I recently read that a famous celebrity mum was 'shamed' online for being honest about her pregnancy experiences. She openly admitted that she had hated being pregnant and that it was basically Hell for her from start to finish:
"I just don't think pregnancy and me really agree with each other [...] I'm really not complaining, I'm just being honest. ... I hate it. You know, pregnancy is not for me."
This prompted an immediate, fiery backlash online. Comments such as 'You don't deserve to have children' and 'How selfish, you should be ashamed of yourself' were rife. One argument that seemed to pop up most often was along the lines of 'How dare you complain when thousands of women struggle with fertility issues'.
I kind of get it. I do. Frankly this particular celebrity is well-known for being a vapid, selfish, whining waste of oxygen, which very likely doesn't help her cause. But I just cannot condone the negativity she has received in response to her comments.
PREGNANCY CAN BE S**T!
Not always.
Not all the time.
Not for everyone
But it absolutely CAN be.
In general, you will very likely feel like death (not even warmed up) for approximately 30 weeks out of 40. If anyone felt that ill for that long and wasn't pregnant there would be no end of sympathy and support. But the second a child is involved people get up in arms, ready to deny you your right to bare children simply because you didn't enjoy the journey.
Obviously the end result is worth it, otherwise we would have died out long ago. And not all pregnancies are the same either. My first was a walk in the park compared to my current 'rollercoaster'.
To put things into context (and before I am lynched), in the last 31 weeks I have experienced:
painful stomach cramps, bleeding which lasted over 8 weeks, miscarriage scares, persistent nausea, vomiting so much I couldn't even keep down water, several rather extreme bouts of diarrhea, uncontrollable shivering, blinding headaches, dry skin so bad my hands and feet have split open, severe pelvic girdle pain, lower back issues, all-over muscle cramps, swollen feet, constant blinding heartburn, insomnia, restless legs (and arms, and body!), worsening of asthma symptoms, random development of hay fever and other skin allergies, constantly itchy nose, bacterial infection, sore teeth and gums, AND I now have to regularly stab myself in the finger thanks to suspected Gestational Diabetes!!
That's not even including the indignity of vaginal exams, the 3 hour waits in hospital receptions, monthly weigh-ins, not being able to lift or move or do anything, or the fact that none of my clothes fit, not to mention the rapidly approaching horizon of the actual birth, breastfeeding and raising a baby with a toddler in the house!
*and breathe*
I LOOOOOOVE my daughter, more than anything else in the whole world. I cannot imagine a more perfect little human. I am positive I will feel the same about our second.
I have also hated this pregnancy.
Both can be true, and that's ok.
Yes the little nudges and kicks are quite wonderful (not so much the all-out stretches!), and I do love that for once my chest actually looks in proportion to my body. It's incredible to see her jumping and swallowing and kicking in black-and-white ultrasound pictures, but I've pretty much already decided I don't ever want to be pregnant again. I haven't completely ruled out a 3rd child maybe some time in the future, but honestly, given how much I have struggled through this pregnancy, and given how much harder it has been than my first, I just don't think I could put myself through it again.
I don't feel that makes me a bad person. One of my best friends has struggled with fertility issues to the point of pretty much giving up all hope. Another friend finds herself single, Aunty to 3 and desperate for a child of her own. Yet another finds herself (and her husband) under constant pressure to procreate when neither of them has any intention of doing so! My not enjoying this pregnancy doesn't make me blind to their struggles, I just wouldn't be cruel enough to complain about it in front of them. If I need to vent I know I have other mum friends who have had similar experiences and will offer a sympathetic ear. I know I can log in and have a rant anonymously on a pregnancy forum and find similar stories being shared in response. I know my husband is pretty much contractually obliged to listen to my complaining! In short, I know to choose my audience.
I suppose that's the difficulty with 'celebrity'; you can't really choose your audience. When Miss Thing made those comments, she made them to the world. While I am absolutely positive there will have been plenty of mums out there having a rotten old time and wholeheartedly agreeing with her, they were not the only ones who heard. It all boils down to point of view. She was short sighted in that she didn't think how her words might affect those with different experiences, such as those struggling to start a family. At the same time those posting hateful comments were only seeing her through their own narrow viewpoint, and need to take a step back and realise that not everyone goes through the same things in life. We all need to be a bit more mindful of that.
It's ok to hate being pregnant.
It's ok to be jealous of those who are pregnant.
It's ok to be contented by yourself and not want children.
It is NOT ok to shame others for feeling differently to you, no matter who they are.
Counting the positives... and the square footage.
I know I can't be the only one who tends to miss the little positives when they happen. As I continue through this pregnancy my anxiety is definitely growing, and I am becoming decidedly more duck-like! *Calm on the surface, paddling like billio underneath, trying desperately to stay afloat.*
There will always be things to worry about. I'm talking proper grown-up 'adult' worries. Like why does the Tax man still think my husband is self employed after 2 years of working PAYE, and do we or do we not owe them over £2000? Or how am I supposed to reduce our payments on the house if his work won't give him access to the payslips we need in order to remortgage? Or how on earth are we supposed to fit yet another child into said house when new-builds have ZERO storage space and we were already struggling to fit with just the one?
