tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53069157738930105242024-03-14T02:44:34.461-07:00Babying MyselfIn my early 30s. Not broody yet, but feeling I should probably get round to it.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-70535043485611935432012-04-16T13:07:00.000-07:002012-04-16T13:07:39.316-07:00Sick listI thought the sickness had passed. I was mostly right. Until Friday when I decided that the very thing would be to eat most of a large packet of KP dry roasted peanuts. In retrospect, this wasn't one of my better ideas.<br />
<br />
I can now categorically state though, that throwing up dry roasted peanuts is an awful lot like eating peanut butter in reverse.<br />
<br />
Here are my top five foodstuffs I don't recommend throwing up:<br />
<br />
5. Peanuts. See above.<br />
<br />
4. Spaghetti Bolognese. Wraps itself around your tonsils.<br />
<br />
3. Tomato juice. Looks like you're vomiting blood.<br />
<br />
2. Milk. Comes out in gross lumps and tastes like death in reverse.<br />
<br />
1. Ginger beer. Stings like fuck when it comes out of your nose.<br />
<br />
Hope this helps.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-18034901682736503902012-04-03T07:13:00.000-07:002012-04-03T07:13:15.058-07:00Doctor, doctor... I can't stop making jokesSo the nausea and sickness is finally easing off. Yay! I haven't been sick for a couple of weeks now, though I sometimes feel a bit icky, especially when I've just got up.<br />
<br />
Today I had an appointment with the consultant, as I have a minor medical condition (hypermobility) that can interfere with pain relief during labour.<br />
<br />
"It shouldn't be a problem," she said. "We just need to make sure that when you're in labour, the midwives don't take advantage of your hypermobility to put you in positions that put stress on your joints."<br />
<br />
"OK," I said.<br />
<br />
"For example," she continued, "we wouldn't want you to have your legs wide open - one over here and one over here."<br />
<br />
"No," I mused. "That's how I got into this trouble in the first place."Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-46567554314712632472012-03-27T13:25:00.000-07:002012-03-27T13:25:38.568-07:00If your name's not down...So I'm currently registered at Whipps Cross hospital in Leytonstone. When the traffic is good, it's about a 15 minute drive from our house. When the traffic is bad, it can be an hour. Hey ho, I guess that's London.<br />
<br />
We actually have a nearer hospital - King George's. But my GP was reluctant to refer me there, because when they get full, they overspill to Romford, which has a bit of a crap history of accidentally <a href="http://news.sky.com/home/uk-news/article/16016989" target="_blank">killing quite a lot of women</a> in labour.<br />
<br />
So, as I've hardly been wowed so far by Whipps Cross, I thought the most sensible thing to do would to be to do a tour of both of them. I'm already booked in with Whipps Cross, so I called King George's this morning.<br />
<br />
"Hello," I said. "I'd like to book a tour of your maternity wards."<br />
<br />
"Are you a patient here?" the member of staff asked.<br />
<br />
"No, not yet, but I might be interested in registering," I said.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry," she replied, "but our tours are only for patients who are registered with us."<br />
<br />
"But I would like to see the facilities <em>before</em> deciding if I'd like to become a patient or not," I reasoned.<br />
<br />
"You can do our virtual tour online," she said.<br />
<br />"Yes," I said through gritted teeth, "but I'd like to have the opportunity to ask questions and to see what it's really like rather than just a series of photos."<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, we don't do that."<br />
<br />
"So you're telling me," I argued, losing my temper just a tiny bit, "that although you are my nearest hospital, that I live in your borough and pay taxes... you're telling me I'm forbidden from entering this public building to see facilities I might want to use?"<br />
<br />
"Let me get a manager," she said.<br />
<br />
And she did. The manager also tried to dissuade me, explaining they didn't have any tours available for "non-patients" for ages (mid-April as it turns out), but she did at least (albeit reluctantly) book me on a tour.<br />
<br />
I'm not impressed with either hospital at the moment. Whipps Cross has a switchboard system meaning you need to get through to main reception before dialling your extension. For the last three days, this switchboard has been engaged constantly. I don't mean occasionally. I mean it is <em>literally</em> impossible to speak to anyone at the hospital because there are no direct dial numbers and the switchboard is jammed.<br />
<br />
When I finally got through at 4.57 p.m. I got a two-minute recorded message telling me which wards were closed owing to norovirus (great), and then found out all the maternity staff had clocked off early.<br />
<br />
Great.<br />
<br />
Home birth, anyone?Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-42857961013620867832012-03-20T13:11:00.000-07:002012-03-27T13:12:10.500-07:00Online and on edge<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I find the pregnancy forums a mixed bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On one hand, it’s an absolutely lifesaver to be able to turn my laptop on, ask a question about a strange symptom and have reassurance from others in the same situation within minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone is very kind and supportive to each other, and on the particular forum I visit, there doesn’t seem to be too much scaremongering (“Oh, you ate a piece of brie?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve probably killed your baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d go to A&E to be on the safe side.”)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the other hand, it’s a bit... odd.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">First of all, there’s the lingo to get to grips with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No-one talks about their husband, their partner, their children, it’s all DH, DS, DD (which apparently stand for Dear Husband, Dear Son, Dear Daughter – vom).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People wish each other happy V-Day, which is apparently the date the baby turns “viable” at about 24 weeks (vom).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is MS (Morning Sickness, not Multiple Sclerosis), BFP (Big Fat Positive on a pregnancy test – vom) and pregnancies are universally referred to as “bumps”, “bubs”, “bubba”, in short, vom, vom, vom.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everyone calls each other “hun”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t worry hun!”, “You’ll be fine, hun”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kindly meant, I’m sure, but seriously?