Just Dad Water

New Life (Labour Part 2)

2013-01-12T01:22:00.003-08:00

I suppose it's high time I continued this merry tale. But fear not: your waiting has not been in vain; for it does give you some insight into just how drawn out the whole process of labour feels.

So when last we spoke, Wifey had finally been granted an epidural after some 28 hours of contractions. The thing about epidurals is that they don't always work.

Fortunately for us, this was not the case.

The other thing about epidurals is that a lot of the time when they do work, they quite often bring such relaxation, that contractions slow enormously, effectively putting Baby on a stop-work. This did happen to us. Moments earlier we'd been on track to imminent, screaming natural birth. Now we found ourselves in the eye of the storm: the pain may have disappeared, but there was also a distinct lack of progress... For a time the animal mews and hoots ceased and sleep (of sorts) took us - that is to say, the kind of sleep you can get in between two hospital chairs at the bedside where your wife has spent the last 9 hours heaving in pain.

Periodically my "slumber" was interrupted by midwives bustling in and out, checking the bleating machine that was still strapped to Wifey's bulge. I watched vehicles come and go from Emergency below, their red and blue lights dancing across the walls. I watched nurses come and go from the car park. I watched dawn break with a pink sky promising more of Christmas Day's 'refreshing' weather. I made serious headway on the weighty novels that inspired the HBO series Game of Thrones. Meanwhile, Baby did bugger-all.

And this started to become of some concern; you see, without contractions, labour kind of ceases to be labour and without labour, babies don't get born... well, not by their "natural" path anyway. So, steps were taken to ensure contractions continued: syntocin was added to the drip (with all the fluids that get pumped into a woman on epidural) - this is the synthetic version of oxytocin, the hormone that brings on labour.

Apart from that not a lot happened. Unless I left the room, that is....

Absence number one occurred when I was outside the Birth Unit updating the in-laws on Wifey's progress. When I returned the room was a whir: I was at the ugly end of Wifey's pushing under the enthusiastic instruction of a midwife, one leg up, gripping her ankles in a kind of sideways tuck. I have long-believed myself to have a special bond with the ocean, one that is manifested by my ability to summons waves by rolling off my board for a swim, thus being entirely unprepared for their arrival. Was it possible that this extended to labour also? Would I spend 30 hours diligently by Wifey's side, only for Baby to arrive in the few minutes I was away?

Alas, no. Baby was in distress: her heart rate had dropped and they weren't sure why. This news could have sent shockwaves through me, but at this end of an all-but sleepless Christmas and surrounded by confident-looking professionals, I simply fell back into my post at Wifey's side and took up my roles of hand-squeezer and "You're doing really well!"-sayer. A rod was slipped up "there" and a monitor clipped to Baby's head. This gave a more accurate reading of Baby's heart rate, which either thanks to lack of faulty monitor, or a whole lot of excitement, was looking good again. Once more we settled and I found distraction in George R. R. Martin's fantasy world.

The next absence saw me depart in search of food in the downstairs cafeteria. Once more there was movement at the station. The epidural had worn off and the animal noises had returned. There was a doctor checking "down there" and pleas for an end renewed from Wifey. Could this be the wave?

Well, not quite... After a good inspection, Doctor was able to inform us that, though Baby had been pointing in the right direction for pretty much the duration of pregnancy, she hadn't quite completed the necessary twist and was therefore not ready to slide out just yet. There were brief mutterings about the potential of caesarian, others regarding helping Baby out her "natural" passage and then a 'decision' to give her more time - the good ol' "wait 'n' see". Our charming midwife (well on her way to becoming Wifey's favourite person on earth) topped up the epidural and on our journey rolled.

By about 1200 hrs (we're still on Boxing Day) Wifey was feeling pain again, though this was specifically relating to ligament damage in her lower stomach. For some reason the enormous amount of drugs pumping through her system were not aiding and we were reaching fever pitch. Once again, life imitated the movies, as Wifey uttered words to the tune of "I just want this thing out of me!" and I went scurrying from the room.

With the assisted pressure of Wifey's favourite midwife, the specialists were assembled and a plan was put forth for Operation Get This Thing Out Of Me. Doc assured us that the time waiting was not wasted, as Baby had in fact completed at least part of her rotation, though she still had some way to go. This being said, Doc was pretty confident that if he got his extra large BBQ tongs out, he could yank her right on out. Alternatively, he had the option of taking a Dyson to her head and sucking her out. However, if neither option was successful in drawing Baby from her hiding place, he vowed to unsheathe his blade and seek her where she lay. Wait... maybe I'm confusing it with Game of Thrones... Anyway, the final resort was C-section an for that reason, they decided to prep Wifey for surgery and perform O.G.T.T.O.O.M. in theatre. This meant I got to scrub up!

Just like JD!

But seriously, it was a little unnerving...

When everything was ready, I went with our midwives and made the journey to theatre. Now I mentioned previously about how far we had to walk up hospital corridors to get to the Birth Unit; this was nothing in comparison to the trip to the particular theatre where Wifey's procedure was to take place. Keeping in mind that this walk was entirely out of public area and was therefore eerily quiet, every time we turned a corner it seemed like the hall was getting longer as we walked.

Eventually we entered the tiny room that was a kind of foyer (I guess more technically a preparation room) for surgery. This was like a who's who of our pregnancy experience - with a whole host of midwives, doctors and specialists, not only from our time at the birth unit, but our various checkups in the Women's Health Clinic, in attendance. Of course, we were but a number to them, a sign-off in a skills book, but it was nice for us to see familiar faces all the same.

After a few minutes, Wifey was rolled into theatre and I was asked to stay on my stool for a few minutes while they got prepared. I noted the time was just hitting 1300hrs on the clock on the wall and that my heartbeat was clocking a few per movement of the second hand.

After what felt like an hour (but I can say, with confidence, was 7 minutes), I was summonsed to take a new stool by Wifey's side and take up my official post of hand-holder once more. To aid a recently topped-up epidural, Wifey was also given a spinal, so she was properly numb from the waist down. Doc had decided the tongs were the go, so they were positioned and Wifey was asked to push. Determined to maintain some form of natural birth, she mustered all her remaining strength and did just that. The action required to push a baby out (if you were wondering) is the same as to push a poo out. And yes, poo does happen; it didn't in our case (to my knowledge), but I assure you, at the tail end of 36 hours of labour, pooing in front of a room full of people is about the last thing in the world you care about. (Really selling pregnancy, aren't I...)

Well 'push' did Wifey and 'pull' did Doc and (I won't draw it out any longer) all of a sudden (at 1324hrs) there was a hatless Smurf, coughing and crying softly in his arms. I'm told by Wifey, who remembers little else, that "HOLY SH*T!" was my welcome to the world for my first-born. I don't recall the exclamation myself, but I am willing to believe it: I mean, this thing was blue - which fortunately I was a little bit prepared for - but it did look freaky! She was bundled off to a bench at the side for her immediate checks, Wifey panting and weeping in a daze on the bed and me on my stool, not quite sure what to do.

Moments later, I was called over by the midwives to lay eyes on our little Pixie. Pinkness was starting to come to her body as scissors were placed in my hand and I was told told to cut the cord.

"It's a little rubbery and harder than you might expect..." I was warned.

"I'm used to cutting squid."

"She's beautiful!"

