Birth stories. I used to despise them…I wasn’t interested in hearing them.

I’d sit down to enjoy a few vinos with my girlfriends and then they’d start talking about their gory, bloody birth stories.

Booooooring.  

Cramping here, and moaning there. Hours of agony. Days of pains. Blood. Gizzards. Forceps, Stitches. Cursing. I’d sit there gulping my wine waiting for the conversation to change.

I was not into it. I was naive.

As always, it wasn’t until I became pregnant that I started to give a damn about birth stories. It seems that when you fall pregnant every young mummy wants to share their birth story with you (hence my blog). Good ones and bad ones. And I welcomed them all.

Some of my girlfriends were the lucky ones. They just meditated those little buggers out. In and out of hospital under 6 hours.  Some went into a deep trance while others ‘mooed’ like a slaughtered cow and begged for the drugs. Birth stories began to fascinate me. They are all so different. No story is the same. Birth is a unique experience. It’s not text book, that’s for sure.

And no matter how much you plan for your birth, shit can still go askew.

I had decided early on that I was going to be one of the lucky ones and had planned to cough my baby out. Infact, not only had I planned to cough and meditate mine out… it was also going to be achieved drug free in a warm bath with salt lamps dimly lighting the room…soft, tranquil music would fill my ears…and earthy aromatherapy would blanket the room as my loving husband whispered sweet nothings into my ear and stroked my head

Lach and I were prepared for it and our midwife was too. I had done all the right things. Both Lach and I completed the ‘Calm Birth’ lessons and were totally into it. (I very much recommend doing this, if only for the men so they know what to expect. I found that Lach responded well to hearing it from someone else other than his ‘nagging’ wife!). Kath from ‘Calm Birth’ had recommended that we stop listening to anyone with a negative birth story. She didn’t want us to be thinking about others’ misfortunes. She also insisted that we didn’t call them ‘contractions’ or mention the word ‘pain’. Instead, we were to call them ‘sensations’ and ‘intense sensations’. Everything had to be positive to keep us in the right state of mind for our birth.

We listened to our meditations every night before sleep and every time I was in the car I practiced my breathing techniques, like an idiot. Holding the steering wheel I would breathe in for 4 seconds, hold it and release for 5.Over and over again. Sometimes I’d get a head spin.  I’d been doing my kegels every day, (they became so annoying. Squeeze, hold, release, repeat). I purchased all the essential oils that I wanted to smell during labour. Lemon, lime, orange, clary, sage and lavender. I was taking my vitamins…having regular acupuncture to nurture my womb…walking everyday…I did my perineal massage routinely (wtf?) and was drinking loads of raspberry tea and burning clary sage in the oil burner.

I was in the zone.

I waited…

39 weeks…

Nothing…

40weeks…

Nothing…

41 weeks…

Nothing…

At this stage, my midwife gave me a ‘stretch and sweep’ (Picture a vet with their hand up a heifers backside)

Still nothing.

She booked me in to be induced at 42 weeks, which landed on a Tuesday. I did not want to be induced. That was NOT part of my calm birth, hippy birth plan. So on the Monday before Tuesday’s induction, I squeezed myself into an appointment at the super busy acupuncture clinic in order to try to be induced through acupuncture. I wanted to see if I could get things moving before the hospital induced me with yukky drugs and fake hormones. Induction through acupuncture still totally fitted with my le naturel birth plan.

But my birth, like many, many others…did not go to plan.

Giving birth is a very traumatic experience, both mentally and physically. I don’t look back on the birth of Luca with a negative mindset at all. I could, but to me it was one of the best experiences of my life. Even though it went incredibly pear shaped.

It should have gone to plan (right?) but during my acupuncture treatment something went terribly wrong.  

My baby had been in the perfect position for months. Head down, ready to go. My acupuncture inducing treatment involved attaching a small electric device to some of the needles which were supposed to send small electric pulses and surges up through my meridians and into my uterus in order to encourage movement down below. It wasn’t painful at all; it was a strange, tingly sensation.

Or at least it was supposed to be.

I lay there peacefully like an electric pin cushion for half an hour before the practitioner (not my usual practitioner, as i had been squeezed in for a last minute appointment ) came in to turn off the pulse machine. But instead of turning it off she turned it up FULL BORE.. My entire lower body jolted up off the bed as the machine shot a painful electric pulse through my body. I let out a scream and jumped off the bed in shock.

“Oooops, well if that doesn’t bring on your labour, nothing will!” was the practitioner’s response as she pulled out my needles. I was in shock at what had just happened and didn’t know how to respond. So I kind of just laughed it off awkwardly and began dressing myself thinking…

“I totally just got tasered”.

By the time I had paid the bill, walked to my car and put my seatbelt on, my baby had moved out of position. I felt her moving inside me and when I rubbed my hand down my left side of my belly it felt soft.

She’d moved.

My baby was now on the right hand side of my belly. She had been zapped out of position. Was my baby ok? Did she feel that? My heart sank as I knew this meant my labor would now be even longer and more intense. I had worked so hard to do everything right and this one ‘accident’ changed everything. I rang my midwife immediately who told me she would try to massage it back into position. But it didn’t work.

When I went home I tried to persuade my little electrocuted baby to move back into position by walking the infamous ‘Bluff Stairs’; I pushed and poked my tummy but baby didn’t move back. I was devastated and so angry at myself for going to that acupuncture appointment. I was angry at the practitioner. What a stupid mistake to make.

But I’m a big believer in the ‘Things Happen for a Reason’ philosophy, so I just had to believe it was meant to happen like that. That evening, lying on the couch while I was cursing Cersei as she perched her crazy arse on the throne in the final episode of ‘Game of Thrones’ I had my first ‘sensation’.

Now I can’t prove that this is why my birth didn’t go to plan (the electrocution not Cersei’s coronation) but I’m pretty bloody sure I would have had my hippy, lovey dovey, drug free water birth if that lady didn’t taser my uterus.

