For those of you in the know, my nine year old son has recently moved down south with his dad and he was back this week for half term. I COULD NOT WAIT. I thought that we would have a lovely chilled out week, the nine year old could meet his baby half brother for the first time and we could spend the week catching up. After all, I hadn't seen him in six weeks so we would have loads to talk about. Now I am fully aware that I have a naive streak so wide it verges on stupidity but I genuinely thought that this would be enough of a plan.
When he arrived on the Friday it was late and he was knackered so we had a quick ten minute catch up then everyone headed off for bed. Saturday was great, my son's friend from two doors up called for him and they spent most of the day either on their bikes or playing with action figures and it was lovely seeing my son with a bit more confidence and talking to his friend about his new school and all the things he'd been up to. My son met his baby brother and wasn't totally disinterested so I classed that as a success. Sunday was my birthday and there was a carvery lunch with some extended family followed by a nap for me. The nap was the best part of my birthday, that's how much I miss getting a full night's kip. My boy and my other half are never short of things to talk about, mainly to do with computer games or what super power they would rather have, so I was not missed in the slightest while I caught up on some much needed rest.
The other half was back to work on Monday, good I thought, quality time for just me and my boy (plus baby but he sleeps a lot). But every conversation I started was met with a one word answer while the boy lounged on the sofa looking for episodes of The Middle to watch. He would ask what we were doing today, what we were doing for the rest of the week and the best I could come up with was seeing his mate, going to a play centre and catching up with relatives who had also desperately missed him. None of which, frankly seemed to fill him with joy. Still, we had a nice enough day and Tuesday was much the same. Wednesday was play centre day, a whole day out with not only the joys of Funtastic, but lunch, a new computer game and a new top. But when I said I wanted to go in a shop, I got what can only be described as a bad look off the boy which said 'oh my god mam, why do we have to go here? This is soooooo boring.' at which point I got a little bit cross and pointed out that we had done everything he wanted to do, so surely he could manage five minutes in a shop for me.
My mother in law calls round most mornings to see her grandson and it also gives me a chance to get things done while she looks after the baby. One of the mornings she called round, my boy had given her one word answers to all her questions and on top of that had turned the telly up as much to say, 'be quiet woman I'm trying to watch this ten year old episode of The Simpsons.' Words were said about his rudeness and in my head I wanted to rant at him and say sorry that he seemed to be having such a crap week, but where had my lovely boy gone? Who was this boy I'd been sent that was full of attitude and no manners? Why was it I could hear him Face Time his dad every night but in the six weeks he'd been away he had only ever called me once? What was it about me he found so dull? It made me angry and sad in equal measure.
I of course didn't say anything to my boy, for that is the stuff Jeremy Kyle shows are made of. On the Friday we met up with another of my friends and her daughter. Her daughter and my son are the same age and although don't see each other very often at all these days, when they do they get on well. So they were having a whale of a time while I spilled my guts to my friend. She put things in perspective for me and made me realise part of the problem was my sleep depravation, which made every tiny incident seem much bigger as well as the fact that my boy was behaving like millions of other children in the half term holidays, ie like a brat.
This did get me thinking though, will the boy always be totally bored when he comes to visit? From what I have managed to gather he hangs about with a large group of older children when he's down south and even I can see how this would be more fun than just having the one friend he does up here. Will we grow further apart with me endlessly trying to include my boy in a family he's just not that bothered about?
The boy set off with my mam on the long journey back this morning. So far I haven't cried, but I know I will. My boy was upset when he hugged me goodbye but I have a horrible feeling that it was because he was going to miss me (a bit) and not his Up North life.
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Ranty stuff.
So this is the thing. Me and the other half have been together for three and a half years, and we've managed to fit a surprising amount in to that. Together with the usual couple anniversaries, our time together has been punctuated by a variety of holidays. Not all of them together I hasten to add, that would be all too normal. In our first year the other half had already booked a holiday with the lads in Malta and was going to a mates wedding in Cyprus. Just after a year together we went to Madera together. He proposed over the tanoy on the plane on the way out and it was a good job I said yes otherwise that would of made for an awkward week. A year later we got wed. A low key affair at the registry office and a do at the rugby club at the end of our street. Lots of drinking and dancing followed by a honeymoon in Egypt which was lovely, even when we became volcano refugees and had to stay for an extra four days.
