Soozy Troozy - It’s a Blag

Charlie now sleeps in his cot, in his room, with ZB (cuddly Zebra, another story). For three and a half months old, he’s canny. He forced our hand by a succession of sleepless nights and trying to rock his moses basket off it’s perch.

I envisaged several nights of mayhem resulting in me kipping on the nursery floor, Charlie yelling for hours on end, mass grumpiness and sense of humour failures all round. Rather to date it’s been a peaceful transition; Charlie clearly relishing the added space he now has to stretch out and he settles much quicker. Yet I hadn’t expected feeling such a wrench at being parted from him. Although only in the next room, it feels like he is far away from me and I find it hard to get to sleep. I miss him, but simultaneously celebrate this milestone.

Of course to define this as ‘a constant’ there has to be a run of at least 3 nights. As this is the third night, I just hope I haven’t jinxed it.

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I have a window of opportunity once Charlie is down for a nap. The baby books recommend using this time to pamper yourself or catch up on sleep; but it is the time to ‘get things done.’ So this morning I manage to drop the kitchen bin on my big toe, whilst trying to remove a brimming full bin bag. We’re talking a 50 litre, steel monstrosity. Naturally I hopped around the kitchen silently swearing and knocked sick, I interrupted Gaz’s obsessive Quake playing. He rushed to my aid with an ice pack and lots of sympathy.

This accident later finds me flat out on my mother’s kitchen floor with my brother piercing my toenail with a white hot paper clip. Bravely we had limped and yelled (Charlie) our way to visit the Eastney Pumping Station with the rest of the family for the afternoon. My grandfather was the General Engineer there until 1956 and my mum grew up beside it. It was a nice idea, if a little chaotic. Ever the medic, Michi wanted to inspect my toe and I agreed to the paper clip procedure. Apparently the blood jettisoned out once he’d burnt through the toenail (I had my eyes shut). Much better now

I am suffering from baby tourettes. I have a propensity to quack, bark, squawk, cluck, or pull a silly face randomly. Charlie is in seventh heaven. I need to develop a thicker skin, or stay indoors for the next couple of years.

I am surprised that when I first announced my pregnancy, other mothers didn’t fall down on the floor and roll about laughing (one did to be fair) straightaway. I have joined an exclusive club; now there is empathy regarding the relentless job of being a housewife and mother. In paid employment, you can prioritise; put off something, ignore others. There is an element of choice. It doesn’t feel like this is the case now. There are no lunch breaks, TOIL, weekends. There are no lie ins. There is no spontaneity. I work a 24/7 week.

Don’t get me wrong; I love playing with Charlie and seeing his personality develop daily. I like that we can go places together with relative ease, I enjoy him; and he’s such a gorgeous bit of squidge. I wouldn’t change him for the world. But it’s knackering. Daily there is the physical, emotional and mental intensity of being 1:1. And then there’s the housework, the cooking, trying (and failing) to keep a semblance of my individuality. I have no scope for lively conversation or witty repartee, no energy for raucous laughter. I collapse into bed at the end of the day and it begins again the next. Even in my sleep I don’t stop.

I’d like to book a couple of day’s leave please…

Answer the following question for your chance to join the ranks of the post natally depressed: ‘How often do you see the funny side of things?’ (a) As much as before; (b) a puppy; (c) I am depressed.

At the eight week mark, the health visitor reappears with a shabby photocopied ‘questionnaire’ to meet NHS targets. I laugh out loud as I answer questions to assess whether I fall into the spectrum of post natal depression and promptly disregard the process. If someone was actually self-harming (the final question), would they admit it in a Jackie Magazine style quiz? I am at an indignant quandary; I appreciate limitations of staff, time, and money; yet I fail to appreciate how a quiz that barely pays lip service to a potentially serious condition, can be of any real benefit. Personally I would favour a range of statements with simple yes/no answers as more indicative.

Whilst I struggle to come to terms with my new role as housewife; Charlie is a joy. The spit of Gaz, he is alert, active, charming, communicative, and tall. We’re confident that he differentiates between day and night now - encouraged by the bedtime routine I started at 5 weeks, I’m sure. There are also constants during the day now - with a morning nap and evening bath time routine as standard. I’m following the Tracey Hogg ‘E.A.S.Y’ routine (Eat, Activity, Sleep, You) as the skeleton framework and continue to squirrel away tips and techniques. Whilst we’re flushed with success and practically a full night’s sleep today, I’m sure it will all change again following the first round of jabs tomorrow afternoon.

