Thursday 8 December 2011

C - Cha-Cha-Changes!

When I fell pregnant I was well aware my body had changed, forever. This wasn't a surprise to me. I had factored this and made the sacrifice. But I wasn't prepared for how I would feel about it.
I have really chunky legs, and I'm short, but I have always been proud that I kept my tummy fairly (debatable at some points in time) toned and I had good boobs. Big boobs. But, good boobs. In fact, for many years my boobs had been my selling point.
But what is pregnancy going to ruin forever? You stomach and your tits. Ouch!
Then, after my second child, still breast feeding and walking everywhere, I discovered my legs to look the best they had ever looked.
So there I was, a year ago, able to wear leggings for the first time, but also forced to wear underwear that had to be plastered on and set each morning (otherwise known as Spanx).
With a week left in this pregnancy I'm wondering what the outcome will be this time? Will I be saving for plastic surgery? Or, maybe, as I'm having a baby just before Christmas the surgeon doing the c-section might throw in a tummy tuck and boob lift for free?
I know, only if he's got a beard and is dressed in red! Shucks!

Saturday 26 November 2011

I - Internals

"Why does nobody tell you about internal inspections?" My sister demanded when she came out of hospital, her 2 day old baby in her arms. "I was prepared for pooing the bed, being ripped in two, pain never felt before etc etc. But internals? Nobody told me about them."

Maybe it's because her internal led to a spotting a breach baby and she only had one contraction before she was whisked off for a c-section. Maybe the internal is the last thing remembers, where the pain and discomfort for Mums having gone through labour is replaced by memories more harrowing.

Maybe.

Or maybe, like hemorrhoids. It's something people don't like to talk about.

"Just like a smear" the Midwife will say, lulling you into a false sense of security before a contraption, hand and forearm disappear into the unknown. The future dad stands open mouthed, aghast - porn films have never been this graphic.

By the way... It is nothing like a smear.

U - Uniform

There are two things I know for sure if  I was a working Mum:
1) I would have a cleaner
2) My children would have ridiculous amounts of uniform

I am the Mum who has pulled a pair of school trousers from the washing basket, sponge washed them and blasted them dry with a hair dryer 15 minutes before we have to leave the house.

I am also the parent that agrees with having a uniform on many levels, however, on a day I can't find any clean uniform I will bellow furiously  "For God's sake! Why do they have to wear Uniform at 4 years old anyway?"

In primary school the uniform should reflect the activities and track suit bottoms would be much more practical. I look at my two sons , who are completely different shapes, and think the only thing that is comfortable and  practical for both of them is a pair of trackies. Not formal school trousers. Which for either child will at some point need turning up, taking in, letting out etc etc. Trackies = one size fits all.

The other thing - how do you keep the polo shirts white? Wherever I have bought them from they have turned to a dull grey. I never wash them with anything other than whites. I keep vanish in profits. I have bought the "basic" ones, the "luxury" ones and the "stay bright" ones. All of them have turned.

And then there's ironing - well lets's just agree that's a non-starter in my house and I am grateful I don't have daughters who wear pleated skirts and checked summer dresses. Otherwise they would be very crinkly daughters.







Friday 25 November 2011

B - Braxton Hicks

This is how it went with my first pregnancy...

Midwife: I'm just going to feel your tum, hop up on the table for me  (of course the heavily pregnant can't "hop up" anywhere).
Me: Ok.
Midwife: (kneading large, exposed bump) it's difficult to tell what position he is in; you're having Braxton Hicks. 
Me: Really? I can' feel anything.

Consequently, this meant that any following conversation I had with other Mums about Braxton Hicks would result in me thinking I was 'dead 'ard', as they droned on about how uncomfortable and painful they were I thought smugly: "Well I didn't even know I was having them."

Two pregnancies later...

Midwife: Any questions, concerns?
Me: Do Braxton Hicks hurt more in consecutive pregnancies?
Midwife (tilting head and smiling) yes, unfortunately, they do.
ME: And come more often?
Midwife: Yes.
Me: And more irregular?
Midwife: A-ha.
Me: And less likely to be a signal of labour approaching?
Midwife: Afraid so.
Me: So their sole purpose this time round is to make the last month as uncomfortable as possible? Great.

Apparently the theory is in your first labour, the head will engage and stay engaged, and this will result in practice contractions preparing your uterus for the birth, first discovered my a male doctor (of course) who then named them after himself, hence why the name has nothing to do with labour or women. In consecutive pregnancies the head is less likely to engage till labour commences, however, the baby may (quoting the midwife) "bob in and out" thus creating irregular and painful practice contractions.

*Talking to Belly* Well, you in there, little bobber, you hear me? This bobbing - stops now! No more! Anywhere else you would be called a "Tease". I can just about handle the pains, but every time you bob in I have the urge to pee, which happens every 7 minutes coupled with a very convincing and pressured feeling that something very large is about to drop out of something quite small.. So we would all be happier if you just bobbed out, stayed out and splashed about till you were definitely going to make an appearance. To put in bluntly - the only pains I am interested in are the ones that will result in an empty womb!

Monday 14 November 2011

I - I can't see my feet!

For a long time I thought pregnant people couldn't really see their feet. But they can, can't they? I mean, not from every angle, like they could pre-bump. But all it takes is a slight lean forward and there they are, like they always were, on the the bottom of your legs, just looking slightly more swollen.

No, this expression is clearly a euphemism for something else beginning with 'F' - a euphemism that previously flew right over my head.

When my first close friend fell pregnant, a good few years before I'd considered having children,  she was 7 months pregnant when I heard her whinge  "Do you know what? It would just be nice to see your Foo Foo again"
"Do you miss it?" I joked.
"Just you wait" she threatened and sat their looking smug. A woman who knew the real drawbacks of pregnancy.

And, she was right. It would be nice.

It's not that we look down there it a lot, I mean, if challenged to the amount you examine between the legs, you'd probably blush and reply "rarely ever".  But when that option is taken away and you suddenly can't, you become aware of how much attention that area requires and it is quite unnerving.

Unnerving in the regards that you have absolutely no idea what is going on down there, unnerving because every other body part which grows hair is taking on a new lease of life, unnerving, and terrifying, that  the time is fast approaching that that area is about to have its moment of crowning glory - a whole new stage and audience - and you have no idea what it looks like.

"ARRGGH! I can't see my F..."

Thursday 10 November 2011

D - DEMOBs and SMOGs

So I'm not sure where this idea was spawned (this idea being the most wonderful of acronyms I have ever come across) so I can't give credit, but I do know my Mum told me about them after reading an article on Mumsnet. Therefore, some wonderful Mumsnetter is sure to comment and put me straight.

SMOG - Smug Mothers Of Girls

DEMOB - DEfensive Mother Of Boys

Brilliant!

Before I had children I was unaware of this divide. I actually thought things hadn't moved on from the 50's where the baby boy was still a blessing and the girl, was, you know, bad luck. But how wrong was I? Girl worship has landed and it isn't budging an inch.

I do know a few SMOGs. I haven't told them they are actually a SMOG, but they are. They often say things like ..."Well I have girls" and "Oh no girls don't do that" and "Really?".  And, I know that it doesn't sound that bad, but it's not what they say but the way they say it.  The look on their face, the half smile, the head placement slightly to the left and the glitter of triumph in their eyes; they're smug - they are a SMOG!

And then, there's the ones I don't know. The ones at the park, or the soft play area, or the supermarket. The ones with their noses turned high and looks of pure horror as my boys circle my legs screaming, or dive bomb into the swimming pool or run through puddles regardless of what's on their feet. The ones whose daughters stand uncomfortably in frills and ribbons and "won't wear anything but pink".  (She will if you don't give her a choice though, I'm pretty sure it's not her who holds the Next Directory account.) There the ones I really don't like... The judgemental Smog.

And as much as I try not to be a DEMOB, I can't help it. I love my boys; I embrace the noise, I encourage the mess and I laugh at their trails of destruction. So when some prissy Mum, dressed head to toe in Boden, daughter with matching jumper on knee, is gawking at my two year old as he he eats the chalk at playgroup and then throws it on the floor as he runs to dunk his head in the dirty paint water, it takes all my will power not to defensively tell them "to get over themselves" instead I just turn proudly and say"I taught him that."

