Of course, what Babe said at the end of my penultimate post, was repeating exactly what I had said when we set off an a Family Day Out to a rescue establishment of the bovine variety at 8am last Sunday.
A day later, he interrupted our bickering thus:
'Don't speak to mummy like that, daddy!'
'I'm sorry,' says OH.
'Mummy, daddy says sorry,' says Babe.
'I'm sorry, too,' I rejoin, giving OH an unpleasant hand gesture as Babe turns his back.
Shocking, I know.
I am determined to put this phase behind us, and some fun back into family life. I am sure the constant stressing and bickering is upsetting Babe. So I try to suggest we do something nice together at some point during each weekend. (Incidentally, we're all upset, not just Babe. New Babe probably thinks that people only communicate without shouting on birthdays and thier own Saint days.)
To be honest, I don't look forward to weekends at all as weekdays are simpler, despite being pretty heavy-going for me. We usually survive Saturdays and Sundays by taking turns to take Babe out while I clean the house or, when it's his turn, OH chills on the sofa. My ultimate aim is to achieve the cleaning, shopping and cooking during the week, so that I can get some rest at the weekend too, or at least not get irritated by how much there is to do and attempt to chill. Babe has started saying, 'Just chill, Mummy!', which drives me insane. Learnt from OH of course.
But, back to our last Family Day Out (sorry for all these bits in brackets, I am trying to cut down on them) unless we get Up And Out, Babe is likely to drop off en route wasting valuable RandR time for us. Which is why I insisted (begged, prostrated myself on the floor, cried, made offers of one BJ per month etc etc) that we leave early. Unfortunately I had not checked the opening times of aforementioned bovine establishement, and we ended up bickering in the car park in the drizzle for an hour when we got there. Not a nag in sight, but a clearly testosterone-fuelled young farm hand revving a quad bike desguised as a bull that pulls a line of passengers around the paddock for about £30 quid a head.
I am fast learning that Babe doesn't mind where we are as long as a) we are not arguing and b) he has a little mate or two to play with. He runs up to kids anywhere and asks what their names are and then stands as close as can to them until they start involving him in thier play.
Last Sunday, we were pretty much the only ones there. We made a cursory tour of the stables, slid down the slides whooping as loudly as we could, so that he'd feel the place was fun and lively, and then mustered the energy to leap over some kiddie-style horse jumps in the outside area with him. There were wasps everywhere which was making me nervous, as OH has a serious allergy but does not carry his epi pen with him. (I know!!) Then the one or two other visitors started to convene near the paddock for the 'bull ride'. We argued briefly as to weather Babe could go on alone, then agreed that he and OH should go on together. Just as well we did, as it bounced about all over the place. Babe loved it. I giggled a lot at the sight of a very cramped OH, knees about his ears, trying to control just how hard Babe bouced against his crotch.
We left, following some obligatory purchases in the gift shop: Babe, some mini aeroplanes, me some fudge - boy, did I need it, OH a horse brush (don't ask).
We arrived back home at about eleven thirty, every bit as exhausted as if we'd been out for the day. Which made the entry fee quite good value, I guess. Babe and New Babe were asleep in the car. So OH chilled on the sofa and I - well, I'll leave what I did up to your imaginations.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Homeland on the horizon
It seems I have once again agreed to take our annual vacation in OH's homeland. How the F did I manage that? Especially after last year's protestations and this year's tantrums - in fact a decade of protestations and tantrums.
Thing is, I love the man, and realise that I was expecting something of him that I wouldn't have been prepared to agreed to myself. Plus I'm insanely tired and realised there wasn't a lot of sense in paying money we don't have to spend a week away together, having the 'family holiday' I aspired to, arguing over whose turn it was to sleep/chase Babe around the swimming pool. What's more, having lived abroad and feeling very comfortable in several European countries where one or the other of us knows the ropes and the language, I feel strangely insecure at the thought of going somewhere new. How very parochial!
So, in two weeks' time (I've bought the tickets, so let's hope I get New Babe's passport application processed in time, got an appointment tomorrow - eek!) we're flying off the Greek island that is a short boat ride away from his hometown. And to an insane number of fawning relatives. But hopefully, too, some simple excursions down to the sea front with aunties who will help with the kids while I dip in the ocean. Watch this space!
PS I'll be sleeping in the hotel opposite his home. That is my bottom line.
PPS Re para two and my comment about 'loving the man' etc: he was clearly not going to back down on this one anyway. I am going to take the pertinent move of buying cheap tickets for him and Babe to go to visit the family over the New Year as well, to avoid a month of argument that results in costly tickets. But for a week next May, the world will be my oyster :)
Thing is, I love the man, and realise that I was expecting something of him that I wouldn't have been prepared to agreed to myself. Plus I'm insanely tired and realised there wasn't a lot of sense in paying money we don't have to spend a week away together, having the 'family holiday' I aspired to, arguing over whose turn it was to sleep/chase Babe around the swimming pool. What's more, having lived abroad and feeling very comfortable in several European countries where one or the other of us knows the ropes and the language, I feel strangely insecure at the thought of going somewhere new. How very parochial!
So, in two weeks' time (I've bought the tickets, so let's hope I get New Babe's passport application processed in time, got an appointment tomorrow - eek!) we're flying off the Greek island that is a short boat ride away from his hometown. And to an insane number of fawning relatives. But hopefully, too, some simple excursions down to the sea front with aunties who will help with the kids while I dip in the ocean. Watch this space!
PS I'll be sleeping in the hotel opposite his home. That is my bottom line.
PPS Re para two and my comment about 'loving the man' etc: he was clearly not going to back down on this one anyway. I am going to take the pertinent move of buying cheap tickets for him and Babe to go to visit the family over the New Year as well, to avoid a month of argument that results in costly tickets. But for a week next May, the world will be my oyster :)
Saturday, August 22, 2009
My son, the diplomat, part I
We leave for our weekly jaunt to my active birth group reunion. The members live at diverse locations in our neck of the woods and it puts my driving skills to the test. I got my license relatively late and get very stressed about trying new routes. Today's involves using three motorways and I don't usually do motorways.
Once the car is packed and we're all strapped in, I turn the key in the ignition and call to the rear, 'is everyone ready for a new adventure?'.
New Babe cannot, of course, reply. But his elder brother responds at once:
'Yes! No more shouting or arguing, we're going to have a nice family time together!'
Once the car is packed and we're all strapped in, I turn the key in the ignition and call to the rear, 'is everyone ready for a new adventure?'.
New Babe cannot, of course, reply. But his elder brother responds at once:
'Yes! No more shouting or arguing, we're going to have a nice family time together!'
Thursday, August 20, 2009
A quick one... or not. At all, that is.
So, my mum has been to stay for a few days. Lovely to have some company and fantastic to have an extra pair of hands to help me through the day. Took Babe swimming this morning which was wonderful, despite the fact that he nearly froze and is constipated (see below) and therefore reluctant to embrace the full potential of his physicality. Incidentally, I dread to think what the temperature of the baby pool feels like in winter.
