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And then there were three by Eliza Jong


I've never really liked children. Don't misunderstand, I wouldn't kick one if I saw one on the floor but similarly I wouldn't rush to hold a complete stranger's newborn in the middle of the bank or supermarket as so many do. Bearing this in mind, imagine what a shock it was to discover that around my 25th birthday I began longing for my own little person. My pregnantness eventually happened when I was 28, but I cried on every birthday inbetween, only too aware each year that I was another year older and still childless. That was until the winds of change slapped Husband and I hard across the face a few years later.


Husband was already the proud father of his older girls. I became an overnight stepmum to a 6 and 11 year old, nearly ruining everything the first time I was introduced to them by bringing snacks in the form of cookies and PECAN Haagen Daaz. Yes, I tried to kill his children by feeding them nuts. Every sane person that knows anything at all about raising children, which in my defense at the time I didn't, knows you don’t allow them to eat nuts until they are at least 21 as they are by far the most evil choking hazard. Husband and our grown up girls still like to remind me about that, and the fact that when the girls had asked what daddy’s new girlfriend looked like he had told them I was fat with thick rimmed black glasses.


Because Husband already had his brood he wasn't overly interested in producing any more so when we had a false alarm in the summer before my 28th birthday it was a very serious matter. I decided I would ring Husband from the bus on the way into work to discuss the false alarm, that at that specific time I had no idea was false. This was a trick I'd learnt early and still use now. Never discuss anything face to face the honourable way if there's a chance he might be less than pleased, when I could ring him up and avoid looking him in the face. Another plus point to this strategy was if the mood was dark on the phone after the admission of whatever I had confessed, he still had the rest of the day before he arrived home to forget, accept, get over, or see the bright side of whatever the given problem was. You're going to use that now aren't you? You're welcome.


After explaining that there was a small chance I could be with child if my period, or lack of, were to be believed he was more amiable than I expected. I informed him of my plans to take a test and he instructed me to call him back once I knew one way or the other. Following my lunchtime pregnancy testing activities it was confirmed that it was in fact, a non starter. No one was pregnant, especially not me and I felt like I'd taken a kick in the teeth. No doubt it would be a relief to Husband though. The dial tone rang only twice before Husband answered. ‘’ I've done a test. I've done 3 actually’’ I admitted.


SILENCE


‘’You'll be relieved to know I’m not pregnant’’ I spat more peevishly than I’d intended.


SILENCE


‘’Are you there?’’ I waited.

‘’Oh’’ He replied in a flat voice.

‘’I thought you'd be pleased but you don't sound pleased’’ I questioned.

He continued ‘’.... I've been thinking about it today and I’d got used to the idea’’ One of many triumphs for my ‘phone not face to face’ strategy

That was the only bit of encouragement I needed. I stopped taking the pill that day and was pregnant for real by the following month.


This time I never gave him the heads up. I'd gone to work as usual and let it slip to the work girls that my period was playing silly buggers again and that there was a chance I might be preggers. Obviously with news as exciting as this I was immediately frog marched to the chemist to buy a test and then made to do it in the staff toilet. Glamorous, no. Necessary, yes. I think it's important to mention that my highly supportive co workers who are also my very dear friends can be very persuasive about such matters and on suspecting I was pregnant again a couple of years later was practically held at gunpoint and once again made to do a test in the horribly inappropriate place of the Park n Ride bus station toilet by one of them.


And there it was. A positive result. In 9 months time I would have a mini me, or a mini him. A sense of relief flowed through me but I was also acutely aware of the huge responsibility that was now mine. A feeling that until then had been alien to me. And it weighed heavily. In an instant I was not only in charge of myself but also for the small life that grew within me, depending solely on me to keep it safe. And this would be my mission. It would have my undivided attention until I met my baby. The mere thought of it blew my mind.


On a Thursday I usually brought home our favourite weekly reads. A magazine for me and a Motorcycle newspaper for Husband. On this occasion I'd ditched the usual Marie Claire in favour of something more relevant. Afterall I wouldn't be needing to know ‘10 ways to wear a tube skirt’ or the most up to the minute sex positions. I was going to be a mother soon and would not be fraternizing in the world of tube skirts and certainly wouldnt be ‘doing sex’. I was quite sure mothers didn’t behave that way. I would adorn long flowing, mother earth type robes, eat organic everything and only give in to sex once a month on date night. Instead I’d bought myself the latest issue of Mother and Baby magazine and that's how I broke the news to Husband there would soon be an anklebiter on the horizon.


In my day dreams about being pregnant I was strong, healthy and glowing. Full of energy like Mother Nature herself but in Human Form. Proudly standing with the swell of my baby bump on show for all to see all of the time, while doing yoga, in a lycra body stocking, listening to whale music.

