Blind nonsense!

A quick rant here. (Ok, or “review” if we’re being politically correct about the whole thing…)

Yesterday I had a long appointment with a representative of the large internet blind company Hillarys, to measure up in our new build house in the country, so that I could get a quote for how many smackeroos it’s going to take to cover all our shiny new windows. (The answer to this, by the way, is “many”. Yikes.)

I was pretty pleased with the choice of fabrics available, and picked definites for our master bedroom, the guest bedroom and kitchen/utility areas. Not so sure, however, that I wanted to spend nearly 250 quid each on blinds for the boys’ bedrooms, when they’re inevitably going to get opinionated about these things shortly, and bathrooms – because, well, really? I asked for the dimensions of those windows so that I could investigate alternatives.

The response (i.e. a big fat NO) that I received surprised me a bit, and reminded me of a conversation I had several years ago with a colleague about doing business in a competitive market. Defensive trading – or trading designed to minimise the competition’s impact on your business – just doesn’t work. It’s like living in fear on a personal basis – your fears fuel themselves, and become self-perpetuating.

Imagine that you have a foxy partner. You may find yourself wondering from time to time whether Mr or Ms Foxy is going to find a similarly hot bit of stuff, that isn’t you, to make off with. Fair enough – relationships can be fickle enough these days to make that sort of thing a possibility. So you start to think more and more about it, you have the odd sneaky peek at the Foxster’s texts, you start sniffing collars for hints of incriminating perfume or aftershave; and before you know it you’re full-on rummaging feverishly through pants drawers, steaming open mail, opening faux facebook profiles to entrap the cheating little beggar.. In short, things get out of hand.

The inevitable result of becoming a mentalist in a relationship, is that your partner will get fed up with you and go elsewhere. Bingo – your fear has become a self-fulfilling prophecy!

Apply this scenario to the world of business. Imagine you provide a “no obligation” quote for a potential client, that involves some work on your part; oh, let’s call this work “measuring windows” for the sake of argument. Once you’re finished, and you reveal your quote, your potential client has become a customer. Whether or not your new customer chooses to actually order from you is a moot point; a customer they are nonetheless – it’s like walking into a supermarket, filling your trolley, then leaving it standing in the aisle and stomping out because you clocked the gigantic queue at the checkout and can’t be bothered with that nonsense thank you very much! You’re no less a customer because you didn’t buy; you’re just a pissed-off customer, that’s all. 

By witholding the measurements of my windows (in case I took the lot and went elsewhere – God damn my blackened and cheating heart…) Hillarys turned me into a pissed-off customer. 

Scenario A: Nice Lady orders 4 roller blinds, and 3 (pretty pricey) roman blinds for new house. Nice Lady gets measurements for remaining windows from Helpful Blind Company, and uses them to get quotes for slightly less pocket-wounding kids’ curtains and bathroom blinds. It’s all relatively easy and faff-free, so Nice Lady is happy with her blind purchasing experience, and tells her friends about Helpful Blind Company.

Scenario B: Nice Lady gets annoyed at company policy that dictates “your window measurements are now the property of Hillarys Blinds“. Annoyed Lady realises she has to spend another afternoon with somebody else, measuring the same windows all over again; which – let’s face it – is a pain in the backside, so decides that out of principle she’ll order no roller blinds and no roman blinds from Not-So-Helpful-Blind-Company and take her smackeroos elsewhere. Now Annoyed & Vociferous Lady tells her friends, and the internet.

So which scenario is better for your business?

The same colleague that I had this chat with, many years ago, told me that in her opinion, the best way to get what you want was to act as if you already have it. Want a faithful Foxster who would never dream of absconding with a personal fitness trainer? Then believe you’re so fabulous that it wouldn’t occur to anybody to cheat on you. That’s what I’ve been doing in my relationships since the great self-discovery of 2006, and as far as I know I’ve never been cuckolded – and if I have been, then I don’t know about it, it hasn’t affected my relationships or my self esteem, and hence I don’t really care. That certainly beats searching feverishly through pants drawers.

Want to be a market-leading company that beats competition? Then be fearless, accept that your customers will need your help not to purchase from you from time to time, and instead of seeing Scenario A as being a waste of your time and the loss of 2 stupidly overpriced roman blind orders, it suddenly turns into an investment in your company’s reputation, recruitment of a customer who will advocate your business, and a – yes, slightly smaller than anticipated, but still valuable – order for your sales ledgers.

*Insert comedy South London accent* Everybody’s ‘appy!

So the moral of the story is – forget the blind nonsense, and try making your customers happy instead. Because it’s not just me who “has blog, will rant”.

*Insert winking smiley*

Adam – 8th April 2011

Thankfully, my upsetting birth experience with Lewis didn’t put me off having more children – if anything I became even more convinced that home was the only place I wanted to give birth (unless there was a medical reason not to) since I now had first-hand experience of how being in hospital could be disruptive and destructive to the natural process.

When Lewis was 6 months old my husband and I decided that we wanted another baby; being far more relaxed about trying to conceive now that we had one baby to enjoy, we decided not to not try as opposed to anything more active. We were surprised but thrilled when I discovered I was pregnant a month later; and as soon as I was 8 weeks pregnant and we’d had a good early scan to be confident the pregnancy was progressing, I started planning my second birth.

I had complained to the hospital following Lewis’ birth and had had a lengthy chat on the phone with the head of community midwifery, to provide feedback on the issues I had with my care – the “no choice” attitude to induction, the timetabled approach to my progress taken by the first doctor, and particularly the total lack of effective breastfeeding support in the postnatal ward and within my community midwives’ team.

I had been told to contact the lady I spoke to the next time I became pregnant so that we could discuss my care with a view to coming up with a plan to make it work better for me second time around. I did this, and felt optimistic when I was promised a meeting to talk about my preferences and arrange something mutually acceptable.

In the meantime, I had decided that I wanted to engage a doula to provide extra support and advocacy during my home birth. I interviewed two women, both of who shared my views about natural birth, and I noticed a pattern emerging. The doulas (one of whom was a retired midwife herself) felt that the medicalised approach to birth in the NHS, and their defensive policies would undermine natural birth in all but the most “textbook straightforward” of circumstances. When I asked them directly, both admitted that to have the best chance of achieving a natural birth I might want to consider hiring an independent midwife.

Having heard nothing from the NHS in the meantime, I contacted Carrie McIntosh, Independent Midwife, on the recommendation of the first doula I’d spoken to. Carrie came to my house for an “interview” but I was already fairly convinced that engaging her was the right thing to do. Sure enough, we spoke and I instantly realised that she not only shared my opinions on how much more smoothly birth is likely to go when undisturbed, but also that she was going to be in a position to practice what she preached, being unhindered by defensive policies.

I decided that Carrie was to be my midwife, and engaged her formally – signing the disclaimer required by independent midwives to say that I understood she would not be practicing with insurance, and setting up my standing order to pay her fee in monthly instalments.

