Pregnancy and Childbirth
Ahhhh pregnancy.
Those first few moments where you realise that using a cricket bat for contraception hasn't worked, and you are now with child.
What. A. Blessing.
I had my first child at age 22. Pregnancy with Alf was a breeze, I didn't have any morning sickness, I was a general delight to be around (as you can imagine) and I was well enough to return to work within two weeks after giving birth. Tommy however, was a different kettle of fish altogether. Pregnancy was nothing short of a fucking nightmare. I had morning sickness so bad that I went on a hunger strike that would have given Terry Waite a run for his money. I ached, I had pains, I had to finish work at 7 months due to sciatica. Basically, I hated the whole bloody thing.
Despite two very different pregnancies, the one thing that didn't change with either was that I couldn't wait to meet them. I couldn't wait to see their precious faces, hear their first cries, decide what their names would be, and basque in the glory that is making it through childbirth.
Then the contractions started.
Now as any pregnant woman will tell you, should you be brave enough to approach one, the average gestation period for a healthy human child is approximately three years. Obviously it's not, but THAT'S HOW LONG IT FEELS. When we reach the point of contractions we have a mixture of emotions, and those emotions are mainly to strangle the person closest to hand and demand that they take us to the nearest hospital via KFC.
Alfie's labour, although VERY long, was not that bad. I gave birth using just gas and air (although near the end I was screaming out for an epidural) squeezing my Dad's hand (and breaking it) and biting my Mums finger almost clean off. Present for the birth was Mum, Dad, my Sister, 3 midwife shift changes, a cleaner, and the guy operating the turn style at the door. I returned to work after a couple of weeks, and everything was fine. He was the perfect baby, hardly cried, fed every 4 hours - he was the model child. Easy.
Then along came Tommy.
When Ian and I were deciding on whether or not to have a baby, we each made a list of pro's and con's. Well, Ian wrote the pro's and I wrote the con's. I was going to have to give birth to the sodding thing anyway, so surely I got the deciding vote?? Although being ten years older than when I had Alf, I obviously wasn't a fecking day wiser, as fast forward a year or two and we're on our way to hospital because I'm in labour.....
Now as you will read in my previous blog, our 'birthing plan' hadn't really been discussed. As a result of this, I went in with the 'just get this child out of me as fast as you can' plan, and hoped for the best. In came the midwife, checked me over, and introduced the student midwife who would be staying with us throughout the labour. A bath was run for me, the birdsong was played on the big screen with relaxing images to match, and I was finally given some gas and air. Foolishly, I thought this would be, as it was ten years ago, enough to see me through childbirth.
What. A. Knob.
Fast forward, ooh, say a minute and a half, and the birdsong has now been taken off the loudspeaker and replaced by the Foo Fighters live at Wembley. Gas and air isn't quite cutting it anymore, and I'm in quite a bit of pain. Well I say a bit of pain, I'm in fucking agony. Why isn't this child here yet?? Surely I've been at this for hours now?? Ah. No. We haven't been here 20 minutes yet.
Out of the bath and onto the birthing ball. And back in the bath. And out of the bath. Repeat several times. All the while the midwife is telling me what a great job I'm doing (I know as well as she does that she's lying through her teeth) and that despite me insisting otherwise, I CAN do this by breathing deeply, and using the gas and air before a contraction. 'Our bodies are built for this! Women give birth in fields every day and strap their baby onto their back, and get back to work. You've done this once before without painkillers, you can do it again!' she keeps telling me.
Look love, I am not in a field, nor am I working. I'm not even 100% certain I'm a woman anymore given the fucking noises coming out of me, and the last time I did this was ten years ago. You've already told me that you don't have any children, so stop telling me what I can and can't do and give me some bloody drugs!!
(This is what I WANTED to say. Of course, being British, what I actually said was 'I'm sorry I'm being so loud, I am trying, really'. See even in the throws of labour, one still retains a certain sense of manners)
After over ten hours of agonising active labour I was seriously considering a career in the SAS. Even Andy McNab couldn't hack what was happening here. A few more hours passed and it looked like baby was going to arrive. However we had a problem; despite my pushes he wasn't coming out. He was back to back.*
*(For the lesser educated on labour reader, that means that the little sod was facing the wrong way, and basically all the pushing I had been doing for the last week and a half was pointless. He wasn't going to come out).
