Eat it while you can

Pregnancy means it is open season on the wallet. And the first (of many) gasket to blow is the weekly food budget. ‘Organic, free-range’ are no no longer just words used by chardonnay hippies-to describe their personal hygiene. ‘Use By Dates‘, no longer just recommendations, become stressful deadlines.

While there are a few foods that may disappear from your fridge – Blue Cheese. Cooked Meats –  by and large, your kitchen will fill up with the most exotic, most expensive items from the supermarket – corn-fed chicken breasts, mini yogurt pots, chocolate deserts, fresh fruit and veg, protein shakes.

Sadly, this will also offset any gains you may have felt from halving the weekly booze spend.

So my advice to blokes is this; ride that pregnancy gravy train hard. Get your money’s worth. Because while your better half may crave all the expensive food you’ve bought together,  half the time she’ll be too sick to eat it. And once the food gets within even a sniff of it’s use-by date, forget about it.  Better that it finds a home in your belly.

And what a big belly that can become. After about the 4th month, I began to question who, in this relationship, was actually pregnant.

In her first trimester, my wife lost about 4Kg. (Awesome.) Partly this was due to morning-sickness and a lack of appetite. Mostly (we think) it was because she stopped drinking.  And though she has since crept slowly back up to, and just past, her original weight, I swear she has not put on as much as me.

But then, I have also been drinking for two.

"Cough, cough, tossers, cough"

Make no mistake about it. Simple Minds was never more than a poor man’s U2. An 80’s footnote, saved from complete historical obscurity only by continued, nostalgic television repeats of the movie ‘The Breakfast Club’.

The lead singer, Jim Kerr, is now a portly Glaswegian ex-sushi restaurateur. Says it all, really.

Having clearly stated my position, I should point out that the title of this article is a direct reference the second (and thankfully final) blip on their otherwise flat-lining career. Because my unborn child is – in the Sashimi-stuffed-face words of Mr Kerr himself – “Oooh oh oh, alive and kicking.. ooh woh-oh-woh-oh-woh yeah.” (etc, etc, ad very, very nauseum)

Though, to be honest, prodding is probably a more apt description.

In fact, anatomically speaking, it’s hard to tell whether what I’m feeling is even a kick, a punch or, ironically enough, a Glaswegian Kiss.

It’s a sensation not unlike shaking hands with the effete husband of a wife’s colleague, moments before sitting down to dinner, and being presented with the loose, cold grip of a plucked chicken foot. Weak, but weirdly thrilling.

At least my kid has the excuse of being barely bigger than a Care Bear. A one centimeter foot on the end of a 2 inch leg (“Woah there fella.. easy on the Metric/Imperial double analogy!”) is unlikely to make much of a dent on the average abdominal wall. Not a lot of room in the womb for a decent swing, either.

It’s an unusual sensation, feeling similar to the gentle passing of a bolus of wind, just beneath the surface of the skin (in lay terms.. a fart). Which mean that, in the weeks leading up to the first kick, there was endless, confusing speculation as to what the hell we were supposed to be feeling anyway.

Every book, website, forum, and bloke-down-the-pub describes it simply as a ‘flutter‘. But what’s a flutter supposed to feel like anyway? Nerves before a big test? Constipation? A trapped gerbil?

They also say that, the second time round, with the benefit of experience, you will feel baby moving much earlier on. But what shitting good is that to us know? Huh!?

Still, I smell an opportunity to cash in on the many, expensive fears of first motherhood. It’s only a rough idea, but i’m thinking of some sort of electric touch pad strapped to the belly, causing muscle palpitations that resemble baby’s movement.

It could have the added benefit of toning pregnant abs at the same time… good for her, and good for him too!

Of course, it may also cause a miscarriage. Or, at the least, some sort of tinsel-haired electro-baby.

As I say, it needs work.

Till then, however eager we are to feel more, and stronger kicking action, we are ever mindful that, soon enough, we’ll be wishing our little cage fighter would learn to keep it’s GODDAMN HANDS TO ITSELF FOR A CHANGE!

