I am reading Kaz Cooke’s famed pregnancy book Up The Duff.
As she writes week by week about her pregnancy, so too do I read the relevant chapter at a time.
This week she talked about presenting her birth plan to her OBGYN at her latest appointment.
As far as I knew, it was a piece of paper, actually handed over to the doctor.
I got a bit worried and wondered if this was par for the course, so I raised it with my OBGYN when we went in this week.
Dr Sensible, as he shall henceforth be known for all eternity, said that was probably something advisable in larger hospitals where the staffing complement of midwives was enormous and such notes/plans would be clipped to patient admission forms to ensure that Labouring Mother A did not get her Enya CDs, carrot sticks and lavender oil burner mixed up with Labouring Mother B’s sandalwood incense, Tim Tams and strict instructions to do third stage naturally.
And trust me, when it comes to banshee demands from a woman in labour, you do not want to confuse a carrot stick with a Tim Tam.
“Don’t put too much pressure on yourself,” he said, when I told him I will certainly try for a natural birth but will be undoubtedly disappointed if I have to have a Caesarean or some other drastic means of intervention.
I hate that about myself sometimes...the fact that I anticipate extreme, negative emotions that I may never feel. But perhaps I need to experience something of that – to imagine that – to provide me with enough internal incentive to try and avoid it?
But that’s the thing about labour. Your body takes over. How much of your mind could possibly play a part when there is a physical process just running the show? How closely intertwined can body and mind really be at that point, especially as it’s a point when women commonly LOSE their minds...?
Back at the doctor’s, I hopped up on the table for a quick heartbeat scan and gentle tummy feel. The head is definitely down. Good news.
I told him friends of mine had had their doctor give them a rough indication of the size of their baby via a quick ultrasound. Could he also do one on me, please, so that I might have some early warning as to whether or not I should be readying myself to deliver either a hippo-shaped human or a lemur-sized lump.
Just who is who in my zoo?
Dr Sensible then explained that such calculations were very imprecise and carried a margin for error of 15% either way. And besides, he said, some women have heard a weight, – say 8.5 pound – freaked out about the possibility of delivering a 9.5 pound baby through their fragile pelvis and opted for a Caesar only to deliver a 7-pounder on D-Day.
Too much information? It is EVERYWHERE in the world of babies, pregnancy and parenting.
At the end of our appointment, I wasn’t one bit miffed. In fact, I was thankful we had a doctor who was willing to stand so proudly with both feet firmly in Reasonville, Logic Land.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Transition ignition
I have been thinking a lot this week about transitions.
The chew-your-nails-off-with-terror transition that signifies the progression of labour from the, I believe, comparitively quite tranquil first stage, to the second (IE: the part where vulnerability, pain and anxiety are at their peak, all the while the alien being inside you claws, rips and tears its way out of a tiny hole in your genital regions).
I am really quite frightened about that. Because it is so unknown. I cannot micro-manage that...because I do not know what hormone-induced emotions will surface, nor how they will manifest physically.
I never forget the woman in a reality birth documentary series on TV who was so zen about her meditative birthing experience. She had her support person whispering mantras to spirit the pain away during contractions, whales moaned via loudpeaker in the background and she looked very stoic as she closed her eyes while the muscles peformed their inevitable, automatic clench. Occasionally, her lips would purse, but it was the only giveaway that things were not completely normal and fine inside her skin.
Some edits later and Regan from The Exorcist had replaced zen woman. She was bellowing and writhing and sporting wild, white eyes of panic as she yelled abuse and orders to her clearly-rattled support people. It was terrifying.
Will that be me?
I am also anxious about the transition I will undergo from working professional to stay at home mum.
That thing that has own its own acronym: SAHM.
OMG.
I have been working full-time as a journalist since 1996. For five days a week, sometimes more, that is what I have been.
Hard-working, sensible, professional, thorough, doing my job. A job I became qualified for after three years at university.
I go to work and I have full knowledge of what the day will bring in terms of what is expected of me, what I need to achieve to feel fulfilled and ensure my job is done properly. It is very satisfying.
I am about to switch, not only jobs, but entire careers, mindsets, time zones, body clocks, routines and physiological functions.
I am about to become a new person with a new, incredibly important job. A job that does not come with a degree or any opportunity for pre-preparedness study.
It is scary to think about. But then, of course, we went through the same thing before J was born.
And we muddled through.
It’s what most rational, sane, adult people do.
I just wonder how rational and sane you can really be at 2am when you haven’t slept for three days and your baby is screaming for no apparent reason.
