Attack of the Clones

Plenty of siblings look alike. When I look at people's siggies on JustMommies I can often see strong resemblances between their children. I have always known my girls were incredibly similar - they have even been mistaken for twins! But now there's a new face to add to the brood and again the resemblance is so strong. My kids look like clones - I realised just how much when I uploaded my Christmas pics.

These photos were all taken around 2-4 weeks old...

First, Angelica:



And Natasha.....



and finally Sam:



I can't wait to see how many similarities and differences they develop as time goes on!

I *Heart* Christmas!

One fraught and stressful year almost at an end.

The treatment? One lovely, quiet, perfect family Christmas.












Merry Christmas!!

When Breast Isn't Best

Since we got home Sam and I have managed to get into a good supplementing routine. After the initial difficulties in hospital he has taken to breastfeeding like a pro and has also taken to bottles to give me a break so I can continue recuperating from the CFS relapse I've suffered over the last year.

Yesterday it was clear he was entering a growth spurt - he was one very hungry young man and spent most of the day on my breast. Later in the day I decided to make him up a bottle so I could have a break as I was feeling drained and set off into the kitchen to do so.

From back in the lounge I heard Sam grumbling and Angelica getting concerned about him.

"He needs to latch on, I think," she advised, like an expert on breastfeeding.

The response from my husband wasn't quite what I was expecting to hear.

"Angelica, only mummy can breastfeed Sam. And pull your jumper down!"

There are some things a big sister just isn't able to help with, no matter how much they might love their siblings.

Sam's Birth Story

This is Sam' birth story, and it is going to be long. I know, maybe unnecessarily so, but I am so upset by some of the things that happened that I just want to get them out so they stop bothering me so much. There may also be an unhealthy amount of information about the state of the hospital cuisine. Hey, I need to raise awareness of this horrible plight!

Warning: This post may contain graphic details and photos - of hospital food. Do not read if you have a weak stomach!

I went for an elective c-section this time. It was not a decision I made lightly. It was a decision I agonised over for a long time. I have M.E./CFS (Chronic fatigue syndrome) and this has affected my previous labours. With my eldest, I went through 24 hours of labour and my muscles stopped working so I couldn't push. I ended up with an emergency C-section. My birth experience was horrible and going through both labour and a major operation left me with a severe relapse that lasted months. I spent much of Angelica's first months stuck in bed and it really affected my bond with her in the early days.

With Natasha I went through over 25 hours of labour. My muscles stopped working again and I could not push. They started prepping me for a c-section but one person on the medical team wanted to try ventouse (suction) first and, amazingly, Natasha was born by suction-assisted VBAC. Because I had only been through labour and not a section as well my health was far better afterwards and I recovered quickly.

During this pregnancy I started to suffer a severe relapse. It actually started before my pregnancy. When I lost Daisy I had complications and lost a lot of blood which triggered the start of the relapse. I then had a couple of really nasty viruses and full-on flu - the flu coincided with finding out I was pregnant with Sam (on April Fool's Day - oh man, never announce your BFP on April fool's day, I spent the whole pregnancy terrified people thought it was some kind of joke.) and I just went downhill from there.

The last couple of months before Sam arrived I was housebound a lot of the time, and when I did go out I couldn't go far. By the end of the pregnancy I couldn't walk some days and I had absolutely no strength in my body. I knew if I went through labour I would not be able to push and would probably end up with a c-section again. The thought of spending Sam's first months bed bound terrified me so I made a reluctant decision to opt for a c-section and hope that just going through the section without labour would make it easier to recuperate afterwards. As soon as I made the decision, utter relief washed over me. I knew that it was the right thing to do, for me and for Sam.

I changed hospitals after I had Angelica. When I had Natasha I went to a different one and had a totally different birth experience. Her birth was so positive and happy, I have not one bad memory of her arrival, despite being hospital phobic. The same hospital was so supportive and sensitive when I lost Daisy and went through subsequent chemical pregnancies. When I fell pregnant with Sam and my GP actually told me to 'come back in 2 weeks if I was still pregnant' (I am still spitting venom about that) I called the hospital and they booked me in for an early scan without hesitation, giving me a second one 2 weeks later for my own piece of mind. They also gave me three extra growth scans although I was too sick to attend them all and put me under a consultant for my medical issues.

Somewhere around September, things began to change. I had a couple of midwife appts that left me feeling... worried. And annoyed. Looking back, this came at around the time some of the key personnel in the antenatal dept changed. The atmosphere and attitude just changed. When I had my last consultant appointment to confirm that I wanted a scheduled c-section the whole attitude was different. At my last appt before that in August the consultant told me that I would be supported with either a VBAC or a c-section because with my medical history there was no clear-cut winner and the decision was up to me.

When I made that decision, the consultant (a different one) put me under pressure to change my mind. She absolutely terrified me, telling me that a repeat section was far more traumatic than a first caesarean and even using the line, "Imagine how selfish you will feel when you go home and you have a jealous toddler who wants to be cuddled and you can't even pick her up?" (I'd like to point out that picking up my girls for a cuddle was about the first thing I did when I got home).

I was in tears over the way she spoke. She tried to insinuate I was 'scared of labour' and that I was only asking for a section because I'd had previous bad experiences. When she finally agreed to book me for a section she admitted they'd had a meeting the day before where they'd been told they needed to cut the number of elective c-sections.

After that appt I awaited info from the hospital with times and information about my c-section but it never came. I eventually called the hospital and apparently there had been an oversight and my info hadn't been sent. I was supposed to have had an appointment the week before the booked section for bloods and to be given some tablets to take on the day of the section but I'd received no info at all, so I was told I'd have to go in early on the day of my section to receive the meds and have the blood tests. Great - so I'd get to hang around for hours in hospital before I even got anywhere near the section - goody!

On the morning of Tuesday 7th I awoke knowing Sam was going to be in my arms by the end of the day. If you have never had an elective c-section I can tell you it was a VERY weird feeling indeed. We'd had a heavy snowfall the week before and it was still causing chaos on the roads.

I was heading to my section alone. We had no one to look after the girls so my DH could not be with me. I had always known that was likely to be the case and was prepared for that but saying goodbye that morning was horrible and I left home in floods of tears. Yeah, floods of tears became a theme over the next few days :rolleyes: The cold winter air almost froze them as they fell on the way to the taxi rank outside the station. I had to queue because there were no taxis that morning and by the time I got to the front of the queue I was horrified to see the most annoying taxi driver that often took me to work was the one I would have to put up with for a 40 minute journey to hospital!

scratch that... a 40 minute journey turned into an hour and a half journey as the traffic got worse and worse. I tried to block out the annoying comments from the driver who wouldn't get the hint when I asked him to let me have some time in peace to prepare for the day ahead and insisted in engaging me in conversation about how deeply a traffic cone was covered in snow instead.

When I finally got to the hospital I could hardly walk and took a long time to get to the delivery suite. Eventually I went to the reception area and apologised profusely for being so late. I was led to a dull room with a TV, had a ton of blood taken and was left on my own for hours.

It wasn't nice. I watched some total crud on TV while I was waiting. I could have just done with a check-in to see if I was OK every now and then. I hadn't been allowed anything to eat or drink since midnight so by lunchtime I was very dehydrated, couldn't sit up and had a killer headache. The anaesthetist came by sometime in the early afternoon and asked me a bunch of questions I couldn't seem to answer.

Then the surgeon came round and it was hate at first sight :angry: I'm sorry but he was one of those really smarmy people who believed he truly was some kind of deity! He asked me how I was feeling so I said I was nervous. When you're on the verge of an operation that's got to be normal, right? Not according to the surgeon - he gave me a smug smile, asked why I was nervous and then told me I had no right to be nervous because he was 'the top man' (yeah, his words, not mine) and had performed some three thousand c-sections and 'hadn't lost a patient yet' :angry: Yeah, that's going to set my mind at ease!

