Monday 6 January 2014
Year of The Dylan
I don't have time to finish (or indeed, even start) this post because as I type, my son is sitting on the floor in front of me, covered in chunks of mango and rice cake, crying because I've got a bigger laptop than him, rubbing mango into the carpet and filling his nappy.
Thursday 30 May 2013
HERE COMES THE SON!
My induction date FINALLY arrived after what felt like about 4 years of waiting. I was so excited the night before I went into hospital that I only got about an hour of sleep. If I'd known how little sleep I was going to get over the next few days, I probably would have tried a bit harder to settle down!
We went into hospital armed with our overnight bags, books and snacks at 8 in the morning on Friday 5th April. A midwife showed us to the delivery room and ran through the procedure with me. I was a bit shocked to learn it could take up to 3 DAYS for the induction to work! The thought of still not having met my baby by Sunday night made me want to start fires. I was already 8 days overdue.
The midwife started the induction at 11am (I won't go into how - there's no need for that) and said that labour would hopefully kick in fairly soon - I was expecting something to happen that afternoon. She encouraged us to have a long walk round the hospital to help get it started, so we walked up and down the corridors, and sat in Costa with our coffees for about 3 hours before eventually making our way back up to the delivery room.
At about 8pm, my dad, Fi and Jude came up to visit. They weren't allowed in the delivery room, so we sat outside in the corridor on the floor, passing round the easter eggs and fudge my dad had bought me. By the time they left at 10ish, I was fairly certain that what I thought was trapped wind was actually the beginning of labour, and started to get excited. When I got back to the delivery room, the midwives had changed shifts, and the new midwife seemed friendly, offering us teas and coffees, and asking me to let her know as soon as I needed anything.
My contractions hadn't got any stronger by 11pm - at least, not according to the monitor I was hooked up to. I asked Ben to time them on his phone in between doing the crosswords. They were all erratic. I'd have one or two very close together, then none for about 15 minutes. The midwife seemed to think I'd get nowhere fast, and asked my mum and Ben to go home so I could 'get some rest'. I felt like laughing in her face. There was absolutely no way I was going to sleep through the contractions!
Mum and Ben weren't keen on leaving, either. It seemed ridiculous to send both my birth partners home when something was actually happening - if I'd been at home and gone into labour naturally, I'd have them with me, so what difference did it make, being in the hospital? The midwife was insistent though, and said that they ought to try and sleep as well, since tomorrow was going to be a big day. She gave me some Temazepan to help me sleep, and Mum and Ben reluctantly left, promising they'd come back as soon as I was in what the hospital considered 'established' labour.
That time came and went though, without anyone at the hospital letting them know.The midwife kept insisting I should go to bed, I couldn't imagine anything worse than just lying there, so I got up and bounced on the birthing ball I found in the cupboard until she came back and asked what I was doing up. I could tell she was getting a bit pissed off with me. She just wanted an easy shift, and I was getting in the way, being all in labour and stuff. She offered me pethedine, which I refused. I'd heard from loads of women that had been given it, including my mum, that it could make you feel really sick and out of control. So then she said she'd run me a bath. She went off to run it and then left.
While I was waiting for the water to cool down (she only ran the hot tap), I looked down and realised the floor and my nightie was covered in blood. When I called her back, she seemed completely unconcerned and said it was just my show. I knew it wasn't - it wasn't supposed to look like that, besides, I'd already had the show a week before. I told her I felt like I needed to push, and she said she thought I was just scared, and that I ought to just get in the bath, so I did and she left again.
After I somehow managed to get myself out the bath, I called the midwife back again, because the urge to push hadn't gone away and I was scared I'd give birth without my mum or Ben being there. She offered me pethedine again, and this time I said yes, feeling out of options. I have no idea what happened after that. I don't remember them giving it to me, or whether I was awake or asleep until my waters broke at 4am. I snapped back into life long enough to call the midwife back. A different midwife came in. I remember her saying 'Margaret's on her tea break, dear'. I thought, never mind your fucking tea, I'm in established labour now, call my mum! She went off to find Margaret (I wasn't going to mention her name, in case someone knew her, but never mind), but whether or not anyone came back to check on me is a mystery, because I had no idea what was going on. I wanted to call my mum myself, but my phone was on the bedside table, and I couldn't get up and reach it. It felt like the table was miles away.
At about 8am (I think), another midwife called Jenny had just started her shift and came in to check how dialated I was. I heard her say 'oh, blimey', and tell someone else in the room - god knows who - that I was 8cm dialated. She went off to call my mum and Ben, and mum suddenly appeared in the room. She was already in the lift up to the ward when she got the call. I practically collapsed with relief when she turned up. I asked Jenny if I could have an epidural, since that was my birth plan, and she said 'eeerm...' and reckoned I could do it without one, probably thinking it was too late. I reckoned otherwise. I went mental, and so did my mum - she was saying 'It's on her birth plan! She's had pericarditis, she needs it, give it to her!!'. She went off to get the anaesthetist and Ben turned up, looking a bit shocked at the state I was in.
