How he arrived....

Those of you of a squeamish nature might want to look away now - for here comes the story of Baby J's birth.

I'll start at the very beginning - and for those of you who like to dabble in the whole - "things that bring on labour" nonesense - here is a run down of my actions in the 24hrs before I went into labour.

On Wednesday afternoon I had a "show" - if you don't know what that is you'll need to google it because there are some things I'm just not describing. It happened at Mrs Medds house and she is very cross that I didn't tell her about it. Given that Baby J had already messed me about quite a bit I didn't get too excited - but I text Mr Jones anyway.

That evening we went to the Tobie Norris. I ate a pizza topped with green pesto, goat's cheese and parma ham and I had half a glass of rose - shock horror!

In the morning I ate a mango full fat activia yogurt with some flaked almonds and a glass of freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice - the same breakfast I've eaten for the past two months. I had another show.

Then I did some gardening. I pruned the roses, spread bark, thinned veg seedlings, and put down some gravel around the patio.

For lunch I had a cheese sandwich and some Walkers Sunbite Sweet Chilli crisps. Then I laid down for a nap. I started to have contractions every 20 minutes. Mr Jones was working from home. But I didn't tell him anything was happening for about four hours.

When I did let him in on the action he said: "Do you think I can still go to football tonight?"

So after a dinner of pasta and sauce Mr Jones went off to play football with strict instructions not to mention the contractions to anyone for fear of jinxing it all. I watched The Young Victoria on Sky (a fairly good film) and my contractions started coming every 15 minutes.

By the time Mr Jones came in from football I was having a relaxing bath - and not shaving my legs - again for fear of putting Baby J off. The contractions were coming every 10 minutes.

We got ready for bed and all of a sudden things sped up - the contractions were coming every four minutes and were lasting for 40 seconds. I was getting pretty uncomfortable so Mr Jones broke out the tens machine - and faffed around with it for a good 15 minutes trying to work out how it functioned. Meanwhile I clutched the end of the bed and tried not to get annoyed or point out the fact that I had on several occasions suggested he familiarise himself with it.

After an hour or so of this we called the hospital and were told to come in. I was surprised because although I was in pain, it wasn't unbearable. So off we went - both hoping that I'd be 8cm dilated and that it would all be over in a few hours.

Mum was beside herself with excitement and met us at the hospital. The midwife took one look at me and said - "I don't think you're ready yet". Grrr.

"Are you familiar with the stages of labour?" asks the midwife

"Yes" - says Mr Jones proudly. "We've been to NCT classes"

"Oh god NCT - aren't they all a bunch of hippies?"

Mr Jones launches into a defence of the NCT while I look at the "I'm preparing for brith with Natal Hypnotherapy" sticker on my birth plan and think that this probably isn't time for me to break out the essential oils and soothing birth music - this midwife clearly isn't a fan of the natural approach. (Not helpful).

I pee in a cup, have my blood pressure taken and then the cow of a midwife checks to see how dilated I am. 1cm. Grrrr.

We're sent home. So we go back to Mum and Dad's because it's closer. We get back into bed. The contractions are still coming every four minutes and are lasting between 40 seconds and a minute. I listen to my hypnosis cd on repeat and become attached to the boost button on the tens machine. I do this for the next four hours - and the pain steadily gets worse.

Then the vomiting starts. It seems pain makes me sick. Mr Jones and I retreat downstairs to watch tv and I slump over a footstall. At 5.30am I get in the bath and it helps me cope a bit with the pain. By now my whole stomach is clenching with each contractions and I'm in some serious agony. We call the hospital again. The cow of a midwife listens to me having a contraction over the phone (by this point I'm making a fair bit of noise!). "That sounds more like it - come on in" she says.

It's 7.30am and mercifully there is no traffic. I insist on having the air con on full. Mr Jones loses the feeling in his fingers.

We get to the hospital - I pee in yet another cup, have my blood pressure taken and am delighted to discover that after all these many hours of pain and vomiting I am a staggering 2cm dilated. The hospital usually don't let you stay until you're in established labour - 4-5cm dilated. But clearly I need pain relief so they relent and let me in.

As luck would have it (someone, somewhere was smiling on me at this point) the cow of a midwife was going off shift and was replaced by two much nicer midwives who were a lot more supportive. They hooked me up to the gas and air and before long I was quite literally, to put it politely, off my face. It was wonderful. I slumped over a bean bag and sucked on the mouthpiece as if my life depended on it. The pain ebbed and all was bearable.

Time at this point becomes a bit blurred. I remember bouncing on the birthball to try and get gravity to help the baby out. I remember peeing in lots of pots and having my blood pressure taken a lot. I remember the relaxing birth music and sniffing lavender essential oil. I remember being told after what seemed like another day that I was 3cm dilated.