Life continued, I got pregnant, The other half's best mate announced he was getting married in Malta (what is it with bloody Malta?) which left us with a small dilemma. We are not blessed with tons of money as a couple, we both work in very averagely paid jobs, and we have the usual outgoings that lots of couples have - two car loans, I've got a loan, credit cards along with all the usual monthly expenses. So the other half was worried about the cost of going to Malta with a baby on the way, also I would be too heavily pregnant to fly so this would be another holiday we hadn't been on together. The other half pondered it for a good long while and in the end came to the conclusion that he might regret not going to his best friends wedding so saved hard, stuck to a tiny budget and ended up feeling a bit aggrieved at having to use up his annual leave and spend his cash going on a holiday that he wouldn't of chosen.
My turn to go on holiday without the other half. My nine year old has moved down south with his dad and to make the most of our time together before he went, me and my mam took him on holiday to Scotland. The other half had to save the rest of his leave for parental leave which meant he couldn't come. So with just three weeks until my due date we headed off (I waddled) to the middle of nowhere in the wilds of the highlands. The boy had a fantastic time doing lots of activities with my mam while I was to official photographer. We made it back in one piece and just to complete our separate holiday record, I took my son to my dads house at the seaside for a long weekend while the other half had to stay to look after the dog.
When I got back from the seaside, myself and the other half made a pact never to go on holiday separately again. Not that we were planning any holidays, my idea of hell is travelling to abroad with a tiny baby in tow. We had a vague idea that in a couple of years we could get some kind of last minute deal somewhere hot when loans were paid off and the baby was old enough to enjoy paddling in the sea.
Now to the ranty crux of the matter. The other half has a sister who has just announced that her and her chap are getting married. Now guess the location of where they plan to marry. No, not Malta, Florida. Fucking Florida. All be it in two years, but even so that will mean us attempting to save two hundred pounds a month for two years to be able to afford to go. *blood boils* I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING GO TO FUCKING FLORIDA. There, I've said it. I hate people who get married abroad and assume that everyone is perfectly happy using up their precious annual leave and vast quantities of their own money to go on a holiday not of their choosing. The baby will be a toddler in two years time and when I think of taking him on a long haul flight the word that springs to mind is torture.
When the other half's sister left having made her announcement I could visibly see my lovely husband's shoulders take on the weight of the world as he tried to fathom how he could afford to go to his sister's wedding. In the end we've had to say we can't go. Short of taking out a loan to pay for it which would be downright stupid, we just can't afford it. Don't get me wrong, if they want to get married at Disneyland and have several Disney characters at their wedding, then I'm very pleased for them, just don't put family in the position of trying to work out how they can pay to attend.
When I am queen of the world* the first law I will pass is as follows:
Those who plan nuptials in far flung places must pay for the travel and accommodation of guests.
* its only a matter of time.
Life continued, I got pregnant, The other half's best mate announced he was getting married in Malta (what is it with bloody Malta?) which left us with a small dilemma. We are not blessed with tons of money as a couple, we both work in very averagely paid jobs, and we have the usual outgoings that lots of couples have - two car loans, I've got a loan, credit cards along with all the usual monthly expenses. So the other half was worried about the cost of going to Malta with a baby on the way, also I would be too heavily pregnant to fly so this would be another holiday we hadn't been on together. The other half pondered it for a good long while and in the end came to the conclusion that he might regret not going to his best friends wedding so saved hard, stuck to a tiny budget and ended up feeling a bit aggrieved at having to use up his annual leave and spend his cash going on a holiday that he wouldn't of chosen.
My turn to go on holiday without the other half. My nine year old has moved down south with his dad and to make the most of our time together before he went, me and my mam took him on holiday to Scotland. The other half had to save the rest of his leave for parental leave which meant he couldn't come. So with just three weeks until my due date we headed off (I waddled) to the middle of nowhere in the wilds of the highlands. The boy had a fantastic time doing lots of activities with my mam while I was to official photographer. We made it back in one piece and just to complete our separate holiday record, I took my son to my dads house at the seaside for a long weekend while the other half had to stay to look after the dog.
When I got back from the seaside, myself and the other half made a pact never to go on holiday separately again. Not that we were planning any holidays, my idea of hell is travelling to abroad with a tiny baby in tow. We had a vague idea that in a couple of years we could get some kind of last minute deal somewhere hot when loans were paid off and the baby was old enough to enjoy paddling in the sea.
