The Pickles family website

I don't blog – too personal, too public, too not me. But I thought I'd give it a go. For the sake of something to do while Mallee sleeps and a way of processing my day's experiences, if nothing else. Perhaps Ev could get a glimpse of how we're both doing while he's clamped to his computer, being a wage slave. (Hi lovely!) But really, I'm not at all concerned if no-one but me reads this.

We're bogged in the sleep and settling stink hole, back wheels whirling uselessly in the mud. Up until four days ago we congratulated ourselves with a sense of smug satisfaction that we had birthed a bona fide angel. After his final feed at the respectable hour of 10:30 or 11 (Oh really? Is it that time already?) he would give us four or five hours of uninterrupted sleep. Then, after softly rousing me from sleep with barely a minute of infinitesimally subtle murmurings, our intuitive genius would feed for fifteen minutes. After a nappy change if needed, we would both fall instantly and blissfully asleep. Often, Ev wouldn't even stir and I merely hovered in a state of half-consciousness before drifting back under. “Oh yes,” I puffed with barely contained hubris, “Co-sleeping is working so well for us that neither of us needs to get up in the night. We barely wake up at all”.

And then four nights ago at 3am, with all the passion and ferocity his small body could muster Mallee let out the most almighty scream that continued uninterrupted for fifteen minutes. It was if he had been thrust violently into consciousness on a foreign planet (dragging his parents with him). In this strange parallel world his former soulmate, the breast, had turned mortal enemy and they were locked in a bitter do-or-die struggle. After finally wrestling said enemy into submission, having his nappy changed and feeling rather satisfied with his efforts, Mallee decided that 3.30am was a perfectly reasonable hour to start the new day. It was at that point that the last of our confidence in our infallible parenting prowess vanished.

Each night has followed, more or less, the same pattern. Last feed of the night – no problem. 3am comes round, maybe 3.30 – scream to wake the dead. We've honed our skill at getting him back to sleep (so our three hours of sleep have multiplied to six). But we haven't found a way to allay or forestall the 3am horrors. Four nights of precious little sleep is taking its toll.

I thought I had the breastfeeding thing down pat. I remember noting to myself on Thursday how much we were both enjoying it. On Friday, I took the bus into Enmore to pick up some pancake supplies from Alfalfa House in readiness for our weekend down south (Ev is very particular about his pancakes – and they're delicious). I dragged myself home, dropped my bag halfway up the stairs and staggered into bed. My head was aching, my skin was cold and clammy, I was shaking all over and my left breast was throbbing. With a feeling of dread I knew this could only mean the start of mastitis. And I'd heard enough mastitis horror stories to make me sweat even more. Mallee started screaming, a taste of things to come. Basically, I was a mess. I called Evan and he quickly promised to come home and rescue me. (An aside: Evan later told me how he secured his hasty exit from work. 'I think Georgie has mastitis.' 'Oh yeah, what's that?' 'Well, her boob gets blocked up and the milk goes off and rots inside it.' Pasty faced white-boy computer nerds turn a shade pastier. 'Yeah, err, you better go, Ev.')

Luckily, with massaging and hot showers the mastitis hasn't gone full blown. The lumps are there, but reduced. But maybe it has changed the taste of my milk and Mallee's objecting to that. It's an infection after all. What am I saying? He's screaming before he gets near my breast so it can't be that. Whatever it is, we haven't figured it out yet and it's about 7 hours before we go into battle again. Wish us luck.