I have always struggled with my body image. As a chubby child, I had low self-confidence. I convinced myself that I was not an outdoors person, and tried every excuse not to be involved in physical activity. Many would have deemed this laziness, but growing up in a farm, there was no time for laziness. No, it was much more than that. It was a fear of embarrassing myself, a fear of never being good enough, a fear of not being perfect. 

By the time I had reached the age of 10, I was already morbidly obese. I ate for comfort, and the more I ate, the more I needed to eat to quell the feelings of inadequacy. I tried to hide from the world because I didn't think anyone could love me. There was quite a lot of emotional turmoil in my family home, and this only served to further my need to eat my feelings. There was nobody to talk to, so I hid my feelings in the candy under the mattress, and discarded my feelings along with the mountains of candy wrappers. 

By the time I reached my early teens, I had pushed myself to the other extreme. I barely ate. I became a master at making my plate look really full when it was, in fact, very empty. I worked out lots of tricks to fool people into believing I was eating. I think for a while if may have even fooled myself. Instead of eating, I would cut my food on my plate and spread it out so that it looked like there was vast quantities of food. There wasn't. I took over making meals so I knew exactly what was going into them and so I could serve them to ensure I had control over the portion sizes. 

Everything became about control. Instead of eating my feelings, I exercised. A lot. The cycle was brutal on my body. Everybody was too busy to notice. I was only ever encouraged to continue the abuse to my body, unwittingly, by well-meaning people who encouraged me to continue on my weight loss escapade. I was told how thin I looked, and I thrived on the attention. It made me feel good. I hadn't ever felt good about the way I looked. But it still wasn't enough. I continued to spiral out of control until I became ill. Really ill. The first warning sign was that my period stopped. Being young, I saw this as a bonus. No more nasty pain or inconvenience when I needed. Keep in exercising. After several months, though, I began to worry that maybe it wasn't such a good thing. Months passed, until finally my mother realised something was wrong. Asking if she needed to buy me any "supplies", she suddenly realised that she hadn't bought any for a long, long time. 

After 9 months, I was sent to a specialist, who after rigorous testing, and assuming I was pregnant (I was a teen after all, what other explanation could there be.?!) finally discovered that my body had stopped ovulating, stopped functioning as a woman because of the appalling treatment of my body. I had to take tablets to re-regulate my cycle and I had to start eating. The idea of eating terrified me. I went through a series of men and a series of horrible life events until I found the man that I was later to marry. He accepted me for who I was, genuinely loved me no matter what, and forced me to eat. The result was I let go. I let it all go, and I gained massive amounts of weight. Shameful amounts. And the hardest part was that I just didn't see it. In my mind I was still that thin girl, but the reality was much different. In reality, I had ballooned and by the time I realised what I had done, it was too late. I was eating my feelings again. Old habits die hard. 

It took a significant health scare, a total breakdown in fact, for me to realise that something had to change. In the only way I knew how, I threw my heart and soul into my weight loss journey. I lost so much weight that I was half the person that I had been before. I exercised to excess. But I felt great. I loved having the attention of men again. I loved that I could buy nice clothes. I loved that I had enough confidence to actually go swimming. I still wasn't happy with the way I looked, but in my own warped way, I guess I accepted it. 

Just a few weeks after my wedding, I was in the best shape of my life. Things seemed to be looking up. Then, after 10 years of waiting, I found out that I was pregnant. It felt amazing. But then it didn't. Morning sickness destroyed my spirit. Low blood pressure made me terrified to leave my home. I could barely eat. I couldn't exercise. I was crushed. I became a shadow of who I was. I was ecstatic to be pregnant, but getting through each moment was soul-destroying. Morning sickness lasted my entire pregnancy. I felt so isolated, and despite barely being able to eat, the weight stacked on. 

I struggled with my body all throughout my pregnancy. I didn't glow. I wasn't radiant. I was fat and puffy and full of acne. I struggled to remember that I was growing a miracle. After my daughter was born, I was not prepared for the changes to my body. I was shattered to realise that my big baby belly didn't instantly disappear, despite there no longer being a baby in it. I loved showing off my baby girl, but didn't want anyone to visit me and see the whale I had become. 

I had high hopes that breast feeding would help the weight melt away. It didn't. Six months on, it still hasn't. It's still there. My body has changed completely and as hard as I try it seems I can't get it back. I don't resent my daughter, but I do wish that things were different, that I'd done some things differently. Then perhaps I would not be where I am now. I still don't like to go in public. I fear that my daughter will grow to be embarrassed of me. I'm terrified of falling pregnant in case there are complications because of my weight, if I can conceive at all. I'm terrified of gaining more and losing myself completely. I hate the web of feelings that tangle and snare around my soul. I hate feeling this way. 

