These days, our concept of time has been completely transformed; it is neither stagnant nor fast paced but a vomitory of seconds, minutes and, if we are lucky, hours. Dominic’s arrival has turned Marina and me into characters in our very own “Choose Your Adventure” novel and no prizes for guessing who is turning the pages. Subsequently, any planning, whether it’s when to have dinner, watch TV, read or even shop has gone from structured to ad hoc resulting in two days that are never alike.

Some are peaceful, were Dominic feeds and sleeps like he should. Others, and these are certainly more common, drop us right into our very own tour of duty complete with poo explosions, ambushes of spit up, barrages of crying and minefields of whining.

Admittedly, we would not have it any other way, because since Dominic entered our lives, our attitude on life has taken on a healthy rosy tinge. And why wouldn’t it? Our bloodshot, sleep depraved eyes, make sure of that.

Since his birth, Dominic has always loved 3 AM. Like “A Tribe Called Quest” marauds for ears (ours especially) with his dulcet shrills at that time with the exuberance of a gazelle bounding across the African Savannah.

To be honest before Dominic, Marina and I had forgotten 3AM even existed. The last time we experienced that time of night was back in the days of yore when we were lured by the siren song of Sydney’s numerous clubs. It was not uncommon for us and our relevant posse’s to search for some pre-breakfast nosh after blazing up a storm on the dance floor.

Without fail, Marina and her girls gravitated to Pancakes on the Rocks. I, on the other hand, with my hard core bunch of nerds (I have no delusions of grandeur about who my posse was) would prowl the grimy footpaths for a good kebab. And as everyone will attest, at that time of the morning, every kebab is a good kebab.

These days, the dancing has returned! However the choice of music is neither a house anthem nor a crunk-a-delic beat fused with elements of hip-hop and soul, but the syrupy crooning of nursery rhymes that involve cows, adventurous cutlery, excited sheep, a line dancing monkey and a confused, yet jolly, unicorn. Regardless of the song or dance steps, our aim remains unchanged – get Dominic back to sleep.

This is especially challenging when he decides to turn his room into an anechoic chamber so he can test his lung’s high frequencies on his parent’s ear drums. That is why, the next time you see Marina and me, we will be sporting hearing aids.

In addition to his “Lungs of Steel” he has tendencies to channel the Batman villain “The Clock King.” Dominic’s timing is honed to the second, thereby having the ability to put the kibosh on any activity with supersonic speed and efficiency without even trying. For one, my non-hectic coffee has shifted up to high gear, leaving me with no option to drink my coffee like a pelican – in one gulp. My lament is nothing compared to Marina’s, who endures the full brunt of his chronological manipulation.

Lunch, to paraphrase Marina’s description, is akin to drinking a yard glass. It is done swiftly and in one breath. Additionally, she has no idea what she has swallowed – trust me, that is the correct adjective, because “eaten” would have implied she has actually tasted what was on her plate – until at least two hours later.

Showering too, Marina tells me, has become an Olympic sport – time is of the essence and every second counts. The challenge for Marina is based on three simple factors:

1. Place Dominic in bed, asleep.

2. Scurry to the shower

3. Have shower before he wakes up

These may appear simplistic, but like any ant colony, the deeper you burrow the more inherently complex it becomes. Take number one for instance. Yes, I have spoken about the nursery rhymes, but during the day more is required than moon jumping cows. I don’t mean a nip of brandy either (though sometimes we feel that would not go astray).

What I am talking about is…well, that’s the hard part you see, because every day Dominic prefers something else to quell his excitement and send him off with the sandman. For example there are some days when he likes hip hop (Jay-Z anyone?) and on others he prefers the twang of indie Guitar (Aqualung is a favourite of his). Then there his love of deep electronica when he prefers club-land to dreamland, and let’s not get into his penchant for chillout music. Of course there are various dance styles that accompany the music, like the “Please go to sleep Dominic” shuffle, or the quite common “Look at how comfortable your bed is Dom” sidestep. Let’s not forget the “Its time to close your eyes and let your Mum rest” Rhumba and the ever popular “Sleeptime Salsa!”

If none these have worked, Marina still has a few more tricks up her sleeve. One is tummy time, and she often uses this to help Dominic burn off his excess energy. If he is still wriggling with fervent vigour, she tries to soothe him with a relaxing baby massage and if this doesn’t work she pulls out a few choice stories from our collection of fairy tales. I should note by this stage, Marina is exhausted and longing for a nap; pity Dominic does not share her tiredness. If none of these techniques have worked, praying and pleading is always helpful. If all else fails, Marina pulls out the big guns in her quest to get Dominic to sleep and get a moments peace – a fireworks display, a laser show and a pink dancing elephant.

Once step one has been conquered, Marina does a victory dance and moves hastily onto step 2 and 3.

From what I understand step three is never a “leisurely-wash-troubles-of-the-world-away” type of shower, but a lesson in efficiency. As she describes it, with one ear listening for his cry and one hand holding the soap, she lathers, rinses, conditions and shampoos (the correct order is the least of her worries). This is all before the water heats up. If you’re wondering, her current record is eighty five seconds.

I will be the first to admit that compared to what Marina undergoes daily, my whinge is a flea on a dogs behind, but it still results in some interesting consequences. My issue is not about time management but understanding the intricacies of baby clothing.

Up until this point, I never realised how complicated baby suits can be. Sure, I knew they are be colourful and covered in so many fluffy felt animals, dryers everywhere cower in fear behind their lint traps, but what I never realised is the amount of buttons these suits have. I have found in numerous cases to do the suit up properly involves more than simply taking a button from one side to the corresponding button hole on the other but the ability to understand angles, loops, calculus equations and the dexterity to solve Rubik’s cube where the coloured tiles are in constant motion.

Marina, a master of puzzle of solving, is not fazed and can dress Dominic within thirty seconds. Not me, who usually ends up with placing Dominic’s arm through his pants, his singlet over his face and wearing his nappy on my head. This leaves Marina with no choice but to come to the rescue and say few prayers to give her the strength and patience to deal with her confused husband. This is all before she realises how I have put the nappy on – usually sideways and backwards.

I knew I should have taken notes in our hospital room.

