YESTERDAY (OR WAS IT TODAY) by Sarah Louise Simmonds-Tan

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood treat is an extraordinarily visceral and affecting poem by Sarah Louise Simmonds-Tan. In YESTERDAY (OR WAS IT TODAY) Sarah Louise gives a vivid account of a section of a day and night, and it crackles with energy.

Sarah Louise says ‘What struck me about early motherhood, was the way that colours, light, taste and smell became heightened, somehow more tangible as if everything was shocking for the first time. Yet strangely, because you are also in this tiny prism of relentless exhaustion and love, the world also shrinks, just as it expands through your baby’s new world. The poem tries to explore this duality and strange and wonderful contradiction.’

Enjoy Sarah Louise’s remarkable poem here.

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Yesterday (or was it Today)

Sarah Louise Simmonds-Tan

Yesterday (or was it today),
I pick snot and play,
Lynching a dinosaur on old satin ribbon,
Swinging frantically,
Thrashing green claws.
I text, staccato finger beats,
Matched with kisses,
Given while making milk.
I stretch, yawn,
Write emails:
‘I’m sorry this is late’.
‘I’m so sorry I haven’t called’.
I scrape mud off stairs,
Chunks of playful park,
Some of it still wet.
We squeeze it together,
In a rice cooker,
And mix in oats.
You cackle, a baby harridan,
And bite your tangerine.
The segment is so orange,
Mushing on your soft little chin.
You lick my face.
I lick you back.
I drink tea, it’s delicious.
You poo and wiggle,
There is shit
Everywhere.
I think it’s on the sofa,
But I don’t really want to look.
It’s raining for your next walk.
You think it’s funny.
I do not.
I listen to the radio,
And talk to my mum,
Who is lost, panicked, in Tesco.
A woman going past says,
‘I thought you were talking to your baby,
But you’re on your phone, how sad.’ 
Fuck you, lady.
We go to Tesco too,
You are very cross.
I put you on the conveyor belt,
Because I think
You’ll think it’s funny.
You don’t.
I feed you blueberries.
You like this more.
I tickle you and
Bubblegum babbling hits the cold air.
I picture you a robin,
Round and puff-chested.
And later, bathing, we chirp together.
I imagine you now at the beach.
You have never been.
It is summer, and you plunge in green water,
A salty little soldier of the deep.
I drink tea, it’s delicious.
At 1am, I wipe period blood,
So pretty as it makes heart shapes,
On white Formica.
You wake.
I put your mouth warm to me,
Little soft wet gulps.
It is quiet here,
In this winter’s night.
Today (or was it yesterday),
Some brilliant man
On the radio,
Said (while talking of poetry)
Something brilliant
About electricity.
And this is how it feels:
Like a crackle of electrostatic
Exploding new shapes.
Witching my mind
Into technicolour.
While my shattered body lies under blankets,
You on me.

***

Yesterday (or was it Today) by Sarah Louise Simmonds-Tan appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

OSCAR by Rea Kamboua-Broady

This week’s piece from Dispatches from New Motherhood is OSCAR, by Rea Kamboua-Broady. The poet addresses her son in intimate, tender terms, expressing her hopes for the future, the pleasure of the present and memory of the past.

Enjoy Rea’s heartfelt poem here.

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Oscar

Rea Kamboua-Broady

My darling son,
Into the world you came,
Bloodshot eyes,
A bewildered look,
Oddly quiet and already curious.

I prayed for you for years
And I loved you before I met you.
My first pain, my first love,
My freedom and my future.

My precious baby,
You have come into this world:
Vulnerable and clueless,
But ready to be.
You are my pride and joy,
For every step you take
I will guide and protect you.

Now, you are barely a boy,
Babbling, walking and dancing,
Happy, brave and kind,
Oblivious to the cruel world we inhabit.
How I wish I could shield you from it.

We hope to instil in you the power
Of love and of humanity.
We look to the Gods above
To guide us as we usher you
Into an exceptional young man.

