Penny’s Birth Story: Strength, Uncertainty, and Love in the Summer of Lockdown.

Penny's Birth Story

When I think back to Penny's arrival, it’s impossible to separate her birth story from the strange, uncertain world of 2020. We found out we were expecting just as the country went into lockdown. Everything about pregnancy felt different this time—not only because each baby writes their own story, but also because maternity care was tangled up in the restrictions and anxieties of the pandemic.

The Summer of Lockdown

Early on, I battled hyperemesis, the relentless sickness that can make pregnancy so difficult.

It wasn’t easy, but in some strange way I still loved every moment. Carrying Penny was a

privilege, and even through the sickness, there was joy in knowing she was growing.

That summer, while the world outside felt shut down, I found my own little pocket of light. I

was working from home, and the long warm afternoons stretched into evenings spent in the

garden. Daisy and the dogs would play while I waddled into a paddling pool to cool off, bump

and all. It was a summer of contrasts: the best and the worst of times. The hardship of

restrictions was real, but so was the gift of extra time with my young family, and more rest

than I might ever have had otherwise. Looking back, it probably masked some of the bigger

issues because I felt cocooned in that bubble of home.

Daisy, Our Firstborn

With Daisy, our first daughter, everything had been planned meticulously. We had rehearsed

the hospital dash, mapped out who would care for her, and thought through every scenario.

Penny’s birth was the opposite. Because she was induced, we were given something rare in

childbirth: certainty. For once, there wasn’t a frantic drop-and-dash. Instead, we had the

chance to settle Daisy properly, to tuck her into her safe little world before we left for the

hospital. That small gift of calm—handing her over knowing she was secure—gave us peace

in a season when so much else was unsettled.

A Pregnancy in Isolation

The hardest part of this pregnancy was not just the complications but the loneliness of it all.

Because of Covid restrictions, I attended nearly all my appointments alone. Scans and

consultations that should have been shared moments were instead endured quietly. I sat in

waiting rooms without Ash by my side, making notes in my phone to tell him afterward,

sometimes fighting back tears.

The #ButNotMaternity movement gave voice to so many of us who felt silenced—reminding

the world that while football stadiums and shops reopened, expectant mothers were still

walking this path alone.

The Final Scans

It wasn’t until late in the pregnancy that unease began to creep in. Penny had always been a

wriggly baby—I never felt without her—so I reassured myself. But as the weeks went on, I

couldn’t shake the feeling that my bump was too small. At 34 weeks, the midwife noticed her

growth had dipped, and I was referred for extra scans.

At 34+5 weeks, the sonographer brought in a second pair of eyes to look at Penny’s head

size, though strangely this concern was never written into my notes. I remember walking out

of the hospital alone, messaging family to say that “baby was small and not doing what she

should do.” I was told we’d scan again in two weeks.

By 36+5 weeks, the scan showed little had changed. Though Penny wriggled away on the

screen, the decision was made to induce her at 37 weeks. Looking back, I know in the wider

world of small babies Penny wasn’t medically “tiny,” but for me she was my smallest, earliest

baby, and the fear that she wasn’t growing was very real.

I left the hospital that day and went straight to Asda to buy the last bits for my hospital bag.

As I walked down the baby aisle, panic set in. None of the clothes looked small enough for

her. Even the nappies seemed too big. I stood there, overwhelmed, the reality hitting me

harder than it ever had before—this wasn’t just theory, my baby was coming, and she wasn’t

growing as she should.

Penny’s Arrival

We had a choice to make about where to deliver: Stoke or Walsall Manor. Because of Covid

restrictions, the rules weren’t consistent between trusts. Stoke had a stricter “no birthing

partners” policy, while Walsall had said decisions would be made case by case. The thought

of giving birth alone terrified me, as it did so many women at that time. We chose Walsall,

and in the end we were the only ones on the ward. Even then, we didn’t know until we

arrived whether Ash would be allowed to stay. Thankfully, the midwives let him, and I’ll never

stop being grateful for that.

The first gel was given, and we went for a hot chocolate. By the time I’d finished it,

contractions had started and were already ramping up. I remember gripping a banister on

the walkway, not sure how I was going to get back to the ward.

Back in the room, I tried to get into the bath, but I was already in that stage of labour where

nothing soothed me. The water felt unbearable against my skin, and the pain was

overwhelming. We now know, after Oscar’s birth, that my body reacts almost too well to

induction drugs and needs slowing down—but at the time, the contractions were relentless,

and the midwives dismissed my concerns.

They suggested checking my progress, but I was at that point where I couldn’t bear to be

touched. After some persuasion, I agreed—and they told me I was only three centimetres

dilated. “Not far along at all,” they said, with a sarcastic edge that made me feel as though I’d

failed because I wasn’t “coping.” They decided to move me to delivery so I could have gas

and air.

Exactly 13 minutes later, Penny was born.

The shift was shocking. One moment, I was “not progressing,” the next, she was here. The

contractions were relentless, giving me no break, and I knew she was moving fast. As they

wheeled me down the corridor, I was already pushing. In the room, they tried to move me,

but I could feel her head and screamed at them to stop. And then, suddenly, stillness.

Silence. She was born in her sac, and for a moment everyone stopped and stared.

I wish I had seen it. But I was in shock, detached, watching from a distance inside my own

body. I felt the instant pull of love, but I didn’t know what to do, frozen in that silence. It was

Ash who guided me through those first precious moments, telling me to hold her, to feed her,

grounding me when I was too stunned to act.

Penny coming home.

Looking Back

Penny’s birth was far from the calm, supported experience I had hoped for. And yet, she

arrived safely, bringing with her a fierce reminder of resilience. The way she entered the

world—fast, impatient, defiant, and strong—was the same spirit she carries today.

Penny tackles her challenges with the same unstoppable force with which she came into this

world. She is unbelievably strong, impatient, and thirsty for life. Her journey will not be

simple, but she is already showing us that she has everything she needs to overcome what

lies ahead.

Now, when I watch Daisy holding Penny’s hand, guiding her as the proud big sister she is, I

think about the three very different entries my children had into this world. Daisy’s arrival was

meticulously planned, every detail thought through. Penny’s was chaotic and raw, her

strength announcing itself from the very start. And Oscar’s, though more prepared, was still

breathtakingly fast—just 16 minutes, even with medication to slow my contractions—and

filled with a fear shaped by what we had already learned from Penny’s diagnosis.

Each of their stories has taught me something invaluable.

With Daisy, I learned the beauty of preparation.

With Penny, I learned to trust the unpredictable and to hold steady in the storm.

And with Oscar, I learned that even when fear walks beside us, love and resilience carry us

through.

Together, their births form the tapestry of our family story—each one different, each

one extraordinary, and all woven together by love.