Sleep deprivation? Not on your nelly...

When you're a blogging kinda gal, you get close to those around you - so when Josie from Sleep is for the Weak announced that she would be hosting a 'Sleep Deprivation' carnival, I wanted to help her out. The ony problem was, apart from laying awake all night trying to think about what to write for her (which she assured me didn't count as 'authentic' sleep deprivation), I really didn't know what I would write.

You see, the thing is, although I'm a Mother of two small children, I don't really suffer from sleep deprivation, as such. Yes, my favourite thing to say when people ask me how I am is 'exhausted', but that's more about the fact that I've been up fiddling around with the computer all night, rather than the fact that my children haven't been sleeping.

You see, they sleep rather well. Amazingly almost.

This morning I had to wake Renée up at 8 o'clock so she had time for breakfast before school. And Edie followed shortly after. They had both been in bed since 6.30 the night before.

And they hadn't woken up.

At all.

Seriously.

When I tell people about my children's sleeping, they often think I'm lying, or else, they tell me that I'm extremely lucky.

Lying. Why would I? When my child does a poo at a smart garden party and I manage to step in it, I tell you. When I am in tears because I think my (then) unborn child has a cleft lip, then I tell you. Why would I lie about their sleeping? It would be much more fun to tell you that they've both been up all night and I'm currently dying of exhaustion (and I'm sure it would elicit far more sympathy too). But that wouldn't be the truth.

But am I lucky? Well, yes, of course I am. BUT, that luck didn't just happen. I like to think that I made it.

There was once a time when I was dying of exhaustion, believe me. After giving birth to Edie, I was miserable. I was over the moon to have two beautiful children, but in truth, it was so much more work that I could ever have imagined. I loved having one child. I loved everything about it. I loved gazing at my adorable newborn and imagining that I was the only person ever to have such feelings of happiness. I slept when she slept, revelled in my new role as natural mother and truly thought I had found my vocation in life. So when Edie came along, I thought it would be even easier.

I was wrong.

Not only did she not sleep.

At all.

Ever.

But she fed like a demon and I never seemed to have enough milk for her.

I remember when she was a tiny baby, she'd be awake all day and then I'd pray for her to sleep at night. Just an hour. Anything. But she wouldn't. Instead she'd toss and turn in her moses basket, fidget next to me, cry and fuss on top of me. And I'd cry too. So much. And just when she'd finally drop off to sleep, I'd catch a faint whiff of her tiny newborn nappy and I'd know that she'd have to be woken up for a change.

It was soul destroying.

When she would eventually find the knowhow to drop off to sleep, her big sister would wake up, full of joy and full of the energy of a two-year old.

In those early days of having two children I reckon I had two hours sleep a night and never was that in one go.

Like I said, I was miserable.

But instead of driving myself insane, which I could easily have done, I decided that I absolutely, definitely had to do something about it.

My husband works away from home a great deal and therefore, although I'm married, I often feel like a single Mother. And that means that the children are my responsibility, 24 hours a day. If the children don't sleep, then I don't sleep. And if they stay up all night, as my French in-laws would have them do, then I would never have a moment to myself. As much as I adore my children, I don't find that a very welcoming prospect.

So what did I do?

Controlled crying is what.

You've probably heard of it. And if you have then you either find it a barbaric thought, or you swear by it. I fall into the latter category, as does Really Rachel who wrote a post about it too.

I'm not sure you need boring with the finer details. I think Really Rachel gives a good account.

All I can say is - it took three nights. That's all. Edie was about seven or eight months old. Not yet able to pull herself up and rattle the sides of the cot or shout 'Mama' (as Renée had done a couple of years earlier). It was hideous, obviously, to hear my darling child cry and wail. But it was more hideous, for both of us, to get no sleep.

They are now five and almost three and they both sleep like a dream.

I don't wake up in the morning feeling like I've drunk five bottles of wine (chance would be a fine thing). And they don't spend the day getting cranky or whiny.

They love their sleep.

And so do I.

Night night my friends....

I don't care - As long as it's healthy

So what's one of the first things people ask you when you tell them that you're pregnant? (Well, yes, apart from How did that happen? and Was it an accident?)

One of the most common questions is:

Are you going to find out the sex of the baby?

Well I, for one, who can't keep a secret, hates not knowing everything and is a tad impatient, absolutely had to find out.