Finally, when I was entering the second trimester I received a phone call on a Saturday morning from a stranger who told me she was my named midwife. She was looking to arrange antenatal appointments, which confused me somewhat, given that I had been told my care would be discussed before any decisions were made. I was rather annoyed that even before I’d managed to speak to anybody in the NHS, my choices were being taken away from me. Anyhow, we arranged for the midwife who had phoned me to be the point of liaison for Carrie within the NHS (for processing test results etc) and I became even more convinced I’d done the right thing in hiring someone who would listen to me and take my preferences into account.   

My pregnancy progressed smoothly, baby was perfectly happy at every antenatal check (Carrie would come round to the house in the evenings, which made things a lot easier for us) and my health was excellent – blood pressure perfect at each check and never any traces of anything worrying in my urine.

At 31 weeks pregnant, I noticed something funny about the sensation in my hands. Everything I touched felt freezing cold, even if I knew it was only slightly cool. Chalking it up to some random pregnancy-related strangeness I ignored it and carried on as I had been. However the following week something else strange happened when my tongue suddenly felt as if it had been burned and I lost my sense of taste. My hands were no better, and I was starting to have difficulty holding a pen properly to write with. By the end of that week, I felt achy and weak, and assuming I was coming down with the flu, I left work early on the Friday afternoon; I was shocked to find how difficult I found walking home from the bus stop due to the weakness in my legs.

I spoke to NHS24 over the weekend, who arranged a neurological check-up for me with a doctor at the Western General Hospital. The situation deteriorated during the course of my 33^rd week of pregnancy; I felt too weak to go to work, and by the middle of the week, my skin was numb across about 75% of my body and I was having serious trouble walking. Finally admitted to hospital at the end of the week, I was diagnosed with Guillain-Barre Syndrome (GBS), an autoimmune condition where the body attacks its own peripheral nerve system, causing ascending paralysis accompanied by swallowing and breathing problems.

I spent 13 nights in hospital, first waiting to see if the condition would “plateau” by itself and start to improve, then as time went on and I continued to deteriorate, for a 5 day course of treatment which thankfully set me on the road to recovery.

By the time I was discharged from hospital, I was exactly 36 weeks pregnant and still having real trouble with sensation and mobility. I knew I was on a timetable to recover my strength in time to give birth, and started to worry about what was going to happen when the time came. Not for the first time I was incredibly glad that I’d engaged Carrie as my midwife; her unswerving positivity and pragmatic attitude to my condition were a huge comfort to me during what was a really frightening time.

Carrie’s thoughts were that as the GBS was not at all pregnancy-related and was unlikely to affect my baby, I should still be able to give birth naturally, and she would still be comfortable attending me at a home birth unless there was any clinical evidence to make transferring to hospital advisable.

Between us, Carrie and I agreed that my main problems in labour were going to be strength and stamina – I simply didn’t know if I was going to be able to cope with the demands of childbirth, given that I couldn’t stand up for longer than a few minutes, and even sitting up for any length of time was tiring. I knew in my heart that the only chance I had of achieving an active birth, where I could move and change position according to my instincts in labour, would be by using a birth pool. In water, I knew I would be as mobile and comfortable as I possibly could be – and therefore able to make the most of my very limited strength.

At 37 weeks, Carrie and I met with the consultant obstetrician that I had been referred to after the GBS diagnosis, and a consultant anaesthetist he asked to come along.  My aim for the meeting was to come up with a Birth Plan B in case when I went into labour I wanted to be in hospital. Apparently the consultants’ aim was to scare me into giving up the idea of home birth. I was told of horrible things that might happen to my blood pressure and pulse with the onset of active labour, advised that the placing of an epidural would be complicated and risky due to the existing nerve damage from the GBS, told that emergency caesarean under general anaesthetic would be ultra-complicated and risky, that I could require ventilation, that I could die, that my baby could die…

The consultant anaesthetist in particular continually talked in absolutes; “when” you get your epidural, “when” you need your caesarean section – calling the various interventions “yours” as if they belonged to me and I’d already begged her for them.

I was terrified that I was being bloody-minded to the point of endangering myself and my baby, but I could still sense Carrie believing in my ability to give birth, so from somewhere found the strength to tell the consultants that although I would have a very low threshold for transfer to hospital on clinical indications of any problem with the labour or the baby, I would not be deciding where to give birth until I knew how I was going to feel when labour started.

My understanding of the risks I faced was very different from the medical view. They feared that my blood pressure and pulse rate would cause me to crash; I feared their continuous monitoring of those, which would confine me to bed where I wouldn’t be able to cope with the pain. They feared that an epidural would cause permanent damage to my already raw nerve casings; I feared being forced to labour on my back which would make the dangerous epidural necessary. They were concerned with constantly looking for what might go wrong; I needed to know I’d given myself every opportunity for things to go right.

Things kicked off more or less the same as they had with Lewis – albeit nearly 2 weeks earlier. After more or less constant Braxton Hicks contractions which began while I was still bed-bound and paralysed in hospital (with hindsight, my clever body trying to shift poor persistently posterior Adam into a more sensible position ready for birth – foiled by my forced immobility), my waters broke overnight between 37&6 and 38 weeks.

Then, the same wait for “proper” contractions. I knew the statistics – 86% of women would go into labour within 24 hours of membrane rupture; so I was determined to wait it out this time and avoid the syntocinon drip. It took another 3 days for my labour to start (by which time I was getting very anxious) and at 38&3 my first ever natural “real” contractions started.

 This time, instead lying in bed in a sterile and frightening hospital room, I was propped up on pillows on my own couch. Lack of sleep in the last few days of my pregnancy had drained me of so much strength that my residual GBS symptoms had been getting worse; by the time my waters had been broken for 3 days I was having trouble walking again. Nonetheless, once my husband had helped me to overcome a last-minute crisis of confidence, the thought of hospital was banished from my head and didn’t occur to me again.

Contractions became steadily more intense throughout the morning. I was in a strange state of denial; having never gone into labour at all with Lewis, and following the prolonged “false start” of broken waters and incessant Braxton Hicks contractions, I had started to feel like I would never give birth. So every stage I reached and passed was accompanied by a feverish thought in my head – “Oh God, I really hope I’m in labour now!”

Carrie had popped out to run a quick errand, and on her return I was clearly working hard. I had moved through to the dining room, where I could balance my huge pile of prop-me-up pillows on the side of the birth pool so that I could lean forward on to them while sitting on the edge of a bed we had set up – it had become impossible for me to sit upright on the couch any longer, I simply didn’t have the strength.

A quick examination, and my first shot of the gas & air (I have a horror of internals that makes me tense up and panic, so wanted to be comfortably stoned) revealed that I was 4cm dilated, and in active labour. This meant only one thing to me – that I could get into the birthing pool! I have never felt such a profound sense of relief as I did when I slipped into the water – instantly my mobility issues vanished, I could move about with ease, my weight was no longer dragging me to the ground and making me ache – I could float, I could turn, I could lean forward; and it was easy.   

