Daggy Dads: The Baby Effect

Wifey's pregnancy has brought to the fore-front of my conscience a fear of a phenomenon I have long-witnessed, but buried deep with the other things I would have to worry about much later, such as ear hair, how best to invest my pension...and fatherhood.  One of the most pivotal events leading to my conclusions occurred in front of a chicken shop where I was basking in the afternoon sun, drying after a surf, awaiting my perri-perri burger.  A dual-cab work ute pulled up at the traffic lights beside me and behind a faded Triple J sticker I saw a young(ish), presumably once-cool man clapping along to some awful kids' album in an effort to please a non-plussed infant in the rear.  As you have probably realised, this event has remained vivid in my mind: the horrific realisation that babies, if left untreated, will turn the hippest of dads into dags.

But is this inevitable?  Or are there steps that can be taken to avoid such outcomes?

The first area that needs to be addressed is the music.  I love music: I love new music, I love Australian music, I love live music.  Now to the perceptive ones amongst you this will be sounding an awful lot like an ad for a radio station and that is no coincidence: I am a dedicated fan of Triple J and in many instances my alternative music taste defines me (tonight, for example, I chose brushing my teeth over seeing who won The Voice).  In fact, Disneyland and Vegas aren't the only remarkable experiences Baby has had in utero - the next stop on the very same trip was to the Palm Desert's Coachella Festival: a three day wonderland of musical acts from around the world.  Baby witnessed Dr Dre and Snoop Doggy Dogg bring Tupac Shakur back from the dead!  So the thought of driving around pumping out 'Big Red Car', rather than (fellow Coachella headliners) Radiohead is a little soul-destroying.

Fortunately, I feel that there are some solutions.  I have it on the good authority of colleagues who share my taste in music, that children are fairly fond of (another Coachella act) Gotye, in particular his international smash-hit 'Somebody That I Used To Know'.  Of course, it is kind of cheating using a children's tune as recognisable and appealing as 'Bah Bah Black Sheep' as the opening bars, but if that's what allows me to continue listening to the artists I love, I can let that one slide!  I figure that in a similar vein, there are many more artists who sing in a tone that could surely sooth the troubled soul of a wordless, teething demon; Josh Pyke and Laura Marling for example, though at least one of those would require some censorship.

Then there is the ultimate, wonderful solution of great artists covering kids' songs.  ABC Music's 'Rewiggled' brings together the artists I know and love in a collection of covers tributing gods of children's entertainment, The Wiggles.  I'm not quite sure if the appeal is the same for children in, say, 'Getting Strong!' when Kevin Mitchell of Jebediah is screaming it out, as apposed to Anthony Field of the blue skivvy, but it certainly makes it more enjoyable for me.

So that's music covered, but how about general appearance?  There is a particular parenting accessory that many fathers choose to use, clearly feeling that it assists them in maintaining something of their old freedom, while allowing their baby to tag along for the ride.  The accessory to which I refer is the baby carrier, specifically the design that has Baby floating like a confused star, legs and arms in a seemingly fixed position on the front of the strap-ee.  Many a time have I witnessed a father trying to look unchanged as they stand in what they believe to be a casual pose in the middle of a shopping centre, sipping their chai late and talking on their phone, doing their darndest to pretend that Baby isn't there (and presumably the lower back pain is courtesy of a truly-satisfying beer gut).  THIS IS AND LOOKS RIDICULOUS.  If your idea of maintaining "cool" is not having a baby, DON'T have a baby!

"Cool" can be maintained (in my inexperienced, entirely subjective, narrow-minded view) by not giving up on thinking about what you're going to wear everyday and taking shameless pride in being a father.  But I suppose that it's understandable if in the sleep-deprived bleariness that is you stumbling out of bed, tending to your child and somehow finding yourself standing in front of a zoo exhibit trying to convince them that the chimpanzees are interesting enough to stop them crying; the mere fact that you managed to put on a combination of top and bottom that are united in their distinct absence of baby-spew staining seems like enough.

What To Expect: A film for me?

I'm not sure if Hollywood producers heard the good word of Wifey's impregnation, or what, but it seems like there is a saturation of baby-related films on the market right now.  Ok, so maybe we're just more aware of them thanks to our situation.  Either way, they're there and suddenly I care.

'What To Expect When You're Expecting' (the film) takes it's title from the previously-referenced pregnancy bible by Heidi Murkoff (who, just quietly, must be absolutely swimming in dosh).  Beyond the name-share, a distinct pregnancy theme and a blink-and-you'll-miss-it placement of the book, the connection ends there.  This film follows Hollywood's new favourite formula, inspired by the motherland's pride (and my mother's tax-time cheer-me-up), 'Love Actually': take a central theme (ie: Valentine's Day, New Year's Eve, pregnancy) and create several different plot-lines which, despite being insufficient to make a complete film on their own, somehow intertwine with vague cross-overs to create enough action to fill their allotted 120 minute(ish) runtime.

