Like many new mums, during pregnancy I dabbled in a bit of yoga, the teacher was great and the poses really helped with some of my pregnancy ailments, but I didn't stick out. Here's why;
The sort of mothers who were also at the class were mainly of the hippy-dippy variety and I felt out of place. Also I was pretty bad at it! A massive pregnancy belly (which turned into a 9 lb 13 baby, no less) isn't really conducive to flexibility.
Even if I hadn't been pregnant, my sense of balance isn't the best and I still would have found myself toppling to the side.
Now, though, I've found a bit of a solution to my yoga-inadequacy: Erin Motz and DoYouYoga.com
Erin calls herself a 'bad yogi' not the sense that I have described, with the falling over and stuff, she's actually very good at yoga. She means 'bad' in the sense that chocolate is bad. Her website reveals that she is 'a renegade yogi who indulges in the occasional burger...'
Isn't the word renegade an excellent word?
I started off doing Erin's 30 day yoga challenge (which she runs through DoYouYoga.com on Youtube- see below) about 2 months ago. Actually I'm still doing it, I'm doing it every other day (or so) instead of daily. Does that make me a renegade too?
Since starting it I've got really into yoga. Erin's videos don't make me feel like a heffalump attempting contortion- she gives lots of options, emphasises that yoga is personal and you should only do what feels good (what? it's supposed to be pleasant?? I know, right?).
She even outright admits that some of it is quick tricky, so I never feel put off if there's something I can't do.
Since starting, I have developed a wee girl crush on Erin, because of her bad yogi philosophy- which encompasses eating french cheese, meat and drinking wine.
I'm even considering taking B to a parent toddler yoga class- so you may find me mastering a crow pose yet!
Showing posts with label Pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pregnancy. Show all posts
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
Sunday, 27 April 2014
Things you have taught me...
B, you're 15 months old and I already feel like you're growing up too quickly. You're a proper little person now. You know what you want and sometimes get frustrated that you can't say the words or aren't big enough to get it yourself. You have an amazing sense of humour and are always playing tricks on Daddy and me.
Even though I can see how much you've grown in such a short space of time, I'm sure I've grown up just as much over the past year or so. You've taught me so many lessons, here are just a few of them, that I hope to be able to teach you in return.
Guilt is a silly feeling and shouldn't be tolerated.
There are quite a few things that I have to do to make sure you're clean, or that you have enough sleep that you absolutely hate me doing. I have to do them because those things (particularly the sleep one) are so much more important than what you think of me at that particular time. I feel so guilty while I'm doing them but then they work and you wake up all smiles and I know it was worth it.
Other people's opinions do NOT count
Advice is always welcome but really, truly it's what you know yourself that matters.
FOMO doesn't work here anymore
Fear of missing out strikes most days when you're a Mum but there's nothing you can do about it. Whether we've missed out on baby music because you've decided to nap, or I've missed out on a night out because we couldn't get a baby sitter. When I look what I get to do, with you, instead I know which I'd prefer.
Falling apart is not an option
When you have no responsibilities it's easy to wallow in self-pity and both Daddy and I have had plenty of excuses for a meltdown over the past couple of years, but now you're here, you need two parents who can sing 'I went to the animal fair' without blubbing or punching the wall.
Wine is evil
I will always enjoy a glass of wine or two- but I really need to learn that two is my limit. Now that I get three-glass-hangovers I can't possibly get up at 6.30 and watch Cbeebies after polishing off a bottle.
Even though I can see how much you've grown in such a short space of time, I'm sure I've grown up just as much over the past year or so. You've taught me so many lessons, here are just a few of them, that I hope to be able to teach you in return.
Guilt is a silly feeling and shouldn't be tolerated.
There are quite a few things that I have to do to make sure you're clean, or that you have enough sleep that you absolutely hate me doing. I have to do them because those things (particularly the sleep one) are so much more important than what you think of me at that particular time. I feel so guilty while I'm doing them but then they work and you wake up all smiles and I know it was worth it.
Other people's opinions do NOT count
Advice is always welcome but really, truly it's what you know yourself that matters.
FOMO doesn't work here anymore
Fear of missing out strikes most days when you're a Mum but there's nothing you can do about it. Whether we've missed out on baby music because you've decided to nap, or I've missed out on a night out because we couldn't get a baby sitter. When I look what I get to do, with you, instead I know which I'd prefer.
Falling apart is not an option
When you have no responsibilities it's easy to wallow in self-pity and both Daddy and I have had plenty of excuses for a meltdown over the past couple of years, but now you're here, you need two parents who can sing 'I went to the animal fair' without blubbing or punching the wall.
Wine is evil
I will always enjoy a glass of wine or two- but I really need to learn that two is my limit. Now that I get three-glass-hangovers I can't possibly get up at 6.30 and watch Cbeebies after polishing off a bottle.
Tuesday, 19 March 2013
My Maternity Pay Rant
Maternity pay has had a lot of press recently and most of it has been with regards to cutting back on it.
Everytime anybody at all benefits from our comparatively incredibly generous society there are arguments for and against the issue.
In the case of maternity pay there seems to a increasingly common opinion that women who 'choose' to have children are a burden to society if they take anything out the public tax purse. The word 'choose' is always said with something of sneer, in the same way that people who 'choose' to smoke or who 'choose' to be obese are a drain on the NHS. Such individuals have such a downer on those with kids that they feel society owes them nothing.
Well how about this, critics? With women who 'choose' to have children- you wouldn't be alive. Yes indeed, your own mother actually gave birth to you and raised you because you used to be a child. She probably claimed child benefit and, depending on your age, working tax credit.
Chances are, that if you're reading this you're mother probably inconvenienced some small business by balancing work with childcare- as in 1975 around half of married mothers with children under 18 also worked and the figure has increased swiftly to 70% from there. You can call this selfish if you like, but if you are in a position of power or a running a small business it's highly likely that this selfishness paid for your university education, or helped you gain the business accumen you value so highly.
I am being slightly flippant, but critics of the system really undervalue the role of mothers in society. Having kids may be becoming more and more of a lifestyle choice- rather than something you just do (which is how our grandmothers saw it) or a duty (which is how our great-grandmothers saw it) but if women didn't have children society wouldn't just grind to a halt- it wouldn't exist at all after a while.
Women who claim maternity leave and pay aren't the ones who have 25 kids, who'll all go on to claim the dole. They are career minded ladies who want to raise valuable members of society. If we were more encouraging when this sort of woman goes off to have kids, we might find ourselves issuing fewer ASBOs in the long run.
Parents who raise their kids properly might need an extra bit of help from society- but a society full of people who's parents were professionals with work ethics has far more long term value than the critics realise.
Everytime anybody at all benefits from our comparatively incredibly generous society there are arguments for and against the issue.
In the case of maternity pay there seems to a increasingly common opinion that women who 'choose' to have children are a burden to society if they take anything out the public tax purse. The word 'choose' is always said with something of sneer, in the same way that people who 'choose' to smoke or who 'choose' to be obese are a drain on the NHS. Such individuals have such a downer on those with kids that they feel society owes them nothing.
Well how about this, critics? With women who 'choose' to have children- you wouldn't be alive. Yes indeed, your own mother actually gave birth to you and raised you because you used to be a child. She probably claimed child benefit and, depending on your age, working tax credit.
Chances are, that if you're reading this you're mother probably inconvenienced some small business by balancing work with childcare- as in 1975 around half of married mothers with children under 18 also worked and the figure has increased swiftly to 70% from there. You can call this selfish if you like, but if you are in a position of power or a running a small business it's highly likely that this selfishness paid for your university education, or helped you gain the business accumen you value so highly.
I am being slightly flippant, but critics of the system really undervalue the role of mothers in society. Having kids may be becoming more and more of a lifestyle choice- rather than something you just do (which is how our grandmothers saw it) or a duty (which is how our great-grandmothers saw it) but if women didn't have children society wouldn't just grind to a halt- it wouldn't exist at all after a while.
Women who claim maternity leave and pay aren't the ones who have 25 kids, who'll all go on to claim the dole. They are career minded ladies who want to raise valuable members of society. If we were more encouraging when this sort of woman goes off to have kids, we might find ourselves issuing fewer ASBOs in the long run.