But I do try to be level headed, not to resort to pantomime boos and hisses when a SMOG tells me of her woes of having to make a Snow White birthday cake, or how The Disney Store has already run out of glass slippers and there's 5 weeks till Christmas, or how they are struggling to master the french plait. But this I can listen to, and just laugh at, because my concerns are about how to stop my youngest putting his hand into his dirty nappy to share its content with the room or explaining to a four your old why it isn't nice to finger shoot people as we overtake them in the car. But what I really have objection to is the SMOG's look of pity when I tell them I'm having a third boy. "Poor you!"

And before I know it I'm ranting at them "We're having a baby,a s far as we know he is perfectly healthy. Some people will never have a baby. We are really lucky to have three boys and personally we think it's going to be great!"

But equally the DEMOBS are just as irritating. In the summer, whilst camping, I got talking to another Mum at a restaurant. "Do you know what you are having?" she asked eying my bump.
"Yes a third boy" I said smiling "But I'm pleased because I think pink is overrated" I joked. She didn't respond.
"Do you just have the two bo.."
I hadn't finished the question when she replied, in a very loud voice, "Yes and I wouldn't have it any other way!"
I'm pretty sure she also looked up to the sky.

The conversation ended, as I wasn't sure if she was talking to me, or someone up above. But I made a promise to the boys there and then that I wouldn't be one of those Mothers. Ones who says things like "Well he's a boy"  as he throws all the shoes of the shelves in Clarks or "he's just asserting himself" as he bangs the other children on the head with a toy hammer. Or, the worse one, "At least I'll know I'll be looked after" as her son blows raspberry's out the window at passers by. (No, my dear, you will be looking after him... FOREVER)

I have also had to make myself promise not to become "anti-girls". Recently I have noticed myself raising my eyebrows or smirking as girl-worship is pushed further into my face. And the worst bit, as much of a tomboy as I was growing up, I have always loved the colour pink. But the more I see it on little girls, the more it is losing its appeal, to the point I actually wrestled a "pink wafer" off a four year old girl at a party the other day as she wanted "all the pink biscuits" and I ws adamant, my son, who couldn't care less, also wanted one.  I think my DEMOB membership card may be arriving in the post soon.

However, if I ever was to have a girl, I am pretty sure at the age of 4 she'd get stuck up a tree, adorn a full football strip at the age of 9, and be able to down a pint at 17! Just like her Mum!



Wednesday 9 November 2011

E- Eaves dropping

Never, ever, presume they are not listening they are always listening...

Thursday 3 November 2011

C - Children's parties

So to date I have a four year old and a two tear old and to date I have thrown two parties: one birthday party and one halloween party. Do you want to know how many children we invited to each? Two. That's it. Two. It was enough.

So here is the thing about children's parties, especially for children under 5 - who are we throwing them for? Ourselves? Or the kids?

I had great birthday parties as a kid - really great, ok we were slightly spoilt when it comes to parties but I LOVED it - great memories. My favourite being a Disco Party where we had the best DJs (a double act that could have given Ant and Dec a run for their money), my Mum made hot dogs for everyone and I invited my whole class so I had 40 plus presents to open.

My partner on the other hand, didn't have parties, he says "we were skint" which may have been true, but also he was born on the 28th of Dececember and I feel the fate of a Christmas baby is to be party-less.

But as much I loved having a party and it was what I really looked forward to each year, I refuse to overdo it too early, and put all that effort in to a party that a one year old child has no idea it is for him. And at the moment the "birthday party" has become another charde for a mum to show off, either how wealty she is, how creative she is or how down right fabulous she is. Party bags have become a ridiculous parade of wealth, as Mums compete in taking decorated cupcakes into schoool/nursery for class mates the day before, clad the whole family in a new designer outfit for the occasion and hire gourmet caterers and chocolate fountains for the food! Then after you've gone you recieve a thank you letter, that comes in the form of a wedding invitation, thanking you for coming - wasn't that the point of the overfilled and overindulged party bag?

So this is what we did... For the first few years we celebrated with family and being Summer babies usually attempted to do it on the beach, because that is where the kids are happiest. Then this year, as he had started pre-school my eldest said for his birthday he wanted to play with his two best friends from Nursery. So, as they were obsessed with pirates,  I devised a picture pirate treasure hunt through the woods, which ended with finding a treasure map and digging up a eal treasure chest in the sand pit at the play area. We had a pirate picninc, bought them an ice cream and a ride on merry go round then took them home. The cost was minimal, the effort a bit more, but I'm sure he's more likey to remember it than hiring a hall and invite 50 kids he barely knows.

Then there was the halloween party, which arose as he had been asking for weeks to have school friends over to play and I though I'd make it into an event on halloween and then wouldn't feel guilty about not taking him out "trick or treating". I was going to put on party food, do a spooky treasure hunt around the house and then some crafts. "They won't want to do crafts" my partner said. "Just let them play".
"They might" I replied and devised a box of simple crafts "just in case", like pom pom spiders, straw skeletons and chalk ghosts. Needless to say the majority of their time they ran around chasing each other with masks on (my partner included) and I sat on my own doing crafts. However, the little monkeys were more than happy to take a pom pom spider home with them and pass it off as their own. Once again, simple cheap, but they were all happy. i would have posted some pics to accompany this, but I was too busy battling with wool and googly eyes to take any!

Tuesday 1 November 2011

V - Vanity

There is no room for vanity in pregnancy. No room at all. Days when my hair is washed and styled and my lashes are flecked with mascara are the days I class as achievements.

And there is definitely no room for vanity in the labour ward - that place is crammed full with screams of agony, flustered midwives and anxious relatives. Vanity, you must wait outside.

When I was heavily pregnant with my first, friends told me to rememeber to pack a mascara and some dry shampoo - "people will be taking photos, regardless of what you look like." a concerned colleague advised. I didn't. It wasn't one of my priorities. And, besides, I would be glowing with that feeling of euphoria everyone kept harping on about. Who needs make-up?

I learnt the hard way...



No, there is no room for vanity in the labour ward, but it will make itself comforatble next to you everytime you look at those photos, reminding you that you can never remove them, no matter how dreadful you look. They are your child's first photos, what sort of a Mother would dispose of them?
 "No they're here to stay and haunt you forever" a smirking Vanity will gloat.

Needless to say the second time round I was more prepared. It's like I went on a post-labour-breakfast-show-makeover!



Friday 28 October 2011

E - Expressing

Ok so now you can breast feed and have your own life back - all you need to do is express - easy!

Not really.

If you are going to make expressing work you need to be very organised, have great determination, good at sterilising and strong willed. These are some of the reasons why I breast fed, because I am not good at any of these things.

But I have tried it, hand pump, electric pump, no pump... Still not very good at it.

Once, I looked after a friends' 3 month old baby, in an emergency situation, she dropped her off and handed me a bottle. "Oh are bottle feeding her?" Iasked surprised
"No it's breast milk" she said and flounced off, free from stress or worry at leaving her breast fed child with a stranger.
"Amazing". I thought. But the baby took the milk, no problem. And was perfectly happy for the two hours I looked after her.

So it does work and you can have both. Just I can't - mainly because I'm a bit of a lazy cow.

Wednesday 26 October 2011

B - Bump Envy

I've always had good bumps. Something I have been quite proud of. I've usually been a size 14 when I've fallen pregnant, so by a good bump do not picture skinny girl with nice, neat bump. Picture, curvy girl with big, round, hard bump like someone stuffed a football up her jumper.

But the third time round it was a bit of a squashy jelly bump - I was not impresseed. Was it age?  Or just the fact the previous two pregancies had left my stomach muscles knackered? Who knew, but I finally understood bump envy.

When I'm pregnant I like people to know I'm preganant, I clad my bump in tight clothes (enjoying the freedom from the self-concious stomach that feels the need to breath in when in public). I like people to know I'm preganant, not just be thinking "Hasn't she put on weight"

I felt a proud sense of achievement when I overhrad this conversation in my year 10 class:
Charming teenage boy: Is Miss Pringle pregnant?
Not-so-charming teenage boy: Nah she just swallowed a bowling ball. What do you think, ya div?

