Did my baby bond with me?

I had originally intended to write a post on music I want my children to listen to, but after an emotionally draining day with one very poorly little girl, I just had to write this post.

I often see stories about women who for various often really upsetting reasons fail to bond with their baby, but I often have the opposite worry - did my baby actually bond with me? Anyone who's read my birth trauma post will know that I had a pretty rough time giving birth to my daughter at 27 weeks gestation. As is usually the case (I assume) your baby isn't placed in your arms or on your chest, rather it is held aloft for a split second before all the frantic activity starts and your baby is taken away. I am ashamed to admit that I can't remember the time when I finally got to see my baby. I have come to realise that I was completely in shock at what had happened, as evidenced by the fact that after a 6:08am birth I was in the queue for a hospital fry-up having discharged myself at 10am. I was chatting perfectly amiably with the canteen staff who couldn't believe I'd just given birth and was walking around. My partner was with me and I could tell he was worried but all I wanted was some decent bloody food, a diet coke, and to properly meet my little girl. Thinking about it I no doubt also wanted out of the room where I'd spent the whole night alone, scared and in agony before the inevitable traumatic event. I didn't realise the implication of what had just happened and no one had yet explained it to me. I had no idea that a long SCBU stay lay ahead of us and I certainly didn't know that somewhere around 11pm that night my baby would be transferred to a hospital more than an hour up the M1. Had I done then I wouldn't have felt so sucker-punched when the realisation hit that I would go home that night and sleep in a completely different part of the Midlands to my fragile little girl. Still in shock, I naturally insisted on being taken to McDonalds on the way home.

I wrote at the end of my birth story that as soon as I put my finger into her tiny little hand, I felt the bond. What I worry about is whether or not my daughter has ever properly bonded with me. I often relay anecdotes about how feisty and independent she is, that she never sits still, that she is so good around other people that she will go to anyone. I take pride in the fact that she is so fearless and more than a little tomboyish, like I was but much more so. But I do wonder... does she actually recognise me as her mother? That sounds silly, I know she knows I'm her mummy, but does she actually feel it? I feel cheated that we never got to have that initial cuddle, that skin on skin bonding that they say is so important. It was 3 days before I got to finally hold her, and I know that that makes me lucky because some mummies of sick or prem babies have to wait far longer. But knowing that fact doesn't help. I feel cheated out of so much in regards to the whole experience - at 6 weeks pregnant I started suffering with Hyperemesis Gravidarum, and at times I wanted rid of my baby. I remember crying dry tears (because I was so dehydrated) that I wanted "this thing" out of my body. It was the most desperate time, and it spoiled the first trimester and some of the second. Then I didn't get to have my third trimester. So I feel loss, I feel anger, but thankfully I still feel love for this amazing little battler who I can hear snoring through the baby monitor. She's been ill today, and has been glued to my side, my lap, my chest - she even spent an hour with her cheek resting against mine. So today I feel like perhaps she does feel that I'm her mummy. I'm certainly the one she wants everytime she is full on poorly. There's just a nagging doubt inside of me that I'm not sure will ever go away.

A precious SCBU moment

3 reasons to be cheerful

After initially declaring I was too spaced out to write today, I've decided that I'm actually feeling pretty switched on, which is a good job as Babyzoid is in a feisty one today!

So, seen this on lots of blogs, but decided to take part after reading Alyson's 3 reasons post. So here are my 3 reasons to be cheerful.

1. I have a beautiful vibrant and charming daughter who, in spite of a rough start in life and a fair bit of ill health over the past few months is going from strength to strength. She is the reason why I am determined to rid myself of the troubles I'm having at the moment, and spending as much time with her as possible is spurring me on to look at new directions in my professional life.

2. I have a wonderful and supportive partner. He might not be the best at DIY and he might spend a little too much time playing Call of Duty for my liking, but he's always there for me when I need him. He's very caring, extremely intelligent and witty, a great Dad, and I feel very lucky to have found my soul mate in life.

3. Although I'm pretty isolated from friends and family where I live, I have a couple of great friends not too far away who are always there to share giggles and a mocchachino with when needed. My Mum is also always willing to come down and help me out when she knows I am struggling. She is always at the end of the phone, which is a huge comfort. My Dad is a man of few words, but I know that he's there for me too. I have great family and friends, and for that I feel blessed.

So that may be all very cliche and sentimental, but I think most people will acknowledge that it's not what you have or how many holidays you take that's important, but it's the people in your life that keep you strong when things seem a little hopeless.

Initially I thought that I'd be writing my blog in a vacuum of sorts, but I'm so thrilled to have found a community of warm, witty and friendly people and although I love the chance to practice my writing, it's that aspect which makes me feel that now I've started blogging, I don't want to stop.

Spaced-out Saturday

Well the Increased strength Citalopram is....strong. And the Temazepam is...good. Not sure I'll be stringing many sentences together today so here is the results of my playing around on Paint yesterday:

Life in the middle lane..

