(Unsurprisingly there are no pictures of me giving birth so instead I chose a pretty flower for you to look at)
‘Is it supposed to hurt this much?’
That was when I knew we were fucked.
I was probably 3 or 4cms dilated, at home, in the early stages of labour and my partner, the man who got me into this mess was already panicking.
I realised I was going to have to get us out of this mess on my own.
We didn’t do the baby classes.
He didn’t want to and I did my own thing to prepare (yoga classes, planning a fantasy 6 week trip to China).
I had also been down the business end of a few births filming for a television show so I had some idea what I was in for.
Rather stupidly, as it turned out, I had assumed my other half would be aware of the fairly commonly known fact that giving birth can be a wee bit hurty.
‘Of course it’s supposed to hurt this much. Did you even read the thing on Mumsnet?’
He looked uncomfortable which was annoying.
I felt quite strongly that I had the monopoly on uncomfortable as I was the one about to HAVE A FUCKING BABY.
Two hours earlier and 10 days overdue I had been waving my legs in the air whilst a consultant at the hospital massaged my cervix in a process called a sweep.
Not to be confused with Sooty’s grey haired doggy pal who is also called Sweep, both involve someone stuffing their hand up inside a comfy sock like object and waggling it about a bit.
But the hand inside puppet Sweep doesn’t require any medical training.
Also only puppet Sweep makes a high pitched squeaky noise.
Anyway the sweep was having the desired effect and the baby was starting to corkscrew its way out of my insides.
To celebrate the sweeping of my membrane we went for dinner at the posh Italian we had been meaning to try for ages.
I ordered pudding because I am greedy and because everyone kept telling me how much our lives would change once the baby arrived.
I was unsure if life post baby would include pudding so better stock up while it’s on offer, I thought.
Immediately after ordering I regretted it.
Stuff was going on inside me I couldn’t control and I wasn’t sure pudding was going to help.
There are very few situations in life when pudding won’t help.
And this was definitely one of them.
It’s hard to appreciate a good pannacotta when you are trying to look normal in a busy restaurant whilst jumping out of your seat shouting ShitFuck! every few minutes because of the pains shooting up your vagina.
I was hoping it just looked like I was either really, really enjoying my dessert or that my boyfriend was kicking his heavily pregnant girlfriend in the shins.
As long as it didn’t look like I was going into labour.
I mean that would be embarrassing.
I think we would have probably got away with it had I not vomited up all three courses immediately outside the restaurant door.
The food really was fantastic.
Back home, once we had established that my boyfriend had no concept of the amount of pain involved with childbirth we spent the evening watching television (Bang Goes The Theory) whilst I rolled around on a birthing ball and he phoned the hospital every half hour.
Eventually it became unbearable and I had to go in.
‘You need to come to the hospital.’
The midwives said.
‘He’s calling us every five minutes, it’s doing our heads in.’
So we left home for the last time ever as a carefree couple.
To be continued….
If I can remember the rest.