I don't do brevity. I warned you about this during the last birth announcement. And not only does this predilection for the epic include talking about gingerbread, waffling on about birth trauma from years ago etc, it apparently also includes giving birth to dc2.
Not many people have escaped from my tales of dd's birth 4 years ago and I swore I'd never, ever do it again. But being a liar and a bit greedy where squishy small people are concerned, I did.
Raphael was born on Saturday, 38hrs post waters rupturing spectacularly all over my best sheet, a mildly miffed dh and a crocodile. An Ikea crocodile no less. I can't fit babies through my pelvis, though not for lack of blooming trying, so the nice lady with the sparkly glasses (everything was sparkling at that point to be completely frank) gave me some drugs and kindly removed the boy from me. He's smashing. Looks a bit like a lizard but squeaks like a warthog. I forsee great entertainment.
His name means 'God shall heal' apparently. Which is fairly fitting. Because I thought should I end up with another emcs I'd be utterly fractured by it. But it turns out that I now know I can't do it. I can't blow up balloons or play chess either. And while nobody wants to do those things for me, there are nice people at the hospital who are trained to assist with my crap pelvis and stuck babies. And thank goodness for that. Because it's only a process by which my lizard babies crash into existence. And the very fact that they exist rather transcends the small details of how I got them here.
He's a clever little boy. Taught me a lot already. Not least that there are feelings after giving birth that are just universal to becoming a parent and nothing to do with any perceived failure or regret. I particularly like the realisation that having any baby, in whatever way, feels just like somebody's handed you a wet octopus you've never seen before in your life and said 'here dress, feed and love this thing'. And your brain screams 'I really do think you've got the wrong person for the job'. But then at some point, possibly in the wee small hours when everybody else is asleep and it's just you and the octopus, you look down at his squished nose and puckered little duck lips and realise that you belong together. I'm tired. I think what I'm grasping unerringly at is that it always feels like rather a shock to the system but it turns out it's not so scary after all. He's just my wee boy. And I quite simply love him.
He's got a very proud family, especially his big sister who occasionally lets me hold him.
I did it. I had another baby. Just in case anybody fancied reading about something other than trolls or riots or whatever else is happening round these here parts.
NB: the Ikea croc was a rather cunning sleep aid even if it is meant to be a toy. I thoroughly recommend it.