1. Sleeping all night actually means for 5 hour blocks, not 10.
2. Charlie could win wars with his smile.
3. Baby socks go missing too.
4. The ‘Tummy Tub’ makes for a happy bath time and a clean, chilled Charlie.
5. Nappy malfunctions are commonplace.
6. I negotiate the outside world through very different lenses.
7. Dummies in moderation.
8. It’s not a routine, it’s a work in progress.
9. My nursery rhyme repertoire grows daily.
10. Does housework really count as ‘me’ time?

I can’t quite believe that a month has slipped by already; although at difficult points, when I’m alone and he’s yelling and yelling, I feel like I’m doing some kind of Groundhog solitary. Fortunately this is tempered by moments when he coos and gurgles and looks ridiculously cute; then he is the most delicious thing on earth. I can understand why people choose to bottle feed. I’m sore, tired and almost resentful that it is only I that can feed him. I have to keep a sense of perspective here; I may be able to express shortly, in a matter of weeks we should be in a more settled routine, he’ll be on solids before I know it.

I hadn’t appreciated the sense of isolation brand new parenthood brings. My world has imploded and I’m fast finding out who my friends are. There are those who have been an absolute rock of support and chivvied me up just by being around in some way. There are others who have surprised and saddened me with their lack of contact. Naturally I appreciate that I’m not the centre of their universe, but a nod in my general direction wouldn’t have gone amiss surely? It upsets me and my focus is wrongly placed on the negative rather than the positive. I don’t know how to proceed..

Gingerly I’m out and about each day. My abdomen has been clipped, like a caged bird’s wings, so it’s little steps for now. I strike out for local landmarks and rue the lack of crossings and dropped kerbs en route. Charlie tends to miss these adventures, looking incredibly tiny in the pram; hat on, arms above his head, asleep. I start a new parent group this week, in walking distance, so hope to find some sense of smugless affiliation there. That or I’ll sit to one side with my tits out trying to quell a screaming baby.

1. I look like Humpty Dumpty.
2. The hormones are winning.
3. Breastfeeding isn’t difficult, just relentless.
4. There seems to be a technique to bathing a baby.
5. Gaz is a domestic god.
6. It takes time to recover from a c section.
7. Let sleeping babies lie.
8. Learn from others to build an arsenal of techniques and tricks.
9. Stay in your pyjamas for at least 2 weeks, but change them regularly.
10. Remember to button up your top before answering the front door.
11. Differentiate between receiving visitors and receiving help/support.
12. Cuteness speaks volumes.

We were always pretty flexible about our birth plan. We’d favoured a low lit water birth in the midwife led birthing centre at the local hospital. My own mantras were threefold: listen to your midwife, moo like a cow, think like a sheep (if a sheep can do this, then I bloody well can). In retrospect on the plus side, hospital rooms on labour ward do come with dimmer switches and an ensuite bathroom. Also, I listened to my midwives and perhaps not moo, but did lo.

Already my hormones are locking away the emotions, pain and memories of labour so I want to commit this to paper before it runs away fully. After a false alarm, my waters did break on the Friday and I went into labour naturally on Sunday. My contractions started regularly around Sunday lunchtime, but established labour began about 1.30 am on Monday morning. The contractions woke me up and were about 6 minutes apart. I didn’t bother waking Gaz to begin with and went downstairs to make a cup of tea and sort a little ‘nest’ out. This comprised of cushions, birthing ball and duvet - all piled up in different permutations, so that as the contraction peaked I could fall onto my knees and breathe through easily. I also had the season finale of Lost on TV, but unfortunately can’t remember it. I think they might have found another hatch…

Gaz got up about 4.30 am. Perfect timing as I was about to get him up. The NCT had given me a list of ‘phrases’ a birthing partner could run through to support contractions. Gaz realised that I would probably attack him if he’d practised any on me, but told me when it was time to phone labour ward and go in. He kept an eye on times, frequency and intensity of contractions. I got to labour ward at 7.30 am, 5 cm dilated (halfway there!). By this time the contractions were coming every couple of minutes. Early on the contractions turned into one big contraction that just continued to peak further. This made any examinations impossible, movement impossible, talking impossible, everything impossible. However, I wasn’t rude, didn’t scream, didn’t diss the midwife, Gaz, the doctor. I found breathing through them easier than using gas and air. ‘Easier’ certainly oversimplifies the experience.