Shortly after Dominic was born, four hours to be exact, the three of us were taken from the birth centre to our room in the maternity ward and left alone with him. The moment was surreal. Watching him sleep in his bassinet, Marina and I felt that we had reached an event horizon and time had stopped.

We could not believe that there was a baby in our lives; that Dominic was ours. We were no longer a couple, but a family. At that point in time, Marina and I were not thinking about the past or future, we had our feet firmly planted in the now. No amount of advice, books or even mental preparation could have prepared us for the geyser of joy we felt.

I, like a typical Taurean in a china shop, dampened the emotion with practicality and posed the question: “Babe, do you know how to change a nappy?”

Marina didn’t. We alerted the midwife and she promptly showed us how. Marina studied her every movement with the scrutiny of a crime scene investigator. I tried to do the same, but whereas Marina absorbed the information like a nappy, I sucked it up like a dull piece of granite, hence the reason when I am changing Dominic, his forehead furrows in concern and he searches for the coordinated hands of his mother.

This does not mean I am going to give up, because I am determined to get it right, but at the rate at which Dominic is growing, I’d better be quick. Since his birth, Marina and I have been so caught up in the seconds, minutes and hours we paid no heed to the day and months, and in what seems to us like a blink of an eye, Dominic, who was once no longer than our forearm, is now five months old and on the verge of sitting up, not to mention rolling over.

That’s where time, whose continuous march forward, can be so cruel, because if you don’t enjoy the present it very quickly became the past and moments are lost forever.

Even the simple act of going to work fills me with a certain amount of angst, because I always think I am going to get a call from Marina telling me he has rolled over, sat up, started crawling, said his first word or even started to play Batman.

But who are we to stop time’s traverse?

So, instead of getting caught up in what might be, even though the journey ahead will we fast paced, exciting and will no doubt have its fair share of frustration, and pining for what has been, it’s best to enjoy the present and know that we are in for some of the best times of our lives.

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While Dominic is not as temperamental as a premenstrual woman, he does, like Superman, have lungs of steel and faster than a speeding bullet obliterates silence (not to mention perfectly clean nappies) at inhuman speed. This is not say he is always crying, but let’s say if we knew he was going be able to direct ships into shore with his voice we would have called him “Foghorn.”

The reason we called him Dominic though was because not only is he named after the revered boy saint, but his name means “Belonging to God.” His second name, Emmanuel, was chosen after my grandfather. He was a man that Marina and I both loved and respected very much because he was caring, loving and unselfish.

He was also a mild tempered and calm man, a quality that Dominic shares, especially when he is asleep. However it is when he gets up that, and I know he is barely three weeks old, that we realised how fitting his name is.

During his waking moments, it is quite obvious that the first letter of Dominic’s name relates to how ‘Determined’ he is. Or put another way, he is stubborn. This trait is reinforced by the second letter ‘O’. To say he is ‘Obstinate’ is an understatement. Well, let me put it this way, you would have a better chance of getting a mule into a mini skirt than getting Dominic to feed when he does not want to. Once his lips lock down neither hell, high water, a hose or German opera sung by boys whose voices are cracking can pry them open. This is an attribute he “got from the father” apparently.

The ‘M’ is easy. He may not be showing any signs of ‘Mischievousness’, but you have to remember that he is a boy, so watch this space. What about the ‘I’? Well that’s easy – ‘Indolent’. In short this means he is a lazy bugger. The little guy sleeps so much anyone would think he was a teenager. No guessing for what ‘N’ stands for – ‘Naughty’, and if my mother’s stories are anything to go by – “Darren never failed to sprinkle sand into our neighbour’s mouth while he slept!” – he will be as impish as a leprechaun on Irish whisky.

The second ‘I’, pertains to what Marina and I call Dominic’s breezy ‘Indifference.’ By this I don’t mean Dominic doesn’t seem to care, he is just extremely laid back. Nothing bothers him, whether its injections, loud music or even my singing, which is grating enough to cause the migration of numerous small mammals. Dominic is unfazed by all this and with little more than a whimper, turns over, fills is nappy with love and drifts back to sleep.

The Final ‘C’ is for ‘Cheeky’. A trait, if that comment at the start at blog is anything to go by, he gets from his mother, and one that he will utilise in due course. Well the fact that he uses the opportune moments to go to the toilet (i.e. after his parents have bathed him) should be enough proof we are in charge of ticking time bomb of rascally terror.

I am sure these seven adjectives are just the tip of iceberg, and in due course, his personality will shine through and I know that is something Marina and I are looking forward to (well that and all the cool toys I get to play with). Until then, there is little left to do, but let him feed, sleep and deal with the numerous poo explosions that comes our way.

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.

Now Marina is doing it

At the conclusion of my previous blog, Marina had completed her first trimester and with it went the morning sickness and the desire for Mediterranean dishes (her cravings for Italian and Portuguese soccer players still remain). With the second trimester however, came a different need, one that I was aware of, but not fully ready for – nesting.

I completely understood that we needed to buy baby furniture and my idea of this important process is outlined below:

1. Buy bed/furniture/relevant accessories

2. Put into room

3. Have a beer, play Batman, bludge, repeat step 3 until term

My thought process was not aligned with Marina’s which was a little more involved, to say the least:

1. Tell Darren to stop playing Batman

2. Browse for furniture in eight different shops

3. Wonder if colour will match the curtains

4. Tell Darren to stop being annoying

5. Check if available sheets will match the curtains (Repeat Step 1 if needed)

6. Remind Darren to rearrange room

7. Determine and sketch possible room layouts

8. Change room layout (Go Step 1)

9. Repeat Step 8

10. Remind Darren to paint room (If colour needs to be chosen, go to Step 85)

11. Browse curtain designs

12. Repeat Steps 1 and 9

13. Remind Darren to rearrange room

14. Remind Darren to rearrange room

15. Remind Darren to rearrange room

16. Double check colour of curtains

17. Confirm designs with friends

18. Remind Darren to rearrange room

19. Go to Step 1

I should state that the list does not end at “Step 19” but for the sake of brevity I will move on to another symptom of nesting which Marina has embraced with open arms – the Granny Zone, a.k.a Spotlight. It is not unusual to find Marina and the rest of the white haired brigade trawling through the aisles on Saturday morning, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting material, pattern or bundle of wool.

