Dear Diary, I need to pick your brain. Desperately.

So here’s the deal: in November we’re hauling our asses on a plane to South Africa to visit family and friends. It’s a 12-ish hour stop-over flight that travels overnight. And I can think of nothing more unpleasant.

Seriously.

I prefer the thought of gouging my eye with a blunt knife (even a spoon) to imagining the tedious horror of keeping my daughter occupied for the flight’s duration. “She’ll sleep” you tell me, “HA HA” I tell you.

Amelia is no stranger to travel. She’s been to Italy, Holland and Portugal but 12 hours is quite different to three hours. On our most recent trip to Portugal, my little lovely was a picture perfect angel on the way there but on the way back… on the way back Chucky took over. AND CHUCKY IS HORRIBLE.

Would it be wrong to shoot my child with a tranquiliser dart if I promise to do it at close range?  Just kidding – don’t call the cops on me.  But, seriously speaking, if you have any ideas an anything natural that will knock a child out for say 12 hours, dear diary, sharing is caring!

Dear Diary, last night I dreamed that my precious Amelia was a changeling. It was too horrific. Some dastardly little troll or elf (or maybe even a fairy) had swapped my little lovely for a horrid little impostor. In my dream, I knew that Impostor Toddler was not my Amelia but no one would believe me (and for once, I was able to empathise with Angelina Jolie)… that is until my husband saw Impostor Toddler standing in a fire grate but not burning. Then he knew something was wrong.

Oh the trauma! My subconscious is clearly trying really hard to scar me for life.

I have deconstructed my dream as follows; too much Supernatural (if there is such a thing) mixed with Black Swan mixed with a chat with my brother about Orphan mixed with my daughter’s new found Chucky the demon dolly impersonation – aka Amelia the stubborn toddler who all of a sudden refuses to eat fruit and throws a strop in protest against pear – poor pear… poor me!

I guess that the side effect of my endless patience (call me Saint Andrea) is that my frustrations are brought to life in my subconscious and are manifested in dream form. I guess I can live with that… I do have a penchant for horror.

Dear Diary, my daughter loves cuddles. She cuddles her teddies (naturally)… but she also cuddles her bath sponge, her favourite green pyjama top, her play-play telephone and just about anything that tickles her fancy. Sadly, cuddles for mommy and daddy have become a tad more sparse as toddlerhood slowly but surely takes over consciousness and a strong will and independent attitude emerge. My little girl is growing up… Boo Hooooo! Mommy NEEDS a cuddle today. Diary – I think I will accost my daughter from behind and demand some affection. What a genius plan! Forced love. Ha ha ha ha ha (evil laugh).

Dear Diary, the best thing about you is that you accommodate my indulgent pontifications. And boy, have I been pontificating.

Without trying to belittle my role as a mother, the closer it gets to my 11-month-old’s first birthday, the more conscious I become of the fact that I am a mere custodian – my baby girl is not actually mine. Amelia harbours my genes, and will undoubtedly grow according to my influence – nature and nurture – but she bears her own temperament and personality, and one day she will leave my home to start her own life and fulfil her own dreams.

I do not write this with any negativity or sadness but with a philosophical sense of realism in my heart. I imagine that it is so easy to become possessive of one’s children, to view them in reference to oneself – one’s own dreams and desires, thoughts and opinions. It is a possessiveness, which can be potentially crippling. I am speaking into the future here, but I think that it is good, early on, to be able to love generously and passionately whilst bearing in mind the fact that a child, although an extension of a mother and father, is a unique individual who should not be bound by obligation but by free will. The notion of being bound to one’s family, for example, out of free will seems illogical. But it isn’t. If one participates in the notion of ‘family’ because one feels an obligation to do so, it is imprisonment – a vampiric draining of the soul. If one participates in the notion of ‘family’ because of an anticipatory sense of pleasure and joy (even responsibility), the family bond is by no means imprisonment – it is free and exhilarating love.

Familial responsibility can go bad… and it is my job as Amelia’s mom to make sure that she loves and treasures her family for the joy, support and love that binds families together, not the obligation. When my daughter grows up and chooses her path in life, I hope that she will always know that her daddy and I ‘have her back’ – not because we are obligated as parents but because of the deep love of a parent for a child. I wish for Amelia to be free – to be free to live, to love and to feel. Free to be who she is – who God created her to be.

Diary, sometimes I wonder how I manage my life. I knew that having a baby would change things – but there is a difference between intellectual knowledge, which is somewhat remote, and emotive experience, which is inescapably real.

