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.

Ladies who lunch

I stride across town full of confidence. I look good and I know it. Make up has been applied; hair is freshly cut and blow-dried. I’ve even artfully arranged a groovy scarf to distract attention from my bump…. well not completely obviously! I’m really looking forward to a nice relaxing lunch.

I open the door and spot Kate making her way towards me with her arms ready to embrace. ’Sorry I’m a bit late’ I apologise ‘I couldn’t find a parking space’.

‘Hello heffalump!’ She greets me warmly and I follow her] to the table. [Ever so slightly miffed ‘heffalump?’]

Crash! I don’t believe it. I didn’t leave sufficient space for my bump as I followed size zero Kate and have managed to bump into a waiter, sending cutlery flying across the floor. I am mortified.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us some white wine’ she beams. ‘I’ve already had a couple of glasses while I was waiting. Well you were a bit late’ she teases.

‘Ahm I’ll give the vino a miss as D-day could be anytime now’ I chuckle. ‘Well shame to waste it! I guess I’d better drink it all then’ she cackles draining her glass and pouring another. ‘Right then lets get the orders in and then we can catch up.’

I consult the menu. It’s a bloomin minefield…prawns, goats cheese, tuna fish, smoked salmon, crab claws, béarnaise sauce, mousse etc. ‘Excuse me,’ I beckon the nearest waiter. ‘Is the goats cheese pasteurized and can you find out if there are uncooked eggs in the mousse? Thank you’

Kate glares at the menu. ‘You are not the first woman in the world to give birth you know. Don’t be such a drama queen. We are meant to be having a fun lunch’

‘Yes I know but I am pregnant and the books say..’

‘Oh for goodness sake, I know you are preggers but I really don’t want to spend the whole time listening to your innermost thoughts on pregnancy. Now then, the baby’s due in a few days right? So when do you plan going back to work? You don’t want your brain to turn to mush after you worked so hard to get your degree.'

‘Well..’

‘No, I’m not being critical Daisy but lets face it, you weren’t a natural student. There’s no shame admitting that you had to work hard at it.’

‘I’m not sure what my plans are yet. I’m just enjoying my final days of pregnancy and taking one day at a time. I feel pretty content just now and I can’t work up much enthusiasm for anything else right now. I guess its just a special time.’

‘I don’t get it. Everyone talks about pregnancy like its some kind of miracle or something. It’s a highly predictable process. Woman has sex, gets fat and puffy with little piggy eyes and swollen ankles, clucks like a mother hen and pops out a baby. I’ve never understood why people think pregnant women are beautiful. They’re just swollen and fat looking. Now, have you been to any good gigs or plays recently? She enquires.

‘Kate, I think I’m going to have to go. I’m pretty tired and I just need to go home.’ Sorry again for being..’

‘Flat and a bit touchy’ she states matter of factly.

‘I was going to say ‘late’ ‘ I hiss and storm out of the joint. Bloody cheek. Definitely out of the running for Godmother. Humph!

Things are getting hairy

‘I need to look gorgeous’ I whine to Jay, my long-suffering hairdresser and confessor. ‘Absolutely gorgeous mind! I’m meeting an old friend for lunch’
‘Ah one of those? He eyeballs me knowingly, tousling my hair.’ Now what are we doing with this mop today?’

‘How do you mean – ‘one of those ’friends?’ I mimic.
‘Oh everyone has an old friend like that. ‘ Now spill…. while you sit yourself down and stick this around your shoulders,’ Jay orders as he passes me a protective gown.

‘Well we grew up together and then we went separate ways during our late teens. We meet up every now and again. Kate metamorphasised into one of those willowy completely pulled together go-getter types. If you looked up ‘well-groomed’ in the dictionary, it would simply say ‘Kate’ I explain as I look gloomily at my reflection in the salon mirror.

‘And let me guess you wouldn’t dream of mixing her with your regular pals and you find her a bit of a pain but you shared a childhood together. There’s no way you would become pals if you met tomorrow but you understand each other irritatingly well. Am I right? He beamed smugly. ‘Ha should have been a psychologist?'

