As a small (big) aside

This picture was taken this day last year.... my last pregnant picture before my baby arrived.

She is turning one on Thursday - perhaps this is why I am uber emotional (but not at all broody... honest).

Now I know I was smuggy smug yesterday

...about the pre-pregnancy jeans.
But honestly, if you saw me, it's not that big a deal. The pre-preggy jeans are still quite huge in themselves.
So I kind of coughed and swore at the computer this morning when I read this article in the Daily Mail about a lady who photographed herself throughout her pregnancy (Apparantly that's news now... ya know cos no one has ever done it before...)

This line in particular made me spit out my Coco pops in a fit of rage.

When I finally had to accept, at the end of month four, that I was now a whole dress size bigger, I actually cried - and went out to buy a pair of size 12 jeans.

Am I the only the one who thinks this brings smug to a new level? And yes I know it's all relative and she was a size 10 to start with but to be 16 weeks pregnant and have to buy a size 12... it's hardly a hardship now is it?

If only it were that easy...

This morning I dreamt (is that right? or should it be dreamed? Well you know what I mean.) that I could feel my daughter's arm wriggling on the outside of my hip (still inside the skin, if you get what I mean but I could feel and hold her hand). I was mildly freaked out in the dream and called my hubby to see, by which stage I could see her entire outline inside my t-shirt. So lifted it, and there she was, painlessly born and gorgeous.
I'm a big fan of the "beam me out, Scotty" approach to childbirth and had hoped someone would discover how to do it before she made her arrival. I have to say my dream experience was really quite pleasant.
My baby girl was gorgeous, a mop of dark hair (her brother had blonde fluff when he was born) and had the cutest toes. It was nice to hold her in my arms - if only in a dream - for a little while.

Eating Coco Pops...

At 2 in the mornings.
I can't sleep.
It's not that I'm not tired. I'm bone tired. I am SO very, very tired.
I went to bed just after 10 because I was so tired. Admittedly, I read for a bit first ('Waiting for Birdy' - loaned to me by Keris and it's brilliant and very appropriate).
But since about 11, I've been trying to sleep.
First of all, the baby decided to wake up. She's been very quiet all day - to the point I was starting to get quite worried - but nope, once I lay down she went into overdrive. There was kicking, punching, wriggling, hiccuping and rolling.
So that calmed down, eventually and the restless legs started. Full on mega jumps.
That's still there.
And then Madam decided she wanted to move directly onto my bladder so that every 3.5 seconds I need to go to loo - and quickly.
And then I started to feel a kind of strange sick/ hungry feeling (hence the Coco Pops... which, you know I buy for Joseph... allegedly).
And now that I've got up, the achey pains have started. At the moment I'm getting them for about 2 hours a night - but usually earlier in the evening. You know that kind of dragging, periody (sorry male readers...) achey back, pressure in your butt feeling that only comes at 8 months of pregnancy? Yup... that's the one.
So I'm online, and I might take to bouncing on my birthing ball and watch an episode of Sex and the City - I have never felt so further apart from Carrie and the gals... but hey, I have to get my glamour kicks somewhere.

Oh I have a feeling the next four weeks are going to be fun, fun, fun!

I'd like to say...

...it is very difficult to concentrate on anything when you feel as if your waters may pop at any second.
I swear madam is now actually in the foof area and her stretching and poking is making for some very intriguing sensations. I can also hear pops and clicks from time to time and I spent today in work worrying (probably very much unnecessarily) that I was going to have to explain a big puddle under my desk.

I'm not due for another month but I'm really starting to worry that very soon I'm going to have to say, out loud, in a public place "Erm, honestly. It's not pee. My waters have gone."

Baby Watch - 6 weeks and 6 days left

Of course, she could come early. Or late. Or on time.

But here is the stomach - huge! Hard to believe someone told me just three days ago they didn't realise I was pregnant. If my stomach was normally this size, I would be seriously worried.

Anyway - I saw my consultant today and everything is just hunky dory. Baby is facing the appropriate exit - is well down and ready for action and weighing a perfectly average 4.5lbs or thereabouts at the moment.

Seems a bit mad to think that she is so near to being here.

