The Most Non-Conforming Birth in the World

“Fuck. THAT.”

OK, so these two words didn’t feature too prominently in my original birth plan, but I’m all about adapting.

In fact, none of which follows featured in my original birth plan.  And the reason for that is because when I wrote up my birth plan, I was still in the second category.

Let me elaborate. 

I believe the world can be divided into two categories when it comes to childbirth. 

1)         Those who have been through it; and

  

2)         Those who have a birthing plan.   Or, as I like to paraphrase, those who have absolutely no idea.

I was young, and fresh, and happy… and OH so naive when I found out I was pregnant with Madison.   I was a textbook Category 2.

I was 24 years old, married, owned my own home (nearly), could sew a perfect hem and could cook.  However, I had never spent more than 3 minutes in the company of a baby, didn’t know the first thing about breastfeeding, and thought cloth nappies were already in the shape of those handy little triangles. 

But my optimism, quite possibly partnered with an over-confidence personality disorder, beat my doubt into submission and so it was decided that I would try and reproduce my genes to bring further joy to the world.

Accordingly, Madison was very much planned and as luck would have it, I only needed hang The Father’s undies on the line and I was pregnant.  This luck would continue for the following four pregnancies; so alarmingly quick in fact that The Father smugly suggested not leaving his clean washing folded on the furniture in case any of my visiting girlfriends accidentally found themselves pregnant as well.

I remember so vividly the moment I found out I was pregnant.  It was a Friday, the day before my 24^th birthday; Family Planning weren’t open on Saturdays so I chose to not wait until the following Monday. 

Actually, in truth, they could have been open 24/7 but I probably wouldn’t have waited one more day anyway – I just KNEW there was a bubba inside me patiently waiting to be discovered.  This instinct didn’t, however, stop me from crying my eyes out when the nurse walked back into the room waving my urine-soaked stick singing “Happy Birthday to you!”,  grinning from ear to ear.

And I have to admit, they were not necessarily all tears of joy.

Holy fuck.  Shit was about to get real.  I was about to become a Mum. 

Suddenly, I had the weight of the world on my shoulders – could I do it?  I mean, yes… I had eight months (exactly as it turned out) to learn all I could, should be plenty of time.  But back then there was no internet at home; so no Google, no Yahoo Questions, no “How is My Baby Growing” websites to reassure me that my strawberry-sized fetus had fingers now. 

I had a shitload of reading to do, and I had to do it NOW.

Armed with a depleted-rainforest worth of books, after telling the lady in the library I definitely WAS NOT pregnant - because she couldn’t be the next-first to know - I caught the train home and spent the entire journey trying to think of a romantic/cute/novel way of telling The Father that, despite his uncanny ability to bring surf lifesavers running from all directions, there was a very small part of him that could in fact swim.

After dropping all of my stuff home, checking my profile in the mirror (I was pretty sure I was showing already), yelling at the neighbour over the fence who was standing in her kitchen doing dishes that I definitely WAS NOT pregnant, I jumped in the car and drove to The Father’s work.

He hadn’t known I was doing a pregnancy test that day, so in hindsight turning up at his desk unannounced in the middle of a working day saying I had important news was probably not my finest move, given that he’s also prone to anxiety attacks, but lucky for me there was a bottle of whiskey in the social club cupboard and some ice in the freezer.  It was also unfortunate that he was on the phone to a customer whose house had just burned down and I stood there saying “hang up, tell them you’ll call back, get them off the PHONE!” but these things can only make him stronger, I say.

Unsure of how to word it, having only had three hours to formulate something and coming up blank, I threw the urine-soaked stick on his desk and smiled.

“What?  What’s this?  Is it positive?  Really?  Oh my god!  Are you pregnant?  Really?  REALLY?”

“Nope.  I took the afternoon off work to bring you bad news.”

Some of you may be of the opinion that this was not the appropriate time for sarcasm.