It struck me today whilst driving on the motorway that I'm always in a rush. Often it's rushing to get to work even though I don't want to go, or rushing home so that I have enough time to cook for everyone and get baby in bed at a decent hour before settling down to my own work or projects. This morning it was rushing to get Babyzoid to nursery (yes, she has her own commute even when I'm off work)then rushing back to make my doctor's appointment. And it's not that I'm massively breaking speed limits or anything (well, maybe sometimes *cough*) it's just that I'm always torn between feeling that I need to go faster and that I need to slow down. So I seem to spend life in the middle lane, wishing that I had the balls and the energy to join the speedy gonzales because then I might gain back a few precious minutes. Conversely I look with envy at those cruising along looking like they haven't a care in the world - Sunday Drivers, my Mother calls them.

So how does one escape this unsatisfying life in the middle lane? I'm not sure I have any of the answers to that, but I do think there is something to be said for living life in the moment. For instance, when I am in the car driving to where I need to be, there is no point trying to speed up time, fretting that I am not there already. If I'm behind schedule, so be it. Things happen. Let's just roll with it. I'll have no choice anyway seeing as how I've just had my Citalopram dosage increased. I can already feel the effects as I'm struggling to focus on this blog post today (sorry if it's waffly!) so best just slow down and resist the temptation to pull out into the fast lane, and stop envying the grandads in the slow lane. And the same goes for the rest of life. There's so much I want right NOW, but it's a waste of the week if you spend the whole of it wishing for the weekend. Enjoy the journey, not just the destination. Yep, middle-lane drifting. Infuriating to all around, but I think that's the way forward!

*The author of this piece would like to apologise sincerely for over-use of brackets and the over-egging of road-metaphors like some two-bit quack self-help guru* (Yeah, sorry bout that). Doh!

My would-be Gallery post (I never was good with deadlines)

I really wanted to join in Sticky Fingers The Gallery this week, but unfortunately I missed the linky deadline. No matter! I'm still going to post my picture of little Babyzoid at I-forget-how-old displaying a bit of rock-chick attitude. Loved that little leather jacket!

Will have to kick my arse in to gear and try and join in with next weeks Gallery!

Terrorzoid's first 2 word phrase? "Good girl" How ironic....

Yes, Terrorzoid as I've renamed her this week has been making large strides in terms of her speech. This is a relief as she seemed to have slipped back developmentally again and was deemed 3 months behind on our last trip Paediatrics.

I do however have to wonder how she's managed to pick up the phrase "Good girl" as I'm unsure as to what occasion I could possibly have had to use it. Much as I love my manic little whirlwind, a good girl she aint. Therefore, I'm thinking it must have been a pleading utterance in a vain attempt to get her to do or not do something. A few recent possibilities would include:

"Now now my darling. Let's NOT see how many pieces of macaroni cheese we can get to stick to the wall. Good girl!"

"Let's NOT pull everything out of mummy's make-up bag and throw it all over the floor, eh honey? Good girl!"

"Let's not take the Weetabix out of our mouth and smear it over Daddy's workshirt, which admittedly shouldn't be hanging on the chair next to your high-chair. Good girl!"

"Oh dear, you can now reach that shelf can you? Let's give mummy her blow torch and bottle of brandy back. Good girl!"

Now I don't look at my little girl and hear music from the Omen or see her eyes slowly turning red or anything, but I've learned to underestimate her at my peril. And turning round and seeing a blowtorch in one hand and a bottle of spirits in the other, well... I'm taking no chances. Therefore a little bit more baby-proofing has been undertaken this week. Daddy has been instructed to no longer charge his batteries in the plugs above the skirting boards after a near battery-sucking incident, and for my part I've cleared the reachable shelf on the baby unit of all potential hazards, including creams, thermometers and nail-scissors.

Yes, our little girl is growing into a big girl and it's getting harder to keep her 'contained'. I do believe that she is finally learning right from wrong, it's just that this week she seems to think that following a naughty or defiant act by smiling and shouting "Good girl!" absolves her of any wrong-doing.

Perhaps I need to teach her the meaning of "bad girl" too.

Babyzoid the daredevil

Here is a photo of my little daredevil. She's not felt well today (just for a change!) but being poorly never stops her throwing herself around and being generally manic. Here she is using her sit and ride as a climbing frame:

I'm now on Twitter!

Yes, tentative steps have been made into the twitterverse. I don't know how it all works yet, so any tips or greetings most welcome!

My tweet moniker is @MummyBeadzoid.

Hope to see you peeps in that mysterious alternative realm :D x

Seven things you never knew you wanted to know about me....

Well, I've been appallingly lazy for the past few days and what better way to get back into the blogging saddle than to answer a tag by the brilliant Ghostwritermummy. So here it, is. Seven things you never knew you wanted to know about me.

1. When I was 16 I won my family a holiday to Los Angeles with Sky TV by filling in a competition card that said in 12 words or less why we should win. I wrote in in the style of Wayne's World. When we were told we'd won Mum did cartwheels and monkeys did indeed fly out of my butt!

