12 week baby update
Daphne is twelve weeks old today, so I thought it was about time I did a (not so) little update on how she's been progressing. It's actually phenomenal how much babies change and how quickly - I can now barely remember what she was like as a newborn. These days she's all chubby cheeks and fat rolls and thunder thighs - a far cry from when she was a tiny little scrap without an ounce of fat on her (in lots of her early pics she looks like ET - so much wrinkly skin!)
We took her to be weighed on Friday as we hadn't had her weighed since her last injections at eight weeks, when she was 9 pound 9. Before we went in we did a little guessing game on what she would be - Oli said 10 pounds 9 and I said 11 pounds 3. We were kind of stunned then, to be told she is a whopping 11 pound 7 now! She's more than doubled her birth weight and has leapt from the 2nd percentile at birth to the 25th for both height and weight. I'm so relieved and love seeing her looking so fat and healthy and how babies 'should' look.It also makes me want to stick two fingers up at the Breastapo because she's been formula fed for the past six weeks and is thriving more than ever. Even if she is starting to look even more like Phil Mitchell - I swear her beautiful eyes are disappearing into the world's roundest face with the world's biggest cheeks.
Other than her weight, Daph has changed a huge amount in her general alertness - she's now like a proper little person, with her own moods, and is both incredibly noisy and incredibly nosey. If we're out for lunch or whatever she absolutely hates being left in her pram - she's desperate to sit on someone's lap and look around at what's going on. She also now wants the hood of the pram down when we're walking along - I've realised she's completely FASCINATED by trees, as she stares up at them and coos every time we walk under one. It's so bloody cute.
In fact, everything she does is so bloody cute these days and she really does make my heart burst with pride every five minutes, turning me into the sappiest mother on the planet. The best times are first thing in the morning when she's always weirdly happy (something she definitely didn't inherit from me or her father), the times when she full-on chuckles at you for no apparent reason, the mania with which she greets being placed into her little bathtub (nothing makes her happier - she goes completely mental) and the smiles of recognition you get when you come into the room. Enough to make you weep, I tell you! And the noises are non-stop (this is cute except for at 4 in the morning when even the sappiest of mothers wishes she could banish the baby to another room). She coos, grunts, gurgles, 'talks', farts, burps... you name it, she does it. I never realised quite how noisy babies could be.
Physically she's getting stronger every day. She can hold her head up pretty much indefinitely these days, and her legs are capable of doing some serious damage to anything within kicking distance. When she's in the bath she goes batshit crazy kicking her legs up and down and flailing her arms around. It's quite alarming! She also now loves eating her fists (dummies get spat across rooms in favour of munching on an index finger or thumb) and rubbing them into her eyes when she's tired or has had enough of something.
The only downside to my little girl, actually, are her terrible colic sessions. Touch wood these have been better the last few days, but ever since she was about three weeks old she's cried and cried most nights. It's hideous, like some sort of torture. Sometimes she screams so hard that she goes purple, and her little bottom lip quivers and tiny tears come out of her eyes. It's almost impossible to believe that colic doesn't mean the baby is in pain when they behave like they're in total agony, but we saw a cranial osteopath who said that they've done MRI scans of colicky babies and the areas of their brains that are reactive during the colic sessions are those representing frustration and not pain. Anyway, we've been on a long old road with the colic and tried pretty much everything, so I will definitely do a post on that once we're through the worst of it. Everyone keeps telling me that when she turns three months the colic will magically stop, so we live in hope. As I said, the last few days have been surprisingly calm in the evenings, so fingers crossed...
Anyway, enough about the baby, what about me?! I decided that being fat was not something I could cope with for much longer and am now on a 1750 calorie per day diet in the hope of losing my baby weight slowly and surely. I have to say I've definitely picked the worst possible time of year to be dieting (all that Christmas food in the shops - sniff!) but it's been going quite well and I've managed to lose 5 pounds already in just under a month. I've been using the My Fitness Pal app religiously and have found it really helpful at keeping track of what I'm eating and, most importantly, thinking about what I'm eating, rather than shovelling stuff in my gob without considering it. I've realised actually that that was my biggest downfall - I'm such a 'whim' eater - if something's in front of me more often than not I'll just eat it even if I don't need it or really want it. Having to record everything I eat on the app really makes me stop and question it, and I also find being able to scan the barcodes of things childishly pleasing.
As well as being careful with my diet, I've continued doing long walks with Daph in the buggy as often as possible (although the recent grey weather has rather put me off these) and also started a new exercise regime, recommended, believe it or not, by my mum! It's called XBX (if you google it there's a few websites about it) and was developed in the 1960s for the Canadian Air Force (of all things!). It's kind of aerobics, I guess, with lots of yoga-ish stretches. The best thing about it is that it only takes 12 minutes per day and you don't need any equipment except a mat. I've only been doing it for a week but I can already feel all the muscles in my body getting stronger and more toned which is very satisfying. This morning I think I even saw a glimpse of my old waist returning. One can only hope.
The only downside of this particular exercise programme is that it involves some hopping on the spot at the end. The first few times I did the hopping, I - sob - wet myself. Only a few drops, but BLOODY HELL. So now, I'm finishing off my 12 minutes of aerobics with 12 minutes of Kegels - come back pelvic floor, I'm so sorry I never truly appreciated you before!
A new identity
*slightly serious post warning*
It's official: I'm having a new-mother identity crisis.
As I said in my last post, when you have a baby and you go for check ups with health visitors or GPs or midwives, you get asked a lot about your emotional wellbeing. What they are really asking is: 'have you got postnatal depression?' Anyway, I am fortunate in that I haven't felt at all depressed since having Chip. I had a few days when I felt stressed and weepy but it was all quite logically connected to lack of sleep or her crying etc.
I have, however, been pondering a lot about who I am now.
I've recently started going out for dinner with friends again, without Chip (natch). The first time I went, on the way home on the tube I started yawning and wondering why on earth I felt so tired when it was only 10.30pm. And then, literally, like a weird bolt of lightning, I remembered that I had HAD A BABY, and that I hadn't slept properly since at least July and that - even more weirdly - I was GOING HOME TO A BABY.
