Dream 'New Baby' Products versus The Reality

The Changing Mat

The Dream : A beautiful, soft, fabric changing mat decorated in neutral colours with the delightful image of Winnie the Pooh in one corner. Mother and baby giggle and gurgle in a Talcum Powder haze, as seen in Johnson's & Johnson's promotional tools, taking their time over the delights of changing. Soft beautiful skin, fun and frivolity on a comfy, soft, fabric - almost bed like - surface.

The Reality : The fabric cover will be removed after one week of having your baby as you realise that he has an overriding urge to pee and poop all over it as soon as you remove his nappy. What is left is a plain, rather depressing looking plastic white mat. The fabric cover will be soaked time and time again and you will go through the cycle of washing, drying and replacing - only for it to be pooped on once more with increasing vigour. You will leave it off for a few weeks and no pee or poop will touch your wipe clean mat. You will put on the fabric covering again, refreshed with hope, seconds later your two month old will pee all over it.

Changing time generally goes hand in hand with screeching time as you battle with your squirming baby in one hand and wipes / cream in the other - in a Russian Roulette type of time slot between taking the nappy off and getting a new one on before you are covered in excrement.

The Nursing Chair

The Dream : A soothing, rocking, relaxing, comforting chair with footstool to aid in your mother and baby feeding/ nurturing/ bonding time. The soft, neutral suede welcomes you both to a calming, relaxing, natural time when you can pop your pampered feet up, lie back and enjoy nourishing your baby.

The Reality : You will feed your baby perched on the side of your bed or lying down in your bed too exhausted to sit up. Your nursing chair will be used to store baby clothes in transit between washing and hanging up, it will be draped in baby sheets and muslin cloths. You will only sit in it to watch telly late at night when you can't lie in your bed due to your baby having fallen asleep in said bed - and you being too terrified to get in beside him in case he wakes up. The footstool will be used to eat things off - as a mini table. It will hold your dinner each evening and rather than being covered in milk stains, it will be covered in pasta sauce and biscuit crumbs.

The Baby Monitor

The Dream : You will finally have some freedom as you can leave your lovely sleeping baby in his moses basket upstairs and go and sit downstairs and relax! Freedom! What a wondrous invention. Maybe I can even make a cup of tea!

The Reality : You leave your baby with the monitor turned on. You spend your time frantically tidying the house. You constantly bash the button on the front of the walky talky type device convinced that it doesn't work anymore. You turn the volume up to maximum to try and hear him breathing but you can't so you worry. You go back in to the room in a panic three times to check he is ok and that the device is working. You forget to turn it off when you walk into the room sending a ridiculously loud screech along the air ways. Your baby nearly wakes up. You try again. You clamp the device against your ear trying to hear his heartbeat. You are terrified you will hear something spooky over the line, like a grown up whisper - isn't this how horror films start? Your baby lets out a little squeak - your ear drum perforates. You rush back upstairs to check he is ok.

You had been gone 3 minutes.

The Beautiful, Fashionable Two Piece Garments

The Dream : My baby will look like a mini Beckham in his gorgeous khaki trousers and cool t-shirt! He will look so trendy in his dungarees. He will be the coolest baby around in these leggings!

The Reality : If the outfit doesn't pop open at the bottom and can't be whipped off and on in two seconds flat - fecking forget it!

The Mime, the Internal Struggle & Nemo

Nine weeks on and I really feel like I'm getting in to the swing of all things Motherly. We, dare I say it, have a little routine going.


He has really started perfecting his expressions - that are like my expressions, but overly exaggerated - like he is an emerging Mime Artist.

• His 'happy' is a huge, straining, open mouthed, gummy grin with a little tongue thrusting thrown in.
• His 'unhappy' is bottom lip ridiculously jutted out and large teary Olympic pool eyes staring upwards. 
• His 'interested' is chin down, mouth wide open to match two massive eyes 'caught in a headlight' staring to the particular person/ object/ portion of wall of interest.
• His 'tired' is eyes rolled back in head, limbs limp, corners of mouth slowly teasing between a smile and a frown.

His current internal conflicts amuse me. It seems he is always having to make terribly difficult decisions. For example, sometimes he can't decide between eating ... and going to the toilet. He wants to do both at the same time - but the body is conflicted. I don't know if you have been in that position before - but try it, it's difficult! He wants to go to the toilet... but he desperately wants to drink his milk... he's not giving up the milk for nothing or no one. Watching (and listening) to this uncomfortable struggle is quite entertaining.

At other times he wants to stay awake and be entertained by his surroundings, but he also wants to sleep. He battles with his heavy eyes as I chant "time for sleepies, time for sleepies.." Watching his big eyes rolling around, searching for a place to lay their hat, is hilarious.

He has become one of those spooky haunted paintings when it comes to his Daddy - the ones where no matter where you move to in the room - the eyes follow you. No matter where my partner stands he follows his face, fascinated, (see 'interested' expression) no blinking, for hours. Whereas it would seem my face is old news!

I bought a sling - which has transformed our lives - and we have been out and about much more. This was a God send as I have spent the week searching for a baby friendly house. I personally think I deserve a medal house hunting with a 2 month old on foot. Just in time for the weekend we found one and we are set to move next month. 

The week of house hunting has meant I have HAD to get out of the house everyday - and HAD to be almost 'normal' - the only difference is a 12lb baby is now strapped to my chest. Life..... continues.

It would also appear that I have morphed into a 'Mother'. This week I walked up to my son, tissue in hand and wiped his face whilst saying "Heath! You are such a mucky pup!" without really thinking. 
"Goodness me, you're a Mother!" My partner exclaimed. And I beamed proudly. Yes, yes, I suppose I am! 
New mums everywhere ... it gets easier! 

There have been some incredibly stressful times in the last couple of weeks, in the last couple of months - but I finally feel like we are both keeping our heads above water. “Do you know whatcha gotta do, when life gets you down? Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.”

The Conspiracy Theory

I have uncovered a conspiracy - a big baby conspiracy. I have to be careful as I write this - and I would urge you to be very careful where you read it. Your baby might be in a "peaceful slumber" nearby or happily writhing around on his playmat, or perched placidly in his baby chair - but just be aware, check over your shoulder, re-strengthen your computer passwords, check there isn't one eye open as he/she sleeps. You see, they want you to think they're not fully developed yet, that they are not aware, that they are sweet and innocent - that they don't know what is going on and that you are in control - but this is just not true.

It's taken me two months to cotton on to this - but slowly my suspicions have grown stronger and stronger - and now I can plainly see - this baby knows much more than he would have me believe. I would go so far as to say he possesses a 'radar' system - the sort an evil genius keeps at his evil headquarters.

His radar is used to inform him of what I am doing throughout my day. I assume it is located internally and gives off a wave of sound that only babies can hear. That's how they get away with it! Us adults sit there blissfully unaware - and behind the scenes armies of infants are listening to an internal baby siren that alerts them to the following:

• Mummy has sat down with a hot beverage. 
• Mummy has lifted up a fork, piled with food, and it is moving towards her mouth.
• Mummy is flippin exhausted and really needs to sleep tonight as she has a big day tomorrow 
• Mummy is in the supermarket
• Mummy is at the doctors 
• Mummy has an audience 
• Mummy desperately needs to go to the toilet and in a second is going to leave the room 
• Mummy has run out of batteries for my light up smiley face toy
• Mummy has a good idea for a blog
• Mummy has visitors coming and needs to tidy the house for the first time in weeks 
• Mummy is at the end of her wick and just needs one hour of rest 
• Mummy is really enjoying the last 5 minutes of peace
• Mummy can't believe it is so quiet 
• Mummy is just thinking how lucky she is that I have fallen asleep so easily
• Mummy smugly believes she has achieved a 'routine' 

The siren goes off and the baby does his best to show me who is boss in the only way he knows how. It's a conspiracy I tell thee! 

