6 weeks Big – Our Birth Story

On Monday the 14th august I got up for my early morning pee stop and went back to bed. I was, at this point, 9 days over my due date and feeling whale like and sluggish. One hour later, I rose for the day and as I did there was a whoosh of liquid from down south. Uncomfortably wet, I showered and dress and didn’t think too much of it because there were no pains, no cramps and certainly no “one born every minute” style drama. I binged watched the first season of Devious Maids and lunch time had arrived.

Man called to check if I was still okay and still pregnant, to which of course my sarcasm replied and told him I thought my waters had broke. He demanded I called the labour ward. I refused, telling him I didn’t want to waste there time, I was having no pains – so on and so forth. Intense name calling and 2 arguments later, I called the labour ward and they told me to make my way in. This was followed by a phone call to man to come get me and a very brash “in your face/told you so” style laugh from him.

Arriving at the hospital at about 4ish, I was examined and told that I wasn’t dilated and they could still feel the waters in front of baby’s head. I assured them my waters had certainly gone and I hadn’t peed my pjs. So they gave me a stretch and sweep, which by the way is not so comfy – not actually that surprising when there is a midwife with her fingers up to your cervix. They told us to go back in the morning and sent us home at 10pm with a pack fully of pads thicker than house bricks (not comfy in your knicks) and some super little thermometer sticks.

It was a sleepless night. Went to bed and had mild cramps, mild enough not to kill and have me doubled over in pain. Which is how it should have gone in my head. Labour was meant to be real noticeable, not niggling mild cramps. But regardless it kept me awake. Got back to the hospital at 6ish for another exam, which proved I’d gotten to 2cm dilated. They offered to “pop the bag” to which I said of course. They did, and I spent the next moments bent over the bed leaking what was left of “the bag”. I kid you not, there is nothing more attractive than a woman leaking amniotic fluid in a maxi dress.

A couple of hours later and another exam. I was no further dilated, but the contractions were getting stronger. They gave me a codeine and ten woosy moments later I projectile vommed over man while trying to aim into a cardboard bowl. Goodbye codeine. Next contraction came and they put an IV in the back of my hand which hurt more than the contraction (which hurt a fair bit). The midwives were sure they were going to induce me, hence the IV. They had me walk to the labour ward from the birth centre (I was really hoping we could stay on the birth centre, but by this point I just wanted to meet my baby). This was a difficult walk. Imagine a bloated old aged John Wayne just off a horse, who had been hit in the Johnson with a red hot sledgehammer and you’ve almost got the perfect picture of how that walk went.

The midwives hooked baby and I up on the monitor. One band for baby’s heart rate and one for the contractions. Handed the gas and air and got told that they are going to arrange the anesthetits to hook me up to an epidural. A couple of hours later, the pain was pretty intense and I informed man that it felt (and i quote) “like someone was trying to jam a football out of my pelvis”. Man said the line on the graph was off the chart, and I remember screaming (something I’ve never done as I wouldn’t class myself as a screamer -but hey, no judgement, it was painful). Man was watching the graph and decided enough time had passed and we needed some assistance. He hit the big red button.

A midwife from the ward popped in and tried to take a quick look at the graph. This new midwife said something along the lines of “I’m just going to get your midwife”. Great. I had no idea what was going on. Some stranger was looking at my graph which I couldn’t see AND I had no idea what was going on but it hurt.

My midwife turned up half hour later and tried to take a look down there. Now, I thought I’d be really conscious about this. People looking at your lady area, but it’s so true what they say about leaving your dignity at the door. I still has my ultra attractive Muppet knickers on (they had Animal on them), and taking them off while contracting was a task! Really though, not an utter shit was given that a strange woman I’d been introduced to once was looking at my vagina – and I’m pretty body conscious. Meanwhile I’m off my face on gas and air. This made me sound like a drunken person trying to not be drunk to get in a club – I swear I dont normally talk that slow but I was trying to avoid slurring.

No time for pain killers, baby wanted to arrive and she was waiting for no induction or anesthetic or pain killers. No pain killers. Remind myself that one must stop whaling and push a watermelon sized human out of va-jay-jay.

1.47pm Delilah Ivy arrived weighing 7.3lb. At 2.40pm ish, after skin to skin and the first feed, mummy was up and in the shower. Now even though I dripped blood across the room floor, and even though Daddy failed at the baby grow, I was feeling more human than I had done for the last 3 weeks and finally we had our little love bug.


A Sob Story

I cried because I looked at the pram I ordered. The thought “I’m having a little girl” came to mind and I was gone. I paused and got a grip, but as soon as I looked back at the cute Polka Dot Pram picture (http://venicci.co.uk/shop/new/new-polka-dots/) I was off again. I intend to post a review once we are using it. I’ve been told I’m not allowed it at the moment, according to my mum, its bad luck to have it in the house before baby is here. I won’t risk the superstition.