I was eventually led by a midwife to the operating theatre and sat on the table where they started to prepare me for the spinal and epidural. I didn't quite understand what they were talking about but they put 2 lines in because one would last longer than the other? I'm not an expert in anaesthesia, unfortunately! They kept trying to put me into a position I was having real trouble holding and telling me to keep my chin pressed against my chest when suddenly they all lined up in front of me because of some new initiative from the world health authority that meant everyone present had to introduce themselves to me. I felt like a complete numbskull, repeatedly shaking the hand of someone whose shoes were the only part I could see.

There were a couple of other people in the medical team - an aged surgeon who reminded me of Santa Claus without the beard, and a second - and attractive - female anaesthetist who at least served as a distraction ;)

Once the line was in they laid me on the table and kept spraying me with spray to ask if it felt cold and poking me with something sharp to ask if I could feel it. I was alarmed that when I said I could still feel them they fluffed over it, saying "Oh, it'll start working soon, it'll be OK."

The radio was on in the room and I was excited to know what song would be playing as Sam was born. When Natasha was born, the song 'Waiting for a Girl like You' by Foreigner was playing and I have never, ever forgotten that magic moment. I cry every time I hear that song. I couldn't wait to find out what Sam’s special song would be. As it turned out, the section was more complicated than expected so I had a while to wait, but while they were preparing the song 'I Got A Feeling' by Black Eyed Peas came on the radio. I'm not a fan of the Black Eyed Peas really, it's not my kind of music, but this particular song had a special meaning to me as I linked it with an early loss I had last December. I had not actually heard the song all the way through from the day I lost the pregnancy until the day I delivered Sam. The coincidence made me cry again, I couldn't help it.

One of the medical team said, "Things are going to start moving quickly now," and he wasn't kidding. The screen was put up so I couldn't see what was happening and the next thing I knew they were beginning the c-section. The aged surgeon seemed to be taking very little part in proceedings, instead he sat behind me marvelling about how he and I were the only people he knew who had 2 middle names and how unusual that was, while I tried hard to listen to what was going on around the other end of the table.

I can't remember the order of how things happened but I remember I started to feel pain and I said it was hurting. They kept telling me I must mean that I felt 'pressure' but I didn't, the spinal hadn't taken properly on one side (but the epi didn't work fully with Natasha either). Then they started basically jumping up and down, pressing on my rib cage. By this point I was pretty scared, I had no idea what was going on and they weren't telling me. Because the spinal didn't travel that high my ribs were really painful as they continued to push and jump, I had no idea what was going on and I kept shouting in pain and then apologising because I felt bad for doing so.

Blood splattered all over the sheet in front of me, yeah - lovely memory. Things seemed to be getting frantic and I heard someone say forceps. I was so confused, I'd never heard of using forceps for a c-section before and I had no idea what was going on.

Suddenly someone said he was out and someone brought him over to my side of the sheet for a split second to see him before whisking him away. He was blue and wasn't breathing. I was absolutely terrified now and tried desperately to hear what was going on because no one was telling me much, but all I could hear was that Sam's arrival music had been 'I Kissed A Girl' by Katie Perry. Not quite as sentimental as Natasha's...

Then I heard him cry, and the sound was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. By the time they brought him to me there were tears just streaming down my face. They said I could hold him for a moment before they weighed him and really I don't remember much apart from feeling him in my arms and seeing his little face crying non-stop. The song on the radio changed to Easy Like Sunday Morning and I hugged him and held him and just never wanted to let go.

Various people on the medical team were estimating his weight to be around 9lb from his size, but when they took him to weigh him he was a respectable 8lb 1oz. He was cleaned up and brought back to me to hold while they started to stitch me up but the feeling had returned bigtime and I kept shouting and telling them I was feeling what they were doing until finally someone topped up the meds.

Sam did not stop crying and screaming in distress. He didn't stop for the next 2 days, in fact. I had been looking forward to his first feed but when they tried to get him to latch on he became extremely distressed. He hated skin to skin, too. He cried louder and louder and no one was helping me to try to get him to latch properly or calm him down. They wheeled me to recovery and left me for more than an hour with Sam screaming at the top of his lungs. I couldn't calm him down at all and I was starting to get as distressed as he was. There was a clock in my field of vision so I know how long I was there for and it was well over an hour.

Eventually a midwife came in. I said he hadn't stopped screaming and he was too upset to latch on. I asked her to help me; to either get some colostrum flowing for him to taste and smell or to help me change position, but the first words out of her mouth were,

"What formula do you want him to have?"

I thought I'd misheard. I didn't understand. I asked her what she meant and she said she needed to give him formula if he wasn't feeding. I told her I needed help to GET him to feed, I couldn't move so I couldn't try a different position and I couldn't manage to hand-express. She just asked me again about formula. I am so angry about this - don't get me wrong, I am in no way anti-formula - my eldest never really took to breastfeeding so after a week or so she was a formula baby and is the healthiest person I know. Natasha was a BF natural and BF regularly until she was 2, and occasionally since, but I still supplemented with formula because it gave me a rest, which was important with my CFS.

But that is the issue, right there - *I* chose when and where to start supplementing, and not until my supply had been established.

I asked why she needed to give him formula, if it was a medical reason, maybe blood sugar levels? All she said was,

"Well he doesn't want your breast, he'll have to feed some other way."

She picked him up and took him away. No, I did not give permission. I should have fought but I was exhausted, I couldn't move and I kept trying to tell myself they knew best. I couldn't see my baby boy but I could hear him choking as she fed him. I just wanted to scream - what happened to that wonderful, supportive hospital I had Natasha at just over 2 years ago?

She brought him back and he was screaming again. She laid him next to me, did nothing to help soothe him and disappeared for another hour. He screamed non-stop, no matter what I did. When she came back she picked him up and started repeating over and over, "Aw, he doesn't want mummy. Doesn't want mummy! Why you don't want mummy?" He stopped crying as she walked with him and she started boasting about how he liked her better. I was in a mess, I started crying and asked her to stop saying that because even if she meant it as a joke it was hurtful. She just laughed and kept saying, "He wants me, he doesn't want mummy!"

She took him out of my sight, without my permission, and went to show him to the other midwives, telling them that he didn't want mummy and wanted to stay with her. The other midwives were all laughing and saying "You'll have to give him back some time!"

She brought him back eventually and I asked her to pass me my bag so I could get my phone and tell Steve that Sam was here safely. I asked if it was possible for someone to take a photo of me with Sam as I'd had no one with me to take one and she just said, "Why would you want a picture of him screaming at you?"

I'd lost a lot of blood and was in recovery for a while. I received a blood transfusion and a horrible tasting dose of liquid morphine, ugh. Eventually it was nearer 9 than anything when I was taken to the ward. Sam had not stopped screaming and I was terrified he would be 'that' baby - the one everyone hated for crying all night. There was one other woman in the room who was pretty nasty. She constantly complained about Sam and how he was giving her a headache. She made snidey comments to everyone that came in.

I buzzed for help and said I needed someone to try to get Sam to latch on and feed and that I was unhappy he'd been given formula. The midwife gave a half-hearted effort to latch him on, then said, "Well, if he's used to formula I'll give him another feed." She took him away and I couldn't really do anything to stop her.

When she brought him back I noticed for the first time the injuries on Sam's head from the forceps :cry: No wonder he was so distressed, he had been constantly placed on the side of his head with the worst damage, he must have been in so much pain :cry:



I spent the next few hours trying to get someone to take a look at his head. At one point someone took him away and I thought the paediatrician was going to look at him but instead they brought him back and told me they'd given him more formula :angry: I know the time was just after 3 because I looked at my phone and saw the time.

