Wednesday 28 December 2011

Nearly there!

My body feels to be officially at capacity.  My lucky trip through pregnancy has been a relatively trouble free adventure and only now is this vessel starting to give way.  Sleep is becoming more difficult as once comfortable positions are now a strain.  My hands and feet are swelling and I have to leave my wedding ring in the jewellery box.

I have been to the hospital every week for months now and at the visit last week, it was decided that due to the position of the babies, their sharing a placenta and my ability to contain them for such a length of time thus far, that a caesarean would be scheduled for 5 January.  Frightening.  Exciting.  Happy.  Nervous.  It is an odd experience to know the day that I would stop being a pregnant lady and start being a mother.

So over the next week the house became evermore ready.  I had a pedicure courtesy of a friend's gift from my lovely baby shower.  And I baked, baked, baked.  Partly for the freezer and the weeks to come, and partly for Christmas.

Christmas was a subdued affair for Thom and I.  My body is just not up for much and after some time with family, we retreated to the sofa where I have taken to spending much of the evening propping up my enormous girth with a scaffolding of pillows at various angles.

Today, back to the hospital.  Being off work for a while longer, Thom tagged along.  We waited for ages, something to which I have become accustomed.  I read the ancient magazines and said hello to the midwives I knew as they bustled past with notes and urine samples.  Thom fidgeted and cringed at the static-plagued radio tunes that tortured his ears.

But finally we were called.  Some chit-chat followed by a thorough feel-up of the bump and a scan to reveal that the little guys had shifted to an awkward position: face-to-face in the middle with their bodies curling around.  One up and over, one down and under.  'Hmm, that's unusual,' the sonographer remarked.  They want to kiss, I said.  They want to scheme, Thom said.

Then the bombshell.  The consultant reviewed the notes and giggled at the way the funny wriggly men like to be face-to-face.  She  explained that waiting until 5 January seemed too long and as certain risks increase past 38 weeks, the c-section would be moved forward to Friday.

Ok, Friday, I said.  Wait, what day is today?  Wednesday!

So once again, Thom and I left the hospital stunned.  In awe that in two days we would be holding our little guys.  So what to do with our last two days?   Tomorrow I plan to clean the bathroom and change the sheets and give Thom a last minute mohawk trim.  But tonight, I'm making extra bread to pack away in the freezer.   And I have submitted myself to be a human mould.  Thom laid out plastic sheets and draped my bump in plaster to immemorialise my shape for the times to come when this stage seems a far away memory.

I must warn you, he said with a sly smile as he smoothed the mess around me, you may find this quite erotic.  Erotic? Maybe.  But it was certainly profound to look down at this massive bump that would very soon be part of the past, and two baby boys becoming part of our life and our future.

Thursday 22 December 2011

Attack of the birth nazis

Having a baby is difficult for lots of reasons.  Time, energy, relationship changes, surrendering your body to forces beyond your control, watching it morph into not much more than a blobby baby capsule.  Not to mention the next phase of your life approaching - being a parent.

If God was a woman, she would have helped us out a little with a lot of these things.  But she might also gifted us with temporary deafness while pregnant.  It would certainly solve the bothersome issue of highly opinionated people that see a bump as justification to indoctrinate you.  I'm not referring to the general advice and strange suggestions that find their way to you from all corners of the planet.  Oh no, this deafness would be intended to help protect us from the apostles of the perfect child birth.  The ones who believe in one way, one correct form of birth, outside of which you and your offspring are doomed to an unnatural life.  A life cursed with poor health, depression, screwed up kids, a lack of hormone-induced motherly love and, most of all, the lifelong guilt of knowing that you chose this all by yourself.

I'm referring to the birth guilt squad, which broadly come in two polarised types - the medical ones and the natural ones.  If you are pregnant or have been pregnant, you may have had the misfortune of having your head bashed in by them.  They normally start with something quite disarming, like, 'It's an individual choice, but....' lulling you into thinking that you will be allowed respect for your individual choice.  But in their soft tones, it slowly dawns on you that they are trying to convert you.

Those of the medical squad would have you believe that home birth will result in certain death, of either your or baby.  And that only a dangerous fool would shun the white lab coats, scrubs and antiseptic hallways of hospital.  Reading between the lines, they sound a bit like: 'Only a real child-hater could take their life into their own hands by turning down the miracle of modern medicine'.

