The sunlight poured onto pallid, blood-deprived face as we left the hospital. Despite losing nearly half of my blood, the doctors had decided against a blood transfusion. The inside of my mouth felt hard and gritty, like sandpaper every time I swallowed.
“Let’s take a photo!” My wife begged.
“You’ll want to remember this!”
I posed next to the pram, tilted on an angle so that the camera didn’t capture my paunch against the inside of my white shirt. CHOOSE LIFE was printed on it in big black letters. Life I had chosen indeed, and I was ready to share my new one with the outside world.
We wheeled our tiny babe into the enclosed carpark, so dark even despite the light of day. He vomited before we got to the car, and we spent about fifteen minutes playing with the seatbelt.
“No, like this! It clips in.” I insisted as my wife fiddled around, growing frustrated.
“It’s been six days! I just want to get out of here!”
“What if the police pull us over? It’s not done up properly!”
We tried and tried, but the seatbelt would not click in.
“Fine, let’s just go.”
I sidled into the backseat and rested my hand on his chest, a futile attempt to contain the impact, should the worst happen. We arrived home without incident, our apartment fresh and clean as it had only had one resident for six days.
“Let’s give him a bath!” Natalie squealed excitedly.
“But you’re not meant to bath them every day, he’s only a newborn. His skin can’t take it.”
I was so obsessed with getting it right, that I forgot my wife was ready to relish in new motherhood. We bathed our baby, under the afternoon light.
“Check! Check! He’s kicking himself! He’s doing the kicks!”
He looked up into the distance, gently kicking against the water with his long, thin legs. I realised that he trusted us so much and we had to protect him at all costs. It may have been a relatively inconsequential moment, but I felt it deeply.
As I was getting used to being a Mum, my parents were getting used to being grandparents, though it was an awkward process for them. For all intents and purposes, my son was the first proper grandchild, since my brother chose not to talk to them.
“Where’s our little president?” My Mum squealed, opening the door to see us the first time since the birth.
“He’s in his bassinet. He’s sleeping.” I replied, coolly, ready to stamp down a boundary in case they tried to be overbearing. I’d read all the horror stories of new grandparents, and I was determined to hold my ground as a new Mum.
“Not in the cot?” She asked.
“No. He needs to be close to us. We need to check his breathing because of SIDS. By the way, please make sure you don’t smoke on the days you come to visit us, it could harm his breathing.”
My Mum wandered into his bedroom.
“Wow, it’s hot in here. Did you ever consider getting air conditioning installed?”
I tried to remain calm, but it was difficult.
“No. I survived just fine in my childhood.”
“But you guys have the money to do it. Do you really want him to suffer?” My Mum asserted, before jumping right to the next thing.
“Does he have a mobile?”
“No, we haven’t got one yet.”
“Please let us buy you one! Please!”
“Mum, it’s fine. He’s a good sleeper. I don’t want to mess it up, he’s doing so well.”
My Mum huffed and moved into the living room.
“Are you going to get family photos done?”
I paused, glad for a break in the demands.
“Yeah, we’re booked in next week if you want to come along.”
“I’d love to!”
I was glad that we’d finally found some common ground, but I left the conversation feeling like even more of a failure parent. Despite having a baby shower and a nursery that had been set up for years, we didn’t even have some of the basics and other people were noticing. My Mum meant well, truly, but she needed to work on her delivery at times. Like me, she had a need for control in most situations and she really did care for her grandson, but it was all like needles in my side.
Eleven days after the birth, we had our first Christmas as family. We picked at barbecue chicken and prawns, with Soren sleeping soundly, wrapped freshly in a pastel rainbow swaddle.
It wasn’t everything I’d built up in my mind as a first-Christmas-with-a-child, but we unwrapped a pile of gifts and listened to music together as a family all the same.
“I’m still feeling sore.” I complained.
“Have you been taking your painkillers?” My Mum asked.
“Yeah. I wish the birth didn’t happen the way it did. I hope you’re not angry that I insisted on the whooping cough vaccines. I don’t think I would’ve handled it if Soren got sick.”
“I understand. I know you wish the birth could have been different but look at your son. He’s perfect. I know it’s bad to say it, and you could have died, but it would have been even worse if you’d both died.”
I felt the pang of post-traumatic stress hit me like an uppercut. I turned away, hiding the tears that were streaming down my face. It was all so sobering to realise the fragility of life with a brand-new infant and I didn’t know what to do, so I kept on pushing my feelings away.
While I was still unable to drive, I took the 15-minute bus trip to the library for Rhyme Time. Having no access to my best means of transport filled me with dread, but my son didn’t seem to mind. He slept through the whole trip and I was so enthralled by him that I missed my stop. I was now a kilometre from the library. Not willing to be defeated, I trudged the precarious main road, determined to take my baby for a morning of nursery rhymes.
When I arrived, the community room was filled with radiant Mums. I looked down at my lanky body and my infant, then back into the glass door at these buttery, bouncing women and their babies. The door was closed. I didn’t want to knock and draw attention to myself, so I walked back to the courtyard, sat under a tree and sobbed. I pulled out my phone and texted my wife.