‘Well anyway, I am meeting Kate for lunch while she’s in town and I feel so tired I need to transform my image radically. I’ve decided to cut it short. I don’t care what you do with it. I’m in your hands. Just make me look thin, gorgeous, trendy, sophisticated, sexy, smart, young and please try to disguise my newly formed double chin.’ I implore.

‘In a word – No! Daisy love, I will not cut it off. You’ll be sooo busy with the baby you won’t have time to come in for regular trims. Much easier to tie it up. And you can have it in bunches during labour …stop you getting all sweaty while you’re on the birthing ball.’

‘Eh hello Jay. It’s me. I will not be on a birthing ball. I will not be sweating. I will be getting an epidural and having a thoroughly modern, pain free birth thank you very much.’

‘Oh Daisy, I dunno. My sister had a natural birth and she says within minutes of the birth you’re up on your feet. If you have the epidural, you won’t be able to move for hours!’

‘Well I’m not actually planning on moving once I squeeze a turkey out of my birth canal. In fact if I can’t move after the birth, so much the better. I expect to be waited on hand and foot with regular supplies of chocolates and champagne brought to me . If I don’t have the energy to consume them, my birth plan gives the nurses full written consent to hook me up and feed me intravenously.'

‘Look hon, after you’ve had the baby, all those feel-good hormones are going to leave your body and of course your hair will reflect this. It’s highly likely that your hair will fall out. Oh yes, in clumps. The number of women I’ve had in here crying would amaze you. And anyhow you can’t go eating chocs and necking back the bubbly because it’ll affect your milk’

‘What? I’m going to go partially bald after I give birth? Childbirth is just one sick joke. And who said I was going to breast feed anyhow? Just tidy it up and take an inch off all round will you’ . I crumple wearily and fight back the tears.

‘Oh dear! I’ve been very insensitive. Come on now Daisy let me get you a nice cup of tea and a reviving finger of fudge while I make you beautiful, so you can meet the waspy Kate in style.

Birth plan

Eileen advises us to write up a birth plan so that we feel more in control of the situation during delivery. Louise comes over to help me with this odd task.

We select the music ‘Fun loving Criminals’ and the candle [vanilla with cinnamon flecks]. Louise thinks I should try and remain standing for as long as possible before demanding a birthing ball. ‘Do you actually know what a birthing ball looks like?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘It looks like a giant beach ball and you kind of roll over and back on it’, she smirks. ‘My cousin Jane had one!’


‘I don’t know Lou. This is daft. I haven’t a clue what labour will be like…well apart from sore. So how the hell am I supposed to write out an essay on how I want the birth to go? It reminds me of being a child, just after Christmas. I had to sit there, writing thank you letters to relatives. Of course I could never remember what they had specifically given me so I used to try and fudge it by using suitably vague sentences.’

‘Well I’m not sure it has to be an essay. I know, pretend you’re writing to Santa and bullet point down what you want from your ideal birth! She claps her hands excitedly.

‘You are mad, you know that don’t you! Right so! I want a pain free birth that’s as safe as possible for Peanut and me. I don’t want anyone yelling at me .I want a cup of tea afterwards.’

‘Is that all?’ asks Louise. ‘I mean it doesn’t sound very comprehensive. Are you sure that’ll do?’

‘Its not a written exam Lou. From what I can gather the practical exam is the one that counts!’

The phone rings. ‘Its Fiona’ I mouth to Louise. ‘Yes, another productive morning. I’ve just written my birth plan’ I announce proudly. I put the phone down a few minutes later.

‘Well Fiona says they probably won’t even look at the birth plan. They just do what they think is best medically. She says you can’t anticipate what will happen. When she was having Megan, she wanted an epidural but she was too late to have it, so she had to have it naturally!’ I say with a shiver running down my back.

We put the kettle on and munch on a curly wurly.

Sooooooo tired

Awwww! Oh excuse me yawning like that! My eyes are open but my brain is asleep. Even the luxurious pelting from my power shower has failed to jumpstart my body. It is in hibernation. Most of the night is spent tossing and turning as Peanut stabs and kicks furiously. I think he is thinking about releasing a post birth aerobics video.

As a tummy sleeper, it is frustrating to have to lie on my side. Special Bloke snores through the turbulent sea of pillows and shifting piles of crumpled sheets. Pillows are flipped to cool my face; the duvet is kicked and pulled to no advantage.

