Monday, 13 January 2014

Two For The Road

The following post originally appeared here on 21st August 2006.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Spare Change, Mister?

With Lady Mountjoy’s bun doing ever so nicely in the oven, and 15 weeks of pregnancy left to go, it’s time for the second instalment of “The Fuck I’m Going Through That Again!”

If you remember back, Lady M had third stage complications delivering Heir Mountjoy, and so embarked upon the journey of expelling Spare Mountjoy from her womb with some trepidation. Inconveniently conceived to deliver on 24th December, Spare decided that it would be great fun to mess up his mother’s Christmas and New Year celebrations by arriving late. Xmas 2001 was a dry one for Lady M, and as the days passed, a visit to the GP brought with it the news that come Monday, if not knocking on the door by Monday, Lady M would be induced. As the only contraction being felt was the size of Lady M’s pooper valve clamming up at the thought of delivering this ever-growing belly full of 7-day-overdue arms and legs, we were invited to book in to our hospital on the Sunday night, ready for some chemically induced fireworks Monday AM.

I drove Lady M down, and she settled in with a cup of tea and a bikkie by 8pm. With an application of (I think) prostaglandin gel strategically administered, we were told I may as well shuffle off home as the main event would not be till morning (using Heir Mountjoy’s 13 hour journey as a benchmark, I guess). So, with two sets of grandparents domicile (having arrived the day before, expecting a week old baby to be their entertainment focus) and 25 month old Heir M on the loose, I decamped to Casa Del Mountjoy for a nightcap and a sleep. Lady M had checked all the boxes for gas, epidural, analgesic, narcotic and whatever the hell other pain relief was possible. There was no way she was having another masochistic marathon for this child.

Somewhere a mile of so away the phone was ringing. I woke and looked at the clock radio: 11:45pm. What the? “Is that Mr Mountjoy?” Oui. “If you’d like to come down to the hospital, your wife has gone into labour”. So I am thinking to myself “Yeah, yeah. We got half a night and the morning before it’s show time luv” as I showered, and threw a change of clothes on. I walked in the door 12.05am (we are 5 mins from the hospital), at the same time Lady Mountjoy was led, stumbling into the delivery suite.

It was then that I figured something wasn’t so casual – she was in agony. Less than 3 hours ago she was fine. What The? indeed. Up on the bed, the midwife buried her arm wristwatch deep (you check your dignity at the door during childbirth, ladies) and reported “Oh, goodness, you are at 9cm. This baby is coming now!” So it was straight on the laughing gas, and no time for serious pain relief. Our GP had been called at the same time as me, and he strolled in - looking like he was ready for a midnight tennis match - with about 10 minutes to spare. Obviously Heir Mountjoy’s oversized bonce had done one good thing in nearly tearing Lady M asunder two years previous, because Spare shot out like champagne cork at 12:30am, to the midwife’s astute observation that he would be having “quite a 21st party” (by that time, the calendar read 31st December). 25 minutes of labour – what a greyhound!

With all the formalities dealt with by 1:30am, Lady Mountjoy was settled back into her room and dozing, so I headed home. It was a busy night for staff – I was told later there were six other babies born that night. I walked through the kitchen door and was met with the grandparents all bug eyed and asking “Was it a false alarm?” I was able to show them some video of the 15 minute old Spare, nestled in his Mum’s arms. By 3am all the cooing was all over and we were back in bed.

It is still quite a way to go, but November can’t come soon enough for Lady M and I. We are hoping for a girl – a Princess Mountjoy! and a “full house” (3+2) to boot – but a boy will make our “hand” (4+1) four of a kind: Testosterone Central. Either way, the knowledge that this is going to be the last baby we will have, makes it a melancholy moment for us, but one that nothing else can hold a candle to.

My blog trawling this morning reminded me that I have been remiss in delivering Haiku to the masses of late. In particular, the gentleman over at 123Iloveyou has been an inspriation, with multiple Haikuage about having a "dry spell" as it were. So, as a nod to the man's greatness, Mountjoy, Resident Haikuist™, brings back the Haiku accompaniment to my daily blog.

Semen injection;
Mountjoy's genetic gamble.
Perchance, a Princess?

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