Oh how neglectful I've been again! Yadda yadda!
I'm at work at the moment. The person I need to ask for help is away on lunch so I'm being productive and updating my blog instead. Besides which I'm ill yet again which makes concentrating on coding (which I'm not that good at anyway) quite difficult. Only a grotty cold this time but I've also had a headache for 3 days and as a total headache wimp this is bothering me. Pregnancy and my immune system clearly don't get on.
Talking of which I am almost 15 weeks now. It still doesn't feel quite real. In part, I think, because I haven't had a scan yet. And don't get one until 2nd november when I'll be 18+3 weeks! I think I might have started feeling movement though. Just occasional little taps towards my right hip. Looking forward to them being more regular/bigger so that I can confirm it though.
Having gone over and over my birth experience with Ben I'm almost completely decided that I want a homebirth this time. Oh how popular that is going to make me with the health professionals! A home birth? After 2 caesarean sections? Yes, I'll be spending a fun pregnancy fighting that one. I'm going to a homebirth support group that the NCT run on Saturday so hope I can round up some peer support if nothing else.
As far as the boys go everything is grand. I must get some pictures of them in their new uniforms uploaded because they started nursery school (and Ben, daycare) last month! Their teachers are lovely and I'm quite impressed with the place. They seem to be really enjoying it though I'm not enjoying the prospect of paying £100 for school dinners! I absolutely can't afford that and am going to have to talk to the school about it. Ben is doing ok in nursery too but I think he'd rather be at home. I'd rather be at home too. A year on and the dilemma of being a full time working Mum hasn't left me. If nothing else I'd like to be at least part time but as the higher earner I don't get that option. Ryan is working 6.45am to 1pm so he looks after them in the afternoons. I'm sick of being tired and snappy. I feel like a pretty rubbish Mummy at the moment in fact and now the pregnancy sickness has worn off I really need to pick up the slack.
Money is still very tight - to the point that I'm feeling incredibly guilty about the Americano I just treated myself to from Starbucks. Ryan is off to Nottingham this weekend to do his crazy 'survival of the fittest' event but fortunately wrangled some money out of his Mum for spending over there! Ben's 2nd birthday is only 2 weeks away and so far all the poor sausage has is 2 books. I have a few things I'd like to get him but I don't think he'll mind not getting much. We'll maybe go to the zoo or something for the day. He was a tiny newborn wrapped in a sling last time we went. I think he'll appreciate it more this time.
Anyway this is really turning into disconnected ramblings. It's almost 1pm and I'm about to take my lunch break and meet R for a while before he heads on home. Whereas I'm stuck in here 'til 5.45pm. Sigh.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Friday, 28 August 2009
Summer holidays
Boats!
Tall ships Belfast
The Family at the Belfast Tall Ships event
Me and my sweetie in Spain
Grandma and the boys
Snorkelling
Me and Ben
Our holiday Villa
The Family Quinn
Covering Mummy in sand
Run!
My littlest cutie
Theme of the blog
Once again it has been months since I updated. Four in fact.
Plenty has happened. We went on a lovely holiday to Moraira, Spain with my Mum and co. The weather was glorious, the villa was beautiful, the pool was fantastic. We had no money but we had a wonderful time.
Then we got back and straight away the boys and Ryan had the chicken pox. In a way this was a blessing in disguise as we got to take some time off work. Which really helped with the next big thing: the house move.
We are now safely moved into our new house in Belfast. However it cost us a small fortune. The van hiring, the constant trips up and down the motorway - Lurgan to Belfast, Belfast to Lurgan. On and on and on. Plus we rather naughtily treated ourselves to a lot of new furniture and - more necessarily - new flooring for the downstairs rooms. I thought it would be strange moving. I loved our house at The Grange. It was our first home as a family. It was a nice house in a nice area with a nice garden. We moved into it when the twins were tiny 6 weeks olds and brought our third son home to that house after his birth. But in the furore of moving I just...haven't had time to even think about it. I was the last one at the 'old' house. Emptying out the last bits and cleaning up as best I could. And it was odd to walk around the empty rooms and hear my echoing footsteps. But we've settled into our new home quickly. It feels like home already. The boys love it and spend a lot of time out in the decent sized garden. It's a lovely quiet area of Stranmillis and our elderly neighbours have already been around to bring a tent and play tunnel, lego bricks and some garden toys for the boys.
