My labour began well. At first I didn’t quite realize I was actually in labour; it felt like mild pangs of period pain only I knew it couldn’t be that. I used relaxation breathing to focus on, to take the focus off the pain. This had helped considerably when getting tattoos so, I reasoned, it would help during labour. The contractions built up and receded in intensity, until I felt it was time to go to the birth centre (note to self: peak hour is no fun with strong contractions). By the time I got to the birth centre they had abated a little, so the midwife told us to go get something to eat from a nearby café. Halfway through my chicken burger they became very strong again and after a somewhat excruciating wander through the back streets of Randwick as my beloved pretended he knew where he was, we were back at the birth centre. We settled into a nice rhythm; I sat under the shower with two jets on my back, a hot water bottle pressed to my lower abdomen and a backgammon board set up between us. We would play, pause while I had a contraction, then play again. I don’t think I was winning. When the contractions got worse I got in the huge bath, and the water helped significantly, making me feel like I could do this, like my body was made to do it. When I started going through the transition phase it hurt a hell of a lot more than I thought it would, and scared me a little. I figured something must be wrong, it can’t be supposed to feel like that. In retrospect, I chuckle at how I compared my hypothetical version of labour with getting a tattoo inked in your skin. But I also really wish that someone had told me exactly what it would really feel like. Although the pain is hard to describe, I had really thought I had prepared myself well for labour and birth, on the understanding that fear is based in ‘ignorance’ and therefore gleaning every fact and anecdote you can beforehand will arm you to deal with the process. Because I cheerfully underestimated what it would feel like, the reality of it was a shock and interrupted my smooth, calm, backgammon playing ideal. Soon after that, I had a moment where, in quick succession, my waters broke, I felt the inexorable descent of the baby through the birth canal, shouted to my beloved to get the midwife, thought “I have to push what out of WHERE?! That’s IMPOSSIBLE!”, got out of the bath onto the floor, thought “I’ve got no choice, let’s do this thing” and felt an almighty rush of determination. The determination was amazingly empowering; even as I groaned I felt, somewhere, strong. After a few pushes my baby was out. The pain stopped instantly, I saw her little face and fell in love. I didn’t take my eyes off her for the next week and what’s more, the rush I’d felt just before I birthed her stayed around for another week on top. I would say to my partner when we were alone “look what we did! We did gooooood!”.

When I had my second child, because I knew to expect the type of pain a bit better, I felt more in control and better prepared. I birthed her also in a birth centre, also drug free, and even though it hurts, would do it with any other child that comes my way to be born. I’m someone who doesn’t cope very well with pain; I have a bad habit of fainting at inappropriate moments and don’t react well to needles or blood. If I can do this, I’d say anyone can. I also now empathise more with those annoying strangers who come up and tell you some ‘invaluable’ advice on the street when you’re pregnant. They’re people like me, who just really wish that someone had told them one crucial thing about birth, but didn’t; I now take the view that they’re honestly trying to ensure that you don’t birth without the one piece of knowledge that they themselves weren’t given. Feel their pain, take the advice graciously, and store it away for when you’re feeling your pain.