Chapter 1: Honey, itās time!
Birth
The baby was delivered and, miraculously, there had been no pain. Mum handed me my newborn, all wrapped up in schmaltzy baby paper ā but just as I was about to peer between its legs to discover if we qualified for a blue or pink Bonds jumpsuit, I felt a dull ache in my stomach.
Then I woke up. It was, literally, the wee hours of Wednesday morning.
Bugger. Bump still there, bigger than ever. Baby still head-butting my bladder and, speaking of that poor excuse for a body part, I need to go. Again. Well, it has been three hours since my last pee.
The Big Guyās side of the bed visibly drops as I successfully execute my most complicated move of the day ā a combination of rolling, clawing and heaving myself out of bed ā but he doesnāt wake. Then again, the man has slept through nine months of nocturnal tossing and turning and trips to the toilet, so why should tonight be any different?
Iāve almost reached the throne, wondering if Iām insane for even thinking about going to work today given that Iām nine months pregnant and feeling like Iām about to get my period, when I realise that my knickers are wet. Actually, Iām soaked from the groin down. Great. Now Iām fat, crazy and incontinent. Then it dawns: this would be my waters ā only they donāt seem to be breaking, as such. More like Iām slowly peeing my pants, to be brutally honest.
I guess I wonāt be going in to work today after all. For once, the deadline will have to wait. Probably a tad early at 3 am to call in sick ā or, more specifically, dilating ā so better call the hospital instead. Better call my mum, just because it will make the whole āIām about to have a babyā thing seem more real. Better tell the Big Guy heās soon to be a dad.
An hour later at 4 am, I am sitting on a pile of towels in the car next to the Big Guy, feeling confident about my imminent labour. I am prepared, after all, with the essentials: a CD player and a pile of CDs. All the books Iāve read recommend soothing music and dim lights to create our preferred ambiance, and like the enthusiastic first timers that we are, we buy the whole deal and throw in an aromatherapy candle for good measure. Weāve got jazz, rainforest sounds and a rogue Cold Chisel compilation that the Big Guy snuck in when he thought I wasnāt looking. As if labour is going to distract me enough to allow him to play that! Ah well, who cares? Weāre on our way to the hospital, thrilled that the midwives told me I was to come straight in, and that I wonāt be going home until I have my baby. The Big Guy keeps looking over at me, patting my thigh and grinning like the Cheshire Cat. āWeāre having a baby, weāre having a babyā, we chant smugly. This is a piece of cake. And just like my dream, thereās no pain.
I become more than a bit disappointed to discover that the reason for the lack of pain is the lack of established labour. At hospital, Iām monitored for an hour or so before being tucked up in bed. The plan is to wait for labour to start spontaneously within 24 hours, or be induced if it doesnāt. Itās now 5 am. Like thereās any chance of sleep. The Big Guy is urged to go home and I suddenly feel weepy. I want him here. I want the baby. I want ā dare I say it ā to be in labour.
Bless his cotton jocks, the Big Guy returns after breakfast to mooch around with me. We decide to do everything we can to bring on labour naturally, but the midwives flatly refuse to allow us to practise what they preach in antenatal classes: hot curries, hot baths and hot sex to get things going. Itās a shared ward, after all. Walking around the hospital grounds, however, is completely acceptable so we set off at a cracking pace, me leaking amniotic fluid with every step. The Big Guy starts making jokes concerning my thighs and āslippery when wetā signs, which are funny for about the first hour, but just annoying after that. By early afternoon, after what feels like our millionth lap around the hospital, his enthusiasm starts to wane.
Conversation has become nonexistent, except for the Big Guyās gentle pleading for me to give it a rest. āSorry mate,ā I mutter through gritted teeth, āno can doā. Knowing full well that I wonāt stop until I have my own way, he groans inwardly but humours me outwardly by taking my hand and steering me towards a new walking route. Our perseverance pays off, and 10 minutes later I am rewarded with my first contraction, which feels like someone is firmly squeezing my insides.
We race back inside to tell the midwives about this monu-mental development, expecting them to pounce on the news, steer me into the labour ward and extract the baby effortlessly in the next half hour or so. Nope, they shoo me away and tell me to come back when I have something they can work with. I guess being constantly exposed to the blessed miracle of birth, day in and day out, can make one somewhat blasƩ. And crusty. I turn on my soggy heels and brace myself for more laps.
By Wednesday evening, contractions are still only 30 minutes apart and, apparently, too pathetic to warrant attention ā so the midwives bully the Big Guy out the door again, telling him to go home and get some sleep because labour and our baby wonāt be making an appearance tonight. Iām even tearier than ever and ache to feel the pain of real labour.
At 9 pm I turn off my light and try to sleep, but I canāt because suddenly Iām moaning. Did I say I ached for the pain of labour? What an idiot. Send the godforsaken contractions away and bring me the Big Guy. A shot of pethidine and a midwife ā crusty or otherwise ā would also go down well at this particular point in time, despite the fact that I had categorically vetoed pethidine in the birth plan I never got around to writing. Just as well, I thought ruefully, as I presented my backside for the nurse and her needle full of narcotics.
At some ungodly hour on Thursday morning, a good 24 hours after my waters broke, I decide thatās it. Iām going. Finito. You can take your freakinā heart monitor and surgical gloves and stick them somewhere else, because I donāt want to play this game anymore. The pethidine didnāt seem to make a jot of difference, except to make me feel guilty that I had the stupid drug in the first place! Iāve been in the first stage of labour for six hours and dilation is two-thirds of zip. Three centimetres in six hours just doesnāt make the grade. Too bad, so sad, Iāll be off then. Except I canāt leave. I can barely bring myself to move from the bed, despite the fact that I assured myself I was going to have an active labour and let gravity help me drop my bundle. In fact, I canāt even open my mouth to do any more than emit ee...