That familiar feeling of fear is creeping in. I hadn’t allowed myself to admit it but it’s here, softly whispering in my mind. Childbirth!
As much as I believe I will birth the way I desire and visualise this time around, I just can’t stop those niggling thoughts from popping in and lingering around. I’m a little bit scared. Not hugely, but a little bit. My last birth was a big slap in the face as I did everything I thought was possibly right for my first birthing experience. Calm birth, meditations, perineal massage, acupuncture, mindfulness, pelvic floor strengthening, positive thinking and still I had to have an emergency caesar. I pulled and stretched at my lady bits in preparation for the big show every night only to have a doctor bypass right past ‘her’ and cut my baby out of my tummy instead. It all felt like it was a waste of time and effort and like my body failed myself. I know it wasn’t a waste of time, I enjoyed and felt humbled doing all of those things in preparation for birth but I was left a fair bit shattered after all the hard yards I’d put in.
With all the self work I’ve done on myself since then, I am still unable to shake the feeling of being ripped off as a woman. Like I’m not a whole woman because I couldn’t birth out of my vagina. I felt like my body and my mind let me down. My body was healthy and my mind strong and yet, I couldn’t do it. I can still hear that soulless, desperate voice of mine giving up and gasping “Just cut me open”.
I’ve read so many other blogs, forums and articles about this feeling and I know I shouldn’t be thinking of myself in this way but in all honesty, deep down, I do. It’s a personal thing of mine. I’m well aware that being able to conceive and give birth in any form is a miracle in itself. But I just really, really wanted and continue to want to have a vaginal birth. I want to feel it all. I want to go through the motions. I want the burn, the sweat, the tears, I want to feel strong and powerful and roar. I want the magic. I want what my body is made to do. Call me crazy!
Carrying and birthing life is such a, incredible and beautiful experience to go through but it has also been one of the most consistent of stressful times too. Not a normal, anxiety kind of stress, just a high level of worry kind of stress. Everyday. From the moment we woman find out we’re pregnant our entire way of life changes. Our relationships change, (both intimate and socially) our occupations change, our routines, our bodies, our outlook on life, our hormones. The list continues to grow.
From day dot, we never know what’s going to happen to the life growing inside of us but we have to continue on and believe everything will turn out ok.
There are so many check ups and scans and tests and doctors and needles that it can all become overwhelming… and expensive. Take this, do this, don’t do that, don’t eat that, eat more of this, less of that, go here, go there, etc, etc. And waiting for those test results to come back is nerve racking.
We’re told to keep it ‘hush hush’ that were pregnant until the ‘safe’ period of 12 weeks has been reached but from my experience, there is no ‘safe’ period. The entire 40-42 weeks is a no-safe zone. Anything can happen at any time right up until the first breath of air has surpassed those tiny fresh little lungs… and then some.
Every little kick and movement I feel in my belly gives me reassurance that my baby is doing well. The tiredness and complete exhaustion I feel (and complain about) lets me know that baby is getting all my nutrients and growing nicely. My increasingly overflowing bust tells me a healthy supply of milk is brewing. Everyday is a new day, and one-by-one I’m getting closer to birthing our new baby. And one-by-one I say a little prayer to keep him safe and tucked up in there.
When we return home from our trip, I’ll start the perineal massage again. I’ll continue with pilates, meditations, podcasts and self work. I’ll do everything I am suppose to do and more… I have to surrender to my expectations. What will be, will be. I know and believe my body is capable of giving birth naturally so i just have to surrender and sit with that.
How ever our baby enters earth, I’m giddily looking forward to it…
On a lighter note, we were recently camped out in a nature reserve near Noosa and run out of water. We would of had to pack up everything, reload the caravan and head back over on the barge to the mainland if we wanted to refill…and that option was not in our schedule nor in my levels of energy. We had just enough for us to drink to get us through 24hrs but non for cleaning up, doing dishes or washing ourselves. It was incredibly annoying not only because Lach and I both drink up to 2-3 litres each a day (yes, we’re big water drinkers) but because we were camped in the sand dunes and our feet were constantly black from dirt. Luca was a permanent shade of grey with the soil she was collecting crawling through the dunes. The stink setted into my skin and under my nails nicely.
At the time of Lach announcing that the water had run out, it was hot, my feet were hanging off the end of the bed all dusty, my lips were a bit dehydrated and crusty, my nostrils dry with dirt and a thin veil of dust settled on my entire body. That exact feeling when you’re 4 days in to a dirty music festival. I was so looking forward to my evening shower… but no… Stinks all round. Out came the Wet-Wipes.
It was however nice to reflect on just how fortunate we are to all live our super comfy lives with an abundance of clean, water gushing through our household pipes and spewing out our taps.To be able to rinse our dishes before we put them in our dishwashers. To run the cold water out of the hot tap. To rinse our toothbrushes. To not fix that constant, dripping tap. To waste and frolic in.
It’s moments like these that make me feel so utterly grateful and ridiculously spoilt to live in a first world country. It makes me feel stupid for even complaining that we had run out in the caravan. Water was a mere half hour away. I was just too lazy to pack up and go get it.
But seriously, I felt like it sent me into a fearful panic when Lach announced the water tank was empty. Like armageddon had hit and I had to go on a frenzy and greedily guzzle every bottle of water I could find around our campsite before anyone else could.
It makes me thirsty just remembering it.
