A Mother's Story by Rosie Batty Page A

I headed home, packedmy bags and readied my little house in Menzies Creek for the arrival of my baby. Contractions began early the next morning, so I called Carri, who came to collect me. I tried reaching Greg at the monastery, but to no avail. I felt relieved that he was out of contact.
    As I slung my meticulously packed overnight bag over my shoulder and made final arrangements for the dogs, I looked around the house, my emotions a mixture of anxiousness and excitement. The next time I would cross this threshold, I would be a mother; I would be carrying a baby, and a new chapter of my life would begin. Nothing would ever be the same.
    Upon arriving at the hospital, I was immediately admitted and induced. Another friend, Sharon, was there, and both Carri and Sharon stayed with me until my baby was born.
    The nurses were all convinced it would only be a matter of hours. Five shifts of midwives and sixteen hours of labour later, I was only 4 centimetres dilated. The decision was made to admit me for an emergency caesarean.
    When they finally handed my little boy to me, I was beyond exhausted. The labour had taken its toll on me physically and emotionally, and I was drained after the stress of emergency surgery. But the moment I took the tiny bundle, wrapped in a silver foil blanket, and put him to my chest, I was overcome with euphoria. It was a feeling of complete joy like I had never felt in my life before. There was relief that he was okay, and that the ordeal was over, but mostly it was just pure happiness. A kind of bliss.
    The next day, I couldn’t move – I was utterly immobilised from the caesarean. Friends visited throughout the day. In between, the new little man in my life and I snatched moments together in our bliss bubble.
    Greg phoned, and I told him that he had a son. But because I couldn’t see him, it was hard to really gauge his reaction. As he had missed the birth, he decided he would wait until I returned home before leaving the monastery. I was relieved because I didn’t want to have to worry about him doing something weird in front of the nurses. So I settled in and enjoyed three days of getting to know my baby. Flowers and cards and visits from friends reminded me how much I was loved and, for the first time in a long time, I could let go and let someone else take care of me for a change. I felt nurtured and cared for. I felt safe.
    If there was a bittersweet note to any of it, it was that I didn’t have my mum there to share in the joy. I felt as though I had been admitted to a secret club, a club that I realised now my mother must have known. And I so wanted her counsel on how to behave in that club, what to expect. I wanted her advice, I wanted her to come and see the little boy I had brought into the world, and I wanted her to be proud. I wanted her to know him.
    I had decided to call him Luke. Luke Geoffrey Batty, born 20 June 2002. The Geoffrey was after my father. And Luke seemed to suit him perfectly: his shock of brown hair, his blue eyes. He looked at me as I cradled him in my arms, and it was almost as if he could see right through me – as if he knew me.
    Because he was three weeks premature, Luke weighed only 2.7 kilos at birth and was jaundiced. He spent the first few weeks sleeping a lot, which – when finally we returned home together – gave me time to continue nesting. There was a lot of cleaning kitchen cupboards, as I recall, a job I never usually did, but somehow felt compelled to undertake now I had a newborn in the house.
    Our first weeks together were a comedy of errors. Like all new mums, I was feeling as I went. Was I supposed to bathe himevery day? Was once a day sufficient? And what about feeding? How often and how much? We fumbled along together, finding a rhythm. It was June in Victoria, so bitterly cold at night. I would snuggle with him in my bed, exhausted but very happy. I had never been more fulfilled in my whole life. Here was a little