2 years. Wow.
At 12:51pm on February 22, 2011, I was at school, having just finished my day at work. I was chatting to some children when we first heard, then felt the quake. We watched the verandah do a cartoon-like warping wobble, heard the glass rattling in its panes and the continuing rumble of hundreds of kilometres of earth shifting.
We took cover under a doorway, a ridiculous number of bodies in a small spot and futile in any case, as the shaking threw us out. I was told later that my vice-like fingers left marks on one child's upper arm. Sorry about that, Sammy.
After the shaking ceased, we stumbled out onto the court, legs shaky, hearts pounding. Staff wandered about in circles for a bit, unable to formulate words. I think I verbalised ironically that I wished I'd updated my class register so that I could make sense of who was in my class that day. Everything was bizarrely quiet.
We all watched as a Year 8 boy threw the cricket ball he had in his hand, and magically, the spell was broken. Games were renewed, play continued, as Mother Nature had not made such a rude intrusion minutes earlier. With the toss of a ball, all was okay, and with bewildered looks, the call was made to let them carry on and we'd do a walk around check for safety and carry on as normal. We assumed that was a repeat of a local faultline that had had a rumble a few nights earlier.
Apparently, parents began pouring in some 30 minutes later, some from ChCh, having seen some awful things, and the panic only then began to hit children. I was gone by then.
My phone rang, and a panicked Steve informed me that he was okay, and was coming home. He was picking Sophie up from nursery school on the way. I remember feeling surprised that he was obviously stressed. Steve doesn't 'do' stress. I asked if was sure we needed to get Sophie, who was having her first all day session at a new preschool. I was confused in my isolated wee cocoon 50km away from the ChCh CBD, that there seemed to be so much NOISE coming from Steve's end. He told me bluntly that it was huge. People had definitely died this time, there was a hell of a mess to clean up at his work, but he was leaving before the bridges were closed, keeping him from crossing the Waimak River and getting home.
He tells of a long, harrowing journey home, driving over sunken bits of road, overtaking lines of banked up traffic and eventually getting to Sophie, where she was one of the last to be picked up. She was totally unfazed, assuming no doubt in her 3 year old way that these crazy adventures were just what went down at Rangiora High School Nursery School.
I had returned to Mum and Dad's place, where a certain 2 year old boy was being looked after by Nana and Grandad. Things had rattled a whole lot more at their 150 year old home than they had at school, as evidenced by the cracks in walls and fallen bricks scattered around. The first aftershock struck not long after I arrived, and once again I was thrown out of a doorway, this time while holding Caleb. I don't rate that as a survival strategy these days.
2 years on and so much has changed. I find myself scoping out emergency exits when we go somewhere new, and if I find my children separated, I do a mental checklist of how I will get to each one and in which order. I get the odd wave of panic when I hear a truck drives by, making that all-familiar rumble. I have my own seismographs around the house - crystals dangling from chandeliers, mobiles in children's rooms - that tell me when it's real and when it's not. We have a new baby, who will never know the old ChCh. Our older two children know no time when there were no quakes. They are just what happens. They are a part of their day-to-day play, as are house fires, for an entirely different reason. They talk about "When our house falls down in the next earthquake..." as if it's a perfectly normal, life event.
We are lucky that our children have no lasting effects from this tragedy. Their worldview was so unshaped at the time that they just absorbed the event and its aftermath as normal. We were lucky that they felt safe where they were and knew no-one personally that died that day. The rest of us weren't quite so lucky. Everyone knows someone that lost someone. Or lost someone themselves. Everyone got a taste of how precarious life is, and how no-one is immune to the randomness of disaster. A loss of innocence, I guess.
What a two years it's been.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Friday, December 21, 2012
Felt food and gingerbread houses
I belong to a fabulous forum of very clever mums and mums to be. They constantly inspire me with their craftiness and generosity, as well as impact my daily parenting with their wisdom and vastly differing, yet well-researched philosophies on raising little people. Once upon a time, I naively thought parenting was some kind of innate ability that clicked into gear when you gave birth. Um... nope! I love the way these women (and presumably their other halves) think about their actions and interactions with their children and embrace what they do, rather than just manage the 'inconvenience' that so many view children as.
They can be found here: http://thenappynetwork.org.nz/forum/index.php
These lovely ladies have been so kind over the years, gifting my children with lovely handmade clothing, nappies and goodies, and offering an encouraging word on those days when I really needed one.
Recently, some of us on this forum got together and arranged a swap of felt food. We all made mass amounts of something, sent them all to an organiser (thanks Kaz!) and she distributed a set to each of us.
Here's what we got - the tomato, cheese and lettuce is what I made. Aren't they cute?! Go on, make some. You know you want to.
And here's what the kids and I spent yesterday afternoon doing. Did you hear any ranting obscenities? It wasn't me, I promise **darty sideways glance**
The children managed the icing and decorating well, using royal icing in a small snap-lock bag. Much easier to handle for small hands than a piping bag. We learned a few tricks along the way, such as the fact that 2 halves of a boiled sweet make a perfect stained glass window - one whole sweet didn't melt fast enough, and smaller bits tended to blend too much and burn. Don't ask me how many we made before we realised this!
They can be found here: http://thenappynetwork.org.nz/forum/index.php
These lovely ladies have been so kind over the years, gifting my children with lovely handmade clothing, nappies and goodies, and offering an encouraging word on those days when I really needed one.
