“Will she be born on the 8th or the 9th?” the midwife mused around 11.50pm last night. When she was born, I looked at my watch and it was precisely 12.
It had been a long day. Herself’s waters had broken at 12.50am the night before, and she started to have contractions in the early hours of the morning. She had and epidural around 6pm, so the last few hours weren’t as excruciating as the previous twelve, but even so, it’s remarkable how composed she looks in the photo I took of them at 12.10am, considering what she’s been through, throwing up with the pain. God bless her.
And Molly, who entered this world as calm as you like, though she’d no doubt benefited from some of the diamorphine her mother had been given earlier in the day.
They had to use a device like a sink plunger to encourage her out, and that’s left a bump on her head which will soon go.
The standard of care in the delivery ward was brilliant. Thanks to all of the people involved there.
I was back down to visit this afternoon, and then I return in an hour or so. They’re both doing very well. She’s not a particularly small baby, but yet still manages to look lost in the ‘newborn’ baby-grows. I changed her this afternoon, and was relieved to find that that knack is in the riding-a-bike category.
Hopefully, they’ll be home very soon: perhaps tomorrow or any rate Tuesday. She took to breast feeding within an hour of being born, and, we’re told, if that’s working out and the ma shows herself capable of bathing the wee blighter, then the maternity ward send them out into the world as soon as possible.
And tomorrow I’ve to use all of my interpersonal and negotiating skills to get time off from my brand new job.
But that’s a mere detail. I can’t stop thinking of wee Molly and Herself, and happiness is an almost physical presence in my chest.