*The Pregnancy Project* As you know, I'm on a mission at the moment to capture the truth, the whole truth and nothin' but the truth on the subjects of pregnancy, labour and beyond. And no-one knows the journey quite like you, my fellow Mumma's and Mumma's to be. I've built a little forum, a place in cyberspace for you lovely ladies to lay down the law, share your suggestions, ideas and opinions and let me know what subjects you'd like to see included in the book. Please visit if you have a mo! (Yep, still writing novel too in case you were wondering! Am tying to multi-task! Haha!) Hope you are all well! With Love Steph x
6 years ago today . . . "15 February 2004"
Quick update...
Spicy foods eaten? Check
Fresh Pineapple consumed? Check
Reflexology performed? Check
Backache? Check
Contractions? (despite whether or not they are 'practice' ones) Check
Baby? Still in tummy :-(
Have been having tightenings, every 5 minutes or so, getting quite painful and have been lingering around for about 4/5 hours now... lasting about a minute each. Not very happy, and will be in a foul mood if by this time tomorrow I still don't have my fresh baby on the outside world... Fingers, toes and everything possible crossed this is it?
Steph & Bump x
(38+6)"  February 2004 And 8 hours later I became a Mummy for the very first time :-)
 Lorelei Jasmyn ~ March 2004  Lori ~ Dec 2009 "There is a rock on the banks of the River Rhine in Germany where a beautiful mermaid sits and sings. Her beauty so radiant, her voice so powerful, and her song so alluring, that many a sailor has met his fate distracted by her presence. Her name is Lorelei. So too was the character played by Marilyn Monroe in the 1953 hit-movie, 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.' Many poems have been written, many songs too, all inspired by the magical qualities of which the beautiful Lorelei possesses. Mumma's darling girl, your name suits you to a tee. Lorelei Jasmyn, you are but five years old and already you are making your mark on our world. You are so intelligent, so knowledgeable, so inquisitive and the more I get to know you day-by-day, the more certain I am that you are destined for great things. You're an absolute blessing to me, you always have been and you always will be. When you first made your presence known your Mumma was just nineteen years old, in college, studying Music, working part-time as a waitress. I knew very little of the meaning of life, but you changed all of that. Fate had decided that that Summer, 2003 would see many a new discovery in my life. And before I started my second year of college I packed my Rainbow Stilettoes into my back-pack and jetted solo across the globe to spend the season with my best friend in the land down under. Together Katy and I travelled along the east-coast of Queensland, Australia. We swam in the Great Barrier Reef. We rode horses along the beach. We got lost in the Rainforest. Got stuck in a cable-car high in the mountains. We sang in bars, slept in hammocks under the stars and survived on a diet of watery beer and instant noodles. We had an absolute blast. That was to be my last Single-gal Summer. And by the time I set foot on English soil again I knew you were there. I couldn't eat anything. Couldn’t stand the scent of food full stop, never mind the taste. And my hormones were shot to pieces. The in-flight movie on the way home, Bambi, had me sobbing almost hysterically. It wasn't a big shock when the pregnancy test proved positive. But it was terrifying. Nobody teaches you how to be a Mumma. And babies don't come with instructions. I was young and society often frowns upon young Mummies. But determined to prove myself I tried endlessly to do as good a job of raising you as I possibly could. Often when Babies are born Mummies can suffer from something called Post Natal Depression. Nobody really talks about it. Perhaps because nobody likes to admit it. But Post Natal Depression can leave you feeling desperate, lonely, sad and unhappy. And because babies bring so much joy, when a new Mummy feels unhappy she also feels guilty. And guilt has to be one of the worst emotions to feel. I thought perhaps I wasn't very good at being a Mummy at first. Nobody tells parents whether they are doing a good job. Instead people only point out the things that a new Mummy or Daddy is doing wrong. Not holding the baby correctly perhaps? Or bottle-feeding instead of breast feeding? There are endless reasons to feel guilty as a parent and very little recognition for the things that you do perfectly. I had wanted everything to pan out perfectly. To feel the instant rush of Mothers Intuition, to bond with you as they do in the movies. Yet it was a slower process for you and I. At the time I felt I couldn't tell anybody. I painted a smile on my face to hide my fear, and I cried in my bedroom, where nobody could see. Because I thought I was alone. I thought it was different for everybody else and I thought you would be better off with somebody older and wiser, who knew what they were doing. Yet my gorgeous baby girl it was you who saved Mummy from feelings of utter despair. Your first smile, at three o'clock in the morning, about 12 weeks after your arrival, was a moment of euphoria that shall never be forgotten. The way that you gazed at me. Your eyes wide and full of love. And it was at this moment that I knew. You needed me. I needed you and together we would be okay. And as you grew you showed so many signs of love and appreciation. And you'll never know what that means to me. To hear you say, 'I love you,' to watch your face seek mine for approval and encouragement. To feel you in my arms and to watch you blossom into the most beautiful little lady I have ever known. You have given my life a real purpose Lorelei and I pledge to you that no matter what I will always be the very best Mumma I can be." ~Excerpt taken from my book, 'Give a girl the right pair of shoes . . . And she can conquer the world.' ~
Happy 6th Birthday Lori!!!
Mumma loves you very much!!
x x x
Pregnancy is broken up into lots of different phases. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.
First there’s the ‘morning sickness’ phase. The title of which is such a false pretence for something that lasts ALL DAY.Then there’s the ‘glowing phase’ - when a pregnant woman starts to show evidence of the extra pounds she has gained since being granted permission to scoff for England. And the extra weight makes the plumper woman sweat a little. And we say, ‘My aren’t you glowing!’ because we can’t say, ‘my god you’re so sweaty!’ to a hormonal woman.Next you have the ‘nesting phase’ whereby the, now, extremely fat and sweaty woman makes a feeble attempt at a little housework, when the reality of the situation dawns upon her and she realises that perhaps she should have done a little tidying and washing once or twice in the previous 8 months after all.
