I have always dreamt of having children. Somehow, dreaming of my child, I never really thought about how I would like to introduce the baby into the world. Homebirths were a strange concept (is it not dangerous??) and it only seemed logical that I would go into hospital, get tagged, get a shot of epidural as soon as the pain sets in and scream out loud when I have to push the baby out. If it did not come on time, it would only be logical to induce. I feared breastfeeding more than I feared giving birth. I told Dr Brom I was pregnant during an acupuncture session for my migraines (that disappeared during pregnancy). I was quite surprised when he exited the room and came back with a flyer of a midwife. A midwife? No scans? Not medically necessary, it just disturbs the baby. No gynaecologist? No, the midwife is good. No hospital? No illness? No drawing of blood and giving of injections and handing me a list of things to eat and not to eat? No, just a handful of daily vitamins and oils... and I realised that, as with everything related to our bodies, there are different approaches to this birthing thing. Or "the journey", as I now realise it was.
I hate telephones. I've always hated them and I hate to call and make appointments, especially with people I've never met and therefore cannot imagine on the other end of the line. But when I sat in my study with the flyer of the midwife, I realised that I have to call and make an appointment, preferably within the next 8 months. And since everybody wanted confirmation of some kind of doctor that I am indeed pregnant (3.5 positive pregnancy tests can still be wrong, to some people), it I realised that it had to be soon. So I called Natasha. Who were busy catching a baby and promised to call me back when the baby is out. Which she did. So, we made an appointment, and with hubby still in Germany, I ventured there myself.
I can't remember what I expected. I already saw Natasha's face on the flyer, so non of the "ou tannie" look that one would imagine if you hear the word "vroedvrou". Or "midwife". Midwife sounds like midlife and therefore must be old and grey and scary. And I can't remember what I thought she would do. I think it was something in the line of the drawing of blood to be 100% sure that I am indeed pregnant, an internal examination because that is what is done and a few injections because apparently that's also done. But it was non of it. She did not even wear a white coat or a nurses outfit. And the whole spiel happened at her house. So when I asked her "how are we going to make sure that I'm pregnant" and she replied "you did the home pregnancy tests and they were positive?", I realised that I had to bend my head around this "being pregnant" thing. I remember she asked what I foresee about the birth, and I remember I was thinking "I'm still trying to get over the fact that I am PREGNANT, never mind getting a hang of how I want this thing to exit my body". She told me how most of her births end up being home births, and that I should not think about the birth much, and instead just bask in the sun glowing about the fact that I am pregnant. Which seemed like good advice at the time, seeing that I had to get my head around the fact that I am pregnant.
It was not difficult for me to get my head around the fact that I am pregnant, even if it was unexpected. It made the choice of whether or not to move to Johannesburg easier (new husband, new job, new city, new house AND new baby did not sound too appealing). The fact that I did not have "morning sickness" made the liking being pregnant much easier, and the extreme tiredness hit me during an especially cold spring, which gave me good excuses to snuggle up in bed early. From the outset, I really enjoyed being pregnant.
Husband arrived at the end of September. The adjustment of him moving here, us sharing space and my increasingly limited capacity to do physical activities went surprisingly well. There was the odd argument about him doing things that I simply could not risk to do anymore (like mountain biking), but overall it made the pregnancy journey all the more joyful. I think it would be fair to say that husband really got excited with the first sign of a tummy, and understandably so, because before then, the baby was just a little flutter in my tummy, sort of my own secret.
From the outset the little one was referred to as "Tito", after Josep Broz Tito, the "Croat" Yugoslavian, since we had our honeymoon and the first semi-successful pregnancy test in Croatia. (Naming him Tito also helped to sort our friends into "people who know history and people who don't" category.) And Tito travelled everywhere with me for 9 months, a journey that was extremely special. We sang to Tito, Heiko spoke German to Tito, we took Tito swimming and camping and road tripping. We already loved Tito very very much.
