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.

I have never been a patient person. Little things always seem to get the better of me. A computer that freezes; a slow internet connection; heavy traffic; a pen that won't write; a zip that gets stuck; that one piece of pasta that refuses to get on your fork; the time it takes for the kettle to boil or the toast to cook. Little things.

But somehow I thought when I had children, all that would change. I thought I would have an endless pit of patience, especially when my children were little. I thought I may have a moment from time to time as they got older, but their younger years would be a breeze. If they were upset, I'd be able to rock them or feed them or simply cuddle away their pain.

There was even a secret part of me, a naive part I now realise, that would scorn parents and their parenting habits. If a parent was talking harshly to a child, a little part of me was annoyed. I wondered why they couldn't simply be more patient. Like it was that easy.

Fast forward a few years and I have a family of my own. In theory, I should have an abundance of patience. After all, I was always going to be the most patient and loving mama there was, right? Wrong. Now it is more of a struggle than ever to "just be patient". When my daughter won't go to sleep, or won't stop crying, or pees all over me and herself and the floor and the change table just as we are about to go out for an appointment, I am not magically immune to the annoyance that this situation presents. I get frustrated. I get impatient.

Having a child has taught me so many things, not least of all that my patience is not nearly as forgiving as I'd hoped it would be. Situations that test my patience the most with my baby daughter include:

• No sleepy-sleepy: When my little girl refuses to sleep (which is most of the time), this can grate on my patience. Especially if I have been trying all day and she fights and fights and fights. The housework remains untouched, I can't get a loo break or a shower and don't even think about me grabbing that cup of coffee that I've so longed for!
• Snappy-Snaps: I use modern cloth nappies on my little girl and, for the most part, I love them. They are an economical alternative to disposables, you can get some great designs which look adorable and they are gentle on my baby's skin and the environment. Winning! But the snaps, oh the snaps, sometimes they drive me insane! When it's 3.00am and my baby girl is screaming and kicking and wriggling all over the change table, those snaps can seem never-ending, a little like a rubic cube.
• Buttons: A similar issue as with snaps, only this time throw into the mix that you will need two hands to do up the buttons, usually on the back of the garment, while safely holding a baby who is getting frustrated and wants to be fed. Don't get me started on that moment when you realise that you buttoned the suit incorrectly and need to undo the buttons (a feat in itself) before starting all over again!
• The Light Sleeper: While getting my baby to sleep is in itself a severe test of patience, keeping her asleep can be just as painful. Don't think about coughing, sneezing, wiping your eye, brushing your hair back, scratching your nose or moving in ANY way. In fact, it would be simpler if I just didn't breathe. What do we need oxygen for anyway, right? For all intents and purposes, I am a statue, like in the childhood game of the very same name. I'm a master at that shizzle!
• Nursing Nemises: My baby girl is the most beautiful creature in this world to me. But sometimes her habits can sorely test my patience. While the parenting blogs may show women sitting and calmly and comfortably nursing their baby, my reality is vastly different. My baby girl latches and unlatches countless times per feed. Sometimes she likes to stop and talk to me mid-feed. Sometimes she is distracted by a noise, other times by a light that caught her eye or a person sneezing in the car three blocks away. She wants to suck her thumb at the same time as she nurses. She likes to pinch my skin. She wants to wriggle away but remain attached to nurse at the same time. Nursing can take forever, and I need to be an octopus sometimes to achieve the objective of getting my daughter fed. It sometimes seems that it's all I do. Some days it truly is all that I do. Having a little human attached to me for extended periods of time can sometimes do my head in. Oh and let's not forget that she will want to feed, or have just fallen asleep, when I really, really need to pee. That is the ultimate test of endurance...and patience.
• Outing Overdrive: It is always when I need to be somewhere that everything goes pear-shaped. That appointment that I need to be at by 10.00am that I started preparing for 3 days in advance? Not going to happen. The friends I was going to meet up with for lunch? I'll be lucky to see them again by the time this child turns 18. Whenever I need to be somewhere, everything will always go wrong. My baby will need a feed, then a nappy change, then an outfit change, then have an accident and need a bath, a nappy change and a new outfit...and that's without considering changing my own clothes and perhaps if I'm feeling adventurous, even getting to brush my own hair.
• Poop: It goes everywhere. In every nook and cranny. On my baby girl and on me. Taking that nappy off takes courage, and the cleanup that follows takes a touch of insanity, and a lot of patience, not to mention a lot of wipes.
• Medicine Minefield: My baby girl has required frequent doses of medicine since she was 2 weeks old. She has been a pro at spitting it back at me from day one. My skills in administering said medicine, however, have not improved. Nor has my patience.
• Car Chaos: Nothing tests my patience more than being stuck in traffic with a hysterical baby in the back.

