When Eggs Go Bad...

Delivery Notes

I think I had better write this now before it all fades into that dreamlike obscurity of all labours. They say you forget the pain, and it's true: you do. I have a diary entry (I think it's the only entry I made) from when the Badeggs Daughter was born 14 years ago talking about how much it hurt. But by the time I got pregnant with my son, I had a sepia-tinted picture of her birth, in which the pain wasn't really that bad.

On Monday the 18th of December, I had a false labour. I had woken up with fairly regular, though painless, contractions. By 7.30 we called the midwife (how lucky are we; she lives literally a minute's walk from our door) who examined me and found that I had almost fully effaced but was only just starting to dilate. Nevertheless, the contractions were regular and strong enough that she felt confident that labour would establish later that day. Mr B was due to give a talk in London about how people use online resources to search for information. It was a real career boon, but he had to ring up and make his apologies. Far better, he said, to miss the speech that to miss the birth of his first (and almost certainly only) child. The contractions lasted all day, getting stronger though still remaining fairly painless. At 8pm the midwife suggested a warm, relaxing bath. By 8.30 the contractions has eased off and by 10.30 they were gone entirely. We were so disappointed!

I was supposed to have been at work until the 20th, but by the next morning, I was again having bouts of contractions, so we made the decision that I shouldn't go back. if I went into labour at work in Kidlington, I'd be a long way away from Wallingford Maternity Unit and if it coincided with rush hour, well... SO I stayed home and waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. Your sister drove me nuts asking me when I thought labour might start, whether it would be before Christmas, etc. She even talked to you through my belly telling you to get your buns out here!

At 4 am on Saturday the 23rd, I woke thinking that my waters may have broken (actually, I hoped it was that because the alternative explanation was that I had wet the bed!). I waited an hour and felt mild contractions again. I told Mr B but urged him to go back to sleep as I figured it would take a while for things to get started. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea and noticed some premixed pastry out on the counter. (I had intended to make some mince pies the day before but had forgotten and left the pastry out.) Still assuming it would take hours for contractions to really get going, if indeed this was the real thing, I started cutting out pastry circles for the mince pies at 5.10. At 5.15, standing in the middle of the kitchen, my waters broke for certain in a massive gush. I dashed to the downstairs loo and hollered to Mr B. The look on his face when I told him what had happened...I wish I had had a camera.

Contractions started immediately, two to three minutes apart and they hurt! We called Wallingford and agreed with the duty midwife that I'd have a cup of tea at home, get dressed and then come straight in. When we arrived at around 6.30, they showed us into a delivery room and the midwife examined me to find that I was again mostly effaced but this time 2-3 cm dilated. I had a bath which helped to slow the contractions a bit but when I got out they became relentless. I was hardly getting a break. I used Entonox (gas and air, or nitrous oxide) which helped for a bit but the contractions soon overtook its effect. I then had a shot of Meptid, which took the edge off but not enough. A second examination at 10.30 showed I was now fully effaced but no more dilated. At that point, I asked to be transferred to the John Radcliffe Hospital in oxford where I could have an epidural. Turns out that was a very good decision.

An ambulance took me to the JR (the most uncomfortable ride of my life) and we arrived at around noon. By then I had moved to 5-6 cm dilated, but I still opted for an epidural. By then I was in so much pain that I didn't even feel the needle go in.

By 2.15 I was fully dilated and the midwife, Erika Kirk, had me start pushing. To me, the pushing bit lasted, oh 15, 20 minutes. In reality, I was pushing for 2 hours before she called in a consultant. It's all a bit hazy now, but I know that they let me rest for 30 minutes to see if the contractions would help the baby descend a bit more, then I pushed until 6.15. At that point I was told that I would need a ventouse extraction. The baby was fine, but he needed help coming out. The consultant, a rather rough woman, said she would be able to do the procedure in the delivery room, as opposed to theatre, and she left the room to prepare. A few minutes a later, a kind looking man in scrubs came in and I was told that he was the big boss. I'm not sure why the change was made, but he was so much nicer than the woman that I was glad whatever the reason.

