The Confirmation, by Edwin Muir

Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face,
I in my mind had waited for this long.
Seeing the false and searching the true,
Then I found you as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads.
But you, what shall I call you?
A fountain in a waste.
A well of water in a country dry.
Or anything that's honest and good, an eye
That makes the whole world bright.
Your open heart simple with giving, give the primal deed.
The first good world, the blossom, the blowing seed.
The hearth, the steadfast land, the wandering sea,
Not beautiful or rare in every part
But like yourself, as they were meant to be.

Breastfeeding

I was not prepared for how much I would enjoy breastfeeding. Leaving aside the health benefits of breastfeeding (or the health risks of not breastfeeding, depending on how you'd rather phrase it), it is about far more than food: it makes her sleepy, soothes her, comforts her and distracts her when she is bored. It is the lazy mother's best parenting tool.

From the first time that my daughter ejected the nipple from her lips with an audible "pop" and collapsed onto my bosom, nipple pressed against her cheek, wrapping her tiny arms around my breast and falling peacefully and beautifully asleep, I was utterly sold.

But, oh sweet Jesus, is breastfeeding ever a bind. Neither Gaius or I believed that parenting tasks should be doled out according to the vagaries of gender, and he passionately rejects the restrictive notion that a father's job should revolve around "breadwinning". We were emphatically committed to sharing the duties of parenting. But this is something that we cannot share. It does not matter how much of a feminist you are, how committed you are to equal parenting, how dismissive you are of gender roles: if one of you is breastfeeding, your sex will result in you being utterly tied to that child in a way that no one else can share. You can fight the patriarchy, but you cannot fight biology: biology is not concerned with equal rights.

Yes, I could express milk so someone else can give it to her in a bottle, but expressing milk takes longer than actually feeding her; then you've got to wash and sterilise the pump and the bottles, and then you've really got to pump when you would have fed her anyway to make sure your body keeps producing the right amount of milk. And yes, we could give her the occasional bottle of formula milk, but not only is there a good chance that she will refuse it (it just doesn't taste as nice), but that really would be putting my desire for freedom above her health, as it could endanger her virgin gut. The path of least resistance in this case is just to go with the flow and end up, as in our case, with one parent staying at home with the baby, and the other going out to work. Oh how are the mighty rejecters-of-traditional-gender-roles fallen.

For the first few months of her life, it felt like she was on elastic - I'd pass her over to someone else, but it was usually only a matter of minutes before she would ping back to my nipple once more.

I have cried because I couldn't get a moment to myself. I have fantasised about a measly four hours of uninterupted sleep. And from a polyamorous point of view, I have resigned myself to not being able to leave my baby for more than a few hours at a time, day or night, for a long time yet. This does not make my relationship with Jemmy easy.

Gaius, on the other hand, is able to be far more flexible. He can sleep with his other lovers in our spare room. He can go out on dates in his evenings. He has even spent one or two nights away from us! Amazing! All of this is rare, and completely with my blessing, but I would be lying if I said that I wasn't intensely jealous - not for the time he spends with other women, but for the time he spends without Small.

We had a New Year's Eve party this year. At about 2am, I left the drinking and the laughter of some of our dearest friends downstairs, and crawled into bed next to my daughter. I pulled her close and helped her to latch on. I nestled my nose into her warm hair and wrapped my arm around her, listening to her grateful swallows. And then, when she had finished and fallen into a deep, satiated sleep, I didn't immediately return to the party; I stayed to feel her warm face pressed against my skin, to listen to her soft breathing and smell her warm, milky breath. Jealous as I am of my husband's freedom, I know he would swap with me in a heartbeat.

We don't say it often, but we both know that biology has given me the better deal.

P.S. If you or someone you know is struggling with breastfeeding, please encourage them to get help. Don't rely on support and advice that isn't working. Good places to start are the NCT and La Leche League. Breastfeeding can be hard, but it is so, so worth it.

Postnatal Polyamory and Sex, Part I

There is an awful lot written out there about what to expect from your sex life after childbirth, and an awful lot of it didn't apply to me.

For one, "sex" in this context nearly always means vaginal penetration with a penis, and it is equally as frequently is limited to "between the baby's parents". There is also an assumption that physical healing and sexual desire will neatly match together. And as none of that applied to my sex life as a whole, I'm going to try writing something that does.

My husband and I began to talk about how much we missed sex within a few days of Small's birth. I think it was more of an urge to reconnect other after such a tumultuous change than it was sexual desire, but it was still reassuring to me to know that the hormones hadn't caused fatal damage to my libido. (The hormone shift from being pregnant to not being pregnant is dramatic, and made me tearful for a few days.)

