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 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.