OK, I’ll admit I’ve not been doing this long, but since boobs and milk production have been the centre of my world 24 hours a day, for the past three weeks, I feel qualified to write this list. Women seem to revel in passing on their war stories from the labour suite, but breastfeeding tales are never shared with the uninitiated. These are the things I’ve had to learn in a hurry:

1. On Day 3 your boobs will resemble watermelon-sized boulders, and your baby will be (understandably) terrified of them, and of you, as you stupidly continue to offer them up like they’re chocolate sundaes and then get upset when they’re treated like boxes of ratsac.
2. Your partner will also be terrified of them (and of you). You will be too, for that matter. They do eventually start to look less freaky, thank God, but not before you’ve cried twenty gallons of tears and discovered the joys of breast pumps.
3. You have to stick to an even more virtuous diet than when you were pregnant. At least, you do if you live in Australia. My fellow new mums in the UK tell me that all the midwives there (yes, all of them) advise them to eat creamy chocolates and cakes "to encourage the milk supply". Here you're told to eat apples, bananas, nuts, wholegrains and proteins and that chocolate is Evil, just like tea, coffee and alcohol, and will turn your baby into the devil.
4. This last point doesn’t mean much anyway, because the REAL reason you lose weight while breastfeeding is that you don’t have time to eat anymore. (Or shower, or go to the toilet, or phone your friends.)
5. It hurts. Even when you’re doing it right, it hurts. After a while you accept this and you’re just grateful if and when your baby is eating properly, and you can picture yourself smug and victorious at the next weigh-in with the child health nurse who makes no secret of the fact that she thinks you are starving your child.
6. Cabbage leaves are useless and they stink. It’s also slightly disconcerting for your partner to see cabbage leaves growing from under the neckline of your top.
7. This “tingling” sensation they talk about, that lets you know you’re “letting down” milk. It doesn’t tingle. It’s more like someone has pegged your nipples to the hills hoist while you’re standing on the other side of the yard.
8. Not all button-down tops were created equal. So when you’re shopping for clothes and think you can get away with normal button-down tops because they’ll be “good for breastfeeding”, think about how quickly you can feasibly get those buttons open. Anything over one and a half seconds is asking for trouble. (Hungry babies make Gordon Ramsay look like the Patron Saint of Patience.)
9. Therefore, if you’re wearing something that requires too much faffing about to unbutton and re-button, you’ll get lazy and find yourself accidentally opening the front door to greet visitors and courier delivery men with your top hanging open and one or both boobs on display. And after not very long at all, you won’t even care.
10. If you’re on a roll, and your baby’s mouth isn’t underneath to catch it all, your milk leaks in rivers. Sometimes rivers, sometimes fountains. You’ll keep Kleenex in business just mopping up excess breast milk all day and night. Sometimes, if you’re not watching your baby, you’ll look down to find they’ve detached themselves and they have little rivulets of milk running down their mouths and cheeks, into their ears.
11. Very soon, every item of clothing you own will be covered in milk (fresh or regurgitated) stains. You have to sleep in your bra if you want to save your PJs and bedding, and wear nursing pads if you want to save your bra (all that recycling you do is about to be negated by the massive increase in landfill you’re now contributing to).
12. Oops, I said 10 things didn’t I? Well, that’s my final point – breastfeeding, coupled with the inevitable associated sleep deprivation, depletes your brain capacity even more than being pregnant, if that’s possible. You won’t just forget where you put your keys, you’ll forget they’re even called keys.

I’ve been thinking a lot about London lately. Probably because I find myself in front of the tv a lot, breastfeeding, and London seems to be on the telly all the time. This morning on Sunrise they crossed live to the Leicester Square premiere of the new James Bond film and I actually cried. How many times I wandered through Leicester Square with the world at my feet, eating Ben and Jerrys, pottering around the book stores on Charing Cross Road, meeting friends for a film or a play or a glass of wine at All Bar One.

