What a difference a day makes . . .  24 little hours. :-) 

I’ll never ever be able to portray the sense of utter euphoria that I’m experiencing right now, not even with a million words and all the time in the world. I just couldn’t do it justice. And I don’t know how long it’ll last, how long I’ll be able to savour the emotion. So for now all I can do is breathe deeply and soak it in and let the happiness wash over me until it seeps into every pore of my entire aching body. 

And boy is my body aching. Muscles I never knew existed are making their presence known by throbbing constantly. I feel bruised and battered and as though I’ve just done five rounds with Tyson and I’m so unbelievably tired and weary. Still I am one happy little lady and why? Well it’s all to do with the new man in my life.  

I said I didn’t do waiting. Least of all for a man. But my goodness good things certainly do come to those who wait. Leonardo Harrison Connolly, formerly known as Baby C and affectionately named Leo for short, is here at last, here safe and sound on the outside world and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at him without my heart melting and happy tears filling my eyes.  

Dearest blog and lovely, lovely followers, today’s entry will no doubt be an extremely soppy and emotional one, so I apologise in advance for making you sick, alas a combination of shock, exhaustion, overwhelming emotions and readjusting hormones have temporarily turned me a little hypersensitive.  

I hadn’t expected to experience this. Of course I knew I’d love him. But I hadn’t expected to fall so quickly. With his big sister I had been the opposite, fully expecting, from the moment I held her in my arms, to feel that sense of motherly love washing over me. Nobody had warned me that it might not have happened that way, that it might have taken a little longer for it to kick in. And it did take a little while for Lorelei and I. For the first few weeks we just plodded along getting to know each other before that love and that stronger-than-glue bond, that now exists between me and my amazing daughter, began to truly develop.  

So up until 2:19am on Saturday morning, I had sort of written the ‘love at first sight,’ instant Mother-Baby-bond off as all just a bit of a farce, something society had invented and yet another thing for a new mummy to feel guilty about. Yet now I can safely say that in some cases, not all of course, but some, it does happen just like it does in the movies. 

So anyway, enough of all the slushy stuff,  I know you’re waiting for me to cut to the chase and fill you in on all the details of Baby C’s journey. Well brace yourselves Ladies and Gents (especially you gents, I don’t want to  frighten you ;-) ) cos it was one hell of a ride! 

Well it all began, a mere hour or so after I’d published my last blog entry,  in a rather dramatic fashion actually, (now, come on, this is me we’re talking about, you didn’t expect it to be anything but dramatic did you?! Lol) I’d been sitting on our old office chair, breathing through the contractions and relaxing with one of my Mumma’s legendary back massages when I felt a sudden dampness on my seat. Now I am not in the habit of peeing my pants, (I’m very proud to announce) so of course I assumed that my waters had finally broken.  

I asked Jay to call the hospital so that they could send the midwife out. He explained that my waters had broken and spoke for a few minutes before hanging up. “They asked what colour your waters are?” Jay told me, (discoloured waters can sometimes indicate that the baby’s are in distress,) But I hadn’t even thought to look. So I stood up, wobbled a little, looked down and then I wobbled quite a lot. And got quite scared. And nearly cried actually. Because it wasn’t water at all that had drenched my chair. It was blood.  

Now I’m no expert on child birth at all, far from it, but I do know that loss of blood, especially lots of it, isn’t normal before the baby is born. And so of course I began to freak out. Just a tad.* 

I hate bringing gory details to your attention, I don’t want to frighten anyone with this story, but for the purpose of accuracy I’m not going to censor too much of this tale. So please read on with caution. 

In manner of a drunken tourettes sufferer crossed with a headless chicken I began to waddle around the house in a panic. I sat on the toilet and lost a further alarming amount of blood And an ambulance was called. 

The paramedics, armed with gas and air and boxes of supplies arrived almost as fast as they do on the telly, which was such a relief. They took my blood pressure, felt my pulse and kept me calm and a few moments later the midwife arrived too. I cracked a few jokes as I always do when I’m ridiculously frightened or nervous or something. I apologised to the poor midwife for my lack of underwear, (honestly, ‘I’m Steph, pleased to meet you, excuse my fanny’, just reminds you of how little dignity one can keep during child birth,) and silently I prayed.  

I knew it was serious. Mainly as Mum, despite her attempts to look calm and collected, was clearly shitting it. I heard her ask the midwife in hushed tones whether it was normal to lose that amount of blood.  The midwife, under no uncertain terms, replied, that no, it was not. 

I composed myself and blew kisses at my sleepy child as she was carried over to our neighbours house and then in my polka-dot nightie and enormous, fluffy slippers, (Sssshhh, don’t tell Gok.) I was led towards the blue flashing lights of the awaiting ambulance on the drive.  