Eventually someone gave him some paracetamol and I laid him on my chest with his head resting on the good side. For the first time he calmed down a little and drifted in and out of sleep for the next couple of hours but woke up crying every ten minutes or so again. I didn't dare fall asleep in case he fell off of me so by this point I'd had no sleep and nothing to eat or drink for over 24 hours. I kept being promised toast but it never seemed to happen. When it eventually arrived the toast was cold and the butter they gave me to spread on it was straight out the fridge :angry: Yeah, try spreading that! I basically had cold toast with butter molehills.

Around half past six when Sam had been screaming for a long time I buzzed for help and asked if someone could help me try once again to get him to feed. The midwife asked me when he last fed and I said he'd been taken away earlier and given formula without my permission. She went away to check the time and came back at some point later to tell me he'd been fed at 4 and wouldn't be hungry yet :confused:

I told her I knew for sure he had NOT been fed at 4 because I knew what time they brought him back to me. She got cross with me and argued that there would not any mistakes on the feeding sheet, then told me he wasn't hungry either way and I needed to learn to recognise the hunger cues.

At this point I started to realise I was on my own. The one thing that happened when Natasha was born was that she was hungry all night and fed ALL night, despite the midwives telling me she was not hungry because she'd only fed a couple of hours earlier. I persevered with other ways to soothe her until I just gave in to my instincts and let her feed all night long. That, I think, was when I realised that my motherly instincts were more important than the medical knowledge and feeding schedule that the midwives were going by and from then on I trusted myself so much more to know what was best for my children. I have never forgotten that night. It was one of the most important milestones to me in terms of being a mother.

Now I knew Sam was hungry, hurting and terribly distressed but no one wanted to help him to feel better. I had never felt so alone or frustrated.

Around 7 breakfast was brought over. I love how they ask you what you want without telling you what they've got :angry: I opted for Weetabix and toast and once again was served cold toast with butter molehills, and weetabix without enough milk to cover them. Mmmm, delicious...

Wednesday was just a horrible day. Sam screamed the whole day. Every time he went to sleep for a few moments, as soon as anyone laid him down he woke back up. He was clearly hungry and hurting still. Meanwhile I was being forced to take painkillers, even though I was not in very much pain. When I asked what they were I was treated like I was the patient from hell and simply told I needed them and would regret it if I didn't take them - while I am sure they meant 'you will be in pain if you don't take them' it sounded for all the world like some kind of B-movie threat!

As no one would take a photo of me with Sam, I had to try taking one myself by holding my camera at a distance. I have about 30 pics of half of Sam's head or the top of my shoulder, or just of the pillow or wall. But this photo, I love. It may not be great quality but I love it none the less.



Through the morning various midwives did various things. This included more formula being given against my will. Every time I said I wanted to breastfeed and I wasn't happy I was told, "well, if he's not breastfeeding then he has to eat something," but none of them were trying to help me get him to breastfeed. At one point I asked for help to get up to go to the toilet and as soon as I stood up I felt violently sick and dizzy. I thought it was from the blood loss at first but then I realised the feelings were very familiar. When I asked someone to find out what painkillers I'd been given I found out that I had been given one that I'd previously had awful side effects from when I took them for my endometriosis and had been flagged up in my medical notes not to be given. Someone made some vague mention of being given paracetamol instead from then on and the next time around this was true, but by the evening the tramadol was back in the pot :angry: so I just pocketed the painkillers from them on to dispose of later.

Every thing I said, all day, was 'wrong'. One time Sam actually started rooting for my breast and I was so overjoyed and tried to latch him on but the midwife that was there at the time told me I was wrong, that he wasn't rooting properly and wasn't hungry anyway :cry: And when he was chomping on his hands I said he was hungry and I wanted to try to feed him but the midwife said that this wasn't a proper hunger cue. Then I was told that he was too used to formula now and I shouldn’t try to breastfed because it was upsetting him too much.

The canula (sp?) in my hand was going dodgy because it kept getting caught, it was bleeding and sore and I could hardly hold Sam but thy refused to take it out because they said I would need a further blood transfusion later on. While I was trying to settle him for the millionth time a screaming row blew up in the corridor where a couple were walking out because they had been kept waiting for hours to be discharged and not long after a second couple did the same. A third couple launched a scathing attack on the staff at their own discharge, they could have been expressing my own views.

"I had my first child here two years ago and everyone was so supportive and helpful. What happened to this place?"

That was the milder portion of the rant.

Around lunchtime I was brought my main course under one of these silver platter things. I can't remember the real word for them so I have been calling them Silver 'Ta-Da' Things. When you are served food like this, it looks like it's gonna be pretty tasty, right?



Yeah, well, next time you're confronted with a silver ta-da thing please make sure you do not lift the lid to reveal...



Yes. Lasagne and boiled white rice. Cold lasagne and boiled white rice to be precise. Oh my goodness, as a culinary combination I really can't see it catching on. Honestly.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention the poo pudding:



Around the early afternoon one midwife came over to try to take Sam to give him more formula. I got very upset with her and told her that I was so unhappy about the way everyone had been treating us and she went off on a tangent by saying "Well, you refused to hand express so formula is the only other option" (At no point had I refused to hand express; I have tried this with all of my children and I just can't get the right motion. I explained this to her earlier and asked that someone try showing me again so that I could try, but nothing ever came of my request.)

I was so upset and furious, I started crying and said no one was trying to help us. She asked me what I wanted and I just said I wanted to go home. I'd totally had enough, I felt like a terrible mother who didn't know anything. She started saying that I was in the best place if I was having so much trouble with feeding and settling Sam and I really let rip at her. I told her at home I have support and help, that in hospital no one was helping me to BF (TOTALLY against hospital policy) or treat Sam's bad head.

I know I went off on a complete tangent but I gave her a full and total picture of what my home is like. I told her that I have health problems with CFS (at which point she tried to interrupt by telling me at least I 'wasn't as bad' as her colleague who'd had to change to another department because of her CFS so I countered by telling her I had to quit my job altogether - I didn't want a pity party, I was trying to paint a picture here!) and that my husband's health is also not great but that it didn't matter because we shared everything.

I missed my little world so much I was in floods of tears as I told her about my two beautiful girls who I love so much, my three silly, soft, fuzzy guinea pigs who make us smile and laugh, the work that I now do from home that I enjoy so much, the unique relationship I share with my husband and how much fun it is with us both working from home so we get to spend time with the girls, share out the responsibilities, spend long evenings sitting and working together while we chat and watch TV - I just told her how much I love my life and all the people in it, and that all I wanted was to be able to get back to them with Sam so that he spent his first days with love, support and tenderness instead of being taken away from me every 4 hours without my permission and crying in distress non-stop.

By the end, the midwife went very quiet, then she said she would speak to the one in charge that day about maybe getting released the next day.

The afternoon went pretty much as the morning had done. I tried in vain to get Sam to latch on, this time on my own because it was clear I wasn't going to get any support. I felt so isolated, my blackberry wouldn't even connect so I didn't even have the option of trying to search for information that could help. I kept being told a transfusion was imminent but it never quite happened, the same with more paracetamol for Sam. It was almost evening by the time they agreed to give him more, and he briefly settled again.



I finally managed to call Steve for a short time that evening, after the horrible woman had been discharged and I had the room to myself, but I couldn't tell him how bad things were. Hearing my girls in the background brought tears back to my eyes and talking to Angelica truly made me cry. I certainly wasn't in the mood for dinner when they brought round some kind of cold, sweet soup I couldn't even force a mouthful of because it was so rancid, nor the alleged BLT sandwich that had no L or T in it, and very little B either. It was all soggy bacon fat, no meat, and there was one random piece of cucumber inside it too.

By the time the evening came I was at my lowest point. I just couldn't stop crying for a long time. Sam was hurting and upset again and was clearly hungry too. Eventually a very hot, slightly gothy midwife came round, introduced herself and said she was the head of the night shift.

She was my guardian angel that night.

