Newspaper article The Evening Standard (London, England)

I Don't Want a Baby, I Yelled; Health & Fitness: THE BABY DIARY: One Minute, I Was a Sane Human Being, the Next, a Raging Morass of Agony

Newspaper article The Evening Standard (London, England)

I Don't Want a Baby, I Yelled; Health & Fitness: THE BABY DIARY: One Minute, I Was a Sane Human Being, the Next, a Raging Morass of Agony

Article excerpt

Byline: LUCY CAVENDISH

IT all happened the Sunday before last. I woke early, with an overwhelming compulsion to clean the birthing pool.

Raymond, my six-year-old son who is always up at 5am, looked stunned when I walked into the living room.

He was watching children's television and eating Pringles. "Wha' you doin' up?" he asked in his appalling estuary English. "Cleaning the birthing pool," I said.

As I was Mr Muscling the farthest corner, my waters broke. I stared at the puddle on the floor. Then I burst into tears. "Wha's the matter, mum?" said Raymond "I think I'm having the baby today," I said.

"Wicked," he said.

My partner, Michael, as soon as he heard the news, kissed me reassuringly, then marched off up the hill, dog and Raymond in tow. He said he'd be back in an hour. My friend Harriet, who just happened to be here for the weekend, hugged me and put the kettle on. She kept telling me, as I burst into tears again, that I was going to be fine.

Two hours later Lynne the midwife turned up, and we all sat down to lunch. I kept having to double up and lean against the wall. I told her I thought I was in labour. "That's not labour," she said. "That's just early contractions." Three hours later, Lynne, who lives an hour away, went home.

Then nothing happened.

"The baby's not coming," I told Lynne on the phone.

"Yes it is," she said merrily.

At 8pm, with Raymond in bed and Harriet gone, Michael and I got in the birthing pool. We had a glass of wine and ate the rest of the Pringles. At 10pm Michael telephoned Lynne. "The contractions are quite heavy now," he told her. "Tell her very heavy!" I yelled. Lynne said she'd be here in an hour. I had another glass of wine.

At 11.30pm Lynne suggested I get out of the pool and "concentrate a bit more". We trooped upstairs and I paced up and down my bedroom. The pain was bearable. Lynne, who was to maintain a beatific noncommittal silence on tricky questions throughout, just smiled when I asked her if it was going to get any worse. …

Search by... Author
Show... All Results Primary Sources Peer-reviewed

Oops!

An unknown error has occurred. Please click the button below to reload the page. If the problem persists, please try again in a little while.