Recently, it is the latter that has become the sole object of Marina’s attention, thanks to her yearning to crochet everything from booties, blankets and nappies complete with an absorbent inner lining. This has resulted in us owning so much wool, that sheep are actually knocking on our door, asking for it back.

To be fair I am nesting too. Well what do you expect; I want the best for our baby too. I think the baby deserves, nay I say it, needs a Sonos audio system, so regardless where it is in the house, nursery rhymes are at its beck and call. Naturally since it is child of a digital age the Sonos has to be wirelessly paired with an Olive music server. But what is a childhood without memories? Hence our bub requires every precious moment to be captured with dad’s dSLR. I also want the baby to have access to activities that increase mind development and aid in its dexterity – enter a gaming console complete with a 5.1 surround system.

But you know what?

While blankets, curtains and even noise cancelling headphones help prepare for baby, thanks to the current SBS documentary “One Born Every Minute”, which follows the day-to-day running of a Southampton birth centre, I have realised it does nothing to ready you for the actual birth, which is a whole different beast altogether.

Within minutes into the first episode, I realised how confronting, yet beautiful, birth can be and how right Alex, my ex-colleague at James Hardie, was when he told me that “Men just aren’t built for pain.”

Well, think about it for a second. During birth, not only does the female anatomy stretch and adjusts itself in ways transformers can only dream about to accommodate for the delivery of a baby, but even from a biochemical standpoint, the body produces everything it needs to make birth has bearable possible.

In a nutshell it all comes down to breathing, the most natural process in the world. When a woman breathes through each contraction, this releases endorphins, the body’s natural pain killer, into the woman’s blood stream, allowing the woman to work through the pain and get ready for the next contraction. In addition, each calm breath produces hormones that induce sleepiness. This causes the body to relax and slows down the breathing, thereby preparing further endorphins for the next contraction. The simplicity of it all really is mind blowing.

Herein lies man’s limitation, we don’t have these measures in place and is why we will never truly appreciate machinations of the birth process. Sure, we can be supportive and do everything and anything possible to make the birth as easy as possible for our better half (in this scenario, this an apt description don’t you think?), we are ultimately limited to how much we can help – backrubs, gentle coaching on breathing and being the ‘Gofor’ notwithstanding – because the long and short of it is that during childbirth, and I am not being funny here, men are useless.

As Exhibit “A” I present “Me!”

Every episode of the documentary focuses on two different women as they go through the process of delivering their baby, which in every case is unique. The first episode had me as bug eyed as a meerkat on LSD, because it documented one woman delivering her baby via caesarean and the other by natural means.

The caesarean did not faze me as much as I thought it would. It was actually eye opening to watch the procedure being performed. What had me to squirming uncomfortably was everything leading up to it. Being overdue by two weeks the woman was not having a pleasant time convincing her baby to leave the comfort of her womb. Not to say she did not try. Using every birth tool at her disposal, like birth balls, gentle rubbing and even the creative use of bad words, it became painfully (pun intended) obvious her baby was not going budge.

As this drama unfolded, her cheeks flushed, her voice strained, her breathing became ragged and her eyes brimmed with pain. It was the last image that hampered my ability to sit still. Yes, the right half of my brain was filled everything that I needed to know that the discomfort that she was feeling was natural, but there was a disconnect between this information and what I was seeing on the screen.

Before I had a chance to catch my breath, which by this stage had become shallow enough to wade in, the anaesthesiologist was called and an epidural inserted. I will freely admit that while I have no issue observing operations, watching someone get stabbed with needles instantly causes me to go into fits of non-rhythmic “spaz dancing.” Most people with some semblance of common sense, knowing they have an aversion to needles would have turned away immediately. But not me! Like Kramer’s painting from Seinfeld I could not look away as the woman’s back was tapped and the needle was inserted. As you can imagine, my reaction was not pretty and involved colourful language, break dancing and impersonations of a crying little boy.

“Are you okay?” Marina asked.

“I’m fine,” I squeaked. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” Now there was an understatement. If I did not know any better, Marina was more chilled out than our freezer.

Before I had time to catch my breath the documentary shifted focus. The scene transitioned into the reddened face of other woman, who was in the final stages of natural child birth. Not five minutes would pass, before she would bellow in pain. I was gasping for breath at this stage and the sad thing is I wasn’t the one giving birth. All I can say I was grateful that Marina was there to hold my hand, tell me to breathe and get me through what I considered at the time the most harrowing 50 minutes of my life.

Now I am sure all the women reading this are thinking to themselves, that I have some gall to write those last paragraphs, especially since Marina is pregnant. Here I am whining about how painful child birth is to watch, instead of sympathizing with the process at hand. But like I said, men simply aren’t built to cope with this part of life.

Thankfully, I am not alone. I recently dropped my car in for a service and the lady who was giving me a lift to work told me about her son-in-law during the birth of his daughter. He was filled with fear, confusion and with an uncanny urge to faint. My friend Daryl, who also watches the show with his wife Tanya, also had his own “freak out” moment. However, I seriously doubt the end of the episode found him flat on his back with his legs up the air trying to get some blood back to his noggin.

I guess that’s why I, after watching many more episodes, my respect and love for my wife has increased exponentially, but it’s also the reason Marina has told me she will need to organise two doctors in the room, one for the baby and one me.

Knowing Marina though, who watches each episode with poise and who is a multi-tasker extraordinaire, will fill the time between each contraction by reminding me to rearrange the room, tell me to stop playing batman and continue to crochet baby’s blanket.

What colour I hear you ask? Well something neutral because we have decided not to find out the sex the baby. However this has not stopped us from selecting names and we would love to your opinion on the ones we have chosen. If it is a boy we are torn between either “Jack Assey” or “Harry Assey”. If it’s a girl, we were thinking a name with an Asian influence like “Tapmai.” There is of course the Marina’s students suggestion of “Kissmye”. (And that ladies and gentleman is how you go from silly to politically incorrect in ten seconds.)

And before I make a real “Jack Assey” of myself (and yes those names in the previous paragraph are given in jest) and this blog gets me into further trouble, I think this the perfect place to end and think about what lies ahead, everything from ante natal classes, maternity shopping and what to do when confused ducklings follow your waddling wife home.