Physically, however, I just couldn't, and I'm not just talking penetration. It took nearly three weeks before I was able to properly inspect my frightened genitalia, and that ended with a trip to my GP to weepily ask if it was "normal". It took four weeks for the bleeding (lochia) to stop, and that, combined with hot flashes, leaking (sometimes squirting) nipples, smelling slightly of cheese, wee and babysick, and sweating like a runner, meant that I just felt gross and chronically unsexy. I wanted a sex life, I just couldn't do it.

Which all makes it very strange when the advice about resuming sex after childbirth is all about the vagina. Putting anything inside my vagina was the last thing on my mind, but sex? I still wanted that. I think I involved my vagina in sex three or four times in the first six months. (And six months is also, roughly, when it felt like it had returned to normal function, and any lingering effects from birth finally faded.)

And then there is polyamory. In the early weeks and months of Small's life, being polyamorous meant that there were two men that I wasn't having sex with.

It was different with them both. I touched on this before when discussing how different co-habitating can feel from having lovers who live elsewhere. But there is more to it, as Gaius and I are no longer merely cohabiting, we are now co-parenting. This bond has given our relationship a new focus, intimacy and importance that only makes the contrast between what we have and what we have with our other lovers sharper.

The result of this is that it took me a little while before I felt comfortable being sexual again with Jemmy (well, it was a couple of months, but that felt like a long time), and longer still before I could do anything with anyone else. To be honest, I'm still not quite "there".

From talking to other new mothers, I know that the drop in my libido is completely normal, but for me, it has amounted to not being as interested in sex with people outside of my two main relationships. This is not something I've ever seen discussed on Mumsnet.

A great deal of this is practical. When does sex actually happen? It can be difficult to find time for sex when you are breastfeeding a baby, and when you do find that time, sleep can be a far more attractive option. Exhaustion is a very effective libido-dampener. Especially if you know you can't just "catch up" on sleep the next day, (or the day after that, or the day after that...) When you don't live with your lover, there's a good chance that you won't be together when an appropriate window for sex pops up.

But that's probably not a sex-problem that would get me much sympathy in the normal world, is it?

Sex and pregnancy - part 2

Early pregnancy really knocked my libido. As you can probably imagine, the nausea and exhaustion did not make having sex easy or desirable. The very sensitive gag reflex didn't help either. Towards the end of the first trimester, I managed to control the symptoms with extra sleep and peanut butter sandwiches, and then, the awfulness just faded.

In late January, the three of us hosted what we were pretty sure was going to be our last house-orgy for a while. I was more than 5 months pregnant, so right in the middle of pregnancy: the sickness was just a memory, I no longer needed afternoon naps and early nights, and I finally actually looked pregnant, as opposed to just waistless.   I felt great, my friends were openly appreciative and interested in my changing body, and I suppose I felt special.

Late pregnancy is different. Like a Weebl in reverse, once lying down, I was down for good. Moving around the bed was hard work. Even cuddling required creative problem solving. Plus, starting from around the middle of pregnancy, penetrative sex felt less and less good, until I just gave up on it entirely. I wasn't expecting that.

Putting my other post on sex and pregnancy together with this gives a balanced perspective on my experiences: it was awesome and it was terrible, but in new and unusual ways.

They Tuck You Up, by Adrian Mitchell

They tuck you up, your mum and dad
They read you Peter Rabbit, too.
They give you all the treats they had
And add some extra, just for you.

Body confidence and the lesser-known benefits of monogamy

I've written before about how I liked what pregnancy did to my body. That's really only part of the story: I liked it until the ninth month, and then I was too big to do much, and I got stretch marks.

I thought maybe that I had escaped, but then, only a few weeks away from my due date, they grew like a climbing vine up to my bellybutton. I didn't care that I had put on weight in pregnancy - weight can be lost - but stretch marks are permanent. I was upset, but I pulled myself together and decided that as long as they stayed below my bellybutton, I'd be okay with them.

Of course, they spread above my bellybutton. At 41 weeks pregnant, I had an angry red crack of lighting spreading up from my knickers.

Where polyamory comes into this is with potential new partners, or even current occasional lovers. If Gaius and I were monogamous, I wouldn't need to worry about what anyone else thought of me naked: his would be the only opinion that mattered. And as far as he is concerned, the fact that I carried and birthed his daughter can only make me more beautiful. If our relationship was sexually exclusive, I wouldn't have had any of these wobbles.

