Oh I’ve cried…

Haven’t you? 

Today I cried in my yoga class. Yep it happened. Every class our lovely teacher asks us how our week has been and instead of my usual witty (in my opinion) response today I started talking, choked up and could barely finish. The. Shame.

Why? Well we’ve had a few bad nights with Finley. He suffers with trapped wind which I mentioned in my b(r)estfeeding post and it has since become worse. He hasn’t slept for the past three nights and not only is this slightly tortuous and exhausting (which it really is) but I think the tears were based on my inability to cope with seeing him in pain. This is one reason I cried.

Let’s get something straight though; I’ve cried many times before today. I have probably cried once a week but often it’s just tears streaming down my face and usually because I’m too tired to hold my emotions in. I’m not sad, I’m not upset, in fact they often come because I’m happy and also, I just need to cry sometimes. This aspect of motherhood has been a slight revelation to me and possibly the most fascinating part of this new life. There is an ebb and flow of motherhood that has meant I have had tears rolling but felt extreme joy at the same time. Finley just needs to look at me and my whole body fills with a joy I couldn’t create for myself. It’s not even joy, it’s a feeling of contentment and satisfaction that I did not think achievable. They seem like such boring words to use when talking about my son but to me they are golden. To be content, fully content and happy, is priceless to me.

So, the tears are nothing new, but letting them out in front of my yoga class was unexpected. I’ve been trying to figure out why it happened today. One reason is I’m completely exhausted. When I say, he hasn’t slept I don’t mean he hasn’t slept more than two hours, I mean he has 10 – 20 minute blocks and is then awake upset and in pain. Still though I don’t think that is why I cried.

One theory that is dawning on me as the day progresses is that I cried out of disappointment. I have tried so hard to enjoy every moment this beautiful child has brought. On the days that have been hard I have taken a moment but always could put the smile back on and go forth in positivity. This week I haven’t been able to. This week motherhood has kicked my ass and that has been slightly devastating. I wanted to bask in every glorious moment and, if I’m honest, I thought that if I let my defences down, and admit that it’s been hard people would worry about me and think I am overwhelmed. Its ridiculous I know. I don’t even think it’s a pressure that has been put on me but rather one I’ve given myself. When people have told me I’m a natural, or that motherhood suits me I literally grow in stature. I am a natural aren’t I?! It really does suit me you’re right. I guess that I didn’t allow for the picture of a happy, natural Mom to be one that cries….in her yoga class.

This week however has expanded my horizons on what kind of Mom I want to be. I see now that being a successful parent means having moments and days that are kinda crappy and admitting so. I know we live in a world where we are open and honest but sometimes as parents and Moms, and women we aren’t always as honest with each other as we could be. So here I am feeling tired, mortified, with my resolve slightly bruised but not defeated saying I have cried, haven’t you?

B(r)estfeeding?

So breastfeedng is a bitch right?! It’s the least natural ‘natural’ thing I’ve ever done. I don’t even know if I continue to do it because I love it, I’m too lazy to formula feed or (which I hope is the reason) I know that it’s working for my baby and so I am persevering through all the pitfalls we have encountered out of blinding love and adoration for him. This week however, like an oasis in the dessert, I see a bottle of formula in my future and I am slowly crawling through the dry sands to reach it.

Let’s start at the beginning. Finley arrived into the world and latched like a boss. He was straight on, feeding away and his latch was worthy of a primary school teachers gold star sticker. We came home in a haze of glorious love for each other and our brand-new baby boy. Two days in and we were rocking parenting. Then the public health nurse arrived and to my shock and horror my 10lb baby had lost weight. BUT… WHAT? Aha fear not said Dr Google, this is normal and he will regain it in no time. We continued to feed round the clock and the PHN returned….dear god not only was he not gaining fast enough, he also wasn’t doing enough poos. MY BOOBS ARE EMPTY I cried, I am starving my child I wept, everything is terrible and nothing will ever be good again I lamented. Disclaimer: our PHN was so lovely however the constant weighing and calls about pooey nappies truly made me want to return to the hospital and make them show me how to keep my baby alive. **Spoiler Alert** He is fine and it was all normal.

So, all babies lose weight straight after they are born. Babies that are formula fed tend to put it on faster while breastfed babies have to wait for the milk to arrive and thus it can take longer. Also, the poo will arrive, don’t you worry Mama, it will arrive good and strong and you will laugh at the day that you fretted. Your baby may then poo many times a day, once a day or once every few days. Breast milk has little waste which is why it can vary from baby to baby and digestive system to digestive system. Remember, as you will have now been told 4 million times, every baby is unique.