Recently, some of us on this forum got together and arranged a swap of felt food. We all made mass amounts of something, sent them all to an organiser (thanks Kaz!) and she distributed a set to each of us.
Here's what we got - the tomato, cheese and lettuce is what I made. Aren't they cute?! Go on, make some. You know you want to.
And here's what the kids and I spent yesterday afternoon doing. Did you hear any ranting obscenities? It wasn't me, I promise **darty sideways glance**
The children managed the icing and decorating well, using royal icing in a small snap-lock bag. Much easier to handle for small hands than a piping bag. We learned a few tricks along the way, such as the fact that 2 halves of a boiled sweet make a perfect stained glass window - one whole sweet didn't melt fast enough, and smaller bits tended to blend too much and burn. Don't ask me how many we made before we realised this!
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
I found more photos!
Amazing what you find when you clear the camera.
One of the other activities in our advent calendar was making Christmas cards. I know you can buy a thousand for 99c, but hey, this filled in an afternoon. We used a booklet of scrap-booking paper I've had for years (bought from the Warehouse for about $4), which was quite handy as it meant that all of the colours were already vetted for colour coordination. This is not a strength of my son's. It also meant that the prints were kinda flowery, and not so well received by one of Caleb's Nursery School friends, who suggested he give it to a girl instead. Just as well he has a thick skin!
We traced cookie cutters to get the shapes, cut them out and layered them with rectangles onto plain paper. Don't they look cute? The crooked sticking kinda adds to the appeal. Or so I'm telling myself! Might make gift tags too.
I have been having a love affair with felt of late. I've made lots of felt food (will post pics one day), and Soph has been helping me make felt decorations too. The blanket stitching is beyond her, but she can sew buttons, plait and use a snap press. I should really buy her a cross-stitch kit, because she'd love it.
And here's my vege garden, as of a week or so back. Garlic and peas are ready for harvest, tomatoes, beans, courgettes, corn, spuds and capsicums are well on the way and we have a constant supply of strawberries, lettuce and carrots. Summer has arrived (did I just jinx something?) so everything has doubled in size since this photo was taken. I need me some more dirt!
One of the other activities in our advent calendar was making Christmas cards. I know you can buy a thousand for 99c, but hey, this filled in an afternoon. We used a booklet of scrap-booking paper I've had for years (bought from the Warehouse for about $4), which was quite handy as it meant that all of the colours were already vetted for colour coordination. This is not a strength of my son's. It also meant that the prints were kinda flowery, and not so well received by one of Caleb's Nursery School friends, who suggested he give it to a girl instead. Just as well he has a thick skin!
We traced cookie cutters to get the shapes, cut them out and layered them with rectangles onto plain paper. Don't they look cute? The crooked sticking kinda adds to the appeal. Or so I'm telling myself! Might make gift tags too.
I have been having a love affair with felt of late. I've made lots of felt food (will post pics one day), and Soph has been helping me make felt decorations too. The blanket stitching is beyond her, but she can sew buttons, plait and use a snap press. I should really buy her a cross-stitch kit, because she'd love it.
And here's my vege garden, as of a week or so back. Garlic and peas are ready for harvest, tomatoes, beans, courgettes, corn, spuds and capsicums are well on the way and we have a constant supply of strawberries, lettuce and carrots. Summer has arrived (did I just jinx something?) so everything has doubled in size since this photo was taken. I need me some more dirt!
Christmas craft and stuff
It's a lovely time of year when you aren't dashing about writing reports, swiping National Standards sheets and stressing about getting Christmas shopping done in the nano-second you have between school finishing and Christmas day. Admittedly, I'm also relishing every moment that I have my bigger two children at school, because very soon I'm going to be embarking on a long summer break with 3 children to entertain. I can see we're going to be spending a lot of time at the local pool or watching movies!
By the way, when did I become a mother of 3 children? Last time I checked I was still meandering my way through university.
So this Christmas, I've been able to do some of the things I have always wanted to with the kids, but been prevented by time and stress.
This year, I made a point of filling our advent calendar pockets up in advance with holiday activities, instead of forgetting, and hastily shoving lollies in the pocket before the kids got up each morning. This took an entire evening. I'm serious. My children have more on their social calendar than I, so it was a complicated process of brainstorming activities, cross-checking with my diary and making sure that easy activities tied in with days when we had swimming lessons, Pippins or social commitments and the more complicated events were scheduled for cruisy days.
I should have listed them all on the first of December, but half of them are now wadded wee balls in the fireplace, and I can't remember what they all said! I've tried (and will continue) to take pictures of the interesting ones in any case.
This year I've made a point of creating a range of activities that capture the 'spirit' of Christmas, rather than the commercialised 'getting' side that my kids are very familiar with. This is one of them, stolen in part from my friend Laura Hall. This idea was instigated after my original plan of gifting unwanted toys to the Salvation Army resulted in a series of minor nervous breakdowns by Sophie at the thought of parting with any one of her thousands of (apparently) deeply loved playthings. All about loving our fellow child-kind here, clearly. In any case, no amount of ranting, guilting or lecturing would change her mind, and merely resulted in her sleeping with EVEN MORE soft toys in her bed, for fear that I'd thieve them in the night and give them away to some undeserving, underprivileged child. I don't think she slept a wink! Clearly a National Party voter, that one ;-)
Anyway, this was fun, and we can't wait to stash them about the village tomorrow. Though it has crossed my mind that people are so honest here-abouts that they'll just leave them there, thinking they must be for someone else!
