Broken words from a broken pink week

They say seven days is a long time in politics, they should try it with a newborn.

This post is going to be just about as consistent as a politician's viewpoint, but it's as good as it gets while my eyes refuse to open equally.

Today was our last day having the kraamzorg at home, and in fairness I don’t think she left with too many concerns over the welfare of Mango.

Born at 3660 grams (8lbs 1 ounce), she dropped to 3300 or so and is now already climbing back above the 3400 mark. She’s feeding like a demon and sleeping whenever the hell she feels like it.

She farts consistently like someone on a diet of Guinness and Weetabix, and seems to derive great pleasure from being able to sneeze in my face at every available opportunity.

If the baby had been ugly I would be feeling very hard done by round about now, we sleep very little and are surviving on what we can suck out of her spit up cloths.

Our house looks like he aftermath of a gay pride riot in a candy floss factory, with pink dripping from every wall. A pink obstacle course seems to have sprung up from nowhere, formed from boxes, piles of new clothes, cards, soft toys, balloons, and flowers. All pink.

Heather’s guess on the pool was the best, just 5 hours out, and pretty close on the weight too. Jo is probably 2nd. Tiff would have won, except her guess had just a little too much penis.

Some people have very generously asked if they could sent a gift, which is a wonderful gesture and thank you, but we might just die from guilt if people did that, and then Mango would be an orphan and someone else would benefit from her career as a child star, we just can’t have that. So, if you were going to send something, how about giving some of that money to the Joseph Salmon trust on Mango’s behalf instead? Any money donated there will go straight to the trust.

The trust was founded to help parents and families with the financial burdens that arise from having lost children unexpectedly. Should I get any sleep before July, I will be joining the Hadrian Walkers in an attempt to raise funds for the trust by walking the length of Hadrian’s Wall in the north of England.

On the pronounciation of Mango's name, there was a YouTube video that explained it perfectly, but it's been removed. So for laziness purposes it simply sounds like 'Anna' with an 'S' in front. Well it does when I say it, and it's not my fault if you've got a silly accent.

Now, because my brain is fried, I’m surviving on chocolate biscuits and naps on the toilet, and because it makes people tell me again how beautiful she is, I’m resorting to a photo to close.

Words we never normally use

'Awesome'.

Way back when, in the days of misery and strife, Dan offered to play one of my favourite songs ever on the ukulele, and post it online should we ever have a child. Today he stood by his word, and it is more awesome than I can describe.

Go watch this and tell Dan what a brilliant job he's done. Do it, go watch it.

To show your appreciation you can always give a quid or two to the Joseph Salmon Trust that he champions, helping parents and families who have lost children cope with the unexpected financial burdens that brings.

Thanks Dan, that is simply magic, we both absolutely loved it. Thanks to all the people who got involved, you are nuts and I love it. The world seems a little smaller this evening because of this.

Gorgeousness, and how it came to be

It’s not like in the movies.

Mango decided to make her intentions known on Thursday evening; ET’s waters broke, with contractions following closely behind.

After a quick call to the midwife to let her know it had started, bizarrely, we got ready for bed. This turned out to be as useful as tits on a bull, as the contractions started coming strong and steady, 6, 5, 4 minutes apart.

This continued through the night and when morning dawned the midwife paid a visit to check on progress. Just 2 centimetres dilation, which was hardly enough to have gotten her in there to begin with, never mind get her out.

Following a few hours of strengthening contractions, the midwife called again at lunch time to find a whopping 4 centimetres.

Being time to move to the hospital, the midwife rang ahead, only to discover the first set-back of the day; they had no room. Open nights, tours, and leaflets about their maternity services went out the window as we had to move to hospital option B.

By 4pm, 17 hours in, the contractions continued to thunder in but no progress was being made. Still 4 centimetres. The doctors advised pain relief, with an epidural being the only option that would hold long enough to be of use when the end came and it was most needed.

In an attempt to bring that end nearer, they administered hormones to stimulate the contractions and help speed up the labour.

7pm, 9pm, 11pm all passed with progress slowly being made. Too slowly unfortunately as 24 hours had passed since her waters had broken, increasing the risk of infection.

It was time to get Mango out of there.

The hormones were increased and the contractions cranked up, ET feeling each one through the epidural. Midnight passed, the date and staff shifts changed, and on it went. First 8, then 9 centimetres on the horizon.

A little after 1am the midwife decided that the 9.5 was as far as it was going to go, and even with no urge from the baby to do so, ET had to start pushing.

And push she did.

On and on, over and over, breathing deep and putting more than I could imagine into each push. To no avail.

By 3am, the obstetrician felt the 50-50 chance that she would be born naturally was dwindling fast, and as a last resort she opted for one shot at a vacuum extraction.

Anesthetic was administered for the episiotomy that would have to follow if the extraction worked, equipment was readied, and everyone was braced for one last push.

The push came and the vacuum clattered to the floor, ET and I both convinced the child had been sent flying across the room. She hadn’t, the vacuum couldn’t get enough purchase on her head and had come loose. More than 30 hours after the start, in what felt like a defeat, the OR was readied for a cesarean section.

The moments between the failed vacuum attempt and the OR were the worst kind of limbo. Excited half brains telling us the baby would be out and safe in just a matter of moments, exhausted and anxious half brains imagining all sorts of scenarios in the small hours.

Within minutes ET was wheeled away and prepped, and I was scrubbed up and beside her behind the magic screen. I have no idea what was said, or what was done, just that all of a sudden I was told to stand up and look.

There she was, being lifted from her mother’s belly like a rediscovered buried treasure. Blue grey from head to toe, knees curled up into her chest, wild eyes staring out in front. Some kind of demented Smurf. No crying, no screeching, no wailing, just the crossest of expressions surely swearing revenge for the inconvenience she’d been caused.

She slipped silently into the world at 3:51am, and barely a moment later the Dutch government collapsed. A mere coincidence, surely.

She lay in my arms staring at me, wishing me a violent death until her mother returned. Cuteness ensued, huge eyes transforming from ‘serial killer’ to ‘puppy dog’ with her mammy’s touch.

Much more took place that will probably dissolve faster than ET’s stitches, only visiting our memories before evaporating forever. Only physical evidence of what happened between the night of the 18th and morning of the 20th February 2010 will remain.

That physical evidence is beautiful. Absolutely fucking gorgeous should the overwhelmingly biased truth be told. Long fingers on the end of amusingly active hands, toes that curl and bend with every yawn that comes from the purest mouth I have ever seen, sending milk breath into my face.

Soft but sturdy arms and legs, simultaneously exhibiting her vulnerability, reliance, and potential all in one.

A warm pot belly, rising and falling. Shoulders founding the nape of her neck created by nature to bed my nose and lips where I can kiss and breathe in her smell that I’ve taken to work on my clothes, releasing itself intermittently to remind me that the minutes will pass and soon I’ll breathe the real thing again.

Cheeks full to bursting, reassuring us she is thriving. Eyes, that while open are so wide and deep I might not make it out alive some day, and while closed dance around to dreams behind almost translucent eyelids.

Hair so startlingly thick and black that I can’t help myself, running it behind her ears, curling it on her neck, cupping her head in the palm of my hand.

Her weight on my arm, the heaviness that ebbs and flows in the crook of my elbow with each one of her sighs, beautiful in itself.

There you have it, gorgeousness, and how it came to be.