The day my midwife milked me… Warning: may be triggering for some readers.

It is exactly as it sounds. Boobs were squeezed in an udder-like fashion. Cow jokes were made. Mick very nearly received a black eye. Standard stuff.

Now, I’ve told this story to some friends and colleagues already and generally receive one of two reactions. The first is with a knowing nod and smile; expressing (Ha! Love a good pun!) that milking your boobs prior to labour is normal practice and that I’ll be thanking my lucky stars that I did it when my baby gets super hangry around day 3 or 4 after birth. Sometimes back-up stores of colostrum (uber amazing, life-saving, pre-milk for other novices) are needed in case your supply is inadequate for when baby arrives.

Canine reaction to human milking practices.

The second reaction, those of rational people, goes something like this: “What the fucking fuck?” – Clarification of sentence, wide eyes and gagging noises also feature heavily in their responses.

So, Mick and I attended our midwifery appointment none the wiser. On this day we got to talk about the birthing process and thus were subjected to a full hour looking at diagrams of lady bits and babies squeezing out of them. I kind of felt like we spent an unnecessary amount of time on the topic of tearing. The midwife seemed to take a perverse pleasure in explaining 3rd and 4th degree lacerations which basically means the baby rips you open from your vagina to your anal sphincter and all the tissue in between. Yeah, I squirmed in my seat too. (DO NOT FOR THE LOVE OF OPRAH, GOOGLE IMAGE THAT SHIT. You won’t be able to sit down for a week.) She then reassured me not to worry, that most women don’t tear that severely and that even if I had a minor tear I probably wouldn’t feel it because the skin is so fine it’s like tissue paper… Um, what? Skin tears in your lady garden may not hurt while they occur due to all the other crazy shit that’s happening, like contractions and THAT BABY COMING OUT OF YOU, but painless? I know a bunch of women who would argue that point until the cows came home. (Again, pun totally intended.)

Baby shower cake: Helpful friends remind me of where babies exit from. DID experience 4th degree lacerations.

Anyway so there we were, discussing the delights of stretchy vaginas and intense pain, when our lovely midwife asked if I had any milk. I looked at her blankly for a second, silent querying whether she was having a minor stroke… or maybe she just wanted a cup of tea. And then it clicked. “Oh you mean in my boobs? I don’t know.” Stupid, stupid thing to say. The midwife stood up excitedly and said “I’ll be right back,” before bolting out of the room with dramatic flourish. Mick and I looked at each other with alarm. It was clear something momentously unpleasant was about to happen that neither of us had mentally or physically prepared for.

Our midwife jauntily returned with a plastic bagful of syringes and a specimen jar. I glanced at Mick again. Alarmed expression remained. Minor hyperventilation. General feeling of dread and horror. What. Is. HAPPENING?

MW: “So do your nipples stick out?”

Me: “Uhh.. not at this precise moment.”

MW: “But they’re not inverted? Give us a look.”

I reluctantly removed my shirt though was happily already wearing a maternity bra. I was at least spared the shame of being completely topless in a sterile office by only having to unleash one nipple. Present Me mentally high-fived Past Me for being so well prepared. However, the self congratulating was brief once I’d opened up the left cup of my bra and a flurry of breadcrumbs tumbled out along with my boob. I had brief flashbacks from earlier in the day, of eating a toasted sandwich off my bump whilst lying on the couch watching Dr Phil. Mortifying. “Um… Just saving some for later,” I laughed nervously. I was met with awkward silence from the midwife and muffled sniggers from my husband.

MW: “Well, I’ll just wash my hands before we get started.”

Uncomfortable silence. Boob still exposed. Dying inside. Must lighten mood.

Me: “Well, I’m excited! I had no idea I was going to get so much action today.”

She snapped her head towards me, presumably to make sure I was kidding and nervously jittered. A derisive snort from my husband, who appeared to be enjoying my discomfort way too much.

The midwife came back from the sink and proceeded to open up the specimen jar, holding it under my nipple – I would just like to pause a moment here so you can fully appreciate the intense emotions I was feeling. And listen, I’m no prude. I don’t have an issue getting my kit off when the occasion calls for it, like a wax or spray tan or the water birth I have planned for our baby, but I was simply not prepared for being milked. Thoughts went something along the lines of: WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING? HOW DID WE GET HERE? WHAT SHOULD WE HAVE FOR DINNER? (Memories of my lunchtime toasted sandwich reminded me that I am constantly hungry, even in the depths of major embarrassment.)

And then she just went for it. Grabbed my boob and milked me. Exactly like a cow. “Now it’s a rolling motion Jen, don’t just squeeze it when you do it. Are you paying attention, Michael? You might have to help her with this at some point.” (Ha! That wiped the smug look off his face.) And this continued for what was probably only 2 minutes, but felt like an hour. It was THE most uncomfortable I’ve been throughout my pregnancy (minus the physical symptoms) and I’m including the time I knocked a whole heap of stuff off a table at a nail salon because I misjudged the size of my girth. (I can’t be sure because they were speaking Vietnamese, but I’m certain they were bitching about me for the rest of my visit there. The evil looks and pointing towards me with their emory boards kind of gave it away.)

