I love the Elfling dearly, but out of routine she can be really really really difficult. She does not cope well with change at all. So vacation care (only a few days a week) has been a god send. She gets to play with her friends for a few hours and I get not to listen to whining/back chatting/hysterics and we both love each other when we get home. We have also banned TV this week after an awful Sunday morning and it really has made a difference (though the whining on Monday sent me truly batty). The fact that this was necessary was pointed out emphatically on Tuesday when we received the Toy Catalogues for the mid year sales and she could name EVERY SINGLE LICENSED CHARACTER. That was a bit of a wake up call. No more TV baby sitter here.
Said Toy Sales were braved by me today and a few bargains (Lego!) picked up and stashed ready for the big man in red to take credit for. I felt wildly decadent with my ?4 purchases, but looking at some of the trolleys filled to the brim with plastic licensed crap and felt mildly nauseated. Knowing just how little the girls get out of having too many toys I felt a bit sad as well, especially considering that most of the people laden with toys had said children with them, threatening them with "a belting" or "not getting it for Christmas" if they didn't shut up and stop touching things. Gah.
I also got my hair cut, my eyebrows waxed and went on a quest to find a pair of jeans to fit me. I am still wearing my flattering but elastic waisted maternity jeans and now that the Possum is a month old it feels pretty embarrassing to still be wearing them. I went into Esprit which is usually friendly to the non teenaged figure and went to the sale rack (because I can't help myself) and flicked through the "slimming" dark denim. I looked for a Sz 14 which they of course didn't have and looked at the Sz 12 ambitiously wondering if I could actually squeeze into them still. And did. Miraculously they fit, no strain at all over the hips or thighs, no special contortions to do them up. In fact I was so thrilled by this fact I almost bought them on the spot, until I remembered why I didn't wear any of the other jeans in my wardrobe. Because they stretch, always, to the point that I spend all my time yanking them up.
But these were Sz 12!! I decided, almost embarrassed, to try on the Sz 10 feeling like a complete fraud. I am still overweight, how on Earth I can fit Sz 12 is baffling enough. But I tried on the Sz 10s, which did require a bit of contortion to do the waist band up but was actually physically possible even with breathing, and even after 5 minutes wear in the store they were already doing that stretchy, moulding thing and getting to comfortable. Ergo, I was comfortably wearing Sz 10. Ergo, purchase made toute de suite and I own Sz 10 jeans!
Did I mention I'm awfully shallow?
Anyhow, the Possum is currently sleeping happily in his hammock (has been for 2 hours!) and I am free from his glorious snuggliness and in demand from a certain Jane Austen love interest but I just wanted to update.
Oh and we inspected a house today that I adore. I want. Very much. 90 million be damned!
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Monday, 29 June 2009
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Rain
I'm sure I've documented on here how much I love rain. How much I adore rain. How we are fated lovers destined or some such. Or maybe not. But I do love rain, love misty mornings, love buckety mornings, love summer downpours and autumn showers etc etc.
On Monday I did not love the rain. I would pain a picture for you, but the facts will do that on its own.
It was 2:15pm. The Monkey fell asleep. Dead asleep, the "I won't wake now for at least an hour no matter what you do" sleep.
The Elfling finishes school at 2:40pm and must be collected from her classroom.
Her classroom is accessible by 3 steep staircases. There is a "sort of" wheelchair accessible route that takes 4x as long but still involves stairs.
There were no parks within a 2 block radius of her school when I went to pick her up.
Oh and it was pouring with rain. The proper cats and dogs kind. And it's winter.
If you have a solution that doesn't involve
* me being saturated
* me consoling a screaming baby in a sling, wrapped up in a dozen blankets and wraps to stop him getting cold and wet
* me lugging a 20kg pram down stairs while other parents watch from the safety of an undercover area
* the Elfling being saturated
* the Monkey being saturated
* the pram being saturated
* the Possum being dry but extraordinarily pissed off
I'd love to hear it.
Otherwise all is peachy. Possum growing impossibly fast. Elfling ballet protege. Monkey adorable. More later.
On Monday I did not love the rain. I would pain a picture for you, but the facts will do that on its own.
It was 2:15pm. The Monkey fell asleep. Dead asleep, the "I won't wake now for at least an hour no matter what you do" sleep.
The Elfling finishes school at 2:40pm and must be collected from her classroom.
Her classroom is accessible by 3 steep staircases. There is a "sort of" wheelchair accessible route that takes 4x as long but still involves stairs.
There were no parks within a 2 block radius of her school when I went to pick her up.
Oh and it was pouring with rain. The proper cats and dogs kind. And it's winter.
If you have a solution that doesn't involve
* me being saturated
* me consoling a screaming baby in a sling, wrapped up in a dozen blankets and wraps to stop him getting cold and wet
* me lugging a 20kg pram down stairs while other parents watch from the safety of an undercover area
* the Elfling being saturated
* the Monkey being saturated
* the pram being saturated
* the Possum being dry but extraordinarily pissed off
I'd love to hear it.
Otherwise all is peachy. Possum growing impossibly fast. Elfling ballet protege. Monkey adorable. More later.
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Enough of the sap
I could write more glowing, happy, nauseating posts about the wonderousness of my life, but after 3+ weeks in blissdom, I've just about had enough of me. Not that the shine is wearing off, because life is still harmonious and wonderful to a backing track of harps and pan pipes (OK perhaps not that bad). But there are certain, shall we say, unromantic realities that are refusing to stay in soft focus.
Firstly, I loved being pregnant. Well aside from the being sick and the not sleeping and the fatigue etc. But what I do love is my body. Naked, clothed, wearing trackies and bed socks... all looks good. Truly, a pregnant belly is the accessory that goes with everything. It helps that I both lose a fair whack of weight at first as well as not gain much in the end, so it's all focused in a ball in front. My hair looks incredible while pregnant, all shine and lustre and even after 5 days barely any grease. And awesomely, this time, maybe the boy hormones or something, I had perfect skin. Glowy, dewy, pregnant skin.
All those lovely hormones have left now. As has the becoming belly accessory. And now, what we have left, is not appealing. It sags, it's dry, it's oily, it flubs out around straps and bras and pant tops. It's like someone has deflated me, and my self esteem has gone hissing out with it.
When I'm not sleeping and breastfeeding pretty much constantly, all I want is sugar. Not your complex carbs and fruit that I crave in pregnancy, but a packet of mint slice (the WHOLE packet). Donuts, just for their icing. Cakes. Packet chocolate mousse. No sleep + sugar + postnatal hormones + age is surprisingly not the answer for an attractive visage. It is however great if you want to relive the memories of being a 19 year old with a hangover.
