Just a quick post today to update you all and thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your kind messages, thoughts, love and support over this past week or so. <3
I'm shattered right now, totally drained, so I'm gonna keep this short 'n; sweet :-)
Firstly we are absolutely delighted to let you all know that this afternoons scan revealed a very happy and healthy bubba in our oven!
Bambino numero three is totally PERFECT!
With 8 fingers (2 thumbs!) and 10 toes and a precious little face very much like Leo's! And we are completely over-the-moon!
It is with a big sigh of relief and a dopey grin that I can now relax and begin to truly enjoy this, my third (and final!! lol) pregnancy and I'm going to cherish *every second. (*As much as a pregnant woman can! lol)
Finally I just wanted to say once again how grateful I am to be surrounded by so many amazing people. I was so overwhelmed by the lovely messages we've received from so many people and at the risk of sounding like a tree-hugger, I truly believe that all those thoughts and prayers helped to ensure the fate of our new addition!
I'm definitely gonna be counting my blessings tonight and promise to count you guys twice! ;-)
Thanks again,
Love to all
Steph x
P.S Don't forget to check out my Pregnancy project and join the panel if you can!!
Everyone who knows me knows I can be very sentimental. (N.B Sentimental not Slightly Mental, though the latter is quite appropriate at the moment.) I always have been and I imagine I always will be.
Tokens of my past, old gig tickets, photographs, christmas cards and newspapers from decades ago lay standing the test of time in boxes and boxes that I've accumulated over the years. Anything that reminds me of something, anything that means anything at all to me, is preserved never to be thrown away.
Actually I could probably start charging people to visit the museum that is my loft come to think of it.
The thing is I don't just hoard the objects that produce fond memories, I keep the sad stuff too, the sort of stuff that I can barely look at without getting choked. And every now and then, when I feel like delving into the depths of my past, I'll lose myself in the boxes, ransacking for hours and drowning in the pieces of puzzles of days gone by.
Today was one of those days. And as I type this, rather impromptu blog post, I am surrounded by the evidence of my latest brush with the past.
I'm sure most of you know that this week has been a bit pants for our crew because I had a routine appointment with my obstetrician and he gave us a little news that has thrown me off balance a bit. (A bit?! Ha, what an understatement.)
I'll try to keep this *brief, it's a bit technical and a little brain-numbing, but here goes.
(*Steph's definition of the word 'brief' may or may not be the same as that of a standard Oxford English dictionary.)
As you know I am currently 15 weeks (plus 4 days) pregnant with bambino numero three. Except this is not my third pregnancy. It's actually my sixth.
(Now I know what you're thinking . . . and we do indeed have a telly in our house. And hobbies too. It's just that it seems my husband needs only to look in my direction and I'm pregnant again! It's quite spectacular really! Lol But that's enough of that!) ;-)
One of the most tragic situations we have faced in our relationship is having our son, Harrison, diagnosed with a variety of fetal abnormalities whilst he was still in the womb, back in 2008.
I was 16 weeks pregnant with Harry when we first learnt that something was wrong. I'd had a triple bloods test taken and the results returned stated I had a high level of HCG in my blood. They called me in for a scan within a matter of days and Mr. C and I were informed immediately that our little man had a number of problems with his little body.
He had a gastroschisis for starters (which is when the intestines are floating around on the outside of the abdominal wall) – it's not uncommon and can usually be sorted with a quick op after birth, so it didn't worry us on it's own a great deal.
We heard he had 'rocker-bottomed' feet, meaning his soles were convex as opposed to concave and this could cause great difficulty in his future, with walking etc. Harry also suffered from hyperflexed wrists and arms.
We had numerous appointments, we visited 3 different hospitals over a period of 4 weeks. And finally at week 19 we learnt that Harrison had part of his bladder missing. A meeting with a top surgeon operating in Great Ormond Street Hospital confirmed our worse fears, that our son's problems couldn't be fixed and he would face a life time of suffering.
At 20 weeks I went into labour and gave birth to Harrison Connolly on August 4th 2008. But he was already living with the angels by the time I got to see his little body.
I can't express how heartbreaking the experience was, but I cannot forget the pain even for a second.
