Another summer Sydney morning dawns and, like most mornings, I collect our dirty washing and waddle precariously downstairs to the laundry. Fortunately, I’ve memorised the number of steps. Viewing anything below the ever-increasing protuberance that encases my first child has become increasingly difficult of late. In fact, movement of any sort is difficult. I do a lot of sitting and lying around these days, preferably with a drink, a good book and lots of chocolate within grabbing distance.

Once safely downstairs, I squish through the back door along with the basket of dirty washing and am greeted by an energy-sapping wall of humidity and glaring sunshine. Squinting, I lumber towards the dreaded outside laundry where countless numbers of uninvited guests are no doubt having breakfast. Termites. They make my skin crawl. I’m sure I can hear them munching some days. But until funds permit us to renovate our new abode, I am left to wonder whether I will survive another morning in the washhouse.

The picture of me buried under a mountain of rotten timber and twisted iron is very real and does nothing for my already ‘sensitive’ state. A few deep breaths later, I set our ancient washing machine in motion, and escape outside under a tree while it bumps and grinds its way through its morning ritual.

"Morning dear," screeches Mrs Peterson, my ever vigilant neighbour. I’m convinced she spends her entire day lying in wait for someone–anyone, she’s not fussy–to make the slightest noise. Although, in fairness, I must admit our washing machine could very easily be heard streets away.

"Hi Mrs P."

After the usual ‘Not long now pet’ routine that’s been going on almost every day for the last six months, I tell her I still have five more days to go.

But later in the afternoon her words come back to haunt me. This time dear old Mrs P is right on the money! At six pm I feel twinges, then stronger twinges, and then major twinges–-in fact, enough pain to grab my birth manual and call out to my girlfriend who is staying with us.

"Just need to see what I’m supposed to do now," I say flipping the pages. "Right–time pains. I’ll get the clock."

My friend, Thea, unmarried and without children, looks at me vaguely, nods and returns to the bathroom. She’s got no idea what’s going on, and come to think of it, I’m not much better.

Since I’m the first in our ‘group’ to reproduce and having lost my mother many years ago, I have relied heavily on the dog-eared manual. My tight-lipped gynecologist has divulged little regarding this stage of proceedings.

"That’s another one–ten minutes apart--right. Oh, good, I’m supposed to be in hospital!" A tiny wave of panic washes over me.

My husband, a paramedic, is not home from work and our phone is yet to be connected, so my very best, kind-hearted girlfriend offers the following advice.

"You go to the telephone box and ring Barry or get his workmates to send an ambulance while I finish putting on my makeup," she says merrily and disappears.

Well that sounds fair, I think to myself as I fast-waddle between pains down our street. I secretly hope she has triplets while stranded in the desert!

Drowning in perspiration, squashed in the phone box, I’m told that my husband has already left work and is on his way home. The cheerful male voice then tells me that an ambulance will be dispatched immediately.

"Okay, but give me time to get back ho--" Dial tone. I hold my stomach and attempt to run. I round the corner into our street just in time to see the ambulance pull up outside our house.

"I’m here…I’m coming!" I scream, my sweat-soaked dress clinging to my distended body.

"You shouldn’t be running, love," Ken, the paramedic (and a friend of my husband), says calmly as I lean gasping on the fence.

"I’ll get my bag," I pant and lope back inside.

"Thea, where are you? I have to go!"

"Hold on, I’m just finishing my mascara."

"Um, the ambulance is waiting. I’M HAVING A BABY!"

"Finished now. Listen, I wonder if I can get a lift into town. I really don’t want to get the train."

I grab my bag and lean on the wall as another pain starts.

"Don’t know. You’ll have to ask Ken," I answer.

So she does. And he looks, with more than a passing interest, into her mascara-fringed eyes.

"Sure, no problem," he says, and we all bundle into the front seat–no offer to lie down in the back, where I can stretch out and be more comfortable.

Come to think of it I’ve heard my husband say jokingly (I think) that he and his fellow officers sit pregnant women up for as long as possible, hoping that this will avoid them having to deliver the baby. I wonder if this little tip is in their training manual? If so, I have no doubt it was written by a man.

"What time is Barry due in on the train?" Ken asks.

"Who?"

"Barry, you know, Baz, your husband, the better half!"

"Oh him, umm, about now, I suppose. Why?" I reply hunched over.

"We’ll swing by the station and see if he’s arrived. Don’t want him to miss the big event."

Three trains later, and with no sign of ‘the better half,’ I interrupt the riveting conversation between Thea and Ken who, I think, has fallen hopelessly in love.

"I think we best go to the hospital NOW," I groan, while scrunching Thea’s hand. She shakes her purple digits trying to get the circulation going, and looks to see if I have chipped her nail polish.

"Yes, we should go," she says looking at her watch. "I really can’t be late."

The trip into town is a slow one. Ken seems to have forgotten how to use an accelerator. If I wasn’t so huge I’d almost feel invisible. What’s a few labour pains between friends, I ask you. My companions certainly aren’t feeling any pain! They seem more than happy to flirt and chat until the cows come home.

"Sorry to interrupt, guys, but if you don’t want to deliver a baby real soon I’d suggest we GET A MOVE ON!"