2. I was never ever going to have children. I changed my mind age aged 27 after my Grandma died.

3. I drink 5 or 6 diet cokes a day. I'm trying to cut down to help my sleep problems, but I just love the fizz of the bubbles on my tongue!

4. A front-sleeper, since I was pregnant I've slept with a little cushion propped against my belly as I can no longer bear to lie directly on it. Still missing my bump, perhaps?

5. At school I used to play the Cello. I was very promising and achieved a high distinction on my first grade. But I gave it up to take a paper round and so I no longer had to keep my nails short *sigh*

6. When I was younger I did a half-day job interview in a bitchy high-end hair salon. It was going well until over lunch I was a little too forthright on my opinions of Princess Di's manipulation of the media (she had just been photographed attending a surgery complete with fully made-up doe eyes). There were several Di fans and I didn't get the job.

7. Theologically interested in Eastern religions one day I'd love to do a tour of Buddhist temples and shrines across Eastern Asia.

So there it is, 7 things about me. And I've just had to retype this on my iPod after losing the entire post, so typos be damned - they'll have to stay.

Phew, that was tough!

3 films you shouldn't watch when depressed

Be advised, if you haven't seen any of the films bolded in the titles and you intend to, then this post may contain spoilers!

Last night, in a bid to treat myself and end the day in a positive manner I decided to watch a DVD. My other half was working lates so I watched Marley and Me. Big mistake. Now I don't often cry at films and indeed have been accused of having a heart of the flintiest flint, but this got me. It got me good. And I knew it was coming too - talk about sado-masochism in action. I could have watched One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest or something with gangsters shooting each other if I'd really wanted to lift my mood. But no I thought, I'll watch a romcom! Pft. My man is the romcom queen, he's seen them all - including the crappiest straight to TV Jennifer Love-Hewitt ones, but even he won't watch the one where the dog... well, you know. So today, now I've composed myself I got to thinking, what other films should you definitely not watch when a wee bit down? Here are my top 3, starting with last night's sobfest.

Marley and Me

You know what happens at the end. Unless you lived in a cave around the time it was released then you know that the dog dies. And if you're anything like me then a big-eyed animal coming to harm is far worse than if 10 humans are murdered in some blockbuster killing spree. They don't even have to be real animals. I cried at Bambi, I cried at Watership Down, there was no way that a gorgeous labrador with a rascally personality wasn't going to make me blub - especially when I'm low, which I was. What I didn't know about was the first trimester miscarriage, and the post natal depression. Doh! I actually liked the film, but damnit if it didn't depress the hell out of me. Seriously, since when did Jennifer Aniston romcoms contain any sort of depth?

Life is beautiful

The Italian Roberto Begnini film where that mad actor bloke won the Oscar and jumped over all the chairs? Remember? Anyway, I unwittingly watched that about 8 years ago. I also made my sister watch it (she cried), and I made my partner watch it, before our first date no less. He cried too and it's amazing he went out with me after that. It starts off so bright and happy before descending into tragedy - but in a really upbeat way. I defy anyone to watch this film and not shed buckets. Triumph of the human spirit in adversity and the lengths a father will go to to protect his son, and so on. Just leave off until you have no underlying mental illness.

The Notebook

Now my other half is most definitely in touch with his sensitive side when it comes to weepies, but still...I've never seen anyone crumple with such complete devastation as when we watched this. I wish I could have caught the moment on camera. To be fair, it was so perfectly sad, you couldn't help but choke up. No fluffy animals, but heartstrings will be tugged nonetheless.

Now, after all that think I might need a bit of cheering up. Box of jaffa cakes and the Die-Hard box set? Don't mind if I do!

The Black Fog Monster

It's been a difficult week. Trying to stay on the up and most definitely NOT succeeding is very difficult and very tiring. When I started this blog, I wanted to blog about being mum to a premature infant, and about suffering delayed depression, later turning out to be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder if the counsellor's diagnosis concurs with my doctor's. But I didn't want to do it in a 'depressing' way. I don't consider myself to be that type of person (does anyone?), but this week I most definitely have been which is most irksome. My sense of humour has definitely packed it's knapsack and hitched a ride somewhere no doubt less challenging (not the Golden Globes then, ouch Mr Gervais!)

Indeed, everytime I came to write this blog I lacked the energy. I knew that I wanted to talk about the feelings I was having, but I just couldn't find the words. I couldn't even grasp what my feelings were, let alone articulate them. There just seemed to be this dense black fog. And could I find the button for my fog lights? Not this week. And that's how my depression, or PTSD seems to be manifesting. I'm often numb, always tired, and I often can't find the words - not even in my own head, and that's very unusual for me. Maybe that's how other sufferer's find it?

It's a shame I'm feeling back to black (thanks Ms Winehouse) because today has been a lovely day. Babyzoid hosted an afternoon playdate with her SCBU twin friends, and really enjoyed herself. She had a couple of good natured tugs of war with one of the twins and terrorised the other, who couldn't really be doing with Babyzoid's brand of tomboyish horseplay due to a nasty bout of teething, bless. I also got to catch up with their mum who has been my good friend since we bonded by the incubators! Yes, a good day was had by one and all and it really did help lift my spirits somewhat. Perhaps that's what I need - a few good distractions (sewing again tomorrow, hooray!), the company of friends, and the good stuff (yes, Citalopram - that would be you!)