And yet I'm utterly freaked out at the thought of pushing a 7.5lb/ 8lbs (the current estimate for her weight) baby out of my fandango.

For Mimi - here's what a cellular blanket looks like...

I don't know why these blankets are held in such high esteem but you can't look at a "What you need for your baby" list here without a mention of them.

Thing is they tend to be quite starchy and not all that comfortable from my experience.

I've only got a couple this time - for the pram and crib. Obviously a baby would look a little daft stuck in a sleeping bag in her pram.

And yes I do have swaddle wraps too (donated by my sister) so I'll be giving them a go.

And to further answer Mimi's questions - yes round here the majority of our ante-natal care is carried out by midwives and it will be a midwife who will deliver the baby unless there are complications. I do have a consultant who oversees my care - but I've yet to actually meet him and I only saw him once during my pregnancy with the boy. I don't mind, to be honest, I feel much more comfortable with a woman looking at my nethers than a man (even though I know he has seen it all 100 times before - not my nethers, obviously).

Well today my little pregnancy ticker doodah says 50 days to go. Am having a feeling it won't be that long (wishful thinking, perhaps) but as I have morphed into a horrendously over emotional waddling weeble in the last few days I can but live in hope.

In non-pregnancy related news I learned last night that Feels Like Maybe will be released in paperback on May 28.

So post baby, I have approximately 10 weeks to get myself looking decent enough to meet my public and do the publicity trail. Not sure how I'm going to manage leaving a 10 week old for publicity - watch this space.

Lunchtime blog - cravings and other wonders

I haven't really had any cravings with this pregnancy up until now. There was a night I took a mad notion for a beef stroganoff and would not be satisfied until I had one but it was a one off and I'm not sure one offs count as actual cravings.
But recently I've had two strange ones. The first is cheese and chive dip - the kind you buy in wee pots in the supermarket and can dip breadsticks or crudites in. (But who are we kidding folks, it is nicest served with a big old pile of "once you pop, you can't stop" Pringles). I spotted a tub on the supermarket shelf just before Christmas and since then no sour cream and chive crisp has been safe in my sights. It's a strange addiction - especially as I can't wash it down with the traditional glass (or three) of finest new world Sauvignon Blanc.
The second craving is cornettos - which do kind of nauseate me to a great extent - and yet I am powerless to their call. I even (and I do feel a total pig for admitting it) ate two in one night recently... just after the other. I should have stopped, I regretted immediately... but it was as if a force outside of my body, mind and mental reasoning just took over and there I was... up to my neck in chocolate and ice cream.

Okay so neither are going to win any healthy eating awards - but after seven months of constant being sick (you see, I mentioned the sick again...) I figure I deserve a little treat now and then (and again.... and again....)

Lunchtime blog - the big ouchee

I think I'm having labour pains for Keris.
Obviously my own little one is nowhere nearly near cooked and ready to come out but all morning I've been ouchee as feck. What I wouldn't give for a couple of nurofen and a glass of wine.
What I think will happen is that I will continue being ouchee until Keris sneezes and has her baby painlessly.

Keris, for the uninitiated, is a writer friend who is ridiculously talented and also very overly pregnant (8 days overdue and counting). She's been updating her blog twice daily with tales of her overdueness but no sign of baby Joe yet.
This reminds me all of when I was pregnant with the boy and my colleague and friend in work was due some 17 days before me. She also went overdue and being expectant and hormonal I felt as if in a way I was overdue with her and waited day in and day out for news of her baby's arrival. In the end her lovely little Amy arrived 9 days late and seven days before Joseph made his arrival (one day early).
What I will say is that I'm no good at waiting - not one bit - so I'm hoping (for my sake as much as Keris') that her baby arrives soon. And that mine arrives at least on time - but despite the big ouchee - not today.