Oh, dearest child,
We will love whatever way you will be,
For you are ours, and we are yours.
And if we had one wish:
You will remain as happy, kind and brave as you are now,
Our Oscar.

 ***

Oscar by Rea Kamboua-Broady appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

BED by Julia Hunt

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece is the wonderful BED by Julia Hunt. In tender, intricate prose Julia takes the reader into intimate spaces both in hospital and at home, capturing her feelings with precision and elegance.

Julia says, ‘I knew that I wanted my piece to focus on the birth of my daughter, primarily because it is this final part of my journey to motherhood that I remember most vividly. From waiting on the induction ward, to holding my daughter’s hand for the first time in the operation theatre to those tentative few days on the maternity ward and then at home trying to figure out how to be a mum, feeling so overwhelmed, it all seems like yesterday even though it is over two years ago now. It was only after I had drafted my piece that I realised that I had, quite literally, a supporting character present throughout the prose, so I called my piece ‘Bed’.

Enjoy Julia’s beautifully moving piece here.

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Bed

Julia Hunt

It's late. In the cubicle next to me they are trying to find a baby's heartbeat. They've been trying for some time. I feel sick. A helpless bystander to a moment I don't want to witness. I hear the door click and they’re gone. I try to sleep but can't. I feel the comfort of you, pushing and stretching.

I'm so hungry. I’ve eaten nothing since a ham sandwich 24 hours ago. At 5.30pm the nurse rushes in and now it is finally my turn. 'Let's go and meet your baby,' she says brightly and suddenly I am not ready, not prepared. We walk slowly along forgettable corridors. I feel self-conscious in my thin dressing gown and surgical socks. Inside the theatre, it seems overly full. A needle in my back while they talk about their holidays. A flimsy screen separating me from the mysteries of my insides. I hear a sound and some instinct makes me reach through to this forbidden zone. 'We have a hand!' says an agitated voice and it’s swiftly pulled back. 

You are born from me but without me and when I hear you for the first time, I cry.

It’s night again and I’m on the ward. Trapped in this prison bed by a catheter and weighed down by leaden limbs, I hold you. I can't stop looking at your fingernails, so tiny and perfect. There is a part of me being washed away by the rain streaking down the window. 

Our first dawn cracks grey and sombre. I wanted it to be better than this. To be brighter.

For the first four weeks you don't want to sleep in your crib at night. Propped up by pillows, I sit up all night with you, terrified I will fall asleep. My bed becomes milk blistered, twisted and desperate. Will it always be like this? The Health Visitor tries to be helpful: 'Your baby has been in the darkness of your womb, listening to your heartbeat. It is not unusual that they don't want to be on their own.’ I’m overwhelmed by what I don’t know.

My bed, a world of secrets, where I used to dream of you. Now there are no dreams, only you.

A year has gone by and now you are in your own bed: a cot. Some nights are better than others. Teething and fevers, colds and growing pains. Patience strained; nerves taut. One day you won't need me, I tell myself, but for now you do, and I try. I glimpse my bed in the room across the landing. Bathed blue in the twilight like a fairy realm, enticing me to fall in and lose myself forever. But when I do finally slip under the covers, I wrap myself up in clouds of anxiety and I long for the morning. I whisper into my pillow, 'Tomorrow I will be better at this, I promise.'

***

Bed by Julia Hunt appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

NATURAL BREECH BIRTH by Olivia Watts

In NATURAL BREECH BIRTH, this week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood treat, Olivia Watts gives a lively and inspiring account of her birth experience. In vivid prose the author describes her feelings of connecting with her ancestors and drawing strength from them through labour. 

Olivia says, ‘writing this piece has been therapeutic and helped me come to terms with my whole experience of giving birth. From being emotional, to being able to appreciate the beauty of being a mother.’

After taking part in Mothership, Olivia says ‘it brought out a creative side of me that I didn’t even know I had. Now I find myself writing down thoughts of the day or moments. I go back to my scraps of writing and add some more, and it makes me feel good and light.’