I’m not sure whether it was from sheer fear or the pain of the increasingly strong contractions,  but pretty soon after we set off for the 20 min journey to the hospital I became re-acquainted with the wonders of entinox, (Gas and Air.) I puffed hard with each contraction and let myself relax in a state of dizziness whilst I tried to negotiate some kind of deal with the man upstairs. ‘Please don’t let me die.’ I said, ‘And I promise to be really good.’  

Baby wasn’t moving. I hadn’t felt him move for hours. Not even a little kick or a nudge. The midwife said she could hear his heart beating on her little Doppler thingy, but I still wasn’t at ease.  

The last time I’d been at Kettering General Hospital I had sworn never to return, and yet I found myself arriving in style, in my aforementioned outfit, laid flat on a stretcher, being wheeled by paramedics and clutching a cylinder of gas, but guess what? This time I didn’t have to wait to be seen at all. :-)  

Straight into my own room I was wheeled and within minutes I was introduced to a wonderful midwife with a lovely warm smile. They strapped me to a monitor where I got to hear my son’s heart beating steadily for myself and finally I managed to relax just long enough for the harsh realities of the task ahead to dawn on me like the brightest, sunniest morning after the heaviest  of nights out. 

They didn’t know what had caused the blood loss, but they decided to put a tube into my veins in case I needed urgent anaesthetic or something. (Do I sound like I know what I’m on about here? I really don’t lol) - That part hurt like hell. And was very, very messy as the guy forgot to screw the cap on properly and the blood squirted out like a fountain. I didn’t actually see it, but my darling husband has filled me in on all the gory details in the way that only boys can.  

At 12:15am the midwife examined me. And gave me the tragic news that I was only 3cms dilated. 3 measly cm’s, for those of you who haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about, is a little pathetic when it comes to dilation. The cervix needs to be dilated to 10 cm’s in diameter, (which sounds huge, but trust me, doesn’t feel it) before the baby’s head can pass through and  they reckon most women dilate about a centimetre an hour in labour. With 7cm’s to go it looked like we would be in for a long one and to sum it up, Mum, who had been providing me with 100% support and attention all the way through, chose that moment to go and get a coffee lol. 

So with the possibility of hours and hours ahead of us my lovely smiley midwife very kindly offered me some drugs which cheered me right up. The gas and air tube was still glued to my hand and providing me with enormous relief from the contractions but it would have been rude to decline a little extra. So Pethidine, (which was my saviour when in labour with Lorelei) was prepared for me.  I wouldn’t have necessarily chosen Pethidine and it wasn’t on my wish list the second time around because it had made me quite sick and Lorelei fairly sleepy when she was born, she’d not cried and had needed a slap on her bottom to get her to take her first big breath. —I’d worried Baby C would too be sleepy, but  the midwife assured me the effects of the Pethidine would have worn off by the time Baby C appeared.  

They added an anti-sickness drug to my cocktail of pain relief and injected it into my bottom and I scared the crap outta everyone in the room because I screamed louder than you could possibly imagine. ‘Bollocks!!!!’ Was the actual word I think I chose to scream in order to convey the ridiculously, crippling, stingy sensation of the drug as it was administered. Honestly it stung like a bee and the pain didn’t go for ages and ages. (It still sort of hurts now if truth be told lol) 

I’m sure at this point my smiley midwife thought she had a right old wimp on her hands, but I managed to claw it all back in the end.  

The warming effect of Pethidine is wonderful; so calming and relaxing, yet even with that tranquil sensation swimming through my body I could feel the strength of the contractions increasing by the second. That’s why it’s called ‘pain relief’ and not, ‘pain eraser.’ I can’t describe contractions to be honest but I can tell you that I had to remain focused through each and every one of them or I would have lost it all together and become quite hysterical.  

So I focused really hard on my breathing. Every time I felt my body begin to seize up with the pain I sucked hard on the gas and air and filled my lungs to the brim before exhaling slowly. I repeated this until the pain had gone and I could relax again for a few moments. And then later I found I needed more to focus on, so I came up with the genius idea of quoting lyrics to songs in my head to myself whilst I was breathing in.  

‘Flying without Wings,’ (which is a song that get’s right on my boobies but is one that Jay loves) was the main one. Everytime a contraction came a little voice in my head began to sing, ‘Everybody’s looking for that something . . .’ lol—so yes I had Gas and Air, Pethidine and Westlife as my pain relief during labour.  

Then I got that all too familiar urge. The one that all women get in labour. The urge to do a number two. Well, at least that’s what it feels like. Except the urge isn’t to do a poo at all, (thank goodness or we’d all end up ‘having accidents’ on the bed lol) Instead the urge is to begin to push the baby out.