But I do realise I’m perennially guilty of skewing all my memories with large doses of rosy nostalgia and that wherever I used to be is always a much nicer place than where I am right now. All it takes is a quick flick through my old journals to remind myself that life in London wasn’t easy. In fact, I probably spent more time in Leicester Square on disastrous dates, hunting for hours for cabs on cold wet nights (and then giving up and taking the night bus with all the drunks), eating terrible food in a hurry, and cursing the fact that there were too many people plodding along in front of me at a snails pace when I was rushing to get somewhere.

My friend L sent me an email two days ago – it was an email I’d written her midway through last year, and she forwarded it back to me to remind me just how much life can change from one year to the next.

I had just returned from a three week trip to Australia. I had my 17 year old sister, M, with me and was “between flats” – all my stuff was in the garage at my old flatmates’ place in Canary Wharf, the lease with my new flatmate wasn’t due to start for another week, and so I’d found a self-contained short let studio in the back of TNT magazine to tide us over.

This is the email:
-----------------------------

From: c.s@b-bank.com
Sent: 31 May 2007 10:52
To: LT
Subject: The horror

God, what chaos. I feel like an alcoholic or something, I have the shakes. So much for being all refreshed after a holiday.

I'm falling in a big heap over here... people screaming at me for stuff at work (I am either clueless or disinterested), no time to stop and catch my breath or write any emails or make any calls, still trying to sort out house move stuff, and here's how my last 24 hours unfolded:

3.30pm On the phone to Louise at E-Recruitment about a contract opportunity when my phone battery dies. It's so dead I can't even revive it beyond the start up screen.

4.30pm Back to the other building, log on to yahoo mail and email her to apologise.

5pm Leave to go to Willesden Green to meet the accommodation people.

6.15pm Go to the studio (it's out the back of a house, in Queens Park). The electricity is on a meter so I need to charge it up at the local shops. There is a tiny double bed in spite of my repeated requests for a twin. I have to pay 5% extra for credit card. All the usual annoying London accommodation dramas.

6.30pm Head back to D's place to meet M and take our stuff back to the studio. Lots of struggling up and down the steps at the tube stations with two ridiculously heavy suitcases, two handbags and two bags of food. One solitary gentleman assists on the final leg at Queen's Park.

8.45pm Arrive at the studio only to realise I've left my phone charger at D's. There are no towels in the studio. Dilemma: No clothes to wear to work tomorrow. No towel to shower with. No phone charger to plug phone in and get phone numbers to ring the old flatmates and ask if I can come round in the morning, etc.

9pm Buy a tea towel at the off licence and go off for a very nice dinner at Niki Noodle (an oasis in the Queens Park desert)

5.45am Shower, wash hair and dry off with a tea towel. Dress in jeans and tshirt, take the tube to Bank, meet D who's brought me my charger, then take DLR to Blackwall.

8.15am See MN and SD (old flatmates) on the street (how lucky!) They suggest I take their keys and let myself in after I've got my things out of the garage.... That way I can iron my work outfit. Good plan, with hindsight (how crinkled do you think clothes can get in 3 and a half weeks??)

8.30am Helpful stranger holds the garage door up for me while I secure it with a box of books. Helpful stranger leaves.

8.45am Finish gathering bits and pieces. Remove box of books and watch with horror as garage door slams shut leaving me in complete darkness with my handbag and all my things on the other side.

9am (just about in tears, punching and kicking the door, screaming out HELLO! HELLO!) Finally some footsteps and a small voice on the other side, a young guy who tries for a few minutes then informs me the door is stuck on one side. (Probably because I buckled it when I was throwing my bodyweight against it). I slide the key out to him and he tries for about 5 mins then suggests I call someone. I say "no, please don't leave me! My phone's outside in my handbag and the battery's flat so I don't even know who I can ring!"

9.10am Seriously sweaty now, and still imploring the stranger not to leave me, and to keep trying.