Here’s to feeling good and light. And here’s Olivia’s wonderful piece.

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Natural Breech Birth

Olivia Watts

I never thought I would give birth to a baby where the bum would come out before the head. I never thought I would be calling out to my ancestors as I did it.

Little did we know what was going to happen. One minute the midwife and I were chatting about where I get my hair done – Kauna is so good at doing Afro hair, she comes to my house and it only takes her three hours instead of a whole day, and I pay with a bottle of wine – and we're giggling, and then suddenly it’s like woah, it's breech, we have an emergency situation here! 

I was suddenly surrounded by a sudden influx of emergency staff. I was lying on my back, and I don’t recall turning onto my knees but I did. Voices around me were in urgent discussion. Then another voice said, it’s coming! It’s a bum, not feet!

My thoughts were of my ancestors, all my mekulus – my grandmothers – the Mkwanyokas and the Mkwanangobes. I needed them now. As I clutched the bed it felt as if it'd grown roots, binding it to the hospital. Everything was connected. I could feel the power in me ready to open my heart to breathe. I roared like a warrior goddess calling out mekulu. I could feel the heat of my energy, my body and mind exploding with it. And then a calmed whisper told me owalonga shiveli, well done, all is well. I heard it in my heart.

From my last roar to the moment my baby entered the world it felt as if I had left my body and touched heaven. At that moment I wasn't sure what to say or think. Should I cry, smile or laugh? I was still in so much pain. Even stretching up my arms to receive my baby hurt. I felt as if a bus had hit me. 

I looked out for my husband but I couldn't see him. I called out for him. He was still in shock, scared; when all the people had come rushing in he hadn't known what was happening. When he came in, I told it was all OK: I'd brought new life into the world – with a little bit of help from my mekulus.

The doctor said that it was the first experience of a natural breech birth for all of the staff in the room. Only the matron had ever seen it happen before.

***

Natural Breech Birth by Olivia Watts appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

CALLING 2020 NEW MUMS!

New mums in 2020 are coping with particularly challenging circumstances; if you’re one, and you’re reading this, you know it better than anyone. With limited access to usual support networks, sharing experience and fostering community spirit have become even more important. Creativity – in these times more than ever – offers an outlet, a solace, and a means of connection; ‘a breathing room for the spirit’, as the writer John Updike described it. If you like the sound of that, read on…

BORN IN LOCKDOWN is a writing project for new mums, where together we’ll create a collaborative account of what it’s really like to navigate life with a newborn in 2020. The idea is to encourage new mums to write for pleasure and self-expression: processing, documenting, and filing dispatches from their new motherhood experience. The project is open to anyone who has given birth in 2020, mothering a newborn through lockdown and the pandemic; if you have older children at home you’re welcome to join in, so long as there’s a baby in the mix! And you don’t need to have any writing experience. Everybody has a voice – and we really want to hear yours.

The creative approach to BORN IN LOCKDOWN is inspired by the fragmentary prose style used in such books as Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation, Megan Hunter’s The End We Start From, and Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts. It’s also inspired by the thinking behind 1 Second Everyday, the video app that ‘stitches together second-long snippets from your life into a compelling, personal movie’. In our current programme of Mothership sessions we read a passage from Offill’s Dept. of Speculation and then do an exercise where the group writes a series of short vignettes or single, unconnected sentences about life with their babies. For our writers it’s freeing to think about capturing brief moments, and makes writing feel accessible to even the most time-poor mum. We then go around the Zoom room, everybody reading out one of their fragments, and the result is a sense of powerful collective experience; a whole, made of many small parts. It’s this effect that we want to create with BORN IN LOCKDOWN ­– only on a larger scale, and as a permanent written record.