For the first time in my life I am hauntingly familiar with every nighttime radio programme for insomniacs. Then magically, at dawn, my brain and body shut down and dive headlong into the most glorious bed of rose-petaled sleep. A short skip of time later the alarm clock screeches in my ear.
I awake in disbelief that it is daytime and time to get up.

I drag my body out the front door with a cotton wool head and defiant body and make it to the bus stop. I search out a free seat on the bus. No one makes eye contact. The pale-faced bastards read their newspapers and strain their scrawny necks to stare glumly out the window.
They are literally ignoring the elephant in the bus.

The air is warm, heavy and clawing. The bus smells of wet overalls. The windows are grey and muggy with condensation. Fuzzy lights can be seen from outside. The bus chugs along smoothly.

As the journey continues, more passengers alight. I am pushed further and further back away from the only open window. I am a furnace of heat; my tummy is churning; I am getting that tingling sensation that causes me to reach for support. I shift my weight from one leg to the other willing myself to stay upright. I cling onto the seat rail of a young woman. She ignores me. A woozy feeling envelops me. I am living in a black and white world of photo negatives. Voices become more distant. My legs buckle. I sink into a heap. Its white, calm and peaceful…..

Someone is trying to wake me. Why are they yelling? Who are these people staring at me? What’s that smell? I make sense of the chaotic situation. ‘I am ok’, I announce to no one in particular. ’Its ok we’ve called an ambulance’ the bus driver reassures me. ‘I don’t need an ambulance. I just need some air’. I pull myself up and drag myself out.

I sit on the pavement. Before I know it, an officious woman upends me onto my back. What is she doing? She pushes my head back onto a rolled up coat and she tells me to stay put while she takes my pulse. ‘Are you a nurse or something?’ I enquire. ‘Not exactly’ she mutters ‘but my daughter is! And I watch a lot of E.R. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands!’

I don’t feel very well. The ambulance arrives in a blur of drama and sirens. There’s a fine crowd gathering all ready to see the capturing of a fainting elephant. The crew immediately moves me into a seated position. ‘You should not be lying down on your back when you’re pregnant’ the paramedic tells me. ‘Well, if I’d known she was pregnant, I wouldn’t have put her in that position’ the ‘nurse’ tut tuts. I share a wink with the paramedic. ‘Well its always hard to tell when they’re in the early stages of pregnancy’ he grins eyeing my impossibly huge bump.

They drop me off at the G.P. clinic, which is five minutes down the road. I am signed off work for two days and told to rest and take some iron supplements. Mildew in incensed when she hears. Special Bloke is adorably concerned. I snuggle under the duvet and wrap myself up in a cocoon of peace and darkness and slide off into a comatose snooze. Bliss!

All packed?

I throw a litre of milk into the trolley and the sell by date on the carton, catches my eye and startles my heart. I take the milk out and trace my finger over the embossed date….Its the 30th. My expected delivery date is the 28th. Yikes, I am in the zone. It could come any day now. I am a ticking bomb ready to go off any time in the next 4 weeks . It’s exciting and scary. It is time to get organized for D-day!

I wander down the baby aisle with my shopping list from ante-natal class and just to be on the safe side load the trolley with a bewildering array of potions, lotions, nappies, nappy sacs, wipes, breast pads, soothers, formula, bottles, teats, sterliser, bottlebrushes, breast pump, baby vests, sleep suits, mittens, baby hat, cardigan, receiving blanket, changing mat, nappy bag, muslin squares, bibs, dettol wipes and a large bottle of Milton. Right that’s the baby stuff sorted.

I get measured for a ‘let down’ nursing bra by a teenager who does not ooze confidence. I’m not convinced she realizes that I will be even fuller in the cup size when I am full of milk. When I mention this to her she says ‘Right’ while maintaining eye contact with the floor and then scurries out of the booth yelling ‘Moira, there’s a breast feeder in booth seven. Will you handle her?’

As I’m a brazen hussy, I don’t own a pair of pajamas. Shameful I know! I turf the largest possible size into my basket, along with some hilarious disposable paper knickers, huge maternity pads; some dark coloured towels. In this age of biological powders and high temperature washes, I fail to see why they need to be dark coloured. It seems to be a cruel way of heightening the anxiety of mums to be at this very vulnerable time. I mean its not like I’m going to be spurting blood and guts out of every orifice now is it? Christ, is it?