During the never-ending weight/ poo drama (which lasted 2 little weeks until he was back to birth weight) I also began to feel an unusual sensation in my boobs. It was day 5 when I felt like there were lines of pain in both breasts and which I decided was my milk coming in. Hurrah! I thought, my baby shall be fed, but ouch it sure does hurt to feed him. This pain got worse…and worse. I cried many times. Dr Google said cracked nipples…bleeding nipples…air your nipples, keep them dry. I walked around the house for days with my boobs hanging out, telling my husband not to look at me as the last shards of my dignity packed its knapsack and scuttled away, too embarrassed to be seen with me. Then Dr Google told me I might have nipple thrush. Yes you heard me, thrush IN MY NIPPLES. Well that’s wonderful. Off to the lactation consultant we went. She showed me how to latch Finley and suggested a treatment for my nipples which was two types of cream on the nipples to be washed off before feed. Considering my baby fed approximately 4,000* times a day this was a pain in the…nips. *(may be a slight exaggeration)

I persevered but alas the pain only got worse. I was then diagnosed with ductal thrush. Yes you heard me, thrush in my milk ducts. One dose of treatment…nothing. A second dose of treatment…nothing. However just for the craic I also got mastitis during this week. That was fun and probably caused by bad feeding techniques due to the spears of hot fiery pain coursing through my breasts. Antibiotics were taken and a new strong 2-week treatment was given for the thrush. Hurrah it will be gone. But wait…what is this constant burn in my nipples you ask? Ah well it turns out that underneath all of those pains I also have extremely sensitive nips inherited from my Mother who passed away before I ever cared to ask about her breastfeeding history. I can tell you the temperature through nipple power alone these days.

And now, 15 weeks later, how am I? Oh well thank you for worrying, I’m super. Ha! Just joking. Our new dilemma is that Finley, due to a stuffy nose, may be getting too much fore milk which is making him gassy and screamy (is that a word?) and not enough of my fine creamy hind milk. Yes I have returned to the fore and hind milk issue. Sigh. If it does not improve I shall try a bottle of formula and see if that doesn’t work. If that doesn’t work then my son and I shall set off to the Caribbean and share a cocktail made on coconut milk which, if you believe popular culture, appears to be the answer for everything.

So after all of that jolly talk what are the lessons I’ve learnt? I’m going to number them to make sure you don’t miss an important lesson. You’re welcome

1.      Well breastfeeding is the hardest, most demanding, relentless thing I have ever done and yet I choose to do it multiple times every day and feel grateful that I have been able to breastfeed my baby. So I guess that shows the power of breastfeeding? 

2.      Breastfeeding is a choice. You shouldn’t feel like you have to do it, but you shouldn’t feel that you can’t either. It is incredibly rewarding and if you want to breastfeed you almost certainly can, you just need some guidance from a lactation consultant, some perseverance and a box of paracetamol to help.

3.      The marketing of breastfeeding is WAY off mark. Please be honest with us dear Government. If you want me to breastfeed show me the picture of the lady with her boobs hanging out to air dry while she cries into her pint of water that she desperately needs to be alcohol/ a comfort drink. I am yet to meet the woman who spent her time breastfeeding with a designer shirt gently resting midway down her arm, her freshly showered hair touching softly off her face as she gazes lovingly at her thriving baby. That might happen but for me.. and every woman I’ve spoken with this was not the case. Tell us it’s hard and brutal and lots can go wrong, then tell us how to avoid this. And remind us that it’s a choice and you can stop but that many women don’t and that it is worth it. The moment I accepted that I didn’t have to breastfeed was when I decided I wanted to and would keep going. Don’t give new Moms false expectations when the reality is so different and she will only find that out when she is exhausted, emotional and possibly sitting on a rubber ring because of extensive surgery to save her vagina (just me?) 

4.      Show me the… Lactation Consultant. Did you know that after having a baby you can’t be discharged until you ‘open your bowels’ (more on that another day)? Well in my opinion as a first-time breastfeeding mother you also shouldn’t be able to leave until you have seen a lactation consultant or been given an appointment for a satellite clinic. I honestly didn’t know that milk coming in wasn’t meant to feel like my breasts may fall off due to combustion until the lactation consultant told me.  Want me to breastfeed? Support me, guide me and make it possible for me to keep going. Not everyone has the money to hand out to a private LC and I would put money on the fact that those who can’t pay to see one may be the same people who stop breastfeeding despite a strong desire to continue. 

5.      I should probably mention dear breastfeeding mothers that I am unique in the amount that has happened. In fact I appear to be a leaflet of all the things that can be wrong, wrapped up in my two boobs to make it easier for you to hear all of the pitfalls in one story. You’ll be fine and you will most likely adore breastfeeding.

Movie Star Tears.

