Breastfeeding

breast-feed definition
Pronunciation: /ˈbrest-ˌfēd/
Function: vt
: to feed (a baby) from a mother's breast rather than from a bottle; suckle
: a serenely beautiful, instinctive, effortless act.


THIS IS A DIRTY GREAT LIE.

a) It is NOT effortless.
‘Positioning Your Baby Correctly On Your Boob’. The act of ‘latching on’ is a complex system of levers and pulleys (or it could be if JML get wind of the issue). Mother and child must negotiate the delicate balance of baby posture, swollen, leaking mammary, nipple angle, and milk trajectory to a mathematical level at which Stephen Hawking would baulk (electronically). Surely there must be a council run Trigonometry of Breastfeeding City and Guilds I could sign up for?

b) It is NOT instinctive.
Never in my life have I felt a nagging urge to have my nipples cruelly and violently chewed on. Even if Dave begs. Never have I been sound asleep in my warm, comfortable bed and felt the sudden instinctive compulsion to dive out of the snug covers into the cold, unforgiving night for my breasts to be pummelled, thumped, gnawed, chomped and ground up by a ferociously hungry child with an angry left hook.

c) It is NOT serenely beautiful.
The tableau of the small, sweet, suckling babe at the breast of the relaxed, maternal, carefree young mother is now a naïve, distant taunt as I survey the remains of my scabby, cracked, bleeding nipples.

Having applied various heat treatments, nipple gels and breast sanitary towel things, the physical situation is gradually improving.The mental situation, however, remains fraught, ill-prepared and absolutely bloody shocked at the hard work all this is.

As thugs go though, she's pretty gorgeous.    

Nope...still bo-bos....

Too tired to....Zzzzz

Labour

We’re back!
Missed me? Thought so! You want to be sidetracked from whatever you should be doing right now, so here’s a rundown of how the BIG EVENT unfolded. Enjoy.
I didn’t. 

19.09.11, 2:40am – Went for a wee. Wondered whether excruciating tightening in my raw genitals, aching bum and tender abdomen might mean something. Back to bed.

19.09.11, 3:10am – Vicious systematic stabbing pains. Very organised wind? Must eat more bran.

19.09.11, 3:40am – Another wee. Made out of Ribena. That splashed all over the pan. And a few more searing pains to boot...hang on a minute...

19.09.11, 4am – Then sick. Yep. Penny dropping. Got up; a mixture of excitement, dread, pain and agitation. My poised, vigilant, ex-Royal Marine Commando husband continues to snore attentively. Excellent.

19.09.11, 4am-6am – Pad around the house as boisterously as possible in the hope of waking Captain Aware and making him feel guilty. Tidy kitchen, put on a wash, re pack hospital bags, while contracting as dramatically as I can muster (for what is at this stage low level pain), every ten minutes.

19.09.11, 6am – Gave up on the being loud thing and woke Dave with an over egged tale of “all that I have been through” in the last 3 hours. He absorbs all, bolt upright, wide eyed, nodding vacantly.  Appropriately terrified. Good.

19.09.11, 7am – Contact hospital and inform them of impending labour. Told to call back when contractions established to every five minutes and lasting for one min. Cow. 
Phone Mum.

19.09.11, 7.30am – Dave and I go for a walk to encourage labour to establish. Suddenly hit with the thought that this is the last time we will go for a walk, alone, for a long time to come. Wow...
Saw white dog poo. Nice to know it’s still around.

 19.09.11, 8am – Mum arrives; clearly expecting a somewhat more established labour, I could sense her disappointment at the absence of blood spattered walls and puddles of gunk.  Evidently my overactive imagination had, on the phone, painted a more ghastly scene. Don’t worry; we’ll get there.

19.09.11, 8am-12pm – Contracting every six minutes, otherwise quiet. Watched This Morning and learned how to make a spinach and ricotta quiche.

19.09.11, 12pm – 1pm – Walked with Dave to the pie shop to encourage contractions and get some dinner. Increase in contraction frequency and intensity meant I squeezed my pie, the piping hot filling blazed its way through the pathetic paper bag and stuck doggedly to my subsequently charred, seared fingers.


19.09.11, 2pm – After treating my scold wound with a bag of frozen peas (oh yeah, dropped those mid contraction too and they spilt all over my clean kitchen floor) we decided that it was time to phone the hospital again. They called us in.

19.09.11, 4pm – Home again, having been checked out by a Disney midwife (all false smile and pretend interest in your life), I was only 2cm dilated, so might as well go home and return when labour is better established. Incidentally, please can I have more trainee nurses, preferably men, to make me feel really, really, really uncomfortable, preferably crowding with note paper, digital cameras and ipads, around the foot of my bed when I am undergoing an internal examination. It makes the whole sweet experience so much more encouraging.

19.09.11, 6pm – Back at the hospital. Now 3cm. They take me in.

19.09.11, 7pm – Set ourselves up for a long night. Managed to bagsy the birth pool room; it is massive and full of swiss balls and gadgets to lean on or push against through labour. Must up my game; irritatingly calm Dave reading my paper and Mum more interested in trying to get Doc Martin on the hospital telly.
GAS AND AIR RULES!!

19.09.11, 11pm – Gas and air most certainly does not rule.

20.09.11, 2am – Internal examination by Carolynn, my second midwife of the labour. Still 3cm. Labour not progressing. It is suggested that breaking my waters will encourage more movement, so out comes the crotchet needle. A long, hot, unstoppable weeing feeling later, and it becomes apparent that Baby Briars has pooed in the waters; so no Birth Pool in case of infection. Gutted.

