Първи юни - международен ден на детето. Сутринта поздравих Майа и Иван с празника им, и им дадох по едно карамелено шоколадче. Майа поиска второ, което да подари на приятелката си Алия и го получи. Осем часа по-късно, изморена след цял ден в детския спортен клуб към местния футболен клуб "Оксфорд Юнайтед," Майа беше в доста ревливо настроение. Отказа да яде от невероятно вкусните тортили, приготвени от майка й, защото "не обичала палачинките с месо, печени чушки и бобено пюре, а с мед."

След вечеря Майа остана с мен насаме в кухнята.
- Павел, моля ти се, дай ми шоколад - изхлипа с най-милото гласче, на което е способна.
- Нали знаеш, че децата, които не си изяждат вечерята не получават шоколад? - отвърнах небрежно.
- Но нали днес е празникът на детето?
- Да. Затова сутринта получи шоколад - припомних.
- Но нали вечерта още е днес?

Въпросът ме свари неподготвен.
- Разбира се. Днес цял ден е днес. И цял ден е празник на децата.
- Значи мога да получа още шоколад? - триумфално заключи Майа. Аз обаче не се предавах:
- Нали знаеш, че майка ти ще ми се кара ако ти дам шоколад вместо вечеря?

Последва миг мълчание. Майа отдавна беше спряла да хлипа. Но изведнъж гласът и прозвуча много по-различно. Леко хрипкаво, насмешливо, и напълно делово:
- Айде, айде - звучеше точно така, както би го казал някой от приятелите ми когато ме канят да излезем на вечеря, а аз имам нещо спешно за довършване. Звучеше така, както го казвам аз. Но завършекът на изречението ме срази - Няма да й кажа!

Не можах да сдържа смеха си. Малка малка е Майа, а вече знае да заговорничи.
- В къщи нямаме тайни един от друг. Трябва да й кажа - заявих убедително. Майа ревна с пълен глас. Честит първи юни.

Майа и Иван бяха добре подготвени за идването на Петър. Мога спокойно да кажа дори, че го очакваха с нетърпение. Но от опита при раждането на Иван преди три години знаехме, че въпреки голямата привързаност към малкото братче, може винаги да очакваме симтоми на ревност. В този случай голямата въпросителна беше Иван. Как ще възприеме по-малкото дете? Ще му се радва ли и ще се почувства изоставен?

Още когато внесох Петър през вратата миналия петък Иван и Майа го посрещнаха с възторг и трогателно въодушевление. Умилението и радостта от присъствието му са доминиращи в отношението им към него оттогава.

Но безспорно най-влюбена в бебето е Майа. Месеци преди раждането му тя интензивно играеше ролеви игри свързани с майчинството, в центъра на които беше нейното "бебе" Обама /за нея ще разкажа отделно/. Истинското бебе Петър веднага зае първо място в предпочитанията й. Оттогава тя постоянно се стреми да бъде близо до него, да го милва и прегръща. Още в първия му ден Майа си предложи услугите да помага при приспиването и успокояването на плачещия Петър. За целта тя го полага върху малка възглавничка в скута си, говори му и му пее, често по десет минути и повече. Случва се и да заспят заедно в тази поза - както на снимката.

Случаят с Иван е различен. Той също демонстрира любвеобилно отношение към Петър, прегръща го и често го целува. Но все по осезаемо през първата седмица Иван демонстрира желание също да бъде "бебето" в къщата. Каза ми го в прав текст още на втория ден на Петър.

Оттогава често подражава на Петър и се опитва да се държи като него. Днес, например, плакаха пет минути заедно в колата, като Иван очевидно следваше примера на по-малкия си брат. И докато в този случай не видяхме умисъл, а по-скоро нещо като групов инстинкт за рев, какъвто и Майа беше демонстрирала навремето, следобяда се натъкнах на класическа проява на ревност. Лежах на спалнята с трите деца, като Иван се беше наместил между мен и Петър. Всеки път, когато се опитвах да преместя ръцете си върху бебето Иван започваше да мрънка. На няколко пъти хвана ръката ми и я премести обратно върху себе си. Каза ми "Гушни ме, Павел!" Аз разбира се направих всичко възможно да го зарадвам, поне докато Петър не ревна с все сила.

Дойде време да разкажа историята на раждането на Петър и за българоезичната аудитория на този сайт. Преводът няма да бъде дословен и въпреки закъснението с няколко дни спрямо английската версия, надявам се поне частица от вълнението на момента да достигне до читателите.

В слънчевото утро на 20 май Емеше както обикновено напоследък заведе щерка ни Майа на училище. През това време аз заех обичайната позиция пред компютъра и се заех с дисертацията си. Вече дванайсти ден след термина на Емеше бебето все така отказваше да излезе на бял свят. Какво ли не беше опитала Емеше за да постигне заветните контракции, но нищо не помагаше досега. Нито упражнения, нито дълги разходки, нито уморителна работа в градината, нито секс, нито дори скандали с любимия. Бебето явно си харесваше ембрионалната позиция и хич не мислеше да я напуска. Така беше до въпросния 20 май, който се случи в петък.

