Category Archives: Pregnancy

About the Missing Years (plus bonus PSA)

I have been missing writing lately, but the couple of times I have opened up my blog to add a post after a 3.5 year absence it hasn’t felt quite right, so perhaps I should clear the air. With April Fools approaching it seems a good time.


I have always strived to inject a humorous undertone in my writing, even when I’m actually quite worked up about an issue. Even the serious posts have been sprinkled with sarcasm for some comic relief. Over the last few years life has just seemed a bit too heavy to find the bright side, and try as I might I could not find my voice. Circumstances plus postpartum depression (and lets face it, the circumstances probably fuelled the PPD) did not make for a happy time. Some of this I will keep private (2014, you’re dead to me), but I feel it is important to share the struggles that J & I have faced these last two years because maybe somebody will read my posts and feel less alone. God knows how often I searched the Internet late into the night, looking for others who were sharing their similar stories.

Today, this image showed up on my Facebook newsfeed:


I cried because it reminded me that last April 1st was not a good social media day for me. In February 2016 J & I, after a year of trying to conceive without success, received a general diagnosis of Secondary Male Factor Infertility and the prognosis only got worse from there after each embarrassing and painful test. Although we did eventually beat the odds late last year (much to the shock of our medical team), pregnancy after infertility or pregnancy loss is not experienced the same as a pregnancy achieved by a couple who have never experienced either. I know because I have now experienced both. I’m grateful for people that are spreading the message that fake pregnancy announcements are not funny. Not. Remotely. Funny.

Did you know that in Canada 1 in 6 couples experience some form of infertility? In the United States that number is 1 in 8. Worldwide, the figure jumps to 1 in 4. I can tell you right now that before February 2016 I was unaware of these stats, and at that point I had been on this earth for 32 years. Male factor infertility? Literally didn’t know it existed. Secondary infertility? Nope. Wasn’t aware that was a thing either. Pregnancy loss is more visible, but no less painful. In fact, couples experiencing pregnancy loss are often expected to return to life as usual within an incredibly short period of time even by those who were privy to the loss. Their pain is minimized by society at large, which must only bring on a whole other level of pain, guilt and shame.

Infertility carries a lot of guilt and shame too. Infertility takes over. It destroys marriages. It destroys happiness. I’m not saying that it always does, or that everyone copes (or fails to cope) in the same manner, but what I am saying is I just didn’t know it could, and if you haven’t experienced it you probably didn’t know either. People say a lot of dumb stuff to infertile couples, and they just don’t know how painful it can be to have to hear them. I do hope to share more about different aspects of our infertility journey with you in the coming weeks and in typing this I hope it serves to hold me accountable to my intentions. For now I will leave you with this PSA from us Womb Warriors:

Don’t be a social media fool this April 1st. Fake pregnancy announcements haven’t ever been and won’t ever be funny. I assure you that someone you love has suffered in silence with infertility or pregnancy loss. Guilt, shame and/or embarrassment keep many people from speaking their struggles aloud. These posts are heartbreaking to a woman who may never feel life quicken in her womb, a woman who has lost a life that once grew there, or a man who may never know the joy of holding his precious newborn.

Infertility Awareness.png

Besides, just turn on the news. You can find plenty of April Fools fodder to share there, like this one that the Washington Post published hilariously prematurely:



Every Mommy Needs a Daddy Sometimes

So after yet another night of four feedings I groggily and reluctantly woke up before the sunrise because Baby H said so. I went down, popped a T-Disc in the machine and cried to myself a little bit. I miss my friend Sleep so much, although I somehow don’t feel it so much during the day. I miss it in the throes of lacking it, when J is fast asleep and snoring.

I came back upstairs to where my little wiggle monster was, well, wiggling around in his bassinet. I flipped on the TV to find a familiar scene unfolding.

Screen shot 2013-02-15 at 7.43.01 AM

As a pregnant lady watching this movie last summer I definitely related most to the Elizabeth Banks character. Despite people telling me that I had ‘that glow’, I did not have that glow. It was just sweat. Buckets and buckets of sweat. To be fair, it was the hottest summer on record and I had no air conditioning, but still. I spent the last months of my pregnancy flopping around on the couch feeling like I’d never be comfortable ever again.

So, given this information, and the fact that I have clearly forgotten it, why on earth do I feel twinges of envy as friend after friend announces their summer babies on the way and posts adorable belly bump pictures? They are still small enough that they really are glowing and lovely. Maybe that’s why. Maybe if they were posting pictures of themselves looking like beached whales or Violet Beauregarde post-blueberry incident I might not feel that little bit of envy.

