Now that I have gotten to know my son it actually makes total sense that he was a breech baby. He is a contrary, obstinate, stubborn little person, he gets it from me.
I was a bit slow on the uptake when it came to most aspects of pregnancy. I didn’t figure out that I was pregnant until I was almost three months gone (I’m told most people notice a touch sooner, but I just thought I was in a “hot dog mood” for ten weeks). Once attending the hospital, the midwives would constantly remind me of my shortcomings as a gestator. I was late for my appointments; I was late deciding on the type of care I wanted. And I was late signing up to the antenatal classes. This meant that I was the huge woman in the class who the midwife constantly amended her instructions for. “Now, nobody should feel stressed about the birth, we all have plenty of time to prepare our bodies for this journey, except for Sophie, of course – when are you due again? Next week, is it?”
It was at the antenatal class that I realised that myself and Stalk (as we called The Child when he was “inside”) were once again lagging behind on our pregnancy milestones. When the midwife asked everyone if their babies had turned yet, I was unconcerned until I realised that most of the room were nodding and raising their hands and patting their bellies in a way that seemed to say “job well done.” The midwife looked particularly alarmed at my apparent lack of concern over the fact that the baby that was treating my womb like a hammock. “But you’re due in about 10 minutes,” she burst out looking panicked. This of course was not exactly the case, it was however the first time that it dawned on me that I might have to have a c-section if Stalk wouldn’t co-operate.
I was one of those naive pregnant people who was secretly DYING to give birth. I was essentially in training for the whole pregnancy; yoga-ing, hypno-birthing, massaging, and – as much as my mother scoffed and rolled her eyes at me – I really, really wanted to have a natural birth. I still had three weeks to turn this baby and by god I was motivated.
10 things I did to try and turn my breach baby (some verging on the ridiculous)
1. Any time I felt Stalk was awake in there, I would draw circles on the belly with a torch in an attempt to lead the baby in the right direction. this was recommended to me by a health professional, I swear.
2. I went for accupuncture for the first time. The baby did not budge but at least I was moved. The acupuncture made me cry uncontrollably. Also I was unable to get off the acupuncturists table without the assistance of TWO people which only made me more upset.
3. I “relaxed” in Downward Dog for hours each day. I like yoga and all, but whenever one of those yoga bitches tell me to relax into “Downward Dog” I have a private eye-roll, it is just not a relaxing position for me and especially not when 10 months pregnant. Stalk seemed to find it very relaxing, however and snuggled his bum even more firmly into my pelvis.
4. I played music on my phone and circled it around my belly in the hopes that Stalk would follow the sounds. I even chose songs with a subliminal message like Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart (“turn around bright eyes”).
5. I decided that all this coaxing was too gentle and sought out someone with more authoritative voice that could strike fear into anyone; my mother. She tried talking some sense into the bump, to no avail.
6. I experimented with a headstand, not something I am that good at at the best of times. I found that unsurprisingly pregnancy does not help in doing headstands.
7. I moped and ate lots of sweeties. This was not a particularly constructive approach to the issue but I was in need of consolation at this point as it was looking increasingly likely that Stalk would be making his exit via the sunroof.
8. I bounced on the bouncy ball thing. A lot. I suspect this only served to wedge Stalk even more firmly in place.
9. I went for the External Cephalic Version (ECV), a primitive method of turning babies by quite literally manipulating the bump. It’s one of those curious medical practices that apparently remains untouched by advances in science, like the “cough-test” or checking reflexes by bashing a patient with a tiny hammer. The ECV took place in a creepily intimate setting; a room about the size of a wardrobe with mood lighting. A handsome Kiwi doctor approached and began to maul the bump. Suffice it to say, this was not comfortable. Eventually he conceded defeat with the words, “Little bugger’s not going anywhere.”
10. In a last ditch attempt, I followed some slightly unorthodox advice and dived into the local swimming pool. This was the final straw for the two lifeguards who had been nervously watching me for weeks in the pool as I floated whale-like from one end to the other. “You cannot turn this into a birthing pool,” they told me as they lead me back to the changing rooms. “I’m trying to get the baby into position,”I feebly protested, sounding quite mental.
I had the f*cking c-section.