Another fun craft has been cornflour dough ornaments. To be honest, after 11 years (really?!) of teaching, I'm a bit of a salt dough grinch. It never bakes evenly, goes rotten after a few months, the salt crystals don't dissolve and it always looks just like a kid went nuts with some playdough, paint and yarn and hung it on your tree. Which they did, essentially. So I tried a new recipe:
1/2 C Cornfour
3/4C Baking Soda
1/2C Water (we used a bit more)
Mix, cook over a low heat and stir. Cool, knead and roll out. Bake for an hour at 50deg C, turning them over half way through cooking.
Easy!
To get pretty texture, we rolled some naff old doilies onto it before cutting our shapes out, or used rubber stamps. I sealed them with homemade Modge Podge (AKA watery PVA) and added some details with nail polish to get a bit of shimmer happening. I love how they are actually WHITE, not salt dough grey, and the kids actually didn't need much help to produce ornaments that may actually pass muster onto 2013's tree. Will do this again!
More of our happenings some other time. Oh, but also... we have chicks!! Mostly purebred Plymouth Barred Rocks (with a random foster hen) but as you can see, we have a rogue bitser in there too. Anyone want him / her? We WILL not be keeping it, despite my family's protests. We need some quality breeding control around here! And yes, I do believe chooks are quite possibly the hardest creatures on Earth to photograph.
By the way, when did I become a mother of 3 children? Last time I checked I was still meandering my way through university.
So this Christmas, I've been able to do some of the things I have always wanted to with the kids, but been prevented by time and stress.
This year, I made a point of filling our advent calendar pockets up in advance with holiday activities, instead of forgetting, and hastily shoving lollies in the pocket before the kids got up each morning. This took an entire evening. I'm serious. My children have more on their social calendar than I, so it was a complicated process of brainstorming activities, cross-checking with my diary and making sure that easy activities tied in with days when we had swimming lessons, Pippins or social commitments and the more complicated events were scheduled for cruisy days.
I should have listed them all on the first of December, but half of them are now wadded wee balls in the fireplace, and I can't remember what they all said! I've tried (and will continue) to take pictures of the interesting ones in any case.
This year I've made a point of creating a range of activities that capture the 'spirit' of Christmas, rather than the commercialised 'getting' side that my kids are very familiar with. This is one of them, stolen in part from my friend Laura Hall. This idea was instigated after my original plan of gifting unwanted toys to the Salvation Army resulted in a series of minor nervous breakdowns by Sophie at the thought of parting with any one of her thousands of (apparently) deeply loved playthings. All about loving our fellow child-kind here, clearly. In any case, no amount of ranting, guilting or lecturing would change her mind, and merely resulted in her sleeping with EVEN MORE soft toys in her bed, for fear that I'd thieve them in the night and give them away to some undeserving, underprivileged child. I don't think she slept a wink! Clearly a National Party voter, that one ;-)
Anyway, this was fun, and we can't wait to stash them about the village tomorrow. Though it has crossed my mind that people are so honest here-abouts that they'll just leave them there, thinking they must be for someone else!
Another fun craft has been cornflour dough ornaments. To be honest, after 11 years (really?!) of teaching, I'm a bit of a salt dough grinch. It never bakes evenly, goes rotten after a few months, the salt crystals don't dissolve and it always looks just like a kid went nuts with some playdough, paint and yarn and hung it on your tree. Which they did, essentially. So I tried a new recipe:
1/2 C Cornfour
3/4C Baking Soda
1/2C Water (we used a bit more)
Mix, cook over a low heat and stir. Cool, knead and roll out. Bake for an hour at 50deg C, turning them over half way through cooking.
Easy!
To get pretty texture, we rolled some naff old doilies onto it before cutting our shapes out, or used rubber stamps. I sealed them with homemade Modge Podge (AKA watery PVA) and added some details with nail polish to get a bit of shimmer happening. I love how they are actually WHITE, not salt dough grey, and the kids actually didn't need much help to produce ornaments that may actually pass muster onto 2013's tree. Will do this again!
More of our happenings some other time. Oh, but also... we have chicks!! Mostly purebred Plymouth Barred Rocks (with a random foster hen) but as you can see, we have a rogue bitser in there too. Anyone want him / her? We WILL not be keeping it, despite my family's protests. We need some quality breeding control around here! And yes, I do believe chooks are quite possibly the hardest creatures on Earth to photograph.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Introducing Amelie!
My last update outlined the misery and indignity associated with gastro bugs and pregnancy. This post will outline similar outcomes, but from a slightly less violent cause - childbirth. Warnings etc advised to those of squeamish disposition or those currently staring down the barrel of giving birth. Bookmark it and read it later. Or not at all.
I have previously mentioned that I have the gestation of a pachyderm. My two eldest children were born 15 days beyond their due dates, so really I had no reason to expect this time to be different. But you just can't help hoping, though, can you? Especially when well-meaning souls spin you yarns about having 2 post-dated children, then firing #3 out at 37 weeks while sneezing. Needless to say, my due date(s) passed by uneventfully and as the days merged into weeks, my midwife-extraordinaire decided to pull a few strings (and cervical membranes) to get this show on the road.
