The Summer of Love

The blankets have been put away and swapped for a snuggly duvet, there’s a fresh chill in the air and the first Summer of love with my baby girl is coming to a close. We spent a month soaking in the Bulgarian sunshine and joie de vivre, getting her weaning off a great start with flavoursome Bulgarian fruit, veg and yoghurt. She swam in the Black Sea and was serenaded with Bulgarian songs. Though not yet walking she danced (nay, even led) her first Horo being held in the arms of my father at a Bulgarian-Swiss wedding in Zurich. For those that don’t know, the Horo is a traditional Bulgarian dance, best attempted after a few glasses of Rakia.

She has also connected with her roots from up North, celebrating the 80th birthday of her Great Great Aunt in a working man’s club, and having her first taste of Granny’s Yorkshire Pudding – the first of many I’m sure.

In stark contrast to the life affirming, has been the life threatening. I’m hoping that unlike a cat my daughter will have more than 9 lives; in her 8 months of life she has already used two of them. Driving to the airport in heavy rain, our car aquaplaned and spun through three lanes of busy traffic. It was sheer luck that no cars hit us; we managed to escape the incident unharmed, and continued on to catch our flight. The second incident chimes neatly with my regular theme of “stuff that happens on buses”. A lapse of concentration on the part of a bus driver caused him to close his doors just as we were trying to board, and he started to drive off with the wheel of our pushchair stuck in the doors. Luckily he heard my screams and stopped within a few seconds. Again, I was left very shaken, but we were unharmed and able to continue with our day.

A recurring theme in many parenting books is the importance of spending time “being present” with your child. It’s a hippy turn of phrase, but it’s just about applying full attention to the enjoyment of your child’s company, without worrying about your to-do list or attempting to multi-task. Easier said than done when you are trying to convince a sceptical family that you’re not so bad at being a housewife after all.

Now is the time in her development where I need to be present in a much more literal sense. With her short blonde locks, she resembles a small Daniel Craig, determined to throw herself into the face of danger. While for James Bond that generally means skiing down dramatic slopes chasing villains and glamorous ladies, for little miss it mostly means landing face first in the carpet. She is busily trying to pull herself upright and doing downward dog at every opportunity. Either she is a very yogic baby, or she is using her bottom to communicate with some higher power – waving frantically to try and combat the poor signal coverage in our house.

With the Summer over I’m conscious of the diminishing time I have left before she starts nursery in January. I think back to that day on the hard shoulder of the A20, where things could have turned out so differently, and I’m doubly aware of how precious this time is. Time to be present with my little yogi, in every possible sense.

The Bell Curve of Control

As we journey through our lives, from beginning to end, the level of control we can exert would probably resemble a bell curve for most people. At one end of the scale is my little girl – now 6 months old. As she wriggles and shuffles, holds objects and moves them to her mouth, she is starting to truly experience the joy of having control over her physical being. Her desire for independence seems to grow daily.

At the other end of the scale is my disabled Grandmother, who needs round the clock care. Although she understands the limits of her physical condition, she has a fiery spirit and an unbreakable determination to grip on to what remnants of control she has left. Unfortunately for my parents, this translates as her constantly firing (or refusing to hire) her carers for the most tenuous of reasons. Examples include “she has once worked in Greece”; “she used to be a nurse. Nurses spend their time sleeping with Doctors”; “she was too nervous” (err, I wonder why..); “anyone under 65 will be too busy thinking about love”. Perhaps her standards are so exacting because really, her ideal carer would be herself. Although even she wouldn’t meet her own criteria, as an ex-teacher and therefore “too intelligent”.

When we become parents we teeter at the top of the curve. Not only do we enjoy full control over our own lives, but also can wield as much control as we choose over our little dependents. As a loose parenting philosophy, I aim to apply control sparingly – as little as is necessary to provide a safe and comfortable environment for my baby and those around her.

The first real test of this has come now that my Daughter is old enough to have food. The concept of Baby Led Weaning is that from 6 months babies are able to eat real food, and feed themselves – thus affording them full control over their own weaning process. As well as the autonomy this offers to babies, it also means no money or time wasted creating various purees – winner!