Our project will ask ‘2020 mums’ to get writing in their notebooks, just a little every day, and then send in up to three fragments of their writing by 5th December. These will then be incorporated into a finished prose piece by Emylia Hall, novelist and Mothership founder. We have no idea how this piece will end up, or how big it will get – and that’s the fun of it! But we’ve a feeling that altogether it will present a powerful and honest depiction of life with a newborn in lockdown; a patchwork of both individuality and universality.

BORN IN LOCKDOWN will then be sent as a PDF, designed by Mothership artist Esther Curtis, to everyone who took part in the project. We’ll have made a work of genuine cultural value; one that documents unique experience and celebrates the coming together of mums through creativity in these socially distanced times.

HOW DO I TAKE PART?

• Email mothershipwriters@gmail.com or contact us here to register your interest. You can do this any time from the launch day of 10th November up until the month’s end – but for you to get the most from the project, the sooner the better.

• You’ll then be sent a PDF that fully explains what we’re doing with BORN IN LOCKDOWN, along with some writing tips and advice too. It’s all you need to get started (other than a notebook & pen)!

• Then… get writing! We’ll need your contribution by 5th December (we’ll be in touch during the month to check in and remind you of the deadline – in a friendly, no pressure kind of a way).

The lines you send in to Mothership won’t say it all, but our collaborative effort will – and that’s its power; however many people take part, we’ll end up with a piece of prose that gives a shared account of the BORN IN LOCKDOWN experience.

Throughout the rest of November, we’ll be posting daily inspirational writing quotes and tips on Instagram, with the hashtag #BornInLockdownProject. Do follow @MothershipWriters and use the hashtag to share your writing journey!

Whether you’re taking part or spreading the word, THANK YOU. Now let’s write! x

DANCING IN THE KITCHEN BY Liz Smith

In this week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece Liz Smith reflects on love, loss and connection. DANCING IN THE KITCHEN is a beautifully tender and moving account of a precious moment shared between three generations, and how the author continues to foster the spirit of that moment.

Liz says, ‘I think the birth of a child makes you look at all relationships around you, and with respect to motherhood, it makes you particularly think about your relationship with your own mother and reflect on her experiences too.  My Mum was around for the first years of my first child’s life, but unfortunately died before my second child was born, so this felt really important and obvious to me when thinking about what to write about.  I don’t know what made me write about dancing with my children, but it was something that happened and when I started to write, it just flowed.  It feels like a nice tribute to my Mum, which I feel proud of.’

Of Mothership, Liz says ‘I started the course, having not written anything since my school days and dubious about my creative ability.  My daughter came with me and was very happy with the people there, who became so familiar.  I therefore had the headspace to get the most out of the sessions and I surprised myself with some of my work.  I also now have the confidence to pick up pen and paper, when the mood takes me.’

Enjoy Liz’s emotional and uplifting piece here. And then go and play Uptown Funk!

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Dancing in the Kitchen

Liz Smith

Some moments I’ll never forget, and there’s one that I can see so vividly it's as though it were this morning. My two-year-old son George and I had just finished breakfast and I was tidying up. As his favourite Uptown Funk came on the radio, he started dancing along. He was oblivious to the cloud that was hanging over us all, and as I watched him, it allowed me to forget for a moment too. I joined in. Mum appeared from her room, her terminal diagnosis now undeniable. Her face lit up as she saw George. Suddenly, she was there too, taking his full attention, dancing along with vigour. She bent to meet him, her arms swaying to the beat and feet tapping in time with his. She was giving everything she had to him. The moment passed in seconds and Mum, immediately tired, made apologies and returned to her room. She never left her bed again. 

I think of this now, as there is dancing in the kitchen again. This time, it is not Mum’s kitchen, but my own. George, now five, is showing his 18-month-old sister all his moves and she is dancing in her own way, with complete abandon. 