Lunchtime Blog - things to try not to do in work

Without saying too much about the circumstances of the why and wherefore I cried today in work.
In front of the big boss.
Like a big eejit.
I seem to be crying a lot at the minute - damn hormones - but generally I reserve it for alone time (the car, over the ironing board, when I go to bed). Some times they are happy tears - I'm so utterly, utterly in love with my son it overwhelms me. I'm so proud of my hubby it amazes me. And I'm so blessed to be getting a gorgeous baby girl that it sometimes spills over into snottery sobs. (Of course, she might not be gorgeous. She might be icky. Joseph is seriously worried about the fact she might have some blood on her when she is born - something I'm not prepared for myself as Joseph was clean as a whistle when he arrived. My claim to fame - a hygienically clean uterus and cervix....)
Other times the weight of the world feels as if it sat on my shoulders (right beside the wee devil who tells me to eat chocolate even though it is guaranteed to make me feel horrendously sick. I don't need to mention what is happening with the economy in any great detail to know it is taking it's toll on all of us.
I'm also very, very scared of labour and delivery even though I know I've done it (and survived it) before. Note to self - must stop reading Take a Break magazine and tales of women conking it in childbirth, or worse, their babies conking it. NOT GOOD for my mental health).

And then there are times when I just need a good cry. I just wish those times didn't come in the middle of a meeting with my bosses.

As Aoife would say in 'Feels Like Maybe' - when they write the story of my life that episode will be filed under "Not Her Finest Moment".

Lunchtime blog - eight weeks and counting

It's just eight weeks til this baby is due.
I'm hoping for an early(ish) arrival. I mean I don't want her here now, I want her here when she is safe. Maybe at 38 weeks or 39... just NOT late. I could not handle late. (You just know she is soooooo going to be late, don't you?)
It's not that I'm particularly fed up of being pregnant. It's more that I'm fed up of carrying out a huge tummy, that moves, and kicks and stretches all the time, making me want to swear. And I'm so over the being sick. Had enough. Been sick for 30 weeks now. Surely that is enough sick for anyone's lifetime. And that's not mentioning the back ache and the heart burn.
Of course it's lovely to think that inside me a little miracle is growing and I am grateful for that - honestly I am. I just wish I did it with more grace.
I came to work today to discover both A: Sick on my top due to a last minute before leaving the house surprise vomit. (Yes, this pregnancy brings lots of feeling just dandy one minute, heaving into the loo the next surprises) and B: streaked make up due to my eyes watering during the surprise sick. When I checked in the bathroom mirror before leaving the house (already late for work as obviously I had not factored in the 10 minutes required for the surprise vomit session) it looked okay. When I arrived at work, it was a different matter. I've tried blending - I don't think it worked.
So I look (and fear I smell) just fecking rough. And still I'm supposed to have a smile on my face.

Well in some ways I do. I heard today that my gorgeously lovely best friend Vicki (who lives in Scotland and may or may not have a touch of the 'Daisy' about her) has booked to come and see me and madam mid March. In 10 weeks. JUST ten weeks. I cried happy tears.

Also I wrote last night, about 600 words building on the success of the previous night. I now hope to be back on track. But all the while aware than in 8 weeks time there will be a very big distraction to my writing. Eep!

Be prepared

So now I'm on a countdown. It's nine weeks today til my baby is due and while nine weeks is a long time (esp with the sickness and the increasing heartburn) it's not really all that long now, is it?
I mean, conceivably, this time nine weeks I could be holding a precious baby girl in my arms and dreading going for a pee in case it stings. Scary thoughts indeed.
The last few days I've had really strong braxton hicks contractions which have been a taster of what will come. I have freaked a few people out who I swear have thought I'm about to pop but I know as a second timer these contractions might be a little ouchy but they are nothing compared to the real deal. The real deal makes me swear. These just make me say "oweee" a couple of times.
Nonetheless the arrival of the braxton hicks (or branston pickles as I prefer to call them) have made me realise that I'm not all that prepared - or at least I wasn't until I went into a one woman shopping spree in Matalan, Babies R Us and Tesco at the weekend.
I have my oversized nighty for labour and the big pants for recovery afterwards (can't be coping with disposable knickers) and enough maternity towels to build a small tower. Nappies are bought, as are vests and a coat for the baby (pink, of course) and tonight I packed a hospital bag of sorts.
So I'm nearly there. If only they'd let me smuggle in a bottle of vodka to cope with the pain I'd be flying.

It's New Year's Eve...