Today I am in a heighted state of pregnancy emotions. These emotions have led me to develop movie star tears which have appeared on and off since this morning. I am highly amused by these pregnancy tears; they gently roll down my face without any warning or sound. They glisten in my eyes, leaving no red rim, and thankfully do not harm my makeup. In typical Niamh fashion I have finally cracked the movie star crying code and yet I’m far too pregnant to break Hollywood (yes it is only my pregnancy that is preventing me from being discovered).

Anyways I think pregnancy tears are hilarious so have decided to bring you through my day so far. You may read these thinking there must be some exaggeration for dramatic effect but sadly that is not the case. Before you read them I would like to mention that I am in fact very delighted with life currently.

I cried movie star tears when:

• I thought my sleeping husband was annoyed at me. I had to wait for him to wake up in order to ask, turns out he wasn’t. Yes, I know, you’re right; it’s very hard for someone who is asleep to exhibit signs of annoyance however that did not stop me crying.
• I arrived at the bus stop and thought my bus had left early. It hadn’t, I got on it at the usual time.
• A lady was nice to me. My swipe card wasn’t working and she told me my day would get better when I had a coffee. That level of kindness was too much this morning.
• I got into the car after a packed Luas journey when no-one gave me their seat, even though I was holding my bump like the celebs do in magazines.

I wanted to cry when: (this means tears pricked my eyes but I didn’t let them fall)

• I wanted a muffin and bought one.
• I saw a picture of a premature baby born at the same stage as my baby is at now.
• I was worried that I wouldn’t love my baby.
• I thought about how much I love my baby.
• I had to ring my manager and was worried I would cry during the conversation.
• A lady power walked passed me during my lunchtime walk and I realised that she wasn’t really walking that fast.
• I saw children playing with swans in Stephens Green.
• I told my colleague about a day I forgot my keys to the office and it was raining outside.

While the movie star tears are most likely down to hormones, I am also slightly sleep deprived. Not only have I discovered the phenomenon of pregnancy tears but pregnancy dreams have also arrived full force. 

A few nights ago I dreamt that I was involved in a love triangle with Common and Xzibit (while still pregnant and married). We decided to work this problem out with the help of a mediator who turned out to be Robin Williams. Unfortunately the mediation came to an abrupt end when Robert De Niro shot us all. I rang my husband to say goodbye as I stood looking at the hospital he worked in. Sadly for me the hospital didn’t deal with those types of emergencies so I felt I shouldn’t go in and embarrass him. Not only was it a crappy dream but I woke feeling guilty about bringing Robin Williams back to life only to shoot him dead.

I’d like to think that tomorrow will be better, but I really shouldn’t think about it too much, just incase I cry.

Fear of commitment.

As I write this I am 25 weeks 3 days pregnant. I weighed myself during the week, I still don’t know if that was a good idea or bad. I never weight myself in normal life, I just try on my skinny day jeans to see if I need to consider eating less. Unfortunately that doesn’t work anymore, those mock me when I try entice them past my knees. Anyway I appear to be 3 lbs up on the result given when searching for ‘weight gain at 25 weeks’ (I know I’m all for accurate, medically sound information). I’m not sure how I feel about those 3lbs – they seem irrelevant compared to the other XXX lbs I’ve gained (no I’m not ready to share with you) however I also feel those 3 lbs will be my nemesis post pregnancy when I try to fit back into my wardrobe, especially because those 3lbs are very likely to turn into XXX lbs (no I’ll never tell).

I actually don’t mind the weight gain or soft feeling of my body from lack of hard core exercise. I still feel sexy and enjoy my rounded stomach but I do see how pregnancy can be tough for people who care more about their physical appearance. It really isn’t a vanity thing I’ve decided, it’s more about confidence and self-identity than about appearing attractive to others. So yes basically I’m saying it’s not about you, it’s about meeee. Anyway there’s my tuppence worth on body image in pregnancy…what do you mean you didn’t ask for it?

The other thing I have realised this week is that I have a fear of commitment. Yes 25 weeks and 3 days pregnant is quite late to realise this however worry not – my fear of commitment is towards baby item shopping. I am in the head melting world of baby buggies, dear Jesus there are too many models and so expensive.  We’re planning to go second hand and so I have signed up for alerts when new travel systems are uploaded. I check my email, find the perfect one at a good price, nod my head, admire the bargain and then close the email. I can’t commit to anything yet. What if the Quinny isn’t as good as the Uppa Baby, better than the Joolz but non match the Bugaboo??  Do you even know what those words mean? For some reason because I had a successful fusion of egg and sperm I’m now meant to. It’s a terrifying and unpredictable world and I am among it without so much as an instruction manual (or bank balance to buy the Stokke which is so very pretty).

