Cowardy custard

Work has been slightly more bearable since twin 1 started working with me. She is fabulous! We get on well and she will be a credit to the profession. I'll miss her when she has gone although I will be permanent antenatal by that time thank the lord!
I recently posted a comment on a blog called "nursing a grievance". A chap had blogged all about his wife's birthing experience and how dreadful the care was that she received. I commented at length about the dissonance between how we want to practice and how we do practice largely because of lack of resources and the pressures of short staffing.
A short time later I received an email from the man stating that he had been contacted by a researcher from channel 4's "Dispatches". She was involved in a documentary they wanted to aire about the reality of working within the NHS for the nurses and midwives. I have to say I was extremely tempted. However, this would be instant dismissal and for fifteen minutes of fame, as much as I dislike my job sometimes, it pays the bills and wouldn't be worth it.
But imagine.....I would be dressed as any self respecting midwife should be when on camera, no I don't mean dangly earrings and a floral skirt, I'm talking a trip to the high street for some new clobber fitting the occasion. I could have my hair and makeup done and sit and blurt on about women's rights and how midwives are women too, lack of resources, short staffing, women giving birth in corridors and the management's drive for mo' money. If only I was brave enough. I could change the world as long as everyone still liked me at the end of it. It is shameful I confess. Pathetic no less!

Follow the link to see the ratings of a mad woman. http://www.benlocker.com/blog/2008/03/16/nursing-a-grievance/

Breath of Fresh Air

On my way to work for the late shift on delivery suite on Monday. Extremely pissed off at the world and wondering when my life was going to take an upturn (so a cheery sort of mood I was in just in case you hadn't guessed already).
As I arrived on the delivery suite, ten minutes late I hasten to add, there she stood; like a breath of fresh air, she is keen, enthusiastic, motivated, passionate no less......the student midwife and a third year to boot. Get in! She is 22, has flawless skin and not an ounce of fat on her. Despite all this I still like her.She has the dads at all sixes and sevens and the letchy consultant obstetrician thinks all his birthdays have come at once.
This cheered me up immensely. I really enjoy mentoring student midwives. I teach them the ideal and it re - ignites my own passion, makes me remember what it is all about. This particular student is a darling, I mentored her in her first year when she was timid, lacking in confidence and seemed so bloody young. Now she is a confident, knowledgeable go getting practitioner of midwifery. I am trying my best to get her to take the lead but I find it so difficult. Partly because I don't know when to shut up and partly because I am a bit of a control freak.
It helps that she has worked with me before though, she knows how I work and it is nice to see that she adapted some of my more positive traits into her own practice. Such as writing a plan every time anything changes, my systematic way of recording events and I am thankful that she turns the lights down low and creates an atmosphere of calm and serenity so that the woman may labour feeling safe and secure.
I think the third year student midwife whom I shall refer to as twin 1 on account that her identical twin sister, twin 2 is also a student midwife on delivery suite at the moment, will do very well. She will be a credit to midwifery. I just hope she doesn't become burnt out and fed up like her old mentor. No doubt she will.

Who says romance is dead?

Sadly, Darling Boyf is away this weekend and unable to celebrate this, the most commercialised of saints days, with his lovely girlfriend. However, in the spirit of true romance he gave me a tenner and told me to nip to Asda where they were doing an offer of champagne and choc's for £14.00. (I was expected to front up the shortfall of £4.00).

It worked out well as it happens as it was in fact Marks' that were doing said offer. Asda had an even better one: A bottle of £25.00 champagne reduced to a tenner. So I bought two! Quoffed one last night while watching Corrie and chatting on the phone to Married to a Doctor for 2 hours.

DB working away does have its advantages. I'll have to save the other one I suppose to share with DB. I'll just tell him I ate the chocs. He'll never know!

Priceless

I had quite an entertaining if not somewhat disheartening day yesterday. Two separate incidents occurred which made me fear for our future generations.

Firstly, I had a phone call from an extremely worried mother who was 16 weeks pregnant. She had been making Yorkshire puddings and while beating the mixture some had inadvertently splashed into her eye. She wanted to know if the raw eggs would affect the baby. Is it just me?

Later on, as I was waiting to hand over to the postnatal ward a new dad came to the desk asking for a bottle for the baby. When I asked which kind of teat he wanted for said bottle he replied "the breastfeeding ones".