“That’s excellent news!” I mumbled through half open eyes and layers of sleep. “That also means I’ve got nine months more to sleep in.” I turned over.

With this statement I realised the similarity that exists between pregnant women and Superman. Before I had time to process the repercussions of what I had said, Marina picked up a pillow faster than a speeding bullet and with the more power than a locomotive, thwacked me over the head.

Granted, it takes more than a pillow to the noggin to knock sense into me, but the blow got me thinking about the journey ahead, because while Marina is expecting, I have no idea what to expect – either from Marina’s pregnancy or from fatherhood.

You may recall, a couple of years of ago, when I first started this blog, I waxed lyrical about the creative process and how this was as close as a man could get to experiencing pregnancy. These last three months, with hindsight as my guide, my naiveté has been laid bare. As I “give birth” to these paragraphs, and even if they were Pulitzer Prize material, I know they will never have the heart or the beauty of what is growing inside my wife’s belly.

To underscore this point of disconnect between the male species and pregnancy let me take you back a couple weeks. Marina and I were visiting Marina’s cousin and his wife, who had given birth to a baby girl. He described to us the moment he saw his little girl for the first time and realised he transcended the boundary from husband to father as one of awe, beauty and trepidation, with emphasis on the latter.

“I could not move,” he told us. “It was only until the nurse actually called me over that I shuffled over, and even then she had to guide my wrists to swaddle my daughter.”

Hearing his story filled me with a sense of solidarity, but did nothing to assuage my fear of fatherhood. My wife on the other hand, whom I should mention is glowing so much that moths are using her to navigate north, is not fazed in the least and is ready to hit the ground running. This system would not work in my case, because anyone who knows me, knows I will hit the ground running, but soon after trip over my feet, drop the baby and proceed to crash into the nearest soiled nappy.

Thankfully, Marina’s maternal instinct, which is in over drive by the way, is there to pull me out of the smelly stuff. Ever since Marina found out she was pregnant, and even for a few months prior, not a day went by when she did not give Google a work out by searching out every ounce of pregnancy related information, which in turn, like any good teacher and scientist, was catalogued, filed and presented to me.

This is not to say that I was not doing any research either. I was busy studying the best way to take down eight of the Joker’s henchmen in a free flow combo and earn bonus experience points in Batman Arkham Asylum.

It is this limitation to fully comprehend the connection my wife has with my heir apparent, that I now completely understand why it is often said that women become mothers from conception, while a man becomes a father nine months later.

Marina was quite perceptive of my predicament and decided that the best way to settle my apprehension was to attend the baby expo at Rosehill. I agreed wholeheartedly, unaware of what I was getting myself into.

We arrived at the entrance and I was handed a map, which unfolded to the size of a change table-cum-baby bath. Studying the floor plan, my assumption that the displays would be limited to furniture, prams and colourful clothing, was way off target, because what was on offer, made me realise that babies do more than eat, poop and gurgle and as such require more belongings than a small country.

Walking through the turnstile, I knew my “Batman Arkham Asylum” studies was going to be of very little help, unless our adventure took us through jungles of pink jumpsuits, were mothers lurked, eager to pounce on any unwary man with a Johnson baby power bomb and a Wiggles back pack manoeuvre that left victims singing and dancing in a chorus line of stuffed animals.

Our first stop was prams. Or should that be strollers? Or is that baby movers? Who knows, but in any case, I was under the impression that prams were simple devices, with adjustable seats, brakes and a sun cover. Talk about delusional. A pram is much more than that. In fact it has technology sourced from NASA and I guess that’s why babies are “strapped into capsules”, rather than seats, just in case it needs to be launched into orbit.

At the high end of market, prams were wrapped in leather, dressed in lace from Burano, jammed with a Linn sound system (the same one used in Aston Martins) and an OLED wide screen TV to watch Yo Gabba Gabba. I am not even going to get into the wine cooler and a caviar holder attachment for the mothers.

Come down the line, the mod cons have vanished, but the prams resemble transformers. Seriously, baskets move around, handles spilt open, while the wheels slide off, turning it into a weapon of destruction for supermarket aisles.

But of course, what is the point of a fashionable baby transporter, if the mummy doesn’t look yummy. Adjacent to the prams, were rows upon rows of mother’s bags, which regardless of colour or brand, had more compartments than an IKEA Kitchen. There was space for nappies, bottles, a change of clothes, pacifiers, a hip flask and even a special area for whoop ass.

Of course what was a modern day mum, without a slot for their iPhone and a compartment for the iPad, to store all those e-books. Admittedly, an iPad can’t do everything and that’s why amongst the cavernous interior, was a pouch for a Net book. This of course makes no mention of the area reserved for laptops.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t technology supposed to be about convergence, but now it seems that we have more devices than we know what to do with. I guess in the future women won’t give birth to babies, but will email them has attachments to their hospital. And before this rant spirals into in an unrecoverable abyss of sarcasm, I will move on.

Now where was I? Oh that’s right I was loitering near the Ford Territory on display because it was manly, had buttons, oil, and most importantly was neither pink or plastered in a variety of farm animals in comprising positions.

Speaking of animals, how I could forget the most famous of them all – Dorothy the Dinosaur? Eager to embrace fatherhood I dragged Marina to free concert that was being put on.

I pushed my way through the two year olds, who were as ferocious as piranhas at feeding time I might add, to the front. Within two bars of music, I started to imitate the Dorothy dance. Marina’s expression of amusement instantly became one of mortification. This was quickly followed by the wails of children, the roars of Dorothy and the arrival of security.

I have to admit, Marina was right. Shuffling through the crowds of the expo did temper my worries, but it was not until I got home and was leafing through the propaganda and paraphernalia from the baby expo, that I realised that there was nothing on display about the other so called “Joys of Pregnancy” like morning sickness. In the case of Marina, it’s not the mornings that give her grief, but the evenings.