Parents who raise their kids properly might need an extra bit of help from society- but a society full of people who's parents were professionals with work ethics has far more long term value than the critics realise.
Wednesday, 20 February 2013
B is for...Breastfeeding
Before Baby B was born, I was adamant about three things:
1, I would exclusively breastfeed
2, A disposable nappy would not touch my baby's body
3, We would NOT give him a dummy. EVER
I have given in on every single one of these resolutions but this particular post is about breastfeeding; to explain why, despite the fact that I probably live in the most pro-breastfeeding part of the country I found the whole process excruciating.
Straight after Baby B was born, I was helped to breastfeeding by the lovely midwife who delivered him. We were transferred to the maternity ward and I tried to breastfeed him a few times, but he only took tiny amounts then fell asleep on my breast. I had been up for two days and had just been through a very physical natural labour. I didn't know where the midwives' station was and I didn't want to leave my baby to go and find help. I was too exhausted to think to press the call bell.
After being on the maternity ward all afternoon, we were finally seen by a midwife at about seven in the evening. I explained that I'd like some breastfeeding support as I'd been struggling and she very helpfully said the following:
"Well, you've missed about four feeds now, haven't you. I know he looks peaceful, but it can be very difficult to tell the difference between a content baby and one with dangerously low blood sugar."
This put the fear of God into me and I unsuccessfully tried to feed B until J had to go home- no visitors on the labour ward after nine. Shortly after that another midwife came in and told me it was 'very important' I didn't move my shoulder as I could 'seriously hurt myself' and that I should 'squash the baby's head' onto my breast. Surprisingly this also didn't work. At midnight another midwife showed me a technique that did actually work.
This worked at proper intervals until we were home the next evening. Then at 7pm baby B started to feed and wouldn't stop until 4am the next morning. I was in agony. We had to call my in-laws at 3.30am and ask them to go the 24 hour Tesco to buy us some formula.
I couldn't breastfeed again until the following day because of the pain in my nipples. It seems that collostrum wasn't enough for my enormous baby. When my milk came in, I tried t mixed feed but B just seemed to prefer the bottle and I found the process of getting my boob out and being rejected horrible- particularly with all the hormones.
I'm aware that breast is viewed as best because it's natural but considering that my baby was only born safely because of synthetic hormones- natural isn't always the way to go. Sometimes western medicine and artificial help are the best cause of action.
A few weeks later, somebody in my NCT class told me they'd had the same problems breastfeeding, but they'd persevered for a few days. When they were routinely visited by a midwife, she told them that their son was dehydrated and malnourished and to take him the children's hospital straightaway. They are now happily breastfeeding but I'm glad that my baby didn't have to go through that.
Breastfeeding is great when it works and when it's the only option but where formula is available and affordable we really do have a choice to make.
1, I would exclusively breastfeed
2, A disposable nappy would not touch my baby's body
3, We would NOT give him a dummy. EVER
I have given in on every single one of these resolutions but this particular post is about breastfeeding; to explain why, despite the fact that I probably live in the most pro-breastfeeding part of the country I found the whole process excruciating.
Straight after Baby B was born, I was helped to breastfeeding by the lovely midwife who delivered him. We were transferred to the maternity ward and I tried to breastfeed him a few times, but he only took tiny amounts then fell asleep on my breast. I had been up for two days and had just been through a very physical natural labour. I didn't know where the midwives' station was and I didn't want to leave my baby to go and find help. I was too exhausted to think to press the call bell.
After being on the maternity ward all afternoon, we were finally seen by a midwife at about seven in the evening. I explained that I'd like some breastfeeding support as I'd been struggling and she very helpfully said the following:
"Well, you've missed about four feeds now, haven't you. I know he looks peaceful, but it can be very difficult to tell the difference between a content baby and one with dangerously low blood sugar."
This put the fear of God into me and I unsuccessfully tried to feed B until J had to go home- no visitors on the labour ward after nine. Shortly after that another midwife came in and told me it was 'very important' I didn't move my shoulder as I could 'seriously hurt myself' and that I should 'squash the baby's head' onto my breast. Surprisingly this also didn't work. At midnight another midwife showed me a technique that did actually work.
This worked at proper intervals until we were home the next evening. Then at 7pm baby B started to feed and wouldn't stop until 4am the next morning. I was in agony. We had to call my in-laws at 3.30am and ask them to go the 24 hour Tesco to buy us some formula.
I couldn't breastfeed again until the following day because of the pain in my nipples. It seems that collostrum wasn't enough for my enormous baby. When my milk came in, I tried t mixed feed but B just seemed to prefer the bottle and I found the process of getting my boob out and being rejected horrible- particularly with all the hormones.
I'm aware that breast is viewed as best because it's natural but considering that my baby was only born safely because of synthetic hormones- natural isn't always the way to go. Sometimes western medicine and artificial help are the best cause of action.
A few weeks later, somebody in my NCT class told me they'd had the same problems breastfeeding, but they'd persevered for a few days. When they were routinely visited by a midwife, she told them that their son was dehydrated and malnourished and to take him the children's hospital straightaway. They are now happily breastfeeding but I'm glad that my baby didn't have to go through that.
Breastfeeding is great when it works and when it's the only option but where formula is available and affordable we really do have a choice to make.
Sunday, 27 January 2013
B is for...Birth
He's here, he's finally here!
Baby B was born on Monday 21st January at 10.32am after what turned out to be a rather traumatic labour.
After the total failure of the sweep on Thursday, I went in for an outpatient induction on Sunday 20th January at 11am. It had been snowing rather heavily all night and due to the fact my blood pressure was a little high, we ended up staying in hospital most of the day. They nearly wouldn't let us (Me, J and my mum) leave for fear we would be snowed in and I'd end up giving birth, unassisted, at home.
As I'd been having Braxton Hick since before Christmas, contractions didn't so much start as continue. When my water's broke at about 8pm on Sunday night, I wasn't entirely sure I was going into labour. I rang the labour ward, who told me to stick it out at home until the contractions became stronger.
I was prepared for a lengthy early labour at home, but this all changed when I went to the loo about 30 minutes later and saw my waters were brown: Meconium.
After calling the labour ward again and being told to come straight in, my mother in law picked us (the three of us) up and we all (the four of us) ended up in triage. I couldn't tell my mother in law to leave and she clearly had no intention of doing so. We are fairly close, so it wasn't too much of an issue and when things got going I wouldn't have cared if the entire England football team had walked in.
We go taken through to the labour ward, and introduced the most grumpy Northern Irish midwife. There was a lot of dicking about with monitors, because of the meconium. Apparently nobody had factored the roundness of a pregnant woman's bump into the design of the nodes and they kept slipped off, which seriously inhibited my labour positions. All yoga practice went out of the window as I lead on the bed and gritted my teeth.
After a few hours of fairly excruciating contractions it was clear that my cervix just wasn't dilating enough. The raspberry leaf tea, I'd been glugging down for six weeks had done absolutely bugger all to strengthen my womb and the midwife explained they'd need to bring in the big guns: syntocin.
At our antenatal class we'd heard all about syntocin and how horrible and painful it makes labour, so as soon as the word was on the tip of her tongue, another was on mine: epidural. I'd been pretty adamant throughout pregnancy that I didn't want an epidural or any opiates but nothing was like I'd imagined- it was far more clinical- and I couldn't centre myself to deal with the pain, in the way I'd hoped.
When the anaesthetist arrived the fun started. The midwife attempted to inser to cannula for the hormone drip into my left arm, then my right arm and then my left arm again. My mother pointed out, after the event, that she was using an absolutely massive needle and trying to insert it into and absolutely minuscule vein- the would be why that despite all the pain in my wrists (she tried there too) and my hands, she was getting nowhere.
The anaesthetist had a go and finally managed to get the needle in, after the same number of attempts. When she came to inserting the epidural into my back, everybody had to leave the room, except my husband who's job it was to hold me still. The anaesthetist explained, before the procedure, the if I moved in millimetre I stood a chance of becoming paralysed so I think J felt the pressure as somewhere between the me closing my eyes as the needle went in, and opening them again, he'd passed out.
