‘You did so well, babe!’ James told me. I really did. I kept my shit together (both figuratively and literally) and subsequently told curious friends, ‘It really wasn’t that bad! …’
The Birth of Jude
Two years and seven months later I went into labour for the second time and became a total monster. If I had been awarded a medal for composure in childbirth the first time, it would have been stripped from me the second time. I became that woman on OBEM. The one you sit watching with your cup of tea and five Custard Creams, thinking, ‘For God’s sake, woman, pull yourself together!’
I lost the plot.
It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment it all went a bit Pete Tong because, on paper, unlike during the first birth, I was all right. There was no blood-pressure crisis or risk of fitting, and everyone at the hospital seemed quite chilled out. Everyone, that is, except me.
I had failed to prepare for the possibility of a trickier birth, instead wholeheartedly buying into the whole second-birth-is-easier promise. There was no doubt in my mind that I would boss it, which, in hindsight, was a foolish error. The reality was that the birth of young Jude took almost twice as long and was considerably more painful. The calm and collected woman from Birth One failed to show up for Birth Two. She sent her twin sister instead, who was a bit of a moron.
James’s assessment of Jude’s delivery (which kind of erased the reigning ‘You did so well, babe!’ praise) was ‘You were mental. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Throughout the labour I switched from hysterical to withdrawn. I sploshed into the birthing pool with the expectation of labouring serenely while submerged in water, but it was less than an hour before I ungracefully heaved myself out, demanding ‘something that works!’ When James dared to suggest I should stick the pool out for a bit longer, I snapped angrily at him that I needed ‘more than a giant fucking bath’.
I puffed on gas and air for a bit, felt slightly dizzy and light-headed, and then discarded the mouthpiece in a sulk. I wanted an epidural. I was talked out of an epidural. The wonderful (and bloody patient) midwife (Trish, I think her name was; we’ll call her Trish) explained that the baby could arrive in just an hour or two. The epidural might slow things down. It might lead to an unnecessary stay in hospital the following day. James agreed – I had probably just reached The Wall, and our boy would be with us in no time.
Diamorphine arrived. I had two doses of that bad boy before becoming sleepy and unresponsive. I had been awake for twenty-four hours by this point and was so bloody exhausted that I fell asleep (sitting up) between contractions, moaning like a wounded animal. At one stage, James informs me, I refused to communicate for several hours and sat silently rocking on the bed, occasionally glaring at him and poor Trish. I mean, WTF? (In my defence, I genuinely wondered whether I was dying from the pain. I can recall thinking that it would be a relief to die. Irrational doesn’t even come close.) My contractions were wearing off due to low blood-sugar levels – I needed a sugary drink. I refused the sugary drink.
And then the pièce de résistance of my birthing performance came when I was 10cm dilated and I went on the most pointless strike of my life and refused to push.
‘I want an epidural!’ I wailed at nobody in particular, and was quite rightly ignored, because that ship had sailed about 5cm earlier.
‘I want a caesarean!’
‘I want to die!’
Yep.
Everyone became concerned. Trish had a stern word.
According to James, I then pretended to push, mumbling, ‘I am pushing!’ while blatantly failing to direct any effort downwards. I must have picked up my game, though, and pushed for real eventually, because, after three hours – and after feeling the familiar sensation of trying to shit a cannonball – baby Jude finally arrived.
What a relief.
I remember cradling him in his little towel, thinking he looked proper lovely and pink, just like he should (and not at all bothered by his mother’s reluctance to help him out of the birth canal). I was so elated it was all over.
And then the placenta got stuck.
FFS. I had no idea that was even a possibility. The placenta never gets stuck when people give birth on telly, does it? Where the hell is the placenta on TV births? I’ve never seen a woman give birth on Holby and then witnessed the medical team jabbing her in the leg with an injection to bring on the afterbirth, before carting off what looks like a giant stingray (if a stingray had the texture of internal organs). I sure as hell haven’t ever seen a placenta get stuck. But, sure enough, mine did. There was talk of spinals and theatre, and several attempts to manipulate it were made before one doctor succeeded where all others had failed. I am not going to describe exactly how this happened, but the adjective James used later to describe what he witnessed in that moment was ‘brutal’, so you probably get the picture.
And then it really was over. We enjoyed a delightful round of tea and toast and stared some more at our beautiful bundle wrapped up snugly in his plastic crib. He was still unnamed at this point (I wanted to call him Wilf). Following a very wobbly hot shower and plenty of ‘Christ, that was awful, wasn’t it?’ conversations, we left the hospital, and our life as a newly extended family of four began.
I have subsequently laughed about the chaos of Jude’s delivery (‘I was a nightmare!’; ‘Trust me to have a stubborn placenta! LOL!’), but the truth is it knocked me for six and, until now, I have avoided thinking about it. In many ways it undid all the positives I’d taken from Henry’s birth, which is a shame. I don’t watch OBEM any more but, if I did, I am certain I would no longer feel like slapping some sense into the mums having a meltdown, because I get it now. They are not being irrational, they just don’t know what to do.
