What The (actual) Fundus!

Twelve weeks ago I was shocked to discover that I had a fundus... and it was shrinking!

I was advised of this startling fact by a lovely (non-English-speaking) nurse at 2am the morning after I'd given birth.  In the midst of my paracetamol-induced-haze the conversation went something like this.

Her: Can I check your fundus? (what I heard - 'kina chook or fondue')

Me: I'm sorry, what?

Her: Can I check your fundus?

Me: Um, I'm not sure what you mean?

Her: I need to feel it to check it's shrinking (what I heard - 'knee ta fool eat ta chook tis shrunken')

Me: Um, ok.  Can I have a Milo afterwards?

So it turns out she was referring to the top of my uterus, to check that it was shrinking back after the expulsion of the boy child.  Praise the lord it was an external exam, not internal (by this stage half the hospital had been up there and I was preparing to install a
'Closed for Maintenance' sign).

I discovered the facts around my fundus from Uncle Wiki .  Not from my midwife or other medical professional (more on this later).  I was initially excited by the name of this medical term, given that the first half of it was 'fun'.  Fun! There hadn't been a lot of fun over the preceding 24 hours so I was buoyed by the potential of something fun.  It was short-lived joy.  In fact, it's a pretty weak use of the term fun as there ain't no fun involved. No new shoes, no disco dancing, no mojitos in the sun on the beach.   Just a lot of cramps, blood and poking.  

The other relevant observation from this 2am exchange was my ability to be easily bribed by a cup of hot Milo.  I had gone from someone who wouldn't get out of bed for anything less than Moet, to someone who would accept an intimate internal examination from a stranger in return for some milky malty goodness.

Back to Uncle Wiki.  Here's the thing that bugged me about the fundus revelation.  Childbirth is arguably one of the most natural and normal things in the world. After all, we've all been born.  And about 40% of the global population do the actual growing a new person inside an old person thing (also known as pregnancy).   So why the need to use overly complicated medical terms that confuse what should be a pretty 'normal' situation?

There is a plethora of literature about pregnancy and childbirth.  Many people have made a whole lot of money by publishing 'childbirth for dummies' self-help books to assist unsuspecting expectant parents navigate their way through the myriad of medical terminology.  And most of the ones I've read are filled to the brim with medicalisation. 

Our six year olds had it figured out without needing textbooks and an understanding of Latin.  In their words, I was going to squeeze the baby out my vee-jay-jay and then my big tummy would go back to normal.  And if the baby got stuck, the doctor would then cut my tummy open and pull the baby out.  And either way, they were going to be good and buy me cake and flowers.

I just didn't need to know about my fundus.  And don't get me started on my Lochia or my Bilirubin... 

Is that your baby?

So today marks 11 weeks since our baby boy forcefully arrived and took his place on this planet and in our hearts.

It's been a hell of a ride.

I won't dwell on the details of his delivery (although I reserve the right to go back there in a later blog), but instead I thought I'd share a few observations from the past three months.

1. People (regardless of age, creed, sex or race) ask dumb questions.  I guess it's because they feel obligated to say something... maybe they get a little anxious about saying the wrong thing, and therefore say a dumb thing.  Without doubt, the most ridiculous question I have encountered since giving birth is "Is that your baby?".  I'm tempted to answer "What baby? I don't see no baby?" or "Nope, just got him from the Baby Factory - he's on a 14 day trial with a full money back guarantee".  What makes this question even more stupid is it often asked whilst my hungry wee lad is partaking of his favourite food (milk-a-la-boobie). Seriously, it's like they think I'm actually just breastfeeding someone else's baby for fun. Maybe I'm trying to reinstate the age old profession of 'wet nurse' as my new career path.

2. People also make dumb statements to fill the void.  My favourite is 'gosh he's got lots of hair'.  Now to be fair, our boy is rather hirsute.  This is a good thing, as it stops him from looking like a skinny wrinkled rat (a common newborn characteristic).  The dumb part of the statement is the way it is presented - like we haven't noticed! So obviously I respond accordingly.  "Hair? Oh that's just a wig, I think it looks good on him."  Or my new favourite, "You should see his pubes!".  That shuts them up pretty quick.