Dr Chowdhry examined me and said that the baby was in fact in a back to back (posterior) position. He thought ventouse was still an option, but he would have to attempt to manually turn the baby first. They would do this in theatre as there was a chance that I would need a Cesarean section if he was unable to turn the baby. My epidural was topped up: great in that I felt absolutely nothing from the waist down, but awful as it made me shake uncontrollably. The theatre itself was cold (even the staff thought so), which made the shaking worse. All of which conspired to convince my brain that I was scared (OK, I probably was a little scared anyway). Poor Mr B was escorted into the OR after all the preparation was done and walked in to the sight of me hooked up to various machines and at least 15 people milling about. He says that the fact that all the staff looked relaxed and not worried was the only thing that kept him from panicking.

Dr Chowdhry did his turning bit (this apparently involved two hands up my hoo ha at one point and giant forceps at another) and got the baby turned into the right position. I was told to push and felt the faint, painless sensation of something moving inside. A quick snip later and the head was born, followed closely by the body. And suddenly my son was lifted up at 7.02 pm, silent but a healthy pink that let me know he was OK (I asked anyway just to make sure). He was cleaned up while I was stitched up, and given straight to Daddy (I'm still miffed abut that; neither of my children had skin to skin time with me before being given to their fathers, though in these circumstances I understood why). Mr B tried to show him to me, but it was hard to get the right angle. Eventually, though, I finally got to see and kiss Rory. He smelled like lavender, a smell I've never much cared for until now, and had two stork bites on his scrunched up little face.

We were taken to an observation area when I was able to put Rory to the breast (he took to it tolerably well). Mr B and the Badeggs Daughter hung around for a couple more hours, parents were notified, and eventually I was taken up to a private room where I actually managed a few hours of sleep. I was discharged on Christmas Eve and home in time for Carols from King's College (one of my favourite Christmas Eve traditions).

Two weeks later, my stitches are healed and I'm hardly sore at all any more. I'm within 7 lbs of my pre-pregnancy weight and can fit into my normal size jeans as long as they have some stretch to them. Rory is growing well. Although he has colic in the evenings, which wears us out, the rest of the time he is a pretty chilled out baby. I could look at him all day long, and some days I do.

Flipper

Bad Boy has turned and is now head down. This news should make me very happy, seeing as it means a home birth is now absolutely possible, given that all is still well. But I had a bit of a meltdown with the midwife yesterday. I'm really struggling with fallout from my previous losses, feeling terrified that something will happen to my son if he's not removed promptly from my womb, and soon. The midwife told me that she would refer me for an elective Cesarean if I'm finding it this hard. Now, quite why I should be irrationally concerned about the risks associated with a natural birth and not at all concerned about those associated with an elective C-section is quite beyond my capacity to understand at this moment. I am what is commonly referred to as a basket case, and am unable to make sense out of pretty much anything right now.

Mr B thinks that if I go for a section, I may end up feeling like I have somehow dodged a bullet--i.e. temporarily cheated God out of an opportunity to break my heart again--and that it will come back to haunt me. In essence, he thinks I should stand up to the school bully (God, that is) and go for the home birth, complete with birthing pool, Abba on the stereo and champagne in the fridge, as has been the plan since I made it to 14 weeks. And given that he is a lot smarter than me, I am inclined to go along with that plan.

I'm off to the OB-GYN today to get the final go-ahead to have the home birth. While I'm there I might just broach the idea of a planned section or even a planned induction just to cover my bases. But for now it looks as though Bad Boy will make his appearance at a date and time of his choosing, and not mine. I just hope he's as impatient as I am.

