Promised Land

Israel. The word conjures memories. Hammocks swaying in the warm air of lemon-groved gardens. Gazing up at the stars in the black sky. Grown-ups laughing round the table; drinking wine, eating. Sunsets on the beach. Swimming in the sea, splashing in the pool. Kind faces. Friends. But then. An undertone of fear. Bomb-shelters in basements. The numbers I noticed on the arm of an elderly friend. Explosions heard from the same poolside. "Planes breaking the sound barrier," I was told.

Growing up, Israel was present. In our conversation. In our art. In our bookshelves. In our food. In our family holidays. My family are not Jewish. Not by bloodline, anyway. My step-father, attracted by the concept of communal living, spent time post-university living and working on a kibbutz in the north of the country.  And in the long-running 'conflict' with the Palestinians, there was no hiding the fact that the sympathy of my parents lay with the Israelis; friends who lived in fear of their teenage children boarding buses and being the next victims of a suicide bomber.

But now, years later I see Gaza. Fear-stricken-faces running through rubble. Bodies of children stretched out on hospital trolleys, tortured eyes, broken limbs, bullet holes. Head-scarved old women, covering their eyes. Wailing. Brothers and Uncles, angry. Fists punching air. My heart pounds and my stomach twists and turns. Two hospitals hit by Israeli fire in two weeks. Families killed sheltering in UN buildings.

I was 21 years old, on the other side of the world when I met A. Palestinian born and raised, but he looked like he could have been my brother. Same pale skin, freckles, slightly red-toned hair. Immediately the conversation turned to this homeland. His manner was mild, gentle and kind. But he spoke with conviction and his tone was firm. Looking back, the patience he had with my utter ignorance of the plight of his people astounds me.

 He spoke to me of his grandparents, dispossessed of their land after World War II. He told me about his life, a medical student in East Jerusalem. The struggles getting to and from University via unpredictable road blocks. He told me about The Wall. About Palestinians trying to reach medical facilities dying whilst Israeli soldiers looked on. About Israeli soldiers throwing grenades at Palestinian children on their way to school. About what he lacked growing up as a refugee.

I was no longer able to defend the actions of the country I loved. But I continued to love its people. And part of love is to let the other party know when you know they are wrong.

So I have often found myself on the pro-Palestinian side of the lines during violent uprisings and incursions. And I did yesterday. I won't agree with everything the protesters chant. But I will stand up for the weakest in the face of a stronger aggressor. My son, aged 4, asked why we were going. I explained to him frankly that in a country quite far away, there were people who were hurting each other. That lots of children were getting hurt. I explained that God loved all these people, and that we loved them too. We were going to ask them to stop the fighting. But I let him draw Palestinian flags and buy himself a 'Free Palestine' badge.



Arriving at Piccadilly Gardens, I was impressed by the diverse turnout. Especially with the presence of Jews For Justice For Palestinians. The rhetoric from the microphone was peaceful. We were to demonstrate without violence, without hatred, without antisemitism, without racism.  We were to let businesses investing in Israel know that we would be boycotting them whilst this action against Gaza continued. After about an hour and a half, my family broke away from our side of the protest. Manchester was sending it's best downpour. My husband had no jacket. The baby had woken up and was not pleased about being strapped into a pushchair. We left the protest as it snaked from Barclays to Marks and Spencers.



Suddenly, we turned a corner and were face to face with blue and white, Stars of David. We were outside Kedem, an Israeli-owned business selling goods from the Dead Sea. I'd heard tales from the pro-Palestinian demonstrators gathering there daily to encourage shoppers to boycott. Pro-Israeli protesters gathered to oppose them, cheering as the names of dead Palestinian children killed int he military action that week were read aloud.  My Muslim friend had racist abuse yelled at her as she stood peacefully and silently holding signs outside the shop. This was not somewhere I wanted to be with a small boy waving his hand-crayoned Palestinian flag. We hurried through. I noted a policewoman in her uniform embracing a man wrapped in the Israeli flag.

