Birth story, part 5 (final)

5 weeks later and we're… doing as well as can be expected. She's at the point where she hates being held while I type. So it's really hard to do updates. So I'll take this moment of quiet to finish off the birth story.

All told, the birth went off quite well. No real complaints from me – only minor ones. I really liked the fact that our midwife, after it was all said and done, told us how much she appreciated and was just plain honoured being there at this very special moment. I found that to be be rather sweet and made up for any of the minor grievances I had. And I really appreciated it, since she got to find out the child's name before anyone, including her grandparents. The staff were certainly good at what they did, and I've no complaints about their skills. The only real issue I had was them not understanding/believing when we told them it's likely to be a quick birth. Given how rare that is, I'm not too surprised.

The birth plan

I'll end this chapter with a record of what we'd planned and what actually happened. Just an aside, this is my first time re-reading the plan after the birth.

Turns out, anything that actually followed the birth plan was more coincidence than actual design. I don't the midwives think ever actually read the plan, but I don't really blame them too much, since I'd much rather they did the really essential bits of ensuring the baby came out properly than memorising our wishes – which they could (and sometimes did) ask us about at any point.

First off, we'd planned for a mutual friend and experienced mother to join us at the birthing centre to make sure everything went smoothly and to keep us company during a prolonged birth. The tag-team concept came from experience with tattooing. It seems to help distract the tattooee to just have conversation they can drift in and out of, rather than involve them directly. A friend and I did this with L's last tattoo, and I did that a couple of weeks before the birth with another friend. I figured, long continuous pain is long continuous pain – how different can a tattoo be from labour?
Well, the baby was born the one weekend our tag-teaming friend couldn't make it – she was camping out of mobile reception. So all plans involving extra support were out the window. But, then again, the birth can hardly be considered prolonged, so the help was thankfully not needed.
Outcome: inconsequential fail.

Please knock on door before entering — I have't the faintest idea of they did or not. I don't recall ever being surprised at someone walking in.
Outcome: incidental win.

In case of unexpected problems calm and full information with time to make choices — the only thing unexpected was L started crowning while the midwife was out of the room. It was more us not providing them time to think.
Outcome: win by circumstance.

Pain relief of TENS, breathing, massage, birth pool, gas and air — All except the birth pool, which means we hit that on the head. That said, there was no time at all to get any stronger pain relief if even if we wanted it.
Outcome: accidental win.

Call hospital in advance, request birthing pool — No answer when we tried calling before coming in. They finally understood we wanted the birthing pool maybe 5 min before the birth started.
Outcome: full on fail.

Notify immediate family on way in — oops. We did tell the in-laws after the water broke at least. Perhaps I should have read the birth plan while in the waiting room.
Outcome: fail.

Lighting as low as possible — I don't think the room even had a dimmer.
Outcome: hardware fail.

Music system set up — no iPod doc as expected. Turns out there was an unused one in room 2, where we'd spent 5 minutes after we came in.
Outcome: facilities fail

stay as mobile as possible — she ended up giving birth lying down.
Outcome: failure of possibilities.

Offer father to feel head as crowning — Oops. I forgot we'd planned that. Well, I've cuddled her head enough since then, so I don't see any loss only behalf. L got to feel the crowing head though. I was too busy finding and hitting the Call button.
Outcome: fail.

Foetal monitoring without lying down — nope. The last monitoring of the baby was why L was lying down for the birth – she was unable to get up after that.
Outcome: fail.

Keep vaginal exams to a minimum — Just the one (the can't find your cervix one), so that at least was followed.
Outcome: win.

cord not cut till done pulsing — I'm pretty sure it was pulsing a little, but I've no real basis for comparison,
Outcome: probably fail.