Two days before the birth of H... see the resemblance?

Two days before the birth of H… see the resemblance?

Why on earth would I miss being pregnant? Besides being huge and uncomfortable, I was a sleep deprived hormonal nightmare. I haven’t slept since August! I have no sleep in the foreseeable future. And while I don’t begrudge J his sleep (ok, I do begrudge him just a smidgen of sleep), I have in fact, as Amy at Pregnant Chicken (<- Pregnant women, click that link. You’ll thank me later.) warned, stared at his sleeping, peaceful face at 2am and wondered what the hell the point of him is. In those sleepless 2am moments, especially post-baby, as I stumble around blearily trying to figure out if the baby needs to be changed, nursed, or both, I think of J simply as “the sperm donor” and feel like he couldn’t possibly be the father because he clearly abandons me in every 2am moment of need. If only the men had the boobs… (ok, no. I love breastfeeding and wouldn’t give it up for any amount of uninterrupted sleep, and that’s the truth!).

Sperm Donor

Ok, to the point. On those nights I don’t really feel abandoned. That’s the deal. He needs to get up at 5am to work every day, and he operates heavy machinery. I’d be a pretty horrible person if I expected him to share in the sleepless nights. However, despite my supermom status, I must admit that sometimes I need him. And so does the baby. The other night, I was having a moment (or several). For the life of me, I could not get little H to sleep. He’s normally really easy to put to bed! Nurse him or pop a soother in and he’s fast asleep in 5. This night, though, I felt like my baby had been replaced by a banshee. He screamed until he was purple in the face, tears streaming from his eyes. I tried everything but he could not be consoled. This is how J found us upon arriving home from work at 10pm (where he’d been since 6am). I fully anticipated that he’d disappear into the basement or to bed and leave me to deal with the shit show we’d created. Instead I was pleasantly surprised. He came into the room and started talking to the screaming, writhing mass that I suspected was the baby but was no longer sure. My head was throbbing and I couldn’t think clearly. All of a sudden there was silence as H listened to his daddy’s voice. There was still some pouting and gasping going on, so J picked up the baby and off they went to play in front of the mirror and have a little chat. An hour later a perfectly calm little angel child was returned to me and we fell asleep side by side, which is where J found us 6 hours later at 5am. It was a miracle.

So you see girls, there is a point to him. If you’re tempted in those last days of pregnancy or early days of baby to stab him with a fork as he lies there sleeping like an angel (or snoring like at trucker), hold off. Think about it for a few days to make sure its what you really want to do. You might end up regretting it because even though it may not seem like it during those sleepless nights, every mommy needs a daddy sometimes.

S and J

Adieu 2012

In French that title rhymes. Kinda…

So, some of you may have noted my absence. I’ve wanted to write many times but, my friends, it appears I’ve lost my funny bone. I’m pretty sure I’m suffering from some mild postpartum depression (PPD). Thankfully I am in love with and am able to take good care of my little H, but outside of the joy I get from him I have been having trouble finding it elsewhere. I realize that we still live in a time where I might be judged for this, or where people are unable to find the patience to deal with this temporary insanity. People might be wondering why I would admit this in writing. Well, with movements like Movember and Mental Health Month bringing these issues to the forefront, I don’t see the sense in pretending like everything is fine in my day to day life or in my writing. I’m not really hear to write about mental health. If you want a couple of good reads that I feel explain the current state of affairs (minus my very personal circumstances that I’m not prepared to share with the world at this time), click here for a magazine article and/or here for a bloggier recounting by saradraws writing for Le Clown’s Black Box Warnings. Welcome to Wonderland my darlings.

cheshire cat

I’m mad, you’re mad. We all have our personal brand of insanity be it anxiety, depression, obsessive thinking etc. So why stay quiet? I’ve been absent and now you know why.

It’s the last day of 2012 and so I feel compelled to write one last post this year, although I remain uninspired. I began this blog last March shortly after discovering that my life had been following a very different trajectory from the one I was on, unbeknownst to me. This year has given me the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I have considered myself the happiest girl in the world at times and at others, the saddest (yes, I know what you’re thinking…#firstwordproblems… I need some perspective sometimes). Regardless, it was the most amazing year of my life, because in 2012 I became a mom. I found out I was pregnant, carried a baby for 9 amazing and excruciating months, and began to figure out how to take care of him. If someone had handed me their infant last year I would have had no idea what to do. I’m not a kid person… or, at least, I wasn’t.

