And Baby Makes Two - Chapter One
It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s wet. It’s March.I climb into my battered old Golf and head across 'Stokey' (My area of North London) to sit with other sea-lions and discuss perineums. It is my secret life, my exclusive private members club, a new secretive world to which none of my friends belong. And even though my friends haven’t displayed too much in the way of jealousy and intrigue, I am finding it a delicious indulgence; for a couple of hours a week anyway.
Trisha is our yoga teacher, and has an accent like Ian Paisley.
``...breed in fur for counts huhhhhh two, tree, for, and out for eat, haaaaaa, seven, six, faive, for, tree, two, wun. Ny repeat, but dis time using loud panting from your abdomen whilst holding your front pelvic floor muscles for the in bread, releasing on the out.....”
The room breathes heavily in and out like a red and bloodied lung contracting and relaxing, sucking in the trepidation of an unknown future, while releasing into the universe, and to the higher mother of all things, an acceptance of fate that what will be, will be. Or at least that’s how Trisha liked to see it.
“An ny relax into child pose. Impty yur mind of all toughts and concentrate on the slow repetition of Beeby’s heartbeat”.
Admittedly, The Baby, like The Godfather, is uncomfortably reminiscent of a movie title: indeed, a psychological thriller. But why is it that anyone remotely involved in antenatal activities feels obliged, nay impelled, to refer to the foetus as (proper noun) Baby? All medical professionals fall foul of this asexual naming, and quite frankly it bothers me. The minute Baby is used in its ‘proper noun’ context I find myself in one of two mind spaces. Both alarming in their own eery way:
It is Burnley, Lancashire - present time - and we are in a chip shop. Chin level with the grey and white chequered formica counter, I ogle the battered cod, savaloys and tinfoil-wrapped pies that lurk behind the scratched surface of the perspex cabinet. The lady behind the counter raises both eyebrows simultaneously at me in request of my order.
Eagerly I place my order, only to bare witness to the transformation in the woman’s face from cholesteral-induced apathy, through to incredulity and dismay. Fully digesting my request with all the mastication required to swallow a large lump of grissly meat, the woman - in a broad Lancashire accent, eyes full of consternation - looks me square in the face and hollers:
“Beoby? Where’s the beoby. Chips and beoby and noo mooshy peas. You can’t ‘ave chips and beoby with no mooshy peas”.
She turns to the back of the shop where an invisible husband stands chopping potatoes and mixing batter. They have worked together for 23 years and never a cross word has travelled between them. They are Grandparents now and happy with their lot, but still life throws up its little surprises. Eager to share in one of these rare and special gems she shrieks out the back;
“Eh, Colin, she wants chips and Beoby noo mushy peas, will you hav tha’?”
A roar of laughter leaps out of the back room and into the main area of the chip shop. Everyone turns to stare at this strange foreigner from the south, and while they stand shaking their heads in disbelief at such ignorance to proper eating habits, I slide out the door and head down the street. Peals of laughter crowd my ears as I quickly walk away.
Of course the woman in the shop means chips and gravy, but somehow I seem to have distorted the gravy and baby differentiation....I blink twice and shake the waking dream from my mind only for it to give way to the next scenario...
The bump in my stomach becomes a lump in my throat. Patrick Swayze bursts through the door, face full of angst and determination. He jumps on the midwife’s desk in a single leap as if carried by the wind. The midwife stares at him motionless, speechless. Her biro drops out of her hand and falls onto the carpet-tiled floor in the portacabin, which doubles as the antenatal wing of the Hackney health centre. I stare up at him from my orange plastic seat in awe and gratitude at his timely arrival. As he stands amongst the files and medical instruments strewn across the table, time stands still and I wait in anticipation for him to announce the purpose of his grand and heroic arrival. His face carries the full weight of duty and purpose as he points toward my enormous stomach and proclaims, “Nobody puts Baby in the corner”.
---
“Ok, ny roll yur bak up slowly so you’ur sitting in an upright position. Hold yur backs street” Trisha waits a moment for us to reach the sitting position. “Ny with the support of yur left hund, slowly lower yur left saide dyn to the floor and lie in a foetal position, head resting on yur elbow. I am going to turn aff the lights, and I want you to rid yur mynd of all tings and tink of only white space”.
