A Spidermum was born – part 2

I have 2 boys. Two beautiful little boys that I liken to Springer Spaniels in dire need of castration. Gorgeous, hyper, loving, demanding – there is never a dull moment. As we have previously learnt, spawn #1 was a massive suprise but not as much as his little brother who was to follow much sooner than we ever anticipated…

We’d relocated from my hometown – a small but pretty little city where you spend your entire salary renting a house no bigger than a shoe box. And not even to the standard of a trustworthy Clark’s shoe box. Now we had a child to think about we chose to head out into the glorious countryside and decided to make a home in Somerset. Or Zummerzet if you will. The set of Somer is a beautiful place full of nature, farming and those lovely little village halls sporting bunting made from sweet old Aunt Nora who is everybody’s Aunt, but biologically not. At least that’s the kind of county it is if you don’t relocate to fucking Bridgwater. I liken it to the Bronx, only there is no Jenny on our block, everyone has a little because they refuse to work for a lot, and the only rock you’ll be getting is through your living room window. Come to think of it, mine is probably impending – cheers mate!
With that being said, and after the initial horror of realising that the highlight of being here is the local Aldi and the hilarious man that roams the streets dressed as Michael Jackson – it’s an alright place to be – the colourful characters and lovely friends make it worth sticking around for. That and we’ll never be able to get on the property ladder anywhere else.

So here we were, in the company of the pretend King of Pop and Vladamir with his heavy bass high fi system next door – For what it’s worth, I now fucking hate “Gangnam Style” – seriously, Vlad…seriously –  when we found out that spawn #2 was incoming! Oh em gee. They were on to something with, “New house, New baby!”
Darling baby spawn #1 had just celebrated his 1st birthday when we discovered the news – my womanly functions were AWOL but there was absolutely no way I could be with child. No way at all. We’d been so busy moving house and celebrating Christmas and a first birthday that I don’t even recall holding hands – which genuinely leads me to believe I am in fact the modern day Virgin Mary. I still stand by the theory of immaculate conception to this very day.  Surprisingly, I took this revaluation in my stride – we’d had a whirlwind year raising Spawny mk1 that the nappies, sleepless nights and weaning were still fresh in my mind and I felt excited for the challenge – since moving I had given up work and officially become a stay at home mum so I may as well accept the promotion to stay at home Mum of two! What an adventure we were going to go on…

Pregnancy whilst looking after a baby is nothing short of hell. If I wanted to torture someone I would hand them a bum shuffling toddler with selective hearing and pay someone repeatedly to kick them in the pelvis. With a steel toe cap boot. I wasn’t glowing this time around – I’m not sure I was the first time – but this time it was awful. SPD, anaemia, and HG (please translate to constant sickness. Every minute of everyday and everywhere – hello Tesco DVD aisle!) it was physically and emotionally really hard. I didn’t have one of those neat, cute bumps this time either, I became nothing short of morbidly obese and it was not a nice feeling. I think it’s ok not to enjoy a pregnancy, it bares no truth in how much you will love your baby once they are here, but aside from the movements and kicks and ultrasounds it can be a really long, exhausting 9 months. And 9 months to the day it was.

The day before his birth I temporarily turned into a nurturing domestic Goddess. Spawny #1 – who had not long learnt to walk – and I decide today would be a good day to clean the house. We did the Windows, the floors, even took the sofa apart and washed all the covers. That night at 8pm my waters went all over the fucker.

“My waters have gone!” I exclaimed excitedly to Mr Spider. He shot up out of the remaining dry part of our DFS special and hurriedly put his shoes on – I have no idea why, I wasn’t contracting and we were having a home birth anyway…the pool was up and ready to go in the dining room.
“Chiiiiiiill…” I asked of him, like the calm hypnobirthing hippy I so desperately wanted to be. I had it all under control. I bounced on the birthing ball, phoned the midwife, straightened my hair, painted my nails, applied my tan, lit some candles, blew the irritating candles out, put some positive re-affirming birth mantra’s on play, turned off the positive re-affirming birth mantra’s before I hunted down the woman reciting them and kicked her with that steel toe cap boot and repacked my bag just incase – not that I would need it because Mrs “You are a strong confident woman and can surge your baby out into the world without even pushing or breaking a sweat and I say this when I haven’t even experienced so much as a period pain besides pushing a watermelon out of my lemon” said so.

“That smug twat!” I hissed as I turned the drone off.
“Chiiiiill…” said Mr Spider.
Oh no. Oh no he didn’t. I was getting angry, I was in pain, contractions were 5 minutes apart lasting 60 seconds…where was my midwife? MIDWIIIIIFE. Its no good, she was about 2 hours away. To the hospital we go…ne naw ne naw! (Deja vu, anyone?)