Harry's funeral took place a few weeks later, and the results from the autopsy were never shared with us, his parents. So we didn't really know what had caused his problems.
My husband and I had our DNA tested and the Genetics department informed us that we wouldn't have the results of the DNA and genetics tests for some time.
A mere six weeks later we discovered that I was once again expecting. And this time I was absolutely petrified.
I visited a special consultant early on in the pregnancy and had a number of ultrasound scans. They took good care of me and put my mind at ease and my pregnancy progressed smoothly.
Until I went, alone, to a meeting with a specialist from Peterborough one afternoon, and not understanding the nature of the meeting, was totally unprepared for what I heard.
'Otopalatodigital Syndrome Type 2' was what the genetics doctor suspected Harry had suffered from. A genetics disorder that is considered to be 'incompatible with life.' It affects one in four pregnancies and is more common in boys.
She shook her head and tutted when I informed her that I was currently expecting. She made me feel like an utter fool.
And so I broke down outside of the hospital, clutching my bump and wailing like a wally. Because my dreams of having a healthy baby boy had been shattered.
Until at 17 weeks I received a letter from the genetics bitch (oops 'consultant') which stated that Harrison did not suffer from OPD2 or any other kind of disorder. All of his abnormalities were isolated, none had anything to do with the other, it said. So what had happened to Harry was just bad luck. Devestating, but bad luck and there was every chance on earth that the baby I was carrying would turn out to be absolutely fine.
And at 20 weeks we went for our scan. No gastroschisis, No rocker-bottom feet, wrists were perfect, bladder intact and the cherry on the cake? Our gorgeous healthy baby was another little man. Still makes me laugh when I remember how Jay and I clung to each other, grins like soppy teenagers, squealing with excitement, joy and, above all, relief in the hospital waiting room.
Leonardo Harrison Connolly, (Leo) was born happy and healthy on 19th June 2009. He is our little cherub and the perfect addition to our little family.
And you know what? I am possibly the most grateful girl on the planet these days. I count my blessings every night before I go to sleep and boy are there a lot to count. I know how lucky I am, sometimes I feel like the wealthiest woman in the world.
So it hurts me even more when something comes along to knock the wind from my sails. And that is exactly how I felt when I went for my routine appointment with the Obstetrician on Monday.
You see they had a letter from the genetics bitch too. Only their letter did not say all was fine. Instead it said they suspected my son did indeed suffer a genetic problem. Something to do with the X chromosome from what I could read, (upside down.)
My OB, one of the kindest men I've ever met, assured me he would ask his secretary to gain clarification from the genetics bitch. He said he'd get to the bottom of the matter and find out the truth for us.
I told him that if I had received the letter as I should have, I may have thought twice about conceiving once again.
Mr. Ob then referred me to the ultrasound department, he told me that, given the fact that I am at the stage of pregnancy when Harrison's problems were detected, a scan would be just what we need right now for reassurance. So off I went to the ultrasound department.
'It's very unlikely we can give you a scan,' says the pig behind the desk without looking up from her screen, 'it's not our procedure to deal with things like . . . this.' She tells me. 'things like this,' I take to mean, situations such as mine, though she may as well have just addressed my situation as some kind of freak-show in a circus.
'I'll have to talk to my supervisor. We'll call you.'
I told her I'd wait. That I would rather know now whether I would have an appointment soon. She rolled her eyes to heaven and continued, 'we don't normally do scans at 16 weeks so if my supervisor says no you'll just have to wait til you're 20 weeks to be scanned.'
I managed to hold back from flying over the desk and flooring the bitch, though I could feel hot tears threatening to spill.
'Do you know my situation?!' I asked her, she shook her head. 'Didn't think so, I'd hope you'd have a little more sensitivity if you did.'
Eventually the supervisor appeared and much like her colleague began speaking in a tone that suggested she A. Could not be bothered with me and B. had already decided she was going to be difficult.
'Right. We can't check for abnormalities til 20 weeks.' she says, (true in most circumstances perhaps, but my experience shows that it is possible to detect problems earlier than that.) 'It just isn't possible. So we're going to give you a very brief scan. Only 15 minutes, and no more.' She glares at me as though I'm a whingy woman who just wants to view her baby for no real reason other than to see how cute it is.