I was left holding myself still as he was propped up against a radiator like a third world hostage. As the epidural set in and the pain subsided, the mothers left to get some sleep and J bunked down on the birthing mat. It was 3am and I was 2cm dilated.
The night passed in a blur of different healthcare professionals popping in an out and uncontrollable, adrenaline-induced shaking. I didn't sleep at all. I could feel something putting a lot of pressure on my lower back as the syntocin worked it's magic.
At 7am the Irish midwife examined me and explained that due to the amount of time that had passed and the dose of syntocin, I could expect to be about 5cm dilated. During the examination she told me I was actually fully dilated. I replied 'you what?' I couldn't believe it.
The mother's were called and I was told that, providing I was given the go ahead by the doctor, I could start the pushing stage at 9am. At this point I'd like to explain to you that a completely natural delivery is very rare following a hormone drip and an epidural.
Two new midwife arrived and they were absolutely lovely. At 9am I started pushing and, after an hour and a half of J holding my left leg and my mother holding my right, Baby B was born.
He was, and is, utterly perfect was a button nose and a smattering of dark brown hair. He weighed colossal 9 lb 13, which explains the stitches. Despite the fact that labour and birth were nothing like I'd imagined, actually found delivering my son a thoroughly positive experience: and it definitely was an experience.
Baby B was born on Monday 21st January at 10.32am after what turned out to be a rather traumatic labour.
After the total failure of the sweep on Thursday, I went in for an outpatient induction on Sunday 20th January at 11am. It had been snowing rather heavily all night and due to the fact my blood pressure was a little high, we ended up staying in hospital most of the day. They nearly wouldn't let us (Me, J and my mum) leave for fear we would be snowed in and I'd end up giving birth, unassisted, at home.
As I'd been having Braxton Hick since before Christmas, contractions didn't so much start as continue. When my water's broke at about 8pm on Sunday night, I wasn't entirely sure I was going into labour. I rang the labour ward, who told me to stick it out at home until the contractions became stronger.
I was prepared for a lengthy early labour at home, but this all changed when I went to the loo about 30 minutes later and saw my waters were brown: Meconium.
After calling the labour ward again and being told to come straight in, my mother in law picked us (the three of us) up and we all (the four of us) ended up in triage. I couldn't tell my mother in law to leave and she clearly had no intention of doing so. We are fairly close, so it wasn't too much of an issue and when things got going I wouldn't have cared if the entire England football team had walked in.
We go taken through to the labour ward, and introduced the most grumpy Northern Irish midwife. There was a lot of dicking about with monitors, because of the meconium. Apparently nobody had factored the roundness of a pregnant woman's bump into the design of the nodes and they kept slipped off, which seriously inhibited my labour positions. All yoga practice went out of the window as I lead on the bed and gritted my teeth.
After a few hours of fairly excruciating contractions it was clear that my cervix just wasn't dilating enough. The raspberry leaf tea, I'd been glugging down for six weeks had done absolutely bugger all to strengthen my womb and the midwife explained they'd need to bring in the big guns: syntocin.
At our antenatal class we'd heard all about syntocin and how horrible and painful it makes labour, so as soon as the word was on the tip of her tongue, another was on mine: epidural. I'd been pretty adamant throughout pregnancy that I didn't want an epidural or any opiates but nothing was like I'd imagined- it was far more clinical- and I couldn't centre myself to deal with the pain, in the way I'd hoped.
When the anaesthetist arrived the fun started. The midwife attempted to inser to cannula for the hormone drip into my left arm, then my right arm and then my left arm again. My mother pointed out, after the event, that she was using an absolutely massive needle and trying to insert it into and absolutely minuscule vein- the would be why that despite all the pain in my wrists (she tried there too) and my hands, she was getting nowhere.
The anaesthetist had a go and finally managed to get the needle in, after the same number of attempts. When she came to inserting the epidural into my back, everybody had to leave the room, except my husband who's job it was to hold me still. The anaesthetist explained, before the procedure, the if I moved in millimetre I stood a chance of becoming paralysed so I think J felt the pressure as somewhere between the me closing my eyes as the needle went in, and opening them again, he'd passed out.
I was left holding myself still as he was propped up against a radiator like a third world hostage. As the epidural set in and the pain subsided, the mothers left to get some sleep and J bunked down on the birthing mat. It was 3am and I was 2cm dilated.
The night passed in a blur of different healthcare professionals popping in an out and uncontrollable, adrenaline-induced shaking. I didn't sleep at all. I could feel something putting a lot of pressure on my lower back as the syntocin worked it's magic.
At 7am the Irish midwife examined me and explained that due to the amount of time that had passed and the dose of syntocin, I could expect to be about 5cm dilated. During the examination she told me I was actually fully dilated. I replied 'you what?' I couldn't believe it.
The mother's were called and I was told that, providing I was given the go ahead by the doctor, I could start the pushing stage at 9am. At this point I'd like to explain to you that a completely natural delivery is very rare following a hormone drip and an epidural.
Two new midwife arrived and they were absolutely lovely. At 9am I started pushing and, after an hour and a half of J holding my left leg and my mother holding my right, Baby B was born.
He was, and is, utterly perfect was a button nose and a smattering of dark brown hair. He weighed colossal 9 lb 13, which explains the stitches. Despite the fact that labour and birth were nothing like I'd imagined, actually found delivering my son a thoroughly positive experience: and it definitely was an experience.
Wednesday, 16 January 2013
Patience is a virtue
Happy New Year!
I was really hoping to have some lovely, baby-related news to share at this point.
Unfortunately instead of entering the new year as a new mum, I find myself half way through January and 41 weeks pregnant. Yep still pregnant.
As my lovely friend told me yesterday, there have been no reported cases of women being pregnant forever but at the moment it feels like the little bugger is never going to come out.
In my last post I was pretty adamant I would be having an early baby. The B&H (that's Braxton Hicks- not Benson & Hedges) were coming thick and fast and I'd been dropping bits of mucus (sorry for the overshare) for about a week.
Fast forward nearly a month and literally nothing has changed, except for the state of my feet, I'm experiencing about 8 hours worth of definitely-not-imaginary contractions a day and feel rubbish the rest of the time.
I don't feel I can go anywhere on my own as I'm a bit scared of spontaneously going into labour, plus last week I had a fall which would have been quite nasty had J not been there. This leaves me needed to be taken for a walk, like a dog, which is always nice.
I'm now fairly anxious about the birth- not about the pain but about the logistics. I've asked my mum to be there, which would be lovely if she didn't live 177 miles (3 and a half hours) away. I obviously don't want her, run out of work and embark on the journey too soon and arrive here, only for me to say 'sorry, false alarm' but I also don't want her to be too late and miss the main event.
Then there's the getting to the hospital. Neither J or I drive (the public transport network in Brighton is too good and parking is terrible!) so the exact mode of getting the hospital is an uncertain. It's either going to be a lift from one of the in-laws, a taxi or negotiating my mother (who is not a confident driver) through Brighton's network of daft roads to an even dafter car park, whilst in labour. None of these options sound like much fun and I get really stressy when important things aren't planned to the letter. I have no idea how I managed to get married and keep all my hair!
I think this anxiety, coupled with excitement about meeting my baby might preventing me from going into fully fledged labour. I think I've managed to feel my cervix (not sure if this is wise) and it feels puckered- like it's trying to stay closed on purpose, like when you try to hold in a fart.
Tomorrow, I'm booked in for my membrane sweep to try and kick things off. I've never had a smeer test ( I became pregnant almost exactly as I turned 25) or anything similar so I'm not looking forward to it. Each visit to the midwife feels a little bit worse, it hurts more when she feels my swollen belly, she makes the same comment about my stretch marks and every time I hope I'll go into labour before having to go again.
41 weeks may sound early to start the induction process, but I'm going a mad and I it may sound crazy but I can the feel the baby started to get frustrated as well. Today he tried to make a break through my tightly closed cervix and it was not nice at all.
I'm really hoping my next post is about the birth but I've learned, over the last few weeks, not to assume anything. Watch this space.
I was really hoping to have some lovely, baby-related news to share at this point.
Unfortunately instead of entering the new year as a new mum, I find myself half way through January and 41 weeks pregnant. Yep still pregnant.
As my lovely friend told me yesterday, there have been no reported cases of women being pregnant forever but at the moment it feels like the little bugger is never going to come out.
