The aftermath March 22, 2008

The danger of expectations …

What I was expecting, part 1:

A earth mothery, waterbirth with minimal pain relief, definitely no epidurals or surgery, lasting under 24 hours.

What I got, part 1:

A 36 hour labour that never progressed past 4 centimetre dilation, a membrane sweep, three applications of cervix-softening gel, artificial rupture of my membranes, followed by 10 hours of fake oxytocin through an IV, and an epidural, all of which were followed by an emergency caesarian, during which I suffered a massive panic attack and lost over a litre of blood.

What I was expecting, part 2:

To breastfeed until the cows came home, or at least until Number One Son didn’t want the bosom any longer. That breastfeeding would be a deeply bonding and satisfying experience for both parties.

What I got, part 2 (a):

I hated breastfeeding. Excruciating pain in both bosoms throughout. One nipple suffered deep bruising from where The Wee Champ was incorrectly attached directly after birth; the other bore a crack the length of it that meant feeding was like having someone poke white hot sewing needles directly into said bosom repeatedly.

What I got, part 2 (b):

An unhappy baby that was never fully satisfied at any feed and the guilts that I wasn’t nourishing my child well enough; and that I should be happier and more proficient at breastfeeding.

What I expected, part 3:

Was to never have the need to use formula or bottles, because there was plenty of good food on tap for Number One Son.

What I got, part 3:

Industrial sized box of organic baby formula, several bottles and a steam steriliser now in regular use for Nelson. Result: a happy, satisfied baby and a more relaxed me with the freedom to now get back on the sauce. IT TAKES THE EDGES OFF.

What I expected: part 4:

That my kidlet would never, ever use a dummy.

What I got, part 4:

A dummy. Works a treat, and has saved our sanity on several occasions. JUDGE YE NOT.

What I expected: part 5:

Kidlet would sleep in his own cot, in his own room, in decent 3-4 hour blocks, from day one.

What I got, part 5:

A baby that has yet to sleep in his own room and occasionally spends nights sleeping in 45 minute chunks.

What I expected: part 6:

That I’d be GIFUCKENNORMOUS for months after the birth and that I’d never fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes again.

What I am got, part 6:

My favourite pre-England jeans a l m o s t do up, already! And yesterday I tried some new jeans on and managed to fit into a size 14. For someone who has spent the past nine months feeling like a very grey, dull heffalump, this (usually) superficial experience transcended ordinary joy. I’ll be a yummy mummy yet!

Weeks 26-30: the text book November 25, 2007

Awesome, awesome tiredness: tick. It’s not even like it’s that tiredness you get after one too many glasses of wine and one too few hours of sleep before a workday kind of tiredness. It just pervades everything, not least of all my mind. Sleep is becoming a rare treat: I think last night I got up to wee five times. The last two times I didn’t even get back to sleep. So yeah. Great training there.

Irrational worries about the baby: will it be DEFORMED when it comes out? What if I drop it? The other day I felt a funny, regular kind of pulsing deep down womb-way. For a few minutes I worried myself sick that somehow the baby’s heart and seeped out the side of its ribcage and was beating outside of its body. Then I realised that the beat was too slow and was probably just hiccups (later confirmed by my GP, who said that babies often gorge themselves on amniotic fluid and get indigestion, thus the hiccups).

Reflux/heartburn/indigestion (sans hiccups): Jesus Christ. I never thought that one of my favourite activities - burping - would turn into such a harbinger of pain and suffering. The other night I slept sleeping up because the five Rennies and entire tub of Yeo Valley yoghurt did jack shit in my digestive system. I believe I may have dozed lightly between two and three am. I find it gets much, much worse when I’m hungry, and interestingly, when I go to yoga. Yoga is another story.

Uncomfortableness: I got this one in spades. No longer can I sit still for hours working on my photography or reading the paper. Every five seconds I think I’ve found The Spot and then two seconds later I change my mind.

Restless legs: Relates very strongly to the uncomfortableness. My legs - especially when I’m lying down - are never, ever still. They are either thinking about moving around or moving just enough to narrowly avoid leg cramps.