I hope we'll be here for a few years yet. We have a lot of money issues to sort out and honestly, moving is so stressful I couldn't bear to do it again so soon. Not to mention the expense.
Which brings me to the final installment in our brave new world. We're expecting baby number four. Due at the start of April, I'm 9 weeks today. Not at all what we had planned. We were hoping to have our final sproglet after the wedding next May. The wedding has now been postponed until August 2011. I'm a bit gutted that I don't have my 'special date' wedding any more but this is more convenient for a lot of people and it will give us some time to save. Or at least get our finances back on track.
It was a very surprise sprog, conceived as a result of a rather unfortunate incident in Spain. I'm slowly getting used to the idea. It still doesn't feel quite real though. I just want this early bit out of the way. I feel sick and tired and quite, quite useless as both a Mummy and a partner at the moment. It doesn't help that I also have the 'flu at the moment and am holed up in bed. Ryan is being an absolute star and I don't know what I'd do without him. He has so much to do and he works so hard.
I don't have a midwife appointment until I'm almost 13 weeks so I've no idea when my scan date will come through. I hate the constant worrying and uncertainty of early pregnancy. And I know I'll have a fight on my hands to try and get the birth that I want this time around. I doubt I'll find many supportive health care providers for a VBA2C. I'm considering hiring a doula but I'm not sure we can justify the expense.
Anyway, I'm losing track of my thoughts so I'll leave it there and upload some photos instead.
Plenty has happened. We went on a lovely holiday to Moraira, Spain with my Mum and co. The weather was glorious, the villa was beautiful, the pool was fantastic. We had no money but we had a wonderful time.
Then we got back and straight away the boys and Ryan had the chicken pox. In a way this was a blessing in disguise as we got to take some time off work. Which really helped with the next big thing: the house move.
We are now safely moved into our new house in Belfast. However it cost us a small fortune. The van hiring, the constant trips up and down the motorway - Lurgan to Belfast, Belfast to Lurgan. On and on and on. Plus we rather naughtily treated ourselves to a lot of new furniture and - more necessarily - new flooring for the downstairs rooms. I thought it would be strange moving. I loved our house at The Grange. It was our first home as a family. It was a nice house in a nice area with a nice garden. We moved into it when the twins were tiny 6 weeks olds and brought our third son home to that house after his birth. But in the furore of moving I just...haven't had time to even think about it. I was the last one at the 'old' house. Emptying out the last bits and cleaning up as best I could. And it was odd to walk around the empty rooms and hear my echoing footsteps. But we've settled into our new home quickly. It feels like home already. The boys love it and spend a lot of time out in the decent sized garden. It's a lovely quiet area of Stranmillis and our elderly neighbours have already been around to bring a tent and play tunnel, lego bricks and some garden toys for the boys.
I hope we'll be here for a few years yet. We have a lot of money issues to sort out and honestly, moving is so stressful I couldn't bear to do it again so soon. Not to mention the expense.
Which brings me to the final installment in our brave new world. We're expecting baby number four. Due at the start of April, I'm 9 weeks today. Not at all what we had planned. We were hoping to have our final sproglet after the wedding next May. The wedding has now been postponed until August 2011. I'm a bit gutted that I don't have my 'special date' wedding any more but this is more convenient for a lot of people and it will give us some time to save. Or at least get our finances back on track.
It was a very surprise sprog, conceived as a result of a rather unfortunate incident in Spain. I'm slowly getting used to the idea. It still doesn't feel quite real though. I just want this early bit out of the way. I feel sick and tired and quite, quite useless as both a Mummy and a partner at the moment. It doesn't help that I also have the 'flu at the moment and am holed up in bed. Ryan is being an absolute star and I don't know what I'd do without him. He has so much to do and he works so hard.
I don't have a midwife appointment until I'm almost 13 weeks so I've no idea when my scan date will come through. I hate the constant worrying and uncertainty of early pregnancy. And I know I'll have a fight on my hands to try and get the birth that I want this time around. I doubt I'll find many supportive health care providers for a VBA2C. I'm considering hiring a doula but I'm not sure we can justify the expense.
Anyway, I'm losing track of my thoughts so I'll leave it there and upload some photos instead.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Perceptions of sleep and whirlwinds
I wonder how much sleep we actually need? Sometimes I think I might be talking myself into being tired because I perceive it as how I SHOULD be feeling following a night or more of broken sleep.
