How to celebrate Valentine's Day when it's your son's birthday

In my experience, Valentine’s Day, far from being the most romantic day of the year, has always been tricky to negotiate.

From the moment I became a teenager, Valentine’s Day immediately became a calendar date of enormous significance.  The anticipation and let’s face it pure, unadulterated fear that I would be overlooked by the Valentine’s Day postman, took on monumental proportions.

I suffered from that affliction typically reserved for teenagers – awkward shyness.  If there had been a vote on the pupil(s) most likely to nab a cool boyfriend, I wouldn’t have even made it onto the list.  If anyone did take a liking to me, they would have to be pretty direct for me to notice.  I would dread the arrival of Valentine’s Day and wince at the thought of a whole day spent in the shadow of my friend Debbie and her hoard of Valentine’s Day cards and cuddly bears.

My teenage years occurred at a time when the post arrived at a set time of day and unfortunately for me, the postal delivery service in our village was way too efficient and pretty much guaranteed a delivery before I left for school in a morning.  Accordingly, there was no get-out clause.  If I didn’t receive a card, I could not simply blame the post (pity today’s teenagers who presumably send e-cards, which are instantaneous, affording the unloved no excuses).  The best my boy-repellent peers and I could hope for was a heavy snowfall, which might slow the postman down and provide us with some semblance of an excuse.

As it turned out, I need not have worried so, as I received two Valentine’s Day cards for all but one of my years at secondary school.  This was no mean feat given the lack of boyfriend material in my year (being awkward and shy does not make one less fussy).  I only ever identified one of the senders.  The other remains a mystery to this day. 

Even at the start of my career, my Valentine’s woes still did not disappear altogether.  Office politics promote competitiveness and this would extend to Valentine’s Day celebrations.  Everyone was at pains to upstage their colleagues with the most adventurous weekend break, the most lavish gift or dinner at the best restaurant.

My then boyfriend and I decided to buck this trend.  We would bemoan the fact that Valentine’s Day was nothing more than a commercial exercise and we would laugh behind closed doors at the suckers who spent a day’s salary on the obligatory and unimaginative bunch of roses.  However, as much as it pained me to be romantic just because it said so on my calendar, I still had expectations for Valentine’s Day and luckily my boyfriend did well to see through my mock disdain.  He would mark the occasion with an impressive home cooked meal and a bottle of fizz.  We would also exchange cards, although they were invariably home made and a little leftfield.

Eventually we became husband and wife and after a few more years of dropping out of the Valentine’s Day circus, I became pregnant and it somehow became fitting that our son was born on Valentine’s Day.  What better gift than a healthy baby boy?

So now, when our social life has been somewhat curtailed, is at the mercy of the availability of babysitters and Valentine’s Day happens to be centred around the birthday celebrations of one soon-to-be 7 year-old, we are even less likely to make a big splash about Valentine’s Day.   Add to the mix our son’s propensity to stay awake later than most, which is a true passion killer (it’s all there in my book, Diary of a Sleep Deprived Mum), we might just about manage a swift glass of something sparkling before our heads hit the pillow.

Yet none of this bothers me.  We have a happy and healthy son and for me it’s my husband’s smaller romantic gestures I appreciate, like remembering to chill my wine on a Friday evening, for bringing me a cup of coffee when I need it most, for the handmade Christmas card I received, inscribed with a message and opened by a metal clasp (how clever?!) and for his ability to rustle up a mouth watering meal when I would stake my life on there being nothing in the fridge.

However and whenever you celebrate your love for someone, enjoy!

Blog Obliteration

I will be brief.  I must be, otherwise I risk taking a large and heavy object to my computer or assuming the foetal position in the corner and silently crying.

I have spent the last few hours attempting to increase the profile of my blog.  I have trawled through the help pages of www.blogger.com and checked my settings to ensure that I am maximising my potential to reach as many complete strangers in cyberspace as is humanly possible.  I have achieved very little.  My settings, in the main, required no alteration from their default statuses. 

During this process however, I found that I had failed to attach labels to my posts, which I discovered would enable other users to be directed to my posts more speedily if the labels match their search criteria.  Accordingly, I set about labelling each and every one of my posts.