Lights off, Trisha heads out of the room to make the herbal teas for the circle session at the end of the ‘workout’, and we are left in the darkness to locate our personal white spaces.
Someone lets one go. Is it me? No, thank god. My initial fear subsides and I start sniggering. Furtunately, the dark masks my jiggering body as I try and stifle my immaturity - loathed to be exposed as a childish MTB. But, just as I manage to gain some control another fart sounds out and I snigger more deeply, with my whole body shaking. Laughter turns to horror as I realise this time I am the culprit.
Lights turn back on. Trisha arrives holding a tray of mugs - each containing a ‘hint of pink’ water - and a plate of digestive biscuits. She is no longer yoga teacher. She has now transformed into Yoda – the fountain of all pregnancy knowledge. This was the real reason we were all here freezing our arses off in a half-built children’s nursery (To Be). Our yoga class takes place in the room that will be the baby room. Prophetic irony I like to think.
“Now, forget not those pelvic floor exercises!” Yoda instructs, “For a count of 8 you must tighten the frontal pelvic area, and release for 4. Repeat as many times as you feel you can, young Jedi’s. You must build up each day to reach your goal. Jedi law states the best way to remember is to build them into your daily routine. Yoda does exercises when making a drink, but young Jedi’s must find their own way. Perhaps when brushing teeth or washing up. Most important it is to do them often”.
I make a mental note to do my exercises when I am driving....oh, and on the phone....that should be loads.
“Believe me young Jedi’s, thankful you will be when you are really good. For when you are, no problem you will find to stop the flow of wee midway through its course.”
Why is it that everyone gets really graphic about bodily functions when you are pregnant? Yoda’s words conjure up a happily-forgotton memory of the Thai girls in Bangkok, who fired ping-pong balls out of their vaginas. Strong Pelvic Floor Muscles! Muscles they would then use to hold a pen for their next trick of writing a man’s name on a piece of paper. I wont even go into details about the goldfish.
I start to worry that I haven’t been doing nearly enough of these exercises and wonder what terrible thing will happen to me. How do you know when they are strong enough? Will my baby fall out? Will I be incapable of pushing? OK, [mental note]: Next time I go to the loo I am to check my stopping performance. Perhaps if I jump straight to the ‘stopping-mid-flow’ stage I can skip the ‘toothbrushing, washing-up’ stage. The intensive programme. It worked for my driving test, why not pelvic floor strength?
Stage Two: Sit in a circle, clutching herbal tea and digestive biscuit, and introduce yourself to the rest of the group.
Yoda nods to the first woman to begin the circle of truth.
In a single breath she says,
“Hello my name is Tasha I am 38 weeks pregnant this is my first pregnancy I am booked in at the Homerton hospital and my baby is currently posterior”, she pauses for breath, and then: “I live on the Common, my house is a building site, I am still working full-time, I got married, pregnant and moved house twice this year and have just completed an intensive make-up course. I think I may be doing too much”.
She lets out a sigh with a half smile of relief having unburdened herself of her..........life. A calm follows the blast of information that filled the room and slapped each woman out of her former meditative state.
Yoda swims through the information first and catches a hook.
“Posterior you say. Very common this is at 38 weeks. Good practice it is to lie on your left side when sleeping, and all fours when awake.” Yoda sits in a perfect cross-legged position, resting her hands on her knees with palms up. She smiles serenly at Tasha having shown her the way.
“Oh thanks” Tasha says with a quick smile unconvinced, or unable to absorb the information in-amongst all the goings-on in her life.
By now I have also swum through the sea of words. The Common! She lives on the Common same as me. I give her a closer inspection. Attractive face and she looks roughly my age; early thirties - perhaps late twenties. Evidence of make-up and, in her pre-pregnant life, probably slim. Definitely a clothes person, despite her cotton stretch tracksuit. We catch each others eye and smile shyly across the room at one another. I feel embarrassed and coy like on the first day of school when you desperately scout the classroom for potential friends, but lack the confidence to take the first step. I quickly make a pact with myself to try and talk to her at the end of the class. This could be my best chance for meeting other MTB’s and - apart from Jenny who lives the other end of the country - I don’t know one other parent. I am not going to do this totally on my own! No. I am resolved to swallow my pride and fear and risk looking like a desperate stalker......