I felt shocked and terrified all at once. And guilty of course, that I had actually FORGOTTEN I'd had a baby. I'd slipped back into my old life so easily. I mean, seriously, in those few sleepy moments between Clapham South and Balham, I had literally forgotten she existed. It was the oddest thing.
Since I had Chip, lots of friends with kids have said to me 'Do you hate it? It's OK to admit you hate it you know.' But I don't hate it. I actually love looking after her more than I ever thought possible. I've never been hugely maternal at all, and always regarded children as rather irritating. But this baby has me in the palm of her podgy little hand. The other day, when she did a massive poo, I found myself declaring with glee in that clichéd ridiculous baby voice, 'Oh Chippy, that really was a stinker winker!' which Oli found so hilariously un-me he wrote it down on the notes in his iPhone.
I am really quite surprised, and pleased, with how much love I feel for her, and for how much I DON'T resent her when all I've done all day is wash bottles, wipe up poo and listen to endless rounds of tinny classical music coming from the Baby Einstein play mat
However, although I adore her, and I really do quite adore looking after her, I never really realised how much my identity was tied up in my work and my independence. And so now, I'm a bit confused about who I am. I have a wardrobe full of beautiful client-meeting dresses, that are now useless (even if they did still fit, which they don't). I have eighteen Dior lipsticks in various West-London-appropriate shades, dozens of completely impractical Wolford tights, a lonely and neglected Prada tote, and a penchant for expensive meals out that I can no longer afford.
I hate the fact that I am no longer earning money. I had not planned to be having a baby with no job to go back to, and quite frankly, it's terrifying. My accountant told me to 'have a year off and enjoy the money you made selling the business' and not to worry about work for now, but that just made me irrationally angry. I've always worked! I'M A WORKER! For the last two years of my life my identity - and much of my self-esteem - was built around being a company director and all that entailed. I was proud of it and I enjoyed it. My life was pretty much all about my work and my friendships.
Not working is very strange, and I often get mild panic attacks in the middle of the night thinking that I should be doing something with this time 'off'. I read on someone else's blog that when you have a baby, it's OK for you to JUST be looking after the baby. You don't have to be trying to hold down a part-time job too, or finishing a long-neglected novel, or doing charity work, or whatever it is that you think you must do to somehow justify your existence as a SAHM. But it's still hard to give myself this time off. Even though I'm exhausted and probably working harder than I have done in ages - just in a very different way.
Oli wants us to move out of London, to get the sort of grown-up house with a driveway and - dare I say it - that one true mark of adulthood: AN OUTSIDE TAP. For Chip's sake, I am tempted. But for my sake, I am wary. My life - or the life that I am most familiar with - is based in London, in my storage-lacking, unbabyfriendly maisonette in the dodgiest part of SW19. It's so odd. Chip is ten weeks' old tomorrow, and in those short ten weeks the last thirteen years of my life have kind of been thrown out the window and it's almost like I need to learn to walk again. I need to find a new identity.
I am aware that women can't have it all. You never stop hearing it from the media. But this post isn't really about that. I don't particularly want to have it all. I just want to find out who the new me is, and what she wants. Without losing sight of the old me and all she achieved.
Hopefully in time, it'll all figure itself out. But in the meantime, I guess I'll keep buying Joules tops and flat shoes and Abercrombie hoodies and pushing my pram round the park like all the other mums. I suspect they're feeling much the same.
A (not so) little rant about infant formula
I'm typing this with a small person asleep on my chest, so apologies if there are any typos. I realised recently that I'd been ranting non-stop IRL to people about infant formula. Baby milk. Whatever you want to call it. So I thought I should rant about it on here instead.
Anyway, it wasn't something I thought much about before having a baby, obviously. I assumed I'd exclusively breastfeed - free, convenient and good for both of us! But then all sorts of unexpected things occurred, of which I'll write more another day. And so I found myself in the unfamiliar baby aisle in Sainsbury's, searching for something to feed my poor tiny daughter, who was so underweight when she was born.
First off, I was surprised to see that a 1 litre bottle of Cow & Gate ready-mixed formula cost £2.90. Everywhere. I went online but every single stockist sells it at the same price. Curious, I thought.
I was also surprised to see that you're only allowed to buy two bottles/cartons of formula at any one time (oh hello rationing! thought we left you behind in the 1950s). Also curious.
Furthermore, I was slightly horrified to see that on the packaging, it reminded me (in a manner not dissimilar to the warnings on a cigarette packet) that BREASTMILK WAS BETTER FOR MY BABY.
WTAF.
I am aware that breastmilk is (marginally) better for my baby. I do not need a carton making me feel (even more) guilty about it every single time I pour my daughter something to eat.
I did some digging into these curiosities and discovered there's an actual LAW about formula milk. Ostensibly to prevent those evil formula companies from encouraging you to formula feed over breastfeeding. However, to my mind it seems more likely that it's a money saving scheme for the government - they don't want to encourage those on benefits to use formula. Whatever their reasoning, it's certainly not in the best interests of parents.
If you're interested, the formula legislation basically says: a) you can't ever advertise infant formula (the ads you see on telly are for follow-on milk, which is for older babies and is OK, but note how they still mention that BREASTMILK IS BETTER); b) and on that note, it's a legal requirement that formula companies explain on the bottles that BREASTMILK IS BETTER; c) stores can never discount formula (basically it is price fixed), include it in 'buy one get one free' promotions or suchlike; and d) formula is not eligible for points on store loyalty cards.
Better still, in the legislation it says on the packaging you can't put:
• Pictures of infants, young children or carers (e.g. mothers or fathers). • Graphics that represent nursing mothers and pregnant women. • Pictures or text which imply that infant health, happiness or well being, or the health, happiness and wellbeing of carers, is associated with infant formula. • References to infant’s or carer’s emotions. • Baby or child related subjects (e.g. toys, cots or young animals) and anthropomorphic characters, pictures and logos.
The pathetic patronising pettiness (sidenote: angry alliteration FTW) of this makes me want to scream.
Basically the government wants to make it as difficult and unpleasant as possible for you to use infant formula. How fucked up is that?