Those of the natural persuasion aim to convert you to the idea that hospitals are bad for you, bad for baby.  That medical interventions are meant to harm you and if you take advantage of them it means you don't trust your body.  You will have sinned against nature and the wonderful gift of childbirth nature has given you.  Consequently, you will suffer, your baby will suffer.  You can sniff these types out once you have the experience.  Just follow the stench of smugness.  

Birth is certainly a magical thing.  Our bodies are designed to do this amazing thing, equipped with all the mechanics and instincts to bring brand-new people into the world.  Doubtless, we as a species would have died out long ago if we were not capable of giving birth with nothing more than cold compress and the encouragement of a wise old woman or a grunting caveman husband.  It is a frightening and painful experience, but one that we can trust our bodies to handle.  These are the arguments of the natural-birth squad, and I must say that I agree that all this is true.

It gets twisted and nauseating when the implication becomes that those who choose some kind of medical intervention are somehow giving up faith in their bodies and abilities.  Backed  up with suspect statistics about going to hospital resulting in a higher rate of 'unnecessary' medical care, along with the assumption that modern medical procedures interrupt natural hormonal responses that encourage bonding between baby and mother, the guilt gets slapped on thick and fast.  Somehow I doubt that our ancestors enjoyed idyllic births, un-tainted by the scourge of modern medicine. 

What is the reality?  According to the World Health Organisation, the reality is that 1500 women die everyday from childbirth or childbirth related complications, almost all preventable.  Things like pre-eclampsia, heamorraging or obstructed labour.  And even when the mother survives, the babies themselves can fare much worse. Click here to check out what the WHO says about maternal mortality  The truth is that most women the world over have no choice but natural childbirth.  And while modern medicine may cast a cynical eye on the natural abilities of a woman's body and steel will, unfortunately natural childbirth isn't the blissful, magical rite of being a woman that the natural-birth squad would have us believe.  The reality is that until modern times, pregnancy and childbirth were dangerous times for women and infants alike.

It is a fact that people who go to hospital for birth end up with more medical interventions than those who give birth at home, but that statistic is not proof that the interventions were unnecessary.  Even in the developed world, some statistics indicate that home birth, while carrying a decreased risk of intervention, do carry a significantly higher rate of neonatal mortality; about twice as high as hospital births.  Additionally, around 40% of home births end up being transferred to hospital because of complications. Click to view article on Science-Based Medicine.

As for myself, prior to 12 weeks, I was prepared to give birth in my front room with nothing more than a stick of incense and some hypno-birthing mind tricks.  Then we learned that we had stumbled upon  the two-for-one special.  Twins: a whole new ball game.  The risks of death or injury in birth of twins is four times greater than a singleton pregnancy.  I guess my response, my guilt, comes from wishing for a different birth.  I want to keep things as natural as I can.  But the goal is not to prove that I am a woman or that I trust my body.  Right now, the goal is for all three of us to emerge from the experience alive.  When I have said this to various birth nazis that have crossed my path, it has been taken as proof of my fear.  Fear of the pain, of birth or of my own abilities.  One such encounter saw me up against a fellow pregnant woman explaining to me that risks of twin birth were fictitious, hospital was bad but 'If hospital is your safe place, then you should go there'.  As if being in your 'safe place' will prevent the multitude of risks that are common in birthing identical twins.

What I honestly feel is that it isn't that important where or how I give birth.  This middle-ground attitude doesn't save me and I still fall foul of birth nazis on both sides.   Not having a strong opinion on this highly contentious issue seems almost as bad as actively choosing to harm my unborn.

For me, the issue is not how or where a woman gives birth, but that she have every opportunity to go through this natural process with the greatest likelihood that both she and her baby survive.  The medical proponents and the natural birth squad each have their emotionally laden arguments.  But for the individual pregnant woman, this is a choice devoid of moral issues.

Until we evolve pregnancy-related deafness, the birth nazis will plague us, I suppose.  I wish I had known about them sooner so I could develop a stock response, like an equally patronising pat on the head and a 'there-there, calm down, dear'.  Ah well, as it is I must stick to my own mind, stay flexible and remember that no particular birth makes you a better person, parent or mother.  

Sunday 18 December 2011

Looking back: love, fate and magic

Recently, our PC had some problems.  Thankfully it was under warranty and fixing it was a simple case of sending it off by courier.  A week later it arrived back like new.  Like new in every sense, including all out our stuff wiped and completely gone.  We were smart and backed up all our data before sending it off, so no big loss.  Just a few hours of my time devoted to putting it all back on.

