Monday 22 June 2015

Twenty Minute Toilet Breaks



Or ‘sitting, not shitting.’

Alone time is not something parents get an awful lot of. Especially parents of a baby who will - on occasion - scream if either mummy or daddy leaves the room.

And that’s fine.

Your baby needs attention, or at least wants it. Pretty much all of the time he’s awake. It can be frustrating if it’s just you and baby and it becomes a struggle to get anything done with a little tantrum machine constantly crawling round your ankles, crying for mum mum mum or da da da. So whenever both parents are about, usually on the weekends, you have to take every chance to get some alone time, even if it’s alone time spend sitting on the toilet.

I’ve come to really enjoy my time on the toilet which is a sentence that sounds quite odd, I’ll admit. So now, anytime I have to do my business over the weekend, I go to the toilet, do my business and then just sit there, content that my wife is looking after Isaac and allowing me some time to just not worry about the little dude, or at least not have to stop him from chewing through some wires/eating the cat litter/falling off the sofa. Sometimes I sit there for twenty minutes. Sitting, not shitting. Twenty baby free minutes a day. And it’s glorious.
My Fortress of Solitude

[Once again, I feel like I should add the usual caveat of ‘I love my son’ and ‘I am not moaning about my lack of alone time’ even though I think it’s pretty much assumed at this point. Recent blog posts from others (hi, the Dadventurer!) have made me realise the need to qualify my statements that could be misconstrued/cause fake outrage.*cough* Netmums *cough*]

I’m sure everyone else does something similar, and if you say you don’t, you’re lying. I’m 100% positive every single parent has snuck off at one point leaving your other half holding the baby while you go and have a wee sit down. I know I have. I like to make sure my wife also gets some baby free time, whether it’s her toilet time or letting her go back to sleep for a bit. Yes, we love our son, but do you know what else we love? Our fucking sanity.

It’s the same reason that once in a blue moon my wife and I take a day off work whenever Isaac is in nursery. And we never do it on the same day, because - another caveat here - as much as I love my wife I need proper alone time. As does she. Recharging the batteries is essential to raising a little baby, otherwise you’ll burn out. We learned that pretty early on. Do I feel guilty about it? Not one bit. He’s in nursery anyway, so what harm will it do him and what good will it do me? None and lots, respectively.

So whether it’s a day off relaxing and watching movies or twenty minutes sitting, not shitting, take some time for yourself. Everyone will be the better for it.

Thursday 16 April 2015

Baby Pictures (And Those Who Hate Them)

I might lose a few friends/followers with this one.

Social media is a big part of almost everyone’s lives these days. It’s an addiction, pure and simple. You wake up, you check your phone. On the toilet, browse through your timeline. On the train, update your status. It’s everywhere and unavoidable.

I have a child. I take a lot of pictures of him. I reckon most parents do the same. Occasionally I post the odd picture of him to Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or I stick it on this here blog. I like to show my son off if he’s doing something funny or cute but I don’t do it very often. So therefore people that complain about baby pictures though do my absolute head in.

Take Facebook. Aside from updating your status I reckon the thing most people do is share photos for their online friends to see. It’s basically what Facebook is made for. People post all manner of photos of all the various things they do in their lives, and scrolling through your own timeline you’re privy to whatever your collection of friends have decided to share, be it holiday snaps, something fun they were doing that day or, yes, baby pictures. Yet it’s only that last one that seems to get any sort of flack. I’d even go as far to say it’s the only type of picture that does.

Well, until I’ve finished this blog entry anyway.

“Ugh, so and so stuck another five pictures of his baby up today. Enough already” says a person who added 87 pictures of their most recent night out, most of which are blurry or contain at least ten near identical pictures of all their gal pals smushing their faces together. The irony apparently lost on them.*

*To clarify. I’m aware of the implied irony of this post as well, however I’m complaining about the complainers, not the pictures they put up. Mostly.

You know who you are.

You may not care about my baby pictures. That’s fine. Scroll right past them. It’s what I do with most people’s photo albums on Facebook for things that don’t interest me. I figure it’s what the majority of your Facebook friends do as well. And while you’ll never complain to the person actually putting the baby pictures up to their face, choosing instead to air a general complaint about the onslaught of baby pictures, let me hit you with this truth bomb: do you think I give a flying fuck about your poolside view, your new car or your night out? No. Not really.

