Quick disclaimer: this post features bodily fluids, mental health and almost swearing so read no further if  you're a) not into graphic details or b) my dad...

When I had Sam my birth plan was a bit, well a lot, vague. There was so much conflicting advice for a first time mum to be that I couldn't always sift out the good from the not so good.

So I went with two key points. The first was no back labour - I couldn't lie on my back for the last trimester without whimpering in pain so didn't see any logic in doing it for the most physically demanding challenge of my life.

The second was no diamorphine but that went out of the window when the intensity of the contractions changed during the transition phase and I panicked.

I stuck to the first point though, when I was woozy with the drugs and sleeping in four minute intervals between contractions, the midwife and Euan manoeuvred me onto my side and the rest of the time I was on my feet or crouching. Gravity was my friend, I had a short labour with no complications and no stitches. (Don't hate me, it was pregnancy karma, a reward for 8 months of vomiting and 3 months of pelvic and lower back pain.)

Because the first labour was fairly quick and efficient and second babies generally come quicker, a home birth was in the back of my mind from relatively early on this time. As well as not delivering a baby on the side of the road, I was seduced by the idea of minimum upheaval. I would have my own things to hand without deciding what to pack, I would have that amazing post delivery cup of tea in one of my own mugs and I would have my own bathroom handy for that first shower.

I also quite wanted the privacy of our own home for those first beautiful skin to skin moments and feeding. Our experience at the hospital last time was by no means awful or overly clinical but I felt hot and uncomfortable and every time I thought I would have two moments to gaze quietly at the boy or grab a ten minute snooze, someone inevitably walked in to check him or me or offer more tea and toast.

Actually, the tea and toast part was brilliant, a key part of my home birth would have been a loaf of white bread and naughty butter on standby for toasting and my mum wielding the teapot.

I've been in what would politely be described as a "low mood" this week. I'm not polite though so I'll put my hands up and admit to have been in a sh*tty mood. It's not what I'd call depression, I know what that looks like and I'm not there yet. But it's getting there and that's a bit of a blow.

It turns out that people who have postnatal depression have a 50% chance of antenatal depression in subsequent pregnancies. Oh great, thanks hormones. Also, I think some of it might be down to either puking or wanting to puke for six months.

But my up and down, slightly nutty behaviour is mostly down to feeling like the rug got pulled out from under me. The operation to remove my cyst and the recovery time have made me doubt birth can be a straightforward experience. I've been dwelling far too much on what-ifs and also on all the things that I can't do right now.

The biggest one being that lovely, slightly hippy dippy homebirth I'd been counting on. In fairness, no medical professional has come out and said that I shouldn't have the baby at home and my consultant has reassured me that she sees no reason why I can't deliver in the midwife led unit of the maternity ward. But I'm officially wimping out. I want the safety net of doctors being two minutes away if they're needed.

At the same time, I'm terrified that the delivery will turn into a long succession of medical interventions.

So after a good chat with an excellent midwife and consultant I'm taking ownership of the mood I'm in. The depression will have to be nipped in the bud with the right medication so that Sam and Euan and the new one won't have to experience zombie-Heather.

And I'm going to write a birth plan that features minimal monitoring, labouring in a pool (I think I'll get over my "is the water clean enough?" heebie jeebies when I'm in the moment) and not letting myself panic. Then I'm going to give Euan a copy of it so he can gently remind me of those good intentions when I panic anyway and start asking for the good narcotics....

I'm a big believer in the fact that a mummy needs a way to express herself. That being said, I have not a talented crafty bone in my body. My favourite thing to make used to be cakes but I like plenty of elbow room when I'm getting my bake on and our kitchen is currently a bit tight on worktop space. I also have a toddler who thinks baking is far too sedentary a hobby and I prefer to use his nap time to either prep dinner or lie the hell down and concentrate on not being sick. So the most I stretch to at the moment is a quick batch of scones.