Spreading the cheer throughout the entire office, after having decided the previous week that when it did happen we would keep things a secret until after the 12-week mark, the drinks were poured then we headed out for a celebratory bite to eat. 

That was the last time in my life that I was able to eat chicken with apricot and cream cheese on foccacia bread; and the last time for the next 8 weeks that I was able to eat any of those items individually as well.  Or most other items individually, for that matter. 

Once I hit the second trimester, things got decidedly better.  There were also about three people in the NZ population that we hadn’t told, so they were informed as well.  I think that might have been when Paul Holmes (RIP) decided to stop advertising his email address on his show.

Thanks to Rhonda, who was about five months ahead of me in the pregnancy game, I learned that there existed these creatures called “midwives”.  When it was explained to me that midwives live-eat-sleep-breath obstetrics 24/7, yet my local GP only did so when she happened to have a pregnant patient, I was sold on the idea of midwives.  I got in touch with them and at the first visit, told them exactly how the labour and birth would be eventuating.

“I’d like a birthing pool please, can you provide that?  Good, good.  I also don’t believe in drugs, I’ll be doing this completely natural.  What?  You can’t have drugs at a homebirth anyway?  OK that sounds perfect because we’re having a homebirth.  I’ll be having the lights dimmed of course, and some nice music playing.  Stitches?  Pffft won’t be needing those, I’ll be doing exercise and massage to assure they’re not required.  I’d like to give birth to the baby underwater, and cut the cord only when necessary, no sooner; and I’d like the father to participate as much as possible. That’s all I have documented for now, I’m sure there’ll be more to come.“

I think I saw the midwife smirk, but I’m pretty sure it’s cos she was so pleased to have such a perfect patient. 

Convincing other people of my perfect birth plan was a little more difficult.  My mother must have misheard me initially and thought I said “I won’t be going through a Doctor mother, I’m having my entire pregnancy cared for and monitored by a midlife crisis” because she rolled her eyes and told me I was being ridiculous and putting my baby at risk.  This from someone who still insists “there’s no proof that smoking when pregnant can harm your baby – look how you turned out”.   Like that’s any kind of qualifying statement.
 
When I also added that we were planning on having a water birth at home with no pain relief she scoffed and said “you’ve got no idea”.

As did loads and loads of other people, who felt quite within their rights to inform me that babies must be born in a hospital with doctors and nurses and sterile equipment nearby and that to not do so would be akin to plunging my baby into a cauldron of hot tar as soon as it was born.  Asking for a reason behind their opinions did nothing to lessen their ignorance.

Luckily, I’ve never really been one to care a lot about what others think.  Which helped immensely when a work mate told me at 38 weeks pregnant that I really should NOT be drinking that half-glass of low alcohol beer at the Christmas Dinner because it would interfere with my baby’s development of organs and extremities.  It took seven people to hold me back and two to mop all the red wine off his jacket.
 

I think HIS Mother did something that interferred with HIS extremities…  I heard all the rumours from the bathroom. 

After the relative delights of the second trimester, which induced hormonal-related moods that I no longer wish to acknowledge ever happened, my third trimester was dominated by two events.

Antenatal classes, and my daily visit to McDonalds for a Banana Thickshake to try and help my heartburn. 

Rumour has it that heartburn means a hairy baby.  I spent three months vowing that this child better be born with hair down to it’s knees and a back hairier than King Kong for the amount of heartburn I was getting. 

Fortunately, it transpired that half of that came true.  And I’m sure her hair will reach her knees eventually. 

The first time I experienced heartburn, I swore to god I was dying.  For those of you lucky  enough to have not made it’s acquaintance, it’s like have a white-hot poker thrust down your throat all the way to your stomach, and then a white-hot metal clamp tightened around the outside of the same chest.

Not that pleasant really.  And as I quite rightly was entitled, I expected to be treated like a Queen while suffering from said ailments.  My boss wasn’t so convinced, and wasn’t sure how he got placed in the “it’s the least you can do” category, but I eventually wore him down, and I was thereforth known as Ma’am Messer. 

