Recognising the signs of labour

2pm: ‘When are you due?’ the lifeguard casually asks as I take a breather at the edge of the pool. ’Oh about 4 days ago,’ I shrug. He turns a peculiar shade of avocado and does not take his eyes off me for the session. ’Don’t worry, I have my medical notes in the car and I’m sure you’ve had to deal with worse’, I laugh. He doesn’t even blink. I can feel his eyes bore into the back of my head when I reverse out of the car park.

4pm: I break a coffee date and retire to bed for a much needed sleep. The phone wakes me. Blearily I answer. ‘So you haven’t popped yet!!’ Fiona accuses.’ No! You’ll be the first to know’ I retort.
4.30pm: 'You’re still here then? Louise phones…
4.40pm ‘Just checking there’s nothing going on’ Special Bloke enquires
GRRRRRRRR……….I am trying to sleep.


8pm:I am getting twingey, uncomfortable pains in my back and front. Special Bloke arrives in the door, deep in conversation on his mobile phone. ‘Nah, nothing doing. Reckon she’ll go two weeks over and have to be induced’ he expertly answers, in the same tone of voice he uses when discussing footie tactics. He heads upstairs to have a shower, while I am downstairs wondering if this is ‘IT’ or just Braxton Hicks. By the time he returns I am on all fours trying to find a comfy position. ‘I’m not sure this is ‘IT’ but could you get the TENS machine?’. Special Bloke looks serious, smiles and returns super fast .He attaches the pads on my back with shaking hands. ‘Are you nervous?’I giggle. ‘No’ he replies defensively ‘It was a very cold shower’. I snigger to myself.

9pm:The cramps have no pattern of frequency; my waters are intact and I haven’t noticed any jellyfish swimming in my knickers [mind you I can’t actually see down there anymore] so perhaps this is labour…perhaps it isn’t. I do what I always do in times of confusion…. I eat. Special Bloke is put to work in the kitchen preparing a feast of potatoes, baked beans and fish fingers. ‘Given that this could be labour, are you sure you want to eat beans? You’re going to have a host of strangers staring up there, in a few hours and you’ll be there farting in their faces’, he enquires quite seriously. I dig him in the ribs and thank him for his sensitivity

1am:’I think this could be labour’ I tentatively suggest as I take a sharp intake of breath. ’Yes Daisy’, Special Bloke replies wearily.’ What gave it away? Do you usually lean over the sofa, swiveling your hips every few minutes when you’re not arching your back like a cat having an electric shock?’ We phone the hospital. The midwife suggests taking a bath and cheerfully signs off ‘We’ll see you in the morning no doubt’. The bath is not quite as pain relieving as I’d hoped.

The bloom’n water heater packs in, so Special Bloke [bless him] offers to run downstairs and boil the kettle. He seems to be gone a longtime. I yell out his name and he hurtles upstairs sending a lamp flying. ‘Where’s the boiled kettle? I ask, suspiciously eyeing his two-tiered sandwich. ‘Ahm…its coming. Daisy do you mind if I just watch the footie results?’. I am about to launch into a tirade of abuse but I burst into tears as I mistime my breathing and am enveloped by an enormous contraction.

2am: Special Bloke wants us to go into hospital. I refuse pointblank. ‘They’ll only send me home and tell me its wind. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had the beans’.

3am:’We’d better head in’ I advise Special Bloke. ‘They can always send me home! I’m stunned to find that my bags are already in the car and the ice has already been scraped off the windscreen. If I didn’t know better I would deduce that Special Bloke has been ready for hours.

During the short journey the contractions completely disappear. So now I have no contractions, no show and my waters are intact. I feel very uncertain and very foolish.

3.30am. We arrive and get out of the car. I fall to my knees with pain. ‘I’m definitely in labour hon.’ I confidently confirm. Special Bloke just nods and steers me in the right direction.

When we announce ourselves at reception, the nurses do not seem panicked that I am about to give birth. Quite undramatically the nurse asks us to complete some paperwork. In between contractions, I list my name; address, telephone number, GPs name etc. Funnily enough I have difficulty remembering some of the finer details.

Then, unceremoniously a gloved nurse examines me internally. ‘Well the good news is that you’re well into labour…nearly 6cm. The bad news is that we don’t have a bed for you’ she cheerfully advises me.

I am so chuffed that I am in labour and not just being a hypochondriac that I forget to be indignant about the bed situation.