Special Bloke whimpers as he scans the receipts from my little shopping spree . It takes him half an hour to unload all my bits and pieces. ‘Are you sure we really need all this?’ he marvels in disbelief. ’Absolutely!’ I confirm.

I place my make up bag, pack of playing cards, vanilla scented candle, tub of Vaseline, can of Evian face spray, I-pod, cereal bars and maltesers, new pajamas, maternity pad and disposable knickers into my ‘delivery room’ bag. There that’s done!

‘Where does the baby stuff fit then?’ enquires Special Bloke.

‘There’s no way I’m going to fit nappies and clothes into this bag’ I squeal dejectedly.Special Bloke is sent off to buy a large and a jumbo sized bag. I hope the hospital don’t have an excess baggage charge

Nesting

I seem to have inherited quite a bit of bulky baby kit from pals and extended family. There’s a really cute cot, which just needs a bit of a lick of paint.

Bugger, it’s just gone 6pm on a Sunday so all the DIY shops are closed. I really want to get this painted. Now! No, I don’t think you understand. I REALLY HAVE to do this now. Darn! I hate it when a plan shrivels before it’s even started.

Ho ho! I’ve just remembered there’s a tester pot of ‘cotton cream’ paint in the shed. I brave the elements and rummage around in the shed. Bingo, I find it under my old boogie board. I prise open the ancient caked paint pot. It is pretty tough with a very hard skin. Defeated I decide to take a rest and heat up some pot noodles in the microwave. As it beeps, I am inspired with an innovative solution. With glee I place the tester paint pot into the microwave and put it on ‘standard heat’ for 2 minutes. That should loosen it up nicely.

At this moment, Special Bloke arrives home from the pub with a couple of his mates. After the obligatory hugs, Special Bloke sniffs the air.’ What exactly are you cooking Daisy?’ he asks suspiciously. ‘Oh SWEET SUFFERIN…my tester pot!

Black smoke wafts out of the microwave and an industrial acidic smell fills the air as I open the door. ‘Stand back Daisy…think of the baby!’ yells Special Bloke playing to the stunned crowd. ‘Why the hell are you cooking a tub of paint in the microwave?’ he asks incredulously. I am so embarrassed at my actions and am dreading the inevitable ribbing I am in for, from the lads.

I brazenly eyeball him and coolly respond ‘I had a craving!’ The lads are so thrown by this bizarre but possibly plausible excuse that they let it drop. Whew!

Choosing a name

‘Out of the way!’ I holler as Special Bloke gazes out the window, blocking my view of the TV.

‘The programme is over Daisy.’

‘I am watching the credits actually’ I snort.

‘I know you’re pregnant, but you really need to get out more!’ he replies exasperatedly.

‘Har, har. No really, come here. I’m thinking about baby names. Look, there are the character names and the actor names…. not to mind the production teams’ names. It’s easier than buying one of those baby name books.

‘OK, what about Cody[actor]; or Kyle[producer]; or Dale[music]? Oh Randy[director]…that’s a good one.’ He sniggers.

‘So you think its going to be a boy then? I query ‘I quite like Lucy, Emily and Millie’

‘I don’t know. It’d be nice to have a boy. We could play football together. I hope it isn’t a girl. I’d be terrified she’d get pregnant.’ He looks worried.

‘Well little Cody or Dale could get their girl pregnant. We could have an angry Dad at our doorstep in 15 years or so, hurling abuse at the way we raised our son. How his little girl was an innocent angel until she met up with our teenage bag of hormones…’

‘I’d still feel more relaxed if it was a boy’ he mutters. ’Im off to meet the lads’.

Discussing labour with Dr.Stork
‘Everything is going very well Daisy, so I’ll see you again in a month’. Dr. Stork closes the file and starts to move towards the door.

‘Actually, I wanted to ask you something. Would you consider doing a c-section, as I’m getting really panicky about having a vaginal birth? I just don’t think I’m built for having children.’ I whine.

