Doing it differently: an update

About three months ago I posted about my intention to do things differently with my second baby. We're now eight weeks in to his little life; how have my intentions fared?

First off, my independent midwife has now discharged me from her care. You know, I can't stress enough how fantastic it was to have one on one care for my entire pregnancy, labour and postnatal recovery. She was wonderful throughout: super-informed, unhurried, reliable and unflappable. Any questions I had, she could give me an instant evidence-based answer. Like when I asked what if my waters broke with meconium in, like first time round - she explained the different types of meconium and that it didn't need to lead to an induction, and what my options would be. And she also casually mentioned that she's never had a client be induced, which was music to my ears (especially considering the proportion of people I know who've been induced!). My IM was worth twice the money she charged. It's a travesty that IMs are under threat of not being able to practise legally (sign the petition to get the government to find a workable solution!).

My home birth... well, it was everything I could have hoped for. Peaceful, private, almost magical. Husband and son in the pool with me; no painful mid-labour drive over a million speed bumps to hospital. Tucked up in our bed ten minutes after getting out of the pool. And no bloody Bounty rep forcing a pack of tat on me (most importantly!).

Breastfeeding is going swimmingly this time round. I don't know if it's because I've been feeding Fred all the way through pregnancy, but all the plumbing seems to be perfectly in order - so much so that Arthur has snacked his way from 7lb13 at birth to a whopping 12lb3 at 6 weeks (from 50th centile to 75th) without dropping any weight. I am pretty proud of my bountiful bosom.  It did hurt at first, as it did first time round, but I was pain free by about week 3, and have been feeding on demand all the way through.

Saying that, I did discover the downside of choosing not to wean Fred, soon after Arthur's birth. He had a bit of a "regression", manifesting itself in a few minor potty accidents, no big deal, and an absolutely rabid obsession with my boobs, very big deal. I hated tandem nursing. I hated the constant feeling that my body wasn't my own, the pawing at my chest, the i.n.c.e.s.s.a.n.t whining. I hated that it made me feel more protective towards my innocent little newborn and more like I wanted to swat Fred away.  No amount of explanation, distraction, attempt to reason or limit worked, not even bribery - Fred was possessed by his right to have boob, 24 hours a day. It was awful. In the end I had to night wean him (again!) purely so I could continue to breastfeed him during the day without resentment. Night weaning was actually pretty painless (I explained it as no booby when it's dark outside and he took it OK) and I think it was night 4 of the process that he started sleeping through again.

My mum tries her hand at EC

Mixed results on the nappying front. We cloth nappied for the first two weeks before we moved back into our washing machine-less building site of a house from the neighbours, and are using disposables now. (We'll move back to cloth once our laundry facility is installed in a couple of weeks). ECing is a success though: even by week 2 it was well under way. Arthur (helpfully) hates the sensation of needing a wee, so it's been easy to pop his nappy off and stick him on a potty if he's fussy but not hungry or tired. Probably eight times out of 10 he'll oblige with a wee, although we do have our fair share of wet and dirty nappies too. It's been actually quite amazing to see such clear communication from him and to be able to help him. One time, we were out and about when he started fussing, so I told him we'd have to wait till we got home in about ten minutes - and he did! But my greatest moment to date was the night I put him in a new nappy at 9pm, caught wees at midnight and 2am, and he was still dry at 5am. Woo!

April 2013: a snapshot

It is 12.25am and I have been asleep for about two and a half hours. I am woken by the three year old child to my left wriggling and grunting in his sleep. He kicks the duvet off, gets up on all fours, then flops back on to the bed, still asleep. He settles for a moment, then gets up on all fours again, crying this time. I realise he has wet the bed. Wetting the bed has been a fairly regular feature of the past four or five weeks; before that our bed had been Wee Free Since December 3.

We do not make a big deal out of this. We do not want the boy to feel shame or humiliation. But it's bloody annoying to have to change the bedlinen at half past midnight. Still, at least there's a good seven hours of night left. We go back to sleep.

