Oh, the Birth Story

It’s traditional, in the blogsphere, following the birth of a child to write down the sequence of events that comprise your personal “birth story”. Presumably, this is for the future benefit of your offspring who may or may not be interested in the degree of rectal tearing you experienced. It’s also cathartic to share your experience with others so that they know what a freaking superwoman you were despite the fact that you spent 75% of the time crying like a little girl.

In the weeks before birth, midwives encourage you to write down your “birth plan”; a sheet of instructions, detailing what you’d like in the way of pain relief, how many people you’d like in the delivery room, whether or not you’d like to stand on your head for the actual delivery, etc. Dutifully, I wrote down a two page missive that basically boiled down to the following: “I’d like to do the whole thing drug free, deliver in a birthing pool and have my husband cut the cord. Oh yeah, and PLEASE DON’T CUT ME OPEN.”

To say that my birth plan went out the window is a colossal understatement. My birth plan tied sheets together, went out the window, caught a cab to the airport and spent the weekend losing money at The Sahara and getting hammered on free cocktails.

You may have been able to infer some of my experience from my embedded reporting from inside the antenatal ward, but here’s the shortened version, minus the bits I’m still trying to forget about. And yeah. There were some of those bits.

Sunday- We arrive at 11 on the antenatal ward and are promptly left to our own devices by the severely overstretched staff. Around 2, I receive my first dose of Prostin, a compound that is meant to open the cervix. Due to the fact that there seems to be some sort of baby gridlock occurring down in the L&D department, I do NOT receive a second dose lest I actually go into true labor. I discover that contractions are NOT any fun around 2 in the morning, after Mr. DD was forced to go home. These bouts of painful internal gymnastics have no discernable effect whatsoever in the moving-the-Prawn-along stakes.

Monday- By morning, the contractions have entirely worn off and I receive one of approximately 57 painful pelvic examinations by a doctor with fingers like cucumbers who is less than gentle. (You know why health authorities have to beg women to come in for bi-annual pap smears? Cause it’s just no fun having someone all up in your bid’ness. Especially someone who has no bid’ness of their own.) At 9, I get my second dose of Prostin which does pretty much more of the same; lots of contractions that bend me in half and do nothing but irritate the Prawn as it is disturbing her beauty sleep. Mr. DD brings me sustenance; Cadbury’s Eclairs, Ritz Crackers and Lucozade Sport drinks. That night, I discover the joys of Pefiden- a lovely little drug that doesn’t actually take away pain, but makes it possible to wallow in your own brain fog in the moments in between.

Tuesday- By this time, I’m starting to get pissed off with my daily routine of contractions that did nothing. I mean, really, enough already with this labor shit, this baby is LONG overdue so WHY THE HELL HAS MY UTERUS NOT GOTTEN THE MEMO?

Around about 5pm, I am FINALLY wheeled down to L&D to get the party started courtesy of water breakage and Oxytocin drip. After being informed by the friendly (but somewhat clumsy in the field of putting in a hand peg, as you can see) midwife in the delivery suite that I was going to be there awhile before anything started happening, I consented to one of many things that I was dead set against; an epidural. But after the initial bout of heebie jeebies about having a needle inserted into my spine, once it started working, I was ready to put on a little pleated skirt and wave pom poms in hearty support of Team Numbness.

However, by about 9am, it was obvious that every attempt to flush out the Prawn had failed and the dreaded words “c-section” were uttered. Definitely not the outcome I was hoping for. I am NOT good with surgery. “Can you put me out?” I asked.

“No, we don’t like to do that. The anaesthetic isn’t good for the baby. You’re going to have to be awake.”

Needless to say that I could have used a cup of tea or something before the knives were sharpened, but literally 10 minutes after having the news broken to me, I found myself strapped down to a table with a large screen in front of my face, my husband in scrubs sitting next to my head, looking stricken and some masked strangers doing dire things out of my line of sight.

And then.

I heard her before I saw her. A gurgly cry.

They told me she was a girl. They handed her to Mr. DD, who showed her to me. He cried. I would have too, but someone was yanking on my diaphragm and it seemed a poor idea to try to use it. I heard the nurses saying what a beautiful baby she was.

While blissful numbness had kept all sensations from below my waist from troubling me up until this point, rather suddenly, I regained some of it, unfortunately, while a large hole in my lower abdomen was being sewed together. I informed my tormentors of this fact by yelling, repeatedly, “I CAN FEEL THAT!!!” until the anaesthesiologist mercifully administered a general anaesthetic and I lapsed into unconsciousness.

Here is where I need to process. Two more days on the wards followed that I would sincerely like to forget about. In the old days, following a birth, the hospital had a nursery where babies went at night so that exhausted mothers could get some much needed rest. Nowadays, “rooming in” is all the craze, but whoever decided that women who have just experienced major, traumatic surgery should also have to spend the night looking after a newborn DESPITE the fact that they are, in fact, unable to get out of bed due to various medical apparatus attached to them AND surrounded by other women with newborns, should be repeatedly kicked in the head and then set on fire.

At any rate, I put my foot down and insisted on a Friday discharge rather than a Saturday one and blessedly left with the Rock Star and the Prawn to start our lives at a family back at our cozy little flat.

So, the Prawn? She IS beautiful. We’re getting to know eachother.

Intoducing....

Please pardon the rather long delay in giving the world a glimpse of our most beautimus little Prawn. I've spent the last few days wolfing painkillers and iron tablets and having a living rugby ball attached to one boob or the other. It feels as if someone has fought a war in my midsection using calvalry, spears and war elephants. So many thanks to all of you lovely ladies for your messages of support.

