The Bobble-Headed Monstrosity

The Frog has just passed his 8-week milestone.  Currently he's sleeping in his basket at my feet.  To get him in that state has taken about 1.5 hours of soothing speech, humming the Gilligan's Island and A-Team theme songs, giving up and picking up and rocking while playing ABBA's greatest hits.  I'm currently listening to 'Super Trooper' for the 3rd time, but each time I try to turn the music off, little grunts and twitches start up.  Am I raising a boy who'll be keen for sequins and feather boas when he grows up?

Moving on, I thought I'd review where we're up to with developmental milestones at this point.

Physically, the Frog is slowly gaining strength in his neck.  I have made it my policy - after seeing so many much younger babies with far superior neck control - to be a little less anxious about supporting the Frog's head at all times.  I pick him up under his arms when I get him out of his cot or basket, and apart from curling up like a pill-bug, he doesn't appear to object to this treatment. I still fail when it comes to giving him enough tummy time - I should be turning him over much more, but I just seem to run out of time between feeding, and cleaning, and preparing the next round of bottles, and doing general housework, and going for walks just to get some sanity time etc.  So, he's still a bit of a bobble-head when I sit him upright in my arms.  He does try to keep his head upright - but it's like watching a top start to wobble at the end of its spin: starts with some small dips front, back, around and around .. which become more and more exaggerated as his neck muscles decide to call it quits for the day.  I tend to take pity on him before he looks like he's going to give himself whiplash.

One of his favourite tricks is to wait until I'm gripping him single-handed while I fumble with the other hand for a door handle (or whatever), and then try to throw his head back. It has to be quick work on my part to catch him when he decides on one of these manoeuvres.  In fact, it's much safer - though less comfortable for all involved - to just tuck the blighter under my arm during these moments.  Would at least save me a few cardiac arrhythmias.

Arms and legs are still jerking about a bit spastically.  I assume that he's gradually gaining some control over them, but it's hard to tell.  We stick him in his little jungle-gym from time to time, and while it seems like he's actually batting at some of the toys hanging above him, I'm inclined to feel that much of this is just down to how he's been placed under them at the time. He also has a tendency to straighten his arms and swing them up and down vigorously.  The problem with this is that on the far end of the upswing is his face, which he clobbers with a fair degree of force.  He must wonder what he's done to earn such a walloping.  When he gets tired, the arm-swinging gets more frequent, which makes it very hard for him to get to sleep: "I'm trying! But these pink things keep thumping me in the eyeballs!".  So we resort to wrapping quite a bit.

The Frog is able to track people across a room.  He likes to fixate on one person, and it's often hard to distract his attention.  For example, during bathtime, while Daddy is the one holding the Frog when he's in the water, and I'm the one armed with the wash-cloth, the Frog tends to fixate on me, and go for continuous eye-contact during the whole process.  I'm not sure why.  Is he begging me for release?  He seems to quite enjoy his baths, so I don't think that's it.  His Daddy tried him on a game of peekaboo, and apparently elicited a smile.  I also tried this a little bit today, and got a sort of smile the first time, but I don't think he's got a sense of permanence yet - so when I hide behind something, he's quick to look away - because obviously I've just disappeared - he doesn't much care where to.

It's hard to tell much about the Frog's personality at this point.  He seems to like being around people - it's easier to get him to go to sleep in his basket in company than it is to get him sleeping in his quiet room.   I don't know if he doesn't like his room because he's lonely there, or because of some deep-seated biological concern about the beasts that could be lurking in the long savannah grass, ready to eat him up.  I've checked under his cot, and while there *is* a lion there, it has a tag on it that says 'machine washable', so I think he's probably safe from predators for the moment.

Anyway, I could write more, but from the whimpers and splutters coming from the basket, the Kraken appears to be stirring.  Till next time.

Rant Time

Alright, this will be brief. Because I know I really shouldn't give credence to bimbettes without two brain cells to rub together, but I have a spleen to vent, and vent I shall.

I have had it up to here with the militant breast-feeding groups.  Frankly, I think the way you choose to feed your child should be a personal choice, and you shouldn't have one method or another forced on you just because of catchy marching slogans like "Breast is Best!".

Now before I really begin - I agree.  I think that breast milk is the best option (for me) on so many levels - it's convenient (no sterilising or purchasing of all the equipment that goes with formula feeds), it's cheap, it's totally nutritious for the baby, and it provides an unparalleled bonding experience for mum and baby.  But despite ALL the sites out there (and yes, there are a lot) which are extraordinarily breast-feeding focussed, and tell you that EVERYONE can breast feed .. well, not everyone can.  And that's the sad fact.

