With the exception of Mary Poppins, (and perhaps Jude Law) there are very few people on this planet that can claim to be practically perfect in every way.
Sure there are those whom think themselves pretty close to perfection, the types who, when being interviewed for example will respond to the question, ‘What are your negatives?’ with a genuine blank, sincerely at a loss for an adequate answer.
Then there are those who try much too hard to portray an air of perfection. Wanting so to appear perfect, sexy, funny, clever, wealthy... and being completely oblivious to the blatant transparency of their boastful ways.
Some of us work hard to build barriers, giant brick walls around ourselves, in order to prevent anyone from coming close enough to glimpse imperfections or insecurities and thus we try to portray only the positives to the outside world.
But the kind of people I’m really drawn to, the kind I love the most, are those to whom I can relate. The real, ‘warts and all’ human beings. Those who may be striving for perfection? Those who are not even bothered. Deliciously and realistically flawed.
Because nobody is perfect, no-one! (Not even me!) And you know? Sometimes I think those imperfections, insecurities, vulnerabilities, weaknesses even? They can be your most endearing assets.
This is why when it comes to bearing my soul I am as naked as the day I was born. My heart on my sleeve and my flaws practicably visible for the entire world to see.
So just for the record, in case you have yet to discover any of these flaws (because it’s not uncommon for others to be completely dazzled by the wonderful attributes I possess! (Sarcasm being one of them!!)) allow me to draw your attention to some of my unflattering bits.
1. I’m stroppy. Brat-like sometimes, especially if I’ve had little sleep and you’re my Mum. I throw embarrassing teen-like tantrums. And I roll my eyes. A lot :-/
2. I hold grudges longer than... well... really long things. Can forgive. But I will never ever forget.
3. I’m unbelievably scatty and whilst I have good intentions and think of nice things, I almost never get round to doing things, like sending birthday cards or thank you notes.
4. I can be extremely lazy, and at times idle. If you come to my house I shall probably make you a cup of tea once in our lifetime. After that you know where the kettle is . :-/
5. And the heaviest flaw I carry, the one that causes me the most heartache, is that I’m ridiculously sensitive. Like a sponge, soaking up emotions and problems from everyone around me, unable to switch off and acutely concerned with how the world judges me.
And for a bunch of imperfect humans we sure are judgemental bastards sometimes.
‘May he without sin cast the first stone...’ God knows I’m not a religious gal, but this quote from the bible really strikes a chord with me.
It’s so true. Unless you are a saint, eating your five-a-day, washing behind your ears, always making the right decisions and taking the right paths, then you really have little right to judge others.
We’re all guilty of course, of judging a book by its cover, of hastily forming opinions, our minds narrow, our fingers pointing, yet most of us, myself included, cannot abide being the object up for judgement.
I’d love to flick a cheeky finger to those that provide an uninvited evaluation of my life. I’d love to say I don’t care what others think. But that would be a big fat lie, because I really do care.
In my own little life bubble, with my husband and my children I am deliriously happy. I feel content knowing that, whilst I’m not perfect, my heart is in the right place. I’m aware of my screw ups and I’m proud of my achievements. And I’d very much like things to stay that way. Yet when your soul is open wide you inevitably find one or two overly opinionated leeches drifting in ready to criticise your every move.
Being overly sensitive means that it genuinely hurts when someone does make me their object of discussion. It knocks me sideways in fact. Even if I don’t care for or even think highly of them I find it hurts. It makes me doubt myself in every aspect of my life. I begin to wonder whether I am a good person? A good mother? A good friend? I can drive myself crazy with constant analysis.
I’m a ‘cup is half full’ kinda girl, I like to see the best in everybody, I don’t like to believe that some people can just be ‘bad,’ I always try to find an excuse for them. To justify things.
And I spend my life trying to eliminate the guilt that we, 21st century women seem to carry with us. Life can be shitty enough, without each of us bitching about the choices we make.
I like to reassure others, to fill them with confidence and make them feel good about themselves. That’s ultimately my goal, to make people feel content in their own skin.