Fortunately though, I was introduced to the joy of Pinterest in the run up to my wedding and it has a wealth of crafts you can do that are simple enough to do while you also distract Danger Toddler or are quick and quiet enough to do whilst said toddler is sleeping. I love browsing for ideas for the house, the new nursery, the garden and things to eat. Not sure Euan loves it so much when he's trying to watch the odd game of football or eat or have a conversation or sleep and I'm poking him in the ribs to say "look at this" or "we should put up shelves like this" or "I really need a glue gun". I do really need a glue gun...but I digress...

At Christmas time, my long suffering husband expanded my collection of rubber stamps and also got me some blank card aaaaannnnndddd a paper guillotine (I've wanted one since I was six!) so I could have a go at making birthday cards. A fortuitous trip to Paperchase in St Andrews yielded some very cute paper tape (washi tape to those of you crafty types) and I decided to start experimenting with my surplus of blank luggage labels. It was the start of toddler birthday season, all of Sam's friends turned two over the course of three months so I was quite pleased with the way this turned out:

I was pleased with how easy to use the tape was and after checking with my fiercest critic (my sister) that it didn't look cheap and tacky, I hit Pinterest to see what else I could use it for. One of my favourite things about Pinterest is the many beautiful crafty blogs it can lead you to (my blog reading list expands daily, does anyone else have this problem?!). I found a tutorial on how to make washi bows here and I've used it twice so far:

I love that I can use the tape very simply to make something quick and easy but a little different. These thank yous were done on blank post cards so were very cost effective. In a rare moment of forward planning, I had done a batch of them before I went to hospital so I was able to get the family thank yous for Sam's generous gifts out quickly despite the fact that I was hobbling around feeling sorry for myself! 

Today, Euan kindly took Sam out for the afternoon on the strict understanding I wouldn't immediately start doing all the household jobs I'm not allowed to do until my incision heals properly (I've reached the point of recovery where I'm a truly awful patient) so I sat down to make a birthday card for one of Sam's favourite older women (she's six today and he truly adores her because she lets him play with her hair!). I think I've reached my washi zenith with this one, I even did a coordinating gift tag. 

Now that I've bored you all thoroughly and checked that my poor laptop hasn't seized up through lack of use, I'll get back to nappy chat and personal mummy fails as my subject matter and leave the crafty blogs to the truly gifted!

This afternoon I have mostly been tired and emotional. Sorry Euan. I officially kicked myself up a gear today because friends were coming to give the boy a birthday present and check in on my pathetic condition. So I got up before 10am, put actual clothes on and even broke out a bit of eye liner.

The novelty value gave me the impetus to get some potatoes in the oven, make a round of hot drinks and thoroughly enjoy the sight of Sam's favourite big kid friends making him feel like one of them.

I got to gossip with the person who once brought me to happy tears by describing me as an Ugg Boot. She is by far my favourite acquisition through marriage (she went to school with Euan!) and I always feel like I can go ahead and confess my neuroses to her without her reaching for the panic button.

The dads kindly took the gang to the park and chatting with her about the past week or so and about having to rethink my whole birth plan helped get myself back on the right page. I even managed not to blub about the fact that I was dreading the thought of not being chilled out and in my own home when this baby makes an entrance.

She's not the only friend that's been on hand this week. On Wednesday, Danger Toddler's female equivalent stopped by with her mum, my favourite local organic toddler chef. Who brought not only freezer portions of shepherd's pie and cake but also DVDs for Sam diversion when Euan goes back to work. And then she listened to gory details of stitches and staples and didn't go green when my tiredness allowed me to get talking about expressing colostrum. I should really be handing out humanitarian awards.

On Sunday Sam was entertained by his most laid back buddy whose mum had brought thoughtful birthday gifts and stories of her business venture to take my mind off feeling like a rag doll coming apart at the seams.