20.09.11, 3am – 10am Birth pool now out of the question, and with heightening contractions, I hit the drugs hard. Hallucinating and rambling incoherently, as is the norm regardless of labour, diamorphine is introduced to my system, and I become markedly better company. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I made it my business to
a) Explain to Dave how the gas and air mouthpiece could also be used as a makeshift electrical lamp fitment (with precise explanation of how to wire it up)
b) Demonstrate how a large disability style handle on the wall near the birthing pool could be unscrewed and used as a farcically large fancy dress moustache for a Mr Benn convention. 
c)Rehearse my mother’s lines with her ready for filming that afternoon (she was due to co-host a pilot for ITV with Melanie Sykes). Annoyingly she kept missing her cues and insisted at looking into the wrong camera (a hospital over bed light played this role with a confidence I wasn’t expecting)

20.09.11, 10am – Internal examination by new midwife. 4 cm. Diamorphine has slowed labour down, and is now wearing off. Winner. Having set out with hippy notions of a ‘natural’ water birth with just gas and air to sustain me; the word Epidural is now introduced. As labour is not progressing, a Syncotonin drip must be introduced to heighten contractions and get things up and running again. This will mean massively heightened contractions = unbearable Cathey. Everybody in the room seemed to agree that this must be avoided, so, out came the consent forms. Tip for you. If you want to get someone to do something, ANYTHING, wait until they are in a drug induced stupor, body contracting and convulsing violently, drifting in and out of consciousness, then present them with your request. At this point in the proceedings, I hurriedly signed the paperwork in which I acknowledged and accepted the risk of a whole host of unsavoury conclusions for my body; including permanent paralysis and death. I now know how to get Dave into Primark more readily. Just got to get him into labour.

20.09.11, 2pm – The next hospital shift change meant a fifth person (a man – Dave not impressed until he discovered it was a doctor) came and had a gander around my nether regions. So glamorous had the whole experience been that when it was announced that I had a full rectum, the thought of a poo on the bed actually excited me, as it meant there would be more room in my pipes to get this human out. Sadly, this poo, nor the space it would have vacated, materialised. Defo need more bran. Bottom half of my body visible but completely detached from my sense of touch, I reached full dilation – 10cm. Waiting for the head to drop into place now.

20.09.11, 4pm – Head in place and Epidural kindly stepping aside at a most painful point in the proceedings, the Doctor suggested that I might like to start to push. After mulling this over for some time, I decided that after 37 hours of excruciating pain, no food, and accommodation which one would struggle to describe as sumptuous, it turns out pushing was fairly high on my to do list.

20.09.11, 4.30pm – Doctor returned to us as the baby was crowning, full head just about the surface. I screamed frantically at Dave (so the child would enter the world to what will become a familiar environment) to “Skip to track 17 on the CD!”.

20.09.11, 4.40pm – Our chubby, beautiful, crying, gooey, blue eyed, longed for Baby Girl Briars (BB), came into the world.

It was worth every single second of the nine months and thirty seven and a half hours that went before (even the pie burnt finger bit), to be there, at the moment our little tiny girl came into the world. And then, just when I thought I would absolutely burst with pride, someone called me her "Mum". 
What an absolute honour.

Press Release

Thanks very much.
As you can imagine; it has been a busy week. Having crossed many items off my ever increasing ‘to-do’ list (tidy up womb/ arrange excruciating, protracted, sluggish labour for transfer to outside world/ schedule first poo that comes out of the collar of my t-shirt/etc), I have also had to squeeze in the time to seek legal advice re an assertion made, without my due consent, during my time inside the uterus. What with BEING BORN and everything, I’ll be honest; this legal wrangling really is the last thing I need. However, needs must. Between eating, sleeping, weeing and pooing, I have been advised that issuing the following statement should serve to remedy the matter sufficiently...

"The relentless press machine that is my mother has circulated a premature, presumptuous and thoroughly erroneous supposition that she was carrying male offspring. This, despite the blue font employed previously during these blog entries, was a false assumption in its entirety.

I AM A FLOWERY, LOVELY, PINK, SWEET NATURED, PLACID, BEAUTIFUL GIRL."

Right, next job.... ‘accidentally’ weeing at my parents mid nappy change.
BB xx

Elisabeth Rose Briars

Our beautiful, nine pounds and half an ounce daughter, Elisabeth Rose Briars, decided, after bouncing up and down on her mothers genitals for thirty seven and a half hours, to make her first appearance in the world at 16:40 on Tuesday 20th September 2011. 

Hello little one. The happiness you have brought into our lives in just a few, short hours cannot be put into words. Your Dad is very impressed by the number of times you've broken wind, and your Mum is more than a little shocked and traumatised by the marathon battering that was inflicted upon her undercarriage, but, thank goodness; it turns out you were worth every single second of it.

You’re chubby and greedy and sleepy and funny and perfect and ours. 
We’re so incredibly lucky and blessed to have our precious little girl.
Thank you for joining us, our beautiful, breathtaking Betty.

What The Bloody Hell Was THAT?!?

No seriously.
That really, really hurt. I'm PROPER not kidding.
I do not want it to happen a...a....ag....OH JESUS CHRIST ONABIIIIIKE!!!!

IT'S HAPPENINGGGGGGG!!

So Comfy

My kind, considerate, self-sacrificing mother patiently continues to provide a warm, comfortable, cosy idyll for my nurture, pleasure and enjoyment. She has maintained immaculate, orderly accommodation throughout my nine month reservation, so I feel it is only fair to ignore the gaping dilated opening which has recently appeared in one wall of my lodgings – a minor gaffe on her behalf which can surely be overlooked. Her efforts to run a comprehensive, one-stop foetal development shop have, by-and-large, been extremely credible. So this unfortunate wall puncture will be duly ignored.

