
I was 22 years old when I married an older widower with three young children and a year later I was pregnant, with my first and only child. I don’t remember much about the pregnancy, except that I developed toxemia (pre-eclampsia) and was advised to go into hospital at 37 weeks. I said ‘no, the baby’s not due for three weeks’, but my husband said ‘yes, you’re going in’...
A longed for cry
burst our bubble
of fear and what-ifs...
The day of your birth is now known; you will be a September 22nd baby, a lucky ‘five’ in numerology, a gift to your parents, already a precious second chance for me. I name you as my magical one even before you are born...
I’VE BEEN OFF WORK for just over three weeks, intending to rest but busy cleaning the floor, the cupboards, the windows, the oven. I have blisters on my hands from pruning the wild spring garden...
It was in the first few scorching days of early South Indian summer when our Tamil women friends sprung a ceremony on us. My daughter, Devi, and I were told that the ceremony was designed to call out her baby, to encourage him to brave the transition of passage by convincing him of the many happy friends and good cheer awaiting his arrival...
In August of 2005, at the age of 31, I was told by a doctor that due to my frequent cases of endometriosis that I would not be able to have children. On 6th January 2006 I had a doctor’s appointment because my period was a week late...
How do you feel about labour?
It seems to me that too many expectant mothers approach their due date with feelings of dread, apprehension and anxiety. In fact childbirth has acquired a bad name over the years...
When I fell pregnant I was absolutely terrified of labour. I was so scared that I decided to arm myself with as much information as I could...
What is this movement within me that flutters and turns? What is this rise in my belly, this plump, liquid-filled life, this swishing and twirling, this perfect world of warmth, of muted sounds?...
Childbirth is a beautiful thing, apparently. I can’t quite see it myself. First time around the baby was upside down. Or right way up, in other words. Matilda was born feet-first via Caesarean section a fortnight early and before the sucking reflex had kicked in, so she was tube-fed...
It is Christmas and the family has gathered as usual back at the farm, to share it with Mum and Dad. For David and me it is our first Christmas since we married, and we have news to tell. I am pregnant...
What I didn’t know was that the pain wouldn’t stop. Naively I’d imagined that the moment my progeny burst forth from my anguished body I’d heave a sigh of relief...
“Lovely colours,” said the painter just before finishing the final coat in the nursery. The plumber also worked tirelessly to finish his job in our extension. He knew we had only one month left before our third daughter was due...
I became a mother in the back of a taxi cab. No sit-com cliché, this. The taxi was a late-model, jacked up Honda, its plush chairs bedecked by delicate white doilies...
After my traumatic experience in a private Sydney maternity hospital in 1968 I joined the band of pioneers for better conditions in maternity hospitals in the late 1960s and 1970s...
Deliverance
When I feel the need
to push...
When I fell pregnant with Noah two years after the birth of Jack my mind was a lot more open. Jack had weighed eight pounds, thirteen ounces (almost four kilograms) and had been hard to push out...
“Children are not a job you can leave, or a country you can return from. No one can guarantee you a child who matches your imaginings. You will get what you’re given – and there’s no turning back.”*
After seven years of motherhood, I still grapple with the truth of this brutally honest fact. There’s no walking away when things get tough. There’s no resigning to look for another job, one that pays better or appreciates your worth. There’s usually no gratitude for all the sheer, dogged hard work you put in on a daily (and often nightly) basis. And sometimes there’s no one around to de-brief with when you’ve reached your limit and have resorted to screaming to make yourself heard!
* From The Divided Heart, Art and Motherhood by Rachel Power