I never made it to Rhyme Time. The door was closed when I got there and it had already started.
So much for all the confidence I’d built up during my years as a teacher
Running on my new-motherhood high, I signed up for a Mummy’s group. I had always been a little apprehensive about stepping foot into the Mum space, because I knew how heternonormative it was likely to be. Because Natalie and I had carved out a neat inner-city life, I made sure to sign up for the inner-city Mummy’s group. I felt that even if I was engaging in unknown territory, the littlest favour I could give myself was some familiarity.
The day it started was my first day of freedom to drive again. Although I was physically feeling a lot better from the major abdominal surgery, it had been doctor’s orders to refrain for the six weeks. I followed prudently. Because I had to work up some courage, I spent the morning at the Powerhouse to do an arts session with Soren. Unfortunately, he had fallen asleep before it started, leaving me free with forty-five minutes to study. I left him in his pram and pulled out my laptop.
Some people say you lose some of your intellectual prowess after birth -that the muddle of baby brain causes people to defer their studies and watch Netflix on the couch between feeds – but I wasn’t showing any signs of slowing down.
When the session was underway, I schlepped my newly-woken babe up to the runway to do tummy time surrounded by costumes, feathers boas, and fancy hats. Amongst the boisterous crowds of terrible twos, I spent the time enamoured by my baby in an octopus hat, taking selfies of a time I knew I would grow sentimental about in the years to come, when my son would become a withdrawn and smelly teenager. At least, that’s what the seasoned Mums had told me.
By the time I drove to the Mummy’s group, I was ready to show the other Mums that I fit, and was as much Mum as they were, even if I was a bit awkward, a bit intellectual, and married to a woman.
The nurse running the group ushered me to a seat. The other women seemed friendly, though some seemed a little sleep-deprived, yawning through puffy eyes as they chatted amongst themselves.
I didn’t understand this need for sleep. My short catnaps throughout the night were punctuated with night terrors and feeds, yet I felt unstoppable. It wasn’t even midday and I’d punched out another 500 words.
“All right, ladies, let’s establish some rules for our group.”
A peppy blonde girl called Sarah cut right in.
“Well, I think there should be no judgement, Whatever we share in the group, should stay in the group.”
There were affirmative nods all around.
“And I think we should let everyone share their story. Everyone should have a turn to talk.”
I looked around and noticed that ever other Mum in the group had their baby on their lap. I looked over at my son, in his pram, not seeming to be bothered, but it bothered me.
“He’s really heavy and I had a C-section.” I explained, though nobody had asked and in hindsight, I doubt they’d even noticed.
“That’s okay. Now let’s start by going around the circle and sharing about our birth stories.”
I shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to share at all, but the group rules had been established. It would be weird if I took a pass.
I was the last in the circle, so I heard everybody’s birthing story before mine.
“I went into labour spontaneously. My waters broke over dinner one night. My husband drove me to the hospital and I laboured for twelve hours.”
“I had a planned C-section. I’m a vet, so I have seen what can go wrong.”
“I had a bad birth with my son, so I had a planned C-section. It was better the second time around.”
“I was in a private hospital. I had to be induced, and I had a little bit of pain relief, but my birth was everything I had planned for and expected. And let me just say, I have high expectations!”
I dropped my eyes to the ground.
“Well… I was induced. My baby and I got an infection. He was delivered by C-section under a general anaesthetic where I nearly bled to death. I still feel like I’m recovering.”
There was so much more I could have said, but I really preferred not to. The birthing stories of the other Mums were pretty standard, and I felt like I’d opened a fear-mongering dialogue.
“Oh my God. That’s like 1% of birthing cases. You must be so glad he was all right.”
I dropped my eyes, feeling an almost-sense-of-shame. These women seemed to have had it all planned – either out of experience or privilege – but it had given them an experience I couldn’t help but be envious of.
“Are you planning on having any more children?”
“Um, no, I wouldn’t take it off the table, but I think we’re done.”
The nurse, obviously not wanting me to feel ostracised, redirected the conversation to safe sleeping and self-care.
I felt remorse. Before the birth had gone down, Natalie had stressed the importance of our private health insurance.
“You know, birth is so barbaric. We don’t want anything to go wrong. Are you sure you don’t want to give birth in a private hospital?”
But I was stubborn.
“My pregnancy has been uncomplicated so far and I don’t want to be talked into having a C-section. That could cost us $10,000.”
“We’ve got the money.”
I insisted. I had heard so many stories of women who were talked into elective C-sections, only to regret it during the recovery period. Although I considered myself to be fairly logical in my thought processes, the Mum in me had wanted to try my hardest for a natural delivery.
“If the public health system is good enough for anyone else, it’s good enough for me.”
And that was how I closed down every conversation.
If only I had listened. I may not have avoided a C-section delivery but going about it electively would have saved me from the many hours of labour which tired out my uterus, leading to a haemorrhage and poor clotting. It would have shielded me somewhat from the loss of control and the infection. Then, I wouldn’t have been waking every night in cold sweats, in a variety of disturbing death scenarios involving my son and I.