#mumblogger

Girls :

Rosie

Polly

Daisy

Ella

Libby

Boys:

Billy

Joey

Reggie

Rudie

I woke up around 6 a.m. with my eldest son, Henry. I was a little achy, but at 32+1 weeks pregnant with my third baby in three years, I thought, no big deal. We continued with our usual morning routine, breakfast, getting dressed, then sitting on the floor to play cars (because you can only play cars on the ground 🙃).

Around 9 am I went to the bathroom and noticed I was bleeding. It wasn’t heavy, but after experiencing a stillbirth in June 2024 at 31+6 weeks, anything was enough to send me into panic mode.

With a toddler in tow, nothing happens quickly.

We made it to the MAU just before 11 after walking in from Garran because I couldn’t get a park in the multistorey.

The ward clerks were all on break, so I spent the next half hour trying to entertain a very bored toddler in a quiet waiting room full of other women waiting to be seen.

By 12:30, we were still waiting. My symptoms weren’t overly concerning, and baby was moving well, which eased my worries enough to stay patient. Anticipating a long wait, I messaged my dad (Henry’s Pa) and asked if he could swing by after his dentist appointment to take Henry to the park while I waited. “I’m sure I’ll just be in and out once I get seen to,” I said - famous last words.

At 1:15, I was finally hooked up to the monitors. Henry was grateful for the change of scenery while we waited for Pa. Around 2:30, the midwife told me they were happy with my NST, but given my history and the bleeding, they wanted to do a cervical check and an ultrasound.

Pa arrived not long after, and off went Henry, very happily the park.

The midwife and a dr came in to do the cervical check. Within seconds of the speculum opening, both of their faces dropped.

They smiled politely, said they’d be right back, and quickly left the room.

The baby (who we didn’t yet know was a girl) was still alive - that was all I could think.

Whatever’s coming next can’t be as bad as what I was told in this room last time.

I thought to myself.

A few minutes later, the nurses returned one carrying a huge needle. “This is a steroid shot,” she said with a reassuring smile.

The doctor then explained I was 3 to 4 cm dilated and would be admitted until birth or until things settled. “We’ll monitor you for at least 48 hours,” she said. “It could be weeks, but if baby comes soon, 32-weekers usually do very well.”

I was given the steroid injection around 3:30 and made a few quick calls first to my Dad, to let him know he’d need to take Henry home but “not to stress, it’ll probably be days or weeks.”

Then to my partner, Charlie, who, unlike me, had a feeling he should get there fast. Lastly, Dad called to let me know hed call Mum to let her know she might want to come after work.

(My phone was on 5% at this point, whoops)

The nurse wheeled me to the birth ward, I wasn’t allowed to walk in case it progressed things further.

The aches I’d been feeling all morning were actually light contractions, and they were starting to intensify but only slightly.

Mum arrived straight from work at 4 p.m., and Charlie not long after at 4:07.

The contractions were stronger now, but since I thought I had days ahead, I didn’t pay much attention.

Soon, more nurses came in to try to place an IV. Four nurses later, the anaesthetist (who had an absolutly un matched bedside manner) came to the rescue. Two tries later, it was in and that’s when I really noticed how strong the contractions had become.

I don’t remember these being this painful this early, I thought around 4:30.

I asked for the gas, which my midwife started setting up. “We’ll start low and turn it up as needed,” she said. (Because of allergies and spinal fusion, gas was my only option so I didn't want to exhaust it too quickly) She also mentioned that the NICU team would be in shortly to talk about what would happen if baby came in the next few days.

I asked her to turn the gas up. “I don’t think this is working,” I said, still fully clothed. She laughed kindly and said, “We’ll turn it up, but you might want to get into a gown and take your shoes off.” I remember being so annoyed about taking my shoes off.

Before I could change, I felt a gush my waters breaking. It was 5:06 p.m. The midwife hurried to prepare the warming station. Only then did I finally accept that baby was probably coming tonight.

A minute later, I felt it. “I think the head’s out,” I said (just like my last birth, where no one believed I was in labour until her head was out.) “Yep,” said the midwife. “Can you press the emergency button over there?” Mum scrambled to find it.

At 5:09 p.m. three minutes after my waters broke our beautiful daughter, Sophie Eleanor, was born, loudly (thank everything good in the universe)

at 32+1 weeks.

They placed her on my chest. Her warmth, her tiny movements, her smell; suddenly all the grief and heartbreak from the past year hit me like a truck. But so did the relief. She was early, but she was safe.

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Mum cried.

“She’s a girl?!” I double checked.

The NICU team stepped in quickly but calmly. They were amazing. Sophie went up to NICU with her Nanny while I was checked over (no stitches woohoo!). I showered, ate, and was finally allowed to go up to see her.

When I saw her tiny, fragile body surrounded by machines, it was overwhelming. But there, in the middle of it all, was our little ray of sunshine.

Holding her, I remembered Judy. Sophie was warm Judy had never been so warm. Sophie smelled of milk, not metal. She could curl up on my chest, and I could feel her tiny breaths against my skin. I’d forgotten that this was how it was supposed to be.

That night, Henry came to meet his baby sister. He crouched down really low beside her isolette, “Hi baby Sophie.” He’d been told to be gentle and quiet, and watching him meet her made my heart explode. I knew from that moment he was going to be the best big brother.

I could go on forever about her first night or her 32-day NICU and SCN stay, but I’ll end it here.

At the time of writing (October), Sophie is 11 weeks + 1 day old and absolutely thriving. She’s doubled her birth weight (1,850g), is fully breastfeeding which has been huge for us both. Shes smiling, and trying so hard to roll over.

One day, you’re a carefree 18-year-old who’s just moved away from home to the big city. You’re living life at the tail end of your “party era” that started when you were 15.

You're on top of the world and excited to see *what’s next*.

A van kitted out for a lap around Australia.

More tattoos.

nights out in your new city (they literally have a nang delivery service!).

But then, one morning, two little pink lines appear.

Nine months later, the most beautiful little boy you’ve ever seen is laid on your chest. The journey there wasn’t easy, but now you know — this is what’s next.

Navigating life as a 19-year-old new mum is hard. Do you tell people he was an accident? Would they even believe you? You’ve always wanted to be a mum one day, so maybe it’s easier to just say he was planned. (You’ll do that a lot — somehow it feels less embarrassing.)