More Kegels please, we're Kiwis

In a previous post, I said that emigration was a little like seduction. Well, having gone a little way down that road, I reckon I was spot on - it is the kind of seduction where someone ends up getting knocked up.

In the beginning, there is the excited anticipation of the Happy Event - poring over books, guides and how-to's, planning the steps and stages, learning everything there is to know about the new arrival and the brave new adventure on which we are embarking. There is some mourning too - all those girls' nights out and creature comforts will have to be sacrificed, at least for a while. Many parts of the 'old you' disappear; your focus changes, and people around you notice and quietly begin to stand back. There is the shopping and planning and preparation and pre-event parties. Everyone knows someone who has done it, and everyone has their share of advice to give. We listen sagely, privately resolving to do things our way and not be fazed by what lies ahead. And then the Grand Moment approaches. Everything is in place: we've read all the books, consulted all the professionals, got the 3-D photos and chartered, as far as possible, the unchartered territory.

And then the labour begins.

At first it doesn't seem so bad: it's tough, it hurts, but you were prepared for this, the books warned you. Sure, you have to give away your stuff and chuck those sentimental high school love letters; yes, you must turn mercenary and sell things to your friends when you'd rather give them away because now is the time to exercise some financial savvy; the paperwork is annoying and laborious but eventually you get it done and maybe even get a smile from the official at Home Affairs; you say goodbye to your house and your beloved cats; and after years of living there, your neighbours finally come over to say hello just as you leave... but it's okay. Just breathe through it all and you're doing fine.

Then the contractions intensify. You can't find a home for your cat. You finally throw the kinds of parties in that spacious, underused lapa that was the reason for buying that overpriced property in the first place; and while you down that magnificent Fairview pinotage your close friend brought, you comprehend the wasted quality time with her that has gone before, and the lack of time that lies ahead. (Kicking back a third glass of your favourite fermented fruit over Skype just isn't the same.) You realise you probably won't ever see your grandmother again - and then your mother falls ill and you are seized by a particularly painful contraction: you may never see her again either. Eish!

For those of you who have been through natural labour, you might recall that stage when you grabbed the nurse by the collar and snarled, "I've changed my mind! Get me a f*** epidural!" - or, if you are like me, "I've changed my mind! I don't want a baby any more!" You might even recall what she said (although, if you were in labour, it's not bloody likely). If she was experienced and patient, she probably would have told you that "the only way out is through". Which is true. But not particularly comforting. So when the packers arrive on Monday morning to a house that, despite a weekend of sleepless toil, had not yet been completely cleared of all illegal and offensive items (e.g. woven reed baskets, mud on the soles of our shoes, decorative Christmas pinecones, old bank statements, dry kokis, too-small baby clothes, Pretoria telephone directories, aerosols, evil flammable Tippex and glue sticks, etc), there is nothing to do but push on. And when the labour becomes protracted on Tuesday, with the packers asking for tea when the kettle and mugs have already been packed, and a nest of old files discovered at the same time your passport goes missing, you take deep, focused breaths. And then when the container finally arrives for loading on Wednesday, and you stare helplessly at it and wonder how on earth it will all FIT, you spit out a lot of very bad words, and remember that this is hard work and it's really too late to go back and you push. And then you curse some more, and remember that there will be something wonderful at the end of it, and you breathe. And when the packers can't fit all your stuff into the container despite the consultant's unctuous reassurances, you spit and fume some more and recall that you are making a new life for the rest of your life, and you push. You swear a lot, but you push.

I've birthed two children, so I know that labour does end eventually. And that the wounds heal. And that there are post-partum consequences which are also difficult, but not insurmountable. At the moment, swigging champagne (okay, sparkling wine) at the end of Moving Day, with most of my stuff crammed in a metal crate headed for Durban harbour and the rest in a Joburg warehouse waiting for space in a part-consignment, the pause between contractions is a relief. And yes, even a little exciting. After all, a new life is something to celebrate - even with contractions.

Penny