I’m pleased to report the process is going well so far. She has been munching on the best fruit and veg Bulgaria has to offer, plus toast, yoghurt, chicken and various other things. She isn’t swallowing much, but at this stage she doesn’t need to. As a parent it can be really tough to let go of the reins. I have to control my own sense of panic when she quite literally bites off more than she can chew. But then watching how she carefully and deliberately moves the piece in her mouth until it inevitably comes out is a magical thing indeed.

It’s early days, but I love how quickly BLW is developing her curiosity around food, and her sense of self-sufficiency. I loaded a spoon with yoghurt and held it right in front of her mouth – so she could easily have sucked yoghurt from the spoon as I held it for her. Instead she deliberately took hold of the spoon herself before putting it in her mouth as I let go. Setting the tone for the years to come, I had to trust in my child, and just let go.

Book Review: The Continuum Concept by Jean Liedloff

This book was first published in 1975. It sometimes shows it’s age, but remains a fascinating insight into the child rearing practices of the Yequana tribe of Venezuela. Jean Liedloff developed her philosophy of the Continuum Concept based on her observational research, spending time living with the tribe, and comparing their parenting and it’s outcomes to traditional Western parenting. As you might have guessed, the Yequana’s are the goodies in this equation, with Western parenting presented as a Dickensian villain.

My first critique is that her theories seem to be based purely on her own interpretations of her observations. So although more formal research may support some aspects of her beliefs, references to science are minimal, and the approach is very subjective. I think she’s certainly onto something here, but she compromises the validity of her work somewhat by getting carried away with speculation and hammering her point home with an industrial sledgehammer.

So, what is the Continuum Concept? In a nutshell..

We are born with a set of instinctive expectations of what life should be when we are a baby. They are based on the normal experiences of a Human child born in the wild. Her view is that evolution has not had time to catch up with the pace of change in the last few centuries. If our Continuum expectations are not fulfilled during babyhood, our sense of self is compromised, and we will spend our adult life trying to recreate them.

In practical terms, babies are born expecting to be held in their mothers arms and to be in close contact with caregivers most of the time. It’s highly distressing for babies to be left alone or not receive a response to their cries, as their expectations are to be in fear of the (once very real) risk of predators and they are very aware of their helpless reliance on others for survival.

The hallmarks of the tribe she lived with are that the children are well-behaved and happy with an excellent sense of self preservation. Adults are cheerful, patient and enjoy working. Jealousy and competitive feelings appear non-existent. Her conclusion is that this contrast with our more self-centred and unhappy Western society is due to the differences in child-rearing practices.

Lightbulb moment

One aspect of her theory that struck a chord with me is the importance of a caregivers expectations. She believes that children are inherently programmed to do what is expected of them, not necessarily what they are told to do. So if a parent expresses surprise when a child does something good, they may feel they are offering encouragement, but the impression the child takes away is that they have done something that was not expected of them, and may be discouraged from doing it again. By pro-actively telling a child not to do something, you may be giving them the impression that you expect them to do it.

Once children are beyond babyhood, parenting in the Yequana tribe is based on using this sense of expectation. The adults get on with their work leaving children to do as they please, and trust that the children will look after themselves, and will gradually show increased interest in their activities until they are old enough to join in. This is invariably the case, with Yequana children showing no interest in rebelling.

Whilst I’m not prepared to let my child play with sharp knives as the Yequana’s do, I’m inspired to be mindful of this principle in the way I raise my daughter. I will try not to make too much of a song and dance about it when she does something good, and I will be careful not to give her ideas – ie. telling her not to do something before she has shown any sign of wanting to do it.

In conclusion…

There are chunks of this book that are worth skipping – namely the lengthy description of the seven stages of hell that a crying Western baby goes though, and the spurious list of societal woes (including homosexuality) that can be attributed to our Western anti-continuum ways.

It’s also important to note that this does not serve as any kind of parenting manual. After putting forward a strong argument for Continuum child rearing practices, it offers little in the way of useful guidance as to how these practices could translate from a small jungle community to the infinitely more complex Western world. If you’re the type of Mum that wouldn’t dream of leaving your baby to cry, you can feel smug that your child’s Continuum needs are probably being well met. Hardly a shocking revelation.

However, criticism aside, it’s very much worth a read just for the insight into a civilisation so different to our own. It’s exciting to think about the breadth of cultural possibilities for our species. If you dream of a happier more caring world, this book will help you keep that dream alive.