If you’re making a big announcement - engagement, pregnancy etc - common decency would prompt me to write a message of congratulations, as if you’re on my friends list one assumes I like you or have some form of connection to you. And if you happen to post an interesting, cool or funny photo, or if it’s a particularly interesting, cool or funny night out, car or poolside view, I’ll ‘like’ it. But if it’s something that doesn’t really interest me, I won’t complain about it, I scroll on by.

[Right here is where I had written a theory on why I feel people don’t like baby pictures, and while I do believe it holds true to a degree, it was a little mean spirited and would almost certainly lose me some friends/followers so I deleted it. Long story short, jealousy. But that works both ways so it’s not really fair to use it against the haters of baby pics.]

Now while I understand there are people who post nearly everything their son or daughter does, up to and including pictures of their first poo in a toilet (seriously), it’s not as if parents are the only culprits. If I posted 50 photos a week of my son, I’d understand if someone told me it was excessive. No-one needs to see that many pictures of him. Frankly, no-one needs to see that many pictures of anything. I’ve written before about how Facebook is a magnet for shit you don’t care about yet look at everyday anyway, among other things, but the point is at least one person on your friends list is going to be interested in the things you post. That’s why you’re friends with them. Your family are, of course, going to be interested in pictures of your baby too and if you can make someone else on your friend list chuckle or go ‘awww’ at your picture of your child, I don’t see why you shouldn’t because a minority might sigh at ‘another baby picture.’ Fuck those people; those who’d rather expend energy complaining about it than simply scroll past and ignore it.

So next time someone moans about the amount of baby pictures someone has posted I’m going straight to their Facebook page and see how many pictures of meaningless shit they’ve posted and demand to know what the difference is.



P.S. I’m probably the worst kind of Facebook friend to have.
P.P.S. Here’s a cute picture of my son.



Brilliant blog posts on HonestMum.com

Wednesday 15 April 2015

Friday 3 April 2015

Breastfeeding Rant!

There was some research out last week about how breastfed babies are smarter. I won’t link to it, cause, well, fuck ‘em, basically.

First, some background.

We had a problem when it came to breast feeding, in that Isaac for whatever reason, just didn’t take to it. He wouldn’t latch and every attempt to do so caused a screaming match and after a few exhausting days during which my wife used the breast pump for what seemed like hours each day to get only the smallest amount of milk, we decided that bottle feeding was going to be the way to go, not through choice but through necessity of needing our son to, you know, eat. We could have kept going with the breast pump but seeing the strain it was putting on my wife (she literally had the pump clamped to her all the time whenever she wasn’t actually feeding) and how tired she was going to be if this continued, we started on the formula.

So this article has royally pissed me off.

As if there’s not enough guilting of parents who don’t breastfeed at all, we’re now told that your baby is going to suffer later in life because you didn’t – couldn’t – breastfeed.

Fuck. That.

And fuck anyone who comes to me with this news.

Stupid babies need the most attention.

There’s a culture that I’ve noticed, and I’m sure everyone else in the midst of pregnancy has too, that breastfeeding is best. That’s not the annoying part, that’s true. But the other is that if you can’t do it, or worse don’t do it, you’re a horrible mother, denying your baby of the nutrients he/she needs. I could see it in some of the (older) nurses eyes in the hospital after we noted that we were only thinking that bottle feeding might be the way to go, as we were at that stage. That look of, “well, just keep trying until the baby is absolutely starving and then we might just consider trying that heathen formula milk.” We had wanted to breastfeed, mainly because it’s natural, gives baby all they need and frankly, it’s cheaper, but were prepared to go with the flow with whatever Isaac decided. The nurses were not of this opinion. Breast is best! Breast is best! One of the nurses came in, took Isaac in her hands and practically smushed his face into my wife’s breast to try and get him to latch. Now, I’m not saying this method doesn’t work, some babies I’m sure will latch fairly quickly and there’ll be no problem. Isaac was screaming. Our baby, not even 12 hours old was being forced to do something he clearly didn’t want to. This continued over the next few days because as new parents we tended to do what we were told when it came to this sort of stuff. Still he screamed. And screamed and screamed and screamed.