Father to catch baby — forgot about that one too. Oops. I was too busy staring in astonishment. I can't believe I thought I'd be on the ball enough to manage this. I'm glad I didn't – the midwife was very good about the catch-and-put-on-chest motion.
Outcome: fail.

skin to skin immediately after birth — got that one spot on
Outcome: important win.

no wiping or cleaning off of vernix — nope. We'd read shortly before the birth that a study showed that leaving the vernix on means the baby is less likely to suffer dry/peeling skin shortly after birth. turns out the only parts where the vernix wasn't removed, the hands and feet, are the only ones that ever really peeled. No idea if it's a coincidence or not.
Outcome: fail?

no interruption of contact — yup. they were very good about leaving her with us non stop till we left. She was out of our hands for a few seconds while being weighed. Then for a bit while she slept overnight (a few inches from my hand). And once more when the doctor was checking her out.
Outcome: win.

…intervention… — nothing to intervene.
Outcome: win.

placenta to come out naturally, no pulling — "plop" it fell right out. No special convincing needed.
Outcome: win.

Oral only vitamin K — they did try to use scare tactics to get us to take the injections. But it's such a tiny chance of needing it, and generally only if there is a traumatic birth or bruising. So we at least stuck to our guns on this one. I'm still dubious it's needed at all. Regardless, we finished the last oral round a few days ago, and she's still alive.
Outcome: win.

No observing students — I suppose they were all in the labour ward, which was completely full that day.
Outcome: win.

…induction… — she came out nicely on her own. No inducements necessary.
Outcome: win.

avoid formula — she managed to latch on during the first night, so no need to provide other food.
Outcome: win.

All in all, it seems there are more wins than fails. Though most are more wins due to the complete lack of complications to sort out. As I was told, a birth plan just gives the midwives something to ignore. The most important thing is we gave things some though in advance, and that nothing in the birth process came as a shock to us. Well, except (ironically) the startle reflex...

Sunday, 31 July. Most of that morning was spent doing incidentals like holding the girl and taking pictures and sending SMSs and announcements online. And drifting and and out of sleep. My plan of taking chilled coffee and storing in the fridge proved to be a brilliant idea – ice coffee kept me on the ball nicely and let L recover a bit while I watched the girl.

We got though a couple of nappy changes (chocolate-coloured meconium is surprisingly innocuous looking, though rather hard to wipe off), and puzzling at the right level of clothes that would keep her warm, but not too warm. We settled on a onesie and swaddling blanket. Eventually they told us all that was left was the paediatrician and then we could go. So we packed our stuff, readied the girl and waited. Like four hours. Which we spent taking photos, sending more SMSs, and arranging with my in-laws for take-away dinner at the flat.

Apparently the paediatrician saw everyone on the very full labour ward before seeing the two people in the birthing centre. At just before 6 the midwife took us to see the paediatrician. She asked is there anything which concerns you? – something I wasn't quite ready for, or I'd have made notes. She did a bunch of tests. She even checked to make sure the left eye (which I was curious if it was alright) was responding to light ok. Then she did the startle test, which involved her dropping the lass a tiny bit (over the cot) and catching her to make sure she reflexively stuck out her arms – which she did perfectly. The paediatrician told us she was the first infant that day to not cry at this – which made us quite proud of our wonderful child already outdoing her peers.

That and the startle reflex is really neat to look at. I still really have to stop myself from trying it. I'm sure that would be a great way to make the kid hate me.

After the paediatrician, the midwife handed us a shedload of pamphlets and paperwork, including the red book, which is the born-baby equivalent to the pregnancy notes they kept (we made a photocopy of them in advance since we knew they'd not let us leave with them).

L wrapped up the girl in a sling for the trip home. The midwife, in a bit of security theatre, then walked us out of the building, telling us security'd stop anyone with a newborn who wasn't accompanied by a midwife (which I doubt, but I appreciate the chat and company on the way out).

The walk from the exit to the taxi rank on Tottenham Court Road was the longest it had ever been. Such precious cargo, and every step a sort-of first for us, and certainly a first for her. L waited outside the Sainbury's while I looked for an available taxi to hail. A few minutes later we were on the way home. The driver dropped us off and congratulated us on the newborn, which made us both smile.

We arrived back at home at 6:45ish. Fifteen minutes later, we had barely just enough time to settle in before the in-laws showed up with chinese take-away. And thus began the wonderful madness of living with our baby girl.