The epidural didn't work - it had been left too late. All it did was give me cramp in my legs. I hadn't given much thought to the possibility that it wouldn't work when I was pregnant, so the pain was a complete shock. I asked for a cesarean, but Jenny just kept saying 'you don't need it, you're doing so well'. Was I hell. About an hour of pushing went by with no sign of the baby. I basically gave up. I was a mess. I'd had this image of my birthing experience being all calm and relaxed - nice music in the background, no screaming, no crying or anything. I couldn't have been more wrong! I was making noises I didn't even realise were coming from me. I threw up on myself a couple of times, I swore, I yelled, I apologised for swearing (apparently) and then carried on yelling. Mum, Ben and Jenny were laughing at how, as soon as a contraction eased off, I'd be all smiley and relaxed again, take a sip of water, have a little chat, then suddenly start screaming again. I asked Jenny to use forceps, because I'd completely had enough after nearly 2 hours of pushing. A doctor came and put me on a drip to make the contractions stronger, then decided I didn't need forceps after all, so that was extra pain for no reason. Jenny said she could see the head, and that the baby had a little bit of hair. She went and put her gloves on and I went for it.
After just over 2 hours of pushing, at 12.04 I finally heard Jenny say 'right, the heads out!', and then Ben and my mum crying and saying 'oh my god, I can see it!'. She told me to stop pushing for a second, then all of a sudden I had a baby plopped onto my chest! We all burst into tears. He looked absolutely perfect. I was completely overwhelmed with love and relief! I'd wanted to call him Dylan, and he certainly looked like one to me, so Dylan it was.
My phone started ringing about 30 seconds later - it was my dad, calling to see if there'd been any progress. Perfect timing! Ben picked it up tried to tell dad the baby was out, but we were all too emotional to make much sense. I heard dad say 'I'm coming down now!'. Then the midwives took Dylan off my chest to clean him up. He wasn't crying, just sort of whimpering. I didn't realise at the time as I was so out of it, but he had mucus in his throat and wasn't breathing. I'm glad I didn't know, because I would have been beside myself. I just thought they were doing the Apgar score until the room was suddenly filled with doctors and they were saying things like 'code blue'. They wouldn't tell me what was going on, and I didn't know what had happened until they got him breathing again, wrapped him in a blanket and gave him to Ben to cuddle while they stitched me up. They took him off to a paediatrician for about half an hour while I was being cleaned up, and thankfully, he was absolutely fine. All the panic subsided. Now I just got to enjoy being a mummy to this amazing little bundle of baby! <3
We went into hospital armed with our overnight bags, books and snacks at 8 in the morning on Friday 5th April. A midwife showed us to the delivery room and ran through the procedure with me. I was a bit shocked to learn it could take up to 3 DAYS for the induction to work! The thought of still not having met my baby by Sunday night made me want to start fires. I was already 8 days overdue.
The midwife started the induction at 11am (I won't go into how - there's no need for that) and said that labour would hopefully kick in fairly soon - I was expecting something to happen that afternoon. She encouraged us to have a long walk round the hospital to help get it started, so we walked up and down the corridors, and sat in Costa with our coffees for about 3 hours before eventually making our way back up to the delivery room.
At about 8pm, my dad, Fi and Jude came up to visit. They weren't allowed in the delivery room, so we sat outside in the corridor on the floor, passing round the easter eggs and fudge my dad had bought me. By the time they left at 10ish, I was fairly certain that what I thought was trapped wind was actually the beginning of labour, and started to get excited. When I got back to the delivery room, the midwives had changed shifts, and the new midwife seemed friendly, offering us teas and coffees, and asking me to let her know as soon as I needed anything.
My contractions hadn't got any stronger by 11pm - at least, not according to the monitor I was hooked up to. I asked Ben to time them on his phone in between doing the crosswords. They were all erratic. I'd have one or two very close together, then none for about 15 minutes. The midwife seemed to think I'd get nowhere fast, and asked my mum and Ben to go home so I could 'get some rest'. I felt like laughing in her face. There was absolutely no way I was going to sleep through the contractions!
Mum and Ben weren't keen on leaving, either. It seemed ridiculous to send both my birth partners home when something was actually happening - if I'd been at home and gone into labour naturally, I'd have them with me, so what difference did it make, being in the hospital? The midwife was insistent though, and said that they ought to try and sleep as well, since tomorrow was going to be a big day. She gave me some Temazepan to help me sleep, and Mum and Ben reluctantly left, promising they'd come back as soon as I was in what the hospital considered 'established' labour.
That time came and went though, without anyone at the hospital letting them know.The midwife kept insisting I should go to bed, I couldn't imagine anything worse than just lying there, so I got up and bounced on the birthing ball I found in the cupboard until she came back and asked what I was doing up. I could tell she was getting a bit pissed off with me. She just wanted an easy shift, and I was getting in the way, being all in labour and stuff. She offered me pethedine, which I refused. I'd heard from loads of women that had been given it, including my mum, that it could make you feel really sick and out of control. So then she said she'd run me a bath. She went off to run it and then left.