I hate this legislation. I think it's dreadful and evil and unfair and makes poor mothers desperate to feed their children feel awful every time they open a bottle or a carton.
Infant formula was invented years ago to save the lives of babies whose mothers, for whatever reason, could not nourish them sufficiently with their breastmilk. It is a lifesaver, literally. Why is it being treated like a poison?
There are now some people making noises about putting formula milk on prescription. Few things have made me angrier than hearing this. What do they expect parents to do - wait till their babies are half starved to death before taking them, sick, to their doctor for them to 'allow' them to use an alternative feeding method?
Since having my daughter, I have been asked repeatedly by healthcare professionals about the state of my 'emotional wellbeing'. At every occasion I have wanted to say that my emotional wellbeing is fine, except for the cruel reminder every time I buy formula that I wasn't able to breastfeed and that if I had I would have been doing BETTER for my baby.
New motherhood is hard enough without being made to feel terrible every time you feed your baby. Plenty of women who want to breastfeed can't. They are not lazy or selfish. They are usually upset about it and emotionally vulnerable. This kind of propaganda is akin to mental torture.
#rantover
Eight week baby update
Daphne is eight weeks' old today! And to celebrate, the poor mite has been subjected to four separate immunisations - three of which were injections into her podgy little legs. With mighty long bloody needles. Unsurprisingly, she wailed her little heart out after, with proper tears streaming down her bright red cheeks.
Given that I cried years ago when we took the cat to have his bits lopped off, I decided it was best if Oli came with us to the appointment and held her while the nurse did the honours. We've been told she may now get a fever (even better huh, not only have we injected her with strains of meningitis, diptheria and rotavirus - wtf is rotavirus, sounds made up?! - among others, we've also likely made her sick). So she's dosed up on Calpol and we're hoping will sleep it off. I know that immunisations are for the best in the long run, but there's a real lioness instinct that takes over and makes you NOT want to deliberately infect your baby with things, or cause her pain. It was horrible. Worse still, there's more injections to come at 12 and 16 weeks. Sniff.
So at eight weeks old, Daphne is getting more and more like the baby I imagined, and less like the colicky newborn blob she was for the first few weeks. She finally started smiling last week at seven and a half weeks, after worrying me sick by not smiling at all despite it being an expected 'developmental milestone' for six week olds. In the midst of my panic about it (and late night googling of 'signs of autism') I spoke to the health visitor who said that she probably was smiling already but that we were missing it because Daphne. Cries. A. Lot.
According to The Baby Whisperer
I've decided it's all down to her being small - like small dogs, she has anger management issues.
Thankfully, once whatever it is that's pissed her off has been rectified, she's actually quite a happy, sweet baby. Her favourite place is lying on her back on her changing mat, staring up at the ceiling and having raspberries blown on her tummy and cheeks. Sometimes she even laughs. She loves baths and staring at herself in the mirror (narcissist). She loves Dire Straits and kicking her legs about on her playmat. She's becoming a real little character, and it is literally the best thing in the world watching her develop more and more each day.
She's put on shedloads of weight, and at her appointment today weighed 9lb 9, which is still small for an eight-week-old baby, but means she's jumped from the 2nd percentile (when she was born) to the 9th. She has a ferocious appetite and is definitely making up for lost time when it comes to building her fat stores up - I can't believe how chunky she is now when she was such a little scrap of a thing when she was born.
Sleep-wise, she's not TOO bad. There's no sign of her sleeping through the night yet, but she usually wakes at 3am and 6am for a feed then settles straight back to sleep, which is bearable, as she'll then sleep till around 9am. Weirdly, I find the tiredness isn't as bad as I imagined - somehow you get used to it, and most days I feel pretty OK actually. What I find harder to deal with is not being able to get much done - Daph's an attention seeker who hates being left alone, even to sleep, and most of my time seems to be taken up with attending to her various needs. For the last few days, all I've wanted to do is sort through my bras (random I know but true) but I have yet to find the twenty minutes to do so. There's always something else to do when she finally settles - whether it's cleaning the house, doing laundry, preparing her bottles, replying to friends, blogging (ha!)... sounds improbable that someone so small can take up so much time but now I've had a baby I completely understand how the day seems to vanish in minutes.
As for me - well, eight weeks on, I'm feeling pretty much back to normal. I stopped breastfeeding at six weeks (will do another post about that when I can talk about it without bursting into tears - suffice to say, it's been emotional and definitely the hardest thing about pregnancy, childbirth and new parenthood put together) and so physically I am feeling much more like my old self. In fact, just to prove how 'back to normal' I am, I even got my bloody period back, which seems very unfair. It was also horrendously heavy and gross and the last thing I needed, but I suppose it's a good sign that all my hormones are settling down. Even so! I feel very cheated that I didn't get a bit longer, and very jealous of breastfeeding mums who get months and months of freedom.
Weight wise, I'm a hideous 17 pounds heavier than I was before I got pregnant, which is definitely getting me down a bit. My thighs now touch (each other). The pregnancy water retention which makes cellulite magically disappear has dissipated leaving me with the cellulite of a sixty year old. Hell, even my bloody arms are fatter. Sniff.
I know they say it takes nine months to put the weight on so should take the same amount of time to come off, but somehow I sort of assumed once I'd had the baby, the weight would disappear quickly, as I've always been quite consistent in my weight and never really had much of an issue with it. And I know I shouldn't care about a few extra pounds and it's terribly vain of me but but but... Obviously not breastfeeding is not helping the situation (oh how I regret my smug pregnant cry of 'maternal fat stores' as I tucked into yet more ice cream), so I've started a moderate diet and am also trying to walk as much as possible. Thankfully pushing Daph in the buggy is one of the best ways to get her to sleep, so I am making a real effort to get out every afternoon and walk at least a couple of miles. Thank GOD the weather has been so lovely for early autumn - I'm dreading the days when it's pouring with rain or freezing cold and I'm stuck in the house, as getting out and about really saves my sanity.
I might even start going for short runs now I've had my sign off from the doctor, but finding time to do so will be a challenge...