9.20am Finally! Success! I thank him profusely, cart all my crap upstairs, including the box of books that went everywhere when it fell down the outside of the garage door, and iron myself a pair of trousers and a top, as best I can given that they look like they've literally been through the wringer.

9.40am Turn up at work, sweaty, stinking, hair everywhere, two big plastic bags under my arms, a picture of serenity. Am berated for being late for an important meeting.

How ridiculous is my life?

Right now I'm craving a little house by the ocean, a picket fence, a dog and a cat, a wireless network, and no need to go anywhere requiring a suitcase EVER AGAIN.

C
xx
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Yep, those were the days.

I was sitting on the lounge room floor last Monday night, consolidating my to-do list and making mental notes to prioritise the stuff that had to be done before the baby arrived. I was 38 weeks and 2 days, so the countdown was on.

Then – my waters broke.

To cut a long story short we welcomed our little girl, baby A, into the world at 4.40am Tuesday morning. She is healthy, perfect, and we’re both in love with her.

It’s funny to think how completely different our lives are compared to 8 o’clock last Monday night and all the months and years that came before that point. One minute you’re writing lists in the loungeroom, bumping into things with your massive belly, lavishing attention on the cat, making trips across town to run errands without a second’s thought, and leisurely surfing the internet for baby products you’re going to theoretically need one day. The next minute you’re in the loungeroom bumping into things with your massive boobs, telling the cat to get a grip and pull herself together, wondering how long you’ve got til your baby wakes up again, and knowing that a much-needed trip to the bra shop is going to be impossible anytime soon. My diary shows that I was going to go to UWA tonight to listen to one of my favourite authors, Robert Drewe, do a reading and talk. Instead I napped for an hour and a half in preparation for another night of A’s partying.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Life’s much nicer at home with my family than it was in the maternity ward. The two and a half days we spent in there with our little girl were like a brief visit to a parallel universe. Right now there’s a little world operating behind those doors that I knew nothing about before.

The parallel universe was a little bit like Girl, Interrupted, except instead of being clinically mad, the women are sleep deprived and everyone is bound by the common experience of having given birth some time over the previous three days. When I made the decision to switch from the private system to the public, I figured the 4-bed wards would be like staying in a youth hostel all over again, except with babies. I wasn’t far off the mark – I just underestimated how trying that would be, being kept awake for entire nights, listening to everyone’s babies and their mums in various states of emotional upheaval.

For starters, the communal bathroom meant that you couldn’t always “go” when you needed to. Some women’s partners took the liberty of using our bathroom and leaving the toilet seat up, which grated on my nerves more than I can describe. The floor was always wet. I forgot – of course – to pack flip flops, and I’m certain I’ve contracted some nasty foot infection from the shower (even after years of backpacking and escaping so much as a trace of tinea).

At night I’d wander the corridors with my screaming baby, chatting with other mums in the loungeroom, swapping stories. In the mornings I’d go to the communal dining room to make my toast, chatting with other mums, swapping stories. Except instead of all the usual questions you get in hostel dining rooms and lounge rooms (Where are you from? How long have you been here? Where are you off to next?) it was When was he/she born? How are you finding it? How long was your labour? And When are you going home?

This last one produced emphatic replies: "Tomorrow. And I don’t give a sh*t what they say, I’m going tomorrow. I can’t stand it."

It’s not that it was a bad hospital – far from it. But new mums need their partners with them at night. Together we were all alone in the world with a little human to look after and no idea whether we were on the right track or not. On night two I buzzed the midwife at 4am and told her I’d been feeding for two and a half hours and I was so exhausted, would she show me how to feed lying down? She told me this was unacceptable and babies shouldn’t be feeding for longer than an hour (so yes, this is when I realised I had a binge-drinking party girl on my hands, who likes to sleep the day away and trick all her visitors into thinking she’s an angel). Every midwife that showed up had a different method, different piece of advice, different slant on things. I was warned about that, but again, underestimated how much this would affect me after three solid nights of sleep deprivation and an overdose of hormones.