While I was waiting for the water to cool down (she only ran the hot tap), I looked down and realised the floor and my nightie was covered in blood. When I called her back, she seemed completely unconcerned and said it was just my show. I knew it wasn't - it wasn't supposed to look like that, besides, I'd already had the show a week before. I told her I felt like I needed to push, and she said she thought I was just scared, and that I ought to just get in the bath, so I did and she left again.
After I somehow managed to get myself out the bath, I called the midwife back again, because the urge to push hadn't gone away and I was scared I'd give birth without my mum or Ben being there. She offered me pethedine again, and this time I said yes, feeling out of options. I have no idea what happened after that. I don't remember them giving it to me, or whether I was awake or asleep until my waters broke at 4am. I snapped back into life long enough to call the midwife back. A different midwife came in. I remember her saying 'Margaret's on her tea break, dear'. I thought, never mind your fucking tea, I'm in established labour now, call my mum! She went off to find Margaret (I wasn't going to mention her name, in case someone knew her, but never mind), but whether or not anyone came back to check on me is a mystery, because I had no idea what was going on. I wanted to call my mum myself, but my phone was on the bedside table, and I couldn't get up and reach it. It felt like the table was miles away.
At about 8am (I think), another midwife called Jenny had just started her shift and came in to check how dialated I was. I heard her say 'oh, blimey', and tell someone else in the room - god knows who - that I was 8cm dialated. She went off to call my mum and Ben, and mum suddenly appeared in the room. She was already in the lift up to the ward when she got the call. I practically collapsed with relief when she turned up. I asked Jenny if I could have an epidural, since that was my birth plan, and she said 'eeerm...' and reckoned I could do it without one, probably thinking it was too late. I reckoned otherwise. I went mental, and so did my mum - she was saying 'It's on her birth plan! She's had pericarditis, she needs it, give it to her!!'. She went off to get the anaesthetist and Ben turned up, looking a bit shocked at the state I was in.
The epidural didn't work - it had been left too late. All it did was give me cramp in my legs. I hadn't given much thought to the possibility that it wouldn't work when I was pregnant, so the pain was a complete shock. I asked for a cesarean, but Jenny just kept saying 'you don't need it, you're doing so well'. Was I hell. About an hour of pushing went by with no sign of the baby. I basically gave up. I was a mess. I'd had this image of my birthing experience being all calm and relaxed - nice music in the background, no screaming, no crying or anything. I couldn't have been more wrong! I was making noises I didn't even realise were coming from me. I threw up on myself a couple of times, I swore, I yelled, I apologised for swearing (apparently) and then carried on yelling. Mum, Ben and Jenny were laughing at how, as soon as a contraction eased off, I'd be all smiley and relaxed again, take a sip of water, have a little chat, then suddenly start screaming again. I asked Jenny to use forceps, because I'd completely had enough after nearly 2 hours of pushing. A doctor came and put me on a drip to make the contractions stronger, then decided I didn't need forceps after all, so that was extra pain for no reason. Jenny said she could see the head, and that the baby had a little bit of hair. She went and put her gloves on and I went for it.
After just over 2 hours of pushing, at 12.04 I finally heard Jenny say 'right, the heads out!', and then Ben and my mum crying and saying 'oh my god, I can see it!'. She told me to stop pushing for a second, then all of a sudden I had a baby plopped onto my chest! We all burst into tears. He looked absolutely perfect. I was completely overwhelmed with love and relief! I'd wanted to call him Dylan, and he certainly looked like one to me, so Dylan it was.
My phone started ringing about 30 seconds later - it was my dad, calling to see if there'd been any progress. Perfect timing! Ben picked it up tried to tell dad the baby was out, but we were all too emotional to make much sense. I heard dad say 'I'm coming down now!'. Then the midwives took Dylan off my chest to clean him up. He wasn't crying, just sort of whimpering. I didn't realise at the time as I was so out of it, but he had mucus in his throat and wasn't breathing. I'm glad I didn't know, because I would have been beside myself. I just thought they were doing the Apgar score until the room was suddenly filled with doctors and they were saying things like 'code blue'. They wouldn't tell me what was going on, and I didn't know what had happened until they got him breathing again, wrapped him in a blanket and gave him to Ben to cuddle while they stitched me up. They took him off to a paediatrician for about half an hour while I was being cleaned up, and thankfully, he was absolutely fine. All the panic subsided. Now I just got to enjoy being a mummy to this amazing little bundle of baby! <3
The Home Stretch - Due Date to Delivery Date
As anyone with children would probably agree, the last couple of weeks before your due date are the longest you'll ever experience. Now I was on maternity leave, and had no midwife appointments or scans left to attend, I was starting to climb the walls at home.
At my 38 week appointment, my midwife was all excited for me when I said I'd been having niggling pains in my tummy and back. She measured my bump (still not following the growth chart as it should be) and commented on how low it was, meaning the baby's head was probably engaged. She was going on holiday the week after, and reckoned I'd have already had the baby by the time she got back.
