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.
