Bad MuthaBlogger

Whenever I’m in the cranial osteopath’s office I rush over to the magazine rack and grab the latest issue of People, to speed-read the celebrity gossip and look at the pictures. I would never actually buy People magazine, you understand, and I wouldn’t normally confess to reading what teeters on the edge of being gutter press. But since we’re all friends here, I’d like to get it off my chest that I do sort of like People magazine. In a crazy, celebrity-obsessed, addictive kind of way. It’s not healthy, but I can’t help myself.

Yesterday I frantically grabbed the latest copy of People, thinking it might have the pics of Brangelina’s twins. I heard they paid around $15 million for the photos. That’s $15 MILLION DOLLARS. Is that a LOT of money, or what? Not for the F.O.B. perhaps, but for the rest of us mere mortals spending such a vast amount of cash for a photo shoot is unimaginable. And let’s face it, obscene.

Think on this: Brangelina’s baby pics are worth more than the GDP of Afghanistan. And Jamaica. And Bosnia. And Honduras. And a whole bunch of other countries.

There’s something seriously wrong with our culture. Imagine what $15 million could do for children in Bosnia. What about providing safe water to villagers in Honduras? I mean, c’mon folks, let’s get our priorities straight.

I heard that Brangelina are giving their cash to charity. Thank God someone’s got their heads screwed on. But you can bet your bottom dollar that People are going to make a lot more than $15 million out of the deal. And somehow I don’t think they’ll be giving any cash to charity.

Anyway, I didn’t get to look at the photos because they’re not out yet. I don’t think I can wait for the next doctor’s appointment. I’ll have to make a special trip to the drugstore. They’ll probably sell out so I’ll have to get their early. Some things in life, like Brangelina’s babies, are worth going the extra mile for. Who wants to read about starving children in Africa [yawn] when you can read about the world’s greatest celebrity couple’s million dollar twins?

Today baby and I went for his umpteenth appointment at the cranial osteopath. I’ve lost track of how many appointments he’s had. It must be close to 10 or 15. This translates as a lot of dosh, which at $150 a pop is not to be sneezed at, but luckily the old F.O.B. fronted up the spondoolies. 

BUT before you start thinking what a great and generous man the F.O.B. is, he only paid up because I marched him into the doc’s office and forced him to pay the cash right there and then. I don’t think he would have done it otherwise. He splashes the cash around when he wants to, but most of the time he’s a tight-wad. That’s how the rich stay rich, don’t you know.

I created a bit of an embarrassing scene when we first went into the cranial osteopath’s office. The Doctor was doing the intake form, and asking me all kinds of questions about baby and my medical history. Then she turned to the F.O.B. and asked him if he was the father. He said yes, and then she started to ask him questions. My blood boiled, I flashed hot and cold, and then I shrieked: “HE HASN’T EVEN SIGNED THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE!! HE DOESN’T GET TO ANSWER ANY QUESTIONS!! HE”S JUST HERE TO PAY!!!” and then I whipped my head round to pierce the F.O.B. with a glare and shrieked even louder: “LEAVE THE ROOM NOW!! GET OUT AND WAIT OUTSIDE!!” Which he did, whereupon I promptly burst into tears.

I shocked the Doc into silence for about 30 seconds, and then she handed me some tissues. I tried to explain that the F.O.B. was only there to pay the bills, that he was really a bastard, and that I didn’t want him around. I could tell she thought I was a bitch. The F.O.B. does a very good impression of a wounded puppy, and is much better at winning people over to his side. It’s one of the things I really hate about him. He stays cool and collected, and I get branded the hysterical, lost-it, nutso, hormonal female.

Now whenever I’m in the doc’s office I try not to remember that scene, and hope that she doesn’t either. Instead I focus on baby’s treatment, and avoid direct eye contact. At the same time, I watch her carefully from under my lashes. I don’t really understand what she’s doing to my boy. It looks like hocus-pocus to me. She holds his head and puts her hands under his spine a lot, and flutters her eyes and sways her upper body. Sometimes she puts some sort of bone jiggling machine on his left ankle. Mumbo jumbo voodoo magic? Or is it science? I just don’t know…

When I ask her how he’s doing, she always says: “he’s doing much better now” and that’s it. No more information. I’ve more or less given up asking any questions, but in the early days I’d ask her how his head injury was doing, and what (if anything) she could tell me about his body and state of health. She’d always reply the same: “he’s doing much better now”. If she told me exactly what she was doing, I might do much better aswell.