I almost got there. I tried my best, for 30 hours!… but in the end I had to get out of the bath and onto the table for the birth we hadn’t planned for. Beeping machines, needles, knives and cords everywhere. The beebs went faster and then the beeps went slower. A lot slower. Scary slow. But that’s another story…

Before I fell pregnant these were my assumptions about birth and pregnancy.

You get a big round, swollen tummy; You feel baby move and groove inside you; You crave stupid foods like pickles with peanut butter and order two meals for yourself when out; You get porno sized boobies; Your skin glows; You might get morning sickness; Your water breaks in a public place and you look as if you’ve just wet your pants; You huff, puff and push through your labour, legs spread, lying on your back and then your baby comes out crying and a bit gooey; And you experience an overwhelming flood of emotion and love instantly!

Thats about what I was prepared for.

Here’s what I wasn’t prepared for.

 

FREEZING SANITARY PADS

“Invest in some sanitary pads, saturate them with witch hazel and store them in the freezer” she said. You’re going to need them” she said

“What on earth…?”

I hadn’t even thought about it. I mean, I get it that some (most) women tear during pregnancy but I hadn’t actually thought about the aftermath. You know, coming home and sitting down all bruised and bashed down there. Apparently it’s a really hard and painful thing to do and wearing frozen panties soothes it.

Holy shit, lucky my poor vagina couldn’t hear this horrid conversation.

There is so much focus on the birth and birthing plan (what a joke) itself that I don’t really think we think about anything else. So yeah, there I was preparing for my birth at the kitchen bench, drowning pads in witch hazel and stocking up the freezer.

“No honey, that’s not left-overs, that’s my frozen pads. Don’t eat them”

I’m actually disappointed that I never ended up having to wear them. I was quite curious as to how they were going to feel.

They’re still in my freezer.

 

PERINEAL MASSAGE

I won’t go into too much detail here. You can google it if you’re intrigued enough because a perineal massage is NOTHING like a massage. It’s nothing like relaxing with the sweet smells of essential oils being rubbed into your body whilst listening to soft flutes and birds chirping over cascading water.

No it’s more like self mutilation. Down there.

Preparing yourself for the expansion of your you-know-what. Getting it ready. Stretching and pulling on it on the floor of your shower.

Have fun with that.

 

CATCHING COLOSTRUM

For those that don’t know what colostrum is, it is the very first liquids that ooze from your boobies before your milk comes in. Its a super food for your bubby and it’s thick like honey.

During one of our midwife’s visit she told me to invest in some syringes and try to suck out some colostrum before bubba was born.

Whaaaaaat the?

Who knew I could milk my boobies even before bubba was born? I didn’t.

She said that it is like liquid gold and it’s always good to have a stash of this in the freezer. I didn’t really understand why I should be doing this but I did everything I was told, so I attempted it… many times.

My midwife, Helen, demonstrated how I should be doing this. I should gently massage my boob and kneed it like a soft dough, always rolling toward the nipple and then a golden honey liquid would slowly drip out.

But it never bloody did. No matter how much I massaged, manipulated and contorted my breasts, I got nothin’.

I felt the mother’s guilt everyone talks about before I even became a mother. Bloody hell! Anxiety started to tickle its way up my oesophagus. I’m already a bad mother!

I became so obsessed about catching colostrum that every shower I had, there I was, syringe in one hand and the other kneading and pulling away at my chest, milking myself like a friggin cow.

My poor boobs.

 

This went on for weeks before I gave up. A friend of mine was a master at it. She used to fill her syringes like a mofo. She told me she had 3 stored in the freezer ready to go. Pow! I was so envious of her boobs. What the bloody hell was I doing wrong?

And then one afternoon when I was washing my hands in the bathroom I had to do a double take in the mirror as I looked down at my shirt to find two little wet spots on my boobs.

Woo-bloody-hoo. Colostrum!

HAIR LOSS

This one terrifies me and I’m still waiting for it to happen. I have really thin hair already so hearing that I’m going to go through extreme hair loss makes me feels sick to my stomach.

During pregnancy, because of some oestrogen hormonal reason, your hair stops falling out. Because you know, we lose up to 100 hairs a day apparently. But not when you’re pregnant. No, those little hair follicles dig deep into your skull and bury themselves there. So that means that instead of losing those 100 hairs, you keep em. And your hair gets more luscious and more luxurious by the day and by the end of 9 months you’re like totally L’oreal hair commercial worthy.

My pony tail went from a heart breaking 3 looped hair tie wrap to a dream come true, 2 loop wrap around. Winning!

My Mumma bird friends had warned me that it falls out in chunks. My sister in law, Georgia said at 3 months she was pulling it out by the handful in the shower. Just the thought of that happening to me makes me want to cry. I’m now 4 months post-birth and I’ve still got my thick hair. I’m hoping I’m one of the lucky ones that actually keeps their hair. Everytime I comb my fingers through my conditioned hair I dread what I’m going to find woven through my fingers though. And I keep a mean eye on the drain too.

 

LINEAR NEGRA

In Latin that translates to ‘Line Black’. Now flip those two words around into English and it reads ‘Black Line’

A girlfriend of mine was visiting one night when I was about 7 or 8 months pregnant. She asked me if I had my ‘linear negra’. Stumped, I look at her and asked her to repeat herself. ‘Linear Negra. That big black line pregnant woman get on their stomach’. That was the first I’d heard of it. I lifted up my shirt and we examined my guts. No line! “Oh, you’re one of the lucky ones. You probably won’t get it now that your so far along’ I pulled my shirt down and didn’t think much more of it.

But the very next morning when I was showering myself I was curious about this ‘linear negra’ thing and I looked down at my swollen belly again and what do you know. Linear bloody Negra. A big, dark, vertical strip, right down the centre of my stomach. How bizarre. Exactly what is the purpose of this ridiculous line?

Fact is, there is no purpose. Its something to do with those generous hormones spiking our pregnant systems. Not only do they make you a blubbering, soggy, crazy mess, they also make your skin all hyper pigmented. And the more I researched it, the more ridiculous it seemed. Heres a fun fun old wives’ tail I found: If it runs only up to your navel, you’re having a girl – but if it runs past your belly button to up near your ribs, it’s a boy. 

