I’m pacing the hallway. Helen’s in the bath moaning and all I can think of is that we should be in a hospital. We’re about eight hours into the labour and so far it’s been pretty cool. I’ve managed to pop down to Tesco, without riding my motorbike into a tree, to get biscuits for when the midwives arrive. I’ve timed contractions and jotted them down in my little notebook (entirely pointless but makes the expectant father feel like he’s contributing something) and made endless cups of tea for Helen whilst she bounces up and down on an oversized beach ball watching episodes of 'Scrubs'.
The midwives are telephoned when the contractions get to the correct frequency. Helen is by this time gagging for gas and air. They suggest she gets into a bath until their arrival. Bad move! Being on her back, in water, has obviously shifted something around and Helen’s discomfort has had a promotion and its new job description is PAIN!
We are on our own, the midwives are half an hour away and I can’t believe I agreed to a home birth. The idea hadn’t really cropped up seriously during the first seven months of Helen’s pregnancy. Our upstairs neighbour had recently had her second home birth (aromatherapy candles, whale song, the full Monty), having lived through that one (albeit vicariously in glorious late night surround sound) the thought that Helen would hunker down in the living room in order to bring our first born into the world was, frankly, a non-starter.
I preferred the idea of being down the pub rather than down the business end of my fully dilated wife. I’ve never particularly bought into the mythological epiphany that a new father allegedly experiences when seeing their child born (having been through it, I still don’t). Take it from me chaps, watching one small human being attempting to exit a much larger one is, if anything, slightly comic. The magic comes later when you’re not so traumatised. Sadly, for most of us, non-attendance is not an option! My thinking was, at least in a hospital I’d be in the audience, rather than the chorus line.
Helen decided it would be a good idea to do the NHS antenatal class, if only to get a peek at the labour ward. So after a couple of sessions of handling ventouse caps, doing embarrassing things with nappies and watching 1970s information films populated by hirsute women, we were finally rewarded with THE TOUR. Almost immediately I could sense Helen’s discomfort and by the time we returned to the classroom, an idea had been conceived, come to term and born in Helen’s mind.
Peter gives us the father's perspective on
the birth of his daughter, Amy
A home birth - i must be mad!