The Guilt Factor

Each morning, Monday to Friday, for the last 10 minutes of my commute to work just before I walk into the office building, I try and FaceTime the boys for a chat, especially on mornings where they are asleep when I’m leaving the house and I haven’t seen them yet. Alex usually blows me kisses and babbles very important things at me. Rian, more often than not doesn’t want to talk. This morning though, when I was having chats with Alex, in the background he said: ‘ I don’t want to talk to Mama on the phone, I want to talk to her here!’.

For a moment I considered turning around and going straight back home again, giving him a hug and telling him I’ll never leave him. But I can’t, because I have to go to work – and I want to go to work too – and at the end of the day, the bills need to get paid. So I felt the usual pang of guilt that I usually feel a few times a day, except a bit worse than usual because he had said that, and finished my gurgley chat with Alex and headed towards my desk, feeling pretty crap about myself as a mother.

If I had the freedom to choose, I don’t think I would choose to be a full time stay at home mother, I just know it wouldn’t be for me. Part time would be my ideal option, because at same time, I want to be with them all the time too. It’s that very tricky, ever elusive, perfect balance.

Guilt is something I became familiar with very early on, in fact, since the start of my first pregnancy. We are IVF parents, very very lucky ones at that, our treatment worked. So it was a bit of a surprise to me that I didn’t particularly enjoy being pregnant – extremely grateful yes, of course, but pregnancy for me was months of nausea, vomiting, swollen feet, extreme heartburn… ok my hair got a bit thicker and softer and my skin looked nice and almost glowy (possibly from the hot flushes!) for a while but even that catches up with you after the baby is born and your hair falls out and you’re left with these mad sticky outy bits all over your head while it grows back to normal again…!! Aaand breathe…! So no, if I’m honest, I didn’t enjoy being pregnant for the most part. Appreciative, yes, and lots of it I did love and cherish – the feeling of Bump moving around or kicking, but not really any of the rest of it.

Anyway back to the point… so I didn’t enjoy pregnancy, it was tough. I felt guilty about that because of our IVF and I thought of all the women who would swap places with me in a heartbeat because I used to be that woman too. And of course the moment they’re born you’re guilty all the time, am I doing this right, did I do that wrong?

When I went back to work after Rian’s maternity leave, the guilt was immense. How could I leave him every day, why was I working for a major chunk of my wages to pay someone else to see all of his ‘firsts’? And it only got worse, after I had Alex I thought I would be prepared for how it would feel to go back to work, but in fact it was worse again because what I wasn’t prepared for was Rian being old enough now to ask me, after a year of being home, ‘Mama, where are you going? Why won’t you stay here with me?’

It was very hard. I questioned myself a lot at the return to work last year. Why am I doing this?? Oh yes, then I remembered, I just don’t have the choice.

So why do we do this to ourselves? Is there a way to come to terms with this guilt or are we just destined to never be happy whatever the situation is – whether we give up work and stay at home, or if we choose not to stay at home?

I thought a lot last year about whether I wanted to give up work, assuming we could afford it and I could stay at home. It would be tight, but I think if we cut back enough we could probably get by on one wage. And is it even fair to assume that it would be me who stays home, what if their Dad wanted to stay home? I admit that thought didn’t even occur to me at the start. But even if I did stay home, I think the guilt would still find me anyway, and make me think about other things – can we afford to save for their college fund? Can we afford to give them all the things we want to?

And the other thought is – really the main reason I don’t want to give up my job – what will I do when they’re older and not as dependent on me? What if I want to go back to work then, when they’re off to school, and I have a five or six year gap on my CV – it’s hard enough going back after maternity leave,  your confidence is shaken a lot, or at least mine was. So a big gap, for me, would be very intimidating. So is it selfish of me to not want to be in that situation, to not want to sacrifice my career? Does that mean I’m a bad mother? And the guilt factor starts again.

Being a working mother, it sneaks up on you on a regular basis. When a work commitment clashes with an event at their creche or playschool, and we’re faced with missing it. Guilt. At Rian’s playschool Sport’s Day back in June, I took the day off work. Within the first ten minutes, three other mothers had mentioned to me that they hadn’t realised that our childminder, who they see every day dropping off and collecting Rian, wasn’t in fact his mother. Ouch.

Recently, our childcare situation  changed, and I was forced again to consider all of these points. I really struggle to come to some sense of peace with the fact that I’m gone all day from them. Today was their first day in a creche – Alex in particular has never been minded outside his own home until today – and I wasn’t there to drop them off. Guilty. They’re fine of course – the staff are amazing and sent me little updates and photos of them happily playing away, but my guilty mind goes into overdrive and I wonder what will they think of these decisions I’m making now when they’re all grown up? Will they think I’m selfish? Will they resent the fact that I ‘chose’ to leave them with someone other than me while I ‘chose’ not to give up my career? Ultimately, I suppose I’m thinking – how will they judge me? Am I ruining their childhood?!

