It wasn't meant to be like this.

I didn't think I was ever going to cover this topic, and even as I write I'm still not sure. What follows is a summary of my birth story. I'm going to keep it brief and devoid of detail. However, if you feel this isn't for you, now's the time to make a swift exit.

My son was born at 11:07pm on Wednesday 5 October 2011. I had been admitted to hospital the previous evening to be induced, as he was around a week and a half late. When my waters broke meconium was discovered. It meant that there was a chance our baby was distressed. There was a lot of waiting around after that but when things kicked off Wednesday lunchtime, it was the start of a very difficult birth.

I started off on gas and air which, if you have never had it, made me feel as though I was having an out of body experience every 30 seconds. I didn't like it very much but it helped to ease the pain of the contractions. After a while I had to progress to pethidine. I don't think it really agreed with me, but again, it helped to ease the pain. I have no recollection of what happened between that stage and the end stage of labour, as I was drugged up to my eyeballs.

Despite the coaching of the midwives, and despite my best efforts, our little boy wasn't able to make an entrance on his own. All of a sudden, the numbers in the room swelled from two or three to ten. There wasn't time to do an emergency cesarean so the doctors decided to use another procedure.

By the time M arrived and was whisked out of the room due to possible infection, I was exhausted and in shock. My husband was concerned (understatement) as no-one had told him what was going on and had himself been whisked out of the room at one point.

Now, the purpose of this disclosure is not to elicit kind feedback such as, 'poor you - what a rotten time you had', so please don't feel that you have to respond in this way. Rather, I wanted to give a context for what follows, namely an explanation of my psychological state after the birth.

When our son was brought back in, I felt detached. I just couldn't connect him with the bump that I had bonded with for the past nine months. I felt as if I knew my bump, or Bun, as we called him/her. I didn't know this creature, lying there staring out at the world. I knew how I supposed to feel. There was supposed to be a golden ray of light shining down from the heavens. There was supposed to be a choir of angels singing the Hallelujah chorus. There was supposed to be adoration and smiling and sudden onset amnesia regarding the recent unpleasantness. There wasn't any of that.

In the days and weeks that followed, I struggled to bond with my baby. Breastfeeding was difficult. The lack of sleep was difficult. I went through the motions, doing what I had to do, but I didn't know how to connect with my son. What made it exceptionally painful was the fact we had experienced a miscarriage. Here was our long-awaited baby, the baby we had been through so much heartache to meet, and yet I felt at best, numb, and at worst, wanting to run away.

In time, gradually, I was able to bond with my son. Now, I can honestly say that I love him with all my heart and we have a beautiful relationship.

With permission, I want to share something that helped me recently; a quote from Fleur Bickford (@NurturedChild on Twitter).

It's ok to love your baby but hate the way they came into the world.

Maybe your birth didn't go the way you had hoped or expected it would. Maybe after the birth you didn't feel the way you thought you should. Maybe you're finding it difficult to come to terms with your new life and the new responsibilities it brings.

It's ok.

You're not the first person to feel like this, and you won't be the last. You may be surprised at how many of your friends and people you know had similar experiences. Why do we pretend that everything's fine? That we're coping well when clearly we're not? Sometimes life is hard. We should be able to share our grief as well as our happiness. The good times and the bad.

I have no affiliation with them but if any of this is relevant to you, visit the Birth Trauma Association (@BirthTrauma on Twitter). It's all too easy to feel isolated, but we don't have to stay that way.

This means war.

It's Friday! Let's talk about something light and fluffy, like misandry. It's my new word. If you want to look it up, I'll save you some time. It's a noun meaning the hatred of men by (but not limited to) women.

I'm not talking about a woman letting off steam about the man in her life who lets her down in numerous, heartbreaking ways, and who is possibly the latest in a long line of men who have treated her badly. In my opinion, this is not the same thing. (In some cases, no doubt it leads to hating men. But that's not what I'm interested in).

