Cake Day #2

Eighteen years ago today, I was in the worst pain imaginable. I had been in labour since about 1.30 am. I hung on until about 8 am, when it got (what I thought was) unbearable. Ho ho how little I knew. I hadn't gone into labour with my eldest, the placenta ruptured, and I had to have an emergency c section, so labour and childbirth were totally new to me. We went to hospital, I hopped on the bed and the midwife gave me an internal to check how far I was dilated. This was it, surely. Because surely the pain couldn't get much worse than this. Right? Right...?

I remember it as if it was yesterday. The midwife brought out this huge plastic thing, like a ruler. She pointed to one end of it. 'This,' she said, 'is when you are fully dilated. Ten centimetres. This is when you'll be giving birth.' 'Ok.' I replied. 'And where am I?' She took a deep breath and pointed to the opposite end of the plastic thing. 'You're here. Half a centimetre dilated.' 

That's when I knew that it was going to bloody hurt. Half a centimetre dilated? Seven hours of excruciating pain for half a centimetre?? Anyway, needless to say, the pain got worse, the epidural failed (yes, I had an epidural, so that tells you how much pain I was in), I ended up giving birth with just gas and air, and my daughter's massive head wrecked my foof. I'm not even joking. Took about two hours to stitch me back up again. But - they let me keep the gas and air while they did it, so, happy days. 

That first moment you see your baby girl, you expect to see this vision of beauty. Me? My first words as I looked at her in Mr G's arms. All red faced and angry looking, with a shock of dark brown hair.

Me: She looks like Bernard Manning. 

Mr G: She does not!

My newborn daughter. A miniature version of a fat Northern racist. You're welcome sweetheart. Sorry. I was still a bit addled from the Entonox (that's some good shit right there). 

That was the last time she was allowed to wear anything white or cream. She's her mother's daughter all right.