And then there’s the phase that the books don’t tell you about. The one phase I don’t remember being warned of. It’s a secret phase you see. I’ll probably be frowned upon by authors of all pregnancy guide-books world-wide for sharing it with you. But it does indeed exist. And it usually occurs right before your bundle of joy comes *flying out. I don’t know what its scientific name is, but I call it the ‘FREAK-OUT phase.’The FREAK OUT phase, as if you need me to explain, pretty much does what it says on the, er, tin. In that it’ll make you, er, freak out. Of course, there are variations of the phase. No two women will ever experience the same level of ‘freaking-out-ness’ for example. For some it’ll be horrendous. Like that point on a rollercoaster when you are slowly creeping to the highest peak, aware now that the height of the ride is much more impressive than it looked from the safety of the ground. You’re gradually reaching the point of no-return and any moment now you are to be plunged into the depths of the unknown. Spiralling into a series of stomach-churning, knuckle-whitening, thrilling and sickening loops. And there is a chance, just a chance, that you might not make it out the other side. My own experience of the FREAK-OUT phase was not quite as bad as that, (thank god, cos the older I get, the more I like to keep my feet firmly in my shoes on the ground,) but it was scary all the same. When I reached the point of no-return, when it became apparent that I was about to become somebody’s Mum, I did what I always do when there’s a crisis. I made a cuppa and then I wrote a blog.You see I was frightened, not of being a Mother, but of losing my identity as an actual person. I wanted to be a Mum, but I wanted to be a Steph too. And I didn’t know you could do both.This is yet another piece of advice that I wish I could have shared with my former self, it would have saved such a panic (and thousands of calories in chocolate and ice cream to help cure me from the effects of my ‘Freak-out’ phase.)Cos I now know that there is no such thing as just a Mum. A Mum, is a woman who has at least one child or more. She has nice neat hair and wears an apron. (This is my blog and therefore my interpretation.) She is very wise and kind, and insists on ‘teeth-brushed-before-bed.’ That’s a Mum. I don’t own an apron. Not yet anyway. And my hair is very rarely neat. (It’s long, thick and there’s masses of it, so it’s usually sitting in a scruffy top-knot at the nape of my neck, in case you were wondering.) I am very wise and very kind, but I normally forget to remind my child to brush her teeth before bed. Because I am a Mum, but I am also a Steph. And ‘Steph’s’ can be scatty creatures from time to time.I wish I wasn’t quite so scatty though. Because there is such a lot that occurs in this house on a day-to-day basis that I would love to have tattooed firmly in my mind for all eternity. Alas my scatty brain destroys most short-term memories to make space for gaining new knowledge. And I find myself forgetting such a lot of good stuff. Lorelei lost her first tooth last week (not because I forgot to remind her to brush it, I hasten to add!) And it was the highlight of her little life (spanning just shy of 6 years) so far. Honestly I have never seen her beam with such pride before. For hours she carried her tiny tooth around with her, to show it to all and sundry and later she began to refer to her ‘gap’ as though it were a new friend or something. ‘I can’t believe today is going to be my first day at school with a gap!’ she explains happily, her little tongue visible through the new hole, ‘I bet some of the children won’t even recognise me!’Lorelei and her gap have been getting along famously ever since. Even though the Tooth Fairy very nearly forgot to come and leave a pound (still the going rate, you would have thought it would have increased by now?!) under her pillow. (The tooth fairy as aforementioned is very scatty and adding to this was drinking lots of champagne at a wedding, when said tooth wobbled it’s way out . . . Such a naughty tooth fairy she is.)Well anyway, would you believe it, Lorelei’s baby brother has managed to cut his first ever tooth in the same week that Lolly lost hers and, what’s more, Leo’s first tooth is growing in the exact spot where Lori’s new gap is! I realise this may not sound nearly as thrilling to you as it is to me, but I wanted to document it anyway.I love my role as a Mumma, it's a job and a journey that goes so well with being a 'Steph' too. I love those children more than i could express and I don't wanna miss a thing.
X
My darling baby boy. I know you're there. I can sense you around me every day. It's a wonderful feeling. Your presence wraps around me like a warm cocoon, and I'm so very grateful, Harry, I really am. It should have been my job to make you feel safe. I should be guiding you, teaching you, loving you. I wanted that so much. Alas I regret I know now that I could never have rescued you, the way that you have rescued me. I've been thinking a lot about when we had to say goodbye to one another. It was exactly this time last year. August 4th 2008 in a little hospital room in Peterborough. You laid peacefully in your crib. Your tiny head barely bigger than the single yellow rose that lay by your side. I left you sleeping, of course your soul had already gone and the image that haunts me now is just that of your little shell. Walking away, down the corridor, whilst my son slept in a little crib in a room all by himself was the hardest thing I've ever had to do Harry, and I'll never forget the emptiness, the loss, the fear and the panic that I felt when I had to leave you. I don't know why we had to experience that loss. Why you and I didn't get the chance to get to know one another the way that a Mummy and her child should. I still don't know what caused the problems you had with your little shell. I guess i never will. When a life is formed, so too is a sense of hope. The stronger the heart beats the larger the hope grows. Thoughts of the future, plans, aspirations all begin to form. Yet for us those hopes were weakened with every hospital appointment, every ultrasound scan. Until, bit by bit, we were left with a very different future ahead of us. I knew you were destined for great things, my gorgeous man, but I had just assumed that i would get the opportunity to witness your achievements. Your first smile. Your first steps. Your first day at big school. Yet fate had different plans for you. Greater roles and tasks. That morning, a year ago today, whilst Mummy was in labour with you, a single black and red butterfly searched for an escape between the blinds and the hospital window. He fluttered back and forth, for hours, desperately seeking the rush of air to free him. Eventually, of course, he found it and off he flew into the blue skies. Some creatures are just meant to stretch their wings. He comes back to visit me, that handsome butterfly. He was here, in our house the day we moved in. He once sat with us in a restaurant, peacefully perched next to Lorelei and I took a picture on my phone. I use that same picture now as my screen saver. Last week he was trapped in our fish-tank and yesterday he