She's here!

40 weeks +4 days

Nine months and four days after two blue lines showed up on that little white stick N made her way into the world courtesy of Watford General Hospital. You've read the tabloid headlines about the woeful state of the maternity services in this country, well I'm going to tell you a positive birth story.

N arrived with little fuss and bother, (er, relatively speaking, that is). Contractions started at 1.24am, got fairly consistent and particularly uncomfortable by about 4am, and oh-my-god-that-hurts by 5am. My waters broke on the hall floor as we were leaving for the hospital, and again in the car on arrival (it had to be my car, didn't it). "Wheelchair!" I gasped when we got there, "Get a wheelchair, I can't possibly walk." No can do, said the midwives, who instead came down and walked me up to the ward.

It Was The Longest Walk of My Life. Enough said.

I heaved myself onto the bed and, and as the midwive got ready to examine me. I thought, God, PLEASE let me be a few cm dilated, if I'm not I will DIE

"Ooh," says Claire, my lovely midwife, you're already 8 cm.

Hurrah!

Then, utterly without shame, I begin to BEG:
"Drugs! Give me drugs!"
"What sort of drugs would you like?" asks Claire
"Anything. I don't care. Just inject me with something," I wailed.
"Well," explains Claire, "it does say in your birth plan that you only want gas and air."
Birth plan? Sod the effing birth plan. Just. Give. Me. Drugs.
But they (Claire and my husband) persuaded me to try gas and air and somehow, god knows how, I forgot about the harder drugs.
Contractions continued in full flow and I coped by breathing heavily, closing my eyes and zoning out. Quite out of character, I was remarkably silent.
It's a shame that the same couldn't be said for the wailing woman in the next room, who was intent on turning her labouring experience into an opera.
This was most distracting, and, given that I had arrived at what they call "transition" – the point in labour where women are apt to swear loudly at everyone in the room – I remember saying: "Someone get that woman to shut the f*** up!"
So they put a CD of singing dolphins on.

I'm in the water at this point, having suddenly remembered that I wanted a water birth, and I'm pushing and pushing, exhausted by my efforts and asking "can't you just yank it out of there?". Meanwhile, it's all gone quiet next door. Has the baby been born? Has she passed out? Gulp.

Husband had been primed for weeks beforehand to utter encouraging words and administer massage – but not just any massage, oh no, certain strokes at certain times on certain areas on the back. So, when the time came, he told me "great job!", "hang in there" and I, in no uncertain terms, told him to Shut the F*** Up. He bravely continued with attempts at the massaging that I had gone on about for weeks, and I very ungratefully brushed him off. Instead, he responded to my demands for gas and air and pressing a cold flannel on my forehead every few minutes. And I remember thinking, God, you bloody men have got NO IDEA what this is like.

Then, at 8.17am the baby that I had been convinced was a boy for 9 months arrived and the midwife cried:
"It's a girl!"
"Oh!" I said, and held her in my arms, thinking WOW – The rest of my life starts here.

They think it's all over. It nearly is now

39 weeks

Seven days to go.

I am trying to think of good song lyrics to sum up the occasion. "And now.." sings Frank Sinatra... "the end is near; and so I face the final curtain" is an excellent example. The trouble is, all that plays in my head is the music from Countdown, "pepop, pepop, pedelepop.
Pow!"

I can feel the collective weight of anticipation from friends and family. I know that I am not far from their thoughts and their fingers are itching to pick up the phone to ask: "Any twinges/action/pain/news?" I can feel them thinking "I CAN'T ring her again just yet. It's only been ten minutes." And if they leave it a couple of days they start to panic and think, "surely

SOMETHING has happened in the last couple of days? I'll give her a ring/text/email"

I move around VERY slowly. I amble from side to side with a look of intense concentration on my face. I have realised that I haven't a hope in hell of remaining inconspicuous. Because people stare. The women look and think "poor cow" or "how the hell did she get that big?" Men stare and a look of abject fear flashes across their faces. It's obvious what they're thinking, "Christ, got to get out of here, that thing's about to blow."