I have learnt that, as much as I wish my patience was enduring, often, it just isn't. Having a baby hasn't suddenly injected me with an extra dose of patience. If anything, it tests it further, thanks to the emotional roller coaster and constant sleep deprivation. That doesn't make me a bad person, that makes me human.

The challenge is learning to harness that impatience, to curve it so that my impatience never affects my daughter or our relationship. I never want that impatience to signify a lack of love for my daughter when in reality, it is just a part of who I am. I can learn to contain it, but I cannot simply get rid of it. I need to learn to control that impatience, not let it control me, and in doing so, I will teach my daughter a valuable lesson about accepting herself, the parts she likes and the parts she doesn't like so much. That having flaws is all part of being human, and showing that humanity and that vulnerability is not something to be ashamed of, but something to be celebrated. I may be impatient, but I am also human, and that's ok.

I'll admit, there have been a number of times on my parenting journey that I have wished I was daddy, not mama. In sleep-deprived, hormone-fuelled moments, I have dreamt of being my snoozing hubby. I have longed to be able to go to bed, alone, and sleep without a care. I have reminisced about the days when I could take a shower, have a nap or even have a stiff drink without a baby on my mind - or on my hip. I've longed, just for a moment, for the simplicity of popping into the shops to grab some milk, without thinking about nappies and feeds and car seats and nappy bags...and all that is before leaving home.

I admit it. I've longed to be daddy when our baby girl is crying and I don't know how to comfort her. Or when I just want to go to the toilet and my DD is block feeding...for 4 hours straight...and I'm exhausted, emotional, and my boobs feel like deflated wind socks.

But when I crash back down to reality, I get to thinking... I'm not sure there is anything else in this world that is such pure torture as hearing your child cry and not knowing how to comfort them. Feeling helpless because the people you love most in the world - your wife and your baby girl - are struggling. Amplify this ten fold when you realise it is a man's primal instinct to want to fix things. To do something. But sometimes there isn't anything they can do but to be there. Sometimes they can't fix things, it is just a moment that has to happen before reaching the other side. A means to an end, if you will.

While I, too, have struggled knowing how to comfort our little girl, I am armed with a natural advantage - the human pacifier. Comfort, food, medicine, all rolled into one. Often when I am exhausted and my hubby wants to help, he is left helpless, as my DD just wants to feed, and won't take a bottle. There's nothing he can do. Sometimes our baby girl will cry (as babies do) and all she wants is her mummy. Again, all my hubby can do is look on, and help me by being there.

There's so many moments a daddy misses. He will never know what it feels like to have a life growing and moving inside him. He will never feel every movement a baby makes before they enter the world: the kicks, the somersaults, the hiccups. He will never know the pain, nor the power, that comes from bringing a life into the world. He will never know the pressure we as women place upon ourselves to breastfeed: the anguish, the pain, the joy. All these things that he is not biologically able to experience. All things which bring to him an entirely different experience than being mama.

For a man that wants to fix everything, to make everything better, being daddy is the hardest role of all. Being daddy isn't nearly as easy as it is in my fantasies. Being daddy is a tough gig, and I'm thankful to my hubby for being the best daddy he can be.

Ok so I admit it. I'm a bit of a control freak by nature. I like things to be a certain way. I like that way to be my way. So you can imagine that parenthood has been a great shock to my controlled world. Best laid plans go awry. Babies have minds of their own, and those minds are growing and changing at an alarming rate.

Today my 4-month-old DD was in her walker that her grandma gave her for Christmas. She is still a little small for it - her legs don't touch the ground and a rolled up towel is needed to stabilise her in an upright position. But she loves it. Without even being shown, she hit the activity centre like a pro.

Naturally, however, there were moments when she was stuck. Moments where I could see her getting frustrated and I wanted to reach out and make it all better. It's in those moments that I realise how relinquishing control is the only way my baby girl will learn and grow. She needs to be able to make mistakes for herself. She needs to get a little frustrated sometimes to work out how things in this crazy world work. The real way to help her is not to help her, but to stand by and simply encourage her.

One of the most difficult things for me, that requires the most restraint, is to just be there. To stand back and watch and witness the highs and lows as my baby girl grows. There are some things that we can control, but we aren't really meant to. My baby girl in her walker today was a perfect example of that.

It's in those moments that I am again reminded of how much my baby girl is teaching me, too. Sometimes the best thing you can do to help is not to do anything, but just to be there. Sometimes that truly is enough.

It was Albert Einstein that defined insanity as, "doing something over and over again and expecting different results." So it's official, I am often insane.

My darling daughter has been having "one of those days." So therefore, the rest of the household have been having "one of those days" too. After her massive first Christmas yesterday, my baby girl is worn out. She is 4 months old and loves wing part of the action. She's just discovering the world and she loves it so much that she tends to forget she needs to rest, and then battles against her mama because she feels it's unfair to be missing any of the fun.

