Before I begin, this is not a post about Ed Miliband, or indeed any member of his party.

I wish. For that explanation would be far, far, easier.

“Mummy, how is your baby going to come out of your tummy”, asked my almost-four year old the other day.

Like all questions of this nature, she threw it in casually when we were doing something totally unrelated. A bit like, “Can I have some chocolate buttons? Oh – and where do you go when you die?”

It was one of those parenting moments that remains etched in my brain. As I stammered and stuttered, trying to buy myself some time, she went on to offer her own suggestions.

“Maybe the baby will come out of your mouth, like a big sick?” and, “Will your head fall off when it comes out? Will you die?”

Deciding that the truth, in all its gory detail, was probably better than her own version of events, I took the plunge.

“No, my head won’t fall off and the baby won’t come out of my mouth. The body is a very amazing thing. Mummy’s body will do something amazing that it was designed to do. It will stretch and I will push the baby out. And we will all be OK. No one will die.”

Feeling rather smug and awarding myself an invisible gold star, I thought that would be the end of the matter. But she persisted, with a new light of interest gleaming in her eye.

“So you will poo it out of your bottom and it will land in the toilet?”

And here is where I fear I made a mistake. I don’t know what the rules are regarding telling four year olds about birth. I assume you’re not to mention stitches, dilation and intense pain, but I don’t want my child walking round thinking I’m going to pass her brother or sister like a large stool.

So I told her. I told her the truth. I told her that the baby will be born out of my “tuppy” (her word for vagina – long story, don’t ask) and that it will be rather incredible.

And that was that. She didn’t ask again. She hasn’t become fixated on the idea. And she hasn’t seemed to make the link between her own “tuppy” and the possibility she may too give birth out of it one day far in the future. Phew.

I didn’t think much of it, until recently when I overheard her telling a friend how her mummy has a “super stretchy tuppy”. This friend, I later found out, thinks babies come out of belly buttons.

We discussed how “mummy’s tuppy” isn’t a subject for conversations with her friends (or any conversations come to think of it), and how maybe she should keep the whole baby being born thing to herself. But I was mindful of not wanting her to think it was a secret, or a bad thing or end up leaving her associating anything negative with the birth at all. I don’t want her to be scared for me and hate the baby before it’s even born, after all.

And that’s the thing. It’s a very different situation having a baby when your eldest is four, not two. You can fob toddlers off with all sorts of half-truths, but a couple of years on kids get wise to the white lies and start asking more probing questions. Or, that’s my experience any way.

And if I’d have told her some nonsense about a stork delivering the baby then what would I say in a few years time, when she comes home from school aged fourteen, devastated at the news storks aren’t physically capable of carrying babies in their beaks – let alone making one of those fancy tied up hammock things they’re meant to carry them in?

So I told her the truth. But now I’m concerned that I shouldn’t have. I don’t know. What are the rules of telling four year olds about labour and birth anyway? Anyone?

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Meet my sister, circa 1992.

There are nearly four years between my sister and I. So I was firmly used to being Number One Diva in the house by the time she arrived. To soften the blow, I was given a pair of roller skates and a pair of tap shoes the day my sister was born. Apparently she was a wonder child, who miraculously exited the womb to pop to the shops and find presents worthy of buttering up an older sister. Of course I was won over the instant I saw her – those were some very special tap shoes.

My sister (her name’s Lizzy, by the way) spent her formative years being carried around by yours truly. She was far more interesting than any dolls I owned. She was also a very willing audience member in The Molly Show; she was happy to sit and watch while I performed my latest choreographed piece to Kylie Minogue or Bonnie Tyler. I mean, she was only five months old and hadn’t learned to crawl yet.

As Lizzy grew, so did her personality. She was mischievous and annoying. But she was also very keen to please. I still feel guilty for the times I used to make her come to the park with me on holiday, only to ditch her when new, “cooler” friends came along. I was a pretty mean older sister.

But while she was my nemesis, Lizzy was also my best friend. When she was eight, a friend of the family told her off during a trip to France. I huffed off to her room with her, indignant that someone had the audacity to speak that way to my little sister – only I was allowed to do that.

As teenagers, we fought and made up and fought again. And borrowed clothes. And went on holidays together. And fought. And made up again.

Then, when I was pregnant last year, a twist of fate meant Lizzy was there when I went into labour. It wasn’t planned that way, but she ended up coming to the hospital and rubbing my back along with the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine. She was the third person to see and hold Frog. That meant a lot.

Over the past year, she has been to visit every month or so, despite completing her first year as a doctor and working incredibly long (and stressful) hours. She’s bought presents and cooked meals and listened to my minor moans. She’s also told me to shut up and snapped at me in the way only sisters can.

Today has been another one of those days. As the NLM is away up north on his stag do, I’ve come down to the South Coast to visit Lizzy. Frog, Lizzy and I have spent the day paddling in the sea, eating lunch in a restaurant on the beach and browsing in shops.

The tables have now turned and my little sister is the fashionista in the family. So I will leave laden with cast-off lovely clothes (doctors get paid more than journalists, you know), safe in the knowledge that years of lending are finally being re-paid. My belly will be full with takeaway food and wine and my arms will be light from a day where someone else has held the baby.