Excellent.
By this stage I was trying to remember what I had learnt about the Geneva Convention, and wondered if this was an act of war and had my rights been violated? As I pondered these thoughts, I was taken in a wheelchair, (screaming furiously as a Mother in the very early stages of labour arriving was forced to ask her partner if it was too late for her to change her mind) and whisked from the calm and serene birthing suite into the lift, and down to the delivery ward. It was here that I would be given an epidural. Praise. The. Lord.
Now I don't know if you, like me, have a fear of needles. They terrify me. The thought of them now is even sending me fairly queasy. But I was in a lot of pain, and the lovely man with the huge needle was going to take that pain away.
'.....blah blah blah blah, worst case results in death. Can I proceed?' was all I heard as he ran through the possible side effects with me. Yes. Yes. YES. Whatever you need to do, JUST DO IT. I then had to sit still whilst Mr Nice Man shoved the needle into my spine. Anyone who knows me will be fully aware that this is a difficult task under normal circumstances, never mind in the middle of labour. Death wasn't likely, but paralysis was looking favourite.
As Mr Nice Man was inserting the rather large needle into my back in between contractions, Ian fainted. Overtired, hungry, thirsty, the sight of his Mrs being jabbed with a foot long needle in the back... whatever the reason, he fainted. The midwives then all huddled around him, got him sat on a chair, asked if he wanted tea and toast, had he eaten that day, did he need to go and have a lie down....
ERMMM HELLO??!! Woman with a baby coming out over here!!
I did actually feel for him. He was knackered, he hadn't eaten, he had been listening to me screaming for hours on end, and was generally exhausted. Being my birthing partner was clearly violating his Human Rights, and he had had enough. He probably did it just for a moment of peace.
The partial epidural took the edge off the contractions so they were now manageable, Ian had come to and was back to looking after me, and the whole situation was a lot calmer. Although baby was facing the wrong way, I was still to push with my contractions to see if he would come out naturally.
It's at this point that I should warn you, reader, that this is where the fun starts. When you get to the stage where baby is, or should be, coming out, every single person in the room is now going to immediately develop an unhealthy obsession with examining your downstairs area with anything lying around, ranging from a finger, a hand, scalpel, torch and a mining helmet, hard hat etc... Also, and do not listen to those who tell you otherwise, because they are lying - you are going to shit yourself in a room full of people you have never met. Leave all your dignity and shame at the door once labour starts love, as you sure as Hell ain't leaving with any. Even the most polite and demure of Mothers to be will develop a vocabulary usually solely used by Merchant Seamen on shore leave.
Normally I would be mortified at a stranger seeing me in the altogether, yet here I was, legs akimbo with a male junior doctor called Alex moving me forward on the bed so he could insert a catheter tube into my bladder. It was so full that it was preventing baby's head from getting past, and generally wasn't helping the situation. Obviously feeling uneasy, he kept apologising to Ian for having to mess in an area of his Mrs that is usually restricted to all others.
However, 1000 ml of urine all over the floor later, and we were all fairly well acquainted.
Another week and a half went by and still no bloody baby. Ok, it may not have actually been that long, but you get the gist. Mrs Surgeon came in to join Mr Doctor and they tried to manually turn baby*
*Again for those not familiar with labour - this means that the doctor puts his or her arm in to reach baby's head and turn him with the contraction to try and bring him out safely. Imagine vets bringing baby lambs out of their Mothers, and you get the gist
Baby wasn't having any of it, and as soon as the doctors hand left his head, he turned back.
Between the midwife, doctor, surgeon and anaesthetist, the decision was made to take me into theatre as this had gone on for long enough. No shit. I had a monumental breakdown. They were going to perform a C Section. I was failing Ian, I was failing my baby. I couldn't give birth to him; What if something happened? What if baby didn't make it? What if something was wrong with him because I had been pissing about watching Dave Grohl sing Monkey Wrench rather than concentrating on pushing?