Sadly, despite such flawless hospitality and boundless assiduousness, there has been a further substandard development this week, which, quite frankly, cannot be ignored.

On Wednesday this previous week, at approximately 9.36am, an oiled, greasy, rubbery item entered my domain, without prior notice nor invitation. The thing simply forced entry, wiggled around and promptly left. Fortunately, I was occupying an appropriately obstructive position, and all the perpetrator was able to make away with was some gunk off the top of my head. It was purely good fortune that my position of choice thwarted what could have been a far more rewarding criminal endeavour. Breaking and entering is a serious crime, regardless of the spoils accrued. I am utterly dismayed that the privacy of my abode has been so brutally disrespected. Never before was I aware that our onsite security was so lax. Consequently, in order to pursue due recompense for my traumatic ordeal, I will unfortunately, but understandably, be putting my displeasure in writing to the management of this previously faultless establishment at the first given opportunity (ie when someone passes in a pen).

Allowing that drafty opening to emerge was clearly a bigger oversight than she anticipated, and could have proved costly. It needs sealing up. Promptly. 
BB xx

One Week Late

Stuff I’ll Miss About Being Pregnant
Naps
Because you can/should take them. Anytime, anywhere, leaning on anything, or anyone. I’m pregnant. So shut up.

Eating anything vaguely consumable without guilt
Choice of excuses – eating for two/the baby wants it/my body must be lacking in it. An unashamed claim on out and out greed which no-one can touch is a precious and beautiful thing. Treasure it.

Being the centre of attention
Fuss. Consideration. Kindness. Concern. Interest. Celebrity. For nine months. For nowt. Wohoo!

Buying stuff
Gadgets, cute stuff, tiny clothes, little toys, gorgeous blankets; often purchased with other people’s money. Fabulous.

Having an excuse
Don’t want to empty the dishwasher? Put the bin out? Shave your legs? Listen? Get pregnant.

Stuff I Won’t Miss About Being Pregnant
Headbutts In The Nads
Baby skull (hard) + cervix (soft) = “Ow you little bugger” x lots.

Morning Cramp
You’ve pressed snooze four times. The song you were getting up at the end of was 3 songs ago. You’ve got to get up for work. Now. As you oull back the covers, a gentle stretcccchhhhhaaaaaaahhh........
A searing, agonising, excruciating and unbearably all consuming cramp induced convulsion later, and you are now officially late.

Restricted Sleep Positions
Sleeping on your side? Not a problem.
Having to sleep on your side because it is really important you do? Absolutely bloody impossible. Waking each morning and feeling immediately irate with your own devious, completely selfish body, which HAS AGAIN crept its ninja-like way deceitfully onto its back, expressly against your wishes, has got really old. Yet no less infuriating. Discuss.

How Are You?
People are just being nice. I get it.
But, just stop for a second, and have a look at the state my stretched, taut, distended body has been driven into. What on earth do you really expect me to say? So tempting is it to talk mucus, discharge and secretions, just to stop people asking. And I will. So DON’T.
It is REALLY ANNOYING.

Heartburn
Puking in your mouth – horrible.
Worse? Being catapulted from a deep, restful slumber in the heart of a pink, fluffy dreamland to the instant unfriendly, unsure of where you are, pitch black of a cold bedroom, frantically swallowing back burning bile. Think you’re going to go back to sleep after that little hellish panic? Good luck.

Happy Birthday

I'm 28 today.

Happy birthday to me!

Happy birthday to me!
Where is my little baby?
He/she is still in my uterus and understands that it is probably best not to come out today as I deserve a birthday of my own, because sharing is completely over rated, and it is never a good idea to upset your mum, especially if you haven’t even been born yet.
Amen.

Sweep

I’m ABSOLUTELY fed up.
Had a membrane sweep yesterday. Did some internet wandering before hand and found the usual range of scaremongering and mardy comments on Yahoo Answers. Talk about a sweep being ‘worse than labour’, ‘incredibly painful’ and ‘would never have another’ just go to prove what a country of weedy drips we are. Do you want this child to gestate inside you until it comes running out with self inflicted tattoos and piercings, capable of smoking, obtaining a driving licence and waving a ballot slip? Right, shut up and get on with it then.
LABOUR WILL NOT TICKLE – you knew this from day one. Man up.

Basically, a membrane sweep is a good ol’ rustle around in your lady bits – an internal examination to see what’s happening in your nether regions and a chance to get on the baby’s nerves enough to get it moving...maybe they show it a picture of Jedward or something...I couldn’t really see.
After some fumbling and ACME sponsored sound effects echoed out from under the blue kitchen roll placed across the top of my legs, the midwife happily announced that I’m ready to go. Already 2cm dilated and baby at the 5/5ths station – i.e. a violent sneeze in the queue at TESCO should set the cat amongst the pigeons. Problems is, 39 hours later, after hovering, mopping, washing windows inside and out, valeting my car and manual pumping up my tyres...nothing.

After giving up alcohol, various foods, bladder control and kissing goodbye to my once spritely genitals (not literally)...it looks like my little bundle of joy will next be taking away my birthday.
So ungrateful.

WHERE ARE YOU? Hmm?

Final Midwife Appointment

Last midwife appointment today.
What the hell is that?

I have regularly chronicled my encounters with the urea pot on this blog. I have regaled you with depressing and unsavoury tales of disappointing aim, disturbing hue and discouraging spillage.

Today: it was the ultimate challenge. The 40 week test. The gauntlet. Not a heat, or a qualifier.

The final. Time to sort the men from the boys. Potentially, my Vietnam.

