Tag Archives: Labour Signs

Apr 7 2014

39 Weeks: The Secret Fourth Trimester

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I made a promise to myself last night that I’d keep this post as light-hearted as possible. I suspect anyone reading this will have started wanting to throttle me a few months ago. That, or you’ve stopped believing I’m even pregnant! It feels like (and reads like) I’ve been pregnant for a year now and I’m constantly having to contain my jealousy when I see all my friends sharing ‘welcome to the world baby’ statuses on Facebook. I swear some of these people announced their pregnancies after me…

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve tweeted about my labour when in reality I don’t even know what I should be looking out for in the first place. At 39 weeks I can confirm I’m getting regular pressure on my bladder and my pelvic floor, and plenty of tightenings higher up in my abdomen - but are these really something to be getting excited about? I don’t know. I didn’t experience one contraction with Dexter so I have nothing to compare them against.

The general consensus seem to be that if you are unsure whether you are in labour, you probably aren’t. This is the rule of thumb filtered down to thousands of mums-to-be by midwives everywhere (and irritatingly validated by mums-in-the-know in the natural labour brigade). It sounds about right on the face of it, but it doesn’t stop me wanting to jab my own thumbs somewhere unpleasant in their smug faces. After-all, midwives are the gatekeepers of early labour… the ones who have access to the drugs that can induce us… the ones who no doubt have million tricks they could share that will guarantee our spot in the delivery room this evening, but won’t give them up.

Bed Rest 39 Weeks 39 Weeks: The Secret Fourth Trimester

The truth is, I’ve had a really shitty time of it these past few weeks. There was some confusion as to whether my waters had gone with two separate consultants proffering different opinions. Both times (once in week 37, and another in 38) I felt the equivalent of a champagne glass full of fluid leave my body involuntarily - there had been no pressure on bladder immediately before. This got my hopes up as I began to think they’d have to hurry-up the labour or intervene due to risk of infection… but nope.

The one thing both consultants agreed upon on was that Operation #GetBabyOut would have to stop immediately. I’d weakened my pelvic floor muscles by exercising too excessively (and aggressively) and they would need time to recover before D Day.

I’ve had mixed success with this challenge. Lazing around on bed rest just doesn’t seem to compute with me. Like most mums to be I have some serious nesting to be getting on with, and anything that brings me closer to that inevitable pop of my waters beats the hell out of laying in bed watching Tipping Point. As my consultants have made it crystal clear they won’t induce me due to the problems I had with Dexter’s birth, I often find myself staring at the clock ever-conscious that the longer this goes on, the more likely I am to meet my baby on an operating table.

It was during this time that @MamaBabyBliss sent me an article that sums up perfectly how I’m feeling at the moment. It’s the musings of US midwife Jana Studelska about labour anxiety and the later stages of pregnancy. You can read the full article here but I’ve nicked quoted the best bits here if you’re simply not up to anymore pregnancy reading at the moment:

It’s time to hurry up and wait. Not a comfortable place to be, but wholly necessary…. I tell these beautiful, round, swollen, weepy women to go with it and be okay there. Feel it, think it, don’t push it away.

What we don’t have is reverence or relevance—or even a working understanding of the vulnerability and openness a woman experiences at this time. Our language and culture fails us. This surely explains why many women find this time so complicated and tricky. But whether we recognize it or not, these last days of pregnancy are a distinct biologic and psychological event, essential to the birth of a mother.

Okay it’s a bit Kumbaya for my usual self, but it seems to resonate with the pregnant me. These last few weeks, days, hours are the ultimate test for some pregnant women. It’s entirely possible to lose your mind to grief, frustration, fear and excitement. These emotional responses won’t let up, not even for a second, not even in your sleep. Not every woman will go to this place (I didn’t with Dexter) but I’ve been sat here for a few weeks now. It feels like purgatory. I will admit though that this article made me feel better. I was able to imagine this time as a sort of secret fourth trimester; a special club reserved for the true warriors of motherhood.

39 weeks 39 Weeks: The Secret Fourth Trimester

So I’ve decided not to blog anymore about this pregnancy now. Don’t worry, I haven’t gone all ‘inner peace’ or ‘tie-dye knickers’ on you all, I just have nothing left of any value to say about it. It sucks, I hate it, I don’t think I’ll ever put myself through this again. I’ll see you all on the other side - whether I find a footbridge, jump in a canoe, or take my chances swimming across - I’ll tell you how I did it when I get there and not as I’m doing it.

