Baby Olivia was born today, 21 June 2011 at 4:30pm. She is a beautiful chestnut filly and we are all celebrating her safe arrival. However, this post isn’t really about her, it’s about my daughter and her reaction to said birth.
To be fair, we missed the exciting (and goriest) part and by the time we arrived at the stable door there was already a little girl waiting for us. Poor DD when she saw the sack, the blood, the mess stood staring in horror, complete horror at the sight before her eyes. I’m not too good with this kind of thing either, but I braced myself all the same because I didn’t want her following in my footsteps.
Cue lots and lots of questions, about the blood, the afterbirth and the soggy stable floor to which my mum answered all of them quite admirably. DD later announced that the foal had arrived in a plastic bag (at that time I was just taking a large sip of a drink and almost choked on it). Again, my mum stepped in, explained it all to DD and set her straight.
All was going well until the vet arrived to check the mare over. The afterbirth hadn’t yet fully been released and was hanging around unattractively. The vet was a young fella (I truly am getting old when I think like that) who did not appreciate my mum telling him all about her own experiences of birth and how painful it had been. The look of pain on the vets face was an absolute classic, I can tell you one thing, he will not be volunteering to attend any calls to her house again – I think he’s learned his lesson. DD still stood around fascinated by the topic of conversation and even though she was clearly uncomfortable, she did a good job of staring the experience in the face.
Have you ever tried telling a seven year old that childbirth (or foal, kitten, puppy, whatever else it is) is a beautiful thing? Last week she announced that she wanted two children when she’s older, that has dramatically reduced to one since. Who is betting it’s none by the morning?
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