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Archive Category: PartyPie
The baby dollar
Sunday, 12 August 2007
This weekend has been somewhat devoted to the profligate spending of money on the unborn. It began when I stumbled on a pram (PRAM!! It freaks me out just to type it.) on ebay and recklessly hit the evil ‘Buy It Now’ button. The pram wasn’t too far from here, it was the exact model that had been recommended to us two weeks ago by someone who knows and there was enough money in our ‘bills’ account to cover it. We went and picked it up on the peninsula on Saturday, handed over the dough and hastily stuffed it in the back of the car. We both kept sneaking hunted glances at it as we noodled our way through Somers, Balnarring, Coolart and Moorooduc.
Mornington was a bit of a revelation to us. We’d only ever been to the industrial part of it, but this time went down to the bay. It’s gorgeous, and generally protected - a perfect place for a picnic and to go sailing in Moo. The shops there were kind of cool too - an apparent abundance of cafes, as well as a couple of bookshops. Mornington is nice.
Today M accompanied me to a ‘baby market’ in Berwick. It was a strange and freaky occasion!! There were a bazillion prams, bouncer things, and scads and scads of clothes. M and I had crack lessons from stallholders about what the sizes 00 and 0 correspond to in age, and then realised that it was sort of irrelevant because PartyPie might be a long stringy noodle of a baby or a fat little todger. There seems to be a distinct lack of bright coloured clothes (that aren’t pink or blue), so we just wandered the stalls pouncing on bright orange items and tiny sunhats. M got to investigate some modern cloth nappies that I’d been telling him about, and all in all, it wasn’t too scary. PartyPie scored some supercheap cool clothes that might fit during the correct seasons…or not, and we got a bit more used to the whole idea. Doesn’t stop me feeling like a strong gin, lime and tonic though.
My cups overfloweth…
Monday, 3 September 2007
Yes. We’re talking brassieres. The area of our lives that is taking on more debt than the car or the boat. Since May I have probably worked my way through at least five different cup sizes and two different backstrap sizes. How is this right or fair? How is it that in all the bucketloads of advice one is given in regard to growing your own alien, no one told me this was a possibility? It was mentioned that at some point one has to whack on one of those uncharismatic pieces of scaffolding with flip down access points – but NO ONE said:
“Oh, and by the way, as well as getting generally bigger, the girls will also get wider thus rendering the underwire a stabbing weapon of mass destruction. Just so you know.”
I read in various places that underwires were a no no, but L’s venerable obstetrician said, sensibly, that they were fine unless they caused discomfort. It was when I had to start using bandaids to cushion the poking into the wide bits that I recognised this truth. That was hard. Soft cups and I? We’ve never got along. But for comfort, I was prepared to compromise – as long as they came in black. But even by this point I had whimpered my way through increasing numbers of underwired misadventures – so there went about $200.
The first soft cup I put on lasted all of 90 minutes, when I tore it from my chest and left it in the middle of the lounge for a week so I could kick it every time I went past. I returned to the underwire. This was brief, and expensive. Take note: buying a bra online because a) it’s on sale, and b) because Oprah says it’s the biz, does not count for much when it finally arrives in the post and fails noticeably in general containment.
(I have fond thoughts that after PartyPie has been around for a while, I will work my way backwards through these numerous misdemenours and they will suddenly fit me for a month or two as I morph snap hopefully revert back to something resembling former somewhat svelter self.)
But I digress. I had begun with a singlet/bather top combo, progressed to underwires, gone for the soft cup, rejected it for further wiring and then still failed to realise my most basic mistake. The mistake based on the naïve belief that actually, my boobliliciousness could not feasibly continue. Each time my bra size increased, I was convinced that that was it. No more. And so, each time, I would rifle frenziedly through sale piles, and ebay, for the same bras in the same size. Which is how I came to have a drawer full of size 10 (and I hesitate to type it) Es. TEN E!!!
At this point, male readers will have the same expression they assume when standing in front of the fridge looking for something that might not have been put Right At The Front and is therefore Irretrievably Lost Forever. Females will be wincing. This is the correct response. Because there is nothing good about zipping from a B/C cup to an E in the space of three and a half months. NOTHING.
M finally took matters in hand (and no, that is not a double entendre, mainly due to the pure physical impossibility involved – there are no hands big enough) and we hit Myer in the city like a SWAT team. I sent him among the racks. After some initial bafflement, he emerged triumphant with a swag of 10Es in one hand and a bra fitting lady in the other. The latter took me into the change rooms, after showing M to the Husband’s Seat, where he settled with some relief.
