Challenge Accepted!: 253 Steps to Becoming an Anti-It Girl

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Me:Well, depends on what kind of show you’re referring to.

Nurse:What?

Api:Oh, God.

Me:Well, I’ve had a number of shows.

Nurse:Pardon?

Api:Please stop.

Me:I’ve had sold-out shows and critically acclaimed shows, so I’ll need you to be a little more specific.

Api:I hate you.

Nurse:Has a big chunk of mucus come out in your undies? A mucus plug? A SHOW?

Me:Oh … no.

Nurse:OK, well I need to examine you, to see if you really are in labour.

Me:I’m pretty sure I’m—

And with that she jammed two gloved fingers deep inside me. She retracted them, presented her fingers to me covered in my dignity, self-esteem and what looked like an oyster and declared, ‘There’s your show.’ With that she walked out and closed the door behind her.

I looked at Api and before I could even tell him to ‘Get me the fuck out of here’, he was already packing up my stuff. He helped me off the bed and begged me never to do gags in a hospital ever again, to which I declared, ‘I can’t make those kinds of promises, mate, I was just fisted by a woman named Brenda.’

We went home, where my mum was pacing, picked up our bags and made our way to Drugs Hospital. It was a 353,837-hour drive to Drugs Hospital and everything was Api’s fault. The back seat wasn’t big enough, Api’s fault. My contractions hurt, Api’s fault. I was pregnant, Api’s fault. The crisis in Syria? Api’s. Fault.

Once we got to Drugs Hospital it was cold and quiet. Jesus, what’s with all these cold and quiet hospitals?! We had to ring some sort of bell to get through a few doors, and as soon as we had passed through all of them and got to the birthing suite, it was like a fucking circus and I was so relieved. There were midwives rushing from room to room, men wandering around looking tired and confused, phones ringing and people talking really loudly. BAM! I was safe, I could totally do this. It still wasn’t as warm as I had hoped but I had to pick my battles – I was about to be ripped from arsehole to breakfast.

We met our midwife, Wendy, and handed her our birth plan and she was totally on board with Calmbirth and was super-supportive of us wanting a water birth. I know this because she told us, ‘I’m totally on board with Calmbirth and am super-supportive of you wanting a water birth.’ I was not missing fisty Brenda, that’s for sure. Wendy was such an advocate that she started giving Api notes on what was required of him before we even got into the birthing suite.

Wendy:OK, Dad, what Mum will need from you during this amazing process is your support, so during contractions there is to be no touching or talking to Mum, OK?

Api:OK.

Wendy:OK. And Mum, what I’ll need from you is—

I could feel another contraction coming on, I was cold and was in no mood for Wendy’s anecdotes.

Me:I’ll just stop you right there, Wendy, I know what is needed from me, and that’s a goddamned human to be vag-shat out of me, so please GIVE ME SOME SPACE!

Contraction over. Possible lifelong friendship with Wendy in jeopardy.

After another couple of contractions in the same vein, Wendy had to leave us for a while and tend a ward full of 15-year-olds who were also crowning. This was good. It gave Api and me a chance to be together and do what we needed to do, i.e. him sleep and me walk around the room like an elephant with something to prove.

Over the next five hours I was walking, I was yelling, I was screaming, I was bouncing on the birthing ball, I was kicking the ball, I was in the shower, I was out of the shower, I broke the shower, I was back on the ball, and Api slept. Wendy had come back in a few times to check on me with the phone jammed between her ear and shoulder fielding calls from expectant teenage mothers. Turns out the Mid North Coast is a busy place for damaged hymens and ripening cervixes.

After seven hours of contracting, Wendy came back in and I. Was. DONE.

Me:Wendy, I can’t do this.

Wendy:It sounds like you’re transitioning, love?

Me:What are you talking about?

Wendy:When it’s getting closer to the time to push, most woman say they can’t do it, but you can, you can, love.

Me:Look, I understand that, I know that people say that they can’t do it but they can and they are just scared, but you need to understand that I can’t do it! So you need to pack your shit up, Wendy, we are going home. API, WAKE UP, WE’RE OUT!

Turns out Wendy was right, funny that. I was actually in transition and about to meet my baby. Shit! This gave me no comfort at all. I knew that I was too far along to make the most of the hospital’s drug stash and I quickly realised that the only way I was going to get this baby from the inside to the outside was by way of vaginal exorcism.

I wish I could say that the thought of holding my baby in my arms cancelled out any fear I was feeling and instead gave me strength to soldier on, confident and empowered, but it didn’t. I was petrified of the pain, the imminent burning ring of fire and the possibility that I might push so hard that my arse would explode!

Wendy asked me to get on the bed so she could see how dilated I was. I quietly and considerately kicked Api to wake him the fuck up so I might be able to have a woman fist me for the second time that day. And yep, she was right, I was eight centimetres and ready to get into that lukewarm bath and start tearing.

Wendy ran the bath, Api walked around a little dazed – but to be fair no one wakes up well from an afternoon sleep – and I tried to run out the door.

I got into the bath and nothing changed. I thought that all my troubles would wash away when I got into that water, because that’s what the women in the birthing videos tell you. Then there’s the women who manage to orgasm during labour. Fuck those women. The water did nothing. I was still in pain, just as uncomfortable, and now I was wet, and not in the way that the orgasm ladies were wet.