It started off feeling like an annoying task, but I found myself caught up in nostalgia as I re-loaded the photos.  Photos of Thom and I before we were dating.  Before were married.  Before we were expecting.  Before we knew we were expecting two!  Blame it on the hormones if you will, but it made me well up a bit.

It is amazing and humbling thinking about the twists and turns that life takes.  It doesn't seem like years ago that I was working behind a bar, trying to earn a little bit while going to graduate school.  Thom came in for a beer, stinking like an old onion and dressed in high-vis straight from work.  I imagine he would have choked on his beer if someone would have told us our future then.  And I would have probably called the police to help eject the deranged wierdo from the pub.

How things have changed!  We became friends at first, and later dated.  We had tons of fun.  I loved the way we could make a fun night out of nothing.  Or the way we would dance like idiots.  Or even the way we would both want to slope off from the crowds at the same time.  He became my man, best friend and partner.  But even then I could not have predicted that I would be sitting here now, having just seen our twins at a scan today.  Him in the kitchen fixing the taps and me tapping away about our journey through parenthood on the compter.  Even when we started dating, this senario would have seemed strange and domestic.  But here we are.

I'll let you in on a secret:  Earlier in my life, I never wanted children.  I was always told by others, mostly older women, that one day my biological clock would kick in and I would change.  I did change, but not because of some hormonal ticking time bomb.  I had always been very clear on my reasons for not wanting to join the ranks of the pro-creators.  From a young age, I did too much thinking for my own sanity.  That and some unfortunate experiences made the world seemed a cruel place.  People treated each other badly and there seemed no limit to the imaginative ways human beings could find to hurt others.  It didn't seem like the place to bring innocent children into.

Now, it sounds like a bit of screwed up logic.  Things shifted for me.  Not suddenly, but slowly.  It's hard to outline here exactly how the transformation happened.  Little things, I suppose.  Stopping to appreciate life and what a gift it really is.  Love helps, of course.  I remember one evening, stewing about not doing well enough in some area of my life and sharing my angst with Thom.  I couldn't sleep and in the darkness my worries poured out like flood waters.  I remember the shadowy outline of his face in the night.  He waited until I was done exhausting every paranoid corner of my little worry prison and then in a calm, low tone explained his perspective.  How every person is a miracle, not when they do things, but just the fact that they are alive is amazing.  For that reason, everyone is valuable and worthy of love.

In the face of such logic, but also love, my worries dried up and I lay there in the darkness, stunned that I had never before realised this most basic truth.  I had been moving towards a more accepting view of myself and others, but that moment cemented something.

So my eventual choice to have children was not motivated out of some primal, hormonal urge.  I think it was more beautiful than that.  My choice was a sign of the greater shifts in my life towards being more compassionate, more open and more able to love and be loved.

I often think about the twists and turns of fate, the miracle of nature that we are having not just a baby, but twins.  In my quiet moments, I think about the lessons life has taught me and the gifts it's laid in my path along the way.  I'm thankful for learning about love.  I'm thankful for that stinky man who stumbled into my pub.  And in my most goofy, gooey moments, I think about that love like a little bit of magic that couldn't help but make not just one, but two amazing little people.

Monday 12 December 2011

Nest, nest, nest....now rest

I am listening to my eclectic Christmas music collection, enjoying a warm cup of tea and the inviting glow of candles and Christmas lights.  Pizza dough is churrning away in the breadmaker, its noisy kneading cycle reminding me of the tasty dinner soon to come.  Soon I'll fry up some peppers and sausages to top the pizza and the house will smell mouth-watering.

The house feels like a cave of tranquillity.  I've been nesting but now I think I need to stop and appreciate the nest.  It started out as a kind of panic nesting.  Following my last blog, with the warnings of just how early twins can arrive haunting me, I kicked into geare.  The hospital bag was packed and baby stuff was piling  up in the second bedroom.  Since then, the reality of it hit a but harder yet.

After the last scan, a week and a half ago, I was sent directly to the clinic.  I watched the sonographer and a midwife scurry from room to room with my growth charts as I began to get more and more unsettled in my seat in the busy waiting area.