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vom, vom, vom, vom, vom.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My least favourite of all expressions is reserved for talking about the gender of the unborn baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently you are either Team Pink, Team Blue, or if you choose not to know, Team Green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now this may be a personal pet hate, but I cannot stand the way babies’ genders are assigned colours, which is the first step in discrimination and differentiation they’ll face throughout their lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This excellent blog </span><a href="http://twocoloursinmyhead.wordpress.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">http://twocoloursinmyhead.wordpress.com/</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> says it better than I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But seriously?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An unborn blank canvas is already being painted either blue or pink based on its genitals.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">People decorate their nurseries in pinks or blues, buy buggies in these colours, clothing, the whole lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes me a little bit nauseous.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In short, for someone who’s still suffering from MS (Morning Sickness, not Multiple Sclerosis), looking at the forums is pretty much the fastest way to make myself vomit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I did suggest we renamed to “Team Penis” or “Team Vagina”, but I think the other forumites think I’m a bit strange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They might be right.</span></div>Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-70801998505874137372012-03-13T13:09:00.000-07:002012-03-27T13:09:37.594-07:00Labour force<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, Blogger helpfully decided to delete my entire blog for no apparent reason. But I'm back. I've kept blogging, so will backdate some entries for you.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Work is – as ever – restructuring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the past this has never particularly bothered me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve always been a reasonably high performer, and, if the worst came to the very worst, I’d be happy enough to take redundancy money and get a job somewhere else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m pretty employable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But this time is different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m very worried that when I tell them I’m pregnant, suddenly this will be an excuse a) to avoid paying me maternity pay and b) to avoid any awkward flexible working arrangements down the line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">legally</i> they’re not allowed to make me redundant because of pregnancy, but if they’re making cuts anyway, it wouldn’t be too difficult to “justify” why my position is no longer open.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last week I saw my mentor – an old manager who I catch up with every month or so to talk through any work issues or sticking points with projects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a rare combination of someone who is both extremely good with people – and frighteningly good at her job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Congratulations!” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the very next breath, “Don’t tell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone</i>.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She too thinks that (although it’s disgusting) there’s a chance this could affect my future employment with the firm, which is terrifying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s a mother herself and has seen first hand how the industry treats working mothers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve always been sensible financially, but it’s worrying to think the firm could just pull the rug on me, send me on my way with six weeks’ pay... and that’s my lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course it’s not easy to find a job when you’re pregnant – and you can forget any kind of company maternity leave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It IS worrying.</span></div>Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-6988605918379505842012-03-11T11:46:00.000-07:002012-03-11T11:46:04.616-07:00Scanning the horizonSo long since the last update! Apologies.<br />
<br />
So the hospital scan appointment...<br />
<br />
For once the hospital was running vaguely to schedule, and after their ridiculous car park layout, their idiotic car payment meters and their torturous check-in process, we pretty much went straight in for the scan. I was nervous, but trying not to dwell on it too much.<br />
<br />
The cold jelly went on my tummy, and the screen was pointed away from me, although my husband could see it from where he was sitting. Then the sonographer turned the screen round to me, and there was the baby, dancing away! I've seen people's scan photos before, and to be honest, I find them quite dull, but to see it actually waving its arms and legs around was something really different.<br />
<br />
Then it started sticking its tongue out. Apparently it was swallowing amniotic fluid. I thought this was a bit gross, especially apparently as it also pees into the fluid. Each to their own, I guess.<br />
<br />
I then had the blood test (again an administrative fiasco), which in conjunction with the scan gives an estimated chance of Downs Syndrome. I got the results a week later; a 1:7400 chance, which was classed as low risk. I felt very pleased with this until I Googled it and found that others had been given a 1:65000 chance. My maths is poor, but not bad enough to seriously start worrying about this; I mean, it's still a 1:7400 chance, right?<br />
<br />
In terms of how I'm feeling, I think I'm getting a bit more energy back (though given half the chance, will still indulge in an afternoon nap), but I'm still being sick. Only a couple of times a week, but I'm feeling nauseous pretty much all the time. I haven't weighed myself recently, but when I did a couple of weeks back, I'd lost about 4 lbs. I'm not too worried though; I'm taking my Pregnacare, so hopefully the baby is getting the vitamins it needs - even if it's leaving me a bit drained.<br />
<br />