The “good baby” myth

Life as a new Mum in Leyton is a life lived on buses. There’s not much going on, and the bus is the most convenient escape route for those brandishing an unwieldy pram. I make this point to excuse myself for two blog posts in a row based loosely around something that happened on a bus (insert predictable “you wait and two come at once” joke here).

So I was on the bus, and the grandmother of the baby in the pram slot next to mine struck up the normal small talk – how old, boy or girl, etc. Then she said “Is she good?”. Filled with pride, I gave her a knowing look, and said “Yes, she’s really good”.

What do people mean when they refer to a baby as “good”? They normally mean a baby that sleeps a lot (when convenient for the parents) and doesn’t cry very much. It’s a strange phrase to use, as it suggests that babies who don’t conform to these standards are somehow “bad”.

If I were to have taken her meaning as above and answered in all honesty, my little girl is going through a not so “good” phase at the moment. She is waking often in the night, and is sometimes finding it difficult to get back to sleep. She goes through phases of crying a lot during the day. But I answered as I did because there is no such thing as a “bad” baby. There are just babies who happen to be content or babies who happen to be distressed. Whether she is happy or sad, my baby is pretty much the best thing in my world – “good” is understating it.

Of course, the lady on the bus was very well meaning, and would have been sympathetic if I’d have chosen to bore her with a detailed account of my baby’s sleep routine. Referring to babies as “good” is so ingrained in our language, that it would be ridiculous to suggest people stop; I often do it myself without thinking. But it is symptomatic of the value placed on quiet / convenient babies in our society, and the latent pressure on parents to manage their behaviour.

It makes me sad to think that there is a burgeoning industry in books on how to train babies to cry less. Crying is the main form of communication that a baby has, and it’s a dangerous myth that no crying always equals a happy baby. If a baby has been trained to understand that crying will not bring the attention and comfort that it needs, it will stop crying not because it’s happy, but because it has given up. Why any loving parent would want their baby to stop communicating with them is beyond me.

For those with a passing interest in babies or developmental psychology, the article below makes for a fascinating read. It challenges those who advocate “cry it out” techniques with research-based evidence.

Evolutionary Parenting: Educating the experts

Each time I am kept awake at 4am by an unhappy baby, I take a deep breath and remind myself that (contrary to popular belief) babies do not cry just for the joy of being a pain in the ass. Being a pain in the ass is what their teenage years are for.

The sunshine of smiles

According to many theorists, human babies are born too early. Most mammal species manage to drop their sprogs when they are fully formed and ready to skip along with the herd. If we were to align with normal mammal behaviour, gestation should be 21 months rather than our paltry 9. Hence the first three months of a baby’s life are sometimes referred to as the forth trimester. Our helpless little newborns still have more in common with the foetus that blossomed inside us, than they do with the independent individual they are destined to become.

On the bus this morning, a very special moment happened. I became aware of a strange noise behind me. I turned to find that a couple of ladies were busy entertaining my daughter, and being rewarded with big gummy smiles for their efforts. As she left the bus, one of them turned to my little girl and said “bye bye baby, your smile has made my day”.

Two things struck me. Firstly, that my baby was now capable of making new friends, of her own choosing, all by herself. Her days as a helpless newborn were behind her, and she was beginning her journey towards fully fledged personhood. Secondly, babies really do bring out the best in people.

With mini-me in tow, the world becomes that little bit friendlier. Yes, even in London. I know. From Grannies on the bus telling me all about their Grandchildren, to heroes on the Tube helping me up the stairs with my pram. One man even offered to help me up the stairs when I had my baby in a sling. I’m not sure what he had in mind – perhaps giving the both of us a fireman’s lift to the top? Still, it’s the thought that counts.

Basking in the reflected sunshine of my baby’s smiles, even the parenting police can be thought of as a force for good. For those that have not yet been apprehended, the parenting police are plain clothed officers that masquerade as members of the public, constantly on the lookout for wayward parents in need of corrective action. I have only been stopped on two occasions so far. One was for the classic “Baby not wearing hat when outdoors” offence (she had a hood, and it was a quick trip between warm shopping centre and warm bus). The other was the slightly more obscure “baby must have hood of pram up on bus to prevent things falling into her eyes”. I never quite understood what the officer in question was expecting to fall from a (frankly quite solid looking) bus ceiling.