Yes, the cup is huge; massive – there’ll be no missing the opening. The vast flip lid beaker, on first inspection, screamed trainee cup. The ‘modern apprenticeship’ of urine collection. However, these preliminary observations would only be dwelled upon by the novice tinkler. The battle today was not with aim, positioning or hydration levels: but with VOLUME. The concluding, ultimate, definitive urination vessel would confine up to 100ML of fluid. Here, in tiny marked intervals up the side of the impressively proportioned chalice, lay the road to celebrated eminence; illustrious notoriety. The opportunity to BECOME A LEGEND.

I entered the cubicle with adrenaline coursing through my ill-prepared, dehydrated veins. Why oh why did I opt for toast for breakfast, over a milk based bowl of cereal? Porridge, though gloopy, would surely have been a more favourable option. I faintly heard the vat of workshy Tropicana in our fridge sigh redundantly. My loyal morning cuppa and that unsuspecting glass of water during the night are my only allies in what, under such extremely shambolic, ill prepared circumstances, would be a dogged, gritty pursuit of glory.

I pulled across the lock, and prepared myself to excrete. To secrete, release and emit like never before. (That would be my team motto, but in latin.) Stupidly, like a nervy abseiler peering over a cliff, I gave in to the temptation to have one last glance at the magnitude of the cup. Jesus!
Come on woman. Prepare to expel. I squatted. Settled. And began.

What followed was a fraught, tense, focused and tenacious 6 second attempt at liquefied spendour. On straining the very last dregs from my tattered, exhausted bladder, I rose unsteadily from my endeavour. As if in slow motion, Chariots of Fire resounding in my ears, I brought the cup to my sweaty brow. As my focus returned I hazily made out the initial volume in the cup, while hurriedly replacing the lid so not to compromise a drop of my achievement. Regaining my composure, I finally felt able to accurately assess the true level of my attempt. I read the divisions carefully – 10ml per line. I surveyed my level. I placed it on the cistern to validate my decision. MY GOD. I AM GOOD.
A whopping, staggeringly fable-like 86ml.

I left the surgery with a spring in my step, a song in my heart and knowing beyond any doubt that I had woven my own impressive yarn in the wee-wee tapestry of Sherdley Medical Centre.
Those midwives will talk about that bad boy for YEARS.

Loose End

Tuesday 13th September. 3 days late.

Alphabeticalised DVD's...

Paperwork-less desk....

Washing basket...

Washing machine...

'Garden - Summer' Cupboard...

Wall that was cream this morning...

Organised gym...

Beautifully edged lawns...

Absolutely bleached kitchen...

Hurry up and      BE BORN!

Philosophy

Dunno what to write today.
Could talk to you about not being allowed to do anything – lift, stretch, climb, breathe. Thought about telling you how difficult it is to trim my in-growing toenail. Answered seven depressing ‘any news yet?’ texts. Read that Wagon Wheels never got smaller (must have been a kid to adult perspective thing). Wondered why Ken and Deirdre have never decorated. And slept. Alot.

My favourite song is Baz Luhrmann’s ‘Sunscreen Song’. Whilst grazing idly on 13 Malted Milks (how the hell does that happen?), I decided it would be fun to put together my own edition of this iconic song for the baby, with advice, beliefs and ideas that a wide range of ‘character building’ life lessons have taught me.

Don’t EVER kneel on a plug.
Funsize is always the least fun size.
Wipe.
Never run a marathon. It’ll play havoc with your toenails.
Always have in one more toilet roll than you imagine you’d need.
Stir your soup when it comes out of the microwave.
Don’t ever presume you are cool enough to do a ‘peace sign’ in a photograph.
Show off.
Breaking wind will always break the tension.
Always make sure your window is down before you try to throw something out of it.
There is no such thing as ‘big boned’.
Don’t pick your nose in a traffic jam.
Moan.
Don’t fiddle with it...you’ll only make it worse.
A mullet is never a good idea.
Watching an England match is a complete waste of time.
Underpants will never ‘do another day’.
Pull your pants up.
A trip to Florida will never be too expensive.
Describing yourself as ‘bonkers’, ‘crazy’ or ‘random’ is embarrassing. DON’T.
Sharing is over rated.
It could always be worse. You could be Lenny Henry.
Never pressurise your Mum into admitting she trumped.
Exaggerate.
No-one ever believes it is about the ‘taking part’. 
Athlete’s foot is worth catching just so you can scratch it.

Me Again

If it’s not one thing; it’s your mother.
She has given me a dog’s life this week. After what has been a mostly agreeable, in fact, I must be fair, generally first rate stay in my all inclusive lodgings, things have recently taken a stern turn for the worse. The once excellent level of care provided by my mother has nose-dived rapidly, becoming what can only be described as grossly inadequate.

What the hell is curry?! The fizzing and popping and melting that stuff has caused – child abuse. She’s got a cheek; whinging and moaning about heartburn, yet there are trumps whistling around here that would take down a rhino! And I have no say in the matter! She’s shovelled some real foreign muck in here this week, and at the minute, boy, can she shovel! The sheer amount this woman can consume is utterly staggering; if I wasn’t so uncomfortable, it might even be classed as impressive. But I am uncomfortable – incredible uncomfortable. Make it known, I hear you cry! Well I have fidgeted and pushed and Braxton Hicks-ed her with brute force. Yet still she powers on, every mouthful tightly confining me further. Seemingly, I ought to just sit here and take it! Much more of this blatant disregard for my delicate little stomach (not to mention assaulted sense of smell) and they’ll be nothing else for it. I’ll have to move out.

Also, what’s with all the walking? One minute she’s still, calm, relaxed, at ease. The next minute, that chap is muttering away and she sways aggressively back and forth on the spot. Clearly, I am not at the forefront of her thoughts at this point, as I’m flung around with what is verging on near contempt. Her increased heart rate and intermittent whining at this point are incredibly irritating. I can barely hear myself think. Maybe she’s training for some sort of sports event. Or again, maybe it’s her means of providing a ‘not so subtle’ eviction notice. Either way, it’s bloody unpleasant, and somehow more than a little bit disturbing.