Queue toxic meltdown. After 2 x 15 min cat naps during the day, my little girl fought sleep until 9.15pm. She then woke every half hour demanding food and cuddles. By 5.00 this morning, she was awake and ready to take on the world again. Except she really wasn't. She was still exhausted.

So today has been one big toxic meltdown. I rock her. I shush her. I sing to her. I nurse her. And repeat. My husband, however, is good at often reminding me to try something different. While I'm busy trying to prevent further escalation, unwittingly I am often the cause of it. Sometimes my darling girl is desperately trying to tell me she needs something else. Perhaps a little walk. A bath. A story. Some tummy time. Even a fresh change of clothes can be the difference between a minor upset and a massive meltdown.

Every time I feel my baby escalating, from tiredness or tummy pains or teething, I try to remind myself of the definition of insanity. I try to swallow my fear and the desperation that creeps in when I see my baby upset. In trying to calm her as quickly as possible, sometimes I forget I'm being a little insane. Thank goodness my little girl just loves me, over and over again. That's the type of insanity I cherish.

Rocky road. A delicious confectionery product. Also something that I am walking today. When I dreamed of being a parent, I must admit that this was not part of that dream. An inconsolable baby, zero sleep and high stress just didn't feature in my fairy tale to rival Cinderella and her prince charming.

My princess, my "rattius baggius" as I like to call her, is not yet 4 months old. On days like today, I don't feel that we are ever going to meet that milestone. The seconds seem like hours and the screaming seems never-ending. Sometimes, just for a moment, I want to walk away. I am being honest. It enters my mind how nice it would be to be somewhere else, to not be dealing with an inconsolable baby who won't sleep, won't feed, won't play... just cries...and cries...and cries... to the point that I fear the only way she may sleep is to scream herself into unconsciousness. 

Yet I realise, just as quickly, that my baby girl needs me, and my love for her flows through me. She is the reason I get up every morning (quite literally) and the reason that I strive to do better, to be better. I realise that the fantasy of "running away" is a coping mechanism, because I don't know how to give my baby what she needs. I hate seeing her in pain, and not being able to console her dents my already-waning confidence in my ability to know what's best for her. Doubt is a terrible thing. I realise, that far from wanting to run away, I just want my baby to be happy. I want her to be content. I want all the things from life for her that I dreamed of in that fairy tale. While it may not be the image I imagined, it is perfect, because she is perfect. 

How frustrating it must be for my baby girl, to have so few ways to communicate with me, yet so many, and I seem, at times, to understand none of them. I try something only to find that makes the situation worse. She is just doing what she is innately programmed to do. It is a survival mechanism for her. Crying is the only way she can tell me what she needs. How very frustrating to talk to me, asking me for something that to her is such a simple need, and yet to me is still a mystery. I am trying, trying so very hard to learn what my daughter is trying to say to me. Yet when the doubt creeps in, everything begins to spiral, and we are once again walking down that rocky road. The road where it takes 12 hours to get my little girl to sleep, and sometimes, I'm not ashamed to admit, I cry beside her. 

It is because I want what's best for her, and care so deeply for her welfare, that seeing her upset makes me want to strive to be not only a better mama, but a better person. I want to be someone who she can rely on, someone she can come to whenever she is in need. That bond, that trust, started before she even entered this world. It started the moment she came to life inside of me. We are on the rocky road together, and today more than ever she needs me. It might not be perfect, but it is real, and that's all that matters to me.

Hold your child close, for when they are crying in despair, they are telling you something. Listen closely. Trust yourself. Don't let doubt erode the amazing work that you are doing raising a life. And when you are walking down that rocky road, remember, that is when your child needs you the most.

I have spent so long thinking about writing a blog. What would I write about? How would I attract an audience? What if people didn't like what I had to say? What if I ran out of things to say? What if nobody read it? What if I didn't stick to it?

Like many things in my life, I am ashamed to say that the idea of a blog sat on the "ideas shelf" in my mind for a long, long time. I'm even more ashamed to admit that I have had a couple of (failed) attempted at blogging anonymously. Why should I try again when it, like many things in my life, would probably just be a passing phase? 

Then it dawned on me, the reason that the other blogs failed. The reason that they were just phases. I wasn't passionate enough about what I was writing. I didn't believe, fully, in the content of what I was writing about. I got bored. I have the attention span of a gnat. So I wrote with such great gusto for a while and then I moved on. 

But this time, I am determined will be different. Because I am writing about something that I am passionate about - parenting. A world which is still so new to me and a world that is ever-changing. A world that I will never master. A world in which I am perfectly imperfect, and for the most part, I'm ok with that.

So please, come on this journey with me. Much like the movie "Julie and Julia", I am, like Julie, in need of some support. I need to do this and I need to make a difference. Please, if you're reading, let me know you're out there. If you're passionate about parenting like I am, and if you try and fail and try again, like I do, then share this journey with me. Our children deserve that much from us...and perhaps a little more.