With our first child, it wasn't quite so simple. The baby just wasn't letting us know and despite running up and down the hospital stairs, munching on a bar of chocolate and going to the loo in an attempt to get the baby to change position, it refused to move its hands away from its privates.

'It' turned out to be a 'she'. We called her Renée.

When I then became pregnant with my second, people seemed to be keener than ever, on our behalf, to find out the sex.

You must want a boy?
Don't you?

Erm, no not really. A girl would be just as good (if not better)!

But yes, again we wanted to know the sex. I wanted Renée to know if she would be having a brother or sister more than anything. I wanted her to bond with the baby before it arrived.

It just so happened that my husband was away for the 20-week scan, the anomaly scan, the scan where they can tell you the sex of the baby. He was working in New Zealand...just about as far away as was possible. But it didn't matter. He'd been there for the 12-week scan and I was planning on texting him the news just as soon as I heard. He was waiting. As were friends, grandparents on both side, brothers and sisters. Everyone wanted to know.

I'd left Renée with a friend whilst I went for the scan. The last thing I wanted was a wriggly, impatient toddler to deal with. But as I sat there in the waiting room I wanted someone to share the moment with. I was excited and I wanted her to be excited too.

The sonographer called me into the room and after a bit of chit-chat, they squirted the cold jelly on my tummy and showed me my baby's heartbeat on the screen.

I held my breath.

"I'd like to know the sex, if possible" I said.

I didn't want to jump ahead, but I couldn't contain myself.

"All in good time", the sonographer replied, smiling at me.

I looked at the screen and saw the clenched fists and jerky legs of my baby, the large head and the long spine and I knew that I could never be disappointed, whatever the sex.

I looked back at the sonographer again, smiling as I did so. She didn't look at me this time. Instead she left the room and returned with what looked like another sonographer. They pointed at the screen, looked at each other, spoke in medical terms I didn't understand, looked over at me and then at the screen again. And then she came over to me.

"We think your baby has a cleft lip, or a cleft palate - we can't be sure. Are you familiar with what that is?"

I nodded my head, but I couldn't speak. I thought about the pictures of babies and small children I'd seen in the newspaper supplements - "Donate £1 and help give these children a better life". They all had cleft lips - where both sides of their faces hadn't fused properly and the lips are left unjoined right up to the nose.

I wanted to cry. I wanted my husband, my toddler, anyone.

"Are you alright?" the sonographer asked.

I nodded again.

"Oh, and she's a girl by the way."

I was lead back out to the waiting room. How different everything looked now. In the space of five short minutes the whole room had changed. There were people who I had chatted with before, still sitting, waiting for their turn. They smiled at me.

I just stood there shaking. A baby girl. With a cleft lip. I knew it wasn't the end of the world. I knew it could be fixed easily with surgery. But still. I wanted my perfect baby to be blemish-free. Renée was beautiful. I didn't want Edie, because that was her name now, living in the shadow of her elder sister. I didn't want her to be the ugly one. I felt protective of her already. Protective and just a little bit sad.

I was lead into another room and offered tea with lots of sugar. I hate sugar in tea, but they made me drink it 'for the shock'.

Three doctors stared back at me.

"Lots can be done you know. Surgery these days is fantastic. Don't you worry. We'll put you in touch with the right people. You'll hardly see a scar."

I don't remember saying much. But I do remember leaving the hospital, standing on the street corner and crying. And then I remember wanting to hear my Mother's voice. So I called her.

"Mum, it's me."

"Darling! Is it a boy or a girl? We're all dying to hear."

I burst into tears again.

And then I texted my husband in New Zealand.

"Can I call you? I need to speak to you."

I got a text back.

"It's the middle of the night. Just tell me. Is it a girl or a boy?"

I texted back.

"It's a girl. And she has a cleft lip".

He called. And I cried. And he cried too.

Ten days later, when he returned from New Zealand, I had another scan. This time the specialist was called in. He wasn't sure whether she had a cleft lip or not.

"Possibly not" were his words.

We weren't sure.

I spent the next four months trying to be brave.

And then I went into labour. And I warned the midwifes that she might have a cleft lip. I didn't want them to be shocked and not know how to tell me.

It was my first question when she came out.

"Does she have a cleft lip?"

Turns out she didn't.

Unbelievable.

Girl or boy. I don't care. As long as they're healthy. And that's the truth.