But here she is. Totally worth it.

A Prawn Is Born!

Wren Ivy Rose, born 10:29am by cesarean section after heroic Rockmama labour endeavors failed to convince The Prawn that there was life outside the womb. The big-eyed, cooing bundle weighed in at 8lbs 10.5oz. Mother and baby both doing wonderfully.

Pictures to follow once Daddio here has regained the ability to see in straight lines. Need. Sleep.

Monday Update

Posted c/o bluetooth tomfoolery with Mr DD's phone and rockmama's laptop:

March 18

5.34 pm

I usually start travelogues before heading off on holiday rather than while being, for all intents and purposes, confined to barracks. But I suppose having a baby is a little like going on an extended, life long trip, so I figure I can use the same approach.

Why it didn’t occur to me that I’d be rooming on a ward, I have no idea. I’d been spoiled by my last trip to hospital, paid for by my private health insurance. The rooms there were rather more like posh hotel rooms, albeit occupied with crash carts, which most posh hotels HAVE, but not necessarily en suite. Not only that, but my window looked out on a beautifully landscaped courtyard peppered with flowers.

Arriving on the antenatal ward today was a vaguely rude awakening as I was ushered into a dimly lit ward containing 3 other women in various stages of gestation.

A hospital ward is like the crappiest ever sleepover- The college roommates that you didn’t choose or even get to fill in a form stating likes/dislikes for. Wards are a mish mash of strangers, all dealing with contagious and embarrassing problems best dealt with in private, but forced to deal with them instead from behind the relatively ineffective privacy of ugly curtains. (The ones surrounding my particular personal space portray local scenes from the Aylesbury Vale including the statue of Lord Buckingham, the lions in front of the court house and the “blue leanie”, a building that was once the home of a financial management company that rather famously went broke and lost a lot of people’s pensions.)

My ward mates consist of a 40 something second time mother in for what I believe was an ECV, (the procedure used to turn a breech baby in utero) a young first time mother who’s spent most of the day looking like she was thinking of ways to kill herself and, perhaps, most abrasively, a VERY young mother on her fourth child from a third father. Yes, she’s exactly who you think she is. Yes, she has Sky television and takes holidays to Majorca on my dime. And if she doesn’t stop playing with her noisy “virtual pet” in the next five minutes, I’m going to throw it and her out the fucking window.

I didn’t quite know WHAT to expect upon my arrival, but within 40 minutes or so (a record pace, I feel) I was seen by a midwife, covered in goo and strapped to a machine that monitored the Prawn’s vitals. Since my particular ward room is at the end of a dark hallway, midwives tend to forget about us, so I was pleased that I had the forethought to use the loo BEFORE being strapped down.

For those of you who would rather NOT read this next bit, look away NOW. (There will be rather a lot of bits like this. There is little dignity in childbirth.)

The fun thing about labor induction is that the first stage involves a Prostoglandin pessary, and everyone knows where THAT goes. Unfortunately, this also involves an internal examination, which brought involuntary tears to my eyes and made me yelp. Curse these stupid curtains, it’s not really the done thing to yell blasphemies on a Mothering Sunday on a labor ward, but sometimes there’s very little you can do.

So far, I’m of the opinion that although HAVING a baby won’t necessarily be boring, WAITING to have one is bloody tedious. I’ve spent the day silently chastising the Prawn for his/her laziness and forcing us to drag him/her out kicking and screaming as well as gently cajoling him/her with promises of sweets and Playstations. Neither approach seems to be working all that well, but the Prostin, I’m pleased to say, seems to be doing what it’s supposed to and has lead to unmistakable tightenings in the depths. Nothing too painful yet, but a sign of things to come.

Mr DD has been performing his duties admirably- shuttling bits and pieces around, picking up things I’ve forgotten and couldn’t possibly spend the night in the hospital without (Cadbury’s Eclairs, Ritz crackers and my laptop) and of course, the mandatory hand holding and joke cracking, to keep me sane.

11.17pm

The ward is deathly quiet at this hour. My one remaining wardmate (the first time mother) is snoring peacefully after being given a dose of codine. The other two were discharged and I must say that I was more than happy to see the back of the Tamagotchi-wielding chavette the next curtain over.

So, yeah. Labor.

Due to the fact that roughly every pregnant woman in the Aylesbury Vale chose this afternoon to drop their sprogs, my induction, which began this afternoon, was put on hold. For several hours, I was fairly convinced that the second Prostin pessary was NOT going to be necessary, as I was turning various shades of red trying to breathe through fairly steady contractions. However, not wishing to have ANOTHER woman in serious labor on their hands, my second dose of Prostin was put off, so I find myself sitting here in the dark with rapidly waning contractions, having to start the whole process all over tomorrow. Very frustrating. I sent Mr. DD home to get some sleep, although the rather lovely midwife one duty was more than happy to let him stay past visiting hours. I would prefer to have him awake during the actual delivery.

I myself am also going to attempt to get some shut eye before the Prawn makes his or her big entrance.


March 19th

8.45am

It’s hard to get any true sleep on a hospital ward, unless, of course, you are drugged, which, let’s face it, is the best way to be in a hospital. My wardmate, the other first time mum, sounds rather like she is in urgent need of some of said medication. I think she’s pretty much praying for a c-section at this point in time. (I would too if I’d been in labor for 48 hours) I feel like I ought to try to be of some comfort as it’s outside visiting hours, but I think she might be beyond the tea and sympathy stage.

I got a fair amount of sleep, for which I am grateful. It would not have happened without Armando, my trusty body pillow that Mr DD graciously brought me from home. I’m not entirely sure that you’re supposed to bring outside bedding into a hospital, but I was damned if I was going to spend the night propped up by 16 dozen sticky, hospital issue pillows, crinkling quietly to themselves and requiring rearrangement every time I shifted slightly.

