On 2 October 2007, at about this time, my mum, He Who Cooks, me & my rather large belly were all on the way to the Birth Centre in Kogarah. My midwife (who is a pole dancer extraordinaire in her spare time) was quite strict. She had given me explicit orders that I was not to come in and bother her unless and until I was in so much pain that I felt like gnawing my own hand off. Luckily (or unluckily) thanks to a Hypnobirthing course, I had managed to use some nifty breathing, relaxation techniques and a TENS machine to transport myself to Cloud Happy Hormone LaLa land. So comfortable and relaxed was I when I got there that the Strict Midwife was all set to send me home again. That seemed like a fab idea – I had been self-hypnosing for about 12 hours by that time and thought I might score some Panadeine Forte & a wee nap-ette.
Unfortunately, I was a bit further down the track than that. SM told me that I was going to have to come back from my spaced out, pain free state pronto and start pushing. If you have ever been in labour you will know that pushing does not come into it. Pushing is something that involves supermarket trolleys, prams and sometimes other people on rush hour trains. Getting babies out is, as my mum delicately puts it, like having a gigantic crap with bells on.
Sometimes I idly consider that I should have conquered my squeamish-ness and asked someone to videotape the Minx being born. This would, of course, be a great way to embarrass her on her 21st birthday. More than that though, I would really love to find out what exactly my midwife said when I told her that I:
(a) had had quite enough of this pushing carry on;
(b) was really just too tired to go on with this having a baby right now; and
(c) could she go away and come back later (please)?
Whatever she said appears to have worked because about 30 minutes thereafter the second greatest love of my life arrived. She was small, pink, slimey and not particularly happy about being dumped face first naked into a spa bath.
I think she may have forgiven me. Looking at this picture, however I do wonder whether she might still hold a bit of a grudge.
Happy birthday, my little Minx.