I don't know how, but I must find a way to learn to love my body for what it gave me. For the miracle of life that sits in my lap as I type. I must learn to love this body so my daughter learns to love hers. To break this cycle. That is definitely something worth fighting for. 

I've only been a mother for 5 short months, and already I have heard a solitary phrase thousands of times, "enjoy it, it goes by so fast!"

I appreciate the sentiment, really I do, but there is one curious fact I notice about those who choose to share this pearl of wisdom - none of these people have babies under 3. Ever. They are grandparents whose children have long since flown the nest and they are reminiscing, or parents whose children have just started school/high school/university, and they are feeling sentimental. They are people who have been there, but aren't there now.

They are imparting this knowledge with the benefit of hindsight.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing. It tricks the mind into believing things weren't exactly as they were. It romanticises. It softens the blow. It dulls the pain.

When you are imparting such a pearl of wisdom, you are doing so with the benefit of hindsight, and probably more than 2 hours of broken sleep.

While it's true that, as we look back, time seems short, the reality is that it's not short at the time. When you have a baby that won't stop screaming, time is not short. When it's 2.00am and you are pacing the floor, again, because your baby won't sleep, time is not short. When all you want to do is rest your weary eyes, but it's 9.00am and there's floors to be scrubbed and laundry to be washed and appointments to be attended, TIME IS NOT SHORT.

Instead, I believe a better phrase to say to a battle-weary, sleep-deprived parent is this:

"It won't be like this forever".

Because it won't be.

As a breastfeeding mother, one day I know I will get my body back. But for now, one day seems a long, long way away.

Please don't cheapen my feelings by telling me "it goes by so fast", because right now, it is not. Right now, that's not what I need to hear. I'm not sure I ever really need to hear that.

In hindsight, the last 5 months of my baby's life have gone by in a blink, but the reality is much different. The reality is there have been more tears and less sleep than ever before in my life. There have been greater highs and crushing lows, often within moments of one another. I've felt, I FEEL, like I'm losing my mind. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I have.

But I know, in this moment, time is moving at just the right pace. At the same pace it always has. At the same pace it always will. It is only my perception that changes. Not time. Time is a constant.

Before my daughter was born, I was my own person. When people thought of me, they thought only of me. They knew me as a wife, a colleague, a friend. They knew my interests, talked to me idly about current events and invited me to be a part of their lives. Since the birth of my daughter, all that has changed.

I am now a mother first, and I love that. But in many ways, I am a mother only. When people talk to me, it is to ask about my daughter. We can spend the entire conversation talking about her past, her present, her future, but never once talk about me.

When I visit someone, they look at my daughter long before they look at me. Sometimes they don't look at me at all.

Current events? I lost those in the haze of motherhood; of long days, unrelenting sleepless nights and piles of laundry strewn throughout my home. The focus is no longer on me. It is instead about my daughter; her needs, her milestones, her life.

For the most part, I don't mind. For the most part, I accept this as just a part of motherhood. For the most part.

But there are some days when I struggle to remember who I am. I feel that I lost myself somewhere along the way. It began when I was pregnant, slowly. At first it was about me, and how I was feeling, but as time marched on it became about the bump where my belly used to be. As it grew larger, I grew less. Less important. Less thought of. Less.

When I brought my daughter into the world, I realised my identity had become entrenched in hers. In the beginning, this was the most amazing feeling. I wasn't alone. I was a mother. And that could never be taken away from me.

But slowly, I realised I was losing who I was as an individual. Slowly, ever so slowly, until I realised I couldn't remember a life before my daughter. I couldn't remember how I used to fill my days, what it felt like or what made up my identity before I was known as mama.

Sometimes, I find myself questioning what makes me happy. What do I like? What interests me? WHO AM I? When the word "mama" is taken away, I struggle to remember what is left.

I know so many people say it is important to nurture yourself along the journey. It is important to take time out by yourself, for yourself. I agree, wholeheartedly I do. But sometimes it's not so easy. I haven't had a moment to myself since my daughter was born. The romantic fairy take of having time to myself while my daughter slept peacefully in her cot ceased to exist from the first time I brought her home and tried to put her in her down alone.and she cried...and cried...and cried...

Secretly I was happy that my baby didn't want to be in a cot. I was happy that she needed me. I loved to be needed. So we shared a bed. Every night. And I loved it. I still do. But then, I thought, I will have some time to myself during the day. I will feed my baby girl and place her in a snuggle bed next to me and I will know she's safe and she will feel content and I will spend some precious moments by myself. Some much-craved "me-time".

