Materialistic jubilation and bitter ironies

If you wait long enough, home comforts will come to you. A product line I missed desperately in my early days in the UK has finally arrived from across the Atlantic. Unlike pumpkin pie filling, I found no reasonable substitute (making it from scratch, which turns out to be soooo much better anyway – living in the wilds of Britain has liberated me from the tyranny of branded and pre-processed ingredients). Unlike Karo syrup, I found no exclusive and expensive supply (at Selfridges) or a reasonable, but imperfect facsimile (Golden Syrup).

No, it just wasn’t available and nothing came close.

And no, sadly, it’s not SunDrop – but something almost as good.

The Sharpie. Yes, the Sharpie is finally available in the UK. I haven’t seen it in stores, but I have seen it advertised on tv.

(Image ripped from the official Sharpie site)

Yes, I am a stationery fetishist – but the Sharpie is the supreme permanent marker – it will write on almost anything – as I learned during my undergraduate days as a geology student – marking many, many rock samples with barely a dimunition in flow.

And sure my needs for a permanent marker are less than they used to be, but when you need a Sharpie you need a Sharpie.

And now I can get one here in the UK.

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And then there ‘s the ironic twist worthy of O’Henry

Now that I can get a Sharpie, is just the time when my household may not be best suited for permanent markers.

Image ripped from here

Head injuries

A long time ago, I was holding a baby that was just under a year old. I was holding him very carefully. He was a wiggly baby and I was afraid he would pitch out of my arms, forward, and onto the floor.

Unfortunately, I didn’t think he might pitch sideways. He did. And he banged his little head on the wooden arm of the sofa. The baby cried. I was horrified. The Vol-in-Law was horrified.

And ever since then, the ViL has focused on my baby bashing abilities. He has not let me forget, although I told him it could happen to anyone.

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Yesterday, the ViL bumped the head of the baby Cletus on the wooden arm of a commemorative bench in the cemetery.

I could have been angry or concerned. But I was thrilled. Ha, ha. He’ll not be able to hold that baby bashing incident over me any longer, I thought.

(Cletus is fine, BTW, but more importantly, I am vindicated)

Post natal limbo

I feel a bit weird now. A bit disconnected from the world. I’m not ready to join the rest of the world just yet, it’s true. I’m still in a lot of discomfort from the c-section and the leg swelling and the last time I went out in public I ended up in the emergency room. And I don’t feel I have enough tricks in my parenting/ breast feeding bag to avoid stares.

Yesterday, we took Baby Cletus for a walk in the cemetery. This is pretty low key. But I still ended up with flourescent baby poo (we don’t know if he bleeds orange, but boy does he poo orange). But there were some life lessons:

We learned:

1. Always bring a change of clothes
2. Always bring a sufficient materials for a diaper change – including portable mat. Cletus had his ass in the grass and he didn’t like it.
3. Not all diapers are the same. Some do not prevent explosive leakage.
4. People stare at screaming babies – even if they are very far away.
5. Best to tuck that breast in as soon as baby Cletus is removed from the teat.

What shall we do

My mom made baby Cletus a little Vols sunsuit. He can just about wear the hat.

My husband said it makes him look like a drunken sailor.

I said there’s really only the one kind of swabby in the Vol Navy.

What shall we do with the drunken sailor
What shall we do with the drunken sailor
What shall we do with the drunken sailor
Earl-aye in the morning

Strip him down and change his diaper
Strip him down and change his diaper
Strip him down and change his diaper
Earl-aye in the morning

Swab his bottom with warm cotton
Swab his bottom with warm cotton
Swab his bottom with warm cotton
Earl-aye in the morning

Make him Cap’n in the Vol Navy
Make him Cap’n in the Vol Navy
Make him Cap’n in the Vol Navy
Earl-aye in the morning

The birth story

Here it is…the birth story…read at your own discretion.

Baby Cletus was born on Sunday June 3 at 6:30 am, 16 days overdue.

My birth story has to start with symptoms I was feeling the previous Monday. I suspected I had a bladder infection, but then thought maybe it’s just the pressure of the baby on my bladder. It’s apparently quite normal to need to pee a lot more frequently as the baby descends. It did sting a bit to pee…but not loads and loads. I wondered if perhaps I’d developed an infection after having a membrane sweep the previous Friday when I was 41 weeks.

The stinging and bladder discomfort gradually worse over time.