Ante-natal classes were a little less painful.  The facilitator insisted on educating us about pain relief even though I wasn’t the slightest bit interested; I guess there are some ladies that are just a bit lazy really and not totally committed to the entire birth process. 

I took notes during the natural birth chat; I needed to make sure I puffed when I was supposed to puff and panted when I was supposed to pant.  It’s a very complicated procedure.

We learned how to fold nappies and how to bath a baby.  We learned how to swaddle and how to burp a baby.  We learned how to exercise and how to breastfeed.

For some reason we didn’t learn how to cope with 3 hours sleep a night.  I mean a week.

When I finally finished work at 38 weeks pregnant, I was still fairly disillusioned with my upcoming task.  I thought I was ready.  I had spent the last 38 weeks shopping at Farmers every day; in fact my boss was concerned that once I finished working, Farmer’s profit margin would fall through the floor and I’d be personally responsible for several job losses.  

I had three dozen nappies, eight stretch-n-grows, 20 bibs, 13 cardigans, a cot, a bouncinette, baby wipes, baby oil and 63 pairs of booties.  And one bottle just in case, but I’d already decided I was going to breastfeed.  Bottle feeding was for inferior mothers.

The fallout from that comment is not covered in this blog, but I quite rightly deserved to be stoned for it; and not in the fun “whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaah dude there’s a double rainbow!” way.
I finished working on the 7^th December and my due date loomed on the distant horizon.  I had plenty of time to prepare.  All new babies arrived late.  Everyone that ever read a book knew that.

My scan EDD was the 19^th December, my cycle EDD was the 21^st December.

I was unaware during those last two weeks at home that it would be a very, VERY long time before I again got to pee like a normal person.  Mainly for two reasons:  for the first few weeks the rigours of childbirth would taunt me;  for the next 8 years there would always be at least one of three children asking me where, why, what, how and when I was doing.  And not always through a closed door.

The last two weeks were also a cauldron of mixed feelings. 

Oh how I wanted to meet this beautiful little baby; the life that I’d caringly nurtured for nine months, the little human being that I’d help create with love and affection.

But christ only knows how much I also wanted this parasite OUT of my BODY.    

Every day I daydreamed about ejecting this person that had been getting a free ride for so many reasons… to name a few:

• Having one day without my ribs feeling like they were being held open with a surgeon’s clamp. 

• Not getting woken by hiccups at 2am then having nothing to show for it when I finally give in and grab the video camera. 

• Being free of the incessant pressure on my bladder that was so hard I was within seconds of peeing myself constantly. 

• The simple yet beautiful pleasure of eating brie and seafood again while sitting back sipping a red wine  

• Owning boobies that were akin to basketballs at an overinflated PSI (little did I know that would get worse before it got better)

• Being able to see my parts for some ladyscaping, rather than looking like an undiscovered Amazonian rainforest

• Being able to do my grocery shopping without the fear of involuntarily spreading my amniotic fluid over their lino

• Being able to get myself back up if I accidentally ended up on my back without needing a crane or a crew of firemen

• Not going to the bathroom seven times a day in excited anticipation that the All Bran was worth every cent

• Being able to say “not tonight dear… the Midwife said we have to wait six weeks.”

I amused myself one day by making The Father an impressive birthday cake.  It was a bright yellow convertible beetle.  The Father and his brother have successive birthdays, 4^th and 5^th of December and until this point, The Mother In Law had always insisted they have separate birthdays as “they are individuals and deserve their own day”.  I suggested to The Brother In Law that they share a cake this year but it would be worth it – he was more than happy.  So for this reason I laboured for hours over the task.

Ironic really, I was about to find out what that saying REALLY meant… but at this point, this cake was the longest suffering I’d ever endured.

Not counting Social Studies class with Ray Hambly in 3^rd Form.