I'm one of these bastards who hate their child who have gone the formula route - I would have loved to have been able to feed The Frog myself, but I just can't produce the milk.  We don't know why exactly, though there are possibly genetic factors (I myself needed formula top-ups in my early life), combined with the fact that The Frog just doesn't produce much in the way of suction, and if he doesn't draw the milk out, the body assumes that milk production isn't really required - and only makes what it thinks is necessary, which isn't enough to keep him from becoming dehydrated.  I know, I've tried.  I have spoken to midwives, lactation consultants, looked online, and pretty much done everything recommended in an attempt to increase my yield.  But alas, I never really produced anything.  The Frog is still given the boob before each formula feed, in the hope that he'll get some benefit, however small, and that my brain will keep sending the signal that yes, milk is required, please!

And THEN, you get complete no-brain idiots like this woman who is using whatever clout she has to campaign for a cause she must have given two minutes thought to. Outlaw bottle-feeding?  So she'd happily watch thousands of babies starve for her ideologies?  So she's anti-chemical, is she?  Well I wonder if she's considered the fact that one of the ways that women can TRY to up their milk supply is by using a chemical: Domperidone, which is now banned for breast-feeding women by the FDA in the United States because there is simply not enough evidence to state that it's safe for infant consumption via the copious breast milk it may (or in my case, may NOT) produce (there's no evidence that it's unsafe either, but I guess these big administrations need to cover their butts, and better safe than sorry).

So the end of my rant is thus:  I would love to be able to give The Frog my milk, and he does get the small amount I have.  But I am fed up of being made to feel like an uncaring mother because I've gone to formula.  So to all you breast-feeding mums for whom it worked:  Congratulations! I salute you! And I envy you.

Proto-Babbles

The Frog is at 6 weeks now, and while he hardly has even rudimentary control over his limbs things are starting to change.

Eye contact has been improving over the last couple of weeks.  He can track motion and faces, albeit a little jerkily - his eyes are a little more dexterous than his head, which is dragged reluctantly along after the eyeballs.

He's also begun smiling in the last week or two.  Sometimes his facial expression is a little divided: the bottom half will be a tentative grin, while above it his eyebrows will be drawn together in a distinctly worried expression. I have, however, had a couple of ear-to-ear beams, usually lovingly directed at my hairline, but - eh - you take what you can!

He's also started vocalising a little more - and by that, I mean apart from the constant stream of noise he usually produces.  These new sounds seem to be really for the purpose of the noise itself, rather than a by-product of some other process (usually something to do with digestion).  For reference, I'll catalogue some of his current repertoire:

The Grunt: This is probably one of the most common sounds, made on breathing out.  He's typically awake, fidgety, and very often over-tired.  It's a continual "uh-uh-uh" sound, and as far as I know has absolutely no significance at all, besides indicating some glottal restriction during breathing.

The Moan: This could equally be called the 'Sigh', as that's also what it sort of sounds like sometimes.  Again, made on breathing out, the Frog emits these sounds when he's on the cusp of sleep (either going in or coming out).  It's either the sound that typically keeps hubby awake at night via the baby-intercom, or the sound that reassures me that he's not choking when I'm carrying him in the front pack - Although when he's in the front-pack, he's probably trying to use it to signal to me that I shouldn't bump him about quite so much!

The Roar: Typically found mid-feed.  Easy enough to elicit - just remove him from food-source (boob or bottle), when he's got up a good head of steam.  It's pretty much always accompanied by a bodily motion where he tries to curl up like a pill-bug.  If food is not soon forthcoming, he'll briefly settle before deciding that crying would be a more effective means of re-establishing the Frog-Food connection.

The Hyperventilate:  Often a pre-cursor to crying, but it seems to accompany any sort of agitation, like excitement/anticipation/worry etc.  When it's generated by a negative emotion, it can quickly turn into The Whimper (which is really just the Hyperventilate plus vocalising).  This is the noise which I can't ignore - whereas for hubby, it's the full on crying that's the big tug.  But there's something so desperate about his little high-pitched whimper that I can't just let it go.  Yes, probably bad parenting, but there it is.

