A Life Less Ordinary

To our dear Alex

You've been with us 8 weeks today. Well you’ve actually been with us a lot longer if you count the time it took for you to prove, rise and bake. We don’t count this time because you were pretty useless while you were gestating. You’re pretty useless now to be honest, but every day brings with it new developments you’ve mastered. Right now it’s focusing your eyes, holding your head up and smiling. These keep you pretty busy. But before we all know it, you’ll be able to wipe your own backside and nourish yourself with a menu beyond the limited culinary offerings of my mammories. And if you’re anything like the rest of the male species in this household, you’ll be teasing me in no time at all. For how I love to sob like a toddler watching Nashville and Grey’s Anatomy, my obsession with a spotless kitchen floor and the industrial looking spanx I wear to hold in all my jiggly bits. It all goes so quickly, this crazy thing called life. Right now though, for such a little soul you’ve transformed the dynamic of our family in a very significant way. We can’t remember what life was like before you arrived.

I thought I’d take some time to clue you in on a few rules of engagement for surviving your tenure in our cooked little household. A cheatsheet if you will. Your siblings have got their roles waxed. Granted they’ve had nearly a decade of combined practice. You’re coming in on the third intake. And it’s a tough crowd. You’re the new kid starting at a new school mid-way through the term. Everyone knows the drill. Everyone has their little cliques. You’ve got to somehow ease in and learn the ropes without being a pansy who gets pushed around. No mean feat my boy. Your mum’s got your back. Not too much mind, because a momma’s boy is the devil’s work and will bring you a world of pain of an entirely different nature. Think of these as guidelines, open to interpretation as you see fit.

Don’t be too quiet. Make your presence known. This lesson we’ve already learnt. The hard way. We took you to view a property we were looking to rent and when we got back into the car after we’d seen it, we suddenly realised we were missing something. You. We’d left you inside the house. We had to ask the agent all shame-faced to re-open the door so we could retrieve you, our 5 day old infant snuggled in the car seat we'd stashed in the corner of the lounge. We did this twice. Forgot you. The agent started getting all judgy-eyed on us. We haven’t heard from her again. Or there was the time we forgot you in the carrycase compartment of your pram parked outside our front door for 20 minutes while we had tea and cake inside with visiting family from South Africa. You’re a little chap, so your physical presence isn’t particularly robust. In the daytime, you sleep like the dead. It’s no wonder we forget you. There’s an awesome movie you’ll see one day with this memorable quote that goes: “nobody puts baby in the corner.” The line is meant to symbolise not hiding your talent and learning to shine. Well we do put you in the corner at the moment. But don’t let us – metaphorically speaking. Squawk. Remind us that you’re here. That you want to get on stage and dance like Patrick Swayze.     ** Reserve your squawking for between the hours of 8am and 8pm. Please and thank you. **

Drama is your friend. It’s here to stay, whether you have any thespian inclinations or not. Forget theatre of dreams, our home is a theatre of chaos. Whether it’s your sister screaming blue murder because I didn’t cut the crusts off her toast. Or she’s screaming blue murder because I did cut the crusts off her toast. Or when your big brother hollers his head off after she’s thrown his Transformer into the toilet. And she hollers her head off because he's clubbed her on the head as a result. Drama is an added extra on your ticket into this family. The small print disclaimer one never bothers to read. Don’t try to query it. There are no returns or refunds. It’s just the way it works with family. Cool thing is you get to choose your friends a little later on. And you can befriend as calm and rational companions as you like. For now though, you’re stuck with the melodramatic madness of your kinfolk. Forewarned is forearmed.

Pain and discomfort are a healthy part of life. So whether it’s a stubbed toe, headlice, grey teeth or a head injury, we’re not a family who shies away from injury, personal or otherwise. Your siblings had to poke and prod every stitch of the scar left by my caesarian section. When my basal carcimona was removed, they were bleak when it started to heal. Your brother literally digs his wart out. The more blood and gore – the better it seems. Your circumcised penis gave you instant street cred. The fact that your junk looked so feral all swollen and red with that cap thing the doctor put on and the string designed to cut off the circulation, elevated you to cult status. You’re a hero. A wounded soldier. Use this power wisely. It will come in handy later when they want to use you to test drive their grand plan to slide down our stairs inside a cardboard box.