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This post will be featured on A Mother's Secrets, the new website from Peggy at Perfectly Happy Mum. Do click on the links to read other Parenting posts.

Pregnancy weight - it's just so depressing

I had the shock of my life today. My hairdresser is pregnant. Ok, so she did actually tell me she was pregnant about 3 months ago, but I had completely forgotten...so when I walked in today (for my 3 monthly treat - nothing whatsoever to do with the Blogging meet-up on Sunday - you have to believe me) - and I was met with a bump the size of...well something rather large, I was a little taken aback. But only momentarily, of course. I quickly recovered my composure and instead mustered the most amount of excitement possible on a wet and windy midsummer day. But then I saw Kelly's face, and it didn't match my excitement at all...Could it have been that she wasn't happy being pregnant? I was sure she'd viewed it as good news when she'd initially told me...So what was the problem? I decided to enquire further.

"I just feel so fat. I hate it. I feel like a baby elephant. And I know I look like one too. I can't find any clothes to fit and I'm aching all over and I can't walk, I can only waddle and...well...nobody told me it was going to be like this. And the worst thing is - I'm only 5 months gone."

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear. I knew exactly how she felt. It is a well-documented fact (or at least it is if you read this blog) that I gained rather a lot of weight during both my pregnancies. I'm not sure exactly how much (5 stone with the first and 3 stone with the second). Come on - do you really think I'd forget that? And I can honestly say I hated being pregnant. I didn't hate the fact that there was a tiny creature growing inside me...or that I was about to help make a miracle happen...I just hated the aches and pains that went with it. And most of all, I hated being so fat.

It's not that I have anything against fat people (some of my best friends are fat)...hee hee...it's just that, well, I wasn't comfortable being fat. It had never happened to me before. I had grown up proud of my humongous portions and fast metabolism...and even during my first pregnancy when I was eating for Britain (and France...and Italy and Spain and the rest of the world come to think of it), I wasn't in the least bit worried. There I was waking up in the night to eat my third king-sized Magnum of the day and I still managed to convince myself it was just the bump...

So when I finally gave birth two whole weeks of scoffing after my due date and realised the true horror of what had been left behind, I was more than a little traumatised. No longer did I possess a flat, toned stomach, or even a round taut one. Nothing of my former body had been left behind. Instead I resembled a character straight out of Channel 4's Body Shock series. 'Ten ton Mum'. That was me. I think she had to be fed out of tubes or something equally as sinister. And I wasn't just fat. I was fat and sweaty. I put it down to the breastfeeding, although it could have been something to do with the oh so natural organic deodorant that had promised not to harm the baby, but couldn't deodorise a fragrant rose.

So there you have it. I was fat and sweaty and full of misery and getting absolutely no sleep and still wearing maternity clothes 4 months after giving birth. BUT, I had the most beautiful little baby and it could have been much, much worse...

So why am I writing this now? Well apart from poor Kelly who is going through the exact same frustrations as I went through on two separate occasions, I am also currently reading a lot about other people's weight struggles, including the now infamous 'Wednesday Weigh-In' in the blogosphere. It's not just me who piled on the pounds during pregnancy....And without sounding patronising I want to say...Don't worry. The weight will go. If you want it to. It's now two and a half years since I gave birth to my second child and I no longer resemble Ten Ton Mum. My stomach isn't quite as toned as it once was (nor my breasts as pert and pretty - but that's another story entirely)...but I did lose the weight. Where it went I have no idea. But I don't care. It's gone...and yours will too.

Oh, and one last thing - if you just so happen to be pregnant - congratulations and enjoy - but try to stay away from that second helping of cheeseburger and chips...if you can.

Forgive me. I know not what I say...

I am now officially an idiot. After the lamb chop debacle propelled me to the forefront of utter foolishness, then this latest incident sees me picking up the top award. Anyone out there got one of those? Do please pass it over here...

So, I was chatting with a friend the other day - you know, about babies, bumps, pregnancies...(by the way, in case you were wondering, I can talk about other things - this was only part of the conversation). The other part was about schools and homework and...well, just other things.

Anyway, in the part where we talked about bumps, we both found ourselves re-living the moment when we asked a seemingly pregnant woman when she was due - only to be met with the most dreaded of responses - "Er...I'm not actually pregnant". You know those conversations - the ones that make you want to be swallowed up in a huge, black whole there and then never to have to show your poor, shamed face ever again.