There seems to be a trend in advertising and the media to portray men in a less than favourable light. From  a recent campaign by Boots in which two women are discussing their numerous tasks for the weekend, all to be completed whilst bravely soldiering on with the flu (whilst their partners are in bed with a cold), to this article in the Telegraph here, in which the paper conducts a straw poll, the message is simple: men are a little bit useless.

Why is this acceptable?

The implication of the question, "If you are a woman, would you trust a man to take the male contraceptive pill?" is that men are inherently more unreliable than women. Where is the evidence for this? Do we ask men if they trust their girlfriends/partners/wives to take the pill?

I've been so busy thinking about the example I set for my son that somehow I hadn't really noticed this stereotype, persistent and reinforced at every turn. I can see that it's not enough to watch my colour choices, or encourage him to play with both cars and dolls, or to try to model equality. I will have to be alert to these kinds of negative messages which tell him that because he's male, he's not expected to be reliable, or capable, or any any other positive character attribute the media deems unnecessary based on his gender.

I was sort of prepared for the nappies. (Ok, that's a lie.) I wasn't really prepared for this. Nonetheless, as my title suggests, this mean war.

Should it stay or should it go?

Moving house is one thing. Moving country is quite another.

You haven't truly decluttered until you've stared down the barrel of a miscellaneous toiletries collection and agonised over the destiny of each item. Is it: a) in date, b) worth using up, c) worth giving away, d) worth shipping over, or e) none of the above? All those bits and pieces carefully stockpiled during Christmases, birthdays and special offers on Soap and Glory at Boots, then hidden away and forgotten about until newly purchased, identical products join them in the darkness. Not for me, the luxury of shoving it all into a box and shifting it a few miles down the road. I now have to make a decision on every single thing I own. Every. Single. Thing.

Never mind the bath bombs. What about the books? Trinny and Susannah's sage words may have languished in the garage for many a year (we never did get around to installing a bookcase) but what if I need to identify the shape of my bottom at some indeterminate point in the future? It may be a life or death situation (sartorially speaking, of course) in which access to that particular book is crucial. Do I take it? Do I store it? Do I give it away? You can see the bind I'm in. Likewise with my collection of cookbooks. I imagine I could be the sort of person who enjoys entertaining (still waiting for that personality trait to emerge) and naturally, I don't need to tell you that it would be beneficial to have a little bit of Nigella on hand to see me through.

Nevertheless, we have to be ruthless. There is no point in taking two sets of salad servers, regardless of the fact they were both gifts, as I have maybe used a set only once, no doubt trying to impress upon a hapless dinner guest that I was indeed a seasoned giver of hospitality. So, neither will make the journey. The same fate awaits the cast iron tea press, the crystal candle holder and the red faux leather magazine basket I was so chuffed to find as it matched the rug, giving the illusion of a co-ordinated design effort in the lounge.

In stark contrast, all of M's possessions will go with us, including a wardrobe that would put Derek Zoolander's to shame. In starting our new adventure we may have nary a scatter cushion between us, but our son will look fabulous. That's all that matters, surely.

Ode to a Pear

You are Queen among fruit
Adored by baby
For squished, delicious ripeness
Cherished by me
For you are beige
The colour of carpet, walls, face
You do not stain
Like strawberry
Or persist
Like pumpkin
Or demand attention
Like avocado
You are peaceful, innocuous
At one with your environment
And for that
I love you.

Sorry, what was your name again?

I've just returned from a breastfeeding support session, held in the local SureStart centre. I don't know what it is about this particular social situation that makes me feel as though I've never had a conversation with another human being before, and everything I know I learned from Google but haven't yet had a chance to put into practice.

I forget the names of women I've met countless times before. I sure as heck forget the names of their babies. I have to stare hard to figure out the gender so I have at least one conversation starter. This baby is wearing purple. What does that mean? (Says she who dresses her boy in anything but blue if she can help it, jeans excluded of course. I'm anti-gender stereotyping but not when it comes to other people's children. How am I supposed to start a conversation without it? Ah - pink headband. Phew!). So, how old is your little girl now? Nice save.

