New Life (Labour Part 2)

I suppose it's high time I continued this merry tale.  But fear not: your waiting has not been in vain; for it does give you some insight into just how drawn out the whole process of labour feels.

So when last we spoke, Wifey had finally been granted an epidural after some 28 hours of contractions.  The thing about epidurals is that they don't always work.

Fortunately for us, this was not the case.

The other thing about epidurals is that a lot of the time when they do work, they quite often bring such relaxation, that contractions slow enormously, effectively putting Baby on a stop-work.  This did happen to us.  Moments earlier we'd been on track to imminent, screaming natural birth.  Now we found ourselves in the eye of the storm: the pain may have disappeared, but there was also a distinct lack of progress...  For a time the animal mews and hoots ceased and sleep (of sorts) took us - that is to say, the kind of sleep you can get in between two hospital chairs at the bedside where your wife has spent the last 9 hours heaving in pain.

Periodically my "slumber" was interrupted by midwives bustling in and out, checking the bleating machine that was still strapped to Wifey's bulge.  I watched vehicles come and go from Emergency below, their red and blue lights dancing across the walls.  I watched nurses come and go from the car park.  I watched dawn break with a pink sky promising more of Christmas Day's 'refreshing' weather.  I made serious headway on the weighty novels that inspired the HBO series Game of Thrones.  Meanwhile, Baby did bugger-all.

And this started to become of some concern; you see, without contractions, labour kind of ceases to be labour and without labour, babies don't get born... well, not by their "natural" path anyway.  So, steps were taken to ensure contractions continued: syntocin was added to the drip (with all the fluids that get pumped into a woman on epidural) - this is the synthetic version of oxytocin, the hormone that brings on labour.

Apart from that not a lot happened.  Unless I left the room, that is....

Absence number one occurred when I was outside the Birth Unit updating the in-laws on Wifey's progress.  When I returned the room was a whir: I was at the ugly end of Wifey's pushing under the enthusiastic instruction of a midwife, one leg up, gripping her ankles in a kind of sideways tuck.  I have long-believed myself to have a special bond with the ocean, one that is manifested by my ability to summons waves by rolling off my board for a swim, thus being entirely unprepared for their arrival.  Was it possible that this extended to labour also?  Would I spend 30 hours diligently by Wifey's side, only for Baby to arrive in the few minutes I was away?

Alas, no.  Baby was in distress: her heart rate had dropped and they weren't sure why.  This news could have sent shockwaves through me, but at this end of an all-but sleepless Christmas and surrounded by confident-looking professionals, I simply fell back into my post at Wifey's side and took up my roles of hand-squeezer and "You're doing really well!"-sayer.  A rod was slipped up "there" and a monitor clipped to Baby's head.  This gave a more accurate reading of Baby's heart rate, which either thanks to lack of faulty monitor, or a whole lot of excitement, was looking good again.  Once more we settled and I found distraction in George R. R. Martin's fantasy world.

The next absence saw me depart in search of food in the downstairs cafeteria.  Once more there was movement at the station.  The epidural had worn off and the animal noises had returned.  There was a doctor checking "down there" and pleas for an end renewed from Wifey.  Could this be the wave?

Well, not quite...  After a good inspection, Doctor was able to inform us that, though Baby had been pointing in the right direction for pretty much the duration of pregnancy, she hadn't quite completed the necessary twist and was therefore not ready to slide out just yet.  There were brief mutterings about the potential of caesarian, others regarding helping Baby out her "natural" passage and then a 'decision' to give her more time - the good ol' "wait 'n' see".  Our charming midwife (well on her way to becoming Wifey's favourite person on earth) topped up the epidural and on our journey rolled.

By about 1200 hrs (we're still on Boxing Day) Wifey was feeling pain again, though this was specifically relating to ligament damage in her lower stomach.  For some reason the enormous amount of drugs pumping through her system were not aiding and we were reaching fever pitch.  Once again, life imitated the movies, as Wifey uttered words to the tune of "I just want this thing out of me!" and I went scurrying from the room.

With the assisted pressure of Wifey's favourite midwife, the specialists were assembled and a plan was put forth for Operation Get This Thing Out Of Me.  Doc assured us that the time waiting was not wasted, as Baby had in fact completed at least part of her rotation, though she still had some way to go.  This being said, Doc was pretty confident that if he got his extra large BBQ tongs out, he could yank her right on out.  Alternatively, he had the option of taking a Dyson to her head and sucking her out.  However, if neither option was successful in drawing Baby from her hiding place, he vowed to unsheathe his blade and seek her where she lay.  Wait... maybe I'm confusing it with Game of Thrones...  Anyway, the final resort was C-section an for that reason, they decided to prep Wifey for surgery and perform O.G.T.T.O.O.M. in theatre.  This meant I got to scrub up!