I was SO impressed with it…. all my time, effort and tears had gone into this cake, I was so excited about what the boys would think, so looking forward to everyone seeing it and telling me how fabulous I was going to be as a Mum.

But I guess old habits die hard, and The Mother In Law, insistent that everyone be “special”, also brought along a packet-mix Madeira cake with sprinkles.  The same cake she makes for every single family member for every single birthday.  Just so that no one misses out.

My pregnancy hormones got me upset about who was now supposed to get the cool cake and who got the booby prize.  How could I pick?  Who did I choose? This was not fair!! Is this what motherhood is really all about?  Will I turn into a Madeira-Cake-We-Are-All-Equal kind of mother?

Nope. Fuck that.  Start as you mean to go on.

“You boys, here’s your cake.  If you can’t share, go to your rooms and think about how much your selfish behaviour disappoints me.  Mother In Law, put that cake on the bench and back away from the Beetle. You’re the grandma now, you get in the back row.  Me and my cankles spent hours on this cake, you’ve had your moment of glory.  Get back there and get on with knitting those booties.”

I’m not proud, but these stretch marks came at a cost.

The night of the 18^th December, I went to bed with an expectant air about me.

I went to bed every night from the 5^th December onwards with an expectant air about me, but this night I was sure was going to be different.

I had some minor cramps, and some tightening of the abdomen.  I started noting down the frequency and duration – yep consistent.  Like clockwork.  Not the normal Braxton Hicks, oh no no no, I knew everything, these were different.

They can’t have been too different because I still managed to fall asleep for 6 hours.

Dawn arrived, I gently roused from my sleep, stretched, and… oh my god… was that another cramp??!!  Holy shit… this was it. 

I was in labour.

I woke The Father and made him get the stopwatch.  He reminded me that we didn’t own a stopwatch but that his wrist watch would probably do the job just as well.

Contractions lasting 30 seconds, coming every 3 minutes.  I must be nearly ready to push,  I’m sure of it.

I rang the midwife and advised her of my status.  I think we must have had a bad line because she told me to call her back in a few hours when they got more persistent.

What would she know?

Phone calls were made to The Best Friend, The Mother, The Mother In Law, The Father’s Work, The Brother In Law, The Sister In Law, The New Best Friend (who had a 5 month old baby and I’m sure was just spending every spare moment waiting to hear from me) and plans were revised.

The birthing pool was up, the water was running, the playlist was loaded...

OK I’m not that young.  The five CDs were in the multi-CD player.

The candles were ready, the essential oils were at hand, the water was boiled and the towels were folded.

I hopped in the pool and waited for the admiration and praise.  It got pretty uncomfortable, I’ll tell you that much, I even found myself doing the whole “puff, puff, pant, pant” that we’d been taught at Ante Natal classes.  I did manage to smile and joke for the camera when The Father decided to document the moment, because after all, life’s all about being positive.

A few hours later I’d gotten to the point where I wanted to start saying bad things to The Father.  I was already saying them in my head, but they were about to make themselves very public.  It mattered not one bit that I was the one that wanted this baby – it was still entirely 100% his fault that I was in this much pain.

At about 2.30pm he made a call to the Midwife and told her it was time to come over.  Seriously this time.  She wanted to hear me on the phone to assess how far along I was but I made him assure her that shit was about to get real.  That and I didn’t want to risk electrocuting myself by being on a phone in a birthing pool.  I just made sure that I “ahhhhhhed” and “ooooohed” and “oh my god you SON OF A BITCH YOU DID THIS TO ME-ed” in the background loud enough for her to hear.

Finally, what seemed like eight hours later, she turned up.  Just breezed on in the door like nothin’ was up. 

Um, excuse me bitch, my cervix is dilating and you need to be gettin’ out your ruler.

The midwife made me get out of the birthing pool for her examination.  I think that was a little bit rude, I’m sure I’d warned her to bring her togs .

I had to wait until I was between contractions, and then I was like a veteran Bomb Disposal Sergeant.

“Quick, get going, get up there, evaluate the situation, then get the hell out.”