I'm so busy concentrating on The Rules of Polite Conversation, i.e. turn-taking, asking questions without blurting out my life story, smiling and nodding, that I forget what's already been said. I repeat myself. It wasn't even interesting the first time around. I start a sentence, change my mind about one tiny little aspect, then finish awkwardly so as not to say it at all.

All the while trying to smile serenely, desperate to look as though I fit in, and that I am A Natural Conversationalist. Clock-watching and calculating when it would be socially acceptable to leave, seeing as I've only just arrived. In the end it is M who dictates. He's too distracted by all the excitement to feed, I'm afraid. What a shame! I'm going to have to go before he gets shirty. See you again next week?

I'll meet you at the coffee shop.

Apparently I look like the outdoorsy type. I can't think why.

I once asked my husband if he would like to go camping some day. (I don't understand why I asked. I certainly had no intention of following through). He replied that yes, he would, but not with me. For a split second I was offended, until I realised that this arrangement would suit us both. I dread to think what number and manner of gadgets would make a camping trip bearable.

This coming from a woman who was once a Girl Guide. Admittedly, the only badge I ever earned was Entertainment, which was procured by choreographing and performing a dance to John Farnham's Take the Pressure Down. (Don't mock me. It was 1988). None of the other badges appealed, for some reason. After being publicly chastised one evening for not being able to present a piece of rope for inspection, and then a flying fox incident at camp, I called it a day. I think we all knew it was the right decision.

I have been known to fake a cheery, outdoorsy air to good effect, when it mattered. Like, for example, when volunteering as a leader at kids' camps. (More than one. Again - why?) Can you lead a group game on the beach? Why, yes! Give me a moment to fetch my baseball cap and megaphone! I didn't dislike the experience. But my point is that I'd much rather be drinking coffee somewhere civilised. I like the tea room at the end of a (short) walk. I like the gift shop at the exit of a family attraction. My tat filter is temporarily disengaged and I marvel at overpriced novelty pens, pan pipe relaxation CDs and shiny books depicting animals/people/places I care nothing about and never will, whilst the rest of my party are tapping their feet impatiently waiting for me to emerge.

My problem is this. My son will, presumably, want to go outside at some point in the future. I mean, properly. To do stuff. Outdoors. This will require my encouragement and supervision. If I don't want him to end up like me, it's the only way. I'm going to have to fake it. Of course, I might accidentally enjoy it, but that's a risk I'm willing to take.

Walking the talk

There are several items on my list entitled Things I Will Wait For Someone Else To Do Before Committing To Doing Them Myself. Checking the oil in my car is one of them.

It's not so much the checking of the oil which bothers me. It's what this may lead to, namely identifying a need to top up the oil. This requires various searches on the interweb for instructions only to be faced with smug posts containing patronising comments such as, the fuel cap is under the bonnet. Until I remember that I own a car manual and maybe Google shouldn't always be my first port of call in a crisis.

All of this to-ing and fro-ing annoys me greatly, because surely someone else should be taking care of it. Someone else who is used to this sort of thing. Someone else who is a man. Never mind that I am in possession of an intellect and a capacity to follow instructions in a logical manner (unless sleep-deprived) and if I need to, an ability to figure it out for myself.

I believe in equality for men and women. I believe in healthy relationships between men and women. I want to be a positive role model for my son who, hopefully, will grow up with an outlook that is unrestricted on the basis of his gender. And yet, I'm still waiting to be rescued like some Disney princess. I still don't get it.

Having retrieved the manual from the glove box it took all of 30 seconds to confirm the position of the fuel cap and proceed accordingly. The whole thing was over in substantially less time than it would have taken to pack up the boy and drive to the nearest garage, pleading ignorance. Ridiculous.