But my daughter had other ideas. She would not, and will not, sleep anywhere but my arms. No matter how asleep, or how tired, as soon as I try to move her from my arms, she wakes. Life has dealt my baby girl her own challenges, including colic and wind and reflux. I know this is another reason that she needs me. And her needs will always come first, as they should.

The result is showering, sleeping and even going to the bathroom are "shared" experiences. I have always been a private person and I must admit I still find it unnerving, albeit essential. I still find it difficult, but we must do what is necessary to get by.

I know mental illness plays a role in how I feel. I've always needed some me time, some quiet time alone to reflect, to get my head straight and move forward. I need time to recharge. It's not optional, it is essential for me.

The reality is, my daughter doesn't stop needing her mother just because my head isn't in the right place. Pre-motherhood, when I had a really bad day I could choose to stay in bed. That is no longer an option. If life got to be too much, I could give myself a time out from life. I can't do that anymore.

And it feels like my feelings don't matter any more. No matter what I feel or how I feel or why I feel it, it seems as though I have no right to feel that way. That I must push those feelings aside to be a constant for my daughter.

But it's not that easy. I have feelings, too, and even if they aren't logical, they are real. I have bad days, just as I always did, only now I'm not allowed to indulge myself in them. Now I have to be a constant even when I don't feel that way.

I wish I didn't feel this way, but I am being honest. I wonder how many others don't speak of their feelings for the fear of judgement. For the fear that feeling lost and feeling unworthy and feeling disheartened somehow makes them less of a parent.

It does not. It makes you human.

Is it my issue? Unequivocally yes, it is. Never for a moment am I saying, or would I say, my daughter has anything to do with these feelings. I love her beyond all measure, and would not change her for anything. She is mine and she is perfect in my eyes.

But again, it doesn't change how I feel. It doesn't change the fact that I lost a part of myself the day my daughter came into the world.

Yet I gained far more than I could ever have imagined. I just wish sometimes that I was acknowledged, respected and loved for more than being a mother. I wish sometimes that I had an identity beyond those bounds. Perhaps I do, I just don't know what it is anymore. I am lost. I remain unknown.

Before my daughter was born, I already had a vision of who she was going to be, of what I wanted for her life. She would be happy, healthy, intelligent, compassionate, and fiercely determined. I wanted those things for her, and many, many more.

I think it's natural that we all envision our child will be born "perfect", that they will have 10 fingers and 10 toes and that all their organs will function as it is intended. But for some parents, this isn't the reality. I by no means mean that any child born isn't a blessing, nor do I mean they are unlovable or imperfect for us. Our child is exactly as they are meant to be, they are perfect, they are precious, they are ours. In some ways, I believe that lulls is into a sense of fantasy, a sense that our child is impervious to pain and illness. If we just love them enough, they will never have to endure such things. We can protect them.

I, too, lived in this bubble. I lived in it for 3 glorious days, until the seeds of reality were sewn. For at 3 days old, my daughter failed her routine newborn hearing test. When we hear the word "routine", it can wrongly lead us to believe that nothing bad can come of it. That it's merely a formality. That isn't the reality.

When the doctor told me my daughter had been "referred" on her hearing test, she assured me there was nothing to worry about. Again, it was just routine. At 5 days old, this test was repeated and my daughter was again "referred" for her hearing. I am a first time mama, and I had absolutely no idea what this meant. All I knew was that it didn't fit the perfect world I had built for myself and my daughter. This wasn't part of the life I had dreamed for her.

A total of 7 excruciatingly long tests in 3 different cities later, and it was confirmed: my daughter has a permanent hearing loss in one ear. Even as the audiologist explained it those few short weeks ago, I didn't really believe it. Surely they were talking about someone else's child. Surely not our perfect baby girl. We were given pamphlets to read about accepting the diagnosis and what to do now. I smiled and thanked the specialist politely bit again, I was sure that I had slipped into an alternate universe. Surely they were talking to somebody else.

As the weeks passed, I fielded phone call after phone call from specialists and support groups. I listened politely to their advice. I was positive and proactive and I seemed to have it all together. Then suddenly I realised that decisions had to be made. Decisions about my daughter and her future. Suddenly, everything started to become real.

I realised that I hadn't allowed myself to grieve the diagnosis, and the loss of the life I thought that we would have. I hadn't allowed myself to feel the true weight of what the diagnosis meant. I hadn't accepted that my daughter didn't fit the cookie cutter mould that society portrays.