I don’t know how to make the guilt go away, but I have decided to make some rules for myself.

  • I am not a bad mother. I am doing my best, along with everyone else. Yes, I go to work for myself because I enjoy it, but also of course so that I can give them everything I possibly can not just now but later in life too. I’m doing my best, and I have to tell myself that my best IS good enough.
  • Don’t focus on the negatives – instead I will focus on the times I am there. Their little faces when they see me coming through the door each evening, and the fun we can have all weekend. It makes me more grateful and appreciative of those times.
  • Most importantly of all: I make it my mission that they know they are loved. I know they know. And once they know that, I know I’m not failing completely.

Whatever way I look at it, mother guilt is here to stay, no matter what type of mother you are. There’s no point in questioning why we beat ourselves up over it, but in the end all I can suggest is that we get off our own backs, get off our own cases, and make the most of whatever situation we’re in. Guilt is not a choice, but how we deal with it certainly is.


‘Failure to Thrive’: Breastfeeding & Me

** This post has also been featured on &**


If you’ve ever had a baby, you’ll know you spend a good chunk of time carrying around your hospital chart while you wait for appointments. I liked having a good nose in mine to see what they’re really saying about me. Most of the stuff might as well be written in Greek but every now and then you pick up some interesting bits and pieces. And for some reason, if you’re caught reading your own chart you feel a weird need to apologise as if you’ve just been caught reading someone’s diary! Oh sorry, you caught me reading about my own body!!

After I had Alex, one particular afternoon in the hospital after they kicked Gavin out for mealtimes and Alex was asleep, I had nothing else to do so I decided to have a little read of the chart and see what was new. I happened to open it on a page that had been filled out post birth. Staring back at me were words that would stick in my brain for weeks to come:

Failure to Thrive.

At first I wasn’t sure whether it meant I was failing to thrive, or the baby. In my defence, reality and logic are very very hazy and foggy right after you grow and produce a human. Obviously it referred to Alex in this case, but it actually described me pretty well at the time too.

Before I delve too much further into this topic, it is worth mentioning how divisive a topic it can be. People have their own opinions and experience in this matter and these will shape what they think of it now, and it can shape what they think of other mothers who do or don’t breastfeed too. I want to make it clear that primarily, my intention is not to judge or divide, but to celebrate the fact we all have choices – and importantly to recognise that sometimes we do not have the luxury of maintaining these choices. Similarly, I refuse to be judged any further than I have already judged myself on the matter. And that was a lot.

Before I even had my first hospital checkup with this pregnancy, I had decided I wanted to try breastfeeding again. Why? Because I believe it is the most natural thing to do. A privilege.

I call it a privilege because even though it’s the most natural way to feed your child, it doesn’t come naturally to all of us. For me, my breastfeeding attempts turned into two of the most stressful experiences I’ve had. Why? Well, for a couple of reasons I think.

On my first, I struggled for weeks. On paper, it should have looked perfect. He latched on perfectly, but he just wouldn’t feed. Then he spent two days in the care unit being fed formula (not related to breastfeeding I should point out). In a haze of confusion, exhaustion, stress and based on varying pieces of advice from people who knew what they were talking about, I combination fed with formula and pumped around the clock for the first 7 weeks of his life. At that point, I admitted defeat and moved solely on to formula.

How do you describe that to someone? It’s hard. I wanted to do it so badly. I would sit with the pump – we even rented the big hospital grade pump – and watch while I produced minimal amounts of milk. I felt like a complete failure. Surely I could provide the most basic thing my child needs? His own mother’s milk? Seemingly not. The more I topped up with formula, the less of my own milk I was able to produce and my confidence in my ability to feed him packed its bags and left!

On my second pregnancy, I thought I knew all the traps leading to my failure to breastfeed. This time I was sure it wouldn’t happen again!

As before, the latch was called ‘perfect’ by the midwives. At first it all seemed to be going perfectly. Great, I thought, we’re ok. He was doing everything he should in the nappy department, a sign that all is well. And it was – yes, it was still very much a learning curve of latches and timings and positions, but I was feeling so confident that it was really working this time.

And then the midwife came in with her weighing scales.

Alex was born on a Friday. By the Sunday, he had lost 10% of his birth weight.  This was the first kick.

Don’t worry, I was told, this can be normal. Keep going. So I tried to keep going but the stress was creeping in. An elevated version of it… the memories and stress of my first attempt kept coming back. What if, what if..what if it happens again. I don’t think I can do it. And all the time I kept seeing those words, failure to thrive.

