You Win Again: The Battle for the Third Baby

I appear to be surrounded. I am not exactly sure when it started but I am aware of it now. Everywhere I turn, there they lurk. I cannot seem to escape them. I am talking about pregnant women but not just any pregnant women, I am talking about the ones who are “going again”. 

I see them absent mindedly rubbing their swollen midriffs whilst gazing lovingly at the animated toddler who pulls excitedly at their hand while they wait for the lights to change at the crossing. I hear them chatting to the other mothers about how they don’t know what came over them; about how they just don’t know what they were thinking; about how their families had just not felt complete before laughing about how they are planning to march their other halves straight to the vasectomy clinic after this one comes along.

I don’t believe them. I mean I wouldn’t feel confident enough in their deceit to suggest that any male reader should put his knapsack on the line by playing the double bluff but I believe that they are sticking to “the plan”. "The plan" would have been formulated in their childhood, likely long before they ever met their significant others and probably influenced by their own number of siblings, whether positively or negatively and potentially by the number of siblings whom they actually like.* Sometimes another one is just one too far.

I myself was one of 3.
"Best till last" sort of situation.

It's no secret that, were the circumstances different, I would go again in a heartbeat. Husband, on the other hand, believes that I recall the entire pregnancy business through rose tinted glasses and am merely a slave the basic human instinct to want what I cannot have but then he is always fun like that. We see the prospect of another child entirely differently and on further probing (of the questioning variety) here is where I think we differ:

Me: If I were to be pregnant again I would know that this would be the last time so I would cherish every single moment. I would delight in the warm fuzzy glow that I would undoubtedly feel on seeing the glimmer of a blue line on the first positive pregnancy test, incredulous that it has actually happened to me. I would be reassured by the waves of nausea overwhelming me in the first trimester, safe in the knowledge that this is just a sign that the pregnancy was progressing as it should. I would wonder at my body's transformation as my tummy swells and my flat chest blooms in answer to its call to action; one final time into the fray dear friends. I would lovingly caress the bump; charting its movements and marvelling at how it manages to express its personality from within the confines of my womb.

I would not miss the things that I could not have or could not do. The soft cheeses, rare meat, wine and exercise would merely be things to look forward to in nine months’ time. They would wait. After all, it’s not forever. Just this one last time.

"That" feeling comes second only to meeting the baby.

Him: If you were to be pregnant again it would be a bloody nightmare. Sure, we would be delighted at the prospect of another child to add to the brood and that feeling would last approximately 24 seconds before you started reeling off the number of things that could possibly go wrong. Your face would go that green way whenever I suggested anything beyond toast for dinner and you would have to instigate “lying down games” with the other two who would politely ignore your requests not to be used as a climbing frame. When the activity and nausea took their combined effect the current offspring would then follow you to the toilet, refusing to allow you to hurl your guts up in the privacy of a locked bathroom, viewing it to be something of a spectators sport.

Then the “thickening” would start. You remember don’t you? Just before you actually look pregnant but you just lose the definition around the waist and you feel bloated and spotty. You'll tell me how "fat" you feel and remind me about the lecturer who described a human foetus as "the most efficient parasite known to man". You will shoot daggers at me when I mention exercise in which I may have partaken and want to discuss, at length, the statistical chance of actually infecting the unborn with Listeria from ingesting any of the foods on the NHS naughty list before deciding that you would never forgive yourself if you did and would therefore go without. You will then get annoyed with me for eating or imbibing anything on the pregnancy blacklist before muttering something about “solidarity” under your breath.

You will blossom, that is for sure and you will look great but you will not believe me when I tell you. You will, however, believe every non-medically trained stranger who tells you that your bump is “big” or “small” setting off a cascade of worry about how there is something wrong with the baby and demand that I check the size of your bump with a measuring tape from our non-existent sewing kit. But yes, "magical" is how I would describe it too.

So he may have a point(s) but they are still really cute.

Who wouldn't be tempted?!

*I do realise that not everyone bases their number of children on their own family and some base their decisions on far more practical things like cars, holidays, risk of multiples, houses, ability to cope with vTech for another 3years etc.

You've Got a Friend In Me: An Open Letter to My Friends

Dear Friends,

I am sorry. 

I realise that I don't call, email or even text you as much as I should. I know that there are times when you must feel like I am selfishly absorbed in my own little world and have forgotten the pivotal role that you played at that particularly bad time in my life or how we used to live in one another's pockets without even having to verbalise our shared thoughts because we already knew what one another were thinking about every aspect of every day. I am conscious of the fact that you have things going on, things that as your friend I should be aware of and should be there to offer counsel or merely act as a sounding board, allowing you to vent your frustrations or voice your concerns; things that I would be aware of if I was more present in your daily life.

Me: in your daily life

Whilst, I am not normally one to blow my own trumpet but I like to think that I used to be pretty good as friends go. I realise that my ability to pick up the phone has always been somewhat lacking, fearing the conversation unnatural and stilted, but I made up for it in other ways. I used to be good at just "checking in" or dropping a text or Facebook message when I came across something that reminded me of you or us. I used to make the effort to visit, even if just for one night so that I could see you in person, feel us ease into our relationship like we had never been apart and put the world to rights; solving everyone else's problems and making light of our own.

