Week 16 ... again.

Hi bub,

Twenty-nine months ago (although it seems a lot, LOT longer) I wrote a week 16 for Tom - so it's only fair that I do the same for you. In fact, I can even load your week 13 scan, just as I did for your big brother:


Aww ... I had forgotten how much these pictures mean to me! Only another few weeks until we get to have another look at you - and learn a little bit more about what you have in store for the next stage of our parenting journey. I can't wait.

Well. Well well well well well.

Like most bloggers, I ran out of steam on this effort to document my journey into fatherhood.

Naturally, the very subject matter itself contributed to this in no small way: who has time to blog about fatherhood, when they're just too damn busy experiencing fatherhood?

Of course, my lack of enthusiasm/time/energy/ability-to-think-straight-due-to-sleep-deprivation meant that I have regrettably missed this opportunity to document all manner of things (particularly the experience of dragging a five-month-old around the UK for a month), but thankfully I still have the scars to remind me of all the fun.

Anyway, I realised quite quickly that for me to rediscover the passion to somehow squeeze blogging time back into my daily schedule, something big - nay, something MOMENTOUS would be required.

The results of Julie's recent blood test might be exactly what I needed.

Introducing JCAB v2.2.
Due date: 27 July, 2009.
Tom's going to be a brother!

Oh gawd - here we go again ...

Information overload

With only two days until the start of winter, we think Tom is showing the beginnings of his first cold - sniffs, snuffles, grumps, etc.

Well, 'tis the season after all - and I have little doubt that both his Mum and his Dad will have their own annual affliction soon enough. But to see this tiny little person exhibiting such symptoms makes me realise just how much I care for him - and just how much I worry when things go wrong, or do not go as expected.

Granted, some things warrant a certain amount of concern ... and one would be a terrible parent if one did not proverbially spoil oneself when one's baby passes out and requires a ride in an ambulance.

However, parenthood presents you with a whole host of new things to worry about - particularly in the current information age, when opinions and advice are so plentiful. Gone are the days when the only conflicting advice that new parents needed to balance out was that provided by alternate grandmothers (and that was merely a political process more than anything else!) Now, with the advent of the web, you can have 'helpful hints' and 'expert advice' delivered directly to your doorsteps, both virtual and physical. The resultant, often self-contradictory, questions can keep you awake into the wee hours:

• Is he getting enough food?
• Is he putting on too much weight?
• Why won't he sleep longer?
• Why isn't he more playful?
• Should I torture him with more 'tummy time'?
• Should he be holding his head up at this age?
• etc.

While I'm certain that we will cease worrying so much about the minutiae of the boy's wellbeing as he grows older (... Did you hear that noise? It sounded very much like my mother, my in-laws and every other parent who has ever been all saying 'HA!' at the same time ...), this demonstrates to me - more so than anything in my professional life - the importance of information literacy and filtering skills.

The internet is a big ol' data repository, containing equal quantities of valuable insights, considered reflection, subjective opinion, and mindless rubbish. Learning to sift through all this and emerge with useful knowledge (along with one's sanity intact) is a useful trick when foraging for information - and a crucial survival skill for impressionable, panic-stricken new parents!

This is a public service announcement ...

The serialised approach I adopted to tell the story of Tom's arrival was useful for me, as it allowed me to revisit each stage of this momentous journey, and deal with the key changes/challenges individually.

But since I've now covered the ground from phone call to fatherhood, I'm going to return to a normal journal-keeping behaviour, i.e.: random comments and observations, of varying word length, as they occur to me.

What does this mean to you, the reader? Well, probably nothing - but I will no longer be titling my posts 'Part 1, Part 2' etc.

We now return you to your scheduled programming ...

Part 6: Fatherhood

So, what’s it like being a father?

Now that I come to answer this question, I really appreciate the fact that serialising the story of Tom’s birth, from receiving the phone call to meeting the boy, has taken me over two months to complete – and furnished me with the benefit of hindsight.