It was great to see the scan - and great to be able to tell some of our closest friends. I'm still not telling work yet, as I'm worried that there mysteriously may no longer be a job available for me. Perhaps I'm overreacting. Time will tell.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-59670238891321367442012-02-29T12:41:00.000-08:002012-02-29T12:41:08.783-08:00Fencing with wordsAfter another enjoyable evening of vomiting ginger beer through my nose, I decided to work from home this morning. Despite me moaning about the investment banking culture being unfair to women (which it absolutely is), I'm a trusted enough member of staff that I can manage my own time, so it's not the end of the world if I come in at midday, or work from home from time-to-time. They get their money's worth out of me in other ways. Besides which, my manager is based in New York, so is fast asleep until about 1 p.m. UK time anyway. Result.<br />
<br />
I felt lousy all morning, but I was running an important meeting this afternoon so had to be in the office. I was too sick to put make-up on. I barely managed a shower. I crawled out of the house looking desperately unpleasant, wearing my "Baby On Board" badge from Transport for London.<br />
<br />
Two doors down are having their fence replaced. The two workmen were taking up almost all the pavement whilst doing this, but the road isn't busy and it wasn't hard to walk round. However, instead of making small movements to minimise the amount of space they were taking up, both of them just stopped and stared at me.<br />
<br />
They waited until I'd just walked past, and then one of them said, whilst dry-humping the fencepost, "Do you want to stroke my post?"<br />
<br />
Now, normally I'd have been straight back with the witty riposte: "I assume you're talking to your mate; he looks like he does. I'm so glad you two can be open about your sexuality" would have sufficed. Or maybe the less subtle, "No thanks - I saw you on that syphilis documentary last week", or even (whilst stroking the fencepost), "That'd be great thanks, but keep your tiny, tiny penis away from me." I even considered the bitchy, "It must be hard for you to get any action. Perhaps if you'd learned to read in school, you might have a job that's a bit more attractive to women."<br />
<br />
But I was just so shocked. I'm 32; it's been at least 5 years since any workman has bothered shouting at me - generally they didn't even bother then, as I dress very conservatively, and whilst I'm not a total minger, I'm nothing special in the looks department.<br />
<br />
Additionally this was our next-door but one neighbour - it would have been so easy just to knock on their door and report them.<br />
<br />
But finally - I looked like crap, I felt like crap, I was clearly pregnant... they must have been absolutely desperate for entertainment.<br />
<br />
The weird thing was I actually felt quite vulnerable. Don't get me wrong - I wasn't in (and didn't feel in) any danger; this was the middle of the day on a residential street. But I felt violated in a way that wouldn't normally matter. That's a first for me.<br />
<br />
We have the 12 week scan tomorrow. Wish me luck.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-20234210141652165392012-02-26T07:48:00.002-08:002012-02-26T07:48:43.101-08:00GingerlyGinger, everybody said.<br />
<br />
Ginger is the key to getting on top of that pesky nausea. When you feel a bit icky, reach for some yummy ginger and it'll calm you right down.<br />
<br />
Well, I was more than willing to try that. I was always a fan of the dark ginger chocolates my grandma used to get for Christmas, and I'm partial to the occasional ginger ale.<br />
<br />
So I got some ginger beer. I checked it was made with real ginger. And when I felt the nausea strike, I was armed.<br />
<br />
Little sips of ginger, everybody said. Little sips.<br />
<br />
Well, I can tell you this much. Ginger beer doesn't help the nausea much, but it doesn't half sting your nose when you vomit it out of your nasal cavities.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-77559759212245081502012-02-24T08:32:00.000-08:002012-02-24T08:32:11.478-08:00Sick noteNow, I'm not going to pretend I'm one of those super-high flyers with my own PA and a string of people I refer to as "staff", but I do have a reasonably good job for an investment bank. Most of the time, it's fine - the hours aren't too mental - 9 until 6.30ish, but with an hour's commute each way, it can make it feel like a longer day than it actually is.<br />
<br />
As I'm so exhausted at the moment, I decided to take off last Friday and Monday, to have a nice long weekend. It was lovely.<br />
<br />
What was not so lovely was the return to work.<br />
<br />
At 9 a.m. I was frantically trying to clear 200 emails. None of which actually mattered, if it came down to a life or death situation. Unfortunately my manager doesn't see it this way.<br />
<br />
At 10 a.m. I was preparing for the monthly senior management meeting; I'm the most junior person who goes to this, so I really needed to be on my game. Unfortunately I felt like a cockroach had crawled up my nose and laid eggs in my brain.<br />
<br />
At 11 a.m. I was sitting in the meeting. I literally have no idea what the content was. All I could think, on a loop over and over in my brain was, "I'm going to vomit on the Managing Director. I'm actually going to vomit on him. That's not a good career move."<br />
<br />
At midday I was laid out on the floor of a toilet cubicle, regurgitating my healthy breakfast (a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and some blackcurrant squash).<br />
<br />
It's worse than it should be for a couple of reasons: I can't tell anyone at work because it's not exactly a family-friendly organisation. Oh, they have all the right policies in place, but time and time again I've seen women marginalised because they've left to have children. Despite there being 50 women in my department, not a single one works part time. Because it's not allowed. Not officially of course - the policies are in place to support flexible working. It just doesn't happen.<br />
<br />
Even worse, redundancies are on the horizon, and although I'm a relatively high performer, I know that if they find out I'm up the duff, it's significantly more likely that my role will suddenly and mysteriously become null and void.<br />
<br />
So I'm trying to be an uber-high performer, putting in the hours, getting more and more exhausted... and trying not to vomit on the MD.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-77023652024991262782012-02-20T11:29:00.000-08:002012-02-20T11:29:07.058-08:00Midwife crisisSo, I had my first appointment at Whipps Cross Hospital last week, to see the midwife and to have some blood tests, as per usual procedure.<br />
<br />
I'll be honest, whilst I'm incredibly glad the NHS exists, honestly, I've very rarely had a good experience with it. Perhaps it's symptomatic of living in the London area; perhaps resources are stretched by a greater demand. Whatever, from my GP surgery (a two-month waiting list for a blood test) to my husband being clusterfucked after receiving a cricket ball to his face and the NHS not thinking it was important to do scans (eventually it was discovered he had a fractured skull and bleeding into his cavities), my NHS experiences have been less than good.<br />