'Really it won't give you any reassurance at all so it's hardly worth us doing it.'
Not worth doing?! Well it might not have been for her, but it sure as hell was for me. So I stood firm and told her I'd go along with that.
And then with my scan safely booked on their screens I asked,
'Will either of you be performing the scan?'
'No . . . ' Replied the first pig.
'Thank fuck for that.' I spat, unable to help myself.
And so I left with a heavy heart and a head full of muddled thoughts. Thoughts of the past, fears for the future.
I have decided, thanks to advice and support from so many wonderful friends and family, that I shall go to my scan next Wednesday and I will be as nice as pie to the sonographer, then I shall lay in protest until I feel that my unborn bubba has been examined thoroughly and adequately. Just let them try to move me. ;-)
Despite the tears and worry that I have suddenly found weighing me down I am going to continue to count my blessings and remain positive.
And inspired by my thoughts, ( that and a copy of the wedding slide-show that I found during today's ransack) I'd like to present you with this, extremely soppy, sequel to the first movie :-)
Whatever we have to face we're doing it together and for that I shall always be grateful!
I remember time ago our tale had just begun With a union of two hearts, soon to beat as one. When Cupid struck and took aim to fire Upon a Girl and Fella, And pupils locked and hands entwined Around a pint of Stella.
That moment there, their first to share, of many more to come. With some containing sorrow :-( But most filled with fun! :-)
Foundations were laid, A family made And a vow to love for life.
When the Fella got down on one knee and the girl became his wife.
Sweet and Tender ~ Bound forever Wrapped in a love like no other. In June last year they were blessed, with the gift of Lorelei’s brother!
And the Connolly crew simply grew and grew With the addition of Ducks, Dog and Cat/ And the Mrs asked for a pig. But the answer was, ‘No and that’s that!’
Light and laughter fills the air of a home generating such love to share. Indeed enough for the family of four. In fact enough for even one more . . . ;-)
The pitter-patter of tiny feet could be heard when New Year is near.
For just after Santa comes, a new Connolly shall be here.
A beautiful baby with all it’s charms welcomed into our hearts with open arms.
And we are overjoyed! With a gift as great as this whether it be girl or boy!
*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!)
I’d love to possess a more ‘scientific’ brain! Actually that’s bollocks. Science bores the pants off me. But right now a little knowledge of physics wouldn’t go amiss.
Something terrible might have just happened. I can’t be sure.
Of course really I shouldn’t disclose this kind of information to you, because confessing to being so dim is rather embarrassing, and generally speaking humans aren’t supposed to admit, let alone, highlight, flaws of this magnitude.
Well forgive me but I am human. And I am delightfully flawed. And this, my sweets, is a little example of how flawed I am.
I dropped a drawing pin into the toaster.
Will I die?! Will I be propelled like lightening across the other side of the room the next time I go to make peanut butter on toast?! Will sparks fly? Will the toaster explode into teeny tiny pieces?Oh if only I had the sense to be sure.
I have, of course, considered turning the toaster upside down in order to retrieve the aforementioned drawing pin, but the idea of lots of toasty crumbs everywhere is putting me off. So I guess I’ll just have to risk my life instead. Cleanliness is next to Godliness you know.
Now don’t go thinking that this extremely intense dilemma of mine will not affect you. Because it will. In fact it could confuse you completely. Cos you’re not gonna know now, whether my absence from the blogosphere and world wide web in general is as a result of my fatality with the toaster and pin, or not . . .
Poor Steph is dead. You might conclude. After all loads and loads of people die from accidents around the home, (and loads and loads of those accidents occur to me every day— honestly I’ve had fires, sparks, electric shocks, I’ve walked into walls, patio doors, windows. I fall down the stairs all the time. Once a roof tile fell and missed me by about an inch and only yesterday I got my head caught in the clothes horse when I bent down to collapse the damn thing.) - the odd’s are not in my favour.
But I mightn’t be dead at all. I might be simply working hard away from the comfort of my beloved blog. As are my intentions for a while.
