Chez Moi

September 15 - my due date. My son was born on the day he was due - a very small percentage of children do this, apparently. We’ll see if The Bun does it too. 

P is feeling quite upbeat now, at the thought of finally meeting the baby. This morning, as I was getting dressed, I heard a mewling from his room, followed by a squeaky voice shouting ‘let me come out, let me out!’ I rushed to his room - well waddled at a quickish pace! - under the impression that he has got himself stuck somewhere or crawled somewhere and cannot get out. Nothing of that sort - he was sat on his bed with a beatific expression on his face and went ‘WHAT?’ when I burst into his room. 

Me: ‘What was that sound?’

P: ‘What sound?’

Me: ‘I heard a sound from your room…’

P: ‘That wasn’t me - it was the baby.’

Me: ‘Eh?’

P: ‘Yeah the baby is tired of being inside your tummy and was shouting to get out!’

Oh! Ah! 

He has gone to celebrate his impending promotion to big brotherhood by dinner with his dad at KFC. Let’s see what the morrow brings. 

In the meanwhile, please keep your fingers crossed for us. I shall see you on the other side as a mum of two children!!

Childbirth - in India, it is termed as ‘punar janma’ or rebirth, for the woman. Which is so apt, considering what the mother goes through to bring her baby into the world.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was understandably quite nervous with the whole birthing process. My husband pooh-poohed my fears by saying thousands of women go through it every day and it cannot be all that bad. But for the person who has to experience it, the fact that a million others do it makes for scant comfort.

In the past few months, news of the not-so-good variety concerning childbirth has been coming my way. In a rural part of Tamil Nadu, a young mother bled to death, struggling to bring her first born out. Chances are her pelvis was too narrow for a normal delivery and had she been near a proper hospital, her life would have been saved by a ceaserean section but that was not to be. The fact that she was the young cousin of friends made it all the more poignant. Coupled with the fact that I was five months pregnant at that time, I felt inordinately aghast at that.

A friend of mine lost a very dear childhood pal in much the same way. Like she indignantly asked, who bleeds to death during childbirth any more? Here is our answer: the poor, the uneducated, those unfortunate enough not to be able to call on the medical facilities that most of us take for granted, that’s who.

But horrible fate isn’t based on geography and purse strings alone.

Earlier in May, another piece of bad news reached my ears. Though this time the husband tried his best to shield me from it, as it was the baby who had lost its battle, I still heard about it. I still cannot forget that. Even as I get ready to give birth in the same hospital, the thoughts of that baby who didn’t get to live, and his poor suffering parents, haunts me every day.

As I await the birth of my baby, why am I immersing myself in such gloomy thoughts instead of focusing on the positive? I don’t have the answer to that question. What I have are prayers for the lost souls, prayers for those they left behind to grieve for ever. And prayers for every single mum out there, who is born again, bringing her baby to life.

God bless us all.

or one week before my EDD. How scary does that sound? Let me answer: very! Though it is the second time around, the little bit of knowledge I have about the process is making it even more of a scary prospect than ever. Plus, factors like am much older this time and the fact that I have heard of some unfortunate news re newborns in the recent past all going around in circles in my head. Not to mention the thesis hanging like the proverbial sword over my head - unable to buckle down, concentrate and get it out of the way but unable to relax until I do so. sigh.

Please wish me and the Bun luck, people! I shall see you all on the other side - armed with a Master’s (well, thesis submitted at least!) and another baby. Whenever The Bun chooses to put in an appearance, the news will be announced in any one of these three laydees’ blogs: Mad Momma, SilentOneinLondon or Ceekay’s 2 cents.

In other words, am at week 37 now. Full term! Whoopeee!! Also, ACK! EDD, September 15 is within touching distance and am trying not to panic big time. I mean, I have been through this once before, right? Like Dottie said, it all comes back to me but I am not too sure that it is a good thing! Last time, I was way too naive and went into the whole delivery lark knowing next to nothing. Had a short but brutal labour. And virtually no support group, save the hubby and the mater and gran who joined us for the final fortnight before P was born.