The birth story. Part 4

Saturday, 30 July 7:05pm. A sense of reality starts to return a bit and the midwife mentions the placenta and having to wait for it or taking drugs to get it out sooner. L says she wants it to come out on its own. So they bring in a birthing stool (a chair with a hole in the seat) for L to sit on. I ask about weighing and the Apgar test. They say they can wait for the measurements and she's clearly fine so doesn't need poking or testing.

We look at the umbilical cord, which is a pale organic-looking tube – reminds me a bit of a pulsing sausage or something. It's nice to finally see it, having been so dependant on it working for so long. I wonder what it's providing to the baby now. Is it just topping up her air and nutrients? I mean, it was working full force just a few minutes ago, and it's clearly still running. The baby can't go long without oxygen, so it must be providing at least some of it, just in case the birthing takes a while. I'm just curious what it's doing and how the mechanics of it shutting down work.

L tells the midwife to wait for it to stop pulsing before cutting it. I've no idea if the midwife did or not, but she eventually clamped it in two places and asked me to cut it. this couldn't have been more than 10-15 minutes after the birth. I specifically mentioned in the birth plan that I had no desire at all to cut the cord, but there I was, handed the scary scissors and in a state of massive suggestion. (now I know why the neighbour named his 3rd child after two of the midwives). So I cut the cord, and a splatter of blood comes out and onto the towels on the floor. The midwife asks if she can take the cord blood for testing. Again, yeah, whatever. It's there. Help yourself.

So the baby is finally free and her own entity for the first time since she was a bouncing ball of a few dozen cells trying to find a nice place to attach to. She doesn't seem to notice, so we don't make a big deal of it. We're just staring at her and smiling.

She's this wee tiny thing with an elongated misshapen head and greyish blue skin with a fine down of dark hair on her arms and back. Her head has dark hair with drying bits of goo in it. It's lighter than mine and L's, but not a lot. She's got a V-shaped widow's peak line of light-coloured hairs at the edge of her hairline which I still don't know what's going on with. Her nails are long and rather sharp. I guess she did get my nails in the end.

Her eyes are still a bit bulged out. She favours her right eye, and is not opening her left much. The blood vessels in her left eyelid are quite visible and I wonder if she scratched it in the womb or hurt it on the way out (turns out there's no persistent problem – she's using both eyes just fine now). She has golden eyelashes. Far blonder than the rest of her hair. Rather odd – normally people have dark lashes and light hair, not the other way around. So I can't tell if her hair's dark and going light or light going dark. With that combination people might think she dyes her hair :)

She has L's nose – I was right about the 22 week scan. (turns out, looking back at the 22 week scan, it looks just like her. We couldn't guess what she looked like at the time, but looking at the scan now, it's clearly her forehead and nose and lips and chin). Her cheeks and mouth and nose look a lot like a baby picture of L taken when she was 5 hours old. She's much thinner in the face, but the resemblance is clearly there (and has been getting stronger as her face fills in). I love the fact that she's me from the side and L from the front.

Around now, the original midwife comes back from her break. She's rather surprised to have missed it all: Wow. That was fast. I'm glad it was so easy. You should consider doing a home birth next time.

After some more gazing at the child the midwife points out that L's feet have turned blue, and asks if this is normal for her. No. No it's not. So she goes to sit on the toilet instead. They take this time to finally weigh the girl. I stand next to her while they put her on the scale. 3180 grams (7 pounds) and 49 cm long. They put a nappy on her (she's already passed some chocolately-looking meconium) and hand her back to me wrapped in a hospital towel. I hold her and stare at her and smile and walk around. She's soooo light, and the first baby that I ever held that didn't melt down after a few minutes.

I say she's very light, but I weighed over a pound less when I was born. L weighed over a pound more. So my family thinks she's a large baby and L's family thinks she's so very small.

I hear a plop from the loo and L says that the placenta has fallen out. This is 40 minutes after the birth – another textbook figure which encourages me. L comes out and picks up the camera and starts taking photos of me holding the baby. It's the first photos of the child and I'm beaming at her in all of them.

L convinces me to give her the baby back. I use the lull to tell a few people about the birth. I send my inlaws an SMS saying It's a girl, but of course you knew that already – what else could I say as tersely? SMS the sister-in-law to let her know she's an auntie. And I phone my parents (curse their lack of GSM phones) and am finally able to say yes, you are grandparents now (the answer to the first question out of their mouths every single time I've called them for the past month).