On Tuesday, I had my post dates clinic. They wanted to induce that day because the baby was “small”. (6lbs, 15 oz – which isn’t really that small) I refused. But agreed an induction date for Monday 4 June. Normal protocol would have been to induce on the Friday at 42 weeks exactly, but I felt I was close to going and still wanted to have my home birth.

I started having irregular, but frequent-ish contractions on Wednesday. I had a second sweep on Wednesday and the midwife said my baby had turned from his excellent position to back to back or posterior position. This usually makes labor more painful and can make it longer.

And I started to really think, yes, I have a bladder infection.

On Thursday – I began contracting much more regularly. But my bladder really hurt and by this time it really stung to pee. I called the midwives who told me to see my GP – he gave me antibiotics. Over the course of Thursday night, I thought I was in labour. I thought I might have my home birth after all – just inside the deadline. I called out my doula and the midwives.

Although my contractions were coming regularly, strongly and frequently, I was only 2cm dialated and as soon as the midwife showed up my contractions slowed down – so I was left to labour all day Friday in increasingly excruciating pain. The contractions weren’t that bad, but by Friday evening my bladder pain was so bad I literally couldn’t stand up straight. (A combo of the infection, the baby pressure, and agitation from the contractions). Going to the toilet was excruciating with burning and stinging, but I tried to keep going to make sure that a full bladder didn’t impede delivery.

I was also asked to come in for an induction Friday evening and I finally agreed. I couldn’t take it anymore and at least wanted to have access to gas and air (nitrous oxide commonly used in labor and delivery in the UK). I also believed that the pain from the bladder infection was impeding my labour – and so I might well go on forever.

The delivery suite was full at that time and I agreed with the consultant (senior) obstetrician that I would wait at home til they were ready for me rather than in the delivery suite waiting area (not fun!) I live across the street and could get to hospital practically immediately. I called at 8pm – they were full. I called at 11pm (full). I begged for any kind of pain relief (again for the bladder – the contractions were painful but bearable). No help on offer. I got into the tub at home for some relief (difficult because at this point my feet were so swollen I found it difficult to actually bend enough to get my legs in the proper position in the tub). That helped a LOT – and my waters broke in the tub.

I called the delivery suite again and they said to come in for assessment. I got in and was put in this really nice assessment suite. I begged for pain relief and they said I couldn’t have anything until I was in established labour and they had done 30 minutes of CTG fetal monitoring. By this point, the baby heart rate monitoring belt which goes down low was actually too painful for me to wear – the additional constant pressure on my bladder was terriffic. Unfortunately NO ONE seemed to believe that my main pain was coming from the bladder.

But one midwife finally did. She let me have gas and air (which was all I wanted) and let me refuse the CTG monitoring. She let me stay in the suite and I laboured all night on the birthing ball (I still couldn’t stand – bladder pain, or lie down – contraction pain was worse).

They moved me over to the main labour and deliveyr area for an induction but before that happened I had my external exam and I was at 5cm. I didn’t need an induction after all!

I had already decided that with the bladder pain and the stronger contractions under a hormone drip that I would have an epidural if I were induced. Despite going into labor on my own I still considered an epidural because of the bladder pain. I had been dead set against an epidural all along, for a variety of reasons – including the fact that once you start an epidural you’re more likely to have further interventions. An anesthetist had already been called because I didn’t think I could stand an induction and its much stronger contractions without an epidural . He was really good in listening to me about the bladder pain. I told him I was coping with the contractions, but not the bladder. He found this an unusual situation and thought the epidural was the most likely way to ease the bladder pain, but said he couldn’t guarantee that it would be relieved by the epidural as epidurals are focused on contraction pain and the nerves are higher up. We talked about the pros and cons. I decided against the epidural after my doula found out that the giant tub was available.

The water was great. I laboured for at least four hours. By this time my contractions were strong and long and painful (but still bearable). I was managing both the bladder and labour with the water and occasional gas and air. I would breathe and visualise through the contractions and for the pain in the bladder I’d hit the gas and air. (I had to use it to pee at this point).

I had another internal exam. I was only 6 cm! All that work for practically no progress. The midwife wanted to use the syntocin to push things along. I knew I wouldn’t be able to cope outside the tub, so I went for an epidural. It took the 6 or 7 attempts to get it in (apparently my back is a line of bruises). But the anesthetist geared my position so that it was more likely to knock out the bladder pain and it did! Oh my god with that and the catheter, what relief. By this point I hadn’t slept well in several days or at all for two nights. I was able to sleep a little. This was Saturday afternoon.

