I’m not late today and there’s room to park the
buggy. Sam thinks he’s independent and runs for the door. I grab my bag of snacks, don't forget the milk, nappies and a change of clothing, and set off in pursuit.
“Is Milly back at work?” one of the pretty ladies
asks when I step through the door. She has four girls and each one is dressed
in their own particular style. Two wearing skirts, one is a ballerina and the eldest is wearing dungarees. Also various
combination of plaits, pigtails and loose, untidy hair.
“Hi. Yes, she went back yesterday. Did she call
you?”
“No,” Liz is laughing. This is Milly’s best
friend from antenatal group and the months until the office called her back.
“We always know when you’re in charge.”
Oh god, it’s the clothes again. I’ve been
trying to learn about colour combinations for Sam’s jeans and t-shirt uniform.
Obviously still doing it wrong.
“Doesn’t matter,” she tells me. “Get
yourself a coffee. Come and join us.”
I know it’s not important but Sam will be 2
years old soon, everything he’s wearing is from Gap so it should be easy. Mills
had an early meeting otherwise I would have asked.
I get
Sam settled with his favourite toys and by the time I find a seat the mums are
in full flow. When I first started coming, I’d get the impression they were
editing themselves because there was a man in the conversation. Different now.
After a few months of caesarean sections and discussions about aching breasts
they know I can deal with anything. Anyway, today the chat is all birthing plans
and it’s not long before they want my opinion. What do men actually think? During
labour, is what they’re asking.
“Gentleman only think about sex.” This is
Veronica, outspoken Italian who’s never going to let a foreign language get in
the way.
They’re all laughing but it’s not at me. It’s
fun being here and these ladies are good company. What was I doing when Milly
was in hospital? I was worried, that’s mostly what I remember. Through all the
months of pregnancy I spent my time anticipating terrible things in the hope
they wouldn’t happen. Then, in the labour ward, the nurses didn’t seem attentive.
“Don’t panic,” I hear myself saying.
The mothers are looking at me in surprise. I
must have drifted into my thoughts. Not sure how long they’ve been waiting for
me to speak.
“I wanted to ask for help but I’m not religious.
I suppose I just held my breath and hoped for the best. Turned out more or less
okay except I was surprised how unsympathetic midwives can be.” I take a deep breath, never told anyone this before.
“Bit different from my husband then,” Liz tells
us. “He phoned the restaurant across the road to ask for pudding.”
“Mine was asleep,” I think this mother’s name
is Jane.
“You didn’t wake him?”
“Couldn’t. He was working crazy hours to have
time off with us and the timing went wrong… It was fine, what could he have
done anyway?”
Each one has a different story. Baby arriving
in the bathtub, home deliveries with varying degrees of complication. One tells
us her partner slipped on the wet floor when her waters broke and they ended up
going to hospital in an ambulance. He wasn’t concussed but it was a big head
wound and the stitching took a while. He was a father by the time he made it to
her side.
It seems obvious to say but men are all different
and I wasn’t the kind desperate to cut an umbilical cord. All I know is that
birth is scary for an onlooker without much of a role to play – so, these
husbands, partners or boyfriends, what are they thinking while they are hanging
around the labour ward? All I can say is that for me it was, “Please, please
let it turn out right.” And please let the midwives pay attention.
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