How sick is sick enough?

I truly feel for the staff of the NHS. They must have to listen to everybody and their aunt wielding their wild theories about the UK health service. If I was given a pound each time I heard someone say, “The NHS is broken,” I could probably afford a couple more hours of heating at home!

As I type we are back in hospital with Nell. It’s a position we’ve been in with her many times; and it’s our second trip here in the last week (Reuben visited A&E last weekend). We are here because her asthma is playing up and she’s had a horrific cough for the last month. Sleepless night after sleepless night, her violent coughing has failed to shift it. When she was admitted an x-ray showed inflammation and she spent last night on oxygen and steroids with some antibiotics, magnesium and potassium thrown in for good measure. This morning she’s had physio to clear the mucus from her chest and we are now hoping we can go home this evening.

But did we need to be here in the first place? Yes she needed to be seen, but if I’d got her looked at earlier, perhaps she wouldn’t have needed as much intervention as she has had.

So why didn’t I?

NHS guilt.

From the press, and the mouths of the people around me, I hear that the NHS is under pressure, and why? “Because of time wasters.” Consequently, I’m terrified to join those ranks. I don’t want to be a paranoid mother, the hypochondriac at the front of the queue, jeered at by the genuinely sick people.

Like many, I’ve been brought up to trust medical professionals. They are the experts, not me. If I ask them to look at my daughter’s chest and they don’t deem it a priority to do so, it’s ingrained in me to accept that. My anxiety has been further fuelled by a few uncomfortable experiences at my GP (when I had Nell’s chest checked as a baby, and was made to feel I was a hysterical mother), so you can start to see why I would shy away from being too demanding . At least until the need for help is obviously unavoidable.

Never was this more clear than 18 months ago, when I called my surgery, telling them my daughter, who had recently had a chest infection, was struggling to breathe. They didn’t want to see her but prescribed antibiotics over the phone. Thankfully we own an oximeter and took her for a second opinion after seeing her O2 drop into the 80s. That time she ended up being treated for sepsis. It was one of the scariest experiences of my life, but I thought it was a one off.

Then last week Reuben got sick. I messaged the doctor in the afternoon. No luck, no appointments. He got worse so we took him to A&E. When we arrived, he showed high infection markers and needed antibiotics. I was not wrong to take him in, yet I still found myself apologising to everyone we saw.

While Reuben was in hospital, Nell stayed with a friend. I asked her for an honest opinion and she suggested we needed to have Nell’s chest seen, yet I was reluctant. She had been coughing for weeks, but that’s a pattern for her. I just felt if I asked the doctor to see her, they would say no. I had arranged an asthma review the week before but the nurse didn’t listen to her chest, and while she commented on her ‘nasty cough’, she didn’t seem unduly concerned. So why was I? Was I being over the top?

Two days later, I noticed she was off her food and had lost some weight. I gave in and decided it was time to try. The lines opened at 8am I set my alarm and fired off our appointment request within seconds of the timer ticking over. An hour later I heard back.

Dear parent/guardian of Eleanor,

Thank you for your message. We have saved the details to your records for the GP to see. You will need to call the surgery from 8am any week day to get on the GP telephone list to discuss.

Unfortunately all the appointments/phone calls have gone for today. If you feel it’s urgent for today you can call 111 or go to an urgent treatment centre.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t take her to A&E for a cough! (And this is what I mean…because, of course I could! I just felt that I shouldn’t). Instead I contacted a friend in the medical profession and asked her to have a listen. She did and recommended that she be seen soon. We could have run the risk of trying the GP at 8am the next day, but the chances were that we would receive the same response. There was only one option available. Still, I wasn’t sure…“It’s just a cough….” But I agreed and Husband took her in about 6pm. And that’s where we are now.

Since she arrived, not one person has said: “It’s just a cough“

And that brings me back round to my point. How sick is sick enough? Why, as parents, do we feel terrible every time we need help for our child. Is it because we think we are time wasters? Or because we know that the likely response from the GP will be “try again at 8am tomorrow”. It’s a scary situation to be in and I now feel awful that I waited so long. What if NHS guilt had caused me to avoid seeking help beyond the stage where help was available?

I love the NHS. I love it and the people that work for it. I support the strikes…but I don’t know the answer. I don’t want it to be broken. But I also want to feel comfortable asking to use its services. It’s that challenge I fear will be difficult to overcome.

On the plus side, Nell has received amazing care here. She’s got her famous appetite back and is smiling. She’s had a trampoline to bounce on (for physio) and, she tells me, lots of toys to play with. After years of me fighting the system for help, she’s got a paediatric referral and I’ve finally heard someone agree that this was a bad asthma event. I wasn’t going mad. She does have asthma..it’s not me with Munchausen By Proxy. Maybe next time I’ll feel more confident in demanding help? I hope so, but already I know that it’s not always that easy.