During my first five days as a dad-with-wife-and-child-in-hospital, awash with floaty idealism and sleep-deprived levels of dopamine, I would have described it (indeed, I did describe it) in near-religious terms. It was glorious, life-changing, a miracle of nature. it was heart-wrenching to have to leave the hospital of an evening, and each morning – after very little sleep, but still more than poor Julie – I would be back there as soon as possible to spend more time with my family*.

During the next five days, as a dad-with-wife-and-child-at-home, awash with harsh pessimism, and sleep-deprived levels of impatience, I would have described it (once I stopped crying and sobbing) as the hardest bloody thing I had ever done in my life, why WHY did nobody tell us it was going to be this bad and this hard and what’s that rash on his face, is it contagious, why is he breathing like that, oh hell is he alright, why won’t he feed, what’s wrong with him, why can’t we do this, what’s wrong with us, ring the hospital – perhaps they can tell us whether he’s choking to death or whether this freakish breathing is normal, while you’ve got them on the phone maybe we should discuss their returns policy, what can we hire/buy to settle him – with a bit of work and a lot of money we can probably replicate the hospital environment completely, right down to the nurses-on-call, and then he’ll be fine, how many nappies can this kid go through in one day, that’s it – our lives as we knew them are over.

Now, having come through both of those necessary stages of the roller-coaster and survived largely intact, I can afford a bit of balanced** realism.

As you get to know your child, you also discover your own abilities as parents – and you simultaneously realise that while he has needs, you have the means to meet them. The confidence afforded by this realisation takes some time to obtain, but it’s what makes all the difference between panic and sanity.

A baby may be a complex system internally, but his responses are fairly straight-forward:

‘Listen, Dad - I have six basic needs: food, cleanliness, sleep, shelter, love and entertainment. Meet these, and we’ll get along fine. Fail to meet these, and I’ll cry. What? Can I modulate my cry so that you know which one I require? No, I bloody can’t! Well, I don’t care if you could write a best-seller based on such a theory – I don’t have the vocal range yet, okay? Well, why don’t you just make something up, then?’

Crying has survived evolution as an all-purpose signal that a need is going unmet. It has done so because its reaction on a parent is tremendous – there is nothing you wouldn’t drop (except the baby, of course) to give your screaming child what it needs***.

This reaction – for me, at least – was hellish at the beginning. Tom’s cry reached deep down into my genetic constitution and flipped levers I never knew existed. I couldn’t even think clearly enough to remember those basic needs.

Julie seemed to snap out of this reaction quicker than I did (but she had plenty of other problems to deal with, the poor mammal), but eventually I came around, too. A baby might be highly demanding, but the reality is that the solutions are all fairly easy and straightforward – if hugely time-consuming; but what better way to consume your time****?

Don’t get me wrong – I’m by no means immune to Tom’s screams. Just yesterday, I was ready to put my head through a wall due to a total and utter lack of understanding of his needs. And this is where they get tricky on you: just when you think you know what you’re doing, the little blighters go and change their routines!

As the weeks pass, the difficulty of meeting needs is softened further by the gradual development of their responses and interactions: following you with their eyes, a smile, a coo, a laugh, etc. It blows me away to look back over the past nine weeks and see how much Tom has changed. He’s developing so quickly, it won’t be long before we see him as ‘a boy’ rather than ‘a baby’.

In short, being a father is a hundred times harder than I expected – but a thousand times more rewarding. I thoroughly recommend it.

* ‘My family’ has become my favourite phrase, and I now find any excuse to use it. After Julie and I were engaged, I relished in referring to ‘my fiancée’ – but that soon sounded pretentious. After we wed, I loved saying ‘my wife’ – but the proliferation of colleagues and associates using the gender-neutral reference ‘my partner’ left me feeling old-fashioned. But everyone has a family, and this one’s mine, so I’m going to espouse proud paternity as much as I bloody-well want, okay?

