WARNING: BIRTH STORY! TMI! FOR SERIOUS!

[You know who you are: read at own risk.] 

It was nearly a year ago I got home from waddling round the mall to find my brother playing ball with Frieda in the front yard. I jokingly looked at my (non-existent) watch and told him to stand by for my water's breaking at 5pm.
Ha ha ha.

They did.

At 5pm my water's broke as I was frying sausages for Frieda's supper. I called my husband, on his way to get a haircut. He asked if he had time to get it done anyway, this being our second child of course I said yes.
I called my Mum to come and collect Frieda. Standing there leaking, sausages burning, I looked over to see Frieda standing in a puddle.
'I had a wee Mum.'
This should've been my first clue that I was soon to learn the real meaning of 'multi-tasking'.

By the time my Mum and husband got home I was contracting, seriously enough to be unable to talk while in the middle of one, grinning inanely and trying to pretend everything was dead normal for Frieda's sake.
We kissed and hugged our first baby goodbye, brimful with the knowledge she was completely unaware of, next time we saw her there would be two.

To hospital, contractions close and getting stronger, this much I remembered from last time.

But again, once we got there, the disappointing news that I'd not dilated at all. However this time we knew we wanted to stick it out, and we did.
The next few hours were ... interesting. If I can say that the most uncomfortable experience of my life was also one of the most precious to share with my husband, that I've never been in such pain, but also laughed as much, that I've never been so scared while simultaneously so excited, then I'd be telling a true story, but a weird one.
We worked in 15 minute increments to pass the time until my next examination at 11.30 pm. 15 minutes in the bath, 15 walking, 15 on the labour ball. During contractions I needed to be held, inbetween I wanted to be left the fuck alone. My husband was amazing.
Oy those contractions. The scariest thing about them was the inevitability. With period pains or stomach cramps one sometimes feels one starting, only for it to taper off or not be as bad as you expected. With labour pains the first twinge means it's a-coming, and it's going to be as bad as you anticipate, if not worse.
A rubber mallet swung at full force into your spine while a knife blade is plunged and twisted into your stomach. There's no position you can find to alleviate them, nothing to do but breathe. Breathe and try to find a calm place within the onslaught, relax your shoulders, breathe into the pain. Truer words were never spoken.
And then it stops, and you're totally ok. Like have a chat, have a wine gum, make a joke ok. Crazy shit man.

11.30 pm check up. Nothing happening.
Nothing where it should be that is, plenty was happening outside let me tell you. By now I was losing my sense of humour, spitting wine gums across the room, cursing, whimpering, caught in this thing over which I had no control, no way but forward, no way of knowing what the time-line looked like, the only certainty being we were nowhere near the end.
12.30 am. Nothing happening.
Oh except the vomiting. And the exhaustion. 'Til now I'd been trying new positions for each contraction, trying to stay active in the moment. My husband, my dearest, my light, showing limitless creativity in his suggestions of how we tackle the next one. But now I was done. I couldn't get up, I couldn't spend one more minute on that fucking labour ball, I didn't want a chair, I didn't want a bath, I just. wanted. it. to. stop.
Or start for that matter. Let's move on, let's transition, let's have a frikkin' baby already!

That's when I heard the magic word: epidural. Hallelujah praise baby jesus yes fucking please.

Peace.

A weird peace. I feel nothing but I'm cold. A distant tremor like a train passing far away, a look on the monitor reveals a massive contraction, my toes tingle.
Husband dozes in a chair, I feel ill, disembodied and, inevitably, guilty. I can see from the baby monitor that my girl is in there, now working alone. She's riding those waves while I watch from the shore.
The nurse comes in and puts another blanket over me. 'Try get some rest,' she says, 'we'll check again at 3. Try get some rest my dear.'

I think I must've dozed off for I wake with a start. And a panic. My legs, totally immobile, are flopped together, I need to move. I need to move my legs. I need to move my legs!
Panic rising in my throat, I put all my energy into keeping my voice steady, calling for my husband. Poor guy wakes, totally disorientated, and by the time he gets over to me to adjust my position the nurse has arrived too.
She examines me and grins. 9 cm dilated! Game on! My heart surges anew with adrenalin and enthusiasm. I'm transitioning, my body's caught up, we're going to have this baby!