The fitter was wily. She sighed while I coerced the girls into the corral, and stuck her finger under the backstrap like she was testing the temperature of soup.
“You’re not a 10E anymore,” she said, rendering M’s hard won pile of bras useless, “I’ll go and get you some size 12s.”
That’s when I knew that more money was about to haemorrhage from the credit card of doom. The one positive thing about the size 10E is that it is so weird (the 10 indicates the size around your ribs, the E indicates the cup size: i.e. you’re fairly slim with huge norgs) and this means you find them on sale racks. 12E, on the other hand, is almost run of the mill. So of course, the rack of Elle McPherson bras that were 50% off was full of 10Es, and not a single 12E. Of course.
The fitter lady came back. She held some of the underwire bras I had been looking at, now in size 12, and two scary shapeless looking swags of fabric. She watched as I tried on the trusty underwires, which did remarkably little due to the norg-width issue. Then she spoke.
“Just humour me and try on one of these.”
I realised that the shapeless fabric was, in fact, a maternity bra. And shuddered.
“You don’t have to buy it, I just want you to try it.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, this was no time for rhyme, and then boggled at the amount of hooks on the back.
“There are more hooks on the back to loosen it off as you get bigger.”
“Oh, no, that’s OK. I don’t plan on getting bigger.”
She smiled at me, and I concentrated on positioning the scaffolding. She hooked me in. Oh. My. God.
Sweet relief. SWEEEEEEEET relief.
She was nice enough not to say anything, but just snipped off the tags and told me to do myself a favour and leave it on. I bought it. It was $60 [sob] and stupidly, I could not justify buying two, so I bought a slightly cheaper preggo one in the same norgtastic size. M and I exited Myer Melbourne to the sound of trumpets.
And it was all fine for just over a month. Until now…
Today is brought to you by the letter ‘F’
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
To continue from my previous post, time had run out on my $60 black 12E number. (Yes. I’m still with the bra theme - please grant me some license, because I don’t think I’ve ever posted on this topic before.) Yesterday I left at lunchtime for the Hampton lingerie shop. Was there ever a better place? Were there ever two more helpful ladies? They poked sadly at my 12E and said I should never have been put in a 12, but unfortunately they didn’t have anything that big in a 10. I whimpered softly. What I needed, they said, was a 10F. [picks up self from floor]
After telling me I needed to put on some weight in areas other than my chest, they took pity on me. They took my 12E and one of them altered it overnight into a special fitted-just-for-me size (i.e. altered the circumference of the backstrap via a chop and a pleat and an overlocker. Or something). They gave me a brand new preggo bra to tide me over and sent me on my way. How’s that!?
I just went and picked up the 12E - now a modified sort-of 10F. Hallelujah brother!! All I needed was some customisation! They tried to charge me $5 for the alteration. I gave them ten. And my soul. And my first born 
And ordered another one - to be modified on arrival. Everything has started to feel a Whole Lot Better - let’s just hope that I am not back on the goldfish bowl loop of thinking that the boobaliciousness has now reined itself in. But it’s hard not to be hopeful because the guru ladies reckon this one might just get me through…
I think this is just the beginning…
Thursday, 27 September 2007
My mother is back from almost four months away, and of course is jubilant about the prospect of PartyPie. So guess which pile of presents is mine…
Prune juice. Remedy or ruse?
Wednesday, 3 October 2007
M and my friend E are the people in my life that muse upon poo. E will relate enthusiastically about the time she nearly blocked a Sydney toilet with the worlds most unflushable borry stonker, while M can sit playing the guitar for hours working the word ‘poo’ into every song. It was not something I really participated in until now, and obviously, I went immediately to E for advice.
“Prune juice,” she told me, “Half a glass with some hot water in it and a squeeze of lemon.”
“Ah ha!” I thought, “Another way for me to try and eat fruit. Good.”
M, sick of my whinging, went out to the supermarket in his beloved new set of wheels and came back with six one litre bottles of 100% prune juice. I looked at them, and they sat there complacently. Similar to what was happening with my internal organs. Personally I didn’t think half a glass of this stuff was going to get my problem anywhere near fixed, so I tossed back two glasses… and then spent the night with my insides feeling like some gaseous mud swamp. And that was it.
