Pride Angel Journey | Niche Parenting

The thing with parents is, there's just so many different sorts. And no matter what efforts we made in those early weeks, it just felt as though we were trying to climb through the wrong shaped hole in the shape-sorter. We've never considered ourselves particularly 'mainstream' in any area of our lives and so some sort of 'niche' parenting was always going to suit us best. Perhaps we'd get on better with the gay parents? Keen for Luna to grow up feeling 'normal', it seemed a good idea to find some other kids for her to hang out with whose conception had involved a sperm-donor, syringe and two lesbians. As I was spending around 12-14 hours a day breastfeeding, I had plenty of time to do a bit of Internet searching. And I did manage to locate a few gay parenting groups online: pockets of same-sex parents with children of all ages keen to discuss teething and tantrums and toilet-training. However somehow, the niche just wasn't quite right. It was too big and vague - more 'spacious alcove' than 'niche.' What we needed was a niche where people actually had a new baby and did the stuff we did, the stuff the books and our instincts had told us to do, which was co-sleeping and baby-wearing and breastfeeding on demand - sometimes for hours at a time. And eventually, I stumbled upon a name for this business - Attachment Parenting. The potential for an alternative niche was developing, and sure enough I found our local AP Facebook group where we could discuss bed-guards and slings and cluster feeding to our heart's content. But I can't help thinking that really, the answer lies in the Lesbian Attachment Parenting niche. The search continues... Article: by Lindsey, West Yorkshire 5th June 2014 Read more Lesbian parenting blogs at www.prideangel.com

Pride Angel Journey | Born yesterday

I swallowed two paracetamol tablets in a vain attempt to shift the heavy pain that had settled across my right eye, and shuffled, bleary-eyed, into the lounge of the birth centre, where I found Sally holding our baby. After sleeping through the visits of her six grandparents the previous day, at 8pm little Luna (I was still using her "womb name") decided it was time for a drink - and had pretty much sucked for the next 14 hours. I had spent the night lying next to her, blinking away exhaustion and periodically setting her in her cot, only to see her eyes open, face turn side to side rooting for milk and arms and legs wave a distress signal. It was now midday and time for our baby, now almost 36 hours old, to go home. After our nocturnal marathon, there seemed no doubt that the breastfeeding was pretty much sorted; we'd managed a nappy change without getting tarry meconium in too many places and we'd learnt a couple of tips on sizing: that 'New Baby' nappies actually come in 4 sizes and you need the smallest ones at first, that the '0' in '0-3' should more accurately read ¾-3 (at least for smaller babies) and that the tiny clothes labelled 'Newborn' are not 'pointless'. So after packing our belongings, we carefully followed the instruction leaflet to get Luna settled into the stretchy wrap sling on my chest and headed out into the May sunshine. The next few days were a haze of milk and lavender baths, pint glass after pint glass of water and squash, mountains of cards and gifts arriving with the postman and the endless hours of feeding: in the daytime when Sally would bring me drinks and nutritious meals that my baby-fuzzy brain could not have worked out how to prepare; in the nighttime when I'd sit in the rocking chair, my lap a little overcrowded when the cat joined us as well. And the Catch-22: the virtuous circle of feed/sleep/feed/sleep which became a vicious cycle of feed/nappy change/feed/nappy change in our quest for a clean bottom. Despite the fuzzy brain, and the nights of feeding though, in those first two weeks, it was all going quite nicely for us. I'd been terrified about the prospect of caring for a screaming bundle of chaos. But little Luna (perhaps we'll stick with the womb name for now) seemingly perfectly content living at home with her two mummies, just wanted to drink and sleep - no screaming, no chaos. And then came Week 3... Article: by Lindsey, West Yorkshire 9th February 2013

