Should you visit a new mother in hospital?

Never visit a woman in hospital right after she gives birth. Unless you’re her partner. Or she’s your mum. Everyone else? Step down. Even if she says, “Sure, come and meet the baby!” you must ignore her. She’s either hormonal or full of drugs or both. By the time you arrive with flowers she’ll have changed her mind. Instead, just send cake and your love. No flowers because they’re useless in a cramped hospital room. And if it’s her first baby? Times all this by a thousand.

I’ve always lived by this no-visit rule until recently when I not only broke my rule, I blew it up and made all the little pieces into a party hat. Really though, it wasn’t my fault. I was powerless in the face of fate. You see, two of my close girlfriends had babies on the same day. In the same hospital. Mere hours and metres apart. What are the chances of that?

So when the joyous texts arrived almost simultaneously, something came over me and I felt drawn to that hospital by some primal force. I just needed to go and…have a sniff. Absorb some newborn aura. I know. It’s a sickness this baby-sniffing thing and it seems to be getting worse. If only someone could turn it into a fragrance for nutbags like me. Estee Lauder? Anyone?

Newborns are my crack. I’m going to look for a support group.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I vividly remember the evening our birth class was taken on a tour of the hospital. Like frightened, bloated sheep, we followed the midwife-teacher silently down the halls and into the maternity ward where she gave us some information about visiting hours. Then she pointed out that ‘if you are of European background, particularly Italian or Greek, you will have approximately a million visitors and they will ignore all the rules about visiting hours. This will not only be a nightmare for you but also for the poor woman sharing your room. If you’re both European? Well, you’re stuffed. There will be a queue of visitors down the hall all day and your room will resemble a wedding reception.”

We all giggled nervously while the Italian and Greek women paled visibly under their olive skin.

Two months later, when I gave birth myself, suddenly it wasn’t so funny. Even though I’m neither Italian nor Greek, friends, relatives, friends of relatives and relatives of friends began turning up unannounced. Once they’d found a parking spot and schlepped up to the maternity ward, they were not deterred by pesky little things like a closed door or a large ‘Mother & Baby Sleeping’ sign RIGHT ABOVE THE DOOR HANDLE. Oh no they were not. Because why would those things matter when you had flowers to deliver and a newborn to gaze at? But here is the problem with hospital visits in those early hours and days after giving birth: it can be a very intimate time, both physically and emotionally.

Let’s spare ourselves the gory details about the many awkward moments after giving birth and the bodily functions you never knew you were capable of let alone had to share with a midwife. Suffice to say none of them are made less awkward with an audience. Who knew?

So back to my breathtaking hypocrisy. In the lift on the way up to visit my friends and their freshly baked babies a few weeks ago, I balanced two boxes of cupcakes and promised myself I wouldn’t stay long.

My first friend was sitting in bed beaming, her husband beside her in an armchair with their new baby daughter curled up on his chest. My friend’s family, who I know well, live interstate so I explained that I was symbolically representing them. That sounded reasonable. They did a great job of looking happy to see me and I even got a cuddle. A long one actually, with many intoxicating sniffs. So high on newborn did I become, I almost forgot to leave. It’s only when my friend’s mother arrived from Brisbane and everyone started crying that I forced myself to hand back the baby and edge out the door…and down the corridor to see my other friend!

Things in her room were a little different. Whole other vibe. Her family background is European. Many siblings. A billion nieces and nephews. Most of whom seemed to be there. Aunties everywhere. Children running around. It was festive, if intense. As her new baby son slept soundly in his bassinette, my friend was glassy eyed. She’d had a caesarean and had reacted badly to the drugs. Too much pethidine or something. She was itchy. And out of it. And she kept needing to tell everyone how itchy she was and how much she hated pethidine. Every 30 seconds she’d forget and tell us all again. When I spoke to her the next day on the phone she was much better and had little recollection that I’d even been there.

“Although I was starving at 2am and found your cupcakes so I knew you’d been here! Thank you!” Saved by cupcakes. An excellent Trojan horse.

How do you feel? A room full of distraction or family bonding time?

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