Dr. Stork studies my ever-widening girth and childbearing hips and muffles a smile. ‘What makes you think that Daisy?’ he asks kindly.

‘Well I was buying a chicken in Tescos the other day and I couldn’t help noticing that the weight was about 3lbs. It was HUGE. There is simply no way that chicken could have come out of me without tearing me to shreds. The average birth weight of babies is approx 7lbs 10 oz. I get very upset thinking about the whole thing.’

‘Well Daisy, I’m guessing you knew that you would have to give birth, when you decided to have this baby. Er Daisy, you did know… didn’t you?’ he asks uncertainly.

I concede this point but refuse to be beaten on logic. I try a different tack. ‘Its just that I don’t have a very large vagina’, I whisper conspiratorially. ‘In fact its quite small …bit of a nuisance really’. I try to win him over with a shy Princess Di look.

‘Daisy, you will be fine. Now I’ll see you next month ’ He retorts briskly.

‘I’d pay extra you know….’

‘No, Daisy’

‘Oh, perhaps you’re reluctant because you haven’t done many c-sections?’ I wonder aloud.

‘Daisy!’ gasps Special Bloke.
‘What? I was just being empathetic!’ I retort. ‘Look I don’t know what the fuss is about. ‘

‘Daisy, contrary to modern day beliefs, having an elective c-section is not a walk in the park. Its surgery. Recovery will be longer and you will be scarred’

‘Oh for goodness sake, my bikini wearing days are over. In any case the scars these days are tiny’ I explain dismissively.
‘I meant the internal scarring’ he snaps.

I sense defeat. My only hope is a very small baby. Hmm, maybe I’ll take up smoking.

Bonding with your baby

‘I’m not stopping. I’m just dropping in some essentials for you and the baby’, Fiona peeks in the hall door and passes me a heavy carrier bag. Her very cute little daughter, Megan clings to her legs and peeks up at me shyly.

‘Come on in. I’m just putting the kettle on. And what can I get for you missy?’ I crouch down to her level and try to make eye contact. She smiles sweetly and whispers ‘Apple juice’.
‘I don’t think we have any darling, but we do have orange juice’ I reply enthusiastically.
‘Don’t want orange juice. Want apple juice! ’ She asserts.
‘How about a yummy smoothie? ’I wink up at Fiona.
‘YUKY’ she shrieks, deafening any dogs in the area. Then she dives purposefully to the floor; arms and legs kicking out wildly. Within seconds she has become devil spawn, writhing and twisting her strong little body, snapping and slapping in a chaotic little energetic porcupine ball of spikes.

Fiona observes her daughter briefly and continues ‘There’s just a few music cds to help develop the babies right side of the brain; some alphabet songs and language tapes. It’s really important to get them early. Oh and there are lots of books to help you cope with the baby when it arrives’. Or at least that’s what I think she said. Its hard to hear anything with the pint sized anti-Christ in the room. Fiona doesn’t appear to be joking when she’s on about developing the baby whilst still in the womb, which is slightly worrying. Even more worrying, she does not seem to be remotely bothered by her daughter’s behaviour. Why doesn’t she order Megan to stop yelling? Isn’t she likely to hurt herself or damage my furniture?
‘I swear by the Gina Ford method’ she hushes reverentially.’ It really helped us introduce a routine with Megan. She was a great baby.’
I have no idea what she is talking about and am just about to ask her to enlighten me when she hollers like a banshee.’ Oh Megan, did you just pee all over Daisy’s carpet? I am sooo sorry!’
‘Yes’ Megan smiles proudly ‘And I did a poo too.’
My face is ashen. My pulse has quickened. I feel sick. What kind of delinquent is she? ‘Where is it?’ I croak dreading the response.
‘Here in my Dora panties! I need a gold star Mummy’ she pesters, holding up a very soiled bulky pair of panties. Christ, I can even see an undigested chunk of carrot in her perfectly formed poo. I am going to be sick!
‘Well let’s clean you up first Megan’ Fiona sighs resigned to the task ahead.
‘Then we’ll get a gold star and a biscuit’ Megan expertly closes the deal.
Fiona takes the boss out to the toilet while I survey the damage. How does one clean up urine from carpet? Is water enough? Do I use bleach? Will it stain? Will it smell? I hope Fiona’s books cover this kind of thing.

