Barren Mare

I'm dreaming of Botany dreaming

I really love the idea of Christmas, but honestly- do we have to have it right now?  It seems to come at a somewhat inconvenient time.

Getting Botany to have her daily quota of proper, restorative naps has become an ongoing battle. Basically, she sucks at the whole nap thing, both in terms of frequency and duration. Why is it that I can put her down at night drowsy but awake and she will go to sleep, but during the day, there is not a hope in hell of her drifting off for a snooze?  There are basically only three ways I can get this baby to nap-sleep:

1. On my lap, after nursing. 
2. In the bed with me lying next to her, nursing.
3. Walking, with her in the pram.

None of which is very conducive to getting anything done during the day, including eating lunch, attending to personal hygiene, or dealing with the other myriad of small daily chores and duties, some of which can be left to fester on the To Do pile and others which really cannot (i.e. gas to be disconnected unless bill paid TODAY).

And regardless of method, the absolute maximum she will sleep is 45 minutes, but often less. Ka-ching! Eyes wide open, looking all around, alertalertalert!! She has zero tolerance for being wheeled around shops; I suspect the bright lights bother her a little. Nor is she wild about cafes or restaurants. Every week I attempt to go out for lunch with a couple of the other mothers in my group, and every week it is the same story. Their little darlings snooze in their prams like stunned monkeys as I try to cram a baked potato in my mouth with one hand while holding Botany on my lap with the other. 

The only silver lining in this napless cloud is that she (*furtive look over my shoulder with sign to ward off evil eye*) sleeps pretty well at night, going down with a minimum of fuss around 7pm and staying down (most nights) until the dreamfeeding at 11pm.  There's always a middle of the night feed as well anywhere between 2.30-4.30 am. I'd like to one day break the 5am barrier, but to be honest, I don't mind so much, since half the time I am awake anyway (needing to pee/find snack/pop my tricky hip/make lists in head of stuff to do).  And I feel all squishy and melty with maternal love when I see her nuzzled up against me in the dim nursery lights.

But back to the nap problem. The upshot is that it would appear that any Christmas shopping which cannot be done online in the evening is really not going to happen this year. That would be OK in theory, except that there are a couple of  items specifically requested by my nearest and dearest (clock-radio thingy, bicycle accoutrements), which I would really prefer to inspect in the flesh before plunking down my fast dwindling remaining maternity pay.  Also, as of tomorrow E. is off on a business trip abroad for a whole week, leaving me to hold the fort. I'll survive, but I am guessing it will be somewhat energy-sapping; meaning that when I finally do get a spare minute, I am going to want to lie on the sofa, floppy-limbed, watching crap telly and playing obscene Scrabulous with Anna H.* 

The consensus among the family is that we need to keep things really simple this year (and not go hog wild with presents for a four month old baby more interested in eating the wrapping paper). But neither do I want her first Christmas to go by without at least some acknowledgment that it's magical that she is here to share it with us. So at some point, I need to find a spare five minutes to get down into the garage, dig out the tree and the box of decorations (hopefully clearly marked "Chrimbo things") and make an effort to find my inner elf.  And dream of how nice to would be to find a couple months' worth of naps in our stockings on Christmas morning...   

* Your move, by the way.

Pack mentality

I realise that it's been awhile since I have written anything about the family dog, Little Guy. Poor Little Guy. Sidelined on the blog as much as in real life.

Before Botany was born, I began to worry a little bit about how LG was going to take her arrival. Everyone kept saying to me, "He's a dog, he'll adapt."  But prior to the birth, the dog was undoubtedly the centre of attention around here.  E. and I lavished his furry little self with love, attention, time, energy not to mention those squishy doggie treats he likes so much. At night, he slept like a small person, in a spoon-like position with me in bed.

A few months before the baby was due,  I tried, with marginal success, to distance myself somewhat that the transition wouldn't be so stark. I knew though that no matter what I did, LG's small wet nose was going to be put firmly out of joint when the baby came home. Since as far as he was concerned, he was the baby.

To be fair, he has coped with his demotion in the pack rank with considerable grace. We introduced the new member of the family gently, giving LG time to become familiar with Botany's presence while at the same time trying to provide some reassurance that he is still loved. Happily, Little Guy has become even more firmly attached to E., who in addition to taking on the responsibility for walking and feeding, continues to devote as much time and affection as possible. But in consequence, my formerly cosy bond with LG has undergone an alteration. 

Part of the change is the creation of a certain amount of necessary physical distance. Both E. and I are very careful that LG and Botany are never, ever left alone together, even for a minute. He's a sweet natured dog, and I think he will be very good with her some day but there is no way I am taking any chances. Presently, when we allow LG near the baby under supervision, he mostly just wants to sniff her nappy and to try to gently lick her head (the latter being rather discouraged). However, because we've already been far too lenient with LG about stuff like getting up on the furniture, I felt it was important to reinforce from the outset that Botany and her room are off limits to Little Guy. So when we first moved in, I installed a baby gate to the nursery so that he can see in, but not enter.  The nursing chair faces the door, and during the first couple of weeks, I found myself sitting there for hours on end, rocking and feeding with Little Guy sticking his forlorn little nose through the gate bars. Eventually, he dragged his doggie bed into the hall and parked himself outside the nursery door. That broke my heart a little bit.

