The Woolliest Baby (Part 4) or The Birth

Needless to say, when I was finally due to make my entrance into the unknown world outside the womb, I did so like a bolt from the blue. Many times I have had guys tell me that one of my most attractive traits is my impulsive behaviour, although some have found that at times I can drive any normal man to the brink of insanity with my insuppressible impetuosity.

Monday September 18 crept by with insufferable lentitude for the mum-to-be, with apparent disregard for the laws of temporal physics, until all at once, it was Tuesday, D-day. Still nurses peered at my mother’s uterus for signs of dilation and imminent birth, all to no avail. At 1 am, nothing; at 1:30 am, still no change; at 2 am, same old story; at 2:30 am – EMERGENCY! Buttons were pushed and alarm bells rang in the various stations of the delivery team. No-one came. So there we were, my mother still on her hospital bed, and me on the verge of being born, and only one nurse around. The nurse was panicking – looking up and down the corridors for some sign of assistance. Seeing nobody, she went in search of a wheelchair. Guess what – not one to be found! So the nurse hoisted the now hysterical mother-on-the-point-of-being out of her bed, and grabbing her from behind, held onto her by her elbows as if her life depended on it. The two women shuffled out of the ward, along the empty corridors and finally made it to the delivery room. Somehow word must have got around because there were nurses, midwife and doctor all waiting, scrubbed and at the ready. Thus my mother was finally able to push down and hugely relieved, eject me from my 9-month living space at 3 am on a Tuesday morning. All that fuss and my life hadn’t even begun – but the moment it did, it seems I was intent on letting absolutely everyone know that I was around!


(Dedicated to my wonderful mother who has always loved me no matter what. She is the epitome, the very essence of the word “mother”. I just hope she knows I am aware of that!)


The Woolliest Baby in the Wirral (Part 2) or Short Back and Sides

To the reader: If you haven’t already read Part 1, you may like to before reading this, as this is a continuation.  See the link below or on the right of this post.

Short Back and Sides


You BET they do…

Due to give birth in mid-September, my mother was relieved when her waters broke four days early. She was duly rushed to the hospital and swiftly tucked between crisp white sheets.

A few minutes afterwards, a nurse came along with a towel draped over her arm and holding a bowl of soapy water and a razor. The nurse smiled sweetly at her rather bewildered patient and drew the privacy screen around the bed. She then folded the top sheet neatly down to my mother’s knees, hoisted the hospital gown up a few inches, and, to my mother’s abject horror, proceeded to divest her of her “short and curlies” (it was only much later that it dawned on my mum that this was standard pre-natal procedure).

When the nurse had finished, she took a step back, and admiring her handiwork she removed a mirror from a pocket in her uniform and angled it so that the “shavee” could also see the result. With a dazzling smile she said, “I do hope you like it!” (my mother was later told that this was a ploy used by that particular nurse to put first timers at ease). My mother, shy and eager to please mumbled, “Erm yes, it’s very nice. Thank you!”

“I always did want to be a hairdresser!”  added the nurse wistfully, only to double up in gales of laughter. My mum soon joined her, but her hysterics were more due to relief than mirth.

Her joy was short-lived and soon dampened – quite literally – when she was carried off by two other nurses and deposited into a steaming hot bath. They scrubbed her clean until she was red from both the scalding water and the stiff bristles of the brush. To add insult to injury, back in bed with the screen still in place, a different nurse with a towel draped over her arm arrived with a bowl of soapy water, but instead of a razor this nurse was wielding a tube… She bent down and retrieved a bed pan from under the bed, shoved it beneath my mother, and inflicting a rather undignified operation upon my mother’s bowels, divested her of anything unsavoury that might have the audacity to pop out during my birth.


 I admire nurses for the things they have to do when working, and so often they do it with a smile.

Coming in Part 3: The Demented Ballerina 

The Woolliest Baby in the Wirral (Part 1)

For me, today is one of THOSE days – you know, the ones where we add yet another year to our age. I don’t like birthdays, well not my own at least. However, as I think about what to write for today’s assignment for Blogging 101, the thing I most want to blog about is my Birth Day. Not my birthday – the day of my birth. I think it’s something I’ll enjoy writing, and to hit two trees with one stone (killing birds is just cruel!) I’ll feel like I’m telling you something about myself, therefore doing the first day’s assignment at the same time!

I suffer from infantile amnesia, but don’t we all? However I have heard enough bits and pieces about my birth and the days leading up to it from my mother to be able to imagine what happened as if I’d actually been there. Well, I WAS there – but you get the drift.

I’ve always been an awkward person, a right royal pain in the proverbial ass. Due to give birth in September, my poor mother suffered one of the hottest summers of her life, although I suspect any summer would seem a real scorcher to a heavily pregnant woman. I have no pictures of her from that particular time, but I can see her in my mind’s eye, sitting in a deckchair in our back garden, her feet resting on a low stool, ankles like sausages straining to break free of their restrictive skin, fanning herself with the copy of Women’s Own she had clutched in one hand while she sipped iced lemon tea from a tall glass held in the other. My grandmother would have been fussing about everything, clucking like a hen, muttering that her daughter was a silly girl for having chosen the deckchair to sit in and where did she think she was anyway? New Brighton beach? Now the impending grandmother would have to ask one of the neighbours to help hoist the mother-to-be from out of the offending contraption, as God only knew when her good-for-nothing son-in-law would be back from the betting office to help her. My mother would be nodding in agreement, not wanting to cause any trouble, blanking out the tirade by concentrating on the rhythmic clicking of her mother’s knitting needles as they rattled away furiously like a demented metronome, churning out bootees, vests, bonnets, jackets and leggings. If the title had existed, I would have been named The Woolliest Baby in the Wirral!

The wooliest baby_02Another woolly baby.

(Image from Hallowe’en Costumes)

Coming in Part 2: Short back and sides.