My dilation progress was incredibly slow. But at least I was able to sleep a little. They kept ramping up the syntocin over night. I finally got to 9cm and they agreed to let me go a little longer. But when I was finally just short of 10, it turned out the the lip of my cervix had started to swell from unequal pressure of the baby’s head. And the baby had passed meconium. So the only really option was an emergency c-section.

So I went from home birth to caesarian with three days of labour in between!

The c-section was apparently uncomplicated. It’s a bizarre experience. You chat away with the anesthetist about inane things (they want to know you’re still ok) – like I said that baby needed to start bringing in money soon – for all the trouble he’d caused me – and I suggested baby model if he were cute or chimney sweep if he wasn’t. The anesthetist suggested Wimbledon tennis star instead – but given me and the Vol-in-Law’s genetic heritage, chimney sweep seemed much more likely. I could feel the medical team tugging around and pressure, but it didn’t hurt.

Baby Cletus was born at 6:31 and they whisked him away to clean him up. He didn’t cry for what seemed like a long time. The had to suction the meconium and pink him up with a little oxygen. For those who know what this means, his initial apgar score was 6, but he was scoring 10 after 5 minutes.

They passed him to the ViL as a little wrapped bundle, but my husband was so freaked out by the whole thing that he had to pass Cletus to the anethetist. Ol’ Cletus was pretty beat up looking, so I was initially a little disappointed, I have to admit.

The post-partum ward was its own special hell. On Sunday evening I had the sister screaming at me because I was refusing morphine (baby wanted a lot of skin-to-skin and I wouldn’t have trusted him in the bed with me after morphine). It was unbelievably hot (I was sweating buckets) and I couldn’t sleep from the noise and heat and discomfort. I couldn’t sleep either night there or get any rest because of lack of privacy, constant interruptions. So except for some epidural sleep, I had almost no sleep for a week!

We’ve been doing fairly well at home, but on Sunday night I kind of felt something “go” along the incision line as I set the baby down in his bed. It was very painful, but only for a short while. On Monday, we took the baby to a cranial osteopath to see about his lumpy head and when I stood up to hand the baby over I noticed liquid gushing down my legs. My incision had come open and was now “weeping” (it was a lot more like wailing – as I managed to fill a small bath towel with fluid).

We called out an ambulance, but the ER docs didn’t do much more than take a swab, dress my wound with dry gauze and send me home with two prescriptions of antibiotics. And that’s where I am now – awaiting the results of the culture.

While I was birthing

What with a new baby and all I haven’t been following world events as closely as I might have liked. But fortunately, it seems like it was kinda a slow news week, despite the G8 summit and the weird Azerbaijani compromise. And was there a Republican presidential candidate debate? Wouldn’t matter, ’cause I’m not blogging about it until it’s an actual election year. And then in the UK, there’s a little kerfuffle over the matter of a few hundred million pounds in kick backs to a Saudi prince Bandar (and Bush buddy) in the mega, mega Al Yo-Mama arms deal. You couldn’t make it up (OK – I did a little, it was the Al-Yamamah arms deal)

But now that I’ve kinda lifted my head from the epidural haze – I can see that the big stories brewing have been:

1. The London 2012 Logo.

I hate to admit, London Mayor Red Ken is right. The people who came up with this logo should be loaded into a burlap sack, along with their logo and a live rooster and throwed into the Thames. Well, Ken Livingstone just suggested that the designers not be paid, but I really don’t think that’s good enough.

Do you?

2. Paris Hilton’s return to the slammer.

Regular readers will know I don’t usually spare much time for celebrity goss. But clearly, this is the story of the week.

It’s not the drunk driving or the probation violation that bothers me. Hey, we all make mistakes. It’s the being dragged screaming from the courtroom, I can’t stand.

No class.

He also accepts PayPal

My Irish mother-in-law says that it’s custom to drop a little money on the baby.

In the old days, and in the impoverished community that she grew up in they left a few coins on the baby. (My understanding is that her childhood was kinda Angela’s Ashes but Protestant, my mother-in-law used to play with potatos because she had no toys, but at least they had potatos) This was probably an important tradition – one that might have made the difference between enough protein in the early days and malnutrition.

