She’s in good spirits, laughing and joking. But we both sense that’s
about to change.
She’s soon on all fours, humming, swaying back and forth. I follow
my instructions: remind her of her labour plan; help with her
breathing; bring cups of water and ice; rotate through the CDs.
The baby’s heart rate is continually monitored, and the rate of
the drip adjusted. After not too long, I’m told to go and change.
I race down the corridor in only my boardshorts. Barefoot, I feel
like I’m heading to the beach or pool, not a birth. Back in the room,
I skip towards the shower, but in my haste miss seeing the water
on the floor. I slip on the tiles, only to catch myself against the
doorframe. Both now on our hands and knees, the midwives fire me
a look of disapproval. At that moment, the last thing they need is a
husband with torn ankle ligaments.
I’m given a hand-held shower and told to point it at the base of my
wife’s spine. My knees start to hurt, but I dare not mention it. The
pushing begins; the encouragement and anticipation build. Earlier
than expected, I’m told the baby’s coming. Hairy and wet, the head
appears. My wife wants to give up, but is told to keep going. I keep
reminding her that what she’s experiencing is healthy pain, and that
every contraction is one less to have, and that soon there will be zero.
After 16 minutes of pushing, the baby is born. At three hours total,
the labour is short, but intense. I’m in awe of my amazing wife.
Despite being petite, she’s now delivered two babies, both in excess
of four kilos. I’ll think twice the next time I complain of man flu.
It takes us a while to compose ourselves and check the gender –
we’re wet and tired and emotional. It’s another boy; we laugh and
cry. After we return to the room and get dressed, I retrieve the
sealed envelope from my bag and check the sonographer’s note:
“Appears to be a BOY!” We laugh again.
Immediately, we feel more confident with him – holding, soothing,
feeding. If only you could have your second child before your first.
He seems to detect our confidence and is instantly calm. Kids,
I decide, are like wild animals: they can sense your fear. The two
grandmothers visit, along with the now bigger brother – excited,
uncertain. My wife tells me to hold the baby; she’s prepared for this
moment, and knows our firstborn will rush headlong into her arms
as soon as he sees her. He does exactly that, but soon turns to greet
his baby brother, who I hold out for him to see. It’s touching to watch
him embrace his newborn sibling. No doubt it won’t be long before
they’re fighting over Lego toys, then bikes, then car keys.
Passing the new baby to my mum, the yiayia, she’s soon sobbing
lightly. She’s thinking of Dad, who will never get to see his
second grandchild. At 86, Mum complains about her many aches
and pains, yet somehow always finds the energy for the next
generation. She picks up every single biscuit crumb my son drops
by hand, and still smothers him with kisses. Deep down, she
knows she’s incredibly lucky.
The next morning, as I prepare to leave the hospital with my
sleeping newborn and sleepy wife, I know I have something to
do. I excuse myself and take a detour via the fifth floor. My heart
is racing, palms sweaty, mouth dry. Slowly, I walk the corridors,
one careful step after another. I sit in the visitor area, pretending
to watch the TV and read a magazine. I even see a few familiar
faces on the nursing staff. They recognise me instantly and ask
how I’m doing. When I say why I’m there, their faces light up.
What wonderful news, they say. It sure is.experience