To the very core of my being I believe that it is best to stay at home and raise my daughter in the way the hubby and I know is best. So bye bye boring publishing job and hello writing career. This is monumentally scary but also brilliantly exciting. I have resigned from my job and I now manage my daughter’s life whilst trying to build my career as a writer, and also… be a good wife, nurture my friendships and do the things that I love, which keep me inspired so that I am able to write. And I revel in it. I love my daughter madly but I refuse to lose myself to the mommyness that comes to dominate the lives of so many mothers. It is a conscious choice that I intend to stand by.

Reading, writing, art, music – my passions – are even more sacred to me than they were before my Amelia was born. The birth of my little miracle has enhanced my ability to experience life and all its glorious beauty. For me, a big part of motherhood is to teach my daughter to love the precious life that she has been given – to live passionately, and to love wholeheartedly and generously. I hope to lead by example – a fantastic challenge.

Bring it.

I found it (mental high five)! “What?” you may ask. My brain dear diary, my beloved brain. It took me ten months but I finally found it hiding amidst masses and masses and masses of baby paraphernalia. This baby paraphernalia seems to have monopolised all thinking patterns. But brain is back with a vengeance.

Following the birth of my lovely Amelia, my dear brain went on hiatus and consequentially I have been unable to think for many months. I have a sneaking suspicion that my precious brain thought that I was replacing its intellect with mushy momyness. But over time brain has come to realise that mommy and intelligence and can coexist. Yes! Well done brain. I am so glad to have you back. It’s time to take over the world.

So, was it as bad as I thought it would be? Yes with a capital Y. Oh the pain! Dear Diary, here is my Labour story:

It lasted 15 hours. Need I say more? Probably not but I will. I had a plan (kind of) which involved not having an epidural but after ten and a half hours of utter agony and a cervix that had dilated only 6cm (of the 10cm dilation required to begin pushing) I asked myself “what the shit am I trying to prove here?” and succumbed to the epidural. Contextually, it wasn’t painful. This could be relative to the preceding ten and a half hours of pain. Who knows? Anyway, much to the disgust of naturalists, tree-huggers and hemp-wearers, I had the epidural and the relief was almost instantaneous. Except in my right ass-cheek, which proceeded to contract on its own until the anaesthetist came and adjusted the tube position. Apparently one’s ass does contract during labour. Who knew? Then before I knew it, the epidural had worn off, I had dilated the remaining 4cm and it was time to PUSH. The timing was perfect as I was able to feel my contractions and push through them so that my beautiful baby girl could be delivered. Pushing was hard work (euphemism of the century) but a big relief. Imagine really needing to poo but having to hold it. Except this ‘poo’ was gargantuan and the relief attained through pushing was euphoric. The woman in the suite next to me had been bellowing for what seemed like hours as she went through what I was just about to begin and I remember hearing the Amazonian yell of “get him out of me” just as I was about to start pushing. I was afraid. It took twenty five minutes to deliver Amelia Violet Zanin into the world and she is perfect. Just perfect. I attained a second degree tear in the process and the memory of lying flat on my back with my legs stirruped in the air as the midwife stitched my ‘gooch’ will always be poignant. It was a culminating moment that summated the entire day’s humiliation and the horrifying discomfort of being prodded and poked in private places that are meant to remain secret. All in a day’s work. As I was holding my beautiful baby girl, the delivery of the placenta was taking place and I could not contain my curiosity. I craned my head over my baby in time to see a giant mass of bloody, meaty organ erupting from my vag along with some smaller kidney-like pieces and masses of blood. I have no idea how people eat that groseness.

The question that I have been asked the most is “what do contractions feel like?” and I have no way of explaining the magnanimous pain that is a contraction. The best I can do is describe the feeling as a period pain but magnified by a million and thus utterly excruciating. Vague … I know. But the best I can do. I never thought that I would say what I am going to say as I champion the right of women to choose the way on which they want to birth their children but giving natural birth somehow feels like I have gone through a rite of passage into motherhood. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. As I was living through the contractions, I was not violent or aggressive but did repeatedly tell my amazing husband, who played the invaluable role of birth-coach throughout, that it was the worst day of my life. It’s amazing to look back and think that the “worst day” turned into the best day of my life: birth is truly miraculous. What a privilege.