Today she told me that his spine was compacted and I’d have to stop using the sling and use a front-carrier instead. Whoah, Doc! Too much information, I almost fell off my chair. She took me by surprise with that one. Apparently I have to let him spend more time on the ground, flipping over and wiggling his arms and legs about. Let him cry and get angry, she said, it’s good for his muscle development. Hmmm… I wonder if that would work for me too?

We don’t go back for another 2 months, by which time baby will be even more of a handful on the table. At the moment I have to distract him with a bunch of brightly coloured plastic, musical toys. Next time I’ll have to pin him down by sitting on his chest. I wonder if that’s good for his muscle development? Now that the doctor seems to be warming to me at last, maybe next time I’ll get another nugget of knowledge that I can apply to baby’s care. The F.O.B.’s paid for it, so might as well squeeze out our money’s worth.

1. I don’t have to co-parent, to negotiate different parenting styles, nor navigate the mine-field of different parenting decisions, like what time baby goes to bed (I can only begin to imagine what a nightmare that must be)
2. I don’t feel pressured to have sex when I’m not in the mood (let’s face it, it’s gonna be a while before I want to have sex again, after what’s happened down there)
3. I can spend as much time with my family as I want, without having to worry about spending time with any horrendous in-laws
4. I don’t have to have dinner on the table for anyone but baby and me – I can cook what I like, when I like (no sausages or steaks)
5. There’s no dirty clothes to pick off the floor (only mine) and oh, so much less laundry to do
6. My wardrobe and chest of drawers are all my own
7. I can co-sleep in the same bed cuddled up to my baby for as long as I want, without worrying about some snoring dude rolling over and squashing us
8. I can dress baby in the clothes that I like, without having to please any man
9. I can breastfeed baby as long as I want, without worrying about what might be ‘normal’ or ‘acceptable’
10. I don’t have to put up with any testosterone loaded, couch potatoes watching sports on TV, eating pizza and drinking beer (at least not until my son’s much older)
11. No one’s going to yell at me “You’re not going out looking like that!”
12. I don’t have to shave my legs and underarms if I don’t feel like it
13. The toilet seat lid is always closed down, and the toilet is clean
14. There are no pubes sticking to the shower wall, nor beard stubble clinging to the bathroom sink
15. I don’t have to worry about some bloke cheating on me, or dumping me for being too high-maintenance, or too fat
16. I don’t have to put up with any grumpy energy in the house, or walk round on eggshells trying to figure out what I might have done ‘wrong’
17. I only have to answer to myself, I can do what I like, when I like, with who I like
18. I’m happier, healthier and have more self-respect and self-worth than I ever had when I was with a man
19. I can put my baby first, before any man, without feeling guilty
20. I only have to take care of one child

After our cat was killed nearly 2 months ago, we went straight out and got another cat. The same day. One minute we were in the back room of the animal shelter, in the cat mortuary, saying a heart-rendering goodbye to our furry family friend, and the next minute we were in the front room looking at other cats and kittens. 

The pet grief counsellor would be horrified to hear that we didn’t “grieve” our first cat properly. I know we rushed it. And normally we would have taken a few more weeks, but I had to leave for Las Cruces the same day, and poor mum would have been on her own in the house for 2 weeks. She was beside herself with grief, and I was worried she would slip into a dark place and not be able to pull herself out again. 

What was needed was a new kitty, someone who could look after my mum and take her mind off the awful truth of our poor little Honey-cat. Plus there are hundreds of cats in need in the animal shelter, and I was sure our old cat would want us to give a good home to a new cat.

Mum was in floods of tears, and I literally had to twist her arm and march her round the rows of cats and kittens. While we were looking at some particularly cute kittens, a paw swiped at the back of my leg in a desperate attempt to get my attention. I looked down and saw the prettiest little cat looking up at me with bright blue eyes. She was the one.