In the unlikely event of my survival from accidentally killing myself with stuff in the home, I have plans for a little blog-break. Why? Well despite my talent for running in high heels, (which indeed requires lots of balance,) as yet I haven’t mastered the art of balance in the other important aspects of my life. So other tasks of importance are suffering. Tasks like shopping, getting manicures (seriously you should see ‘em at the moment. I look like a boy.) and laundry. (My life isn’t quite that glamorous just yet.)
And it’s high-time I sorted it out. So, dear blog and lovely, lovely readers—It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just rubbish at juggling.
I’ve been asked to contribute on a Project on the topic of Pregnancy, which I am uber excited about, (thank you to everyone who took part in my survey by the way!)- so I’m still going to be working hard, even though you won’t see my blogs very often and I’m also going to spend as much time as I possibly can in the depths of a fantasy world by concentrating on my new novel , which thus far, exists only in my imagination. (When it’s longing to be put on paper.)
I’ll be back before you know it, blogging regularly and lavishing you with the undivided attention we both know you deserve. But in the meantime forgive me if my posts are few and far between for a while. And rest assured that it’s not because I am lounging around on my (award winning—I hasten to add) butt eating Snickers Bars (Ooooh I could just scoff one of those right now . . . )
"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."
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!) Andit 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.
In my 25 years on this planet i have endured 2 whole years of pregnancy in total, three labours, approximately 84 experiences of the dreaded 'curse', 2/3 years of puberty, regular bouts of PMT and hormonal outbursts and have had the whole world see more of my body than I care to imagine. Yet still if push came to shove, (quite literally) I'd choose being female over being male any day of the year, (except perhaps for 5-7 days once a month, but let's not get too specific.)
Of course if Mother Nature employed me as her apprentice I might suggest one or two changes for the female breed . . . maybe abolish one, if not all, of the aforementioned women's issues? At the very least I'd add a few extra perks to being female, (like removing the calories and fat from chocolate perhaps?) but overall I think Mother Nature has already done a pretty amazing job.
Now I'm not going to turn all diva-ish here by chanting, 'Girl Power,' and pouting at every opportunity, and I don't want to alienate the opposite sex by slating them - I'm no man-hater at all, far from it, (I have always listed 'boys' as one of my hobbies,) yet despite my love for and general interest in boys, (which started at a very tender age for me,) it has to be said that in the age-old battle of the sexes, I'm on team 'G' all the way.
Women, are, quite frankly, creatures of utter amazement to me. Not only are we better looking, (in most cases) than our male counterparts, and much, much more mature, we can also handle many a task with greater speed and efficiency than the boys. And we can grow babies. And you can't get better than that. So there.
I do have a great fondness for boys, and i can admire a decent man for more than just the sweetness of eye candy that he may produce, but i think i'll always have more admiration and be more impressed by the powers of a woman.
'Girl Power,' and all that it entails, has long been a statement that I secretly quite like. Not because I'm a huge fan of the platform wearing, badly dressed, irritatingly catchy Spice Girls, (though i cannot deny to being a bit of a closet fan,) but because I truly believe in it. I truly believe that girl power should never be under estimated.
Despite the Spice Girls injecting us with a severe dose of Girl Power back in the day, I don't really believe they can claim to be the inventors of it. Nor do i believe Maggie Thatcher was the one that bore the idea of Girl Power. It started way before all that . . .
Some might say the concept of Girl Power began back in the day by the hippy chick from the 60's, the one with the gravity-defying tits, (which she must have possessed, why else would she insist we all burn our bra's?!) - but I don't believe that either.
In fact, my friends, I can tell you exactly when and where Girl Power was born. I sussed it ages and ages ago. It all started with a girl named Eve, whom successfully seduced a boy named Adam and had her name in the bible for doing so.
And ever since that day those fortunate enough to have been born without the (I imagine rather uncomfortable,) funny bits between the legs, (and they are funny, don't you agree?) have been able to celebrate. So long as they have had the ability to recognised the gift of Girl Power bestowed upon them in the first place.
Plenty of us girlies out there don't realise how lucky we are. We cannot seem to see the extent of the powers we have at our manicured finger-tips. Too many men have tried to make us appear the weaker sex and too many policies have tried to suppress our powers. But let's face it ladies, without us the boys would be screwed, (and not in the way in which they'd like perhaps.)
