Old MacDonald had a Narwhal

There's only so many rounds of Old MacDonald Had a Farm (our current bathtime favourite) that you can sing before you start getting silly. In our case, we take turns to choose the animal and while I dutifully slogged through horses, chickens, sheep etc when it came to my husband's turn he got mischievous. "Old MacDonald had a..." we sang in unison and I looked at him for his choice. "Narwhal" he sang happily. "Okay," I said. "With a...?" We improvised with whale-like sounds. Since then we've had jellyfish (flobber flobber), New Age Hippies (Chakra Chakra) and WWOOFers (Willing Workers On Organic Farms - with a Woof Woof, obviously).

A fairly cutey-pie book called I'm a Baby, You're a Baby in which a baby meets a whole range of baby animals (sample text: I'm a baby, you're a baby. We are baby ducks. Ducklings!) has now been transformed into a surreal litany with bouncing on knees incorporated. I'm a baby, you're a baby. We are baby sausages. Chipolatas! and the even odder I'm a baby, you're a baby, we are baby chainsaws. Pocketknives! It keeps the neural pathways on their toes.

I have a friend who invented a cheese song for her baby made up of a pretty catchy tune listing every possible kind of cheese and even extending out into other dairy products like yoghurt. I think it had 30-odd verses...

And yet, any nursery rhyme learned as a child must stay exactly as remembered. I'm still reeling from a CD of songs which confidently trills, "This is the way the ladies ride: nim nim nim, nim nim nim."

Nim nim nim? It's trippitree-tree, woman, what's wrong with you?

Inductions

Further to my post about Caesareans (picked up by BBC Radio Lancashire... as you do!), I feel bound to make a comment about inductions. A friend has just given birth (big welcome to her baby) after 4 days of induction - by c-section. She also had delays getting into the labour room because they were very busy. This is identical to what happened to me, a cousin, another friend as well as woman I read about in the news the other day. There are probably a lot more out there with a similar experience.

Many people simply have a tendency to give birth late - the top 'risks' for a late birth are: first baby, boys and late babies running in the family. These factors don't seem to be given much consideration - e.g. should there not be, perhaps, a + 2 days margin given for each factor? My grandmother was born a month late, my mother 3 weeks. I was born over 2 weeks late, as was my son (who probably would have easily made it to 3 weeks judging how were getting on before the induction). Not to mention siblings, cousins etc. That's just how the babies are in our family, and they're all perfectly healthy.

My local hospital has a 12 day allowance after 40 weeks. But other hospitals have 10, 14, all sorts of numbers, so it's not like there's a 'correct' number. Add to this that while 40 weeks is the official due date in the UK, in France it is 41 weeks. The World Health Organisation says 'normal' human gestation is between 37 and 42 weeks. So the 12 days at my local hospital is not even allowing pregnancies to get through their 'normal' gestation period, let alone allowing for possible valid reasons for running beyond that time. I also notice hospitals like to start inductions early in the week (convenient for staffing so you don't hit the weekend?) so part of it is just about convenience rather than the lifesaving issue they make it out to be - this sort of backfires when the induction takes so long - my son was born on a Saturday having gone in on the Tuesday.

There is also an effect called the 'cascade' of intervention, which midwives are well aware of. Essentially, if you are induced, you are more likely to end up needing more and more intervention, quite possibly culminating in a Caesarean. E.g. they start induction with drugs, this means the contractions come on faster and harder than you might be ready for, so you need more pain relief, which might inhibit your ability to push, etc. In my case, the days of failed inductions meant that I was knackered before we even 'started' labour proper and because there was a delay getting into the labour ward (too busy) I ended up on antibiotics - which meant lack of mobility because I was attached to drips. None of this helps to lead to a natural birth.

As I've already said, I'm all in favour of elective Caesareans because I think the choice should be there. But I'd also be in favour of NICE taking another look at their guidelines regarding inductions. After all, in terms of stress to the woman and cost to the NHS I can't believe failed inductions win out over, say, monitoring (in a non-pressurised manner) a woman every two days once she is overdue and as a result letting her go further down the path towards a possible natural birth. Something to think about for the next revision?