<br />
Anyway, off to Whipps Cross I went, and after some effort in actually locating the right unit (my fault, not theirs), I joined a queue seven pregnant women deep. Finally getting to the front of the queue, I was told they were running on time... and then proceeded to be kept waiting for 30 minutes past my appointment time.<br />
<br />
I will say for the NHS - the staff themselves generally (though not without exceptions) are fantastic. It's just the system. No-one knew I was waiting, apparently. And then someone else was in the queue before me. And when I finally went in, the midwife took a personal phone call from her bank! (And then apologised with the words, "Sorry, but I love my money.")<br />
<br />
At this point another tiny nurse walked in. She was about four feet six. She said to me, "I hope she's not using my PC. Last time someone used my PC and there was lots of porno on it. Porno!" Crikey, it's a good job I wasn't an innocent. Though, I guess, if I was, then perhaps I wouldn't have been in an antenatal unit.<br />
<br />
I then found out the bottle they'd given me, which I'd assumed was for blood, was actually for urine. And then I had to queue another hour for a blood test, where there was literally no queuing system - you just had to work out who you'd arrived before, and who had turned up after you. It was rubbish. Two easy suggestions to save 60 minutes of every patient's time:<br />
<br />
1. A simple ticket pull like they have at a deli to tell you who's up next.<br />
2. Train the midwife to take blood. It can't be that difficult, and would also save a headcount, as you could sack the phlebotomist.<br />
<br />
The place was also full of bleached blonde Essex girls, all called Tiffany and Brittany, which didn't add to the relaxing experience as their dulcet tones could be heard shrieking down their iPhone 4S, "Nanny! Are you sittin' dahn? It's a boy! I told ya, din I? It's a boy, Bobby after Grandad!"<br />
<br />
Vom.<br />
<br />
I'm such a snob. I'd consider going private, but at £10k for the birth, I think I'll probably just have to put up, shut up or speak up.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-87235150622468940592012-02-13T12:38:00.000-08:002012-02-13T12:38:00.107-08:00SymptomaticHere are the list of joyful pregnancy symptoms I've had over the last few weeks:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Snomiting (half sneeze, half vomit)</li>
<li>Vomiting, sparked by anything from the smell of bleach, the thought of dirty laundry, seeing dog poo on the street, going into our bathroom when my husband has recently been to the toilet... and the thought of my own cat's bottom.</li>
<li>A furry tummy that an adult gorilla would be proud of</li>
<li>A moustache that Charlie Chaplin would be proud of</li>
<li>Hairy toes that the Yeti would be proud of</li>
<li>Diarrhea that strikes at a moment's notice</li>
<li>Constipation that can keep me clogged up for five days at a time</li>
<li>Piles. Itchy, hurty piles.</li>
<li>Exhaustion meaning I'm too tired even to finish this senten</li>
</ul>
I am nine weeks pregnant. The pessimist in me thinks things are unlikely to get better once I'm the size of a pantomime horse and trying to navigate the Jubilee Line during the Olympics.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-37286200240616686112012-02-12T12:34:00.000-08:002012-02-12T12:34:16.504-08:00Snomit - a new word in the pregnancy lexiconThis morning I sneezed. This is nothing special in itself; I'm a seasoned sneezer, and it's not unusual for me to sneeze six or seven times in a row. <br />
<br />
This morning was only four sneezes - relatively civilised... until the final sneezed turned into a kind of cough-retch, almost vomit.<br />
<br />
My husband pissed himself laughing and now keeps asking me if I'm going to "snomit" again.<br />
<br />
Joy.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-45372580687916779542012-02-02T06:12:00.000-08:002012-02-02T07:07:37.901-08:00Home is where the barf is<span style="font-family: inherit;">So a relaxing day working from home? This is what the last hour has looked like for me:</span><br />
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.00 Decide to cook myself some spaghetti bolognese</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.05 Whist spaghetti is boiling, decide to put some laundry on</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.07 As I'm putting clothes into machine, suddenly the thought of dirty laundry makes me sick. Very sick. I get to the kitchen sink in time and heave up the only thing I've swallowed today: a glass of milk. Not so bad, you think? Well, turns out, milk mixed with stomach acid = large white lumps of cheese that I then have to poke down the sink with my finger. My finger then smells of sick. This makes me sick again.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.10 Turn spaghetti off on gas hob and go and brush my teeth.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.15 Finish making spaghetti. Serve.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.30 Phone rings. It's an estate agent (speculatively calling). I suddenly realise I need to get rid of them NOW. I ask them to call back later. I put spaghetti down.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.32 Make it upstairs just in time to have spectacular diarrhoea. Mostly water, with strange yellow lumps that can only be sweetcorn. I genuinely cannot remember the last time I have had sweetcorn. I don't think I've had sweetcorn for at least a month.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.37 Realise excessive diarrhoea is covering back wall of toilet and will need to be wiped down. Wipe down with wet wipe.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.38 This makes me sick again. Brush teeth again.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1.45 Come back downstairs to spaghetti bolognese which is a) cold and b) has my cat's face buried up to his whiskers in it. </span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">8 weeks down. Daren't think about how many more to go.</span></div>Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-21022618760506818042012-01-26T09:41:00.000-08:002012-01-26T09:41:26.544-08:00Hello dot!Wow. Long time, no update. <br />
<br />
My husband and I (crikey, I sound like the Queen) went to MyUltrababy near Canary Wharf about a week ago for the early scan. I was a day off 8 weeks, by my calculations, though was still concerned as to why I'd had so many negative pregnancy tests after my period was due.<br />
<br />
Before the scan I had to drink 2.5 pints of water. That is a lot of water. Considering I'm currently running to the toilets twice as often as usual at the moment anyway, that was practically an obscene amount of water. Of course, it wasn't helped by a little girl in the waiting room at the clinic, for whom the <em>greatest toy in the word - ever</em> was playing with the water dispenser. One of those ones that dispenses water in a noisy trickle to a paper cup... and then goes GLUG GLUG GLUG as the bubbles rise to the top. I swear I nearly weed myself there and then.<br />