Stop crying your heart out

Below is a blog I wrote in the middle of mental exhaustion last night. I read it this morning and I wasn’t going to publish it. It’s largely negative, very self-centred and ultimately does no good for anyone. I also don’t want people to think that all I do is moan; the thing is, I often blog when I have an extreme emotion that needs to be vanquished. Nonetheless, I do want to start blogging about cheerful things again, because, believe it or not, I’m actually happy most of the time! Plus, the joy that Ru and Nell bring me far outweighs any feelings I have during the night.

Ultimately, I’ve decided to press the Go Live button because this blog is called The Honest Parent and it wouldn’t be honest if I hid my thoughts. So here it goes, mothers, get ready to think ‘yep, you and every other mother, love!’

———

My personality is one where I cope and I cope until I can’t cope anymore. Then I melt down. Tonight I’ve hit that wall. My body aches. My knees are shot from bouncing. My back hurts from carrying. My ears are ringing with screams and my mind is being held together by a patchwork of caffeine and sertraline. Tonight I want to walk out the door and just keep walking.

Ru is adorable (note I’ve stopped spelling it ‘Roo’). Happy and engaging, he is a dream baby during the day, but he has never been a wonderful sleeper. Until three months he was awake every two and a half hours. It was a killer, I was tired, but I was managing. He improved, but then the four month regression hit…early. Since that time, it’s not the middle of the night that’s been the problem, it’s been going to sleep in the first place.

First off, only I can get him down. Fine. Whatever. It’s not the end of the world and means one parent looks after Nell and the other after Ru. That’s a simple split and one both I and Husband are happy enough with. The problem comes about 45 mins later when he wakes, and he screams. And he screams. And he screams. There is no consoling him. None at all. Sometimes extra breastfeeding helps, sometimes not. But call me mad, I’m reluctant to feed him this time. I know it’s only been an hour since he ate. I know he’s not hungry and I know that if I give in and feed him again (which I always do eventually), then Husband will never be able to settle him.

Added to this pain, there’s Nell. Her sleep has been disturbed too. There are nights when we are woken twice by her in addition to Ru. Whether it’s nightmares or insomnia, she creeps into our room, invariably waking Ru in the process. Furthermore, when he wakes (but she’s asleep) I’m anxious to calm him quickly so his screams don’t wake her. The poor little love is so tired at the moment and I have overwhelming guilt that her state of being is my fault.

You’ve got to laugh (or do you?), just a few days ago, I thought we were coming out of it. We had one night where he didn’t wake up after 45 mins and I allowed myself to get excited. More fool me because 24 hours later I’m sitting downstairs listening as he screams himself horse and Husband tries to calm him. This is the first time I’ve agreed to step away completely, but I can feel my willpower cracking. I don’t want to go back up there, but I want him to stop screaming. Please. Please stop screaming. I know Husband is doing the best job he can and I love him for all the effort he puts into keeping me calm.

In my defense, it’s been a tough few days. I’ve worked my butt off giving Nell a great birthday, and I think I succeeded, but it left me tired. It’s taken two days to get the house completely clear after her birthday dinner. Then today, she’s been in a particularly whiny mood. She can’t do anything and nothing I do to help is good enough. I can’t get my shoes off mum. I can’t hang my coat up mum. I can’t turn the tap off mum. Can’t can’t can’t. She tells me she wants her daddy and she doesn’t want me. It’s no surprise; I wouldn’t want me right now either.

Worse, I know my face is showing the strain as one lady I know looked at me this afternoon and kindly asked if I’d ‘been through it’ today. I also know, of course, that exhaustion makes it much harder than normal to cope with the night’s screamfest. But tonight I had been looking forward to one night downstairs with my husband. One night. Oh well. I better go upstairs and feed him…the screams have been going 45 mins and I don’t think I can take it much longer.

[Interlude]

He’s down and I’ve gone to bed. My total time spent downstairs and in adult company today was twenty minutes.

I know things aren’t helped by the knowledge that I’m meant to be going out in a few weeks. My first evening out. As he cries, my brain starts to spiral. How can I go if I know he’s going to wake up and Matt is going to have to call me back to help? How can I have a drink and relax? I don’t think if I can and that insight is upsetting me in advance of the fact. I so badly want to feel like a person again and not just a milk machine or a human punchbag for a baby that is out of control.

