This time one year ago I was very, very, very, very, very, very fat. As opposed to just being very, very, very, very fat. I was swollen, could not see my *ahem* feet, just wore cowboy boots as they were the only pair of shoes I could manage to cram my giganotosaurus feet into and I was really, really nervous.
We were days away from having our third child and we were pretty sure it was to be our last baby. We knew we’d done our dash. We knew that my body would probably explode if I attempted to grow another person and well, my husband could not afford to shed any more hair from the stress of it all.
We were both glowing in the anticipation of soon meeting our newest family member and finally getting to kiss the squishy flesh of the little wriggly one who had tormented us with its gorgeousness for 38 weeks.
As it is before the birth of a baby, it was one of the longest weeks ever. We were relishing family time with our two little ones and trying to snatch a bit of alone time before another newborn came screaming into our world. I was also desperate for the baby to come because I had cleaned every surface in the house and it was getting a little strange cleaning door handles and the exhaust fan. Newborn babies can not even walk, let alone climb to inspect if the house has met regulation cleaning standards.
Finally, the day arrives and Twiggy and I make the familiar journey to the hospital. We sit in the hospital room – me naked, but for a flimsy gown, and Twiggy wearing a silly cotton, operating theatre pant suit. At least it wasn’t a size too small and in a lovely lavender colour like when we had our first child. We make that scary, yet exhilarating journey along the corridors. I am quietly willing the baby to be ok and the C-section to go without a hitch and my husband is slowly turning that lovely shade of grey. He knows full well he will soon be standing in a brightly-lit room helplessly watching his wife shake with nerves while a super enormous injection is pushed into her back and our much-loved obstetrician cuts her stomach open. While the room buzzes with a team of nurses and doctors, busy in their daily routine, he knows he will watch alone as a little person is pulled into the world.
While I wait for the all-too familiar feeling of tugging. While I watch the faces of those working furiously to get our baby out alive and well. While I watch my husband to see signs that all is ok. While I feel the pressure of the anaesthetic pushing on my chest. And while I wait for the calming sounds of a newborn cry. I wonder how we will cope with three kids under the age of 4. I wonder if I have enough love in me for another baby.
And then I feel the pulling. A baby is held up briefly for me to see. It’s a girl. My husband and I smile. We say her name. Then she’s rushing past me, covered in blood and all gooey. My husband moves fast through the room. There’s a moment of doubt. I freeze. And then the sound I have waited nine months to hear. A cry. Our baby. Our last newborn. We are so very lucky. One year has rushed past so fast.