was sat on the wall outside my kitchen, watching me do the washing-up. Every cloud, they say, has a silver lining. Well it is only very recently that i discovered our cloud is dripping with a silver lining so sparkly and bright it makes the crown jewels look plain. My silver lining is so beautiful and precious and such a blessing. My silver lining has my eyes, framed with Daddy's curly eye lashes and he is as handsome as his big brother Harrison and as amazing as his big sister Lorelei. I see now that in order to give us the gift of baby Leonardo you had to sacrifice your own life and time with Mummy and Daddy and Lori. If we hadn't of endured the pain and heartache of losing you, our precious son, at the halfway mark during our pregnancy, we would never have been blessed with our second son, little Leo. Bitter sweetness is the expression I think they use. So very bitter and yet so very sweet. Harrison Connolly, my little love, you will always be with us, in our hearts, Mummy and Daddy and your big sister Lorelei shall continue to think of you every day and to pray for you every night. And your baby brother, Leo, shall never live in your shadow, yet shall learn of the miracle his arrival was and what a gift he was. I've always said you'd be my hero Harry and boy have you done me proud. Forever blessed, Mumma x x x  Butterfly - M. Carey
I have learned that beauty
Has to flourish in the light
Wild horses run unbridled
Or their spirit dies
You have given me the courage
To be all that I can
And I truly feel your heart will
Lead you back to me when you're
Ready to land
Spread your wings and prepare to fly
For you have become a butterfly
Fly abandonedly into the sun
If you should return to me
We truly were meant to be
So spread your wings and fly
Butterfly
I can't pretend these tears
Aren't over flowing steadily
I can't prevent this hurt from
Almost overtaking me
But I will stand and say goodbye
For you'll never be mine
Until you know the way
it feels to fly
What a difference a day makes . . . 24 little hours. :-)
I’ll never ever be able to portray the sense of utter euphoria that I’m experiencing right now, not even with a million words and all the time in the world. I just couldn’t do it justice. And I don’t know how long it’ll last, how long I’ll be able to savour the emotion. So for now all I can do is breathe deeply and soak it in and let the happiness wash over me until it seeps into every pore of my entire aching body.
And boy is my body aching. Muscles I never knew existed are making their presence known by throbbing constantly. I feel bruised and battered and as though I’ve just done five rounds with Tyson and I’m so unbelievably tired and weary. Still I am one happy little lady and why? Well it’s all to do with the new man in my life.
I said I didn’t do waiting. Least of all for a man. But my goodness good things certainly do come to those who wait. Leonardo Harrison Connolly, formerly known as Baby C and affectionately named Leo for short, is here at last, here safe and sound on the outside world and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at him without my heart melting and happy tears filling my eyes.
Dearest blog and lovely, lovely followers, today’s entry will no doubt be an extremely soppy and emotional one, so I apologise in advance for making you sick, alas a combination of shock, exhaustion, overwhelming emotions and readjusting hormones have temporarily turned me a little hypersensitive.
I hadn’t expected to experience this. Of course I knew I’d love him. But I hadn’t expected to fall so quickly. With his big sister I had been the opposite, fully expecting, from the moment I held her in my arms, to feel that sense of motherly love washing over me. Nobody had warned me that it might not have happened that way, that it might have taken a little longer for it to kick in. And it did take a little while for Lorelei and I. For the first few weeks we just plodded along getting to know each other before that love and that stronger-than-glue bond, that now exists between me and my amazing daughter, began to truly develop.
So up until 2:19am on Saturday morning, I had sort of written the ‘love at first sight,’ instant Mother-Baby-bond off as all just a bit of a farce, something society had invented and yet another thing for a new mummy to feel guilty about. Yet now I can safely say that in some cases, not all of course, but some, it does happen just like it does in the movies.
So anyway, enough of all the slushy stuff, I know you’re waiting for me to cut to the chase and fill you in on all the details of Baby C’s journey. Well brace yourselves Ladies and Gents (especially you gents, I don’t want to frighten you ;-) ) cos it was one hell of a ride!
Well it all began, a mere hour or so after I’d published my last blog entry, in a rather dramatic fashion actually, (now, come on, this is me we’re talking about, you didn’t expect it to be anything but dramatic did you?! Lol) I’d been sitting on our old office chair, breathing through the contractions and relaxing with one of my Mumma’s legendary back massages when I felt a sudden dampness on my seat. Now I am not in the habit of peeing my pants, (I’m very proud to announce) so of course I assumed that my waters had finally broken.
I asked Jay to call the hospital so that they could send the midwife out. He explained that my waters had broken and spoke for a few minutes before hanging up. “They asked what colour your waters are?” Jay told me, (discoloured waters can sometimes indicate that the baby’s are in distress,) But I hadn’t even thought to look. So I stood up, wobbled a little, looked down and then I wobbled quite a lot. And got quite scared. And nearly cried actually. Because it wasn’t water at all that had drenched my chair. It was blood.
Now I’m no expert on child birth at all, far from it, but I do know that loss of blood, especially lots of it, isn’t normal before the baby is born. And so of course I began to freak out. Just a tad.*
I hate bringing gory details to your attention, I don’t want to frighten anyone with this story, but for the purpose of accuracy I’m not going to censor too much of this tale. So please read on with caution.
In manner of a drunken tourettes sufferer crossed with a headless chicken I began to waddle around the house in a panic. I sat on the toilet and lost a further alarming amount of blood And an ambulance was called.
The paramedics, armed with gas and air and boxes of supplies arrived almost as fast as they do on the telly, which was such a relief. They took my blood pressure, felt my pulse and kept me calm and a few moments later the midwife arrived too. I cracked a few jokes as I always do when I’m ridiculously frightened or nervous or something. I apologised to the poor midwife for my lack of underwear, (honestly, ‘I’m Steph, pleased to meet you, excuse my fanny’, just reminds you of how little dignity one can keep during child birth,) and silently I prayed.
I knew it was serious. Mainly as Mum, despite her attempts to look calm and collected, was clearly shitting it. I heard her ask the midwife in hushed tones whether it was normal to lose that amount of blood. The midwife, under no uncertain terms, replied, that no, it was not.
