Thinking back to the birth of my fae…. It could have been smoother but it could have been a lot worse.
Believe it or not, signs of the forthcoming arrival of a fae baby may start even before the birth. My first thought that we may be expecting one was when I found myself in an ultrasound room, valiantly trying to stop the descent of my maternity jeans with one hand, clutching a pointless piece of blue towel the technician had thrusted at me in the other, whilst jumping up and down like some sort of pogoing whale. All the while wondering if I would ever manage to pick my dignity off the floor again, or if I was going to give myself a black eye with one of my ever expanding boobs (which were not properly secured for this charade) just to secure my disgrace. The purpose of this farce was to try and convince my fae baby to stop mooning the ultrasound tech and turn round so they could complete taking the measurements they needed. It didn’t work. Nor did trying to bribe them by eating chocolate in the waiting room but I must say I found that method much more enjoyable.
Going home, I returned some days later with more appropriate attire, making me look like I was about to attend some sort of brutal crossfit class rather than a sonogram. I left feeling embarrassed about the sports bra and leggings I had worn, incase I was expected to perform aerobics again, clutching the pictures of my little girl who to this day I swear was smirking at me.
My fae baby is stubborn. This fact became clear rather early on, and was dealt with in the first trimester by giving them the in-utero name of ‘This is Your Fault’, a moniker that remained until she was finally named around 12 hours after we finally met her face to face. She had a habit of playing havoc with my internal thermostat. I am part reptile, if I am lucky I can sometimes make a thermometer reach 36 degrees C, I accept this. Having a downstairs driver stoking the fires to 37 or above in the middle of summer was very uncomfortable. Then turning round and kicking my lungs was just plain mean. She was very good at hide and seek. Anyone who thinks it’s impossible to play hide and seek inside another human body has never heard a midwife mutter ‘can’t find the head’ while prodding unpleasantly at your distended stomach.
As a first time mother, this was not a reassuring thing to hear. I was fairly confident that I would have noticed if this had fallen out somewhere… but maybe that last set of squats was actually a bad idea. Even so, someone would have said something right??
Being sent back for another scan and seeing that, once again, your child is taking the opportunity to display their backside to medical professionals, despite your whale-pogo-stick impression makes you evaluate some of the decisions you have made in the past year. Taking no chances this time, when sent out to consume a ‘small amount of sugar’ to get her moving, I chowed down two chocolate bars, a bag of jelly tots, and a packet of dextrose tablets which I washed down with a glass of undiluted squash. Sure enough, this time she was moving but, alas, I was not able to procure more photos as apparently both the baby and myself were vibrating so badly the pictures were blurry.
My baby was in no hurry to join the real world, so at 41 weeks pregnant I was sent into a maternity ward to be induced. The next 5 days were some of the most dull of my life, as my stubborn little fae held on for all she was worth.
On admittance, I was introduced to the world of propess induction. If you have ever been on the receiving end of this, you have my sincere condolences. I do not want to get too medical, but basically an artificial hormone is coated onto a small piece of plastic which is then inserted behind the cervix. Where, if you have a fae baby, they will promptly kick it back out, repeatedly. This, for me at least, was not a painless progress and as it turns out I was allergic to the propess, or plastic, or baby was just determined to hold the entrance shut. 5 days later she was still refusing to shift. Sent into a delivery suite with the words “one way or another she’s coming out today” still rattling in my ears, I was dragged up to a room to pass through the end stages of labor. Here, a lovely but altogether too perky young doctor forced some hideous green socks on my legs muttering about DVT while I argued that three floors wasn’t that high. In defence of more stupid questions she stuffed a nozzle of nitrous oxide into my mouth. To everyone’s dismay, it didn’t work.
Two hours later, it was fixed, which was wonderful but not as good as the epidural. For the next 6 hours I bugged everyone on my contacts list as my fae baby still didn’t move. At midnight, to mutters of “sod this”, an injection of twice the normal amount of propess did two things: it prompted movement of the baby – finally! …and it broke the epidural. For future reference: expedited birth, coupled with no pain relief, is not to be recommended. Also, why do they give you cardboard bowls to puke in? It’s not a good idea, mine dissolved. The second epidural was inserted by an anesthetist who I will forever refer to as a God amongst men: it not only worked, but he managed to place it in my spine while I was contracting and puking without maiming me in the process.
It still took another 7 hours for her to be in a position to push. 14 hours in one room, tied to tubes covered in I don’t know what bodily fluids, was enough for me. They said push, I pushed, and was told 5 minutes later we had made an hour’s progress and if my husband didn’t put away the catchers mitt there would be issues. So into the world, without so much as a cry but an expression that said ‘you will pay for this’, our fae baby appeared.
Raising the Modern Fae 