This time, thankfully, things cannot be more different. The unparalleled Shower Gang is there, cheering me and The Bun every step of the way. I have doulas and proof readers coming out of my ears. Umpteen requests for visits and kisses from The Bun! 

But still, am terrified. Also, a bit teary at the thought of P, my baby, who is not a baby any longer. And it is time I stop kidding myself that he is. He is a big boy now, soon to become a big brother. He is spending his first night away from me on a sleepover at a friend’s. All day I have been looking at his comfort blanket and getting all weepy. He didn’t want to take it with him in case he forgot it over there. I, for one, am glad cos it is going to comfort me tonight! 

ps: Them doulas I was mentioning? The ones that are coming out of my ears? Well, there are three of them - SilentOne, Ceekay and of course, the mad person. I haven’t got a clue how they are going to divvy up their doula duties - there might be a chick fight!! Front row, centre - people! 

Couple of weekends back, hubby and I decided to go on the hospital’s birthing unit tour. We did this the last time around too and though it scared the pants off us, it was useful to get a mental picture of where we (er, I) might end up. Dropping P off at a friend’s place, on we went, to join a crowd of expectant parents waiting in the Maternity Unit’s lounge for the tour to begin. It was unnerving, to say the least, to be amongst a gazillion women in different stages of pregnancy. Brought it home to you, the whole deal and what lay in store.

Soon enough, a pretty midwife named Laura joined us and led us around. Unbeknown, the phrase “lambs to slaughter” entered my feeble brain and as I turned to catch the eye of one of the other mums-to-be, I could see a similar expression of panic writ large on her face. Somehow that calmed me and I followed Laura in a steadier frame of mind. First we visited the midwife-led unit. As I am keen to deliver here, I asked hubby to concentrate. The midwives run the show here, in the “low risk ward”, and there are only gas & air (Entonox - laughing gas) and pethidine injections available here for pain relief. Anything stronger, you’ll be taken to the higher risk zone.

We walked around the ward - the brightly lit lounge with a flat screen telly and lots of comfortable chairs and the odd birthing ball or two. Even here the walls had the protruding gas & air nozzles, which made all of us breathe a big sigh of relief though none could envision us sat here in this calm area on D-Day.

Next came the labour room - it was tiny, to say the least. We all peeked in as there wasn’t enough space for the whole lot of us to troop in. For the first time, I realised what it means to say “no space to swing a cat in”. Well, cat swinging aside, the room had a reclining heavy-duty bed, gas & air nozzle, monitoring equipment, bassinet, a telly and a spare armchair, for the birth partner to pass out in. That was it.

As we were standing outside, peering in, Laura chirpily asked us if we had any questions. Deciding to test SilentOne’s claim that she was home six hours after giving birth, I asked L if that was so. L went “no no…”, and before I could finish thinking “gotcha, SilentO…”, the midwife continued, “… you could leave in four hours if you want. As long as there are no complications with you or the baby and you are happy, you could just go after four hours.” It was time for me to test another of famous english phrases - slack jawed. ‘Cos that is exactly how I felt. Go home a mere four hours after giving birth*?! Wow!

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Next we went down the stairs to the regular labour ward. All the wards follow the same layout, we were told. Good thing too as by the time we had finished wandering around the place, hubby was well and truly lost. As we were following L, he whispered, “maybe we should leave a breadcrumb trail or something.” Knowing his penchant for going around in circles (especially around the roundabouts), I sincerely wish he was joking!

The high risk ward was pretty much the same - the labour rooms had more high tech gizmos to monitor mum and baby and other nameless machines. As the rooms were larger, we could all troop in to one. As we all formed a ring around a bed, every face registered mild to severe panic. I am sure everyone’s thought bubble read the same as mine: “next time we are here, we’ll be on the bed - screaming!” Only Hubby seemed unconcerned and quite chilled out. Well why wouldn’t he be?

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Once we got home, I went online to update my friends on what I had been upto that morning. When I mentioned the back-home-in-4 deal to my friends, I got a whole wide spectrum of feedback. Boo, Mags, (I stand corrected!) however, took the cake for the best quip:

“Imagine, DG, you could drop P at school, go to the hospital, give birth and be back at the school gates by home time!” Jokers, every single one of them.