Just like JD!

But seriously, it was a little unnerving...

When everything was ready, I went with our midwives and made the journey to theatre.  Now I mentioned previously about how far we had to walk up hospital corridors to get to the Birth Unit; this was nothing in comparison to the trip to the particular theatre where Wifey's procedure was to take place.  Keeping in mind that this walk was entirely out of public area and was therefore eerily quiet, every time we turned a corner it seemed like the hall was getting longer as we walked.

Eventually we entered the tiny room that was a kind of foyer (I guess more technically a preparation room) for surgery.  This was like a who's who of our pregnancy experience - with a whole host of midwives, doctors and specialists, not only from our time at the birth unit, but our various checkups in the Women's Health Clinic, in attendance.  Of course, we were but a number to them, a sign-off in a skills book, but it was nice for us to see familiar faces all the same.

After a few minutes, Wifey was rolled into theatre and I was asked to stay on my stool for a few minutes while they got prepared.  I noted the time was just hitting 1300hrs on the clock on the wall and that my heartbeat was clocking a few per movement of the second hand.

After what felt like an hour (but I can say, with confidence, was 7 minutes), I was summonsed to take a new stool by Wifey's side and take up my official post of hand-holder once more.  To aid a recently topped-up epidural, Wifey was also given a spinal, so she was properly numb from the waist down.  Doc had decided the tongs were the go, so they were positioned and Wifey was asked to push.  Determined to maintain some form of natural birth, she mustered all her remaining strength and did just that.  The action required to push a baby out (if you were wondering) is the same as to push a poo out.  And yes, poo does happen; it didn't in our case (to my knowledge), but I assure you, at the tail end of 36 hours of  labour, pooing in front of a room full of people is about the last thing in the world you care about.  (Really selling pregnancy, aren't I...)

Well 'push' did Wifey and 'pull' did Doc and (I won't draw it out any longer) all of a sudden (at 1324hrs)  there was a hatless Smurf, coughing and crying softly in his arms.  I'm told by Wifey, who remembers little else, that "HOLY SH*T!" was my welcome to the world for my first-born.  I don't recall the exclamation myself, but I am willing to believe it: I mean, this thing was blue - which fortunately I was a little bit prepared for - but it did look freaky!  She was bundled off to a bench at the side for her immediate checks, Wifey panting and weeping in a daze on the bed and me on my stool, not quite sure what to do.

Moments later, I was called over by the midwives to lay eyes on our little Pixie.  Pinkness was starting to come to her body as scissors were placed in my hand and I was told told to cut the cord.

"It's a little rubbery and harder than you might expect..." I was warned.

"I'm used to cutting squid."

"She's beautiful!"

"She looks like an alien." (Jokingly.  Kind of...)

Not quite sure of what I was allowed to do, I just kind of looked at her, until Midwife suggested I put a finger in her hand and she held on tight.

Then we were off again: a brief "Well done!" and "See you soon!" to Wifey, as the doctors set to work with some running repairs with needle and thread below (yes guys, get your head around that too!).  Back down the halls (which had fortunately shortened) to the room that had started to feel like home.  Pixie was weighed (3.58kg, just shy of 8 pounds for the oldies), measured (52cm) and dressed in a gown to match Mummy's, then wrapped up tight.

"Would you like to have a cuddle?" the midwife asked, "Then we'll take you up to Maternity to meet your wife."

And she left.

Walked out.

Departed.

Entrusted the sole care of a newly born, entirely helpless, completely vulnerable babe to a 23 year old boy.

Now for a long time I had this thing with cats, where try as I might I just couldn't figure them out.  I'm an animal person, so I really wanted to be their friends, but just couldn't quite judge them.  They would strike me with that weird, piercing cat gaze and I would offer my hand, hopeful it was a gaze of longing.  Occasionally, that would prove correct, but every now and again they would reveal their ninja skills and I would be left bleeding.

Babies have been much the same: they would fix me with a stare, that could so easily crack into a smile, yet oft' some subtle, subconscious false move on my behalf would trigger the other response and soon enough they'd be in their mother's arms, who between "there-there"ing, would assure me that it's very out of character and they must be tired.

Well eventually I got myself a kitten and sorted out my cat dramas - seriously, I am like the cat whisperer now - and here I was to once and for all deal with the baby drama.  This was sink or swim.  I  decided to go with the approach I would for a dog I wasn't sure about - overly confident and (appropriately) lots of baby talk.