Meanwhile they check L for damage. Turns out she has class 2 tearing, which the midwife explains that class 1 is minor, class 2 is deeper tear and could need stitches. Class 3 is a nasty tear, and class 4… you don't want to know. Given how nasty she described class 3, I really don't what to know about 4. They initially want to stitch up L, but the midwife who comes on after 8 (when they change shifts) says it's better to just leave to heal as is – which L is fine with.

Things start to quiet down a bit. Around 10pm I start telling non-family people about the birth. I completely forget that we made a list, and just pick a few seemingly at random (a few days later I find the list and realise that I can't be trusted to do this from memory, since I'd still not told them). I joke with L that we should call the people who gave us a lift to hospital and ask if they could pick us up on the way home from the party.

I finally turn to the bag we brought. Three bags, actually. One an insulated bag of food. Still full of all the frozen smoothies we'd planned to keep L going though the long labour. I give her one – may as well not go to waste – and put the ice coffees I brought into the kitchen fridge. I try to eat some of the emergency rations I brought. Turns out they're terrible. Note to self: don't make emergency rations in a hurry, just make your usual tasty food.

It's cold in the birthing centre, so we dress up the baby in pyjamas and a hat and gloves and socks. L is very cold due to the loss of so much mass and fluids, so we wrap her up in blankets so she can doze off. Around midnight I take a picture of the baby and try to upload to Facebook, but the phone fights me and refuses to do so. L goes to sleep on her bed-thing, I lie on the fold-out futon and we put the baby in the cot between us, all wrapped up. I keep a hand on her while I sleep.

Stuff happens with L and the midwife during the night. Something about breastfeeding. But I am oblivious to it while I "sleep".

I wake up at about 5am, and finally get the other phone to upload the baby's photo (I've been carrying around two phones for a couple of months, with SIMs from different operators, just in case one has no reception or conks out or something), though it required ages of fiddling and some annoying app updates to finally get it to work (grrr).

We realise later that, while it's cold in there, we've probably overbundled the wee lass. So we remove the overlarge clothes and just plunk her down on my chest, skin on skin, and I put a towel over us. I have the cutest sweetest most precious thing in the world sleeping on my chest and I am in bliss. I lie there with her for hours.

The birth, part 3

Saturday, 30 July, 6pm. We arrive in the birthing centre, wind our way through the halls, luggage in tow, to reception. The midwife at the desk is the one we'd spoken to on the phone earlier. Rather chipper and likeable. I bitterly wonder why she hasn't been answering the phone for the past hour. We explained the situation and she immediately steps out for lunch. Or so the wife (L) tells me later. All I saw was that she disappeared just after I gave her the hospital notes.

At this point things get a bit mad so I may have a few of the details wrong. I asked L to edit this to make sure I got it right.

They put us in a room with an unmade bed while they prepare a real room for us. We slightly settle in for about ten minutes. Then another midwife comes along to check out L, so she's moved to room 4. I grab all the stuff and L shuffles in, the TENS machine still dangling from her back, and switch in hand. The floor's still wet, so we leave muddy tacks all over the floor. Great, that's sanitary, I think, but at least the midwife cleans it up. I help L out of her pants, and she lies down on the bed to be checked. I notice there's nothing to plug the iPod into. Great. They told me they had docks for those. Grumble.

They check her blood pressure and the baby's heartbeat, which are doing just fine and not noticeably different from that morning. That's one worry smoothed out for me – having just read a story about a woman whose baby went into distress from just the contractions (how annoying is that? I mean being distressed by contractions? That's what being born in all about). Then came the first big check – how dilated is she?