Perhaps it's a false memory but I don't recall being so frustrated with it when Ben was a small baby. I think maybe I accepted it more because I saw it as being more acceptable. Now he's 18 months old and I'm going through a very difficult spell with his behaviour and his sleeping. He is demanding (I wouldn't have called him that as a baby, would I?). He gets so angry and frustrated when he things aren't going precisely the way he wants them to. He screams shrilly with a temper as mighty and unalterable as the ocean. He clings to my legs if I'm standing and climbs all over me if I'm sitting down. He's difficult to get to sleep in the evenings and has started waking a lot at night again. He's never "slept through" but I'd started getting a good few hours uninterrupted.
I know a lot of people would say I've 'spoiled' him (which is a ridiculous term!). His Daddy included, probably. I get the impression he thinks he's old enough to…you know, I'm not even sure. I'm just not sure how to handle it in a way that is fair to all of us. I don't want to be permissive with behaviour that is clearly unacceptable (and some of it certainly is) but I don't want to deny him his needs and comforts either.
Part of it is probably me being stubborn. I think I'm unwilling to accept this apparent regression in behaviour from him. I've enjoyed having my bed baby free for a couple of months while still getting the benefit of cuddles from about 5am onwards. So I get angry and withdraw from him when he's awake at 2am and nothing will settle him; when he's fighting sleep and will jump up from apparent slumber and want to play peek-a-boo in his cupboard when I try to extricate myself from him and return to my own bed. When he screams with anger until he is blue in the face when I decide I need to go to the bathroom before attending his needs.
How do you help an 18 month old to display emotions in an acceptable manner? Should I be trying? He's such an intense little whirlwind. He's bright and entertaining and wonderfully cheeky. He has a throaty little chuckle that you can't help but join in with. He's adventurous and physical. He loves to emulate his brothers. He loves to have me all to himself. He can understand very complex directions and while his speech is coming along wonderfully - he can say far more than his brothers could even a year down the line - it certainly doesn't match his ability to comprehend what is being said to him. I wonder if his outbursts are in part frustration from being unable to make himself adequately understood?
I think I need to take a step back, to reconnect with him a little more so I can understand where he is coming from. And to stop treating him like an adversary.
Perhaps it's a false memory but I don't recall being so frustrated with it when Ben was a small baby. I think maybe I accepted it more because I saw it as being more acceptable. Now he's 18 months old and I'm going through a very difficult spell with his behaviour and his sleeping. He is demanding (I wouldn't have called him that as a baby, would I?). He gets so angry and frustrated when he things aren't going precisely the way he wants them to. He screams shrilly with a temper as mighty and unalterable as the ocean. He clings to my legs if I'm standing and climbs all over me if I'm sitting down. He's difficult to get to sleep in the evenings and has started waking a lot at night again. He's never "slept through" but I'd started getting a good few hours uninterrupted.
I know a lot of people would say I've 'spoiled' him (which is a ridiculous term!). His Daddy included, probably. I get the impression he thinks he's old enough to…you know, I'm not even sure. I'm just not sure how to handle it in a way that is fair to all of us. I don't want to be permissive with behaviour that is clearly unacceptable (and some of it certainly is) but I don't want to deny him his needs and comforts either.
Part of it is probably me being stubborn. I think I'm unwilling to accept this apparent regression in behaviour from him. I've enjoyed having my bed baby free for a couple of months while still getting the benefit of cuddles from about 5am onwards. So I get angry and withdraw from him when he's awake at 2am and nothing will settle him; when he's fighting sleep and will jump up from apparent slumber and want to play peek-a-boo in his cupboard when I try to extricate myself from him and return to my own bed. When he screams with anger until he is blue in the face when I decide I need to go to the bathroom before attending his needs.
How do you help an 18 month old to display emotions in an acceptable manner? Should I be trying? He's such an intense little whirlwind. He's bright and entertaining and wonderfully cheeky. He has a throaty little chuckle that you can't help but join in with. He's adventurous and physical. He loves to emulate his brothers. He loves to have me all to himself. He can understand very complex directions and while his speech is coming along wonderfully - he can say far more than his brothers could even a year down the line - it certainly doesn't match his ability to comprehend what is being said to him. I wonder if his outbursts are in part frustration from being unable to make himself adequately understood?