In my last post I was pretty adamant I would be having an early baby. The B&H (that's Braxton Hicks- not Benson & Hedges) were coming thick and fast and I'd been dropping bits of mucus (sorry for the overshare) for about a week.
Fast forward nearly a month and literally nothing has changed, except for the state of my feet, I'm experiencing about 8 hours worth of definitely-not-imaginary contractions a day and feel rubbish the rest of the time.
I don't feel I can go anywhere on my own as I'm a bit scared of spontaneously going into labour, plus last week I had a fall which would have been quite nasty had J not been there. This leaves me needed to be taken for a walk, like a dog, which is always nice.
I'm now fairly anxious about the birth- not about the pain but about the logistics. I've asked my mum to be there, which would be lovely if she didn't live 177 miles (3 and a half hours) away. I obviously don't want her, run out of work and embark on the journey too soon and arrive here, only for me to say 'sorry, false alarm' but I also don't want her to be too late and miss the main event.
Then there's the getting to the hospital. Neither J or I drive (the public transport network in Brighton is too good and parking is terrible!) so the exact mode of getting the hospital is an uncertain. It's either going to be a lift from one of the in-laws, a taxi or negotiating my mother (who is not a confident driver) through Brighton's network of daft roads to an even dafter car park, whilst in labour. None of these options sound like much fun and I get really stressy when important things aren't planned to the letter. I have no idea how I managed to get married and keep all my hair!
I think this anxiety, coupled with excitement about meeting my baby might preventing me from going into fully fledged labour. I think I've managed to feel my cervix (not sure if this is wise) and it feels puckered- like it's trying to stay closed on purpose, like when you try to hold in a fart.
Tomorrow, I'm booked in for my membrane sweep to try and kick things off. I've never had a smeer test ( I became pregnant almost exactly as I turned 25) or anything similar so I'm not looking forward to it. Each visit to the midwife feels a little bit worse, it hurts more when she feels my swollen belly, she makes the same comment about my stretch marks and every time I hope I'll go into labour before having to go again.
41 weeks may sound early to start the induction process, but I'm going a mad and I it may sound crazy but I can the feel the baby started to get frustrated as well. Today he tried to make a break through my tightly closed cervix and it was not nice at all.
I'm really hoping my next post is about the birth but I've learned, over the last few weeks, not to assume anything. Watch this space.
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
The end is nigh
I'm 37 weeks pregnant today, so technical baby B is free to arrive any time he fancies in the next 5 weeks. Though he's more likely to make an appearance within 5 days either side of his due date (with a strong likelihood that he, as a first baby, will be late.)
Like a lot of mums-to-be, I've signed up to all sorts of helpful advice e-mails. This morning, this little gem, from Aptamil arrived in by inbox:
"Some mums-to-be are full of energy and although it’s still a good idea to keep reasonably active, just don’t overdo it! You could do some gentle, last minute spring cleaning (leave the hard to reach bits to your partner"
I've had quite a few of these types of e-mails throughout pregnancy, that suggest that at the times of day when I'm not bent over the loo, sat on the loo, running to the loo or thinking I'm in labour I will turn into some kind of domestic goddess; dusting and rearranging furniture, whilst doing lunges and pelvic floor exercises at the same time.
I've also read that pregnancy should have made into a rampant nymphomaniac and that I simply won't be able to sit still due to my desire to learn to knit and make mobiles.
This differs wildly from I've heard- (weirdly, from men about their partners, rather than women about themsleves) most women spend pregnancy feeling knackered, sick and worrying about their changing shape.
The other day I cried for a really long time (properly cried) because I found it really hard to put on my socks: It's December, so no pregnancy flip-flops for me. I've found myself sat on the kitchen floor for 10 minutes at a time, I can't bend to get anything out of the bottom kitchen cupboards.
I have taken on a few domestic projects, but this have all been as physically taxing as the time I walked a half marathon in my bra. Every time I've walked anywhere in the last week, my feet have swollen up like 70-year-old's and my walk is a slow as an octogenarian's.
'Reasonably active' for me, at the moment is on a entirely different level to 'reasonably active' for me 9 months ago.
I know I've used this blog, basically, to have a moan for most of this pregnancy- but this isn;t the purpose of this post. I'm fairly comfortable, I know my body's limits and I'm welcoming the signs that soon I'll get to meet my baby.
However, I do wish the advice coming into my inbox was a little more realistic. By and large I'm eating healthily, but chocolate biscuits are the only thing that make me feel truly well- so I'm eating them in addition to my five a day. I'm not beating myself up about using this time to sleep in and take knaps while my body will let me- I spent the last month, while I was still at work, getting about 4 hours a night, so I'm making up for it now.
I'm taking this opportunity to watch crap telly and girly films and to do exactly what my body is telling me to.
I know it makes for less exciting e-mail copy, but how about just telling women to do what they feel and not to eat too many Mars bars?
Just a thought.
Like a lot of mums-to-be, I've signed up to all sorts of helpful advice e-mails. This morning, this little gem, from Aptamil arrived in by inbox:
"Some mums-to-be are full of energy and although it’s still a good idea to keep reasonably active, just don’t overdo it! You could do some gentle, last minute spring cleaning (leave the hard to reach bits to your partner"
I've had quite a few of these types of e-mails throughout pregnancy, that suggest that at the times of day when I'm not bent over the loo, sat on the loo, running to the loo or thinking I'm in labour I will turn into some kind of domestic goddess; dusting and rearranging furniture, whilst doing lunges and pelvic floor exercises at the same time.
I've also read that pregnancy should have made into a rampant nymphomaniac and that I simply won't be able to sit still due to my desire to learn to knit and make mobiles.
This differs wildly from I've heard- (weirdly, from men about their partners, rather than women about themsleves) most women spend pregnancy feeling knackered, sick and worrying about their changing shape.
The other day I cried for a really long time (properly cried) because I found it really hard to put on my socks: It's December, so no pregnancy flip-flops for me. I've found myself sat on the kitchen floor for 10 minutes at a time, I can't bend to get anything out of the bottom kitchen cupboards.
I have taken on a few domestic projects, but this have all been as physically taxing as the time I walked a half marathon in my bra. Every time I've walked anywhere in the last week, my feet have swollen up like 70-year-old's and my walk is a slow as an octogenarian's.
'Reasonably active' for me, at the moment is on a entirely different level to 'reasonably active' for me 9 months ago.
I know I've used this blog, basically, to have a moan for most of this pregnancy- but this isn;t the purpose of this post. I'm fairly comfortable, I know my body's limits and I'm welcoming the signs that soon I'll get to meet my baby.
However, I do wish the advice coming into my inbox was a little more realistic. By and large I'm eating healthily, but chocolate biscuits are the only thing that make me feel truly well- so I'm eating them in addition to my five a day. I'm not beating myself up about using this time to sleep in and take knaps while my body will let me- I spent the last month, while I was still at work, getting about 4 hours a night, so I'm making up for it now.
I'm taking this opportunity to watch crap telly and girly films and to do exactly what my body is telling me to.
I know it makes for less exciting e-mail copy, but how about just telling women to do what they feel and not to eat too many Mars bars?
Just a thought.
Monday, 17 December 2012
B is for...Breech part 2
I've worried about the baby being breech for a fortnight. I was expecting to have a c-section booked in for January 3rd (when I would be 39 weeks). My mother was expecting to have a definite date to make the trip to Brighton from South Wales.
We went to the midwife on Wednesday expecting a fight ( I usually go expecting a fight, thanks to Mumsnet). In typical fashion, the MW tried to tell me a was 25 weeks pregnant, instead of 36, before subjecting me the some bullshit charade with the midwifery student who asked me my due date then tried to determine how many weeks I was using the stupid wheel thingy. Bizarrely, she tried asking me how my anomaly scan went -under the assumption that I was 25 weeks after working out that I was due in 4 weeks.
While this was going on, all I could think was 'is he still breech???'. After the pantomime of bullshit, I ignored the student and explained that reason I was there today, at exactly 36 weeks was because of then whole breech thing.
She had a feel (ouch) and immediately referred me to the hospital.
At the hospital I waited for what felt like an eternity before another midwife poked around my abdomen (ouch!!!) and came to the same conclusion.
