Secrets of the Mummy Concierge

by Tiffany Norris

  Whilst I stepped back in shock – surely she was joking? – the midwife took Kathyryn’s hand and led her over to what can only be described as a big paddling pool in the middle of the room.

  ‘This is the birthing pool.’

  Kathryn stood by the pool and breathed in and out deeply.

  Was it me or was she actually practising her ‘labour breathing’ now?

  ‘And this’ – the midwife handed her what looked like a small TV remote – ‘controls the lights in the room so that they match your mood.’

  Kathryn pressed one of the small buttons and the room was flooded in a purple haze. I watched as she prodded a different bottom and the room changed from purple to pink to blue.

  ‘This is just so relaxing, don’t you think?’

  I realised she was talking to me and so I tried to pull myself out of my stupor.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Kathryn and I finished our hospital tour with a debrief in the quaint little café opposite.

  ‘Do you ever worry people will judge you for having a C-section?’ Kathryn was contemplatively sucking on the straw of her pink smoothie. I was about to protest, but she continued, ‘I know that if I have a water birth, people will think I’m a warrior and that’s pretty important to me.’

  I coughed on my tea and tried to regain my composure.

  Surely she couldn’t be choosing a birth option because she was worried about what people would think of her?

  Before I knew it, hot angry tears were running down Kathryn’s face. I reached for a napkin and handed it to her hurriedly so she could dab at her tears.

  ‘All my friends have had water births or natural births without any pain relief. They all gave each other cards with “warrior” written on them. They always talk about how the way you give birth defines you as a woman and I don’t want to be the one who isn’t deserving of the warrior title.’

  I must have look horrified as Kathryn then burst into fits of laugher whilst simultaneously wiping away tears. ‘I know. Mad, eh? But I just feel like if I don’t try a natural birth, I’ll be judged forever. And anyway, they all did it, so I guess I must be able to do it too.’ Her eyes misted over and I noticed that the hand gripping her smoothie was shaking. ‘The thing is, I’m scared. All I really want is an epidural or a C-section like you, but I feel like it’s not an option for me.’

  ‘What about your reactions in the hospital?’ I was referring to her initial excitement when we saw the birthing room.

  ‘I suppose I’m trying to convince myself.’ A solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

  This wasn’t the last time I had this conversation. In the years to come, working as a Mummy Concierge, I have had countless mummies-to-be fall apart on me due to the pressure to have ‘the perfect birth’. Only last year (2020), I worked with a mother who had been convinced by friends and family to have a ‘natural’ birth. She sent me a text on the day her baby was born and instead of words filled with excitement and wonder at becoming a new mummy, I could practically hear the tears through the text she sent: ‘I’m lying in intensive care feeling drained. I lost 3.5 litres of blood during delivery and my little boy is now in an entirely different ward to me because I ended up in intensive care. Why did I let myself be bullied into having this sort of birth?’

  It’s true that there is an invisible birth story hierarchy. I’ve noticed it mostly with new mothers I meet at the nursery or soft play. There is definitely a sense of pride if a mother has had a completely natural, no ‘pain relief’ birth. Also, the longer the birth goes on for, and the more horrific it is, the bigger your badge of honour gets. It’s one of the first questions other mums will ask after you’ve had a baby: what sort of a birth did you have? Complete strangers will quite willingly ask how you birthed your baby. I vividly recall the feeling of inadequacy when I admitted to my NCT class that I was having a C-section. Twelve pairs of eyes looked back at me with a lack of respect and I could almost hear the whispers of, ‘She’s taking the easy route, she’s not having her baby properly.’ I honestly felt I had failed, even before I actually became a mother. Thankfully, I have now come to terms with how I gave birth – my body, my choice. I find the judgement women put on their peers about how they gave birth horrifying. Childbirth isn’t a joke, no one considers getting root canal done without anaesthetic, so why would pain relief while pushing another human being out of you be any different and who is anyone to judge you for that?

