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  Once we got to Drugs Hospital, it was cold and quiet. Jesus, what’s with all these cold and quiet hospitals?! We had to ring some sort of bell to get through a few doors, and as soon as we had passed through all of them and got to the birthing suite, it was like a fucking circus and I was so relieved. There were midwives rushing from room to room, men wandering around looking tired and confused, phones ringing, and people talking really loudly. BAM! I was safe; I could totally do this. It still wasn’t as warm as I had hoped, but I had to pick my battles—I was about to be ripped from asshole to breakfast. We met our midwife, Wendy, and handed her our birth plan, and she was totally on board with Calmbirth and was super supportive of us wanting a water birth. I know this because she told us, “I’m totally on board with Calmbirth and am super supportive of you wanting a water birth.” I was not missing fisty Brenda, that’s for sure. Wendy was such an advocate that she started giving Api notes on what was required of him before we even got into the birthing suite.

  Wendy: OK, Dad, what Mum will need from you during this amazing process is your support, so during contractions there is to be no touching or talking to Mum, OK?

  Api: OK.

  Wendy: OK. And, Mum, what I’ll need from you is—

  I could feel another contraction coming on, I was cold, and I was in no mood for Wendy’s anecdotes.

  Me: I’ll just stop you right there, Wendy. I know what is needed from me, and that’s a goddamned human to be vag-shat out of me, so please GIVE ME SOME SPACE!

  Contraction over. Possible lifelong friendship with Wendy? In jeopardy.

  After another couple of contractions in the same vein, Wendy had to leave us for a while and tend a ward full of fifteen-year-olds who were also crowning. This was good. It gave Api and me a chance to be together and do what we needed to do, that is, him sleep and me walk around the room like an elephant with something to prove.

  Over the next five hours I was walking, I was yelling, I was screaming, I was bouncing on the birthing ball, I was kicking the ball, I was in the shower, I was out of the shower, I broke the shower, I was back on the ball, and Api slept. Wendy had come back in a few times to check on me with the phone jammed between her ear and shoulder fielding calls from expectant teenage mothers. Turns out the Mid North Coast is a busy place for damaged hymens and ripening cervixes.

  After seven hours of contracting, Wendy came back in and I. Was. DONE.

  Me: Wendy, I can’t do this.

  Wendy: It sounds like you’re transitioning, love.

  Me: What are you talking about?

  Wendy: When it’s getting closer to the time to push, most women say they can’t do it, but you can, you can, love.

  Me: Look, I understand that. I know that people say that they can’t do it but they can and they are just scared, but you need to understand that I can’t do it! So pack your shit up, we are going home. API, WAKE UP, WE’RE OUT!

  Turns out Wendy was right, funny that. I was actually in transition and about to meet my baby. Shit! This gave me no comfort at all. I knew that I was too far along to make the most of the hospital’s drug stash, and I quickly realized that the only way I was going to get this baby from the inside to the outside was by way of vaginal exorcism.

  I wish I could say that the thought of holding my baby in my arms canceled out any fear I was feeling and instead gave me strength to soldier on, confident and empowered, but it didn’t. I was petrified of the pain, the imminent burning ring of fire, and the possibility that I might push so hard that my ass would explode!

  Wendy asked me to get on the bed so she could see how dilated I was. I quietly and considerately kicked Api to wake him the fuck up so I might be able to have a woman fist me for the second time that day. And yep, she was right: I was eight centimeters and ready to get into that lukewarm bath and start tearing.

  Wendy ran the bath, Api walked around a little dazed—but to be fair, no one wakes up well from an afternoon sleep—and I tried to run out the door.

  I got into the bath and nothing changed. I thought that all my troubles would wash away when I got into that water, because that’s what the women in the birthing videos tell you. Then there’s the women who manage to orgasm during labor. Fuck those women. The water did nothing. I was still in pain, just as uncomfortable, and now I was wet, and not in the way that the orgasm ladies were wet.