"She looks like an alien." (Jokingly. Kind of...)

Not quite sure of what I was allowed to do, I just kind of looked at her, until Midwife suggested I put a finger in her hand and she held on tight.

Then we were off again: a brief "Well done!" and "See you soon!" to Wifey, as the doctors set to work with some running repairs with needle and thread below (yes guys, get your head around that too!). Back down the halls (which had fortunately shortened) to the room that had started to feel like home. Pixie was weighed (3.58kg, just shy of 8 pounds for the oldies), measured (52cm) and dressed in a gown to match Mummy's, then wrapped up tight.

"Would you like to have a cuddle?" the midwife asked, "Then we'll take you up to Maternity to meet your wife."

And she left.

Walked out.

Departed.

Entrusted the sole care of a newly born, entirely helpless, completely vulnerable babe to a 23 year old boy.

Now for a long time I had this thing with cats, where try as I might I just couldn't figure them out. I'm an animal person, so I really wanted to be their friends, but just couldn't quite judge them. They would strike me with that weird, piercing cat gaze and I would offer my hand, hopeful it was a gaze of longing. Occasionally, that would prove correct, but every now and again they would reveal their ninja skills and I would be left bleeding.

Babies have been much the same: they would fix me with a stare, that could so easily crack into a smile, yet oft' some subtle, subconscious false move on my behalf would trigger the other response and soon enough they'd be in their mother's arms, who between "there-there"ing, would assure me that it's very out of character and they must be tired.

Well eventually I got myself a kitten and sorted out my cat dramas - seriously, I am like the cat whisperer now - and here I was to once and for all deal with the baby drama. This was sink or swim. I decided to go with the approach I would for a dog I wasn't sure about - overly confident and (appropriately) lots of baby talk.

Well, she didn't bite or claw my hand and neither did she cry... too much. What she did do is capture me in her gaze and ensure I would never let her go.

Pixie

Labour (Part 1)

2012-12-30T04:09:00.000-08:00

Mother was hopeful while setting the Christmas table...

Here is the tale of our Christmas Day...

On the 24th of December I was jesting at the possibility of our own little Christmas miracle. I even put my prediction in verse. Well, Christmas lunch wasn't quite interrupted by a gush of water, but... Why don't I just start at the beginning...

Christmas morning was restless: Wifey was up and down and all around. When dawn broke a claim was made of "gastric pains", coming and going every half hour or so, starting at a little after 0100hrs. I was sent to the nearest service station for Quick-Eze and milk (since I was making the trip).

A little later on, Mother-In-Law dropped by. When conversation broke for Wifey to breath deep and clutch her stomach, an enquiry was made and an eyebrow raised at the response.

"They sound like contractions to me."

"No," Wifey's stubborn reply, "I'd know if they were."

"Riiight..." [To me] "You'd best keep an eye on that."

When Mother-In-Law had made her leave a decision had to be made about Christmas lunch: stay home (safe distance to hospital) for lonely leftovers, or drive an hour through soggy weather, holiday traffic and double demerits to full Christmas feast with family. Since Wifey was in denial about the waves of pain running through her body and I was keen to partake in the seasonal celebrations, I pushed for the latter. Hence we joined the host of holiday revellers clogging Sydney roads.

A call was put forth to the 'rentals to inform them of our progress. I also made mention of Wifey's mysterious "waves of gastro", which was met by another, "Riiight..." followed by a, "We'll make sure lunch is ready to go, in case you need to... duck off."

We arrived to a warm reception - the family had not expected to be graced with our presence at all leading up to Christmas Day, so our being there was excitement enough, without the added thrill of Wifey's 'unsettled' stomach. Brother was quick to point out that presents were sitting unopened on the floor, a situation that he felt should be dealt with immediately. Part way into the process Wifey leant in my direction and quietly asked if my phone was near by and if I could please start a timer - her attempt at subtlety futile in a room where all eyes were upon her.

"So we've decided these are contractions, have we?"

"Yes."

(Mother:) "We'd better eat."

Contractions were 18 minutes apart at this stage. An earlier call to the hospital (at my insistence: "Just in case the 'gastro' is something to worry about") had informed us that it was time to call in again when they were 5 minutes apart. Not knowing how quickly they would come on and wary of a long, wet, traffic-heavy, double-demerit-burdened trip home, we were inclined to agree with Mother.

We sat down to lunch, wondering if the extra place setting that Mother had (jokingly) set was soon to be filled. Every now and again, Wifey would squeeze my hand, indicating it was time to restart the timer... 14 minutes... 10 minutes... 7 minutes...

"That was delicious! We might head off..."

"You won't stay for pudding?"

*squeeze*

"We're at 5 minutes."

"I'll pack you some to go."

Thus far my prophecy was coming to fruition, so naturally I was concerned for the carpets in our new family wagon. Though I threatened to make Wifey sit on a tarpaulin, I conceded that her concerns of a slip-and-slide were not unfounded, so compromised with a pile of dog towels. We made our leave, with starry eyed parents waving us off, Brother dancing around excitedly - giddy at realisation that his time to be 'the coolest uncle ever' was close at hand - and Nana tearing up in a whirlwind of emotion. The remaining relatives and animals held a tighter rein of their emotion, though I'm told all other topics were lost to conversation for the remainder of the night.

The trip home was smooth enough and Wifey even managed to not burst her waters en route. So we settled ourselves down on the couch and took to timing the contractions. I was pretty pleased with myself, it has to be said: not only had we snuck a Christmas lunch in and got away with it, but we'd filled a few hours of what I was told would be a long process; and a distraction is generally a good thing if I am required to wait, for patience is not a virtue I possess.

Now here's the thing about contractions (I've discovered): there is no linear pattern to their reduction in interval. We had had contractions at all intervals and of all durations; a 12 minute interval might be followed by a 6 minute interval, then suddenly a 2 minute interval(!). Eventually we saw fit to call the hospital and declare that our contractions were coming [kind of] consistently at 5 minute intervals, my stomach a flutter at the thought that this was about to be it, we would have a Christmas Day baby. This was at 1800hrs.

"Right," the reply, "We usually say to come in when you're contractions have been 3 minutes apart, of at least 60 seconds for a full hour. Call us back then."

Back to the couch, deflated, stop watch nearby, pen and paper in hand.

Again, there was no consistency to the way the contractions came: intervals varying from 1 minute 50 seconds to 9 minutes 40 seconds; durations from 45 seconds to an agonising 7 minutes 20 seconds. Finally we saw fit to call again and were given the word to come on in for assessment, with no promise of staying yet.

When we'd made our way to the hospital for our weekly checkups, I'd oft imagined what the actual trip would be like: how I'd be feeling, my reaction to traffic. Yet, as we cruised in on eerily-calm late-Christmas Day streets, I was surprisingly calm and borderline numb. I dropped Wifey at the entry and went to the car park, pleasantly surprised to find that someone with sufficient authority and fair Christmas Spirit had deemed that if people must use the car park on such a day, they should at least do so for free.

The walk to the birth unit was agonisingly long; Wifey cursing whatever man had designed the hospital such. Where earlier in the day her contractions had caused her to catch her breath and hold conversation, the most recent were making a far-greater impact. It was a slow shuffle, punctuated by the occasional mark time, in which walls, rails and me alike. We finally made our entrance at 2000hrs.