She had some yellow note attached to her cage, saying she was “special needs” and required more attention before she could be released. When I asked they said she had ear mites that needed treatment, at which news my mum sobbed louder, howling that she was “dirty”. She also cried that this cat wasn’t a pedigree (Honey was a beautiful golden-red Burmese) that she didn’t want a new cat, she wanted Honey back. Clearly mum was in no fit state to make a decision, so I took the matter into my own hands, and 2 hours later mum had the new cat on her lap in a cardboard box.  

While were away in New Mexico, mum grew to love the new cat. She named her Sapphire, on account of her piercing, blue-jewel eyes, and she found out on the internet that she actually was a pedigree, called Snowshoe. So all was well on the home front. While mum still missed Honey terribly, Sapphire took the edge off the pain, and filled a small part of my mum’s broken heart.

Enter baby and me, two weeks later.

Sapphire suddenly transforms from a sweet, skittish, nervous little creature, hiding in the shadows and running away from every little sound, into a sharp-toothed, razor-clawed monster, slinking stealthily in the shadows waiting for her moment to attack.

Mum seems to bear the brunt of the attacks and has the tooth and claw marks all over her body to prove it. Since her heart surgery for atrial fibrillation she’s been on mega doses of Warfarin, which means her blood doesn’t clot, and her skin doesn’t heal. Perhaps you can imagine what that might look like. It is a bloody disaster.

Bedding and clothes have been irreparably damaged. Baby’s toys have gone missing. Every piece of skin has to be covered at all times. No one moves quickly in the house anymore. We all live in fear of where the cat might be lurking, and who she might attack next. The most common word heard in the house these days is: “NO!!!!” followed by “BAD CAT!!!” and various screams and unpleasant sounds of people in pain. Not the sort of environment you want your baby to grow up in.

No longer can I leave baby unattended for a moment on the bed or the floor, as Sapphire seems to think baby is some sort of large, chubby mouse.

It is, in a nutshell, a fucking nightmare.

We are the proud owners of a psycho, high-needs, insanely jealous cat (now I know what the yellow “special needs” sign on the cage meant). And the problem with that is I have a small, defenseless baby in the house, and an older defenseless grandma with a heart condition. These things are not compatible.

We could let the cat outside to get rid of some of her tension, but what if she gets run over by a car? I couldn’t go through that again. We could take her back to the shelter, but what if she gets stuffed back in a cage and no one claims her, and she gets euthanized? I couldn’t bear that either.

Yes, sir, we have on our hands here a BIG problem. I’m ready to call the cat therapist in and pay them some top dollar to sort this problem out. Either that, or I’m gonna put that cat on Prozac. I hear it works for dogs.

Baby and me are still working on a schedule. I’m not very good at this. I’ve never had a routine before. I like to go with the flow. I like things to happen on a day-to-day, moment-to-moment basis. I make my life up as I go along. Slowly. Nothing planned or organised. I go to bed when I’m tired, I eat when I feel like it, I read a book when I want to relax. I might go out clubbing, and dance my socks off. Then again I might stay in and watch a flick on the telly. But sadly, not any more. Those days are over. Sigh.

Back to reality. I’m learning that babies like routines and babies like activities. Which means I’m making a big effort these days to get up and have breakfast at the same time each day. Quite an achievement, let me tell you. I used to give breakfast a miss (which is one of the reasons I stayed slim). Now it’s turned into a big production with almond milk, millet puffs, bananas, seeds and raisins. No normal breakfast food for me, since baby is allergic to everything. Once breakfast is over, I tuck baby under one arm and take him into the bathroom with me while I have a shower. He likes to watch. Little does he know I’m obsessing about Brangelina.

Then we get dressed, make the bed, and by this time over two hours have passed (everything takes MUCH longer with a baby on board) and baby is ready for his first power nap of the day. He doesn’t really sleep as such, but he likes to nurse and fall into a trance on my boob for about 20 minutes. If I’m lucky I can put him down for a few moments, while I rush around like a blue-arsed fly trying to get some REAL work done, like pay the bills, do the washing up, check my emails, etc.