We are now down to seeing our OBGYN weekly, the baby’s room is set and ready to go and our ante-natal classes finish this week.
It feels like the end of things, the tying up of loose strings.
It’s incredibly exciting but also bloody daunting.
Our lives are about to change forever.
Intellectually, I know they will change for the better. Of course.
But I wonder how much of me will mourn the loss of the life we lived before.
The chew-your-nails-off-with-terror transition that signifies the progression of labour from the, I believe, comparitively quite tranquil first stage, to the second (IE: the part where vulnerability, pain and anxiety are at their peak, all the while the alien being inside you claws, rips and tears its way out of a tiny hole in your genital regions).
I am really quite frightened about that. Because it is so unknown. I cannot micro-manage that...because I do not know what hormone-induced emotions will surface, nor how they will manifest physically.
I never forget the woman in a reality birth documentary series on TV who was so zen about her meditative birthing experience. She had her support person whispering mantras to spirit the pain away during contractions, whales moaned via loudpeaker in the background and she looked very stoic as she closed her eyes while the muscles peformed their inevitable, automatic clench. Occasionally, her lips would purse, but it was the only giveaway that things were not completely normal and fine inside her skin.
Some edits later and Regan from The Exorcist had replaced zen woman. She was bellowing and writhing and sporting wild, white eyes of panic as she yelled abuse and orders to her clearly-rattled support people. It was terrifying.
Will that be me?
I am also anxious about the transition I will undergo from working professional to stay at home mum.
That thing that has own its own acronym: SAHM.
OMG.
I have been working full-time as a journalist since 1996. For five days a week, sometimes more, that is what I have been.
Hard-working, sensible, professional, thorough, doing my job. A job I became qualified for after three years at university.
I go to work and I have full knowledge of what the day will bring in terms of what is expected of me, what I need to achieve to feel fulfilled and ensure my job is done properly. It is very satisfying.
I am about to switch, not only jobs, but entire careers, mindsets, time zones, body clocks, routines and physiological functions.
I am about to become a new person with a new, incredibly important job. A job that does not come with a degree or any opportunity for pre-preparedness study.
It is scary to think about. But then, of course, we went through the same thing before J was born.
And we muddled through.
It’s what most rational, sane, adult people do.
I just wonder how rational and sane you can really be at 2am when you haven’t slept for three days and your baby is screaming for no apparent reason.
We are now down to seeing our OBGYN weekly, the baby’s room is set and ready to go and our ante-natal classes finish this week.
It feels like the end of things, the tying up of loose strings.
It’s incredibly exciting but also bloody daunting.
Our lives are about to change forever.
Intellectually, I know they will change for the better. Of course.
But I wonder how much of me will mourn the loss of the life we lived before.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The sticky
When we first moved to beautiful, sunny Queensland seven years ago, we had no idea where precisely in amongst the state’s 1.72million square kilometres we would settle.
So, we swished and hovered vague fingers over coastal regions on our map and hired a car. Started at Point A and drove to Point B, all with a clear understanding that Point B would firmly be defined as the place that featured a climate no hotter than we could cope with.
Anything north of Noosa, we decided, was way too hot. Too tropical, too steamy and too much of a filthy, sticky inferno to call home.
Sure, we had come from South Australia where 44-degree days were a walk in the park. You want a dust storm with those 44 degrees? Why not? Just close the windows and take a cold shower. Pfft.
We knew all too well that an enormous dose of meteorological malice does something crazy to the weather in Australia once you cross state borders and head north.
It’s called humidity.
I don’t care what you say: it is easier to cool off in dry heat than humidity. Cold showers don’t work when you can’t even dry yourself properly afterwards.
I may have scored 11 out of 20 in my final year biology exam, but even I know that sweat plus increased moisture in the air equals approximately 426% extra sweat and a 65-fold increase in the level of discomfort.
Is it any wonder the word troppo, used to describe a state of seriously deranged mental delirium, derives from tropical?
I fear I may go troppo this week.
Summer has finally arrived in our neck of the woods and while temperatures in their early 30s might not sound like much, especially when compared to the mid-40s from SA, sweet Jesus, it is hell on earth around here. My favourite moment was yesterday when I logged onto a weather website, to which I am quite addicted, and saw that while it was technically 33 degrees, it "felt like" 38. Not sure how they measure that, but I thought it was hilarious. For about three seconds, then I started crying tears of sweat into my keyboard.
Did I mention I am eight and a half months pregnant?
Thankfully though, the good people we purchased our house from six years ago had the genius idea of installing a pool and air-conditioning. Thankfully, we made the most of a government rebate and put insulation in our roof a year ago...so there are three things mercifully keeping me cool at this time of year.