I am capable of very little. I can probably fashion around three semi-intelligent thoughts a day. Possibly string a couple of sentences together if pushed. If I do end up doing anything, it takes me ten times as long as normal. BabyG has taken up every last brain cell and this is not helped by the fact that I am entering my 27th poor night of sleep in a row. For all I know, these blogs are the ramblings of a madwoman and none of you has got the guts to tell me.

It amuses me that for nine months I haven't been able to so much as sniff an aspirin tablet and yet in a week or so I may well be given enough drugs to tranquilise a horse. This thought sustains me: When it's all over, you'll find me weary and delighted clutching the baby in
one hand and a cool glass of Prosecco that I have been looking forward to for nine months in the other.

Losing the plot

37 weeks

There are many myths and old wive's tales surrounding pregnancy which as a pregnant person you navigate your way around by applying a little bit of common sense.

However, there is one particular pregnancy cliché that is painfully true. You really do lose your brain.

I have lost count of the number of times I have left the grill on. Sometimes it's after the food has been cooked and taken out. Other times with food still in it. Consequently, our cuisine has taken on a distinctly charcoal-based flavour recently.

Last night I left the oven on. The previous day the smoke alarm battery conked out and I forgot, while out shopping, to buy replacements. And it's not as if I even realise I've done these
things. It's always Husband that notices the digression. When he discovered that I had both forgotten to buy new batteries for the smoke alarm and left the oven on in the same day he was distinctly unimpressed. I think he is beginning to fear for his life. This is not helped by the fact that whilst out driving the other day I nearly ploughed through a pedestrian crossing. I think he wishes he had those dual brake thingys in my car the way driving instructors do.

I regularly enter rooms only to stand there and think: "Um, why did I come in here?". I have become an avid list writer. Even if I only need three things, I will only remember one of them by the time I get to the shop. The slight snag in trying to be organised in this way is that you a) have to remember where you put the list and b) remember to take it out with you when you go shopping. I don't think I need to go into my success rate on these fronts.

And for the love of God please don't ask me to make a decision about anything. It takes me so long to understand the question that I've forgotten what it is I'm being asked to make a decision about in the first place.

When I speak to other mothers who have already got babies they can't help telling me delightedly that "It never comes back". By which they mean that the mother's brain power is irrevocably diminished, and they're very glad that another woman has joined the ditziness ranks.

Even my sister Nancy who, aside from Husband, is meant to be my staunchest ally and defender commented in not so many words at the end of our phone conversation: "I don't know what's happened to you," she says, laughing, "But you used to be so bright and articulate."

Time is Running Out

37 weeks

3 weeks and one day to go until BabyG day. This period is known in medical-speak as "Anytime Now Folks". So from now on, every abdominal twinge, every backache becomes a "Oh God! is this it? Was that the start of a contraction?"

Despite having attended two very informative antenatal classes I have to admit that as first-time parents we remain pretty damn clueless as to what to expect. Husband nags me to get my hospital bag finished so we're not caught on the hop, and jumps on the phone tracking me down if I'm out longer than usual doing the shopping (simple explanation for my tardiness: I made the elementary mistake of going to Tesco's on a Saturday...or was it just Krispy Kreme counter was busy? Ahem).

We've plugged every conceivable hospital number into our phones, and I have every conceivable phone number for Husband plugged into my phone. I've just realised, though, that I just called him to talk about the water bill (yes, my life really is that exciting) only he was in a meeting so I left a message. He is likely to think this is "the call" and race to the phone in a panic. Oops. Perhaps I should lay off ringing him at work for a while....

Various things preoccupy me, like the fact that I like to indulge in nice warm baths to soothe my aching legs but what if my waters break in the bath and I don't notice? Oh, and while we're on the subject of my legs, my "cankles" have now become "knankles", i.e. I now have swelling from the knees down to podgy little toes. Mercifully, thanks to the size of my bump I am unable to see my legs most of the time.