It’s easy to feel affronted when someone takes it upon themselves to critique your parenting skills. But then I realise that these strangers have looked at my baby girl, and decided that they care whether her head is warm enough, and they care whether unspecified objects attack her on buses. In a world that can be harsh and indifferent, that’s a nice thing.

The Red Tent

The Red Tent is an ancient tradition amongst nomadic cultures, where an actual red tent would be used as a retreat for women whilst they menstruated and for 40 days after birth. New mothers would not set foot outside the tent during this time and would see no-one other than their female companions.

We’ve mostly moved on from using a tent these days (camping in the garden mid-Jan just wasn’t a practical option), but in many cultures the tradition of new mothers to hide themselves away persists. My Bulgarian Grandmother begged me not to leave the house or allow any visitors for the first month of my Baby’s life. Parenthood is about getting to know your child, and what better way to do this than shielded from the distractions of the outside world?

It’s not just about getting to know your child though, it’s also about getting to know yourself and what motherhood means to you. It’s about trusting your own instincts above any advice, traditions or pleading Great Grandmothers. In the spirit of this, myself and my Daughter bust out of the Red Tent pretty sharpish. I just couldn’t wait to share her with the world and share the world with her.

So, I’m two months in and learning fast. Here are a few of my many discoveries..

– My Daughter has a cheeky sense of humour
This first expressed itself as per the oft repeated scenario below..

Baby: Ah Mummy, I note that you cleansed my posterier just now, and furnished me with some clean undergarments. Great work! I shall honour my newfound cleanliness with a celebratory poop. Huzzah!

Later on, as poops have become less frequent, we have graduated to the following game..

Scene.. Night-time, bedroom, parents asleep
Baby: Alas! I am hungry and in need of boob..
Me: [rubs eyes, and drags herself to sit up in bed]
Me: [stares confusedly at her peacefully sleeping baby]
Me: [gives up after a while and snuggles back under the duvet]
Baby: Ahahaha, I fooled you! What larks.. But seriously I really do need a feed, so if we could get this show on the road that would be great

(Yes, the internal monologue of all babies does indeed sound like Stewie from Family Guy)

– Mumsnet is a great resource for new Mums
Mumsnet gives you the chance to get answers to some of life’s essential parenting questions. Such as – What do you do if you have your baby in a sling and you need to pee? (Answer – Keep in situ and work around them. Mind their heads on the paper dispenser). Are onesies appropriate casualwear for the on-trend 0-3 month old? (Answer – Apparently so. Unless your baby has a front row seat at the Gucci babywear Spring / Summer collection. Then it may take some good accessories to pull off an Asda sleepsuit).

– Boob and poop are really fun words to say in silly voices
Motherhood is a great opportunity to move these words up the ranks of your conversational vocabulary. It is also hilarious to do voiceovers for your baby in an unspecified foreign accent. Especially when they are a bit drowsy post feed, and bearing a striking resemblance to a drunken old man. “aah, I was at the boob last night. Just the one I said, but then there were two of them (hic). I had a few too many boob..”

– From funbags to feeding stations..
It’s surprising how quickly your nipples stop feeling like private property. I am a relaxed breastfeeder, and will happily unleash the boob in all manner of public places, in front of work colleagues, anywhere really. I generally fare OK at keeping my modesty intact. Although a Mum friend recently had to point out (as I was sitting in a cafe, post feed) that my nipple was on full display. Perhaps I’m a little too relaxed.

– I prefer baking and crafts to housework
It’s just who I am. I’m sure a bit of dust is better for baby than breathing cleaning chemicals anyway.

– My life is alive, with the sound of music
We’ve all heard the saying “a face only a mother could love”. Well, I have a singing voice only my own baby could love. But luckily she does love it, and at two months old it’s one of the few things that can make her smile. This has turned my life into a musical. I find myself explaining what I happen to be doing in the kitchen to the tune of some popular hit. Although, as much as she humours my bastardised remixes of Beyonce or Bohemian Rhapsody, nothing beats a bit of “You are my sunshine”.

Bogling around your living room to dancehall reggae whilst holding your baby is also a great way to re-tone those abs.

– Life will never be the same again
The amount of love you can feel for someone you only just met is simply overwhelming.

The beautiful Barkantine

Like most Mums-to-be I followed a simple process when deciding where to give birth – which is my nearest hospital and does it have a birthing suite (with birthing pool and the works please). Bosh – done. That was until I happened to overhear my Yoga instructor talking about the Barkantine Centre in the Isle of Dogs, East London.

