It’s already that time of year again – January yes, but we are thinking ahead.
Mothers day is in 52 days, or 52 sleeps if you count them with littles. That’s really not long!
Last year, I invited families to book in for a mini photoshoot celebrating mothers. We had mum friends, a mum who’s partner was a away, a dad who got involved too and the most beautiful little details in each one.
I was honoured to capture a snippet of these stories, and to share the beauty of each of these mothers, because often in the thick of it, you don’t see just how beautiful your interactions are.
Some of my favourite were the cheeky smiles that go to their eyes, and the joy in each mum as they held, walked and talked with their growing babies.
I won’t share the ones of their little faces, those are private.
But I can share these.
And now, I’m inviting you. If you’re local to Helensburgh or Rhu (or can get here), I’d love to capture your beautiful family and celebrate you.
Mums to be, mums of 1, mums of many, grandmas… and dads/grandads if they want to, all welcome to come create some magick. I know all too well that these moments are fleeting, even when they don’t seem to be.
Get in touch and we’ll book your date 💕
You deserve to be seen – not just in a selfie!
With love,
Rohana
Details:
Dates: 31st Jan, 7th Feb, 21st Feb.
£60 – a full gallery, 5 digital downloads, or the option to upgrade.
The word trigger is a buzzword on social media, so forgive me for using it here. Being triggered isn’t something to take lightly, and in various contexts, can be a life saving mechanism of the body. For me, here I use it because the word expresses the causal factor to starts the chain reaction from an event with our children, to the point where we react somatically. It is the first domino in the line … that often, though not always, causes a rupture in our relationship (this goes for parent and child, friends, siblings and even partners; all in their own similar and unique ways).
Before I carry on; I’d highlight that ‘Fight’ is only 1 of the responses that can occur; and in a series of writings this month, I will be covering the other 3 as well.
Picture this: you’re playing with your kid, they’re having fun, you’re relaxed, the atmosphere is easeful. And then, they make a noise, or do something to hurt a sibling/toy or break a house rule. It activates you – you’re body goes from peaceful and playful into anger. The action or sound is the first domino, and your anger is one of the next. Your anger is BIG, you might not say anything, or you might shout ‘no’ , look at them in angry way or do something like turn away – they sense the change in energy and they mirror it… and then you’re both angry, both upset, and after a shout or stomp their end, maybe even yours, you walk away… angry and puzzled at how something so minor became such an issue.
Your whole body is tense. Your nervous system is right up there in anger… your sweet little child, in that moment became a threat, and your ‘fight’ mode has been well and truly activated.
It isn’t because you want it to be, but rather because ‘fight’ is a body response to threat, and our brains cannot really tell the difference between actual threat and perceived threat. Add on probably years of messages compounded into our subconscious about what is okay and not, and our habitual response is to get angry and want to fight out of the situation.
Luckily toddlers are graceful, and we can absolutely rewire patterns that mean we change the way we react. Understanding where ‘fight’ shows up in our bodies, and acknowledging it is the first step.
For me, when I get mad (often when my kids fight with each other and rough play moves to attempts at intentional injury) I feel it in my hands and my throat. I want to shout, my belly tenses and my hands tingle. It is a sign that I am out of my rational brain and have moved into my amygdala, the primal response part of my brain, and my body is in survival.
When I fight, I yell. I shout and in my body have my own little temper tantrum… something I have actively worked on understanding, healing and changing for the past 4 years.
Before I understood this, my kids felt like little monsters when this happened. I couldn’t understand why but I would feel so overwhelmed and wonder how they were the same child… sometimes I fall back into this but its rare now; usually even in my anger I can see they are doing their best and the first domino could have been prevented if xyz had changed. So after the rupture, we tell a story, and try and figure out what needed changing; if I should have stepped in sooner or if we needed to redirect etc.
So if step 1 is finding ‘fight’ in our body, then what comes next?
Step 2, is accepting it. Easier said than done, but it truly is essential. Anger is our somatic experience of boundaries being crossed or pushed. It is the way our bodies are communicating with us, well before we have fully processed what the first domino was. When we accept it, we dissipate some of the energetic charge it holds. We feel it, allow it, and then, as if by magic, being seen/felt/acknowledged, the heaviness lifts and we can change it.
