Magic boobies

For the first time in my life, I have breasts worthy of the title 'hooters'.

They are multifunctional pieces of magic. Let me elaborate on their many miraculous uses:

1. As infant feeders.

I guess this is pretty obvious seeing as I've just had a baby. Breasts are not without their design flaws. Nipples seem to be unnecessarily delicate, for example. Who needs nerve endings anyway? (Sex? what sex?) But really, the positive feedback mechanism - the more they are emptied the more they full up - is nothing short of magical. They belong in fairytales.

2. As alarm clocks.

I always wondered how cows know when it's time to head to the milking shed. Now I know. My boobies swelled up on day 3, a phenomenon known as 'engorgement' (it should have a less ugly name than that). Boobies can learn apparently, and they have learnt my baby's feeding cycle. Now, should she fail to wake less than 3 hourly, my breasts wake me anyway by blowing themselves up like balloons and threatening to burst. Clever boobies.

3. As food catchers.

I know this may not seem like an advantage to you, but I've always wondered what it would be like to have cleavage that attracts food.  It's a novel experience dropping a crumb and watching it gently slide between two twin boulders. By the way, it's a little known scientific fact that being more unco is a side effect of breastfeeding. This is not the only use of enhanced cleavage, by the way - they also function as a receptacle for (tiny) roving hands.

4. As cushions.

Depending on posture, time after feed and swelling, this is either a good idea or bad idea. Why are cushions needed? They can act as baby headrest. Or as extra bolstering for when I suddenly pass out.

5. As decorative accessories.

I've never looked so shapely in a nightie before. The top half, anyway.  Unfortunately the involuting pokey-out belly spoils the effect somewhat. As do the engorged veins on my decotellage (as my husband charmingly points out - see Sex? Who needs sex? note above.)

Little fish has arrived!

(warning - slightly gory birth story follows.)

On Saturday night our daughter, Sofia Grace Glucina, was born.  She needed a bit of a push to arrive - after trying the usual spicy foods and hot baths with no result, I was induced at term because I was an older mum. We'd been told the process was usually slow and I wasn't looking forward to a long day or two - but at least we'd been to the DVD shop and taken out 8 DVDs of the 'romance' and 'general nostalgia' variety (Mark assuring me that this was the one time he'd agree to watch "The Notebook" with me. )

We managed one DVD before my contractions started getting really strong - so they had a look, decided to break my waters and sent me off to delivery suite. At this stage I was only 2 cm dilated and at the average rate of progress for first time mums, had about 8 hours to go. The anaesthetist was called to do an epidural - I've witnessed hundreds of births in my job as paediatrician and believe me, you can tell who's had an epidural and who hasn't.

But while waiting for him to come my contractions got even more intense. 35 minutes down the track I suddenly felt a tremendous urge and shouted out, "I want to do a poo!" (It wasn't my most poetic moment.) But it had the desired effect - the midwife dropped everything and couldn't get my legs open fast enough for a check - sure enough, I was fully dilated and the obstetrician was soon on her way. It was too late to have an epidural - so for me, whose birth plan was to be completely medicalised, avoid pain and have drugs all the way, it was 'natural childbirth' time. Ouchies.

"You're going to have your baby really soon now," the midwife said.  I nodded, but even though I pushed when they said, deep down I still didn't believe that someone wouldn't magically intervene and get the baby out for me.  It wasn't until they put the mirror between my legs and I could see the hair on her head appearing as I pushed that I realised that yep, this time there was no shirking - the only person who could push her out was me (well, with quite a lot of encouragement and an episiotomy, it turned out - though by that stage I really didn't care.) And if you're wondering if I pushed like the serene ladies with an epidural, the answer is no - I believe I shouted the place down and made my poor obstetrician deaf in one ear, while Mark (my wingman) soldiered on beside me with the water and the facecloth and the cold water spray. It was weird though. The pushing part didn't hurt, strangely - it was just damn hard work that only I could do.

But less than 12 hours after we'd checked into hospital, I was holding my newborn in my arms. I think my first emotion was disbelief. Even now I'm still getting used to the idea of having a baby, even though it's something I've hoped for and planned all my life.  Now she's here, and the feeling is so different to how I'd imagined it. I thought there'd be ecstasy - but what I have with my daughter and my husband is so much better.  It's the start of a lifetime relationship.  We're a new three. We're a family.