I think this shocked everybody, except me. They thought the labour was going to be a long one, but I sort of sensed it would be quick and in a matter of an hour and a half I was all ready for take off :-) (How funny to be proud of something so odd.)  

And then my waters really did break. Like the Tidal Wave ride at Thorpe Park. A sudden gush and everything and every body was soaked. And I think I started to cry because I just knew at that moment that the pain was about to become unbearable.

The rest of the actual labour is a bit of a blur. In my head I see it all as a sort of flicker book. |A collection of images all flashing one after the other. Feelings of panic as I shouted, ‘I can’t do this . . .’ The sweat and heat of my hand gripping Jay’s. The hustle and bustle of the room as extra assistance was called for and uniforms came and went. The silver utensils and bowls and sheets and towels. The excitement. The adrenaline and the determination that I felt when I knew the entire situation was in my control. I was the only one that could do it. It was all down to me and the pain wouldn’t go until I pushed it away. 

I don’t know where the strength came from and I don’t mean to boast but I am once again in total awe of my body’s capabilities and the bravery and power that I never knew I had within. Bragging isn’t attractive. And I promise not to make a habit of it. But I think it should be said just the once. I. am the bollocks :-) lol  

When I tell you what he weighed I think you’ll agree, at the very least you’re gonna gasp . . . 8lb 14oz’s, just 2 weeny oz’s shy of a whopping 9lb(!!!) lol—But he doesn’t look it at all, he’s very dinky. And you know what? I don’t think it hurt any more than his big sister, who was over a whole pound lighter.  

Here is the point in my story where the euphoria kicked in. They put him straight onto my chest, his body warm and wet and tiny and tender and I fell head over high heels for him.  

I think the injection to help with the after birth came next. But I didn’t feel it because I was completely high. I was told it looked lovely, (personally I didn’t agree) and healthy, (must have been all that MacDonalds, chocolate and Ice lol) The cord was cut and shown to me, (it looked like a purply—coloured old fashioned telephone cord) and baby was whisked off for a little oxygen, (he had been born, as suspected, a little sleepy as the Pethidine effects just hadn’t had time to wear off.) 

Jay went out to the family room just down the hall to let his Mum know her Grandson had been born whilst my Mum and I remained in the labour room with the midwives and doctors. They poked and prodded me a little and then I heard the dreaded word, one that I had been petrified of. ‘Stitches.’ 

I wanted to hop off the bed then and there. To gather my things, put my pants on, grab my naked baby and head for the carpark, politely smiling and waving. ‘Thank you very much, but that won’t be necessary.’ I wanted to say. But they didn’t let me and before I knew it my bed had turned into something out of the transformers movie and my legs were up high in stirrups.  

By the time Jay came back and bubba was wrapped up I was like a rabbit caught in headlights. I didn’t know where to look. At the end of the bed, between my spread eagled legs was the doctor. Thread in one hand, needle in the other. The midwife carrying a ginormous torch as though she were going pot holing. Of course the doctor assured me I would be numbed and wouldn’t feel a thing. He would be injecting me with a very good pain killer. Tell that to my private parts mister, cos I’m not sure what’s worse? A Needle and thread or an injection down below? You decide. 

Of course I had to consider the consequences of not having the stitches. The prospect of my accidentally peeing myself on a regular basis in the future or simply my being a little out of shape down there was enough for me to grin and bear it. One final word on the matter right now before I erase the entire stitches ordeal from my memory for all eternity. And the word is OUCH.  

I suffered more after the birth I think then I actually did during the labour and I nearly kissed the doctor when he told me it was all over and I could now have a wonderful pain killer that would keep me relaxed and comfortable for over sixteen hours. But then you’d never believe what he said to me. He lifted the little capsule that marked the finale of my entire ordeal and cheerfully exclaimed, ’Right then, so I’ll just pop this up your back passage!’ What a wanker.  

So there you have it my friends. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Child birth is not pretty. It’s not dignified. It’s not glamorous and it’s not fun. But my goodness it is an utterly amazing experience and the reward you get at the end of it? Absolutely priceless.

I will be back with more updates but for now I want to tell you all I love you and am so grateful for your support and kind messages and everything. This blog means the world to me and you have no idea how therapeutic I find it, so thank you so much for reading. (Oh god these pesky hormones . . . I’ll be sobbing in a sec! lol) 

Lot’s of Love, once again! 

Steph x

Before I proceed with this extremely delayed update I should warn you, particularly if this is your first visit to my little blog, that today’s entry will almost definitely disappoint.  Of course under normal circumstances I am a very funny, witty and intelligent gal ;-) yet this blog entry, I fear, shall be void of any kind of wit or intelligence or humour.