As far as I can remember, things sped up from that point. I was using the gas & air to get me through the contractions which seemed far too far apart and too short for me to be in active labour. I heard Carrie telling me that I was doing brilliantly, that the contractions were right on top of each other, and I was confused. Then I realised that I had been counting the feeling of pain as a contraction, and in fact there was a period of painless pressure on either side of the short (but intense) pain which meant that my contractions were coming thick and fast, and only hurting me at their peak now that I was relaxed and surrendering to the process.

The whole birth became a sort of strange “out of body experience” as rational, informed Elaine watched primal, animal Elaine in the pool going through the stages of labour. I remember words coming out of my mouth; “I can’t do it. It’s too hard. I can’t do it!” (Gosh, you sound just like you’re going through transition!)

Suddenly my body was pushing; (Oh! You just pushed!) nobody had told me to – it just happened. My despair of the moment before had been reassured by Carrie’s confident “you are doing it Elaine, you’re doing great” and was suddenly replaced by an elated certainty that came out of my mouth with the words “Ahaaa – now we’re getting somewhere!”

Pushing lasted 30 minutes, and not once was I told what to do. My body pushed for me, as my husband held my hands and bathed my face and neck with cool lavender water; the second most blissful thing I have ever felt – after the initial plunge into the birth pool.

As I felt Adam’s head pop out, (Surely I must be in labour now!) another great wave of relief washed over me, and with the next contraction I felt his body slide out. Carrie said “Well Elaine, do you want to pick your baby up?”

I looked down between my legs to see Adam apparently swimming, and I felt incredible, strong, powerful, elated, amazing as I reached into the water for him. Then I remembered that my stupid hands were still numb when I fumbled with the slippery little bundle and dropped him again. Luckily, Carrie caught him, and helped me manoeuvre myself to the edge of the pool where I sat with my new baby on my chest and wept tears of joy, relief and general emotional overload.

The rest of the process was straightforward, if a little tedious. I was shattered, and getting out of the pool reminded me of just how weak I was physically. The placenta was being a bit stubborn, so Carrie and Jenny, my second midwife, helped me onto a birthing stool where I briefly felt resentful (I’ve just had a frickin’ baby – can’t I have a break now?) then amused when I remembered reading the words of midwifery guru Ina May Gaskin who told one similarly tired-of-it mum “oh honey, this is the easy bit – there aren’t any bones”. I had a few contractions and pushed it out without any bother.

Then it was back to my couch for cups of sweet tea and bacon sandwiches. Adam had a little feed on my right breast, and then me, my husband and our two beautiful boys had a huge cuddle on the couch before Adam and I were transferred, grateful, happy, spent and (most importantly) safe, to our own bed.

 I don’t want to write too much more, because that seems like such a perfect ending to me. All I want to add is that I am glad every single day that I chose to give birth at home; I’m glad that I chose Carrie as my midwife, and I’m glad that I have a wonderful husband who trusts me to give birth to our babies without needing a doctor. In the same PROM / OP baby scenario as first time round, with some extra complications added by the GBS, I had a healthy, safe and natural birth – simply because I was cared for and supported in labour by people I trusted, and I was allowed the peace and privacy I needed to let my body do its wonderful job of giving birth.

Lewis – 10th December 2009

Finally, after nearly two years I have got round to writing my birth story for Lewis – prompted probably by having a far more positive one to share for Adam as well. Here we go…

Lewis

I had planned a home birth for my first baby. Being convinced of the benefits of natural, undisturbed birth for baby and mother, and of the importance of the emotional side of labour, I had decided that I would be most comfortable labouring in my own home, where I would be relaxed and most likely to release the hormones that would make labour and birth go smoothly.

I reached full term after an easy, healthy pregnancy, marred only in the last few weeks by what seemed like endless false labours, insomnia and night-time hip pain. At 39&6 my waters broke – an enormous, dramatic gush of fluid that I had thought happened only in films. My husband and I were thrilled; excited that finally we were going to meet our first baby. I felt well prepared for the birth, and looked forward to experiencing proper contractions as opposed to the continuous regular Braxton Hicks contractions I’d been having every evening since 34 weeks.

We called our community midwives, and one came round to see what the story was. I was 1-1.5cm dilated and contracting gently; waters nice and clear. Baby was in a posterior position (back-to-back) which meant that labour could take a while to get going, and could follow a bit of a start/stop pattern. She advised me to go to bed and get as much rest as possible; if labour was going to kick off it would wake me up, otherwise I’d be refreshed and ready for it the next day. Although this felt like ridiculous advice to an excited first-time mum, I duly went to bed and hoped things would start to happen.

24 hours later I was up at the ERI for monitoring, as I had experienced no contractions to speak of. The colour of the fluid I was passing had changed overnight and was now lightly stained with green – something I had questioned with the midwife who had returned that morning to check up on me and take a swab to check for infection. She had told me “no traces of meconium” as she took the swab, so I was feeling confused. 

At the end of a 20 minute monitoring session in Triage, no signs of distress were observed in baby and the nurse had just said it was fine for us to go home and wait for labour to start in earnest. I was feeling a bit funny about the stained waters, so queried them with her; she instantly recognised meconium and went into red alert mode. I was told that I couldn’t go home, that I was to go upstairs to labour ward immediately for a syntocinon drip and that we needed to “get this baby out”.

I was offered no choice, no discussion of the implications of the meconium took place despite the reassuring monitoring that had been recorded, and no account was taken of the fact that my baby was at term dates and just as likely to have passed meconium because his gut was mature, as to have passed through distress.

I was dazed, confused and felt completely disempowered. All I could think about was my home birth slipping away and being replaced with frightening medical procedures that I knew I didn’t want but seemed to be obliged to accept.

The next 17 hours fade into a blur; only random images really remain with me – me sobbing with frustration as I tried to cope with fierce synthetic contractions whilst disabled and feeling utterly trapped by the monitoring machine – I had asked for intermittent monitoring but was told it “wasn’t allowed”. Me telling the doctor in tears that I didn’t want an epidural, and being told with rolled eyes that it was “recommended” because a syntocinon induction was going to be so painful. And finally, me at a disappointing 4-5cm dilated, finally breaking and asking for the epidural when the words “slow progress” were bandied about once too often – I had become so demoralised and disempowered that in my despair I decided that if a C section was going to be inevitable, that I might as well get the epidural out of the way before it was too late, so they wouldn’t have to knock me out altogether.

Had I known at the time that posterior babies tended to turn with strong contractions and mum adopting forward-leaning positions, leading to an easier more progressive labour, I may have thought twice about asking for that epidural. However nobody thought to discuss my options with me, or to suggest trying the gas and air first in order to keep me mobile.