We stood on the other side of the road, watching. Bitterness, anger, hate afflicted their faces. My son asked what they were shouting. I was at a loss.  It had seemed easier when I hadn't had two opposing sides to explain. He kept asking as I gazed at the 4-5 pro-Palestinian protesters being swallowed by the sea of white and blue. Their banner had shown a  premature baby on a ventilator who had been delivered from a dead mother, killed in the fighting. She disappeared. I shuddered to think what would happen here later when the black, red and green arrived. I wondered what hope there was for peace where the bombs fell, when we so far removed from the violence could not even speak kindly, act peacefully.

Some men held banners proclaiming their reason for supporting Israel today was their Christianity.

I wondered. Where would Jesus stand today? I know he wouldn't be muttering about 'complex issues' and changing the subject. I know He wouldn't be rolling into Gaza on a tank. I know He wouldn't be firing rockets into Israel for Hamas.

He of immeasurable love and justice, where would He be found? I imagine Him standing in the middle, between these two groups. I imagine He would see straight to the fear, the insecurity, the generations of hurt on each side. I imagine Him open his arms to Muslim, Jew, Christian, saddened by the disrespect and hatred expressed one for the other.

The Name for God

'Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of little children'
- William Thackery

Mothering Sunday. Pink everywhere. Florists breaking their traditional working hours to trade on a Sunday. On the streets unkempt men walk quickly having 'just popped out for something', clutching paper and plastic-wrapped carnations in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. Restaurants have papered over their usual Sunday offers, knowing they won't need to sweeten the deal to haul the customers in today. Mothers of young children unwrap delicate parcels to find painted pasta necklaces and hand-printed cards. Dads everywhere breathe a sigh of relief that preschool teachers had the forethought they lacked.

This is the day we celebrate motherhood. We celebrate it because we recognize the sacrifice that it entails. Or we think we do. Before I was a mother myself I knew that there was something mysterious about  motherhood, that I didn't quite grasp. Then I became a mum, and now I know that there are things about being in this role that only other mothers can relate to.  The following are the three things I find most difficult about being a mum.

First of all there is the, sheer, utter, complete exhaustion. As a student I frequently stayed up til dawn debating, talking, joking with friends... sometimes night after night. Then I'd spend the whole of the next day awake. I was tired. But not like this. As a junior doctor I've done night-shift after night-shift responsible for all the medical or surgical patients in a large hospital, with sick patients and grumpy medical registrars. It was tiring. But not like this. When the sun rose, I  drove home, responsible for no one but myself, and could crawl under the duvet and sleep all day long in reasonable amounts of peace (barring the occasional knock from a postman with a parcel or a drill on the road outside). With a baby, the jolts from sleep are unrelenting. The somebody who needs you (and only you) is indifferent to the colour of the sky, the number of hours you have been on duty or the last time you ate. If you're lucky, you might get a nap in the daytime whilst the baby sleeps. If you're unlucky, the baby falls asleep, you rush round tidying, putting on washing, maybe preparing some dinner, then fall into bed hoping for sleep just as the baby's familiar tones drift across the baby monitor, pulling you to your feet again. If you have an older child, your chances of sleep in the day are slim to none. You might as well just forget it and slug down the coffee. Gradually, thinking and dreaming about sleep becomes boring.  You resign yourself to achieving fewer and fewer hours of the mythical stuff. You stop talking about it, and just laugh hollowly when asked about it.

Then there is the extreme lack of alone time. Not even when you want to use the bathroom. If you shut the door when you're on the loo, somebody is soon shouting for you from downstairs. Or has clocked where you've gone to, and started asking you questions through the door. Currently my younger child will not tolerate being separated from me for the time it takes for a quick trip to the loo. Thus, I rarely get through an entire wee without having to stop (very good for the pelvic floor) and rescue my crawler from the shower tray, trapping her finger in the bathroom cupboards or bumping her face off the bath as she pulls to stand. When people ask me how I'm getting on back at work, how am I managing four full days a week in a busy A&E department and having two wee ones at home, I often smile and say that I appreciate that I at least get to go to the loo on my own at work. And that I get to finish an entire cup of (still hot) tea during my breaks. And if I can't perform normal bodily functions alone, the chances that I can do much else alone are totally scuppered.