“My name is Davina”. A booming abdomenal voice belts out from the other side of the room, “I am 38 and 38 weeks pregnant. This is my first child and I am booked in for a ceasarian. Oh, and I live on the High Street.”
Bloody hell, who is she. I had never seen her at a class before but she looked......familiar somehow. Black Mary Quant ‘Bob’; severely short fringe, black leggings (standard wear). But most interesting is her rather beautiful white leopard-skin print top, bat wing sleeves, slashed neck, and the finest red cord belt, slung neatly at her hip. BELT! I hadn’t worn a belt for months. A touch of colour to an otherwise monochrome canvas. I didn’t think I would use these two words together in the same sentence, but she was truly a glamorous sea-lion. I REALLY want to find out more about this woman.
What’s more, C-section, or ceasarian as Davina had been brave enough to call it, were dirty words amongst most first time MTB’s, and despite her matter-of-fact statement-of-intent, a conspicuos silence had fallen upon the room. Just as I (and I’m sure everyone else in the class) feared the opportunity to investigate further may about to be lost, Yoda – the patient and understanding counsellor – gets stuck in,
“Interesting...why is a C-section advised? Perhaps the baby is too large for you?”
Her question hangs in the air with baited breath until Davina brakes it in two with one sweep of her verbal light-saver.
“No” she replies, nonchalantly, “I just need a definite date so I can plan the rest of my diary, and quite frankly I would rather go under the knife than bust a blood vessel”,
She lets out a throaty laugh that encourages agreement from the rest of the coven. A murmur of self-conscious laughs accompany hers but all eyes flash criss-crossing the room for the next defender to rise up and take a stand.
Yoda makes her move.
“Careful you must be. A young Jedi should not assume that this method is the easy option. Many side-effects there are when making such a choice. Longer to recover you will find. Breast-feeding very difficult at first. Lots of time you will need to repair your body. One must prioritise over work and other such commitments at this time”.
Davina smiles back in acknowledgement of the free advice, but undetterred, replies,
“When you earn your living as an actress you have to take jobs whenever they turn up. I am filming in Scotland six weeks after the appointment, so it really does all need to dove-tail”.
I grin. I knew I recognised her. I had seen her on some TV drama, The Bill or Casualty or something. I studied her a bit closer and noticed that, in contrast to her rather harsh choice of clothing and hairstyle, she had eyes like baby seals, liquid and appealing, that betrayed a softness in her. It pissed me off that she was having to defend her choice and I was glad to hear someone else lived in the real world of work and responsibility. She looked like fun too. Big tick in the ‘make conversation with’ bracket.
Her husky dulcet voice continues on in a confessional tone, “my fabulous husband is all ready for the handover, so don’t you worry” she winks, “I’ll definitely make sure I get my rest”.
This woman shows no trace of being anything other than......well....ready. And, just as she had held everyone’s gaze for as long as she wished to take centre stage, Davina turns her head - and everyone elses attention - to the next woman in line.
In one long exhalation the next woman breathes her introduction to a count of 8.
“Hellomynameisfelicitybutmyfriendscallmeflea.” She smiles while she whisper-speaks: Flaming June, sinuous and earthy.
I ponder the idea that Flea had chosen to do her pelvic floor exercises whilst listening to others. As she continues speaking in her sweet and breathy whisper I consider the possibility that she wasn’t doing her exercises at all, and always speaks with a hush. Or, maybe, she exercises whenever she speaks!
“This is my first baby and we will be having a home birth. I live on Benthal Road and I am also 38 weeks”.
Yoda perks up a bit after the shock of Davina.
“Well done, you are very brave and very wise. With a home birth comes a very experienced midwife!”
In a single exchange Yoda and Flea seem to have established common ground. Kindred spirits, they enjoy a connection conspicuous by its absence with Davina. I steal a look over to see if Davina has picked up on this too. The quizzical look in her eyes ripples across her face. Eyebrows knit as her mouth turns down at each corner. If I could sum her expression up in one word it would be ‘baffled’. I smile to myself and imagine the conversations these two might have if they were ever locked in a room together.