 (I can never remember whether it’s sincerely of faithfully if I don’t refer to you by name? God, she’ll hate that. I’ll just go with...)

Cheers,
Baby Briars xxxx

D-Day

D-Day. 10/09/2011.

Trying EVERYTHING to get it out now. Today-pineapple chunks, long walk around Chester, bumpy car ride, curry for tea, then nookie. Dave's made up. He loves curry.

I also decided to make a "Birth CD". I thought it would be a nice touch as our baby makes its grand entrance into the world. To be able to determine the first few sounds they hear and drown out any swearing. Just set the tone, and also share a few messages, through music, of our feelings during those first few precious moments.

Track 1. The Beach Boys - Good Dilations.

Alright, alright...real songs.

Track 1. Everybody Hurts - R.E.M.
(Initial contractions)

Track 2. Under Pressure – Queen.
(In car on way to hospital)
Track 3. I Wanna Be Sedated – The Ramones
(4cm-5cm – Established labour)
Track 4. Drugs Don’t Work – The Verve
(When gas and air just isn’t cutting it)
Track 5. Comfortably Numb – Pink Floyd
(Epidural please)
Track 6. Push It – Salt N Pepa
(Nearly there)
Track 7. Ring Of Fire – Johnny Cash
(Crowning)
Track 8. Oops Up Side Your Head – The Gap Band
(Who last had those forceps?)
Track 9. Born Slippy – Underworld
(THANK GOD!)
Track 10. Supermassive Black Hole – Muse
(Stitching up the episiotomy)

Post - natal aftercare? Nirvana – Smells Like Surgical Spirit.

Travelling Light

Packed hospital bags today.
I’m due tomorrow, so thought I’d better get it done. No use in putting it off much longer. I toyed with doing it on the way to the hospital, because I’m really good at fitting things in at the last minute. That said, people have told me that giving birth is one thing you REALLY SHOULDN’T BE LATE FOR. We’ll see.

I’m not really sure how much to take. What will the hospital provide? What will the baby need? Will there be the opportunity to pose about and show off a bit (i.e. take stuff with decent labels) or is everyone going to be fussing the baby and not notice my stuff (i.e. a Primark job)? It’s already a bit over rated this baby stuff...I like MY stuff getting noticed...selfish.

Okay. Based on the idea that I’ll stay in for one night (apparently typical of first time mums), this is what I’ve packed. Have a look through and see what you think. 

The cameras. I'll also be taking my mobile. Dave's phone.
Extra batteries. Video camera. Laptop. Dictophone? 

Actual convict swag - THE freebie blanket.

My....I mean...OUR toiletries.

Flowers = pretty. Stripes = potential convict. Handle with care.
Perfect

My 'overnight' bag. A bit much. 

Oh....broken.

So...thoughts?

Pain Relief

Still two people living in my one body.
I want as natural a birth as possible; birth pool and just gas and air (I like that idea now, sitting in my dressing gown, watching This Morning). In wandering around the internet to find further natural pain relief ideas, I discovered “Positive Birth Affirmations”. Basically, the idea is to repeat these encouraging ideas to yourself throughout labour, and via the psychological phenomenon that is the mind/body connection, you can effectively turn labour into a virtual skip through a summers meadow on a serene cloud of loveliness. For example “I am strong” and “I can do this” – yep. These I can go with. However. I do have a couple of issues...

1) “Giving Birth Is Smooth, Fast And Easy”
You know the familiar tale...woman’s waters break tidily into the toilet. She is uneventfully and swiftly whisked by her calm, prepared partner to the welcoming, well organised hospital. After a nothing to write home about, mind numbingly dull 7 and a half minutes, out pops junior. Hmmm?

2) “I Feel Safe, Secure And Confident While Birthing My Baby”
I look forward to posing, model like; assured, poised, effortlessly cool, exuding magnetic allure,  around the softly lit, luxurious delivery suite; whilst covered in a wild array of bodily fluids and waste products, naked and bleeding in front of a room full of disinterested medical personnel.

3) “What Your Mind Believes, Your Body Achieves”
Now this really is cutting edge stuff. Mothers the world over will be delighted to hear that, if only they’d really wanted labour to not hurt, then... it wouldn’t have done! And why has this gem of wisdom not being passed on by all fully trained midwives, as part of routine pre and post-natal care ....because it’s LIES. 

4) “My Body Knows How To Give Birth / I Was Made To Do This”
Okay? A) Professional people will offer to INJECT A POISON INTO MY SPINE to quell the pain. B) The baby will come out of a hole which WILL PROBABLY HAVE TO TEAR to accommodate it. C) I will POO in front of strangers. Yep, my body has got it sussed. And a fab sense of humour. 

Click here to launch video.
P.S. I agree with the critics; Michelle Collins Manchester accent is not as good as it could be.

