Some Things Never Change

I can remember it so clearly. 

I'm not totally sure what year it was- 1998 or 1999, I imagine. An age at which I was almost definitely too old to be playing what we called Mums and Dads and what my four year old daughter would now call Homes, but I was too happy to care. Playing Mums was always my favourite game. 

I was playing with my baby boy doll, Charlie, and my best friend Emma was playing with her two dolls- Holly and Annabell.

Emma and I both had two brothers, and the youngest two were five years younger than us, so we used to push Charlie, Holly and Annabell around in our little brothers' big buggies, filling up their old baby bottles with water (and on one horrific occasion, milk. A fantastic lesson in Why We Keep Milk In the Fridge) and pretending to be our mums by waving car keys around in the air and saying things like "well the direct debit was a nightmare" with absolutely no idea about what we were actually saying. 

Anyway. On this particular occasion, we were standing on my (gated, I should say) driveway, pretending to be doing the pre-school drop off, when Emma waved her mother's car key around in the direction of her two dolls- Annabell and Holly- and said 'well I just think it's so good for the girls'. 

The second she said it, I loved it as a phrase. 

In my house, and her house, in fact, there were The Boys, and then there was The Girl. Becca and The Boys. Emma and Her Brothers. I'd never heard the phrase 'the girls' used to refer to siblings before, and I absolutely loved the way it sounded. 

Immediately I was sure I'd have two girls, and for the rest of my primary school years (and, if I'm honest, a lot of my secondary ones) I looked forward to it. I was going to have two girls named Talia and Mia, and I would refer to them as The Girls- or even better- My Girls- for as long as they would tolerate it. 

Then I got into my twenties, I was a Nanny for two boys who I loved more than life itself, and that narrative changed. It was to be two boys- Josh and Charlie- and my lifetime of being in charge of The Boys would continue. 

Then, at the ripe old age of 27 (6 years later than I had planned with Emma on my driveway in the mid nineties), I became pregnant. Naturally, I assumed it was a boy, as did absolutely everyone in my family. Until one day- and I cannot explain this- I knew it was a girl. I cannot explain the certainty, but suddenly all dreams of Josh and Charlie disappeared and were replaced once again with Talia and Mia. 

We went for a scan to confirm, and told the staff I'd fall off the table in shock if they told me it was a boy. They told me afterwards that as soon as they saw that resolute look in my eye they'd known it was a girl, but that they'd done the actual scientific checking just in case. 

On 10th October 2017, our Mia arrived, totally calm like her daddy (who was not, as Emma had predicted, Adam from Mrs Carter's class, but, believe it or not, someone we hadn't known when we were eight) and, like her mummy, absolutely furious at how cold it was. 

Then before I knew it, it was 24th September 2020 and I was driving to work, listening to Steph McGovern's hilarious podcast Not Bad For a Monday. She was telling stories about job interviews going wrong, and told one that involved food from the interviewer's mouth landing on the interviewee's lip, and how the interviewee had to keep chatting as though they hadn't noticed. 

I promptly stopped the car at a conveniently placed junction in the, fortunately, very sleepy village of Sheering, and vomited all over the passenger seat. I then spent the rest of the day counting down the minutes to when I'd be able to rush home to the patiently waiting Clear Blue pregnancy test in my bathroom cupboard.

I have no magical video to share at this point- I'm always in awe of anyone who a) thinks to film or even just take a photo of that glorious pee-covered stick, and b) anyone who then keeps it a secret and reveals it to their husband on their birthday or some similar occasion. I quickly changed into my workout clothes to go and teach a Zoom fitness class in my kitchen, ran down the stairs and past Dale who was frantically feeding Mia before they had to vacate the dining table so that I could teach, and shouted 'it's positive!' To which he replied 'here we go again!' as I logged into Zoom and taught, quite frankly, the most all over the place, scatty class in the history of fitness classes. 

I told very, very few people at this point. Of course, I promised myself I wouldn't tell anyone yet and had told one friend within about 15 hours of the test. My wonderfully kind and observant colleague noticed almost immediately that I had stopped drinking coffee and asked me what was wrong. Another asked me (very kindly) why I kept being so fuzzy headed, and then we went into lockdown from when I was about 13 weeks so I could hug my secret close for far longer than I'd imagined. I felt the first kick very, very early on (in a restaurant, when Dale and Mia had gone to the toilet, the night before lockdown came back in) and so promptly told the waitress who could not have cared less.  

Otherwise the announcement was quite late and, when we did tell people, with Mia wearing an 'I'm going to be a big sister' t-shirt, a disproportionate number of people misread it and said 'oh two girls, how wonderful.' 

Despite this regular reaction, I had no gut feeling this time. No voice in my head. Every time I pictured the baby in my head, I had two girls. Every time we saw a scan (which was a lot as I had to have regular monitoring) it was a boy. So we didn't find out this time. I had genuinely never, ever had a preference, only ever a feeling. I had a real pull that first time Emma had said 'the girls' about her dolls, and an equally strong feeling after falling in love with the boys I looked after, and then absolute certainty when I was pregnant with Mia. But never a preference. 

And, of course, it goes without saying that we now know that gender is far more complex and nuanced than we ever thought, but still, in our little world it was exciting. This little person was going to be the fourth corner to our square and we couldn't wait to get some glimpse into what role they may play. 