** This is a bit of a fib. There’s nothing ‘balanced’ about my emotional responses to the boy – I love him, I love him, I love him. He has already filled me up with a completely irrational set of emotional responses: I laugh and coo when he vomits, I congratulate his efforts when he poops, I take hundreds of photos of him every day and inflict them on my friends, family and colleagues. Leave me alone – I’m just being a dad!

*** I’m hoping that I toughen up on this before Tom’s old enough to realise that he’s got me around his finger. I really don’t want to be one of ‘those’ parents you see in the supermarket, blackmailed into buying disposable/edible rubbish by breath-holding and temper-tantrums.

**** Well, off the top of my head there’s reading, writing, eating, sleeping, watching TV, catching up with friends or seeing a film. Just kidding, Tom. Really.

Part 5: The boy

So, here he was. Thomas Andrew had finally arrived. After nine months of apprehension, and nine hours of exasperation, we were finally parents.

There’s nothing like looking at a newborn baby to make you feel old, fat and hairy. Everything about them is so small and clean, pure and perfect.

Tiny little fingers.

Impossibly cute toes.

Eyes, ears, mouth and nose which were all models-in-miniature of either Julie’s or my own.

Huge whopping great genitals.

No, no, no – I’m not being crass, nor am I trying to brag about my boy’s endowment. It’s a medical fact that both boys and girls are born with enlargements in that particular region. It’s a hormonal thing, honestly. (However, I must admit to being tempted to quote Homer Simpson: ‘It’s a boy … and WHAT a boy!’)

It must be said that we were both very impressed with how much time we had to bond with our baby. As mentioned previously, he was given to Julie as soon as he was delivered. In fact, she actually CAUGHT HIM as he was on his way out, and LIFTED HIM UP to her own chest … with a bit of help, of course – but how impressive is that? How much does that shatter your preconceptions of how maternity wards operate?

We expected a significantly colder, more clinical approach: ‘Congratulations folks – here’s your baby. Have a quick look and a cuddle, and we’ll bundle him off for tests and examinations. You can wander down the hall soon and look at him through the big window. Oh no, we hardly ever mix them up any more.’ etc.

But instead we had a good half hour to bond with him, at which stage we briefly handed him over to the obstetrician (who had been busying himself with removing other things from inside Julie, and thankfully mopped up before handling Tom) for a few quick tests and a weigh-in right there in the room, and then he was given straight back to us. A few handshakes, thankyous and goodbyes later, and we were left alone. ALONE! A family! With a baby to raise!

Not quite knowing how to cope with the enormity of the situation, we immediately rang our parents. Despite the fact that they all utterly refused to take Tom off our hands and let us regain our youth, we nevertheless invited them to come and meet their grandson.

By the time the new grandparents left (and we once again found ourselves alone as a family) it was well after midnight, and so the midwifery staff informed us that we would be spending the night in the birthing suite. Under normal circumstances we would have been shipped out to a room in the maternity ward, but the lateness of the hour – along with the unseasonably high number of births currently underway at the hospital meant that this would have to wait until the morning.

This chance turn of events meant that I could kip out on the floor, affording me an opportunity to spend Night One with my family – an experience I would have missed had Julie been relocated into a shared room (as she was, the following morning).

Night One subsequently taught both of us three important facts about our boy:

1. He had poo like a radioactive by-product.

2. He had a scream that cut through the night like a chainsaw.

3. He had us by the heartstrings, completely and utterly.

Part 4: The arrival

When we last saw our brave heroine, she was contracting and writhing and screaming and cursing – and swearing to all gods both heathen and holy that she would never do this again.

