Location, location, location

Just a quick link that I thought was worth posting to the new campaign launched by the NCT called Location, location, location

This campaign is designed to hold the government to a promise they made to ensure that all women have a choice of where to give birth. In my area for example, we have no ready access to a birth centre which would give women a kind of half way house between hospital and home, in fact if I'm honest we have a shocking rate of anything but hospital births.

Anyway, have a look see at the information and if it makes sense to you, please take a few minutes to hit the links and send the pre-written mails to you local PCT and MP.

What happens next?

I know things have been a little quiet on the blog front this last, and for good reason, there's been very little to report and Alfie has stayed resolutely put.

Last week was hard going for me, moving in one fell swoop (as I have) from an 11 hour day to having nothing better to do than contemplate my naval … such as it still it. I've coped with it in the age old tradition, and cleaned the homestead, frequently. It has to be the only time in my life I'm almost glad for Harry's constant shedding.

Even that has gotten dull now though, and this week I have been forced to contemplate something entirely different – what happens next.

Yesterday morning I had my reflexologist issue Alfie an eviction notice which really seemed to give him pause for thought. He usually goes mad during my sessions but yesterday he could only muster the energy to rearrange himself a little. Things are looking good though I'm told.

Yesterday afternoon I had a midwife appointment and again things were pretty much as expected, and Alfie is now 1/5^th engaged which for the uninitiated is now l much of his head is still obvious above the pelvis. In this case, not a lot. Add to that the Braxton Hicks and the increased period pain type cramps and everything seems to be heading in the right direction, if a little slowly.

The spanner in the works however is that all of this comes a little late, and the sleeping beast they call The System has begun to stir despite my attempts to creep unnoticed across the room. As predicted there have been Discussions on inductions and sweeps and in fact I have an appointment booked for 3^rd November to be induced.

Before anyone gets too excited at that news (you know who you are!!) rest assured that I won't be getting induced on the 3^rd November. What I have spent the whole morning trying to explain to various well meaning but confused Lister Hospital midwives is that while I am happy to go in to be monitored and have scans, I will not be having an induction just because I have reached some arbitrary date.

The reason it has been rendered a morning long exercise is not because of the lovely midwives I have spoken to, it is because of the tangle of process and procedures that exists in my local area. I'm not sure if I have gone into this before but basically, we live in Bedfordshire, and therefore our community midwife team are the Bedford Midwives. The closest (in terms of time) hospital though is the Lister, which is in Hertfordshire, and they have their own systems and rules. I don't think I need say more had I?

Keith is finding it particularly hard to cope with the intricacies of these often conflicting systems which I can totally understand, were it not for the fact that my mind is taken up with thoughts of what to do next, and when, I would be as ready to start writing a strongly worded letter making sarcastic comments about job creation schemes.

It's a weird feeling, Alfie's not here yet and already the responsibility of what to do next weighs heavily on us. I think we're lucky that we live in an age where we have such ready access to information about our choices, and also that Keith and I both have the confidence in our gut instincts to see out what often feels like a game of "chicken".

A Watched Pot Never Boils

So am I comparing myself to a pot? Yes, right now I am, although I'm not suggesting that I will be the first person in history to be pregnant forever, so perhaps 'never' is quite a strong word to use. 'Pot' is clearly a suitable comparison though, as you can see by this moment captured by Keith of my giving young Alfie a pep talk, because clearly an unborn child has any concept of birth, and time and the fact that both Keith and I are being hounded every day for news.

I can confidently make a promise here – I will never, EVER again contact a pregnant friend and ask for news because I now understand that while to you it seems like an innocent enquiry made after several days of quietly waiting, multiply that by any number and suddenly the levels of enquiries start to take on the same tone as those seagulls in Finding Nemo … "MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE". In addition I would just like to apologise for anyone I have inadvertently hounded in the past.

Just to make things entirely clear, we will make it known when Alfie makes an appearance, really, there is no need to ask. It has taken us close to 2 years to reach this point, and Keith is caught in what he has described as a never ending Christmas Eve at the moment. If he were more excited I think I might be forced to sedate him for his own safety. He is likely to take out a full page advert in the Times to announce the birth, along with a sideshow of dancing girls and possibly even a sky writer. Feel confident, there will be aliens in far flung planets who will know when Alfie is born, there is absolutely no need to worry that you will miss out.