Thunder and lightening – very, very frightening…”Open the door!!” I screamed mid contraction in the pissing rain, thunder and lightening waiting for the birth centre to open their passage to me. I was praying my passage would just hurry the hell up and open to put me out of my contracting misery. The door opened, a small Chinese man stood smiling at me and invited us in. Where is the midwife I pleaded – it was then he told me that he was the midwife. I think at that point, my cervix just closed itself shut and locked the door to my baby.
Water. I needed water. Mr midwife – who seemed a little bit unnerved by my demands – did as he was told and ran the bath in our room for me to lay in and create some abstract scene from ‘Free Willy’. I thought I would sound like a whale calling out in labour, but in actual fact I sounded like a dairy cow. I mooed and mooed and turned to Mr Spider for some loving encouragement to find him asleep. Dead to the world. Bastard. Absolute bastard. 16 months on, I remind him of this daily – sometimes in a jovial manner and occasionally with sheer venom and hatred behind my words. The door to our room was shut and the birthing centre was an empty place anyway with there only being 2 ladies allowed to birth at the same time, so I suspect Mr Midwife had taken himself off down to the TV room for a coffee and a thrilling episode of ITV’s ‘Nightscreen’.
“Help! Help! Mr Midwife! Mr Spider! You asleep over there in the chair, you Twat – wake up!” Eventually help came in the shape of an even more unnerved Mr M and a sorry looking Mr S…and a crane to hoist me out the now freezing cold water, and my dear old friend, Diamorphine. Love you, buddy.

Anyone that has been given the heavenly shot in the bum – I am referring to the diamorphine injection here, you filthy minds – will know that if it works well for you, it works really, really well. Snigger. Life was amazing.
Hours passed and I don’t really have much recollection of the rest of the labour – I bet Mr Spider doesn’t either as he probably fell back to fucking sleep – but the next thing I know is there is a major concern for me as my heart rate was dipping and not only had the whole experience of being hoisted out of the bath made an impact on me, our little baby was very unhappy too.

In walks the consultant – a dead ringer for what I imagine Sven-Goran Eriksson’s father to look like. I’m a sucker for an old man – not in a gold digging whore type of way, more in a “bless your heart, you fought in the war” kind of way. I know there is an age gap between Mr Spider and I, but it’s really nothing extravagant.
He mumbled a lot, he paged a lot, the midwife did that reassuring stare quite a lot – what was going on? In a nutshell, my pelvis couldn’t birth my baby. See, told you I was the modern Virgin Mary…
In walked a big team of very important people, with very important decisions to make whilst they stood and stared at my very sore lady garden. It was time to call it quits – we had bred a genetically modified sized baby and no amount of pushing was going to bring him into the world – ha! Take that, Mrs “You are a strong confident woman and can surge your baby out into the world without even pushing or breaking a sweat and I say this when I haven’t even experienced so much as a period pain besides pushing a watermelon out of my lemon” C section it was.

It wasn’t David Wicks performing his art form on me this time, it was Ronan Keating! I was so pleased, I love Ronan Keating and do have a bit of a soft spot for his Irish accent – oh God, I hope I had remembered to shave, I mean the man was about to slice me open and see my insides but how could I ever leave a sexy impression if I hadn’t trimmed my bikini line? Horror struck upon me.
They made their first incision into my baby’s home at 3.53pm on the 4th of October 2013 – Stereophonics “Handbag and Gladrags” was playing and although it was far from the hypnobirthing home birth I had longed for, it felt pretty Damn perfect. It was relaxed and calm and Mr Spider – who was now awake and all eyes and ears – and I felt relieved…it had been a long labour and we just wanted him here safe. Because that is essentially what matters at the end of he day, isn’t it?
One of the theatre staff was snapping away at my open stomach documenting the entire procedure so we could get it put into a photo book for loved ones that Christmas – I joke – and the shakey hands and chattering teeth were very apparent in me when they told us to get ready. He was on his way!
Whether you have done it before or not, when you hear that you really can’t control your emotions – the long wait and wonder of who this little person is has come to an end, and as painful as it was to carry him it was the last moment of him being totally just mine – me, as his mummy, able to protect him and keep him safe from harm.
Mr Spider was crying, I was crying – the urge to hold him in our arms was hurting!
3.57pm – he’d arrived. Hello my darling baby boy with your big blue eyes – all 9lb 10oz of you. I looked at him and I just loved him so much – the second time around you know how much you have to look forward to and I could tell from that little smirk on his newborn face it was going to be an experience. And oh, has it ever.

So now here we are as a family of four – our new addition affectionately known as Spidey.

I couldn’t wait to start the adventure.

P.S – The midwife still hasn’t arrived…

image

A Spidermum was born – Part 1

I fell into motherhood you know. Mr Spider and I had been teenage sweethearts – him a slightly older teenager at 19, but was still young enough to not make our relationship sound totally illegal and perverse – since 2005. We met through friends in a time when Mr Spider drove motor vehicles of those resembling something from a budget reenactment of “The Fast and the Furious” Like, a really really budget version. But he did have under car neon lights. If I’m honest, that’s what sealed it for me. We grew up together, we made mistakes together – think 46 inch LCD TV’s on hire purchase…don’t do it kids – and we fell in love with eachother really early on in the start of our lives, but we still walk hand in hand today.

