Occasionally ma bebe looks like this:
but more often she looks like this:
but you know, she is almost 4 weeks old, and I recall that they get over the scratchy thing at some point in the next 3 years, and at some point in the next year I get to have gin, so that is something to look forward to.
And might I say, bloody hell, everyone should have a third baby because a) obviously they're awesome b) if you're going to have your own militia this is probably the most economical way but mainly c) people are insanely generous with their COOKING. We've been surprised with cakes, bickies, meals, the works. People are lovely.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Occasionally ma bebe looks like this:
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Man, what a mission. My beautiful girl finally has a name, Lucinda (Lucy) Audrey Mae.
We're fab, she is sweet as, doesn't sleep that much but I don't really mind. I don't know if it is the case for everyone, but this third baby thing is pretty cool. I'm not stressed or anxious about her, which is tres bonne.
Now I must go and feed her for seventeen more hours.
Posted by Martha Craig at 9:11 PM
Thursday, January 08, 2009
I know, I know, no name, bad parents yada yada. It isn't as if we haven't been trying, we had a lovely long list and nothing is right. I think maybe tomorrow. I certainly think we should have a name before she hits a week old.
The baby is splendid. She is tanned and lovely, in a jaundiced way, which means the only time in her life that she has olive skin she is 1 week old.
We're really great, actually. With both boys we were trapped in hospital for almost a week, and it really sucked. I think people have this romantic view of lying around in hospital being waited on, but when you're there because your kid is sick, you'd just rather not be. So we have felt very lucky to be home since day 2.
Here is the birth story, won't be too graphic, it actually wasn't too graphic, but don't read on if you a) have a romantic view of childbirth or b) like to think of me as a cool ice queen.
We arrived at hospital nice and early. I'm always ridiculously prompt (apart from with baby due dates), so the specialist's vague 8.30-9 meant we were there at a nice shiny 8.15. He was there at a nice late 10.30, and promptly inserted the prostin gel stuff where the sun don't shine (how many euphemisms will I be able to come up with in an entire birth story?). I was pretty pleased when he said the head was low.
Lots of waiting, went to a cafe, visited my friend down the hallway who'd had her baby a few days earlier, went and checked out the darkest reaches of the hospital (I can offer directions to the Diabetes Unit and don't recommend the "healthy" hot chips at the canteen - no salt! Bleurgh!). I ate truckloads, actually. Previous labours I'd been firmly instructed not to, and had starved. Nobody told me not to, so I ate everything in sight.
1pm, no action. Specialist inserted more prostin.
Getting antsy. While we wait, I'll explain my decision to use a specialist. My previous babies were both induced. I didn't necessarily feel this was necessary the second time, and felt like the decision wasn't really one I could discuss with someone in authority, so this time I thought I'd go straight to the top. Plus, my first son had caught Group B strep in labour and was very sick. This was due to my doctor forgetting to give me antibiotics, my midwife being sick, my stand-in midwife not reading the notes, my midwife not passing on the info. All up we ended up with a very sick child, and lots of people to blame. There is nothing good about that.
With Malo, they didn't get the antibiotics in in time, and he was born with a temperature and possible Group B strep. Talk about crap. So, this time I took the responsibility upon myself and engaged a totally top notch obstetrician. Turns out the dude was ace, and had more booze in his office than we have at home, which is the attitude I respect.
So, contractions start up, and I'm proud of myself for being in control and saying "ride the wave" and thinking positive thoughts about how it was all for the good and working to get everything ready, and we thought we'd better get the specialist to check me out because I'm in pain - ha! I get examined at about 6.50pm, and I haven't got ANYWHERE. 0cm dilated, nothing effaced, waters can't be broken nada.
The specialist offers me some platitudes about how it is likely to be the next day, and he knows it is like period pains, and I should get some sleep. He reassures me I'll get my epidural, it won't be like my last labour, they promise. He leaves, I start crying and misery gutsing to Glen, and if you insert a swear word at every asterisk you'll get the idea:
"**** period pains, I like to * see * him have ** period pains like these ** I don't want to * do it, I can't * do it, I need an epidural ***********" ad nauseum.
And then it really gets very painful. Glen races out to get the midwife and some gas, and she examines me, and in the preceeding 20 minutes I've dilated 3cm and my cervix has moved around (whatever that means) and now I can't talk, because it really really hurts.
The specialist arrives maybe about 7 days later, maybe half an hour? He has some drugs on him, but they don't really touch the sides. Can't even notice them. I'm lying on my side just sucking gas for something to do really. The gas gives me that nice feeling of being a bit spinny when you're about to puke your guts out when you're drunk. Not quite the happy juice I remember from the last time.
And all my proclamations of not being a screamer are out the window. Except I'm not really screaming, more just audibly wishing to die. Please, kill me.
Exactly the same as my last labour the anesthetist is stuck in surgery. No epidural.
And then I feel a brick in my bowel area. Like a big, hard, gritty brick. And I think perhaps I can just keep it quiet, because I have a hideous feeling they're going to make me get this brick out in a most unnatural way. Sure enough, they look and tell me it is a baby, and in two pushes I can have it out. They don't seem to realise that I'm dying and that I couldn't push a little cottonball down a steep incline, but they keep on at me, and I'm compelled to stop yelling when they tell me to, and make a vague sound like I might be co-operating. I don't think I really do much pushing, and in 2 contractions the baby is out.
And I feel ********* amazing. Really, absolutely immediately amazing. My baby is out, I never have to do it again, I can walk, it is 8.45pm.
Part of the amazing feeling could possibly be those narcotics the doctor slipped me, which didn't help ease the pain, but I suspect contributed to my charming exhilarated immediately afterwards.
The midwife said I did an excellent job pushing (they say nice things like that), and told me the baby was lovely (which she is, but I know newborns look funny), they're so kind.
And that is all.
Posted by Martha Craig at 7:47 PM