<br />
So we went into the clinic bang on time, and the sonographer (is that what they're called?) rubbed the cold jelly on my stomach. All I could see was a massive empty sac. My heart sank. Or beat faster. Or did something. Then she zoomed in. And then zoomed in again. And suddenly there was a tiny dot there.<br />
<br />
To get a better view, the sonographer recommended an internal scan. She actually let me go to the toilet before this, which was much appreciated! Then I basically had a thin metal willy inserted in me, and the same sort of scan was done again... and this time she found a heartbeat! We saw it on screen - a flickering. She said that I wasn't 8 weeks - she measured it at 5 weeks and 6 days - a mere 2.7mm little dot. Crazy. But she said it was a viable pregnancy.<br />
<br />
So I guess (I hope) I ovulated late, as this would explain the early negative pregnancy tests (either that or there could be a problem with the development, but I'm trying not to think about that). I got a print out of the scan (not that there's much to see), and we went home.<br />
<br />
So why have I been so slack about blogging? I'm absolutely exhausted. Like nothing I've ever known before. I find it hard to cross the room to pick the remote up to change channel. I would rather not eat than prepare dinner. Work is a real chore - not least that (whilst luckily not actually sick yet), I seem to be nauseous constantly. Which is always a delight on a rush hour tube.<br />
<br />
So I will try to update more often. But honestly, typing anything longer than my name at the moment is a real struggle. My 12-week scan is booked for the start of March.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-64521087062317781832012-01-14T13:28:00.000-08:002012-01-14T13:28:33.888-08:00Things to worry aboutThis week has been really tough. Here are the things I've been worrying about:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Stomach cramps - a lot like period pains but sometimes easing off and sometimes becoming moderately severe - severe enough that I'd normally have reached for the painkillers</li>
<li>The fact that I had three negative pregnancy tests in a row before I got a positive result (but well after my period was due) - does this mean there's something wrong with my horomone levels or the baby?</li>
<li>The fact that I've had no morning sickness, food aversions, cravings or feel any different at all, other than slightly tender boobs and stomach cramping</li>
<li>The fact that I watched <em>One Born Every Minute</em>, and spent the next two hours crying, not at the miracle of childbirth (fuck that), but at the fact that a massive fucking watermelon has to emerge from my body somehow and <em>I'm</em> supposed to facilitate that. My husband has banned all future viewings of <em>One Born Every Minute </em>and has "un-series linked" it from the Sky+ box.</li>
<li>The fact that I also cried at the Winalot TV advert. This is not normal. But the beagle's ears were so cute and floppy, and the old lady's dog was her best friend! (Blub, blub.)</li>
<li>I then worry that I'm actually going to spend the rest of my life worrying - if all <em>is </em>well with the pregnancy, I've then got to be responsible for another human being <em>for the rest of my life</em>. Chilling.</li>
</ul>So, how am I dealing with it? As a firm believer of "one step at a time", I'm trying to focus on the pregnancy itself. I totally swing from "I'm sure everything's fine," and reassure myself on pregnancy forums that other people too are having stomach cramps / no symptoms / low HCG levels. Then I read other forums where stomach cramps / no symptoms / low HCG levels are a sure sign of miscarriage. <br />
<br />
So I decided, to stop myself worrying (or at least contain it a little), I'm going to book myself in for an early private scan near where I work. At 7 weeks, I hope we should be able to see the heartbeat if all is well. And if all isn't well, I'd much rather know now than in a month's time when my NHS scan is due.<br />
<br />
We get the scan on Tuesday. Wish me luck.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-63119264394741170952012-01-09T13:00:00.000-08:002012-01-14T13:09:43.604-08:00Loco parentisI'm lucky in that I'm fairly close to my parents. We live a couple of hours away, but we speak on the phone pretty much every day, and I've got a good relationship with them. I don't tell them every tiny detail of my personal life - I would never confide in them if my husband and I had had a row, for instance, but they generally know what's going on in my life day to day. <br />
So keeping this massive news from them is a nightmare. The day after I found out I was up the duff, I took off as a sick day; I'd been so overwhelmed by the news that I hadn't slept at all. I hardly ever take a sick day, and it was still quite quiet from the Christmas period so I wasn't really missed. But not being able to tell my parents how I was feeling was really tricky.<br />
<br />
My husband and I had originally agreed to wait a month or so longer before telling our folks, but it felt awful being on the phone to them each day when I had had the biggest news possibly of my life, and trying to pretend that nothing had changed.<br />
<br />
So, after a bit of discussion, we decided to tell our parents. It sounds ridiculous, but I was terrified about telling them. I barely slept again the night before I was due to call and break the news. I'm 32, and happily married, and somehow I thought they'd tell me off! I guess it's because I knew it would come as a big surprise to them (I'm hardly the most maternal of women), and I know they hate surprises. But the fear was disproportional.<br />
<br />
I called at 9.30 on a Saturday morning. My dad answered, and we chatted briefly about the dinner party they'd been to the night before. After a while, I said, "Is Mum there?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," he said.<br />
<br />
"Could you put me on speakerphone?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes," he said. And pressend a button that promptly cut me off. I phoned them back. It was engaged. I left it a few minutes and tried again.<br />
<br />
My Mum answered. "For God's sake, Kate, what's wrong?"<br />
<br />
"Nothing," I said. "Could you put me on speakerphone?"<br />
<br />
"Just tell me what it is!" I could tell she was expecting some sort of catastrophic news.<br />
<br />
"There's nothing wrong, Mum. I'm pregnant!"<br />
<br />
"You're what?! She's pregnant!" (I am guessing she was speaking to my Dad and the speakerphone functionality has somehow bypassed the over 60s.) "Oh, that's lovely news!"<br />
<br />