She was wrong. Week 39 and 40 came and went with no sign of the bubba. I passed the time by arranging all of the clothes in the baby unit by order of size, making cakes, going for walks and - mostly- lying on the sofa watching How I Met Your Mother. Ben and I went on about 5 'last' dates, each time thinking it would be a while before we'd have a chance to go out again. I did the most cleaning and nesting I've ever done in my life, and made sure we were all stocked up on teabags and biscuits for when visitors came. I also started writing the first couple of entries of this blog :)
Every time I called Ben or my mum, they'd pick the phone up saying 'You ok?! Is he coming?! Where are you?!!'. I'd have to start texts by saying 'Hi, don't worry, not in labour!'. And whenever I got the slightest twinge of pain, said 'oof!' when I sat down on the sofa or 'aah!' when I felt the baby kick, they'd look at me and raise their eyebrows as if to say 'Is it time?'. The night before my due date, I said goodnight to my mum and went upstairs to bed. I came down about 5 minutes later to get a glass of water and heard my mum say to her boyfriend 'Oooh, she's coming downstairs, something's happening!'. She was a bit disappointed when I told her I was just thirsty!
I woke up every morning feeling a bit grumpy that nothing had happened in the night. I was having so many braxton hicks contractions, I started not bothering to tell anyone when I felt them as I was so sure they were fake.
I had the 'show' on Saturday 30th March - 2 days after my due date. I went totally mental with excitement and called my mum, relieved to finally have something to tell her. I was about to go out for breakfast with Ben at the time, and wasn't sure whether to still go or not. It was a good thing I did in the end, because absolutely bugger all happened all day after that. Or the next day, or the day after. The 1st April came and went, so I lost my own bet there. I started getting pretty wound up. Where the hell was this baby?! Every birth story I'd heard had started with the show, followed quickly by first stage labour. It had been 3 days of diddly squat. My induction date was on Friday 6th, but that seemed like a million years away...
At my 38 week appointment, my midwife was all excited for me when I said I'd been having niggling pains in my tummy and back. She measured my bump (still not following the growth chart as it should be) and commented on how low it was, meaning the baby's head was probably engaged. She was going on holiday the week after, and reckoned I'd have already had the baby by the time she got back.
She was wrong. Week 39 and 40 came and went with no sign of the bubba. I passed the time by arranging all of the clothes in the baby unit by order of size, making cakes, going for walks and - mostly- lying on the sofa watching How I Met Your Mother. Ben and I went on about 5 'last' dates, each time thinking it would be a while before we'd have a chance to go out again. I did the most cleaning and nesting I've ever done in my life, and made sure we were all stocked up on teabags and biscuits for when visitors came. I also started writing the first couple of entries of this blog :)
Every time I called Ben or my mum, they'd pick the phone up saying 'You ok?! Is he coming?! Where are you?!!'. I'd have to start texts by saying 'Hi, don't worry, not in labour!'. And whenever I got the slightest twinge of pain, said 'oof!' when I sat down on the sofa or 'aah!' when I felt the baby kick, they'd look at me and raise their eyebrows as if to say 'Is it time?'. The night before my due date, I said goodnight to my mum and went upstairs to bed. I came down about 5 minutes later to get a glass of water and heard my mum say to her boyfriend 'Oooh, she's coming downstairs, something's happening!'. She was a bit disappointed when I told her I was just thirsty!
I woke up every morning feeling a bit grumpy that nothing had happened in the night. I was having so many braxton hicks contractions, I started not bothering to tell anyone when I felt them as I was so sure they were fake.
I had the 'show' on Saturday 30th March - 2 days after my due date. I went totally mental with excitement and called my mum, relieved to finally have something to tell her. I was about to go out for breakfast with Ben at the time, and wasn't sure whether to still go or not. It was a good thing I did in the end, because absolutely bugger all happened all day after that. Or the next day, or the day after. The 1st April came and went, so I lost my own bet there. I started getting pretty wound up. Where the hell was this baby?! Every birth story I'd heard had started with the show, followed quickly by first stage labour. It had been 3 days of diddly squat. My induction date was on Friday 6th, but that seemed like a million years away...
Thursday 23 May 2013
2 down, 1 to go: The Third Trimester
It was finally 2013 - the year my whole life would change!
Around Christmas and New Year, I suddenly had an onslaught of strangers pointing out the size of my bump to me. This baffled me, as it didn't seem that big to me - if anything, a little bit smaller than I would have expected. But people just couldn't seem to help themselves. Every other customer I served would remark, "Wow, you must be ready to pop!" or "You sure you've not got twins in there, love?". One girl even told me, without a hint of humour in her voice, that I couldn't possibly be only 6 months pregnant and that I was probably closer to 8 months because I was gigantic. I bit back the urge to scream in her face that I wasn't a liar and she'd obviously only witnessed freak show pregnancies, but instead I just smiled, corrected her and walked off plotting to accidentally on purpose trip her over in her ridiculous high heels.
Eventually I started winding my shifts at work down to one or two a week. By this point, I was essentially taking up the whole of the back bar anyway. The other staff had to give me such a wide berth that they'd end up falling into the fridges. I had lots of extra appointments and scans to attend, so at least they kept me busy when I was off work.