Elective Caesarean? Yes, please.

Today on the news they are talking about revised NICE guidelines which will allow women to 'choose' a Caesarean birth. There's some debate around this, of course, with some people against the proposal, saying that women only choose one because of fear  of birth (rather than experience of it) or because, having had one bad birth experience they are fearful it will happen again.

I had an unplanned (but not emergency) Caesarean and I can say without hesitation that next time I have a baby (and I would like a second child one day) I will be having an elective Caesarean.

Before having one myself, on hearing of a friend who'd had one I would feel very sorry for them, thinking something awful must have happened to prompt the surgery. Having had one, I no longer feel that way. I appreciate that some people's experience of one might not be as good as mine, but this is my experience.

My baby was very very late (this runs in the family, something the NHS does not take into account) and there was massive pressure to have an induction. Imagine being overdue and a succession of medical bods looking you firmly in the eye and mentioning the word 'stillbirth', repeatedly and with ever-increasing frequency. I defy anyone to hold out for very long. I gave in and was rushed in for induction the very day that I agreed to it.

Five days later my son was born. The induction drugs started the contractions, then would die away. Dose after dose had the same effect - that is to say no effect at all. My cervix refused to dilate. Finally, after 3 days, I had got to 3 centimetres and was told that they would break my waters the next morning. They broke on their own that evening but I was told I could not go to the labour ward because there was a queue. Meanwhile, the countdown clock was ticking - after 18 hours of broken waters you have to go onto antibiotics. Because of induction and the antibiotics, by the time we actually hit the labour ward I had to be fully monitored, which means a great lack of mobility (you're hooked up to a number of drips and heart monitors). Looking back at my notes I see I was in 'labour' for 15 hours (that's after the four days of being induced with contractions coming and going which apparently doesn't count at all) and then started pushing. I got to fully dilated and my second stage (pushing) was marked down as 4 hours. I lost all sense of time so I can only see this by my notes. During all of this I was told my baby was very nearly out, very well placed, only about a finger's length away from being born.

Suddenly, though, he changed position and almost retreated back to his starting point. When they told me this I asked if they couldn't use ventouse or forceps, but he was too far away. That's when I heard the word Caesarean. I said yes almost immediately. I was exhausted, we seemed to be back at square one and apparently the baby was getting 'distressed' (though he can't have been that distressed as his Apgar scores were very high). All that time I was only on gas and air (and my husband pressing my back, which was extraordinarily efficient at removing the pain, amazing.).

The last few moments in the darkened labour room are a blur. I remember signing my permission (though I could barely see the page between contractions) and someone reading out the risks, which I nodded to. I didn't care by that point, certainly didn't take any of them in. I'm sorry for my husband, who must have heard a terrifying list of risks recited in front of him. I remember my nightie being taken off as they tried to remove it so they could put me in a hospital gown and me saying 'it doesn't matter' as I heard it rip. I remember them almost prising the gas and air out of my hands so that they could wheel me away.

From the moment we arrived in the surgery everything got better. There was a big team of relaxed people who seemed to find the whole process almost dull, they were so laid back. There was light and the radio was on. The pain disappeared as they gave me an epidural and my midwife (exhausted, bless her, after hours and hours awake but still kind and following me into surgery) said 'You're smiling again!' The screens went up and just as I was wondering if they'd started yet (I never felt anything, not even the 'rummaging' sensation that some people feel) they held up a furious, screaming baby next to my head and said 'a lovely baby boy'.

They took my husband into the room with the baby, let him 'cut' the cord for a second time, washed and dressed the baby, then took photos of my husband, in his scrubs and a huge smile, holding his son. Then he came back and sat by my head while they stitched me up so I could see our baby. Once in the recovery room the staff made sure I had skin to skin contact with him and later on Vivienne (Life! as my mother pointed out) came round and ensured he learnt to breastfeed.