In the past, I've tried every single method known to mankind (and some lesser-known methods also) to bring on labour. All have categorically failed, aside from an extra 15 days in the womb and / or a dose of prostiglandin gel.
A wee note here for those interested in maternal mental health: an overdue woman does not want to hear about what she needs to do to bring baby on. She has tried it already. She especially does not want to hear about your antics prior to going into labour, as chances are, she knows your husband, and is now not only still obscenely pregnant, but also tortured with unwelcome mental pictures. If you get my drift. An overdue woman balances on a thread between a state of absurd physical immobility and discomfort, and hormonal insanity, and will possibly render you unconscious if not treated carefully. True story. And I love the Oxford comma.
So it was, that we found ourselves on the cusp of 2 weeks overdue, and facing induction at Christchurch Women's Hospital. Based on previous experience, we expected to have Prostiglandin gel inserted at 12pm, go into labour immediately, and leave with babe in arms 3 hours later. However, it seems that the divine powers that be have a sense of humour. Or like to shake things up a bit.
3 days prior to this, Sophie (now 5 years old. FIVE - can you believe it? I certainly can) came down with the flu. Not that 'flu' that people complain about having when their nose drips and they have a headache. I mean the actual flu. Very high temperature, vomiting, chills, aches, runny nose etc. That one that the Ministry of Health vaccinates children free for. Might get that done next year! **steps off anti-vacc soap box and stomps on it** Induction day dawns, and Caleb gets it also. Along with a viral rash that looks like a full-body port wine stain birthmark.
So here we are, facing labour having had very little sleep for the past 3 nights and with a very sick pair of wee cherubs at home with Granny Annie holding the fort. Steve had very kindly let me sleep in that morning, as that spontaneous 3 hour labour might drain me a bit. After all, I hadn't had much exercise of late.
Gel goes in. Nothing happens. Sent for walk to hurry things along. Trek a great distance and climb many flights of stairs. Nothing happens. Wired up to various machines to check if anything is happening. Nothing is happening. Twiddle thumbs. Read many ancient magazines. Nothing happens. Excitedly find newer stash of magazines and become expert on Kardashian family, celebrity weight-gain / loss / pregnancies and the singular awfulness of New Idea magazine. Nothing happens...
During this phase, we were in a ward containing several 'rooms' (I use the term loosely) separated by badly hung curtains. The type of curtain that when whisked closed, promises to fly open on the other side, usually unveiling the patient in an unfortunate state of undress. Whilst there was nothing happening on our side of the curtain to reveal (did I mention that?), there was a great deal of action going on in the space next door. It seems that the thing to do when facing an induction nowadays is to invite your family, friends, and assorted hangers-on to watch. And tell them to bring their kids too. Babies that are mobile, needing a nap and prone to trying to escape from their ancient and barely-holding-together umbrella stroller and dash under afore-mentioned crappy curtain to the cubile next-door are especially welcome. We never got this memo, so our sincerest apologies to any of our family, friends, neighbours or distant relatives that would have liked to have been present to watch my dignity being hurled out the window. Maybe next time? Oh wait - there isn't going to be one!
After many, many hours of nothing happening and the antics next door going from odd to outright and blatantly annoyingly awful for everyone within the general area, we politely requested our own room, as we were clearly there for the night. The midwives on duty took pity on us and showed us to a private birthing room, complete with Lazi-boy for Steve (who by this point was battling sleep-deprived headaches and hallucinations and threatening to do unkind things to the entourage next door) to sleep in. We were terribly grateful, but after a few hours, it became obvious that everything was conspiring against us. Steve's Lazi-boy was made of hospital-grade vinyl. Thus, it emitted shrill and unseemly sounds every time he moved, preventing any hope of sleep for both of us. It was also prone to randomly pinging upright at any given moment, either sandwiching or pinging its unsuspecting sitter upright, just as they were nodding off. It was decided that for the good of mankind, Steve would go and stay with some friends, and I would call him in the unlikely event that anything happened.
At around 1am, and many awful magazine articles later, I was having fantasies about becoming the new editor of New Idea and saving it from a future of certain mockery and death. It was also shift-change time, and a new round of unseemly young doctors entered the room, threatening to break my waters, insert more gel, fire in a drip of Syntocin etc, anything to get this show on the road. By the way, when did medical staff get so youthful? Surely a doctor cannot be younger than me? I am somewhat youthful myself, I like to think, and training takes a century or more, doesn't it? Am unhappy with the notion that I have crossed the line and now have medical professionals younger than me. Just sayin'. Anyway, after a conversation that had me declining offers of intervention and requesting that we wait until morning, they left. I was still wide awake, and cursing having left my e-reader in the car. Jamie Fraser would have been such good company...
Anyway, at 3:15am, I gave up trying to read or sleep and hopped in the shower. I'd no sooner gotten in, when I felt a distantly-familiar contraction. And another. I was startled, and decided to wait and see if I had another before ringing Steve and suggesting he return to his friend the Lazi-boy. 4 contractions later, I managed to stumble out of the shower, ring Steve and get myself wrapped in a towel. Drying myself or getting dressed was very much in the 'too hard' basket at this point.
