written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Saturday 17 October 2020

Language Of Labour

The jewel of the north (and in fact the whole of Lancashire) went into Tier 3 Lockdown at midnight. But however depressing that is, don't be misled by the title of today's post. I'm not delivering up another party political rant against irresponsibility or incompetence. Apart from anything else, I think my take on Boris and his shifty crew is well known.

Instead, we're following the signs to Maternity for this Mind Your Language blog, for what may turn out to be an edgy, but I hope humorous, look at the phenomenon of expletive-laden language on the labour ward. 

Giving birth would seem to be one experience that can surely provoke even the most cultured and refined of women, in extremis, into uttering strings of obscenities. Midwives of my acquaintance assure me they have heard everything, have grown industrial-strength ears, nothing surprises them after a while - but even some of what they recounted is a bit too graphic for repeating here. So relax, gentle readers, you're getting the selectively sanitised version in the Saturday blog.

Before we push on through those swing-doors, you may be asking yourself (if you're a woman) what could possibly justify a man writing about this topic. Or you may be questioning (if you're a man) why a bloke would even consider writing about such things. Really? This is an interesting phenomenon and part and parcel of all human life.

I should, however, issue a short disclaimer: nothing that follows was experienced intimately by me at first hand. For although I was present for the entirety of my then wife's labours (two of them), and they were amazing and emotional experiences, she just wasn't rude at all. Noises emanating from other rooms suggested she was an exception.

We men had been warned at ante-natal class that our partners might resort to language when in labour that they didn't normally use, might say things they didn't really mean. We were also congratulated (was she teasing?) by the jolly West Indian midwife for attending the class on a night when England was playing Paraguay in the World Cup - 18th June 1986 at the Azteca Stadium, Mexico City. We all forwent England's 3-0 victory to be told, in terms we couldn't fail to understand, that giving birth was "like shitting a football". We were prepared. 

My first-born arrived exactly a month later. My wife was brilliant, but exhausted. My daughter was beautiful. It was the first time I'd cried since I was a boy. But this really isn't about us.

Let's enter that labour ward, and within it eventually the delivery room, the sharp end and  terminus of an incredible nine-month journey for mother, partner (optional) and baby.

Everything is going to be fine.

I believe it's every woman's right to give birth in the way she feels is best for her and the baby. Unless a C-section is advised or demanded, there's only one way that baby is coming out. It's clearly a physically challenging process - not called labour for nothing - and appears to be getting more daunting with each generation. By which I mean the "football" would seem to be getting larger as living standards improve. When I was born at full term, I weighed 6lbs 2oz, considered fairly normal in the 1950s. By the 1970s the average birth weight had increased to 7lbs 4oz, and by the millennium 9lb babies were quite common. 10lb, 11lb and 12lb babies are not unheard of these days, the record apparently being 12lb 12oz - that's more than two of me! Ouch!

From what I remembered being taught and with a spot of judicious online revision, there are three distinct phases of labour, latent, active and advanced. It is in this advanced stage, sometimes also called transition, as the baby's head engages for its rite of passage, that everything might begin to seem a bit desperate and the air can possibly turn blue. I quote here from the Womanual:

"During this phase, women often experience physical symptoms such as shaking, nausea and vomiting. An obvious change in emotional state is witnessed, as many women feel overwhelmed and out of control. Women often state that they can't cope, want pain relief, and they've had enough and are going home"....and the worst is still to come.

It's not uncommon for women in distress in the painful final throes of childbirth to shout and swear seemingly without constraint in response to what they are going through, for bastard and bugger, shit and fuck to resound with a passion around the delivery room, for men and babies to be royally cursed, for sex to be sworn off eternally, for threats of castration to be uttered, for demands to be made that the whole taxing process should be stopped right now, even for medical staff to be verbally abused. It's the language of labour, spoken in the heat of the moment, and all in a day's work.

Just get the fucking thing out!