I have been left to wonder what the diagnosis means for the rest of our lives. I am already organising speech therapists, learning facilitators, educators, support groups, play groups, mentoring, teleschools, sign language classes...the list goes on. In fact, today we are visiting a genetic counsellor and a genetic specialist. The diagnosis of my daughter's permanent hearing loss has ramifications not just for her future, but for ours and that of her future siblings. There is also the knowledge that many children with permanent hearing loss also have other syndromes, diseases, challenges. Or that future siblings may suffer a greater or lesser level of hearing loss - or perhaps none at all. The thought terrifies me, but not enough to deter us from having more children. It is just another challenge that we have to face in our lives. That challenge, however, does not outweigh the love I hold for my daughter, nor the love I already hold for the child or children yet to be.

Looking at my daughter sleeping beside me as I write, I find it hard to believe that there is anything "amiss". She looks perfectly healthy. Unfortunately looks can be deceiving. While her condition is in no way life threatening, it is life altering. For her and for her family. I need to give myself time to accept this, and to grieve the cookie cutter life I shamefully deluded myself into believing could be a reality. I need to grieve the life I longed for and accept the life that is.

My daughter is my greatest blessing. She altered my life the moment I realised that her life had begun inside of me. This blog, like my life, is dedicated to her. For you, she is perfectly imperfect, just like me, and even after I breathe my last breath, I will love her still.

My daughter is only 5 months old, yet she is already teaching me so much about life. Today, I found myself pondering her innocence. The way she looks at the world, and what she sees, makes me constantly reevaluate the way I look at the world. It makes me feel joy and pride in my daughter, and a sense of shame in myself. When did I begin to see the world so negatively? When did I start to rush through life without taking time for the little things? And why?

It is my greatest fear that I will pollute my daughter's mind and tarnish the innocent way she views the world. I want her to remain as an innocent child for as long as possible. Unfortunately, in today's world, this seems to be for shorter and shorter periods of time. Children are being forced to grow up younger and younger. We are placing greater expectations and more responsibility on our children than ever before. We live in a world where there's such a rush to achieve everything, and we force that same mentality onto our children. The person who stops to smell the roses is deemed lazy or a fool, a dreamer who doesn't live in the real world. Rather, they live in the moment, something most of us just don't have time for. Because we choose not to make it so.

My daughter spends large amounts of time staring at her hands, at her feet, at the curtains blowing in the breeze, at the light, at my face. To her, everything is new and amazing. This realisation sometimes causes me to reevaluate what I know about the world and how it works, what I know about life. I spend so much time rushing through, believing that I know everything I need to know, and yet also knowing there is so much more to learn.

When my daughter looks at me and smiles, it fills my soul with pure joy. For I know, in her innocence, she is honestly overjoyed to see me. She loves me completely. She trusts me completely. This realisation often flaws me. It makes me wonder how I look through her eyes. For she has not yet been contaminated by life. She is still filled with awe and wonder and the magic of youth.

Why do we rush for our children to grow up when what they have now is so amazing? The innocence of youth is ours for such a short time. Once lost, we can never truly get it back. We can try to replicate it, but like any replica, it is never the same as the original. Why do we try to pressure children to be little adults? Why don't we give them the space and time and respect to be children?

I often wonder if our rush to force our children to grow up is more about our selfish desire to push them to achieve. Sometimes, all too often, innocence is mistaken for immaturity and foolishness. Yet my daughter, in her innocence, is already far wiser than I will ever be. She sees the world in its rawest form and finds the beauty in that. She doesn't need a wealth of gadgets and money and luxury to be happy. She only asks for her basic needs to be met: food, shelter, clothing. Given the greatest, most expensive toy, she will almost certainly prefer the paper it was wrapped in or the box it was stored in. Given the choice between the most expensive toy in existence and a cuddle from her mama, she would always, always choose her mama. We see innocence as foolishness, but who is really the fool? The innocence of youth should be applauded and encouraged. We could learn a lot from it.

Before my daughter was born, I had a lot more spare time. Sometimes I long for that spare time back. But in the quiet hours feeding a 5mo at 3.00am, I have a lot more time to reflect. In those moments of reflection, I think about how parenting has changed my life.

I reflect on how I used to stay up late "just for fun", but I can't for the life of me remember what I achieved by doing that. I've always been a notoriously bad sleeper, so I guess it was more habit than anything else. Sometimes there was a certain pride in saying I stayed up until 2.00am. It was the pre-parenthood badge of honour. Now, I take all the sleep I can get which, granted, isn't a lot. But it's enough to get by. Before having my daughter, I would never have believed I could survive on such little, broken sleep. Before babies, I never knew what sleep deprivation was. I just thought that I did.

