Saturday, June 20, 2009

Sooooooo tired


Awwww! Oh excuse me yawning like that! My eyes are open but my brain is asleep. Even the luxurious pelting from my power shower has failed to jumpstart my body. It is in hibernation. Most of the night is spent tossing and turning as Peanut stabs and kicks furiously. I think he is thinking about releasing a post birth aerobics video.

As a tummy sleeper, it is frustrating to have to lie on my side. Special Bloke snores through the turbulent sea of pillows and shifting piles of crumpled sheets. Pillows are flipped to cool my face; the duvet is kicked and pulled to no advantage.

For the first time in my life I am hauntingly familiar with every nighttime radio programme for insomniacs. Then magically, at dawn, my brain and body shut down and dive headlong into the most glorious bed of rose-petaled sleep. A short skip of time later the alarm clock screeches in my ear.
I awake in disbelief that it is daytime and time to get up.

I drag my body out the front door with a cotton wool head and defiant body and make it to the bus stop. I search out a free seat on the bus. No one makes eye contact. The pale-faced bastards read their newspapers and strain their scrawny necks to stare glumly out the window.
They are literally ignoring the elephant in the bus.

The air is warm, heavy and clawing. The bus smells of wet overalls. The windows are grey and muggy with condensation. Fuzzy lights can be seen from outside. The bus chugs along smoothly.

As the journey continues, more passengers alight. I am pushed further and further back away from the only open window. I am a furnace of heat; my tummy is churning; I am getting that tingling sensation that causes me to reach for support. I shift my weight from one leg to the other willing myself to stay upright. I cling onto the seat rail of a young woman. She ignores me. A woozy feeling envelops me. I am living in a black and white world of photo negatives. Voices become more distant. My legs buckle. I sink into a heap. Its white, calm and peaceful…..

Someone is trying to wake me. Why are they yelling? Who are these people staring at me? What’s that smell? I make sense of the chaotic situation. ‘I am ok’, I announce to no one in particular. ’Its ok we’ve called an ambulance’ the bus driver reassures me. ‘I don’t need an ambulance. I just need some air’. I pull myself up and drag myself out.

I sit on the pavement. Before I know it, an officious woman upends me onto my back. What is she doing? She pushes my head back onto a rolled up coat and she tells me to stay put while she takes my pulse. ‘Are you a nurse or something?’ I enquire. ‘Not exactly’ she mutters ‘but my daughter is! And I watch a lot of E.R. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands!’

I don’t feel very well. The ambulance arrives in a blur of drama and sirens. There’s a fine crowd gathering all ready to see the capturing of a fainting elephant. The crew immediately moves me into a seated position. ‘You should not be lying down on your back when you’re pregnant’ the paramedic tells me. ‘Well, if I’d known she was pregnant, I wouldn’t have put her in that position’ the ‘nurse’ tut tuts. I share a wink with the paramedic. ‘Well its always hard to tell when they’re in the early stages of pregnancy’ he grins eyeing my impossibly huge bump.

They drop me off at the G.P. clinic, which is five minutes down the road. I am signed off work for two days and told to rest and take some iron supplements. Mildew in incensed when she hears. Special Bloke is adorably concerned. I snuggle under the duvet and wrap myself up in a cocoon of peace and darkness and slide off into a comatose snooze. Bliss!

All packed?

I throw a litre of milk into the trolley and the sell by date on the carton, catches my eye and startles my heart. I take the milk out and trace my finger over the embossed date….Its the 30th. My expected delivery date is the 28th. Yikes, I am in the zone. It could come any day now. I am a ticking bomb ready to go off any time in the next 4 weeks . It’s exciting and scary. It is time to get organized for D-day!

I wander down the baby aisle with my shopping list from ante-natal class and just to be on the safe side load the trolley with a bewildering array of potions, lotions, nappies, nappy sacs, wipes, breast pads, soothers, formula, bottles, teats, sterliser, bottlebrushes, breast pump, baby vests, sleep suits, mittens, baby hat, cardigan, receiving blanket, changing mat, nappy bag, muslin squares, bibs, dettol wipes and a large bottle of Milton. Right that’s the baby stuff sorted.

I get measured for a ‘let down’ nursing bra by a teenager who does not ooze confidence. I’m not convinced she realizes that I will be even fuller in the cup size when I am full of milk. When I mention this to her she says ‘Right’ while maintaining eye contact with the floor and then scurries out of the booth yelling ‘Moira, there’s a breast feeder in booth seven. Will you handle her?’