And finally, I am sure you ALL want to hear about my pelvic floor. Well, as far as I can tell it's back to normal - I had a second degree tear and after the stitches fell out (?! still don't understand the technicalities of this - bloody weird) it has all healed nicely (thank GOD again - this was my biggest fear) and everything feels pretty OK down there.
In fact, I would say that physically I feel exactly the same as I did before I had a baby. Just, you know, (as I may have mentioned), fatter. My boobs seem to have returned to their prior state with ease and don't seem to be unduly damaged or altered by their six weeks of pumping. I escaped stretch marks and my stomach looks pretty normal, without any noticeably saggy skin (my linea nigra is still there but beginning to fade). So I know I'm lucky in many respects. I just need to lay off the god damn biscuits...
The truth about life with a newborn
Your washing machine will always, ALWAYS be on.
Even though you had a girl and thought you were safe, your baby will still wee on you at every available opportunity. Especially right after her bath, and especially when you've just wrapped her in a clean towel.
The bottles always need washing. Even though you're sure you just washed them all. Look! More dirty bottles! The dirty bottles cometh and keep cometh-ing!
Picking your newborn's nose is a) something you will do; and b) more satisfying than picking your own.
You will be terrified of your baby overheating. Your bedroom will therefore now be colder than an igloo's porch.
The first time your baby cries, it's like a million arrows piercing your heart. By week two, it turns into white noise.
You thought that once you'd had a baby you wouldn't care about your own appearance anymore. But you do. You'll be pissed off that you're fat. And pissed off that you have no time to do anything about it. And pissed off that biscuits are so readily available and CALLING YOU.
You'll rarely get out of bed before Homes Under the Hammer finishes. If you do, it'll feel like a massive achievement.
Percy Pigs = Percy Pick Me Ups.
You'll go so mad being trapped in the house that going for a long walk around your incredibly boring neighbourhood will cheer you up no end.
While on said boring walk, you will cheerfully sing aloud to your baby without caring that you look like a crazy person to passersby.
Cutting your newborn's fingernails will be the most traumatic part of your week.
You'll never watch a TV programme from start to finish again. But you won't really care either.
As soon as you serve up lunch/dinner, your newborn will decide that the world and everything in it is a truly disgusting place and launch an angry protest that will last at least an hour, by which time your food will be stone cold and your appetite non-existent.
You will secretly like the fact your baby smells of neck cheese. It will amuse you when you google neck cheese and discover 'the only cure for neck cheese is growing a neck'.
Neck cheese is impossible to remove.
Baby vomiting is not only spectacularly impressive for one so small, it also comes with no warning and can hit you in the face.
Burping your newborn will become a competitive sport.
Everything you own will have dried milk, vomit, wee or poo on it.
Episodes of colic will make you question your (once robust) mental health.
You'll know you have reached rock bottom when you turn to your partner and, through silent tears, whisper 'Why didn't we just get another cat?'
Everyone will buy you clothes that the baby 'can grow into' because they think everyone else will buy clothes that fit.
The (twisted) highlight of your day will be when your baby does a really huge poo.
If your daughter has a round face, she will look like Phil Mitchell when she does a huge poo. You will end up nicknaming her Phil Mitchell, and being full of regret.
You spend your whole time desperate for your baby to sleep. When she finally does, you'll be so shocked you'll then spend the whole time wondering if she's still breathing.
Everyone was right about how hard it is. And everyone was right about how much you love the little bugger anyway.
Month one - best and worst baby buys
I thought we were SO organised before Daphne was born, and I thought we had everything we needed. But no, within the first week alone, I had managed to spend an obscene amount of money on more 'essential' baby buys - things that people had recommended to me, or things that I suddenly realised we really needed. But then some of these essentials turned out not to be so essential after all... So in this blog, I thought it'd be helpful to other expectant mums out there to list some of the best and worst things we've bought in the first month. Having a new baby is seriously expensive and it's tempting to buy EVERYTHING in fear of depriving your little one in some way, so here goes...
Best buys
I was quite shocked by the price of the Sleepyhead (£100) when it was recommended to me by the lactation consultant we saw. But she convinced me by explaining how useful it was as a way of having the baby in the room with us during the day - it meant she could nap and we could keep an eye on her. It also helps babies who don't like the vast openness of their cots - because it helps them feel more snug and secure. 
Before Daphne was born, we bought a Maxi-Cosi Easia Baby Carrier as it looked really sturdy and safe. However, as with many things we bought, it turned out poor Daphne was too small for it. And so I bought the Boba wrap as well, and it's been an absolute godsend. No matter what state she's in, if I pop her in it, within a few minutes she falls asleep. It's a bit of a pain to put on to begin with (the day it arrived Oli and I had a massive sleep-deprived barney while trying to work out how to wrap it), but you soon get the hang of it. I have even managed to go to the toilet while wearing it (and her). Should I have shared that? Possibly not, but trust me, sometimes these little things make all the difference to your day...
Dr Brown's Natural Flow bottles 
Even if you're exclusively breastfeeding, at some point you're going to have to give your baby a bottle. Since Daphne's been mostly bottle fed (both expressed milk and formula), she's unfortunately always been quite a windy baby. And windy baby = miserable baby. These bottles have really helped - they have a fancy pants inner tube that stops air getting into the teat and into your baby's mouth. They haven't quite cut down on her colicky sessions but they've definitely helped. A pain in the arse to wash up, but it's a small price to pay.
Motorola MBP36S Digital Video Monitor
Given the ridiculously small size of my flat, we debated whether or not to bother with a baby monitor. And for the first week we managed without one, but then I started to get antsy if the TV was on and I was at the other end of the flat, because I wouldn't hear her start to cry. We debated again whether or not to bother getting a video monitor, or just an audio one, but I'm so glad we went for it in the end because it's so lovely to be able to SEE her as well as hear her. And if/when we finally move to a bigger place, I am sure it'll be invaluable.