But somehow as I look at my little girl in those small hours, I realise that sleep is often the furtherest thing from my mind I find myself staying awake just to watch her sleep. Just to breathe her in. I find myself staring in awe at her eyes, her eyelashes, her fingers, her toes, her cute little nose, her squishy little thighs. Before my daughter, I would never have taken the time to stare in wonder at this amazing creature. I would simply have rushed about my day, never giving the bigger picture a second thought.

Parenting is a busy business, though. There's always appointments to juggle, food to prepare, clothes to wash, bodies to be scrubbed, messes to be tended to. Yet somewhere in amongst all that chaos, my daughter constantly helps me to find joy in the little things. A joy I could never have known before.

The most amazing part of all is she will never know that she is teaching me the true meaning of life, and the purest feeling of joy. Simply seeing her smile melts my heart. Seeing tears in her eyes breaks it. To sit and watch her sleep takes me to a place of wonder. To see her joy and her determination when she is learning and conquers something new. It makes all the things in life I take for granted seem so real again. It brings me back to a place of peace, of wonder, where I see the wold for just that moment, again, through the eyes of a child. And it is magical.

My daughter, who is 5 months old, has begun to discover her hands and feet. Today, I watched as she stared in itter amazement at her hands. She twisted them slowly in front of her with a look of pure awe. In that moment, watching her, I was again transported to the place where my body wasn't just something I took for granted. In that moment, I found myself staring at my own hands. Watching as they held my daughter. Knowing the journey they have taken with me. Thankful they were holding my most amazing blessing.

My daughter helps me every day to be a better person. While I am her parent, and her protector, she is my teacher. She is giving me a second chance to live my life again. This time, without taking it for granted. She helps me find the joy in the little things. It is everywhere, if only we open our eyes to see it.

Babies. They're adorable, right? Of course they are! I have a theory that babies must be exceptionally cute to lure you in, to lull you into a false sense of security. Then before you know it, bam! Reality hits. Sleep deprivation, emotional upheaval, social isolation, and a severe lack of self care can cause you to realise something. I know I have. While I love my daughter beyond all measure, and I wouldn't hesitate to go dark side and whoop your butt if you were to do wrong by her, I have realised sometimes things that she does are REALLY annoying. Note, I said things that she does, not her as a whole. As a whole, she's an adorable package. But some of the things that she does drive me utterly bonkers. And I know the journey has only just begun...

* Hog the bed: My 5 month old baby girl, my husky husband and my fluffy self all share a less than ideal queen size bed. Normally you would think adding a tiny human being wouldn't be such a big deal. WRONG. My daughter is the ultimate bed hog. Something I'm afraid she may have inherited from me. No matter where I position her on the bed, within minutes there are arms and legs flaying everywhere. She can pivot herself a full 360 degrees. Arms stretch at odd angles like she's playing "aeroplane". My husband sleeps soundly on his side of the bed while I try to balance my fluffy body on a minuscule portion, while trying not to so much as breathe the wrong way in case I wake the stealth ninja who has taken over our bed.

* Flailing arms: My little girl is strong. Really strong. She loves to flail her arms around a lot: when she's happy, when she's upset, when she's sleepy, when she's playful. Often, my nose, eyes or other area of my face falls victim to a flailing arm (closed fist included). This hurts a lot more than it seems.

* Wriggling: My little girl is a wriggler. Trying to change her nappy requires a great deal of skill and patience, as well as the ability to hold your tongue in just the right spot in concentration. She often holds her legs up mid nappy change then refuses to put them down again. This makes putting a fresh nappy on not just a difficult task, but an impossible one.

* Open mouth, insert thumb: My daughter's thumb is her absolute best friend right now. This is really awfully cute, except when it's not. Trying to breastfeed a baby that is constantly putting her thumb in is a nightmare. Especially when your baby is already feeding and somehow a thumb creeps in alongside your boob. It's worse when it pinches.

* Squealing: Having a conversation with my daughter is adorable. It's one of those really nice parts about being a parent. I love it when she tries to talk to me. But I hate it when she squeals. This is the type of squeal that is so high-pitched only dogs can hear it. The type that causes you to take out insurance on all the glass items that you own, just in case. After a long day, a high-pitched, blood curling scream "just because" is not really very appealing!

* Lip-pursing: Giving medicine to a baby requires an inhuman amount of patience. It also requires an inordinate amount of skill. Somehow, you have to hold down two hands that keep making their way to the baby's mouth, hold a head in position, angle the body/head so that the medicine must go down but doesn't cause choking, try to duck and weave kicking legs... Once all those bases are covered, you have to have to navigate through the Fort Knox that is the mouth. If, like my daughter, your baby has learned how to clench their jaw, you can be sure you'll spend far more time trying to gently prise open a tiny mouth than you will showering alone for the foreseeable future. 0.9ml of liquid sounds laughable, until you're forced to give it to a baby.