Feeling very pleased with myself, I reclined with a coffee and eagerly awaited the traffic I felt sure would magically flow towards my blog.  It was at this point that I noticed my posts were no longer in the correct order, my most recent effort having been relegated to third position.

An embarrassingly long period of time ensued as I attempted to find a way of remedying this.  I’ll spare you the details, but the resulting loss of two of my posts has left me bereft, particularly as one of the posts has also mysteriously vanished from my hard drive.  It is possible that I am now suffering from eyestrain and quite feasibly a form of temporary insanity, as it’s inexplicable that I should fail to save a blog post.

The only glimmer of hope in this sorry state of affairs is that I did successfully complete my Google+ profile.  But even this is somewhat tainted by the fact that no one I know is currently using the facility so I will be touting my wares to a handful of apathetic celebrities.  That is if I have managed to connect Google+ to my blog in the first place.  We shall see…

So, if the Dalai Lama, Caitlin Moran or The Guardian happen to be reading this, please could you just give me the heads up and save my poor, faithful scapegoat-of-a-computer from the scrap man?  Pretty please?

Women behaving badly

Warning, one of my favourite poems by Jenny Joseph, begins:

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.”

The predicted behaviour goes steadily downhill from here, but that is why I love it.  Who doesn’t find the idea of an old lady spitting in the street or stealing flowers from other people’s gardens amusing?

Admittedly, I don’t know many old ladies who behave like this, although my great-grandmother once consumed two thirds of a bunch of grapes for a solid twenty minutes before machine gunning the seeds around the living room of her residential home, much to the shock of the Matron and other residents (and to the stifled giggles of my eleven-year-old self).  But she was not well at the time and seedless grapes were scarce. 

Most old ladies I know are gentle, loving and respectful.  It’s lamentable, but they are largely fearful of today’s youth, not at pains to emulate the notorious members of the younger ASBO generation.

Having said that, there are a few women shaping up to become senior citizens of that ilk.  Denise Welch for one.  Her unapologetic flashing tendencies in this year’s Celebrity Big Brother show no sign of abating and she is coming under fire, interestingly not solely for the flesh baring, but for daring to do so at the age of 53!

So, is there a cut off point for risqué behaviour and does it only apply to women?  The mantra for women of a certain age seems to be less, less, less, not more, more, more.  Less make up, less jewellery, less wine, less cake, less….fun!  There’s nothing new in saying that our behaviour seems to come under greater scrutiny than our male counterparts.  As I’m writing, I can think of a number of fashion rules, which only serve to curtail women’s freedom of expression.  I know for a fact that women are expected to forego mini skirts after the age of 35, but I couldn’t tell you who made that rule.  Isn’t that strange?   There are others.  Only the other day, I was watching the new M.I.A. video for “Bad Girlz” and coveting her mint coloured leopard print skinny jeans, all the time reprimanding myself for thinking I could wear those at my age!  For the record, I am not yet 40.

I know, I know, we all like to look and feel good.  But we are also expected to modify our behaviour and maybe even stop doing the things we enjoy at a certain point in our lives.  I could take a feminist stance and argue that there are and always have been many men out there actively behaving badly and being revered for it – Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty, Colin Farrell and Russell Brand to name but a few.  However, it strikes me that there is a key to behaving badly and getting away with it. 

Provided the perpetrator has intelligence, creativity, a sense of humour, an appreciation of irony and a rapier wit, they can pretty much do anything and still command respect.  Not fair perhaps, but true all the same.  Problems start to arise when an established pattern of behaviour quickly becomes a permanent fixture, with nothing else on the table so to speak.  Boob flashing, if you’re so inclined, is all well and good, but there are only so many times viewers, or anyone for that matter, will be shocked by this or moved to react. 

Dorothy Parker, notorious writer, poet and critic, is a good example of a woman we allowed to behave badly.  Her private life was complicated at best and certainly blighted by alcohol addiction.  Yet, when you realise that she was responsible for the infamous line: “One more drink and I’d have been under the host!” all is forgiven.  Likewise, notorious bad girl Tallulah Bankhead, acknowledging her own chequered history, stated defiantly:  “If I had my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner!”

