Joe César by Theo

Well, what a contrast with Rosie's birth: whereas her entry into the world was a late-night, adrenaline filled surprise that happened in what seemed like the blink of an eye, her little brother Joe's entry proceeded calmly along planned lines and simply involved a lot of waiting.

Despite Kate's desire for a normal birth and despite a mountain of curry, pineapple, aubergine and a fair amount of certain activities thought to promote labour, Joe did not arrive by his due date. So Kate was promptly booked in for another cesarian. Arriving at Southmead at the appointed time (7am) the only thing we had to contend with this time was boredom - there were three scheduled operations that morning and Kate's was the third. So we settled down to a hefty dose of dystopian literature: Kate reading The Hunger Games and Brave New World for me (which I soon finished). Having hoped I'd be back to help Elena out with Rosie by lunch time, we were slightly miffed not to be called until past 12pm.

Dressed in scrubs we were guided politely into the operating theatre, feeling mildly like extras from Green Wing. The all female team were brilliant, and also very funny, maintaining a witty repartee throughout while also complimenting Kate on her choice of birth music - a folky mix of Rokia Traore, Kate Bush, Sufjan Stevens and the like (though not The Like). Kate couldn't see any of the proceedings, but I could (in the reflection of the light stand) so I saw the moment his hairy head came out followed by his crinkly, red 8.5lbs body. Magical.  

The team popped him almost straight onto Kate's chest and the sound of her heartbeat calmed him straight away, another magical moment. He promptly peed on my hand when the time came to take him off - starting as he means to go on I suppose. In the recovery room he started feeding straightaway, having not been away from his mum for more than five minutes - two other huge differences from his sister's early hours. She and Elena were promptly fetched from home to come and visit the new arrival.

He's called Joe César: Joe because we like the name, and have a several good friends of the same name; César - pronounced the Spanish way (Thesar) - in memory of our dear friend, sadly missed, César Jalon.

A Night Of Firsts by Kate

At first I blamed the nut roast we'd had at lunchtime. Shouldn't have been so greedy, I told myself as I took the Metro to Mendez Alvaro where I'd arranged to pay a social call to our former flatmates and pick up some post. While I sat chatting to Pete, I got fidgety. No position seemed comfortable. And I had an urgent need to visit the loo. Bloody nut roast.

After a while I made my excuses and headed back to the Metro. The discomfort was now moving into pain territory. Then it struck me - was I having contractions? Surely not, I had four weeks to go and these were awfully close together and now feeling rather strong. Braxton Hicks, I thought, those "pre-labour practice contractions" I had been told to expect.

Once on the Metro I was finding it hard not to groan and grimace as we trundled back towards Pueblo Nuevo. I was haunted by a recent Metro Madrid advert, which depicts a woman in labour and helped by strangers on the trains as she heads towards hospital to have her baby. I tried not to think about it.

The walk from PN Metro station to our flat seemed interminable and a couple of times I had to stop, trying to remember the breathing techniques I had been practicing ready for the birth. I'll be fine when I'm in a relaxed, familiar place, I thought. A fit of chills shook me, then as I waited for the lift in our building, I felt burning hot. What the hell??

I finally got inside and when Theo saw my face and asked if I was okay I did allow myself a grimace. "I think I'm having contractions", I said. He tried to rub my back and help me but suddenly I couldn't bear to be touched. I moaned on the sofa, trying different positions, but no relief. Then another urgent need to visit the bathroom. Once there I realised I was discharging some blood.
"I think we'd better go and see someone," I told Theo and tried to breathe through another contraction.

With admiral presence of mind, Theo threw supplies into a hastily improvised hospital bag (just in case) - something I'd been intending to organise this week, but never mind - and led me to the car. I felt calm, but couldn't pay attention to anything except the contractions, which seemed to be coming at one minute intervals. Theo, meanwhile, battled with the spaghetti of roads and disappearing signposting that marked the route to Universitario Hospital La Paz - a dry run was something else we had been planning to do in the next week or so.

When we arrived, we explained the situation and I was led away for examinations and monitoring. A very jovial middle aged medic checked by cervix "Only 2cm", she said, "I don't think you need to start pushing yet." Ho ho ho. My contractions were monitored for fifteen minutes then another cervical examination. Despite my imperfect understanding of Spanish, I detected slight consternation. I was now 3cm.