Then of course I have the couselling session on Wednesday which perhaps might set me on the right path. I don't hold out the hope for any instant cure, but am happy to take it one day at a time.

Happy memories of a messy pup!

I've been looking through my pictures of Babyzoid, trying to see if there are any I can use for the website that I'm building. Specifically, I've been looking for photos of her eating. There are some contenders if I can actually find my camera lead, but this one I'd already uploaded of when she had only been eating solids a short while really made me laugh:

Early signs that she would one day attack her food with relish. Still, she who doggedly chases a single grain of dropped cous cous around her bib would never let so much food escape her mouth these days!!!!

A crafty tot-free afternoon

Inspired by a post from snipsnaphappy on craft projects as therapy, I enthusiastically greeted my first proper sewing class this afternoon with mother-in-law, who is a complete guru with the old needle and thread. She bought me a little Janome machine last year and aside from being torturously put through a couple of easy projects (for anyone who isn't me), it hasn't been touched. Indeed I have frustrated MIL so much with my resistance to progress that I have become a sort of Eliza Doolittle to her Professor Higgins. Completely hopeless, to her I have become a crusade. If I can be forced into competency, so can anyone!

I will say that I am lucky that I have a cool Mum-in-law who is far from the demon stereotype. She's generous and kind, the good kind of eccentric, wears lots of bright colours, always has manicured nails, and has the patience of a saint (which she will need). So I have agreed to become her guinea pig. I am the unskilled incompetent who will one day emerge from my crysallis to win awards for my quilting prowess (or at least be able to knock up the odd cushion cover ).

Today started the transformation. Still in caterpillar mode I'm not yet allowed anywhere near the gorgeous satin and lace material I've bought for this skirt that I'm going to make.

Lovely isn't it? Mine's going to be black and netty. Eager was I to get started, but no - I have to first of all do a mock-up on a rough beige material they exotically call 'calico'. Yes, I am going to make a beige peasant skirt. MIL assures me that this is wise in case I am bigger in pattern-terms than in shop sizes. After guiltily hiding the choc chip cookie I had been about to enjoy and eyeing her suspiciously wondering if she didn't believe me when I say I'm back in my size 8s, I conceded that she probably had a point. It would be baaaad to finish it then find it too small and there's no way I'll be denying myself anymore cookies to slim into it!!! No, the skirt will be awesome if it ever actually gets made - and I'm determined that it will. I do love the time I spend with Babyzoid, but it was nice to have an afternoon away from being mummy and do something for myself. In fact I'm already looking forward to next week. It's certainly a good diversion from feeling a bit rubbish - so that's got to be good. And I'll have a new item of clothing which I won't have to justify to the other half. Hurrah!

Babyzoid's started pinching...

That's right, my lovely, albeit rascally little girl has started pinching mummy. It started a couple of weeks ago, yet Babyzoid has not pinched anyone else yet in spite of the fact that she's been around her daddy, half-brother, and both sets of grandparents. Not sure entirely what I've done to be singled out but lucky me is alone in receiving this special treatment!

I think it's probably a testing the boundaries thing. I like to think that she realises I'm the main authority in this house (true) and therefore I'm the one she must test. After all, Daddy is merely my No.1 so no need to challenge him to assume command of the Family Zoid vessel(if we were Starfleet employees - there I go watching re-runs on nerd central again).

So what to do about it? Well so far I've tried being annoyed to no effect, she simply looks 'interested', like she's a sinister white coat prodding a labrat who's back she has sewn an ear onto (sorry for that disturbing analogy). I've tried being mock-upset, but she doesn't seem to care *sob*. I've also tried ignoring it in the hope she would think 'oh no reaction! Let's find a new game!' Pft, thought that one was a long shot. I can't bring myself to try the retaliatory pinch - think I'd be the one crying if I thought I'd caused her pain while she'd probably think we were play fighting and pinch back harder. No, that's not the strategy either. So I've settled on voicing calm disapproval then putting her down or walking away from her. Not sure if this is an advised strategy, but I want to let her know she's done wrong without 'rewarding' the behaviour with too strong a reaction. We'll see how it goes - I do also worry I'm punishing her with silence, but then I guess the trick is not to ignore her for too long. I hope - I really have no idea what I'm doing!!!

She's too young too have issues with me (unless she remembers me starving her in the womb, that is) so I'm hopeful we can get her out of it. Motherhood... you achieve one victory (no more middle-of the night dummy tossing! Woo hoo!) then another challenge presents itself. I'm rolling my eyes and contempleting diving into a bottle of gin but have to say, I love it really!!!

Oh no, Dad's cooking again!

