Partnership Perils

By Mary Malyon

Last Saturday at 5.30pm, Mr M and I rolled in the grass and 'made out' like teenagers. It was sunset in Christchurch's Botanic Gardens. Ruby tulips glowed in the luminous sidelight and sneaker-clad pensioners sauntered back to their Cruise Ship courtesy buses - staring at us half in disapproval, half in envy.

I remember every detail for two reasons. Firstly, I was hyper aware that we needed to get back to our little lady in half an hour for bedtime to run smoothly. Secondly, this was the first physical contact we had experienced for months. OK, to be brutally honest for nine-months since the morning my daughter was born (and then Mr M wasn't so keen with a woman in early labour, he really should have taken the opportunity while he could).

'Having children changes your life,' what a cliché. But I had no idea, no idea, that nurturing a new human life would be so all consuming. Practically, Mr M and I were prepared: we had paid the bills, the freezer was full and we had diligently attended free breastfeeding classes at the local hospital. But the strain placed on our relationship by parenting a newborn was immediate and all consuming. No one warned us about this, it almost felt like a taboo subject, swept under the rug.

We had a textbook homebirth. Our girl was born at full speed and six-hours later we were alone with a newborn baby. The community were wonderful, dropping off soup and home-baked bread. But the blissed-out baby-moon never happened for us. I was exhausted and sore. Mr M was amazing. His newborn daughter slept on his chest so I could get some rest. He ran in to attend to me when I knocked on the wall, again and again and again: literally spooning soup into my mouth and tying my hair back, as I sat with my hands full of baby trying to work out breastfeeding. My man did everything: washing, cleaning, hanging out clothes, chopping wood, lighting the fire, changing nappies and waking with us hourly through night. In short he was my mother, nurse, hair-stylist, and waiter...

It was too much. By day four his patience waned, but we still had a week and a half to go before my mum arrived from England. Unused to waking at night, he stomped around when I needed help at four in the morning. I was deeply resentful. How dare he feel grumpy and tired? Had he been through labour four days before? On night seven, I felt hot and cold and my left breast was rock hard - a blocked duct. I stumbled out of bed, feverish and dizzy. Our girl started to cry so I rocked in front of the fire feeding her in a daze, freezing cold and asking for help. Mr M stomped out, exhausted, completely over-stretched and out of his depth. We had a pitched row, while our little newborn cried in my arms. It was awful and will forever colour my memories of our first days.

Sometimes, it feels like we are the only couple in the world experiencing friction and, frankly, losing the plot now and then. So I was relieved when walking with a couple of mum friends the other day, babies snoozing on our backs and a toddler peddling ahead. The conversation turned to the afternoon's activities: "Oh, we're going to couple counselling," Anika casually dropped in. I was taken aback expecting to hear the usual litany of housework. "We've been doing that too," added Tui. "Oh so have we," I added breezily, as if this was perfectly normal, as it should be.

But why did I feel ever so slightly sheepish? And why, if relationship problems are such a common concern for my group of friends are they so rarely shared? (This particular walk being the only time the subject has been broached). I must discuss my daughter's sleep on a daily basis, and there seems to be an almost pathological obsession over what type of cloth diaper to use. But when it comes to the state of play between us and our other half: silence rules.

Personally, I have been reticent about discussing my relationship woes equating a dysfunctional relationship with failure as a parent. But now I realise it is society's outmoded support structures that are at fault. Natural parenting without adequate back-up does place a huge strain on your relationship. Baby-carrying and co-sleeping are wonderful practices, but parents do need time for themselves and to achieve this they need understanding family or community members who they trust to uphold their parenting practises when they aren't around (or next door, or even in the same room as baby, but focusing on each other). At the moment these people are few and far between. Mainstream society hasn't caught up with us yet, and the support structure we need to nurture ourselves and our children is still in the design stage.

I've been reading a brilliant book called 'Buddhism for Mothers' by Sarah Napthali. It talks about accepting where we are and not expecting all positive change to happen immediately: it is about taking baby-steps, generation to generation, in the right direction. My mother, for example, was a pioneering breast-feeding counsellor; she weaned me at four-months - pretty early by today's standards.

Meanwhile, there are resources out there for parents struggling from lack of support. Every parenting couple in New Zealand is entitled to six hours free counselling. Discussing issues with a wise, non-judgemental elder is a great resource. Books help too, and if you broach the subject with more experienced mums they might have some wise words. Most of all though, I think it's important to remember a simple nugget of advice given to me by a wise mother: "Be kind to each other."