INTRODUCING. ..

Little man arrived on Friday 18th July at 11.25am.

8lbs 5oz.

Isaac Nathan Cardwell. 

Couldn't be happier.

I'm going to get a sign

I’m going to get a sign. It’s going to have about 4 statements on it that whenever anyone in work comes up to ask my about the impending birth, I’m just going to Wil E Coyote them, say nothing and raise my sign.

1. No, baby’s not here yet.
2. Jenny’s doing fine.
3. It’s just a matter of waiting now.
4. A wee bit nervous, yes.

Now, before you think I’m just being my usual dickish self – and I partly agree, I am – I get asked these questions every single day. By the same four people. I don’t mind them once or twice in a week, but five days a week, without fail is beginning to grate. 

Like this, but with "Eff aff!" on the sign.

I’ll address the points head on by giving the answers I’d actually love to give…

1. If the baby had been born between you asking me yesterday and now, do you think I’d still be in work?
2. No, she’s actually got terrible aches and pains, and is increasingly tired as she’s not getting much sleep.
3. Well, I tried shouting at the baby to come out of Jenny’s belly, but nothing happened so I guess we’ll just have to keep waiting. Bloody babies, eh? Not arriving when you want them to.
4. Of course I’m fucking nervous. What do you think?

Sometimes I hate people.

Sorry for the splurge.

....said the actress to the bishop.

I'd a load of posts saved up and not published for some reason.

So, imagine these have been trickling out over the past month.

Cheers

The Fear

I think the fear – sorry, The Fear – has finally hit me.

Last night we talked about how our due date is only 17 days away. (I originally wrote this on 19/06/2014) That’s not very long at all. This whole pregnancy, while I obviously understood that it was very real, seemed like something that was waaaaaaay in the future, and I’d almost become accustomed to Jenny being pregnant that I assumed she’d just always be walking around with the bump and that would be it.

But no, baby has to come out.

And he’s/she’s coming soon.

When I say the fear – sorry, The Fear - I don’t mean I’m terrified. Not all the time anyway. When I properly take the time to think about the impending birth and everything afterwards, I can be pragmatic and calm and I’m fine with it. It’s those moments where I’m caught unawares – when I’m sitting in work or driving home or writing an blog post – when a thought dawns on me all of a sudden and I get that feeling in the pit of my stomach, and sometimes I make an involuntary “Guhhhh” sound.

It feels like that moment when you’re just about to go over the big drop on a roller coaster, or the fear you feel when you worry that you’ve just got your head stuck in something. That momentary panic that’s gone as quickly as it arrived. I get that twenty times a day. I don’t know how my wife is able to get through the day, with a constant reminder (one that stops her from seeing her feet) that soon she’ll have to push this little bambino out. Of her body. Through her lady parts. Frankly, if I were her I’d be a wreck, curled up in the corner, ironically, in the foetal position. That she and all pregnant women throughout the ages haven’t is a testament to her, and your, strength. Women, you are awesome.

But the truth is its not real terror. I guess calling it the fear – sorry, The Fear – is a bit much. I mean, I am scared but it’s a happy scared. I’ll have a baby soon. We’ll have a baby soon. And that’s great.

‘Nervous apprehension’ would be a better term.

But the fear – sorry, The Fear – is catchier.

“The Waiting Game sucks, let’s play Hungry Hungry Hippos”

It’s Monday the 7^th July. Our due date was yesterday.

Now I’m not saying I was expecting the little one to be born on that exact date, but after a trip to the consultant on Friday during which we were told that we were very favourable and that baby was more than likely to arrive soon, we did very little over the weekend and didn’t stray too far from home. Or from each other for that matter.

It turned the entire three day weekend into one of those lazy restless Sundays, where you’re just bumming about the house, not knowing what to do and just wiling away the hours (that go by interminably slowly) waiting for bedtime/Monday morning/something to happen.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

It’s incredibly frustrating, just waiting and waiting so over the weekend we tried a variety of different methods to ‘encourage’ the little one. Jenny had a bath with some sort of…stuff, that supposedly can kickstart labour. Didn’t work. We drove over a bumpy road, twice. Nothing. We had spicy food all three nights. Nada. Jenny bounced on the exercise ball like her life depended on it. Zip.