I think I need to take a step back, to reconnect with him a little more so I can understand where he is coming from. And to stop treating him like an adversary.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
A-wandering (and a-wondering) we must go
I'm not sure what he's pondering but it must be something important.
Note to self: This post also serves as a reminder to come back and make a weeks worth of updates.
Note to self: This post also serves as a reminder to come back and make a weeks worth of updates.
Saturday, 18 April 2009
The eternal housework dilemma
What a gloriously sunny day it was today. We lay in bed for as long as the children would allow (they came and bounced all over us, full of idle, happy chatter at about 7.30am and we all got up for breakfast an hour later). Ben was awake a lot of the night so he was in with us for most of it. He's gone from full time co-sleeping to spending probably 80% of the night in his own bed, though he still nurses to sleep.
I think he's feeling a little under the weather. I took him, finally, for his MMR on Thursday afternoon. A large part of me wishes I hadn't bothered. I'd cancelled it four times previously and finally decided to do it. I had many misgivings but it's too late now. He's been utterly miserable all day. Clingy, short tempered and crying constantly though he enjoyed some one on one Mummy time with a trip to the shops after lunch. I hope he perks up soon, poor little sausage.
Anyway I took a cleaning notion today. It's true. It doesn't happen often but it did today. I decided to tackle the kitchen. The full day I worked on it. Not exclusively of course. There were trips to the shop, time spent playing in the garden, time spent cooking meals and hanging out washing with my little helpers. But I always came back to the cleaning. All the little, time consuming things that never get done. Wiping down all the white appliances - fridge, washer, drier - that were covered in felt pen (and still are to a degree) and bits of splattered food. Cleaning the tiles, reorganising shelves and the cutlery draw, cleaning the window frames while shouting constant 'Hello's' to the sproglets playing in the garden. They were all wearing wellington boots for some reason. It was their 'thing' today.
So by 8.30pm tonight the kitchen was spotless. By my standards at least. There is still some unnecessary clutter but I'm pleased with how it looks. I felt a sad sense of accomplishment. But of course, it's only one room. The rest are still a mess, some considerably more so than others! By the time I get the chance to move on to the next room, chances are all my hard work sprucing up the kitchen will have been undone. And thus it continues.
I'm not hugely houseproud but I don't like to live in utter chaos. It demotivates me. I feel noticeably more stressed out and I am more likely to snap unreasonably if the house is a complete tip. But I only really do house work once a week, on a Sunday evening. It almost seems pointless as I go back to work the next day and the little wrecking machines are back on task (play hard, make lots of mess!).
And yet I can't NOT do it. Sometimes I even enjoy it; I did today. It was relaxing and pleasant. No lost tempers, children coming and going. The occasional fight to break up up and some tears but generally it was a lovely family day even though we did nothing special. Sometimes those days are the best ones.
Still, cleaning your house when you have three small children must rate amongst one of the more thankless tasks!
I think he's feeling a little under the weather. I took him, finally, for his MMR on Thursday afternoon. A large part of me wishes I hadn't bothered. I'd cancelled it four times previously and finally decided to do it. I had many misgivings but it's too late now. He's been utterly miserable all day. Clingy, short tempered and crying constantly though he enjoyed some one on one Mummy time with a trip to the shops after lunch. I hope he perks up soon, poor little sausage.
Anyway I took a cleaning notion today. It's true. It doesn't happen often but it did today. I decided to tackle the kitchen. The full day I worked on it. Not exclusively of course. There were trips to the shop, time spent playing in the garden, time spent cooking meals and hanging out washing with my little helpers. But I always came back to the cleaning. All the little, time consuming things that never get done. Wiping down all the white appliances - fridge, washer, drier - that were covered in felt pen (and still are to a degree) and bits of splattered food. Cleaning the tiles, reorganising shelves and the cutlery draw, cleaning the window frames while shouting constant 'Hello's' to the sproglets playing in the garden. They were all wearing wellington boots for some reason. It was their 'thing' today.
So by 8.30pm tonight the kitchen was spotless. By my standards at least. There is still some unnecessary clutter but I'm pleased with how it looks. I felt a sad sense of accomplishment. But of course, it's only one room. The rest are still a mess, some considerably more so than others! By the time I get the chance to move on to the next room, chances are all my hard work sprucing up the kitchen will have been undone. And thus it continues.