A third problem that is particularly true for mothers who breastfeed is the claustrophobic feeling that your body is no longer your own. Your time, your patience and your multi-tasking skills are being tested to the limit, but if that weren't enough, these little people even want your very physical being. It starts before they're born. I enjoyed my first pregnancy immensely, but even then there was the feeling that my body had been hijacked by a tiny human holding court somewhere deep inside. By the end of my second pregnancy, suffering from antenatal depression and a variety of seemingly trivial, but utterly agonising pregnancy-related physical complaints, I looked forward to nothing more than my abdomen and pelvis being vacated. And this despite the fact that this time I knew what to expect from labour (ie not the candles, birth pools and massage oils I'd dreamed up during my first pregnancy). Then they're out. Breastfeeding is beautiful. I can hand on heart say that it saved my bond with my first child during the long months of post-natal depression I suffered after his birth. But it does mean (at least with my babies) that you have someone literally sucking the life out of you pretty much round the clock. I'm not kidding. I was trying to wash my hair in the bath the other day and my youngest latched on for a post-breakfast snack. Your body when you have young children is not only exhausted, but beaten and bruised from feeding them, carrying them around on your hip all day and sleeping awkwardly so that you don't disrupt their fragile sleep-wake balance.

I realise I am not making motherhood sound massively attractive. It's not glamorous. It's a massive sacrifice. I've struggled with this, and not gracefully. I love my children more than I could ever have imagined I would. I know how extremely blessed I am to have been able to conceive them and carry them. But I've been bitter, I've felt resentful of my husband and I've just felt that none of this sacrifice was very fair. At times this has led to streams of silent tears, or fits of rage and tantrums a toddler would be proud of.  At other times, I have silently got on with it, enjoyed the good days, accepted the bad and drunk an awful lot of coffee and the odd gin and tonic.

This weekend I had my perspective changed. I attended a wonderful day conference for Christian mums. I was privileged to be joined by some of my best friends. We were like children ourselves, practically giddy at the prospect of a day without kids or work. It felt wonderful to be in the presence of other people who knew my struggles. Who knew how hard it was to try my best to be a good and godly mum, and to feel like I fail at this an awful lot of the time. But best of all was the insight and truth brought by keynote speaker, Ness Wilson.  She described mothers as a 'perfect snapshot of God's perfect love'. I sniggered inside, hoping beyond hope that God loves better than I. But it went further. How we nurture and tend to our children builds a framework on which they will then be able to see and receive God's love. They will know the love of God and recognise it for what it is when they are first loved by a mother who will sacrifice all for them. And God knows about sacrifice. Did He not make the ultimate sacrifice for us in giving up His very own son, coming to earth in the form of a man and suffering torture and death in order that we might be restored to full righteousness? I know this, but maybe such a sacrifice is too big for my tiny brain to compute. How about Jesus and the Disciples? They were busy. Really busy. The bible tells us that the demands on their time were so great that they barely had time to eat and rest. Mothers can relate to that.

I regularly pay lip service to the idea of ‘giving my all’ for God. I sing it in church often enough. And I’ve always thought I meant it. When I think about it now, I think I meant that I would give my all for the things I felt God was calling me to, the things I am passionate about. Yes, I will give my all to fight global poverty, to bring healthcare to those who don’t have it, to stand up for refugees and asylum seekers to have no voice, to serve the homeless… Will I give my all for the little things? Will I put my all into helping my 3-year-old cellotape his toilet roll vehicle creations? Will I lay aside the work I’m doing on my laptop help him get the colour of his homemade playdough just right?