There seem to be a massive army of midwives occupying the ward at the moment, however, it still seems to take a short ice age to get one of them to notice you. I spent an hour longer strapped to the Prawn Detector this morning than was actually necessary. Although I am quite happy to sit and listen to my offspring’s heartbeat, I am aware that it is actually a little grating for others in the vicinity.

Again, those squeamish individuals might want to look away NOW.

My second internal exam was not much more of a party than the first. I was unpleasantly surprised to discover that I am only dialated 1 cm. For those unfamiliar with the concept of cervical dialation, for a baby to be born, the cervix must be dialated 10 cm. Anyone who has spent the night being woken by strong back contractions will be understandably disappointed to find that this was all for naught and that you are no closer to your goal than before. It also doesn’t help to have midwives constantly telling you what a big baby you’re expecting. And how it’s facing the wrong direction. Yes, I am aware of the size of the baby, thank you. It has been parked squarely on my bladder for the last 9 months. The spectre of a caesarean section looms rather menacingly in my immediate future.

Although I did not expect to, I actually am rather envious of my wardmate now that the midwife has announced that she is, in fact dilated to 7 cm and ready to go down to the delivery suite. However, it drives home the point how much further I have to go and how much more pain I have to look forward to. My only hope is that I proceed far quicker than my unfortunate wardmate.

Now, if I can just attract someone’s attention so that I can get unstrapped from this unholy apparatus to take a shower….

Further update from Mr DD:

Our heroine has now had (or was about to have) a THIRD pessary imported into the opening of PrawnLair in an attempt to lure him/her out. Things seem to be intensifying somewhat. Rockmama was last seen grimacing whilst bouncing up and down on one of those exercise ball things. Having been sent home once again to get some sleep, it's now 11:25pm and I'm getting text messages that would seem to point towards a potentially early return to the hospital.

Catching mitt at the ready.

Prawnmas Eve

So. The last night before going in for the induction.

Freaking out a little. Excited. Absolutely shitting myself. That's how it's supposed to go, right?

I just want to thank all of you ladies for your support on this journey. It's meant a lot to have it, especially from those of you who are still on the journey. Through my fear about what's to come, there is, of course, the memory of what Mr. DD and I have been through over the past 3 years to get to this point and my gratitude is overwhelming. It's my huge hope that I get to share your joy with you as well.

Fear not, I shall return soon with stories from the trenches.

Wish me luck.

Prawn Day + 8

Oh yeah. STILL pregnant.

I tried a new tack this morning. Loud music. The “Branch Davidian” tactic, if you will. My “Rawk” mix on iTunes consists of a fair amount of crunchy guitar and big hair, so it was my hope that the Prawn would either surrender and come out with his/her hands up or think, “Those are some banging tunes! I’m going to get me some of that!” Sadly, neither AC/DC, Skid Row, Metallica nor Led Zeppelin seem to have had any effect whatsoever. It is beginning to become clear that the Prawn is probably not going to arrive of his/her own volition.

Sunday at 11, I’m scheduled to check into Stoke Mandeville to begin induction. It’s not really the birth that I had hoped for, to be honest, but I have my concerns about the size of the Prawn and the longer this goes on, the less chance that our over-zealous, cut-happy medical system will allow me to go the natural route rather than opt to perform a sunroof exit. Although I’ve heard the virtues of the later extolled by those who’s children have weighed in at over 8 pounds, being anesthetised, catheterized, cut open and prone for days after the birth of my first child doesn’t particularly appeal. Of course, I’m not totally against the procedure if it becomes necessary, but I’m hoping that it won’t come to that.

Sigh. If “Poison’ by Alice Cooper can’t get the Prawn out, I don’t know what will.

Prawn Day + 4

So, a few weeks ago, I posted this, right?

For the same reason it's hard to see yourself gaining weight or developing new lines on your face, it is equally difficult to see the progression of a bump. I didn't personally think that it was POSSIBLE for me to get much bigger than illustrated in this photo. However, I was entirely wrong. Through the magic of Skype, my mother captured another photo of The Belly during our weekly chat last night.

Whoa, nelly.


I've started getting "those looks" from people in the street. The "are you sure you should be out walking around like that?" looks. The "are you sure you're not carrying twins?" looks. " The "surely you should be ensconced in a bed eating bon bons somewhere, patiently awaiting the arrival of your offspring and not troubling the public with your freakish appearance." looks. And don't get me started on stepping into an elevator. People will plaster themselves against the far wall just in case I go off like a ton of C4.

The Prawn is now 4 days late. I have developed a case of PEP, (although, in the US, I believe it's called PUPPS) which is an agonizing rash that spreads up stretch marks, making the sufferer wish that they could quit their jobs and devote themselves to scratching full time. (Luckily for me, I bite my nails, so I can't do much damage.) This makes it difficult to sleep and wear clothes, both of which things I find unfortunately necessary at present.

I keep telling the Prawn to come out. That it's a beautiful English Spring day and it'd be a shame if they missed it. That I've got milk and cookies. That I'll let him/her throw up on me to their heart's content. But to no avail.

Prawn watch continues....

Prawncon 3

So, today is officially The Day of the Prawn. However, someone obviously neglected to inform him/her.

According to statistics, only 5% of babies are born on their actual due date. Mr. DD was also horrified to discover that there are actually a fairly high percentage that are born in the 44th week of pregnancy. That’s an extra MONTH of being knocked up. Gah.