That last one has kept me up at nights, especially recently. With every kick, every nudge, every 'Jees O, will you get your foot out of there!' I am reminded that we are on a fairly tight, absolute, unyielding schedule. This baby WILL arrive before the end of August, one way or another. While I think we can all agree that the infant itself will take up relatively little space (not much more than a hamster really) it's everything else that has me in a bit of a panic.
The generosity of others never ceases to amaze me. Following the birth of our first daughter we had to floor the loft in order to store the many MANY clothes, toys, play centres, feeding accessories and jungle gyms that suddenly filled our tiny home. I fully intend to reuse as much as possible with our second, but you can be fairly sure the same wonderful people are going to gift just as much, and while I am thrilled to have these people in our lives and can hardly wait to see what little delights she is given, nonetheless, space is going to be tight.
So it was important to me that this weekend we made at least SOME headway with the nursery, or as it had become known, 'the stuff room'. Of course, this would have been a lot simpler if my husband hadn't been working all Saturday and half of Sunday...
Still, the nesting instinct is STRONG and I knew I had to made some headway this weekend, possibly because it was the weekend before my final week of work. Beyond that maternity leave stretches out like a cursed blessing. We had already dismantled a lot of the furniture, but with much of this still piled up in the room it was hard to imagine how it could ever become the harmonious space I had envisioned. Luckily my dad (A.K.A. Superman) was on hand Saturday morning to shift the things that are currently too heavy for me, which is just about everything!
Goodbye old desk that saw me through Uni and beyond.
Goodbye craft storage tower; I have no time to enjoy you now anyway.
Farewell teenage wardrobe, come converted reptile housing, come bookshelf; you were my favourite.
And just like that the room was mostly empty (save the massive pile of shoes that I literally have NO place for - that's next weekend's problem). My Stuff, my past life, was gone. Thrown into the back of a trailer and headed for the tip. Just like that. Sigh. The joys of motherhood eh?
But this is what I'm talking about. I could dwell on the fact that my identity has been slowly stripped away over the last few years and replaced with something resembling my own mother (dear God), OR I could focus on the fact that I don't need the old me any more.
I don't need to be self-conscious about my body, because Eliza thinks I'm beautiful. I don't need to collect and breed pets like that are going extinct (seriously, I had 18 lizards at one point!) because I now have an outlet for my mothering, caring instincts. I don't need to throw myself into work, even at the weekends, because there is no time to be bored anymore!
Yes, it's still occasionally jarring to realise just how much my life has changed, but then I remember, I wasn't actually that happy before we started our little family. I battled with anxiety and depression for YEARS. Then Eliza arrived and there was no time to over think. Everything became so much simple, despite actually being more complicated. Being 'mummy' gave me a clarity of thought I had never known. The fact is I was a mum long before I had children. In reality I am more me now that I ever was before.
So what are the positives from this weekend, I hear you ask:
There will always be things to worry about. I'm talking proper grown-up 'adult' worries. Like why does the Tax man still think my husband is self employed after 2 years of working PAYE, and do we or do we not owe them over £2000? Or how am I supposed to reduce our payments on the house if his work won't give him access to the payslips we need in order to remortgage? Or how on earth are we supposed to fit yet another child into said house when new-builds have ZERO storage space and we were already struggling to fit with just the one?
That last one has kept me up at nights, especially recently. With every kick, every nudge, every 'Jees O, will you get your foot out of there!' I am reminded that we are on a fairly tight, absolute, unyielding schedule. This baby WILL arrive before the end of August, one way or another. While I think we can all agree that the infant itself will take up relatively little space (not much more than a hamster really) it's everything else that has me in a bit of a panic.
The generosity of others never ceases to amaze me. Following the birth of our first daughter we had to floor the loft in order to store the many MANY clothes, toys, play centres, feeding accessories and jungle gyms that suddenly filled our tiny home. I fully intend to reuse as much as possible with our second, but you can be fairly sure the same wonderful people are going to gift just as much, and while I am thrilled to have these people in our lives and can hardly wait to see what little delights she is given, nonetheless, space is going to be tight.
So it was important to me that this weekend we made at least SOME headway with the nursery, or as it had become known, 'the stuff room'. Of course, this would have been a lot simpler if my husband hadn't been working all Saturday and half of Sunday...
Still, the nesting instinct is STRONG and I knew I had to made some headway this weekend, possibly because it was the weekend before my final week of work. Beyond that maternity leave stretches out like a cursed blessing. We had already dismantled a lot of the furniture, but with much of this still piled up in the room it was hard to imagine how it could ever become the harmonious space I had envisioned. Luckily my dad (A.K.A. Superman) was on hand Saturday morning to shift the things that are currently too heavy for me, which is just about everything!
Goodbye old desk that saw me through Uni and beyond.
Goodbye craft storage tower; I have no time to enjoy you now anyway.
Farewell teenage wardrobe, come converted reptile housing, come bookshelf; you were my favourite.