Eventually the she-devil leaves with her Mum. I rub my belly and promise myself that I will do everything very differently to Fiona. Not for the first time, I wonder what we are letting ourselves in for.

learning a new vocab

We have become very familiar with all this jargon and spend ridiculous amounts of time weaving baby jargon in to perfectly normal conversations. We can now bandy about expressions like:
‘when the meconium hits the fan’
‘I’ll just have drop of colostrum in my tea’.
‘Let’s go the whole 10cm!’
We’ve become a right pair of sad bastards!

Ante-natal Class

We just about make the 8pm start as there were a number of unscheduled but very necessary pee breaks. The first 40 minutes are spent advising us how to eat sensibly and which activities to avoid. As we would all appear to be in the third trimester, this well-meaning advice appears to be slightly late.


Can’t believe we’re all roughly 30 weeks or so. A couple of skinny malinks are trendily dressed in knee highboots and clingy numbers which emphasise their svelte volleyball bumps…and then there are those of us who appear genetically related to elephants or hippos. I am in awe that so many women have had the time and inclination to have applied make-up and accessorized their outfits with chokers, belts and cleverly tied scarves. I wonder if Trinny and Susannah are about to pop out behind a curtain and accuse me [with evidence] of violating fashion principles. When exactly did heavily pregnant women stop wearing sturdy sandals and oversized t-shirts?

The couples fascinate me. There are the trendies; the goody goodys, the know-alls;. I wonder how they are secretly classifying us …the scraggies? The dopes? The disorganized?

Then Eileen, our working midwife mentions ‘labour’ and the whole room awakens. It is as though she is a prophet and we are worshipping at her altar of knowledge. She produces a sock and a doll and graphically takes us through the journey down the birth canal. As she explains the concept of ‘crowning’ the doll stretches the ‘sock’ so much that I fear it will rip. I feel a shiver down my spine and I peer around the room. We are all experiencing sheer horror. Open mouths, saucer-wide eyes…or eyes wide shut and terrified. OK we had our suspicions that cabbage patch and stork stories would not stand up to scientific scrutiny… but the thought of labour is just too scary to consider. I put my fingers in my ears and sing lahlahlah to drown out the scary conversation around me.

Special bloke nudges me when Eileen gets to the drugs section. ‘Scary bits over Daisy’. He’s quite used to me hiding behind cushions during horror movies, which he thinks is very funny. First of all Eileen spends a huge amount of time trying to convince us that the pain will be a ‘good’ pain and about the power of breathing and trusting our bodies. Now I have total respect for any woman prepared to do without drugs but I am not that brave.

Eileen introduces us to a natural pain relief method using a TENS machine. Eileen gives us a quick overview and asks for questions. A very studious girl raises her hand.’ I don’t follow how a tennis machine would help’. Eileen looks bemused and says TENS not TENNIS. She asks for a volunteer to demonstrate the TENS machine. All the girls shrivel and stare intently at the floor, while the guys relax back into their chairs, grinning. Eileen pounces on an unsuspecting lad and attaches a small contraption to his arm. The girls immediately spark back to life, giggling as this poor lad’s face takes on the pallor of an embalmed veteran. I am appalled at my black enjoyment at his discomfort .He positively jumps out of his seat as Eileen increases the vibrations.

Apparently the TENS provides great relief but our poor victim seemed very relieved when it was taken off his forearm. I resolve to hire a machine for labour. Eileen is thrilled that I am so positive about a natural pain relief method. She hugs me to her chest. Her new convert. I haven’t the heart to tell her that I fully intend to use every other pain relief method simultaneously including panadol, gas and air, pethedine and epidural! I always did like a well-mixed cocktail.

Buggy procrastination

Hurrah, it’s a Mildred Free Day, so I am in early at my desk. Its high time I stopped dithering over a major bank breaking purchase. I need to get the pushchair / pram situation sorted. I have 1 day before Mildred returns. I need to research and purchase it, so that it is delivered at some point before the baby arrives.