Some would say that Madonna has done more than her fair share of flesh exposure in her time.  However, she has also covered up, written books, stage-managed and controlled her entire career and most recently directed a film.  Only last weekend, she has triumphed with a spectacular and athletic half time performance at the Superbowl.  Incidentally, she teamed up with the aforementioned M.I.A. for a live rendition of their musical collaboration “Gimme All your Luvin’.” However, this has not prevented Madonna’s detractors from questioning whether, at the same age as Denise Welch, she should be on stage performing at all! 

But fear not, bad girls.  Madonna is shrewd.  She has followed one of the golden rules of senior and guilt free bad behaviour.  She surrounds herself with people younger than herself, thereby keeping her finger firmly on the pulse whilst providing her fellow artists and collaborators with a platform for unrestricted expression.  One of the headline-grabbing stories resulting from Madonna’s Superbowl appearance was the “obscene” gesture courtesy, not of Madonna, but her younger protagonist, M.I.A.  No longer at the eye of the storm in press terms, Madonna is now merely guilty by association.

Madonna has worked hard to achieve longevity, which in turn has earned her the right to explain away any bad behaviour as “art.”  Poor Denise just likes, in her own words, “..getting them out for the lads.”

So there has to be another talent in evidence and preferably some younger, equally talented and naughty friends to help take the heat off.  Provided you have other strings to your bow, you have full permission to start wearing purple, flash and spit to your heart’s content.  Go on ladies, knock yourself out!

Celebrities suffer from sleep deprivation too!

Whether or not you are a fan of Family Fortunes, I’m going to hazard a guess that you’ve all heard of the game show, at some point marvelled at Vernon Kay’s “Ultrabrite” smile and understand the basic premise.  I am therefore going to use this as a neat little introduction to a subject close to my heart.  If 100 women were polled on the following question:  “Name something experienced by new mothers,” I believe right up there with “joy” and “pain-of-biblical-proportions,” would be “sleep deprivation.”

Oh yes, my old nemesis sleep deprivation, so prevalent in those early months, nay years, of motherhood.  To quote Charles Dickens:  It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.  For me, the frequent gummy smiles offered by my baby son would be enough to briefly erase the near constant longing for an uninterrupted sleep of sufficient duration to eradicate once and for all the puffy grey bags hanging beneath my eyes.  The infectious hearty chuckle that only babies can muster at a simple game of peep-o would also serve to take my mind off the hallucinated crawling insects ever present in the corner of my eye.  Believe me, sleep deprivation is no laughing matter.

Actress, Terri Dwyer went public with her experience of sleep deprivation and attested to the physical and mental fallout resulting from lack of sleep.

'Sleep deprivation is a form of torture,' she explains. 'I was so run-down, my hair started falling out, and I was seeing black dots in front of my eyes.'

Myleene Klass, as a new mother, said:  “I am tired, tired all the time.  Sometimes I feel like crying because I am so tired.  People say I make it look easy, but I don’t have any of the answers, I’m still trying to figure things out.”

It is no coincidence that several of my friends who returned to work at the conclusion of their contracted period of maternity leave referred to full time employment as “a break.”

Yet there is little escape from the perils of sleep deprivation.  You might think that it is an affliction only suffered by real mothers, by which I mean those of us without a recession-defying bank balance, Hollywood lifestyle and live-in Nanny.  Firstly, let me tell you, I know a mother with a live-in Nanny and this mum is as devoted and as hands-on as it is possible to be, given her workload.  The live-in Nanny is only relied upon during physical absences and nighttime bedside attendances are fully tended to by both mum and dad.  Sustaining a career and having the financial resources to hire in help does not mean that such women are willing to take a back seat when at home.