The Prawn, however, will not be allowed to linger that long in Chateau de Womb. Although I’m having my blood pressure checked every other day now, the consultant at the hospital was happy enough to let me go for 10 days past my due date, just to see if things could get a natural jump start. So, should the Prawn still be fashionably late, I have an induction booked for the 18th of March; ironically, British Mother’s Day. I’m not hugely keen on the idea of induction, but neither am I keen on waddling, shortness of breath, swollen feet and doing shots of antacid.

In the meantime, I shall be giving some old wives remedies a try- hot chillis and curries, raspberry leaf tea, Evening Primrose Oil, shagging, walking around a lot….although I shall be stopping short of Castor Oil, which is the digestive equivalent of pouring Mr. Muscle down a drain. While I am anxious to meet my offspring, I would rather not have to spend several hours in the can with debilitating intestinal spasms before doing so. (That’s how Castor Oil works, apparently. It’s hoped that the uterus will see all of the gleeful cramping of the digestive system and go, “Oo! Oo! Me too!” Nuts to that.)

So, we’ll have to see what the next week brings!

Milestone

Although there is little time remaining in what feels like an epic pregnancy, there turns out to be time for at least one more milestone- the first unnecessary trip to L&D.

My blood pressure over the past few weeks, while not dangerously high, has been steadily creeping up, accompanied by my extremities doing their best hot-air balloon impressions. At my last hospital-based midwife appointment, I was told that if I should experience any sudden swelling, I shouldn’t fool around, but head straight to L&D. Of course, Sunday morning, I awoke to find that both of my feet AND my hands were pufftastically large, so, after not a lot of soul searching, Mr. DD and I headed to the hospital, with everything packed in the trunk of the car, but fully expecting to be sent straight home.

Sunday afternoon was boasting some truly craptacular weather-cold rain and wind, namely, so by the time we made it inside, I was rather grumpy due to the fact that the cuffs of my jeans and socks were soaked right through. (Is anyone with me on the wet socks thing? Besides wet underwear, probably the least fun piece of clothing to endure a soaking.) After being shown to a bed in the observation room, I was reluctant to actually put my legs up on it for fear of mussing up the nice white sheets with my muddy jean cuffs and socks. Mr. DD, however, reminded me that of all the things that probably got on the sheets in the space of a week, mud was probably not going to be the worst of them.

Although Sundays are usually a quiet day on the wards, the place was packed. Maybe all the talk of a full moon’s effect on hospital admissions wasn’t as much a load of bupkis as I believed it to be, but almost every delivery room on the ward had it’s doors tightly closed, and the midwives, while very friendly, seemed to be spending a lot of time going from room to room looking for pieces of equipment that one would expect to be standard in EVERY delivery suite, like, for instance, thermometers and cotton balls. “Things must be pretty bad with the NHS if there aren’t enough thermometers to go around.” I observed.

At any rate, after being examined, poked, prodded, asked to pee in the obligatory too small cup and had waited the obligatory 3 hours during which various people poked their heads round the door, I was first told I was going to be kept in for observation and then, half an hour later, that I would be released. (My guess is, that due to the extremely full nature of L&D, the registrar didn’t want someone unnecessary cluttering up a bed.) This was actually okay by me, as I was damned if I was going to be spending the night in the hospital without my husband and my comfy bed if I WASN’T having a baby. Especially in a room as dreary as the “triage” which boasted little more entertainment other than profoundly grey walls and professional wall clock watching. My blood test obviously came back negative for pre-eclampsia, so I was released back into the soggy world with instructions to keep my feet up and come back Wednesday for more pokings and proddings.

The Prawn’s official due date is Thursday. Further updates as events warrant.

Just an Update

It’s been quiet around Prawn central for the last week or so. I feel the need to express this only because I imagine that not writing for some time around when one is expecting a baby makes people think that there are better reasons for your silence. However, my excuse is that there’s been bugger all to talk about.

The waiting game at the end of pregnancy is kind of a crappy one. You feel like you can’t really make any plans, but you’re reluctant to completely shut yourself off from any and all social occasions because god knows when the next time you’ll have a chance to talk to grown-ups without having to worry about whether or not you’ve got baby sick on your shirt. However, the desire to socialize outside your own home is hampered by the fact that you are now the size of an aircraft carrier.

I’ve been increasingly frustrated with the level of my care in the past few weeks. While I’m not one for fooling around with medicine when it’s not necessary, (and at this point, it’s just a waiting game, really) it would be nice not to feel like my local NHS authority was being run by The Three Stooges. Two of my last three appointments have been cancelled due to both area midwives being out on call (one cancelled because “you’re the only one on the schedule today and we don’t want to drag one of the midwives in just for you.”) and the one today had to be rescheduled at the last minute due to the fact that my surgery made me an appointment with the midwife from a neighbouring country rather than the one from mine. And even THEN, I didn’t see MY midwife, but rather another who was rather abrupt with me when she discovered that my blood pressure was high. (Yes, surly Jamacian midwife, I’ve been pushing my blood pressure up just to annoy you.) At any rate, yet ANOTHER midwife will show up at my house tomorrow to take my blood pressure to see if I need to be admitted to hospital. All fun and games. It’s hard to enjoy the anticipation leading up to the birth when one gets the distinct feeling that one’s health care providers couldn’t organize their way out of a paper bag.

I’m hoping the blood pressure thing is nothing to worry about- any hint of “high risk” about the delivery and I don’t get my water birth.

An amusing anecdote, however- the midwife I saw today asked me how many movements I had, directly after doing the dip stick test on my wee.