My water hadn’t broken yet and I was starting to freak out. The bath was in the corner of the bathroom and it had a red cord that hung above the centre of it in case there was an emergency. It was there to pull on to alert the authorities, then the cast of Grey’s Anatomy would come running.

Wendy had yet again run out to tend to other cervixes, and I got a crazy amount of pressure in the areas where one would expect to experience crazy amounts of pressure during the transitioning stages of labour.

Holy shit, he’s coming, my baby is about to tear out of me without me needing to push! Jesus, were those rumours that the school bitches made up about me being ‘loose’ right?!?!

Then came this almighty surge. ‘Holy shit!’ I screamed at Api. ‘Get her, get Wendy, he’s coming, the baby is coming!’

With that Api jumped up and yanked on the red cord above the bath so hard he pulled the goddamned thing out of the roof. While he was trying to untangle the cord from around his perfect face, I realised that it wasn’t in fact my baby coming out, it was my water breaking. YES! I’m not loose – suck a fart, Year 8 bitches.

After my water broke, Wendy came back in to check on Api and I made it my mission to get as comfortable as possible. Trusty Wendy was there to suggest some positions.

Wendy:Try crouching.

Me:No.

Wendy:Sitting back with your legs rested up on the sides of the bath?

Me:No.

Wendy:Some women like to lie on their side, propping themselves up with their elbow, and their partner holds their top leg in the air, like a scissor kick.

Me:No. Please don’t say ‘scissor kick’.

Wendy:OK, let’s get you on all fours.

Api:Hehe, that’s what got us into this.

Me:ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Api:Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood.

Me:Come here and let me cut your dick off, that will lighten my mood!

So I got on all fours and bit the metal on the side of the bath and the pushing began. They say that you should push into your bum when having a baby and it makes you feel like you are pooing.

Well, Wendy had this covered. I was 45 minutes into pushing into my bum and Wendy, my Wendy, leant over and said how important it was for me to really focus on pushing like I was pooing.

Wendy:We’re nearly there, we really are.

Me:FUCKING ARSE TIT PRICK POO AND MUTHA FUCKING BALLS!!

Wendy:You’re doing so well, Mum.

ME:AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!

Wendy:Now, just keep focusing on pushing into your bum. I don’t want you to worry if you do a little poo, as I have a poop scoop.

With this she presented a poop scoop shaped like a ladle and showed it off proudly, much as Mufasa did with Simba in The Lion King. She put it next to my face, she showed it to Api and then just for added value showed it to me one more time.

This was all going on while I was mid-contraction. I turned around – well, my head turned 180 degrees and the rest of my body didn’t move. I glared at her with bloodshot eyes and snarled through gritted teeth: ‘I’m not interested in the poop scoop, Wendy. I don’t care if I shit on your face. Just. Get. Him. Out.’

Api was scared, the trainee midwife standing in the corner staring at my shirtless #hothusband in the bath was scared, I even scared myself. But Wendy didn’t flinch. She didn’t take her eyes off me as she slowly put the poop scoop down. I think if she could have she would have told me to shut the fuck up and know my place, but as she was a professional she let it slide. Wendy and Celeste BFF status was back on track.

An hour into pushing, Wendy said they needed to monitor my heart, as they didn’t want it to be straining for too long. Turns out that being in active labour for eight hours is fine but once you hit that eight hours and five minutes mark then people start to panic.

It was around this time that the burning ring of fire was really in full flight and Wendy could feel the top of my baby’s head. GROSS! She asked if I wanted to reach down between my legs and feel his head so I could be a part of this moment.

A PART OF THIS MOMENT? I am this moment. Without me there’s no baby head, there’s no #hothusband flexing in the bath and there’s no poop scoop. THERE IS NO FUCKING MOMENT! But I get FOMO real bad and I didn’t want to feel like I was being left out of my son’s birth, so I reached down and it was as gross as I had expected. It was gooey and hairy and fucking weird.

I gave myself a ‘hands where I can see them’ rule and continued grunting.

With another massive push, his head tore out. I was on all fours so I couldn’t see him, but Api could, and he said our son looked exactly like him and immediately started to cry. I was like a cat trying to get comfortable on a leather couch in an attempt to bend around and see my baby, but as the rest of his body was still inside my body I wasn’t as agile as I would have hoped. So I just had to trust Api.

A little birthing-in-the-water trivia: babies can stay underwater for ages before they need to draw their first breath, and it’s the atmosphere around them that pushes oxygen into their lungs. So when my son stayed immersed in water for a full minute between me pushing his head out (gross) and the next contraction when his body came flying out, and I was screaming, thinking he was drowning, it turns out he was fine.

When the rest of him came shooting out, I caught him, held him on my chest, rearranged the umbilical cord that was conveniently wrapped around my thigh, and never let him go.

We named him Lou.

I now have two beautiful boys, Lou and Buddy. They are by far the best thing that has ever happened to me, second to that time I met Sporty Spice.

The only five minutes Buddy (18 months here) slept in the first two years of his life.

Lou (age two) constantly reinventing the use of props.

If it all gets too hard, just hang your head out the window and scream!

@jessicasimpson