I knew this moment was significant. Standing in the birthing pool holding the baby that seconds earlier had squeezed its way out of me, I could hear the last bars of Morcheeba’s ‘Part of the Process’ playing as Sally leaned across the edge of the pool towards me for a photo. Click. And another lesbian family was born.
So I savoured the moment, the birth of this child (there really had been a baby inside me all this time!) And I savoured the fact that the effort of labour was over. But the stinging pain between my legs was becoming a distraction and the water was suddenly very red. The midwife clamped the cord and offered Sally a section to cut through before they took the baby from me and helped me to clamber out of the pool.
Feeling suddenly very naked, I eased myself down on to a large plastic letter ‘U’, stolen from Sesame Street. ‘U’ for uncomfortable. Unbelievably Uncomfortable. It seemed there was still a placenta to deliver and this was the place for it: known in the trade as a birthing stool. Holding again the little bundle of baby, having to push out a placenta, seemed rather a nuisance. But it soon slip-slopped out and I was finally able to prop myself on the bed where the midwife helped me with the babymouth-to-nipple angle.
Then it was time for Sally – Mummy-Sal – to get some skin-to-skin bonding time while the midwife stitched up my second-degree tear: the source of the stinging. As the local anaesthetic had its effect I was able to relax while the midwife and Sally (who is a vet) had a genial discussion on the nature of my wound and various suturing techniques.
And finally after the hours and hours of labouring and then the holding and feeding, and the stinging and stitching, it was time for sleeping; the three of us - two exhausted mummies and a baby too new to know how exhausted it was, settled down and slept.