Yesterday, M had some prune juice with his breakfast, and returned twelve hours later looking hunted.
“I think you’re right,” he said [how I love hearing that phrase]. “I was using power tools and had my mask and headphones on, but I could tell that the prune juice had got to me, because I could feel my butt making sharp guttural barking noises. About ten minutes later I stopped work, took off my mask and almost passed out from the swamp smell.”
I was rolling on the floor. “But DID YOU POO?”
He looked thoughtful. “No, no I didn’t. My butt just started acting like some choked up outboard motor.”
I forgave him the the inevitable boat analogy [excuse me for the pun] and delicately indicated that this, indeed, was what had happened to me. Although my butt was a Tohatsu 2.5 horsepower, while his sounded more like a Yahmaha 40. Regardless of this, it seems that E has a special relationship with the juice of the prune that others are sadly unable to replicate. And so it’s back to lots of water and some black coffee.
Mester Trine
Monday, 15 October 2007
Happy third trimester to PartyPie and I. Both of us have been fairly secure in our state of denial up until now, but there has been a growth spurt and it is now impossible to ignore the fact that I am with bump. We are going away in a few days and I freaked myself out by trying on some swimmers I bought a few months back. Yike! There will be a sighting of a minke whale in northern New South Wales early next week. And that will be me.
I am waging a continuing war using prunely goodness, hot water with lemon and paddock walking, but neither side is winning so far. Thus I am closer to becoming the person my mother always wished for – a fruit lover. As I was attacked by a pineapple (ate too much, came out in full body rash) I have redirected my fruit intake (and I can’t believe I even have one) to bananas and punnets of strawberries. And at least two litres of water a day. Am sick of thinking about my own self and associated inner mechanics and inhabitants. What I really would like is a plate of sushi and a bottle of Giesen. All to myself.
Get your votes in!
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Finally there is some disparity in my little ‘Vote What and When’ poll for PartyPie over on the top right hand column. It appears that boy-child is marginally ahead in the voting. If you haven’t put in your vote - please do so now. The whole of Australia is frozen with anticipation. (OK. So it’s actually just me.) I went shopping in Frankston today and wore my iPod headphones everywhere so I could whale along without anyone asking me “when’s it due?” - but of course I had to take them off while I was talking to salespeople, and it did give me some perverse satisfaction to reply “MONDAY!” when they asked. Two of them backed away quite hurriedly. Ha!
Patience and punctuality. Both wildly overrated.
Monday, 7 January 2008
The day is now, the time is nigh, now where the hell is PartyPie? Yes. That’s right. I’m talking to you. The one on the inside. I know I have sworn not to turn this site into some kind of baby-blog-happy-nappy-cutefest, but I feel that on this date - the date on which all most calculations say that you are fully cooked, I can let discipline slide and write something to you here. A kind of online negotiation. Offer you a few suggestions…
If you decide to turn up tomorrow, which is what I would prefer, as I happen to think that having the birthdate 08/01/08 is pretty cool, I will not only be pleasantly charmed at your obedience, but I promise to remember that baby-on-the-outside sleep deprivation must be infinitely preferable to baby-on-the-inside-I-can’t-recall-ever-being-both-prone-and-comfortable.
And although I am destined to probably play the role of a 24/7 milk bar, I am comforted by the fact that the small amounts of sleep I may be lucky enough to achieve will not be hampered by feeling like a humpback whale trying to perform hapless callisthenics.
I tried to sleep outside today on my new red banana lounge, and the reason I knew that M was NOT watching out the window was the absent sound of hysterical laughter. The banana lounge and I finally agreed to differ. We are having a trial separation.
My need for sleep relates directly to the degree to which I become a satanic gargoyle in the mid to late afternoons. Nanna naps are key. Unfortunately there are some days where I feel peachy-fine, like yesterday, and can weave on to about 10pm sans nap - whereupon I toss and turn before finally getting up at about 2am to feed on krill.
Thus, the next day begins with gargoyle overtones, as I can’t sleep in due to aforementioned inability to be comfy. This is old news to the previously pregnant - and how witty of biology to make sure one is so thoroughly SICK of one’s status that one is willing to undergo almost any degree of torture to escape it. So, PartyPie, here it is - I exhort you to hurry the hell up and to ignore that ridiculous statistic that only five percent of babies arrive on their due date.