Strangely enough, because you'd think I would have learnt my lesson - it has actually happened to me twice. The first, years ago when I was but a wee 'girl' and asked a rather large Brown Owl if she had a baby in her tummy. She didn't, obviously, and thankfully I was too young to realise her mortification.

The second time happened as an adult. It was a Mother of one of Renée's friends at nursery. She was talking about moving house and needing more space when I just happened to glance at her tummy. She was wearing some sort of smock top and I realised that underneath it her belly was protruding from an otherwise slim frame.

"Oh, gosh", I spluttered. "I didn't realise. Congratulations. Silly me. Now I see why you need more space. How many weeks are you?"

She looked at me and laughed. "Ha ha. No I'm not pregnant. This?" She said, pointing to her bump. "This is just my little beer belly."

"Ha ha", I replied, blundering in like a giraffe in a doll's house. "Good one. Yeah - I suppose at the early stages it does look like a beer belly. No, but really - when are you due?"

This was her moment to look serious. "No really, it is just a beer belly."

"Hahahahahahahahahahaha." I think I may have run off at this point, giggling nervously and flushed in the face, of course, promising myself never to make the same mistake again.

However, this is not the whole post. Oh no - that happened a couple of years ago, so why would I be telling you about it now? I'll tell you why - because my friend and I ended our conversation about bumps and mistaken pregnancies swearing that we'd never be so foolish again - and even if we saw a baby's head sticking out from between a woman's legs (unlikely I know) - we would never be so stuipd as to assume she's even had sex.

Well, my friend might not be so stupid. I, on the other hand...

Later that very day...possibly only three hours after the conversation, I was picking up Edie from nursery when I spotted another Mother. I'd last spoken to her a week before when she was struggling to remain sane whilst waiting for the imminent birth of her second child. We'd discussed the frustrations of going overdue and I'd offered her not only sympathy, but empathy too (Renée and Edie were 9 days and 12 days overdue). So when I saw her face miserable and belly still obviously hugely swollen...I said the first thing that came into my mind...

"Hey, how are you feeling? Looking at the size of you, I can see the baby still hasn't come".

And that's when she moved out of the way to reveal a tiny newborn in a pram.

Whoops. Just point me in the right direction for my idiot award.

Friday 13th - Labour Day Part 1

Friday the 13th occurs at the most three times a year, but more often than not just once a year. I know this because I've just looked it up on Wikipedia and want to get my facts straight before I write a post concerning this ominous date. So given those statistics, what is the probability of a child being born on Friday the 13th? I'm not actually sure of this because if it were possible to be numerically dyslexic (I don't think it is), I would be. What I'm saying is that I've always hated maths and can't be bothered to work it out. But the point I'm getting at is that the probability is pretty low. So imagine my relief when, exactly four and a half years ago, on the morning of Thursday 12th August, I went into to labour. My first reaction (apart from extreme panic) was to think 'Aah, at least I'll miss Friday 13th'. The funny thing is, I don't even know why I cared at all because I've never been superstitious - I walk under ladders without my heart skipping a beat and the number 13 has never represented anything to me other than the next in line to number 12. But there was just something about Friday 13th that made me not want to have a child born on it.

This post, you'll see is just an excuse to tell you my labour story, but I'm trying to do it in a roundabout way so I won't seem so obvious! Anyway, as my labour progressed (or not as it turned out), the scary date loomed closer and closer. With your first child you have no idea what to expect from childbirth. As I mentioned in my post a couple of days ago, no one could tell me what it was like. Not even my own Mother. And the two people who had been pregnant at the same time as me, my sister in law and an old friend, had had, by any standards, pretty easy labours. Both six or seven hours, no pain relief, no tearing, no stitches, no intervention, just pleasant memories and a beautiful baby at the end of it all. Crikey, if they could do it, I thought, then I definitely could. I hadn't put my pain threshold to the test particularly up until that point - a couple of broken bones and stitches, even a tattoo, and I'd been ok with them, so I was pretty sure I'd come through with flying colours. Now this is where I just have to say ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...how foolish.

