Lies We Tell Mothers: A True Story

by Suzy K Quinn

  Just breathe through it!

  However, one hypnobirthing book could not undo a lifetime of manic overthinking.

  It would take longer than nine months to reboot my personality and make me a calm earth mother. But I didn’t realise that back then.

  As the due date drew nearer, Demi and I joined an antenatal class called You To Us.

  (Demi: ‘I only just got that – you-to-us, UTERUS! Clever.’)

  Unlike mainstream NCT classes, You To Us was a more laid-back class with a natural birthing ethos and beanbags on the floor.

  During our first class, our teacher (who looked exactly like Zoë Wanamaker) showed us a simulated contraction over a birthing ball. She was a fine actress and drew out the contraction for the full minute – the time we could expect during real birth.

  A few would-be parents went pale.

  Then pictures were passed around – babies coming out of vaginas. We’re talking real close-ups.

  One father laughed – the kind of hysterical laugh that suggested he’d never considered his wife’s special place being ripped in two and he wasn’t coping well with the idea.

  We gripped ice cubes to get our heads around breathing through labour pains, and also had a bang of some real gas and air – just to try it out.

  Fun stuff, and if you live in Brighton I highly recommend this class.

  The other soon-to-be-mothers were as fed up as I was to be heavily pregnant, but they were lovely and we all got along. Top of the discussion was due dates – who was first in line? Who would pop first?

  My due date came and I was ready to go.

  Let’s do this thing.

  Let’s have this baby.

  Bring it on.

  #6 LIE – AT 40 WEEKS, YOU’RE OVERDUE

  Of course, nothing happened on my due date.

  As a punctual person, I was shocked.

  What was going on?

  People phoned and asked if the baby had arrived.

  ‘No!’ I snapped. ‘Not even the tiniest little twinge of a contraction. But the baby isn’t late, actually. I’ve just googled it. Only one per cent of women give birth on their due date. They’re the anomaly, not me. You’re not overdue at forty weeks.’

  I’ve never been a patient person. Imagine a really, really impatient person waiting for a turtle to cross a lawn with life-saving medicine on its back, and you’ll get a sense of how uncomfortable I felt when my due date passed.

  Research told me that there is no such thing as overdue. It’s a nonsense made up by the hospital. Why, in France you’re not overdue until you’re 42 weeks pregnant! My logical brain knew that. But I also knew I wanted this baby out as soon as possible and, in medical language, it was overdue.

  I’d love to say that my impatience was because I couldn’t wait to see my baby, but that would be a lie. What I couldn’t wait to do was sit in a chair for more than half an hour without getting bum pain, sleep all night long without waking (ha!), and eat a huge great big block of Stilton.

  Mum recommended I take my mind off things by ‘boning up’ for the big day and reading baby books. She hadn’t read a single baby book before giving birth to twin girls (my sister and me) and regretted it.

  I was appalled.

  Fancy not reading a single baby book before having twins!

  I’d read at least ten books already, asked Google hundreds of questions and pegged my political parenting flag to the ‘sleep training’ movement.

  My favourite baby book, I told Mum, was a sleep-training manual advocating forward planning and a strict baby schedule.

  The book promised I could turn my baby into an efficient sleeping and feeding machine within three months and sidestep the many agonies of early parenthood.

  This sounded perfect.

  ‘I’ll put the baby down for a three-hour nap after lunch and get a little work done,’ I said.

  Mum laughed.

  The sleep-training book had a deceivingly gentle name like Bringing up Calm Little Darling Babies, but in my mind I called it Parenting for Control Freaks. This is in no way meant to insult the author, who has been the saviour of many mothers and who offers sound, solid baby advice. But my needs from this book wandered into the dark side of the force. The control-freaky, scared-of-the-unknown, ‘Luke I Am Your Father’ side.

  (Demi: ‘I read this book too because you made me. I can sum it up in four words: this woman is nuts.’)

  It wasn’t that I minded hard work when the baby came. But I very, very much needed to know exactly what and when that hard work would be. Sleep-training advice assured me this kind of control could be mine.

