Early morning notes

This'll all change the moment I write it down, I'm sure!

Right now, Alder wakes at about eight when two of his sisters get up for the day. He coos at them while I get up, and then falls back to sleep on one of them when we get downstairs. I get to have breakfast, wash some dishes, prep ahead for meals later in the day, hang out the nappies from the evening wash, and set up anything we need for the day ahead. It's amazing having all these hands wanting to love on the baby, and him being so happy with them.

I have never been this organised, with a newborn in the house or otherwise. I mean I've not done my tax return or anything, but...

A birth story

It begins in a series of painful compromises, and a lot of anxiety. I was booked for induction on the 6th of December, at 42 weeks pregnant. The consultant listened to my history of short, spontaneous, hugely overdue labours, and told me that statistically if I hadn't gone into labour by ten days overdue I wouldn't at all and would have to be induced eventually. I've never been induced, and never gone into labour *before* ten days over. I felt horribly uncertain and worried and guilty.

Birthday season was upon us, and I knew if I declined intervention that day I would quite likely end up in hospital for several days over Morgan and Talia's birthdays. I wasn't comfortable going past 43 weeks, but 43 weeks would put me at Morgan's birthday as Alder had the same due date just eleven years later. There seemed to be only wrong answers. 

Eventually, I went home. As soon as I had decided to give myself a couple more days to think about it, I felt at peace again. I slept well, and only half roused when Martin left for work in the early hours of the morning. I had the clear, distinct thought that I should tell him I was having contractions - but I was more asleep than awake still and the waves were light. I drifted back to sleep.

When I woke at six I knew I was going to be having a baby soon. I let Martin know, and he started trying to make arrangements to redistribute his workload (work had refused to make any arrangements for cover because, and I quote, "we can't plan for what hasn't happened yet"). I swayed and walked through some very irregular contractions, then felt a very small "pop" and trickle of waters. I woke Jenna to help me, and she phoned her grandma to come over in case any of the kiddos didn't want to stick around later on. Then I phoned for a midwife, to be told the homebirth service had been cancelled overnight and a midwife wouldn't be available until 8am. Things were happening pretty fast and I wasn't convinced either a midwife or  Martin would be with us in time. My options were to wait for my mum and then phone an ambulance, or wait at home and prepare to birth unassisted just in case nobody got to us in time. (Not something we hadn't considered, anyhow, given how quickly Talia arrived!)

Jenna set out a waterproof sheet, found me a towel to sit on, calmly let grandma know there wouldn't be a midwife for a while, put lavender oil in the diffuser, and made sure I had something to drink. She was unbelievably poised and reassuring, in spite of later telling me she was running through all the things she knows about birth and quietly hoping we wouldn't be alone.

My mum arrived, followed mercifully by a midwife who told my (now two!) assembled supporters that she didn't think they'd have time to set up the birth pool. I didn't think so either, but I was starting to feel both slightly spacey and a bit uncomfortable that Martin might not make it home in time. I was mainly labouring leaning forwards on my elbows, trying to get some breathing space between contractions which were occasionally coming one after another without any real break from the intensity.

At some point the new shift of midwives arrived (the first had been at the end of a hospital shift and had come out anyway, hearing I would otherwise be alone) and one was a soft voice I knew from Talia's birth. I was almost fully turned inwards by then, barely aware of voices as distant irrelevant things in a world of powerful surges and shifting within me. I felt Martin's arms around me, and leaned in to him, feeling fully safe and ready for the first time. I had been in labour for about three hours in total by that point but it felt both incredibly fast and endless. 

I have no idea how the last part of my labour passed, right up until I recall refusing a sip of water followed by being aware that my body was bearing down and a HUGE splash of clear waters, and the satisfying weight of a head fully birthed. Then a pause, the first gap in contractions in hours, and a midwife offered me an arm to help me change positions. I gathered later they were concerned about the wait, but at the time I was quite happy to move now I was finally not contracting back to back, and I held on to her arms to move myself, aware of Martin supporting my back. Baby just slid out without a push from me, caught by several hands and then in mine. A heavy soft slippery warm real presence in my arms, my eyes still closed, everything in the entire world irrelevant for a moment.

Hands, my family there patting me on the back (quite literally, darling strange children), the midwives sending children running for another towel, a fresh drink for me (water has never tasted so wonderful after an intense labour and eight months of acid-taste!), and all the while just gazing at a tiny pink confused puffy face with huge dark grey eyes.

I felt like a warrior. I could have done *anything* in that moment.

Walking to the sofa with shaking legs, after birthing the placenta and exclaiming over having a son and all four sisters having a little happy cry, turned out to be quite enough anything for a while. Of course. And then we weighed the little pudding and discovered he was actually 10lb 4oz. Heck yes I grew that whilst suffering hyperemesis. Somehow.