Rampant appetite, diminishing stomach, ever-extending belly: Increasing, decreasing, increasing, in that order. I am perpetually hungry and can often be seen close to snatching food from The Beloved’s hand. It takes about two mouthfuls of anything to make me full (and give me indigestion, if those two mouthfuls have even looked at the spice cabinet), and each day I wake up, look at my belly and think … ‘How much bigger can this thing possibly get?’

Random moments of crying: At Asda last Saturday the cashier made me cry by asking me if I was having twins. It took about two seconds for me to sob out that no, it was just one in there, and yes, I am REALLY FUCKING FAT, OK?

Week 19: zzz September 18, 2007

I have reached a new low.

All the books tell you that the second trimester is when you glow (you sweat), your energy levels return to (somewhat) normal, you’re feeling great, blah, blah, fucking blah. I would like to meet these women, these women who glow with heavenly inward saintitudiness about their state of pregnancy and who haven’t stacked on any weight and still iron their sheets.

1. For about 10 days now I’ve been waking up anywhere between 2am and 4am and been completely unable to get back to sleep. I’ve tried every technique I know, all the while listening to The Beloved snuffle away deep in his slumber, of which I am deeply, deeply jealous and resentful. I just lie there, mind a-wandering, various earworms running constant loops through my head (Nick Cave’s “I Let Love In” is currently on fairly high rotation). The first few times this odd awakening occurred I became increasingly frustrated, as, let’s face it, nothing makes mama more grumpy than a lack of sleep. Now I have come to peace with the fact that this is APPARENTLY my body training me for night-time feeds, and given the size of this child already, I suppose I’d better get used to being awake and stone cold sober in every respect in the dark of night.

2. During one of my recent nocturnal ramblings, I stubbed my toe on the bottom edge of the couch and broke it. I have broken my toes before (attempting a Paula Abdul dance manouvre at age 14, I seem to recall) and they hurt. And the only thing that can be done is strapping, so hobble on I must. And hobble is the operative word because …

3. I have damaged my lower back somehow, either that or the kid has jammed its elbow into the back end of my cocyx, but whichever, BECAUSE I HURT. Sitting for too long, standing for too long, lying down for too long … it’s all the same. Nasty twinges that make me cry out in pain and surprise when I get up and especially when I bend over or bear weight on my right side. This has effectively sidelined me from the workforce, which isn’t great, but the fact of the matter is I can’t actually sit in a chair for longer than ten minutes without significant pain. Hot water bottles, ice packs, anti-inflammatories - nothing has made a speck of fucking difference to my world of pain. This situation is very frustrating as well as painful because it seems that there is nothing much I can do.

This is a classic example of not appreciating what you have until you don’t have it any more. My back has never been great but it’s got me through all kinds of motions, as it were, and now that I can’t use it properly I’d really like to.

In spite of - or perhaps because of - my back pain, I’ve been attending my local expectant mothers yoga class of a Thursday evening. The exercises are very gentle, and it has been excellent to meet some other local pregnant people and seasoned mothers heading into their second or third pregnancy. Now, I’m all for doing exercise and bumping up my pevlic floor muscles, but I’m not so much into the hugging my belly and singing to my unborn child. I’ll just close my eyes and sway a little, thanks, and take the odd peek here and there to check if anyone else is uncomfortable about the procession as I am.

We have our 20 week scan this Thursday and I am under strict instructions from The Mothership to get her a photo or two. These images are surprisingly cheap here (at least something in this country is cheap!!) - only a couple of pounds per image, so I think I’ll stock up on some for all the expectant grandmas and grandpas and possibly for the special aunties and uncles as well.

The Mothership lands on Friday night and Saturday we pack up to go to the south of France for an extremely well-earned two week holiday, but not before I insist that my mother hands over to me my long, long list of items she Must Bring From Australia As They Can’t Be Got Elsewhere. And yes, I know there’s the bloody internet but it’s more fun when you get these items as presents.

1. Bonds boyleg undies. M&S undies don’t cut it on an arse like mine.

2. Twisties, Burger Rings, and Samboy Barbecue chips. Oh! The sheer delicious cheesy taste of original flavour Twisties!!

