The Daddy Diaries - Part 5 - The Happiest Moment of my Life

In my final NCT/ante-natal class I arranged for a bet between all the fathers; who can best guess the weight of their child-to-be. The stakes got to a reasonably serious £5, with 9 couples in our class, £45 was now riding on Daniel's first weigh-in. I plumbed for 8lb 10oz on the basis that it was midway between Fran and my birth-weights. This was over a pound heavier than anyone else had guessed and deliberately optimistic (/light) of my true expectation on my behalf.

Cut to 6 weeks later. Fran had just undergone a protracted and painful labour (are any short and pain-free?). We were in theatre, Fran was under anaesthetic and there was more blood present than I had thought possible. There were more medics present than I've ever seen in one place, other The Bricklayers Arms, Leicester on nurses payday. There had been horrific implements applied to Daniel (via Fran) and actions which would later require stitching were still taking place. Then Daniel came out - minutes before a caesarian was required. The nurses cleaned him up and handed him to me. Tears streamed uncontrollably, I had never before felt such uncontrollable urges to protect and love. I showed him to Fran, I showed him to the nurses who'd been with us for the past 12 hours or so (they'd stayed after their shift had ended), I showed him to the world's greatest anaesthetist. I told him how much we'd care for him and about all the wonderful things that life had in store for him. I assured him that - no matter what - I'd always love him as much as I did at that moment I couldn't have been any happier, or so I thought.

They put him on the scales....8lb 10oz! GET IN!!! It doesn't get much better than that.

The Dad Diaries - Part 4 - Becoming a Daddy

There are many reasons I could give to you as to why I've not been blogging of late. Oh, I'm sure you'd also be sympathetic to the assertion that I've been busy - of course that would be simple and it is also true, but I haven't been so busy that I couldn't systematise the cutlery section of the dishwasher nor bake biscotti (don't go mad on the almonds if you ever do so too). The truth is that I didn't want to put into words what I've been through - not that it's been indescribable nor too emotional to relive it all, just that I don't know where to start. And, if I'm completely frank; I'm slightly embarrassed. I haven't coped with this as well as I would have liked. I'm not particularly proud of how I behaved when deprived of sleep, when faced with medical emergencies or bubbling grey poo.

So here we are; Fran, Daniel and I. And you, I suppose. At the beginning of what feels like is going to be a very special journey...I for one can't wait.

I think I will leave this entry, a little too enigmatically for my liking, at that. Other than to say, thank you so much for the masses of support we've received. I love you all.

The Daddy Diaries - Part 3 - Only a Mother

I would like to preface this entry by making it noted that I have nothing against ugly people, indeed I consider myself a proud member of their clan. Well, that’s not 100% true, I only have a problem with people who are ugly AND:

1. Are so out of obstinacy
2. Have significantly contributed to their state (adorning with or protruding pieces of metal from central features would be included here)
3. They are ugly because they’re from Swansea

This week we had another scan on our child and found out that he’s in the 97th centile for weight but just below average in height.

So, short and fat, then. This brought to the fore of my mind one of my secret fears about becoming a father; I find babies…unsightly. There, I’ve said it. They have rolls of fat, weird shaped heads and have unknown disasters down their trousers – a room full of new-borns bears too much resemblance to a pub full of Glaswegians for me.

The way I saw it, there was a 50-50 chance of the baby being attractive. But now I learn the most unfortunate quirk of evolution awaits my off-spring. In order to reassure fathers that the child their partners have delivered are indeed composed of their genetic material, new babies tend to look like their fathers. Poor blighter. As if the prospect of being forced to learn how to complete a fiendish Su Doku as soon as he hold a pencil was n’t bad enough…

My problem is not that our child will be unpleasant-looking. It’s that I won’t be able to honestly say that he’s beautiful or perfect. Quite how everyone else seems to be able to stare at the bruised, misshapen mite they’ve produced then coo and lovingly say how gorgeous he/she is I will never know. I just can’t do this with any degree of integrity. What kind a father does this make me? What kind of person does this make me???

Oh, and if I ever told you that your baby was beautiful, then yours was the exception…honest.