Here finally, new born of the imaginarium, an experimental birthing poem. It's very much a work-in-progress and it remains to be seen whether I'll ever have the balls to perform this one in public! It's original working title (paraphrased from T.S. Eliot) was 'He Do The Labour Ward In Different Voices', but since I decided to synchronise the birth with the unfolding drama of that 1966 football match, I've borrowed from Gabriel Garcia Marquez instead.

Giving Birth In A Time Of World Cup
What's the score?
Eight centimetres dilated. We're all
football mad in here. Got the final 
on the radio next door. Come on!
Oh god, I don't want to do this anymore!
It's too bloody hot in here Mum.
Can I get some air?
You're doing well love. We need it warm
for baby. Have a sponge down.
This your first one? 
He's a little footballer. Been kicking
shit out of her for months he has.
He shoots, he scores. Push down girl
when you feel those contractions.
What the fuck? I'm never letting Bobby
knob me ever again, the bastard.
I'll cut the bloody thing off! Ow!
Make it stop. I'm not having another one.
They all say that lovey. Not long now.
Bugger me it hurts. Why do we do it?
Hello ladies. How's everything looking? 
Fully dilated doctor. Cervix is ripe,
head engaged, England still winning too. 
I feel like fucking snatch of the day here!
This is bloody killing me. Make it go away.
No? Should have seen that one coming.
For fuck's sake! How much longer?
Extra time being played. 
It's too much. I'm going to wet myself.
This is a bloody disgrace. Ow shit!
You're doing well. Here come's baby's head. 
I'm being stretched to buggery, Mum!
Bastard Shit! Bastard Shit! I can't do it.
Yes you can. Listen to those cheers.
One last big push, we're nearly there.
Bloody hell. Bastard bloody hell.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Aaagghh!
They think it's all over! It is now...
Stacey girl, I'm so proud of you.
Here's your little world cup winner.
Are you fucking kidding,
you pair of jokers?
You're right there, lovey. 
We'll have you in stitches soon.
Oh you darling boy. So beautiful.
I'm going to call him Alf.

Thanks for reading. Stay safe, S ;-)

40 comments:

Rod Downey said...

1966 and all that! Ha ha ha. Shocking of you :)

Anonymous said...

I am speechless (LOL) Mr R!

Binty said...

So well written, how can anyone object even if it is a bit close to the (pubic) bone?

Jeanie Buckingham said...

It made me laugh, however, I feel I do need to say that I was silent throughout - twice - and both my babies were calm, non-demanding and beautiful sleepers from birth and I wonder if the shouters are the people whose babies keep them awake all night for the first two years of their life reflecting what they heard while making their way here. There is I think research to be done. Brilliant poem.

Nigella D said...

Very good Steve! According to Mr D, I did indeed say some of those things in the delivery room. He also had to explain to me why the baby would be called Alf.

Ross Madden said...

Fabulous Steve, audacious (?) but highly entertaining. Clever and funny poem too. All I can think of now is World Cup Willies (not sure that's the right year though).

Steve Rowland said...

Spot on Ross! World Cup Willie was the England mascot in 1966.

Lizzie Fentiman said...

You're a very entertaining man! I loved the blog with its 'industrial-strength ears' and 'like shitting a football' - wasn't 100% with you on the poembut you did say ot's a work in progress. It's a clever idea and had me laughing in many places. Maybe space it differently or use italics or different type faces for various speakers? I don't know. You'll figure it :)

Mac Southey said...

Very good parturition knowledge :D and an ingtriguing poem. All in all, a great blog. 👍

Tom Shaw said...

Ouch man! No way do I understand your poem. It's a cultural thing Steve. Is she a soccer mom?

Bruce Paley said...

Painfully funny as well as being instructive to those of us who have never ventured down the route to fatherhood. My favourite line was the snatch of the day one.

Deke Hughes said...