I used to be a good friend.

Putting the world to rights

Now I struggle to remember birthdays or anniversaries, even when I played a key role in the ceremony. Now, I reply to messages a week later, having received them whilst wrestling with my toddler who is reluctant to get his nappy changed despite smelling like a blocked swear drain and being unable to sit down for fear of sending poop into crevices from where it shall never be recovered. Now, I see or hear things that remind me of you and induce a smile and I put them on the list. I put them on the list of things to do as undoubtedly when I experience such a memory I will be herding the small people from one activity to another or in the middle of a very complex role play. Now, I think of arranging a visit to spend time with you and I have to sit down with my husband and work it when he can alter his rota to accommodate the lion share of childcare. I have to factor in continuity for my kids, resident training required for work and my husband's extra curricular activities at which point we get distracted by a child crying out, unable to sleep and seeking parental comfort and the planning is forgotten for another few weeks.

They can be distracting

But know this, I love you and I miss you. I do remember the way we use to be and I hope and pray that one day we will be there again. 

I ask for you to be patient. 

For my children are two and four. Their world's are hectic but limited and they are the centre of it and I am their moon; their constant. They are the best thing that I have ever done but they devour my time, attention and thoughts like I could never have imagined. They are relentless in their capacity and need for love and attention and I must be there to give it. When I am not there I am desperately trying to look like a professional in a job where I constantly feel out of my depth but valued at the same time. I am spread as thinly as the lactose intolerant would spread butter on toast but it won't be this way forever; one day I will be back.

Continuity

One day we will have girls' weekends and extended conversations over WhatsApp where we discuss everything and nothing. One day we will get the chance to relax together and be us again. 

One day, my lovely, we will be the best of friends once again.

Parallel Lives: How the Other Half Live Child Free

Now I am not one who enjoys comparing themselves to others; I tend to find that I am never clever enough, funny enough, pretty enough, slim enough, fit enough or kind enough. However, this weekend I have retreated to the in laws for the Easter break where we are in the company of my husband's twin and her husband and I find myself searching my pockets for my yard stick once again and plotting our differences against one another. Now these differences are not in relation to our personal qualities (because obviously we are both equally as kind, beautiful and clever) but our experiences of similar events over the weekend.

Parallel Lives

1. The journey

My sister in law messaged the family WhatsApp group to inform the family of their arrival time, including elucidatory details of their planned journey. These tantalising nuggets included "the quiet coach", "M&S picnic" and "watching MasterChef en route". 

Meanwhile, I was wrangling with a 2 year old who refused to sleep despite the late hour and degree of exhaustion (loosely translated from his anguished screams of "I NO LIKE!!"). Attempts to ease him into the realm of unconsciousness whilst my husband attempted to concentrate on the road in the driving rain included, but were not limited to: 

• soothing tones and reassuring phrases issued in his general direction with reassuring pats of his legs. Response: "SHHHH! I NO LIKE!"

• putting on an over- exaggerated display of pretending to fall asleep myself. Response:  "MUMMYMUMMYMUMMYMUMMY MUM-MY!!"

• listening to the same banal nursery rhyme on repeat for an hour, slowly but surely feeling the will to live ebb from my body whilst also wondering if the vocalist every thought to question their life choices. Response: "AGAIN! AGAIN!"

Fighting a losing battle

2. The wake up

A fact universally acknowledged by the extended family is that this pair love a lie in; forever reluctant to stir from their recumbent position and face the world beyond their snug and warm duvet. Well, this weekend was no different. It was 9 o'clock before they emerged from the haven of their bedroom, loosely disheveled and in a dreamy haze; wandering down the stairs to greet the day and the youthful inhabitants of the house with the enthusiasm and vigour that only 8 hours of uninterrupted slumber can bestow.

We acknowledged their presence with subtle nods over the brim of our tepid cups of coffee; issuing a jaded greeting in their general direction like war veterans who were unable and unwilling to convey the terrors they had already lived through. We were broken. 

Bouncing into the day

The children had not transitioned from car to bedroom as seamlessly as we would have hoped and had needed frequent parental intervention for such emergencies as "the night is too dark", "my blanket is tangled" and "mummy, mummy, milk, mummy". They had, however, apparently been well rested enough to accompany the dawn chorus (the joys of countryside living) with their own dulcet tones and start the day with relentless enthusiasm for all forms of physical play; particularly those which involved sitting astride their mother and bouncing simultaneously with gay abandon.

Much like this...

3. The relationship

This twosome have been married for just over two years, a date I have etched on my calendar as my rascal child had penned in his arrival for two days later meaning my husband never got to see his twin be walked down the aisle, raise a toast to her future happiness or dance with her on her wedding day. Instead he was lucky enough to spend the day on labour ward being glowered at repeatedly (especially when being offered tea and biscuits mid contraction), have his beloved mutter audible profanities about him for putting her in such a position and being able to wipe the sweat from his wife's upper lip (I suffer from a very sweaty face) as she tried to expel an unruly grapefruit through the eye of the needle.

