And so, the longest residency I’ll ever be on begins.
At 11.35pm, 4 January 2024, Miki Mae Wright arrived 10 days early after an epic labour. But right on time it would seem.
Hints of labour begun around 9am, 3 January, and by 1pm, I felt the familiar cramps from the last miscarriage, every 12 minutes or so. By 8pm, I was on all fours each time a contraction swelled, with J giving my hips a squeeze while I exhaled through the 30 seconds it took for the pain to peak. By 10pm, I had emptied our tank of hot water in the shower. But it was a busy night at the hospital and when we were finally told that there were free beds – it was 2am when we got there; I was 5cm dilated.
In the busy-ness, it was only 4am before I got the gas, and was told it was too late to get anything stronger. I was 8cm, then I was 10cm. Through the night – time marked by the shift changes of the midwives that cared for us.
In the dark room of the birthing suite – between periods of sleep, daze and the awakening of a contraction – I bellowed like a blue whale in the deep ocean. Or at least what I imagined for myself – for something big, strong, primal and of deep time – to complete a task humans have performed for all their existence; I was in somewhat of a womb-like chamber myself – as if to birth this child, I was to also birth the mother that I would become.
My waters didn’t break, so we broke it. We were pushing for over 2 hours (I think), and I was exhausted. Almost 24 hours since I last woke up from a full night sleep, our heart rates begun to slow down.
“Get her out, I just want to sleep!”
Within minutes, an OBGYN assessment and a repeat of my famous last words, “Get her out, I just want to sleep!” – I said yes, and what felt like a dramatic SWAT team descending to get us to the other side.
At 11.35am, under the lights of the theatre, in my calmness of now having had a spinal, with the help of the forceps – she arrived; this squiggly creature placed on my chest with J next to me.
There were tears – of joy, of relief, of a chapter ending – of a chapter now beginning. Of knowing, I can now rest – even if briefly.
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The first week with her felt like that first week of a creative development – where you thought you had a great idea for this work, but then you’re in the studio staring into space, filled with imposter syndrome and you’re not sure where to start.
And you need to sleep so, so badly because this jet lag you are feeling is literally from an entire lifetime ago.
I am now a mother.
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“The days are long but the years are short” – we’ve been told by many. Already, this past month has whizzed by and the long night in the birthing suite feels like a distant memory.
As a breastfeeding parent, I spend a lot of time in my own head, with my own voice, to the sound of her breathing, sucking and swallowing.
There is a quiet loneliness in amongst this – but in every corner of this house that I might be feeding from, there is always an art work to gaze at, and I take comfort in that.
But as my dear friend Suzie Wylie – whose painting is one of the few I have the pleasure of drifting into – shares: the days bleed into the nights. Time marked by her feeds and sleeps, and chapters between the witching hour(s) and developmental leaps; everyday, a discovery of who she is and who she is about to be.
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I am reminded that already I am changed, and I wonder about who I am about to be.
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The thing is –
postpartum and caring for a new born are two different processes.
One is of healing and recovery, requiring you to be slow, quiet, to nestle.
One requires your optimum performance, to show up, so that she can nestle.
I can see how the many roles of grand/mother, aunties, the confinement nanny etc. come into play. The village with whom you can pass the baby around so that you may sleep and be fed, and focus on spending time with the baby in the least taxing way on your body.
And whilst I have at moments, craved some of that – I also have relished in the bubble in our home these early days.
To find our rhythm. To unravel that first 24 hours we went through. To negotiate the fast changing parameters.
And to get to know this new collaborator in the room.
To be fair – I also know that I like figuring things out – and relished the independence away from the roles of grand/mother, aunties, the confinement nanny etc.
But what surprised me most – is how innate and instinctive some parts of this parenting process has been so far.
And it is precisely in the roles of my grand/mother and aunties where I have witnessed, watched, listened, and by virtue of proximity – have learned the quiet lessons; it is through them that I have developed the tacit understanding and knowledge of care and caregiving.
That they are much closer than I realise, and I recognise their hands, their voices and their warmth in mine as I nurse and soothe this child.
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Days bleed into nights into years into generations.
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I’ll tell you what though – birthing is one skill you can only learn by doing, and given the time pressure of it, you pretty much surrender and take the leap.
Thankfully, parenting is a lot more slow time a process. And babies, as it appears, are a lot more robust – as dependent a creature as they may seem.
Between us all – parents and child and pup – we are learning to parent and be parented at the same time.
Which leaves us generous margins for all the things we know we don’t know, and all the things we don’t yet know.
So everyday, an improvisation, on rinse and repeat, review and iterate; a practice.
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Together with Allan, J and I have found our groove. We are smitten and joy fills our home.
On the greatest adventure we will ever have – welcome earth side Miki Mae Wright.