Its dreadful but i actually can't remember what day of the week either of my loafs of baby were born: i know that it wasn't the weekend (because I wasn't out clubbing at the time).
Both births were at silly times like 8.32pm (Mol) which meant that Husband was unkindly evicted from the hospital within an hour of seeing his first child and experiencing screaming trauma for 14hours; and 4.30am(Liz) as the watery sun was coming up through the wet august clouds over Hackney - which meant that i'd just spent the night huffing and puffing and blowing down the Homerton with my deep-throated-animal-like-curses.
I was put in mind of my own experiences, when i was texted on thursday morning by the husband of this lovely friend, declaring that the little bundle of wonder had been released from the dark warmth of his mum into the cold light of UCH. And it's quite nice to recall those special first moments.
Both very different, each labour, each birth, each post-natal-moment.
With Mol I'd been brain-washed by the NCT that any form of intervention excepting the rubbing of my back by Husband, was forbidden and WEAK and would have implications for the well-being of my (our) baby.
So, when Location Location Location (starring gorgeous friends who uprooted from Stokey N16 to the balmy shores of Loch Long courtesy of Phil & Kirsty) credits started to roll, and Braxton Hicks became a fixed and far more painful entity, I was all gung-ho, ha! we'll beat this thing! Lets-stay-at-home - we'll call the midwife, have a bath, walk around a bit, lets stay up all night getting utterly exhausted... But then I realised it was all getting a bit more excrutiatingly painful, so we stumbled off to the Homerton (highest rate of knife crimes in the whole world: if we're doing urban in 2003, lets do it right, yeah?). I think it was a god-awful time of day (like 5am - no-mans-land), and we didn't have any supplies other than Husband thoughtfully bought Harry Potter for himself, and planted himself in the corner of the Natural Birthing Suite, occasionally offering a rub or a hand-hold... That day was endless. ENDLESS. PAINFUL. (No, no, please, no painkillers, it'll ruin my baby, my sacred birth right to endure pain! Taken from me! no, no no!) And then after two hours of sodding painful pushing and vein-popping-heaving, and an Irish midwife at the end of her shift who was really quite bored, Mol finally appeared. And then came the uggy bits. And then true NHS post-natal-charm: not a big yummy squishy slightly gunky hug with baby, but instead the most painful stitching to repair the parts relieved of their natural beauty due to the gigantic baby passing by... Oh. My. Fucking. God. And I thought that the birth was painful, as some viscious tired nurse poked round my regions with a needle as long as a giraffes neck.
But once all that admin was out the way there was a brief moment of - pause -; - breath -; look, here's your baby; nuzzle and cuddle and look on in total dis-belief. And then the hospital chucked husband out and I was wheeled up to a ward, hidden behind a grey curtain and left to my own devices. Never having seen a baby before in my life, my precious moment of love was slightly diminished as I realised I didn't have a bloody clue what to do and I couldn't even get out of bed to have a pee or wash my really overdue-a-wash body.
I'm wondering at what point the love-hormones kicked in? Was it pre-birth? (not for me - I was in denial until I was heaving around my living room sounding like a prehistoric creature from a muddy puddle.) Was it during birth (the anticipation building up with each ridiculous contraction)? NO WAY! So, for me, it must have been post-natal. And actually, I can pinpoint the exact minute my love hormones kicked in with Mol: it was when she was put in her oversized stripy babygrow and button hat (we didn't realise there was a fashion for cute First Outfits) and handed to me, fresh as new life itself, and she started sucking, unaware at how easy she'd made this first terror of post natal care for me, on my very unprepared boob. Her fuzzy coloured eyes tight shut, no idea where she was, not a care other than milk and warmth body to body. At that point the past 24hours and extremely horrid terror and pain were catalogued into another section of my brain (but totally not forgotten!).
Was this the weirdest day of my life? Absolutely.
After all that pain, so much total adoration.
It was also the best day. And also the worst.
Is it a wonder that mums are totally mad?
(if you're interested I'll recall my little Liz's entry into the big bad world, another day... - I bet you CAN'T wait!)
1 comment:
Ahhhhh, from one mad mother to another.....'cept I tried ALL the drugs. F.A.B! 2 weeks overdue on both children, my babies never wanted to come out. Antonia took 42hours, Warwick took 27 hours but at least no caesarean section. That thought frightened me more than anything.
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