In reality I felt putrid.

At least for the first trimester anyway. I had morning sickness that lasted from when I awoke in the morning to the minute I went back to sleep on a night, only interrupted by small pockets of relief when I would sit absolutely still with no movement at all in my head or body, barely breathing to keep movement to a minimum (quite a tricky thing to pull off and not at all practical when there are things to do). There definitely weren’t any downward dogs going on or any lycra in sight. The other relief came when I was eating. As I have been a professional eater for the majority of my life this worked out well for me. If I was trenching I felt ok. If ever I'd hoped for a time when it would be acceptable to eat as much as possible for as long as possible to make myself feel good this was it. It also explained the 4 stone I gained during my pregnancy. A particular favourite snack of mine was birthday cake. Let's be clear, I'm not talking about a slice, I’m talking about the whole family size birthday cake. The Skeletons that was situated opposite my work was the shop of choice and I usually went for the vanilla sponge with buttercream and jam filling covered in soft white icing. Delicious. Eaten straight out of the box with a spoon I would go to the edge of the earth to avoid having to share even a small slice with any of the work girls.


As the sickness tapered off, new challenges reared their heads. My day dreams had been right about me loving to flaunt and rub my growing belly beneath floral flowing dresses but had kept quiet about the fatigue, backache and the lack of bowel movements. Not being able to go for a poo even though I felt desperate was fairly traumatic. Wondering if I strained too hard, if I would accidentally push out my baby. Logically this probably wasn't an actual real threat but all sorts crossed my mind when I was tired, had not toileted a number 2 in over a week and was scared to death of passing a poo the size of my own head. It was around this time that I had to throw in the towel at work. It wasn’t viable for me to spend the whole of my work day splitting my time between playing musical statues with myself, eating constantly, taking cat naps and sitting on the crapper for prolonged periods of time worrying if I would birth a poo or a baby right there in the staff toilet.


It always amused me and never got old the way random people in the street would make a beeline straight for my bump, touching and groping it without embarrassment and with no idea who I was. Usually they would be elderly but not always. It seems when you are pregnant inappropriate fondling without consent is totally fine and publicly accepted. The way people behave around a pregnant person is extremely interesting especially if you are a people watcher as I am, and having a front seat to witness these oddities was thrilling.


My due date came and went without event. The midwife had called and booked me in for a scratch and sniff, more widely known as a stretch and sweep to take place the following week. An appointment that sees the midwife put on an enormously long rubber glove up to her armpit and then enter you with it, again up to her armpit. Well nearly. From this position which is uncomfortable for both parties but for different reasons the midwife will then sweep her hand around the cervix and detach any membrane. This encourages the baby to stop loafing around and get the hell out of there. My appointment was booked for Sunday morning. It all went well. As smoothly as could be expected when a stranger's arm is hanging out from the gaping hole that was once your minge. Straight from the appointment we had to rush off into town to have Husband fitted for a suit for our friends wedding where he would be an usher. After the procedure I really didn't feel at my best and could feel the baby's head pushing down. Shuffling around after Husband in the suit shop was doing nothing for me. The pressure that I felt between my legs made it feel like the baby might fall out when I was walking. If only. So it was no surprise when the next morning I woke early with a tummy ache.


My hospital bag had been packed for weeks. A huge bag that could have contained my whole life, it actually held tiny baby grows, baby hats and mitts, nappies, toiletries, towels, pjs, breast pads, bum pads and enough pairs of paper pants to sink a battleship. A little side note about paper pants - they are bloody brilliant and I actually wore them for far longer than was necessary after the birth. After a month or so Husband had to have a little talk with me to encourage me back into wearing normal underwear. Something I did with great reluctance. Once I realised it was happening I launched into the action plan I had meticulously mulled over for weeks. I would start with a long relaxing bath, the sort with scented candles and luxurious bubbles. I would wash my hair and check my fanny fuzz situation was still in control thanks to the previous month's wax. Which just for reference should never ever be done under any circumstances when you are 8 months pregnant, I barely survived. Once tidy and clean I would dry and style my hair, thoughtfully apply makeup to look cool, possibly even stylish on my entrance to the midwife led birthing centre I had opted for. I would have headphones in to listen to the whale music that would keep me focused while in the throes of labour. Having put this much time and effort into a mammoth amount of careful preparation I would be rewarded with a fast painless mess free birth.


It never happened exactly like that.