That wives tail is exactly that. A tail. Cause I had a girl and mine ran all the way up to my neck. And then those generous hormones gave me skin tags. Gross! Another hormonal thing apparently. Hundreds of teeny tiny, nasty skin tags all over my neck. Filth. Absolute filth. There were way too many to pick off so I just had to suck it up, except it and hope they disappeared after birth. After all, it’s worth it!

 

THE SHOW

Now this one is the grossest.

During our first meetings at home, my midwife kept referring to the passing of ‘the show’ and I just kept nodding my head and repeating “ah huh, yep, uh huh” like I knew exactly what she was talking about. When she left our house I proceeded to visit Dr Google to ask him.

Holy moly what is that?  Yuk, thats what it is.

For those of you who are not completely informed about giving birth, your ‘show’ is also known as your mucous plug. Ew huh? Two words your vagina does not want to hear.

Mucous and Plug. ‘Show’ is a much nicer word for it.

You can pass your ‘show’ before or during your labour. You can pass your ‘show’ days before you start to go into labour or you pass it during labour. It’s a good sign that things are about to get serious down there.

In the lead up to Little Birdy’s arrival, there were moments when I thought I had passed my ‘show’. There were many occasions where I closely examined my underpants on the loo thinking I had passed it. A little speck of something unfamiliar and I would be pants down running through the house yelling out for Lachie. “Look, look, ‘The Show’.I think this is it. Oh my god, it’s going to happen tonight for sure”.

But the contractions never came. Nothing happened those nights. I’d repeat this for days on end in the lead up to our due date. It became a regular occurrence, me running from the toilet with my pants down, screaming out to Lach “This one, look at this one, this is it for real…”

Never was though.. I didn’t really have any idea how big or small the ‘show’ would be until I was in actual pants down labor at the hospital.

Then I saw how big this ‘show’ thing is.

In between contractions I had a sudden white hot urge to be completely naked; furiously and dramatically ripping down my underpants I was overcome with horror to what lay awaiting me in the crotch of my panties. Snapping my head up I remember yelling out in pure fear and shock “Ohhhh my god, what is that? Is that my baby in my pants?” It looked like Maggie Beer had dumped her red wine jelly verjuice in my jocks.

Lach raced over in panic and yanked the jelly jocks out of my hand and took them to the bathroom, where under the light he closely examined the contents. I saw relief and pure disgust sweep across face as the reality hit him. He slopped it into the toilet.

‘Splosh’.

It’s ok babe, that was the show.

 

 

Trimester 3. Nesting time.

Setting up a nursery can be a fun and heartwarming experience. For mums-to-be, many hours can be spent researching on Pintrest, gathering trinkets, collecting soft blankets, dangling hangy mobiles and folding insy binsy clothing. Many women get so much joy from doing this and I was one of them. But for such a tiny human you require a lot of stuff… A lot of expensive stuff.

I put our nursery together kind of last minute when I was at 35 weeks… because at 30 weeks… we thought it was a good time to renovate, smash down the walls of our house, expose the possum piss soaked insulation bats and let the wind whip around it’s insides. That horrific smell of possum pee was trapped in my nostrils and followed me everywhere for weeks. It was not a pleasant time for my 30 week pregnant nose. In fact it was not a good time to be renovating. But at the last minute I declared that I wanted the perfect little nest for our new little bird and Mummy wanted a walk in wardrobe and what pregnant Mummy wants, pregnant Mummy gets 😉

So down came the walls and in came the tradies.

The hubby, Tommy and Timmy, Brett Bro and JJ all diligently chipped away and built us a beautiful new wing in our higgledy piggledy house. It was perfect. Teeny tiny but perfect. Not only did we have a cute little nursery – so  little I don’t even know what to do with it once Little birdy has grown out of her cot – but Mummy also now had a great and productive outlet for her OCD via the new walk-in-wardrobe, a fancy-pants ensuite and a new clean laundry.

Buying nursery items for me was confusing and anxiety provoking. I remember going into a baby shop and was almost convinced that I had to buy the $2000 cot or my baby would die in it’s sleep.  Another time, I was again almost convinced to buy the cot that transforms.  Not only is it a bassinet (!) but it transforms into a toddler bed (!) and then a table (!)  and then a V8 motor car (!) and then Optimus Prime!

In the end I got really fed up with everyone’s  opinions and recommendations (including my own) and the fear of cot-killing my baby that I went to Ikea and bought everything from there. I got the cheapest no-nonsense cot. I also bought the matching no-nonsense change table, a set of draws and a few other bits and pieces. Excitedly I brought it all home and skull dragged the no-nonsense flat packs through the house and dumped them onto the nursery floor where I proceeded to stare at them summoning ‘the force’ so that they might miraculously assemble themselves. The force was not with me and I had to take out that cheeky, little arsehole of an allen key and start skimming over stupid instructions. There were  just too many stupid words and stupid graphics to follow on the no-nonsense, easy-to-assemble flat packs that I cracked the shits and gave up. So the stupid flat packs sat there mocking me for another week or so. Lach was in hospital having his hip surgery so he couldn’t do it and in the end I had my Dad assemble the no-nonsense cot and change table one afternoon before Lach returned home. It was clear from all the “you bastards”’ coming from the nursery that day, that the allen key was being a little arsehole for Dad too.

Lach and I put the chest of draws together one rainy morning when he was able to hobble about. On the floor of the nursery, buried in instructions and plastic we showed that arsehole allen key who was boss and built that chest of draws. It took us awhile. It took us a few goes…It almost broke our marriage and made me insane – but we did it. (One of the draws gets stuck on the other when it opens but god damn it that just had to do!)

I thought I was being really economical by saving our precious pennies when I bought the stupid no-nonsense flatpack systems but they almost killed me. Before I even began assembling them I had rage. They beat me. Flat packs should come with  a warning sticker slapped on them “Warning- Assembling this flat pack will probably kill you, lead you to divorce and encourage schizophrenia”.

But with the chest of drawers assembled, the nest was starting to look the part.