Remember in my book I told you that in the battle of the sexes I am very much a ‘girls girl?’ Well that’s still the case. I’m still yearning for that secret society of sisterhood.
We’re all too quick to judge one another as women, on everything, our choices in men, the choices we make as mothers, the decisions we make in our careers. Still there are those that point fingers and criticise us, as though it’s going to make them feel better about their own lives. But I don’t think it will. Nope, I fear in the long run that constant judgement of others, when we should be concentrating on our own lives, will simply result in a lot of cynical and lonely old women.
This unattractive tendency we have to bitch about one another has got to stop. We should be supporting each other, standing tall in our stilettos and celebrating the fact that whilst we’re not perfect, we are ourselves, each with the born right to choose our own paths and destinies. We each have the right to fuck up from time to time, and then to stand, dust ourselves down and try again. Life is not a competition. So please no more judgement.
Steph Xx
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
It's been a little over eight weeks since my little man made his début on the outside world. During this time I've mastered the art of juggling, can multi-task like never before and have learnt many a very valuable lesson, but mostly, over everything else I've learnt, I have come to understand the true meaning of the term, 'Mummy's Boy.'
My goodness that child, though I say it myself, is completely delicious. I could get lost in his enormous baby blues, when he gazes at me, his eyes wide like deep blue pools, I become completely mesmerized. And his head, oh the sweetness of the scent of his little bald head, I wish I could bottle the fragrance and smell it forever.
If I actually owned an apron, it has to be said, I think I would tie my little Leonardo to the strings with great big bows.
And I used to seriously despise Mummy's Boys, honestly I did. (Though perhaps it was the actual Mummies I despised more than their Boys.)
Perfectly good men have been kicked to the kerb, many a mobile phone number erased and several, otherwise promising, matches have been burnt-out on account of all the boys sharing one common trait, f'ing awful Mothers.
To give you an even clearer indication, I once dated a guy who had to be home every evening, without fail, at seven o'clock sharp to share an evening meal with his mother. His mother had a particular thing against girls being in the house, and since I did not actually posses a penis (though had more balls than most men I know,) I of course was never actually welcome to stay and thus had to wait for the duration of the meal, (usually three courses) outside. In his car. Oh yes, his car. He was 21.
Seriously 21 years old and unable to invite a girl in for tea?! Nor to even perch quietly on the couch whilst he ate his tea. Utterly crazy. I guess you know it's time to ditch 'em when they rush a dinner date with you to be home for a second date with the mother.
Now I've always been nice and polite and respectful towards those women whom bore the sons that I took interest in. I always tried to be friendly and I always ensured my skirts were never too short nor my heels too high upon meeting the parents, yet it was a rare occasion when my manners were returned by the Mums, (though Dad's have always seemed quite pleasant.) And typically those fortunate enough to not have dragons as mums were usually the ones I wasn't all that bothered about in the first place.
I suppose if I were to really analysis things it was the single Mums, the Mums who had single-handedly taken care of their little boys, who were always the most unpleasant. And I totally get it, they'd invested time and love and effort into the life of their strapping sons and were so frightened of being left along when, or if, that son flies the nest. I can understand that, of course, yet the upset I felt by being snubbed by this breed was enough to make me vow that if I ever had a little boy myself, I would be different, no matter what my circumstances.
My Nanny Brenda says, 'A daughter is a daughter all her life, a son is a son 'til he finds a wife.' Now I don't know if that's true, but is enough to make me want to lock my little Leo up in his bedroom for years and years, away from the temptations and troubles of girls like me. Unreasonable, yes. Stupid, yes, but true nevertheless. Alas I know from my own experience that to breed and raise yet another Mummy's Boy is unnecessary and frankly cruel to any would-be suitors out there.