The cheongsam story

I've been meaning to write this story for ages, but underestimated the procrastinating power of a brain steeped in maternal hormones (well that's my line and I'm sticking to it.)

Way back in April, we went out to the French Cafe for Mark's birthday. I was only 6 months pregnant but was already sporting a respectable bump, one that wouldn't fit into most of the 'posh' clothes in my wardrobe. (The French Cafe is one of the most elegant restaurants in Auckland). Then I found my grandma's vintage cheongsam, which she made for herself out of cool retro fabric (well ok, it wasn't retro then - it was the height of fashion) and which has been hanging in my wardrobe waiting for the waist to be taken in. I zipped myself in and admired the view in my mirror - it fit my new curves with a surgical precision.

I arrived at the restaurant feeling ultra chic and sat down at our intimate table opposite my husband, who had shaved for the occasion and therefore was looking particularly hot. We started conversing in the low tones one reserves for such rarefied environments. The waiter glided in with the first course of our degustation menu. It was then that I noticed that the side zip on my grandma's dress was sliding ever-so-subtly southwards. Luckily, the table to my right was unoccupied and the heater was on, meaning I could easily hide the slippage.  I sat up straight and tugged the zip back up.

This started a battle of wills. Each of the nine courses would arrive and be consumed with melting, admiring tenderness by myself and Mark.  (Yes, the food is that good). The zip would sidle south trying not to be noticed; I would, similarly subtly, encourage it north. Unfortunately simple physics was against me. Baby+ food in stomach = bigger waistline, and by course number five the zip simply refused to budge from its position somewhere near my panty line. I grumpily put on my jacket for the remainder of the meal to avoid giving the waiter/other diners an undeserved eyeful. Not that the waiter would have given any sign that he was in the least bothered - it was the French Cafe after all.

Moral of the story? Wear only stretchy things when pregnant. And don't be too vain.

Tuesday Poem: After the shower

I am a map

a network
of blue-green
avenues

revealed
like invisible ink
by heat

tracing lines
to destinations
yet unknown

landmarks
that push
rise/subside

the small
imprint
of a foot

I'm no
good
at reading

maps

How to freak out a husband

A few days ago, Mark, having read the graphic book chapter I gave him on birthing, quietly went downstairs, got the roll of industrial-strength plastic that we used to waterproof our garage with, and covered our mattress in a double sheet of it. So now when I roll over in bed (every ten minutes) I make loud crinkly noises, in addition to the other noises which have been a feature of our bedroom for some time now (small grunts followed by satisfied exhalation as the bump overcomes momentum and settles into position as I try to change sides; surprised little 'ahs!' from me as the baby scrapes foot/hand/head along peritoneum; a shuffle-grunt-shuffle acompanying my Olympian efforts to get out of bed for yet another pee.)

It seems Mark's taken seriously the threat of catastrophic flooding, should my waters break. Even though this is much rarer than what the movies/TV would have you believe. He's also learning interesting new vocabulary like 'show', 'epidural', 'episiotomy' and 'engagement' (note to other father to bes: when your wife says "I think she's engaged", saying "really? I didn't think she was old enough," is unlikely to be funny.) And over the past week, I've been getting more and more Braxton-Hicks 'practice' contractions.

Anyway. Today while pottering around the house I felt a gush between my legs, went "Oooo" and looked down. The gush isn't that unusual (I can see all you ever-been-pregnant ladies reading this and nodding sagely). I did the usual thing - went to the loo to check the size and nature of this latest leakage. Looked up to see Mark frozen in the doorway.

"What?"
"Are you..OK?"
"Yeah.... why wouldn't I be?"
"Ok. Ok."

My bags still aren't packed for the hospital. Maybe I should soon, if only to stave off Murphy's Law.