I had to wait for a registrar to come and hook me up me to the ultrasound - by this point we all thought it was a formality- and I was rehearsing my speech to convince the consultant that I wanted a c-section, rather than go through ECV.
The registrar arrived and had another feel (OUCH!!) before applying the gel to actually see what was going on.
You may have a gathered from the past tense in the opening paragraph, that my baby is not breech at all. The scan showed his head in exactly the right position, sitting snuggly in my pelvis.
I was, and still am, incredibly relived but it would have been nice, to not have worried about it for two weeks.
After the scan, we rang my Mum who asked "so, can that midwife tell a head from an arse?"
"No," I replied.
"Thank God."
We went to the midwife on Wednesday expecting a fight ( I usually go expecting a fight, thanks to Mumsnet). In typical fashion, the MW tried to tell me a was 25 weeks pregnant, instead of 36, before subjecting me the some bullshit charade with the midwifery student who asked me my due date then tried to determine how many weeks I was using the stupid wheel thingy. Bizarrely, she tried asking me how my anomaly scan went -under the assumption that I was 25 weeks after working out that I was due in 4 weeks.
While this was going on, all I could think was 'is he still breech???'. After the pantomime of bullshit, I ignored the student and explained that reason I was there today, at exactly 36 weeks was because of then whole breech thing.
She had a feel (ouch) and immediately referred me to the hospital.
At the hospital I waited for what felt like an eternity before another midwife poked around my abdomen (ouch!!!) and came to the same conclusion.
I had to wait for a registrar to come and hook me up me to the ultrasound - by this point we all thought it was a formality- and I was rehearsing my speech to convince the consultant that I wanted a c-section, rather than go through ECV.
The registrar arrived and had another feel (OUCH!!) before applying the gel to actually see what was going on.
You may have a gathered from the past tense in the opening paragraph, that my baby is not breech at all. The scan showed his head in exactly the right position, sitting snuggly in my pelvis.
I was, and still am, incredibly relived but it would have been nice, to not have worried about it for two weeks.
After the scan, we rang my Mum who asked "so, can that midwife tell a head from an arse?"
"No," I replied.
"Thank God."
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
B is for...Breech
I can't believe that despite weeks of being kicked in my hoo-ha I hadn't already surmised that Baby B was in the breech position.
I assumed everything was progressing perfectly. I think this was a little naive, as my pregnancy has been distinctly less than perfect the whole way through.
At the moment I'm only 35 weeks, so in theory he has plenty of time to turn but realistically, I'm pretty sure he's been breech all along; head butting my stomach all night so I bring up bile every morning (still at 35 weeks!), kicks low in my pelvis so I feel like he's trying to dig his way out.
I will be overjoyed if he turns but after a weekend of standing on my head (virtually) so get him to do that most momentous forward role he hasn't budged an inch.
My NCT coach (counsellor? person? thing?) said, just in passing, that babies could be breech for a reason, so now I'm slightly scared about messing around too much before having another scan.
I assumed everything was progressing perfectly. I think this was a little naive, as my pregnancy has been distinctly less than perfect the whole way through.
At the moment I'm only 35 weeks, so in theory he has plenty of time to turn but realistically, I'm pretty sure he's been breech all along; head butting my stomach all night so I bring up bile every morning (still at 35 weeks!), kicks low in my pelvis so I feel like he's trying to dig his way out.
I will be overjoyed if he turns but after a weekend of standing on my head (virtually) so get him to do that most momentous forward role he hasn't budged an inch.
My NCT coach (counsellor? person? thing?) said, just in passing, that babies could be breech for a reason, so now I'm slightly scared about messing around too much before having another scan.
Sunday, 11 November 2012
Error
I made a terrible mistake last night. I was at my in- laws house and my husband jumped on the bathroom scales (we don't have a set at home) and I thought it would be funny or interesting or something to follow suit.
The scales told me that I now weigh 197lb, this is the exact same weight as my husband. If this is correct it means I weigh 14 stone (ish) and have put on two and a half stone since I became pregnant.
This has left me looking at photos of myself from three years ago and wishing I was that thin again. I weighed about 10 stone at 22. I've also spent the morning looking at my wedding photos and wondering why I let myself get so fat- even though I was actually five weeks pregnant at the wedding.
Before I weighed myself, my goal post-baby was to get down to 10.5 stone- but since realising that (by the time I've finished putting on my baby weight) I'll probably have a bout four stone to lose, I'm feeling a lot less confident about that.
Weightwatchers warns that a woman who is breastfeeding, as I intend to, should only loose 1lb per week. Rapid weight loss can affect both quality and quantity of breast milk, as fat stores are important to the production process.
That means that it'll take me over a year to shift the weigh, providing that I loose consistently each week. Pregnancy has proven two things to me. The first is that I'm incapable of patience and the second is that I really, really like biscuits.
I really don't want to start my sons' life as one of those mothers who's always on a diet, but at the same time I don't want my weight to start affecting my health.
I'm hoping that I'm sensible enough not to think that breastfeeding= lots of cake and that rushing around with a pram will help shift the pounds.
We shall have to wait and see.
The scales told me that I now weigh 197lb, this is the exact same weight as my husband. If this is correct it means I weigh 14 stone (ish) and have put on two and a half stone since I became pregnant.
This has left me looking at photos of myself from three years ago and wishing I was that thin again. I weighed about 10 stone at 22. I've also spent the morning looking at my wedding photos and wondering why I let myself get so fat- even though I was actually five weeks pregnant at the wedding.
Before I weighed myself, my goal post-baby was to get down to 10.5 stone- but since realising that (by the time I've finished putting on my baby weight) I'll probably have a bout four stone to lose, I'm feeling a lot less confident about that.
Weightwatchers warns that a woman who is breastfeeding, as I intend to, should only loose 1lb per week. Rapid weight loss can affect both quality and quantity of breast milk, as fat stores are important to the production process.
That means that it'll take me over a year to shift the weigh, providing that I loose consistently each week. Pregnancy has proven two things to me. The first is that I'm incapable of patience and the second is that I really, really like biscuits.
I really don't want to start my sons' life as one of those mothers who's always on a diet, but at the same time I don't want my weight to start affecting my health.
I'm hoping that I'm sensible enough not to think that breastfeeding= lots of cake and that rushing around with a pram will help shift the pounds.
We shall have to wait and see.
Friday, 2 November 2012
Tick Tock
I am now 30 weeks and 3 days pregnant.
"Oooh not long now" you might say with mock trepidation.
You might forgive the response "It's bloody ages" if you realised that at this point, I have been pregnant for 213 days. For the past few weeks I have found doing really simple things, like sorting out the washing, turning over in bed and getting off the toilet, increasingly more difficult.
This morning I cried because after going through a pile of dirty clothes, that I've been putting off for a while, I decided to make breakfast for my husband, who asked me (not unkindly) why I hadn't put golden syrup in his porridge.
The reason I hadn't done this is because, at the age of 25, I was too exhausted to bend down and get the infernal stuff out of the cupboard. The washing had felt like a mountain and after beding down a couple of times I was dizzy and need of a little sit down. If I was a premiership footballer, I would have flung myself on the floor and demanded to be stretchered out of the bedroom.
I know I'm only going to get bigger. I know that there will come a point that I won't be able to bend over at all and will need help get out of low chairs.
Before I give birth, I'll have to go through Christmas and New Year ("ooh not long now!" "Shut the f...ront door.") being massive and barely mobile- which is not something I'm relishing.
My nature, and being raised by a working single mother, tells me that I should be able to do it all and the prospect another 10 weeks of asking for help fills me with dread.
I'm naturally impatient and the waiting (coupled with how long it takes me to do ANYTHING) is proving a real struggle.
When people ask me if I'm worried about labour, I have to say that for the most part I am not. I can't wait to suck it up and do something truly taxing, rather than beating myself because I need hep picking up socks from the floor.
Roll on the next 10 weeks and BRING. IT. ON.
"Oooh not long now" you might say with mock trepidation.
You might forgive the response "It's bloody ages" if you realised that at this point, I have been pregnant for 213 days. For the past few weeks I have found doing really simple things, like sorting out the washing, turning over in bed and getting off the toilet, increasingly more difficult.
