Page 3 Confession – Ultimate!

I have toyed quite long enough, dear reader, with your patience. In fact your tolerance of my verbosity is to be commended. Or indicates, perhaps, – and I mean no offense with this observation – that you are idling whilst at work, or have a dearth of more productive tasks with which to occupy your time…


Page 3 is just a few small moments away…in fact, it may assist if you think burlesque… think tease…imagine these words as the flimsiest of garments…think narrative as a peeling of the layers between you and I

Of course, it is also only courtesy on my part to warn, again, of impending graphic and biological content...

You find yourself, now, in my old 5th floor bedroom. Dawn has not yet broken. The night remains dark. I am awakened by a distinctive and growing, cramping, pain. My body has decided that 42 weeks is quite long enough, thank you very much, in which to bake the baby. Certain that the process will take a couple of hours at least I creep (alright, alright, I haul my huge lumbering frame) from the marital bed. I gently rouse the snoring R, telling him that I believe we have lift off – and that he might want to get us a coffee, call Mamie n Papa, rouse the wee ones ready for departure, warn his resident padre that the show had begun and then phone the midwives. Whereupon I puff to the bathroom, to run a warm, deep bath…mentally preparing for the intensification of pain ahead…beginning to wish I had cut Rs bullocks off pre-June 2002…

I recall swaying and blowing whilst grasping the bathroom basin. Mildly disturbed by the force of the cramp, I hastened my descent into the bath. I sat in the water. Rocked by another cramping pain, deep within, I shifted position. Ohhh by jeeeezzussss, a tidal wave of pain gripped me. I shouted on R to hurry the f* up, to help me out of the f*n bath.

I struggled to stand and was caught, slam!, mid-exit by a tsunami of a contraction.

This was fast. This was going too fast.

I pulled on the night tent I had discarded and waddled to the stairs. I heard my mother and father coming in on the 3rd floor and shouted to them. We met on the 4th floor – me gripping the middle window sill and swaying and puffing like a demented wild-eyed coo.

My mother went into hyper-house-proud hyper drive. Screaming at my father to get that plastic floor covering. Screaming at me Don’t you DARE give birth on this carpet! Dont you DARE give birth HERE! And then hauling me across the floor, delivering me just 5 feet away, to stand atop the plastic and beside the gas n air…

My father was kneeling behind. Laying out the last of the plastic cover. I recall looking to the stair well and seeing two wee faces watching intently. I recall a bursting POP and Dad shouting Ooooohhhhh my god, its here… The shuddering relief of pressure as something large simply dropped from between my legs, in a veritable flume of fluid. My father screaming. Him trying to catch the slippery thing and it sliding and slapping to the floor. My mother crying out Oh look! Oh my God! It’s another lovely big boy. And my Fathers rejoinder It’s a gey queer boy Mary! It’s a lovely big lassie! And all the time, me thinking Oh bloody hell, my faither has seen ma “bits”…


R missed the whole 4 minutes as he was still on the phone to the midwives. Baby arrived to be caught by her grandfather. Watched on by her grandmother and her eldest brother and sister. Heard by her Papa Ralph.

By the time that Anne, the senior midwife had arrived, Mamie had clamped the cord, the placenta was delivered, Mamie had taken my BP, baby was on the breast and we were all drinking tea.

Papa Jaime (my father) was sitting silent, shell-shocked, traumatised by events.

I had endured a 34 minute labour…

Addendum

I do take my duty to be honest and truthful to you my dear reader…

And so, to Page 3…

Just four days after the birth, and whilst we were all assembled gazing at the babe, there came a knock at the door…

It was a journalist. With a photographer. He was independent, though representing the local Gazette. They had received a call from a midwife. Was I YS, the mother of five, whose father, in her own home, had delivered her new baby? Would I consent to an interview? Some pictures? It was such a “good news” story…

There are times in your life when you should simply shut the door and walk away…or when you should check credentials…or when you should simply pause for thought. Sadly, it is my experience. that we seldom recognise those times when they appear.


We did the interview. We did the photoshoot. All nine of us. R, Rs resident father, my Mother and Father, rebel eldest, the lad, baby giant, the tricky-one, new baby and me. And then we forgot all about it – bar the occasional I wonder when – or if -we will see those photos.

The following week, mid nappy change, mid shout-at-middle-child, mid re-dawning of realisation that babies are hard work, the telephone rang. Rebel eldest. In hysterics. Laughing. Crying. Shouting so loud down the phone that I couldn’t hear her words.

Eventually I made out – you are on Page 3 of the Sun. You and Ana are on Page 3 of the Sun. You are feeding Ana on Page 3 of the Sun. Mum! I am mortified! Everyone at school has seen the picture! You are an idiot Mum! I am soooo embarrassed by you Mum!

Yes, dear, patient and by now, sorely disappointed reader, I was indeed on Page 3 of the Sun.

Baby and I. Sans nudie wummin. Me nursing her. Under the banner headline Grrrr-eight to see you…

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PS Forgive me my friend. Just smile. And now, tell me, would you have read this story if I had entitled it “The Birth Story of Baby Number 5”….

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