“OK Karo….” she says.   “Ummm…”

Nothing good ever started with this sentence.

“So… ah yep… I’ve done a good examination.  You’re definitely in active labour,”

“Awesome, I could have told you that myself.  I mean, it’s my body and I’m well aware of what’s going on.  Are we ready to push now, or what??  Lets get this baby out.”

“Um.  Well, it’s like this.  You’re about 1cm dilated.”

For those of you that haven’t had babies; or haven’t had a partner who’s had a baby… and who aren’t pissing themselves at my misfortune at the moment, I’ll elaborate a little.

APPARENTLY… according to my bitch know-it-all-midwife… a woman has to be 10cm dilated before the baby is ready to be pushed out.  And it’s the “lets-get-this-cervix-dilated” bit that really really hurts.

“Fuck. THAT.”

“Uh… what?” says The Father.  “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is FUCK THAT.  FUCK THAT I’m only 1cm.  You’re lying.  Really, you’re lying, you’re not very funny but you’re lying.  Really, c’mon… how far along am I??”

“You’re about 1cm”

“I hate you.   So how long do you think it will be?  I can handle this for another, say, 30 minutes or so?  How long do you reckon until this baby comes out???”

“I’m thinking at least another, just a guess, of course, but another six hours or so.”

“Uh… Karo… what are you doing?” ask the Father as I leave a trail of wet footprints behind me on the lounge carpet.

“I’m getting my pajamas and I’m getting my socks and I’m getting my FUCKING panadol and we’re going to the hospital for FUCKING DRUGS.  FUCK this shit.  Stupid fucking baby.”

I’ve gotten over this and I do actually love Madison.

Bags packed, The Mother glared at angrily for her stifled giggles and “I told you so” looks, we head off for the hospital.

The one time I’m wanting The Father to seriously break the rules, I mean… c’mon, live a little and drive FASTER you son of a bitch this is all your fault - and he’s oblivious.

I’m sitting in the back seat of an XY Falcon, no seatbelts, huffing and puffing on the parcel shelf while poking tongues at the teenagers following behind in their souped up Honda, sliding from door to door every time we go round a corner, wishing that my vagina would be like a sinkhole in America and just open the hell up unexpectedly.

Although I don’t really want all the sewer lines to be exposed.

We finally arrive at the hospital, and The Father is worried about parking.

“This is only a ten minute park, we can’t stop here.”

My cervix nearly reached out and slapped him.  Making our way inside, I try to convey the urgency of our situation.

“Hi.  My name is Karolyn.  I’m in labour and I’m in a lot of pain.  Not, you see, like all these other pregnant ladies here, of course, but in LOTS of pain.  Like, I need pain killers.  Now.  Before now.  GET THEM IN MY BODY NOW if you don’t mind thank you very much lovely nurse, you look so beautiful today ha ha ha”

Not that it was any laughing matter.

I had to wait until my midwife turned up.  I know.  A complete travesty.  I would have thought that any old lady could give any young woman moaning about pain drugs of any kind.  Turns out, no.

When my midwife finally did arrive (apparently she too is a bit hung up on “parking legally”) she suggested we start at the bottom and work our way up.  I had assumed she didn’t mean literally but I was in for a huge shock when she jabbed a massive needle right into my ass cheek.

“This is pethidine.  You’ll thank me in a minute.”

“I can’t believe you did that!  I hate needles!  I don’t want pethidine, I heard that it… ohhhhhhhhhhh… hellooooooo there lady…. Whoah how YOU doin’?!”

Riding the opiate train for a few hours was an unusual but not-altogether-unpleasant way to spend an afternoon.  My cervix continued to merrily do its thing, and I basked in the glow of knowing my baby was nearly here.

The rest of the clan arrived over the next hour or so and lounged around reading magazines, drinking coffee and knitting booties while I did all the hard work.   I felt like a performer on opening night, the Black Swan role was mine and they all had front row seats.