This morning I cried because after going through a pile of dirty clothes, that I've been putting off for a while, I decided to make breakfast for my husband, who asked me (not unkindly) why I hadn't put golden syrup in his porridge.
The reason I hadn't done this is because, at the age of 25, I was too exhausted to bend down and get the infernal stuff out of the cupboard. The washing had felt like a mountain and after beding down a couple of times I was dizzy and need of a little sit down. If I was a premiership footballer, I would have flung myself on the floor and demanded to be stretchered out of the bedroom.
I know I'm only going to get bigger. I know that there will come a point that I won't be able to bend over at all and will need help get out of low chairs.
Before I give birth, I'll have to go through Christmas and New Year ("ooh not long now!" "Shut the f...ront door.") being massive and barely mobile- which is not something I'm relishing.
My nature, and being raised by a working single mother, tells me that I should be able to do it all and the prospect another 10 weeks of asking for help fills me with dread.
I'm naturally impatient and the waiting (coupled with how long it takes me to do ANYTHING) is proving a real struggle.
When people ask me if I'm worried about labour, I have to say that for the most part I am not. I can't wait to suck it up and do something truly taxing, rather than beating myself because I need hep picking up socks from the floor.
Roll on the next 10 weeks and BRING. IT. ON.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Dear Baby B
Dear Baby B,
You haven't been born yet. You're not supposed to be born for another 10 weeks and 6 days but I feel we already know each other pretty well- we've been through a lot.
For instance, I know you're going to be a handful. You're such a little wriggler, I have no idea when you sleep as you seem to keep going all night as well as all day.
I know that you love The Killers. Every time you here Brandon Flowers' voice my tummy moves to the source of the sound, like cartoon mouse under a blanket or such like. You also particularly Tenacious D and have done ever since your daddy and I went to see them live a few weeks ago.
Much to your daddy's delight, you seem to like football- but only if the crowd are enthusiastic- you like lots of cheering and don't mind the odd vuvuzela or trumpet noise one bit.
You're not scared of loud noises. You never jump when I cough and sneeze or when cars backfire or people shout. You don't like being poked and you kick something chronic when the midwife prods you or the waistband of my maternity jeans digs in.
You love daddy and all your grandparents and you do a happy jig when you hear their voices.
You don't know enough yet to know that mummy is terrible singer, so for now you like it when I sing to you when I do the washing up- especially if its The Killers.
I know your name and have done for the last 10 weeks and 1 day, but I won't write it here. It's such a beautiful unusual name that it will be immediately obvious that I'm talking about you.
I know I love you. I've known that since I waved a stick covered in wee and a blue line in your dad's face.
I absolutely can't wait to meet you and to find out more things about you but I know I must be patient and wait until you're cooked.
See you soon.
Love,
Mummy
You haven't been born yet. You're not supposed to be born for another 10 weeks and 6 days but I feel we already know each other pretty well- we've been through a lot.
For instance, I know you're going to be a handful. You're such a little wriggler, I have no idea when you sleep as you seem to keep going all night as well as all day.
I know that you love The Killers. Every time you here Brandon Flowers' voice my tummy moves to the source of the sound, like cartoon mouse under a blanket or such like. You also particularly Tenacious D and have done ever since your daddy and I went to see them live a few weeks ago.
Much to your daddy's delight, you seem to like football- but only if the crowd are enthusiastic- you like lots of cheering and don't mind the odd vuvuzela or trumpet noise one bit.
You're not scared of loud noises. You never jump when I cough and sneeze or when cars backfire or people shout. You don't like being poked and you kick something chronic when the midwife prods you or the waistband of my maternity jeans digs in.
You love daddy and all your grandparents and you do a happy jig when you hear their voices.
You don't know enough yet to know that mummy is terrible singer, so for now you like it when I sing to you when I do the washing up- especially if its The Killers.
I know your name and have done for the last 10 weeks and 1 day, but I won't write it here. It's such a beautiful unusual name that it will be immediately obvious that I'm talking about you.
I know I love you. I've known that since I waved a stick covered in wee and a blue line in your dad's face.
I absolutely can't wait to meet you and to find out more things about you but I know I must be patient and wait until you're cooked.
See you soon.
Love,
Mummy
Sunday, 30 September 2012
Forgetting to Take Pictures of Food
I, like many a parent/ pregnant blogger have spent much of this weekend cooking.
Yesterday I made a lovely cottage pie, with sweet potato topping, instead of normal potatoes. After that I made 10 lemon drizzle cupcakes (see a later blog post for the recipe) they were absolutely delicious and lasted not much longer than the 40 minutes it took to make them.
Today, with two lovely kitchen assitants in the form of my husband and father-in-law I made a roast pork belly with fluffy roast potatoes, four kinds of vegetables, stuffing (packet mix, in fairness) and homemade gravy. It fed 7 and every body marvelled at how delicious it was- they had never tasted my late grandmother's Sunday dinner (served at lunchtime- Welsh dinnertime) which would have made mine taste like wet slop.
I know what you're thinking. Where's the proof? Where are the dozens of artistically fuzzy Instagram photos of cheerful looking, plated-up cakes; of sizzling pork and crackling dripping with gravy.
Where the f*k is the #foodporn??
Every self-respecting blogger worth her crust is supposed to provide #foodporn for her fellow opinionated internet users to amuse themselves with on lazy afternoon.
Well, the truth is that largely I forget. It doesn't enter my head to take a snap every time I find myself alone with a piece of nicely buttered toast. I'm not sure who started the 'taking pictures of your food' revolution, but I'd bet you any money that person had too much time on their hands.
That person definitely spent too much time using social media- and now we all feel slightly inferior if we don't document every well presented morcel to pass our lips.
So until I find myself insanely bored- or until I start cooking for the purpose of my blog, you'll just have to believe that my food was effing tasty.
Here's a picture of a squirrel-
Yesterday I made a lovely cottage pie, with sweet potato topping, instead of normal potatoes. After that I made 10 lemon drizzle cupcakes (see a later blog post for the recipe) they were absolutely delicious and lasted not much longer than the 40 minutes it took to make them.
Today, with two lovely kitchen assitants in the form of my husband and father-in-law I made a roast pork belly with fluffy roast potatoes, four kinds of vegetables, stuffing (packet mix, in fairness) and homemade gravy. It fed 7 and every body marvelled at how delicious it was- they had never tasted my late grandmother's Sunday dinner (served at lunchtime- Welsh dinnertime) which would have made mine taste like wet slop.
I know what you're thinking. Where's the proof? Where are the dozens of artistically fuzzy Instagram photos of cheerful looking, plated-up cakes; of sizzling pork and crackling dripping with gravy.
Where the f*k is the #foodporn??
Every self-respecting blogger worth her crust is supposed to provide #foodporn for her fellow opinionated internet users to amuse themselves with on lazy afternoon.
Well, the truth is that largely I forget. It doesn't enter my head to take a snap every time I find myself alone with a piece of nicely buttered toast. I'm not sure who started the 'taking pictures of your food' revolution, but I'd bet you any money that person had too much time on their hands.
That person definitely spent too much time using social media- and now we all feel slightly inferior if we don't document every well presented morcel to pass our lips.
So until I find myself insanely bored- or until I start cooking for the purpose of my blog, you'll just have to believe that my food was effing tasty.
Here's a picture of a squirrel-
Friday, 28 September 2012
Whooping Cough Vaccine
If you've seen the news today and are more than 24 weeks pregnant, you may well be rushing to your GP to get the whooping cough jab.
The evidence does seem overwhelming and with headlines like this:
The evidence does seem overwhelming and with headlines like this:
"Whooping cough vaccine a 'no-brainer' during pregnancy"
and tweets for hunky TV doctors like this:
You may think that you're in the wrong if you don't immunize yourself as quickly as possible.
However, there are a couple of things you might to know before rushing out and sticking needles in your arms.
- The vaccine is actually a combined vaccine for diphtheria, tetanus and polio.