I had painkillers for 7 days and then stopped them, tentatively. No pain. A tenderness, or a sort of 'awareness' of the area, but nothing more. The stitches were taken out at home and again did not hurt. Well before 6 weeks my scar was neat and healing well. I felt well.

I know two mothers who had supposedly 'natural' births who recovered a lot slower than I did and both were very much put off any future children.

Because it was unplanned I hadn't even read up on the operation. So here's my advice to anyone pregnant:

• Read up on it so you know your stuff if it happens. It won't jinx you, I promise.
• Don't be scared of the Caesarean if it happens. You're in safe hands. Know that there is a big team of people so don't panic when you see them all. It's standard.
• Buy a multipack of BIG pants (seriously, 3 sizes too big and full Bridget Jones) from M&S. They're cheap and you can bin them afterwards if you don't need them. They will be much more comfy over your scar at first. 
• Buy this book or at least have it ready to order from Amazon. Most of the (very good) exercises in it are valid even if you had a vaginal birth, so it's not wasted. Caesarean Recovery, Chrissie Gallagher-Mundy.

  
  

My experience leading up to the Caesarean was a bit frightening (all those 'stillbirth' comments), excruciatingly slow, exhausting and very invasive - the thing I hated most in the whole process was the internal examinations to check on the (lack of) progress, over and over again, painful and somewhat humiliating. The Caesarean, by contrast, felt safe, quick, painless and professional.

For the future, the idea that I could choose a date, arrange childcare for my first child, make sure I was rested and relaxed, take the right items to the hospital, walk in, say hello to the team and lie down, before being given my baby soon afterwards, is exactly what I would want next time. My body, my choice.

And hey, apparently I can wear a bikini now! Yay! I never wore one before, but still...

Is it cold in here... or hot?

I don't count sheep, I count togs. It ruins any chance of sleep.

Of all the aspects of looking after a baby, the temperature issue has mystified and worried me the most so far. There are dire warnings of overheating leading to cot death. However the 'ideal' temperature for a baby, apparently, is 18 degrees C. Nobody I know keeps their house at that temperature. Mine is usually about 21 and in the summer was easily 24. So right from the word go you're overheating the baby. There are guidelines about how many items of bedding to put on the baby depending on the temperature of the room, but these do not tell you how many clothes the baby should be wearing to start with.

I read somewhere that the ideal is 9 togs in total (clothes included). The list supplied showed the rating for nappies, vests, sleepsuits etc and I thought I'd found the holy grail. Add them all up, I thought, and I'll have got it right at last! Sadly the list went on to add that the 9 togs was, of course, for a room set at 18 C. It didn't explain how many togs one should subtract for every degree above 18.

Certain, from my pregnancy reading, that I should keep the baby cool, my first three nights in hospital after he was born I dutifully checked the thermometer of the room (24 degrees! TOO HOT! said my guide) and just put a light covering on him. A midwife, standing over me in the middle of the night, sternly warned me that he was too cold and made me add a blanket. The next night she made me add a hat (NEVER LET THEM WEAR A HAT INDOORS! said my guide). My first night at home I woke and touched him to find his face cool (I've since discovered this is normal) and wept, thinking I was a terrible mother, freezing my poor baby to death.

It's no good going on how I feel in the night. I have a duvet of 12 togs year-round, but then I'm big enough to put my feet out or arms out when it's too hot and retract them when it's too cold. The baby does not do this.

So when I wake in the night to feed him I try to go back to sleep quickly but often lie there counting togs. 2 for the nappy, 2 for the vest, 4 for the sleepsuit. Does the swaddle count as a sheet (0.5) or a double sheet (1)? Then the blanket which is a 2. And what was the temperature in the room again? Would one extra C = minus 1 tog?

Don't count togs. You won't get any sleep.