Why medical professionals can’t just ask you, “So, you been pooping recently?” I don’t know, but as I was fairly sure that’s what she meant I told her once a day if I was lucky, once every other day if I wasn’t.

She looked very alarmed.

“You should be having at least 10 movements a day.”

I was about to come back with, “Lady, if I was having 10 movements a day, I’d be on the phone to you asking what the hell was the MATTER with me and how I could get it to STOP!” when I realized that she was talking about how often I felt the BABY move.

Alarm averted. The Prawn is a serious wiggler.

The waiting game continues.

Bump

This has got to be the oddest picture taken of me during the last 8 months or so.

The internet is just so darned magical when it comes to communication these days. Skype, in particular, is just about the coolest thing ever when you live across the ocean from most of your family. So, once a week, my folks and I have a little video chat. This week, my mother took this picture of her computer screen with my big old bump on it. (You just just see her down in the left hand corner.)

I am become destroyer of worlds, devourer of puddings. Fear the bump.

Waiting to Evict the Prawn from the Big Mother House

So, it’s official- the Prawn is now considered to be fully cooked. (37 w, 4d) Any time that he or she elects to stay inside is just “browning the crust,” as Mr. DD puts it.

It’s slightly alarming to think that this whole circus could kick off at any minute. While I know that labour isn’t exactly like someone waiting around the corner to go “BOO!”, I’m still kind of walking around looking behind all the doorframes, if you know what I mean. From what I’ve been told, labour is rather more like an annoying person with a sharp stick who starts poking you gently at first, but becomes increasingly malevolent.

While, after 3 years and two miscarriages, I’m hugely thankful for this giant, uncomfortable bump in my midsection, it is becoming harder to function from day to day. I dare not complain overmuch- I’ve had a blessedly comfortable pregnancy up until around about a week ago when it suddenly occurred to me that it was no longer possible to put on my own socks, stand up from a sitting position on the floor without assistance or not kill things with my flatulence. (Seriously, man, I used to be able to get away with a sneaky, silent, non-deadly toot. Now even I have to leave the room.) Although I know that the time is coming rapidly that I will not be able to spend much time in my unbelievably comfortable new bed, at least I will not be winded any just from the effort of putting my head down on the pillow.

The nursery is mostly finished. Whether we have everything that we need or not remains to be seen. (Like I said, we’re totally clueless and pretty much just dumped everything in the cart that looked like it would be useful) The crib is mostly set up, all of the Prawn art is in place, the changing table is ready and my parents and aunt have generously decided to buy us a rocking chair for Prawn-related feeding activities.

I am vaguely concerned about our choice of wardrobe for the Prawn- looking at the size of my belly and at the size of the newborn clothes that we’ve picked up, I am slightly worried that this child will look like a sumo wrestler stuffed into a schoolgirl’s uniform, so it’s conceivable that we might have to stop off on the way home from the hospital with a completely naked baby to get clothes that do not strangle him/her. “For infants up to 10 lbs” my ass.

There are 2 baby books, sitting mostly unopened on the coffee table and one in my bedside drawer, where I locked it after becoming afraid of it about 3 chapters in. (The New Contented Little Baby Book, by Gina Ford, just so that you know.) People have said that parents fall into two camps with Ford; they either think she’s the Mother of God or the Sister of Satan. Me personally, I think her strict regiment probably works EXTREMELY well for some children, (Mr. DD’s cousin recommended it to me with unbridled praise- not surprising, as she got her first son to sleep through at 6 weeks and will be using the same regimen with her newest one.) but there are probably many MANY more that it DOESN’T work for, leading to feelings of failure on the part of parents. (Ford seems to feel that if it doesn’t work for your child, you’re obviously not doing it right.) Ford has a few good points that I’ve taken to heart, but the truth is, I just don’t like her personally that much. (Using your lawyers to threaten the shut down a useful mothering forum because someone on it said something mean about you is a little childish, in my opinion. Not sure someone like that has the authority to tell me how to wipe my own ass, let alone raise a child)

The other two bits of lit are the standard What To Expect in the First Year and What to Expect When You’re Breastfeeding…And What if you Can’t? Both seem reasonable tomes of parenting knowledge that we should probably have lying around for those three o’clock in the morning questions like,

“My child is levitating above her crib, there appears to be ectoplasm dripping down the walls, a high pitched wailing and the smell of sulphur. Is this normal?”

(To which the answer would probably be, “It’s nothing to worry about. 1 in 4 children experiences demonic possession in their first year.”)

So here I sit, feeling the Prawn becoming increasingly pissed off at his or her confinement. Digging heels into my ribs. Bashing head against all and sundry privates. Just generally asking his or herself, “Hey, didn’t this place used to be more like a three bedroom cottage rather than a bedsit? WTF?”

Hopefully this frustration will manifest itself into something useful sooner rather than later.

ParaPrawns Pt.II

As promised, some decoration photos.



The much touted Prawn mobile. I could barely contain myself when we hung it up last night.



Some little paraprawns to adorn the walls!

ParaPrawns

I like to think of myself as a pretty creative gal. I have my own fairly successful silver jewelry business on the side and like to engage in artsy, craftsy type shenanigans of all kinds. (Although I utterly suck at sewing. I can manage a fairly simple square bag with little difficulty and no pattern, but if you asked me to make anything that included arms or legs, I could probably successfully create a thriving industry for mutants.) I am rarely at a loss for design ideas, but occasionally, VERY occasionally, I’ll see a design I just have to swipe for my own personal use. Although I would never DREAM of marketing someone else’s design for gain, if I want it on my very own personal wall, you’d better believe I’m going to have it.