She asked me how things were going and I just told her honestly that things were going terribly. I told her I wanted to breastfeed but the choice had been taken out of my hands and because of the head wounds Sam was now linking BFing with hurting. I told her I was devastated about the way things had gone.

She said to me,

"Well, you're very lucky because ....... (name of midwife I can't remember) is working tonight and she's fantastic with lactation issues. I will ask her to come and help you out."

After all the other hollow promises I didn't think anything would come of it but five minutes later a second, very attractive midwife came in the room and said she would do all she could to help us. She tried a few different positions, then asked what formula they had been giving Sam. I thought it was going to end up like all the other times but instead she brought over a small pot of formula and a syringe. She put a few drops of formula in Sam's mouth to get him interested and few on my nipple.

Then he latched on.

I just started bawling all over again. I was so scared it was too late and that my milk wouldn't come in properly but I was so happy to see him finally trying. I just pulled together as much courage as I could and when the first midwife came back I told her that I wanted to go home the next day. After he scathing looks and comments others had given me for saying this I was expecting her to do the same but she said,

"Well, if there's no medical reason to stay in then I think mothers and babies are better off at home where they are relaxed. I will leave a request for the person who takes the shift tomorrow that you wish to be discharged so they can arrange the necessary checks and let you go home."

Here started Project [I]Bluff My Way Home [/I]with my 'I'm Fine!" face which I have used in the past!

A couple of hours passed and Sam was getting very upset again. His head must have still been hurting and I hated seeing him so upset. I was scared of trying this but I knew how to help him feel better. So I got the cu of formula and the syringe, put a few drops in his mouth and some on my breast, and just hoped.

Then this happened.



It was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen.

I was about 3 in the morning by now and neither Sam nor I had been to sleep. I hadn't slept in 48 hours an Sam had barely had any either. I just called the night a write-off for sleep at this point and concentrated on getting him to feed as much as I could instead. Some time around 4 he actually started to dose off. I couldn’t believe it! I carefully laid him down...

And an almighty, constant ringing began.

Loudly.

Instantly Sam was awake and screaming. I couldn't blame him - the din made me want to scream too!

I waited to see what happened next. It sounded like a fire alarm of some sort but no one seemed to be evacuating us. I cradled Sam and tried to calm him down as I waited for further instructions, not that any came. I ventured out the room and to the midwives' station to ask what was going on.

"Oh, there's a fire in the children’s ward," one of them said casually, "no where near us."

Oh great! That was comforting!

It was about 30 minutes when the alarm finally stopped and it took me until 6 to calm Sam down. In the meanwhile, a new patient with her baby was wheeled in and I was terrified that Sam would upset her too, but she was really nice.

around half six, Sam looked like he might be falling asleep so i tried settling him in bed with me. This was the juncture at which they chose to reset the alarm, causing it to go off again for another 5 minutes, just long enough to make Sam scream again!

I finally got him settled again around an hour later, laid him down beside me and closed my eyes. For the first time it looked like I was actually gong to get some sleep!

Until...

"Good morning! What do you want for breakfast?"

ARGGHHHH!!!!!

Two dry weetabix and some butter molehills later...

When that day's head midwife came round I put on my best 'I'm fine!' face and reiterated my need to go home. Luckily she agreed and the wheels were set in motion. As long as Sam and I both passed our medical checks I would be leaving that afternoon!



I actually don't remember that much about Thursday except for using my 'I'm fine' face a lot. My spirits had risen by 110% just by knowing the wheels were in motion and I was going home with my little boy. Sam was still incredibly upset all day, the only time he wasn't crying was when he was feeding, which he was now doing from my breast without needing to put formula on there. I was getting so worried about what life would be like when we got home if he cried all of the time. I started to panic about having another night with no sleep and about whether his first couple of days had disturbed Sam so much that he would always be this way.

Lunch was served soon and under the silver ta-da thing, guess what I found?



Yes, more lovely lasagne and boiled rice :( And more poo pudding.

Sam was checked over, I was checked over and we both had the all-clear. I texted Steve to let him know what time he could come with his brother to pick us up and I started packing my bags up again, just so eager to get back to my family. Eventually the time came and Steve appeared at the door. I just wanted to cry with joy, I had missed him so, so much. We just hugged and kissed, and he finally got to hold Sam. I kept warning him Sam was very disturbed and we might have a lot of trouble settling him, and eventually my discharge was complete - we were off!

It is perhaps very telling that Sam cried in the car until we got to the gates of the hospital, as soon as we passed through them he fell asleep, properly asleep, for the first time ever. He slept all the way home, and all through the evening he dozed on and off. That night, he slept in his Moses basket until half past 2, then he came in bed with us where he slept soundly for 4 hours. When I went to the bathroom after giving him his first bottle (bottle, not cup - which one of the midwives actually said to me you 'let them drink until they start to choke' - I wish I was joking) I realised my t-shirt was soaking wet. My milk had come in. I cried with relief - we'd won that battle.

Since he left the hospital I haven't heard him cry or scream once. He gives a shriek for attention, he chatters away when he wakes up in the night and we are pretty good at spotting when he needs changing or to be fed before he gets upset. He is a totally different baby, a placid and fun little soul whose sisters are doting on him and fascinated by his every move. He has fitted in to the household so well it is like he has always been here. It was a very long journey to reach this stage - TTC, pregnancy and birth were all difficult but life with my growing family has never been easier or happier.



Somehow this has not put me off of having one more. In fact, I think the opposite has happened. We had been talking about having number 4 for a while but knew we'd have to see how we felt after Sam arrived to know for sure if we wanted another or if our family was complete. Now Sam is here, we both feel there is one more empty space that needs to be filled.

In a way I am glad we are going to try for another because I would hate for this experience to be my last memory of labour and birth. We are going to be NTNP for a while and if after a year nothing has happened then we will TTC again, but I have a feeling things will be easier this time. There were a lot of parallels between Sam and Angelica - both took a long time to conceive with complications and losses along the way, both pregnancies were difficult and both had traumatic birth experiences. With Natasha, things were so different. She was our planned surprise - she just 'happened', my pregnancy was far easier and her whole birth experience was very positive I just can't shake the feeling that things will be easier this time around, just like with Natasha.

Whatever happens in the future, I feel incredibly blessed to have my beautiful boy home with me to join my special family. We are not a conventional bunch by any means, but we are happy and have a lot of love to share. I can't wait for all the adventures that lay ahead with Sam :wub:

At the end of a very long journey

4 losses, 14 months TTC, 6 different supplements, progesterone, 5 scans, migraines, severe CFS relapse, SPD and two very horrible days in hospital.

The end result has never been more worthwhile.









Welcome to the world, little Sammy x x

Edgar

It's funny how everyone has those runs of dates in their lives. You know, where 95% of your friends and family squeeze their birthdays and anniversaries into about a month and a half. The same goes for bad dates, too. October and November are not a happy time for me. It didn't used to be this way; late October always used to be a really happy and lucky time for me - awesome days out, meeting my TV heroes, even proposing to my husband.

Now this time of year is full of unhappy anniversaries. I had my second miscarriage in November 2004, another in November 2005, my due date from my 4th miscarriage was November 2006 and this coming Sunday is Daisy's loss anniversary. I haven't even started working out how I'm going to handle that yet.

But there are two other November losses that my family are grieving. I am a fur mummy. I always have been. I think there is a difference between owning pets and being a fur mummy - I will always be the latter. I do get highly attached to the animals who have shared my life, that's something I can't help, and although that means that when the time comes to say goodbye it hits me very hard it's always worth it for the time we spent together.

On Tuesday this week we lost Edgar, our little boy guinea pig. I haven't stopped crying. Anyone who thinks, "Geez, it's only a guinea pig, get over it" - I really don't want to hear it. Pets should never be 'only a' - anything. They should be a part of the family. Otherwise why invite them into your life?

