by Pinky McKay

How do you tell your teenagers that you're pregnant?

I don't remember exactly how we told ours, but I do remember their reactions. They looked at each other, then from me to their father. "You don't STILL do it?" they shrieked together. Then one of them patted his father on the shoulder and in a big deep voice said, "haven't I told you about condoms, son?" Their surprise and disbelief was only slight compared to mine. Even before my period was due I had felt "pregnant". No specific symptoms, just a feeling. When my period was only a few days late I bounced into the doctor's. "I just want to know that I'm not pregnant."
At this point I had thought the sensible thing to do was to dispel these silly feelings and if by any ridiculous chance I was pregnant I would have an early termination. As the slide on the desk beside me changed colour I started to shake. I didn't need to be told it was POSITIVE. I burst into tears. The doctor worked out my 'due date'. I tried to switch off. How could I think BABY? This was PREGNANCY - just a condition. Not a life. I wasn't going to have a baby. I told him. He suggested I go home and think it over. Either way, I was the one who had to live with my choice. Damn him! Damn my husband! Damn all men, I thought. Even in these so-called enlightened days it's the woman who pays. And keeps on paying.

I'd been there, done that - for seventeen years. I already had four kids. I had done the full mother bit intensively. I had shared my body, my bed, my days, my nights, my whole life. I had stretched as far as I could go. I had loved and enjoyed all my babies but I had no illusions that it all became easier once they were walking, or talking or school age - or whatever. Babies grew up. But they took up different spaces. I feared the vulnerability and feeling of powerlessness that comes with having little babies. Now my 'baby' was seven, I finally had time to be ME.

All self-centred reasons aside, a baby would be a disaster. I had been battling illness for a couple of years and the prospect of repeating my previous pregnancy history of threatened miscarriage, bleeding and bed rest on top of this was scary indeed. Financially, a pregnancy couldn't have come at a worse time. I felt as though I was looking down the barrel of a gun.

On my way home from the doctor's, I nipped into the shopping centre. As I rode down the escalator, my eyes fixed on a mother breastfeeding a tiny new baby. The tears welled up. I wasn't just 'pregnant' I was 'having a baby'.

I still grieved my freedom. I still felt scared about how I would cope. But a protective feeling towards my baby emerged much stronger than any ambivalence. Being an older mother-to-be was similar to being a first-timer again. It seemed that everyone had advice. 'Friends' warned that I was letting my hormones ruin my life. Even strangers asked, "are you having an amniocentesis?" Books warned of the complications of pregnancy in later life.

Surprisingly, I bloomed during this pregnancy. My health improved and I didn't even threaten to miscarry. I didn't have an amniocentesis. I had accepted this baby that seemed to have chosen my body as its passage to life. I had never believed any life was less worthwhile because it wasn't presented in a perfect package, but I wanted my baby even more than I remembered wanting the others during pregnancy. I wanted a gentle beginning for him so it seemed at odds to unnecessarily disrupt his environment.

Pregnancy has almost become an industry since I had my first babies in the seventies. The Gurus have changed radically. The books no longer say twee things like, "you'll feel as though there is an orange in your back passage when it is time to push." I wondered, would birth be easier if I pant pant blowed; or belly danced; or used music therapy; or just screamed instinctively. Should I squat or give birth on all fours. On International Women's Day, as I sat having blood tests I watched mother after mother come in with babies only a few weeks old. One by one these mothers pulled bottles out of their bulky carry bags. I wondered, were women letting each other down by not supporting each other and sharing the wealth of information now available to make breastfeeding possible. Why wasn't there support for them to breastfeed if they had to return to work outside the home? Was the status of motherhood so low that these mothers were denying themselves the closest of human relationships. Did they have real choices or not?

Fortunately, I discovered, babies still come out the same way. James came quickly and easily, watched excitedly by his ten year old sister ("Mummy, he's got brown hair!") I felt as though I'd won the raffle. He was perfect.

Of course there have been adjustments to having a baby in the house. Once again, I no longer read, write, sew or (especially) sleep as long as I want; I have been late for appointments because I forgot to allow extra time for the dirty nappy on the way out the door. We have had to rearrange the house to make it safe for a mobile baby. And, not only do the doctors and policemen look young but I keep noticing how young other mothers are. Yet, this baby really is a bonus for the whole family. He is happy and sociable and has experienced being taken for walks by the older kids, having his hair spiked by his sisters, riding on the washing machine in the arms of a lanky brother, having rides in cardboard boxes or on a skateboard around the house, falling asleep on a big brothers' chest and 'dancing' to music as varied as 'Crowded House' and 'Tchaikovsky'.

This time, sibling rivalry hasn't been an issue. Being told, "you don't say, well done, when I fart," by a seven year old is a far cry from constantly making allowances for a displaced toddler.

My priorities with this baby are far easier to define. This time, I don't feel inefficient because I don't have time or energy for committees or worthy causes; I don't feel lazy because I have played with James or sat and held him when he has fallen asleep in my arms, instead of working; I don't feel slack if the house is a mess or I only manage 'baked beans' for tea. I don't care how long it is until he sleeps all night-or weans-or whatever.

Recently, sitting next to me on the train, a woman in her eighties admired James and told me about her beautiful son Michael, who had been her 'bonus baby'. He is forty now and sounded like a warm and generous son. His mother confided how she used to rush through the housework then spend all day playing with him. I knew exactly how she felt. Because with bonus babies there is a special awareness that:-

Time which passes swiftly by
won't stop to hear us, though we cry
for days long gone and smiles missed,
For damp curls that we should have kissed,
Before they went away.

Post script: The bonus baby is now an eight year old - going on eighteen. He has been brought up by a community of teenagers and young adults and two parents who are probably more like (young!!!) grandparents- at least some days. And NO, all those bigger kids doesn't mean baby sitters laid on. They too have their lives- study/ social/ kid free. As one of them said when he was a lively toddler, "if I wanted a baby to run after, I'd make one myself." But hey! There's usually somebody to hang out with - a big sibling to take him to the pool, another to take him out for a 'coffee' , a movie, a drive, a bush walk, somebody to help with the Lego and model building (mothers don't know ANYTHING). And there's so much fun and noise (and mess)at our house, it really doesn't matter if the big kids are busy, he just invites all his little kid friends over to play or sleep over - wall to wall on the lounge room floor - just as he's seen the big ones do!
We aren't the same parents our big kids had. Then, we had lots of energy and little wisdom (some days I reckon that's a better way to go - what you don't know doesn't worry you!) Now, there is a wise father with no energy and a mother who is certain that the more kids you have, the more you question any wisdom you thought you had. Some days the mother finds reserves of energy she never believed she had. Others, she takes a book and Tim Tams and finds a quiet space. This is called research.. After all, when you have a bonus baby, you have to keep up with the latest parenting theories, even if you know a cuddle is still a cuddle and a listening ear goes a long way to smoothing the bumps - at any age.