“So how much gel do they rub on to your tummy?” Learner Dad asked, staring at my belly.
We were sitting on the couch at home the night before I was to be induced.
I frowned.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “They won’t give us another ultrasound.”
“No when they induce you with the gel,” Learner Dad said. “How much do they put on?”
I stared at him.
“They don’t put it on your tummy,” I said incredulously.
“They insert it up your vagina and on to your cervix.”
“Oh… right…” he said, frowning as his gaze travelled lower.
I suddenly realised how new this all was for Learner Dad.
I mean, not only do I know how my own body works (sort of) but I’ve also been pregnant and given birth before.
And I’ve been induced too.
Master Seven was 10 days late and either the landlord didn’t want to evict or the tenant didn’t want to vacate because there was NOTHING happening when I finally went into hospital that cold winter’s night.
While common in first pregnancies, induction rates usually drop with subsequent children.
This was good news to me because I really wanted to ‘go natural’ this time.
I had visions of my waters breaking at work and everyone excitedly bustling me into Learner Dad’s waiting car, with little pain or mess involved, and us whizzing off to hospital for a quick delivery.
Or I had romantic notions of waking in the middle of the night and, with a big grin, whispering into Learner Dad’s ear: ‘Honey, it’s time”.
But no, after I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and an incredibly large fetus, the ‘i’ word was brought into play.
Li’l Fatty was going to be given his marching orders a week before his due date.
Maybe I could refuse?
But then you’re playing a game of Faith in Mother Nature v Faith in Doctor.
Mother Nature had fewer guarantees than the bloke in the coat so there was never a question really as to whose side I was going to take.
D Day began edging closer.
I had the stretch and sweep – anyone who’s had one of those knows from here on in every trip to the toilet means a detailed inspection of the undies and a game of ‘O Mucus Plug Where Art Thou?’
I made super hot curries, drank raspberry leaf tea and power walked across every track Hobart had to offer.
As the days crept by, the tears of inevitability crept in.
I was going to be induced.
Four hours after it began, Li’l Fatty had arrived.
All 4.2kg of him.
So maybe it was for the best.