Edgar was our rescue piggy. He had originally been for sale in a pet shop but had been separated because he... how can I put this delicately? He liked to try to have intimate relations with other male guinea pigs. Well, we are certainly an equal opportunities household; I've spoken openly before about my sexuality and I'm never going to reject an animal because of his sexual preference!

He was about 6 months old when Angelica and I first saw him in the adoption centre. At the time, he had a sign on his cage saying he'd been reserved for adoption already but when we went back a few weeks later his new 'owners' had changed their minds because he was still there. I felt so sad for him; his second chance had been taken away from him. Angelica was quite taken with him, peering through his bars and trying to get his attention.

I was heavily pregnant with Natasha by now and it was a while before we went back again, but just after she was born we went back and I found he was still there. My heart sank. He was such a beautiful creature and all the other animals were adopted within a couple of weeks, but no one seemed to want what was now almost a fully grown guinea pig.

One early september day I came home from the adoption centre and whined to my husband, "The poor thing is still there! No one wants him! he's been in there for months and he's never going to get adopted!"

My husband just looked at me and said,

"You want to bring him home, don't you?"

From that moment, everything happened really fast. Suddenly my husband had bought a new cage, I was busy filling it with sawdust and hay and the next thing I knew I was in the adoption centre at some ungodly hour at night, signing the adoption papers and bringing this beautiful little guy home.

Initially the plan was to have him neutered and introduce him to our girl piggies, but Edgar was clearly a solo guinea pig. He'd been on his own for the best part of a year and was happiest being on his own. He got plenty of attention and lap time so he was more than happy to have his own space and stay where he was. He had the most amazingly shiny, silky coat, a kind of sheen I have rarely seen on an animal. We thought he would take a long time to settle in - if ever - because he had spent so long in the centre but almost immediately he came out of his shell and turned into a proud, curious and gentle animal.

The girls adored him, and he adored the girls. He would turn his nose up when my husband or I were trying to get his attention but as soon as one of the girls went over to him he'd be out of his house like a shot, playing up to them and getting strokes and attention. He shared a lot of mannerisms with Sam, the first guinea pig we had. Sam was a baby substitute when I was still being told I couldn't have children, then when Angelica came along we loved him even more because we watched the bond develop between them.

Sam died in November in 2007. Another November day to mourn. He got sick on the day my husband and I celebrate as the anniversary of our engagement and went rapidly downhill. This year, on our anniversary, Edgar got sick with exactly the same thing. I knew instinctively that there would be no happy ending.

I took him to the vet the following day and I was told he needed an operation the next day; the same op that Sam had been given. Exactly the same as his precious predecessor, Edgar survived the operation but failed to start eating. I spent several days syringe feeding him but he grew less interested each time and eventually started to fight it. We tried to get him more interested in his vegetables but although twice he tried to chew he could no longer eat. By tuesday morning his fur had lost its sheen; it was matte and grey instead of black. He laid in his house, doing nothing and not even coming out to see us. It was not the same Edgar that we had spent just over two years sharing our home with. We knew that we had to let him go.

There is a part of me that is constantly beating myself up about the decision. I keep asking myself if I could or should have tried harder, kept on with the syringe feeding, given him more time. But there's a part of me that also keeps worrying that I let him suffer too long and should have let him go sooner. I do not know whether I made the right decision at the right time and I will probably always worry about this, I just knew that I could not see him suffering any longer, and in my heart I am pretty sure there was something deeper wrong with him that we did not know about.

The girls really are still a bit young to understand. They haven't really had much experience with death to get to grips with what has happened. They were absolutely head over heels for Edgar, Angelica treated him like her own little boy. We told her that he was very sick and the vet couldn't make him better so he has gone to be with Sam and Abi (our hamster we lost a couple of years ago).

Edgar getting sick 3 years to the day as Sam and losing him in the exact same way has made us think again about his similar they were. Why we never thought about this before, I have no idea but we worked out Edgar must have been born around the same time Sam died. Whether a bit of Sam went into Edgar, we don't know but there is certainly enough of a similarity between them that we can't shake that feeling. It's a comforting thought, actually.

I think there are two kinds of pet owners - the ones who, when they lose a pet, can't stand the thought of having another one for a really long time and the ones who absolutely have to have another animal in the home ASAP. We all fit into the former category, so on Tuesday afternoon I took my girls to the adoption centre and there he was - a tiny little scrap of a guinea pig with golden fur who looked so much like a young Sam that it was uncanny.

We asked about his background. Well, I say we asked, I asked while Angelica kept crying; "AW! He's very, VERY beautiful! He's a VERY good boy, isn't he?" and Natasha threw her shoes repeatedly into a stack of cat food tins. Apparently he had been for sale but was the runt of the litter and had been picked on by the other guinea pigs. Eventually one of the other guinea pigs bit him so badly he had to be taken away for treatment and after he was nursed back to health he wen t to the adoption centre to look for a caring home that would have a lot of patience with him.



I had to laugh at the man in the shop who was warning us that he would be shy and nervous and wondering if we were prepared for that - this guy obviously never met Sam!! So the little chap was duly checked over, popped into a carrier and brought home where two little girls could give him the love and attention he needs to make up for what he has been through.

Angelica named him George after a guinea pig from an episode of a TV show she watches called Balamory and so far George has made awesome progress in just 2 days. Currently he is munching on his hay, even though Natasha is making scary monster noises, and he isn't batting an eyelid.

I am absolutely devastated about losing Edgar. I can't get my mind on anything else. And considering that this week we've also suffered a gas leak and had no hot water, heating or cooking facilities, you can understand just how deeply cut up I am about losing him. It's really not been the best week at all and I am feeling drained and emotional, all this before I even get to the weekend I am dreading.



We will never forget Edgar, the proud guinea pig we used to call Sir. I just hope that we can give George the happy home that we have tried to give to all the animals who have shared our lives and I am looking forward to getting to know his little personality.

I Lost This Round.

Admitting you just can't do it any more is a hard thing to do, especially when you are a stubborn old cow like me.

I was 22 when I developed ME/CFS. I prefer the name Chronic Fatigue Syndrome although I find a lot of people still know it better as M.E., myalgic encephalomyelitis. Yeah, like I am ever going to pronounce that right. I'll stick with CFS, thanks very much.

A few weeks ago I made the decision to leave my job. The decision broke my heart. I think I liked my job more than most people, but I had reached a point where I couldn't function any more. At the beginning of September I began experiencing a relapse which became more and more severe until I ended up unable to walk or even sit up for long. It scared me beyond belief because it had been many years since I'd been in that position, and much water has passed under the bridge since the early days I spent with CFS.

My trigger was glandular fever, which is nasty enough on its own. I started coming down with it days after having a laparoscopy to remove endometriosis and spent a few weeks in bed, totally floored by this rotten virus, watching the closing down of my favourite shopping channel and reruns of Blue's Clues to keep me sane. After initially starting to regain some strength I began to go downhill again. The doctors kept moving the goal posts - first they said it would take 6 months to feel better, then 9 months, then a year. The fact was, I never really got better.

I spent some time pretty much housebound. If I did go out, I would pass out or not be able to walk far enough. I used to have to have a half-hour nap from walking up the stairs at my family's house to go to the bathroom. My throat was constantly swollen and raw so I lived on soup and ice, every limb and muscle in my body hurt like I had been exercising for hours and my head throbbed all of the time. It was the mental impairments that truly got to me though. I lost my short-term memory, almost completely. Someone would say something and right away it would go back out my mind. I could remember what I'd done on any given day ten years ago but couldn't remember what I'd had for lunch. (Probably soup though!)

I began to lose a lot of words from my vocabulary. A typical conversation with me would go, "Oh! You know that thing on the thingy channel that had thing and thingy in it? Well, I heard that thingy was going to.... to do something with the thingy." My speech became slurred and I sounded like I was drunk all the time, I would mix up words so they could come out in the wrong order and even writing or typing all my letters and words would end up a garbled mess.