Worst buys
I'm still massively confused by dummies (not a sentence I ever thought I'd write). Are they terrible? Are they brilliant? Are they acceptable only in certain circumstances? I STILL have no idea. However I was rather surprised when the Health Visitor told me that they are now recommending dummy use as it can prevent cot death in very young babies. Anyway, we bought some Mam ones - special ones for tiny babies, with a special sterilising box. And Daphne spits them out in disgust every time we try to give her one. Not something you can really recycle or donate to a friend, or a big deal, but officially a total waste of money.
aden + anais Twinkle Changing Mat Cover
This has really become a bit of a joke, and (I like to think), a game between me and my baby. It goes like this: mummy washes changing mat cover, puts it on changing mat, baby immediately pees/poos/throws up on changing mat cover. Mummy washes changing mat cover, puts it on changing mat, baby immediately pees/poos/throws up on changing mat cover. Repeat ad infinitum. It might look nice, it might be slightly softer on baby's bot, but the reality is that the wipe-clean plastic underneath is a far more practical option.
Babygrows without scratch mitts
Like most babies, Daphne's favourite activity is scratching her face to shreds/poking herself in the eye or nose. Why sleepsuits without scratch mitts integrated even exist is beyond me. So sadly, all the lovely tops and sleepsuits we bought with open sleeves have hardly been used. And those oven glove-style scratch mitts (see above!) are useless if your baby's as tiny and wriggly as mine - two seconds and they're off.
Any other new mums got any recommendations of products that you just can't live without? Or that I shouldn't bother with? Would love to hear from you...
My top 5 post-labour surprises
I never thought much about what would happen AFTER I'd given birth. I was so focused on the pregnancy, and then on the birth itself, that what would happen afterwards hadn't really occurred to me. My priority was surviving the process, and ensuring Daphne arrived safely. Afterwards was this kind of mystical land that I couldn't really imagine getting to. And boy, did it blindside me! So, for those of you about to give birth, forewarned is forearmed! Here are some of the things that threw me:
1. How much you wee after birth.
You know how I complained about my insane water retention during pregnancy (esp in my feet)? Well, as soon as you give birth, it all starts to leave your body - and the easiest way for it to do that is through your wee. For the first week or so, I found myself having to literally run to the toilet every hour or so, and then, to quote Robin Williams in Mrs Doubtfire 'piss like a racehorse'. It was kind of satisfying but given the state of my pelvic floor post-birth, also a little bit stressful when the toilet wasn't near, or someone else was hogging it... and don't get me started on the uncontrollable flatulence - suffice to say, everyone was right about the necessity of doing those Kegel exercises. Dammit.
2. The pain when you sit down.
I hadn't thought about this either - I knew about stitches and how much they hurt, but I didn't think about the fact that you CAN'T REALLY SIT ON THEM because ouch, that whole area is just unhappy and bruised and angry with you. So for the first few days after having Daphne, sitting down filled me with dread - it was kind of OK once I was sitting, but the actual process involved gingerly lowering myself into the seat, wincing the entire time. I also suffered from a horribly bruised coccyx (it gets shoved out of place as the baby pushes her way out) and this lasted for nearly three weeks - making leaning back in a chair impossible, and clutch 'control' when driving a bit of a misnomer.
3. If you're a screamer, you lose your voice.
Maybe this is just me, but thanks to my impressive screaming during labour, I was completely hoarse for the next two days. It was even worse than the day-after-drunken-karaoke. Enough said.
4. The complete lack of core strength.
Another interesting post-labour side effect - I thought this one was something only those who had C sections had to deal with, but no, for at least two weeks after Daphne's birth I had hardly any strength in my core - making sitting up in bed or getting out of the car/up from a chair a real challenge. Apparently I'm one of the lucky ladies whose abdominal muscles have separated, which might explain this. However, I also noticed that all the new mums on the post-natal ward were walking around (like me) in a kind of hunched-over shuffle. It's kind of how I imagine men feel after being kicked in the balls. But you know, it lasts for weeks. Yesterday, I actually got irrationally angry when someone on TV who'd just had a baby in the programme was walking around all sprightly the day after. NOT POSSIBLE!
5. The Googling.
This is the biggest one. I was always quite a prolific googler, but it's now out of hand. You will google everything. EVERYTHING. Before the baby is born, you feel you're quite clued up, you've read What to Expect the 1st Year, but still you find yourself, bleary eyed mid-feed at 4am, trying to find out if the red mark between your baby's eyebrows is anything to worry about, or if the fact she's only done one poo today is anything to worry about, or how terrible it is to resort to a dummy at three weeks, or how to increase your milk supply, or which breast pump is the best, or whether your baby's projectile vomiting is dangerous enough to warrant a trip to A&E (ahem, yes, we went, at 3am, after I screamed at Oli to call an ambulance... she was absolutely fine of course). There is SO MUCH to learn, and so much confusing info out there and Google keeps calling you and luring you in deeper and deeper... However, the forums on Mumsnet and Netmums must be avoided at all costs (or you will end up in A&E).
What were your biggest post-labour surprises? I'd love to hear from other new mums!
Daphne's birth story - part two
I’ve sat down about eight times this week determined to finish off the second part of Daphne’s birth story, but then something has happened – the doorbell’s rung with yet another delivery from the postman (we are so humbled as she’s been sent so many lovely things!), or her Majesty has decided to wake up and start bawling, or the cat’s thrown up on the rug for the first time in his entire life (yes, this really did happen last week - attention seeker!) or the washing machine’s started bleeping or or or… you get the picture! It is INCREDIBLE how much time a small baby can take up, and I’m not even exclusively breastfeeding (more on that in another post, but seriously, people who EBF – how do you ever leave your bed?!)
So, where was I? It was 3am and I’d finally been admitted to the birthing unit. The jolly midwife who gave me my second sweep then handed me over to another midwife – who was considerably less jolly. In fact, she seemed to be incapable of making conversation and instead spent her entire time sat on a stool in the corner of the room, writing things down in some sort of record book. Every time I had a contraction she glanced over her shoulder and muttered ‘Blow Charlotte, blow’ under her breath. Within about ten minutes I wanted to blow HER away. Anyway, I decided to try some of the legendary gas and air for the pain, but couldn’t for the life of me work out how to breathe it in properly and promptly decided it was too much of a faff. Therein ended my one and only attempt at pain relief during labour.