And just like that the room was mostly empty (save the massive pile of shoes that I literally have NO place for - that's next weekend's problem). My Stuff, my past life, was gone. Thrown into the back of a trailer and headed for the tip. Just like that. Sigh. The joys of motherhood eh?
But this is what I'm talking about. I could dwell on the fact that my identity has been slowly stripped away over the last few years and replaced with something resembling my own mother (dear God), OR I could focus on the fact that I don't need the old me any more.
I don't need to be self-conscious about my body, because Eliza thinks I'm beautiful. I don't need to collect and breed pets like that are going extinct (seriously, I had 18 lizards at one point!) because I now have an outlet for my mothering, caring instincts. I don't need to throw myself into work, even at the weekends, because there is no time to be bored anymore!
Yes, it's still occasionally jarring to realise just how much my life has changed, but then I remember, I wasn't actually that happy before we started our little family. I battled with anxiety and depression for YEARS. Then Eliza arrived and there was no time to over think. Everything became so much simple, despite actually being more complicated. Being 'mummy' gave me a clarity of thought I had never known. The fact is I was a mum long before I had children. In reality I am more me now that I ever was before.
So what are the positives from this weekend, I hear you ask:
- The old cot was moved into the new baby room and I can actually see it, like really picture it as a baby's room now. I was even able to help lift it!
- We managed to find just enough time to build our toddler's new 'big bed'.
- She and I had a great time shopping for bedding chosen by her (and she managed to choose from the Sale!)
- The toddler room is now (more or less) finished! Just need to get her a wee desk and chair (so cute!) It should do her for the next few years at least.
- The cot fit! I wasn't 100% sure it would as it really is a very, VERY small room, but it fits and from what i can see so will the rest of the furniture we need :)
There is plenty left to do (hospital bag anyone?!) but I feel 100000000 x better heading into maternity leave knowing that the big jobs are mostly done, and the little things (and the toddler!) will keep me occupied until baby arrives.
All in all, a pretty successful weekend :)
Tokophobia - The Fear
Tokophobia is a fear of childbirth or labour.
I have 'The fear'
Big time.
As the weeks tick by in this, our second pregnancy, I am becoming increasingly anxious at the thought of the 'final exam'. With our first there was an element of worry, obviously, but it was a fear of the unknown. It could only build to a certain level and nothing more as I didn't fully understand what there was to be afraid of. How could I? I'd never done this before. I did what I could and armed myself with as much knowledge as possible. I knew I had a pretty high pain threshold going in and I read up on all the options available to me with regards to relieving some of that pain. What more could I do?
My birth, on paper, looks like every first-time-mum's dream. No interventions, no issues, no problems of any kind really. A quick 'Achoo!' and out she popped! I barely even made a sound.
Unfortunately, what the midwives (and my husband) failed to realise at the time was that I was quiet for a very different reason to what they may have expected. Yes, my birth plan (HA!) alluded to the use of hypnobirthing techniques and maintaining a relaxed (HA HA!) atmosphere. Yes, between contractions I 'rested' as my body took over and suddenly learned how to 'power nap'. But it was not Zen I was experiencing. It was trauma.
I was quiet because I knew the only sound I could make would be an all-consuming, blood-curdling scream, and I was frightened if I started I wouldn't be able to stop.
I was still because I was trying desperately to disconnect with what was happening, to leave my body behind.
I was drifting in and out of consciousness because I was honestly, genuinely, willing myself to die.
I wasn't pushing. I knew that. My body was contracting and the urge was there, but I ignored it for as long as I possibly could. Having never done this before in my life, I knew EXACTLY what was happening, and what would happen next. I remember saying 'I'll try a push now'. The midwives didn't even have their gloves on when she arrived, all of 2.5 seconds later.
I had pushed once.
Sounds great right?
My body didn't think so. It was too fast. She tore her way out of me before I'd even registered what was happening and 'exploded' onto my socks. I didn't even see it happening. I was facing the wrong way (on my hands and knees). Apparently she was born still inside her bag of water. There was just enough of a pause for my husband to describe the scene before him as 'weird' and 'wet' before she was in the world and sprawled across my feet.
Afterwards one of the girls commented that she was sure the only reason I hadn't fainted from shock was that I was already lying down. I fully agreed.
So as I say, on paper, one push = lovely jubbly, job done.
Reality never quite matches our expectations though, does it.
I have 'The fear'
Big time.
As the weeks tick by in this, our second pregnancy, I am becoming increasingly anxious at the thought of the 'final exam'. With our first there was an element of worry, obviously, but it was a fear of the unknown. It could only build to a certain level and nothing more as I didn't fully understand what there was to be afraid of. How could I? I'd never done this before. I did what I could and armed myself with as much knowledge as possible. I knew I had a pretty high pain threshold going in and I read up on all the options available to me with regards to relieving some of that pain. What more could I do?
My birth, on paper, looks like every first-time-mum's dream. No interventions, no issues, no problems of any kind really. A quick 'Achoo!' and out she popped! I barely even made a sound.