Once we were home and had tried ourselves with no success we moved to formula. And he took to it with minimal fuss. Why, I have no idea, but he did and he was happy. And so were we. So to be told that by wanting our baby to have a full tummy and to give ourselves some peace of mind, we’ve doomed him for life with a lower IQ has made me very very angry.

The study itself is very vague and states that a number of other factors could also be responsible for the lower IQ, including upbringing and funnily enough, level of education.

So fuck anyone telling me that what we did for our baby was wrong.

Fuck anyone telling me that we’ve already lumbered our son with average intelligence.

And fuck the breastfeeding brigade getting up on their high horses with their “I told you so” faces.

We fed our son when he needed fed. He’s happy and healthy, and eating all the food we give to him and has done since we started weaning him before Christmas.

Rant over. 

Wednesday 1 April 2015

Rascal

We have discovered our tongue.



Also, if you can guess where the quote is from, you get a point.



brummymummyof2

Wednesday 11 March 2015

Sadface #wickedwednesdays

The wee man wasn't feeling the best yesterday, all tired and sad. So what did I do?

Took a picture of course.

*sniff*
And yes, I am aware that I am in dire need of a shave.

brummymummyof2

Thursday 5 March 2015

I SLEPT! I ACTUALLY SLEPT!

Isaac slept for nearly 11 hours straight last night. Which meant Jenny and I got 9 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Praise be to the gods.

That is all. 

This is us this morning.

Wednesday 4 March 2015

A Dad's Sense of Self


Hello, my name is Jonathan and I am my own man.

Or at least I was up until seven months ago. Up until Isaac was born.

Now please don’t think for a second that I’m resentful of the fact that my son being born stymied my life so much that it’s now irreparable. That couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s just that when you become a father, a parent, everything else sort of takes a backseat. The trouble is, as I’ve found, reclaiming your sense of self. But not necessarily because it’s difficult.

I used to go to the cinema a lot before the little man was born. It wasn’t my job or anything, but I sat in a darkened room in the Odyssey Cinema complex in Belfast at least once a week and reviewed what I watched for local website Belfast Times (click here to read what I thought of movies released over half a year ago). I loved it. I love writing about films as they’re a passion of mine.

When Isaac arrived that all stopped.

Again, not bemoaning the fact that the small matter of having a young child to look after overshadowed the obviously much more important act of reviewing the talkies, but it fell by the wayside. I always assumed I would get back into it eventually (more on that later.). As I was back at work since shortly after Isaac was born, and Jenny was on maternity leave, I couldn’t afford to take the time to go to the cinema. We live around half an hour away from the Odyssey, then I’d have to park, sit through the trailers, watch a two hour plus film, then half an hour back home. For sake of argument, let’s say that’s around 4 hours. As my son’s bedtime is around 7 PM, once I’m home from work I have around 90 minutes with him. Work being kind of necessary to pay the bills, I can’t do anything about that and I try to make the most of those 90 minutes, usually by wrestling on the floor or playing peek-a-boo, a game I’m still not sure which of us gets more enjoyment from. After seven, I’m not going to trek back up to Belfast to watch a film during the week. Especially seeing as my bedtime is around 9 o’clock these days.

But the weekends? They’re my time with my boy, and as much as I would love to go to the cinema I’m not taking four hours out of my Saturday or Sunday when I could be spending it wrestling or playing peek-a-boo. It ain’t going to happen. Also, I don’t think sodding off to the cinema and leaving the wife literally ‘holding the baby’ after she’s looked after him all week on her own would go down too well. So while I have (had) lost my sense of self in a way, it’s not like I feel bad about it. My self is just different now.

Jenny, by virtue of being housebound for a lot of the week, jumps at the chance to go out on a Friday night if asked. This isn’t a regular occurrence, once a month if that, but she always asks me if she can go out. Not because I’m a domineering husband or anything (if you met me, you’d automatically know that’s not the case) and needs my permission, but I think more because she knows I don’t often go out at nights since Issac was born – not that she does either; I can count on the fingers of one hand how many evenings there’s only been one of us in the house - and wants to make sure I’m fine with staying in, not because she doesn’t think I can’t look after the wee man or because she feels guilty.

