Less than 2 weeks to go until my littlest bundle of joy
turns 4. The big 4. Does this mean the terrible 2’s and threenager years will
finally be behind us? Doubtful, but still worth a little optimism.
In honour of this momentous occasion I thought I’d share the
story of the birth of the Buddha.
It’s worth noting that Buds was due on her dad’s 25th
birthday, he tried to hide his devastation at the fact that he may never get a
special birthday all to himself ever again very well, he failed mainly because
he kept saying “it best not be born on my birthday” or words to that effect.
Obviously I swore absolutely categorically that no child is ever ever ever born
on it’s due date (because who the fuck needs a 24 year old whinging at them
about their fucking birthday when your 9 months fat as fuck?)
Anyway, 5am on morning of said due date pop goes the water.
As with the other horror, no pain yet, so I wake up dad to be and whisper “happy
birthday, baby’s coming” to which he replies “any contractions? No? Wake me
back up when something happens.”
I already know this isn’t gonna be quite as exciting at the
first time round, although no less special don’t worry.
I do the calls that need to be done… sister/birthing partner
and midwife, they all tell me to stay put wait for the pain. How fucking
delightful.
And then the madness begins.
My Mowgli, 3 fabulous, magnificent, exhausting years old at
the time wakes up. She is ever so excited to climb on Daddy’s head and scream
happy birthday, make some birthday muffins and write a birthday message, then
she wants to go to pre-school and run in circles and generally raise hell. Of
course at this point, the dreaded pain is still yet to make an appearance,
parenting 2 kids is gonna be a piece of piss I think, I have got this shit
under control.
Whingy Daddy wants Frankie and Benny’s breakfast for his
birthday. What can go wrong? Nothing’s happening and we probably have 1 million
hours before a head pops out my fanny so off we trot. Halfway through my “Big”
breakfast (which is nowhere near big or greasy enough to be masquerading as a
fry up) and of course the pain arrives. My midwife calls and tells me to stop
being such a twat – admittedly not in those words – and we promptly trot back
home, whack on Lord of the Rings (More birthday crap), and sister arrives with
what can only be described as a picnic to feed the 5 thousand, and we settle in
for the long haul.
Preschool home time rolls around and we have to collect the
Mowgli with no baby in sight, I call Grandad to be to take the biggest one off
me while I push another one out and he arrives ready to take on his babysitting
duties. In the meantime Nana to be has rocked up to “help” with little brother
in tow, and she’s now asking me, every single time my womb tries to kill me, where
to put my washing. Where to put my fucking washing.
While my mad mother runs around, frantically cleaning, my
mad father has taken it upon himself to ignore his darling grandchild and
instead focus on timing my contractions. This may seem like a helpful thing to do,
if you’ve never been in labour. However if you’ve ever experienced something
similar to an angry mama bear trying to gut you while a sprightly 3 year old
makes a tent out of your legs and a nearby blanket, at the same time as your
vagina leaks, then you’ll know its slightly irritating. Especially if every time
you have a contraction and your face twists with pain he starts shouting “NOW???
NOW??? DOES IT HURT NOW???”
It all comes from love I’m sure.
Somewhere in the madness my childless ginger friend has
rocked up to see what all the fuss is, unfortunately she’s not even vaguely
fazed by the circus that’s unfolding in my home and instead laughs her perky,
never had a baby suck them til they’re raw, tits off while I swing between
hysteria and thinking I’m gonna shit myself. Sister is calmly cracking on with
the picnic and Dad to be has seen an opportunity and fucks off to the pub
downstairs to see if he can beat the gambler.
All going to plan.
I look around at the bastard carry on film that’s playing
out in my front room and I realise this baby is getting a wriggle on, I scream
for someone to get me to the car and get that dick head off the fruit machine
to drive me to the hospital.
We zoom there as quick as we can while the sister tries in
vain to supress her laughter at me in my panda jumper and men’s sweatpants with
vagina fluid leaking onto the car seats. When we get there we go straight into
a room where the standard indignity of labour truly starts, fingers are
everywhere, student nurses take a peak, and a mad old bat tells us how very
dangerous it would be for anyone other than mum to be to try the gas and air.
Mad old bat tells me I’m 4 cm dilated which basically means
the baby is never coming out so I may as well give up on this whole exercise
and go home. I stick it out, hop in a pool and give everyone a shock when 8lb
12 of beautiful chubby baby arrives in this world.
All of a sudden my whole world stops as I look at the most beautiful
thing I could ever imagine. I can’t believe I worried that I wouldn’t have space
in my heart for 2 of these little things but all at once I realise how stupid
that was. The feeling just takes my breath away and my life changes for the
second time.
My mad, intrusive, wonderful, crazy, perfect and full of
love family gained another member.
Who knew how fast 4 years could fly.