We haven’t tried sex yet. Mainly because a) as we noted before, pregnancy sex is all kinds of weird, and b) at the consultant appointment Jenny had a sweep, which is exactly what it sounds like. The doctor stuck two fingers up my missus, had a feel around, and told us she could feel the baby’s head. So if she can feel that with her fingers, I’ve no doubt I could feel it with my wang. Unless, as I didn’t really look at how far the doctor was all up in my wife, she was like wrist deep in my wife’s lady parts. I don’t think my manhood is that long. But still, I would be like Seth Rogen in Knocked Up, not wanting to poke my baby in the face with my dick.

So we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock….

Disgusting Pregnancy Thing #106 – Leaky boobs

Jenny woke up the other morning and told me that she’d sprung a leak. FROM HER BOOBS. All over her top and some of the bed. The milk had crusted over a bit.

I had to witness it, so I’m just planting that lovely visual in your head so I’m not the only one who has to think about it.

Bye.

Sensible enough?

Every so often, usually when I’m lying in bed unable to sleep, I start thinking. This, already, is a bad thing. Oft times it’s nothing of any importance or merit, but lately thoughts creep into my mind about my parental fitness, and how I don’t think I’m ready to be a father to a helpless little baby.

Now I’m sure everyone has these thoughts at some point, even whenever they’re not staring down the barrel of impending fatherhood. In fact I’ve written before about this subject. About how I feel like I should be acting my age more, even though I don’t really know what that means. Does the fact that I’m soon to become a father mean I have to become a boring old fart? I don’t feel as though I’m mature enough to be responsible for another life. I can barely take care of myself. I mean right now I’m wearing a Justice League t-shirt, Captain America socks and I’m pretty sure I have my Spiderman underoos on too. Does that sound like a man who’s only a few weeks away from fatherhood? People who are soon to be or already are parents are surely more grown up than this, right?

Once again, I’m sure everybody feels that way about other people, as if everyone else got their life together and you’re the only person in the world who hasn’t. That’s a fairly common fear that, one assumes, is completely unfounded. NO-ONE knows what they’re doing. Everyone is more or less winging it through life.

Never more so, again, one assumes, when it comes to babies. You can, and I have, read a lot of baby books, been to all the classes, discussed things at length with my wife, my parents, and my friends but still nothing will prepare you for your own baby and how it’s going to fit in to your life.

But in that previous blog I wrote about how when circumstances change I’ll no doubt have to adjust my maturity scale further, but on reflection I don’t think that’s true. Well, I do, but I don’t as well. I’ll have to change aspects of my life of course, but I’m not going to stop being who I am. The balance just has to shift a little in favour of being more grown up. I’ll not be leaving my newborn child to fend for themselves while I go off out gallivanting. At the very least, I’ll leave him/her with my wife while I go off out gallivanting.

Thing is though, everyone is sensible enough. You don’t normally enter into these things unless you mean to but even if you do your natural instincts kick in and at the very least you know the basics. Provided you’re not profoundly stupid and can take care of yourself reasonably well, you’re sensible enough to look after a baby. You’re kind of forced to be. And that’s a good thing. After all, strip away all the paraphernalia and its just common sense. Everyone has common sense.

And besides, if Billy Bob and Mary Sue who have more kids than teeth can do it, surely you can too?

Guessing Games

If you’ve hazarded a guess at what the sex of my child is going to be, why don’t you hazard a guess at the chances that I hate you?

I’ll save you the bother. 100%.

And if you also happen to be right, and say something along the lines of “Didn’t I tell you?” I’ll hate you even more. I’ll 1000% hate you. I’ll hate you ten times more than it’s actually possible to hate someone. That’s how much I’ll hate you.

Now you might say that I’m overreacting. I might tell you to fuck off. Guessing the sex of a child is hardly in the same realm as a high stakes poker game. It can literally only be one of two choices. 50/50, split straight down the middle. Mathematically speaking, there’s a 50% chance that you’re right. And you’ll act like you based that one in a million shot on some sort of old wives tale that if pregnant ladies bumps are this way so therefore it’s a boy. And if you’re right you’ll continue to perpetuate that myth until you’re proven wrong, in which case you’ll say that the baby was a fluke of nature or something.

The only time I’ll be impressed by a guess is if you think the baby will be a velociraptor, and it is.

Although if that happens that’ll be the least of my worries, one assumes.