And the truth is, yeah, I am fine with it. I love it. Even though Isaac’s usually in bed by the time she leaves, I love it being just me and him. For two reasons.

1)      Jenny gets to see her friends and not have to worry about Isaac for at least a few hours in the week.
2)      I get to catch up on my TV and gaming. Score!

Our friends too understand that we’re new parents, and accommodate our changed circumstances. We’ve had our pals over to our house for dinner and drinks more often after we’ve been parents than we did before because they understand that we can’t just drop everything and head out anymore. Yes, the length between shenanigans might be longer than it was before and definitely more subdued, but you can’t have everything. They know we’re not as flexible as we once were (in more ways than one) and change their plans accordingly. And I love them for that. The same goes for our parents; every Monday my mum and dad take Isaac for the afternoon, so Jenny can go about…whatever she needs/wants to do that day. It’s usually cleaning the house. It’s invaluable, and the benefits are twofold, Isaac gets time with his grandparents and, once again, Jenny gets some me-time, even if it is spent cleaning, though she’s one of those weirdos who actually likes cleaning.

But recently, with Jenny’s maternity leave coming to an end soon, we’ve discussed a kind of reshuffle in our lives. Nothing major but enough of a change so that we get back some semblance of ourselves. For Jenny, going back to work will probably help her get back to being ‘Jenny’ and not just ‘Mummy,’ although she will obviously always be that. And for me, well, I’m getting back into the reviewing game, as well as hopefully pursuing several other avenues that interest me, but I’ll still always be Daddy. These past seven months I’ve been solely Daddy and Jenny has been solely Mummy, not forced upon us (well…) but through choice. Anytime since July I could have got back into reviewing, or gone out for the night, I just didn’t want to. I wanted to spend as much time as possible with Isaac.

I still do, but I’d like to spend some time with my hobbies. My friends.  My wife.

Myself.

He’s old enough now and we’re both confident enough in our parenting, that the other person can go out for the night (on a schoolnight???) and not have it be A Big Deal. We’re also confident enough in our choice of babysitters that we can leave Isaac with them and not have to worry. Who knows, the wife and I might even be able to go on a date(!) soon without having to bring the baby bag along too.

I can’t wait to get my sense of self back.

I love my son more than life itself but I can’t wait to get back into feeling like me again.

It’s just that feeling like ‘me’ also means feeling like a dad now.

Which is the best my self has ever been.
brummymummyof2


Brilliant blog posts on HonestMum.com



The Dad Network

Saturday 21 February 2015

Babies = Lemmings


Did you ever play that game Lemmings?

You know, where dozens of little green haired dudes poured out of a tube at the start of the level, and whose onward march never ceased, meaning you had you had to build stuff to keep them from throwing themselves off cliffs, jumping into death traps, or getting stuck in places they’d never return from?

Yeah, looking after a crawling baby is exactly like that.

Except without the green hair.

You’re caring for a little near suicidal life form whose only purpose in life, at the minute anyway, is to cause themselves injury. I can’t take my eyes off him for a second or he’ll either have crawled under the bed, or fallen off it. He’ll either have bonked his head on the floor, on the wall or on me. Or get his fingers stuck in the door. Or dive head first off the sofa. Or BREAK MY XBOX!!!

Right now Isaac is crawling so fast and getting himself into lots of fun situations, but aside from the odd head bonk, he hasn’t done any of those above things yet - except for breaking my Xbox, sob (*) - but as much as I pretend the task of keeping him safe is insurmountable for the sake of a funny blog intro, it’s so great to see him up and about. Well, on his knees and crawling anyway. You’re probably sick of blogs where I tell you how proud I am of him, but I really really am. He’s only seven months and is flying about with a speed I wasn’t expecting at this early stage. I’m not going to say he’s advanced for his age because I think that’s a load of rubbish when anyone says it, as if there’s a set age when all babies just start doing something (“Oh, I’m eight months old now. Better start saying dada and baba”(**)) and any baby that does something at an earlier age than they’re “supposed” to is somehow ‘advanced.’

But going into this new stage of baby development is properly exciting and frustrating in equal measure. I can’t be too frustrated though, and I’m not. Not really. He’s only testing the boundaries and I have to accept that there will be bumps and bruises and falls and bonks along the way. It’s all part of growing up.