39 + 4 Check Up

Wee pot accuracy was fleeting.
Today saw seat splashes, wet fingers, overflowing cup; I may even have caught a sleeve. Waiting room heaving, and sponsored by Cash My Gold. Dale Winton, a set of scales and a large cardboard cheque have set up shop behind reception. It’s a question I often ask myself; why wear only four sovereign rings when you’ve got 10 fingers? Actual Jeremy Kyle fodder. People call in just to pick up lie detector results. Girl over there has clearly sold her eyebrows for a pair of dirty Ugg boots. The ‘Crazy Frog’ ringtone can be faintly heard as someone asks a midwife if it’s okay to bring a dog in. A 23st woman in a pink velour tracksuit rifles through a table of 6 month old dog-eared magazines. I often find the literature on offer in a waiting room says something about the clientele. Here? The leaflets – predictably – “Drug Awareness”, “STIs: All You Need To Know” and “Anger – Helping Others Understand”. The sparseness of these racks of these would suggest all are clearly best sellers. Alternatively “Tackling Obesity”, “Contraception – It’s Your Choice”, and “How To Manage Oral Hygiene” are obviously not quite so much to this audiences taste. The “Travel Sickness” leaflet stand? PACKED.
Magazine wise - Max Power, Chav Weekly and The ASBO Gazette. Also, Take A Break. From what? Certainly not fake tan. Or benefits.
Using the self service computer to sign in for an appointment, it became apparent that the computer courses offered by the Job Centre just aren’t cutting the mustard. Limited ICT knowledge encouraged people to; try to feed appointment letters into the machine; knock or rub the screen, perhaps speculating that an actual person/genie may appear to assist them; and finally, the most cutting edge option...scan their iris. Clearly, certain people believe the MOD and NHS have some sort of arrangement. Though looking at this cohort of Crimewatch graduates, they might be onto something.
As Winton called my name, (which, upon merely hearing it in such a setting, seemed to have taken on a destitute edge) I rose from my incredibly uncomfortable seat, ready to be completely underwhelmed by non-committal Weedy Midwife. As we traipsed through her familiarly creaky door (even THAT whinges), I was greeted by...A NEW FACE! What followed can only be described as an enjoyable experience! I was dealt with enthusiastically, sincerely and with dedication. My time with this lady was informative and useful. Not what I have come to expect. In fact...I found the whole thing quite unnerving. In fact...downright undermining. I have come to expect a complete, utter and  comprehensive waste of my time. The one thing I have come to rely on was the ‘moan mileage’ generated by my futile visits. And now they can’t even get that right. A heavily pregnant woman needs consistency. And an excuse for a ruddy good carp.
The bloody nerve!   

Hurry Up Baby

Getting bored now.
Aggressive period pains, gurgling heartburn, very fidgety baby, aching back, can’t poo. Clearly, not in peak physical condition. Neither are there any imminent signs that this will soon be over. Magic.
Over the last two days I have researched and put into practise various natural means of inducing labour.
Firstly, spicy food. After a blow out Indian yesterday (which resulted only in numerous blow outs in my undies), I followed up today with a Louisiana Hot Wrap from Frankie and Bennies (again, just more anal acoustics).

So, I tried a horror film. ‘Devil’ was the selected blood curdler. Seen it? If not, don’t bother. From someone who cannot pick out a whodunit (I didn’t see Sixth Sense coming) when the culprit is a blood stained, shadowy, hooded, sithe carrying relative of Anthony Hopkins; this one? Had it from the start. During the big ‘reveal’ of the baddie, I faintly heard the baby heave a sigh of tedium, before performing the slow, sarcastic clap of predictable boredom.   

Next I tried humour. Laugh it out, I had been told. Meeting up with Uni friends, Seb Farrell, SJ Hall, Jen White and her little boy Ethan would normally prove a giggle. However, having gorged on a fantastically cheap three course lunch menu, grappling with acute period pain and earnestly forcing misdirected burps into the seat fabric; laughter...NOT the best medicine.     

Finally, prolonged walking/standing. Granted, choosing to conduct this in the North West DVLA headquarters may have contributed to the lack of movement I experienced. Whilst occupying a spot in the 1 hour 15 minute queue, the fact I myself assumed the foetal position on more than one occasion should have provided an indication that this was not a venue capable of inspiring many a miracle. And whilst the conversation with ‘Kluffy’ (the Shadrach Dingle type I nestled behind) offered a diversion from the lack of progress (both forward and downward), his farm-like odour and lacklustre banter did not, surprisingly, cajole into the world a new life. As government sponsored queues go, it wasn’t one of the more riveting (unlike a visit to the Inland Revenue – those guys can really work a crowd). Having been treated with the personal attention and individual care for which such cherished venues have become renowned, I left, thoroughly dissatisfied, but in possession of a replacement tax disc and disgruntled expression. I did quite hope that parking near Old Trafford might at least entice initial contractions, if not coax out a full head, in order to show due respect for the hallowed turf. Sadly, the enchanting world of government administration had already worked it’s uneventful magic, and my child had managed to tenaciously crack it’s way back into one of my eggs.

Other options; raspberry leaf tea, eating pineapple and castor oil... with my current penchant for a tootle on the bum trumpet? Best left WELL alone.

Freebies

I needed to buy some nursing bras.

(What size are supposed to get? Do boobs get bigger after birth – because of the milk – or smaller because the baby has been born? Very confusing.) Anyway, after perusing a catalogue of airbrushed, sympathetically lit photographs, accompanied by sensual online descriptions; I bought three wire laden, nauseatingly coloured, pre-War-esque mammary monstrosities. Why? 3 for £15. Bargain.

After arranging instore collection, I discovered in trying on the bras, one was a Lola Ferrari castoff. Having violently crushed my boob ego, it needed returning. This bra had a ‘face value’ on the label of £30. I paid £5 for it on offer...

Me: (In queue at till) Wouldn’t it be funny if she refunded us £30 instead of £5?
Dave: Yeah, but stuff like that never happens to...
Shop Assistant: (Innocently) Can I help you?
Me: I’d like to return this bra. It’s the wrong size.
Shop Assistant: (Kindly) Well, unfortunately, we don’t sell underwear at this store, but you can exchange it for something of equivalent value?
Me: That’ll be fine.
Shop Assistant: (Unsuspectingly scans barcode tag on bra) Okay, anything to the value of £30 then...
Me: (Like rabbit in headlights) £30?
Shop Assistant: (Kind heartedly) Just select something and bring it over and I’ll sort it out.