Also this week, we bought a new pram. While we have been really lucky to have either recycled J’s cot, change table, toys and some clothes or been given a mountain of baby girl’s things...the old Steelcraft we bought for him four years ago was showing its age.
We needed a new one, and gave the old one to charity (after a good clean). It was terribly sad dumping it at Lifeline...I remember thinking of everywhere we had used it as J grew from a newborn to the almost-four year old he is today.
Then my breath caught as I realised the new pram we were going to pick up would do exactly the same...and how quickly it all happens.
Time flies. Blink and you’ll miss it. I try to remind myself of that at the moment, when I feel like I have been pregnant for about 14 years, so desperate am I to meet our daughter.
I also packed my bag for hospital and completely freaked out when I saw A) the enormous packs of maternity pads for the post-delivery bleeding that T bought me and B) the teeny tiny gro-suits and singlets our baby girl will be wearing in hospital.
Goodness! Let me finish this post here, before I start crying!
Hurry up, time!*
*This sentiment likely to change at any given moment, especially when I start questioning – again – if we are ready or not.
So, we swished and hovered vague fingers over coastal regions on our map and hired a car. Started at Point A and drove to Point B, all with a clear understanding that Point B would firmly be defined as the place that featured a climate no hotter than we could cope with.
Anything north of Noosa, we decided, was way too hot. Too tropical, too steamy and too much of a filthy, sticky inferno to call home.
Sure, we had come from South Australia where 44-degree days were a walk in the park. You want a dust storm with those 44 degrees? Why not? Just close the windows and take a cold shower. Pfft.
We knew all too well that an enormous dose of meteorological malice does something crazy to the weather in Australia once you cross state borders and head north.
It’s called humidity.
I don’t care what you say: it is easier to cool off in dry heat than humidity. Cold showers don’t work when you can’t even dry yourself properly afterwards.
I may have scored 11 out of 20 in my final year biology exam, but even I know that sweat plus increased moisture in the air equals approximately 426% extra sweat and a 65-fold increase in the level of discomfort.
Is it any wonder the word troppo, used to describe a state of seriously deranged mental delirium, derives from tropical?
I fear I may go troppo this week.
Summer has finally arrived in our neck of the woods and while temperatures in their early 30s might not sound like much, especially when compared to the mid-40s from SA, sweet Jesus, it is hell on earth around here. My favourite moment was yesterday when I logged onto a weather website, to which I am quite addicted, and saw that while it was technically 33 degrees, it "felt like" 38. Not sure how they measure that, but I thought it was hilarious. For about three seconds, then I started crying tears of sweat into my keyboard.
Did I mention I am eight and a half months pregnant?
Thankfully though, the good people we purchased our house from six years ago had the genius idea of installing a pool and air-conditioning. Thankfully, we made the most of a government rebate and put insulation in our roof a year ago...so there are three things mercifully keeping me cool at this time of year.
Also this week, we bought a new pram. While we have been really lucky to have either recycled J’s cot, change table, toys and some clothes or been given a mountain of baby girl’s things...the old Steelcraft we bought for him four years ago was showing its age.
We needed a new one, and gave the old one to charity (after a good clean). It was terribly sad dumping it at Lifeline...I remember thinking of everywhere we had used it as J grew from a newborn to the almost-four year old he is today.
Then my breath caught as I realised the new pram we were going to pick up would do exactly the same...and how quickly it all happens.
Time flies. Blink and you’ll miss it. I try to remind myself of that at the moment, when I feel like I have been pregnant for about 14 years, so desperate am I to meet our daughter.
I also packed my bag for hospital and completely freaked out when I saw A) the enormous packs of maternity pads for the post-delivery bleeding that T bought me and B) the teeny tiny gro-suits and singlets our baby girl will be wearing in hospital.
Goodness! Let me finish this post here, before I start crying!
Hurry up, time!*
*This sentiment likely to change at any given moment, especially when I start questioning – again – if we are ready or not.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Are we ready?
We lifted up the cot mattress base thing this week.
It had been left down in its lower position ever since J slept in it, probably about 18 months ago.
Just seeing it up higher now, ready to accommodate a tiny swaddled peanut, brings reality a lot closer to home.
I know I keep going on about how real this is all becoming.
But pregnancy creates a funny state of mind, causing your emotions to flit from silly denial to steely preparedness, from “I can’t do this” to “yes, of course we can”.
Firstly, you feel as if you will be/have been pregnant A LONG TIME. Possibly forever.