Well, she didn't bite or claw my hand and neither did she cry... too much.  What she did do is capture me in her gaze and ensure I would never let her go.

Pixie

Labour (Part 1)

Mother was hopeful while setting the Christmas table...

Here is the tale of our Christmas Day...

On the 24th of December I was jesting at the possibility of our own little Christmas miracle.  I even put my prediction in verse.  Well, Christmas lunch wasn't quite interrupted by a gush of water, but... Why don't I just start at the beginning...

Christmas morning was restless: Wifey was up and down and all around.  When dawn broke a claim was made of "gastric pains", coming and going every half hour or so, starting at a little after 0100hrs.  I was sent to the nearest service station for Quick-Eze and milk (since I was making the trip).

A little later on, Mother-In-Law dropped by.  When conversation broke for Wifey to breath deep and clutch her stomach, an enquiry was made and an eyebrow raised at the response.

"They sound like contractions to me."

"No," Wifey's stubborn reply, "I'd know if they were."

"Riiight..." [To me] "You'd best keep an eye on that."

When Mother-In-Law had made her leave a decision had to be made about Christmas lunch: stay home (safe distance to hospital) for lonely leftovers, or drive an hour through soggy weather, holiday traffic and double demerits to full Christmas feast with family.  Since Wifey was in denial about the waves of pain running through her body and I was keen to partake in the seasonal celebrations, I pushed for the latter.  Hence we joined the host of holiday revellers clogging Sydney roads.

A call was put forth to the 'rentals to inform them of our progress.  I also made mention of Wifey's mysterious "waves of gastro", which was met by another, "Riiight..." followed by a, "We'll make sure lunch is ready to go, in case you need to... duck off."

We arrived to a warm reception - the family had not expected to be graced with our presence at all leading up to Christmas Day, so our being there was excitement enough, without the added thrill of Wifey's 'unsettled' stomach.  Brother was quick to point out that presents were sitting unopened on the floor, a situation that he felt should be dealt with immediately.  Part way into the process Wifey leant in my direction and quietly asked if my phone was near by and if I could please start a timer - her attempt at subtlety futile in a room where all eyes were upon her.

"So we've decided these are contractions, have we?"

"Yes."

(Mother:) "We'd better eat."

Contractions were 18 minutes apart at this stage.  An earlier call to the hospital (at my insistence: "Just in case the 'gastro' is something to worry about") had informed us that it was time to call in again when they were 5 minutes apart.  Not knowing how quickly they would come on and wary of a long, wet, traffic-heavy, double-demerit-burdened trip home, we were inclined to agree with Mother.

We sat down to lunch, wondering if the extra place setting that Mother had (jokingly) set was soon to be filled.  Every now and again, Wifey would squeeze my hand, indicating it was time to restart the timer... 14 minutes... 10 minutes... 7 minutes...

"That was delicious!  We might head off..."

"You won't stay for pudding?"

*squeeze*

"We're at 5 minutes."

"I'll pack you some to go."

Thus far my prophecy was coming to fruition, so naturally I was concerned for the carpets in our new family wagon.  Though I threatened to make Wifey sit on a tarpaulin, I conceded that her concerns of a slip-and-slide were not unfounded, so compromised with a pile of dog towels.  We made our leave, with starry eyed parents waving us off, Brother dancing around excitedly - giddy at realisation that his time to be 'the coolest uncle ever' was close at hand - and Nana tearing up in a whirlwind of emotion.  The remaining relatives and animals held a tighter rein of their emotion, though I'm told all other topics were lost to conversation for the remainder of the night.

The trip home was smooth enough and Wifey even managed to not burst her waters en route.  So we settled ourselves down on the couch and took to timing the contractions.  I was pretty pleased with myself, it has to be said: not only had we snuck a Christmas lunch in and got away with it, but we'd filled a few hours of what I was told would be a long process; and a distraction is generally a good thing if I am required to wait, for patience is not a virtue I possess.

Now here's the thing about contractions (I've discovered): there is no linear pattern to their reduction in interval.  We had had contractions at all intervals and of all durations; a 12 minute interval might be followed by a 6 minute interval, then suddenly a 2 minute interval(!).  Eventually we saw fit to call the hospital and declare that our contractions were coming [kind of] consistently at 5 minute intervals, my stomach a flutter at the thought that this was about to be it, we would have a Christmas Day baby.  This was at 1800hrs.