As the due date approach we started preparing Tito for the birth. Once a week, in the language of his/her choice, we would tell him/her what is going to happen on or around the 7th of April. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I would place my hands on Tito's shoulders and imagine how I want the birth to be. It was always in a dark room, with Heiko and Natasha and my parents, with Tito coming into the world and how his vernix covered body would be placed onto mine, with the cord pulsating and Heiko getting ready to cut it, my nervous dad taking pictures and my pragmatic mom doing whatever is needed. That was my plan. And I believed that if I imagined it often enough, that would be what would happen. Sort of in the Jodie Foster way: "if you build it, they will come".
There is an African proverb that says: "not everyone that chases the Zebra will catch it, but you have to chase it to catch it". I have been using that expression numerous times, when I wanted to do something and was unsure about it, and when other people were hesitant to do something, that would be my advice. I have used it foolishly, I now realise, because in the past 3 months I have come to realise that there is two parts to it: "not everyone that chases the Zebra will catch it" (part one) and "you have to chase it to catch it". I have only always focussed on the last part. I have never believed that if you attempt to do something, and you imagine it hard enough, that you might not catch it. And so I have chased a Zebra, but I did not catch it. And that is one of the many lessons I learned on the diverted journey the birth turned out to be.
As Tito's time in the tummy came closer to an end, I was under the impression that (s)he would come earlier. I was sleeping with my fingers on the cellphone, ready to sms Natasha from the 1st of April. The first came and went, as did the 7th (the due date), and on the evening of the 9th, the Thursday before the easter weekend, I got a craving for brussel sprouts. I can't remember what we had with it, but brussel sprouts took up half the plate. Natasha made the prediction that Tito will come on the Friday, since Robyn came the Monday, and the general pattern the past few weeks (for her) was a baby on a Monday and a Friday. Plus, the lactation lady said that most babies come with the full moon, and the 10th was the full moon. But with me thinking for the past 9 days, today is the day, I just resorted into enjoying the time laying around reading and sleeping. And of course, just when I started to like being overdue, I got some cramps early morning of the 10th. It woke me up, but not in an "OMG", way. In a "ouchy, brussel sprouts are talking back" way. Not sure whether it is gas from the sprouts that's trapped, or contractions, I decided to time the pains. My biggest fear to date was that I would be in labour and not know it, and next thing a baby comes out. So, timing the sprout pains showed that the pain lasted about 30 seconds, and it was 7 minutes apart. So I got up to read the pregnancy book to see if this is contractions, and if so, if this is the stage where you call the caregiver. The book said it is indeed contractions, and I can't remember if it said this is the stage where you call, but I sms'd Natasha just to warn her that she must sleep hard, because she's got a baby to come catch. She phoned to confirm it is indeed labour and not sprouts, and that I should go and take a bath and wait. I went downstairs to the bathroom, put some lavender drops in it, and filled it to the brim. The contractions was not too sore at this stage, and the bath was perfect. I even took a little nap, imagining how I would meet the eyes of Tito in a few hours. This is also the stage where I went into a trance-like state. I don't remember too much after this. The one moment it was 5 am and the next it was 3 pm, and all I remember of the in-between is another bath, being really tired from about 12am and not wanting to get off the toilet (it was my comfortable position). Oh, and I also remember the amazing spot on the foot that Natasha and Heiko pressed every time a contraction came, and it really helped with the pain that was getting stronger and stronger. The last hour I remember well, because that is the hour that keep on playing in my mind. The hour that I try to remember every second in order to answer the lingering "could I have not done anything else to get him out" question that kept on repeating in my head. I remember laying on the floor with Natasha pulling me up ("keep your arms straight!! Pull with the top tummy muscles, then push! You can do it, it's only a small way to go!") and Heiko standing behind her to keep her from falling forward (we dubbed this the "Jack and Lara" position, because this is how their little Robyn hopped over the pelvic bone). Then I remember hanging with my arms wrapped in a sheet that was hanging from the ceiling, trying to push from the air and pull the house down at the same time. I also remember passing out on the bed at some stage, dead tired and sleeping through some of the really ouchy contractions. And then I remember just putting on a dress (I've been as naked as Eve from the moment I left that bath), looking at Natasha and saying: Tito's not coming out without help. Oh, and what I also can remember is Heiko running around with a list he (or I?) made of things to take with to the hospital, that he never packed because we were not going to the hospital. Then I remember walking to the car, not giving two asses as to what's happening around me with the hope to get to the hospital as soon as possible to get the little giant out. In the meantime Natasha phoned Dr Van Waart, my (ex)-gynea, who were away from the weekend (surprise!!!). Then I had to make a call: Stellenbosch or Vergelegen in Somerset West, and I made the call "Stellenbosch". And then I remember getting into Natasha's Kombi, she driving at the speed of light on (thankfully) a very quiet Easter Friday road, with Heiko giving her directions to the longest and bumpiest road possible to the Stellenbosch Medi-Clinic. If I could foresee that, I would have said "Vergelegen", because we basically drove right past it (ok, that is exaggerating a bit, and it wasn't that much longer than the road that's "just straight straight straight until you hit the robots (traffic lights) then left and then right at the next robot", but I did giggle through the contractions).