Mind you, her queasiness does nothing to quell her cravings for culinary delights that you might find on a episode of Masterchef for University Student share houses, like her favourite degustation masterpiece (or so I am told) of rice, tuna and cheese. The yearnings are not limited to what she can eat, but what she can’t. Well for one, anything Indian is strictly off the menu. In its place are distinctly Mediterranean flavours; she especially is drawn to the Italian sticky buns, and I don’t mean those of the Italian soccer team either (though admittedly the World Cup is giving her healthy visual feast). However this change in her palette has left me wondering about the ethnicity of our milkman and whether we should start buying our milk from Coles.

The strangeness of pregnancy is not limited to Marina’s quirky taste buds, but extends to her super powered sense of smell (I told you they imitate Superman). For one she can’t come within ten paces of the fridge without gagging and she is convinced that I smell of garlic. Then again, maybe I always of smelt of garlic and she is the first person to have the courage to tell me.

These changes though have nothing on…well let me put this way, of all the booths present at the baby expo, the one I would have loved to see is one entitled “Hormones for Husbands”. If you ask Marina, the word “Dummies” and “Husbands” are interchangeable.

Simply put, I have new appreciation for the words “Yes dear”. During these past three months, and I am sure the coming seven, they have (and will be) transformed from words of endearment to gospel. The way Marina describes it is a roller coaster. One that leaves me no option but to “to sit down, strap myself in tight, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

Here let me give you an example. We were watching Sunrise the other week and there was as segment on David Koch raising money for the Balmoral Burn. Amongst the uplifting music were the dulcet tones of my wife’s sniffles. The tears did not stop there. Play Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t she lovely?” and salt water well’s in her eyes quicker than she can blink. And I am certainly not going to mention the ending of Charlotte’s web, because last time that happened we ran out of tissues.

It was a similar scenario when we saw our baby during our first ultrasound. Not that I can fault Marina’s emotions, because I too was mesmerised by what we witnessed on the screen. Watching the heart beat on the screen, countless questions whizzed through my mind – like what will our baby look like, what will he or she will grow up to be and achieve and will they defy all odds and grow tall enough to reach the top shelf of our kitchen cupboards without a ladder.

But before all the answers are revealed, I am sure there will be many adventures on the way, like discovering the joys of nesting, the sterility of birth centres, the amazing world of antenatal classes and the joys of shopping for baby.

So if you are like me, and believe the journey is more important than the destination, don’t go too far, because Thomas is pulling out of the station.

Marina tapped me on the shoulder.

“Grmmph,” I vocalised into my pillow.

“Wake up hon,” Marina prodded.

“Whztwhahst! Grmsgja,” I responded in my typical articulate manner.

Marina cuddled up beside me and whispered, “Honey, I’m pregnant.”

“That’s excellent news!” I mumbled through half open eyes and layers of sleep. “That also means I’ve got nine months more to sleep in.” I turned over.

With this statement I realised the similarity that exists between pregnant women and Superman. Before I had time to process the repercussions of what I had said, Marina picked up a pillow faster than a speeding bullet and with the more power than a locomotive, thwacked me over the head.

Granted, it takes more than a pillow to the noggin to knock sense into me, but the blow got me thinking about the journey ahead, because while Marina is expecting, I have no idea what to expect – either from Marina’s pregnancy or from fatherhood.

You may recall, a couple of years of ago, when I first started this blog, I waxed lyrical about the creative process and how this was as close as a man could get to experiencing pregnancy. These last three months, with hindsight as my guide, my naiveté has been laid bare. As I “give birth” to these paragraphs, and even if they were Pulitzer Prize material, I know they will never have the heart or the beauty of what is growing inside my wife’s belly.

To underscore this point of disconnect between the male species and pregnancy let me take you back a couple weeks. Marina and I were visiting Marina’s cousin and his wife, who had given birth to a baby girl. He described to us the moment he saw his little girl for the first time and realised he transcended the boundary from husband to father as one of awe, beauty and trepidation, with emphasis on the latter.

“I could not move,” he told us. “It was only until the nurse actually called me over that I shuffled over, and even then she had to guide my wrists to swaddle my daughter.”

Hearing his story filled me with a sense of solidarity, but did nothing to assuage my fear of fatherhood. My wife on the other hand, whom I should mention is glowing so much that moths are using her to navigate north, is not fazed in the least and is ready to hit the ground running. This system would not work in my case, because anyone who knows me, knows I will hit the ground running, but soon after trip over my feet, drop the baby and proceed to crash into the nearest soiled nappy.

Thankfully, Marina’s maternal instinct, which is in over drive by the way, is there to pull me out of the smelly stuff. Ever since Marina found out she was pregnant, and even for a few months prior, not a day went by when she did not give Google a work out by searching out every ounce of pregnancy related information, which in turn, like any good teacher and scientist, was catalogued, filed and presented to me.

This is not to say that I was not doing any research either. I was busy studying the best way to take down eight of the Joker’s henchmen in a free flow combo and earn bonus experience points in Batman Arkham Asylum.

It is this limitation to fully comprehend the connection my wife has with my heir apparent, that I now completely understand why it is often said that women become mothers from conception, while a man becomes a father nine months later.

Marina was quite perceptive of my predicament and decided that the best way to settle my apprehension was to attend the baby expo at Rosehill. I agreed wholeheartedly, unaware of what I was getting myself into.

We arrived at the entrance and I was handed a map, which unfolded to the size of a change table-cum-baby bath. Studying the floor plan, my assumption that the displays would be limited to furniture, prams and colourful clothing, was way off target, because what was on offer, made me realise that babies do more than eat, poop and gurgle and as such require more belongings than a small country.

Walking through the turnstile, I knew my “Batman Arkham Asylum” studies was going to be of very little help, unless our adventure took us through jungles of pink jumpsuits, were mothers lurked, eager to pounce on any unwary man with a Johnson baby power bomb and a Wiggles back pack manoeuvre that left victims singing and dancing in a chorus line of stuffed animals.

Our first stop was prams. Or should that be strollers? Or is that baby movers? Who knows, but in any case, I was under the impression that prams were simple devices, with adjustable seats, brakes and a sun cover. Talk about delusional. A pram is much more than that. In fact it has technology sourced from NASA and I guess that’s why babies are “strapped into capsules”, rather than seats, just in case it needs to be launched into orbit.