Важно пояснение е, че от всички дни в седмицата, Емеше се беше зарекла да не ражда в петък. Причината е, че точно на същата дата бяха родени двама важни членове на семействата ни. От нейното - бащата й Ласло Хуперт. От моето - чичо ми, или по-право стринко ми, пловдивският художник Димитър Киров. Ако познавате Емеше добре ще знаете, че подобно струпване на семейна история и свързаните с него напрежения не са й съвем по вкуса. Затова, когато полунашега и подметнах, че ако роди в петък, ще наречем бебето Ласло Димитър, тя полунашега ми отвърна, че ще устиска до събота.

Обаче не успя да устиска. Малко след като се беше върнала от училището, както се въртеше из стаята, изведнъщ каза "защо не вземеш да поставиш креватчето"? Креватчето трябваше да се постави на мястото на бюрото ми в спалнята - проста наглед операция, но свързана с преместване на всичките ми книги, бумаги и самото бюро на долния етаж, и прахосмукиране на стаята. Моментално я зяпитах да не би да ражда, но тя отрече - само контракции, нищо особено. Е, във всеки случай беше ясно, че повече писане за деня нямаше да има.

Извърших рокадата с книгите, изчистих, разпънах и нагласих креватчето на освободилото се място до прозореца. След това ми хрумна да си изгладя ризата. Така де, ако празнуваме рождените си дни толкова години наред, защо да не се изтупа човек за оригиналното събитие? Синът ми Иван веднага заподозря нещо и ме заразпитва по неговия си икономичен начин. Отвърнах, че отиваме в болницата с майка му, за да му роди братче.

Емеше обаче не беше съвсем сигурна още. Въртеше се из къщи. Шеташе. По едно време зърнах листче с изписани ситно номера - запис на контракциите. Не се зачетох, тя си знае, все пак. Каза, че към 11.00 ч. се обаждала в болницата, но от там я посъветвали да не идва, докато не се увери, че т.нар. родилни мъки са "установени." На английски родилните мъки се наричат просто labour - труд, между другото. Явно там не се мъчат чак толкова.

Хапнахме за обяд. После Емеше влезе в банята за да си вземе вана. Аз пък влязох в интернет. Ваната със сигурност е приятно изживяване и освен по-чиста, Емеше се е почувствала по-спокойна и уверена в себе си. Но ваната има един допълнителен ефект, за който научихме впоследствие - подтискала болките и контракциите. Така когато към 13.00 ч. Емеше слезе долу, готова и облечена, изведнъш започна да се гърчи в родилни мъки доста осезаемо.

Отново набра болницата. Не чух какво й казаха, но от тона и разбрах, че този път е решена да отиде там: "Няма значение. Тръгваме. Държа да... бъда прегледана," чух я да казва. Тук му е времето за едно пояснение за английската система на здравоопазване, което засяга английското общество като цяло. Накратко, тук всичко се прави така, че да се спестят пари.

Разбира се, става въпрос за системата на обществено осигуряване, т.нар. Национална Вздравна служба - NHS. В частните клиники сигурно е различно, не сме пробвали. Но за NHS в момента икономията е абсолютен приоритет. Затова от родилките се очаква да пристигнат буквално в последния момент и да си тръгнат час по-скоро след раждането. Това бяхме научили от медиите и от познати, които живеят в Англия от по-дълго.

Емеше роди предишните ни деца в Унгария, където нещата са доста по-различни. Но като човек, който в работата си посещава болници и общува с лекари, тя нямаше никакви притеснения от английската система за раждане. Напротив, предпочиташе я пред унгарската, където всичко е много по-контролирано, използват се рутинно медикаменти и цезареви сечения, и закъснели повече от седмица от термина раждания се предизвикват изкуствено. Точно това се беше случило при раждането на Майа, което беше най-неприятното и най-болезненото за Емеше от трите. Най-забележително е, че предпочитанието на Емеше към английската система остана непроменено, въпреки историята, която предстои да прочетете.

И така, щом затвори телефона, Емеше тръгна към колата. Аз вървях след нея, натоварих куфарчето й, и седнах зад волана. "Колко е часа?" попита тя. Беше 13.10.

Пътят до пред болницата "Джон Ратклиф" От този момент нататък паметта ми играе особен номер, който мога да оприлича само на забавен каданс. Изразява се в това, че помня с много подробности всеки детаил от сравнително кратък период от време. Подкарах по улицата, завих надясно по "Коупс лейн," изчаках чинно четири коли да си направят десния завой за да мога да завия наляво по "Хедли уей." Карах съвсем плавно, защото Емеше охкаше все по-осезаемо. След минута бях на кръговото за болницата, от там навътре до паркинга вероятно ми е отнело още една или две минути. Помня добре, че спрях на една зебра и подканих любезно двама възрастни хора, единият от които в инвалидна количка, да прекосят.

През цялото това време Емеше ми даваше наставления накъде да карам, защото не бях ходил с кола до майчинското досега. Когато видях входа му я попитах дали направо да не спра на естакадата. Не, рече, паркирай. Дръпнах билетче, за около секунда се поколебах дали да търся място, но прецених, че по-добре да заема първото изпречило се пред очите ми. След секунда и двамата бяхме извън колата. Билетът за паркиране беше на мястото си в задния ми джоб. Грабнах в ръце чантата на Емеше, папка медицински документи, и якето ми.