I then had the chance to milk myself, which was no less weird. Three sets of eyes staring intently as I squeezed my nipple, all of us watching the colostrum drip out. The midwife appeared pleased… kind of like what I imagine a farmer would be after his prize cow produced a bucket of milk. She gave us instructions to continue milking at home. We were to collect and freeze the colostrum in little syringes just in case I wasn’t able to produce any milk or the baby had trouble latching on in the first few days. We both nodded and finished up the appointment, steadily avoiding eye contact with each other and the midwife. (Mick and I drove home separately to recover from the situation; giving him plenty of time to think up references, jokes and puns relating to cows and dairy farming to treat me with later. Once home, he was in imminent danger of receiving a black eye and a truce was called 20 minutes after walking through the front door.)

Due to my initial embarrassment of being milked, I mentally dismissed the notion of continuing the process at home immediately. Because lets face it, if this was normal practice, surely I would have heard about it? Yes? Well no actually, as it turns out. Because it’s another one of those things that NOBODY TELLS YOU.

Pre-milking is totally a thing. Now that I knew about it, I heard about it everywhere. Midwife friends, articles on the internet, pregnancy forums. (Though some of those forums should be avoided at all costs. Everyone’s an expert and all these expecting women consult each other first when they have weird pregnancy symptoms, before going to their health professional. E.g. “I feel really nauseous, dizzy, can’t walk properly, blurry vision, swollen feet, pain in my back and my baby’s head is hanging out of my vagina. Do you think I could be in labour?”)

Mama Q feat. Bump.

After reading so much about colostrum and breastfeeding, I realised that I am bloody lucky. While the whole milking process kind of freaked me out initially, I know that not every woman who wants to express or breastfeed can; and here I am basically leaking liquid gold for my unborn child without any effort at all (oh yeah, because since that first time, my breasts haven’t stopped leaking of their own accord. Cheers, ladies.) Midwives everywhere will be happy to know that I have started expressing and storing colostrum regularly since that appointment, despite my initial feelings on the topic. I know I am super lucky and that doing this offers my baby the best nutrition available with the added bonus of saving mine and Mick’s sanity should my boobs suddenly decide not to work properly once Baby Q is here, at least momentarily.

Plus it’s an awesome story to freak people out with.

The stuff nobody warns you about when you’re growing your own human.

So I guess the title is pretty self explanatory really, as to why I’ve started this blog. Throughout my pregnancy, I would share facts and stories with my friends and family via amusing anecdotes on Facebook or over a coffee and was repeatedly told I should write them down – not only for my benefit (or theirs, as they seem to find it hilarious) but for the embarrassment of my future child, which appears to be one of the top reasons why people become parents. Obvs. And since maternity leave is perhaps not quite as exciting as I would have originally thought (read: maternity leave is a total bore. I never thought I’d miss being verbally abused by teenagers all day, but there you have it), I have plenty of time available to mentally peruse the last nine months and tell you guys all the best and worst bits of being pregnant for the first time.

Pre-baby shenanigans.

My husband and I found out we were expecting just after our first wedding anniversary. Naturally we were stoked, we both wanted kids and it sort of happened at that “perfect” time when he wasn’t being sent off to fight any wars and I had been at my job long enough to secure a generous maternity leave package. I’m sorry to rub it in ladies but physically at least, I cruised through the first trimester. I fully expected to have that Hollywood, toilet-hugging, everything-makes-me-barf experience that so many women have. Instead, I developed a knack for falling asleep mid-sentence and managed an average of 12 hours a night. #winning

Bumpless. There is a baby in there though. Swear.

Only I wasn’t #winning because what they don’t tell you about the first trimester is that YOU FEEL EVERYTHING. I had all the feels. Physically, I could feel my body preparing for the baby, stretching, cramping, all my organs chatting to each other about the recent addition to my abdomen. Maybe I was naive, but I totally did not expect to feel anything other than nauseous for the first 12 weeks. Feeling your uterus stretch is bloody weird, plain and simple. And exhausting, I lost like 4kgs, my body worked so hard. Emotionally, I was a clusterfuck of crazy. Any twinge, pain or cramp I felt, immediately created a cause for concern. I was convinced I was going to miscarry. I sobbed and sobbed to my husband Mick, my friends, my boss and the checkout chick at Woolies, who struck up a conversation about the number of pregnancy tests I had in my shopping basket (about 6 different brands, because who can be sure of their reliability? That lady doesn’t work there anymore… I’m sure it’s not a direct correlation.) Mick was amazing, my friends and sister were extremely supportive, but honestly what I needed was someone to tell me to snap out of it and to stop perpetuating a cycle of hormonal hysteria. Which is exactly what my boss did. She reminded me that I am not normally a crazy person and that histrionic ramblings about potential miscarriage and motherhood just wasn’t me. I was an intelligent and rational human being who needed to take a week off work to sort myself out and come back refreshed. Which is exactly what I did.  All hail straight talking mental health nurses.

Baby Q being completely chilled out, despite crazy mother.