Parallel Lives

Despite being two years into matrimony and about 11 years into their relationship this other couple retain a display of physical affection that would be more suited to a fledgling romance; one that has not yet weathered the gastric illness, utility bills and domestic chores which come to all long term relationships. Hands are proferred for holding, armpits are snuggled into when seated on a couch and hugs are spontaneously bestowed upon each other freely and without ulterior motive. They appear very much in love.

Snuggle-tastic

We, on the other hand are comrades in arms, passing the undetonated (and sometimes detonated) bombs between us with an unspoken understanding. All physical affection is showered upon our offspring; hands are too busy carrying or wiping to be held, nooks are prefilled with small children who need a reassuring cuddle and spontaneous hugs are saved for times of childhood injury or uncertainty. On the rare occasions that we may try to bestow a loving touch or unsolicited kiss upon our other, we are met with outcry from our progeny. They appear to find it both unsettling and unfair; did we not realise that all affection must be lavished in their direction? 

Now, you may have read this and felt a twinge of pity for me or a hankering for those magical days where you weren't responsible for keeping another human entertained/fed/law- abiding/alive but I urge you to take solace in this fact: the other couple are expecting a baby. 

Advice to my Younger Self Wrapped Up in an 80s Bow

As my youngest edges ever closer to meeting the admissions criteria for the exclusive club of the terrible twos, I realise that in many ways I am emerging into the light having thrown off the shackles of the baby years. With this realisation I have started to think about what I would tell my pre child self were I to be able to go back in time? What nuggets of wisdom would I impart to that naive, insecure and needlessly bored mid twenties self? Except that you should maybe avoid that hairdresser in the West End as she'll give you a shag-come-mullet hairstyle that will take forever to grow out. Being that unsolicited advice is never particularly welcome I decided to wrap it up in an 80s trend gift box to go with your inevitable and highly regrettable haircut, the all important power ballad .You are welcome.


NOTHING'S GONNA STOP US NOW

Everyone has heard this old adage before but once you are not actively preventing, you are actively trying to conceive. You'll want to give yourself time, presuming there will be difficulties and you will need to get a year of "trying" under your belt (excuse the pun) before you can secure investigation and intervention with the NHS. Don't be fooled. In retrospect, those two blue lines herald our future within one month and you shall be less than prepared.

You will sit.

For 3 hours.

Staring.

Just staring.

It will be bad timing what with a new job, a house hunt underway, a husband in training and professional exams looming in the near future but the horse will now be whinnying from the other side of the door as you ham- fistedly try to wrestle with the Yale.

Just staring...

TWO OUT OF THREE AIN'T BAD

Those three dark haired children (two boys and a girl obviously) that you have always envisioned will disappear in a plume of smoke like a bad magic act. Instead, be prepared for only being able to welcome the two into your family but being lucky enough to watch your affectionate and doting daughter help mould her younger brother into something pretty fantastic.

The Dynamic Duo

ALONE


You will never be alone. You may think this is sweet and endearing that your beloved cherubs will love you so much that they cannot bear to be parted from your loving embrace. The reality is that there will be full days where you will not get a moment of solitude and this includes bathroom breaks, showers and body hair maintenance regimes. Expect plenty of questions in relation to the afore mentioned activities. You'll start offering to do all the chores that you loathe; gallantly offering to scrub the encrusted dishes until they sparkle like a Fairy advert, cleaning out the wardrobes of all the clothes which you no longer fit and even brandishing the iron from time to time merely so that you can secure a few moments of tranquility away from the barked instructions of your toddler on how to be a good cat owner, when you don't own a cat.

You will NEVER be alone

IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME


There may be days when you feel like this. Don't beat yourself up, everyone does even if they don't say it. I realise that in your pre-child naivety you probably think that it is horribly disloyal to your unborn, perfect progeny but it's not that you don't want them it's just that sometimes you crave the hedonistic days of minimal responsibility.

Well that and lie ins. My word, do you crave a lie in.

A toddler is the cruellest of alarm clocks

THEY'D DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE (BUT THEY WONT DO THAT)

And by "that" they mean eat any non-beige food groups. I know you live on vegetables and have a remarkably healthy diet free from sugary treats (damn you diabetes) but your children will not be swayed by your behaviour. I know you've been told that they will eat whatever you eat and that it is merely your ability to parent that will prevent this. You are wrong. There is nothing and no one as stubborn as a toddler faced with vegetable.

Good luck to you and God speed.

This paltry portion will go uneaten

EVERY ROSE HAS ITS THORN

Surprises happen (you'll have two of them) and there will be times when things look bleak. You'll think you are prepared for it not to go to plan but in all honesty you will feel sucker punched. Keep going. Once you know, you know and you can start to deal with it. Hope will endure, merely shifting its focus and small triumphs will undoubtedly result. These are the things to cling to in times of uncertainty. Know that if things had worked out differently then you wouldn't have what you have now, and believe me you want what you have now.

Please though, the hairdresser? STAY AWAY.

Stock photos have been used to prevent the humiliation of the innocent

Coming to Terms with the "Last"

It would appear that the stork (who seems to have been on some sort of sabbatical recently) has penciled in a visit to our extended family in the not too distant future. This has me utterly beholden to excitement, potentially more than it should, but I am a slave to those crinkly moles and I am living vicariously through the prospective parents.