For me, this felt like the first real big moment. For those who don't know, the cervix is what opens up to let the baby out (or stays closed to keep the baby in for most of pregnancy). As a general rule, it opens up to 10cm slowly over the course of labour. When it hits 10cm, then there's enough room for the baby's head (the widest part of the baby) to come out (which is usually around 10cm across, though ours was 11), quickly followed by the rest of the baby. So when I say this was the first real big moment, I mean this is what determines how long the labour's going to take. If the cervix is closed or just a couple of cm dilated, then we're likely in store for one of those 20+ hour labours, punctuated with lots of helping L focus on getting the contraction muscles to work together. On the other hand, a larger dilation means baby comes sooner, usually a few hours of hard contractions. Given L and her sister's births, I imagined the latter (L's sister was born 5 hours after contractions suddenly started. L was born in an ambulance outside a petrol station 10 miles from hospital) and expected maybe 6cm dilation and maybe some notable birth and transition stages. I was wrong.

So, the midwife waits till the current contraction is done before sticking her fingers in and says something like I can't find the cervix. It's got to be in there somewhere, so it must be in an unusual place. So I'm going to guess you're about 8cm dilated. then she left to sort out the room. While she was gone L and I discussed how that was, of course, crap. L's cervix has always been in the usual cervical place – at the end her uterus. It was just so fully dilated that the midwife could find no trace of it. So now we knew. We were in store for a quick labour.

The TENS electrodes have been slipping over the past few hours. I've had to adjust them a few times, but at this point L is sweaty enough that they just keep slipping out of place. I'm wondering if they're actually doing anything for her anymore. The midwife asks would you like some gas and air to which L responds Yes, please or at least would have if she'd have had time to before covering her face with the mask and breathing deep. At this point we'd been in hospital maybe 20 minutes.

We're left alone again for a few minutes with L intermittently breathing the nitrous. I tell her comforting platitudes about how everything is going well, and she gets annoyed about how I'm just saying platitudes about how everything is going well. The midwife comes back and L she says she has to go to the loo. I know it's just the baby's head putting pressure on the rectum. The midwife knows it's just the baby's head putting pressure on the rectum. Even L knows it's just the baby's head putting pressure on the rectum, but if it makes her comfortable, what's the harm? So into the loo she goes.

She sits there around ten minutes. We briefly discuss getting in touch with family, at least L's sister, to let them know labour's begun. But things just got out of hand. The midwife comes back and says she wants to check the baby's heartbeat. She tries, but couldn't do it with L sitting there, so L comes back and lies down on the bed-thing, and the heartbeat is found (all good).

Quick aside. The bed-thing is a curved bed with a giant bean bag chair as the pillow. So it's not very straightforward to lie on.

At this point L points out to the midwife she has the urge to push. She's not very convincing in the it's coming now front. So the midwife interprets it in a isn't that interesting to note kind of way. L is lying on the bed, which is just about the worst position possible for birthing. L just can't get up – which is going to be a real bother for the birthing. I tell the midwife we'd like to use the birthing pool. She says it'll take an hour to clean and fill up. I don't bother mentioning that we'd asked for it when we came in. L and I just look at each other and share a knowing glance of we've not the slightest chance, do we? and L asks, with just a hint of futility, can you start filling it now?

Another aside. I don't know anyone who has successfully used a birthing pool in hospital. Everyone seems to be talked out of it or given some excuse for for why they can't use it. Why do hospitals bother having one? Just to tick a box?

We need a backup to get L into a better position. I ask if we can get a birthing ball. That the midwife can do. So she leaves to get it. I have no idea if she even tries to get the pool cleaned and ready. While she's gone L lies on her right side and tells me to hold her left leg up. The TENS electrodes are still attached, clearly all migrated to the wrong positions. L has the gas in hand to hopefully take the edge off the pain, but I can't recall how much she's actually using (and she has no idea if the gas actually helped. At times it just made her nauseous). Then I see something coming out of her. I just think WTF is that? Is that a placenta? a millisecond later I realise I'm really stupid and that is a gooey matted bit of hair. Before my eyes can pop out of my head I exclaim She's crowning! to L and dive for the call button. Maybe 20 seconds later (though it felt like much longer) the midwife comes back into the room with the deflated birthing ball. well, that's not going to be of much help, now is it? I don't say. Instead She's crowning! comes out of my mouth.

The midwife replies with simply Dear sweet jesus christ!, puts down the stuff, fetches a coworker, starts putting on the blue gloves, and settles in at L's business end.