 

I’d just purchased a breast feeding chair. I never knew I needed one but pregnant woman are ear bashed by others to get one of these. People persisted on telling me how much time I was going to be spending in it so make sure it’s comfortable. So of course after the repeated ear bashings, I went out looking for a fucking throne made out of the purest of virgin fibres. I drove into town on many occasions, to-ing and fro-ing from furniture shop to furniture shop. And like Goldilocks I was sitting in every chair possible, trying to distinguish whether this one or that one was the most comfortable.  I looked in baby shops, I searched online, I looked on Pintrest to see what all the other mummies had and I even went back to Ikea. I ended up having to drag Lach out to search with me and within 5 minutes of entering the first furniture shop…we had purchased one. On sale of course.

No messing about when shopping with a male. In and out. Done.

And to be honest, I’ve become so excessively lazy (more like physically exhausted) now that I barely use the stupid chair; instead I breastfeed in our bed with my eyes closed.  So I’m glad I didn’t splash out the cash for a throne.

I think in total we (I) spent close to $500 setting up the nursery with furniture, which I think is pretty good considering the initial cots I was being brain-washed into buying were worth $2000 alone. And I think my cheap Swedish stuff looks pretty darn cute and  the magical dream catcher I was lucky enough to be gifted added the perfect finishing touch to our nursery. (https://www.instagram.com/sleepywillowdesigns/?hl=en)

All I wanted now was to get the perfect photo of my big belly before it dropped and popped. Some mothers spend hundreds of dollars on getting professional bump photos and I can now see why. I used to think it was ridiculous seeing all the posey photos of pregnant mothers curled over and caressing their bulging tummies; looking down at in with the purest of love, or nakedly imitating Demi Moore on the cover of Vogue back in the 90’s. (So risque)

So of course I thought I could get the same results with my Iphone.

So one night I had Lach snap away at me as I tried my hardest to look relaxed, attractive and in love with my belly. This turned out to be a ridiculously stupid event. I posed, I lent against walls, I lay on the floor spooning the dog thinking, ‘this is it, this is the pose that will capture the purity and beauty of my pregnancy’. But when I look back at the photographs I just look like an awkward Sponge Bob cuddling a dog with a retarded hand and a pair of rogue slippers.

 

So I kept going. I tried silhouettes…side on poses…I lay on the bed…I lay on the couch…I went outside…but I just wasn’t getting that magazine worthy photograph. I just looked like celestebarber from Instagram. (Look her up if you haven’t already. Hilarious!) https://www.instagram.com/celestebarber/?hl=en

I gave up. Lach was over me. I was getting snitchy at him because he wasn’t enjoying, or even pretending to enjoy, the beautiful moment of capturing my ‘pregnant glow’ as I awkwardly rolled and wiggled my fat body all over the floor in what I thought were ‘alluring poses’. He was huffing and puffing at my instructions, rolling his eyes and he wasn’t taking the photos from the right angle and following my instructions correctly. “No, not like that! That makes my sides look fat. That makes my back look fat! That makes my body look too long. Nope, I look like a tank. Omg”. I snatched the phone back off him and scrolled through what we had. After grumbling to Lach that he was a hopeless photographer; with a few filters, some saturation and cropping, I finally had something I was semi happy with.

 

That would have to do.

A wet haired, shaggy, wife beatin singlet wearin prego mumma grinning down at her big round belly.

 

Do you have any professional or silly bump photos? I’d love to see em.

Upload them to my comments page 🙂

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I had planned for this post to be about more of my pregnancy experiences but we’ve just returned from our first family holiday and if I don’t write about it now baby brain will dissolve the memory like hot water on jelly crystals and I’ll forget all the fun, hellish, new experiences that we endured.

We planned a  trip to Noosa long ago, back in early trimester 3 when I was nursing Lach back to health from major hip surgery. We were tired, exhausted and felt a little bit depressed.

Lach was incapacitated from surgery, my dad had a heart attack, my nana was in hospital and our dog was on her last legs.

There was a lot going on and we were a sight for sore eyes.

Now imagine this… I was eight  months pregnant with a fully loaded belly, dressed in leggings, an oversized flannel shirt, ugg boots and my limp, thin oily hair slicked across my forehead… I was superbly comfortable but I looked like a hell skoz.

At this time Lach had upgraded from his wheelchair and was now hobbling around on crutches. He looked like shit too. All skinny and weak, pasty skin, with black sacks under his eyes and a slight droop to his mouth thanks to  the endones he was on.

Our dog Ash was sadly making the most of her last days with us and her hips had gone too. We were all in the front yard. I was grimacing with one hand on my back, supporting it as I clung on to a stinky garbage bag. Ash was trying to do a wee but her hips couldn’t hold her up to squat; so Lach – on his crutches  – was assisting her by holding a towel around her mid-section to give her some support as she urinated.

Here we were when my friend’s sister walked past…

Me with my knocked up guts in my skoz ‘get up’ holding the garbage with a scrunched up disgusted face.  And skinny, pasty Lach balancing on his crutches as he held up poor Ash as she attempted to wee,. We shared a greeting and a kind smile between us but my god, what we must have looked like right at that moment?! Full-on Hillbillies.

I was mortified that we’d been seen in this state. Hilarious but mortifying!

That period of time (my last trimester and Lach’s recovery) was challenging for us. I used to bawl my eyes out slumped in the shower some evenings for no reason except pure exhaustion. There’s nothing like a good howl in the shower as the sound muffles your moans and the hot water cascades over your ugly ‘cry face’,  washing the snot and tears down the drain. Being a slave to someone’s every need is exhausting and frustrating. Add pregnancy hormones  to that and you’ve got a great cocktail for an  ‘ugly cry’. I take my hat off to nurses who have to deal with sick, incapacitated  people everyday. I couldn’t be one.

So that said;we hadn’t had a ‘baby moon’ as we hadn’t had the time to because Lach’s hips were more important. I was pissed off that we didn’t have a last hoorah and Lach was in a depression from being housebound, so we just booked a trip.