So that was the last of my hostelling – from now on I’m a hotels and private hospital (or at least private room – if not home birth) kind of girl.

Well – for the time being I’m not going anywhere. But that’s ok – I’ve got some pretty amazing company and lots of new experiences ahead to keep me entertained.

Week 38 of the journey, and I feel like I’ve become a bit of an airhead. Losing my purse and only realising it when I’m standing at the checkout with a hundred dollars worth of packed groceries and 12 people queueing behind me. Not picking up on obvious humour (a friend of mine in London mentioned in a recent email that she and her Swedish boyfriend are engaged, and since many of her family live in India, the only logical place to get married is Iran. Iran! I replied excitedly – brilliant idea!) Etcetera.

But even beyond bog-standard pregnant brain behaviour, when I meet new people – and the majority of my new acquaintances are pregnant – they all want to know what I do and whether I’m still doing it. I haven’t been doing it for months now. I’m “between careers”, which is an even worse and far vaguer place to be than “between jobs”.

It’s been a busy week. Not normal-person busy. Not busy as in working a 50 hour week and cramming in social engagements every night, keeping a house ticking over, staying in touch with family and studying part time. But busy in the context of my new life.

I bumped into a girl at aqua aerobics earlier in the week who’s due two days before me – I hadn’t seen her in a few weeks – and she looked knackered and told me she was struggling. And I suddenly realised my batteries have started to run flat too.

At the age of six I slammed my big toe in a truck door and found myself in the children’s hospital yet again, lying on the operating table with a doctor injecting my foot with a load of needles while I curled my (remaining) toes and visualised chocolate ice-cream. Not much has changed in 25 years. Every time I have a blood test or a bikini wax my mind goes straight to chocolate, and it gets me through every time.

Now I need to come up with some more pain-distraction techniques, because I don’t think chocolate fantasies (and my carefully chosen playlist) are going to sustain me throughout a labour that could potentially last for days.

I found out on the weekend the house H & I put an offer on (it got rejected) has now been sold. Despite telling myself I wasn’t emotionally attached and wasn’t going to budge on price, part of me was desperately hoping the owners would come back to us and change their minds, and I feel devastated and cheated that someone else now owns “our” house.

On a tour of the maternity ward the other day and the midwife mentioned that they have CD players “for you to play whatever it is that will help you get you through the pain.”

Ooh. I might be ambivalent about birth plans and needles etc but I do enjoy putting together playlists. Suddenly in my head I’m playing around with possibilities for a new one: Music to give birth to. This would sit neatly alongside the other playlists that have documented the past four years of my life, since procuring my first mp3 player:

I thought we had worked out our names. The girl’s name we decided within the first two weeks of finding out I was pregnant, and the boy’s name we found in a baby names book while standing on the train platform at Tunbridge Wells after visiting friends who’d loaned us the book. When we got home we plugged it into our respective spreadsheets and found that it was one of the very few boy’s names we both liked. Yes, spreadsheets. Colour coded.

Then in the middle of our six hour drive back from Kalgoorlie on Monday night, H tells me he’s gone off the boy’s name. And so here we are again, back to debating, bickering and making snide side swipes at each other.

For the past few years my inbox has been chaos – my unread messages usually hovered around the 1800 mark – I only opened emails from friends and family and even then I barely had time to reply. I had a crazy old life and I loved it.

I subscribed to everything but had time to read nothing. I would often lament the fact that Ticketmaster had sent me alerts about fantastic upcoming gigs and I’d only found out about it after all the tickets had sold out. But it felt nice walking past Tiger Tiger and seeing George Michael giving an impromptu performance, or just knowing that the Brit Awards were on down the road in Earls Court, or that with the right amount of dedication and money, you could – if you tried – get tickets to just about anything you fancied. London was the gig capital of the world.