Bush is demonstrating how I felt about babies... until I had one

Bush demonstrating how I felt about babies… until I had one

2013 will likely involve redefining who I am. I think a lot of the PPD business has to do with suddenly feeling like a fish out of water. Everything happened at once. I had been a student since 2006 and had spent the last two years researching and writing a master’s thesis, all leading up to one big event: The Defense. Once that was conquered I flopped, plodded moaned and groaned until the unexpected c-section delivery of my baby boy. And then everything was different. I love my son more than anything in life, but this whole stay-at-home-mom thing is throwing me off. For the first time in 13 years I don’t have an income. I don’t have a lot of friends with children. I live far away from my family who I had seen on a regular basis. I no longer live with my best girl friend. I’m not a student anymore. I’m not researching or writing. I have no goals.

If the ref says no goal maybe it's time to kick that ref's behind...

If the ref says no goal maybe it’s time to kick that ref’s behind…

Aha. I think that last one is the crux of the problem. All the other changes don’t really matter in the end. I mean, they’re just part of this new life and I’ll figure them out one way or another. Being an eternal student, my goal was to finish high school and get accepted to university. Then it was save money for university. Then it was finish my BA with a high enough average to pay my way through an MA. Once in the MA program it was to obtain enough funding to complete my MA program and once that was secured my focus switched to surviving my ennui with the system enough to finish the darn thing. I was sick of being a student, but it was all I knew. I have had permanent employment for the last 10 years, but never anything serious career-wise. I just had to work to pay the bills. No matter what, though, I was always goal oriented. And when the larger goals were far off I set myself smaller ones, like saving enough to buy a piano or to visit friends overseas. Anyways, I’m just a bit lost.

So, while acknowledging that this is broad, my goal for 2013 is to find myself again. To find some sort of way to combine who I am with who I thought I’d be.

Hint: I am not Jean Valjean

Hint: I am not Jean Valjean

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not meaning to end this year on a depressing note. I’m not, as some have mistaken me to be, ungrateful for the life that I do have. I’m just trying to adjust. Think about it. One year ago I would never even have imagined that I’d be a mom this New Year’s Eve. That’s a pretty big life change… one of the biggest actually. Thanks to all those who have laughed and cried with me this year. I am truly grateful to those who have been kind, patient and understanding, even if it wasn’t always easy. I know I can be trying at times. Having you in my life means that I am truly blessed. May 2013 bring only lovely things to all of you. See ya on the flip side!

Little H wishes you a happy new year too

Little H wishes you a happy new year too

Staccato: A Story of Sleep (Or Lack Thereof)

(This is a repost from my family blog. I’ve been trying to update my shenanigans, but life with a newborn is hard y’all! Finding time is tricksy. Hope you enjoy reading about my life these last few weeks.)

Towards the end of pregnancy friends and relatives unknowingly utter the most annoying phrase known to pregnant women worldwide, “Make sure you’re getting your sleep now because once that baby comes you’ll be dreaming of the days when you could sleep.” There are two things wrong with that sentence. Thing the first is that no, you will not be dreaming of those days because you will, in fact, never sleep to dream. You may stumble around your house deliriously muttering about pillows and sleepy time wondering where your mommy is and why she hasn’t tucked you in yet. Alternately you may find yourself yelling at the couch for sitting so still or looking so leathery. Either way, that’s not dreaming. It’s the nonsensical blabbering of a sleep deprived whale woman. This bring us to thing the second –the truth is that you already haven’t been sleeping for at least a couple of months. That ship has sailed and it left the dock so quickly and without warning that you didn’t even have a chance to buy a ticket. During the third and fourth trimester sleep is non-existent at worst, staccato at best.

Staccato: Marked by or composed of disconnected parts… [In] Music (of notes) short, clipped, separate… Italian, past participle of detached, to detachfrom staccare, short for distaccare (, 2012).

Screen shot 2012-12-01 at 7.23.57 AM

Image courtesy of:

In music staccato is denoted as shown above. Each note is a crisp burst of sound separated by an equally short silence. In a major key this can sound lively, blythe, and joyful, like Bach’s Invention No. 8. Fingers trip lightly and happily over the piano keys. In a minor key, however, staccato relays a sense of urgency. This brings to mind the passage from mins. 2:37-2:58 of Mozart’s Fantasy in D Minor from his darker days. Producing this urgency, the minor key and rising staccato notes combine with the volume beginning at a whisper and building to an apex where suddenly the sound. Just. Stops. Seemingly without resolution, before tumbling off a cliff at min. 2:59.