Tuesday Poem: First Ball

three tight coils of baby cheeked freshness, bought for her by her mother. Primped, curled, sprayed with morning dew by the florist and tied with a bow in complementary shades. pinned rose petal against rose satin, ah the picture of innocent loveliness. 

going to the ball in the rain in the rain in the rain

one face, an older man with red hair. two songs by Bryan Adams. four beers, one of them spilt on her dress (but it was an accident). hands on her waist sliding downwards and down. run to the toilet petals still pert on her chest the morning dew long gone the innocence not long after. it was a silly dream. he didn’t kiss her. he’s still dancing with his mates. the petals silent now. the moistness dries.

three tight coils dried upside down and hanging her closet. coiled in embryonic waiting, they hang.

**

Apologies for my absence in verse. The act of swelling physically makes me swell with words and inspiration, too, but actually getting to the computer to start working on a new poem feels like far too ambitious a proposition in my brain-tired, third trimester state. Especially when there are other deadlines and projects jostling for the times when I don't feel like sleeping/watching zombie TV. But no more excuses!! Baby is imminent (I'm at 36 weeks and getting regular Braxton Hicks "practice" contractions, am convinced it's any day now - all the more so because I've also procrastinated on packing my hospital bag).

Anyway, this week I have posted a prose poem - semi true/semi fictional. As close to flash fiction as I have got so far. For more flash fiction, go to Tuesday Poem.

The Transit of Venus forum

 It's been a fairly lazy weekend - visits from friends and family, a rehearsal at TAPAC for Culture Clash, lots of sleeping and procrastination. I'm relieved to be home in Auckland and "staying home" from now until the baby arrives (and I'm presuming that the often-mentioned new mother fatigue will keep me home for a while after!).  I've been reading "new baby" books cover to cover, freaking out over detailed descriptions of labour pain, and collecting lots of compliments about The Belly (common comments:"You've still got that glow", "ooo, you're carrying quite low", "oo, you're big", and conversely, "you're quite compact.") For her part, Little Fish has been doing her bit by growing, so she's not really that little any more. She's also very, very wriggly and likes kicking Mark in the back when we're trying to sleep.


It's been a very busy 6 weeks before this. I was more or less doing back to back locums and conferences which meant lots of uncomfortable plane and car trips. Luckily it's all over now, although I'm still having to do stuff in Auckland.

Last weekend Mark and I returned from a trip to Gisborne (a meandering 7 hours' drive southeast) for the Transit of Venus Forum, a 4-day event which aimed to start conversations about how science could drive NZ forward.  It was a lovely event - a mix of community engagement events and more traditional 'conference' style proceedings, all run with idea of getting maximal input from/between attendees, the local East Coast community (who hosted us in Tolaga Bay on the day of the actual Transit, then attended the forum itself), and people watching the live webcast. I guess it remains to be seen whether the lofty goal of not only having the conversations, but getting the NZ public/policymakers to listen, will actually happen. But it was such a positive thing to be involved in and I felt entirely comfortable and in my element. I really hope the conversations will continue!

Here's the video of our day in Tolaga Bay observing the Transit and then taking part in local celebrations (including a hangi, yum) : you'll notice a cameo from Little Fish towards the end!



I was lucky enough to be asked to be a speaker at the forum and my session, the final one of the forum, focussed on "The People". Our speeches were kept short and to the point so as to encourage discussion rather than didactic speechmaking. Much harder for people to fall asleep that way!

Here's the text of my talk: (7 minutes!)

As you can see, I have a little private science project on the go, and I hope the results won’t be delivered before I get back to Auckland. 

As a mum-to-be, I have a lot of questions – what will my child be like? Will she have her father’s nose? And the big question, what will she be able to achieve?  I can tell you that being a paediatrician does not lessen all those hopes and fears – if anything, it makes me a little more paranoid.

So what are the things that influence a child as it grows up?  Each one of us is a complex tapestry - an interplay of genetics, physical and social environments – but it’s possible to tease out the common strands.

And that’s my subtle segue into talking about how we can use science to understand NZ’s greatest resource – ourselves, the people. I’m going to talk about longitudinal studies. What is a longitudinal study?

I like to use something called the onion model.

Here’s the individual with his or her cocktail of genes, cocooned in their whanau and immediate physical environment, interacting with their community, and then influenced by the layers of the wider environment – cultural, social, education, policy, environment and so on, at a national and then international level.  These influences change over time as a baby grows into an adult (so now the onion looks more like a wobbly leek), and you could use the same model to look at changes over generations or even whole populations.