Amongst this fear of committing to buggies, baby clothes, nursery colours, drawers and cots I have realised a talent for committing to … blankets. Yes blankets. Possibly the least important item that is needed by a baby, (I mean you could put a towel on baby if you had to), however I have bought a blanket every time I’ve been meaning to buy a useful item on my list. I have blankets in grey, white, grey and white. Some are fluffy some are knitted, some are cute, some trendy. However all of them will fit and I’m almost certain I won’t regret purchasing any.

Blankets are safe, they are my friend, they are the accessory shopping on a day you feel fat. They don’t say anything about my ability to be a mother, they will lie there looking awesome and shan’t care what buggy there are seen in. One day I will drop one of these blankets, someone will pick it up and admire what a nice blanket I have. They will then see the glory of the child it is covering and I am entirely convinced won’t even notice that my buggy is a convenience shopping trolley. I guess what I’m saying is that it isn’t what’s on the inside that matters, but what you dress it up in.

It’s likely I have 4 – 19 more blankets to buy before I commit to any larger investment piece.

Where we are born.

It’s 4.30am and I’ve been awake for an hour. That’s a common occurance these days, sleep and pregnancy aren’t great friends but most nights they tolerate each other. Tonight….not so much.

Even though outwardly I will myself to go back to sleep, I do secretly enjoy these midnight wakenings. Winston (the bump – did I mention his name before?) tends to wake with me so I hold my belly and let him kick away. The peace of the night is a lovely time for this, it’s a blessing of pregnancy, maybe of motherhood. I feel like I have a buddy with me all the time, no more lonely sleepless nights. I hear this changes with pregnancy two and three though, you just want sleep then they tell me, I’ll wait and see. I hope I’ll always enjoy my baby connecting with me this way.

This week I’ve been thinking a lot about where we are born. I had a bad dream Monday night which involved ISIS and beheadings, I woke up scared and upset. The next morning I walked through Stephens Green to try get a bit of beauty back into my mind, it was a gorgeous morning and the park looked heavenly. I thought about the women waking up from the dream of my reality, into what had been my nightmare. Why where they so unlucky?

This thought occurred to me again tonight. I felt Winston kick away in my warm bed, in my warm home and I thought about the other pregnant women in the world feeling the same thing but in very different surroundings. I don’t know if I should ask how they got so unlucky, or how I got so lucky? The main thing that saddens me is that it really is about luck. How our lives are mapped out depends so greatly on the situation you are born into yet at times I feel like we lack the responsibility that this unfairness should bring.

I remember on my first pregnancy a pregnant woman from Syria was rescued trying to cross the sea into Greece. She had been the water for too long and, at the time of reporting, they were unsure if the baby had survived. To think that woman tried to change her luck, to deliver her baby in a better place, and ended up floating in the Mediterranean Sea. We know it’s not fair but we, I, let it happen. We sit here, I sit here, and we sympathise and we donate. We feel awful and we wonder what we can do to help; but we are selfish and once it is not happening to us, we are quietly accepting of it happening to others. 

Tonight as I write this on my laptop in my warm room, in my warm house, I am sure there are women in homeless shelters holding their bellies. Women fleeing religious persecution, in cities under the rule of barbaric terror groups holding their bellies. Women who have the same hopes and dreams that I do, but without the freedom to make them the reality that I can. Women who take a shot at freedom and end up in the freezing waters of the sea. Who send their children in boats to Europe, and find out they arrived dead on the shores.

To my mind this is simply because of where they were born. And I’m just sitting here writing about it. My own lack of action embarrasses me, I hope my child will do better to effect a change in this world, but I guess they may have different plans for themselves. What a wonderful thing about living in Ireland – they are free to do what they want without paying the price of their life.

I’ve written my healthy husbands eulogy

This title is going to have you believe that I am suffering greatly from severe pregnancy hormones and have decided to move to a female only camp and dance in the rain. Aha! That is not the case at all….well not 99% of the time.

I was inspired to put this down in words while I am still getting enough sleep to appreciate how much I love my husband. Ugh isn’t this post gross? I’m pregnant, happy and love my husband, that is anti Jeremy Kyle right there. I’m sorry. However I promise I do deserve this and I only know this because of all the times those options seemed so far from my reach.

I’ve been at a number of funerals. Some I attended to support the person grieving but many of them were because I was the person grieving. If you have read my other blog posts (although I appreciate I’m mainly talking to myself) you will see that I lost my own Mom when I was 18.  I met my husband 7 months later and was welcomed into the warm embrace of his mother soon after. Four years ago we also lost her; this came 5 months after the sudden death of a good friend. 6 months ago I then miscarried, losing our first baby at 12 weeks. Each loss chips away, sometimes you can build yourself back up but for me there are still chinks in my foundations.

But what I hope you see is that I really do deserve the pregnant, happy and love my husband moment, however I don’t take for granted that you don’t always get what you deserve.