This is what I have done in regards to the decorating of the Prawn’s room. A friend of mine introduced me to a very talented design company who I must give 100% credit to for coming up with THE PERFECT PRINT for my nursery wall, the parachuting prawns pictured above. The catch? It was part of a limited edition run and was completely sold out. Well, quite frankly, one cannot mess with perfection and I was damned if I was going to let that fact that I could not BUY this design keep me from adorning my walls with it. So, being the little Photoshopping minx I am, I blew the design up, traced around it and made it printable. I made stencils out of it and have been duplicating the design in several different mediums and colors.

My utter favourite was care of my hugely talented father, who’s woodworking skills have yielded the most lovely baby gift: a parachuting prawn mobile. He has lovingly cut out three perfect prawns with parachutes and two clouds to hang from two cleverly designed mobile attachments and has sent them to me for final painting. I just about cried when I opened the package this morning- they were SO well done; better than I could have possibly hoped for.

I admit it is a vaguely unconventional design for a nursery. Prawns aren’t particularly cuddly. In fact, most crustaceans give me the creeping horrors. Despite growing up in Maryland, famous for it’s crabs, I am still only able to eat crab meat if it bears no resemblance whatsoever to an actual crab. (Let’s face it, they look like giant spiders, you have to boil them alive to eat them on the shell and ANYTHING that still has it’s eyeballs to stare at you with while you’re eating it is just plain ghoulish) Despite this horror of undersea monsters, I adore this design and figure that, if anything, it’ll make the Prawn less likely to ask me to fix him or her Prawn cocktail later in life. (Blergh.) Mr. DD loves the design too, but if you ask me, I think he also likes the idea of our children finding this thing in our attic long after we’re going and going “WTF?”

I hope no one thinks I’m a big, fat thief or anything for skanking this design. Like I said, I would never even consider trying to pass someone else’s work off as my own and would CERTAINLY never try to sell it, but I imagine that the Prawn will probably be called “The Prawn” well after his or her birth, and we liked the idea of being able to celebrate the nickname. Plus, neither of us could live with teddy bears or other fuzztastic baby clichés on the walls.

For Real

Okay, so I’m starting to think that I might actually be having a baby or something.

Mr. DD and I, looking nervously at the calendar, finally bit the bullet and made a trip to the local Babies backwards R Us to pick up…well, whatever the hell it is that babies need. I hate to admit that neither of us have a particularly solid idea and are totally beholden to the evil giant of the baby goods industry to shape our malleable perceptions of what is necessary and what is a load of shit that our kid won’t need in a million years but we better buy anyhow, because OTHERWISE WE ARE BAD PARENTS AND OUR CHILD WILL END UP BLIND, STUPID AND WORKING ON A CHAIN GANG.

Well, we figured a crib is probably a good start, so we got one of those. A changing table also seemed like a fairly good bet, so that went in the trolley too. A complete breastfeeding system from Avent seemed simpler than combing through the shelves for all the individual components, so what’s 129 quid between me and a multi million dollar corporation? (although, to be fair, I did do my homework a bit and it seemed to be the system that was reviewed most favourably by actual, honest to god people who used it.) Baby monitors? Check. Bedding? Erm….yeah, I guess we need that too, but aren’t there like 15 layers or something? What the hell do I know? Just chuck that in there too. The mattress cost almost as much as ours, so it should be comfy, right? A bath set? Why not? INTO THE TROLLEY WITH YOU.

500 pounds later, we felt rather like we’d gotten screwed with our pants on, but at least we felt slightly better knowing that the Prawn wouldn’t be sleeping in one of our new dresser drawers.

To be honest, although the damage to my credit card frightened me, the idea that the Prawn will be here in a matter of weeks was a complete bowel emptier. Although the Prawn is hugely anticipated and very much wanted, I can’t help but ask the question, “What do I know about babies?” Jack, is the precise answer.

I’m an only child and since I lived in the middle of nowhere while growing up, the only kids to baby sit belonged to our next-door neighbors. By the time I was old enough to look after them, they were all well out of diapers. (They are now well out of college, which makes me feel slightly ancient.) So, experience with newborns? 0. Have I ever changed a diaper? Nope. All in all feeling of complete ineptitude? Oh yeah.

Of course, I would be naive to think that I’m the first person to experience this overwhelming feeling of unreadiness for parenthood. People much younger and with far less life experience than me have made perfectly acceptable parents and have managed to make it through the first year without feeding their babies to wolverines or anything, so why should I be worried? Natural, I guess. No matter how old you are, or how desperately wanted the child, becoming fully and wholly responsible for another person’s welfare is a little overwhelming.

Part of it is also wishing that we had slightly more support. One can’t blame a woman for wanting her mother around when her first baby arrives. Mine, unfortunately, is 3000 miles away and my mother-in-law, who in her better days, probably would have been a tremendous help, (she’s a former midwife) has retreated further into a fog of dementia- unlikely to even completely comprehend that the Prawn will be her grandchild, let alone able to dispense advice. Although we have a few friends, it feels very much like Mr. DD and I will be flying solo in terms of support. (I reckon that we’ll be able to win my brother in law around to changing diapers eventually, so that we might be able to go out to dinner once in a blue moon, but it’s going to take some doing.) However, it feels ungrateful to whine. Many, many women go on this journey by themselves, either by choice or by circumstance. I feel hugely blessed to have a partner like my husband.

So, t-minus 4 weeks, 3 days and counting if the Prawn is punctual. Less if he/she is unfashionably early, which I have the feeling he/she will be. Expect more notes from an unready mother…

Selling our Souls to Sweden

So, Mr. DD and I have some sort of mental deficiency when it comes to shopping. As much as I would like to try to blame it on the brand of lighting that they use in the now dreaded showrooms of Ikea, it’s probably more likely that the both of us are total gimps.