So, to my ten year old self I say, “You are lucky you have a sister. It might not feel like it now, while she steals your Take That tape and draws in your diary, but one day you’ll appreciate her. One day she’ll buy you food and wine.”

And to a four year old Lizzy – “Don’t ever let Dad cut your fringe. It’ll look rubbish.”

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Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be one of those posts where I regale you with the gory details of Frog’s birth. I’m saving that for another day. No, what I really wanted to do was offer a word of advice to expectant fathers out there – or any other prospective birth partners.

You see, the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine shot into fatherhood with a bit of a bang – an “explosion” if you will.

Let me explain. It was 8 o’clock at night and my contractions were coming regularly, one on top of the other. This baby was coming and I needed a hospital. So, like the dutiful birth partner and expectant father that he was, the NLM merrily handled me into his unsuitable non-family car and set off for the Maternity Ward. There was lots of heavy breathing from my end and a bit of nervous laughter from his.

We arrived at the hospital and I trundled up the stairs (that’s a lie actually - I used the lift) to the Delivery Suite. The woman did her business “down there” and pronounced that it was still early days and this baby was not going to make an appearance any time soon. Great.

So off we were packed, back home, to get on with the business of dilating to the “correct” width for my pain to be taken seriously. And it was on this journey that the NLM made the error that has haunted him for the past year of his life. I’m never going to let him forget it. Ever.

I was in pain, you see. And I wasn’t particularly happy about being sent back home and told I wasn’t “really in labour” (it bloody well felt like it – if this wasn’t “it” how much would the real thing hurt?). I was tetchy and nervous and far from in the relaxed zen-like zone I had envisioned when drawing up my “birth plan”.

I felt hot and claustrophobic in this ridiculous sporty car that was too low to the ground, highlighting every bump in the road and intensifying the pain of each contraction. I couldn’t breathe properly. I couldn’t focus on the pain.

And then the NLM farted.

It wasn’t just a little trump either. It was a fully fledged blow-off the likes of which a P&O ferry would be proud of. And it smelt like rotten eggs and mouldy sausage. As a new wave of pain washed over me I had no choice but to take a deep inhalation of the putrid air around me. I couldn’t even speak to demand the window be opened.

And, rather than apologise and beg my forgiveness or make some feeble excuse for the wind that was causing me to retch through each contraction, the NLM made this statement:

“That’s your Gas and Air.”

Now, call me ungrateful, but I wasn’t really in the mood to appreciate his offer of natural pain relief. So, when the torrent of pain died away I was left with a burning rage. And it’s at this point that I would like to apologise to the people in the car next to ours at the traffic lights.

I’m sorry for the scene you witnessed which probably left you traumatised for life. I’m sorry for the screaming banshee who suddenly stuck her head out of the window next to yours, heaving in between the bluest language imaginable. You didn’t need to see (or hear) that.

But this is what happens when you mess with a woman on the edge.

So, to all you expectant fathers, do NOT let rip while your labouring woman is in the car with you. And if you really, really can’t hold it in – open the window. If you ignore these two pieces of advice don’t – whatever you do – attempt to disguise your mistake as a deliberate method of natural pain relief.

It’s not funny. And it’s not clever. You have been warned.

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I spent hours walking up and down the stairs, hoovering and then bouncing up and down on a birthing ball. Hours. I was pretty fed up with being pregnant.

As Frog’s first birthday hurtles ever nearer, I’m constantly reminded of what I was doing this time last year. The blanket I knitted, the walks with my lovely neighbour and her toddler, the bouncing on that bloody birthing ball, the obsession with internet forums on labour and birth.

I’m also reminded of the people who helped stop me lose my big fat pregnant head during the last few days.

So I thought I’d write about them:

Dad. You rang me every morning to see how I was. You didn’t discuss babies or labour or anything mildly related to my huge belly. Instead, you chattered away about the mundane; what you were cooking for supper that night, the latest crossword clue to stump you in The Guardian. Those phone calls helped distract me at a time when I desperately needed distracting. So thank you.

Mum. You were there at the end of the phone when I rang with my first proper pre-birth wobble. The words “your body can stretch in the most amazing way” helped calm me down. You turned up as a surprise that afternoon, with delicious food for a barbecue. I went into labour that night and you rubbed my back. Thank you Mum.

Diz: Aunty Diz, you were there too. You had just finished the most stressful period of your life by completing your final medical exams. Your grinning face and sisterly banter helped me forget the fact I was too huge to fit behind the dining table. You brought your foot spa to soak my swollen feet. You rubbed my back. You were there at the hospital and laughed at me as I mumbled rubbish, high on gas and air.

And then you came back to stay a week later, with cake and casserole. You held my baby when I needed a bath, or sleep. You cooked more food. You put the washing on. You were the best aunty a Frog could have. So thank you.

The special ones

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No, scrap that – it’s a HUGE day. Because today sees the launch of Maternity Matters, the brainchild of Susanne at Ghostwriter Mummy and Jayne at Mum’s the Word.

I won’t go into too much detail, as I know you’re probably heading over there to take a look right now.

As part of the launch, I’m linking up to the Maternity Matters Meme over at The Life and Times of a Domestic Anarchist, to promote this great new site. We’re asked to link up a post we’ve already written about being a parent.

I’ve chosen my Rod Off post. Which one will you choose?

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