It took over a day to name him. And almost a month later I can still barely believe we get to keep him. But the second I held him, it was pure overwhelming love and such a sense of rightness. I can't imagine our family without him.

Alder Luc. Welcome, welcome, tiny one.

I miss me

One thing that I have completely underestimated about this pregnancy is how much of my self esteem is dependent upon what I'm able to do, achieve, and produce. The vision of myself as someone who is more resilient and healthy than ever, who is more capable of carrying on doing the things I feel needs doing through another difficult period of illness, turned out to be a complete illusion. I was feeling so much better, emotionally speaking, because as my children got older I was simply able to see the results of the work I was doing. My life was more measurable, and hence I was more mentally well and strong and all of those things I thought were due to some inner work I had mastered, some level of peace I had won.

I have had a difficult reality check. Not only hyperemesis and its accompanying exhaustion and mental burden. But also much worse sickness, and longer lasting, than in my last two pregnancies (I had utterly convinced myself that each pregnancy was slightly better than the previous and therefore *surely* I would only be a vomity mess for about sixteen weeks this time - wrong)!

Even though medication has reduced the sickness to a level where I no longer feel like I'm dying (not an exaggeration) and am able to stay hydrated enough not to worry for the safety of my baby, I am still utterly wiped out and prone to needing a nap lest I start vomiting again later in the day in spite of the medicine. This week I have had bad days, where medication and indeed everything else I consumed didn't stay down. I have spent more time horizontal, and not gracefully. I have resented the heck out of it.

I am extremely unproductive. I'm behind with work. I'm trying not to look too closely at the piles of laundry and general crunchiness of the house. I dropped out of Index Card a Day after less than a week. I haven't journalled or even written a page in my bullet-journal-ish household notebook for weeks. I'm in bed by nine almost every night. Some days I can't point to a single thing I actually did.

Yes, I'm taking it quite hard.

Call this my training for being glued to a needy tiny human for a few months, if you like. Though I have to say that will feel significantly more voluntary than this does, albeit due to the same tiny human. I miss being able to predict what I will be able to get done. I miss feeling like a reasonably good parent.

I miss the sense of self I gained from doing.

Seven Days of oh so much chaos

1: I finished a long-hibernated project, a Hogwarts Express for Jenna
2: A dye day
3: Morgan plus stamps
4: Pretending to be an Easter Tree
5: A little block rabbit
6: Yeah. So, they pulled *everything* out again...

Wordless, again

It's done. I can't pretty it up yet or wrap the right words around the raw spiky places. As emergency surgery goes it was easy and she's fine now the half-teeth are gone. As fine as a stubborn and extremely miffed five year old can be when she lacks the vocabulary to express discomfort and just howls and howls for hours at a time.

I've been so anxious about this I haven't even written about her birthday, or Christmas knitting, or crafts, or the learning they are all engaged in. I feel really stuck. At least now it's more literally physically stuck what with trying to make her immediate world feel a little less horrible - rather than the emotional stuck of not-really-coping-with-anything and awaiting boiler repairs and surgery and landlord's inspection and more appointments at the same time as getting last orders out and saying goodbye to my mum as she flies out to Estonia to meet my new nephew...

Oh look, a few dozen words. Quick, shut them down before they overflow everywhere.

Fourteen years in love

It is absolutely ridiculous that we have been together that long, and married for all but six months of that, it really is. As time goes on I have less and less wisdom to share about building a healthy happy marriage, but not because we're not healthy and happy.

All of the wise counsel, all of the philosophising about the nature of love, none of it helped in the really tough almost-impossible times of hopeless crying, and in all of these peaceful growing comfortable times I don't often think to affirm that I'm happy and things are good.

The biggest conclusion I have come to in fourteen years is that happiness depends primarily on putting in the deep hard work to not behave badly towards people ourselves, and on being lucky. That's it. We can't change other people or force them to accept the ways in which we change.

We're still doing this thing together, growing up a bit along the way, and trying to always be a bit kinder and a bit more generous with each other. It's still just as wonderful as that teenage love-at-first-sight.

Adulting

Self care right now looks like remembering to take my vitamins and writing lots and lots of rainbow coloured lists in the hopes of not forgetting a bill or an order or a household task. My phone pings to remind me to carve out time with each child. There isn't a lot more I can let go of, so these are my priority spinning plates right now. So far, apart from the council tax bouncing and subsequent week of being extra careful and working out how to make meals from the cupboards for seven days, I'm doing okay and my general anxiety is back under control.

That makes it sound like a wayward pet.

I'm not sure I'm with the depersonalisation trend in mental health. This is my mind. It frames everything that happens to me, consolidates it, sorts and categorises it. I don't like being depressed and anxious, I'm not clinging to this identity, I would rather be well. But it is an identity in a sense. It's me; I'm working with (and sometimes against) myself.