If you've ever witnessed a woman give birth I'm sure you'd agree, (in fact you only need witness any female species give birth to be amazed. Take our Tinkerbell, for example, she gave life to, not one, but ten gorgeous little kitties all by herself, which is more than the tom-cat who got her up the duff in the first place can say. He didn't even show up to check on his babies, let alone offer to pay any form of kitty support or maintenance.) - It is an amazing feat for any girl to survive, and it so deserves recognition. (Preferably in the form of Shoes and Handbags please folks!)
But I'm not saying that only us Mummies deserve to be celebrated, because wonders of pregnancy and child-birth aside, we girlies do have a lot on our plates, and it certainly isn't easy being a girl.
Sure we have cheaper car insurance, the right to be irrational from time to time, the ability to transform ourselves with Make-Up and beauty products, the wonders of the Wonderbra and the ability to manipulate almost any situation with a simple flutter of the eyelashes and a cheeky smile. Yet there are negatives too that can never be ignored.
There is very little dignity in being female. Just the other day when making an appointment with the nurse in my local surgery I was practically forced by the bitch on the desk to explain the nature of the appointment. Try as I might i couldn't help but blush when I found myself half-whispering the word, 'Contraception,' and thus raising many an eyebrow amongst those sitting close by in the waiting room. Guys don't have to deal with that sort of embarrassment.
Then there's the day when Aunt Flow comes a'calling for the first time in a young girls life, marking the day when she officially begins to transcend from being a little care-free girl with pigtails and an obsession with bikes, to being a woman, with PMT and horrible cramps. It isn't pretty, it isn't fun and yet we have very little say on the matter at all.
Physical changes in a woman's life are one thing, but the mental aspects can be even worse. It might be a nightmare spending time with an unreasonable psycho bitch from hell, but you wanna try being in the mind of one. It's like undergoing a personality transplant with your eyes wide open and there's nothing you can do about it.
We all know the signs, we begin to get agitated by the slightest thing. Something someone says, something someone doesn't say. You could be on your own in paradise and you'd still find something that pisses you off. Irritability begins to bubble until eventually you boil over, erupting like a volcano and spreading red-hot lather upon anyone, or any thing, that might just happen to be within throwing distance. We know we are being unreasonable. We know our actions are out of order, and yet we just cannot contain it. And all the while we have to deal with such hilarious jokes such as, 'That time of the month darlin??' or, 'Cheer up love, might never happen!!' Woe betide a man who makes such comments in my direction, I'd make 'em wish they were never born.
But you know what else? We don't even support one another these days. The secret society of sisterhood is certainly not always readily available, (unless it is so secret that I rarely discover it?!) and instead of uniting in all that is feminine we have an unattractive tendency to bitch about one another. We're all too quick to judge each other as women. On our choices in men, the choices we make as mothers, the decisions we choose surrounding our careers. We point fingers, as though it's gonna make us feel better about the people we are, but it doesn't, instead it just makes us cynical and lonely.
I think if Mother Nature did employ me I'd change all that, but in the meantime I can only control myself and ensure that I don't judge or bitch. Instead I will officially declare myself a 'girls' girl.' and I'd like to urge you to join me.
So here's what we're gonna do. We're going to remain in our bra's (afterall we all look better in them, let's leave the burning to the boys,) we're going to smile at each other, support one another and put the competitions aside. We're gonna strutt with pride, sway our child-bearing hips and shake our booties at the boys and then we're going to remember that no matter what choices we make, what routes we choose to take (oh god this is all rhyming and is beginning to sound like one of those,'new age poems') – with the right pair of heels on and our pals beside us, we really can conquer the world.
By Steph, (whom does not possess a willy but is proud nevertheless.)
If your body really is a temple then mine isn't exactly what you'd call 'architecturally outstanding'.
I think it's safe to say that the Taj Mahal I am not, (though I am similar to the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant down the road, in that I am full of yummy takeaway food.)
I am no longer carrying around a real baby in my bod, but instead seem to have unknowingly adopted a jelly baby in his place, it's not a pretty sight. And since this weeks marks the week of my post-natal check up, and thus means I am officially a 'normal' woman again, I figured that right now is where my temple reconstruction should begin. So hard-hats at the ready please folks, cos this could be dangerous.