The Woman behind the Mum

A well-known internet site for mothers is currently running a photo competition called The Woman Behind the Mum. The idea is you send in a photo of you being the woman you are, not only a mum. I thought this was a nice idea. It's restricting to only be a 'mum', as though everything else that makes you yourself has suddenly vanished, and it seems to happen all too easily. My mother has a story about someone she didn't know coming up to her from my nursery school and saying, 'Ah, you must be Melissa's mum'. My mother felt cross for a moment, thinking 'No, I'm me!'

So I went and read up about the competition, thinking it was an interesting topic. And got pretty annoyed. They suggested some possible photos, which mostly seemed to consist of 'your new haircut or manicure'.

So: this is me, the Woman behind the Mum.

I was born in London, moved to Rome with my mother when I was 3 months old and lived there till I was nearly four, then grew up on a small, self-sufficiency type farm in Italy, having a very unconventional childhood full of animals, mad New Age types as well as practical hands-on people going 'back to the land', never went to school, found my first exams terrifying, then came to England for university because it felt odd to be English yet never have lived here. I love living here, it feels like my place. I have a massive, extended, noisy loving family (think My Big Fat Greek Wedding - you're not far off and it's great) and friends whom I cherish. My husband is madly into trains and the most wonderful person who makes me very happy and still, much to his credit, tells me I have a fine ass when I walk by. I love cinema (thank you to all the cinemas who do baby-friendly screening, it makes me feel like a proper living person again), theatre (couldn't you do the same? Please?) and books (huge, huge thanks to my bookclub people who trekked out to my house so I wouldn't miss the first session after the baby came along). I love to write. I read stupidly fast and if I could have a gigantic library of my own it would be heaven. I hate the heat (I am always, always in the shade if it's a sunny day) and hate the cold (my duvet is 12 tog, all year round and my stepfather used to say I must have ice in my pockets because my hands were so cold). This is why I like England's climate, I think. I love to help businesses grow and develop (my job) and I loved all my studies but not sure I'd like to do anymore. I love to cook (and eat, sigh!), to travel (although I don't do 'roughing it'). I need to have a house I love, and this one took an awful lot of work but it feels like a happy home now even though there's all sorts of bits that still need doing. I love to dance and sing. I'm very untidy (thank God for my cleaner and the dishwasher), I'm awful without sleep (was a baby really a good idea?), hate most exercise and especially walks with no purpose except to walk (why?!). I expect there are other things that make me who I am, but I don't have all day.

My favourite description of me was by my father, who said 'I've never seen anyone get so much done whilst giving the impression of relaxing on the sofa.' I love that.

I've only had a manicure once, when living in Brixton with  three months off work to write my Masters dissertation. Envious of the talons of the local girls, I ventured into a nail salon and got a set of false nails put on, a good inch long, with a pale gold background and tiny Japanese cherry blossoms painted on top. They were a work of art - and lasted three days before I returned and begged to have them removed, much to the beautician's surprise. "What's wrong with them?" she asked, to which I replied "I can't do anything in them!" I couldn't type, I felt clumsy, I picked things up as if I was wearing mittens. They came off, but before they did I asked my husband to take a photo of them in all their glory.

I suppose I could send that in to the competition. 

Tummy time.... or is that TV time?

Apparently in order to be a Good Mother I really should give my baby 'tummy time' on a daily basis. This is where they lie on their tummies, say on a mat on the floor, and this encourages them to hold up their head, thus developing good neck/back muscles. To encourage them you lie down beside them so they can see your face or hold up rattles etc for them to look at if they lift up their heads.

And obviously letting my baby watch TV would make me a Bad Mother.

So: we dutifully prepared a nice soft mat, popped our baby down on the mat and dangled toys, made faces etc. He lay there, whimpering sadly to himself, face flat to the floor. We persevered, day after day, always rescuing him after a short while as he seemed so unhappy. We worried about the lack of muscles - surely tummy time was sorely needed if all the experts said so?

Meanwhile, any time he caught a glimpse of the telly being on he turned his head towards it while we, of course, hastily turned it off or tried to find other things for him to look at. To a baby, bright lights and flickering colours and movement = fascinating. So a telly, of course, is great fun to them.