It’s this change over time in a population that longitudinal studies are good at looking at. It’s complex, it takes patience and it’s expensive, but gives us incredible depth and the potential to search out those patterns which can then be applied to answer questions like:

What are the factors before birth that influence health in adulthood?

How do we make sure children achieve their full potential?

What factors give families the resilience and the ability to cope with adversity?

This is a type of science NZ is already very good at. Data from the pioneering Otago and Dunedin longitudinal studies, now nearly 40 years old, influences health and policy around the world. 

Growing Up in NZ, where I’ve been involved as a core researcher, is following approximately 7000 NZ children and their families from before birth to when they are adults – the kids are between two and three years old now, so we’ve got a way to go. It has several very unique qualities. One is that we are one of very few longitudinal studies in the world to study fathers as an essential part of the family unit.

Another is that our families reflect the diversity of New Zealanders today – socioeconomic, urban and rural dwellers, and most importantly, cultural. Our cohort is broadly generalisable to the NZ population and proportionally represents Maori, Pakeha, Pacific, Asian and other ethnic families. Excitingly, and appropriately, there are many mixed-ethnicity kids.

NZ is unique in that it sits on a faultline where many traditions and cultures are colliding and changing each other, but (if you’ll forgive the earthquake analogy) we’re stable enough to study the aftershocks. Further, our research team is diverse - coming from across many disciplines – health, social sciences, education, culture and humanities, and includes different NZ universities and centres of excellence, so we can use ideas and links from as wide a base as possible.

Finally, and most importantly, Growing Up in NZ operates under a kaitiaki principle – of guardianship of the data we collect, for the benefit of all New Zealanders. From the beginning, we’ve seen ourselves as being in collaboration with families and communities, with a responsibility to report back to those groups, as well as to the wider research community, and to government. A key aim for Growing Up in NZ is for important findings to translate into real action. 

Growing Up in NZ is part of an international network of longitudinal studies and we’re actively collaborating and exchanging skills (and, I can tell you that people overseas are excited about our study.)

 

So how can a study like this contribute to the conversation about making NZ a better place for all? Well, we’re only just out of nappies, but already we have a few things to say.  The data generated is enormous, and we’re still working our way through it, so I’ll just give you a taster.

Firstly, the study confirms that NZ society and family structure are changing very fast. 1 in 3 NZ children have at least one parent not born in NZ. The traditional nuclear family model is less and less the case – nearly 24% of mothers live with extended family, and as you might expect this varies depending on the cultural environment. Most mums now work before and after their babies are born, and only half the families own their own home.

But despite their diversity, NZ parents share similar hopes and dreams for their children.  Most parents want their children to grow up happy and healthy, to learn to value their own culture and that of others, and be able to realise their own dreams as well as contribute to their community.  Many recognise NZ as a good place to nurture all these things, and if they succeed, then NZ will be well placed for the future.

What next?  I’ve mentioned the value of a scientifically robust study which recognizes complexity over time; of working across disciplines, skillsets and borders, drawing knowledge links between science, economy and humanities.  I’ve mentioned those words we’ve heard a lot this week, communication, collaboration and community.

The final word I want to mention is translation. Translation into policy, but also importantly translation into general knowledge so that our greatest resource – our people – you, me, my baby - can take the future into their own hands.

I was on TV today...

I still get excited about being on TV or radio. Although nervous in case I don't come across how I meant to.... luckily the journalists who cover arts stories all seem to be lovely, and in most cases passionate about the arts themselves.

So....I was on a new local show called Neighbourhood, where they showcase different suburbs by focussing on what various (ethnic) people are doing.  I happened to be rehearsing my play The First Asian AB for its Hamilton season at the time they filmed this episode, so here are myself and friends Robbie Ellis, Sam Mence, Paul Fagamalo and Ben Teh. Love how my boobs look bigger due to pregnancy, but they frame the shot so the bump doesn't show.

This link will only be up for a few weeks, and I think can only be viewed within NZ:
http://tvnz.co.nz/neighbourhood/s1-ep6-video-4904092  (start at 9:33)