Now to the ranty crux of the matter. The other half has a sister who has just announced that her and her chap are getting married. Now guess the location of where they plan to marry. No, not Malta, Florida. Fucking Florida. All be it in two years, but even so that will mean us attempting to save two hundred pounds a month for two years to be able to afford to go. *blood boils* I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING GO TO FUCKING FLORIDA. There, I've said it. I hate people who get married abroad and assume that everyone is perfectly happy using up their precious annual leave and vast quantities of their own money to go on a holiday not of their choosing. The baby will be a toddler in two years time and when I think of taking him on a long haul flight the word that springs to mind is torture.
When the other half's sister left having made her announcement I could visibly see my lovely husband's shoulders take on the weight of the world as he tried to fathom how he could afford to go to his sister's wedding. In the end we've had to say we can't go. Short of taking out a loan to pay for it which would be downright stupid, we just can't afford it. Don't get me wrong, if they want to get married at Disneyland and have several Disney characters at their wedding, then I'm very pleased for them, just don't put family in the position of trying to work out how they can pay to attend.
When I am queen of the world* the first law I will pass is as follows:
Those who plan nuptials in far flung places must pay for the travel and accommodation of guests.
* its only a matter of time.
Monday, 17 October 2011
Ooooh, that smarts a bit.
Some of you may of noticed me bashing on about being pregnant, well that came to an abrupt end on the ninth of September and in the spirit of over sharing I thought I would blog the birth - a One Born Every Minute in written (typed) form if you will.
Firstly, I have to explain that I was fed up of being pregnant by thirty eight weeks and had tried just about every suggestion thrown at me to bring on labour. Fresh pineapple? Yes I had eaten a ton of the stuff and ended up with mouth ulcers for my trouble. Raspberry leaf tea? I had drank my own weight of the vile liquid. Sex? Yes we'd even given that a go despite my other half's insistence that the baby was 'too close' Long walks? Yes, up hill and down dale on a daily basis. Bouncing about on a physio ball? Every morning for an hour whilst watching an episode of The Killing. The only thing that had been suggested to me that I hadn't yet tried was 'nipple stimulation' apparently this can release the same hormones that start labour but you have to do it for at least an hour.
Secondly, I think I should give you an idea of how I thought this giving birth lark would go. I thought I would start having contractions at home which I would be able to manage with some paracetamol and breathing/relaxation techniques. When the contractions got a bit stronger I
would maybe have a bath and when they got stronger still we would go up to the hospital where I would plonk myself in a birthing pool and with a bit of gas and air push this baby out without even breaking in to a sweat. Some tea and toast and I'd be home in time for Coronation Street.
So on the morning of the ninth I sat on the physio ball for an hour of bouncing while watching The Killing but with some added nipple tweaking thrown in for good measure. Fifty five minutes
in and I went pop. I looked down and couldn't believe it, the physio ball, my slippers and a good bit of the carpet were soaked. I was actually grinning my head off at this point. I was so convinced I'd end up being so overdue that I'd have to be induced I almost couldn't believe my waters had gone. I got up off the ball and took off the pyjama bottoms and put the first thing I could find between my legs to stem the dripping. The first thing happened to be a
massive bath towel. So I'm waddling round getting my phone to call the other half while eyeing up the stain on the carpet wondering if Vanish carpet cleaner is up to the job. I call the other half and say the code word 'sploosh' 'really? You're not joking?' 'No, I'm stood in the kitchen with a towel between my legs and my waters have just broke everywhere.' The other half
was clearly delighted as he is the most impatient man in the known universe and the last two weeks had killed him more that they had me. 'Don't bother coming home though' says I 'my contractions haven't started and I'm not even dressed.' 'Are you at least going to phone the hospital?' Asks the ever concerned other half. 'Well, I wasn't going to bother, nothing's happening just yet.' 'I think you should just to let them know to expect you later.' Massive sigh. 'Okay then I'll ring them now and let you know what they say.' Getting off the phone from my other half I notice a text from my neighbour 'hi pet do u wnt 2 com for a cuppa' my reply was 'my waters just broke.' By which I meant I'm terribly sorry but I'm a bit indisposed at the moment what with the fact I'm leaking everywhere and not dressed I will have to come round for a cup of tea at another time. But my friend thought I meant JESUS FUCKING CHRIST MY WATERS HAVE GONE WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO? So while I'm calmly on the phone to the hospital my friend bursts in through the front door thinking she is going to find me in some state of panic. 'Are you okay? What's happening? She sees me on the phone 'oh, you're okay.' She looked supremely disappointed at finding me in one piece and not in need of her amateur midwife
skills. 'I'll leave you to it then shall I?' And with that she was back out the the door and I was left alone telling a midwife at the hospital how my morning had gone and being told to come up to the delivery suite to be monitored and if my contractions hadn't started I could go back home again.