But then, an ominous beeping from the monitor - she's in distress.. The nurse calls my doctor. It's 4 am. The four of us, him on the other end of the phone line, wait and watch the monitor. Her heartbeat dips again. Doc says he's coming in and through a haze of emotional overload I realise he's asked the nurse to call in the standby theatre team.
He's there in minutes, examines me himself, checks the monitor readings, gives us the news.
I'm well dilated.
But she's not engaged.
And she's not happy.
And as I've had a c-section before, he thinks it's time to call it quits.
Though I'm sure he didn't actually use that word.

5 am by the time we got up to theatre. The hospital was still and quiet. My long-haired anesthetist joked that he thought he'd sorted us out hours before with the epidural. Then he noted, just for interest sake, that my heart seemed to miss every 4th beat. Funny guy. Not.
But they were a nice team, put us at ease and, as is always the case with c-sections, it felt like mere minutes after being wheeled in that they were passing me a funny, creamy, oh so warm little thing with one wild rolling eye-ball and a deeply suspicious expression.
Apparently I turned to my husband and said, 'Aw let's have another one.'

Nearly 11 months later I most definitely do not want to have another one, but I can still recall the feeling of each moment of that wild, wild night. The pain, the fear, the excitement and of course, the joy.

And now I've finally gotten it written down for prosperity. Sorry y'all!

17 dec 2010

It really was the Year of the Girl Child.

Teagan, Natasha, Layla, Stella, Wren, Desiree, Eva, Zoe, Faith, Isla, Leah, Olerato, Cate, Emma ... all of these I know of personally, another 5 I know from friends of friends.
Sure there was a handful of boys, but nearly 20 girls. That's a lot of ladies.

And a lot of babies.

All of whom are, or will soon be, as busy as this.

And that's a lot of energy right there.

11 dec 2010

Humans rock.

To evolve, in a scant 9 months, from a small pink blob of mewling incomprehension, to a crawling, standing, bouncing, dancing being. A person, who can smile and laugh, recognise her name, make accompanying noises when a dog barks, feed herself grains of rice with tiny pincer fingers and show extreme dissatisfaction when the world conspires against her (i.e. Mum moves the scissors).

She rocks.

5 dec 2010

Sunday was not as idyllic as this picture makes it out to be.

 

But the forest, the forest is always idyllic, and for a while there was peace.

3 dec 2010

I slept in Frieda's room. Stella in mine. Frieda on the couch.
Lego in her basket in the kitchen.
A cat curled up next to my laptop, another passed out on Tigger in the playroom.

A sleeping body in every room of the house. 14.44 on a Friday afternoon. A rare occurrence.

We were supposed to go away for the weekend, but she's not well. We'll hunker down at home instead.

2 dec 2010

My mother's house.

So much time spent here this year. Resting my bulk in the shade of the garden through the dog days of last summer. Napping with my newborn while she played with Frieda. Gaining clarity and support from endless chats with both my parents on the stoep. Delicious meals, ridiculous games, some tears, lots of laughs. Lots and lots of breast-feeding.
And now stolen moments off by myself, to run some errands, get a haircut, have a coffee. Both girls as entertained and enamoured with their grandparents as I am.

1 dec 2010

This is my life. Taking stock. Giving thanks. Stopping and pondering.

Call it what you will, at the end of a crazy year which has moved far, far too fast for my liking, a year in which I feel like I've done so little while confident that I've achieved so much, a year in which I feel I've not touched base with myself properly but yet have learnt so much about my own capabilities, a year which has just ... happened, one crazy day tumbling after another.
At the end of this crazy year I want to take stock, give thanks, stop and ponder. Even if it's only for a second.

And what better place to start than this?

Shew.

just a normal afternoon ...

in which ~

My 3 yr old performed a c-section on me with wooden surgical implements from her doctor's kit, including entreating me to 'try and push it out first Mum'. Lordy I have to be careful what I tell this kid.
(oh and head's up - this reminds me I've still to post the Birth Story - watch out ...)

My nearly 6 month old proved herself to be a brand slut. Her first rice cereal was lovely Olli organics toasted rice cereal, which she consumed with relish. It was out of stock when we needed more so I bought a different brand. She didn't like it.
Today I bought Olli again. She had a double-serving.

