Diary Of A Homebirth

Hugh Joughin and Jenny Littlewood wanted their children to be born where they belong: at home. It took two attempts to make it happen, though. Hugh tells his birth story.

I want a baby, love.”

I suspect I’ll never forget those words. I remember the place, the date, the time, the overhead conditions and the wind direction. What else could I do but oblige

“I’d really like to have a homebirth”.

These words are less memorable, but my beautiful midwife and (future) wife uttered these with less fortitude. I initially responded with muted enthusiasm, being the product of a fairly orthodox Presbyterian upbringing.

“Bad idea having a homebirth, and a very bad idea having a homebirth for your first child”.

I remember those words also.

Unfortunately, the homebirth thing didn’t work out for our first child. Something to do with meconium (poos). We had to go to hospital, but were grateful that it was a conventional birth, and they didn’t have to hack Jenny open as is (too) often the case these days.

So it was hoped that things would go more to plan with our second child.

Our homebirth midwife was great. I was there for many of the appointments, and really felt part of it all. It was so nice to have that whole medical side of things completely absent. No white coats, no hospital smells, no curtains, no intimidating equipment.

As the big day approached, things started to change. I came home from work one day to find the kitchen floor completely covered with large bags and all sorts of strange things. It looked like cricket practice was being held at our place that day.

But instead of cricket bats, I found a portable birthing pool inside those bags. It was time to put my innate male aptitude towards constructing things to the test.

I was hoping it was better than my innate male sense of direction, my innate male skills with fixing engines, or my innate male hunter gatherer instinct.

Well, the pool was there at the birth, and that’s about all I remember. Don’t ask me how it got there.

So the scene was set. Our first daughter, who was about 2 by then, didn’t quite know what to make of everything. She found it very frustrating that there was a pool in our front room, and she wasn’t allowed to fill it with cold water and jump around in it. Bath time didn’t quite have the same appeal anymore.

The due date came and went, just as it had with Grace. Each day passed with no action whatsoever. A week after the due date, Jen’s waters broke at 5 o’clock in the afternoon while she was sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing (again).

My standard medical upbringing had brainwashed me into thinking that babies are born 24 hours after a woman’s waters break. Or something like that. Yes, yes, we (including the midwives) were sure that she would go into labour that night. We went to bed.

We slept. We got up. Nothing. That morning I boldly and confidently rang work to inform them that I wouldn’t be there. Morning tea, nothing. Lunch time, nothing. Bed time, you guessed it. The weekend came and went without a flicker.

Monday morning, nothing. I strode into work to face the media. How embarrassing. I buried myself in work, or it buried me rather.

Two weeks after our due date, quiet plans were made to induce baby. Anticipation was starting to give way to stress, but as if by magic, the moment the words “hospital” and “doctor” were mentioned, it all began to begin.

By one o’clock in the morning, Jen was seriously hunched over the washing machine. I wondered if her choice of appliance had some wider significance, and was about to make some smart comment about her reluctance to choose a kitchen appliance. I thought I’d better not go there .

The pool was hastily filled, and the midwives contacted. The next few hours were a bit of a blur, but I do remember going for a cigarette and almost slipping on the deck. One of the hardest frosts of the year that night.

The log burner was cranked to the max, and the jug was on constant boil to try and keep the pool hot. After bravely trying a few different positions and locations, Jen finally took up residence in the pool. She still wasn’t warm enough and it was a real struggle to keep the room sufficiently warm.

The hours passed with lots and lots of grunting, yelling, deep breathing, and all the usual stuff that a male will never know anything about.

I remembered looking at the clock at about 5 in the morning, and then my hand being squeezed very tightly indeed. I suggested we take a few photos and Jen screamed. I took that as a “no”.

It was all happening down the other end though, and there was a lot of activity from the midwives all of a sudden. They told Jen that she had to stand up, but she said that she couldn’t. The midwives then said that the baby was coming.

Torches were flashing, and a mirror was placed on the floor of the pool. The head had appeared, and I was invited to have a look via the mirror.

I didn’t really want to, being quite content looking at Jen’s head instead, but I thought I might regret not having a look after the event. I took a quick peek out the corner of my eye. I recalled things looked pretty freaky down there.

All of a sudden (probably not for Jen though), a slippery pink baby appeared with arms outstretched. There were smiles all round, and the baby was quickly wrapped in towels. We both helped cut the cord, and had a family snuggle.

Jen crawled over to the couch and took up residency there. The kettle had been on the boil all night, but it was now finally time to use the hot water for its usual purpose – coffees all round.

By now the sun was up, and we started to hear some 2 year old noises through the baby monitor, which had been on all night. I went down and brought her into the main room, and her eyes lit up.

A real live brand new baby, just 2 hours old! I got the chance to take a few photos, and Grace had breakfast and did all the usual morning things, with frequent visits to the couch to check on her baby sister, of course. After a bit of breakfast ourselves, Jen shuffled off to a new location – the bed.

It was a Thursday, and that’s the day Grace went to Barnardoes for a couple of hours in the morning. It was just around the corner, so it was very handy.

We walked around in the warm sunshine, and the carer greeted us at the door with a cheery “How’s it going”. I told her I was a bit tired, and she enquired why. “Oh… we just delivered our baby at home last night. That’s all”.

Under 6 Months: Don’t Let Them Cry!

By Harald Breiding-Buss

An infants developing brain cannot cope with extended exposure to stress hormones, and it is particularly vulnerable in the first 6 months. Here’s why:

One of the main processes in the growing brain is networking between the braincells (neurons): it’s not the size of the brain that determines quite how ‘smart’ you are, it’s how the individual parts of your brain are networked.

In the first six months after birth, this networking happens at an incredible rate—unless baby’s brain suffers a physical or chemical attack!

In physiological terms, full-on crying triggers the body’s ‘stress’ reaction: an increased release of certain hormones, including cortisol. Cortisol affects a very wide variety of essential functions of the body. In the brain, however, cortisol has the nasty effect of attacking those very nerve connections baby is trying to make.

What’s more, in an infant the individual brain cells (neurons), and the new connections, are largely unprotected. As baby grows, the whole neural system gets covered in a fatty substance called Myelin, which improves the transmission of information but also somewhat protects those transmission lines from damage. An adult brain contains 80% fat.

A full-on crying baby has measurably elevated levels of stress hormones after only 20 seconds. Where babies are under a lot of stress (for example through ongoing abuse), the lower level of networking amongst brain cells can even be seen on brain scans.

The effect of this is that this person’s actions and reactions have to relate a lot more to the ‘animal’ parts of the brain (Thalamus, Hypothalamus and others) rather than the Cerebral Cortex, which is responsible for human intelligence: they are people with a ‘short fuse’ as well as extreme pleasure-seekers and risk-takers.

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