But this time in took 28 weeks to get this bump (it used to appear at 10 weeks). I was mortified at 30 weeks pregnant to have a Mum , who saw me every week at toddler group, exclaim "Oh my god you're pregnant! I had no idea!"What had she been thking... I'd lost all sense of fashion and found 2 stone?

I wasn't envious of other bumps, just the ones I'd once had.

Tuesday 25 October 2011

X - Xavier, Xander, Xeven

Names beginning with an 'X'. I just don't get it Why not just use an 'S' or if you HAVE to be different a 'Z'? But an 'X'? Really? Is the sole purpose of naming your child to confuse me and make me stumble over the pronunciation? Thought so. It worked.

Monday 24 October 2011

L- Leg Cramp

Some of the lucky pregnant people out there never get this - bully for you.

The rest of you - feel my pain; share my torture.

This is how it used to be...

Something wakes me in the night, it takes a few disorientated seconds to realise it is my muscle in my right calf twitching, threatening. "Don't move. Don't fucking move." I whisper inside my head.
"ARGGGHHHHH!" I Scream out loud. I moved.
"What? What is it?" My partner sits up, breathless, nervous, disorientated.
"My. Leg. Cramp. In My Sodding. Leg."  I grunt between high pitched screams.
He sits up, assumes the physio position he learnt at University. He rubs. I wince. He rubs. I groan. Eventually, it fades to a dull throbbing ache.
"Better?" he whispers
"Kinda" I mumble "Thank you"


That was the first pregnancy. Now...

Something wakes me in the night, it takes a few disorientated seconds to realise it is my muscle in my right calf twitching, threatening. "Don't move. Don't fucking move." I whisper inside my head. 

Usually, there is one sound asleep child in my bed, if not two. "DON'T wake the children"

I move. I silently scream in my head. I sweat. I panic. I pant like I'm in labour. I pull my leg into the air, wincing all the way. I rub my calf my self, struggling to reach over the bump, and I feel pain like no other.  Eventually, it fades to a dull throbbing ache.
"I hate you" I whisper to my leg.


Occasionally...

Something wakes me in the night, it takes a few disorientated seconds to realise it is my muscle in my right calf twitching, threatening. "Don't move. Don't fucking move." I whisper inside my head.

My partner is snoring next to me, our children are in there own beds. I clutch his chest hair "Crr-amp" I splutter.
"Rub it then" he mumbles and rolls over.

Monday 10 October 2011

M - Miscarriage

This week (commencing the 10th of October) Mumsnet is launching its Campaign for Better Miscarriage Care This is not just about making sure all women are taken through a code of care  if experiencing a miscarriage  (which in itself is vital), but also about breaking the taboo - talking about something that we normally gloss over; taking it out of from under the carpet and letting it breath in the open. This post and many others will be linked up across several blogs this week via MmeLindor's site.

At first, I wondered if this was the right place to share my story. My blogged encyclopaedia seemed so light hearted for such a strong and sensitive topic. But, it is such a massive part of my journey into Motherhood I felt it belonged on here.

In the space of 5 months, between mine and my partner's family, we lost 5 babies through miscarriage - one of them was ours.

By my calculations I was eight weeks pregnant, I had my sample confirmed by the doctor and had a few weeks to wait before my first midwife appointment. We were unbearably excited, we had been trying to concieve for 9 months and the long build up had started to spread doubts about our fertility. But the blue cross on the white stick had told us another story; we were going to have a baby. We only told close family, you know, because that's "what you do".

You cannot underestimate the attachment you make to your unborn child in those first few weeks. And for the woman, not one minute of the waking day goes by without being aware that a baby is growing inside your womb; the sickness that lingers in the pit of your stomach, the slightest movements which trigger your tender breasts to throb and the tiredness, like a drug, willing you to sleep.

I was at a country pub, enjoying dinner with a colleague when it happened. All through the meal I was desperate to tell her, unable to focus on the conversation or food. But will power gripped me and I held it in. When we had both finished I went to the bathroom. There was a moment, before I looked down, when I knew it was there: the blood. It's a sight, as a woman, we are so accustomed to; the spotting of blood on your underwear, the start of a period - it's a monthly ritual. But for a pregnant woman it is a chilling vision that snaps the breath from your lungs. Red. Warning. Danger.

I held my head in my hands, got myself together, cleaned myself up, pulled on a mask  and headed back to the table. I smiled. We paid the bill. I said goodbye. I drove home. Crying. Or trying not to. When I got in I told my partner, we rang the doctors and he booked us in for a scan at the hospital the next day. Then the pains started, and my body told me again, something wasn't right.

Neither of us slept well. I woke early, a wave of nausea passed over me and the tenderness in my breasts throbbed as I rolled over. Then I remembered what I had to do today and I started to prepare myself for bad news. I'd rang my line manager the night before, but I still had to go through the correct system for calling in sick.  I had to ring a stranger and tell them the reason I couldn't come into work. I wasn't going to lie, why should I? But my voice broke on the phone and I couldn't say the words out loud. I passed the phone to my partner who finished the call.

I don't remember the time of the scan, but I know we had a long, painful wait throughout the day. When we arrived at the hospital, at the entrance to the women's and children’s unit, two heavily pregnant woman were stood in dressing gowns, smoking. I couldn't even look at them. "How come they get to keep theirs?"  I asked my partner, tears burning against my eye sockets. "It's so unfair."

We sat in the same waiting room as healthy pregnant woman, brandishing a range of bumps and blue folders. "Do you have your blue notes?" a midwife asked me. I shook my head; I hadn't got that far.

In a small room with a bed, chair and scanning machine, we waited for a midwife. She came in, introduced herself and took us through the procedure. There were a thousand questions to answer about the bleed and the pains I had felt. Then she said "let’s have a look," I lay on the bed, she squirted cold gel on my stomach which caused goosebumps to flutter under my skin.  I watched her carefully turn the monitor away from us, unsure of what she was going to find.

A couple of minutes later, she said she had found a pregnancy sack, but it was too small to see if there was a heartbeat. This would suggest I was less than eight weeks pregnant. Not a good sign. She had to do an internal inspection with an internal scanner.

As she prodded inside me, with what can only be described as a long, pencil-thin dildo, my partner squeezed my hand, unsure of where to look. Once again the results were inconclusive. They talked me through the size of the sack and that they were concerned that it could be a sign that there was an ectopic pregnancy. At this point, I'm sure they were aware that the pregnancy had failed, but nobody told me that, instead I was scurried off into a small room with two chairs in in (in another life the room could have been used as a cupboard). They tested my urine sample, took blood tests and left us there, as they were snowed under, as midwives often are.

We sat through a shift change and a new midwife came to see us. She explained my urine sample still showed up with a pregnancy hormone, and the same pregnancy hormone was present in my blood, but I had to wait 24 hours to have my blood tests done again. This would show if the hormone had increased (suggesting a healthy pregnancy) or dropped (pregnancy failed). But in the meantime I was told of the signs to watch out for in case it was ectopic and had to make sure I was not on my own during the next 24 hours.

24 hours later I went to the same waiting room, sat amongst bumps and blue folders and had my bloods taken. I was talked through the ectopic symptoms again and sent away, being told someone would ring me.

That afternoon they telephoned me to tell me the hormone level had stayed the same. An outcome not expected "What does that mean? “I asked.
“It means we still need to monitor you in case it is an ectopic pregnancy and you need to come back for blood tests tomorrow and seek medical advice immediately if you show any of the other symptoms.” Hours later, I was in agony writhing on the sofa.  My sister rang the hospital. She wanted to know what we were to do. What was to happen next?

"Does she realise the pregnancy has failed?" the midwife asked.
"I think she has worked that out for herself. But it's nice for someone to finally confirm it."
"Tell her to take some paracetamol and call us back if she runs a temperature or has any pain in her shoulder".

The third blood tests showed a fall in the hormone. I was told to be prepared for a very heavy period, a lot of cramping and sent away.

Now my baby, in medical terms, may have only been a sack of cells that stopped growing at less than 6 weeks, but in my head I had been eight weeks pregnant. For the last three and half weeks I had been a Mum and now I wasn't.