My theory was set in stone this week as I wrote a blog stating that after seven weeks of being a Mum, I had finally got to grips with it all.  Seven Weeks  I wrote about how I finally had a routine, knew him so well, was great at being a Mother, could settle him, could get him to sleep etc. THE NEXT DAY .... he changed the game plan and everything I thought I knew - I didn't. He awoke a different baby. 

It was almost as if in the night he has woken up, sneaked over to my laptop, hacked my blogger account and read the previous blog! It was almost as if he had said: 

'HA! So she thinks she understands me does she? Well I'll show her..." Almost as if.... 

Parents - be aware - THEY are aware. It's a conspiracy! 

Infamy, infamy - I'm sure he's got it in for me!  

If you go down to the woods today...

I have always been partial to a cuddly toy and I have always been a girl who gets what she wants (cough cough... spoilt... cough...only child...cough cough). My internal box of childhood memories contains several cuddly toy related incidents.

There was the time I was on a British Airways flight and my mother made the mistake of leafing through the in-flight duty free magazine in which I spotted, perhaps the best bear ever, brown and wholesome looking, complete with navy blue pilot hat and jacket. I instantly (calmly) explained I wanted the bear. I was told no - I imagine it was frightfully expensive. So I did what any other small child in my position could do and proceeded to scream blue murder, on the plane, until my request was granted.

The bear was lovely. It is highly probable the other passengers on the plane banded together to afford him.

Once at a Sea Life Centre with my parents I had a couple of tries on an arcade machine to try and win a cuddly sea based toy. The type with the large metal mechanical hand that moves down, grabs a toy, and drops it in front of you. I, of course failed, and we walked off. Moments later a young couple approached the machine, popped in a pound, had a go and a very cute, very small, grey Seal was dropped before them. This was unsatisfactory to me - exceedingly unfair in my eyes - and so I did what any other child in my position would do - and screamed blue murder and cried and wailed. My Mother must have been absolutely mortified.

In sympathy, the young couple came over and handed the little grey Seal to me. The kindness of strangers! And I have never forgotten them.

I learnt from an early age if I cried long enough with my mum the answer could always be changed to a yes (this still applies). My Father was quite the opposite - and thank goodness he was because a child needs balance.

One day he took me to the supermarket, politely warning me, as he always did, "Look but don't touch" all the way around the aisles. When we got to the checkout I saw that the sales team had cleverly placed a gang of big fluffy white bears right at the pay point. I knew if I had been with my mum they would all be mine. But I was with my dad - who came from a place of 'No'.

For some reason, that I am still completely unaware of he said yes! And I got my white fluffy bear. I couldn't believe it - and I treasured that bear more than any of my others because my Father, who left all toy purchases up to my Mother - had bought it for me.

One day my Primary School had a 'Teddy Bear's Picnic' where we were encouraged to bring in our cuddly toys and we could win a prize if we entered our bears into their competition categories. A brilliant idea! They had biggest bear, smallest bear, cutest bear, strangest bear and other superlatives. I had a plethora of bears but I was pretty sure I wasn't going to win anything. My dad suggested I take in his cuddly toy and enter it into the 'Oldest Bear' category.

Imagine if you drew a dog, side on, two dimensionally, very badly - that was what his toy looked like. It was made out of sand bag material, very hard, and had a slightly disconnected marble eyeball staring out of one side. It was obviously very old - and very special to him. And I won - we won - 'Oldest Bear'... One of the best days of my life!

Now I have a son and he has a few cuddly toys already. I wonder what bears will become important to him in his childhood. I wonder, when I buy a cuddly toy for him, what memories I am making for his later life; What toys he will one day scream for - and whether my partner and I will give him what he wants or stick to our guns. I wonder as a parent if I will come from a place of no or yes. I wonder if one day he will play with my Father's oldest bear - and what my son will one day hand down to his children. My British Airways bear, my white fluffy bear and my little grey Seal are long gone - but the memories are still here and I wonder what memories will we create together, with our little soft stuffed souled friends - as a family.

Seven Weeks

It has taken me seven weeks to get this parenting thing down. Seven long weeks - that feel like seven hours.

There have been times where I have despaired. Times when I thought I would never be able to breastfeed, times when I thought he would never go to sleep! Times when I stayed up for entire nights too afraid to take my eyes off him or his breathing patterns. There have been times when I thought I would never be able to leave the house unaided again. I resigned myself to living in our room in our little dark cocoon, warm in safe timeless solitude. There have been times when I thought I would never be able to get dressed, wash or look semi decent again. There have been times I have nearly murdered my partner - for no reason other than him being there. There have been times I thought I just wasn't cut out for it all - that I was unqualified, incompetent and unworthy. In the words of Mr Dickens - there have been hard times.

There was a moment this week as the baby I brought home seven weeks ago lounged in his new vibrating chair dozing in a peaceful slumber, the corners of his tiny mouth searching for a smile, that I sat up, in my slightly larger un-vibrating chair, and looked at him and realised ... he was mine.

I think up until this point I had been doing my best to look after this baby correctly. I had been living my life as though I was on some sort of baby Big Brother series where my actions were under constant scrutiny and surveillance - by a team of midwives, health visitors, relatives, and strangers on the street. I had been living like I was training for some sort of 'mother' exam (Theory and Practical). I had been taking care of him as though someone had trusted me with this unbelievably precious object - like some antique vase - and I had been spending every second - anxious, concentrating on doing everything in my power to prevent it from falling through my hands and shattering.

It has taken me seven weeks to realise he is my baby.
It has taken me seven weeks to realise, the likelihood is, I won't break him.
It has taken me seven weeks to understand when he wants to eat before he knows it.
It has taken me seven weeks to know the little ways to get him to sleep.
It has taken me seven weeks to know the little ways how to settle him.
It has taken me seven weeks to know the little things that can distract him.
It has taken me seven weeks to know that sometimes, all these things will not work.
It has taken me seven weeks to work out how to transport him around the house.
It has taken me seven weeks to know his little routine.
It has taken me seven weeks to seize the little opportunities he gives me, the little windows - to make a cuppa, have a pee, put on some make up and do the washing up - sometimes, all at the same time.

And with the seven week mark came the smiling milestone. Not just smiling due to some relieving bowel movement - smiling in response to me.

This morning I lifted him on to his changing mat and, half asleep he started his usual thrashing around, like a shark stuck in shallow water - he commenced his perturbed grumblings, squeaks and yelps slowly building to the loud Rock/ Heavy Metal chorus and, for a change, instead of staying silent, without thinking, I said in a chirpy voice

"Oh, what is the matter with you then?"

and instantly he stopped. All movements ceased. His tiny arms fell to his sides. Someone had pressed the mute button on the angry baby soundtrack I had come to know by heart each morning. He lay there and opened his eyes wide, for the first time properly that morning. He stared right at me and I stared back a little shocked myself. The baby - my baby - my son - smiled a huge broad smile back at me... and let out a loud giggle.