And he’s growing up fast.

He’s pulling himself up onto his feet now.

So advanced for his age, I’m telling you.

The cat is less excited.

(*) Don’t worry. It’s only temporarily broken. I hope.
(**) He is actually saying dada and baba now. Well before 8 months.

The Dad Network

Friday 6 February 2015

A Letter to my Boy.

Issac,

You’re six months old now and you seem to do something new nearly every day. I couldn’t be more proud of you. I know that all babies and all parents go through much the same processes and feelings at this age or thereabouts, but you’re the only one who’s mine.

Every time I see you do something you’ve not done before, or try your hardest to perfect something you’ve been working on for weeks I can’t help but smile and/or break into tears. Right now you’re trying so so hard to get up on those knees and start crawling and you’re almost almost there. Every time you manage to raise yourself up on your knees and try to hold that position for as long as possible, before faceplanting into the mattress, or usually the floor, my heart swells with pride. Or when you’re doing it and you pause for a second and look up at me and your mummy, big smile on your face, drool dripping down your chin, but with a look of sheer determination on your face (you get that frustrated frown from me, sorry), sometimes how happy I am is too much to bear.

There are days when I honestly can’t quite believe you’re here. That these last six months have been some amazing dream I’m going to wake up from. It usually happens when I’m just sitting watching you try out something new, and I realise that I’ve been just staring at you for ten minutes. Or when we’re playing horsey on my knee. Or when you laugh your head off when I sing the theme to The Pink Panther while you get your nappy changed. Or when you smile that big beautiful smile when you watch mummy and daddy dance around the kitchen like idiots just to make you smile that big beautiful smile. 

But you are here.

And you are mine.

And I love you so very much.

Dad. 

Friday 30 January 2015

*sigh*


















Time to baby proof, I guess.

Blogging. What is it good for?

I’ve been dad blogging for a while now. Until recently it was only a hobby. Now, well, it still is a hobby but it’s a hobby I share with other people. Previously I’d been writing it just for a bit of fun more for me and my wife to read rather than for public consumption but lately I’ve come to know - as much as you can know a group of online strangers – a network of fellow dad (and mum) bloggers whose trials and tribulations in the world of parenting I’ve found myself devouring these past few weeks.

It’s been eye opening, as well as reassuring.

I’ve written before about how despite what you see in fiction and in those perfect Facebook profiles of parents of apparent wonder kids, no one really has a handle on life, let alone the daunting world of parenting. As I think I said earlier, everyone is more or less winging it through their existence.  

And as much as it’s easy to convince myself of that, actually reading about the very same fact in black and white from other mums and dads is the most reassuring thing on the planet.

In fact I feel more confident in my parenting, by virtue of reading blogs where parents sound like they’re the least confident people on earth. It’s good to know that others struggle with feeding, dressing, sleeping, winding, existing. That weirdly makes me feel surer in myself, that what I’m doing – what we’re doing – difficult as it is, is going ok. Everyone will go through tough times as parents. Reading about other people’s tough times is almost comforting; sometimes because you read about someone who is having a far worse time than you making your problems seem tiny by comparison, sometimes it’s a hilarious tale that’s relatable to your current situation and gives you a much needed laugh, sometimes because you read about someone who’s going through exactly what you are and has advice. Or you can advise them. It’s a hobby that provides reciprocal support and help. 

Kinda like this, but not really.

Blogs are much better, in my humble opinion, than the thousands of cold, sterile ‘advice’ pages because, to use a fairly hyperbolic metaphor, the bloggers are in the trenches, and on the front line. An NHS page feels like it was written by a robot that’s never been near a real child, a blog is a real person pouring out their heart and soul (and sometimes, if you’ve read my blog, bile and vitriol) about how they’re finding the wonderful world of parenting.

And I’ve found it’s helped me to open up a bit more as well. Now, naturally I love my son, more than anything in the world. But that fact is taken as a given. This past week, I posted this to a private dad blogger network I’m part of on Facebook.


