This time six years ago I was in pre labour. I walked over a kilometre to the supermarket to buy lemons to make Labouraid. I dropped into the DVD store to hire Sex and the City. I stood next to the rows of DVDs in a contraction and rode out that wave. I walked over a kilometre home, stopping intermittently as the intensity increased. I imagined that small babies head knock-knock-knocking on my cervix. I am the Queen of visualisation, thank you Marie Burrows.
I got home. I squeezed those lemons. I made the Labouraid. I spilt it all over the kitchen floor. Later it would explode over the floor of my sister's car on the ride to the birthing centre. Sorry about that, Choc.
I ate spaghetti bolognaise. I went to bed. I vomited up spaghetti bolognaise. I woke up later. I went into a darkened room. Matt turned the light on. I turned the light off. Matt turned the light on. I turned the light off. I laboured at home. The intensity turned up a notch or two. Matt turned on the light. I turned off the light and screeched "YOU BETTER START ANTICIPATING MY NEEDS!"
Matt called the midwife. The midwife told us to wait. I knew I couldn't wait any longer. Mother's instincts. My sister arrived. We three drove like the clappers at 5am down the highway, to the birthing centre, behind a garbage truck, in half light, into the tunnel, we drove. Every bump I felt as I continued riding those contractions.
We arrived and I tore off my clothes. It was all I could do. I got into that delicious bath. I laboured. We waited. Matt went to sleep. Matt woke up. I got too relaxed and my contractions stopped. I had to get out of the bath. I pushed. Two hours of pushing. I got tired. I screamed "COME ON!" like Lleyton Hewitt. And then I held that wee baby, I held that warm, beautiful, loved baby against my chest. That warmth.
I'd do it all again in a heartbeat for my beautiful soon-to-be six year old. My delightful, talkative, bright six year old.