Baby would be 12 weeks old (if the due date was correct) and Lach would be walking again. After much consideration we ended up booking Noosa as it was off peak (cheaper), warm, easy and a short plane trip away.

Little Lady Luca didn’t greet us with her presence until 2 weeks after her due date, so when we travelled she was 10 weeks old. In the lead up to us departing my anxiety began to rear its ugly head again (yes, I get anxiety. It comes and goes but I’ll write more about anxiety another time).

I was anxious about the plane trip, I was anxious that I might lose my shit at Lach with having to carry all the crap into the airport, I was anxious about breaking Luca’s routine.

Before Luca, I had always held my breath if I was in a plane and saw a baby being carried down the aisle. ‘Please don’t sit that thing near me’, I would pray to myself. How intolerable I was! I had no idea what those parents were going through walking down the aisle of those planes. Now here I was, about to do the same. Would people be thinking the same thing about me walking down the aisle of the plane with my perfect, gorgeous bundle of love and joy in my arms? Most likely…and that gave me anxiety. I didn’t want to annoy anyone with the gurgles, smells and potential cries of Luca.

But to my surprise, as I carried her down the aisle I received the exact opposite reaction. No-one (that I could see) was stink eyeing us. It was like Luca was parting water. Everyone moved out of our way, squishing and contorting themselves into the tiniest of spaces to let us pass. They ‘cootchie cooed’ her on passing and women gave me knowing, warm smiles. (And I just want to mention here that when you have a baby, it’s as if you are given a key into a secret and unknown world of motherhood. Women treat you differently. They’re more understanding. They smile more at you. They want to help you. You can see it in each other’s eyes; the knowing and understanding of what it takes and what you’re going through. It’s heart warming. Women are amazing and I’m only just seeing how amazing we really are for the first time since having Luca.)

I still couldn’t help apologising in advance to the man I sat next to though. “Sorry you have to sit next to us. Sorry if she cries” I pathetically said to him as I nestled in clumsily with Luca. Little birdy was a dream throughout the flight. Not a peep out of her. On the boob up, on the boob down with a nap in between and we were there. Noosa.

We gathered everything but the kitchen sink from the conveyor belt and lugged it onto a trolley. Our suitcase, Luca’s suitcase (what the?) her travel cot, her pram, her car seat, her beach umbrella and of course…Lach’s surfboard… and we were off. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and anxiety was dormant.

Our accommodation was perfect. (I made sure of that when booking. I was predicting I would be spending significant amounts of time there with my feeding, napping baby). It was nestled amongst the palm trees atop of Hastings street with a view of the rivers and ocean and a steep 5 minute walk to Little Cove beach. We had a large balcony with a pool, Foxtel and open plan living for 10 days. Ripper!

We cooked seafood BBQ’s, ate out, drank cervezas, bathed ourselves in the warmth of the Queensland sun and rinsed winter off us in the Ocean. Life was good…

But then we were sick. All of us.

Head colds. I felt like my face was playing ‘chubby bunnies’ with cotton wool balls without my permission. I was grossly congested. We were both more exhausted than the usual new tiredness we’d gotten used to.

But the worst of it was Luca being sick. Nothing scares you more than your teeny helpless newborn struggling to breathe.   In the middle of the night without warning, Luca woke us with her nasally shrieks. Her little confused eyes pierced mine as she gasped for air. Her little hands balled into fists with pain. Her tiny body wiggled in my arms. I hit panic stations.

Luckily Lach thinks on his feet. He is hands down the best problem solver. He jumped out of bed, grabbed Luca and sat in the bathroom with the shower running hot until the steam cleared and calmed her. Luckily Luca got over her virus quickly. Within 24hrs she had cleared. After talking with my step sister, Georgia, she told me that breastmilk contains all the antibodies your baby needs and changes those antibodies as she needs them. Like antibiotics on tap. Pretty bloody amazing us women huh!? Boobs are not only a dairy but a doctor too.

So Luca cleared quickly and Lach and I pretended we were OK and continued to pretend to be relaxed on our holiday, even though our faces were playing ‘chubby bunnies’.

One afternoon I decided to load up the pram with the beach gear and set up camp on the main beach. My problem solving husband strategically placed so much beach paraphernalia on the pram that I looked like a homeless hobo pushing a trolley with all my life belongings. Nappy bag, my bag, towels, throws, umbrella, beach chair and water bottles. It was a suuuuper steep walk down the hill to the beach so I was extremely careful and white knuckled not to let go of the pram. I was paranoid that Luca would slip out and go zooming down the hill like a bobsled.

Strolling along the insanely picturesque boardwalk, I couldn’t help but think how happy I was. “La-di-da-di-da”

Luca slept in her pram while I set up under the shade of the trees at the back of the beach. I laid out our large throw rug and towel, buried the umbrella into the sand casting shade over the towels, placed my water bottle and snacks next to my beach chair and stood there for a moment. I was thinking.

I was stupidly apprehensive about stripping down into my cozies for the first time after giving birth. I’d always been pretty fit throughout my life. I’d eaten well and generally looked after myself. But now I was soft. Soft and squishy with a big scar on my tummy from my emergency caesar. My boobs were veiny and huge and they didn’t sit perkily in my bikini top anymore. They sat half way down my chest. The skin on my body has now taken on the resemblance of cottage cheese. Even my back is cottage cheesy and my arse is trying real hard to make friends with my ankles.

So I stood there for a moment casting harsh judgement on my new body and then thought ‘fuck it’ and stripped down into my bikini. Guts out and all. I embraced my new motherly body, swept up my doughy baby as she made her sweet, first waking gurgles and sat on my beach chair and breast fed her in the warmth. One day I’ll be fit again, I promised myself. Life is different in so many ways. If only my 20 year old self could see me now.

We sat on the beach together for what seemed like hours. The world stopped as we lovingly stared at each other gooing and garring.  I wasn’t sure if Luca would like being there on the sand but she loved it. The fresh air whipped her face and the sound of the crashing waves and laughter of children surrounded her. I did feel bad though. Poor little Luca was squinting to see because it was so bright and glary, so I put her back in the pram to nap with the intention of purchasing her some baby sunnies later.  ‘Ahhh’ I thought, as I stretched out under the sun on my towel. ‘Mummy time’.