Giving Birth In A Time Of World Cup is such a great title for a poem. I thought it funny and clever (regardless of the language). Also may I claim a celebratory cigar for spotting your TS Eliot reference (He do the police etc)?

Penny Lockhart said...

Well THAT was a surprise, coming from you. However, it was true to the remit (LOL)! I can't remember now if I swore blue during labour or not and I'm not going to query it with my ex.

Harry Lennon said...

Brilliant Steve. Swear words aside (and yes, I know that was the point of the exercise) I thought your poem was clever, funny and very well-worked, interweaving the world cup final with someone giving birth - all predicated presumably upon "shitting a football". Some, many of those lines, could apply to either/both scenarios. Genius of the vernacular. We will all have our favourite bits of the poem. Most memorable for me "I'm never letting Bobby knob me ever again"; and calling the baby Alf was inspired. 👏👏👏

Jen McDonagh said...

Ha ha ha. Very funny and a bold take on minding your language.

Matt West said...

Little Alan Ball the only Blackpool player ever to win a world cup!

Jon Cromwell said...

Why not, eh? Another excellent read Steve.

Steve Rowland said...

Well spotted Deke - cigar and a shot of whisky to wet the baby's head! In fact the quote goes back even further than Eliot, Dickens' Our Mutual Friend and the splendidly-named Sloppy.

Bridget Durkin said...

You men! You couldn't "shit a football" for ten minutes, let alone a couple of hours (LOL). To be honest, I can't remember if I swore during labour. I probably did because it was very painful even with gas and air - and of course I said I'd never have another baby after the first one. Somehow I ended up with four. I'm sure your poem is very funny, especially if you know something about football which I don't. Stay well.

Rochelle said...

That's quite a departure for you. I enjoyed the blog and the funny poem though I must admit I winced at the line "We'll have you in stitches soon" - a painful memory!

Peter Gillatt said...

Enjoying reading your blogs as always Steve. Take care.

Ruth Maxwell said...

That's selectively sanitized? Goodness me Steve, I shudder to think of the alternative.

Emily Blythe said...

I think I smiled and grimaced in equal measure when reading your poem. I probably didn't get all the football references but enjoyed what you've done none the less. Stay safe Steve.

Billy Banter said...

Thirty years of hurt! :)

Harald Cools said...

Thank God Magda had a cesarean :-) Even though one of our boys' head did start popping out - peekaboo 😉 How are things otherwise?

Kenny Garcia said...

Gross but funny!

Martin Brewster said...

Wow! I suspect the subject matter of your poem (great title by the way) is unique in modern poetry (LOL) I tend to agree with the comment that suggested alternating type faces or even indenting some passages might have brought greater clarity to who says what. An admirable piece none the less.

Anonymous said...

What do I say? It was very funny and I wish I had your imagination!

Charlotte Mullins said...

Well that was a surprise, but audacious (as someone commented) and very witty.

Jambo said...

Premium blogging :)

Anonymous said...

Only a man would have written that poem. Just saying ;D

Brett Cooper said...

Some killer lines in there!

Dan Ewers said...

I enjoyed your blog and ambitious poem. Thanks for sharing. It's not over till the fat baby squeals :)

Steve Rowland said...

Dan, legend has it that I was born singing!

Martina Connors said...

The poem made me laugh, ingenious idea and very funny lines, and that's from someone who has "shit the football" (twice in fact).

Peter Fountain said...

That's a great blog Steve, and a curious coincidence that you should have celebrated the birth of England's World Cup glory in a week that saw the great Nobby Stiles die and the great Bobby Charlton be diagnosed with dementia.

Kevin Sterling said...

Bloody funny!

Max Page said...

I don't remember my wife screaming obscenities, though I'm sure many do. She did say she would never have another one (which turned out to be true). I thought your poem was amusing and very cleverly done. Some of those juxtapositions are hilarious.

Jazmeen said...

Bloody football! :-D

Anonymous said...

Funny and clever. Womanual made me laugh. 👍