Once baby wakes up, he needs a serious activity or two to highlight the rest of his day. Today’s activities were a bit thin on the ground. We had the hairdressers this morning, which was not very fun for baby, but I needed to get my grey hairs sorted out. They were starting to look rather frightful. On arrival I announced to the receptionist that I would probably be breastfeeding baby during my appointment, and she almost fell off her stool with shock and embarrasment. I couldn’t fathom it. I was completely puzzled by her reaction. Was it the word “breast”? Should I have said “nursing” instead, to soften the blow? I would have thought breastfeeding was more or less acceptable in this day and age. After all, women have only been doing it for a couple of million years. Needless to say, I carefully hid my nipple under the salon robe during feeding in case anyone caught a glimpse and passed out from excitement.

After an exhausting hairdressing appointment, where baby was full of beans flirting with all the gorgeous women getting their hair done, we moved on to the big activity of the day – the shadow puppet show at the local library. Hurrah! I’d been looking forward to this all week, and so arrived early and laid a blanket down in the front row, all ready to enjoy the show. Baby was in a good mood, all squeals of delight and happy smiles, that is until the shadow puppet man began the show, and then baby began to wiggle, squirm, sweat, fuss, squawk, rub his eyes, and finally start to cry. In no time at all I was at my wits end, sweating along with him, waves of anxiety emanating from my pores.

I looked frantically around for my escape, and saw that we were firmly wedged in by about a hundred small children and parents, all enjoying the show. My stroller which I had stupidly brought into the front side of the room was completely blocked in by the audience. And to top it off, several small children were sitting on the edges of my blanket, and my fancy swiss water bottle had rolled off into god-only-knows-where.

Taking a deep breath, trying not to panic, remembering my meditation for mamas workshop, I said the mantra “you can do it” and quickly stood up, stepping through tiny tots, and made a bolt for the exit, minus stroller, water bottle and blanket.

There’s a lesson or two in there somewhere. Like always have an easy escape route. Keep the stroller near the exit. Above all, don’t expect the baby to be interested in a show you’ve been looking forward to all week. He’s got his own agenda.

I’m trying desperately to create a fun-filled, action-packed, creative, conscious weekly schedule for me and baby. This is because baby bun-buns is becoming much harder to entertain at home. I used to be able to plonk him down on his activity mat for 20 minutes, or stick him in his baby Bjorn bouncy seat with the red and blue rotating bears, but now he wants some serious action. He wants new information, new activities, new experiences, new stuff to see, new things to play, and new things to do. It’s exhausting. And it’s daunting.

I’m used to staying at home alone and working, or being outside in nature doing quiet things, quietly by myself. I’m an introvert. A loner. I don’t feel comfortable around people, I feel awkward. Now I have a baby, and suddenly I’m thrown into a world of people. Strangers come up to me on the street, they smile and touch my baby, and ask all kinds of questions: “How old is your baby?” “Is this your first one?” and then they tell me (a) how cute he is (b) how big he is (c) how great I look. The last bit about me I know is bullshit, they’re just going through the motions and trying to be nice.

I’d feel much more comfortable staying at home all the time, but I know that if I did baby would drive me completely bonkers. So it’s good that baby bun-buns drags my butt out to socialise, because I need the support of other women out there who’ve walked the path of parenting before me. I learn from watching and talking to other mums. Things I want to copy and things I want to avoid.

Lizzie, one of my yummy mummy friends, is full of things I want to copy. Her son is a few months older than mine, and she has her weekly schedule all worked out. That’s where I got the idea from. Lizzie is so organised and so together, and everything in her life seems perfect. I want what she has. She has a routine of fun activities for her and her baby, and now I am going to have a routine of fun activities for me and my baby. Hopefully not the same activities, or I’ll be bumping into her every day, and then she might think I’m stalking her.

She turned me onto It’s Yoga, Kids a mummy and me yoga class in San Francisco, where you can take your baby into the studio. We tried it this week. It was…how shall I say…interesting? I don’t think they have this kind of class in England, maybe in some foo-foo part of London, but certainly not where I grew up. The idea of doing yoga with your baby seemed a tad odd to me, but if it’s good enough for Lizzie, it’s good enough for me.

I managed to hold about 4 poses for about 10 seconds each, in between tending to baby’s squawks, breastfeeding and changing nappies. At the same time I had to fend off other people’s crawling and walking babies from nicking baby buns-buns teething giraffe, and walking on his head.