Yes, I know that the experiences I’m having are nothing unusual. They’re not unique and many of you reading this will be thinking, yeah, and?? Charlotte, you just need to get on with it! And you’d be right. Lots of people have been through what I’m going through, some will have handled it worse, most will have handled it better. I am conscious of moaning or complaining when the women around me have been through this exact stage of child rearing. At the start they have sympathy, but they’ll only have that for so long before they start thinking I need to shut up and deal. It’s true, I absolutely do need to.

Everything in life and with children is a phase. We will come through the other side and forget how difficult this time really was. Perhaps we will even look back with rose tinted glasses and comment about how easily we navigated Ru’s early months. If so, I do hope this blog serves as a small, just a small, reminder.

What can I do to make you love me?

In their chirpy tones, the Corrs once sang “What can I do to make you love me? What can I do to make you care?” Now, a couple of decades later I’m thinking the same thing about Nell. Why? Because she sure as heck isn’t scared of telling me she doesn’t love me.

I know what you’re thinking.

It’s normal! Every child goes through that phase. She’s had a lot of upheaval. A lot has changed in her world.

You’re right. A lot has changed, but this doesn’t feel like a phase. Nell first started telling me she didn’t love me more than a year ago. When it first happened I understood why. I’d just lost my grandad, just had a miscarriage, the cat had died…I was low and Husband had taken the childcare reins while I got myself back on my feet. Then there was my pregnancy with Reuben. Hyperemesis and haemorrhages left me in bed a lot. I was in and out of hospital over the whole nine months and I couldn’t roll around on the floor playing as many games as she would have liked. But whenever I could, I tried my best, and emphasised how much I loved her. Still she would say: “I just don’t love you mummy” on a semi-regular basis.

Cut forward and Roo is in our lives and she really adores him. She’s brilliant with him and I’ve been able to spend a lot more time with her, both alone and in combination with him, but it’s not helping. Yesterday we had a lovely day together. Husband was at a gig so her and I went with Roo, plus some of her friends, to a farm day. We rode in a little train, decorated biscuits, handled ducklings and had her face painted. It was a good day, or at least I thought it was.

This morning I got into bed with her and gave her a hug and a kiss. Less than an hour later she pointed as a cartoon on her wall which shows a mummy and daddy rabbit with their child. She said: “That’s me, daddy and Reuben”… “No Nell, that’s me daddy and you”. Her response? “No, it’s not. I don’t want you in it.”

I just walked out.

The day before, I spent all morning reading books with her and playing vets. We did some crafting (making a bird house) and I baked her a banana bread loaf. She then turned around and said she didn’t want to be with me, she only wanted to be with daddy.

I’ve tried every approach. I’ve told her it’s ok but I still love her. I’ve ignored it. I’ve told her that it’s not a nice thing to say. I’ve told her it upsets me (not all at once, obviously!). But the comments keep coming. She doesn’t want to spend the day with me. She only loves daddy. She doesn’t love me. So, here’s my question.

What would you do?

Is it really a phase when it’s been going on over a year or do I need to suck it up and realise she’s a daddy’s girl and I am not the chosen one, nor ever will be? There’s the argument that she doesn’t understand the full meaning of her words. I can accept that to an extent, but she is an intelligent child, and she knows that what she is saying will hurt me. Smothering her in love clearly isn’t the way forward, but if there is a better route, I am very open to finding it.

Go…..

Did you sleep last night?

They say that when you have a second baby, it will all come flooding back: memories of sleepless nights, the crying without known cause, the hormones, running the gauntlet of putting a baby down in a crib. They are wrong because that’s not been true for me.

Before starting today’s blog I had a look through some of the pieces I wrote early in our days with Nell. Not only was I struck by the way my writing tone has evolved over the last four years, but by how little I can recall of my emotions during that time. This morning, while trying to put a brave face on my exhaustion I asked Husband:

Did Nell sleep better than Roo at this age? I’m sure she would go at least three hours between waking, right?

Unfortunately it’s not something I wrote about when she was a newborn so I don’t think I’ll ever remember. I can only assume that, as it’s not commented on within my blogs, that she did. Roo, does not. Last night I got 2 hours and 1 hour then 30 minutes. On the plus side, it sounds like it’s easier to get him to sleep in the first place. Swings and roundabouts!

In general, Reuben is a very different specimen from Nell. Aside from the obvious ‘maleness’ of him, he is a far calmer baby. He rarely cries and is happy to be left alone staring at the ceiling while I wee. Nell wouldn’t let me put her down for a moment (according to my blogs). He is gaining weight faster than she did, I think he eats more regularly, and his poo has far more substance to it. Yes, poo is back on my agenda! He does appear to have reflux, but I don’t believe it’s due to an allergy as Nell’s was, so I’m hopeful it will pass in time.