All this time I had the “dedicated attention” of one midwife; she never left us for a moment. Of course, the reality of this was in fact that it was the continuous monitoring machine that had her dedicated attention, and she barely spoke to or looked at me or my husband throughout the whole first stage – only responding to our anxious questions about baby’s wellbeing, as we had been told that his heart rate was dipping with every contraction.

 Eventually, at 6-7cm dilated the doctor who was popping in and out every few hours to examine me told me that if I hadn’t made better progress (at least 2cm) by the next examination, that we were going to have to discuss our options. I knew this meant the seemingly inevitable C section talk, and by this time I was so miserable that I would almost have welcomed it. My epidural hadn’t worked down the left hand side of my body, so I was still in enormous pain – and now immobilised in bed; exactly the birthing position I had been most keen to avoid, knowing that it would compromise baby’s blood and oxygen supply (not good news when the syntocinon contractions were already causing his heart rate to dip) and make pushing more difficult, as he would effectively have to come out uphill and round a corner.

Luckily for us, there was a shift change, and the doctor who took over my care had a more relaxed “wait and see” attitude to my progress. His positivity must have been infectious, because although I hadn’t achieved the 2cm “target” dilation stipulated by the previous doctor, I felt a bit more hopeful – I had been told that progress was being made, it was slow but it was definitely happening. This gave me the hope and encouragement I so desperately needed to really make a go of giving birth vaginally. I started to remember my yoga breathing and relaxation techniques, and with every contraction repeated inside my head “I am opening up and this baby is coming OUT!”

My progress seemed to speed up, and very suddenly the contractions down my left hand side became utterly unbearable. I was thrashing around in agony, and remember screaming “for the love of God will somebody DO something for me!” at which point somebody handed me the gas and air nozzle and I started drawing on it frantically, desperate for some relief.

I remember drifting away and feeling very sleepy and peaceful , so grateful to have left the nightmarish hospital behind me. Very rudely (I thought) one of the midwives grabbed the nozzle back and gave me a row for taking too much, which made me start to concentrate on my breathing more. Quickly I learned that I could take two or three deep breaths on the gas and air as I approached the peak of a contraction, and it would carry me over the top and down the other side in complete comfort – to this day I have no idea if the pain relief was actually that effective, or if it was just the case that I was learning to manage the sensations by paying attention to my breathing.

I reached full dilation in what seemed like no time at all, finally enjoying myself and singing along happily to Paolo Nutini who was playing on my iPod. When the time came to push, I had half an hour or so to relax, snooze and prepare myself while the midwives made all the necessary arrangements for delivering a meconium baby. Some sadistic and unkind person wrestled the gas and air from me (about which I was most unimpressed) and I assumed the “traditional” position for giving birth. I was semi-reclined on the bed, with my feet braced against my husband’s hip on one side, and the midwife’s hip on the other (incidentally, pushing in this position is probably what lead to me suffering from postnatal pelvic girdle pain). I was still exhilarated from the sudden turn for the better that events had taken, and was determined to take full advantage of the unexpected opportunity to avoid a C section.

So I pushed frantically, with the midwife shouting “Push! Push!” at me with every contraction – I had no urge to push at all and was only doing what I was told. Thankfully Lewis was a petite baby at 6lb 13oz, and I was able to birth him with relative ease – second stage lasting about half an hour, and my perineum sustaining only a small tear which required no stitches.

I was euphoric and so thrilled that against seemingly all the odds we had managed to have a “normal” delivery and escape injury. I barely noticed as I was injected with syntometrine and my placenta was managed out of my body, and I was allowed about half an hour of skin-to-skin contact with Lewis before he was taken away from me, cleaned and swaddled. This was despite clear instructions in my birth plan that stated I wanted uninterrupted skin-to-skin until we’d had our first breastfeed. Of course, I was in no fit state to question my treatment at the time, so docilely accepted what was going on and continued to gaze in wonder at my baby as he lay wrapped up in his hospital cot. 

10 hours later, I had received no further medical attention. I had asked twice – once on the way to my room and once by ringing the buzzer (which brought an angry nurse to the door to snap “what’s wrong with you?”) for some help to get breastfeeding established, but had seen nobody. In my irrational state of mind, I started to think that I would be better off comfortable at home than uncomfortable and ignored in a hospital room, so when my husband came to see me I asked him to go and see about having me discharged – which it seemed they were happy to do.

Only when the midwife came to go through the discharge papers did she realised that I hadn’t seen anybody, Lewis hadn’t been fed, and none of the newborn checks had been done. Tactfully she suggested that I should stay in overnight, and I agreed, asking again for some help to feed Lewis.

According to my notes, I received help with breastfeeding four times that night – although the only memory I have is of the hospital midwife “plugging” Lewis on to my left breast for me, which resulted in the only successful feed we had for another four days. With hindsight I realised that there is a big difference between a baby who’s attached to a nipple and sucking, and a baby who’s latched on and feeding. Sadly I didn’t know this then, and the first I knew that feeding wasn’t working was when urate crystals showed up in Lewis’ nappy two days later, showing that he was becoming dehydrated. My discharge letter from the hospital reads “managing breastfeeding well” which just goes to show how much attention they were paying.

Lack of support, and poor advice from my community midwifery team on discharge led to me offering Lewis formula top-ups in fear of him failing to thrive. This undermined my already shaky milk supply (I didn’t understand the importance of expressing every 3 hours from birth to establish supply in the absence of baby latching, and nobody noticed that I wasn’t doing it) and eventually Lewis developed a very assertive flow preference for bottles at 11 weeks, at which point I gave up combination feeding him and moved fully onto formula. I was very sad, and still struggle with feelings of guilt for not finding myself able to give him the best start of exclusive breastfeeding.

For a long time after Lewis’ birth I found myself feeling upset when thinking of the experience. Never before have I felt so powerless, trapped, undermined and fearful. I struggled with feelings of anger at how unnecessary all that suffering was, and regularly found myself welling up with tears of frustration when I heard another person telling me “as long as baby arrived safely, that’s all that matters.” Why did it have to be that my safe baby came at the expense of my emotional health and the replacement of a positive birth experience with a traumatic one? I was completely ill-equipped to tackle the challenge of taking care of a newborn after the birth; traumatised and exhausted – actually shivering with fatigue for 10-15 minutes every time I woke from another too-brief sleep.

Eventually things settled down and I was able to start enjoying Lewis properly and make my peace with our rotten start. I learned to congratulate myself on breastfeeding at all given the challenges we faced, instead of beating myself up for giving up early. I learned to feel proud of myself for achieving a relatively intervention-free vaginal birth despite the odds being stacked against us.

I also learned to feel angry that the difficulties we faced were a direct result of misinformation and defensive practice at the hospital. I decided very shortly after the initial birth euphoria had worn off and I realised how poor our care had been; never again.

