by Aimee Horton
Nodding my head slightly, I say, “She. It’s a girl. I want to name her Martha, but Henry doesn’t think having two Ms is a good idea.” I feel my breathing return to normal. “Maybe after going through this I can persuade him.”
That makes the midwife laugh. She holds my hand as the anaesthetist explains what’s going to happen.
By the time the needle has been inserted—it takes three attempts as I’m shaking so much—Henry is back by my side.
I have no idea what’s going on. I stare at the ceiling, at the blue screen constructed by a sheet, trying to work out what’s happening. Henry looks a bit green but keeps looking at me reassuringly, smiling and nodding as if everything is OK.
After what seems like ages, there is a bit of a kerfuffle, then, “Here we are. Wow, what a whopper!” But wait a minute. Now there’s silence.
Why isn’t she crying yet?
More silence, and I panic all over again as I watch/see the midwife wrap a pinky, purply, gross little body in a blanket.
“Is she OK? Is she breathing? Just bloody pinch her, OK?” There’s a ripple of laughter, which is quickly covered up by a few coughs, then I hear it.
First a whimpering that gets louder and louder, turning into a full-blown angry cry as they whip her off to get weighed. I’m crying again, Henry too, and he’s stroking my hair, and all of a sudden everything is perfect. Who cares about the horrible house, or a car that only has two back seats, or that Henry nearly missed the birth? He’s here now; we’re a wonderful family. Henry, Dottie, Arthur, Mabel and baby girl Martha.
“Well, he’s a healthy weight, that’s for sure,” the midwife says. “Nine pounds, thirteen ounces. And what a head! There’s no way you’d have turned this boy, and he obviously knew it!”
“She!” Henry and I both shout in unison, looking at the middle-aged woman who is carrying our still-crying daughter towards us. The baby’s blanket is already stained with blood.
Seriously, how is she allowed to be holding babies if she can’t even get the sex right?
“No, definitely not a she,” she says, smiling, “I’ve been doing this a very long time, and I can tell the difference, you know.” She winks as Henry and I glance at each other, confused. Then, lowering her arms so we can see the tiny scrunched-up red face, she says, “Congratulations! It’s a beautiful bouncing baby boy.”
Find out what happens next… pick up your copy of Perfect Mishap today!