The question is easy: Are we ready?
The answer is not as straightforward as “Yes” or “No.”
With the stork leaving its nest with our very own eating and pooing machine, it’s an answer that Marina and I will find out soon enough.
Our preparation for the grand arrival has been helped along by friends and relatives that dole out numerous snippets of sage advice – “The use of cognac during teething is highly recommended. The baby will benefit from a sip also!” – and inform us that everything changes with the entrance of our bundle of joy.
To be honest, no amount of guidance, predictions or handbooks can truly groom us for what lies ahead. Are we going to become nocturnal, turn into The Wiggles biggest fans, follow Dora in her quest to see the world or start impersonating a travelling troop of babushka dolls?
The way I see pregnancy, birth and beyond is like watching a snowball (and yes Marina is certainly imitating one) tumble in your direction. Initially, it appears miniscule and harmless, but as the months progress, it grows exponentially and before you realise it, everything in its path, including its parents, have been collected and you literally don’t know what hit you.
Currently, our own spherical bulldozer is on its final descent and while Marina is braced for impact, I am floundering like a break dancer that has overdosed on “V”. The reason for this is simple, and comes down to how Marina and I prepare for the unknown. Marina faces anything new with knowledge garnered from thick tomes, numerous websites and word of mouth. My groundwork is less rigorous and usually involves intense head nodding, stern “hmm-hmming” and the adoption of the mindset: “She’ll be right!”
This, no doubt, will result in two very different reactions once our baby enters the world. Marina will be an ocean of calm amongst of the storm of nappies, feeds and crying. I, on the other hand, will be caught up in tumultuous typhoons of “Oh Crap!” as I figure out how to burp our new addition only to discover that I was focussing on the wrong end.
Herein lies my biggest fear about rearing a baby. No, it’s not the lack of sleep or the constant crying (I mean the baby, not mine), it’s the nappy changing.
It’s not the number 1’s that worry me. If it’s a girl, I know it will be a piece of cake, and if it’s a boy, we have been told to use strategically placed towels, wear aprons and don a face shield. I though was planning to install a target on the ceiling.
What is giving me nightmares is the number 2’s. I’m so terrified about what surprises I might find in “Nappyland” that I am considering ordering a chemical glove box to handle any caustic substances I will find, a fume hood to remove acidic odours and a bio hazard suit for protection. However if my prayers are answered our baby will come out toilet trained, because the last thing I want to face is the weapon of mass destruction, known as “The Poo Explosion.”
The fear of the unknown however does not explain why I have contracted the numerous symptoms of baby brain. This is a scary proposition because those who know me can attest I am confused more often than not, so when my thought process is scattered further, life becomes more challenging.
Well, it’s not often you make rice and miss the pot completely and find the margarine in the cupboard days later. Not to mention that recently I have been walking up the stairs to our bedroom only to stop half way, scratch my chin, and ponder where I was going and what I planned to do when I get there.
I am actually so muddled I expect to get lost in a roundabout any day now.
Confuzzlement however is just the tip of the iceberg, because when you add my degree of coordination (or lack thereof) my very existence itself becomes a priority, especially in my new place of employment, a lab filled with glassware, hazardous chemicals and animal feed.
It is not unusual to hear the following comments:
“Darren did you break the desiccator lid… again?” Or;
“You spilt that!! I guess we will have to evacuate….again!” Or;
“Darren, do you realise you are on fire?” Or;
“Darren watch out for that wall/trolley/bench/person/fridge/misinformed cow!”
It’s because of this that my fellow workmates have demanded that “Mental Health Day’s” be incorporated into their contracts. One person has been so traumatised, she asked to move labs.
My symptoms of male pregnancy don’t stop at lapses of concentration and bouts of random uncontrolled spaz dancing. Who knew I would be prone to mood swings as well? Some days I literally feel like I am game token in real life version snakes and ladders.
Let’s just say its gives road rage a whole new dimension. Singing to the radio quickly abates to bouts of swearing at the tree that is growing too close to the road that which quickly morphs into crying at the fact that the “green man” went red too quickly and did not let the old lady with the puppy cross the street. Needless to say Marina is finding this show very amusing, and apparently so is the baby, who is imitating a Kung-Fu Panda doped up on “Special bamboo.”