I am aware that genetically, you have a 50/50 chance of either being about nine days late (now that was hard to type, let alone contemplate) both due to my own personal arrival into the world and my generally relaxed feelings about punctuality) or about nine days early - which is directly represented by when M thinks we need to leave the Trailer to get anywhere ‘on time’.
However, as you didn’t arrive five days ago, I’m hoping for a blend of the above and that tomorrow will not only be my Aunt-in-Binginwarri’s-Birthday - but your birthday as well. I may even provide a cake.
Yours Sincerely,
Your Mothership and Current Vessel of Choice
Hello Zoe!
Friday, 11 January 2008
PartyPie became Zoe on Wednesday, 9 January 2008 at 10.09am. She was born in the water and weighed 8.3 pounds - also known as 3.7 kilograms - and was 51 centimetres long (20 inches). Practically a tapeworm! M was beyond awesome and without him there would have been no birth! And Relle (our doula) was fantastic and one of the best decisions we made. (So was the decision to use Contraction Master).
M, Zoe and I waited out the hot weather until the change broke around midday today and left our little life at the hospital and went out into the proper world. I sat in the back with Z and M drove and we sang songs by the Shins. It was like we’d won the war. Both of us are quite incredulous, with side servings of euphoria and disbelief. In our rush to the hospital we forgot our phone chargers and so both phones had carked it by this morning - we’ve only just been able to plug them in and start listening to the most lovely messages from all our friends.
The 17 people who voted “It’s A Girl” are the obvious winners, and are therefore smarter, cooler and more highly intuitive than those who voted “It’s A Boy”… 
Ha! The actual discovery of this vital point was quite amusing - as M initally called it wrong and the midwives had to gently suggest he take another look. I will post a few pictures…when I can find ones that don’t feature my OH-MY-GOD-THEY’RE-ENORMOUS boobalicious action.
Presenting
Monday, 21 January 2008
It’s funny, having a new little person in the Trailer. I had been warned by people that PartyPie would get given stuff when it turned up, but I kind of didn’t understand. Now I do. This baby is some kind of present magnet. She has scored clothes, toys, bedding, a gold baby bracelet, a taggy, more clothes, more toys, more blankets… There is a plethora of pink - and please note, there was NO pink in the Trailer until the hatching. Note the washing line…
And at the same time, her present-magnet talent seems to have also rubbed off a bit on to M and I - generally in the form of being given fantastic food - but also in the shape of a Sony Handycam (no pressure, just film the kid…or ELSE), some body cream, and I also was the very grateful recipient of a membership to LibraryThing - something I have coveted for a-g-e-s. Thank you Mr H.
Just for general information, food that I have eaten in the last two weeks has included Every Single Thing that I was prohibited from consuming for the past nine months. I began with D’Affinois at the birth centre - although the odd thing is - the first thing I ate after the event was a Savoy cracker biscuit, and it was very nearly the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Odd. Then I had california rolls. So, with the help of some very generous and accommodating people I have also ingested copious amounts of sashimi, brie, blue cheese, oysters, smoked trout, more sashimi - and these are just the ones that were previously illegal. My tummy is so happy it has almost forgiven me for stretching it way on past the outer limits… And I am yet to get to the Piper-Heidsieck champagne, as I am saving it for my own personal use at a later date.
P.S For some reason I am yet to determine, I started writing this entry at least THREE DAYS AGO. I am trying to wrangle my life into control, but I am becoming increasingly aware that I have to try to stop starting a plethora of things that I won’t finish and narrow my focus down to just a few things. Gah. Carrying these eyebags is making me thirsty.
We shall fight them on the beaches…
Thursday, 24 January 2008
God knows what people did before Google. If M and I have queries about our current situation, we refer to our search engine of choice. Google - a parenting tool. Who knew? Today M was telling me about the signs that a baby is unwell or dehydrated or both.
“Yes,” he said knowledgeably, “If they are listless or their patternelle is sunken, that’s a bad thing.”
I choked. “Sorry? Their what is sunken?”
“Their…um…patternelle?” He had become cautious in the face of my growing mirth.
“PATTERNELLE? What’s that then? Is that what it’s called because that’s where you pat it? On the patternelle?”
“Shut up! Shut up!” He was pouting. “Stop laughing and just tell me what it’s called.”
I took a deep breath. “Well. That is actually completely accurate. From now on, it will be known everywhere as… the patternelle!”
“OK. Yeah. Right. So I’m wrong.” A pause. “Is it a dardanelle?”
I fell to the floor and began to roll.