Once I'd told them, I felt much better and slept like a baby on Saturday night. If that's not a bad simile given the circumstance.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-91727112859090509232012-01-05T12:56:00.000-08:002012-01-14T13:00:29.816-08:00Breaking newsAs soon as I knew the news, I wanted to tell my husband. I called him from the shopping centre at Canary Wharf; there's nowhere quiet, but it wasn't quite the lunchtime rush. He's not really supposed to answer his phone at work, so I knew he'd be a bit guarded.<br />
<br />
"Hello?" he said.<br />
<br />
"Hiya, it's me," I said. "Unfortunately we're not going to be able to go zorbing for your birthday."<br />
<br />
"Oh," he said, still with his "professional" voice on. <br />
<br />
"... Because I'm pregnant!"<br />
<br />
"Right," he said. I knew he couldn't really talk, so it was really amusing to listen to his muted reaction. He continued, "And is that definite?"<br />
<br />
"100%, the doctor said."<br />
<br />
"OK. Thanks for letting me know." I smiled.<br />
<br />
"See you later," I said.<br />
<br />
When I did get home, he met me at the door with a massive hug, and a special dinner he'd cooked in honour of the occasion. A lovely evening.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-91467606449043443872012-01-04T08:08:00.000-08:002012-01-06T09:39:16.971-08:00Doctoring the resultsMy appointment with the private GP was this morning at 11.30. I'm lucky it's a benefit work provides with no cost to me. They can almost always see you the same day, and it's two minutes' walk from my office, which is just so much more convenient than my NHS GP; in order to make an appointment with him, I have to phone a premium rate phone number (I kid you not), hold for at least 10 minutes, and am then almost always told to call back the next day. It's Kafka-esque in the extreme.<br />
<br />
It was blowing a gale down by the Thames as I made the short journey to the doctors from my office. I was thinking what bloody awful weather and how freezing cold the wind was.<br />
<br />
I was half-expecting my period to start this morning (almost inevitably any symptom I might have will stop about three hours before my GP appointment), but still nothing - and I was still crampy. <br />
<br />
I thought about what advice I'd give myself in the doctor's position, after another - undoubtedly negative - pregnancy test was administered: "Give it a week, if you still don't have a period, come back and see me."<br />
<br />
I waited for about five minutes in the waiting room before being called through.<br />
<br />
"What can I do for you?" asked the doctor.<br />
<br />
"Where to start, really!" I blustered. "My husband and I have started trying for a baby - which is lovely. And my period is late, actually, but I've done several pregnancy tests and they're all negative. Plus I keep having really strong period pains and I just wanted your advice."<br />
<br />
"OK," he said. "We'll do a pregnancy test first just to be sure." He handed me the little pot and pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. <br />
<br />
I had made sure to drink plenty of water and not go to the bathroom that morning, so I was absolutely ready to relieve myself. I genuinely believe that there's something about doctors' bathrooms that completely takes away your ability to urinate. I squatted there, holding a pot underneath my lady bits for about five minutes, coaxing enough urine into the pot for the test. The second I took the pot away, my body went, "ahh", and released the motherload.<br />
<br />
Hey ho. Back into the doctor's room. He took out his pregnancy test and talked to me whilst it was brewing. "There is a chance it could be an ectopic pregnancy - that might be why your hormone levels are low and you're having cramping. Far and away most likely is either pregnancy or just a hormonal blip."<br />
<br />
I was fully expecting the "hormonal blip" - I knew that's what it was. I was just concerned about a) what was causing it and b) how long it would take to un-blip itself.<br />
<br />
The doctor removed the test from the urine and put the cap back on it. He passed it over to me. "This test is positive. You're pregnant," he said.<br />
<br />
"Sorry?"<br />
<br />
"You're pregnant."<br />
<br />
"Oh. Oh! Are you sure? This is the first month we've been trying!"<br />
<br />
"100%. Sometimes depending on the test, they don't pick up the hormone levels, but you're definitely pregnant. Make an appointment with your NHS GP." (Easier said than done.)<br />
<br />
"And what about the period pains?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Not period pains," he said. "Implantation cramps. Very common."<br />
<br />
And that was it. I found myself back outside with a dazed smile on my face. I walked back towards the office, no longer noticing the howling gale, but rather thinking how refreshing the breeze was.<br />
<br />
Then I found a quiet place to phone my husband and tell him the news.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-31753286733373931162012-01-03T07:58:00.000-08:002012-01-06T08:08:12.703-08:00Enough is enough. Whilst I'm certain I'm not pregnant (even I can't deny three negative pregnancy tests), I'm beginning to get a bit freaked out by the fact my period feels like it's going to start any second, and yet nothing to show for it. I'm normally pretty regular - give or take a couple of days - but I'm now ten days late. I have all the usual symptoms of my period; stomach cramps, tender boobs... but this has been going on for four or five days - with no period!<br />
<br />
The reason I'm concerned is I'd still really like to conceive an autumn baby; every day the period doesn't show up means it'll be a day later I ovulate. And if, for whatever reason, my cycle has gone really screwy, perhaps I need a blast of some type of hormone pill just to get me back on track.<br />
<br />
My period's only been this late once before; it was about three years ago, and my husband (a mere "boyfriend") back then, and I had had our only session of unprotected sex... and my period was late. I was freaking out; I'd just started a new job and he was out of work. The timing was less than ideal. However, two pregnancy tests showed up negative, and when I went to see the doctor, he did a third, and convinced me I was definitely 100% not pregnant. A few days later I got my period. And oh, God, what a period. The worst cramping I'd ever had, sickness diarrhoea - the works. I remember lying on the cold floor tiles in a bathroom with no radiator, crying, unable to move as every time I moved even slightly, the spasming would start again.<br />
<br />
So the period pains I'm having at the moment have put my back up - I'm apprehensive that it's going to be one of the worst periods I've ever had. And so it's so frustrating that I can't just start and get it over with.<br />
<br />
I've made an appointment with the private GP near where I work for tomorrow to hopefully get some advice.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-36384205245683517502011-12-28T08:26:00.000-08:002012-01-06T08:36:55.030-08:00Testing timesWell, we're back in London and all unpacked. StupidCat has settled back into his favourite sleeping position (flat on his back, all four paws in the air) and it's nice to be home.<br />