My brain is a little numb, my body a little weary, and I’m a little grouchy. I’m slipping in and out of a depressing state which cannot be cured with manicures and chocolate (which is how I know it is the real thing and not just a ‘blue’ day) and I know that generally speaking depression isn’t contagious but I didn’t want to be responsible for making any of you lovely people suicidal :-)



Still, depressed or not, I owe you an explanation and an update and that is why I’m here, laptop resting on bump, flicking between my website and the ‘contractions master’ website and furiously tapping my freshly manicured nails against the keyboard.



My child is officially late. I’m gutted and gobsmacked. I never thought I’d reach week 40 of this pregnancy, let alone find myself one day overdue already. I assumed he’d be reliable and punctual like his Daddy. Alas he’s proved himself to be fashionably (and irritatingly) late just like his Mumma. So I only have myself to blame.



I went to see the Obstetrician last week. I asked him if I was actually pregnant at all or merely suffering the symptoms of a phantom pregnancy whilst eating too many pies. He told me that I am indeed pregnant. Though I still can’t quite believe him. I mean, sure I have lots of signs of a pregnant woman, the big bump, the spontaneous wriggles inside that bump, the ankles like tree trunks, Dolly Partons cleveage etc etc. Yet I still cannot believe that I will ever be a normal human being with a brand new baby to look after.



Whilst I sit here the size of a house I am all too aware that my buddies, also due babies in June are popping left, right and centre. Photographs of fresh babies are published on Facebook on a daily basis and Birth Announcements are hitting my mail box at the speed of lightening, (kinda like that Harry Potter Scene where the owls bombard the house with letters?)



Every day I receive messages from well wishers and excited friends, asking if there has been ‘any sign of baby yet?’ And the truth is that yes, there has been lots of signs. In fact I have more signs than the sodding M25 and the Ace of Base put together. I have signs coming out of my ears (not literally, though my ears seem to be the only body part that isn’t effected with signs.)  So yes, I am blessed with lot’s of crappy, painful signs but still no actual baby. And this is what I’m finding the hardest to deal with.



On a regular basis, (though not regular enough it would seem,) I am experiencing a sensation that I have concluded feels as though some kind of big snake (I don’t know much about big snakes so forgive me,) has made me it’s victim and is crushing my bump, chest, neck and back by coiling itself tightly around me. There it stays put for about a minute or so before it gradually releases me again. This has been occurring for over a week already.  Braxton Hicks, Tightenings, Contractions? Call them what you will. All I know is they’re nasty and they’re torturing me.



To be honest I think I’d be okay if it wasn’t for the fact that my body is constantly flashing all the right signals. I’m so unbelievably frightened of the task I have ahead of me, I grow more tense and scared and anxious with every minute of every day. I know ultimately that I’m the only one that can do this and I just wanna get this show on the road. And every time the contractions come thick and fast and I start to think it’s game on someone somewhere turns it all off again.  Okay, okay the pain? Bring it on. It’s the mental torture I can’t handle.



The good news, however, is that I managed to gain permission to have this baby here at home. I appealed against the decision, threw a bit of a wobbly (I didn’t mean to, alas the benefit of having so many crazy hormones flying around mean my tantrums, which are pretty effective anyway, are even more impressive at the moment lol) I’ve signed a declaration that basically states that in the event of my death my family won’t sue the crappy NHS and hey presto! Permission granted :-)



So we’re all ready to rock and roll! The midwives have dropped off some drugs already, my pool is ready to be filled, I have towels and buckets and candles and all sorts of other stuff. My Mum is here staying with us and so is my Mother-in-Law and my gorgeous husband is eagerly awaiting his paternity leave.



So where . . . Oh where . . . Is the star of this show?? COME ON baby!!



Today I took my fourth dose of the dreaded Castor Oil, which is just evidence of my utter desperation. This time though the midwife actually recommended it. I’m suffering the effects now, the cramps and contractions are almost unbearable yet I shall not complain. Pain is good right now, (I never thought I’d say that!! Lol) Just so long as they don’t subside before Baby C makes his debut.



Please, please send me some luck, I’ll be eternally grateful.



I’ll try and write tomorrow, even if it’s just a brief update.



Steph x

Now before I continue I would just like to state, for the record, that I am ordinarily a very good girl with a very pure mind 0:-)

It is therefore necessary that I warn you that the contents of today’s blog may shock and/or disgust some. (And at the very least it may leave you with an icky taste in your mouth. No pun intended.)



Please continue to read with caution and if you happen to be a relative of mine, (particularly an older relative—Mum, Dad, Nan, etc) please refrain from reading any further. Otherwise family BBQ’s may never be the same again.