At Medi-Clinic I realised in retrospect, if I wasn't grateful for Natasha by now (which I was, she knows what buttons to press, especially at the bottom of the feet), then having her at hospital would surely make me grateful! In an environment that is designed to take all the control you have over your body out of your hands, it is nice to have somebody fight for you, especially seeing that you have other things (like pushing contractions) on your mind. Or body. Natasha ordered the one nurse to bring me a wheelchair and I sat there in the wheelchair, which was not properly opened, in my dotty dress and croc sandals, hair in a state of lavender and sweat, contractions coming and going, semi-asleep, with three visitors (not mine) in the doorway of the Medi-clinic entrance. Then they wheel-chaired me to the maternity ward, where they ordered me to lay on my back (I wanted to go on my side), strapped tito's heart monitor around my belly, and giving me some forms to fill in. Jip. Admission forms. Oh, and as the contractions got worse, they threw in a few indemnity forms. Again Natasha told them to back off and ordered my husband to fill in the forms (that turned out to be a "how well do you know your wife?" quiz), unstrapped the heart rate monitor, allowed me to be on my sides again while looking very worried and waiting for the doctor, who is not my doctor, to arrive. At this stage it was still between forceps delivery and a c-section, but when the doctor came, he felt around for the head, said "bhlasdf hsadf hss a caesarean", and next thing I know the nurse is there with a cheap big razor, moving the lawn. From there, all I remember is the theatre that looks very uninspiring, a worried husband, an equally worried mom and dad, a nurse that smelled of smoke, the needle that numbed the bottom half of my body, and a doctor with a scalpel in his hand, sighing. After voicing my concern about his sigh, all I remember was a worried stare the doctor gave the assistant, an operating table doing the brake dance, the doctor saying "it's a big baby", and at 16:08 Heiko saying "meisie, ons het 'n seuntjie". He did not cry much (the baby, not Heiko), as you see on the movies, and they examined him, wrapped him up like a little sheep, gave him to Heiko who did not drop him, and then he was placed very close to my face. The wrinkly, frowny, blue bundle laying askew on my shoulder was the weirdest thing I've ever seen. Having imagined him coming through the birth canal, and then working so hard to make it happen, then being in the trance of labour and all of a sudden in the uninspiring environment of the hospital with a baby that you did not push out but that was pulled out (with quite a racket) on your shoulder, was plane weird. We stared at each other, and I was glad and relieved to finally have Tito outside of me, alive. While they were closing me, the staff took bets on how much he weigh (nobody won, we were all under 4,4kg). I also asked the doctor if I could have the placenta, because I want to plant it under a special Georg-tree. Looking at me like I'm a barefoot hippy (and you don't argue with a guy, standing above you with a knife in hand), I explained that planting the placenta under a tree makes the ground very fertile, upon which they offered ALL the placentas to me. I kindly refused, explaining that it also has a symbolic meaning to me, and that the symbolism would be lost if I were to plant John Doe's, or rather Jane Doe's, placenta under my Georg-tree. 
