Friday 12 April 2013

Confessions of a Pregnancy Novice

It’s been a while since my last blog, in which I bemoaned the loss of hockey in my life since I had become pregnant, and pondered the mood swings that were then afflicting me. Suffice to say, it hadn’t been a good week.

Being pregnant is an incredible phenomenon and a perfectly natural, everyday occurrence, all at the same time. Of the approximately 50% of the population who are able to experience it in their lives, 4 in 5 in the UK will choose to do so. So that’s 40% of the population of the UK who will go through pregnancy on one or more occasion in their lifetime. Not exactly a rare occurrence, then. And yet it’s quite something to experience it, especially for the first time. It seemed about time I put some of my experiences down on screen in order to remember them in years to come, offer help, advise or amusement to others in my situation, educate that other 50% of the population, should they wish for it, or merely just to relieve the burden of the many things going around in my head by splurging them out via the medium of keyboard. As is the nature of blogging, generally.

So here it is – at this point in time I’m a shade over halfway there, yet it feels I’ve been pregnant for-EVER. So I am sure there will be plenty of time for a number of instalments in this, my pregnancy blog.

I don’t even know where to start to be honest. Let’s see. The bewildering gamut of emotions I am experiencing on a daily basis? That could keep me busy for quite some time. Sometimes I feel as though I am already so completely devoted to the tiny creature currently growing inside of me, I don’t want to see, experience or feel anything other than that little life form in my arms, for the rest of my life. At yet other times, when I’m busy, stressed, or having a good time, I could almost forget it’s even there. Until I look at my emerging bump of course. Which I’m surprisingly proud of. As an exercise enthusiast, nay, obsessive, I had always imagined that losing my figure whilst pregnant would be a source of horror for me. Instead I find myself throwing down Thorntons chocolates by the handful, and indulging in around about nine or so meals a day with reckless abandon, blithely unconcerned by the fatty deposits gleefully layering themselves on and around my stomach, hips and bottom, suctioning themselves to me like soft, squishy limpets ready to come along on this wild ride with me.

Although it isn’t so wild after all. A social butterfly in my previous incarnation (as a NON-pregnant female), I have found that nothing, repeat NOTHING, is as good as curling up on my sofa at home, a good series on TV, husband at my side, cake in my hand. I am, quite simply, losing the will to socialise. Is it because I cannot indulge in my regular pint of Strongbow whilst at the pub? That probably has quite a lot to do with it. After a stormy initial few weeks of pregnancy where I battled with my very suddenly imposed ban on the booze – over Christmas, too! – I have since had little or no interest in alcohol – except for when out at the pub. Then I find myself a boring, tired version of my former self, unable, or unwilling, to maintain conversation with others around me who are riding the merry train to tipsy land. I’m just not on the same wavelength anymore. So why bother? It’s a bind. I know I will come out the other side, hopefully with some of my more patient friends remaining, but in the meantime, please accept my blanket apology for being tired, grumpy, boring, or otherwise engaged at any or all social functions. It's not my fault. I just rely on booze to make me interesting.

And exercise! My former pal, fitness! They tell you to do plenty of exercise when you’re pregnant. Ha! Pre-pregnancy I had always sworn to myself I’d be one of those pregnant women who worked out up until the day she dropped, all perfect round bump and not an ounce of fat anywhere else. Give me a break. Every time I stand up, I get a head rush to the point of falling over. Motivating myself to put on something vaguely sporty and actually execute a series of vigorous movements that might constitute a workout has become a mountainous challenge. During my first trimester, I awaited with anticipation the purported glow and energy rush of the second, when I was sure I’d be up at the crack of dawn to work out in the spring sunshine before heading off to work full of the joys of impending motherhood.

Pfft. That went well. Deep into the second trimester and aside from a few half-hearted stabs at the punchbag (mainly just to take out my angry pregnant lady frustrations) and sporadic unenthusiastic efforts at my regular street dance class, and I’m still as lethargic and unmotivated as I was before. Add to the equation my rapidly expanding girth and the complete lack of aforementioned spring sunshine and I’m fighting a losing battle. I used to be a keen swimmer but the thought of donning a one piece lycra costume and taking to the water terrifies me – in this weather? With PEOPLE around? Er, I’m good thanks.