You see, ladies and gentlemen, today’s letter is ‘S’ and the topic is ‘Sperm.’



(You see Dad, told you you wouldn’t want to read it!)



In keeping with my ‘GET THIS BABY OUTTA ME,’ experiment I have found myself stumbling upon sperm, (not literally, thank god!) as yet another method of naturally inducing labour.  You’ve heard it all before no doubt, how ‘getting jiggy’ is a sure-fire way of kick starting contractions?! Well it turns out that this method is less about the love sword and more about the nuts, (the tadpoles to be more specific.)



For the purpose of my experiment I have decided to investigate the theory a little further.—So if you wouldn’t mind holding my bag ladies, I’m going in. ;-)



I’ve conducted a fair amount of research for today’s blog, (can I get an, ‘Oooooohhhh’ ?!) - Not practical , nor oral research, (though I fear that part is *ahem* coming,)  but certainly a fair amount of scientific research in theory, so I’m hoping you are suitably impressed with this, since, as you know, I am not a scientific kinda gal. But you see I felt it was necessary to gather the facts before I go recommending you hook up with any old Tom, Dick or Harry in order to get yourself into labour. (You see, I am so caring and lovely.)



At risk of sounding like a bimbo in a shampoo advert, here is the science part . . .

Semen contains hormones known as prostaglandins which help ripen the cervix and thus make it dilate, (the cervix needs to dilate to around 10cm’s for the baby to pass through.) If you’re past your due date your doctor would probably use a prostaglandin gel to get you started. It’s the exact same hormone as found in semen. :-)



It is thought that ingesting the er spunk (is it odd that I am making myself blush with these words??! Lol) is even more effective in helping the cervix soften than actually applying in topically.



So there you have it, it would seem that the answer to all my personal prayers could be ready and waiting in my husbands pants. (Wipe that smile from your face now please darling, thank you.) ;-)



Unfortunately though there is very little evidence to show how effective this method of inducing labour is, because apparently, (and I’m not sure I can quite believe this) - the method of using semen to start labour hasn’t been tested enough.  (Are they serious??! Not tested enough?? Is there a pregnant woman in the world who hasn’t tried to straddle her man in an attempt to get his creation to vacate her body?! Ah well, apparently not, according to the experts.)



Clearly we are going to have to take matters into our own hands ladies. YES. There is only one thing to be done . . . And it is in the interest of generating World Peace (amongst heavily pregnant women, their partners, families, friends and any other poor soul that has to put up with the whinging.)



And so if I could invite you all one-by-one to put down your Gaviscon, stand on your poor swollen footsies, grab your man, (or any man for that matter) and come forth . . .  (I am aware that this post is littered with all kinds of innuendoes and for that I apologise lol)



This appeal is for pregnant ladies everywhere to um, (how to put this . . . ?!) please, for the good of the group, include a little semen into your diets. That’s right girls, semen on toast, semen in tea. Whichever way you like it. Let us get these baby’s outta us, one for all and all for one! And, just as The Beatles once suggested, let us sing at the tops of our voices, ‘Come Together, Right Now . . . Over me!’



(I told you this blog post would leave you with an icky taste in your mouth! - I’m so so sorry! And if it’s any consolation I feel sick now too!!)



Please remember to use my comment form to post your success rates and of course any other tips you’d like to add! (Recipes perhaps?!) You can report back anonymously should you wish, just as long as we all know the results of our very scientific project.



Go forth ladies and good luck! Report back with progress :-) (And I will too of course!)



With Love (and toothpaste on hand.)



Steph x



P.S—If you do decide that to conduct your experiment in the conventional way, (by humping) please be aware that orgasm and nipple stimulation is also meant to kick-start contractions too :-)

I wish I could blame my recent absence from my blog on the success of my GTBOM experiment and thus my baby’s arrival into the outside world. Alas I cannot. I am still full to the brim of baby, (growing by the minute too I might add) and this little one seemingly has no intentions on making his debut. Ever.

I’m always promising to tell the truth, the whole truth and *nothing but the truth in this blog, so despite feeling very guilty for being the bearer of such pessimistic news I feel it is my duty to inform you that the pineapple theory, on which my previous GTBOM experiment was based, has proven to be an absolute load of bollocks (for want of a better word.)

 I hate pissing on everyone’s fireworks and I so wanted the pineapple to do the trick . . . (Maybe I didn’t eat enough?! I don’t know.) I wanted to provide hope for my fellow waddling pregnant women, so I am very sorry, but do not fear, I shall keep trying :-)

As well as the constant remarks about my size and shape and the pats on the bump that I receive daily, (sometimes from complete strangers too) I am constantly asked the question, ’How long have you got to go?’  I loathe it, mainly because it is almost always followed by a comment that makes me really f’ing mad. (Note the need for the f word.) The comment in question?