The Daddy Diaries - Part 2 - Naming Conventionally

Lionel and Joyce sat and joyfully discussed the name of their first-born. After taking account of the thoughts of friends and family, they made a short-list and after carefully deliberation eventually settled on Jeffrey for a boy. He was relentlessly teased in the playground because of this name, emotionally distroying him. Jeffrey grew up to be a very bad boy. Mr & Mrs Dalmer had chosen badly, indeed. OK, I'm guessing at some of the details, but it could well be that David Dalmer would have been a mild mannered vegan.

How does one go about assigning a label to an individual who you don't even know yet? I've heard that many Sikhs adopt the tradition of randomly turning the page of a book and choosing a name beginning with the first letter of the first word on the page. Chances are that we'd get Q and have to choose between Quentin and Qwerty and frankly I'm not sure which would lead to more teasing (but speed-typing ones name could offer significant benefits).

Phonics are far more important than I originally would have thought. Firstly, does it rhyme or alliterate...so Wayne and Bobby are out. Then, does it sounds like it might be used by a serial killer, genocidal world leader or reality TV star in the next eighty years. And finally, how does it roll off the tongue when preceded by "Nobel prize winner..." or "I'll have Fries with that please..."

My elder brother was named Richard and I'm pretty sure that re-use of his initialled clothing was a factor in my naming. If it hadn't occurred to them that an R can be changed to a B, I'm pretty sure that my younger brother would have been Ryan (rather than Brian) and we'd have been on the way to being an invasion band - Ricky, Robbie, Ryan and the Basinheads.

None of this gets us very far towards actually choosing a name, though. We're wandering towards the idea of naming our son after a favourite character from a book or history in the hope that he will emulate their feats or character. Is it too much pressure on an unborn child - that they will one day out-wit pheasants with the cunning use of sleeping pills and/or pull thorns from Lion's paws?

Any suggestions welcome.

Except Jeffrey.

The Daddy Diaries - Part 1 - Twangggg!

I once read a magazine article which centred around an interview with a gigolo. Forgive me if this seems an odd way to start a blog about fatherhood, but feel free to skip to the 3rd paragraph if you want to get straight to the point. Anyway, the interviewer was unimpressed with his looks and general demeanour but when she asked him the secret to pleasing women, he stared her in the eyes, raised his hand towards her face, drew his lips near to hers and whispered “anticipation”. At which point she supposedly reached some never-before-glimpsed erotic pinnacle. Ever since reading this I’ve tried this approach on virtually every woman who has allowed me to within a furlong of their face and it has, at best, achieved a bemused to disappointed look – but more often a flinch or carefully guided slap or kick to the most painful area of my exposed body.

Although this did eventually persuade me to adopt a more reasonable approach to wooing women (saying nothing and hoping someone would pass my way), it does still correspond with my belief that often anticipation is better than the main event, certainly those who’ve allowed themselves to salivate at the prospect of my “Chicken Perfection” would affirm (the perfect part being that it’s perfectly inedible to any being with fewer than three stomachs).

I’m not sure whether being father is like this or not, but I’m certainly enjoying the anticipation (bet you wish you’d skipped to paragraph three, now). I have been asked if being a first-time expectant father is a stressful business and even been empathised with on the basis that it has been proven so. To an extent I can see how this could be true, afterall probably the biggest life-changer of an event is approaching which is also rather a physically stretching (sorry) experience for ones partner. From a fight or flight perspective, those who neither scarper to Fillongley nor strangulate the cat for relief could seem to face a stressful old time of it.

My disposition has been a lot more relaxed, overall. In fact I would say I’ve never been so calm. It’s a central tenet of my (rather limited in relative terms) job description as Dad-to-be: Don’t Panic. Don’t go weird when you see you partner grow to twice her natural size, don’t flip out every time she goes to the toilet for 43 seconds longer than average (managed all but the first time) and generally be a calming influence. Compared to the alternative role on offer in the pregnancy stakes, there isn’t much of a comparison. So, bags are packed, sort of, nursery decorated (thanks Mum-in-Law!), books have been read, classes attended…and my heart rate is staying well below 100 bpm.

If you ever attempted to fire an elastic band at an attractive target, say, the rear of your Deputy Headmaster, then I think the feeling of anticipation as you pull back the band to nearest full stretch is how I feel now; the excitement, the potential, the build-up and the knowledge that your likely to get a slap however it works out.