- It's 'street' name is Repavax and you can read all about it's list of ingredients here
- It's the same vaccine given to children at 8 weeks
- The side effects can also be found on the information leaflet (see above link)
- If you're allergic to any of the ingredients, ask your doctor about the jab's safety
- It's been given to pregnant women (later than 24 weeks) in the US and there have been no reported problems
- You'll still need to get your child immunized about whooping cough at 8 weeks
- The vaccine doesn't immunize the fetus directly, but you'll pass on the antibodies you make.
With 10 reported deaths from whooping cough in the UK recently it's great that the vaccine is being offered to protect babies during the fragile, first few weeks. However pregnant women should always read all relevant information to check any medicine is safe for them.
Don't feel bullied into having any injections or tests and always voice any concerns. I've known a lot of my pregnant friends and relatives feel bullied, overlooked or made to feel silly by medical professionals , whose job it is to care.
At the time the NHS is overstretched and some healthcare professionals will fob you off, if you don't kick up a fuss!
There, that's my two cents. Always read the label!
Friday, 21 September 2012
B is for...Blokey DIY
Right now my husband is getting his 'dad' on. Every now and again he he has a dad moment where he turns into the father off of sitcoms.
His 'Dad' character likes to do DIY, which is pretty funny as he works for a software company and is much more confortable building virtual structures than real ones.
However, since I've been pregnant there have been a few instances where he has mysteriously turned into the instantly recognisable bloke.
The first was when we bought a buggy. He rolled up his sleeves, poured over the instructions, got all 'dad' about it- before getting really annoyed, kicking the unfinished frame, going for a lie-down and leaving (pregnant) me to put the thing together.
The next one was when I ordered a flat-packed bookcase. He spent all afternoon putting together and recounts the story like he spent half the day wrestling a bear.
Right now, we have just received our cot. Due to a distinct lack of baby shops in our area and our distinct lack of car, this also came flat-packed off the internet.
He's attempting to put it together, whilst watching Blackburn lose horribly to a team who are, on paper, wildly inferior- nothing new there then. God knows what it'll turn out like but it is encouraging to know that inside every account exec, IT guy, premiere league footballer, male stripper there's is a 'Dad'.
His 'Dad' character likes to do DIY, which is pretty funny as he works for a software company and is much more confortable building virtual structures than real ones.
However, since I've been pregnant there have been a few instances where he has mysteriously turned into the instantly recognisable bloke.
The first was when we bought a buggy. He rolled up his sleeves, poured over the instructions, got all 'dad' about it- before getting really annoyed, kicking the unfinished frame, going for a lie-down and leaving (pregnant) me to put the thing together.
The next one was when I ordered a flat-packed bookcase. He spent all afternoon putting together and recounts the story like he spent half the day wrestling a bear.
Right now, we have just received our cot. Due to a distinct lack of baby shops in our area and our distinct lack of car, this also came flat-packed off the internet.
He's attempting to put it together, whilst watching Blackburn lose horribly to a team who are, on paper, wildly inferior- nothing new there then. God knows what it'll turn out like but it is encouraging to know that inside every account exec, IT guy, premiere league footballer, male stripper there's is a 'Dad'.
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
B is for...Bouncy Ball
I'm afraid to say that I may have started an affair-
- with one of these:
I'm very lucky to work in an office, which has one these balls knocking around. I think it was left over from the last pregnant woman to work there, before she kindly donated it to the company.
At the beginning of the week I was having the most severe pelvic girdle pains. I'd had them during my pregnancy before, but only when I was doing something silly, like carrying too much shopping or attempting to run for a bus. This week they've been popping up when I've been sitting perfectly still and , rather then the pain being in my lower bump, it's been in my pelvic floor and given me the horrible sensation of being torn in half. I was really rather hoping to wait until January before finding out what that felt like.
The internet, God bless it, told me that the reason this might be happening was that my seat may be too hard, or my pelvis might be in a funny place. In any event, the ball was good idea and since I started sitting on it I haven't felt a single twinge.
I've also learned that sitting on a birthing ball can encourage your pelvis to lean forward, thus reducing the risk of a posterior (back to back) baby and making for an easier labour. I'm definitely going to be getting one for at-home use.
- with one of these:
I'm very lucky to work in an office, which has one these balls knocking around. I think it was left over from the last pregnant woman to work there, before she kindly donated it to the company.
At the beginning of the week I was having the most severe pelvic girdle pains. I'd had them during my pregnancy before, but only when I was doing something silly, like carrying too much shopping or attempting to run for a bus. This week they've been popping up when I've been sitting perfectly still and , rather then the pain being in my lower bump, it's been in my pelvic floor and given me the horrible sensation of being torn in half. I was really rather hoping to wait until January before finding out what that felt like.
The internet, God bless it, told me that the reason this might be happening was that my seat may be too hard, or my pelvis might be in a funny place. In any event, the ball was good idea and since I started sitting on it I haven't felt a single twinge.
I've also learned that sitting on a birthing ball can encourage your pelvis to lean forward, thus reducing the risk of a posterior (back to back) baby and making for an easier labour. I'm definitely going to be getting one for at-home use.
Saturday, 15 September 2012
B is for...Baby Boy
We had our 20 week scan, nearly 4 weeks ago now and I'm proud to announce that we're having a baby boy.
I say I'm proud and I actually mean it. I suppose, like every woman, I really wanted a little girl. A little girl would have been great to dress up in pretty dresses and take to ballet lessons...
Wait a second. Am I the kind of woman who would take her daughter to ballet? Probably not. Not unless she really wanted to go after watching Angelina Ballerina for hours on end. My fictional little girl would have ended up learning about feminist theory and idolising Marie Curie instead of Cheryl Cole.
I suppose the main reason I had such a deep seated belief that my baby would be female is that it is part of me- and I'm female- and the thought of having a male part of me is a bit of mind fuck.
But we are having a baby boy and I am incredibly pleased.
As soon as the sonographer told us we were having a boy J's face completely changed. He lit up. He always said he had no preference about the sex of the baby, bu,t when he found out ours was going to be a boy, he suddenly saw the 18 years of his life.
He imagined going to the park for a kick around, coaching a junior football team, having me and the baby go and watch him play football near season and shouting 'come on Daddy!' Talking him to the zoo, taking him to Scouts.
J never gets excited about anything. The weeks before our wedding were passed in total fear and financial panic. The day before we go on holiday is always fraught with angst about where the tickets are and how early we'll have to get the airport. This, however, was one thing he can visualise in his mind. He can imagine our baby's childhood being something similar to his own, which means he has a lot to look forward to.
He's already shopping for Spiderman baby-grows.
I say I'm proud and I actually mean it. I suppose, like every woman, I really wanted a little girl. A little girl would have been great to dress up in pretty dresses and take to ballet lessons...
Wait a second. Am I the kind of woman who would take her daughter to ballet? Probably not. Not unless she really wanted to go after watching Angelina Ballerina for hours on end. My fictional little girl would have ended up learning about feminist theory and idolising Marie Curie instead of Cheryl Cole.
I suppose the main reason I had such a deep seated belief that my baby would be female is that it is part of me- and I'm female- and the thought of having a male part of me is a bit of mind fuck.
But we are having a baby boy and I am incredibly pleased.
As soon as the sonographer told us we were having a boy J's face completely changed. He lit up. He always said he had no preference about the sex of the baby, bu,t when he found out ours was going to be a boy, he suddenly saw the 18 years of his life.
He imagined going to the park for a kick around, coaching a junior football team, having me and the baby go and watch him play football near season and shouting 'come on Daddy!' Talking him to the zoo, taking him to Scouts.
J never gets excited about anything. The weeks before our wedding were passed in total fear and financial panic. The day before we go on holiday is always fraught with angst about where the tickets are and how early we'll have to get the airport. This, however, was one thing he can visualise in his mind. He can imagine our baby's childhood being something similar to his own, which means he has a lot to look forward to.
He's already shopping for Spiderman baby-grows.
Thursday, 30 August 2012
B is for...Brilliant Maternity Wear from Topshop
After scouring the internet for ages, looking at 'proper' maternity wear shops that specialise in all manner of baby related things, I was becoming a bit disheartened. It seemed that all manner of maternity clothes were made not particularly for new mums but for my mum. Actually, my mother is far too stylish to be seen dead in most of it too.
Maternity clothes looked mummsy and far too old and frumpy for me. I'm only 25 you know. I can still wear skirts cut above the knee!