I'm not hugely houseproud but I don't like to live in utter chaos. It demotivates me. I feel noticeably more stressed out and I am more likely to snap unreasonably if the house is a complete tip. But I only really do house work once a week, on a Sunday evening. It almost seems pointless as I go back to work the next day and the little wrecking machines are back on task (play hard, make lots of mess!).
And yet I can't NOT do it. Sometimes I even enjoy it; I did today. It was relaxing and pleasant. No lost tempers, children coming and going. The occasional fight to break up up and some tears but generally it was a lovely family day even though we did nothing special. Sometimes those days are the best ones.
Still, cleaning your house when you have three small children must rate amongst one of the more thankless tasks!
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Ben's Birth Story
My pregnancy with Ben came as a complete and utter shock to both of us. Setting all obvious jokes aside we simply could not fathom how this little person came to be growing inside me. I remember taking a pregnancy test in Starbucks in Belfast and then sitting and crying down the phone to Ryan.
It came at a terrible time. Our relationship was at the lowest point it has ever been at. Ryan was depressed. I was struggling with toddler twins and the final year of my degree. I was struggling with coming to terms with the pregnancy. Ryan even asked me to consider termination (not that it's available in this part of the world!) but we both knew we could never do it.
I suffered terrible morning sickness until about 16 weeks or so. The train journey (50 minutes) to and from Belfast daily was a nightmare with restless toddlers in a buggy and a mile walk on both sides of the journey. I didn't have any sickness with the twins. It was completely alien to me. I wondered if people thought I was an irresponsible Mother who had been out drinking all night when I stooped down to puke behind a bush in Botanic gardens.
But I managed to get through my degree successfully. We picked ourselves up and slowly I started to bond with the little baby bump. I started thinking about the birth. I knew I was going to be in for a tough time getting the experience I wanted. Having a previous C-section seems to be akin to being a leper in the medical profession so for the second time I was 'high risk'.
I researched. Relentlessly. I spoke to my Aunt, who has had two vaginal births following a previous CS. I researched more. I wish I'd done more.
At 1 week "overdue" and no signs of anything starting to happen I was being pressured to agree to an induction. I refused. I wanted baby to come in their own time. And all the best evidence suggests that induction using any method is contraindicated in VBAC births. I couldn't understand why the were even considering it. Eventually I let them schedule me in for induction. I had no intentions of attending.
On Wednesday evening at 9 days overdue I felt quite restless. I wasn't in any hurry for baby to make an appearance, and still wasn't, but I felt...well, just restless. I stayed up late bouncing on my birth ball and drinking raspberry leaf tea (which I loved!). I remember watching a lot of meaningless rubbish on television until happening across a very graphic abortion documentary at about midnight. Ill advised though it was I watched it, cradling my wriggly bump and crying for both the babies and the Mummies.
Some time after 1am I went to bed. I woke up not long afterwards with pains. It took a while to realise that they were contractions since I'd never experienced one before! I dozed on and off during the night being woken sporadically by mild contractions. Ryan rolled over and hugged me when the morning came. "Any contractions?" he asked. "Lots" I replied. He sighed. "I think you misheard, I said lots!".
I didn't anticipate anything happening any time soon so I sent Ryan off to work and pottered about the house with the boys. Contractions continued throughout the day but they were irregular. Sometimes an hour would pass without one. At other times I would have 3 within 15 minutes. They still weren't very strong though.
The evening came and I went to pick Ryan up from the train station. I had several contractions in the car. They were getting stronger and made me realise I definitely shouldn't be driving. Things seemed to start moving along then. While I was cooking tea they started to stop me in my tracks. I had to lean on the kitchen unit for support. We asked if Ryan's Mum would have the boys over. She seemed very unwilling and I couldn't help but feel annoyed! They hadn't really grasped the concept of the baby but were very excited about going to Nanny's.
Things progressed slowly into Thursday night. I sent Ryan to bed and I stayed up. I sat in the dark in the spare room and played a puzzle game whilst bouncing on my ball. I talked to my Mum on the phone for about an hour in the early morning. By the time the dawn started to break contractions were fairly regular. Though bearable I had to have a coping strategy. I leaned forward onto any available surface and rocked my hips while breathing deeply. It worked really well. I decided to phone the hospital and they said to come in. I wish I'd been through this before and had known what to expect.