By the time I’d managed to lower my bulk into the tepid bubbleless bath I instantly wanted to get out. It wasn't relaxing or soothing and I was sure I was going to give birth any second, despite being assured previously by the health care professionals that your first baby always takes ages and that you’ll have oodles of time. Getting out was more ghastly than getting in because once the baby had engaged into the ‘head down’ position and my bump had dropped to reflect this I actually had no flexibility at all. Attempting to get out of a bath without being able to bend your body was challenging, infuriating and made me want to cry. On eventually escaping from the bathroom I bounded up the stairs, which was less of a bound and more of a tentative, one step at a time maneuver at the speed of a giant tortoise. There was no way any type of makeup or hair styling was happening. My contractions which had started the hour before were becoming more frequent and would not allow me to do anything other than panic. They were super painful and literally stopped me in my tracks, but the pain was more in a severe toothache sort of a way than when you've been shot sort of a way, or so I imagine. I've never been shot just for the record. At this point my only goal was to get in a pair of paper pants and make it to the hospital before my child came out. Quite a basic goal and definitely a far cry from the previous plan I had fancied.


At this time in our lives Husbands vehicle of choice was a pick up truck similar to the monster trucks that can be seen on American TV were they drive through lakes and up the sides of houses. Not really a fitting mode of transport for a pregnant woman that can't lift her leg off the ground more than 3 inches. Once I had been hoisted into the passenger side with the assistance of Husband we set off. On the 15 minute journey to the birthing center absolutely everything irritated me. Why was Husband pissing about with the radio? I was seconds away from birthing another small human, probably in the truck because today it didn't seem to be able to go any faster than 30mph which is highly unusual, and he was concerned about which Fucking station we were listening to? On that journey I felt every tiny lump and bump in the road, every traffic light was at red and all I wanted was for Husband to shut the Fuck up. I wanted silence. I wanted calm so I could breath and zone out. At last I saw the sign for the hospital's birth centre. I'd never seen such a welcoming sight. Finally I was somewhere that knew what was happening and what to do. We pulled up to it and before I knew what was happening went cruising straight by it.

‘’WHAT'S HAPPENING?! YOU'VE PASSED THE ENTRANCE'’ I shouted angrily in disbelief.

‘’I'm just going to park up’’ Husband informed me.

Park up? Was he having a laugh? I could barely walk and he was going to Fucking park up?

‘’STOP RIGHT NOW, BACK UP AND TAKE ME TO THE DOOR OR I'LL PARK IT RIGHT UP YOUR ARSE’’ I panted through gritted teeth.

Husband did as he was instructed and let me out at the door to reception and it wasn't a moment too soon. I was taken to a comfortable room with a bed in it with an adjoining bathroom and a further adjoining room with birthing pool. The midwife seemed pleasant enough. She showed me around and explained about the birthing pool being available should I want to have a waterbirth. I'd read about water births. They were supposed to ease the pain, be relaxing and be a much less scary introduction to the world for your little person. So long as I didn't have to get my hair wet or need a snorkel I’d definitely consider it.


Husband arrived having successfully parked up and told me he had let Mum know we were here. My Mum was my other birthing partner. Not overly keen on having Husband present at the birth I’d decided after much deliberation that he would be there, mainly because I knew he didn't want to be. He found the idea of blood, gore and womens privates being stretched to massive proportions gross. I found this mildly entertaining so that had been the deciding factor in my decision. He’d also been present both times before at the birth of his older girls and so I didn't see a good enough reason why he should be excused this time.


My contractions were coming thick and fast. It was rather unfortunate however, that every time I had one I did a shit and threw up, all at the same time. Something to do with the baby facing the wrong way and pressing on something that kept making me empty out of both ends. This saw me sitting on the pot with a cardboard bowler hat bedpan for a considerable length of time. Privacy was forbidden so the door remained fully open,enabling the smell to escape along with my dignity. During this time Mum had arrived. Excited at the prospect of her first grandchild shortly due to make an appearance she bustled into the bathroom fussily to greet me on the crapper. The air was green with the smell of unpleasantness but that didn't seem to deter her.

‘’Hello darling. This is exciting isn’t it. I rushed here when I got the call and haven't had a chance to put on my face. Her makeup, not her actual face. I’ll do it now in this mirror. You don't mind do you, I want to look nice for the photos’’

She was very glamorous, how could I possibly expect her to have a photo taken with her first new born grandchild looking like a horror.

‘’Help yourself’’ I managed, followed by an especially noisy vomit.