If I hear another…

…person utter the statement “It doesn’t matter how your baby gets here, as long as he/she is healthy.” I will have to scream.

I’ve been feeling very jaded about the whole childbirth issue recently. Part of this is due to hearing a few too many “failure to progress” C-section birth stories which have been on the go lately, or perhaps there’s a bit of post-Christmas crotchety old git creeping in as well – particularly since said Christmas was a swine-flu and vomit-tastic festival of illness in my house.

Having suffered what I would call “light to medium” birth trauma following the arrival of Lewis last year, I am becoming more and more passionate about womens’ rights. These rights, as I see them, are being denied to women every single day in this country.

Imagine a shopkeeper tells you that the pint of milk you’re looking for is in another shop on the other side of the road. This road is busy, filled with fast-moving traffic and difficult to negotiate safely. You decide to cross (you really really want this pint of milk, ok?) and make it safely to the other side, despite some extremely frightening moments dodging traffic and fearing for your very life.

Adrenaline kicks in, your whole body and mind are flooded with feelings of relief and joy, you feel euphoric having escaped serious injury. You buy your pint of milk from the other shop and return home, thanking your lucky stars that everything is ok.

A week later, you find out that the first shopkeeper misinformed you. The milk was available in his shop all the time, so your hazardous trip across the danger-filled street was in fact completely unnecessary. Adrenaline and relief have by this time worn off, and you feel pretty aggrieved that the information you had available to you at the time led you to make what was essentially a bad decision, potentially risking your health, your life and your access to fresh dairy products.

Ok, so the anecdote is a bit laboured (if you’ll pardon the pun), but essentially this is what’s happening to women every single day. Many many women aren’t even lucky enough to make it to the other side of the street uninjured.

Why is it that when women have been giving birth successfully and naturally since the dawn of humanity, we have allowed ourselves to become so convinced  that in fact it’s an impossible task; achievable only by a lucky few? I will allow for there being some women out there who are not built for giving birth (perhaps due to malformed pelves), and women or babies who will encounter true life-threatening complications, and these are the situations in which our new medical powers have the potential to save lives and do a lot of good.

But for the rest of us, I’m talking about the vast majority of women who are fit, healthy and perfectly capable of giving birth to a baby. What about us? Modern medicine is harming us and our babies, and for some reason we are not complaining about it! In fact, we are embracing the very practices that are leading us into situations that could cause harm – and then when the inevitable car-crash comes we thrust our heads into the sand and tell ourselves that it doesn’t matter – nobody died, so all’s well that ends well.

Of course it matters! What about women who are so traumatised by their first birth experience that they can’t bring themselves to attempt it ever again? Should they just stick to their only-child families and dream wistfully about new babies they can’t bring themselves to make? Or should they steel themselves to get pregnant nonetheless, hoping that a sympathetic consultant will authorise a C section on the grounds of previous trauma?

A friend of mine shared a story with me today that illustrates exactly my point. Her friend gave birth in October 2009, she accepted induction based on her scan dates and a consultant obstetrician’s recommendation; said scan had moved her due date forward 8 days from her date based on ovulation – so effectively she was going through dates-based induction for her first baby at 40&4. So that was just 4 days past her estimated due date – a time at which you could be forgiven for suspecting perhaps baby just wasn’t ready to come out yet?

The inevitable cascade of intervention followed the difficult induction, and my friend’s friend ended up with forceps, rotation cap, the full array of unpleasant and painful procedures to force her baby out. Baby was drowsy from all the drugs (please note I would be the last person to judge anybody for wanting drugs to help with medical childbirth pain – I still remember synto contractions in a back-to-back labour…) and wouldn’t feed, leading to more problems getting breastfeeding established. This lady is now, I believe, to undergo surgery under general anasthetic to repair the damage to her birth canal and nearby areas. She emphatically did not make it to the other side of the street unscathed.

Compare this with my friend, who’s as much of a natural birth advocate as I am, and luckily had the benefit of very supportive and well-informed NHS midwives during the birth of her gorgeous daughter. She turned down dates-based induction at 42 weeks, and gave calm, comfortable, safe and natural birth to her baby girl at 40&17 at home in her birthing pool. No injury, no trauma. Her pint of milk was right there to pick up, all along – it just so happened that she knew that, while Mum number one needed to be told but wasn’t.   

The tragedy is, that Mum number one is horribly traumatised, and will spend the rest of her life listening to people tell her that her trauma means nothing, it doesn’t matter, as long as baby’s here and healthy then that’s all that’s important. So the infliction of unnecessary injury on a human being doesn’t matter does it? This woman receives massive damage to her body – which could very possibly have been avoided by waiting for her to go into labour naturally – and it’s not important? I have to say, I find that very difficult to agree with.

Then there’s Mum number two, who has experienced normal, natural birth the way it’s meant to be, and yet can’t share her story to any positive effect because there are a hundred and one damaged women out there who simply won’t believe that this is how birth should and can be for the majority of women.

Our maternity care system is truly shocking. It only took one night in hospital last week (vomit bug and associated dehydration) for me to remember exactly why I’m going for an independent midwife this time. Of the two women that took care of me, one clearly couldn’t be bothered with me, and the other was so over-stretched and stressed by having too many people to take care of, that she would forget to do things like check my baby’s heartbeat, or take my blood pressure. Thankfully I have enough respect for my internal baby-radar to know when things are ok and I can afford to let this sort of thing go.

Is it any wonder that I’ve chosen to spend thousands of pounds on a women who can, if not guarantee that I will make it through my second birth without trauma, at least do her utmost to give me the opportunity to do so? It makes me profoundly sad that casual acceptance of horrific birth trauma is the norm, while positive, healthy, well-informed women like my friend (and with any luck come April, me) are denounced as irresponsible and unrealistic for wanting and believing birth to be as straightforward and uncomplicated as we know it can be.

Having a positive birth experience and a healthy baby should not have to be mutually exclusive.

Nor should we believe it to be so.

Let it snow…?

This week, I have been mostly learning to drive in stupid amounts of snow. I have been left astounded by the local councils’ utter failure to come up with any sort of robust plan for wintry disruption on the back of last year’s chaos which saw me and a very little Lewis more or less housebound for 6 weeks! 

The problem is one of logistics – how the heck are you meant to get out of the house when the pram is up to its axles in powdery snow? The more sensible option could be to strap the youngster into his sling, and trudge off as one unit – but that carries its own risks in a slippery environment; miss your footing and both of you are going down, which is not ideal at all. 

However, this year on the advice of a very wise friend who lives somewhere far colder and snowier than me, I have ordered a baby sledge which should ensure that Lewis remains safe, dry and mobile no matter how silly the snow depth becomes. I suspect it’s also going to be very cute indeed… 

The irony, of course, is that said sledge will probably be undeliverable until the snow clears; I’d like to see our postie try to make it to our door in his van, given the comedy troughs and ditches that now exist in the 1.5 foot snowfall outside our front door! 