"Bloody Hell - He knows who I am!" I thought. And I smiled back and giggled back in response. He had heard my voice and just known that, although he was on the torture device he has come to loathe, the changing mat, he was safe - because I was there. His mum was there.

Yes - it has taken me seven weeks. As the sun slowly shows his face over the UK, the darkness is lifting over me - and I emerge from my cocoon - a Mother.

... because I am a parent

I can not answer your texts straight away.
I wash with babywipes.
I can sleep anywhere at any time if I see the opportunity.
It takes me three times the time it used to in order to leave the house.
I eat my dinner cold.
I do not get to finish my cup of tea.
I sometimes do not get to start my cup of tea.
I no longer enjoy shopping.
My house will always be in a constant state of disorganisation.
My appearance will always be in a constant state of disorganisation.
I can get what used to take me 3 days, done in 1 hour.
Multi tasking is now my bitch.
My make up is more slap dash than immaculate.
My hair is covered in dry shampoo.
I desperately need a break.
I feel guilty if I have a break.
I feel guilty no matter what I do.
I reside between a rock and a hard place.
I worry about the safety of every situation.
My boyfriend is not just my boyfriend - he is our protector, our safety net - our anchor.
We are not a couple, we are a family.
The Budget now affects me.
I still do not fully understand The Budget.
My breasts are no longer for show - they are working breasts.
I have very little modesty left.
I may talk to you with one boob on show and not notice.
If any nudity is pointed out to me I will not be embarrassed.
Contraception has never been more important to me.
Two hours of sleep is all I need.
I know what TV programs are on at 1am, 2am, 3am, 4am etc.
I sometimes do not get round to brushing my teeth till 11am.
When you babysit for me I will be back hours earlier than intended.
I no longer enjoy wearing high heels.
An achievement is getting dressed, tidying the kitchen or getting my baby to latch.
If you do not enjoy looking at 100 pictures a week of a baby - please remove me as a Facebook friend.
Having time to have a shower is a luxury.
Having time to have a bowel movement is a luxury.
I need all meals to be edible using only one hand.
I no longer care for expensive perfume.
The best present you could get me would be nappies and wipes.
My priorities have shifted.
I forgot the date
I misplaced the form
I am late for our appointment
I missed your call
I didn't hear you knock
I am knackered
I am scared
I am stronger
I am content

Because I am now a parent.

My Guy

I have been seeing this new guy for two weeks now. He is, like, properly gorgeous - but he's a bit of a boob man. Sometimes when I talk to him I feel I'm not really being listened to - you know? I can see his big eyes wondering ... and then landing on my bosom. I suppose I can't blame him, as I am looking what I would call 'Buxom' for the first time in my life. But I get the feeling he is just using me for one thing!

My little guy is now two weeks old. And I must say - I am quite enamoured with him. He is surprisingly tiny - his toes are particularly remarkable. He is perfectly formed - just miniature. He smells of safe and warm and his eyes are like two giant pools of chocolate sauce. I am probably slightly biased - but I would say that, as far as babies go, he is unusually attractive. His father and I are particularly confused about how handsome he is - especially as we were horrendously unattractive children (I had a lazy eye and an under bite).

The three of us have been living together in a sort of time warp where the days and nights have blended into one block, fourteen days separated only by small flashes of memory or documented appointments.

The time spent at hospital I am unable to section into days. I remember faces of various medical professionals, I remember a couple of the meals (surprisingly tasty) and I remember walking around the corridors looking like an extra from 'Dawn of the Dead' dragging my ginormous swollen legs behind me in a blood stained nightie, pale faced, with black suitcases under my eyes, all the time attached to a bag of my own urine.

When we got home I didn't sleep for a substantial amount of time. I hadn't really slept at the hospital either. I felt a bit like someone who had won Big Brother. I expect everyone tells them that they should get some rest - but all they want to do is go to the after party and do 1000 interviews and watch their old episodes and stay in that ecstasy, in that big bubble for as long as they can.

Some time later my bubble burst. I came flying down from the vertigo causing high I was on with an almighty Thwack! I spent a good two days hysterically sobbing. Like a come down from the baby drug. Everyone suggested I get some sleep. I refused. I sat up in the small nursery we had designed night after night eating sweets and drinking milkshake struggling with breastfeeding. My partner and I soon realised that our little nursery was completely impractical - this realisation came soon after the Maternity Support Officer said "But, where will you sleep?"

"Sleep? I won't sleep! I don't need sleep. No sleep for me. No sleep needed. No sleep!" I answered. I imagine now I must have looked utterly frightful.

She joined the queue of people suggesting I get some sleep. And an hour after her visit I surrendered, I stopped maniacally watching my baby's every breath and simply passed out.

If you have read one of my favourite books 'A Little Princess' by Frances Hodgson Burnett you may know of the moment when the girl, who has been locked in the attic of the children's school and treated as a slave (starved, abused and overworked) by the headmistress awakes to find that the kind Indian man from next door has adorned her with food and luxuries. Much in the same way I awoke a few hours later to find that my partner had transported the entire nursery from the tiny impractical spare room to the huge master bedroom of the house - which now contains a comfy double bed, the baby's moses basket, my nursing chair and TV. Along one wall are three tables pulled together arranged in a nappy changing and dressing factory conveyor belt. And finally in the corner of the room is a small kettle, a mini fridge and water filter jug with an array of tea, biscuits and snacks. It might have been a week after my son was born - but thanks to my own kind saviour - we were finally prepared.

In the time warp, in between a jump to the left, and then a step to the right - was Mother's day. My first ever Mother's day. I received a card addressed to 'Boob Lady' - as I suppose that is what I am at this stage in his Salad days.

Never have I felt such a pick a mix of emotions in such a short amount of time than over these two weeks. I have gone from terror to euphoria to devastation to terror again - fear that I am not up to scratch - and slowly but surely back up and over to an even ledge of 'happiness'. I feel ... content. As the days have gone on more confidence is trickling into me and my capabilities in looking after my little man. Our relationship has blossomed - like my bosom - and I am truthfully loving my new role. I sit at night, in my perfect environment, with my guy and I really have no complaints. Even if he wakes up several times in the night - it can hardly be seen as a hardship. If you do hear me whinge, you have permission to slap me rightfully across my face.

Mammaries ... Like the corners of my mind. Misty water coloured Mammaries - of the way we were... Scattered Nipples ... like the smiles we left behind...

My life is still mostly about breast feeding and some days are better than others. I am still surprised, daily, by how difficult the process is - but I am proud of myself for persevering and a large tub of formula remains on my factory conveyor belt unopened - and a breast pump sits in the corner, the instructions unread.

My partner and I have our first social outing at the end of the month and we are beyond excited. As far as the breastfeeding goes - I am going to follow Madonna's advice and 'Express myself'. I intend on having, for the first time in ten months, an exceedingly generous cocktail. The idea of this is, I am ashamed to say, almost as exciting as the idea of winning the lottery. I am a little concerned the mere whiff of it will put me in a coma - but that's a chance I am willing to take. I am getting excited about doing my hair, putting on a little (ish) black dress and making an effort with myself - It is time for Stella to get her groove back!

