Little Harry's House

May 16, 2010
INTRODUCING MY BOY

Daniel was preparing to jump into a tank full of sharks. Our baby was due in six weeks. I still wonder if these two events were mere coincidence.

It began like so many labour stories do, but with one difference. I was convinced the excruciating contractions which sent spasms up my back and around my pelvis, had me breathless and clambering for a sturdy shoulder to lean on, were nothing but a figment of my imagination.

That and we were at Underwater World.

It took 24 hours of this – the contractions that is, not Underwater World – for me to admit it might be the real deal.

Why did it take an entire day to come to this conclusion? Let me explain.

As a child I was a hypochondriac.

I once wanted crutches so badly that I tried to cut my ankle open with a small blunt blade that came in my 54 piece children's art kit. My brother caught me.

When I had a sore leg (which may have been more often than not), I would pull out my dad's squash rackets and use them as crutches. I would hop in full seriousness down our hallway past some very amused older siblings and slightly concerned parents who still to this day feel the need to remind me (and every boyfriend I have ever had) about my embarrassing obsession with squash rackets.

My mum once washed my hair with lice shampoo, disregarding my cries of pain because they were an all too common sound in our house. The next day I woke with no skin on the back of my neck. Mum hates when I tell that story, but not as much as I hate it when she tells the squash racket one.

Needless to say, I have been brought up to think that I sometimes (only sometimes) over exaggerate my condition.

So 24 hours later I finally made the hospital call, and two days, three nights, countless positions, several cocktails of drugs, an emergency caesarian, a hysterical family, and two proud parents later, little Harry Freund was welcomed into my world.

It wasn't pretty and it wasn't planned, but the delivery of our baby boy marked the beginning of something special.

The next month was marred with a monotone lactation consultant, a scar that resembled a crooked smile, and a dog with a dislocated hip, but I might leave all that for another night.