Nothing out of the ordinary, but I was admitting this to a group of men. Strangers on the internet. That sort of thing is almost unheard of in my circles. People I know in real life, my family, my friends, I wouldn’t just randomly profess my love of my son to them. It’s assumed, but I think the fact that I – and many others – happily gush about their offspring signifies a shift in how men interact with other men, or at least since I’ve become a part of such a group. It’s almost the opposite of what social media normally is all about, presenting a fake persona to impress any and all who view it. This was me, laying my soul bare and telling a group of like minded individuals - all dads - how I feel.

Me!

A man! (more or less)

Talking about my…feelings!

To other men!

And, not to put too much significance on, you know, talking, but I think it’s made me a better father (and a more prolific blogger). Or at least made me feel like what I’m doing as a father is right. It may not be perfect and it may not be how other fathers do it, but my son is happy and healthy and I’m the happiest I’ve been in my entire life.  

What more could I possibly ask for?







Well, more views on my blog would be nice.

=)


The Dad Network

Thursday 29 January 2015

The Smelling of the Arse


Picture the scene.

You’re sat at the dinner table with your partner, and either your or their parents. You’ve prepared a lovely dinner for everyone and as you’re halfway through the main course of a meal throughout which you’ve been regaling your family with some tale about that annoying fella at work, or this totally unbelievable thing that you saw today when you take a quick sniff of the air.

Then another.

And then your partner does the same.  

You both look at each other.

You then turn to ones of your guests and rhetorically ask - because you already know the answer - in a cutesy voice, “Have you shat yourself?”

And then you pick them up and smell their arse.

Wait, what?

Sounds weird, right? Except, in the past six months it’s a practice that’s become frighteningly normal. Although admittedly, it’s not mine’s or Jenny’s parents’ arse that I’ve been having a sniff of. It’s my son’s.

Now, I’ve done this so many times over the past half a year and I don’t even bat an eyelid anymore (unless it’s a particularly stinky nappy in which case I go blind for a few seconds) but this strangest thing is this form of doo doo deduction isn’t even that weird to the assembled masses. Well, those who already have kids anyway. God knows what childless folk think of it.

When you think about it as a rational human being, it’s disgusting. You’re literally sticking your nose as close as humanly possible to the rear end of someone you’re already pretty certain has soiled their britches.  I don’t know about you but if my wife, mother, father, anyone came up to me with an inkling that they’d shat themselves my first thought would not be to immediately smell their arse. I’d laugh my own arse off, sure. But smell yours? I’m not a dog.

“Here, mate. I think I’ve shit myself. Would you smell my arse and check?”
*dials 999*

Yet when it comes to Isaac I’m become a connoisseur of crap. I can tell whether this nappy will be a fairly solid one, or a dreaded wet one. I can tell the difference between a lingering wet fart smell and a definite poo. Yet despite my refined olfactory senses, I still defer to my wife to see what she thinks. It becomes something akin to a wine tasting – “Hmmm, it has nutty aroma that causes a sting in the back of the throat. And eyes.”


I don’t know why The Smelling of the Arse is such a big thing. It’s not like poo isn’t a distinctive smell. I mean, everyone knows what shit smells like.

And it ain’t roses.

Friday 23 January 2015

Superparents



My wife is a goddamn superhero.

I mean, she’d have to be to look after Isaac on her own for five days a week while I’m at work. In fact, all stay at home mums and dads must have some sort of superhero gene in their DNA that gets them through the day, while still managing to do other stuff.

Me? I don’t think I have that gene. Not that I’m not a good dad; I’m frickin’ great in my own humble opinion, but on the rare occasions that it’s just been me and Isaac in the house for a few hours, I’ve struggled to feed myself, let alone do all the things that Jenny manages to do while looking after him.

Did I wash any dishes? No.

Was I able to tidy anything up? Nah.

Was I able to put any washing on? Nope.

Did I even have a shower? Ha, you’re kidding, right?

Yet somehow, my amazing wife has it in her to not only keep the house in a state that I could not - i.e. liveable - she also then makes the dinner for the two of us whenever I get home so that I can have my time with Isaac before he goes to bed, an hour and a half or so after I get home from work.

And she manages to shower. Most days.

I wasn’t able to do anything between feeds on the one occasion (one!) I’ve been on my own with Isaac for longer than a few hours besides wait however long it was from the end of one feed until the start of the next. And that was only from 11AM til 4 in the afternoon, not the half 7 to half 5 shift that Jenny does every day.