M was amused despite himself. “Yes - that’s it. A dardanelle!”
I was gurgling. “So there on Z’s head is somewhere they fought about in World War I? Her own little dardanelle? I’m happy with that. I will relinquish the patternelle for the dardanelle. I didn’t think you could do better, but I was wrong. So wrong.”
It took me some time to compose myself, and while I pulled myself together, M figured out the word. Fontanelle. FONTANELLE.
I found it all the more hilarious as we had been poking Z’s growing double chin the previous day; calling her Winston Churchill while declaiming ‘we shall fight them on the beaches…’ (which our friend Google now informs me is a misquote anyway). Google, google, google.
Where have I been? Where I have been.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
ARGH! Small Z is ONE MONTH OLD on WEDNESDAY. On Wednesday? On Wednesday. This is impossible but true. I have been feeding something that used to live inside me every two hours or so for ONE MONTH. And this is why I have decided that the delicate shade of the purple smudges under my eyes suits me. My new favourite colour - if it was a paint it would be Lavender On Dusk.
So besides my milk-bar duties? We have been busy attending family birthdays with casual abandon, clawing our way through the nights and watching the days slip through our fingers with thinly disguised disbelief. It’s all a bit sad, happy and bizarre, mixed up into a flavoursome milkshake.
Today Z and I went for our first solo adventure into town (and when I say ‘town’ I mean the one where I work - about an hour’s drive away). Yes, we could have just gone into the cultural mecca that is Cranbourne - but I had an appointment with my osteopath. When the relaxin from being pg left my body, my two favourite and competing afflictions came straight back - dodgy left jaw and suspect right shoulder. Gah.
On the way in I stopped to get some diesel at the petrol station and discovered something that I had not known about before - hi-flow diesel. This is a diesel delivery system that is designed to freak out the sleep deprived. The nozzle barely fit into the inlet on the car, and in about five seconds the gauge read about 30 dollars. Huh? For a few minutes I was convinced that the person before me still had their amount on the pump - but no - it’s just a super fast pump that splashes diesel all over your hands when it has finished. It was only later that I realised the parallelism…
Z and I met my mum (Z’s nan - ha ha hee!) before my appointment and Z duly milked two fancy new dresses out of her in the first hour. The weird thing about my mother is that she seems to be somewhat of a baby-whisperer and Z slept on her in the waiting room throughout my 45 minute appointment. We then did lunch (I am getting more and more used to showing my breasts to people in cafes - say hello to Mountain One and Mountain Two, world…) and, after my mum had chased a Very Large Huntsman off the car, Z and I went to L’s to visit.
Generally our day out was good - although the traffic home was dire. It was a little bit hard schlepping all the baby crud around with me, but I think this was mostly because I had Z in a sling - we haven’t used the pram yet. However, the instructional point of the day was my discovery that my boobs have a mechanical doppelganger - the Hi-Flow Diesel! Poor Z tries her best with my Hi-Flow but often just splutters at the onslaught of milk and has to take breaks just to cope with the whole experience. Of course, she is already very feisty and feels obliged to narrate her existence with the worlds most weird piratical grunts and R2D2-esque chirping - being semi-drowned by her one food group leaves her sounding like a scavenging brown bear…
Oversupply & Doctor with God Complex
Saturday, 23 February 2008
About a month ago we saw a lactation consultant on the advice of our Maternal & Child Health Nurse (MCHN). Since birth, PartyPie had only fed for a maximum of ten minutes on one boob and wouldn’t ever take the other side. I know that size of boobs is irrelevant to milk supply, but the girls were really cranking - PartyPie would often pull away and streams of milk would shoot either across the room or into her head.
By the time she was two or three weeks old she was having tummy pain. The lactation consultant was ace, and said that I had an oversupply of milk which caused lactose overload (something often confused with lactose intolerance). What this means in terms of PartyPie stomach pain is fairly simple. Breastmilk is lower in fat at the beginning of a feed, and this low fat milk is also very sugary. This is often called the ‘foremilk’. Once the baby gets through the foremilk, the milk becomes creamier and fattier - this is called the ‘hindmilk’. It is the hindmilk that really satisfies the baby and fills them up.
Being a newborn, PartyPie’s tiny stomach could only hold about ten minutes worth of my mega gushing milk - and so she only ever got the low fat sugary foremilk. This went through her very fast, and made her hungry again soon after feeding. It also gave her horrible stomach pain. She was having up to maybe 15 wet nappies a day and scary, fizzy poo. The pain in her tummy would make her scream - and generally being a pretty chilled out baby, having her screaming in pain, writhing and trying to climb up our chests was truly awful.