It's also been great to have someone to help with Babe when he wakes in the morning. I had a particularly bad night last night. New Babe is now 11 weeks old, and in the last week I've been getting him down by 8.30pm - 9.oopm. He has, on a couple of occasions, woken just once in the night to feed, but he's equally able to wake every three hours, which he did last night, starting at eleven - about an hour after I went to bed. For those of you who don't know, it is agony to be roused from little sleep from you are already exhausted.
Last night Babe woke about four times as well, and at pretty much equidistant intervals between new Babe waking: once for the potty - great (he's now slept without a nappy for three nights and been dry every night. I wonder if this is beginner's luck as he's just spent two entire days trying to poo and it has marred everything we've tried to do as he hasn't wanted to get off the potty); once for an apple he'd been dreaming about, which I had to pretend to try and find behind the bed, and twice because his head had come out from underneath the pillow (these days he can only sleep with it on his face. He's his mother's son all right - I'm a terrible sleeper. It took me twenty years to wean myself off the ear plugs I started wearing during my A levels. Not the same pair, of course, and I don't mean I started wearing them during the exams).
To cut a long story short, I woke up knackered. And because Granny was staying, Daddy was in Mummy's bed. So for once he was reminded of just how crap my nights are. But somehow I still ended up getting up to Babe as well, as I'm the one he calls out for and it is easier to go than withstand the shrieks he produces if his dad does, as I don't want new Babe woken if I can help it.
Having fed at 5am, got up to Babe at 6 and half 6, I was pleased when OH got up with him at 6.40. I say pleased, but I elbowed him in the ribs so hard he knew it wasn't up for discussion. At 7.15 I heard my mum get up, glad that I could stay horizontal while OH got ready to go to work. ASTOUNDED when, at 7.20, OH bounced up the stairs, into my (I don't say 'our' any more) room, stripped off, and jumped back into bed. He needed to leave for work in fifteen minutes.
'What the F are you doing?' I hissed, hearing new Babe stir in his cot and knowing he would wake soon. 'Don't you realise I need every last minute of rest I can get?'
'I thought we could spend five minutes being close together,' he replied.
New Babe started to cry.
'Close together?' I yelled. 'CLOSE together? Get out!', I continued, rolling out of bed and staggering over to the cot. 'If I didn't want to shag first thing before we had kids, what on earth makes you think I want to now?'
He didn't answer. He just looked, forlorn, at the monitor hanging on the wall next to me. The other end of which was on the sofa next to Granny and Babe. I groaned and put radio 4 on, so that I could be further depressed by the weather report and the 8am headlines. OH put on his orange casual trousers (yes, orange - bought at an East European street market and apparently very comfortable, but give him a matching sweatshirt and a broom and he'd pass for a street cleaner), I presume as a distraction. And walked downstairs very slowly.
It's also been great to have someone to help with Babe when he wakes in the morning. I had a particularly bad night last night. New Babe is now 11 weeks old, and in the last week I've been getting him down by 8.30pm - 9.oopm. He has, on a couple of occasions, woken just once in the night to feed, but he's equally able to wake every three hours, which he did last night, starting at eleven - about an hour after I went to bed. For those of you who don't know, it is agony to be roused from little sleep from you are already exhausted.
Last night Babe woke about four times as well, and at pretty much equidistant intervals between new Babe waking: once for the potty - great (he's now slept without a nappy for three nights and been dry every night. I wonder if this is beginner's luck as he's just spent two entire days trying to poo and it has marred everything we've tried to do as he hasn't wanted to get off the potty); once for an apple he'd been dreaming about, which I had to pretend to try and find behind the bed, and twice because his head had come out from underneath the pillow (these days he can only sleep with it on his face. He's his mother's son all right - I'm a terrible sleeper. It took me twenty years to wean myself off the ear plugs I started wearing during my A levels. Not the same pair, of course, and I don't mean I started wearing them during the exams).
To cut a long story short, I woke up knackered. And because Granny was staying, Daddy was in Mummy's bed. So for once he was reminded of just how crap my nights are. But somehow I still ended up getting up to Babe as well, as I'm the one he calls out for and it is easier to go than withstand the shrieks he produces if his dad does, as I don't want new Babe woken if I can help it.
Having fed at 5am, got up to Babe at 6 and half 6, I was pleased when OH got up with him at 6.40. I say pleased, but I elbowed him in the ribs so hard he knew it wasn't up for discussion. At 7.15 I heard my mum get up, glad that I could stay horizontal while OH got ready to go to work. ASTOUNDED when, at 7.20, OH bounced up the stairs, into my (I don't say 'our' any more) room, stripped off, and jumped back into bed. He needed to leave for work in fifteen minutes.
'What the F are you doing?' I hissed, hearing new Babe stir in his cot and knowing he would wake soon. 'Don't you realise I need every last minute of rest I can get?'
'I thought we could spend five minutes being close together,' he replied.
New Babe started to cry.
'Close together?' I yelled. 'CLOSE together? Get out!', I continued, rolling out of bed and staggering over to the cot. 'If I didn't want to shag first thing before we had kids, what on earth makes you think I want to now?'
He didn't answer. He just looked, forlorn, at the monitor hanging on the wall next to me. The other end of which was on the sofa next to Granny and Babe. I groaned and put radio 4 on, so that I could be further depressed by the weather report and the 8am headlines. OH put on his orange casual trousers (yes, orange - bought at an East European street market and apparently very comfortable, but give him a matching sweatshirt and a broom and he'd pass for a street cleaner), I presume as a distraction. And walked downstairs very slowly.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
More paving slab analagy
Heck. I still have nothing either funny or interesting to say but must blog today, to preserve my self esteem and reputation as a woman to be relied upon. Hum.
Guess I could continue with the paving slab analagy: there are a few more similarities to share. I'm feeling worn at the corners, a bit cracked and somewhat heavy... In fact I weighed myself round at a friend's house last week and I am don't just feel heavy, I am heavy.
Everyone's been saying that I look like I've lost weight (well, two people have), so I said with confidence that I reckoned I was X stone. Was secretly thinking I was at least half a stone lighter, and would be able to feign delighted surprise, but as it happens I'm a whole stone heavier. Pistons and water tanks! Or whatever it is that Thomas says. Something has to be done. So I've added 'writing a diet plan' to my 'to do' list. Nearing the top is, 'write a three-week rotating food plan', which is followed by 'send Other Half on a cookery course', 'make a list of things to do before I'm 40', 'write a will' and 'list places it might be nice to move to'. Ha! I'm really getting into this being organised lark.
You may be wondering when I'm finding time to write this, as I still seem to be feeding new Babe until ten o'clock each night, when I just have to crash too. Well, I've got them both to sleep at the same time, would you believe?! (Other Half has gone out for some fresh mint so that I can make sauce to accompany the roast today, which I estimate will take him about two hours and he'll come from the shop down the road with either basil or oregano.)