I took a couple of days off work, got drunk over the weekend and went back to work on the Monday. On the following Wednesday, the school held an open evening. It was the last thing I felt like doing, but all staff were expected to stay and I didn't want to play the "miscarriage" card. Some colleagues knew, some didn't. Everyone was sympathetic smiles, but no words. "What do you say?"

It was at this open evening I passed my baby. I had been bleeding heavily since my last visit to the hospital. I had three roped year 7 girls into helping me get the classroom ready and show school work to prospective parents. As we were setting up the classroom, I felt sickening cramps in my lower belly and shooting pains up my back. I went into my classroom cupboard. Closed the door.  Crouched down. Held my fist in mymouth to stop me screaming and felt something pass out of me.

I headed straight for the school toilets where I flushed it away. I sat silently weeping for a few minutes then took a deep breath, cleaned myself up, pulled on a mask and went back to the open evening.

Two days later I was sat in the staff room at break time. I felt faint, nauseous and breathless. "I don't feel well," I announced from nowhere, standing up. "I need to ring the hospital" I said heading to the office phone. I tried to dial the number I head memorised, but tears pounded against my glasses and I couldn't see the keys. "I can't remember the number" I said turning to a silent room. Tears flooding from my eyes. A friend led me out, got someone to cover my classes, gave me a drink of water and then told me I needed to go home. She offered to give me a lift or ring someone, but I was adamant I could drive. As I walked across the car park the tears were rolling into my hair, down my top, dripping from my nose. I had no control over them. I got into my car, put my head into the steering wheel and wailed.

At home I was alone; an unfortunate afternoon when everyone in my support network was unavailable. I rang my partner's school and sobbed down the phone to the secretary. He was home within the hour. But it felt like much longer. I sat on the stairs howling; uncontrollable wails and groans left my body. This was my first experience of unexpected loss and the grief that follows. It's dirty hands held me in their grasp. My partner found me there and I sobbed into his shoulder that I wanted our baby back. "Me too" he wept "Me too".

My experience was mixed; positives and negatives arose from the hospital treatment. But nobody had prepared me for the emotional impact and when it hit me, it left me broken. Part of the biggest problem is that I felt I had to carry on as normal. That a miscarriage was hushed over, so I pushed the emotions deep inside. But everything surfaces at some point and it's about time Miscarriage was allowed to, in whatever form it comes, from whatever source. It is not something that should be hidden or masked. 25% pregnancies end in a miscarriage. This is happening to women every day and the support and care provided needs to be addressed, but equally, as a society it is something we need to cope with better.

Today, I have two boys and am seven months pregnant with my third. My first pregnancy after the miscarriage was not straightforward either. I had a bleed at eight weeks and was scanned and saw my first tiny heartbeat. Then, at 13 weeks I woke in the middle of night and instinctively felt that the sheets beneath me were wet. I switched on the light to discover it was blood. We went straight to the hospital; it was the early hours of Saturday morning. We were sent away because they don't have sonographers on duty over the weekend and were given an appointment for the following Monday evening. Not knowing just meant I relived the miscarriage for every second of that weekend. Fortunately, Monday arrived with good news and the rest of the pregnancy went smoothly.

But this isn't always the case. I have been lucky enough to go on and have children. The miscarriage and its pain has faded. But the experience will never be forgotten. Five years later, I was surprised how familiar it felt to write about it. How the tears burned the same way as before.  How the grief was raw and harrowing. How, 5 years ago, it consumed me; the emptiness, the loss. Each of my following pregnancies have started with the same way, with the same angst, the same worry, the same grip of fear. Knowing that there is 25% chance that I'll have to go through it again. Fortunately, I haven't. But other women have.Still are Today. Tomorrow. And what care and support will they receive? What will be the reaction from the health service? From society? From themselves? How can they be prepared to deal with something that is never spoken about? How can any of us?

Sunday 9 October 2011

K- Kicks

Three pregnancies later and I'm not at all blasé; it’s still the most incredible moment.

The first real kick.

 Routinely followed by 10 minutes of incomprehension, whilst trying to picture another being living inside your tummy, a tear, a giggle, a shout to other half, a patient hand placed upon the belly, an awkward moment, a disheartened retreat, another kick, another squeal, another patient hand...

Never gets boring.

For me anyway.

W - Weeks and Months

What is it with the weeks and months? Is there no system to correlate the two? Are they are different time frame completely? DO WEEKS NOT BELONG TO MONTHS?

I find it slightly exasperating that they are two methods to working out how pregnant you are. And they don’t seem to go together at all – like kilograms and pounds. So when somebody asks me how far gone I am, I think back to the latest e mail update from bounty, pampers or similar and reply in weeks. "29 weeks" I reply, proud of myself for knowing (usually I don't).
"Oh what's that in months?" they ask.
 "Seven?" I reply, unsure, rubbing my forehead where the pregnancy brain is palpating.
"Really so your due in November?" they ask, showing off their Maths.
"Ugh No. December. Maybe 6 months?"
"Is that all?" They squeal. "Eek you're big! Are you sure?"
At this point I should say "Do you know what. I'm 29 weeks. If you want to know the months you fucking work out. I'm struggling to remember whether its morning or afternoon."
But I don't.
Because I want people to like me.
So I say "I'll check with the midwife" and walk away. Fuming.

Friday 23 September 2011

S - Snoring


It's already started; it's here and he is leaving the bedroom. The Snore. No, correction, The Pregnancy Snore. A sound man thought woman could not make.

With our first child, he tried to "grin and bear" it. Because he was so excited about the arrival of his first child, it seemed like a small price to pay; the woman you love re-enacting sounds only ever heard on nature programmes as they film the largest species of bear hibernating in a dark, echoing cave. Of course he would try and nudge me, roll me over, even wake me up to tell the neighbours had just called and asked if I could keep it down. But it was to no avail. The Snore was staying for the duration. But with the second, as soon as it came, he would leave the bedroom, pillow over his shoulder, like a travelling sack, and retreat to the sofa, spare bed etc. Now, at six months pregnant with our third, he rarely makes it in the bedroom door. His rule is if he can hear me from the bottom of the stairs, as he makes his way to bed (I am usually asleep by 9.00pm), then he's not going to even attempt pleading with the growls for some sleep. He would rather take refuge on the empty top bunk in the kid's room.

I believe him. I don't think he is exaggerating at all. I have spent various nights on the maternity ward with both children, I have heard these heavily pregnant women rumble and roar in their sleep. Once, as he dropped me off in said ward, in the early hours of the morning, when my water's broke but labour lay dormant. We quietly shuffled into a ward and heard deep-throated, sleep grunts from behind the curtains.

"Am I as loud as that?" I whispered in disbelief.

"Louder." he replied iwthout smirk or trace of a wind up.

In this ward is where I also witnessed The Pregancy Fart, from the other side. But that's a whole new blog post.

Tuesday 6 September 2011

T- Toilet Visits

Apparently, so I've been told, when you are pregnant it is legal to do a wee anywhere - ANY-WHERE! This includes a policeman's helmet; a policeman is under legal obligation to offer his helmet to a pregant woman who has been caught short.

Unfortunately, this gives me little comfort in the early hours of the morning as I waddle sleepily towards the toilet for the fourth time!

"It's preparing you for when they're here" knowing Mums would tell me, their voices encased with sadistic glee. At least when they're here the sleepless nights would be gratified with something small and wonderful to love, not just the knowledge that I am too fat to control my bladder and I if a policeman was here in bed with me he would have to offer me his helmet.

U - Underwear.

At 6 months pregnant my sister declared that since finding out she was pregnant she had already spent £150 on bras. These were bras without frills, lace, vintage design, spots, tassels, stripes or flowers. Just your plain, old basic bra. This was £150 spent on the M&S boulder holder!

There is no denying that pregnancy, breast feeding, stopping breast feeding and your new (not as good) boobs after the whole shabang takes it toll on your underwear drawer - be prepared to spend a fortune just to find some comfort and support from your lingerie!