Then I was sent for a walk - to get things moving. The gas and air was taken away and I was left to march the hospital corridoors with only the tens machine, Mum and Mr Jones for support. I managed half an hour before being violently sick and demanding to be taken back to the gas and air.

I asked for an epidural. "But I've seen your birth plan - you don't want one" says the midwife (who I'm now thinking is less nice). "Ahh yes - but I've changed my mind."

"I think we should try a few other things first,"

"Really, do you, well I actually don't - I'd like an epidural."

"What about a shot of meptid?" (a pethadine substitute)

"Will that take the pain away?"

"Well, no, but it'll make you care less,"

"Hmmm - and if I have that can I still have an epidural?"

"Errm - you'd have to wait longer for an epidural if you have the meptid - but you might not need an epdicural - it might be enough."

"No, no - I just want the epidural"

It all goes quiet and I'm left to retreat back into my gas and air haze.

Next up we try a bath. Someone else is in the birth pool - I can hear her screaming (soooo not helpful) - but apparently she's at the pushing stage. Lucky sod. When the bath is suggested I agree on the proviso that the gas and air comes with me. They get me a portable tank of the stuff.

Mr Jones gives me his hand and splashes my bump with the warm water. It helps to make things bearable. I crush his fingers with every contraction and in the few pain free moments in between each one he feeds me tiny bits of cheese roll. By this time I've been in labour for 24hours - but not in the sort of labour that counts (apparently!).

The gas and air canister is nearly empty - much to the shock of the midwives. It's no longer taking the edge off the pain. I burst into tears and start to beg. "I'm sorry, I wanted to be brave and do this all naturally, but I think I have a really crappy pain threshold. I just can't take anymore. I'm so tired. I just want the pain to go away. Please let me have an epidural."

The begging works. After another check I'm 4cm dilated and I'm finally allowed an epidural. I remember walking from the midwife led unit to the delivery ward, held up by my mum. "How did you do this twice?" I ask through tears. "I promise you it'll all be worth it when you have that baby in your arms." she says.

All along, before and throughout my pregnancy, I steadfastly told anyone who would listen that I didn't want an epidural. The whole procedure terrified me. I hated the idea of not being able to feel my legs, I hated the idea of having things injected into my spine. But I will say this - it was the single most wonderful thing in the entire world at that moment. I felt a coolness spread down my back and it was gone, every little bit of pain wiped from my body. It was blissful. And I slept. - after asking the anaesthetist to marry me - he said his wife probably wouldn't be too happy about it.

And then my contractions stopped. I think my body was just too tired to keep on going. But after a short sleep things started up again. By now I was hooked up to various monitors to keep track of my contractions and the baby. I was lying on my left side with the monitors all behind me, looking at Mr Jones and my mum. Each time I had a contraction the baby's heart rate would drop - I could hear it on the monitor - but I could also see the panic in their faces. They did well to hide it, but I could still see it. The midwife called the consultant.

I was still between 4-5cm dilated (depending on who was doing the checking!), we weren't getting anywhere fast. The consultant mentioned a c-section. Mr Jones looked at me with concern. Along with the epidural - c-sections were on my - "er - no way, I really, really don't want one of those" list.

However - in my gas and air and exhaustion addled brain I started to process all the information. A c-section - major surgery yes - but over in under an hour. No more contractions, no pushing the baby out. And IF - and it's a big IF - we're ever to have another baby that doesn't come in the box from some third world country - I could then elect to have another c-section - at 39 weeks. There would be no waiting for the baby to arrive on it's own, no sweeps, no mind games and no God Awful painful hours of labour to endure first. "Fine by me" - I say.

But the midwives want to try and get me there naturally first. "Really - truly - you want to keep this going?" I think to myself. They give me a dose of Syntocinon - an oxytocin substitute which helps to speed up contractions. It worked and I started to have three contractions every 10 minutes. But the baby didn't like it. It's heart rate kept dropping everytime my stomach started clenching.

They left it half an hour before calling in the consultant again. The next thing I know Mr Jones is getting gowned up for surgery and another anaesthetist has arrived to top up my epidural. The surgeon gives her five minutes. If it doesn't work in that time I have to have a general anaesthetic and I won't be awake when my baby is born. This is something I really don't want. The anaesthetist boost the epidural and then starts spraying my stomach with ice cold water and asking me where I can feel it. It's terrifying - if I misjudge the feeling I will either feel the surgeon cutting me open or end up being put under. Luckily I get it right.

The whole c-section is painless - I just feel my tummy being jiggled about a lot. Mr Jones can see everything and is quite shocked at the effort required to get the baby out. (See 20 stone surgeon on one side of my stomach and his assistant on the other - both pulling in opposite directions with all their weight - nice). I hear crying. There's a bit more pulling and the surgeon holds up the baby for Mr Jones to tell me the sex. "Come on" - he laughs - "It's not that difficult".

