You know what they say about the best laid plans, and when babies are concerned – born or otherwise – that rings particularly true.
My plans for an active birth went flying out the window when I was induced and four looooong and painful days later, a surgeon appeared by my bed to tell me I was being whisked off for a c-section.
By that point, I didn’t give a shit. If he’d told me they were going to rip off my head and pull my daughter out through my skull I’d probably have smiled and nodded at him.
He briefly outlined the procedure, but I could barely hear him over the clamouring in my own head – that within an hour my baby would be in my arms and strangers would stop sticking their fingers up my growler.
Here’s a handful of the thoughts that went through my drugged and extremely tired brain.
- This is just like being in ER. Or…Scrubs.
- You want to shave WHAT exactly?
- Surgeon looks a bit young.
- I really hope that Bloke stays at the head end.
- He looks hot in scrubs, though.
- What’s that noise?
- …am I being unzipped?
- …can I see what’s going on in the reflection of the lights?
- There’s a baby crying! A baby! Who the fuck brings a baby into an operating room?
- She hates me already. I’m a terrible mum.
- She’s tiny. And perfect. I want my first words to her to be really profound and important. I want to remember them forever.
- ..I’m pretty sure I just promised to try not to drop her on her head.