One of the most influential messages from the women’s movement was the concept that a woman can “have it all.”  Without getting bogged down in the debate surrounding this, many of us now believe that message to be somewhat clouded by mythology.  Everything comes at a price.  We could all relate to Gwyneth Paltrow when she said:  “Some days I feel like everyone in my world has plugged themselves into my kidneys. I’m so tired…”

The point I am making here is that even Hollywood A-listers, the much revered, beautiful people; the pampered and the privileged, experience sleep deprivation too.  Just because you are an actress being paid a king’s ransom for appearing in a film, does not mean that you are unwilling to invest time in your children.  The maternal instinct is not a tap, which can be turned on and off.  So if your child is crying in the night, whether you are a supermodel or a secretary, the likelihood is that you will immediately rise from the lightest of sleeps and rush to their side.

US actress, Selma Blair is mother to 5-month-old Arthur.  In an interview with PEOPLE she was quoted as saying:  “It’s exhausting.  If I could sleep more, I would be the happiest woman in the whole world.  I’m not sleeping and it’s showing.  But I’m so blessed….I am totally going to stop complaining.” 

See there’s the female guilt creeping in. 

However, Selma has devised her own solution to the problem:  “I will just start to buy more makeup.”

Well, there are many other solutions out there (many of which have been tried by me at some point in time), but you have to be creative and adaptable.  You may hit on a solution that results in an extra hour in bed one weekend but fails the next.  Babies are changeable creatures and you have to be one step ahead.  My quest for sleep inspired a book, Diary of a Sleep Deprived Mum (no explanation required!), which is currently residing at number 1 in the Apple iBook store.  Thank you, Australia!

Perhaps the strongest message from my book is that families with newborn babies must do what works for them.  To a certain extent, we must ignore the textbooks if we hit on something that works.  I’m not advocating ignoring advice, which could compromise safety; but rather, don’t be made to feel guilty for taking steps which are not widely acknowledged.  A simple example is if you and your husband are happy to sleep separately for a time in order to ensure one of you has a decent night’s sleep, then don’t let any armchair expert tell you that you otherwise!  Supermodel Heidi Klum is an advocate of this approach, saying:  “I go to sleep pretty much when the children go to sleep! My husband has to come find me in one of their four beds and remind me that I’m still a wife too!”

It’s fair to say that men suffer from sleep deprivation as well as women (although obviously not to the same extent! *Awaits backlash*)  As Hugh Jackman so succinctly puts it: “I’m lucky to get 7 hours.  I have a 10-year-old and a 5-year-old.”

There are many practical steps, which can be taken to maximise your chances of a longer sleep.  I have referred to them as the “Nocturnal Nineteen.”  I do not pretend that they all result from my own clever scientific sleep experiments, but are a heady mix of tried and tested, accepted and rejected, bought and borrowed.  Some are short-term fixes; others are for the truly sleep-resistant child.

If all else fails, take comfort from the fact that some good can come from sleep deprivation.  Sleep deprivation forces creativity to the surface.  We have to be creative simply to get through the day on insufficient sleep – whether that is by sneaking forty winks whilst breastfeeding or constantly changing your brand of coffee to ensure maximum caffeine hits.  My experience resulted in my first book.  The rosy hue of nostalgia has enabled me to inject into this text, much greater doses of humour, fun and sex than I recall experiencing during those innumerable dawn wake-up calls.

Even Gwen Stefani, probably one of the most creative women on the planet (who else can pull off vintage Hollywood glamour and how-does-she-do-it mystique), has been quoted as saying:  “Everything I’ve done for the past five years, I’ve done while sleep-deprived.”  Well, with a successful recording career, clothing line and acting credits, perhaps sleep deprivation can be a force for good.

Last week I lost a friend

Last week I lost a friend suddenly to an as yet unidentified illness.  He was happy and healthy one minute and gone the next.  I am still trying to make sense of this tragedy.  It is particularly sad, as Ed was only 36 and as my husband so neatly summarised: “Things hadn’t really got going for him.”  That is not to say that he was lacking in achievements.  He had a successful career, a lust for life, a sparkling sense of humour and impeccable music taste.  He was also a fiercely intelligent man, did not suffer fools gladly and was a stickler for detail.

