My husband and I are in love with the BBC series, “Call the Midwife.” We just finished season one and a friend just loaned us a copy of season two today. Season three starts at the end of March. I may be taking vows soon never to watch anything not produced by BBC or CBC . . . and really the CBC is just to keep it in the family, and because I can’t get enough of Newfoundland. Even the commercials during, “Republic of Doyle,” soothe me. (If I ever disappear, this is where to find me.)
Back to the Midwives . . . I have a soft spot in my heart four babies wide for midwives. The midwives I knew managed a pregnant me with remarkable amounts of grace and humour. The kids came out ok too.
So watching midwives at work in London’s east end in the 1950’s is nostalgia, fascination, inspiration and creative regeneration all rolled into one. The writing, the acting, the nuns (I LOVE the nuns – that’s the other place you’ll find me if I ever disappear), even the theme song pleases me.
The weather people say it’s going to be a cold March up here. I hope it’s warmer by the 29th. That’s when Anabelle is due with her first calf. (Not that we can guarantee she’s pregnant. All we can say for sure if that if she gets any bigger, we can probably just use her as a barn to put the sheep into at night.) I look at her and think about getting the baby’s room ready. I know we can’t go with wallpaper, but really something needs to done to cheer up that winter weary barn and let everybody know that good things are on the way. Come May, the weather will hopefully give the sheep an easier time of it.
I’m hugely glad for upcoming birthing. My chances of becoming a midwife in 1950’s England are quite a bit smaller than becoming a figure skater. Out here in 2014, I’ll have to make do with a cow, some sheep, and a little imagination.