That is, indeed, a frosty question.

I have been on, what can only be described as, a rather lame quest this last month. Trying to find the most non-alcoholic, alcoholic-looking drink. And it’s highlighting how goddamn hard it is to order a drink, anywhere, without alcohol in it, if you’re not willing to simply settle with ‘ordering off the kids menu‘.

Emma, with good reason, has decided to drop the booze altogether. You can debate all you like about how ‘just a drop’ won’t harm you baby, but… what fun is ‘just a drop’ anyway?

And while there may be as much research to suggest that drinking in moderation while pregnant is ‘unlikely to harm’, as there is research to suggest the opposite – there is absolutely ZERO research suggesting that it might be, in any way, ‘good for the baby’.

So why bother?

Easy for me to say, right?

Well, not exactly. Women only have to suffer the pain of not drinking. Men must suffer the pain of drinking alone. The guilt of cracking open a frosty beer while their rotund loved-one makes sad eyes at you over her glass of lemonade.

Emma has even suggested I have a month without alcohol, in support.

Ridiculous.

But – which brings me back to my lame quest – I have decided I can no longer live with the guilt of drinking beer if Emma can’t join me. So I have set about tracking down the best, the most authentic, zero % alcohol beer.

Which, in a country of alcoholics, is no mean feat.

4 bottle shops I visited one Friday night last month, clutching a cooling wrap of fish and chips to my chest, desperately seeking a beer that was, quite literally alcohol free. And I’m not talking about those namby-pamby, sober driver alcohol-reduced beers. I mean the real stuff. Alcohol actually physically removed.

I’d heard a rumour about a German beer, Bitburger Drive, which was zero alcohol, but didn’t taste like bathwater run through a soda stream. As a full blooded Kiwi bloke, it takes courage to go from bottle store to bottle store asking for a beer without zero alcohol. Always having to qualify it with the line, ‘it’s for the wife. she’s up the duff’.

Even with such a seemingly valid excuse, it is still an experience akin to a recently released pedophile going door to door advising his new neighbors of his recently rehabilitated crimes. Before you mention the wife, people look you up and down, either sadly, like you’re a recovering alcoholic, or sideways, like your plain fruity. After you explain at length who it’s actually for, there’s still the stigma of judgement… “how irresponsible, letting a pregnant woman drink beer like that. tsk”

In fact, my wife and I are fast discovering how badly geared this part of the world is for those who, whether by force, circumstance, or choice, can’t drink alcohol, but don’t want to spend all evening sipping fruity cocktails in the colors of traffic lights, or endless glasses of orange juice.

Some bars or restaurants will do a virgin Mojito. Most just cock it up and serve you posh L&P, at $10/glass. Nobody, anywhere, stocks no-alcohol beer, wine or bubbly. Like only a nutter would bother ordering it. Or a pregnant woman.

Is there a difference?

And anyway, isn’t there meant to be some sort of a baby boom on? Surely there’s a massive gap in the market? Or am I just seeing lot’s of pregnant woman, now that I’m with one?

The good news is, I eventually found my Bitburger Drive. And it does actually tastes like beer, but with less than 0.05% alcohol. Apparently they brew it like normal beer, then surgically remove the booze at the last minute. Or something along those lines. It’s really not too bad.

Not that I’ll be touching any of it, mind. Alcohol-free beer? What are you, queer?!

I found it, across town, sitting on a surprisingly plump shelf of other non-Alcoholic choices in the booze section of New World Ponsonby. The home of yummy mummys, and recovering media alcoholics.

I guess I just live in a suburb with too many baby boomers. And they’re all busy drinking themselves to death.

A Lucky Strike?

In the days and weeks leading up to my wedding, it has been by far the most asked question. Which has left me a little curious as to most people’s motivation for getting married. Why should I be nervous? It’s a party, after all, not an execution. Isn’t it..?

