So the not very shaggy or doggy story continues.
Fast forward 3.5years and I find myself, after making vows to never ever EVER have sex ever again regardless of how much fine wine or how many stems of asparagus or gloopy male-fluid-like-oysters or romantic walks along exotic beaches Husband treated me to, (don't worry, I've never eaten an oyster...) I find myself unable to tie my shoelaces or cut my toenails because there is something IN THE WAY. Yes! You guessed it! Another heir to our North London Kingdom!
Pregnancy was all pretty fine: I was my usual unpleasant self (Husband and I had a spectacular argument one morning which ended with me actually unloading a whole bowl of Rice Crispies (soaked in milk) on his head); hating my body which was getting wider than it was tall, and the inability to turn over in bed without feeling as though I had a water-balloon with a whole cow in it stuck in my stomach sloshing around and sticking hooves in to my organs. Oh those were the days!
Such a joyous positive person I must have been for those 9months. Lucky Husband.
So, as we were nearing birth time, for some reason I came into contact with a new baby (I can't even remember whose it was) and spent about 10 minutes canoodling it. Trying to remember something about how to hold small people - shit, there goes the head, shit, there goes the head AGAIN (is the mother watching? shit, yes!), shit, its vommed on my shoulder (it was the height of summer, my shoulders were covered by the straps of a spaghetti vest - hmmm, must have been a pleasant sight: heavily pregnant woman wearing a skin tight vest).
Anyway. As the old wives tale goes, and as what happened in my story with Liz, the canoodling a new baby totally revved up my hormones and a mere 24hours later I found myself in the next chapter.
Lying in my bed, having just read a few pages of a very Sainsburys chick-lit-book (all my brain could cope with) and turning out my light, I felt my body tense up as I prepared to do a sneeze.
I sneezed. What a whoppa!
I felt marvellous! What a completely fantastic sneeze! My whole body felt like it'd been cleared of all the summer dust.
When suddenly - about 5 seconds after my roaringly successful sneeze - I felt another sensation. WET WET WET! (As marty pellow may sing as his wife goes into labour...)
My waters popped - the balloon with the cow in it had finally worn thin.
GUSH-O-RAMA?
It was like the niagra falls.
(I had to throw away the rug that most of 'it' - oh, gunk - fell to.)
I got a bit excited in a silly hysterical sort of way.
And then shouted for Husband who came to assess the situation in a rather 'this isn't quite what I had in mind for my night' sort of a way.
So blah blah blah - move forward a couple more hours as contractions developed - Granny Highbury installed into the house to babysit Mol who was in heavenly-deep-sleep - we're going to the hospital and I'm in the back of the car, looking out the boot window, holding on for dear life as the niagra falls carried on falling and Husband revved through a number of Red Lights - me howling the usual pretty phrases like 'fuck fuck fuck this fucking hurts why the fuckety fuck did we do this again? oooooooooooooooow. shitcuntwankshitcuntwank...'
Get to the hospital to be greeted (its 3am) by a Spanish Male Midwife. WHAT? A man to deliver my baby?
Oh well, fuck it! I had little choice.
I did some amazing visualisation taught by my fantastic yoga teacher "take yourself to a safe place you love going and breath deeply through the contractions..." she'd say, and I'd find myself in the sea in Devon.
And about 20minutes later Husband turned green and had to be half-carried out of the delivery room, suffering from heat-exhaustion (meanwhile I was about to have his baby...). So he was in disgrace, although at that point I couldn't give a flying-cow who was in the room as long as this baby was taken OUT NOW!
And whoosh.
Out she came. Very fast. The spanish male midwife was shouting at me "don't push don't push not yet" I was like "fuck off its coming out you stupid twat and where's my fuckwit husband anyway?" (remember that feeling? like a white-hot-breeze-block-coming-out-the-fandango?)
Midwives must really love their patients.
I always meant to write to the ward to say thank you for looking after Husband so well whilst I was puffing and panting and pretending to be in the cool Devon sea. I never did.
Anyway, at about 5am, a grey-screaming-mucas-covered-Liz arrived safe and sound and me and Husband shed a few tears (oh god, another 3 years of hell to come) whilst the Spanish Male Midwife tended to my nether-regions' administration.
And voila, Liz. Snuggly. Warm. Pain-over. kiss-able. Snuffly. And ah, that overwhelming sense of yummyness all over again.
Aren't we lucky?
And 3.5years later...
(ha ha ha! Joke!)
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