It was our first day entirely alone. Catherine, our first-born then aged about ten days old, and I.
Her maternal grandmother Ethel, baby besotted and a baby charmer of note, had departed. For her ten days with us dear Ethel had been hugely grateful to be allowed and entrusted with this (perceived by her), almost hallowed task of baby bathing, with my gratitude and urging. I was utterly convinced that I would continue this baby bathing stunt with ease, when Ethel returned home. So she had been the chief and only baby bather and now, this granny who had lovingly bathed and dressed Catherine before leaving us, had departed to her own home over 500km away.
I had breastfed Cath earlier that day, still ignorant “i.e. in relaxed mode” … still glowing from the comfort and confidence that came from being a part of the trio, this terrific ten day long baby team! My husband Barry was still home, showered and now dressed in office clothes and calmly enthusing on my terrific handling of our infant daughter. He too was about to leave us, Catherine and I, alone, as he prepared to return to his office work after a shining week of shared parenthood spent together with our beloved baby daughter and my Mom. So, my mother (yes that baby charmer of note that I mentioned) was going to be few hundred kilometres away from us and my beloved husband was to return to his office routine, embracing us warmly and confidently as he left, wishing us a happy day together.
I closed the front door behind him and Cath whimpered from her cosy cradle and I froze. The inadequacy and fear I felt about being the solo handler of that tiny human seemed out of proportion to her “tiny-ness.” Her whimper hotted up to a cry. What could she be crying about? She was bathed and fed and had appeared to be perfectly peacefully asleep until her father left for work. Maybe she could sense that the only truly accomplished team members had disbanded, leaving her alone with the clueless one. I had read that babies readily picked up vibes and I had felt up to this point, that I had coped reasonably well throughout the previous week, together with my very strong supporting cast.
I cowered now, hoping desperately that Catherine would settle and sleep again. Nope. She cried louder. To me it definitely sounded like very much louder crying than she had ever achieved before. I picked her up, tentatively, terrified in fact. She continued crying. I tried to feed her. She jerked away sobbing, loudly rejecting a feed. I clumsily peeped into her pristine nappy, literally shaking. She felt cool and did not seem ill! Her crying now sounded frantic, which is exactly as I felt too! The whole long day loomed ahead of us. I burst out crying. A duet! Sobbing, I pored out the “bad-sad” truth as it now seemed very apparent to me … that I had hugely miscalculated my baby handling abilities, insanely imagining myself to be mother-material and that I was desperately sorry, for both Catherine and myself, because I had truly believed I could do this.
I thought that being a mother would be instinctive and come entirely naturally to me. Throughout the previous blissful, elated week I had quite obviously been faking it, even to myself. So I never guessed till now that we were alone, that I was hopelessly inadequate in this mothering role. I had quite obviously been merely playing a “mother-part” in the baby team, a relatively easy role to play when we had Catherine’s daddy and granny with us. I admitted to Catherine in between my own sobs that I knew she was shrieking in terror at having been left entirely alone with me. I knew that she knew that I was petrified and had no idea what to do with her, being left alone, just the two of us.
I was not keen to venture out for a pram walk, as it was cold outside and anyway, I had only been outside once and that was together with the “cosy crew” and I didn’t feel up to an “out in the big world” excursion, with this suddenly, very-scary-to-me baby. I was this terrified and alone woman, together with her baby who quite rightly felt bitterly let-down by the outrageous inadequacy of her mother. I could not offer another bath, although that might have proven soothing, simply because I … as idiotic as it sounds … didn’t know how to! I had so happily “allowed” my mother this dubious task of baby bathing, as she so loved it and she did it so magnificently, crooning baby reassurances all the while, that I assured her I would do it easily after she left and I believed I would. She made it looked deceptively “eezy peezy” like all true professionals with aeons of experience and know-how do. I felt scared stiff and thought I would wait until Barry was home before I attempted to do anything as daunting as bathing someone who I greatly feared I might drop. And how did one bath a baby alone? … filling a baby bath, knowing the water temperature was right, all the undressing of that tiny person, trying to securely hold on and wash a baby person and then attempting to dry them and put all those miniscule clothes back on. That was Ethel’s domain.
I now beseeched Catherine to stop crying. I imparted some of my now more ironical thoughts to her, admitting that one of my most fearful fears prior to my conceiving, was being terrified at the prospect of not being able to fall pregnant and have a baby! I never knew or seriously considered there would be crying! Of course I “sort of knew” that babies cried sometimes, but I guess I figured that bathed, fed, warm, loved babies wouldn’t have any need to cry. I never could have guessed how frightening I would find our being alone together could be. Once I started, I could not stop and we bawled together in a duet of misery. I continued pouring out my woes and found it calmed me just a little bit. Admitting to my appalling sense of inadequacy out loud, helped. Gradually, I noticed that Catherine was no longer crying but gazing intently, right into my face. This is good I told us both out loud. Keep talking I told myself out loud. I finally ran out of my list of mother/baby inspired fears, so what next. So I told her about Bob Dylan’s lyrics and his music and Dostoyevsky and Nietzsche and Ayn Rand’s writings and Picasso’s huge outpouring of work. As I prowled around our apartment, still talking about favourite movies, I looked down and noticed that Catherine was asleep. So much for Ingmar Bergman’s sagas … she certainly was not big on movies! Then I clicked. SHE WAS ASLEEP.