‘Ah well, there’s nothing you can do about it anyway, baby will come when it’s ready.’

‘Baby will come when it’s ready??!!’ FFS. I know that these comments aren’t meant to drive me nuts (and it’s probably just my hormones that have me so riled anyway,) but this one in particular really grinds my gears. ‘Baby will come when it’s ready.’ Now call me what you will but I can’t help but think I am the parent, the birth-giver, the mother and therefore the boss. So I will decide when this baby comes out, thank you kindly.

Do I sound like a control freak?! I’m not normally. But boy does it wind me up. Even though I secretly suspect that they’re right, there is nothing I can do to determine when this baby comes, he will come when he’s ready. But you know what? Sometimes honesty isn’t always the best policy. And in my case they can save the truth, I’d much rather hear lies anyway. Gimme the old wives tales, a little light at the end of the tunnel and something to keep my mind busy and occupied whilst I play this waiting game, save your facts for someone who needs a kick when they’re down.

I have five days to go until I’m 38 weeks and therefore allowed to have my baby here at home. So I’m keeping my fingers (and legs, though that may be perhaps a little too much information for some) crossed that he will stay put until then. All experiments will officially recommence on the 4th June but until then I am trying to inject a little patience into the matter.

Whilst I am practising my patience I also have a another baby-related mission to accomplish. I need to turn him around. He’s not breech, (thank goodness) his head is indeed in the right place and ready for action, but instead of facing me, which is the optimal position for labour, he has his back to mine and all his limbs are front-facing. This, combined with my, ‘irritable uterus,’ (this is a real medical condition apparently—how typical of me to have it lol) is the main cause of all the Braxton Hicks contractions and other pains I’ve been getting.

I’ve heard I need to spend a considerable amount of time on-all-fours in order to get him to swing his little body round the right way. Alas can only think of two things that require one to be on all fours. The first is scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors, (not on your nelly mate) and the second is, well, you probably already know . . . (again, not on your nelly mate lol) ;-)



Yoga, swimming, laying on my left-hand side, swaying on my birth ball and sitting the wrong-way-round on my chair are all other activities I’m gonna try out, (of course will also welcome suggestions!)



If I can’t turn him I’m reckoning we’re in for one hell of a ride on the old labour train. It’s supposed to take double the time and be double the work giving birth to a back-to-back baby. Oh god help me . . . Perhaps I should go with the epidural after all ;-)



Wish me luck as I crawl around my house!



Love to all!



Steph x

 

TIME: 6:50pm ~ LOCATION: Lounge ~ BABY: In Tummy.

Project: 'GET THIS BABY OUTTA ME.' commences.

Am in sticky mess tucking into my fresh pineapple. Have had tightenings (prob just Braxton Hicks) for the past 5/6 hours or so, very irregular, very annoying.

Half pineapple has been scoffed. Working on the other half as I type . . .

Wish me luck!

Back in a bit! x

TIME: 7:50pm ~ LOCATION: Lounge ~ BABY: Still In Tummy

All pineapple been consumed, (except for hard bits, yuk - and the odd chunk donated very kindly by me to my darling husband, aren't I so sweet?) Felt a bit sick at first, but it's all good now. Braxton Hicks are still coming on strong and now have backache too. Will continue to time the tightenings and update as soon as! (Unless of course baby comes flying out at the speed of lightening! (Ha, I should be so lucky!) )

x

Warning: The following blog has been posted by a nutty woman with barely a brain cell in her vacant mind. The content of this post therefore could very meaningless indeed.

My social life is currently being conducted in a very 21st century manner. That is to say virtually all social interactions i am having lately have been via the wonderful world of the world wide web. My fingers are officially doing the talking and my brain is feeling a little numb today. I am so uber modern and chic ;-)

I've always been a Net junkie, (confession: I am secretly a bit of a geek too, don't be fooled by the rocks that I got - cos this diva even knows a little HTML - shocker! lol) - I usually begin my day with a cuppa (two Weetabix smothered in way too much sugar - accompanies my this whilst I am pregnant and trying to combat Morning Sickness,) and Facebook is officially my homepage and therefore the first port of call as soon as I fire up my trusty laptop in the mornings.

Lately as well as FB (and of courseTwitter, which is still fairly new to me but highly addictive nevertheless) I am also a big fan and a regular virtual visitor of a pregnancy and parenting website Babycentre.

Ordinarily I love my trips to Babycentre - they tell me all about my bod and baby and the homepage is customised to match my specific stage of pregnancy, and furthermore there is an enormous community of ladies to chat to, all of whom are expecting their bubba's in the same month as me!

