Before I had my daughter, I thought I knew what childbirth would be like. I’d seen it enough times on telly. My waters would break very dramatically in a very public place. A few minutes later I’d be in the hospital, lying on my back pushing intensely, and then – poof! – I’d be cradling a very clean baby to my chest, my brow a bit dewy, but my hair immaculate.
The reality went a bit more like this: pain so intense I thought I was being ripped in two, punctuated by boredom, snacks and bad jokes. Some 12 hours later a doctor had both hands in me, pulling me apart with brute force, and I was left covered in more blood, vomit and faeces than you’d see in even the goriest episode of Game of Thrones. Don’t believe everything you see on TV, basically.