After a couple of weeks, he gave up sentry duty. Now, when he is not out for his daily afternoon adventures with the dogwalker, he flops out in the the living room with his toys. Whenever possible, I try to pop in to say hello and pet him.  At one point, I tried to nurse Botany at least once a day in the same room as LG so he didn't feel so isolated, although I pretty much gave up on that since the sofa is nowhere near as comfy as the nursing chair and I can never seem to get the cushions positioned correctly.  And inevitably, as soon as she finally fell asleep, LG would stir, run to the window, spy the neighbour's dog or a pigeon or a swirling leaf or perhaps the rubbish bin appeared menacing- and his piercing BARK would jolt her awake.

Oh yes, the barking thing. The barking is basically a complete pain in the ass. When we lived in the old flat, LG very rarely barked- mainly because we were on the top floor and he couldn't see out the windows, which were quite high. He was usually well behaved on walks as well. Therefore, like dumbasses, we rather assumed he was not much of a barker and never worried about it.  Then we moved.  Unlike our old flat, this house has plenty of vantage points and lots of glass doors and accessible windows, all of which have proven extremely difficult to cover up.  So now he barks frequently, at everything. This is annoying at best and rage-inducing during those moments when the baby is suddenly woken up from a hard-won nap by his shrill little yelping. We've been trying to train him out of him with various methods but frankly, my hands are full just now and I have very little spare time or energy to devote to dog wrangling.  At least I am alerted when the post arrives through the letter box (and have to run downstairs before he eats it.).   

There are times when it feels like I have a noisy, mischievious toddler on my hands as well as a baby.  When I can hear him shredding something unauthorised while I sit out of reach, nursing. There are days when I get back to the house after a long walk with Botany in the pram, and as soon as we get to the door she wakes up and starts screaming, then the dog needs to be let out of his crate, wiggling with frantic joy at being reunited with the pack and jumpjumpJUMPforjoylickylicky. And he wants to be let out, getting underfoot as I am trying to drag the pram up over the back stairs into the kitchen and then he runs over and noses his metal food bowl rattling across the kitchen floor, FEEDMEMUMMYFEEDNOW while the baby also cries for the boob. 

Such chaos in a previously calm, well-ordered life is...well, an adjustment. If I am being honest, I would have to say there are moments when LG's antics simply add to the sense of being overwhelmed. But then...the other day, we came home, and LG did his customary wiggle of delighted greeting to both E. and myself. Then he ran out to the pram and wagged his tail at Botany.

"Look," said E., "he's saying hello to the baby. He knows she is part of the pack now."   And I bent down to stroke his furry little head- this irreplacable, invaluable member of our new expanded family.

How to win friends and influence mothers

Aw, I heart you, nice peoples for saying the nice things and expressing an appetite for more minutaie- bless you. Minutaie you shall have.  But...eeep. Having just finished saying it was OK with me if people didn't want to read any more, I was slightly dismayed at the sudden drop in bloglines subscribers.  Was it something I said?  Or didn't say?

(Actually, it really is OK- it's just that for awhile, I've been slightly perplexed about the subscriber numbers. It always seems someone is going out the revolving door just as someone else comes in. Maybe it is just the ebb and flow of the great river of the internets.)   

To be honest, I am finding my self esteem occasionally teetering toward the low end of the spectrum at the moment. Aside from feeling the constant vertigo of the parenting learning curve, another daunting aspect of new motherhood which I hadn't quite reckoned on is the extent to which one is suddenly thrust into social!group!activities!with!other!new!mothers!and!our!babies! This should really not come as such a surprise- after all, before I managed to get pregnant, it was hard not to notice that the local village was clogged with hoards of pram-pushing women, all of whom have extended maternity leave and appeared to be intent on finding somewhere to sit to feed the baby while slurping a latte.  What I hadn't previously grasped is that baby-feeding latte drinking is a Team Sport and that I would be joining the pram-pushing ranks.

Before getting pregnant, I was the sort of person who, while up for the odd bit of socialising and hanging out with friends, quite often preferred my own company much of the time. But it quickly became evident to me in the early weeks of Botany's life that if I was going to survive her infancy with my sanity intact, I was both going to have to get out of the house on a regular basis and make contact with other women who were undergoing similar sorts of experiences in baby bootcamp. Essentially, since doing endless laps of the park on my own was not really an appealing option, this meant joining groups for baby-related activities. This means making new "real life" friends.

