Tips, Tricks, and The Things That Work (For Me)

Along my journey, I have learned a lot about taking care of a newborn (well, for the first six weeks anyway), and I want to list this down as a reminder for the future—if and when I have a second child. Hopefully by doing so, you’ll learn a trick or two as well.

So here are the things that work, and those that don’t, and the things that are worth their bucks.

Postpartum

• Ninja Mama Peri bottle is a luxury item, but one that I would advocate to vaginal birthing mums everywhere. If you have stitches, it stings down there to pee for the first few days. Just make yourself comfortable and spray some water while going to the toilet. Of course, any cheap squirt bottle also works, but I really like the angle of this one. Recovery will be easier.
• Depends disposable underwear is so, so good. You don’t have to buy a high waisted underwear—just grab one or two packs of this. It provides support even for c-section mums (as advocated by my sister), and it’s disposable so there will one less thing you need to worry about if you’re thinking of washing your blood-soaked undies when you get home from the hospital. If you’re like me and like to stretch things further, I even put on a pad on top of this underwear so that I only change the underwear minimally. Talk about being cost effective.
• If you’re birthing vaginally, Medichill ice packs are lifesavers. Using this religiously for the first few days reduced my swelling so well, to the point when I got home, I was able to move like almost normal, barring the occasional pain and soreness around the stitches. And speaking about pain…
• Take all those painkillers your doctor or midwives offer you. Don’t try to be a warrior; there’s no prize in the end, only more pain while dealing with a crying baby. Throughout my hospital stay I really felt minimal pain—apart from the soreness when sitting up straight to breastfeed, or trying to stand up from sitting position. By the time I was discharged, I had zero pain, which came back a few hours later at home, and I had Panadol/ibuprofen occasionally at home until two weeks postpartum.
• Say yes to stool softener when offered by the midwives. Or if they don’t offer it, ask for one. It would make the first bowel movement experience much less daunting.
• On that note, you’ll probably get haemorrhoid. (One of the midwives described it as the ‘joy of pushing’.) They could give you cream to soothe it.
• One last thing on this topic: Get the IKEA children’s stool (or any other stool) to prop up your feet while you’re doing the deed. The hospital’s physio told me that this is the correct-slash-recommended way to do number two, and that it puts less strain and pressure on your bowel after it has been beaten and bruised.
• Go to the toilet religiously, every two or three hours, even when you don’t feel the urge to pee. Thing is, everything is somewhat messed up down there—after all, you’ve birthed a baby. My obs told me it would take a while, up to six weeks, for all functions to return to normal, so for now just stick to the routine. It really hurts to empty your bladder if you haven’t gone in a while, as you really don’t feel the urge. (I mean, every sensation sort of blurs down there, so who knows which urge is which?)
• I had the shivers in the morning for the first two weeks, usually at around 4 or 5 am, to the point that I had to turn on the heater in the morning to feed my son (it’s currently autumn here in Melbourne). Apparently this is common, normal, and hormonal (says my sister—she had it too), and will probably still continue for a bit.
• You would bleed for the six weeks (well, I did anyway). Stock up on pads (enough for the first three) and panty liners (enough for the second three).
• Not from me (I haven’t felt the benefit yet), but from my colleague who had gone through it all: As soon as you can move, start your pelvic floor exercises. I had a physio who visited me while still in hospital and she showed me a few exercises to follow. Honestly, I haven’t done them diligently at all, so I might have to pick up the slack. (I mean, doing exercise while you have a newborn might be the last thing on your mind. But my colleague reassured me that the future me would be grateful for it.)

Feeding

• Breastfeeding is hard. Really. It’s been six weeks and I still face new challenges. I thought by this stage I thought I’d have gotten everything figured out! I’ve gone from cracked and sore nipples, to nipple shields, to blocked ducts, to weaning bub from nipple shields, and now back to blocked ducts and sore/sensitive nipples because my nipples are finally used ‘properly’. I’m learning to do the correct latch again because I’ve been so pampered with the shields. Just remember that it gets better.
• The app “Baby Tracker” is useful. It lets you keep track of nappies, when did you last feed your baby, how long are the feeds, etc.
• That being said, sometimes recording everything will cause anxiety (like: “I’ve got one-and-a-half-hour to sleep max so I need to fall asleep like, now,”), so after the first few weeks, only record if you have to. Do what works for you.
• I find this page is a good starting point when learning about breastfeeding.
• Most of the advices given to me (that are useful) by the midwives and lactation consultant can be watched through this video. One of the midwives told me about the reset position and recommended me doing it while doing skin-to-skin, which was reiterated by the lactation consultant. Another told me about the nipple-to-nose position, as well as tucking in his bum using my elbow to have a better hold. I haven’t used the thumb thing, so I can’t really comment on that.
• If you’re struggling with breastfeeding, see a lactation consultant—the earlier the better. Everyone will almost always have an opinion on how to breastfeed, and even the midwives can get it really wrong. A lactation consultant can deduce the problem, as they are the experts in the field. Get it fixed, and get it fixed quick.
• On that note, I hope you already know from my birth novel but breastfeeding should not hurt, apart from the initial latch. If it does, don’t persevere through the pain—get help and see a lactation consultant.
• That being said, I’m very lucky to have found my ‘problem’ early (after my milk came anyway), and that it was something that has an easy fix. Plus, my baby was quite content to switch between breast, nipple shield, syringes, Pigeon bottles, and Medela single-use bottles during those first few days. Do what you have to do, and what works for both of you—be it mix feeding, exclusively pumping, formula top ups, exclusively formula bottles, and so on. But let me tell you straight up: Breastfeeding takes a long time. I would do 40-minute feed each session while bottle-fed newborns would finish eating in less than one minute. I quite love the bond, though, and feeding gives me time to catch up with friends and families (i.e. social media), and even time to write this story. My point is: Do what works for you.
• Breastfeeding while lying down is my favourite position during night feeds. If you’ve mastered the usual position, try this.
• Lansinoh cream does absolutely nothing towards my cracked nipple, but it does soothe the soreness. Hydrogel breast discs help to take away the sting, but doesn’t really have any healing property. What works is expressing a little bit of breast milk unto your nipple and let it air dry. Repeat as often as possible.
• Feed the baby as soon as he stirs and searches for the breast. (I usually put a knuckle on the corner of his mouth—if he turns towards it then it’s feeding time!) Offer one breast, do a nappy change, and offer the other one. And offer both breasts every feeding even though he falls asleep after having one—wake him up if you have to (hence, the nappy change in between feeds). Apparently there’s something in the milk that makes baby sleepy but truthfully they are not full yet. The times that I let my son sleep after one breast are the ones where he wakes up thirty minutes later wanting more milk.
• When you’ve mastered one position, learn another one. Different breastfeeding positions will help to empty all milk ducts. And alternate the side of breast that you offer for first feed. Blocked milk ducts is not fun. (Nor is mastitis, which I hope none of us reading this will ever have to experience, me included!)
• On blocked ducts—warm compress (I used wheat pack) before a feed, massage lightly during feed, then cold compress after feed. Hot shower and electric toothbrush (or anything that vibrates) work too. Hot water and Haakaa work too. That being said, baby’s sucking is the only thing that really ‘clears’ the duct.
• One of the well-known bottles, if you need one, is the Pigeon wide neck bottles. My baby had it, and didn’t have bottle preference when he is back to breast. Also, the bottle is highly recommended by my my sister, a few friends, and other mums on a Facebook group. (Of course, apparently babies ‘choose’ their own bottles, and some bottles that work for one baby might not work for others, so take this with a grain of salt.)
• Pumping should not hurt. If it does, you might be using the wrong flange size for your nipple. Check your pump’s instruction manual for more information.
• If you have to syringe-feed your baby for any reason (top up colostrum/expressed breastmilk during the early days, medication), put your pinkie into his mouth (nail side down on the tongue) and tickle the roof of his mouth. It will trigger the sucking reflex. Put the syringe on the corner of his mouth and feed slowly in between sucks.
• Babies would lose seven to 10 per cent of their body weight during their first few days—so don’t be alarmed—and should regain their birth weight at around two weeks. My MCHN nurse told me that a good rule of thumb is to gain around 150-200 gr every week—that’s how you would know that they’re getting enough milk, alongside with plenty (at least six) of wet nappies from six days old onwards. Apparently there’s no need to count the dirty nappies.

Other Bits and Pieces

• The first six weeks, my sister aptly said, is all about surviving. Right when you think you actually can do this parenting gig, your baby throws another curve at you. Right when you think there’s some resemblance of a routine, well, the baby decides to have a growth spurt/leap. I was so happy (and functioning) during week 2 and half of week 3, but then week 4 caught me totally off guard. My sleeping baby morphed into this super fussy, dummy-hater, non-sleeper, screaming, pooping and peeing machine, and I spent the week consulting Google and parenting books. (I mean, is my baby broken?) So have low expectation, and lower the bar even lower. Enjoy the good days (there will be some), and take the bad days in stride because well, this too shall pass.
• Swaddling works. Babies make jerky movements, which are completely normal, and swaddling them help to restrict those movements so they have longer and more peaceful sleep.
• Things that are normal for babies (according to my paed and MCHN nurse): hiccups; red skin (apparently babies are born with a lot of red blood cells, hence the colour—if they have an excessive amount of it and the liver couldn’t break them down, it then causes jaundice); dry skin (in the womb, babies are surrounded by fluids so their skin’s hydration level is 100 per cent—fragrance free moisturiser can be used; rash (again, babies’ skin is just sensitive, usually they will go away by themselves). Of course, if ever you are concerned, go to a medical practitioner.
• Boys will pee on you, and have a lot of accidents. Always point their penis down during a nappy change, and have a towel or fresh nappy ready to shield those attacks.
• On nappy change: Babies hate getting their nappy changed. (At least, little bao absolutely loathes it.) Try changing in between feeds so they are more content (less screaming), and get everything ready before you unzip his clothes (open the fresh nappy, take two or three wipes ready to go, open the cap of your Sudocream if you’re using it). Try to be as efficient as you can.
• My sister is a big advocate of Sudocream and I could see why: It works. For the first week, I didn’t use any and ever since I start using them, the poo didn’t stick to the bum anymore and it’s so much easier to clean. It’s used to prevent nappy rash.
• Get baby clothes from different brands, as their sizes—albeit all classed as ‘newborn’—are different. OshKosh Carter tends to be smaller (at the moment little bao just ‘fits’), similar with Purebaby zipper. Bonds newborn clothes are still too big, and I find the Kmart ones fit just nice. (But the again the Kmart ones are hand-me-downs so there’s a big possibility that they have stretched.) You wouldn’t know how big your baby is when they are born so best to cover all bases.