I loved getting dressed while pregnant. I loved shopping while pregnant. Aside from a couple of tantrums when I couldn't find what I precisely wanted, I loved that everything was firm enough so that it looked pretty decent. Something I hadn't experienced in years.
I want it back. I don't care if people ask me when I'm due, I'll live with that for the ability to dress without wishing I owned Nancy Ganz. It is impossible to dress my body in its current gelatinous state. The only thing that fits properly are pyjamas, and sadly fashion has not caught up with the wonder that is flannelette.
Nothing in my wardrobe fits at the moment. Most of the pre-pregnancy clothes are too big, or they are slimfit, showing off the muffin top that spills over even my pregnancy jeans. Shirts strain over the explosion of bosom. And everything is cheap and nasty or maternity - remnants from my "I will buy clothes when I get to my goal weight... oh fuck I'm pregnant" phase. I tried on clothes in David Jones today, and kept picking clothes that were too big for me. Even the assistants would give me a quick once over, hand me a Sz14 or equivalent and then would look astonished when they were too big. Because I look big, the lack of tone making everything look wider like a side show mirror.
So I'm going back to the gym tomorrow. Reactivating my dormant membership and getting back on the treadmill and banning myself from simple sugars. Every other puerperal period I have lost weight immediately at birth and within a month or so been up to the same saggy weight or more. I am determined not to do that again. I want to be happy again when I get dressed, even without the belly :(
Firstly, I loved being pregnant. Well aside from the being sick and the not sleeping and the fatigue etc. But what I do love is my body. Naked, clothed, wearing trackies and bed socks... all looks good. Truly, a pregnant belly is the accessory that goes with everything. It helps that I both lose a fair whack of weight at first as well as not gain much in the end, so it's all focused in a ball in front. My hair looks incredible while pregnant, all shine and lustre and even after 5 days barely any grease. And awesomely, this time, maybe the boy hormones or something, I had perfect skin. Glowy, dewy, pregnant skin.
All those lovely hormones have left now. As has the becoming belly accessory. And now, what we have left, is not appealing. It sags, it's dry, it's oily, it flubs out around straps and bras and pant tops. It's like someone has deflated me, and my self esteem has gone hissing out with it.
When I'm not sleeping and breastfeeding pretty much constantly, all I want is sugar. Not your complex carbs and fruit that I crave in pregnancy, but a packet of mint slice (the WHOLE packet). Donuts, just for their icing. Cakes. Packet chocolate mousse. No sleep + sugar + postnatal hormones + age is surprisingly not the answer for an attractive visage. It is however great if you want to relive the memories of being a 19 year old with a hangover.
I loved getting dressed while pregnant. I loved shopping while pregnant. Aside from a couple of tantrums when I couldn't find what I precisely wanted, I loved that everything was firm enough so that it looked pretty decent. Something I hadn't experienced in years.
I want it back. I don't care if people ask me when I'm due, I'll live with that for the ability to dress without wishing I owned Nancy Ganz. It is impossible to dress my body in its current gelatinous state. The only thing that fits properly are pyjamas, and sadly fashion has not caught up with the wonder that is flannelette.
Nothing in my wardrobe fits at the moment. Most of the pre-pregnancy clothes are too big, or they are slimfit, showing off the muffin top that spills over even my pregnancy jeans. Shirts strain over the explosion of bosom. And everything is cheap and nasty or maternity - remnants from my "I will buy clothes when I get to my goal weight... oh fuck I'm pregnant" phase. I tried on clothes in David Jones today, and kept picking clothes that were too big for me. Even the assistants would give me a quick once over, hand me a Sz14 or equivalent and then would look astonished when they were too big. Because I look big, the lack of tone making everything look wider like a side show mirror.
So I'm going back to the gym tomorrow. Reactivating my dormant membership and getting back on the treadmill and banning myself from simple sugars. Every other puerperal period I have lost weight immediately at birth and within a month or so been up to the same saggy weight or more. I am determined not to do that again. I want to be happy again when I get dressed, even without the belly :(
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Charmed
The Possum has a head cold. It means he cannot lie down and breathe at the same time. This poses a problem when it comes to things like sleep and feeding. Unfortunately these are his 2 favourite things, so the lack of being able to do so is not making him happy.
Last night we were unable to string 45 minutes together and it left us both feeling pretty miserable. I just wish I could take it away from him and have my proper snuggly baby back. Luckily though, as long as I am upright and am holding him so, he gratefully flops his head down and sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. Unfortunately for me I don't sleep sitting up. So I'm getting a bit zombified.
Other than that things are near perfect. I love having 3 children and I love MY three children who are beyond lovely. The Elfling is growing up at a rate of knots. Her ballet especially is coming along beautifully. She absolutely awed her grandmother during the week when she saw her practice. She is very disciplined and very graceful at ballet, a complete departure from her usual vague and difficult to streamline self.
The Monkey is unbearably cute, and is learning very quickly. Her vocab and sentence structure is showing increased complexity and she is getting very good at problem solving. Her agility and climbing skill is also massively increased (not good for my blood pressure) and she is getting cheekier ever day. We're in the process of dropping the day sleep (not good timing) but she's coping pretty well. She adores her baby brother, getting into bed with him this morning while I was in the shower to kiss his forehead. The Elfling then came in and sang him a self composed song.
The Possum is uncurling more every day. His feet have grown sooo much! He still HATES having his nappy changed but loves having showers with me. He feeds like a champion and loves his special milk. I love watching his face as he feeds and as he falls off, hungry, happy, blissed, relaxed. Beautiful kissable lips, stubborn chin, his long neck and pointed fuzzy ears.
Today was a lovely day, even with no sleep I managed to tour the Art Gallery's American Impressionists exhibition and marvel that I had never heard of Childe Hassam and be blown away at the beauty of light captured on canvas. I also walked through organic farmer's markets and found authentic gruyere cheese (I have been craving for 10 years!!), chocolate exquisitery and perfect ruby fruit. I tasted chocolate brownies and organic meat and cold pressed olive oil.
But best of all, after a long day, even a beautiful one, I pulled into our driveway, looking forward to a simple dinner, and saw waiting on my doorstep a tall thin box, filled with long stemmed blood red roses from Bingley.
Art, chocolate, cheese, roses and snuggles from my perfect son - I lead a charmed life, sleep or no sleep.