My wonderful student midwife sat with me and calmed me, and said that we would still try to push baby out right up until we went into theatre. She told me to take another few hits of gas and air, then on the next contraction, push.
I felt the next contraction coming on, took a few gobs of gas and air, and prepared to push. With my chin on my chest and the fear of a C Section in my mind, I pushed. And pushed. And pushed.
Finally. The moment I had been preparing for, the moment Mothers everywhere tell you about, the moment that happens in every birth on the planet, the moment of childbirth you never forget.
I had a poo. On a bed. In front of strangers.
You see, all that pushing during labour unfortunately does not concentrate solely on your front bum. Anything that is inside there in whatever area is going to come out. Be warned.
Another few rounds of pushing and this baby was obviously not going to come out without some help, so Mrs Surgeon gave the word to take us down to theatre. After having an epic meltdown and pleading with Ian to not let them take a scalpel to me, it was agreed that they would try forceps up to three times; if baby wasn't out by then, I would be put to sleep, Ian would have to leave, and baby would be evacuated via C Section. Oh. God.
We were taken downstairs and prepped for theatre. Whilst praying to all the Gods for a safe delivery I was given a full epidural so couldn't feel a thing from the neck down. I have never felt so vulnerable in all my life, and was so glad that Ian was with me to hold my hand. It all seemed so dramatic - there were well over a dozen people in theatre just for us. It all seemed too much, but they were all there just in case anything went wrong. It was both comforting and terrifying at the same time.
Final checks were carried out, and one hour later, on the first attempt with forceps, one massive push, and baby was free. The surgeon held him up for me to see, cut the cord, and placed him onto my chest. Now when I gave birth to Alfie and he was put on my chest, I could hold him, I could cuddle him, I could kiss him, I could put my arms around the little miracle I had produced. With Tommy it was different; I had had an epidural - I couldn't move. Ian held him on my chest for me to see, and I looked at him, as every Mother does when their child is born, with a mixture of feelings. I was crying because he was alive. I was crying because he was safe. I was crying because I was glad that was all over. I was crying because I could see the relief on Ian's face that our little boy was finally here and in one piece. I was crying because we hadn't needed all the emergency stand by staff in the room. But mostly, I was crying because I was thinking what most Mothers think when they see their baby for the first time....
What. The Hell. Is that.
Where is the cute baby that I'm meant to be seeing? Why is it weeing all over me? What is this grey, blood stained little gremlin that looks like it's been dipped in talc before being presented to me?
I didn't have long to ponder these thoughts though as Tommy was whisked away from me and it was then I realised - he hadn't cried yet. Oh God, was he alright? Was he alive? I felt absolutely helpless. I couldn't move off the bed, and with so many people in the room I couldn't properly hear what was going on. After a few moments that seemed like hours, Tommy started to cry, and the midwife called out his weight to me. He was alive, he was here, he was safe.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
This moment of bliss was shattered by the voice of a male doctor who had suddenly appeared between my legs at the bottom of the bed - "I'm just gonna stitch you up now love, I can give you a painkiller up your bum for when the epidural wears off, you want me to put it in now?"
I looked over at Tommy who by now was led out full stretch exercising his lungs and kicking his legs.
Put the whole sodding packet in mate. This ones gonna sting.
Ian came down to the ward with us to make sure we got there safe. It was nearly 11pm. We had been in hospital over 24 hours. Even Keifer Sutherland couldn't have fit all this in.
Ian went home to get some sleep and I was left with a greedy baby who wouldn't settle unless he was feeding. The epidural wore off altogether and I was left wondering if the surgeon had stitched a breeze block into where my uterus used to be. By heck, that was hurting. Not long after I had regained the feeling in my legs and the midwife had me up doing laps of the ward to make sure I could walk. Now as every Mother knows, when you've just been torn in two then stitched back together again, the very first thing you want to do is a bit of track and field, and it must be done in a backless blood stained theatre gown that you haven't had chance to change out of yet.