Babe is in his buggy in the hall, and woke briefly a few minutes ago, and looked around, yelled 'I don't want to,' and then crashed out again. What a sweetie! New Babe is in the pram top. Upstairs. But that's a random boring detail I don't really need to share, except that I am obsessed with perambulators at present, since managing without a double buggy, when you've got two kids, limited access to a car and the weather is rubbish is not funny. I did buy a side by side model on ebay, which we had to drive some distance to collect. Unfortunately it won't fit through our front door and is now in the roof. Despite the fact that I discovered I could get it through the front door with two sleeping kids in it, by collapsing it a bit, as it is frankly just too heavy and unwieldy to use. I don't really like the 'one under, one over' models that cost £300 smakaroonies, especially as I'd have to haul a rucksack around with me or buy paniers that no doubt also cost an arm and a leg. Will keep you posted on this one, no doubt.
Potty training going really well again by the way. Last night Babe came and hung out with us for twenty minutes in the sitting room, before announcing casually that, 'there's a poo on the floor in the other room'. He's so helpful! Actually, I never guessed that potty training was going to cost us a fortune in Thomas locomotives, as we try and persuade him not to defacate in hidden corners or dark places that you'd only come upon by accident. Like under the seat of his ride-on digger. We're ending up with some really random trains as well - diesel10, for example - (what does he do, apart from have a slidey plastic thing on top that a toddler can try and pull off?).
Heigh ho. Better go and get my succulent quorn roast outta the freezer. Do any readers know of a tasty sauce I could knock up to accompany it? xx
Guess I could continue with the paving slab analagy: there are a few more similarities to share. I'm feeling worn at the corners, a bit cracked and somewhat heavy... In fact I weighed myself round at a friend's house last week and I am don't just feel heavy, I am heavy.
Everyone's been saying that I look like I've lost weight (well, two people have), so I said with confidence that I reckoned I was X stone. Was secretly thinking I was at least half a stone lighter, and would be able to feign delighted surprise, but as it happens I'm a whole stone heavier. Pistons and water tanks! Or whatever it is that Thomas says. Something has to be done. So I've added 'writing a diet plan' to my 'to do' list. Nearing the top is, 'write a three-week rotating food plan', which is followed by 'send Other Half on a cookery course', 'make a list of things to do before I'm 40', 'write a will' and 'list places it might be nice to move to'. Ha! I'm really getting into this being organised lark.
You may be wondering when I'm finding time to write this, as I still seem to be feeding new Babe until ten o'clock each night, when I just have to crash too. Well, I've got them both to sleep at the same time, would you believe?! (Other Half has gone out for some fresh mint so that I can make sauce to accompany the roast today, which I estimate will take him about two hours and he'll come from the shop down the road with either basil or oregano.)
Babe is in his buggy in the hall, and woke briefly a few minutes ago, and looked around, yelled 'I don't want to,' and then crashed out again. What a sweetie! New Babe is in the pram top. Upstairs. But that's a random boring detail I don't really need to share, except that I am obsessed with perambulators at present, since managing without a double buggy, when you've got two kids, limited access to a car and the weather is rubbish is not funny. I did buy a side by side model on ebay, which we had to drive some distance to collect. Unfortunately it won't fit through our front door and is now in the roof. Despite the fact that I discovered I could get it through the front door with two sleeping kids in it, by collapsing it a bit, as it is frankly just too heavy and unwieldy to use. I don't really like the 'one under, one over' models that cost £300 smakaroonies, especially as I'd have to haul a rucksack around with me or buy paniers that no doubt also cost an arm and a leg. Will keep you posted on this one, no doubt.
Potty training going really well again by the way. Last night Babe came and hung out with us for twenty minutes in the sitting room, before announcing casually that, 'there's a poo on the floor in the other room'. He's so helpful! Actually, I never guessed that potty training was going to cost us a fortune in Thomas locomotives, as we try and persuade him not to defacate in hidden corners or dark places that you'd only come upon by accident. Like under the seat of his ride-on digger. We're ending up with some really random trains as well - diesel10, for example - (what does he do, apart from have a slidey plastic thing on top that a toddler can try and pull off?).
Heigh ho. Better go and get my succulent quorn roast outta the freezer. Do any readers know of a tasty sauce I could knock up to accompany it? xx
Saturday, August 15, 2009
To be, or not to be... a washing machine
So there was I, knackered, with very little time on my hands, feeling about as witty and interesting as a slab of paving, and with a commitment to blogging twice per week but nothing to say. When the next little domestic issue springs on me.
I have had no working washing machine for ten days. I realised there was a problem with the rinse cycle - 'it's almost as if the water isn't entering the machine' - as I explained to Other Half, as the washing was clean, but hot, and still a bit soapy, when I opened the door. For a few days I managed, by rinsing off washing in the bath, then returning it to the machine to spin. But the number of smalls - baby clothes, and more Thomas and Bob the Builder underpants than I thought conceivable when I started potty training - (incidentally, I've spent more on underwear for my toddler in the last three weeks than I've spent on myself in the last three years. But Other Half never notices it in his eagerness to get it off, so why bother?) made this an arduous and time-consuming task.
Thing is, I was deliberating over whether I should find someone to come and fix the washing machine, rather than just buying a new one, this being the environmentally-friendly option. But the time and energy involved... and what would it cost? What to do?!
After a few days, Other Half looked at it, cleaned the filter etc, and said he didn't know what was wrong. So the next day, I used a couple of my precious 'toddler at nursery' hours to walk in the rain with the pram to a place that sells dented fridges and the like, to see if they had something cheap that would suit us better. They didn't - well, they might have, but there's no way I'm buying a machine without a manual as I'm not instinctively good at working out how things function, and OH is worse. So we went hurriedly to a well known outlet in OH's lunch break and I picked a new washing machine in the approximately four minutes I had available.
He went to collect it after work and brought it home. I smiled at him affectionately through the front window as I knew he was tired and hadn't stopped all day. We agreed that he'd remove the old one before bringing the new one in, as we haven't got much space.
Some minutes later he emerged from the utility room.
'Viola!' he called. 'I've worked out why the old one wasn't working! I'd turned off the cold water supply to stop the sink tap leaking!'
I looked at him with an expression he quickly recognised on my face. And I didn't say anything except, 'So you better return that one right now then, hadn't you?'
I then spent another hour and a half on my own with both kids while he did.
We had to go back together the next evening, as we could only get the refund put on my card, and as it happens our fridge freezer has given up the ghost after a twenty year innings and we thought we'd pick a new one. We gave ourselves four and a half minutes for this. Which is how long it took Babe to poo himself and then wee against a 15-inch flat screen TV. I'm ashamed to say that we dragged him away without 'fessing up. The one time I leave the potty in the car...
But next week a lovely new fridge-freezer is being delivered, and I am happily half-way through about fifteen loads of washing, using the old machine. And our downstairs sink now has no cold water tap as I needed it to hit OH over the head with. Actually, the hitting bit was in my dreams, but you get the gist. What's more, OH has persuaded our neighbours to take our old fridge-freezer, as he cannot get through the day without carrying out numerous acts of apparent kindness, despite the fact that he hasn't warned them it is crap, and the well-known outlet will remove and recycle it for free. Whatever... I'll have to visit them on Monday and explain the situ. But hey, I've got time on my hands, haven't I?