  My water hadn’t broken yet, and I was starting to freak out. The bath was in the corner of the bathroom, and it had a red cord that hung above the center of it in case there was an emergency. It was there to pull on to alert the authorities; then the cast of Grey’s Anatomy would come running.

  Wendy had yet again run out to tend to other cervixes, and I got a crazy amount of pressure in the areas where one would expect to experience crazy amounts of pressure during the transitioning stages of labor.

  Holy shit, he’s coming; my baby is about to tear out of me without me needing to push! Jesus, were those rumors that the school bitches made up about me being “loose” right?!?!

  Then came this almighty surge. “Holy shit!” I screamed at Api. “Get her, get Wendy, he’s coming, the baby is coming!”

  With that Api jumped up and yanked on the red cord above the bath so hard he pulled the goddamned thing out of the ceiling. While he was trying to untangle the cord from around his perfect face, I realized that it wasn’t in fact my baby coming out. It was my water breaking. YES! I’m not loose—suck a fart, Year 8 bitches.

  After my water broke, Wendy came back in to check on Api, and I made it my mission to get as comfortable as possible. Trusty Wendy was there to suggest some positions.

  Wendy: Try crouching.

  Me: No.

  Wendy: Sitting back with your legs rested up on the sides of the bath?

  Me: No.

  Wendy: Some women like to lie on their side, propping themselves up with their elbow, and their partner holds their top leg in the air, like a scissors kick.

  Me: No. Please don’t say “scissors kick.”

  Wendy: OK, let’s get you on all fours.

  Api: Hee-hee, that’s what got us into this.

  Me: ARE YOU SERIOUS?

  Api: Sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood.

  Me: Come here and let me cut your dick off. That will lighten my mood!

  So I got on all fours and bit the metal on the side of the bath, and the pushing began. They say that you should push into your bum when having a baby and it makes you feel like you are pooing.

  Well, Wendy had this covered. I was forty-five minutes into pushing into my bum and Wendy, my Wendy, leaned over and said how important it was for me to really focus on pushing like I was pooing.

  Wendy: We’re nearly there, we really are.

  Me: FUCKING ARSE TIT PRICK POO AND MUTHAFUCKING BALLS!!

  Wendy: You’re doing so well, Mum.

  ME: AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!

  Wendy: Now, just keep focusing on pushing into your bum. I don’t want you to worry if you do a little poo, as I have a poop scoop.

  With this she presented a poop scoop shaped much like a ladle and showed it off proudly, much like Mufasa did with Simba in The Lion King. She put it next to my face, she showed it to Api, and then just for added value she showed it to me one more time.

  This was all going on while I was mid-contraction. I turned around—well, my head turned 180 degrees and the rest of my body didn’t move. I glared at her with bloodshot eyes and snarled through gritted teeth: “I’m not interested in the poop scoop, Wendy. I don’t care if I shit on your face. Just. Get. Him. Out.”

  Api was scared. The trainee midwife standing in the corner staring at my shirtless #hothusband in the bath was scared. I even scared myself. But Wendy didn’t flinch. She didn’t take her eyes off me as she slowly put the poop scoop down. I think if she could have, she would have told me to shut the fuck up and know my place, but as she was a professional she let it slide. Wendy and Celeste’s BFF status was back on track.

  An hour into p
ushing, Wendy said they needed to monitor my heart, as they didn’t want it to be straining for too long. Turns out that being in active labor for eight hours is fine, but once you hit that eight hours and five minutes mark, people start to panic.

  It was around this time that the burning ring of fire was really in full flight and Wendy could feel the top of my baby’s head. GROSS! She asked if I wanted to reach down between my legs and feel his head so I could be a part of this moment.

  A PART OF THIS MOMENT? I am this moment. Without me there’s no baby head, there’s no #hothusband crying in the bath, and there’s no poop scoop. THERE IS NO FUCKING MOMENT! But I get FOMO real bad and I didn’t want to feel like I was being left out of my son’s birth, so I reached down and it was as gross as I had expected. It was gooey and hairy and fucking weird.

  I gave myself a “hands where I can see them” rule and continued grunting.