3.  Chanel No. 5 successfully masks the scent of baby vomit, but it is arguably an expensive option. I'm not sure it's what Coco originally had in mind.  However, it works and I'm going with it.  Maybe I should pitch them a new advertising campaign... move over Nicole Kidman, here I come!

4. People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.  That is, people who have not squeezed a baby out of their vee-jay-jay should not provide advice to those who have.  Especially when the advisee is sleep deprived, hormonal and covered in the aforementioned Chanel scented baby vom... otherwise the advisor might end up having a nasty accident involving their left foot and my left front tyre.

5.  Baby brain does exist.  It has too.  Otherwise, well, the alternative is too scary to contemplate.  To help you, dear reader, appreciate the importance of this point (especially if you fall into #4 above), I will share a few examples of the much maligned baby brain phenomenon.  Dirty clothes go in the washing machine, not in the dishwasher. Milk goes into the cup of tea, not into the sinkful of dirty cups to make the soapy bubbles.  Generally, most people aim to leave the house with matching shoes.  It is ok to misplace your keys, not so acceptable to misplace your newborn baby. 

On that note... where is the baby?

(Read more about the facts behind baby brain here)

Eviction Notice

I have been pregnant for 276 days.  I think that’s long enough don’t you?  

Time to evict the parasite and see what we’ve created.  I’ve enjoyed the unique symbiotic relationship that exists between me and our unborn child more over the last few weeks than the rest of the entire pregnancy caper.  I guess it’s the inevitability of the situation, or maybe just the awareness that the finite gestation period (of 280 days) is almost up and soon I will be reunited with my waistline and ankles. 

Mind you, compared to poor Mummy Elephants (624 days average gestation) or a Mummy Ass (365 days) I suppose I have had it easy.  Ironically enough, I find it easy to compare myself to both these animals at the moment!

It would appear, according to numerous magazines and websites, that my labour is imminent due to a number of ‘non-physical labour signs’.  These include nesting, sleeplessness, emotional fragility, back ache and vomiting.  Four of these I have often experienced after a really good night out – but that’s slightly off topic.  Arguably a couple are also technically ‘physical’ but who am I to argue with birth.com or Google.

So having prepared myself with some robust reading, I am now over-analysing every twinge, movement, ache, pain, flush, cramp, and emotion.   

I have tidied, cleaned, organised, washed, baked, cooked, gardened, planned, and filed.  I have even alphabetised all three bookcases in our home.  I had to force myself to step away from the Dyno Label-maker yesterday as I was about to commence labelling the non-fiction section with Dewey Decimal numbers.

Sleep eludes me which is the ultimate punishment.  Apparently, it’s preparing me for getting up every 17 minutes when the baby arrives.  Arguably it’s Mother Nature proving she is a bitch, as more than anything right now I would love eight hours solid painless deep sleep.   Sleep is one of those things we take for granted… when I was in my 20s I would easily sleep till lunchtime if work wasn’t calling; in my 30s I slept off hangovers and jet lag and lost entire weekends due to prolonged lack of consciousness; and now I’m 40 and I can’t sleep for more than 2 hours at a time.  

I won’t bore you with details on the back ache and vomiting, but the emotional fragility is worth mentioning.

I’m not like other girls.  Genuinely.  I don’t get too caught up with emotions, gossip, feelings and stuff.  I get a bit hormonal and moody with regular frequency, but apart from that I’m normally pretty stable and solid.  And now I find myself crying at TV adverts, the news, a sad section of a novel, watching my kids play at the beach, grooming the dog, listening to my husband sing in the shower, the trauma of a full supermarket shop, looking at my beautiful shoes I can’t imagine I’ll ever fit or wear again, and literally spilt milk.  It’s bordering on the ridiculous. 

It also compels me to ponder motherhood, and what kind of mother will I be to this child.

There are many different parenting styles, and every mother is different (Thankfully! Imagine if all mothers were like Kris Jenner or Courtney Love).