I stepped aside. Realisation. A solitary bead of sweat seeped from my confused, stealthy, illegal   brow. Traversing spasmodically through the store, picking up random items, I whispered to Dave...
Me: (Panicking) What do we do?
Dave: (Calmly) Pick something. Pick something very quickly.
See. Not my doing. Coerced. Your honour.

The next two minutes were a blur of dizzying adrenaline, colourful shop items and faint siren sounds. Shambling gracelessly into a display, my Frank Abegnale of a husband did not quite embody the charisma of a veteran frauster. With the poise of totally un-seasoned criminals, the poor-man’s Ocean’s Eleven duo clumsily turned over the unsuspecting store, searching manically for ANY £30 item. Snatching ineptly at any and all articles within our ham-fisted reach, we returned to the till with our loot. The theme tune to Fraud Squad ringing in our ears, we left the store, with some sort of garishly coloured kiddy blanket we neither needed nor wanted.
Result.

It's Me!

Sunday – Mum’s day off!!

Hello world!! It’s me! Baby Briars! Speaking to YOU! From the womb! How am I doing this? Look, you’re ruining it now. You’ll be questioning my ability to spell and punctuate next. Trust me, with my mother, I learnt 9 months ago that incorrect grammar just isn’t an option. Foetus or not, she will make no exception. And if I can deal with all the pressure of turning myself from a minute embryo into an actual person, and along the way pick up a comprehensive grasp of the English language, surely you can just GO WITH THIS...

Right – while I’ve got the chance to talk to you, we need to set a few things straight. First of all, tell my mother to stop assuming I’m a boy. Look at the colour of this font! It’s insultingly stereotypical and downright presumptuous. Even I don’t know ‘what’ I am yet, (it’s far too squashed to get a glance at anything down there), but still, there’s a 50% chance (yes, she did some maths with me too – slave driver) that I’m a girl. Please have a word.

Next. Please tell her to stop nesting. When she next decides to scrub between the bathroom tiles – tell her they’re clean. When she next decides to mop the floors, then get down on all fours and dry them – tell her they’re clean. And when she next decides to tidy out the paint cupboard in the garage, tell her nobody gives a **** what your garage cupboard look like. All this pottering about really doesn’t help, and it encourages me to swear. That’ll stop her. 

Finally. A water birth? Please tell her; I can’t swim!! Yes, I’m surrounded by fluid at the moment, but what with all the dictionaries, thesauri (is that a word?) and notepaper floating around, I quite simply haven’t had chance to fit in swimming practise as well! I am, after all, not yet even one full human being. And quite frankly, there are only so many hours in the day, and I have to prioritise. Clearly, I did not see this one coming. I put all my eggs in the ‘she is looking for an academic child’ basket, and completely overlooked the ‘sporty/physical’ option. I’ll do what I can in the coming week, but I’m relying on you to help me out here. It WON’T go down well. Break it gently.
God...I really don’t need this at the moment. Can I just stay in here?
In hopeful anticipation of your support, thank you.
Baby Briars xxxx

Water Birth

Just one week to go now.
Woke up to searing cramp up the back of my right calf. Nice. I say ‘woke’ up, it was more of an eruption from the covers, to frantically resolve the spasm, a journey from horizontal and silent to vertical and screaming with nothing in between. And ‘woke’ would suggest that I have indulged in the land of nod. The most managed last night was dozing. The combination of barrel belly, bum cheek cramp and a sudden penchant for smearing drool, dribble and general mouth excretions liberally across my pillow are not a restful night’s kip ensuring. Frequent night time wee-wees, which, quite frankly, stink, are the cherry on top of the repellent being I have become. 

I have decided to opt for a water birth, due to a wealth of pros – natural pain relief; calmer, slower labour; reduced blood pressure; POTENTIALLY LESS TEARING. As far as I can see, there is only one con. But it is one BIG con. Dirty water. 

What if I poo? What if I quite literally, drop off more than one child at the pool? What if it sinks and I end up kicking it round like a brick at the bottom of the council baths? At least on a bed, it can be quickly swiped away. In water labour could turn into a desperately low rent version of ‘Hook A Duck’, with a highly undesirable prize. What if, in that earliest photograph of me, Dave and Baby Briars, that magical first image of our brand new little family, tired, proud, elated, there is, bobbing around in the background, a fourth family member? What if, in those last excruciating moments of labour, I have to balance the burning agony of my tortured perineum with the batting away of a high roaming bum brownie? This is not toilet humour. There IS NO TOILET. And this is NOT HUMOROUS. 

I have been told defecation will be the least of my worries on the day. I was also told that Father Christmas is real, eating crusts makes your hair curl, and that Zach from Saved By The Bell was killed in a car crash. Moral? I am gullible. Susceptible, naive and far too trusting. Well not any more. It’s time to grow up and face reality. Deep breath. Labour is going to happen. I probably am going to poo. I need to wise up and embrace my more responsible, worldly self.

Having researched further options available, I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to go for the ‘Stork Delivery’ Mum had with me. Must find out if they offer this at Whiston... 