Once checked in, Wifey was hooked up to machine to track Baby's heartbeat and Wifey's contractions. This was not an unfamiliar process to us, as we had experienced it just the day before as part of our checkup. We also had the unique experience of an 'internal examination', complete with 'stretch and sweep' (not "scratch and sniff" as an aunty of Wifey likes to call it...), which was likely the primary contributor to Baby's move south. This involves Doc skilfully reaching inside with two fingers to work out where Baby's hanging. He then uses one finger to gently stretch the cervix, thus increasing the likelihood of Baby slipping on out. All this was performed with the right hand while demonstrating what was going on with the left. Like I said, a skilful operation, though I gather Wifey was too busy wondering if his right fingers were going to come out of her throat, to really be that interested in his left...

It was a couple of hours of machines beeping and midwives prodding before we were told we were staying and moved to the room that would become our home until such time as the little bundle came out of her hiding hole. From there we 'settled' into a routine of my reading being interrupted by Wifey's moans, groans and strange animal noises. Periodically a midwife would drop by and see how we were going, but otherwise it was she, me and our restless little burden.

Comforting a woman in labour is no easy feat. In the initial stages you will feel the urge to be really hands on - relaxing massage, tender touch, squeeze of the hand. She may even be receptive to start with. But as time goes on, your touch becomes just another uncomfortable feeling she'd rather do without; miss the early warning signs and you risk unleashing the dragon. You will feel entirely useless: the person you love most (hopefully) in this world is writhing in agony with an itch that can't be scratched, while you stand alongside going, "Um... is there anything I can do?"

I have spent a mere 36 hours in London, yet my family were on the underground on the morning of the 7th of July, 2005 (yes, on the same ill-fated overseas venture that left us stranded at an airport in a storm). Fortunately we were on the opposite side of the Circle Line when the bombs went off, yet we still walked for hours in a city in chaos to reach our hotel, unsure of what was really happening, nor what would come next. I can honestly say that the time spent on those streets that day was less stressful than my Christmas Day night 2012. For hours, Wifey cried out in pain. I did what I could - fetching water, ice, massaging feet when my touch was not fire, running a bath, helping her back out of the bath when it suddenly became unappealing. I aided her with tasks of the variety that women generally conceal from their partners, so we may maintain the pure, sweet image of what we believe to be the sweeter sex. Make no mistake, gentlemen: in labour you will see things that will never be unseen; consider your hands an extension of your wife's body.

There are a variety of pain relief options available to women in labour. Wifey was determined to have the most 'natural' birth possible, so started with the gas. This was thrown away in disgust as it proved worthless and I was sent for the midwife to administer the morphine needle that had been offered. This proved to be good for little more than adding violent regurgitation to her growing list of pleasantries. Finally, in a rare moment where life (particularly pregnant life) aligned with Hollywood's depiction, all 'birthing "plans"' were shamelessly disregarded and Wifey sent me for the epidural. Fast.

Well (and Hollywood got this bit right too), there's no such thing as "fast" when it comes to epidurals. A host of different experts are required and at 0500hrs (we're into Boxing Day now), for some reason they don't come any quicker. So there was still precious time left to spend with Wifey in the full labour experience. As it was punctuated by lines such as, "I just want it to be over" and "Make the pain go away," I was left wondering if I would ever be here again. Would I ever be able to convince Wifey that it would be a good idea to have another?

At 1530hrs the epidural was administered and sweet paralytic relief overcame Wifey from the waist down, though not before her allusive waters broke and splashed all over the bed. Turns out they DO gush and there's no missing them when they come! But in what I came to refer to as "the eye of the storm" - the calm that came when sweet epidural took away they pain, I realised that, for her at least, much of this would soon be forgotten. Much like my first tattoo: at the time, as the "artist" (let's be honest, he was a hack without care for the permanent marks he was leaving on my body) tore into my flesh, I clenched my jaw and decided it would be my last - I had one now, after all. Yet, 20 minutes later on the trip home I was already plotting what might come next. Sure enough, more have followed; and I didn't even have the magical 'forget-this-experience' pregnancy hormones that women have. This afternoon, Wifey made claims that she "must have blacked out at some point, 'cos [she] can't remember it all." If only I could say the same!

To be continued...

Will We Have A Christmas Baby?

2012-12-24T00:30:00.001-08:00

My family once found ourselves sitting in an airport waiting for a storm to break so we could fly. For the first couple of hours we were certain the weather would clear and we would soon be on our way. Around that point, one of our fellow wait-ees decided to crack open the fairly high end bottle of scotch he was carrying (Father was quick to befriend him). A couple of hours on from that, we were certain we would fly: there was no way they'd keep us this long otherwise! Eight hours after our scheduled departure (and long after the scotch had been drained), the flight was cancelled. I'm yet to see Boston.

The reason I'm bringing this old, sore point up, is that subconsciously I think a part of me is suspicious that this could happen with Baby. A week ago, Wifey and I went to bed nightly expectant of a pre-dawn trip to the hospital. We were prepared mentally and emotionally: as close to 'ready' as we would ever be. And yet Baby would not come. Yes, we tried all the different old wives' tales. People swear by curry, sex and exercise. I found a gym ball and made Wifey bounce on it. I aimed for every pot hole I passed. One website suggested "galloping" to help the baby drop, but Wifey simply refused to do Psy's "Gangnam Style" dance with me.

So after several mornings of waking and finding Wifey not in labour (as I hoped and expected she would be), my hope started to wane. It has reached the point now where I no longer go to bed expecting to be awoken by a contraction-ridden Wifey. In fact, some subconscious niggle is starting to say that maybe we missed Baby... maybe, like that flight to Boston, she's just not happening...

Of course, that thought process is lunacy. Baby will come and chances are she'll choose the most inappropriate time. Much like that old rhyme...

'Twas the night before Christmas,
And in Wifey's tummy,
A creature's still resting;
She's not yet a mummy.

And now we've come this far,
Why not one day more?
Let's just get through Christmas,
Before Baby's born.

We were ready a week ago,
You could have come then,
But no - you just stayed there,
But sure, you'll come when -

We've driven an hour,
To your grandparents-to-be,
A long way from hospital,
Yet close to the sea.

And the lunch will be ready,
A beer in my hand,
Surfboard not yet touched,
With the beach's sweet sand.

And 'splash': there'll go waters,
All over the floor,
And then, just like that,
We'll be up out the door.

Wifey puffing and heaving
And cursing this day,
And you watch: I'll sure cop it,
'Cos I took her away!

For at home (where we live)
The hospital's near,
There's not hours of driving,
And that shocking fear:

That time will run short
And 'hey presto!' you'll come;
Our baby born roadside,
Like that Mosman mum.

So hang on sweet baby,
You've lasted thus far,
And please don't come messing
Up our fresh new car.

Let Christmas pass by,
And then place your mark,
On a calendar day,
Where you're less in the dark -

Overshadowed forever,
By the birth of a lad,
Born of Mary, in manger,
With God as his dad.

More on him later,
Sure, in time you'll find,
How that very child,
Saved all of mankind.

But back to His birthday,
(Though not the real date)
'Tis the day recognised,
That we celebrate.

Making month of December,
On the day twenty five,
A terrible day,
For you to arrive.

So you just get comfy,
And stay where you rest,
While we meet with family,
And enjoy Christmas fest'.