I’ve heard it said many times that there isn’t a manual for how to raise a child.  Amazon might offer a slightly different view on that assertion – they currently have 99,055 books listed under Parenting… with 15,329 just on Early Childhood Parenting.  So there are plenty of manuals but I’m relatively confident that none offer 100% guarantee of success.

It strikes me that there are two key different mothers in the world… those that aim to be fair and a friend, and those who are always firm and therefore potentially a foe.  I’m aiming to strike a balance somewhere on that scale.  I want to be inspiring, motivating and passionate.  I want to teach our baby proper values and morals, so they grow up intuitively knowing right from wrong.  I want them to aspire to be anything they want to be and to appreciate the need to work hard to achieve it. 

Speaking of work, I’ve been asked by numerous friends (and a handful of nosy strangers) when I plan on returning to work after the baby is born.  This seems to be a critical determinant in classifying what kind of mother you are – those that ‘go back to work’ and those that ‘stay at home’ to raise a child.  Seriously people - both of these things are work!  I watch my ‘at home’ friends and am in awe at their patience, tenacity, selflessness and attitude.  Returning to the office and leaving someone else to take care of the baby would be a much easier option for many.  I’m going to wait and see how things go – for once in my over-planned and structured life, I’m going to wing it! 

Stand and Deliver

Week 37: My girth has amassed to 130cm.  That’s just over 50 inches or 4 foot in olden speak.

That’s an acceptable height for a small pony, the recognised shoulder height for a fully grown adult polar bear, and the length of a teenage Golden Tree snake.

It’s also just a little ridiculous… my bikini modelling days are officially over.

As we count down the last few weeks to D-Day (cue Europe/Final Countdown), Mr Shoe and I are finalising preparations and have left the three trickiest tasks till last.  Namely; baby names, birth plan and figuring out the damn baby capsule car seat manacle beast with 100 straps and buttons and badly-translated-into-English instructions.

As my waistline has expanded, my patience and brainpower has diminished with an equal and opposite force (thanks Newton, you were definitely on to something there), so I’m just dealing with one thing at a time.

So today is ‘Birth Plan’ day.   Even the title of this task is slightly oxymoronic, as every single article or book I have read on the subject starts by saying that your Birth Plan will likely go flying out the window so don’t get too upset if things don’t happen as you expect.

Now for someone who lives and breathes plans, this is a hard pill to swallow.  I had a checklist for the runsheet for the event plan for our wedding.  I plan time to create plans.  I have Gantt charts to monitor our family activities and I am genetically programmed to refute ‘winging it’… or (heaven forbid!) ‘going with the flow’.

Hence my dilemma.  I have been asked by a wise woman whom I am trusting to bring my baby into the world to create a ‘plan’ for a situation that isn’t likely to eventuate.  And, I quote, “not to get to focused on the details”.  This is like telling Lydia Ko not to worry about aiming for the little flag at the end of the green bit, or suggesting to Greg Murphy that he lets the other cars pass him as they’ll all end up back at the Pit Lane together eventually. 

To help with the task at hand, we have been provided with a series of leading questions that we are supposed to discuss and note our preferences. 

My preference is to unexpectedly sneeze, look down, and have a clean, perfect, dressed and sleeping baby resting between my knees.  Likelihood = zero.

So on to some of the questions... 

What would you like to do in labour?

Answer – not be in bloody labour.  Sitting by a pool somewhere drinking cocktails is apparently not an acceptable response.  Nor was Mr Shoe’s answer of ‘sit at home watching the cricket and have a beer’.   Apparently we should include things like ‘relax by listening to music’ but we could never agree on what to play and seriously, what child wants to be born to a soundtrack of 80s pop mixed with Green Day and Metallica. 

We’ll try another question.

Who will catch the baby?

This one we both agreed upon quite easily.  Dan Carter.  Israel Dagg might have better hands under the high ball, but if any All Black is going to be up close and personal with my girl-bits, then it’s obviously got to be Dan.  And bonus – he’s in Taupō at the moment so I’m sure we can arrange that.

Nailed it, so let’s try another.