... And I can't remember the last time I went out and celebrated the big night. In fact my last (semi conscious) memory of New Year's Eve is probably the Millennium Eve where I remember singing 'The Fields of Athenry' at the top of my lungs before my other half (not husband just then) told me to be quiet. And there was me thinking I was the Derry answer to Mary Black...
Generally - and I mean post motherhood - NYE has involved me getting the wee man to sleep as soon as possible and then, after sitting and complaining about the lack of decent telly, going to bed at around 10.30 and do my damndest to be asleep for midnight.
It's not that I don't like the hope of a new year, it's more that I don't do so well with the reflection of the year past. Being a born pessismist I tend to focus on the negative more than the positive and that is so not conducive to a good night's sleep.
I also become an emotional wreck at midnight - positive and negative- and tend to stand over the sleeping boy and cry at how much I love him. Which wakes him up and traumatises him - I mean for the love of God who wants to wake to find their mother sobbing over their bed in the wee small hours?
I'm working tomorrow too - at 9am - and given the current hugemongously pregnant state that I'm in, I don't cope well with less than 10 hours of sleep (including frequent breaks for trips to the toilet, the taking of the middle of the night anti-emetic and the rolling over and listening to my pelvis actually pop back into place).
So for all those celebrating tonight - have fun, drink loads and enjoy yourself. I hope your reflections are positive and your hopes are many.
Tomorrow I think I'll ressurect a best of 2008 post to focus on the positive, but for tonight just wish me sweet dreams.

Three quarters of the way there...

Just (And I say that with a heavy hint of irony) 10 weeks to go until I'm due to have my baby.
While the thought of pushing said baby out of my fandango in an experience which will probably smart a little does not fill me with joy, I am looking forward to being done with this pregnancy melarky - for the last time ever!
They say they know when you are done with your family and trust me I am SO done. I am over done. I was done 13 weeks ago when I puked on the plane.
That's not to say I can't wait to meet my little girl - and to love her and care for her and enjoy her as much as possible - but lordy I am ready to not be pregnant any more.
I heard from a friend today that her niece has just given birth and while I'm admittedly having duck disease at the prospect of labour, I did feel jealous. It's over her - she has her baby and the love in can begin in earnest.
Still, that said, I'm not prepared at all really. We have a few things in (the baby has two prams... bargains which could not be turned down) but I've not a vest, nor an ounce of cotton wool, nor a coat for the poor pet yet. Still - 10 weeks to get organised.
That's really not very long is it?

Putting it all in perspective - an explanation for my general crapness since June

This is going to be VERY self indugent, you have been warned. But for the last few days I've felt I needed to get this all down to put into perspective what has going on with me and the "joys" of pregnancy.
This might, in fairness, be a little TMI at times so you have been warned. Anyone of a sensitive disposition should run away, screaming, at this point.

Anyway, on June 25 (the husband's birthday) I got a very faint positive line on a pregnancy test. However I had managed to get distracted between the peeing and the reading of the result so couldn't be sure it was an accurate result and convinced myself it was purely an evaporation line. This was despite feeling rough as the proverbial badger's arse for the previous 10 days.
The following day, I started bleeding so was convinced it had indeed been only an evaporation line and came home from work - poured a mahoosive glass of wine and drowned my sorrows.
Only I was still feeling sick and, well, pregnant.
I was convinced to test again and a positive line came up straight away (no distractions) so immediately all I could think was that yes, I was beduffed, but feck it, I was already miscarrying.
My head, as they say round these parts, was a marly.

The next day, bleeding having stopped, I bought a Clear Blue Digital test which proclaimed "pregnant" at me in large letters and this was one about 2689 pregnancy tests I did over the coming weeks.
Feeling sick as a dog I soon started to feel sorry for myself but reminded myself that with the boy I had felt sick til 13 weeks and then been just fine for the remainder of my pregnancy. The countdown to 13 weeks started in earnest. I would feel well again then - and be able to eat and do what I wished.

At 6 weeks and 2 days beduffed, I started bleeding again. Bright red blood. Now I'd bled with the boy - but it had been browny and "old blood" and he had been fine and while it had been scary, it was nowhere near as scary as bright red blood. I took a panic, told a colleague tearfully in work and she whisked me to A&E - where I did yet another pregnancy test and was sent for a scan.
Now by 6 weeks you should see something in a scan - but they couldn't. They thought they saw a yoke sack, and possibly a foetal pole (which is basically a dot) but there was no heartbeat or anything discernably baby looking.