I did a sort of crazy chameleon walk and put her down expecting wails, but she slept on serenely and so did I, curled up on the couch beside her wicker crib. I was awakened by her cries some while afterwards. Momentarily, I panicked full blast again. Then I remembered the talking-tool. I would talk my way though any fears that welled up. I could discuss these fears out loud as they popped up. “What can I do for you Catherine,” I asked aloud? I changed her nappy, putting on another one, albeit very loosely and sloppily. It was not at all like the snug fitted nappies her granny had managed with such apparent ease, but Catherine was tolerant of this and remained uncomplaining. Then I offered milk, which she drank. Afterwards, I popped her down again, all relaxed and sleepy and contented, or so I thought.
Almost instantly, there were wails. It was then that I remembered that after feeds my mother had gently massaged Catherine’s back and talked of babies needing to be “winded” in case they had swallowed milk too fast, which could cause cramping and pain. Panic arose in me as I remembered always delegating this task gaily to, either Catherine’s grandmother, or to Catherine’s exceedingly relaxed father, after each feed. Barry was calm and patient and really thrilled to soothe Catherine as I was breast-feeding her. He could not help with the actual feeding, so enjoyed this time with her. At these times, when Catherine had been handed over to her father for winding, I would scurry off to do the other myriad baby things that needed doing.
How did Barry wind her? I tried to picture what he did. He sat on the couch and supporting her tiny neck with nonchalance, he casually draped her over his shoulder, or lay her, tummy down on his lap and gently massaged her back until a wind came up. Somewhat panicked now, but relaxing a little as I related this whole situation to Catherine, I too, sat on the couch and draped her over my shoulder. She yelled, so I draped her over my lap. She continued to yell. I wanted an instant burp from her and the anxiety of this never happening, rose in me. I remembered that I often felt calmer walking around, so I leapt up with my startled baby, imploring her to quieten down, and to burp. Could they only burp in certain sitting down positions I wondered? What if she cried in pain all day and no burp happened? I put this to her as I draped her over my shoulder again and walked to the window, where I caught sight of a wonderful world out there full of apparently, totally carefree and unafraid-looking people. Being a big talker and one who needs to talk things out when there are communication problems seemed to help me. I pointed Catherine towards all this peaceful activity in non-scary-land downstairs. “Look. There’s a dog. I am good with dogs, you know Catherine. They don’t frighten me. Even our cat, “Beans” didn’t frighten me when daddy first gave her to me, although she was so tiny and she was wild and she was frightened and she scratched me terribly at first, but she never frightened me, like you do.” Catherine burped loudly, startling me.
Well now I knew that baby burps could happen while walking around, so we walked round and round the apartment. I even tidied things haphazardly and so we walked miles, through our one-bedroom apartment. She did not object to my frenzied ducking and diving, as I did a bit of one-handed housework, holding Catherine securely tucked against me. Eventually she dozed off again. She slept for some hours, tired out no doubt by my “mad housewife” marathon and intense, questioning dialogue as to whether she had in fact been at all aware of, able to hear and absorb all the Bob Dylan music from inside my womb. I had listened to music throughout my pregnancy and she probably had been aware of it, because she seemed to be listening intently now and all-knowingly, as Bob sang to us.
Now, thirty-something years later, I understand that this scary beginning was just part of our getting to know each other, bonding, my daughter and I. My talking my fears through to her soothed me, which I guess calmed Catherine. My continued talk meant I could voice my fears out loud and clear as they arose, which relaxed me and as my tension left me, Catherine relaxed. Each time she scared me in the ensuing weeks and months, when she cried and my feelings of panic and inadequacy re-surfaced (as they sometimes still do when I think of all the scars I, as a mother, might unwittingly have caused … but that’s another story), I had ammunition – tools, like taking Cath for pram walks, usually outings to our nearby rose garden and herbarium. I would walk round and round the rose beds and stood gazing at the fountains and letting Cath hear the gurgling water. I pushed Catherine’s pram under rose arches, talking all the while. I also read off the names of the plants … miles of rose names and all the herbs in the luscious herb garden. I reeled off these delicious scientific names, from all the tiny tags on the plants, wonderful names derived from the Latin or Greek. Biological names, the generic names, the species and the botanical terms. So therapeutic to roll off my tongue. Feeling soothed, I strolled around these gardens, pushing an “often sleeping” Catherine in her pram, or holding an “awake” Catherine on my hip, which we both liked best. I examined and learnt to identify a few plants, but mostly, I learnt to identify Cath’s different sounds and their “maybe” meanings.
As I write this on 30 January 2013, an SMS has arrived with an electronic, “burp-like” sound. It is a tender message from Catherine and it reads,
“Hello dear parents. Just to share the exciting news of the day. I felt the first lil flutter movements earlier. Big hugs. Chat soon. C & Pea. xx.”
Yip, this communication, these chats, this relationship is a forever ongoing, source of joy.
Note: “Pea” is a name first coined by Catherine’s husband Gero, who read of their, then first baby to be (now our beloved Ethan aged almost three), being only the size of a pea in those very early stages of womb development. This nickname stuck throughout Catherine’s first pregnancy and has now resurfaced, as Cath gives this affectionate nickname to their second baby too. Catherine is 17 weeks pregnant today, with their second child.
More about communications next time ……