Two hours later the pethidine started to wear off and the midwife suggested a refill (they’re free here too).  Worried how it might affect my ability to push, she assured me I still had a bit of a wait.   That’s OK… it’s only 6pm, still plenty of time before Shortland Street starts.

Two hours later the pethidine started to wear off and the midwife suggested a refill.

Only this time, it didn’t quite cut the mustard.    No longer was I away in fairy land; where bunnies ran free and butterflies danced around my head; being interrupted only temporarily by the annoying and slightly uncomfortable contractions.

The bunnies had myxomatosis and the butterflies were Buffalo Bill moths.

My midwife suggested I try the gas.  Laughing gas, to be more precise.  It didn’t make me laugh.

She then suggested a bath.  A bath with Lavender essential oil in it, to be more precise.  It essentially made things worse.  I couldn’t get my legs apart because the bath was so narrow, and the lavender felt like it was burning my skin.

It was around this time that I cried for the first time.  Or maybe that I begged, I can’t quite recall which came first.  I do know that I begged and cried and said I didn’t want to do this anymore and the baby could just stay put and I honestly didn’t mind about the bladder thing anymore.

The family had been breezing in and out of the room since we arrived, but now they were all too scared to come anywhere near.  That and it was about 3am so they were all catching up on sleep in various hospital chairs in various corridors and TV rooms.  Except The Father.  He wasn’t allowed out of my sight.  His job was stand around and be useless.

“Rub my back please, rub my back, RUB MY BACK NOW, STOP FUCKING TOUCHING ME!!” and “get me some more ice please, get me some ice, WHERE’S MY ICE ASSHOLE??”

The Mother and The Best Friend stuck it out for a bit longer. The Best Friend I think because she felt bad for me and wanted to help; The Mother I think because she thought it was hilarious.

I had ordered the midwife that no matter how much I asked, to not give in and let me have an epidural.  Or any kind of pain relief.  I figured it was time to bring the big guns in since that ship had well and truly sailed .  Right into the Bermuda Triangle.

“I know I said I didn’t want one, puff puff, but now I actually don’t mean that, puff puff, I’ve changed my mind and you, puff puff, can’t listen to pregnant Karolyn, SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT, you have to listen to labouring Karolyn, oh-my-fucking-god-what-is-happening-to-me puff puff puff puff.  I love epidurals and I love drugs and, puff puff, all those natural bitches on television, puff puff SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT, that lied to me can all go rot in hell!”

It was around this time that The Father cried for the first time.

After much convincing (bitch) the midwife finally called the anaesthetist and my epidural was on its way.  She should have ordered it online from Asia, it probably would have arrived quicker.

When the anaesthetist walked in the room, lights shone around him, organ music played, he had golden wings and there was a halo over his head.  Never had I been so pleased to see someone in all my life.   My impression of him lessened slightly when he explained the procedure to me instead of just sticking the needle in my spine; and I don’t believe he needed to be so precise and fussy about where he stuck it.  Time is contractions, man.

Fifteen minutes later I was a different person.  I was still fat with swollen feet and an overgrown genital area, but I was happy.

So happy that I think The Father stopped crying and started looking concerned.

“Bring everybody in!  What are they doing?  I’m bored, lets play cards or something!  Ooooh, I’m a wee bit peckish, can I have something to eat please?  I don’t care that it’s 4.00am, wake everyone up, baby will be here soon!”

Keep smiling girl, you’ve still got another nine hours to go.

There’s only so many times and so many ways in nine hours that several different family members can come in and ask about the status of my cervix before I run out of original answers.  I felt like a con-man.  My bed was Nigeria and every millimetre I dilated was another misleading promise of the fortune to follow.

My epidural was topped up so many times I thought my vertebrae would be covered in tidal marks.  And for those who have had the misfortune of experiencing only natural births *shuddering while crossing myself* it’s a very weird and also rather amusing sensation.