I composed myself and blew kisses at my sleepy child as she was carried over to our neighbours house and then in my polka-dot nightie and enormous, fluffy slippers, (Sssshhh, don’t tell Gok.) I was led towards the blue flashing lights of the awaiting ambulance on the drive.
I’m not sure whether it was from sheer fear or the pain of the increasingly strong contractions, but pretty soon after we set off for the 20 min journey to the hospital I became re-acquainted with the wonders of entinox, (Gas and Air.) I puffed hard with each contraction and let myself relax in a state of dizziness whilst I tried to negotiate some kind of deal with the man upstairs. ‘Please don’t let me die.’ I said, ‘And I promise to be really good.’
Baby wasn’t moving. I hadn’t felt him move for hours. Not even a little kick or a nudge. The midwife said she could hear his heart beating on her little Doppler thingy, but I still wasn’t at ease.
The last time I’d been at Kettering General Hospital I had sworn never to return, and yet I found myself arriving in style, in my aforementioned outfit, laid flat on a stretcher, being wheeled by paramedics and clutching a cylinder of gas, but guess what? This time I didn’t have to wait to be seen at all. :-)
Straight into my own room I was wheeled and within minutes I was introduced to a wonderful midwife with a lovely warm smile. They strapped me to a monitor where I got to hear my son’s heart beating steadily for myself and finally I managed to relax just long enough for the harsh realities of the task ahead to dawn on me like the brightest, sunniest morning after the heaviest of nights out.
They didn’t know what had caused the blood loss, but they decided to put a tube into my veins in case I needed urgent anaesthetic or something. (Do I sound like I know what I’m on about here? I really don’t lol) - That part hurt like hell. And was very, very messy as the guy forgot to screw the cap on properly and the blood squirted out like a fountain. I didn’t actually see it, but my darling husband has filled me in on all the gory details in the way that only boys can.
At 12:15am the midwife examined me. And gave me the tragic news that I was only 3cms dilated. 3 measly cm’s, for those of you who haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about, is a little pathetic when it comes to dilation. The cervix needs to be dilated to 10 cm’s in diameter, (which sounds huge, but trust me, doesn’t feel it) before the baby’s head can pass through and they reckon most women dilate about a centimetre an hour in labour. With 7cm’s to go it looked like we would be in for a long one and to sum it up, Mum, who had been providing me with 100% support and attention all the way through, chose that moment to go and get a coffee lol.
So with the possibility of hours and hours ahead of us my lovely smiley midwife very kindly offered me some drugs which cheered me right up. The gas and air tube was still glued to my hand and providing me with enormous relief from the contractions but it would have been rude to decline a little extra. So Pethidine, (which was my saviour when in labour with Lorelei) was prepared for me. I wouldn’t have necessarily chosen Pethidine and it wasn’t on my wish list the second time around because it had made me quite sick and Lorelei fairly sleepy when she was born, she’d not cried and had needed a slap on her bottom to get her to take her first big breath. —I’d worried Baby C would too be sleepy, but the midwife assured me the effects of the Pethidine would have worn off by the time Baby C appeared.
They added an anti-sickness drug to my cocktail of pain relief and injected it into my bottom and I scared the crap outta everyone in the room because I screamed louder than you could possibly imagine. ‘Bollocks!!!!’ Was the actual word I think I chose to scream in order to convey the ridiculously, crippling, stingy sensation of the drug as it was administered. Honestly it stung like a bee and the pain didn’t go for ages and ages. (It still sort of hurts now if truth be told lol)
I’m sure at this point my smiley midwife thought she had a right old wimp on her hands, but I managed to claw it all back in the end.
The warming effect of Pethidine is wonderful; so calming and relaxing, yet even with that tranquil sensation swimming through my body I could feel the strength of the contractions increasing by the second. That’s why it’s called ‘pain relief’ and not, ‘pain eraser.’ I can’t describe contractions to be honest but I can tell you that I had to remain focused through each and every one of them or I would have lost it all together and become quite hysterical.
So I focused really hard on my breathing. Every time I felt my body begin to seize up with the pain I sucked hard on the gas and air and filled my lungs to the brim before exhaling slowly. I repeated this until the pain had gone and I could relax again for a few moments. And then later I found I needed more to focus on, so I came up with the genius idea of quoting lyrics to songs in my head to myself whilst I was breathing in.
‘Flying without Wings,’ (which is a song that get’s right on my boobies but is one that Jay loves) was the main one. Everytime a contraction came a little voice in my head began to sing, ‘Everybody’s looking for that something . . .’ lol—so yes I had Gas and Air, Pethidine and Westlife as my pain relief during labour.
Then I got that all too familiar urge. The one that all women get in labour. The urge to do a number two. Well, at least that’s what it feels like. Except the urge isn’t to do a poo at all, (thank goodness or we’d all end up ‘having accidents’ on the bed lol) Instead the urge is to begin to push the baby out.
I think this shocked everybody, except me. They thought the labour was going to be a long one, but I sort of sensed it would be quick and in a matter of an hour and a half I was all ready for take off :-) (How funny to be proud of something so odd.)
And then my waters really did break. Like the Tidal Wave ride at Thorpe Park. A sudden gush and everything and every body was soaked. And I think I started to cry because I just knew at that moment that the pain was about to become unbearable.
The rest of the actual labour is a bit of a blur. In my head I see it all as a sort of flicker book. |A collection of images all flashing one after the other. Feelings of panic as I shouted, ‘I can’t do this . . .’ The sweat and heat of my hand gripping Jay’s. The hustle and bustle of the room as extra assistance was called for and uniforms came and went. The silver utensils and bowls and sheets and towels. The excitement. The adrenaline and the determination that I felt when I knew the entire situation was in my control. I was the only one that could do it. It was all down to me and the pain wouldn’t go until I pushed it away.