That’s not to say don’t ever go back, feel and heal as needed, but in the moment, when we want to avoid major ruptures, or just know that now is not the time to explode because reacting in an adrenal response isn’t really the ideal form of parenting (unless it is because there is actual danger – in which case, ABSOLUTELY react! Get your kid out the road, away from the ledge or whatever other danger may be present) and moving into a grounded space is a band aid, but it won’t address the root of the problem. To do this, requires deeper, intentional work, not an in the moment kind of medicine. The bigger healing comes in many forms, and though I have my preferences, there is no ‘right way’.
Step 3 then, is MOVE. Make our bodies shake, laugh, dance, get out the room, squat down to a toddler/child level, bounce and then look at them to listen; stretch upwards and take breaths to feel your chest expanding as much as is comfortable, or, do anything that allows movement. Sometimes this means saying out loud “wow, i have some angry energy, I need to shake it out, can you help me?” which is especially effective with younger kids because it both affirms that it isn’t their fault, and it gets them learning how we can healthily change the tone of a conversation. I don’t have a 1 size fits all, but movement is my tried, tested and absolute favourite way to change energy away from anger and fight, into a space where we can build connection, repair if needed and work through whatever boundaries need to be asserted.
On a good day, I use this without even thinking, making a game or changing the play to include more movement for everyone. On a harder day, it takes intentional pause, feeling the feelings, saying sorry for yelling and making a choice to walk, move and make changes to whatever is going on. A bonus is getting outside in the sunshine if its available, or taking a bundled up walk to find something cool – again, way easier with younger kids, but not impossible with older ones; a walk to pick up a favourite snack, dinner ingredient or catch some pokemon or whatever thing they are into works as well.
And that’s it, 1, 2, 3. They are simple. They are accessible. They are also really hard to remember in the moment, and it takes practice (just like life).
I’ve avoided writing about ezras birth story. I keep saying I will but I’ve procrastinated constantly… and I know why.
It was hard. Beautiful, but hard.
** All images included in this post are taken by Gaby Sweet, our incredible photographer **
In many ways I think I’ll view it as the hardest birth of all of my children, and the most empowering experience by the end. I’ll endeavour to make this is chronologically as possible, but the reality is that birth isn’t. One thing happens after another but when we look back there are moments that stick with us – moments so intense that we are fully transported back. I know with each of my births those moments have been intensely different.
These are late in the third trimester, taken by Gaby on film, at our 2nd pre-birth meeting.
Ezra Krishna was born almost 2 weeks over the NHS due date we’d been given, and I was exhausted. By 35 weeks I had already starting counting down the days and weeks, never thinking I’d be pregnant for another 7 weeks from then. I was convinced baby would arrive by 38 weeks, and I was ready – or I thought I was.
But 38 weeks came and went. Then 39, then 40 and midwives started suggesting interventions. In the weeks leading to our due date, I’d had several periods where I thought labour was starting, only for things to frustratingly taper off again. At one point I was so sure I called Harrison home from work, only to find that the labour signs stopped with the kids bedtime. Exasperating! I learned a lot of patience through my impatience, and had to do a lot of letting go.
I was offered a membrane sweep, which I had made clear I would not be having early on. I was told at 41 weeks I would be booked in for an induction in 5 days; again I declined. I said I would go in for monitoring instead.
41+5 arrived and I lost a fair amount of my mucus plug, with the blood on my underwear to prove it. I called to inform the hospital I would not be attending my appointment for monitoring as I was in early labour. The response was shocking – passed around to various phones, I was finally told that I wasn’t on the system. This annoyed me, as if I had gone to the hospital I would have been alone, leaving my 2 kids upset with my husband … but I said okay, and goodbye. I was prepared and excited to relax and look forward to meeting my baby.
Just a few hours later, things felt slow but similar to Ila-Rae’s labour, when I got a callback from the maternity service. They wanted to know why I had missed my scheduled induction (the one I’d refused and said not to book as I’d be waiting for spontaneous labour!) and told me I was required to come in for monitoring. I said I would go in tomorrow for monitoring ONLY but I was not leaving the house that day – and so the Midwife began to rattle off the dangers of having an overdue baby, telling me “it would be a shame if something were to happen, or if baby was stillborn” because I had refused induction. I was talked to like I knew nothing, and told there was medical necessity for me to attend that day. I declined, telling the Midwife I knew my rights as a birthing person and that I knew my body and baby – I would not be leaving my house. The firm message for me was “the first intervention in labour begins when you leave the front door.” I knew I wanted a homebirth AND I knew I would transfer if needed – I wasn’t going to risk my health or baby’s… but I wasn’t going to be bullied either.