Completely numb from boobs to bum, and although you can feel your toes, walking is rather difficult.  And as you also have a drip in order to keep blood pressure raised, not needing to pee every half an hour is also rather difficult.

This is when my friend Bed Pan and I met for the first time.  We only saw each other for one night, but I shall never forget our encounters.

The Father popped into the TV room every hour or so to keep the family members updated.

About three weeks later, the midwife finally declared that I was ready to push. 

Not quite making itself as apparent to me as I’d imagined or read in the all books, but by this stage I did not give one single shit.  Actually, I’d read that could happen too.

Having no sensation whatsoever of the well-documented overwhelming desire to eject my child from my birth canal, I started pushing.

“Um, Karo… you need to wait until you’re having a contraction.”

“Right you are then.  If you could just be so kind as to let me know when that is, I’ll do my best to accommodate your request.”

An hour later, a newborn child still had not manifested itself, despite my best efforts.  Actually, plenty of them had, I lied.  Just not in my room and not from my vagina.

The midwife started to frown, flicked through the emergency section of her Midwife Guide, then said she needed to make a few phones calls.  I think it inappropriate that at that particular moment she should really have been ordering pizza,  but she had worked for about 19 hours now, so I let it slide.

Half an hour later the most wonderful man I have since ever crossed paths with breezed into my room.

“Righto, if you haven’t already, get ya knickers off”.

I thought it would have been more appropriate to wait until after The Father was out of the room, but I winked at him and gestured I’d call him later.  Right now I had a baby to deliver.

It was then that I noticed the midwife frowning ever more, and she started whispering to the man and pointing in the general direction of my cervix.  It seems this man had some experience in Gynaecology and Obstetrics, I’ve since discovered the words “pioneering” and lots of flash sounding titles are often accompanied with his name.  Little did I know we’d have more steamy dates in times to come.

He explained that this stubborn baby was not coming out because *insert very technical and medical sounding description here* basically – it was sideways.

Of course it was.  It’s only the most fundamental thing that really needs to be in place for a baby to be born.  Point up and down.  Not side to side.  We all know that, most of us got it right, what’s so hard about it?  That’s a ludicrous as putting a frankfurter ACROSS a hotdog bun.

Just before voicing my thoughts The Surgeon went on to explain that by sideways, he meant lying on its side relative to my spine.  I rolled my eyes at The Father, then raised my eyebrow at The Surgeon, a little embarrassed at how dumb The Father could appear sometimes.

He further explained that this child was going to need a little help coming out, and by help he meant forceps.  I’d heard of those.  They were like the duck-bill thing they used for cervical smears, although obviously they needed to come apart somehow.

He disappeared for about ten minutes, then walked back into the room pushing a trolley and wearing an apron, gloves… and freezing-worker gumboots.  My mouth dried a little and I quickly searched his name-badge for the little letters that would alert me to his credentials.  He didn’t have a name-badge.

Almost simultaneously I noticed a large pair of tongs on the trolley.

“Oh, haha, is the Xmas BBQ today?  I suppose, I just realised, it’s the last work day before Xmas shut down, isn’t it?  Wow, you guys must be having a turkey or something with tongs that big!”

The midwife explained that because this procedure is a little more uncomfortable than ejecting a baby naturally, they needed to top my epidural up with something called a total-block.  Shrugging, I didn’t really care.  I was blocked anyway in the bits that hurt, what else could they do to me?

Take away the use of my entire body, that’s what they did.  Except my arms.  And I think I could still move my eyes a little.  Other than that, useless.

So useless that, when they pulled out some big stirrup-things that he conjured up from under the bed like magic, I could not even lift my own ankles into them.  And not because they were so fat.  To add further to the indignity, at the flick of another switch, the end of my bed dropped away and I was left hanging.

And so I found myself on this Friday lunchtime:  legs in the air, knickers off, on my back with four other people looking at my vajayjay.

I think from memory there might be a yoga position named after it:  “Saturday Night In Upper Hutt”.