It is 1.30am. The six week old baby to my right is snuffling and chirruping for a feed. As if by magic, the small child on my left wakes up at the exact same time and wails for booby. I know that if I respond quickly he will go back to sleep, but I need to get the baby propped up on my other boob to feed first. It takes me about 20 seconds to do this, in which time the child is still wailing and I am getting increasingly irritated by the incessant 'I want some booooby' and pawing at my chest, so I snap at him then begrudgingly give him what he wants, feeling like I want to push him off the bed. I am starting to loathe tandem nursing. He goes back to sleep and after about half an hour, so do I. Prior to four or five weeks ago, he was sleeping through the night without any demands for booby. I know why he is unsettled but it doesn't make it any easier to find compassion.

It is 3.27am. The small baby is uncomfortable. He is pushing with his legs against my knee. I think he probably needs a wee or a nappy change, but I am too frightened of waking the child to help him. I try to feed him back to sleep but he is having none of it. I take a deep breath and hoist myself out of the bed with him, take him to the bathroom and let him wee into the loo. I put him in a fresh nappy and get back into bed. After about 45 minutes I go back to sleep.

It is 5.11am. The child stirs. In his half-sleep and half crying, he declares 'I want some boooooby'. I want to weep, I am so exhausted. I give him what he wants and he falls back to sleep within 20 seconds, clutching my shoulder as though I've just told him I'm leaving for Australia indefinitely. The baby stirs again. He wants a feed. I roll over and feed him cradled in my arm. I love breastfeeding him and wish I could devote my boobs 100% to him. He falls asleep, purring.

It is 6.42am. We all wake up together. The child sleepily says 'I want some booby'.

I hate tandem nursing, I really really hate it. 

This is us in April 2013.

March 2013: a snapshot

I write this post propped up on pillows in a dark bedroom. 

To my left, three-year-old Fred slumbers peacefully in the middle of the bed, half under the duvet. He needs a haircut, but I haven't got around to it since his brother was born. He has had a good day, apart from the sadness of leaving Auntie Liz's house to go to a cafe for breakfast, and the further frustration at having to put on his coat because it was snowing. (After breakfast he was not made to wear a coat, and happily trotted along Portobello Road in a short-sleeved t-shirt and tank top. We drew concerned glances from passers by, but I resolutely ignored them. I'd rather have a happy cold child than a miserable one in a coat he doesn't want to wear).

 

Three-week-old Arthur, naked except for a nappy, lolls in a milky daze on my chest. He squeaks in his sleep. He sleeps for about 20 hours a day - mostly in my or his dad's arms - waking a couple of times a day to peer quietly at me. When he gets hungry, he will start to chirrup and squawk, like a baby dragon. So far, he has been a very easy baby, clearly signalling his need for food / sleep / sitting upright to gawp at bright lights. In a while I will lie down, cradling him in the crook of my right arm all night, and when we wake in the night I will not look at the clock.

This is us in March 2013.

A Scarlett O'Hara approach to home build

When I was 23 I had a boyfriend who called me Scarlett O'Hara. He said I was rubbish at taking the long view and that my "fiddle dee dee, I'll think about it tomorrow" attitude was silly and frivolous.

It will be a habitable room. It will.

I saw nothing wrong with being silly and frivolous, so I'm pleased to say he didn't last long. But in the last few days his words have been echoing somewhat in my ears, as I realise that we have just five days to go. Five days until we move back in to our house. The house that has no back wall, half the hall floorboards missing, a fridge in the front living room, a kitchen with no cooker, a mahoosive hole under the stairs where the top flat will eventually be connected to the basement flat, and a thick layer of builders' dust covering every. single. surface. 

I could be worried. I could be dreading it. I could be wailing "what the hell were we thinking, starting major building work when I was 32 weeks preggers?". A lot of women might have thought the timings through a little more carefully rather than flinging themselves gung-ho into a noisy, messy, disruptive project just as they were having their second child. 

