extracts from Sharyn’s hilarious literary tour de force, I Forgot To Take My Pill! – An honest Diary of a First-time Mum. Chapters with intriguing titles like “Daisy trumps Willy” and “Snatch to the Wind” will be winging their way to you all week.
In today’s excerpt Sharyn lays down the laws for would-be visitors of new parents.
Chapter 9: Boob, Interrupted
The first few days after giving birth to Jacob in the hospital will always be a bit of a blur. All of the drugs – from the epidural to the painkillers I was topped up with – kept me in La-La Land for about a week. My parents arrived, flowers and cards arrived, Eoghan and his partner Nicola arrived, nurses, midwives, consultants from the hospital who knew my dad and Eoghan and who wanted to say hello arrived – it was a really busy time.
I recall one day where I tried to brush my teeth three times over the space of one hour and a half. Every time I got the toothpaste onto the brush and just had it at my mouth, there was another knock on the door.
Not that I’m complaining. In fairness, when everyone had left for the day, when Ass Monkey was sent home and it was just me and this little fella in the cot beside me, who woke me up with his cries during the night, I hadn’t a clue what I was supposed to do. Not an iota. And I wished for everyone to come back and help me.
Although I had planned for him and carried him and read up on all the literature I could on what life would be like when he came along, and what I would need to do to look after him – I was still monumentally surprised at his presence! I remember being really confused as to what these little cries were that invaded my dreams.
When I’d eventually wake up properly and focus in on this little boy body writhing and crying out beside me, I didn’t know what the f*ck to do with him! What did he want? Was he unhappy? Did he need to be fed again? Why couldn’t he be a twelve-hours-a-night-sleeper like his mother?
Despite the hospital fully pushing their agenda as a pro-breastfeeding only establishment (I did ask once, in an ante-natal class, whether or not we should bring bottles in with us to the hospital, you know, in case the breastfeeding didn’t work out for everyone?
I was stared at, presumably for being awkward, and then I was completely blanked. Just like that. There will be no questions about any alternatives here, thank you) – anyway, despite the hospital pushing that agenda, Jacob had an agenda of his own and was born into the world decidedly anti-breastfeeding.
Akin to my hippy, (misguided) Mother Earth ideals of having a drug-free water birth at home, I had this other idea that I would have absolutely zero problem breastfeeding.
I convinced myself that my baby and I would be as one, it would come really naturally to me and it would be this glorious, beautiful thing that would nourish him and bond us together forever.
I was determined not to give a f*ck about feeding him in public either, if he needed it, and had bought a couple of those maternity tops that give your baby easy access to your boob so that you don’t have to strip down to your waist in the middle of an Eddie Rockets diner.
In fact, I was so sure that I would be breastfeeding, that I didn’t even buy a bottle steriliser. We spent €10 on a travel steriliser and that was it. Boobie all the way, we declared. Or so we thought.
Jacob latched on okay at the hospital at first, but then would fall asleep almost immediately into feeding and so we knew he wasn’t getting enough. A night nurse did attempt to ‘help’ me by essentially assaulting my boob and ramming it into his mouth, but that approach didn’t work either (what a surprise).
Eventually, Ass Monkey took a close look at him and thought that Jacob was maybe a bit jaundiced. I mean, he was very tanned, but I had vainly hoped that was just a nod to Ass Monkey’s sallow skin, and our little man was going to be a little on the mochaccino side (Score!). A quick visit to the nurse’s desk to voice his concern and Ass Monkey was shooed away with a flick of the hand, assured that our baby was ‘fine’.
Twenty-four hours later, Jacob was under the lamps in the ICU unit, with a teeny tiny eye mask on. As it turns out, his daddy’s instinct was right on and he was jaundiced. We should have insisted on a test when Ass Monkey thought there was something wrong, and didn’t. I’ve since learned that even if you think you’re clueless because you’re new to parenthood, there can be no medical substitute for your own instinct, so don’t take no – or nursey wrist-flickage – for an answer!
We did assert ourselves from then on. By the end of the week, opinions differed as to whether we should be sent home, or if Jacob should stay in the ICU another while, so we insisted that he stay. Yes it cost us more money, but that was incidental to the little man’s health at the time.
We left the comforts of the hospital and checked in to a nearby hotel and then…then…the drugs completely wore off and the ‘Baby Blues’ kicked in. Oh by Jesus did they kick in.
I was exhausted, sore in my sorest places, my boobs were shunned, my fake eyelashes had well and truly fallen out – apart from those weird stubborn ones in the middle of your eyelid that refuse to go anywhere – and Jacob wasn’t with me to make it all worthwhile and better. I bawled my head off as poor Ass Monkey lay awake in the bed beside me and despaired, not having a clue of what to do.
We dropped down to the hospital every three hours to feed him. I had a loan of a breast pump from the hospital and by the reaction from the nurses when I delivered a full bottle of milk after each pumping session, my boobs were finally making themselves useful.
‘Is that all yours?’ they’d ask, incredulous, as I dropped another bottle down to the fridge.
‘Er, yes?’ I’d reply nervously (I mean, was I being accused of breast milk theft? Who does that?). ‘Is that, em, good?’
‘Sure that’ll keep him going for three feeds!’ they’d exclaim joyously.
Finally! My tiny boobies were good for something! So even though the staff had enough to keep Jacob going through the night, I wanted to see him and feed him myself. I dragged myself and Ass Monkey out of the warm hotel bed at regular intervals during the night and up to the hospital to stare at this little tiny body under these ‘sun lamps’….
Read the rest of this chapter in Sharyn Hayden’s epic book I Forgot to Take my Pill, available to order on Amazon.
