Welcome to planet earth Peanut

Peanut looks up at me knowingly and calmly. Then he purposefully fondles me until he finds my breast and then expertly attaches and begins suckling. I am bemused and stunned that he is so competent at breastfeeding. I still have one arm attached to a drip and I am exhausted, elated and immensely proud of myself.

I count his toes and fingers and study his features while cuddling him close to me. I am terrified that I will drop him overboard as they wheel me out to the recovery ward. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asks a nurse smiling down at me. ‘I would love it’ I exclaim as I realize I am starving.

I am in a bubble of love overcome with love and tenderness. Special Bloke has tears in his eyes. We cannot take our eyes off this magical creature and cannot comprehend that we will be looking after him for the next 23 years or so. We sit mesmerized until the tea and toast arrives when we become ferociously hungry lions tearing at the toast, munching noisily. A whole new chapter of our lives has opened……

The birth

To be honest, I would give birth on the side of the road without complaint if they would just score me some drugs sharpish. I am brought into a storeroom with a trolley bed .Its private, warm and looks like a hospital room to me. First on the menu is gas and air. I sit back to front on a chair leaning on pillows with my TENS pads on my back and the gas tube clutched firmly in my hand.

The midwife keeps to herself, and seems remarkably busy with some paperwork. From her demeanor, I would hazard a guess that she’s not totally happy in her current job. She probably wanted to be a torture consultant but didn’t make the grade. Being a midwife is clearly a very poor second best.

As the contractions increase I demand the epidural. After much persuasion, I allow the TENS pads to be removed from my back to make room for the epidural patch. I refuse to handover the gas and air tube. ’Its like a terrorist negotiation’ complains the midwife. It feels like a lifetime before the anesthetist arrives. Special Bloke tells me it was 20 minutes tops, but I can’t believe that.

Eventually the pain subsides on one side, before kicking in furiously on the other. It seems I am in that small screaming minority that get patchy relief from the epidural. The midwife breaks my waters and after an eternity of breathing in and out like Darth Vader, I reach the magic 10cm dilation.

7am:Theres a change of shift and our midwife heads home. ‘Have a rest there dear. We’ll start you pushing in an hour’ says Karen our new midwife. Peanut however has no intention of staying put. He moves ever so slowly like a big steam liner down the birth canal. ’Hmmm, seems like babs is keen to get moving’ Karen smiles. Another midwife joins Karen and persuades me to hold my legs in the air while lying on my back with my chin forward. At this stage my rear end feels as though it is being pulled in a tug of war by two opposing teams and is ready to explode.

10am:‘No room here…. this girl is nowhere near ready …we’re not going anywhere fast ‘ the midwife hollers down the corridor, to a colleague. I lose the will to live. I cannot believe I am doing so badly. I sense the midwife’s disgust at my abysmal pushing skills. I want to punch her and berate her for her lack of empathy and lack of suggestions. ‘Come on, we’ll be here all day’ she scolds.’ I respond much better to praise than criticism’ I hiss coldly, through clenched teeth. There is silence and I picture Karen and the other midwife meowing bitchily to each other. Special Bloke loyally kisses me.’ You’re doing great hon.’ he intones wearily but I can tell that his hearts not in it.

I begin to whimper and cry almost silently. My eyes are shut. I am tired and miserable. ‘Are you feeling pain or pressure?’ quizzes the midwife. She repeats the question several times, becoming more frustrated with my silence. She might as well ask me to recite the Iliad. ‘I don’t know’ I spit. ‘Perhaps we could discuss that over a pint, but right now all I can tell you is that it bloody well hurts.?’ Special Bloke continues to gently praise my efforts. In despair she offers me a local anesthetic injection. If she had offered me bleach, vodka or an amputation I would have agreed on the grounds that it might help.

The injection hits the spot. Another midwife suggests using stirrups and hey presto I am in business. It’s the same action you might use on a rowing machine and I become a mad demented Olympic rower. I sense the midwife’s approval, even though my eyes are firmly shut. ‘Get the students in here fast. She’s about to deliver!’ I am so excited and relieved that its nearly over, I forget to voice my horror when 8 giddy student nurses arrive in.

10.56am:Peanut shoots out after one last push and is placed on my tummy. He immediately, expertly suckles at my breast in a very calm, purposeful fashion. Special Bloke cuts the chord. Our lovely baby has a heavy metaller haircut, short at the sides with flowing locks down his neck. He peeks up at me with oriental shaped, puffy eyes and big jowls. He is so vulnerable, despite his muscular arms and back. They put him on the scales and a gasp vibrates around the room. He weighs in at 11lbs 2 ounces!!!! I become known as ‘The Breeder’. My adorable newborn baby boy is squeezed into a newborn baby grow.

11.20am:The Doctor on call arrives to stitch me up. He looks vaguely familiar beneath the surgical mask. He introduces himself and I listen to the familiar voice in disbelief. Oh my God! Bobbing between my legs with a needle in his hand is my new neighbour. I wonder what the etiquette books would suggest. ‘Hello there, I blush. ‘Its Daisy, your neighbour’.

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.

Bikini days are definitely over

Its hard work getting around these days. My body groans and heaves like a hairy ice age mammoth. Hairy being the word! I would like to go swimming to relieve my aching back but I haven’t defuzzed the hair on my legs or anywhere else for eons. I book an appointment for a full leg wax.

‘Hahaha ‘I catapult off the table as Maxine rips the wax strips off my thigh. ‘That’s pretty sore! Hooo. I just need a minute! I seem to be very sensitive at the moment. Listen finish my legs but I’m not going to bother with the bikini area.’

‘Ok, are you sure? She eyes the forest escaping from my underwear with disdain.