  By the last trimester, I’d already memorised sleep schedules and mentally rehearsed those ‘first three months’, during which I’d have to wake up at 6 a.m. (totally fine – I already do!), feed, work during nap times and go to bed at 9 p.m. (a bit boring, but it won’t be forever).

  Baby would slot into life. Life would go on as before, except now we’d have a lovely little baby to look after and even more love in our lives.

  With the appropriate tools and preparation, I was sure this brave new world of parenthood could be mastered and controlled. It was just a matter of putting in the hard work.

  I’d taken the precaution of printing out a ‘baby schedule’ and pinning it behind the door of the new wardrobe of baby clothes, quietly humming to myself as I imagined the well-oiled machine of parenthood.

  I’d also followed the advice (and it was good advice) to put together the breast pump, work out the baby car seat, etc., before the birth.

  Parenting for Control Freaks didn’t tell me exactly why I should do this, but I enjoyed all the unboxing and messing around with the new toys.

  I now know mastering equipment, pre-baby, is essential. Once you’ve had a baby, the only thoughts you can manage are: ‘If I’ve fed the baby at 11 a.m. and it needs feeding three hours later, what time will it be?’ And: ‘Where did I leave that cup of tea?’

  I was a swotty head girl preparing for a baby exam and confidently expecting an A.

  Of course, I knew there’d be a tough induction. After all, baby schedules, if you’ve ever read one, are pretty ruthless. Many of them don’t factor in things like showering, indecision or popping to Starbucks for a fancy hot chocolate.

  For anyone who hasn’t read a baby sleep-training schedule, it goes something like this:

  6.30 a.m. – Express breast milk using a breast pump, then drink a large glass of water.

  7 a.m. – Feed baby.

  8.10 a.m. – Eat breakfast and drink another large glass of water.

  8.30 a.m. – Wash and sterilise breast pump.

  9 a.m. – Dress baby and yourself.

  9.30 a.m. – Stimulate baby.

  11 a.m. – Feed baby.

  11.30 a.m. – Prepare lunch.

  12 p.m. – Have a large glass of water.

  12.10 p.m. – Put baby to sleep.

  12.30 p.m. – Have your lunch, shower, tidy house and wash breakfast things.

  2 p.m. – Feed baby.

  2.30 p.m. – Put baby to sleep.

  5 p.m. – Feed baby.

  5.30 p.m. – Bath baby.

  6.30 p.m. – Feed baby.

  7 p.m. – Put baby to sleep.

  7.30 p.m. – Eat dinner.

  8 p.m. – Mother go to bed.

  YOU WILL NOT HAVE TIME TO PREPARE DINNER, SO FREEZE THREE MONTHS’ WORTH OF MEALS BEFOREHAND!

  The reality is more like this . . .

  6.30 a.m. – Express milk alone in a dark room, the mechanical whirring of the breast pump haunting the dreams of your sleeping partner.

  6.45 a.m. – Baby begins to stir. Panic! Baby should NOT be fed until 7 a.m. Watch baby, filled with anxiety, wondering how long you can suffer her little bleating cries before picking her up.

  7 a.m. – You did it! You held off until 7 a.m. Breast-feed baby, feeling ravenously thirsty yourself and wondering the whole time how much milk your baby is getting, and if you’ve possi
bly stolen some of her milk by expressing earlier. WHY don’t they build babies with see-through stomachs so you can SEE if they’re full? And can I reach that glass of water? Can I reach it? No, not quite. Oh shit. I just knocked the water over.

  7.15 a.m. – Baby has stopped feeding! The schedule said she should take HALF AN HOUR. Is she full enough? Has the milk run out?

  7.16 a.m. – Change baby whilst experiencing heart-palpitating anxiety.

  7.30 a.m. – Partner gives you a big hug and makes you feel better. Brings you a glass of water (he’s so lovely!) but you don’t feel thirsty now so you don’t bother with it. You will later learn that was a mistake.

  7.45 a.m. – Are you going to bother getting dressed yet? You’d have to shower first and that’s tiring. Oh, you should shower. Come on, it’s been days.

  8.10 a.m. – Eat as many sugary carbohydrates as you can get your hands on.

  8.30 a.m. – Look at the unwashed breast pump, hating it with a passion and knowing that you are not cut out for nursing or midwifery.