I don’t know where the strength came from and I don’t mean to boast but I am once again in total awe of my body’s capabilities and the bravery and power that I never knew I had within. Bragging isn’t attractive. And I promise not to make a habit of it. But I think it should be said just the once. I. am the bollocks :-) lol
When I tell you what he weighed I think you’ll agree, at the very least you’re gonna gasp . . . 8lb 14oz’s, just 2 weeny oz’s shy of a whopping 9lb(!!!) lol—But he doesn’t look it at all, he’s very dinky. And you know what? I don’t think it hurt any more than his big sister, who was over a whole pound lighter.
Here is the point in my story where the euphoria kicked in. They put him straight onto my chest, his body warm and wet and tiny and tender and I fell head over high heels for him.
I think the injection to help with the after birth came next. But I didn’t feel it because I was completely high. I was told it looked lovely, (personally I didn’t agree) and healthy, (must have been all that MacDonalds, chocolate and Ice lol) The cord was cut and shown to me, (it looked like a purply—coloured old fashioned telephone cord) and baby was whisked off for a little oxygen, (he had been born, as suspected, a little sleepy as the Pethidine effects just hadn’t had time to wear off.)
Jay went out to the family room just down the hall to let his Mum know her Grandson had been born whilst my Mum and I remained in the labour room with the midwives and doctors. They poked and prodded me a little and then I heard the dreaded word, one that I had been petrified of. ‘Stitches.’
I wanted to hop off the bed then and there. To gather my things, put my pants on, grab my naked baby and head for the carpark, politely smiling and waving. ‘Thank you very much, but that won’t be necessary.’ I wanted to say. But they didn’t let me and before I knew it my bed had turned into something out of the transformers movie and my legs were up high in stirrups.
By the time Jay came back and bubba was wrapped up I was like a rabbit caught in headlights. I didn’t know where to look. At the end of the bed, between my spread eagled legs was the doctor. Thread in one hand, needle in the other. The midwife carrying a ginormous torch as though she were going pot holing. Of course the doctor assured me I would be numbed and wouldn’t feel a thing. He would be injecting me with a very good pain killer. Tell that to my private parts mister, cos I’m not sure what’s worse? A Needle and thread or an injection down below? You decide.
Of course I had to consider the consequences of not having the stitches. The prospect of my accidentally peeing myself on a regular basis in the future or simply my being a little out of shape down there was enough for me to grin and bear it. One final word on the matter right now before I erase the entire stitches ordeal from my memory for all eternity. And the word is OUCH.
I suffered more after the birth I think then I actually did during the labour and I nearly kissed the doctor when he told me it was all over and I could now have a wonderful pain killer that would keep me relaxed and comfortable for over sixteen hours. But then you’d never believe what he said to me. He lifted the little capsule that marked the finale of my entire ordeal and cheerfully exclaimed, ’Right then, so I’ll just pop this up your back passage!’ What a wanker.
So there you have it my friends. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Child birth is not pretty. It’s not dignified. It’s not glamorous and it’s not fun. But my goodness it is an utterly amazing experience and the reward you get at the end of it? Absolutely priceless.
I will be back with more updates but for now I want to tell you all I love you and am so grateful for your support and kind messages and everything. This blog means the world to me and you have no idea how therapeutic I find it, so thank you so much for reading. (Oh god these pesky hormones . . . I’ll be sobbing in a sec! lol)
Lot’s of Love, once again!
Steph x
Before I proceed with this extremely delayed update I should warn you, particularly if this is your first visit to my little blog, that today’s entry will almost definitely disappoint. Of course under normal circumstances I am a very funny, witty and intelligent gal ;-) yet this blog entry, I fear, shall be void of any kind of wit or intelligence or humour.
My brain is a little numb, my body a little weary, and I’m a little grouchy. I’m slipping in and out of a depressing state which cannot be cured with manicures and chocolate (which is how I know it is the real thing and not just a ‘blue’ day) and I know that generally speaking depression isn’t contagious but I didn’t want to be responsible for making any of you lovely people suicidal :-)
Still, depressed or not, I owe you an explanation and an update and that is why I’m here, laptop resting on bump, flicking between my website and the ‘contractions master’ website and furiously tapping my freshly manicured nails against the keyboard.
My child is officially late. I’m gutted and gobsmacked. I never thought I’d reach week 40 of this pregnancy, let alone find myself one day overdue already. I assumed he’d be reliable and punctual like his Daddy. Alas he’s proved himself to be fashionably (and irritatingly) late just like his Mumma. So I only have myself to blame.
I went to see the Obstetrician last week. I asked him if I was actually pregnant at all or merely suffering the symptoms of a phantom pregnancy whilst eating too many pies. He told me that I am indeed pregnant. Though I still can’t quite believe him. I mean, sure I have lots of signs of a pregnant woman, the big bump, the spontaneous wriggles inside that bump, the ankles like tree trunks, Dolly Partons cleveage etc etc. Yet I still cannot believe that I will ever be a normal human being with a brand new baby to look after.
Whilst I sit here the size of a house I am all too aware that my buddies, also due babies in June are popping left, right and centre. Photographs of fresh babies are published on Facebook on a daily basis and Birth Announcements are hitting my mail box at the speed of lightening, (kinda like that Harry Potter Scene where the owls bombard the house with letters?)
Every day I receive messages from well wishers and excited friends, asking if there has been ‘any sign of baby yet?’ And the truth is that yes, there has been lots of signs. In fact I have more signs than the sodding M25 and the Ace of Base put together. I have signs coming out of my ears (not literally, though my ears seem to be the only body part that isn’t effected with signs.) So yes, I am blessed with lot’s of crappy, painful signs but still no actual baby. And this is what I’m finding the hardest to deal with.
On a regular basis, (though not regular enough it would seem,) I am experiencing a sensation that I have concluded feels as though some kind of big snake (I don’t know much about big snakes so forgive me,) has made me it’s victim and is crushing my bump, chest, neck and back by coiling itself tightly around me. There it stays put for about a minute or so before it gradually releases me again. This has been occurring for over a week already. Braxton Hicks, Tightenings, Contractions? Call them what you will. All I know is they’re nasty and they’re torturing me.