Then one of the women in my NCT group suggested combining it. Her baby had seen the 'Baby TV' channel and her tummy time had improved no end.

I tried it out. Instant success. He lifted his head and shoulders fully off the bed, stared at Masterchef - The Professionals and stayed, steadily upright, as whole minutes went by. He smiled at the trembling contestants and laughed at Michel Roux Junior's horrified expressions as they went about ruining classic French dishes.

So: there you have it. Tummy time is not the only exercise to build those muscles as they've obviously been building up some other way, and TV- well, it's not that bad for your baby.

Meanwhile I hope my baby's been picking up some Michelin star rated cooking tips....

Beautiful Babe

I always was a soap and water sort of girl. I just about manage to do some exfoliating, slap on some moisturiser, eyeliner and mascara and that's about me done. Occasionally I get carried away and rush out to buy all sorts of makeup but it never really gets used. I just can't be faffed with it and so I stick more and more to what I know works for me. But having a baby has improved my beauty regime, if you could ever have called it that, quite a lot. This is because babies have many interesting beauty side-effects:

• They stay out of the sun, you stay out of the sun. Very anti-aging.
• They have a daily warm bath and massage with olive oil. I think I should adopt this for myself. At any rate the olive oil from the massage is helping my hands stay soft.
• Sudocrem does wonders for spots.
• Lansinoh nipple cream is the best lip balm ever. I am still going to be buyng this when my children at at university.
• All the beauty experts say 'drink lots of water', something I always failed to do until breastfeeding. Now I am so thirsty I drink easily two litres a day and have water bottles all over the house. A good habit to keep up.
• Babywipes remove makeup beautifully.
• Carrying an ever-growing baby really helps your muscles build up - our friends have a 3 year old whom they pick up with seeming ease while to us (accustomed to less than six kilos of small baby) he felt very heavy indeed!

So I reckon I'm going to end up with lovely soft, fully-hydrated, pimple-free skin on face and hands, no age spots from the sun, plump silky lips, no smudges of eyeliner under my eyes in the mornings and toned arms.

Yippee!

Star of the show

In the first month or so of my baby's life he slept an astonishing amount. He was only awake and alert about three hours per day, in precise one hour blocks. As a result I felt that when he was awake he had better have my full attention - after all, if you were only awake for three hours per day and the people around you ignored you life would be pretty dull. So for those three hours he had my complete attention - games, talking, taking care of changing/washing/dressing etc. And it was fun, and we both enjoyed it, as did my husband when he was at home. During naps I did laundry, made food, tidied up, did whatever I needed to do, making sure that none of these 'boring' things intruded on 'his' time.

But now he is starting to be awake more - perhaps five or six hours in a day - again in the one hour blocks. This is the stage, I think, where parents start feeling like they are about to run out of things to do and also getting a bit bored by the rattles. After all, if you're in the habit of providing a one- or even two-person variety show - singing, dancing, funny voices, ventriloquism involving small toys - then three hours with intervals is a longish West End show. Six hours is crazy unless you've always wanted to go into showbiz and are using it as rehearsal time. I did actually once spend several hours at the house of a friend of a friend who actually seemed to be doing this for their baby, all day every day. Not sure how they did it but I neither want to nor would be able to.

So I've changed my approach. Now when he naps it is my time. I write, read, watch telly, chat to friends, and do whatever else is enjoyable for me. When he wakes up I combine caring for him and playing with him with everything else that needs to be done. Most of the time I sit him in a bouncy chair or in a pram (so I can move him around the ground floor with me) so he can be close to me. The chores include:

Singing loudly whilst hanging out the laundry. He listens to the singing without wincing (maybe I should be on the X Factor? My baby thinks I have a nice voice!) and I hold out the colours for him to look at - the dark wash is probably a bit boring, I'll admit.

Cooking - I hold out ingredients for him to smell and explain recipes as I go along. I'm hoping I have a future chef on my hands or at least a child who can cook us dinner by the time he is ten or so....