There’s not much more I can say about him at the moment. As with all newborns, his personality is yet to emerge. I don’t know if he prefers Peter Rabbit or Winnie the Poo, and I can’t tell if he’s going to be a cheeky chappy or a serious Simon. All I can say is that he’s very cuddly and seems happiest curled up on my, or Husband’s chest.

So let me comment on the child that I can talk about: Not so Little Nell. Well, people said that the sibling often acts up, but I had convinced myself that we could cheat this phenomenon by declaring our love for her loudly and frequently. How wrong was I!? From the moment Roo was born, a little demon took residence in our older child’s body. This demon refused to acknowledge me, it threw things rather than placed them, it cried… a lot, and it begged for attention with acts such as peeing on the bathroom floor, inches away from the toilet. It’s been testing and has caused me to lose my temper with her, properly, for the first time ever. Man, did I feel mum guilt after that! She was so put out by the event that she took herself to her bedroom and fell asleep naked on top of her bed at 4pm. If it wasn’t so sad it would have been cute.

Thank God, four weeks later, the Nell I know seems finally to be winning the battle and regaining control from said demonic creature. She is now sweetly making us imaginary ‘steaming hot egg soup’ and bringing it to us to eat in bed, or giving her brother soft cuddles on the sofa. She tells us she loves us in the morning and asks for my opinion on her choice of dress for the day. I’m hopeful that she has turned a corner, then again, I’ve seen The Exorcist. I know that demons can pretend to be innocent, lulling you into a false sense of security before striking a fatal blow…

(disclaimer: I’m aware that Nell doesn’t have an actual demon inside her).

Parenting a second newborn is funny, without the hahas. There’s a strong sense of de ja vous pushing a pram around village and wiping milky vomit off of clothes, but it’s also entirely foreign. I wish I could remember what I felt when Nell was a month old, instead I can say how I feel now, as Reuben hits that magical milestone. I am shattered. Tired beyond tired and wondering if I’ll ever feel awake again. What I do recall is my baby Mantra. THIS TOO SHALL PASS. I will not be waking event 90 minutes for the rest of my life. I will one day enjoy drinks out with friends again. And until then, I shall make the most of every cuddle and snuggle, and moment of sleep, I can snatch with my baby, and his big sister.

A baby is born…

Well.

What a whirlwind the last few days have been. I am writing this Wednesday evening in a very sleep deprived state from the NNU at Tunbridge Wells. Baby is just getting some rapid treatment for a possible Strep B infection. I’m sitting in the corridor because I’m not allowed in still – due to COVID, I assume.

But how did I get here? Well, clearly, I had the baby.

I came in Monday (my calendar due date) to have a planned induction based on the fact that Baby had reduced fetal growth. He had dropped from 50th centile to 10th and was on track to be 3rd. Add some reduced movements and I was told going overdue wasn’t an option.

On Monday they weren’t able to find me a bed until 7pm and then, when they went to induce at 11pm they changed their minds entirely. I was told that the pessary costs £100 a pop and, because my cervix was soft, they would rather break my waters. The only problem with that was there was a backlog of women waiting up to 1 week. I’d have to stay on for constant monitoring in the meantime. I was a bit shocked, surely not a week?? It was only the next morning, having met a lady in the same situation, already on day 4 of waiting, I realised the reality of the coming days: boredom. My response was typical of ‘Charlotte’; somehow, I would get myself into labour naturally.

All Tuesday I worked the maternity ball and marched/hobbled round the hospital. Then in the evening, having sent Husband home and been told nothing would (likely) be happening that day, I asked for a sweep. I’d read they take about 48 hours to have an impact but every little helps… right?

Two hours after the sweep at 12.30 am I realised I was having contractions; at first I thought baby had just gone into hyperdrive and was bruising me with his gymnastics. I called Husband, who had gone home to rest and look after Nell, but told him no need to come in yet or to disturb Nell unnecessarily. The pains were sporadic but roughly 6 minutes apart so there was plenty of time. My last labour had been 42 hours from the first contraction. Plus I wasn’t sure they were real or just test contractions as a result of the sweep. I’d call him back once I knew either way.

At 1.30 am they jumped down to every 4 minutes and I told him he better get in. He was a trooper, calling round friends, getting Nell ready and messaged to tell me he was on his way at 1.58 am. I had spoken with the midwife just prior to calling Husband but was told they wouldn’t examine me until contractions were every 2 minutes. It was shocking to them and me that that pattern kicked in only minutes later (2.01am).

After being examined I was found to be 4cm. “Well that moved fast!” said the lovely midwife. Hurrah I could go to the Labour ward and have some drugs! Boy did I want drugs. Without a birthing partner hypnobirthing had disappeared out the window. My little candles were still in their box and my perfume was untouched. I did have my classical music on and I tried hard to remember the right breathing techniques. When I did it was better, but it rapidly became hard to recall anything.