Apart from the immediate attraction that its name included a pun (the Barkantine in the Isle of Dogs – geddit? Arf), it sounded like a wonderful place to give birth. Now having given birth there, I can confirm that it is, and I am inspired to shout from the rooftops of the interweb about how great it is.

Before I launch into the positives, let’s start with the cons. The Barkantine is a standalone midwife-led birthing centre. Therefore it is not part of a hospital. This means that they will only accept mothers who are low risk (this is assessed at 36 weeks). If there are any significant complications during the birth, you will need to be transferred to the nearest hospital – the Royal London. They have a special arrangement to ensure that the transfer is as speedy as possible, but obviously it won’t be quite as quick and convenient as getting wheeled down the corridor from a hospital birthing suite to its labour ward. As of 2009 data, the chances of transfer are 28% for a firstborn child, and 5% for women who are already mothers.

So those are the cons – what are the pros? The Barkantine has a birthing pool, en-suite, double bed, birth aids and access to a large balcony in each room. So far, so similar to the birthing suite in many hospitals.

So what makes the Barkantine special?

Firstly, there is no postnatal ward. From the birth stories I have heard, no-one seems to have anything too positive to say about postnatal wards. The impression I have is that they are noisy, depressing and rather lonely as your partner gets swiftly dispatched home just when you need them most.

Once you arrive at the Barkantine and are given a room, that room is yours until you leave. This means you can recuperate and get to know your new baby in a calm peaceful environment. More importantly it means that your partner can stay with you.

The hours after the birth of my baby were truly magical. My Husband was able to support and help me as I recovered from a lengthy labour, and his assistance was key to finding the right position for Baby’s first breastfeed. We even had a romantic meal of takeaway Fish and Chips together. Being able to take the time to recover and bond in the privacy of our own room was priceless – quite literally as the Barkantine forms part of the NHS. So even though it feels like a privately run service for people of wealth, it’s free! It was like we went away to a nice hotel and came back with a baby.

We could also enjoy calling friends and relatives with our news and updating pictures of our little one to Facebook. As it is not a Hospital then it’s fine to use phones and electronic equipment – a nice bonus!

Aside from the novelty of a rather dashing male Midwife, the other thing that makes the Barkantine stand apart is the standard of care. The Midwives and staff are not only consummate professionals, but they are warm, friendly and welcoming. Of course the staff at my local Hospital are also caring and professional, but you often got the feeling they were reading from the NHS textbook, and were more focussed on explaining what should happen, as opposed to listening to what we wanted.

In contrast, the approach at the Barkantine is much more personal – the Midwives are there to support you to have the birth experience that you want. It felt like asking an incredibly knowledgeable friend for advice. It was comforting to know that while options of intervention were always available if needed, we would not be pressured into taking steps purely to speed up the process. By the end of our stay there, we knew the names of everyone we dealt with and hugged them goodbye.

It was telling that, in discussion with a Midwife at our local hospital, she admitted “I don’t like the way we do things here – it’s efficient and it works well, but it’s like a production line. It has to be, because of the number of babies we deliver. In an ideal world, all maternity services should be like the Barkantine”

Barkantine website

My birth story

Here is my birth story recorded for posterity, and future emotional blackmail (do you realise what I went through to bring you into this world young lady?!). It’s not meant to be a horror story, or a smug proclamation, but an honest account of the highs and lows of labour. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on the gory bits..

Sunday 8th Jan

At 4:30 AM I had my very first contraction proper. For a few days before this I had been gearing up with plenty of practice contractions (aka Braxton Hicks), but this was clearly different – it had the Ouch-Factor. I continued to get these on an irregular basis through the morning, and embraced each one as a new friend that was bringing me closer to meeting my baby. It was hard to contain my excitement. With what turned out to be a highly unrealistic view of the timings involved, I declared “We’re going to meet our baby today” as soon as my Husband awoke.

At lunchtime I had a scheduled check up with the birthing centre, and as planned we had a stretch and sweep to nudge things along. This involves giving the cervix a bit of a poke to help release more birthing hormones. As much as we were keen to let nature take its course, we were a week overdue, and wanted to avoid the risk of more intrusive interventions if we could.