I mentioned a couple of posts back that I had been prescribed anti-depressants - cytalopram, to be precise. Well the good news is that I have felt a bit more..... level. Not so up and down. Bad thing is that I have been barely able to keep a thought in my head and that my teaching this week has been punctuated by 'what was I just saying?' and just stopping dead in the middle of something and not even being able to explain that I couldn't remember what I was talking about. I would say that my teaching hasn't recovered yet after coming back from maternity, but this week I went down to a whole new level. Eek. I hope to redeem myself next week!

And the sleeping... I just cannot keep my eyes open once little one is resting - and sometimes when she isn't. Hopefully I'll be more with it tomorrow seeing as daddy won't be on hand to help out.

So yes, I've been a bit rubbish this week. It's been a few days since my last post (the mammoth birth trauma took it out of me a little!) and Daddy kindly looked after Babyzoid while Mummy got some shut eye. Unfortunately for baby, this meant Daddy was on chef duty. He won't mind me telling one and all that he's no Heston Blumenthal, he's not exactly Jamie Oliver either. Hell, he's not even Anthony Worral-Thompson (bless his little ginger beard). Still, our little trooper is not one to complain. Apparently she was rather enthusiastic towards the plain unflavoured cous cous with chopped up hotdogs in it (no sauce). She was also perfectly happy to have Weetabix for lunch as well as breakfast. Like I say, aside from banana's I've never found anything our little gannet wouldn't eat - and she's tried all manner of weird and wonderful combinations. But even she balked at being presented with plain cous cous with chopped up orange segments. Yep, think there was unmistakable relief that mummy was back on food duty today!

My birth trauma story

This post is in response to a request for birth trauma stories by ghostwritermummy on her Facebook group after reliving her own trauma through an excellent post she re-posted on her own blog. I've thought many times about my own experience and I still have regular flashbacks of it. This is a LONG post which explains why I'm suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder now that the whirlwind of that first wonderful year has died down.

Thankyou for reading.

It’s been almost 16 months since the birth of my daughter and it’s only in the last few months that the trauma has really hit. The first year after the birth was very hectic what with 11 weeks in SCBU and then all the medical appointments and weekly health visitor visits for what seemed like forever.

It started when it dawned on me that I hadn’t felt baby move for over 24 hours. At this point I was officially 26 weeks and 5 days, but as I’d been trying to conceive for well over a year I knew my conception date and that I was actually 25 weeks and 5 days – baby was just growing well. She had grown well in spite of me suffering a horrendous ‘morning sickness’ condition called Hyperemesis Gravidarum which left me skeletal and saw me drop down to from 8 ½ to 7 ½ stone. This hit in week 6 but mercifully left me in about week 15. I was hospitalised for drip-treatment 3 times, upon which my veins kept collapsing as I was severely dehydrated and malnourished. As soon as I was JUST hydrated, they’d pack me off again – the start of my bad treatment. They weren’t unkind – I guess they just needed the beds. The rest of my pregnancy was a bit better, but I was constantly ill for one reason or another. But I was grateful the hyperemesis had worn off as that had been the most traumatic experience of my life. It was however soon to pale in comparison to what was to follow.

I couldn’t feel baby move. I looked for reassurance from my partner. I told him how the Braxton hicks had suddenly gone away and I just felt heavy in my uterus. I was worried my baby might be dying from delayed effects of my having ‘starved’ it earlier on.
The new school year had started the day before and people said how pale I looked. I said I was fine. I woke up on the morning of what would be my first actual teaching day. My uterus felt uncomfortably heavy, like a watermelon had lodged there. Every now and then I felt a pushing sensation. I phoned my Mum and she went quiet and told me it sounded like labour pains and that I’d better call NHS Direct. I thought “don’t be daft – I’m 27 weeks gone today!”, but I felt more and more ill. A colleague commented that I looked grey. I taught my first lesson, which turned out to be my last. The pushing sensation was every 5 minutes or so, but I finished the lesson. I then went and phoned NHS Direct who told me to get to hospital to rule out premature labour. Again I though, don’t be stupid. But I still hadn’t felt baby move. And I was in pain. So I drove myself, yes, drove myself the 7 miles or so to my partner’s workplace as hospital was a good 45 minute away. I was going to do the drive but he insisted!

I got seen pretty quickly. I was examined, and I knew something was wrong when the doctor and nurse turned to each other and gave each other ‘a look’. They came back and told me I was 1cm dilated and therefore in labour. I told them I couldn’t be, I was only 27 weeks pregnant officially. They admitted me and told me I’d get two steroid jabs 12 hours apart ‘just in case’ to develop the baby’s lungs and that if I was lucky I wouldn’t give birth for 3 weeks or so. 3 WEEKS!!!!! I don’t leave work for another 7!!!!

So I was admitted and eventually given my own room. My partner stayed with me as I was hooked up to a baby monitor and prodded around every once in a while. Baby was doing well, but I still couldn’t feel her. She was obviously well engaged! I felt like her head must be as big as a grapefruit, a bloody BIG grapefruit.