So, after discovering that we'd FORGOTTEN TO BUY THE BED on our first trip, (not difficult with 3 trolleyloads of flat pack stuff that all kind of look the same) we made another to buy the bed and the mattress and to return a defective chair and some curtains obviously made for the Tallest Windows in the World. As one might expect, although we only received a refund of about £45 pounds in total, we came back out again with about 350 pounds worth of crap. Although we got the bed, would anyone like to place bets on whether or not we picked up the replacement for said returned, defective chair? (hint: DON’T.)

Being not only brain dead, but masochists as well, we dragged ourselves into the Swedish hellstore yet AGAIN on Sunday, (for the “absolutely freaking last time") which, for anyone who’s ever done that before, (we’ve only ever gone on weeknights) you’ll know can severely damage your faith in humanity.

For example: After I disembarked to get some last minute supplies at Asda next door, the Rock Star witnessed an example of karmic justice playing out in the parking lot. A Chinese man was waiting for a parking space when a van load of chavs in a white van cut him up and took the space. Not only did they take the space he’d been waiting about 10 minutes for, but they LAUGHED at him and reached through his car windows to pat him on the head when he remonstrated with them. However, no sooner had this pack of human offal entered the store, when the scorned Chinese fellow returned to let down their tires. Mr DD almost went to help him. He DEFININTELY wished we'd had the time to sit there with some popcorn to watch the show when the owners of the van came back.

At any rate, we picked up most of the items on our list. Although we had some lights to return, the queue was so long, we decided that it was worth the 12 pounds we’d get back NOT to wait in it. We also picked up the missing chair. However, it was the last one in the stack and the box was somewhat damaged, so we had to weigh our options. Do we take it and risk another trip back to return ANOTHER defective item? Our reasoning- if it’s fine, we rock. If we DON’T buy it, we’ll have to come back ANYWAY to get it, so it was worth the risk. (It wasn’t. The chair was utterly smashed when we took it out of the box back at home. Fuck my hat, back we go.)

We have now been there so many times, I have worked out shortcuts through the showroom. This is information that no one should ever have to be burdened with.

Nest Building pt. 2

I’m feeling slightly more human today after having spent most of the weekend covered in paint.

It always boggles my mind, in what little I have seen of property programs, that people can go through a house, wrinkle up their noses, go, “I don’t like the color much,” and seriously be put off buying due to someone else’s love of a shade called Harvest Orange. The flat that Mr. DD and I were first planning on purchasing looked as if it had been lived in by a giant 6 year old girl- every wall was a different shade of childish pastel. (This was not, of course, what put us off the property- a bunch of lying bastard estate agents took care of that.)

The flat that we’ve just now taken possession of was much more liveable right away. Even if we’d had no money for paint, we would have been able to feel alright living there with fairly little assault to aesthetic or dignity. However, Mr. DD and I are not ones for putting up with a half-assed aesthetic for even a few minutes when we could have a whole-assed one, so this weekend was less about moving and more about image enhancement.

We decided this weekend would be all about the living room and the master bedroom- both places we’ll be spending the most time in. The bedroom was my top priority as I felt it was most urgently in need of cosmetic assistance. Mustard yellow, while cheerful, is hard on the brain, so literally 5 minutes after having stepped across the threshold for the first time as homeowners, I had at least 4 square patches of tester on the wall.

Naively, we had hoped not to have to spend more than 150 pounds on paint. However, over the course of 3 days, we managed to drop a whopping 475 between lucky home improvement chains B&Q and Homebase. Not all of this was paint of course. It’s the other stuff you see while you’re looking for paint. Like brushes and masking tape and rollers and pans and bath towels and small tool kits and Britta pitchers and pipe insulation and pretty light fittings and dead bolts and trash bins and oh my god, we just spent 475 POUNDS.

However, spending money is not all we did this weekend. Against all odds, we managed to finish the two largest rooms in the flat with the help of my brother in law, his girlfriend and my father in law.

I spent 2 summers on my college’s paint crew, back in the day, sprucing up properties owned by the college, both off and on campus and was pleased to renew my acquaintance with the feeling of wall paint between my toes. This is a hazard when you are moving a ladder around the outskirts of the room and lose track of where your supplies are in relation to you. You find that you narrowly miss stepping in a full roller pan and while smugly congratulating yourself and heaping abuse on the pan for it’s failure to ensnare you, you find yourself up to your ankle in an open bucket. Luckily, while I managed to avoid full on ankle sinkage in a can of Dulux “Bracken Salts #4”, I did ruin several pair of socks and manage to track base coat across the laminate floors in the rest of the flat. (Yes, I was up a ladder. Everyone can shout at me for that if they like, but the room is done and I’M GLAD.)

I’m hugely pleased with the results, really. Our lovely red wall in the living room makes the space much more cozy and will look quite groovy with a large black and white photo collection on it. The bedroom now no longer looks like you could receive radiation burns from long exposure.

Of course, with the completion of the painting, no new property owned by soon-to-be penniless 30-something parents would be complete without a full compliment of furniture from Ikea. Again, our naiveté lead us to believe that if we turned up there at around 4 knowing what items we wanted, we should be out by 6 and home in plenty of time to spend an evening putting things together.

I think we lost the will to live somewhere around the textiles section of the Marketplace. At around 8.30pm, when we were finally wheeling all of 4 hugely laden trolleys and flat pack carts through the check out with the help of Mr. DD's bandmate, (who's a courier and has a transit van) we were utterly exhausted and I couldn’t help but look at our gargantuan haul with a nameless dread, knowing that my credit card was going to bear the full force of this DIY disaster. (We actually have the cash, and are going to pay it off right away, but the lure of getting 15 pounds worth of Amazon.co.uk gift vouchers with my credit card was too strong. Spend 1200 pounds and get a free paperback. That’s value for money.)