On arrival I was given a quick examination and told I was about 4cm and progressing nicely. We were taken up to a ward to wait for things to start moving a little more. I agreed to lie on the bed for a while for a trace to be taken though I stressed that I did not want constant monitoring. All was fine though baby was quite wriggly and kept kicking off the monitor. Labouring strapped to the bed was agony and I couldn't wait to get the damn thing off. A Dr came and gave me a very rough internal which I wasn't expecting. So unnecessarily rough in fact that she broke my waters. For me, this was the turning point. This was where things started to go wrong. There was some meconium staining in the waters. I expected this since baby was approaching 2 weeks over. I wasn't particularly worried. I felt that everything was fine.
They decided to move me down the labour ward since my waters had 'gone'. I was assigned a room and a midwife who was actually very nice. Contractions were getting intense. I leaned against a bin to rock and sway through them while I waited to be moved. There was a lady waiting for a caesarean in there with me.
I was hooked up to yet another monitor and told I would be given an oxytocin drip. I asked why. I forget the answer but I refused to agree to the drip. I never managed to get rid of the trace monitor though.
For the next few hours I laboured intensely, all wired up and sitting on a chair. Initially I tried to make my wishes understood. I was treated with little respect; as though I were a silly, little girl who had the audacity to think she knew what she was talking about.
"You've researched this have you? Oh really. That's lovely."
Refusing the drip was my only success. I sincerely wish I'd written it down and versed Ryan it what I needed. But he was a little bewildered by the whole situation.
At first I could manage to talk between contractions. After a couple of hours they were literally one on top of the other. I sucked on completely ineffective gas and air and sat on my chair. I thrashed and moaned through each contraction with clenched teeth, like a dying animal. I remember I made some terrifying sounds. I was barely aware of any one else being present in the room. I refused all other pain relief. I could tell my midwife disapproved.
About 6.5 hours after arriving at hospital and still not having progressed beyond 4-5 cm the consultant recommended a second section. I was too tired, in too much pain to disagree. I vaguely recall having to sign consent forms though I doubt I managed more than an illegible scrawl. I felt devastated. I had given up.
I wasn't allowed to move from the bed after that. Over an hour was to pass before I got taken to theatre. Continuing to labour on that bed was agonising. I couldn't stay still. I was writhing like something caught in a trap. I was sick into whatever was available to my left. I'm almost certain that I was in transition at this point. I think I probably progressed very quickly after that examination, just like my Aunt with her first labour and VBAC. But I just needed it to be over.
When I finally got to theatre I was given gas and air while they prepped me. This one actually worked. I felt light headed and dizzy. I don't think there was anything in the cannister I had been using previously because it had had no effect other than giving me a mouthpiece to bite down on. It took FOREVER for them to site my spinal. So much longer than with my elective. The needle was put in and out about 4 times. It took about 20 minutes I think. Then it took a long time to take hold. A good 5 or more minutes compared with the instantaneous effect last time. I was terrified I would feel anything. Even through the operation I could just about wiggle my fingers. The relief was immense though and suddenly I could function again, I could talk. I tried to concentrate on the imminent arrival of my son rather than regret for how things were turning out.
It took a long time but eventually I heard a loud yell and my son was born. My third little boy. For some reason he looked really big but it turned out he was only 7lb and a real titch. He was gorgeous. I was his Mummy straight away.
However I regret the way he came into this world. I regret that I wasn't stronger. I regret that I didn't have more support. I loved being in labour. It was exciting. It was incredible. I would do it again in a heartbeat. But I resent that birth experience.
What followed was no better. For a hospital that is working towards baby friendly status there was nothing baby friendly about it. For various - some arbitrary - reasons Ben ended up in the neo-natal unit for almost 2 days. The staff down there were fantastic and respected my instructions about his care and calling me instantly if he cried. However recovery from the section was so much slower this time. The neo-natal unit was on the ground floor and I was on the first. I was treated like a major inconvenience for refusing to allow them to bottle feed my son. I insisted on going down every 2.5 hours which meant a porter had to be called to take me in a wheelchair. Oh! The breastfeeding after pains! Agony!
Breastfeeding support was non-existent. Fortunately I didn't need it. But out of 7 women that were on my section of ward during my stay I was the only one breastfeeding. One young girl was attempting it but her little one was slightly premature and she was being convinced to express and give bottles as well. The answer to any breastfeeding issue was to express. Just after birth! No wonder none of the Mums were breastfeeding. At one point I needed to give Ben some expressed milk. A midwife sighed heavily and went off to get a breast pump. When she came back to see me holding a cup full of colostrum she looked at me aghast.