  Becoming a mother is tough enough – you have to adapt to a new role that no one has trained you to do and you suddenly, literally, have someone else’s life in your hands. You then have to run the gauntlet of being judged on the methods by which your child arrived. Does it make us lesser human beings if we choose to have pain relief to help with the safe arrival of our baby? And why do some women feel the need to shout about it on their Instagram stories that they did it the ‘natural’ way and didn’t ‘give in’ by opting for pain relief? It’s moments like this when I want to wave a brightly coloured flag, stand on a table and shout, ‘Giving birth is not a competition!’

  ‘Listen to me.’ I took Kathryn’s chin in my hand and forced her to look at me. ‘There is no failure to be found in any person brave enough to go through the process of childbirth, no matter what that process may be. You do you. Listen . . .’ I raised my voice slightly to make sure she heard every word. ‘You. Do. You,’ I repeated.

  It’s a motto I would repeat over and over again throughout the next few years. I said it to the mummy who was scared about not breastfeeding her baby, the mother who wanted to co-sleep but was being shamed for doing it by her friends, the new mum who let her baby sleep in the same room until they were two and the mother who moved their baby into the nursery at ten days old.

  In the end, Kathryn decided she wanted to go back to the hospital and talk to the midwife fully about all birthing options.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as she walked back towards the hospital building. ‘I needed that pep talk.’ She slung her handbag over her shoulder defiantly and for the first time that day I saw a genuine smile on her face.

  ‘You do you.’

  She laughed and shook her head in acceptance. ‘I think I may have to have that as my life motto now. Just make sure you live by it too!’ She winked mischievously in my direction and I laughed back. She must have remembered that first chat we had where I confided to her the pressure I felt to ‘babywear’ when my baby was born.

  ‘Who needs a baby sling when you can get a top-of-the-range pushchair!’ she yelled, before disappearing through the hospital revolving doors. ‘You DO you!’

  * * *

  Meeting the person who might deliver your baby can be an interesting experience. Patrick had arrived at our hospital and we were heading off to meet Dr John, an obstetrician strongly recommended to us by a friend of ours. ‘He’s a complete character,’ she explained at a dinner party the week before. ‘You’ll just love him. He delivered both of our babies and I’d have another just so he could do it again.’

  Her enthusiasm had filled both Patrick and I with confidence and so we booked an initial meeting with him as soon as we could. The hospital he worked from was not one I had visited before, but like many hospitals in London, it seemed fully equipped with the latest gadgets and we were offered a plethora of biscuits, teas and coffees by his PA. The PA had explained on the phone at the time of booking that Dr John would be thrilled to do an initial scan for us, just to confirm everything was going well and that there was indeed a baby in there.

  On entering his office, a stocky man with bright blond hair combed to one side greeted us, but instead of the usual, ‘Welcome, I’m your doctor, pleased to meet you,’ I was met with the following: ‘Right, let’s get your knickers off and do this scan.’ I must have looked shocked (and probably nervous), but his next sentence didn’t offer much comfort either: ‘Don’t be nervous. If I’m going to deliver your baby, I’m probably going to see you poo yourself during bi
rth so we might as well get acquainted now.’

  Let’s just say, Patrick and I didn’t stick around for the scan. On reflection, there is one thing I have learnt about the people you surround yourself with during pregnancy and birth – you need to find ‘your tribe’ – the types that speak the same language as you, understand your worries and concerns, and know how to put you at ease.

  ‘Oh, he said the same to me when I met him.’ My friend laughed when I regaled her with the story about her top-notch obstetrician. ‘I thought it was hysterical and he immediately put me at ease – that’s why I love him.’

  That day, I concluded having a baby really is an ‘each to their own’ thing. And one thing I had learnt was that what works for one pregnant mummy-to-be might not work for another.

  PART THREE

  SECOND TRIMESTER

  Chapter 7

  I remember the first time I was interviewed on the radio about my job as a Mummy Concierge and being a nervous wreck. I had hormones racing around my body at a rate of knots, I spent my days floating on air at the prospect that my baby was going to arrive or cursing pregnancy and the hot sweats/aching feet. However, I was determined to pull myself together for this interview (a lot of clients had excitedly texted me that morning saying they were going to tune in so I didn’t want to let anyone down).