Steve made a remarkably quick (and possibly slightly illegal) dash across town and was met by a surprised night shift staff, who I hadn't thought to notify about our baby's imminent arrival. Our own midwife was phoned, I was jabbed with an IV line for treatment for Strep B, and we made noises about wanting to go into a room with a birthing pool. Actually Steve made said noises - I had slunk into my silent birthing mode. It seems when in labour, I'm rendered incapable of speaking aloud, yet my thought processes are painfully clear. Thus, I am quite polite when birthing, and seem not to be one of those shrieking, cursing crazy ladies that you see on TV. If only you could hear my thoughts, however...
Induced labouring women are not meant to birth in a pool, according to CWH. Especially if they are attached to an IV. Thankfully, my midwife gracefully agreed to have any dire consequences on her own head, and we were escorted to the very same birthing room that Sophie and Caleb were born in. Something kinda cool about that. The IV had run its course by now, and it was looking like we were out of time to get the next dose in. I had a shower for an hour or so, each contraction searing my insides and leaving me clinging to the handrail. I remembered that counting during contractions had been helpful during Caleb's birth, so I began to do that, deciding that a count of 100 would have me demanding pain relief and / or a surrogate birther. I seemed to lose count around 65 every time and have to start again, so never got up to 100, thankfully!
In the bizarre state of highly-illogical thought-processes that birthing brings on, I also decided that I would have to have given birth by 6:15am, which I thought would mark the 3 hour mark of labour, or I was stopping this whole wretched business. I realise that many (most) women suffer through much longer labours than 3 hours from go to woah, but in my slightly irrational state, it seemed perfectly valid and sensible. Don't ask me what I was going to at this 3 hour point if Baby hadn't arrived, but I was quite determined that I was having no part of these shenanigans beyond then. Hello transition.
I hopped in the pool, watching the clock like a hawk, and evidently grinding my jaw against the side of the pool through each contraction, if the sore bruised patch on my chin the next day was anything to go by. Eventually we got to the pushing stage, and to my utter despair, 6:15am approached and I realised that I had gotten my math wrong. I really had to give matters until 6:30am to resolve themselves, as I wasn't sure whether I had actually started labour at 3:15am, or just hopped in the shower then. To be fair on everyone, an extra 15 minutes had to be allowed, I begrudgingly thought.
Meanwhile, my birthing team of Steve, midwife and midwifery student continued their in-depth discussions about cider brewing, in between the odd "Good job, Miriam" and "That's the way, a biiiiiig push". Having been rendered mute, I was incapable of shrieking madly "I'm pushing out a baby here! Hellllooooo?! A bit of focus, please!" but my thoughts may have been along these uncharitable lines. I started to get a bit despairing of the whole wretched business ever being over, but suddenly all 8lbs of Amelie May Bell wriggled out (literally) into the very capable hands of Bronwyn, our multi-tasking midwife extraordinaire, who was also now qualified to brew a fine cider. It was 6:26am, and our wee pet still had 4 minutes up her sleeve until her eviction deadline. I like a punctual child.
It never ceases to amaze me how the body copes with a natural birth. One minute you are literally being stretched asunder, in utter agony. I'm not sure if the internet meme about labour pain being equivalent to having 24 bones broken simultaneously has any truth (I doubt it) but it certainly is indescribable pain. And then the baby is born, and it all just stops. And you realise that you'd kill for Marmite on toast and a cup of tea. But of course the freaking Marmite factory had the cheek to be quaked, so you'll have to settle for Vegemite **sigh**.
So here we are, 3 weeks on. We have a delightful wee lady who sleeps pretty well and does all of the things wee babies are meant to do and nothing that they're not. She is adored by her siblings, and has survived being sat on, drawn on, smothered with toys and kisses. She's a keeper.
I have previously mentioned that I have the gestation of a pachyderm. My two eldest children were born 15 days beyond their due dates, so really I had no reason to expect this time to be different. But you just can't help hoping, though, can you? Especially when well-meaning souls spin you yarns about having 2 post-dated children, then firing #3 out at 37 weeks while sneezing. Needless to say, my due date(s) passed by uneventfully and as the days merged into weeks, my midwife-extraordinaire decided to pull a few strings (and cervical membranes) to get this show on the road.
In the past, I've tried every single method known to mankind (and some lesser-known methods also) to bring on labour. All have categorically failed, aside from an extra 15 days in the womb and / or a dose of prostiglandin gel.
A wee note here for those interested in maternal mental health: an overdue woman does not want to hear about what she needs to do to bring baby on. She has tried it already. She especially does not want to hear about your antics prior to going into labour, as chances are, she knows your husband, and is now not only still obscenely pregnant, but also tortured with unwelcome mental pictures. If you get my drift. An overdue woman balances on a thread between a state of absurd physical immobility and discomfort, and hormonal insanity, and will possibly render you unconscious if not treated carefully. True story. And I love the Oxford comma.
So it was, that we found ourselves on the cusp of 2 weeks overdue, and facing induction at Christchurch Women's Hospital. Based on previous experience, we expected to have Prostiglandin gel inserted at 12pm, go into labour immediately, and leave with babe in arms 3 hours later. However, it seems that the divine powers that be have a sense of humour. Or like to shake things up a bit.
3 days prior to this, Sophie (now 5 years old. FIVE - can you believe it? I certainly can) came down with the flu. Not that 'flu' that people complain about having when their nose drips and they have a headache. I mean the actual flu. Very high temperature, vomiting, chills, aches, runny nose etc. That one that the Ministry of Health vaccinates children free for. Might get that done next year! **steps off anti-vacc soap box and stomps on it** Induction day dawns, and Caleb gets it also. Along with a viral rash that looks like a full-body port wine stain birthmark.