- Моля те, затвори чантата - изкомандва Емеше. В следващия момент се сгъна в много силна контракция.
- Ще можеш ли да стигнеш до входа - запитах.
- Да вървим - рече бодро Емеше и тръгнахме.

Успяхме да стигнем до края на паркинга. Точно там, на пътечката, между две коли, пристигна следващата контракция. Емеше се подпря на мен: "О, Павел, страхувам се, че този път закъсняхме."

Сънували ли сте кошмари, в които нещо ужасно се случва и трябва да бягаш бързо, а не можеш. Краката ти натежават и всяка следваща стъпка става все по-трудна, и така докато се събудиш. В този момент си ги припомних, защото се почувствах като в един от тях. Но от него нямаше събуждане. Емеше изхлипа:
- Водите ми изтекоха. Раждам!
Действително, панталонът и беше мокър. Огледах се и видях един човек, който спокойно крачеше към входа от другата страна на улицата.
- Извинете - извиках. - Раждаме тук! Бихте ли извикали някого?
Човекът спря и се вгледа в нас с недоумение. Повторно извиках:
- Моля ви, извикайте някого. Тя ражда!
Човекът се обърна и закрачи по-бързо към входа. Не достатъчно бързо, помислих. "Трябва да стигнем до вратата," беше единственото, което успях да изрека. Отговорът ме порази:
- Аз раждам, Павел, бебето е вече навън!
Емеше трескаво започна да го разкопчава и да си сваля панталона. Странно, дори за миг това не ми се стори неестествено или неприлично. Наведе се напред, като да застане на колене. Дали не беше по-добре да легне по гръб? "Не. Извикай някого."

Този път закрещях с пълен глас: "Помощ! Раждаме тук! Помош!" Видях как някакъв човек в зелена престилка излиза от вратата и тича към нас. Бавно. Твърде бавно. След него тичаха жени. Отзад две дебели чернокожи санитарки крачеха тромаво и бутаха инвалидна количка. Трябва креват, не стол, помислих. Първите достигнаха до нас и започнаха да успокояват Емеше, подхванаха я. Изпитах внезапен пристъп на ярост, и това ме възпря да не се разплача. "Можехте да ни накарате още да чакаме в къщи," чух се да ръмжа. Вероятно видът ми не е бил здравословен, защото една от жените ме попита угрижено дали съм добре?

Мъжът в престилка беше вече до нас и посягаше зад Емеше. "Тук има едно бебе," рече приповдигнато. В следващия миг видях Петър за пръв път. Малък, тъмно розов, безжизнен, в ръцете на този мъж. "Не се безпокойте, бебето диша," рече той. На лицето на бебето се отвори малък отвор и то изплака. Усешах, че ще изплача и аз. Папката с тестовете на Емеше изпадна от ръцете ми.

Няколко ръце поставяха Емеше на стола-количка. Женски гласове викаха "Честито", "Боже мой," "Благословен да е!" Други носеха бебето зад нея, а то се скъсваше да плаче.
- Внимамавайте с тази връв - обади се отново мъжът, протегна ръце, и отплете пъпната връв, която сякаш се усукваше около Петър. - Готово.
В последствие научих, че този човек се казвал Пол и работел в отдела за ехография на приземния етаж. Видял как Емеше се превива през прозореца и начаса се завтекъл да помага. Благодаря, адаш!

Влизане в болницата - разходка за трима

Емеше беше на стола. Сложиха бебето върху нея. Отгоре му метнаха якето ии. После процесията потегли към заветната болнична врата. Грабнах разпиляните хартии и я последвах. Автоматични врати се отваряха и затваряха, коридори и фоайета се търкаляха наоколо. Единственото, което виждах, беше как Емеше седи усмихната на стола и говори на бебето на унгарски. След малко влязохме в родилна стая. Най-после Емеше бе положена в хоризонтално положение. Тълпата помагачи се разотиде и останахме само ние и една висока светлокоса жена

През следващите трийсетина минути, докато Емеше довършваше раждането, имах възможност да се запозная с Петър. За целта ми предложиха да седна от страни на леглото, на специално предвиден за целта люлеещ се сто от светла дървесина. Петър изглеждаше най-малък от всички досега новородени в семейството. Но за сметка на това чертите му бяха сякаш най-оформени, характерът - най-разпознаваем. Имаше сравнително обилна тъмна коса и леко щръкнали настрани уши. Очичките му бяха по-малки, но пък бляскави и сякаш дяволити - имах чувството, че ме гледа с лека насмешка. Имаше и за какво.

Майа и Иван бяха умерено ревливи веднага след ражданията си. Докато Петър просто млъкна след първоначалната изненада. Очичките му започнаха ненаситно да шарят наоколо, сякаш попиваше подробностите на света, в който ненадейно се бе озовал.

В стаята при нас, след няколко рокади, бе останала акушерка на име Сара. Беше много мила и всячески се стараеше да ни успокои. Обясняваше с най-големи подробности какво се случва и какво предстои - оцених предимството на това да живееш в страна, къдено разбираш местния език /за разлика от Унгария, примерно/. По едно време отвори една кутия с лъскави инструменти, подаде ми най-малкия, и ми предложи да прережа пъпната връв на Петър. Не бях го правил с предишните деца, но вече всичко изглеждаше толкова спокойно, че се престраших. Клик клик. Готово. Преживях и този ритуал.