She had also asked the midwife on several occasions whether she could start pushing – a request that was continuously denied since a) her cervix had not yet fully dilated, and b) the baby had wriggled his way around to the posterior position, which is not optimal for delivery. It was due to this second factor that Julie had – three or four hours into labour – been administered with a small dose of pethidine, which would hopefully relax things just enough for the bub to reposition himself ready for launch. Around 9 pm the midwife told us that this seemed to have finally occurred – and since Julie’s cervix was now roughly the width of a grapefruit*, we were also informed that the pushing could now begin.

All sorts of things started happening at this stage, which I will probably not be able to fully digest without years of therapy – or at least, until I have completed writing my script for the B-grade horror film ‘It Came From Out Of My Wife’. I studied this stuff in my undergraduate degree, and have a fairly good understanding of what goes on down there – but until it is happening to your beloved, you cannot possibly grasp the enormity of the situation. Thanks to the policy of inclusiveness our midwife** had towards the father’s role in childbirth, I was a participant-observer in the whole show.

And so, about an hour-and-a-half later – after much pushing, screaming, twisting, kicking, bearing-down, crowning, bleeding and stretching – we finally met our son.

As soon as he was delivered, he was placed on Julie’s chest for a cuddle and a scream, and we got to share our first few moments together as a family. The obstetrician then handed me some scissors and offered me a lengthy piece of calamari, which I thanked him for but declined, since I had eaten not long ago. Once my misapprehension had been pointed out, I cut the umbilical cord and symbolically set the next generation loose on the world.

* It is often difficult for men to fully appreciate what happens to a woman during childbirth, so allow me to share this analogy: To allow for passage of the baby, the cervix stretches to 10 cm, or 100 mm. It is normally about 2-3 mm wide. This is about the same size as the urethra. So guys, imagine ‘things’ stretching to the point that you could wee baseballs.

** … and the hospital in general, it must be said. Mitcham Private has a fantastic attitude to childbirth and fathers. I really appreciated the fact that they included me in everything, and never once treated me as excess baggage.

Part 3: Labour

Modern birthing suites – at least, those at our hospital of choice – are remarkable. Years of shonky hospital dramatisations had led us to expect a dank, sterile room reminiscent of – if not identical to – an operating theatre. But the reality is more like a 4-star hotel room, complete with mini-bar, comfy couches, TV and stereo.

Granted, not many hotels have nitrous oxide on-tap, handy ‘Jesus bars’ near the toilet/shower/bed, a cupboard full of forceps and a hard-wearing, washable floor covering. But nevertheless, I’ve paid good money to stay in worse rooms – and I know some kinky folk who would pay a premium for the extra oddities.

And so it was into such comfort that we were led upon our arrival at Mitcham Private around 3:30-ish. Julie’s contractions had been rapidly increasing in intensity and frequency during the drive from home, and were now at the point where sitting down and grimacing was about her only option.

We had experienced what we had – foolishly, in hindsight – considered to be several ‘false alarms’ in the preceding weeks. Contractions of a kind would start up and fall into a regular pattern, and we would very excitedly begin noting down the regularity and the intensity (‘mild’, ‘uncomfortable’, ‘a bit sore’, etc). These were, of course, merely Braxton-Hicks contractions. Now that Julie was experiencing the real deal, the descriptors most commonly used were ‘agonising’, ‘f---ing painful’ and ‘AAAAGGGGHHHHHHH’.

I will never experience the pain of labour, and for that I’m thankful. At the risk of receiving a serious beating from all my female friends and relatives, it was painful enough watching my beloved experience it.

To Julie’s credit, she bore the agony with a strength I shall admire for years to come. There’s no way to say that without sounding condescending, but there you have it. She demonstrated a goddess-like pain threshold, and has my undying respect.

But after five or six unspeakable hours, with nothing more than a constant supply of nitrous to smooth the worst edges, she was forced to face a new challenge. The pushing had begun.

Part 2: The journey

The usual 30-minute train/drive commute took me a little under an hour, thanks to arriving at the station at precisely the wrong time of day and waiting 20 minutes for the next train – predictably stopping-all-stations, rather than limited-express.