"Right," the reply, "We usually say to come in when you're contractions have been 3 minutes apart, of at least 60 seconds for a full hour.  Call us back then."

Back to the couch, deflated, stop watch nearby, pen and paper in hand.

Again, there was no consistency to the way the contractions came: intervals varying from 1 minute 50 seconds to 9 minutes 40 seconds; durations from 45 seconds to an agonising 7 minutes 20 seconds.  Finally we saw fit to call again and were given the word to come on in for assessment, with no promise of staying yet.

When we'd made our way to the hospital for our weekly checkups, I'd oft imagined what the actual trip would be like: how I'd be feeling, my reaction to traffic.  Yet, as we cruised in on eerily-calm late-Christmas  Day streets, I was surprisingly calm and borderline numb.  I dropped Wifey at the entry and went to the car park, pleasantly surprised to find that someone with sufficient authority and fair Christmas Spirit had deemed that if people must use the car park on such a day, they should at least do so for free.

The walk to the birth unit was agonisingly long; Wifey cursing whatever man had designed the hospital such.  Where earlier in the day her contractions had caused her to catch her breath and hold conversation, the most recent were making a far-greater impact.  It was a slow shuffle, punctuated by the occasional mark time, in which walls, rails and me alike.  We finally made our entrance at 2000hrs.

Once checked in, Wifey was hooked up to machine to track Baby's heartbeat and Wifey's contractions. This was not an unfamiliar process to us, as we had experienced it just the day before as part of our checkup.  We also had the unique experience of an 'internal examination', complete with 'stretch and sweep' (not "scratch and sniff" as an aunty of Wifey likes to call it...), which was likely the primary contributor to Baby's move south.  This involves Doc skilfully reaching inside with two fingers to work out where Baby's hanging.  He then uses one finger to gently stretch the cervix, thus increasing the likelihood of Baby slipping on out.  All this was performed with the right hand while demonstrating what was going on with the left.  Like I said, a skilful operation, though I gather Wifey was too busy wondering if his right fingers were going to come out of her throat, to really be that interested in his left...

It was a couple of hours of machines beeping and midwives prodding before we were told we were staying and moved to the room that would become our home until such time as the little bundle came out of her hiding hole.  From there we 'settled' into a routine of my reading being interrupted by Wifey's moans, groans and strange animal noises.  Periodically a midwife would drop by and see how we were going, but otherwise it was she, me and our restless little burden.

Comforting a woman in labour is no easy feat.  In the initial stages you will feel the urge to be really hands on - relaxing massage, tender touch, squeeze of the hand.  She may even be receptive to start with.  But as time goes on, your touch becomes just another uncomfortable feeling she'd rather do without; miss the early warning signs and you risk unleashing the dragon.  You will feel entirely useless: the person you love most (hopefully) in this world is writhing in agony with an itch that can't be scratched, while you stand alongside going, "Um... is there anything I can do?"

I have spent a mere 36 hours in London, yet my family were on the underground on the morning of the 7th of July, 2005 (yes, on the same ill-fated overseas venture that left us stranded at an airport in a storm).  Fortunately we were on the opposite side of the Circle Line when the bombs went off, yet we still walked for hours in a city in chaos to reach our hotel, unsure of what was really happening, nor what would come next.  I can honestly say that the time spent on those streets that day was less stressful than my Christmas Day night 2012.  For hours, Wifey cried out in pain.  I did what I could - fetching water, ice, massaging feet when my touch was not fire, running a bath, helping her back out of the bath when it suddenly became unappealing.  I aided her with tasks of the variety that women generally conceal from their partners, so we may maintain the pure, sweet image of what we believe to be the sweeter sex.  Make no mistake, gentlemen: in labour you will see things that will never be unseen; consider your hands an extension of your wife's body.

There are a variety of pain relief options available to women in labour.  Wifey was determined to have the most 'natural' birth possible, so started with the gas.  This was thrown away in disgust as it proved worthless and I was sent for the midwife to administer the morphine needle that had been offered.  This proved to be good for little more than adding violent regurgitation to her growing list of pleasantries.  Finally, in a rare moment where life (particularly pregnant life) aligned with Hollywood's depiction, all 'birthing "plans"' were shamelessly disregarded and Wifey sent me for the epidural.  Fast.

Well (and Hollywood got this bit right too), there's no such thing as "fast" when it comes to epidurals.  A host of different experts are required and at 0500hrs (we're into Boxing Day now), for some reason they don't come any quicker. So there was still precious time left to spend with Wifey in the full labour experience.  As it was punctuated by lines such as, "I just want it to be over" and "Make the pain go away," I was left wondering if I would ever be here again.  Would I ever be able to convince Wifey that it would be a good idea to have another?