During the third trimester the waking moments (silences) between the short bursts of sleep (notes) are marked by heartburn, muscles spasms, difficulty breathing and/or the need to make a trip to the bathroom. Telling a very pregnant woman to get her sleep while she can is actually a joke. The sleepless nights begin long before those newborn cries pierce the night (also rather staccato with a building crescendo– wah. waH. wAH. WAH!). Dreams of the legato sleep of Brahms’ Lullaby are but a distant memory.

Legato: In a smooth, even style without any breaks… [In] Music to be preformed smoothly and connectedly… Italian, past participle of legareto bind, tie together (, 2012).


Image courtesy of:

Baby H likes to sleep in my arms and not so much in his crib or bassinet. I nurse or rock him to sleep, but the second I try to put him down he’s awake, wide eyed and wailing. I have tried warming his bassinet before placing him in it, bouncing, swaying, rocking, walking, dancing to his favourite music (Jack Johnson, for the record) etc. None of these methods have worked, much to my and his chagrin. Sleep deprivation makes me go a bit insane and it makes for a very cranky baby.

I’m currently working on ferberizing him. This is also known as the ‘cry-it-out method’, which isn’t as bad as it sounds. Basically at 3 months of age you start putting your baby to bed awake. He may cry, but you are not to pick him up to soothe or feed him. You do, however, come to him at regular intervals to pat him and reassure him that you are still there. Theoretically this teaches the baby to soothe himself to sleep. Baby H is only one month old and so I am not using this method to the T. Since returning from the hospital the only way he was sleeping was if I had him with me in the bed. The problem with this is that Joe has been relegated to the spare room for the unforeseeable future and I live in constant fear of smothering my baby. Several times now I have fallen asleep with him on my chest, or nursing him at my side. Although unlikely because I tend not to move too much in my sleep, all it would take would be for me to roll over in the wrong direction. I shudder to think…


Hunter and his new buddy, the Sleep Sheep

Three nights ago I started trying to put him in his bassinet at my bedside, but he kept waking up. I swaddled him very tightly which worked the first time I put him down but stopped working soon after that. In sheer frustration, after having tried to put him down for what was probably about the fifth time in a three hour sleepless period, I didn’t pick him up again and he cried and cried and cried. I then began to feel like a horrible person. How could I let my baby scream like that? It was making me cry. So I turned to Dr. Google and found out about Ferberizing. Being too young for this method as it was described online I decided to modify it to suit my and my one month old’s needs. I turned on the sleep sheep that Nana had given us earlier that day, put my hand on little Baby H’s heaving chest, and began to rock the bassinet. The crying slowed in response, so I removed my hand and over time eventually stopped the rocking. He wasn’t quite asleep yet and started to cry again, so I resumed the rocking. Miraculously, he stopped crying again. I repeated this until he fell asleep. I have continued to do this over the past couple of nights, but I don’t attend to him immediately when he begins to cry. Lo and behold, sometimes he barely cries and puts himself straight to sleep.

When I was getting little to no sleep I was exhausted and irritable. I had feelings of desperation and hopelessness. Nursing at night was painful and I dreaded it. I was seriously worried that I was going to slip into a postpartum depression, eyes wide shut. Since the modified Ferberization of Baby H began, yes we have had to deal with some tears, but ultimately both mum and baby are much happier. We both sleep in longer legato stretches and are refreshed in the morning. We awaken only once or twice to nurse and resettle at night. Sleep more closely resembles that classic Brahms Lullaby and dark and desperate Mozart is now becoming a distant memory.

The Way it Went: Part 1

I’m not really in the mood to write at all right now. I’m tired, headachy and my boobs are killing me despite having been drained by the milk obsessed baby (I’m totally glad he wants to eat so much though, since his weight loss during our hospital stay created a bit of a hoopla and made me hate hospitals even more than ever). However, I have a minute to myself which is rare these days, so I’ll try to write about it, as uninspired as I am. I’m working on a more thorough version, but I don’t want to publish that. It’s more just for me, or us as a family really.

Deciding to do the c-section was very hard for me. I happen to believe that birth is a natural thing, not a medical procedure. Sure, sometimes instances occur where medical intervention is needed. After all, there is a reason that both mother and infant mortality rates have decreased with medical advances, but for the most part intervention is unnecessary and is just used to speed up the process.