- Ще се наложи да направя щателен оглед на мястото за рани и сцепвания - обърна се към Емеше акушерката. - Това може да бъде болезнено понякога, бихте ли пожелали местна упойка?
- Действайте направо - промърмори Емеше.

Следва продължение

продължение

След кратък оглед се оказа, че все пак ще има нужда от някакакво зашиване, било съвсем незначително, но все пак по-добре било да се направи.
- Досега други щяха да вият от болка. Вие сте направена от твърдия материал - рече Сара в края на прегледа. Даа, такава си е тя, Емеше, от твърдия материал.

За шева Сара си повика надзорник - нейна колежка, която била "по-опитна" в тези неща. "Ние сега тук ще си приказваме помежду си - просто не ни обръщайте внимание," рече тя с усмивка, и потъна зад завивката, с която бяха покрити краката на Емеше. Докато тя извършваше манипулацията, колежката й зорко бдеше и даваше напътствия. Звучаха като добър екип. А Емеше този път беше под упойка, така че цялото й внимание бе върху Петър.

Характерно за медицинската система на Англия е, че много малка част от ражданията се извършват в присъствието на лекар. Всъщност само случаите с усложнения. За всички останали грижа имат само акушерките - както си е било от време оно. А все по-популарна - и очевидно насърчавана - е практиката жените да раждат у дома си, в присъствието на акушерка. Като източноевропейци на нас с Емеше идеята за раждане в къщи ни се видя шокираща. Но не си бяхме дали сметка, че болничната система е толкова къснооприемна - ако мога да използвам тази дума. Защото веднъж приета, Емеше се чувстваше много комфортно, грижите бяха на ниво. По едно време следобеда една млада санитарка внесе поднос с чай и препечени филийки за двама ни.

Но усещането, че ни насърчават да си тръгнем час по-скоро остана. И Сара, и колежката й, в различни моменти споменаха невинно, че всичко с Емеше изглежда наред, така че сигурно щяла да предпочете да се прибере у дома още същата вечер. Да, предпочете. Към 19.30 вечерта се прибрахме у дома, където Иван и Майа се срещнаха с брат си. Чувствахме се уморени, но много щастливи.

Supposedly long overdue, my son managed to take his first breath on the sidewalk in front of the hospital. In a cadenced retrospective I am checking for fault play by the budget-squeezed NHS, to conclude that all is well, as long as it ended well.

It promised to be a morning like any other over the past week or so: I would be desperately catching up with writing my PhD on the advance of neoliberalism, while my very pregnant partner Emese would be struggling to start delivering our son Peter. Peter was 12 days overdue. Well within her maternity leave Emese had been trying all that is humanely possible to get him to come out, including gymnastics, long walks, sex, intensive gardening and a few other methods. But to no avail, and no substantial contractions. Undisturbed, Peter would hang on to his apparently convenient embryonic position, forcing his mother to despair and schedule an induced delivery for the coming Sunday.

The first time it occurred to me that Friday would be different was when Emese asked me to put up the baby cot in the room. She had just taken our daughter Maia to school. Emese was then quick to play down any expectation that the baby might be coming soon, making her usual long face of bored denial. She then shook her palms in the air in a familiar gesture that I had long ago learned to interpret as the equivalent of “all quiet on the Western Front.” In this case it sounded to me more like: no, no birth today; some more frequent contractions maybe; but nothing urgent anyway.

We had a joke going that of all days Emese should avoid giving birth on Friday. This was because it happened to be May 20 – the birthday of both her father, and my late artist uncle. Half-jokingly I had been warning her that if born on May 20 our son would have to be named after both of them. She had been responding half jokingly that she would rather hold the baby for a day. Easier said than done. It was May 20 and she seemed to be going into labour. One thing was clear: I was not about to progress further with my thesis writing on that day.

Instead I busied myself with tidying up the bedroom where the new-born’s cot finally appeared. Then ironed my shirt. If we celebrate each other’s birthdays every year it should make sense to dress up for the real thing, I thought. My son Ivan saw me and grew immediately suspicious: where was daddy going? “To the hospital with your mum,” I replied

But Emese was not sure about that yet. In the meantime she did some of her usual house keeping, but also prepared her little travel suitcase and asked me to take it down to the car. With midday approaching my anxiety grew. Emese kept acting relaxed. Thinking back about these hours I believe it was a combination of factors that made her postpone the decision to leave until the last moment. She probably could not easily believe that the ‘thing’ was finally happening after so many days of futile expectation. There was also her all too familiar Huppert feature that obliges her to act cool as if nothing special is happening. And there was the NHS.

The Oxford Spires Midwifery-led Uni

With both of our older children having been born in Budapest we had been eagerly investigating English health care, particularly with regard to pregnancies and birth. Media reports and friends’ personal accounts had drawn a rather bleak picture of a system driven ultimately by minimizing costs. We knew, for example, that unlike Hungary, here women would not normally be allowed in hospital until actual labour begins, and would be sent home as soon as possible with the new born. Doctors would only tend to complicated deliveries, and many women would actually give birth at home, assisted by a midwife.