I fought. I worked a few hours a week for the next couple of years and did the best I could. When I stopped enjoying my job courtesy of a change of management I looked for another and found a teaching assistant post, just 6 hours a week, which I applied for and got.

My life changed. I loved that job more than words could express. It spurred me on, made me fight so hard. I gradually increased my hours over a long period of time until eventually I was working a full time job. I was able to support my then-fiance so we could move in together (we'd had a long-term, long distance relationship so it was about time!), I worked all week and still was able to go out one day at the weekend most weeks. I still had issues with exhaustion and suffered occasional relapses but I was as close to living a normal life as I've ever been since.

Almost 2 years to the day I started my job, I trekked up a hill with a group of students and staff on a geography field trip. I felt so rough, I could hardly keep moving to put one foot in front of the other. We were walking for over an hour, when suddenly we emerged from the thick woodland to come out onto what seemed like the top of the world. We could see for miles around. The sight took my breath away. I still have a mental picture of that in my mind. I thought about how, two years earlier, the stairs were my enemy. This day was probably the pinnacle of my health, and a personal mountain to climb.

Shortly afterwards I fell pregnant with my eldest, and unlike my previous pregnancies she was determined to stick - and to take all the strength and energy she needed. I relapsed quite badly during her pregnancy and was quite sick by the time she was born. The long labour and resulting c-section meant that I spent many of the first months of her life in bed.

I cut my working hours when I returned to work and my health started to even out. When I fell pregnant with Natasha when Angelica was 9 months old I was terrified of relapsing again but not only was Natasha's conception the easiest, so was her pregnancy. I worked right up to a couple of weeks before her birth and recovered almost right away after she was born.

I think I started to relapse around the tine of my miscarriage last November. I lost a lot of blood and my body never quite recovered. I dropped more hours at work but it made no improvement and I started a long, slow decline which sped up when I got a sticky bean in April this year. I have tried to fight back but this time the CFS was stronger than I am - and luckily so is my baby as I am certain all my strength and energy is going his way.

I eventually had to concede this round. I have given up the job I love to be a full time WAHM. This has been a massive culture shock to me. I am not very good at not doing stuff. It's been a real shock to my system not to get up and go to work, not to be able to take my girls for walks every day and not to be able to do all the household things I'd started to take for granted.

There are always silver linings in life. My husband works from home full time too so I get to spend every day with the people (and guinea pigs) I love the most. My home business has taken off insanely and I would never have put my focus into it if I'd still been working at my 'day job'. I can get the medicinal cuddles from my girls that make me feel better any time I need.

I am pretty sure that I won't go into remission from this relapse until after the baby arrives, but I'm starting to think that's OK. Giving in was hard and admitting that my body had let me down wasn't easy, but I can see positives in most things and in this case it's the two curly-haired girls who are pretending their plastic balls are various pieces of fruit, the naughty guinea pig who pushes his luck every time the fridge door is opened, and the man who has been wanting me to work from home full time for years. It's my beautiful, growing family and the precious extra moments I get to share with them. That's not a bad trade off by anyone' standards.

Angelica's Persuasion Techniques, Part 1

"Hey, Mummy! A good idea, maybe... go to the cafe and eat biscuits!"

"No, sweetheart."

"Oh. Maybe later."

"No, not later either."

A pause.

"Maybe later later."

Another pause.

"We'll see."

Daisy

One year ago today I saw two very beautiful pink lines. I'd thought my period had started the day before but when the bleeding became watery and started to fade I was confused. I didn't expect that this was implantation bleeding. This wasn't the light brown/pink spotting I'd heard of, this was proper, heavy red bleeding. When I took an internet cheapie test that night I was only really doing it because I am an HPT addict, I didn't expect to see a faint line. But I've seen plenty of evaps on those tests so I dipped a second and the same thing happened. Finally I broke open the First Response tests I'd bought that day to 'cheer me up' and look forward to the next cycle, feeling that I would for sure be wasting one. The resulting beautiful pink line made my heart soar.

I only had 11 weeks and 6 days with Daisy. I was one day short of the fabled 12 week milestone when I lost her. I had never before, nor since, bonded so quickly during pregnancy. Not with my girls, or this time, or any other loss. I don't know why. I remember going to bed the night I got my positive test, just laying there with a huge grin across my face, bonding with her instantly.

You know the feeling when something terrible has happened and you awake in the morning with a blissful moment of ignorance before you remember? Well, for the first and last time I experienced the opposite of that. I woke up with no memory of my positive test the night before for a moment or two, then I recalled what had happened and the grin spread across my face again. The grin didn't leave my face for weeks.

On some level, I think I knew that she wasn't going to make it. A few weeks later I started spotting which came on and off for a few weeks. I knew that things were not good. I did not call my doctor or the hospital. I did not want to have a scan.,find out she had passed and then wait for days or weeks to miscarry. I had been through that before. I wanted to have every moment that I could with her, still maintaining that hope that she would make it.

On November 5th, the bleeding suddenly increased. I knew then that my time with her was coming to an end. The next morning I woke up in blissful ignorance for a few moments, then felt the pad I'd had to wear the night before and my world came crashing down. As I called the hospital and arranged a scan for that day I already knew what the answer was going to be. I knew I was not going to be getting any good news that day.

Today, I am fighting tears. I'm going to be doing the same for the first couple of weeks of November.

Health and Labour

"Do you know what triggered your Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?"

I hate answering questions about it. I hate talking about it. The more I ignore it, the less I have to acknowledge it. But that's what I was there for, to talk over with the consultant how my ME/CFS has prevented me from having a natural birth with my girls. My first ended in a c-section, the second was a VBAC which I was only able to achieve with the help of the ventouse (suction).

"Yes, it was glandular fever," I answered, "I was recuperating from a laparoscopy to remove endometriosis at the time."

"And how long have you had Chronic Fatigue?"

"Eight.... well, eight and a half years," it didn't feel like that long. Yet at the same time, I can't really remember what things were like before.

I found my appointment with the consultant very stressful this week. I hate talking about my health beyond a quick "I'm not too bad" or "I'm feeling a bit relapsy this week." I'm sure to others it must seem like I am moaning about it all the time though because I can never really say "Yeah, I'm feeling good!" when they ask. Tired is situation normal, but I don't often explain much beyond that.

In my first pregnancy I was made to feel as though it was unimportant. A lot of emphasis was put on the fact that pregnancy is tiring for everyone and why should I be any different? I wasn't taken seriously at any step of the way and I ended up taking maternity leave as early as I was legally allowed because I couldn't cope with work.

In labour, I repeatedly made it known that I have a long-term health issue that needed consideration. I cannot forgive nor forget the patronising response that one midwife gave me as she snapped, "ALL women get tired when they're in labour and THEY all manage it."

I still boil over with anger when I think about it. I had been living with ME/CFS for five years and I knew my body. I had been in labour for 24 hours and my muscles had stopped working. I couldn't push because I couldn't move. I couldn't even raise a hand. The treatment that I received in labour left me even more terrified of hospitals and the resulting relapse lasted for months and months. I did not enjoy the first 6 months of my eldest daughter's life because I spent a lot of them in bed.

I chose a different hospital when I had Natasha. I finally found a GP who not only took me seriously but had a great deal of knowledge about CFS and referred me to a hospital that were supportive of patients in this situation. They were far better than the hospital I'd had my eldest at but even so some mistakes were made in the handling of my situation when it actually came to labour.

When my appointment came around this week and it was time to make a decision about whether to try for a another VBAC or to opt for a cesarean I knew it was going to be a tougher decision this time around. My health has deteriorated over the last year and a half, it's been a gradual process that I have tried to reverse to no avail. I have been slowly dropping more and more hours at work and upping my freelance work but even working a very low number of hours a week has proven harder than it has for many years. With a heavy heart I am leaving the job I have loved for six and a half years when my maternity leave begins.