<br />
As I still haven't started my period (and still don't feel even vaguely periody), we picked up a pregnancy test today in Tesco. They'd sold out of most of them! I guess that tells you something either a) everyone is as organised as I am and everyone wants a September baby or b) there were a lot of "unplanned encounters" over the festive period!<br />
<br />
I'm now three days overdue, so felt that if I was pregnant, I should definitely get a positive result. Most tests you can take and expect a reliable result from the day you first miss your period. People say they sometimes "feel" pregnant. Never having been pregnant before, I don't think I can really claim that one. I don't feel any different whatsoever, which made me think there's no chance I'm pregnant - it's probably just an extended cycle.<br />
<br />
I sneaked a little-used mug out of the kitchen cupboard for a urine sample (don't worry - it'll go in the dishwasher!) and toddled upstairs. I find it extremely tricky to pee on a stick - why complicate things? What I wasn't prepared for was how nervous I was. I know that this is just our first month of trying, and at 32, I'm probably less fertile than I was at 25, so the chances of having conceived were fairly slim. Nevertheless, my hands were shaking as I opened the packet.<br />
<br />
I did the test, and waited the prescribed three minutes. The tests have two lines that show when you do the test; the first line shows that the test is working; the second line will only appear if you're pregnant. The control line appeared... and nothing else. So, not pregnant.<br />
<br />
But at £5 a pop, I think I might have a look on eBay and see if I can get some cheaper pregnancy tests for the future. And maybe an ovulation kit.<br />
<br />
I told my husband; we're both fine about it. But it is strange how shaky I was. I think it's less to do with desperately wanting a child, and more to do with the scary impact it would have on our lives!Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-86893594937414695032011-12-25T08:20:00.000-08:002012-01-06T08:26:08.799-08:00Big fat family ChristmasHappy Christmas!<br />
<br />
It's a big family Christmas as usual this year; my husband and I have gone to my parents' house, as has my brother and his girlfriend, plus my 88 year-old grandma, so it's a full house.<br />
<br />
One of my best friends - Michela - came round last night with her new baby, Rose, who's now three months old. Michela has never been a particularly broody person, so it was fascinating for me to see how naturally she seems to have taken to motherhood, and how laid back she is about everything. I genuinely can't imagine being in charge of another human's life!<br />
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Anyway, today we all ate and drank too much, and talked about old times.<br />
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In other news, my period was due today, but nothing so far. I don't feel at all periody, but I don't feel at all - anything. It's a couple of days late quite frequently (and I have a long cycle of at least 33 days), so I'm not too hopeful. My husband and I are coming back to London tomorrow. If I've still no period by the day after Boxing Day, I'll get a pregnancy test from the supermarket. Look at me, planning ahead! I'm such a loser!Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-46801229556855952382011-12-05T08:03:00.000-08:002012-01-05T08:14:07.014-08:00The time has come<i>"The time has come," the Walrus said, </i><div><i>"To talk of many things:</i></div><div><i>Of shoes - and ships - and sealing-wax- </i></div><div><i>Of cabbages - and kings - </i></div><div><i>And why the sea is boiling hot - </i></div><div><i>And whether pigs have wings."</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>Or in our case, the time has come... to start to try to conceive. We've decided to go for it; despite there being lots of reasons why we shouldn't (not an ideal time for my career, wouldn't it be better to save more money first? etc. etc.) the truth of the matter is I'm 32 now, and it's not unlikely that it might take us a year to conceive. So let's roll up those sleeves and get started*.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So, with the help of my trusty iPhone menstrual calendar, I figured out that in December, the week commencing the 5th was my "fertile period". It seems amazing, putting faith into a free app, but hey ho.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Today was our first "official" session of unprotected sex. There have been times previously where we've been a bit... lax, but they've been very few and far between. I'm not a big fan of the contraceptive pill (when I tried it, I had a bad hormonal reaction and felt very down), so we use the old-fashioned, but, so far, reliable, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diaphragm_(contraceptive)">diaphragm</a>. I would highly recommend the diaphragm by the way. It's less invasive than hormonal methods, but feels more "natural" than condoms (and you can be a bit more spontaneous too).</div><div><br />
</div><div>Of course, I'm saying it's reliable, but for all I know, I'm completely unable to conceive, diaphragm or no!</div><div><br />
</div><div>So, the unprotected sex... felt really naughty actually - and therefore extremely enjoyable. There is something delicious about knowing there's nothing at all between the two of you. It's of course completely psychological, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.</div><div><br />
</div><div>After sex, I kept my hips raised on a pillow for half an hour or so. To be honest, the whole thing feels quite silly. And still, it feels more like trying to manage a project than create a human.</div><div><br />
</div><div>* This is how you make a baby, right? Rolling up your sleeves? Oh.</div>Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-49883409208368339742011-11-15T07:41:00.000-08:002012-01-05T08:00:35.013-08:00Project deliveryI have always been super-organised. I swear I made my first project plan (complete with Gantt Chart) when I was seven years old. So, it seems to make sense to take an equally well-planned approach to conception.<br />
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Whilst still not utterly convinced that I actually want a baby, a clever baby would definitely be better than a stupid one. With all the evidence pointing towards <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/7964437/Is-August-the-worst-month-to-have-a-baby.html">September babies doing better at school</a>, we had to do some maths before trying to conceive. Maths done, we worked out that December was the month when we should go for it. Yes, next month. Holy scariness.<br />
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Yes, I know this sounds ridiculously organised, but let's face it, practically no-one conceives in their first month.<br />
