Our Sprog Blog

Now that d-day is fast approaching, excitement is certainly building in the Milward household.

There is just 1 week to go until baby M is due to grace us with his presence and with maternity leave underway, I’m completely powerless to to act against my hormones’ wishes, which currently consist solely of tidying and organising like a shrewish 1950s housewife. Skirting boards, oven, bathrooms and of course the absolute car crash that is the spice cupboard. Am certain that the new addition will appreciate all of my efforts…

Does anyone else write things on their to-do-list that they’ve already done, just for the satisfaction of ticking them off?

One of the hardest things about preparing for the newbie, for me at least, has been packing the hospital bag. It feels so final and important, which is why I have packed and unpacked it several times. It is impossible to know what size he is going to be, how many nappies he might need and more importantly, how big will my arse be immediately after giving birth – it is going to shrink back to pre-baby size on the day, right?

Im sure I have forgotten something, but thankfully we don’t live far from the hospital, so will definitely be able to get anything we need short notice.

At least I have the two ‘gin in a tins’, provided by my mother in law. God bless that woman!

At every midwife appointment you need to provide a urine sample. This is not too challenging at the beginning of pregnancy, but when you reach the final months it becomes almost impossible.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to pee in a tiny tube as a woman? Now imagine trying to do it without:

a) pissing on your own hand

b) pissing all over the non-water proof paper label. It’s pretty embarrassing handing a wet tube to a midwife, who 9 times out of 10 doesn’t wear gloves…

c) missing the tube completely and wasting the three drips of urine you have squeezed out

d) being able to see your own bits

Having had to perform an advanced yoga move in a doctor’s surgery bog at my last appointment, I was more prepared at the 38 week check up. I couldn’t bring myself to carry a full measuring jug through the waiting room, so settled for a nice round Tupperware box.

After spending the morning drinking litres of fluid to make sure I could ‘go’, I did my business in the loo/Tupperware box at the doctors and tipped it into the tiny tube without any issues. Tupperware box was then rinsed out and placed into sealable food bag and shoved it in my unusually small handbag.

Midwife appointment was fine, baby in ‘head down’ position and measuring perfectly. I was also chuffed to hear that there was no sugar in urine at all now, so kidneys have sorted themselves out and I can continue to eat cake.

Following the appointment I immediately popped to the local Coop to stock up on healthy pregnancy food* and whilst paying at the till, had to search for my purse. In my normal disorganised way, I proceeded to unload the contents of my bag onto the desk – including Tupperware box, piss dripped food bag and tiny tube of my urine. Forgot to mention that the Midwives hand it back to you at the end of the appointment for you to dispose of.

Cue disgusted look from cashier and an embarrassed snort from me, I paid for my wares and repacked my handbag.

Next time, I am just going to piss on my own hand and be done with it.

*cake

We just got back from a midwife appointment and were pleased to find Katie doesn’t have gestational diabetes. They found glucose in her urine the last few appointments and that can mean you get a weird kind of diabetes while you’re pregnant, where your body doesn’t control blood glucose levels properly and your foetus is basically mainlining unfiltered sugar 24/7, causing them to get overly fat . Like Augustus Gloop from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory drinking pure chocolate from that river right before he gets sucked up a tube and presumably dies a horrible death in the turbines of some kind of large chocolate pump. Pretty sure watching that scene as a child is the main reason I’m now claustrophobic. The old one. Not the shit one with Johnny Depp.

Anyway, gestational diabetes isn’t uncommon apparently, but it isn’t exactly good news as it can lead to a high birth weight, and increased chance of the baby getting diabetes in later life. Fortunately, although there was glucose in Katie’s urine, the blood tests showed she doesn’t have gestational diabetes. Which is good. I guess my wife is just so lovely even her urine is sweet.

In Summer 2015 we went on a holiday to Cuba to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, and although that was the official reason for the trip, it was also what we knew would most likely be our last chance to go on such an extravagant holiday. We’d had loads of discussions about procreating before and we both knew a baby was on the cards, but it wasn’t until we were there that my husband actually officially said he was ready. This came in the form of a long and very romantic hand-written letter. Paper anniversary and all that. This written (and in my eyes 100% legally binding) contract instantly made my dreams a reality and we spent the remaining days of our Cuban holiday floating in a pool or the sea, blissfully discussing our future – hammered.
As a woman, I found knowing we were trying for a baby quickly took over my life. It became a huge distraction and I found myself constantly noticing cute kids, babies and every pregnant woman that waddled passed, excited that I could potentially soon be one of them.

The first month went by and all the tests came back negative, and although I knew it was early days, I still felt pretty crap about it.

In October we went to a wedding and the next day, after drinking my bodyweight in gin and performing ‘the worm’ on the dance floor, I was feeling a little worse for wear. The long drive home with my lovely in-laws, step son and husband was a struggle; I felt sick. Morning sick? No, car sick. And hangover sick.

After shovelling a McDonalds into my face I felt a little better and managed to keep from chundering for the whole journey. When we finally got home, I suggested we took a test and together we waited as my dark yellow hangover urine soaked into a cheapo paper pregnancy test we’d bought in bulk from eBay.

Negative. Oh well. I was fine. It was FINE. I wasn’t emotional at all – it was the hangover, honest.

Two days passed and I’d tried not think about it and get on with my life. It was silly to get depressed over not getting pregnant in the very first month. Some couples try for ages before they get any luck. My period was a little late but that’s not uncommon for me. However, when it got to about a week late, I thought it might be time for another test. It was pointless though. It would be negative. My ovaries were obviously just useless, hollowed-out walnut shells.

5 minutes later, I walked downstairs and into the lounge. My husband turned to see a face paralysed with a combination of fear, uncertainty and excitement. There was a line on the test. A very faint line. I think. Was there a line?

We dashed frantically to the Co-Op to buy a “proper” test. Only the overpriced Clear Blue Digital Plus with the LCD screen would do at a time like this. Twin pack.

We took the first test and after a short wait,  1-2 weeks showed up on the screen! My heart (and apparently very much functioning, non-walnutty ovaries) skipped a beat.

My womb wasn’t a desert after all. It was a rich, tropical jungle, bustling with activity. Our lives were about to change forever. I did the second test just in case. The same! I was pregnant!

Shit. I should have had just one more gin…