We planned to do everything “properly” – you know, careers, marriage, mortgage and then babies but in 2011, 6 years into our relationship, and after a weekend of far too much wine on my part – I remember it well…out with my darling friend from work, in the club acting as socially awkward as ever, but then coming alive like a banshee on a resuscitation table upon the beautiful sound of Robin S’ “Show Me Love” – we discovered we were in for a massive rollercoaster ride in the shape of a piss ridden stick revealing that I…we…were pregnant. We were going to have a baby!

If I’m completely honest my first thought was, “Shit. I am going to get fat. And stretchmarked. And there is a strong possibility that one’s lady garden may never recover from the harrowing act of child birth. Shit. Shit. Shit” but soon my thoughts turned to how magical it would be to have a mini us, and how maybe this was what I was truly meant to do with my life. Maybe, after years of soul searching and continuously feeling at a loose end it had come to me – I was meant to be a mother!

Oh, it was exciting and dreamy – this amazing little secret was ours, buried deep inside my tummy, what a womanly Goddess I was nurturing our unborn child from within…and then the morning sickness hit. OH MY GOD/insert other religious figure relevant to your beliefs – can I even call God mine in this instance being with child out of wedlock? It was awful, horrendous, a constant hangover, you know the ones you get after mixing tequila with a pint of Stella because it seems like a genius idea at the time? Yes, that. I vaguely recall asking to send the baby back so I could trade it for a Shih Tzu instead.
The NSPCC and RSPCA both frowned upon my proposition, so it was with a lot of nerves, raging hormones, and sheer unconditional love for the little person I was yet to know that I carried (read as waddled) my way to 40+6 weeks pregnant.

On the 11th January 2012 at approximately 2am I was awoken with a massive pop. A massive meconium filled POP. This did not bode well for my home birth I had been planning, it essentially meant my darling baby had taken a massive dump in their waters and was in serious danger of inhaling it and becoming very ill. To the hospital we went…nee naw nee naw! (you resist the urge to type that being a mother of 2 toddlers. Impossible)

We arrived, they examined me, took my stats, we walked around the hospital grounds to encourage the contractions to turn themselves up a notch, some pain came – not much – “this is easy, I’m a hero” I smugly thought to myself. Fast forward 5 hours…
What the fuck was happening to me? I thought I was in labour, you know – the beautiful act of giving life, I felt like I was going to have an uncontrollable bowel movement and produce a baby elephant. I’d asked for a fucking puppy remember, not an elephant! Still, I tried to remain a strong confident woman and with the gas and air canister firmly by my side I contracted my way through another 10 or so hours. The baby wasn’t coming, and neither was any hospital meal after insulting the nurse with a mid contraction outburst of, “Stuff your lasagna, I want chips! Chips, you bitch!” – how awfully rude and out of character, may I add that by this point I think I was tripping on diamorphine. Amazing pain relief for me – if you don’t know, get to know. In a controlled environment for medical purposes only, obviously. I could have killed for some chips though. Anyway, back to the baby. It wasn’t coming. It was getting distressed, I was on my 20th hour of labour – I can barely manage 20 minutes on the treadmill, I too, was feeling somewhat distressed. There was talk of surgery. I pleaded with them not to do a C section, I was so scared of the aftermath of my poor tummy, but my baby wanted out so we had to find a way…Hello forceps!

“David! David is that you?!” I called out, at this point I was on the spinal drip, gas and air, left over diamorphine and heap loads of nervous adrenaline. We were in theatre. Mr Spider was scrubbed up and looked like he was likely to pass out at any second, but the man who really caught my eye was David Wicks – the Eastenders bad man! He was peeking up at me behind the curtain separating my head and the lower part of my body which temporarily didn’t belong to me. “David! A man of many talents!” I excitedly shrieked.
“I’m not David” he calmly replied with a pitiful smile.
“David Wicks! Whatever would Pat Butcher say?!”
“I need you to push” said David.
I gave a half arsed, exhausted push whilst feeling honoured to be in the presence of a household name. Nothing. Boring. Back to David…
I turned to Mr Spider who was furiously trying to get me to focus on pushing fuelled by the overwhelming urge to meet his baby, just about to alert him – as if he hadn’t already heard – that Dave was delivering our sprog when I heard him say, “Here they come…here’s your baby!”

He appeared over the curtain, an imprint that will never leave my mind – my baby. Our baby. A tiny, grumpy little person, all 8lb 5.5oz of him – half of me and half of the man I loved the most. I’d wanted a boy and my wish had come true, but what gender he was became irrelevant and I didn’t even mind that he wasn’t a puppy, he was perfect and in that split second I had gone from a girl with no idea what to do with her life to a woman – a mummy! – who had every reason to live. It suddenly all made sense when I held him in my arms for the first time…no matter what happened, it would always be him and I. I had never realised it but I had been waiting forever to meet him, to know and love this miniature person. On the 11th January 2012, my life begin.

So, there you have it. Spidermum was born. We’re 3 years in and everyday is an experience, sometimes its out of this world amazing and sometimes it leaves me yearning for that puppy I almost switched him for. Its one big learning curve and a heck of a journey to be on and I would like to write about it and share with you all – if you’ll have me!

To be continued….there’s another kid, ya know.

If you made it this far, Thankyou!

Spidermum

image