I despair! I realise that through natural selection not all of us were born to be rocket scientists, but come on! Has common sense gone completely out of the window? What of the unborn offspring of these people?

It is a sad fact that more intelligent people, for a variety of reasons, are less fertile. There is the joke about a man of average intelligence, who decides to be cryogenically frozen. He wakes 500 years in the future to find that he is the most intelligent person on the planet. It is really happening.

For now when I hear little gems such as these I shall smile sweetly and share them with my colleagues. It keeps us all sane. We are in it together! God help us.

Falling off the Smoking Wagon

Work wasn't quite as crap as I had envisaged. Still didn't want to be there though. I have had two days off and had quite a nice time really.

Wednesday night went to see Bossy Friend and managed to drink three bottles of pink sparkling between the two of us. Result! Getting into the taxi to take me home I fell off the smoking wagon very unceremoniously and ended up paying three times the fair from Bossy Friend's house to mine as I insisted he went via the twenty four hour garage so that I could purchase ten menthol. So the evening cost: Pink Sparkling 1 bottle £3.99 (Aldi special not bad either although this was bottle number three so I don't know how much you could trust our judgement).
Taxi Fair home £10.00
10 Richmond Menthol £2.44 (although I only smoked four and threw the rest away the following day)
Total: £16.43

The evening should have cost: Pink sparkling £3.99
Taxi Fair £3.50
Total: £7.49
However, I made a few savings here and there. Here is what the evening could have cost:
Pink Sparkling (usual brand) £8.99
Bus fair to Bossy friend's £1.25 (she gave me a lift)
Taxi fair home £3.50
Total: £14.74

Who am I kidding? I'm pathetically trying to justify paying a taxi driver too much to take me to buy cigarettes. I had been doing so well too. Paul McKenna is a wonderful man. I think the only solution is to stop drinking. But then what? I ask You (shaking my fists at the sky) "What is left? Are there no earthly pleasures that aren't bad for me?" Even sex is a bloody chore at the mo' thanks to operation Make a Baby.

Anyway, I have resolved to drink less for three reasons 1. I want to make a baby and alcohol is not conducive to this. 2. I want to stop smoking when I'm drunk so the best way to do that is to stop getting drunk for a while (so that I can make a baby). 3. I hate hangovers!

Let us see how I get on. On the up side I did have a lovely time at Bossy Friend's and she wasn't even one bit bossy. Maybe she knows??

Post Holiday Blues

Boo bleedin' hoo! Back to the soul sucking, life eating, creativity inhibiting, individuality limiting, hell hole that is my place of work. When I tell people what I do for a living it ilicits one of two reactions:
Scenario 1 "So, what do you do for a living?" (Mr *MCT)
"I'm a Midwife!" (me)
".................." followed by a polite smile.
Scenario 2. "So, what do you do for a living?" (Mrs MCT)
"I'm a Midwife!" (me)
"Aw, what a lovely job! I always wanted to be a Midwife. Especially after the birth of my first son Hugo, he was born by ventouse after a forty hour labour, isn't that right darling? and blah blah blah, I said just give me the f*****g epidural,blah blah, tore from here to here, blah blah,cracked nipples blah blah midwife couldn't help me breastfeed blah blah blah blah blah, blah blah".

Let me tell you straight ladies that being a midwife is NOT a lovely job. Apart from the obvious downside of having to discuss everyone else's birth experience within the context of a social gathering, it is a physically, emotionally and mentally draining job. When I became a midwife I was so impassioned. I was going to change the world! Four years on and the passion has dwindled somewhat.

The reality is quite different from the ideal. My idea of being a midwife is supporting women through this, the most natural of processes. Encouraging them to make informed decisions, helping them to understand the consequences of their decisions and having faith in their body's ability to give birth and cope with the pain associated with labour. I am an advocate for home births, water births, anything that avoids interventions. Sound easy? Yeh right!

The problems one is faced with are numerous. Firstly, your colleagues: Not all midwives are singing from the same hymn sheet. Many are content to give every woman they care for an epidural and to keep things as medicalised as possible. Some midwives are more medicalised than the medics!

Secondly: The midwife to woman ratio is anything but conducive to support and the building of a trusting midwife - mother relationship. Some days on the delivery suite I could be caring for up to three women.

Thirdly; the women themselves are ill informed, scared and have little faith in their ability to give birth. The issues are embedded deep in our culture. The NHS views women's services as being way down on their list of priorities and this is evident in how poorly resourced and under - funded this area is. Midwives are leaving and I don't blame them.