3. Violet Crumble, Cherry Ripe, Kingston and Tic Toc biscuits.

4. The biggest jar of Vegemite she can get her hands on (they only sell the teeny-teeny jars up here, and I go through one of those a fortnight).

5. As many cloth nappies with velcro tabs that she can fit in her suitcase without going (too far) over her weight limit. At only $6.75 a piece I’ve suggested she should load up and we can just buy her all Mothership-type clothes she needs once she gets here.

So, after I’ve scoffed everything, the three of us will sight the white cliffs of Dover, be visiting a small town on the way called Arras, where my great-grandfather is buried; driving over the latest brightest shiniest and longest suspension bridge in the world; taking a day trip to Barcelona and visiting a place called Carcassonne, home of my favourite nerdy game called, unsurprisingly, Carcassonne.

If I’m not back posting by Friday this week, assume all has gone well and we are tramping gaily all over the sensibilities of the French and having a grand old time.

Week 16: cartwheel express August 25, 2007

Dear bubbarooni,

I do believe this is the week in which I have first felt thy movements within. All the women I know who’ve been pregnant have told me to look out for a weird sort of fluttering in my lower stomach area, which is kind of what you (occasionally) feel like at the moment.

But to tell the absolute truth, I think you kindasorta probably jabbed me with your foot, or your elbow that one time. Because it wasn’t really butterflies in there. It was a fairly solid poke on the insides.

I am assuming from that poke that you are beginning your warm-up exercises for your moshpit dance-fest which will come in later months. At the moment I am finding this kinda cute. I expect it will be less so when it’s 2am and I want you to turn the music down in there so I can get some sleep.

Since that one jab to my insides I have become convinced that every single internal movement in my lower torso must be you moving about. Since that one jab there’s been a bout or two of indigestion, a spot of trapped wind and some possible womb expansion, but further jabs and pokes haven’t really announced their presence just yet. There have been some butterflies, though.

That doesn’t mean you’re just loafing around in there treating the place like a hotel, of course. In fact, we’ve been working closely on getting you some eyelashes and fingernails organised, and trying not to worry about the fact that you can already suck your thumb (IMAGINE THE ORTHODONTICS BILL! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME ALREADY?). I don’t know about you, but this process is proving rather exhausting seeing as it’s running alongside my other major project, yunno, working a full time job.

According to most of the pregnancy calendars, this is about the time that my stomach is supposed to pop out slightly and I actually look Proper Preggers. Due to my hormonally based cravings for lemon drizzle cake, steak pasties and fish and chips, I’ve managed to look four months pregnant since about week eight, a week characterised not only by my capacity to cry at the sight of another baby but by Certain Other People tutting about how I was letting myself go (as I tucked into another pastie).

So now I look as fat as I did in week eight, but now it’s just a slightly more structured fat. But I can clutch at my ever-expanding belly anxiously as I board trains and know that I will get a seat close to the door facing the way the train is moving. Swings and roundabouts.

I have started doing some research into what exactly we’re going to stick your bum into once you’re born. I have a pathological dislike of disposable nappies, for any number of reasons, not least of all the fact that they are causing further strain on our already overburdened-by-modern-industrial-technology planet.

Then there is the false economy aspect. Lemme tell ya, there’s nothing like having a Scot for a mother when it comes to sniffing out the bargains and the rip offs. Disposables are total rip offs. Let’s do some sums, eh?

1 x pack of disposable nappies: £10

1 X pack per week (conservative non-parent estimate) X 52 weeks: £520

Add another year or so until you learn to walk on your own two feet and use the toilet at your OWN office instead of smelling up ours: £520

Total: £1040.

A thousand bloody pounds. Your father and I could go on two holidays for that.

Case for reusables (not factoring in washing costs):

1 X pack with 15 expandable-into-toddlerhood nappies, waterproof covers, liners and bag: £155.

That’s it. Case closed!

In other less boring growed up economic news, I have started swimming again, which has been excellent. I swam a lot when I was younger, and it’s like riding a bike - you don’t ever really forget how to swim, even when it’s been about a decade between pool visits. I lasted about 40 minutes of close to non-stop easy laps, which is excellent for someone who gets completely puffed going up the one flight of stairs to our apartment. I’ve even bought pregnancy bathers, so I can continue this exercisey trend right up until you and I meet for the first time in the birthing pool. The bathers are utterly ginormous, the biggest bathers I’ve ever worn, and they even come with this special rouched (sp?) bit around my tummy to incorporate your growing in there.