As I’m a brazen hussy, I don’t own a pair of pajamas. Shameful I know! I turf the largest possible size into my basket, along with some hilarious disposable paper knickers, huge maternity pads; some dark coloured towels. In this age of biological powders and high temperature washes, I fail to see why they need to be dark coloured. It seems to be a cruel way of heightening the anxiety of mums to be at this very vulnerable time. I mean its not like I’m going to be spurting blood and guts out of every orifice now is it? Christ, is it?

Special Bloke whimpers as he scans the receipts from my little shopping spree . It takes him half an hour to unload all my bits and pieces. ‘Are you sure we really need all this?’ he marvels in disbelief. ’Absolutely!’ I confirm.

I place my make up bag, pack of playing cards, vanilla scented candle, tub of Vaseline, can of Evian face spray, I-pod, cereal bars and maltesers, new pajamas, maternity pad and disposable knickers into my ‘delivery room’ bag. There that’s done!

‘Where does the baby stuff fit then?’ enquires Special Bloke.

‘There’s no way I’m going to fit nappies and clothes into this bag’ I squeal dejectedly.Special Bloke is sent off to buy a large and a jumbo sized bag. I hope the hospital don’t have an excess baggage charge

Monday, June 15, 2009

Nesting



I seem to have inherited quite a bit of bulky baby kit from pals and extended family. There’s a really cute cot, which just needs a bit of a lick of paint.

Bugger, it’s just gone 6pm on a Sunday so all the DIY shops are closed. I really want to get this painted. Now! No, I don’t think you understand. I REALLY HAVE to do this now. Darn! I hate it when a plan shrivels before it’s even started.

Ho ho! I’ve just remembered there’s a tester pot of ‘cotton cream’ paint in the shed. I brave the elements and rummage around in the shed. Bingo, I find it under my old boogie board. I prise open the ancient caked paint pot. It is pretty tough with a very hard skin. Defeated I decide to take a rest and heat up some pot noodles in the microwave. As it beeps, I am inspired with an innovative solution. With glee I place the tester paint pot into the microwave and put it on ‘standard heat’ for 2 minutes. That should loosen it up nicely.

At this moment, Special Bloke arrives home from the pub with a couple of his mates. After the obligatory hugs, Special Bloke sniffs the air.’ What exactly are you cooking Daisy?’ he asks suspiciously. ‘Oh SWEET SUFFERIN…my tester pot!

Black smoke wafts out of the microwave and an industrial acidic smell fills the air as I open the door. ‘Stand back Daisy…think of the baby!’ yells Special Bloke playing to the stunned crowd. ‘Why the hell are you cooking a tub of paint in the microwave?’ he asks incredulously. I am so embarrassed at my actions and am dreading the inevitable ribbing I am in for, from the lads.

I brazenly eyeball him and coolly respond ‘I had a craving!’ The lads are so thrown by this bizarre but possibly plausible excuse that they let it drop. Whew!

Choosing a name

‘Out of the way!’ I holler as Special Bloke gazes out the window, blocking my view of the TV.

‘The programme is over Daisy.’

‘I am watching the credits actually’ I snort.

‘I know you’re pregnant, but you really need to get out more!’ he replies exasperatedly.

‘Har, har. No really, come here. I’m thinking about baby names. Look, there are the character names and the actor names…. not to mind the production teams’ names. It’s easier than buying one of those baby name books.

‘OK, what about Cody[actor]; or Kyle[producer]; or Dale[music]? Oh Randy[director]…that’s a good one.’ He sniggers.

‘So you think its going to be a boy then? I query ‘I quite like Lucy, Emily and Millie’

‘I don’t know. It’d be nice to have a boy. We could play football together. I hope it isn’t a girl. I’d be terrified she’d get pregnant.’ He looks worried.

‘Well little Cody or Dale could get their girl pregnant. We could have an angry Dad at our doorstep in 15 years or so, hurling abuse at the way we raised our son. How his little girl was an innocent angel until she met up with our teenage bag of hormones…’

‘I’d still feel more relaxed if it was a boy’ he mutters. ’Im off to meet the lads’.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009




Discussing labour with Dr.Stork
‘Everything is going very well Daisy, so I’ll see you again in a month’. Dr. Stork closes the file and starts to move towards the door.

‘Actually, I wanted to ask you something. Would you consider doing a c-section, as I’m getting really panicky about having a vaginal birth? I just don’t think I’m built for having children.’ I whine.

Dr. Stork studies my ever-widening girth and childbearing hips and muffles a smile. ‘What makes you think that Daisy?’ he asks kindly.