My friendly contractions continued to pop along on a semi-regular basis throughout the day. All my preparations and positive approach to birth were paying off and I was coping well.

I found it strangely relaxing to sit and watch my Husband playing Mario Galaxy, and was particularly entertained by how stressed he was getting on the difficult levels. This lead to a bit of role reversal..

Me: Breathe deeply and stay calm. I know you can do this, just be strong and believe in yourself.
Husband: Arrrgh! [swearing] [sound of Mario dying]

Towards the evening my newfound chums were getting more frequent and uncomfortable. I hooked myself up to my TENs machine which was really helpful. A TENs machine helps to release your body’s natural painkillers by sending electric pulses via some pads stuck to your back. I tried to go to bed and sleep, but at this point the contractions were coming thick and fast. My husband became obsessed with timing them. After a few hours of contractions coming in every 4 – 5 minutes, we felt it was time to head to the birthing centre.

Monday 9th Jan

We arrived at the birthing centre in the early hours of Monday morning – hopeful that this was it, our baby was coming. After letting us settle in for a bit, the midwife gave us a check and declared me to be 1 and a half CM dilated. This was miles off the 4 or 5 CM we needed to be classed as in established labour. Disappointed and tired, we trotted back home with our tails between our legs.

Top tip: If we were to do it all again, we would not have got so over excited on the first evening. Instead of spending hours scribbling lists of contraction times and rushing to the birth centre, we should have concentrated on getting rest, and waiting till contractions were 3 to 4 minutes apart before going anywhere.

When home I had a lengthy hot bath and spent the day relaxing in front of classic comedy shows (Fawlty Towers, Spaced, Alan Partridge – great pre-labour viewing).

Top tip: Shouting Alan Partridge catch phrases (Cashback! Kiss my face..) is a great way to celebrate the ending of each contraction. High fives are also good.

By the early afternoon the contractions had slowed to about every half an hour. We made a few half hearted attempts to encourage them back (reflexology, yoga poses) before realising that it would probably be better to accept the situation and try and get some rest.

As I found it to be more painful when lying down, I managed to doze between the contractions by sitting up in bed using a complicated arrangement of pillows, soothed by the relaxation playlist I had put together on my iPod.

Tuesday 10th Jan

We were a little despondant to find that on Tuesday morning, my contractions were still coming only every half an hour or so. Luckily we had an appointment booked in at lunchtime for a further stretch and sweep – we were keeping up our spirits in the hope that this would get things moving again.

At the check in we were declared to be 2 – 3 CM dilated – at least all of yesterdays efforts were not in vain! We were also informed that the baby, though head down, was not quite in an ideal position. Her back was almost aligned with mine (her back to my front is best) and it seemed like her curious nature was prompting her to want to enter the world face first. The midwife reassured me that these factors were adding to the discomfort of my contractions, though perhaps the knowledge of this reduced my bravery in the face of them, giving me an excuse for self-pity to start creeping in.

As on Sunday, the stretch and sweep did the trick. By the evening we were back in the realm of regular contractions. However, after 3 days of pre-labour, I was losing my ability to cope with the pain. Even though we knew that it might still be too early, being on the brink of night number 4 with no proper sleep, desperation was kicking in and we needed guidance and support.

So back we went to the birthing centre. We had come on a little since the afternoon’s check and were 3CM dilated. At this point, my spirit needed a boost. Here’s what I wanted to hear from the midwife..

“Considering the length of your pre-labour and the position of the baby, you must be in extreme discomfort. In all my years of midwifery, I have never seen such bravery in the face of pain. You must be a super-person from the planet amazing, and I bow down to your inner strength”

Here’s what I needed to hear and actually did hear..

“Your contractions aren’t even that strong. You need to calm down and breathe normally”

A note on my breathing. For most of my pre-labour I had been utilising the yoga technique of using vocal sounds to help me stay calm and focus on my breathing. I would breathe in through my nose, and then maximise the length of my out-breath using a gentle “aaaaaaa” sound. For the most part this had worked really well. Until now, when I realised that the “aaaaaa” had turned into more of an “AAAARRRRRGHHHH!”, and instead of keeping me calm it was just helping me to lose myself in the sensations of pain.