Unfortunately, I am not exactly feeling my shiny, witty, sparkling best. I am usually pretty exhausted lack of sleep. When I am tired, my verbal skills are the first thing to go; I often have trouble stringing together a coherent sentence. I hate the way I look at the moment- I only get about 30 seconds to slap on some make-up in the morning; I can't fit into any of my pre-pregnancy trousers; most of my tops and shirts strain to contain my nursing bosom. Winter coat situation?  Bad. Can't even get it buttoned across the chest. And most days I am covered with a fair amount of dried milk (another side effect of crazy spraying boobs). So while I make a big effort and put my best foot forward, I often come away from these group encounters feeling like...a bit of a goober.

Example: first visit to my new Mother and Baby Playgroup on Thursday morning. I think I may have rolled the pram through some mud or perhaps dog poo because there was something yukky all over the wheels, and the brake is sticking again so I crashed into the door on the way in.  I was wearing my only clean trousers, slightly unflattering former IVF fat pants with a bedraggled hem. I also wore a stupid shirt over tank top ensemble which turned out to be very fiddly and constraining so that the only way to feed Botany was to get my entire boob out.  Which shouldn't be a big deal, except that I am not really "an entire boob out on first playgroup day" kind of girl. In trying to wrangle a blanket out of my bag, I knocked over a cup of coffee which had been placed by my feet. Botany kept tossing her head back and forth violently to combat the boob spray while clawing at my chest, then she did a big loud messy poo which went right up her back. I realised I had forgotten to pack a change of clothes for her. While changing her nappy, I manage to kneel in the damp coffee patch, leaving two big wet splodges on my formerly clean (though bedraggled) trousers.

Next to me sat a young trendy yummy-mummy type, with long flowing stylishly tousled hair, wearing a groovy knit mini dress and knee high suede boots. She was discussing a dinner party she planned to attend later, and reviewing her recent trip to Amsterdam with her five month old son, who was dressed in a cute little striped ensemble and burbling angelically on the playmat. 

Ugh.

However, at coffee afterwards, I got to chatting with another woman who I had clocked previously in my postnatal group. Her baby is also of the crankypants variety and on a couple of occasions, I detected the slightly deranged look of a colic survivor in her eye.  Over the obligatory lattes, we swapped a few war stories, in particular Nightmares Experienced with Screaming Infants on Public Transport. Then we agreed to make a joint venture to pram-push on foot to the nice department store in the town centre. 

"Yeah," she sighed, "I could really do with some new clothes. Nothing fits."

"Oh," I said. "Me too. I'm such a lard ass right now. But you always look really nice."  (And she does- matching sweaters/scarfs, fetching tweedy skirts, again the knee high boots).

"Oh, thank you very much," she said blushing prettily. "Actually," she went on, "I was thinking that you look really thin."

Maybe this making friends thing won't be all bad after all.   

What I had been intending to say went something along these lines

I hadn't been posting much because my parents were visiting and we were extremely busy with a number of activities. Including getting them moved into their new flat and extended baby shoogling.  Prior to their arrival, I had misty visions of long, leisurely afternoon naps (mine) while they walked Botany to the park in her pram, but somehow this didn't seem to happen. Probably because when the opportunity arose I was inevitably too busy gabbing to my mother and would end up accompanying her on said walks; arriving back at the house hours later all floppy and weary and un-napped.

Yesterday, even though I didn't really have time, I sat down and wrote a longish account of how Botany isn't anywhere close to sleeping through the night in apparent contrast to AllthePerfectBabies in my postnatal group, AllofWhomSleepLikeAngels.

And then Typepad ate the post. 

Oh well, I guess it wasn't that interesting, except from the standpoint of seeing how many grammatical errors I tend to make in a state of continual sleep deprivation. Other than being made to feel like a failing chump at times in contrast to the AllStarMothers, I'm actually not all that bothered about the sleeping thing at the moment. I kind of figure that she is only just three months old and given that she is exclusively breastfed and still relatively small, she's basically not going to sleep through. If I start having any sort of expectations of long nights of peaceful sleepity sleeps, I am only torturing myself. Or at least this is what I tell myself at three a.m when she wakes up. And then again at 5am.  And occasionally in the hour in between.

The other part of the missing post is where I discussed my intention to keep this site going for at least the immediate future, even though I had to confess to having some doubts about whether to continue, in light of my transition from infertility to mommy blogger (I use the latter term not to be derisory, but it is an easy categorisation). In hindsight, it's maybe all for the best that I lost the post because it possibly strayed into navel-gazing.  To paraphrase: I appreciate the direction has veered considerably from where I started out, and I am well aware both that not everybody wants to read about the minutiae of my parenting experiences from now on - but I'm cool with that.  Ultimately I like writing it for the sake of writing. And I feel often feel better and more connected (comments! so many helpful comments of late!) for having done so during these first few postpartum months which I have unexpectedly found quite isolating, anxiety-provoking and frequently pantwettingly scary.  Hopefully you can take what you like and leave the rest.

So, onwards. 