To be honest I think I’d be okay if it wasn’t for the fact that my body is constantly flashing all the right signals. I’m so unbelievably frightened of the task I have ahead of me, I grow more tense and scared and anxious with every minute of every day. I know ultimately that I’m the only one that can do this and I just wanna get this show on the road. And every time the contractions come thick and fast and I start to think it’s game on someone somewhere turns it all off again. Okay, okay the pain? Bring it on. It’s the mental torture I can’t handle.
The good news, however, is that I managed to gain permission to have this baby here at home. I appealed against the decision, threw a bit of a wobbly (I didn’t mean to, alas the benefit of having so many crazy hormones flying around mean my tantrums, which are pretty effective anyway, are even more impressive at the moment lol) I’ve signed a declaration that basically states that in the event of my death my family won’t sue the crappy NHS and hey presto! Permission granted :-)
So we’re all ready to rock and roll! The midwives have dropped off some drugs already, my pool is ready to be filled, I have towels and buckets and candles and all sorts of other stuff. My Mum is here staying with us and so is my Mother-in-Law and my gorgeous husband is eagerly awaiting his paternity leave.
So where . . . Oh where . . . Is the star of this show?? COME ON baby!!
Today I took my fourth dose of the dreaded Castor Oil, which is just evidence of my utter desperation. This time though the midwife actually recommended it. I’m suffering the effects now, the cramps and contractions are almost unbearable yet I shall not complain. Pain is good right now, (I never thought I’d say that!! Lol) Just so long as they don’t subside before Baby C makes his debut.
Please, please send me some luck, I’ll be eternally grateful.
I’ll try and write tomorrow, even if it’s just a brief update.
Steph x
I’ve been a woman possessed recently, I’m sure you’ve noticed. I’ve been occupied 24-hours a day torturing myself with my GTBOM experiments for weeks and weeks. It’s all in the name of research though, you should know that, it’s not just my impatience that drives me on, but also a genuine passion for helping out my fellow suffering baby-makers. :-)
I’ve tried everything now. Well pretty much everything (the only one I haven’t actually tried yet, is, (forgive me,) this one.)
I feel now is the time I should document my findings and gather my research in order to draw a conclusion upon my previous experiment. (Do I sound all scientific here? I’m trying . . . ) So white coats and enormous goggles at the ready.
THE CASTOR OIL REPORT
Materials required for Castor Oil Experiment:
100ml Virgin Castor Oil
One willing (if not a little desperate) victim. (Ooops, I meant Candidate)
1:30pm— Massive yummy lunch consumed, (Pasta, Bacon and Cheese Sauce) - in order to line the stomach.
2:00pm—40ml of Virgin Castor Oil mixed with pure Orange Juice downed in one. (Managed entire glass though gagged lots at final mouthful. Tasted similar to Vaseline, not that I have ever actually tasted Vaseline. Tasted similar to how I imagine Vaseline would taste based on the smell . . . Oh you get what I mean.)
2:01pm—Chocolate consumed. (Chocolate in my opinion rarely needs an explanation but in this case I ate a little to take Vaseline taste away.)
6:00pm—Darling husband returns home from work armed with toilet roll.
6:15pm—No symptoms to report other than irregular Braxton Hicks contractions. Am shocked.
6:30pm—Repeat dosage of Castor Oil and OJ. Down in one. This time nearly puke all over the dog. (Very sorry dog)
7:00pm—Lamb, roast potatoes and peas consumed. Very yummy. (Thanks Mum)
7:30pm—No symptoms to report. Am even more shocked.
8:00pm—Braxton Hicks get stronger and a little more regular.
9:00pm—Braxton hicks getting even stronger.
10:00pm—Strong contractions. Am bemused how, after downing almost an entire bottle of strong laxative, I have no sudden urges to visit toilet. Seriously, I apologise if too much info but must be only woman in world to drink laxatives and suffer not even an attack of flactulance. Only wind coming from me is seeping from area formerly housing brain.
11:00pm—Bemusement comes to an end as contractions merge with tummy ache and I find I didn’t get lucky at all. Toilet roll coming in very handy indeed.
11:30pm—Still keeping toilet warm. Can hear Mother and Husband giggling like children. Bastards.
12:00am—Contractions kick in. Ouchy. Phone hospital.
1:00am—Lorelei is carried to friends house, Mummy is put in car with car-seat, notes and labour bag. Excited. Scared. Nervous. Pained.
1:15am—Arrive at Kettering hospital. Shoved onto ward with 5 other women. One woman panting for England. Sounds as though having asthma attack. Can also hear slurping wet sounds of her husbands kisses. Cannot see couple from shitty stained curtains but conclude both are ugly and sweaty and gross. Feel sick. Lots of other women panting and crying too, though none as loudly as first. Lots of scared partners trying to keep composed too. No staff.
1:25am—Still have yet to be greeted. Am feeling very upset.
1:35am—No acknowledgement of my presence at all. Perhaps should begin wailing like greasy woman in corner, however tend to be very quiet in pain and not very good actress.
1:45am—Nobody cares I am here and no one wants to check on me.
1:50am—Go to toilet. Find approx 15 midwives chatting happily, sitting on desks and drinking coffee in reception. Could scream and cry all at once. Am thinking, ‘bollocks, will have baby at home by myself.’ Lots of women do it. Lots of new age hippies and such.
1:52am—Tell Mum and Jay of my plans. Still having contractions, still crying, but starting to doubt am in labour at all. Contractions not as strong as before.
1:55am—Leave shithole known as Maternity Ward and come home. Via MacDonalds. (Micky D's never lets me down - Golden Archers are my saviour.)
2:30am—Am home, first port of call? Bathroom. :-(
2:45am—Finish my 'chat' with toilet, swallow some pain killers and hit the sack.
My verdict? Well it definitely did something because I’ve not suffered tightening’s as painful as that in the entire pregnancy. As for the nasty side effects? (Or should that be ‘bottom’ effects?! Lol) - well that wasn't so bad in the sceme of things, (though that’s easy to say now that bottom is healed and tummy is no longer in knots.)