So how does this film for the masses weigh up against our pregnancy experience?

Well, pretty much, there is a little something here for everyone's pregnancy experience.  There is the (kind-of) secret couple in the public eye who find themselves unexpectedly pregnant; there is the one night stand complete with surprise knock-up; there is the beautiful married couple who are unable to conceive and turn to adoption; there is the long-trying married couple who, on the verge of resorting to IVF find themselves pregnant; then his racing-car-driving father and his way-too-young (super-hot) new wife, who are also pregnant...with twins!  So already you can see that writers have set themselves up for an absolute barrel of laughs!

However, poorly-executed slapstick aside, there were some genuinely funny moments in this film, though many of them seemed to land more squarely for we two sitting happy in baby-baking splendour, than those just along to see the latest feel-good flick.  But there were also some truly poignant moments too.  There were the moments of baby-inspired connection between central characters, not to mention a miscarriage scene that had generally sensitive, but currently overly-hormonal Wifey straight-up bawling.

It's no surprise that the end of the film heralds a montage of birth.  This rattled my cage.  In a previous post I stated emphatically that I would be standing boldly beside Wifey as she heaved and moaned our little burden from within.  Nothing like a montage of birthing agony to challenge such resolve!  Once again, this scene brings a little for everyone - from screaming 'natural' birth, to emergency C-section in blissful morphine-induced semi-coma, to the anti-hero: the blonde bombshell (whose greatest pregnancy fears of interrupted exercise classes were not realised and whose greatest pregnancy drama was a heavily-engrossed libido), who sneezed and popped out her first twin.

All these beautiful tales of female experience aside, the greatest part of this film for me was the group of fathers (played by a choice selection of immediately-recognisable comedic actors) who give a voice to the men in this process.  Finally!  The banter between these guys and a never-fading crocodile smile from Chris Rock, who declares "...we love being dads!  When I was young, I used to think I was so happy; now I know I'm happy!" instilled a new flare for fatherhood inside me.  Even if it was paired with an acknowledgement that your opinion counts for little on anything baby-related if it isn't in line with your partner's thinking.  Just as well "there is no judging in 'Dudes Group'!"

Reality Strikes. Hard.

At the time of the first scan occurs a test called the 'First-Trimester Combined Screening'.  This involves a measurement being taken of the thin layer of fluid at the back of the baby's neck, called 'nuchal translucency' and a blood test measuring for high levels of 'pregnancy-assocuated plasma protein A' (PAPP-A).  High reads in each of these may indicate a risk of trisomies.  The Combined Screening test takes into account these tests along with age-related factors to develop an overall risk of your child having any of three trisomies.

There is a very good chance that you (assuming you haven't been through this yourself), like me up until this point, have no idea what 'trisomy' actually is.  Trisomy 18 is also known as 'Edwards syndrome' and Trisomy 13 as 'Patau syndrome'.  Both are characterised by various organ defects.  Our results indicated that our baby was at a comfortably low risk for both of these conditions.

Trisomy 21 is more commonly known as Down syndrome.  Our baby's risk for Trisomy 21 came back as 1:66, considered "high risk".  This was something of a shock.

The fears we had experienced regarding our pregnancy up until that point had revolved around the possibility of miscarriage.  The potential that our child might make it into the world, but not be Western-World "perfect" had scarcely occurred to us (despite my various rantings about a two-headed beast).  Yet, this was the reality we were immediately faced with.

Now, as much as a ratio of 1:66 is considered to be "high" statistically, it does pay to remember at this point just how low a chance that is in the real world. 1:66 is about 1.5%: that's quite low.  Before last Christmas my work put people's names in a hat to see in what order leave would be granted for that popular, but busy period.  At the outset my chances of scoring priority leave were 1:13.  It wasn't until they were down to 1:8 that my name was drawn.  At the risk of embarrassment I won't say too much about my gambling history, other than to state that it is just as well I have partaken little in it, because I have never come away ahead (except one ANZAC Day when I got into the 2-up, but one would hope for a bit more luck with 2:1 odds!).

Back to our test results:  In this situation you are given the option of Amniocentesis.  This involves taking a sample of the amniotic fluid surrounding the foetus (with a rather large needle), which carries sufficient information to be able to diagnose Down syndrome with 99 percent accuracy.  It also carries a risk of miscarriage somewhere in the vicinity of 1 in 200.

Considering this, the amniocentesis is only a viable option if you would consider termination in the case of a positive result.  Having seen Baby kicking and dancing on the ultrasound just three days prior and recognising that people with Down syndrome can live a very happy and fulfilling life, this was not a choice for us.  Therefore, we will have to wait approximately six and a half weeks until our next ultrasound, which will be performed at 19 weeks.  This was booked in with a specialist who will be able to look at the organ development and tell us with substantial accuracy whether or not Baby has Down syndrome - without the invasive and dangerous test.

