Giving birth for the first time is something I’ll never forget. I still remember every wonderful, painful, overwhelming minute of the day my oldest son Scott came into the world.
I’d just turned 14 and should have been in school worrying about maths and whether I’d brought the right PE kit – not lying in a hospital bed, confused and terrified.
It was Thursday, May 18, 2006, and my mum Jane, 45, had taken me to the maternity ward as soon as my contractions started. My boyfriend Gavin, who was only 17, was sitting in the corner of the delivery room, as lost and as scared as I was.
Every contraction made me cry. It wasn’t just the pain, it was the fear of not knowing what was happening. I didn’t even know how babies came out. I hadn’t dared ask the
doctors and they hadn’t bothered to explain. Why would they? After all, I was just a
stupid little girl who’d got herself pregnant.
I looked to Mum for support, but none came. “You put the baby in there – you can get it out” she said.
When Scott finally arrived, he was passed straight to Mum. I was an afterthought.
But when they finally let me hold my son, I felt all the cliches I’d read a hundred times in magazines and seen in films. He was amazing and I knew right then I would be a good mum.
I knew something else as well from the way that everyone around me stared and gave me mistrusting sideways glances – no one else would trust me to be a good mother.
Six children later, and at the age of 23, I can safely say both predictions were spot on.
0 Comment:
Post a Comment