As it turned out, my bump being 'too big' for my stage in pregnancy was - for lack of a nicer word - bullshit. At my 28 week appointment, my midwife measured my vastly expanding tummy and said it was exactly the size it should be. It was, however, becoming obvious (to me, anyway) that I was having a boy if the old wives tales are anything to go by - the bump was completely out front and started right below my chest, like I'd stuck a giant beach ball down my top.
At the end of January, after a radiator in my room burst and spewed black water all over my floor and most of my stuff, we re-decorated, bought a unit for baby clothes and renovated the cradle I had when I was a baby. This is when I started bouncing off the walls. Every time I'd walk past a tiny vest or hat drying on the radiator, or peeked into the cradle that now replaced my old chest of drawers in my room, I'd feel a bubble of excitement build up in my chest. I now realise that most of that was probably heartburn, but honestly, I couldn't contain myself. I was willing the next two months to fly by, and every day was starting to feel like a week.
At my 34 week appointment, my midwife gave me some concerning news: Firstly, I had sugar in my blood which was the beginnings of gestational diabetes, and secondly my bump had stopped growing at the normal rate, so I'd need another scan at 36 weeks to make sure the baby was still gaining weight and getting nutrients through the umbilical cord. I freaked out, imagined the worst and convinced myself it was all my fault; that I hadn't been eating enough and what I was eating was all crap. As far as the diabetes went, though, I was starting to feel like I couldn't do anything right - there was so much contradictory advice being thrown around. First I was told to drink lots of orange juice to help my body absorb iron as I was highly anaemic. Then, after the sugar showed up in my wee, that I was probably drinking too much orange juice and ought to cut down. My doctor told me to take 2 iron tablets a day and 1 Pregnacare vitamin D tablet, while my consultant called my doctor an idiot and said I needed 2 Folic Acid tablets and 1 iron tablet a day. No one seemed to know what the hell they were talking about.
Things weren't much better at the 36 week scan, either. The sonographer started arguing with me about when my due date was, and very messily scribbled out the date my midwife had recorded on my maternity notes. Then when I saw the consultant after, she asked me why the due date had been changed and went off to have a go at the sonographer. After about an hour of miscommunication, they eventually told me that although my baby was healthy, he was smaller than he should be and that I could opt to be induced at 38 or 39 weeks if I wanted. I couldn't really see the logic in this. Surely if my baby was small, forcing him out earlier than he was expected would mean he'd have less time to gain weight before birth? The consultant couldn't really give me a straight answer as to why this might be a good idea, so I opted to be induced at 41 weeks instead, if he hadn't come along before then.
Around Christmas and New Year, I suddenly had an onslaught of strangers pointing out the size of my bump to me. This baffled me, as it didn't seem that big to me - if anything, a little bit smaller than I would have expected. But people just couldn't seem to help themselves. Every other customer I served would remark, "Wow, you must be ready to pop!" or "You sure you've not got twins in there, love?". One girl even told me, without a hint of humour in her voice, that I couldn't possibly be only 6 months pregnant and that I was probably closer to 8 months because I was gigantic. I bit back the urge to scream in her face that I wasn't a liar and she'd obviously only witnessed freak show pregnancies, but instead I just smiled, corrected her and walked off plotting to accidentally on purpose trip her over in her ridiculous high heels.
Eventually I started winding my shifts at work down to one or two a week. By this point, I was essentially taking up the whole of the back bar anyway. The other staff had to give me such a wide berth that they'd end up falling into the fridges. I had lots of extra appointments and scans to attend, so at least they kept me busy when I was off work.
As it turned out, my bump being 'too big' for my stage in pregnancy was - for lack of a nicer word - bullshit. At my 28 week appointment, my midwife measured my vastly expanding tummy and said it was exactly the size it should be. It was, however, becoming obvious (to me, anyway) that I was having a boy if the old wives tales are anything to go by - the bump was completely out front and started right below my chest, like I'd stuck a giant beach ball down my top.
At the end of January, after a radiator in my room burst and spewed black water all over my floor and most of my stuff, we re-decorated, bought a unit for baby clothes and renovated the cradle I had when I was a baby. This is when I started bouncing off the walls. Every time I'd walk past a tiny vest or hat drying on the radiator, or peeked into the cradle that now replaced my old chest of drawers in my room, I'd feel a bubble of excitement build up in my chest. I now realise that most of that was probably heartburn, but honestly, I couldn't contain myself. I was willing the next two months to fly by, and every day was starting to feel like a week.
At my 34 week appointment, my midwife gave me some concerning news: Firstly, I had sugar in my blood which was the beginnings of gestational diabetes, and secondly my bump had stopped growing at the normal rate, so I'd need another scan at 36 weeks to make sure the baby was still gaining weight and getting nutrients through the umbilical cord. I freaked out, imagined the worst and convinced myself it was all my fault; that I hadn't been eating enough and what I was eating was all crap. As far as the diabetes went, though, I was starting to feel like I couldn't do anything right - there was so much contradictory advice being thrown around. First I was told to drink lots of orange juice to help my body absorb iron as I was highly anaemic. Then, after the sugar showed up in my wee, that I was probably drinking too much orange juice and ought to cut down. My doctor told me to take 2 iron tablets a day and 1 Pregnacare vitamin D tablet, while my consultant called my doctor an idiot and said I needed 2 Folic Acid tablets and 1 iron tablet a day. No one seemed to know what the hell they were talking about.