The Whoop: Another feeding sound, normally made during bottle feeding when we've mistakenly given him a bottle with a two-hole teat, rather than the single-holed variety.  This is really just him gasping after nearly gargling in formula.

The Proto-Babble: And these are the new sounds - as yet, I haven't noticed too many patterns within the proto-babbles.  He coo-gurgles, I suppose, for want of a better word.  There are no recognisable sounds, but perhaps some of the intonation would be familiar - I'm just not convinced that the intonation is copied from anything he's heard at this point, rather than just being coincidental.  The pattern I'm thinking of is where he gurgles something from a high pitch to a lower pitch - in the way someone might say (in care-giverese) "There it is.. "

I'm not going to mention crying, as, well, all babies do it to a greater or lesser extent, right?  The main thing with the Frog is that he typically has a reason for crying at this point which is easy to fix - he's ravenously hungry, he's lonely, or he's having a difficult bowel motion (well, the last one, we just have to wait it out - but it's good warning that a nasty nappy change is imminent!).

As to me?  Well, motherhood is still surreal.  As in, I still look at this completely vulnerable little critter with amazement... When did my life start totally revolving around the well-being of this new person?  Yes, I know, June 20 - I was being RHETORICAL.

My body is taking its sweet time in getting back to normal.  I haven't stepped on the scales recently, but just looking in the mirror is enough.  My stomach resembles some sad, semi-deflated post-party balloon.  My rear-end is also balloon-like, in an entirely different way.  All in all, I think 9 months to lose the weight is looking unlikely.  I am trying, though.  Doing everything with a (now) 4.7kg lump strapped to your front has GOT to be good for calorie burning, right?  Even if just typing?
Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be one of those women who can use milk-production to burn calories - that's the one part of this process that hasn't gone text-book smoothly.  The Frog doesn't care to put much effort into milk extraction, hence supplies are fairly low.  I only really worked this out when the midwife pointed out at the end of his first week how dehydrated he was getting.  So we went on to formula top-ups.  We started with 50ml at each feed, then 100, and now I tend to make up 150ml bottles, and see how much he'll take.  He WAS regularly taking about 120-130ml of the formula after time on the boob, but in the last couple of days his feeding pattern has rather frustratingly changed - from roughly 4-hourly feeds, he seems to feed almost 2-hourly, and takes around 50ml each time.  This is close to driving me barmy, as with feeds 2 hours apart which take at LEAST one hour each, it doesn't actually leave much time to get anything done.  I can't find any way to force more into him, because he tends to clamp his lips together tightly, and if you try to get clever and slip the bottle in during a yawn, he gives you an extremely disappointed look and starts gagging.  So much for that.  The only benefit I can see is that he has the good sense to let me sleep at night.  We might have a final feed finishing around 10pm, and then I'm not usually woken by him till 6 or 7 the next morning.  Be thankful for medium-sized mercies, I guess?

The Frog is now two weeks of age.  I thought I'd share some of his physical characteristics that I find most appealing.

1. Hair.

Unlike most frogs, this one was born with a full head of hair - more than his father (who has sadly commented on this fact a few times).  Not only is it a pretty impressive mop in volume, but also in style.  His head is covered with cow-licks, and not only that, the hair on the top grows in a different direction to the hair on either side of his head, and in no case will this direction allow his hair to actually lie flat.  Harry Potter, eat your heart out!

2. Ears

Again, unlike most frogs, this one was born with pinnae.  And in addition to being lovely and soft to play with (annoys him no end during feeds, but come on, a nursing mother needs *some* fun, right?), his ears are bizarrely hairy - along with his forehead, shoulders and back.  It's possible that this is just lanugo.  Or it could be the fluffy soft shadow of things to come.  My son, the neanderthal.

3. Tiny Wee Fingy-Wingies

The Frog and I were comparing manicures when this picture was taken.  I'd spent a bit of time filing his nails down in an effort to minimise his face-gouging efforts - in fact, I've been dreading showing up to the ante-natal reunion party with a baby devoid of eyeballs, ears and lips: "Well, we only took our eyes off him for a second .. !!".  The finger you see here (the small one) has often been seen randomly digging into some soft and vulnerable portion of his face - fortunately as yet without permanent effect - and it's still very tiny and oh so cute!  Awwwww...

4. Wee handsies and footsies.

Lastly, proof that the little guy has a normal finger and toe count on at least one side of his body.  I'm also pretty sure that these two extremities were the culprits of much of my pregnancy discomfort.  I am still vaguely stunned at the human body's ability to create a perfectly formed miniature.  Considering there are no power tools in there, it's a fantastic job.