"The problem is," I said, "Is the baby's head is here - she is sitting on her arse." The consternation increased and I was scanned. Yep, I was right. At that point, they obviously made the decision to take our baby "out the window" - although I could only surmise this from the way I was being stripped of clothes and jewellery and given a hospital gown to wear and asked when I had last eaten or drunk anything. Nothing since the nut roast, I assured them.

Then Theo was suddenly beside me. "Are we having her now, then?" I asked, just to make sure.
"They're going to give you a caesarian", he said
"Oh, okay." Another contraction to breath through.
"I love you!" Then I was wheeled away. Watching the passing strip lights above my head I could only think how surreal it all was. I felt completely calm - had done since the beginning, in fact - but couldn't quite take in that I was about have a baby.

In the theatre, the kindly but efficient medical team prepped me for the operation. It was a most odd feeling as the epidural took effect and all sensation in my legs disappeared. Thankfully, so did the pain from the contractions, which was a mercy.

A green curtain was stuck up so I couldn't see my abdomen (although the effect was slightly spoiled by the fact that I could see perfectly in the reflection cast on the highly polished monitor arm above me. I tried not to look.)
"Can I touch my baby afterwards?" I asked. I couldn't remember the Spanish for "hold". Yes, they assured me.

I felt myself being shaved, then something pushing into me, which must have been the incision. Then hands were inside my belly and I felt the baby being physically pulled out, her head finally away from the underside of my rib cage. Very, very strange, but not in the least painful.

A moment later, "The baby's out!" and with startling suddenness she was lifted above the screen for me to see. I was speechless. The only word I managed was an awed "Oh!!" before she was taken from my view. Next the pushing and pulling as they stitched up my wound. "I've just had a baby!" I thought.
"Congratulations!" They all cried.
"This is surreal", I said aloud. The time was 00.15.

The next moment, a little bundle was carried to my head, her face towards mine.
"Little kisses for your baby," said the medic holding her. I complied, the surreal feeling growing. Then she was gone again. I still felt calm, especially as they assured me she was fine. Also, a dawning sense of wonder. I couldn't really take it in.

Soon, the stitches were finished, and trailing a drip trolley, I was wheeled out to the corridor where Theo met me.
"You're amazing", he said.
"Is she alright?" I asked.
"She's perfect!!" he said. Then he told me I was being taken to the intensive care unit on the fourth floor for overnight observation and our little Rosie would be monitored on floor eleven. We would be reunited in the morning. He had been told to go home, but he would come back at the earliest possible time - around ten. He kissed me and I was pushed into a lift up to Planta Cuatro.

Up in the ICU, I was checked and monitored and only here did I suddenly become aware how everything hurt. I requested more pain relief. They gave it to me after pressing painfully on my abdomen. Boy, that was agony.

So, hooked up to various drips, catheters, auto-blood pressure-machines, ECG monitors and gawd-knows-what I tried to get some sleep. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed, but sleep was impossible with machines continually bleeping and the blood pressure sleeve around my arm tightening uncomfortably every half hour. I kept thinking "I've had the baby!" and started to wonder what she was like. All I could remember was a pair of blue eyes and a shock of fuzzy dark hair.

As the clock ticked slowly on, I contemplated my situation. I had never been a hospital in-patient before. Never had anything approaching major surgery. Never been inside an ICU. And - oh yes - had never given birth. And now I was a mother, apparently. Another first.

By morning, I was getting impatient to be with Rosie. I had been watching the clock since I had arrived and now I could hardly contain my impatience as they gave me a bed bath and started unhooking me from the various tubes and wires. I was missing Theo, but all I could think about was meeting my daughter.
"Any pain?" asked a nurse. "Yes," I said. She shoved me in the abdomen. Ouch.

Finally, they began wheeling me away. I was taken up to the eleventh floor and into a room where a woman and her husband and baby were already ensconced in one corner.
"Congratulations!" They said.
"You too!" I replied. And then I heard wheels approaching the door. They belonged to a mobile cot which was pushed over to my bedside. In the cot was a tiny, pink baby - our baby. For a moment I just marvelled at her. Then, despite, the pain in my abdomen, I leaned over and took her from the cot and into the bed with me. I just wanted her in my arms. I smelled her and gazed at her in wonder. This was our daughter. The feeling was indescribable.