After the cross country attempt was over and I thought I could sit down for a rest, she instructed me to go to the toilet to try and have a wee and a poo. Aye, alright love. Have a look in that cot would you, I've just pushed that out, is it not enough?? Regardless I did as I was told and hobbled over to the bathroom. Nope. Nothing was gonna be coming out anytime soon. Out of habit, I reached for the toilet roll and went to wipe myself.
OUCH.
The toilet roll came back bright red, so I rather queasily pulled up my maternity pants with jumbo pad in, limped back over to bed and told the midwife what every woman does. Yes, I've had a wee and a poo, can I go home now? **
Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to do this again??!! I looked down at my little Tommy, and for a brief second, all the pain vanished. This was why I wanted to do it all again. He was perfect. He no longer looked like a gremlin from Labyrinth, and he was already starting to look like Ian. His little head was reaching to the side with his mouth open; he wanted feeding. Again. This one wasn't going to be like Alfie, who slept so much that I had to check he was still with us; this one was gonna be a handful.
The next morning after a nights rest, Ian came to the hospital with a healthy breakfast of McDonalds sausage and egg muffin with extra hash browns, which resulted in the other partners on the ward getting evil glances from the mother of their child as they hadn't thought to do the same for her. We left hospital in our little baby bubble to start our adventures with the new addition to our family.
I often look at my two beautiful children and think how unbelievably lucky I am, and how wonderful it would be to have another. My boys are perfect, they are beautiful, they are amazing. They are funny and make me laugh and lose my shit daily in equal measures. I would be absolutely lost without the pair of them, they are my world. I give them every minute of my time that I can, I take them everywhere, and the memories we make together are priceless. I think how great it would be for me to have another child to share these times with.
I weigh this up against the two labours I have experienced, and the answer to me is blatantly obvious.
Not. A fucking. Chance.
**In reality, it was nearly 10 days after I had given birth to Tommy that I managed to have a poo. The sheer terror that all my insides may fall out with the slightest of pushes prevented me from even attempting it. Laxatives and figs were gulped down with apple juice to make it as easy as possible. I genuinely considered having a colostomy bag fitted, as it was just too painful! This is the shit they don't tell you about in ante natal classes. Sod breathing techniques, get out the crapping techniques!
Those first few moments where you realise that using a cricket bat for contraception hasn't worked, and you are now with child.
What. A. Blessing.
I had my first child at age 22. Pregnancy with Alf was a breeze, I didn't have any morning sickness, I was a general delight to be around (as you can imagine) and I was well enough to return to work within two weeks after giving birth. Tommy however, was a different kettle of fish altogether. Pregnancy was nothing short of a fucking nightmare. I had morning sickness so bad that I went on a hunger strike that would have given Terry Waite a run for his money. I ached, I had pains, I had to finish work at 7 months due to sciatica. Basically, I hated the whole bloody thing.
Despite two very different pregnancies, the one thing that didn't change with either was that I couldn't wait to meet them. I couldn't wait to see their precious faces, hear their first cries, decide what their names would be, and basque in the glory that is making it through childbirth.
Then the contractions started.
Now as any pregnant woman will tell you, should you be brave enough to approach one, the average gestation period for a healthy human child is approximately three years. Obviously it's not, but THAT'S HOW LONG IT FEELS. When we reach the point of contractions we have a mixture of emotions, and those emotions are mainly to strangle the person closest to hand and demand that they take us to the nearest hospital via KFC.
Alfie's labour, although VERY long, was not that bad. I gave birth using just gas and air (although near the end I was screaming out for an epidural) squeezing my Dad's hand (and breaking it) and biting my Mums finger almost clean off. Present for the birth was Mum, Dad, my Sister, 3 midwife shift changes, a cleaner, and the guy operating the turn style at the door. I returned to work after a couple of weeks, and everything was fine. He was the perfect baby, hardly cried, fed every 4 hours - he was the model child. Easy.
Then along came Tommy.
When Ian and I were deciding on whether or not to have a baby, we each made a list of pro's and con's. Well, Ian wrote the pro's and I wrote the con's. I was going to have to give birth to the sodding thing anyway, so surely I got the deciding vote?? Although being ten years older than when I had Alf, I obviously wasn't a fecking day wiser, as fast forward a year or two and we're on our way to hospital because I'm in labour.....