“Oh my god,” I said to Mr. DD's bandmate, “this is going to come out over £2000.”

“You’ve never shopped at Ikea before, have you?” he said, pointing at our small items cart, which was overflowing. “90% of the stuff in that cart is well under 10 pounds.”

And he was right. The bill came to just over 1200 pounds, which was well within the budget we set ourselves, so despite the overwhelming tension headache, I was pleased.

In the end, we fed our helper a generous helping of spaghetti bolognaise for his trouble and managed to assemble a coffee table and two lamps before collapsing, exhausted, into bed. The rest of our vast flat pack haul lies waiting in the bedroom, like a troop of compressed Scandinavian soldiers awaiting deployment.

And so the remodelling continues. More updates from the front line as the war on banality progresses.

Our Nest

I thought I'd post some "before" pics on here so that when we re-paint all nice an shiny, you'll be able to see the difference.













The Living Room. The yellowness quotient in this room isn't so bad. It's pale and actually quite cheerful. However, it's not really us. It'll be cream, except for the wall the couch is against. It'll be red and covered in black and white photos in black and white frames. We've actually bought the couches and the sideboard from the previous owners.













The Master Bedroom. This room bore the brunt of the yellow tide. We're turning it into a slightly more restful light clay color. (This sounds gross, but looks really nice.) Bedrooms should be restful. In my opinion, it would be hard to be ill in this room, which is my criteria for a good bedroom. With lots of cosy lighting, it'll be lovely.













The Kitchen. Okay. Yeah. The tiles. It's hard to believe, but it's not really as loud as it looks in this picture. It's cheerful, although, again, not exactly my taste. In much slower time, I imagine that we'll have this redone. But for now, I can live with it. It's about 16 times bigger than the corridor that I'm cooking in at the moment, so I can't complain.














The View from the living room window, which makes some of the larry wallpainting all worthwhile. :)

After shots to follow.

The Prawn Rules

Both Mr. DD and I were kind of anxious about this scan this morning. The fact that Mr. DD was anxious (he's the one who keeps my freak out gland in check) made me even MORE anxious.

However, as with every attack of paranoia I've had so far, this too turned out to be unfounded. Although the scan was relatively short, the tech was able to determine that the Prawn is well within normal growth ranges (albeit a little tiny bit larger than average) and that I don't have an excess of fluid. "Some people just stick out further than others," she said, "everything looks great."

So, a big sigh of relief from both of us. We were STILL not able to determine the Prawn's sex, so it'll just have to be a surprise. Not all that much longer to wait! However, I did content myself by buying a "coming home" outfit at Mothercare that's cream colored and has Winnie the Pooh slapped all over it.

In other news, we FINALLY have a moving date fixed. Next Friday, we'll be able to take possession of our lovely new flat. After having to poke everyone involved with sharp sticks for the last 3 months or so, we're VERY pleased to have an actual date, although it's much later than we'd hoped. I've already been rendered pretty much useless in the moving stakes, but hopefully I'll still be able to wield a roller in order to change the entire place from Canary Yellow to a slightly more civilized color. (Note to anyone who has Canary Yellow walls- This is not to insinuate that you are, in any way, uncivilized. However, when an entire apartment is this color, cheerful though it is, it tends to burn itself into your retinas.)

31w, 4d

I'm always aware, when writing in this blog, of the inherent weirdness of beginning off as sufferer of IF and ending up spending most of the existence of this Internet based missive talking about my third, and hopefully successful pregnancy. Please forgive me if I have the occasional worry-fest here.

I went to the local hospital this morning for my belated 30 week assessment. Unfortunately, I was unexpectedly detained.

Before heading to the States, my midwife expressed some mild surprise at the size of my belly, saying that I was measuring 2 weeks ahead of my due date. She didn't make much of it, so nor did I. However, at today's appointment, the consultant expressed some concern that there seemed to be a bit more fluid around the Prawn than should be expected at this point. Also, there seemed to be some protein in my urine.

Something to worry about! I was beginning to think I'd get through the rest of this pregnancy scot free and my highly developed freak-out gland was beginning to shrink to pre-pregnancy proportions. (Still large, but not so big that it physically cut off blood supply to my common sense gland)

So, two more days this week at the hospital for me. On Wednesday, we've got a scan. I have to admit that I wanted one ANYHOW due to the Prawn's reticence to reveal it's boy or girl parts to us around 20 weeks, but I would rather have been surprised by said girl or boy parts in two months rather than HAVE to have a scan because something is potentially not right. On Friday, I get a two hour glucose test for GD.

Ah, the Internet. Saviour and worst enemy. The condition, called Polyhydramnios, has got some uber-fun web info attached to it. It is my wish that information that can be construed as terrifying should have likelihood factors attached. Like, "Well, it's probably nothing to worry about. (90%) It could be GD. (35%) Or it could be something unspeakably awful. (1%)" But no, the unspeakably awful alternatives are offered right along with the nothing-to-worry-abouts, in fact, sometimes BEFORE the nothing-to-worry-abouts, causing palpitations a plenty.

Again, as with the decision NOT to have the amnio, my gut is telling me this is probably the "nothing to worry about" variety that just requires slightly more attention during delivery to prevent a couple of unpleasant things from happening. My freak-out gland, of course, does not agree with me, but I'm trying to keep it's big wordhole shut.

Further updates later on in the week.