So here we are, facing labour having had very little sleep for the past 3 nights and with a very sick pair of wee cherubs at home with Granny Annie holding the fort. Steve had very kindly let me sleep in that morning, as that spontaneous 3 hour labour might drain me a bit. After all, I hadn't had much exercise of late.
Gel goes in. Nothing happens. Sent for walk to hurry things along. Trek a great distance and climb many flights of stairs. Nothing happens. Wired up to various machines to check if anything is happening. Nothing is happening. Twiddle thumbs. Read many ancient magazines. Nothing happens. Excitedly find newer stash of magazines and become expert on Kardashian family, celebrity weight-gain / loss / pregnancies and the singular awfulness of New Idea magazine. Nothing happens...
During this phase, we were in a ward containing several 'rooms' (I use the term loosely) separated by badly hung curtains. The type of curtain that when whisked closed, promises to fly open on the other side, usually unveiling the patient in an unfortunate state of undress. Whilst there was nothing happening on our side of the curtain to reveal (did I mention that?), there was a great deal of action going on in the space next door. It seems that the thing to do when facing an induction nowadays is to invite your family, friends, and assorted hangers-on to watch. And tell them to bring their kids too. Babies that are mobile, needing a nap and prone to trying to escape from their ancient and barely-holding-together umbrella stroller and dash under afore-mentioned crappy curtain to the cubile next-door are especially welcome. We never got this memo, so our sincerest apologies to any of our family, friends, neighbours or distant relatives that would have liked to have been present to watch my dignity being hurled out the window. Maybe next time? Oh wait - there isn't going to be one!
After many, many hours of nothing happening and the antics next door going from odd to outright and blatantly annoyingly awful for everyone within the general area, we politely requested our own room, as we were clearly there for the night. The midwives on duty took pity on us and showed us to a private birthing room, complete with Lazi-boy for Steve (who by this point was battling sleep-deprived headaches and hallucinations and threatening to do unkind things to the entourage next door) to sleep in. We were terribly grateful, but after a few hours, it became obvious that everything was conspiring against us. Steve's Lazi-boy was made of hospital-grade vinyl. Thus, it emitted shrill and unseemly sounds every time he moved, preventing any hope of sleep for both of us. It was also prone to randomly pinging upright at any given moment, either sandwiching or pinging its unsuspecting sitter upright, just as they were nodding off. It was decided that for the good of mankind, Steve would go and stay with some friends, and I would call him in the unlikely event that anything happened.
At around 1am, and many awful magazine articles later, I was having fantasies about becoming the new editor of New Idea and saving it from a future of certain mockery and death. It was also shift-change time, and a new round of unseemly young doctors entered the room, threatening to break my waters, insert more gel, fire in a drip of Syntocin etc, anything to get this show on the road. By the way, when did medical staff get so youthful? Surely a doctor cannot be younger than me? I am somewhat youthful myself, I like to think, and training takes a century or more, doesn't it? Am unhappy with the notion that I have crossed the line and now have medical professionals younger than me. Just sayin'. Anyway, after a conversation that had me declining offers of intervention and requesting that we wait until morning, they left. I was still wide awake, and cursing having left my e-reader in the car. Jamie Fraser would have been such good company...
Anyway, at 3:15am, I gave up trying to read or sleep and hopped in the shower. I'd no sooner gotten in, when I felt a distantly-familiar contraction. And another. I was startled, and decided to wait and see if I had another before ringing Steve and suggesting he return to his friend the Lazi-boy. 4 contractions later, I managed to stumble out of the shower, ring Steve and get myself wrapped in a towel. Drying myself or getting dressed was very much in the 'too hard' basket at this point.
Steve made a remarkably quick (and possibly slightly illegal) dash across town and was met by a surprised night shift staff, who I hadn't thought to notify about our baby's imminent arrival. Our own midwife was phoned, I was jabbed with an IV line for treatment for Strep B, and we made noises about wanting to go into a room with a birthing pool. Actually Steve made said noises - I had slunk into my silent birthing mode. It seems when in labour, I'm rendered incapable of speaking aloud, yet my thought processes are painfully clear. Thus, I am quite polite when birthing, and seem not to be one of those shrieking, cursing crazy ladies that you see on TV. If only you could hear my thoughts, however...
Induced labouring women are not meant to birth in a pool, according to CWH. Especially if they are attached to an IV. Thankfully, my midwife gracefully agreed to have any dire consequences on her own head, and we were escorted to the very same birthing room that Sophie and Caleb were born in. Something kinda cool about that. The IV had run its course by now, and it was looking like we were out of time to get the next dose in. I had a shower for an hour or so, each contraction searing my insides and leaving me clinging to the handrail. I remembered that counting during contractions had been helpful during Caleb's birth, so I began to do that, deciding that a count of 100 would have me demanding pain relief and / or a surrogate birther. I seemed to lose count around 65 every time and have to start again, so never got up to 100, thankfully!
