DEC 25 — There are some things a woman should be told before she gives birth. It was not my first time out. I’d already undergone one very long 26-hour labour almost four years ago. So naturally, I should feel calmer this time around since everyone says the next one will be quicker. But no. I was filled with nerves. 

This time my husband would not be allowed into the antenatal ward; this is no-man’s land (except during visiting hours) where women in pink pajamas sat on fitballs and stare blankly out of windows that overlook the ocean. Others groan on their narrow hospital beds with each contraction. 

To ease my worries, I signed up for antenatal exercise classes, hoping to be able to hold the fort down by myself in the dreaded antenatal ward. This is the most important lesson I took home: 

The midwife will tell you to push like you’re going to have a poo. The physiotherapist says, “Don’t”. It won’t help the baby come out any faster. 

Instead, take a deep breath, breathe out slowly and push inward and downward, spreading your waistline. 

Fact: All I wanted to do was poo (I didn’t need to, but that was the feeling). I had to draw all my will power not to do that. 

I shrieked. I bleated like a sheep, mooed like a cow. What I do not get is this — if every nerve in your body is telling you to push, why is this one woman telling you not to? 

Thanks to the experienced midwife and gas (it did not make me laugh, sadly), there were only 10 or so pushes involved. But in between each one of them, I was ready to explode. 

Have you ever seen one of the rubber pig/ cow/ sheep that squeezes a blob of poo out its bum when you squeeze the toy? That was me. 

When I could hold it in no more and gave in to the urge to push, I was greeted with a shock. The sensation of the water bag bursting. Yes, I expected it to happen, though it didn’t with my first birth. It was like a dam had burst. 

The weird thing was how it made me feel — helpless as I lost all control over my own bodily functions. A friend told me when her bag burst she could only cry. And then, without warning, baby was out. 

The midwife had dug her hands inside me (well, that was how it felt), manipulated my baby’s shoulders and then she was out. 

TV dramas prep you for so much more. My experience was more... subdued. With that pain over, I was euphoric. I had done it. We had done it. My husband was my anchor, keeping me calm when I thought I could take no more. No epidural injection, which meant I could be up and on my feet much faster than before. Bloody champion. But here’s what no one told me: 

There is more pain to come. Really, really bad pain. Uterine contractions. Apparently it doesn’t occur with first births and intensifies with each subsequent birth. The uterus, all stretched out, is shrinking. Breastfeeding aids this and by the next day each time I nursed my baby I was in so much pain my abdomen would quiver. 

Hearing the groan from the woman in the cubicle across from mine I guessed she was experiencing the same thing. The nurse went round dispensing plastic baggies of Panadol. The contractions lasted two and a half days. A friend described it as a muscle pull. All I can say is no more. Never ever. 

Dispense with modesty in a teaching hospital. You are a teaching tool. Accept it. Young medical students, some with cold, shivering hands are going to palpate your belly, tug at the waistband of your knickers (to measure the belly) and look where the sun don’t shine. 

While I was performing my repertoire of animal sound impersonations, waiting impatiently outside the labour room were nursing students dressed in surgical scrubs, waiting for action time. They greeted me by first name when I was wheeled into the room. 

Baby girls were a foreign species to me until a week ago. If the nurse had not told me so first, I would have freaked out if I thought my little girl had begun menstruating. This is known as a pseudo-menstruation and usually occurs between days two and five of her life. It will not happen again for another decade or so. If your baby has jaundice and you are breastfeeding, you will be required to nurse her every one to two hours for about half hour each time. Do the maths and figure out how much sleep you will be getting. Factor in diaper changes and burping time and you will end up with NONE. Sunning her like ikan kering is not an option in winter time. 

There will be plenty of conflicting information about acceptable diet. Chinese confinement food involves copious amounts of ginger and wine to keep the body warm and expel wind. Nurse informed me that ginger will increase the amount of lochia and is therefore best avoided for the first 12 days following birth. Ginger will also flavour breast milk making it “hot” and baby may not take to it. My mum did not tell me these things simply because she did not have the same experiences. Still, it was a beautiful time, made bearable by the kind and experienced nursing staff in Hong Kong who despite having seen it all, took the time to explain things patiently to this mum. 

My Christmas present came early this year. Now, if only I could steal me some sleep. 

Merry Christmas and a happy 2012 everyone.

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.