Botany and the boob

After nearly 11 weeks, it feels like we have maybe begin to turn a corner. Most days, she's more delightful than not.  Yes, she still has screamy meltdowns and spells of general pissitude, particularly at the end of the day but nothing like before. And the now frequent cooing, gurgling and grinning? I am floppy with love at the sight.  So you were all right- it does get better. It's still damn hard work and there are plenty of ups and downs- but I am beginning to think maybe I can do this.   

I'm conscious that on the breastfeeding front, we have a relatively charmed time of it- and for that, I am extremely grateful. Sure, I confess I had my doubts at certain points; for example, during the first couple days in hospital, I was the only woman in my room who was breastfeeding, and I really felt like the odd one out as my baby screamed all night while the others lay in a contented stupor. I flailed a bit as some of the nurses were less than helpful in answering my pleas for advice about whether I was doing it right.  Luckily, the day I was discharged, l had some terrific support from one of the midwives who took some time to help me with positioning and assist with expressing some colostrum into a syringe (an experience I am not particularly desperate to ever repeat) so that we could see that Botany was in fact getting something to eat.

I wasn't too crazy about the first couple of weeks when every latch-on was initially accompanied by exquisite searing pain; and when it seemed like that latch-on had to occur every other hour or so. But by then it was confirmed that Botany was gaining weight well and I could see she had gold medal champion breastfeeding potential, so I was determined to continue. And it did eventually improve- to the point where I apparently developed nipples of steel and can now basically let her gnaw away on me for hours on end without batting an eyelash. Yay.

However, it wouldn't be a rose garden without a few little thorns; one in particular causing a certain amount of inconvenience (a term I choose carefully, because I don't think it's entirely accurate to classify it as an actual problem.)

Back during the colic days, someone commented about the possibility of my having an overactive letdown/too fast flow. I sort of shrugged it off, because I didn't really see any signs of it, other than a little bit of occasional spraying. But then over the weeks, the spraying became more like a fire hose in action, the milk going everywhere in a strong, unstoppable stream and poor little Botany gasping and choking. She'd pull herself off and the spray would keep going all over her face, clothes, me; eventually I'd stem the flow with a cloth before we could resume. Recently I've gotten in the habit of keeping a bottle by the nursing chair, to catch the output (figuring why was I wasting my time pumping when all this bounty was soaking my shirt without prompting.) If it's really going crazy, I nurse her uphill to calm things down, and during the night feeds, I routinely lie down with her to keep her from getting a gobful when she's half asleep and unprepared. 

So, fortunately, there doesn't now seem to be any major adverse effects other than soggy clothing and a bit of occasional fandango in that she sometimes copes with it by doing by latching herself on and off repeatedly in order to catch her breath. It's a slight pain in the ass if I am nursing her in public; there was one day when I began to fear that people sitting next to us in the cafe were going to look down to find they were were now drinking cafe au lait instead of black espresso. It also makes for nursing activity which is a little more athletic than I'd prefer when trying to discreetly shield my boobs from passers- by. And I do now wonder if in fact it was a contributing factor to the colic symptoms experienced earlier. But I try to ascribe to the theory of too much a of good thing can be wonderful, and so we manage.

The other issue is that she won't take a bottle. Or, rather, she may drink about an ounce, with considerable teary thrashing, wailing and protest. I sort of blame myself; you see, on the health visitor's advice, we did initially give Botany a bottle once a day so that she could get used to it (and not become too fixated on the boob).  She wasn't exactly wild about it, but she'd drink it, as long as somebody other than me was feeding her.

But then we hit the colic weeks. Prior to that point, the logical approach was for E. to give her a bottle, either when he got home from work or the last feed before bed. However, given that it suddenly took very little to work her up into a lather, I was keen to avoid anything and everything that might contribute to her apparent digestive discomfort. Particularly at 6pm- which was the time most likely E. would return home but which was also the Prime Witching Hour.  And 10.30pm? Forget it. All I wanted to do was collapse into bed after a peaceful dreamfeed, not deal with a screamy windy baby.

So Bottle-Time lapsed for awhile. And when I finally worked up the nerve to reintroduce it, she had totally gone off the idea and refused outright to have anything to do with it. ever. again. 

Being a solution-oriented kind of girl, I tried everything I could think of to get her back on track. I have tried: heating the milk to very warm, heating to lukewarm, not heating it, heating the teat, not heating it, giving her three different types of formula, giving her only expressed breastmilk, giving her a mix of the two, having E. give her the bottle, having his mother give her the bottle, having my mother give her the bottle, me giving the bottle, giving it in different rooms in the house, giving it in the morning, giving it at night, giving it when she was very hungry, giving it when she was not so hungry; trying FIVE different types of bottle and teat- slow flow, fast flow, medium flow, upside down doing the conga flow.

NOTHING WORKS.  She hates it and she cries cries cries, before the beloved boob appears as a peace offering, because I can't stand to see my darling baby so distressed over anything, much less food, especially when it is freely abundant courtesy of yours truly.