  With another massive push, his head tore out. Because I was on all fours I couldn’t see him, but Api could, and he said our son looked exactly like him and immediately started to cry. I was like a cat trying to get comfortable on a leather couch in an attempt to bend around and see my baby, but as the rest of his body was still inside my body, I wasn’t as agile as I would have hoped. So I just had to trust Api.

  A little birthing-in-the-water trivia: babies can stay underwater for ages before they need to draw their first breath, and it’s the atmosphere around them that pushes oxygen into their lungs, so when my son stayed immersed in water for a full minute between me pushing his head out (gross) and the next contraction when his body came flying out, and I was screaming, thinking he was drowning, it turns out he was fine. When the rest of him came shooting out, I caught him, held him on my chest, rearranged the umbilical cord that was conveniently wrapped around my thigh, and never let him go.

  We named him Lou.

  I now have two beautiful boys, Lou and Buddy. They are by far the best thing that has ever happened to me, second to that time I met Sporty Spice.

  The One Where I Discovered Ritalin, My Childhood (Not So) Imaginary Friend

  I come from a small family; it’s just the four of us—Mum Kath, Dad Nev, my older sister Olivia, and me.

  My parents are such a great team. Mum has a short fuse, and Dad loves nothing more than ticking her off, in a loving way of course. Mum is really creative: she has run three successful interior design businesses and at the ripe old age of sixty-two decided to start up her own soy candle brand, Flame Candles, supplying wholesale candles to shops across the country. My dad is the handiest and cleverest man in the world. He is funny and patient and can fix anything. Between them they have built two houses—Mum designed them and Dad built them—had two daughters, and put a lot of effort into naming their pets as though they were a barren couple and their pets were all they had. When I was born we had a silky terrier, Phoebe Josephine; then we got a schnauzer, Lucinda May, followed by another silky terrier, Bronte Isabella, and Mum is currently treating her second schnauzer, Clover Lee, like a misunderstood genius child.

  Liv and I were lucky kids; we never went without. We had our own rooms, we could eat cheese whenever we wanted, and when we were annoying—and our parents sent us outside because we were being too loud—we had enough outdoor area to whip sticks at each other without doing any real damage.

  I wasn’t really great at school—it just wasn’t my thing. Every now and then I’d pretend I had slipped into a deep coma, so when my dad came in at exactly 6:55 a.m. EVERY SINGLE MORNING to get me up for school, I would squeeze my eyes shut and go as stiff as a board, behavior commonly associated with coma patients, so I wouldn’t have to go.

  I just kind of hated the idea of it. I struggled academically, I couldn’t concentrate, I was bored easily, and I just wanted to do anything other than having to stay still. Turns out I had ADD, and a small private Catholic school on the Far North Coast of New South Wales just wasn’t a good breeding ground for these “symptoms.”

  I love making people laugh—at me, with me, whatever. As long as people are laughing because of me, I’m happy. At school, I was the perfect scapegoat for my mates, who liked to mess around, and also a good victim for teachers to unleash on. Math, English, PE—basically any subject that didn’t require a microphone—were my least favorite. I remember science was the most painful.

  We had to line up outside before each science class. All our bags had to be left outside, so we would get our books out and walk in single file past our teacher, who was standing at the door to see if she was happy with how we were standing. If she was satisfied with our posture, we were allowed into the classroom.

  I was usually at the back of the line with my two unsuspecting partners in crime, Sean and Doug. They would have their stuff all ready to go, especially Sean—he was a really smart dude who Doug and I would playfully tease to make ourselves feel better.

  On this one day, as I’ve always been a clusterfuck, I was probably asking to borrow a pencil from a girl who was already annoyed at me and not listening to anything being said to me. As we were filing in, Mrs. Science put her arm up in front of me. I thought she was looking for a high five, or at the very least a fist bump, but I soon realized this wasn’t the case. She was “dealing with me.”

  “I’ll just get you to wait outside, Celeste,” she said, without making eye contact.

  “What for?” I protested.