After I was stitched up, Heiko and the nurses took Georg for the usual weighing and measuring, phoned the operation theatre to say it was 4,4kg, nobody won, after which I was wheeled into the recovery room begging for water and getting 2 spoons full. From this moment, we became known as "the people that tried a homebirth with such a big baby".
They wheeled me into the room and Heiko and Georg came into the room soon afterwards. The boob nurse pulled out my boob and poked my nipple, exclaimed for the whole hospital to hear that I have "very nice nipples". Great. So now we are the homebirth-big-baby-nice-nippled freaks. To top that, Heiko immediately made himself comfortable in the hospital, camping out on the duvet on the floor, resulting in us being the homebirth-big-baby-nice-nippled-hospital-camping freaks.
I don't remember much of the first feed, I just know it worked. I was still trying to figure out how I got from the lavender bath to the hospital. But I do remember that from that moment, I did not let Georg go unless Heiko or my parents wanted to hold him. His crib was used to store the TV remote and for changing. And I especially remember the Saturday morning, when Heiko went home for the first time to get some stuff and to eat, how the two of us fell asleep in the morning sun, only waking up to stare at each other every now and again.
The hospital was fine. Much better than I imagined it to be (I requested a private room and I think that made all the difference). The only thing that really bugged me was that the nipple nurse came into the room every 3 hours, pulled out my nice nipples, open poor Georg's chest to wake him up, slam dunking the price-winning nipple into the half asleep newborn's mouth. Oh, and then, at 5 am, the nurses coming in to take the blood pressure, temperature and to give us more tea. The blood pressure and tea I could not do much about, but I soon learned how to anticipate when the 3 hour feeding time approaches, quickly pulled my nipple out myself and gently woke up Georg, who instinctively was sniffing around the boobs around that time anyways. Anyways, I still blame the nurse for Georg's gluttonous approach to my boobs.
Natasha came in the Saturday afternoon for his first bath. The tummy tub bath looks like a bucket, and the restricted space and the water up to the neck recreates the feeling of the womb. The first bath is a completion of the birthing process and usually an indication of how the baby experienced the birth. I could not really do much but watch, which is what I did, and what an amazing experience it was! Georg got into the water and immediately got this Buddha face of absolute serenity. That bath is the solace I have, that even though I could not give him the birth I think he deserved, the birth he got was nonetheless not too traumatic for him. Whenever I think back to that bath, I think about how he already made peace with something that I am still struggling to deal with. Although I have accepted what happened there are still moments where I'm sad about what happened.
The Saturday afternoon I got this terrible pain in my side. I though someone stood outside the window, saw the gorgeous baby, tried to rob him and knew that I would have to be shot dead before they can take him, and shot me. I immediately handed Georg to my mom (whom I know they will also have to shoot before they can take him), and prepared for my death. Someone pressed a button to call the nurse, and when I informed her of this excrutiating pain, she looked and smiled and said: oh, it's wind. WIND??? $@#$*, is THAT what babies feel? If it is, I'm surprised that they all make it past their first wind and that half of all the mothers alive are not stone death of hearing their children scream. "Can you give me something for it, please" (look, since I ended up in the hospital I might as well get the perks of it!). "Drugs?" asked the nurse, "oh, no. It will go away. It's probably because you ate." WTF? You bring me a menu, and then you bring me food, and then you fail to inform me that it might possible almost kill me, and then, when it does almost kill me, you refuse me the one thing that's good about hospitals: DRUGS! So, to all the moms-to-be out there, that might be unfortunate enough to have their baby via c-section: watch out what you eat the day after the operation, as it might lead to wind that gets trapped in whatever is then laying in your sides! Fish and chips (or as the menu said: grilled fish with potato wedges, gmpf) will never be the same again.