Apparently it is one of them days where I cry at anything. Baby D is wiggling like you wouldn’t believe today, but still not strong enough for her dad to feel. It worries me Man doesn’t feel part of the experience yet, and I’m eagerly anticipating the day that he can feel involved. I don’t want to do it all on my own, and feel like that will end up being the case.

I’ve been told I’m not allowed (his instructions and other family members) to not do anything too much and the plan to sand the woodwork in Baby D’s room and the stairs/hall isn’t going to plan at all. I did a mornings worth of work but the amount of back ache from doing so was crazy. I was ready to fall asleep in my tea that day. It didn’t particularly help that I’d had a moment of ‘baby brains’ and forgot we have an electric hand held sander in the cellar somewhere so did the work manually. Must get some new sand paper to fit the blasted thing. That’s a job for tomorrow morning I think since I’m finding myself alone again due to Man working. I bet it won’t take half the time with electric mabob, and I probably won’t ache half as much.

On the nail business front – I invested in a Trushine Gel System and I freaking love it. It’s an easy application and easy cure with the fancy curing lamp you get in the kit. It’s even too easy to remove the gel once you’re through with having it on your digits! I wore mine for 14 entire days and there wasn’t a scratch, a mark or a chip on them gels. So worth the start-up cost. It was £120, but this buys you the removal packets, base coat, top coat, a colour coat, a set of alcohol wipes for nail prep and the curing lamp. You can see my pictures below and considering I haven’t painted my nails in a year – I don’t think the outcome was too bad.

And on that very mixed note of a blog post, I’m out for today. But back tomorrow with a recipe – which there hasn’t been one in ages.
Love and best,

L xox

I Would Call My Fashion Sense…

I would call my fashion sense “clothes that still fit”. 

Spent an entire Sunday walking round Halifax to find maternity clothes as I amcurrently down to one pair of jeans due to having cut my second to last pair of jeans down the front with a pair of kitchen scissors. Hey they fit, but they were mighty uncomfortable and in the heat of the moment a pair of scissors seemed like the best option. So Sunday was undoubtedly a good day because I was taking mum out for belated Mother’s day celebrations and it was lovely. But not so good because everything thing I tried on fit but cut in the wrong places…. cut mid bump isn’t flattering. Having two bumps is not attractive. Not one single shop stocked maternity wear. Not one single shop!

So in the safety of my own home, in a dress that is getting shorter by the day due to a growing mid section, I ventured into the world of online shopping.  The world of New Look online shopping. And my goodness I had fun adding it all to the basket and picking out a few tops to go with the jeans and work trousers I’d chosen. 

Today my choices arrived, I waited patiently till I got home to pull the garments out of there neat plastic bags. I even waited right before bed time before trying the new purchases on. BIG MISTAKE! 

I don’t know which was the biggest mistake, thinking online shopping would be easy or thinking I’d look as sweet as the models did on the effing website. Now I don’t class myself as a “big girl”, normally a size 8. But my goodness, the shapelessness of the tops I’ve ended up with makes me look positively mammoth. And I know my boobs have swelled to 2 cup sizes more and I known my waist is slowly disappearing into a gelatinous mass. But dear New Look; my size 8 ass still fits in my size 8 jeans I just can’t do them up because of impending child. 

There was one point where I announced  our pregnancy, a “boy” (and I use the term boy because that exactly describes some people I know) said that “it wouldn’t matter what you wear, you will end up looking like you’re wearing a tent anyway”. Well gee thanks! I hope that if you are one day lucky enough to get someone pregnant (thats assuming you managed to get laid first) you finally understand what that set of kind words has done to a woman’s complex. As if it wasn’t difficult enough to adjust and accommodate AND to grow a human child?!  

So all the shapeless tent tops are going to be returned. Luckily the jeans and work trousers are a win, I’m sure I can squeeze my ever expanding waistline and baps into stretchy vest tops I own at least that will mean I don’t have to wear pj’s to work. Which by the way is looking like a mighty fine option right about now. 

Dear child of mine, it’s a very good job that my love for you is beyond measure. No one has ever been worth my waistline until you. 

Blessings from the waist (it’s bigger than my heart at current),

L xox

Duck or Bump?!

Excuse the messy hair and bed… it’s cleaning day. 

Can’t work out if that lump is duck related or future child related? Today I’m officially 16 weeks meaning there is only outwards to grown now. Which I’m classing as a good thing. I have been having an issue with just feeling podgy, and until Thursday I was wearing my own jeans still. I refer to these as my own jeans because maternity pants just don’t look like they belong to me. Elasticated waist bands, oh so attractive and not my thing really. Comfort points to elastic now and encourages me to go shopping and buy work parts that fit my ever expanding waistline. But hey, it’s inevitable, so embraced this change will be. 

