I was 24 when I gave birth to my first child – which to my mind was practically middle-aged, given that many of the friends I grew up with were already on their second or third.
I couldn’t wait for my very own baby to dress in tiny clothes, take naps with and breathe in that new baby scent, because regardless of human evolution we all love a good sniff of a baby’s head.
I was still a bit anxious about telling my parents I was pregnant because I wasn’t married, but I felt I was at a safe enough age to announce it without much fear of shame or blame.
Incidentally, my da’s response was to ask “Are you sure it’s yours?” before returning to his paper.
I always found it funny how, as little girls, we were given dolls and encouraged to play ‘mammy’ yet the second we became teenagers and asked to hold a baby, we were glared at and told not to be getting ideas about wanting one of our own.
It goes to show how much Ireland has changed given that I was congratulated on my announcement, whereas just 20 years earlier I may have ended up in laundry being beaten by a nun – or even worse, forced to marry.
By early September 2011 I was full of excitement at my son’s imminent arrival. Despite panic attacks and anxiety throughout my pregnancy, I figured everything would be great once the baby was here.
If you look up the word ‘naïve’ in the dictionary there should be a picture of me at nine months gone, with four extra chins and a smile on my face.
I often lament: “Ignorance was blissful when I didn’t know how big a set of forceps was – and where they had to go.”
After two days of gruelling labour, an emergency surgery and numerous stitches where I think they might have had to sew my butt cheeks and legs back on, I finally had my 6lb 9oz bundle of joy in my arms.
He was gorgeous, with a mop of jet black hair and big eyes that gave me no doubt as to the existence of God. Everything looked perfect. But I had never been more distraught in my life.
I was suddenly extremely aware that this new life was inextricably linked with mine and that he was now my only tether to this Earth.
I became fixated that I couldn’t go on living if anything happened to him and became very upset on the ward.
In fact, I now know that I was having a nervous breakdown, but apparently tears and panic were normal for all new mothers so I went home with my baby, pondering the fact that a dog owner needs to have a licence but I was allowed to carry this tiny person out of the building and the only requirement to leave was owning a car seat.
After a desperate bout of postnatal depression, laced with some psychosis which saw me walking to the doctor’s surgery in the rain because I ‘saw the devil’, I was prescribed anti-depressants, told to stop breastfeeding and referred back to a psychologist at the maternity hospital (appointment pending) before being sent home.
Had it not been for my oldest sister literally spoon-feeding me and keeping 24-hour watch, I’m not sure I would here today. Thank God my ma chose marriage and was allowed to keep her!
After years of campaigning, it was declared that Belfast is to become the first city in the north of Ireland to finally get a mother and baby unit – a mental health ward specifically designed for mothers to be with their newborns while they have the treatment they need to recover.
It’s been a year since the announcement and there is still no firm timeline as to when this facility will open, which I find appalling given that this is a matter of life and death for some women.
However, there have been improvements to services since and we may soon catch up with the rest of the UK in the provision of care for postnatal depression.
I had a wonderful time at a gig in Bristol last week called Aftermirth, a day-time comedy show for new parents who can bring their babies while indulging in levity and adult conversation.
We should really start one over here, although ironically part of the enjoyment for me was getting to spend a night away from my own kids.
What did I tell ye? I’m OK now. We do recover.