Sunday, October 2, 2011

Mediterranean Lamb

Boyfriend is sitting transfixed in front of the t.v. Every now and then he lets out a laugh, beating his thighs in hilarity . I interrupt him mid laugh.

“I just called the hospital and they said I should come in asap, my water's broken”.

“What? But I’m not ready,” Boyfriend yelps before leaping into the action. “I’m not ready,” he continually mutters as he rushes around the house trying to get organised.

“When did this all happen?” he yells from deep inside the wardrobe.

“Oh, about 6 this morning.”

“What? But it’s 10.30 now! Why didn’t you tell me?”

I activate my selective hearing and say instead, “Don’t forget to feed the animals. I’m just going to hang out the laundry.”

Half an hour later, we both pile into the car. As we leave we see some of his staff working beside the road. Boyfriend stops the car and calls out the window, “Kate!”

“I’m having a baby,” I remind him. “Now is not the time to stop and have a chat.”

He waves to his crew, “The baby is coming.”

I give him ‘the look’, which he conveniently ignores. He starts to whistle. I reign in my violent impulses, after all we’re having a baby. There WILL be plenty of opportunities later on.

We’re sitting in the assessment room. “I’m hungry. Can you run down to the cafe and get me something,” I ask Boyfriend.

Boyfriend looks at me.

“What? I’m going to need fuel to push out the baby.”

“Okay, what do you want?”

“Oh, anything.”

“Are you sure?” Boyfriend gives me the look again.

“Yep, anything. I’m so hungry I can chew my own arse at the moment.”

Fifteen minutes later he comes back and hands me a meat pie. I take a bite. I remember now that I hate meat pies. Boyfriend is watching me. I drown it in tomato sauce and take another bite. I hunt around for more sauce. I find another packet hidden at the bottom of the paper bag. I kill the thing with more sauce. Boyfriend is still watching me. I smile at him. The midwife comes in. I put the pie down and happily submit to being poked and prodded for the next half hour. We move to the labour ward.

Six hours later and still nothing. Boyfriend is downstairs waiting for his pizza delivery. He reappears , pizza box in hand. “Do you want some?”

“No thanks,” I reply.

“Are you sure, its Mediterranean lamb, yum yum.”

“Here we go again,” I mutter, as another wave of contraction sweeps over me.

“You okay babe?”

“Yeah.” I inhale sharply.

Boyfriend inhales the rest of the pizza.

It’s 11 pm. The obstetrician comes in. She pokes and prods me. “I think we need to look at the possibility of a caesarean section,” she tells us. “We can try for another two hours, but I honestly don’t think you’ll progress any further.”

I look at Boyfriend. He squeezes my hand. “It’s up to you babe,” he tells me gently.

I turn to the doctor, “Okay.”

At twenty past midnight, we finally meet our new daughter. She is gorgeous. I say a quick goodbye as they wheel me into the Recovery Ward. Forty-five minutes later I’m reunited with my new family. I finally get to hold her. We snuggle together in bed. Exhausted, Boyfriend bunkers down on the floor beside us.

An hour later it starts. At first I’m confused. What is that horrible smell? I turn to Boyfriend. He is fast asleep with a smile on his face. He lets out another loud fart. The smile gets wider. I recognise the smell now, its Boyfriend’s fart with a Mediterranean lamb pizza twist. I try not to inhale....too much.

It’s morning, and the stink is still in the air. I call out to Boyfriend. He farts in response. Half an hour later the midwife walks in. She pauses briefly and sniffs the air. We wake Boyfriend. They both help turn me. The smell is stronger. I cannot look the midwife in the eye. Boyfriend is still smiling. The midwife pauses and sniffs the air again. She walks out, leaving the curtain pulled back and the door wide open.

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