Jack was finally born at 41 weeks and 4 days on Monday 2 November, on the night of the full moon.
His birth was spookily similar to Tadpole’s. I found myself in the same salle d’accouchement at the Maternité des Lilas where my daughter had been born six years earlier and, like his big sister, Jack wasn’t all that keen on coming out. As a result, my hoped-for natural birth was soon forgotten as I had to be hooked up to various drips, given an epidural and strapped to a monitor. Finally, at 7.03 pm, just as the midwife was paging the obstetrician and threatening me with forceps, I saw a head of dark hair emerging and the marathon was finally over (contractions had begun a full 24 hours earlier). I sobbed with relief afterwards and swore I would NEVER go through it all again.
Eleven days later we are all well, blissfully happy and revelling in The Boy’s paternity leave. Jack would happily eat all day long, but he compensates by sleeping 4 or 5 hours in a row, twice a night. He pulls the most ridiculous faces when he’s trying to poo. The softest place in the whole world is the portion of his neck just below his little ears.
I’m besotted with him, in short. We all are.
Tadpole wasn’t able to visit us at the hospital (H1N1 has a lot to answer for), but instantly fell in love with her little brother when I brought him home. ‘Mummy,’ she said to me after her first cuddle with baby brother, ‘felicitations for making such a perfect baby.’