Do you want to be mobile for as long as possible?

At this juncture, I had to seek clarification.  Sadly, mobile does not refer to access to my smartphone or tablet so I can keep up with my emails.  Such things are frowned upon in the starched and bleached environs of the maternity ward.  Mobile means active – walking around, bouncing on a swiss ball, etc.  It sounds like they’re sneakily trying to introduce an exercise regime into an otherwise already challenging period of my life, but we’ll go with it for now.

Last one before I need to rest and unashamedly eat cake for my 2^nd breakfast (hey, if it’s good enough for Hobbits, it’s good enough for me)…

Do you want to birth in the water?

So I don’t swim.  I splash around the fringes and have been known to snorkel once or twice when on a tropical island fuelled by fruity cocktails.  But I’m open to try anything and have done some homework.  Apparently the warm water is very relaxing and the weightlessness of labouring in water can be smoothing for some.  Others hate it.  So that doesn’t actually help much.  Mr Shoe was equally perplexed by this one.  His biggest concern (and rightly so) was what happens to the baby after it is ejected into a tub of stale water and unmentionable bodily fluids.  But our minds have been put at ease by our wise and seasoned midwife… “it’s just like fishing but with a handline”, she says.  “I’ll just grab hold of the cord and we’ll reel it in!”

On that note, I'm off to find some cake and ponder whether we want to keep the Placenta (mind immediately wanders to Tom Cruise and Scientology) and what we want to do in 'unexpected situations'... do they not realise that type of question will induce early labour!?!?

PS - If you possess a robust constitution, you can read about Tom's placenta-eating habits here.

Having a Paddy...

This week, I decided it was time to start preparing my hospital bag.  Yes, I'm not due for a few weeks yet but I just can't break years of anal-retentiveness and must be prepared. Well in advance.  With a list.

But where to start.  Having had a home-birth with my daughter and limited hospital experiences, I was at a loss.  So I decided to follow the wise advice of my 6 year old, and 'just google it'.

Gosh.  What a revelation.

I am glad my husband has a station wagon - as this is going to be one rather large bag. Maybe a small suitcase.  Who are we kidding - I'm getting the international travel sized monster suitcase on wheels out for this.

Must haves include cheap underwear (seriously, they used the word cheap!), unscented body lotion and a mesh sponge.  I do not own any of these 3 items (and never plan to). What was most alarming was the order of the list - of the 20 'Must Haves for Mum' a digital camera with spare batteries was first, and a copy of the birth plan was last.  I'm not quite sure that I concur with those priorities.

The 'Must Haves for Baby' list is equally riveting reading... the 13 far more reasonable items include clothes, socks, and a going-home outfit.  But no nappies...  

Then we get to the 'Nice to Have' section which includes some new personal favourites such as 'a razor in case you feel like shaving' and a Bikini.  Nice to have when packing for a weekend at the beach - YES, nice to have whilst squeezing a watermelon sized human out your veejayjay - NO.

So now that I have my list I've been able to start collating the various items, and of course use the list as a very flimsy excuse for more shopping.  Which, to be fair, is about the only activity I am still able to undertake with any guarantee of success.

At the local supermarket I purchased 3 packets of maternity pads.  

[Men Warning (gosh - I could go anywhere with that headline - note to self for future blog topic): You might want to skip the next couple of paragraphs as it will completely destroy the mystery that is feminine hygiene.]

The first little shock was that I had to crouch down and discreetly snatch the pads from the bottom shelf.  Now, I understand retail display tactics - you put your biggest sellers with the highest margins front and centre.  But seriously, if you are needing to purchase maternity pads, chances are your bladder control isn't at its peak.  So squatting in the middle of a busy supermarket aisle (accompanied by the requisite grunting) is not ideal. I'm confident that the Head Merchandiser for Countdown will read this blog and take some action.  