Pride Angel Journey - Birth Training in Adverse Weather Conditions

It was a sunny Sunday morning at the end of March. While we waited for our NCT instructor to arrive at our house (the block of sessions we had booked months previously had been cancelled due to lack of interest so we were having an intensive private session) we stomped around the driveway, digging our cars out of a three-foot high snowdrift – well, thirty-five weeks pregnant I stomped about waving a broom rather ineffectively, while my partner, Sally, did some serious work with a spade. It was the first time we had bothered with this sort of lark –in the past I’d looked a little condescendingly on those who have the time to potter about their driveway with a shovel when half an inch of snow falls – but in today’s conditions, without removing mounds of snow, our cars would be going nowhere, and we had our nephew’s christening to attend that afternoon. So it was that we were wielding our implements when a laden figure lolloped into sight through the drifts. We called out greetings from a hundred yards away – the layer of snow seemed to make the world smaller, such that from quite long distances you were really rather friendly even to people you didn’t know. There was a quiet, a thick solid feeling, where a shouted greeting carried crisply and clearly to its intended recipient. We expressed gratitude to our instructor for hiking through the drifts with her bags of plastic pelvises and baby dolls, but she seemed unphased, despite the early hour – it wasn’t yet ten o’clock, and on a Sunday morning – but we knew she had kids, so that means you’re up at…well…what o’clock? Six perhaps? Seven if you’re very lucky? So much to look forward to. “We’ve read quite a lot already, so we know the basic stuff,” we said. And we did. Despite recent concerns over my amniotic fluid levels, I was still determined to have the natural birth I’d planned, the wild animal burrowed safely in the undergrowth, the hunter-gatherer woman finding a quiet corner of the forest. Nevertheless, birth was still rather an alien concept to us and I knew even then that shoving a baby doll through a plastic pelvis and examining an (albeit colourful) NCT birth progress wall frieze would do little to change that. I was certainly getting to grips with the idea of a long period where the little bumps in the chart got bigger and closer together, and then this odd bit called transition that would be bad, and then pushing for quite a bit and then the baby coming out. I was also vaguely aware of a bit after that concerning the placenta which didn’t seem very interesting. But I really had no idea of what a contraction might feel like and trying to imagine all this as a process I was going to experience, at some point in the next few weeks, partly here at home, partly at the hospital (or if we were very lucky and they let us in, the birth centre) seemed impossible. Then we moved on to the baby bit. And here I really didn’t have a clue. I knew three things about babies: firstly that they cried, and we should try to ‘regulate’ this crying so they didn’t get too stressed – we’d read up on that; secondly that they didn’t sleep very well; and thirdly that they wore vests and baby gros of which you needed many – presumably because they were sick a lot/nappies didn’t work very well. So I made a careful study of the NCT images of baby birth marks, rashes and a whole range of bizarre blemishes and blotches which it seemed babies were frequently born with – apparently much to the surprise of their parents, who are expecting it to slip out all fresh faced and rosy, as if they have just been for an invigorating constitutional in the Autumn air. Then we studied pictures of baby poo. Black and tarry for newborns, then greenish, brownish, and yellowish with bits in. Lovely. Finally, the instructor demonstrated a Stretchy Wrap. We had a mound of various slings and carriers, all of which had been passed on by a friend, except one, the Ergo Baby carrier which we had bought ourselves, months ago – in fact it had been the first piece of baby equipment we had actually purchased: sleepless and sick at 3am one morning back in November, I had researched the topic in some detail. Wraps and slings scared me – I’ve never been particularly dexterous (and was already slightly concerned about how I’d manage all the plaiting and pig-tailing if we were to have a girl) and so thought I’d be more at home with the structured carriers. My nocturnal reading had taught me about the importance of hip position, about how most of the carriers available on the high street are designed to allow the baby to dangle from the crotch, which didn’t sound ideal. So we’d bought the Ergo Baby carrier, a carrier which places the baby in a comfortable seated position with their bottom low and knees high in a sort of squat. It was supposed to be very comfortable for parents too. And came in a lovely shade of purple. Nevertheless, the stretchy wrap demonstrated to us by our instructor, despite just being a long piece of material, seemed very cosy, very easy to tie and clearly encouraged the good hip position; after she’d left, promising to send us various links and book recommendations, we ordered one – a ‘Sabe’, in green and grey, reversible. Then it was on through the snow to the Christening, and as always happens, when we arrived at Ramsbottom, our destination on the other side of the Pennines, there wasn’t a hint of the white stuff; we were the only guests dressed for blizzard conditions in what turned out to be rather a bright spring day. But on Monday morning, for us at least, it was back to navigating carefully between the gigantic white mole hills down either side of our little cul-de-sac as I headed to my now weekly scan/consultant appointment. Amniotic fluid still disappointingly low. Not especially low. But enough keep me under consultant care and out of the birth centre. Enough to warrant induction at forty weeks. Once home, we tried another angle and I phoned the consultant midwife for the area. Clearly thoroughly passionate about birth, she had answered her work mobile on a day off and spent an hour enthusiastically discussing our situation: the hospital’s ‘diagnosis’ and desire to intervene; our desperate quest for the gentleness and tranquillity of the birth centre. She went away to do a bit of research and then phoned back, supportive of our wishes: she thought I could have a midwife-led birth. We had an ally. Back at work it was the final week before the Easter holidays. I was dashing around desperately trying to ensure that everything was up-to-date and ready for me to leave. I was due to go back for two days after the holiday, but knowing that the hospital could suddenly decide to induce me after any one of my weekly scans, I wanted to make sure all loose ends were tied: A’ level and GCSE coursework completed and marked, classroom tidy and cleared of my stuff, responsibilities transferred to others. I dashed around, dragging my pregnancy risk-assessment trolley full of books, out of breath and gulping from a litre bottle of water at every opportunity. And as each task was ticked off the list, I could almost feel my bump breathe a sigh of relief – at last, you’re going to concentrate on me. Article: 20th October 2013 by Lindsey, West Yorkshire Read more Lesbian parenting blogs at www.prideangel.com