In the meantime, journeys in to work via nursery have become ever more challenging, with poor Gus setting his alarm ¾ of an hour early in order to dig the car out of the driveway again, then setting off with a bundled baby in the sling (installed by Mum – some things apparently remain a mystery even after nearly a year) to deliver him to nursery before coming back and tackling the expedition out of our street. 

Being now 5 months pregnant, I have been deemed unsuitable for manual labour of any kind and have been reduced to providing supportive thumbs-ups from the dining room window, and sorting out restorative post-shovelling sausage sandwiches. This doesn’t sit particularly well with my borderline feminism (I’m pregnant for goodness’ sake, not crippled!) but I am bearing with it as best I can. 

So this morning, when the opportunity came to extend my skills set into the world of driving family wagons in silly snowbound conditions, I decided that the time had come to take the driving seat. 

All-in-all I think I did ok; the car and its contents reached its destination in one piece, in a reasonable length of time, and give or take one (masterfully recovered, I have to say) skid that had us heading towards a collision with a neighbour’s Golf I think I managed rather well. I was actually quite impressed with myself, as the only similar experience I’ve had was attempting to drive an off-road vehicle through a lot of sand on Fraser Island in Australia – a venture I gave up swiftly, sweating palely. 

Anyway, the point of this blog seems to have become a little lost. I guess I’d just like to put it on record that this having happened (i.e. apparently unexpected silly amounts of snow) for the second year running, I would like to think that The City of Edinburgh Council and its counterparts across the Lothians and Fife, will come up with a plan for next year to try to ensure that people aren’t putting their families, family wagons and daily rates at risk trying to get to work in dangerous conditions. 

As a friend of mine helpfully pointed out on Facebook, gamblers’ logic doesn’t apply in this case – just because something happened at odds of 25-1 against one year, does not necessarily mean that it’s not going to happen again for 24 years. Better to have a plan in place and not need it than vice-versa – which is exactly why my dressing gown and numerous blankets have taken up residence indefinitely in the back seat of our car. 

And I’d also just like to check that the gods of precipitation know exactly what they can do with all this snow; exactly where they can shove it…

The eternal maternal guilt complex.

Well, it’s been a tough couple of weeks in the Gunn household. Plenty of upheaval, routine breakage, tummybugs, sleepless nights and maternal guilt flying about.

The time has come to settle Lewis into nursery. Initially when I decided to return to work after maternity leave I had hoped to go back part-time, three days a week. This was what, in my head, was the best compromise for our family all round; I don’t think I’m built to be a full-time, stay-at-home-mum – but neither am I keen on handing Lewis to a nursery each and every day so that I can work a “proper” week either.

Three days struck me as the sensible option; Lewis would still be spending more than half of his week with me, but I would still be able to work more than half of a working week – perfect, no?

Unfortunately, the world of recruitment (particularly contracts) is not geared towards this sort of flexibility. It became obvious very quickly that if I was going to have a fart’s chance in a Febreze factory of getting a job senior enough to keep me interested, and well paid enough to keep Lewis in nursery, I would have to start making some pretty serious compromises – and fast.

But why the rush, I hear you cry?

Well, the thing is that with a 6 month contract role, you kind of have to be able to commit to working for 6 months. Time’s a-marching on, and now that we’ve discovered I’m pregnant again I’m running out of months before I’ll be off on maternity leave again!

There’s enough of the “fair’s fair” in me to make me baulk at the idea of looking for a permanent job when I know I’ll be having another baby; the same applies to looking for a contract that I wouldn’t necessarily be able to fulfil due to impending bump-poppage. I’m enough of a feminist to want to do things properly, and I don’t want to be one of those women that gives us all a bad name by taking a job on, knowing full well that I won’t be able to meet my obligations.

So, with seven months to go until the big push, it became clear that if I was going to go back to work at all, it was going to have to be pretty much now – and pretty much full time. Luckily it seems that I’m still interviewing fairly well, as I was offered a role immediately after my first interview – for a Senior Project Analyst at RBS. My six month contract will take me neatly up to “one month to go” and I should be able to pack away a bit of cash to help leave our options slightly more open the next time I go back to work.

If only I could come to terms with the guilt that comes with looking forward to going back to work! It’s true, I didn’t expect to look forward to it, but actually it’s going to be nice to have some time being “Career Elaine” as opposed to “Mum Elaine”. Of course the Mum part doesn’t break off and disappear as soon as I contemplate stepping into an office – it will always come first. However I have been missing the career part more than I thought I would, and the prospect of going back to work – even if just for six months – has surprised me with its attractiveness.

If only I could stop feeling guilty about leaving Lewis in nursery! He absolutely hated it at first, and was completely inconsolable – a bit of a shock for me, he’s been such a laid-back little guy since he was born that I half expected him not to notice I’d left him somewhere completely random (seriously, he did this on a nursery visit during the summer – I left him in the babies’ room to check out the other sections, and he didn’t even notice I’d gone – far too interested in a set of maracas).

Things have improved, although unfortunately weren’t helped last week by the sudden arrival of an epic sick/poo bug that struck the whole family, turning us into three feeble, squirting invalids. Luckily my new work were understanding enough to move my start date back a week, so that I could have a little extra time to make sure all was de-gastro-pested, and Lewis could have a bit more time to get used to the concept of nursery.

 But still, I’m feeling shifty, guilty for wanting this time for myself before another lovely child arrives on the scene. I question my commitment to my son, surely I can’t love him enough if I’m willing to let someone else take care of him while I contribute financially to the family? But, on the other hand, have I ever questioned how much Gus (my husband, Lewis’ Dad) loves him for that reason? Gus has been working full time since Lewis was 6 or 7 weeks old, and it’s never occurred to me to apply this faulty logic to him.

It’s the eternal maternal guilt complex. At the end of the day, I have made a choice – parts of that choice make me feel happy, and parts make me feel sad; what I mustn’t do is allow that choice to make me feel like less of a loving Mum to Lewis. Somebody once told me that “guilt” is the space between the person you are, and the person you feel you ”should” be. Accept yourself and your choices completely, and realise that as soon as you find yourself using the word “should”, you’re talking about something you probably don’t want to do. By remembering all this, you can become secure enough and comfortable enough to let go of the guilt and just ”be”.

Or I profoundly hope so anyway; it’s pretty hard to let the guilt go when you see your beloved baby bursting into tears as you leave him at nursery – however much you know that in 5 minutes or so he’ll be happily playing with the princess castle and a set of maracas! 

Sigh.

Dumbing down the English language.

Gaaaaah!

Words fail me.

http://improvingenglishspelling.blogspot.com/

*shakes head in despair*

The home birth furore again…

A second blog post in as many days? There must be something on my wick…

And there  is! I am vastly annoyed at the idiotic doctors who are being quoted as telling first time mothers not to attempt home birth on the back of Danni Minogue’s transfer to hospital for the birth of her son.