Top tip: Staying relaxed through the contractions really is hard work, especially if you are exhausted. You have to work pro actively to make it happen, and it does help to ease the discomfort. Once my Husband saw the benefits, he took on the role of an American war movie drill sergeant, and was all up in my face forcefully demanding that I keep my muscles and breathing soft. This may not sound relaxing in the normal sense, but is really what I needed to stay focussed and strong. I would have benefited from being coached in this way from earlier in the process.

Thankfully the Midwife recognised my need to get some rest, and instead of sending us home she let us stay and gave me some drugs. Pethidine to the rescue! In the ideal world of my Birth Plan, I did not want to take pethidine, being an opiate that crosses the placenta to reach the baby. However, when taken enough in advance of labour so that the effects have fully worn off by the time the baby is born, the benefits can certainly outweigh any risks. My story is a textbook case of how pethidine should be used.

Pethidine does not take away the pain, it just puts you into an altered state of consciousness which allows you to accept the pain without an emotional response to it. You feel a bit drunk and very floaty. It meant that I could sleep or at least rest properly between the contractions.

Top tip: Always keep an open mind and never be a slave to your birth plan.

Wednesday 12th Jan

In the early hours of the morning the pethidine was wearing off and we had another check. I was 4 CM dilated and officially in established labour – hurray! This meant we weren’t going anywhere and I could finally make use of the birthing pool. Slipping into the warm water was just blissful, and gas & air replaced my TENs machine as the tool to help me get through the contractions. The water and gas & air combo worked wonderfully, especially with my relaxation playlist in the background. I kept up my altered state of consciousness, losing awareness of time or anything that was happening around me. Enjoying the head rush after each contraction and falling asleep between them. I would find myself waking up trying to explain something I was dreaming about to my suitably confused Husband.

After a few hours, the time came to push. I was surprised to find the pushing phase is much less painful than the preceding contractions. Suddenly you are in the driving seat. The contractions aren’t just inflicted on you, they are a powerful tool to help you bring your baby into the world.

At the beginning of the process, there was a little confusion about what pushing actually involved. I had read a Hypnobirthing book and faithfully practised my birth breathing – where you maintain oxygen flow and push on an out breath.

Midwife: You can start pushing now
Me: I am pushing
Midwife: You’re not
Me: I am, I’m birth breathing
Midwife: Err, no. Maybe if it was your second baby you could breathe it out, but you need to push. Hold your breath and pretend you’re doing a poo
Me: OK

After an hour or so of pushing in the birthing pool with insufficient progress, our dream of a water birth was abandoned, and we moved to dry land. Surrounded by midwives and Husband cheering me on like an Olympic athlete, I pushed with every ounce of what little energy I had left. Various positions later, we were still making slow progress. Normally midwives will only allow two hours of pushing, and we were knocking on two and a half. Again, intervention became necessary, and I had an episiotomy. In the spirit of sparing you the gory details, I won’t explain what this is, but feel free to look it up. The effects were instant, and a Baby’s head appeared.

During the pushing phase I had retracted so far into myself, and was so focussed on the task at hand, that when my Baby emerged and was handed to me, I recoiled in shock. I had actually forgotten that there would be a child at the end of all this!

It was thus that my beautiful Daughter made her entrance to this world – calm, alert and healthy. Ready to be wrapped up in our arms and in our love.

The making of a birthing partner

As my pregnancy can be divided neatly into three trimesters, my husbands approach to impending fatherhood can also be categorized by three stages. Stage 1 was supportive partner phase. The concept of parenthood hadn’t really sunk in for either of us, and we had the stark reality of my Morning Sickness to contend with. Shocked at seeing me so ill, he rallied. He gave sympathy and toast, cleaned up sick (all good practice for baby) and brought me junk food when I couldn’t face eating anything else.

Stage 2 is where we diverged somewhat. Morning sickness over, I was filled with joy and enthusiasm for my newfound status. Project pregnancy had begun! I went to yoga classes, read books and created spreadsheets. My husband, on the other hand, translated the nesting instinct to an all encompassing focus on the practical. DIY a-go-go.

Man make baby, man feel proud. Man travel many journey B&Q. Man remove fireplace from bedroom – make space cot. Man feel proud cave now baby ready. Man ignore strange ramblings of hormone woman. Man watch snooker.

