Long overdue ponderings on labour and motherhood

I bled at thirty-six weeks and six days and went into labour at thirty-seven weeks. He was born the next day.

Nothing happened how I’d hoped. He was too early for a home birth, so I knew we’d be in hospital. The drive there was painful and scary and walking in the hospital to the labour ward was a slow journey, broken up by stationary moments in time when contractions broke through my movements and I clung onto my doula. We met the man upstairs, waiting for us, after he’d parked the car and brought the labour bags with him.

His memory of what happened is much clearer than mine, which is fogged by hormones and a lack of sleep and food for the two days of labour. We worked together, my man and I, with the support of our doula, for hours. He held me, kissed me, told me stories of the early days of our relationship when things got tough, a distraction from the present moment. He tried to feed me and give me drinks, but nothing stayed down.

Eventually, the labour not progressing, we went into theatre and our beautiful (if somewhat purple, misshapen and slimy) son was cut out of me. It felt traumatic. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for. My first thought, upon seeing his wrinkled little face, was that he didn’t look familiar. I suppose he felt so familiar inside me for so many months, that I somehow expected him to look familiar too.

After the c-section, I shook violently for what felt like hours, though I’ve no real concept of time during that period. I don’t remember our son being with me, and I longed for the contact with him. I needed him to be next to me, touching me, our bodies close. I needed to know he was safe and that was my only concern – that and feeling more and more desperate for sleep, with each night that seemed to pass me by.

The memory of his arrival fades with each day he grows bigger and stronger.

Before his birth I wanted someone to tell me that birth would be easy and painless; now I realise that would have been a lie. It was naïve of me to wish for that. The reality is that it hurts and it’s the hardest thing I ever did. The reality is – in line with my pre-labour wonderings – that it does compare to being horribly constipated, to having food poisoning and to participating in a triathlon all at once and, as with each of those trials, I was able to get through it – I did have it in me. That’s what I wish someone had told me – that it would be painful and tough, but that it wouldn’t more than I could handle and that I am more than capable of managing and coping with childbirth. I was afraid I didn’t have it in me, but I did.

I can recall moments that felt undignified, frightening, unbearable, but my man was with me and kept me strong. I don’t delve too deeply into those memories. I can also recall moments where I laughed and smiled; the many moments that made up the beautiful and precious hours in the birthing pool; and the moment I first saw my son’s face. That, for me, was a moment of conversion. I fell in love.

The conversion didn’t fully happen then. It happened over a series of many moments and, I imagine, will continue to happen over many moments in his life as he grows older. When they took him away to special care for severe jaundice my heart tugged closer to him; when I first saw him in his light phototherapy cot in special care, I realised I would always fight for my baby and would be willing to give my life or take another’s to protect him; when he cries inconsolably, my heart breaks for him; when he first smiled at me and every time he has smiled at me since, my heart overflows with love for him and the sleepless nights, the lack of space, the absence of time to write – all those seem worth it in that moment. Of course, there are also moments when I want to give him to someone else for a few hours, to give me a break, but, I realise as I type this and it surprises me: I never want to give him back.

I’m not like those mums who only ever wanted a baby and who think having a baby is the ultimate fulfilment in life. I don’t want my entire life to revolve around childcare and stories of what 'Alfie' did yesterday. Despite this, although sometimes my reaction to others asking “Isn’t motherhood wonderful?” is sometimes slightly offkey and less than enthusiastic, I can say with absolute honesty that I love my son more than anything in the world, more than I thought possible, and I am glad he’s in my life. He is more precious to me than I could understand before and while, yes, I want my life to be one that fulfils me outside of motherhood, being his mama will always be something that is of the utmost importance to me.