Thankfully, I had Oli for company. He kept the lights down low (it was obviously still pitch black outside), put Chopin on the Jawbone and talked to me as I lay on the birthing bed moaning. We cracked open the apple juice I’d carefully packed in my hospital bag months before, then realised it was actually out of date. There’s the downside of being TOO prepared. We also started to work our way through a bag of Phizzy Pigs – little did I know that over the next 24 hours they would be pretty much the only thing I would eat. It’s funny how in labour you completely lose your appetite!
After a while, I started eyeing up the birthing pool and asked the monosyllabic midwife’s back if I could go in. She turned and pulled a face but agreed and started to fill it. My god it took ages to fill. She told me that I was only allowed to have it at 37 degrees, no warmer, because she didn’t want to ‘cook the baby’. I got in but soon realised it was a bit chilly - not exactly relaxing.
One of the things they don’t show you on One Born Every Minute is that during labour, every five minutes (or so it seems) they have to check the baby’s heartbeat with a Doppler. For some reason this really got on my nerves (sorry Daph!). They also check your blood pressure, temperature and pulse pretty regularly too. I found all this 'being fiddled with' really aggravating.
By half seven, having hung out in the pool moaning as the sun came up, I was about 8cm dilated. My waters broke just after the midwife checked me - and this was as expected, a big painless gush of warm fluid all over the birthing couch. We were then very pleased to hear that grumpy midwife’s shift was over, and were even more happy to be introduced to our new midwife, who was far more cheerful and actually TALKED to me and Oli as though we were human beings. She also let me fill the pool up with hotter water, so I got back in (having got out when my shivering got too much – I was in and out of that damn birthing pool all day).
What I didn’t really realise about labour was just how long it takes to get to the transition phase – and how boring it must be for the midwives and your birthing partner. The pain of each contraction ensured I didn’t get bored, and instead the time seemed to fly by as I tried loads of different positions to get comfortable. But for people watching it must be a right snooze-fest. I can now well understand dads who fall asleep, or end up playing Angry Birds. It was all rather hypnotic and weird for me though – just floating about naked in this pool, almost half-asleep, with Oli feeding me Phizzy Pigs every now and then and Chopin playing on repeat… and then of course, the midwife sticking the Doppler on my stomach. It was like a really weird dream.
At some point mid-morning (I literally don’t know when) my sister turned up. I suspect she now wishes she hadn’t turned up, only to see me stark naked and without shame, mooing like a cow with each contraction. But I was grateful to see her as it gave Oli someone sentient to talk to. She also went to M&S and got some sandwiches for everyone, and a fruit salad for me. I think I managed a cereal bar for lunch too – like I said, it’s so weird how you must be using so many calories labouring but you have zero interest in eating anything. I did manage a cup of tea at one point though!
After a while, the midwife asked me if I had been to the toilet, and I realised I hadn’t had a wee for about ten hours. She asked me to go and try, but I literally couldn’t go. Another weird thing they don’t tell you – labour can sometimes ‘shut down’ your ability to urinate. The midwife was pretty confident that my bladder wasn’t empty and so she used a catheter to relieve me. I remember at the time feeling very undignified as I watched her fill two of those upside-down paper hat things with wee – over a litre apparently. My dignity was rapidly fading away.
After that, I got back in the pool. My contractions started to get stronger and I was finally 10cm dilated. Everyone got quite excited and cheerleadery as I did a few really good pushes, and I was utterly convinced that the head must already be sticking out by now. I remember thinking that my daughter was going to be born around lunchtime, and how great that would be – to have the afternoon to recover. But then, all of a sudden and for no apparent reason, my contractions tailed off, then stopped completely.
In desperation after half an hour of nothing, we decided to try to increase the amount of oxytocin (the hormone needed for contractions) in the room by… TWEAKING MY NIPPLES. Yep, you heard me right. I felt stupid doing it to myself, so Oli did it for me. It sort of worked a bit, but I think by then my self-conscious brain was just in full panic mode, and nothing was going to get those contractions up to speed again. I was also grimly aware of all the BITS OF STUFF floating in the water – I asked if they were poo, but apparently they weren’t. I then realised some of the bits were pieces of my Shellac nail varnish which had fallen off my toenails thanks to being in the water so long. Oh the glamour.
We tried EVERYTHING to get things going again – my poor midwife was so desperate – I sat on the birthing stool (for some reason this was stupidly low - someone needs to design a better version!), went back on the bed on all fours, sat on the loo (!), tried standing and leaning against the wall while Oli rubbed my back, but I’d lost all urge to push. It was so frustrating and I was completely exhausted. The midwife eventually went to speak to the doctor.
He recommended that I be transferred downstairs to the delivery ward (BOO) and put on a synthetic oxytocin drip to get my contractions going again. After everything, I was basically going to be induced after all! This would mean a cannula, a permanent catheter and possibly an IV drip too. I was also offered an epidural (the drip makes the contractions more painful than natural ones) but I was so fed up I decided I didn’t bloody care about the pain and I wanted as few medical interventions as possible.
I was taken downstairs in a wheelchair, wrapped in just a sheet and feeling like a right failure. The delivery ward was as depressing as I’d imagined, and it took three attempts to get a cannula in my hand – in the end they had to call an anaesthetist to do it, who I vaguely remember was quite good looking and tried to be quite jovial with me, but I was having none of it. Feel a bit bad about that now... The cannula really really hurt and my hand swelled up straight away with a massive bruise - out of all the things that happened that day, this felt like the worst thing oddly, and was the only time I cried all day.
Thankfully my midwife was able to stay with me, which I really appreciated as I felt I had built up quite a rapport with her by then. By 5pm ish, the syntocinon drip had got going. I was hopeful that Daphne would arrive in about half an hour or so – I was actually desperate for some super strong, super painful contractions that would blast the little bugger out of my birth canal.
But, as appeared to be the order of the day, we waited. And waited. And waited. And nothing much happened. The contractions started but they were pretty feeble still. I tried pushing but my best efforts were met with stern commands of 'bigger pushes Charlotte, bigger'. But I couldn't seem to do anything 'bigger' - I felt I was trying as hard as I possibly could. I asked the midwife to turn the drip up, which she did, until Daphne’s heart rate started to drop and she had to turn it off completely. The midwife started to get a bit tetchy with me, and said that Daphne was getting tired and that I really needed to push harder.