Now as you will read in my previous blog, our 'birthing plan' hadn't really been discussed. As a result of this, I went in with the 'just get this child out of me as fast as you can' plan, and hoped for the best. In came the midwife, checked me over, and introduced the student midwife who would be staying with us throughout the labour. A bath was run for me, the birdsong was played on the big screen with relaxing images to match, and I was finally given some gas and air. Foolishly, I thought this would be, as it was ten years ago, enough to see me through childbirth.
What. A. Knob.
Fast forward, ooh, say a minute and a half, and the birdsong has now been taken off the loudspeaker and replaced by the Foo Fighters live at Wembley. Gas and air isn't quite cutting it anymore, and I'm in quite a bit of pain. Well I say a bit of pain, I'm in fucking agony. Why isn't this child here yet?? Surely I've been at this for hours now?? Ah. No. We haven't been here 20 minutes yet.
Out of the bath and onto the birthing ball. And back in the bath. And out of the bath. Repeat several times. All the while the midwife is telling me what a great job I'm doing (I know as well as she does that she's lying through her teeth) and that despite me insisting otherwise, I CAN do this by breathing deeply, and using the gas and air before a contraction. 'Our bodies are built for this! Women give birth in fields every day and strap their baby onto their back, and get back to work. You've done this once before without painkillers, you can do it again!' she keeps telling me.
Look love, I am not in a field, nor am I working. I'm not even 100% certain I'm a woman anymore given the fucking noises coming out of me, and the last time I did this was ten years ago. You've already told me that you don't have any children, so stop telling me what I can and can't do and give me some bloody drugs!!
(This is what I WANTED to say. Of course, being British, what I actually said was 'I'm sorry I'm being so loud, I am trying, really'. See even in the throws of labour, one still retains a certain sense of manners)
After over ten hours of agonising active labour I was seriously considering a career in the SAS. Even Andy McNab couldn't hack what was happening here. A few more hours passed and it looked like baby was going to arrive. However we had a problem; despite my pushes he wasn't coming out. He was back to back.*
*(For the lesser educated on labour reader, that means that the little sod was facing the wrong way, and basically all the pushing I had been doing for the last week and a half was pointless. He wasn't going to come out).
Excellent.
By this stage I was trying to remember what I had learnt about the Geneva Convention, and wondered if this was an act of war and had my rights been violated? As I pondered these thoughts, I was taken in a wheelchair, (screaming furiously as a Mother in the very early stages of labour arriving was forced to ask her partner if it was too late for her to change her mind) and whisked from the calm and serene birthing suite into the lift, and down to the delivery ward. It was here that I would be given an epidural. Praise. The. Lord.
Now I don't know if you, like me, have a fear of needles. They terrify me. The thought of them now is even sending me fairly queasy. But I was in a lot of pain, and the lovely man with the huge needle was going to take that pain away.
'.....blah blah blah blah, worst case results in death. Can I proceed?' was all I heard as he ran through the possible side effects with me. Yes. Yes. YES. Whatever you need to do, JUST DO IT. I then had to sit still whilst Mr Nice Man shoved the needle into my spine. Anyone who knows me will be fully aware that this is a difficult task under normal circumstances, never mind in the middle of labour. Death wasn't likely, but paralysis was looking favourite.
As Mr Nice Man was inserting the rather large needle into my back in between contractions, Ian fainted. Overtired, hungry, thirsty, the sight of his Mrs being jabbed with a foot long needle in the back... whatever the reason, he fainted. The midwives then all huddled around him, got him sat on a chair, asked if he wanted tea and toast, had he eaten that day, did he need to go and have a lie down....
ERMMM HELLO??!! Woman with a baby coming out over here!!
I did actually feel for him. He was knackered, he hadn't eaten, he had been listening to me screaming for hours on end, and was generally exhausted. Being my birthing partner was clearly violating his Human Rights, and he had had enough. He probably did it just for a moment of peace.
The partial epidural took the edge off the contractions so they were now manageable, Ian had come to and was back to looking after me, and the whole situation was a lot calmer. Although baby was facing the wrong way, I was still to push with my contractions to see if he would come out naturally.