Working in the garden - bit cold now so it might have to wait till Spring, but while it was still warmish he has smelled lavender, brussel sprout plants and sweet peas, stared at branches waving above his head and been amazed by the colours of falling leaves.

And there are things that I find fun that I can share with him:

Dancing in my arms to my favourite music - this is frequently Bollywood music or very uncool pop, but there's only so much children's songs you can listen to and still stay sane...

Taking photos of the two of us together - this involves lying on the bed together and holding up a camera phone with many failed attempts along the way. The best results get texted to his father at work, so he can see what nutters we are.

Reading books - I love all books, even children's books, the best of which are just wonderful. It doesn't matter that he doesn't understand for now: he likes the pictures, I like the stories.

Even things you'd think would be dull for a baby they seem to like - he'll stare at us eating as though we were doing something astonishing, sat through my eyebrows being threaded with a fixed glare as though assessing the beautician's technique with marks out of ten and watches me tidy the nursery between bouts of thrashing his arms and legs on a mat on the floor.

I have many happy memories of playing on my own as a child while being vaguely aware of an adult somewhere nearby, doing their thing while I did mine. We chatted or sometimes what they were doing seemed more interesting so I'd wander over and join in - cooking, mending fences (we lived on a farm), polishing the floor (my mother let me and my siblings slide all over it in socks which buffed it up very nicely), making Christmas cards with potato prints, all sorts. Daily life is fascinating for children and it's how they learn real life skills. Shaking a rattle is one thing, but being able to cook...

And when it's time for a nap again the sound of the hoover is a wonderful help.

How Google Saved my Breasts...

I'm a book person. The house is full of them, I buy far too many and the only thing holding me back from buying a Kindle is that I know it will bankrupt me - I could have a new book in 60 seconds? Oh, the terrible temptation! So of course when I got pregnant (no, I'm lying, even before that I was buying pregnancy books) I got tonnes of books. How to get pregnant, baby books, all of that. So it's been a bit of a shock that all those books have not been the ones to help me out on those occasions when something odd has happened with the baby. The only solutions were online, via my bestest internet friend, Google. First up, salty milk...

Initially my son breastfed beautifully for a couple of days. Then he suddenly started turning his face away from my right breast with a look of distaste while enthusiastically drinking from the left breast. "Ah yes," said the midwives. "It's because on the left breast he can hear your heartbeat. Just try different holds, he'll get used to the other one." So, being new to this breastfeeding lark I dutifully tried many different holds and even squeezed out a little milk so that as the nipple went in the mouth it already had milk on it - this, I thought, would encourage him. He turned away with even greater disgust. Finally I turned to Google. And found... sometimes a slow-flowing breast's milk will taste salty. I got the breast pump out and tried the result. It tasted like a glass of milk with a teaspoon of salt stirred in. Vile. It took three full pumping-outs and throwing away the milk before suddenly it tasted sweet again and of course he drank from it again quite happily. That took a week to figure out, by which time my left breast was huge and my right breast was normal-sized. Thankfully, once he drank again from both the size evened out again... otherwise I would have ended up quite seriously lop-sided! I told two midwives and two health visitors about this, none of them had ever heard of it. Spread the word.

Lots of milk sounds like a nice problem to have, but it can lead to your baby getting tonnes of fore milk (sugary and a bit watery, digests very fast) and not so much hind milk (fattier, digests slower). They then demand feeding again very quickly and get more of the same. You end up feeding them very frequently, meanwhile they often have a gassy tummy and your breasts enthusiastically produce even more milk, convinced that the increased demands for feeding mean your single baby has magically been turned into triplets. And so on... This time Google offered up La Leche League, which had a great article on the problem and how to fix it. This hugely improved matters and has also helped another friend who recognised the same problem when I described what had happened to me.

