Las Abuelas - by Theo

In one of the pre-natal classes we attended with our midwife Maite, she drew two large columns on the board, one for the men and one for the women. Then she asked the guys to suggest problems that new mothers would face in the first few weeks following birth, and asked the women to do the same for new fathers. At one point Maite wrote, in huge block capitals, sprawling across both columns "Las Abuelas" - the Grandmothers. Clearly in Spain the attentions of the Grandmothers during the first few weeks of their precious grandchild's life is something new parents anticipate with dread and trepidation!

Rosie's early arrival threw everyone into a state of shock, perhaps none more so than her Grandmothers, Cathy (maternal) and Diane (paternal). Prior to the birth they had both been talking, calmly and rationally, about coming over during Easter week to visit. However once Rosie's arrival in the world became reality this calm pre-planning went out the window as they both scrambled to get over here asap - they would have come while we were still in the hospital if we hadn't stopped them!

In the end they came last weekend. My mother, Diane, and my sister Hermione (Rosie is her first niece... or nephew!) flew over on Friday and booked themselves into a hotel around the corner. Kate's mum Cathy flew over on Saturday and took up residence in our spare room. Suddenly we had babysitters - Hurrah - and Kate and I were able to take 2 hour siestas while a small army of attendants bathed, changed and comforted Rosie while we slept. My Mum and Hermione flew back on Sunday to their busy schedules, but Cathy is with us until tomorrow and is currently filling our freezer with delicious things. Really I don't know what our fellow parents in the pre-natal class were worried about; thank goodness for Grandmothers!

I'm now waiting for the Grandfathers to show up - I've got some DIY I want their help with!

Uno, Dos, Tres... empujad!!

A combination of a lack of half-decent Spanish and lack of tennis balls meant I approached my first pre-natal class with a certain amount of trepidation. I wasn't sure why the tennis balls were necessary, but Maite had instructed me to turn up wearing pantalones (trousers) and with two of the balls. I had successfully found my last remaining pair of trousers that I could get over my expanded derriere, but had failed with the tennis balls, owing to lack of time and the Spanish shop opening hours (10 am mostly - or at least those tiendas selling pelotas de tenis...). So, there I was in my pink pantalones, sans tennis balls and smiling in what I hoped was an ingraciating way at the arriving members of Cuidad Lineal's local Bump Club (Club de Bomba) with their impressive range of bulging tummies.

We started with exercises to help with breathing and labour positions. I managed the first pair activity by copying the other women and wih a little gentle encouragement from my partner. Maite then solved the problem of my patchy understanding of the lingo by firmly indicating to me to move to a spot on the mat beside her and saying "Tu, aqui!" She then proceeded to demonstrate the rest of the exercises by picking up my various limbs and manoeuvring them into the required positions, which was a very sensible way of handling the situation, all things considered.

The tennis balls, it turned out, were for a massage technique that involved rolling them firmly up and down each other's backs - and luckily, I could borrow my partner's sports equipment for the job, so that was okay. She was a quiet but friendly Muslim woman (Syrian, possibly?) who wore her head-scarf throughout the class and did a pretty decent job of easing some of the tensions out of my back.

After the exercises, which culminated in a lesson in pushing, Maite gave us a lecture about what to expect directly after the birth of our forthcoming babies. This may seem a little advanced given that it was my first class, but I had joined the group half way through the sessions - I would have to do the first few classes after Christmas. If, however, I had waited until then to do the whole course, it was a fair bet that Fosbella would have emerged before I had completed it. Doing the second half followed by the first half was the next best thing.

Anyway, despite the rapid Spanish, I managed to get the gist of most of the advice surrounding health, healing, breast-feeding, contraception and other post partum matters. I also learned some new vocabulary related to the female anatomy, including pechos (breasts) and suelo pelvico (pelvic floor). I also realised that the frequent mentions of la "ba-heenah" was actually the Spanish pronunciation of "vagina" and that cicatriz meant scar and cicatrizarse is the verb meaning to heal. It's probably just as well partners weren't allowed to the class, the discussion wasn't for those of a squeamish nature (ie, men).

After that, we were instructed in the finer art of foot massage, which we were assured would be excellent to practise on our offspring to help them relax and sleep better and which would be excellent for our partners to practise on ourselves for the same reason. Then, while gentle ambient music played, we lolled about massaging each other's feet while Maite continued her lecture about the days following the birth (nappies, layette and other practical requirements our new-borns would be needing).

After the class ended I had a few brief conversations with some of the other women - a Paraguayan embarazada whose emphatic reply, when I asked if this was her first child was, "Si, y la ultima" ("and the last"); a Spanish woman with whom I compared gestation times and genders and a friendly Italian who chatted to me in English while I replied in Spanish, which had the satisfactory result of both of us practising our non-native languages and gave me a considerable boost in understanding her words as well as she could clearly understand mine. One thing's certain, I'm part of a highly international group of ex-patriots and although my command of Spanish is probably at the bottom of the class, it's comforting to know I'm not the only foreigner plotting my uncertain course through the Madrileno pre-natal set-up. Ex-pats of the world unite, all power to the embarazadas inmigrantes!