Although I was having a hard time focusing on the yoga, baby seemed to be enjoying himself. The teacher picked him up at one point to walk around with him while I struggled with pigeon pose (my least favourite asana) and his laughter echoed around the room, making everyone smile. When we got to Savasana (corpse pose) baby actually fell asleep on my belly. It was so sweet.  

But by far the best bit was when we all chanted “Om” at the end, and all the babies, including mine, stopped what they were doing and sat up very straight, still and alert. Now that is something I will definitely be trying at home.

Was it worth $20 for the class? Yes.

Would I go again? Yes.

Shall I work it into baby’s weekly schedule? Yes, I think I will.

It has to be good for baby, and I know it’s good for me, even if I only get a few poses in. At least I’m breathing and stretching. Things I don’t normally do at home. And it’s good bonding time for us. Mother and baby time. Not rushing about time, but peaceful, relaxing, being present together time. I’m sold. It’s a winner. It’s Yoga, Baby! Good for body, mind and soul.

Last night I went out with British Lizzie, one of my new yummy mummy girlfriends. I met her through a step aerobics class when baby was just a bump in my belly. The class teacher kept going on about how there was someone she really wanted me to meet, another English mother who lived locally, and that we were sure to become good friends. I muttered under my breath “Just because she’s English, doesn’t mean we’re going to get on”. For goodness sake! There are stacks of people in the UK that I absolutely despise. Toffs and Tories for a start.

I wasn’t keen on being thrown together with some random Brit, but I forced out a smile and agreed to go out one afternoon for tea. And I’m pleased to report it wasn’t so bad after all. Turns out being a Brit in America is quite the bonding experience. Being a new mummy Brit, doubly so. We have stacks in common, like the Beeb for a start.

Lizzie looks exactly like the sort of woman I’m not. She’s tall, long blond hair, stunningly beautiful, immaculately turned out, super fit, super skinny, and also minted. She has fantastic teeth, which I must say isn’t very English of her. She must have had her teeth done over here.

Lizzie turned up to dinner last night looking like a super model, and I turned up looking like the cleaner. I try hard, I really do, but I can’t seem to control my hair, I don’t have time to do my make-up and I’m still wearing my maternity clothes. Nothing else fits, and I can’t bring myself to go out and buy clothes that are two sizes too large. I’d rather go and get liposuction.

Lizzie likes her booze, which I must say is very English of her. She no sooner slugged down half a glass of wine, when the waitress came over and asked if she’d like another glass, to which Lizzie quipped: “Just because I’m English, doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic”. Yeah, right, Lizzie. Pull the other leg, it’s got bells on.

She studied the menu, and I studied her, and asked casually “what are you going to have?” She responded: ”I don’t know yet, I’m looking for the dish that has the lowest calorific value”. I noticed that she had one slice of bread to my four, and then ordered a tiny side salad and an itsy-bitsy starter of tuna carpaccio, which is the thinnest bit of tuna I’ve ever seen. More like a piece of tuna tracing paper. She didn’t eat all her food, and she picked at it like a bird.

I took notes and watched carefully, because I want to look like Lizzie, in the same way that I want to look like Angelina Jolie. But there’s no way I can eat like those birds and still nurse my baby. Mothers who look that good have got to be bottle feeding formula to their baby. Since I’m running the milk factory around here, I have to make sure I keep pumping the high quality, fatty, nutrient-rich milk for baby bun-buns, or he would suffer, or more likely I would suffer, as baby takes what he needs from my body. 

I need my teeth and organs intact, thank you very much, and so with great gusto I ordered a large sea-bass with extra potatoes and vegetables, a large dinner salad, a mojito (I’m English after all) and then stocked up on bread. Which is why Lizzie stays so slim, and I stay porky.

I’m glad to say that baby’s poop had no blood in it today. Yesterday we had two more scary looking, explosive poops with orange jelly and red threads of blood. Followed by some scratchy, dry, green looking poops, and finally today back to normal, mustard-yellow, runny poops. More information than you probably wanted, but I thought I’d share the good news. Poop-watching is important business for us new mothers.