The lactation consultant suggested that we do ‘block feeding’. This just meant that instead of swapping boobs from feed to feed, I was to keep her on the same boob every time she ate during a three hour block. Then swap, and do the same thing. This also meant that my milk supply wasn’t being stimulated so often and it would thus settle down, and that she would be getting to the hindmilk.
This settled things down within a day or two. The scary poo stopped. The stomach pain stopped. In retrospect, the oversupply persisted, but we didn’t recognise this at the time - and I went back to sort of a mix of block feeding and swapping from one boob to another each feed. Things then got worse - instead of scary poo PartyPie began straining desperately to make poo. She would groan and whimper in her sleep, and wouldn’t be able to stay on the boob during a feed because she was straining so hard. She became a farting machine. (I have to point out here that it’s fine for breastfed babies not to poo for weeks at a time - this wasn’t the problem - it was the straining and pain that was the issue.) The pain was very cyclical and would disappear and she would go back to being a happy little button.
When she did manage to poo it was not an issue, and it was not hard or weird. She was not constipated, she just had terrible gut-acheing pain with straining. The MCHN suggested tummy massage, warm deep baths, massaging her legs and, if this didn’t work, some warm water with a bit of brown sugar in it. The last suggestion is for constipation, so we didn’t try it. Massage helped a little, but not really. At our six week check up with the GP/Obstetrician on Wednesday I was taken off dairy, nuts and iron supplements. I admitted to eating a plethora of sashimi, and so was taken off raw fish as well [sob]. An appointment was made with a paediatrician next week. It was suggested we video PartyPie’s tummy pain in case she didn’t turn it on when she was examined
Yesterday, after a night of PartyPie being really distressed and screaming with pain, we called the birth centre she was born at - they said if we were concerned, we should bring her in to the emergency department. We jumped in the car and spent the next 90 minutes sitting in emergency at Casey Hospital in Berwick. We were seen by a doctor. Naturally you can’t expect doctors in an emergency ward at 6am to be breastfeeding specialists, or even baby specialists - but you could reasonably expect them to listen, evaluate and not be instantly dismissive when told about the previous diagnosis of oversupply.
This doctor did not take one minute to listen to what we told him. He shook his head when I told him I had been taken off dairy, etc, and said that PartyPie was obviously lactose intolerant. M explained that this was not the case, as PartyPie was thriving in every other way - putting on weight, lots of wet nappies, reading the newspaper every morning etc. etc. The doctor told M he was wrong, and if that we didn’t want to listen to him that it wasn’t his problem. What we needed to do, he said, was put PartyPie on to lactose free formula. We looked at him blankly. Que?! He repeated that we needed to put PartyPie on to lactose free formula. M explained again that it was lactose overload and the doctor said we were basically idiots who had become too friendly with google (well, he didn’t actually say it, but he didn’t need to…).
With this suggestion he fulfilled all my suspicions of the medical profession dealing with babies and reinforced all the reasons why I chose to have a waterbirth in a birth centre attended only by midwives. Casey is supposed to be a baby-friendly hospital, but he wasn’t even people-friendly, and definitely was not going to listen to anyone other than himself. Arrogant fucker. I want to hunt him down, kneecap him, and make him read this, among other things.
We left, and sneaked on up to the birth centre to ask some midwives for their opinion. They said that as they only dealt with newborns, they couldn’t give medical advice; they were, however, horrified at the suggestion to whack PartyPie on lactose free formula. We talked to them for a while, and they were nice enough to even call us when we got home and make a few more suggestions.
Of course, during this whole time, PartyPie had been model baby and had not fussed or screamed or groaned at all and we definitely appeared to be over-anxious freaked out first parents. I had completely forgotten the advice I had read which said “If you go to the emergency department with your baby? Always tell them it’s your third child so that you’ll be taken seriously.” D’oh.
Anyway, M and I sat down and tried to nut out the problem. We came to the conclusion that we had probably not persisted long enough with the block feeding, and despite the fact that PartyPie no longer has scary poo (when she deigns to produce some) that her oversupply problems were still present. We returned to evil google and found a description of oversupply which listed 21 baby symptoms - 16 of which PartyPie has. The site did not say how to treat it, as it cautioned that a correct diagnosis needed to be made before going ahead with treatment.