Yep, you’re really in there. Wow.

Weeks 13-15: woops August 17, 2007

Hello sproglet.

I am tired.

Number of times, on average, I wee during the night: 2-3

Number of hours, on average, that I lie awake at night with far too many thoughts after visits to the toilet: 1-2

Average waking hour, regardless of above, or of the fact it’s THE FUCKING WEEKEND: 6am

Now the sickness has worn off, I find myself in this weird alternation between extreme exhaustion and having somewhat average reserves of energy (a big improvement from the first few weeks).

The other week in honour of your father’s birthday I drank a bottle of cider in about two mouthfuls. They were the tastiest, bestest two mouthfuls of alcohol I’ve ever drunk, and I say that even after experiencing the ultimate Pan Galactic Gargleblaster at The Firm in 1990 for half price.

On top of all this weird energy rollercoaster, I have started seeing the best in people and thinking nice thoughts about virtually everybody (excluding the motherfuckers who smoke while they’re walking). This goes beyond disconcerting for a deeply hardened cynic. I have lost my edge. I am blaming you, but in a strange way I don’t actually care.

Apparently I am supposed to be able to feel you moving about in there, but so far I can’t really tell if it’s wind or my uterus generally becoming more unwieldy. Still, it’s exciting to think that soon I’ll be able to feel this little alien within. Crazy.

Time for a nap.

Week 12: you’re real July 30, 2007

Dear space prawn,

On Thursday your father and I got to see for the first time that you’re really in there, and you have four limbs in working order, a head, a nose, fingers and toes all accounted for and a very cute little wriggle action when you’re woken up.

We had our scans for Down’s Syndrome and to date your arrival properly.

I was a bit nervous before we went in. What if there were two of you in there? (At least that might help explain my gargantuan eating habits).

I lay back on the bed as the doctor spread some cold gel on

Weeks 10-11: my health, my god, the system, philosophies on gender and parenting in general July 14, 2007

My general health

I went through a real phase when I was about 28 of reading pregnancy week-by-week books, partly possibly because I subconsciously thought at the time that it might actually make me pregnant, a state I feared and hoped in equal amounts I’d be at the end of each 28 day cycle for as long as I could remember.

I also read them partly because of what I call the Snot Factor. Everybody has a Snot Factor, some have a factor higher than others. I, personally, have a reasonably high factor. I have no problem squeezing The Beloved’s zits, no problem watching pus or operations on the telly. So I partly read these books for the Snot Factor, thinking at the time: err! that’s gross yet fascinating! my body won’t do that. will it?

It has. It pleases me not.

Heartburn? Tick. Constipation? Tick. Oh, go on then, a bit of reflux? TICK. Indi-fucken-gestion? Tickety fucken tick. Let’s not forget the ever expanding bosoms and the ache they cause me when I move position in the night. Or the constant action in my bladder. Fucks sake. And it’s only week 10-and-a-half.

Having never experienced heartburn before, after my first attack I had to calm myself down (because there’s this part of your brain that goes, oh, shiiiiiit, I’m dying … IS THIS IT? NO BABY? NO WEDDING? Oh, man … aaarrrggghhh!!! the pain! I AM DYING!) then get myself to a chemist quick smart to get some pregnant-safe antacid.

A double-edged sword: the agony I was undergoing with heartburn was equalled only by the really shitty tasting tablets I had to chew to get rid of it, a pint of milk not being within buying distance. I mean, aniseed tasting salty chalk?? What the fuck?

Small sundry health snipes aside, my general health is good. The morning sickness has subsided (mostly) and been replaced with the most gnawing hunger I’ve ever experienced. I wake up hungry, I wake up in the night hungry, I go to work after three bits of toast and a bowl of cereal and I get hungry; this is interrupted only by mild nausea mid-afternoon in combination with the almost completely overwhelming urge to sleep my life away, at least for the subsequent 60 minutes.

