The Tearful Mother

It is 8.30pm and I am already asking my husband if it is too early to go to bed. With seven weeks to go until D-day, the pregnancy exhaustion is really beginning to kick in. I haul myself into bed and begin reading my book. And then it starts. The tears begin rolling down my cheeks fast and furiously, until my husband rushes in at the sound of loud sobbing coming from the bedroom. “What on earth is the matter?” he asks. I can barely speak through the uncontrollable tears. “It’s just a sad bit in my book,” I blub. As he glances at Ken Follett’s ‘World Without End’, it is obvious that even some of the most gruesome events at Kingsbridge Priory should not have such an emotional impact on its reader.

My husband continues to watch aghast as the sobbing begins to subside and then comes to an abrupt end as I pull open my bedside drawer and begin unwrapping a carefully hidden bar of Toblerone. “I’m better now,” I say. I can tell that even after three previous pregnancies, he is fairly shocked at these recent emotional outbreaks, but has obviously decided to just quietly hold the box of tissues rather than ask questions that prompt yet more sobbing.

The problem is that the sudden crying thing is not now just restricted to books and animal documentaries at home. In the last few days alone, I have had emotional outbursts in the doctor’s surgery when a receptionist was particularly kind and in Harts of Sturminster when I discovered I couldn’t find the right inset light bulb I needed for the bathroom. Last week, I went into school to ask our headmistress a quick question. Inevitably we began talking about my children, a topic which is a clear front-runner on the emotional front. I felt my voice breaking as she spoke warmly about them. I then realised I was going to have to make a sudden dash for the door to avoid inflicting an uncontrollable sobbing episode on her. Thankfully, I made it to my car before the crying began. It continued for the next couple of hours and eventually came to end thanks to the McVities Penguin I found at the bottom of my handbag.

This week is parent teacher evening which I know concerns my husband. Whether the comments are good or bad, we both know what the outcome will be. The big question is will I make it to the end of the meeting without embarrassing my husband and the class teacher. A large packet of tissues and a bumper pack of Maltesers is the only solution.

Expectant father

You have spent the last nine months obediently attending every antenatal class, studying blurred scan photos of your little ‘peanut’ gradually growing month by month. You have reassured your wife that she looks radiant and not at all like a large pack horse, and handed her tissues when you find her sobbing on the sofa over Animal Hospital whilst tucking into her fourth Cadbury Cream Egg.

Finally, the momentous occasion arrives. The Bag is packed, the contractions are becoming more regular and you try to remain calm whilst driving to the hospital desperately wishing you had paid more attention to the classes rather than wondering what the football score was. In the delivery room, you see a side to your better half you never thought existed. You try rubbing her back, to which she yells, “Don’t touch me.” You offer words of support telling her how brave and clever she is, to which she screams, “I don’t want to be brave. Just make it stop!”

Ninety percent of fathers attend births in Britain and I feel rather sorry for them. It must be very hard watching someone you love in so much pain and be utterly helpless. A friend’s husband was so tense and stressed at the birth of his first child that he fainted. The room promptly filled with medical staff who wheeled him down to A&E leaving my poor friend alone in her delivery room, riding the ‘wave’ of her last few contractions. Now she is about to have another baby and was more concerned about the ‘energy bars’ she was packing for her husband in the Bag than about the cotton wool and new born nappies.

I have to confess, I came under the ‘utter wimp’ category when it came to childbirth and the midwives must have dreaded me coming. I arrived in hospital in plenty of time, ended up in labour for several days and demanded epidurals at the first twinge. My husband, on the other hand, rather enjoyed it, particularly given the wonderful delivery rooms at Dorchester Hospital. With birth number three, he really settled himself in. He lay on the bed glued to daytime television, whilst I continued with my laps of the delivery ward in an attempt to speed things up. When it looked like the baby might finally decide it was time to arrive, he knew not to stroke my back, wipe my brow or utter a word until I turned to him with relief and handed him his new little bundle.