The day staff were lovely, it was when the shift change happened that the problems started. I seemed to become low priority and the last doctor I had seen told me I hadn’t progressed beyond 1cm. So why were the contractions happening every minute or two now and lasting for longer? God they were getting painful. How could I not be going to give birth when they’re getting closer and closer? I was given a little gas and air, but got this taken off me after a while because if I wasn’t going to give birth it would be bad for the baby, they said. The pain was getting bad but I was coping. It was late and the midwife sent my partner home as I ‘obviously wasn’t going to give birth tonight’. I was alone and scared. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t even get vaguely comfy. They told me to take a bath. I did, I was contracting every 30 seconds or so in the bath and for about 2 minutes at a time. Still the midwife decided I was not in proper labour.

Sometime between 2-3am I was at a new level of agony. I could sometimes hear animalistic screams coming from other rooms. It was not helping. I felt like screaming too – instead I just groaned and cried. I got onto the floor onto all fours and tried to practice what I thought might be the right breathing – cause no one had ever told me what to do. I knew the only way I might get relief would be to push. Eventually, after being terrified like this for another hour or so I got the midwife. I begged for some pain relief and told her about my constant contractions. She told me that the doctor had said I wasn’t far gone and that I was obviously not going to give birth any time soon or I'd "be making a lot more noise!”. She brought me a cup of tea. I was terrified and still in agony. But she knew what she was talking about, right? Another couple of hours...No, sod this. It’s somewhere past 5am and I can’t take it anymore. I get the midwife – oh great, still HER. She makes disapproving sounds and comments again but this time I am insistent. I AM IN ABSOLUTE AGONY AND I AM IN ONE LONG CONTRACTION!!!!!!! Please give me gas and air! No.

Well, at least she gets the doctor. 10 minutes later he arrives. I’m 8 cm dilated which is more than enough and I need to push now. Does the midwife look sheepish or am I imagining it? I ask oh so politely if I might now have some gas and air. I am allowed it! I say “I don’t suppose it’s not too late for an epidural is it? “ The nurse and midwife laugh apologetically. There is also no time for the second steroid jab. My partner is called and he does the 25 minute journey in 12 minutes. He gets in the door and I’m trying to focus on what the doctor is telling me. He is saying that there will be lots of people in the room – about 10. And there will be a huge machine called a ventilator. I drift out of focus and take more gas until he says something about putting my baby in a carrier bag to keep her warm. Sorry, you're going to do what?

They have to break my waters. 4 times. I have a LOT of water. It gushes out and then it starts. I push for an eternity – about 20 minutes-worth. It’s hard work and I think I can’t do it, I say I can’t do it. But I can. My partner tells me I can. Everybody tells me I can. I swear a little, but I’m also making the odd joke. Typical. Baby comes out. I try and see her – they hold her aloft for a split second before whipping her onto the ventilator in that plastic bag they talked about. Is that what was causing so much pain? Head the size of a grapefruit? More like the size of a strawberry. Oh my god she’s so TINY. I’ve never seen anyone so small. She’s feisty though, she’s not still or quiet. Thanks god.

I apologise for swearing and ask if I pooped. I didn’t. I am relieved! But they are struggling to get the tubes down my baby’s throat. The paediatric registrar is panicking. I’d be panicking too but they’re telling me I need to get the placenta out. God I didn’t even realise that happened. They’re saying they can pull it out with the chord, but my chord snaps. Twice. I am told I will have to give birth to the placenta. It is about as big as my baby. I want to cry. It takes another eternity. I can’t remember at what point this happened but my baby was rushed off downstairs to Special Care, and that’s the last I see of her for about six hours or so. I am given toast and tea (midwife and her bloody tea). I eat and drink but it all comes up again. I flashback to my Hyperemesis days but I have much more to worry about now. I don't even get angry about the midwife who put me and my very premature baby at risk. Not until later.

I discharge myself after 4 hours so that I can get in to see my baby as soon as they will let me. Not quite grasping the gravity of the situation I ask the nurses on reception when they think I’ll take my baby home. I shrink as they tell me to aim for due date (13 weeks) though it could be longer. A very traumatic start to what would be a rollercoaster 11 weeks of life as parents to a baby in special care – the first four of which she will be in a hospital more than an hour’s drive away. The first time I see my baby properly she is all battered and bruised, her face distorted by the huge tube she has her mouth clamped around. But still I love her. It's instant. I get to put my finger in her tiny little hand and she grasps it. We all have a go, my partner, my parents and sister who have on a second's notice made the 2 hour journey. We all get to hold her precious little hand that is no bigger than my thumbnail. But as my partner points out, she holds my hand for longer.

Zombie-zoid and the little blue pills

I am 24 hours into my second attempt at anti-depressants to get me on an even keel for the counselling that starts in a couple of weeks time. I'm a bit disappointed by these pills. They're not blue or pretty baby pink, nor are they the iconic yellow-green capsule that lots of flu-meds now resemble. No, they are tiny boring white pip-like things that can't possibly do much given their size and that fact that I only take one a day. Well, except make me incredibly drowsy, and perhaps a little nauseous too. And render me unable to keep a thought in my head so that I end up ruminating on the aesthetics of my happy pills. This bodes well for work tomorrow...