Unfortunately, what the midwives (and my husband) failed to realise at the time was that I was quiet for a very different reason to what they may have expected. Yes, my birth plan (HA!) alluded to the use of hypnobirthing techniques and maintaining a relaxed (HA HA!) atmosphere. Yes, between contractions I 'rested' as my body took over and suddenly learned how to 'power nap'. But it was not Zen I was experiencing. It was trauma.
I was quiet because I knew the only sound I could make would be an all-consuming, blood-curdling scream, and I was frightened if I started I wouldn't be able to stop.
I was still because I was trying desperately to disconnect with what was happening, to leave my body behind.
I was drifting in and out of consciousness because I was honestly, genuinely, willing myself to die.
I wasn't pushing. I knew that. My body was contracting and the urge was there, but I ignored it for as long as I possibly could. Having never done this before in my life, I knew EXACTLY what was happening, and what would happen next. I remember saying 'I'll try a push now'. The midwives didn't even have their gloves on when she arrived, all of 2.5 seconds later.
I had pushed once.
Sounds great right?
My body didn't think so. It was too fast. She tore her way out of me before I'd even registered what was happening and 'exploded' onto my socks. I didn't even see it happening. I was facing the wrong way (on my hands and knees). Apparently she was born still inside her bag of water. There was just enough of a pause for my husband to describe the scene before him as 'weird' and 'wet' before she was in the world and sprawled across my feet.
Afterwards one of the girls commented that she was sure the only reason I hadn't fainted from shock was that I was already lying down. I fully agreed.
So as I say, on paper, one push = lovely jubbly, job done.
Reality never quite matches our expectations though, does it.
This time
This time, I will be better.
Isn't that what we all say to ourselves, probably far too often? This time?
This time, I will go out walking more often with the pram.
This time, I will meet up with other mummies.
This time, I will try reusable nappies and wipes and be an 'eco-mum'.
This time, I will lose tonnes (almost literally!) of weight and be healthy and skinny and successful and have it all!
This time, breastfeeding will be easy.
This time, it will work.
This time, I will not listen to the many differing opinions on why my boobs are not working!
Because they did work. They really did. They were full to burst before our first was even born. So much so that I felt the pain of blocked ducts several days before her arrival with no baby to suckle and relieve the pressure. We lay in bed, my husband and I, while I cried in pain and he helplessly tried his best to massage my chest and soothe the burning. I rubbed, I massaged, I even punched into submission my giant, swollen breasts. The pain eased a little, but there was still no babe to feed, and so I was doomed from the start. If only I'd known that at the time...
She was 2 days old and I was sat in a doctor's waiting room, a red, puffy, painful mass spreading across my right boob, like the world's worst pins and needles. My poor brother in law had driven me there while their Mother, a brand new Grandmother, babysat and hoped beyond all hope that she didn't need fed while I was out. 'Dr Halitosis' confirmed: Mastitis. The antibiotics would likely make both mother and baby feel sick. My tiny daughter would have stomach cramps and explosive nappies before she was a week old.
Everyone knew exactly what I should do.
Isn't that what we all say to ourselves, probably far too often? This time?
This time, I will go out walking more often with the pram.
This time, I will meet up with other mummies.
This time, I will try reusable nappies and wipes and be an 'eco-mum'.
This time, I will lose tonnes (almost literally!) of weight and be healthy and skinny and successful and have it all!
This time, breastfeeding will be easy.
This time, it will work.
This time, I will not listen to the many differing opinions on why my boobs are not working!
Because they did work. They really did. They were full to burst before our first was even born. So much so that I felt the pain of blocked ducts several days before her arrival with no baby to suckle and relieve the pressure. We lay in bed, my husband and I, while I cried in pain and he helplessly tried his best to massage my chest and soothe the burning. I rubbed, I massaged, I even punched into submission my giant, swollen breasts. The pain eased a little, but there was still no babe to feed, and so I was doomed from the start. If only I'd known that at the time...
She was 2 days old and I was sat in a doctor's waiting room, a red, puffy, painful mass spreading across my right boob, like the world's worst pins and needles. My poor brother in law had driven me there while their Mother, a brand new Grandmother, babysat and hoped beyond all hope that she didn't need fed while I was out. 'Dr Halitosis' confirmed: Mastitis. The antibiotics would likely make both mother and baby feel sick. My tiny daughter would have stomach cramps and explosive nappies before she was a week old.
Everyone knew exactly what I should do.
- 'You should lie down, preferably in bed. A comfy mum is a happy mum and a happy mum can breastfeed more easily.'
- 'Oh my goodness, they've not got you lying down have they!' That was a laughable concept. I should sit up, in a supported space, preferably a chair with good sturdy arms. Baby would feel more secure and I would have my hands free to ensure a good latch.
- 'Give her water. You only had water for the first 10 days after you were born.' Cooled, boiled water was perfectly fine and would 'kick-start her wee tummy'. When she was hungry, she would feed.
- 'NO! Definitely don't give her water!' Her stomach was only designed to digest breastmilk or first-milk substitute (formula) at the moment. Anything else would make her very ill indeed.
- 'She's dehydrated and needs fluids immediately. Give her a bottle of your expressed milk. Otherwise you'll have to bring her back in to the hospital.'
