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.
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