So when I get up for the third time in the night and stumble towards the crying voice of my baby girl, lift her from her cot and sit feeding her in the darkness of her room... The comfort and love I show to her then will help her know how God loves her, how he longs to tend to her every need and sound, how he will never ignore her cry in the dark. What a privilege.  

All That Matters

The thing is, I had a whole list of mummy/feminist/parental-type issues to blog about. I could have picked any one of them. Except the one where I wax lyrical about the benefits of having a working dishwasher once again. Probably not what you want to hear about. Although I did catch one of my mummy friends giving me an 'OooooO' when I mentioned it.  I might have picked shared parental leave or postnatal body image. You would have related, hopefully at least cracked a smile in mild amusement, and possibly returned for discussion of such issues in the future. That would be my hope. As it turns out, there's only one thing in my head today, one thing that I keep coming back to and can't get away from. And that's how fantastically amazing the baptisms were at my church last night. Really. And that's not the kind of thing I thought I would be blogging on.

Now, I love a good baptism. What's not to love? Happy people getting dunked in freezing cold water, rising up out of said water to the sound of applause from the congregation and a shiny new slate. There's a high feel-good factor at a baptismal service. I've been to quite a lot of them. It's always nice, it's always moving. But last night I think there was something more profound about what happened.  

The place was packed, folding seats were being brought in from other parts of the church, people were standing, sitting on the floor. The atmosphere was electric. It was notable enough for me to get my phone out and tweet. And that's not something I do often. One by one, 11 people got up and told their stories. What life was like before they met Jesus, how they met Him and what had changed. Every story was amazing. But what was significant to me was how different each of these people were.  A beautifully-manicured young woman with a perfect face of make up and pearl earrings who spoke eloquently, a 7 foot-giant of a man with a seriously hefty gold cross round his neck, a timid middle-aged lady whose voice came so softly we had to strain to hear. Each story was unique, and bore testament to the amazing transforming power of the cross in its own way. A life of criminal activity turned around since hearing and accepting the gospel. A woman locked in a prison cell for the umpteenth time, desperate to know if the God she'd heard about was real; overjoyed when He answered her cries with a vision and a deep, deep peace in her heart - now working, off drugs and loving Jesus. A lady in the middle of her life who simply stated that she had always loved Jesus. A young woman addicted to alcohol who'd lost three children as her life slipped off the rails, repeatedly admitted to mental health units and medical wards, changed as she came to know Jesus - no longer addicted and holding down a job. A woman set free from a destructive relationship that had lasted nearly an entire decade because she heard God's call on her life.  Two young women who had both grown up in Christian households, finding faith for themselves and using their baptism as a public declaration of their own faith. A man who played bible bingo (opening your bible at a random page and choosing a random passage), came up with 'The Parable of The Sower' and decided if the church service that afternoon was on that passage, that that meant God was real and he'd become a Christian. Needless to say, the service was indeed about 'The Parable of the Sower'.

Each of these people from different backgrounds, different colours, different genders, different communities, different levels of education, different incomes, different life experiences... They all went into the same water.

The sheer simplicity of this was stunning. Where else would you see each of these together? Each on a level with the other. Equally considered children of The Most High God. And there was I. As much a brother and sister of one of those as with my own flesh and blood. Tonight I was no-one's mother, no one's wife. My profession, my ambitions, my identity struggles... swept away by one clear truth. We were all people who at one point had heard a story about a man who died on a cross to take our place. We all accepted this sacrifice, said "Yes" to this offer of salvation and celebrated with each other. And that was all that really mattered. This is what church should look like. 

Gold Stars

So. Nearly a year since my last post. Hrm. Probably best not to trawl through what’s happened since then. Better to let it all come out in the wash, a bit like a spaghetti bolognaise stain on a baby’s white t-shirt… slowly and painfully. But I'm back. At least until Baby Girl wakes up. She's cute (a definite evolutionary advantage), but you can't blog with an awake baby. That would require six arms. For some reason our species has evolved without six arms. I'm surprised by this. But, I digress. A definite risk when you're used to thinking about 16 things at the same time... and none of them very clearly...

