I haven’t updated my blog for about…oohh, two weeks. How remiss of me. Can’t imagine why I’ve been so slack.
Oh. I remember. I have a two-week-old son. That might have something to do with it.
In truth, the arrival of the First-Born has very little to do with it. I’ve been floating on a cloud of euphoria for much of the last fortnight. I can sit and hold him, or lie beside him in bed and watch him, all day, easily. The outside world and the distractions that it offers are, fairly much, irrelevant.
It has been a remarkably steep learning curve, the last fortnight. Everything from when Dr M went into labour late in the evening of 14.12 up until now. And it continues. And will continue for the foreseeable future. It is fun. It is demanding. It is changing my life in ways that I wont realise for quite some time yet.
A few highlights from the last couple of weeks:
• The most appropriate treatment for the incorrigible chauvinist would be for him to watch a woman, preferably his wife or partner, go through the agonies of labour and childbirth. If he is still able to consider women as the weaker sex after this, then he should be tied to a lamppost and shot; clearly, he is not fit for anything else.
• I will talk about my experience of labour another time. Suffice it to say that I have never felt so absolutely, totally, completely useless in my life. I set the bar for uselessness pretty high, so this is something of an achievement. It’s not entirely a bad thing, though. I’ll talk about that another time.
• Remember that I said that I have a blood phobia? Well, it’s gone. Gone forever. Dr M lost a bit of blood during the birth (I think she did this just to spite me, but there you go); not enough to place her in any danger, but enough for her to be taken into hospital for the night, as a precaution. Which meant that after the excitement and exhilaration and the pure, unrefined joy of the arrival, I had to go back home and clean up the bedroom. Boy, it wasn’t a pretty sight.
• He’s a big lad. A very big lad. This has its advantages. He is easy to carry, and not at all fragile. I spent most of the morning after walking up and down the ward in the hospital, cradling him in my arms as M rested, glaring at other fathers as they did the same (‘My son’s bigger than your son, nyeh nyeh nyeh-nyeh, nyeh’).
• God, I am childish. And competitive. The worst possible combination.
• Everyone asks whether we were able to sleep well. My stock answer was yes, surprisingly well. He only wakes up twice a night and settles down immediately afterwards.
• This was my stock answer until Dr M took me aside and informed me that I only wake up twice a night. The first born, on the other hand, woke up quite a few more times. After this conversation, I stopped answering the question.
• On our first night home, Mother and Child went to bed early. I cracked open a bottle of Wine, put Coltrane on the stereo and settled down to read a book. I felt good with myself. This parenting lark wasn’t so difficult after all. Then he started crying…
• Changing a bigger baby is somewhat easier than changing a small baby. They are not so fragile, for one thing.
• Even so, the first time I changed his nappy, I managed to put it on back to front. Not my fault, though. The things (nappies, that is) don’t come with an instruction manual. (Not that I would have read it in any case, but it’s the principle that matters.)
• Talking about changing nappies, Wet Wipes are proof that God exists and that He loves us.
• I had forgotten quite how much I hated the smell of sour milk
• But, when your child pukes it up, you forget again very quickly. In fact, you forget to change your clothes when he throws up all over you. So, if I smell a little…ripe in the near future, you know exactly why.
• We have formed a close, dependent relationship with our washing machine and dryer. I really don’t think we could survive without them.
• Our son is gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. I know that every parent says this, but really…
• Everyone says that he looks like me. I don’t quite see this (see above; I do not usually fit in the same sentence as the word ‘gorgeous’), but I won’t argue.
• Someone said that he has his mother’s eyebrows. She pointed out that that would mean that they visit the same beautician.
• I quite like paternity leave. I don’t miss work (surprise, surprise!). Or Television. Or the Xmas sales. For the first time in living memory, I do not know what the Xmas number one was. And I don’t care.
• Everyone says that I’ll miss the time and luxury of leisurely reading the Sunday Papers. Well, as it happens, I did get round to reading them. And I realised that I couldn’t give a monkey’s about anything in them. Miss them, I won’t.
• We’ve kept things relatively low key. Seen very few people.
• As of this morning, Dr M and the First Born are yet to leave the flat. Don’t blame them. The weather was awful until a couple of days ago.
• Which makes me the de facto Foreign Minister for the household. I go out, I negotiate with shopkeepers and officialdom whilst the Mother and Child rest in our little enclave.
• Or, one could describe me as the archetypal hunter-gatherer, seeking and acquiring on behalf of the new family.
• I’m not sure which I prefer, Foreign Minister or Hunter-Gatherer Alpha Male type. I’m clearly not of Alpha-Male stock, so I feel a bit of a fraud, masquerading as such. Never mind
• Did I say that his is gorgeous? Adorable?
• It was difficult settling on a name. How does one name perfection? Clearly, however, we could not continue with Lieutenantjohnmcclane. Too much of a mouthful. So, after debate, arm-twisting and blackmail, we settled on…The First Born. Or TFB for short.
• Talking about names, I discovered that midwives propagate the most horrendous perfidy; the ultimate blackmail tool for mothers to use against fathers if they can’t agree on a name. As it happens, Dr M didn’t use this on me; but I still think it is my duty to alert all prospective fathers to this treachery.
• But not today.
• My mother and my mother-in-law have both been, in their individual ways, wonderful. I cannot thank either of them enough.
I’m going to go now. The First Born is stirring, and he probably needs a nappy change.
I don’t usually dedicate my ramblings – it’s just a blog after all, let’s not get ideas above our station? – but I will with this one, to three people.
To my friend AB, who, from the perspective of the father of a two year old, thinks that I will no longer have the time or energy to keep this up. I intend to prove you wrong, friend.
To the late Cyril Connelly, who memorably opined once that ‘there is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.’ What a horrid thing to say. I feel duty bound to spend the rest of my life trying to disprove this.
And to our son, The First Born. Welcome to the world.
Who'd ever have thought that you, twisted and occassionally pompous (I'll allow it once!) could become such a soppy, maudlin fellow??? Amsuing to watch, I assure you, seeing you all misty eyed and glowing each time the young man burps, farts or yawns....perhaps it's the startling resemblance to you during those special moments that makes you weak at the knees. However, he is a beautiful little man and deserves your accolades!!!
Posted by: S | December 28, 2006 at 03:50 PM
Congratulations to you and Dr M on the birth of ur new born son.
Posted by: Calabargal | February 08, 2007 at 05:16 PM