Equipped with the confidence of a veteran mother of two, and based on her first-hand observations of the UK medical system as a clinical research associate, Emese was quite relaxed about all this. Home delivery was out of question of course, but she had signed up with a special department at the John Radcliffe Hospital – the Oxford Spires Midwifery-led Unit. According to its website, the unit offers women “an alternative to the consultant-led maternity service,” different facilities, as well as a breath-taking view from the seventh floor of the hospital.

But Emese was not get to the top floor that day. She had repeatedly been told that she should not bother arriving too early, not until established labour began, otherwise she would be sent off. This was what they told her again when she called them about 11 am on that Friday: are you really sure it has started, dear? Well, she wasn’t. Not after expecting the bloody contractions to begin for about two weeks. Now that they were happening, she did not dare thinking labour was soon to come.

So instead of heading to the hospital, we took our lunch and I did some emailing. Emese took a bath. Now, taking a bath was probably a good idea in terms of getting herself relaxed and confident. But as we learned later, it must have also worked as a tranquiliser, suppressing the otherwise increasing unease from the contractions. The fact is that when she came downstairs all dressed up and ready to go her contractions all of a sudden seemed quite powerful and painful. And frequent. It was about 1 pm.

I watched her make another phone call in-between two of them. Again, she sounded very calm and polite, as she usually does. I did not hear what the midwife on the other end of the line said, but Emese told her: “All right then, but I think I am coming anyway, I would like to… be checked.” Innocent as this sounded, I was aware that this is the upmost urgency that Emese was capable off. A contraction later we were out of the house and into the car, I felt anxious but confident, and so did Emese. She asked me the time when we were driving off, and I said it was 1.10 pm.

Ten minutes that shook our world

From this moment on my memory plays a naughty trick on me. Basically I remember things with clarity and detail much sharper per minute, somewhat like a slowed-down video effect.
I drove very slowly from the driveway into the street, turned right onto Copse lane, queued behind four cars to turn left again on Headley Way. Then moved extremely smoothly up the hill, turned left at the roundabout into the JR hospital complex. I clearly remember stopping and waving kindly to an elderly couple, one of them on a pushchair, who were crossing the road in front of me. I then kept driving until the Maternity Unit’s entrance was in front of me.

During all this time Emese had been complaining more and more, while giving me driving directions – which I must admit were quite helpful, as I had never driven to the hospital before. Once we were there I asked her whether I should stop in the in front of the hospital’s doors, but she instructed me to park. So I did. It took me about a second to decide to take the first empty slot that I saw rather than drive around and seek for parking place nearer the hospital entrance.

We were out from the car. I placed the parking card in my back pocket, grabbed Emese’s handbag and my jacket, waited on a contraction to pass, and began walking slowly towards the hospital’s doors. “Close my bag,” she commanded. I obeyed. “Will you be able to walk there?” I asked, pointing at the gate. “Let’s go,” said Emese. We made it to the end of the parking lot, and were just about to cross the street, when she stopped. “Oh, Pavel, I think we are a bit too late this time.” I have no memory of replying.

I was just standing there, with Emese leaning on me, looking helplessly at the hospital’s entrance, still about 20 meters away. The next thing I heard from her was more of a cry: “My waters just broke.” I looked down and saw her trousers were all wet indeed. A person was walking on the other side of the street. I shouted: “Sorry, could you please call someone, we are giving birth here.” The man stopped looking at me unbelievingly. “She is giving birth, please call someone,” I shouted again. He turned to the door, walking faster. Not fast enough I thought.

Peter’s birth

Have you had nightmares where something horrible is happening, and you need to run fast, but all of a sudden you cannot move your legs, they feel heavy, and glued in the place, and the more you try to run, the more impossible it is to even move a step, and then you wake up? In this very moment, on the sidewalk in front of the gates of the JR hospital’s maternity unit I remembered that I had had many. And I felt like I was in one again. Except there was no waking up from this one.

Emese was still leaning on me. “I am giving birth now” she announced, while pulling down her trousers and reaching to kneel on the sidewalk. We may even have had a little exchange on whether she should not be lying down on her back. “No, no, the baby is already out,” she said, still holding my hands, “just call someone.” I shouted for help again.

I could see someone running towards us. Very very slow, it seemed. Others were coming after, with a push-chair. I heard voices around, giving directions to Emese, holding her, encouraging her, but do not remember what they were saying. All of a sudden I was overwhelmed by anger. “You might have kept us waiting at home longer,” I head myself growling. I must have looked quite pitiful because a woman turned to me and asked: “Are you all right?” I wasn’t. I felt like bursting in tears myself, but was still too angry to do that. The hospital papers folder fell from my hands. A man in a medical uniform was behind Emese. “We have a little baby here” he exclaimed and reached down.

The next thing I saw was Peter. Tiny and wet, covered with wrinkles and stains of blood, there he was, motionless in the hands of the guy. “Don’t worry, baby’s breathing,” he said cheerfully. A small whole opened on Peter’s face and I heard his first cry. “Take care.” “Congratulations.” “Oh, bless,” female voices spoke around. Emese was almost on the pushchair. “Careful with that cord,” the man said again, reached with his hands and untangled Peter from the loop of the belly-cord. They then placed the baby on top of Emese, covered him with my jacket, and started moving. I collected some papers from the ground, and hurried after them for probably the most emotional walk in my life.