Things weren't much better at the 36 week scan, either. The sonographer started arguing with me about when my due date was, and very messily scribbled out the date my midwife had recorded on my maternity notes. Then when I saw the consultant after, she asked me why the due date had been changed and went off to have a go at the sonographer. After about an hour of miscommunication, they eventually told me that although my baby was healthy, he was smaller than he should be and that I could opt to be induced at 38 or 39 weeks if I wanted. I couldn't really see the logic in this. Surely if my baby was small, forcing him out earlier than he was expected would mean he'd have less time to gain weight before birth? The consultant couldn't really give me a straight answer as to why this might be a good idea, so I opted to be induced at 41 weeks instead, if he hadn't come along before then.
Wednesday 15 May 2013
The Second Trimester
The night before the big London scan, I went out with my friends for Halloween. We dressed up as Kiss (minus Spaceman - she couldn't get it off work) and while we were standing in the queue to get into Chameleon, the group of boys behind us awkwardly tried to chat us up. One of them seemed to know Charlie and kept putting his arm round us, probably more to keep himself upright than anything else - he kept saying he was sober, but he could barely string a sentence together and practically fell on his arse when the queue moved forward and he lost his balance. Because he nearly fell into me, Heather and Charlie formed a cute protective barrier around me and told them to watch where they were going. Once they'd cottoned on I was pregnant, they stopped trying to impress us with their amazing wit and creative attempts at Halloween outfits (a ripped t shirt) and started shouting instead. "What's she doing in the queue?!" "That's gross" and my personal favourite, "I actually thought you were hot until I found that out", which was rich coming from a guy with acne of the entire head and 'Mug' written on his cheek in green felt tip.
Once we were inside, I spent all night with my hands firmly attached to my bump (except for when Gangnam Style was played), and although I still had a good time, I couldn't help worrying that I was going to do myself or the baby some kind of harm. By the time I was home, I was quite glad to be leaving that scene behind, at least for the rest of my pregnancy. I only really felt safe in the pub.
Work became increasingly difficult too, as I got bigger. I literally couldn't bend down to pick up a glass, so every time I served someone, I'd have to kind of slowly lower myself into a squat with all the grace of an elephant about to do a poo. I probably looked like I was pretending to be in an imaginary lift. I certainly got a few laughs, whether I wanted them or not (I didn't). The punters kept asking me whether I should even be working, and seemed surprised when I explained I was only 4 months pregnant. Apparently I looked bigger than that. Let me tell you, you never tire of hearing that...
Thankfully, the scan at Guys Hospital showed that the baby's heart was completely healthy. We didn't get to find out what we were having, as they didn't routinely check for the sex of the baby, but I doubt we would have got to find out anyway as the baby would absolutely not stop moving! The sonographer found it funny at first, chuckling at my wriggling stomach and calling it a cheeky little bubba, but after about 40 minutes of chasing it around while my tummy was bouncing up and down, I could tell she was losing her patience. Once she'd stopped swearing, she said everything was fine and the heart and surrounding valves looked normal, which was a big relief.
Then came the long awaited 21 week scan - the one that told us whether we were having a boy or a girl! I had my money on it being a little girl. Even though the odds strongly suggested we'd have a boy, since Ben and I both have 4 brothers and no sisters, I just kept picturing a baby girl in my arms. I was wrong, as usual! When the sonographer asked if we wanted to know the sex and we said yes, she replied "Oh, well there you go - he's flashing you! It's a boy, no mistake!". I wasn't prepared to feel so emotional. I don't think Ben was either, because we both looked at each other, laughed, said "Of course it is!" and started welling up. I was amazed. I absolutely fell in love with the tiny little boy on the sonogram. I could make out his head, arms and legs, and a dinky little bottom. I was ecstatic my baby had an identity now. Once I knew he was a boy, I felt like I'd really known all along. But maybe that's just because I don't like being wrong.
Christmas came pretty soon after that, and it was even more exciting than usual. I kept imagining what next Christmas would be like, with a little person in the family again, hysterically ripping up wrapping paper and bashing bits of roast dinner off of his highchair table. I pictured it being like how Christmasses were when I was a kid, except being old enough to also appreciate a glass of mulled wine/bucks fizz/ mint baileys (the only downside to being pregnant at Christmas - no alcohol) and having the joy of watching your own baby happily playing with their presents. Once Christmas was over, I went into serious countdown mode. 3 months and counting! I thought it'd fly by... again, I was wrong.
Once we were inside, I spent all night with my hands firmly attached to my bump (except for when Gangnam Style was played), and although I still had a good time, I couldn't help worrying that I was going to do myself or the baby some kind of harm. By the time I was home, I was quite glad to be leaving that scene behind, at least for the rest of my pregnancy. I only really felt safe in the pub.