Mum, who had been staying with us for the past few days in case I popped has admitted defeat and returned home now. Which means I won’t be treated to as many wonderful Clary Sage Massages and reflexology as I was, alas I was becoming quite accustomed to them and therefore have been swanning about (less swanning more waddling actually) like the queen of Sheeba. (Where is Sheeba by the way? Does such a place exist? And whom, might I ask, is the real queen?! Lol)
Will be calling mum back as soon as I get some real action though, (that’s if I ever do) and this time I have been focusing a lot on exactly what I’m going to do when labour does kick off. I’m thinking I’m going to put my foot down and argue a little more for the homebirth that I so want. The hospital just upsets me so much and I know I’m going to have a terrible time of it if I have to go back there. I’m not being pessimistic, I’m just trying to be realistic. And this is a big deal. The birth of a baby is something no Mother ever forgets in a hurry, I’ve gotta make it a positive experience.
So that’s my next mission. To secure my homebirth. And in the meantime . . . (and I hate myself for saying this but I guess . . .) Baby will come when he’s ready.
Steph x
Well Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight is the night i have been waiting for, for weeks and weeks and weeks.
In a few hours I will officially hit week 38 of this pregnancy and therefore will be on target for the home birth i have had my heart set on.
My birthing pool is all pumped up and filled with water and the equipment is all set. The dining room is hereby known as the delivery suite and my GTBOM project can now officially commence (although we all know that my impatience has persuaded me to start a few of the methods a little earlier, tut, tut!)
And guess what? It appears that my spending a little time on all-fours (no! Not like that you filthy buggers!) has paid off - baby is no longer back-to-back and is instead all ready for take-off in exactly the right position.
You'd think I'd be on top of the world right now?!
Well i was, until the midwife announced that the results of my last blood test showed my iron levels are too low to actually qualify me for a home birth.
They've had these results for over a month yet didn't feel it necessary (considering my plans for a homebirth) to actually share them with me. One fucking month. I could have been taking supplements. I could and would have been stocking up on my greens. But they failed to tell me until now. Now when i can pretty much do sweet FA about it.
I hate to upset anyone here with this next comment (and indeed paragraphs) but it has to be said. The shitty NHS, their rules, regulations and overall negligence never ceases to disappointment me. What a tosserific organisation. Total and utter shit and nowhere near worthy of the amount of tax we pay.
I had thought that by choosing to have this baby at home I would be avoiding the majority of all the stress and dissapointment that comes with virtually any experience of the NHS.
I'd hoped i could have a little control over my own labour and birthing experience, yet instead it seems that, due to their incompetence, I may have to put up with the usual.
Appalling care, (due to staff shortages and extortionate waiting times.)
A total lack of privacy, (the last time i was on the labour ward i found myself next to a poor woman in horrific pain wailing away. She was 7cm's dilated and progressing so quickly and still they had not been able to offer her a private room. The woman opposite me, meanwhile, was sounding deeply embarrassed as she was asked to discuss details of her muchas plug for all to hear. Seriously they pull those mouldy curtains around you as though that will somehow make you invisible and inaudible to the rest of the ward.)
A sargeant major midwife (whom i imagine will be 'looking after' several women at once and therefore will be unavailable most of the time.)
And of course . . .
parking charges,
terrible food
And restrictions on everything from toilets, (birth partners are not allowed to use the toilets on the labour ward and instead are required to leave and use the facilities in the main hospital) to visiting times.
I'm being a pessimistic grouchy cow i know (I'm so tired though, one of the symptoms of being anemic!) And I could be totally wrong, but i'd rather be prepared for what i fear will be the case than try to convince myself that it'll be different this time round and then be bitterly disappointed at the end of it all.
The midwife has taken more blood today and will be re-testing and telephoning me with the results tomorrow. So there is a teeny, weeny chance that my levels might be okay now (four weeks on) - but I'm seriously suspecting that the results will be the same and my dreams and plans for a home birth will be gone with the wind. (And I'll be lumbered with the worlds most expensive paddling pool! lol)
The last time I went into labour and gave birth i didn't get to take my baby home. Instead i left empty handed and my little boy went to heaven.
The time before that I delivered my daughter and was practically evicted from the hospital before the effects of pethidine had even worn off. (They needed my bed.)
I so hoped it would a case of third time lucky this time round.
I know it doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. What will be will be and the only real aspect of importance is that baby is delivered safely. Yet I'm longing for a happy birthing experience. and it's so difficult not to feel let down.
I'll find out in the morning and I doubt i'll get any sleep tonight.
Wish me luck!
x
Now before I continue I would just like to state, for the record, that I am ordinarily a very good girl with a very pure mind 0:-)
It is therefore necessary that I warn you that the contents of today’s blog may shock and/or disgust some. (And at the very least it may leave you with an icky taste in your mouth. No pun intended.)
Please continue to read with caution and if you happen to be a relative of mine, (particularly an older relative—Mum, Dad, Nan, etc) please refrain from reading any further. Otherwise family BBQ’s may never be the same again.
You see, ladies and gentlemen, today’s letter is ‘S’ and the topic is ‘Sperm.’
(You see Dad, told you you wouldn’t want to read it!)
In keeping with my ‘GET THIS BABY OUTTA ME,’ experiment I have found myself stumbling upon sperm, (not literally, thank god!) as yet another method of naturally inducing labour. You’ve heard it all before no doubt, how ‘getting jiggy’ is a sure-fire way of kick starting contractions?! Well it turns out that this method is less about the love sword and more about the nuts, (the tadpoles to be more specific.)
For the purpose of my experiment I have decided to investigate the theory a little further.—So if you wouldn’t mind holding my bag ladies, I’m going in. ;-)
I’ve conducted a fair amount of research for today’s blog, (can I get an, ‘Oooooohhhh’ ?!) - Not practical , nor oral research, (though I fear that part is *ahem* coming,) but certainly a fair amount of scientific research in theory, so I’m hoping you are suitably impressed with this, since, as you know, I am not a scientific kinda gal. But you see I felt it was necessary to gather the facts before I go recommending you hook up with any old Tom, Dick or Harry in order to get yourself into labour. (You see, I am so caring and lovely.)