The scoop on baby poop is that there are a wide variety of colours and consistencies out there, most of them normal. Yellow, runny poop is the most common, particularly for breastfed babies. It’s usually mustard-yellow with seedy, chunky bits. Formula fed babies tend to have thicker, darker poop, more orange and tan-brown. It smells worse too. Another good reason to breastfeed.

By the way, did you know that scientific studies have shown that mum’s prefer the smell of their own baby’s poop, above all others? Aren’t you glad that someone, somewhere is funding this important research in the world?

Back to types of poop. Then there’s green poop, which if baby is breastfed can indicate a food allergy (like dairy, or kombucha) or that baby is getting too much skinny foremilk and not enough fatty hindmilk (keep baby on the boob longer, ladies!) Green poop in a formula fed baby can mean too much iron in the formula. Green, mucousy poop can also mean a virus, but so long as baby seems happy, it’s nothing to worry about.

The bad poop colours to watch out for are black, dark red or white (the exception is baby’s first poop the meconium, which is usually dark and sticky). Dark poop, especially black tarry poop at any other time, or red currant jelly poop, means some kind of internal bleeding. White chalky poop means that baby’s liver isn’t working properly and isn’t producing any bile to break down the milk. If you see any of these poops call the doctor immediately.

I’ve started watching baby’s poop like a hawk, and now I’m even starting to look at my own poop. Not something I’d normally confess to, but ever since I had a baby I’ve lost all sense of decorum when it comes to bodily functions. Apparently you can tell a lot about a person’s health by their poop. Not that I’m going to go around looking at anyone else’s, but if my poop looks good then baby’s poop is probably going to look good. And that makes me a very happy mum.

After the surprisingly stressful meditation for mamas workshop, I took a relaxing, mindful walk downtown while baby slept. No sooner had we hit the road, when baby did an enormous poop and I had to rush into the changing station of the local baby store, lest he leak all over the Bugaboo stroller.

Lo and behold, it was one of the biggest poops ever. I started to worry about whether I was going to have to venture out to buy some new clothes in the baby store, when I suddenly realised with a jolt that OHMYGOD! THERE’S BLOOD IN BABY’S POOP!!!

My heart was hammering, and waves of anxiety washed through my chest making it tight and difficult to breathe. I tried to stay mindful and calm, to be the scientist and closely examine the poop. There were about 6 or 7 small blood clots along with these streaks and clumps of slimy mucus stuff. Pretty revolting. Not a normal poop by any stretch of the imagination. What could it mean? Was he bleeding internally? Did I need to go to the hospital? Would he be OK? Was he going to die???

I bundled the bloody evidence into my bag, and rushed outside to phone my pediatrician. As luck would have it, my iPhone was out of charge. Goddam I hate that iPhone, it always needs charging when I need it the most. I borrowed a normal phone off a stranger in a panic, only to find the pediatrician wasn’t there and I had to leave a message, and bite my nails for an hour waiting for them to call back. It was rough.

I grabbed my baby and closely studied him for signs of I-don’t-know-what. He looked startled and began crying. He seemed normal. Maybe I freaked him out, but then again maybe he was crying because he was in pain. I felt so helpless. My baby was a vulnerable little critter. How could I protect my little one from the dangers of being alive in this world? He could be bleeding to death inside, and I wouldn’t know what to do.

I rushed home and went on the internet. The font of all wisdom. I typed in “blood”, “poop” and “baby” and got 194,000 pages in response. Thank God for the internet. It turns out that a bit of blood in babies stool is nothing to be worried about. By the time the pediatrician called me back I was a picture of calm. And now I’m an expert on the subject. So here’s the scoop on blood in babies poop. It’s almost always caused by:

1. An anal fissure, in other words a small tear somewhere up the baby butt. Every time baby strains to do a poop, it re-opens and spills little drops of blood into the poop stream.
2. A food allergy, most commonly dairy (although it can also be soy, peanuts, corn, wheat or gluten) which also has other symptoms like a rash, reflux, and irritability.
3. A bacterial infection, which is very rare, which also has other symptoms like severe diarrhea and fever.