Fortunately my own Mother-In-Law has managed to do a pretty perfect job of raising her offspring to ensure he has the perfect balance of Mummy's Boy Syndrome in him. He loves his mother, adores her in fact, he respects her and can get her to do all his ironing with just a little wink and a smile, (pretty much the way he gets me to do most things too lol) and yet he does not share a freakishly unhealthy or abnormal relationship with her at all. I definitely think I could take a leaf out of my mother-in-laws book, and I'm not even saying that just for the brownie points either. :-)
It is my intention to raise my little boy to be a happy, healthy, kind and caring young man, with all the qualities of a gentleman, the courage of his namesake - the lion, and of course the strength of an ox. I know, I'm striving for absolute perfection, but I do like to aim high :-)
I have come to realise, within these past few weeks, that the methods of which I use to raise my little Lady however differ from those I use with her baby bro.
Not that I treat my children unequally or love them differently or anything, I am absolutely head over heels for both of them, it's just that I've discovered that raising a little boy and raising a little girl are two completely different tasks.
I can't quite put my finger on the actual differences between the methods I use though, it's odd. I suppose it stems from my wanting different things for them perhaps? Different aspirations and different ideas of the kind of people that my two little cherubs might grow to be. Of course nobody knows what the future holds for either of them, all I can really do is prepare them for the paths I imagine they may take.
And let's face it, certain qualities are more beneficial for certain sexes. I don't mean for this to sound old-fashioned or chauvinistic or anything. It's not like I'm going to teach Lori how to sew and bake and powder her nose and all that and then teach Leo to make paper aeroplanes, play keepy-uppy and construct a number of weird and wonderful things from wood, (haha, can you imagine?!) - It's just that I believe there are separate foundations for each gender that need to be laid down before the building can commence. (I realise I make reference to building and stuff quite a lot lately, blame my mother for getting me hooked on, 'The Home Show,' and then blame the gorgeous softly-spoken George for being way too irresistible to switch off! Lol – Sorry Jay.)
I'm not going to stereotype my kids according to their sexes, despite my own personal preference for men to be men, (rugged and tough) and women to be women, (flirtatious and feminine) I won't be upset if Lori becomes a mechanic and Leo comes home wearing make-up (though Daddy might have a thing or two to say I'm sure! Lol) just so long as they are happy, I'm happy.
And on the off chance that this blog still exists in, ooh i don't know, 20 years or so, I'd like to make the following declaration to those who may have the pleasure of falling for my children, they way i have done . . .
I, Stephanie Connolly, hereby promise to never wind up being an absolute dragon of a mother-in-law, (just so long as you take care of my babies :-) )
x
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
Yesterday my 5 year-old daughter, Lorelei, had her lovely blonde locks pulled by a nasty little brat 2 years above her in school.
I was called to the classroom and told of the incident, which occured whilst the kids were waiting in the dinner queue. Mia, (hereby known as brat-face) had, for some unknown reason, decided to get her grubby little hands on one of my daughters plates and had yanked it out, resulting in lots of tears from Lori.
This isn't the first time she's done it either. She's pinched and pushed Lorelei in the past, but this time she was caught out by one of the teachers. She was asked to write a letter of apology, (in which she demonstrates really shit spelling, which makes me loathe her even more - yes I know she's only seven but that's no excuse,) and Lorelei, (who is normally a very bright and happy child) was clearly upset about the whole thing, ('she doesn't pick on anyone except me, she obviously hates me . . . ' she tells me whilst sucking on her little thumb.
It broke my heart and I know this is going to sound completely unreasonable, so i apologise in advance for this next statement but the idea of ANYONE picking on my little girl has me so outraged and pissed off and underneath it all i'm battling furiously to refrain from hunting brat-face down and tearing her hair out.
Of course this wouldn't get us very far, (other than jail perhaps) so i have opted to take another, less satisfying route. I'm letting Lorelei stand in her own two shoes. After all we all know that bitches exist in all corners of the world and she's gotta suss out a method for dealing with them for herself. Still this is not a lesson I'd anticipated she'd have to learn quite so soon.
She's cool though, has put the incident to the back of her mind and is back to being her usual entertaining sweet-self. So i'm putting my faith in her abilities and I'm sure it'll all blow over.
And if not? Well then it'll be handbags at dawn! :-)
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