So, like, 8 days ago I tried desperately (for over 36 hours) to push a human being out my special places. And failed. Quite dramatically (yes, this IS how this entry is going to go… Be warned, it will probably go downhill from here, too).
Talk to anyone who knows me (they don’t even need to know me well or even partially, just a name and a vague, two word description like “hot cripple” (!) would do) and they’ll tell you that I’m somewhat of a Drama Queen. And, thinking about it, it’s even worse than that. That’s far too simple a description. I’d readily admit I’m a Drama Queen BECAUSE drama seems to find me and latch onto me like paparazzi onto Britney Spears’ wonderful parenting skills.
Keeping this in mind, I’d like to share with you a very delicate and beautiful bedtime story, fit for all ages, detailing the miracle of how I bought life into this world. And that:
Once upon a time, in a magical land called my Mum’s house, where children scream obscenities at adults whilst trying to kick each other in the eye (“’cause he licked my Milky Way”), I woke up one morning to find that my underwear looked like a train-wreck and my pelvis felt like it was trying (and failing) to separate itself from my uterus and escape through my lady garden (I mentioned this on the day, right? I’m sure you remember it vividly)… Turns out, this was the early stages of labour.
A couple of hours later, after spending the morning crawling around the front room, clinging onto anything that (I hoped) wouldn’t slide along the floor, and getting stabbed in the ovaries every 7 minutes whilst trying not to fall flat on my face through panic every time the pain hit me (attractive images, no?), I decided to go into the local Maternity Unit where trained professionals could start the wonderfully dignified (!) process of hooking me up to monitors, prodding my massive baby belly about (further speeding the pain up) and sticking fingers where strangers’ fingers should never, ever go. You’re going to have to trust me when I say that all this had to be the most enjoyable part of the entire birthing experience (apart from the ending, obviously).
Just picture the scene that follows. To recap; my morning’s a bloodied train-wreck of pelvic-escapist, uterus-stabbing, fun-time; my afternoon’s a magical, wired-up, contraction filled, wonderland. Next; tachycardia, possible infection, contractions 3 minutes apart. Contractions 3 minutes apart, contractions… What contractions? That’s right, boys and girls, all that work and my contractions slowed down overnight, deciding (without my permission) to stop at 6am. Yeah, thanks baby (!). Just throwing this out there – I’m not a huge fan of consistent and seemingly never-ending pain – but when it’s working towards an important goal AND has the audacity to keep me up all night, I’d prefer it to rapidly progress to the end as quickly as possible than end abruptly. I s’pose, on the plus side, baby was polite enough to stop for breakfast. Mm… Single-serving Weetabix.
Like the majority of pregnant women, I spent a lot of my Maternity Leave cooing and crying (simultaneously) over “One Born Every Minute” and studying how to/how not to act during labour. I always laughed at the women who cried a lot and threw things at the Midwives whilst shouting obscenities at all inanimate objects in sight like… Like my half brother and sister, actually. I always swore I’d not cry or shout because, you know, you’ve gotta go through it and you’ve had most of the year to prepare so, get over it. Or something. So… What did I end up doing before begging like a child for an Epidural? Yes, that’s right. I cried. But I didn’t just cry. I sobbed. And snotted. And dribbled. Lush (!).
After this, Epidural in, antibiotics flowing through my veins with a side order of IV Paracetamol and heart monitors telling me we were both still tachycardic, catheter goes in, Midwives’ and Doctors’ hands start delving into places I’ve since lost the care to hide and, 30-something hours into my labour, surviving on 2 hours sleep since it all started, I’m told – even though I’m right at the end and ready to go – I need a C-Section. Bastard. I’m pretty sure you could hear my heart break all the way in Australia, if you’d paid attention.
Believe it or not, I’d managed to keep relatively calm until that moment (apart from when they couldn’t get the Epidural in, or when I started panicking over the fact that, if the Midwives’ examinations hurt, how was I meant to get a person out of me? For examples) when suddenly, my patience unravelled and I found myself crying hysterically for my Mummy to “swap places with me and take the pain away”. Yeah, like that was possible (!). I wish.
The Epidural hadn’t been working properly for a while, we were both in distress (no kidding!) and apparently my ‘child-bearing hips’ weren’t so child-bearing, after all. If only I’d known this beforehand, eh!?
And, this is where the story (almost) ends. Full of needles and wires and drips coming out my bloody ears (!), drugged up to my nose-hair and wondering what the hell my name was let alone what was going on anymore, baby finally made her appearance out the sun-roof. Crying before she was even fully out.
As the surgeons held her up so, in my drugged up, sickening and shaking state I could see my precious little screamer for the first time, through tears of joy/relief/confusion/ecstasy/quite a bit of pain my first thought was “she’s massive. No wonder she wouldn’t fit”.
After that, it all got a bit hazy.
But, in short, my daughter definitely follows in her Mother’s unnecessarily dramatic footsteps.
And they all lived happily (dramatically) ever after (we hope).
Would I do it again? (you ask) 100000% – she’s perfect!