She's here, a week old and currently knocked out on milk and breathing heavily into my ear. We did't call her Roxie after all, but for the purposes of blogging I think I'll stick with that pseudonym.
In the end, the whole story ran faster than thought. We knew she was a little baby, and figured she'd probably be late but two weeks ago my doctor determined that the placenta was not doing the expected sterling service and I shouldn't be allowed to go past my due date.
OK. Strike two weeks off our calendar - the kitchen renovation probably won't get finished and maybe we should consider buying a pram.
Three days later, the hospital checked it all out and decided that it should all be a bit earlier even than that. Like the following morning, or latest the morning after.
Right. Dog sitter organised, work informed, bag packed. I even shaved my legs. I mean, I should show some effort in getting prepared for such a big event, right?
The whole labour went way faster than anyone anticipated. Midwives examined me and determined I was at least eight hours away from anything interesting happening. Which explains why, two hours later when I was begging for an epidural and saying I was already getting pushing contractions, they told us to go for a walk and come back in an hour. They were also having the busiest day of the year - lots of babies, lots of emergencies - and I was, apparently, using the wrong word when describing pushing.
Note to expats: in this situation don't use "Druck", use instead "Press". It can be tough trying to use correct vocabulary and grammar in a second language when suffering the worst pain of your life, but it might help get you some drugs.
Anyway, forty minutes later - after trying to walk around outside as suggested; DrH finally making it clear that we were in a serious state; them finally getting me a delivery room; and me having to walk there - she was born. Roughly thirty seconds after entering said delivery room and therefore only thirty seconds away from having been born in the hallway.
To be honest, I was in shock. It went so fast, I wasn't taken seriously, had had no pain medication and - the worst thing - in the delivery room I finally got to see the hot tub that everyone had been talking about. The one that I never got to enjoy. Because, you know, they all though I was a whinging expat.
Ok, now I am whinging a bit. They were ridiculously busy and I was was ridiculously fast. But still - A HOT TUB.
As all the wards were full up, we decided to go home the next day and, sixteen hours old, Roxie enjoyed her first Berlin taxi experience. Now she's a week old, we're getting the hang of things and slowly getting to know her. Well, as much as you can when the primary interaction is her making squawking baby bird faces and then falling unconscious.
But we've got time now. Time to start building a family, loving each other and, of course, screwing our daughter up. DrH and I have already began putting together a medley of songs we will sing in the car, in public and around her friends so that the tween Roxie gets the chance to be just as embarrassed by her parents as every other kid is.