Is it just me, or did it all used to be a lot easier? I'm sure in the folklore of familial heritage when someone wanted to have a baby, they simply closed their eyes, thought of their respective country and hey presto, nine months later they were up to their armpits in interfering mother-in-laws, sore nipples and buckets of rancid nappies.
Nowadays it seems so much more complicated. While me and my peers rode on the shoulders of our forbearing feminist barrier-breakers, we travelled the world, climbed the corporate ladder and took our rightful place on a bar stool. As we come down from those dizzying heights though, we find ourselves struggling not only to cope with pregnancy and parenting at the tail end of our body's best breeding window, we find ourselves struggling to cope with becoming pregnant at all.
I'm one of the new feminist statistics - pregnant at 40, exhaustingly extolling the virtues of late parenthood as I bring up two toddlers with no surrounding extended family, while secretly wishing I was actually ten years younger (as opposed to just looking ten years younger!) And I play perfectly into the fearful facts of delayed reproduction - three miscarriages in six pregnancies, my grief and loss hidden behind the awful commonness of my experiences. For it is not just me. All around me my peers - from my closest buddies, to my wider network of friends and acquaintances, we feminists are still fighting for our place in society - but this time, our place as mothers.
Infertility. Miscarriage. Chromosomal issues. Unexplained problems. A few years ago it would all have been about cross-stitched gifts and congratualtions, now it seems more about crossed fingers and commiserations. And so as I navigate the current wave of friend's frustrations and disappointments (while keeping quiet about my own little window of wonder), it was a super shock when I heard recently about a friend's good news. I almost burst with delight that someone else would be finally sharing the joy I feel right now. Nature's rainbow amid the cloudy skies. It shocked me how rare it has become.
And although I often think about what would have been if I had started my family earlier, thoughts pushed aside as I account for every year of travelling, career building, party pleasing as ones I would not have given up, will I be telling my girls to try for families earlier? Yes, I think I will. And not just because if they have inherited my dodgy X chromosome they too will be susceptable to a much greater risk of miscarriage, but because simply I would wish on them the rainbow, and not the clouds. And as I read in today's paper that doctors have now devised a test that could tell young women the precise age at which they will no longer be able to have children, perhaps the next generation can ride on our shoulders as well as the shoulders of our predecessors, and from those dizzying heights finally make the choices they need to make to have fulfilled and happy lives.
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
40 and fabulous - Part 1
Yes, it's been quite a week. An extra heartbeat and an extra decade - I've finally left my 30's behind. I don't actually mind getting older, and despite what we're going through at the moment, I believe my life is pretty amazing. So that is what I'm going to focus on. Here is Part 1 of my Fabulous 40 Things I Love about Life (in no particular order).
1. The smell of my husband's skin, especially on his neck
2. The sound of Poppy's laughter, and Daisy's giggles
3. The feel of the sun on my face
4. The way the first sip of Gin & Tonic tastes after a long day
5. The way I feel when I write something good (like standing on top of a mountain)
6. Standing on top of a mountain
7. The smell of M&S chocolate chip cookies as they are taken out of the oven
8. The possibilities of life
9. The purr of my cat at my ear
10. Baking
11. Looking at my babies in the dead of the night, their faces perfect in sleep
12. The smell of bread
13. The surprising sound of birdsong when I realise winter is over
14. The smell of tropical sea
15. The memories, so many, so varied, so intrinsic
16. The smell of the pages of a new book (and even better, the smell of an old book)
17. My mum
18. My girls, my oh so funny, smart, loving, beautiful, astonishing, wondrous girls
19. My girlfriends, without whom life would be a mere shadow of what it is
20. Colour coding, lists, and planning - I'm salivating at the mere thought of it.
I could go on, but this burst of bustling energy is slowly fizzling out as the fog of nausea returns, like a curtain announcing the end of the play. Time to retire until they open again. I might just drag my forty year old ass upstairs and look at my girls as they sleep. Always good to do something we love.