Poked, Prodded and Spiked by Kate

The Spanish ante-natal system has now clutched me to its starchy white-clad bosom and my overriding feeling is that it's a good job I'm the one carrying the baby and not Theo. I'll come back to that in a moment.

Our first appointment with the obstetrician in our local clinic was best characterised as perfunctory. No leisurely hour-long chats with a friendly midwife here - at least, not yet. We were given a list of matronas and we assume we choose one, but we're still a tad confused about that part. Anyway, with minimum hanging around we were ushered into the consulting room where the obstetrician and nurse worked as a team. While the obstetrician asked questions and took notes, the nurse busied herself taking my blood pressure, weighing me, then ushering me round a screen and motioning me to bare my midriff. Once I had done this, the obstetrician came in, slapped on a load of cold gel and proceeded to scan me with breath-taking efficiency. Theo hovered at the back and managed to get a glimpse of our unborn daughter, but I wasn't so lucky. After less than a minute, the obstetrician nodded and gave me the briefest half-smile (she was far too business-like for a full rictus), said “Todo bien” (“Everything fine”) and handed me a tissue to mop the gel off my tummy. Apparently we would have to wait another three weeks for a full scan before we could take a proper a look at what was in there. When I asked Theo how she was looking, he replied, “A bit fat,” which was slightly worrying. Maybe I should cut down on the chocolate biscuits.

A few minutes later we were dismissed with a sheaf of forms, a pregnancy advice booklet and strict instructions to go to the medical centre at San Blas the next morning before nine with a urine sample and absolutely no breakfast (me - Theo was excused that part).

When we arrived at a quarter to nine prompt, we found the waiting room choc-a-bloc with a numbering system policed by a dour looking male nurse who periodically barked out the next five numbers and shooed their owners through a door. We never saw any of the patients come out again, which was slightly worrying. As an “embarazada” (pregnant woman) I was excused the queueing system and was instead told to wait until I was called. While perching on a moulded plastic chair I noted a number of other women with assorted tummy bumps and urine sample-shaped pots wrapped in various bags or bits of foil. Clearly I wasn't the only embarazada at this party.

“Embarazadas!” called out the dour nurse and about twelve of us heaved ourselves out of our chairs and crowded round the door. The nurse herded us into an ante-room where another medic gave us a brief lecture about what we could expect. From what I could understand we would be subjected to various tests, the last of which assessed us for possible diabetes and involved a wait of an hour and an absolute prohibition on eating or drinking anything except water. We were each given a sheet of numbered labels and bidden to queue up at the reception desk in another room full of tables with white-suited medics waiting expectantly behind them. While we waited our turn, the dour nurse abruptly changed demeanour and started cracking jokes, which I smiled at dutifully, despite a total lack of understanding of the punchlines.

When my turn came, an orderly took my urine sample and stuck my stickers on a bewildering variety of colour-coded vacuettes, handing them to me and motioning me to one of the waiting nurses. I sat down and watched in growing amazement as she rapidly took one blood sample after another out of my torniqueted left arm. I counted twelve. When she had finished, she wound on a compress and sent me back to the ante room where I waited, feeling the teeniest bit faint from lack of blood and exchanging glances with the other embarazadas, who were also looking slightly shell-shocked by the experience.

Once we were all assembled, another nurse came in and started handing out plastic bottles full of a suspicious-looking orange liquid. This we were instructed to drink - all of it - and then return to the waiting room. It tasted like a fizzy vitamin drink, only twice as sweet. Spanish people have quite a sweet tooth, but most of the other embarazadas grimaced a bit as the full sugary force of the glucose drink hit their taste-buds. Obediently, we all swallowed the bottles' contents and were released back to the moulded plastic chairs.

Throughout, Theo had been waiting patiently for me having foregone breakfast in a gesture of solidarity. It was a good job he hadn't been invited into the sampling room as I dread to think what effect a room full of medical blood-letting would have had on him. He was also astonished at the amount of blood taken and wondered aloud whether the medical centre was actually a front for a local detachment of vampires. We settled down with some marking to pass the time.

When the hour was up, there was another call for embarazadas and we all trooped back into the testing room. Numbers were called out and as ours came up we were sent to another of the tables and ordered to bare an arm - the other one this time. Thankfully, we only had to give a single sample and I was jabbed, blotted, told to go home and have breakfast, then sent packing again in the space of about ninety seconds. By now feeling somewhat light-headed from a combination of blood-loss and hunger, I gratefully returned to my dutiful husband and we did exactly as I had been told.

So that's that, for another few weeks. We've been informed we'll be notified about my next appointments by post or telephone and in the meantime, we aim to do a bit of research about the business of finding a midwife and choosing a hospital for delivery. On the language front, I'm pleased with myself at having managed a bit of pregnancy chat with some of the other embarazadas, including how far along we were and who was having a girl or boy - or twins in one case - and possible names. It made me feel like a little less of an outsider. Language barrier and unfamiliar systems aside, we are all in the Bump Club.