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.

• '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!?

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 :)