But just two days later,
If you're yet to arrive,
We'll be back to see doctor
And in he will dive.

He'll rattle your world
And crack your cocoon;
Merry Christmas sweet daughter:
We'll be seeing you soon.

Awaiting The Arrival

2012-12-12T02:44:00.000-08:00

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...

A Guide To Being Not-Sh** Friends With Babies

2012-10-29T21:03:00.001-07:00

Recently, while at the beach with a friend and his wife the topic of pregnancy came up (it has a strange habit of doing that when you’re expecting – friends love it…). This time I had a good excuse, as we were mesmirised by a VERY pregnant woman roasting in a bikini, who, by the look of her was nearly cooked. As the conversation took a turn towards my pending parenthood, Mrs Friend sweetly asked:

“Are you guys still going to be fun to hang out with when you have a baby? Or are you going to be those sh** friends who change completely and disappear?”

I assured her that Baby would simply be an addition to our merry little group and not a wedge between us all. But the thought troubled me. So, just to ensure I didn’t make any major blunders to set me on the path of ‘sh** friend-hood’, I racked their brains for tips from their past experiences to keep me on track.

Therefore, I have compiled a list of ways to keep friends through parenthood:

1) Moderate Your Facebook Posts

My mate has assured me that he will be deleting me on Facebook as soon as I become a parent. He sees me most days at work anyhow and, as much as (I’m sure) he loves seeing my every waking thought in seventy words or less filling his newsfeed, his interest will wan when my witty social commentary is replaced with: “Here’s another hiccup video – SO ADORABLE!!!! <3”

I, myself, have ‘unsubscribed’ to new parents on Facebook. It’s bad enough to have every real-life conversation with them manipulated thus: “That [conversation about politics] reminds me of Toby’s sneezes! Here’s a [low-res, poorly-framed, shaky] video of it on my phone!”; without having to see it in my newsfeed every three minutes when I check my Facebook!

So here’s the first step to keeping friends onside: try to moderate the baby content on your Facebook (and in conversations). I’m sure you’ll be forgiven for posting the occasional photo, video or amusing anecdote, but try to set yourself a maximum – one a day runs a risk of too great-a regularity.

2) Don’t Forget Your Friends

Priorities are bound to change when Baby arrives. All the spare time that I didn’t have during the nesting phase is bound to be taken up with baby duties. Friends will be understanding of this (to a degree), but to forgive they must understand and to understand, they must first be told. I’m told a cardinal sin commonly committed by new parents is to fail to respond to calls, texts, online advances or knocks on doors from once good friends. Maybe you find it hard to turn down an invitation to go surfing with a mate on account of Baby, but spare a thought for your friend left wondering if you’ll ever reply! Answer the phone, respond to the text, engage in social media [in a moderated fashion] and let them know what’s going on and why it is so. It’s also worth keeping in mind step 3…

3) Don’t Discount Your Friends’ Willingness to Participate

When I buzzed my friends on how they had been wronged by former-friends/now-parents (positions which were sadly at risk of becoming exclusive), one of the greatest mistakes made was an assumption by the parents that the friends would not want to spend time with them and the baby. They reminded me that they would still want to be friends, even if the form of social events went from day-long surfing adventures and night-long bar-crawls, to casual BBQs and watch-how-baby-crawls.

Sure, there are some friends who will fain interest in Baby’s existence upon her arrival and be conveniently unavailable at any invitation to spend time with me beyond that, if she is to be present. There may be times when my mate is not willing to give up clear skies and glassy waves to just hang out, so goes surfing without me (though I’d really like to tie down short-term, low-price, last-minute sitting at a location convenient to the beach). This being said, I hope that my friends are willing to be a little flexible and accept Baby into at least some of our social time.

This would be a tall ask, however, if there wasn’t a willingness on our side to be a little flexible too….

4) Don’t Be Precious

Sure, there are times in parenting when sacrifices must be made and Baby must come first. That will take some adjusting to, but I accept it (pregnancy has been a teaser…although probably one of those really early ones that doesn’t really give away much more about the film than the title – no actors, no setting, no plot – yet leaves you feeling like you’ve had some great insight…only to discover months later that your pre-conceived notions were entirely misplaced and what you thought was going to be a side-splitting comedy, is actually Adam Sandler flapping about and talking like a child, getting unnecessarily angry at inanimate objects in what should have been a straight-to-DVD flop that has somehow got a cinema release because he made Happy Gilmore). The exact toll that birthing has taken on Wifey will be particularly important, yet difficult to realise – with Baby due just a week out from Christmas, I’ll be itching to pack them all up and head on over to family festivities, but the reality may be that Wifey is all-but bedridden, particularly if Baby’s late!

However, this being said, once all has settled and we’ve found our flow, I’m determined that we will not be a couple who must leave early for Baby’s feed, or blow off an event that coincides with her nap time. Sure, some more preparation may be required for our attendance and we may arrive looking like we’re staying the week, but I went to sleep in many a foreign bedroom as a child with the frivolity of my parents and their friends carrying down the hall and into my dreams. As far as an infant is concerned, travelling with their pram is tantamount to taking their whole world with them; and as far as I’m concerned, pushing a pram is tantamount to being a racing-car driver, so everyone’s a winner!

Once again, it’s easy for me to preach these bold ideas prior to Baby’s arrival, blissfully naïve to the reality that’s yet to befall me. To my friends, I apologise in advance for my pending assault on your newsfeeds and beg your forgiveness if I go off the radar for a while. Accept my assurance that you’re still well loved and I am missing you badly – it’s simply that I’ve been thrown in the deep-end and the fact that I’m a strong swimmer has momentarily slipped my mind. If you feel so-inspired, please throw the life buoy my way. With any luck your aim may be true and you might knock some sense into me!

Nesting

2012-10-23T02:54:00.000-07:00

Renovations, Day 1.

Little (or Fairy) Penguins are creatures that always captivate people. They are dainty creatures, with that adorable penguin waddle, only on an iddy-biddy scale. One of the most remarkable things about Little Penguins though, is their courtship. While they are credited as being a monogamous species (‘pairing for life’ for those playing at home), they will re-pair if one party becomes absent…or gains weight or something… Anyhoo, the intriguing thing is that the female chooses their mate based upon the quality of the nest they build. This makes Little Penguins both excellent nest-builders and talented wife-pleasers.

In this regard, Little Penguins and I share skill-sets.

The phenomenon of pregnant women nesting is well documented - I’m sure there’s a chapter all about it in “What To Expect When You’re Expecting”…or maybe it doesn’t cover the big issues like I do. Well here’s the scoop – once women reach the point of no return (when there’s no denying that things are about to change…in big ways…for good), they start nesting.

Nesting, from my experience, can be defined as: “an overwhelming desire in a pregnant woman to create a living space that aligns precisely with her vision of perfection and the expectation that her partner will deliver upon it with appropriate time left before the baby’s arrival”. It may begin small – a simple Google search for baby furniture, or a wistful gaze at the paint swatches in Bunnings. But before you know it, you, too, may find yourself waist deep in asbestos-ridden kitchen cabinets strewn across what was once a lawn, while bulging Wifey stands on a stool somewhere above issuing directives.