I have had no working washing machine for ten days. I realised there was a problem with the rinse cycle - 'it's almost as if the water isn't entering the machine' - as I explained to Other Half, as the washing was clean, but hot, and still a bit soapy, when I opened the door. For a few days I managed, by rinsing off washing in the bath, then returning it to the machine to spin. But the number of smalls - baby clothes, and more Thomas and Bob the Builder underpants than I thought conceivable when I started potty training - (incidentally, I've spent more on underwear for my toddler in the last three weeks than I've spent on myself in the last three years. But Other Half never notices it in his eagerness to get it off, so why bother?) made this an arduous and time-consuming task.
Thing is, I was deliberating over whether I should find someone to come and fix the washing machine, rather than just buying a new one, this being the environmentally-friendly option. But the time and energy involved... and what would it cost? What to do?!
After a few days, Other Half looked at it, cleaned the filter etc, and said he didn't know what was wrong. So the next day, I used a couple of my precious 'toddler at nursery' hours to walk in the rain with the pram to a place that sells dented fridges and the like, to see if they had something cheap that would suit us better. They didn't - well, they might have, but there's no way I'm buying a machine without a manual as I'm not instinctively good at working out how things function, and OH is worse. So we went hurriedly to a well known outlet in OH's lunch break and I picked a new washing machine in the approximately four minutes I had available.
He went to collect it after work and brought it home. I smiled at him affectionately through the front window as I knew he was tired and hadn't stopped all day. We agreed that he'd remove the old one before bringing the new one in, as we haven't got much space.
Some minutes later he emerged from the utility room.
'Viola!' he called. 'I've worked out why the old one wasn't working! I'd turned off the cold water supply to stop the sink tap leaking!'
I looked at him with an expression he quickly recognised on my face. And I didn't say anything except, 'So you better return that one right now then, hadn't you?'
I then spent another hour and a half on my own with both kids while he did.
We had to go back together the next evening, as we could only get the refund put on my card, and as it happens our fridge freezer has given up the ghost after a twenty year innings and we thought we'd pick a new one. We gave ourselves four and a half minutes for this. Which is how long it took Babe to poo himself and then wee against a 15-inch flat screen TV. I'm ashamed to say that we dragged him away without 'fessing up. The one time I leave the potty in the car...
But next week a lovely new fridge-freezer is being delivered, and I am happily half-way through about fifteen loads of washing, using the old machine. And our downstairs sink now has no cold water tap as I needed it to hit OH over the head with. Actually, the hitting bit was in my dreams, but you get the gist. What's more, OH has persuaded our neighbours to take our old fridge-freezer, as he cannot get through the day without carrying out numerous acts of apparent kindness, despite the fact that he hasn't warned them it is crap, and the well-known outlet will remove and recycle it for free. Whatever... I'll have to visit them on Monday and explain the situ. But hey, I've got time on my hands, haven't I?
Monday, August 3, 2009
Long time, no see
Apologies for the delay in updating my blog. As most of you know, I discovered I was pregnant when on holiday in Albania last September. Joy :)
But this was followed by nearly four months of appalling sickness and shivers, and then various other pregnancy ailments and I just couldn't do anything in the evenings except groan and crash once we'd got Babe into bed. I've kept a pregnancy diary to remind me how awful it was and put me off having any more kids. I'd always wanted a brood, but I just don't do pregnancy at all well.
Having said that, the birth was fine - see entry below, and our new arrival, another little boy chicken, is gorgeous, squidgy, sleepy and gurgley. I don't feel much more tired than I did when pregnant, despite night feeds and Babe being a little pain in the ar*e, quite frankly, in the sleep department, and knowing I'm not going to get any rest from the time Babe goes up til he goes down means that I'm in a psychologically much better position than I was first time round. Plus I know what I'm doing and I've got the kit :). And I haven't aged the way I felt I did with Babe, not the same aches and pains and immediate wrinkles. So, as for a third sprog, well, I'm not saying this to Other Half, but never say never...
I'm now working on getting my health and fitness back. Bollocks, am I! But I intend to. And have some career plans at last, that I may share at some point once I've started the training. And we're working on a plan for writing a plan for thinking about moving house and maybe upgrading our car at some point! The excitement! Before long I'll have a life map in post-its on the bathroom wall again. Other Half has banned marker pens which I think is reasonable.
BUT our immediate dilemna and source of perennial friction, as you know, is: where to go on holiday when we have a new-born, nay cash, and a horrible bunch of relatives you know where.
And that, combined with potty-training and another shitty British summer, is frustrating me enough to need to re-open this blog.
So, from next week, you can expect to see two updates per week. Lucky readers :)
But this was followed by nearly four months of appalling sickness and shivers, and then various other pregnancy ailments and I just couldn't do anything in the evenings except groan and crash once we'd got Babe into bed. I've kept a pregnancy diary to remind me how awful it was and put me off having any more kids. I'd always wanted a brood, but I just don't do pregnancy at all well.
Having said that, the birth was fine - see entry below, and our new arrival, another little boy chicken, is gorgeous, squidgy, sleepy and gurgley. I don't feel much more tired than I did when pregnant, despite night feeds and Babe being a little pain in the ar*e, quite frankly, in the sleep department, and knowing I'm not going to get any rest from the time Babe goes up til he goes down means that I'm in a psychologically much better position than I was first time round. Plus I know what I'm doing and I've got the kit :). And I haven't aged the way I felt I did with Babe, not the same aches and pains and immediate wrinkles. So, as for a third sprog, well, I'm not saying this to Other Half, but never say never...
I'm now working on getting my health and fitness back. Bollocks, am I! But I intend to. And have some career plans at last, that I may share at some point once I've started the training. And we're working on a plan for writing a plan for thinking about moving house and maybe upgrading our car at some point! The excitement! Before long I'll have a life map in post-its on the bathroom wall again. Other Half has banned marker pens which I think is reasonable.
BUT our immediate dilemna and source of perennial friction, as you know, is: where to go on holiday when we have a new-born, nay cash, and a horrible bunch of relatives you know where.
And that, combined with potty-training and another shitty British summer, is frustrating me enough to need to re-open this blog.
So, from next week, you can expect to see two updates per week. Lucky readers :)
Saturday, August 1, 2009
‘It’s a beautiful day!’
The day my second son started his way into this world was perfect. A beautiful June day – Monday June 1, one of my due dates in fact (the other was 3 June; two dates because the midwives couldn’t agree on a date following my dating scan!). It was warm and sunny, with a gentle breeze.
I had finished work four weeks earlier and worked myself into a sweat, panicking that this baby would come early, as his brother had, and that I was physically and mentally unprepared. As my due dates approached and nothing happened, it occurred to me that he might not be early at all. Indeed, he might be late! Then I started worrying about the cycle of intervention that might start, and which I was keen to avoid, if he didn’t start heading our way before long.