But I couldn’t relax. I tried to close my eyes and soak up the sun but I couldn’t stop sitting up and checking that she was ok in the pram. I was annoying myself. Lay down, sit up, lay down, sit up. God damn it, I couldn’t relax….I kept thinking I could hear her. (You know when you smell a horrid smell like dog pooh and you think you can smell it for hours afterwards?  It gets stuck in you nose hairs and every now and then your smell memory releases the stench. That’s what Luca’s cry is like. It gets stuck in my ears and I think I can still hear her, every f*cking minute of the day….and night)  

And now I needed a wee.

Lach had said he would meet us down here after he surfed. It had been 2 hours. He should be back any minute I patiently and politely told myself as I held my bladder. Another half hour passed. I was sitting up dancing on my towel holding my bladder now.  His phone was off and that pissed me off immensely. I was busting now. I couldn’t just run into the ocean and relieve myself because the water was too far away to leave Luca in the pram, I didn’t want to take the pram to the water because it was too far away and too sandy to drag a pram through, I didn’t want to wake Luca and carry her to the water and hold her up as mummy squatted in the water with her and I didn’t want to have to pack up everything and find public toilet. I was seething at Lach now. “TURN YOUR BLOODY PHONE ON.” Where the hell is he!?

I started to get angry at him for being able to freely do whatever he wanted while I seemed to be a slave to our boss baby (As beautiful as she is).

I eventually gave in, packed the important stuff in the pram and hightailed it to look for public toilets. ‘Under construction’ they read. Faaaaaaark…. I kept walking, looking for more. I ended up at the other end of the board walk in the park. I never found the toilets. I had to take the pram and go bush. I was that busting. People were looking at me hauling the pram through the bushes. God knows what they were thinking and I didn’t care. I needed a wee and NOW. I found a shrub that would protect me from the eyes of holiday goers and I had a squat. I felt embarrassed but mostly I was searing with rage towards Lach for putting me in this position. I remember muttering to sleeping Luca that I was going to rip shreds off her father when I saw him.

So yeah…, I pretty much peed in Hastings street. Posh, old Hastings street. Yep. I took a squat.

And on my return walk I found the friggin’ toilets… I’d walked straight past them in my huff. 50 meters from my beach set up. I’m an idiot. I have a habit of getting irrational and doing stupid things.

When I got back to camp, Lach was there waiting with juice and sushi. I couldn’t be angry at him. Not because of the sushi and juice, but because I’d been embarrassingly stupid again.

I still gave him a serving for having his phone off though.

Apart from getting a bit sick, all-in-all we had a really nice first holiday as a little family. I had my birthday up there. I turned 36. It’s the first birthday ever that I haven’t demanded that Lach needed to celebrate the entire week as my birthday. I was quite content not to do anything fancy for it. In fact, I almost forgot that it was my birthday. I guess babies do that to you. Ruin birthdays. Turning 36 is the first time I have really and truly felt old. Like my youth is totally gone now. Given up. I’m done. Youth has gone. I am no longer youthful. Hipster kids will ignore me on the street now. No second looks. I am a nobody. I’m an old person. I’m closer to 40 than I am 30 now. And I don’t really care. I don’t really care about a lot of things I used to care about any more. I feel grown up. Like I’m a proper grown up now that I have a baby.  An adult baby with a baby. I did however spend the afternoon at the day spa using my surprise gift voucher from my sister and mother in law and I had a seafood BBQ cooked for me by mates at dinner time.  Heavenly…

Friends of ours from home were also visiting Noosa and doing the same thing as us with boss babies, so we spent many nights out eating dinner together… at 6 o’clock. Cause that’s what time you have to eat now we all have boss babies. No more pre dinner drinks and cocktails.They’re out the window. And during the meals, I had to bob and weave so that the flying pieces of chicken that were getting thrown across the table by our friends adorably cheeky little boss baby, didn’t slap me in the cheek. Having a baby makes you a super fast eater too. I’m a lethal, one handed bandit at the diner table these days. I shovel that shit in.

But after our trip, I feel more confident taking Luca anywhere now. Breaking routine wasn’t all that bad after all. She still managed. I still survived. And we ate many, many ice-creams. I still have to pinch myself that I actually have a daughter and I still feel like I’m faking it.

Golden milk lattes, the first trimester and ‘stupid face’.

 

Firstly, before I get down to the nitty gritty, I would just like you to know that I am having some technical difficulties with the wordpress site and my blog posts might look a bit weird as I’m learning. Photos might be side ways or blurred and things might be all over the place for a while. I do apologise for this.

 

Secondly,  I’d like to introduce you to the ‘stupid face’. ‘Stupid face’ is when you don’t have the energy to hold up your own facial muscles. ‘Stupid face’ can be caused from being insanely hungover, nausea, extreme fatigue and… morning sickness.  While it’s molded by lethargy and pain, ‘stupid face’ does make the funniest and best selfies.

I am a master of ‘stupid face’. I spent the first 17 weeks of my pregnancy masking my ‘stupid face’ with a bright eyed, cheerful face. ‘Stupid face’ was always there though… slyly, quietly, painfully lying there, just under the first layer of my skin. This is one of the best of my stupid faces that was caused by morning sickness…

Figure 1 Stupid Face

Now, let’s talk about the first trimester…

You pee on ‘the stick’, trying not to drip any on your fingers (eww) while your heart races, your breath is held, your eyes are wide open…then those two little lines slowly start to appear. You’re excited but you feel sick. Like the feeling you get when you’re about to go on a ridiculously scary ride at a show. Holy shit!

You’re pregnant.

You want to laugh, you want to cry.  Shooting stars start to burst in your tummy.  You start dreaming of all the possibilities; the glowing skin, the thick hair, the cute bump that you’ll have and all the crazy combinations of food that you can now indulge in. At night you lie in bed on your tummy (something you won’t be able to do for a looooong time after first trimester passes) and drift off to sleep gloriously contemplating the future.

You’ve done it. You’re going to be a beautiful mum.