But that is days away - and days mean nothing in this house - days are merely marked, as they are at the zoo, by feeding times. And manure! So, for now, it's time to get back to my little guy. Nothing you can say, can take me away, from my guy. (My guy).

Mammary... all alone in the moonlight, I can smile at the old days, I was beautiful then, I remember the time I knew what happiness was, Let the mammary - live again...

Suckleberry Finn

I wanted to call this blog "Strictly Come Sucking" - but I was concerned that it might give off the wrong impression should it do the rounds on Google+. This last week, my first week with my new baby, has been all about one thing and one thing only - Breasts! And that got me athinkin about dancing! (bear with me).

Dancing is something that the majority of us feel comes naturally. Some of us have better rhythm than others - but put on "Wake me up before you go go" and we can all click our fingers and shuffle side to side. We don't need 'lessons' before we have a bop and a boogie at a Wedding. I don't want to blow my own trumpet - but I think I'm quite a good dancer. I think I can feel the music and do the hustle with the best of them. I sit at home, mostly eating, watching a show like "Strictly Come Dancing" and think "Pah! I could do that! Easy. I'd be hitting those tens! No problem".

The reality is that I would rock up on the first day of training and the professional dancer would spit in my face at my arrogance before wiping it off with several sheets of intricate mathematical impossible steps that need to be mastered. My point (I told you I had one) is that there are some things in life that 'look' easy, effortless if you will - but turn out to be flipping difficult. This week I found out that breast feeding is one of them.

I am ashamed to say that when I saw a leaflet for "Breast feeding classes" I really did laugh. Firstly - I couldn't think of anything worse than sitting with a load of strangers discussing our boobs. Secondly - If a class was say 30 minutes, I couldn't possibly imagine what would happen after the first two minutes of "Put baby to breast". What did people do for the other 28 minutes? In my head, breast feeding is something that anything with teats can do! Some of the stupidest looking mammals in the world do it innately - so the idea that an advanced human (yes, that's me) would have any trouble doing it was ludicrous to say the least.

As soon as I was able to hold my son I was asked to breast feed him as it promotes bonding. I obliged - an odd sensation - and a wonderful one. I felt very motherly, very womanly. The midwife seemed happy with what I was doing and I thought "Piece of cake! Just like I thought". I was to stay in hospital for a few days and I breast fed my little man on the first day and he appeared happy and all was well. One midwife who popped her head around the curtain even commented "Oooh, you look like a picture from a breastfeeding magazine. Lovely alignment". And I beamed! The equivalent of Len Goodman bellowing "SEVEN!" 

"Yes, all come see me, all hail moi! - Mother Earth - as I nourish my newborn with my milky delight. As I give fuel from my own breast! As I literally enrich my young. As my life gives life to ... this new life. Cause you make me feel, you make me feel, you make me feel like a natural .. woman!" 

A night later, at our home, my partner and I experienced what would become "The Night". Notorious to us now as the night that our baby cried none stop. There was nothing we could do, there was no settling him. There was no 'filling' him. I passed him from left breast to right,  from left to right, from left to right. My nipples ached, they bled, I wept, the baby screeched, my partner and I looked at each other, through exhausted eyes with utter bewilderment on our shattered  faces. While my partner went to the supermarket to look longingly at tubs of formula, I took to Twitter pleading for help. What was I doing wrong? The majority of answers were that my baby "could not be latching on properly".  But I knew that couldn't be right!


The next day the Maternity Support Worker appeared and observed me breast feeding.
I was doing it wrong.
I had no idea.

Telling a new mum that her baby has not latched on properly is second, I feel, to telling a woman she is fat. The bearer of this news is only trying to help (Mother) - but all we can feel is utterly insulted. 

And if that wasn't bad enough, our little man had lost a little too much weight. Never have I felt so terrible, useless or stupid. I was a big fat failure and I was failing my son - and we were only on day 3. I couldn't do what cats and pigs can do! I couldn't perform the most natural and basic act there was. The Support worker told me to keep a breast feeding journal of when I was feeding him and how long and which breast I was using (I shall be auctioning this off shortly - makes fascinating reading). I constructed a large chart like the Teacher's pet I am and went to work. She showed me a better position - it's all about the positioning darling! 

She told me that soon my milk would come through and I would have "Dolly Parton Breasts". "Yes," I said, "It has already come through". To which she suspiciously eyed my breasts whilst raising one eyebrow and doing a face that wreaked of "How small were they before?" A day later I realised that my milk had not really come through at all - I had been wrong about that too. As my breasts, overnight, had literally doubled, doubled again, tripled, and doubled again! (If I was better at maths, I am sure there is a more succinct way of saying that!) To put it plainly - they are now stupidly big and ridiculously heavy (there is nothing sexy about this FYI).

My main issue with breastfeeding was the conflicting information, the terminology and the metaphors used to describe the process. At the hospital I was told by my midwife that I should make sure I swap him from left to right to make sure that both breasts were producing milk and I didn't limit to just one. The support worker then told me that I shouldn't change from left to right so often - I should do up to 20 minutes on the left and then 20 minutes on the right. My community midwife then asked why I wasn't swapping breasts enough. I have a degree! It can't be that difficult to understand! 

I pleaded with each health care professional to explain where I was going wrong and they ALL, without fail, started off on an analogy about a meal with a soup course - followed by roast beef and ending in chocolate pudding. By day 5 I had heard this metaphorical tale from the Health visitor, the community midwife, the support worker and a few hospital midwives and nurses. I would sit with tears in my eyes saying I just didn't get it and they would start "Well, when we go to a restaurant we have the soup course,  then we move on to the roast beef, and the chocolate pudding is the best bit!" Yes, I am aware of this - but how does this help me? 

I set to work and a day later showed my breastfeeding journal to my midwife - hope in my blood shot eyes .... and it was wrong. I wasn't spending long enough on the right boob/left boob and he wasn't getting his God Damn Chocolate pudding. She kept bleating at me about him not getting a proper 'feeeeeed'. "Is this correct?" I would say - pointing at my record of minutes of time that the baby spent on my breast. "Well, it's not a good 'feeeeeeed'!" She would say. 

WHAT IS A FEED? WHAT IS THIS NOUN? EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT 'FEED' LITERALLY MEANS?
"Well dear, a feed would be about 20 minutes" 
SO THAT'S A FEED? 20 MINUTES AT THE BREAST?
"Well no, not necessarily 20 minutes every time."
HERE, LOOK, ON MY JOURNAL - I DID 5 MINUTES, THEN 10 MINUTES, THEN 5 MINUTES ALL ON THE LEFT BREAST - SO IS THAT A 'FEED'? 
"Well, no dear, you see, there's a soup course, and a beef course..."

Oh Lord give me strength. 

HOW DO I KNOW WHICH BREAST TO USE?! I screeched.
"Just follow your instincts" she said. 

And that was the best piece of advice she gave me. That evening, from out of no where, it just clicked. I finally understood! All this time I had been thinking a 'Feed' was anytime that the baby made contact with a nipple. Whether that be 5 minutes or 10. I viewed that as a 'feed'. I also viewed my breasts as two separate restaurants. For example - the left was a 'Pizza Express', the right was a 'Nandos'! This was wrong. 