I recall my husband and I gently teasing him by deliberately mispronouncing words or being generally ungrammatical.  I’m not certain we ever enlightened him as to this ruse, as it was too much fun watching him wrestle with his conscience – desperate to correct us in no uncertain terms, but holding back…until next time.  As it’s turned out, he has had the last laugh, bowing out too soon, but leaving in his wake a pair of card-marked ignoramuses.

For those left behind, the death of a loved one is always tinged with guilt, particularly when their passing is unexpected.  There are always questions, matters unresolved, things unsaid.  My own guilt stems from my disappearance off the social radar for some considerable time after having my son.  My husband maintained more frequent contact with Ed, but even he is regretting not getting in touch sooner.  That said the guilt only really exists because we can no longer talk to Ed.  In a way, in this instance, guilt is a selfish emotion.  We can’t explain and be appeased.  Were we able to speak to Ed, I’m certain there would be no hard feelings.  In fact, lengthy hiatuses typified our friendship.  Ed was one of those people you could not see for months at a time (both parties guilty of not keeping the lines of communication open), but just as soon as one made contact, it was as though no time at all had elapsed - the sign perhaps of a true friend.

Ed was, at the time of his death, single.  However, a twin brother, doting parents and a wide circle of friends - all currently treading water and trying to come to terms with their loss - enriched his life.

On New Year’s Eve I could not have anticipated that the first social gathering of my friends in 2012 would be at Ed’s funeral.  This is not the way we should spend time together.  I have also been forced to confront my own faith, or lack of it.  For the atheists and agnostics amongst us, death is wholly unpalatable.  Whenever we are faced with death, we trot out the same cliché about living life to the full.  Do we ever really stop and think what that means?  In our heart of hearts, I think we all know that it would be a real challenge to be true to this motto.  We all have jobs and responsibilities.  Most of us have financial constraints.  With the best will in the world, living life to the full is somewhat curtailed by the very nature of our existence.  So, I believe this is why I for one find the idea of death so unutterably terrifying.

In Western society, those without faith are ill prepared for death.  It seems ludicrous.  Death is part of life and the only thing we can be certain of.  However, we don’t like to talk about it, preferring to ignore the inevitable and bury ourselves in the here and now.

Perhaps we should all be more prepared and accepting of death.  Not wishing to sound trite, but many Eastern religious philosophies and sentiments are worth considering. 

Buddhists talk of “dust on the wind” and ask what separates us from that now?  Only the breath we take.  So in fact we never disappear completely.

Hindus believe in reincarnation - that life is cyclical.  Without dwelling too much on this, I had an experience in my childhood, which for a long time quelled my fear of death and made me question whether death is in fact the end.    Hinduism also teaches that we brought nothing with us when we came and take nothing with us when we leave this world.  In fact, we will leave a little extra behind if we lead a life of goodness and philanthropy.  These sentiments are irrefutable.  It’s not a question of faith but common sense.

Well, Ed has left something behind for all of us.  We all have our memories and photographs.  We will continue to hear his voice, his laugh, his sarcasm and efforts to improve our musical education.  He is sure to get a mention in many a late night conversation and for this we will be always be thankful.

To believe or not to believe...

Christmas is now 17 sleeps away.  Come December, those of us with children collectively relax our parenting skills and leave some of the discipline to that ageless, bearded benefactor, Santa Claus.  Each of us will, at some stage between the opening of the first window of the advent calendar and Christmas Day, perpetuate the myth that Santa will be listening in on and watching intently the misdemeanours of our children.

I happen to believe wholeheartedly that childhood is all too fleeting and diminishes a little (like the economy), year upon year, as this world becomes a darker and more foreboding place.  I still believe this and accordingly strive to ensure that my son’s childhood is enriched with magical memories to cherish forever.

However, I am also a realist and when I’m feeling hard on myself, I see Christmas for what it is - one big lie we tell our children.  A lie one day we will have to confess to upholding for several years and consequently embark on a damage limitation exercise of monumental proportions.  Either that, or leave it to the cool kids at school to enlighten our children and simultaneously administer one of life’s bitter pills. 

Until now I have always managed to quash these negative thoughts and have been swept away on a tidal wave of festive cheer, unyielding in my affirmation of Santa.  But, only yesterday, I was again given cause to question this conviction.