Work became increasingly difficult too, as I got bigger. I literally couldn't bend down to pick up a glass, so every time I served someone, I'd have to kind of slowly lower myself into a squat with all the grace of an elephant about to do a poo. I probably looked like I was pretending to be in an imaginary lift. I certainly got a few laughs, whether I wanted them or not (I didn't). The punters kept asking me whether I should even be working, and seemed surprised when I explained I was only 4 months pregnant. Apparently I looked bigger than that. Let me tell you, you never tire of hearing that...
Thankfully, the scan at Guys Hospital showed that the baby's heart was completely healthy. We didn't get to find out what we were having, as they didn't routinely check for the sex of the baby, but I doubt we would have got to find out anyway as the baby would absolutely not stop moving! The sonographer found it funny at first, chuckling at my wriggling stomach and calling it a cheeky little bubba, but after about 40 minutes of chasing it around while my tummy was bouncing up and down, I could tell she was losing her patience. Once she'd stopped swearing, she said everything was fine and the heart and surrounding valves looked normal, which was a big relief.
Then came the long awaited 21 week scan - the one that told us whether we were having a boy or a girl! I had my money on it being a little girl. Even though the odds strongly suggested we'd have a boy, since Ben and I both have 4 brothers and no sisters, I just kept picturing a baby girl in my arms. I was wrong, as usual! When the sonographer asked if we wanted to know the sex and we said yes, she replied "Oh, well there you go - he's flashing you! It's a boy, no mistake!". I wasn't prepared to feel so emotional. I don't think Ben was either, because we both looked at each other, laughed, said "Of course it is!" and started welling up. I was amazed. I absolutely fell in love with the tiny little boy on the sonogram. I could make out his head, arms and legs, and a dinky little bottom. I was ecstatic my baby had an identity now. Once I knew he was a boy, I felt like I'd really known all along. But maybe that's just because I don't like being wrong.
Christmas came pretty soon after that, and it was even more exciting than usual. I kept imagining what next Christmas would be like, with a little person in the family again, hysterically ripping up wrapping paper and bashing bits of roast dinner off of his highchair table. I pictured it being like how Christmasses were when I was a kid, except being old enough to also appreciate a glass of mulled wine/bucks fizz/ mint baileys (the only downside to being pregnant at Christmas - no alcohol) and having the joy of watching your own baby happily playing with their presents. Once Christmas was over, I went into serious countdown mode. 3 months and counting! I thought it'd fly by... again, I was wrong.
First Trimester, pt 2
Now that pretty much everybody knew I was pregnant, I didn't have to worry about hiding all the telltale signs, like walking around with my hand over my tummy, or rushing to the loo, retching, every 5 minutes when I was at work. That wasn't much fun - I've always had a huge problem with being sick (who enjoys it?!). Thankfully, that wore off towards the end of the first trimester. I was going through packs and packs of ginger biscuits, since that was the only thing that would take the nausea away, and I went right off tea, which I saw as a real tragedy.
I was used to the idea of being pregnant, just not the changes it puts your body through. I'd never been so tired in my life, and I kept doing things like bounding up the stairs two at a time, then thinking 'Oh, probably shouldn't do that'. Work became a bit difficult, because I was terrified of pushing past people in the bar to pick up glasses in case they knocked me, and became useless at all the things that, as a bar manager, were my responsibility, like carrying beer crates upstairs to restock the fridges, or getting change for the tills. I had to ask everyone else to pick glasses up for me, change barrels and bring in deliveries, and to an extent, since I wasn't even showing at the time, I just felt lazy and cheeky.
I had my first 'proper' scan on the 11th September. Ben came with me to this one, and it was lovely watching him look at the tiny snug foetus in fascination, and listen to the super fast heartbeat. The sonographer confirmed that my actual due date was the 28th March, so I immediately wagered the baby would be born on the 1st April.
On the way home, we had our first serious discussion about names. Well, I say serious but I'm sure it actually went something like this:
Ben: If it's a boy, can we call him Jetson?
Me: Do me a favour.
Ben: River? River Crancher sounds really cool.
Me: No.
Ben: Mitch likes 'Hank'...
Me: NO.
And so on.
My community midwife booked us in for another scan at 19 weeks - not the normal fetal anomaly scan; a specialist one at Guys Hospital in London to check the baby's heart was healthy, as there was a risk that it could have either inherited my fast heartbeat or congenital heart disease, which Ben's brother had at birth. Although I was nervous, I was also ridiculously excited, as I thought they might also be able to tell us the sex of the baby since it was so close to the regulation 20 week scan. It was becoming harder and harder to stop myself buying every single item of baby clothing I walked past!
I was used to the idea of being pregnant, just not the changes it puts your body through. I'd never been so tired in my life, and I kept doing things like bounding up the stairs two at a time, then thinking 'Oh, probably shouldn't do that'. Work became a bit difficult, because I was terrified of pushing past people in the bar to pick up glasses in case they knocked me, and became useless at all the things that, as a bar manager, were my responsibility, like carrying beer crates upstairs to restock the fridges, or getting change for the tills. I had to ask everyone else to pick glasses up for me, change barrels and bring in deliveries, and to an extent, since I wasn't even showing at the time, I just felt lazy and cheeky.