A few weeks pass and nothing much has changed. You delude yourself into thinking that you’re getting ‘a belly’ and then send copious amounts of selfies to your mum and friends, cutely labelled as ‘baby bump’. But nothing’s really there, you’re just imagining it and being a pregnant idiot. It’s normal, everybody does it. I look back on those photos I sent and grimace and laugh. Such an idiot. I still had a flat stomach. (ooooo, flat stomach. I miss you). You’re just too excited and want it all to happen now! Your boobs might start to grow and they become tender but you’re travelling along pretty smoothly.

Life is still kind of normal… except you’re holding onto the biggest secret of your life because you’ve read so many books. Books that tell you not to let anyone know you’re pregnant until week 12 of your pregnancy just in case ‘something bad’ happens. It’s hard keeping that to yourself. I didn’t really understand why I should keep it a secret. If ‘something bad’ happened to me and my baby I would want people to know, especially my friends. I would 100% need their support if something went wrong. So I told ‘em… and it felt good. I was looking forward to my beautiful, glowing pregnancy journey.

But this is what being pregnant really looked like for me (see ‘stupid face’).  In the early stages of my pregnancy I felt like I was stumbling under a black sky in a stormy, battering ocean…Alllll day. Morning sickness feels like seasickness. Relentless seasickness. I know this because I ONCE got sick on the calmest of oceans but nevertheless, I ironically got sick. Pregnancy sometimes feels like an ocean; it’s beautiful but the motions of it sometimes feel like they’re drowning you.

Mornings at work were prime ‘stupid face’ feeding grounds. When I arrived, happy, ‘bubbly face’ would spring on. “Gooooood Morning” I’d bellow, “I’m well thanks” I’d nod, “beautiful day”, “another day another dollar”…bla bla bla… hold that smile, don’t vomit, oh god don’t vomit.  It would take all my energy to push ‘stupid face’ down and act my normal charming self 😉

As soon as my face was out of site from whoever I was greeting, ‘stupid face’ would return. The smile would instantly disappear and the skin on my face would turn a shade of grey and hang off its bones. The eye balls would lull and bob about their sockets; my mouth would droop and hang open and a little bit of drool would start pooling in the side of my mouth as small gasps of air struggled to escape my lips. Oooooooaaah the pain. If you’ve had morning sickness, you will totally understand the ‘stupid face’ feeling that consumes you.

Whoever labelled ‘morning sickness’ needs to be slapped across the head with a dead fish. Idiot. Morning sickness doesn’t just occur in the mornings.

I would be driving home after work and ‘BOOM’. Morning sickness. Lazing on the couch watching telly in the evening and ‘BOOM’, morning sickness.

It happens 24/7. It should be called that. ‘24/7 sickness’.

Not only is there 24/7 sickness… there’s tears. Tears with no explanation. I remember sitting at the kitchen bench with my husband as I pathetically spooned my dinner of yoghurt and strawberries into my mouth (all I could stomach). All of a sudden a wave of emotion flooded over me…’Stupid face’ returned and I began to ugly cry. You know, that full on cry you hide from everyone and only do when you’re flying solo.  My husband looked at me with pure panic insistently asking me what was wrong. “I’m just so tired” I managed to get out between snorts and sobs. Liquids were dispersing out of every orifice of my face. He had to put me to bed. It was 6pm.

Speaking of dripping orifices. My midwife told me to go out and buy some panty liners! Panty liners!? I thought they were just for old people. As I tilted my head like a dog’s response to a high pitched noise, she explained to me that I would begin to leak some ‘extra substances’ down there (awesome).  She was right too. I’m glad I did because nobody likes soggy undies. I started to get anxious every time I laughed or sneezed. Would I wet myself? No one told me I would be wetting myself when I was pregnant. Bloody hell!

During the first trimester, the crazy in you steps up another level. For example, I couldn’t talk about Byron Bay; the thought of the place actually made me feel nauseous. I would stop my husband mid conversation and tell him to “change the subject”, as I dry-retched.  Sooooo crazy…crazier than my normal crazy…

We often visit Byron Bay and I was there when we found out we were pregnant. I had drunk a ‘golden milk latte’ (a super food, hippy, turmeric laced drink that promises to cure all your problems) at one of the many hipster cafes.  I really enjoyed it, I love that kind of food.  Food is medicine.  But soon after that hipster cafe something strange began to happen. All of a sudden, healthy, sugar free, gluten free, healthy foods started making me feel sick.  And the thought of Byron Bay… and golden milk lattes… and bone broth… and Sarah Wilson… started to make me dry-retch. I carb loaded it from there on in.

A friend of mine who is pregnant now has the crazies too. She has the 24/7 sickness real bad! Recently she had to sleep with a banana on her face to stop her from feeling ‘24/7 sickness’.

On. Her. Face.

Literally had a half peeled banana draped across her face as she slept. Hilarious. Other nights she had lemons but then she got so used to the smell of lemon it started to make her feel sick; so then she used cut oranges and then came the banana.

It’s the draping of the peeled banana on her sleeping ‘stupid face’ that cracks me up. Imagine what her husband thinks when he climbs into bed with his fruit salad faced wife, kisses her goodnight and then chews on some pith as he drifts into slumber.

 

Figures 2, 3, 4 and 5   ‘Stupid Face’

 

 Golden milk lattes, the first trimester and ‘stupid face’.

 

Firstly, before I get down to the nitty gritty, I’d like to introduce you to the ‘stupid face’. ‘Stupid face’ is when you don’t have the energy to hold up your own facial muscles. ‘Stupid face’ can be caused from being insanely hungover, nausea, extreme fatigue and… morning sickness.  While it’s molded by lethargy and pain, ‘stupid face’ does make the funniest and best selfies.