What I should have been doing was viewing my baby as a dinner guest and I was in charge of that dinner. I, not he, would say "Ok, you look hungry- time for a meal! And a good meal should be at least 20 minutes (not spread over hours - over a typical meal time). Just as you might sit a ten year old down at the table and say "You're not playing your game until you have finished your dinner" - you say to your baby, "Ok, you are going to have a good meal (feeeeeed) for at least 20 minutes." 

My breasts too were not two separate eateries. They were one! I am one restaurant! 'Nipple Express'! And instead of following scientific dance steps (left-left-right-left-left-right) I should have just been feeling which one was better. I should have thrown those rules away and just used my instincts. It clicked. I just got it. 

48 hours later our baby was weighed again - and to our relief and overwhelming joy - he had put on weight. So much weight that the Maternity Support Worker signed us off. He had gone from below target to above target - and we could all breathe a massive sigh of full fat dairy infused relief.

What I have learnt this week is that if it hurts a lot and you are in agony and have bleeding nipples - you are not doing it right. As hard as that is to accept or hear. It should curl your toes for the first 3-4 seconds the little vampire bites - but then it should be pain free. I have also learnt that people in the online community and other mothers can be exceedingly supportive of you if you bring up this subject. I have learnt that I was, not for the first time in my life, stupidly arrogant and ignorant to expect that I didn't need to research and learn about this subject before I gave birth. I have learnt that when you get it right - it feels amazing. I am now living my life as a giddy milk optic! And now I don't need to use a stopwatch or worry about which breast is best - he stays on one for around 30 minutes and sleeps like the proverbial baby! 

Now I feel I have not incorporated enough breastfeeding puns into this blog - so I will shove them all in here at the end. Breast feeding sucks. Had the worst week in recent mammary. I felt like a right tit. But I think I have now got the right formula. Now I am simply the breast. Goodnight and teat dreams.  

Oooh, the tiniest vampire is stirring in his crypt, I mean crib. Someone wants his soup course. Excuse me.

Perfect

26.02.13

Ring Ring
Hello darling. How are you feeling today? Are you alright? Now don’t you worry - it is nearly the end now - just one more day to get through. I know it will be fast for you. Someone doesn’t have a monthly flow like yours and have a slow labour. You’ve always had very strong hormones. Just look at your mood swings! I know it will be fast. Keep me updated.  

Brrrriing 
Hello darling. Are you feeling any better now? What time are you going into the hospital sweetie? When is your appointment? Oh, yes, sorry you did tell me that. What time will they call you then? Oh, yes, sorry you did tell me that didn’t you? Well - don’t worry darling. It’s the end of the line. You will have your baby by the end of the day! I'd be surprised if you're not caught short in the taxi! Text me when you know what’s happening. 

Ring Ring
Darling, Have you called the hospital yet? To make sure that they definitely know about you? They might have forgotten about you. You have to be careful darling. You can’t just rely on administrators. I know they said they would call you but if it was me I would call them before hand just to check. Keep me updated. 

Brrrring
I have been speaking to some women at the office this morning darling and they think an Epidural is a good idea. So I think you should ask for one. As soon as you get there. There is only a minuscule chance you could be paralysed for life apparently. I don’t know if you have thought about it before now but if it were me I would ask for one. Oh you know about them? Good good. Well text me when... ok. 

Ring Ring 
Did you call them Sweetheart? And they know about you? Oh good. Well, all you have to do now is wait for that phone call. I suppose that’s all you’ve been doing all morning. Just sitting and waiting by the phone? Don’t worry darling. Not long now. Try to relax. It will be very fast I am sure. Keep me updated. 

Brrrring
You know the more I think about it darling the more I think it’ll be a very quick labour. I mean look at your hips. Yes I know you’re 14 days overdue, and yes, I know I said it would be early - but I am sure I’m not wrong about this now. . . .  You sound a little bit hormonal darling. . . . Try to keep calm dear. . .  It won’t be any good for the baby if you are this agitated. 

Ring Ring
Hi darling, I am on my lunch break now. Are you at the hospital now? Oh, they still haven’t called. That is odd. Oh well, it can’t be too long now anyway. Have you been able to have a nice morning anyway? Oh, oh, I see. Well - keep me updated. 

Brrrring - and two words - PRIVATE NUMBER flashed up on my mobile. My partner and I stared at the screen knowing that this time - it wasn’t going to be my mother. 

We had been sitting watching the phone since 5am like two soldiers in a trench waiting to be summoned to go over the top - and at 1.30pm the call finally came. The hospital was surprisingly lovely. I got my own bed with curtains all the way around it. There was a side table and my very own TV on a crane above my head. It felt a bit like a private long haul flight with a bed as opposed to a cramped seat. 

My partner went straight to ‘man work’ by selecting a TV/Movie package and registering my card and contact details in the TV system. The nurse gave me something to start my labour as, at 14 days overdue there was still no progress whatsoever, and we were told that it was, as ever - a bloody waiting game. My partner completed his ‘man work’ disappearing to the mini supermarket on the corner to return a while later with, as Julie Andrews would chirp, a few of my favourite things; A multi bag of Hula Hoops, Haribo sweets, banana milkshakes, apple juice cartons, a chicken salad sandwich and a ridiculously over sized bumper pack of cocktail sausages - as well as three different girly gossip magazines and after a long while he left me for the night. 

I sat there in my curtained cocoon in dimmed lighting with my inappropriate hospital picnic half watching muted TV programs, half listening to other potential mother’s telephone conversations and occasional groans of discomfort. 

27.02.13

After a sleepless night and several examinations it was found that progress was being made - and to put it delicately, it was then a numbers game. Starting at 3cm - slowly trudging through the trenches towards the elusive 10cm line. My partner went back to work for the day nearby leaving me with a smile on my face, a surprise donut and an Ipod full of comedy. 

By the time he was mobilised back in that afternoon he returned to quite a different image; me  - stood crouched over the bed, over a bean bag, weeping and quietly howling to the left and vomiting to the right - like I was performing a deranged dry version of the front crawl. “What’s wrong?” he asked, terror in his eyes. He was to ask this question quite a few times over the next 20 hours or so. Gentleman - I do not advocate this line of enquiry. 

Although I was in a substantial amount of pain it was made clear that we needed to wait it out for as long as possible - and I was making progress in the cm journey. I was offered Diamorphine - which was, quite frankly, lovely. The room went fuzzy and my worry at vomiting audibly in a place occupied by other people soon went away. All fumes of self consciousness gathered together in a cartoon stream of smoke and weaved its way past the birthing balls and nurses out of the window. 

I am not sure how out of it I was on this drug - all I know is that my partner seemed to be communicating with me by using various forms of eye rolls and felt the need to tell me that I was “quite loud” when I complained to him about the woman in the next cubicle and her late night phone calls. The drug gave a new lease of life to my gagging reflex and my partner and I engaged in a pass the water, pass the sick bucket, pass the water, pass the sick bucket rebound match. 

More time, more regurgitation and more examinations and what seemed like an infinity of timelessness led to our own room, no more curtain, and another Midwife shift change. My partner marched in ready for a fight and demanded I have an Epidural. We might have come across as quite adversary - but we were granted one snappish. The Anaesthesiologist asked if I had tried Hypnobirthing and my reply started with an ‘F’ and ended with an ‘Off’. We all had a giggle - my giggle slightly more ‘Exorcist’ like than the rest, intermittent with projectile vomit. I got my epidural and we played the numbers game once more. 