In the bizarre state of highly-illogical thought-processes that birthing brings on, I also decided that I would have to have given birth by 6:15am, which I thought would mark the 3 hour mark of labour, or I was stopping this whole wretched business. I realise that many (most) women suffer through much longer labours than 3 hours from go to woah, but in my slightly irrational state, it seemed perfectly valid and sensible. Don't ask me what I was going to at this 3 hour point if Baby hadn't arrived, but I was quite determined that I was having no part of these shenanigans beyond then. Hello transition.
I hopped in the pool, watching the clock like a hawk, and evidently grinding my jaw against the side of the pool through each contraction, if the sore bruised patch on my chin the next day was anything to go by. Eventually we got to the pushing stage, and to my utter despair, 6:15am approached and I realised that I had gotten my math wrong. I really had to give matters until 6:30am to resolve themselves, as I wasn't sure whether I had actually started labour at 3:15am, or just hopped in the shower then. To be fair on everyone, an extra 15 minutes had to be allowed, I begrudgingly thought.
Meanwhile, my birthing team of Steve, midwife and midwifery student continued their in-depth discussions about cider brewing, in between the odd "Good job, Miriam" and "That's the way, a biiiiiig push". Having been rendered mute, I was incapable of shrieking madly "I'm pushing out a baby here! Hellllooooo?! A bit of focus, please!" but my thoughts may have been along these uncharitable lines. I started to get a bit despairing of the whole wretched business ever being over, but suddenly all 8lbs of Amelie May Bell wriggled out (literally) into the very capable hands of Bronwyn, our multi-tasking midwife extraordinaire, who was also now qualified to brew a fine cider. It was 6:26am, and our wee pet still had 4 minutes up her sleeve until her eviction deadline. I like a punctual child.
It never ceases to amaze me how the body copes with a natural birth. One minute you are literally being stretched asunder, in utter agony. I'm not sure if the internet meme about labour pain being equivalent to having 24 bones broken simultaneously has any truth (I doubt it) but it certainly is indescribable pain. And then the baby is born, and it all just stops. And you realise that you'd kill for Marmite on toast and a cup of tea. But of course the freaking Marmite factory had the cheek to be quaked, so you'll have to settle for Vegemite **sigh**.
So here we are, 3 weeks on. We have a delightful wee lady who sleeps pretty well and does all of the things wee babies are meant to do and nothing that they're not. She is adored by her siblings, and has survived being sat on, drawn on, smothered with toys and kisses. She's a keeper.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Ode to indignity...
All sorts of indignity is heaped on the plate of the pregnant woman. Mauling (usually strangers') hands in the street, various tests and tweaks that shall not be elaborated on, and then of course there is the actual BIRTH of that squirming, writhing little being at the end of it all. Dignity? Pffffft! Long gone.
But there is a very special and truly ghastly type of ridiculousness dumped upon a woman who is stricken with a gastro bug at 8 months pregnant. During the few lucid moments I managed last night whilst heaving up my insides, I listed but a few.
Getting out of bed is a difficult enough process when this pregnant. Generally, it is a manoeuvre involving carefully timed momentum, counterbalance, and a small forklift. When needing to vomit, however, things must be done quickly. No time for anything other than a mad sprint (waddle / stagger) to the loo, wearing the consequence of pulled muscles, carpet-burned knees or whatever else decides to taunt you on the way.
To deal with this issue, I decided a bucket might be useful. No need to get out of bed, just grab, heave, lie back down. Dignity! Ahhh, nope. It seems largely pregnant women cannot vomit sitting up. Whatever core abdominals responsible for such things are now located somewhere at varying heights around my kidneys, and they are taking strike action. The only possible position that enables suitable wretching is on hands and knees on the floor, leaning over said bucket and hoping your hair is still tied back. Glam...
A comment on buckets. They ALWAYS smell! Despite not being a particularly grimy household generally, every bucket I pick up seems to have some kind of malodorous foulness imbedded in its plastic that would make a well person ill, let alone one this far gone. Either that or they contain 8-12 dismembered fly carcasses. What do they make these things out of? Recycled meat trays?
Pelvic floor weakness. 'Nuff said.
Earthquakes. Yes really. Whilst crouching on all fours and heaving over a stinky bucket sometime last night, the Earth moved. Not a biggie (4.0 mag) but enough to add to my questionable sanity at that point and make me briefly muse over shaking my fist and shouting crazy-lady things.
This morning, having had somewhere around 2 hours of sleep, every muscle in my bloated body aches. I have strained muscles that I haven't used in 6 months, and an outrageous amount of laundry to wash, fold and sort. Thankfully my two wee cherubs on the outside have gone to Nana's for the day (GOD BLESS NANA'S!) but part of the sick pregnant mother's lot is to survey the carnage created by two small people left to their own devices while Mummy and Daddy puked and groaned this morning. I'll down my electrolyte and start shoveling. See you on the other side... maybe.
But there is a very special and truly ghastly type of ridiculousness dumped upon a woman who is stricken with a gastro bug at 8 months pregnant. During the few lucid moments I managed last night whilst heaving up my insides, I listed but a few.
Getting out of bed is a difficult enough process when this pregnant. Generally, it is a manoeuvre involving carefully timed momentum, counterbalance, and a small forklift. When needing to vomit, however, things must be done quickly. No time for anything other than a mad sprint (waddle / stagger) to the loo, wearing the consequence of pulled muscles, carpet-burned knees or whatever else decides to taunt you on the way.
