The Post-baby shower

Not a baby shower in the all-American sense, I managed to bypass that, I've never been to one, and I'm not really sure I get them...if I'm buying something for a baby I think I'd at least like to meet it. Not necessarily hold it, though that might have changed since having my own one, up until about 3 days after she was born I was still quite scared of babies, so maybe I will be a baby holder now, having been a conscientious objector previously. I'll happily look at your baby and buy it (I now realise) quite impractical presents, but I'd rather not touch it if it's all the same to you - they can smell my distress and anxiety and it'll almost certainly cry which'll be unpleasant for everyone. So baby showers - I'm not sure heavily pregnant women are that exciting, but I suppose it is maybe meant to be a special treat for the and a penance for their nearest and dearest.

I'm talking about the actual shower. After the lovely induction experience I could not wait to have a shower, I really felt pretty disgusting. I managed to block the mingingness from my mind as I lay in theatre fully aware of the young Irish anaesthetist running ice cubes up and down my large pregnant, unshaven, not washed for quite a few hours, apparently rapidly overheating, but now numbing body, while my husband sat beside me, and I pretended not to be able to see myself reflected in the theatre light. I'm very, very hot right now, I told myself. Everyone keeps telling me so, I'm really hot, a really, really, medically diagnosed, hot naked lady, what's not to feel good about there?

We'd done that bit, baby was here, we had some nice recovery room cuddles, I finally persuaded the midwife to take the catheter out, please, please, I can move my legs look, please let me pee...my persuasion hadn't worked quite so well trying to dissuade them from putting it in. Challenging a mildly competitive, in labour, person to pee with the threat of a catheter if they can't apparently just results in the same couple of litres of rapidly downed water coming right back up in a sick bowl. Apparently fluid going i and coming back out again doesn't cut it, it really has to come out in the horrible little pee catcher cardboard seat thing. Such a relaxing pee experience, I'm not sure why I struggled.

So, catheterless I begged to go for a shower. You'll have to take someone with you. Ok, we've done the other man running ice cubes over the naked body together, why not let you observe the horror of the post-birth shower. But...uhh...what do we do with the baby? We can't leave her alone can we...? The auxiliaries were indulgent of our new parent fears and promised to keep an eye on hour totally out for the count newborn. 

To his credit D did a splendid job handing me things and making sure I didn't die or keel over in the shower, he managed to boak or look disgusted, it wasn't exactly the couples showering experience Hollywood has us believe awaits us if we're in a relationship, but we've run into that lie before, as, having recently moved into our first home, which came with a bath (I'm not a big fan of baths, it's altogether a bit of a too hot and sweaty experience, but you know...the novelty) I went for a  bath.

My real plan was to dye my hair, and do some mild deforestation while the dye took, then a rinse and then maybe a soak. So all in all quite a lengthy and laborious undertaking. So, 20 minutes in, D, I imagine expecting something like the Galaxy adverts, a sexy lady (not sure who he thought he was living with) can-can-ing her smooth hairless leg out of the mountain of bubbles, with a perfect messy bun, those wee bits escaped around her face to save her hair getting wet, maybe reading a book and sipping on some champagne, candles lit in an all round luxurious, spa-like situation, tried to open the door.

On the other side, he wasn't to know, was not a Galaxy advert. Instead a post-Psycho like shower scene  awaited him. Red brown dye had run on to my face and shoulders from my hair, piled on my head in a cone like a soggy troll, as I stood trying to shave my legs before the dye proving time was up, trying not to touch anything else with my dyed head, with an impromptu green facemask, now nicely cracking, on (why waste 20 minutes of waiting around in the bathroom time?). So I slammed the door in his face. He tried to persuade me to let him in, obviously thinking I was being coy, not realising I was protecting him from facing the semi-decapitated looking soggy troll with half shaved legs and an untouched bikini area. He left. I'm not sure the spontaneous sexy bath scene can be a real thing. We'll not even get started on the fact we can't both fit in a  normal sized bath and get in and out without some contorsion and quite a high risk of injury. That is for another day.

So the post-baby shower made me feel better, but wasn't a particularly pleasant experience. The newly emerging nose of suspicion (which, by the way, has a new challenge to contend with since little britches has started puking a bit) could settle to sniff another day as I knew, objectively, that I was clean, and anything I smelled of must have been an inevitable side effect of being attached to a little limpet that's just emerged from your insides.