"How did you do THAT?!"
Apparently hand expressing is a little known art!
I would like another little one at some point and I would like to labour again and ideally aim for that VBA2C. But I know now that I need better support. Someone to tell me it's normal, that I'll get there. And I absolutely need to avoid that hospital at all costs.
He is more than worth it though.
It came at a terrible time. Our relationship was at the lowest point it has ever been at. Ryan was depressed. I was struggling with toddler twins and the final year of my degree. I was struggling with coming to terms with the pregnancy. Ryan even asked me to consider termination (not that it's available in this part of the world!) but we both knew we could never do it.
I suffered terrible morning sickness until about 16 weeks or so. The train journey (50 minutes) to and from Belfast daily was a nightmare with restless toddlers in a buggy and a mile walk on both sides of the journey. I didn't have any sickness with the twins. It was completely alien to me. I wondered if people thought I was an irresponsible Mother who had been out drinking all night when I stooped down to puke behind a bush in Botanic gardens.
But I managed to get through my degree successfully. We picked ourselves up and slowly I started to bond with the little baby bump. I started thinking about the birth. I knew I was going to be in for a tough time getting the experience I wanted. Having a previous C-section seems to be akin to being a leper in the medical profession so for the second time I was 'high risk'.
I researched. Relentlessly. I spoke to my Aunt, who has had two vaginal births following a previous CS. I researched more. I wish I'd done more.
At 1 week "overdue" and no signs of anything starting to happen I was being pressured to agree to an induction. I refused. I wanted baby to come in their own time. And all the best evidence suggests that induction using any method is contraindicated in VBAC births. I couldn't understand why the were even considering it. Eventually I let them schedule me in for induction. I had no intentions of attending.
On Wednesday evening at 9 days overdue I felt quite restless. I wasn't in any hurry for baby to make an appearance, and still wasn't, but I felt...well, just restless. I stayed up late bouncing on my birth ball and drinking raspberry leaf tea (which I loved!). I remember watching a lot of meaningless rubbish on television until happening across a very graphic abortion documentary at about midnight. Ill advised though it was I watched it, cradling my wriggly bump and crying for both the babies and the Mummies.
Some time after 1am I went to bed. I woke up not long afterwards with pains. It took a while to realise that they were contractions since I'd never experienced one before! I dozed on and off during the night being woken sporadically by mild contractions. Ryan rolled over and hugged me when the morning came. "Any contractions?" he asked. "Lots" I replied. He sighed. "I think you misheard, I said lots!".
I didn't anticipate anything happening any time soon so I sent Ryan off to work and pottered about the house with the boys. Contractions continued throughout the day but they were irregular. Sometimes an hour would pass without one. At other times I would have 3 within 15 minutes. They still weren't very strong though.
The evening came and I went to pick Ryan up from the train station. I had several contractions in the car. They were getting stronger and made me realise I definitely shouldn't be driving. Things seemed to start moving along then. While I was cooking tea they started to stop me in my tracks. I had to lean on the kitchen unit for support. We asked if Ryan's Mum would have the boys over. She seemed very unwilling and I couldn't help but feel annoyed! They hadn't really grasped the concept of the baby but were very excited about going to Nanny's.
Things progressed slowly into Thursday night. I sent Ryan to bed and I stayed up. I sat in the dark in the spare room and played a puzzle game whilst bouncing on my ball. I talked to my Mum on the phone for about an hour in the early morning. By the time the dawn started to break contractions were fairly regular. Though bearable I had to have a coping strategy. I leaned forward onto any available surface and rocked my hips while breathing deeply. It worked really well. I decided to phone the hospital and they said to come in. I wish I'd been through this before and had known what to expect.
On arrival I was given a quick examination and told I was about 4cm and progressing nicely. We were taken up to a ward to wait for things to start moving a little more. I agreed to lie on the bed for a while for a trace to be taken though I stressed that I did not want constant monitoring. All was fine though baby was quite wriggly and kept kicking off the monitor. Labouring strapped to the bed was agony and I couldn't wait to get the damn thing off. A Dr came and gave me a very rough internal which I wasn't expecting. So unnecessarily rough in fact that she broke my waters. For me, this was the turning point. This was where things started to go wrong. There was some meconium staining in the waters. I expected this since baby was approaching 2 weeks over. I wasn't particularly worried. I felt that everything was fine.
