Page 7 of How We Loved

Juanita sighed, to be honest, she’s always made that noise quite a lot during our appointments. “You’re going to have to go in.”

“Go in where?”

Ben stood from the spare chair and joined us at the exam table. “What’s going on?” He got that sense expression he gets around me sometimes, well more so since he came back in June to find me exceptionally ‘with child’. It’s tight, pensive, like he’s worried I’m going to shatter at any moment.

Not a chance. I’ve got too much padding right now. I’d bounce.

“Nothing to worry about. I think we just need a scan.” Juanita looked at me, that severe expression of hers not helping to settle the panic making my heart rate pick up, which in turn made the baby boot me somewhere near my cervix–it hurts. “Are you sure about your dates?”

“I’ve said this all along. It was Valentine’s weekend; it had to be because Ben lived in the States at the beginning of this year.” I squeezed his hand.

Ugh, even thinking of those dark days makes me shiver.

“And your period?”

“Was Gladiator day.” Like I’m going to forget that cry fest in a hurry. We’d been made to watch Gladiator for our History on Screen module in Year Two. I’d spent years dodging the emotional bullet that is Russel Crowe’s gladiator pitted against the deranged tyranny of (not very sexy for once in his life, mainly due to the insanity issue) Juaquin Phoenix. Turns out I’d dodged it for good reason.

She nodded. “Well, it’s just that forty-two weeks is almost nine months.”

“No.” (Note to self: I really need to learn not to be sarcastic all the time, but it’s the baby that’s making it so much worse.) “Nine months is forty weeks. That’s what Google says.”

She didn’t bother to argue with me, which was probably more alarming, I was getting used to our fortnightly sparring competitions. “Right. You guys head off to the hospital, and I will call ahead and say you are coming.”

Ben had his lips in a firm line as we headed back out to the car park and to where we’d left Deathtrap Cooper. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Why won’t you let us go private?”

“Private? Seriously Ben, how bloody poncy. There is nothing wrong with the NHS.”

“It’s not poncy; we can afford it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is, you’re being stubborn about something ridiculous.”

“Well, let’s have a row about who’s the most ridiculous, shall we,” I snapped. “Because the way I see it, you’re being an idiot.”

Ben shook his head, his hair flopping in his face, and I had the distinct need to lose my shit, but I knew the hormones had control, so I did what I’ve been doing a lot of lately, and I counted to ten. Normally it’s only Tristan who, as a rule, makes me count to ten, okay, Tristan and my mum, but even Ben is triggering it these days.

“Ben, we’ve talked about this; I want normal, natural childbirth, and private hospitals are full of C-sections and epidurals. I’m having this baby the natural way.”

He snorted and opened Deathtrap Cooper’s door, holding it open for me. “And we’re buying a new car,” he said as I sat down inside, slamming the door so he couldn’t hear my response.

The baby tap danced again. Great, now I needed a pee as well.

Later

Turns out forty-two weeks does equate to nine months–damn I hate being wrong. The bump is officially the size of a full-term baby. We had the scan, all is okay, apart from yes, the baby is the wrong way up, feet jammed in my cervix, and is rather large... I have no idea what these percentile things mean, all I know is that we are nearly 100%, and as I’ve never got 100% in anything in my life, I’m okay with it.

From what I can work out, we’ve got to make the baby turn, and only have a few weeks to do it. I’m not being funny, but how are you supposed to turn a baby in your tummy?

Ben had a smug look on his, like this meant I was going to give in an go his ‘private hospital’ route.

Does he know me at all? It just makes me all the more determined. I’ve been googling home births?

Is that crazy? I don’t know. I’ve got this vision of a birthing pool, relaxing music, maybe some nice incense burning… it could be good.

Baby’s got to turn first, though.