Page 5 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
I pout. Will laughs as he tries to prise the mouthpiece from my hands.
‘Mine!’ I bark back at him. ‘I’m not sharing this shit. Get your own.’
‘Beth, do what the nice man asked…’
‘No.’
Will is forced to wrestle me, which is excellent preparation for fathering a toddler. He releases my fingers from the mouthpiece and transfers them to his hand.
‘You can do this, B.’
I suddenly feel pressure. I push and grunt against the flood of pain with every ounce of reason, sweat and gumption I have, waiting for my body to respond. We’re doing this, aren’t we? Just summon something up and push like a motherfucker, right?
I push.
And push.
And push.
And is that the baby?
No. I think that was an actual poo. Was it? To be fair, I couldn’t give a flying fajita right now. I’m just glad I’m not in a bath. Will keeps whispering clichés about pride and love. I inhale some Will instead. He smells fruity. Like jelly babies.
‘You need to push down,’ Blondie informs me.
I give him an incredulous look, wondering how else I could have indeed been pushing. Up? Sideways? Wait. What in the living daylight of fuck is that? Stinging. What exactly am I giving birth to? A traffic bollard? A watermelon?
Puuuuuuuuuush. A head. The head is out. Blondie asks if I want to touch it but I’m a little scared. And it’s crying. I have a crying head hanging out of my foof. I close my eyes and pretend I’m tired and in a deep state of concentration because I’m too ashamed to admit that I don’t want to acknowledge my own baby’s head. All I can hear is ritualistic chanting about pushing. Part of me wants to tell them to piss off, part of me just wants to meet this baby. I opt for the latter. I bear all my energy through the lower half of my body, ready to propel myself off the bed, my teeth gritted so tightly I feel they might pop out like broken tiles. Where are my legs? I didn’t know they could stretch that far apart? My stomach contorts and I feel a strange fish-like presence gliding out of me.
‘Congratulations. And we have a boy.’
I don’t look down. I lie back, hearing a full-bellied scream as his little lungs fill with air.
Relief. We’re OK. He’s here. They push him up on top of me and perch him on my chest, gift-wrapped in a yellow NHS blanket.
‘Hello,’ I whisper.
He doesn’t reply. It’s a really, really little person. Tiny. He has eyes and ears and toes and everything. I do a swift digit check, because that’s what they do on the television. All accounted for. He nestles into my T-shirt which I take as approval for guitar music. Good lad. He stuffs his whole hand in his mouth and stares straight into my eyes.Hello.
I await the love to overwhelm me, my world to change. Yet all I feel is slightly confused. Blondie is clambering about with injections, placentas and cutting cords. ‘Well done. Now there’s a tear that I’ll have to fix up. Can you hoist your legs open or do you need stirrups?’
I’ve pushed a baby out; I can take on the world. Without stirrups. I swing my legs up in the air like a showgirl. The little one still stares at me like he wants me to claim ownership. I’m knackered. The anaesthetic stings. I keep saying ‘hello,’ not really knowing how to follow that up.
Then I look over at the corner of the delivery room where Will has been taking cover. Eyes glazed over, cheeks moist, both hands on top of his head. I reach out a hand and he comes over to inspect his son. He nestles into me and kisses the baby’s head, grimacing as he realises our son is still covered in baby goo. We’re both maniacally speechless.
‘I’m your midwife,’ says Blondie. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself.’
‘I’m Beth and this is Will. I’m sorry I shouted.’
‘I’ve had worse. And what about bubba here?’
‘Just Baby Cooper for now.’
‘Well, I’m Joe.’
Midhusband Joe continues to talk from in between my arched legs. His face and the giant lamp down there are slightly disconcerting, like he’s mining for something.
‘You did well there, Beth. Some inductions can be brutal like that but A-class pushing if ever I saw it. This is quite a tear but we will sort you out.’