The number of options found by the search engine stuns me. There are bewildering arrays of models, sizes, accessories, click in –click out options. After an hour of surfing, I conclude that one can buy a 1] Mary Poppins type perambulator; a 2] minimalist fold-up meccano type pushchair, a 3]3-wheel drive over rough terrain buggy or a 4]3-in-1-travel system. This is extremely irritating, as I have lost all ability to make a decision.

Each type is persuasively promoted by svelte celebrity Mums. Each comes with a whole host of benefits and must have accessories. Unfortunately, they all come with a huge price tag that only a celebrity could afford.

Apparently I should be considering the recline settings, suspension; fold up capability, weight, tyre settings etc; I am stunned to find that some wheels come with a pump. Presumably if you a member of the AA, you can get them to fix the puncture and pump the tyres.

I shoulder the weight of this decision alone until coffee break. Then I crack and consult my colleagues. ‘What type of car do you drive? Asks John [father of 2] ‘Because you have to make sure it’ll fit in your boot’. ‘How wide is your hallway? because they can take up a lot of space? Asks Fiona [mother of 1]
‘And how much can you afford to spend?’ asks Louise [blissfully childless] who is well aware of the special relationship I have with my credit card.

‘Listen, I have a buggy you can have’ shouts Lara across the canteen.’ Its just taking up room in the attic. Its safe, light, fits in the car and I don’t ever want to see it again. My childbearing days are definitely over. Thank goodness! No more nappies, burping; sterilizing, crying; spewing... ‘That would be great ‘ I interrupt.
Lara is one of these very ‘with it’ women, who oozes coolness and competence. If it was good enough for her sprog, then it’s good enough for peanut. I am rather taken aback however, at her evident delight at being over the ‘baby ‘ stage. I sense I am at the bottom of a very steep learning curve.

Getting bladdered at Ginny's wedding

Where the bloody hell is Ginny? We’ve been cooped up in this church for over half an hour and my bladder is going to explode. If she doesn’t march her meringue & St Tropez tan down the aisle pronto, I’m going to do a runner out the door and squat behind a plant pot.

Wonder if she’s having second thoughts? Broken down? Or just being a drama queen? Poor Tom is pacing furiously at the top of the aisle. The priest is consulting his watch anxiously [word has it, he’s refereeing a rugby match in a few hours and he’s keen to get going]. Oh come on Ginny, you selfish mare.

I feel like a big-beached whale…make that an 80’s throwback beached whale. I just couldn’t justify spending 500euros on a ‘special occasion’ dress, even if it did ‘flatter my contours’ according to the sales assistant. So, I borrowed a pal’s, elder sister’s maternity ‘dressy’ outfit. It’s basically a blue and yellow tent with big geometric shapes and shoulder pads, Joan Collins would approve of. I ‘teamed’ this becoming rig out with a pair of comfy Dr Scholl’s beige granny sandals, which just about house my expanding, foot area in this heat. Its not a particularly flattering ensemble…mind you what is at the moment? My tummy precedes me by about half a mile; my waist has taken a sabbatical and my bum has gone south [although to be fair I never had one of those pert ‘2 snooker ball in a handkerchief’ arses]

My bladder is about to explode! This is miserable. Peanut is performing a full gymnastic routine. Kick, kick, punch. My tented dress is rising and falling as Peanut shifts and plays with my internal organs. Special Bloke rubs his hands over my belly absent-mindedly. Peanut belts out a strong punch, taking Special Bloke by surprise. ‘Wow, that’s some left hook you have there Peanut’ Special Bloke beams proudly. ’Look at this Tom!’. Poor anxious Tom is dragged over to watch my large tummy wiggle up and down. Special Bloke presses down on my belly to say hello to Peanut. My poor bladder is struggling. I simply have to relieve myself…

Oh Oh music…here Ginny comes. Oh she looks beautiful. Skinny cow. Tom visibly sighs with relief. When Ginny is settling herself next to Tom, I sneak outside for my own private moment. I relieve myself behind an enormous car. Phew! That’s just so much better. I shake down my dress and turn around to pick up my bag and wrap. I do not believe it. There is a video lens focused on me. I am puce with mortification. ‘Don’t worry love, we’ll edit that bit out’ whispers the video guy. ’I was trying to get an arty shot from back here. Not to worry eh?’ I sneak back in, with my head down and tail tucked firmly between my legs.