Now here is the thing, I am horribly jealous, in fact I am intermittently consumed with it. I won't deny it. Just when I think I have come to terms with the fact that my family is complete at one fewer than we had originally planned, I foresee another "last" on the horizon; last positive pregnancy test, last birth, last breastfeed, last nap, last carry. So, being that I cannot stop the rest of the world from procreating I decided to investigate the real cause of my envy and this is what I have discovered:

1. I miss the sheer unknown of that first pregnancy

Even though my first child put us through the ringer during the incubation period, I definitely still remember periods of uninhibited joy which are so few and far between once you reach "adult" status. Your first child will change your life. They do this in ways you cannot even imagine as you sit, magical pee stick in hand, marvelling at those two blue lines that you had spent your misguided youth trying to avoid. Whilst we, as card carrying progenitors, find it easier to portray the more negative aspects of parenthood, the truth is a child will incomprehensibly alter you for the better. It's just not as funny to write about.

2. I miss the limitless possibility of the newborn

There is a whole person waiting to meet you. All those twinges, pops and bubbles emanating from your stomach are coming from a real human being; an individual who is actually part you and part him. Sure, they may come out a tad shrivelled, a little mole like and not too dissimilar to your great uncle Neville, but you will see them and feel your heart hurt with love. Utter, uncomplicated devotion. Their personality will start to take shape with each passing hour and you will be in awe. How did you, with all of your faults, make such a wonderful, magical, perfect little person?

3. Lastly, I long to...

I ache.

There is definitely a part of me that feels incomplete but who is to say that one more child would be the answer? I have two beautiful children who fought tooth and nail to be here today (my womb being as hospitable as a medieval torture chamber) so it would be unfair for me to put them, my husband or a prospective child through another pregnancy. I can live without another baby but I wouldn't want my babies to have to live without a mother. This I know. I just wish my head would tell my heart.

Shrivelled Mole meets Big Sister

Husband: My Partner in Crime

To mark our six year's wed and your (gulp) 35th birthday, I have decided to surrender to your relentless lobbying and pen (or type) a little something about you. Now, don’t get too excited. I haven’t had a personality transplant overnight so there shall be no declarations of undying love or comparisons to boulder like masses (Steve Wright Sunday Love Song listeners please take heed.)

This is what I know:

1. We are in this together

There has not been a single moment since we stood in front of our friends and family, dressed in our finest threads, vowing to be a team for the ever after, when I have felt lonely or alone. Any decision to be made, battle to mount or achievement to be celebrated has been done together without conscious thought or deliberation. We are a team.

This collaboration extends beyond the landmark moments and seeps into the mundane tasks of daily life. Where nappies and disciplining are borne equally, you definitely pick up the slack in the housekeeping and cooking department whilst I perhaps take on the brunt of the night calls and toddler sick days. We definitely have a rhythm and manage to keep the beat, which is no mean feat when you recall our poor ballroom dance teacher declaring our rhythm keeping to be "terminal"!

2. We are stronger because of what we have been through

It has definitely not been all sunshine and rainbows, especially since we started assembling our little family (much like the Avengers). There were those days that felt like an age where we tried to come to terms with our “inevitable” miscarriage only to have our spirits raised that all would be well. Those hopes were then decimated when the phrases "structural defects",  “chromosomal abnormalities" and "genetic investigations" were bandied about. Our second pregnancy was no kinder to us, with weekly scans to check the blood supply to our treasured infant's brain. All in all our little brood were lucky to survive the gauntlet that is incubation in my womb.

I am not sure when you promised the "in sickness" part that you expected to be called into battle quite so frequently but you have stood tall (above average height) and taken it on as if you were receiving each diagnoses yourself.

3. There is no one else I would rather be in this with

As anyone in a long term relationship knows, the heat and passion that comes with a new relationship is intertwined with the unknown. There is so much to learn about the other person and, at the time, this is exciting. There is so much potential and the mystery just adds to the allure! 

However, mystery and the unknown do not rank very highly on your wish list for a partner in the child raising game. You want to know not only where you stand but that you are standing in the same general area and not having to use a carrier pigeon to get your point across.

Our surprises may be few, our passion more sporadic and our heat mostly flannel pyjama based but with you I know where I stand and I know upon whom I can rely.

Now I know you love a quote, and in the absence of Van Wilder or Ron Swanson having uttered an appropriately eloquent adage, I shall instead turn to the words of an underrated Children’s author, Anna Kemp:

“”You know, “[I said}, as [we] drank [our] tea,
“We’re a great team, you and me”
[Your non-existent] belly shook with laughter.
And [we] both lived happily ever after.”

Happy birthday my love! 

The Classic Family Photo

A Message in a Bottle: Why Blog?

I have started thinking about why I have started to blog. During these ruminations I have concluded that there may be a small part in all of us (some more than others) which craves external validation and positive attention,  however, I would like to believe that my motivation is not solely limited to this self serving ideal (which is just as well as my comments section is somewhat sparsely populated!) And whilst I doubt there are many of us who would turn down the success that the Unmumsy Mum has enjoyed since documenting her thoughts regarding parenting on the internet, I fear us mere mortals cannot expect to enjoy such accolades nor income from our postulations on potty training!

