“2 centimetres dilated baby! Just had a sweep. Little Fella away!”
Last Friday my fanny was invaded by the cruel lady doctor. It was not the most pleasant of experiences but when she told me and the fella that I was 2 centimetres dilated we went into labour overdrive. I sped home to hold vigil with my Mammy while the fella went into work and tried to concentrate on being busy and important ahead of the big arrival.
I had a show (sorry peeps) about four hours after the invasion which put into place what shall hereafter be known as The Great Fake Labour of 2011. So, pains started about an hour before the fella came home from work. I was CONVINCED the little fella was on the way – as was the whole of our extended family and friends due to several panicked text messages that had been misconstrued (“Ciara’s 2cm dilated – the baby should be here soon” being the main culprit) – and started timing the contractions.
By twelve that night they were about seven minutes apart and a minute long and NOT THAT SORE. I was quite smug about this it has to be said. I spent quite a lot of time thinking about what a birthing legend I was, how the little fella was going to slip out without a mere peep from myself and I would spend the next few days gracefully looking down on my bundle of joy all the while regaling anyone who would listen about my easy labour.
So, at about half five the pains were a little stronger, five minutes apart and a minute long. After communing with the little fella and What To Expect When You’re Expecting *always a bad idea* while in one of my calm yourself Ciara – you’re in labour baths I decided that it was time the fella and I high tailed it to the hospital.
I brushed my hair, decided it was ok to forgoe the bra in this instance, gave my Mammy a hug goodbye and off we went. Seventeen minutes later (the fella would make an excellent raleigh driver), the pains were four and a half minutes apart and we pulled up at the hospital.
There was no dramatics, no “out of my way, lady with a baby” shouting (very disappointing really). Up I was shunted to to an assessment room where a very nice student midwife brought us in, told me to take off my knickers and regaled us with horror stories of student nursing (they don’t get paid for the first FOUR YEARS – it’s a disgrace) while the real midwife pottered about having tea.
At this point I was feeling grand… cheery even. I started to worry that maybe I wasn’t in labour, but with the familiar twinge of in my belly I assured myself that the little fella was arriving and all would be well. Ten minutes after we arrived the student announced that the baby has gone to sleep. That’s right. SLEEP. Apparently there were a few movements when we arrived during the tiny contractions, but then he decided that it was time for him to get himself some shut eye. This is not a baby who was ready to come out… at least according to the student.
Then. The real midwife comes along, sticks her hand up the fanny (OUCH) and announces that there’s no way I’m in labour – the cervix is far to thick. Oh dear Jesus. MORTO. I whisper ‘sorry now. Sorry about that’ as she tells me that it’s always ok to come into the hospital, but I should really try to stick it out at home for as long as I could.
The cheek! In one fell swoop all of my hopes of being a birthing legend flew out the window of the hospital. Tail between my legs, and ashamed at my lack of baby-having nous, I shrank back home.
So, it’s three days later. There is no baby action. I am going to spend the whole day jumping up and down, but honestly, I think I’ve made it so comfortable for the little fella in there that he is never going to come out. Maybe until he’s a toddler. Now that’s a thought…