Pregnancy-a-Go-Go

I am now so large that certain countries wish to harpoon me. I daren't wear white lest small children stick carrots on my face thinking I'm a snowman. I can no longer put on my socks without pretending I'm a circus contortionist. And shaving any part of my lower body has become an exercise fraught with danger as I blindly wield the blade and hope for the best. Yet I don't have any stretchmarks. It can only be a matter of time.

I've reached 32 weeks today. That means Bad Boy could put in an appearance any time between 5 and 10 weeks from now, and boy am I hoping for the lower end of that scale. It's impossible to get comfortable, take a deep breath or stay away from the loo for more than half an hour at a time. And the heartburn. Dear Sweet Jebus the heartburn...

At home, the cat is perplexed. He clearly senses something is up and he has never before been so affectionate with me. I think he knows his days of being picked up and cradled like a baby are numbered. (He glowers when I do it, but he never actually tries to escape.)

Mr B, the most patient man on the planet, is verklempt that he can't really do anything to help in terms of the physical side of pregnancy (though the advance birthday present of a shiatsu massage seat was a damn fine effort). Last night he asked me, rather plaintively, whether there was anyhting he could do. I asked him whether he knew how to perform a Caesarian Section. And I was only half joking.

Nevertheless, this time last year, we were still grieving over our third miscarriage and wondering whether we'd ever have a baby. Now, I could be as little as 5 weeks away (always assuming God is busy smiting Republicans and hasn't got a little trick up his sleeves). So every time I grumble, I do remind myself that my current discomfort is a joy compared to the pain we went through last year.

And then I grumble some more because, well, I'm an ungrateful bitch.

RSI

Re-Setting Intentions: my new life goal is to never eat another bread crust. I hate them. Despise them even. Yet I have always eaten them because my mother or grandmother or someone told me it was good roughage. Well I don't care. I get my 5-a-day minimum fruits and vegetables. I'm pretty sure my digestive tract can handle the absence of a little cardboard-like bread edging.

Random Shoves Inside: Bad Boy is running out of room and doesn't seem terribly impressed. Sweetie? Give mummy a break.

Rubbish Sofa Inhabitation: There is NOTHING on TV at the moment! I'm too knackered to do anything resembling exercise, and my pregnancy-addled brain can't cope with reading after a full day at work, so TV is all I've got (well, besides conversation with Mr B, but it's not like he expects it. We are married after all).

Reducing Scion's Inheritance: If anyone has seen where my money has gone, can you please tell it to come home?

Really Stubborn Influenza: Ok, it ws a cold, not the flu, but it has been hanging around for 3 weeks now and I'm getting a little tired of the nose-blowing. Still, I have managed to wean myself off the nasal spray after I ened up with nosebleeds after 3 days of using the stuff.

Ridiculous Song-related Instability: I found myself crying at Nancy Griffith's From a Distance in the car the other day. It's still not as bad as my sister who, when pregnant with her son, was reduced to great hormonal sobs whilst listening to Kenny Rogers' Coward of the County.

Repetitive Strain Injury: I actually have one in my right shoulder blade area and I'm in agony with it.

Reasonably Short Interim: Only 9 weeks to go. I can't believe I made it this far.

Ready...Aim...

I am much less cranky today, which is kind of a miracle when you consider that yesterday I had to travel by air; something that, as a general rule, normally has me hissing and spitting for at least a week afterward. It's also a miracle when you consider that on Friday, my week ended with having to fire someone.

I love being a manager. And I know that being a manager means that sometimes you have to take tough decisions. I know that the flip side of having to tell someone how great they're doing is having to tell someone that they are falling down on the job. And unfortunately, the flip side of the thrill of telling someone they're hired seeing the sense of accomplishment light up their face, is having to tell someone that despite having said all the right things at interview and been hired, in reality they are not cut out for the job and will no longer have said job come Monday.