I've lost count of the messages to see how I'm doing and the offers of help with everything from my laundry basket to Sam wrangling from friends near and far. It's been a beautiful reminder of how lucky I am and how hard this mummy business without a network of support. It's a cliché for a reason that it takes a village to raise a child.

I should also point out that if I wrote about how fantastic our family have been, this blog would quadruple in length! Thank you!!!

But now I'll concede in writing that my husband is right and I need painkillers and a nap. The painkillers are just strong enough that I'll drift off to the sound of The Rembrandts in a nostalgic haze...

At my 12 week scan the sonographer caught sight of a small cyst on my right ovary. No biggie, I thought, the one I had during my pregnancy with Sam disappeared by 20 weeks.

At my 20 week scan, it was still there but not significantly bigger and other than being glad I wasn't imagining the twingey pains I didn't give it much thought.

My consultant talked Euan and I through all the what ifs involved and booked a scan at 26 weeks to keep an eye on it. I was still fairly confident it would go away until the events of
Worst Pregnancy Ever. But at the 26 week scan the cyst was bigger and the baby was measuring in the 98th percentile and I was starting to feel slightly overstuffed.

The superwoman who I'm blessed to have as my consultant during this pregnancy sat me down and laid out all the facts. She explained exactly where the cyst was and why it was growing and what it would feel like if it became a problem. She also told me that if she had to take it out there were lots of precautions she would take to make sure Bump stayed put and that just in case I went into labour, Bump would receive steroids for lung maturity.

I went home duly reassured and despite feeling a few twinges and also wondering how on earth I was growing such a giant baby despite the Hyperemesis (creme eggs and scones !), I was feeling okay. I was also moving into extreme home baking mode for a certain toddler's 2nd Birthday.

Tuesday was a normal day, Sam and I did our usual things and I did a trial run with my new star shaped cake pan (which deserves a post of it's own). Euan came home in time for dinner and I bowed out for bath time to stretch out a sore back.

Fast forward to bed time and Euan was slightly alarmed when I got into bed with the announcement that I felt like I was having a contraction but only in one place and it wasn't going away. I realised it was my cyst and because I'm a giant wimp I ended up on the bedroom floor crying whilst first telling the hospital we were coming through and then asking my mum to come and look after Sam.

My no nonsense mum arrived and looked genuinely sympathetic, after a teenhood of her telling me to take to paracetamol and get to school, this was frankly alarming. On the way to the hospital (after a stop to puke in public, sorry Dunfermline!) we got stopped in roadworks despite it being midnight and at that point I would have cheerfully taken a scalpel to myself to get rid of the pain. I obviously told Euan how much I loved him and not to let Sam forget me because melodrama is my favourite analgesic.

We got to the hospital eventually and I was blessed with the first excellent midwife of my stay. She was a diamorphine first, ask questions later kinda gal so I was just about able to let the on call doctor examine me. It gets hazy after that but I was put to bed and in the morning my fairy godconsultant arrived and told me in no uncertain terms I was going to need an operation. By that point, I would have agreed to a surgical decapitation, my only wobble came when I realised that Sam wouldn't be getting a homemade cake. Fortunately, the next of the excellent midwives reminded me of the existence of supermarkets and then gave me a glamorous pair of pressure socks.

After a quick hug from Euan and a call from my mum to say she was on her way with presentable nighties (I am shamelessly scruffy in the nightwear department) and a quick final walk through with the docs, I was coming round from the anaesthetic and desperately asking anyone that passed where the baby was. Still tucked up in utero, so I moved onto a request for as many painkillers as I could have, I refer you back to my giant wimp comment.

I cannot praise the care I received highly enough before, during and after the operation. I was also blown away by the love and support and general help our family and friends rallied round with.

I'm tired and a bit sore and totally frustrated with my inability to do anything at a normal pace (I've been drafting this post for four days!) but I'm home. I got to celebrate my boy's birthday with him and marvel at just how funny and kind and clever he is. And now I get to sit back, get better and let someone else deal with my nemesis the laundry bag for a couple of weeks!