When G and I were preparing for the arrival of our human, we packed our ‘labour bag’ with all sorts of goodies we would be told we would most definitely need.
· spray bottles to cool me down
· prunes. To prevent any difficulties resulting from the downstairs trauma I presume
· jellybeans for sugar hit
· takeaway menu for nearby pizza joint.
· Large underwear. (It was a matter of extreme vanity that I got back into my g-strings and out of those horrendous grannie-panties just as fast as I possibly could).
· Heat pack. Nice idea. No chance it was ever being used.
· Ural or other such UTI-preventer. This labour gig is so not classy.
· iPod to keep us company throughout the long ordeal
Except ours wasn’t a long ordeal. In fact that bag didn't even leave the car until after Q arrived.
But after the family had left, the midwives had done their duties, Q was soundly sleeping in her little Moses basket, my husband lay in an exhausted post-adrenalin slumber on the bed, I plugged in that iPod and put it on shuffle, and as I gazed down at my two favourites, this is the lyric I heard…
you want her all over again…
It’s a song by The Audreys called Pale Dress, and while the rest of the lyrics - in fact the entire story of the song - are completely inappropriate, every time I hear it played, my heart leaps back to that Teflon moment late on that shining summer’s night.
Nothing could touch me.
Not the adrenalin, the fatigue, the pain, the exhaustion, nothing penetrated but the unfathomable love and joy I felt for the man who gave me the human I had just met.
My most glorious human.
Invented, manufactured and produced by Llewellyn Hart Productions.
Happy 9 months Q,
I would, I could, everyday I know...
I want you all over again.