  Patrick and I arrived at the radio station’s studio in central Oxford and were told to wait in the reception area until my name was called. Every couple of minutes I excused myself to go to the loo, where I swiftly wiped off and then reapplied the red lipstick I was wearing. It was only after my third trip in as many minutes that he reminded me, ‘You’re doing a RADIO segment, Tiff. No one is actually going to SEE you.’ Fair play to him – I guess those hours poring over the make-up counter in Harvey Nicks two days beforehand really weren’t worth the effort.

  I had been contacted a few days earlier as they had read a piece in the newspaper about my job as a Mummy Concierge and thought it sounded intriguing. It was my first ‘Mummy Concierge’ radio interview with the press and I couldn’t wait to talk about how the business had started and developed over the last couple of months. As anyone who has set up their own business knows, getting the word out there is one of the hardest parts, so I was hugely excited about going live on air and letting people know that I existed. However, everything took a slightly surreal turn when the producer for the show suddenly noticed my baby bulge protruding from my sweater and said, ‘Were you trying for a baby?’

  I can see where his good intentions were coming from (a lot of men in particular see a pregnant woman and feel that they have to comment) but when I was pregnant, I spent the entire nine months dodging personal questions and unwanted advice about having a baby as much as possible. It’s amazing how, as soon as you announce you are pregnant, people seem to want to impart their words of wisdom on you (regardless of whether or not they have actually been pregnant/parented a child themselves). People also feel it’s completely acceptable to ask details about your body, where you conceived your baby and so on, regardless of the fact they are just standing next to you in a line in Starbucks. I suppose you could say it’s one of my bugbears, which is completely ridiculous really, seeing as my job as a Mummy Concierge is to do exactly that – give out advice! Let’s just say, whenever I meet with my clients, I’m careful to read through my list of what not to say to a pregnant woman that I had made when I was pregnant – just to be sure I don’t get off on the wrong foot!

  What not to say to a pregnant woman

  1. ‘Were you trying for a baby?’ No, we were trying for a hippopotamus.

  2. ‘Ooh, did I just see your baby move?’ I kid you not, this was said to me whilst sitting in a coffee shop with some friends from my NCT class. I was seven-and-a-bit months pregnant and a complete stranger came up to me and said that exact line. Not only did I find it incredibly strange she had found the need to stare at my stomach for an elongated amount of time, but also, NO, THE BABY WASN’T MOVING! I was probably just breathing. It’s funny how your stomach moves when you breathe, isn’t it?

  3. ‘Make sure you sleep whilst you can because once the baby arrives, you won’t be able to.’ Oh yes, this little gem of wisdom. Because it’s so easy to sleep when there’s another person inhabiting your body, kicking your bladder and squishing your stomach so you have indigestion and heartburn.

  4. ‘Have you worked out when the baby was conceived?’

  Yes, I have actually. Would you like me to tell you the details? Yes? OK, well, it was doggy style in the back of my husband’s car whilst we were delayed getting to my best friend’s wedding.* See? Did you REALLY want to know?

  *Please note our baby was NOT conceived in this way. And yes, I do know where and when, but I will not be telling you.

  5. ‘OMG, I have to tell you about my super-traumatic birth!’ No, nope, never! No pregnant woman ever needs to hear your horror stories.

  6. ‘Are you sure it’s OK to eat/drink that?’ Unless you’re a doctor, don’t ask a pregnant woman this. Trust me, we’ve already looked up how much caffeine we’re allowed to have in a day and we know we can’t eat blue cheese, rare meat, drink booze . . . Although you might think of it as ‘helping’, having everyone around you police your food and beverage intake can be rather annoying. (One client of mine was accosted by a fellow customer in line at the supermarket, who said, ‘You know you’re not allowed to drink, right?’ Yes, but last time we checked, pregnant women were still able to buy a bottle of wine for others.)

