It’d be easy to believe that I am addicted to drama. That I want this baby’s arrival in the world to be heralded by as much attention and noise as possible. In truth it’s the opposite.
Going into this I was planning such a simple pregnancy. I was going to eat right, keep gently active, until I go into labour and have a nice quick delivery then get home in time for a barbeque dinner in the garden with a glass of champagne and my family. Ideal Summer baby stuff.
Of course, this didn’t work out quite as planned.
It started with the bleeding around Christmas that lead to an emergency scan on New Years Eve. It then went on to me being put under consultant care due to the pre-eclampsia and emergency delivery I had with Miss Rose. I spent the first trimester being so ill I couldn’t eat much and feeling thoroughly grouchy all the time. Then the arrival of the second trimester came and I felt great! I was active and happy and could eat normally… until I got swine flu and nearly died…
Yeah. Going great so far with the drama free pregnancy…
The recovery from the swine flu took ages. I felt crap for ages. Then I started to come out of it and voila, third trimester. Feeling crap again, totally not by the book of what I planned.
This was fine though until I decided to over do it and pull muscles so badly in my groin that I was ambulanced to hospital in suspected early labour at 31 weeks. It wasn’t early labour – woohoo – and I was sent home to rest with strict instructions not to do any lifting, any carrying, or anything even vaguely straining.
I’m not very good at that. I’m also stubborn.
I was shouted at for trying to tidy up, shouted at for trying to do the dishwasher, then decided to go for a quick waddle round to my friend next door and strained my muscles so badly in the doing so that I was banned from Miss Rose’s first trip to the theatre and trapped on the sofa being told off whilst popping paracetamol.
Still, relatively drama free for me… until yesterday.
Yesterday I started getting braxton hicks contractions. All fine and normal. Irregular stomach tightenings that are uncomfortable but not agonising.
Until they became regular. And painful.
Then they were thirty minutes apart. Then they were twenty minutes apart.
“Phone the midwives!” “Get checked at MAU!” “It’s safer to call and check than it is to wait!” “You’re only 32 weeks you need to be seen!”
All reasonable advice. And, more to the point, sensible at advice.
However, I am a stubborn mare. And sick of going into hospital. And was far too tired for any of this early labour malarkey. AND with Z at his mother’s and Miss Rose at my mother’s, I was really looking forward to a quiet evening in with The Boy watching Outlander and snuggling on the sofa, followed by a full night’s sleep.
The Boy busily pounded down bacon sandwiches to sustain himself for a potentially long night in hospital, whilst I sat on the sofa refusing to acknowledge the increasingly painful contractions I was experiencing and getting gradually more irritable.
The Boy stopped asking if I was having “another contraction” and began asking if I was having “another one of those things you’re having that I’m not allowed to mention” because I snapped at him so much.
Yes I was having another one. No I wasn’t going to phone.
I decided to have a bubble bath. Relax my muscles and force the pains to stop.
I ended up having a total emotional breakdown in the bath because I got vacuum sealed to the sides of the bath trying to get out, cried about how ugly I am, sobbed that Baby B won’t love me when she’s born and I’m not ready for her to be born, and wailed that The Boy would only leave me like Miss Rose’s father did anyway. And I was still hurting.
Fortunately it all stopped. I was able to avoid the drama of yet another hospital visit. I was able to stay at home where I wanted to be.
Of course my evening of snuggling and Outlander was ruined by the fact I cried myself to sleep in The Boy’s arms whilst he reassured me everything’s okay and he loves me and I don’t need to worry. But still.
Now the bets are on. Nobody believes Baby B is going to go full term.
Will I get my drama free labour where she pops out at a reasonable time in the morning and I’m allowed home in time for a barbeque and champagne? It’s my full intention that that will be the case. I have no desire for his emergency nonsense I went through with Rose. I do not wish to sleep a night in a hospital ever again, my swine flu fun was enough to convince me that it’s a thoroughly bad idea. I want to pop her out and get home promptly.
Given how bloody ridiculous this entire pregnancy has been so far I will understand if you don’t believe me that it can happen. Plus the fact I’m now on weekly midwife appointments to monitor me for pre-eclampsia again, and I’m still getting extra scans and checks with the consultant to ensure she’s healthy and not a GIANT child…
But it will happen. Pop her out. Home. Barbeque and champagne. Celebrations and cuddles with family.
That’s the goal. And as I said, I’m very stubborn. And I like something to work towards…
“Baby B. This is your mother speaking. Do as you’re told!”