Confused about Nipple Confusion

The midwife came by on Monday to have a look at the Frog's feeding abilities.  She listened to my nipple confusion hypothesis, before shooting it down with a calm "I don't think it's that - it's pretty rare".  She then proceeded to grab the little blighter by the scruff of his neck, and pressed him firmly onto a nipple.  And the wretch didn't offer up a single squawk of complaint, but took it like a lamb (with less head-butting, fortunately).  So, I've worked out that it's the attitude that matters - and I need to be going for 'no-nonsense', rather than 'wittering, dithering mess'.

Meanwhile, I've been happily swapping labour stories with various other people from the ante-natal class.  I think I've finally worked out that the main benefit of ante-natal classes is that first-time parents can excitedly jabber on about their pregnancies, their deliveries and their new babies to one another, without having to inflict these stories on the general populace (thereby boring them into early rigor-mortis).

Battling the Blues

Well, it's one week after the birth of the Frog (our new name for the Bean - mostly based on the way he curls his legs up like a wee tree frog when he sits against your front).

On the day following the birth, I felt surprisingly good.  I was ravenous right after labour, so before I even left the delivery suite, I was knocking back toast and milo with the best appetite I've had in ages.  The Frog and I slept pretty well that first day - I think we were both exhausted by the night's events.  Fortunately, the midwives came by regularly to check on us, as I certainly wasn't in any condition to be paying attention to any little grizzles coming from the cot next to my bed.  Hubs also took the opportunity to go home and sleep for a while, as it quickly became apparent that there really wasn't anything exciting going on in terms of Frog development in the first 24 hours of life.  He came back bearing Thai for dinner (and after I'd seen what was on offer for the hospital lunch, I was sincerely grateful!).

The Frog was beautifully behaved (read: he slept all the time) until Hubs left for the night.  At which point, he finally discovered these two little air sacs in his chest, and put them to excellent use.   It took me most of the night to work out how to manage the screaming (plug mouth with nipple.  repeat other side. continue until colostrum-induced coma occurs).  I was also pretty pleased that I didn't have to resort to pressing the panic button next to my bed - though at one point, a midwife doing the rounds noted that I had fallen asleep with the Frog clumsily cradled on my lap.  She basically then just tucked us both into bed a lot more comfortably, and we got on with the all-important business of catching z's.

The next day, after some basic checks on the Frog's and my anatomy, we pronounced ourselves ready to go home.  I was - at this point - a little frazzled, as I'd been up for the vast majority of the night, early morning and late morning on colostrum duty.  Additionally, the physical effects of labour were starting to make themselves obvious.  I felt like I'd been riding a horse bare-back for the past week, then run over repeatedly by a homicidal freak in an SUV.  A lot of that I'm assuming is due to the whole-body clench during each contraction.  My, what a good muscle work-out!   Anyway, we decided to take my sad and sorry body home, and we got to try out our car seat (going in and coming out involved a lot of screeching - not on my part for a change - but once on the road, the Frog seemed content to blink myopically at his hand).

There followed about 4 or 5 days of hormonally induced bliss (or about as much bliss as you can feel when you're on about 2-3 hours sleep per 24 hour stretch).  We goggled at the marvel that was the Frog.  Each fingernail and toenail was cooed over.  If he crossed his eyes in our general direction, we pronounced him amazingly precocious.  We footled with each of his tiny limbs, and patted his crazy hair into even crazier spikes.  And I wept.  Hoo-boy was there weeping.  This wasn't unhappy weeping, mind you.  Hubby sat there in a state of bemusement, as I became a saline fountain for the umpteenth time that day.  He'd pat me, and ask me what was wrong - at which point, I'd try to articulate between gulping sobs that I thought our little Frog was tiny and perfect.  Rational?  Undoubtedly not.

And then the feeding problems started.  I'd thought that the Frog and I had been doing fairly well - he had an awesome hungry latch, and I had extremely sore and bruised nipples.  Problem was that I didn't appear to be getting the milk in, so the poor Frog was feeding as often as he could for the meagre helpings of colostrum in my breasts.  At some point, my midwife decided that for the good of all he should be supplemented with a bit of formula - and so began the cycle of wash/sterilise/express/feed that I'd really hoped to avoid.