It’s happened. Two weeks early – WTF? I thought first babies were supposed to be late! I had ‘a show’ this morning at 7am and water has been trickling out all day. No waterfalls or gushing. It’s now 9pm and still no contractions. If nothing happens naturally by 8am tomorrow morning I will be induced. Whilst sitting on the toilet this morning as water leaked out my vag, I thought that it would probably be a good idea to write down my birth plan in my antenatal notes, as I was meant to do some weeks back; I remembered that my flat looks like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb and that I would need to clean; I have also done no ‘nesting’ – the baby’s crib is still sitting in a box. Then I got excited about the idea of taking my baby girl to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. Woopee! Time for a pad – can’t sit on the toilet all day. So as hubby went off to work I sat in front of the comp chatting to friends and familiy about the imminent birth of neice, grandaughter and daughter. I skyped my best friend and then thought I should call the hospital to see what I should do. After speaking to a helpful midwife I trundled along to the underground; mission: to get to University College Hospital without giving birth on the tube, objective: a vag exam – required for confirmation of water breakage. As my hubby and I sat in a comfy room waiting for a midwife, little did I know that the extent of my calm was soon to be tested. A dude came to the door and introduced himself as the midwife, ironically with my name. A dude doc staring down my vag would normally send me into a state of hysteria but I was cool. I readied myself for the dreaded exam and when Mr Midwife removed a metal clampy thing, still, I was cool. When he told me to take a deep breath and inserted it, yes folks, I was cool. I am just one cool cat. So my water was confirmed broken and I left the hospital in the hope that contractions would start soon so that I won’t have to be induced. We went to Sainsbury’s, bought some lunch and I made my way home on the bus while hubby cycled back to work. I spent the rest of the day chatting to buddies on gchat and when hubby got home we walked into Kentish Town to get a spicy Indian dinner, which was delish. And now I am waiting … waiting … waiting …

The big 37 week mark has come and gone: my baby girl is fully grown and if she is born any time from yesterday she will be considered a full-term baby, not prem. Awesome. Her head is getting ready to ‘engage’ and I have put together a vague semblance of a birth plan (involving no epidural – I do consider myself quite insane) that I still need to write down in my antenatal book. Note to self: write down birth plan. Other than that I am still shitting – no changes there. I have had very few ‘baby dreams’ of late, other than one significant dream that certainly makes up for the lack. I had a dream that I was in labour for what seemed like ever and when I eventually gave birth, my baby looked like a miniature H.R. Geiger Alien but cream-coloured rather than black. I remember being a little scared of the baby but I still loved it, which, hopefully, is an indication that if I breed a mutant I will still love it. So that’s good news.

With each passing day, I am beginning to morph into the likeness of the giant marshmallow guy in Ghostbusters and to say that I can’t wait to get rid of the water retention that is plaguing my body is the understatement of the year. I have a work function on Tuesday and the dress code is ‘smart’ – WTF am I supposed to wear? I have a choice of approximately three items – none of which are smart! And I won’t even get started on shoes. **sigh** The trials and tribulations of a pregnant woman. Life is tough. Yes, that is facetious dear diary. I am actually feeling great, albeit afraid, and have very little to bitch about. In fact, I do not like being treated like a ‘pregnant woman’ ie. piece of china. Throughout my pregnancy I have continued to do the things that I did pre-baby, and have no intention of stopping three weeks before my due date. A tad proud? Yes indeed! I just pray that a) I don’t go into labour in Chichester this weekend (it would suck), and b) I don’t go into labour on or before December 3 – I have asked baby Amelia very nicely to only make an appearance after In Flames and Killswitch Engage have played their sets on Thursday evening.

A month today … or earlier … or later – who knows? CRAP! The uncertainty is killing me. I just want to get this giving birth thing out of the way. I am feeling petrified and paranoid. Petrified of the pain and paranoid that something will be wrong with my baby girl. If I am completely honest with myself, I think that I will be able handle a deformed baby but I can’t handle a retarded one. The ‘what if’ game is seriously dangerous but I find myself playing it irrespective. One minute I am excited to meet my daughter and the next minute I am thinking about brain damage, down’s syndrome, episiotomies and third-degree tears.

Diary, I have had an easy pregnancy to date so I shouldn’t really complain about some water retention but I am going to do just that because this is my diary and I can say what I like. I am starting to feel particularly unattractive. My face looks like a puffer fish, my legs are swollen and gross, and my belly, although not huge objectively speaking, is huge subjectively speaking. Warren loves my pregnant body but I certainly do not! I miss the clothes that I haven’t been able to wear for a while. I miss my platforms and I miss my corsets – or at least the ability to fit into them. I realise that pregnancy has probably changed my body forever and that’s difficult for me to deal with. I guess that I am jumping the gun a bit because I haven’t even given myself a chance to recover yet. But what if I am puffer fish-ish forever? What if, what if, what if? Aaah!

So at the moment I am feeling pretty sorry for myself. Then I feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself because I know that having a baby is a privilege and that I am a genuinely fortunate individual. But this is what keeping it real is all about Diary – not denying the truth of one’s experience or emotional responses. And if I start doing that now then I will lose myself, which I don’t intend to do.