My daughter has passed her due date and we are all on tenterhooks for the baby to be born. What a strange space this is. Constantly texting – “Anything?” – is probably not the best idea. I am simply waiting for the call. But still, this is yet another part of a woman’s life in which one is bombarded with weird and contradictory advice.
I thought it would have changed over the years, but no, it’s much the same. Sex. Curry. Various kinds of herbs.
None of this sort of advice is shown to work, and while one woman I hardly know came up to me in the street and told me to tell my daughter to exercise, another recommended a relaxing hot bath.
When I had my first child, I had to go into hospital to be induced for no apparent reason, and was so bored I discharged myself. “Refused medical advice” was written on my notes. This was by the same nasty doctor who told me I had no pulse.
Instead, I resorted to some Our Bodies, Ourselves-type feminist manual, which recommended a bottle of castor oil mixed with a tin of Andrews Liver Salts and some orange juice. This appalling cocktail produced deeply unpleasant results, but no baby. This was the only time I wrote letters of complaint to newspapers – as I was going out of my mind.
Thankfully, my daughter appeared in her own time. As babies tend to.
The current advice involves nipple stimulation, acupuncture, bananas and bouncing on an exercise ball. Whatever.
My own advice is different. Go to see a film or waddle around a gallery. It will be some time before you can do those things again alone. This is your time, this waiting game. Your new life will happen soon enough. Trust me.
