Diary of how I became a parent (without the details!)

I had my first daughter age 21. She was my ‘tummy ache’. 

I have to admit it wasn’t exactly the romantic picture I’d created in my mind; blissfully floating around in the birthing pool and plop! Out pops a little blue eyed angel: What a miracle! An entirely Painless and peaceful process. Within seconds, my stretched to its limits stomach would revert back to its pre pregnancy size 10 and my quiet little baby girl would stare at me with loving devotion and sleep ten hours a night. 

I have to blame a diet of Walt Disney throughout the 70’s for this highly unreal picture of how my life would be. Princes and princesses, with the odd wicked witch thrown in just to spice things up a little, but my prince would always win the day and I would of course just glide through life, serene without a care in the world.

Secondary school was a rude wake up call for a dreamer like me, I can tell you. Was a virgen someone who had done it or hadn’t it? 

Walt Disney skipped over such details. I can’t of course blame old Walt for my ‘tummy ache’ but I was definitely still firmly entrenched in my subconscious dream land, far nicer than the real world. Anyway, I digress.. It was a hot sweaty summers evening in Spain. June 1994, during the World Cup I believe. Some blokes were kicking around a ball on TV but I had something far more serious going on. I’d just peed myself! How the f**k did that just happen? Oh... Then the realisation hit me. 

It was that stuff known as amniotic fluid. I almost wished it were pee as I suddenly felt very unsure about what awaited me. Me with my newly coloured bright red henna hair, my huge bump and baby daddy climbed into our little orange Seat and raced off into the night. As fast as one can race in a 1970’s Seat. 

I focus and attempt to do my deep breathing exercises, somewhat rather unsuccessfully I must add. 

I had a great midwife who really was quite radical for a small Spanish village. She was a Buddhist and attempted to teach us meditation, which I was really quite crap at. 

Just as I thought my mind was finally drifting into nothing, images of chocolate croissants would float straight back in and my stomach would begin to rumble and my cravings would kick in and that was the end of the session. I was becoming distinctly uncomfortable and felt as if a football were about to pop out down there. Not a pleasant thought. You know how they talk about NDE’s and your whole life flashes before you? I was having one of those right now, except mine was this can’t be happening.

 It’s not part of my life plan. And there’s no way on earth my vagina can stretch that much. I shuddered. Anyway, I was meant to be off travelling. I was going to be a journalist, a foreign correspondent to be exact. I’d made that decision after reading ‘The Killing Fields’ age 13.

How the hell did this happen? Oh yes, I had a vague recollection of how ‘that’ happened but still, I was holding on to my childhood fantasies and this was not one of them. Very far removed from leafy Surrey I must say...

It all started around my 21st birthday. Golden age. Or at least it used to be. 18 was the new 21. I spent it puking up curry and birthday cake and  I’ve never been able to stomach the smell of Southern Comfort since...

Me and my very painful stomach went to the hospital, where much to my astonishment, shock and horror, I was told, extremely bluntly (cold bastard he was) that I was pregnant but the foetus was dead so come back soon and we will carry out the necessary procedure. What a horrid experience and would someone teach these MFkers a bit of empathy please? What a roller coaster few weeks they were, I was in a daze. When the time came to return, I was prepared for the worse only to be congratulated, by a much nicer doctor, when the little heart appeared pumping away on the Scan before us. And that was when I realised that nine months later I would become acquainted with little bean.

Now to tell father. Fathers, or a lot of them, also live in a perpetual Disney fantasy that their daughters will never get up to what they did, and god forbid any male even attempting to link fingers, let alone whip out his chorizo. Now I happen to know my father had definitely lived more than a little as he unfortunately liked to tell a tale or two, or three about his younger years. All of which were backed up by those who’d known him. Even after the ghastly deed had been done and my big pregnant stomach was on view for the entire world to behold, he tried to make us sleep in separate beds! Father logic for you. My mother and I sat either side of my baby father to protect him from the possible wrath of dad. I envisaged him leaping off the sofa to strangle him. Actually he turned a whiter shade of pale. Quite impressive for he of Indian stock. I get it. Not expecting that? Me neither but I was expecting and life was about to change forever...