I used to have all these naive ideas that when a baby was born, Mum and Dad sat back, basking in blissful happiness, sipping tea while friends and family dropped by bearing gifts and congratulations.  I was half right.  We did have lots of lovely friends and family visit.  Lincoln was showered with gifts.  But blissfully happy?  Relaxed?  Not likely.  After giving birth, and being sewn back together, “Better than before!” as my obstetrician cheerfully announced, I spent the next two days shuffling painfully about in adult diapers while nurses, doctors, paediatricians, cleaners, and catering staff flew in and out of the doors all day and night.    At least once a day someone would ask to peer at areas I’d never put on public display before, and I was regularly asked if I was experiencing much pain from the stitches.  Stitches?  Are there stitches?  It’s the hemorrhoids that were killing me! Irritatingly I only discovered the “Do Not Disturb” sign the day I left.

The other naive idea I had was that breastfeeding was natural, easy, and most of all – painless.  I don’t care who tries to tell me it doesn’t hurt so long as the baby is attached properly, it hurts!  In fact, I’ve come up with a few suggestions for other mums-to-be on preparing their unsuspecting nipples from the onslaught of soon to arrive piranha.  My first suggestion is to scrub your nipples vigorously with steel wool  until bleeding.  Secondly, you could try poking them repeatedly with a sewing needle.  And just to get them really primed, pop the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner over them and turn it on for 20 minutes.  Once you can handle this without screaming in pain,  you’re ready!  But I’m beginning to wonder if I just have really sensitive nipples.  Of every nurse, midwife and breastfeeding consultant who checked on me, not one could find a problem with how Lincoln was feeding, and I had no signs of injury to myself.  In the end, I expressed and bottle fed Lincoln while my poor, abused mammeries recovered.  And another thing – no matter how much your breasts have been handled prior to giving birth, I don’t think anything can prepare you for a cranky infant, arms and fists flailing with one bruised and rapidly purpling nipple grasped tightly in his grip!  Every different midwife gave different advice, and being told “No, you’re not holding him right!” after being told “You’re a natural” by someone else seriously begins to erode any shred of self confidence you may harbour.

My other naive error?  I’d hoped for a little rest while I was in hospital so I had some energy reserved for home time.  Wrong again.  Aside from the aforementioned constant visiting of staff, there was just the sheer bewilderment of having a whole new life to take care of.  For starters, I really didn’t know what to do.  How do I know he’s hungry?  What if just as I go to sleep, he wakes up?  I had hoped that having Dave stay with us would afford me a bit of time to rest, but Dave slept for one third of the time, complained about being tired for one third of the time, and was out running errands for the rest of the time.  If he’d complained about how tired he was one more time I think he would have copped a dirty nappy in his face!  Dads, when you’re wife’s been up all night in labour, and unable to sleep for more than 10 minutes in the three days following, whatever you do, don’t complain about how tired you are.  On my last night in hospital, Dave stayed home and Lincoln went to the nursery so I could get just one precious night’s sleep.  At 7pm a new mum and baby were admitted next door, the latter of which cried all night. Actually, if she’s anything like me, the former probably cried all night too, but no-one could hear her over the baby. By the next morning, I’d had enough.  And then my milk came in.  Ever seen those novelty aprons with the enormous pair of plastic breasts?  That’s how I looked, only any ounce of amusement was lost in the painful throbbing it induced.  My chest had sprouted melons made of concrete, I could not lie down in any comfortable position, nor put my arms by my sides.  Any attempts to lessen the pressure by breastfeeding ended up  in tears for Lincoln and I.  After making some emergency calls to family to purchase me a breast pump,  I begged to go home (and for some pain killers).  A few hours passed by as we waited, and waited for Lincoln’s final health checks, and then finally we made our escape!  At last we were headed for home – unfinished room, incomplete nursery, unwashed laundry, far too many family members, but home.  And definitely better than hospital.