Scarlett ponders her bathroom tiles

But if I'd thought it through for any length of time I probably wouldn't have agreed to it, and then it'd be longer to wait until we had a decent house. And you know, I think it will be fine. Yes, the house is unfinished. There'll be builders around for another 10 weeks. That's okay. There's no back wall in the basement? They'll build one. They'll replace the floorboards. We've survived without a cooker for 6 months before; we can do it again (all hail the slow cooker). We'll get a cleaner to sort out the dust and grime. We'll keep the mahoosive hole boarded up so it's safe for three-year-old boys who like to run around. And the fridge in the living room? Well it's less distance from sofa to snacks and wine, isn't it?

So yes, maybe my ex was right. Maybe there's something of the O'Hara in me. But frankly, I don't give a damn.

Arthur's birth story (unabridged)

Arthur William Cook arrived with us on St David's Day, Friday 1.3.13. Here is our birth story...

Thursday 28 February

I'd had Braxton Hicks for a few weeks, and was fairly sure that over the previous couple of days they were getting a bit more persistent and regular. But the first real contraction came at 10.00am on Thursday while I was still in the chiropractor's office post-adjustment. It was the first chiro appointment in nearly three years where my sacrum hadn't needed much adjusting - perhaps my body had already optimised itself for the imminent birth..? And when I used their loo it turned out I also had a bit of a show. So I said my goodbyes, told the receptionist I wouldn't make a new appointment as I thought things might happen soon, and set off to Richmond town centre for a wander round the shops because I was feeling unusually energised, and Fred was in nursery so I had a bit of time to myself. 

I walked around town for the next two and a half hours, with a very minor contraction every so often. I was feeling quietly excited - maybe I was actually in labour, and nobody knew except me! I hadn't contacted Antony yet because I wanted to be sure before calling him home. At 11.30 I had my eyebrows threaded on a whim - I never get my eyebrows threaded, as anyone who spends any time in close proximity with me will attest - and tried (unsuccessfully) to practise my hypnobirthing breathing while it was being done. At noon I had lunch alone in Pret, and the contractions then faded for a while. Or maybe I just didn't notice; I was distracted by having to collect Fred and our usual post-nursery playing with trains session in the living room. But at 1.45pm he had a quick breastfeed and I had another contraction. 

At this point I quickly read up on clary sage oil and acupressure to see if I could get things moving a bit more efficiently. I gave myself a hand massage with clary sage at 2pm and although nothing much happened, I did notice that - unusually for this time in the afternoon - I wasn't feeling at all sleepy, just lightly energised. I noticed that pressure was building in my hips and bottom, but wondered if that was because of the position I was sitting in on the floor. Still, I decided to call Antony as I knew he had a big meeting 3-6pm at work which I did not want him to go to, and I thought about calling the midwife but decided to wait until the contractions were closer together (at this point they were every four and a half minutes, but soon slowed down again). I was pretty sure by now that they were real contractions as they felt like dull aches in my lower abdomen, very unlike the painless tightening you get in Braxton Hicks.

At 3pm the contractions stopped again. By now I was inhaling pure clary sage from a tissue, but with no obvious effect. At 4pm I took caulophyllum 200c and had an immediate contraction, then - again - nothing. Antony arrived home at 4.30pm, and at 5pm I took a clary sage bath, with Fred entertaining himself in the bathroom. I got into bed with Fred straight after the bath and he breastfed again; the contractions started again immediately - then, after ten or fifteen minutes they stopped again.

My mum and sister arrived at 7pm. I'd asked them to be available in case things ramped up and Fred needed distracting, but again, nothing much was happening in my uterus. Antony made a red Thai curry for us although like the clary sage, it had no obvious effect. We all played with Fred for a couple of hours, then he willingly went to bed. I had a quick wee (which revealed a definite show!) and then breastfed Fred to sleep. 

*********

Fred falls asleep at 8.50pm. At 8.51pm I feel a little 'pop' as my waters break. They are clear but with a slight pink tinge. I am excited; this labour is definitely going to be different from last time. (I've always harboured a worry, even though Angela, my midwife says it doesn't have to be so, that if my waters broke they would have meconium in again, and that this would inevitably lead to hospital birth and a cascade of interventions). Immediately, the contractions start to get stronger, so I call Angela. She tells me to call again when I'm concentrating more on each contraction. (I'm still not sure what this entails, having only ever been induced, with artificial contractions that were full-on almost from the word go).