Mental Health

• Be kind to your partner. Have an extra dose of forgiveness and understanding in your tank. Help each other, and communicate your struggles. If you’re not coping, remember you’re not going through it alone.
• Ask your partner to take time off for as long as he can, especially as first-time parents. (In my case, my husband took four weeks off.) One week, for me, is nowhere near enough.
• Reach out to your friends and families. It’s okay to say you’re struggling. Let them know whether you’re ready, or not ready, for visits.
  
• Specifically, talk to other moms. It is truly eye-opening—everyone who reaches out to me and asks how I’m doing (in which I bombard them with my experience) shares their own struggles and stories. Breastfeeding troubles are so, so common. So does baby blues.
• I repeat, baby blues is a thing. Friends told me the same experience—being overly emotional and crying a lot are common, especially in the first few days, partly due to your hormones as well. If you think it progresses into postnatal depression, please seek help.
• If friends and families offer to help, definitely say yes, be it having food delivery, or doing chores, or offering to shop groceries for you. Let them have the opportunity to bless you, and one day you’ll definitely bless others as well. As first-time parents without my own parents to help around, it was great to get parcels of food, groceries, frozen food, bread, and more. (Okay, they’re all food. But we do need the sustenance!) It’s one less mental load off your head.
• On a similar note, get a catering service and a cleaner if you can afford it, at least for the first few weeks. You don’t need the constant worrying of what to defrost or eat for today, or that the bathroom needs scrubbing ASAP. Offload those things from your brain too.

Products and Brands that I Use (Sadly, No Commission)

Clothing

• B Free for nursing bras, underwear, and pregnancy shorts (wait for extra 20 per cent discount)
• OshKosh Carter’s for baby clothes (wait until 40/60 per cent discount)
• Bonds wondersuits (wait until 40 per cent discount)
• Attipas shoes (not yet worn, but pretty much every mum I know has a pair)
• Love to Dream swaddles

Nappies and Bathing Department

• Curash baby water wipes
• Huggies nappies
• Tommee Tippee Click and Twist nappy bins
• Sudocream barrier cream
• QV bath and moisturiser products
• Roger Armstrong bath and stand

Big Items (Electronics, Furniture, etc)

• Vava baby monitor
• Uppa Baby Vista stroller
• Maxi Cosi Vita Pro car seat
• Maxi Cosi capsule
• OMNI 360 baby carrier
• Chicco Next2me co-sleeper
• Tommee Tippee steriliser
• Spectra S9 pump
• My Baby Sound Spa white noise machine
• Little Wiwa playmat

Others

• Milton baby bottle cleaner
• Pigeon wide neck bottles
• Medela contact nipple shield
• Babymel nappy bag
• My Brest Friend nursing pillow
• Ingenuity baby base 2-in-1 seat (not yet used, but highly rated on the net)
• IKEA baby chair
• Boon Grass Drying Rack
• Depends underwear
• Medichill perineum ice packs
• Ninja Mama Peri bottle

Many of these items were on loan from my sister (hurrah) or gifted; others I bought during a huge sale or scored them secondhand on Facebook marketplace. Just a warning: A baby is indeed expensive.

But I wouldn’t trade little bao for the world.

The post How Little Bao Came Into The World (Bonus Part) first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

Postscript

It took me a while to accept my birth story as it is, as during those dark days, I was convinced that my baby was robbed of his chance to be born without complications, and without needing to suffer from a lack of food.

Of course, there was absolutely no guarantee that if I get to 39, or even 40 weeks, that the outcome would be different. Yes, it could be better, but yes, it could also be worse.

But during those first days, all I felt was guilt, as I was the one who agreed to be induced. I felt that everything that went wrong afterwards—the episiotomy, the vacuum, the fetal distress, the non-latching, the delayed coming of milk, the mild jaundice—was due to this moment in time, when I was filled with doubt about the upcoming induction, but still went through with it. I felt like I should have trusted myself, protected my baby, advocated for him, as he had no voice yet. He wasn’t ready, my body wasn’t ready, but without a good medical reason, I forced both of us to be ready.

But who knows, perhaps there was a good medical reason.

Perhaps my obs had thought it through, played every scenario, and according to all the information available at that time, chose the best possible outcome for me. But as a first-time mom, I didn’t ask too many questions. I just accepted it. If I questioned the decision and had gotten all my answers, perhaps I would feel differently.

So with a lot of unanswered questions, I felt to the core of my being that my induction was a result of a wrong timing—if it wasn’t for the Easter long weekend, I would probably be able to go natural. Little bao’s position was already down; I was already two cms dilated when we started the induction process. If we had an extra few days, we might both be ready—who knows.

Or not. Thing is, I would never know. Things could have been much, much better, or much worse.

So I have accepted it now. It is what it is.

My obs did a marvellous job taking care of me. And her calm demeanour during the labour and birth itself got me through the other side. She delivered my baby, alive, healthy and well, and I’m very much on the mend. In fact, I’m healing very well. For that, I would be forever grateful.

And even though I always say during my pregnancy that no mater what happens in the birth ward what’s most important is that little bao is healthy, I was probably still too naive.

I mean, yes, what’s important is his health, but I still had the expectation that my labour and birth would be smooth sailing—that I would be able to birth vaginally with minimal tear, and recover in a record amount of time afterwards. In hindsight, I had an expectation I didn’t even know I had, until later in the days postpartum, where I cried over sore stitches, feeling that this, too, was robbed from me.

The funny thing is, I had mentally prepared myself for an emergency c-section. If something happened, and bub needed to get out, well, to the operating theatre it is. I mean, my sister had a c-section, so did a lot of my friends, so did many other women in this world. But for some reasons, I knew not a single person who underwent an episiotomy.

During one of the earlier appointments with my obs, she explained about all these interventions: episiotomy, vacuum, and forceps. Straightaway, she said that these were not routine procedures, and would only be used sparingly, if really, really needed, when we have exhausted all other options. I walked off that meeting thinking that I would never have to undergo these—I mean, what are the odds, if she said that it isn’t even common? If little bao were in distress, I would just get a c-section.

I went through the whole pregnancy knowing absolutely the bare minimum of these procedures. Episiotomy is a deliberate cut instead of natural tear; it requires stitches. It used to be commonly used in labour and birth as it was thought that women heal better afterwards than a natural tear, while now the opposite is advocated. Vacuum is used on the head to bring the baby down quickly instead of him going up a little with each contraction. Vacuum technique would leave the baby with an angry oval-shaped bruise, but it would be back to its normal shape very quickly.

That was it. I didn’t know about the recovery, about the long-term effect of vacuum to my baby, about anything else. And you dread what you don’t know.

I was also shocked about the extremely short pushing time—nineteen minutes in total—as a first-time mother. I had been told by various friends, and I had read books and articles, and pretty much everyone had the same consensus: Usually labour would be long for first-time mothers. It’s about one hour for one cm dilation, and the pushing stage could take about two hours to complete, or even longer. I had these figures in mind when I went to the labour ward.

If I could labour in under 12 hours, it would be considered short. If I could push the baby out within two hours, it would be normal.

I was scared of the fatigue, of having exhausted all my energy before pushing, and needing to end up having an emergency c-section, after labouring for hours or even days at end. My obs mentioned that unlike some other practices, she has no time limit to birth the baby as long as both of us are doing well, so I could go until the next day if needed.

Little did I know that my early labour, from two to four cms, would take two-and-a-half hours, and the total length of active labour would be five hours and 18 minutes: Four-and-a-half hours to go from four cms to 10 cms, 19 minutes to push the baby out, and nine minutes to push the placenta.

I was mentally prepared for a long labour, and even physically prepared for it too, as I packed heaps and heaps of snacks, but I didn’t prepare for a short one at all. It came, really, as a shock.

Apparently it was normal to have an episiotomy and vacuum-assisted birth. Well, that was what my medical doctor sister told me anyway. It did make me feel better, and friends started telling me their stories: I had an episiotomy too. And my sister seemed unfazed by my, well, traumatic story, as she has seen everything else in between that consisted as truly ‘traumatic’.

And thankfully, the lactation consultant saved breastfeeding journey early. If the problem wasn’t diagnosed in the hospital on day four, I would probably still be falling down the bottomless pit of guilt and regret.

I also thought that I would give formula willingly to my baby—no questions asked—as long as my baby is thriving. I have nothing against formula-feeding. Yet naively, I still had my own expectation of what my body could do to nourish my child. I believed that it was due to the significant blood loss that my milk was delayed—as it is a risk factor—and that as he wasn’t ready to be born, he wasn’t latching.

No one would ever know if I would undergo all these breastfeeding issues if I have the perfect birth story. But all I could think of on those early days was that this, too, was taken away for me—the opportunity to nurse my child.

