Missing Me, Jessica

That little pink being is now five days old. I should be covered in baby sick, boobs out and hair unwashed. Instead I am having my scalp gently massaged and the smell of apple shampoo is sending me into a daze. In this new world where the halogen lights become distant stars and the sounds from the music channel beat in my veins, I am alone. My shoulders are open, my chin is raised and my arms are wide. I take a deep, deep breath and blow out the air through pursed lips. There is nothing before me, nothing is happening and nothing has just occured. This complete stillness is disturbed only by a distant feeling. There is an emotion at the edges of my consciousness trying to break through. I know exactly what it is and am fighting to keep it out. Thinking it away means I think it into being and I am powerless to prevent myself from feeling overhwelmingly . . . guilty. Guilty at leaving my tiny son with my partner, guilty at leaving early for my hair appointment to wander aimlessly around the shops, guilty at getting away, guilty for seeing it as getting away and guilty for needing to get away. I miss him, I do, I love to have him with me, but I miss me too.

Midwife with a Split Personality, Kate

“But if that is what you have chosen, you kind of have to live with it”

I couldn’t believe her attitude. It is 1am and I have just spent the last 23 hours in labour. They give me some crappy toast and watery tea and send my hubby home so I can fend for myself. Now after asking the midwife for some help with getting the little munchkin to latch on, I am faced with this.

“What about a bit of formula for now and then just try again in the morning.”

Is she joking? After months of being told Breast is Best, this woman is tempting me into using formula just so she can have an easy shift. She even starts listing the brands they have like a waitress explaining the specials in a bistro.

“No, I am only breastfeeding. It is what we have decided”

“Well what do you want me to do?”

“I thought you could help me to get the right position, to get her to feed properly. I thought that was your job”

Ok, maybe the last comment was a bit unnecessary. But when you feel as if your insides are falling out and your eyes are so puffy you can just about the see the creature that has just been wrenched from you, being tactful is not a priority.

“Ok”

And over the course of the next forty minutes this previously fierce and uncaring woman helps me calm baby, is patient enough to help me to draw up milk into a tiny syringe and drip feed my baby bird, and settles her to sleep for me. I’m not quite sure why this couldn’t have been her first response, but we got there in the end.

First Night Home, Lauren

There she is, my precious angel. A day old, twenty-four hours, one thousand, four hundred, and forty minutes on earth. 10pm: Fed, changed, swaddled and in her moses basket. Grab the camera for her first night at home. We might be able to watch a bit of tv before bed. We settle down with snacks (got to keep up my calories now I’m a milk maker!) and Graham Norton, perfect. And then it starts. The screaming. Not crying, screaming. Panic hits as soon as it reaches my ears. Every part of me is alert, awake and ready to do anything to stop it. I run to the bedroom and there she is eyes clenched together, mouth wide and face pink. I grab her and try to settle her before attempting to feed. But by now she is gasping, she won’t latch on but I know it is food she is crying for. Maybe its wind. I tap, tap, tap her back. Nope, no wind and won’t feed. What’s next? Is her nappy dirty? I check and change her just in case but the crying carries on. Over the course of the next nine hours, yes, nine hours, we try bouncing, stroking, cooing, feeding, changing, winding, rocking, swaddling, and every other tool in the box. Nothing calms her for more than ten minutes. The sun rises and peeks through the curtains and I feel relief. Like the ending of a horror film when the survivors see daylight and know they have made it. 7am is an acceptable time. It’s not too early is it? I dial. “Mum, we haven’t slept”. “No, not at all”.

Wow, this is it, Jessica

Apparently a 4 percent chance that he will make an appearance on his due date and here he is on his way. ‘On his way’. What a delightful term for a less than delightful experience. Charging through my body might be a better expression. Bursting out of me would be more relevant. The feeling of being squeezed by a monster claw around my torso whilst at the same time a seriously intense pressure from inside. I feel like I am being taken over by the pain. The whole room is blurry, everything is frayed at the edges. Except for Anya, my midwife. It takes all my concentration to focus on her, to block out everything and everyone else. “We have to get this baby out in the next three pushes”. What does she mean ‘we have to’? What happens if I don’t, if I can’t. The panic I feel suspends the moment. There is no other way, I have to face and accept this terrible pain or put my baby in danger. So this is where it starts, the sacrifice of being a mummy. “Chin to your chest and no screaming, use that energy to push”. The pain is making me feint, I’m hot, I’m exhausted, please let this be over. Its both forever and just a moment. In front of me she is holding a huge, pink being, something that could not have possible have come from me. He screams, I stare. Wow, this is it.

40 +9 and Still No Baby, Kate

So this is it. Forty weeks and nine days. After praying, crying, shouting, moaning, drinking raspberry leaf tea, eating pineapple, wolfing down curries and walking for miles, this baby refuses to move. This is not what I wanted. Being induced means going to a proper hospital. The type with escalators and wards and expensive cafeterias. I wanted the midwife unit where the shop is run by a little old lady who looks as if she never moves from behind the counter, where I could have my own room and Issac could stay with me overnight. But no, I can forget all that. I can pack my bags and expect to be in for up to two days whilst they coax out this baby by interfering with me in every way possible. Tablets, drips, examinations, everything I did not want. I’ll stay at home for as long as possible I said. I’ll ride out the contractions in a nice warm bath and dart to the hospital at the last minute I decided. Well that is not the way I have got it and tomorrow morning I will be wheeling my little suitcase through the automatic doors of a place where sick people come, where infections and bugs live. And I can look forward to spending the happiest day of my life under the glare of strip lights and with the waft of bleach singeing my nose hairs.