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Confessions of a Confused Blogger.
Yes, I'm confused, really. What have I done that I'm really ashamed of ? Loads, and then, not really. What moment in my life have I done something to be most proud of ? Not a lot.
Big Brother wants us to state "the moment in your life you are most proud of."
Well, up to the age of fourteen it was managing to win the 'Writing Cup' as I had the best handwriting but that really is pathetic. At the age of sixteen I managed to get 'de-flowered', if that counts, but having been brought up in a strict boarding school away from anybody that I knew, it was difficult to get up to much.
So, let's fast-forward from the Writing Cup Trophy by about fifteen years, when I fell pregnant not only to one child, but two, as it was 'buy one, get one free' week. I followed every single pre-natal class, followed my gynaecologist's orders to the point of punctuation, and, at 38 weeks' of pregnancy, I was due to be induced.
Armed heavily with nightdresses, baby clothes and a toothbrush, I went into hospital ready for the epidural to get it over and done with, only to be told gently by my gynaecologist, just as the contractions started, that I couldn't have an epidural. Labour was dire, but my physiotherapist/midwife had taught me all the breathing techniques to make labour and the actual birth as painless as possible.
I followed her words and despite the pain, I managed to somehow overcome a lot of the pain. I demanded a bath to ease things and this helped the whole process of 'opening up' (sorry Mike) incredibly. I was in the birthing room and after three pushes, the first baby popped out.
"Is it a Coralie or a Jérome ?" (the names that we had chosen for the first-born).
"It's a Coralie!" replied the father who had her wrapped up and placed on my chest.
"Come on Zoe," said my gynaecologist ten minutes later, "there's another one to come out too, you know."
I'd completely forgotten, but she was out in no time and I was soon bundling them closely to my chest, hot, sweating and very, very happy.
"That was a model-birth, Zoe," said my gynaecologist as he was 'doing things down below' while I was absorbed in my own little world with my own little bundles of joy.
They are now two beautiful girls who I still love dearly, even after sixteen years.
Tomorrow: shame.
Big Brother wants us to state "the moment in your life you are most proud of."
Well, up to the age of fourteen it was managing to win the 'Writing Cup' as I had the best handwriting but that really is pathetic. At the age of sixteen I managed to get 'de-flowered', if that counts, but having been brought up in a strict boarding school away from anybody that I knew, it was difficult to get up to much.
So, let's fast-forward from the Writing Cup Trophy by about fifteen years, when I fell pregnant not only to one child, but two, as it was 'buy one, get one free' week. I followed every single pre-natal class, followed my gynaecologist's orders to the point of punctuation, and, at 38 weeks' of pregnancy, I was due to be induced.
Armed heavily with nightdresses, baby clothes and a toothbrush, I went into hospital ready for the epidural to get it over and done with, only to be told gently by my gynaecologist, just as the contractions started, that I couldn't have an epidural. Labour was dire, but my physiotherapist/midwife had taught me all the breathing techniques to make labour and the actual birth as painless as possible.
I followed her words and despite the pain, I managed to somehow overcome a lot of the pain. I demanded a bath to ease things and this helped the whole process of 'opening up' (sorry Mike) incredibly. I was in the birthing room and after three pushes, the first baby popped out.
"Is it a Coralie or a Jérome ?" (the names that we had chosen for the first-born).
"It's a Coralie!" replied the father who had her wrapped up and placed on my chest.
"Come on Zoe," said my gynaecologist ten minutes later, "there's another one to come out too, you know."
I'd completely forgotten, but she was out in no time and I was soon bundling them closely to my chest, hot, sweating and very, very happy.
"That was a model-birth, Zoe," said my gynaecologist as he was 'doing things down below' while I was absorbed in my own little world with my own little bundles of joy.
They are now two beautiful girls who I still love dearly, even after sixteen years.
Tomorrow: shame.
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