It wasn’t until friends reached out to me and shared their stories of breastfeeding—of the horror months, of the things they had to endure—that I realised perhaps it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t rob my son of anything.

Breastfeeding was just hard. Issues of any kind were so common, but I never really knew it beforehand.

In all honesty, I’m not even a newbie when it comes to taking care of babies. I have two nephews and one niece, and at various points in my life, I was taking care of them personally, especially my first nephew. I’ve changed nappies, burped the baby, fed the baby expressed bottle and mashed banana, and everything in between. I’ve bathed them, rocked them to sleep countless times, and unlike my husband, who believes that newborns are too fragile, I’m confident in holding a small, newborn baby. Basically, what I didn’t know for these early days were labour, birth, and breastfeeding. And ironically, those parts were the ones I really struggled with.

Plus, it’s crazy how your mindset changes overnight. One day you were thinking about how you were coping with the pregnancy—backache, tailbone pain, going to the toilet for the nth time, gestational diabetes… The next day, you’re counting how many wet nappies the baby has had and whether he’s getting enough milk.

One of my friends asked me whether I would just choose to do c-section if I knew beforehand that this was going to happen—if I knew the risks and the pros and cons. To be honest, I would probably still have attempted my vaginal delivery. And even though the outcome is going to be exactly the same as this one, I would go through this again.

This was the hardest thing I’d ever have to do. Those seven days were brutal. But I have also learned a lot in those seven days.

It was like having the crash course of a crash course, and through all the emotional whirlwind, the stress, the depression, and the anxiety, my husband and I emerged on the other side, battered and bruised, but stronger.

Through this experience, I also connected with friend, long-lost friends, and acquaintances in a way that I never knew possible.

Now, I can say I’m glad to have gone through this, as dark as it is, as I am able to open a whole new conversation among my circle, and hopefully, shatter some myths about labour, birth, breastfeeding, and motherhood to those who have never experienced them.

You hear those birth announcements and you always read the caption: Mum and Bub are doing well. But how do you classify being “well”? Is being alive, although broken, being “well” enough? Is being physically healthy, on track to normalcy perhaps not now, but six months in the future, means being “well”?

I am left wondering whether all those announcements really mean that Mum and Bub (okay, mostly the Mum) are doing what people would generally say as being “well”, or whether they are battling their own demons as they write the words, as it is something that the society expects you to say. It’s as if barring the worst of the worse outcomes (admitted to the ICU or Bub going to the NICU), you’re doing “well”.

And if you’re going through all these as first-time parents without help, well, it is tough.

On top of thinking of the baby, you have the usual mental and physical load of doing chores, of cooking the healthy food you need to eat postpartum, of limiting your movements—you’ll make your stitches go worse otherwise. Everyone says to not lift, or bend excessively postpartum. Don’t even think of doing chores. I don’t think that is even an option, if there’s only the two of you. My husband did loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen table after every meal, washed the dishes, changed the bedsheet when little bao had an accident, fetched water for me for the millionth time, and yet I’m still roaming around the house, doing bits and pieces, cooking and making breakfast, picking up stuff for the nth time, rearranging things, doing general cleaning, and everything else in between.

So on the second night at home, I had another breakdown.

But I didn’t go through it alone. I had a heart-to-heart chat with my husband, talking about everything—expectations, downfalls, feelings, ideals. I know I had snapped at him a few times in the past few days, which wasn’t my intention, but the stress and anxiety really got to me. He also told me things from his point of view, about his worries both for little bao and me, and we healed.

Children can really make or break a marriage.

Today, when I wrote this, is day 10, and we have finally settled into routine. The past four days have been wonderful—big chores are done, little bao is drinking milk like a trooper, and I’m healing well—my movements are as good as they could be 10 days postpartum, and barring sitting up straight as it puts pressure on those stitches, I hardly feel pain. (Of course, painkillers help—I still take two Panadol/Nurofen tablets every two days.) On day 11, I’ve even gone for a walk to the park, albeit only for 10 minutes. I can cough, sneeze, and laugh without feeling like I would tear up my stitches (this was totally a thing on day seven).

I don’t have pain when breastfeeding anymore. I don’t excessively worry about bao’s health—I know he’s okay. My husband and I brought back laughter into the house, soaking in the newborn bliss, and starting to meet friends and families again.

We were even able to start and finish WandaVision this week.

Yet there’s no sugarcoating it—for us, the first week was brutal. Battling both sleep deprivation and baby blues were no common feats. My husband was concerned that I would plunge into postnatal depression, as I really, really wasn’t coping in those early days. I didn’t know that baby blues were normal, and that the feelings would still hit at random times this year. Expect more tears, is what my sister says.

And if you’ve made it this far, well, thanks for reading. I wrote this for myself, to make sense of what has happened, to better appreciate the moments, and to accept the things I cannot change. I would still class my experience as traumatic, but I am no longer traumatised by it. In the end, my baby is healthy, and I’m recovering well. We’ve picked up the pieces, and on to better (and worse) days we go.

Post-Postscript

My husband told me that after reading this birth novel, no one would ever be convinced to ever have a child. (And that I’m scaring all expectant first-time parents everywhere.) Well, believe me when I say: It does get better. Your stitches would heal. The pain, no matter how earth-shattering it could be, is temporary. The exhaustion will linger, but you’ll learn to adapt. Somehow.

On day one, I have zero trust in those who say that one would forget the pain of childbirth. Yet here I am, ten days later, feeling that everything already blurs into one. I remember that I experienced pain, but I no longer can recall how hell-ish the pain was. It was good that I got to write this story down as soon as it happened, so the emotion captured on those days was as raw as it could get.

Taking care of babies is hard. Here is another defenceless human being who totally relies on you 24/7. But oh, the cuddles are worth it. It comes a bit late for me, but I finally enjoy the time I have with my son. No longer I Google questions frantically while enduring the pain during feeding time. Instead, I stroke him, feel his chubby cheeks, pat him on his back. I smother him with kisses and hugs every day for as long as I can, and I will probably continue to do so until he refuses my kisses and hugs. (Even then, I probably would still sneak a kiss and a hug here and there.)

And my husband adores him. Of course, he has rough first few days too—the exhaustion was really the next level, but when I look at him holding little bao, you would know that his heart swells with love and joy that only a parent would know.

It really is an unconditional love.

Through our hell-ish first week, I also feel connected to my husband in a way that I hadn’t before. It’s crazy how we need to really depend on each other to take care of a newborn baby, because we would crumble as soon as one walks away.

I know our journey is going to get even harder, and we’re not prepared in any way, but we know that we will always have each other, that we’re going through this together, that help will always be given to those who seek it.

Oh, little bao, for all the highs and lows you’ve brought into our lives, remember that you are so, so loved.

The post How Little Bao Came Into The World (Part III) first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

Day 1

The first shower after birth, they said, was the best shower you ever had. It was great, for sure. I was able to move normally, not even needing the bathing chair that was given for extra support, and I thought, naively, that probably this wouldn’t be that bad. After all, I had no nausea, very minimal swelling in the feet, and at that very moment, no pain. I was just sore. I dried myself and we were moved from the birth suite to the postnatal ward, where I underwent, frankly, the darkest three days of my life.

The room was small. I was taken aback, because from the maternity tour video it didn’t look this small.  My husband would have to sleep on the most uncomfortable sofa bed I had ever seen, and it even had to be moved from the original position and placed at an angle for it to open properly as there was literally no space.

We didn’t think beforehand to enquire for the double room. I thought it would probably be better for us to sleep separately, so at least one of us could sleep while the other attended to the baby. We spread out our essential belongings the best way we could—snacks here, pads there, electronics on the other side. We turned on the portable speaker for white noise, and tried to settle into the cold night.

That was when I realised that breastfeeding hurt, a lot.

Thing was, I knew for sure it was not supposed to be painful. I had read books and articles, countless forums and comments saying that it should not hurt. Apart from the initial latch, breastfeeding should just feel like a tugging sensation. Weird, maybe, uncomfortable, perhaps, but not painful. I thought that probably my nipples were just sensitive, that they hadn’t been used for this purpose until now, that they just had to toughen up.

One of the midwives came in when I tried to breastfeed, and provided advices on how to get him to latch better.

The baby should have opened his mouth bigger.

I know.

He’s meant to draw the nipple towards the back.

I know.

Then she tried to hand express my colostrum, but couldn’t see even a single glistening, a hint of something. Don’t worry, she said, it does take a while for your body to adjust. Your milk will come.

Okay.

I spent the next six hours worrying about little bao’s sugar level, because having had GDM meant that bao had to have three heel pricks every two hours, and he had to pass his sugar levels. Feeding colostrum was meant to help with regulating his blood sugar. Yet as far as I knew, I had none. I didn’t know whether he was getting anything when he was sucking—I could only hope he did.

He passed the first one: 3.1 (pass level was 2.6). I breathed a sigh of relief. Two hours after, it was 2.9. Okay, not ideal, but still a pass. The third one was so nerve-racking, because it was 2.6 on the dot.

Does he pass? I asked.

He does, the midwife said. A pass, even though on the dot, is still a pass. Congratulations.

One huge burden was lifted off my shoulders. But still I was worried, because his levels were getting down. That meant over the course of six hours, he was not getting the food he needed, or just barely enough food to keep his levels afloat. I needed him to eat.

I decided to worry about his food intake in the morning, because that night, I was hit with the after-effects of epidural the whole night: I was shivering violently.