When I had my son, I vowed never to lie to him.  Parents can be deceitful and whilst this is oft borne out of a desire to do right by one’s children, it can be counter productive and facilitate a climate of suspicion.  Not volunteering information is tantamount to lying in my opinion, particularly when used as an avoidance tactic, such as not telling your child that you have signed him up for swimming lessons (knowing the negative reaction it would cause).  I have always ensured the lines of communication are open in my relationship with my son and have told the truth a little in advance of the event itself, no matter how unpalatable, to give me time to mentally prepare him and to hopefully turn the situation around.  I have taken this approach with everything from inoculations to starting nursery and school.  Honesty is the best policy in my opinion.  Admittedly this approach has had mixed results, such as my insistence that he attended Beavers for at least three weeks before I considered he was justified in asserting his intense hatred of the experience!

However, on the whole, this has served me well and I believe that my son trusts me implicitly.  I think that is why, when my son asked me the other day “Is Father Christmas real?  Tell the truth now!”  I hesitated.  I considered the tone of his question.  It was teasing, but there was a hint of fragility, a sense that if I had told the truth, he would have been crushed.  This persuaded me to continue the lie, but has left me feeling deeply uncomfortable. 

An overriding cynicism pervades my own childhood memories of Santa Claus.  I recall casually identifying our school Headmaster as a bogus Santa at the school Christmas Fete, in spite of his authentically rotund physique and naturally ruddy cheeks.  It also didn’t go unnoticed by me that local TV stations would advertise appearances by Santa at shopping centres across the county on the same day.  I would ask:  “How can he be in all those places at the same time?”  But ultimately I needed evidence and clearly remember leaving an autograph book on my bedside table to satisfy myself that it was Santa I heard every year, dragging a sack across the landing and whispering loudly (presumably to himself!) some time after midnight.  I don’t even recall being particularly upset or surprised when I learned the truth. 

I think that is why I feel so guilty now.  I seem to have passed on my tendency to apply logic to every situation to my son.  He is a stickler for detail and will not for example simply accept that Santa listens in on conversations.  He wants to know how this is possible, although my husband’s response that he has spies dotted around the place, albeit a little sinister, does seem to have satisfied him on this for now.  He also wants to know exactly where Santa lives, what his house is like and how he can deliver presents to all children when sleep is a prerequisite.  (He’s got me here.  My son is notoriously nocturnal and has in fact inspired my first book – Diary of a Sleep Deprived Mum.  If all children were like my son, Santa would have to have a rocket-propelled sleigh to successfully complete his rounds by Christmas morning!)

As befits a child finding his or her place in the world, questions on the trickiest of subjects are inevitable.  It just gets harder to field them I find, especially given my honesty policy.  A particularly challenging example is the big life question itself, the existence of God.  My son has also recently asked this question (again, clearly triggered by Christmas and the nativity story).  My beliefs, I feel, are irrelevant.  No matter how fantastical the idea of a godly presence watching over us may be to a practically minded six year old, I would like him to take that leap of faith at his tender age.  A friend advised that in their household, such questions are handled by firstly explaining what some people believe before asking their children what they think.  This is a wonderful approach, which encourages independent thought. 

Unfortunately, on this subject, my son is reluctant to offer his opinion unless and until he is furnished with all the facts.  These include what God looks like, where he actually lives and the precise location of Heaven (which my son has currently decided is in outer space). 

Sadly my responses on this subject have so far been a little wishy-washy, which has had the advantage of deterring him from asking further questions.  For now.  Perhaps I should be grateful for small mercies and time out to gather my thoughts.  I should appreciate that my son thinks I’m a dullard who changes the subject when questions become too difficult for my withering, decrepit brain. 

