Home births are HELL, Harry – for us men!
Meghan wants to have her baby at Frogmore Cottage. But here, a veteran of THREE home deliveries risks his wife’s wrath to say why...
THERE are no medals or uniforms to mark us out. But put together a group of dads and it doesn’t take very long before home birth veterans start swapping their war stories. There’s no sitting in a hospital corridor
doing the crossword before being handed a swaddled child by a smiling midwife — at home, there’s nowhere to hide.
And with only .2% births in Ireland taking place in a domestic setting, we’re a relatively small band of brothers. Having myself answered the call of duty three times, I was delighted to learn that we’re now set to get the royal seal of approval.
‘Why Meghan’s set on a home birth,’ read a recent headline in the Mail. For, instead of heading off to the private Lindo Wing at St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, like the Prince William and Kate Middleton, it has emerged that Harry and Meghan are considering having their first child in the privacy of their new home, Frogmore Cottage in Windsor.
Thirty-seven-year-old Meghan still practises yoga daily, a friend observed, has ‘sailed’ through her pregnancy, is in extremely good health and sees no reason
why she could not enjoy a safe delivery in the privacy of their own house.
As for the Prince, he intends to be by his wife’s side ‘every step of the way’ — which, for a survivor of home births like me, sends shivers down the spine.
The option, the article continued, would also have the benefit of giving the couple the privacy they crave.
Ah, the naivety of the uninitiated, I thought, as I cast my mind back to the births of my trio of daughters. Because the fact is that, no matter how good you are at doing the Downward Dog, the reality of a home birth for a man is altogether less alluring than it might at first sound.
Here, in the spirit of openness, I pass on some tips learned at the coal-face, so to speak, of the home birth movement . . .
JUST THE TWO OF US
ACCORDING to royal insiders, Harry is determined to be at Meghan’s side every step of the way. That’s the beauty of a home birth — no anonymous army of medics running in and out. Just you two, the midwife and all the comforts and facilities of your own home at hand. Unfortunately, as I discovered, that doesn’t mean a home birth magically imbues the male partner with hitherto-invisible resources of patience, empathy and understanding. Or that you will have any clue as to what to actually do to help. With no other medics on-hand, it dawned on me very quickly that the successful outcome of any home birth was going to be reliant on two of the trio involved — my wife and the midwife — not me, no matter how hard I tried.
I remember, during home birth No1, the moment that, according to the literature, I should have been elevated to the status of some sort of iconic birthing god.
My wife was in our bedroom, pacing the room, several hours into labour. I could tell she was beginning to flag. What to do?
Simple. Head to the kitchen and rustle her up a healthy, yet invigorating, snack.
I had pre-chilled a melon in the fridge especially for this purpose (as suggested by some home birth guru at the antenatal classes I was ‘encouraged’ to attend) and, when I re-emerged with it, cubed and arranged on a plate, I was expecting to be greeted with the sort of smile that MasterChef’s Gregg Wallace normally reserves for a sticky toffee pudding.
But when I wafted the fruit beneath my wife Charlotte’s nose, there was no rapturous praise or beatific expression. Instead, she turned green and pushed me — and my melon — away.
TAKE A BACK SEAT
WHICH leads me on to my second pearl of wisdom. Don’t be upset or angry at rejection, Harry. Get used to it.
Modern thinking has it that you should be an integral part of the whole process.
In reality, however, the final decision doesn’t rest with you, so be prepared to feel confused, bemused — and more than a little bit petrified.
Before the birth of my first daughter, I attended birthing classes, read half-a-dozen books and even watched a home birth video or two.
All I can remember is that almost all the men had beards (good start, Harry) and insisted on stripping off and getting into birthing pools with the women. No thanks. But a home birth was what my wife wanted. And I didn’t argue with her.
Like Meghan, what Charlotte wants, Charlotte gets. So, no hospital waiting room for me.
And anyway, today, refusal to go along with your partner’s birthing plans will have you marked down as some sort of Victorian throwback, the sort of chap who wouldn’t in a million years know where to locate a perineum — let alone offer to help oil it pre-birth (there are men who do this, apparently.)
Had my wife instead said that she wanted to go the hospital route and take all the drugs on offer, I’d have jumped at the chance, being a risk-averse sort of chap. She didn’t, so we didn’t.
HAVE A SNEAKY BAG PACKED
IN THE end, with our first, we ended up in hospital anyway.
After eight hours of pushing in the privacy of our bedroom, it became apparent the baby was stuck and my wife was bluelighted to hospital by ambulance, where the baby was delivered by a consultant armed with a device that looked like a toilet-plunger which he suctioned to her head — the baby’s, not Charlotte’s.
I’d never been so grateful for medical intervention. Charlotte was insistent she could have stayed at home and just needed more time.
What I took away from the experience was that if things don’t work out, don’t hesitate to rip up the birth plan — a healthy baby is all that counts. I would never, ever say to my wife ‘I told you so,’ but, between you and me, Harry, bear in mind that for women having their first baby, home birth slightly increases the risk of serious problems for the child — from five in 1,000 for a hospital birth, to nine in 1,000 for a home birth.