I had been warned about this by my sister one week ago. It surprised her—the shivering—because she didn’t know. It didn’t surprise me, because I knew, but it didn’t mean that it wasn’t alarming. I requested extra blanket and it didn’t work. Every time I needed to go to the toilet, which was often as I needed to continually change the ice packs down below to reduce the swelling, I would shake and I could feel the cold right to my spine. My husband told me that the room was just too cold—he was feeling cold too; it wasn’t just me. As it was central cooling and heating, the midwife couldn’t do anything to the temperature.

I went to bed, still shaking, eager to sleep while the baby slept, but I couldn’t. I never was a great sleeper, even before and during pregnancy, and it usually took a while for me to fall asleep, but this was the next level. I had zero sleep the first night, shivering under the blankets until morning came. I saw my husband, exhausted, forced to sleep at a weird angle on the sofa bed, also feeling too cold. I looked at my baby and thought, The morning will be better. My milk will come. We’ll start over. We’ll ask the midwife again on how to latch properly. Perhaps my technique was just very poor.

We’ll get there.

Day 2

The other damning thing about the room was that the bathroom was arranged in a way that showering meant flooding the whole floor. There was no shower door, and as the bathroom was, you guess it, small, water would get splashed everywhere. I hated that bathroom. It was always damp, and cold, and I could see pads piling with blood, well, my blood, everywhere.

It was depressing.

I was served breakfast, and while I had no appetite, I forced myself to eat. I remembered that breastfeeding is a marathon, and I needed to eat healthily, and eat a lot, as well as drink an even more ridiculous amount of water in comparison to during my pregnancy. Having GDM meant drinking like a camel as water lowered my sugar level, but oh boy, I was drinking like two camels. Thankfully, my violent shivering had stopped, and my slightly swollen feet were almost back to normal. Still a bit puffier than usual, but nothing that hindered anything.

Most mums I know told me that newborns are very sleepy in the early days, that they could usually get a little bit of rest in the hospital—the real challenge starts at home. But little bao was unsettled throughout the day. He constantly fussed, demanding the breast every two hours, which I was told was normal, but I didn’t see him blissfully going to sleep in a milk-drunk face. He just seemed tired, passed out. The paediatrician came to check, and reassured us that everything was alright and well, that her only concern was his skin that looked a little bit jaundiced, but that was common. Little bao had the three-clicker jaundice check and passed, so she (the paed) told us that she would come back in two days just to check and assess him again. But he was gorgeous, he was healthy, and he was all good and well.

Still, we were worried.

I was taken care by three midwives that day, and while all was so lovely, all had different advices in regards to breastfeeding. One showed me a better way to get my baby into position. Bring the baby’s mouth to you, not the other way around. One told me to squeeze my breast before he latched, and to keep squeezing it, so that he would have a deeper latch. Another said that my latch seemed good—not ideal, but good enough, as she could still hear a clicking sound when he drank.

At least he is still sucking, I thought. But it hurt. A lot. All three midwives tried to hand express my colostrum, and all three failed.

By that evening, even my extremely nice and patient husband couldn’t stand the room anymore. He asked the receptionist whether we could move to a double room, and he came back saying that all double rooms were occupied—that we were put on a waiting list, but it wasn’t going to be tonight. Okay, I said. Hopefully tomorrow. My husband also said that the receptionist seemed annoyed that he bothered her with that request. Perhaps the maternity ward was really at the limit that weekend.

Little bao cluster fed the whole night. Every time I put him down, he cried. He constantly searched for the breast. When he slept, for, thirty minutes maybe, I couldn’t sleep. Postpartum insomnia hit me hard. He didn’t want to leave the breast, and by then, my nipple was bruised, bloodied, cracked, and sore. Every suck hurt. And I didn’t know whether he was getting anything, as I never saw a single drop of colostrum.

My little baby cried, and cried.

At dawn, a midwife came to check on me, finding me with a fussy baby who was clearly, even though she didn’t say it to my face, hungry.

Perhaps it’s time we use formula top up, she said. Just for a while, while waiting for your milk to come in.

Okay.

She prepared a bottle of 20 mls, and little bao devoured it all. Then he was asleep for more than three hours—the longest he had been asleep since birth.

Day 3

That was when—holding my contented, sleeping baby, in the early hours of the third day—I broke down and cried on the hospital bed, my husband sleeping on the sofa bed, uncomfortable, cold, and clearly exhausted. He had been waking up to fetch me ice and water constantly around the clock. He couldn’t sleep well. He was worried about bao, and worried about me. While he knew that the first days were going to be hard, he didn’t realise it was going to be this hard. Aren’t the hard days still months ahead, when baby undergoes growth spurt and no matter what you do, just cries into the night, refusing to be settled? If we were going to be the sleepless, zombie-like parents, it would be in the future, not now. Not when we were still in hospital, with an abundance of help around us.

My husband woke up to find me crying. Shocked and alarmed, he jumped out of bed and asked me what was wrong.

What’s wrong, I thought, is my decision to get induced. What’s wrong, I felt, is not letting little bao stay a bit longer in my belly, where nothing could ever harm him, not even his clueless mother who couldn’t feed him.

I broke down, again and again on all hours that day, and right when the tears flew at breakfast, a midwife came in. She sat down beside me, asking me what was wrong.

I just feel overwhelmed, I said. I don’t understand why my baby wouldn’t latch, why every suck hurt, why my milk hasn’t come. She told me that it’s very normal for milk to come later, at day three or even five.

Don’t be too hard on yourself, she said. As first-time parents, I know it’s hard. Have a good cry. Sometimes you just need to let it all out.

She advised me to go on the pump, to see whether it would stimulate my breasts to produce milk faster.

And it’s okay to introduce formula, she reassured. Your baby will not be harmed. He will still take your breast. He will not have nipple confusion.

Your milk will come, she looked at me warmly, I promise.

I nodded. And in between the tears, I nodded again.

An hour later, the midwife had another good news: Our double room was ready. I would never know whether we got the room because of the tears or not, but I was so grateful to leave the single room. I wasn’t coping. I hadn’t slept for 36 hours. My husband wasn’t sleeping. He was cold, all achey, and far away. The room was just too cold, with white light bulbs that gave no warmth, and no sunlight coming in.

The double room was, literally, double in size. There was a proper bed, and my husband could cuddle me to sleep if I want to, or need to. We had space to put all our stuff, and some more. I could breastfeed on the sofa, instead of sitting down on the hard mattress and aggravating my stitches.

I tried pumping for the rest of the day, although still not a single drop of milk would come out. My baby had more formula top-ups, and as he grew more contented, so did my guilt. The same midwife came in to see me in tears one more time. Again, she sat down beside me, asking me whether it was the breastfeeding again. I nodded.

It’s very normal for milk to come in late, she said. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s really hard, I know, but you’ll be okay. Your baby is healthy. I’ve put your name down for a lactation consultant to come in. I hope one will be around today. You can get help. It’s not your fault.

But, I thought, it’s all because of me. It’s because I let him be born before he was ready. Then he went to undergo fetal distress. I had significant blood loss. All these triggered the delay. My milk hasn’t come, and I don’t even have a single drop of colostrum to feed him. And my nipples hurt. A lot.

When the midwife left the room, my husband said that she looked emotional as well.

Little bao got weighed when he was exactly 48 hours old, and to our delight, he only lost six per cent of his initial body weight. That was a relief. The formula top up worked. He then had his first bath by a very nervous first-time Dad, and we felt his skin without vernix, without the gunk and dried blood on his hair. And we still didn’t know who he looked like. But we’ve finally decided on a name.

His name is Lionel Theodore Tan.

He is our little lion; he is strong and courageous, a name chosen based on the book of Joshua 1:9, for God will be with him wherever he goes—a name given by Dad.

And he would be our Theodore, our gift from God, as a reminder, for me, that even though his birth was traumatic, that even though the first few days of his life were filled with anxiety and tears, he is still our little blessing—a name given by Mum.

Throughout that night, I offered my baby the breast, then my husband prepared the 20 mls formula top up while I pumped. I religiously stuck to the pumping-every-three-hour rule, even throughout the night, and little bao was sleeping like clockwork, sleeping in three-, four-hour stretches, contented, full.

But I was still battling breastfeeding.

In my mind, I didn’t know how to go through this for long, as it hurt. Not like contraction pain, of course, but that pain had an end time. This one had not.

Little bao cried, again, at three in the morning while I offered him the breast, and another midwife came in to check. She offered to observe me on how I fed my baby, and told me that I should have lessened the hold on my breast after the first few sucks so that I wasn’t blocking the milk ducts. It made sense, but the other midwife had told me exactly the opposite. This midwife told me that I had the correct hold, but still she couldn’t tell me why my baby wasn’t latching properly, nor why it hurt.

Someone has booked a meeting with the lactation consultant for me, I said. Could you follow up?

Don’t worry, she said, I have left a voicemail on the lactation consultant’s phone. Hopefully she’ll be here in the morning.

Okay.

Okay.

When she left, I sat there on the sofa, pumping, while little bao was asleep, formula-milk-drunk, in his bassinet. My tears flowed again. But this time, I was determined. I took my phone and opened my notes. Tomorrow the paed would be giving another check. I listed down my questions. My obs would see me once more to see how I was going. I jotted down another set of questions. The lactation consultant would, hopefully, come. I wrote even more questions. I was determined to seek help, to find out the answers to my questions, to plan out my next step.

Day 4

I woke up feeling a little bit more refreshed. At least, after not sleeping for two days, I was able to get a cat nap here and there. It was still hard for me to fall asleep, but at some point, I did fall asleep. I took that as a win.