The following morning upon waking, hang on,…let me start that sentence again. When Luca woke us in the morning with her usual 6.30 am wake up call with squealing, the sun was bursting through the curtains behind our bedhead and casting streams of orange light throughout the van. Soooooo enchanting. Our bedroom window looked over the beachfront and the sun was just peeking up over the oceans horizon as the waves lapped on the sand before it. It sure was a sight to wake up too every morning. After breakfast I snuck off without ‘my little shadow’ for a brisk morning cleanse in the ocean…alone. As I was peacefully walking down the narrow path along the grassy sand dunes I was caught in such a joyous moment that I started to strip off…right down to my nudies. Off flew my bathers as I threw them onto the sand dunes and ran down to the water laughing to myself. Frolicking around in the sparkly, cool of the ocean I felt like a child again and when it was time for me to get out I flopped on the sand dunes and lay in the warmth of the sun, naked. It felt incredible. To have the warm sun shining where it dont usual shine was liberating and to top it off when i finally peeled myself up to head back to camp I saw Luca and Lach strolling down the dunes path with coffee and crumpets in hand. I plonked myself back down in the dunes awaiting my breakfast. What a morning.
On another evening whilst eating our dinner of fried rice watching a family of kangaroos nibble the fresh grass shoots just meters away, Luca managed to successfully slip off behind us and when I finally became aware of her houdini escape, it was too late. She was standing smack, bang, right in front of a wild kangaroo having a face off. I choked a bit, threw my rice and ran. I haven’t ran that quick for a while now., especially pregnant.
With one hand supporting my belly and the other flailing around the air yelling at Luca to “stop, stop”. But it was too late, I couldn’t run fast enough. The kangaroo lurched up on its hind feet and tail and gave her a quick left, right to the face area. ‘Boof, boof’ and then hopped off a few meters. With my mind full of swear words and fear I ran my little legs as quick as I could towards my little girl. I felt like I was in slow motion and that I was never going to reach her. I was dreading what marks the kangaroo had left on her face.
I was waiting to hear her wail out in pain but it seemed Luca was entertained by the beating she just copped and found it to be so hilarious that she kept moving forward towards it, laughing and readying herself for round 2. I was sprinting now, still holding onto my tummy shrieking like any desperate mother would be. Finally I was in reach of her and pulled her back by the scruff of her jumper. No marks on her face or body thank goodness… just a belly full of laughter. She was quite entertained.
Poor Lach was behind me the whole way through the grassy patch running and yelling at me and my belly to ‘stop, stop’, then there was me screaming and sprinting ‘stop, stop’ and then there was Luca coping a right hook from the kangaroo squealing with joy.
We created quite the scene in the camp grounds. The travelling circus strikes again… and that bad parenting guilt also settled in again.
The kangaroo experience was good preparation for me though as the next day we were to hit Fraser Island and I’d well and truly scared the pants off myself with all the readings about the savage, wild Dingos over there. All the pamphlets I read highlighted to “Always keep your children at hands reach” “Don’t take any food with you, EVER” “Never walk alone” “Never run from a Dingo” “Never travel with rubbish” “Dingos smell fear”… and all this time I was visualising ourselves having nice, family picnics, stopping to make coffee and take leisurely swims all over the island. Not anymore. And well, that last one about fear had me well and truly fu*ked.
So apparently If you’re approached by a pack of vicious, teeth gnashing, wild dingos, according to the pamphlets, is to fold your arms and stay very, very still and yell sternly for ‘help’. That’s it! Just yell for help… yell for help and hope to hell someone saves you from having your face mauled or leg torn off, or worse. Argh, yuk, I can’t even.
As if my body’s response to a pack of gnarly dingos in my face would be to stay still and plead for ‘help’. My adrenals would have me well and truly packing darkies, clobbering dogs and hanging from the tree tops… pupils dilated and screaming madly. Or to simply pass out!
The first thing I did when I got there was to find a big, bad arse whopping stick. (For bushwalking of course) and I even taught Luca how to use one too. ‘Wham wham’
I was imaging that Luca and I would be in the car the entire time and not getting to experience and see the bloody heritage listed island because I’d be too peaking off my brain about all the noises in the bush I could hear. ‘Is that a dingo” “Ahhh, what was that?”, “Where’s my stick”.
But that’s not how it unfolded at all. In fact I only saw 4 dingos in 3 days and Luca and I were able to experience the island in full and let me tell you, it is one special place. That island holds so much magic. You could feel that you were on ancient indigenous land.
It is pure and semi, untouched. I’ve seen some pretty special water holes and oceans in my time but this place… this place took my breath away in the most unexpected ways.
Yesterday we packed up our campsite after spending a relaxed week camped out in Agnes Water (6 hrs North of Brisbane). It was the first week that we all totally relaxed and really fell into the zone of just doing nothing. There was no surf which meant more family time for all 3 of us. We spent the week on the beaches, digging holes and making sand castles, spear fishing and generally just splashing about in the ocean. Heaven.
Our car is now headed Southwards, back towards the chill of Victoria and our home. We still have 4 weeks to get home and I can’t actually believe how fast the time has gone. It feels like maybe 3 weeks since we’ve been gone, not 2 months. We’re headed for Stradbroke Island for the week.
As much as I am sad to see our trip slowly coming to an end I am also full of excitement to get back to our comfy home and start nesting. To drink coffee with my girlfriends again, to see how much all their babies have grown… and to meet new babies. To thoroughly clean my hair, skin and nails, to cook a delicious 3 course meal, to be able to make smoothies for breakfast every morning, to reunite Luca with her Grandparents, to have a facial, to have my oils and diffusers bubbling away, and of course…to prepare for the miraculous entrance of our new baby.
I am excited for the next adventure.
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