To deal with this issue, I decided a bucket might be useful. No need to get out of bed, just grab, heave, lie back down. Dignity! Ahhh, nope. It seems largely pregnant women cannot vomit sitting up. Whatever core abdominals responsible for such things are now located somewhere at varying heights around my kidneys, and they are taking strike action. The only possible position that enables suitable wretching is on hands and knees on the floor, leaning over said bucket and hoping your hair is still tied back. Glam...
A comment on buckets. They ALWAYS smell! Despite not being a particularly grimy household generally, every bucket I pick up seems to have some kind of malodorous foulness imbedded in its plastic that would make a well person ill, let alone one this far gone. Either that or they contain 8-12 dismembered fly carcasses. What do they make these things out of? Recycled meat trays?
Pelvic floor weakness. 'Nuff said.
Earthquakes. Yes really. Whilst crouching on all fours and heaving over a stinky bucket sometime last night, the Earth moved. Not a biggie (4.0 mag) but enough to add to my questionable sanity at that point and make me briefly muse over shaking my fist and shouting crazy-lady things.
This morning, having had somewhere around 2 hours of sleep, every muscle in my bloated body aches. I have strained muscles that I haven't used in 6 months, and an outrageous amount of laundry to wash, fold and sort. Thankfully my two wee cherubs on the outside have gone to Nana's for the day (GOD BLESS NANA'S!) but part of the sick pregnant mother's lot is to survey the carnage created by two small people left to their own devices while Mummy and Daddy puked and groaned this morning. I'll down my electrolyte and start shoveling. See you on the other side... maybe.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Summer??? Update
This is going to be largely a visual update as I'm in danger of falling asleep at the keyboard if I attempt too many words. Probably a good thing for me to attempt to be concise anyway - nothing like developing new skills!
It has been essentially a rubbish summer throughout New Zealand. Oh yes, I KNOW Central Otago was lovely, but that was only because we chose not to camp there. Had we turned up with tent and over-stocked people-mover in tow, then I'm certain that it would have rained and been miserable there also.
My veges have been slow due to the cold weather (and a little negligence) but we are now seeing a decent harvest. Some excavating has increased the number of raised beds I have at my disposal and I'm loving it... when bending down doesn't send me into throes of vomiting or give me heartburn. Gotta love this pregnancy lark.
Bean teepee and the last of the peas.
Some of our many capsicums - no mean feat growing these in Canterbury with no glassshouse!
Apples! And they're good. Very impressed with our $15 Warehouse fruit trees.
Courgette rut!
They are all funny little globe-like ones this year. Just how 'Mixed' was that packet of 'Mixed Variety Courgettes'?
You know you can write off summer when your trees start turning in February.
New chooks!
We are currently in the process of culling our ancient old Brown Shavers with Plymouth Barred Rocks. They are enormous, beautiful creatures (hopefully less inclined to get out of their lovely wee run!) and we now have two purebred hens and 3 week old chicks of unknown sex. Hoping NOT to end up with a 3:2 rooster to hen ratio.
Remember this scrawny specimen?
Well Minty is now nearly a two-tooth and currently (accidentally!) expecting her first lamb sometime this eeehhhhhrrrrmmm... winter. Ooops. Hoping we're wrong! Spring we can do - even July we could manage. But not so keen on June lambs.
Doesn't she look awful shorn?
And because it feels like we might be finally making some dents into the landscaping of this place, here are some pics of our labours:
Spot where the irrigation lines end!
Just waiting on a fencer to come and break his equipment on our rocks so we don't have to! Steve is very much looking forward to having someone ELSE do a job for a change. Especially since it involves digging holes!
It has been essentially a rubbish summer throughout New Zealand. Oh yes, I KNOW Central Otago was lovely, but that was only because we chose not to camp there. Had we turned up with tent and over-stocked people-mover in tow, then I'm certain that it would have rained and been miserable there also.
My veges have been slow due to the cold weather (and a little negligence) but we are now seeing a decent harvest. Some excavating has increased the number of raised beds I have at my disposal and I'm loving it... when bending down doesn't send me into throes of vomiting or give me heartburn. Gotta love this pregnancy lark.
Bean teepee and the last of the peas.
Some of our many capsicums - no mean feat growing these in Canterbury with no glassshouse!
Apples! And they're good. Very impressed with our $15 Warehouse fruit trees.
Courgette rut!
They are all funny little globe-like ones this year. Just how 'Mixed' was that packet of 'Mixed Variety Courgettes'?
You know you can write off summer when your trees start turning in February.
New chooks!
We are currently in the process of culling our ancient old Brown Shavers with Plymouth Barred Rocks. They are enormous, beautiful creatures (hopefully less inclined to get out of their lovely wee run!) and we now have two purebred hens and 3 week old chicks of unknown sex. Hoping NOT to end up with a 3:2 rooster to hen ratio.
Remember this scrawny specimen?
Well Minty is now nearly a two-tooth and currently (accidentally!) expecting her first lamb sometime this eeehhhhhrrrrmmm... winter. Ooops. Hoping we're wrong! Spring we can do - even July we could manage. But not so keen on June lambs.
Doesn't she look awful shorn?
And because it feels like we might be finally making some dents into the landscaping of this place, here are some pics of our labours:
Spot where the irrigation lines end!
Just waiting on a fencer to come and break his equipment on our rocks so we don't have to! Steve is very much looking forward to having someone ELSE do a job for a change. Especially since it involves digging holes!
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