By this point I was feeling trapped in some kind of nightmare – I genuinely couldn’t see how on earth this day would end. I asked for a Caesarean. I asked to be cut. I was completely distraught when I was told neither were an option – the Caesarean would be almost impossible as Daphne would have to be pushed back up into my womb, and the episiotomy wasn’t needed as her head wasn’t low enough yet.
I thought I might die. Genuinely.
We tried some more positions – standing up, on all fours, but by this point I had no strength left to support myself. My wrists were absolutely killing me from being on all fours for so long upstairs, and for clinging onto the birthing pool too tightly. I actually lost all the sensation in the tops of my fingers for a few days after – and ended up with a bruise on my forehead from leaning too hard on the side of the pool. The only position I could manage to push in was lying on my side with one leg hoisted up over the poor midwife’s shoulder.
My sister then had to go home – I felt like I’d failed her as she’d been with me all day and she was desperate to see her niece be born. The midwife then said the next stage was to get the doctor again and for him to use the ventouse on me. Hearing this, I think some new kind of steely resolve took hold of me as I realised I REALLY didn't want to have anyone fiddling with me again. I think finally the control freak in me let go as I accepted that I had to lose all dignity to do this thing. From somewhere I found a tiny reserve of energy and decided to try pushing even when I wasn’t having a contraction (this is not allowed btw, don’t tell my midwife).
Immediately Oli was incredibly encouraging, telling me how well I was doing as I inched slowly closer and closer to getting her head out - I fully credit him with empowering me somehow. I squeezed his hands so hard I'm sure I must have cut off his circulation but his cheerleading was just what I needed at that point.
As I started to push more the inevitable happened and YES PEOPLE I pooed on the bed. This is no great surprise really because one of the weirdest things about labour is that you basically feel like you’re trying to do a giant shit. I don’t understand why, when the baby comes out of a totally different hole, but there you have it. Even in my state I remember feeling incredibly sorry that this lovely patient midwife had to wipe up my poo for me, and I kept apologising to her.
Somehow, some way, I seemed to finally get the hang of it. I made a lot of noise. A LOT of noise. The pain was excruciating but I almost used it as motivation – the more it hurt, the more I knew I must be progressing. By this point I was DESPERATE for pain! A few more midwives came in the room and I noticed them bustling about with towels and things – for the baby, I realised, and this also spurred me on.
Eventually Oli told me he could see the baby’s head (as well as my poo – the poor man, will he ever find me attractive again?), and the midwives asked me if I wanted to touch it (the head, not the poo). I did not want to touch it. This freaked me out completely but it was so good to know that finally, FINALLY, something was happening. Whoever said childbirth is like squeezing an orange out of your nostril was bang on the money. During the final pushes I remember thinking to myself ‘OK, so now I’m ripping myself in half but I have to do this OR THIS DAY WILL NEVER END.’
Finally I realised everyone was getting excited again – and I did it. With the last push her whole body came out in one big slimy gush, at 7.46pm. My lunchtime baby was born right in the middle of Corrie. And just 14 minutes before my amazing midwife's 12-hour shift ended.
They put her on my chest and I tried to pull her towards me but realised I couldn’t get her any closer because she was still attached to me by the cord. But I held her as best I could, and immediately – and completely randomly as god knows when I last heard it – the song Cheek to Cheek came into my head.
'Heaven...
I'm in heaven...
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak...'
And I loved her straight away.
Read Part One of Daphne's birth story >
THE RIVAL, my novel about career and motherhood, is on sale now. You can find out more about THE RIVAL here, and order here if you want to make my day. UNFOLLOW ME will be published in June.
Daphne’s birth story – part one
I'll start this post with a caveat: apologies to those who hate this kind of thing! But I LOVED reading birth stories when I was pregnant. I find the whole process of giving birth completely fascinating, as everyone I know seems to have been surprised at some point by some part of their labour. It's the most miraculous, crazy experience and I am really pleased to be able to record it for the future, and to share with Daphne when she's older! So here goes, part one of Daphne's birth story... which, somewhat incongruously, starts with some jewellery...
I went into labour on Saturday 15 August, about an hour after I got back from Old Bond Street, where I bought a bracelet in Tiffany’s. This will always be the weirdest part of her birth story I think – I’d just completed on the sale of my business to my business partner, and wanted to buy myself something to mark/remember the success of the business, and decided that what I really wanted was a bracelet from Tiffany’s. I woke up that morning with a really clear idea in my head that I had to get the bracelet that day – Oli thought I was completely barmy, as I was seriously pregnant and uncomfortable and hadn't been up for going into central London for ages, and especially not on a Saturday. But I insisted and he eventually agreed to come with me (there was a lot of eye-rolling though).
So off we set to Green Park, and within about half an hour I was in and out of Tiffany’s and carrying my bracelet home. One of my speediest purchases ever. I am sure that my feeling of having to get the damn bracelet that day was my ‘nesting’ instinct kicking in – many women say they feel desperate to clean their houses or finish off last-minute jobs the day before they go into labour, as though they are trying to get everything ready, knowing that after the baby is born life will never be the same again. My version of this just happened to be spending stupid money on jewellery, but there you go. What can I say? I am a terrible person. However, in my defence, I definitely don’t think I’ll be paying another visit to Tiffany’s any time soon in the next few years. And I quite like the surrealness of the situation; me sitting in Tiffany’s like a beached whale, all sweaty and swollen, trying on bracelets that would barely do up around my puffed up wrists, in front of a very bemused sales assistant.
The night before, we’d had a curry, and I’d woken up with a bit of an upset tummy. Which was unusual, as I’d been so constipated for weeks before. I also noticed that during said-upset-stomach-incident, I lost my mucus plug (gross I know!) and I did get quite excited about that, although I knew it meant labour could still be days or even weeks away.