I was told to lie down, they needed to monitor baby and his heart rate seemed to be dropping. I couldn’t. It was too intense. I thought I was going to pass out I was so weak already. And hot. So hot. When I did finally manage it the pain just flew in from all sides.

Things were moving very fast, they hadn’t yet got a room or a doctor ready and they now realised the midwives had never arranged for me to see an anesthetist about my allergy to lidacane…a really big problem when you’re giving pain relief. It meant they didn’t know what they could give me and so I was stuck with paracetamol. I could have gas and air once I reached delivery, but I knew it didn’t work for me.

I started feeling that good old push feeling, which I think was worse as my waters still hadn’t gone. Seriously, this birth was going so different to my one with Nell which started with a premature water rupture.

They decided to push the whole bed to the labour ward just as Matt arrived, about 2.45am..there was no way to get me into a wheelchair. After that moment, the rest is a blur of ouch. I got to the room, they couldn’t find baby’s heartbeat for a few minutes which was scary, and the midwife was saying how it was difficult to interpret the trace from earlier because of the position I’d been in. There was potential distress but it was unclear.

At this point Matt left. He has always been squeemish, but this was too much. He removed himself from the room and ended up on the floor of the corridor with two midwives caring for him. He tells me they were lovely, getting him a pillow and sugary tea and biscuits. I wouldn’t see him again for a bit.

Just before 3am my ‘bulging’ waters were burst manually (that felt so good!) and at 3am, on the dot, baby was born weighing bang on 7lb.

His hands were up by face so unsurprisingly there was cut and tear to get him over the final hurdle. It was just one hour after I’d been 4cm and declared to be in active labour. Now there were stitches to be had. Oddly, this was the first time I swore during the whole process, there was still no pain relief and less natural adrenaline to get me through. I was shaking so hard, someone got me an extra gown to warm up but I think the shock of everything meant I resembled a tumble dryer on full speed for a good hour.

Just born, being warmed up

Cutting forward. Why am I sitting in NNU? Well, baby seems to be doing well. However he was meant to receive antibiotics, through me (on a drip) during labour. This was because I had Strep B. He didn’t get that because of the speed things moved. Since coming out he has been a touch cold and he has struggled to maintain temperature. He was put under the resuscitate lamp, but he dropped again once he was off it. His heat rate has also been a little skittish. Long and short, they’re treating him for Step B infection now, rather than waiting for things to potentially develop and get worse. Good call I think. It means more time until we go home, yes, but if we waited the gamble could have resulted in an even longer stay.

Roo with his little cannula glove

When we were last on a postnatal ward (in transitional care) we had a hard, hard time of it. I didnt come away with a positive mindset. This round, I couldn’t be more complementary of the staff and care we’ve received. Were there issues due to lack of beds and staff? Yes. Is that their fault? No. They held my hand and got me through, looked after my fallen husband, and since baby’s birth, been nothing but wonderful. I can’t thank them enough.

I can’t wait to go home, with our baby son Reuben George Bass, but there are going to be some thank you notes to write when we do.

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Postnote….it’s now Friday. Before I publish this I want to add that I’m so aware it’s very descriptive and lacks the gushes of love you might have expected. I will write more about Roo in the coming weeks. Having him here is honestly wonderful. As so many people say after they’ve had their second (third, fourth or fifth!), our family is now complete.

Blue is the colour, stereotypes are the game

Not forcing gender stereotypes. I’m not sure why I feel so strongly about it.. but as a soon to be mother of ‘one each’ I know I really don’t want to divide them into colour brackets.

I actively avoided putting pink into Nell’s life as a baby, I enjoyed painting her cot blue, but she does now love pink. That is her choice, my opinion matters little when you have a child as headstrong as her! She adores unicorns and dinosaurs in equal measure and I love that about her.

We want to do the same for the boy joining us shortly. We do not want him to only be surrounded by blue. His being should not be defined by a colour. Blue clothing, blue toys, blue blue blue…I find it quite an outdated approach to child rearing. To that end, I’ve kept a fair amount of Nell’s newborn clothing. Some of it is blue. Some grey. Some, shock horror, is pink. Husband was giggling that I’ve kept some of Nell’s socks that say ‘mummy’s little princess’ (I assume they were a gift). But why not? It’s not like he can read them and that their presence will impact his trajectory in life. To be fair, Husband agrees.