A walk of life

With Emese sitting on the chair, holding Peter in her arms, and gently talking to him in Hungarian, we moved through the sliding doors, along a few dark corridors, and into a delivery room. Finally Emese was able to lie down, helped by about five people who had come along. The man in the hospital apron was still among them, but left as soon as he saw that things were under control, wishing us best luck. I then learned he worked at the scanning unit, saw us through the window, and immediately ran out to help. His name was Paul. Thank you, Paul!

A tall woman with what seemed like a long fair hair appeared to be in charge and everyone left promptly. She calmed us down, congratulated us, asked if it was our first baby. Well, it was the first one born outdoors for sure. What is the time of birth, she asked? Three minutes ago, just here, in front of the hospital, I explained. We all looked at the big white clock on the wall. It was 1.25 pm. The fifteen minutes since we had left home felt like a decade.
The tall blond introduced another woman, who would stay with us, wished us well, and left. A third woman appeared and took over from the previous one. Her name was Sarah, and she was the one who stayed around us till the end. Emese was still to complete the afterbirth – a process which took a bit over half an hour. I was offered to sit on the left side of the bed, so that I could see Peter’s face.

It was a beautiful face. Peter had relatively long dark hair. His eyes seemed small but shiny, and somewhat curious and witty. Indeed, unlike any of our previous two children, Peter stopped crying almost immediately and started looking around the newly discovered world that surrounded him. In spite of being supposedly 12 days overdue, he seemed tinier than both Maia and Ivan when they were born. But at the same time he was somehow better developed, his feature more distinct, his character – more visible. A possible reason for this impression was his contoured chin – a feature that I immediately attributed to the Huppert family genes, while Emese said it looks like mine.

Sarah was very friendly and helpful, explaining carefully what was going on, and what was supposed to go on. In a few minutes she came in with a set of shiny instruments, handed me the tiniest one, and asked me to cut Peter’s cord. I did. The ritual was not as emotional as I expected it, possibly in contrast with what I had just been through. But I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Later, Sarah suggested that Emese would try to breastfeed in order to speed up the afterbirth – if she was planning on breastfeeding the baby, of course. Once the placenta was out, Sarah said she would need to examine for wounds, and asked Emese if she would like an anaesthetic for the examination. Emese refused. The examination took about 3 minutes. Others would have cried loud by now, Sarah told Emese: “you seem to be made of the stern stuff.” I bet she is.
Stitches needed to be made and Sarah brought in a more experienced co-worker “We shall be having a bit of a chat here, the two of us, you just don’t bother,” Sarah said. They then forgot about us and spoke to each other intensely, their eyes fixated onto what Sarah was doing, as if they were layout designers or video editors, discussing their work in progress. Emese had already taken anaesthetics and did not seem disturbed at all by their collaborative action. All her attention was on Peter by this time, and so was mine.

Soon the final medical procedures were completed. The second midwife congratulated us, and just before leaving the room, turned to me and suggested very casually that perhaps we were thinking of going home already tonight, but of course this was entirely up to us, so whatever we decided. I responded that this should depend on Emese’s condition, but she repeated that the decision was up to us, and no pressure whatsoever… It was clear what the decision should be. And honestly in this case both Emese and I were really looking forward to get home as soon as possible.

We were then left alone for a while, relaxing and getting to grips with what had just happened. Emese’s clothes and my jacket were all wet and bloody, stuffed in a large plastic bag. I was sent off to bring Emese new clothes. I walked out from the room into a corridor, realizing I had no idea where and how I had come from. Following the Exit signs I made my way to the main lobby and walked out into the sunshine, to the place where Peter was born.

Déjà vu - Born Before Arrival

There I stood, watching the sidewalk tiles, where some dried stains could still be seen, the parked cars around, the zebra crossing and the number 10 bus which just drove past. They all seemed strangely dear. This is all about emotion, place and space, I thought, and my colleagues at the Open University should surely be able to explain it. Humour aside, I felt that what happened on Friday had a lot to do with the topic of my Geography PhD.

After taking a few pictures of this unlikeliest of birthplaces, I slowly drove home. The parking barrier had just closed behind me, and this time the 20 m/h speed limit seemed perfectly reasonable. At this moment something caught my eye. A woman was lying on the sidewalk, just a few meters down the road from the Maternity unit. Other people were helping her up. I could not see clearly from the car, but the thought immediately crossed my brain that she was probably also having contractions on the street.

Apparently my mind had not cleared up well because I needed to drive twice back and forth from the hospital to deliver the bag of clothes to Emese. While doing this I managed to bring the news of Peter’s birth to his sister and brother at home, and to my parents using the internet. But when I was back in the hospital room, I asked Sarah about the second woman whom I had seen falling down on the sidewalk. “Yes, it has been one of those days today,” she exclaimed, offering no further explanations. Later we heard from her that deliveries on the way to the hospital are not at all uncommon. This is why many mothers prefer home birth, she concluded. BBA, born before arrival, is the abbreviation for these cases which appears in Peter’s medical notes as well.

Upon my return to the room tea had been served. A lovely surprise. We spent another three hours together, Emese, Peter and I. Sarah came again at some point and handed us a stack of papers. She then explained what were they; and how we were supposed to be visited by the midwife on the following day; and that we had to take Peter for an initial medical assessment first thing on Monday; and that all I had to do was register for the birth certificate online and it would be mailed to us shortly. After all was clear, she said: “So, I get it, you would want to be heading home tonight already, so buzz me when you want to leave. “We shall go now,” Emese replied. After the final round of congratulations, just as we were walking out, Sarah said: “And perhaps you should consider a home birth the next time around.” There will be no next time, Emese replied.