I had an epidural around 2 pm. It took a while as my movement was so restricted and it had to be timed when the contraction was less severe. It worked well and I was able to get some rest. It slowed the labour down, but I was fully dilated and in a fit state to push by 8.00 pm. My legs were dead from the epidural, so it took a further 45 minutes to get me into a position where I could start pushing. I was also given a hormone drip to help the contractions along. I pushed for an hour and a half. I hadn’t been allowed to eat anything on the epidural and hadn’t been able to stomach anything in labour, so was pretty whacked out by this time and feeling chock full of drugs. The Bean remained resolutely high and wasn’t coming down. The doctors told me the only option left, given that both me and the baby were now showing signs of distress was to have an emergency c section. This wasn’t something that could be put off until the following day. To prove their point I promptly threw up a couple of times; once over the anesthetist who was giving me the top up epidural.

The top up didn’t work and I was knocked out under general on the operating table. It certainly made the whole process an emergency. When I came to, I thought I was an extra on the set of Casualty and kept removing my oxygen mask and struggling theatrically. I also had a baby in a cot adjacent to me, which I didn’t understand. I had completely forgotten I was pregnant, in labour, married…it was only when I saw Gaz coming towards me that things clicked into place and the memories of the various stages of labour coming back were real rather than my acting portfolio. The baby next to me was the Bean! I read my hospital notes the day after and it makes the observation; ‘0055: Suzanne looks over at the baby.’

I was placed in a recovery room overnight with Charlie and given some morphine. I managed to sleep intermittently and had some nice cuddles with Charlie or just stared at him. I felt a bit better come 5 am, when they gave me some toast to eat. I was starving. The rest as they say is history.

This pregnancy is turning into a pantomime; “My waters are breaking!” “Oh yes they are, oh no they’re not!” After spending 4 hours twiddling my fingers, getting internally examined, running through the usual BP monitoring frenzy and listening to the woman next door screaming through birth, I’m released without charge. Apparently my fore waters have broken. Some people get false starts - a bit of the waters break and then everything seals itself up again; maybe the outside temperature isn’t to the Bean’s liking. On the plus side it is a precursor to labour (although hearing that woman last night hasn’t endeared me to the prospect). On the down side there is the constant risk that when I move, I leak all over the carpet.

It seems ironic that coinciding with finishing work, my blood pressure rockets. I had been looking forward to watching crap daytime TV, snaffling a couple of chocolate biscuits balanced on my bump, and causing a bit of trouble at the weekly NCT class. Obviously this has been too much excitement for me. Following a routine antenatal appointment, swiftly followed by a home visit, I suddenly find myself en route to hospital on a tri-weekly basis.

At hospital they check my pee (there is no dignity in pregnancy now) for protein, take my blood (I no longer bite, but warn in advance), track the Bean and track me for about 30-40 minutes a pop. On the plus side, the beds are comfy. My blood pressure can be ’sporty’ one day, and within safe parameters the next. The Bean is loving it and plays up for the monitors, like any child of Gaz and I’s should be expected to. The midwives and doctors go past and comment, ‘Oooo what a lovely track!’ The Bean responds and does a bit of body popping. Simultaneously I press the clicker and ‘Fetal Event’ glances up on the monitor. Everybody claps.

Duly I attended my routine ante-natal appointment at the GP surgery on Thursday, thinking I was out of the woods; but found myself, once again, in hospital 45 minutes later. My BP was high enough for the monitor to go ping, the Bean was break dancing, and my track suggested regular, if light, contractions. In retrospect, perhaps the curry I ate the night before actually had some effect. Yesterday was a different story, my blood pressure was in the normal range. The only exception was when the midwife made me laugh as the 3rd reading was being taken; something about us having a lively baby (given yet another fantastic track). I think the medical term is ‘wriggle chops’. Fortunately they ignored that one and set me free, skipping if I could, for another few days. Onwards and upwards with raspberry leaf tea and curry.