Seemingly home birth “increases the dangers for both mother and baby” – especially for first time mums, who apparently shouldn’t attempt it at all, or if they do (presumably against all medical advice) they should be counselled on the “risks and need for transfer”.

As readers of this blog will know, I planned a home birth for Lewis. I have been meaning to provide the story of his arrival in a follow-up to my post late in my pregnancy last year concerning mothers’ attitudes to labour and how they might be able to influence their own outcomes.

I was hoping for a natural home water birth, and had the birth pool pumped up and ready in our dining room for the big push. Sadly for both me and Lewis I ended up with the birth I had specifically planned to avoid – lying on my back screaming for drugs in hospital, while the prospect of an unwanted C section raised its ugly head at every unwanted vaginal examination.

My problem was presentation. Lewis was posterior (i.e. his back was lying against my back) which was with hindsight what caused all the rubbish, frustrating start/stop contractions I experienced throughout the last 4 weeks or so of my pregnancy. I had been convinced that Lewis would arrive early, despite the “first time mums are late” assumption that abounds; and if he’d been presenting normally (i.e. his back to my front) and putting the correct, even pressure on my cervix, then I think he probably would have beena bit sharp in his arrival.

However, as it was, his wonky position caused my waters to break without labour starting. This happened at 39 weeks and 6 days of gestation according to my ovulation date, so not late even despite him not being in the ideal position for birth. Quite a few hefty contractions occurred overnight, which I recognised as the “real thing” as opposed to the fizzy braxton hicks contractions I’d been having on and off for weeks. However no further progress was made, and I woke up the next morning frustrated beyond belief and desperate to finally go into established labour. I was assessed as 1-2cm dilated by my community midwife, and advised to visit the hospital for monitoring within 24 hours of my waters breaking if labour hadn’t started.

Since nothing happened for the rest of that day, beyond the all too familiar fizzy contractions, Angus and I visited the hospital at 4pm for our monitoring session. I was adamant that I wanted to wait and see if I would go into labour spontaneously, as I knew that the alternative was induction and a whole extra set of risks for me and my baby.

However, our fate was sealed as soon as I questioned the colour of the fluid I’d been passing that day with the nurse who monitored us. I’d been wondering about meconium since that morning, and although my community midwife had dismissed the green staining  as mucus, an uncertainty remained with me. The nurse I asked took one look at the pad I’d made an excuse to change, and swiftly told us we wouldn’t be going home. I was to go upstairs to the labour ward to be induced immediately. Like it or not.

To say I was devastated was an understatement. Here I was, in hospital where I didn’t want to be, waiting for a procedure that I didn’t want to accept, but I knew perfectly well that if I refused any of the medical advice (and for “advice” please read “orders”) I would be told that I was putting my baby at risk. Despite in my heart knowing that there was nothing wrong with either of us, I still couldn’t bring myself to argue with people who were telling me that Lewis and I were in danger. 

To cut a long story short, having coped happily with contractions at home (yes, even the “proper” ones) I was hooked up to what I now call the “devil juice” – i.e. syntocinon drip to induce artificial contractions – and proceeded to go through the most miserable experience of my life. Every ounce of control I had over the process was gradually relinquished. Lewis was being continuously monitored by way of some rubber suckers attached to my bump with straps; which meant that I couldn’t move about without the heartbeat trace being lost. So I sat miserably motionless on a birthing ball, trying to zone out and enjoy the contractions as I had been doing at home, until somewhere between 4 and 5 cm dilated I realised that the synthetic surges were just going to be too much for me.  

I was so thoroughly demoralised by the turn of events, that I wasn’t thinking straight. The possibility of a C Section had been bandied about from the start of the procedure, and I knew that if I didn’t progress to timetable I would come under increasing pressure to agree to Lewis coming out through the sunroof. I started to think that if a section was inevitable, then I might as well start preparing for it now, so asked for the epidural that had been recommended earlier and which I had refused.

Epidural administered (although not effective down my left hand side) I was rendered motionless in bed, waiting for the whole labour to happen to me. I had become a passive object instead of an active participant in my labour, and I was so dejected about the whole thing that I just wanted it to be over. Lewis was still posterior, and my progress had slowed down again since I’d come off the birthing ball, with disappointing half centimetres being reported on examinations hours apart.

A change of shift came just as the C Section chat came around again, and the (thankfully) more positive new doctor decided to give us a bit longer to “try” for a vaginal birth. I think this was my turning point. The fact that the new doctor didn’t seem to see any reason to race straight to surgery gave me hope that I could achieve this on my own. Having been given the chance to have my baby normally, I decided that I was bloody well going to take it!

The doctor taking care of me previously had airily mentioned at one point that a change of position might help my progress, but when it wasn’t mentioned again I had to bring the subject up myself and ask which position might work then ask if I could have some help to move. This done, my contractions suddenly became unbearable down the left hand side where the epidural hadn’t worked, and some genius handed me the gas and air. 

If only I’d thought to ask for the gas and air before the epidural! I knew instinctively how to use it and how to control my breathing using my yoga techniques. Suddenly I was happily stoned; I could still feel the contractions on my left, but didn’t care about the pain any more. I started grinning, laughing and singing along to the iPod which was playing Paulo Nutini (the halls were alive with the sound of NOOOOO SHOOOOS); the filter between my brain and my mouth was utterly removed, so I could finally tell the anaesthetist who’d buggered up my epidural to EFFING EFF OFF as I’d wanted to all night – and hurrah, I was finally having a great time at the birth of my son – just as I had hoped to.

Miraculously I progressed at what felt like lightning speed to 10cm dilated. Lewis turned round into perfect birthing position, and I pushed him out with very little fuss in the space of half an hour – despite still being more or less on my back and crippled by the epidural.

The significance of the fact that my labour only started to progress once I started enjoying myself is not lost on me.

So all was well that ended well. Yes, the first 4/5ths of my first birth experience were traumatic and demoralising, but the bit that counted was empowering. I had shown myself that despite the odds being stacked against us, despite coming up against the rampant mistrust of womens’ bodies and the natural birthing process in hospitals, I had managed to keep my nerve and manage a normal vaginal birth – albeit not in the way I had hoped originally.   

What bugs me about the whole thing to this day though, is that there wasn’t a thing wrong with either me or Lewis that wasn’t either caused or exacerbated by being in hospital.

Posterior presentation: can often be resolved by the mother adopting “all fours” positions, moving between positions where her head is lower than her pelvis, rocking the pelvis and generally being active during labour. Fancy trying that while you’re hooked up to an electronic monitor?

Cord compression: with a posterior baby and a posterior placenta (my situation), the cord will be wrapped round the baby’s torso. Baby’s tummy button will be at the front, while the cord connects to the placenta at the back. One or two contractions, and bingo – cord gets squished and baby gets upset, hence meconium. The best way to sort this is to sort the baby’s position so the cord isn’t compressed – see above re movement in labour. In my case, the hospital ramped up my contractions with syntocinon while the baby was still posterior. Cue even more upset baby, even more meconium and signs of fetal distress (i.e. dipping heart rate) with each contraction.  