“Well yes, that is a benefit” she breathes, “But I am very lucky that my mother is a midwife and holistic practitioner, so she will be there to help me give birth and life. I plan to have a very active birth and have prepared oils for each stage so my partner can massage me. I would like to have a water birth too but will see how it goes”. Her smile places a full stop at the end of her sentence.
Blimey! I’m not sure if I’m in awe or think she is completely raving. What about the mess? Isn’t she scared of the pain? What if at the last minute she wants drugs, all of them? What if there are problems? How can she be so...calm, and confident at such a prospect? I hadn’t even considered having it at home. Nope, it just wasn’t an option. I want all that equipment around me. I need it! Besides, Nancy is all set for the Steve McQueen high speed car drive through Hackney while I am shouting, nay screaming, in the back “hurry up it’s coming, ITS COMING”.
Bugger, missed the beginning of the next one. She looks older, probably early forties. Heavy and neat. She wears navy purpose-built pregger yoga pants with a baby-blue cashmere twin set (no pearls). Her hairstyle is that of middle-aged agony aunts the editorial world over. I try and concentrate on what she says while adjusting to the most varied group of MTB’s probably in the whole of London.
“...............I am booked into The Portland. We moved opposite the park a year ago and I decided to leave work at 16 weeks to ensure a healthy and stress-free pregnancy. The doctors have told my husband and I that we are having a perfect pregnancy as a consequence. This will be our first birth experience and we are expecting twins.”
She ends her ‘profile’ as smugly as she had sounded throughout. And, with her head tilted slightly up, she surveys the room down the very long bridge of her nose. Very big cross on my getting-to-know list.
“Lucky you” smiles Yoda “It sounds like you have been very organised. But Twins! Was a shock for you, no?”
Yoda waits for the woman to give her account of shock and surprise at the double news, and I guess, hopes will ingratiate herself to the group at the same time.
“Oh no”, qualifies Ms Perfect with a baffled and rather ‘put-out’ half-laugh, “There are twins on both sides of mine and my husband’s family so we planned for that eventuality too.”
I groaned, or at least I think it was me. Perhaps the whole room did. I caught Tasha raising her eyes to the ceiling, but Flea continued to offer her pleasant smile. I secretly cast a spell of cholic on Ms Perfect’s babies, not quite knowing what it was but knew it meant lots of crying at night. Feeling guilty I quickly take it back again. Tut, bad karma. Shit, now I would probably get it.
I hadn’t noticed the next woman in-line until we were already upon her. She was slim with blonde hair and a perfectly straight back. Hands on knees, she sits cross-legged and looks like she was a dancer at some point, or at least does yoga all the time. Perhaps it is her leotard and bolero-style pale pink cardigan that gives that impression. She is elegant though, and swan-like, patiently awaiting her turn.
“Hello everyone my name is Tamlin. I am 30 weeks into my pregnancy and will be having him at St Thomas’ as we are in the process of selling our house”. She nods and smiles as we gasp. “I had wanted to give birth at the Active Birth Centre, but unfortunately we have been told our baby has clubbed feet, so we aren’t able to follow that course this time.”
I felt a bit uncomfortable and shifted my blubber while I tried to digest the clubbed-foot information along with all of its implications. She looks pretty cool about it, so maybe it isn’t as serious as it sounds. Would he walk? Would it just be his feet that were affected? And, anyway, how could they tell? When could they tell? Should I have asked about it at my scan? Should I ask about it now? I look to Yoda for some answers.
“And you are happy with the medical advice you have received?” Yoda nods encouragingly, eyebrows raised.
“Yes we are” Tamlin answers, “The doctors have been fantastic”.
And that was that. She stopped and nobody pressed her further. Bugger.
I sat pondering. I hadn’t actually given any thought to the possibility that there may be a problem; that my baby might not be healthy, or whole. My mind raced through the possibilities: Had my baby been lying on his hand during the crucial stage of its development? Perhaps he would be blind, or deaf. What if he is seriously ill? I shudder. Coping on my own with a newborn was one thing but could I cope if he wasn’t healthy? How would I earn money? I couldn’t. I would have to get that benefit for Carers, whatever it was called. Would other people avoid me or be embarrassed....I’ll look for a book tomorrow on coping with an ill baby – at least then I will be prepared.
