Open Writing

First babies are too exciting to keep to oneself. I told half a dozen people about ours on the way home from the doctor's.

It’s afterwards when the seconds come along and you are fully aware how long nine months of answering the ubiquitous inquiries of how you feel can be, that you camouflage your new development as long as possible. As one’s family increases it’s surprising how long the mystery can be sustained.

As she was the only one of our babies to start life in a new pram, our fifth baby caused the most excitement in our household.

We managed to keep the secret until two months before her arrival. The clan were duly gathered together, and trying to make it sound as thrilling as the new bike Father Christmas would not be bringing again this year, I announced the forthcoming event.

The two youngest performed a frenzied dance of ecstasy, luckily we had struck a high status note here and they could hardly wait to present the news to the school-yard.
Our eldest had guessed anyway, but eleven-year-old son was the most incredulous. ‘Blimey!’ he exclaimed when his speech returned, ‘How many more are we gonna have?’ A thought I confess that had crossed our minds.

Once I had recovered from the shock and realisation that, contrary to popular belief, I was all there, my biggest worry was my lack of maternal instinct which, as it often has since, lay deeply dormant during my first pregnancy.

I was haunted by thoughts of the sub-standard mothers featured in relatives’ conversation that ‘couldn’t rear a dog,’ and ‘ought not to be allowed.’ I was a novice at pram talk and still imagined matinee coats were what film-stars went to the pictures in. In only four months of marriage I hadn’t really mastered the ‘little wife’ act.

Fortunately my maternal instinct arrived with baby, in a highly con-centrated form. The realisation that this noisy red-cheeked bundle had to be fed and watered every time I wanted to put my feet up, overwhelmed me. I don’t know who was more alarmed by our first meeting – baby or me. It took us weeks to get over it, night after night we cried ourselves to sleep.

Then a sadistic friend added to my problems with a saga on ‘Don’t neglect your husband – first baby could mean first crisis.’ Leave him out? We never left him alone, he was even included in breast-feeding arrangements. I did the first stint – getting baby from cot to my place, then daddy got the wind up and performed the transfer of full baby back to cot.

It worked well for a time but it became increasingly difficult to arouse fond father and I gradually resumed full responsibility. If only breast milk came in see-through containers half the anxieties would be dissolved.

I have experienced both hospital and home deliveries and the only disadvantage in births ‘in your own midin’ as our family doctor used to put it, are the continuous evening feeds. In hospital mums are allowed to sleep through.

Then there are the weekly ‘bottle’ parties. The invitation to ‘attend the ante-natal clinic and don’t forget to bring your bottle.’ All the fun of the weekly maternity market where you wobble in feeling reasonably well then spend long hours sprawling around the corridors bulge to bulge, surrounded by science fiction on all sides, until you finally reach what looks like a tissue-lined, plastic padded shelf with no ladder provided to help you reach it. ‘It took me three days to have our Fred,’ one experienced mother told me, ‘then I had to be seduced!’

After dying a thousand deaths wondering how swollen ankles have to be before you confess, a stranger in a white coat carelessly throws back the blanket you are modestly clutching, lifts your mini gown and starts warming his hands on your future asset. When you have both exhausted your repertoire of ‘ehs?’ and ‘pardons’ thoughts of conversation are rejected and he leaves you for another.

The claustrophobic atmosphere must affect the staff. There is a rumour almost as fiercely pervading as the stench of disinfectant that no matter how hard they try, nurses can on no account learn to love ‘softies.’

So when one arrives to pump your pressure you give her a winning smile. The harder they pump the wider you smile. It’s the same technique as the doll our eight-year-old had for Christmas – every time you squeeze her hand her mouth opens. But one does feel at a distinct disadvantage in that sterile atmosphere. I got the paranoic feeling more than once, that is exactly how they would like to see me.

The lovely part of home confinements is that husbands are always on hand. My first hour in hospital after mine had been whisked away without even a wave, was the loneliest I have ever spent. No time allowed to whisper last-minute thoughts that mums-to-be long to express at this time, like ‘please take me home’ or ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ Although I had already given birth twice in our front bedroom I was ignorant of hospital procedure.

I couldn’t help feeling curious about what looked like fishing tackle hung in an adjoining cubicle, an outsize plastic mac and sou’wester dangled over an enormous pair of wellies. I hadn’t been there long when a doctor promised he would rupture my membranes if I hadn’t ‘started’ by morning.

Wondering if he had taken an instant dislike to me I consulted a fellow sufferer. It sounded even worse in plain English. ‘He’s going to break your waters.’ She had suffered this indignity a few times and was eager to pass on the details. I never did hear the whole story, when she got to the part where Doc donned his fishing gear, our daughter was well on the way and I was spared the epilogue.

I really tried to believe in Dick Grantly Reed’s book - ‘Natural Childbirth,’ and I read all the legends available on ‘Painless Childbirth.’ Between gasps of gas and air and pleas for my pethidine shot I struggled to keep the image of the natives who squat and gave birth at the roadside uppermost in my mind. Each time I came to the same conclusion, I am a registered coward.

One occasion I did turn my thoughts to an epidural, but have you seen the size of the needle?

Actually I found the relaxation classes a good help psychologically. But you can’t beat having an efficient midwife and doctor in attendance.

I like the Eastern image given to mother, who is considered the spiritual heart of the family. ‘Heaven is under her feet,’ says the Koran, the Moslem holy book – and that’s where you find most children!