At the high end of market, prams were wrapped in leather, dressed in lace from Burano, jammed with a Linn sound system (the same one used in Aston Martins) and an OLED wide screen TV to watch Yo Gabba Gabba. I am not even going to get into the wine cooler and a caviar holder attachment for the mothers.

Come down the line, the mod cons have vanished, but the prams resemble transformers. Seriously, baskets move around, handles spilt open, while the wheels slide off, turning it into a weapon of destruction for supermarket aisles.

But of course, what is the point of a fashionable baby transporter, if the mummy doesn’t look yummy. Adjacent to the prams, were rows upon rows of mother’s bags, which regardless of colour or brand, had more compartments than an IKEA Kitchen. There was space for nappies, bottles, a change of clothes, pacifiers, a hip flask and even a special area for whoop ass.

Of course what was a modern day mum, without a slot for their iPhone and a compartment for the iPad, to store all those e-books. Admittedly, an iPad can’t do everything and that’s why amongst the cavernous interior, was a pouch for a Net book. This of course makes no mention of the area reserved for laptops.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t technology supposed to be about convergence, but now it seems that we have more devices than we know what to do with. I guess in the future women won’t give birth to babies, but will email them has attachments to their hospital. And before this rant spirals into in an unrecoverable abyss of sarcasm, I will move on.

Now where was I? Oh that’s right I was loitering near the Ford Territory on display because it was manly, had buttons, oil, and most importantly was neither pink or plastered in a variety of farm animals in comprising positions.

Speaking of animals, how I could forget the most famous of them all – Dorothy the Dinosaur? Eager to embrace fatherhood I dragged Marina to free concert that was being put on.

I pushed my way through the two year olds, who were as ferocious as piranhas at feeding time I might add, to the front. Within two bars of music, I started to imitate the Dorothy dance. Marina’s expression of amusement instantly became one of mortification. This was quickly followed by the wails of children, the roars of Dorothy and the arrival of security.

I have to admit, Marina was right. Shuffling through the crowds of the expo did temper my worries, but it was not until I got home and was leafing through the propaganda and paraphernalia from the baby expo, that I realised that there was nothing on display about the other so called “Joys of Pregnancy” like morning sickness. In the case of Marina, it’s not the mornings that give her grief, but the evenings.

Mind you, her queasiness does nothing to quell her cravings for culinary delights that you might find on a episode of Masterchef for University Student share houses, like her favourite degustation masterpiece (or so I am told) of rice, tuna and cheese. The yearnings are not limited to what she can eat, but what she can’t. Well for one, anything Indian is strictly off the menu. In its place are distinctly Mediterranean flavours; she especially is drawn to the Italian sticky buns, and I don’t mean those of the Italian soccer team either (though admittedly the World Cup is giving her healthy visual feast). However this change in her palette has left me wondering about the ethnicity of our milkman and whether we should start buying our milk from Coles.

The strangeness of pregnancy is not limited to Marina’s quirky taste buds, but extends to her super powered sense of smell (I told you they imitate Superman). For one she can’t come within ten paces of the fridge without gagging and she is convinced that I smell of garlic. Then again, maybe I always of smelt of garlic and she is the first person to have the courage to tell me.

These changes though have nothing on…well let me put this way, of all the booths present at the baby expo, the one I would have loved to see is one entitled “Hormones for Husbands”. If you ask Marina, the word “Dummies” and “Husbands” are interchangeable.

Simply put, I have new appreciation for the words “Yes dear”. During these past three months, and I am sure the coming seven, they have (and will be) transformed from words of endearment to gospel. The way Marina describes it is a roller coaster. One that leaves me no option but to “to sit down, strap myself in tight, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

Here let me give you an example. We were watching Sunrise the other week and there was as segment on David Koch raising money for the Balmoral Burn. Amongst the uplifting music were the dulcet tones of my wife’s sniffles. The tears did not stop there. Play Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t she lovely?” and salt water well’s in her eyes quicker than she can blink. And I am certainly not going to mention the ending of Charlotte’s web, because last time that happened we ran out of tissues.

It was a similar scenario when we saw our baby during our first ultrasound. Not that I can fault Marina’s emotions, because I too was mesmerised by what we witnessed on the screen. Watching the heart beat on the screen, countless questions whizzed through my mind – like what will our baby look like, what will he or she will grow up to be and achieve and will they defy all odds and grow tall enough to reach the top shelf of our kitchen cupboards without a ladder.

But before all the answers are revealed, I am sure there will be many adventures on the way, like discovering the joys of nesting, the sterility of birth centres, the amazing world of antenatal classes and the joys of shopping for baby.

So if you are like me, and believe the journey is more important than the destination, don’t go too far, because Thomas is pulling out of the station.

Overlooking the South China Sea, the breezy foyer of Shangri-la’s Rasa Ria Resort in Sabah, was decorated with inviting cane furniture and luxurious orchids, and inundated with chirps of cicadas and the soft lullaby of crashing waves. With a shared sigh, my wife and I realised we had reached what my old flat mate had called an “undiscovered paradise”.

It was one o’clock in the morning when we arrived and I expected to lie in the next day. I should have known better. My wife, who not only caught the worm, but woke up the early bird, jumped out of bed, scampered to the window and drew back the drapes in a flurry revealing a cloudless blue sky. Grinning from ear to ear, my wife opened the balcony’s sliding door, letting the fresh sea air scurry into the room, instantly removing my jet lag.

I joined her on the balcony and marvelled at the surrounds. Below us, planted throughout the immaculate lawn, were groves of Bougainvilleas and Birds of Paradise that culminated in rows of palm trees that acted as a guard of honour to the beach.

Without a care in the world, we ambled down to breakfast and found a selection catering for even the fussiest eaters. Our stomachs growled in appreciation and impatience.

My wife was the smart one, and started with the healthy choice: cereal, fruit and tall glass of juice. I though, was stumbled with indecision. Should I start with cereal and move on to a fried breakfast, or immerse myself in Malaysian cuisine and tuck into rice congee, noodles, rice and stir fry? But what about the waffles, pancakes or sugary pastries in the far corner, I pondered.