It was hard to imagine that any time soon I’d be holding a baby in my arms, he seemed so comfortably ensconced in my belly. Shame that I couldn’t just relax and enjoy having some time off work, with Babe in nursery part-time, ahead of the next arrival. But there was a lot to do; I was feeling pretty awful, and to be honest it’s quite surreal waiting for the second most momentous moment of one’s life to take place, and wondering when exactly it will be.
On the Sunday night I’d spoken to a good friend of mine, whose parting reflection was that she thought due dates are given for a reason and are often accurate. I went to bed hoping she was right. During the night I had one brief and slightly painful twinge, and wondered if things were starting.
Once Other Half had dropped Babe at nursery on the Monday morning, I set about pottering – despite the best of intentions to rest, as I hadn’t been sleeping well for some time and knew I needed to relax when I could.
I was watering some plants in the garden when I realised something was going on down below. I’d had a bit of a ‘show’ and was overjoyed and really excited. It meant things were happening, and bang on time. The anxious speculation could end!
Babe had been born six days after a show, so I didn’t expect things to start happening right away. I went and had a shower, cooked some food, and tidied round a bit, making sure my hospital bag was ready, etc. To be honest the bag had been ready for at least a fortnight. I am pretty anal in the organization department and after some initial panicking when I finished work, had got the house up together very fast. Ordered kitchen blinds, headrests for beds, you name it…! The only stuff that hadn’t been done was the long list of DIY tasks that Other Half had failed to complete, despite promises to the contrary.
During the course of the morning I had what felt like menstrual aches and pains, which I knew were a sign of early labour, and which hadn’t started straight away like this after the show with Babe. I had some lunch and laid down on the sofa to have a rest. The sun was pouring onto the rug through the grape vines we have outside our sitting room doors, and I felt really warm, relaxed and comfortable. Put on Monsoon Wedding, but couldn’t concentrate, so switched to TV and fell asleep for an hour. When I woke, the pains had gone – I guess as I’d been on my side and weight was thus off my cervix.
Other Half collected Babe from nursery at five and brought him home. I said I’d get him into bed, and that if OH wanted to go to the gym or whatever, to go early, just in case things kicked off. I’d spoken to my mum during the day, to warn her that things might get moving soon, as I wanted her with me during the birth and she had to get up from Dorset. I’d spoken to my younger brother as well, as the plan was for him to come round and look after Babe when I went into hospital.
My low platelet count means that I was to go into hospital as soon as labour started, so that they could test my level and give me a transfusion if required. But because my first labour had lasted four long days, I didn’t want to rush in until I was sure labour had actually started. I was also secretly worried that the reason I coped without pain relief the first time round was because I’d had so long to get used to it, and that I’d be screaming for an epidural hours into this one. Low platelets means that I’d need a transfusion in order to be given an epidural, so there were potential stresses ahead…
Babe had a snack and we played games and then I got him in the bath. I was getting intermittent pains by now (about 7pm – every 15 minutes or so?) but assumed it was just the start of a long process and didn’t pay them much attention. At half seven I called mum and we agreed that she’d come up in the morning, as I was pretty sure the pains would die down once I went to bed and laid down.
I started to feel pretty grumpy getting Babe dried and dressed, and while I was reading him his bedtime stories I had to lie against the side of the bed, stop reading and breathe long exhales during the contractions (although I was not yet admitting these are what they were) which were pretty painful. I was running out of patience and let Babe read to himself while I found the tens machine and laid out the wires etc on the sofa. Was beginning to wonder where the hell Other Half was, when he got back. He had been to a well known supermarket to buy… several pots of jam. The mind boggles.
‘Get Babe into bed’, I gasped. ‘Then help me get this bloody thing on!’
God know how he did get Babe down, as the little fella knew something was going on.
As OH came downstairs I stripped to my underwear and passed him a camera. I think he hoped we were going to try some of the rubbing and smooching recommended by my spiritual midwives book. ‘We haven’t got any pics of me pregnant,’ I said, and stepped out onto the decking for him to take some 360 degree shots. Then he stuck the tens on me and I got dressed.
‘Is your mum on her way?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I think this is going to wear off, so she’s coming in the morning.’
‘Are you mad?’ he replied. ‘Get her here, now!’
So I called. ‘Mum, this might be a false alarm,’ I said, ‘and I really don’t want to mess you around, but it might be as well if you come up tonight.’
‘Fine’, she replied. I then called my brother and arranged for Other Half to come and pick him up after work – about ten pm. It was now about half nine.
I walked through the kitchen to the loo. Other Half was eating.
‘This is going to be bad, effing bad,’ I said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ If this is what pre-labour is like, I was thinking, how the hell am I going to cope with the real thing?
I called the hospital and they said I should come in, to be on the safe side. I had to pause on the phone when I was contracting, but thanks to the breathing techniques I learnt in active birth classes I was coping fine. The sister in charge who had taken the call later said that she’d thought I was going to be a fast one!
I waited half an hour - God knows why, what was I thinking? - before calling my brother and asking him to get here asap. I think the pain must have intensified, but more likely, the contractions were coming at about every 4 – 5 minutes by then, so I knew that I should get into hospital, even if I was managing the pain.
I got Other Half to pack the car. Brother arrived at about half ten, and between contractions I told him there were pizzas in the freezer and that mum was coming etc.
We set off. The roads were clear and it wasn’t far. I had two contractions en route that it was fairly hard to deal with, sitting down in the front. So I twisted round and stuck my bum towards the front window.
‘Get me there before I have another one,’ I seem to remember pleading.
When I arrived at the delivery suite, I was asked to wait for a few minutes, and then shown to a room. ‘I’m not sure whether to bring my bags in or not,’ I said, ‘As I might be asked to go home.’
‘The midwife will have to decide that,’ the woman who had met me said, and led me to a room. Quite spacious, and a window! We had joked at active birth classes about not wanting to get one of the rooms that don’t have any natural light.
I think I was in there alone about twenty minutes. In that time I told Other Half to get the bags; we put the mattress and ball on the floor, and I took my socks, shoes and trousers off. Think I realised I’d be staying! The mattress, by the way, was a thin, self-inflating camping mattress. I left the stoppers out so that I wouldn’t burst it and would totally recommend it. It gave me a large clean space that was soft underfoot/knees to move around on.
When the midwife came in, I was coming out of the loo, with an ‘I’m having a contraction’ look on my face that probably wasn’t very welcoming as she introduced herself to me. I took to her immediately and was hugely relieved. She seemed to know what I wanted and needed, and I felt I could lean on her, both literally and metaphorically.
It gets a bit hazy from here – First Babe’s birth is still clearer in my mind than this one! She took blood from me, and I think checked my blood pressure etc and the baby’s heart beat (which was a bit fast, so had to be monitored, around my tummy. This didn’t cause me any problems as I standing all the time and not needing lots of room) before she looked to see how dilated I was. That check was at 11.40, and I was fully prepared for her to say I was only two cm gone. But I was six! I felt hugely relieved, and that I was in really safe hands.
