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.