Sweep Stakes

Why every 'Stretch-and-Sweep' feels like a different Hinge date...

Today I’m having a ‘stretch and sweep’.

Which sounds far more glamorous than the reality of willingly driving somewhere so another woman can manually rummage about in your lady bits while making polite conversation about whether M&S has gone downhill.

Having now had more sweeps than Mary Poppins, the whole experience has started to remind me a lot of dating men in your twenties… stick with me.

I’ve discovered during my pregnancies that midwives all have wildly different sweep techniques. Some approach it with full seduction energy. Barry White. Candles. Soft voice. Emotional availability. You’re half expecting roses, a cooked meal and a text afterwards saying hope you got home safe.

Others have the energy of a Formula One pit crew. My second sweeper’s method was what I can best describe as “wham bam... windmill... out” and she was already halfway down the corridor before I’d even pulled my leggings back up.

No judgement, by the way. At nearly 38 weeks pregnant, I’m not precious. If someone told me labour could be induced by hanging upside down from a tree while eating an apple, I’d ask “great, are we talking pink lady or cox’s pippin?”

The strange thing about late pregnancy is how quickly your dignity evaporates. Earlier in pregnancy you’re frigidly draping paper sheets across your lap at appointments as though preserving some mystery. By the end, you’re lying fully akimbo while a stranger says things about your cervix like “hmmm… structurally promising...” and you both nod thoughtfully as if viewing a 2 bed victorian terrace with scope to extend.

Wonderful. Humbling. Chim chim churree.

The emotional expectations around stretch and sweeps are heavy, whereas most of the time what actually happens is you go home slightly crampy and spend six hours analysing every bodily sensation.

Is this labour?
Or do I just need a poo?

Nobody knows.

And yet despite complaining of waiting, there is something oddly tender about this strange limbo. The anticipation. The absurdity of knowing your entire life is about to split into a Before and After moment while simultaneously discussing the favourability of your cervix with a woman called Denise.

So today: another sweep.

Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it won’t.

Either way, if she says “hopefully I won’t see you next week!” I will hear it exactly like “text me when you get home.”