By GAYATRI UNSWORTH (http://thehappymummy.blogspot.com/)

So I had it all planned out.

I was 27 and figured I’d seen lots of the world. I’d had some interesting jobs (including being a qualified sandwich artist); lived in five different cities in two different continents; had a healthy bank account; survived countless colourful and, in retrospect, relatively idiotic and dangerous escapades; had been proposed to and said “Yes”; had a white wedding inclusive of a grand exit through an adolescent infested rave (long story, don’t ask); and possessed a shoe collection to rival Imelda Marcos.

It seemed only natural to take the next step in life.

We talked about it, discussed the pros and cons, did a few practice runs just for good measure and then basically turned into nocturnal guinea-pigs before getting pregnant three months after taking the leap. Peeing in a cup had never been so exciting.

I was going to have the perfect pregnancy. As with everything else in my life, I had already imagined how things were going to be and since I obviously had total control of all that happens in the world, I knew without a flicker of a doubt that this would be a picture-perfect experience.

It wasn’t too long, however, before I was forced to reconsider this utopian notion. I spent the next five months becoming intimately acquainted with various lavatories in the country and despite what the fool who invented the term would insist, morning sickness can be an all day and night affair. All my illusions of grandeur were quickly replaced with me basically trying very hard to keep the last thing I ate from making a not-so-pretty re-appearance.

The same thing happened with the labour and delivery. I didn’t have the prettiest of pregnancies but I was determined that the final act would play out beautifully. I painstakingly worked out my birth plan with my obstetrician who, I am now convinced, had a good laugh once I exited the room.

I was going to have John Mayer serenade me, whilst essential oil candles burned and cast a soft, happy glow all over the delivery suite. I was going to walk around and stay active during the initial stages of labour and once fully dilated, lie back with a big smile and coax my baby out with encouraging, positive words.

I mean, like seriously, how bad can the pain get right? I almost severed my pinkie with a Swiss Army knife once; I can so totally handle labour and delivery, I smugly thought.

Fast forward to the actual day; I spent six hours labouring at home during which time I actually tried to convince myself that I wasn’t in labour and instead was just having indigestion. Reason being, I simply wasn’t ready (I would hazard a guess that this was related to my deep-seated control issues).

Anyway, the perfect labour and delivery must happen, so I got showered (well actually, I clung to the bathroom door in pain and tried not to faint whilst water pelted on my head), got dressed, did my make-up (never thought I’d be capable of expertly applying mascara whilst kneeling on all fours) and styled my hair (yes, ladies and gentlemen, I actually got out the straightener, turned it on, waited a full minute for it to heat up and then, amidst groans and moans, along with exclamations along the lines of “Are you kidding me?!” from the husband, did my hair).

My baby was most certainly not going to come out and meet someone who looked anything other than perfectly put together.

By the time I got to the hospital, I was starting to question why I thought having a baby was ever a good idea in the first place. When we got to the delivery wing, I marched straight in and asked for an epidural. My husband ventured the birth plan hesitantly; what about John Mayer and candles he asked and I ventured a not-so ladylike response. So much for soft-glowing candles and music!

The midwife on duty stared at me with a degree of amusement. I’m sure she’s seen her fair share of pregnant women turn into raving, irrational lunatics. Nevertheless she assured me that she would be contacting the anaesthetist immediately to request that he attend to me after his rounds.

At this point, I clearly remember the angry vein in my forehead starting to throb and my right eyebrow quivering, always a sure sign that I was about to well and truly lose it. My husband quickly ushered me into the delivery suite, where another exasperatingly cheery nurse was waiting for me. Of course, she was happy; she wasn’t the one about to push a human being the size of a cabbage through something as small as a nostril!

Little Miss Sunshine handed me a multi-coloured chequered hospital gown and pointed at the bathroom. I stared at the drab garment in my hands. I was wearing a cute dress which I had planned on keeping on for the birth but this clearly was not going to happen. Plus my contractions were coming quick and fast by now, so I just didn’t have it in me to argue with anyone.

I marched myself to the bathroom feeling like I had just been issued an orange prison jumpsuit. However, I was not going to let this fashion faux pas ruin my birth experience so I wore the gown with the opening at the front rather than the back and used the strings to tie little ribbons in perfect bows all down the front.

I got into bed and waited for the anaesthetist to arrive promising myself that once I was pain-free the perfect plan would return to action. He finally arrived an hour later and instructed the nurses to prop me up so that he could stick the needle in my spine. Of course, they all fumbled about behind me until they realised that there was no opening in the gown – the gap was missing.

The anaesthetist was about 160 years old and had clearly never seen something like it in his entire working life. He was completely befuddled as to why someone would put the hospital gown back to front and frankly, I was a little too embarrassed to say anything so I just pretended not to hear his perplexed exclamations and let the nurses (who by now were smirking at each other) swap the robe around. At this point, my husband looked as if he was just about ready to walk into a different delivery suite and pretend he was someone else’s spouse.

The insertion of the epidural needle went without a hitch although it only took over an hour thanks to Dr Jurassic’s shaky hands (I did consider that they may have been shaking from silent laughter due to my putting on the hospital gown backwards) and his keen interest in what my husband did for a living. He was behaving as if he were leisurely making a cucumber sandwich rather than conducting a serious medical procedure.
 

When he was finally done, he told me I’d be numb in 15 minutes and that the baby would arrive in two hours. The midwives had a different opinion and estimated four to five hours after he’d left. They told me to take it easy and so I had a nap whilst the husband went to meet my parents who’d just arrived. I drifted off to sleep with happy thoughts of the perfect birth which I was about to have.

Before I knew it, I was rudely awakened by the hustle and bustle of a pack of nurses, midwives and trainee nurses. It was time. The anaesthetist’s estimation had been right. Baby was going to make an appearance any time now. My husband was informed and he proceeded to take his rightful place in preparation of the volley of violence and verbal abuse about to come his way.

My obstetrician arrived and kicked off her heels and put on bright yellow fish-monger boots, which I found very disconcerting, but before I could question this she disappeared between my legs only to look up and nonchalantly say “push” as if she were asking me to pass her the salt and pepper.

And so I pushed. My husband lovingly reminded me of all the breathing techniques we had learnt in our birthing classes and I not so lovingly told him to stop talking and to stop breathing. The nurses gave him sympathetic stares, I gave him murderous ones. This went on for four more times and on the fifth and final push, my obstetrician announced that she saw the head but the baby’s heart beat was dropping and so she would need to use the vacuum.

At that point, I would have marched to the hospital’s storeroom and got her an industrial powered one if she wanted - that’s how keen I was to get the baby out. I also had a flashback of something my husband’s best mate had affectionately said to me: “You know, I really don’t understand why women worry about getting the head out so much, I’d be more worried about the shoulders”. So yeah, I wanted this over and done with as soon as possible.

And so with a little suction from something that most certainly did not resemble a vacuum and one mighty heave from a made-up, hair-styled yours truly, a little girl called Jasmin Priyanka Unsworth made her grand entrance into the world.

I may not have had the perfect pregnancy and I most certainly did not have the perfect labour and delivery but, without a doubt, out of it all, I was rewarded with the most perfect baby. As I held this crinkly, pink bundle in my arms, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps all was not lost, for I was most certainly going to have the “perfect motherhood” experience. (Or so she thinks …! ;) - Ed.)

Gayatri Unsworth is a 29-year-old mother, academic and writer who is learning more and more about herself, and the world at-large from her 1-year-old toddler. She can be contacted at gayatri.unsworth@gmail.com.