Last night we were unable to string 45 minutes together and it left us both feeling pretty miserable. I just wish I could take it away from him and have my proper snuggly baby back. Luckily though, as long as I am upright and am holding him so, he gratefully flops his head down and sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. Unfortunately for me I don't sleep sitting up. So I'm getting a bit zombified.
Other than that things are near perfect. I love having 3 children and I love MY three children who are beyond lovely. The Elfling is growing up at a rate of knots. Her ballet especially is coming along beautifully. She absolutely awed her grandmother during the week when she saw her practice. She is very disciplined and very graceful at ballet, a complete departure from her usual vague and difficult to streamline self.
The Monkey is unbearably cute, and is learning very quickly. Her vocab and sentence structure is showing increased complexity and she is getting very good at problem solving. Her agility and climbing skill is also massively increased (not good for my blood pressure) and she is getting cheekier ever day. We're in the process of dropping the day sleep (not good timing) but she's coping pretty well. She adores her baby brother, getting into bed with him this morning while I was in the shower to kiss his forehead. The Elfling then came in and sang him a self composed song.
The Possum is uncurling more every day. His feet have grown sooo much! He still HATES having his nappy changed but loves having showers with me. He feeds like a champion and loves his special milk. I love watching his face as he feeds and as he falls off, hungry, happy, blissed, relaxed. Beautiful kissable lips, stubborn chin, his long neck and pointed fuzzy ears.
Today was a lovely day, even with no sleep I managed to tour the Art Gallery's American Impressionists exhibition and marvel that I had never heard of Childe Hassam and be blown away at the beauty of light captured on canvas. I also walked through organic farmer's markets and found authentic gruyere cheese (I have been craving for 10 years!!), chocolate exquisitery and perfect ruby fruit. I tasted chocolate brownies and organic meat and cold pressed olive oil.
But best of all, after a long day, even a beautiful one, I pulled into our driveway, looking forward to a simple dinner, and saw waiting on my doorstep a tall thin box, filled with long stemmed blood red roses from Bingley.
Art, chocolate, cheese, roses and snuggles from my perfect son - I lead a charmed life, sleep or no sleep.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Hazy Shades of Winter: Gold
I am still shaking. It's intensified now and is very obvious beneath the blankets they've thrown over us. I can't lift the Possum, I am shaking too much. I try to talk to Bingley and my voice trembles a lot. I'm not shivery, but I am cold. Shock, they would have called it once upon a time.
Bingley fetches me the chocolate that he bought this afternoon specifically because of this. I suck on it because chewing is too hard. The new nurse fetches me a cup of tea, tries to forcefeed me sweet biscuits. After about half an hour of chocolate and sweet milky tea I am shaking less. But the high need for sugar will persist for days.
I stand in the shower at about 11pm, watching Bingley cradle his son. Elated and tearful at the same time. It is such a beautiful sight watching the man I love meet the child he helped me create. It is one of my most important memories, the expression on his face as he begins to know them. He always looks older after birth. I know it has been hard for him too, the helplessness of watching someone you love in pain. The combination of pride, worry, fear, pain, love all entwined majestically in his expression. But there is something new this time too, a maturity and less tentativeness. No awkward arms for this confident Dad who's held a newborn head many times now.
My body feels so deflated in the shower, all soft and shapeless, a blob where that shining beautiful belly had been a few hours earlier. As I lap up the unlimited hot water I'm a little embarrassed by how sad it makes me. But I still wish I had my beautiful belly. This silent one feels very inept.
I get dressed in my new pyjamas and cuddle the Possum until I'm ushered to my wheelchair and he is placed in his perspex trolley. Bingley pushes the Possum and I strain to watch him through the plastic as I am wheeled. Originally I planned to walk but my legs were too shaky, so for once I gave in. And we are back in our room, the one with the sweeping views and the single bed. Yet another midwife greets us, congratulates us, and murmurs affirmations about the beauty of the Possum. I am given the new baby items (nappies, wipes, Family Assistance pack) with a ceremony that seems a little odd for nearly midnight. And then, finally, we are alone. The Possum, Bingley and I. Bingley has to go and then it is just the two of us, the two that were once just hours before. It blows my mind how time can warp like that, how so much can happen, when some people have barely watched a movie.
I feed him again. A long, beautiful feed. I feel the love well up inside me and trickle out down my cheeks as I watch him. Then something else wells up, and causes tears as well, but this time it is pain. Excrutiating pain. At first I leave it be, but when a nurse checks on me I take the paracetamol without hesitation. And later, when it doesn't go away I take the oxycodone. And even then it doesn't really touch it. Afterpains sound so innocuous but these are as bad as labour pains and there's nothing to work for, and for some stupid reason I ration the pain relief.
It's after midnight now, technically not even the Possum's birthday any more and he is asleep at the breast. Cosleeping is not allowed in the hospital so I wrap him up and put him in his bassinet, and change the bed height so that we are face to face. And I try to sleep but cannot. Can do nothing but watch his little face. The hours stop ticking by and no matter what I do I can't sleep. I know I should, but part of me is afraid to and part of me is yet too full of endorphins and adrenaline to even lie still.
For hours I lie in bed, reliving the birth, reliving the trauma but also the awesomeness as I watch him. Even now the pain has faded. I know how much pain I was in, but I can't remember it, I can't manufacture the fear, the need to scream, the certainty of being on the brink of something between life and beyond. And he sleeps on.
Dawn eventually breaks outside. The first time sunlight has ever kissed the Possum's cheeks. He has slept for 6 hours now, snuffling occasionally in his slumber, mumbling a little as if in dream, and his face in the new light is even more beautiful than the night before. I can't wait for him to meet his sisters and I wish they were with me now, wishing I was waking in my own bed with the cheerful shouts of joy as my little goddesses worship our new addition. Instead he sleeps on peacefully and I take photos, because I want to remember how in love I felt right then, so punch drunk on it that I felt that my body was filled with The Gleam.
It is then, at about 6am that I finally can succumb to sleep. I get maybe an hour before breakfast and then the girls arrive. If there is such thing as perfection it was sitting in bed, watching my family meet each other. The joy on their faces. The way the Elfling confidently held her arms out to hold him. The way the Monkey tentatively held him and kissed his fingers.
The day is filled with those who have come to worship at the altar of newborn life and it is after 10pm when the last visitor leaves. I want to be home then, but revel in this, these last few hours where it is just the Possum and I, cuddled together.