At this point, I've pretty much given up and am resigned to it. Indeed, although I initially panicked (and had the sense that the prison doors were clanging shut around me until she is weaned) I am not going to go so far as actually complain about it. I do feel a little wistful sometimes when I hear other mothers discussing how their husband does the last feed of the night so they can go to bed early, or out to dinner, or do something that involves being away from the baby for more than a couple of hours at a time. I sometimes feel a little weary with the responsibility of being the sole food source. And I do worry what would happen if I ever, say, fell under a bus.  It'd be nice if she would take just one bottle a day so I could occasionally have a break.  But- so be it. If I had a choice, I wouldn't trade one second of those peaceful moments of feeding her, with her warm little body snuggled up next to me, her little hand in mine.    

Birth Story Part VIII: Rio

This is the last one in the birth story saga.

Wednesday: sometime about 4.30 pm?

Once my hour has elapsed, there is a flurry of activity. The room is suddenly full of doctors, people taking blood and injecting me with I don't know what. One of the doctor subjects me to a 10 minute quiz about antibiotics.  I am allergic to pencillin, right. So, she asks, can I have ampimoxilliynocillin?  I have no idea what that is. What about oxytocillinohcillin?  Um, pass?  Have I ever had methotreycyllinocillinocillin?  Dunno. Fracocyllinmethocyllin?  Duhydrofandgoocillin?  Look, I finally tell her, I haven't a clue. I am usually very healthy and have not required a prescription of antibiotics in approximately eight years.  I don't know the names. I am not a pharmacist.  Can we move it along, please?

Meanwhile, I am told I am going to the theatre where I will have a "trial by forceps".  The first part of this sounds very jolly- the theatre! With front row seats! Oh goody. The second part is less appealing. Who wants a further trial at this point? Not me. But all this means is that basically, I get three more pushes with some assistance from the salad tongs to drag the baby out, after which we will proceed straight to C-section. Do not pass Go, please collect baby.  I am given a barrage of information about the possible procedures, which I am too exhausted to take in, and there is long-winded discussion about consent, until I finally hold up my hand and say, "Just. Do. Whatever. You. Have. To."

E. disappears off somewhere to change into his Dr Doug Ross outfit. As I am wheeled down the hall to the theatre on my own, I start crying. I am disoriented and the lights are shining in my face. The radio is playing very loudly. They ask if I mind the music, and I say I don't.  They heave me and all my various tubes onto the table like a sack of potatoes. Feet into stirrups. I am so sweaty and my hair is in my face. One of the nurses is kind and askes me what has happened and strokes my hand for a minute as I sob.  Another Drug Doc comes along and starts fooling with the epidural so that we are good to go with the section right away if need be. He sprays a little jet of cold air on parts of my body to see if I feel it. Pretty soon, I don't.

Goddamnit, I think, they put me through how many hours of hell and I'm going to end up with a C-section anyway? Well, screw that. I make up my mind that I am so pissed off that it's come to this that in fact, I don't want a section after all. I am going to push with every last ounce of my utterly sapped strength.

E. comes back. He sits by by my head and holds my hand. Then Three is there and it's like before- she looks at the monitor and tells me when it's time to push. Now. Breathe in and...I push like never before; it is as if I am completely outside myself, outside my body and into some other dark, silent place where there is nothing but the pushingthepushingthepushing. 

I stop, gasping. And then I hear Three say that the baby's head is out.

"Oh, thank God," I say to E.  I suddenly know, with a sense of the profoundest relief, that somehow we're going to be OK.

One more push, the last one, and again I give it my all, though I cannot muster the same force as before but it doesn't matter, because the baby is out. She is here, born to the sound of Duran Duran singing "Rio". 

They place her on my chest briefly. In moment I will never forget for as long as I live, we look at each other. She has a red forceps mark down the side of her face and is staring at us with one open wide otherworldly eye. E says, "Oh, it's you."

They tell us it's a girl, with a long enough pause that for a moment I think perhaps we got it wrong after all in the scan.  Then they whisk her away for what seems an interminably long time while I am stitched up after the episiotomy that I didn't know I had had. Everything is a bit of a blur. It takes another eternity once I am wheeled into recovery to undo all the bits and pieces of medical paraphenalia- though I am left with the IV drip and a catheter which I will come to abhor with violent loathing over the next two days. Eventually they bring Botany back, wrapped in a blanket. Finally after a fandango involving having to shift my floppy self between beds again, I am taken to the ward, where the baby is placed in a funny little raised plastic crib beside me.  E. and my mother say goodbye, kiss us and head home to collapse.

I ask for something to eat and drink, and somebody brings me tea and toast. I fall asleep while I am eating it. I don't remember a lot about that first night, except snippets. There are three other women in the same room.  It is exceptionally hot. I am still sweating profusely. I am given a sponge bath. Can't feel my legs.  Can't get up. Have to ring bell to get someone to hand me baby to nurse. No recollection of her first latch on- we seem to fall into a nursing pattern automatically. Fall asleep again. Baby cries. Where am I?  Room dark, lights in the hall, disoriented again. Oh my god, there is a baby- wait,that is my baby. Can't get up- ring again to get someone to help me stop her crying so we don't wake the entire ward.