It used to be that BC was a haven of serenity whereby one can ask questions on all manner of subjects and will recieve lots of advice and words of wisdom from others. We discuss highly important subjects, such as what we've had for breakfast and what we're going to have for tea and in the middle of the night, when we're up with heartburn, braxton hicks contractions or mad cravings for cheese there is always someone else online ready to offer sympathy, advice, virtual hugs or just plenty of "rotflmao"'s.

But that was then. Now it seems BC has been transported right smack bang to the middle of the set of the Jeremy Kyle show.

It's so complicated, and so frustrating. And I'm sure I don't know exactly how it all kicked off, not every single fact or anything but I do know that lots and lots of us have become victims of bitches on power trips and I'm not happy about it.

We had a troll a few weeks back, not a lovely little cute troll with whippy hair and a wrinkly face (although this description could be quite apt, i'm not entirely sure) but a mean Cyber Troll. - 'She' (or 'he' or 'it' - again cannot be sure) began posting horrible messages that left many of us vulnerable and hormonal women feeling devestated, worried, anxious and powerless - posts about how she 'was suicidal,' and 'had taken lots of pills to kill herself and her baby,' etc - I read lots of them, i genuinely believed they were true, (I was quite innocent to the crimes of Cyber Trolls) and I got quite upset by all that i read, as most of the other ladies did.

When it became apparent that we were victims of a lying freak and we tried to complain to the BC authorities we were pretty much ignored. So some of us posters decided to warn other members by subtly pointing the troll out and suddenly all hell broke loose.

The moderators and admins in control of the boards on BC decided that 'Freedom of Speech,' should be a thing of the past and they began to closely monitor everything that we were discussing. If any of us dared to mention the troll our posts were automatically deleted, without any reasons or explanations at all. Later journal posts were deleted, this of course provoked a strong reaction from us hormonal (and therefore occasinally nutty - i'm speaking for myself here) mummies-to-be - as it became apparent that we're not allowed to share our opinions on being lied to by a troll, or indeed being governed by a power-happy admin. We were allowed to discuss nipples, nappies and water works, but mention being disgruntled by missing posts or journal entires and you run the risk of having all conversations erased.

People began to wonder what was going on, but nobody could tell them, not unless you typed in some kind of code and just hoped they'd be able to translate before the admin team, and when people starting to defend each others posts, (i.e question why a post had been deleted) the admins and moderators began to get even bigger for their cyber boots and progressed to deleting peoples entire profiles. You are an opinionated link. Goodbye.

We, rebellious (and by 'rebellious' i simply mean with minds of our own,) ladies have been discussing these actions in our secret FB group where a very nasty message from one of these admins, (in which she states how 'scared she is by the thought that we will all soon be responsible for new life . . . ') was published for all to see. I bought it to the attention of the other ladies on BC and for that I sneakily suspect my own profile will be amongst those on the banned list.

Why I am allowing myself to be so frustrated by something happening in a virtual world is beyond me, yet I have been following the antics today with such intensity I feel as though I have been in court on the jury of a murder case or something.

I'm so tense and pent up with stress that my shoulders have gone stiff and my finger hurt from such violent typing, (I type very loudly and incredibly fast when I'm pissed off) -  I'm definitely in need of a massage, will need to work on powers of persuasion and bat my eye lashes later at the boy ;-)

You made it this far and for that i salute you! I shall also put you out of your misery by stating that I'm done ranting now. And breath. ;-)

I love you for listening!

Steph x

(Nutty and hormonal - yet fabulous neverthless!)

 

And the further it falls the heavier the weight plunging to the depths of my stomach. The nerves, the anxiety, the sheer fear.  

I'm going to have a baby. Oh. My. God.

Have I been in denial this whole time?? I suppose not, I mean I've been counting the days for months now (36 left) yes D Day is definitely approaching and yet it's only just dawning on me that with it comes a little parcel that'll change life forever as we know it in this household. 

I've thought a lot about how this little person is going to make his entrance. Thoughts of labour, of birthing pools, of contractions and pain relief have been permanantly occupying my brain lately. I've prepared myself for, (and indeed am looking forward to,) becomming a 'single' human being again. Being able to sleep on my tummy, having a few, much-missed, drinkies and of course wearing my high heels again, but funilly enough I think i've overlooked the very valid point that at the end of this pregnancy comes a baby.

I should be an old pro by now. Afterall I took on this very same challenge when I had my daughter at 20. Yet 5 years have passed since then, with one pregnancy ending in miscarriage at 12 weeks and another ending in total tragedy at the half-way mark, and I suppose I've just been so occupied by getting through an entire pregnancy that the thought of bringing a new baby into our world has been pushed to the back of my mind.