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Part of me thinks I may be masking the fear with organisation. As a natural project manager by nature, a project with deadlines and goals is familiar and comforting to me. A baby, on the other hand, is utterly, utterly terrifying, So from the chaos, I create familiarity. Of course, it'll only make matters worse when the plan falls flat on its face. Unfortunately my project manager brain is already producing a flow chart:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GKhmaupY-n8/TwXIO-5um1I/AAAAAAAAAAk/GkmTPblMCco/s1600/Flowchart.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="356" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GKhmaupY-n8/TwXIO-5um1I/AAAAAAAAAAk/GkmTPblMCco/s640/Flowchart.png" width="640" /></a></div>So yes, we're not even trying for a baby yet, and already my mind is in overdrive. I dread to think what it'll be like once we're officially attempting it. I imagine every little twinge will feel like a symptom, and before two weeks have passed, I'll have convinced myself that I have polycystic ovaries, an upside-down womb and that my husband's sperm are all dead.<br />
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That's before I even start thinking about what a terrible mother I'll undoubtedly be.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-787563886641785132011-09-12T07:39:00.000-07:002012-01-05T07:41:24.156-08:00Potty mouthI met a friend, Cara, for dinner last night at one of Jamie Oliver’s restaurants in the city. I haven’t seen Cara for ages, mostly because she’s now a full-time working mum.<br />
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I met Cara when we started work together on a graduate scheme of a large retail bank. I liked her straight away. She’s down to earth, practical, punctual to a fault, with a really dry, wicked sense of humour. It’s getting on for ten years since we met, and we’ve kept in touch regularly through book clubs, dinners and catch-ups. Cara is the only friend I know who will ring me to let me know it looks like she’s running ten minutes late… and will then go on to be five minutes early. As an obsessively punctual person myself, I love that about her.<br />
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It wasn’t a surprise exactly when Cara got pregnant – she’d been married for a couple of years – but I’d never pictured her as the broody type. She’s very pragmatic – like me, not particularly tactile, and she seemed different somehow from many of my other friends who’d recently become parents, with their cooing and seemingly unending desire to dress their girls in pink.<br />
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Cara’s daughter, Stephanie, is now just over a year old, and Cara was showing me some photos of her daughter, at various stages of babyhood.<br />
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“So, this is Stephanie when she was six months,” Cara said to me, handing over her iPhone so I could see.<br />
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“Cute,” I said. I didn’t really mean it. I’ve never yet found the photo of someone’s child remotely interesting.<br />
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"And this is her with the other babies from the ante-natal group.”<br />
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“Great,” said I,stifling a yawn and mentally making a Tesco list for tomorrow.<br />
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“Now, before I show you the next one, I have to give you some context,” said Cara. ”Basically, Stephanie hadn’t pooed for three days.”<br />
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Cara had my attention. Down-to-earth she has always been, but she’s too classy a lady to talk about poo.<br />
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“Well,” Cara continued, “I changed her, and suddenly she filled her fresh nappy completely with poo.”<br />
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“Oh,” said I, pushing my chocolate mousse to one side.<br />
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"So I changed her again. And the minute I got her new nappy on, she filled it immediately again.”<br />
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“Lovely,” said I, calling the waiter for another large gin and tonic.<br />
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“So I took her dirty nappy off one more time, and was just about to put a clean one on her… but I didn’t quite get there in time.” Cara hands the phone to me, and it is a picture of her, standing there, covered literally head to foot in shit. It’s even all over her face.<br />
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Cara. Classy, educated, pragmatic Cara. Covered in another human being’s faeces.<br />
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I think this may have put me back at least a couple of months in terms of thinking about considering coming to terms with the possibility of trying to conceive.Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5306915773893010524.post-10282443033476523732011-08-06T07:38:00.000-07:002012-01-05T07:39:19.868-08:00First WordsHello. Welcome. It’s nice to see you here.<br />
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I’m Kate. I’m 31 years old. I work in London and live just outside of the city, in the suburbs. I got married earlier this year. These are all things that people seem to want to know. Your name. How old you are. What you do for a living. Where you live. Whether you’re married.<br />
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Whether or not you have children.<br />
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We don’t have children. Not yet. For some people, I’m apparently “leaving it a bit late”, for others, there’s “no rush yet”. We’ve thought about it and talked about it, and I’ve never been maternal or broody in any way. But I also don’t want to wake up 30 years from now and think, “Oh bugger, probably should have got round to that.”<br />
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My husband would be happy to have children – but I think he’d also be happy for it to be just us. We can see the positives of staying childfree so clearly – we could potentially retire in our 50s, travel all over the world, live a comfortable life. The positives of having children are less tangible. OK, it seems nice when they cuddle up to you, but does that really make up for the sleepless nights, the screaming, the dirty nappies and the fact they’re inevitably going to be teenagers one day? Who hate you.<br />
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So welcome to my blog. Over the next few months, I’m planning on writing – hopefully with humour – about our decision-making process (assuming everything biological is working OK).Babying Myselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12448000313488614132noreply@blogger.com0