My oxytocin levels plummeted. The stop and start labour for weeks had been frustrating but this was 100× worse. I felt so angry. And sad. And annoyed by a system that believes so little in womens abity to birth their babies. I had no contractions for hours, and then when they came they were less intense… it was clear that our baby would not be arriving that day.
So I shared about it on social media carried on with the day, did bedtime and all that jazz. Once the kids were asleep, Harrison and I had an angry and enjoyable conversation about the social media responses I’d received, which let out a lot of tension I was holding. I am grateful to have a partner who gets angry with me, and who believes in me so much that he was perfectly fine going against the professionals.
After a while, decided to go to sleep. I knew this labour was the real deal, but like so many birth stories I’d read, I still didn’t feel safe enough so my body was holding on. I tried to create my oxytocin bubble again, using my affirmations, and visualising what I hoped for in this birth. I slept intermittently between 12 and 4, exhausted but unable to fully rest. I remember downloading a contraction timer app, but honestly gave up because it was more of a hassle. I knew this was labour, my back hurt in a way that it hadn’t in my previous labours, but the rawness was there. At 4am, I gave up, went to make a sandwich and started to watch the clock.
The surges got more regular. Every 5 minutes or so, raw but manageable. I text Gaby, and got busy getting into my zone. I was so excited. A day labour! I hoped we’d have some beautiful light and a day birth … by evening it was a point of joke that I’d even thought it would be possible.
The day was stop start… some moments extremely intense, some moments of laughter and relaxing. I was so frustrated at points because I felt like everything I thought I knew was going out the window. Ila was by my side, the whole day. Harrison made sure everyone was fed and had drinks, he kept checking on me, and was flitting between the kids and my needs. Theo spent the whole day watching Maddie’s Do You Know… honestly that woman has saved so many moments for me, she deserves a written thank you! He binge watched telly and ate and played a little… got in the pool briefly and then back to telly and sleep. Completely different to how I’d imagined – we’d spent hours over the weeks leading up talking about birth and waves and crowning, but on the day, he knew he needed his space. In the end, I’m grateful for that.
The pool with Theo and Ila was not what I’d imagined. I thought it would be nice and calm and homely to have them with me… but they were so excited. Theo kept splashing, Ila was stuck to me. She knew something was happening but she didn’t understand. And as the back pain got worse but contractions didn’t seem to regulate, I started getting more and more frustrated. She picked up on it all.
Eventually I kicked both kids out the pool to watch a film. It was needed but then the guilt and sadness began to take over. The excitement was fading… and I was struggling.
Midwives weren’t much help. They came which was a surprise as we’d be told they might if they could be spared, but we were given no time frame. I asked for a VE which was agony – but I couldn’t carry on without knowing…. I don’t regret it. They said 4cm… except, it could also be 6… they couldn’t decide. So they stayed and observed me for an hour. Contractions were irregular, some almost unbearable, some much more manageable. Before leaving they checked my dilation again – this time talking between themselves about babies position (but not telling me at all!) and then telling me it could still be 4, but they could stretch me up to 7/8 (that was painful AF!).
It was around this time with the midwives I think that Harrison suggested the TENS machine… I had totally forgotten about it, but it was a welcome relief. I had only used the water until that point, and lots of movement breathing.
Then came the most intense part. This memory holds the most strength of labour still for me, and the vulnerability I felt brings me to tears. I remember lying on my bed. Curled up into my inner space; this was my time for rest… and I did. I slept in between contractions so intense I felt like I was being ripped apart. In the later moments as I lay down, turning my TENS machine up so high I felt the reminence of those shocks for days after – I text a friend telling her I felt like I was dying. In that moment, though I knew this was the intensity of labour, I truly felt like I couldn’t go on.
In between my sleep Harrison brought me toast. The kids fell asleep.. Ila lay next to me, wanting to know I was close. But then things got too much… Harrison took Ila, and just as he got her to sleep downstairs, I had an intense contraction. Instinctly I moved onto all fours. Something shifted.
Harrison downstairs. I told Gaby – who had sat with me and gently assured me that I was okay, that I could do this, that I was doing this – that I was going to get back into the pool.