With recent interrogations still at the forefront of my mind, last night we received a visit from a superior bogus Santa courtesy of the local Rotary Club.  He had an authentic costume (not for the Rotary Club is the slapdash approach to beard adhesive) and a sleigh (thankfully, the vehicle towing him, engine still running, was just out of sight behind the garden wall).  As we stepped out into the frosty night air, I glanced up at the stars and was suddenly reminded of a momentary lapse in my childhood Santa cynicism.  I remembered looking out of my bedroom window, convinced that I had heard sleigh bells and actually believing I could see Rudolph’s nose streaking across the night sky.  More than that, I remembered the sheer wonder and frisson of excitement I experienced at that moment.  Suddenly our white lie weighed a little less on my conscience.  Surely we all deserve to experience a little magic at least once in our lives?  Even if it turns out to be misplaced, I think that the belief itself, however temporary, feels real enough to make a lasting impression.

Caesarean Section - A woman's right to choose

Today the headlines are screaming about new and controversial guidelines for England and Wales issued by NICE (National Institute of Health and Clinical Excellence), which state that pregnant women who request a Caesarean delivery should be allowed to have the operation, even without a persuasive medical requirement, provided that they are offered counselling and advised of the risks first.

I am not clear as to why such headlines are tagged as controversial.  Dig a little deeper and it is clear that these guidelines are in line with what is actually happening right now in hospitals.

The Deputy Chief Executive of NICE, Dr Gillian Leng has been quoted as saying:  “This guideline is not about offering free caesareans for all on the NHS.  It is about ensuring that women give birth in the way that is most appropriate for them and their babies.  Offering these women a planned caesarean section in these circumstances is a very long way from saying that caesarean section should automatically be offered to every woman.”

For the record, C-section figures have remained static for a number of years now, (although they had been steadily rising for many more) and it is anticipated that the rate will fall if the new guidelines are implemented.  Wendy Savage, a retired professor of obstetrics believes that the rise in C-sections was as a result of obstetricians being too keen to carry them out, rather than women themselves requesting the operation.

For me, the three main issues here, sidelined in the midst of hysteria about women being given a choice and misinterpretation of the facts, are as follows:-

a)      Many obstetricians are keen on C-sections because they have not been adequately trained on vaginal deliveries, according to Wendy Savage;

b)      There has existed a mentality of once a C-section, always a C-section and this should be challenged and;

c)      The inevitable costs issue.  Planned C-sections are more expensive than vaginal deliveries.

Many experts believe that equipped with the correct advice on the inherent risks associated with such a major operation and feeling confident in the support on offer during labour, most women would elect for a natural birth in any event. 

Speaking as a woman who gave birth by C-section, my only comment would be that women obviously need support – both medical and emotional - during their hours of labour and today’s story does not seem to take account of the desperate shortage of midwives.

I was lucky.  I greeted and bid farewell to a number of midwives during my lengthy labour and, after 48 hours of a stop/start labour, which failed to respond to chemical inducement, I was more than willing to sign the necessary paperwork in order to have the recommended C-section.  Let me tell you, after almost 48 hours with little sleep and a cocktail of drugs running through my veins, it is hard to judge whether or not I was capable of making this decision.  Certainly I was advised of the associated risks (possible damage to bowel amongst them), but all I knew was that my baby was too high, was not going to budge and I was way too tired to push any longer.  Also, my C-section was subsequently classified as an emergency caesarean as a result of the length of time I had been in labour. 

However, my post-operative recovery was swift.  Perhaps I was one of the lucky ones, but considering the operation is likened to a hysterectomy, I was up on my feet and taking regular walks within a fortnight, my scar healed well and I experienced no complications or associated discomfort aside from the obvious localised tenderness.

Surely, given the current shortage of midwives, it is better to offer women a choice, provided this is more than matched by the information and counselling on offer?  I recall constantly being asked about my birth plan by my midwife throughout my pregnancy and was dead set on a water birth.  The reality of the situation was altogether different.  My experience just demonstrated how a birth plan might be rendered null and void in an instant.

However, a choice must be balanced and fairly executed.  It is unethical surely to offer an informed choice on a planned C-section if the alternative (and allegedly the option most woman would opt for) is to have a vaginal delivery poorly executed by an untrained obstetrician.  I’m certain that the allegation of lack of training is perhaps not rife in the NHS, but if it is an issue at all, then it stands shoulder to shoulder with the shortage of midwives and serves as reason enough in my opinion, to allow women the freedom to choose how they give birth.