Then I found an article in the International Breastfeeding Journal called Overabundant milk supply: an alternative way to intervene by full drainage and block feeding. The case studies it used were interesting. It suggested draining both boobs by pumping before commencing a block feeding regime. So that’s what I did (and using a breast pump is very weird, btw, and it took me ages and lots of deep relaxing breaths). This was at 2am last night.
The article mentioned that often when the baby feeds immediately after the breasts are emptied they get a decent feed of the fatty hindmilk and then go to sleep full and happy. This is pretty much what happened. So far, PartyPie has not had any tummy problems and has been sleeping well. We see the paediatrician on Monday. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
The reason I have gone into such elongated boring detail is to record it for myself, but also to help any other desperately googling overly milky person with a baby with a sore tummy - just in case it helps. And if you’re interested, this is a really cool article on colic from Dr Jack Newman’s site. I can’t believe I just typed that last sentence. Sigh.
________________________
M wants me to add that he still wants to move to the highlands of Papua New Guinea where it takes a village to raise a child and these sort of problems [i.e. colic] are relatively unknown. He also wants me to link to The Continuum Concept - a book he’s been going on about for around a billion years.
A sane doctor. And for this we are thankful.
Monday, 25 February 2008
The paediatrician was a dream. He looked like a character from a Roald Dahl book, kind of sketchy, gangly and wise; he took a thorough history, examined the PartyPie and asked lots of good questions. He knew that an oversupply of milk can cause digestive problems - even in a baby with properly working digestion (commonly called lactose overload); he also talked about how the baby’s digestive system can be damaged by gastro or an allergy via the mother’s diet.
He suggested that if it’s not a severe problem, it’s something that PartyPie might grow out of in a few weeks - and that it may be an option to start her early on solid foods. If there was a bad problem with her gut, she would not be gaining weight at the startling rate that she is currently - so this is a good thing. The paediatrician didn’t think we were newbie parent freaks, and said he would be in touch with test results.
Thus, we have to capture that most elusive of beasts - the Poo of the PartyPie - which will be tested, along with the less elusive wee, at the pathology place in Cranbourne. I am to continue on the dairy free diet (sob) to see if it makes a difference, to start taking iron again (hooray!) and to mainline some highgrade calcium supplements on a regular basis.
Since beginning with the block feeding (after the night of The Pumping) she has had a few episodes of gut horror, but on the whole, it seems to be considerably better. Now I just have to try to avoid having boobs like rockmelons It’s all good. PartyPie is a chilled out little bugger, who has taken to smiling (mostly at M) and who often giggles in her sleep.
SB, UFO - Arrives!
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
The title translates as Small Brother, Uncle From Overseas - Arrives! Actually, that should be ‘arrived’ ashe flew in this morning. His style can only be described as ‘casual chic while visiting the colonies’. Sweat from being chauffered in a non-airconditioned Humber added to the whole authenticity.
He met his new (and only) niece, and deemed her worthy of the loot ge had brought with him - EXCELLENT bib with her name on it and one of my cat drawings that used to grace these pages, a long sleeve t-shirt emblazoned “PARTYPIE”!! A very cool long armed and legged pink and green suit and TWO pairs of what must be the cutest and softest little leather shoes on the planet…
He is going to spend some time at the Trailer, and will no doubt be helping M return to the Land of Beer. Mmmm. I faintly recall that amber fluid.
Welcome to the World
Sunday, 16 March 2008
Yesterday we hosted a Welcome to the World party for Small Z. I have to admit - it was entirely organised by M, as I couldn’t bear to wrap my sapped and exhausted brain around the mere idea of putting on a ‘do’. M sent out the invites, cleared out the backyard (goodbye to Buns’ bunny compound) and bought some party supplies. My mum was amazing and provided two huge excellent salads (she is not known as the ’salad nazi’ for nothing), watermelon, and made an equally large pink iced chocolate cake (pictures to follow).
This was the picture he used on the invite. I kind of like it :o)
E contributed her famous chickpea salad, and everyone (including my Nan, who is here from Marblehead, Small Brother, who is here from London, and Relle - our lovely doula) gathered in our somewhat dry and dusty backyard, which looks on to the paddocks.