Having given quite a lot of thought to what I would do differently if I ever had another one (stand down, James, this is as hypothetical as what I’d do if we won the lottery), I have come up with the following two courses of action:
Firstly, I would research hypnobirthing. I have seen and read some amazing things about hypnobirthing and, at the heart of it, there seems to be an emphasis on feeling empowered and maintaining control (something I definitely lost during Birth Two). There has to be a reason why celeb and non-celeb mums alike are raving about it and, if I had my pregnancy time again, I’d give it a shot. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
Secondly, if ever I found myself in that same amount of pain again, I would press more firmly for an epidural. Every centimetre of my body was crying out for help at that point, and I really regretted not having one. Yes, I know there are advantages to going natural and drug-free, but it turns out I much preferred the birth with all of the drugs. I’m not ashamed of that – there are no prizes for managing without and, if I had my pregnancy time again, I would have hooked myself up to an epidural the moment I discovered two blue lines on the pregnancy test. I’m joking (kind of).
I have heard and read so many birth stories over the last few years, ranging from traumatic and scary emergency C-sections to unbelievably rapid deliveries in hospital car parks and, the more I read, the more I am certain that no two labours are the same. Every birth is unique, every woman is an individual, and some women (me included) behave differently to themselves in differing situations.
Part of my reluctance to look back at Jude’s delivery stems from embarrassment, I think. It’s one thing rocking on all fours with all your bits out, but it’s quite another shouting panicked expletives as you rock on all fours with all your bits out. All things considered, though, I have no doubt that the midwives have seen it all before, so perhaps there is no need to beat ourselves up if we have a bit of a meltdown.
Though, Trish, if you’re reading this, I would like to say that I’m sorry for scowling, shouting and smacking your hand away when you tried to check the baby’s heartbeat with that Doppler thingy. Basically, I’m sorry for being a bit of a twat. I would also like to say thank you for seeing past my twatishness and safely
delivering a beautiful little boy to take home to my beautiful not-so-little boy. You do an unbelievably special job. Respect of the highest order, midwife folk!
He Can’t Be F***ing Hungry!
I don’t think anything prepares you for the trauma of night feeds. Well, I don’t think anything prepares you for the constant day feeds either (within hours of leaving the hospital, I had ascertained that my new life would be dictated by milk) but, my God, night feeds are something special. By ‘special’, I mean they are a bit shit. My mental preparation (first time around) was to tell myself that I would be knackered but that I would catch up on lost sleep during the day. I quite simply had no idea. It’s never just about the lost sleep; it’s about having to undertake frustrating tasks several times a night without having had any sleep. Feeding, nappy changing, winding, vomit cleaning, sheet stripping, more nappy changing . . . I can recall, during one of many feeds, staring at the ceiling in a trance, wondering if it was possible to die from tiredness and concluding that, if it was, my time had come. It seemed to me that sleep must have been regulating hidden unstable tendencies lurking in my subconscious for the preceding twenty-five years, and that lack of sleep had introduced the Hyde to my Jekyll. How I longed for sleep! Never before had I understood the expression ‘I’d give my right arm for —’, but in the thick of sleep deprivation I would have given my right leg as well.
In an attempt to further maximise our chances of a solid four hours’ sleep (when did four hours become a good amount of sleep? When did it?), James and I trialled white noise as a soother. First, we downloaded a whole album of white noise from iTunes. Rock and roll. Later, when times got desperate and we allowed ourselves to be taken in by miracle baby products on Amazon, we purchased a bear stuffed with a white-noise player. I think it was of some benefit – we used to sleep with it between us and whack it when the threat of baby wakeage was imminent. Who knows, to be honest, but falling asleep to a medley of fan noises and gentle waves certainly became the norm in our house. So much so, we willingly engaged in middle-of-the-night post-nappy-changing conversations about our favourite tracks: ‘Move it to the next one. I like the gentle rain best, don’t you?’ We had lost the plot by this point.
You pray it will get better and, usually, eventually, it does. Until such a time, you endure the night feeds in a series of desperately shit stages.
The Night Feed in Five Psychological Stages
1. Hope
As the baby drifts off to sleep, sandwiched between the soft bunny comforter and the white-noise contraption, you allow yourself to dream that this could be the night. Tonight will be different.
2. Denial
You have been asleep for no more than five minutes, and he is awake. This cannot be, you think. You ignore the frantic crying and whack the white-noise thingy in a last-ditch attempt to settle him. This is a fruitless exercise, but you have not yet come to terms with the fact that he wants feeding. Again. ‘Just go back to sleep,’ you say quietly (to nobody in particular, while sobbing).
3. The stand-off
Now you have established that he is well and truly awake (he is the colour of a beetroot; half the street can hear his screams), you lie perfectly still. Your stillness sends a body-language message to your husband: I am asleep; I am not getting up. You pray he will get up. He doesn’t even stir. Marvellous. Sometimes, you commence the stand-off only half-heartedly, because you need to get up for a wee, so the game is already over.