The lactation consultant came into the room right at the end of a feed. She took one look at my breasts and said it bluntly: You have trauma on your nipples. They were cracked, sore, damaged. But since I was at the end, she couldn’t figure out the problem. She needed to see the beginning—how the baby latched, how he sucked, how he swallowed. She told me to get pumping, three hourly, until my supply is established. She would also get the midwife on duty to try hand expressing milk—again—I hadn’t tell her that I never had a single drop. Then she told me that another lactation consultant was going to be around in the postnatal ward that day. She gave me her number, and told me to call her at the start of the next feed.

Not long after, my obs came into the room, checking me postnatally, double checking whether my stitches needed any attention, and how I was healing in the past few days.

All on track, she said, but don’t be alarmed if you still have pain or bleeding, as it’s normal until six weeks postpartum.

We then chatted about what happened in the delivery room—things I already knew but haven’t had that thorough conversation with her.

I picked up the fetal distress through the monitor, she said. Upon inspection, he was already down below and needed to get out quickly, and you did a wonderful job pushing. If you didn’t push, I wouldn’t be able to use the vacuum and get him delivered—it would be via emergency c-section, and the prep would be longer. The episiotomy was needed at the time because he needed to get out quickly as he was in distress, and we found out it was because of the cord around the neck. It’s all very normal. There are no long-term complications of using the vacuum. You had some blood loss but we were able to get the medication to work in time. Baby Lionel is gorgeous. Do you have any more question for me? Give me a call if you have any concern about anything, otherwise I will see you during the six-week check up.

The midwife on duty also came, and she was probably the seventh person who tried to hand express me. I was resigned to my fate that most likely nothing would come out.

But she did it.

She actually had a different technique, and I could see droplets straightaway. Is it colostrum? I asked. Or is it milk?

It is milk! She cheered. It is white and runny. Good job! Tell me if I’m hurting you as well. Do you want to try? You have to go two cms around the areola, in a c-shape hold. Good. Now press them towards the back, and while squeezing you bring them forward. That’s good! Keep going. You can also massage the milk ducts around the two cms above areola mark. No, you don’t have to massage it before every squeeze. Sometimes if you have found a good milk duct you can just keep squeezing multiple times. Oh, good job you.

That, was a turning point.

My milk came, albeit in small droplets. The midwife, this midwife, finally, had the right technique—one that I still use today. She told me that I was also doing a good job with keeping up with the ice, because the stitches looked so good. She would also follow up with me on the baby’s jaundice, as she needed to do another check later that evening just to see whether the levels were still acceptable.

His skin is just slightly yellow, she said, which is normal—he doesn’t look like a jaundiced baby to me.

Oh, that’s a relief.

So you’re doing a good job these past few days topping up with formula so your baby won’t have jaundice. It was needed at the time, but probably you don’t have to do it for long now that your milk has come in.

Oh, that’s very good to know.

I’ll see you for your afternoon check, but give the lactation consultant a call on your next feed. You’re doing a good job!

Thank you, I will.

Finally, at the next feed, the lactation consultant came. She sat down beside me on the sofa where I was trying to get my son to latch and suck. When he pulled off, she took one look at my nipples and told me straightaway that it’s not long enough for baby’s sucking.

It’s only getting in halfway, she said. It hurts because it doesn’t go all the way towards the back of his mouth. Put some breast milk on your nipple and try to air dry it to let it heal. Do you want to try and use a nipple shield? It can help your baby latch. Your nipple will change its shape as you continue on breastfeeding, so you might not need to use the shield forever.

So it wasn’t his latch, nor my technique that was wrong. It was just the shape of my nipple.

The best way to attach a nipple shield, she said, is to express a little bit of milk and put a drop onto it. Then put a little bit of breast milk on your areola as well, so it stays still. What you want to do is to put the nipple shield on the baby’s upper lip to get him to open his mouth.

Little bao latched on straightaway.

He seemed to be getting milk, as we could see droplets of milk inside the shield when he unlatched, and he was content after the feed. The consultant advised us to top up with any expressed breast milk first, then formula if he was still unsettled.

Pump every three hours, she said, it would increase your supply. Let baby get on your breast for as long as he likes, whenever he wants. Strip his clothes and do skin-to-skin; put him on your chest so it would trigger his reflex to search for your breast. If he falls asleep, try blowing air into his face, tickling his feet, or squeezing your breast gently in between the sucks. I’ll book you in for a follow up consultation next week and we’ll assess from there. How does that sound?

Sounds terrific.

My baby latched. Breastfeeding didn’t hurt anymore. And my milk came.

Another turning point.

Finally, I could breathe a little easier. I could feed my baby.

Day 5 and Beyond: Home

We were discharged from the hospital the next morning. Little bao’s skin still looked a little bit yellow, but he passed his jaundice readings, so again, I was relieved.

Finally, we were going home.

And it would be just the three of us.

We had to stop at the pharmacy to pick up bits and pieces: A tin of formula, a pair of contact nipple shields, vitamin D for infants, bottles—we had bought a few, but I would need more, as now I needed to do top ups—and other bits and pieces. It felt weird, to come to the shop with a second trimester belly, yet you were buying formula and bottles—you’ve had your baby.

It was nice being home. Yet we didn’t rest. We couldn’t. Our first day back, I’ve turned on the stove and cooked. Yes, I had food in the freezer. But we still needed vegetables, and vegetables couldn’t be frozen, so here I was, five days after giving birth, chopping and stir-frying veggies, and making steamed eggs. My husband did one laundry load after the other, washed dishes, and tried to unpack all the stuff we had just, well, stuffed, into our luggages from the hospital.

In between feeds, I rummaged the cupboard for breast pump and steriliser I had borrowed from my sister, grabbed the baby bottle dishwashing liquid from the storage, and washed all of them. While I always knew I would use these equipments, I thought I would have time. I didn’t, and it was stressful. Luckily we had some leftover formula and a few single-use bottles from the hospital that we could use for one day. But that was it. A day’s grace. Tomorrow, we would need to have everything figured out.

So in between feeds, I tried to read through all the instruction manuals. I knew roughly how breast pump worked, having used one in the hospital, but for some reasons my sister’s hurt, and it didn’t provide the same suction like the hospital-grade one. But I persevered, all to build up my supply.

The steriliser was pretty much straightforward to use, although there was a section where you had to descale the product regularly, but it was a future Marcella problem. At the moment, I would just stick with making sure everything worked.

By the end of the day, we were exhausted. All we did was chores, and while my mental burden of little bao’s health lessened, the mental burden of running the household kicked in. I had to remember to not over-exert myself, to not bring heavy loads, to not bend down and pick things up from the floor. I continually asked my husband to do me a favour, one after the other, like a broken record, repeatedly saying, “Hunny, can you help?” He would jump at a moment’s notice and do it, be it picking up stuff, fetching me water, heating up my heatpack as I couldn’t move from my position or else little bao would unlatch. But he, too, was exhausted. We had minimal sleep and overused brains, yet the house was in chaos.

And I noticed some other things about little bao: He was hot and red (but thankfully no fever, we checked), and he didn’t have enough wet nappies. By now, he should have six heavy wet nappies in 24 hours. He only had three scant ones, and they were somewhat concentrated in colour. His cries were tearless. I panicked again. Was he dehydrated? Did we need to increase the amount of formula?

That night, we had to learn to stop and just rest. I think I cried again. I cried a lot these days. Ah, baby blues.

The next day, still being so sleep deprived, we had the same amount of chores, or perhaps more. My husband did another load of laundry. I noticed that instead of going up, the mls of my expressed breastmilk from the pump went lower. I cried again at lunch. And my nipples hurt, now instead from the latching, it was from the pump. And no matter what I did, the flange wouldn’t do a tight seal around my breasts, so I had to press them tightly for the whole fifteen minutes of pumping.

Was it really this hard for everyone?

I hadn’t even replied to friends and families who congratulated me on the arrival of our bundle of joy, because frankly I didn’t have the mind-space to even talk to them. Everyone seemed worried about me, which was understandable—I was usually the most talkative person ever, posting updates here and there, and yet all everyone got from me was silence. Friends started reaching out, but I couldn’t even look at the messages.

During feeds, I was constantly Googling information. How wet should a “wet nappy” be? How many wet and dirty nappies should a newborn have in a day? What are the signs of dehydration? Is my baby getting enough milk? How many feeds should a newborn have? How long should each session last? How many degrees is fever in infant? Do you need to sterilise bottles on expressed breast milk? How long does breast milk last in the fridge?

Does pumping hurt?

In the end, I dismantled all the breast pump parts, cleaned them thoroughly and gave it another shot. It still hurt a lot, the suction was weird, and it wouldn’t perform a tight seal. I almost cried, but I swallowed the tears. I couldn’t go into another breakdown.

That was when I realised that my nipple had been damaged, no longer by my baby’s latch, but by the pump. The flange wasn’t the right size for me. And I had been forcing it to work for two days.

Of course it hurt.

It was so freeing, knowing the root of the problem. Now that I knew, I could work on a solution: Get a flange of the right size. I thought I would just persevere with the pump for the next few days, as I didn’t want to stop increasing my milk supply. But then my husband intervened: I was not to pump. If it hurt, and it really did, it wouldn’t do me any good. He was stern, telling me to just rest. We could use the formula top up in the meantime.

Wait for the parts, he said, then start trying again.

I agreed in defeat. I fed my little boy and texted my sister, asking for advice about the formula top ups, and whether I would need to increase it due to the number of wet nappies, or just leave it, or any other tip.

Thing is, I said, little bao doesn’t seem unsettled after feeding. He doesn’t cry asking for more. But he barely has wet nappies.

My sister told me that my volume of top up seemed a lot, in comparison to hers back then—but that it should be okay, since he would be weighed next week during the Maternal Child Health Nurse visit, and the nurse would advise whether to stop or decrease the top up according to the weight gain. Her baby also didn’t fuss after a feed, but needed constant feeding and had been dropping in weight, hence the top up.