In the dim light, I nurse her again, holding her in my arms. I think, I can't believe we made it. Thank god we made it. She's here. She's finally here.

Birth Story Part VII: The Final Push

Sorry if this is dragging out, but we're nearly at the end, I promise- just a couple more.

Wednesday, approximately 2 or 3pm-ish?

At the end of the four hours, something remarkable happens.  Another exam by Three reveals that I am, in fact fully dilated. She is very pleased and a little surprised. Hurray! Time to push, she announces with glee. 

Inwardly, I groan. Aside from the aforementioned morbid preoccupations, tired does not begin to cover how I am feeling. And even if the mind is willing, I am not too sure the body is going to co-operate. I honestly don't know how I am going to find the energy.

I find myself thinking of that scene in the first instalment of the Lord of the Rings. The gallant little band of the Fellowship have just endured a violent snowstorm, an encounter with a creepy lake dweller, been chased around some scary mines by an army of goblins, had their asses kicked by a slobbering troll-thing and are now making a frantic run over the bridge to safety.  That's when the evil firebreathing demon Balrog appears, and Gandalf takes one look at it before leaning on his staff and saying something along the lines of "Oi! What crappy timing, cause I'm a bit pooped after all that."  Of course, he stands and fights anyway, but all the more of a bummer that he ends up getting sucked down into the fiery abyss for his trouble.

Or what about the bit in the English Patient where Ralph Fiennes runs through the desert for three days without food or water to save Kirsten Scott-Thomas from dying in the cave and he finally makes it to safety but then is too tired to coherently explain the problem of his nationality to the British army, so they clobber him on the head like an enemy spy and he wakes up on a prison train heading god knows where and of course by the time he escapes and gets back to the cave, it's a little too late to rescue his beloved and he staggers out weeping among the rocks with her body wrapped in something white and flowing and...

I digress. But you get the drift.   

Meanwhile, Threee trots off to the nurses station to impart the news, something which I gather she is required to do. Only, by prior agreement with me, she is going to tweak things a little bit to buy me a little more time to push.  I forgot exactly what she was going to tell them; something along the lines of I am basically there but not quite. This subterfuge is necessary because apparently, I only get an hour to push before being hauled off for medical assistance via forceps/section. This is the first time I have heard of the "hour limit"- it certainly wasn't mentioned in the antenatal classes- and so I can see the appeal of finagaling an extra twenty minutes or so to prepare.

Because as it happens, I actually have no idea how to do this pushing thing; all the more so since I can't feel anything in my lower half.  So Three talks me through it- you breathe in like this, and bear down like that. Not exactly rocket science, I guess, except that I am gibberingly exhausted in a mushy pea brain way- and again, the no-feeling in the necessary bits. But I resolve to give it a go, since I am sort of gritty that way.

We get ready. Three tells me when there is a contraction. I start pushing. I mess up the first one by exhaling at the wrong point. Another contraction. I try again. PUUUUUUUUUSSSSH. E. and my mother are standing by with water for forehead and for drinking. PUUUUUUSSSH.  Damn, it is hot in here. I am sweating rather profusely.  PUUUUUUSSHH.  Waterwaterwater.  PUUSSSSHHHH. In fact, I am absolutely drenched in sweat and gasping like a marathon runner hitting the wall.

At one point, E. and Three stand at the end of the bed, and I brace one foot against each of their bodies and I PUUUUUUSSSSSHHHHHH.  Three tells me later the force of my leg pushing against her has bruised her hip.

Then Three tells me she can see the baby's head. That's the good news. The bad news is that I am way too overheated and the baby is starting to become distressed.  PUSHPUSHPUSHPUSH.  The baby doesn't shift. We keep trying for a bit longer, but my pushing is now rather ineffective. pushpushpuuuuush. Can't breathe.  Too hot. Too tired. puuuussh.  pffffttttt.

We stop. It's been an hour and a half. My pushing time is up-(as is my posting time, for now.)

Birth Story Part VI: Too Hip for the Epidural

You know that feeling when you wake up in the middle of the night with an agonising cramp in your calf muscle, causing you to flail in a panicky daze out of bed, crashing into the nightstand, howling in pain and hopping up and down in an attempt to ease the knot?  If not, then lucky old you.  If so, then you'll appreciate what's coming next- hold that thought.

Wednesday- sometime in the morning:

The drip has ramped up for a short time when I start feeling a wee bitty uncomfy in my right hip. Ever since my days of torturing my joints during adolescent ballet classes, I have had something of a problem with my...whatchamathingme- hip flexor?  The best way I can explain is that from time to time, particularly after exercise or lying in certain positions, I need to "pop" the joint. All this entails is lifting my leg up to a certain height, like a dog watering a fire hydrant, and it releases the tension or whatever it is that bugs. Sort of like cracking a knuckle. I'd been doing this a lot during the pregnancy- at least three or four times a night-, since all that lying on the left side caused a general ache in my whole body, including said hip.

