Not being due until the 22nd, I was surprised to be woken by a trickle of water in the early hours of the 14th (Tuesday). Thinking this might scupper my homebirth plans, I stubbornly ignored until 2pm on Wednesday afternoon when I started panicking that I was endangering my baby.
I rang the day assessment unit who gently gave me a telling off and insisted I go straight in. Cue DH's dramatic exit from work to the cheers of all his female (and or or two male) colleagues.
Once the doctor had confirmed that I hadn't actually spent the last twenty nine hours peeing myself, I was sent home to pack a bag and call back at 6pm to see if a bed was available. So no homebirth, but at least I could now stop cleaning the damn house constantly.
Major downside is that DH will miss out as I feel happiest knowing DD is with DH, particularly as she has only ever been put to bed by DH and I and we don't know how she would react if she woke to find neither of us in the house. I already had chosen my Mum as a second birthing partner but now the other slot goes to my eldest sister who is over the moon.
It's horrible leaving DH behind. We arrive at the hospital at 7.30pm to find smiling staff and a large spotless room with my own shower. It's in stark contrast to my experience at Chelsea and Westminster where the pre and post natal care were shocking. I nearly faint when the midwife offers to make me a cup of tea. The midwife is fantastic and puts everyone at ease.
Drip finally goes in at 9.40pm after failed canula attempt causes my left arm to swell up. Syntocinon kicks in around ten but the contractions, while frequent, are so bearable, I am laughing through them as my Mum and sister are being comedians to keep me going. Am not surprised to be told at 11.30pm that I am only 3cm dilated. There follows another two hours of stronger but still bearable contractions before I decide I need gas and air. I am now 5cm dilated at 1.30am.
Five minutes after taking the mouthpiece the g&a is rapidly becoming ineffective and I start to feel like I am losing control. This is when the swearing and proclamations of hatred for all mankind begin. The midwife has a quick check and within 20 minutes I have gone from 5cms to ready to push.
Despite my very best efforts, the pushing is fruitless and i'm begging for an episio. When i'm initially denied I begin roaring, "give me the f**king episiotomy, cut me, for the love of god, just cut me". Not my finest hour. The baby has the cord wrapped round her neck and is stressed so for that reason and perhaps to silence the stream of 140 decibels profanities, I get my episio.
At 2.02am, on Thursday 16th March, Holly Elizabeth is born to a mother with a mouth fouler than a sewer. She weighs in at a robust 8lbs and measures a leggy 53 cms. I fall head over heels.
Major stitching ensues and I am left on the drip for an hour during which time we establish breastfeeding and DD2 proves to be as much of a milk monster as DD1. This is followed by a leisurely shower and tea and bourbon biscuits that at that moment taste better than anything The Fat Duck could offer.
Post natal care is fantastic. As I was one of those geeky children who loved school dinners, I thoroughly enjoy my hospital breakfast and lunch before being discharged at 3pm.
DH fights back tears meetig his new daughter and DD1 is besotted with her little sister who she won't leave alone for a minute. Thus far being a family of four is amazing if a little tiring.
Apologies for any errors, jumping tenses and sheer length. I'm off to eat more pate now.