I’ve been to the hospital twice in the past two days. Very fortunately, nothing to do with our generally robust little family. My gorgeous godson’s in again with his dodgy wee ticker and I’ve been running a few errands for his knackered mummy.
The funny thing is, each one of the thankfully few times I’ve been there since DD was born nearly four years ago, I feel quite emotional. Every time I step into the main corridor that leads to all the wards and see all the paintings by the mouth and foot artists on the walls (or ‘foot and mouth’ as I heard a visitor say yesterday), I am transported straight back to the early evening of 1 August 2006, when me and DH walked very slowly walked to the maternity ward, stopping every couple of minutes for another contraction. I’d made it to 7cm on TENS at home, unbelievably, so I was in the throws of that bit where you are weeping ‘I can’t do this!’ before they give you The Good Drugs.
Just a couple of noisy hours later, there she was, our first baby, perfect in every way. And pretty much bang on two years later, DS was born, in the Home from Home unit like his sister, but the room next door. I remember their births so vividly in every respect. A little different, both good, as far as the experience of forcing a watermelon through a hosepipe can be considered good.
So the place of their births is sort of a holy place to me, where these two little miracles occurred. I’m incredibly grateful that I’ve been blessed with two such healthy little people, and the hospital has not become somewhere where we are very often. Even though the few times I’ve been back since DD was born have been for more prosaic though no less urgent reasons for me or the kiddies, I always feel myself welling up a little. And not just because of the outrageous car park charges.