At 9.15pm the contractions are 1 minute long and 2 - 3 minutes apart, so Antony starts to fill the pool and calls Angela who says she will head straight over. I hang the laundry out, try on my new make-up (!) and send my sister home; I assume she won't be needed as the baby will probably be born while Fred is asleep. Angela arrives at 9.45pm and checks my vitals - all is fine. The contractions slow again and then stop, although I am WILLING them to get stronger! Angela says that I can't will the baby out, even though she knows I want to, but it will be here soon (she guesses early hours of Friday). She then says I should try and get some rest and she will go home and wait for us to call her again when the contractions ramp up again. Antony, my mum and I half-watch some crap telly with a glass of Rioja before all heading to bed at 10.30pm for some rest. When I lie down, the contractions start back a little.

Friday 1 March

Midnight: I wake up with slightly stronger contractions. I notice they're stronger when I'm standing and moving, weaker when I'm sitting or kneeling. I go downstairs and watch a completely bizarre E4 show called 'My Little Princess', giving Antony the chance to sleep a bit longer, before getting an overwhelming urge to go out for a walk. 

1.15am: We summon my mum to sit with Fred while we go for a walk up Richmond Hill to The Richmond View above Terrace Gardens, then back down Hill Rise, through the town centre and back to Grosvenor Road via Eton Street. Every so often I have to stop and lean on something (an art gallery on Hill Rise, a cash machine at NatWest) while I have a surge. It's the perfect time of the small hours to look as though I am in fact paralytically drunk and throwing up, but thankfully the police don't stop us to ask. 

2.20am: we arrive home. Fred is half awake, crying 'I want mummy', so I lie down with him and my contractions stop again. Fred falls asleep after 15 minutes and Antony and I go to sleep too.

4.00am: after a couple of intense, but spaced out (16 - 20 minutes apart) contractions, between which I doze, I realise I am cold and want a shower. The shower TOTALLY hits the spot and furthermore, brings on more evenly spaced contractions (every 3 minutes). But then I get out of the shower and Fred is sleep-asking for me, and the contractions slow down again.

By this point I have realised that I basically need to be a) upright, b) swaying my hips and c) ideally in a very hot shower in order for anything to happen. So over the next hour I have two or three hot showers while Antony tries to get some more sleep. Contractions are still stop-start but at least when they do happen, they are intense. 

Strange looking me. 
Threaded eyebrows.

4.50am: I call Angela again and she comes straight over. In the silent, dark minutes while I'm waiting for her to arrive, I look in the mirror and notice that there is something different about my face - I look strange and serene and possibly beautiful. (But maybe it's just the make-up).

5.30am: Angela checks me again. The contractions have slowed YET AGAIN but she says she will now stay. She asks whether I want to try and get things ramped up now by doing some crawling exercises, or whether I'd prefer to get some rest while I can. As my legs are exhausted from being upright so much, I opt for the latter - but actually don't sleep at all.

6.00am: I have another shower. Antony starts to fill the pool again. Angela is asleep on the sofa. The contractions are a bit more regular now.

6.50am: Fred wakes up. I am kneeling down, leaning on the bed. Fred is happy that we're there, and regularly checks that I am okay. (When I told him earlier in the week that I would have a sore tummy before the baby arrived, he was rather concerned and told me I must not have a sore tummy).

7.15am: Angela checks my blood pressure etc again. Everything still fine; contractions are strong but not too intense. We get Fred dressed for nursery as I feel I'll be able to concentrate better if the 'noise' around me is limited. However, Fred has other plans. He will not go to nursery unless I walk him there. Although nursery is only a 20-second walk from our house, I don't think I am able to do it, so we decide not to make him go; it will be what it will be and we will cope somehow! The weird thing is that I always wanted Fred there at the birth but suddenly got last-minute cold feet about it. He obviously knew better!

8.20am: Mum tells us she is going home and we should call her if needed. Clearly, I have been feeling slightly uptight about her presence because at 8.25am I have my first proper contraction in the bedroom. This one is different: intense, deep pain. It means business. It is also different because for the first time I am completely closed off from everything happening around me. I get in the shower again because it feels so darn great.