I feel so grateful for the time George had with Mum. Although he remembers little of it, his experiences with her are ingrained in his personality. The way he appreciates the new buds on the trees in the Spring and how he kicks through the leaves in Autumn. The way he loves to water the garden and rescue the worms he finds on the patio. And the fact that his chosen bath toy is often an empty plastic bottle. Freya will never experience those adventures with her Granny, where time was irrelevant and every interest indulged. As to me, I miss those daily phone conversations, with Mum’s 'How’s it going?' and my barrage of events hurtling back at her. Mum will never see the delight on Freya’s face when her brother walks into the room or hear the way she babbles his name. 

It’s sad, but it’s not bad. It’s sad that they are missing out on their Granny. It’s sad that she is missing out on knowing the gorgeous human beings they are turning out to be. It’s sad, but it’s not bad. The truth is, they are surrounded by her influence, from the part of her that’s in me, to the art that now hangs on our walls and her wonky pottery bowls and plates that we use every day.

In our kitchen, George has now taken Freya’s hands and they are swaying in time to Everything is Awesome from The Lego Movie. They are both giggling and my heart is bursting with love and pride. I stop what I am doing and I join them. We keep dancing.

***

Dancing in the Kitchen by Liz Smith appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

MY BIRTH STORY by Huda Ismail

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece is an emotional account of complications in labour leading to an emergency caesarean. In MY BIRTH STORY Huda Ismail describes her extreme experience in direct and unflinching prose that’s full of strength. As a nurse, Huda is more familiar than most with hospital process, and she reflects on how it felt to be a patient in an emergency situation, with her positivity and love beaming through. We’re grateful to Huda for sharing her story.

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My Birth Story

Huda Ismail

The excitement of being told that my baby girl was no more than four hours away from arriving into the world was enough to get me through this. I was eight centimetres dilated when I arrived at the maternity suite and I couldn’t have been prouder of myself, having dealt with the contractions in my home. The countdown had started but the contractions were becoming more intense, the hours going by and still no baby. Despite my earlier protests, the pain had driven me to agree to an epidural. But relief evaded me for another hour as I was gripped by a contraction every time the needle came close to piercing my skin. With the epidural finally in effect, I strained and pushed for hours with no luck, my hips were too narrow; drained and exhausted, I was wheeled into theatre.

I lay on the theatre bed, feeling lifeless as my little angel was born, unable to hold or look at her. This pain I felt was indescribable. I heard the emergency obstetric crash call being put out for me. Doctors and midwives came rushing to save my life but were unable to tell me what was happening. What had gone wrong? Everything hurt, yet I felt numb. The feeling of fear and panic consumed me.

I remember the cold sharp scissor on my flesh as it cut. I watched my blood drain into the catheter, one litre, two litres … three. I was shaking, trying to stop shaking, but it only got worse. My veins collapsed, and the more the doctors tried to help me, the more pain my body felt. I couldn’t take it anymore and went into shock – I was losing too much blood.

Being nursed on a high-dependency ward felt surreal. As a nurse who has dealt with real-life emergencies I wanted to put a brave face on it. But it felt so different; I realised how much patience was needed to be a patient. I tried to be understanding of the circumstances, but I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to take my baby home. But I was on too much medication to look after her. I was bed bound and unable to sit or stand on my own. Seeing my baby for the first time was incredible. She was beautiful. She was more than beautiful. I couldn’t believe that I brought this little girl into the world. Everything that I had to go through, and all the pain I'd felt, disappeared in that one moment.

***

My Birth Story by Huda Ismail appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

ALARM BELLS SOUND by T. Wills

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece is an urgent and emotional moment of personal reflection. In ALARM BELLS SOUND, T. Wills writes, in pin-sharp prose, of her conflicting feelings around her IVF and the vast questions with which she’s wrestling.

T. says, ‘I wrote this in a crisis moment. My choices made no sense to me, and also I have fought so hard to be on this path. I wanted to try and talk about the confusion of that in my body and in a way to just turn the whole mess over to a trust. A spiritual trust, I guess. I’m not religious so I found my way to that feeling with bells.’

It's an unflinchingly honest and brilliantly composed piece of writing that we’re honoured to share here.