It's not a very popular view, that one. I've been told that I'm not depressed and just need to pull myself together, or that I should talk about my conditions in a certain way if I'm serious about getting well. Fuck that noise.

I want to be well. More than that, I am planning to be well. I know how to get myself there. I don't know how to keep it gone for good, but let's get back there first. Safe, stable. I'm not stupid, I know I need to be healthy again and my family need me. (End or mental health rant/Public Service Announcement, I really did intend not to do that again but oh well!)

I have jumped on the Habitica bandwagon, which has miraculously kept me actually remembering to eat and drink water regularly. I really love a good checklist!

That's where my head is at right now. Not the most coherent words ever, but authentic and written on a day where I feel both full of cold and yet oddly peaceful with the ups and downs. I hope it reassures those of you who've asked what my plan is and whether I'm coping with the random upsurge in down days.

I'm still here, still doing, still being.

My Life in Shoes

We are still not at a point in life where, when I say we are going out for some reason, everyone can locate a pair of shoes that actually fit them without a protracted search involving lifting furniture and a lot of people all doing things at cross-purposes and telling each other, "I already looked there!" as if outrage were some guarantee of efficacy.

If we have gone more than a month without anyone having a hole in one or both shoes, it was a while ago. Partly this is encouraged by the belief that I am a mind reader and that just *thinking* about needing new shoes makes them magically appear. Partly it's the lurching-from-paycheque-to-paycheque thing (yes, I know your feet are wet, we will get new shoes on Monday, could you not have worn your wellies just this once since you knew it was raining and all?).

The newest ones in this pile are Morgan's. She had a pair of black boots a month ago, but the uppers came away from the sole, as I knew they would when I spent £4 on them, but she was in love and would not be dissuaded. It was also the sixth shop we had been in, and I was bored. Morgan dislikes strange textures, those sewn-in labels, shoes that are shiny or delicate looking, and things that are no good for climbing. She rarely wears socks. Her shoes cannot have holes or flouncy bits stuck on. If I can't get big clumpy boots for her that have a zip (but a zip which will not touch her skin in any way) we are in trouble. Mercifully when the newish pair of very very cheap boots finally gave up, we were standing in Lidl next to a display of boys school shoes and she liked them and all was well with the world.

Jenna's are the blue ones. Adult shoes now, not children's ones. She's happy so long as they aren't black. She likes charity shop bargains and never has less than three different pairs.

Rowan wears wellies most of the year. Her current pair need the liner stuck down again, but they are a lovely bright yellow colour and she's really fond of them. The navy patent shoes are her backup and I have a suspicion they are a size too big but she absolutely swore that the correct size pair pinched her feet and honestly it seemed a silly point to argue for a child who is usually barefoot wherever remotely feasible.

Talia likes glitter and butterflies and novelty shoes with animal faces and boots that look like rainbow caterpillars and she LOVES pink. Her shoes are always dainty and cute, and always filthy.

Every week I gather these shoes from around my home. I dig the missing one out from behind a radiator, or pull it out of a park sandpit as we're trying to leave the park (and have been for an hour). I gather them together, lay them out, trip over them, tidy them away, and wonder how on earth someone managed to kick them off in such a way that one landed in the mop bucket.

One day they'll be gone. But, okay, in the meantime I reserve the right to curse under my breath the next time I fall over one in the kitchen or find one in the bath. Or maybe not even under my breath.

Tangled Mind

When do I say I've been just feeling a little bit odd and down, and when do I call it Depression and say it's back? I don't think I can ever even be sure when there's no touch of this darkness, these days.

Last year I was feeling so utterly great and struggling the least I ever had in my entire adult life when, WHAM, out of nowhere I spent a month so completely out of it and crying constantly and it was awful and I couldn't imagine feeling okay again ever. Clawing back from there took months. As we turned towards late Autumn again and Winter festivals hove into view I started feeling creative and alive again, started making plans and looking forwards to things.

This year has been much less extreme, but still, Summer has been Hard. I have been crying for no reason, and apologising for crying, and feeling sort of disconnected.

I don't have a problem with using the proper names for things. It's not stigma or a fear of giving my mental health conditions more power by naming them. It's just that I'm confused. Sometimes I can't say until much later, "yes I was depressed then" or "I felt a bit down about something proportional but that I couldn't put a finger in at the time and it totally passed after a while".

When I'm not certain, though, when I can only tentatively say, "I feel a bit sad but it's nothing much really," I don't ask for support and I forget to do the most basic ordinary things that help. Maybe the fact that I clearly feel I only deserve care when I legitimately can't cope with life at all is a sign that the depression never goes away.

Writing this feels ridiculously self-indulgent and I don't think anyone will want to hear it. What IS that??