Okay.

Since breastfeeding didn’t hurt anymore, I decided to just try for the rest of the day: I would cease all top ups, and not pump. Whenever little bao wanted to feed, even when it wasn’t the three hourly time yet, he would get fed. We’d see.

And it worked.

As if it was a vengeance, little bao cluster fed for the next two days. From 5 PM onwards that day, he was at the breast, on and off, until midnight, and pretty much the whole day the next day. But it paid off.

There were only three very concentrated wet nappies the day before. That day, he had five, albeit still minimal amount, and still a tad concentrated. The next day, he had six, and the day after, eight. And finally they were pale in colour.

The house was also finally in order. We didn’t have to do big chores for a while. I gained confidence on how to hold and feed little bao, on knowing his signs of hunger before he started wailing. I became more efficient at nappy changes, even though he still cried a lot during those times. When he had his first ‘peeing’ accident, which I had been warned by every mum who’s had a baby boy, I was honestly elated, knowing that he finally had enough to drink.

On day seven, we were finally settled. We could turn on the TV, and actually watched a movie in peace. My husband could shower his little boy with more cuddles and kisses, knowing that we didn’t have to worry too much about his health in the meantime. Little bao became more alert, more content, as the day went by.

It was such a learning curve—the first week of a baby’s life. And it was really, really hard. But it did get better.

This too shall pass.

The post How Little Bao Came Into The World (Part II) first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

Where to begin?

I believe all women have their own birth stories, one that is usually not shared to those apart from close friends and families, and justly so—after all, it is private, and if you’re not a parent, you might need a medical degree to fully understand what mothers are going through.

It begins, perhaps, with my diagnosis of Gestational Diabetes Mellitus (GDM). No longer classed as a routine pregnancy, my obs mentioned straightaway that usually those with GDM are not encouraged to go full term (40 weeks) due to the risks—bigger babies, placenta deteriorating, and so on. If you require insulin throughout pregnancy, it means an even earlier delivery—up to three weeks—depending on the situation. I walked out of that appointment with 37 weeks as the goal: As long as I get to 37 weeks, little bao will be classed full term, and if he needs to be born early, he will be okay.

I was fortunate enough to be able to go through the whole pregnancy diet controlled. Apart from a few bad weeks (and a few very bad days), my sugar level was normal. Ultrasound after ultrasound showed that bao was thriving, albeit on a higher percentile.

Then 37 weeks hit. I thought, then, that I could go all the way to 39 weeks. But during my routine appointment that week my obs told me that she had scheduled an induction for the next Friday, when I’d be 38+4, as there were too many induced-to-be mums the week after due to Easter. And she didn’t want to wait until after Easter, as I’d be 40 weeks then.

I was conflicted. Deep down, I wanted my body to go naturally. I wanted little bao to be ready, for my body to be ready. But rationally, I wanted what was best for bao, so I agreed to the induction, as I trusted my obs. In hindsight, I was still a tad skeptical as my induction was technically ‘moved forward’ a week due to hospital availability and Easter long weekend. But I played my odds. During the last check-up before the induction, my obs did an internal (it’s much worse than a pap smear by the way) and found out that my cervix was ready and bao’s head was already down. She did a stretch and sweep then and there. Maybe, just maybe, little bao would be ready in time after all.

In the days leading to the induction, I tried all kinds of exercises, hoping for my water to break, to feel that contraction. But bao was stubborn. He just didn’t want to be born. Yet.

I arrived at the hospital on that Friday morning at 6.30 am, where I was already two cm dilated. I registered at the reception desk and was prepped. My water was broken (it was much better than the first internal) and I was put on the drip. The next three hours was manageable, but suddenly my contraction pain went from being level three to level ten. I tried the gas, and the midwife cranked the dose up, but I literally felt nothing (zero effect, zero nausea, zero anything). After two more contractions, I was begging for an examination, thinking that I really couldn’t cope if labour was still a long way away.

Yeap, I was still four cm. It was time for an epidural.

I was one of the lucky ones—the anaesthetist was in the room within five minutes, and she took another fifteen minutes to get ready—but believe me, it felt like a lifetime. The pain of contraction was like, well, for a lack of better word, hell-ish.

It hurt, way too much.

I thought I had a good pain tolerance, but boy was I wrong. Then again, I was on the drip instead of going naturally, and everyone said it could ramp up the pain pretty quickly. I felt like giving up; with every fibre of my being I truly believed I couldn’t go through even one more contraction. Everything I have read about labour and breathing technique—all those talks about my body is made to withstand childbirth—well, all gone. The midwife touched my shoulder, reassuring me that I would be pain-free soon. I was too much in pain to ask how much longer in a cynical tone.

The only thing that got me through, somehow, was my husband, holding my hand, patting my head, reminding me to breathe.

The epidural needle didn’t hurt; it was just uncomfortable. It took another fifteen to twenty minutes before the drugs kicked in, but even then I still had localised pain on the left side of my perineum, instead of being numb-but-can-still-feel-the-contraction the whole way. My midwife called the anaesthetist again, but after a while it was apparent she couldn’t come as she was stuck in an emergency c-section. (Thank goodness I asked for mine before whoever it was that needed the drugs more than me.) After getting a bit more dose for a while, I was finally comfortable.

Really, epidural was bliss.

At around two o’clock, my midwife told me that I was around seven cm dilated, so it would take a few hours more to get to 10. My obs would likely come back to check on me at four, so the lights were turned off, the noise from the monitoring machines turned down, and I tried to sleep, conserving my energy to push later on.

Ten minutes before three o’clock, my obs came.

It seems that the baby is unhappy, she said. She swiftly did an examination. My husband told me later that she had a surprised look in her face, as if thinking what to do next, and said that she could feel his head. It is time to push. Little bao was coming, and he needed to come out, quickly.

My midwife came into the room seconds after, picking up the distress in the baby’s heart rate monitor, followed by another midwife that was called to assist. I was told to move into position—my obs downed her white surgical gown and everyone prepped everything very quickly. One minute I was half-sleeping, the next minute I was pushing. She guided me on when to push, as I couldn’t feel much down there, and after a few pushes, it was clear that bao was not coming fast enough. She told me that she needed to do an episiotomy and used vacuum to help birth the baby—little bao really needed to get out. I pushed, but I noticed that one of the midwives started making mistakes. She was nervous, and she took a few times to prep the leg contraption thing to put me into a better position to push. The other midwife apologised to my obs as she brought the wrong equipment, but my obs was still cool as a cucumber.

My obs directed the midwives on what to do and what she needed; she told me that I was doing a good job pushing, to keep on going. My husband told me to breathe. Oh, the poor guy—he didn’t know where to look. Your face was red-blue, he later said. But down below the scene was even more chaotic.

Looking back, the situation was probably more serious than what I had thought at the time.

I pushed, although I really didn’t know how, nor did I know whether I was giving it my all. Nineteen minutes of pushing felt like another lifetime, as I was praying with every push that bao would come out. Halfway, my obs told me that bao had turned sideways, and that she needed to turn the baby to the right position for the birth. Another push.

There’s a cord wrapped around his neck, my obs said, that’s why he’s unhappy. Another push. He was still not coming. Push, Marcella, another one! The head is almost out! Look! At this point, my squeamish husband finally looked, and was promptly traumatised from seeing bao’s head as my obs untangled the cord around his neck. The midwife pulled down my robe so he could be put on my chest to do skin-to-skin straightaway. My obs told us to not be alarmed if the baby didn’t cry straightaway after being born.

Take a deep breath. Now push! She said. Nothing. And push!

And then he was born.

It was the feeling of something slipping—something big, and slimy, then something small, and long, and never-ending.

Little bao cried straightaway. Like a champ. His head was bruised and battered—there was an angry, red oval-shaped cone with dried blood where the vacuum helped him earthside. But he was crying.

All in nineteen minutes.

I needed stitches, and holding my son for the first time, I remember bits and pieces of conversation. There was talk about significant blood loss. The midwife mentioned a figure—was it 600 or 700 mls? All I know that it was more than normal. That it was a lot. More drugs administered.

Marcella, push one more time, my obs said, we need to deliver the placenta.

Yes, episiotomy was performed, she said. The baby’s head is oval-shaped at the moment, but it would heal very quickly. See, it’s changed already. Yes, baby is well. Baby is healthy. He was in the wrong position. There was a cord around his neck. Oh, good job pushing hard enough for the vacuum to work, otherwise it would be c-section and preparation would be longer.

And who knows what could have happened.

Honestly, during those first minutes with my son in my arms, I was numb. I wasn’t even elated or overjoyed—I was shocked. Shocked that it happened so quickly. I looked at my baby, and was grateful that he was here now, warm, squirming, safe and sound in my arms, but was numb nonetheless.

The processing, the guilt, and the regret came afterwards, in crashing waves that hit without warning, again, and again.

The post How Little Bao Came Into The World (Part I) first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

To say that so much has happened in 2020 is an understatement. To say that it hasn’t felt real, like this still feels like a dream, is an understatement. To say that life seems to hit pause button, that’s everything is frozen, is an understatement.

It doesn’t feel real.

When the outbreak first happened in Wuhan, China, in the end of December 2019, I was in China.

I was in Shanghai with my families—my elderly grandparents, my parents, my eldest sister’s family, and my husband— and we were enjoying our time together. We went to Disneyland, ate wonderful xiao long bao and dong po pork, and despite the logistic of traveling with two elderlies and two children under six, it was still the family holiday as I know it.

Fast forward a few months, and everything has changed. My grandparents are under strict quarantine (by us), staying at home at all times back home in Jakarta, and under no circumstances can they go outside or let other relatives visit them. All the necessities would be brought to them, but that’s it.