- 'Don't give a bottle in the first 4 weeks. It will cause nipple confusion and you'll find it harder to breastfeed.'
- 'Pinch your breast and put it into her mouth.'
- 'Don't touch your breast. Any pressure can cause blocked ducts and will affect her latch.'
- 'Use the rugby hold.'
- 'Lie her on a table and lean over her.'
- 'Ask your husband to hold her on you.'
- 'Don't hold her against you.'
- 'Don't force it.'
- 'Relax.'
After 6 weeks of 'expressing' (read 'milking myself like a cow'), we switched to formula. She fed. She slept. She was happy, healthy, gaining weight, and perfectly perfect.
The relief.
The guilt.
Then the bitterness.
So this time, this time, I will do my own research.
This time I will hire my own trained breastfeeding support expert and kindly ask ALL others ('trained' or otherwise) to BUTT OUT.
This time, it will work.
This time, I will be better.
This time.
Our 'son'
'He' was doing so well. I knew it. I felt it in my bones, in my blood, and it the f**king awful heartburn! It was a boy. A son. Our son.
With our first I honestly didn't have a preference. I was scared that a girl would be difficult (like I was) or bitchy and dramatic (like the girls at school). I was scared that a boy would be super hungry (like my brother) and more than I had milk for, or hyper and full of excess energy (like my brother's friends growing up). Either way, I was scared, and pretty clueless as to what lay ahead, so really it made no difference!
When our little girl was born we were delighted. She was beautiful and perfect. She had all of our 'good' qualities and (seemingly) none of the 'bad'. She was gentle and quiet, she slept soundly, and she was utterly gorgeous beyond words.
Perfect.
This time around I knew exactly what I wanted. I had my little girl. My oldest girl, just like me. Now I wanted a son. A younger boy, just like my brother. That was what I knew. That was what I had always grown up imagining. That was the future I had always pictured for myself; a recreation of my own happy childhood. One of each. Lovely.
But I was worried. I now knew just how difficult those first few days/ weeks could be. I remember well the rush of hormones (or sudden lack of) on day 6, when the world collapses in around you and you just crumble, wandering off upstairs to your bed half-way through attempting to make dinner, leaving a ruined, burnt lump of 'it-was-supposed-to-be-pasta' on the hob and a screaming baby in the arms of your bewildered husband, tears rolling down your face as your disappear 'forever' under the duvet.
I had no intention of throwing 'gender disappointment' into the mix as well!
So it was decided that this time we would find out. We booked a private gender scan (thanks to NHS Scotland's weird/ inconsistent policies on gender reveals) for the 21st week.
When the day came I was petrified. I was elated. I was mildly high from the much-anticipated can of Irn Bru to 'wake baby up'.
The receptionist asked us to sit, but I could barely keep still. Our Little Miss was just 'coming into her own' and was displaying all the patience of an angered Honey Badger in her demands for 'moa waisins!' We were stressed. Finally (20 minutes late) our names were called and we moved through to the little examination room. Someone (obviously someone with children who knew exactly what kind of day we were having) had set up a little play area in the corner of the room. The terrible twos were quickly placated by the discovery of 'A telescope!' (a cardboard tube) and we were free to concentrate on the matter at hand. Numero dos.
Suddenly I felt sick. What if. What if it was. What if it wasn't. What if... I hadn't even considered!?
The consultant got to work quickly and within seconds announced 'Ooo, I know what you're having...'
We squinted at the grainy image on the over-large LCD screen.
'Can you tell?'
... No I bloody can't! That's the point of you!
Wait... is that... could it be?...
I saw a 'protrusion'....
My heart skipped a beat. My breath caught in my chest. I turned to look at my husband, the word on my lips...
'It's a Girl!' she squealed gleefully.
Oh.
'Right there, those are her little girly bits!' She circled them on the screen. She even labelled them 'girly bits'. (Seriously, it's on the printed picture.)
It was the cord.
I had seen the cord.
And it was upside down.
F*ck.
My husband gentle squeezed my hand. We smiled.
She obviously was obviously more adept at reading the room in this moment than we'd given her credit for. She went quiet (small miracles) and began busying herself getting photos for us to take away.
We kept smiling. We told our daughter ('Mummy look at the telescope!) still smiling. We smiled as we accepted our gift pack and baby photos, as we passed reception, as we nodded to all the other mummies and daddies waiting patiently, all the way out to the car.
As we drove away the smiles faded. I was quiet.
He had always said he didn't mind. Boy or girl, he was just happy with a second child.
He was also quiet.
'Are you disappointed?' I already knew his answer.
'I didn't think I would be...'
'Me too.'
We managed all the way home before the crying. He tried to cheer me up with a quick detour to Tesco for a 'cute little girly outfit'. They were cute I suppose, but I was blind to them. I only had eyes for the beautiful blue romper, complete with tiny shirt and bow tie. Suffice to say we didn't buy anything. I was whisked away before I completely lost control. He took the toddler downstairs to be babysat by CBeebies ('Uncle Andy!'), while I trudged up the stairs to our room. I was uncomfortable in my too-small jeans. I'd feel better once I got changed.