It's at this point that I should warn you, reader, that this is where the fun starts. When you get to the stage where baby is, or should be, coming out, every single person in the room is now going to immediately develop an unhealthy obsession with examining your downstairs area with anything lying around, ranging from a finger, a hand, scalpel, torch and a mining helmet, hard hat etc... Also, and do not listen to those who tell you otherwise, because they are lying - you are going to shit yourself in a room full of people you have never met. Leave all your dignity and shame at the door once labour starts love, as you sure as Hell ain't leaving with any. Even the most polite and demure of Mothers to be will develop a vocabulary usually solely used by Merchant Seamen on shore leave.
Normally I would be mortified at a stranger seeing me in the altogether, yet here I was, legs akimbo with a male junior doctor called Alex moving me forward on the bed so he could insert a catheter tube into my bladder. It was so full that it was preventing baby's head from getting past, and generally wasn't helping the situation. Obviously feeling uneasy, he kept apologising to Ian for having to mess in an area of his Mrs that is usually restricted to all others.
However, 1000 ml of urine all over the floor later, and we were all fairly well acquainted.
Another week and a half went by and still no bloody baby. Ok, it may not have actually been that long, but you get the gist. Mrs Surgeon came in to join Mr Doctor and they tried to manually turn baby*
*Again for those not familiar with labour - this means that the doctor puts his or her arm in to reach baby's head and turn him with the contraction to try and bring him out safely. Imagine vets bringing baby lambs out of their Mothers, and you get the gist
Baby wasn't having any of it, and as soon as the doctors hand left his head, he turned back.
Between the midwife, doctor, surgeon and anaesthetist, the decision was made to take me into theatre as this had gone on for long enough. No shit. I had a monumental breakdown. They were going to perform a C Section. I was failing Ian, I was failing my baby. I couldn't give birth to him; What if something happened? What if baby didn't make it? What if something was wrong with him because I had been pissing about watching Dave Grohl sing Monkey Wrench rather than concentrating on pushing?
My wonderful student midwife sat with me and calmed me, and said that we would still try to push baby out right up until we went into theatre. She told me to take another few hits of gas and air, then on the next contraction, push.
I felt the next contraction coming on, took a few gobs of gas and air, and prepared to push. With my chin on my chest and the fear of a C Section in my mind, I pushed. And pushed. And pushed.
Finally. The moment I had been preparing for, the moment Mothers everywhere tell you about, the moment that happens in every birth on the planet, the moment of childbirth you never forget.
I had a poo. On a bed. In front of strangers.
You see, all that pushing during labour unfortunately does not concentrate solely on your front bum. Anything that is inside there in whatever area is going to come out. Be warned.
Another few rounds of pushing and this baby was obviously not going to come out without some help, so Mrs Surgeon gave the word to take us down to theatre. After having an epic meltdown and pleading with Ian to not let them take a scalpel to me, it was agreed that they would try forceps up to three times; if baby wasn't out by then, I would be put to sleep, Ian would have to leave, and baby would be evacuated via C Section. Oh. God.
We were taken downstairs and prepped for theatre. Whilst praying to all the Gods for a safe delivery I was given a full epidural so couldn't feel a thing from the neck down. I have never felt so vulnerable in all my life, and was so glad that Ian was with me to hold my hand. It all seemed so dramatic - there were well over a dozen people in theatre just for us. It all seemed too much, but they were all there just in case anything went wrong. It was both comforting and terrifying at the same time.
Final checks were carried out, and one hour later, on the first attempt with forceps, one massive push, and baby was free. The surgeon held him up for me to see, cut the cord, and placed him onto my chest. Now when I gave birth to Alfie and he was put on my chest, I could hold him, I could cuddle him, I could kiss him, I could put my arms around the little miracle I had produced. With Tommy it was different; I had had an epidural - I couldn't move. Ian held him on my chest for me to see, and I looked at him, as every Mother does when their child is born, with a mixture of feelings. I was crying because he was alive. I was crying because he was safe. I was crying because I was glad that was all over. I was crying because I could see the relief on Ian's face that our little boy was finally here and in one piece. I was crying because we hadn't needed all the emergency stand by staff in the room. But mostly, I was crying because I was thinking what most Mothers think when they see their baby for the first time....