No, putting these aspirations to one side, I have realised that I blog for three reasons:

1. Me- I use it as a teenager in the 80s would have used a floral diary and a scented pen but unfortunately mine is less "He is so dreamy! How long before he notices me?" and more "His nappy is so smelly! How long before everyone notices the stench?" It allows me to document how I feel as I feel it and reflect on the good, the bad and the farcical.

2. Them - There are parts of my blog which aren't as happy or funny as others. We had two rather tricky pregnancies and our daughter will be living with the consequences of that for the rest of her life. I want them to see how hard they were fought for and how proud I am of them, even from before the time they knew they had to please me in order to go to the "cool" party at the weekend... I want to be able to show them that in their darkest hours of pregnancy and parenthood, I too found it hard, I understand. So please, feel what you feel and don't beat yourself up about it.

3. You - Not as in "you are bloody blessed to be exposed to my witty ponderings and don't you forget it!" But more, if you are out there and feeling a little lost: maybe you too are not enjoying the dream pregnancy that you expected; maybe you too have a child (or the prospect of one) with physical differences who you fear may suffer emotionally as a consequence or maybe you too worry that you are not a good enough mother or role model to equip them with the confidence they need to be happy. Perhaps reading an account of someone like you will help you feel less alone and give you some hope that you can and will find your way through the gauntlet that is parenting.

The Lesser Spotted Blogger

The Forgotten Child....

I am beginning to realise that so far it reads as though I only have one child. Normally, being forgotten about falls to the first born; the initial pancake that is inevitably tossed to one side (or, in this house, bestowed upon the mother). But no, this mantle falls to my second child. The one who needs no medical intervention, who has been gifted with ten fingers and ten toes and whose limbs are symmetrical and equal in each way.

We eventually worked up the courage to "go again". The horror of the genetic investigations and the torment of the first pregnancy and all its uncertainties must have faded enough to allow a seed of optimism and hope to take root.

This time, we were armed. I now had a definitive diagnosis of type 1 diabetes (which was under control), I was on high dose folic acid and I was living the sort of ascetic lifestyle that would have made Gwyneth Paltrow proud. What could go wrong?

Nothing.

Nothing ACTUALLY went wrong but everyone (doctors included) were on such tenter hooks that I was scanned so often I could have picked my unborn baby out of a police line up. Although I suspect most people would be able to pick and unborn baby out of a police line up...

When my diabetes didn't behave as they were expecting I was admitted for "close observation" and spent half of my last trimester under the watchful eye of a suspicious medical team who were trying to decide whether my baby's blood supply was failing or whether I was injecting excess insulin between my toes.

At 37 weeks they called it quits and kick-started labour themselves. Aside from an initial dodgy trace and an epidural which set in just in time for the tea and toast (the universally recognised reward for bringing life into the world) the delivery was as positive an experience as pooping a cannonball can be.

This was my boy. My beautiful boy and I was besotted... 

The Pregnancy: My Imperfectly Perfect Baby

So, to cut a long story short we did actually have a baby...

It was a miscarriage that never was but a threat that loitered menacingly for the duration of the pregnancy. My lovely, green "low risk" sticker was obliterated by an angry, red "high risk" stamp as further complications ensued: gestational diabetes, gestational thrombocytopaenia (no platelets and therefore an inability to clot) and "measuring small for dates".

At nineteen weeks we had our anomaly scan. This was booked early as, although undiscussed, there was a palpable expectation from the medical team that an abnormality would be discovered. Our previous conversations held in the scan department cloaked us in pessimism and the phrases uttered a mere two months ago rang clear:

"There is no fluid..."

"We usually find that this is not compatible with a viable pregnancy..."

"... normally due to a chromosomal abnormality..." 

And sure enough they found an anomaly.

Our baby had a "unilateral talipes". What this actually means is that one of their feet had developed in such a way that it turned in on its self. Historically the affliction had the rather attractive name of “club foot”. The good news was that it was entirely treatable to the point that the vast majority of those born with it actually go unnoticed. They can expect their feet to be different sizes, their calf muscles to be a little under developed on the affected side and they may need to rethink any aspirations to be a professional footballer or ballet dancer but they will run; they will jump; they will play. It takes five solid years of a parental commitment to physiotherapy but it is fixable.

It wasn't the abnormality that they found which caused the concern but the increasing possibility that there would be something more fundamentally wrong with our baby. Any sort of structural anomaly increases the likelihood that there is some underlying chromosomal irregularity but there was no way to know for sure. This was a worry that we would just need to live with and we did.

When she came she was beautiful, there was no denying that. She was tiny, which was fine, as she cried and fed without any fuss but when they passed her on to my tummy I saw it straight away. It didn’t fill me with dread or panic me to the core. She was here. She was never meant to make it this far and she did. There was little that could take away from that. She was my miracle. The miscarriage that never was. A proper human. With nine fingers and ten toes.

They tell me, with the aid of hindsight, that the attempted miscarriage was probably due to the membranes popping in early pregnancy but she had put her arm through the whole and sealed that cocoon up good and tight (my little dutch girl!). The tight seal around her arm restricted the blood flow and prevented it from developing properly leaving her with a slightly smaller right hand and only four functioning fingers. The lack of fluid meant that her legs and feet did not have the freedom of movement to develop correctly which led to her left sided talipes but there were no other abnormalities to find. She was imperfectly perfect.