I feel bad, though not guilty. I followed all the legal rules and all the internal procedure, and I can say with hand on heart that I gave this person every possible chance to improve and that, at the end of the day, she just wasn't capable of what she was being asked to do. We've offered assistance in finding a new job, will give her a standard reference, and I even managed to get the company to waive its right to claim back the deposit it paid on her rental property when she relocated here so that she won't have to panic about that. I gave her positive feedback where it was due, and an honest but gentle assessment of her shortcomings. And at the end of the day, I believe that it was the best decision for the company, for her colleagues, and probably, in the long run, even for her. But boy I wish I hadn't had to do it.

Today's drama is waiting to see if my ex-Fuckwit gets charged for harassment (it's looking likely). UPDATE: just learned he will be charged at 2 pm today. That's assuming he shows up, because apparently he has told the police that he's far too busy at work (he drives a tour bus round town) to show up for his legally required bail interview... If he shows up, he'll have a court appearance for harassment in a couple of months' time. If he doesn't show up, the court appearance will also be to answer charges of failing to meet bail conditions. The man is beyond help, I swear. But, you know, he basically terrorized and abused me, by letter and the occasional phone call, for NINE YEARS! It got to the point where I started shaking every time the post dropped through the letterbox, because there might have been a letter from him. I shouldn't have to take that. I wish I could bloody well fire him.

Baby B is doing well, if all the kicking and wriggling is anything to go by. I am profoundly grateful every time I feel him (ahem..or her) move. To what or whom I don't know, since I refuse to give God credit as long as he fails to take responsibility for the bad stuff. But I know just how lucky I am.

I am as big as, or possibly bigger than, Cleveland, but the good news is my boobs don't hurt quite so badly anymore. My back, however, is a different story and my new office chair is making it worse. But lest you think I am complaining, let me assure you I am not. I am profoundly grateful for every twinge, ache and acid reflux, too.

Exes and Ohs

Did you miss me? (What do you mean was I gone?!)

Had an excellent vacation (with huge apologies to those of you with whom I had tentative plans to meet up; it just didn't happen for various reasons including me being sick with a cold the entire first week!). It threatened to start out badly, as Mr B and I had to tell the Badeggs Daughter that her father had been arrested.

We knew it was coming. He has harassed me for 9 years now with awful, upsetting letters and the occasional phone calls, and Mr B has been on the receiving end for the past 4 years. It has got much worse in the past couple of years, culminating in police involvement during 2004, when our wedding was preceded by several letters commenting on everything from our choice of wedding day (11th September) to whether I was entitled to a church wedding seeing as I am a liar and a cheat. More recently his parents started sending things to me, and his letters became increasingly upsetting, and that's when we decided to involve the police again. He was asked by them to stop writing; his response was to start writing letters to the police! He was asked to stop again; final warning. He wrote a letter to me that actually threatened me (smart guy, eh?). So on 23 July at 11 pm he was taken into custody and interviewed for a few hours. His parents bailed him out, apparently, and his mother telephoned mine to tell her how depraved I am. Yeah, cry me a river.

Anyway, you can imagine how difficult it was to tell my daughter. We decided to do it ourselves, rather than risk having her hear it from her father or grandparents, who would of course skew everything so that it was all my fault (because the police are always arresting people on my say so, don't you know). It's hard for her because she hears her father say that he's only trying to start a dialog with me about her. She can't understand that his letters are nothing to do with creating a dialog or building bridges but are simply a vehicle for abuse. And of course she wants to believe her father is a decent person. Mind you, deep down I think she knows that he has problems. About a week before we left, she came down and spoke to both Mr B and myself (unusual; it's usually just me) and spoke of how her father is always talking to her like she is a stand-in for me. "I am worried he's going to end up in the loony bin," she said, "He's so paranoid."