Nearly every mother we’ve spoken to will tell that tale of renovating their first home while pregnant. Rewarding though it may be, I certainly wouldn’t recommend it to one prone to stress! Unlike regular renovations, where you can chip away at things little by little, with progress trundling on at it’s own merry pace; renovations for purposes of nesting have a clear deadline before which they must conclude (particularly when you take our approach of gutting your house in a weekend, rendering it uninhabitable and spending the next two months slowly, but surely putting it back together - in a manner that aligns with Wifey’s mystical vision). Sure, you might say, “Baby won’t realise that mission-brown frames are hideous and would look much better in Princess Bling [white]”; but if you don’t do it before Baby comes, when are you ever going to get around to it? Particularly when ‘it’ involves sanding off paint that (by colour alone) likely came from a lead-based era. And I challenge ANYONE to tell a pregnant wife who’s just reached the cankles phase of pregnancy, that the baby doesn’t care about a perfect house!

So resign yourself to the fact that you are either going into slavery for an indeterminable length of time prior to Baby’s arrival (good practice for post-Baby’s arrival [PBA] I guess), or - in the case of those so-endowed – forking out a healthy wad of cash for someone else to ensure that your baby enters a nest that’s just right, according to her mother’s particular vision. On that point – if you have any particular vision yourself for the kind of nest you think your child would appreciate (perhaps swayed by a personal preference), it is worth gingerly raising it (perhaps in a hypothetical scenario) to determine whether or not it aligns with those of the mother of your soon-to-be child. If so, awesome! She will be pleased that you had an input! If not, lock it down. Don’t be a hero: it’s not worth it. Smile and nod, say, “Yes, I was just thinking that we should use Hog Bristle for the walls – what other colour would I want?” and “I agree, the bottom of a box under the house is definitely the best place to keep my surfing photos!”. Accept the fact that this is going to happen. Hopefully, like me, you find it to be a fulfilling adventure. Exhausting though. So exhausting. Totally kiss sleep and energy goodbye. I’m told that’s what it’s like having a baby, too…

An Explanation of Absence.

2012-10-12T15:36:00.002-07:00

Dear Blog,

I am writing to you in hope that you will accept my humblest apologies. When our relationship began it was fresh; it was exciting. We met regularly and conversation was easy. Our interactions were joyful and cathartic in a crazy and confusing time in my life. When we were apart you were ever on my mind, as I made mental lists of topics I wished to bring to you.

The last two months I have been distant. At first you were a victim of circumstance, as life swallowed time. However, as weeks went on - though time was still a precious commodity - it was shame that kept me from coming to you. What would I say? How do you explain your sudden and unplanned absence to one who was once so close? What if I was to mend our relationship only to disappear once more? So I avoided you, though you never left my mind. The guilt weighed upon me.

But here I am, Blog. I'm writing to you now to say sorry. Sorry for building our relationship into something beautiful, only to up and leave you alone and uncertain of where we stood or whether I would return. Please accept this and believe me when I say that I have learnt from my failings and I am committed to you from here on in.

I feel that it is only right that with this apology I offer some form of explanation, though I do not claim to have an excuse for my actions.

It turns out that not a lot happens in the middle trimester. Don't get me wrong, Wifey has not ceased her expansion (you should see her now, Blog, she really is bulging!), but beyond that, there have been no real pregnancy revelations. Yes, we go for a checkup every couple of weeks and the public hospital waiting room is the same assortment of folk all crushed closer than you would ever expect to be to a stranger (outside of a Big Day Out moshpit), staring at a tiny, flickering, muted television, pretending that they are 100% engaged with Ellen re-runs, in order to excuse interacting with those around them. Wifey and I generally amuse ourselves with games of "Pick-the-Father", "Which-One's-Pregnant?" and "Who-Just-Farted?". This is fun (for the first hour), but when we finally get seen to, it's generally just "How are you feeling?", "Is she still kicking?" and "You can go now."

On top of this lack of inspiration, is the fact that my every waking moment away from work has been occupied with facilitating Wifey's nesting. You may recall, Blog, that dump that we bought to live in? Well it ain't such a dump no more! But I think I'll save expansion on that point for our next exchange.

I hope that this letter finds you well. I promise that I will be back in touch soon - shall we say within a week?

Yours sincerely,
Dad In The Deep End.

Kids On Leads...

2012-08-25T16:46:00.000-07:00

Babies are new to me, but dogs I understand. Dogs are relatively simple: get your early conditioning right and you'll have the most loyal companion you could possibly wish for. My dog, for some strange reason, loves and adores me. Anywhere I go, she wants to be; no tether is required to keep her by my side. All of this has been achieved between my human self and my dog dog despite sharing no common language.

So why do parents insist on walking children on leads?!

I teach puppy classes as an additional source of income. One of the key behaviours that we work on in the four 1-hour sessions is the 'recall'. This simple behaviour is one of the most important you can train a dog, as, if you have done it right, you can be certain that at a word your four-legged friend will rush back to you, safe from whatever danger they were heading towards, or simply by your side where you'd rather they be. It is this behaviour that allows you to confidently walk your dog without the requirement of a lead (though law forbids this in most public places).

There are two key points that must be acknowledged for the successful training of a recall. They are as follows:

Firstly, the recall should be your puppy's absolute favourite thing in the world: "Christmas and Disneyland all in one", as a very talented trainer has said to me. Its reaction upon hearing your call should be "About time!", followed by an immediate, giddy explosion in your direction. To achieve this you need to offer them more than a dry treat upon arrival; it must be an emotional response, driven by a justified expectation that they will receive some combination of their favourite things: food, toys, pats, praise and (above all) YOU!

The quickest way to destroy all your hard work is by not acknowledging your pooch's response, or (worse) punishing it. Too many times I've seen devastated children wandering aimlessly around my workplace, desperately searching for parents through tear-filled eyes, only to be rewarded at their reunion by parents chastising them for ever becoming lost in the first place! What better incentive to stay "lost" than that reception?!

Secondly, set yourself up for success. One of the most important rules we tell participants in class is that they are not to attempt to call their puppy away from the dog-filled park, when they know full-well that their training hasn't reached that point yet. You start small - literally calling a metre or so towards you in a confined, boring space, then slowly build up their experiences until you can be certain that you will have success at that higher level.

Every failed attempt to recall your dog teaches them that it's a command that can be ignored. Similarly, think back to those red-faced parents you've seen, desperately pursuing their free-running toddlers, screaming something along the lines of:

"Tommy, come here mate. Tommy. TOMMY! Get here now! NOW TOMMY!!"

And the saga continues...

"Understandable," you may say, "that they would wish to use an alternative method to keep their child close. It isn't actually a lead, it's a little cuddly monkey backpack that happens to have a long tail that parents can hold."

Call it what you like, but it's a lead. So here is my declaration and great will be my shame if I am ever proven wrong:

I WILL NEVER WALK MY CHILD ON A LEAD.

I am determined that my early conditioning will be sufficient that my child will desire my company. If she wanders, I will save my recall for a moment where I can be confident in its success, or else find an alternative method of retrieval (I DO have a sheepdog after-all!). And yes, you may say I have just compared my daughter to a dog, but it's what I know and it's what I love; if you knew me you'd understand that it's far from an insult!

Mother's Intuition: What's That Baby?

2012-07-28T02:54:00.000-07:00

I always kind of saw myself as being a father to boys: it's what I am, it's what I know. Over the past couple of weeks Wifey had become more and more sure that it was a lady-baby brewing and when she felt one of the first kicks while having her nails done she became certain. "Mother's intuition" she said.