Last Work Day

Final official day in work today.
Whether it is something about September, or being a teacher, or being part of schools in general, I yesterday completed my annual ritual of purchasing new ‘BACK TO SCHOOL’ stationery. Every September – new pencil case/pens/highlighters/files/folders/wallets in a variety of shades, sizes and even scents (strawberry gel pens rule) manage to creep into the “stuff I NEED even though I’m in my overdraft”. Stationery manufacturers somehow manage to tap into my insecure teenage girl and make her really believe that: well stocked pencil case = new start where I’m now somehow cool, popular, organised, reliable, more attractive to the opposite sex and, most importantly, under this new regime and fresh start, will remain all of these things now and FOREVER.  Unfortunately, reality/ generosity/ being ‘me’ will take over and the once bright, shiny, newly stocked pencil case of September will, by January, consist of 2 blue BIC biros (without lids), 309 black and yellow striped blunt Staedler pencils stolen absent mindedly from school, and the cardboard sleeve of what once was a rubber. And some old sharpenings when I couldn’t find a bin. By April? Lost. 

By June I’ll occasionally reminisce about that time in September when I was somebody. Somebody of substance, of matter, of WORTH. Somebody that actually had stationery. And I’ll look on bitterly, cynically, and, I’ll be honest, aggressively, at that gorgeous cow who, IN JULY, still carries her perfectly matching Paul Frank 14 piece correspondence set with the style, vigour, organisation and yet a seemingly breezy carefree-ness I can only ever aspire to at the dawn of each new school year. I am bigger that all that now anyway. Good luck to her.
She just mustn’t have a life, any mates or much of a personality. That’s all. 

First day back after the summer holidays and an INSET day on Numeracy provided by the fantastic Anthony Reddy. Absolutely superb training, and even more enjoyable was the people watching aspect, as the leaders of the classroom became the insecure, giggly students. Students who, on being selected at random to respond to mathematical questions, all became expert in avoiding eye contact with THE MAN WHO WAS PICKING ON THEM. Yawning, coughing, scratching an itch, pretending to write something down were predictable diversions, however I was wowed by the ‘I’ve just dug something impressive out of my ear’ tactic one colleague employed. Despite inflicting such torture on my pupils on each day of the academic year, having the tables turned felt more threatening than I imagined it might. At times, I actually hoped my waters might break just to save me from having to respond in front of my peers. Or at least some sort of massive shooting pain or spectacular contraction to ward him off. Teaching the higher ability Year 5 maths group, there is a certain expectation that you can hold your own when it comes to counting, forwards and backwards, and when pushed, in 2s. However, whether I can put it down to nerves, or baby brain, or occasional fleeting dyscalculia, I decided to announce that the odd number which follows 3 is in fact 6. This idiotic comment, from someone guiding children towards Level 5 numeracy, might be considered embarrassing, awkward, in fact, downright unacceptable. However. I am almost 28 years old. A grown adult. I am soon to become a mother. A role model. So, with as much calm, composure and unperturbed grace as I could muster, I corrected my answer. “I mean, 5”. As the room slowly settled, I felt more must still be done to ease the tension I had created, and instil my colleagues’ faith in me, as not just a teacher, but a god damn human being. So, I did what any quick thinking, rational and upwardly mobile woman in their right mind would do. I swiftly reached out and deftly snatched at the item that would redeem me of my cardinal mathematical sin. A sigh of relieve swelled the room as every set of eyes acknowledged that I wasn’t a complete imbecile. I had a well stocked, undoubtedly chic, new pencil case. Nailed it.

September 1st

The magical, life changing month of September has finally arrived!
A time of nervousness, excitement, apprehension and celebration! In just 15 short days time...I cannot believe it has come around so quickly...it will be...MY BIRTHDAY! Wohoo! 28 years of sophistication, class and, dare I say it, quite often, the nearest damned thing to physical excellence you will ever witness on two legs (if you discount http://youtu.be/rtJVs3p2mk8)
Oh, yeah...baby due this month too. An extra pressie for me!
Dave returned from his training course in London with a delightful gift, which will just keep on giving. On regaling me with tales of awkward ‘ice-breakers’ and self-conscious ‘role-play scenarios’, we moved on to discuss his work plans in light of this new training in the coming days. It was at this point that my gift, was, metaphorically, unwrapped.

Me: So, when are you working tomorrow?
Dave: I’ve got my induction at one o’clock, and then I’m going to do a few hours and get to know the place, so I’ll probably be back about 6ish.
Me: And Friday?
Dave: Well, it all depends on tomorrow. I’ll get a feel for the place, drill down about the foot fall, then take it from there.
Me: ‘Drill down about the foot fall’?
Dave: Yeah. Find out when particular groups of members are using the gym.
Me: So by ‘drill down’, you mean, enquire... find out.... ASK.
Dave: What?
Me: And by ‘foot fall’, you mean....
Dave: Potential clients on site.
Me: So, WHEN PEOPLE ARE IN THE GYM?
Dave: (Still with a straight face) Well, yeah, but also who, you know, which groups of people, are making up the foot fall.
Me:  Now, is it definitely ‘foot fall’ you should be measuring? Cause I heard the way forward is to track the ‘shoe droppings’, or failing that the ‘sole of trainer to the lino ratio’...

My Top Ten Management Speak Phrases 

1.    “As Team Leader, I operate an open door policy.” – I’m your boss. Let’s pretend I’m approachable.

2.    “And also in addition to that, I would like to add...” – Clearly, an idea worth of build up.

3.    “110%” – As opposed to those who are really committed (500%), or those who are completely disinterested (101%)

4.    “We are speaking the same language on this one.” – Let’s abandon the Swahili we attempted earlier.

5.     “I will continue to cascade those ideas through the sales slash delivery pipeline.” – I’m an idiot.

See http://youtu.be/rt2RoHnsh70 for Fry and Laurie’s “Boardroom” sketch 

London, in a matter of two short days, has clearly had it’s inimitable, conceited and yet hopefully fully reverse-able way with my previously perfectly cynical husband. Hopefully, a week back in the honest, sullied, scornful and beautifully disparaging North West of England will return him to his formally derisive self.