At this point the midwife says to L In a second I'm going to tell you to pant and not push, and starts adjusting L's bits to not break when the baby comes out. Then the head starts coming out for real this time and L says It burns!

The matted hair is visible again. On an elongated alien head. Which kind of answers the how can an 11cm head come out of a 10cm opening? I was asking the day before. Another contraction and the head is out. It's grey – something I was a little prepared for by all the BBC documentaries on birth I'd been watching. But it's still weird. I look closer and I say That's my ear! On the side of the baby's head is clearly my ear. I'm astounded.

Then the grey torso slides out at the next contraction. There's a face and a body. With limbs. In one move, the midwife scoops her up and onto L's chest. It's less than an hour after we got to UCH.

She's breathing – I can hear her breathing. Several breaths later she cries. Not for very long, but enough to make it clear she's ok. She settles back down to gentle breathing again. She's belly down on L's chest and L is cooing at her and telling her she's so sweet.

I ask the midwife It's a girl, right? I'd not seen the baby from the front yet. Just her face and back. She quickly checks and says, Yes. I've known it was a girl for about 30 weeks, but still, part of me didn't entirely believe it.

The midwife takes a towel and starts brushing her off, she claims it'll get the blood flowing to the skin. I say leave the vernix on, which she promptly ignores and says I am, even though she's clearly not. Whatever. The baby is safe and here and clearly alive and well in L's arms. I'm grinning like a madman. At this point I see the midwife taking note of the time and writing it in the notes. I'm distracted when I look at my child's feet and say to L I know those toes! Those are your toes!

To be concluded...

Birth story, part 2

Saturday, 30 July, noonish. We arrive back home after the being checked out at UCLH. We decide to take things easy and just sit at home watching movies all day.

After a bit of hemming and hawing we decide to bail on the 1:30 meeting of the NCT group. It was at a nearby pub, so we could easily get there – and it would be better than sitting an waiting for the other baby shoe to drop. But quiet and at home won out – mostly due to the fact that all but one couple had emailed saying they couldn't make it. We found out later that one couple had just given birth a few hours previously, just didn't have time to send apologies in advance. Which made me quite glad we decided to stay at home.

The wife was starting to feel unidentified twinges. She had no idea if they were contractions or not. She just kind of guessed they must be since what other uterine twinges are you likely to get the day your water breaks? To be safe, we attached the TENS machine. It's supposed to not work if you start too late, so starting early felt like the best way to go. We put on My Big Fat Greek Wedding and had a light lunch. It's not a great film. But it's a fun film, and a mindless film. We tend to watch it when we need an amusing distraction from the world.

The wife started contractions around 1:30 pm. 5 minutes apart, no pain at all. At the time it wasn't clear if that means the TENS works or the contractions weren't real yet. At this point we were pretty sure that these were not fake Braxton-Hicks but that the baby was coming that day.

When the movie was over we debated if we had time to watch another full length movie, or stick to something shorter in case we're interrupted. We decide on something shorter. She has her first real contraction at 3. At that point it occurs to me then that this is real and we can actually handle this.

The wife phones UCH again. They say to sit tight. At home.

So we sit down to watch the episode of V with the birth of the alien baby hybrid. It nicely set the mood. Over the course of the show, the contractions got stronger, but not too bad and not regular. By the time the show is over we're both having a hard time focussing on it – her with the pain, and me with the concern. When it ends, around 4:30, we give up watching things and just concentrate on the contractions. They're irregularly every 3 minutes or so, but skip every now and again, and are strong enough the wife tells me to note that they're strong. The wife phones UCH and tells them this. They focus on the skip every now and again instead of the every 3 minutes which we found to be the important part. They say to not come in yet.

It's getting awkward calling her "the wife" all the time. I'll switch to "L" from here on out.

Eventually I remember we have music for this. We made a Labour playlist. I start to get out the iPod to play it, but L just says we're going to hospital. Now.