8.47am: Surges are strong and sometimes double peaking. Angela talks me through a surge and then suggests that I can either do some of those crawling movements, or get into the pool to enter a quiet space and allow my labour to settle. I opt for the pool as it sounds like less work, and am in the water three minutes later.

9.15am: Contractions are coming about every two and a half to three minutes, lasting a minimum of 50 seconds. The feel is different, less intense than when I was out of the water, but increasingly hard to bear. It's a deep dark ache, like a bowling ball being swung slowly around a dungeon. I am on my knees, leaning over the side of the pool. I have cold coconut water to sip, which is minging but somehow the right drink. Antony is doing an amazing job of managing Fred (who insists on climbing on Antony's shoulders), timing the contractions on my iPhone app, and pouring water on my back during contractions. Nobody talks much; Antony later tells me he didn't feel it appropriate, and I am glad of that as I am in my own little world by now. We have homemade oat, date and pecan biscuits for energy and I nibble on them halfheartedly between surges. There is lavender oil in the pool, a ginger-scented candle burning on the table, and my labour playlist is playing in the background; the second movement of Ravel's Piano Concerto in G is the first piece I hear, and it's perfectly right for the moment, instilling a complete calmness in me. 

Fred tries to help me feel better

9.25am: I feel sleepy. The warmth of the pool combined with the darkened room, quiet music and smell of lavender is so soothing I think I might just drift off. Even the surges feel peaceful. (Later I realise this is the 'rest and be thankful' phase that I've read about). Fred is quietly playing with his trains on the dining room table next to the pool. I have absolutely no concept of time; it could be 10am or 4pm and I wouldn't be surprised. Rachmaninov's Symphony No. 2 is playing.

9.45am: Transition. I know this because I'd quite like to just go to hospital now and have at least an epidural, if not a c-section - this is the hardest work my body has ever done. I say 'I can't do this!'. Even as I say it (and believe me, I really mean it!) I know that it is a classic sign of transition - but maybe I can't dare to believe I might be approaching the end of labour. Mozart piano concertos are playing.

10.00am: I think I need to push. This is when I realise that I am actually doing this. I am actually going through a real, not artificial, labour, with all its real sensations. My urge to push isn't strong - I almost doubt it's there at all - but I go with it. It doesn't feel like the baby moves down at all. My contractions are now following a bit of a pattern: one big (sometimes double-peaking) painful surge, in which I need to hold Antony's hand, followed by one or two smaller surges that are not as painful. They are still quite spaced out - four to five minutes apart. 

Barber's Piano Concerto is playing - it is a bit too twisty for my needs, so I ignore it.

10.10am: Fred decides to get in the pool with me. I wasn't expecting this to be fine with me, but it is! He seems to know intuitively that I am unable to focus much on him but that I am also okay despite the moaning during surges! He just wants to walk around in the pool and chat. Antony gets in fully clothed shortly after. 

Brahms' Intermezzo Op. 118, No. 6 is playing. 

10.15am: A definite urge to push - it's like a surge of downward power. This one is more productive and I can really feel my pelvis opening up as the baby descends. It is uncomfortable but I can sense that it will be over soon. At no point has Angela done an internal exam of me, but she tells Antony (out of my earshot) that she can tell from other signs that I'm 8cm dilated. The surges are still irregular but strong. 

Schumann's Piano Concerto is playing.

10.30am: HUGE urge to push! The baby moves down again and starts to crown. Angela shows me with a mirror what it looks like: lots of vernix! I can feel the ring of fire and I say ' it really hurts!'. I can barely move, but after the contraction Angela and Antony help me into a semi-sitting position; I'm holding myself up with the handles on the pool, left leg bent under me, right leg sticking out. We tell Fred that the baby is almost out and that he can touch it if he likes; he is first to touch Arthur's head. Arthur stays put, head half-out, for another nine minutes. I somehow manage to move into a kneeling position.

Martha Argerich plays Ginastera's Danza de la moza donosa and Daniel Barenboim plays Liszt's Consolation No. 3.