This means six and a half weeks of not knowing if Baby's birth will change our lives substantially or entirely.  We have prepared ourselves emotionally as best we can for the possible outcome that our child could in fact have Down syndrome.  Already this has changed our appreciation for life and has forced us to place our trust in a plan greater than our own.  It is amazing how quickly priorities change: a day earlier we were busting to get to the next ultrasound to learn if Baby was a Jack or a Jill; now Baby's gender seems of little consequence at all.

The First Scan: Baby is Real!

The end of the first (spew-ridden) trimester presents the first opportunity to see your bun in its oven.  I understand that with private health cover this would occur in the swankiest of obstetrician's offices.  However, despite Wifey and I upgrading our private health cover in preparation for its possibility, we were blessed with pregnancy 3 months shy of being able to take advantage of the benefits (due to a 12 month lay period).  By these circumstances we found ourselves sitting this morning in the waiting room of a public diagnostic imaging clinic.

This was not quite the romanticised scene that has been portrayed in so many films.  Rather than sitting alongside fellow expectant parents, briefly meeting eyes in nervous moments of understanding (before looking away again, quickly and awkwardly, pondering once more if your scan would reveal the two-headed mutant you'd been fearing); we found ourselves dodging coughs and avoiding the vacant stares of our growing ageing population - by far the youngest two in the room.  These things aside, the clinic was fresh and new and the ladies were surprisingly chipper, considering the slow-yelled conversations that were required to work out what name they were supposed to be entering into the computer.

So the moment was upon us: we were in the booth, Wifey's shirt was up and the cool gel had been applied to her stomach.  Wifey had even managed to break out of her regular morning routine of heaving her guts up to keep down the litre-and-a-half of water required in the previous hour for a clear result.  Though, despite the never-ceasing "morning" sickness and four positive tests, I couldn't shake the nagging thought that there was just the slightest possibility that when the probe touched the skin it would reveal...nothing...and we would be left embarrassed and crest-fallen, running from the building like a Liberal MP from Parliament, trying desperately to dodge the judgement of the assorted elderly patients in the waiting room (who would have had no idea what was going on anyway and wouldn't have cared if they had).  Such is the wild, irrational thought process of a young man immediately before the moment of truth.

A second later the probe touched down:

I expected at that moment the ceiling would crack and approximately 1000 kilograms of bricks would tumble down from above.  However, the effect was almost the opposite, as the weight of uncertainty was lifted and we stared down (or up in Wifey's case) in semi-disbelief at our human-looking foetus!  Arms, legs, head, spine and nose were all in the right places and the heart was beating at a merry 143 beats per minute.

Wifey and I had both dreamt on numerous occasions that there was a party of two dining in her uterus, but those thoughts were put to rest as it was quite clear that all available space was occupied by one.  With all this displayed on the screen in front of us, it was difficult to believe that our little beast was just shy of 6cm long - capable of reclining quite comfortably on a cheese cracker!

So the deed is done and there's no getting out of it now.  We bid farewell to our little baby-in-waiting for around 7 weeks until our next scan, at which point we can work out what colour the baby room needs to be painted!  Hopefully in that time we can actually make moves towards obtaining said baby room...

The Fear of an Ugly Baby

No matter how stoic a face they put on, every parent-to-be fears (if only for a guilty moment) that they'll have an ugly baby.  But let's be honest: they've dwelt on it!  Now people will tell you, "Every baby's beautiful!"  However, you and I both know the old adage "a face only a mother could love" is not reserved for dugongs alone.

I once found myself face to face with an infant that so closely resembled a miniature Uncle Fester that when another woman stated (with the clear intention for me to respond) "Isn't he adorable?" I couldn't bring myself to utter a single word.  That, of course, is an extreme case, but there is a degree to which all babies look remarkably like extras in MIB.

I have started to realise, though, as I venture into that previously-ignored section of the department store - the Childrenswear section - that we are constantly being prepared for the alarming possibility of a mutant child.  One need only look at the mannequins used to display the clothing in that section and, by comparison, the most Fester-like of babes seems suddenly rather appealing after-all!  But, truth be told, this is probably less an effort from childrenswear manufacturers to help parents deal with the heartache of an ugly baby, as it is to win them over to their particular brand of clothing.

Of course it is unfair to label any child as "ugly".  They exist as a result of what can only be described as a miracle and have survived an enormous ordeal to be living, breathing in front of you.  Even if their head is a little alien-esque, don't you think you'd be battered if you'd squeezed your whole body through an area a little smaller than a dinner plate?  And even if the worst is true: you have an ugly baby; it isn't the end of the world - plenty of ugly people have lived very successful lives, some even publicly!  Just look at Sarah Jessica-Parker!