The same will go for toys and books. He can enjoy the same children’s toys and books as his big sister. I’m sure we will get lots of gifts over the years… and he and we will be greatful for them… but if people start shoehorning stories about tractors and trains into our home ‘because he’s a boy’, I will likely raise an internal eyebrow. If people buy him blue clothes, of course he will wear them. I’m sure he will look lovely, but we would only hope it’s not the only colour he is bought over the next year or two! There are seven colours in a rainbow and millions of hues to enjoy.

Some people might read this and think I’m being cruel, ungrateful or trying to force being ‘girly’ on him. Not at all. We just want his personality and interests to develop naturally. Then, if we see him loving dumper trucks, bring it on! Let’s fill the few empty spaces of our home with ride on vehicles. We can absolutely read books about brave soldiers and proud Kings if that is what interests him. If blue is his favourite colour, We’ll let him roll around in blueberries.

Depending on the history sources you believe, pink and blue became signifiers of gender in the 1940s…though some would argue they were used as separators from the mid 1800s. Whichever of these is true, that still leaves a few thousand years of history when pink and blue were not assigned a gender. The human race survived. We did not all grow up questioning our femininity, masculinity or gender neutrality because we didn’t have a guiding colour to light our way.

I wonder why I think like this. Am I rebelling against a childhood where pink was forced upon me? No, I don’t think so. I had plenty of clothes I disliked in my wardrobe but pink wasn’t an issue as far as I remember. But I do think I’ve always been keen to define who I am without the influence of others. Some people find it hard to understand me, and in the past I’ve tried to bend my being to be more ‘normal’. But suppression isn’t a way to happiness. As I’ve got older I’ve felt more able to be and and express ‘me’, and I think that’s what we want to achieve as parents. Whoever this child is that will soon join us in our home, we want them, to be them, and for them to have support and guidance as they find who their ‘them’ is.

Pregnancy…it’s an emotional time

Anyone remember that board game, Pass the Bomb? I think I might be turning into a human version of it.

It’s hard to summarise the last few weeks of this pregnancy. Certainly they’ve been better than the first 20! What I am acutely aware of, is being too negative. People ask me all the time, how is it going, how are you feeling? That’s kind and thoughtful of them. Every time I want to say ‘urgh, I hate it’ – but I try to take a middle ground, because, all things considered, it isn’t terrible. Plus, people tend to give you strange looks if you are too blunt about these things. Other people have it so, so much worse and I don’t want to make out that I count amongst that number.

But GAWD I hate being pregnant. I’m out of breath, eating leaves me uncomfortable and I am unable to stay awake much beyond 8.30 each evening. Who are these strange people that enjoy pregnancy!?? I can’t believe a few generations back, women used to go through this process upwards of 10 times!

It’s fair to say, that in my first pregnancy I was uncomfortable. I was suffering hyperemesis and then terrible acid reflux, but through all of that I was calm, collected and if anything, my mood was the best it had ever been. I felt on an even keel (Husband says I was too ill to be annoyed at anything 😂) Pregnancies two and three, though short-lived, I felt similarly chilled. Though they were stressful, I was even-tempered. This time, I’m an emotional shipwreck.

At first I thought it was the stress from the events of the past pregnancies, but the further in I go, the more I realise that I am just a wobbly bowl of blancmange. All it takes is one sleep-less night for me to spend the next day on the edge of reason.

This manifested itself fully in recent weeks when I was admitted to the hospital for a couple of nights. I’d been having periods of acute breathlessness with a raised heartrate and took myself to get checked out on advice of friends and my midwife. When I went in I clearly presented as a mad woman. My bloodshot eyes and tiredness led them to initially suggest that I stay for some ‘rest’ and that I might be having panic attacks. They also asked me, repeatedly, if everything was ok at home?! Trust me, I couldn’t have a more supportive husband.

Since that stay I recognise that the breathing is worse when tired and stressed, but I still don’t believe that panic has been the cause. Various suggestions were made in addition to panic attacks, including silent reflux and hormone rushes, then after 2/3 days inside, I was allowed home with a number of outpatient tests booked. An echo, a 24 hour ecg, an asthma review. I’m well covered.

While things have improved, I’m not a Sane Jane yet. Last week I went on holiday with some friends and their families. Staying in a hotel on the Sunday, I didn’t really sleep as Nell was coughing a lot. The next day my emotions felt very close to the surface. It took barely a comment for tears to lift to my eyes – and by the Tuesday morning, I was a ball of stress. For whatever reason, when a couple of our friends asked me how I was I just broke down. I must have appeared absolutely off my rocker! A single parent for just 2 days then one comment about me looking stressed, and I couldn’t cope. I’ve rarely been so ‘dramatic’ with tears in public. Thankfully my friends rallied around, giving me support and helping me get back on a level footing. For the rest of the week I felt fine, but I think I’ll remain anxious that I negatively impacted that week for everyone else for a long time to come. No-one wants to be seen as the coo-coo holiday person – that person doesn’t get invited next time around!