And 10 months is a long time. If I could do the maths quickly in my mind right now, I am sure it would be the equivalent of 4098 days.
Or something.
And you are keenly anticipating the arrival of this new life. We can’t wait to meet her, see what she looks like, feel what impact she will have on our family. We say those things a lot, as we wonder and surmise. So time drags.
On and on. Turning those 10 months into 10 centuries in your mind.
Secondly, you start wondering if you are ready, if you can ever be ready, to be a parent to a newborn.
So what if we have done it before. Things will be very different this time around.
It’s my first baby, but the second in our family.
We have an almost four-year-old to consider.
So what if we have done the sensible, practical things, like get a new pram, stock up on nappies and raise the cot mattress.
Emotionally, are we ready?
And what sort of baby will she be? We have already done ourselves a massive disservice by starting (already!) to compare what she might be like to Jay (who is basically the perfect child).
“Well, we were so lucky with him, we are bound to cop it with a little prima donna diva princess with this one,” we tell ourselves. We are joking, but also shit-scared it might be true.
We really should stop putting that sort of sentiment out there. Poor little mite, cursed even before she pops out.
But then of course we realise that we felt the same things and asked the same questions just before J was born.
We got through. Some days it was a muddle, some days were bloody awful for T, but most days were funny, memorable, amazing and joyful.
Occasionally in the early days we would reminisce about our life before he was born and how we could do crazy things like sleep in, eat nothing but chips and gravy and lemonade and know subconsciously that every minute of every day could be filled with any activity of our choice.
And this week I realised, we will probably do the same thing after our girl is born.
These times with J will seem different, maybe easier, certainly quieter. But that goes to show how easily we adapted to life with him.
Of course we did. We had to – and we love him, so we were happy about the change.
Of course the same will happen again.
We also had a 3D scan of our baby a few weeks back. It was incredible. The cord was slightly in the way, so distorted some of the images.
Plus her nose looked squashed and enormously wide, prompting me to announce in the scan room that I would have to check our records to see if the donor was in fact African-American. But the radiographer assured me all baby noses looked like that.
Here are a few pics:
It had been left down in its lower position ever since J slept in it, probably about 18 months ago.
Just seeing it up higher now, ready to accommodate a tiny swaddled peanut, brings reality a lot closer to home.
I know I keep going on about how real this is all becoming.
But pregnancy creates a funny state of mind, causing your emotions to flit from silly denial to steely preparedness, from “I can’t do this” to “yes, of course we can”.
Firstly, you feel as if you will be/have been pregnant A LONG TIME. Possibly forever.
And 10 months is a long time. If I could do the maths quickly in my mind right now, I am sure it would be the equivalent of 4098 days.
Or something.
And you are keenly anticipating the arrival of this new life. We can’t wait to meet her, see what she looks like, feel what impact she will have on our family. We say those things a lot, as we wonder and surmise. So time drags.
On and on. Turning those 10 months into 10 centuries in your mind.
Secondly, you start wondering if you are ready, if you can ever be ready, to be a parent to a newborn.
So what if we have done it before. Things will be very different this time around.
It’s my first baby, but the second in our family.
We have an almost four-year-old to consider.
So what if we have done the sensible, practical things, like get a new pram, stock up on nappies and raise the cot mattress.
Emotionally, are we ready?
And what sort of baby will she be? We have already done ourselves a massive disservice by starting (already!) to compare what she might be like to Jay (who is basically the perfect child).
“Well, we were so lucky with him, we are bound to cop it with a little prima donna diva princess with this one,” we tell ourselves. We are joking, but also shit-scared it might be true.
We really should stop putting that sort of sentiment out there. Poor little mite, cursed even before she pops out.
But then of course we realise that we felt the same things and asked the same questions just before J was born.
We got through. Some days it was a muddle, some days were bloody awful for T, but most days were funny, memorable, amazing and joyful.
Occasionally in the early days we would reminisce about our life before he was born and how we could do crazy things like sleep in, eat nothing but chips and gravy and lemonade and know subconsciously that every minute of every day could be filled with any activity of our choice.
And this week I realised, we will probably do the same thing after our girl is born.
These times with J will seem different, maybe easier, certainly quieter. But that goes to show how easily we adapted to life with him.
Of course we did. We had to – and we love him, so we were happy about the change.
Of course the same will happen again.
We also had a 3D scan of our baby a few weeks back. It was incredible. The cord was slightly in the way, so distorted some of the images.
Plus her nose looked squashed and enormously wide, prompting me to announce in the scan room that I would have to check our records to see if the donor was in fact African-American. But the radiographer assured me all baby noses looked like that.