  7. ‘I can’t imagine you being a mummy to a boy.’ Why would anyone need to hear that you think they’ll be a terrible mother to a specific gender?

  8. ‘You don’t actually look pregnant from behind.’ Yes, that’s because my uterus is in the front.

  9. ‘You are MASSIVE. Honestly, you’re as big as a house!’ Just ask yourself how many people you know who would be pleased to be compared to a massive house. None. So please don’t say it to a pregnant woman.

  10. ‘Can I touch your belly?’ Let me put a spin on this for you. If someone came up to you and said, ‘Can I lick your arm?’ or ‘Would I be able to poke your elbow?’, you’d probably find it a bit strange, right? So why do people feel that it’s perfectly OK, now that you’re pregnant, to start touching parts of your body they would NEVER have touched before? MOVE AWAY FROM THE BUMP!

  11. ‘Are you really sure you want a C-section/water birth/no pain relief? Have you really thought about it?’ Nope, I just picked the idea out of a great big hat and decided to go with it. OF COURSE, I’VE BLOODY THOUGHT ABOUT IT! It’s not a decision you just pick out of the blue.

  Chapter 8

  From the day I found out I was pregnant, I was convinced I was having a little girl. Lots of people say ‘a mother just knows’ and I agree with this wholeheartedly. There was something – call it the bond with my unborn child – that just felt it could sense a girl. As far as I was concerned, I was 100 per cent carrying a mini-me.

  Too impatient to wait until I gave birth, we decided to pay for the harmony test – a blood test and scan that you can pay for privately that not only checks the health of your baby but also tells you the gender with 99 per cent accuracy. It was late December and we shivered our way down Harley Street – scarves pulled up around our faces, hats pulled down over our foreheads to keep out the cold. I was a bundle of nerves as the test also analyses DNA from the foetus which circulates in the mother’s blood and can tell you if your child is at risk from abnormalities and cognitive heart defects. Although we knew we wouldn’t get the results immediately, it still played on my mind that this test would tell us how healthy our baby was.

  As the sonographer rubbed the warm jelly on my tummy and started looking at her screen, I could feel my body tense.

  Please let my baby be OK. I don’t care what gender he or she is, just so long as they’re OK.

  A week later, we had a call from the clinic, reassuring us that our baby was fine and asking if we’d like
to know the gender. I asked if they were able to email our obstetrician, Natasha, with the news instead. We were seeing her the next day and Patrick and I had a plan.

  The following day, we arrived at The Kensington Wing in Chelsea and, clutching a small package, headed into Natasha’s room for our appointment. At first, I was embarrassed to explain our plan.

  ‘Natasha, we have a favour to ask you.’

  She looked up from my maternity notes and smiled. ‘Let me guess. Is this something to do with the gender of the baby?’

  ‘This is probably the strangest thing you’ve been asked.’ Blushing, I nod to Patrick, who picks up the package from the floor by his feet and hands it to Natasha.

  ‘We’ve bought a pair of cashmere baby socks. They are reversible. One side is pink and one is blue.’

  I could see Patrick shift slightly in his seat. I think he was embarrassed. When I’d told him my plan the evening before, he had physically balked and exclaimed that I ‘couldn’t ask a doctor to do that’. But I was determined – this was our baby and I wanted to make this moment as special as possible.

  ‘I think the clinic emailed you yesterday with the results of the gender scan. So, we were wondering . . .’ I stumble slightly.

  Maybe we are asking too much from our doctor?

  ‘You want me to turn the socks the right way round – blue for a boy and pink for a girl – and then wrap them up as a Christmas present for you?’ I can hear the smile in Natasha’s voice and when I look up at her, I can see she is beaming.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course I don’t! And believe me, this is one of the “easier” gender reveals I’ve had to do!’

  At this, Patrick sits up straight and leans forward – he loves stories like this. ‘What’s the most extravagant gender reveal you’ve heard of?’