“.....helloooo, anybody out there?” from very far away a voice called me and I imagined my son standing on a deserted beach. The tide was out and there was nobody for miles around. His eyes were swimming in tears as he was overcome with dread and fear at being left all alone. I try and call to him, “Mummy’s here, I’ll always be here. I’ll never leave you.” It is useless, he can’t hear me from where he is. “come back, come back. Hellooo.....” The voice is much closer now and feels almost as if in the same room as me....
.........oh shiiit, it’s Yoda... I look up startled and am met with a herd of eyes. Growing hot with shame I look at everybody – and nobody. How long had I been in my trancelike state? I blurt out, “My name is Zoe Plummer, 38 weeks, 1st baby, Homerton hospital, live on the Common..” and stop dead. There is a moments pause then, realising no more information is forthcoming, Yoda thanks me and moves on to the next in line. I gulp, stare at the floor and will it to gobble me up. Now, right now... Three sea-lions on and I recover my composure able to muster enough courage to look up. A sensible woman is speaking now. Her hair is tied back into a pony-tail and she is wearing a collared fine-knit jumper with floral print leggings. She is a Boden girl through and through.
“My name is Monica. I am 36 weeks pregnant...bit behind everyone hear” she laughs apologetically and continues, “I live with my husband, also opposite the Park” she shoots an acknowledgement to Ms Perfect who squeezes a smile back (By the way ‘opposite the park’ is a euphemism for, “I’m totally loaded), I will be giving birth at the Active birth centre with my husband and my Doula. We have a private midwife as I didn’t like the idea of roughing it first time around the block...” she laughs uncomfortably and, realising she has made a bit of a faux pas finishes off with, “My baby is posterior”. She coughs and brings an end to the circle of strife.
Trisha wraps up the session with the familiar, “I will see yuwall seem tyme nex’week, and if naat we’ll all know why!”.
We roll ourselves up to a semi-standing position, rolling up our respective yoga mats as we rise to avoid an additional ‘bending-down’ manouevre. Each woman politely waits her turn to load her mat into the mat cupboard and before I can say “I’ll be your best friend” I am coated and booted and already standing on the pavement at my car door.
“Balls! I promised myself I would talk to someone tonight. Is it so difficult to say “Hi, fancy a coffee?”. Granted, this may seem a little odd if it was just a plain old yoga class but this isn’t ordinary yoga! Surely we are all here to meet other people in the same....predicament? Perhaps not. Maybe for now they are content with their husbands or boyfriends. Maybe they already know other mothers? Dispondently I turn to unlock my car.
“Hi!” a voice sings out behind me. I swing round, startled by the interruption to my thoughts, “Hi” I respond but my reply is clipped and ‘off-guard’. Standing in front of me was.....what was her name....think!....Tasha.
“I noticed you live on the Common” she said enthusiastically, “we must virtually be neighbours! Do you need a lift?” We both look down at the car key in my right hand hovering at the lock of my car door.
“I’m... err, driving” I admit awkwardly, not wanting to sound sarcastic.
Tasha pokes her bottom lip out with her tongue and makes an “uuurghhh” sound, followed by, “Spastic, sorry!”, I laugh again ever-so-slightly taken aback. As she realises her potential faux pas her eyes open wide in horror,
“ohhummm, sorry....I just....uuhhh....well, maybe see you next week then. Bye.” And off she goes.
My mind races.
“Shit, shit. Why didn’t I just say it, something, anything? Now she’s embarrassed and will never talk to me again. I see her disappear around the corner and into a black VW Golf. Bollox we even have the same car!
I plonk myself into the driver’s seat of my car and stretch forward to start the engine. Reclining back to allow my bump ample room between me and the steering wheel, I push into first gear and, checking the dark black wet road for any sign of life, I move off back to my little underground flat. Feeling.....well.....flat.
posted by Rebecca Valentine at 11:50 pm
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