Ah work..... the joy. I'm trying to stay in denial - and actually the zombie-like state I'm in at the moment is taking the edge off the feeling of impending doom. It hasn't stopped me surfing for job opportunities since little one went down for her nap. Nothing doing though unsurprisingly, and I'm wondering whether the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is indeed dreading what tomorrow will bring or the meds. Probably a bit of both.

I've struggled with my job for a long time to be honest, but now I'm suffering PTSD/PND and god knows what else, it's becoming impossible. Before I fell pregnant I would fantasise about crashing my car on the motorway so that I didn't have to go in. Before I was able to drive the fantasy would be that I'd fall under the wheels of the train that was coming to take me to the nasty place. Now I can't fantasise in such a way because then I'll imagine my daughter growing up without the mummy who loves her so very much and then I'll cry. I feel trapped and that makes me hate teaching even more. Every now and then I'll give it a renewed effort and try to think positively, but it never lasts. I need to get out and I need to get out soon. For real this time.

See, my depression is two-pronged. If I can deal with the job thing, then I can deal with the other source - the pregnancy/birth trauma. I can then start to feel a little like the person I used to be before I started teaching and before I got pregnant. I don't dislike myself now, except when I get down or angry for no reason. Then I do. I'm like a volcano at the moment, constantly bubbling under the surface, prone to frequent unpredictable eruptions. It's making me less patient with Babyzoid and that's not good. I don't like the zombiefied feeling, but it's preferable to the feelings of helplessness and anger so I'm going to treat it like a 'via point' as my satnav puts it. Just a pitstop on the way to goodmentalhealthsville.

I'm not good at talking about my feelings in the flesh, I tend to get flippant and start making humorous quips (fancy). My partner, bless him, is being ever so supportive but for once it would be nice to be able to speak to someone who has been through it. I felt that way when I suffered my Hyperemis too, but everytime I had a conversation with someone who was or had ever been pregnant it was always "Ohhh I never had morning sickness". Seriously, 50-90% of women apparently suffer it at some level so of all the hundreds of mums I've known, why have I never met any of them? Oh except for 'Oh yeah, know what you mean. Felt a bit yucky when I smelt coffee'. Oh yes, you kow exactly what I mean then! And 50-90%? Why the huge margin of error? Was it a case of not being bothered to finish the research because nobody ever cares about women-only afflictions unless there's money to be made?

Oh dear, that was a bit of suspect-rage there. That means the pills haven't taken full effect yet. I'm in limbo! Zombified in body, but not yet in mind. Let's hope they start to work a little better before tomorrow when I'd like to be in full don't give a damn mode!

Babyzoid versus Mummy: The Battle for power and world domination!

I'm used to Babyzoid being ahead of the pack. When she was the size of a small rodent in my belly I would be black and blue from the inside as if I was host to a staffordshire bull terrier with an involuntary limb disorder.

"She shouldn't be kicking quite so much at this point!" my mother would say, with a disbelieving shake of the head.

"Well perhaps she shouldn't but she BLOODY WELL IS!!!" I'd hiss as I took my twentieth karate-kick double-punch combo of the hour.

Then there was the 'I'm bored of it in here, Mummy. Let's see what's out there!' at 27 weeks to the day.

She was also itching to start eating our food at 4 months, though we managed to hold off til 5. Well, we did give in once, for which we all paid with a night of baby gut-rot and the squits. Pleasant.

Yes, milestones being kicked over left, right and centre. Having said that she's not exceeded any of the really useful milestones like walking, talking or feeding herself, but I have to confess I love her rascally tenacity. The devil-may care 'sod the consequences' attitude she has adopted so far in her short life has admittedly been entertaining and there's never a dull moment.

But starting with the terrible two's when she's not quite 16 months? Nooooooo!!!!!! She's hard enough work as it is with her commando crawling at high-speed through our legs to get to the kitchen. I seeee danger! I waaant the danger! LET ME AT THE DAAAAAANGER!!!!

And the constant clambering onto furniture then nosediving off again. We have actually spotted a signal for when this is about to occur - or her Aunty did when she was last over (Thank you!). She will violently fling her dummy then launch herself after it, like she's a space cadet launching a probe to find a suitable path through the alien landscape. It was certainly a useful clue to pick up on yesterday when she launched her dummy out of the bath a split second before trying to clamber over the side after it. Yikes! Juuuuust managed to grab her little bottom before she could go headfirst. Crash landing avoided, crisis averted! Phew.

So I digress. These 'terrible two's'. She seems to have decided somewhere in that little pea-brain of hers that,

"Mummy is no longer the boss of me! Let's see what she does when I do x,y and z!"

Now I know that all kids throw food out of their high chair, though it has to be said that Babyzoid is the only one at nursery who is not allowed to have her food on her tray else it all gets flung at the nearest wall/nursery assistant. But it's not the flinging that is my issue, it's the way she does it. She fixes me in an unwavering stare for a few seconds, holds the food aloft, pauses, gives me what can only be described as an amused sneer, then opens her hand in a really exaggerated action dropping the food - almost as if she's saying,

"Screw you, Mum! What you gonna do bout that, huh? huh?"