Like I said…superhero.

I tell her she’s amazing, every day without fail. And sure, she tells me that some days are great while others are hellish, but I know she wouldn’t change it for the world.

Now, earlier on I said that I don’t think I have the superhero gene that my wife and countless other stay at home supermums and superdads have. And I know that’s not true. It’s there, dormant. I just haven’t had the time to hone my skills as my wife has as I have to go out to work every day. I’m fairly certain if I were the stay at home parent, I’d be just as good as my wife is.

Because I reckon everyone has the capacity to be a superhero.

And if you’re a stay at home parent, you already are one.

Just without the cape.
Brilliant blog posts on HonestMum.com

Birth



INT: Bedroom, 4.18AM

A man is lying, asleep in his bed when his phone rings.

Blearily he searches around for his mobile until it rings off. In his tired state, he wonders why someone is ringing at this hour even though in the back of his head he knows why. Then the house phone rings. He jumps out of bed, picks up the receiver, and groggily says ‘hello?’

On the other end of the line, his wife - sounding somewhat like she is in pain - says just four words:

“Get up here. Now!”

And so begins the longest, most amazing day of his life.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *         

The man is me.

In case you hadn’t worked that out.




I quickly got dressed, brushed my teeth, and was out the door within five minutes, motoring up to the hospital with all the speed I could muster at this ungodly hour. Jenny had been admitted to the hospital the day before for induction as we were 12 days overdue, and I had returned home only 5 hours previously after spending most of the day by her side at the hospital. I should have known that not long after I left things would start moving. And as I drove towards the Ulster hospital I, somehow, managed to keep all the fear I’d been feeling in the weeks prior at bay and just concentrated on being there for my wife as she is in labour.

I reach the maternity unit and go through the side doors (the main doors not being open at this time) and run up to the induction ward. My wife isn’t there. I begin to panic. Then a midwife tells me she’s been transferred to the home from home ward, a sort of hotel suite-like room that supposedly more comfortable to give birth in, and I panic even more. This is actually happening. Right now. Point of no return. I run to the home from home ward, and ask the nurse what room Jenny is in. Before she can answer I hear a familiar voice, only it’s not a voice at all; more of a noise that’s been twisted into something halfway between a guttural moan and a scream. It’s a noise I’ve never heard my wife make before, but still unmistakably her dulcet tones.

“She’s in room 2.”
“Thanks.”

I enter the room and see my wife, splayed out on the bed, legs akimbo, with a midwife walking around the room taking notes. At this stage I’ve no idea how long my wife has been in this position, and throughout the labour I don’t learn much more as it’s hard to get meaningful answers from someone in between the painful contractions. My main function for the next few hours was basically to stand next to the bed, hold my wife’s hand if and when she required some hand holding, dab her forehead with a wet, cold facecloth every so often and provide her with liquid refreshment whenever it was needed.

And most importantly to not, under any circumstances, go south of the border. I feared that if I looked at it my face would melt like yer man in Raiders of the Lost Ark. 



But the biggest thing that struck me about the whole labour bit is the length of it. I mean, it takes AGES. Literally hours. Hours during which nothing much of note happens, to the lay person, ie. me. According to the various midwives and nurses that came in and out, things were progressing nicely, a fact they could tell by looking at my wife’s hoo-hah for less than a second but for me, the hours passed so very very slowly. So much so, that after a while you sort of tune out the noises that occur simultaneously with the contractions. [FYI, and this may not be the case for all women but the noises my wife made varied from sounding like good, if painful, sex moans, gut wrenching yells and a few – though not many – honest-to-God ‘Ow’s’ at which I had to stifle my laughter at various points of the labour.] You become so used to these noises though that they no longer faze you – “Look, I know you’re in unimaginable pain but I’m trying to read the paper here.”