At 1530hrs the epidural was administered and sweet paralytic relief overcame Wifey from the waist down, though not before her allusive waters broke and splashed all over the bed.  Turns out they DO gush and there's no missing them when they come!  But in what I came to refer to as "the eye of the storm" - the calm that came when sweet epidural took away they pain, I realised that, for her at least, much of this would soon be forgotten.  Much like my first tattoo: at the time, as the "artist" (let's be honest, he was a hack without care for the permanent marks he was leaving on my body) tore into my flesh, I clenched my jaw and decided it would be my last - I had one now, after all.  Yet, 20 minutes later on the trip home I was already plotting what might come next.  Sure enough, more have followed; and I didn't even have the magical 'forget-this-experience' pregnancy hormones that women have.  This afternoon, Wifey made claims that she "must have blacked out at some point, 'cos [she] can't remember it all."  If only I could say the same!

To be continued...

Will We Have A Christmas Baby?

My family once found ourselves sitting in an airport waiting for a storm to break so we could fly.  For the first couple of hours we were certain the weather would clear and we would soon be on our way.  Around that point, one of our fellow wait-ees decided to crack open the fairly high end bottle of scotch he was carrying (Father was quick to befriend him).  A couple of hours on from that, we were certain we would fly: there was no way they'd keep us this long otherwise!  Eight hours after our scheduled departure (and long after the scotch had been drained), the flight was cancelled.  I'm yet to see Boston.  

The reason I'm bringing this old, sore point up, is that subconsciously I think a part of me is suspicious that this could happen with Baby.  A week ago, Wifey and I went to bed nightly expectant of a pre-dawn trip to the hospital.  We were prepared mentally and emotionally: as close to 'ready' as we would ever be.  And yet Baby would not come.  Yes, we tried all the different old wives' tales.  People swear by curry, sex and exercise.  I found a gym ball and made Wifey bounce on it.  I aimed for every pot hole I passed.  One website suggested "galloping" to help the baby drop, but Wifey simply refused to do Psy's "Gangnam Style" dance with me.

So after several mornings of waking and finding Wifey not in labour (as I hoped and expected she would be), my hope started to wane.  It has reached the point now where I no longer go to bed expecting to be awoken by a contraction-ridden Wifey.  In fact, some subconscious niggle is starting to say that maybe we missed Baby... maybe, like that flight to Boston, she's just not happening...

Of course, that thought process is lunacy.  Baby will come and chances are she'll choose the most inappropriate time.   Much like that old rhyme...

'Twas the night before Christmas,
And in Wifey's tummy,
A creature's still resting;
She's not yet a mummy.

And now we've come this far,
Why not one day more?
Let's just get through Christmas,
Before Baby's born.

We were ready a week ago,
You could have come then,
But no - you just stayed there,
But sure, you'll come when -

We've driven an hour,
To your grandparents-to-be,
A long way from hospital,
Yet close to the sea.

And the lunch will be ready,
A beer in my hand,
Surfboard not yet touched,
With the beach's sweet sand.

And 'splash': there'll go waters,
All over the floor,
And then, just like that,
We'll be up out the door.

Wifey puffing and heaving
And cursing this day,
And you watch: I'll sure cop it,
'Cos I took her away!

For at home (where we live)
The hospital's near,
There's not hours of driving,
And that shocking fear:

That time will run short
And 'hey presto!' you'll come;
Our baby born roadside,
Like that Mosman mum.

So hang on sweet baby,
You've lasted thus far,
And please don't come messing
Up our fresh new car.

Let Christmas pass by,
And then place your mark,
On a calendar day,
Where you're less in the dark -

Overshadowed forever,
By the birth of a lad,
Born of Mary, in manger,
With God as his dad.

More on him later,
Sure, in time you'll find,
How that very child,
Saved all of mankind.

But back to His birthday,
(Though not the real date)
'Tis the day recognised,
That we celebrate.

Making month of December,
On the day twenty five,
A terrible day,
For you to arrive.

So you just get comfy,
And stay where you rest,
While we meet with family,
And enjoy Christmas fest'.

But just two days later,
If you're yet to arrive,
We'll be back to see doctor
And in he will dive.

He'll rattle your world
And crack your cocoon;
Merry Christmas sweet daughter:
We'll be seeing you soon.

Awaiting The Arrival

You know when you're waiting for a train and although you know when it's scheduled to arrive, you're confident it will be late (history tells you it will be late);  but the chance - that slight, sweet chance - that it could be early has you restless?