Nell, if anyone’s interested, had the best week ever! Riding Mr Bean the pony, learning to cycle her bike, splashing around in the pool. I can at least be sure that she was unaffected by me. I’ll tell you another thing, I have come away with SO much respect for anyone that single parents. It’s a huge job and I have endless admiration for those that do it. It’s out of my control really, but I hope I’m never in that position – something I told Husband when I got home. I’m never leaving you, single parenting is haaaaard. Strangely he didn’t see this as a grand compliment, not sure why! 😂

Now I’m past 28 weeks, I feel it’s the final countdown. The doctor has increased my asthma medication, Husband is ensuring I get enough sleep, and I can finally see an end to the discomfort. I don’t suppose I’ll be calm throughout the rest of it, no doubt I’ll fall off the deep end again, cry hysterically in the street or on a park bench… but in ten weeks of so, I can get ‘me’ back. Yes, a sleepless mum to a new baby ‘me’, but one that at least has the energy to run around and (hopefully) take charge of my emotions once more.

Post scan update

Hello!

I promised a short blog following our scan on Wednesday, so I will keep my promise and be succinct in my retelling.

Our car had been out of action for a while, genuinely that’s a long and grizzly, though humorous as times, story. But the long and short was that Husband was forced to work from home and accompany me to and from the hospital (rather than meet me there). And I’m glad he did as we had some debriefing to go through after!

Throughout the scan, Husband made all the right ooh and ahh noises. I stayed quiet as there was only one question on my mind. Is the bleed gone? The sonographer took her time before confirming that it had indeed absorbed! Honestly, that was the best news. I didn’t feel immediately safe, but I knew that the reality that I could start living normally again would kick in soon.

Then the other question. Would you like to know the gender?

Yes!

She started to roll the monitor over me and I was sure I saw the three lines that indicate a girl, just as she said… It’s a boy, and a very proud one at that!

Consider me flabbergasted.

I lay there surprised. Husband started waffling… Are you sure?? We just assumed he was a girl! It’s like Sammy the cat all over again!

I don’t remember half of what he said but I do remember feeling like bursting out laughing at the ‘of course!’ of it all. This child has been playing with my brain since the start.

This blog is called the Honest Parent, so I won’t lie. I didn’t jump for joy. But neither did I sob. I felt shocked as opposed to disappointed. That may sound wrong to some of you, especially after we fought so hard for this baby, but I think it’s just the result of having pictured a single scenario for so long – any other outcome just seemed implausible.

The entire drive home we discussed names. What we discovered is that while the shock of having a boy passed quickly, the fight to find a name could go on until the birth date. If he had been a she, she may well have been called Peggy Rae Bass. Now she is a he we are stumped. We need a two syllable (or three) name to work with Bass. It can’t start with a B or a C and the initial sound can’t be Loo (i.e. Lewis, Lucas etc). We want a name that isn’t too standard, but we don’t like really wacky names either.

So. This is an open invite. Send us some names because we need all the help we can get.

To close this blog off, I feel it would be remiss of me not to share Nell’s reaction to the gender reveal. Honestly it was so dramatic, the evidence is going to have to be kept and played regularly for years. She has calmed down now but she is also insisting that he is a she today and refuses to consider boy names at all. I think she might have more to digest than us!

Half way through?

It’s a big week in the Bass house, it’s time for the 20 week scan…which will actually be taking place 20+5, but who’s counting?

People keep asking, will you find out what you’ll be having? Yes, absolutely. If it’s not a girl then I have an awful lot of clothing stored in the attic that can be moved on. I see no reason to keep it up there if it’s not needed. I am also responding by saying that I have no doubt that it will be a girl. Now, of course, I could be wrong, but I just can’t imagine that happening in this case. Not because I wouldn’t want a boy, but because I just see myself as a mother to girls. Plus, Nell might be a little shocked – she is very determined that she is having a little sister. Whatever the ‘result’ we will find out on Wednesday.

I am nervous coming up to the scan. Not because I think there will be anything wrong with the baby. She’s been kicking me about for 3 weeks so I know she’s active in there. No, I’m more nervous about this danged hematoma. If it’s still there…and it was 4 weeks ago…what happens next? I’ve been trying to research but there’s very little information available. Subchorionic hematoma occurs in 1% of pregnancies, and for most of those cases, it has gone by 12 weeks. We know mine wasn’t gone by then, we are just hoping it has now dissolved. From the little reading I have managed, I’ve seen stats such as 26% chance of premature birth, risk of hospitalisation following any further bleeds (beyond 24 weeks) and higher incidence of placental abruption.