The expressing was something to be done after each feed to try to stimulate more milk production - and believe me, there's nothing more entertaining than watching your nipples being sucked rhythmically down into little plastic funnels.  If you're really lucky, you get to see little jets of milk squirting out with each pump action.  Amazing what is riveting to the sleep-deprived mind.  Anyway, while the Frog got everything I managed to express, it wasn't really close to the amount he needed to top-up a regular feed.   Annoying, but not end-of-the-world stuff.  But then the Frog started to have trouble latching on for his regular feeds.  He'd be desperate for food - hyperventilating, and shaking his little head - he'd even gape his mouth like before, but when I pulled him into position, he'd just hold the nipple and then drop it - no sucking or latching behaviour at all.  The more we tried this, the more frustrated he got, so a normal feed turned into 40 minutes of both of us crying desperately while he was unable to manage the couple of sucks that would draw the nipple into place, and give both of us 15 minutes of peace and comfort.

I had two days of this, and by the end of the second I was desperate and miserable.  Irritation levels were through the roof, and half-full rolls of loo paper graced every room, in the event I needed to sop up my copious out-pourings of grief and frustration.  And then hubby did some internet research to try to work out what was going on.  Turns out it's likely to be something called 'nipple confusion' - and it's very common in young babies who are given a bottle.  Essentially, they get confused about how to suck - the bottle just hands them the milk on a silver platter, while on the breast (well, on mine at least), they need to work for every droplet.  Once I had a name for the issue, I felt about a million times better (conservative estimate).  It's a known problem, and while it's tough to deal with, there are things you can do to try to avoid the worst of it - starting with feeding the bub before he gets really hungry - or giving him an interim feed with plenty of skin-to-skin contact, so that he associates you with positive feelings, not the frustration of being able to smell the food, but not being able to get to it.  I'm a bit annoyed the midwife didn't warn me about this effect. If it's so common, some kind of heads up would have been nice.  However, I know now that I can probably get some help with a lactation consultant at the hospital, so I no longer feel as frustrated and hopeless as I have the past couple of nights.

Labour of Lurve

Well, it's been a while since I last posted, but really - in those final weeks of pregnancy there wasn't much to report besides ever increasing girth, more waddling, and a loosening of pelvic ligaments (this last change was a bit of a disappointment - I'd been anticipating that finally I'd be able to sit like one of those swami-gurus, cross-legged for hours on end, but the actual effect of pelvic ligament loosening was simply to make walking or sitting or lying a little less comfortable than before).

Of course, as should be clear from the title of this post, we've moved on somewhat from pregnancy gripes.  And before I continue, I'll just make the point that I'm doing this in order to FULLY REMEMBER the experience end-to-end and make sure I NEVER feel like repeating it.  I mean it.

The Bean was due to come into the world on the 19th of June.  Sometime on the evening of the 18th, I started to feel a little crampy, and at some point felt a small gush.  As I've fortunately been blessed with continence throughout the pregnancy, and I don't normally use pants-wetting as an attention-getting strategy (at least, not since my mid-twenties), I thought "Hmmm, maybe waters breaking??".  Nothing much else happened though, so we went to bed.  I woke again at 2am - those cramps were really getting pretty irritating.  We decided to phone the midwife, who listened to what I had to say, then suggested a couple of panadol, getting some more sleep, and coming in for a check on the following day.  So, we did just that.  At 1pm, I was hooked up to a couple of monitors in the hospital, and those nice strong cramps I'd been feeling just dried up.  That's right, not a single one for a full half-hour of observation.  Always the way.  So, they muttered that sometimes Braxton Hicks contractions can be a little painful, and sent me home again.

During the afternoon and evening, the cramps just kept coming - but here's the tricky thing.  For it to be 'real' labour, you're looking to fulfil 3 conditions:

• pains get longer, 
• pains get stronger,
• pains get closer together. 