By the time he came to investigate I was sitting on the floor, half naked, head in hands, sobbing like a fool.
I felt awful. I was an awful person; an awful Mother. Our baby was happy and healthy and had survived despite all earlier signs pointing to miscarriage. And yet here I was, crying because 'it wasn't the one I wanted'. I was a monster.
I found reassurance online in the form of another blog. A normal mum, like me (though rather more famous), had felt disappointed after having not 2 but 3 boys. I realised it was ok for me to feel that initial pang of regret, perhaps even to try again some day. As long as I didn't let it colour how I treated our new bundle, and I knew that would never happen.
So while I still find it hard to picture myself as a mother of two girls (funnily enough 2 boys doesn't seem so strange!) I know I will love our second daughter just as much as I have adored our first. And I am still glad we found out when we did. I definitely would have felt 100000 times worse to have been disappointed whilst staring into the innocent, blue eyes of our newborn!. I still feel when I see the blue wall at Tesco, and I spent far too much last week on our friends' new baby boy (I got carried away with all the cute!), but our eldest is going to be an amazing big sister and I can't wait to see them playing together and laughing and running around and doing all the things that prompted us to have a second child in the first place. Yes, there will be tantrums and screaming matches, and yes I do worry what mothering 2 teenage girls is going to entail (*help*), but I can honestly say I'm looking forward to meeting her, whomever she turns out to be.
Now...
What on earth do we call her when we've already used that name!?
With our first I honestly didn't have a preference. I was scared that a girl would be difficult (like I was) or bitchy and dramatic (like the girls at school). I was scared that a boy would be super hungry (like my brother) and more than I had milk for, or hyper and full of excess energy (like my brother's friends growing up). Either way, I was scared, and pretty clueless as to what lay ahead, so really it made no difference!
When our little girl was born we were delighted. She was beautiful and perfect. She had all of our 'good' qualities and (seemingly) none of the 'bad'. She was gentle and quiet, she slept soundly, and she was utterly gorgeous beyond words.
Perfect.
This time around I knew exactly what I wanted. I had my little girl. My oldest girl, just like me. Now I wanted a son. A younger boy, just like my brother. That was what I knew. That was what I had always grown up imagining. That was the future I had always pictured for myself; a recreation of my own happy childhood. One of each. Lovely.
But I was worried. I now knew just how difficult those first few days/ weeks could be. I remember well the rush of hormones (or sudden lack of) on day 6, when the world collapses in around you and you just crumble, wandering off upstairs to your bed half-way through attempting to make dinner, leaving a ruined, burnt lump of 'it-was-supposed-to-be-pasta' on the hob and a screaming baby in the arms of your bewildered husband, tears rolling down your face as your disappear 'forever' under the duvet.
I had no intention of throwing 'gender disappointment' into the mix as well!
So it was decided that this time we would find out. We booked a private gender scan (thanks to NHS Scotland's weird/ inconsistent policies on gender reveals) for the 21st week.
When the day came I was petrified. I was elated. I was mildly high from the much-anticipated can of Irn Bru to 'wake baby up'.
The receptionist asked us to sit, but I could barely keep still. Our Little Miss was just 'coming into her own' and was displaying all the patience of an angered Honey Badger in her demands for 'moa waisins!' We were stressed. Finally (20 minutes late) our names were called and we moved through to the little examination room. Someone (obviously someone with children who knew exactly what kind of day we were having) had set up a little play area in the corner of the room. The terrible twos were quickly placated by the discovery of 'A telescope!' (a cardboard tube) and we were free to concentrate on the matter at hand. Numero dos.
Suddenly I felt sick. What if. What if it was. What if it wasn't. What if... I hadn't even considered!?
The consultant got to work quickly and within seconds announced 'Ooo, I know what you're having...'
We squinted at the grainy image on the over-large LCD screen.
'Can you tell?'
... No I bloody can't! That's the point of you!
Wait... is that... could it be?...
I saw a 'protrusion'....
My heart skipped a beat. My breath caught in my chest. I turned to look at my husband, the word on my lips...
'It's a Girl!' she squealed gleefully.
Oh.
'Right there, those are her little girly bits!' She circled them on the screen. She even labelled them 'girly bits'. (Seriously, it's on the printed picture.)
It was the cord.
I had seen the cord.
And it was upside down.
F*ck.
My husband gentle squeezed my hand. We smiled.
She obviously was obviously more adept at reading the room in this moment than we'd given her credit for. She went quiet (small miracles) and began busying herself getting photos for us to take away.
We kept smiling. We told our daughter ('Mummy look at the telescope!) still smiling. We smiled as we accepted our gift pack and baby photos, as we passed reception, as we nodded to all the other mummies and daddies waiting patiently, all the way out to the car.
As we drove away the smiles faded. I was quiet.
He had always said he didn't mind. Boy or girl, he was just happy with a second child.
He was also quiet.
'Are you disappointed?' I already knew his answer.
'I didn't think I would be...'
'Me too.'
