I could invoke every new-parent cliche going: she's the best thing that's ever happened to us... we're utterly besotted... etc, and although it is true, it seems trite and unworthy. That said, Mila is taking us on a daily journey of baby minutiae, steep learning curves and renewed wonderment.
A friend asked me how our first outing went and how it felt leaving the house for the first time. She said she remembered traffic seeming much louder and there being a bit of a struggle to get her words out at the corner store. Mila was born on a Wednesday and I left the house the following Monday, by myself, to pick up some provisions. I was surprised by how fragile I felt and hoped I wouldn't bump into anyone. It was like the day after a bender, a bad come down. Yet at the same time, I think I had baby goggles on as I drove through town. The river looked majestic, the sky vast with cascading volleys of birds arching across the blue, everything was drenched in autumnal golden light, the trees with their toffee hues, ahhh ahhh ahhh! I was like that guy from American Beauty. I had to gulp hard against the beauty and remind myself that hormones were probably making me tearful.
It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.
Giving birth is definitely the craziest thing I've ever done - the most challenging and the most amazing. Contractions started on the morning of 29 April, and I spent the next three days and nights in what the experts describe as "passive" labour. My midwife was concerned that I would be too exhausted once active labour kicked in and suggested an epidural or morphine. Matt and I were both pretty anti intervention and drugs as we'd been told about how they could affect the baby, so we persisted.
Finally, on Wednesday morning, I'd had enough. I'd been up for four nights, during which I had been engaged in a long conversation with myself where I was questioning whether my contractions were even real, whether I would be able to cope with the pain of "real" labour, what the hell I was doing (at one point I remember clearly thinking that I would NOT recommend doing this to ANYONE, then another me pointed out that even those people who I consider to be totally mental who take part in marathons (which people often say labour is like) probably don't enjoy the actual marathon as much as crossing the finish line).
At four o'clock in the morning it started to rain, and in my wisdom I decided that it was a sign, my baby was coming and I could do it. I hatched a plan to wait until a decent hour, wake Matt up and issue my demands.
At eight o'clock I said to Matt: "Matt, wake up. Wake up! You need to wake up and call the midwife and tell her that I am having two contractions every ten minutes, my waters have broken and she needs to either come here to check me out or we are driving to the hospital and I am getting into the birthing pool."
The midwife came, observed my contractions and was unconvinced. I asked her to check my cervix and she resisted, warning me that it may have only dilated a couple of centimetres and that for many women this would be a major psychological setback. I was adamant, and when she examined me, she said I was seven centimetres, it was time to get to the hospital and we weren't to dilly dally.
Four or five hours later, with lots of coaching from Matt and a fair amount of vocal expression from me, Mila emerged. I'd watched this brilliant documentary called "The Business of Being Born", in which this NYC midwife explains that every woman in labour gets to a point that she calls 'the rock and the hard place'. She says that the rock is that you don't want to push because it hurts, and the hard place is that if you don't push, it's gonna keep on hurting. I crouched in that crevice for a while.
Mum arrived just as we moved from the birthing room to post-natal so was the first one apart from me and Matt to hold Mila.
We arrived home to following day to an avalanche of flowers and gifts - there was such a flood of love and goodwill from friends, family and strangers. One of the pieces of advice that kept coming back to me while I was in labour was actually from a woman who works at the local lighting store. I'd gone in to pick up some light bulbs a few days before Mila was due and she'd asked me my due date. When I said "This Saturday", she said, "Oh, you must be carrying in the back. I've had five". I said "Good for you, you are an old hand then. Any tips?". She looked me dead in the eye and said: "Surrender to the pain and breathing is critical". She was right.
Oh, and the car ride to hospital? Relative silence from me and very gentle, considered driving from Matt. Unlike the trip to the midwifery rooms a couple of days before with me clinging to the door during contractions, Matt heading in the wrong direction, then overshooting our turn-off, slamming on the brakes and pulling a g-force-grade U-turn while I unleashed hell. How's that for a dry run, honey?
Oh, I have SO been waiting for you to post Francine!
ReplyDeleteMany congratulations to you both and a warm welcome to little Mila.
Enjoy every minute, they grow up far too quickly.
Much love
Andrea