Me being me, I drew up a spreadsheet (just on paper, though if I'd had my laptop ready, excel would have been trotted out for the job), with time, duration and intensity columns.  The upshot?  The length of my pains rarely exceeded 30 seconds (apparently 60 is around the expected duration).  It was very hard to estimate strength - even with my cunning 'mild', 'mild-med', 'medium', 'med-hard', and 'hard' sliding scale - because I have a feeling that 'hard' inches up in strength without you really noticing.  So at one point in the evening - somewhere between 9 and 10 - we sorta guessed that the 'hard' ones were the proper contractions, which were about 10-15 minutes apart .. but not really regular.  I was thinking that if this was what painful Braxton Hicks contractions were like, then real labour was going to effectively kill me, and I think hubby noticed my strained expression, so at 11pm, we called the midwife again (I'm sure she was really grateful for all my late-night calls).  She considered the evidence, and told me to get into a warm bath, and see if that helped.  So off we went.  I think I'd been sweltering in the heat for about half an hour, when it became obvious that the 'hard' contractions were now coming at 2 minute intervals, though still not lasting anything like a minute.  I sat about for another hour or so, considering how butch all the women who have preceded me in labour were, if I was considering begging for an epidural for something that was a pre-labour contraction, when there was a gush.  And I'm not talking a sissy 2-tablespoon trickle, I'm talking pints gushing under full pressure.  So THAT'S what they mean about waters breaking.

At this point, it was brown-trousers time (I won't go into gratuitous details about diarrhoea at this point, except to say that perhaps brown-trousers time could officially be said to start a little earlier...).  We called the midwife back (it was now around 1am), and said "that's it, we're coming in to the hospital".  She agreed to meet us there, so off we went, me sitting on a stack of towels which became soggier with each contraction.  As luck would have it, it was a rugby night that night, with the home-team winning big.  So the streets were full of drunken revellers. Hubby and I staggered from the car to the hospital, with me needing to stop and lean over for each new contraction which was - you guessed it - accompanied by more watery gushing.  This didn't escape the notice of the drunken crowd.  Some were very nice - offering to run ahead to the hospital and alert staff - some were just awed and impressed at the sogginess of my pants.  Anyway, to cut a long story slightly less long, we got inside, got to a delivery suite, met up with the midwife who, after having a little feel around, pronounced me at 7cm dilated (and here was I thinking that they did something a little more official, like using a slide-rule or callipers or some such).  She recommended that I might like some gas.  I nonchalantly acquiesced to her suggestion by grabbing the tube and sucking deeply on it throughout the rest of the labour.

My tips for getting through labour?  Hokey as it sounds: breathing.  This was one of the most intense experiences of my life to date, and while the nitrous may well have taken the edge off the pain, it sure didn't feel like it at the time.  What it DID do was give me a handy little tube to bite on, instead of grinding my teeth into little calcified splinters, and encourage me to breathe in a very regular way - which I used for each and every contraction:  4 beats in, 4 beats out.  When it started to get a little tougher, I used hubby as a resistance weights machine on one arm - so I was effectively doing a 4-count bicep curl (breathing in), and a 4-count tricep extension (breathing out).  Didn't stop the pain, but did give me something to focus on, which I think helps.  At some point during labour, you get to something called the 'transitional' stage.  This is when it stops hurting, and starts *really* hurting. You don't just get one nice peak in your contraction, but you get something with several peaks in it (ouch-ouch-OUCH-OUCH-ouch!), and you get the first 'pushy' type urges.  The best way I can think to explain the 'pushing' urge to someone who hasn't done labour, is:  think of when you're really nauseous - you start retching maybe a couple of times before you vomit.  That compulsion to retch, born of the nausea?  Well, it's the same as the compulsion to push, born of the contraction.  It starts off with a sort of mild involuntary push, but when you move fully to the pushing stage, then pushing is just what you GOT to do.  Unfortunately, while the contractions help you to get the necessary force into your pushes, they don't do all the work.  You have to get some oomph into it yourself.  And yes, it is exactly like shitting a watermelon.  Constipation no longer holds any terror for me.

The midwife was pretty awesome.  She knew exactly when to get me to change position in order to keep the labour moving on at the right pace.  Sometimes on the bed, on the loo, standing up - it was never comfortable trying to move around between contractions, but it was amazing the difference it did make.

Things I vividly remember?  The feeling of the head coming down the canal - actually feeling so stretched that it burned. Twice, it felt like I'd almost managed to pop out the little sucker, only to have him slide back in between contractions - almost right back into the cervix by the feel of it!  Getting the head out was by far the biggest "yes!" experience - from all the ante-natal prep, I figured that after that, all the other pushing was secondary, and indeed it was - the midwives can give a bit of help with the shoulders, and the placenta - though surprisingly large - was a doddle.

The moment he was fully out, the midwives stuck him on my belly - just pausing to dry his head a bit.  It was so bizarre to finally meet the little entity I'd been carrying about (and carrying on about) for the last 9 months.
Bizarre, and really .... kind of awesome.