Did I mention the fear? The cold, creeping awareness that I’ve bought a one-way ticket to PAIN. That however far away it seems, there will come a day in the now not-too-distant future in which I’m a sweating, writhing, wailing, bleeding, bloated mess of a woman. And that it will hurt. A LOT.

But let’s hold that thought for a moment (but, but… the PAIN?!) – NO – let’s hold that thought, in fact let’s tuck it away, locked down in that little box called denial, until some other day, one of those days when I feel like an all-conquering Earth mother who can do anything, squeezing out a tiny human just a blip on the radar of my greater purpose within the world (there will BE one of those days, right?). Yes, let’s shelve the images of myself in horrendous agony to ponder all the nice things about being pregnant. Because really, there are quite a few, that all too readily become lost amongst the reams of material online and in books about what not to do, what not to eat, how not to lie, what drugs not to take (ALL of them) and all the niggles, aches, itches and mood swings that accompany this joyful nine month hiatus from your normal life.

Good things about being pregnant:

1) The eating. Okay, I’m aware I’m in a very lucky minority to have not suffered with morning sickness, at any point thus far. But at one point or another during pregnancy, most women will find themselves past the sicky phase and ready for food. And I imagine they, like me, will tell you – food has never tasted better. Oh no. The delight with which I am enjoying simple things such as beans on toast, a cheese toastie, a jam doughnut… It’s fantastic, and as a body conscious person, this is one of the few times in my life I get to legitimately enjoy all the foods my body (and my hungry inhabitant’s body) desires. Cravings are there for a reason and when you’re pregnant it’s your right, nay, your DUTY to indulge them to the best of your ability. So pass me that cake, yes, why not, chuck me a chocolate bar, for they are full of energy, calcium, and the promise of tastebuds dancing, alive with flavour, one of the great pleasures in an otherwise mundane existence. Bring it on, baby. All of it. With icecream.

2) People. People are really nice to you. It could be construed as patronising if you were that way inclined, perhaps a little too independent or feminist to really appreciate it, but the concern shown to you by others is really quite touching. People go out of their way to carry a heavy bag for you, open a door, enquire as to your health, or generally smile and glow at you. I even received an apology for someone’s bad language the other day! Imagine! I can swear like a trooper myself but all of a sudden I seem to have unconsciously begun garnering the kind of respect you would reserve for a lady. A proper one too, not a pretend one like me who watches sport, drinks pints and wears a hoodie to work. It’s all rather lovely.

3) The baby. It’s what it’s all about and it may seem like an obvious one, but there’s something quite breath-taking about the first time you feel movements within that are most certainly not your own. And not even in a chest-protruding Alien sort of way. Now I’m almost 21 weeks and I know my baby’s routine – it has a lie in of a morning (like its Mum), becomes particularly active after some tasty food (like its Mum) and never much feels like settling down at night (er, this child is already disturbingly similar to me). I can already tell we’re going to get along great. The kicks, prods, stretches and wriggles that are going on inside me are precious, every last one, and remind me constantly what all this is for. It’s like having a little buddy travelling with you all the time. You can never feel alone when you’re pregnant.

Which of course leads you to the end product. The life-changing, earth-shattering moment when you see your child for the first time and realise that nothing in the world has mattered up until this point. The moment that makes the hours of pain (oh my god, horrendous pain) all worthwhile. In 19 weeks and one day, (if the baby were to come on its predicted due date – which it undoubtedly will not) I will be there. And I cannot wait.