It's the look of defiance. I'm not even exaggerating, everyone has noticed it. Of course it doesn't help with trying to discourage when her grandparents, brother and daddy are all killing themselves laughing at her naughtiness. And it's not just with food. If I tell her not to put a wax crayon in her mouth, or not to pull all the fake coals out of the dodgy 80s fireplace, she does the same thing. Stare, amused sneer, act of defiance. Have to say, after a LONG two hours of Babyzoid committing every naughty act under the sun, I'm so relieved she has finally gone down for a morning nap. Time for me to chug back a Diet Coke or 5, and get ready for the next round of Babyzoid versus Mummy - the battle for power and world domination! Baby seems to be winning most of the battles at the moment, but the war lasts approximately 19 years, right? Good. Plenty of time.

Repeat mantra: "Baby will NOT be the boss of me. Baby will NOT be the boss of me. Baby will NOT be the boss of me. Baby will NOT....." (((ad infinitum)))

Cake a Difference 2011 - I love a good pun, me...

Bliss, the charity for babies born too soon, too small and too sick are asking people to bake cupcakes as a fundraising activity. The dates for all this cakey goodness are 14th-20th February, 2011 inclusive, and anyone can get involved by simply downloading a fundraising pack from Cake a Difference 2011 and well, baking lots of scrummy delicious cupcakes. It is worth pointing out though that idea is to sell them and donate the proceeds to Bliss and not eat them all yourself, tempting though that may be!!!

I have downloaded my pack and shall be practising ahead of the event so that my cakes are fit for human (and not just canine) consumption. Ok, enough of the self-deprecation - I actually make a damned fine cupcake already :D

Do look out for Cake a Difference events near you. With the government cuts affecting maternity services and neo-natal units around the country, it's even more important that parents of poorly babies can access the support they need at such a traumatic time.

Who wants to be a feminist anyway?

Firstly, happy new year to one and all!

You know, I have this picture in my head of everything I feel I should be: A highly successful career woman; a social animal with tons of real friends (not merely FaceBook ones); a Sex and the City style inner circle; a variety of 'interesting hobbies' that aren't just fabrications on a CV; and finally, at the bottom of the list, a husband and family who adore me.

Now I'm happily 'domesticated', I have to ask myself, did I ever really want to be that high-powered have-it-all feminist? Women of my generation are apparently supposed to strive for this form of 'equality' and I kind of did - for a while. I mean, I got my degree. Before I settled on teaching I even went to Law School 'til I realised what a bore learning reams and reams of statute and case law was. So I quit. It took me 10 months of a year-long course to make that decision, and why? I'm ashamed to say it was purely for the status. It sounds good when you say you're a lawyer. I would often daydream about a time when I could run into some unsuitable past boyfriend and impress the hell out of him before turning on my Jimmy Choo, muttering 'loser' as I went - meanie that I am. And I could wear exquisitely tailored mini-skirts just like Ally McBeal did. I wouldn't be as self-absorbed and mental, but I'd be just as groomed. And I'd also no doubt meet a handsome fellow lawyer and we'd be fabulously wealthy together and travel the world. Yeah, perhaps I wasn't built for old-school feminism. The Germaine Greer brigade would have disapproved and pronounced me an insult to women. But who aside from the most churlish non-makeup wearing man hater would begrudge a well earned girly perk or two, right?

Blah. It has actually taken until the grand old age of 33 to come to the realisation that I. Just. Want. To. Be. Happy.

How very cliché of me to experience this epiphany through motherhood. Isn't that where all the hopes and aspirations of career women go to die? Once that stick turns blue that's it. We can do nothing but bide our time until our child goes to school so that we can work at getting back to where we were and beyond. Well you know what? Balls to that! It's just not me. We all have dreams and aspirations but perhaps for most of us they do indeed change once we gaze upon those adorable little bundles of cuddliness. And there's nothing wrong with that. I love being a Mum, and I want to spend as much time with little one as I can in these precious early years.

Thinking about what I want out of the new year has made me focus on what will improve quality of life for our little family. And what will enable me to have a good sense of self worth so that I can be completely fulfilled? What can I do so that I can still bring the money in, but not burn out in the process? Well, I have a plan!!! It's absolutely no use complaining that you want change. You have to make it happen. So I'm going to.

In spite of my seemingly cocking a snook at feminism, I still class myself as one. I'm not sure the term is even fashionable anymore, but I don't think there is anything more empowering than refusing to follow the path expected of you if it's not going to make you happy. In these times of highly pressured fast-paced living a simple family life rich in quality time is now often seen as the ideal, instead of the oppression it once seemed. Indeed that's no doubt why many seek to escape the rat-race and move out to the country. Daytime TV programs are full of those. Having it all for those who do want a family means being able to enjoy your kids as well as your job. It's taken me a while, but I'm definitely a convert to the work to live and not live to work philosophy.