My eldest sister lives in Singapore, which currently has its own social distancing rule in place, and albeit the fact that she’s there alone (with her husband and two kids), we probably feel like she’s the safest among all of us, as Singapore has implemented the best measures so far.

Then there are my parents and my second sister’s little family—who are currently in Ballarat, bunkering down. We breathe a sigh of relief that my sister, who is a GP, thankfully is on maternity leave, and not on the front line of this pandemic. We do worry for her husband, who’s working on (almost) the front line, as are many of our friends who are health practitioners.

And here we are: my husband and I, who are in Melbourne, trying our best to do social distancing. Things escalate so quickly, and to be honest, I have been turning on the TV almost all of my waking hours, not to binge-watch Netflix, but to listen to whatever news being delivered in that hour. My husband still goes to work—there are talks of working from home, but for now, that’s not yet possible for everyone. It’s downright impossible for me to work from home, and for one and other reason I have been on leave.

We shall see next week.

Every day, no, every hour, there’s new development. New numbers. New rules. New fake news.

Then you hear the stories: people losing their jobs—their lives as they know it decimated in a matter of minutes. You see the images: people dying, at a massive rate, alone. There are shortages of medical supplies.

I had a short-stint scare yesterday as I developed a bit of sore throat. Could I have it? Or was it something I ate? I’ve been doing social distancing, staying at home most of the time, religiously washing my hands and using hand sanitizer when going outside. I recorded my temperature, a few times, and it was all normal. Yet I refused all physical contact from my husband for hours, and sat on opposite end of the sofa.

It was excruciating. I can’t imagine those people who died alone, without their loved ones saying goodbye, holding their hands.

I contacted my GP today and given the all clear, although just to be sure I’ll be staying at home for a few days.

It’s hard.

I don’t know when I can see my niece and nephew again, even though I’ve just hugged them last Christmas, which now feels like years ago. I don’t know when the whole family can gather together again. I don’t know whether my grandparents will stick by the rules and take this with the utmost urgency—we can only remind them and talk to them regularly.

This too shall pass. I really believe in that. But when, I do not know. No one knows. And we may get battered and bruised along the way. Some will be more battered than others. Some may not emerge on the other side at all.

Stay safe, everyone. Be kind.

And stay at home.

The post Life as we know it first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

Some are gone too soon.

–

The last time I saw her, it was at a wedding. Mine, in fact. She came, despite telling me directly that she didn’t want to come most of the time. If she went to one and not the other, what would she say to the other? I could only imagine the number of invitations she had gotten, week after week, year after year. And it weren’t only weddings—there were birthday parties too, countless of them. How could she choose between one child and another?

Nevertheless, she came to mine. I talked to her perhaps less than a minute, then took a picture with her.

I hope she knew how much it meant for me for her to be there.

–

The second last time we met, it was at a school. It was my old high school, in fact, which I had graduated seven years earlier.

I still visited the school, every few years or so, whenever I was home and had the chance, although that chance was getting lower, and lower, every year. Most of my closest teachers had moved on from there. And now, with her gone, I wasn’t sure if there was any left, who would smile when they saw me entering the teacher’s room, calling my name, giving me the biggest hug.

She always did.

She lighted up when she saw me. She asked me how I was doing, and I asked her the same. She commented, like every other time I visited, that I was the one (among many) that dropped her class for the pursuit of grades, despite clearly really loving the lesson. I always laughed, because it was true.

That time, I told her about my book, and I pointed to her that the bookmark was left on that chapter on purpose.

I mentioned something about you.

She told me that she would read it, but I never knew, because in the end, I never asked what her thoughts were. The book was my life story after high school. Would she believe that I had finally made the right choice? I wondered now, because for years, she knew that I wasn’t walking my own path.

I’m getting married, I told her that day.

She smiled again, and she was truly happy for me, before asking what my plan for family was. I did tell her, and she was annoyed, telling me not to wait (that long), because I think she understood that having children is just a wonderful, wonderful gift, and she had hoped she could have had hers sooner.

To have more time with them.

–

She was 52, and gone too soon.

—

In memoriam
Dr. Ireng Ambarsari

The post Gone to soon first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

Hopefully you never have to call triple zero. Or 911. Or 112. Or whatever the emergency telephone number the country you’re in. Hopefully you never feel threatened that you are really considering calling the police.

I did.

It has been a tough few days, if I’m honest. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who would be calm, or at least I expect myself to, in regards to emergency type of situation. I’ve watched countless movies, read countless books. I’ve pictured myself as a hero in those dystopian stories—the one who would actually take chances. But when it’s happening right in front of you and your mind draws a blank, remember this above all else: do not freeze.

I froze.

In hindsight, from a scale from one to ten, with ten being assaults by perpetrators with weapons and such, my case would be a measly three. Yet for me, at that particular time, it was a nine with a potential of being ten, because you never know when someone would just snap out of their verbally abusive behaviour to a physical one. I didn’t have the experience to differentiate the verbal abuse that would remain verbal, and the verbal abuse that has the potential to become a physical abuse in a matter of seconds. Besides, I don’t want to differentiate the two. I don’t want to gamble, especially on safety.

I didn’t gamble, yet I’m also questioning my decision.

Many of us would probably live our whole lives without ever being verbally harassed by a stranger. But how many of us actually put up with verbal harassment, or abuse, continually? When do we draw the line, saying that enough is enough, and that the behaviour is not tolerable? I’m not sure. But I do hope that despite what happened, I will not tolerate any type of this behaviour. I owe it to all others who experience this too.

So what happened?

It was a night shift, and I was serving a customer.

I felt like he had been profiling me all night, probably thinking that I’m new, young, inexperienced. That I’m a woman. That my skin colour is yellow.

He asked me my name, and he was being nice at me. He made small talk. He smiled and genuinely—or so I thought—asked for help on printing. So I helped him, with a smile on my face, even though it was late, even when I was already thinking of that cup of tea I was going to have when I got home in thirty minutes.

I never did have that cup of tea. It morphed into a glass of wine.

At one moment, he was smiling and thanking me, saying that he appreciated what I was doing. Another moment later, he was yelling at me. He demanded his money back—the one he had yet to pay for the print-outs—because the papers never did get printed. He accused me for not being able to do my job, challenging me whether there was paper inside the printer trays, and when I said yes, he sneered, how would you know. He took a step forward, and at the time when I should have taken a step back, I froze.

I really did freeze.

He kept on talking, raising his voice, and I kept on trying to explain, to let him know that I have to check on the system. He cut me mid-sentence, but I didn’t step back. I was still there, standing, thinking about the procedures, the safety training that I just had a few weeks ago. I could have just walked away, but I didn’t. Instead I stayed there for ten seconds longer, with him raising his voice, demanding his money and print-outs.

I told him that I would like a colleague to help me, and he didn’t let me. He didn’t want anyone else, just me. He wanted me to print his papers. He wanted me to give him money. He dominated me. His face was red. There he was, a short, albeit large middle-aged Caucasian man, standing in front of me, prisoning me with his words.

When I finally remembered that I have legs, I walked away from him.

The counter separated us now, and I could breathe. But I was shaking.

De-escalation was what we were trained when dealing with difficult customers, yet despite all, it was not happening. He was not emotional; he was manipulative. He wasn’t frustrated of wrong-doings; he was taking his chance to belittle me. He saw niceness, or even weakness, and exploited it. I didn’t brace, and the point of impact hit me hard.

My colleague took over at that point, but the conversation was going nowhere. He refused to leave; he kept raising his voice; he leaned over the counter. Even if he did leave, I wouldn’t want to take the chance that he was lingering outside somewhere when I go to my car. I didn’t know when this was ending—it was past nine.

So I asked him to stop, to leave, or I’ll call the police.

Just call the police then, he shouted, so I did.

I called the police over three pages of print-outs, or in other words, sixty cents.

The operator kept asking me the same question, because looking back, I couldn’t think straight. My voice was half-shaking. She asked straightforward questions, and it helped. Where are you located? What was he wearing? What is the colour of his shirt? How old do you think he is? What skin colour does he have? Is he of small, medium, or large size? Is he carrying a weapon? Is he under drugs or alcohol? Is he physically threatening you? What’s your phone number?

I remember, because in the middle of all that, I still take a moment to acknowledge the brilliant job that this operator did—she calmed me somewhat.

He kept looking at me when I was making the phone call, yet he lingered—I wondered why. Still he refused to leave, still he kept on making a scene. After even more raised voices, my colleague called the police a second time, and perhaps this time, it dawned on him. He finally left, not wanting to wait around.

When the men in uniforms did come, we saw him already sitting with a police officer. So they have found him. Another police officer came to us, listening to our stories, writing down our details. He was still shouting, but I couldn’t catch what he said. A security officer came as well, and I asked him to walk us to our cars. I could go home now. An hour after that man first asked me for help, I could go home.

On the way to our cars we saw him getting arrested. It was the scene just like any movie—a man with his hands on his back, two police officers pushing him to lean at the back of the police car. I could see him shoving. One police was securing his hands, the other was holding onto his shoulder. My colleague later told me that another police car was called; another police officer came. He was put inside the car.

As soon as I got into my car, I called my husband, asking him to stay on the phone through all the fifteen minutes it took me to reach home.

Now that I have time to reflect, I do question whether calling the police was the right decision. It probably was, because hey, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Harassment of any kind is not tolerated. You do not have to put up with this. It’s okay to ask customers to leave. And if they don’t, it’s okay to call the police.