Because most of us no longer live in a small community we have lost our pool of experienced mothers that we newbies might turn to for advice, to hear about the more unusual problems and the solutions we could implement. But in compensation we have gained an extraordinary global community - the forums are full of advice from mothers and organisations across the world. This community is an amazing thing to reach out to for help - without wishing to turn into a total hypochondriac who runs to the internet to see if her baby has developed Housemaid's Knee, of course.

So thank you, Google. I owe you a breast.

Birth: Fathers tell it like it really is

Mothers seem to be the ones who always tell the birth stories. But fathers have their own perspectives...


A fantastic poem written by one of the fathers in our NCT group, once all the babies had been born:


So what a week, 

3 baby girls and 5 baby guys,

Come on NCT, you know it was all lies

Thanks to Angela for making us feel calm,

Was it deliberate? I just don't know,

But at least the girls left with a big warm glow

But labor was different, so now we know,

It's not all candles, reiki and mum-bo jum-bo,

It's hell and it's horrible, 

It's long and it's slow,

It's even worse as there is nowhere to go

So to the NCT,

No it's not all "floral",

Your advice should be,

"Just have an epidural"!

To all the girls we doff our cap,

You don't even get to have a good nap,

From all the dads, you have made us so proud,

We forget the fact that you screamed so loud

But all that's done, 

A distant memory,

Now it's all about the little baby

They cry, they scream, they burp and they poo,

So beautiful though as they were made by you, 

So much love, so happy and so cool,

I am in danger of becoming a gibbering fool

So at last a toast to one and all,

An incredible time which won't be forgotten,

I am sure we are all going to spoil them rotten!

And our birth story written by my husband for friends and family when our son was born.

We went in for an induction on Tuesday and it took ages and we did not go to the labour ward until Friday at 4pm.  Before the labour ward it was like going 1st class on a long haul flight with no arrival time and without the quality service.  There was a reasonable amount of space and an entertainment system (but with no map to track where you were) and not much else.  Every so often a stewardess would come along with poor quality tea and coffee and only acknowledge one of the passengers (the one in the bed).  The other passenger had to scavenge for food and drink and was kicked out every 12 hours.  Every so often the crew would wander round (often in the middle of the night whilst the acknowledged passenger was managing to get a few hours sleep) and want to fiddle with the passengers private bits.  On the Thursday night the waters broke. Throughout Friday we could have advanced to the labour ward but there was a queue.

The labour ward was initially a welcome progression from this state of affairs but it soon appeared that our optimism was misplaced.  The midwife was a complete battle axe who had two attempts at finding a vein and fitting some tubes before giving up and finding a doctor who had a further attempt before finally locating a botched tube system. These were required as waters had broken more than 18 hours previously and therefore needed antibiotics.  The midwife the gave us "improvement targets" to reach a certain number of contractions in 10 minutes and if these targets were not reached she was going for the hormones. Luckily she went off shift at 8pm and the replacement midwife was an absolute gem who was very gentle and understanding and was the only person to read the birth plan.  Transition was about 2am (although we did lose track of time by about this point) and my job of diving in to press the back with every contraction became a bit more intense, and some positions were considerably less convenient than others.  I didn't think it was appropriate to raise any objections however, given the inconvenience Melissa was having to endure.

By about 6am our baby was still not that happy about experiencing the outside world and the pain was getting a bit much so it was decided to head for a caesarean. As Melissa was wheeled off down the corridor screaming in agony I finally managed to go to the loo (after 7 hrs of needing to).  So we were all in theatre in our scrubs and Melissa was sat on the operating table having the local anasthetic before the epidural when the labour ward coordinator rushes in and tells us to hold on as there was another emergency brewing.  The thought of the epidural by this point was the only thing Melissa was interested in and it was a bit dispiriting that the doctors vanished, anyway 10 mins later they came back and we carried on.  Shortly after we got our baby and I went off with him to be weighed and stuff before bringing him back to sit with Melissa up the "head end" whilst she was stitched back up.

Mother is now a bit sore and tired but doing fine and baby is fine and has learned what breasts are for.