Marina though is not immune to pre-baby anticipation. She is dealing with it in her own special way: Cleaning.
Well that, and cravings for gherkins and ice-cream.
Not a day a goes by where Marina does not play 3D Tetris with our fridge. With the precision a Tron luminary in a cycle race, she rearranges our containers, condiments, curries and even coleslaw in ways defined by baby brain chaos theory. Some days it takes me at least fifteen minutes to find the milk.
When she is not adjusting our food a “little bit to the left” she is terminating dust balls with nothing but a sponge and a pump-action-double-barrel bottle of Spray and Wipe. And yes, she has opted for the air freshener grenade launcher.
However, we know that deep down no amount of cleaning, rearranging, tidying, advice and documentaries can truly brace us for the reality of the adventure ahead.
So I ask again: “Are We Ready?”
As it turns out, it’s a question that is a sum of three parts.
The first – “Are we ready for pregnancy?” has been covered because the due date is mere weeks away. The recent nine months have shown us that nothing could have prepared us for the escapade we have experienced. Simply put, it’s like visiting an amusement park populated with roller coasters, each with more twists, turns and loops than the next. By the time you leave, I guarantee you will be holding your head, your stomach and wondering what the heck just happened and where did this baby come from?
This leads me to next part of the question – “Are we ready for birth?”
To prime ourselves Marina and I attended a Calm birth course, which focused on the stages of birth and the most crucial aspect for bringing a baby into the world with the least discomfort – breathing. If you have read my previous blog “Feathering the Nest” you already knew that though, didn’t you?
To equip us further we signed up for the obligatory Antenatal classes. Unlike Calm birth, we found these watered down, and overall, not that helpful. However, they were useful in giving us the tools required to make the birth experience comfortable and relaxing and hence easier for both mother and baby.
The most common way to do this is to bring music into the birthing suite. From what I gather, “Push it!” by Salt and Pepa is favourite song amongst mums-to-be. It is also recommended to plaster the room with pictures to help labouring women feel at home. The ideas put forward focused on favourite places, picturesque landscapes, soothing sunset and memories of sipped cocktails on balmy beach watching the dolphins frolic in the shallow surf, but given the circumstances a poster of Nurofen with “For Strong Pain” emblazoned over it would also be appropriate.
The other pre-requisite for the ward was motivational phrases that husbands should use to help their wives deliver their baby. These included the obvious words of encouragement, such as the favourite “You can do it!” but considering the task at hand, I am sure “There is a light at the end of the tunnel,” certainly would not go astray either.
One technique though perplexed Marina and I. Developed by Juju Sundin, it involves a labouring woman to be as active possible. Activities include running on the spot, banging benches with wooden spoons, star jumps, dancing with wolves and for the more adventurous, base jumping. I cannot fathom how this method can get any oxytocin flowing, because in every child birth video we watched, I did not notice any of the women in labour eagerly giving into their urge to get up, stand up and fight for their right to party.
But regardless of which technique is used to welcome our baby into world, we will be faced with the final part of the question: “Are we ready for baby?”
Now there is a loaded question if there ever was one. Sure the nursery is set up, the baby shower over and done with, the pram pimped (we upgraded to the model with twenty four’s inch alloy’s with hydraulics as standard that were complemented with a twelve speaker Rockford Fosgate audio visual extravaganza, complete with dual ten inch subwoofers) and the clothes bought. We even understand the intricacies of breastfeeding, the colour of poo (like the colour of love, only smellier), and when Dad cries you can shut him up with a beer bottle and a teat.
So does this mean we are going to hit the ground running?
I very well doubt it, because as everyone knows, including Marina and me, theory rarely mirror’s reality.
But in the end, as we are finding out from our friends who have recently had babies, it does not matter, because any trepidation quickly gives way to joy and love. And really, all we can pray for, regardless if our little Assey is a boy or a girl, is a healthy, bouncy and happy (and hopefully non-crying) baby that does not decide to imitate a Indian public bus – by coming late and in three’s.