T and Small Brother made sure everyone was equipped with champagne, and the weather was startlingly cooperative. M had worked hard on what he wanted to say and I had decided that I would also speak a few short words. M primed a few people to contribute a poem to welcoming Zoe, and E, PGR and my mum (as tribal nanna) all spoke. It was actually quite an exceptional occasion. I welcomed Small Z to the world and remarked on the fact that I have found her personality laden, intriguing and alarmingly adorable since the time of her arrival - I also introduced Small Brother (whom not everyone knows, due to his London lifestyle) and made it known that should M and I be hit by a stray asteroid, it will be he who takes over Small Z wrangling - his title? Spare Parent. Ha!
I wetted Small Z’s head with a little bit of champagne, and DJ finished off proceedings with a poem he had thoughtfulliy and humorously penned in the back of his street directory. We all barbequed, drank and nattered into the night. It was great to see my Nan meeting all our mates, and Small Z’s other baby friends (Small E and Chloe Rose) were also in attendance.
It was a day that I couldn’t have put together, but I’m so grateful that M did. Almost everyone remembered to write in the Special Book that I’m going to keep as a record of Zoe’s first year. It was a lovely day; because of the people who came along (M referred to them as “Zoe’s Tribe”) and also because of why they came. M finished his welcome speech with this:
William Blake put childhood this way:
To see the World in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
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*Salad Nazi: someone who repeatedly forces their salad upon you e.g. “Have you had some of the green salad? Have more of the green salad. Hey, I don’t think you eat enough salad. Do you want to finish off that salad?”
From the trenches
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
I have been going to Mother’s Group. Yes. Twice. It is less freaky, and more bearable than I had thought possible. There is even a girl there who I think is very nice. Yet my mind still struggles with the fact that all members of my mother’s group seem to live in this area of their own free will. They are not living here in order to build a large catamaran. Anyway. The trenches. Yes. Yesterday I was in the Somme.
Small Z did not have a lengthy relationship with sleep yesterday, as each time she seemed about to have any, I had to drag her in and out of the car. For a baby that only really chucks a mayhem at arsenic hour, having a sad little bugger shackled in the back of the car when you have to drive an hour from home and then an hour back is probably quite close to my idea of hell. First we went to the mother’s group, and then had to drive into town for me to drop off my work files and collect more. By that stage she was very miserable, and SO tired.
L at work held her for a bit just as I was sorting out my stuff to leave and she fell asleep. I took her, still asleep, and put her in the CAPSULE OF EVIL (i.e. the carseat) whereupon she awoke and was yelling. I drove grimly toward my mother’s house, about a four minute drive from my work. Of course, just as I rounded the corner of the side street to my mum’s, she fell asleep. Naturally, I could not then stop the car, because that would have awoken the Kraken of the deep. So I called my mum and said we wouldn’t be stopping by. She was very indignant, as she had stayed home all afternoon waiting and did not know of my dire and horrible day…I screamed unintelligibly into the phone and threw it across the car, and then drove around for ages, too scared to get stuck in peak hour traffic on the way home, but too scared to turn off the engine.
I called L. Small C is seven months now, so she has been in the trenches recently, and still enters them regularly. SHe was sensible. “Come here, I will make us a cup of tea, and if you don’t want to turn off the car, then leave it running in the driveway.”
So I did. Of course, after ten minutes the Kraken awoke, but then we walked down and got some takeaway Indian to have back at the trailer, and L gave me tea and Small C lent Small Z her change table. It was all convivial, and saved my sanity.
The drive home was almost another epic. Poor little Z was so sick of being in the carseat, and was so tired she was beside herself (an interesting phrase). I drove into the Bunnings carpark near Cheltenham and drove backwards and forwards over a speedhump, which was an effective soporific. I had to pull over once more on our journey. By the time we hit Cranbourne she was asleep, but threatened to mutiny at every traffic light; so as I drove through Cranbourne, each time I got near a set of red lights, I would veer off into the car parks and petrol stations on the left, just to keep driving - because this time I was unable to cope with any more backseat traumas 
Finally we made it back to the Trailer. Small Z asleep. M got her out of the capsule, and for some reason did not put her straight in bed. She then mayhem-ed for the next three hours. All up, it was the hardest day I have had, and she has had, since her arrival. And it is for that reason we will be finding an alternative way to do things. Shoving her in the car for two hours when she is still such a tiny thing just so I can go and pick up files is TOO MUCH HARD WORK. M said that every time he telephoned me during the day it was as if I was a war correspondent in Iraq. There has to be a better way…