So the eulogy.

It’s weird and I know it, however I think it is partly a response to the loss of my Mother. She died 10 days before Christmas from a heart attack. She had been fluey during the week and was going to the doctor on the Saturday. I rang the house on my lunchbreak from work to check in on her but no-one answered, I didn’t think too much about that. Three hours later my Dad arrived to my workplace, took me to a quiet room and told me Mum was dead. She went to the GP, was sent to the hospital and died right there on the bed just after she had arrived. There would be no goodbye hug or kiss; no I love you, no more chances to feel her skin warm. She was dead.

Since that day I am in an endless and sometimes exhausting battle with myself to not over react to real life. I spent some time afterwards not wanting to get close to anyone, then letting myself fall in love and subsequently fighting all my urges to wrap the people I love in cotton wool and try to never let them hurt or get sick. This is not healthy for me, but mostly it’s not healthy for them. A cold really is just a cold.

It’s this fear of loss, especially of sudden death, that has me thinking about my husband’s eulogy. I hate funerals but I also find great comfort in them. What I hate most is that of all the days in your life to be alive your funeral  really is the one. People talk about you with such love and compassion. They show how much they miss you in tears, in silence, in shock. They remember the greatest days of your life with humour and sadness. They forgive your bad days, and question why they ever felt anger towards you.

I have survived losses and sad days. I have suffered from seizures brought on by grief which took me years to learn how to prevent. I learnt to write again when those seizures damaged the nerves in my arm, and, I stood on the alter and spoke about my mother when I was 18 years old and absolutely broken. I know grief, I know loss, I know survival.

However then there is my husband and when I think of him (on those loving days) I do worry about how I can survive without him and what I need to do in life to ensure I will not regret upon death.

This is when I think of his eulogy; strangely it usually comes upon me when driving. I recall to myself the last thing we said to each other. The last touch we had. I remember the strength of his character, the gentleness in which he approaches our love and the loyalty that he gives to it. I think of how he cared for his Mom when she was ill, of his tears when our friend died and how he works to keep her memory alive. I think of stories from drunken nights, the dances we have together and the faces he pulls that make me laugh so hard I want to pee myself.

I think of when I told him we were pregnant with our first baby, how his beautiful magical face lit up. Then I think of how he treated me when the baby was lost. When I told him he should be with someone who can grow a healthy child, he told me there was no point having a child with someone else; it was only my child that he wanted to be a father to. I remember how he talks about our growing child now, how he sings to it and speaks to it and I’m pretty sure will also make this baby laugh until it pees.

I think of his long gorgeous body, his big eyes that I fall into and his juicy lips that I know so well. I think of how his hair feels when I rub it, how he smells and the sound of his voice which is like music to my ears. I think of seeing him when I get home, and then I think of what would happen if I didn’t. My heart quickens up and my breath burns. Of course I cry, every time I cry.

Then I go home and I tell him I love him and why, and I make another memory to add to my list. Most importantly though, I have reminded myself how much I love him and why. I appreciate what I have, I gain perspective into my life and what is important to me. It calms me to know that I have found a great love, that whatever the future holds I will have known a love that hurts to live without.

I hope to never walk a day on this earth without my husband, and he without I. Ideally old age will take us together, holding hands and slipping into sleep. However, what's important to me now is to know that he will have felt the force of my love, and that my words of love for him are not spoken to another without first being spoken to him.

Eulogies are a beautiful tradition but to my mind they are always said too late.

It’s all lies, featuring 24 weeks in one short blog post

God I’m useless at blogging BUT I think I am going to get better so I wanted to do a quick update, a recap if you will, and bring everyone up to date on me, my pregnancy and the lies that are told.

I will be 24 weeks tomorrow which I thought was 6 months but now I think that 6 months is 25 weeks. It’s all very confusing and yet it probably isn’t but math was never my strong subject. We had our big scan (the scan is the same size as a regular scan however I feel I must use the terminology that has been shared with me) at 22 weeks.

Scans still scare me since we found out about our miscarriage during our first scan, however this time the big difference was that baby had been kicking and somersaulting for a couple of weeks and so I knew it was alive. Of course I didn’t know if everything was ok and I had a very quiet voice of fear accompany me on the day. The sonographer was lovely, she took us through each part of our gorgeous baby and I gasped every 4 seconds including when we saw the kidneys which truly are just grey blobs on a screen. BUT THEY ARE OUR BABIES GREY BLOBS. She let us hear the heart beat and persevered to get a profile pic when it seemed inevitable that baby would not move it’s gorgeous hand from its perfect face.

The scan finished with her telling us that everything looked normal. Isn’t that just the most wonderful word when looking at a scan of your baby? Normal! Ahh bliss. I let out a deep sigh of relief and then read about counting movements and immediately found something new to worry about!