In the end, I chose what some restaurants call fusion food and piled everything on one plate. When I returned to the table, by wife begged the question: “Are you mad?” to which I replied, “No hungry!”
My wife shook her head, left me to my gluttony and turned her attention to the sound of the ocean. She brought her cup of tea to her lips, relishing its sweet taste and closed her eyes. I knew how she felt. After spending sixteen hours in and out of aeroplanes, it was good to have a leisurely meal and a non-hectic coffee.

Our day was similarly relaxed, with time split between the pool and pristine beach. By evening, like other guests, we took up residence at the hotel’s waterfront bar, to sip a refreshing cocktail, watch the sun slide toward the horizon, and allow the sea breeze to massage our necks and shoulders with the expertise of a masseuse, making our worries non-existent.

Sabah is renowned for its sunsets and even though the sky was lacerated with clouds, we were not disappointed. Through the kaleidoscope of fiery colours, the sun descended toward the ocean’s silver surface, until it vanished under the horizon and the sky was brushed with a swathe of stars.

Unlike other beach front resorts, the hotel is more than a refuge for world weary tourists. It is also a halfway house for baby Orangutans that have fallen victim to loggers and poachers. Situated behind the hotel is a section of protected rainforest, which is cris-crossed with vines and rope swings for babies to play and regain their strength. When they are have been nursed back to health they are transferred to the Sepilok Orangutan sanctuary for further rehabilitation, before being released back into the wild.

Watching the three baby Orangutans currently in residence enjoy their surroundings, my wife and I could not fathom how people could destroy these creatures and their habitat, especially since Orangutans are amongst the only three animals in the world that can claim self awareness – the other two being chimpanzees and humans.

The following day surprised us. We planned another strenuous day of lounging by the pool, but the storm put the kibosh to that idea. Sabah is pleasantly known as the Land the Below the Wind because of its location under the South Asian typhoon belt, and while this gives rise to refreshing winds, it also causes more extreme weather.

My wife opened the curtains anticipating streams of sunlight, but like me, was crest fallen to discover gales slamming the sea into the beach, while simultaneously throwing cataracts of rain and sand against the shore, and forcing the palm trees to prostrate to its force.
Like most tropical storms it was short lived, and the following day, once the floods subsided and the road was reopened, we boarded the resort shuttle bus for capital of Sabah, Kota Kinabalu.

When the airport shuttle bus took us through the city on the night we arrived, the streets were quiet, but the numerous small cafes that huddled under offices and nestled in corners remained open and were frequented with clientele that were either lost in thought or in conversation.

Under the mid morning sun, the city was a deafening hullabaloo of car horns, diesel engines and boisterous chatter. Adding to the cacophony, the metallic clatter from countless sites assaulted our senses, leaving us with the distinct impression that Kota Kinabalu is being given a modern makeover.

This was evident in the city’s two shopping centres. Beacons to western fashion, they were lit with sterile fluorescents, splashed with neon, and packed with people. We bypassed these, deciding visit them later in the day, and strolled to the traditional water front markets, which according to our shuttle bus driver had “many great deals”.

Cobbled together from sticks, bamboo and wrought iron, the mood of the area under daylight was a direct contrast of what we saw when we were driven past it at night. Without the tourists, my wife and I glimpsed the reality of the shop keepers. Sprawled on makeshift beds, we realised that the stalls were not only their livelihood, but their home. It was a sobering introduction to a city that is billed in brochures as the perfect escape from the real world.

We had obviously arrived before the crowds and many stall owners were still waking up, but those who had met the dawn, sat behind tables crammed with knick knacks, key rings, magnets, bags, jewellery and any other tourist trinket you could think of, eager to do business with any interested passer-by.

Without realising it, we were funnelled into the farmers market. Extending over the size of a couple of soccer fields, the area was noisy and the stalls varied. From fresh meat, salted fish, fruit and vegetables, dried goods, kid’s toys and more spices than your local Indian restaurant the choice was overwhelming.

While shopping was a cheerful distraction, what we loved about Kota Kinabalu is that that it is a short boat ride to the islands situated off the coast. Famed for snorkelling, diving and sunbaking, we were eager to visit.

We arrived at Sapi and were welcomed with broad smiles and open arms, which is typical of the people in this part of the world we were immediately handed two plates and pointed to the buffet. Before we realised what was happening our plates were piled high with pasta, king prawns, crabs, chicken, rice and squid. To top it all off they even brought us desert.

Our second island, Manukan, the biggest in the archipelago, was a snorkeler’s paradise. It was inundated with shoals of multicoloured fish that enjoyed nothing more than cozing up to the shore so they could be fed by the hordes of tourist and locals that were crowding the beach.

My wife and I were happy to oblige and after we exhausted our supply of dried bread, we were faced with the hard task of finding a perfect spot on the beach to soak up the sun.

We returned to the city the next day to peruse the Sunday markets, a popular haunt amongst locals and tourists alike, thanks mainly to the endless bargains on offer. My wife took full advantage of this and by days’ end I had to figure out the best way to make room for her purchases (read here: shoes, dresses, and more shoes) without breaking any laws of physics or leaving my clothes behind.

Our final day was spent like our first – enjoying the sun and relaxing atmosphere of the hotel. Sure we could have signed up for the endless list of activities that hotel offered, like a sunrise breakfast, a bout of jet skiing, some volleyball, a class in Malaysian cookery and finish off with a sunset cruise, but my wife and I were feeling self indulgent and treated ourselves to a luxurious massage at the hotel’s day spa.

We chose the “Romance Package” which equates to three hours of heaven, starting with a foot massage and full body exfoliation. This was followed by a romantic rose scented bath for two and culminated in a full body massage. It was the perfect way to finish our Sabah sojourn.

Still, it was nigh impossible not to look back at the hotel and the city with fondness and melancholy when we departed. It was more than the sunsets, the shopping or even the hospitality, Sabah’s magic was undefinable. It kept people spellbound and coming back for more, and in our case, it was something we wanted sooner rather than later.

My better half, if you hadn’t already guessed by the previous description, regards footwear not as fancy feet coverings, but a way of life. So much so, that when we were searching for an apartment, her criteria extended way beyond kitchen space or bedroom size, but whether there was enough storage for her shoes.

Knowing this fact about Marina you might be wondering why I even broached the subject of footwear with her. Well I honestly believed Marina’s shoe fetish would not interfere with my mission to find wedding shoes because she had already acquired hers.