Then the bottom half - knickers. "Just wait I told her" as she sat with her 6 month bump "That's nothing compared to the battle you're about to have with knickers. From 6 months pregnant the first, and hardest, challenge of the day is geting a pair a knickers on. Somewhere, from 6 months pregnant, the bending, pulling, stretching mechanism, which you once took for granted when pulling on a pair of pants, no longer exists. It has been replaced by a sharp, unbearable pain. Therfore you will have to devise many different techniques till you master the art of pulling on pants whilst pregnant.   Here are some iIam familiar with:
  • toe hooking
  • lying flat on the bed
  • writhing and wriggling
  • sitting on the side of the bed and ungracefully shuffling legs
  • getting an unwilling partner to aid you (wouldn't reccomend)

Monday 5 September 2011

F - Fannyache

Back pains, water infections, swollen feet, tender breasts, stomach cramps - I can deal with. But, fannyache - my lord that hurts.

There is no other way to describe it - fannyache - like someone stuck a two ton piece of lead up there and asked you to carry it around for 9 months! It bloody knacks!

Wednesday 31 August 2011

D- Dads

I am very lucky. My partner is a "hands on" dad! A good'un. A grafter. A star.

I know women have the hardest of hard jobs; carrying the baby, giving birth, making the big decisions and then all of the "new baby" politics that take place afterwards. It helps if we can think that the Dads have got it easy, but if you stand back and think about what it's like on the outside, it must be quite hard.

The dad will never feel a comforting kick from inside his tummy, never understand the ecstacy a mother feels at the end of childbirth, never comfort a baby with his own milk and he rarely gets to spend the first night with his new family. Sent off home. Alone.

A new dad will get two weeks off (if he's lucky) with his new child and then he has to be the first to leave, the first to say goodbye, the first to return to work and step out of the bubble and back into reality.

But in this modern day society we expect them to do everything that we do. We expect everything to be equal ,to be shared. And if you've got a good one - it is!

The father of my sons goes to work everyday so I don't have to. He comes home later than he ever did and works through his lunch hour, he sorts out all the bills and sometimes even does the weekly shop on his own, to save me a job. And in return fot this? He is still on the outside. He was working when they crawled for the first time. Not there when they took their first steps, tried their first food and babbled their first words. He misses out on taking them to school on their first day. He can't get time off to watch them in their first nativity play. He won't be there to cheer them on at their first sport's day. He's busy at work so I can do all of these  wonderful things.

For all those Dads who are rolling up their sleeves up, making life easier for us Mums. -Well done and thank you.

Tuesday 9 August 2011

N - Not having a girl.

I have two adorable boys. I recently found out I was having a third. As we have decided this is the last pregnancy, a third boy came a bit of a shock. Even though I had tried to prepare myself for the likelihood of having three sons and what a blessing this was going to be, I still had to come to terms with the news I was never going to have a daughter.

My mum is a feminist, a product of becoming a woman during the 60's and 70's. My sister and I are therefore mini-feminists; we have soaked up her opinions, we've been brought up to believe, as women, we can do anything, but we have become women in a society where equality and political correctness have been breathing down people's necks.

In my childhood, my strongest family influences were all women, they were always more dominant; my grandmas, my aunties and my elder sister. Although I have often found myself forming easier rapports with men, when it comes to guidance, influence, idols and role models, I have always turned to women. I have formed many (unromantic) friendships with men, but they have never lasted, only ever been circumstantial, whereas the ones which last, the ones I work at, the ones where I have put the effort in have all been with other women. My favourite writers, musicians, actors and teachers are all been women.

So, when I looked at my future self, I was always with daughters. I just expected to have them. So to accept that you won't, that takes a while to be something you can say comfortably.

For me, it's not about the frills, or the colour pink, or plaiting hair, or buying bras or planning weddings (for gods sake I can't be arsed to plan my own)! It's about something I wanted to pass on; a bond, a relationship, a sisterhood.

But with the ever growing girl-worship in our society, maybe I was needed to raise boys; to re-establish the balance. Champion the underdog once more. The boy! The glorious, adorable, loud, boisterous, sensitive, intelligent, loving boy!

M - Maternity clothes

Before I had any children, and was trying to get pregnant, I would wistfully turn to the "Maternity" section of my NEXT catalogue and daydream about what I would wear if I were pregnant! Oh the irony! Because all I did when I was pregnant is flick through magazines daydreaming about the clothes I would be able to wear if I wasn't pregnant.

Some shops used to do a "maternity" section - a lonely, forgotten rack of clothes, so inappropriately placed in the shop, if you blinked you'd miss them. Or so forgotten that when asking a shop assistant if they had a maternity section she'd look puzzled and shout over her shoulder "Marie, where'd you stck them maternity clothes?" And if you were lucky enough to find it, you would have the choice of a pack of two T-shirts - (one black, one white),a pair of black work wear trousers, an attempt at an "evening top", one very unflattering dress and a pair of boot cut jeans. If you're lucky there may be a nightie as well.

Now most high street shops, have opted to remove this rail, to make more room for mini skirts and skinny jeans and when you ask where the maternity section is they'll say "we do it online".

So, you shop online, guessing about what these unusual items with extra elastic and no fastenings will look like. You buy them, over the bump, under the bump, they're all bloody uncomfortable. The only thing to wear whilst pregnant are floaty dresses and maternity leggings - in fact I think after discovering maternity leggings last time round I'm never going to buy a pair of normal leggings again. They are the most comfortable (and probably unflattering) piece of clothing ever! I recommend them to all you pregnant ladies... And non-pregnant ladies too - Go on treat yourself!

Monday 8 August 2011

S - Second children

The other day I found my second child sat in his father's sock draw (1 metre off the ground) drinking my bio oil. It would never have happened with the first.

But we say this a lot...

His brother would never have worked out to pull himself up on the radiator and hang head first out of our bedroom. His brother wouldn't have climbed a ladder, leaning against an outhouse at a garden party, only to be caught when he was spotted inches away from climbing onto the dilapidated roof. His brother would have never worked out how to open the front door and make a dash for it when no one was looking.

Other Mums drop there head to one side, as I tell anecdotes of his latest adventures, and say softly "It's the second child syndrome, just like my so-and-so".

But second children weren't born like this, it's not a default. Sure, some of it is personality, but we have to look at ourselves for this one. We smother the first child with all our insecurities and idiosyncrasies, unable to see the bigger picture as we are so preoccupied with the all-consuming love for your first child. You don't love the second any less. but you love it with freedom, you relax into parenthood, turn a blind eye, and let's be honest, lose a bit of control, because with more than one there just isn't the time. So the second child, overflowing with independence and free will, is formed.

So when they ring you up from the other side of the world, about to bungee jump off the largest bridge wearing nothing but a mankini, we only have our selves to blame.

W - Waddling

I fight it as long as I can. The waddle. I mean, you can't strut when pregnant, but you can aim to look as less duck like as possible for as long as possible. But... then... inevitably... it becomes out of your control. You feel it in every inch of your movement, you see it on people's faces, you catch yourself in reflective windows - your waddling!

*waddle waddle pant pant waddle waddle pant* Somewhere between 6 and 8 months pregnant you stopped being a woman and became a duck-dog!

Don't worry it's only temporary.

F - Finding out

Conversations with random people I barely know
#Take 1

RPIBK: Are you going to find out the sex?
Me: Yes. I think so.
RPIBK: Oh but you can't, you mun't. Please don't
Me: Welll, we both want to.
 RPIBK: Oh no! Don't. Please, just promise me you'll think about it.
Me:Erm... ok  [walking away, said under my breath] even though I'll probably never speak to you again.

#Take 2

RPIBK:  Are you finding out?
Me: Yes we are.
RPIBK: Brilliant [claps hands with unnecessary delight]. I'm so pleased! you will tell me won't you when you know.
Me: Erm... ok. [walking away, said under my breath] but the next time I see you the baby will probably be able to tell you itself.

I mean, what is that all about?

Be it my sister, best friend, colleague or an acquaintance who was pregnant , I wouldn't really care if they were finding out or not. It's such a personal preference - plus why would it have anything to do with me?

Some people like to know, some people want a surprise. It's up to them. Some people need to be prepared.

