The Miracle of Birth

I’m a yellow bellied, lily livered twit.  I am not ashamed of it.

I’ve had my moments of bravery, I’ve escaped from a burning building (thanks entirely to His Nibs. I wanted to have a sit down, cry my eyes out, and wait for Death.  He was having none of it), and  I managed not to get hysterical when a certain pilot announced our plane was dropping from the sky and he was having trouble keeping it in the air, and like everyone I’ve got through some bad times without taking to the bed for weeks at a time.

But there is one thing I am not willing to do.  There’s a new trend, the online newspaper informs me, that some women are up to in the UK.  I’m not saying they don’t do it here, but I’ve only read it in the British papers, so I don’t know.

Wait for it. 

The new trend is home births in front of an audience.

The particular woman in today’s article gave birth in her marital bedroom, in front of her husband, the midwife, her four children, aged from 19 years old down to 20 months, her mother, her best friend, and a camera crew of two.  Oh, and apparently the couple next door dropped in to say hello during it as well.

She said it was great. There was a relaxed and happy atmosphere, she was on all fours in the corner of the room until it was time to get into the birthing pool, apparently the audience stood and sat around chatting quietly and drinking tea.  It was very relaxing for her, to be able to look up from her position and see the happy faces of all who love her.

It’s a good thing I don’t love her.  Because if I’d been summoned to this particular tea party, I would not be wearing a relaxed and happy face.  I’d be horrified. 

Call me a cowardly old fart, I don’t care.  I’m sure it’s all very trendy and new age and healthy, but I do not want to spend my time watching humans, or anything else for that matter, giving birth.

I was invited to be a birth partner once.  Happily, only as a spare.  The woman who asked me is not a fool.  She has a loving and supportive husband to help her through life's difficulties.  I was only  invited because she knew I would talk incessantly during the early part of the process, because I always talk too much when I’m nervous.  And she thought I might be able to take her mind off the pain.  It was her first baby.  She knew no better than I did.

I was bricking myself.  As the labour progressed, I fought back tears to think of word games, feed her made-up bits of gossip, and generally blather on incessantly rather than face the reality of what was happening in front of me. 

Every time a contraction started, the brave mother-to-be stayed calm, breathed deeply, and counted.  I, however, the worse the pain got for her, started running on the spot, shouting and gibbering.  I admit it.  I was hysterical.

When a medical professional finally said it was time to start pushing, I excused myself.  It was hard enough watching the epidural being administered, without this caper.

I excused myself by announcing that I felt that I had no place in the room.  The husband and wife were together, waiting to meet their tiny baby for the first time.  I felt like I was intruding, and that I would return at the appropriate time, after the baby was born and cleaned up.

Obviously nobody in the room could have cared less at that moment, where I was, so I went outside and paced up and down the footpath and smoked cigarettes, much like the fathers of yesteryear.

In my opinion I was called back into the room too quickly after the birth.  I was thrilled, obviously, to meet the new arrival, and to see the mother still living and breathing.  I was appalled to see a doctor between her legs, “popping in a few stitches”.  At least that’s what he told me he was doing when I started squawking at him.

I started to feel a bit wobbly in the knees, but carried on, obviously, to meet this tiny person , completely new in the world.

As I approached the bed, I saw a bowl of something. I actually staggered.  The placenta, apparently.  I won’t dwell on it.

I was thrown out of the room almost immediately, by a doctor.  I think we were all relieved.

I was not invited to the birth of their next baby.  I did not ask for an invitation.  The mother says that looking at it was probably was much worse than going through it.  I don’t believe that for one second.

My point is this.  The woman who appeared in the newspaper today invited her mother, who probably wanted to be there, in fairness, she’s obviously been through it herself, her best friend, who I assume had the choice of refusing, and her husband to the birth.

Needless to say, I’m a hundred per cent behind the father being at a birth.  It’s only right that he and the mother be the first people to meet their son or daughter.  There’s no way I’m suggesting that we go back to women being packed off to labour rooms while fathers stay out in the waiting room sympathising with each other.

I’ve never yet met a father who regretted being at the birth of their child.

I’m talking about the woman’s other children.  In the name of God, one of them is twenty months old.  The others are 19, ten and nine.

I’m not so old that I don’t remember being nine or ten.  Long hot summers and the recession of the eighties, so that there was never enough money for comics or toys or candy floss or whatever it was I wanted in any given week.

Not watching my mother on her hands and knees struggling to give birth.  God forbid.

This mother says that the whole experience was very life affirming.  For her, maybe.  Possibly not for the children in the room.

And as for inviting the neighbours in, words fail me.  The fact that they actually went is completely and utterly beyond me.  Just how close can someone be to their neighbour?

In case you’re wondering, the baby ended up being one of the great loves of my life.  I adore him.  He is indifferent to me.