We recently inherited these scales from my husband's granny. I've been looking at them a lot and thinking about measurement. Thoughts usually punctuated by pauses to chatter to Baby Girl, shouting because she's getting bored of banging a wooden spoon on her highchair table, or to placate Boy, furiously crying because I put the wrong filling in his sandwich. I've mainly been thinking about how we measure our value, our worth. Things I don't measure so often now. They've been replaced by the measurement of lentils, butter, flour and other daily fodder for my household. I think about how I used to weigh them... I used my achievements to mark degrees of value, degrees of worth. Not so easily done these days.

From an early age, I was driven to achieve. Apparently I came home crying on the first day of school, bitterly disappointed that I hadn't yet learned to read and write. I wanted to be the best in the class, whatever the subject. I measured my own value in the red inky comments at the bottom of my latest short story, in the score on the most recent spelling test, the praise received for my painting. My mum tried to discourage this over-achieving; telling me she'd be proud of me even if I was working in a fast-food restaurant or sweeping the streets, so long as I was happy. I pressed on regardless.

And so it was that I was plunged (or rather, plunged myself) straight from final year of medical school into motherhood. I worked hard despite growing Boy Bump, and the odd trip here and there to the Early Pregnancy Unit with one complication or another. It all went well and I achieved a pass with honours. Even pregnancy was an exercise in achievement; conceiving at the earliest possible opportunity meant that my last ever day at medical school was the same day Boy Bump turned 37 weeks; full term. I had to achieve perfect growth (ideally 25th-50th centile), delivery (homebirth, no pain relief) and timing of my baby (after 37 weeks, no later than 39 weeks). To fail to attain these self-set goals wasn't worth thinking about. There was no plan B. So you can imagine the slight ripples sent through my world when afore-mentioned homebirth turned out to be an entirely terrifying experience ending in blue-light transfer to hospital.

And then there is child-rearing. Nine months into maternity leave, over a year since I last worked and I find myself frustrated, disgruntled with my daily role. How does a person who measures their own value in concrete achievements feel satisfied with motherhood? Because motherhood is not a land where achievement is measured in test scores, and encouraging feedback is not commonplace here. There are rarely gold stars at the end of the day. Not for me anyway. Sometimes Boy gets gold stars if he manages to get himself dressed, go an entire day without shouting at me and remembers his manners at mealtimes. And thus the cycle of need for positive feedback is perpetuated... Hm. Worth thinking about that, I guess. Anyway. If you are a stay-at-home-parent you will know what it is like to expend effort until your very bones ache, but yet have very little to show for it. There are few other people who truly understand this. To spend your entire day from before sunrise til long after sunset 'doing', but yet have very little to say when asked, "So, what have you been up to today?" by an innocent party. When some days your only achievement is that you and the two small people you are charged with are still alive at the end of the day, and it's taken blood, sweat and tears to get to that point... Where is your identity as an 'achiever' then? 

So, how to deal with this? If you're me, you might make ridiculous plans to achieve ridiculous things whilst continuing in the role of full-time mum. These are usually concocted after one too many cups of caffeine. You know, when your sleep-deprived haze lifts ever-so-slightly and you feeling like you're flying? In that state I do things like borrow Arabic linguaphone cds to listen to whilst breastfeeding a newborn, signing up for professional exams that I don't need to take until years into the future so that I can do practice questions on my iPhone whilst I stir some kind of stew for dinner... Anything to make me feel like I am managing something I can look back on as a tangible achievement. Later, these high-flying paper-aeroplane ideas plummet to earth, crashing and burning ungraciously.