I should be confident, quietly assured that I've spent the past 5 years raising a bubba, so can easily do it all again. Deep down though, I'm not afraid to admit that I am, (for the purpose of emphasis) totally shitting bricks here.

I know what's coming. It's all returning to me now. Crystal clear memories of the challenges and hurdles that I'm facing. The sleepless nights. The constant crying. The painful boobs. The baby blues. There will be no 'off' button. No instructions. And I'm going to be, once again, completely responsible for a brand new life. Just Jay and I, with our little helper Lori. And together we have to make this whole thing work.

Perhaps it's a good thing that I'm being realistic about this. I mean I know it's not going to be all rosy. I'm kinda prepared, if not expecting, for it to be tough. Unlike the last time round when the harsh realities of life with a newborn sent my preconcieved fantasies of maternal bliss tumbling to the ground. 

It's far better to be realistic than to set myself up for a fall, right? Or should I be thinking in a glass is half-full manner? Maybe positivity will be key?

Ooooh heck, help me!

Can i really do this all over again? Will i cope okay? How about when Jay goes back to work and it's just me and my new creation?

I know, i know, i should have thought about all this beforehand. Preferably nine months ago. But you see losing Harry, just 6 weeks before falling pregnant with his sibling has kinda thrown me just a tad. I was supposed to have my baby at Christmas, instead i have had the worlds longest pregnancy (well almost) and I couldn't really visualise the end, until now.

Well only time will tell I suppose. Wish me lots of luck though won't you? Just in case ;-)

Steph x

I wake almost every morning to an increasingly familiar sight. Last nights clothes strewn across the floor, the sheets crumpled, the pillows laying half-way down the bed. Oh yes ladies and gents, there has indeed been a lot of action between my sheets of late, though not, I hasten to add, of the most exciting nature.  

I cannot sleep, for love, nor money at this precise moment in time. Despite sharing my slumber space with two giant pillows, two cushions propped between my legs, (to ease the backache) and a specially wedged shape foamy thing, I spend the entire night tossing and turning. I’m getting out of bed, sitting, drinking water and squirming like an irritable toddler all night long. And the main culprit for my lack of sleep has nothing to do with enormous bump. Nope. It’s my naughty legs that are at fault.

 

You see, try as I might, (and I do try) I simply cannot keep my legs still. I’m overcome with the urge to wriggle them, or kick them, or just generally keep them moving—and a lot of the time I’m not even aware that I’m doing it, it’s as though they have developed minds of their own. It would seem however, that despite the randomness of this complaint I am not alone in my suffering. In fact I’ve since learnt that up to 15% of all pregnant women develop this complaint in their third trimesters and there is even a name for this condition. It’s called, ‘Restless Leg Syndrome.’ Don’t laugh!!

 

‘Restless Leg Syndrome.’ Sounds totally made up doesn’t it?! But I shit you not, it’s up there with all the other syndromes, (‘Unable to stop shoe-shopping syndrome,’ why has that one not been invented, huh?!) And it is just another weird and wonderful delight of pregnancy. Which brings me neatly to my chosen topic of the day.

 

Today, not only in the interest of generating as much sympathy as possible from you lovely, lovely people, but also to amuse you greatly, I thought I’d share some completely bizarre and random facts that I have learnt regarding growing babies and all that pregnancy entails!

 

So here goes . . .

 

Number one: (And I’m only listing this to set the record straight for those who didn’t know.) Morning sickness lasts all day.

 

Sorry, that one wasn’t all that amusing or interesting at all was it?! I’ll try to do better with my second.

 

Number two: According to a TIME magazine article published in 1945, the longest pregnancy on record lasted for an entire 375 days (12 Months, 1 week and 3 days) - Poor, poor woman!! (Please god, don’t let this happen to us!) Amazingly the bubba in question only weighed 6lb something!

 

Number three: More babies are conceived in November and December than any other months! (Make of this what you will!)

 

Number four: Apparently (and this is really quite disgusting so I apologise if it makes you feel sick!) some pople actually drink urine from pregnant women as it helps to build better immune systems.

 

Number five: The first known contraceptive was crocodile dung, used by the Egyptians (and I’m not sure how?!) in 2000 B.C

 

Number six: During pregnancy, the average woman’s uterus expands up to five hundred times it’s normal size. (And still you cannot balance on it for fun!)

 

Number seven: Babies born in May are on average 200 grams heavier than babies born in other months.

 

Number eight: According to Chinese custom, sex during pregnancy is absolutely forbidden.

 

Any other random facts? Send em my way!

 

In the meantime I’m off to eat some ice!

 

Steph x