Hours passed. I lay on the bed drifting in and out of consciousness listening to a mixture of 80s and 90s power ballads. The lights were dimmed. The TV in our room was out of order - typical! Why do these things always happen to me? 

I felt relief - well I felt nothing - except severe nausea. More hours passed, the sun went down and rose up, and I had arrived at a perfect size 10 for the first and probably last time in my life. Meatloaf barked that he would do anything for love - except that. A disgruntled midwife appeared with a slightly rotten looking bumper packet of cocktail sausages asking if I still needed the food I had left in my locker. 

28.02.13

Then it was Push oclock people! And time for another midwife shift change. This time I had two! So even more people were invited in to look at what we could not rightfully call ‘privates’ anymore. I asked my partner to be elsewhere to help me to let myself "go with it". And he obliged. 

An hour later my epidural was wearing off. I was advised - and I knew, it was better not to get a top up as it would help with the pushing - and we thought we were really getting somewhere. I pushed for two long hours in total (breathing in between) - before the pain reached a point where I was no longer myself and my poor dishevelled exhausted partner and new midwives looked on with worry as a woman, who up to this point had stayed quite jokey - transformed into an earsplitting earthshaking blasting beast from the Nether Realm pleading to be put out of her misery. If you were in the waiting room that morning I sincerely apologise. 

The baby had turned back to back and there were suddenly several doctors in the room. It was then a long wait for a room in surgery to be available. Well, I say it was a long wait - I have no idea - it may have been seconds - just distorted seconds. Everything was fuzzy and scary and unreal and all I could see was my partner’s face. Then I was being wheeled into a theatre (not in the thespian sense) and all I could think of was all the episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and ER I had seen. 

My partner stood to the right of me and he appeared to have changed into sexy blue surgeon scrubs complete with hat and I was torn between a profound agonising terror and an overwhelming request that we somehow take this outfit home. A large yellow light shone above me and after fumbling and snippets of information pin balling past my brain about what was going to happen - my legs disappeared from my reality. 

A polite man pricked a small pin (oh grow up!) into various parts of my body to test the feeling. I exclaimed to the room that a ‘bleepy machine’ was next to me ‘like the ones that go duuuuuhhhhhhhh when you die!” (My medical knowledge knows no bounds). The kind looking man explained that they never go duuhhh - and that was a myth. I cried in a childlike state and after the forceps were used I heard the word “no” and I knew it was finally time for the last resort. 

One of the women peering over me was wearing small skull silver earrings and I felt the inclination to compliment her before knowing, even then, that there was a time and a place to flatter a woman on her jewelry and this was perhaps not it. The surgeon told me not to worry as they were all highly trained to help me, to which I pointed at my partner’s face and sobbed “He’s not trained”. This got a little laugh. I wasn’t joking. 

A barricade was made below me and I stared at my partner's face to the right of me. I felt nothing. I desperately wanted water. Rapid moments passed. I felt like an old sofa someone was trying to root around in for any spare change for the bus. I frantically searched the man I love's face for any sign of what was happening - what was going on. What was going on? 

And then I knew -  he was there.  

And finally - my partner spoke ... 

"He's perfect" he said. 

Preparation for perhaps the best giving birth blog yet

This particular blog post has been a long time coming. When I started writing about pregnancy at 30 weeks pregnant - 13 weeks ago - I had a slight suspicion that one day I might have to give birth and then I would get to write the best giving birth blog yet.

I resolved that my giving birth blog post (bit of a mouthful) would be different to all the others! It would reveal the truth! It would steer clear of scary looking medical acronyms and Midwifery Jargon. It would describe every stage instead of just the ecstasy and the agony. It would not resemble breakfast news reports of the Oscars where a four hour ceremony is pureed into two sentences about who won, who lost and who was the 'worst dressed'.

My blog would finally reveal the truth to poor women like me everywhere who were 'pee your pants' terrified of labour, and comfort them with what I suspected - that women generally over dramatise these things and it really isn't as horrendous as people make out - and it would not, I repeat not, be a typical giving birth horror story!

If you have read my earlier posts you would know that my biggest bugbear during pregnancy has been putting up with people who have had the audacity to trot up to me and announce how utterly horrific childbirth is knowing full well that I would one day soon have to give birth! Never in your life will you ever have any other medical appointment that people feel they can comment on negatively en mass. You will never have, for example, your Appendix out - and have to deal with friends, family and complete sodding strangers tumbling over themselves to say

"Oh my goodness! You are going to HATE that! HA HA - Good luck Lassy! It's fecking agony! You'll be lucky to get through it! I don't envy you! Ouch!!" 

I would not join this scaremongering league I cried! I will break the pattern! I would be a revolutionary. Women would cheer and say thank you in their droves!

"God Bless you Sister! FINALLY, someone has told us what we needed to know and not just indulged in a sympathy provoking petrifying tale that breeds nothing other than more terror for this process so many of us have to face!" 

It would only be a matter of time before I was then asked to meet the Queen and perhaps become Duchess Kate's pregnancy companion.

So, here I am in a bit of a quandary.

It has been exactly 11 days since my last confession and exactly one week since I gave birth. I have waited longer than I would have liked to have started this long awaited blog because I have waited to be in the right state of mind. My usual writing 'voice' is tinged with sarcasm, over dramatisation and the never ending quest for wit and I tend not to write if I am having a rather depressing day (although I have written the odd post with that downtrodden flavour).

My mother doesn't like it if I write anything negative. Herself being the epitome of positiveness of course!

"Only write about funny things darling and when you are feeling good - don't depress other people with your sad feelings, keep them private. Other people don't want to read about how sad you are dear! Keep it bright and breezy! That's what people want to hear! And if you are feeling a little bit down just pretend you are fine and happy. Keep it inside sweetie" 

(sound Mental Health advice there people - in fact, I think you can find that quote in the new NHS 'dealing with depression' guidelines!)

My problem, therefore, is that the description of my labour and the past week might not have met your expectations of a bright, breezy blog to chuckle at whilst eating a sandwich - but more than that - I am sad to say... and I do apologise... but now I have my very own 'Giving birth horror story". And I swore I wouldn't conform to that tradition.

So - from what angle should I write?
Do I lie when we know brutal honesty is my Raison d'être?
Do I conform to the tradition of labour misery tales and give you a blow by blow account of 'The Worst Labour in History' (no I am not over-exaggerating, I never do that!)
Do I just give you the highlights and a few low lights in jolly British euphemism form?
Do I skip over it, take a Pass go card on the Childbirth Monopoly board - and go straight to a humourous breastfeeding blog post complete with mammary and teat puns? (I have several).

After much deliberation I have come to the conclusion that I will do what only I can do. What I have always done. Describe the event through my eyes. Describe the entire process from my perspective - my sarcastic, layman angle. In my style. And I am going to glaze over the truly terrible elements, much as time, these 7 days, have already glazed over those elements. I am going to go back to what I started these blogs to do - describe what pregnancy is like to ME - an utterly uninformed unimpressed first time mum to be.