I have been worried about discussing my labour options because I know neither is going to be an easy option. I don't want to worry about recovering from major surgery, but I don't want to go through another 24+ hour labour and have no movement left in my body by the time I come to push.

I was nervous of going through the things that went wrong last time; that strapping me to monitors right away caused my contractions to slow and labour to be extended, and not allowing me to eat in case I needed another c-section meant I had no fuel for my body to use. I went through the story of my labour with Natasha and found out that the consultant was actually the one who delivered her! I couldn't remember for the life of me what he looked like but he had her labour notes there and realised he had performed her ventouse-assisted delivery! I thanked him profusely - everyone else was preparing me for another c-section and he was the only one who was prepared to try suction first.

I told him that I know my body and I know if I have another long labour my muscles will give up working long before the time comes to push. I was worried that he would push (no pun intended) for a c-section or that things would just be a repeat of last time, but this is what he said:

"Here's what we'll do: if you can get through the labour, we will have tools on standby to assist you with suction when you get that far. I understand you cannot push on your own. As long as your baby is in this position (he then demonstrated with a scale model of a pelvis was was kind of funny) and you can get that far on your own, we will help you out right away."

I was totally blown away. I expected struggles and arguments as I've had every step of the way with my health over the last decade, but he gave me 100% the support I needed. I almost burst into tears. I couldn't say 'thank you' enough times.

My baby was not so grateful and led the doctor a merry dance when he was trying to check his heartbeat, constantly kicking the probe and moving into another position. My girls used to do exactly the same!

I have 6 more weeks of work, and after that I can concentrate on building up as much health and strength as I can for labour and delivery. For the first time I feel genuinely supported and more positive about my baby's birth process. Now I can look forward to meeting my little guy instead of worrying about the process of getting him here because - this time - I know what I can expect.

Thumb Alert!

I have the unluckiest thumb in the world. Fact.

No one has a more unlucky thumb than I do.

Yesterday two horrible accidents befell it. First of all, I trapped it in the bathroom door. It was thanks to Angelica suddenly deciding she hadn't quite dried her hands thoroughly enough after cleaning her teeth, doubled back on herself into the bathroom while halfway out the door, I tried to stop the door from closing on her and ended up screaming as my thumb came away as the injured party from the experience.

Now, I have a fairly high pain threshold but I am not ashamed to admit I screamed. A LOT. My thumb has several interesting colours going on now, and is significantly thicker than the other one.

My thumb's unfortunate day didn't end there though. Having spent several hours with my thumb sticking out at a funny angle, trying not to let it touch anything, I wet to put something in a cupboard. I don't know how the following event occurred exactly, I have tried to work out what happened next but I can't. Somehow my thumbnail caught on the shelf and ripped right across. Once again I screamed. A LOT. I then panicked and ran around trying to smother the bleeding tip of my finger with plasters and antiseptic and the lower part with witchhazel and bandages.

I'm telling you, my thumb might as well have a number 13 tattooed on it. I just hope its unlucky streak is coming to an end!

"So I guess we're getting fish then..."

That's what I said as the girls and I made our visit to the pet shop last week and I watched my quiet little Natasha running up and down from tank to tank screaming, "FI-I-I-I-I-I-ISH!" to each one she arrived at. I have never seen her so excited about anything, even the guinea pigs! Watching her press her hands against the glass and grin with excitement before moving to the next tank and doing the same thing had me in fits of laughter, and her sister too who referred to her as a 'silly sausage'.

It became clear that all my fabled thoughts of getting fish 'one day' were coming closer. No longer was this a five-ten-years-down-the-line thing, this was an immanent plan. I sighed, thinking about all the tank cleaning and worrying about finding one floating on top of the water that was ahead for us, but the sight of my girls side by side, admiring the swimming wildlife melted my heart.

I think pets are good for children. Within reason of course - I can't see Angelica petting a leopard or something - but they teach them many things about life. When Natasha was born Angelica knew instinctively to be gentle because she had learned that from handling the guinea pigs and hopefully Natasha will be the same when the baby arrives. They've both learned the responsibility of caring for another living thing, they take turns feeding them and they show genuine love for them. It's amazing to see.

With fish things will be a bit different, I know. There's no petting them, feeding time is minimal and there'll be multiple arguments about which stupid china castle to buy for the tank, I am sure, but I can see them catching their imagination and hopefully give them an extra distraction to keep them busy and out from under my feet when I'm trying to cook dinner!

So my next question is: any fish experts out there? I need advice and I need it quickly!

My Little Expert - Apparently!

My quiet little Natasha has suddenly become very vocal. She's gone from being a quiet little thing to talking all the time. ALL THE TIME! Where has this chatterbox come from?! It's so funny to see her come out of her shell at last!

One of the things she's recently been very vocal about is the identification of any animals she spies. She knows cats, dogs, rabbits, fish, mice, sheep, cows, pigs... oh, and of course guinea pigs, but she's known them for a long time.

Today I was wondering where to take the girls for a walk and decided to take them to the pet shop. I wanted to show Natasha the fish.

"You can point them out when you see them," I told Natasha, "considering you're now an expert."

Angelica, who'd been listening, piped up,

"I'm an expert!"

Not having any idea that she would know what the word meant I asked her,

"Oh yeah? And what are you an expert on then, sweetheart?"

She looked at me as though I was stupid for not knowing already and replied casually,

"Antiques."

My mouth fell open. Where on earth did she learn the word antiques?! How did she even link it up?! And more importantly, if I took her to an antique shop d'you think she'd have an eye for a bargain?!

Life with children is never, ever dull, that's for certain!

Happy Birthday, Natasha!

Two years ago today, Natasha made her safe arrival into the world. This little girl changed my life in so many amazing ways that I cannot even begin to explain them. Her birth undid all the bad memories from Angelica's birth and took away the block I'd always had left from that horrible experience. Her arrival showed me how amazing it is to watch siblings grow and learn from each other. Her arrival brought giggles and smiles to the whole family. It brought a gentler side to Angelica. It brought love to all of us. It brought so much to our family in so many ways.

My baby daughter is two today. I can hardly believe that two whole years have passed since that first day in hospital where she cuddled into my arms. She's been my little shadow ever since, a definite mummy's girl and full of love and kisses.

Her wild hair and cheeky grin make me giggle. Her blue eyes melt my heart and can get her out of any trouble she's found herself in. Her obsession with pointing out when someone has scored a goal when we are watching football and with animals that she has to announce at the top of her voice mark out her big personality. Her cuddles and hugs make everything better.

My cheeky little girl is everything to me, to her daddy, to her sister and even to the guinea pigs who come and look for her when she is closeby. One day we can explain to her how much she means to all of us. For now, I'm going to go and spend the rest of the day playing in her new playhouse with my girls and giving as many hugs as she will allow from her sentimental mother.

Happy Birthday, Cutie-Noo!

Friday Five

Five naughty things Natasha has done today:

1) Managed to break into a packet of biscuits to steal herself a tasty treat

2) worked out how to undo the child lock on the airing cupboard door so she can open it and play interesting (for 'interesting read 'annoying') tunes on the ridged seat of the step stool propped up inside

3) Picked up a golfing magazine in the newsagents and almost took it out the shop

4) Switched the DVD player on to watch a DVD of her favourite cartoon

5) found a box of tissues, removed said tissues from box one at a time, decided they were too large and systematically ripped each one into small pieces

This little pest is going to be two beautiful years old on Monday - they've been the best two years of my life :)

Got it Licked!

Why do children lick things? I mean, they'll lick just about anything. Angelica used to be the champion at licking, In fact, my MIL used to ask for regular updates about the various things she had licked. This included the stairs, the front door, our legs, the television, the phone, my laptop - you name it, she licked it.

Natasha was never really one for putting things in her mouth - we had to work hard at convincing her to chew on a teething ring even - but now she has adopted the licking trend too. I was unaware that she was sneaking around beside me a moment ago until I felt something wet on my leg and found her choosing to taste my trousers. Ugh!

