“Hey, Mama!” This is how I was greeted by a friendly member of staff every morning during my week-long stay in hospital after my baby’s birth. Theoretically, I had had my whole pregnancy to get used to the idea of being a mother in the eyes of the world, because almost immediately you become, to the professionals you interact with, “Mum”. As in: “could Mum pop herself up on the bed, please?” (Mums seem to do a lot of “popping”). But nonetheless, it was still surreal to feel my identity shift.
Meanwhile, the baby’s father wore a name tag that proclaimed: “I am [name]. I am husband.” It made me laugh, recalling as it did “I am woman, hear me roar”, or at least a labour ward version of that: “I am husband, hear me … ask politely once again for pethidine.”