The surgeon picked up the BBQ  tongs, The Father and The Mother positioned themselves down at the business end, and the midwife picked up a large needle and thread.

“Right, love, lets get this baby out.  You’re going to feel just a little bit of pressure now”.

I rolled my eyes from left to right to show him I understood.

The BBQ tongs disappeared from view, still to this day I’m not quite sure where they went as they were about three feet long.  The surgeon starts tugging like he’s in an aeroplane pulling competition.  The Father’s eyes widen and The Mother covers her mouth.  I see the surgeon’s arms shaking from the effort and wonder if he’s trying to pull my bed closer to him or something.

He puts one of his gumboot-clad feet up on the bed and by now his face is contorted from the effort.

All of a sudden I come to the horrific realisation that he must be in an aeroplane pulling competition because I feel like a 747 is passing through my body.  Sideways.   

I probably would have preferred if we’d just left the baby doing that.

Not long after, The Father started crying and The Mother clapped her hands.   

The surgeon looked up and as our eyes met over my mound of venus, artistically framed by my paralysed water-retaining thighs, he said “well… it’s blonde!”

Given that The Father looks like an Irani local, and I’m no Aryan candidate myself, I panicked a little and furtively cast my mind back to the last work function.  No blondes.  Wait… actually there was a blonde; but she was skinny and wore too much makeup for my liking.

Whilst still pondering the parentage of this child, I missed the ATC clearance for the second wide-body to pass through my birth canal and I was taken a little by surprise.

“JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY-SUS FUCKEN ASSES OH MY GOD!”  I nearly stood upright in the stirrups while simultaneously degloving The Mother’s hand.

All of a sudden a Mogwai appeared on my stomach.  No, no… not a mogwai.  This had definitely gotten wet, although thankfully not yet multiplied.

It was the most beautiful gremlin I’d ever seen, and it was all mine.

The Father was sobbing, The Mother was fist pumping, The Midwife was smiling and The Surgeon was writing down his phone number.  He said he was just documenting the birth details, but I guess he needed to be discrete in front of The Father.

I was still swearing and looking around for a glass of wine.

The Father went into the TV room to update everyone again.  They all looked up when he walked in, then went back to their various activities.

“Um…. she’s had it… the baby is here!”

I didn’t hear it myself, but I’m sure they all high-fived me and spoke of how wonderful I was and how well I’d done.  They poured into the room and I patted my fringe, covered my plantation, and tried to cross my legs daintily.  I forgot the midwife was still down there attending to business.

“Oh my god, she’s gorgeous”,  “wow, she’s just beautiful!”,  yes, thank you… thank you… then “wow she’s got so much HAIR!” made me quickly check the blankets were still in place.  Then I realised they were talking about the baby.

Rude.

Four hours later, after my body had been returned to it's rightful owner, my new baby had been passed around to 57 different people, and 17 people had seen my breasts in my first attempt to breastfeed, I was ready to go home.  

We'd planned a homebirth, and even though that didn't eventuate, I was ready to return home and start life as a real family.

I had already dressed my wee gremlin in the outfit I'd picked out weeks ago.  This is easier said than done when you can only roll your eyes and move your pinkies.  I'd changed my first nappy already, and also changed the baby's.

Placing her in her little capsule, I tried not to get her fingers stuck in the buckle or accidentally poke anything into her fontanelle.  So far, so good.  I've got this parenting thing sussed.

Loading her in the falcon, I was again delegated to the back seat while she took pole position up the front.  Driving slower than he did on the way over, we got home about six hours later.

Walking in the front door, we called the cats to introduce them to the new arrival.  

"Frankie, Pudge, hey, look at this thing!  It's almost as hairy as you and just as quiet!  Welcome to the family Madison Jade!"

The cats walked over, sniffed, sneered, then walked off with their tails in the air.

Madison sat in her baby capsule looking at us.  

Our lives were complete.We did it (well... I did it).  We were home.  We were a family.

What the frick did we do with her now???