However, as I didn't get the jackpot on the euromillions this week then return I must. Some days I make a little bit of a difference to individual's or couples' birth experience and these are the days that I cherish. I drive home with a smile on my face and on these days I think "Aw, what a lovely job!". Sadly, as the unit becomes busier and busier these days are becoming fewer and fewer.

To top it all I have a rotten cold and DB is away all week. aaarrrggghhhh!! Large glass of red required me thinks!

Will let you know how it goes.

*Middle Class Tosser (see earlier post "Remember, Remember I'd Rather Forget for full description)

Scooby Dooby Doooooo!

I have just returned from a fun - packed, adventure holiday in Center Parcs. It came about after DB had to cancel his annual leave this week. I could not do the same as I had too much holiday to take. I was a tad disappointed as we had planned a few days in Dubai with DB's friend who lives over there.

"It's OK" thought I, "I'll just potter around, go down to Leeds and see Bezzy mate for a couple of days perhaps".

I so I put this to bezzy mate only to find that she had booked five days in Center Parcs with her 3 year old and her 15 year old boys. Her Hubby was going to join them on the Wednesday so why didn't I join them Monday and Tuesday? Fabulous!

I packed up and met them there. After hiring bycicles (an excellent way to get around if ever you venture to Center Parcs), we went for a bite to eat and a couple of drinks. Four white wine spritzers later we cycled back to the lodge. We got a tad lost, alcohol, of course, was not a contributary factor in this, and cracked open a nice bottle of sparkling.

There we sat in our jim jams. The boys watching TV while we chatted away. I was having a lovely time.

All of a sudden, as if he was just seeing me for the first time, her 3 year old started giggling and said "Look at Aunty's nose Mummy", and in case we didn't know what he meant he pointed at said monstrousity that sat proud and loud in the middle of my face and continued "Look at the size of it, she looks like Scooby Doo!"

Oh, how everyone laughed! Myself included. What else could I do? I have to say of all my flaws and bodily imperfections, I had never considered my nose as being anything to worry about. Of course, now I do. Every time I pass a mirror I look at my profile.......Scooby doo? My friend said I should take it as a compliment because he loves Scooby Doo. I think thats how I'll view it. I have enough paranoia about fat thighs, hairy toes, big bum, small boobs.....How can I possibly take on big Scooby Doo nose as well? There are only so many insecurities a girl can have before she's classed as neurotic. So, I shall remain happy with my Scooby Doo nose. I shall laugh to myself whenever I think about that gorgeous little boy who said this with no mallice at all only giggles and love.

yawn, yawn, yawn

Fuck me, no wonder my blog is a little bit lacking in the follower department. I have just read my last post. If I had logged on to read this I would have been convinced that I had entered the blog of some 50 year old Radio 2 listener.

I am 32, I do have an interesting life, please read earlier blogs and judge me not by the last one. I will not remove it however, but use it instead as a bar by which to measure the level of 1. Humour and wit, 2. interest and 3. yawn factor. Should further posts fall lower than this on any of these points I will delete it immediately and at once self flagelate.

Yours
The Boring One! (we all have an inner bore however, just to warn you. I hav found mine, perhaps yours is still lurking)

Old Fashioned Girl

Trying as ever, to be kinder to the environment and reduce my carbon footprint, supported all the way by Darling Boyf (although his motivation is slightly more fiscal than environmental), I have invested in a cast iron, pulley operated clothes airer. "A versatile and sustainable alternative to the tumble dryer" so says the leaflet.

I am rather obsessive about the laundering of clothes. I love nothing more during the summer months than to spend my days hanging the washing on the line. I then settle myself down in the conservatory with a good book, regularly looking out on to the garden to behold my clean shirts, towels and sheets blowing in the summer breeze. I leave the doors of the conservatory opened wide and the gentle warm wind makes its way through my washing into the conservatory and through the house. The clean feeling and the fresh, summer air remains in the house as night falls and the smell of new air stays with us until morning when the process may be commenced again.

The winter is quite different in this respect. The joy I gain is different. The softness of the towels as they are taken from the tumble dryer, the smell of the fabric softener as it travels through the kitchen from the damp clothes that I have placed on the aga to dry. Still nice but not half as satisfying.