So do have a hospital bag packed just in case. Just don’t tell her.
DON’T SKIMP ON THE KIT
THE most important job for any home birth father is to sort out the kit —which generally means getting your hands on a birthing pool, as it’s good for relaxation and pain relief during labour.
Our first two were born while we lived in a yummy mummy area of the city, where home births, like reusable nappies, were all the rage.
It meant hiring a pool, rather than buying one, was straightforward. If only the same could have been said for deploying it.
Like most first-time parents, we were pretty clueless. As the due date approached, any twinge would be taken as a sign of imminent birth. Cue me erecting the pool and spending the next three hours filling it with hundreds of gallons of water, while at the same time worrying whether it was so heavy that it would collapse the floor and end up in the cellar below.
I remember reading that the pool weighed the same as 15 people standing side by side in the same spot.
By the third home birth, and now living in the country, I was taking wild shortcuts, ordering a birthing pool on the internet from China. At just €90, it was, something of a bargain.
But, on the big day, the midwife clearly didn’t seem to agree. The pool, she declared, was too shallow. With my wife in it, there was a chance the baby wouldn’t emerge directly into the water, but into the air first and then the water.
Which is a total no-no and potentially dangerous for the birthing child.
Reluctantly, I accepted there was no choice but to fill the pool right to the very brim.
The practical effects of this meant that I spent the next two hours telling Charlotte not to move too much, for fear
DON’T ever say ‘I told you so’... but DO have a hospital bag packed (and hidden) just in case
of splashing our newly fitted wooden floors. Just the sort of advice that a woman in labour
really appreciates. The next problem was the temperature of the water. A birthing pool is meant to be kept at a steady 37c.
Again, to save myself a few quid, I’d not bothered to buy a thermometer. Instead, I demonstrated to the midwife that simply by dipping my elbow into the water — as you might with a baby’s bath — I was able to tell it felt just right. By now, the midwife was looking at me in a way that suggested she thought I was totally insane.
‘No, it’s VERY important that it’s exactly the right temperature,’ she said slowly, loudly and very clearly.
Which is how, 20 minutes later, and having run two red traffic lights, I found myself in the town centre looking for a water thermometer and shouting at a traffic warden: ‘Where’s the aquatic shop? My wife is giving birth!’
PUT THE KETTLE ON — AND KEEP QUIET!
THE first, unsuccessful, home birth wasn’t helped by the fact that the midwife was unknown to us and arrived without any gas and air. I was very disappointed. Other fathers had told how a sneaky snifter of this widely used painkiller — literally available on tap in most hospitals — had helped them get through the harder parts of the labour. Indeed, one study found ‘asking for a go on the gas and air’ was one of the most common things men do during a birth. Fortunately, Charlotte seemed to cope fine, somehow managing to go the distance all three times without any pain relief at all. With the second two midwives, my main duty was ensuring they had everything they needed: tea, biscuits and, with the final birth, endless chatter. So much so that after covering pretty much every subject under the sun, Charlotte was forced to intervene and tell us both to be quiet. ‘I am trying to give birth here,’ she said, adopting a tone that brooked absolutely no argument.
YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN NOW . . . THE POST-MATCH MEAL IS VITAL
WHEN my first daughter was born, I was secretly delighted my wife was kept in hospital overnight. Telling her to ‘take as much time as you need’, I headed home via the Indian takeaway and the off-licence for one last, undisturbed blow-out. With the other births, my wife let it be known she’d be expecting cordon bleu service pretty much the minute the baby was born. Having access to your own kitchen is a big advantage of being at home, not in hospital, and, given what your partner has been through, it’s hard to deny them whatever they want. So, Harry, get the butler to fill up the pantry with plenty of Meghan’s favourite vegan foods. Charlotte demanded steak and chocolate cake after our third was born. No problem — although having just volunteered (or been volunteered) to cut the umbilical cord, I was the one turning green as I seared her supper in the pan.
OH YES, AND THE REALLY GORY BIT
AS AN expectant father, Harry will doubtless go through a huge range of emotions on the day, from apprehension to elation — and then exhaustion. Home births are exhausting. Can I mention that without getting lynched?
But I can honestly say I have never felt so tired in all my life.
It’s difficult enough being a bystander as your wife goes to hell and back. Then, once she and the baby are tucked up in bed, it’s your job to clear up. And that is not a job for the faint-hearted, let me assure you, so I sincerely hope Harry has a team on hand to respectfully do the honours.
As it was, I found myself, at 11pm, trying to syphon water out of the birthing pool into the garden without a pump (another accessory I was too tight to buy so be sure to have one in your home birthing kit, Harry).
As I sucked on the hosepipe to get the water moving, I realised I should have bought another of the accessories offered to me — a sieve.
To this day, I’m not entirely sure what I inhaled, but ever since then, I’ve struggled to watch the Bushtucker Trials on TV’s I’m A Celebrity...Get Me Out Of Here! without feeling nauseous.
Horror stories aside, though, I do wish you well, Harry. Whatever happens, joining the ranks of the home birth brothers is guaranteed to make for great dinner party conversation. I’ve been dining out on my exploits for years. Just not in my wife’s hearing.