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Alarm Bells Sound

T. Wills

I’m pregnant again and it’s an emergency. Not a surprise, since it required months of saving, and planning and persuading myself and carefully looking away from any lone parent struggling with two small children passing me on the street, but still somehow a shock in that way that pregnancy can be. Even when it’s taken all your resources and focus to get there.

It’s a secret emergency, because not that many people can know that I’m pregnant yet. It’s too early. And I'm a single parent who is, to be frank, lost on the planet, anchorless, lonely as an anchorite and yearning for something to pour foundations into; a grown-up person to be building something with, a house to call home or a nation where I am sure I belong. My parents who have been generous yet remain ambiguous about us living with them, are shocked at my decision to get pregnant again. They want me to move out. So I attempt to mute the bells and practise looking like I have a plan and am filled with confidence and gratitude. I must be ready. I must absolutely know this is right. I must want this entirely and I must be OK. I am not most of those things, and hide the absence of them under brittle smiles that tense around this baby, this collection of cells that decided to stick against the odds, so cherished inside of me.

The alarm bells are sounding and I am confounded that people can't hear them. Are they carefully looking away as I walk past, ringing? I invited my children but I did not invite this deep practice of aloneness.

My meds have run out. This baby was conceived via IVF in the United States. With the full level of resource and sacrifice that goes into that. They gave me hormones, progesterone especially. The alarm bells went off then too. That causes breast cancer. We have a huge history of hormone-induced breast cancer in our family. I am living with my mum who is living with stage-4 breast cancer. Am I choosing to give up my life to bring a second child in? The doctor is focused on their stats of success. It’s not alarming to them if I die young, leaving two children behind, so long as I’m out of their treatment programme, which is finished as soon as the pee stick said ‘POSITIVE’. He is deaf to the bells. They won’t ship the meds to where I live. Is it safe for me to just stop them? I ask. No one replies. I have nightmares of miscarriage.

My brother gave me a bell for Christmas. A small one made by someone in Eastern Europe, ‘a proper bell maker’, he said. It’s clear and single in its high tone. It sings; 'think higher, like the anchoress, find freedom'. Think of the motion of the bell ringing, that motion is yours for action.

 ***

Alarm Bells Sound by T. Wills appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

I HAVE BECOME A TREE by Rachel Dickens

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood offering is a wonderfully affecting poem by Rachel Dickens. In I HAVE BECOME A TREE Rachel explores her new motherhood experience with honesty, tenderness and lyricism.

Rachel says, ‘In the midst of PND someone told me that now I’m a mother, I am a tree. My family are my branches and everything I do affects them too. This natural analogy made me calm, despite how intense and overwhelming motherhood can be. I feel proud to be shelter and a life force for my boy.’

And we’re proud to share Rachel’s poem here.

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I Have Become a Tree

Rachel Dickens

The shock, the shock, the shock
I am shaken
my branches are empty
my roots are withered
my bark is worse than my bite.

Teeth marks on my arm, my leg, my nipple
sore spirit, dented pride
pity for my identity.
Continuous self-doubt: 
One blanket or two?
Temperament or temperature?

The alien in the room.

Guilt for my every move
Should I sleep next to him?
Did I scrub that well enough?
Did I cause that rash?
Bruised, splintered cells, extra skin
extra hair, falling out
silky, stretched trails
knotted mother's wrist.
Pale, shrunken lotus leaf
no longer gives nourishment
It’s up to me now. 

Gradually the soil of my soul is watered 
and my wooden heart swells, filling up
dripping into my conscious mind 
washing and clearing debris. 
Waves of emotion; eroding grains of formula.

Did I mention my blossoming heart?
Refuelling sometimes after days and days 
of drought. 
Constant thirst.

The cotton wool clouds of my brain 
desire freedom.
Sometimes it rains for hours
but seasons can change within minutes.

A sped-up film of germination
my brightest bud
every second a new branch springs 
bouncing on the bed,
dancing, audibly pointing at flowers
clap your hands my son
shine your milky, moonstone smile.
Your infectious laughter
I cannot hear enough and I applaud you.
Gratitude brings its own reward. 