So at 5:00 I start calling UCH to tell them we're coming in. No answer. Over and over again. For 15 minutes (FFS). I can't call both a taxi and the hospital at the same time. Ok, technically I can since we have more than one phone, but I can't focus enough to do it. So I keep trying to call the hospital – especially to let them know to get the birthing pool ready. And while it's ringing I use L's phone SMS some nearby friends and ask if they could give us a lift.

They're just about to head out to a party, so they're happy to stop and get us on the way. At 5:30 we're in the car and on our way. L is in the front seat still timing contractions and making smalltalk. I keep saying potentially unhelpful things like don't go anywhere near Arsenal. Around now contractions are coming every 2-3 minutes and lasting about a minute. Still, L keeps up polite conversation, and stops bothering counting contractions. I am impressed. Later she tells me what is wrong with the contraction timer app she was using and what a good one needs to do. If anyone wants a collaborator for writing one, I can put you in touch.

We get to UCH just before 6, pile out of the car with our 3 bags, and say very brief thanks and goodbyes. We head up to the birthing centre on the 3rd floor. Fortunately we've been there before and can easily find it. Unusually, the lift is there, so there's no where's the sodding lift panic.

Since I was never able to get through to them, the midwives are not ready for us. L sits in reception having contractions while I give them the pregnancy notes and our birth plan. They say thanks though I clearly see that they don't actually read out birth plan – they just file it in with the notes. They start cleaning a room for us, and take L to another room to wait.

To be continued...

First day out

We took the little one out to lunch today with my parents. It was our first attempt at a restaurant . It seems to have been a success. It was the wife's turn to carry her in the sling (I took her last time). We did take longer than expected to pack the Bag – mostly because every time we'd packed before was on way to midwives and such, and we knew they'd have stuff if we forgot it. This time we were going to the real world, and we'd have to make sure we had everything we needed.

The wee one spent the bulk of the meal in the sling. The wife only dropped food in her hair once. The baby slept or was quiet the whole time. After the meal she seemed to be getting a bit warm, so we took her out of the sling. That's when the next table over noticed and decide to pay tribute to her by cooing, asking her age, and informing us they have 3 girls in their twenties between them.

This seems to be pretty common. It's happened every time we've left the house with her. Later in the meal one of the staff asked how old she was. I told him 8 days and that this was her first meal out. He spread his arms in welcome and smiled. I don't mind this at all. A friendly bit of natter with complete strangers is a good thing, and something that city life seems to miss out on. I don't like the unsolicited advice about how we're doing it all wrong — but only one person's ever done that. The Isn't she cute and You're brave leaving the house so soon I can live with.

The place had cooled down by the time we had coffee, so we put her back in the sling. The wife drank hers with a straw with the excuse that most baby burns are from spilt hot beverages. We clearly are still quite a bit paranoid. The walk home in the rain showed that, me walking close with my arm around the wife making sure she can't slip and fall. And us stopping at every intersection waiting for the green "walk" light regardless of how little traffic there was.

All in all a success with no crying or meltdowns or anything. I wonder how old she has to be before she's too fussy to take out?

Completely unrelated — I keep pondering the adage sleep when they sleep. I don't know if I'm missing something, but it's the opposite of what I find I'm doing. When she sleeps, I do dishes, talk to adults, go online, read, blog, and variously maintain the household. When she's awake I try to calm her down if she's annoyed, or cuddle, or just stare at her. I can't see how I'd do the opposite. Ignore her and do work when she's up or crying. Perhaps this too will make more sense later.

The birth story. Part 1

Saturday, 30 July, 5:30 in the morning. I woke up to go to the loo. I came back to find the wife was awake. Both of us could not sleep. The baby was wriggling a bit. The wife played games on her PDA while I tried to get back to sleep. Eventually we both dozed off.

8:30 exactly. The wife taps me on the shoulder twice. Annoyed, I thought This better be important.

My waters just broke

Oh

And, to myself, I thought damn, I was enjoying that sleep, I guess I should get up. I mean, it's not like she was having contractions – water can break at any time, but we should probably do something about it.

So, after a bit more harsh wakeup, we get up. I check the heartbeat – it's just fine, and she's definitely still moving. Now that water is going the wife's belly is all solid. Which is an interesting change from its previous fullness. She asks me to check the colour of the water. To which, in my colourblindness, I respond I am not going to be able to differentiate a subtle green tint. Use your magic colour vision to tell.