Pride Angel Journey | Fluid and frustation

It was the middle of March and, thirty-four weeks pregnant, I was lying on a fluffy purple rug with my head under a table, on the floor of a tiny room in the local Surestart centre – the only way the dimensions of the room allowed me to stretch out fully so that the midwife could measure my bump. The alternative was seeing her at the doctor’s surgery, but not being ill, I preferred to keep my distance from the waiting room of hacking old men, three-year-olds working as professional Germ Transmitters, and tight-lipped receptionists. And I quite liked the relaxed simplicity of lying on a fluffy rug with my head under a table. Had I known at the time that twice a week this room was transformed into a sensory room for babies, which if you’ve never been in one of these, is a bit like walking into a second-hand kitchen utensil shop after taking some strong hallucinogenic drugs, the experience would have been all the more surreal. “Mmm, you’re measuring a bit small.” Despite the fact that everyone commented on how small my bump was, until now my chart had shown a steady, even arc. “I’ve got a long back,” I would tell people. “The baby’s probably just more spread out.” “I’ll try again,” the midwife said. Pause to measure. “No, [sigh], I’m going to have to send you for a scan. It’s probably fine, they just have to check it. They’ll be sick of me there – you’re the third lady I’ve referred today. Oh, and if you notice any change in the baby’s movements, call this number.” And I entered a new world of pregnancy. The world where there might be something wrong. Morning (well, all-day sickness) had been horrible and pelvic pain turned me into a grumpy insomniac, but so far I had had the luxury of knowing that for the baby, all was going very nicely. Now I didn’t know. It was Thursday. The scan was urgent enough for me to expect to be given an appointment for the following Monday. Not urgent enough to merit having it before the weekend. A weekend of anxious wondering. Meanwhile, that weekend we had a three-hour birth preparation yoga session. I’d been attending pregnancy yoga since January and now this was a special extended session for partners to attend as well. There were three couples and I was pleased to arrive with my girlfriend and counter again the assumption that, pregnant, you must be straight. Thence an afternoon of shuffling between various poses on mats, birthing balls and chairs, finding ways of leaning on Sally from different angles whilst maintaining an ‘open-pelvis’ position. Deep breaths, short quick breaths, meditative breaths. And rolling our sleeves up as the March sun breathed its own warm breath against the long windows. Monday came and I lay impatiently on the couch as the radiographer rolled the probe across my abdomen. My eyes flickered on and off the screen she was examining – I wanted to see my baby but I didn’t want to know its sex – in reality of course, this was highly unlikely given all I could really see anyway was bubbles of white a grey growing, merging and shrinking. “How’s it looking?” I ventured, after watching the radiographer make half a dozen tiny rulers across the screen. “The amniotic fluid level is just a bit low.” She didn’t sound worried. We went back to work; the appointment with the consultant wasn’t until Wednesday. That evening I examined my notes; the amniotic fluid chart showed a little cross just outside the boundaries of normal. I did what I know you should never do, and googled it; I read a load of stuff about how it’s virtually impossible to get an accurate reading of amniotic fluid. And about how my measurement, whilst on the low side, was only really ‘borderline’. I downed a pint of water, and another, aware that I was responding to my appalling understanding of biology, but just in case… “And your long back,” Sally pointed out when she got home. “They measure the depth of the pockets of fluid so yours will of course be shallower because they’re spread over a longer back.” On Wednesday we sat in the waiting room for an hour. The registrar had been held up by a lady who had felt faint in the consultation room. They were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive at the hospital. To take her to the hospital. By the time the paramedics arrived, she was already feeling better and ready to go home. And then it was our turn. “Ok, so baby growing fine but amniotic fluid low, so we see how it goes. We scan each week and see. We induce at thirty-nine weeks.” It was unfortunate we’d happened upon a registrar who struggled with both her spoken English and bedside manner. “We want to go to the birth centre,” I said, helplessly. Our local birth centre was more like a spa than a corridor in a hospital. It had dimmed lighting, rooms named after aromatherapy oils, pools, reflexology and a kitchen where Sally could heat up her homemade chicken korma. It was where I was going to burrow down and give birth like an animal in the wild. A place removed from beds, stirrups, epidurals and forceps. And I knew what induction meant. Bed-bound and attached to a monitor, sudden and extreme contractions and thus the likelihood of an epidural and whatever further interventions might follow. “And I don’t want to be induced, I want a natural birth. I’ve got a long back and the measurement is only borderline, isn’t it?” “Okay, induction at forty weeks but no birth centre. Not with complications or induction. You phone if change in baby’s movements.” Change in baby’s movements. Baby’s movements were totally unpredictable. It varied enormously when and how much it moved. We pointed this out and she gave us a leaflet entitled ‘Your Baby’s Movements’. It was printed in a very large font and told us we should phone the hospital if we noticed any ‘change in baby’s movements’. We went home and I drank a pint of water. And another. And another. Article: 16th October 2013 by Lindsey, West Yorkshire Read more Lesbian parenting blogs at www.prideangel.com