Bingley fetches me the chocolate that he bought this afternoon specifically because of this. I suck on it because chewing is too hard. The new nurse fetches me a cup of tea, tries to forcefeed me sweet biscuits. After about half an hour of chocolate and sweet milky tea I am shaking less. But the high need for sugar will persist for days.
I stand in the shower at about 11pm, watching Bingley cradle his son. Elated and tearful at the same time. It is such a beautiful sight watching the man I love meet the child he helped me create. It is one of my most important memories, the expression on his face as he begins to know them. He always looks older after birth. I know it has been hard for him too, the helplessness of watching someone you love in pain. The combination of pride, worry, fear, pain, love all entwined majestically in his expression. But there is something new this time too, a maturity and less tentativeness. No awkward arms for this confident Dad who's held a newborn head many times now.
My body feels so deflated in the shower, all soft and shapeless, a blob where that shining beautiful belly had been a few hours earlier. As I lap up the unlimited hot water I'm a little embarrassed by how sad it makes me. But I still wish I had my beautiful belly. This silent one feels very inept.
I get dressed in my new pyjamas and cuddle the Possum until I'm ushered to my wheelchair and he is placed in his perspex trolley. Bingley pushes the Possum and I strain to watch him through the plastic as I am wheeled. Originally I planned to walk but my legs were too shaky, so for once I gave in. And we are back in our room, the one with the sweeping views and the single bed. Yet another midwife greets us, congratulates us, and murmurs affirmations about the beauty of the Possum. I am given the new baby items (nappies, wipes, Family Assistance pack) with a ceremony that seems a little odd for nearly midnight. And then, finally, we are alone. The Possum, Bingley and I. Bingley has to go and then it is just the two of us, the two that were once just hours before. It blows my mind how time can warp like that, how so much can happen, when some people have barely watched a movie.
I feed him again. A long, beautiful feed. I feel the love well up inside me and trickle out down my cheeks as I watch him. Then something else wells up, and causes tears as well, but this time it is pain. Excrutiating pain. At first I leave it be, but when a nurse checks on me I take the paracetamol without hesitation. And later, when it doesn't go away I take the oxycodone. And even then it doesn't really touch it. Afterpains sound so innocuous but these are as bad as labour pains and there's nothing to work for, and for some stupid reason I ration the pain relief.
It's after midnight now, technically not even the Possum's birthday any more and he is asleep at the breast. Cosleeping is not allowed in the hospital so I wrap him up and put him in his bassinet, and change the bed height so that we are face to face. And I try to sleep but cannot. Can do nothing but watch his little face. The hours stop ticking by and no matter what I do I can't sleep. I know I should, but part of me is afraid to and part of me is yet too full of endorphins and adrenaline to even lie still.
For hours I lie in bed, reliving the birth, reliving the trauma but also the awesomeness as I watch him. Even now the pain has faded. I know how much pain I was in, but I can't remember it, I can't manufacture the fear, the need to scream, the certainty of being on the brink of something between life and beyond. And he sleeps on.
Dawn eventually breaks outside. The first time sunlight has ever kissed the Possum's cheeks. He has slept for 6 hours now, snuffling occasionally in his slumber, mumbling a little as if in dream, and his face in the new light is even more beautiful than the night before. I can't wait for him to meet his sisters and I wish they were with me now, wishing I was waking in my own bed with the cheerful shouts of joy as my little goddesses worship our new addition. Instead he sleeps on peacefully and I take photos, because I want to remember how in love I felt right then, so punch drunk on it that I felt that my body was filled with The Gleam.
It is then, at about 6am that I finally can succumb to sleep. I get maybe an hour before breakfast and then the girls arrive. If there is such thing as perfection it was sitting in bed, watching my family meet each other. The joy on their faces. The way the Elfling confidently held her arms out to hold him. The way the Monkey tentatively held him and kissed his fingers.
The day is filled with those who have come to worship at the altar of newborn life and it is after 10pm when the last visitor leaves. I want to be home then, but revel in this, these last few hours where it is just the Possum and I, cuddled together.
Monday, 15 June 2009
I have nothing
I try and string together an interesting sentence but I have nothing to say. I am besotted and am tring to remember why I didn't want more babies. Babies are wonderful.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
There's another post to go in the birth story saga, but it can wait. All the flowers have died now, and the laundry is again swamped and there are milo splodges on the tiles, so it's basically back to normal now. I was worried about this stage, worried that the euphoria might have worn off and I'd be in the "what have we done!" camp already, but I'm not.
He is beautiful and easy and so much a part of our family. The baby paraphernalia just melds in with the usual chaos, and in the middle of it is the Possum, serenely sleeping away. He is the snuggliest baby, sleeps forever and almost never cries aside from when we change his nappy. He is just not a nudist. He has a pointy chin and the most knowing eyes and a dent in the middle of his nose that is slowly filling out. His ears are still fuzzy but as his eyelashes and eyebrows are growing in. I stare at him for hours, watching the fleeting expressions on his face as he nuzzles in closer.
The girls are in love, the Monkey especially is effusive. The Elfling likes him quite a lot, but is upset that I won't let her do much of the caring for him. She likes to be helpful though, and as long as she feels needed she is happy. We went to the Lifeline Bookfest yesterday and she and I trawled through table after table for finds (sadly no Trixie Beldens this year) but she found a My Little Pony book and a Fairy book so was rapt.
The Possum just slept it all away in his sling, sighing occasionally. He is a champion feeder, and after a brief stint as Dolly Parton I'm slowly settling down enough so that I don't drown him with every feed. He hates being naked as I've mentioned, probably to do with the cold (it's near freezing in Brisbane in the mornings now) but we had a shower this morning and curled up like a little frog on my chest he seemed very happy. The girls both hated being "splashed" even though they loved baths.
Being a family of 5 seems so strange and so foreign but so right at the same time. I feel stretched sometimes, but at the moment it is pretty easy. Family routines kicking in and him just slotting in around the rituals of bedtime and mornings and ballet classes. I look at all my angst and want to laugh at it, but know that it's not now that will test us, but the weeks, months and years to come.
I don't regret it for one second though, my secret fear that he would be born and I would still harbour that little bit of resentment. But how could anyone regret perfection?
He is beautiful and easy and so much a part of our family. The baby paraphernalia just melds in with the usual chaos, and in the middle of it is the Possum, serenely sleeping away. He is the snuggliest baby, sleeps forever and almost never cries aside from when we change his nappy. He is just not a nudist. He has a pointy chin and the most knowing eyes and a dent in the middle of his nose that is slowly filling out. His ears are still fuzzy but as his eyelashes and eyebrows are growing in. I stare at him for hours, watching the fleeting expressions on his face as he nuzzles in closer.