I have, therefore, until today, been laughing off the question with my typically weak attempts at affable candour.

And I say ‘until today’ because today is my wedding day. And yes, predictably, I am nervous. Thanks for asking.

But it’s not the idea of marriage, that is making me nervous. Nor is it any doubts that I have chosen the right person. I don’t believe you get married in your 30s on a whim, or are forced into an arranged union by an extended, and heavily armed family (subtle hints, with menacing undertones, from your Mother-in-Law notwithstanding). So there should be no doubt.

But it is the occasion, the ceremony, the speeches, and the wacky uncle with both a metaphysical, and literal, can of worms up his sleeve, than brings on a minor case of the jitters.

I am probably also nervous at being twenty grand poorer tomorrow. But I will at least be better dressed.

And our child-to-be can enter the world safe in the knowledge that a God who doesn’t exist will not send him to an imaginary place called Hell for being born out-of-wedlock. Just.

Although, I have requested, of said wacky uncle, that he brings an unloaded shotgun for the photographs, to give us something to hold over the child in years to come (as a sort of psychological punishment when he/she is acting up).

“It’s your fault we had to get married,” etc.

Asking an uncle to bring a shotgun to a wedding? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

At least I will have no-one else to blame, when that can of worms does eventually (and at a wedding, it always does) pop.

Not quite, but almost.

It is Monday, and I am at work with an unfamiliar feeling – the two day hangover. Saturday was my Stag party. I know it finished around dawn. I’m just can’t seem to remember how. Or why.

In 6 days I will be married. It is fair to assume that my hangover will pass well before then.  Ready to return the day after.

The Hen’s night, by contrast, was an expectedly tame affair. Half the girls were either pregnant or breast feeding. Chocolate and rude toys will only get you so far. It takes a stiff drink (or 10) to finish the job.

All night benders are definitely a young man’s game. And more than that, a young, childless man’s game.

On Sunday morning I was booked for 11am to attend the 2 year birthday of my godson, Gus, over from London with his mum and dad (one of my groomsmen). By cruel twist of fate, it was also daylight savings, so in real person time, the party started at 10am.

I have, in the past, shown some spectacular skills when it comes to meeting obligations in the face of self inflicted adversity. But it is a skill that withers without practise. And man, when you are in love, you get very little practise.

Hanging out with 100-mile-an-hour 2 yo Gus for a couple of hours the day after my Stag party did learn me one thing – kids and hangovers do not mix. Ever.

I was, at least, able to leave him in the early afternoon to lie on the couch for 3 hours with a bag of frozen peas on my face, sobbing. In just less than 6months time, I won’t have that luxury.

If all accounts are to be believed, it is unlikely that I’ll be able to stay up beyond 9pm anyway. So I may have nothing to worry about.

Tom’s wife gave birth to their first in April this year. The baby is now at that magic age, old enough to take to the pub in a basinet, too young to run around uncontrollably.

Life has been, till this point, full of opportunities to meet babies. And everytime has been much the same; explaining how cute the baby is and appearing interested, while secretly hoping they don’t ask you to hold it, and speculatively sniffing the air in anticipation of shit. “26 hours of labour? Really? That is fascinating.”

But this time, the first time meeting a baby since we began brewing one ourselves, resonated more personally. And so, naturually, do the stories of new parents.

Over perhaps one or two more beers than a responsible dad should have, Tom answered my many questions about father hood.  But the one that resonated the most for both of us was when I mentioned how the excitement of conception quickly gives way to the worry of everything going pear shaped.

Worry all through the first 12 weeks that it’ll simply come out. Worry at the first scan that they won’t find a heartbeat. Worry at the chromosomal test that it’ll have Down’s Syndrome. Worry at the anatomical scan that they’ll find a cleft palate.

“Wait until it’s born,” he replied. You might drop it, it could get ill, it could turn out deaf, you could crash the car while the baby is in the back, it could fall out of a tree, a tree could even fall on it. And all the way through, at evena hint of something wrong, you will willingly hand over your wallet (and one testicle) to any and all manner of professional or quack, just for a little peace of mind.