What. The Hell. Is that.
Where is the cute baby that I'm meant to be seeing? Why is it weeing all over me? What is this grey, blood stained little gremlin that looks like it's been dipped in talc before being presented to me?
I didn't have long to ponder these thoughts though as Tommy was whisked away from me and it was then I realised - he hadn't cried yet. Oh God, was he alright? Was he alive? I felt absolutely helpless. I couldn't move off the bed, and with so many people in the room I couldn't properly hear what was going on. After a few moments that seemed like hours, Tommy started to cry, and the midwife called out his weight to me. He was alive, he was here, he was safe.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
This moment of bliss was shattered by the voice of a male doctor who had suddenly appeared between my legs at the bottom of the bed - "I'm just gonna stitch you up now love, I can give you a painkiller up your bum for when the epidural wears off, you want me to put it in now?"
I looked over at Tommy who by now was led out full stretch exercising his lungs and kicking his legs.
Put the whole sodding packet in mate. This ones gonna sting.
Ian came down to the ward with us to make sure we got there safe. It was nearly 11pm. We had been in hospital over 24 hours. Even Keifer Sutherland couldn't have fit all this in.
Ian went home to get some sleep and I was left with a greedy baby who wouldn't settle unless he was feeding. The epidural wore off altogether and I was left wondering if the surgeon had stitched a breeze block into where my uterus used to be. By heck, that was hurting. Not long after I had regained the feeling in my legs and the midwife had me up doing laps of the ward to make sure I could walk. Now as every Mother knows, when you've just been torn in two then stitched back together again, the very first thing you want to do is a bit of track and field, and it must be done in a backless blood stained theatre gown that you haven't had chance to change out of yet.
After the cross country attempt was over and I thought I could sit down for a rest, she instructed me to go to the toilet to try and have a wee and a poo. Aye, alright love. Have a look in that cot would you, I've just pushed that out, is it not enough?? Regardless I did as I was told and hobbled over to the bathroom. Nope. Nothing was gonna be coming out anytime soon. Out of habit, I reached for the toilet roll and went to wipe myself.
OUCH.
The toilet roll came back bright red, so I rather queasily pulled up my maternity pants with jumbo pad in, limped back over to bed and told the midwife what every woman does. Yes, I've had a wee and a poo, can I go home now? **
Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to do this again??!! I looked down at my little Tommy, and for a brief second, all the pain vanished. This was why I wanted to do it all again. He was perfect. He no longer looked like a gremlin from Labyrinth, and he was already starting to look like Ian. His little head was reaching to the side with his mouth open; he wanted feeding. Again. This one wasn't going to be like Alfie, who slept so much that I had to check he was still with us; this one was gonna be a handful.
The next morning after a nights rest, Ian came to the hospital with a healthy breakfast of McDonalds sausage and egg muffin with extra hash browns, which resulted in the other partners on the ward getting evil glances from the mother of their child as they hadn't thought to do the same for her. We left hospital in our little baby bubble to start our adventures with the new addition to our family.
I often look at my two beautiful children and think how unbelievably lucky I am, and how wonderful it would be to have another. My boys are perfect, they are beautiful, they are amazing. They are funny and make me laugh and lose my shit daily in equal measures. I would be absolutely lost without the pair of them, they are my world. I give them every minute of my time that I can, I take them everywhere, and the memories we make together are priceless. I think how great it would be for me to have another child to share these times with.
I weigh this up against the two labours I have experienced, and the answer to me is blatantly obvious.
Not. A fucking. Chance.
**In reality, it was nearly 10 days after I had given birth to Tommy that I managed to have a poo. The sheer terror that all my insides may fall out with the slightest of pushes prevented me from even attempting it. Laxatives and figs were gulped down with apple juice to make it as easy as possible. I genuinely considered having a colostomy bag fitted, as it was just too painful! This is the shit they don't tell you about in ante natal classes. Sod breathing techniques, get out the crapping techniques!
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