I saw a humorous, yet educational, Instagram reel on Mother’s Day that showed the shockingly accurate sizes of a speculum, a pair of forceps, a 10cm dilation, a caesarean incision and a spinal needle, as well as the undignified position most of us deliver in.

Although, as I type, I am questioning my own decision to label it undignified, given it’s the most natural thing in the world and actually quite empowering.

I can only conclude that we’ve somehow been conditioned to think such a position is shameful because it’s been sexualised, like so much other stuff in this world that should not have been.

Anyhow, the reel gave me a giggle, but it also got me thinking.

I have brushed with every single implement showcased.

My first labour was induced, lasted 31 hours, involved an epidural and ended up in an operating theatre where my baby was delivered via C-section.

By that point I was pre-eclamptic and suffering a post-partum haemorrhage.

Nine months later, I was pregnant again and being heavily encouraged to elect a planned caesarean delivery to avoid risking rupture to the still fresh scar during a VBAC (vaginal birth after caesarean) labour.

I chose the VBAC, but wasn’t allowed to move much as I was hooked up to monitoring machines to ensure nothing was going wrong.

The pain of staying stationary had me begging for an epidural and, 16 hours later, when the time came to deliver, the doctor performed an episiotomy in order to position forceps around my second baby’s big head.

I liken the forceps delivery feeling to a tow truck hooking your insides up and driving forward in one swift movement.

One moment my womb felt abundantly full; the next, echoingly vacant.

My eyes widened with shock at the sensation.

My baby, potentially also in shock about being yanked from his warm cosy nest like that, was also silent.

Years have shown me he’s just chill like that though, never making a fuss about anything.

Nine months later, I was pregnant again and the midwives were more comfortable with my wish to have a VBAC given I’d already had one successfully and my C-section scar would be just on three years old by the time I delivered baby number three.

This baby wasn’t waiting to be tickled out.

No, he was going to do things on his own terms; a personality trait that still very much sticks with him to this day.

He wasn’t waiting for Mum’s pain to be relieved by an epidural. He wasn’t waiting for anyone to wrap some surgical steel tongs around his temples. He didn’t even want to wait for a doctor to oversee his grand debut into life.

I’d been at the hospital less than an hour when he shot out, disturbing the Friday night peace in the delivery suite.

All 10-plus pounds of him.

Of course, while it was a quick and easy labour, it still came with stitches.

The challenges at the time were deflating.

I remember thinking I wasn’t built for birth when I couldn’t deliver my first two babies without intervention.

I remember feeling like I had failed as a mother when breastfeeding became so stressful and hard that I gave up and chose to formula feed.

But when I look back now, all these years later, I just feel lucky that I got to experience it all — the hardships and difficulties, all the birthing techniques.

While it’s so hard to do in an often stressful newborn bubble, life really is easier when you roll with adversities.

I am also acutely aware that it is easy for me to say when everything I’ve mentioned were the worst of my worries, and my heart is with those who’ve gone through much worse.

I live for experiences and am grateful I can comment on these birthing variables with first-hand knowledge.

I’ve been a mum for 17 years, and a single mum for 10 of those.

It wasn’t the way things were supposed to be, and there’s no doubt my kids have missed out on some things because of it, but, if we must find positives in everything (and I try to), while hard, it is just another feather to my hat.

So, while I’d love my teens to watch that Instagram reel the next time they get irritated that I was five minutes late to pick them up or I cooked their least favourite dish or something else they want to whinge about that doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, I thank them for the scars and the tears, the laughs and the memories.

They spoiled me on Mother’s Day with gifts (that they’d chosen and paid for with the money they earned working) to thank me and show me they appreciate me.

But on Mother’s Day I reflect on how much I appreciate them.

They’ve tested my true mettle as a human, for without them, I might never have known what I’m capable of.

I’m a single mum, but I’m not by any means riding solo.

My boys and I are working it out together.

Happy belated Mother’s Day, mummas.

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Monday, 3rd February 2025

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