Not Another Mammy Blog

I've debated long and hard about how graphic I would be about the traumatic aftermath of labour. And I've decided not to hold back, because I was literally torn asunder from the inside and since complaining is what I do best, complain I will. So if you're in any way squeamish, maybe its time to pop open a YouTube window and start watching some Peppa Pig, you cowardly pissant. Anyway, my departure from the delivery room was swift. Erin's little head was pushed towards my nipple so she could feed. I was wheeled into a empty ward and the curtains drawn. I was given some toast and tea. The midwife suggested that Himself go home and get some well-earned rest. (And let's all be thankful that my legs had been numbed from the epidural when he countered her recommendation with a whispered "I haven't slept, either, you know, Rachel," as it is entirely possible that  - had I been fully mobile - he would still be laid up in a different hospital bed at this p...

My waters broke on a Sunday morning, six days before my scheduled due date. I'd been warned by midwives and consultants alike that it wouldn't be like the movies - that instead of that oft-portrayed gushing and panicked scrambling for the car to get to the hospital, it would more likely be a gentle let-out, a very manageable trickle that I would barely notice. And that was if I was one of the few to experience the actual breaking of the waters - apparently, it was a lot less common than Hollywood would lead one to believe - and since most first time pregnancies went beyond the due date, inducement was a real possibility, and I wouldn't notice my waters breaking. So when I went to the bathroom that fateful morning, it took me a few puzzled minutes to realise  that the wriggling creature that had been making standing upright so difficult the last month was finally ready to make her way in to the world, and that I hadn't developed an embarrassingly uncontrollable - an...