‘Oh yeah!’ I pay up and purchase a tub of bikini hair removal cream and start to work when I get home.

The instructions recommend doing a twenty-four hour skin patch test to be on the safe side but I am desperate to go for a swim today. I smear the thick pungent cream and sit and wait. Five minutes in and I feel a prickly, burning sensation on my skin. I check the instructions.

‘Remove cream immediately with damp cloth if skin is irritated by this product’. I dab it off. Clumps of hair wash away while others cling resolutely to their follicles. I shower away the excess cream and even I am startled by my bikini area. It looks like I have some form of rabies or scabies or weird sexually transmitted disease. Clumps of hair, spring out among big angry red bumps and a pinprick raw looking rash.

Please God I will not go into labour until the badly plucked chicken with tufts has regrown. I just couldn’t bear the questions; the stares. I have two weeks before my due date. I am now praying that I go overdue

Massaging with almond oil

‘You can try using almond oil’ Eileen suggests at the antenatal class. ‘It can really help stretch that delicate area of the perineum and reduce the need for stitches’. My insides somersault and knots itself in fear at the very thought of stitches.

I nudge Special Bloke, hoping for a reassuring squeeze or wink. No response. He is away in a world of his own. He is practically asleep. He has no idea what Eileen has been talking about. He is going to be my birth partner and yet he isn’t paying a scrap of attention. So much for the ‘we’re in this together’ speech he recites regularly. I dig him hard in the ribs. He glares at me harshly. ‘It was the baby kicking!’ I lie without a modicum of guilt.

On the car journey home, I berate him for his lack of interest in the pregnancy, labour and challenge him that he will probably make a terrible Dad. This may be slightly unfair but I am feeling unreasonable and I want to provoke some reaction.

I want him to tell me that he loves me. I want him to tell me that everything will be o.k. I want a cuddle. He sits in silence absorbing my white anger and barbed comments. This makes me madder. ‘What is wrong with you?’ I yell in desperation. ‘You don’t even care enough to respond. What kind of man are you?’ I demand furiously.

‘The books said you’d get like this at the end of your pregnancy. I wonder if that means you will go into labour tonight?’ he analyses rhetorically. ‘I am not going into labour tonight. I am going home to eat ice cream and watch a video. You are going to get the bits and pieces Eileen said we had to get’ I order, handing him the photocopied list of essentials.

Special Bloke returns home with bags of potions of raspberry leaf tea, arnica, witch hazel, tea tree oil, lavender oil and a whole host of other lotions. ‘I couldn’t find almond oil so I got these' beams Special Bloke, producing a bottle of almond essence, blanched almonds, ground almonds, flaked almonds and sugar almonds. He is delighted with his booty. Clearly he feels he has exceeded my expectations and waits confident of getting a gold star for his efforts.

‘I know I have a bun in the oven’ I quip, ‘but there was no need to raid the cookery section of Tescos. The idea of me trying to massage myself down there as Eileen calls it with flaked almonds cracks me up. I roll around the sofa laughing, clutching my sides with mirth.

Special Bloke looks on puzzled. ‘It really is true. Its just like the books say. It’s a roller coaster of emotions. One minute you’re down and the next minute you’re high as a kite. I can’t wait til you have the baby Daisy. I really miss you’

Reading up on labour

The pregnancy manual has been so well consulted that it is nearly falling apart. Despite this, I have not been able to read the chapter on labour. My throat dries up and tears start to build behind my eyes just imagining labour. It’s ridiculous how scared I am. But it’s now or never.

‘Oh my God’! I slam the book shut in disbelief.

‘Whats up hon.?’ asks Special Bloke running into the room dropping the dimmer switch he’s fitting in the baby’s room.

‘I’m reading the chapter on labour and…’

‘Its ok Daisy. I know it’s freaking you out. You will be ok. I’ll be with you all the way’ Special Bloke reassures me, stroking my hair.

‘No, its not that! Listen to this line from the book ‘Don’t worry if you defecate on the delivery table’. Can you believe that? I might poo in front of other adults while they are literally looking up my rear end.’ Ha, ha I laugh semi-hysterically. ‘This is just not funny. How the hell am I going to get through this? I bawl like a baby while Special Bloke rocks me and holds me close.

‘I’m really shitting myself about the birth’ I confide. Special Bloke looks tenderly into my eyes and before you know it we begin to giggle hysterically like some naughty kids in the back of class.

Tired & Emotional

Special Bloke returns home to find me on the sofa, clutching a duvet and scoffing a pack of jaffa cakes. ‘Hey what are you doing here. Your girlie lunches are legendary. I didn’t expect to see you here for ages. So what’s girl wonder up to these days?’

‘Had a shit day. Don’t want to talk about it’

‘Hmm. That bad huh? Want a back massage my little hippopotamus? He tickles my tummy gently.

‘That’s not funny’ I smile lamely, with tears in my eyes.

‘Daisy, what’s wrong hon? You’re really upset. I thought you had a girlie heaven day planned. Weren’t you getting coiffed and styled; dressing up and meeting Kate for lunch. What happened? Has something happened the baby?’ He looks really worried.

‘I’m just fed up. Maybe I’m being silly but well Jay says I might go bald after I have the baby; Kate thinks I am fat and boring and I just read my baby book and it says you bleed for 9 weeks after the baby is born. I’m going to be a big, fat, bald, bleeding mother..’ I sob in his arms.

‘Oh Daisy’ he kisses me tenderly on my head. ’I’ll still love you even if you are completely mad and insist on heating paint pots in the microwave! Come on woman, lets go wild and open hobnobs and drink a whole pot of tea.