I have been writing for some time now and realise I haven’t even scraped the surface. The conversations about names (conflict!), the vast, endless array of goods you are forced to start considering purchasing (bewildering!), the annoying need to get out of bed every single night to urinate (too much information!). These are topics on which I will impart wisdom, or lack of it, to you my dear reader, in the coming weeks and months. Please come back and find out exactly how fat I am, which part of my body I have injured in my new-found clumsiness and even which gender of child I have most recently been predicted to be bearing! See you soon.
Posted by at No comments:

Monday 18 February 2013

Self Help 101

Sometimes, you just get in one of those moods. You know, the ones where it seems like everything that can go wrong, does go wrong. Negative feelings seem to multiply like a snowball of misery thundering downhill, picking up speed as well as plenty more negatives besides. Yes, you feel like a victim. Why me? Well, sometimes, buddy, it’s just not your day.

Now I know many of my male friends would put this down to the simple fact of ‘being a woman’. And I can’t deny, that hormones may well be behind many of my bad moods. But at the end of the day, so what? If blokes are telling me they never have a day like this, where they wake up in a black mood which turns out just to be a shade of grey in comparison to what’s to come, then I would be stunned.

So-called self-help ‘experts’ bleat endlessly about ‘breaking the cycle’ of negativity and all that baloney. Well okay, maybe it’s a legitimate point. But what happens when you’re a fan of science, a cynical anti-hippy such as myself who just cannot be doing with deep breathing, acupressure and god forbid, chanting positive mantras? Give me a break. Somebody give me a REAL solution to a day like today.

And don’t you dare tell me ‘it could be worse’. Please tell me I’m not alone in finding that the most annoying response to the blues ever invented. Of COURSE it could be worse. I’m not an idiot. I am quite aware that there are children starving in Africa, and I am very sad about that. And I am genuinely deeply grateful for the health and well-being of all of my family members and of myself. But these assurances are not enough - in this precise moment in time - to convince me this isn’t the WORST day in the history of EVER.

Let’s think of an example shall we. Let’s use, ooh, today. Seeing as I’m writing in precisely one of these moods. Or perhaps, the aftermath of it. We’ll see. I had spent the weekend watching the excellent Fantastic 4’s two day ball hockey tournament at Gateshead Leisure Centre, hosted by the North-East Dekstars club of which I am a member.

Why was I watching instead of playing? You might enquire. A good question! I’m expecting a baby, and having feigned a back injury to cover up the news until the 12 week scan gave me the all clear to tell the world last week, I hadn’t been in hockey-playing action since before Christmas. As the sprains, bruises, grazes and general batteredness of my hockey-playing peers can attest, it's not a sport for the faint-hearted, let alone the delicate of condition.

I really enjoyed the tournament and was proud to watch the 4 teams of Dekstars give it their all, all weekend long. I even went to the Shark Club in Newcastle afterwards for some food and (soft) drinks with the team. All very nice.

Yet I woke up Monday morning feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. The reality of what I’d missed out on being a part of solidified into a big, painful, real thing as I saw all the statuses on Facebook of my team-mates, sore, battered, bruised, proud, hungover, and happy. And it’s not just that. I’m missing out on a trip to Canada for the World Ball Hockey Championships as part of Team GB, having been selected in October 2012, one of the proudest moments of my life.

Many might question my decision to subsequently get pregnant and scupper my chance at international level competition in a sport I love with a passion (despite having only been involved with it since June 2012). I have reflected on the very same question myself and I can assure you, this is the one and only thing that would sideline me, aside from serious injury, from playing the sport I love. The desire to start a family is strong and inexplicable, and despite my apparent youth (!) I am in fact a stately 31 years old and heading swiftly for 32. Not over the hill just yet, but from a child-bearing point of view, worth getting a move on.

When it comes to once in a lifetime opportunities, I have sacrificed one, yes. But who knows, had I waited… if I may have sacrificed another. I wasn’t prepared to take that risk. That being said, I did not expect it to happen as quickly as it did – I thought I may even still be able to play in Canada, as if it didn’t happen straight away, I may as well have held on for a few more months. But that’s fate for you.