Mr Jones is just staring at the baby - "It's a boy" he says "And it has an enormous willy and really big balls!" We all laugh. Mr JOnes admits to a moment of panic because the baby looked black when it was first pulled out of my tummy - and he was conceived in Zanzibar! But a quick clean up reveals him to be white and my virtue remains intact!!

He's handed to us and we gaze at him, both in tears. He's so perfect. He's not squished and funny looking because he hasn't had to travel down the birth canal - he's just gorgeous. We spend the next 10 minutes debating which of the two boy names we should choose. We finally settle on Rufus Anthony Jones. Anthony for Mr Jones' dad who sadly isn't here to see him.

Granny Sue is given Rufus to look after while I'm stitched up, checked over and wheeled into recovery. She is beyond chuffed and even gets to put on his first nappy. I can't move from the chest down and I'm so dosed up with pain killers that I can't really move my arms either. With some help from mum and Mr Jones I manage to wriggle onto my side so that I can feed Rufua for the first time and give him a cuddle.

Unfortunately for me and Rufus the cow of a midwife is back on shift - we're left in her "care" until we're transferred to the ward. But we survived despite her lack of bedside manner - and thanks to the power of arnica capsules (I'm sure they've helped me recover faster - I had to cling onto something natural) we only had to spend two nights in the very hot and noisy ward before we escaped to the refuge of home. To start being a family.

Black....

That would be the colour of my mood at the moment - I feel awfully guilty about it, but I just can't seem to shake it. Maybe it's normal and is just another one of those pregnancy things that no one tells you about - or maybe all the emotional aspects of being pregnant, which I have so far avoided, are coming out now.

In the past eight months and three and a half weeks I haven't cried. Once. Even when I had my head in the toilet for what felt like 23 hours a day, I didn't cry. I've cried so little that my tear duct in my left eye became inflamed and sore through lack of use. But in the last two days it's had a workout.

For some reason I just feel angry and resentful. It all sounds hideously unmotherly, and if I was writing this in the Daily Mail I'd expect thousands of letters from women who think I'm perfectly horrible - so don't worry if this all grates a bit. I completely understand that what I'm about to say probably won't be understood or go down well with a lot of people.

But I want my body back, I want this baby out and it's not because I'm desperate to meet it (quite the opposite in fact - I'm quite terrified that I won't like it, or that it won't like me), but because I want to not be pregnant anymore.

If I'm truly honest with myself and with everyone else being pregnant has been a huge disappointment to me. I wanted to love it, it's all I've thought about for years - being pregnant, having a baby, being a mummy. But the reality has been a long way from the dream. I wanted to be one of those women who glow the whole way through. Who keep on going to the gym and have tonnes of energy. I wanted to eat wholesome, nurturing food that was ideal for my growing baby and I wanted to rock up to my due date in blissful happiness awaiting the arrival of my perfect baby.

But it hasn't been like that and now that I'm nearing the end I think I'm finally accepting it - and it's hard to admit that actually I've really struggled with the last nine months - and the longer the baby takes to come out the harder it's getting.

I feel resentful about all the things I've had to give up. Every Thursday when Mr Jones goes to play football I get a kick of jealousy in my gut. I miss exercise and feeling energetic. When he looks at his belly and complains that he feels unfit it takes all my will power not to scream at him. To point out the fact that my legs that were nicely toned are all wobbly again, that my bingo wings are back, that my backside is dimpled and my stomach - which while full of baby is nice and taut - before long is going to all Reubeneque and floppy.

I miss being able to eat what I want to eat - I'm sick of eating shortbread biscuits and ice cream because they're the only things that make me feel ok. I want to eat a salad and feel satisfied, I want to eat an apple without worrying that it's going to make me sick, I just want to eatlike a normal person and be able to have a glass of wine with my dinner.

I still feel incredibly lucky to be having a baby and I still love to feel it kick and wriggle - so please forgive me if I sound like I'm being ungrateful. I do feel incredibly guilty for feeling this way - which in a way makes it even harder. But I'd like to feel like I'm in control of my body and my life again. Not knowing when the baby will arrive is killing me. I'm a planner, I like things to be organised and I hate not knowing how much longer I have to wait.

And at the end of it all I'm utterly terrified that being a mum won't be what I've dreamt of either. What if I can't cope, or I don't love my baby? I'm hoping that feeling this sad now will mean that when the baby finally arrives everything will be ok.