1. The smell of my husband's skin, especially on his neck
2. The sound of Poppy's laughter, and Daisy's giggles
3. The feel of the sun on my face
4. The way the first sip of Gin & Tonic tastes after a long day
5. The way I feel when I write something good (like standing on top of a mountain)
6. Standing on top of a mountain
7. The smell of M&S chocolate chip cookies as they are taken out of the oven
8. The possibilities of life
9. The purr of my cat at my ear
10. Baking
11. Looking at my babies in the dead of the night, their faces perfect in sleep
12. The smell of bread
13. The surprising sound of birdsong when I realise winter is over
14. The smell of tropical sea
15. The memories, so many, so varied, so intrinsic
16. The smell of the pages of a new book (and even better, the smell of an old book)
17. My mum
18. My girls, my oh so funny, smart, loving, beautiful, astonishing, wondrous girls
19. My girlfriends, without whom life would be a mere shadow of what it is
20. Colour coding, lists, and planning - I'm salivating at the mere thought of it.
I could go on, but this burst of bustling energy is slowly fizzling out as the fog of nausea returns, like a curtain announcing the end of the play. Time to retire until they open again. I might just drag my forty year old ass upstairs and look at my girls as they sleep. Always good to do something we love.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
First hurdle
A heartbeat. A glorious, furious, tiny, fragile little heartbeat. We have reached 8 weeks (is it only 8 weeks?? I feel I've been pregnant for 8 months!) and our early scan showed a beautiful beating baby. I know it's still so early. I know we have a long way to go before I can breath a sigh of relief (about 18 years I suspect) but it's a start. A baby step. A baby heartbeat.
And while a little heartbeat wildly beats alongside mine, my other wild hearts continue to run riot amid my nausea fog. Today it was my make-up drawer. The sight of my Benefit liquid rouge spilt all over my bedroom, mixed madly with my mascara and nailvarnish would normally have me hitting the roof. But today, I sat on the floor, and laughed. A hearty, heartbeating laugh.
And while a little heartbeat wildly beats alongside mine, my other wild hearts continue to run riot amid my nausea fog. Today it was my make-up drawer. The sight of my Benefit liquid rouge spilt all over my bedroom, mixed madly with my mascara and nailvarnish would normally have me hitting the roof. But today, I sat on the floor, and laughed. A hearty, heartbeating laugh.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Wild at Heart
I've been to the dark side - and emersed myself in some of the realities I might have to face over the coming weeks and months. But I didn't like it there, so didn't dwell, deciding for now that it is better for me, the girls and my baby to focus on the positive and take this rocky road one step at a time.
I'm having a good hour, so I've rushed to the laptop. (I should probably be rushing to do the ironing, hoovering, stocking the freezer and all those other neglected jobs but hey, I'm not feeling THAT well). Despite this being my 6th pregnancy, I had STILL forgotten how debilitating the tiredness is and how devastating the nausea. I must lie on the floor at least 6 hours a day, and then go to bed at 8pm. The girls have taken to talking to me with their heads tilted to the side, since they rarely get me in a position where they have to look up to me anymore. I groan a lot too. Not sure it's as affective as the ginger tea, but I do it all the same. And as I lounge (groaning) on the sofa, the girls are running a little wild. Yesterday, as I hugged the floor they floated into the kitchen. How much harm could they do? Quite a lot it seems. They decided to do the washing up (sad indictment of my lack of energy these day that my four and two year olds feel they need to take things into their own hands....) I finally dragged myself into the kitchen at the sound of shattering glass.... it looked like the early stages of the sinking of the Titanic, everything within a little arm's radius of the sink had been submerged in suds - including my radio.
Later, after I'd cleared up, I let them go upstairs to dress up, thinking "I'll just lie down...." When I eventually called them for dinner, I misinterpreted their sheepish grins - their outfits were a tad Vivienne Westwood. It was only when I dragged them upstairs for bed almost dead on my feet I discovered their secret. Their floor had disappeared. Completely. In it's place was a sea of clothes. Every single item of clothing from their two chest of drawers, their wardwrobe, their bedding, the (extremely full) laundry basket and anything else they could get their hands on. It was almost too tempting to just lie down on it, but I resisted and it took me 45 minutes to refold and put everything away. My pregnancy fog clouded my anger, and I had to even suppress a smile.
It's like they've been let off the leash, their imagination no longer constrained by my boundaries and presence. My good hour is up, I feel the wall of nausea wrap itself around me so I am off to lie (groaning) on the sofa. And they can run a little wild. I'd say it's good for us all.
I'm having a good hour, so I've rushed to the laptop. (I should probably be rushing to do the ironing, hoovering, stocking the freezer and all those other neglected jobs but hey, I'm not feeling THAT well). Despite this being my 6th pregnancy, I had STILL forgotten how debilitating the tiredness is and how devastating the nausea. I must lie on the floor at least 6 hours a day, and then go to bed at 8pm. The girls have taken to talking to me with their heads tilted to the side, since they rarely get me in a position where they have to look up to me anymore. I groan a lot too. Not sure it's as affective as the ginger tea, but I do it all the same. And as I lounge (groaning) on the sofa, the girls are running a little wild. Yesterday, as I hugged the floor they floated into the kitchen. How much harm could they do? Quite a lot it seems. They decided to do the washing up (sad indictment of my lack of energy these day that my four and two year olds feel they need to take things into their own hands....) I finally dragged myself into the kitchen at the sound of shattering glass.... it looked like the early stages of the sinking of the Titanic, everything within a little arm's radius of the sink had been submerged in suds - including my radio.
