Mar 31 2009
Military Rule on the Maternity Ward
Any new mother or father quickly learns the first unofficial rule of parenting:
99% of people will think you’re doing the wrong thing 99% of the time.
Pregnancy is great. You and your bump are the centre of attention, you can let your belly hang out without feeling as if the words “fat slob” are tattooed on your forehead, you can wear tacky T-shirts bearing the proud slogan “Baby on Board”. If you’re very, very lucky, people might even give up their seats to you on public transport. Don’t bank on it though.
But as soon as you are transferred from the delivery suite to the maternity ward, things take a sinister turn for the worse.
Perhaps I was unlucky. The hospital in Munich (Germany) where I gave birth actually has a very good reputation, but the maternity ward bore a terrifying resemblance to a military bootcamp. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, but they made me feel inadequate, incapable and invisible - not good when your hormone levels are plummeting and you’re filled with terror at the prospect of being responsible for this tiny being’s manners, morals and personal hygiene for the next 20 years.
Typical case in point: one day I was lying in bed with the Progeny fed, changed and sleeping peacefully next to me, and I decided to pick up a book. I had barely skimmed the first page when the nurse came in. “What do you think you’re doing?” she screeched in a whisper (which I hadn’t even thought was possible). “You should be thinking about your baby, not reading a book!” Whereupon she grabbed the offending article from my hands and put it back on the bedside table, leaving me quivering tearfully like an incontinent jelly.
Our first fumbling attempts at nappy-changing and baby-dressing were made under the eagle eye of a hatchet-faced midwife, who barked in exasperation at our cack-handed efforts to affix a large square of absorbent fabric to the business end of the Progeny’s anatomy (we switched to disposables as soon as we got home). True, like many brand-new and totally inexperienced parents, Mr. HH and I were appalled at the general wriggliness and slipperiness of our offspring. And terrified by all the stuff we had read in books dictating how exactly to pick up a baby so as not to dent it or break it.
But what really got up a still-sore portion of my anatomy was the whole issue of breastfeeding. Now breastfeeding is supposed to be the most natural thing in the world, but I’m sure many first-time mothers will agree that it’s bloody hard until you get the hang of it. In fact, let’s be honest, it can cost you blood, sweat, tears, and bring you to the verge of a nervous breakdown. So the last thing you need is some gimlet-eyed old bat criticising your technique and the quantity of your output.
The first couple of days, I barely produced enough colostrum to nourish a beetle, let alone a baby. The midwife would make me squeeze every last drop out of my boobs by pumping each of them for 20 minutes in between feeds (oh, how that hurt…), and remove the miserly results with a dour and disapproving face. What’s more, I had difficulty helping the Progeny log in, so to speak. After a while, the midwife told me my boobs were the wrong shape (wtf?!) and advised me to switch to the bottle.
Incidentally, I didn’t. I’m kind of stroppy like that.
In the end, Hatchet-Face and I parted not on speaking terms, because I put my foot down and insisted on doing things my way instead of hers. If I remember correctly, it wasn’t even the breast versus bottle-feeding controversy which caused the rift. More like because I was folding the nappy from left to right rather than right to left, or something. It was only a tiny gesture of defiance, but - boy, it felt good 