Epidural anasthetic: well known to cause labour to slow down. Excellent – let’s use some more syntocinon to speed it up again! Oh wait a minute, baby doesn’t seem to like that…

Finally, don’t even get me started on the implications of being left alone and ignored for 10 hours after birth (and very nearly discharged without any further medical attention) on the establishment of a successful breastfeeding relationship.

All in all, I just can’t help thinking that I should have strapped on a pair and insisted on going home. My body knew what it was doing! Looking back on it, my labour wasn’t progressing for a reason – Lewis wasn’t in a good position, and he was going to suffer from cord compression with each contraction until he moved. I believe that’s why the “proper” contractions I had on the night my waters broke never came to anything.

At home, I would have had freedom of movement, I would have been able to crawl down the stairs headfirst (I got him to move to nice normal anterior at 36 weeks that way after a breech scare) and encourage him into a sensible position before labour started. I would have been relaxed and feeling safe, instead of feeling threatened, distraught and powerless in hospital. Who knows, perhaps if I’d been able to establish breastfeeding immediately after birth, with the support of a midwife instead of four days later by figuring it out by myself, perhaps Lewis and I would have been able to overcome the initial difficult period instead of entering a world of pain and upsetting nursing strikes that ended in failure and near depression after eleven weeks.

In a nutshell, doctors should be more careful about the scaremongering they enourage around home birth. The Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists have clearly stated that home birth in low risk mothers can be as safe as hospital birth  for low-risk women (see their policy here), and in fact can lead to fewer unpleasant interventions and outcomes such as forceps deliveries and C Sections.

Going on about the “need to transfer” for first time mums as if it’s a forgone conclusion is nonsense. Most mums transferring from home into hospitals during labour do so for non-emergency reasons, such as deciding on pain relief that isn’t available at home, or when labour doesn’t progress for a long time. In fact, first time mums could be considered better candidates for home births, as first labours tend to be slower than subsequent ones, hence complications can be caught in plenty of time and transfer to hospital arranged if required.  

I have no doubt whatsoever that without my preparation for birth, my understanding of the physiological and psychological processes that women go through while giving birth, and my strong views on the benefits of natural childbirth for baby and mother I would have ended up in surgery. I wouldn’t have had the confidence to grab the opportunity the second doctor gave me with both hands and make the most of it. I would have given up, decided that my body wasn’t up to the challenge and prepared myself for the chop.

Next time, I’m going to employ a doula to help me through giving birth. I want somebody on hand who can act as a clear-headed advocate while I’m focusing on the task in hand; somebody who might have suggested I try the gas and air before the epidural with Lewis’ birth, somebody who’s as passionate about womens’ bodies and their abilities in childbirth as I am. With any luck we’ll manage our lovely home birth.

I just think it’s really sad that so many women have to go through this fear and disempowerment while giving birth. I think it’s a disgrace that doctors should be publicly substantiating myths about danger to low risk mothers and babies during home births, and I think that women deserve better!

So there! Rant over, until the next time…

The time has come,the walrus said…

…to talk of going back to work!

I have been thinking recently about my return to work and what the heck I’m going to do professionally now that there’s an ankle-biter on the loose. Said ankle-biter is now trying very very hard to crawl, by the way, and once this is accomplished I can probably safely assume this blog will never be updated (even irregularly) ever ever again – so if there’s anybody actually out there reading I’d advise you to make the most of my sparkling chat while you can.

Ahem…

Anyway, returning to work; there’s a can of worms if ever there was one! Plan A has existed for many years now, I was always going to work hard, reach a professional level where I was sure that I had job security and a reasonable enough salary to cut my hours to 3 days a week without the lot of us starving, then I was going to start working on the kiddiewinkles.

Well, Plan A was pretty much blown out of the water when I was made redundant from SK Chase in 2008, and since then I’ve decided that planning anything career path-wise is almost certainly a complete waste of time. You only have to fall foul of one restructure project, your reporting line only has to change once – then suddenly BANG, you’re either back to where you started, having to prove yourself all over again – or you’re completely out of a job, reeling and wondering how the heck you managed to go from newly promoted director of an exciting company to randomly unemployed in the space of two weeks.

So career planning is off for the moment. I’ve been waiting for the universe to show me what I should be doing, and I’m kind of going with the flow to a certain extent. Expectations are rubbish, why not wait to be surprised?

Why not? Well, firstly because it’s time I was doing something for myself again. I have loved maternity leave; it’s been good for me to learn how to function as a full-time mum as opposed to a career girl on maternity leave. It’s taught me a lot about myself – I have reserves of patience that I never knew existed, I am resourceful beyond measure (I’d like to see some of the bank PMs I used to work with trying to figure out what to do for a tiny person who (a) doesn’t know what’s wrong and (b) couldn’t tell you if he did).

However, like I said, it’s time I had something of my own again. I’ve been feeling guilty (ah the eternal maternal guilt…) about starting to want to fill my days with something more than “just” motherhood. Shouldn’t I be satisfied staying at home all the time with Lewis? Does this mean I don’t love him enough?

Nope. It just means that I’m an intelligent, active person who’s craving some adult company and adult challenges. I don’t want to go back to work full time; I’m pretty sure that we’d both be miserable if I spent more of my time away from Lewis than with him. A 3 day week seems like a sensible compromise; I’ll still be with my boy for more than half the week, but I’ll also have a decent amount of time to spend at work exercising the old grey matter too.

In any event, there are only so many episodes of In The Night Garden you can watch before the words “Pinky Ponk” and “Tombliboo”  become part of your day-to-day vocabulary. As a writer who likes to think of herself as reasonably articulate, I find this profoundly frightening.

I decided a while ago – during the long dark tea-time of this blog – that I wasn’t going to focus on Top Cat as a company. If friends or family need a website built or some copy written, then sure I’ll help them out. But I really really miss having colleagues. I want a job again, where I get to interact with people, work as part of a structure, enjoy some adult company. Web design and copywriting have been brilliant, but I’m starting to get over the concept of sitting alone in the front room talking to my laptop.

So my mission now (should I choose to accept it) is to find myself a role in Edinburgh which is senior enough to keep me interested, well-paid enough to keep Lewis in nursery and me in Dr Hauschka and Neil Barton haircuts, yet part-time 3 days a week. I’ve been in touch with a few recruitment consultants already, and thankfully there has been minimal scoffing; one of them actually sent me an email to say that: “we’ve seen a few part-time requirements recently and this actually seems to be a possibility in the current market.”

Fingers crossed then! It would be quite nice to have a plan come to fruition, just this once…

Answering back already!

Who knew he would turn out to be a cheeky beggar…?