Living close to a place that's a gateway to life

Perth Now

28-06-2025

I live near a Perth maternity hospital and it's strange and wonderful living so close to the beginning of everything.
Panicky dads or prospective dads often park on my nature strip . . . and you know what? I couldn't care less. If they have a baby seat in the back or country plates, I'm sweet with them invading my verge.
So, what it's like to live beside a place that's a gateway to life? Do you think differently about time, ageing, family or even noise?
The answer is yes. A couple of weeks ago, in his hurry to get to the hospital, a new dad dropped his car keys and I had to run after him — and he was really moving.
I mean, what a contrast. I'm coming back from Farmer Jack's with an avocado or walking Frankie and here's a bloke racing to be part of arguably the best day of his life.
Want to park on my verge? Sure, leave the car if you like and I'll do it for you! Barra's Valet Parking, at your service.
I also go out my way to congratulate any new parents I see. Most are too tired or stressed to respond but some are so pumped they are positively beaming.
Often, it's myself and the new dad congratulating the new mum and waxing lyrical about the fortitude of women and how if men gave birth, there would be hardly any natural births — or at least no drug-free ones.
I know when Jodie gave birth, I gained a whole new level of respect for her. As the famous quote, often attributed to writer Laura Stavoe Harm, goes: 'There is a secret in our culture, and it's not that birth is painful. It's that women are strong.'
And I can only speak as a man ever so slightly involved in two caesarean sections. Recently I read that a 'caesar' is the only surgery where seven layers of tissue is carefully opened and as little as six hours later, the mother is expected to stand up and care for a newborn. Kapow — mind blown.
And all this while enduring painful uterine contractions, caused by the natural release of oxytocin as the body starts producing milk, apparently. The recovery is both physically and emotionally intense, I'm told. If you're a c-section mum, know this: you are incredibly strong. You did something amazing. Be proud of yourself.
Another quote I use on the new parents is the old one about sleeping like a baby. Acting like a world authority on childbirth, I quip, 'Get ready, my friends; whoever coined the phrase 'sleeps like a baby' never had kids.'
Mostly I get a polite laugh but they are probably thinking, 'Do we really need some B-grade celebrity dropping corny lines on us as we walk to the car?'
The other thing I love to observe, and I sometimes even offer my handyman abilities to assist (Jode would be laughing at me calling myself handy; 'as a foot,' she would say) is when the man is struggling to get the baby capsule sorted. My next favourite thing is how carefully they manoeuvre their car off my verge and how slowly they drive home.
The fella who arrived in his RAM 1500 4x4 ute and almost took out my white picket fence is now leaving the hospital precinct driving like my dear old Mum.
My day is staggeringly mundane in comparison. I might be unloading groceries while next door, a baby is being born into the world. Someone's entire life is shifting tectonically, while I'm googling whether you can still eat expired yoghurt.
Something primal exists right here amongst us; not on a remote mountaintop or in some movie, but between Barra's place and the bus stop. There's something deeply grounding about that.
At first, living near the hospital felt like living next to a metaphor with no boundaries. I'd be lying in bed, trying to quell my own anxieties while next door, women were screaming in labour and babies were announcing their arrival.
It's absurd and humbling all at once. There is a lot of noise in life, but the first breath someone takes? Well, that's special. That's the sound of the volume being turned up on meaning.
Once when I was walking past the hospital, a delivery was happening on the footpath: a lady didn't quite make it inside. Then there's the sibling peeking into the stroller for the first time, or a nurse waving goodbye to a departing family, mouthing, 'well done!' with a softness that feels older than words.
And there's a quiet solidarity in my neighbourhood; we move aside on the footpath when a couple rushes past, the woman gripping her partner's arm with the urgency of someone who knows the next few hours will be life-changing.
I sometimes fall back into worrying about petty things, but then a taxi stops traffic out the front of the hospital with its boot open or I hear a lullaby playing on someone's phone.
Not all of us will become parents, but all of us were once small enough to fit inside someone's arms on the way home from the miracle of life.