I Had a Baby

and this will have typos

I’m not going to apologise for the typos in this post. I started writing it a week ago, and I chip away with a sentence or two every day, interrupted by the demands of a newborn, of cracked nipples, and broken sleep, and insatiable thirst. The literal kind, where however much water I drink doesn’t seem to make a difference. Just like my baby at 41 weeks, well overdue, I wanted to get this piece of writing out.

Ray was born on Saturday 1st March, shortly after 9am. It seemed like he’d waited for the first day of spring to arrive, truly. The little cavern that Joab and I had created for labour in our bedroom – warm lights, low-level music (a lot of Nick Cave and Joan as Policewoman on the stereo), changed into a sunshine palace just minutes after we met Ray, when I asked the midwives to crack open the windows, pull up the blinds, and let the light in.

It really was the perfect illustration of transition from life on the inside, to life on the outside. And although we had a name for a boy and a name for a girl all ready to go, what other name would feel this right?

A new baby is not conducive to writing. For me, anyway. Ray has replaced my obsession with my mobile phone, and unsurprisingly, looking at him is far more uplifting, pleasing and fulfilling than mindlessly scrolling. Now, whenever I want, I can touch his little suede head, I can run the tip of my finger around the edges of his tiny, beautiful ears; I do little more with my days than feed, eat, and sleep.

Labour, then, for anyone who is interested: well, it went a little something like this.

In the early hours of Saturday morning I woke in a small puddle, and as I walked to the loo I noticed I was dripping on the carpet, a carpet we’d just had professionally cleaned. I don’t know why we decided to get the carpet cleaned before a home birth. Surely after is a wiser way to do it. Still, I looked excitedly at the time on my phone and woke Joab up.

By 3.30am my contractions had started in earnest. By 5am they were really strong. My previous desire for things to get started was swiftly replaced with: Jesus, why did I ask for this? This is excruciating, ungainly, and exhausting.

Joab called the midwives at 5.30 but no-one was picking up. I was in my own world, unaware that he was preparing to catch his firstborn on his own. Later on, he told me that he was feeling very stressed, but he didn’t come across that way. He passed my drinks with straws in, so I didn’t have to lift my head; he didn’t ask me questions; he was simply there with me, waiting to move his body into the shape that I needed it to be, to support me through each contraction.

My daughter arrived at 6am, and she helped Joab to help me. What I soon worked out was that what was soothing one minute (massage, music, encouragement) was a massive irritant the next. Having my daughter there was perfect because I could say “More” or “Water” or “Stop!” without having to explain myself. Joab and Violet made a great team, knowing exactly what, and what not to do.

The midwives arrived at 7am, and got to work plugging in various things. In between contractions, I spotted Violet laying down a baby sized towel on the floor next to the radiator. Just seeing that reminded me that there would be a baby at the end of all of this effort.

At one point nearing the pushing phase, I summoned Joab to slow dance with me. None of us can remember what song was playing (was it Crucify Your Mind? I seem to think so). My daughter, the midwives, and our good friend, who arrived about an hour before Ray was born, were in a circle around us.

At one point I felt like I’d left my body, and I could see us all in the room, Joab and I the campfire, the flames, around which everyone else was sitting. We swayed together in the golden light produced by a sunshine lamp, a cheap LED thing that’s maybe trending on TikTok, that somehow manages to make everything look holy.

My contractions, which should have been strong, long, and close together to facilitate the final push at this point, stopped almost altogether. One of the midwives looked me straight in the eye and said: Baby’s heartbeat is dropping. If you don’t manage to push baby out on the next contraction, we’re going to have to call an ambulance.

The thought of having to make it down two flights of stairs was enough to change something in my brain. The next contraction came, and everyone willed me to push, to keep going, to not stop.

I didn’t know what was going on, but I kept going, and I looked to my right and saw my daughter crying, and I cried to, as the midwife who caught Ray brought him up against my chest. I looked at Joab and we looked at our baby. A boy. A beautiful, beautiful boy.

After avoiding the ‘ambulance’ in labour, an hour after birth, I was being told I might have to get in one again. One of the midwives said I was bleeding more than she’d like. She wanted to put a cannula in my hand. The word cannula always fills me with dread. I am a total chicken when it comes to needles going into the fleshiest parts of my body, but bony hands? Forget it.

Is there anything else we can try? I asked. An injection was administered in my leg, and God it stung like crazy. The midwives monitored my bleeding, watched as the colour drained from my face: Later on, my friend said the midwives had looked at her and mouthed the words:

Is she usually this pale? To which she had to mouth back: No!

In the end though, I avoided ambulances, and hospitals. The bleeding curtailed, and my daughter and friend carefully laid down a path of incontinence pads on the carpet, so I could make my way to the bathroom. As I dripped a path of blood all the way there, they joked that I’d created my very own red carpet event.

They helped me change into new clothes. They handed me my toothbrush, got me something to drink, watched as I sunk my teeth into a delicious bun from the bakery that my son had just visited.

Later, my sons climbed onto the bed with me, meeting their brother when he was just a couple of hours old. I couldn’t have been happier to be in my own bedroom.

And that is that. Just a retelling of some bits of the labour as I remember it. I have written it down because I don’t want to forget.

The next post will be about how shockingly ill-prepared I was for the first week of new motherhood. Because although I am not strictly a new mother, I haven’t done this for 14 years, and in that time, so much has changed! I am no longer in my early thirties! Who’d have thought it would be tougher?

Firstborn and newborn, minutes after labour, before I went a ghostly white

Even with all the help I have now, such as Joab, who has been better than I ever could have hoped for, making me food, clearing up everything, organising the other family members, taking Ray in the morning so I can sleep, being the gatekeeper so that I don’t end up hosting visitors I don’t have the energy to see etc etc, there have been moments when I’ve thought: Good god, what have I done?

Until next time, then, here’s the song I can’t stop listening to. You know when songs just come to you, and you have to play them over and over, until you kind of ruin them for yourself? This is that song. It’s not ruined for me yet. I summoned Joab to play it when my labour started, and the chorus just seemed so fitting for Ray’s arrival. This morning is amazing and so are you.