Here are a few pics:
Naw. Be safe in there baby. See you soon. Sigh.
Friday, December 30, 2011
A festive freak-out
It’s Christmas – the one day of the year everyone eats so much that we all look 31 weeks’ pregnant. Hooray!
A good week, winding down to a fortnight off from work – fantastic! It suddenly dawned on me that I will be coming back to work for a little less than a month, and that will be quite tricky I imagine.
Only because I am now starting to feel the weight of, not the world on my shoulders, but this baby girl on my girth.
Good Lord, it’s difficult getting around and the sudden effort required to do so catches you quite by surprise.
Want to vacuum the house? Awesome, not a problem. Until you get half-way through and need to sit down and get your breath back, while saying to yourself that you’ll finish the other half after you’ve had a nap.
Want to drive to work? Easy. Do it most days a week. Until you try and get the seatbelt in a comfortable position below your enormous belly, all the while wondering what the hell might go wrong if you were in an accident and that belt snapped across your abdomen.
And getting out of the car? Just give me 10 minutes to pry myself loose from the driver’s seat. Brace against steering wheel, swivel, swing legs onto ground, grunt, push upwards, grunt louder, stand upright, grimace. I feel 108.
Then my lower back twinges, or my hips go numb, and I feel 208.
I am also starting to get some practical things done, like getting the car seat fitted, packing a bag for hospital (waa!) and finally organising maternity leave through Centrelink.
Doing these things, apart from making it all so bloody real, also reinforces how momentous the change will be for our family in 2012.
Soon and within the space of about six weeks, J leaves day care after four years, starts kindy and we welcome his new baby sister into the world.
I stop work for an extended period for the first time in my life and I become the main carer of a tiny baby girl.
I discard a comfortable routine that involved supreme organisation, accomplishing a stimulating variety of duties at work, multi-tasking and basically having control over every aspect of my life for what is likely to be a chaotic mess of sleeplessness, a crying baby I fear I won’t be able to understand and patronising piles of washing.
Oh. My. God.
A good week, winding down to a fortnight off from work – fantastic! It suddenly dawned on me that I will be coming back to work for a little less than a month, and that will be quite tricky I imagine.
Only because I am now starting to feel the weight of, not the world on my shoulders, but this baby girl on my girth.
Good Lord, it’s difficult getting around and the sudden effort required to do so catches you quite by surprise.
Want to vacuum the house? Awesome, not a problem. Until you get half-way through and need to sit down and get your breath back, while saying to yourself that you’ll finish the other half after you’ve had a nap.
Want to drive to work? Easy. Do it most days a week. Until you try and get the seatbelt in a comfortable position below your enormous belly, all the while wondering what the hell might go wrong if you were in an accident and that belt snapped across your abdomen.
And getting out of the car? Just give me 10 minutes to pry myself loose from the driver’s seat. Brace against steering wheel, swivel, swing legs onto ground, grunt, push upwards, grunt louder, stand upright, grimace. I feel 108.
Then my lower back twinges, or my hips go numb, and I feel 208.
I am also starting to get some practical things done, like getting the car seat fitted, packing a bag for hospital (waa!) and finally organising maternity leave through Centrelink.
Doing these things, apart from making it all so bloody real, also reinforces how momentous the change will be for our family in 2012.
Soon and within the space of about six weeks, J leaves day care after four years, starts kindy and we welcome his new baby sister into the world.
I stop work for an extended period for the first time in my life and I become the main carer of a tiny baby girl.
I discard a comfortable routine that involved supreme organisation, accomplishing a stimulating variety of duties at work, multi-tasking and basically having control over every aspect of my life for what is likely to be a chaotic mess of sleeplessness, a crying baby I fear I won’t be able to understand and patronising piles of washing.
Oh. My. God.
Monday, December 19, 2011
The real and the realest
So this is getting realer.
I think hitting 30 weeks makes it so.
That is, like, 10 weeks until go time. When it all happens. The really real part.
Say 10 weeks, and my mind is instantly hurtling on the express train to Freak Out Town.
Say two and a half months, and it sounds so far in the distance, I can’t even begin to think about hospital bags or birth plans.
And it might not even be 10 weeks, it could be eight. It could be four. It could be...NOW!
Breathe.
We started our five-week course of ante-natal classes this week.
There are eight couples in our group. As always, it’s the usual completely random group of people who wouldn’t normally ever end up in the same room as each other, but who have been thrown together by some miraculous clash of family planning.
And as always, the first week is a true study in the awkwardness of human social interaction.
“So, we’re going to start by going around the room and introducing ourselves,” the midwife announces in the beginning.