My health, according to the system

I endured my first visit from my allocated midwife last week. Madam Too Busy To Be Nice was very busy ticking all the boxes on all the forms and rushing through the asking of questions that she forgot her bedside manner and to be gentle when she took my blood. She was also too busy to take my blood properly, so some of our test results are now a little late in arriving. If she’s like that sticking a needle in my arm, I thought, there is no way she’s getting near my clacker. Absolutely no fucking way.

Not impressed, was my assessment, and after two days of hand-wringing, desperate for some way through the maze of the NHS that would allow me to pick someone who, you know, at the very least acted like she gave a shit I was pregnant and going to squeeze a giant watermelon out of my clacker in about seven months, but for a while there I thought I was going to be stuck with the dragon the “free” system threw my way. Luckily, this is not the case. Luckily, I have a very nice GP who specialises in antenatal care at my local surgery, so after a wee weep with the district nurse, who took my blood properly and gently, my problem was solved. One step at a time. And breathe.

Baby brain: not so much

One of the first signs for me that something was a little up the duff was that the sound of kids and babies crying no longer bothered me. It still no longer bothers me, to the point that I now bother new mums on trains and in the shops to start up a conversation about how I’m pregnant and ooh, so cuuute! The little one! And where did you get that pram from?

My baby brain does not extend, however, to sighing and cooing over baby clothes in shops. In the shops, clothes for babies under six months are in neutral colours like beige (NEVER ON MY WATCH), white (clearly made by people whose babies don’t shit or vomit), pastel pink or pastel blue. Over six months there is immediate and very distinct gender characterisation occurring: clothes are either pink/red or blue. Flowers or trains. Hearts or bears.

WHERE IS THE FUNKY PURPLE? THE CRAZY ORANGE? THE CLOTHING THAT ISN’T CROSS MARKETED WITH A MOVIE/TOY?? WHERE, good people, where?

This antiquated notion of rigid and boring gender roles for fucking humans WHO CAN’T EVEN WALK, let alone think for themselves, my god, what is this? My brain does not understand this need to relate to a boy baby differently to a girl baby. It’s just a baby. *It* doesn’t care what it wears, as long as it’s warm and dry. It’s only a societal, adult perception that babies and toddlers should be immediately identified as either a boy or a girl, leading on, still, boring as it is, to relating and coaxing those little human sponges into continuing this gender stereotyping that I REALLY FUCKING HATE.

I have for quite some time been of the opinion that people should relate to, and treat each other as exactly that, people first, and your esteem for another be based on information, evidence, words and deeds. It doesn’t matter their sex.

Apparently the makers of children’s apparel are of a different opinion.

Fine. Fuck them. I’ll learn to sew my own.

Parenting in general

The Beloved and I have been talking about parenting and how we are going to approach the family dynamic once this sprog comes into the world.

We have talked well into the night about what it means to be happy, and what we think makes a child happy (other than boob juice and swaddling). I think we are united in how we are going to go about things, which gives me confidence going into this thing.

A child cannot be spoiled with too much love. There is no such thing as too much love for a child, I really believe that. You cannot spoil a child by telling it you love it every day. But children are spoiled with toys and other material things and given love in ways that spoil them. I am already committed to making sure that my child will never doubt my love, never question who its family is, or doubt that it can talk to me or The Beloved, about anything. It may doubt my methods, and will probably spend a great deal of its teenage years hating my guts in general for being embarrassing (can’t wait to spit on the tissue to wipe on its face!!) or for not buying that PlayStation X, or whatever the latest game will be by then. But it will never hanker for my time or my (quality) attention.

Unless it’s having a tanty. Then it’ll just get locked back under the stairs, where it belongs.

Weeks 7-10: *yawn* July 12, 2007

Dear sproglet,

While you are very busy growing eyelashes and de-webbing your fingers and toes, I have been very busy doing … uh, doing … hmm. Lots of sleeping. Wanting a lot more sleep than I’m getting. Getting over my morning sickness, which in reality lasted most of the day, and gradually getting used to all the squirming and shifting that’s going on in my Downstairs Department, as my body starts to make true space for you to grow.