Yes, okay, I am a lover of science and a hater of all things pseudo and namby-pamby. So it may seem hypocritical for me to harp on about fate. But I do have a belief in things happening ‘for a reason’. Timing is clearly not my forte, in this case at least. But perhaps - maybe in a few months, maybe in a few years - I will look back on my less than fortuitous ‘planning’ if it can even be called that, with an element of stoicism, as I reflect – ‘it’s for the best because…’.

That explanation took longer than I meant it to and has become something of a reflective reasoning exercise for me. All that to say – I woke up this morning and the gravity of the situation hit me, all at once. The thing that is ‘mine’ – hockey – is gone. Not forever, but for the foreseeable future, and despite the lovely friends I have made at the North East Dekstars, not being able to be a part of something like the Fantastic 4’s tournament cannot help but make you feel like an outsider. Especially when you can’t even partake in a few drinks afterwards to toast your friends’ efforts.
I felt sorry for myself, plain and simple. But not just a bit mopey. Massive, crushing, utterly desolate misery. This, as I look back upon it and my subsequent reactions throughout this fateful day, was quite probably exacerbated by the dreaded pregnancy hormones, which, despite full knowledge of their existence, do not stop you feeling like your world is caving in around you for several sad hours at a time.

I came into work amid a swathe of colleagues leaving, or about to leave, having accepted the voluntary severance hastily offered by our short-sighted institution, leaving us not just short-staffed but missing valuable colleagues, and friends, my husband included. Suddenly my lunch hours are free – instead of wandering into town or down to the Quayside with him, I am now at a loose end. On any other day I could perhaps reflect positively on this development – I could use the time to write more? Get some exercise? Nope, not in this mood. It’s just a bitter cherry on top of a very sour pie.

And then the torrent of little sprinkles to go on top of that pie – shards of irritation, annoyance and disappointment all around me blown up beyond all sensible proportions into huge injustices. The one Watford FC away game I could attend, in Hull on Easter Monday, postponed until the Tuesday evening because of VILE Sky TV. The hoodie I had bought for my husband’s birthday arriving but not in the colour I had ordered – stupid website misrepresenting the product. Jake Bugg on the radio – his nasal voice an irritant to my poor ears; I nearly punched the radio in frustration. And another set-back in the complicated organisation of my best friend’s hen do – just a small one but in the grand scheme of my small-world view this horrible morning, it could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I sat at my desk fighting with my own morosity, struggling to keep on top of it all – ‘it’s just Monday blues, it’s just hormonal’. But literally everything felt as though it was going against me and when you feel that way, it’s impossible to break out of the funk. I desperately wanted to go home and curl up in bed, possibly never to return.

So. I’m still here, still at my desk (yes, I should be working. No, I don’t care – I partially blame this place for my horrendous day). And I feel a bit calmer. ‘Finally, the hormones have subsided,’ cry the men, more in hope than relief. That as may be. It turns out that as much as the small things get you down on days like today, it’s the small things you cling to that can help you claw your way free of the mire. A walk in the sun at lunchtime, a nice evening meal at home to look forward to, and half an hour or so away from the daily grind to put it all down on paper and realise that things really aren’t that bad.

I’m not going to say I made a big deal over nothing. The delayed reaction gutted-ness to the cruel amputation of hockey from my life was a very real feeling that I think would have hit me hard after a weekend like this one regardless of hormonal influences. But what it triggered possibly could have been avoided if I’d engaged in this therapeutic writing exercise at the beginning of the day instead of leaving it until now. If I’d lightened the mood in the office by engaging with colleagues instead of hunching my shoulders and resisting human interaction under the false cloud of belief that it would just make me feel worse.

There’s no hard and fast rule for ‘breaking the cycle of negativity’ and I sure as hell am not going to try heavy breathing or whatever the hell the namby-pamby arty-farty self-help lot tell you to do. But I am going to leave this clip here, as a reminder that however bad I am feeling, I am woman enough to admit that the hormones DO make it worse. I admit this through the medium of a clip of a tree frog that, when I was feeling at my lowest point, made me smile. Then laugh. And then burst uncontrollably into tears again. I’m not even kidding. Aaaah, what are you going to do?!
Posted by at No comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)