The girls are in love, the Monkey especially is effusive. The Elfling likes him quite a lot, but is upset that I won't let her do much of the caring for him. She likes to be helpful though, and as long as she feels needed she is happy. We went to the Lifeline Bookfest yesterday and she and I trawled through table after table for finds (sadly no Trixie Beldens this year) but she found a My Little Pony book and a Fairy book so was rapt.
The Possum just slept it all away in his sling, sighing occasionally. He is a champion feeder, and after a brief stint as Dolly Parton I'm slowly settling down enough so that I don't drown him with every feed. He hates being naked as I've mentioned, probably to do with the cold (it's near freezing in Brisbane in the mornings now) but we had a shower this morning and curled up like a little frog on my chest he seemed very happy. The girls both hated being "splashed" even though they loved baths.
Being a family of 5 seems so strange and so foreign but so right at the same time. I feel stretched sometimes, but at the moment it is pretty easy. Family routines kicking in and him just slotting in around the rituals of bedtime and mornings and ballet classes. I look at all my angst and want to laugh at it, but know that it's not now that will test us, but the weeks, months and years to come.
I don't regret it for one second though, my secret fear that he would be born and I would still harbour that little bit of resentment. But how could anyone regret perfection?
Sunday, 7 June 2009
Hazy Shades of Winter: Blue
It's after 10pm, I can't do this any more and I'm lying on my side crying without tears. It hurts too much, I can't cope, that last contraction was so incredibly vicious it felt like I was being sliced from inside, being slashed by internal knives. The violence and pain and intensity were just so much. In retrospect, my previous labours had been painful, but relatively gentle. The fact that my waters had not broken had meant that the pressure on my cervix had been cushioned slightly by fluid. A shock absorber of sorts so that I didn't get the whole sensation.
I am whingy, I am sooking to Bingley, and I cried through the last contraction, the writing is on the fluorescent walls. Obviously I am not strong enough for this. I realise after a while though that there has been a break since the last contraction. At this point there had been upstroke/downstroke but not really a break between. And now that I'm having time to think in my head I realise that the lack of contraction is prolonged and this, to me, equals that labour has stopped.
My mind keeps racing, I can't work out how I could be so strong, so powerful, so exhilirated with the Monkey and what is so different now. I can't work out what I'm doing wrong or how to fix it. All I feel is failure. Failure towards myself, to labour, to my Possum. I want him, I want him in my arms, I want to do this, but I don't know how. And I'm only 4cm, maybe 5cm. There are hours and hours and hours left to get through. More tears.
Even though there is no contraction I am crushing Bingley's fingers. He is sitting with his head on mine, mumbling affirmations to me, kissing my forehead, allowing me to squeeze him, trying not to let me see his worry. I feel a contraction begin to start. The painless squeeze at the top of my uterus signalling that the pain is going to come, and I whimper out loud. Then the pain steps up and I cry out, no longer just a pitiful whimper but a wail. And then, it is more than that, it is beyond that and I scream, scream and push involuntarily.
The midwife rushes over and asks if there is pressure. "No" I manage to scream out, "No, I'm pushing". And she puts her hand inside me to check and the pain is even worse and all I can do is scream. She is confused, she doesn't think I'm any more than 6cm and she rushes out to get my obstetrician. The contraction keeps going and I keep pushing because I can't help it. I am still pushing when he comes back in and gently asks me if he can check what's happening. I'm still screaming and it's even louder when he checks.
"Jenn, you have a 3cm cervical lip but he's coming and he's coming now. I will help by pushing it out of the way. Just keep pushing". I am crying now, hoarse from the screaming and in so much pain I want to die. 2 minutes ago I was 6cm and had hours to go and now I'm supposed to push him out?? My cervix is burning, that familiar ring of fire and I am just lost to the pain. The contraction has stopped, but the pain is still there, the pain of his head pushing my cervix open.
Suddenly I feel the next contraction building and the scream bursts from me again. It is so loud and so foreign that it scares me. I am holding both of Bingley's hands as if they are my only tenuous grip on life. If I let go I know I will be lost. The contraction builds and builds and as it does I push involuntarily. I feel myself stretch, feel his head there, feel everything sting with unbearable pain. I stop pushing and take a breath in. "Push when you get the next contraction" My obstetrician coaches, "I'm still having a contraction" I whimper and I push. I push deep into my chest, down through my strong abdominal muscles and down into my pelvic floor and then I feel him birth. Feel his head come out, feel every part of his head be born. I breathe in again and scream again as his body starts to move, feel his shoulders start to come out and then feel the contraction wane.
He is there, half out, half in, and the contraction is barely there so all that is left is the stinging, stretching pain. I can't do anything but scream and I can't wait for another contraction, the pain is just too much so I push anyway. And feel him lifted from me. My scream stops mid note but there is no silence, there is more screaming, but this time it's not mine, it's Harry's, and he is lying beside me, his head on my belly. I look at him, tears coursing down my cheeks, no longer in pain, looking at my perfect son.
His fuzzy ears, the downy fluff over his head, his wide open dark eyes, his tiny blue hands. I stroke his clean shiny skin, no vernix anywhere, looking just like a catalogue baby, all blushed skin, dimples and fuzz. Neither of us are screaming now. We're just lying together, no one else in the room. He is nuzzling my skin, knowing my scent.
Bingley cuts the cord, and I can lift him higher. I bring him to my breast and he latches on perfectly. I am checked for tearing, we assume with the ferocity that I will have been damaged, but there is none. I am just lying there, eyes closed, my firstborn son in my arms, still holding onto Bingley and blissfully out of pain. I am shaking though, my whole body trembling uncontrollably. My obstetrician is stroking my hair, congratulating me, admiring my son, praising how wonderfully I birth.
And it's that praise, combined with my perfect blue bundle and the relief and absolute pride radiating from Bingley that brings me peace. The knowledge that I did this, that I can do this, that I didn't fail anyone. I can't stop the tears and they trickle down my cheeks. After all my screaming and whining and lamenting I haven't made a single noise since he was given to me, and all I can do is cry, and marvel and tremble at the perfection of Harry William, born at 2222 01/06/09 weighing 3648g (8lb), 53cm
I am whingy, I am sooking to Bingley, and I cried through the last contraction, the writing is on the fluorescent walls. Obviously I am not strong enough for this. I realise after a while though that there has been a break since the last contraction. At this point there had been upstroke/downstroke but not really a break between. And now that I'm having time to think in my head I realise that the lack of contraction is prolonged and this, to me, equals that labour has stopped.