On I went. I had no idea if he was getting anything from me. My milk had not come in yet, but I knew there was colostrum there from doing some hand expressing, so on I went. Requests to see a lactation consultant were almost laughed at – this is a bank holiday weekend and the busiest time of year to give birth (people like getting pregnant around Christmastime it seems!), there’ll be no lactation consultant here until Tuesday.

The midwife was back with her scales and this time she also had a little kit to test his blood sugars. ‘If it’s low, you’ll really have to give him formula’ I was told.

No, I don’t want that. I want to keep breastfeeding him…but she looked at me as if to say, well I want to win the lotto but that’s not going to happen either, is it? She did the tests and weighed him again, and yes, he had lost more weight and his blood sugars were too low. The second kick. She went off to get the formula and I just sat there and cried. Failure to thrive.

At this point I really started to question myself. Was I harming my baby by insisting on this need to breastfeed? Did I really know better than qualified medical nurses? My instinct was telling me to keep going, but my determination was really shaken and I was just full of doubt that I could do it.

By the time I got home from the hospital, when the public health nurse called to check him, he had lost more weight still. And that’s where I started to fear for my own mental health. I spoke to her about my concerns – and they kind of watch you like a hawk those first few days anyway for signs of post natal depression. I don’t think I had that, but honestly after you have a baby,  regardless of how you had it or how you’re feeding the baby, your head is just all over the place. You feel like you’ve been run over by a truck, you can’t move without pain, you’re severely sleep deprived, so you really don’t know your arse from your elbow. I told her I intended to hire a private lactation consultant and as luck would have it, her colleague actually is one, so she sent her in to visit me the next day. Ok, I was finally going to get proper informed help and honestly, I think at this point I just wanted someone to tell me what to do, I wanted the doubt and fear to go away.

Of course I have family and friends who had breastfed and who were still breastfeeding. They were such a massive support, all of them. They all went out of their way to contact me and offer support and solutions, and for that I am so grateful. Just those pieces of support, the calls and texts, were like comforting hugs each time, reaching into my doubt and chipping it away.

Despite all the support and visits from the lactation health nurse, Alex still was not gaining weight. The more weight he lost, the more stressed I got and the more I doubted myself. I started to dread the feeds. I was told my supply was low. I was also told that the fact I was on fertility drugs for so long (two attempts at IVF and three frozen embryo transfers equals a lot of drugs) could have played a part in that. I was pumping and getting virtually nothing. So yet again, the more I had to give him formula, the less I had of my own milk. Your body will only produce what it thinks you need. Alex was two weeks old at this stage, and I had to make a decision.

Did I want to breastfeed badly enough that I continue on this road? Is breastfeeding more important than my mental health, and therefore my ability to care for him in other ways than feeding? Not forgetting I have a 2 year old who also needed me to care for him.

Does that sound a bit over the top? I don’t think so. With Rian, those first 7 weeks are a complete blur. One minute he was born, and the next he was almost 2 months old.. and I had missed it. So caught up with my determination and need to be able to feed him myself. I missed it. I wasn’t prepared to miss out on Alex..those first few weeks when they’re so tiny. The smell of them and the sounds of them. It made me think about what we had to go through to get these two babies. So I decided that enough was enough.

So, looking back, what would I do differently?

Educate myself. My husband was horrified when I said that if we were to ever have another baby (although writing this has brought a lot of it back and at the moment I think this baby-growing shop is firmly closed!!), anyway, if we were to have another that yes of course I would attempt to breastfeed again.

But I would need support. If I’m ever in the situation again, I will hunt down that hospital lactation consultant Liam Neeson style! And I would hire one privately too for when I get home. I’ve read that there is always a breastfeeding solution to a breastfeeding problem. I’m a bit on the fence with this. As I said, I was told I just have low supply. Is this just the luck of the breastmilk draw? Do some women just not have a good enough supply? I should note that in 2006 I had to have a milk duct removed from one breast. Could this have played a part? Possibly. Anyone I asked could’t really say for sure.

But is there always a solution? In other words, did I just give up? I honestly don’t know. I hope not. And I tortured myself for weeks with guilt afterwards. Some might say I took the easier route – I think formula feeding is actually more work with the making of the formula and the sterilising routines – but in a way I did take the easier route for me. There was no more stress, I didn’t dread the feeds any more. My baby was no longer failing to thrive. And neither was I.

I still feel sad that it didn’t work as I planned, but I have gained in other ways. I really think there is a shocking lack of support for new mothers in this country. The midwives and nurses are so short staffed, they simply do not have the time to spend giving the support new mothers need – whether it’s your first baby or not. I’ve learned more about breastfeeding since I stopped doing it than I knew when I was – and there is a shocking amount of misinformation out there.