So I decided I needed to shower and put some make up on before I went to the hospital. I called the other half and told him he needed to come home - even I didn't think I should drive myself. By about 11am I was finally ready to leave the house and as I sat in the car I began thinking ooh, that's a bit uncomfortable and when the other half saw me brace myself and grab the dashboard he just said 'we won't be coming home without a baby.'
At the hospital we managed to go to the wrong ward - anti natal, delivery suite, they're all the same aren't they? No, apparently not. They wired me up to the monitor and as the lovely midwife was taking my details she could see my toes curl 'oh, are you having a pain? Good, we could have this baby soon.' They monitored me for twenty minutes and by the end of it, just lying on the bed was deeply uncomfortable and as soon as I was allowed I assumed a strange kneeling on the floor leaning over a birthing ball position. Contractions were coming thick and fast and my breathing and relaxation techniques weren't really doing the trick so in a rather pathetic voice I asked the other half if he could please see if I could have some paracetamol and gas and air. (Paracetamol?) Now last time I had gas and air I was convinced it wasn't working and ended up throwing the mouthpiece at my mam in disgust. This time however it was amazing. I was properly off my tits and for a short time it helped a lot with the pain. But all too soon, the gas and air wasn't helping in any way other than the breathing keeping me focused. My contractions were really close together and without a break in-between I couldn't regroup and prepare for the next one. At one point I begged the midwife for an epidural. My begging went like this. 'Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please can I have an epidural? The midwife very calmly and in a lovely soothing voice told me I was doing very well and that I didn't need an epidural, it could slow things down and cause complications. 'I do! I really need one!' So she checked my progress (stuck her hand up my flue and measured with her fingers how open my cervix was) Somewhat triumphantly she pulled her hand out and said that I was five centimetres already and as things were going so quickly - it was about two o clock by now - I should just carry on. I was a little bit proud of myself for being five centimetres already so with renewed vigour I breathed in the gas and air.
My enthusiasm for just using gas and air lasted about five minutes before the other half was sent out to get me some Pethidine. My lovely midwife's shift had finished, so another lovely midwife came in with an injection loaded with beautiful painkiller that she jabbed unceremoniously into my left thigh. It took about half an hour to work and then after that I'll be honest it's a little bit of a blur. Apparently I would shush my other half if he had the temerity to talk to the midwife when she came in the room and in my seven hour playlist on the I pad I would occasionally insist on a song being skipped for no reason other than it was offending my ears at that point in time. After another couple of hours my contractions changed a bit. They would still start off with the fucking awful my-insides-are-being-ripped-out pain but in the middle there would be the urge to push. My midwife noticed and asked if I needed to push, from my fog of painkiller I mumbled that yes, sometimes I did. She told me just to breath through it and she would check me in an hour to see if I was fully dilated. Now, if you really, really need a poo no one advises you to breath through it, and keep that poo in for as long as possible do they? In the same vein, it seemed nonsense and totally against what my body was telling me not to push when I got the urge. So every now and again my other half would notice me holding my breath and my face going bright red and he would tell me to 'breath. Stop holding your breath.'
After the Pethidine I took to lying on my side on the bed and after about six or seven of these sneaky pushes, something felt a bit odd "down there" I had a feel and to my shock found myself saying 'quick, get the midwife, I'm crowning.' My other half with a very confused face left the room to find our midwife. Now this shocked me because when I had my nine year old, the stinging hideousness associated with the pushing part of labour has remained etched in my brain forever and described by me and a friend in conversation as if acid has been thrown on your bits. This time, it was a bit stingy but nothing like the first time so to have managed to push a baby's head right down with frankly not much effort left me a bit startled. The midwife came in the room, had a little look and said 'oh yes, we're having a baby.' I had clambered up on to my knees and with one more push, the head was out. Then everything stopped. No more contractions and nothing to push against. I kept turning to the midwife and apologising, 'I'm really sorry the urge has gone' After a full five minutes I got one more contraction and out popped a baby at 17:12hrs with The Prodigy's No Good playing in the background.