Tens machine off, I got into the pool and transition began. I was so deeply in the zone that although I registered Harrison telling me he thought we should call the midwives again, i couldn’t respond. He made the decision and got on the phone.
This is one of the few really intimate moments we had … because he was so busy making sure I had all I needed. He’s exhausted, I’m in the deep space of Birth…but when I look at this image, I see the trust and support. I see the love.
The next contraction came, and my body took over. I was pushing.
I could feel our babies head. I screamed. I roared. It was intense.
"Sometimes we roar our babies out"
The midwives told Harrison to call paramedics instead, but I was pushing, the baby was coming and I would not have been able to wait even if I wanted.
I don’t know how long it took from then to holding him, but he arrived, roared out with such intensity that I woke Ila up.
Then he was here… Harrison told us baby boy. I just sat, having caught him and pulled him up onto me, unwrapped his cord from his neck, I was still in awe. Somehow my body had known I needed the water… that I was ready, but I had doubted myself so much that the reality of holding my baby was still a shock.
My loudness had woken Ila up, so Harrison had brought her in, and she tried to get into the pool with me again. Instead, I got out.
Before I even sat, our placenta was out. Easy as anything, and intact. I put it into a bowl and curled onto the bed, with Ila there, munching a biscuit and our baby boy wrapped in a towel on top of me.
Ezra. He was here.
I drank some herbal tea to avoid major bleeding – given my history with Theo, this was a precaution and a mental safety net.
Harrison was still on the phone. The paramedics were on their way… but it would be hours yet.
Theo woke up, cried and came up the stairs. So soon he was cuddled in… completely indifferent to the newest addition in my arms. Harrison was already sorting out the pool… checking in on us while he worked. I had afterpains… and they were Intense! It’s true, they get worse with every child.
We moved the towels I’d been sat on, put some fresh ones down and began to just settle in, trying to latch Ezra but he wss mostly sleepy and content.
When the paramedics arrived, 2 hours after we had called, they were shocked at the fact midwives hadn’t even called to check in. I showered, and was still bleeding steadily so, against my deepest wish, but following advice, I decided to transfer in.
I am a person who deeply believes we can birth in the way we want. That we intuitively know if something is wrong and that I was in tune enough with body to trust it. I knew I hadn’t torn, and that my bleeding was normal. I also knew my previous bleeding with Theo’s birth was for concerning, and that this pregnancy I had not been given an iron transfusion. I knew I was fine… but I also knew I didn’t want the trauma for my children of rushing mummy into hospital hours later because of bleeding. So I transfered, to be safe.
I have to say though, the paramedics were very respectful about my hesitation. The male paramedic was concerned by blood loss, because he couldn’t gauge it from the pool (which was gone) and towels had soaked up so much water as well as blood. The female paramedic was trusting, she gave me the space and made sure I knew the power was in my hands. It was my scene, and they were there as an assist.
Gaby was still with us too, hours after the birth by this point, so she prepared to leave as I did. She was so incredibly calm and centred. She was exactly who I had needed with us, not just for me, but for our whole family. I told the kids they’d pick me up in the morning and kissed Harrison goodbye. It was bittersweet and part of me hated it. I wanted to be in our bed, snuggled up with my children. But there was no Midwife coming… and I knew this was to be part of our story, so *deep breath* off we went.
Story to be continued in the immediate postpartum writings … below are more images from our day 💕
These are some more of the parts of our story.
I know that for some people, birh photography is something they wouldn’t dream of… but others are curious. These images form part of our story – they capture both of my older children on the day their brother was born, they capture the support I had from my husband, they capture the depths of my commitment to birth my baby in a way I knew I wanted. It hard, but ultimately healing.
If you think you might want someone to capture your birth… ask around. It is absolutely something I don’t think anyone would ever regret…. because it isn’t just a photo, it’s a story of the journey.
Recently a friend asked me to think back to one childhood memory that stood out. No thinking, just do it.
I urge you try.
What did you come up with?
Was it something Happy? Exciting? Sad? Angry? Shameful?
My memory was a happy one, one that brought a smile to my lips. This was actually the reason my friend had asked to me to think back, to remind me that even though life seems hard sometimes, overall, my life has been pretty damn amazing.