The Sunday I asked the doctor if I could go home (after informing him of my near death experience of being almost killed by wind, with him just giving a "ah, the Wind yes" grin). The hospital was not too bad, but the idea of my own space and own time appealed to me. Heiko (and his back) also thought it was a good idea. Georg fell asleep in the car seat on the way home, and slept the whole afternoon, which indicated that he was also glad to be "home".
Life back home was soon greeted by engorged boobs, third day blues and sore nipples. And very welcome visits from a midwife that seems to know many weird remedies for the aforementioned. Like teabags (preferably camomile) on the nipples for 15 minutes (not too long either, as I learned, because then the nipples are soften up again [tmi for those non-lactating creatures?]), and left me wondering, who ever thought "oh, this was such a nice cuppa camomile, let me put the teabag on my sore nipples"? After all the normal shaboom, I soon discovered that I'm not healing as I'm supposed to. By day 6 I was still walking bending forwards, and I still had diarrhoea, and I got sniff in the nose that something is rotten in the state of 9 De Vos. At first I thought the loose stool was a blessing - I really feared that pushing out the first poo after the operation. Actually I feared it more when I was still on the pushing-the-baby-out thing, but the stitches also promised pain when discharging faeces from the bowels. By day 10 I ate less because any attempt to eat seemed futile. By day 14, I was back on my pre-pregnancy weight. I am planning to patent "Elmien's fast way of losing weight post-partum": diarrhoea & breastfeeding. Anyways, a trip back to the hospital (horrible horrible) got me diagnosed with a stomach bug by my (now ex)-gynaecologist. After two days of Ponados and antibiotics fed in-vein, I escaped just to feel ultra shitty again. By now all my beautiful ideals of all the things I was going to do with my precious tiny baby vanished (kangaroo care, pouches, slings, endless walks, cooking...) and I only woke up every 3 or 4 hours to put child to breast, while otherwise laying in my bed listening to him scream while his diaper is changed. That was the second time I had to accept that things do not always turn out the way we imagine them, or want them to be. That was perhaps one of the most difficult things to accept, especially since I was only healed a month later. The upside of it was that I spent many hours with him in bed, just staring and "playing". I just sat and stared at him, amazed how this human being in his own right once lived inside me, once needed me to survive. The whole of that big small body, curled up and kicking me as I went to bed, or as I eat a chocolate, as I drink a coffee, now being outside my, not needing me to survive (although having me around helps, I think...). I still find myself staring at him, mostly during the nights when he sleeps so peacefully like a real human next to me.
Georg is a calm baby. Of course he cries - babies cry as a way to tell us to lift our ass and do something, but generally he is very calm, and if he is fed, clean and not tired, he's quiet and happy. But even that odd night where he kept me up for longer than usual, when he wakes up next to me in the morning, I'm so glad to see him. And when he goes to sleep in the afternoon, by the time he wakes up, I've missed him so much. And when he sleeps longer than he usually does, I would tip-toe into the room just to make sure he's still breathing. And then I realise: I will never be without him.
If it is not the baby that's exhausting, it is trying to maintain a relationship that is. And in this instance men also, according to research done, suffer from the same "won't ask for directions"-syndrome. Most men grunt when you ask them if they red a book on childcare. That said, Heiko was great those first few weeks, waking up every time and changing the diaper, bringing him to me, taking him again, caring for me. He's still good, but he's not as fit with the pyjama drill as he was in those few weeks - mostly because I feed Georg and then we just sleep again. But the odd night when I did kick him out of bed because Georg was getting too much, he dutifully did so. Not without grunting first, of course, but the grunting he does not recall, so I'll presume it is reflex grunting. But the funniest must be how German he is in those times. He wakes up, and no matter how asleep, he reaches for his glasses, puts them on, puts his pyjama pants (that he only wears outside the bed) on, puts on his hausshuhe and then march over to Georg. So dutifully with such precision. And then the way he cleans Georg's bum... when Heiko changes him, he's got the shiniest ass in the Southern hemisphere! As we get into a bit of a routine (we listen to Georg's demands, of course), it is nice to see how Georg, every morning at his 6 o'clock awakenings, looks for Heiko when he wakes up. And how he smiles when he recognise him. He really knows who's his daddy! I am really glad that Georg has him as his dad! I foresee a future of fun, laughter and many interesting journeys!