Welcome to the 39th week of pregnancy.

As the due date looms like the sun's glow on the eastern horizon, the pending realities of the horrors that await me (yes, “me” – I’m getting selfish here) haunt me as a werewolf in the night.  Friends, family and acquaintances – guys in particular – are never backwards in coming forwards regarding their personal experiences.  I’m not sure who should be credited with the phrase, but it has oft been said that “watching your wife give birth is like watching your favourite pub burn down”.  The overriding impression I get is that were it not for the part where it all culminates with the arrival of a new life of my creation and Wifey’s incubation - a tiny, miniature, working fusion of ourselves - it would be undoubtedly be considered a “bad day”.

I expect that by now any female readers are dizzy with fury, heart beating fast, breath heavy, as they work out which variation on the old “you try sh**ing a watermelon and have someone else tell you how hard their day’s been” they are going to throw at me.  But if you’re still with me, please hear me out.

I have come to the conclusion that the reason I’ve been so troubled by the thought of The Day, is that it’s happening to Wifey, not me; and there’s nothing I can do to make it any easier.  (Yes, I know, my support and presence is very important - I'm told a tennis ball massage can be really soothing - but really it’s like offering a band-aid and a ‘kiss better’ to the child who’s just had their leg run over by a train.)

Were it me who was to bare the grunt of birth, I could be much more stoic and prepared.  After all, my idea of leisure regularly results in me limping back through the door, trying (in vain) to conceal the varying amounts of missing skin from worrisome (yet eternally-forgiving) Wifey.  BMX accidents aside, I have willfully sat through piercings, tattoos and even (thanks to a moment of questionable intelligence) a home-job branding.  None of these compare in the slightest to actual childbirth, I’m sure, however, it doesn’t feel right that it should be me standing by in complete (physical) wellness, as Wifey – who’s idea of leisure includes shopping, sleeping and being generally uninjured – writhes in agony.

So what is my role in all of this?  What do I do, how do I help?

Naturally, to find these answers and more you attend a birthing class.  Ours occurred in the back hall of a church under the stewardship of a long-time midwife, one-time mother and life-long tripper.  I will clarify: her information was good, her experience unquestionable and her course well polished and thorough.  However, over the 8 hour duration, on an unseasonably warm Saturday, in a room with broken air-conditioning and the unique ‘warmth’ (literal, not figurative) of a room full of pregnant women, her airy “Yeeahh…” – the start to her every response - wore a little thin.

From all of this, the general vibe that I got was that my role in birth is to actively not piss-off Wifey, as she struggles to deal with the wild ride that is labour.  It also blew my whole understanding of the process of labour (brought to me by the marvel of television) right out of the water.  It turns out that not only is it unlikely that the start of labour will be heralded by a gush of her 'waters' causing a slip hazard on the floor (apparently these frequently slip out unnoticed in a crowd, if you get what I'm saying, assuming they "break" at all...).  Neither will it then be necessary to throw her in the back of my car and  fly to the hospital ignoring all traffic lights and speed limits (so much for my dedicated practice sessions on Grand Theft Auto!).  Teacher also reckons that, as much as Hollywood hams it up, the whole screaming profanities at partners during pregnancy is a myth and she's never seen it...well maybe she hasn't been at the births of some of our friends, or maybe she's just too off with the fairies to notice, but we were assured that it happens and just not to take it personally, because neither does she mean it, nor will she remember it.

In fact, it seems as though the whole hand-clenching, ear-piercing, watermelon-sh**ing bit will be a welcome relief from the waiting, placating and massaging that is the first stage of labour!  Teacher tells us that many wives (granted, generally on the second swing at it) don't even tell their husbands the contractions have started, letting them go to work and thus give them space to de-stress and get on with this stage, which can last for hours.  Somehow I don't think Wifey's poker face (or nerves) would be sufficient to pull that one off.

For the first part of labour it's a matter of timing the contractions and calling the hospital.  We were told what interval should herald our departure, but Teacher said we didn't need to remember that for the test at the end, so it was immediately forgotten.  Hopefully the midwives remember.

Well the end is nigh and as much as the thought of the actual moments of birth still makes me a little nervous, really it's the waiting that's killing me.  I am impatient at the best of times and not having a set date to head for is really testing me!  Every time my phone vibrates in my pocket at work I wonder if this is The Call.  We are as ready as it's possible to be (though I'm under no illusion that I have no idea what's about to hit me).  I think I'm ready to meet my little girl.  Though tonight would be nice, before Christmas would be acceptable...