* Bowel explosion: Every time I have an appointment, I can be guaranteed that my daughter will have a massive, eye-watering, nostril singeing bowel explosion that will require an inordinate amount of wipes and a full change of clothes for baby and I. For a bit of variety, this explosion is unpredictable. Sometimes it is when I am trying to leave the house, sometimes it's along the journey, sometimes it's in the car park. But it will happen. And it will be BAD.

* Fight the Sandman: Now that I'm a mama, I would do anything for sleep. I'm a sleep-slut. I just can't get enough of it. I'm resigned to this reality until my baby turns 21. My daughter, however, will do anything to fight the sandman. She will scream and thrash and squeal and flail her arms and smack at me. Anything. No matter how tired she is, she will not go quietly into the night.

I love my daughter more than anything, and I know these things aren't her fault. This, however, doesn't make those things any less annoying. I'm sure if she could type, she could point out a long list of annoying things that I do, too. I'm sure one day all too soon she will.

Before I became a mama, I could go where I wanted, whenever the urge struck. If I wanted to go to the shops "just because", I simply grabbed my keys and my handbag and walked out the door. If I felt like going for a drive, all I needed was my keys and my driver's licence. If I was invited to a party, I only had to think about what to wear and what to bring. If I was asked out for coffee, I just had to check my bank balance and all was well.

Since becoming a mama, I realise how complicated life becomes. My life is centred around the needs of my baby girl (and rightly so). Now when I'm asked for coffee, I have to consider how my baby is feeling. If her reflux is acting up, she is probably better at home where I can give her lots of baths, clothing changes, time on the bed, one-on-one snuggles. Nobody likes to be paraded around when they aren't feeling well. I have to consider the time of day. If it's an evening function then we are almost immediately ruled out. My baby girl feeds for hours from about 5.00pm onwards, and she often has a lot of pain and gets very upset around that time. Later, when she's asleep, she will only sleep in my arms and is such a light sleeper that even foreign voices, heck even my voice, could wake her up and see a toxic spiral into hours of crying for both of us.

If I want to go out anywhere now, I have to make sure my baby girl is changed, fed, and dressed appropriately. I have to make sure the nappy bag is packed with spare clothes, bibs, toys, wraps, nappies, wipes, washers, and so on. I have to organise myself and make sure I at least look half decent (I aim high these days). I need to check I have my wallet and phone and keys, and that I'm actually wearing footwear (this has been forgotten before). I have to consider if I need to take the pram, or a baby carrier. If we will be near sunlight for any length of time, I need to make sure baby girl will be shaded appropriately, that her clothes cover her delicate skin and that I have a hat for her and a means to keep it on. Also a hat for me to model appropriate behaviour.

I have to allow extra time to get anywhere to allow for lugging everything to the car, getting my daughter settled in her seat and allowances in case there's an accident before we even leave - which happens more often than not. If that accident requires a bath, half an hour will be needed as an allowance. There's also the time needed to pull over and settle a crying baby, to feed a crying baby upon arrival at the destination, clothing / nappy change/s, time to take out the pram or tie the carrier, re-pack the nappy bag that fell onto the floor, get a wriggly / stubborn child out of the seat and try to achieve the goal of getting out of the car without tears. Perhaps one day with limited stress, too, but for now, we just aim for less tears.

Before having a baby, I could eat when I liked, go to the toilet when I liked, have a shower... one that lasts for longer than 2 minutes and one where I don't imagine the sound of my daughter crying the entire time I'm away from her. I could talk on the phone without interruption. I could watch a tv show from start to finish without having to pause, or start and re-start it 23 times. I could watch a movie. I could listen to music that didn't involve little lambs or itsy bitsy spiders. I could read a book that didn't involve little pigs or three bears or a cat and a fiddle.

My friends that do not yet have children, or who choose not to, don't understand the world I now live in. They can't possibly comprehend how amazing it feels just to have a sleeping baby. Or how many hours are spent pacing the floor to comfort them. Or the nappy changes. Or the washing. Or how every single thing in my life is now done for the sole reason of ensuring my baby has everything she needs. Perhaps I used to be able to go for coffee on a whim, or to a function after 4.00pm, or to talk on the phone for hours, or to answer an email in more than two sentences. I used to be able to do a lot of things.

Maybe one day I'll be able to do these things again. Maybe I'll be able to leave the house without spit up on my clothes. Or even with make up on. But for now, I live in a time vortex. Spare time is a thing of the past. Staying up late voluntarily now just sounds laughable. Sleep is suddenly seen in a whole new light. So are so many other things.