Daughter cried when we explained about the arrest (hell, even I cried; I never wanted it to end up like this) and I told her it was OK to feel angry and upset with me and with the situation and even with her dad. She went to spend some time on her own, but within hours she was talking to me and acting normally. She had a lot of heart-to-hearts with my younger sister who has the gift of being able to temper bluntness with humour, and my daughter shared the content of those talks with me (or at least some of it). By the end, she was happy to simply let it be the grown-ups' problem. In fact, when her grandmother called towards the end of our trip (yes, they can never let the child just enjoy her time in America) she took the call in full earshot of my sister and mother and was heard to tell her grandmother: "I don't want to hear it, Grandma. it's not my problem." What a kid!

She's now in France for 10 days on a school water-sports trip. By the time she's back, we should know whether her father will actually be charged with harassment or just given an official caution.

Arrgh! Enough about the exes; now for the Oh!s. Yesterday was my 20-week scan (and I am officially 20 weeks' pregnant tomorrow). I've made it to the halfway point and baby has all his/her fingers and toes and everything else it needs. And the kid yawned, I kid you not! RIght there on the monitor. I guess we were boring it. (Ha! Just wait 'til you're born, kid; we're the most boring people on the planet.) We did have the gender 'confirmed' (they never give you 100% certainty, but they were fairly confident in what they saw/didn't see) but we're not telling. Only my sister and best friend know! I will try to get the photos scanned so that I can post them via a link, but our scanner's shot, so I have to find someone at work to do it for me. Don't hold your breath! (But I do have the cutest shot of his/her little feet!)

It was all very emotional. I didn't cry, but I kept thinking about all the babies we had to lose to get to this place. And though I know that they simply weren't 'compatible with life', as they say, that something in their genetic make-up had gone wrong and they simply couldn't have lived, it still makes me sad to think what might have been for those sons and daughters of ours. And it just kills me that there are mothers and fathers going through the agony of repeated loss or inability to conceive right now. I just wish so much that I could fix it for everyone.

It's good to be back. Work is busy and the broadband at home is down, so I may not be able to post very much for the time being. But you know where to find me.

I Need a Vacation

We moved house last weekend. We'd been packing for 3 weekends running, so we thought we were in pretty good shape. Moving day rolled around and we started at 6.00 AM. By 6.00 PM we had piled up several gajillions of our belongings in our former neighbours' carport because we had so totally misjudged how much crap we had to shift. The people moving into our old place were the social equivalents of slugs. I tried to keep them apprised of what was going on and they just sort of stood there open-mouthed and said, "Well (huff) OK I guess" So in the end we just got it off their property. Thank GOD for our old neighbours. They got a nice bottle of champagne off us for their trouble. Should've been a case, really.

Had my cervical scan (the official one) on Monday. Everything looks fine, and I am fairly sure I now know the gender (no, I'm not telling). My first official midwife appointment was last Thursday, and we hit it off immediately. Turns out, she lives a couple of doors down from my new house! She was really supportive about my past losses and is just generally 'good people'. I've been given the go ahead to take myself off of OB/GYN care but there's no pressure to do so. The up-side of that would be that I could give birth in a midwife-led unit closer to home (or even AT home) instead of at a big high-tech hospital. The down-side is, I wouldn't have the reassurance of having a doctor on call at all times. Thankfully, I don't have to decide right now.

The UFO is moving around a lot now. It started a couple of weeks ago (v. early: 14 weeks) and felt like flutterings. These days it's more like popcorn popping inside. I wish Mr B could feel it. Mind you, at this rate, it won't be long. This child is going to be a big'un I think. Great.

So that's it, really. No great dramas. No worries. Just the need for a good long vacation, which I am going to get starting next week.

Are you bored yet?

The Uncooperative Cervix

It's not that it's Incompetent... No, it's holding firm and doing its job. It's just that it insists upon occasionally spitting out brown stuff and, last Tuesday (shortly after I posted about how everything was fine and there had been no more bleeding) a few nice black (yes, really) clots. Small ones, like coffee grounds, but enough to spook me. When the cramping started, I raced like hell to the Silver Cervix Clubhouse for a good wanding.

