Witnessing the birth of my children as a father was an odd experience in some ways. It’s the most momentous, brilliant thing that will ever happen to me but at the same time it wasn’t about me at all. It was about my wife and the medical team assigned to extract the peculiar little creatures living within her. I was a minor character in the action, an extra loitering at the back of set. Albeit with a small cameo towards the end.
My wife had issued me with the remit to sit quietly and only speak was I spoken to, like a Victorian child. This chimed with my passive, reactive nature so throughout both labours I squirreled myself away in a corner with a multipack of salt and vinegar Hula-Hoops, playing puerile games on my phone and awaiting any instructions.
Unaccountably both my sons were reluctant to come out and meet us and had to be induced. There was no high-octane dash to the hospital on either occasion, just a measured journey to be admitted to the induction ward.
The induction ward is what I would guess an olden-days military field hospital was like. On the induction ward you are never more than a yard away than a woman beginning to experience what I imagine is the acute sensation of having her undercarriage dismantled from within. Most mothers-to-be at least suffer these early ravages in the privacy of her own homes, but during induction only a thin vinyl curtain separates them from a strange man awkwardly immersing himself into a mobile version of The Sims. Naturally I felt that my presence on those wards was intrusive.
During our second trip to the induction ward, there seemed to be urgent demand for Entonox, or gas and air. Unfortunately it was only available in one canister which had to be passed around the ward via a nurse like a suspicious cigarette at a student party. My wife’s pain was exacerbated by an ovarian cyst, a situation noted by a kindly midwife who ushered us discreetly through to an unused ward to provide my wife her own space and crucially her own drug supply.
Midwives are among the best people I’ve met. The ones I’ve worked with most effectively are able to adapt to each delicate situation by either offering sweet reassurance or a full and frank slap in the face. Like a good cop and a bad cop in the same well-pressed uniform, a person who might greet you with a lovely warm meaningful hug but then punch you in the tit for not hugging hard enough.
I am convinced that the addition of a few Haribo Tangfastics rendered the gas and air more powerful that night. During the first birth, my wife inhaled a small cloud of the stuff but described the feeling as ‘being a bit pissed’ but with no reduction in pain. Another unforeseen side effect was a bizarre misplaced paranoia that she sounded like the American drag artist RuPaul. This lead to a temporary obsession with RuPaul and his career.
The disappointing impact of the Entonox on that occasion was partly the reason that my wife decided to have an epidural. She viewed this as some kind of failure, but she was the only person in the room that thought this and we all gave her our fulsome support. We were also a bit tired of RuPaul.
The epidural was left in the needle second time round and the delivery team explained that the option of a water birth was available. I’ve heard stories about dads stripping off and getting in the tub with the mums or being equipped with a net to fish poo out like the worst fairground game ever. But my responsibility was to remain outside and hold my wife’s head so as to prevent her plunging underneath the water as she pushed, thus avoiding an impromptu witch-trial.
Before the first birth I had resolved that during the final pushes I would station myself close to my wife’s head and away from the business end. But when it came to it I was magnetised towards that area, until I my face was only a yard or so away from the action. What I witnessed there was like the greatest magic trick I’ve ever seen. More specifically being taken step by visceral step through the greatest magic trick and still having no clue how it was achieved. The miracle of childbirth may be a cliché, but it’s definitely true.