So, I begin to feel an overwhelming need to pop my hip.  However, this is not easy when strapped, as I am, to the bed with a variety of tubes. I fidget for awhile trying to get my leg up.  Then my mother and Three come to help and tries to raise it.  I get myself onto the left side and together we work at contorting my limbs into various position, but without success.

The discomfort is becoming considerable.  It feels like somebody reaching into my pelvis and slowly twisting something in a gruesome vice. The pain comes in waves.  The epidural has absolutley no  effect on this. Ack. Ack. I don't know how much longer I can put up with it. I look at the clock.  The doctor is coming in a short time to exam me again, so I breathe deeply and figure that I'll soon be heading for my C-section, so I can hold out for just a little longer.

Except as the minutes tick by...not so much. It's become like that middle of the night leg cramp feeling, only in my hip. And by the time the doctor comes in, I am literally writhing in agony.

It is therefore unfortunate that the doctor in question has the bedside manner of, say, fungus, and is only interested in the state of my cervix rather than my overall wellbeing, which at that particular moment is not so fucking well at all. 

It all gets a bit hazy at this point. Three tries to give me some gas and air to ease the pain. I take two or three frantic gulps before swatting it away, wailing,"It's not working!  It's not working!"    The doctor is standing there blankly, ready to get on with the exam. I can't believe that we are actually contemplating carrying on with this induction- it is unfathomable that I might have to stay in this position for another minute let alone several hours. I hear somebody screaming, "Why are you doing this? I cannot fucking lie here any longer," and realise it is me.  The doctor tells me, coldly, that if they don't do the exam now, they will have to do it later.  Eh?  Whatever.  The pain eases for a second and I tell her to get on with it.

It turns out that I have dilated to 4cm.  Apparently, this is considered to be significant enough progress to warrant carrying on with the induction.  Only I beg to differ.  As another wave of pain hits, I am screaming that I want a C-section and I want it now.  (Later I will be embarrassed at all the unseemly screaming and indeed about saying "fucking" in front of my mother in such an unlady-like fashion. But I mean, really- what's childbirth without a certain amount of profanity? Exactly.) 

"No," Dr Fungus commands, "You are 4cm. You cannot have a section. We will carry on with the induction. "  And she leaves without further discussion. I freak out and it all gets really really hazy.

Several things then happen in quick succession. Three cleverly realises that the pain in my hip is linked to the contractions on the monitor. The upshot: as the baby is descending, she is pressing on a nerve or something- so basically I am feeling the full force of each rocket fuel contraction in my hip.  She summons another Drug Doc to come and adjust the epidural accordingly. I don't remember much about this apart from that the Drug Doc is very nice, calls me sweetheart and gives me lots of morphine. Soon I am feeling nothing in my hip, not to mention my entire lower region- my legs are totally numb. Bless.

It takes awhile for the SuperEpidural to kick in, and in the meantime, Three grabs the gas and air nozzle and stuffs it back in my mouth. "Breathe like Darth Vadar," she orders.  Somehow this makes sense, and I do and...ah, wait. That's better. That's much better.  That's gooood.  Um. Yum.  Pain- whapain? Gash and ayr is lovelygoodgood.  They should bottle thish stchuff up and shell it at nightclubadubdubs.

My mother takes pictures for posterity. Oh, the hilarity. Suffice to say I am not looking my best. And we have four more hours of drip, drip, drip to go. 

Birth Story Part V: Rocket Fuel

Wednesday 8.30 am.

Midwife Three, it would seem, is a little less fluffy than either of her predecessors. A little more business-like, with a no-nonsense, capable manner. Or maybe it is just that I have run out of energy to make charming chitchat to win her over to be my new best friend.  At this stage in the game, this is probably no bad thing- I am so exhausted that I need someone who can take charge, without my having to do much more than lie there like steamed broccoli.

Sometime during the morning, a decision is taken to increase the dosage of pitocin, though I can't remember exactly when this happened. What I vaguely recall is that this move follows on from another examination which reveals that I am still not progressing.  An final attempt to get things moving via a full voltage blast of the drip is all that stands between me and a C-section. 

I have misgivings about the higher dosage- I understand that it may increase the risk of stress on the baby. Then again, it appears I've basically run out of options. Three tells me that the longer the induction goes on, the more likely it is we'll have problems. Already there are blips on the monitor that suggest the baby may be starting to get a bit tired, along with my beleagured uterus. She tells me that they will be very, very careful and if it looks as if the baby is in any distress, the drip can quickly be adjusted again.

It's clear to me during this discussion that Three is pretty much reckoning a C-section is on the cards anyway; she says that unless I demonstrate significant change after a couple of hours on the rocket fuel drip, then this outcome is inevitable. So I ask her to talk me through what a Caesearean section would entail.  From where I am lying, it is starting to sound very appealing.  As the higher dosage of Syntocin is prescribed, I am thinking: why oh why not just get on with it and get this baby out now. Why incur any further risk?