Image courtesy of

The hospital where Baby H was born is understaffed and there are no longer enough birthing rooms to support the growing population of the city so they have to keep people moving through. Why let a woman labour for 24 hours when you can get her out of there within 24 hours? But I digress… I chose the c-section because when presented with all the best available information on my pregnancy and the health of my little (big) fetus, it seemed the best decision. I don’t even want to think about what may have happened back in the day when sections weren’t an option.

On Tuesday Oct 30th I arrived at my doctor’s appointment thinking that he’d tell me I was on a wait list because they couldn’t get me a date, as his secretary had informed me the previous week. Nope. He whipped out his phone and said “How about tomorrow afternoon?” Uhhhh…

Image courtesy of

I needed more time! So he found me a spot the following morning, Nov 1st, All Saints Day. I’m not religious but I figured it couldn’t hurt to be born on a holy day. It felt better than being born on Halloween anyway!

Needless to say I didn’t sleep for the next 2 nights, which made getting up at 4am on the morning of the 1st very easy. I was nervous all the way to the hospital and though I’m loathe to admit it, even had a little tiff with J about smoking. We recovered from that quickly though and he was amazing support for me from that moment through to the second we heard that first baby wail.

I have never had any kind of surgery other than having my wisdom teeth removed and back then I was so high on nitrous by the time they inserted the IV that I didn’t even notice. This time was noticeable! After taking several vials of blood quite easily the nurse found it very difficult to find a vein that would comply with the IV and I felt like a pin cushion by the time we made the walk down the hall to the OR. Here they separated J and I because I had to be given the spinal before the surgery. I can only imagine how antsy he felt in the waiting room by himself.

At least if he was panicking he had this disguise to hide behind

I felt totally out of it. The OR was full of nurses (I think there were three at the time, but it felt like there were people everywhere!) prepping the instruments and one to support me during the insertion of the spinal. I also remember being worried and then slightly pissed that my midwife hadn’t yet arrived since she’d said she’d be there during the spinal as well. When thinking about childbirth I’d always been more afraid of epidurals than the process of birth itself (epidurals are similar to a spinal, and more common for vaginal deliveries. Spinals are faster acting as the drug is injected directly into the spinal fluid and are more common for c-sections)!

Image courtesy of

Anyway, the anesthesiologist applied the local freezing, but then we had to wait for my doctor to arrive before inserting the spinal. He walked in 5 minutes later so they had me sit up again to prepare. The next thing I knew three people were yelling at me to lie back down. I hadn’t even felt a damn thing! They were concerned that I wasn’t lying down because the spinal takes affect very quickly and I could have fallen off the table.

I lay there staring at the ceiling as the numbness started to creep up my legs. The first thing to go was my feet. My brain kept sending out commands like, “Wiggle your left pinkie toe” or “Flex your butt cheeks.” It’s the weirdest feeling to have your brain insisting on things that your body can’t fulfil.

Before I knew it the curtain that blocks the patient’s view of the procedure was up and J was seated by my head. At first I didn’t even realize the surgery had started. The doctors and nurses were nonchalantly chatting about plans for the weekend as they passed sterile tools back and forth over my belly. Then J began saying reassuring things to me so I figured my guts were probably splayed out on the table by then and I couldn’t feel a thing. SURREAL. I don’t know how else to explain it. But J was talking to me about our future, how great our life was going to be together, how much we’d love our kid, so I just let myself get lost in that, which was probably a good thing because at first I didn’t notice that the doctor had stopped the inane chatter about his recreational time. Apparently he’d tried to get my little Baby H out with his hands, but to no avail. The kid’s noggin was just too big. He attempted a vacuum extraction but it popped off three times. Then came the forceps and finally out came the baby at 7:19am EST. He wailed right away. The doctor held him up for me to see, and I just remember feeling so strange. There was my child, the little boy that had been a part of me for 9 whole months, out in the open air of the OR… but I hadn’t brought him there. A man had cut me open and extracted him from my womb and although I was so thankful that the baby had good colour and was crying I couldn’t help but feel a bit empty. I cried from joy and grief in tandem. And then they placed him cheek to cheek with me as I lay there getting stitched up and the grief mattered less and less with each passing minute. It’s cliché to write it, but truly in those first moments I knew that I’d never loved anything so much. It was obvious to me that daddy felt the same. How do I know? He cried even more than I did… but don’t tell him I told you.

Cheek to cheek in the first few minutes of Baby H’s life… poor bruised baby :( Those forceps did the job, but they left their mark.