But times have moved on and what with inflation and widespread prosperity and all we’ve gone on to paper money.

And baby Cletus is cutting edge. He also accepts PayPal.

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PS Just kidding, y’all – look you won’t see a PayPal button on this site.
PPS He’s wearing one of the blankets made by this blogger’s mom. He really likes them.

Visitors

In the UK, at my local hospital anyway, the conditions in the post partum ward might well resemble battery egg farms, but there is follow up care. I’ve had two visits from community midwives this week. And there are more to come, just to make sure mum and baby are doing OK.

This morning one removed my c-section sutures, which was not as bad as I’d been fearing. And she told me to keep the nasty open wound I’ve developed (where the dressing was attached, nothing to to do with the c-section incision itself, apparently I’m allergic to the plaster they use) exposed to the air.

Great idea. Except my inlaws were on their way and I didn’t fancy having my skirt hoiked up around my waist for all and sundry to see. It was bad enough I had to go breast feed in the other room.

Controversy

Now, I personally have very little shame, but I have some. I’m not ready to breast feed in public yet because, well, I’m not yet skilled enough to be discreet. But I’ve already had the tits out for the lad in front of hospital staff, inmates and visitors, health visitors, friends and a friend of the ViL’s family (who happens to be a pediatric nurse). She had some great breastfeeding tips and really boosted my confidence. But she had another tip, too. She suggested that while my in-laws were visiting that I go to another room to feed the baby – as it was not everyone’s cup of tea. This is a woman who had just had her hand on my breast and who has probably seen hundreds if not thousands of nursing nipples over the years.

And I also believe that a woman ought to be able to breastfeed in public without fear or criticism.

But while my in-laws were here, I took the baby away to feed him in the other room.

And you know, it was great. I’ve never had an excuse to just walk away from my in-laws mid-flow for 30 minutes at a time. I need to be a little more strategic about it though. For example, every time they go on about the wind farm they’ve been protesting against for years.

For my sister-in-law

Sorry you haven’t come across this blog before. It’s probably just as well. If you’d asked, I’d have shared the URL. Clearly you weren’t that interested.

Sorry you’re pissed off because my husband didn’t send you a link to photos. We’ve had a lot on our plate. See if you’d expressed any interest in me before you’d have known about this – I publish my photos here and here because it’s easier for people who are interested in me to find them.

Thanks for calling and bitching my husband out at such a tiring and stressful time for us. A time when I’m recovering from weeks of poor sleep because I was so uncomfortable, 3 days of labor and major abdominal surgery. You’ve really helped us out.

UPDATE at Friday 8 June : The ViL received an apology by text. Hurray!!

Brittney’s only mistake

OK, I’m gonna try to be quick before baby Cletus wakes up and does this…

The boys at Six Meat Buffet posted this about a recently deceased liberal blogger. In poor taste? Yes. Funny? Not their best*, but there you go.

Brittney – the professional, paid blogger working for a Nashville ABC affiliate, whose work is central to strong Nashville blogging community and whose internet presence makes Tennessee a strong statewide blogging force, linked to that post.

Major league liberal blogger Jesus General then picks it up – here’s his side of events. Apparently, he thought Brittney approved of the 6MB post.

Oh dear.

A member of the Tennessee online blogging community would know. Would know for certain that she did not approve. In an instant.

Therein lies Brittney’s only mistake. It was an easy one to make. I do it all the time. On this blog, when chatting with friends, in my professional life. She assumed knowledge in her readers that they didn’t all have.

Leagues of Jesus General’s loyal readers descended upon our humble Tennessee blogging community, slinging shit.

Brittney resigned.

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…baby cletus did wake up and did this…

so no more caps, gentle readers… anyway
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i am deeply saddened by this. i think she’s done a great job. i would be pleased as punch if she’d reconsider, but its her choice and i hope she gets (or keeps) a great position soon – she deserves it

on a personal note – as someone who hasnt lived in tennessee fir years – she has really helped me feel a part of the online community – and im sure im not the only one she:s welcomed and encouraged – id say more, but typing is hard

good luck Brittney.

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* although this 6MB follow up

Now maybe the General is just getting bad information from his advisers or maybe he’s got a tactical ear of Rumsfeldian proportions, but he fragged some of his most loyal troops today. He rolled a grenade right into the Nashville Is Talking tent. Because sometimes you have to destroy the village in order to save it.

is genius