Well, I wasn't going to believe "mother's intuition" from a lady who, just four months earlier, was adamant that she was two weeks late due to jet lag! But the results are back and her inkling was well-placed: we are having a girl.

My immediate reaction was something along the lines of, "there goes the BMX buddy", but on reflection I have decided the dream may not be lost. I am not talking along the lines of the Canadian lunatics who were attempting to raise their child without revealing the gender so as not to place worldly stereotypes upon he/she/it. But I certainly don't see why my daughter can't rip it up on a BMX with the best of them; it was good enough for Nicole Kidman, after all!

But really, I will give my daughter every opportunity to take up my passions, but if she (like her mother) decides ballet is her thang, I'll be that dad at the back with the over-sized tripod and far-too-flash video camera who knows the routine a little too well. Ballet I can cop: ballet is graceful, ballet is beautiful; ballet builds strength, flexibility and balance - all of which will be essential in her path to becoming a professional surfer. Look out Steph Gilmore, we're gunning for you!

Baby Needs A Name

2012-07-18T04:28:00.001-07:00

One of the heaviest burdens placed upon parents is choosing the name by which their child must be known for the rest of...well...eternity! Perhaps it is an unfortunate fact that this occurs immediately after (generally) many hours of labour in which you have both done and endured things that I am doing my best to pretend I haven't had described to me (in detail) by everyone who has experienced it. It is quite possible that in that state you aren't fit for such a decision. Therefore, it is essential that you have fully thought through, considered, discussed and researched your options. I believe that each of these steps is crucial to a successful and appropriate naming of your child.

Now it's important at this stage that I acknowledge a crucial point (which, let's face it, should probably be the tagline to my whole blog): I am no authority; simply an opinionated commentator. However, at the risk of infuriating any of my four readers (discounting Mother), I will highlight a few of my personal pet-hates regarding what constitutes a 'good' name. But if you really like the name "Passionfruit" (for example), you should not, and will not, let my opinion affect your decision.

The first thing that my grandmother requested of me upon hearing our news, was that we give our child a "nice, sensible, regular name." Never one to miss an opportunity for smart-arsery, I replied that we would, indeed, choose a "regular" name, but give it a unique, hip, new spelling for individualism. This brings me to my first pet-hate:

Bogan Spelling
There has been a trend, of particular prevalence in recent years, to take a relatively standard name, but liven it up a little with phresh new spelling: 'P-H's instead of 'F's ("Tiphanie"); double 'E's in the place of 'I's ("Feebee"); 'X's where one should find 'C-K-S' ("Jaxon" - something of a classic in bogan circles); 'A-H' where conformity would see the placement of either an 'E-R' or 'O-R' ("Tailah"); and other such genocides against the English language ("Jaksen" and The Shire's own "Beckaa", for example - these "names" demonstrate but the most basic understanding of the English language). I have recently been alerted to another, so cutting-edge it's borderline lazy and so unbelievable it might just exist. This name is "Xal". I challenge you at this point to have a crack at pronouncing that, but don't be too hard at yourself if you don't arrive at the intended "Crystal"! Just because "Xmas" has somehow become an acceptable alternative to "Christmas", doesn't mean that "Xal" works. Such spellings are cruel: you are sentencing your child to a lifetime of "correcting" the spelling and/or pronunciation of their name, when ironically it's the other who has it right.

The temptation to change spelling is understandable - everybody seeks some kind of individualism and what better way to set your child up to stand out in the crowd than give them a unique name? So if you're not going to rely on the rarely-used letters of the alphabet, why not just make up a name? Please welcome pet-hate number two:

Bogan Creativity
Clearly celebrities (what every modern bogan aspires to be) are to blame for the trend in creative naming. However, Average Joe is not stupid: he realises that he can't send his child to Punchbowl Primary called "Apple" or "Blanket", for his name must be distinguishable from what's in his backpack. Instead we see the rise of names that sound vaguely familiar, yet just aren't quite right. No, Shaz hasn't choked on her durry mid-scream; nor has she attempted to streamline the summonsing of her clan by saying the names of two of her children at once: she really has named him "Blayden". Then there is the crown jewel of bogan creativity; a name that will be etched into the history books (or hard drives) as a dark mark against our generation; a name so shocking that I wouldn't believe it truly existed if I hadn't heard a first-hand account of an encounter with it at daycare: "La-a". No, it isn't (as this poor girl understandably attempted), "La...ah", but (as the disgruntled mother haughtily corrected), "Ladasha". Seriously...

However, sometimes a unique name does just jump out at you when you least expect it and Blamo! you've got it. Now, in such a situation, might I just suggest you take a brief moment to Google said name, just to check that it is in fact in line with your core values, before going ahead and giving it to your child. Forever. The following story happened to a friend of a friend of mine and is a glorious representation of my third point in baby-naming failures:

Not Understanding The Name
The subject of our tale (who will henceforth, for no particular reason, be known as Brutus) was invited, somewhat out of the blue, to the christening of an old school-friend's firstborn. Having been out of touch for some time with this individual, Brutus was a little surprised by the name they had chosen for their daughter (phonetically): "Ke-ross-seh-knee". After the service an opportunity arose for Brutus to enquire as to the origins of this unique title. "It's a funny story actually," came the reply, "we were in Bunnings and saw it on the wall and just loved it straight away!" "That is a funny story," thought Brutus (an English teacher by trade), "How did you spell it?" "K-E-R-O-S-E-N-E."

Perhaps it isn't the greatest idea in the world to jump at a word you've spotted on an isle at a hardware store and present it to your child as a name, at least not without first having thrown it into your favourite search engine to ensure it isn't, say "a combustible hydrocarbon liquid". So where do you find a nice, normal(ish) name for your child? Why the interwebs of course! I can almost guarantee that every person (since the start of the 21st century) who has needed to come up with a baby name, has at some point typed "baby names" into the search box and tried their luck. The problem you face is, what are you really going to do with the 196 million pages that come up in the search result? Click "all names" and scroll through A-Z? Hell no! So you narrow down your field a little and go with "Top 100 names for 2011". But this brings us back to our initial quandary: wanting a unique name. Many of the names on this list are classic, elegant and classy, but who wants their child to be one of seven Williams or Andrews in their kindy class? The other names that make up this list fall into my fourth category for baby-naming blunders:

Anything From Twilight
The really frustrating thing about this is that most of the names in Twilight ("Renesme" aside, which not only contradicts rule number 2, but is RIDICULOUS) are very nice names! Edward and Jacob are both good solid boys' names and Bella is a very sweet girl's name, or at least they would be if they weren't now so closely aligned with that awful franchise. "Bella" has become so popular, that (according to a "Top 100 Popular Girls Names" list I came across current to May this year) "Isabella" is number 2 and "Bella" (in its raw form) number 60! Maybe when (if ever) the hype dies down, these names will become acceptable in my eyes again, but until that time, Bellas, Edwards and Jacobs of this era will forever be recognisable as the spawn of Twihards.

So I guess a name just needs to come to you. If you're lucky you'll have a relative's name that you can just recycle and then everybody has to be nice about it. If not, try to take the same approach you would to a potential tattoo design: hang onto it for a little while and see if you still like it as much as you thought you did initially. Maybe even take it for a road test! Mother tells me that Father and her practiced calling potential names from the front porch, in order to truly determine how they felt about them.