This one goes out to my fellow bump buddies - particularly those who find themselves rubbing their swollen tummies a little too forcibly as they’re watching One Born Every Minute, or adding little unnecessary bounces to their step as they walk up the stairs. I FEEL YOUR PAIN!

 

 

Mar 26 2014

A Belated 36 Weeks Post & an X-Rated #GetBabyOut

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I haven’t deliberately delayed writing this post, I was just pretty frustrated that my 36th week carrying this huge sack of baby and water was so painfully uneventful. This, despite me spending several hours embarrassing myself on a birthing ball, watching television with my hand down my bra, and conducting painful massages on bits of my body that I wouldn’t even expect Craig to touch. I even went against last week’s promise that I would never put myself through another bite of pineapple scoffing 3 LARGE fresh ones from Tesco in 2 days. Birthing Ball Labour A Belated 36 Weeks Post & an X Rated #GetBabyOut

Most of this week’s endeavours have been physical. I’m pretty sure my treatment of Craig could have earned me a segment on some crappy Channel 5 programme - maybe The Bad Wives Club, or Abused Husbands. When I’m not demanding he whip me up strange concoctions of food in the kitchen, I’m dragging him upstairs in the most unromantic way possible.

I’m not stupid. I realise that most of my experiments will come to nothing. I know full well that most of these tricks were either disproved some 100 years ago, or would need to be eaten / performed on a much grander scale than it would be possible (or even safe) for one person to achieve in one day. But still, I had hoped that Mini Madam would have at least given me a few little signs she was listening to her mummy.

The slightest change in her position or bit of pressure on my bladder and I’m ringing Craig and screaming that she’s gearing up and he had better come home from work (did I mention he’s often 100 miles away?). I seem to have reworked the morality tale The Boy that Cried Wolf for a modern day audience. When my water’s do finally break or I do get a contraction I can already see him rolling his eyes and deliberately taking the scenic route on the way home.

In truth, nothing has happened this week.

Nothing at all.

She’s still kicking away. I’m still producing pathetic amounts of wee every 10 minutes. I’m still crying at adverts with ‘sad’ music. I’m still exhausted after a single hour of parenting Dexter in the morning. None of this is new, and none of it is exciting.

I’m now thinking she’s planning on saying hello on April Fool’s Day as some form of punishment at having been evicted from the little den she’s made inside of me.

So keeping it brief - here’s the results of Operation #GetBabyOut this week. WARNING: This is not suitable reading for the faint-hearted… or for anyone really.GetBabyOut1 A Belated 36 Weeks Post & an X Rated #GetBabyOut

Sex

Don’t bother ladies. Seriously, you’re beyond the stage that you can derive any pleasure from a quick fumble now, and unfortunately the chances are this is also the case for your other half. 99.9% of Kama Sutra positions are now impossible or would have the unwanted side effect of turning off your partner for life. Spooning is your only safe option and you’ll probably find yourself inspecting the chaos on your bedside table rather than any meaningful attempt to participate in the activity at hand.

There is the merest smidgen of science that supports the fact that sex can help bring on labour. Semen may help to ripen, or soften, the neck of your uterus (cervix) ready for it to dilate when labour starts. Semen contains a high number of prostaglandins, which are chemicals that can help to relax tissues (high concentrates of this are used in induction pessaries given to overdue women in hospital - not sperm obviously, but prostaglandins).

Sounds good right? Well no. You’d need few pints of sperm to match the concentration found in just this one active ingredient in a pessary. Given the average man manages a tablespoon per session, even holing him up in a room with a naughty magazine wouldn’t be enough to get a sufficient quantity.

Tweaking your nipples

I can probably manage a quick 30 seconds before I begin to feel prudish / stupid / desperate. The sensation goes from ticklish to sore quickly, and I’d be lying if I said the thought of expelling a sudden burst of milk doesn’t put the fear of God in me. In truth, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to view my breasts as Objets de Désir ever again. They serve one basic function and that is is to feed my child. It has even got to the stage where I find myself physically cringing when I go for a night out and see women forcibly spilling out of their underwear.