I had rung Julie several times on the way to engage in exactly the kind of mobile phone conversations I regularly ridicule as inane and unnecessary, ie: ‘I’m at the station’, ‘I’m on the train’, ‘I just passed Glenferrie’, ‘I’m getting into the car now’, etc. With each successive phone call, I could hear the initial enthusiasm and excitement leaving her voice, as the pain and anxiety of labour crept in.

By the time I got home (around 3 pm), the intensity of Julie’s contractions had increased significantly – to the point that she could not talk during one. Thanks to good planning (or over-enthusiasm), our bags had been packed months ago, so all that was left to do was feed the cat and hit the road.

We had been forewarned by our midwife that bucket seats afforded the most uncomfortable position possible for a labouring woman, so with some trepidation I helped Julie into the back seat of our car. Since the same midwife had cheerfully told us about the corrosive powers of amniotic fluid, we had earlier laid down a good covering of tarps and towels to protect the upholstery from any water-breaking mishaps. (Laugh and scorn all you want – I consider it a fairly subdued compromise, compared to the ‘trailer lined with sawdust’ option discussed at our antenatal class.)

My performance during the drive to hospital was another of those great fears I had harboured during the pregnancy. Would I crack under the pressure? Would the Gods of Urban Congestion and Peak-Hour Rushes conspire to make our son truly a back-seat baby? Would I remember to pack the calming, floaty meditation CDs preselected for the trip – as opposed to the less appropriate collection of 60s/70s rock and 90s/00s big-beat usually on high-rotation in my* car?

As it turned out, all these highly important aspects of the father’s role in labour went incredibly smoothly. The traffic was light, the tunes were soothing and within 20 minutes we arrived at the hospital. I really relaxed at this stage. Julie did not.

* ‘My car’ is a phrase that no longer exists in our household, as the newer, more-reliable Ford Falcon has now become the vehicle du jour for baby-related activities (ie: everything), while the older, more … umm … ‘characteristic’ Toyota Corona has become Dad’s runabout to the station on cold/wet mornings. I subsequently apologise in advance to my manager and workmates for all missed meetings and late arrivals.

Part 1: The phone call

Well - almost a month after the events, I've finally had a chance to start jotting down my thoughts about the arrival of my son. I'll post these as I wrote them - in a serialised fashion.

‘Honey, it’s me. I think my waters just broke!’

For the past nine months, I have worried that the phone call beginning with those words would trigger off a mad panic in me, rendering me completely useless at a time that Julie would need me to be at my most level-headed. I was pleasantly surprised to prove myself utterly wrong.

I received the call in question on March 1 – just a little after 2 pm. I had just returned from lunch, and had resigned myself to the fact that Julie was destined to spend yet another day heavily pregnant. We had passed our calculated due date three days prior (and the ultrasound estimate nine days earlier), and had made a tentative booking to induce labour the following weekend.

Neither of us was really keen on the idea of an induced labour; in addition to the rumours that the experience is much more painful (completely unprovable, and probably utterly irrational), a primitive sense of pride made us feel that such medical intervention would be ‘cheating’.

But as it turned out, we weren’t going to need the appointment.

This was it.

It had begun.

We were finally going to be parents.

All that remained was a hell of a lot of hard work for my beloved.

On the other side

Well, Tom has now arrived and our lives have been suitably turned upside down! Its been an amazing couple of weeks, and I intend to jot down many of my thoughts ... once I catch up on sleep, that is ;)

March 1, 2007

Wow. That's about all I can manage at the moment. This is so special and wonderful and awe-inspiring, it deserves a brand new blog. Introducing ...

The waiting game

Well, they say that 'due dates' are nothing more than a private joke shared amongst obstetricians and mid-wives ... but personally, I fail to see the funny side.

Hurry up!