So when I went into labour on the morning of Thursday 12th I was pretty sure that I'd have a baby before it even got dark outside. I'd done my maths and I thought 7 hours - I'll be home for supper!!!! As it turned out I wasn't home for supper that night, or the night after or the night after that. And probably not for two more nights after that. But the funny thing is JP had actually cooked stuffed peppers and when it was clear neither of us would be eating them, he'd left them in the oven (turned off thankfully) and we'd found them four days later covered in mould. I was devastated at the waste and even tried to salvage some of it! Anyway, back to the labour. Mid way through Thursday the 12th, when I was pretty sure I couldn't take any more pain (the contractions seemed to be only a couple of minutes apart) I begged JP to take me to the hospital. In one of my ante natal classes we'd been advised to stay at home for as long as possible, so I was pretty confident that I'd pushed the timescale to the limit and I'd be congratulated for holding out so long. I had a contraction in the car on the way to the hospital (it was a three minute drive) and another just outside the door to casualty. This was it. The baby was about to be born. I could feel it. A Mother just knows these things. So imagine my complete and utter dismay when, following an examination by a midwife, I was told that I wasn't even 1cm dilated. Now for those of you that don't know, you have to be 10cm dilated for the babies head to fit down your passages (still not sure of all the technical terms). And this is the worst bit - on average it takes about an hour per centimetre of dilation. So despite my discomfort, I did my maths again. It was going to be another 10 hours...surely not?!! Hold on, that means the baby's going to be born on Friday 13th. Oops...

And to make matters much much worse, we were sent home. Not advised. But sent. There was no room for us and we should go home. Try to get some sleep. Some sleep? Were they crazy? I couldn't sleep. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even bloody breathe. How on earth was I going to be able to sleep? But of course we didn't want to cause a scene (I am very English after all) so we went home, JP clutching the stereo which I'd demanded he bring because my best friend Olaf had made me some reggae cd's to listen to and I was determined to play them at the crucial moment. But seeing JP with the redundant stereo and me sweating and screeching and waddling (oh yeah I forgot to mention that I had put on 5 stone in weight) I just felt pissed off and humiliated. So we trundled off home and I spent the rest of the day and night screaming in complete agony. And that's true. I'm not quite sure why my labour was so slow and so hideously painful, but it was.

So following another 12 hours of excrutiating, unbearable pain, I really felt the time had come again and we made our way back to the hospital...But guess what? Not even 1cm dilated. Now this is where I just had to swear. 'For fuck's sake. Can somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?' This time, we were advised to go home again, but I was having none of it. 'I need an epidural. Please can I have an epidural??' (Of course, in the days leading up to the birth I had debated the pros and cons of having an epidural and had definitely decided not to have one). An epidural, for those who don't know is a form of anaesthetic that helps numb the pain caused by contractions. Now when I hear pregnant women proudly stating that they won't be having an epidural I want to shout at them and say 'don't be so bloody stupid. Who knows how your labour's going to be. You could end up begging for one'. But of course I don't say anything of the sort because I was that person once. It turned out that because my waters had broken more than 12 hours previously, I needed to be induced (which means having your labour artificially speeded up with the help of hormones). There are a few different types of induction. My type was a drip in the arm and, as I read the description on a tatty peice of paper handed to me by a midwife, it was 'the most painful form of induction.' An epidural was 'advised'. Well seeing as I'd already requested an epidural, I was 'happy' to receive it. But as my contractions got stronger and stronger and more painful due to the hormone being dripped into my arm, the epidural (which consisted of an enormous needle being stabbed into my spinal cord) seemed to be more and more useless. 'Well it should be working by now', said the midwife. 'Well it's not'. I screamed. So I had another one. It still didn't work. 'Well let's roll you over on to your side (like a sack of potatoes) and try to get the anaesthetic to move to the right places'. And this was not as easy as it sounded. Already with a whopping great needle sticking out of my back, a bump the size of an triplet pregnancy and five extra stone just hanging around, it was a huge effort. It didn't work. Neither did the spinal block which they tried next (because my back was so swollen from the epidural that they couldn't get the needle in). It was at this point that I thought - 'Do you know what? I don't care if this baby is born on Friday 13th. I just want to get it out'.

But this is where I have to leave you. This whole post concerns Friday the 13th and unless I publish it in the next five minutes, then the whole date subject thing will be completely useless because I would have missed not only the day, but the point as well. So I will be back tomorrow to finish off this story. Apologies if childbirth is not your thing, but if you give me a couple of days I will have got it out of my system. Until tomorrow.