That's when I discovered Topshop maternity. It's brilliant, practical, comfy, fashionable and a little bit grungey. I can swan around it most of it retaining the illusion that I am a (pre Steve Coogan) Courtney Love sort of person.
This is what I bought....
And these are a few bits I want...
Maternity clothes looked mummsy and far too old and frumpy for me. I'm only 25 you know. I can still wear skirts cut above the knee!
That's when I discovered Topshop maternity. It's brilliant, practical, comfy, fashionable and a little bit grungey. I can swan around it most of it retaining the illusion that I am a (pre Steve Coogan) Courtney Love sort of person.
This is what I bought....
And these are a few bits I want...
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
B is for... Bourbon Biscuits
However you pronounce it the Bourbon ( BOR-bon, Bor-BON, Bur-bon) is a biscuit tin staple an a national treasure. Not only that, it seems to my sproglet's favourite biscuit.
I say this because on the days where I can keep nothing down, when so much as looking as an apple is a enough to make me toss my cookies, ( see what I did there?) the bourbon never lets me down.
It's peculiar sweet/salty/chocolate/not chocolate flavour comforts my troublesome tummy and takes away the constant headache. It's the only thing I can eat after the morning vomit sesh- which means that my breakfast usually consists of three bourbons and half a mug of milky tea. It's what I need when I get in from work and whenever I have spewed late at night I have never seen a crumb of bourbon in my loo.
It seems that there's inexplicable magical ingredient , which has been effective at easing the nagging nausea than peppermint tea, (now makes me sick) ginger in any form, (vom) celery, (a suggestion by my mother--bleugh)
I think that this is a briliant testament to the fact that every pregnancy is different; that what works for one woman, makes another feel utterly vile; that sometimes the most important thing for you and your baby is how you feel.
If you're feeling rotten, it can really get you down and that can be damaging for both of you. Take it from me, don't follow the diet advice to the letter. By all means try and eat a well balanced diet but if, for a couple of weeks, all you can eat is dairylea on toast- go for it. Don't let magazines an 'the latest study' make you feel bad. Only you know how you feel and you're doing your best. I know I am.
I say this because on the days where I can keep nothing down, when so much as looking as an apple is a enough to make me toss my cookies, ( see what I did there?) the bourbon never lets me down.
It's peculiar sweet/salty/chocolate/not chocolate flavour comforts my troublesome tummy and takes away the constant headache. It's the only thing I can eat after the morning vomit sesh- which means that my breakfast usually consists of three bourbons and half a mug of milky tea. It's what I need when I get in from work and whenever I have spewed late at night I have never seen a crumb of bourbon in my loo.
It seems that there's inexplicable magical ingredient , which has been effective at easing the nagging nausea than peppermint tea, (now makes me sick) ginger in any form, (vom) celery, (a suggestion by my mother--bleugh)
I think that this is a briliant testament to the fact that every pregnancy is different; that what works for one woman, makes another feel utterly vile; that sometimes the most important thing for you and your baby is how you feel.
If you're feeling rotten, it can really get you down and that can be damaging for both of you. Take it from me, don't follow the diet advice to the letter. By all means try and eat a well balanced diet but if, for a couple of weeks, all you can eat is dairylea on toast- go for it. Don't let magazines an 'the latest study' make you feel bad. Only you know how you feel and you're doing your best. I know I am.
B is for..Bless the Internet
.....and all those women like me who are still feeling rotten, two weeks into trimester two.
About a week ago I thought it was easing up; I started eating normally; I embarked on the healthy, baby friendly diet that I always imagined I would feed my unborn child; I started going for a 15 minute walk every lunch hour. This lasted for about three days, until the fatigue, period-like pain and headaches came back.
Last night was a particularly horrible episode. I ate a normal, healthy (if a little stodgy) dinner, then proceeded to vom it all back up again for about half an hour. Then, after a brief period of respite, lunch made a reappearance and I couldn't even keep my Pregnacare down. This followed a day a nausea an headaches an phlegm.
Let me tell you about the phlegm. It's horrendous. I wouldn't like to contemplate how many pints of cold, thick, saliva I've spat out, dribble down my face or hacked up into a tissue over the last couple days. The skin around my mouth is tight, dry, flakey or sore- not to mention red. It's a lot like what happens to your nose during a cold.
I caught site of my reflection in a shop window yesterday and my miss-matched outfit, (I literally can't think about what to wear in the mornings- and don't even suggest to me putting out the night before. See above. Not going to happen) greasy hair, absence of make-up and sodden tissue clutched in hand all gave the impression that I was one Brighton's many, tragic homeless. Not a look I was going for.
I'm sure there are more symptoms but the acceptable word count for a blog means I won't go into them. I will explain, though, that despite the absolute hell I'm experiencing, I am not giving up, not despondent an demanding to be checked into some sort of pregnancy mental health clinic. Why? I hear you ask- because of the lovely people of the internet.
Thanks to forums, blogs and the national press, I know I'm not alone. Typing 'violent sickness 14 weeks pregnant' into google will tune you into the mournful cries of hundreds of women worldwide. The term will actually be finished off for by google-suggest- you won't need to type the whole sentence.
My favourite article was written this January, by the Guardian's Rachel Holmes (read it HERE) who seems to have had many of the same experiences that I've suffered through. Her's did end with the first trimester though so I win- not that it's a competition.
All this means that while I'm pretty sure that I'm in the minority, that no one I know has had a pregnancy quite like mine and that I feel dreadful most of the time, I know I'm not alone. I'm not a wimp, I'm not making this up. If I want to have a little moan and a cry I'm perfectly justified. My baby is fine, I won't die and, unlike sufferers of disease, I know that sometime around 9th January 2013 this will all be over and I'll have a wonderful baby girl or boy.
So, I say thank you internet. Thank you for keeping me sane and to all the women like me, it will soon be over.
About a week ago I thought it was easing up; I started eating normally; I embarked on the healthy, baby friendly diet that I always imagined I would feed my unborn child; I started going for a 15 minute walk every lunch hour. This lasted for about three days, until the fatigue, period-like pain and headaches came back.
Last night was a particularly horrible episode. I ate a normal, healthy (if a little stodgy) dinner, then proceeded to vom it all back up again for about half an hour. Then, after a brief period of respite, lunch made a reappearance and I couldn't even keep my Pregnacare down. This followed a day a nausea an headaches an phlegm.
Let me tell you about the phlegm. It's horrendous. I wouldn't like to contemplate how many pints of cold, thick, saliva I've spat out, dribble down my face or hacked up into a tissue over the last couple days. The skin around my mouth is tight, dry, flakey or sore- not to mention red. It's a lot like what happens to your nose during a cold.
I caught site of my reflection in a shop window yesterday and my miss-matched outfit, (I literally can't think about what to wear in the mornings- and don't even suggest to me putting out the night before. See above. Not going to happen) greasy hair, absence of make-up and sodden tissue clutched in hand all gave the impression that I was one Brighton's many, tragic homeless. Not a look I was going for.
I'm sure there are more symptoms but the acceptable word count for a blog means I won't go into them. I will explain, though, that despite the absolute hell I'm experiencing, I am not giving up, not despondent an demanding to be checked into some sort of pregnancy mental health clinic. Why? I hear you ask- because of the lovely people of the internet.
Thanks to forums, blogs and the national press, I know I'm not alone. Typing 'violent sickness 14 weeks pregnant' into google will tune you into the mournful cries of hundreds of women worldwide. The term will actually be finished off for by google-suggest- you won't need to type the whole sentence.
My favourite article was written this January, by the Guardian's Rachel Holmes (read it HERE) who seems to have had many of the same experiences that I've suffered through. Her's did end with the first trimester though so I win- not that it's a competition.
All this means that while I'm pretty sure that I'm in the minority, that no one I know has had a pregnancy quite like mine and that I feel dreadful most of the time, I know I'm not alone. I'm not a wimp, I'm not making this up. If I want to have a little moan and a cry I'm perfectly justified. My baby is fine, I won't die and, unlike sufferers of disease, I know that sometime around 9th January 2013 this will all be over and I'll have a wonderful baby girl or boy.
So, I say thank you internet. Thank you for keeping me sane and to all the women like me, it will soon be over.
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