With a couple of work colleagues and friends due to have babies soon I have had the birth of Flo on my mind. I know that some people say that the birth is an amazing experience and a Dad should be involved as much as he can, I completely agree, I recommend every father to be to stick their head (not literally and definitely not too close) down at the business end of a 24 hour labour. Now, in retrospect it was a beautiful thing. However, at the time it was the equivalent of staring at an untidy butcher’s window display.
Emma was fantastic throughout the birth of the Jam eater, as she always is in day to day life, she was probably reassuring me of things that were going on more so than thinking of herself. I think she also holds the record for the politest birth the NHS has ever seen. She trooped right the way through with just gas and air and when the big contractions hit she let out a few good ‘F-bombs’, it was like Samuel L Jackson had motherfu**ing possessed her, however she did spend the downtime apologising to the Midwife for recreating the apartment scene from Pulp Fiction.
When we first went into the Maternity Ward we heard a lady giving birth, well, we think she was giving birth – it sounded like Maria Sharapova was in there returning serves for a good two hours. Honestly, I never saw her but I imagine she was at least eight-foot-tall, German, hairy and a great likelihood that she could pass for someone called Keith.
When the time came and Flo popped her head out, the first thing she did was try to strike up a conversation with the midwife. No, really, she wasn’t crying as such, but more like gurgling a semi decent Trip Advisor report about her nine month stay in Emma’s womb ( currently has a 97% score and #7 in the Darlington area). Half a push later Flo was laid there in all her glory. Bloody Beautiful. We all had a bit cuddle and a few happy tears, as you do. Then the words ‘That’s some tear right there, best get you sorted out’ flowed from the Midwife’s mouth.
My mind wandered at this point, I promised myself I wouldn’t do the old ‘Pop an extra stitch in there will you Doc?’ as I felt an urge to do. Why? I have no idea. The second thought was ‘Jesus, she’s going to be a right ‘Welly Top’ isn’t she?’. I admit it, I’m a bastard for even thinking that, but I bet I’m not the first or last new Father to do so. All that nonsense was forgotten quickly as Emma was whisked off to surgery and I was left holding the baby, quite literally, in the middle of a massive and empty room all by myself with my new little girl.
This was a bizarre 90 minutes or so, I have no idea how long it was to be honest. I first rang our parents to let them know the good news, then the rest of the time I was just sat there like a right knob in the middle of a 5×5 metre room.
I’d never really held a baby before so I just sat still and didn’t move at all. I didn’t realise I was sat so awkwardly, but my arms felt they were going to fall off anytime soon. So after an hour and a half the midwife popped her head back in and went ‘Errrrr you can put her in the bed if you like’, honestly the look she gave me still makes me laugh now. Why didn’t I think of that, oh yeah I do, I was scared to even move her – its not only till you get them home you realise how robust new babies are.
I’d like to say big thank you to all the Mother’s who go through this pain to give us all such joy and happiness, your work is never under appreciated. Also a bigger thanks to the Doctor that prevented a ‘Welly Top’ and read my mind about the extra stitch, what a guy!