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...