I've found since having my daughter that so many friendships have faded away. Friends have slipped away, because I don't have the time or the energy to put into those friendships when I am raising a high-needs baby. I carry a lot of guilt about this. But I know that in time I will make new friends. Mothers at playgroup, in mums and babes exercise classes or even just by smiling at another struggling mama at the grocery store. There is plenty of time for that. But right now, I fly by the seat of the pyjama bottoms that I've been wearing solidly for 24 hours and haven't had a chance to change. I roll with the punches, and allow myself to be sucked into that vortex. I release myself from the selfish ways I practiced before I became a mama because I have something in my life that is so much more important now than staying up all night or wearing make up or all of the sleep ins in the world.

Does it mean I don't miss those things sometimes? No, of course not. I'm only human. But the past is the past for a reason. I don't live there any more. This is my life now. I may meet some of my old friends along the journey of motherhood some day in the future, but until then, I think of those friends I've lost to the great divide with fondness. I wish them well. I appreciate all the love and laughter we shared. And I hold my baby girl, smile, breathe her in, and thank God for this amazing miracle.

Parenting is a tough gig. Every parent knows that. Even those who aren't parents have some concept of just how difficult it is. Late nights, long nights, early mornings, sleepless hazes, bodily fluids (oh so many!), complete dependence, complete interdependence. There's the knowledge that you always have to look after someone else, no matter how or what you are feeling. It's responsibility, and sometimes, that responsibility weighs heavy. Really heavy.

Parenting with mental illness just adds a whole new level to the challenge. For many sufferers, such as myself, exhaustion and stress only serve to exacerbate the condition/s. What was already a difficult task becomes far more difficult when you have to live in the moment and battle yourself at the same time. When nothing is straightforward and those dark corners in your mind take you to places you don't want to go.

A couple of years before I fell pregnant with my amazing daughter, my mental illness took me to a point of no longer functioning. I literally could not function, as my mind, and my body, were completely overwhelmed by life. I was in a highly stressful job where I worked long hours with little reward. I was studying full time. I was building a house with the love of my life. I wasn't looking after myself because, well, who had the time?! My weight had ballooned and food was the only bright spot in an otherwise dark and empty existence. I would eat at my desk, if I ate at all. When I ate, it was all the wrong things that, at the time, felt so right. I drank far too much coffee. All these things, combined with a difficult past, meant I was falling down the rabbit hole...but I was too busy to see it.

Finally, I learnt the hard way. My body made me stop. It stopped functioning. One day I woke in hospital with my now husband sitting opposite me, pale like he had seen death, and eyes filled with tears. This man does not cry. Ever. Not that he is ashamed of it or embarrassed by others who do, just, well, he doesn't. I knew from one glance at his face that I was staring at a broken man. A man that, through my own selfishness, my own naïveté, my own stubborn pride, I had broken. After a realm of tests, the conclusion was merely that I'd collapsed but the doctors didn't know why. Truth be told, those doctors didn't really care, either. I was sent home with a certificate excusing me from work for the day and was to take it easy under doctor's orders. That was the medical world's great answer. Everything would magically get better.

But it didn't. It got worse. With the harsh words of doctors ringing in my ears, who basically told me I'd made everything up, it wasn't that bad, and to suck it up and move on, I continued to work. I continued to study. Nothing changed. But I felt constantly ill. I didn't want to get out of bed. I found excuses to avoid every possible situation that would mean leaving my bed or the safety of my home. I continued to get sick, frequently collapsing for no APPARENT reason.

My GP sent me for a wealth of tests and when an organic (physical) cause was ruled out, I was referred to a psychiatrist. Here, I learnt the ugly truth. I was suffering from mental illness. Not just one, but many. One of these, a conversion disorder featuring sommatisation, had lead me to continue seeking medical help, even when medical specialists dismissed me. This disorder was the reason I was continually collapsing. My body could no longer cope with the stress so my mind told my body "this is too much, escape!" Queue collapse. And repeat.

One of the hardest parts of this journey had been the stigma associated with mental illness. When people would ask, "have they worked out what's wrong with you yet?", it was difficult to know what to say or where to start trying to explain. To make matters worse, the main mental illness I was suffering from was one the was largely unknown and very misunderstood. While depression and anxiety are words many have heard tossed around and have some (even if minimal and incomplete) concept of. Sommatisation, conversion disorder is not well known, not as common and takes a significant period of time to overcome.