Fred cracks a joke

10.39am: Arthur comes out all in one push, to Offenbach's Belle nuit, o nuit d'amour (Barcarolle) from Les Contes d'Hoffmann. (It couldn't be more appropriate: a barcarolle is a song associated with boats and water, and the lyrics mean 'Lovely night, oh night of love, smile upon our joys!'). The pain disappears immediately. I hear Angela saying 'pick up your baby! pick up your baby!'. Antony lifts him out of the water and gives him to me. I'm first to see that he's a boy! He has a full head of dark hair and is tiny and purple and slippery. He cries as he comes out of the water; he's cold, so I hold him half-in, half-out of the water to keep him warm. 

10.45am: he breastfeeds for the first time. Latches on like a pro.

I have opted for a physiological third stage and delayed cord clamping so we stay in the water, chatting and joking while we wait for the placenta to be delivered. I have a few afterpains while waiting, nothing compared to the contractions though!

11.15am: the placenta is delivered. Angela ties the cord and Antony cuts it. Arthur is now a deep pink colour - apparently this is because he has so much more blood and stem cells in him than if he'd had his cord clamped immediately after birth.

11.20am: I get out of the pool, and Angela and Antony help me upstairs to the bedroom. I feel wobbly but amazing. We are tucked up together in bed by 11.30am. I still can't believe I've really done it. I have a couple of small tears down below, which Angela stitches so they'll heal a little more quickly than leaving them to heal themselves. Antony makes lunch: smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Mum returns - she didn't know I'd had the baby as the text arrived while she was on her way over. She is first apart from me, Antony and Fred to hold him.

4.45pm: everyone asleep. (Except me, taking the photo).

So, I did it. I didn't think I could, but I bloody well did. Prior to today, the hardest test of physical endurance I have ever done was my first half marathon. Established labour lasted less time than that run, but was way harder work. And although I didn't get a medal for this, I got a sense of achievement and wellbeing that will last me and Arthur a lifetime.

Almost 8 hours old

What's in a name?

Anyone who's ever had to come up with a name, whether for a pet or a child or a website or a business, will know that it's a burden of responsibility. And with the due date of second child fast approaching I find myself yet again in a position of said responsibility. 

Now obviously I don't want to give my child a crap name. I don't want to give my child a name she hates, or feels doesn't suit her. I don't want to give my child a name that he has to spell out every time he identifies himself (with our names being Antony and Catherine, this is close to our hearts). And - although this one is kind of hard to police - I especially don't want to accidentally give my child a name that means something rather different in another language.

But I've also got some less obvious requirements of the name we choose. It has to be easy to pronounce phonetically, lest the child be a globe-trotting adventurer. It has to have an initial that is different from the rest of its immediate family, which rules out anything beginning with A, C and F. And ideally that initial has to be B, D, E or G in case it becomes a famous composer who wants to use the initials of its family members as a musical leitmotif in its magnum opus. (I'll go to H at a push).

But even having thought vaguely about this for nine months (more if you count the first child's gestation), we don't have a definite name yet. And in about a month's time there will be a baby. And we have six weeks after the baby's arrival to register its birth, which necessitates a name. Oh, there are names we like, there are names which are lovely, but I have this niggling feeling that there's the perfect name out there and we JUST HAVEN'T THOUGHT OF IT YET. 

First time around, the stars collided. Frederick was the name of husband's great-uncle, which meant family were happy with our choice - but it also happened to be the name of the swoonsome lead male character in Philip Pullman's Sally Lockhart books, who I had a bit of a crush on. That was easy. But no other swashbuckling hero has made himself known to me recently, and our literary input has dwindled to the Evening Standard, the occasional Heat magazine and the BBC Six O'Clock News, which means the options are pretty much reduced to Boris, Harrystyles or George Alagiah. Not good.