We managed all the way home before the crying. He tried to cheer me up with a quick detour to Tesco for a 'cute little girly outfit'. They were cute I suppose, but I was blind to them. I only had eyes for the beautiful blue romper, complete with tiny shirt and bow tie. Suffice to say we didn't buy anything. I was whisked away before I completely lost control. He took the toddler downstairs to be babysat by CBeebies ('Uncle Andy!'), while I trudged up the stairs to our room. I was uncomfortable in my too-small jeans. I'd feel better once I got changed.
By the time he came to investigate I was sitting on the floor, half naked, head in hands, sobbing like a fool.
I felt awful. I was an awful person; an awful Mother. Our baby was happy and healthy and had survived despite all earlier signs pointing to miscarriage. And yet here I was, crying because 'it wasn't the one I wanted'. I was a monster.
I found reassurance online in the form of another blog. A normal mum, like me (though rather more famous), had felt disappointed after having not 2 but 3 boys. I realised it was ok for me to feel that initial pang of regret, perhaps even to try again some day. As long as I didn't let it colour how I treated our new bundle, and I knew that would never happen.
So while I still find it hard to picture myself as a mother of two girls (funnily enough 2 boys doesn't seem so strange!) I know I will love our second daughter just as much as I have adored our first. And I am still glad we found out when we did. I definitely would have felt 100000 times worse to have been disappointed whilst staring into the innocent, blue eyes of our newborn!. I still feel when I see the blue wall at Tesco, and I spent far too much last week on our friends' new baby boy (I got carried away with all the cute!), but our eldest is going to be an amazing big sister and I can't wait to see them playing together and laughing and running around and doing all the things that prompted us to have a second child in the first place. Yes, there will be tantrums and screaming matches, and yes I do worry what mothering 2 teenage girls is going to entail (*help*), but I can honestly say I'm looking forward to meeting her, whomever she turns out to be.
Now...
What on earth do we call her when we've already used that name!?
The long wait
When our daughter was born I was so contented. She was (and is) just incredible. The most beautiful, most perfect little babe I could ever have dreamt of, and she was all mine. I didn't need anything else.
All that changed when I stopped producing milk.The hormones shifted, my body realised I was no longer pregnant or 'mothering' and started pushing me.
'Hey, you. Want another baby?'
'No thanks'
'..... are you sure?'
'..erm.... yeah?'
'Ah, go on. Have another baby... you know you want to.'
'..... it would be nice...'
And that was that. I was once again a slave to my natural (and strong!) baby-making urges. Thankfully my husband has markedly less oestrogen fuelling his decisions. So we had a chat, made a plan for THE FUTURE, and settled back into life.
He got sick.
Actually he'd been ill for a long time, but it took him so long to admit it that by the time he sought help he was already firmly gripped by anxiety and depression. Between trialling different medications, finding the correct dosage, and accidentally going 'cold-turkey', he was barely functioning.
He had a breakdown. He left his job. Life was put 'on hold'.
I was scared for him, for us all.
Things slowly improved. He found the right medicine for him (and got better at actually taking it!). He got a new job working with friends in a sector he knows well and can excel in. Life, in general, got back on track. 'THE PLAN' was, as far as I was concerned, still the plan. We wanted another baby. We wanted a gap of more than 1 but less than 3 years. We did NOT want another birthday during the festive period - it is just too financially stressful!
The time for action was now...Now.
.......NOW!
... Now??....??... *sigh*
No action. Of any kind.
No baby for us. For me.
It took someone else's happy news to bring him out of that dark place. Our friends announced their pregnancy just a few short weeks after getting married. I was so jealous. But then, miraculously, so was he! As soon as he realised that he wanted that to be our news, our joyous announcement, we were back on the same page. All systems go!! And it happened. Straight away. We are, and have always been, so incredibly lucky in that department. All those hormones rushing around my body knew EXACTLY what to do. They got to work, they got it done.
'Pregnant'.
We were both so happy. It felt like our lives had begun anew. We were singing from the same hymn sheet, as it were, and we were thrilled. I couldn't wait to meet our new baby. Our second. Our... son? It felt right. I wish, hoped, crossed my fingers, dreamt of the day we'd meet 'him'. We'd have to wait and see...
Then I was in HELL.
I won't go into too much detail, but when I say the morning sickness was bad, I'm talking prescribed medication and weeks off work. I had to have access to a bathroom AT ALL TIMES, and I wasn't being sick... Yeah, exactly. Hell.
Next, came blood.
Constantly. A plague upon our happiness. For 8 weeks solid, a 'mini period' constantly threatening to take away our joy, to destroy what we had created, what we (I) had waited for for so long.
I was helpless.
Doctors and midwives reassured me as best they could, but I knew what I had to do. I had to accept that 'it' wasn't to be. 'He' became 'it' again, overnight. I distanced myself as much as is mentally possible when the 'thing' is inside of you. I prepared for the worst. We held off telling people. When I spoke to close friends I made sure they too were 'prepared'. It wasn't going to happen.
The weeks dragged by. 10 weeks. Still bleeding, but still there.
12 weeks. We told people. More bleeding, but doctors were 'hopeful'.