So when, 2 years into this journey, I fell pregnant with my first child, I was mixed with elation and trepidation. I know many expectant parents are filled with mixed emotions, especially if the pregnancy is unexpected. You will personally NEVER hear me say "accident" in relation to pregnancy. God makes no mistakes. Your baby is destined to be created, whether they are part of your plan or not. For me, I always knew I wanted children and I know that there is a relatively small window where conception is possible. But I still wasn't expecting it. My husband and I weren't actively trying to conceive, but instead had the attitude "if it's meant to be it will be". And so it was. Our unexpected blessing was growing within me. With one doctor's visit and one little test, it was confirmed, I was officially a mama.

Unfortunately, I was still on my journey to recovery from my conversion disorder, amongst others, and I was on a significant amount of medication. By significant, I mean 5 different medications - and none of them were low doses. I'd been told outright by my psychiatrist not to fall pregnant. To "take precautions" for another few years. But that is not a decision I felt was my psychiatrist's to make. It was mine, my husband's and God's. But it was only when I fell pregnant that I realised how difficult it was going to be. I had to cope with all the normal things that go with being pregnant - crazy hormones, morning sickness, low blood pressure, cravings. My added challenge, however, was initially coming off all my medications cold turkey. As anyone who has weaned off any medication knows, it's not easy. Morning sickness and the sickness brought about by weaning off meds is downright cruel. It could be used as a form of torture. For two months I could barely leave the couch, or the bathroom. I didn't go anywhere. I wanted to die.

Then I was faced with the reality that I had no "crutch". The medication left my body and so, too, did its pleasant effects. I was on my own and stuck in a body teeming with hormones. I was scared. But I had to do what was best for my growing baby. I lasted until 20 weeks before I couldn't take it any more. I made the gut-wrenching decision to resume medication, but this time one with significant research into its affects on the foetus. The possible affects were very, very minimal and the chances of those affects impacting my baby were also minimal. But they were still there. Every day I prayed that my unborn child was safe and healthy. Every day I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Every day I wondered if I was being weak, and if I would be able to cope without the meds. Every doctor's appointment, I waited for the judgement. Every prenatal checkup I waited to be told something had happened to my baby because of my own selfishness.

So when, at a routine prenatal checkup at 30 weeks, the obstetrician couldn't find a heart beat, I was certain that I had killed my baby. Finally, a heartbeat was found, but it was weak. I was whisked away to a special room and hooked up to all sorts of machines that made scary noises. It was the longest hour of my life. Finally, I was told my baby was ok but would need to be monitored. I've never been so relieved to hear those words.

After I gave birth to my little girl, I was so in love. But that love was shadowed by anxiety. It crept into my every thought. What if they found something wrong with her? It would be all my fault. How was I going to care for this beautiful creation if I couldn't care for myself? In the long, lonely hours of the night, the hours seemed like days. As I held this most precious gift, the reality of the responsibility finally dawned on me. How on earth would I ever be able to care for this baby? I clearly wasn't what was best for her. I didn't have a clue what she needed or how best to provide for those needs. I was terrified, and that fear masked my own instincts. Doubt took over.

In those first weeks, I was blessed to have my husband with me. I was still crippled with anxiety, but at least there was someone to talk to if everything went pear shaped - which it inevitably did. The nights were long, the journey was hard. Then came the day my husband returned to work. I spent most of that day in tears. I had a baby that wouldn't stop crying, I was filled with hormones, I hadn't had more than a cat nap since before she was born and I was still struggling with establishing breastfeeding. I had no idea how to meet her needs, and the reality that I was the only person who truly could weighed heavily on me.

It wasn't until later that my fears were validated. My daughter did, in fact, have several health problems. She had wind, and colic, then reflux. She cries, a lot. She is often unsettled. Breastfeeding her is rewarding, but very challenging. She hates to be left alone, or to be anywhere but in my arms. I didn't go to bed for 3 months, until I resigned myself to bed sharing. Nothing met the fantasy I had about being a parent. There were nights when the crying was endless. Seeing my daughter so upset dented my confidence in my ability to care for my baby, and it broke my heart.

Each day presents its own challenges. There is the house that is constantly in disarray. The dishes waiting for me in the sink. The laundry hamper that overflows. The toys and books that are strewn on the floor, left from play time several days before. Most days, it is an achievement to get dressed before noon. Most days, I am overwhelmed by life. But my daughter is fed, and clothed, bathed and immensely loved. She seems, for the most part, abundantly happy, content and filled with all the wonder and innocence of a beautiful baby girl. I still struggle to remind myself that that is enough, that is what truly matters, and everything else can wait. My mind, sadly, usually has other ideas.

Parenting with mental illness presents new challenges, but it certainly doesn't make the journey any less rewarding. Nor does it, even for a moment, impact the love I hold for my daughter. There are good days and bad, highs and lows, but I wouldn't change the journey for anything.