Then one boiling hot day, in early June, I had a midwife appointment in which I uttered the words 'I just need to have this baby now. Now.' Before calling Pumbaa, who had said any time I was fed up I was welcome to go and sit in her garden. I hung up on her at 3.14pm, having agreed that we might stay for dinner. 

Went for a wee. Arranged with Dale that he could walk to the shop in a little while and I'd pick him up on the way home. Put on my shoes, and Mia's shoes. Stepped out of the front door. 

Hm. That was a very sudden, very strong contraction. Braxton Hicks? 

Put Mia in the car. 

That was three very strong contractions. 

Had visions of being stuck at Pumbaa's, unable to drive home. Giving birth on her beautiful wooden floors. 

Asked Dale to drive me- quite sure by now that I was in labour but already plagued by guilt that Mia had been so excited to go on Pumbaa's daughter's cool slide, and already had had such a boring day waiting for the midwife appointment. 

Text Pumbaa, who quickly replied that she'd fill up the paddling pool ready to deliver the baby. Pumbaa's the nicest person in the world and would do anything for anyone, so to this day I don't know whether she was joking. 

By the time we arrived at her house, my app was telling me to go to hospital. 

We agreed that Dale would pop very quickly to the shop right next to Pumbaa's house, Mia could go down the slide, and then we'd go home. 

The next twenty minutes are a bit of a blur in my head. Sipping the ice cold water that Pumbaa had waiting for me. Telling the children they didn't need to fight over the green watering can, there was a purple one, why didn't they take it in turns? Pumbaa making me laugh through contractions (quite a feat) telling me stories about her family. Pumbaa's husband trying to make me laugh and me trying not to be rude but not actually being able to hear anyone anymore, so strong were the contractions. 

Getting in the car and breathing my way to my Happy Place as rehearsed through months of hypnobirthing practice. 

Home at 5.20pm.

My mum arriving and not quite realising just how far I was into labour- singing about popping the jolly kettle on whilst Dale tried to set up the birthing pool without knocking his mother-in-law out with the hose. 

My mum cottoning on to how far I was into labour when she called Labour Ward (and someone she knew answered- my mum knows everyone) and I was uncharacteristically sharp with her when she asked for my phone number (entirely forgetting in all the excitement that she has my number in her phone). 

Dale setting up our lounge for the dreamy birth we'd worked for 6 months for. 

The midwives arriving- the elation at seeing the same, wonderful midwife that had been at every single one of my appointments, including the one that afternoon. 

Dragging myself up the stairs to try and be sick, and being desperately jealous when I overheard my mum and Mia discussing how yummy their yoghurt was. Not being sick until I got back downstairs, and Dale having to catch it in our baking bowl before it went into the birthing pool. Vaguely and stupidly thinking that the cookie dough smell of the baking bowl is normally my favourite, but is the actual worst in labour. 

Vaguely and quite rightly thinking that although this was painful- it was labour- the breathing and candles and water and fairy-lights and Modern Family on the television was absolutely the dream, and I couldn't believe it was actually unfolding in the magical way I'd envisioned.  

Very clearly thinking that midwives are the very best of humankind. 

Climbing into the water. Turning off Modern Family and asking Alexa to play Colbie Caillat. 

Starting to read a letter written especially for this moment for me by my friend Minnie Mouse, reading the line 'you are so incredible and you can do this' before the contractions ramped up and I watched it fall, in slow motion, to the floor. 

Those lines going over and over in my head. You are so incredible and you can do this. 

The midwife instructing me to hold her eye contact, and to listen to her when she tells me I can do this. 

Feeling every thought disappear, even of my Happy Place, and following my instinct to push, confused about why I would be getting that feeling so early on in labour. Whispering 'ohmygoodness it's the baby's head. The baby's head is out' in disbelief. Asking what happens next. 

The midwife calmly explaining that they'd known that was going to be the head and they were totally ready. That on the next contraction I was to push the baby out, that the midwife would push the baby back between my legs, and I could then pick them up out of the water and cuddle them. 

The midwife calling to Dale to come down- he'd nipped upstairs to check on Mia (and, hilariously, change into his comfy shorts) - that the baby was about to be here. 

That contraction coming, the relief of the baby arriving, the magic of lifting them from the water myself. 

The midwives reminding me that I could now find out who that fourth corner of our square was. The first piece of the puzzle as to who they might be. Another little girl. 

My mum and Mia coming straight in so that Mia could meet her sister at last. 

The look on Mia's face- the best face she has ever made. 

The magic of the midwives telling us that she had arrived at 7.44pm; Mia had arrived at 7.44am. 

Being able to shower in my own bathroom, get into my jammies, have peanut butter on toast on my own sofa before climbing into my own bed with all four corners of our family unit. 

Waking up with them next to us. 

Our Girls. My Girls. The Girls. 

Not Mia and Talia and but Mia and Millie. 

Amelie Isabella Stark. Born calmly and happily in our precious, fairy light clad lounge, to the sound of Colbie Caillat and the scent of a Lily Flame Blush candle, on a warm evening in June, less than three hours after I'd been sitting in Pumbaa's garden sipping ice cold water and laughing at her stories. 

What a start, Millie. 

Now every now and then I have a little moment where I'll say something like 'my mum's having the girls whilst I pop to the bank' and I feel like it's 1998 again, and I'm on the driveway with Emma, my brother's old buggy, and saying grown up things I've overheard other people say. 

It always has been my favourite game.