Many a Saturday morning played out like this.. I would return bounding home from my morning yoga class, brimming with news of some new pregnancy thing that I had learned. Husband would respond with good humored cynicism, remarking that women have been giving birth for centuries without the need for [insert breathing / stretching / psychological preparation technique here]. Off he would trot to B&Q, returning to find me in floods of tears, accusing him of not being supportive enough. I was a tad hormonal at that point.

In my darkest hours, I would mull over my options for alternate birthing partners. Could my best friend be persuaded to move back to London from New York? Would it be too weird for my brother to see me naked?

I don’t know whether it was the reality check of my expanding girth and the wriggly contents of my bump, or if we just ran out of DIY. But luckily for all involved (especially my brother), from the chrysalis of DIY-man emerged a zen-like birthing buddha.

This is now a man who has done yoga. A man who asked so many questions at our NCT class, the tutor turned it into a running joke. A man who has read a hypnobirthing book and who reminds me to do pelvic floor exercises. Most importantly, he is a man who has understood that supporting his wife through every step of her birth journey will lead to a happier Mum, Baby and significantly less physical injury inflicted on his person during labour.

All future Dads would be wise to heed the wonderful tradition of the Huichol Indians of North Central Mexico, where pain relief for birthing mothers consists of a piece of rope – with their hand at one end, and their partners balls at the other.

My 2012 objectives

I am on the brink of ending my working life as I know it. I keep telling myself that Motherhood will be tough, but I just can’t suppress that holiday feeling. A year off work – yipeeeeee!

Lurking beneath this is a small but nagging fear. How will I cope without the structure that work brings to my life? I have become accustomed to working in an environment which is intensely positive. I bound into work each morning, ready to accept feedback, share learnings and drive change. Every day I am challenged to be a better version of myself than the one that shuffled in yesterday. I work for a company that combines fierce capitalism with ethics, generosity and table tennis. The company has objectives that I can believe in, and every year these filter neatly down into the stuff that I do – a document of objectives that I can aspire to, live by and hold dear.

There is much about my work-life that I am happy to fling aside like a used post-it note (setting my alarm for 6:30 being top of the list), but having a set of goals to work towards is not one of them. Therefore, I give you, my 2012 objectives..

1) Nail the basics
– Don’t drop the baby. Also, feed it, clean it, and keep it generally content and healthy.
– If baby was asked to rate the facilities and customer service of their mothering experience, I would like to at least make the dizzy heights of “satisfactory”.
– We all know the importance of feedback. What my new manager, ahem baby, will lack in detailed examples, she will make up for in enthusiastic delivery. “Real-time feedback” will take on a whole new meaning.
– I will embrace this feedback, and appreciate her efforts to communicate. Even if she has been giving me feedback for hours on end and it’s 3AM.

2) Add value
– Whilst trying not to turn into one of those competitive parents everyone hates, I will be unashamedly ambitious in my approach to parenting.
– This won’t be about putting pressure on my child, but instead challenging myself – to be the best possible facilitator of my child’s learning and development.
– I’m not just talking developmental milestones or academic achievement (although I have been singing the alphabet song to my bump, is that weird?). I want them to develop their creativity, curiosity and sense of independence.

3) Be sustainable
– I will endeavor to make planet-friendly choices. I will persevere with re-usable nappies.
– The principles of sustainability should also apply to our household budgets. If I have to introduce austerity measures and spending cuts, I will. In extreme circumstances, we will have to swap Waitrose for Asda.
– I will grow yummy herbs and veg in our garden – great for the planet and for our personal deficit reduction. Cashback!

4) Stay sane
– Although shy, I am a social animal, and do not fare well spending too much time by myself. I will fill my diary with every possible mother and baby group. I will lure other Mums to my house with promises of nice cake so that they will be my friends.
– I will use my maternity leave as an opportunity to channel and foster my creative energies.
– I will not just be a Mum, I will be a chef, crafts-woman, landscape gardener, journalist, fashion designer and interior decorator.

5) Be a 50’s style housewife
– As much as I take advantage of the trappings of Feminism on a daily basis, I can’t help but harbor sneaky fantasies about housewife-dom.
– I dream of Betty Draper glamour, and a spotless gleaming house. Of using lemon juice and vinegar for stuff other than cooking. Of welcoming my Husband home from work to the smell of freshly baked bread, and a three course meal beautifully presented on the table.
– In reality, if I can manage to do some hoovering and put the dishwasher on, I’ll be doing amazingly well.