‘Good evening, sir, madam. A table for two?’ The friendly waiter ushered us to a secluded table.
We settled in a corner of the dimly-lit restaurant, the table was covered with a white crepe paper tablecloth, a vase with a plastic orange chrysanthemum was placed on the table’s edge, and a tea-light, with a pin-point flame, lay between us. We loved to eat out, especially in Italian restaurants and tonight we were in my favourite.
Leaning in towards the flame that separated us, I allowed a small grin to spread across my face, my eyes opened wide, ‘We did it.’
‘We did what?’ Greg’s left eyebrow rose and his fork hung in the air loaded with a piece of pink steak.
My hand reached for his. ‘I’m pregnant! I did the test before we left the house, and I’m pregnant.’ I bit the inside of my mouth, waiting for his response.
A cheeky grin spread across his face, ‘I guess you won’t be wanting any wine then?’ he said as he reached for the freshly opened bottle of Borolo.
Even before we had decided to get married Greg and I used to discuss how we would bring up children, using our own childhoods as reference. We talked in restaurants about discipline: to smack or not to smack. On holidays, over drinks, we would fire out lists of the names we liked: Ashley, Joshua, Katie and laugh about those that we did not. We were fortunate; we agreed on most issues and, where we did not, we talked until we found a compromise. We thought we had covered all the relevant big issues and felt confident that we would make great parents. United in our beliefs and behaviours.
Our first child was born a week late, in April 2005. We were so excited by the imminent arrival of the baby – we had been told by the Sonographer that it was 99% certain that we were having a boy – everything was ready. A blue Moses basket lay next to our bed with a blue, embroidered sheet covered by a hand-knitted, blue blanket boasting a white teddy bear. The baby’s blue clothes were washed and neatly folded away, except for the special item reserved for the hospital bag: a pair of striped, blue and white trousers, a white bodysuit and an extremely soft, hand-knitted, white jumper with duck buttons running down the neck line.
‘Greg,’ I muttered down the phone, ‘I think you need to come home.’
The day of labour had arrived.
‘Stop the car; I’m going to be sick!’ The rush hour traffic beeped as it slowly passed our inconveniently parked car. We eventually arrived at the hospital car park and walked along the brightly lit buzzing corridors to the labour ward.
‘I need to push,’ I told the lady behind the desk on arrival.
‘Okay. If you could just go up to the next floor, a midwife will examine you to determine where you’re at. If I could just take your name?’
‘Wilson.’
As we went up in the lift the pain began to intensify and I was beginning to feel agitated:
‘I…need…to…push!’
‘Let’s get you sorted with Gas and Air…’
I gritted my teeth: ‘I don’t want it. I need to push!’ And, one hour and forty-five minutes later, I greeted my newborn:
‘It looks like a girl to me!’
My whole body shook while I held my huge – ten pounds three ounces – baby in my arms. Her head was squashed into an odd Conehead shape (although, I am pleased to say, she did not look like Dan Ackroyd from the bad, 80s film). She was covered in the muck of birth. I was so proud.
I glanced at Greg and he returned my look with a twisted grin, later recalling that, at that moment, he had thought I was insane saying our baby boy was a girl. It was not until he had seen her for himself that he believed me.
‘Right, Mum,’ the midwife said as she re-entered the room ‘time to give the baby a feed. Do you know how to breastfeed?’
Of course I did not. I did not have any idea. I had read about it in books but, in reality, I did not have a clue where to begin and, although I knew this was something that I wanted to do, I suddenly felt a little strange and apprehensive.