They decided to move me down the labour ward since my waters had 'gone'. I was assigned a room and a midwife who was actually very nice. Contractions were getting intense. I leaned against a bin to rock and sway through them while I waited to be moved. There was a lady waiting for a caesarean in there with me.
I was hooked up to yet another monitor and told I would be given an oxytocin drip. I asked why. I forget the answer but I refused to agree to the drip. I never managed to get rid of the trace monitor though.
For the next few hours I laboured intensely, all wired up and sitting on a chair. Initially I tried to make my wishes understood. I was treated with little respect; as though I were a silly, little girl who had the audacity to think she knew what she was talking about.
"You've researched this have you? Oh really. That's lovely."
Refusing the drip was my only success. I sincerely wish I'd written it down and versed Ryan it what I needed. But he was a little bewildered by the whole situation.
At first I could manage to talk between contractions. After a couple of hours they were literally one on top of the other. I sucked on completely ineffective gas and air and sat on my chair. I thrashed and moaned through each contraction with clenched teeth, like a dying animal. I remember I made some terrifying sounds. I was barely aware of any one else being present in the room. I refused all other pain relief. I could tell my midwife disapproved.
About 6.5 hours after arriving at hospital and still not having progressed beyond 4-5 cm the consultant recommended a second section. I was too tired, in too much pain to disagree. I vaguely recall having to sign consent forms though I doubt I managed more than an illegible scrawl. I felt devastated. I had given up.
I wasn't allowed to move from the bed after that. Over an hour was to pass before I got taken to theatre. Continuing to labour on that bed was agonising. I couldn't stay still. I was writhing like something caught in a trap. I was sick into whatever was available to my left. I'm almost certain that I was in transition at this point. I think I probably progressed very quickly after that examination, just like my Aunt with her first labour and VBAC. But I just needed it to be over.
When I finally got to theatre I was given gas and air while they prepped me. This one actually worked. I felt light headed and dizzy. I don't think there was anything in the cannister I had been using previously because it had had no effect other than giving me a mouthpiece to bite down on. It took FOREVER for them to site my spinal. So much longer than with my elective. The needle was put in and out about 4 times. It took about 20 minutes I think. Then it took a long time to take hold. A good 5 or more minutes compared with the instantaneous effect last time. I was terrified I would feel anything. Even through the operation I could just about wiggle my fingers. The relief was immense though and suddenly I could function again, I could talk. I tried to concentrate on the imminent arrival of my son rather than regret for how things were turning out.
It took a long time but eventually I heard a loud yell and my son was born. My third little boy. For some reason he looked really big but it turned out he was only 7lb and a real titch. He was gorgeous. I was his Mummy straight away.
However I regret the way he came into this world. I regret that I wasn't stronger. I regret that I didn't have more support. I loved being in labour. It was exciting. It was incredible. I would do it again in a heartbeat. But I resent that birth experience.
What followed was no better. For a hospital that is working towards baby friendly status there was nothing baby friendly about it. For various - some arbitrary - reasons Ben ended up in the neo-natal unit for almost 2 days. The staff down there were fantastic and respected my instructions about his care and calling me instantly if he cried. However recovery from the section was so much slower this time. The neo-natal unit was on the ground floor and I was on the first. I was treated like a major inconvenience for refusing to allow them to bottle feed my son. I insisted on going down every 2.5 hours which meant a porter had to be called to take me in a wheelchair. Oh! The breastfeeding after pains! Agony!
Breastfeeding support was non-existent. Fortunately I didn't need it. But out of 7 women that were on my section of ward during my stay I was the only one breastfeeding. One young girl was attempting it but her little one was slightly premature and she was being convinced to express and give bottles as well. The answer to any breastfeeding issue was to express. Just after birth! No wonder none of the Mums were breastfeeding. At one point I needed to give Ben some expressed milk. A midwife sighed heavily and went off to get a breast pump. When she came back to see me holding a cup full of colostrum she looked at me aghast.
"How did you do THAT?!"
Apparently hand expressing is a little known art!
I would like another little one at some point and I would like to labour again and ideally aim for that VBA2C. But I know now that I need better support. Someone to tell me it's normal, that I'll get there. And I absolutely need to avoid that hospital at all costs.
He is more than worth it though.
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