My mind keeps racing, I can't work out how I could be so strong, so powerful, so exhilirated with the Monkey and what is so different now. I can't work out what I'm doing wrong or how to fix it. All I feel is failure. Failure towards myself, to labour, to my Possum. I want him, I want him in my arms, I want to do this, but I don't know how. And I'm only 4cm, maybe 5cm. There are hours and hours and hours left to get through. More tears.
Even though there is no contraction I am crushing Bingley's fingers. He is sitting with his head on mine, mumbling affirmations to me, kissing my forehead, allowing me to squeeze him, trying not to let me see his worry. I feel a contraction begin to start. The painless squeeze at the top of my uterus signalling that the pain is going to come, and I whimper out loud. Then the pain steps up and I cry out, no longer just a pitiful whimper but a wail. And then, it is more than that, it is beyond that and I scream, scream and push involuntarily.
The midwife rushes over and asks if there is pressure. "No" I manage to scream out, "No, I'm pushing". And she puts her hand inside me to check and the pain is even worse and all I can do is scream. She is confused, she doesn't think I'm any more than 6cm and she rushes out to get my obstetrician. The contraction keeps going and I keep pushing because I can't help it. I am still pushing when he comes back in and gently asks me if he can check what's happening. I'm still screaming and it's even louder when he checks.
"Jenn, you have a 3cm cervical lip but he's coming and he's coming now. I will help by pushing it out of the way. Just keep pushing". I am crying now, hoarse from the screaming and in so much pain I want to die. 2 minutes ago I was 6cm and had hours to go and now I'm supposed to push him out?? My cervix is burning, that familiar ring of fire and I am just lost to the pain. The contraction has stopped, but the pain is still there, the pain of his head pushing my cervix open.
Suddenly I feel the next contraction building and the scream bursts from me again. It is so loud and so foreign that it scares me. I am holding both of Bingley's hands as if they are my only tenuous grip on life. If I let go I know I will be lost. The contraction builds and builds and as it does I push involuntarily. I feel myself stretch, feel his head there, feel everything sting with unbearable pain. I stop pushing and take a breath in. "Push when you get the next contraction" My obstetrician coaches, "I'm still having a contraction" I whimper and I push. I push deep into my chest, down through my strong abdominal muscles and down into my pelvic floor and then I feel him birth. Feel his head come out, feel every part of his head be born. I breathe in again and scream again as his body starts to move, feel his shoulders start to come out and then feel the contraction wane.
He is there, half out, half in, and the contraction is barely there so all that is left is the stinging, stretching pain. I can't do anything but scream and I can't wait for another contraction, the pain is just too much so I push anyway. And feel him lifted from me. My scream stops mid note but there is no silence, there is more screaming, but this time it's not mine, it's Harry's, and he is lying beside me, his head on my belly. I look at him, tears coursing down my cheeks, no longer in pain, looking at my perfect son.
His fuzzy ears, the downy fluff over his head, his wide open dark eyes, his tiny blue hands. I stroke his clean shiny skin, no vernix anywhere, looking just like a catalogue baby, all blushed skin, dimples and fuzz. Neither of us are screaming now. We're just lying together, no one else in the room. He is nuzzling my skin, knowing my scent.
Bingley cuts the cord, and I can lift him higher. I bring him to my breast and he latches on perfectly. I am checked for tearing, we assume with the ferocity that I will have been damaged, but there is none. I am just lying there, eyes closed, my firstborn son in my arms, still holding onto Bingley and blissfully out of pain. I am shaking though, my whole body trembling uncontrollably. My obstetrician is stroking my hair, congratulating me, admiring my son, praising how wonderfully I birth.
And it's that praise, combined with my perfect blue bundle and the relief and absolute pride radiating from Bingley that brings me peace. The knowledge that I did this, that I can do this, that I didn't fail anyone. I can't stop the tears and they trickle down my cheeks. After all my screaming and whining and lamenting I haven't made a single noise since he was given to me, and all I can do is cry, and marvel and tremble at the perfection of Harry William, born at 2222 01/06/09 weighing 3648g (8lb), 53cm
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Hazy Shades of Winter: White
I'm not deliberately stringing it out, but the title hazy is right. Just processing all of it takes some time, and meanwhile life is chugging along regardless. I am currently dealing with a MASSIVE over supply. Those unfortunate enough to be long term readers know that I'm not exactly deficient in the bosom dept, but it's Dolly Parton territory now. Hard as a rock and exquisitely painful. The poor possum is doing his best, but after a decent layback on one side it's still half full and he's slurring and protesting he can't posshibly do more. Bingley thinks its great, or did until I threatened to knee him in the groin hard enough to not need a vasectomy if he so much as raised a lewd eyebrow.
But, Monday.
At 6pm we flicked over to the Simpsons. Pretty much as the opening credits rolled I had a contraction. A proper one. I remember sitting there, breathing through it, and trying to will myself to get up the gumption to go into labour properly. I was pretty sure that if I lay down and went to sleep that I could delay it for a while, but if I wanted it to happen soon I would have to get up, and walk.
So I paced around the room, rocking my hips when I got the inevitable contractions. Bingley decided to time them on the stopwatch on his phone and they were sort of irregular but averaging about 5 minutes apart. As the Simpsons wore on they got to about 3 and a half minutes apart lasting about a minute each. I could still talk through them, but they hurt and they were pretty strong. If I sat down though they spaced out further and weren't so intense. It was really really hard to convince myself that I should keep standing up. While having a contraction Bingley laughed that he had never ever seen my belly look more perfectly round and took a photo...
At about 7 o'clock it seemed that the contractions weren't going away and that this was it. Spacing still irregular and still prone to slowing down when I sat down I knew it was probably early but the 7 hours of waiting around like a caged zoo animal were doing my head in and I wanted to get going. A midwife came to check on me, and adamant that they wouldn't be letting me labour up on the ward they called down to birth suite and asked them to get my room ready for me.
After a lot of pfaffing about I was finally taken down at about 7:30ish. Even though "labour" had only been going for about 90 minutes and I knew that it hadn't reached anything like proper intensity yet I was getting very over it. It was a bad head space to be in and was exacerbated over the coming hours.