PS I've written this not because I want everyone to tell me that it will be ok, or because I want attention or anything like that. I've written it becuase I want to be honest. I will hold up my hands and admit that in the past I've been incredibly critical of women who have whinged about being pregnant. I always thought they should think themselves bloody lucky when so many women in the world can't have children. And believe me no one is more disappointed that I'm not still "sucking it up" than me. But being pregnant is hard for some people, not everyone gets an easy ride. I hope that for you it is easier and that you never have to feel this way. Please forgive me if reading this has been upsetting for you or if you find it offensive - I wish I didn't feel this way - but I do.

The final bump pic

32 weeks

28 weeks

20 weeks

Here it is, the final picture of my bump as taken by the talented Ruth Jenkinson. She has very kindly offered to come and taken pictures during the birth(!) - which is something she used to do for Pregnancy & Birth magazine.

While this would allow me to give you a blow by blow account of the birth, which I'm sure you'd all be desperate to read (no? you're sure?), somehow I just don't think it's right to have your friend and colleague down the business end with an SLR. So instead she's going to come and take pictures of Baby J once he/she has arrived - which will hopefully be a whole lot more pretty.

The bump has grown and is only going to get bigger over the next six weeks. I looked in the mirror the other day and wondered just how I'm still managing to stand upright.

Growth spurt

28 weeks


20 weeks

More bump pics were taken this week - and Baby J has definitely grown - I was suprised at how much in just eight weeks. I also had my 28 week scan (Mum came with me and was beside herself with excitement). We could see the heart beating and a little hand with five tiny fingers and I'm very happy to report that Baby J is growing well - he has short legs and a big tummy (just like his daddy!). I kept my eyes closed and made mum look at the floor while the sonographer measured Baby J's legs - so unless mum peeped we still don't know the sex of the baby.

We don't have to have anymore scans, which is brilliant and everything should, all being well, move ahead as normal now. Just 11 weeks to go and six more weeks of work - yay.

Giving up the sloven

I hold my hands up and confess to the fact that I have a cleaner - she comes once a week (15 minutes early and always catches me in my pjs or mid breakfast - or these days post vomit). She hoovers and cleans the hob and does the bathroom and generally keeps on top of the weekly clean. This however is a double edged sword - it allows me to believe that my house is clean and that I need not get out the hoover, clean under the bed, or wipe the fronts of the kitchen cupboard. So if you look closely you will see that my house really isn't all that clean - well not the sort of clean that I like anyway.

Mr Jones and I have different ideas as to what clean is - I'd like clean sheets every day - he likes the slept in feel. He therefore is perfectly happy with the weekly clean by our somewhat mute Polish "woman that does". I, on the other hand, am suffering frequent paroxysms (heard only by myself and the cats) about the state of the bin cupboard. I know it's a bin cupboard and by nature is supposed to be a bit gross - but I just feel the need to clean it. The thing is the vomiting is rather limiting when it comes to getting down and dirty with the Dettol (or Ecover as it is in our house - but I like alliteration). And Mr Jones can't be persuaded by any stretch of the imagination to clean out a bin cupboard in his rare moments at home (he's still in Scotland).

Apparently this need to clean (I want to move the sofas, sort out all the paperwork, clean under the beds, weed out the wardrobes and rearrange and wipe down the kitchen cupboards) is something to do with being pregnant. A nesting instinct as it were. So the next time I get some spare time, feel a mite human and can get my hands in my marigolds I will be found cleaning out the bin cupboard. Unless of course some kind person finds it in their heart to come and lift me out of my slovenly habits before that day.

Introducing....

...Baby Jones!

You may have noticed that I've been a bit quiet of late - that's because when you have a HUGE secret it's a struggle to write about anything else. But now - as you can see - the secret's out and Mr Jones and I are having a baby. We are rather excited.

My silence has also been thanks to the fact that I have spent most of the past five weeks kneeling on the floor of various lavatories and struggling to keep down anything other than baked beans, fish fingers and (I can hardly stand to type this) - Smash! Baby Jones, it seems, is not a fan of anything healthy and is clearly from the turkey twizzler school of eating. Water, fruit, vegetables have all been rejected for a staple of beans and junk.

There have been anti-sickness tablets and much talk of drips and hospitals (thankfully avoided). Mr Jones has had a baptism of fire into married life and has had to become cook, cleaner, nurse and chief hair-holder-backer. Bless him.

As a person not always blessed with emotional stability I am pleased to report that so far I haven't had any mental meltdowns. Although I did burst into tears in the centre of Stamford because a Gospel Choir were singing and it sounded lovely - hmm!

Yesterday my lips decided to swell to enormous proportions - a reaction to the anti-sickness drugs - so I now resemble Mick Jagger - nice - and the tablets have had to stop. So do leave a clear path between me and the nearest loo.

But other than that all is well. Baby Jones is 4.5cm long and very wriggly, from certain angles he/she looks like a frog - bless.

Normal blogging service will now return. I promise to try not to bore you to tears.