Why isn't the act of mothering satisfying in itself? It must be for some women, but I haven't found that to be true for myself. This feels like a terrible admission. It is certainly not that I don't love and enjoy spending time with my children. Their smiles, giggles, spontaneous cuddles, funny sayings and doings are precious gold in the silt of the river I pan daily. I think the answer lies out there, in wider society. The role of the mother has consistently been undervalued, throughout history and throughout the world. As girls we are brought up to believe that we can do anything we want, that we have equal opportunities with men to achieve our goals and dreams, but it's a rare girl who aspires to be a mother over all else. We need to ask ourselves why this is. 

ps The trite Christian answer to my problem would be that I need to find my self-worth in God, that my value to Him is not measured by my achievement. That His grace is enough regardless of what I do or do not do. I know this. I'm working on believing it.

Some light humour

So here we are in Christmas week. Long time since my last post; things have been busy hence no time for next instalment of 'The Story of Last Time'. Have felt just a bit rubbish and had yet another trip to obstetric triage so have been very glad to have my wee man back after a week with his grandparents. His sense of humour appears to have developed leaps and bounds in the last couple of weeks so has been a fabulous antidote to the dark, cold misery of this long December. Thought I'd share a few of his funnies in the hope that they make you laugh and warm your heart as they've done mine.

1. We have frequent chats about 'What's inside Mummy's big tummy' so posing the following question is not unusual;
"Mummy's got a big tummy, what's in it?"
"Um... "
"Is it an octopus?"
"No...it's a baby!!!"
"What kind of baby?" Usual answer is boy/girl depending on his mood. I waited expectantly to see what he was hoping for today.
"A green one!!"
"A green one??? Really??"
"Yes." Thinks for a minute. "With pink hair!!"

2. Wearing a beautiful new hoodie from a great aunty, daddy though he'd put Noah's hood up.
"No!!! Don't do lat!!! It's not raining in here!!!"

3. On his recent potty success:
"I did a poo in the potty. It was huuuuuuuuggggeee!"
"Yes, that's right, you're a big boy. Well done"
"There was a big snake on 'octonauts'. It was the same like my poo!!!"

More from me later this week...

Congratulations

We need a bit of context to this blog, I feel. Which means you're going to need to bear with me (or scroll up), whilst I tell the story of what happened last time. It might take a couple of posts, so you might want to stick the kettle on. I've been putting off doing this since I started blogging last week. The main reason is because it's still painful. But also because so many versions have already been told to so many people, that it's difficult to remember that it was actually a real experience I had, and not just something I saw on telly and then told my friends about. Here goes.

N was about to start his first year working as a doctor and I was about to start my final year of medical school when we decided to take the plunge and have a baby. We were both 24. We'd been married for two years, knew we wanted to have kids before hitting our 30s, didn't have loads of money but didn't really think that was hugely important. All you need is love and all that.

The first month of 'trying' came and went - or so we thought. I had a period, and therefore didn't feel the need to confirm I wasn't pregnant with a test. A couple of weeks later, I was on placement in a busy acute medical ward. One morning, I performed my first ever femoral stab (successfully!) to get blood from an artery at the top of a patient's leg. As I disposed of my needle in the sharps bin I'd taken to the bedside, I was scratched by a needle I hadn't noticed was sticking out of the box. It wasn't from my patient and there was no way of identifying who it had been used on. We had a couple of HIV+ve patients and a hepatitis B patient on the ward at the time. As per protocol, I was in touch with occupational health and had to go to A&E to get prophylactic medicine to stop me contracting HIV in the unlikely case that the needle had come from one of the positive patients. The doctor I saw asked if there was any chance I could be pregnant - I explained the situation. She wanted to do a test just in case. I was reluctant, not wanting a negative test to affect my morale in the baby-making game. We were expecting conception to take months and I felt I had to man-up to face the challenge.  I gave in, she took my pee.

She came back to the cubicle looking serious, sat down and beamed at me, 'CONGRATULATIONS'. To say I was shocked would be a total understatement. I walked back to my department with emotions I can't even begin to accurately name - surprise, delight, shock, horror, confusion. Funny to experience all these when we'd been planning a baby, but there they were. Then there was the horrid realisation that actually I'd had a 'period' and bled on and off for two weeks. Was this even a viable pregnancy? And suddenly I felt protective, terrified of losing this little life I'd only known to exist for what seemed like moments. And I went home to tell N, who was cleaning the bathroom ahead of starting a night shift the following day. By the way, I'm not sure he's cleaned a bathroom since. I think he was more shocked than I was.