  9 a.m. – Sort through the pile of assorted hand-me-downs and impulse ‘Oh that’s so pretty for my new baby!’ purchases, trying to find something suitable for your baby to wear. Settle on the same thing you always do: any outfit that’s clean and easy to take off and on.

  9.30 a.m. – Why is the baby crying? Is she hungry? I’d better feed her just in case.

  11 a.m. – Feed baby. Already? But I just fed her! Oh my GOD, I’m thirsty. Where’s the water? I can’t reach it. Gah! Trapped under baby.

  11.30 a.m. – Baby has fallen asleep while feeding. This is NOT part of the schedule – she’s not supposed to sleep until noon. Should I wake up baby? No – don’t be a fool. Watch The Real Housewives of Orange County while you have the chance.

  12 p.m. – Look at the large glass of water you’re supposed to drink. You’re not all that thirsty any more. Decide you’d rather have hot chocolate and a handful of M&Ms.

  12.10 p.m. – Baby still sleeping. Aaah, so peaceful. Time for more TV.

  12.30 p.m. – Eat more sugary carbohydrates and stare at all the things you should be tidying and washing. Thank the lord you have a modern, domesticated partner who washes up and does laundry. How on earth did your own mother manage?

  2 p.m. – Baby still sleeping. She should be feeding right now. Try to wake baby, but baby is not having any of it.

  2.30 p.m. – Baby still sleeping. More TV. Partner tells you he’s happy you’re resting and that you look more beautiful than ever and is there anything he can get for you? A cup of tea or even more chocolate cake? Tell him to keep his voice down, and what did that ‘happy you’re resting’ comment mean? Is he calling you lazy? The cheek of it!

  5 p.m. – Baby awake! Feed baby.

  5.30 p.m. – Baby now crying non-stop and nothing you do can calm her down. Torture.

  7 p.m. – Try to put baby to bed, but she screams to be held and won’t be put down.

  7.30 p.m. – Try to eat a microwaveable lasagne while jiggling and rocking baby, taking it in turns with your partner. However, HE isn’t doing it right. Your stressed, sleep-deprived brain is quite sure about that. No, give her to ME. You’re doing it all wrong.

  8 p.m. – Baby finally falls asleep.

  9 p.m. – Baby wakes to feed.

  11 a.m. – Baby wakes to feed.

  3 a.m. – Baby wakes to feed.

  5 a.m. – Baby wakes to feed.

  I’d be a bit bored during the newborn phase, of course, but I would cope because it would only last three months.

  Or maybe two.

  Lovely.

  I would be myself again – with a baby strapped casually to my back (making no noise whatsoever and definitely not being sick into my hair).

  Babies can travel on buses, can’t they? And planes?

  My mum had an extra good laugh when I told her about my efficient, printed baby schedule and forward planning. She said ominous things like, ‘You’ll learn.’ And: ‘Seven o’clock put baby to sleep! Just like that! Ha ha ha! You might want to add “Rock the baby back and forth for two hours!”’

  But what did she know? Mum had twin babies. She can barely remember any of it – it was way too traumatic.

  Mum is always telling me she’d rather have gone to prison during the first year of motherhood, because at least she would have had tea breaks. She stops women with twin babies in the street, puts a pitying hand over theirs and says, ‘I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?’

  For my dad, the newborn phase was so bad that he blotted it out of his memory entirely. When I asked him how often newborn babies feed, he said: ‘Oh, quite a lot. At least once a day.’

  You see? Not a clue.

  Of course, babies were hard work in the 1970s, when everything was a stimulating orange colour and no one could afford disposable nappies. Also, the Parenting for Control Freaks book wasn’t around back then.

  Mum and Dad holding me and my twin sis in the 1970s, before disposable nappies or Bumbos. They were legends. Note how unhappy me and my sis look, though. I’ve never seen a baby that young frowning before. Clearly we hadn’t followed any sort of sleep-training routine.

  When I reached a week and a half ‘overdue’, the midwives got itchy feet. They called me in for an invasive internal examination called a ‘sweep’.

  ‘Sweep’. Such an innocent word, isn’t it?

  Just a little ‘sweep’ around to get things moving.