The groan is only slightly muffled by a general waftage of frightened politness settling over everyone in the room.
The women in each couple do the talking, telling us how many weeks they are, who their OB/GYN is and why they chose that doctor.
I am among the smaller bumps in the room and instantly find myself doing that terrible thing that is rife among parents: comparing. As much as you rail against it, you just cannot help casting a furtive glance down at your average-sized 30-week-old bump when the lady across the room from you says she is 26 weeks and is clearly ENORMOUS compared to you.
We talk about when to ring the hospital, what to pack in your bag (shit, better do that soon), what complications can happen and we watch two videos which both carry misleading soundtracks (soothing massage music, not blood-curdling screams), a misleading cast (disturbingly hairy-down-there German women in baggy jumpers) and misleading lengths (evil editing making them run for less than seven minutes: yes please!).
Can someone PLEASE produce a birthing video that is newer than 1987, can someone please NOT overlay a ridiculous audio track composed by Swami Shanda and his wailing whale orchestra and can someone please in god’s name shave these women before filming them!
And apart from an emotional weekend where I felt quite sorry for myself and longed for: silence, sleep, massages on the hour, a new spine, exquisite food, a quiet house minus a four-year-old and more sleep – all in equal measure, preferably at once, not much else of note to report this week.
I got a bit teary and snappy over the weekend, which I find is unfortunately a regular-ish occurrence as the lack of sleep catches up. In a big yucky wave.
Something tells me I better get used to that feeling...
I think hitting 30 weeks makes it so.
That is, like, 10 weeks until go time. When it all happens. The really real part.
Say 10 weeks, and my mind is instantly hurtling on the express train to Freak Out Town.
Say two and a half months, and it sounds so far in the distance, I can’t even begin to think about hospital bags or birth plans.
And it might not even be 10 weeks, it could be eight. It could be four. It could be...NOW!
Breathe.
We started our five-week course of ante-natal classes this week.
There are eight couples in our group. As always, it’s the usual completely random group of people who wouldn’t normally ever end up in the same room as each other, but who have been thrown together by some miraculous clash of family planning.
And as always, the first week is a true study in the awkwardness of human social interaction.
“So, we’re going to start by going around the room and introducing ourselves,” the midwife announces in the beginning.
The groan is only slightly muffled by a general waftage of frightened politness settling over everyone in the room.
The women in each couple do the talking, telling us how many weeks they are, who their OB/GYN is and why they chose that doctor.
I am among the smaller bumps in the room and instantly find myself doing that terrible thing that is rife among parents: comparing. As much as you rail against it, you just cannot help casting a furtive glance down at your average-sized 30-week-old bump when the lady across the room from you says she is 26 weeks and is clearly ENORMOUS compared to you.
We talk about when to ring the hospital, what to pack in your bag (shit, better do that soon), what complications can happen and we watch two videos which both carry misleading soundtracks (soothing massage music, not blood-curdling screams), a misleading cast (disturbingly hairy-down-there German women in baggy jumpers) and misleading lengths (evil editing making them run for less than seven minutes: yes please!).
Can someone PLEASE produce a birthing video that is newer than 1987, can someone please NOT overlay a ridiculous audio track composed by Swami Shanda and his wailing whale orchestra and can someone please in god’s name shave these women before filming them!
And apart from an emotional weekend where I felt quite sorry for myself and longed for: silence, sleep, massages on the hour, a new spine, exquisite food, a quiet house minus a four-year-old and more sleep – all in equal measure, preferably at once, not much else of note to report this week.
I got a bit teary and snappy over the weekend, which I find is unfortunately a regular-ish occurrence as the lack of sleep catches up. In a big yucky wave.
Something tells me I better get used to that feeling...
Monday, December 12, 2011
Dog bites neurotic woman
At last, an eventful week!
Maybe it’s the journo in me, but I have felt quite bad for the two people who read this blog that I have not provided anything very exciting – or newsworthy – in this little nano-millimetre of information superhighway asphalt.
Well how does a sudden decrease in foetal movement scare and dog bite grab you? Huh?
I reckon the News of the World or any other quality News Ltd tabloid would just eat that stuff up for breakfast.
The baby has been moving like crazy every day for about three or four weeks now.
Most nights, during bouts of insomnia, I will feel her bump and bubble around under my skin.
Every day without fail after I have my mid-morning cup of tea, she will move; and if I have a particularly big lunch, or anything cold, she will continue her featherweight boxing training inside my abdomen.
They aren’t flutters or little wispy movements, they are normally pretty intense whacks that are often visible from the outside.