If you need sound medical details there are great websites out there whose cups overfloweth with descriptions of the stages of labour, childbirth acronyms and maternity modules. If you want varied birth testimonies, again, you will find them in their abundance - and if you require a tale of terror just trundle up to any disenfranchised looking mother in the supermarket and ask "So, how was your labour?" and they will tell you. And mothers in the Cheese and Dairy aisle will overhear you. And the check out staff will chip in. And before you know it, it will look like the end of a Richard Curtis Rom Com where a village of people stand applauding around you chanting "Childbirth is Hell! Childbirth is Hell!"

My blog won't necessarily reveal the truth - but it will reveal my truth - how I found labour. It might not help first time mums to be in their millions - but it might provide a spot of light entertainment over your lunch break.

And, if nothing else, it will keep my Mother happy.


To be continued...

Apologies to my Son - my little Godot

“Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful." 

"Let's go." "We can't." "Why not?" "We're waiting for Godot.”  

Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot. 

Dear Son, 

I will be 42 weeks pregnant in two days, and I am writing to apologise for my attitude for the last two weeks. You see, I have been impatient, I have been selfish, I have been petty, I have been plain pathetic. 

The first thing you should know about the Mother you are going to get - is that she is very selfish. At least she has been for the last thirty years. Your mummy (to be) has never had a sister, she has never had a brother - she has been her mummy's one and only her whole life - and this has rendered her quite self absorbed. She is able to make any situation in the World  all about her. 

Your Father and I weren't planning on having a baby - you were a surprise to us. A shock. But a pleasant shock! Like the feeling you would get finding a £50 note down the bottom of an abandoned sofa. At first I was scared and worried how it would affect me - while your Father was excited, like a little child, at the prospect of you - and every day has been a massive learning experience for the two of us. 

While I have been 'housing' you in my belly I have been through the mill. I have suffered. I have been sick and exhausted and depressed and been to A&E and spent nights coughing up blood. It has been harder than I could have ever imagined - and all the while, you have been Golden. 

You have been in the right position for all my scans, you are in the correct position for birth, your heartbeat has been perfect, your size has been lovely, your movements have been consistent. It would seem Son, that you are much better at this 'pregnancy' lark than me! 

Of course, being your Mother - I have made it all about me! I have played the victim card - I have moaned to anyone with ears, I have milked it to your Father, I have over emphasised the ailments and over exaggerated the agony. On more than one occasion, probably 75% of the time - I have taken 'you' - and your well being for granted. 

The last two weeks however - have really taken the biscuit. It makes me quite ashamed to think of how I have been. I have been negative and impatient and ungrateful and dramatic. Instead of celebrating every moment that you are safe and well and, I assume, happy within my walls - I have taken it for granted, concentrated purely on my own discomfort and spent the days cursing the continuing hours that you reside in me. 

I even blamed you! I moaned that you were stubborn and whimpered into the night how unreasonable you were that you wouldn't move out when your lease was up! I whined that boys were lazy! I counted down the days till your due date (convinced, for no reason in particular, that you would be early) with impatience and when the due date came and went it was as if someone had died. As though a tragedy had occurred - when all the while, a miracle was occurring. 

And why should I blame you? You have no notion of deadlines or dates - suspended in nil gravity; warm, safe and protected - oblivious to this world. Why should you want to move towards the cold light? The noise? The real world. I would stay in there too. 

The irony is that I don't know why your Father and I are in such a rush. Why is it of so much importance that you come to us so quickly? Why aren't we savouring and devouring our last days together, just the two of us? And why am I so impatient for you to arrive when, if I am honest,  I am not ready for you. 

Don't get me wrong - your room is ready! You have tangible things - clothes and toys and goodies that other babies would be jealous of! You have a family awaiting who will love you to within an inch of your life - but I am scared stiff of you arriving. I am scared that I just won't be good enough for you. Maybe that's why I have focused so much on the dates - to avoid thinking about the reality of becoming... 'a mother'. 

And when I think about real tragedies in the world - or the women lining up to be in my position - devastated by not being able to have children - and here I am crying about keeping you within me for forty.... two weeks. Well, I couldn't feel sillier. 

So, I sincerely apologise darling - for being so silly and angry and frustrated - these last two weeks in particular. 

On Tuesday - they tell me - they will try to urge you out into reality.  By Mother's day on the 10th of March, providing everything goes well and you are meant for the world, I will be a Mother - good or bad. And you will no longer be a bump. You will no longer be anonymous. You will be a little person. You will be a Son. And you will be my Son, my baby - forever. 

And these last two weeks will be a distant memory; replaced with thousands of weeks of fresh worries ... and joys. 

My mistake has been that I have focused too much on the 'waiting' ... Like the characters in that depressing Samuel Beckett play - waiting for Godot. 

Or like someone at the airport, on their way to Paradise - whose plane is 2 hours late. They forget - they are still going to paradise - they just have to be a little patient! They are just a little delayed. 

So, you stay in there, you relax - and your excited Father and I will see you soon Son x

We'll Smoke The Blighter Out...

Captain's Log. Blog 23. Week 41. Plus 2. 9 days over due. HMS Whale.

I had a rather stilted telephone conversation with my Father yesterday. To paint a picture for you my Father is like a cross between Prince Charles, John Cleese and a pilot from the RAF during World War One. 

Dad: Hello, all well your end? 

Me: Well ... there is still no ... 

Ah, no, well, yes ... weather good here...

So I am eight days overdue which means ...

Like a Spring day here ... 

I have to go to the Midwife today ...

Ah, yes, well... mmm... Mid...wives ...

And I will have to have ... 
Did you catch University Challenge? 
A Procedure ...

Shame about Richard Briers ...

And if that doesn't work ...

Mmm... your Grandmother sends well wishes 

They will have to ...

Ah, yes, they WILL I suppose ...

Induce me ...

Mmm... yes... well ... no post for you here ...

Which I didn't really want because ...

Yes, well I'm going to have a spot of lunch before work ...

I wanted him to come naturally ...
SINGAPORE Noodles! 
Ok Dad, enjoy. 

He doesn't like to talk about it.
I am sick of talking about it.
I thought I would be talking about something else at this point. 

I'm quite blasé about the whole labour thing at this point. Don't get me wrong - I was absolutely petrified of giving birth - but you can't continually stay petrified for two weeks. It is as though a psychopath called me two weeks ago and said, in a chilling tone "I am going to come around and hurt you ... at some point". You can spend the first week terrified, aware of every noise, every feeling, every twinge - and then you just run out of energy. You resign yourself to it. "Get on with it" you shout. "I just need to get on with my life! Come and get me!" 

The day a week after my due date was Hellish and I spent most of the day weeping. The disappointment of still being pregnant a week on - when I thought it would be over by then. The frustration of not having anything to do. If I have one more bath my skin may peel off. One can only have so many baths a day before the 'relaxing' element of them is made redundant. Not to mention the fact I look like a Hippo at a Watering Hole - and to use a quote from 'Jaws': "We're gonna need a bigger bath". 

Yesterday morning I had my supermarket shopping delivered. The delivery man was very jovial. He said cheerily, "How are you today?" 

"OVERDUE" I snapped. 

"Oh!" he said, before looking me up and down. "I couldn't even tell because you were standing front on." I could have kissed him. 

Then he continued "A woman's waters broke in front of me once". 

"Maybe you are good luck?" I said. 

I had to restrain myself, greatly, from asking him in for a cup of tea - or lunch, or to stay the night. 