4. Rage
You angrily turn the night light on, ‘accidentally’ kick said husband in the ribs and declare, ‘How is he fucking hungry? Why is he being such a dick? This is ridiculous! Fucking ridiculous!’ as you whisk the baby out of his cot and commence the feed (sighing loudly). If your husband does wake during this stage, he can expect to hear you declare, ‘Never having another one’; or, alternatively, ‘Having another one was a mistake’; and/or ‘I fucking hate my life!’ If he doesn’t wake up, you will be so annoyed with his snoring (breathing) you will want to punch him in the face.
5. Guilt
The baby smiles at you. Between the swearing and the start of divorce proceedings, that little bundle of agitated loudness starts cooing and gurgling. You now feel awful for having blamed him for ruining your life. And calling him a dick. So, while feeding, you whisper, ‘Shhhh. It’s all right. Is that nice? Do you like your milkies?’ etc., while reflecting on what a terrible mother you are and searching Netmums for threads where other people admit to calling their babies dicks. (You will never find such threads, which further reinforces your conclusion that you are, in fact, a terrible accident of motherhood.)
Eventually, after a through-the-suit poo explosion, you all settle back to sleep, where you have approximately fifty-five minutes before this hope-denial-stand-off-rage-guilt cycle of doom starts again …
I should point out that James did more than his fair share of night feeds, but we came to an agreement early on that I would do the lion’s share of night duty while I was ‘off’ on maternity leave – after all, he would be driving to work in the morning. I wasn’t at all jealous that he would get to go to work in the morning. Not at all …
I think people reflect very differently on their experiences of doing the night feeds. I have been offered some reasonable advice along the way, like ‘It gets easier’ (it really does), ‘It’s not for ever’ (it really isn’t) and ‘Just take it one night at a time’ (that’s all you can do, ultimately). But I have also read some absolute bollocks about making sure you treasure the night feeds, cherish them, and I want to make it clear that you are under no obligation to find enjoyment here. I mean, it’s more than possible that, between the sleep deprivation and the hysteria, you just might encounter some magical moments, moments of calm when the rest of the world is sleeping and just the two of you are awake. You might discover it’s your special time for bonding. But it’s also fine if you make no such discovery – for me, said special times for bonding were simply more welcome during the daytime. I never resented my boys for waking me in the night – I mean, I did at the time, in that moment, when I called them dicks (my bad), but in the grander scheme of things I didn’t. Babies need a lot of food, and I never truly expected them to sleep for twelve hours. I knew I would have to endure those night feeds – all things considered that turned out to be one of the least surprising parts about having a baby. But it didn’t mean they were any less hard. ‘You’ll never get this time again,’ people warned me after hearing me complain about night-feed tiredness. Well, thank fuck for that, quite frankly. I don’t want that time again.
If you are reading this as a brand-new parent or parent-to-be, I’m not going to bullshit you with any guarantees. Having a baby is much like buying a second-hand car – you are willingly entering into a lottery you have no control over, and all you can do is hope for the best. I know somebody whose ‘baby’ did not sleep through the night until he was, in fact, almost three, and somebody else whose baby slept through after just a few weeks. We were unlucky in the sleep stakes the first time (Henry woke up hourly for an awfully long time, and it nearly broke me), but we struck gold with Jude, who simply loves sleeping, despite having been treated to the exact same routine as his brother. Just make sure you exercise caution when you inevitably enter into the Baby Olympics at playgroup (whose baby sleeps the longest, whose baby has the strongest neck, whose baby clapped first, yawn), because the concept of ‘sleeping through’ is not uniform. I once met a mum who declared that her baby was sleeping through at five weeks. I wanted to smack her in the face (the mum, not the baby, just to be clear). Turns out her concept of ‘sleeping through’ was midnight until 5 a.m. (‘Midnight is when we go to bed, 5 a.m. is just an early-morning start.’) Perhaps there’s something to be said for that level of positivity but I beg to differ that her baby was sleeping through, though I certainly wanted to punch her slightly less after that. Give or take an hour, 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. has always been our definition of sleeping through.
Aim high,
my friends.
* * *
‘Becoming a mum for the first time was the biggest shock I think I’ve ever had. As a teacher I thought, I’ve got this, how hard can a baby be in comparison to thirty fourteen-year-olds who do not want to learn? How bloody wrong was I? Between sleep deprivation, trying and failing to breastfeed and recovering from a C-section I couldn’t believe what I’d done to myself and my life in having a baby. I felt shitty for hating being a mum to a newborn, and then I felt guilty and hated myself – it was just a huge roundabout of emotions.’
Anonymous
* * *
The Good, the Bad and the Lumpy: Breastfeeding Highs and Lows
I have discovered that most mums have a breastfeeding story to tell. Their personal breastfeeding journey, as it were (there’s that word again; bloody hell). When I was pregnant, I found most of the breastfeeding literature to be quite dull – factual ‘feeding your baby’ blurb accompanied by images from the 1980s depicting the correct positioning of the baby’s mouth around the areola and warnings about mastitis. This was all highly practical and really rather necessary when I later found myself staring at a brand-new baby who was gumming any skin he could find, including his dad’s hairy chest. I was relieved to be well versed in the health benefits, the cost benefits and all the stuff they put in the leaflets. But I was also eager to hear some more candid tales, the less leaflet-friendly stuff. What was breastfeeding really like?
The Unmumsy Mum Page 3