Beautiful Bobo is a sight to C

LAST week I shared my thoughts on the kind of world I’d like to see my grandchildren grow up in. There was no space (and to be honest I wasn’t quite ready to write about it) to share something else: something a lot more immediate, direct and dramatic than my musings on the future.And that was the frightening way in which my latest grandchild made her way into the world.

My daughter, who’s been staying with us for the last few weeks of her pregnancy while her own home is refurbished, went into labour four days after her due date.

I say labour, but it wasn’t really. Her waters broke in the middle of the night, but no contractions followed. So her midwife advised her to come into hospital to be induced.

First major wobble. Chloe’s far too sensible to sacrifice her baby’s health on the altar of natural childbirth – but still, in every new mum’s breast there lurks a longing to be Mother Earth, a fertility goddess who brings forth her first born with serene competence. Now Chloe was facing the harsh reality of an oxytocin drip, the feelgood “love” hormone which speeds up labour.

Problem was it didn’t work. The baby hated the love drug and her heartbeat dropped every time the midwives tried to increase the dose.

Not surprising, because the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, and every contraction made the cord pull tighter, like a noose.

In the end an emergency C-section was the only option, and Chloe was whipped into theatre where her tiny girl was pulled through the sunroof, as they say. Red faced, furious, but alive and well.

How often does the dream birth, without drugs or intervention, teeter on the edge of nightmare?

We must never forget that childbirth, even now, remains dangerous for both mother and baby. Thank God for the medical expertise that saves lives.

Two weeks on, Chloe and Bobo (Bodhi Rae Georgia), above, are happy and thriving.And I can breathe again!