Then in the afternoon I had a meeting with Sooty's notorious friend! I tottered back to the Midwife for my 'final' appointment before I have my baby. After weeks of worry - I finally had my Sweep. I am pleased to report - it was fine! Not in any way painful - and not even that unpleasant. It was a bit of a non event really. As with everything to do with pregnancy - I suspect that the 'hype' is very different to the reality. 

My midwife said "Wow, you got your knickers off quick!" 

"Not my first time..." I said. 

So, I have been booked in for an Induction. Obviously, I would like things to start naturally - but the Midwife made me feel a tad better when she said "no matter what, you won't leave the hospital after that date without a baby". Despite it all - I have an official end date in sight. 

Things are looking up today - I have my 1000 piece jigsaw to finish, I have some crumpets to eat for breakfast, I can have another bath, and ... Mother will be descending on us this afternoon. If there is one thing that will warm the cockles of your heart and cheer the spirits - it is a visit from the Mother Ship. I wonder what cautionary tales of woe she will bring with her.

We have less than 5 days for the little one to make his move or God Damn it - we will come up there and get him! "Don't make me come up there and get you boy!"  

Do you remember the scene in Alice in Wonderland when Alice has outgrown the Rabbit's house. Her head is sticking out of the top. Her arms and legs are sticking out of his windows and doors. The rabbit screams "Beast... Beast!" And then the song starts: 

"Oh, ho ho ... Oh, We'll smoke the blighter out

We'll put the beast to rout

Some kindling, just a stick or two, 

Ah, this bit of rubbish ought to do

We'll roast the blighter's toes 

We'll toast the bounder's nose 

just fetch that gate

we'll make it clear 

That monsters aren't welcome here! 

Without a single doubt

We'll smoke the blighter out!

We'll smoke the monster out!"

The illusive plumber and 101 things not to say to an overdue pregnant beast woman

You know that feeling you get when you are in desperate need of a Plumber?


You see, without a Plumber you can't have a wash or go about your daily chores. You are a little bit 'stranded' without your water. So you call the Plumbing company and they say "Yes, we can help, we will send round a plumber to you tomorrow. He will be there at any time between 8am and 8pm - so you will need to stay put for the day and just wait in for him, ok?" Annoying - yes. But you need access to water and one day spent inside won't be too bad. You don't understand why they can't be more 'specific' about your time slot - but Hey Ho! At least, at the end of the day, you know you'll get a result.


Well... imagine that you wait in that day, and the hours tick by, and it gets to 8pm and there is no plumber. Then imagine that all you can do is continue to wait, day after day, for this illusive plumber. The hours turn in to days, the days turn in to nights - and before you know it... you have waited in for this Bastard calling himself a Plumber for. a. week.


It has now been six days. My baby is six days overdue. Six days overcooked.


Here is a list I have compiled of things NOT to say to someone who is overdue:


Any news yet? Any baby yet? Any symptoms yet? Any twinges yet? Anything yet? Have you given birth yet? Are you at the hospital yet? Are you a mummy yet?
Oh, you mean the baby? Yes Mother - we had him a few days ago. Did we not mention it?


How are you feeling? Are you alright? Are you ok? Let me know how you are? Sweetie, I haven't heard from you in more than ten minutes... can you please text me/ call me/ email me as soon as possible because your Father and I are very very concerned and can not eat/ sleep/ breathe until you let me know you are ok.
I. AM. OK.


Have you had your sweep yet? At least you'll have a sweep soon. Why haven't you had a sweep yet? I had a sweep. Sweep Time! Sweeps do nothing anyway. What's a Sweep?


Have you tried spicy food? Have you tried Curry? Why don't you have some Curry? Curry, Curry, Curry!


Why don't you have sex? Have you had sex? Try some sex. Have some sex and a curry?


Morning Fatty! (partner)


I think you'll have your baby in 12 days because my psychic, tarot reader, astrologist, faith healer, other bullshit merchant told me so.


That baby isn't moving yet, he hasn't dropped yet! You can see he hasn't dropped. It hasn't dropped. Your stomach is too high up. The baby isn't ready - you can see he hasn't dropped.


At least you know he will come within 14 days now. At least you know it'll only be two weeks. Only two weeks left to wait. What's your problem? You only have to wait two weeks.


I really enjoyed my maternity leave. I would love two weeks off. I wish I had two weeks to sit around and watch TV. Try to relax. Enjoy your time off.


You should enjoy your time off because... once the baby's here you'll wish you had this time back. You'll never sleep again after the baby is here. You'll be sorry once that baby is there. You'll wish you had this time to relax back, cause once you have that baby it'll be Hell.
Oh wonderful. What a marvellous catch 22! Thank you.


Go out and about. Don't be scared to carry on as normal. Don't stay in your house like a prisoner. If your waters break in Waitrose - who cares?
Me. I care. I dislike wondering around constantly worrying that I am going to, essentially piss myself, in public. Thanks.

Baby will come when he is ready. You shouldn't rush him. The baby will decide when he is ready. It is not up to you. It is natural. He's not ready yet!

It is very common to go over your due date. What were you expecting? It is only an 'estimated' date. Didn't you know that? They can't be precise about these things.

I went fourteen days over my due date. My friend went eight days over her due date. My sister went weeks after her due date. Some one I know went two weeks over their due date and had to be induced - and even then nothing worked!


If you could go another day overdue that would do me a big favour because I have a big day at work and all my colleagues have actually said it'd be really handy if the baby could stay put for another week... (partner)

Top Gear is on at eight, and I am staying up late tonight to watch that Match - so it'd be quite good if he didn't make an appearance tonight. (partner)

I could really do with a good night's sleep so I hope he doesn't come today. (partner)

Today should have been his birthday... isn't that funny? (Mother)

The only acceptable thing to say to an overdue pregnant lady:

What? He still hasn't come out? That is Shite! That baby sounds like a complete Arse!

On a serious note - I have been sincerely touched by the undeserved attention I have received in the last week. I have had some incredibly supportive and lovely messages from all sorts of friends and family and men and women clearly changed by mother and fatherhood. I have, if I am honest, appreciated every single comment! And have even quite liked people asking if he is here yet. If anything - it takes up a few minutes texting or messaging back. Every little helps.

My partner made a real effort with me at the weekend and I made a real effort with him to not be the psychotic pregnant beast he has come to expect. Little things - like being the one to get up off the sofa and make the cups of tea - have gone a long way. And take up another few minutes. My Mother also paid a visit on Sunday and even persuaded me to go out and get some lunch. Just being out among other humans helped. And there was an hour that I almost forgot about the 3.5kg baby pressing on my rib cage (no, he still hasn't dropped yet!) and I felt vaguely normal.

She also, bless her heart, bought me two boxes of cake mix and baking instruments to try and fill my time this week. The first batch of cakes have already been baked this morning. I can not promise that there will be any evidence of them at 5.30pm when my partner returns home...

My pregnancy app on my phone greets me every morning with two pieces of information -
1/ You are 'Past Due' (no numbers anymore) and
2/ Your baby is the size of a small pumpkin.

I am in constant discomfort and feel ready to pop. I have stared at my kitchen cutlery for extended periods of time and wondered how difficult a D.I.Y Cesarean would be. But, on the bright side - I have a Sweep to look forward to this week (yipee!) and I am well aware that I don't, in the grand scheme of life, have that long to wait now.

That Plumber is a Prat though.