I keep saying it, but it’s been hectic lately. I can’t imagine why though….
When I say hectic, it’s not like it’s insane, but just that around-the-clock nature and needing to be a regular feeding station for little OT seems to suck the day away before I’ve even realised. Oh that and having to go to bed super early like a toddler to try and deal with overnight feeds- it’s cut my day down, as I’ve always been a night owl with my work and productivity.
So I need to say sorry I haven’t been around much! I was thinking I’d be all over this stuff third time around and I’d be getting posts out like nobody’s business. Because babies only eat and sleep, right? Riiiight? Well, they kinda do, but the eating sessions can take up to an hour round these parts with all the fussing and mucking about and general boob dysfunction. Yep, it’s happened again. Third time’s a charm. But we’ve got a groove cracking now, which is much better than the cracked state of my nips early in the piece. They’re like seriously scarred.
Anyways, hopefully I’ll get back on track soon. But in the meantime, I thought I’d tell the tale of Mr. OT’s arrival. Probably more self-serving than anything else. I love me a birth story. I love them even more when it’s not me pushing out a watermelon from my nether regions. Do you like birth stories? Are you all voyeuristic like me? There’s a good chance that I’m just a total creep. I’m ok with that.
Mr. OT’s arrival was a bit like his appetite is now, a whole lot of nothing until he decides that he wants it NOW! GIVE ME ALL THE THINGS RIGHT NOOOOOOOOW! (That’s exactly what he’s saying when he’s hungry, I’m sure. In a nanny-goat bleating wail kinda way). After having Miss DP at 36 weeks, and then Miss SP at 40+1 (well, can we call it 40 weeks because she was literally like 3 hours into that +1 and that totally doesn’t count), it was anyone’s guess as to when Mr. OT was going to arrive. For each of my cherubs, I’d decided that 38 weeks would be a good time to arrive. So of course none of them obliged me. That’s how my kids roll. #littleshits Third time around I tried to mentally prepare myself for another 40 weeks, because second time around when I was sure I’d go early, and then ended up being pregnant for a whole freakin’ month longer than the first time…well yeah that sucked balls. None of my super duper psych shit worked for that. I was a banshee. It was horrid.
Third time around I wasn’t as much of a banshee, but I was seriously unimpressed when bub hadn’t arrived by the date I’d mentally assigned in my mind. If you’ve had kids, did you do that too? Have a date in mind that sounds nice and decided that your baby should comply and come when you want them too? I have a thing for even numbers, and having some matchy matchy stuff- like the day of birth having a number in it that matches either the month or year. Why? No idea. I’m not even OCD. Except for my breakfast routine. No one fucks with that. Things have to be done in a certain order. That’s a whole other kettle of fish.
Anyway, I digress. The date I had assigned in my mind had come and gone, I was the biggest I’d ever been (I guess that happens third time around) and I was getting over it. Over feeling uncomfortable. Over not being able to sleep at night. Over the constant peeing. Seriously kid, you were using that bladder as a trampoline, I’m sure. I kept trying to tell myself that even though I was over it, it wasn’t quite the right time anyway so it would all work out when it was meant to. Meanwhile my most awesomely sarcastic obstetrician whom I love dearly (but refuse to go back and have more kids just so I can see him), told me that baby had barely engaged in one appointment, and then by the next popped out of the pelvic area… and I could go until 42 weeks at this rate. I wanted to punch him in the face. He was offering to induce me, based on new research he’d read. And by new research, he explained it was one paper. So that’s legit enough right? What a crack up of a guy. I was tempted. Reeaaallly tempted. To just have this shiz over and done with would be awesome. On top of feeling physically uncomfortable, I’d let ‘the fear’ slip in. You know that fear that you get toward the end, when you have subsequent kids, as you know what’s coming up, and you know the only way this kid is coming out is going to involve some pain? That fear.
There was another part of me though that wanted no part of an induction. To have things even more intense than they normally are? No thanks. Plus my inner hippie was a bit unsure about having it so planned out- I kind of liked the idea that my babies chose the day they’d arrive, given it wasn’t really a necessary thing in my situation to schedule their births (which, even if they are scheduled, I kinda think is bubs selecting their date too- just with a bit more definition as to what date). I’m sure my cherubs didn’t employ some sort of divine intuition as to their arrival dates and science can explain the whole process with a neat diagram, but let’s go with the cosmic explanation for the purpose of this story.
I had an appointment on a Tuesday. He wanted to induce me on the Wednesday. It was a big call. And I’m the world’s most indecisive person EVER. So I workshopped that shit with all and sundry. But my gut feeling was to wait it out. My obs had said he thought I’d go in a few days anyway. It was a battle between my head and my impatience. I’m also the worlds most impatient person EVER. Painting a good picture of myself right now, aren’t I?
I made the call and said I’d wait, but if bubs wasn’t here by the following Monday, all cosmic shit was being thrown out the window and I wanted that kid induced. GET OUT ALREADY. So I set about doing all the lunges and squats I could, rubbing clary sage oil on my belly like nobody’s business, walking around the house like I was leading a marching band and trying to finish the last bits of my work.
After all that jazz? Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not one niggle. Not one pain. I had noticed a week before that I was leaking a bit of water. I’d decided I wasn’t wetting my pants after some stealth googling. Depend undies weren’t in my future just yet. The water leak had stopped though and nothing else was going on. I took Miss DP to her dance lesson on Wednesday, with all the other mums staring at me with that intense anticipation and excitement that you only get when it’s not you having to go through childbirth. “We might not see you tomorrow at school drop off” one said. “Pffft. This stubborn thing isn’t going anywhere. I’ll see you in the morning” I shot back. Because seriously, this baby was not making tracks AT ALL.
That night I went about my merry way, screaming at the girls to finish their dinner (no, that’s no in any textbook I learned from soz), cleaning the house and wondering how to get into bed without having to order a crane to come and lift me in.
At 5am I woke and felt a slight period style pain. Not even a cramp, just a little dull pain. I wondered whether something might start to ramp up, or was it just I was lying in the wrong position in bed. Which, to be honest, every fucking position was the wrong position with such a large belly. I went to the toilet, and felt like I was leaking some water again. Hmmm, maybe something might happen today. I had the 28th in my head as a potential day (I kept shifting the goals), and it was the 27th so I thought I would have plenty of time……..
Part 2 tomorrow. Because I know you’re totally on the edge of your seat right now