It got me thinking about how much our childhood influences the way we raise our children. If you had a perfectly happy childhood, you try and replicate the same for your kids. Similarly, studies suggest that people who were raised in unhappy households tend to pass on this cycle to their children. Most of us are somewhere in the middle, with good bits and bad bits; with the hope that the good outweighs the bad, the happiness is prominent than the sadness.
But, as Alfie Kohn points out:
To get better at the craft of raising children, we need to be open to seeing what’s unpleasant in order to evaluate what our parents did right and where we might be able to improve on their approach.
We learn from the way we were parented and pass it on, or we take what we have learned and adapt it.
My memory was catching butterflies. This is what I wrote when I thought about it:
We are walking around a field of sorts, it is not green, rather yellow-ish because of the warmth. It’s the 4 of us, with Sid and I holding nets and jars, I think they are empty at the moment; we are looking for butterflies. It’s a family outing. I remember feeling happy.
Next thing I remember is the fascination of watching a butterfly, inside the jar we have, the one that is meant to be especially designed for them – now that I am older, I highly doubt this, but I remember believing it. The butterfly is sitting on a twig or something we have but inside the jar, it is colourful and beautiful. We admire it, and then let it go. it flies away and we keep walking.
This is one of my favourite memories, and I am sure it has very little to do with the butterflies and a lot to do with the fact it was a family trip. We did a lot of them and even though I know we squabbled, and were hungry or tired or both, I don’t remember those bits. The bits that stick are the feelings of warmth, of excitement and of joy; they are the kind of thing I want to pass on to my child. We learn from our parents and we better our own parenting from them; I’m pretty sure if we do that, then generations get better and we raise good people to keep the world running.
I am backdating a couple of posts because my manic life has meant that I completely lost track of time and space, and my dedication to myself and this blog has been at a level 0. I have been taking photos, of my son, my husband and clients, but finding the time to write hasn’t been a priority, and so I have let is slide.
My last post was in the middle of October, and so now, these are my top photos from the end of October.
It was a busy month, after Theo Prana’s sickness bug, H’s friend Charley came up to visit, and H had a few surprise days off work so we had a few really good days out. He went away for a few days afterwards, and since we were preparing for his sea time, I decided to try to do a “See you soon Daddy” photoshoot with bubba – I even made DIY bunting!
The end of month has zoomed round and now we are over halfway through November, which has also been a busy month for photos – but that is for my next post.
This week Theo Prana and I had a beautiful week with H. He visited Gibraltar to celebrate our baby boy’s first birthday, and though we didn’t really do a very big party
or even get him any gifts, the fact that we were together was enough. We decided that since Theo doesn’t really know what birthday celebrations are yet, and he has so many clothes and toys, that just spending time together and making memories was more important. My dad had his camera on him, and I have recently picked mine up too, so the days have definitely not gone undocumented.
H and I spoke about lots this week, and before he left, I asked him to send me something small about his first year, and how, despite the distance, he’s managed it. It’s the first time he’s ever had an input into this blog, but hopefully not the last! The content is his, but the words are mine… he was in Scotland while Theo and I were in Portsmouth.
Here are the 4 ways H survived the first year of fatherhood:
1. Video Calls! Lots of them, through Facebook, Whatsapp, Skype or any other form of social media. Video calling made a big difference, even when there wasn’t a lot to say. Sometimes it was just nice to be able to have the line open and watch, but other times, just watching was harder than having no contact.
2. Photos. Having a wife that doesn’t put her camera down helps. Getting bombarded with photos meant seeing what they (baby and R) had been up to. It allowed me to be involved and included even though I wasn’t physically there. *
*Or when we are together, we get snaps like these!
3. Being busy. This meant doing anything that kept my mind ticking; diving in head first to things that allowed me to forget about reality. Often this was games (much to the annoyance of my wife!) because they kept me sane.
4. Being with people who get it. My job allowed me to be surrounded by other people who understand the harsh reality of long distance relationships, and the difficulty that comes with being away from family. The situation was still not completely normal, but having some of it understood helped.
My lack of understanding about the reality of long-distance parenthood has proved a topic of contention between H and I, but this week, I feel like after many many conversations, I feel like we are on a new level. I am in Gibraltar for a few more weeks while I work, but will soon head home, closing the distance once and for all.
Thank you H for allowing me to feature you on this post, and thank you to all of our family, friends and extended village, for the continued support.
Supporting you from pregnancy to parenting 