One day last week, it got to midday and none of this had happened.
It got to 2pm and I rang T to ask what I should do.
I had felt one, maybe two, tiny flutters down really low, but nowhere near as much movement as
she had displayed every day for the past month.
I was worried. And my mind wasn’t helping.
I rang our hospital. The midwife told me to see how I went for the next few hours and come in after work.
At 2.10pm I realised I couldn’t concentrate on work, thinking the worst about what was, or what was not, going on inside my uterus.
I left work and drove the 25 minutes up to the hospital, through torrential rain, I might add.
It was a terrible drive. I was sobbing, desperate at the anxiety of it all. Convinced there would be no heartbeat to find.
I had gathered myself by the time I arrived and thankfully found the last park in the parking lot.
I had also seen six garbage trucks on the highway on the drive up, which I was madly trying to tell myself was a good omen, as our four-year-old son is quite the garbage truck fanatic.
The same midwife I spoke to was at the desk. She efficiently put her paperwork down and immediately took me into a room before hooking me up to two transponder things, one to measure the heartbeat and the other to measure kicks.
She got another ultra-sound wand thing to locate the heartbeat.
“It might take me a while to find,” she said, fully aware of the tension in the room.
I held my breath.
There it was. A heartbeat.
And, seven seconds later, what was that?
A kick.
I was now lying down – for the first time that day – and she kicked.
Why didn’t I bloody lie down at work and save myself all this worry!
They hook you up for at least 20 minutes to chart movement and heart rates and I am pretty sure she had kicked no less than 25 times in the first three minutes.
Great.
I look like a neurotic who is plainly having a very naughty, troublesome child!
The midwife was really good and while I was certainly looking for it, was not patronising at all.
They must see that sort of stuff a lot, right?
And we both agreed, we would rather it was confirmed, one way or the other, instead of wondering, all the while consumed with rising panic.
“So what do I do next time, to save me coming up here every week freaking out (in case it happens again),” I asked, thinking that actually it would be kind of nice to have an informal weekly appointment with the heartbeat monitor. Are they available to purchase for home use??
The midwife just told me to watch for an entire day and if there was no movement into the night, definitely call again and come on up. Good lord, what a fright.
Of course, in context of losing a baby last year, this sort of thing is reasonable and to be expected. But bloody hell it frightens the life right out of you at the time.
As for the damn dog bite, and ensuing tetanus shot... we have had a certain breed of dog my entire life. Growing up, we had three Miniature Schnauzers, adorable things.
We plan on getting one - look at that face: wouldn't you? -when the baby is about one and not on the floor crawling. I happened to drive past an old man walking a beautiful one on my way home from work one evening.
I pulled into a side street and walked back to him to ask if he got the dog locally.
I should have seen the crazy glint in that dog’s eye from the beginning. She startled as soon as I came into view and looked on edge immediately. But she was on a lead and he held onto her while we chatted for about 10 minutes about the breed, where he got her and previous Schnauzers we had both had.
Clearly, I was no threat to her master. So I asked if I could pat her. Stupidly, I did not wait for the answer and just bent down to offer the back of my hand for her to sniff.
That movement coincided with him saying “Ah well now, I would be a bit careful about doing that” and BANG! She sniffed and then immediately nipped at my knuckles, prompting a small circular bruise and three puncture marks to show up on the skin at once.
Yep, puncture marks. No blood, but puncture marks. Great. This was going to mean tetanus.
I scurried off after the old man offered a belated and half-hearted apology and called a health advice info line when I got home. The RN on the line advised me to go to emergency within four hours and that tetanus was a Category A drug, and therefore completely safe in pregnancy.
So, with no real time to Google – and I am thankful now for that blessing – T and I took ourselves off to the local hospital. We went in at 7pm and came out at 7.25pm, which must be a new record for an emergency department. Me with a makeshift bandaid covering the day’s fourth puncture mark, this one from a tetanus needle and T with the car keys to drive the patient home.
I asked the doctor, who was American and looked to be about 11, four times if tetanus was safe. On each occasion he said yes. It was only a really minor bite, but we all thought it would be better to be safe than sorry.
Mum asked later if the baby was now immunised and I have no idea. Is she?
Maybe it’s the journo in me, but I have felt quite bad for the two people who read this blog that I have not provided anything very exciting – or newsworthy – in this little nano-millimetre of information superhighway asphalt.
Well how does a sudden decrease in foetal movement scare and dog bite grab you? Huh?
I reckon the News of the World or any other quality News Ltd tabloid would just eat that stuff up for breakfast.
