He's going to struggle, he's going to struggle ... oh look he's struggling.

Caesarean schmaesarean. Having given birth both naturally and by caesarean section, I can attest to the fact that they are both as bad as each other, if not worse.

But I'd still birth naturally if given the choice. It made me feel so powerful.

Ahem. Now:

I've had something on my mind about the birth of Joseph. Something that's been nagging at me in such a small way that it hardly matters. In fact I wasn't going to blog it except that Swift Jan blogged about her caesarean and how she felt a little bit cheated. I wondered if I should even mention this little frustration or not. Maybe I will. If you think I'm being silly even wasting time thinking about this, feel free to flame me in the comments.

A pentecostal Christian would call it "speaking [something] into being." Someone else might call it "the power of positive/negative thinking." Personally, I would just say it's frustrating when it seems that outcomes have been influenced by someone else's personal opinion.

Nat was born at 37 weeks. Nobody expected him to have any prematurity problems at 37 weeks. They said that 37 weeks is 'full-term' and on he came. He was tiny: 5lb 1oz or 2290g. But there was never any question that he would have respiratory or any other difficulties, and he came, he grew and he thrived.

The doctors who attended me during the birth of Joseph were different. They were so concerned about the potential for respiratory distress that they wanted me to have the caesarean later - at what they thought was 38 weeks. I still wasn't convinced of their amended date, making 38 weeks a possible 40 weeks. And my babies usually come early and fast - a risk I couldn't possibly take with Joseph.

They were worried about his lung development but I was quite firm about my desire for him to be born at 37 weeks, the same as Happy Healthy Nat. Every maternal instinct I had told me not to leave it the extra week.

I'll never know what would have happened in that extra week if I'd given in. Possibly nothing. Probably nothing. But also the cord had a velamentous insertion, meaning that each day Joseph was inside me he could easily have bled to death. Nobody knew that at that stage. Joseph was in danger and all we knew was that this crazy mother was adamant that the baby needed to be born at 37, not 38 weeks.

So why were they so worried about Joseph's lung development at 37 weeks?

I'd had two steroid injections to mature Joe's lungs - something I was never offered with Nat, because nobody was worried. On the ultrasound, Nat was a small baby. Approximately the 21st percentile. On the ultrasound, Joseph was slightly larger than average. Approximately the 58th percentile. Everything pointed to Joseph being even bigger and stronger than Nat was.

However, the possibility of Joseph developing respiratory distress due to my decision to deliver at 37 weeks dogged my mind. Although I trusted my instinct, I still questioned it in the back of my mind.

Joseph was born, and he was larger than Nat. He was strong too. He was breathing well and looking great - even his APGAR scores were higher than Nat's and Anna's who were both found to be normal and healthy.

But no. Everyone was prepared for respiratory distress, and therefore, respiratory distress was declared.

"Can you hear that slight grunt as he breathes?" the midwife said. Joseph was sighing very very very quietly with each breath he took. "That's a sign of respiratory distress," she said. "We'll just take him to the Special Care Nursery just to be sure."

And such are the drugs they give you that you agree with anything. "I don't mind not being with him or feeding him," I replied. "You just take him and look after him."

Totally against what I would have said if I'd had my wits about me. But I was flat on my back with my guts open. I think she would have won in a fight.

I tell you though, my kid was fine.

Mr de Elba followed Joseph to Special Care and sat with him as Joe breathed some oxygen. After one hour, it was decided that the oxygen wasn't actually needed. Joseph and his Daddy returned to the ward much earlier than I who was stuck in recovery, itching to see my son. Itching all over my face actually, for that is what spinal morphine often does.

"You know," Mr de Elba confided to me later, "I don't think he really needed the oxygen. I don't even think he was in respiratory distress. I think they just thought 'better safe than sorry' and decided to cover themselves."

And again, I agreed with their decision. Better safe than sorry. Always.

I guess I'm just thinking of it now because I got a Patient Discharge Summary for Joseph in the mail today. Yeah, he's 7 weeks old, but better late than never. They've sent a copy to my old doctor in my previous town but none to my current doctor. And they've reported that Joseph spent a whole night in Special Care instead of one short hour because of this 'respiratory distress' of which he had no symptoms except a tiny tiny tiny little noise when he breathed.

There's still a part of me that thinks that they believed so strongly that he would have respiratory distress that they saw it where it didn't really exist. I get a little sad that dotting every 'i' and crossing every 't' made me miss out on the first three hours with my son.

I bet that midwife just wanted all the cuddles for herself.

Nevermind. I've got all the cuddles now!

(See? I said it was nothing. Silly me.)