I had my first 'proper' scan on the 11th September. Ben came with me to this one, and it was lovely watching him look at the tiny snug foetus in fascination, and listen to the super fast heartbeat. The sonographer confirmed that my actual due date was the 28th March, so I immediately wagered the baby would be born on the 1st April.
On the way home, we had our first serious discussion about names. Well, I say serious but I'm sure it actually went something like this:
Ben: If it's a boy, can we call him Jetson?
Me: Do me a favour.
Ben: River? River Crancher sounds really cool.
Me: No.
Ben: Mitch likes 'Hank'...
Me: NO.
And so on.
My community midwife booked us in for another scan at 19 weeks - not the normal fetal anomaly scan; a specialist one at Guys Hospital in London to check the baby's heart was healthy, as there was a risk that it could have either inherited my fast heartbeat or congenital heart disease, which Ben's brother had at birth. Although I was nervous, I was also ridiculously excited, as I thought they might also be able to tell us the sex of the baby since it was so close to the regulation 20 week scan. It was becoming harder and harder to stop myself buying every single item of baby clothing I walked past!
Saturday 23 March 2013
The First Trimester
So, now I'd completed the first hurdle - telling the babydaddy - I had some family members to inform. Ben and I sat in Nando's and talked about how we were going to tell everybody. It seemed so surreal to be discussing such a thing that we both kept bursting into laughter. In between a load of 'I still can't believe it''s and 'God, we're gonna be parents', we kept trying to talk about other things, like what my holiday had been like and what I'd missed at work in the week I was away, but nothing else was even remotely sinking in.
We walked down to the pub and told my dad and Fi first. It was hard trying to hide all the high-running emotions from the punters, though, so we went out for lunch the next day and they told me some amazing news of their own - they were getting married! We were in the tea-shop area of Mad Dogs and Englishmen, which is tiny, very quaint and usually occupied by quiet, well behaved middle class ladies enjoying a spot of high tea. Luckily it was empty that afternoon, because there was a fair bit of excited shrieking and laughter coming from our table. Angie served us Earl Grey and cake and was all excited with us, and it was lovely.
We only really told family in the first couple of weeks, before I had my first scan. Everybody was amazingly positive - all my brothers jumped up and down when I told them, even the 20 year old one, which was cute. It was funny realising exactly how many relatives our baby would have. 2 Nans, 2 Stepnans, 3 Granddads, 7 Great-Grandparents and 8 Uncles!
I had to have an emergency scan at 8 weeks, as I'd had a tiny bit of bleeding when I'd gone on a birthday shopping trip to Brighton. I was massively freaked out, but everything was totally fine. I could just make out a tiny, peanut-shaped little foetus on the screen. Seeing that really made it real. The sonographer said my baby would be due between the 20th and 30th March, but it was too early to give an exact date. I got given a ton of leaflets to read, and had some midwife and doctor appointments made.
Now I'd seen my tiny bubba was healthy, I felt safe telling everybody else I was expecting. Another load of happy, excited reactions! Only a handful of people had anything negative to say - one person said "Oh, I thought you might be pregnant - you've really put on weight!". Another told me to seriously consider abortion, and one or two punters muttered that I was too young to be having kids. None of it mattered, though. It didn't stop the euphoric feeling I got in my chest or the massive grin plastered on my face every time someone said "I heard you're going to be a mummy!". I couldn't get used to hearing it.
We walked down to the pub and told my dad and Fi first. It was hard trying to hide all the high-running emotions from the punters, though, so we went out for lunch the next day and they told me some amazing news of their own - they were getting married! We were in the tea-shop area of Mad Dogs and Englishmen, which is tiny, very quaint and usually occupied by quiet, well behaved middle class ladies enjoying a spot of high tea. Luckily it was empty that afternoon, because there was a fair bit of excited shrieking and laughter coming from our table. Angie served us Earl Grey and cake and was all excited with us, and it was lovely.
We only really told family in the first couple of weeks, before I had my first scan. Everybody was amazingly positive - all my brothers jumped up and down when I told them, even the 20 year old one, which was cute. It was funny realising exactly how many relatives our baby would have. 2 Nans, 2 Stepnans, 3 Granddads, 7 Great-Grandparents and 8 Uncles!
I had to have an emergency scan at 8 weeks, as I'd had a tiny bit of bleeding when I'd gone on a birthday shopping trip to Brighton. I was massively freaked out, but everything was totally fine. I could just make out a tiny, peanut-shaped little foetus on the screen. Seeing that really made it real. The sonographer said my baby would be due between the 20th and 30th March, but it was too early to give an exact date. I got given a ton of leaflets to read, and had some midwife and doctor appointments made.
Now I'd seen my tiny bubba was healthy, I felt safe telling everybody else I was expecting. Another load of happy, excited reactions! Only a handful of people had anything negative to say - one person said "Oh, I thought you might be pregnant - you've really put on weight!". Another told me to seriously consider abortion, and one or two punters muttered that I was too young to be having kids. None of it mattered, though. It didn't stop the euphoric feeling I got in my chest or the massive grin plastered on my face every time someone said "I heard you're going to be a mummy!". I couldn't get used to hearing it.
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