So then there was a couple of days of trying to work out what to do. To take the medication? Was it safe? Who could tell me? Was the baby okay? Did I need to get scanned or something?

My GP insisted I go back to A&E, get the medication and ask to see a gynae doctor about the bleeding. We did. Got the medication. Gynae doctor reluctantly performed my first ever speculum. I remembered as he was doing it that he'd been my anatomy demonstrator in my second year of medical school. He booked me for a scan the next morning.

The following morning, although I was technically 6 weeks from my last period, all was too small to see. I was booked back in for a repeat scan the following week. That week was torture. It's funny how you can be so attached to something that you can't even see. How you can be rooting for its survival. N didn't really understand... at least it proved we could conceive, we could always have another baby if this one didn't work out. But that wasn't enough for me. I wanted this one.

In the meantime, the dilemma over the medication continued. Was there any point in taking it when there was such a small risk of transmission even if the needle had been from a positive patient? I was apprehensive because of the horrendous side effects (diarrhoea and vomiting) and because it seemed wrong to put them in my body alongside my teeny tiny bean of a baby.  I asked to see the obstetrics registrar for an opinion whilst I was in for the first scan. She had no helpful advice. Her words, 'we don't even know if this is a viable pregnancy' were not appreciated. I noted never to say that to a patient. She thought I should speak to the Sexual Health Consultant. I did. He assured me it was safe to take the drugs, with a minor adjustment to the regimen. He agreed to take over my care from that point of view. I took the drugs.

The following week passed so slowly. There was a lot of prayer involved. There was more bleeding involved. There were quite a few tears. Then the day came.  Back to the Early Pregnancy Unit at the hospital I was on placement at. The midwife running the unit was cold, unfeeling... I had a sense she'd seen it all before and I was just another one. The scan room was filled with people waiting for scans ahead of the termination clinic that morning.

Having had a lot of scans now, I can tell you that the wait between the probe being placed on your tummy and the sonographer speaking for the first time to explain what she's seeing on the screen seems like a lifetime. Every time. But when she spoke, her words confirmed that there was an embryo with a beating heart. Relief.

I booked the rest of my care with my community midwifery team, kept taking the drugs, learned a lot about morning sickness, lost 5kg in the first 12 weeks, moved to a district general hospital residence for my next placement, wrapped up a baby knitting pattern and some wool for my mum's 50th birthday as our way of announcing her present would be late, was seen in a Consultant-led clinic due to a bleeding disorder I carry, found out baby was a boy, started thinking about having a home birth and started studying for my medical school finals... all before Christmas Day, when I turned 16 weeks pregnant.

TO be continued...

First Post

So. The first blog post. I just looked again at the sub-heading I've given my blog. It sounds a bit miserable.

I'm a wife to a wonderful man, mum to a beautiful two-and-a-half-year-old boy and a growing girly bump. I take none of these three gifts for granted. However, it's dawning on me these days that maybe I don't have such an easy time having babies, and I need something to do with my time at the moment and a way to make sense of the situation - hence, here I am.

The aim is to bring a bit of reality, vulnerability, openness and honesty amongst ladies on similar journeys. To share a bit about what I know, what I don't and what I'm working on. You don't have to be in the depths of despair to read and identify with this blog, but you might need to be willing to admit that sometimes you look at the toys strewn across the floor, weetabix cemented to the kitchen table, washing that is literally rotting in the basket and wonder to yourself... how did I get here??

There will also be knitting and recipes.

Oh, and as for the title... My friend and I were recently musing on why it should be so difficult to have babies and raise children when we are told in the bible that we are perfectly created in the image of God. We are designed to do this...So why is it hard to give birth, establish breastfeeding, get a baby to sleep and teach a toddler not to eat cardboard? We blamed Eve.