This conversation played out:
Frieda: I love my Dad.
Me: I love your Dad too.
Frieda: No, you love your Dad, Grandad.
Me: But your Dad is my husband.
Frieda: No, [inserts name of my best friend] is your husband.

Um, okay ...

hello ... (echo) hello ... hello ...

It's been so long I feel a little shy, a little awkward. How do I do this blog thing again?

Lordy what is it about August? I may not be first trimester pregnant this time but besides that there seem to be lots of parallels.
I've been working two jobs - two extremely low-key part-time jobs it has to be said but two jobs none-the-less. My usual extremely low-key part-time job and then an additional temporary low-key part-time job just for a few weeks.
Then, obviously, we've all been sick. Again. This time Stella added a nasty cough to the family flu.
Ergo we had no sleep.
And no sense of humour.
And no time whatsoever to think or write.

Or bake birthday cupcakes for my blog - 2 years old this month!

But some things I have been doing are ...

• trying to finally hang some family photos, a bit of a bitch when you live in a 100 yr old house where the walls are either so soft you can push a nail in with your finger (Obelix-style), or so hard you break and bend 3 nails, gouge out a massive chip of plaster and then discover you'd started in the wrong place anyway ...
• planning our September holidays! Just a week out of town but we've got some beautiful places lined up. Part of the planning is ways and means to keep 1 x 3 yr old and 1 x then-6 month old occupied in the car ...
• shaking off dependency on the corrupt (and ugly) kiddies clothing industry and persuading my Mum to dust off her sewing machine and start sewing for her grand-daughters (ooo they're going to look so cuuuuute!)
• making a photo album called 'Six Months of Stella' for my English Granny which means finally sorting and filing and printing a grazillion photos from the last few months
• adjusting to my oldest getting more and more self-sufficient, she's started playing convoluted and secret imaginary games which involve long whispered dialogues and bizarre props and, more excitingly, don't involve my participation
• adjusting to my youngest no longer being happy to recline in her bendy chair, or hang around strapped to me, the child wants to roll and squirm and move and try to sit - all of which definitely require my participation
• making peace with fact that she's starting to choose porridge over me, and in fact has expressed this desire for real food in quite a vocal and earnest manner (was that her first tantrum?)
•  and finally, finally, starting to get some sleep. Which ironically has left me (almost) as wiped out as no sleep did but the long-term effects are much, much better!

I hope to be back here a whole lot more soon. I miss my blog. Happy birthday old girl.

second time so lucky

Why is this baby thing easier the second time round?

Ok so you're more confident about actually handling a newborn and you know your boobs worked last time so you're pretty sure they will again (not that this is a guarantee) and it's been years since you slept the sleep of a non-parent so the lack thereof doesn't kick you quite so hard in the gonads. You know that babies make weird noises so you don't jump at the slightest wheeze and croak from the crib. You know their toes won't rot off if they're not bathed everyday so you slack off on that a bit. You know that sometimes they just cry for no reason so you don't over-analyse every wail. You know that their poo is gross and erratic so you don't over-analyse in that department either.

But more than any of the above, the greatest lesson learnt and remembered every day is: This Too Shall Pass.
You know with absolute certainty that this period of little-babyness will fly by, will recede into the past at such a rapid rate you'll be left panting in its wake.
This you remember in the hard times, but also in the good. And there's so much good.

Good which you're free to just wallow in.

To stare at her little face while she feeds. To giggle at her chubby, chubby thighs.
To coo and goo. To love each yawn, all of which end with a satisfied little smirk, more than the last one.
To have her relaxed on my chest, awake but at rest. To lie in bed listening to her snuffling and farting in her cot. To watch her watch her sister, already intrigued, envious, nonchalant.

This time round I know to enjoy every second of this, this precious baby time. The world will still be there when I emerge from this bubble, I'll get back into the swing of things, new challenges will present themselves and new routines will emerge.
But for now there is this, and I'm loving it.

A friend, who has one child and probably won't have more, told me when I was pregnant that I was lucky to be doing this all again. Possibly caught in a moment of apprehension I didn't really take what she said to heart, but now I realise how right she was. I am indeed.

bye bye april

And what a weird one you've been.