  One of the many medical maternity terms that hide a world of unpleasantness. Other innocent-sounding words include ‘induction pessary’, ‘ventouse’ and ‘crowning’.

  I had no clue what a sweep was until they hauled me up on the midwife’s paper-covered table and started stretching my vagina around like an elastic band. Naively, I’d assumed it would be a delicate procedure, but I was beginning to learn that in the world of babies, vaginas are not treated gently. They are no longer a fun part of the body, but a tough and durable object that will soon be ripped open and stitched up.

  After the sweep, the midwife told me that lots of women go into labour within 24 hours of vaginal interference.

  ‘Maybe those women were about to go into labour anyway,’ I suggested. ‘Since you do the sweeps when women are well past their due date.’

  ‘Who knows?’ said the midwife. ‘Birth is a very mysterious, very under-researched topic. But belt and braces. Eat some pineapple and spicy curry too. Many women go into labour after eating them.’

  ‘Could this also be because they’re past their due date and about to go into labour anyway?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  At two weeks overdue, the hospital decided I needed to be induced.

  I was not happy about this. After all, there were so many horror stories about inductions. Even the hospital described them as more painful. Longer. More likely to lead to ‘interventions’ (which also sounded painful).

  However, after waiting weeks for something to happen and fielding the many ‘has the baby come yet’ phone calls from well-meaning family and friends, I’d had enough of slow, lazy, poorly designed nature.

  ‘Let’s do the induction,’ I told Demi. ‘I’m sure I can manage the extra induction pain. Labour is all about breathing. You just breathe through it.’

  The night before the induction, I waddled into town for a nice meal with Demi. Our last supper, as it were. We chose a curry place, obviously. I was certain that one last shit-hot curry would bring on labour. Absolutely certain.

  I didn’t tell Demi, but I’d booked the induction as a double bluff. I thought if I chilled out a bit and gave my body an actual baby date, it might get on and go into labour all by itself that night. I’d heard stories of such things.

  ‘This will be the last evening you’ll enjoy yourself for a while,’ my mum said in that ominous tone you hear at the beginning of horror movies.

  ‘Enjoy myself?’ I said. ‘I’m uncomfortably pregnant, mildly incontinent and can’t get comfortable in any position for more than thirty
minutes. AND curry gives me heartburn. I will enjoy myself much more when the baby comes out. Which it might do tonight. I intend to order the hottest curry they have AND extra chillies. Plus, I’m bringing my own pineapple for dessert.’

  #7 LIE – SPICY CURRY AND PINEAPPLE BRING ON LABOUR

  After our ‘last supper’ of mega-burny curry and a whole pineapple, I went to bed and waited for labour to happen.

  It didn’t.

  Indigestion happened. A little bit of flatulence happened. Labour remained a shy maiden, too coy to show her face.

  So that was that.

  The next morning, Demi and I took the bus to hospital for the induction.

  It was baby time. Well, induction time at least and, in my naivety, I thought this meant baby would come quickly now. Twelve hours max.

  I was quite excited. It felt romantic, passing through the city and thinking wistfully, ‘The world will never look the same again. Today is the day I’ll have my baby.’

  I was wrong about that last part.

  The baby wouldn’t come today. But in that poetic moment, I had no idea of the horrors to come.

  At the labour ward, we were led to the ‘induction area’.

  We watched other induction victims stagger around, grey-faced and wrung out, amid the animalistic cries of labouring women.

  From somewhere deep within the bowels of the labour ward, a woman screeched, ‘It’s like shitting a watermelon!’

  A midwife arrived, swept back the curtain and asked me to remove my underwear – as midwives tend to do.

  ‘I need to insert the pessary,’ said the midwife.

  ‘What pessary?’ I asked.

  ‘The induction pessary,’ said the midwife.

  ‘Is that all the induction is?’ I asked. ‘A tablet shoved in my vagina?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was disappointed. I’d imagined something much more full-on, involving syringes or possibly a drip.

  The midwife shoved a scratchy, white tampon-type thing into my vagina and off she went, throwing these words over her shoulder: ‘The pain won’t start for a few hours. Sleep if you can. But not on your back – it’s dangerous.’