The idea of having kids is a flighty, romantic notion. It’s easy to overlook the fact that you are bringing a new life into the world. A permanent life. Someone who will be dependent on you for at least the next 20 years. Longer, if you don’t raise them right.

Aspirations of bringing up a rocket scientist, a doctors, or an olympic athlete may well come later. For now, parent hood seems like the great leveller, the biggest worry I have right now, is that it just turns out normal.

It’s probably better that you don’t know all this ahead. Or it is unlikely that anyone would ever be born.

Appetite returning. Taste in music not.

Meatloaf sang it, and he should know. He’s practically pregnant, the fat bastard.

14 weeks and Emma is officially out of the first Trimester, out of the closet (not that closet) and out of the nausea woods.

Well, almost.

It’s not like you wake up on the 1st day of the 15th week and stop puking. It’s more a gradual fade – the periods of queasyness gradually being replaced by longer periods of feeling relatively human.

Her appetite has returned, tempered by the knowledge that she has to sqeeze into a wedding dress in a couple of weeks. It is still something of a worry. She is dying to, for want of a better way of phrasing it, ‘let it all hang out’. She has a week in Noosa on honeymoon to relax her abdominals. Although, technically, should should be starting Kegel exercises.

Does it ever end?

It doesn’t look like it.

She has the cravings again for the odd flat white coffee. One a day limit, of course.

The faintest beginnings of a bump is starting. Lying flat on her back, a hard, round area is softening the lines of Emma’s pelvic bones. I suggested we strap it into place. I wondered if there is a medical term for stunted growth in a baby due to corsetting it into a wedding dress. Perhaps we could invent one, and name it ourselves?

We saw the Obstetrician again and checked into Birthcare for ante-natal classes in January. A class full of hot sweaty mothers-to-be in the heat of summer. Joy.

Remarkably you get 3 nights free in a posh step down room while they teach you how to look after baby. I was at first bowled over by such an act of publicly funded generosity, until my mother reminded me that she stayed, for free, in hospital for over a week. Another way to save beds, eh?

Still, it’s just a 2 minute stroll through the park from home. If it’s on a Saturday I’ll be able to pick up a couple of pain-au-chocolates from the Farmers Market in the carpark of the blind institute. How very f**king middle class and white of me.

Or maybe I’m just starting to accept who I am. Must be what kids do for you.

Why don’t you write a song about that, Lard-loaf.

Cougars beware.

Private hospitals have a reassuringly sterile, if not exactly posh, decor. Carpets of a muted hue, Formica & wooden work surfaces, and any odour of diseases quietly extracted and replaced with the vodka notes of hand disinfectant pumps.

It says ‘we’re presentable, but we’ve spent our money on nurses and fancy machines, not marble desks and a Ralph Hotere’.

We were at Ascot hospital for our 12 week scan to determine the odds that our baby might be short a few chromosomes.

At 31 (Emma’s age – but don’t tell her I told you) the odds of conceiving a baby with Down’s Syndrome is 1 in 500. Higher than I thought. The ultrasound technician showed me a graph, starting at 15 yo, where the odds are about 1 in 2000 (go teenage pregnancy!), climbing gradually to 35 yo, then exponentially shooting upwards towards 50, where you are pretty much guaranteed the gift of genetic misfortune.

The New Zealand government currently subsidises 2 scans, which help determine the odds of chromosomal abnormality. An ultrasound at 12 weeks, and a blood chemistry at about 18 weeks. Together they provide about an 80% accuracy of the odds.

There is also a new blood test, at around 9 weeks, which bumps this up to 95% accuracy. This is not funded by the government yet, however nervous first parents are easily talked into it, after all, what is an extra $120 on top of the cost of private birth-care, doing up the nursery, moving to a bigger house, buying school clothes, bailing your kids out of jail, etc etc (ad finitum).

