On having two children

WOO HOOOO I am no longer pregnant, (and haven't been for nearly 3 weeks), but am the proud mother of a beautiful gurgling bouncy baby boy, Patrick, Charlie, Ippolito Struthers.
I finally went into labour on the 11th July, 4 days after my last grumpy post, and delivered six hours later in the early hours of the 12th July.

It was an amazing experience, very positive and I have to say, I'd almost consider doing it again!
I had been getting on-off contractions for two nights, always stopping in the mornings which was really frustrating, so on the Sunday, Hugo and I decided to take James to the natural history museum so he could stare at giant elephants and dinosaurs and I could eat cake and drink coffee. On the way there though, I started getting mild contractions but for fear of crying wolf one time too many, I kept these to myself. By the time we were there, they were coming every 8 minutes, and as it wasn't night time, I started to take them seriously (labour mostly starts at night due to hormone levels fluctuating, or something...). I mentioned it to Hugo who ho hummed and carried on taking James around the Heffalump and Haggis exhibits. By the time the museum closed at 5pm, I had to stop talking and stand still when they came, and still we thought, naaaaah, a false start. So, we went to Asda to get some pizzas for supper. After eating some pizza and putting James to bed, it occurred to me that the contractions were about 5 minutes apart and now getting a bit sore, so we took James to stay with nearby relatives and I settled into 'Transvestite Wives' on the telly and rolled about a bit on my birthing ball. Hugo got back and they were 3 minutes apart, but I was in fine fettle, taking the piss out of the transvetites and out of Hugo for being a bit panicked now that he was going to have to deliver on the sittingroom floor (carpet is a nice shade of vomit green, so it wouldn't be too bad). He persuaded me to get in the car, and off I skipped, laughing away that this wasn't it, surely.We got to hospital with Hugo now driving at about 100mph and me screaming my head off, because in the twenty minutes it took to drive there, things suddenly Got Serious.
On arrival at the Southern, we were faced with long looming identikit corridors, nameless and green. We hadn't a clue whether to turn left or right, but the pressure was on because I was wailing like a banshee and Hugo was getting stressed. We eventually found a wheelchair and someone to tell us we were in completely the wrong place, at which point I climbed on the wheelchair and had a bizzare fit of hyserical laughter, finding the whole thing so comic that I could barely breathe (and then I'd get a contraction and I really couldn't breathe).
The long and short of it was that I wasn't in 'active labour' (as I could have told anyone at the time) and Hugo was sent home. But he only had 5 minutes at home before he received a very hysterical call from me demanding that he gets back to hospital because I was now in 'active labour' and en route to the birthing pool room. It didn't help (my mood) that his phone was turned off and it was 1am, and I imagined him snoozing away oblivious to the fact his child was about to be born...So, into the water I hopped, the door opened and in ran Hugo, gas and air went into my mouth and bingo, forty minutes later I managed to squeeze a healthy 8.5lb baby out! It really wasn't that bad! The gas was a waste of time because the plastic nozzle you put in your mouth kept detatching from the cord going into the cannister so half the time I was clamping the plastic nozzle in my mouth and breathing in normal air (not helpful). So, I did it pretty much withe zero pain relief!

So, it was an amazingly positive experience, and one I had desperately hoped for - a quick labour ending with a water birth. It has completely put to rest the horror of James's birth and made me feel so empowered as a woman and able to do something which is in actual fact, quite extra ordinary. Giving birth really is an odd and amazing experience.

So, that was that. We came home the same day with our new bundle of joy and I've been enjoying most aspects to having a new baby in the house - with the exception of letting myself get really tired, which isn't great. But night time feeds, winding, cuddling, bathing - there's not a whole lot you can do 'with' a newborn, they tend to be floppy and sleep or feed or cry, but it's good and I'm enjoying it! James is also wonderful and despite his 'oh gaaaad' expression when he saw Paddy for the first time, he's gotten used to the idea of having a sibling in record time and seems to be quite the doting big brother.

So, that's me, terribly content not to be a million stone and unable to move more than 3 metres without wanting to pee, and very happy to have my two lovely boys who one day soon will hopefully be best friends.

On being heavily pregnant

I am now more pregnant than I've ever been, in my whole life. And it does not, repeat, not feel good. James was born 10 days early and I've been optimistically calculating a second experience to match it. Not to be, not to be. Instead, I will hit 39 weeks tomorrow with a belly full of baby and covered in a river of thick blue veins. Not a stretch mark in sight, which has to be a bonus, albeit one I'm not that excited about. I can clasp my hand around a fully stretched foot sticking out of my right hand side and stroke it. I get electric shocks which make me gasp when it's head nestles right down and grinds against some nerves. I can feel it hiccup and imagine it smiling with satisfaction when they are over.
Being this pregnant, accompanied by the two weeks I've had of period pains, back ache, the occasional contraction (i.e. a Braxton Hix with pain lasting over 2 minutes) makes me jumpy as I keep thinking, YEEHA THIS IS IT. And then waiting with tense anticipation for that repetition of a BH or period cramp to come within 20 minutes....and then it never does. The worse part is that armed with the knowledge of how brutally painful childbirth is, it's a bit like thinking I'm going to die every day, and then not. So, half of me is relieved that I'm not going through it, yowling like a stuck pig and hanging onto the bath, and half of me slightly wishes I could get it over and done with.
Talking of pigs, if they need to induce me, they do this with giant pessaries of pigs sperm (apparently, says a very learned friend of mine), which contain prostaglandin (also contained in human sperm) which apparently sets off labour. This is why they recommend sex to induce labour, however clearly you'd need to do it every hour of the day and then lie back waving your legs in the air in order to get the same effect as one or two giant pig spunk pessaries. So, that's something to look forward to boys and girls, isn't it.

Whilst on the subject of frustrations, I thought I'd tie up the outcome with work and how my last week went there, given it was the subject of much blogging think-time in the previous six months.

So, the week before I left I emailed my boss, Ben. This was partly to remind him that I was actually leaving, and partly to tell him that I'd like to organise a leaving lunch. His response was that he wasn't there the day I was leaving, along with two or three others and it was also 2 days before pay-day which meant people couldn't afford a fiver for a soup and sandwich lunch. Right. So, with good grace I said that was fine, and agreed to meeting up ten days after I had left, to have lunch with the whole team, now with fat paychecks in their brown suited pockets.

The day before the named luncheon day, everything fell apart. One member of the team's father died and his funeral was the luncheon day, four decided that actually they fancied going on annual leave and three were stuck in floods. So, I received a text, not from Ben, oh no, he is far too busy ebaying shirts with stick on woolly vest tops to communicate with his team, but from a friend who said 'you do realise your leaving lunch has been postponed.' I wasn't aware but I wasn't unduly surprised either. So, that was that. I came back to work on a day my boss was unaware of, despite receiving confirmation from me and HR that it was my start date, and I left on a day that no-one remembered or celebrated, and Ben didn't even email me goodbye on.

Chances of me going back to work for this bunch of muppets? Zero.

Right, back to baby-producing happy thoughts. I've scrubbed the kitchen floor so many times it hurts my eyes to enter the room, so I think I'll opt for a large lunch and a brisk walk with Hinba and see if that does the trick. If not, I'll have to order some chrysanthenum (sp?) soda from my brother, now resident in Abu Dhabi and into experimenting with all sorts of disgusting drinks.