It was 7.30 pm when we walked home with Peter. Maia and Ivan were thrilled to meet him. We took photos, then a quick dinner. We were exhausted. I placed Peter on his bed. Then moved downstairs to the new location of my working desk, and posted the first announcement of his birth on Facebook. Emese went straight to bed for her first sleepless night over the new born Peter.

Many things can be said about this extraordinary child birth experience. Starting from the unforeseen perils of having a due date that may be unrealistically early. Indeed, of all three babies we have had so far with Emese, Peter is the tiniest, his weight at birth being about 3.250 kg. Reaching and passing the due date puts psychological pressure on the mother-to-be who expects her labour to start any moment. With Emese this expectation lasted for 12 days and was gradually replaced by disbelief, which influenced her judgments when the time finally came.

I am the family member mostly known to have been missing airplanes and – admittedly for the purpose of analysis – a couple of work deadlines. Emese in contrast has been more realistic in her planning and preparations. Knowing that both of her previous deliveries had been quite fast is one thing, but giving birth within about 15 minutes from her first strong contraction is something few people could adequately prepare for.

The only way to handle such a marginally quick delivery would be to be admitted into hospital at the first signs of labour. And we were simply in the wrong country for this. Or at least in the wrong social class. Apparently our post-socialist life experiences so far with Emese had not adequately prepared us for the way things work here, in one of the world’s wealthiest and most advanced societies. With all of its drawbacks, Hungary’s health system would keep the hospital’s gates open for anyone suspected to be going in child labour. Emese’s first birth – of our daughter Maia back in 2006 – was also overdue. After a week had passed, though, the hospital would request Emese to report to them every morning, for thorough control of the pregnancy. An induced delivery would be prescribed and performed within days.

There is mounting criticism of the standard child birth practices both in Hungary and Bulgaria, where I come from. They are condemned for their high proportion of planned c-sections, over-medicating mothers, and inflexibilities on alternative delivery methods. Home birth is not practiced officially in any of the two countries, something which was labelled as no less than an assault on the “right to birth at home”, as The Guardian reported in October 2010.

But what about the right to proper medical care? I think both Emese and I were unprepared for the grasp of the cost cutting and optimisation imperative has over the work of health care professionals in the UK. If obliging pregnant women to report to the hospital for an induced birth shortly after their first overdue week is wrong, so is actively discouraging them from coming to the hospital when they suspect they are already in labour.

Based on the anecdotal evidence we received from various persons while at the hospital, the BBA syndrome is quite common. The way I see it, UK women are subject to pressure to arrive in hospital as late as possible, and leave as soon as they can. Or, rather, this is the case with women who rely on the NHS for delivering their children. I have no idea how things work in the private clinics. And this is where I disagree with the coalition government’s cost-cutting ideology: access to quality and reliable health care should be available to anyone, poor or rich, and not be compromised by a neoliberal cost-cutting imperative.

But as Emese rightly pointed out, this is supposed to be the story of my son’s birth, and not a political pamphlet. She also said, that even after everything that has happened, she still likes the English system of doing things better than the Hungarian one. And it is the mother’s opinion that matters most when giving birth is at stake, isn’t it? Two things for sure: this was probably the fastest and least painful delivery Emese could have had; and we all feel happy and relieved about it.

Photos, from top: 1. Peter - a blurred first portrait. 2. A view of the John Ratcliffe Hospital's maternity unit from as near as we could get to it before Peter was born. 3. A birth spot to remember. 4. The way into the hospital - three of us entered. 5. Peter's hair and chin. 6. Emese and Peter, happy and relaxed. 7. Tea and toast served. 8. Maia and Ivan welcoming Peter. 9. Three of us on the way home after delivery.

Expecting a new baby makes me wonder how much time, attention and resources shall he be able to get? In fact part of the answer became visible already during the pregnancy.

With Ivan growing up fast over the past two and half years we have often compared the attention he gets to the one obtained by his elder sister Maia. And we always concluded that it is disproportionately lower. In spite of our repeated commitment and willingness to offer Ivan the same as what we had offered to Maia. We both agree that Ivan gets equal amount of love, affection and cuddling from us. But he certainly does not get as much of our time - for the natural reason that Maia is already here to occupy a significant portion of it. Or he also seems to get less in terms of net financial investment - e.g. by staying home with an au-pair rather than attending nursery which would have allowed him to learn English better, just as Maia did. There are various reasons for this, e.g. our income at the moment is lower with me relying on a PhD studentship, while our expenses are higher because we have two children and live in one of Europe's most expensive countries in terms of child-care. And it is not necessarily a bad thing, as Ivan's advance with Hungarian and Bulgarian was slower anyway, so we did not feel pushing a third language upon him would have been timely.