Peace and quiet was a state reserved for those 40 weeks you were snuggly settled in utero. Noise is your new normal now. Silence died. A brutal death. Your siblings were the murderers. They're the masters of the volume control in our home. I have a good go at raising the decibels every now and again. Usually when there’s a god-awful mess I’ve discovered or I’m trying to referee a brawl that involves spitting, punching and biting. Find a happy place in your head where you can retreat. And a theme song. Your birthsong could work. Mine is Ho Hey by the Lumineers. Your brother’s is Pharrell Williams’ Happy or Baha Men's Who Let the Dogs Out. Your sister’s is Paloma Faiths Only Love Can Hurt Like This and Meghan Trainor's All About That Bass. We don't judge each other's taste in music either. Or I'd never have married your father. He thinks Eminem is an artist who produces real music. 

Affection is non-negotiable in our house. You will be cuddled within an inch of your life. You’ll have no doubt already clocked this. We’re a cuddly clan. Your siblings pretty much maul you to pieces every chance they get. All in the name of affection. Embrace it. Literally. And give back as good as you get. We have a massive three-seater leather sofa that we all pile onto for cuddles and tickles and general maulings. You’ve got a spot there too. It’s small. But it’s all yours.

We don’t bath every day. We sometimes wear the same clothes two days in a row if they pass the smell test. We’re as ambivalent about health and safety as we are hygiene. We eat a lot of cinnamon buns. Your Dad has an unwavering reverence for Man United, whether they deserve it or not. Your siblings get naked. Often. Your mum spends a lot of time mopping and sweeping the floors. She moans about this. Loudly and often. We all enjoy braais and we need to get out to be exercised in the parks like dogs. Or we all get cranky. We laugh. Often. 

Welcome to the family little guy. The other day you arched a stream of pee directly onto your face and into your mouth. You looked startled for a moment. And we waited to see how you'd react. And... you beamed. You flashed us a massive gummy grin as if to say "Seriously guys. I see you and I raise you. Pee is nothing. Show me what else you got." Your Dad and I laughed uncontrollably. We laughed until our tummies ached. I peed a little in my pants. This happens. Three kids have wrecked my bladder control. I smile thinking about it. We are so proud. We reckon you'll be just fine. I look so forward to being a witness to your life less ordinary.

Lots of love, 

Mum

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthing babies, Miss Scarlett!”

So I recently gave birth to a baby. A lovely little chap – all 9 pounds of him. And as I quote Prissy in my heading from the classic Gone With the Wind, I too am as clueless about the whole birth thing. Even with my third tour in the trenches, I am no wiser to the whole process. I just have a broader context. More frame of reference. But I'm still clueless. We welcomed our third child five or so weeks ago. True to the life and times of Sally Anne Cook, my birth experience with the most recent addition to our brood was not without its fair share of drama. My son entered this world while the theatre staff were bopping and swaying to Wilson Phillips’ Hold On. I kid you not. It was cranking full blast from a boom box they’d stashed alongside the infant resuc table and a tray full of shiny metal tools. I sang along in a drug-induced haze. I imagined that I was tapping my foot and shaking my booty, aestheticised and a dead weight as they both were. This song is not a bad theme song for life and it became especially appropriate as our little oke had to spend the first 48 hours after his birth in neonatal with whafts of oxygen being squirted up his nose.