Last year April was one of my most prolific blogging months, and there was lots to blog about. There was the one about camping (one of my favourites I must say), and Election Day, and our new Prez, and some doggie love, and lots and lots of food.
Moments of Perfect Clarity was made Blog of Note and Julie outed me, pushing my followers up from 3 (Julie being the only one I didn't know personally) to 35 overnight and forcing me to examine my own 'blog like nobody's reading' philosophy.
Fun times.

This year April has been, um ... exciting, in different ways.
Most obviously has been the presence of our Stella, not even an itch a twinkle in her father's crotch eye last year this time.
She's been delightful: she sleeps, she eats (and eats and eats and eats), she tolerates the most godawful amount of noise and disruption from her sister and dog and family in general. She's been a bit colicky, but in a most apologetic way, and she's keeping us all highly entertained with her massive weight gain (6kgs today - Frieda's weight at 4 months!).

What's not been as much fun is our ongoing sickness. Just recently I thought I should've started breast-feeding the whole family weeks ago, could've improved our general health no end.
Besides yukky and inconvenient and frikkin' expensive it's just been so b-o-r-i-n-g, and with husband still not 100% and myself periodically still feeling shite we're not completely over it.

And then there's been Frieda.
My monster. My heart. My sweetest child and my biggest trial. She's the acid in my punch, the unexpected clove in my dinner. She's the sun which breaks through my clouds, the jester of my court. She makes me smile through my tears, makes me cry with rage, plunges me into the depths of despair, makes me soar with love and laughter.
The post about Frieda, and how she's taken to this massive upheaval in her life, has been written and rewritten over and over in my mind. I need to sit and blog it out, I need to purge, to pour it all out and sift through it and wrangle it into some kind of structure. I need to download, debrief, expel.
Maybe I'll get there in May.

May will hold it's own trials and jubilations, but May will be May, it'll be a different month. And that's all we need right now.

the skinny

Not me! Wha ha ha ha ha.

No, no baby yet. But 3 getaways in 3 weeks, lots, lots less internet/computer time than usual and some rather persuasive distraction has left this blog a little thin. At least one of us is.

As much as I've been swayed that way recently, and will no doubt even more so in the coming months, my intention's never been to be a mommy-blogger, or a diary blogger, and truthfully all my bloggable thoughts and experiences lately are about this baby, my days preparing for her, or just about the serene and rather bovinely tranquil place I've reached in my head in anticipation of her arrival.

I could blog about how I'm 1.08cm in diameter, how I'm rapidly running out of semi-decent things to wear (thank fk for the Yummy Mummy Tummy), how I think I'm in labour at least once a day.
I could get grusomely graphic about the emergency kit (2 maternity pads, a black bag - to protect my car seat - and a sarong) I've been carrying around in case my waters break in public. Or how I've started leaking a bit of breastmilk occasionally - I warned you - or how many grusomely graphic natural birth accounts I've been reading online.
I could witter on about doing piles of tiny small laundry. And then finding my cats asleep in the baskets of neatly folded clothes and having to wash them all again.
I could confess how packing this little outfit into my hospital bag - yup, it's ready at the door - made me get a little teary ...

[imagine if you will a picture here of a very cute little white, pink & grey outfit - stupid bloggrrrrr won't let me upload images]

Or how the other evening I had a moment of 'Um, no, don't feel like doing this anymore ... could I change my mind?'
How some crazy evenings with Frieda going full tilt and the cats yowling for their supper and the dog hot-lapping round the house I'm filled with icy terror at the thought of introducing a newborn into the mix.
How just today I succumbed to removing my wedding ring from my swollen finger.


But actually all I can say is I've reached this remarkably calm and reflective headspace. I didn't get a chance to experience this with Frieda's pregnancy, maybe its impossible the first time round anyway, but I really feel like I've reached some zen plateau (maybe it's the eye of the storm), and it's making me be quiet and move slow and feel ... ready.

Long may it last.

in the pink

In keeping with the Year of the Girl Child ~ pink rosewater flavoured meringues.

I had to do something with all the left-over egg whites from making creme brulee.

And I hereby pledge not to open the baking section of my recipe folder again for a long time.

At least a week.