Later, after I'd cleared up, I let them go upstairs to dress up, thinking "I'll just lie down...." When I eventually called them for dinner, I misinterpreted their sheepish grins - their outfits were a tad Vivienne Westwood. It was only when I dragged them upstairs for bed almost dead on my feet I discovered their secret. Their floor had disappeared. Completely. In it's place was a sea of clothes. Every single item of clothing from their two chest of drawers, their wardwrobe, their bedding, the (extremely full) laundry basket and anything else they could get their hands on. It was almost too tempting to just lie down on it, but I resisted and it took me 45 minutes to refold and put everything away. My pregnancy fog clouded my anger, and I had to even suppress a smile.
It's like they've been let off the leash, their imagination no longer constrained by my boundaries and presence. My good hour is up, I feel the wall of nausea wrap itself around me so I am off to lie (groaning) on the sofa. And they can run a little wild. I'd say it's good for us all.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Born Again
So my husband has finally persuaded me to have another baby. That sounds like I don’t want one – I do. I really do – when I look into the future and see a tea table full of chatter and stories, I desperately do. When I look at newborn babies, I desperately do. It’s just the thought of taking 20 steps back down the ladder of independence. It’s just the thought of being pregnant exhausted and sick and looking after two children under three. It’s just the thought that all my hard fought writing time will evaporate in a puff of epidural.
But, my ‘I desperately do’ outweighs my ‘it’s just the thought that…’. And so I’ve made a decision. Whatever happens over the coming months, if I am blessed with a successful pregnancy, then I am determined to not fight, not resent, and not pout, but to enjoy the last time I do this. I will write for the rest of my life. I will have ‘me time’ again at some point. But I won’t nurture a baby again and I don’t think I did justice to my first two pregnancies. The first was raw and terrifying, all shock and awe that left me reeling with post-traumatic stress. The second was hurried and harried, a penance to pay as quickly as possible, my first smile in nine months the morning my daughter was born.
I remember a few weeks into my first pregnancy, blue lines zigzagged across my bludgeoning breasts. A chaotic map of mammary ducts and I realised – a little terrified – that my body was getting ready without me. My body was rearranging itself and leaving my head behind. Even after Daisy was born, my brain never quite caught up with my body’s transformation from single focus to multi faceted machine. I would stare at her, mesmerised and wonder where she came from. I was quite a creative person I thought. I’d even knitted a few choice jumpers (albeit the sort one would only wear on a remote west of Ireland island). But this perfect piece of engineering? This angelic arrival? How could I possibly have made her? And so I never fully accepted – believed – I was actually going to have a real baby. That actually breathed and cried. An actual person. The fact that stored neatly (or not so neatly as it transpired) behind my puzzled belly button was another human being – that I was making – seemed way beyond my imaginative capability.
“Why are you so tired?” my husband would stupidly ask.
“I’m making eyelashes today” I would announce majestically from my horizontal position on the sofa. “Tricky work those eyelashes.”
Or toenails. Or fingers. But despite my giggles at such maternal magic, I never quite believed that was what I was actually doing, despite the trillions of books and websites I was devouring along with my folic acid and banana fruit smoothies. Every new hour, every new symptom was analysed. I poured over the sections that listed the possible side effects of each trimester, gleefully ticking the horror list of swelling ankles, heart burn, bleeding gums like some test I had to pass. I didn’t have varicose veins. What was wrong with me? Was I not doing it right? Where were the damn piles? Ah great, indigestion. Damn, it hurts.
I was too busy being worried about the bad bits to be happy about the good bits. And of course my colour coded neatly typed birth plan merely made a mockery of my final tenuous grasp at control. The moment the heart monitor jabbed it’s distress call, I was no longer in any sort of control as my baby was ripped from my body before I could even say “I’m pushing!”.
Still doey eyed and lovesick, I got pregnant again before my baby’s first birthday. Quite a bit before. And then my husband got a job overseas. There was no ‘let’s put this baby back in the jar until a more suitable time’. He went, I stayed and struggled with a wilful toddler, pregnant and pouting at the unfairness of it all, my second confinement like a prison sentence. I love my daughter dearly but let’s face it. Guantanimo Bay would be a lot more successful if they swapped water boarding for toddler torture – locking inmates up with a toddler 24 hours a day – they’d confess to anything to get free! There was no escape, no reprieve and certainly no time to nurture my pregnancy. I had backache, piles (oh good, got them this time), heartburn and chronic tiredness. More purgatory than pregnancy. My husband came home two weeks before Poppy was born and I had no time to blink before we clutched our hearts in the rollercoaster ride of two under two.
And so now I approach my third. I say my third, but it is really my fourth. Sadly my third didn’t make it, forever a butterfly in my garden of daisies and poppies. Another reason why this one has to count.