After a bit more blather, we eventually call birth centre. There's a nice person on the other end who had a calming effect on us. She redirected us to the foetal assessment unit (MFAU). They are not nearly as friendly. They start out by asking if I'm calling from within the hospital. No, I'm at home. I was transferred on the phone to you (from someone who seemed to have more of a clue, to my annoyance). They don't want to speak to me, they'll only speak to the wife. I say fine, and in a great relief, hand her the phone, saying she'll only talk to you and walk off, relieved that I don't have to deal with that call.

I go off to put the dishes in the dishwasher. I don't want to come home after a week to moulding dishes. I finish as the wife gets off the phone. They say come in for a speculum exam. Leave the bags at home and just come in, she tells me. But without any contractions to go along with it, I figure we have 92 hours max, 48 most likely. So we will see the baby soon. There's no need to rush now. I wonder if we have time to make the NCT meet at the pub later.

Our roles seem to have reversed. The wife is panicking and worried about foetal distress. I'm calm and don't see anything untextbookish or worth worrying about. The heartbeat is solid. She's moving a bit less – but there's so little room for the wee one to move around in. I suppose the foetal assessment unit put some panic in the wife by implying she was out of the midwives' hands and now only fit for the labour ward. I figure it must be the clueless person on the other end of the line confusing the matter. Water breaking is hardly a birth complication.

So at 9:30 it's not-very-rushed breakfast of smoothies for everyone. I bathe, since this could be my last time for days. The wife doesn't since she thinks she's guaranteed to get messier from here on out.

We pack an ipod, camera and the pregnancy notes. Neither of us have any cash, so no taxi for us. So we take the bus which miraculously comes soon. We transfer to the tube at Finsbury Park. It looks like it'll be an Arsenal game later, so it could be very hard to get home afterwards. I push that to the back of my mind for later.

On the tube there are plenty of seats, but the wife makes a man move out of the priority seat anyway. I giggle. I'm guessing it'll be her last chance to do this and it gives her some sense of control. This, of course, was violated by london transport inspectors accosting her and demanding to see her card on the way out of the station. Bloody twats. She's clearly very pregnant and exiting the tube at a big maternity hospital. The these two London Transport idiots surround her, stopping her from going anywhere and don't let her say more than Do we have to do this now — before cutting her off and demanding ID. Really uncalled for and certainly did not help her mood.

After that unwarranted attack from London Transport, we make our way to the UCLH MFAU. When we arrive there just after 10am, there's no one there. A nice very pregnant woman sitting in the waiting room lets us in. People with appointments start showing up, and we let them in. Eventually some staff show up just as we started regretting not making pancakes for brekky.

We're finally seen at just before 11. The midwife is very friendly and bubbly. Thankfully – our mood had been slowly darkening since that fist phone call at 9. The midwife spent most of the time chuckling. Everything is fine. The waters are clear, her blood pressure is fine. She decided there was no point checking dilation or anything since it's just a question of waiting for contractions to start. We're now at 80% chance of a spontaneous labour in the next 7-10 days. She asked us to come back Sunday morning (the next day) after the morning shift change at 9ish. They'll check the state of the baby, and if there's no strong need to induce, they'll start the wife on antibiotics (since once the waters break the risk of infection goes up) – though the midwife was rather keen on inductions. After that morning I had not intention of putting any effort into making it there on time. I figured if we did need to go back, we'd have a proper leisurely breakfast first.

So out we go, and back home on the tube. We stop on the way to pick up some cash so we can get a cab next time.

Now we are three

The baby was born at 7pm on Saturday night. Things kicked off not very long after posting that I should be on the ball and ready to jump into action. I'm really excited to have her around, though I'm really really knackered at the moment. Which is why it's taken so long to actually post about it.

She's so small and cute and adorable. She has the wife's nose (I knew it) and chin, and my ears and brow.

I took a lot of notes on the day, which I'll fill in and post later, possibly in parts as I have the time. Then I'll decide if I turn this blog into a fatherhood blog from a pregnancy blog.