At some point I started putting my arms around the midwife’s neck during contractions (OH was like rock and didn’t know what to do), but didn’t put much weight on her. I really focused on blowing out a long exhale, pushing the weight through my feet, circling my pelvis, dropping my shoulders, shaking my hands, and lifting my face up. Really tried to relax, smile, feel excitement and joy. Which doesn’t mean I didn’t mutter ‘help me!’ at the start of each contraction, but I knew that I had to keep calm, in control and enjoy the experience as much as I could to endure it. I wouldn’t say I entered a ‘zone’. I was pretty compus mentus between contractions, managing the situation. Not especially hot, but quite thirsty as the blowing was making my throat dry. Was I coping? (as our active birth teacher encouraged us to ask ourselves). Yes, I was.
My mum arrived at about 12. I cried something about not feeling ready and she misunderstood. I was meaning metaphorically, not literally. She pointed out that I still had four cm to go and that it would probably be a while yet anyway. I could see in the midwife’s face that she didn’t agree and that was hugely comforting. She must have been noticing my contractions speeding up and getting longer, and after a while asked if I wanted to give birth where I was, standing by the bed.
It didn’t seem real to me, that I was going to have the baby so soon. I was pleased, confused, shocked I think. I was very happy not to be told to get on to the bed, as I had been with Babe, and said that yes, I did, if I could. The midwife spread some plastic pads down, ‘to save my mattress’, and said she was asking them to bring in a resuscitator, which was normal practice. It was really good to have these things explained so that I didn’t panic.
[A while earlier, but after mum came, a man (the anesthetist?) had arrived to cannulate me for the platelets. Getting the pipe in my arm took a couple of shots as I was moving during contractions. It wasn’t very pleasant and I felt he was a bit ham-fisted if I’m honest, but that’s a minor detail, can’t have been easy for him.]
Not long after this, the midwife told Other Half that she and he were going to have to swap places while she put her gloves on. They did. I think around this time, maybe a bit before, I’d said I had a ‘needing to poo’ feeling (although I’d felt a bit like that since before I left the house), and she told me not to push, but breathe through it. ‘That’s the baby,’ she said. I can’t remember when she said it was ok to push – how did she know when it was ok? - but when she did, I wanted to break my waters. I bore down hard and they sloshed onto the floor, breaking all over OH’s lower legs and he shot backwards. He must have had a premonition as the only thing he’d put in the birth bag was a pair of toweling socks! Other stuff slopped onto the ground as well – the poo feeling wasn’t just the baby… That was about 00.35.
I think the midwife then asked if I’d like to get onto all fours to make things easier, and I wasn’t sure if I could move, but tried, and did. The sister-in-charge was with us by this time. With a huge push I got the baby’s head out – and a hand, against his ear. After a few minutes (?) seconds (?), I had to get the body out. I think they told me I was going to have to push really hard. With another mammoth push I got the body out – I could feel it passing through my cervix and leaving me. I think I remember some burning from when the head crowned, I can’t say what I was feeling was pain – but it must have been - so much as something that required tumultuous effort and concentration on my part to deal with. I was roaring – a low guttural ‘god this is hard’ sound. Vaguely aware that it might be disturbing to anyone who could hear it, but it wasn’t fearful or out of control, just the noise of someone working very hard. I was almost afraid I was going to lose my back package altogether, the feeling in that region was so intense, but amazingly I didn’t tear at all.
OH through this time was amazingly lovely and encouraging, and the physical support I needed. Think I was leaning on him now, so he must have been taking a lot of weight. He sure saves up his compliments for when I need them most.
The pushing was done in about ten minutes – just two big pushes I think. Huge relief! And delight that it had been so straightforward and manageable. Thank god that the midwife read me, understood what I wanted and needed, and handled everything so well. Time of birth was 00.45. The baby was smaller than Babe, at 7.9 (3.44) despite the fact that I’d been told to expect a big baby, and an additional scan had shown he was a month ahead, size-wise.
The baby was a bit a quiet and shocked when born. I asked for him to be handed to dad – I didn’t feel ready to take him. They must have cut the cord before that – I don’t remember them inviting OH to do it, and I don’t remember it happening. I was given the injection to remove the placenta.
At some point during labour my platelet count had come back at 28 – ie under 30, so the medical plan stated that I should be given a transfusion - and I remember asking where the platelets were some time after that – the response being that they were in a taxi. So, once the baby was born, the midwives wanted to get the placenta out, and the platelets, which had arrived, in. I was a bit surprised that they still wanted to give them to me, but as I say, we still had to get the placenta out. It must have been stressful for them, knowing I should have had the platelets before delivery, when they hadn’t arrived. When I reflected further on this, it seemed pretty shocking that they hadn’t had platelets on hand to give me, and I am following this up with the hematology department. I had a detailed medical plan that went pear-shaped at the last minute. But wasn’t helped by me not getting in to hospital sooner.
I tried to turn on the mats and lean back against mum, but was worried about putting my weight on her, so she took the baby and OH knelt behind me. This still wasn’t working, so I got up on the bed, and before long, and after a couple of checks/attempts, the placenta came out. Think it hurt a bit – my back passage area felt shot away! Once other stuff had been done, the midwife showed me the cord and placenta. It had been whipped away from me when I gave birth to Babe, and my birth plan for number two included wanting to say goodbye to it!
Babe was handed to me soon after, and took straight to the breast. Some time later we had a cup of tea, reveling in how fast and straightforward everything had been. I felt fine, excited, happy, a bit dazed. I didn’t feel the rush of intoxicating emotions I had with Babe, but felt calm and sure that everything was going to be all right. It felt strange to be feeling so normal when something so amazing had just taken place. I don’t think I could have had a simpler or more straightforward labour. The midwife said it was textbook and that I’d done really well.
I know I did do really well. Giving birth (twice, now) has made me feel the most incredibly powerful, strong and resilient person. I feel validated in a way that I never had before. I know I can more than cope in difficult circumstances. Millions of women give birth every day, I know, and many with no medical assistance. Millions more people struggle with other hardships I’ve never had to face. I’m not suggesting that I’m an incredible person! But in giving birth I came up close and personal with someone I’ve been afraid to look straight in the eye all my life. And I like what I saw.
Having said that, three reflections: I will never forget the midwife who helped me deliver my second son. She was wonderful, and I know my labour might not have been the same had I not been in her hands. You can’t put a price on that connection, which gives you reassurance and confidence when you need it most. And my active birth teacher – had it not been for the knowledge she shared with me, and the wonderful, inimitable way she shared that knowledge, I wouldn’t have known how to deal with labour, and I needed help. She will always be part of who I am, and I’ll always think of her on my sons’ birthdays. And thanks, too, to the old friend from home, whom I re-discovered when I was pregnant with Babe, and who suggested that I go to active birth classes. Do all things happen for a reason?