Meanwhile, I'm obsessed with the position of the baby. It's supposed to be head down, with its spine to the left and limbs to the right. I spend an inordinate amount of time lying on my left-hand side to encourage BabyG to get in the right position. I poke and I prod trying to figure out how the baby is lying. I talk to BabyG to encourage him to do Mummy a favour and get in the right position. Husband and I have daily conversations based entirely on the subject of whether my bump is higher or lower than the day before (lower is a good sign that the baby is "engaged").

BabyG, meanwhile, adjusts his position approximately, ooh, ten times a day. Some days he lies lower, making us think that the head is engaged. Then before you know it he has has popped back up again. One morning he kicks on the left, by the afternoon he's kicking on the right.

I am not convinced that BabyG has any intention of coming out at all.

Gulp

37 weeks

Oh. My. God.

It's October,

the

BIRTH

Month...

To Peanut or not to Peanut?

36 weeks

Whilst the medical advances and breakthroughs over the last generation is something to be grateful for, you can't help but think that as far as pregnancy goes, it all gets a bit much.

At the beginning of my pregnancy the accepted advice was that alcohol, in small amounts and in moderation, would be unlikely to harm the baby. Phew, says me, I can enjoy that bottle of Corona on a stifling hot day without going to purgatory. Half way through the pregnancy, however, we're told that all alcohol is bad and you shouldn't touch a drop while pregnant. Oh God, says me, what about that night we went out with Kate and Andrew and got royally drunk on Guinness when I didn't even know I was pregnant. Oh, the guilt. Dare I mention it to the midwife or will they get straight onto social services?

Meanwhile, the rise in the number of peanut allergy sufferers had been laid squarely at the feet of mothers who scoffed too many packets of Nobby's Nuts in the run up to giving birth. As a result, the jar of beloved peanut butter in our cupboard was summarily dispensed with never to be seen again. Today I read a story saying that eating peanuts while pregnant can actually AVOID the baby developing a peanut allergy. So now I've to up and hoof it to the local Spa to restock the cupboard with peanut butter and can worry that by NOT eating peanuts I've set my child up for a lifetime of peanut allergy.

The thing is, how are you supposed to keep track? Do people not realise that a pregnant woman's brain shrinks in equal proportions to the expansion of her bump? My conversation these days is punctuated mostly with: "Did I?", "Did we?" "Oh, I can't remember" and "um...." accompanied by a vacant expression.

Remember the butter and margarine debate that rumbled on for years? I can't even remember now which one is currently better for you.

With five weeks to go until due date it seems to me I have one tried-and-tested option left: cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Daily Movements

Despite all the books telling me that BabyG should be moving less and less now because he has less and less space, I am finding that this is not the case.

Last week the midwife said to me: "Are you getting at least ten movements a day?" I looked at her in horror thinking: "Isn't ten bowel movements a day rather a lot?" before realising that she was referring to BabyG movements. "You're kidding" I said. "It's more like 100". BabyG still moves around so much that he has a new nickname – The Tambourine Man. But I'm still loving watching my bump as BabyG moves around and gets himself comfortable, even though his preferred timing is, approximately, 2am.

The thing is that BabyG has happened across a very closely guarded secret... MummyG is incredibly ticklish. And BabyG has discovered that if he wriggles about by her ribs she reacts with a giggle and a shifting in her seat. He has also discovered that if he kicks MummyG when she is least expecting it she'll jump in her seat and go "ooh". So I'll give you three guesses what he does in there all day?

And he's not the only one playing high jinks. Beloved sister, Nancy, and Husband have both had a great time tapping on the tummy until BabyG wakes up, laughing in delight when he does, getting bored within a few seconds then leaving MummyG to cope with the resultant kicking/tickling/shifting around. However, MummyG gets her own back, at least in Husband's case, because when BabyG launches into his latest tambourine routine MummyG need only roll over and give Husband a "spoon" cuddle, thus inflicting the full force of the percussion session onto Husband's back. Ha!