I know you shouldn’t read the internet when you haven’t had a conversation yet with your doctor, but I like to be prepared and I want to know what I might expect. But hopefully we won’t have to expect anything and the scan will show that is has shrunk, if not fully resolved itself yet. Husband is positive, so I am determined to go into Wednesday in the same, cautious, fashion.

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The other ‘thing’ I am tackling this week is the bump. I do not like bumps. I mean, other people’s are fine, but on me…na uh.

A lovely friend recently asked me if I had a bump yet and I responded dramatically that ‘yuk! bumps are disgusting’. It wasn’t my finest moment and I saw the people who heard me say it physically recoil. The thing is, I’ve never had body confidence and I’m used to hiding every lump or bump. I haven’t ever worn bodycon, not even at my slimmest. So I’ve been wrapping myself up in large jumpers. Easy enough when it’s Winter.

But this is where it ends. When I decided I wanted to try this pregnancy thing again I said I was going to enjoy it more than the first time. Part of that is recording the process. There is one photo of Nell as a bump and it was taken at the hospital after my waters had broken. This time I feel it’s important to take some snaps…just a few…so there’s more evidence that it happened. I decided this at 17 weeks and it took me 3 weeks to gear myself up to it. But I did it. To ‘celebrate’ being 20 weeks I wore a tight top, stuck some heels on so I didn’t look stumpy…and took a million photos in my hallway. After deleting 99% of them, I was left with a couple that I could call acceptable. Mission accomplished. I can now wear my big jumpers again knowing I’ve done it at least once.

I will try to do this every few weeks, so that I can look back on this pregnancy and know I did at least one thing better than the first time. One day I may even look back on the images and think I look good. Who knows!?!

I’ll post another short blog later in the week, if anyone is interested, to say the gender of the wriggler, and to just update as to whether I have the all clear to resume normal life, or whether it’s another XX weeks of bedrest for me and the bubba.

A stocking filler of a blog

I’m going to call this a filler blog. It is just a short one to connect more interesting pieces. And anyway, Im sure you’re desperate to know….yes. I ate food on Christmas Day. And it was good food… I felt terrible in the evening but I so glad that I managed it!

In fact, over the holidays my sickness has slowly calmed down. I am still throwing up. Still feel awful if I eat anything much heavier than soup. And I still can’t bear the smell of the walls in my dining room. If anyone has a strong smelling but not sickly candle recommendation… hit me up! The good news is that I am starting to feel more alive. I’ve had energy to tidy Nell’s bedroom, and I hope that I’ll soon be back on top of house and lifekeeping in general.

My next step is regaining the affections of my daughter. Nell has seen me ‘cough green water’ a lot, and she’s been aware that I haven’t played with her, read many books or cooked her dinner for a couple of months now. We’ve explained why but she has still pulled back from me.

Last week she kept referring to her dad as her favourite and I can’t be upset with her for being honest. He would be my favourite too if I felt I’d been ignored by my mum for the last 9 weeks. Just because I am asking for hugs now, doesn’t mean she should have to feel happy to give them. Over the next few weeks, as I start to get ‘myself’ back I will do everything I can to regain that trust and affection that she is not so keen on giving to me at the moment.

Yesterday was a good starting point. I took the day off work and we had a day together, at the park, lunch out, some sofa snuggles and then at a friend’s princess birthday tea. Apart from her begging for more food (trust me when I say she had eaten plenty) we didnt have any fights. It was just a great day.

As a general health update. Life hasn’t been roses and chocolate… when is it ever with me? As you know, COVID put pay to our Christmas plans, and then just a few days later I had yet another bleed and another two hospital trips. For the first time a doctor asked a number of questions and then said… Have you ever been investigated for a bleeding disorder? Hmm… Nooo…should I? On top, I have also tested positive for Group B Step which means another antibiotic drip in labour and for baby when it is born. It never rains but it pours!

I talk about the physical aspects of this pregnancy a lot. But I realise I havent touched on anything mental health wise. As you can imagine, my brain has been through the ringer recently and I think it’s important that I take that seriously and speak to a professional to check in and ensure that I can cope with the obstacles pregnancy is throwing at me. I had the maternity mental health team come over for a cuppa on Thursday, and boy, was it a therapy session! Although I’d originally been referred for the HG blues, it became clear that we need to work on my miscarriage fears and my growing agraphobic tendancies. I’m leaving the house, but only if I know I dont have to go far or do anything physical. I just don’t want anything bad that happens to be my fault. I’m not sure of what happens next, but I do trust that they’ll be trying to help with that fear.

So that’s my quick update. Not hugely interesting, totally unfocused, but I do think writing things down helps me. If you want to read it, that’s just a bonus.