exactly two weeks ago, i was exactly one week from my expected due date. my mum and i dropped the kid off at school, and then walked homeward, with purpose. i paused a moment to decline an kerbside invitation for morning coffee from one of the school mums. “i’m trying to fit in one last ikea excursion,” i said, “before the baby.”
two tram rides later, i filled two bags with kitchen-organisey stuff — acrylic boxes for sorting, little shelves for stacking — and ate a three course meal at the ikea cafeteria: garlicky prawn skewers on a bed of barley; a greekish salad; a tub of yoghurt.
missions accomplished, we picked the kid up from school, my mum and i, and then, when he returned from work, the boy drove us all in his spankin’ new truck to pick up the baby capsule from the rental place. we had reservations for dinner after, at a greek place in moonee ponds; the seafood platter was better than i remembered.
and then we were home, and we took ourselves to bed, and just before i fell asleep, at 11.30, i felt the slightest twinge in my belly. i gave it little thought — i’d been having braxton hickss for weeks, and i was a whole week away from the official due date, and seven years ago the kid took three days coming; i was hanging curtains on day 2. i didn’t even have a bag packed. a couple of hours later though, i realised that these contractions actually hurt! plus they seemed to be coming, and then going, with a rollicking regularity. i got out of bed, and paced. “i’m feeling contractiony,” i told the boy. i bustled about then, making my way through the checklist in the pink book i’d gotten from the hospital some months before but hadn’t really read, putting stuff in a bag. around 2, things were hurty enough that i called the hospital. i was asked questions about how far apart the contractions were, and how long they were lasting. “maybe five minutes apart?” i said, “and lasting, i dunno, like, 20, 30 seconds?” the nurse on duty replied good naturedly, “you should come in when the contractions last 60 to 90 seconds. and they will be toe-curlingly painful. we would not be having a conversation like this, if you were ready to come in.” so then i thought to time the darned things, and wouldn’t you know, they were 60 seconds long, some even 70 or 80 — i’d just been counting them out too slowly in my head. i kept packing my bag, and counting out contractions, whimpering a little, breathing deep, and then i called the hospital back. it’s true: it’s harder to speak when you’re ready to come in. i checked to see if my toes were curled. it’s undecided, though my back was in spasm. my mum was asleep on the sofabed in the lounge as we snuck out the door. “we should tell your mum we’re going,” said the boy. “hmmyesss,” i replied, “but then it will take you 20 minutes to explain to her what’s going on.” “ok, then let’s go,” he said. and we were off, me, in the back seat on all fours, on a bed of towels to keep any waters breaking over the spankin’ new upholstery, though they did not. we got to the hospital, and i paused to have a contraction against the plate glass window. the triage nurse had my file on her desk, waiting for me. out back, a midwife checked my cervix, and suddenly sprang into action, ushering me into a wheelchair and walking us efficiently — ok, let’s call it running — to catch a lift upstairs. “don’t push!” she said. she tag-team-transferred me to another midwife in another room, who said, “push, except when i tell you to stop.” and so i did. and then there was a head, and later i would be told that the head was still in its bag — the waters didn’t break until the head was out, in this sac, with amniotic fluid swirling around it like a scene from science fiction. (“it’s very good luck!” said the midwife.) i wish i could’ve seen it. but i was standing braced against the bed, one foot on the ground, the other on the mattress, pushing, and then stopping, and then waiting for another contraction to push the body out. and another. and then there he was, kid #2.
harlan. 5 november 2011, 3.41am.