So finally, after increasing our speed to moderately slow and arranging to have coffee with my dear friend later that night, Ken pulls into the curb. Young women with disgustingly thin bodies, (that can’t be healthy) and labourless, painfree faces (their turn will come!), congregate outside the club.

"Have a nice night," I say sarcastically as Thea alights.

"Yes, you too," she replies cheerfully, fluttering her eyelashes at Ken.

I shoot Ken my best thundering look, and we make our way post haste to the hospital. I can almost read his thoughts-–my only human-looking cargo has been dispatched so why delay any further.

In the examination room, up on a trolley, being examined, my water breaks, flowing in a torrent over the edges.

"Sorry," I moan embarrassed.

The Sister pats my hand and tells me it’s perfectly okay. However, it’s obvious the surly cleaner who is called in to mop the floor thinks otherwise.

"Would you like a shower before we take you to labour ward?" asks a sprightly young nurse with a concave stomach.

I hesitate but nod.

Ten minutes later while hanging off the shower taps and trying to press the nurse’s buzzer with my foot, I decide that this was not a good idea.

Nobody answers the buzzer. I wait until the pain subsides a little and make my way to the nurse’s station. Not a soul in sight.

"Oh this is just grand," I say out loud. Another wave of horrendous pain makes my knees buckle.

"Mrs Miles, what are you doing?" asks the same sprightly young nurse, frowning at me on the floor.

"I think it’s called having a baby!" I screech and grab her ankles.

Up in labour ward some hours later, I’ve lost all track of time, the Sister tells me that everything is ‘progressing well’.

"Who for?" I ask between pants. "How long now? Where’s my doctor?"

"Doctor will be here shortly."

Oh good for Doctor. I suppose he’s lolling around his pool without a thought of me giving birth to a rock!

However, four and a half pains later he strolls in and inspects his end of the deal.

"Hmm."

"What’s, ‘pant, pant,’ happening?" I ask between clenched teeth.

"Not much it seems. We’ll have to help you along."

"That would be nice. I’m open to any and all suggestions as long as they involve strong pain relief."

I’m told to roll over, which is easier said than done, and receive a jab in the rear. Then I’m shown how to use a mask.

Fifteen minutes later I decide that I love this piece of plastic–and whatever is coming out of it–and wonder groggily if I can smuggle it out somehow.

Some time after, with my legs up in stirrups, I’m instructed to push. Push what? Everything from the waist down is beautifully numb, and I think everyone in the room is wonderful–even the sprightly young nurse with the concave stomach. But, just to please them, I try.

"Not in your throat Mrs Miles. Push down below."

"Down below’s gone away," I giggle.

"Forceps," I hear someone shout, and minutes later I’m told I have a daughter.

I try to focus on my baby but drift off into a blissful sleep–the last one I’m allowed for many months.

Later, feeling very sore and sorry for myself, but extremely proud of my reproductive ability, I lean my head on ‘the better half’s’ shoulder.

"Have you seen her yet?"

"Mmm."

"Isn’t she beautiful?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean, ‘sort of’?" I exclaim sitting up and wincing. "What’s wrong with her?"

"Well, she was crying a lot and I noticed she hasn’t got any teeth."

Thinking unspeakable vindictive thoughts about the father of my toothless daughter, and everyone else I have come in contact with in the last ten hours, I scream for that wonderful piece of plastic with its mind-numbing ability!

                           ***************
That scream I just mentioned echoed through the maternity wing of St Margaret’s Hospital more than thirty years ago. How time flies. And I’m happy to report that my daughter eventually grew teeth, much to the delight of her father, and is now about to make us grandparents.

I’ve explained about the wonders of bits of plastic. I’ve explained to her partner that new babies do not have teeth. I’ve told her to ring me the moment she starts labour. And I’ve told her that she will always remember what will surely be one of the most memorable days of her life, be it good or not so good.

My friend Thea went on to have two sons, not triplets, not with Ken, and not in the desert. She cringes every time I repeat this story, which I do at every opportunity. Wouldn’t you?

Author's Biography

I enjoy being an Australian writer of adult non-fiction, poetry and fiction, children’s novels, chapter books, picture books and poetry and am a member of the Australian Society of Authors and the Victorian Writers’ Centre. I also participate in two active children’s writing critique groups.

My other great love is painting. Over the past twenty years I have exhibited and sold my water colour and pastel works in numerous art shows and galleries, including my own. My work hangs in collections in Australia, New Zealand, Japan, and the USA.

My poetry has recently been accepted by Wee Ones Magazine in the USA and is due to be published online this year.

E-mail Helen at bjmiles@iprimus.com.au

Read or write reviews on this essay!

We are still working on the "read reviews" section. We need your input!

Read or write reviews on this site!

We'd like to know from our readers if they enjoyed this issue of Seven Seas! Do you have praises or complaints? Suggestions or ideas? Would you like to read other people's reviews? Please check out our Site Reviews Page

Get notified!

Would you like to get notified as soon as new Seven Seas issues are published on the Web?
Get notified!

Tell A Friend!

Do you enjoy the Seven Seas site? 
Please tell a friend to stop by!
Tell a friend!

Go back to the table of contents
 of the current issue.

You just read essay # 4.  Read essay #

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   13   14