  “We could do without the distraction today.” And with that she closed the door.

  The rest of the class filed in, including Sean and Doug, and I watched them longingly, much like the way Rose looked at Jack when he slipped off the door in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean at the end of Titanic.

  I was so embarrassed, but because this soon became her standard practice, I learned how to channel the shame.

  But really. Distraction? You think not allowing me into the classroom, and leaving me outside with everyone’s bags and a wall of windows through which EVERYONE can see me, would stop me from being distracting? I guess not all scientists are smart.

  For a comedian, being sent out of class before it even started because of the risk of being distracting is like Bill Cosby being given free Rohypnol and a private suite at the Plaza. If I had an unobstructed view of Sean and Doug, then shit got really real.

  For these kinds of impromptu performances, I had a few standard gags that were my staples. The elevator traveling down and pretending to be pulled offstage were my go-tos; they always got a laugh. Pretending to be attacked by a bee was another crowd-pleaser. Or, if I could get someone’s attention while Mrs. Science had her back turned, I’d mime asking them a question through the window, and when they responded I’d mime, “I can’t hear you.” It brought the house down.

  The main attraction was my disappearing act. When Mrs. Science turned around to see what everyone was laughing at, I’d jump to the ground, out of sight, buried in everyone’s bags. Eating people’s unattended food was the payoff.

  I wasn’t a naughty kid; I was too scared to be naughty. I was just loud—loud and funny—and most of my teachers didn’t dig it. But I was OK with it. If anything it helped me. It helped me work on being a funnier lady, a stronger lady, and a more resilient lady.

  Being diagnosed with ADD (or maybe it’s ADHD: I can’t really remember, I wasn’t paying attention) was the greatest thing that could have ever happened to me—well, that and getting tickets to Janet Jackson’s ’98 Velvet Rope world tour. (People say Rhythm Nation was her greatest album, but I’m telling you Velvet Rope had everything: badarse beats, haunting ballads, and enough Auto-Tune to turn any of the straightest ladies gay.)

  I always had the best intentions. I would organize to study like a boss. My parents had set up a study area for my sister and me, and I’d get my pens out and put them alongside my schoolbooks. My calculator was in prime calculator position, and I’d even write up a study timetable, using every colorful pen at my disposal. Red for math, pink for drama, and then I didn’t care about the
rest. The timetable would be stuck on the wall directly in front of me.

  I’d have a lovely glass of room-temperature water ready to go, and I’d pick up my pen, keen to get my study on, then . . . that would be the end of it. I’d be distracted by something, anything. The dog walking past, an unfolded towel in the corner of the room, my mum sneezing from the neighbors’ living room—anything would catch my attention and I’d be out of there. This, my friends, is what us professors call “classic ADD behavior.” I had all the best intentions to sit and do work, I was even excited about buying all the stationery and desk accessories, but I just. Couldn’t. Do. It.

  Mum and Dad took me to see a specialist when I was sixteen in the hope of getting answers. Even though I totally had boobs and had been bleeding monthly for approximately two years, I still had to go to a children’s doctor. The waiting room was full of toys and copies of Spot the Dog. There were posters on the wall featuring the letters of the alphabet, with pictures next to them: A for Apple, B for Butterfly, and so on.

  As I went through the letters, enjoying the distraction from the doctor smell of the waiting room, they all seemed to make sense—yep, K is for Kite and L is for Lion—until I got to Y. Next to the letter there was an unassuming photo of a boat. A blue boat with white bits. The word under it started with Y, but I couldn’t figure out what boat starting with Y was spelled like that. I turned to my dad and asked, “What’s a yak-a-hat?”

  The receptionist looked over her desk with an “oh, bless her, this must be a hard struggle for you, Dad, having to deal with such a challenging daughter” look on her face. Dad looked at me and through tears of laughter said, “It says yacht.”

  “Well, why the hell isn’t it spelled properly?”

  “Good question, princess. I don’t know.” My dad’s my biggest fan—well, just behind my mum, who is a close runner-up to my sister.