In a film, they would shout cut, and all would end happily there without any mention of the messy gubbins that comes after. Not me, oh no. Normally, closely following a baby comes a placenta. My placenta however was a bit reluctant to leave my body and after half an hour of a midwife's gentle tugging a doctor was called in, massive injections were given in to the umbilical cord and a hand was shoved up me to try and scoop it out. On the first attempt this horrible version of a magician's trick didn't work, but after another fifteen minutes and a massive intake of gas and air the doctor finally managed to pull it out a la a rabbit out of a hat.
And there, I will leave it. Logan James is fantastic. He was 8lb 6oz when born and five weeks later he's 11lb 4oz. I won't mention, piles, bleeding or achey, leaky boobs. I'll save those delights for another time.
Firstly, I have to explain that I was fed up of being pregnant by thirty eight weeks and had tried just about every suggestion thrown at me to bring on labour. Fresh pineapple? Yes I had eaten a ton of the stuff and ended up with mouth ulcers for my trouble. Raspberry leaf tea? I had drank my own weight of the vile liquid. Sex? Yes we'd even given that a go despite my other half's insistence that the baby was 'too close' Long walks? Yes, up hill and down dale on a daily basis. Bouncing about on a physio ball? Every morning for an hour whilst watching an episode of The Killing. The only thing that had been suggested to me that I hadn't yet tried was 'nipple stimulation' apparently this can release the same hormones that start labour but you have to do it for at least an hour.
Secondly, I think I should give you an idea of how I thought this giving birth lark would go. I thought I would start having contractions at home which I would be able to manage with some paracetamol and breathing/relaxation techniques. When the contractions got a bit stronger I
would maybe have a bath and when they got stronger still we would go up to the hospital where I would plonk myself in a birthing pool and with a bit of gas and air push this baby out without even breaking in to a sweat. Some tea and toast and I'd be home in time for Coronation Street.
So on the morning of the ninth I sat on the physio ball for an hour of bouncing while watching The Killing but with some added nipple tweaking thrown in for good measure. Fifty five minutes
in and I went pop. I looked down and couldn't believe it, the physio ball, my slippers and a good bit of the carpet were soaked. I was actually grinning my head off at this point. I was so convinced I'd end up being so overdue that I'd have to be induced I almost couldn't believe my waters had gone. I got up off the ball and took off the pyjama bottoms and put the first thing I could find between my legs to stem the dripping. The first thing happened to be a
massive bath towel. So I'm waddling round getting my phone to call the other half while eyeing up the stain on the carpet wondering if Vanish carpet cleaner is up to the job. I call the other half and say the code word 'sploosh' 'really? You're not joking?' 'No, I'm stood in the kitchen with a towel between my legs and my waters have just broke everywhere.' The other half
was clearly delighted as he is the most impatient man in the known universe and the last two weeks had killed him more that they had me. 'Don't bother coming home though' says I 'my contractions haven't started and I'm not even dressed.' 'Are you at least going to phone the hospital?' Asks the ever concerned other half. 'Well, I wasn't going to bother, nothing's happening just yet.' 'I think you should just to let them know to expect you later.' Massive sigh. 'Okay then I'll ring them now and let you know what they say.' Getting off the phone from my other half I notice a text from my neighbour 'hi pet do u wnt 2 com for a cuppa' my reply was 'my waters just broke.' By which I meant I'm terribly sorry but I'm a bit indisposed at the moment what with the fact I'm leaking everywhere and not dressed I will have to come round for a cup of tea at another time. But my friend thought I meant JESUS FUCKING CHRIST MY WATERS HAVE GONE WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO? So while I'm calmly on the phone to the hospital my friend bursts in through the front door thinking she is going to find me in some state of panic. 'Are you okay? What's happening? She sees me on the phone 'oh, you're okay.' She looked supremely disappointed at finding me in one piece and not in need of her amateur midwife
skills. 'I'll leave you to it then shall I?' And with that she was back out the the door and I was left alone telling a midwife at the hospital how my morning had gone and being told to come up to the delivery suite to be monitored and if my contractions hadn't started I could go back home again.
So I decided I needed to shower and put some make up on before I went to the hospital. I called the other half and told him he needed to come home - even I didn't think I should drive myself. By about 11am I was finally ready to leave the house and as I sat in the car I began thinking ooh, that's a bit uncomfortable and when the other half saw me brace myself and grab the dashboard he just said 'we won't be coming home without a baby.'