Of course the simplest and easiest way of getting back into shape and looking a million dollars is, as everyone knows, to apply to be on 'Extreme Makeover.' To have ones imperfections carefully perfected by the surgeons knife, courtesy of the lovely people at LivingTV. Naturally this is at the top of my to-do list, but on the odd chance that they don't pick me I'm gonna begin the journey by taking the old fashioned route, diet (yawn) and exercise.
This is not gonna be an easy feat for a gal like me. I love food. I love to cook. And most of all I love to eat. And I eat all the naughty stuff too, like pasta and bread and chocolate. If it's even slightly sinful I'll have it. Mealtimes are a big deal in this household, I cook, Lori lays the table, together we eat and usually watch an episode of, 'Come Dine With Me,' whilst we enjoy our grub, then Jay washes up. It's a ritual we've always enjoyed and would love to continue. Nope, as much as I'd love to, I don't think I'll ever be one of those, 'just a stick of celery and a bit of carrot please,' kinda girls.
Exercise, on the other hand, should be fine. In theory. In practise however I appear to lose more dignity than actual weight.
The other morning, for example, whilst exercising my hands with the wonders of the Sky+ remote (which i very rarely get to hold since it is almost always attached to my husband,) I stumbled upon the 'FitnessTV' channel where I found a whole array of workouts and programmes including one, seemingly produced specifically for me, called, 'The High Heeled Workout.'
Within minutes I had kicked off my slippers and stepped into my very beautiful Roland Cartier stilettos and I was shaking my hips and strutting my stuff in my living room-come-dance studio with 'Natalie' as my very own personal dance instructor.
About a half hour in, with my glass of water in hand and my butt giving Beyonce a run for her money, I found myself getting a little hot and thus slipped off my t-shirt so that I was down to my bra, pj bottoms and heels. Of course this was the moment that the postie decided to cycle right past the living room window and (rather rudely) peer in. Oh the shame.
Still I shall not be defeated by the embarrassment that my exercise regimes seem to induce, (click here for a reminder of my running escapades, - am I the only one that can't perform physical activities without making a fool of herself?!) - I am keeping my head held high, (after all tis my head that's the only part to date that I can hold up high and that has not been defeated by gravity.)
I've noticed lately that I'm not the only one that's watching her weight, lots of my Facebook pals and fellow new mummies are also fighting the fat from what I can gather. Now that we have our babes in arms it's time to get our bods back and we are determined women, (after all we have survived the wonders of pregnancy and child-birth, so what's a little dieting?!) together we can do anything ;-)
I've mentioned before that one of my er 'hobbies,' if you will is, (and i say this with slightly shame at the sadness of it,) making lists. I write lists all day long. To-do lists, shopping lists, wish lists, lists of clothes I'm taking when i go on holiday etc. And I'm thrilled therefore to have stumbled upon a site that will combine both my love for lists and indeed my new temple reconstruction. It's called, Fitday and it' a website for tracking ones weight, diet, exercise regime and even moods. I've been using it for the past three days now and every day before bed I've been logging a list of absolutely every* calorie I've consumed during that day, as well as every form of physical activity I've performed. (* when I say 'every' I obviously discount the odd sneaky bite of chocolate, since that doesn't count – chocolate is good for you, it's a scientific fact. I think.) Tis a very useful website, I'd definitely recommend it if you're also about to embark in a reconstruction of your own temple.
I imagine this could take a little while, (after 14 months of pregnancy it's bound to be a bit of a mission,) alas I am determined to have the bod I once had.
Temple or no temple, either way it deserves to be worshiped ;-) Now . . . Where's Mr. Connolly with that massaged he promised me . . . ?
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 tofrighten 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 heaviestof 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 andthey 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, butthe 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 tobecome 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)
slc84 Beautiful day :-) Working hard in garden. Loving this 'Green Fingers' thingy. Though could seriously use a manicure! 3 hours agoreply
slc84 Had fun training with the girls tonight! Returned home to find #Desperate Housewives replaced by Bruce Forsyth prog though. Not impressed! yesterdayreply
slc84 Fresh strawberries, Diet Coke, Chick Flick, Little C's now in bed and I'm snuggled with Mr. C on the sofa. Bliss! :-) 2 days agoreply