I labour this point because unlike my mum, who apparently burst into tears every time she was subjected to the calls of well wishers, I am just plum getting annoyed, which in actual fact is probably contributing to the lack of Alfie action, despite a week of pre-labour symptoms. Turns out that a man called Michel Odent (he who has recently sparked so much brouhaha about having men at births) also wrote some time back about the impact of adrenaline on birth, and in fact on whether the entire modern phenomenon of stress is down to the way in which the third stage of labour is managed in modern obstetrics. It's worth a read if you have the time and inclination.

In order to keep my mind off the lack of labour, and also to stop myself cleaning the house for the fifth time in as many days, I have allowed myself to become addicted to Fish Wrangler on Facebook. I was invited to play by Keith, and seemed like an excellent way to bond over a common interest, although clearly my darling husband didn't count on the fact that a woman sitting at home bored out of her skull all day wasn't going to take long to wrack up more points and catches than someone in the throws of spring cleaning the Retro Custom workshop.

Apparently this is not cricket and I am to stop fishing forthwith.

See, nobody needs Alfie to arrive more than we do right now. Preferably before Facebook becomes cited in our divorce proceedings!!

The Nursery

After being so close for so long, Keith and I finally took some time out this weekend to finish the last few little bits of tidying in Alfie's room. Silly little things like unwrapping the mattress and fitting the sheet, putting batteries in the baby monitor, that sort of thing.

We also bought a few classics to add to the bookshelf - Spot, The Hungry Caterpillar and The Gruffalo are all now ready and waiting to be read aloud. In fact one of them is already being read to the bump, and I'm not sure how Alfie feels about his dad's rendition of The Gruffalo, but it's going down a storm with me.

Speaking of reading, this is my favourite part of Alfie's room, a freecycle bookshelf filled with a mixture of toys and old favourite books. I'm probably dreaming that he'll be as much of a bookworm as I was, but I'm pretty sure Keith is going to instill a love of stories in the little man ... as long as they come complete with silly voices of course.

The changing station and armchair are all ready to deal with feeding and the inevitable results. I think I've been especially spoiled by these Freecycle finds although the changing station is now groaning under the weight of clothes.

Best of all, I have a wonderful view whilst feeding Alfie now that Curious George is finished.

Oooh and in other news, the lass at my NCT class who was due the same day as me gave birth this weekend. It was a wonderful surprise, but a bit of a shock and just another reminder that this abstract concept of giving birth and being a parent is fast moving into the realm of reality.

Tick, tick, tick .....

No it’s not the sound of time passing as the belly reaches ever more epic proportions, it is in fact the ticking of a bomb because I’m pretty sure that is what I have somehow become, an unexploded bomb.

Not a modern plastique type bomb either with mercury switches and multicoloured wires, but one of those old fashioned cannon-balls-with-comedy-fuse style bombs much beloved of cartoon coyotes and pirates everywhere.

It must be so, I tell myself, because as if by some cosmic sign, everyone in my life has gone from “meh” to “high alert” overnight. The midwives are calling me on a freakishly regular basis to discuss details of the homebirth (what was wrong with the last 8 months, we could have spread them out and had some fun along the way!!), Keith is answering the phone each time with an optimistic “are you in labour yet???!?” and my workmates have spent the day wishing me luck, despite the fact I don’t finish for another week.

None of this is helping my mood any, which right now is a sultry combination of over tired and generally antsy.

I don’t recommend it.

Having hit both reflexology and yoga this week (both of which had some dramatic if short lived relaxing effects) I’m not entirely sure I have anything left to throw at the situation – except perhaps a weekend of light activity, copious amount of sleep and perhaps some nice spicy food. If I get time between that little lot I might even indulge in some nursery photography, birth ball bouncing and even some housework, although Keith seems to have stolen my nesting instincts on that front, much to my shock he vacuumed the house at about 7 this morning “because it needed doing”.

I thought it a little churlish to point out that it ALWAYS needs doing and it has never encouraged him to brandish the vacuum cleaner before, and counted my blessings instead that it was one less thing to do this weekend.

As is the breadmaking, after Keith made TWO whole loaves while I was out at yoga last night.

Seriously, it’s getting freaky round at FTC. Anyone wondering what to get y’man for Christmas might want to consider a pinny.

Quick Wave Hello

I will post something more interesting tomorrow, but in order to satisfy the family, here's Alfie's latest mugshot.

In case you need help, it's a head shot. He's looking to about 11 o'clock and he has his hand up in a wave.

If you think skeleton rather than face, you'll make it out easier.