Are there two of you in there? I’m just wondering, because I seem to be eating sufficient for at least four separate, other people, and no matter what I eat within five minutes of consumption I’m scrounging around looking for more. My cravings shift and move every day and it’s getting evermore difficult to plan what I will want to eat at my next meal. There has been at least two occasions recently when I’ve got food to my mouth, thinking that it was what I wanted, only to be so put off by the smell or texture that it went straight in the bin instead.

I am over the apple juice: it kept me going for the first few weeks but I’ve now moved on to orange squash. Each weekday morning I clutch my bottle of orange squash and it keeps me from vomiting on the train. This is a good thing.

I am getting fat(ter)! I keep telling your father that you’re just a growing wee bean, but he’s not convinced. Regardless, some new trousers and tops are in order because my bazoombas are ginormous and I have a total of two shirts that actually fit me these days, and given the way things are going, they won’t fit me soon either.

In recent days I have been overcome by what more experienced mothers term Baby Brain. Not baby on the brain, but Baby Brain. I find myself at various times during the day just staring out into space, vague as you like, nary a care nor thought in my head. I am forgetting friends’ names, days, dates, simple nouns, theories of physics. All I feel like doing is having a nice long lie down with a trash mag.

Your father and I have been talking a lot about what to call you once you arrive. We’ve got a shortlist, but we’re not sharing it just yet. Plus we figure that we’ll know your name when we finally get to meet you.

Week 6: have you got my brain in there? June 16, 2007

Dear sprog,

Uh, just curious, but are you minding my brain in there? Because I’ve checked a few times this week where it normally lives, and it would appear there’s nobody at … at … at the … the thingy. SEE?

I thought that this working while pregnant thing would be a breeze. You know, nurture growing fetus, eat a great deal, continue career, pop one out, be back at work two months later after a bit of a holiday. I suspect it’s not going to work out quite that way.

Ferinstance, there have been a few times this last week when I have found myself rushing to and fro at work and then stopping in the middle of a hallway and wondering what I was actually doing there. I’ve taken to muttering write it down, write it down, in a rather dark and sinister tone and then completely forgetting what it was that I was meant to be writing down to remember.

This week has snowballed into a week of Telling People. After only just finding out ourselves last week that you were making your presence felt, Monday at work for me was very tough. I felt very ill, and sad, and happy, and was prone to snapping at my lovely colleagues then holding back tears at the thought of you and bunnies dancing around in a field somewhere (I don’t know either). So by Tuesday I’d told my boss, who’d sussed that something was up anyway, and he was the first of many to be delighted that you were on your way.

All of your grandparents are either reeling in shock from the news or thoroughly chuffed or both. Your Aussie Nana, who’ll be here in September, shrieked something incomprehensible, then proceeded to tell me how delighted she was. This, it seems, is the thing with grandparents. And you have five-and-a-half, so I very much doubt you’ll be lacking for much.

I have continued eating a lot of food in my quest to build you a spine and some nice healthy internal organs. I have also continued eating because when I eat I don’t feel quite so nauseous, but from what I’ve read, this might change. It is apparently possible to feel like being sick and be hungry at the same time. I am not looking forward to this day. I have also continued eating because I like food, and one thing I am liking very much about pregnancy is that it is basically a license to eat what your body tells you to, which at this current milisecond includes chicken with cashew nuts, apple juice and steak pasties. This will probably change. Last week I inhaled a whopper with extra cheese in about five seconds and it was the best burger I’ve ever tasted, and then I had to wee. The next day the smell of burgers made me want to puke.

Ah, the joys of weeing in a city where you don’t know the locations of all the public loos. My advice? Stick to shopping centres. There’s always at least one in there. Also, wee just before leaving point A, then immediately again upon arrival at point B. Do not worry about farting in public (like I ever did!). When you get as backed up as I am, you take anything you can get.

Your father and I have been talking about what to call you other than ‘It’ or ‘Sproglet’. Nothing has been nailed down just yet.

Last night you and I went to our first rock concert together (shall I get us registered for Glastonbury next year, do you think?) - White Stripes at Leeds Harewood House. Rain poured down all day but held off for the Stripeys, who were magnificent. I didn’t even really mind being sober. I saw quite a few cool mums and dads with their kids there. I hope one day us three will go to see music together, too.