The above summary is a beautiful thing to be able to write as it now feels like it has always been that way but the certainty I felt when I cradled her for the first time wavered in those first few weeks. You see, we weren’t told those reassuring explanations to begin with. They had to rule out some pretty nasty things first. We needed genetic testing and this couldn’t happen for another six weeks.

It takes its toll on a marriage that: genetic testing. You think you have found the one; your companion into old age. You agree on the fundamentals and you like most of the things about them (let’s not lie, there is always something). You have been through some pretty tough times together and come out stronger at the other end, but then there is a possibility that you do not match in the most important of ways. There is a possibility that in bringing a child into the world you cannot give it the simplest of things: health. It takes a while to navigate your way around that.

I am not sure we enjoyed her until we knew for certain. I am not saying we wouldn’t have enjoyed her if it had worked out differently but there is something to be said for knowing. Once you know for sure you start to cope. You readjust your expectations and move on.

Looking at her now I sometimes forget how amazing she truly is. She is a bright, chatty, happy three year old who runs, jumps and skips. She draws, uses cutlery and picks things up using both hands almost interchangeably. She has the most amazing team of plastic surgeons who have recreated her hand to make it function like a normal hand (apparently opposable thumbs can be built from other fingers) and if you didn’t know, it would definitely take you a while to notice.

I do sometimes feel sad that she might not enjoy a good manicure or may prefer not to draw attention to her hands by wearing the jewellery that most women enjoy. I do worry about bullying and people saying cruel things or shying away from her touch because her hand doesn’t look like it should. But mostly I feel proud. I feel proud that she was strong enough to get here. I feel proud that she is as amazing as she is turning out to be. I feel proud that even though she may not feel it at times, she is a fighter. I am one proud mother.

The Pregnancy: The Reprieve

The next seven days are stagnant and misery filled. Surreally, life goes on as before; morning comes, breakfast is eaten (albeit not tasted), work is attended, co-workers’ jokes are laughed at and deadlines are met. All the while I try to ignore the searing pain in my throat, biting back the deluge of tears that threaten to flow.

When we do finally return home at the end of each day it is to an almost palpable sadness. The grief hangs in the air between us and any comforting word or gesture unleashes a further torrent of tears. So we say little. Privately, I alternate between desperate pleas to an unfathomable deity and utter resignation to our wretched fate.

The day arrives for our repeat scan. I am utterly despondent and yet, intensely aware that I no longer feel pregnant. The nausea that had plagued my first twelve weeks seems to have dissipated and my chest is no longer excruciatingly tender. Instead, I feel almost back to my pre- pregnant self but, with no sign of an imminent natural miscarriage, I am consumed with fear of the process that the hospital are undoubtedly going to recommend to put an end to our brief parental journey.

We make our way to the waiting room where prospective parents bubble with nervous excitement at seeing their unborn child on screen for the first time. They eagerly beam at us in a conspiratorial manner as we navigate our way through the labyrinth of legs, acknowledging their welcome with lacklustre smiles. The happy news of Prince George’s birth adorns the front pages which are held aloft in the waiting room; giving the strangers common ground on which to engage their neighbours in jovial conversation.

I close my eyes and pray. I pray for help but also to stop my thoughts and halt my tears. In the space of a week my prayers have evolved from various petitions for a miraculous intervention to a cyclical plead; merely for the strength to cope with what is inevitably to follow.

My name. I stand up. I enter the room. The bench awaits. Paper towel tucked in. Cold jelly. We turn away from the monitor. Silent tears roll. My body shakes uncontrollably. I know I am making her job harder. "Nearly done. OK so this is what is happening. "

The kind lady doctor who broke our hearts one week ago is smiling. It's not a beaming smile but one of fragile optimism. She tells us the fluid level has increased. The baby is moving. The heartbeat appears strong and currently there appears to be no evidence that the pregnancy is imminently about to abort. She'll allow us to go and return in three weeks for another scan but advises us to have our first trimester screening done. This may actually result in an infant.

Edinburgh's Modern Art Gallery: Everything Will Be Alright

The Birth Part: Take One

So, there I am with my Gestational Diabetes, my blood that won’t clot, two weeks until D-day, one week into maternity leave, three days into our new house (fools) and I am sitting up in bed drinking my (decaf) coffee when I spring a leak. Husband is sitting next to me but I don’t mention it straight away. Initially I have to work out exactly what the source was before I own up to it. Whilst there is no great air of mystery in our marriage, I feel that if a little wee had escaped I should probably keep that one to myself. So I gingerly sidle out of the bed and, with my best nonchalant face, stand up and release an almighty deluge. The air may no longer be mysterious but the floor is decidedly wet.