Nipple Stimulation A Belated 36 Weeks Post & an X Rated #GetBabyOut

Unfortunately for me, there is some scientific justification for using nipple stimulation to evoke labour. The act of tweaking releases the hormone oxytocin which can help your labour progress. This hormone controls the contractions of your uterus (womb) during labour and can be administered by midwives (in synthetic form) to induce you. According to an uncited source BabyCentre claim (and I’m not suggesting this should become any sane woman’s pregnancy reference) in a study, 37% of women who had tried nipple stimulation went into labour within 72 hours.

This is certainly appealing but you’d need to stimulate your breasts for an hour, three times a day which is easier said than done when you have a curious two-year-old hanging off your arm from 8am - 8pm. Will it scar him? I’m saying yes, even if I’m just making excuses so as not to try it.

So that’s it from me. I’m now well into my 37th week so will report back soon.

 

Mar 10 2014

34 Weeks Pregnant! Things are Ramping Up

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I wanted to write this post last week but Craigy placed me on a blog ban. He says the reason for this is because he wanted me to rest and recover from my recent stay in the antenatal ward, but I suspect it’s because he knew I was likely to fly into a tirade about the care I received and offend the very midwives who are likely to be delivering our baby in a few weeks time. As always, my bloke had a very good point.

Things have definitely ramped up considerably this month and I can’t see Mini Madam waiting until April to meet her family. 1509645 10151918062582190 1829871963 n 34 Weeks Pregnant! Things are Ramping Up

The whole saga began when Dex bought home a sicky bug from playgroup and infected his daddy with it. With a full clean-up operation in progress (I won’t go too far into it but I was sorely tempted to throw away our sofa) it was only a matter of time before my body decided to have a bit of it too. Given I’ve suffered with gastroesophageal reflux disease throughout this pregnancy, the situation was made ten times worse and I had a really shocking time of it. I struggled to keep down anything at all and began to suffer from a few mild contractions. 72 hours later I called my GP in a panic. Of course, he quickly referred me to the hospital to check on the baby.

Inevitably, baby was fine, but I wasn’t. My wee was the colour of Lucozade and at the insistence of the consultant I was instructed to stay in and receive IV fluids. Given the sickness had resulted from a bug, I was quarantined with suspected novovirus - quite the leap in diagnosis methinks - and I endured a full night of hellish barrier nursing, misadventures to my en suite (dragging a drip stand with dodgy wheels that could have given the trolleys at Sainsburys a run for their money) and extreme claustrophobia. I sobbed the entire night and was inches away from ripping out the cannula by the time 7am rolled round.

With no spare knickers, no purse, and no toothbrush - I felt like a tramp in the morning. To protect the other women on the ward, I’d been barely tended to all night and was feeling like a leper. In fact, after a lot of crying and a few hours worth of deliberation, I discharged myself. I’d like to pretend this wasn’t an easy decision but I’d be lying. I knew Mini Madam was okay and just needed mummy to calm down. I knew I couldn’t manage this in hospital and I needed to be at home with my boys. It was the best decision I’ve ever made and I’m happy to report I’m now eating and drinking without any problems.

The only positive thing to come out of the whole experience was a scan of baby that revealed her little head is down. This means we can go for the natural birth we wanted and I won’t have to endure a 5 day post-op stay in hospital. As hospitals and I clearly don’t get on too well, this is a HUGE relief. To be fair, given I officially hold the title of the World’s Shittiest Inpatient I suspect the midwives won’t want me in their care for a second later longer than is strictly necessary anyway. If I didn’t need IV antibiotics throughout the birth (thanks to Dexter’s history of Strep B) I’d be ordering a paddling pool this very second.

Now back home again I’ve had a whole new raft of symptoms that have got me frantically fake tanning and painting my nails in anticipation of an early labour. My inner thermostat has gone on the blink and I’m constantly sweltering (I even managed a spot of gardening in my undies this weekend!). Perhaps thanks to the fluids, I also feel like I’ve been inflated and my bump is now rock hard. Finally, I can literally feel my hips widen to accommodate baby. My contractions are persisting but are getting lower and longer in length - but are as yet too mild to take seriously. It all certainly seems to be adding up to a rush-job and I’m pretty sure she’s had enough in there.

Tomorrow I’ll be 35 weeks. I’ve got my fingers crossed she’ll manage another two weeks but it’s definitely a case of placing your bets now!

 

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