I found out with all three mine. Each time it was a surprise, I just got the surprise 4 months earlier and it meant I could go shopping - bonus! But that's what we wanted. I have no will power as well, so even with the second when I thought I wouldn't find out I caved as soon as I got in the scanning room.

Whatever you do, let it be your choice and don't listen to random people you barely know - who are they anyway?

Wednesday 20 July 2011

C- Colic

Anything that can't be proven by the experts has me doubting it.  "No one's really sure what causes it, or why babies get it". I read this and already I'm lost. We know that scientists can prove some of the most amazing theories to be true or false. We know that medicine has found answers for things that once wiped out nations. But why a baby cries in the evening and can't be comforted is often called "colic." I picture the big brains in an meeting somewhere saying "you know what  we'll just give it a name. What's that stomach-thing horses get that can be fatal? Oh yeah colic - call it baby colic."

My second child had colic, now I was reluctant to get into the whole colic debacle, as my first child rarely cried, I had no other answer. When people asked why he was screaming for hours in the evening what else could I say?
  • He's a "screamer"
  • He's just really cross about something
  • I'll ask him when he starts talking
  • He doesn't like me
  • My breast milk only comes in one flavour
  • He preferred my womb. Apparently it's really nice in there.
It was a lot easier to say "he's got colic." People need a name. A reason. A medical term. It shuts them up.

There is one theory I do consider though. My second child was induced. Which, in my opinion, forces them to come out when they're not quite ready. I remember the midwife saying "we may have stop, as babies often don't like it". Strike one. Then when he did come out, he had the chord round his neck. Strike two. The crash team (all one thousand of them) came flooding in, but the little fighter managed to start breathing on his own. However, what a welcome. Clearly he was still angry about the whole thing!

L - Labour

I've tried to avoid writing about it - but you can't here. Somewhere it needs to be included.

There are two ways to approach labour (when it's your first)  - either engulf every piece of information available or go into denial.

I engulfed. It didn't make it easier, nothing can prepare you, I may as well have gone into denial.

I heard things that made me press my knees together in a shudder, I heard things that made me pause in disbelief. But I suppose no matter how much I engulfed there was always a barrier up. One that was lablled with "Me? Really?" Somehow, I could not put myself into the shoes of the pooing the bed, ripping in two, semi-naked, screaming and grunting woman in labour. There's something in your head that just shakes that image away. Maybe either approach ends in denial.

But I did it! After having a c-section (breech baby) first time round, I really felt I wasn't a fully -fledged member of the parenting club. I felt I had gotten in through the back door, so to speak. So part of me wanted to experience child birth. Yes, I was aware it would be the most pain I  have ever felt, and also the most undignified position I had ever been in. But I wanted to be able to say "I gave birth to you" not you "were untimely ripped" from my womb.

 And this isn't flouncy, hippyish, or looking back with rose tinted specs, this is how it was; it was horrendous, undignified and down right torturous, but My God at the end...I have never been so proud of myself!

Wednesday 13 July 2011

P - Public Breastfeeding

Oh to live in Europe, where I could get my boobs out anywhere, anytime and no one would give a blind bit of notice. But here, in dreary wet England, I am full of inhibitions and feel every disapproving glare as a prod in my side. I have a friend, who I have huge admiration for, when she breast feeds she is all grace and no anxiety. I have seen her breast feed her new-born whilst leading a toddler around a play area, or managing to feed on the school run, whilst collecting many children. She has developed an art. But her secret is to remove any inhibitions and just enjoy that she has content babies. Her boobs are about an eight of the side of mine as well, I do think this helps.

The more children I have, the more I have learnt to relax, but still I have hang ups, it doesn't help that my boobs often resemble pumped up watermelons when breast feeding and seem to have their own agenda to expose themselves, or that I have listened to numerous, small minded people and their ridiculous hang ups on other women breast feeding in public.  I mean, what would people prefer, to sit in a cafe, with a SCREAMING baby at the next table, or to sit in a cafe with a content baby feeding from their mother? When a child is feeding, you can't see anything anyway, maybe a small patch of flesh, which would be less than you see on most women, under the age of 30, walking down the high street. 

Being a people pleaser I tried to breast feed with discretion. I would cover my feeding baby with a blanket, which was draped over my shoulder, until my brother-in-law commented that it reminded him of one of Michael Jackson's babies. Certainly didn't want any of my parenting techniques to be linked to his.

Then, when out in public, I would often pop back to feed in the car. This was quite successful until when in a retail park car park, my other half locked me in, therefore any small movement set the alarm off, which without the keys I could not turn off. So, I sat breast feeding, with a huge alarm blurring, resulting in every passer by peeping in! Ironic huh?

I found the sling/baby carrier a marvellous device for feeding in public, until... When walking down a local high street, passing a sandwich shop, an ex-pupil clambered down the shop's steps,he waS not looking where he was going due to the concentration it takes to stuff a whole sandwich into one's mouth. He literally fell over me. I stumbled forward, managed to stay on my feet and stop the baby from tumbling out of the sling. However, the baby unlatched from the boob. A very apologetic 16 year old boy, suddenly realised it was his old teacher he had fallen over, "Oh hiya Miss. Sorry. Is this your new baby?" he said peering into the sling locking eyes with my exposed nipple spraying milk. We all blushed. Even the baby.

I thought the layering top was fool proof - you know one top underneath, to cover post-baby belly, then accessing boobs from under the upper garment to ensure minimal exposure. However, an old friend recounted her experience to me:
"I was doing the old 2 tops thing for breast feeding without showing everyone my belly. Got hot and bothered when out shopping, so took the top layer off, and only, when I saw my reflection in a shop window, did I notice that I had my skanky maternity bra on display to all! I'd failed to pull the bottom layer up after the last feed."

So this time, when my third child is born, I am torn between just walking around topless to breast feed, or popping over the channel, where feeding your own child is celebrated not condemned. Both of these may be a bit tiresome though. Could England just lighten up instead?

P - Pregnancy Brain

Something stops working when you're pregnant. Something disconnects. I think it may have always been a faulty wire in my brain, but when I'm pregnant there is no doubt it is fully disconnected. It's the last step of thinking, the final thought; it's missing. This is often referred to as 'Preganancy Brain'. It's when you walk into a room and forget completely why you went in there, you stand looking vacantly for clues, until you leave the room defeated. It's like that - all the time! But it appears there are no medical answers to this condition. But it is one. Oh yes it is definitely one. I have the proof. 

Unfortunately, my pregnant brain has stayed with me post pregnancy, and had permanently hindered my memory, consequently I am struggling to recount all the wonderful pregnancy brain stories I have been told.

Fortunately with Facebook and Twitter at your fingertips (literally) who needs a memory - I can just pinch other people's stories - here's the best of them (including some of my own):
  • "I cried a lot, especially about the dog". I love how she left this open. I immediately conjured images of  a heavily pregnant woman turning to her other half, sobbing, "The dog needs a walk", he looks bemused "Why are you crying?". Still sobbing "because he's just so demanding". Or later, on said walk, picking up poo, sobbing through breathless tears "Could you not have done it in the long grass, when no one was looking?"
 
  • "Had a shower at 8 months. Applied shower gel to my 'flannel' - starting washing and then realised I had brought my piece of toast into the shower." This is my personal favourite and always stays with me when i need an emergency chuckle
 
  • "After two consecutive days of forgetting my purse, then on a evening discovering at supermarket checkout I had purse but it was devoid of cash and cards, my exasperated other half insisted on doing a check of my bag contents before we descended to the car (house is on 1st and 2nd floor). We stood at the top of the stairs doing this: "Mobile? Check. "Purse? Check. Diary? Check." Satisfied, we descended, as as I followed him out the front door, I paused on the outside step. "What?" he said "What can you have possibly forgotten?" he demanded, whilst turning to see me looking down at my feet...  My uncovered, bare feet. "Shoes? For Fuck's sake!" Exactly. For Fuck's Sake.
 
  • "I got some money exchanged at the travel agents. She was lovely. I explained it was a wedding gift, I told her about the wedding, how I should have been bridesmaid but I was pregnant, we talked about the baby, my pregnancy and my woes and at the end, I took the money, she said " Have a lovely time" and I said " I love you.". I think I meant thank you. I hope I did."
 