After we got home from my ridiculous shopping trip, we ate dinner and started watching TV. At about 8pm I noticed that I was getting some strange period-like cramps. They weren’t very regular but they were definitely bothering me. I thought they might be contractions but they didn’t feel like ‘contracting’, they just felt like kind of aching pains that came and went. As the evening progressed, they got more and more frequent, until they settled down to a pattern of every six-seven minutes or so. I started trying to time them on an app, but after a while they stopped completely for an hour or so, before starting up again. I wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but it did seem like something might be happening.
birth-story-lifebylotte3
I tried to sleep but it was really difficult as the pains kept waking me up whenever I started to drift off. I reckon I got about two hours’ sleep that night. On Sunday morning, we went to Waitrose and although the pains hadn’t got any worse, they were still there, and bothering me a lot. I cracked open my Tens machine, and it actually helped loads – in fact I actually carried it around Waitrose with me, which now I think about it must have looked rather amusing. We spent the whole of Sunday waiting for something specific to happen, but nothing did, just this non-progressing regular pain.
I did a LOT of googling of latent labour that day and spent the whole time praying my waters would break, but they didn’t.
By 8pm on Sunday I was a bit frustrated, so we decided to go into the hospital. I had rung the midwife before and she’d told me to stay at home until I was having three contractions every ten minutes, but nothing seemed to be going in that direction and I was getting fed up and tired. At the hospital, they strapped me up to a machine that monitored the baby’s heart rate and also my contractions – which were only every 6-7 minutes still, and quite irregular, but really strong on the scale – the midwife actually raised her eyebrows as she watched one charting and said ‘Gosh that is strong and long.’ I think it was about 92 out of 100 on whatever scale they use to measure it.
She also examined me and told me that I was 100% effaced, but only 1cm dilated. I was ‘in labour’ but only early labour which they don’t count! Seems mean when you think how painful and tiring it is! Anyway the midwife gave me a sweep (for those who don't know what this is and intend to have a child sometime, probably best not to google it...) to help speed things up and sent me home again. As I left she said ‘We might see you back here in a couple of hours!’
That was even more frustrating and I really wished I could have just stayed in the hospital, but anyway, we went home and tried to sleep. After half an hour of lying in bed, with the pains getting more severe although not closer together, I gave up trying to sleep and did something I NEVER do: I ran a bath.
I hate baths. There’s nothing I enjoy less than sitting in water that’s going cold while you stare at yourself naked and try to find a comfortable way of sitting, squelching your skin against the hard sides of the bath and desperately searching for a comfy way to position your head. No ta. But for some reason I was hopeful that the bath would help the pains and I also just couldn’t stand the idea of lying in the bed unable to sleep for another night. So I ran a really full, really warm bath, stuck on my hypnobirthing playlist and sat there in the dark for about two hours.
The cat came and joined me, which was quite cute. He clearly thought I'd lost my mind. The hypnobirthing playlist did help to some extent, although I found it hard to concentrate – I only remember bits of it now, something about wandering through meadows and seeing violet flowers which meant I had courage or something, then going through another meadow and seeing red flowers which meant something else… dunno what now… massive blood loss ahead!? And then eventually, at around 2am, Oli came to find me (I think he thought I’d drowned or something). I told him the pains were getting stronger, even though they still weren’t regular really, and we decided to go back to the hospital.
As soon as we made that decision, my contractions suddenly started to come thick and fast – they were lasting a lot longer and I only had a minute or two in between them. Trying to sit down in the car felt very wrong, and I suddenly started panicking that we wouldn’t get to the hospital in time (despite living five minutes’ away – ridiculous I know). Once we got there, as it was after 10pm, we couldn’t go in the direct entrance to the maternity ward as it was locked, so instead we had to walk through the entire building from the main entrance to get to the right wing. This ‘walk’ was definitely one of my lowest points – I remember clinging onto Oli and telling him I couldn’t possibly make it, and having to stop and try to breathe through the pain every minute or so. It was kind of like it is on TV, actually. I wasn’t really aware of anything but how much it hurt, and how hard it was becoming to walk.
I also got irrationally angry with the hospital's architect, and shouted about how stupid they were for building something so big and for having a maternity ward so far from the entrance. Thankfully there weren't many people around to witness my ridiculous woman-in-labour tantrum.
Eventually we arrived at the Carmen Suite – the midwife-led unit, with the lovely birthing pools. It was very quiet and dark there, but we were seen immediately by a surprisingly (for the time of day) jolly midwife who checked me over and said I was finally 4cm dilated (you have to be 4cm dilated for them to consider that you are in active labour). She let me stay – hurrah! I was so pleased. I was less pleased, however, when she said she was going to give me another sweep. I’m still not sure exactly why she decided to give me another one – I was too out of it to ask, but anyway, it ruddy hurt.
By this time it was about 3am on Monday morning. Being admitted to the ward was very strange in itself, and I did have a moment of clarity when I thought ‘Oh my god, I’m actually going to meet my baby really soon!’ However, I don’t think I could have quite anticipated what was in store… and how NOT soon it would be…
Phew! If you've made it this far, then you deserve a medal! But instead I'll just leave you with a picture of the bracelet and a 'to be continued'...
PS Oli has just read this and said 'You've hardly mentioned the pain! You were in agony! You couldn't even get out of the bath! You're making it sound like a mild inconvenience but you were in horrendous pain the whole time!' Um, so yeah, clearly that post-labour memory-loss thing is true, cos I can genuinely hardly remember it now...
Read Part Two of Daphne's birth story >
THE RIVAL, my novel about career and motherhood, is on sale now. You can find out more about THE RIVAL here, and order here if you want to make my day. UNFOLLOW ME will be published in June.
Meet Chip!
In case you haven't heard already from the copious baby spam on my Twitter and Instagram, Chip decided it was time to be born on Monday 17 August, at 7.46pm. She weighed 5lbs 5 and is absolutely perfect (even if I do say so myself!).
We've named her Daphne Sophia Darley.
But she'll always be Chip too ;)
I'll be writing up my birth story asap for all those who love all the gory details but in the meantime I wanted to say a huge thanks to everyone for all the support and interest in our tiny little girl - it's been such a special magical time and sharing it with folk has made it all the better.
We're completely in love with her. More soon... xx
Read my pregnancy diary from the beginning >