From Whirlwind to Warmth; New Country, New Birthing Experience & more!

 “It’s not really my thing.”

This was my response to my husband, who, for the second time that week, was nudging me to consider joining the league of lifestyle vloggers/bloggers.

“You can do it now,” he encouraged me.

But I have since learned that having the ability to do something doesn’t always translate to the desire to actually execute it.

I said it wasn’t my thing because that path requires being comfortable with a tell-it-all approach to personal storytelling. I’m not exactly a private person, but at the same time, I tend to worry that starting something like “Keeping Up with Buki” vlogging or blogging would leave people saying:

Cue track 1—Title: “Who Asked?” Artist: Nobody ft. It’s None of Our Business.

Lol.

However, I’m making an exception here. I don’t know why, but I just feel like sharing what life has been like over the last 12 to 14 months to commemorate my second son’s birthday.

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Airplane, Luggage, & Bump

It was me, my son, our bags… and an almost eight-month pregnancy as we got on the plane to relocate and join my husband in the Netherlands. He had arrived seven months before us.

I was about six weeks from my due date in a new country, with a toddler, a husband juggling school and work, and myself fully working remotely for the Nigerian organization that employed me. It was a whirlwind.

My husband did his best to put structures in place before our arrival, but there was only so much he could do. Most importantly, he tried to sort out insurance and hospital registration for me, but they insisted that the expecting mother had to arrange it herself. The spouse couldn’t do it on her behalf in absentia.

It was honestly a very high-pressure time for me. To cut the story short, after endless phone calls, I finally got registered with a midwifery organization. In the Netherlands, births are primarily handled by midwives. They presented the option of choosing a home birth or a hospital birth. Apparently, 30% of births in the Netherlands happen at home.

It was definitely not an attractive option for me—hospital, please!

Even if it had been, I later learned that the home-birth option is unavailable for mothers who have had a C-section before, which was my case. So, hospital it was!

When I eventually got registered at the hospital (three weeks before my due date), a series of appointments awaited me: blood work, various tests, and more. It all had to be crammed into a week or two because time was running out. Boy, was it stressful!

One of the test results came back with a gestational diabetes (GD) diagnosis. Because of this, they began trying to subtly convince me to consider an elective C-section.

I insisted on a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). Here’s the thing: every birth is a miracle, irrespective of the pathway. But for me, it was a no-brainer that a C-section wouldn’t be a sustainable or practical choice. We had no plans to bring in any of the grandmas to help. My C-section recovery process with my first child had been long and excruciating. I didn’t see how I could possibly keep up with the golden post-CS rules: don’t bend, don’t lift anything heavy. Lol.

Spoiler: God did it—I got my VBAC delivery eventually.

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Jump—It’s a Boy!

Long story short, because of the GD, I was asked to check into the hospital on November 23rd to be induced. I remember one of the nurses asking who was with me. I explained that my husband had to return home with our son. She gave me a sad, pitying look and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

And they sure did!

I was sincerely shocked by the level of care, empathy, and kindness each nurse and midwife showed during the less than 48 hours I spent at the hospital. During the long and intense labor, I had a midwife and two nurses attending to me.

They asked if I wanted a warm shower. Sceptical, I hesitated, but they assured me it would help with the pain. I agreed, and they basically held the showerhead over me while another brought me a chair. Lol.

One nurse on my right held a cup of water to my mouth, while another wiped my sweaty forehead as I pushed and pushed.

When the baby finally came out, they asked if I was stable enough to unlock my phone so they could help me take pictures. Haha—wonderful! They captured every moment, including a video of the umbilical cord being cut. I didn’t even have to ask. I was truly touched by their gestures.

Don’t blame me—considering where I came from, it was a big deal. A doctor at Gbagada General Hospital once punished me by moving my file to the very bottom of the pile because I didn’t answer when my number was called. I sat on a wooden bench for nothing less than four hours while battling painful haemorrhoids.

A friend of mine once told me how, after her delivery via C-section, she needed to move to another room a floor above. The nurse escorting her had the nerve to complain that she wasn’t climbing the stairs fast enough.

Her story replayed in my mind as the nurse at the Dutch hospital wheeled me to the lobby after my discharge.

Oh wait—before I got discharged, my near-perfect hospital experience hit a snag. Lol.

Their policy for uncomplicated deliveries is that mother and child are discharged six to eight hours post-birth. My baby arrived at 5 a.m., so the nurse counted the hours on her fingers and told me I’d be going home by 2 p.m.

Ha! Egbami. Go where? My husband won’t admit it, but I believe he was more terrified at the idea of going home with a few-hours-old baby than I was. Baba started negotiating with them to let me stay until the next day.😅

The best they could do? Extend it to 6 p.m.

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Reality Check—Abi Kin Sa Lo Ni? (Should I run away? )

I had two major anxieties before the birth of my son. First, I wondered how I’d cope with doing it all alone, with minimal help. My husband was understandably unavailable most of the time due to school and work.

Second was the cold 😅. For someone who wore socks and mittens for her first baby while indoors in a country with an average temperature of 25°C, I had every reason to worry.

I’ll admit it—I’m a worrier (I’m working on it). But I only worry ahead of time. Once I face the reality of my worries, they disappear. So no, there’s no running away; I might as well face the journey head-on.

The moment I got home that night, I decided to take each day as it came.

For the first six days, I had help from an arrangement in the Netherlands called kraamzorg (maternity care). A dedicated nurse visits the newborn’s mother and baby, spends about three hours per day, runs medical tests, and helps around the house.

My kraamzorg nurse, Tessa, was the sweetest human. We bonded so well that I was close to tears when her last day came.

I also had a small community of support—my husband’s classmates, church members, and some family friends rallied around to help in their own ways.

I’d be lying if I said I breezed through the last year like a strong woman. No, I didn’t. It was tough! It got even tougher when I resumed full-time remote work after my three-month maternity leave. After three months, I quit because I felt crushed by the weight of juggling everything. E choke abi e no choke? E choketh 😅😅

The period was challenging not just for me but also for my first son, as I struggled to distribute my attention fairly between the two children. It was equally tough on my husband, who often came home from night duty and barely managed to get any sleep.

Still, when I look back, I thank God for strengthening me. People say, “Ha, you’re trying o,” but the truth is, God is the one trying for me.

Would I do this all over again if given the choice? YES!

Motherhood is a beautiful experience. It sounds cliché, but watching a little human grow—from learning to hold their neck steady, to sitting, crawling, walking, and more—is indescribably beautiful.

This is why I have an extra soft spot for every woman or couple desiring children. May God come through for you!

If you read up to this point, thank you!

I’m going to end abruptly now so I can prepare for church—aaaand the birthday boy just woke up! Bye!