I’m feeling good these days. I’m not as tired, not as bloated, not as nauseous and not as worried. However as the pregnancy progresses I have encountered a number of lies that have been sold me to by this maternity world, ones that I would like debunk now.

The lies, myths & inconsistencies

The 12 weeks myth –such were the promises of wellbeing at the 12 week mark that I woke up on the morning of it ready to start marathon training. I was sold tales of ‘bursts of energy’,’ no more sickness’, ‘easing of symptoms’. Hurrah I thought, life will be back to normal. I will stay up late and watch movies. I will high five people on the street and drag a comb through my hair looking into the mirror. Then my old foe, 2 o’clock, arrived on day 1 of week 13 and the feeling returned. I was miserable, I was tired and I was bloated. How could this be I cried? They promised I lamented. THEY LIED. It took until week 16 to start to feel better, week 18 to really feel better. Screw you week 12; you were but a mirage in a dry desert of despair.

You won’t even miss alcohol – oh how you make me laugh. I remember speaking to friends about how to survive without a weekend glass of wine, ‘you don’t even miss it’ I was told. THEY LIED. Sometimes, when I’m all alone, I sit and think of the condensation on a bottle of chilled New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. I hear the sounds of the cap opening, or the pop of the cork, and the glug of the liquid as it pours into the glass. I feel the glass between my fingers and the first rush of flavour as it hits. And then I realise the best I can hope for is a non-alcoholic Erdinger which is mostly head or a glass of orange juice whose only winning quality is that it isn’t water. I miss wine every damn day.

You’re gorgeous – look I’m not saying you’re not gorgeous but it takes many months for that bump to develop and until then you will be obsessed with trying to round off whatever fat has been deposited on your stomach. My bump is getting there now at 24 weeks, until this point it looked kinda fat, as did my bum, my love handles and my arms. I only recently passed the milestone of having my bump bigger than my bum.   

Choose a healthy diet-  personally I could not choose any diet. For the first 16 weeks my appetite was such that it went from ravenous and needing to eat all the carbs, to ravenous and not being able to deal with life let alone eating. When you are tired, bloated, emotional and need to eat every 2 hours it’s hard to keep going for the carrot sticks. One of my snacks was always fruit or veg but the one 2 hours later and 2 hours before was most definitely carbs. Your body is no longer your own and you must learn to feed the animal (albeit a really cute cuddly one) inside.

Body confidence is not technically yours either – so I am curvy, always have been and will be etc. I have days I feel crap but usually I’m pretty confident. Pregnancy has been interesting…I really promised myself I would not look at skinny pregnant women and wish I was them…celebs included…and I kept that promise right until I looked at a skinny pregnant woman and wished I was them. Again most days I feel good and am really embracing my belly, however I do feel different. I have given my body to a greater purpose and it isn’t as easy as I haughtily thought it would be.

Babies don’t come cheap –  I feel like I’m back in the world of wedding planning except this time I’m only getting bigger and the party I have to look forward to involves sleep deprivation, vomit and must be tolerated alcohol free (see alcohol point above) Everything is expensive AND even if, like me, you are anti-establishment and plan to go second hand e’erythang you will be terrified of not buying new just incase something happens, and your recycled buggy flops in on itself in the middle of the sanitary towel aisle in Tesco. The point is when you add baby or maternity to a product the price is ridiculous yet you will feel the shame of not being able to afford the best even though you have fought against that feeling your whole life.

Needless to say pregnancy is also wonderful and joyous etc etc but watch out for those sneaky lies and the sense of shame that they can create.

I may add to this list as they occur to me. I shall be the debunker of myths, the remover of hope, the renewer of misery. Or something like that.

More gas and a hairy bush

We went to Spain for a week in February, I decided it would be factor 50 weather so packed every light summer item I possessed and no jacket….terrible decision. Turns out February really is still February in Spain, go figure. As well as packing light I decided to lighten up my personal load too. We were meeting a friend whose body fat percentage is less than the Victoria Secrets model at the moment they step on the runway. She’s fit and gorgeous and tight. Considering at 20 weeks I was unfit, passable and soft I decided the least I could do was defuzz so when standing next to her in the bikini (which we obviously didn’t wear – see February above) I didn’t also add spider legs to the list of differences we have.

I am not prudish and would happily walk around naked except for the risk of chilblains and upsetting other people’s lunch HOWEVER it turns out bikini waxing when pregnant is not for the faint hearted. Not to give too much away about the drapery, heavens forbid, but turns out red hair is the thickest of the hairs (wait, did I just give it all away there?). This coupled with me slacking off on my personal styling when bump had cast a shadow to ‘that area’ (it’s a dangerous place to bring a scissors to blind) meant that the beauty therapist had her work cut out.