I am very careful about using the tumble dryer. Firstly, because I worry about shrinking garments and secondly because of the huge amount of energy consumption required to run the tumble dryer.

When I was a child my Grandma (whom I adored) had a twin tub and a pulley clothes airer that was suspended from the ceiling in the kitchen. It brings back such lovely memories and is a reminder of simpler times.

I cannot wait for darling boyf to erect said clothes airer over the aga. I am hoping that will negate the use of the tumble dryer altogether. Exept, of course, for towels which take so much longer to dry and end up hanging round for days making my already untidy house look even more untidy.

I realise that this may make me appear somewhat sad. I am sure if anyone reads this they may think "that girl needs to get out more". And, they would probably be right. And I will...just one more load.

Mother Nature 1 Obstetricians 0

It happens to all midwives at some point in their career, through circumstance and the force of nature, they find themselves in a position whereby they must talk somebody through the delivery of a baby over the telephone. I had such a close shave just yesterday:

I was working on the assessment unit. The day had been up to that point, most agreeable, jovial one may say. We were sat drinking coffee ( a rarity I promise). The discussion had moved/lowered to sexual relations and the ir/regularity or lack thereof with respective husbands/boyfriends. I was listening patiently, waiting my turn. I knew that this was a competition I would definitely win. (When trying to conceive you find yourself uncharacteristically shagging like rabbits). Just as I was preparing my coup the 'phone rang. I could not avoid answering said 'phone as it was placed surreptitiously in my pocket for fear of any of my junior colleagues inviting a woman to come in unnecessarily.

"Hello" said the very calm, laid back male voice on the other end "My wife is in labour".

"Mmm," thought I rather too smugly, "I'll be the judge of that".

I asked him to explain to me what was happening. Midway through his explanation I heard the familiar sound of a woman in full blown labour and with it my previous smugness was replaced by genuine concern. The deep guttural noise a woman makes when in advanced labour, as they are trying their best to cope with the pain is unmistakeable to the experienced ear. Followed was an exclamation from said woman

"Tell her my waters have just broken."

Physiologically speaking, the membranes and waters that surround the baby should not go until the cervix is fully dilated. This is because when the cervix is fully there is no longer anything to support the heavy bag of fluid and the membranes weaken and break under the pressure. Obviously, many women experience spontaneous rupture of the membranes (SROM) before this point and it can be due to either a malposition of the baby or possible infection. Sometimes there is no explanation. When it happens in a case like this where the woman has laboured spontaneously and is apparantly in advanced labour it generally means delivery of the baby is iminent particularly in multiparous women (women who have more than one child).

"Shit!" I thought. "I think you had better make your way in".

I put the phone down a little unsettled, unsure if she would indeed make it to the hospital.

Less than two minutes later the calm sounding voice called back. "I don't think she's going to make it".

I called an ambulance for her, still unsure if it would arrive on time. I immediately called the calm man back. I could hear the sounds of the woman now making an effort to push. I told him that I would stay on the phone until the paramedic team arrived. I told him to get prepared just in case. Instructing him to have some warm towels at the ready (yes they really are necessary although I am never sure what the hot water is for. Probably to make everyone a nice cup of tea after the birth).

While he went for the towels I spoke to the woman instructing her to just breathe through the contractions rather than pushing. This is like telling the wind not to blow or the tide to go out.

Although my outward demeanour was calm and voice steady, inside my stomach was in knots. All the potential problems running through my brain. Although I am a strong advocate for home births the birth of a baby before arrival of a midwife or trained professional (BBA) is less than ideal. Firstly, the mother is likely to be extremely scared. Secondly, neither mum nor baby have been monitored throughout the labour this makes it difficult to ascertain whether the baby will require any resuscitation following the birth and thirdly, there are risks associated with any birth that are easily dealt with by a trained professional but can be catostrophic if the woman is without aid.

My inner flap was only exacerbated when the woman told me that she was sat on the toilet. I explained very carefully that this was not a good idea and that perhaps she should remove herself from the kazee for fear of the baby dropping out into the toilet. (This does happen).

Calm man came back on the phone (I have to confess that he sounded far calmer than I felt). The woman had now removed herself from the toilet thankfully. I remained on the phone talking him through the contractions and telling him to offer her words of encouragement and emphasising the need to remain calm.

"Well," he said "flapping isn't going to help anyone I suppose". Mmm, good point.