Angelica grew out of the licking phase a while back, I am happy to say, but not before she had wondered what her sister's hair tasted like and licked it. She also once tried to lick a guinea pig - I can't remember which one. I'm not sure who was more traumatised by the event, Angelica, the guinea pig or me!

Of course, I guess we send out mixed messages. Earlier on Angelica watched my husband moisten the back of an envelope with his tongue and seal it, so I couldn't really blame her for picking up the envelope and slobbering all across the address and the stamp. Her great-grandmother is in for a nasty surprise when that drops through her letterbox though.

With any luck Natasha's tongue-exploration phase will be over pretty soon, otherwise I'm going to have to invest in some waterproof clothes pretty quickly!

All About my 21 Week Scan

This has been some kind of crazy week. Monday finally brought my 21 week scan, and I was very nervous. I have been scared at every moment of this pregnancy and couldn't let myself believe for a moment that everything would be OK in case things had not gone well.

It was just my luck that the taxi driver on the way to the hospital chose to take me on the bumpy route. By the time I arrived I was feeling sick and already had a migraine coming on. Waiting in the humid waiting room for twenty minutes with a family who were all arguing about which one was going to get x-rayed didn't help either. Finally the doors of Ultrasound Room A opened and I was called in.

I had been dreading being called into that room. It was the room where I was given grim news last November. The last thing I wanted to do was to pass through those doors again. I'd been lucky to avoid it throughout this pregnancy so far but as soon as I walked through the doors it all came back. I was fighting tears by the time I climbed onto the table.

The ultrasound tech told me I didn't have to take my boots off, which was just as well since I hadn't... but I'd asked at the last 3 scans if I needed to remove them and hadn't had to yet so I just assumed that would be OK anyway. A moment later my baby was wriggling and waving on the screen, so much bigger than I had last seen. The most incredible part of the 20/21 week scans I've had so far has been to see the movement while I felt it too. There's something very magical about that.

I practically held my breath as the tech checked everything. She seemed to take a really long time looking at the heart and saw me looking at her nervously so she reassured me she was just trying to get a good picture. Eventually, scanning down further she told me she thought she could see something between the baby's legs. So on edge and nervous I thought she meant there was something wrong with the baby, some kind of growth, and it took me a few moments to realise she just meant boy parts!

To be honest, it was no surprise to me. I wish that it had been in a way, but I had always felt that we would have a boy next. Way back when I was pregnant with Natasha, before we found out her gender, I dreamed that she was a girl and that I was pregnant again with a boy and I have never shaken that image from my mind. I certainly trust my instinct more than I trusted the picture on the ultrasound which certainly didn't look like any boy-part U/S I've ever seen so I'm going to just double check at my next scan before I go crazy buying blue!

Everything looked good on the scan, no problems found, and I finally feel like I can relax and enjoy the latter part of this pregnancy. Finally!

The long, long bus journey home didn't do me a whole lot of good though, and I felt migrainey and nauseous for a couple of days afterwards, but yesterday finally we were all able to go to the coast for the day to celebrate. That - however - is a whole other story!

Meet Sam

14+ months TTC

4 Losses

Approximately £400 of HPTs, OPKs, supplements, fertility monitors and other assorted TTC paraphernalia.

Worth it. All totally worth it!

Post-Bath Conversation

"Angelica, do you want a little brother or a sister?"

"Hmm.... a sister!"

"A sister?"

"A sister like Natasha!"

"Do you think the baby's going to be a boy or a girl?"

"A girl."

"Not a boy then?"

"Noooooooooo!"

"Well, we'll see tomorrow."

A gasp comes from the dripping Angelica as I continue drying her after her bath.

"No! Baby's coming too soon!"

"What...? oh, no, Angelica, the baby's not coming tomorrow..."

"babies sleep in a cot."

"Yes, the baby will sleep in a cot."

"In my room?"

"No, the baby won't be sleeping in your room." I paused. "Natasha might be sleeping in your room soon though. Would you like Natasha to sleep in your room?"

A look of glee fills Angelica's face.

"Yeah!!"

"Well, that's good."

"Natasha has big feet," Angelica remarks.

"Well, yes, but I'm sure there'll be room for them too."

Angelica considers this for a moment and nods.

"Bye bye, bathroom," she comments and scarpers, leaving a trail of clothes and towels behind her.

My Baby

My baby is a joker. Well, you'd have to be to implant just in time for an April Fool's Day BFP.

My baby is learning how to tease his or her sisters. Poor Natasha's had a foot poking her in the back as she's sat on my lap several times lately.

My baby likes the same TV shows that I do. Its first strong, definite kicks came when my husband and I were watching a DVD of our favourite show and ever since then the movements come thick and fast whenever we watch it.

My baby has very definite ideas about the kind of cuisine it needs me to consume. It likes to invent new recipes on my behalf and makes me cook them, then makes me finish everyone else's leftovers! Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it!

My baby likes its own space. It hates it when my laptop rests against my bump for a moment and will kick and kick until I move it away.

I'm loving learning all about my baby's personality before he or she even arrives. I'm enjoying the precious weeks and months of bonding time before I get to hold my little bundle in my arms. I know that when that time comes it's not going to take away the pain and the loss it's taken to get to that moment but I cannot wait for the sunshine it will bring to our lives.

Worst Cookery Lesson Ever

Part one of an occasional series: Misty's Highly Inaccurate and Vague Recipes!

I love to cook. I adore it. I am at home in the kitchen, randomly boiling or frying or grilling various food to see what happens. I have an issue with following recipes though, the issue being that it's just not me. I'll get an idea for something to make, I'll look up about three or four recipes online and then I'll just decide that I have a better idea and totally ignore the recipe.

This is good and bad - it means I don't have a diva-like strop if I accidentally add too many tomatoes but on the downside it makes it very difficult to share my recipes because I have no concept of measurements. Seriously, no concept at all.

So here is my attempt at sharing Misty's Inaccurate and Vague Spaghetti Bolognese:

You'll need:

Beef mince - how much? No idea. Whatever looks like enough to feed your family.
Stock Cubes
Cornflour
Water
1 large tin of chopped tomatoes
Tomato puree
Spaghetti - enough to feed your family
Random things you find in your cupboard that you want to add

First of all, fry the beef mince in a pan until it's brown all over. Poke it a bit with a spatula, flip it, stir it and mix it around. Now, if you're a normal person who likes onion then you can chop and fry some of that first. If you're weird like me and my husband and don't like them then leave them out! We also don't like garlic so there's none of that in my spag bol. Yes, we are a match made in heaven!

When the beef is brown and cooked through, drain off the nasty, yucky fat that's come out of it. The result will be a big pool of gunk, like so:

Mmm, lovely!

Anyway, next open a tin of chopped tomatoes and pour them in. Mix into the mince, then add a few squirts of tomato puree. Mis-aim the tube, squirt it over the back of the oven, mutter under your breath about how much cleaning you're going to have to do later and put the tube away before you can cause any more damage with it.

Crumble in two beef stock cubes - more or less depending on taste and how much you are making, and also depending on whether you are pregnant and craving beef stock cube and end up eating half a cube. Add some boiling water, however much or little you like. Add a little cornflour to thicken the sauce, stir well and leave to simmer for half an hour until the liquid has reduced.

Next, start boiling your spaghetti, spend the next ten minutes worrying about whether you've cooked too much or too little, shout at your daughter for trying to climb into the guinea pig cage and then take the pasta off the boil.

Drain, serve, top with sauce and a little cheese, then devour your highly inaccurate, experimental and vague spaghetti bolognese!

Oh, and then don't accidentally leave a bowl of leftovers sitting on the bed while trying to clear the table because this happens:

Yes, you find your darling daughter raiding them behind your back! At least they didn't go to waste!

For dessert: Bolognese Pants!