The second little shock is that they are huge.  Actually, beyond huge.  They are monstrous.  To be precise, 30 cm long x 10 cm wide x 2cm deep (yes I did get the ruler out and measure).  They are bigger than my shoes.  Up until this point, I had been very relaxed about the whole giving-birth thing, but now I'm freaking out due to the size of the pads. How many litres of blood are we expecting here?  Google tells me that I can expect to go through between 30 and 40 of these giant absorbent planks in the first two weeks.  Bloody hell (literally!).

[Men - you can rejoin us now].

So in pondering the enormity of the product, I have come up with five alternative uses for Maternity Pads;

1.  Shin Pads.  Whether it be cricket, soccer or hockey, these puppies will cushion your shins and stop the bruising... and with their unique self-adhesive backing you can even use them without the obligatory knee-length socks.

2.  Chemical Spill Cleanups.  With all this kerfuffle over deep sea oil drilling, I have the obvious solution.  A floating ring of pads around each of the drilling rigs will be sure to soak up any escaping oil.  And at less than $5 a packet, that has to be cheaper than the traditional methods.  

3.  Gumboot Liners.  Nothing worse than getting damp feet at your annual gumboot outing (also known as "visiting the Fieldays to demonstrate you're a 'real' kiwi").  Stuff one of these beauties into each of your Red Bands and not only will they absorb the sneaky water that finds its way in through the teeny crack you didn't realise was in your left boot, but they will also provide some lovely cushioning as you trudge through the mud.

4.  Building Insulation.  A disclaimer - I haven't checked fire retardancy of the product. However, logic would say that maternity pads would be awesome insulators.  Stick 'em to the outside of your hot water cylinder.  Wrap them around your pipes.  Climb under the house and adhere them to the underside of your floor.  The options are virtually endless.

5.  Teenage Baby Repellent.  There is much dialogue about how to reduce unwanted teenage pregnancy in NZ (see footnote).  I think compulsory maternity pad wearing is worthy of trial.  Simple enough - all young teenage women must purchase and then wear said product. Ideally, the wearing aspect would be undertaken whilst on every date.  Let's see how far things progress when that little treasure is discovered.

But for now, it's back to the Hospital Bag List for me... maybe I'll go bikini shopping just to scare the salespeople...

FOOTNOTE: 

In the early 21st century New Zealand had one of the highest rates of teenage births of the high-income countries in the OECD. The rate of births for women aged 15–19 years was 28.4 per 1,000 women in this age group, exceeded only by the US (41.9 per 1,000). The New Zealand rate was similar to the rate for the United Kingdom (26.1).

Rates of births to younger women were lowest in Switzerland, Japan, the Netherlands, Sweden and Denmark. These countries all had rates of six per 1,000 or less, despite reported youthful sexual experience in Scandinavian countries.

While the rate of teenage pregnancy is high in New Zealand relative to other OECD countries, the percentage of all births that are to women under 20 years old has dropped dramatically since the 1970s.

Source: UNICEF, Child poverty in perspective: an overview of child well-being in rich countries. Innocenti report card 7. Florence: UNICEF Innocenti Research Centre, 2007. 

Welcome to Middle Life...

In 14 days I shall turn forty.  I have successfully reached middle age. 

Some optimistic folk (you know the type, the ones always sharing twee motivational messages they've pilfered from someone else on Facebook) would say it’s the beginning of an exciting new chapter in my life.

Meh.

I think it’s the zero.  Not that I have anything against zero but it seems to trigger some sort of repressed fear.  It makes me a bit anxious.  I’d be happier to be 41 – that’s not a significant milestone birthday that forces one to reflect.

I struggled with 30 too.  In my mind, I was about 23 whilst in reality it was ‘time to grow up’.   So I've spent the last decade growing up.  Got married (actually, did that twice as I’m an over-achiever), bought a house, started a business, built a solid professional reputation, traveled to experience other cultures, and gave to those less fortunate than me.  I think I’m probably doing ok on the grown-up scale.   A solid pass mark anyway.

But now it’s time for another decade.   Is this one about slowing down? Speeding up?  Trying harder or trying less?  Live to work or work to live?  Survive or thrive?

The first hurdle of this new middle aged era is the imminent arrival of ‘The Baby’.  (It requires capital letters as for some strange as-yet-unexplained reason, humankind elevates a foetus to a status deserving of its own hashtag.)