After mum had finished her makeup I was encouraged by the midwife to have a go in the birthing pool. I couldn't feel any worse so thought I’d give it a whirl. The only thing I felt slightly nervous about was having a floater in the water. Weighing up that I'd been on the toilet for the last hour shitting my head off constantly I decided that the chances I had anything left to float out were slim to none so went for it. Stripping naked except for the white vest I was wearing I waited for my contraction to end and then slowly climbed up the ladder next to the pool and lowered myself in as quickly as I could manage and before the next contraction started. It was a strange feeling. It was like I was in a public swimming pool but semi naked and had spectators inappropriatly watching me. I mean I knew that wasn't what was going on, I hadn't lost the plot completely. But that's what it felt like. I'd also resolved months before that I wouldn't have any pain relief. I was drug free so it wasn't that playing tricks on me. Periodically Husband attempted to touch me, an arm stroke or a hand on my back but I didn't want to be touched. I wanted everyone to knob off and let me birth my baby alone. It must have been the primal instinct kicking in, that's what I put it down to. A few growls in Husbands direction later, he thought better of the touching and opted for an occasional head pat and a quick getaway instead. Intermittently the midwife would listen to my bump and attach something that monitored the baby's heartbeat. Following the latest check she looked more alert than she had previously and told me I'd have to get out as the heart beat was slow and she needed to have a proper look at me. I sat there waiting for someone to open a secret door that I must have missed until I realised everyone was waiting for me to climb out. Waiting for me to climb back up a 6 foot ladder naked and with my baby and other gorey bits poking out. A task that if you've never done it is grossly underestimated. If Husband got a direct view he’d pass out for definite. Eventually after scaling the ladder like I was on the Krypton Factor I managed to crawl to the safety of the next room and took my position on all fours next to the bed as ordered by the midwife. It was at this time approximately 8 people walked in to spectate my child's delivery. Not random passersby but medical students. At least that's what I assumed. Surely random people would much rather go to the theatre or see a film for entertainment on a Friday morning.



After finishing her examination it was explained to me that the time had come to push when my next contraction came. Still on all fours on the floor with Husband and Mum holding each of my hands and 8 strangers looking up my rear end I was all set. It was like I was taking a huge poo in a radically inappropriate place and in public view, something that really goes against the grain. Programmed from potty training age to poo only on the toilet it was an extremely odd sensation. I knew it's what I had to do yet my body was screaming ‘’NOOO, get to the toilet!!’

After the first push when the contraction faded and there was no momentum left I was instructed to rest. So I did, and immediately the baby slipped back in. In a breathless sweaty panic I advised the midwife of this.

‘’Yes that happens im afraid’’ She told me brightly.

She then continued to compare my reproductive system to that of a toilet drainage system, making a direct comparison between the toilet Ubend and my birth canal, explaining that once relaxed gravity takes the baby back up the birth canal U Bend pipe, not the toilets. This had to be a sick joke. How long would this go on? Would we still be playing the ‘Hokey Cokey’ going in and out but not shaking it all about for the next 9 hours? Not on my watch. I was ready. Once the next contraction had subsided and I was told to rest, I did not Fucking rest. I continued to push, without the momentum of the contraction. It was hard going, my face was purple, I was lathered in sweat but I wasn't stopping. No progress was made but there was also none of that slipping back in bullshit. A further 2 pushes like this and I was completely spent, but was rewarded with the shrill sound of a newborn baby. I'd done it. And what an empowering feeling. To know that I had expelled a tiny Human from my own body without pain relief and with minimal help, and I hadn't died. I was appalled at the amount of blood though. Obviously I was privy to what happened at a birth but the sheer volume of it shocked me. I apologized for messing up the crisp white bed sheets which I think the room full of onlookers found surprising.


My daughter had arrived. Small and beautiful with a shock of dark hair. She also had a deep tan that would be the envy of all fake bake users, which I later found out was jaundice, apparently common in newborns.

‘’Who’s going to cut the cord?’’ I heard the midwife enquire in the direction of my birthing partners. Husband visibly paled but before he had the chance to say anything Mum had bagsied the job.

‘’I'll do it but I need to find my glasses. I want to do a good job, we don't want her to be saddled with an outie for the rest of her life’’ Cried mum referring to baby's belly button I presumed. Mum did an excellent job on the cord and also got her first photo, looking every bit as glamorous as she was. Husband had a cuddle with the newest member of his brood and was solely in charge of her while I showered but shortly after that he explained that he was very tired and needed to have a rest so would be in the comfy chair next to her cot on the ward. I've only been lost for words a handful of times in my life and this was one of them. Not in a bad way but it made me chuckle. I'm sure it must have been exhausting for him to watch me do all the work. It makes a lot of sense why women have babies and not men.


One thing I will say is that I was pleasantly surprised by his dedication. He had been due to fly out to Magaluf on a much anticipated stag do the day after, and I made it clear I was happy for him to go, afterall I was surrounded by masses of family to help with the little one but he never went. Husband we love you. Our beautiful girl went a whole 3 days with no name as much to my devastation the name we had chosen in the event of having a girl never suited her. She just didn't look like what we had picked. On settling on a brand new name selected especially for her we all went home and she was introduced to the wonderful loving crazy family that is ours.


You can find Eliza on Instagram @life_by_eliza


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