She was wonderful and did not seem fazed by the task ahead; it was her job she told me. I don’t buy it though….I know she didn’t walk in to beauty school with hopes of one day waxing a pregnant woman’s ungroomed ginger bush, and, if she did, she needs higher hopes or lower hopes but most certainly different hopes.

So the wax; it was definitely more painful than usual and to her credit she was very, very thorough. We talked a lot which was helpful, it distracted the pain somewhat until of course she touched me and I wanted to immediately reverse my decision to have a child. Thankfully I now understand waxing is clearly more painful than childbirth so I’ll be fine. Anyway, the talking was dandy except that as time moved along I was anxious to remain silent in order to let me concentrate on the rather more urgent issue at hand.

Fellow people who have grown a child may sympathise with the slightly increased amount of errr windy pops that the body produces. Mainly these pop right out my delicate mouth which I can furiously apologise for while everyone laughs at the cute pregnant pops. Other times they do not pop out of my mouth but instead find other ways in which to escape free. (Thankfully this is usually when sleeping and my husband kindly does not let me know it has happened for fear of me breaking down in a mortified toddlers crying tantrum.) Quite quickly, while holding my knees to my pregnant and bloated stomach, I had a very real sense of danger to what could happen next.

Have you ever held your knees to your swollen boobs while another woman defuzzed your hootenanny? It’s not fun, it’s not mildly weird, it’s not even bearable. By the time she was finished I had 15 different apologies ready for the inevitable pop off that I was destined to allow escape while she was working. I was sure that holding my legs, talking about a holiday whilst sweating profusely meant that something would have to give and it was surely my digestive muscles.

Time dragged on, as I said she was thorough; I willed her to quit while she was ahead, get out while the going was good, SAVE YOURSELF SWEET GIRL. Eventually the magical words ‘we’re done’ arrived; she was going to step outside while I got dressed. I had done it! Success! I was smooth and still had some dignity left to lose in the delivery room. However friends, I tell you most sincerely I kept those legs up in the air until she was a safe distance away. God only knows how much of the universe I had been gathering during the wax and I was not about to release the lever of my legs to force it all back out while she stood in the room.

Long story short. Bikini wax felt great however every moment of it is seared into my brain forever more. Spain was wonderful, friend was even tighter than the last time I saw her and I spent a week in too little clothes unsuccessfully trying to do pregnant Chrissy Teigen on holidays.

Have a pregnancy

On Saturday I passed the 15 week mark. It’s a funny time of pregnancy isn’t it? There is definitely a belly but it’s not too prominent. You’ve reached the high of hitting the second trimester yet you (I) still fall asleep by 9.30 every night. The promised land of symptom free post 12 weeks has not materialised and then you realise it was really only a ruse used to get to week 12 without tearing your hair out. I totally fell for it… yet here I am still tired, still feeling sick and now happily aware that neither of these things matter at all.

This has been the epiphany of my second pregnancy. How I feel these 9 months (or is it 10 months? Pregnancy math confuses the hell out of me) is completely irrelevant. Sick, tired, narky? It doesn’t matter. Itchy boobs, stretch marks, weight gain? Pfff what did you expect? I, bolstered by Hollywood/ Instagram’s perception of the pregnancy journey, had me expecting flowing skirts in hay fields with floral crowns, bralets and a big beautiful belly. That may still happen however I’ve come to realise that whether it does or doesn’t is inconsequential to the purpose of pregnancy.

Pregnancy is about life, it’s about a woman’s body bearing a child. It is a job your body has undertaken on a 9/10 month contract with a really stressful 12 week probationary period. Hopefully along the way you have fields of gold, and moments of eating cereal off a rounded moving tray, but if not….it doesn’t even matter.

I’m sure that for some people this sounds depressing, unromantic, harsh but for me it’s been quite freeing. Knowing that what I’m currently going through is not meant to be of benefit to me is a relief. It focusses me on July, when all of this sickness, this exhaustion will result in a new future. A new human has to be the result of hard work right? It could never be a walk in the park.

I am sure this frame of mind is largely down to my miscarriage. My first pregnancy was certainly more romantic. The telling of my partner, the rubbing of a belly that hadn’t started to grow yet…all moments that I hold so precious. However the romance of that pregnancy did not lead to a little person. This pregnancy, which was very practical and unromantic for the whole first trimester, will hopefully result in the family we have been planning for.

Just to clarify I’m not saying happy pregnancies result in miscarriage…clearly…I mean please you know that? What I am questioning however is what would happen if we released ourselves from the pressure of loving a pregnancy; of rejoicing in it and shouting about how much we welcome the sickness for fear of anyone thinking we are ungrateful for this gift? That release – for me – has let me enjoy the pregnancy even more! It has taken away disappointment from the days when I feel none of those things.