Shut up, brain, I'm writing it anyway.

I've taken to writing myself check lists for the morning; drink water, take vitamins, make tea, clear kitchen surface, write something, EAT, check calendar. One foot in front of the other. Sitting with the feelings waiting until I'm certain before I go back to the doctors.

(But, okay, please don't advise me about treating my mental health conditions unless I ask you directly; after fifteen years I'm totally over been told I could definitely cure myself if only I did exactly what you/your friend/someone you read about online did. If it's simple I've tried it. If it isn't I've either tried it or do not have energy to spare on it, especially if there is zero evidence for effectiveness. I'm not rambling to the internets hoping someone will fix me, just processing my own wonky mind in my own way and happy to be heard if there's anyone there to hear.)

Which leads me on to: Being extroverted and depressed is crap. No energy to get out and do Peopleing. The less human contact, the less energy I have to spare. It's the worst kind of vicious circle knowing exactly what I can do to help my mental state, knowing what I need to feed myself, and just being utterly unable. I want to diverge into an analogy about being an artist and needing to create and at the same time having very young children and the feedback cycle of putting off creating until the itch mainly goes away and how sad that is.

Oh, look, I worked it out. I'm pretty sure I AM depressed again.

But I'm also on it and starting to turn a corner, and super well supported by my family and dear ones, and actually at a point where I can figure out words. Yay. That's progress for a short piece of navel gazing wittering, typing on a tiny phone screen, letting words pour out of me and rearrange themselves in my mind.

This still already ended up considerably more words than I set out to write. And I still didn't photograph my ICAD Summer art. Or any of the other things I wanted to write about. Hey, talking to myself sort of works for me though, so...

Four is a lot of children, though

Last year I had a few months of not feeling broody. It was the first time in my adult life I hadn't actively wanted a baby. It definitely made life easier.

The broodiness came back. Honestly, if I had more resources I think I could easily be one of those people who just keeps having another newborn every 2 years or so indefinitely. It's not that my hands aren't pretty damn full already, it's just that my rational brain points and laughs at how desperately my heart loves the idea of raising a house full of small people.

I wanted a fourth child intensely, could vividly see another person in this family of ours, and she is amazing. On the worst of days when I think I was probably never cut out for having kids I still don't regret having her. I was a pretty good mum of three. Sometimes I'm a pretty rubbish mum of four, albeit one who tries really hard and is making better choices all the freaking time.

Partly the broodiness is absolutely that I basically feel like a really competent, loving, awesome mum of babies. I can meet my own (stupidly high) expectations of what it means to be a perfect parent. Once they start getting bigger I question myself a lot more, and life is far less straightforwardly prioritised.

If that reasoning sounds incredibly selfish then, yeah. I don't know if there are non selfish reasons for having children really, given the state of the world. I'd like to think my children will maybe make the world a better place, but however I raise them I'm certain that's not entirely within my control (and probably shouldn't be). Hey, ask me in twenty years time how I did.

My love for my kids will still be pushing me to the only answer I can imagine giving: they were worth it. Love was worth it.

I wish I had five. I'm glad I don't.

Sometimes, I just want to create art

I want to do all the things, no matter how tired I am, no matter what work I have on or how the kids are or what size of laundry mountain is piled up waiting for my attention. During last week I woke up with a jolt at five in the morning with an entire artwork planned out in my head. I could picture it so vividly I ended up getting up to sketch ideas quickly before I lost the sense of urgency.

I can still see it in my mind's eye, so clear and simple.

A week later I've started, every couple of days adding a layer, and am at the stage of hating it and questioning why I think I'm an artist anyway (and considering throwing it away and starting over). Only the knowledge of having been through this process before is keeping me from taking a tub of gesso to the canvas and using it for something else.

I'm in the tired, introverted days of my monthly cycle. I found myself wishing, a couple of days ago, that I could send the children off somewhere for a couple of days so that I could just make something. Instead, I took them on the train to Nottingham to tour the art galleries, and then spent an entire day building train tracks and winding the crank handle on the giant tape measure for a small child to pull it out again. And giving myself over to being overwhelmed and present and not flinching from it was enough. It was enough.

Both the laundry and the art will wait. They will. Some days they have to.

Today I'm taking my brush to the canvas again. It's okay if it sucks. Tomorrow it might be just what I thought it would be. This is where I am, today. Beautiful mess. Vibrant chaos. Colourful disarray. Mothering as art. Art as mothering. Documenting the whirl of it, the essential hurry-up-and-wait of it, the beauty and the soul of being here now.

**Exhibits pictured: La Source (demi-teinte) by Simon Starling (part of his exhibition at the Nottingham Contemporary); Mother and son by Sam Rose, and below that, Nesting by Jessica Paige Greig (both part of Artist as Mother as Artist at the ncn Lace Market Gallery).**