Honestly, I'm going out of mind with anxious anticipation. Its like been on the run, knowing that you're going to be caught soon - its a case of when, rather than if. Its terrible!

Oh ... and apparently your Mum's not having the best time of it either. ;)

HURRY UP!!

Week 39 ...

... officially begins this weekend. Eeek!

The 'final week'. I can't believe we're here already. There's no way its been 32 weeks since we were first alerted to your presence. It seems like nothing has really happened over that time, but when I think about it I realise that we've actually been constantly, insanely, busy preparing for your arrival.

And so here we are - your room is ready, the cupboard is well-stocked with nappies, the bathroom with baby wipes and the freezer with lasagna. Your Mum is on maternity leave (enjoying it a bit too much for my liking) and my work is on notice that - at any moment now - I'll be running out the door to begin the biggest adventure of my life.

Any moment now ...

The year of change ...

Happy new year! This is going to be a big one for you - and for us, I guess! We kicked it off with a style of New Year's Eve which I'm sure is going to become the norm for the next few years: a quiet night-in. Oh, how the mighty have fallen ... ;)

Ho ho ho

I know, I know - this isn't technically your first Christmas, but despite your lack-of-attendance, you still managed to clean up in the present stakes. I think everyone knew that it wasn't quite the right thing to do ... but it didn't seem to stop them!

And I must admit - I took great pleasure in buying you one of my favourite childhood books.

Merry Christmas, bub.

Happy anniversary ...

... to us!

And just us.

Sorry my boy, but this one isn't about you - today is strictly about your mum and dad. Its our fourth wedding anniversary, and the last one we'll ever spend just on our own.

Don't get me wrong - I love the fact that all family occasions will soon involve an extra person. Christmas in particular will take on a whole new dimension.

But I'd be lying if I said that today isn't tinged with a degree of nostalgic sentimentality. To date, our anniversaries have never been huge affairs: modest presents, a nice dinner, a decent bottle of wine perhaps. But they have been completely about us - just Julie and I. I'm going to miss that a bit.

(And of course this year, I'm also going to miss that decent bottle of wine. Well ... at least your Mum is going to miss her share of it!)

Just between you and me, I think that either Gran or Nana might be getting a little visitor in a year's time ...

Bedrooms and back-aches

So, here we are at week 24 already. Its been an interesting few weeks since I last posted: you're causing a pretty visible bump (and a rather sore back) for your Mum, your kicks and wiggles can now be felt and seen from the outside, we've had the week 19 ultrasound (here and here) and - most excitingly - we've discovered your gender.

This has had a remarkable impact on both of us - not so much because either of us had any particular preference, but more because its given us both a specific focus.

Yes, this includes all those 'pink vs. blue' traditions that I swore we would probably ignore (wrong!), as well as helping to narrow down the naming decisions a bit - but more importantly, I think its also shaping the way we are each starting to think about parenting. The question 'How on Earth are we going to raise a child?' has now been reworded 'How on Earth are we going to raise a BOY?'

Your nursery is coming along nicely, too ... cot, change table, bath, stroller, bassinette, travel cot and baby-carrier-harness-thingy have all been purchased - and if things go to plan, you'll be getting a new wardrobe this weekend. Its a huge damn thing, which I'm assuming you'll grow into somewhere over the next 16 years. Until then, I guess we have scored ourselves some extra storage space!

Buds and bubs

I missed the spring budding of my muscatel grapevine this year. I looked outside one day a few weeks ago, and it was covered in fuzzy little bundles of new growth – much more developed than the first signs of green that I usually watch for each year with great anticipation. I guess I’ve been a bit preoccupied this year with your budding. Or should that be your Mum’s budding?

Anyway, normally I pay careful attention to the new buds, so that I can try predicting the directions of the year’s growth, and start thinking about how I will have to train the canes. The vine is still pot-bound, trained around a conical frame, and so space is at a premium. Since grapes grow on two-year-old wood (and since the aim of training is to increase the potential yield) it’s really all a bit speculative.