At risk of sounding like a bimbo in a shampoo advert, here is the science part . . .
Semen contains hormones known as prostaglandins which help ripen the cervix and thus make it dilate, (the cervix needs to dilate to around 10cm’s for the baby to pass through.) If you’re past your due date your doctor would probably use a prostaglandin gel to get you started. It’s the exact same hormone as found in semen. :-)
It is thought that ingesting the er spunk (is it odd that I am making myself blush with these words??! Lol) is even more effective in helping the cervix soften than actually applying in topically.
So there you have it, it would seem that the answer to all my personal prayers could be ready and waiting in my husbands pants. (Wipe that smile from your face now please darling, thank you.) ;-)
Unfortunately though there is very little evidence to show how effective this method of inducing labour is, because apparently, (and I’m not sure I can quite believe this) - the method of using semen to start labour hasn’t been tested enough. (Are they serious??! Not tested enough?? Is there a pregnant woman in the world who hasn’t tried to straddle her man in an attempt to get his creation to vacate her body?! Ah well, apparently not, according to the experts.)
Clearly we are going to have to take matters into our own hands ladies. YES. There is only one thing to be done . . . And it is in the interest of generating World Peace (amongst heavily pregnant women, their partners, families, friends and any other poor soul that has to put up with the whinging.)
And so if I could invite you all one-by-one to put down your Gaviscon, stand on your poor swollen footsies, grab your man, (or any man for that matter) and come forth . . . (I am aware that this post is littered with all kinds of innuendoes and for that I apologise lol)
This appeal is for pregnant ladies everywhere to um, (how to put this . . . ?!) please, for the good of the group, include a little semen into your diets. That’s right girls, semen on toast, semen in tea. Whichever way you like it. Let us get these baby’s outta us, one for all and all for one! And, just as The Beatles once suggested, let us sing at the tops of our voices, ‘Come Together, Right Now . . . Over me!’
(I told you this blog post would leave you with an icky taste in your mouth! - I’m so so sorry! And if it’s any consolation I feel sick now too!!)
Please remember to use my comment form to post your success rates and of course any other tips you’d like to add! (Recipes perhaps?!) You can report back anonymously should you wish, just as long as we all know the results of our very scientific project.
Go forth ladies and good luck! Report back with progress :-) (And I will too of course!)
With Love (and toothpaste on hand.)
Steph x
P.S—If you do decide that to conduct your experiment in the conventional way, (by humping) please be aware that orgasm and nipple stimulation is also meant to kick-start contractions too :-)
I wish I could blame my recent absence from my blog on the success of my GTBOM experiment and thus my baby’s arrival into the outside world. Alas I cannot. I am still full to the brim of baby, (growing by the minute too I might add) and this little one seemingly has no intentions on making his debut. Ever.
I’m always promising to tell the truth, the whole truth and *nothing but the truth in this blog, so despite feeling very guilty for being the bearer of such pessimistic news I feel it is my duty to inform you that the pineapple theory, on which my previous GTBOM experiment was based, has proven to be an absolute load of bollocks (for want of a better word.)
I hate pissing on everyone’s fireworks and I so wanted the pineapple to do the trick . . . (Maybe I didn’t eat enough?! I don’t know.) I wanted to provide hope for my fellow waddling pregnant women, so I am very sorry, but do not fear, I shall keep trying :-)
As well as the constant remarks about my size and shape and the pats on the bump that I receive daily, (sometimes from complete strangers too) I am constantly asked the question, ’How long have you got to go?’ I loathe it, mainly because it is almost always followed by a comment that makes me really f’ing mad. (Note the need for the f word.) The comment in question?
‘Ah well, there’s nothing you can do about it anyway, baby will come when it’s ready.’
‘Baby will come when it’s ready??!!’ FFS. I know that these comments aren’t meant to drive me nuts (and it’s probably just my hormones that have me so riled anyway,) but this one in particular really grinds my gears. ‘Baby will come when it’s ready.’ Now call me what you will but I can’t help but think I am the parent, the birth-giver, the mother and therefore the boss. So I will decide when this baby comes out, thank you kindly.
Do I sound like a control freak?! I’m not normally. But boy does it wind me up. Even though I secretly suspect that they’re right, there is nothing I can do to determine when this baby comes, he will come when he’s ready. But you know what? Sometimes honesty isn’t always the best policy. And in my case they can save the truth, I’d much rather hear lies anyway. Gimme the old wives tales, a little light at the end of the tunnel and something to keep my mind busy and occupied whilst I play this waiting game, save your facts for someone who needs a kick when they’re down.
I have five days to go until I’m 38 weeks and therefore allowed to have my baby here at home. So I’m keeping my fingers (and legs, though that may be perhaps a little too much information for some) crossed that he will stay put until then. All experiments will officially recommence on the 4th June but until then I am trying to inject a little patience into the matter.
Whilst I am practising my patience I also have a another baby-related mission to accomplish. I need to turn him around. He’s not breech, (thank goodness) his head is indeed in the right place and ready for action, but instead of facing me, which is the optimal position for labour, he has his back to mine and all his limbs are front-facing. This, combined with my, ‘irritable uterus,’ (this is a real medical condition apparently—how typical of me to have it lol) is the main cause of all the Braxton Hicks contractions and other pains I’ve been getting.
I’ve heard I need to spend a considerable amount of time on-all-fours in order to get him to swing his little body round the right way. Alas can only think of two things that require one to be on all fours. The first is scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors, (not on your nelly mate) and the second is, well, you probably already know . . . (again, not on your nelly mate lol) ;-)
Yoga, swimming, laying on my left-hand side, swaying on my birth ball and sitting the wrong-way-round on my chair are all other activities I’m gonna try out, (of course will also welcome suggestions!)
If I can’t turn him I’m reckoning we’re in for one hell of a ride on the old labour train. It’s supposed to take double the time and be double the work giving birth to a back-to-back baby. Oh god help me . . . Perhaps I should go with the epidural after all ;-)
Wish me luck as I crawl around my house!
Love to all!
Steph x
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