If you’re pregnant reading this, I would say go forth and breastfeed! For the short time I managed it, it was so precious. But if for whatever reason you don’t end up breastfeeding, don’t beat yourself up. I don’t feel I have any less of a bond with my baby than a mother who still breastfeeds hers. Either of them for that matter. For us, fed is most certainly best, however it happens.


I found I got the most supportive advice from friends and family, but also from I contacted one of their support volunteers by phone one day, and honestly could not have spoken to a nicer lady.

There is also a great Facebook group specifically for breastfeeding support in Ireland, if you want the details just get in touch.




To Grow A Human

I have a confession to make. If you’ve seen earlier blog posts you’ll know that earlier this year I wrote a piece about IVF which basically ended up with me being on the radio chatting to Ray D’arcy about our experience with fertility treatment. Well, I must confess that at the time of that interview, I had already just done a transfer, and although I didn’t quite know it yet, I was already pregnant! Yes, I’m growing a human.

In late February I went back on the fertility medication to prepare for our third frozen embryo transfer, our second attempt at a brother or sister for Rian. This process isn’t as intrusive as the process for a full round of IVF – these embryos were frozen after that original round in 2013 when we were extremely lucky to be able to freeze 7 high quality embryos. Rian was the first transfer, we had one late last year which failed, so this was transfer number three.

With that in mind I’m very familiar with the process and know the routine. You take oestrogen tablets 3 times a day along with progesterone pills twice a day. Nice little cocktail of hormones going on there, plenty of fun for everyone. After about 2 weeks of that you go the clinic where they give you an ultrasound to check the lining of your womb – it needs to be thick in preparation for the replacement of the embryo. If it’s too thin, the embryo won’t be able to implant and start growing. Once everything is doing what it should, they give you a time for the transfer and in you go.

It’s a relatively quick process. They select what looks to be the strongest embryo and thaw it out, a couple of hours before it’s due to be transferred. You’re brought into the theatre room. They scan your wrist band and ask you to state your name and date of birth a few times while two other people call out ID codes and confirm ID codes again to make sure you’re getting your own embryo, cos that could be awkward. Then they show you little embryo on the screen, you give him a little wave and hope you’ll see him again in 9 months time.

The embryo is then placed in a tiny tube, sort of like the inside tube of a biro, except thinner. It’s about the size of a poppyseed. Using an ultrasound so the doctor can see where he/she is putting it, the tube is inserted and they release it close to the lining of your womb. It is within some sort of liquid so that when they release it they can see, otherwise it would be too small for the ultrasound to pick up.

And job done.

They give you a pregnancy test and a date for testing, and release you into the hell that is the two week waiting time before you can find out whether it has worked. You continue to take the hormone cocktails which greatly add to your emotions during the two weeks of waiting torture, and not in a good way.

Over the next two weeks you torture yourself with – Yay it has worked! / Christ it hasn’t worked. It’s mental torture. After a wait about as long as an Ice Age, test day finally arrives, and it’s quite hard to do the test due to the shaking of your hands from nerves and the knot of dread in your stomach. After a couple of minutes of extra intense torture….two pink lines appeared. Embryo was still in there. Baby number two is on its way!

We absolutely know and appreciate how lucky we are to be expecting our second baby especially when the odds of treatment aren’t as high as you would want them to be. But this doesn’t mean that it’s not still hard. I touched on this in older posts that I wrote while pregnant with Rian – how I thought that getting pregnant would be the hard bit, but actually for me, being pregnant is not much of a picnic. In fact even saying the word picnic makes me think of certain foods that makes me want to heave!

At first I feel that I’m not entitled to not enjoy it, that I should automatically love every second of it purely because of the route we have to take to even get pregnant. But I have to be honest – I don’t really enjoy the being pregnant bit, unfortunately I’m one of those women that has all the crappy stuff that goes with pregnancy. On Rian I was nauseous all day long at the start, but this time around, on a good day I might get sick once, on a bad day it was 3 or 4 times a day. Throughout this you still must function as normal – get on trains and public transport, do your day to day work, manage a toddler. It’s not easy! Yes I am grateful, so much so I can’t even put it into words, but that doesn’t make me automatically enjoy it.

I’m just at the 4 month mark now, and finally the sickness is starting to ease at last! I’m starting to feel a bit normal again, a bit like myself again. I’m starting to get excited now, hopefully soon I’ll start feeling movement – I think I was 18 weeks when I first felt the little pops from Rian fluttering around! To think there’s a whole person forming inside me… will it be another boy? Will he look like Rian? Will they have similar personalities? So many exciting things to wonder about!

To grow a human is so amazing, to have the chance to do it is amazing. But my God, women are pretty amazing too! Roll on the next few months of watching Bump grow and become stronger as my newest little human.