The crazy did not stop there. As we entered the theatre, my husband’s iphone died. It simply turned off and refused to turn on again. Fortunately we had mine. The very same one that enjoyed a trip in the lav. Our delivery room team comprised an Aussie anestheticist with his Saffa assistant, a Zimbo midwife, an Asian gynae and a British paed. It was like the United Nations in that room. At one point during the operation, I passed out. I always do. My lips went blue my husband said. My blood pressure plummeted. Machines started squawking. I saw stars. A few clicks of the good juice, and I was back. The music continued. I also thought that my heart was being ripped from my chest. This isn’t a metaphor, I genuinely believed the ferocious tugging was not only going to result in the detachment of a comfy foetus from my womb, but also the messy extraction of my heart. Possibly a lung or so too. A buy one get one free deal. I told the specialists as much. They chuckled and carried on with their extraction. Nodding in time to the tunes. I wasn’t joking. I kept expecting to see my kid clutching my pounding heart as he was pulled out. This paranoia may or may not have had something to do with the drugs. Can't be sure. I am as melodramatic without drugs.

Over the course of my three night, four day sojourn in the hospital, I saw some things I won’t forget in a hurry. Some good, some bad, some downright disturbing. This motherhood gig is like nothing else. And like most things, you’ve really got to experience it to fully appreciate the journey.

When you put a group of post-partum, hormone-crazed women in a room together, deprive them of sleep and all home comforts, there will be some sharing. Ok, so a lot of sharing. Descriptive blow-by-blow accounts of labour and all the bits associated with squeezing a human being from an orifice. Completely uncensored descriptions. No episiotomies barred. Every stitch shared. One woman described how her birth was so quick she’d blown a hole in her nether regions. Literally a hole. Sweet baby cheesus.

Catheter-wielding c-section inmates pad the corridors in question mark postures dragging clear bags of lurid yellow pee. I named my pee bag my designer accessory. I told the nurses it was a one-of-a-kind collector’s edition. They didn’t get it. No one else has the same DNA as me, I had to explain. So my bag was an exclusive - a Sally Cook Original. The joke was weak. I didn’t get a great response. I kept trying though. I'm nothing if not persistent, especially with jokes in bad taste. 

And then there’s the lactating. Mammories out, all shapes and sizes. Lots of manual expressing going on and a whole lot of colostrum comparisons. Debates about the state of nipples. And then the heat. Screw hospital ward, boiler room is a more appropriate description. One night at around 2am, I woke in a pool of wet. I was soaked through. I called the nurse and weepily informed her that unless she turned the heating down, I was going to die. Literally burn to death. I told her that spontaneous human combustion really existed. I’d seen it on The Daily Mail. I have the app on my phone. I offered to show her. She tut-tutted, mopped my brow and promised to do her best. I imagined the temperature cooled a few degrees and returned to a feverish doze. In the morning I discovered that the heating is fixed at a certain temperature in the hospital. Not even God can change it. 

Lights blaze at all hours. Alarms. Babies crying. Snoring that you can’t believe comes from womenfolk and not the Gruffalo or his brethren. Groaning. Weeping. And then there was the lady who shat the bed. Twice. And the babies. The little ones in neonatal. 1.6 kilograms of human being. Mothers who live in hope. Who forgo sleep and food to sit alongside their child’s crib, watching the machine’s every digit. And pray.

Women from all walks of life arrive perfect strangers and depart having shared the most intimate of experiences. In technicolour detail. Part of you knows that you’ll never see each other again. And that’s possibly why you’ll freely share whether you’ve had a bowel movement, how many milligrams of custard-yellow colostrum you’ve drained from your mammories and whether your baby’s poo is still black or has progressed to the green stage. National Geographic has nothing on a maternity ward.

I left the hospital a few shades of shame poorer, but a beautiful baby boy richer. Armed with my single pack of Ibuprofen and Paracetemol – the NHS’s answer to c-section pain relief, I relaxed squashed between the two car seats of my youngest children. Every mile we ventured further from the hospital and closer to home, I could feel the awkwardness dissipate. That’s until the very next day when I sent my husband in search of a nipple shield. He called me from the store all quiet-voiced and sheepish. “Sal, they don’t sell them here,” he said. “Yes they do” I replied. “I saw them two weeks ago. They definitely sell them. Just ask someone.” He replied, “I did. They say they definitely have never and will never sell nipple caps. They’re not that kind of store. They suggest we try online for adult entertainment merchandise.”  

Ah, the joys of motherhood – as undignified, awkward and awesome as it is.

The boy