The long and short of it? UFO's fine, cervix is fine, uterus is fine (no clots). The Badeggs psyche is shot. It's currently on vacation in Bermuda.

The OB was great, and encouraged me to come in any time I get spotting, regardless of whether I'm cramping along with it. I had treatment to my cervix years ago, and this on top of the near constant rake 'n' vacs I had last year mean that there is a slight risk of cervical problems in this pregnancy, though she doesn't think I actually have anything to worry about. *Sigh*. This baby is SO grounded when it comes out, for giving its parents so many near heart attacks.

I have an appointment with a midwife next Thursday. Like, an honest-to-god normal-person appointment where the assumption is that everything is going to be normal. On Monday, it's back to the Silver Cervix Clubhouse for an official cervical scan (I assume everything will still be fine). That'll be after the weekend spent moving house! Then it's off on holiday on 25 July and back on 14 August just in time for my 20-week anomaly scan, where they see if the UFO has three arms or something (Don't laugh: I saw a photograph this week of a baby born with three arms, bless him. Just an extra arm sticking out of the side. Amazing).

So, basically, it's laid back and casual chez Badeggs, know what I mean? The Mothership is holding it together. With spit and duct tape, but together nonetheless.

Revelations 9

Yay! I've finally been tagged by the lovely Vivien. So here goes...

Nine Quirky Things About Lola

1. I cannot bear to have my neck touched. It even freaks me out when Mr B does it.
2. All of my fingers and toes are double-jointed. I can bend them at the top knuckle, and I can also bend my fingers at the second knuckle without bending them at the top knuckle. Go on, try it. See, I'm special.
3. I frequently burp the words: "Luke, I am your father."
4. Like my mother, I love the smell of gasoline.
5. I have an obsession with squeezing blackheads. Mine, other people's...
6. I tweeze my grey pubes.
7. I honest to God could take or leave chocolate.
8. My arse is apparently irresistible. Apart from its obvious attraction for Mr B, I have been bitten there by a goose and by my sister when she was a toddler. With very sharp teeth. I still have a scar.
9. I like to make up slightly rude lyrics to popular tunes. I can make up whole verses on the spot, and generally get at least one person within earshot to laugh out loud.

That was fun! I should do this more often. Next time... NINETY odd things about me. Oh yeah, I've got enough material for that and more.

Live from the Wilds of Kent

Easter weekend...and in the UK that means a 4-day weekend. For a country that isn't, on the whole, that much of a churchgoing nation they sure do Easter right. We've come down to Kent to visit the in-laws, having spent the morning viewing a house that we think we're going to make an offer on. After nearly 4 years in a semi-detached (that's a duplex for my North American chums) that is way too small for our needs already, and high on the hope that possibly one day we'll actually manage to pop out a live baby instead of so much uterine sludge (sorry...), we think it may be time to move up.

The house we saw today needs work, and it's still not large (or even medium) on, say, a Midwestern scale (sorry, Mom), but it's got 4 bedrooms, a laundry room (compact and bijoux, but out of the way), and a lovely garden that gets lots and lots of sunshine. Moreover, it's totally within our budget, even with the work that needs to be done. I have to confess, I'm going on Mr Badeggs' word that the place has potential. I myself am still smitten with the place we saw yesterday that had 5 bedrooms, a sweet little garden room, and was way the hell out of our comfort range in terms of price.

Sigh (I spend a lot of time these days sighing...)

The mother-in-law and I have just managed to get through an entire bottle of white wine between us, and I wasn't even bogarting it. It must be that causing the funny metallic taste in my mouth, because it's WAY too soon for it to be a sign of anything else, right?

Anyway, have a very Happy (and for those for whom it has religious significance, a very blessed) Easter. And spare a thought for me. My mother-in-law sure does know how to talk...

What's that?!!...Yes, ma'am...I'm just finishing now. What was it you wanted to say?