When number 1 asked a few months ago if she and her husband could move into the barn (not a baby Jesus scenario - it is converted into a dwelling of sorts) so that their baby could be born in God's own country rather than in the smelly old metropolis, we could scarcely believe our luck. Not entirely true - I could scarcely believe my luck and my beloved agreed grudgingly to give up his man cave. Clearing, disposing and cleaning has been the order of the day for the last few months and since we have been, for more years than I care to think, a depository for other family members' - living and dead - clutter, this cathartic cleansing has been definitely a good thing.
On arrival, number 1's nesting instinct was at full throttle. Not only was the downstairs of the barn turned into a lovely sitting area as it had always been intended before my beloved's hoarding instinct and our fellow family members' desire to dump their 'I-might-need-it-one-day' stuff on us took over but she felt the need to clear out all sorts of cupboards in the house as well. And 'borrow' various bits of furniture that would 'go' in the barn. There was a sort of tidal swapping of furniture and general clobber between the barn and my office and the good stuff was definitely heading out of the front door and across the yard, whilst the other was heading into my office to be stored, sold, given away, taken to the tip and so on.
Meanwhile, arrangements for the birth of a very small person in Yorkshire rather than London involved registering with doctors, midwives, hospitals and so on. For the second time, I accompanied number 1 to see the midwife (I'd already done this in London) and sat aghast at how times had changed since numbers 3 and 4 had made their appearance. There were definitely moments when I wondered how my four survived their whole childhood and how different was the advice given to prospective parents now. No matter. My role is to do as I'm told and only proffer advice when actually asked for it. (Very difficult to achieve as it turns out).
We scarcely made it back from our holiday in Cyprus and Turkey before things started kicking off. Week 39 and the midwife told number 1 lots of encouraging things about her state of health and concurred that she could train it down to London the following day for an audition. I'm gobsmacked but there's no stopping her. Shall I come with you? No. I'll pay for an Uber so you don't have to get the tube. More no.
But when she didn't feel quite right on the return journey from London, it was straight to Harrogate Hospital for a few checks. Meanwhile, we went to the pub with Four Candles and Boadicea only to discover we'd picked a pub with no mobile phone signal. As we headed home several hours later, we were bombarded with messages to ring now, come home NOW etc etc. The drama had begun...
Well nature took its course in its own sweet time meaning that labour took Friday night, all day Saturday during which I made jars and jars of redcurrant jelly to distract myself from the thought of my child in pain and then Saturday night. Having the self control not to phone and text hourly whilst all this was going on was nearly too much for me. Sunday morning dawned and we'd heard nothing. I went to church to see if God could get things going any quicker to discover that whilst I had been out, my grandson had finally made an appearance.
I'm not going to cry when I go to hospital. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I did. Multiple times. But I make no apology. If you're going to cry about something, isn't this absolutely the best reason in the world? I'm a granny!
Love, love, love!
ReplyDelete