And even if Gaius, Jemmy and I were poly-fidelitous, my body troubles would be gone. Jemmy has an exceptionally catholic taste in women (physically, at least) and even if that weren't true, he has always made me feel beautiful for more than just my body. So it wasn't his admiration waning that troubled me either.

The reason for my (rather uncharacteristic) worries was that my two current partners are not "it" for me. New lovers are an unknown quantity. Will they be secretly turned off by my soft, wrinkled belly? Disappointed by my sagging breasts? These are fears that just wouldn't bother me if I were monogamous.

A few days before I actually gave birth, I am ashamed to admit, I obsessed a little bit about all this. After my friend Lori blogged about body confidence, I mentioned that I was dealing with it, and she and another friend were so sweet to me, that I cried. I am pretty sure now that I was actually in early labour at the time, which might explain my emotional knife-edge, but still. Their kind words were very reassuring.

What they told me was something I was trying to convince myself of at the time: our bodies change, but we shouldn't see changes as losing attractiveness, but as the mark of the things we have survived and achieved. They talked about the beauty of laughter-lines, and the story that scars can tell. They were, of course, right. Two months after Small was born, I looked down at my soft, wrinkled belly with its network of scars, thought "fuck it", and bought a bikini.

I still think that there is a chance that new lovers might find my body less appealing than they would have done before the baby. And while that is not ideal, it is okay. Between my lined belly and my lower, softer breasts, I have completely nourished two people for well over a year. My daughter is happy, healthy and thriving because of my body, and these changes will be a permanent reminder of this. I look down at my belly, with its network of scars and think "there was a baby in there", and that is miraculous and wonderful to me. If people can't see that when they look at me, then fuck 'em. I know that my body is amazing.

The Poly Tribe

A little while ago, I stumbled across a book called "The Continuum Concept", by Jean Liedloff. This book is one of the forerunners to Attachment Parenting, which is a parenting style that we found ourselves adopting to some extent before we knew that it existed.

Attachment parenting, however (as is nearly all modern parenting advice), is based on the concept of the nuclear family. In the Contiuum Concept, the emphasis is on sharing your life (including parenting) with a tribe. Because babies are at their most content when being carried, for example, you carry your baby in your arms or in a sling. Unlike parents who are doing this alone, if you need to put your baby down, you pass her to another tribe member. In the Amazonian society that Liedloff examined, parenting was shared, and so were the tasks of everyday life.

The parenting books and websites that I read when I was pregnant all warned about the stress that having too many visitors can put on new parents. Instinctively, we ignored this advice, and for the first few weeks, we had near constant streams of family and friends staying with us. This was partly because we are both extroverts, but also because we knew that those we loved could be called on to help. And many of those that came had children of their own, so they knew what would be useful to us: they cooked our meals, cleaned our kitchen, changed nappies, and cuddled our restless newborn while we slept. This support meant that I could concentrate on little more than breastfeeding and rest. And really, this is how millions of people around the world get through the difficult neonatal period. We're not meant to do this alone.

We are lucky that we have a large, supportive and loving extended family who were helpful without being smothering. But because we know how lucky we are, we also know that relying on family is not enough. We need a tribe.

Which is why both Gaius and I love the idea that Small will have Jemmy in her life. He can be relied on to offer support to us, and in the future, we all hope that she will consider him to be part of her tribe. More than this, we have friends, lovers and potential new partners whom we would like to share our family with in a million little ways, big and small. Similarly, I see a future where some of those we love will have children of their own, and having had such wonderful support offered to us, we can pass it on. We will know to cook their meals, clean their kitchen, change nappies, and (most importantly) bond with our newest tribe member by cuddling him or her, so the parents can have a break.

I know that many in the world think that lifestyles and sexual proclivities such as ours make us unsuitable parents, but I see the possibility that our lives are growing towards something even more wonderful and supportive for our family than the more traditional childhoods that Gaius and I were privileged to enjoy.

Where the concept of the tribe and my ideal differs, is that the people I surround myself with are here by choice. Even our families, now we are adults, are part of our tribe because we want them to be, not just because we are related. And my partners, lovers and friends are all people that I respect, love and cherish for their input in our lives. This is where polyamory comes in, because the bonds that we make when we love each other are not only as strong as a loving family, but they are all with people that we have chosen, and we value for their contribution to our lives, in many different ways. Some of these people will be our relatives, but others will not. Polyamory means that our tribe does not just create love, it is built on it.