Then, twenty minutes later, Theo arrived. We embraced and he joined me in my fascination with this tiny new person we had made. Our family. Now we are three.

Rosie's first day

I woke up at 7.30 this morning. I hadn't really slept, I'd been so shocked and nervous and I felt faintly sick as a dragged myself into the shower. I hastily ate breakfast and then phoned around immediate family before jumping on a packed Metro up to Hospital La Paz.

After last night's experience of being told I couldn't go in at every turn I was fully psyched up for a good row with some nurses but I was hardly opposed - the receptionist told me the room number and I went straight in to find a happy, if slightly sore Kate cuddling our daughter Rosie.



Like me Kate hadn't really slept but she seemed happy enough. I was amazed at her resilience considering what she'd been through, and indeed she was up and moving about a bit by the end of the day. It felt so good for all three of us to be together, and we spent most of the day just sitting, talking quietly and taking it turns to hold her. She's such a miracle and I can't explain how I feel. This blog post is horrendously inadequate in that sense!


As she was over 3 weeks early she's quite small - just 2.3kgs - and has spent most of the day sleeping and making small snuffling noises. She was wheeled off to be checked over by pediatricians a couple of times, but they seem satisfied with her. Breastfeeding, however, has not been straightforward, though she seemed to be starting to get the hang of it and is being incredibly patient and persevering. I'm just in awe.

Kate and Rosie are sharing a room with a Spanish woman and her son, Martin, born by Caesarian on Sunday. She and her various visitors have been very helpful, explaining things to us and so on. We have been inundated with phone and messages from well-wishers, plus Rosie's first visitor - Cesar, bearing flowers, which was a very welcome surprise. So may people have phoned to offer any help we need, which has actually just added to my general feeling of "I don't know what I need! what should I be doing?" I'm off work for the week - what a great boss we have - but I don't really know what I should be doing apart from trying to anticipate Kate's comforts (hence tomorrow's shopping mission - big, comfy knickers a la Bridget Jones). Folks, as soon as we work out what we need, we'll let you know!!

Kate's sent me home - I did offer to stay and sleep in the chair, but she said I needed to sleep. She's right - god knows we won't be doing much of that in the months to come!

Our daughter - by Theo

Our daughter is here. I can't believe it. I'm utterly shocked. Yo no creo. She's about a month early - we'd been expecting here on Feb 21st, but yet here she is. It's all so sudden. She's beautiful, and I feel angry and hurt that I can't be with her and Kate - the hospital has ordered me home.

Kate was out when I got back from work at 9.30pm, so I started to do some marking. She got back about 15 minutes later and by the wheezing sounds she was making it was clear something was wrong. She'd been having contractions, though she thought they might be Braxton Hicks contractions and not the beginning of actual labour. She went to the loo and I went to make her some tea, which she never got to drink. There was some blood. We did what we always do when we're in a situation in Madrid and we don't know what to do - we called Cesar. He ordered us to go to the hospital. We'd known that was the case but it helped us to have somebody say it out loud. I hastily packed bags, trying to anticipate everything - false alarm, long wait, tests or indeed long labour - and then helped Kate to the car.

We made it to La Paz just about - tricky trying to find the right exit off the M-30 - and into the Urgencias Maternales entrance of the Hospital. After a quick chat with a doctor I was sent to register Kate at the reception only to discover I wasn't then allowed back to where they were examining Kate, as it was women-only. I had an anxious wait in a drafty reception area for about 30 minutes before somebody came out to say they would be keeping Kate in the Hospital but I could ride up with her in the lift. I was then ushered through to see her, she seemed calm and relaxed, and that was when one of the doctors told me they were going to do a Caesarian as the baby was the wrong way round. I assumed at this point that they'd told Kate, but if they had they hadn't made it clear as she didn't seem aware of why I was told to give her a kiss and wait once we'd gone up a couple of floors. Once again I had another anxious wait in a non-descript hallway, laden down with bags and thoroughly uninformed.