You start off watching these tiny little buds, and take a guess at the direction in which they seem to be growing.

As the branches grow, you then support them and train them to grow in ways and directions that will potentially lead to optimum productivity in the years to come.

A bit later on, towards the start of the following season, you sacrifice some of the older, less productive branches in favour of dedicating more of the plant’s limited resources to the younger, vital growth.

Sometimes you’re right, sometimes you’re wrong – but you do the best you can based on the information at hand.

So I guess horticulture’s not a bad metaphor for L-plate parenting: focus on supporting and nurturing short-term development, but always keep a wary eye on long-term maturation.

My only problem with this metaphor is if I extend it to my two olive trees, which I supported for too long by selecting the wrong height of stakes. As a result, they are tall, spindly things, incapable of standing on their own and hardly productive whatsoever.

But then again – perhaps they’re simply teenagers.

Happy Father's Day ... or not?

Yesterday - September 3 - was Father's Day.

Now, I reckon that since we're now into the second trimester, you have earnt the right to be referred to as 'a person'. And as such, there must surely be someone somewhere who can be rightfully referred to as your 'father'.

So naturally, it follows that your Mum should've being buying me bottles of port, socks, boxer shorts, etc.

But noooooooo - apparently I have to wait until next year!

Week 16

Week 16 already. Wow ... where has the time gone?

A few weeks ago, we were lucky enough to get our first glimpse of you during the 'Nuchal fold test' ultrasound:

Honestly, seeing this was about the closest I've come to having a religious experience. It totally blew me away. Suddenly, you weren't just a collection of symptoms and physiological changes for your Mum - you were a wriggling, heart-beating, bone-containing, totally-human-looking BABY.

So, we're off to the obstetrician again tomorrow, and hopefully will be booking in for the 19 week ultrasound - where we'll get to see a whole lot more of you. Hopefully, the 3D scan will yield some more promising results than the attempts made last time, which made you look like a grapefruit-flavoured jellybean.

Week 10

Well, we met your obstetrician last Wednesday. Nice bloke, respected clinician and - most importantly - experienced deliverer!

Naturally, he couldn't tell us much about you at this stage - but one thing he did manage was to finally sort out precisely what stage we're at! We've had a few frameworks and indicators giving us conflicting ideas, but its now confirmed: this is week 10.

We've also booked in for the week 12 ultrasound on August 14, and I'm insanely excited about that! If we get any digital souvenirs of the event, I'll be a-posting them.

Your poor Mum is currently learning how terrible a cold can be when pregnancy precludes the use of all those delightful pharmaceuticals. However, being the resilient type, she's bravely soldiering on.

Hmm ... I wonder if I even need to tell you about this. Perhaps you already know. Perhaps you're snuffling away down there too, sneezing in sympathetic symphony with your Mum. That's quite cute ... in a stricly "I'm glad I'm not sick" sense.

Normalisation

Hey there, kiddo.

I was feeling somewhat guilty that I haven't written anything here concerning my experiences as a father-to-be for the past four weeks or so. But the funny thing is - there haven't really been any such experiences. Yes, Mum's morning sickness is ticking along nicely, thank you. And yes, we're discovering the joys of Baby Target during a 20%-off sale. But otherwise, life has slowly regained the steady pace of the mid-first-trimester waiting game.

Of course, there's still the constant, rapid-fire attack of non-specific excitations, anxieties and hysterical episodes - but that's nothing particularly out of the ordinary!

According to the collective wisdom of the various baby-type websites that both Mum and I have been frequenting, your eight-week-old self looks a bit like this now. Wow ... quite human, eh? ;)

Confirmed!

Blood test results are back. You're doing fine! 4-5 weeks on, and probably due mid-to-late February 2007. One hell of a 35th birthday present for me, I can tell you.