I'm all for something out of the ordinary. We've looked for inspiration to Shakespeare, kings of England and Thomas the Tank Engine; we've considered everything from Athelstan to Percy. The musical world is an obvious place to look for unusual and not-so-unusual delights, but Sergei (Prokofiev) is apparently vetoed, despite the fact the child may yet arrive on the 60th anniversary of the composer's death. (Which also happens to be the 60th anniversary of Stalin's death, but I'm not so cool with the idea of naming a child after him). I'm quite annoyed that popstress Dido is about to make her comeback because Dido was on my list of cool, criteria-fitting names, but I can't be seen to name my child after Britain's most bland singer-songwriter even if it's not true. If I'm going to name a child after any singer it'll be Thom Yorke, but then my child will be called Thomas Cook and let's face it, if you're going to face a lifetime of being teased for having the same name as a brand, that's probably not the one.

And here we are, weeks from decision time, with a list of names that looks pretty woeful. So please, if you can throw some inspiration our way, we'd be mighty obliged. Otherwise, we might end up with a child named Toyota MR2, and that would be a sad day.

Doing it differently

For the second time, I am 37 weeks with child.

When this sprog drops, clearly some things will be the same as for Fred, my first. Like the fact that it will sleep in the same bed as the rest of the family, and the fact that when it comes to weaning, I can't be bothered with Annabel Karmel puree recipes so I'll probably just give it a stick of broccoli to wave ineffectually. And some things are already the same: the fact that we haven't found out if it's a boy or a girl, for example (yes, this child's technical apparatus will be shrouded in mystery until the day it finally breezes into our lives).

Having said that, there are some things I am absolutely doing differently this time round, having done about a million times more preparation and reading than I did in my first pregnancy.

Firstly, I hired me an independent midwife. This gives me continuity of care from antenatal appointments, through labour and birth, and postnatal care. I know that (barring her illness) the midwife who delivers my baby will be the same person I've formed a relationship with over the past 7 months - not whoever happens to be on the shift in the maternity ward. It also allows me much, much more time with her (hour-long appointments, in my own home, on my own sofa!) to discuss the various choices surrounding labour and birth, and to make informed decisions based on statistical evidence. So far, this hands down beats the 20-minute NHS appointments I had in my first pregnancy where I'd have four or five measurements taken, a couple of perfunctory questions about my general wellbeing, and be sent on my way with a cheery wave.

Secondly, I decided to have as few scans as possible. Some people decline all scans because of the possibility that ultrasound carries dangers to the unborn baby. I don't know about that, but I figured that the point of the 12-week scan is to get a date, and I knew my dates. At the 12-week scan you can also have the nuchal fold test to get a probability of Downs syndrome, but having a Downs baby wouldn't have made any difference to my going ahead with the pregnancy, so I didn't need that test. I did have a 20-week scan, mainly just to make sure I definitely was preggers, because I had virtually no symptoms, but that was it. 

Thirdly, I'm planning a home birth. Statistics show that hospital births end up in an increased likelihood of (sometimes unnecessary) interventions like forceps and ventouse and Caesarean deliveries. Been there, done that, don't fancy it again thanks. I'm pretty confident that my fabulous, wobbly booty is capable of birthing a baby without a doctor telling me how to do it. I'm also planning not to have any pain relief, mainly because none is provided, but also because I've been reading up on and practising other ways to overcome the pain (including positions - ie not lying on my back - breathing techniques, and lots of YouTube videos of cats and Vic and Bob, because laughter is apparently an analgesic). And if anything goes wrong I trust my midwife to tell me that actually we do need to go to hospital now, and I can be there in 7 minutes.

Fourthly, not a drop of formula is going to pass my new baby's lips. I will have faith that if the baby wants to feed for 5 hours straight on its first night out (as happened first time around), it's getting what it needs whether that's food or comfort. I don't intend to pay for a product that my body makes for free.

And fifthly, having used disposable nappies first time round, this time I'm going cloth. Furthermore - and this is a real step into the unknown - I'm planning to EC. EC stands for elimination communication, also known as infant potty training, and it's a way of understanding your baby's cues for when it needs a wee or a poo. You end up using fewer nappies because you're getting everything straight into the loo from the word go, you have fewer moments of 'what on earth are you crying for now' and you end up with a toddler who's out of nappies much earlier than the norm. Quite frankly, it's a wee-wee win-win. 

So there are my five Things To Do Differently Second Time Around. Yeah, I think it's going to be fun.