It is worth noting at this point that my previous years of medical experience had always contradicted the classic American sitcom conspiracy that the rupture of membranes is the first sign of labour and would undoubtedly be followed by the immediate onset of contractions. I knew what not to expect but improbably my contractions commenced directly. With my, now, rather high risk gravidity we phone the maternity triage directly and are advised to attend as soon as we “please” (genuinely). Rightly or wrongly, following an assessment, we are sent back to the ranch to wait things out. Phil and Holly are there (not literally in the room but through the medium of the TV) and we must last a solid 40mins before we are back in the car on the way to triage. Contractions are thick, fast and agonising, conversation is lacking and resentment is building. Husband decides to “distract” me from the excruciating “discomfort” by taking the scenic route to the hospital. This teaches me a few things:

1.  Cobbles are not the labouring woman’s ally

2. Husbands can be cruel task masters and an intense loathing for one’s spouse during labour is an entirely acceptable emotion

3. A pretty vista does not divert anyone’s attention from the impending cannonball thrust through the vagina situation happening elsewhere

Finally we make the car park and forty minutes later we have navigated the 200yards to the triage desk where I throw myself upon their mercy, begging for help. Obviously, I don’t actually do this as I seem to have become some sort of mute and can now only communicate through grunts, wild gesticulations and shakes of the head. We are put on the monitor and the ever understaffed NHS (do not get me started) employees run around, each trying to do the work of ten (highly trained) others. So it is perhaps unsurprising that the decelerations which are slow to recover are missed and presumed to be a loss of contact. Perhaps, they will forgive the husband for getting rather testy with them when he felt that our baby was in danger and not getting the attention that it required. I will admit that no Tiger Mum erupted at this time, it was all I could do to breathe and I do not mean deep, centred, hypnobirthing breaths but mere drawing of air into the most superficial of lung tissue. He had this, he would see this baby right.

Sure enough, the decelerations are confirmed and we are moved upstairs to labour ward. The midwife vacates the room for a mere ten minutes, abandoning a terrified looking student, before a prolonged deceleration is audible and the cannonball is threatening to burst its way out my nether regions. The ashen faced student springs into action and hauls in the first passer-by who happens to be a Consultant. Huzzah! Happy Day, I hear you cry! No. The truth is, if you want a baby delivered normally then you want a midwife. Doctors are thoroughly trained to deal with an infant who is struggling to traverse the birth canal; they will guide them towards the light (sunroof or otherwise) and reassemble you afterwards. No problem. However, ask them to deliver a child the way nature intended and you will see utter terror flash across their face. They aren’t used to it, they haven’t been trained for it and they are just not comfortable doing it. There is too much inactivity, too much reliance on nature and too few instruments required.

Thankfully, my cannonball needed very little assistance and following a brief period of my pelvis threatening to shatter into fragments; she was here.

Upon reflection, it was actually a rather speedy process in comparison to other birth stories that I have heard and despite the ever growing pile of manure that had accumulated during my pregnancy very little of it truly hit the fan at the climactic moment. The inability to have an epidural (due to dearth of the required platelets and therefore the increased risk of bleeding) and the fear that a caesarean section under general anaesthetic was my only alternative should I be unable to birth my baby under my own steam added an extra terror to the birthing process and I swore that should I ever have to repeat I would sign myself up for an elective section. Whether I did or not, is another story…

The Pregnancy: When Bad Things Happen To Good Embryos

So we are pregnant and just about used to the idea. There is a little nausea, there is a lot of bloating. I feel thick, not fat just thick around the middle. It is a permanent state of PMS. Just delightful. Around the corner we have our 12 week scan and I am excited. The booking appointment was very formulaic; a list of dull questions (name, DOB, address, etc.), some slightly more interesting ones (last period, family medical history, etc.), a bit of wee, a few vials of blood and a ‘close your eyes and hum loudly to yourself’ date with the weighing scales then the receipt of a lovely green ‘low risk’ stamp. Huzzah. Straight to the midwifery led birthing unit, do not pass go. But the scan, that was going to be exciting, it would all feel so real after that and we can start sharing our happy news.

I wasn’t a fool though, as an innately pessimistic human I had all my anxious thoughts neatly collated in preparation for my scan. I have a weird belief that if I have considered the worst possibility and verbalised that to all in sundry then it is less likely to happen. I have no experience on which to base this belief other than the fact that I have done this routinely and led a largely charmed life up to this point. (Husband is almost the complete opposite and lives by the ‘worry is like a rocking chair; gives you something to do but gets you nowhere’ school of thinking. I drive him insane but he humours me.) So there I am, prepared, or so I thought. They call my name. Deep breath and in we go.

“Just some cold jelly”. I see a head. As a side point, how can babies be quite so beautiful when their heads are twice the size of the rest of their bodies? A head is good, I know nothing about the measurements so just cross my fingers and toes (literally) while the nice sonographer concentrates on the job in hand. This isn’t too bad. There is clearly a heartbeat, which we have all enjoyed listening to and there is a bit of wriggling going on. That is a positive sign. Then it comes.

“I am just going to step out for a moment.”

I look at my husband, he is trying to be reassuring but I have seen the flash of panic in his eyes.

Then she comes back in, except this time she has brought someone who doesn’t wear a uniform. This is not good. Uniforms are reassuring; they have a clear job, they do the grafting. They are very talented but have a remit. Go out with their remit and the big guns are called in. Big guns don’t wear uniforms. Big guns are also rarely required in good news scenarios.