We stumped for it ourselves,  but I’m beginning to think our second born will recieve borderline criminally negligent levels of care, by comparison to the bells and whistles we’re lavishing upon this trial run fetus.

The technician jellied Emma up and started the scan. Like the two scans before, my heart skipped a few beats until I could clearly establish the baby’s own heart beat, and I was again convinced it was real.

She took her initial examinations and, with experience of one who must spend all day faced with expectant parents’ barely concealed expressions that read ‘Well..spit it out!”, quickly advised us that everything looked ‘just fine’.

She did a run through of the limbs,  fingers,  organs (not that organ…yet), and measured it at 6 odd centimetres. The baby was twitching away, had doubled in size since 2 weeks ago and, for all purposes, actually looked like a baby.

Never before in my life had I felt sympathy towards the views of hard line pro-life campaigners. Although still disagreeing with their fundamental argument, I am starting to understand why they get so worked up.

My mother put it well.. in her day, pregnancy didn’t mean much until your belly began to stick out and the baby kicks – a good 4 or 5 weeks still to go. Technology has allowed parents of my generation bond with their unborn child at a much earlier stage. This is good, I suppose. Provided nothing goes wrong.

So far so good. The technician put the results through ‘the computer’ and gave us our chart. Our age-adjusted odds of the ‘big three’ chromosomal abnormalities was been revised down from 1 in 500,  to around 1 in 8000.  About the same odds as winning Lotto division 4.

That afternoon I went out an blew $20 on a lucky dip ticket. My fingers are crossed that I lose.

However, when Emma P (the wife of my oldest friend, Sam) emailed to confirm details for their impending arrival from London for our wedding, and mentioned, in passing, that she had a dream recently where she was at our wedding, and the bride (my Emma) was 2 months pregnant, even I got goosebumps.

Honestly… what a girl’s blouse.

It is another week or so until our 12 week scan, and release (under the Official Preggo Information Act) of full details to the wider public. So I had to bite my fist and reply ‘oh, yes, isn’t that a funny dream’.

It is indeed a funny dream. It will be even funnier when they arrive in NZ and I can actually tell them. But a premonition? Some sort of maternal psychic powers (Emma and Sam have 2yo Angus, the first baby born of my long term friends)?

It is unlikely.

I’d put it down to a numbers game. We are surrounded by nesting couples in their early to mid 30s. It is impossible to log into Facebook, without seeing yet another mugshot of a squashed, new born face. It’s a wonder they don’t simply rename it Babyfacebook.

For now, for us, the grand concealment conspiracy continues. At least for another week or so. My only concern is, when it’s finally OK to break the news, we’ll be so over it (and so good at keeping quiet) that it will be somewhat of an anti climax.

Perhaps we’ll just let Facebook tell the news for us instead.

Have tissues ready. And a bucket.

This is not a film review. But if it was, it would be 2 stars. And by 2, I mean zero.

My mother suggested I watch a movie called Marley & Me (Owen Wilson, Jennifer Anniston and their pet dog, Marley). She said it resonated with her experiences of starting a family. Particularly, I think, raising two uncontollable boys.

To me the movie was about a couple who’d taken home the retard dog of a litter by accident and – in spite of years of it eating the sofa, smashing windows, pissing off the neighbours, pissing in the house and nearly mauling their new born children – lacked the balls to do anything about it.

“They should have just put down the goddamn dog,” I told her.

“It was a metaphor for the unpredictability of starting a new family”, she said. “I think we need to talk about what that says about how prepared you are to have kids?”

“I think we need to talk about what sort of movies you think I’m into,” I replied.

Throughout the movie, the narrator seemed perpetually unhappy at the prospect of having kids, then, when he was eventually coerced into becoming dad, he was forever jealous of his handsome friend who, having smartly remained single and childless, was tapping anything that rollerskated and fast becoming the most respected journalist in the world.

The message seemed to be ‘have kids / give up on life’.

Is this really the message my mother was trying to tell me?