I am pregnant.  At the time I blow-out all those damn candles I’ll be 36 weeks along the delightful journey that is pregnancy.

Times have certainly changed.  Back in ’74, the average age for a first time mother was 24 years.  It’s now closer to 31.  Older mothers are on a trendline that continues to extend, in part due to medical intervention and in part due to lifestyle choices.

As a young child, I had a school friend who had an ‘older mother’.  In hindsight, I’m thinking she may have been in her early 40’s.  Definitely no older.  The other mothers used to look at her with pity that bordered on scorn.  I remember her having greying hair and wise eyes.  My friend never said she was embarrassed by her noticeably older Mum, but I always felt that she was acutely aware that her family dynamic was somehow different. 

I too will be an older mother, but statistically I’m still within the bell curve and hopefully our child won’t feel ostracised because of my age (I make no promises about our child not being ostracised due to my inappropriate behaviour or fashion sense however).

So far, pregnancy has been great.  I've loved every second of it.  Said no one.  Ever.  I've lost my ankles, my memory, and my bladder control.  Oh the glamour.  I’ve gained 14 kilos and I caught myself grunting in public last week.  Actually audibly grunting.  I've been voluntarily wearing the brown shoes because they 'comfortable' (oh the shame!).  The 20 weeks of morning sickness (the ultimate misnomer by the way) just flew by, and I’m not missing sipping on a refreshingly chilled Pinot Gris on a balmy summer evening at all.  My super-sized granny knickers are sexy yet comfortable.  And going to bed at 8pm in order to then get up four times a night to pee is excellent. 

My husband has been trying very hard to do the right things.  If only my befuddled mind could establish what the right things are, I’m sure he’d be finding it a whole lot easier.  He has been diligently reading up on various pregnancy / birth books and has built numerous items of nursery furniture in anticipation of the big arrival.  He asks me 20 times a day if I’m ok and if I need anything.  It really is rather a selfish condition, this pregnancy lark.  If I could share it with him, I would.

The single biggest revelation from my confinement (I love that term - obviously relevant and descriptive in 1814, but in 2014 I am barely confined to my office chair, let alone the boudoir) is the desire of random strangers to caress my body.  I feel a little like a pole-dancer except I’m not getting wads of cash shoved into my undies.  It truly is a phenomenon to behold.  People who usually wouldn’t even say hello suddenly feel at liberty to ask a series of personal and private questions accompanied by a rub of my belly. 

"Yes, I’m having a baby.  Yes, it’s due in February.  Yes, I am rather big - thanks for commenting.  No, we don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl but we’re hoping it’s one or the other.  No, we’re not just saying that, we are having a ‘surprise’ like people did in the old days.  Yes, we obviously had sex to make the baby.  No, I can’t remember the exact date, time or position.  No, it wasn't planned, I was probably drunk.   No, you can’t rub my tummy.  Oh too late, you have already totally invaded my personal space and are doing it anyway.   Now piss off before I punch you in the face and blame it on hormones."

As well as unrequited physical attention, I've also been lucky to receive wise words from the many and varied women in my life who randomly impart such gems like ‘I had an extended forceps delivery with my second, ripped me to bits and I had to have reconstructive surgery to rebuild my vagina.  Took a year to get it looking normal again.’  Excellent.  Just the topic for Christmas Luncheon.   

Now don’t get me wrong.  I know how absolutely blessed we are to be with child.  We are lucky to have conceived without medical intervention.  I have had a moderately normal pregnancy with only the standard array of discomforts and issues to attend to.  There are many I know who are desperate to have a baby and I remind myself of that everyday.   We are thankful and we are fortunate. 

I am also acutely aware that I will never be considered a MILF.  My milkshake will not bring the boys to the yard.  My forties will not be spent travelling the world, building a global corporate empire, driving a sportscar or living in the house of my dreams.  Instead it will be nappies, playdates, practical shoes and basic survival.  Doing what is arguably the most important job in the world. 

Not sure I’d want it any other way.