As for us, I don't doubt that when the time finally comes for us to reveal our chosen name there will be many people who, despite their best efforts won't be able to hide their distain as they find a word to follow their initial: "Oh! That's....." which is appropriately complimentary, without committing themselves to actual approval (you know you've really knocked them for six when the best they can arrive at is: "...interesting...!"). Though, for the moment we have taken to referring to our little bump as "Gunther" (for no particular reason), so the family will probably just be relieved if that doesn't stick!

Babies Are Expensive (Part 1)

2012-07-13T15:18:00.001-07:00

As a little background to our situation: at the time we made our discovery, Wifey and I were renting out our (tiny) one-bedroom unit, living with my parents and both driving cars unsuitable for infants. Clearly we had to make some changes. Though, fortunately, we still had a good few months to make them happen.

Cue week of craziness.

Wifey is a teacher, meaning she gets blocks of holidays linking weeks of intensity. The result of this is that when she gets holidays, she really likes to kick goals. Therefore, when we happily settled on the sale of our unit (on the Wednesday), Wifey was keen to make a move towards home ownership fast, as the end of her leisure time was looming. We moved VERY fast: Thursday afternoon found us in the real estate agent's office signing paperwork for the purchase of what is to become our family home.

Now I refer to "our" unit, but the reality is that it was mine by default only - I married well, as the investment had been a wise move at an opportune time entirely on Wifey's behalf. This made our home purchase (commonly referred to as one of the biggest, most stressful things you'll ever do in your life), my first experience with such life altering decisions and changes. I also managed to pair it with that other life-changing and stressful event of bringing a child into this world!

I am a full-blown adrenaline-junkie, but signing on the line that you will pay that kind of money, which you only "have" because you're now throat-deep in mortgage, is a different kind of rush. The whole situation is quite surreal: you sit there talking in crazy figures based upon what a faceless institution says they will give you; then somehow papers get signed and this becomes yours. The money is never seen - it just magically changes ownership - and it's probably just as well: I'm not sure it would be so easy to go through with if you actually handed over a bag containing hundreds of thousands of dollars!

So the papers were signed and we were locked in; time to take a break and catch our breath. Alas, no, Wifey has other plans...

"Do you want to go and look at cars tomorrow?"

"Sure," I think, "There's no harm in looking." ...right?

But my crafty little mistress has other plans. Somehow Friday afternoon finds us signing on the dotted line for our new family-wagon. We have been up-sold to the larger model, because as the salesman (who is also conveniently expecting his first heir) pointed out, not only does it have unrivalled boot-space in its class (essential for the prams, nappies, changes of clothes, etc.), but the back folds down into (what he described as) a change table. My Commodore ute, which held bikes and boards and represented my carefree youth, has been replaced by a family wagon complete with built in change table and (thanks to my always-thoughtful co-workers) 'My Family' stickers.

So in three days we sold a unit, bought a house (which I should mention needs substantial renovations) and a car. Babies are expensive...and this is only the beginning!

A Shifting Perspective

2012-07-04T02:51:00.001-07:00

Tess gets an insight into her not-too-distant future...

Once upon a time a family gathering would mean the younger generation separating themselves to a place where they could drink and chat about whatever their free-spirited hearts desired and generally avoiding "grown-up" talk. Somehow, somewhere along the way a shift has occurred.

Last weekend a surprising role-reversal revealed itself as the 'adults' hid away in the peace of the kitchen, in an attempt to avoid the alarmingly mature discussion occurring amongst we young'ns outside. The scene is thus: (bulging) Wifey and I, wet behind the ears in the world of babies, picking the brains of her cousin and partner, also expecting...for the second time. No wonder the fun-lovers inside felt smothered!

So all of a sudden, though the idle chit-chat of celebrity news, fine dining and all things merry has not disappeared from the equation, it has now become the property, as once it was, of the elder generation. Meanwhile, the "kids" were deep in conversation over birthing techniques, the insane amount of mess a baby can make at all hours of the day and night, how a trampoline is about the best investment any parent can make (sure, that's why I already have one...) and (most excitingly) what pram design provides the best combination of manoeuvrability and user-frendliness (totally psyched for the pram - it's basically a racing car for Baby and I'm the driver!).

However, it wasn't only Wifey and I who received invaluable training in what was to come that day. We also had along with us for the ride our practice child, Tess. She has been with us for some five years now and has become quite satisfied with her lot in life, not to mention the spoils that life as an only-child presents. I have been harbouring some concerns for how the introduction of Baby to our household will impact upon Tess (I'm told this is an important consideration to make when a second child is on the way - steps must be taken to ensure that the old accepts the new). So, Saturday presented a golden opportunity to test her tolerance... Tess was wary at the outset - first she observed her subject from afar, a little unsure of what to make of it. Eventually she relaxed, allowing her counterpart to make its approach. She demonstrated enormous patience as she was first inspected, then stroked, then straddled...and choked! Well, she handled all that well, though I'm not exactly sure you could say she enjoyed it. However, moments later her captor discovered the joys of throwing a tennis ball and having a dog chase it and Tess, too, realised she LOVES kids!

But this shifting perspective goes further still, as I realised with a shock while driving the very next day. My mate (in the passenger seat) was taking in the view as we approached a young lady on her afternoon walk. His interest was sparked until we passed her and he discovered there was a baby strapped to her front. However, as he expressed his disappointment, I went from distinct interest in the road in front of me to attempting to spot the exact design of her baby harness in the rear-view mirror and weather it would be suitable for Wifey in time to come. I think I caught parenthood.

Daggy Dads: The Baby Effect

2012-06-18T06:10:00.001-07:00

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?

2012-06-11T05:40:00.003-07:00

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.

2012-06-10T06:14:00.000-07:00

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!

2012-06-04T00:58:00.000-07:00

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

2012-06-02T06:21:00.001-07:00

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!

Taking An Interest

2012-05-25T00:23:00.002-07:00

Recently, Wifey suggested it might be time that I do some research into the whole pregnancy thing, feeling it may help me to be sensitive to her needs if I understand what's going on in there. I explained to her that I was writing a baby blog - clearly I was taking an active interest!

Sadly, though, Wifey pointed out that just because I was putting down some random observations and sending them out into the ether, didn't mean I was actually learning anything about the biology of the whole operation. When my declaration that it would corrupt the whole premise and integrity of my blog - a naive young father-to-be learning by doing - was rejected, I finally relented and made the following purchase (which, to be honest, I'm slightly shocked no one gave us earlier!):

Hopefully this will, for the time being, fulfil my requirements when it comes to researching the whole pregnancy thing. Of course, a little further down the line, when this small act is no longer sufficient, it may be necessary for me to physically read the book. Actually, by then the movie should be out - I'll probably just see that.

Sharing the Good News

2012-05-23T00:19:00.000-07:00

This is the moment that our existing dependant was informed that a baby would be joining the family. A moment later, however, I threw her ball and all was forgiven...for now.

One of the first dilemmas we faced when we discovered Baby was on board, was who we should tell and when? It seems like the norm is to keep it quiet until you get to the 3 month mark. At this stage you can generally establish if things are going well or not. Doc told us it was entirely up to us who we told and when and was pretty blunt about what could possibly go wrong!

