Having a Baby is a Tough Old Game

I gave birth to my first child at the age of 23 in the old St. Bernard’s Hospital. I was young and terribly naive. No mother or mother-in-law to hand and none of my friends had children. I was armed solely with a thin pamphlet given to me at the hospital and a gung-ho MacGyver husband. I was going to be fine, right?

Gas & Air had not made it to Gibraltar back then and a ‘spliff on the balcony’ was the only source of pain relief. No epidurals, only pethidine and general anaesthetic caesareans were on offer. I got through it with a mixture of howls, grunts, screams, tears, wails and finally a shot of pethidine.

I did not ask myself questions about whether or not I would breastfeed; I didn’t think there was a choice. It was natural, far superior to formula milk and it was FREE. At the time I lived on a boat, not in the marina but moored out at sea which meant I had to row backwards and forwards to shore in a dinghy. We generated our own electricity and had to be careful with water use, we did not have a fridge.  There was no way I was going to mess about with bottles and boiling up kettles when milk could be produced by my own body. The pamphlet said breastfeeding was ‘easy and natural’...nonsense! Breast feeding is painful and difficult but nobody tells you that do they? No wonder so many women give up early and feel guilty about it.

Out of eight women on the ward only two of us breastfed our babies. Support depended on which midwives were on shift and many of them would come round with a tray of bottles pressurising you to take ‘one for the night’. I was lucky and was helped by a very kind and patient nurse who then told me about the breastfeeding counsellor. Louise, the sole volunteer, was invaluable and such a comfort. In the days of no internet and no mobile phones to have someone like her was precious.  

By the time I attended my first weighing clinic at the health centre I noticed that I was the only girl in that waiting room who was breast feeding. Strangers would question me as to why I did not use a bottle as it was ‘so much easier’. There was also this awful pseudo-feminism stance where ‘us women’ had to make the men do something and why should we be the ones with a baby stuck to our  bodies all the time etc. etc (!) Is this a British thing? 2017 statistics show that in the UK only 1% of babies are exclusively breastfed to six months, one of the lowest breastfeeding rates in the world.

NEWSFLASH! Breastfeeding is not easy. If you manage to latch on first time you get a one-day phoney war and then it’s an all-out battle with creams and sprays, specials bras, breast pads, big tops that lift up rather than open out. Agonisingly sore nipples and engorged boobs made particularly worse of you have a baby in the sweltering heat of summer. You’ve just given birth so you are either sore ‘down there’ possibly with stitches, or you are recovering from a massive c-section op, AND you are having the period from hell and you can’t use tampons, AND you are not sleeping enough, AND you are suddenly a mother with a tiny delicate thing relying on you, AND your husband wants to have sex!

When mums ask me about breast feeding I tell them the truth. I also explain that the above-described hell is usually short-lived and once you get past the first week of feeding the nipples harden and become used to their role; much like breaking in a new pair of shoes. No, you can’t go out and leave the baby with someone; yes you do have to get up for all those night feeds. The pros? Well the obvious health reasons, formula is inferior. Breast is there on demand at the right temperature and the hungry baby does not have to wait for the milk to heat. No bottles, no sterilising, no admin of having to make sure you have formula in the cupboard.

Some things improve with time, others don’t. I loved the old hospital with its large open maternity ward and the communal dining table, such camaraderie between the women. The trolley would rattle in at mealtimes; the food was delicious and served on regulation GHA china plates.  Back then you were kept in for 5 days minimum, this gave the mother time to recover and for the baby to have all its jabs and tests before leaving cutting down on post-natal visits to the heath centre. By the time I had my 4^th child in the new St. Bernard’s everything had changed. Small inhospitable wards, pre-cooked food in giant moulded plastic containers and they tried to kick you out the next day even if there were plenty of empty beds. Although I had normal births with no complications and was an ‘old hand’ I begged the Sister to let me stay for the full five days. I needed the rest before going home to a large demanding family. They let me but thought I was very odd.

My main advice to pregnant women is stay in hospital for as long as you can, you need to be pampered too. Everyone is gushing over the new baby but who is fussing over you?