The birth suite I was ushered into was huge. Huge and white and gleaming and... hideous. I hated it. It felt like a theatre room and was just cold. Cold in atmosphere and in temperature. It felt like it had been designed by someone who liked glaciers and had never before given birth. It was stark and open plan and the lights were incandescently bright. The whole room was so white and glaring it hurt my eyes. I was then assigned my fourth midwife for the day. A woman whose name I couldn't recall 30 seconds later and whose face I can't even remember, but who I still have such feelings of animosity towards 5 days later.
She checked my dilatation, and happily informed me I was 4cm but not fully effaced. This was good enough for me and I told her I was getting in the shower. After a day of sitting in my own amniotic fluid and anxiety, the shower was bliss. It had 2 heads and I stood there with one blasting the front of me and one the back. I tried to make sure that the water wasn't so hot that they'd worry and went to the business of having contractions and dealing with them. My obstetrician, who had come straight to the hospital after his rooms that day specifically because he assumed I would labour quickly, popped his head in and asked how I was going. Correctly gauging that I was happy in my little closed off, darkened sauna he left me alone with a cheery wave.
My midwife however was not keen to just leave me to be. It seemed that she had recently taken a course in how to completely misread the signs of a labouring woman and to irritate them as much as possible by interrupting their coping mechanisms. Every time I got into a groove she would be there, asking questions mid contraction or wanting to check the foetal heart rate (in completely the wrong position, thus leading to much fucking around and me standing still out of the shower until she could find it).
After about an hour in the shower, my contractions weren't really intensifying but just in a holding pattern that I was dealing with OK. I didnt' feel any pressure (as I was being asked every 5 minutes) and felt that things were progressing relatively slowly. This didn't actually bother me, but it seemed to bother Hated Midwife. Sometime after 8:30pm but after 9, she decided that The Possum's heart rate as she was timing it was in the 180s indicating that he was in distress from my hot shower and that I needed to get out and be put on the monitor.
That messed up headspace I mentioned before? This is where it started to kick in. Instead of asking her to check it properly and/or measuring the heart rate myself I agreed to turn off the shower and slowly make my way out of my dark damp birthing cave and into the stark hideousness again. Getting on the bed and into a foul hospital gown was horrible (I just didn't feel safe being naked in that room) and I obediently let the monitor be put on. Which pinged a heart rate of 155. EXACTLY the same as it had been downstairs in the assessment unit that afternoon. The midwife mumbled something about it being quite high, especially for a boy, and I had had enough. She'd got me out of my safe place and into the horrid place and for nothing.
She asked if she could do an internal (it was about 9pm) and I agreed. Too completely out of my zone as to just go along with whatever. Where she told me I was 4cm still, although now fully effaced. Lying there on my back completely vulnerable and completely anxious and incoherent this did not help me. Nearly 2 hours had passed and not even a single fucking centimetre? I wanted to cry, but a contraction was building and I had to cope with that instead, lying on my back and trying not to cry as despised midwife CONTINUED the internal and announced 5cm seconds before I yelled at her to REMOVE YOUR BLOODY HAND. I was so angry then, and upset and feelings of failure were swamping me.
When she left I started crying. "I don't want to do this" I sobbed to Bingley, "I want to go home". All I could think about was the fact that I knew that she was outside organising for me to be hooked up to a drip (because I wasn't dilating adequately according to their protocols) and how I already couldn't cope and that I was going to end up with an epidural.
We put on Good News Week and somehow I grew some cojones with midwife out of the room and I completely ignored her when she came back in. It seems that my obstetrician had said to just leave me be, and that we'd reassess. I even managed to laugh occasionally at GNW and just focused on me, the Possum and Bingley. He soothed, massaged, rubbed, allowed me to crush his fingers and encouraged me to ignore the midwife.
After GNW finsihed at 9:45pm the contractions were reaching the consistency where there's not much time in between, I wanted to vomit and felt the need to void my bowels. Because my confidence was so incredibly shaky I was not dealing with the contractions like I did with the Monkey. I just couldn't get on top of them and even when I tried to do my powerful breathing I would break halfway through and end up whacking the bed instead with my fist. The hardest thing was going through this and not knowing if I was actually dilating at all, and in my irrational state I thought I wasn't, hot helped by the midwife remarking something similar.
To make it even harder, almost every contraction, at the height of the contraction, while I was struggling with the ferocity and trying to practice my strong breathing, inevitably there would be the midwife. "Jennifer, what can I do... what can we do about this pain". "Jennifer, how can I help you". It was distracting and frankly pissed me off. I had already told her I did NOT want gas, I'm allergic to pethidine and I didn't want a fucking needle in my back. After about 20 minutes of being asked this I eventually bit out mid contraction "You can have the fucking baby for me if you want" which shut her up. I hated her then. Before it had been irritation, but now all of my self doubt and the pain and the confusion were all directed at her. I didn't want to workshop my pain, I just wanted to be left the hell alone.
It was now about 10pm and the contractions were at their peak. Their ferocity is something I've never experienced before. It felt like I was being clawed. While I described the Monkey's labour as powerful and intense, this was violent. I felt like I was in a boxing ring being battered and wondered just how much I had left in me to continue. Everything hurt, nothing helped, I couldn't escape.
At abotu 10 past 10 I was sitting on a big yoga ball with my elbows on the bed dealing with a contraction and ignoring the midwife with Bingley rubbing my back. Halfway through the contraction however the pain was the worst I have ever experienced, I couldn't take it any more, I had to get away, and through the contraction I crawled up onto the bed, trying to escape the clawing and the beating. Finally getting up on all fours I collapsed onto my left side and sobbed. I was done. I could not do any more. I would not fight it any more. I cried to the Possum and told him I was sorry but I could not do any more.
But, Monday.
At 6pm we flicked over to the Simpsons. Pretty much as the opening credits rolled I had a contraction. A proper one. I remember sitting there, breathing through it, and trying to will myself to get up the gumption to go into labour properly. I was pretty sure that if I lay down and went to sleep that I could delay it for a while, but if I wanted it to happen soon I would have to get up, and walk.
So I paced around the room, rocking my hips when I got the inevitable contractions. Bingley decided to time them on the stopwatch on his phone and they were sort of irregular but averaging about 5 minutes apart. As the Simpsons wore on they got to about 3 and a half minutes apart lasting about a minute each. I could still talk through them, but they hurt and they were pretty strong. If I sat down though they spaced out further and weren't so intense. It was really really hard to convince myself that I should keep standing up. While having a contraction Bingley laughed that he had never ever seen my belly look more perfectly round and took a photo...