Proud Papa

More on the hospital stay later.

About the Belly at Negative 6 Days

Well my fellow bloggers, loyal readers and poor unfortunate souls that stumble upon my blog by googling things like “crunchy dinos eating kibble” and “four leaf clover to kill leprechaun” (true story… btw, I’d really like to know… WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!?), I have been absent for a while. I’d love to say that it was because I went into labour and had this beautiful experience where I lay in a birthing tub surrounded by candles, Enya’s soothing music playing in the background, my doting husband at my side as I entered a deep trance and Lamaze breathed my way through a perfect labour and delivery. You may think I’m being facetious, but I’m really not. I’d actually love a birth story like that. I could easily be the author of that birth plan.

Image courtesy of

That is, of course, not at all the way it went. I’m not going to sit around here steeped in breast milk (hello double Ds! -also, I officially wish to announce that I have more in common with a stripper than ever before. My boobs are huge and everyone and their uncle (perverted or not) has seen them-), wishing that I could have pushed this giant baby out of my special place, had him placed directly on my breast naked and squalling, me crying from relief and J telling me that I’m his hero and that he loves me and by the way, will I marry him because I’m clearly the strongest and most beautiful woman he has ever met… no. I accept that things went the way they did. In the end, the outcome is the same. My little angel is sleeping safe and sound in his bassinet, happy as a clam and healthy as a horse.

The rare but real Happy Healthy ClamHorse
Image courtesy of


Nevermind that just an hour ago I was pretty sure he was possessed because he wouldn’t stop crying… I am going to be writing my birth story. I’m not sure if this is the place to post it, but if you don’t find it here there will be a link to it. I’ll be sure to write a post including that at least. Or I may change my mind and let you all read the g(l)oryy(ious) details right on this very website. Advanced warning though, there will be no shenanigans in that story.

And so, without further ado, may I introduce Baby H, born Nov 1st at 7:19am EST, weighing in at 9lbs 5.5oz and measuring 21 inches long (please explain how that fit inside of me… I’d really like to know).

I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my Squishy

P.S. About the belly? I still look at least 7 months pregnant. And no, I won’t post a picture because it horrifies me. I knew that’s how it would be, but nothing can really prepare you for the jello belly.

Update: Go Big or Go Home

Go big or go home, right? Ever the overachiever, I’m going big.

Everything about me is big right now. Well, except my boobs, but even those have got me kicked off the Itty Bitty Titty Committee recently. Big feet, big knees, big hair. Most of all, big baby. With big baby comes big decisions. To C (section) or not to C (section), that is the question.

I have never wanted a cesarean. Some women do. They don’t want to go through the ordeal of labour and don’t want their lady parts to be stretched out. They like the idea of being able to schedule their child’s birthday. No muss, no fuss, no surprises. I can sort of get it, but that’s not for me. I want the experience of labour. I want to know that I can do it. I want to look at my child and feel that I brought him into this world, quite literally. The thought of having him lifted out of my abdomen in a sterile operating room with that bright light shining in his fresh little face is not a pleasant one. The thought of him not being placed directly on my breast actually brings tears to my eyes. I’ll still be lying there geting stitched up, across the room from where my brand new baby will be getting wiped down and weighed and placed into his daddy’s arms. I’m teary eyed as I’m writing this, because unless I go into labour right now, this is likely what’s in store for us.

Yes, I have a choice. I have an amazing team of midwives and a great OB looking out for what’s best for me and the little one. I was given my options, told the risks of each path, and allowed to make the choice myself. I chose the route I never thought I’d take. After receiving the results of yesterday’s ultrasound I think it would be irresponsible to stick to my birth plan. Baby H, at 37 weeks plus 5 days, weighed in at a whopping 10lbs. Even with a +/- 1lb margin of error, 9lbs is still huge at this point. Maybe if I were about to deliver I’d go for it, but I’m still 2 weeks from my due date with no signs that labour is on its way.

My midwife says to try to relax and who knows, I could end up labouring over the weekend. Wouldn’t that be marvellous. So, I’m dutifully sipping my raspberry leaf tea, and on tonight’s menu is lots of yummy Thai dishes with extra spice. Maybe that’s the stuff of old wives’ tales, but I don’t care. I’m willing to try it because at the very least it will be delicious.

Pretty please send some positive labour vibes my way peeps!

Due to the serious nature of this post, please enjoy some comic relief in the form of this goofy photo of my dog