I had finished work four weeks earlier and worked myself into a sweat, panicking that this baby would come early, as his brother had, and that I was physically and mentally unprepared. As my due dates approached and nothing happened, it occurred to me that he might not be early at all. Indeed, he might be late! Then I started worrying about the cycle of intervention that might start, and which I was keen to avoid, if he didn’t start heading our way before long.
It was hard to imagine that any time soon I’d be holding a baby in my arms, he seemed so comfortably ensconced in my belly. Shame that I couldn’t just relax and enjoy having some time off work, with Babe in nursery part-time, ahead of the next arrival. But there was a lot to do; I was feeling pretty awful, and to be honest it’s quite surreal waiting for the second most momentous moment of one’s life to take place, and wondering when exactly it will be.
On the Sunday night I’d spoken to a good friend of mine, whose parting reflection was that she thought due dates are given for a reason and are often accurate. I went to bed hoping she was right. During the night I had one brief and slightly painful twinge, and wondered if things were starting.
Once Other Half had dropped Babe at nursery on the Monday morning, I set about pottering – despite the best of intentions to rest, as I hadn’t been sleeping well for some time and knew I needed to relax when I could.
I was watering some plants in the garden when I realised something was going on down below. I’d had a bit of a ‘show’ and was overjoyed and really excited. It meant things were happening, and bang on time. The anxious speculation could end!
Babe had been born six days after a show, so I didn’t expect things to start happening right away. I went and had a shower, cooked some food, and tidied round a bit, making sure my hospital bag was ready, etc. To be honest the bag had been ready for at least a fortnight. I am pretty anal in the organization department and after some initial panicking when I finished work, had got the house up together very fast. Ordered kitchen blinds, headrests for beds, you name it…! The only stuff that hadn’t been done was the long list of DIY tasks that Other Half had failed to complete, despite promises to the contrary.
During the course of the morning I had what felt like menstrual aches and pains, which I knew were a sign of early labour, and which hadn’t started straight away like this after the show with Babe. I had some lunch and laid down on the sofa to have a rest. The sun was pouring onto the rug through the grape vines we have outside our sitting room doors, and I felt really warm, relaxed and comfortable. Put on Monsoon Wedding, but couldn’t concentrate, so switched to TV and fell asleep for an hour. When I woke, the pains had gone – I guess as I’d been on my side and weight was thus off my cervix.
Other Half collected Babe from nursery at five and brought him home. I said I’d get him into bed, and that if OH wanted to go to the gym or whatever, to go early, just in case things kicked off. I’d spoken to my mum during the day, to warn her that things might get moving soon, as I wanted her with me during the birth and she had to get up from Dorset. I’d spoken to my younger brother as well, as the plan was for him to come round and look after Babe when I went into hospital.
My low platelet count means that I was to go into hospital as soon as labour started, so that they could test my level and give me a transfusion if required. But because my first labour had lasted four long days, I didn’t want to rush in until I was sure labour had actually started. I was also secretly worried that the reason I coped without pain relief the first time round was because I’d had so long to get used to it, and that I’d be screaming for an epidural hours into this one. Low platelets means that I’d need a transfusion in order to be given an epidural, so there were potential stresses ahead…
Babe had a snack and we played games and then I got him in the bath. I was getting intermittent pains by now (about 7pm – every 15 minutes or so?) but assumed it was just the start of a long process and didn’t pay them much attention. At half seven I called mum and we agreed that she’d come up in the morning, as I was pretty sure the pains would die down once I went to bed and laid down.
I started to feel pretty grumpy getting Babe dried and dressed, and while I was reading him his bedtime stories I had to lie against the side of the bed, stop reading and breathe long exhales during the contractions (although I was not yet admitting these are what they were) which were pretty painful. I was running out of patience and let Babe read to himself while I found the tens machine and laid out the wires etc on the sofa. Was beginning to wonder where the hell Other Half was, when he got back. He had been to a well known supermarket to buy… several pots of jam. The mind boggles.
‘Get Babe into bed’, I gasped. ‘Then help me get this bloody thing on!’
God know how he did get Babe down, as the little fella knew something was going on.
As OH came downstairs I stripped to my underwear and passed him a camera. I think he hoped we were going to try some of the rubbing and smooching recommended by my spiritual midwives book. ‘We haven’t got any pics of me pregnant,’ I said, and stepped out onto the decking for him to take some 360 degree shots. Then he stuck the tens on me and I got dressed.
‘Is your mum on her way?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I think this is going to wear off, so she’s coming in the morning.’
‘Are you mad?’ he replied. ‘Get her here, now!’
So I called. ‘Mum, this might be a false alarm,’ I said, ‘and I really don’t want to mess you around, but it might be as well if you come up tonight.’
‘Fine’, she replied. I then called my brother and arranged for Other Half to come and pick him up after work – about ten pm. It was now about half nine.
I walked through the kitchen to the loo. Other Half was eating.
‘This is going to be bad, effing bad,’ I said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ If this is what pre-labour is like, I was thinking, how the hell am I going to cope with the real thing?
I called the hospital and they said I should come in, to be on the safe side. I had to pause on the phone when I was contracting, but thanks to the breathing techniques I learnt in active birth classes I was coping fine. The sister in charge who had taken the call later said that she’d thought I was going to be a fast one!
I waited half an hour - God knows why, what was I thinking? - before calling my brother and asking him to get here asap. I think the pain must have intensified, but more likely, the contractions were coming at about every 4 – 5 minutes by then, so I knew that I should get into hospital, even if I was managing the pain.
I got Other Half to pack the car. Brother arrived at about half ten, and between contractions I told him there were pizzas in the freezer and that mum was coming etc.
We set off. The roads were clear and it wasn’t far. I had two contractions en route that it was fairly hard to deal with, sitting down in the front. So I twisted round and stuck my bum towards the front window.
‘Get me there before I have another one,’ I seem to remember pleading.
When I arrived at the delivery suite, I was asked to wait for a few minutes, and then shown to a room. ‘I’m not sure whether to bring my bags in or not,’ I said, ‘As I might be asked to go home.’
‘The midwife will have to decide that,’ the woman who had met me said, and led me to a room. Quite spacious, and a window! We had joked at active birth classes about not wanting to get one of the rooms that don’t have any natural light.
I think I was in there alone about twenty minutes. In that time I told Other Half to get the bags; we put the mattress and ball on the floor, and I took my socks, shoes and trousers off. Think I realised I’d be staying! The mattress, by the way, was a thin, self-inflating camping mattress. I left the stoppers out so that I wouldn’t burst it and would totally recommend it. It gave me a large clean space that was soft underfoot/knees to move around on.
When the midwife came in, I was coming out of the loo, with an ‘I’m having a contraction’ look on my face that probably wasn’t very welcoming as she introduced herself to me. I took to her immediately and was hugely relieved. She seemed to know what I wanted and needed, and I felt I could lean on her, both literally and metaphorically.
It gets a bit hazy from here – First Babe’s birth is still clearer in my mind than this one! She took blood from me, and I think checked my blood pressure etc and the baby’s heart beat (which was a bit fast, so had to be monitored, around my tummy. This didn’t cause me any problems as I standing all the time and not needing lots of room) before she looked to see how dilated I was. That check was at 11.40, and I was fully prepared for her to say I was only two cm gone. But I was six! I felt hugely relieved, and that I was in really safe hands.
