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.