So, yes, we’re having another one. I’m twelve weeks pregnant, and starting to feel a bit better than I have for quite some time. And the particularly good news is that they found one baby, no more and no less, it is fully equipped with arms, legs, a head, a nose and a heartbeat, and they didn’t find anything else.
The trip the LWH was a fairly positive affair: we didn’t have to wait for two hours with an exploding bladder, like we did for the first appointment with Daisy; the two people we dealt with were reasonably friendly; I wasn’t prodded and poked beyond what I could stand; and everything appears to be normal, which was the thing I was terrified might not be true. The midwife agreed with my assessment of how the interventions cascaded, one on top of the other, last time, and we shared a hope that that might be avoided, this time, if the baby contrives to come a bit earlier. At least I managed to avoid being induced; that would only have compounded the thing, I’m sure.
To be perfectly frank, I hate being in hospital. I’d be a classic home-birther, but for the fact that I ended up having both an epidural and an episiotomy, last time. A little piece of the back of my mind thinks it makes sense to have a straight-forward hospital delivery under your belt before you start dispensing with the hospital. I’m just hoping to keep it all to a minimum, and get home as soon as I can, that’s all.
Of course, by that logic, aspiring towards a home birth means committing to having a third, which I am most certainly not promising at this stage. We’ll see how two goes, thank you very much.