Because that’s another thing I took away from the labour; once you experience it and see everything that there is to see during the long drawn out process there’s very little that can faze you afterwards. I remember sitting in one of the first appointments we had, one where Jenny was getting the first of many internal examinations, and being embarrassed beyond belief at the fact that someone was sticking their hand up my wife. Now? I was thinking of selling tickets. If I’d charged a fiver for everyone that had a gawp down below during labour (and the days afterwards) I’d probably have about £100. Well, £95 actually. As there was one time, despite promising my wife that I wouldn’t look, I caught a glimpse of the…area in an unfortunately placed mirror. And while those things aren’t particularly attractive at the best of times, they’re much much much worse during labour. All angry and red, like a Cornish pasty someone’s trying to force open from the inside. Sorry for that image.

As the hours went by and there wasn’t much movement the midwife suggested we get into the pool. Well, just Jenny. It’d be a bit weird if all three of us got in. Although apparently some partners do. I was not going to be one of them. If you saw the colour the water in the pool ends up as (like weak Ribena), you wouldn’t want to get in it. And so we moved on to another really weird moment where Jenny, naked but for a bra, was in the birthing pool on all fours, yelling and screaming as the contractions came and went with me just standing there not knowing where to look. The midwife, however, did not have that problem and every so often whipped out a mirror on a stick and look between my wife’s legs. In an effort to move things along the midwife advised Jenny to sort of make a figure of 8 with her bum while moving back and forth. I couldn’t help but think this is what got us into this mess in the first place, Jenny wiggling her arse at me, but I didn’t share that particular thought at this time.

But still, nothing. So the midwife said that we would be taken up to the ward and that baby Isaac would have to be a forceps delivery due to him being in an awkward position and not really wanting to come out naturally despite being fully cooked. We hadn’t planned for this, and while we did have a preferred birth plan it was very much a ‘go with the flow’ situation. If we’d needed to have a C-section, we would have, so if forceps is what the midwife thinks is best, forceps it is. Jenny gets carted up to the ward on the bed, yelling as she goes, while I make awkward, embarrassed ‘Women, eh?’ faces to anyone we happen to pass despite this being the maternity ward where everyone is used to this kind of thing. They raise Jenny up on the bed, take away the bottom part of the bed so her legs dangle, and then a doctor that we’ve never met before comes in and basically comes face to uh, face with my wife’s business. What? No introductions?

She begins to unwrap the forceps, which are instruments I’ve never seen before and good god, they are terrifying looking machines of torture. You know that bit in Batman when the Joker is at the surgery getting his face reconstructed having fallen into the vat of chemicals? They’re like that. She puts together the forceps which are basically giant, sterile salad tongs, asks Jenny if she’d like any gas and air (Jenny, wisely, says yes) and goes to work. At this stage this labour and birth lark is beginning to resemble something that I recognise from TV and film; lady on the bed, doctor between her legs, and partner by the side of the bed holding her hand as she pushes. This is what I expected. What I hadn’t expected though was the doctor basically playing tug of war with my son’s head, as she tries to bring him into this world. I think she may have had her foot on the edge of the bed to give herself more purchase.

So there I am, holding my wife’s hand as she pushes, with the doctor working the forceps, and after three or four big pushes, a lot of yelling and even more gas and air I can see the head. I feel myself start to well up, so I blink away the tears and focus on my wife. One final push and I hear a little cry. I vaguely remember my eyes going super wide for a split second and I look round to see a little baby, covered in goo and blood, all red and squidgy. I look a bit closer and the midwife moves her hand to show me whether it’s a boy or a girl. I can see his little willy but I can’t speak right now. I think the midwife thought that I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, despite having a willy of my own for most, if not all, of my life, and said “it’s a boy.” I turn to Jenny, and in the time it takes for me to turn my head from the midwife to my beautiful wife I’ve started full on crying, and say to her ‘it’s a wee boy.’

Little Isaac.

All the assembled nurses, midwives and doctors take him away for a minute to do something – I honestly can’t remember – then bring him back and set him on top of Jenny.

Where he promptly does his first poo.

Jenny doesn’t care. Partly because she’s so high on gas and air at this point, but probably more because she has her baby boy in her arms.

Another nurse comes in and stitches Jenny up, and then another comes in and gives her a bed bath. Both of which were pretty weird, but I can’t really comment on those because by that stage I was holding my son and the whole world melted away.

Jenny had just done the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, and I’d been standing next to her all day just marvelling at this miracle of life.

It had been a long day of standing.

My feet were bloody killing me.

I didn’t tell Jenny that though.