4 Apr

Here’s my lastest post for KIDsize Living. And the Little Berry’s Introduction…

So apologies to any Mitchell Road commuters who happened to catch the one-woman gore-fest on display the Tuesday before last.

You see, it’s a bit messy to have a baby in your bedroom and the walk to the ambulance wasn’t pretty.

This month I sheepishly confess: I had a healing homebirth and despite the steam-cleaning bill, I’m kind of loving myself right now.

The trading of birth stories is a funny thing. My first labour was a long haul. I’ve heard many more stories more full-on than mine (not all of them voluntarily), but I carried a chip on my shoulder for my “failure to progress”, my failure to birth my baby without some serious intervention.

This time around was going to be different, damn it.

I om-ed through enough yoga to turn a pretzel straight and ditched the doctor for a doula.

I listened to enough relaxation scripts to send me over the bloody rainbow and my calm breathing was semi-catatonic.

No excitement.

No getting worked up.

Definitely no getting to the hospital early.


Obviously all that self-hypnosis stuff worked because I was so convinced I wasn’t in established labour that I walked to the shops for toddler party props; ate spicy Sichuan chicken between contractions (I mean surges) and refused to let my poor husband make a single phone call to the damn doula, let alone the hospital, as I moaned and moo-ed in the bath tub that I refused to fill (since I wasn’t really in labour).

Alone in my room, it took the splash of waters breaking all over the carpet to admit it to myself – maybe this time it would be different after all.

And at that moment I felt bloody proud of the mess I’d made. I could finally let myself off the hook.

The rest went in a blur until I was holding a perfect slimy baby in my hands. Even the ambo’s looked dumbfounded when they finally showed up to chauffeur me bloody and semi-naked out into the waiting street-side stretcher.

Of course now I wish I could go back in time to visit my weepy first-time mumma self. Let her know that the hard yards she put in then, made all the difference now, that it wasn’t failure, but prep for a show-stopping second round. I can’t tell her, but I can tell you. Confession session complete.


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