I know now to appreciate my miracle. I know now that worrying won’t change the outcome. I know now to love every minute, every change, every blue zigzag, and every careless kick. This will be my last, and in a way, my first. There will be no shock, just awe. I will languish in the lavishness of my belly, resting my hands on top, knowing that afterwards for a while, maybe forever, I will go to rest my hands on my mound and feel disappointed there is none. The private pride of knowing the secret within me, the ridiculous bond I will have with them, unknown but loved entirely already, so that when they emerge it’s like they’ve always been there. To clutch my cleavage and sashay my voluptuous glory down the street, goddess, magical, majestic.
It may not be a perfect pregnancy. There may be pain, and scares and exhaustion. But it will be a perfect pregnancy because it is a miracle. A magical maternity miracle, and one I intend to enjoy.
But, my ‘I desperately do’ outweighs my ‘it’s just the thought that…’. And so I’ve made a decision. Whatever happens over the coming months, if I am blessed with a successful pregnancy, then I am determined to not fight, not resent, and not pout, but to enjoy the last time I do this. I will write for the rest of my life. I will have ‘me time’ again at some point. But I won’t nurture a baby again and I don’t think I did justice to my first two pregnancies. The first was raw and terrifying, all shock and awe that left me reeling with post-traumatic stress. The second was hurried and harried, a penance to pay as quickly as possible, my first smile in nine months the morning my daughter was born.
I remember a few weeks into my first pregnancy, blue lines zigzagged across my bludgeoning breasts. A chaotic map of mammary ducts and I realised – a little terrified – that my body was getting ready without me. My body was rearranging itself and leaving my head behind. Even after Daisy was born, my brain never quite caught up with my body’s transformation from single focus to multi faceted machine. I would stare at her, mesmerised and wonder where she came from. I was quite a creative person I thought. I’d even knitted a few choice jumpers (albeit the sort one would only wear on a remote west of Ireland island). But this perfect piece of engineering? This angelic arrival? How could I possibly have made her? And so I never fully accepted – believed – I was actually going to have a real baby. That actually breathed and cried. An actual person. The fact that stored neatly (or not so neatly as it transpired) behind my puzzled belly button was another human being – that I was making – seemed way beyond my imaginative capability.
“Why are you so tired?” my husband would stupidly ask.
“I’m making eyelashes today” I would announce majestically from my horizontal position on the sofa. “Tricky work those eyelashes.”
Or toenails. Or fingers. But despite my giggles at such maternal magic, I never quite believed that was what I was actually doing, despite the trillions of books and websites I was devouring along with my folic acid and banana fruit smoothies. Every new hour, every new symptom was analysed. I poured over the sections that listed the possible side effects of each trimester, gleefully ticking the horror list of swelling ankles, heart burn, bleeding gums like some test I had to pass. I didn’t have varicose veins. What was wrong with me? Was I not doing it right? Where were the damn piles? Ah great, indigestion. Damn, it hurts.
I was too busy being worried about the bad bits to be happy about the good bits. And of course my colour coded neatly typed birth plan merely made a mockery of my final tenuous grasp at control. The moment the heart monitor jabbed it’s distress call, I was no longer in any sort of control as my baby was ripped from my body before I could even say “I’m pushing!”.
Still doey eyed and lovesick, I got pregnant again before my baby’s first birthday. Quite a bit before. And then my husband got a job overseas. There was no ‘let’s put this baby back in the jar until a more suitable time’. He went, I stayed and struggled with a wilful toddler, pregnant and pouting at the unfairness of it all, my second confinement like a prison sentence. I love my daughter dearly but let’s face it. Guantanimo Bay would be a lot more successful if they swapped water boarding for toddler torture – locking inmates up with a toddler 24 hours a day – they’d confess to anything to get free! There was no escape, no reprieve and certainly no time to nurture my pregnancy. I had backache, piles (oh good, got them this time), heartburn and chronic tiredness. More purgatory than pregnancy. My husband came home two weeks before Poppy was born and I had no time to blink before we clutched our hearts in the rollercoaster ride of two under two.
And so now I approach my third. I say my third, but it is really my fourth. Sadly my third didn’t make it, forever a butterfly in my garden of daisies and poppies. Another reason why this one has to count.
I know now to appreciate my miracle. I know now that worrying won’t change the outcome. I know now to love every minute, every change, every blue zigzag, and every careless kick. This will be my last, and in a way, my first. There will be no shock, just awe. I will languish in the lavishness of my belly, resting my hands on top, knowing that afterwards for a while, maybe forever, I will go to rest my hands on my mound and feel disappointed there is none. The private pride of knowing the secret within me, the ridiculous bond I will have with them, unknown but loved entirely already, so that when they emerge it’s like they’ve always been there. To clutch my cleavage and sashay my voluptuous glory down the street, goddess, magical, majestic.
It may not be a perfect pregnancy. There may be pain, and scares and exhaustion. But it will be a perfect pregnancy because it is a miracle. A magical maternity miracle, and one I intend to enjoy.
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