I was told to go home, rest, and wait it out for two weeks before a rescan. All the while still bleeding. (With that fecking Leona Lewis song playing through my head the whole time... "keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding").

It was the longest two weeks of my life. And yet I was feeling sicker and sicker. (I started to wonder was it possible to actually feel any sicker?) But when we reached 8 weeks (5 weeks before the hurrah! 13 week mark) I was taken for me scan.
And lo, there was a heartbeat and a shrimpy shaped thing on screen wiggling at us. Our baby was alive. The bleeding had stopped. We would most likely be parents again.

13 weeks came and went - the sickness just came and came. I went to Dublin at 14 weeks for book promo and ended up violently ill in Bewley's Hotel (entirely pregnancy related). I learned the valuable lesson that day that mushrooms take a long time to digest.

Two weeks later I went to Dublin again thinking I would be safe if I flew down- and spent the day trying not to be sick - only to find on the flight home that there was nothing in this world which was going to stop me puking. All over myself. Twas not my finest hour.

At that stage (16 weeks and three weeks past the magical 13 week mark) I begged the doctor for help and was prescribed metoclopromide for hyperemesis - even though at that stage I was only being physically sick 2/3 times a week - the nausea was becoming a little much to take.

So I took metoclopromide for 8 weeks until I was advised to try not taking it - just to see how I went. By this stage, I should say, even on medication I was now being sick daily.

The day after I took my last metoclopromide I woke in what can only be described as a state of panic. (I should state that two weeks prior to this, partly I think to the constant sickness, I had been diagnosed once again with my arch nemesis depression and put on Prozac- I have thought long and hard about revealing that on this blog but as I have been so open about my depression in the past it would be remiss of me to pretend to be just fine and dandy now).

Anyway, that panic attack didn't lift and was accompanied by constant retching, throwing up and a total loss of appetite. I spent that weekend crying, throwing up and feeling utterly, utterly rotten. I can put my hand on my heart and say that I have never felt so low - so utterly in hell - as I did that weekend.
And yet my brain was addled. By Monday morning - despite not having eaten in three days, not being able to keep water down and bursting into tears at every opportunity I insisted on getting ready for work. I dressed, throwing up into a basin beside me, and it was only when I narrowly avoided fainting that I realised something was seriously wrong. By that stage I couldn't even keep a sip of water down.

Cue me being taken to the doctors and admitted to hospital (see post further down about that).
I was rehydrated, given different medication and urged to keep taking the Prozac. The panic didn't ease. I spent hours staring into space feeling as if I wanted to give up. I saw no joy in anything - I just felt beyond wretched. In many ways I think I had a breakdown of sorts - which I know was contributed to by the dehydration.

Earlier this week, or perhaps last, something changed. Whether it was body recovering from the dehydration - whether it is the new anti-sickness medication (valoid) working, or the Prozac kicking in I have felt able to cope. Yes, I'm still being sick on a daily basis and it does get me down - despite having mastered the art of projectile vomiting - but I see hope and joy again.

I can put my hand on my heart and say in the last week I have finally been able to feel excited about the prospect of being a mum again - and it's not forced or because I should feel that way. It is genuinely and honestly how I feel - and it had destroyed me for a long time not feeling any glimmer of hope or excitement.

So if you want to know why I've not been posting as much, now you do. I felt the need to share so that anyone else going through this doesn't feel quite so alone.

So I should be out at my work's Christmas do...