  • "My colleague found out she was pregnant after she had just taken over a new desk at work, where the previous occupants were all on maternity leave,  she announced, to a full meeting, "I'm pregnant... Must be something I sat on." Apparently she's never lived it down, only fair really, when you give colleagues that much ammunition.
 
  • "I left the house, two children scampering full speed down the street, and thought 'these flip flops have stretched', looked down and I was wearing my boyfriend's size 10 Adidas pair, instead of my size 6 Reeboks. I then had to run after two small children, like Steven Tomkinson wearing clown shoes in 'Brassed off'.
 
  • "When we couldn't find things -car keys, wallets, diaries etc - we usually found them in the fridge."
 
  • "When teaching I would continually miss the last letter of words off, when writing on the whiteboard e.g. 'Rome and Julie is the mos romantic love story of our tim' The kids loved it."
 
  • "Half way through a lesson, I realised my top was on inside out. I had to go in the cupboard to change it. The pupils hadn't noticed - a testament to how much attention they were paying me."
 
  • "By the end of the pregnancy I was carrying around underwear, deodorant and a tooth brush in my handbag, as I'd regularly discover these were things I'd forgotten to do." Underwear? Brilliant!
 
  • "I was on the phone to the tax office and they asked my current employer. I couldn't answer them. I had no idea. I had to hang up and ring back later."
If this is not proof enough, then I would suggest typing in #pregnancybrain on Twitter - some great examples on there too!

Some people say it never leaves, but I think that's just called "tiredness", especially when looking after a baby, toddler... husband. I did leave the house in my slippers, when pushing my week old first born round the block, only noticed when stood talking to a neighbour and then had a very awkward 5 minutes where I wondered if they had noticed too.

Please share any of your own, I love hearing them!

Saturday 2 July 2011

B - Big babies

I have big babies. I show early, I carry a lot of water and I have a big bump and I produce big babies, Do I need to hang my head in shame? Is it a bad thing that my babies arrive in the world healthy and beautiful? Should I really be trying to ensure they are born malnourished, needing to be incubated and so bloody damn cross because their minuscule stomachs can't absorb more that a thimbles full of milk?

And by big babies, I'm not talking making headlines on the local news, I'm talking healthy weights. My first was 9lb7 and my second 8lb13. But their tiny forms caused others to gasp! And patronise me with their quietly spoken, attempting unnecessary sympathy, questions:
 "Did you have to go and buy new clothes" No. They still fit into newborn clothes- for a whole month too! "Did you have to bottle feed?" No. Surprisingly, they didn't require 4 gallons of breast milk, just the usual amount.
"Is he heavy?" Well he's one week old and all ANYONE wants to do is carry him, so I'm guessing not.

Or failing this, they just didn't bother to hide their astonishment and exclaimed "Isn't he big?" as if I was carrying an hippopotamus in my sling. I slowly learnt to reply with "Yes and beautiful and healthy." Which they immediately made them back track and fluster out "oh of course that's what I meant" Yeah sure it is.

Big? I carry him in my forearm., he can bathe in a hand basin, his sleep suits are made of less material than your tummy-sucking-in knickers, his fingernails are smaller than daisy petals and his whole form is swamped by a car seat you couldn't fit your arse into. Actually, I think he is quite fucking small.

G - Gender

I'm pregnant with my third baby. I have two boys already - EVERYONE I meet has an opinion on whether this one is a boy or a girl. Me? I'm not that bothered. *has a quiet word with oneself* OK it would be lovely to have a daughter; have hair to plait, toenails to paint, dresses to buy. And that's just the fickle stuff, on a deeper level I have a great relationship with my Mum and my Sister and the thought that I won't be able to carry that bond on makes me feel a little bit empty. On other hand, boys are amazing - I've often preferred the company of boys and three of them would be quite special!

So boy or a girl? I firmly believe a pregnancy is a pregnancy and how sick you are, how you carry and other side effects depends on you, your health and your lifestyle. However, being pregnant means I have to sit and listen to may theories. Here they are -
  • If you're feeling more sick it's a girl.
  • The higher you carry the more likely is it a girl.
  • More hair = boy. Greasy hair = girl. (i actually have both!)
  • The earlier you conceive the more likely is it to be a girl. Late conceptions are more likely yo be boys.
  • Cut out dairy from your diet and you'll have a girl.
  • The older the man gets the more likely he is to produce girls.
  • If your nose grows or changed shape during pregnancy your having a boy.
Bloody hell! Not only have you got a ridiculous toilet habit, stretch marks, swelling feet, hair sprouting from new areas, possibility of piles, varicose veins and a weak pelvic floor, you can also look forward to a bigger conk! Marvellous!

L - Lying

I pretty much decided early on that lying was a way to make things more interesting. My parents still recall the parent's evenings where teachers would show them my exercise books with extravagant stories inside. "Yes lies I'm afraid" they'd blush. Their personal favourite (and one I'm not so proud of) is when I wrote about doing a poo in my wardrobe and my sister sitting in it when we were playing hide and seek. When questioned by mortified parents I said "We had to write about what we did in the holidays... again!" Clearly, I was bored with the teacher's lack of creativity enduced by back to work blues.

Lies you tell your children
We all know the obvious ones, like the one which empties your bank balance in December and the flying pixie who pays for rotton teeth. But not until you're "living it" do you realise how many lies you have to tell them, just to get you through the day.
"Don't worry the teachers will look after you."
"You can't go outside with no trousers on the policeman will tell you off" (no he won't, he'll be too busy looking for a new job)
Any question that includes the "D" word (death or dying) pretty much is answered with a lie. Really, who is going to dampen their day with truth?


Lies you tell your partner
"Who ate all the cakes?"
"The Kids."
*Who's been messing with my I pod?"
"The Kids"
"Why's it so messy?"
"The kids."
"Where's the change that was on here gone?"
"The Kids

Lies you tell other parents
"This is lovely; is it homemade?"
"Yes."

Anything that includes the phrase "you know, as a one off" probably started off as the truth and is now a lie.

Lies you tell the Relatives
"No, I don't mind" - Yes you do - you always do. You're a mother and therefore a control freak. I'm afraid it goes with the territory.

Lies you tell yourself
They really shouldn't be eating all those Easter Eggs. I'll just have to have help them out.
Beebies is ok because it's educational.
And the one which will erase all your angst... "They'll grow out of it".  (Yep, course they will. They don't tell you when though. "You don't see 15 year olds with dummies do you?" a comforting Mother tells her friend struggling to rid he child of the plastic plug. Yeah but you do see 6 year olds don't you? And that looks wierd enough.)

And sometimes, it's just more fun. Once, I had to explain why there were lots of jelly fish on the beach. Every explanation resulted in a "why?". My knowledge of marine biology had been emptied, I could answer no more "Whys?" but he was still not satisfied. I had nothing left, I had to bring in magic, wizards and Lightning Mcqueen and only then was happy. Marine biologist has been crossed off the "when I grow up" list though, I don't think he could handle the disappointment.

So it's the lying game. Hiding the truth. Brushing things under the carpet. Whatever spin you want to put on it, our days are full of them. Rotten to the core us parents are. Rotten with lies.

H - Hiding

Oh how they love to hide!

We have had one instant, of a child hiding, where we thought we had lost him. They had somehow escaped. It was terrifying, sickening to the pits of your soul. We both blurted in out of rooms shouting him, getting louder, more hysterical, as each room was upturned. We went out the front of the house. The back. The question burning in our eyes - "When do we call the police?" One last look in the bedroom. Then out the corner of my eye, a ruffle in the covers. One mighty fling of the bed covers, There he is as a still as statue, grinning from ear to ear. "I was hiding" he chuckles, before he is gathered into my arms and has his breath squeezed out of him. He had placed the covers so perfectly on top of them Columbo would have missed it.

Every hide and seek game has that element of fear now, especially in public spaces, in the woods, walking home through the shortcuts. "Let's play Hide and Seek" he yelps and runs ahead, before I can answer he's hidden. Out of eye's view. The heart quickens, it's a race against time. He's easily found - he's three! I'm not outwitted yet, but it's a dangerous game, hide and seek - what's wrong with eye spy?