I suppose doctors need to be pretty straight when it comes to the high possibility of a failed pregnancy and by being matter-of fact they can better prepare couples for that eventuality. I do appreciate the honesty of such an approach, but you can't help leaving feeling that, despite already beating the enormous odds against conceiving in the first place, you will be very lucky indeed to make it all the way to (or through) actual birth.

That being said, this made me all the more determined to tell some of those people closest to me. That way, in the (seemingly almost probable) outcome that something did go wrong, we would at least have the support of our closest friends and family.

So who makes the cut?

Well there was no way we could hide it from my parents with Wifey being so crippled by her "morning" sickness...and considering the fact that we were living with them at the time. So parents would find out and therefore so would our brothers. And, by default, so would their girlfriends.

And what reaction would we get?

Well there was some combination of all the following cliches:

"You're not!?" *stunned, expectantly excited silence*

"Oh WOW!" (accompanied by the thought process: 'my child is too young to be a parent!')

"I'm going to be a GRANDPARENT!"

"I'm going to be the coolest uncle!"

"This is the best news EVER!"

And finally, the combination:

*Stunned silence* (accompanied by the thought process: "I'm too young to be a grandparent!")

Additionally to these, we each told our closest couple of friends, who were all suitably, coolly stoked. However, we thought it best to hold off telling work for the moment...

Alas, "morning" sickness strikes again.

When a girl of a certain age gets married, any proceeding signs of ailment are closely monitored by all women (and some particularly perceptive men) in the workplace. This makes it particularly difficult to fake 'not-pregnant', particularly when you have a poker-face as good as Wifey's isn't. True, this phenomenon has caused many a flu to send the "She's so pregnant" rumour mill into overdrive, but when the real thing strikes, there is no mistaking it for those who recognise the signs:

"Can't help but notice that [Wifey]'s not drinking tonight..."

"She's driving."

"That would be why she passed on the prawns?"

*Chinks glass in congratulations*

With these signs on display for all to see and a mounting number of sick days for "spewiness", the cat is well-out of the bag at Wifey's work; the worst kept secret in town. Fortunately my symptoms have been far less severe, so I may yet make it through the first trimester.

Baby's Been to Disneyland...and Vegas...

2012-05-11T01:27:00.001-07:00

My parents never got sick of the joke that, despite my lack of recollection, I had, in fact, been in a helicopter. They justified this by the fact that, while a fair way down her path of pregnancy, Mother had taken a joy ride at a carnival. In a similar vain, I should be free from the burden that is every child's desire to go to that miraculous place of dreams: Disneyland. For, Baby's already been.

Granted, Baby was scarcely the size of a gummy bear at the time of attendance, but that shouldn't matter... Right?

However, matters of cruel and unnecessary emotional torment aside, the fact that Wifey and I went to Disneyland with our little jelly baby on board was of immediate concern when, a fortnight later we discovered our little stowaway's existence. Disney California Adventure was our greatest cause for concern. For this, the more adult of the two Anaheim parks, is home to the most remarkable and heart-stopping of rides: The Tower of Terror.

As if Wifey wasn't cranky enough at me for the fact that she somehow found herself sitting next to me on a ride that drops you 13 unlucky storeys in a service elevator, the fear that it may lead to a child with an upside-down face, really did concern her. But the Tower of Terror wasn't the only amusement that came with a "resist in the case of pregnancy" warning. Even the rollicking ol' Indiana Jones ride carried such signage. And what other dangers were lurking as we tottered around the West Coast of the U.S. of A? The mind boggles...

VEGAS. O. M. G. What about that night in Vegas?! Unlimited free-poured spirits in a Vegas club for a night! Surely our child would be ruined: two heads with a joint IQ of 12.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, Doc assures us that everyone's had at least one absolute blinder in the unrealised period of pregnancy and we needn't be alarmed. Turns out it's more the long-term excessive drinking through out that causes problems. As for the wild rides of Disneyland, they probably just ensured that Baby was holding on tight.

Having said that, now that we know Baby's on board, we aren't taking any risks!

Morning Sickness: The Great Sham.

2012-05-07T01:23:00.000-07:00

I understand that morning sickness strikes various women in different ways; some not at all. I read on one website that symptoms may arise somewhere around 10 weeks and should be gone in the vicinity of 14. In my case Wifey was struck flat from about the precise moment her 'condition' was realised. This was only 5 weeks in and I'm told it was only the thrill of Disneyland keeping her going up until that point.

Exactly why morning sickness is so-named is a mystery to me. I don't know if Wifey is just particularly pregnant, or what, but her symptoms have remained with her well into the afternoon. Every day. Still.

I am starting to wonder now if morning sickness was in fact an important evolutionary stepping stone in preparing the Western man for parenthood: Sure, it's a far-cry from wiping both ends every 10 mins (I gather that's required with an actual baby), but it is a move towards... attentiveness.

A friend told me of an island tribe which still practice a custom where, at the point of labour, women are taken away from the tribe (where they would be bound to disrupt the man-folk) and tied safely to a tree where they can give birth under the guidance of the experienced mothers. They can then return to the tribe after a couple of days have past, when they are no longer flustered, the baby is all cleaned up and they've had an opportunity to get their hair right.

Granted this probably wouldn't fly in my society. And let's be honest - nor should it. As much as every guy jokes about the fact that he wishes he could be Don Draper getting hammered in the waiting room until the screaming's stopped and the baby isn't covered in birthing fluid, in reality there's no way they'd leave their dearly beloved in there alone. Well maybe some would, but those guys probably shouldn't be fathers. I will remain there copping all of Wifey's misplaced rage and letting her crush my hand to her heart's content.

But that, thankfully, is still some time down the way. At this stage my preparation only goes as far as being attentive to Wifey's requirements in dealing with her "morning" sickness: having a bucket handy and plain-ish food and drinks at the ready. Upon reflection that doesn't seem like a huge ask or task compared with what's still to come.

But the point remains that "morning sickness" is a huge misnomer: the implication that it is contained only to the hours before lunch exists just so the first hurdle of pregnancy doesn't seem so great that you put the whole thing off entirely. Small steps.

The Discovery

2012-05-04T01:00:00.000-07:00

While on a recent overseas holiday, we found it necessary to take a pregnancy test. This was merely a precaution, as clearly jet-lag was to blame for Wifey's pregnant-like symptoms and this would confirm that fact. Well, so we thought.

We had once before felt it necessary to take a pregnancy test. That time around a bun-in-the-oven would have been rather poorly timed: living arrangements were not ideal and there was the big overseas holiday in the works. Yet, all the same, as the golden 2 minute mark passed and I peered upon the magic wand that could determine my destiny, I was struck by an intriguing disappointed sensation when it displayed a negative result. I'm not sure if it was my overwhelming internal paternal desire, or a masochistic addiction to drama.

So what do you do when you ARE faced with a positive test? Well the instructions (which I have read cover to cover...thrice) tell you to contact a doctor. However, being 23 (and thus having learnt most of what I know about life, love, sex and babies from popular culture), I know better: you take more tests.

One week later we arrived home and made an almost immediate appointment with Wifey's doctor. She would confirm (or deny) what we thought we knew with her bigger, better, doctory test.

"So why do you think you're pregnant?"

"I'm late and I took a test...well...four."

"And they were all positive?"

"Yes."

"Congratulations, you're pregnant."