At about 7 o'clock it seemed that the contractions weren't going away and that this was it. Spacing still irregular and still prone to slowing down when I sat down I knew it was probably early but the 7 hours of waiting around like a caged zoo animal were doing my head in and I wanted to get going. A midwife came to check on me, and adamant that they wouldn't be letting me labour up on the ward they called down to birth suite and asked them to get my room ready for me.
After a lot of pfaffing about I was finally taken down at about 7:30ish. Even though "labour" had only been going for about 90 minutes and I knew that it hadn't reached anything like proper intensity yet I was getting very over it. It was a bad head space to be in and was exacerbated over the coming hours.
The birth suite I was ushered into was huge. Huge and white and gleaming and... hideous. I hated it. It felt like a theatre room and was just cold. Cold in atmosphere and in temperature. It felt like it had been designed by someone who liked glaciers and had never before given birth. It was stark and open plan and the lights were incandescently bright. The whole room was so white and glaring it hurt my eyes. I was then assigned my fourth midwife for the day. A woman whose name I couldn't recall 30 seconds later and whose face I can't even remember, but who I still have such feelings of animosity towards 5 days later.
She checked my dilatation, and happily informed me I was 4cm but not fully effaced. This was good enough for me and I told her I was getting in the shower. After a day of sitting in my own amniotic fluid and anxiety, the shower was bliss. It had 2 heads and I stood there with one blasting the front of me and one the back. I tried to make sure that the water wasn't so hot that they'd worry and went to the business of having contractions and dealing with them. My obstetrician, who had come straight to the hospital after his rooms that day specifically because he assumed I would labour quickly, popped his head in and asked how I was going. Correctly gauging that I was happy in my little closed off, darkened sauna he left me alone with a cheery wave.
My midwife however was not keen to just leave me to be. It seemed that she had recently taken a course in how to completely misread the signs of a labouring woman and to irritate them as much as possible by interrupting their coping mechanisms. Every time I got into a groove she would be there, asking questions mid contraction or wanting to check the foetal heart rate (in completely the wrong position, thus leading to much fucking around and me standing still out of the shower until she could find it).
After about an hour in the shower, my contractions weren't really intensifying but just in a holding pattern that I was dealing with OK. I didnt' feel any pressure (as I was being asked every 5 minutes) and felt that things were progressing relatively slowly. This didn't actually bother me, but it seemed to bother Hated Midwife. Sometime after 8:30pm but after 9, she decided that The Possum's heart rate as she was timing it was in the 180s indicating that he was in distress from my hot shower and that I needed to get out and be put on the monitor.
That messed up headspace I mentioned before? This is where it started to kick in. Instead of asking her to check it properly and/or measuring the heart rate myself I agreed to turn off the shower and slowly make my way out of my dark damp birthing cave and into the stark hideousness again. Getting on the bed and into a foul hospital gown was horrible (I just didn't feel safe being naked in that room) and I obediently let the monitor be put on. Which pinged a heart rate of 155. EXACTLY the same as it had been downstairs in the assessment unit that afternoon. The midwife mumbled something about it being quite high, especially for a boy, and I had had enough. She'd got me out of my safe place and into the horrid place and for nothing.
She asked if she could do an internal (it was about 9pm) and I agreed. Too completely out of my zone as to just go along with whatever. Where she told me I was 4cm still, although now fully effaced. Lying there on my back completely vulnerable and completely anxious and incoherent this did not help me. Nearly 2 hours had passed and not even a single fucking centimetre? I wanted to cry, but a contraction was building and I had to cope with that instead, lying on my back and trying not to cry as despised midwife CONTINUED the internal and announced 5cm seconds before I yelled at her to REMOVE YOUR BLOODY HAND. I was so angry then, and upset and feelings of failure were swamping me.
When she left I started crying. "I don't want to do this" I sobbed to Bingley, "I want to go home". All I could think about was the fact that I knew that she was outside organising for me to be hooked up to a drip (because I wasn't dilating adequately according to their protocols) and how I already couldn't cope and that I was going to end up with an epidural.
We put on Good News Week and somehow I grew some cojones with midwife out of the room and I completely ignored her when she came back in. It seems that my obstetrician had said to just leave me be, and that we'd reassess. I even managed to laugh occasionally at GNW and just focused on me, the Possum and Bingley. He soothed, massaged, rubbed, allowed me to crush his fingers and encouraged me to ignore the midwife.
After GNW finsihed at 9:45pm the contractions were reaching the consistency where there's not much time in between, I wanted to vomit and felt the need to void my bowels. Because my confidence was so incredibly shaky I was not dealing with the contractions like I did with the Monkey. I just couldn't get on top of them and even when I tried to do my powerful breathing I would break halfway through and end up whacking the bed instead with my fist. The hardest thing was going through this and not knowing if I was actually dilating at all, and in my irrational state I thought I wasn't, hot helped by the midwife remarking something similar.
To make it even harder, almost every contraction, at the height of the contraction, while I was struggling with the ferocity and trying to practice my strong breathing, inevitably there would be the midwife. "Jennifer, what can I do... what can we do about this pain". "Jennifer, how can I help you". It was distracting and frankly pissed me off. I had already told her I did NOT want gas, I'm allergic to pethidine and I didn't want a fucking needle in my back. After about 20 minutes of being asked this I eventually bit out mid contraction "You can have the fucking baby for me if you want" which shut her up. I hated her then. Before it had been irritation, but now all of my self doubt and the pain and the confusion were all directed at her. I didn't want to workshop my pain, I just wanted to be left the hell alone.
It was now about 10pm and the contractions were at their peak. Their ferocity is something I've never experienced before. It felt like I was being clawed. While I described the Monkey's labour as powerful and intense, this was violent. I felt like I was in a boxing ring being battered and wondered just how much I had left in me to continue. Everything hurt, nothing helped, I couldn't escape.
At abotu 10 past 10 I was sitting on a big yoga ball with my elbows on the bed dealing with a contraction and ignoring the midwife with Bingley rubbing my back. Halfway through the contraction however the pain was the worst I have ever experienced, I couldn't take it any more, I had to get away, and through the contraction I crawled up onto the bed, trying to escape the clawing and the beating. Finally getting up on all fours I collapsed onto my left side and sobbed. I was done. I could not do any more. I would not fight it any more. I cried to the Possum and told him I was sorry but I could not do any more.
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