The lady with the kind face introduces herself (there was a doctor in there somewhere) and tells me that she is “just going to take a look”, which she does and then she asks the sonographer to see if the room is free. I know that room. I have seen people go into that room composed and coming out broken and bereft. In my head I am saying “no, just tell me now” but I have no words, I can barely stand never mind speak. It’s like I am underwater and screaming for help but no one can hear me. I am locked in with my panicked thoughts and I need someone to pull me out.

She comes in and explains very clearly what they have found and what it means.

“There is no fluid around the baby.”

“This is normally associated with non-viable pregnancies largely due to chromosomal abnormalities.”

“The baby’s heart is beating but a miscarriage is almost inevitable. It is a waiting game.”

“If nothing happens in the interim, we need you to return in a week for another scan and then we will make a plan.”

“I am sorry.”

So we leave. Broken and bereft. I have failed you before you have even taken a breath. I am evicting you when I should be the one who keeps you safe from harm.

There is nothing I can do but cry. So I cry. All I do is cry.

My husband suggests we go for a walk. In hind sight, this was a terrible idea. We say some things, none of which I can remember but I imagine along the lines of “this isn’t fair”, “was it [insert ridiculous self-blaming activity here] that caused this? ” and then we stumble across a nursery school out for their walk, holding hands, wearing their high-viz jackets and looking more adorable than any living creature should be permitted to look. My heart hurts more than I ever thought possible.

So I cry some more.

The Start

Do you ever think back to your pre-child family aspirations? I was having 3 children (two boys and a girl – no other combinations acceptable) and these children would be born within 18months of each other, you know, so they could be friends. There was no consideration towards the energy, nurturing and expense of each individual child nor the fact that it might just not happen like that.

So I got married.

He’s nice, you would like him. I won’t bore you with the numerous ways in which he is nice and why I decided to let him sire my children (good word, right? I think ‘sire’ should be used more in modern day vocabulary, anyhow, I digress) as I am sure that once you get to know me a bit better it will become obvious that he must have some saintly qualities to have stuck around and sycophantic musings on other halves always brings a little vomit to my mouth. Seriously, if I hear one more person write into to Steve Wright on a Sunday and describe someone as their ‘rock’ I may just tie that someone round their neck and throw them into a lagoon. See how the "rock" analogy works out for them then! Anyway,  I got married, we did that for a bit while I tried one career after another, trying to find one that would fit and then the pang from my fallopian tubes hit.

My ovaries were twisting; crying out to have one of their monthly offerings put to good use. In hind sight they probably just wanted some time off the monthly grind, maternity leave if you will but without the dependent to worry about (can you even imagine?) All of a sudden there was no assuaging my need to procreate, it was an insatiable thirst that would only be quenched by bringing an infant into my life and the greater world. I was ready. We were in our late 20s and had been together for seven years. We had done the drunken nights out, the pub lunches with friends that go on late into the evening and the two day hangovers that would undoubtedly lead to the Monday blues. We knew that we could do whatever we wanted with our time but we were over that freedom and wanted a new challenge. (We have since decided that we may have had a brief period of insanity and perhaps should have considered checking into the local asylum rather than procreating.) However, I was in the middle of quite an intensive professional exam schedule and getting pregnant, whilst not terminal would have been ill advised.

So we got pregnant.

After years of desperately trying not to get pregnant I was convinced that we would be the unlucky ones who would require intervention. My periods were intermittent at best and my pessimistic outlook in life had convinced me that we should start trying so that we could get a few months under our belt before presenting to the GP for help whilst we were still in the NHS accepted child bearing years.

It happened first time.

My evil husband (not really Love) made me run a rather gruelling 10k on the morning of my father’s 60^th birthday celebration. I was aware of a mild cramping pain in my pelvis as I plodded around the ridiculously hilly course but I thought I was just ‘coming on’ and tried to push the discomfort to the back of my head (next to the mounting dislike for my husband.) At one point, there was a supporter on the side line shouting encouragement to everyone who passed, until she saw my face (which was apparently drained of all colour) and literally said “Oh my God!”, not in a good way and definitely not encouraging. Anyway, I am stubborn and we finished the run in his intended sub 55minute time (bastard) and proceeded to the 60^th celebrations where we drank copious amounts of champagne, wine and gin, in no particular order. I awoke the next morning waiting for the ominous tom-tom drum to start thumping between my temples but instead the pain settled a little further south; somewhere in my nipples. They were in agony. As in, the sheet was torturing me by wielding its vice like grip on my delicate protuberances. Still, the penny did not drop. My husband set off for a day’s cycling and it was only as I was left to the quiet of the house that I thought “might just do a test, you know, so I can enjoy a hair of the dog later”. 

It was positive. 

It was positive and I was on my own. 

Do guys get annoyed at missing out on these magical urine focussed events? Should I lie? Could I lie? The answer to this is always no. My face is terrible at it and he knows straight away. Great for him, terrible for me. Wait, what? Never mind him, I am pregnant. Impregnated. With child. Bun in the oven. Up the duff (lovely expression by the way, such positive connotations). I needed a drink. Why is it that the one time you really need a drink is the one time you really shouldn’t drink and to be honest, I had probably had more than my fair share the night before. Thus, the mother’s guilt begins.

What have I done?