Julie (hereafter referred to as 'Mum', I think) has booked you and her in to meet with the obstetrician for the first time on July 21. And she's already booked a bed at Mitcham Private for your delivery. She's very organised, your mum. But you'll discover that for yourself before too long. Oh, yes - will you ever.

Few people besides us know about you at this stage - just 'Gran' and 'Nana and Grandpa' (hehehe ... what fun). Common sense is telling us that we should wait before telling too many other people, but kid - if there's one thing you're going to come to know about your parents fairly quickly its that we don't really hold with common sense. Subsequently, the phone calls begin tonight!

Aunty Megan and Uncle Marty will be first, followed by a trans-timezone attempt to get in touch with Uncle Paul who's somewhere between Frankfurt and Prague at the moment. Then we'll probably tell some friends - starting with Aunty Sares and Uncle Dame - before working our way through the extended family.

I'll tell you - there's something about blood test results. It all feels more real now. I mean, its felt real all week, but now it feels really real ... you know? I'm sure the next nine (ahem ... eight, sorry) months are going to fly by, riddled with bouts of worry and stress regarding our financial and emotional preparedness.

But you know what? Right now, tonight, its no concern whatsoever. To be blunt, I'm over the bloody moon.

[Mis]calculations

Hmm ... the doctor seems to think that perhaps you're not 7 weeks old after all, but only 5 - in which case, you probably look a bit like this.

Fascinating site, this one - chock full of embryological information. Apparently, you've had a 'yolk sac' for the past couple of weeks. My training in biology is telling me that's simply adorable ... but I'm not sure that I'll be enjoying soft-boiled eggs for quite some time.

And so it begins ...

Monday June 12, 2006. The Queen's Birthday public holiday.

A fairly plain, wintery day. I'm slobbing about in the lounge room, watching TV and playing computer games. Julie is looking up something or other on the web.

On a whim, J heads down to the bathroom. I don't pay much attention - I'm fairly engrossed in trying to figure out the mechanics of how to turn chicken eggs into gold pieces on a PlayStation farming game (such are the trials of being a mature, level-headed 34 year old).

I'm half-aware of J calling my name. It doesn't sound too urgent or important. I'll just harvest the last of my crops.

J's walking down the hallway, quietly saying "Umm ... honey".

Almost there ... just one more sweet potato to pick and put into the shipping box. Oh, damn - I dropped it.

"Honey ... I'm pregnant."

Ah, well ... its just one sweet potato, only worth about 50 gold pieces. I'll just have to harvest some more of those wild truffles.

"Andrew ... I'm PREGNANT."

...

...

For the first time in my life, I was suddenly aware that the Earth rotates on a tilted axis. I also realised that despite our understanding of physics, you most certainly *can* fall off the southern hemisphere.

Julie was pregnant. We were going to have a baby. I was going to be a father.

I'd love to say that I leapt into the air, swept J into my arms, kissed her passionately before swearing my eternal love. And I guess I kind of did - but the leap was a wobble, the sweep was a stagger and the eternal love bit came out as something incomprehensible and blubbery. But the sentiment was the same.

But that, my (very) young child, is how we became aware of your existence. The next few hours were a blinding mixture of excitement, fear, anxiety, bliss, tears, laughter and budgeting.

Now - three days later - we've calmed down a teensy bit. Julie has just been to the doctor for a 'second opinion' (which was positive - blood test results pending) and I'm at work trying very hard to concentrate on anything other than you. Its difficult - so difficult, in fact, that I've given up trying.

Better instead to start a new blog (in itself, an almost work-related activity for me), dedicated to tracking my thoughts about your earliest of days. It might be of interest to you one day - or perhaps some other first-time-father-to-be will stumble across it and find some solace. But above all, it will help me get my swirling thoughts of impending fatherhood down on ... err ... paper.

So welcome to life, little one. You're only about 7 weeks old - a mere 'belly-bean' - but you already rule my world.