"Adults don't produce children, children produce adults"

I have no memory of where I read those words, but they are certainly true of my experience. In retrospect you can laugh about what you endured, but at the time its no joke.

There are very few things in life that have as great an effect on an unsuspecting adult ('to be' as the above quotation would infer), as the birth of a first child.  From the actual birth experience to the raising of this little person, I do not believe any other experience puts you through your paces in quite the same fashion.  Again, there are so many factors that influence our own experiences that I know I speak only for myself and perhaps a few other million women (probably in the dark ages only) who might relate in some smily way to my immersion into parenthood.  Some of course have sailed through it.

If you've read my article on pregnant tums, you'll understand why I say I had no pre-conceived or scary notions about birth and the transition from woman to parent with newborn.  Mom had done this childbirth thing one too many times and made it look like a piece of cheese-cake. No cherries or epidurals, if you will, with even one of 10 pregnancies.  For her it was like sewing a school dress the night before we went to school (she really did sew purple chequered, princess-styled uniforms the night before school - she had it down-pat after some 7 girls ...) Too simple.  So what was I to think?  Of course, 'This is a piece of cake.  Millions of women have done this. Cinch.  What's the big deal?  I've done more difficult things like Kilimanjaro (and no, not from an aeroplane), swimming half-way across Lake Malawi, even if it was with flippers ... this is going to be a walk in the park...'

As you can imagine my pre-natal classes echoed a very different sentiment, which naturally, I passed off lightly. Caryls' words of caution would echo long and hard, "this is the hardest thing you will ever do" - during and after labour.  Why do we always think we're invincible, that the tough stuff only happens to others, and that if so many others have done it, well it must be easy?! I can only think a little naiivity and maybe even a touch of stupidity has something to do with it. 

Here we were, both Mark and I, thoroughly convinced of all the merits of natural birth.  We'd looked at risks and were ready for a drug-free, perfect water birth.  Who said perfect births don't happen?  Positive thinking has great power.  I clearly recalled, and again only in retrospect, hearing the words of a friend, James, gently admonishing me "You don't get a medal for all that pain ..." and under his breath I'm pretty sure he was saying, 'take the flaming epidural!'  Having thought 'like mother, like daughter,' I would have to learn from my own sweet experience.

It was a Friday midday and I had about a week or two to go before my due date.  Mom, my yardstick, was always earlier than her due date, so this was a good sign when my waters broke. As brave and oblivious as I was, somehow my body was one the wiser and could read the upcoming status quo a little better. I started to shake a little .. No I can't recall Mom having spoken about nerves or shaking.  I wasn't nervous, in fact I was fearless.  Well, for those who have done the whole labour bit, you'll know the contractions start like mild period pain.  Unbeknown to me, my little blighter was positioned face-up, so I was in for a rough, rude and long ride. Yes, we timed the contractions and they were a little erratic but eventually got closer, 'til I lost count. Soon after my waters had broken we notified my midwife that things were in motion. That was midday. 'I'll meet you at the clinic at 6 or 7pm' she said all too confidently.  Thanks for nothing Marilyn, I thought, this baby will then be born without a midwife. Needless to say, by the time I got to the hospital I was already in excruciating pain (or so I thought) and not yet cradling my newborn.

When Marilyn examined me I had dilated nearly a whole centimeter.  This was the start of my reality check. 'This baby will only be born between 3 and 4 tomorrow morning' she predicted casually. 'Not if I have anything to do with it,' I again dismissed her wisdom.  Beyond that, all I remember was the pain and begging for drugs. Its the kind of pain you cannot describe.  I've heard mention of positive pain - I can't say I felt that. Much to my disgust I acquiesced to gas - a disaster for me.  It disconnected my mind from my body without removing the pain.  I have to admit the only thing that gave remote relief was the muscle relaxant.  The water bath confined and prevented me from climbing the walls.  Mark has convinced me I was rather vocal. I passed out from the pain for 30 seconds between the contractions. So much for natural.  This was the furtherest thing from natural I could ever think of.  Every contraction felt like I was being battered by a tidal wave, one after another.  You're not quite sure how you survive the experience. How can one body be capable of producing so much pain?  How can one human endure so much torture? Surely childbirth is a curse in itself I began to reason.

Having survived the contractions up until then, dilating from 5 to 10cm in a half an hour, it was now time to push.  No urge to push, no urge at all.  That must have had something to do with this little mans' star-gazing position.  I'd been in labour for nearly 15 painful hours.  Enough is enough.  So I pushed with every ounce of strength I could muster.  He crowned, I breathed, he disappeared .. this happened repeatedly, for an hour.  With every breath he eased back in, 'til eventually Marilyn's patience and persisitent urging paid off. I can still hear her saying "longer and harder".  At this point, I can only say I felt like I was passing the Titanic.

Marilyn handed him face-down to me so I could tell his Dad "You have your little boy". We were both overcome with relief and exhaustion. I held him close before Marilyn gave him a oxygen. He was quite squashed and swollen (so would you be if you had been breathed in and out of a birth canal for an hour). The next hour or two was spent bonding, stitching and feeding and of course fielding the calls of curious and excited family members who had spent the early hours waiting for news.  Our little man was perfect.  Blessed with a mop of beautiful black hair, he also had perfect features (every parent has to say that), right down to his hairy little ears, dimpled elbows and hairy back.  He was so much more than we had expected. 

Falling in love was not an option. We were very grateful for a healthy little man and whizzed him home promptly by 10am that same morning ... The fact that I was bruised and internally battered and could hardly sit comfortably for 6 weeks was immaterial of course!  You have newfound respect for every mother on the face of this earth.  I sometimes tell friends 'you have to do this, just to know what your Mum did for you..'

Mark can only say, "it was big".  He never bought me flowers funnily enough.  His gift to me was a card and an Anne Geddes book on baby photography "Down in the Garden".  My love for children and photography was in its infancy, as every new Mom will confess.  I recall getting under-exposed but what I felt were beautiful photographs of my day old newborn.

I could finally say "I've done it, I've done a lot more than I thought I could handle."  No-one can prepare you for childbirth and the enormity of raising babies.  My first baby was easy, really easy - but for me the challenge of childbirth and those to come was still larger than life. To say I thoroughly enjoyed the newborn baby part is an understatement.  For me the perfection and design in all the details of this little individual were awe-inspiring.

You have to live it, breathe it & feel it to appreciate it.  Parenthood is life-altering - don't ever do it for the wrong reasons.  Nearly 3 years later I braved the stormy seas of pregnancy and childbirth all over again, in exactly the same scary fashion, spurred on by my sweet, supportive husband & contriving midwife, convincing me I could in fact do it, all over again ...  I am an adult in the making.