The experience with the new baby has repeated the same trend already during his mother's pregnancy. No more purchasing of parenting books, naturally, as they have been purchased long ago, and have been read at least twice. Since the being of the pregnancy we have visited a scan together twice - first in Oxford, to see the baby's heart in the first trimester; and second - for a mid-pregnancy scan in Budapest. No other visits to the doctor together, keen to hear what he's going to say after checking Emese. No more excitement over English-speaking doctors telling me a few words about the baby - indeed, here in Egland they all speak the language, but ironically, I do not go with Emese to hear what they say.

For the sake of fair reporting it needs to be pointed that Emese does not see doctors nearly as often as during her previous pregnancies either. The UK pre-natal care is very different - shockingly different, I would say - from what we have seen in Hungary. Countrary to most people's expectation, actually here in one of Europe's richest countries, pregnant women get incomparably less attention by the health care system. In fact the entire pre-natal screening and consultation is left to midwives, who Emese goes to visit about once a month. Of course the assumption is that if anything would have gone wrong she would immediately be transferred to a doctor. But deep inside the treacherous suspicion lurks that a midwife may not be able to see or notice the problem soon enough.

Yet, all in all the latest pregnancy seems to be least commented or noticed. A clear proof for this the 'baby folder'. It is a big folder where I have been archiving materials and information relate to each of our children since the time they have been conceived. These are things like name list printouts, media articles about major events during the pregnancies, tickets from concerts we attended with the baby in Emese's womb etc. The fact is that new coming baby's folder was empty until about two weeks ago. I have activated myself since then and added things, but the timing of this speaks for itself. All this sends us a signal of what to expect with the third baby after he is born.

In case someone did not get the news, we are expecting again. In fact, we have been expecting for the past nine months and today is Emese's due date. Quite an exciting day, one might expect. But not nearly as exciting as the first, or even the second time around. Why is that, and is it fair? I shall leave the attempted answers to these for my next post, while here I will only provide the history of Emese's third pregnancy, which is officially supposed to finish today.

Emese realized that she was pregnant already by the end of last summer, after we spent three weeks together at our sea-side house in Goritsa. The important fact about this vacation was that for the first time I had arranged with my parents to stay in a different house, so we could actually be on our own with the children. This proved to be a good choice - my parents were still near, and we could enjoy each other's company, but we had much more privacy and relaxation with Emese - which apparently ended up in her getting pregnant.

The family folklore tells that the baby was conceived on a beautiful starlight night, with a stunning view of the moonlit sea horizon from our terrace, under mysterious and gentle ancient-sounding Anatolian tunes transmitted to us from across the Black Sea. Very much by the end of the evening the music stopped and was replaced by a voice reading, to our surprise in English, verses from the Holy Qur'an. It seems like we had enjoyed a religious music programme.

This episode, although scientifically unconfirmed, gave rise to speculations that the baby's name should in some ways reflect upon Islamic tradition. This idea seemed well matched by media reports that we came across, which claimed that different versions added together make the name of the Profit Mohhamad the most frequently used in the UK. Unfortunately Emese does not seem well convinced by all these arguments.

As usual Emese would not be willing to announce the pregnancy before its first three months had passed. By then it was already Christmas time, when we went to Hungary and Bulgaria by car. In this period Emese performed the already traditional ritual of pregnant down-hill skiing on the slopes of Mount Vitosha over Sofia. As a result most of our friends and colleagues ended up learning about the pregnancy already in 2011, when it was starting to get visible on Emese's figure anyway.

As always Emese has worked almost until the last minute, leaving herself less than two weeks of actual rest before the term day. These two weeks have just ended today, and we are being reminded about this by several of my friends - mostly women - who started sending us anxious emails. But no, no news yet.

As said in the beginning, we are unbelievably relaxed about the forthcoming delivery. Emese keeps busying herself in the kitchen and with the kids - even at the moment she is out to the playground with them. I have found the past days productive in terms of my work. Indeed, since yesterday the thought that the baby may be here any time is upon us. But even now Emese keeps saying that she does not feel like giving birth before mid-next week, and that it will be apparent when the baby is coming whenever she starts "really hating me." Apparently this has not happened yet, and everything going fine, I am planning to take her out for a surprise lunch tête-à-tête when our existing kids will be taken care of.

I had been wondering lately what should be the politically correct way to describe a person whose skin colour is, well, African. Except that African is not really a colour. Here is how Maia taught me the answer.

Last Friday after school Maia and her best friend Jessy spent an hour in the playground, accompanied by Ivan, Jessy's mom Carolyne and me. When the sun began to slowly set behind the brown roofs of Marston, we started walking home. While the group was still together Maia and Jessy started calling each other food names:
"You are a... tomato," Jessy shouted. "And you are... a carrot," Maia screamed. "And you are... a hot dog!" Jessy replied.

"Jessy, don't say this. And stop calling each other... names!" Jessy's mom Carolyne interrupted. There sure was something very wrong with calling someone a hot dog, although I wasn't sure what. So I decided to show diplomacy:

"Jessy is your friend, isn't she, and you like her? So why not calling her nice things? Like: you are nice as a flower; or you are sweet as an apple."

Maia did not take long: "Jessy, you are brown as chocolate", she shouted!

Yes, this is certainly something that Maia likes a lot. Chocolate! And this is what Jessy's skin looks like. And her mom is from Ghana. "Did you hear that?" Jessy's mom said excitedly: "She said Jessy is brown as chocolate", with a great shining smile on her face. I sure did. Long live children diplomacy!