Probably others would behave better in this situation. Probably others would tick all the boxes in the de-escalation process, calming him enough to actually have a conversation instead of a confrontation, although I have my doubts. He walked straight to me when there were also two other officers on site, calling my name, building rapport with me, specifically asking me to help him. He probably was harmless—as in, he would probably just expecting me to give up and hand him the money or print-out pages. He would probably not use any kind of physical force. He probably didn’t think that I would follow through on my statement in calling the police; he just wanted to play his chances. But what are the odds?

And what if the odds are not in my favour?

I didn’t call the police because of the money nor the print-outs—I called because I didn’t feel safe.

And I’ll remember not to freeze next time.

Ps. I’m doing good, thanks for asking. I learned a lot from that experience, and I was really fortunate that in the end, nothing serious really happened. I’ll be honest—I was shaken that night, but it also taught me invaluable lessons on how to deal with similar incidents the next time around. Not that I ever want to witness one again, but you never know. And I’m inspired by my colleague’s calmness in dealing with the situation. I do have a lot to learn.

P.Ps. My colleagues have been incredibly supportive as well. It’s wonderful to know that they have my back.

The post In case of emergency first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

I rarely DNF a book and probably this is only the second time I’ve done it. But I’m trying to be better at DNF-ing books that I know I don’t enjoy reading, as there are too many good books to enjoy instead!

Reading has definitely taken a back seat these past few weeks, as I’m deeply engrossed with other projects (indoor gardening and cooking). But there are a few books that I’m really keen to be reading soon, so perhaps I’ll read better in the coming month.

Please Look After Mother by Kyung-Sook Shin

Genre: Fiction, Korean
Rating: 4/5
Recommended for: Those who love a good fiction
Review: A solid four stars.

The book is a bit hard to read at first, because the author changes between first person, second person, and even third person. Sometimes you’re confused on who’s talking and whose perspective are the words written from, but once you get on the groove, it’s impossible to be put down.

I love this book. It’s one of those fictions that doesn’t try too much, but leaves a deep impact anyway. I just wish that I am fluent in Korean so that I can actually read the book in its original language. I feel like there are so many things that are mistranslated, and if I read it in its original language, I might understand the book more. Nevertheless, still a wonderful read.

Recommended.

The Thing Around Your Neck by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Genre: fiction, short stories, African
Rating: DNF
Recommended for: Erm, those of who you want to read widely and love reading short stories
Review: I’m not sure whether to rate this book or not. Honestly, I DNF it.

In a bid to read more widely, I pick up this book, which was just being returned by another patron at the library where I work. I try really hard to read the stories, but I just couldn’t be immersed in them. Perhaps I find it hard as they are short stories, and I’m not invested in a way that I am with longer stories.

I struggle to finish it for a while, so I decided to DNF it. Unpopular opinion, but it is not my cup of tea.

That being said, other readers seem to love the book. If you’re interested, give it a go.

Eggshell Skull by Bri Lee

Genre: nonfiction, memoir
Rating: 4/5
Recommended for: Everyone
Review: If I’m really honest, I would give this book a 3.5 stars.

Finishing the book, I do feel quite conflicted. This book was very highly recommended by my colleagues, and I can see why. And I love the first two-thirds of the book. It’s good. Raw. Powerful. But then somewhere in the second half of the book I feel the author starts to drag things a little bit. I agree with other readers who mentioned that she paused when it was not needed—to create a more dramatic flair perhaps—and glossed over things in passing on the ones that, I felt, needed more depth.

It’s still a powerful story. The book makes me think of how broken the legal system is. How privileged I am of being somewhat oblivious to many social issues that grip the country I’m living at. How broken are the culture and society we’re living in.

Still very highly recommended.

Those are February’s books. You can see all the books I’ve read this year on my Goodreads page. Till next time~

Ps. You can also add me as a friend on Goodreads. Let’s be book pals!

The post 2019 Reading Challenge: February first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

He told us about his encounter with a stranger on a train with whom he felt a strong connection to. At that time, he was undergoing a really difficult time—his wife had just died. He was sitting on a train, reading newspaper, when a woman in front of him asked him whether he was divorced. There was a line on his finger where his wedding ring should be.

He told her that that he has been widowed for three months, and that he has three little children.

“So you know how difficult it is to be in the kitchen then,” she said to him. He was offended. Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean that I can’t cook, he thought.

“Oh, no, no,” the woman said, realising his face had changed. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m referring to feeling the dread when entering the kitchen, thinking, What should I cook for dinner tonight?”

The trainer said, “Exactly!” and they talked about how cooking could be difficult, especially with children on board. He connected with her deeply at that moment. (Remember, we were being taught on how to empathise with our difficult customers.) My colleagues and I laughed, because we can definitely relate to that story as well. We all have our moments of opening the fridge and not knowing what to cook, so we just stand there for ten seconds before closing the door again.

Cooking is so much more than just cooking. Cooking means planning meals, shopping for groceries, prepping ingredients, and doing the actual cooking. Then after our stomachs are full, there will be dishes to wash.

Cooking is labour.

I grow up with a mother who cooks.

My childhood is spent on my parents’ round dining table, where I enjoy multiple dishes of simple-yet-delicious food which I still crave until now.

There would always be stir-fried vegetables, a few meat dishes, and other side dishes—things like corn fritters, soup, and egg omelettes. Every weekday, Mom would wake up early to cook for our (my two sisters’ and my) school lunches. By the time we arrived home, cut fruits would be waiting for us, and then after my Dad came home we would all eat dinner together.

I grow up with hearty home-cooked food, and I never know any other reality. I’ve always assumed that other families do similar things. One of my closest friends told me that my Mom is not quite the norm—her mother hates cooking and they always have catering. Even then, it has never dawned on my young mind the amount of effort it took to cook for the family.

When I got to uni and started spending holidays at home, I began to see the cooking-for-family process more clearly. Mom would occasionally ask me to accompany her to go to the local wet market, and sometimes I would say yes. These times, my Dad would also tag along, and we would have breakfast at the noodle shop before my Mom goes on to buy groceries: an enormous quantity of fruits, vegetables, meat, and eggs.

I’ve asked her once if she enjoys cooking. She tells me that she learns how to cook just like me: when she gets married and has to feed the family. Yet she never quite answers my question. I realise that cooking is not her hobby, and I don’t think she ever really loves or enjoys it. Mom cooks because she has to, and because she loves us—it’s her way of showing her love towards her family. She would eat the odd pieces of chicken while giving my Dad, my two sisters, and me the best cuts.

Mom was always annoyed if we didn’t finish the food, hence forcing us to eat more to ‘finish them’. I was annoyed too, because I was full, and I didn’t want to eat more, but felt like I had to. I didn’t understand it then, but I do understand it now: certain leftover food would never taste as good the next day, and they would end up wasted, and it felt a little bit like her efforts—her love—were being wasted. It’s exactly how I feel now when I have certain leftovers. Honestly, I feel like I’m becoming more like her, pestering my husband to finish the last two pieces of corn fritters because they would never be as crispy as they are right now.

I’ve been cooking more, almost every weeknight, but I can’t quite say that I love cooking. And I don’t think I’m a good cook—not by the professional’s standard anyway. Sometimes, I still see cooking as a chore. My husband wouldn’t mind doing takeaways, or even having instant noodles every other night, but apart from the obvious reasoning in cooking (saving money), I actually want us to be healthy as well. Hearty food is not only good for the body, it’s good for the soul.

Yes, I’d say that I enjoy cooking. But it’s not exactly the cooking process itself that I enjoy—it’s the realisation that this is how I show my love.

It takes time to buy groceries. It takes time, and effort, to think of what to cook—to prepare meat, vegetables, fruits, rice, pasta, and other stuff. It takes practice to not feel daunted by the task. It takes multiple trials and errors to figure out what staples you actually need in your pantry. And the list goes on.

Cooking is labour. Probably it’s not if you’re one of those people who genuinely love cooking, but for people like me, like my Mom, like the trainer in my story, it certainly is. And sometimes, the ones we love might not know or understand that labour. We still do it anyway.

Adam Liaw, one of my favourite chefs, wrote this in one of his cookbooks:

For me, there is no more worthwhile labour in a kitchen than feeding a family. Choosing dishes, collecting ingredients, and applying time and effort to the task of preparing a family meal gives a result so much more than just a full stomach.

And isn’t that just true?

Ps. If you’d like to follow my cooking adventure, follow my Instagram: @luneskitchen.

Photos are used with Creative Commons Zero licenses.

The post Cooking: A worthwhile labour first appeared on Marcella Purnama.

Probably it’s just me.

Anyway, I was buying a package of Enoki mushrooms the other day to make Kimchi Soup, and I realised that using the whole 350 g is just too much mushrooms. So I save half of them in the fridge for another time, determined that I would cook them tomorrow, because if not, I’ll forget.

After browsing for Enoki side dishes, I’ve decided to make this recipe. And it’s so good, it straightaway gets a tick from my husband and I, and is added to our weekday rotation list!

Enoki Mushrooms with Garlic and Scallion Sauce

Serves 2
Cooks in 10 minutes
Difficulty easy

INGREDIENTS

• Half a package of Enoki mushrooms
• garlic (lots, depending on how much you love garlic), minced
• 2 scallion
• oil
• soy sauce
• a bit of broth (anything that you have in your pantry currently)
• pepper, sugar

METHOD

1. Blanch the enoki mushrooms and put them on the serving plate.
2. Add oil to pan. Stir fry garlic for a while, but don’t let them brown. Add soy sauce, pepper, and a little bit of sugar. Add a bit of broth as well, just to your desired ‘soupy’ consistency. For myself, I add only a few tablespoons. Turn off the heat and add scallion.
3. Pour the sauce over enoki mushrooms. Serve and eat while it’s hot!

The post Enoki Mushrooms with Garlic and Scallion Sauce first appeared on Marcella Purnama.