At the hospital we managed to go to the wrong ward - anti natal, delivery suite, they're all the same aren't they? No, apparently not. They wired me up to the monitor and as the lovely midwife was taking my details she could see my toes curl 'oh, are you having a pain? Good, we could have this baby soon.' They monitored me for twenty minutes and by the end of it, just lying on the bed was deeply uncomfortable and as soon as I was allowed I assumed a strange kneeling on the floor leaning over a birthing ball position. Contractions were coming thick and fast and my breathing and relaxation techniques weren't really doing the trick so in a rather pathetic voice I asked the other half if he could please see if I could have some paracetamol and gas and air. (Paracetamol?) Now last time I had gas and air I was convinced it wasn't working and ended up throwing the mouthpiece at my mam in disgust. This time however it was amazing. I was properly off my tits and for a short time it helped a lot with the pain. But all too soon, the gas and air wasn't helping in any way other than the breathing keeping me focused. My contractions were really close together and without a break in-between I couldn't regroup and prepare for the next one. At one point I begged the midwife for an epidural. My begging went like this. 'Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please can I have an epidural? The midwife very calmly and in a lovely soothing voice told me I was doing very well and that I didn't need an epidural, it could slow things down and cause complications. 'I do! I really need one!' So she checked my progress (stuck her hand up my flue and measured with her fingers how open my cervix was) Somewhat triumphantly she pulled her hand out and said that I was five centimetres already and as things were going so quickly - it was about two o clock by now - I should just carry on. I was a little bit proud of myself for being five centimetres already so with renewed vigour I breathed in the gas and air.
My enthusiasm for just using gas and air lasted about five minutes before the other half was sent out to get me some Pethidine. My lovely midwife's shift had finished, so another lovely midwife came in with an injection loaded with beautiful painkiller that she jabbed unceremoniously into my left thigh. It took about half an hour to work and then after that I'll be honest it's a little bit of a blur. Apparently I would shush my other half if he had the temerity to talk to the midwife when she came in the room and in my seven hour playlist on the I pad I would occasionally insist on a song being skipped for no reason other than it was offending my ears at that point in time. After another couple of hours my contractions changed a bit. They would still start off with the fucking awful my-insides-are-being-ripped-out pain but in the middle there would be the urge to push. My midwife noticed and asked if I needed to push, from my fog of painkiller I mumbled that yes, sometimes I did. She told me just to breath through it and she would check me in an hour to see if I was fully dilated. Now, if you really, really need a poo no one advises you to breath through it, and keep that poo in for as long as possible do they? In the same vein, it seemed nonsense and totally against what my body was telling me not to push when I got the urge. So every now and again my other half would notice me holding my breath and my face going bright red and he would tell me to 'breath. Stop holding your breath.'
After the Pethidine I took to lying on my side on the bed and after about six or seven of these sneaky pushes, something felt a bit odd "down there" I had a feel and to my shock found myself saying 'quick, get the midwife, I'm crowning.' My other half with a very confused face left the room to find our midwife. Now this shocked me because when I had my nine year old, the stinging hideousness associated with the pushing part of labour has remained etched in my brain forever and described by me and a friend in conversation as if acid has been thrown on your bits. This time, it was a bit stingy but nothing like the first time so to have managed to push a baby's head right down with frankly not much effort left me a bit startled. The midwife came in the room, had a little look and said 'oh yes, we're having a baby.' I had clambered up on to my knees and with one more push, the head was out. Then everything stopped. No more contractions and nothing to push against. I kept turning to the midwife and apologising, 'I'm really sorry the urge has gone' After a full five minutes I got one more contraction and out popped a baby at 17:12hrs with The Prodigy's No Good playing in the background.
In a film, they would shout cut, and all would end happily there without any mention of the messy gubbins that comes after. Not me, oh no. Normally, closely following a baby comes a placenta. My placenta however was a bit reluctant to leave my body and after half an hour of a midwife's gentle tugging a doctor was called in, massive injections were given in to the umbilical cord and a hand was shoved up me to try and scoop it out. On the first attempt this horrible version of a magician's trick didn't work, but after another fifteen minutes and a massive intake of gas and air the doctor finally managed to pull it out a la a rabbit out of a hat.
And there, I will leave it. Logan James is fantastic. He was 8lb 6oz when born and five weeks later he's 11lb 4oz. I won't mention, piles, bleeding or achey, leaky boobs. I'll save those delights for another time.
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