Trying to breathe and keep calm is more difficult with my now limited lung capacity.  After an uneasy wait, a busy midwife called me in and talked me through concerns while preparing a massive dose of steroids she was about to stab me with.  I needed to return to the hospital again at 10pm for a second dose.  It was meant to prepare the babies lungs in the event that they came early.  The growth of one of the little guys had dropped off and it would be decided if any action should be taken when I saw the consultant myself the next week, she explained.

I surrendered a bit of fleshy butt cheek and agreed to be back that night for more.  I drove home on autopilot, got in the house and suddenly felt very lost and frightened.  What now? What would I do if they arrived by next week?  The thought of the plastic baby boxes in the special care unit gave me a chill and I wanted to cry.  But first, mamma-bear instinct kicked in.  Doing something felt better than doing nothing and I had a huge urge to make my cave totally prepared.

I decided that I could start by contacting my sister in law, Amy, to ask about borrowing her bottle steriliser.  She was enjoying a day with my mother in law, Sally.  I wasn't making much sense by text so I phoned.  in an instant, my she-bear persona gave way to whimpering, frightened baby-bear.  I found myself flooded with tears almost as soon as I opened my mouth.  Sally and Amy realised before I did that it wasn't really a steriliser I needed.  It was some kind words, encouragement and reminding that nothing is written in stone just yet.  That and a cuddle from Thom as well as ice cream after the 10pm injection helped.

Never the less, nesting kicked in full time since then.  I write that as if it is some force that took me over rather than my own behaviour.  Strangely, that's what it feels like.  So much so, that I was annoyed by interruptions to my nesting this weekend.  Thom told me we were to stop by my friend Bianca's house to check out water damage.  I was not happy.  There was Ikea furniture to assemble, cupboards to rearrange to ensure room for baby bottles, sleep suits to launder and cookies to bake and freeze.  I wanted to stay in but he wouldn't let me, reminding me that he endured Ikea getting storage and organising bits, so the least I could do is accompany him to check out mould patterns in Bianca's ceiling.  I begrudingly got dressed and dragged my feet all the way.

When we arrived, my smacked-bottom face was greeted by a group of smiling friends and a load of presents.  Surprise baby shower!  It took me a little while to figure out what was going on, I imagine partly because I've been in such solitary hibernating, nesting mode for so long.  I almost felt like I forgot how to converse with friends.  It was for my own good that nesting was set aside for a bit and that I was forcibly made to stop and enjoy this time of my life.  I may have come in with a bad attitude but left with a smile and warmed heart from all my lovely friends.  As well as a ton of presents for both me and the wrigglers.  Things to tuck away in my newly organised comfort cave.

Am I ready?   Well, now more than ever.  Best of all, I can take a moment to enjoy it, too.

Thursday 1 December 2011

Find me in dreamland: Baby baking hibernation begins

There is very little to report on the mamatastic front this week.  I've accomplished some various bits of pre-baby organisation, baked a few tasty tid-bits for Thom and added to the stockpile of nappies and baby things in the spare room.

But other than that I have been in slow motion.  Since the panic packing of the hospital bag, it's like someone planted pregnant-lady kryptonite somewhere in the house.  My little hoard of baby books and magazines inform me that tiredness is expected to return in the third trimester.  Different things are to blame than in the first three months when my body was busy sustaining the two little fellas while knitting a placenta.  The final three months see a return of tiredness because of my ever increasing size.

I suppose I have always been a good sleeper.  Give me a blanket and some place comfy and I am off to dreamland.  But this tiredness is more insistent and difficult to ignore.  Yesterday, I fell asleep sitting straight up on the sofa, waking about 2 hours after I sat down with the intention of just a little rest.  Everyday this week I've found myself waking up with a little sleep drool down my cheek, wondering where the time has gone and feeling a like a lazy hippo-person.

Guilt is what I feel, even though rationally I know it's not fair to beat myself up.  I am big and tired.  But I imagined myself as a whirlwind of productivity while off work.  Writing and organising and exercising.  Cooking a freezer-full of nutritious meals to keep us going when life gets very busy very soon.  Instead I find myself napping.  More accurately, constantly napping to the point where I'm tempted to label it hibernation.  Tonight I'm staring down a to-do list next to the computer that has remained untouched since Monday.  I'd like to rely on the comforting thought that 'there's always tomorrow', but with 37 weeks considered full term for twins, tomorrow's schedule might be fully booked.

On the other hand, my near-hibernation might be allowing this body to contain its cargo for while longer.  Good news for growing fat little newborns, but bad news for the to-do list.