The baby has been moving like crazy every day for about three or four weeks now.
Most nights, during bouts of insomnia, I will feel her bump and bubble around under my skin.
Every day without fail after I have my mid-morning cup of tea, she will move; and if I have a particularly big lunch, or anything cold, she will continue her featherweight boxing training inside my abdomen.
They aren’t flutters or little wispy movements, they are normally pretty intense whacks that are often visible from the outside.
One day last week, it got to midday and none of this had happened.
It got to 2pm and I rang T to ask what I should do.
I had felt one, maybe two, tiny flutters down really low, but nowhere near as much movement as
she had displayed every day for the past month.
I was worried. And my mind wasn’t helping.
I rang our hospital. The midwife told me to see how I went for the next few hours and come in after work.
At 2.10pm I realised I couldn’t concentrate on work, thinking the worst about what was, or what was not, going on inside my uterus.
I left work and drove the 25 minutes up to the hospital, through torrential rain, I might add.
It was a terrible drive. I was sobbing, desperate at the anxiety of it all. Convinced there would be no heartbeat to find.
I had gathered myself by the time I arrived and thankfully found the last park in the parking lot.
I had also seen six garbage trucks on the highway on the drive up, which I was madly trying to tell myself was a good omen, as our four-year-old son is quite the garbage truck fanatic.
The same midwife I spoke to was at the desk. She efficiently put her paperwork down and immediately took me into a room before hooking me up to two transponder things, one to measure the heartbeat and the other to measure kicks.
She got another ultra-sound wand thing to locate the heartbeat.
“It might take me a while to find,” she said, fully aware of the tension in the room.
I held my breath.
There it was. A heartbeat.
And, seven seconds later, what was that?
A kick.
I was now lying down – for the first time that day – and she kicked.
Why didn’t I bloody lie down at work and save myself all this worry!
They hook you up for at least 20 minutes to chart movement and heart rates and I am pretty sure she had kicked no less than 25 times in the first three minutes.
Great.
I look like a neurotic who is plainly having a very naughty, troublesome child!
The midwife was really good and while I was certainly looking for it, was not patronising at all.
They must see that sort of stuff a lot, right?
And we both agreed, we would rather it was confirmed, one way or the other, instead of wondering, all the while consumed with rising panic.
“So what do I do next time, to save me coming up here every week freaking out (in case it happens again),” I asked, thinking that actually it would be kind of nice to have an informal weekly appointment with the heartbeat monitor. Are they available to purchase for home use??
The midwife just told me to watch for an entire day and if there was no movement into the night, definitely call again and come on up. Good lord, what a fright.
Of course, in context of losing a baby last year, this sort of thing is reasonable and to be expected. But bloody hell it frightens the life right out of you at the time.
As for the damn dog bite, and ensuing tetanus shot... we have had a certain breed of dog my entire life. Growing up, we had three Miniature Schnauzers, adorable things.
We plan on getting one - look at that face: wouldn't you? -when the baby is about one and not on the floor crawling. I happened to drive past an old man walking a beautiful one on my way home from work one evening.I pulled into a side street and walked back to him to ask if he got the dog locally.
I should have seen the crazy glint in that dog’s eye from the beginning. She startled as soon as I came into view and looked on edge immediately. But she was on a lead and he held onto her while we chatted for about 10 minutes about the breed, where he got her and previous Schnauzers we had both had.
Clearly, I was no threat to her master. So I asked if I could pat her. Stupidly, I did not wait for the answer and just bent down to offer the back of my hand for her to sniff.
That movement coincided with him saying “Ah well now, I would be a bit careful about doing that” and BANG! She sniffed and then immediately nipped at my knuckles, prompting a small circular bruise and three puncture marks to show up on the skin at once.
Yep, puncture marks. No blood, but puncture marks. Great. This was going to mean tetanus.
I scurried off after the old man offered a belated and half-hearted apology and called a health advice info line when I got home. The RN on the line advised me to go to emergency within four hours and that tetanus was a Category A drug, and therefore completely safe in pregnancy.
So, with no real time to Google – and I am thankful now for that blessing – T and I took ourselves off to the local hospital. We went in at 7pm and came out at 7.25pm, which must be a new record for an emergency department. Me with a makeshift bandaid covering the day’s fourth puncture mark, this one from a tetanus needle and T with the car keys to drive the patient home.
I asked the doctor, who was American and looked to be about 11, four times if tetanus was safe. On each occasion he said yes. It was only a really minor bite, but we all thought it would be better to be safe than sorry.
Mum asked later if the baby was now immunised and I have no idea. Is she?
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