I am a master of ‘stupid face’. I spent the first 17 weeks of my pregnancy masking my ‘stupid face’ with a bright eyed, cheerful face. ‘Stupid face’ was always there though… slyly, quietly, painfully lying there, just under the first layer of my skin. This is one of the best of my stupid faces that was caused by morning sickness…

Figure 1 Stupid Face

 

Now, let’s talk about the first trimester…

You pee on ‘the stick’, trying not to drip any on your fingers (eww) while your heart races, your breath is held, your eyes are wide open…then those two little lines slowly start to appear. You’re excited but you feel sick. Like the feeling you get when you’re about to go on a ridiculously scary ride at a show. Holy shit!

You’re pregnant.

You want to laugh, you want to cry.  Shooting stars start to burst in your tummy.  You start dreaming of all the possibilities; the glowing skin, the thick hair, the cute bump that you’ll have and all the crazy combinations of food that you can now indulge in. At night you lie in bed on your tummy (something you won’t be able to do for a looooong time after first trimester passes) and drift off to sleep gloriously contemplating  the future.

You’ve done it. You’re going to be a beautiful mum.

A few weeks pass and nothing much has changed. You delude yourself into thinking that you’re getting ‘a belly’ and then send copious amounts of selfies to your mum and friends, cutely labelled as ‘baby bump’. But nothing’s really there, you’re just imagining it and being a pregnant idiot. It’s normal, everybody does it. I look back on those photos I sent and grimace and laugh. Such an idiot. I still had a flat stomach. (ooooo, flat stomach. I miss you). You’re just too excited and want it all to happen now! Your boobs might start to grow and they become tender but you’re travelling along pretty smoothly.

Life is still kind of normal… except you’re holding onto the biggest secret of your life because you’ve read so many books. Books that tell you not to let anyone know you’re pregnant until week 12 of your pregnancy just in case ‘something bad’ happens. It’s hard keeping that to yourself. I didn’t really understand why I should keep it a secret. If ‘something bad’ happened to me and my baby I would want people to know, especially my friends. I would 100% need their support if something went wrong. So I told ‘em… and it felt good. I was looking forward to my beautiful, glowing pregnancy journey.

But this is what being pregnant really looked like for me (see ‘stupid face’).  In the early stages of my pregnancy I felt like I was stumbling under a black sky in a stormy, battering ocean…Alllll day. Morning sickness feels like seasickness. Relentless seasickness. I know this because I  ONCE got sick on the calmest of oceans but nevertheless, I ironically got sick. Pregnancy sometimes feels like an ocean; it’s beautiful but the motions of it sometimes feel like they’re drowning you.

Mornings at work were prime ‘stupid face’ feeding grounds. When I arrived, happy, ‘bubbly face’ would spring on. “Gooooood Morning” I’d bellow, “I’m well thanks” I’d nod, “beautiful day”, “another day another dollar”…bla bla bla… hold that smile, don’t vomit, oh god don’t vomit.  It would take all my energy to push ‘stupid face’ down and act my normal charming self 😉

As soon as my face was out of site from whoever I was greeting, ‘stupid face’ would return. The smile would instantly disappear and the skin on my face would turn a shade of grey and hang off its bones. The eye balls would lull and bob about their sockets; my mouth would droop and hang open and a little bit of drool would start pooling in the side of my mouth as small gasps of air struggled to escape my lips. Oooooooaaah the pain. If you’ve had morning sickness, you will totally understand the ‘stupid face’ feeling that consumes you.

Whoever labelled ‘morning sickness’ needs to be slapped across the head with a dead fish. Idiot. Morning sickness doesn’t just occur in the mornings.

I would be driving home after work and ‘BOOM’. Morning sickness. Lazing on the couch watching telly in the evening and ‘BOOM’, morning sickness.

It happens 24/7. It should be called that. ‘24/7 sickness’.

Not only is there 24/7 sickness… there’s tears. Tears with no explanation. I remember sitting at the kitchen bench with my husband as I pathetically spooned my dinner of yoghurt and strawberries into my mouth (all I could stomach). All of a sudden a wave of emotion flooded over me…’Stupid face’ returned and I began to ugly cry. You know, that full on cry you hide from everyone and only do when you’re flying solo.  My husband looked at me with pure panic insistently asking me what was wrong. “I’m just so tired” I managed to get out between snorts and sobs. Liquids were dispersing out of every orifice of my face. He had to put me to bed. It was 6pm.

Speaking of dripping orifices. My midwife told me to go out and buy some panty liners! Panty liners!? I thought they were just for old people. As I tilted my head like a dog’s response to a high pitched noise, she explained to me that I would begin to leak some ‘extra substances’ down there (awesome).  She was right too. I’m glad I did because nobody likes soggy undies. I started to get anxious every time I laughed or sneezed. Would I wet myself? No one told me I would be wetting myself when I was pregnant. Bloody hell!

During the first trimester, the crazy in you steps up another level. For example, I couldn’t talk about Byron Bay; the thought of the place actually made me feel nauseous. I would stop my husband mid conversation and tell him to “change the subject”, as I dry-retched.  Sooooo crazy…crazier than my normal crazy…

We often visit Byron Bay and I was there when we found out we were pregnant. I had drunk a ‘golden milk latte’ (a super food, hippy, turmeric laced drink that promises to cure all your problems) at one of the many hipster cafes.  I really enjoyed it, I love that kind of food.  Food is medicine.  But soon after that hipster cafe something strange began to happen. All of a sudden, healthy, sugar free, gluten free, healthy foods started making me feel sick.  And the thought of Byron Bay… and golden milk lattes… and bone broth… and Sarah Wilson… started to make me dry-retch. I carb loaded it from there on in.

A friend of mine who is pregnant now has the crazies too. She has the 24/7 sickness real bad! Recently she had to sleep with a banana on her face to stop her from feeling ‘24/7 sickness’.

On. Her. Face.

Literally had a half peeled banana draped across her face as she slept. Hilarious. Other nights she had lemons but then she got so used to the smell of lemon it started to make her feel sick; so then she used cut oranges and then came the banana.

It’s the draping of the peeled banana on her sleeping ‘stupid face’ that cracks me up. Imagine what her husband thinks when he climbs into bed with his fruit salad faced wife, kisses her goodnight and then chews on some pith as he drifts into slumber

 

Figure 2,3,4,5 and 6.  ‘Stupid Face’.