Wish me luck. Heaven knows I’ll need it.

L xox 

Erm What Just Happened?! 

Today I: Got told that it wasn’t going to matter what I wear because I’d end up looking like I was eventually wearing a tent anyway. Told said person to shut up as I might cry or rip their throat out.
I yelled at a fellow worker and gave him a demonstration of how to wipe the kitchen surface down with a dish cloth and anti-bac (not toilet paper which he was using). 
I bluntly pointed out to another fellow worker that saying “I think its aesthetically pleasing” whilst talking about Nazi’s needed more elaboration. Apparently he was referring to Hugo boss and not the blonde hair blue eyes crazy… but dude, specifics, please! 
I cried because I watched a cat rescue a puppy on a fb video.  

And greatest achievement of the day was ordering crispy duck. Now my closest will know that I won’t eat duck because I think they’re cute (completely legit fact) I’ve never eaten duck. Future child wanted duck (must get it from it’s dad), future child had womb service. I ATE duck… what the actual?! 

Tomorrow = who knows? World domination? Crying in to coco pops? Maybe I’ll stay in bed.

Love and best 

L xox 

Hello Banjo

Late last night while Man was snoring away, I had one of those moments where I thought I was either being robbed or a horrific and deathly apparition would appear at the end of my bed. Yes Demon Dog was downstairs in the house. The truth of it is, if we did get broken in to I’m pretty damn sure Demon Dog would welcome any intruders with a cup of tea and a very large hug. Or in reality a bouncy hello and a sloppy puppy kiss.

So lying in bed thinking I was about to be murdered the sudden realisation hit me! The likelihood of the burglar/murder/deathly apparition actually being able to reach the bed or even the upstairs quarters would be highly unlikely with the amount of rubbish, clothes, cat toys and dog toys all over the floor (from the front door to the bed. Imagine a ripping tornado screaming through your home – yeah, that’s our animals, me and Man on a long week. Habits that must be broken before the little addition arrives. This little and very logical realisation lead to another – operation tidy/clean must certainly commence in the AM once the Mini had been dropped at the garage for the MOT and service.

I’ve been mad at my Grandmother for a couple of weeks. My close family will understand exactly why, and because of this I’ve not managed to see my Granddad for a couple of weeks either. This morning I had a call from her asking me to sit with my Granddad so she could do out and take some flooring back to B&Q. Initially I was mad and didn’t want to go, but this was purely for my Granddad so agreed to pop over in the afternoon once I had my car back. I finished operation tidy/clean and cracked on with lunch for man and I of scrambled eggs on toast once he had got home from work and I had pick up my failure of a car (knowing it’s going to cost me more than it did today as it is back in next Saturday as well).

Arriving at my grandparents, my Grandma faffed about a little and then left with the promise of “I’ll be as quick as I can”, leaving me and my partner in crime alone so the mischief could begin. At first he was all over the place, he was trying to tell me about the episode he had had that morning. His mind plays tricks on his eyes sometimes, it sends messages to his vision centre and he ended up seeing multiple of actual reality. His reality is doubled and skewed. He was very confused and it came across in the way he was trying to tell me about it. I picked up his Banjo, he’s had it for years. It’s probably never been re-stringed and it has never really mattered as I can’t remember him playing it since three house moves ago. I will have been about seven or eight. We used to sit in his little man cave, he would have been watching footy on the smallest TV in the world when I’d interrupt. He’d grab his banjo and start to play George Formby he would be singing along too “I’m leaning on a Lamppost at the corner of the street until a certain little lady comes by, oooh meee, oohhh myy, until a certain little lady comes by”. I can still hear him singing it with a smile on his face.

Regardless of his eye sight not being what it was, he watch intently as I unwound the strings and came to my first problem. The 5th string is wound round a key about half way down the neck of the banjo. The key was loose and I needed a screwdriver to tighten it. This triggered a little conversation in where he told me he had a guitar to show me. We broke into the conservatory (I say ‘broke in’ as my grandma keeps it locked so he cannot make a mess *sigh*) and he pulls out a barely used electric guitar he had been given. He told me it was too heavy and we packaged it back up and placed it back where he got it from. He was then adamant that there was another guitar. In his wardrobe of all places – I wasn’t really on board for the hunt for this guitar, yet I followed him like I did as a child in his garden when I used to throw up the leaves he had just raked.