Looking back at the whole shibam, I still regret not having a natural birth. I presume I will always, and I'll always sit with the unanswered question of: was it really necessary to have a caesarean? But that is one of those questions that cannot have an answer, and I only hope that in time the question will go to the back of my mind, and that I'll soon realise it does not really matter: he is here, and he's ok, and I'm ok. Actually being ok also helps to get over the disappointment of being cut open. Whichever way, I will forever be connected with him, not only through the invisible umbilical cord, but also by the scar that links us in our shared journey to life.
Having a baby opens a whole new world of knowledge, gather by reading books, magazines, unwanted advice and talking to other moms. What follows is "Things I've learned in the last 2 months":
· In the beginning, baby's hands are clenched in fists most of the time.
· They startle when you put them down in bed with their head first.
· An insane amount of woolly bits get stuck between their (clenched) fingers.
· Your boobs will almost without fail leak just before your guests arrive.
· Your breasts go INSANELY huge when the milk comes in. INSANELY.
· The smell of spices makes the milk come in.
· Beer is good for milk production.
· Bubbly is good for milk production.
· It's really difficult to squirt milk up a baby's nose (as the lactation lady said you should do in case of a stuffy nose). Confucius said: mom's nipple is bigger than baby's nostril. It does provide for an insane amount of giggles.
· There is a difference between men and women when it comes to raising babies / children. A HUGE difference.
· Grandparents cannot get enough of grandchildren.
· Babies know when you are about to eat or when you've planned an afternoon nap to co-inside with the time they've been taking an afternoon nap for the past 5 days. They then plan on showing you who's the boss of your schedule.
· No matter how frustrated you become, and how hard you want to throw them against the wall so that they can just stop crying, one look in the teary eyes or one mischievous giggle when you meet those wide open eyes in the cot at 3 am, and your inner peace returns. I think it's their defence mechanism.
· You cannot suppress a cough. Even if it means that the previous half hour of you putting a monster to bed is nullified, you cannot suppress it. And a fit of coughs will only start as soon as he's on the edge of awake & asleep.
· Fluids come out everywhere the first six weeks. If you have an infection, add another hole.
· There is no baby more beautiful than yours. Or cuter. Or cleverer. NO baby. ANYWHERE.
· Babies make noises. Sometimes they even prrrr when they sleep. Other times the make pig sounds. Mine's nickname is mouse, because he makes sniffing sounds when he sleeps next to me, and "sniffs" for milk before being totally wake.
· People that say "sleep when the baby sleeps" have NO idea what they are talking about. For one, if I would sleep every time he sleeps, I would be asleep for 18 hours of the day. And secondly, while he is awake it is difficult to eat/wee/shower, so if I would be sleeping then, I'd be a bloated zombie-boob that's drowning in my own wee.
· When I pump milk, it helps to look at a picture of Georg, or think about him. At those times, I understand what men go through when they are given a porn magazine and a little houertjie when they have to donate sperm...
· I have learned in the past 3 months more about men (and relationships) than I have in the past 30 years.
· When you have a baby, days are slow but time flies.
· The desibel and length of your child scream / cry directly correlates with the amount of time and effort you put into planning whatever you wanted to do when (s)he's crying.
· You must be mad to attempt the first 6 weeks without your mother close by.
· When you think you're the only mom in the world doing something that seems ridiculous, you are probably not.
· Breastfeeding on demand is so-called because babies really DEMAND it!
· If you buy a stroller, look for one that can also double as a shopping trolley. Chances that you will end up using it as a shopping trolley with baby in hand / pouch is 95%.
· Never underestimate how much you will love your child.
I leave you with the Philip Larkin poem that took on a completely new meaning the past 3 months... I suddenly became the subject and not the object of the poem. At least I reserve the right (freedom?) to fuck up my children in my OWN special way J.
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
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