So this is it. Forty weeks and nine days. After praying, crying, shouting, moaning, drinking raspberry leaf tea, eating pineapple, wolfing down curries and walking for miles, this baby refuses to move. This is not what I wanted. Being induced means going to a proper hospital. The type with escalators and wards and expensive cafeterias. I wanted the midwife unit where the shop is run by a little old lady who looks as if she never moves from behind the counter, where I could have my own room and Issac could stay with me overnight. But no, I can forget all that. I can pack my bags and expect to be in for up to two days whilst they coax out this baby by interfering with me in every way possible. Tablets, drips, examinations, everything I did not want. I’ll stay at home for as long as possible I said. I’ll ride out the contractions in a nice warm bath and dart to the hospital at the last minute I decided. Well that is not the way I have got it and tomorrow morning I will be wheeling my little suitcase through the automatic doors of a place where sick people come, where infections and bugs live. And I can look forward to spending the happiest day of my life under the glare of strip lights and with the waft of bleach singeing my nose hairs.
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