F - First Words

I have a theory that these first words, which are desperate and needy parenting hears yearn to hear, have more significance than we give them credit for.

I mean there are many they can pick from, most of us and phonetically introducing them to new sounds as soon as they can focus "Duh-O- Guh" we over pronounce as the family pet skulks out of the room in search of some attention. So the one's they choose surely have to be important, it can't be down to just chance. I predict my children's fist words are an indication to their future career.

Eldest - "chicken" - vet/farmer
Youngest "ball" - sportsman/juggler

I will keep you updated in -" A modern parent's encyclopedia; the final years"

B - Baby Language

My eldest child was an early talker; child minders, other mums and strangers would tell me how advanced he was. I knew no different. I would smile sweetly and nod. Secretly smug. It did have its disadvantages though, we presumed he understood what he was saying, but he didn't always - he was just a very good copier. At the time I was easily led, believing what others told me to be fact - "ooh you've got a bright one there" and would lie in bed at night wondering at what point do we contact Mensa.

My second child is completely different. He has his own language. This is novel to me as my first went straight into English. This one, however, is fluent in Baby. He not only talks Baby in full sentences, but now full paragraphs as well. This is how it goes: "Bah - do- bah dee-day-dare- iya-iya-dee-pbah-do-dare?" And he looks at us, one eyebrow raised, waiting for an answer. we used to play along. And reply with a "Is that right?" and "Really?" but now, after nearly a year we say " I don't understand. You need to use words now."

We were at a woodland cafe the other morning  and he took his cake to two older ladies at the next table and said "Hiya - a deare- o bayer-bee-tah-di-bo-da-eyah?" He spoke with such conviction, the old dear turned to me and said "HE LOV-E-LY". Obviously,  thought we were foreign, or deaf.

B - Breast and Bottles

I put Breast feeding up there with my greatest achievements. I thoroughly enjoyed breast feeding both my children and am looking forward to breast feeding my third. It was never a choice for me. I always knew it was what I was going to do, My Mum breast fed us, I remember her feeding my brother (in public!), as did my peers and their parents and they often brought it up as if it was a historical event. I think this fuelled me to follow in her footsteps. Also she is still very passionate about the benefits of breast feeding, as now am I, so Formula always seemed alien to me.  I mean you wouldn't give a baby calf breast milk, would you?

However, as strongly as I feel about breast feeding my own children I would never put that on to any one else. Even stronger is my belief that a baby can only be content if the mother is, and if she's forcing herself to do something that isn't working, neither are going to be happy.

I'd say to everyone who isn't sure - give it a go, you might be surprised, but if it's not right, change it. It's easy enough to do.

I have no qualms with the Mum who doesn't breast feed. The Mum who holds her hands up and says, "do you know what? It just wasn't for me". or the Mum who says "Honestly? I just didn't like getting my boobs out in public." For those Mums I give you huge respect, I admire you for doing what was best for you and I thank you for your honesty.

But... the Mums who say the following, just ruin it.
"I just couldn't produce enough milk"
"My baby was too big"
"I'm too skinny. I'm a size six!"

Please, get over yourselves and never tarnish my ears with this nonsense again.

I am aware there are genuine medical problems to why people can't breast feed, and I do sympathise with that. I was lucky, it was fairly easy for me. But your body is pretty amazing, and a little bit of patience, you'd be amazed what it can do.

Finally, without wanted to end on too much of a sanctimonious note, but what the hell I'm going to,  I do take a lot of comfort from the fact it has reduced the chances of getting breast cancer. Surely that's the best perk?

G - Gina Ford



Gina Ford - the Nazi disguised as a nanny.

Gina Ford is a woman who has made a lot of money telling parents how to bring up baby. Not 'their' baby, not 'a' baby, not even 'the' baby. Just baby.

And right now my piss is boiling. Is there any way to patronise a mother more, or dehumanise a child, than a phrase like 'put baby down and wash and sterilise pump and bottles'? 

Not only does she tell you the best time you should feed your baby, what time they should sleep, but also when you should do the washing up!

Gina Ford is the author of 'The Contented Little Baby Book' and more. This book "saved my life" I was told. 

When I was pregnant with my first, and had a lot more time on my hands, I decided to read widely in advance. I was bored with people telling me "you should read this" or " you should follow this routine", so I did a bit of wide reading to get a full picture. Gina Ford was on my hit list.

To be fair, I did find some of it useful, just to get an idea of how often your child should be sleeping, how many feeds they are expected to take, but then I came across phrases like "when giving baby your last feed avoid any eye contact' and that was enough for me to give in to the desire to slam the book shut and toss it out of the bed.

People swear by Gina Ford's books, for some Mums they are the parenting Bible, her word is law. But I struggle to take advice from anyone who hasn't had children. Yes its objective. But is it realistic? Not for me.

I have no doubt the routine does work - and after a week 'baby' will stop screaming its lungs out when 'put down'. And if the amount of sleep you get is your number one priority after having a baby, by all means, go and buy the book. But, for me, bonding, attachment, pleasure and nourishment were all much higher on my list.

N - Nesting

If you a pregnant, generally lazy by nature, avoid housework at all costs and don't own a duster, then you might be the type of pregnant woman sat amongst her own sloth  thinking "It doesn't matter, I'll sort it when I get that nesting thing." I wouldn't count on it.

I have a theory with nesting - there are two types of women: the women who nest and the women who don't. Women who nest have been doing their whole lives. As little girls they were sorting their bookshelves into alphabetical order while the women who don't, would attempt to tidy a bookshelf, and spend the time pulling off all the books, flicking through them, finding their favourite pages and re-reading them - probably out loud to an imaginary audience, or worse, they wouldn't even have attempted it and would be stuck up a tree somewhere trying to impress the lad from down the road.

I am a woman who doesn't nest. Housework for me, takes the mental journey that others face running a marathon; I need to go into training, find the mental stamina, have deadlines and consequences...  and I find the whole thing just as exhausting. Therefore, when I was pregnant with my first child, I  was quite looking forward to nesting - "my house will finally be clean" I thought. But ,unfortunately, I didn't get the desire to clean I just wanted a new house - or a least a newly decorated one. I was miserable, irrational and took a new found dislike to our house, its decor and contents. So much so, that I threatened to cancel my baby shower, unless changes were made. Which, bless The Future Husband, they were.

Consequently, when I was pregnant with my second child I turned to The FH and said "This time can you be in charge of nesting. I'm not very good it." We ended up getting 10 thousand pounds of building work done, including an unexpected rewire, and living at my parents for 8 weeks with a part-toilet trained toddler and a new born baby!

Correction to the opening paragraph: there are women who nest, women who don't and Men who... obliterate!

M - Matching underwear and shaven legs

Before we had children my partner lay in bed, watching TV, whilst I got dressed. I felt his eyes upon me, as I fumbled in my drawers for something clean to thrown on. "Miss P..." he said pausing before the question.
I turned, to face him "Remember when you would always wear matching underwear and always had clean shaven legs?"
"Yes darling, it was an act." I reply flatly, looking down at my black lacy bra and pink and grey striped cotton knickers, and noticing, for the first time, 2 days stubble sprouting on my legs.
He turned to the TV>"Thought so."

That was before children, after children this...

"Darjeeling can you just take the pile of washing upstairs?" he shouts from the kitchen. I don't reply, but go to do as I'm told. I stop in front of the washing, startled by what I see - on top there is a black satin bra with huge red flowers and matching knickers edged in lace. Oh they're mine, I just haven't seen them together since I opened them on Christmas day, 18 months ago.
"Hey come look at this" I shout.
He appears at the doorway. I point to the discovery.
"I know I was a bit freaked out when I saw them on the washing line. I thought you might be having an affair."
"I think it's just because we reached the bottom of the washing basket - coincidence they were in the same wash."
"Yeah. That was my second thought." he smiles.
No not having affair, just been doing lots of laundry - how dull?

A - Advice

This is not a blog giving advice -or heaven help you! However, this blog derives from some of the best advice I was ever given: when I was pregnant with my first child, a friend said, to all the advice you are going to recieve, smile sweetly and nod, then do whatever the fuck you want.