A Guide To Being Not-Sh** Friends With Babies

Recently, while at the beach with a friend and his wife the topic of pregnancy came up (it has a strange habit of doing that when you’re expecting – friends love it…).  This time I had a good excuse, as we were mesmirised by a VERY pregnant woman roasting in a bikini, who, by the look of her was nearly cooked.  As the conversation took a turn towards my pending parenthood, Mrs Friend sweetly asked:

“Are you guys still going to be fun to hang out with when you have a baby?  Or are you going to be those sh** friends who change completely and disappear?”

I assured her that Baby would simply be an addition to our merry little group and not a wedge between us all.  But the thought troubled me.  So, just to ensure I didn’t make any major blunders to set me on the path of ‘sh** friend-hood’, I racked their brains for tips from their past experiences to keep me on track.

Therefore, I have compiled a list of ways to keep friends through parenthood:

1) Moderate Your Facebook Posts

My mate has assured me that he will be deleting me on Facebook as soon as I become a parent.  He sees me most days at work anyhow and, as much as (I’m sure) he loves seeing my every waking thought in seventy words or less filling his newsfeed, his interest will wan when my witty social commentary is replaced with: “Here’s another hiccup video – SO ADORABLE!!!! <3”

I, myself, have ‘unsubscribed’ to new parents on Facebook.  It’s bad enough to have every real-life conversation with them manipulated thus: “That [conversation about politics] reminds me of Toby’s sneezes!  Here’s a [low-res, poorly-framed, shaky] video of it on my phone!”; without having to see it in my newsfeed every three minutes when I check my Facebook!

So here’s the first step to keeping friends onside: try to moderate the baby content on your Facebook (and in conversations).  I’m sure you’ll be forgiven for posting the occasional photo, video or amusing anecdote, but try to set yourself a maximum – one a day runs a risk of too great-a regularity.

2) Don’t Forget Your Friends

Priorities are bound to change when Baby arrives.  All the spare time that I didn’t have during the nesting phase is bound to be taken up with baby duties.  Friends will be understanding of this (to a degree), but to forgive they must understand and to understand, they must first be told.  I’m told a cardinal sin commonly committed by new parents is to fail to respond to calls, texts, online advances or knocks on doors from once good friends.  Maybe you find it hard to turn down an invitation to go surfing with a mate on account of Baby, but spare a thought for your friend left wondering if you’ll ever reply!  Answer the phone, respond to the text, engage in social media [in a moderated fashion] and let them know what’s going on and why it is so.  It’s also worth keeping in mind step 3…

3) Don’t Discount Your Friends’ Willingness to Participate

When I buzzed my friends on how they had been wronged by former-friends/now-parents (positions which were sadly at risk of becoming exclusive), one of the greatest mistakes made was an assumption by the parents that the friends would not want to spend time with them and the baby.  They reminded me that they would still want to be friends, even if the form of social events went from day-long surfing adventures and night-long bar-crawls, to casual BBQs and watch-how-baby-crawls.

Sure, there are some friends who will fain interest in Baby’s existence upon her arrival and be conveniently unavailable at any invitation to spend time with me beyond that, if she is to be present.  There may be times when my mate is not willing to give up clear skies and glassy waves to just hang out, so goes surfing without me (though I’d really like to tie down short-term, low-price, last-minute sitting at a location convenient to the beach).  This being said, I hope that my friends are willing to be a little flexible and accept Baby into at least some of our social time.

This would be a tall ask, however, if there wasn’t a willingness on our side to be a little flexible too….

4) Don’t Be Precious

Sure, there are times in parenting when sacrifices must be made and Baby must come first.  That will take some adjusting to, but I accept it (pregnancy has been a teaser…although probably one of those really early ones that doesn’t really give away much more about the film than the title – no actors, no setting, no plot – yet leaves you feeling like you’ve had some great insight…only to discover months later that your pre-conceived notions were entirely misplaced and what you thought was going to be a side-splitting comedy, is actually Adam Sandler flapping about and talking like a child, getting unnecessarily angry at inanimate objects in what should have been a straight-to-DVD flop that has somehow got a cinema release because he made Happy Gilmore).  The exact toll that birthing has taken on Wifey will be particularly important, yet difficult to realise – with Baby due just a week out from Christmas, I’ll be itching to pack them all up and head on over to family festivities, but the reality may be that Wifey is all-but bedridden, particularly if Baby’s late!