But the medical protocol here is apparently to give me every chance to do this the normal way, and so the induction will continue.

Now, what follows is rather dark and disturbing, but it colours a lot of my childbirth experience, so I think I need to share it. 

What I realise as the drip is ramped up is that I have been harbouring a secret morbid (and admittedly irrational) fear. Deep down, I believe that we are going to get to the end, and I'll be pushing and pushing and somehow the baby is going to die on the way out.  Because there has to be a catch somewhere, right?  Because I am now sure there's another shoe out there just waiting to drop- to balance out the tremendous stroke of luck that enabled me to get pregnant in the first place- to enjoy a pregnancy without significant complication for 9 months. Because I cannot fathom being able to get through this and have a real, live baby to take home at the end of it.  So of course it's time to pay the piper. 

In hindsight, it might have helpedf if I could have articulated some of this at the time. And if I hadn't been so tired, or maybe if Two had still been there, I think I might have been able to. But as it is, with a slow, weary mental shrug, I resign myself to four or so more hours of lying in the same spot, letting things take its course.  I tell myself it doesn't matter.  The drip isn't working anyway.  A further exam will almost certainly demonstrate the ongoing staus quo. Then they'll do the C-section and it will all be OK, and I'll be holding my baby.   

At least this is what I am now hoping, because I've discovered that the alternative scares me shitless.

Birth Story Part IV: The Long Night

Hurrah- we're back, and we survived our first trip away with baby, dog and a car packed to the gunnels with stuffus (prams, bike, golf clubs, travel cot, dog & baby paraphenalia. Why do we have so much crap, I ask myself?) The weather was mostly wonderful, the scenery gorgeous and if it wasn't entirely relaxing due to the demands of said dog & baby, it was at least a good learning experience.

High: the walk we took on the first day down to the beach with the baby in her sling and Little Guy romping happily at our heels. It felt like we were really a family at last.  [By the way, for those who mentioned it, we have two different types of sling/carrier- a Bjorn and a ring sling thing and we use both frequently and interchangably. Lifesaving devices. ]

Low: returning from that same walk several days later after losing LG in the shrubbery for forty minutes owing to rabbit chasing frenzy, with Botany was screaming her head off (as we'd run slightly over into feeding time) to find the fire alarm blaring due to oven belching out smoke from small chicken fat incident.  Oops.  Fire alarm set off LG into barking frenzy. The ensuing cacophony made me want to stick my own head in the oven.

Anyway. Where was I?

Tuesday midnight- Wednesday 8am: Actually, nothing very much happens all night.

E. returns just after the epidural is complete, and so he finds me upbeat and resting comfortably. After a short discussion with my mother, the consensus view is that it is best for them to go home and get some sleep and come back in the morning. So they head out again.

Two dims the lights and tells me to try to get some rest. But I can't; if I move too much, it knocks the fetal monitor off, and not being able to move makes me feel antsy. I am conscious of the tubes from the drip and the epidural, which make me feel tethered and a bit restrained. I eventually settle on a half reclined position on the bed, drifting in and out of a drowsy state. 

Two keeps checking the monitor. The baby is doing fine. At some point the epidural starts to wear off, and  another nurse is called in to top it up (Two not being qualified due to a technical certification thing- she is otherwise completely capable). Over the night, I learn that I need to ask Two to arrange the top up as soon as I start feeling something, because by the time someone gets around to doing it, the discomfort begins to be considerable. And I've become accustomed to feeling nothing.

It is a very long, and very strange sort of night, waiting for the time to pass, listening to the patter of my daughter's heartbeat, craving the cool slip of the freshened epidural over my shoulder and down my back. Two moves in and out the room performing her duties.  She urges me to go to sleep, and I cannot. And as the hours go by, we have a series of gentle and slightly confessional conversations; about relationships, about travelling, about life. She tells me about working in Instanbul.  I relate some of experience with infertility, what having this baby means to me, our plans for the future. It's funny how staying awake all night in the company of another person can create such a powerful, if possibly transient bond.  We're throw into each other's path by circumstance- in my case, literally being tethered to the bed- and I come out of it feeling fortunate for having had the time in her company, as if  I have found a friend- even if I never see her again.   

At some point toward morning, Two checks to see how I am doing.  Result: I am not progressing. I have not really dilated at all.  But we still have some hours to go, so there is no immediate cause for alarm. Still, I start to think that I know how this is going end. I believe that I am headed for a C-section, and that being the case, as the hours slowly drip drip by toward dawn, I begin to sort of wish we could cut to the chase (quite literally) and get on with it.

E. and my mother return around 8am, and then it is time for the next shift change.  Two kisses me on the forehead and says she will phone later to check up on me. And then she is gone. I am handed over to the care of my third and final midwife, Three.

I confess that from here on in, I become a little fuzzy about the exact chronology of what happens when.  I am so tired, so very tired- the night is over, but we're not really all that much further forward.

And it's all about to get a whole lot messier, sweatier, swearier and scarier.