After what seemed like an eternity I could hear the paramedics had arrived. "Alreet Dahlin'" and then "Don't worry that is just your baby's head coming". Made it in the nick of time they did.
I put the phone down, relieved!

After about half an hour a woman arrived on a stretcher with a beautiful baby girl in arms.Calm man, still calm, shook my hand and said how much he appreciated my help. I secretly didn't think he needed it. I think he was the kind of fella who would have delivered the baby and sat down to watch an episode of Taggart completely unphased.

I have to confess as much as this had set my adrenaline running I did get a bit of a kick out of it. Not least because I love it when nature gets the better of the system. It restores my faith in women and their ability to get on and have babies. All you mothers out there I take my hat off to you. Each and every one! Give yourselves a huge pat on the back (that includes you mother nature).

Birthdays, Christmas and New Year

It is DB's birthday tomorrow. I always feel a little sad for people who have birthdays close to Christmas. My friend had her baby this Christmas day. This baby is destined for a life of joint Christmas and birthday presents. The celebration of her birth will invariably be overshadowed by the festivities of Christmas. Perhaps I am just a little selfish. I don't want to share my birthday with anyone. Even Jesus.
Poor DB. Usually I don't even go to the effort of wrapping his presents in birthday paper. I just wrap them with the Christmas paper. This year however I have relented and got him some birthday paper. You know the kind they do for men. Dark colours with footballs and/or speedboats. Last year he was thirty and I forgot to buy the poor bugger a birthday card (if he ever did the same to me this would be a spare room offence). So I set my alarm and got up extra early to drive to the local petrol station. I did confess to what I had done and he said I shouldn't have bothered but I know he was glad I did.
Anyhow, this year I am working a night shift on New Year's eve (DB's birthday). This is so that I could have Christmas and boxing day off. I couldn't really argue.
On the subject of New Year I have decided that my resolutions for the New Year are as follows:
1. Stop smoking (this has been my new year's resolution nearly every year since I was 15 with a three year break in from 2003 to 2006 when I actually managed it).
2. Be less bitchy (also one that rears its ugly head every year).
3. Find a job that I actually like. (I'm thinking along the lines of millionaire play girl, property developer, novelist, or my truly heart felt one: Mum.)
4 Be happy. (easy peasy eh?)
I'll let you know how I get on.

Not so secret Santa

It was decided (in my absence may I add) that our little group of friends at work would do a "Secret Santa". For those who are unfamiliar with the concept allow me to enlighten you: Secret Santa takes place among a chosen group and involves one person coordinating and randomly choosing who is to buy a present for whom. It is usually just a small token and generally it saves people from feeling obliged to buy for lots of people. Each person knows who they are to buy for but the recipient does not generally know who the present is from hence the name: "Secret Santa". There is usually also a price limit set to save embarrassment. However, our coordinator (Weird Sarah), did not fully grasp this and refused to set a limit. I chatted with another member of the group and we decided that £10 was a suitable amount.
Tonight I have been to Weird Sarah's house to exchange Secret Santa gifts, whereupon I was informed that the limit was £20! I am not amused for the following reasons: 1) The whole idea of secret Santa is to get a nice token for a reasonable price.b) Although my gift was perfectly lovely and from the White Company in Leeds, I now look like at penny pinching Yorkshire lass. Thirdly, £20 is extortionate! I have not spent £20 on some of my closest friends.(I realise that this may just fuel the aforementioned possibility of me being thought of as a penny pinching Yorkshire lass but I care not).
Anyway, in my confusion and bemusement I have left the house without distributing the Christmas cards that I had to give everyone. You set a limit, you must stick to the limit, the limit is there for a reason, without limits there is anarchy!

My very own soap box

Even more positive today. Went to see my GP who was lovely.Over the weekend I started to bleed and have extreme abdominal pain. My blood levels had reduced almost to nothing. It appears it was a miscarriage. A small blessing, not only was it not an ectopic pregnancy and I didn't have to go through the associated pain and heartache, but also I know that the fertilized egg managed to travel down my tube and try and implant in my uterus. Good news. This is my silver lining.