However, this being said, once all has settled and we’ve found our flow, I’m determined that we will not be a couple who must leave early for Baby’s feed, or blow off an event that coincides with her nap time.  Sure, some more preparation may be required for our attendance and we may arrive looking like we’re staying the week, but I went to sleep in many a foreign bedroom as a child with the frivolity of my parents and their friends carrying down the hall and into my dreams.  As far as an infant is concerned, travelling with their pram is tantamount to taking their whole world with them; and as far as I’m concerned, pushing a pram is tantamount to being a racing-car driver, so everyone’s a winner!

Once again, it’s easy for me to preach these bold ideas prior to Baby’s arrival, blissfully naïve to the reality that’s yet to befall me.  To my friends, I apologise in advance for my pending assault on your newsfeeds and beg your forgiveness if I go off the radar for a while.  Accept my assurance that you’re still well loved and I am missing you badly – it’s simply that I’ve been thrown in the deep-end and the fact that I’m a strong swimmer has momentarily slipped my mind.  If you feel so-inspired, please throw the life buoy my way.  With any luck your aim may be true and you might knock some sense into me!

Nesting

Renovations, Day 1.

Little (or Fairy) Penguins are creatures that always captivate people.  They are dainty creatures, with that adorable penguin waddle, only on an iddy-biddy scale.  One of the most remarkable things about Little Penguins though, is their courtship.  While they are credited as being a monogamous species (‘pairing for life’ for those playing at home), they will re-pair if one party becomes absent…or gains weight or something…  Anyhoo, the intriguing thing is that the female chooses their mate based upon the quality of the nest they build.  This makes Little Penguins both excellent nest-builders and talented wife-pleasers.

In this regard, Little Penguins and I share skill-sets.

The phenomenon of pregnant women nesting is well documented - I’m sure there’s a chapter all about it in “What To Expect When You’re Expecting”…or maybe it doesn’t cover the big issues like I do.  Well here’s the scoop – once women reach the point of no return (when there’s no denying that things are about to change…in big ways…for good), they start nesting.

Nesting, from my experience, can be defined as: “an overwhelming desire in a pregnant woman to create a living space that aligns precisely with her vision of perfection and the expectation that her partner will deliver upon it with appropriate time left before the baby’s arrival”.  It may begin small – a simple Google search for baby furniture, or a wistful gaze at the paint swatches in Bunnings.  But before you know it, you, too, may find yourself waist deep in asbestos-ridden kitchen cabinets strewn across what was once a lawn, while bulging Wifey stands on a stool somewhere above issuing directives.

Nearly every mother we’ve spoken to will tell that tale of renovating their first home while pregnant.  Rewarding though it may be, I certainly wouldn’t recommend it to one prone to stress!  Unlike regular renovations, where you can chip away at things little by little, with progress trundling on at it’s own merry pace; renovations for purposes of nesting have a clear deadline before which they must conclude (particularly when you take our approach of gutting your house in a weekend, rendering it uninhabitable and spending the next two months slowly, but surely putting it back together - in a manner that aligns with Wifey’s mystical vision).  Sure, you might say, “Baby won’t realise that mission-brown frames are hideous and would look much better in Princess Bling [white]”; but if you don’t do it before Baby comes, when are you ever going to get around to it?  Particularly when ‘it’ involves sanding off paint that (by colour alone) likely came from a lead-based era.  And I challenge ANYONE to tell a pregnant wife who’s just reached the cankles phase of pregnancy, that the baby doesn’t care about a perfect house!

So resign yourself to the fact that you are either going into slavery for an indeterminable length of time prior to Baby’s arrival (good practice for post-Baby’s arrival [PBA] I guess), or - in the case of those so-endowed – forking out a healthy wad of cash for someone else to ensure that your baby enters a nest that’s just right, according to her mother’s particular vision.  On that point – if you have any particular vision yourself for the kind of nest you think your child would appreciate (perhaps swayed by a personal preference), it is worth gingerly raising it (perhaps in a hypothetical scenario) to determine whether or not it aligns with those of the mother of your soon-to-be child.  If so, awesome!  She will be pleased that you had an input!  If not, lock it down.  Don’t be a hero: it’s not worth it.  Smile and nod, say, “Yes, I was just thinking that we should use Hog Bristle for the walls – what other colour would I want?” and “I agree, the bottom of a box under the house is definitely the best place to keep my surfing photos!”.  Accept the fact that this is going to happen.  Hopefully, like me, you find it to be a fulfilling adventure.  Exhausting though.  So exhausting.  Totally kiss sleep and energy goodbye.  I’m told that’s what it’s like having a baby, too…