Thankfully another expectant father, Fernando, arrived - his wife was being wheeled in for a Caesarian as well - at 40 weeks and after induction his son still was budging. I guess Kate and I should be glad that she didn't have to go through any of that. We chatted a bit and he helped explain things a bit to me.

We heard a cry and then later, a second. After what seemed an age a little baby girl - just over 2kgs - was wheeled out, all tightly bundled up. Little Rosie Ines. She was to be taken up to the nursery while Kate is being kept in Intensive Care overnight - a standard precaution. Kate was conscious - somewhat miraculously - and I got to talk to her; she seemed understandably dazed, but OK. Us fathers - clearly extraneous in the eyes of the medical staff - where told in no uncertain terms to go home, sleep and on no account return before 10am.

On the bloody dot you can bet.

2010 by Theo

Kate said I should write my own New Year piece - my reflections on the past decade and the coming year - but I find that on reflection, I don't really have any reflections. Which is odd. I mean 10 years ago, 2000, was a landmark year in my life. It was the first year I began as an adult I went traveling independently for the first time, moved to Bristol, started University. The rest of the decade was pretty amazing too - two degrees, several jobs, my first published articles, radio shows, (girl)friends, traveling, loads of different homes, Kate, getting married, and moving to Spain. Yet, despite all that I feel little emotional attachment to the passing of the decade. I'm not sure why this is, but I have my suspicions. For while all of the above (and many events not listed) were amazing and life-changing experiences, I suspect at least one event in 2010 is going to make all that look insignificant, merely the preparation for this one event - parenthood.

We've been reading parenting books - thanks Hermione - we've got the stroller/car seat - thanks Cathy - the sling - thanks Mum & Dad - and lots of clothes - thanks Bex and Jilly. In a sense we're prepared. In so many other ways we're really not. I spend half my time imagining what it will be like, what she'll be like, how it's going to change things for Kate and I, but I'm sure the reality will be very different from anything I've mentally prepared myself for. I'm excited. I can't wait. So I can't really get excited about the birth of 2010, this ending and beginning of decades, as there's another beginning, and indeed an ending, that is so much more important to me on the horizon.

Au Natural by Kate

I blame Beans' lovely mum primarily, although my sister and my friend Natascha also have to accept their fair share too. I probably would have accepted every drug offered to me during labour and would have been content to lay on my back with my legs in the air to give birth. That's all changed now.

When Beans' mum heard I was pregnant she presented me with a much-thumbed copy of Sheila Kitzinger's The Experience Of Childbirth, apologised for the dated quality of some of its advice but said it had been invaluable in helping her have three children naturally and enjoyably.
"My mother looked at me while we waited in Bournemouth Nursing Home and said pityingly 'she really doesn't know what she's going to go through', but do you know? I was so relaxed! And it was wonderful! I think my mother was quite disappointed," she said.

When I asked my sister for advice on the best way to have babies (let's face it, she's had four, all at home, all without trauma and using nothing stronger as pain-relief than a warm bath and a paracetamol) she promptly said, "Janet Balaskas," and hunted through her book-shelves for New Active Birth, which she failed to find. When I asked Natascha (two children) the question, she gave me the same answer, so I figured this was well-worth following up. My mother kindly bought me Janet's book for a birthday present and I read it avidly.

As a result of Sheila and Janet's influence, I'm now very keen to try and have the baby sans pethidine, epidurals and all the rest and ideally while remaining in a generally upright position, if possible. So I've been doing loads of undignified yoga positions, practising relaxation techniques and rehearsing breathing methods for contractions and earnestly trying to discover if Spanish delivery suites will be open to this hippie earth-mother stuff or if I will have to consider forking out two thousand or so euros for a specialist private clinic just for the privilege of having a baby without being forced into unhelpful and painful positions or subjected to all sorts of unnecessary medical procedures. Of course, if things get complicated or there's any genuine danger to me or my child, I'd let them do anything they wanted to ensure we both got out of the experience in one piece. But I like the idea of getting through the birth process using only my own efforts, if possible. Having said that, I may wimp out and scream for analgesics, despite all the Taylor positions and Sun Salutes I've done. But I'd like to have a go. And I think there's an element of sisterly competition there too. After all, if Becky can do it...