Week 39: The last week!

I can recall almost exactly when the screaming started. It began the night before, and I’m sure the whole street could hear. It was at around 9:30pm, in the 78^th minute of the Arsenal vs Barcelona Champions League quarter final: my yells of joy, as Van Persie scored a goal of exquisite precision and power, would have awoken the neighbours, I’m sure. 

More shouts of excitement followed after another Arsenal goal that would win them the game, beating one of the world’s best footballing teams. What a moment.

Shortly before full-time I heard Jas make what I thought were encouraging football-related noises. Looking in her direction, I realised she was on all fours on the floor and moaning in agony. 

“What’s up?”
“My belly is sore.”
“Oh. Is it labour?”
“No, it doesn’t feel like labour.”

I went over and gave her back a rub (thankfully in full view of the exciting final stages of the game).

Jas: “How much longer to go in the game?”
“Eight minutes.”
“Okay. Can you help me get to bed after the game? I’m finding it hard to move.” Such a marvellously considerate wife I have.

I was awoken at 1am. “The pain is worse.”
“Oh. More intense?”
“It hurts more, about every ten minutes.”
“Sounds like labour...?”
“No, it doesn’t feel like labour.”

It was labour. 

I spent the next few hours pumping up and filling a birth pool in our living room, as well as intermittently holding Jas’ hand; she was slightly pre-occupied as well with ever-intensifying primal surges. Once I had the pool water temperature right, Jas slipped into the water for some pain relief, followed by myself shortly after to provide what little support I could as the natural forces overcame her. 

Two midwives and our doula were ever present with their fantastic assistance and encouragement. Jas and I were in the little pool for many hours, in which Jas slowly became exhausted with effort while I basically had a long bath. 

Eventually, a little boy was born in our home to the cheering of our assistants. It was a beautiful moment, easily eclipsing the excitement of the night before.  

Welcome, Zane.

The next chapter: Raising Zane

Week 38

Read the manual

There are some great parenthood books out there, and friends & family have been kind enough to give us some of them. One is called “The Baby Owner’s Manual”, and written like something you’d find in the glove box of a car, with marvellously mechanical chapters on “Home Installation” and “General Maintenance”. I think my favourite chapter could be “Activating Sleep Mode”.

On the topic of manuals, Sunday was “Manual Day” for me: I’d tasked myself with assembling the various contraptions we had accumulated for the bump, and working out how they worked. It made me realise that the bulk of the world’s engineers and designers are probably employed making devices for little people, all packaged with little manuals, as they are all a little challenging to get together. Our baby carrier, bottle steriliser and baby monitor all came in a confusing multitude of pieces; successfully putting them together provided the same satisfaction that I had after erecting three Ikea cupboards in our bedroom, without having any pieces left over.

There was another item I had to address: the breast pump. I took the box out of the cupboard, and looked at the device that looked something like a dwarf Dr Who dalek that’d had lip enhancement surgery. I recalled a story of a chap who was curious about his wife’s breast pump, and secretly tried it on himself. He received two shocks: (1) the sensation of his nipples being ripped off and (2) having his wife unexpectedly walk in on him.

I put the box back in the cupboard.

Week 37

Escape

Jas and the bub both want out now.

He’s trying to get out, but hasn’t quite worked it out yet. His downward pressure on Jas’ pelvis is palpable, most notably to Jas, of course. Looking at the belly profile, the bulge has shifted noticeably lower, almost kind of drooping, as though he is stretching his legs out and to try reach the floor from within, attempting escape the lazy way. I can just see him as a little person in his cot trying to get out by squeezing his legs through the slats, and wondering why he can’t get any further.

Jas’ manoeuvrability has declined considerably. Getting dressed is a time consuming effort, a major project, something that almost requires a small scaffolding team to complete. Putting shoes on is the most challenging, often requiring my assistance. When she does it herself it looks a bit like a Buddha doing yoga.

Hilariously, she has started to “beep, beep, beep” when she is reversing, warning me of the long load coming my way. One night she sat down at the dinner table, moved her seat as close to the table she could, looked at her distant meal, and then at the bulbous bump filling the expanse between her and her plate. “I am further from the table every time I have dinner!”

She still looks gorgeous though.

Week 36

My wife the penguin

We went out for a Friday Nepalese meal. Walking home it was cold – very cold – and the little one was competing with the curry for space and causing considerable discomfort for Jas. And she had to pee. Jas was torn between struggling to walk normally (well, “normal” for 36 weeks pregnant), and rushing home to a warm toilet: the result was a brisk, modified waddle, with short steps, her torso bobbing from side to side, her arms lightly flapping; she was wearing a dark jacket and a white beanie, and had there been a few snow drifts about, it would have looked as though I was walking hand-in-flipper with an Emperor Penguin. 

Sore fingers

I’m getting quite good at massaging. I think. I try to help out with Jas’ back discomfort as much as I can, and a 10 minute rub often helps...but – alas – I can’t do much more than 10 minutes. It’s tough on the hands, and my finger muscles don’t seem to be developing any strength. What do professional masseuses do? Are there any finger fitness classes out there? For a potentially long labour, with hours of massage ahead of me, I’m going to have to come up with a cunning plan. I wonder if I can get a special attachment for the electric hand mixer...

Week 35

Drinks

I was having a few relaxing ales in a pub with Rob one evening when my phone went off. I’d started to be on high alert now that we were getting to the pointy end of the pregnancy, so I jumped a bit when the phone rang, though partly it was because my trousers had started vibrating. It was indeed Jas, and she was very excitable. “It’s come out!” I nearly fell off my stool. “What? What has?” What had I missed?! “Milk! I’ve got milk!” Now I’m normally one to get more excited about beer than milk, but this was indeed an interesting development. Jas had held a little baby earlier in the day; we’d heard stories about women spontaneously lactating when holding a hungry bub, but Jas’ leaky booby did seem to be pretty clear evidence of this phenomenon. When I ended the call it looked as though Rob was in mild shock after hearing the one-sided conversation...

A simple plan

     

      We needed a birth plan. I thought, no problem:

      

       1. Give birth (Jas)

       2. Open champagne (Richard)

Apparently more detail was required: At home or in hospital? A water birth? What drugs should we Jas have, if any? Should I cut the cord? Apparently you can buy birthing pools for home use. I imagined a spa-sized pool, at home, in our lounge room, in front of the TV...and wistfully thought that if I could find something to generate some bubbles, Saturday night watching football highlights with a beer could become a whole new experience....

We’re always asked “Have you thought of any names?” We have, but we’ve decided not to decide until we see the little one. We figure (and hope) that the choice will be obvious. If he is indeed a “he”, then when we meet him in person he might just look like a Cornelius, a Saffron or a Gustav. (Just joking mum...Cornelius really isn’t on our list.) Maybe we’ll read out a bunch of fancied names and see how the baby responds to each. I think a poo would mean “no”. We heard a very humorous story of a father who - already having a daughter called Heidi – argued with his wife about naming his newborn son Zeek, on the grounds that he wanted to be able to call his kids “Heid & Zeek”. Priceless.