At some point I started putting my arms around the midwife’s neck during contractions (OH was like rock and didn’t know what to do), but didn’t put much weight on her. I really focused on blowing out a long exhale, pushing the weight through my feet, circling my pelvis, dropping my shoulders, shaking my hands, and lifting my face up. Really tried to relax, smile, feel excitement and joy. Which doesn’t mean I didn’t mutter ‘help me!’ at the start of each contraction, but I knew that I had to keep calm, in control and enjoy the experience as much as I could to endure it. I wouldn’t say I entered a ‘zone’. I was pretty compus mentus between contractions, managing the situation. Not especially hot, but quite thirsty as the blowing was making my throat dry. Was I coping? (as our active birth teacher encouraged us to ask ourselves). Yes, I was.
My mum arrived at about 12. I cried something about not feeling ready and she misunderstood. I was meaning metaphorically, not literally. She pointed out that I still had four cm to go and that it would probably be a while yet anyway. I could see in the midwife’s face that she didn’t agree and that was hugely comforting. She must have been noticing my contractions speeding up and getting longer, and after a while asked if I wanted to give birth where I was, standing by the bed.
It didn’t seem real to me, that I was going to have the baby so soon. I was pleased, confused, shocked I think. I was very happy not to be told to get on to the bed, as I had been with Babe, and said that yes, I did, if I could. The midwife spread some plastic pads down, ‘to save my mattress’, and said she was asking them to bring in a resuscitator, which was normal practice. It was really good to have these things explained so that I didn’t panic.
[A while earlier, but after mum came, a man (the anesthetist?) had arrived to cannulate me for the platelets. Getting the pipe in my arm took a couple of shots as I was moving during contractions. It wasn’t very pleasant and I felt he was a bit ham-fisted if I’m honest, but that’s a minor detail, can’t have been easy for him.]
Not long after this, the midwife told Other Half that she and he were going to have to swap places while she put her gloves on. They did. I think around this time, maybe a bit before, I’d said I had a ‘needing to poo’ feeling (although I’d felt a bit like that since before I left the house), and she told me not to push, but breathe through it. ‘That’s the baby,’ she said. I can’t remember when she said it was ok to push – how did she know when it was ok? - but when she did, I wanted to break my waters. I bore down hard and they sloshed onto the floor, breaking all over OH’s lower legs and he shot backwards. He must have had a premonition as the only thing he’d put in the birth bag was a pair of toweling socks! Other stuff slopped onto the ground as well – the poo feeling wasn’t just the baby… That was about 00.35.
I think the midwife then asked if I’d like to get onto all fours to make things easier, and I wasn’t sure if I could move, but tried, and did. The sister-in-charge was with us by this time. With a huge push I got the baby’s head out – and a hand, against his ear. After a few minutes (?) seconds (?), I had to get the body out. I think they told me I was going to have to push really hard. With another mammoth push I got the body out – I could feel it passing through my cervix and leaving me. I think I remember some burning from when the head crowned, I can’t say what I was feeling was pain – but it must have been - so much as something that required tumultuous effort and concentration on my part to deal with. I was roaring – a low guttural ‘god this is hard’ sound. Vaguely aware that it might be disturbing to anyone who could hear it, but it wasn’t fearful or out of control, just the noise of someone working very hard. I was almost afraid I was going to lose my back package altogether, the feeling in that region was so intense, but amazingly I didn’t tear at all.
OH through this time was amazingly lovely and encouraging, and the physical support I needed. Think I was leaning on him now, so he must have been taking a lot of weight. He sure saves up his compliments for when I need them most.
The pushing was done in about ten minutes – just two big pushes I think. Huge relief! And delight that it had been so straightforward and manageable. Thank god that the midwife read me, understood what I wanted and needed, and handled everything so well. Time of birth was 00.45. The baby was smaller than Babe, at 7.9 (3.44) despite the fact that I’d been told to expect a big baby, and an additional scan had shown he was a month ahead, size-wise.
The baby was a bit a quiet and shocked when born. I asked for him to be handed to dad – I didn’t feel ready to take him. They must have cut the cord before that – I don’t remember them inviting OH to do it, and I don’t remember it happening. I was given the injection to remove the placenta.
At some point during labour my platelet count had come back at 28 – ie under 30, so the medical plan stated that I should be given a transfusion - and I remember asking where the platelets were some time after that – the response being that they were in a taxi. So, once the baby was born, the midwives wanted to get the placenta out, and the platelets, which had arrived, in. I was a bit surprised that they still wanted to give them to me, but as I say, we still had to get the placenta out. It must have been stressful for them, knowing I should have had the platelets before delivery, when they hadn’t arrived. When I reflected further on this, it seemed pretty shocking that they hadn’t had platelets on hand to give me, and I am following this up with the hematology department. I had a detailed medical plan that went pear-shaped at the last minute. But wasn’t helped by me not getting in to hospital sooner.
I tried to turn on the mats and lean back against mum, but was worried about putting my weight on her, so she took the baby and OH knelt behind me. This still wasn’t working, so I got up on the bed, and before long, and after a couple of checks/attempts, the placenta came out. Think it hurt a bit – my back passage area felt shot away! Once other stuff had been done, the midwife showed me the cord and placenta. It had been whipped away from me when I gave birth to Babe, and my birth plan for number two included wanting to say goodbye to it!
Babe was handed to me soon after, and took straight to the breast. Some time later we had a cup of tea, reveling in how fast and straightforward everything had been. I felt fine, excited, happy, a bit dazed. I didn’t feel the rush of intoxicating emotions I had with Babe, but felt calm and sure that everything was going to be all right. It felt strange to be feeling so normal when something so amazing had just taken place. I don’t think I could have had a simpler or more straightforward labour. The midwife said it was textbook and that I’d done really well.
I know I did do really well. Giving birth (twice, now) has made me feel the most incredibly powerful, strong and resilient person. I feel validated in a way that I never had before. I know I can more than cope in difficult circumstances. Millions of women give birth every day, I know, and many with no medical assistance. Millions more people struggle with other hardships I’ve never had to face. I’m not suggesting that I’m an incredible person! But in giving birth I came up close and personal with someone I’ve been afraid to look straight in the eye all my life. And I like what I saw.
Having said that, three reflections: I will never forget the midwife who helped me deliver my second son. She was wonderful, and I know my labour might not have been the same had I not been in her hands. You can’t put a price on that connection, which gives you reassurance and confidence when you need it most. And my active birth teacher – had it not been for the knowledge she shared with me, and the wonderful, inimitable way she shared that knowledge, I wouldn’t have known how to deal with labour, and I needed help. She will always be part of who I am, and I’ll always think of her on my sons’ birthdays. And thanks, too, to the old friend from home, whom I re-discovered when I was pregnant with Babe, and who suggested that I go to active birth classes. Do all things happen for a reason?
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