And now under a starry sky
I gather memories like kindle
to keep my embers glowing.
In stillness and low light you grow
running rings around me
I count the transformation in milestones:
Perinatal and the perennial. 

***

I Have Become a Tree by Rachel Dickens appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

READY OR NOT by Kate Swatridge

This week's anthology piece by Kate Swatridge is a story of resilience in the run-up to her due date and beyond. READY OR NOT is a compelling and rhythmic piece of writing about the pressure to be induced, and the questions that Kate had to cope with as a so-called ‘older mum’.

Kate says, ‘I’d been toying with various ideas for my piece but none of them felt quite right.  The deadline was approaching, and I was feeling anxious about producing something. I ditched my notebook and picked up my laptop one cold and rainy February afternoon. I had to write something and fast! I glanced at the date on the screen and realised that it was a year to the day since my baby had been 'due’.  The memories of that period came flooding back, and I started to type. To my surprise, I drafted most of Ready or Not in that one sitting. I literally heard my own voice, recounting events. It was a wonderful experience to write so easily - at last!’

The way that Kate describes the process of working on her piece is testament to what happens when we write from a personal place – and the joy of flow. Enjoy Ready or Not here.

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Ready or Not

Kate Swatridge

Your 36-week scan looks fine, they confirmed. 
Baby is very healthy. As are you.
We suggest that you are induced on your due date.
I frowned.
But first babies are usually late. I’d prefer to wait until she’s ready to come out.
You’re old, they said, there are general statistical risks.

I went home and Googled for studies, evidence, facts.
Risks, first baby, going beyond due date, 
fibroids, maternal age 41 years.
I read and re-read papers,
pored over percentages and sample sizes.

Your 38-week scan looks good, they told me.
How do you feel about being induced on your due date?
This time I was prepared.
But my pregnancy has been textbook, and the research shows no increased risk for women of my age until after 42 weeks, and the data shows I’m more likely to require an epidural and unplanned C-section with an induction than without.
At the next appointment we want you to tell us
at what point you would be prepared
to be induced, they said.
At no point, I thought.
But OK is what I said.

I phoned the midwife.
I don’t want a chemical induction.
I’m on your side, she said.
What can I do?
Hold them off as long as you can and try to persuade baby to come out!
Eat six dates a day, one study said.
Acupuncture, suggested the positive birth book.
Drink raspberry leaf tea.
I detest dates and faint at needles and don’t enjoy Rubus idaeus.
So I gagged and winced and held my nose.

Your 40-week scan is perfect! declared the consultant.
We’d like to induce you tomorrow.
I’d rather not. 
So when DO you want to be induced?
Perhaps I could come in for monitoring?

And so every second day we let them 
connect their machine to our bump.
We waited patiently for it to listen and finally proclaim
that we could carry on waiting, thank you very much.

Every other day. Every other day. Every other day.

Your read-outs are fine,
but you’re term plus eight days
so I’m obliged to call the consultant, the midwife said
as she wheeled away the machine 
for the fourth and not-quite-final time. 
The duty consultant appeared from behind a curtain.
We’d like to book you in for an induction. 
My baby’s not ready.
But there are general statistical risks.  
I understand, but our stats are fine.
My baby’s not ready.
It’s been nine days now, Kate.
We’d like to induce you tomorrow.
Don’t you know there are general statistical risks?

I do, and I give in.  I’m tired of fighting this.

Disappointed, exhausted, apprehensive,  
we arrived at the appointed hour.
The Induction Room seemed blasé; 
it had seen it all before.  
Embattled mothers-to-be 
succumbing to the force of data. 
Others who had had enough
of the metaphorical and literal enormity of the whole thing.   
Yeah, yeah, so what? the mundane walls and dated fittings muttered
as I saddled up
for the journey of a lifetime.

*** 

Ready or Not by Kate Swatridge appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.