14. Bleeding
16. Bleeding
18. Bleeding
By 20 weeks I was a wreck. I wanted it over with. The longer it went on the crueler it became; some sick joke on behalf of Mother Nature. I couldn't connect with 'it'. How could I when I knew exactly where this was heading? Every 2 weeks, like clockwork. 'Spotting' they called it. I called it shit.
Slowly, very slowly, I began to hope.
I felt the first little nudge. I saw it's little mouth gulping in black and white on the screen. I tuned back in as they said we were 'progressing nicely'. My hand strayed to my stomach now whenever there was movement. A kick. A stretch. I imagined it's fragile limbs inside of mine, searching for the edges of the World. I 'soothed' it's restless body within my own. For the first time I allowed myself to feel. To love.
The sense of relief was all-consuming:
'By this point in your pregnancy, your baby has a good chance of survival if born early'.
My pregnancy app made things clear - we'd made it.
After waiting for so long, after losing our way, after battling through everything that had been thrown at us, at the end of it all, I was going to have another baby.
I can't wait :)
All that changed when I stopped producing milk.The hormones shifted, my body realised I was no longer pregnant or 'mothering' and started pushing me.
'Hey, you. Want another baby?'
'No thanks'
'..... are you sure?'
'..erm.... yeah?'
'Ah, go on. Have another baby... you know you want to.'
'..... it would be nice...'
And that was that. I was once again a slave to my natural (and strong!) baby-making urges. Thankfully my husband has markedly less oestrogen fuelling his decisions. So we had a chat, made a plan for THE FUTURE, and settled back into life.
He got sick.
Actually he'd been ill for a long time, but it took him so long to admit it that by the time he sought help he was already firmly gripped by anxiety and depression. Between trialling different medications, finding the correct dosage, and accidentally going 'cold-turkey', he was barely functioning.
He had a breakdown. He left his job. Life was put 'on hold'.
I was scared for him, for us all.
Things slowly improved. He found the right medicine for him (and got better at actually taking it!). He got a new job working with friends in a sector he knows well and can excel in. Life, in general, got back on track. 'THE PLAN' was, as far as I was concerned, still the plan. We wanted another baby. We wanted a gap of more than 1 but less than 3 years. We did NOT want another birthday during the festive period - it is just too financially stressful!
The time for action was now...Now.
.......NOW!
... Now??....??... *sigh*
No action. Of any kind.
No baby for us. For me.
It took someone else's happy news to bring him out of that dark place. Our friends announced their pregnancy just a few short weeks after getting married. I was so jealous. But then, miraculously, so was he! As soon as he realised that he wanted that to be our news, our joyous announcement, we were back on the same page. All systems go!! And it happened. Straight away. We are, and have always been, so incredibly lucky in that department. All those hormones rushing around my body knew EXACTLY what to do. They got to work, they got it done.
'Pregnant'.
We were both so happy. It felt like our lives had begun anew. We were singing from the same hymn sheet, as it were, and we were thrilled. I couldn't wait to meet our new baby. Our second. Our... son? It felt right. I wish, hoped, crossed my fingers, dreamt of the day we'd meet 'him'. We'd have to wait and see...
Then I was in HELL.
I won't go into too much detail, but when I say the morning sickness was bad, I'm talking prescribed medication and weeks off work. I had to have access to a bathroom AT ALL TIMES, and I wasn't being sick... Yeah, exactly. Hell.
Next, came blood.
Constantly. A plague upon our happiness. For 8 weeks solid, a 'mini period' constantly threatening to take away our joy, to destroy what we had created, what we (I) had waited for for so long.
I was helpless.
Doctors and midwives reassured me as best they could, but I knew what I had to do. I had to accept that 'it' wasn't to be. 'He' became 'it' again, overnight. I distanced myself as much as is mentally possible when the 'thing' is inside of you. I prepared for the worst. We held off telling people. When I spoke to close friends I made sure they too were 'prepared'. It wasn't going to happen.
The weeks dragged by. 10 weeks. Still bleeding, but still there.
12 weeks. We told people. More bleeding, but doctors were 'hopeful'.
14. Bleeding
16. Bleeding
18. Bleeding
By 20 weeks I was a wreck. I wanted it over with. The longer it went on the crueler it became; some sick joke on behalf of Mother Nature. I couldn't connect with 'it'. How could I when I knew exactly where this was heading? Every 2 weeks, like clockwork. 'Spotting' they called it. I called it shit.
Slowly, very slowly, I began to hope.
I felt the first little nudge. I saw it's little mouth gulping in black and white on the screen. I tuned back in as they said we were 'progressing nicely'. My hand strayed to my stomach now whenever there was movement. A kick. A stretch. I imagined it's fragile limbs inside of mine, searching for the edges of the World. I 'soothed' it's restless body within my own. For the first time I allowed myself to feel. To love.
The sense of relief was all-consuming:
'By this point in your pregnancy, your baby has a good chance of survival if born early'.
My pregnancy app made things clear - we'd made it.
After waiting for so long, after losing our way, after battling through everything that had been thrown at us, at the end of it all, I was going to have another baby.
I can't wait :)
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