There are so many forums on pregnancy, and in every one there is a topic where a Mom-to-be discusses how hard she is finding it, and the guilt that this brings. Before she even gets to sharing why she is finding it hard, she apologises for doing so. It’s an internal pressure that is compounded by external forces. Those forces are many – media, family and friends, and people like me who had a miscarriage or are experiencing fertility issues. When I had a miscarriage I couldn’t care less how much your pregnancy hurt you, honestly I wanted you to shut up complaining and be grateful! Yes I was am my own worst enemy!

I know this pregnancy is a gift and I dare anyone to challenge me on how much I appreciate that. I speak to my baby, I do everything physically possible to make sure it is safe. I will buy the dungarees I always dreamt of wearing when pregnant. But I will also know that whether wonderful or awful, this pregnancy is not about me. It’s about bringing life into the world. And that is the crux for me – remove the guilt you feel about the pregnancy not being all you wanted. It is what it is. It is wonderful or it makes you feel terrible. The end result is the baby, not the experience.

Hint though – don’t moan to those who want to be pregnant and are not. That just makes you a bit of an asshole. If you want to figure out who you can moan to read this and follow the logic, www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-oe-0407-silk-ring-theory-20130407-story.html

So in summary what am I saying? My message is Have a Pregnancy and don’t stress about what adjective to use until the end of it.

Could it be?

As you can see my great intentions to write post miscarriage stayed as just that….an intention. It was for a couple of reasons. One was because I was struggling with getting through each day and writing it down just seemed a bit miserable. Then amidst the struggle I found out that I was pregnant again and really had no idea what to feel let alone write.

Pregnancy after miscarriage, life after death, was a whole new learning. I want to say I was happy, I felt lucky, I had hope but I didn’t. I wasn’t sad, of course it was good news – but only if the baby survived which there was no way of knowing would be the case. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to suffer another loss, I really didn’t want to have to be.

I was scared, I am scared.

On our first pregnancy I set up the scene of telling my husband, it was beautiful. I will never forget the look on his face. It was that memory that stung so hard after our miscarriage – to know that I had to let go of that moment because it no longer existed in the way it had. On this pregnancy I told him when we were changing the sheets on the bed. I whispered it and then we went to meet friends for the night. For the next few weeks we discussed very little about it, my choice more than his. He was happy but he knew….a positive pregnancy result can mean nothing at all.

I felt a lot sicker with this pregnancy, I was exhausted all the time. From 2pm until I gave up and went to bed I was sick. My appetite was insatiable, my boobs were sore and heavy. All signs of a good pregnancy and as the days and weeks continued a little bubble of hope was growing. At 8.5 weeks we had a reassurance scan, the name itself comforted me. The day arrived, the middle of December and the day before my Mothers 14^th anniversary, it’s amazing how we look for little signs when we need them. I couldn’t look at the monitor for fear of what I wouldn’t see but there it was, a beautiful blob with a spinning top in the middle that our midwife said was our babies’ heart. It spun around hypnotising us as it did. We had never seen our first babies’ heart beating so here was the first indication for me that things were different.

We left the appointment and I saw the face again. The joy of pregnancy, of a future, of our dreams realised. It was there on my husband. We wandered around Grafton Street in a happy daze. He kissed me under the Christmas lights – he held me tight, brought me into him and kissed me hard. It was a kiss to breath the life back into me, to show me that together we had been through the worst and here was the best.

The scan gave me the hope I needed to accept the sickness and know that this time it may not end with pain. We told family and friends over Christmas but I was still apprehensive. I didn’t want to be imprisoned by the fear that my miscarriage had left me with and sharing the news seemed like a step towards breaking free from it. I told people with my eyes slightly squinted though, as if I was telling bad news. I still couldn’t believe that I wasn’t. I planned for how we would follow up when the pregnancy ended again, I had conversations to this effect in my head so that I could be more prepared this time. My poor baby, it started life with a mother who had no faith in it. I feel so guilty for that.

On January 7^th we had a 12 week scan as part of our booking appointment. There on the screen appeared our baby. It was a tiny miraculous human dancing for its Mom and Dad. Its little legs kicked up to meet its waving arms. It moved so much the sonographer got different measurements each time. A happy baby was what we were told from a laughing consultant, our happy baby.

We left the appointment and for the first time in my pregnancy I rubbed my belly. I spoke to my child that had danced for me. I thanked it for showing us just how alive it is. I thanked our first baby for preparing my body to welcome its sibling, for showing me through its own death that without any doubts I desperately wanted, and was ready, to be a Mom.

So here I am now. 13 weeks and two days pregnant. I believe it is happening and while July is a terrifying amount of time away I have let myself accept that maybe this time I will get a rainbow from the storm.