My GP and I had a chat about the births of his children which were both at the hospital where I practice. I asked him which midwife had looked after his wife. He could not remember. She had a ventouse and a third degree tear so the birth was extremely medicalised. "Shame" thought I.
I wondered "Which came first?" Was this iatrogenesis? (a problem caused by a medical intervention, lots of it in the birth game)? Was the midwife intimidated because they were health care professionals and hence became over cautious? "I think I just heard a deceleration I'll just pop you on the CTG monitor for a while." therefore confining her to the bed unable to move with the rhythm and flow of natural labour.
Perhaps the woman herself insisted on an epidural. Perhaps she was admitted too early in labour.
When a woman is admitted in labour we assess dilatation of the cervix. The policy at our hospital is that if the cervix is 3 cm dilated the woman may be admitted to delivery suite in labour. I am vehemently against this policy. The reason for my objection is that once the woman is admitted the obstetric clock starts to tick. From here she must dilate at least half a centimetre an hour if this is her first baby and a centimetre an hour for subsequent babies. If she fails to meet this criteria then the obstetricians intervene. Perhaps by artificially rupturing the membranes, perhaps starting a hormone infusion to increase the strength of the contractions. Either way this begins a cascade of interventions which directly contributes to the increasing number of instrumental and operative deliveries. And, incidentally has not improved infant mortality or morbidity.
As a midwife if I could offer women any valuable piece of advice it would be: have your baby at home. Research has shown that this is as safe, if not safer, as having your baby in a hospital for normal low risk pregnancies. If you do not choose to have your baby at home then remain at home for as long as you can in labour. Do not even think of going into hospital until your contractions are one every two minutes, lasting a good 60 secs and rendering you unable to move speak or do anything other than concentrate on the contractions.
Once this pattern has established for at least one to two hours then call the hospital. If I answer I will advise you to stay at home a while longer, take paracetamol and have a warm bath.
I do not do this because I am a terrible Midwife who cannot be bothered seeing you. I do this because I am concerned that you will arrive too early and become the passive recipient of interventions that you do not require. You are women! You can do this! Have faith in your body and it will not let you down. I have seen many women following the birth of their babies. None are more proud and elated than those who give birth naturally, perhaps in the pool, perhaps on dry land, on all fours hunched over a bean bag. Listening to what their bodies are telling them. And of course, a midwife; quiet, observant. Listening to the baby's heart rate once in a while. Watching the labour progress. Offering words of gentle support and encouragement. You can do this!
I used to love my job. I was passionate and motivated. I was going to single handedly change maternity services in this country. However, working within the NHS one soon becomes despondent. Poor resources, medicalisation, midwives being sued by the women for whom they care. It becomes increasingly difficult to practice good midwifery. The other day on delivery suite I looked at the board. Except for one woman in the pool, every woman had an epidural. You can not fight this. This is what the majority want. They are scared, they have lost faith in their bodies. They have had tiny baby sized shrouds waved at them too many times "If you don't conform your baby will die and it will be all your fault".
My passion is all but gone. Every so often I look after a remarkable couple and have a lovely day doing what I do best. I come home and I think "today I made a difference". That couple will remember their midwife. That is why I am still here. That is why I continue. Perhaps I am making a difference, just a little bit at a time?

Work, all is forgiven.

Feeling a bit more positive today. I decided to go and see my friend down the road. She is the wife of Darling Boyf's (DB) friend and we used to see one another much more frequently when I first moved up here. However, due to circumstances and the fact that she is very bossy I see less of her and we get along just fine.
Bossy friend was at home nursing a hangover and a 3 year old with a stomach bug. She has had her kitchen done and it looks fab!
We sat and chatted a while about nonsense (difficult to hold a conversation when the 3 year old tells you to stop talking as she can't hear the television)and I gave her the Christmas presents for the children (she also has an 8 year old).
That was the highlight of the day. Here I sit watching American sitcom's. I think it is time I went back to work. It keeps me grounded and less self indulgent.

My hero

I awoke this morning with the sadness still heavy on my heart. Today my DB came home. He arranged a flight out from Houston and landed this afternoon. It all feels so much better now he is here.
He has a plan, he has a hug, he has reassurance. I snuggle up to him his tiny chest hairs that I used to complain about when we first met, tickle my nose. This is my favourite place in the world. This is where I feel safest. This is where I know we can conquer the world. This is the man whose baby I know I will have one day. Just not this time. Third time lucky?
If I never have a child it will be a great sadness but to never have known love like this would have been a tragedy. Although life is less than happy and joyful at the moment I count my blessings: good friends, good family and a man in my life that makes everything else pale into insignificance. We are at home where we should be. Making plans for the future. Knock us down and we dust ourselves off and get right back up again. A force to be reckoned with.