But instead I'm in my jammies, sat at the computer with a glass of water and a variety of anti-sickness pills at my side. I've just taken my third 8 hourly dose of Cyclizine for the day and a dose of ranitidine to stop the inevitable puking that the morning will bring being acidic. (I can handle the puking now - I'm so used to it - but when it's acidy, I don't like that so much.).
I've actually managed not to puke today (there was a minor reflux incident when I drank some water this morning but no stomach turning retching).
Nonetheless I knew it would be unwise of me to join my colleagues for a four course dinner. Damn it, if I'm going to throw up in front of people I'd prefer for it to me drink related rather than 6.5 month pregnancy related.
So while I sincerely hope they are having a good time - and I'm gutted to be missing out on discovering who won the elusive 'Rear of the Year' award - I know I'm better off where I am.
And all being well I'll be asleep by 10pm.
The only question is whether or not I order a pink car seat from the Mothercare sale before I toddle off up the stairs. Even though three seperate sonographers have now told me this baby is a girl, I'm still expecting her to come out avec winky. Could I really subject a son of mine to a pink car seat for the first four years of his life? Perhaps not.

So anyway - hospital...

Sorry for the prolonged silence. I do have a good excuse -promise.
On Saturday last I had what can only be described as a bit of a meltdown. On the advice of doctors I stopped taking my anti-sickness tablet to see how I went.
By Monday morning I was a snivelling "I want my mammy" wreck who could not even keep water down. (It wasn't pretty - really, really unpretty).
So I was dispatched to the doctors at lunchtime and by mid afternoon I was in hospital, attached to a drip and drugged up on a new anti-sickness drug which does in fact work (when I can manage to keep it down in the first instance).
I spent 24 hours attached to a drip while three litres of saline were pumped into my body and I was encouraged to drink as much as possible. The only downside being that every time I needed to pee (which was an awful lot) I had to literally unplug my drip from the wall and push the heaviest stand in the world ever down the corridor to the tiny loo and try to pee without pulling the canula from my arm.
I shared my hospital room with several expectant mums - all of whom in early labour or ready for induction and spent an awful lot of time saying "No, no, I've 15 weeks to go. No I'm just in here cos I'm sick" and freaking out as their pains grew.
I got out of hospital on Wednesday - still dehydrated but tolerating water - and I have honestly felt the worst I ever have in my life in these past few days. I'm prone to anxiety anyway - but couple that with dehydration you end up with pretty much a 24/7 panic attack. Plus I feel so very, very weak.
Good news? I'm now lighter than I was before I got pregnant - although I'm pretty sure that's not meant to happen and at this stage I would welcome some weight gain.
Actually I would welcome being able to sit down and enjoy a decent meal - I'm hungry but very scared of vomitting so living on toast and scrambled egg where possible and averaging about 600 calories a day (which is very not enough!).
So I'm trying to get back into the spirit of writing and being positive and trying to shake this awful bad feeling I have.
I want to feel better - physically and emotionally. I want to get back to work (I miss that place - for my sins) and spend my day doing something more constructive than staring at the toilet.
And I want to start getting excited about this little babba in my tummy - who is kicking away like a good 'un to let me know she's there.

I'm a human being

Sometimes during this merry dance (read that as waddle) of pregnancy you get the urge to stand up, all Elephant Man style and announce that you are still a human being.
Yes, you are also a mum to be. You are, for all intents and purposes, a host or an incubator for a new life and boy do we women know it. From the moment the second line appears on that testing stick your life changes. Out goes the wine and the Nurofen (I miss wine and I REALLY miss nurofen). If you are stressed you are supposed to channel love and light - not mild anti-psychotics and if you are poorly sick you are allowed two paracetamol on an occasional basis.
Another reward for this pregnancy melarky is acid reflux and the treatment that is Gaviscon. What kind of medieval torturous mind came up with that sick in a bottle?

It is hard, therefore, just sometimes not to want to scream that you are in there and you matter too. And you want a nurofen and a handful of peanuts and to be treated as an individual not just someone's mammy to be. At every turn of this pregnancy I've been advised to "think of baby" and much as I know baby is a defenceless little creature who needs me to wear my sensible hat there is a part of me - a selfish part of me - which wants to think of me.

Yesterday I had an appointment at the hospital and for the first time in this pregnancy I was treated like me - just me. While doling out advice the lovely consultant I was speaking to said that while baby was obviously very important his main concern was me and my health - healthy mammy works well to make healthy baby.

I wanted to kiss him (no tongues, just on the cheek) and thank him for thinking of me first for making me feel like more than a host or an incubator which in turn does actually make me appreciate "baby" all the more.