Anyway, we reached the second trimester and we finally got to tell everyone – shit got real. I didn’t feel so tired anymore and any flickers of nausea I had in the beginning had completely disappeared. My initial anxiety of miscarriage had shifted once we got into the “safe zone” and instead I got to start freaking out about the fact that we were ACTUALLY HAVING A BABY. I went from having a flat tummy at 12 weeks to having a mini bump and “flutters” by 14 weeks. It was like BAM! JEN’S PREGNANT, EVERYONE! I clearly remember the first time I rolled over onto my back after sleeping on my right side and my “bump” didn’t come with me. IT STAYED ON MY RIGHT SIDE LIKE A GIANT MISSHAPEN EGG. It was hard and tense and after I screamed for Mick to come in and check that the baby wasn’t trying to crawl out the side of my body, we both stared at it wide-eyed as it slowly manoeuvred its back to its correct placement. Naturally, I frantically emailed/texted/rang every nurse and midwife I knew (which is quite a lot as it turns out) all reassuring me that this was normal. BUT WHY DOES NOBODY WARN YOU?! I feel like I could have handled that like a pro, if only someone had said “Hey Jen, sometimes your uterus goes weird and hard, but don’t freak out it’s cool.” Anyway after that little blip, I literally started showing overnight. It was the best and most surreal feeling in the world. #demfeels

Obviously being amazing.

Only #demfeels include getting kicked. Everywhere. And I mean everywhere. As we steadily progressed, little pops and taps turned into more thunderous kicks… kind of like what you’d expect to feel if a ninja was inside your uterus. Or a tap dancer who likes to stomp on your vagina. THAT’S RIGHT THEY KICK YOU IN THE VAGINA! Nobody ever warned me that was a symptom of carrying a mini Michael Flatley in your abdomen. And of course as you start to grow and share your “comical” pregnancy symptoms with friends and colleagues, the theories start to come out:

• “You’re carrying all in the front, it must be a boy.”
• “You’re carrying all in the front, it must be a girl.”
• “Only girls stomp you in the vagina.”
• “Are you craving more sweet or savoury foods? Because one over the other means it’s a boy… I can’t remember which one though.”
• “I had a dream it was a boy and I’m always right.”
• “I had a dream it was a girl and I’m always right.”
• “Hold your hands out in front of you… Yeah see that, palms facing up? That means it’s a girl… wait, no a boy.”

That pregnancy “glow.”

And everyone goes on about that “pregnancy glow” and you’re like, “Um no actually, that’s a sheen of sweat covering my body and never goes away because I am LITERALLY BAKING A HUMAN.” They don’t call it a bun in the oven for nothing. Also you know what else sucks? Constipation, heart burn, leg cramps, not being able to button up your shorts anymore and you have a mini heart attack when you realise that there was FUCKING BRIE ON THAT SANDWICH I ATE YESTERDAY AND I’M PROBABLY GOING TO GET LISTERIA AND KILL MY UNBORN CHILD. Or something to that effect. Turns out the pregnancy paranoia doesn’t go away, it just manifests differently. But do you know what is great? That the kicks become big enough that your husband can finally feel them and realise that you’re not making it up, you really are pregnant with a kung-fu protege. And you get to talk about what it will be like having children and being parents and choosing names and guessing what their little personality will be like. It’s the best.

#demfeels – A mixture of excitement, fear and a constant urge to pee.

Which brings me to the final trimester, the one we’re currently sitting in and have been for eleventy million years. It is LOOOONNNNNGGGGG. And since we expertly chose to give birth in February, which in Tropical North Queensland = feckin’ hot and humid, it’s an added discomfort to an already mighty uncomfortable physical state (clothes are currently optional in our house.) I have the pregnant lady waddle down pat. I am back to experiencing pure exhaustion, only 12 hour naps are out of the question because my child feels it necessary to begin disco dancing at 3am. EVERY. DAMN. NIGHT. (Obviously he/she takes after its father.) And don’t even get me started on the day my midwife milked me – BECAUSE NOBODY WARNED ME THAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. I am still recovering from said experience, but don’t worry people, I will share it. (And if anyone feels like it might be TMI for you, go away. People need to know this shit so they don’t have a mini-freak out about their boobs being treated like udders.)

We’re now at almost 38 weeks and exploring all avenues to bring on labour, because this Momma is OVER IT. It’s hot, I can’t get off the couch without assistance and my dog is acting weird around me. Plus I have 1 solitary stretch mark, (which is easily hidden by underwear/bikini bottoms but remains an unacceptable side effect to bringing life into this world in any case), despite my religious application of cocoa butter, vitamin E cream and bio-oil to prevent this very travesty and I don’t want any more! I could give detailed exploits of what strategies have been suggested to induce labour, both traditional old wives tales (e.g. spicy food) and somewhat non-traditional methods (e.g. insertion of evening primrose oil capsules in your hoo-ha… what?), however as this is currently still a work in progress, I feel this is something that requires further research before declaring a clear winner. But of course the most important reason I want this pregnancy finito, is that I am absolutely dying to meet this little person we have created, that’ll be half me and half the person I love the most in the world. I can’t wait. The countdown is on…

Quilty family eager to meet new addition.