‘Well I was buying a chicken in Tescos the other day and I couldn’t help noticing that the weight was about 3lbs. It was HUGE. There is simply no way that chicken could have come out of me without tearing me to shreds. The average birth weight of babies is approx 7lbs 10 oz. I get very upset thinking about the whole thing.’

‘Well Daisy, I’m guessing you knew that you would have to give birth, when you decided to have this baby. Er Daisy, you did know… didn’t you?’ he asks uncertainly.

I concede this point but refuse to be beaten on logic. I try a different tack. ‘Its just that I don’t have a very large vagina’, I whisper conspiratorially. ‘In fact its quite small …bit of a nuisance really’. I try to win him over with a shy Princess Di look.

‘Daisy, you will be fine. Now I’ll see you next month ’ He retorts briskly.

‘I’d pay extra you know….’

‘No, Daisy’

‘Oh, perhaps you’re reluctant because you haven’t done many c-sections?’ I wonder aloud.

‘Daisy!’ gasps Special Bloke.
‘What? I was just being empathetic!’ I retort. ‘Look I don’t know what the fuss is about. ‘

‘Daisy, contrary to modern day beliefs, having an elective c-section is not a walk in the park. Its surgery. Recovery will be longer and you will be scarred’

‘Oh for goodness sake, my bikini wearing days are over. In any case the scars these days are tiny’ I explain dismissively.
‘I meant the internal scarring’ he snaps.

I sense defeat. My only hope is a very small baby. Hmm, maybe I’ll take up smoking.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Bonding with your baby

‘I’m not stopping. I’m just dropping in some essentials for you and the baby’, Fiona peeks in the hall door and passes me a heavy carrier bag. Her very cute little daughter, Megan clings to her legs and peeks up at me shyly.

‘Come on in. I’m just putting the kettle on. And what can I get for you missy?’ I crouch down to her level and try to make eye contact. She smiles sweetly and whispers ‘Apple juice’.
‘I don’t think we have any darling, but we do have orange juice’ I reply enthusiastically.
‘Don’t want orange juice. Want apple juice! ’ She asserts.
‘How about a yummy smoothie? ’I wink up at Fiona.
‘YUKY’ she shrieks, deafening any dogs in the area. Then she dives purposefully to the floor; arms and legs kicking out wildly. Within seconds she has become devil spawn, writhing and twisting her strong little body, snapping and slapping in a chaotic little energetic porcupine ball of spikes.

Fiona observes her daughter briefly and continues ‘There’s just a few music cds to help develop the babies right side of the brain; some alphabet songs and language tapes. It’s really important to get them early. Oh and there are lots of books to help you cope with the baby when it arrives’. Or at least that’s what I think she said. Its hard to hear anything with the pint sized anti-Christ in the room. Fiona doesn’t appear to be joking when she’s on about developing the baby whilst still in the womb, which is slightly worrying. Even more worrying, she does not seem to be remotely bothered by her daughter’s behaviour. Why doesn’t she order Megan to stop yelling? Isn’t she likely to hurt herself or damage my furniture?
‘I swear by the Gina Ford method’ she hushes reverentially.’ It really helped us introduce a routine with Megan. She was a great baby.’
I have no idea what she is talking about and am just about to ask her to enlighten me when she hollers like a banshee.’ Oh Megan, did you just pee all over Daisy’s carpet? I am sooo sorry!’
‘Yes’ Megan smiles proudly ‘And I did a poo too.’
My face is ashen. My pulse has quickened. I feel sick. What kind of delinquent is she? ‘Where is it?’ I croak dreading the response.
‘Here in my Dora panties! I need a gold star Mummy’ she pesters, holding up a very soiled bulky pair of panties. Christ, I can even see an undigested chunk of carrot in her perfectly formed poo. I am going to be sick!
‘Well let’s clean you up first Megan’ Fiona sighs resigned to the task ahead.
‘Then we’ll get a gold star and a biscuit’ Megan expertly closes the deal.
Fiona takes the boss out to the toilet while I survey the damage. How does one clean up urine from carpet? Is water enough? Do I use bleach? Will it stain? Will it smell? I hope Fiona’s books cover this kind of thing.

Eventually the she-devil leaves with her Mum. I rub my belly and promise myself that I will do everything very differently to Fiona. Not for the first time, I wonder what we are letting ourselves in for.

learning a new vocab



We have become very familiar with all this jargon and spend ridiculous amounts of time weaving baby jargon in to perfectly normal conversations. We can now bandy about expressions like:
‘when the meconium hits the fan’
‘I’ll just have drop of colostrum in my tea’.
‘Let’s go the whole 10cm!’
We’ve become a right pair of sad bastards!