Since baby seemed normal (no temperature anyway, I can never tell if he has diarrhea – his poop is always explosive and runny) I ruled out the bacterial infection. He might have had a cut up his butt, but I took a good look up there and it didn’t seem sore (my pediatrician told me to do this). So that left a food allergy. Which was hard to understand since I have just about eliminated all foods known to man in my diet, in an attempt to cure baby from an early newborn rash that looked more like the plague than anything else. On closer inspection, he did have a bit of a rash and he had certainly been extra fussy earlier in the day. I tried to think if I had eaten anything different, or strange, in the last 24 hours, and then I remembered..the KOMBUCHA!

It had to be the Kombucha probiotic tea drink I had the day before. I never normally touch the stuff. The one time my mum drank it, she had an instant episode of atrial fibrillation. I know it’s supposed to be good for you, the elixir of life, the tea of immortality, and all that. And I believe it. But my theory is that all those millions and zillions of bacteria and yeast species, went straight through my breastmilk and into baby’s belly, upsetting the delicate flora and fauna balance of his tiny digestive ecosystem.

There is nothing about this on the internet, and I’m sure the proponents of Kombucha (of which there are many) will be horrified to read my conclusion, and will do everything they can to convince me otherwise. But it just makes sense to me. Take heed. Kombucha tea is too strong a medicine for nursing mums and breastfeeding babies.

I called the F.O.B. to tell him my theory, and to panic him about the blood in baby’s poo – why should I be the only one to panic? And do you know what he said? He told me to wait until the bleeding stops, and then try again to drink some kombucha and see what happens to baby’s poop. Hello? Hello? Is anyone at home? Sometimes I seriously wonder about the F.O.B.’s marbles. I let him know quietly but firmly that our baby was not an experiment, and promptly hung up the phone. Unbelievable.

This morning I managed to stagger to another Parenting circle, half asleep from the night before (baby is still not sleeping through the night, but for some reason he can handle his sleep deprivation. I am the walking dead, he is a bundle of energy). The topic of the morning was meditation for mothers. How to keep your inner balance and stay centred, calm, alert and present, even when the chaos of motherhood is upon you. I don’t know about you, but that is something I desperately need in my life.

The facilitator was a chilled out mother of two, who realised that her meditation practice was slipping to the wayside while she was busy being a mother. She noticed that every book she ever read on meditation started with the words: “Create a sacred space, find a time free of distractions, and light a candle”. Hahaha! Find a space and a time? Light a candle around a young child?!

She decided that she needed to bring her meditation practice into every day life. To find a way to meditate in the ordinary moment. At the check-out line, in the kitchen, changing nappies. Otherwise it just wasn’t going to happen. She found that not only is it possible to meditate with a wriggling, squawking baby in your arms, but it actually makes you a better mum. More able to cope with the stress and strain of it all.

We tried it this morning. Baby was fine for the first 10 minutes. I watched my thoughts float by like clouds, noticed that baby was squirming but stayed in the moment, breathing deeply and relaxing into my body. And then he started fussing and giving out these shrill screaks (a cross between a scream and a high-pitched squeak) and I just lost it.

The moment that is.

I stayed calm, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than trying to figure out what was wrong with my baby. I had to go to the back of the room and try to rock, bounce, feed, rock, bounce, feed… anything to keep him quiet so that other people like me could hear the rest of the workshop.

I managed to catch a bit of a lecture on the benefits of meditation, but only out of one ear, in between screaks. Then there was a standing meditation for when you’re really about to lose your shit. I tried this one, since I was dangerously close to the edge at that point. You bring your hands over your head and fold them together in front of your heart, in prayer position and say “I have everything I need” or “I am at peace”. It didn’t work for me. But hey, I could only do it with one hand, as the baby was dangling in the other, so maybe that’s why.

Finally there was a raisin meditation. Yes, you heard me: a raisin. Every one took a raisin (I took three) and studied it slowly in the palm of their hand. Then we slowly put it in our mouths and noticed the texture, and the taste, and the urge to chew, and then we eventually swallowed it. Mindful eating. Hard to do with baby. I’m quite proud to say I’ve perfected the art of unmindful eating (hence the 3 raisins). I could have the world record for eating meals in super fast time. No need to chew, just lob it in the gob and swallow it down.

Just as the workshop ended, baby fell fast asleep in my arms. Dead to the world. Now is that typical, or what?