Granddad started rummaging through the wardrobe like a crazy thing under my watchful eye. I couldn’t see anything, but then he asked me to look. I did. Low and behold there is a guitar stuffed at the back of the wardrobe and as I pull it from its hiding place his eyes came alive. We peel it out of the case, it’s the classical I knew he had. Haven’t seen it in a while, it’s nothing expensive but it holds memories of when he used to play. We sat in his room while I tuned in and played a few chords from my teens and a piece that I love for him. “I’m sure there’s another one” he said to me and starts looking for another guitar literally everywhere. Literally EVERYWHERE.

In the wardrobe, in the shower which is in the wardrobe (the previous house owner had a James Bond style appetite for gadgets), in the brand new kitchen, in the living room, behind the sofa, under the sofa cushions, behind the curtains, in all the cupboards. No avail. So a hunch tells me something, I follow the hunch. I present to him the electric guitar he has shown me previously. “OH where did you find that?” he was utterly amazed. I tried not to laugh and told him it was hidden away in the other room. I then played for what seemed like hours on all three different stringed boxed. Fathomed out his favourite “Duelling Banjos” on the banjo as he hummed it out perfectly by my side.

It’s taken me since Saturday to write this post, but on Sunday I got a call from my granddad asking me to get him a book so he could learn something on his Guitar. He was so excited and so him again. I’ve been stuck home since Sunday with the most relentless migraine. It has eased up today and turned in to more of a headache with a killer side of acid reflux (the joy) but my concentration span isn’t so great.

Evan managed to cause a riot on one of the lovely mum sites this morning when airing my opinion about the lack of reasonably priced brightly coloured gender neutral baby clothes. Looks like we will be finding out the gender of the baby.

L xox

My Least Favourite Things to Throw Up

Finally I can start to write freely about that last few months. I say finally because the last two most has properly dragged. We FINALLY announced that we are expecting. We are getting Aro a human sibling. I am currently 13 weeks pregnant and my experience so far has been that of a roller-coaster, probably a similar idea if not the same for most expectant Mams.

I found out a day before my missed period, with a curiosity test after several failed pee sticks in the back of my mind. Genuinely thinking that the small strip test, bought in bulk from the internet was going to come up with just the test line and nothing else. My first challenge was peeing in a cup. Well not a cup, because the last time I did this I felt too strange about re-using the cup for anything actually drinkable so it ended up filed under B1N. I opted for the lid for the shaving foam on the side of the bath (thoroughly washed out)… nothing was ever drank out of it, nothing will ever be drunk out of it. Problem solved. Although it was a rather small pot to pee in, which comes with its own difficulties.  The little card strip got dipped in the pot of pee up to the ‘do not cross’ line and the two mins wait while I dried my hair wasn’t too bad as I was expecting it to do nothing anyway –“I’m not that lucky” I thought.

I peered at the pee stick with no hope, to see what I expected. Absolutely nothing. I continued to get ready that morning (it was a Saturday so a leisurely job). I picked up the stick again, admitting defeat and about to throw it in the bin. BUT, in whatever different light I picked it up in there was an ever so pale and slight second pink line. I was adamant that it was my imagination. Even took photo’s half ready to post it online to see if anyone on my fave mamma site could decide either way. My head won the battle and remembered there was a digital pee stick in the bedside draw (groupon purchase). Disgustingly the pee pot was still on the side of the bath, which meant for east testing. Dip and wait.

Only the longest 3 freaking minuets of my entire existence. The pee stick had this stupid count down on it, and with each flash of a grey square I got closer to the stick till I was knelt on the bathroom floor with my nose practically touching the dip stick.

One word appeared after the damn thing stopped flashing. PREGNANT.

Between that moment and Man getting home from a Saturday morning shift, I was almost certainly more of a fidget than normally. Id prepared how I’d tell him months before. Making a somewhat geeky joke involving a T.A.R.D.I.S baby grow and card. Implied meaning “bigger on the inside”.

The week we found out, was the week we lost Man’s Dad. So very mixed emotions and it didn’t feel like we could be amazingly glad of our news when something unbelievably sad was going on. We told our closest family in early December with Christmas cards, and wrote a Christmas card to Granddad and asked for it to be placed in the casket with Man’s pops. I know he will know now where ever his spirit is, but I know Man took it hard because he couldn’t tell him.

The rest of the family found out on Christmas day. One of the first questions ask was “well does that mean you’re getting married then” – URGH archaic thought process.

From week 7 through to current I have thrown up almost every single night. I can confidently tell you that out of all the tea time treats I have vom’d that Spaghetti is my least favourite thing to chuck up, closely followed by sausages (these were horrifically spikey on the wrong way out, and I’m pretty sure I damaged my oesophagus regurgitating this delight). I’m very much looking forward to not throwing up on a night…. I’m hoping at least that it will ease off. 

L xox