'They' never told 'us' anything in the '60s! It was an era of Old Wives Tales, Superstition and almost Witchcraft. For all the 'Swingin' that was supposed to be happening, they were appallingly misinformed ignorant times.

I knew I was in trouble when I was binning the iron tablets down the toilet and eating fresh herring and mackerel every day instead. I had a flat above my Dad's wet fish shop in Balham, so as I smelt like a fish, I ate enough of it to overdose on. The iron tablets, dished out every month at the pre-natal clinic made me constipated, but if you didn't keep asking for them regularly, they gave you an iron injection as a punishment, whether you needed it or not!

One twinge in my belly on the birth date I'd been given by the clinic, and I was taking myself off to the Maternity Hospital. That's me! No way was I going to wait at home timing the contractions. Get me a bed! Now! The preparation for giving birth was more than I bargained for.

The two young nurses busy shaving me while discussing the merits of having sausages or a Vesta Chicken Curry for supper, was for me the height of humiliation.

The big beaming Jamaican mid-wife who danced into my cubicle brandishing a rubber pump and a stainless steel dish singing " Up a lot, and nice and hot!" to administer an enema filled me with absolute dread!

The lady in the Woman's Institute hat who came in, jiggling a Charity Box and asking me for a donation for new Hospital curtains, while I was in pain, frightened, in a white cotton gown that had no fastenings at the back, looked alarmed when I told her to " Naff off!"

A Vicar entered my cubicle. "Oh my God! I'm dying and nobody told me!" I glared at him in incredulity as he began, uninvited, to talk about Christianity. I have no Religion. I'm half Jewish. How dare he! "B****r off" I said.

I was left alone for hours. I needed the toilet. Urgently. I'd never been told that imminent birth gives the same sensation as the urge to evacuate the bowels. I wandered down a corridor and found a lavatory and sat. Useless! I'd had an enema hadn't I?

A nurse walked past me, did a double take and dragged me off to the delivery room. Good job she did, as my baby was about to be born into the porcelain toilet bowl.

Air! Gas and Air! Now I knew all about that. I was a hairdresser and all my lovely ladies had told me that was what I should demand to ease the pain. I grabbed this horrendously ugly gas mask, slapped it on my face and began to gulp. No visible improvement. No wonder. The hose had detached itself from the cylinder. I threw it across the birth room in disgust. The midwives were holding a baby up in the air.

Whose baby is that? Goodness! It's mine! I glanced at the puffy bits between its legs, an area of the male anatomy I was familiar with and cooed " Oh! A little boy" They looked at me with deep concern "You have a baby girl!" Not a good start to motherhood eh?

We're in Stockwell, South London. The Annie McCall Maternity Hospital. It's 1968. I'm put in a Ward with eleven African and Jamaican new mothers. I already knew I didn't want to breast-feed. All these young Ethnic mothers were breastfeeding while knitting, eating, chatting, laughing, telephoning, and sleeping. Me? I wanted my tits back for the only purpose I knew anything about. But no, intimidated by this Ward of new mothers all feeding their babies, I succumbed to the pressure put on me by the nurses and agreed to feed my baby myself. Mistake! Strange women manipulating my breasts to pump things up and get it all moving, and me with a baby who just wanted to sleep and couldn't be fussed. The loathing I felt for it all was indescribable.

There was Civil War in Africa in 1968. Between Biafra and Nigeria. I had one of each Race either side of my bed. In the beginning they stuck to unpleasant verbal abuse directed at each other for twenty-four hours a day. It soon heated up to a full on physical fight conducted while they had their babies on their breasts. The Nigerian mother had twins and fed then simultaneously while ripping the clothes off her hated enemy, whilst I cowered in the centre trying to protect my hungry daughter. Oh for a bottle of SMA!

They kept you in hospital for ten whole days with the first baby. Dire warnings were given if you attempted to get out of bed. 'White Thrombosis!' they threatened darkly. What is that? Nobody appeared to know or tell us.

"Urinate in the bedpan; we need to measure your water." " Excuse me, but I can't pee in a bedpan. I've never been behind a bush in my whole life, let alone a bedpan. Please let me get out of bed and use the toilet" " But you must. You are not allowed to get out of bed. If you don't use the bedpan we'll have to give you a Catheter" I sat. They turned the taps on to encourage me to wee. They wheeled the telephone trolley in so I could chat on the phone and relax. I sat. I wrote all my little New Baby announcement cards. I sat. Not a drop was passed.

"I'll compromise if you will. Allow me to take the bedpan to the toilet, I'll sit on the bedpan, use it and then you can measure my damn water." " White Thrombosis" they muttered grimly. " Bollo!" I said, took myself off to the lavatory armed with the despicable bedpan and got a result. I never did get White Thrombosis…

They moved me. I was now in a ward with all white mothers. All the new babies were on the bottle. My new inmates viewed me with pity in their eyes. The girls had a jolly time reading magazines, having a giggle, resting, having a good time together. Not me. I was the only mother spending three hours at a stretch trying to satisfy a hungry baby. They suggested expressing! I flipped, insisted on tablets to dry my own milk up and I turned to the bottle. Since this experience of milk with no place to go, and the abnormal size of my chest, I have never understood the desire women have to acquire breast implants, and wear a Bra size Double HHHH. I didn't enjoy the fact I couldn't see my toes when I looked down!

When they released me into the world ten days later, I look back now and wonder how we both survived. Ignorant, unprepared and frightened of the responsibility of motherhood; we did though. I never had the desire to have another baby. I promised myself I wouldn't. Not surprising really is it?

My daughter now has her own two children. She didn't go to the Maternity Hospital until the very last possible second, when the contractions were as close together as could be. After each birth she was home the very same day. On the evening of the birth of her second son, I can still see her in her kitchen, sliding a Pizza into the oven for supper for her Husband and me. I can remember clearly, me telling her to stop now and go to bed; you had a baby five hours ago!

© Mornev 2000