A Lifetime of Parenting Reduced to Four Words
When I first fell pregnant, my mother and other elders were happy for me but cautious. They were anxious that I didn’t get ahead of myself and agreed with the world that I shouldn’t reveal a new pregnancy straight away, “in case.” The word miscarriage is routinely substituted for ellipsis and knowing looks.
By month four, I began to be a little irritated with my mother and the elders. I wasn’t asking for my giddy level of excitement, but still. Even buying a pram at this stage was considered far too early and might anger the Miscarriage Gods. I left it to the six-month milestone before telling them I had bought the pram and a shed-load of wholly unnecessary accessories for my unborn child. Oh, and that the Gods of Misfortune could kiss my arse if the enjoyment of good news was enough to incite their anger.
Mygrowing bump was nicknamed ‘Arthur,’ although I had no idea—nor wanted to know—whether my chronic morning sickness was a boy or a girl. My bigger preoccupation was whether this constant nausea was even capable of producing a healthy child. There were sick feelings also about some of the excruciating decisions to be made. Like allowing a huge needle into my uterus to test if the baby was ‘normal’ — a test I would again beg for in my child’s teenage years.
By months seven and eight, it was whether to go the natural or assisted birth route. Since natural childbirth entailed God-awful pain and screaming like a banshee for hours, I went with Option B — drugs.
The next question? What sort of drugs? This ranged from gas and air to a full epidural. What are the pros and cons? Gas and air were a light assist, and an epidural would take the pain away completely. A big con with the epidural was that I would miss out on feeling the baby harpoon its way into the world through my Lady Purse, causing chaos and mass destruction en route.
“I’ll take the no pain and complete absence of feeling for two hundred,” I said.
I did ask whether there was an Option C, which was gas and air, full epidural, sleeping pills, and a bottle of vodka. There was no Option C. I asked if there was a customer suggestion form I could fill out.
Suffice to say, my worry continued up to and including labour day. I pushed my guts out for over 24 hours before a senior surgeon, who looked 12 years old, deemed the situation a medical emergency. Doors were flung open and nurses went into run-don’t-walk mode as they assisted medics with masking up in the corridor whilst others hoisted me onto a gurney like a startled seal. My American husband, God love him, was politely pulled away from his urgent question of whether he could get CNN on UK Hospital TV and told to, you know, MAYBE COME HELP WITH HIS DERANGED WIFE?
Enter stage right: the new concern of a full-on Caesarean. Even in my dazed state, I understood this to mean more yanking than pushing. Option A was to stay awake during the operation, and Option B was: “Sorry, there is no Option B, Mrs. Fargo.”
There was, however, a teeny tiny worry-free moment, and indescribable joy coursed through my body when I met my youngest child for the first time. A final determined yank and this incredibly wrinkled, beet-red, hairy thing tumbled into the world. She was beautiful. My first words to her were:
“Hello, Morgan.”
Except Morgan didn’t respond. Not even when they sprinted her at Olympic-like speed and shot-putted her onto a steel table and slapped her senseless. But she did eventually cry, and my baby girl was ushered safely into an unsafe world.
“Hi, mum, we’re back,” the nurse said as she handed me my precious little girl.
My mum was delighted with our hairy little monster, and grandmother and granddaughter enjoy an unrivalled bond to this day.
So, having satisfied mum with a healthy baby, now the world at large has conspired to keep the worry tank full. To breastfeed or not to breastfeed? Immunise or not to immunise? Pumped breast milk or formula milk? Is baby underweight or overweight, and will baby be beaten up on its first day of school?
“Arrghh, when does this infernal worry ever stop?” I raged.
“Never,” my mother said.
Years later, a friend asked if I wasn’t worried about Morgan going to Australia for a year. The question reminded me of our journey together thus far, including the first time I let my then-eight-year-old walk to the village shop by herself. Since we’d made the decision long ago not to parent in fear but to raise adventurous children, I let her go. It was a short walk, and the inhabitants of our fishbowl village would be on hand to keep an eye.
The twenty minutes it took her to get there and back shaved years off my parenting decisions. And then the kitchen door burst open, and my child breezed in with pride and groceries, saying:
“Hi, mum, I’m back.”
I choked back tears and fears and said:
“Hello, Morgan.”
From teething to teenage tantrums to travel, all my children have thus far always made it home safely. And my parenting world is both rocked and reassured by four words every time.
“Hi, mum, I’m back.”