Talk about being off with the fairies.

My search started in earnest but I quickly noticed a disturbing trend, regardless of which store we visited. Within minutes of entering the front doors, I always felt a gentle tug dragging me over to other side of the shop so Marina “could have a little look.”

It was at this point that I came to the conclusion that Marina and I have different attitudes when it came to buying shoes. I don’t like to waste time and prefer to get in, get out and get on with more important jobs; like annoying my significant other for instance. Marina though tackled the task of shoe selection as if she were dismantling a bomb. Each shoe she picked up was carefully studied, analysed and dissected. I actually expected her to pull out a microscope from her hand bag, because seemingly one wrong move, or as the case may be, the incorrect purchase, will result in catastrophic and dire consequences.

With only my simple male mind at my disposal I asked Marina why so much scrutiny was needed, because she only had three choices – boots, flats and heels. Marina disagreed and broke it down for me. Evidently, each group is broken down into sub divisions.

For the gentlemen reading this and are as oblivious as I was, let me use the category of “boots” as an example.

There are, and this is by no means an exhaustive list, ankle boots, knee high boots, boots with heels, boots that are made for walking, formal boots, boots with tassels, boots that boot, scoot and boogie and boots that invite illicit liaisons in the bedroom.

The choice may be limitless, but it still does not explain the biggest mystery about girls and their prized podiatric possessions. They spend days hunting for the perfect pair of shoes for a party/function/soiree, only to remove them in a heartbeat after every girl has commented on how “gorgeous” they look, because they are:

(a) uncomfortable
(b) painful
(c) annoying
(d) impossible to dance in
(e) impossible to walk in
(f) impossible to sit in
(g) cramped at the toes
(h) cramped at the heel
(i) misogynistic
(j) imbalanced and cause you to fall over every time you break wind
(k) “The fat cow from accounting has knowingly bought the same pair!”
(m) All of the above

These reasons however never occur to girls while they are trawling through the various shoe emporiums and here in lies another difference in the sexes when it comes to footwear.

When I was trying on shoes for the wedding my first thoughts were not “I can’t wait to show the fellas” or “do they make my bum look big?” but “Are these comfortable enough to wear all day and boogaloo all night?”

By this stage you obviously are questioning what the heck this blog has to do with the wedding because all I am doing is enjoying a sexist rant about women and shoes. Well you’re absolutely right! This is sexist and this is a rant! And since I am on a roll, why stop now.
However before I continue, I must make the point that in no way, shape or form do I believe that my tirade will change matters because like Australia diggers, when it comes to footwear and women, “age does not weary them.”

Case in point; my mother suggested to my father that they go in search for a pair of shoes for him. My dad agreed and happily drove mum to the shops. The end result: Mum found two pairs of shoes, dad found none.

What is interesting about that last paragraph, and I am sure many boyfriends, fiancés and husbands will agree that it has happened to them, is that while my mum proposed the trip, she craftily hijacked it for her own evil purposes.

Unsurprisingly, it did not end there but spilled over to a recent expedition to buy my father a suit.

It started with good intentions, but as was to be expected, she did not waste any time instructing my dad “to sit and not move” while she gallivanted from shop to shop.

A couple of bags and ten blouses later, dad was finally ushered into the nearest suit store, but only after mum casually suggested (ordered?) that he “try a dark coloured suit.”

Dad of course, a true Taurean Male, ignored her and switched on the wife filter (I am still figuring out how to use mine. I am sure I will perfect it with time and training).

“What do you think of this one Audrey?” My father picked up a tan coloured suit.
“What did I just tell you Dexter?” Mum grabbed it from him and returned it to the rack.
“Okay,” dad said, rubbing his chin, and selecting a grey suit.
“Dexter, will you bloody listen!” My mother said through gritted teeth, taking the suit off him.

The conversation repeated itself for a few minutes, thereby increasing my mother’s exasperation, not to mention her blood pressure. Finally mum, who was obviously at the end of her tether, uttered “Fine, get whatever bloody suit you want” and stormed off to another corner of the store.

The sales manager, noticing what was happening and eager to avoid being an accessory to murder by the hands of an impatient wife (“let no husband stand her way”) asked dad what the suit was for. Dad told him and was promptly handed the suit my mum had originally chosen.
My mother informed me that when she saw this, she had to use every ounce of self control not to run of over there and “give my dad a good smack on the back of his head!”

I guess that’s what a bald spot is – a bullseye for wives everywhere. So I guess I better be careful, because as the years are progressing, my target is getting wider and Marina’s aim is getting better.

With my noggin firmly within crosshairs of my wife-to-be, you have to wonder where that leaves me. Obviously in dire need of a helmet and in a flat with more shoes than a centipede has legs., but at least I have one small consolation – I may be a target, but at least I will be wearing comfortable shoes and in the end isn’t that what really matters?

Shortly after breakfast, I followed Marina into her parents lounge room and she cheerfully directed me to the couch. After our grand invitation party I never thought I would be surrounded by so much ribbon, pearlescent paper and diamantes again, but I here I was besieged by piles of invitations, envelopes, gift registry cards, a selection of pens and Marina’s favourite whacking stick.

Understandably my manhood felt threatened and needed reassurance. In a deft movement I grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. The Foxtel menu shimmered into view and with the dexterity of a pubescent male gamer who gets more enjoyment from his joystick than he does from female company I flicked through the channels. I aimed to find a program that would fill the room with a certain amount of romantic ambience.

It did not take me long to find it.

“You’re kidding right?” Marina glared across her cup of tea.

“What?” I returned her expression with clueless innocence.

“You think the perfect mood setter for writing invitations is Wrestling?”

“It’s not wrestling,” I countered. “It’s WWF.”

“Don’t you think music might be a better choice?” Marina questioned.

“Don’t get all huffy, you love it!”

Marina did not answer and locked me in a gaze that could melt gold.

Before I continue let me answer the question on everyone’s lips – How does watching oiled up semi naked men slapping each other and trading angry barbs make me feel manly and not gay? Truth be told I did not do it for my enjoyment, but Marina’s, because while she will vehemently deny it, she loves to perv shamelessly at the muscular men in tight Speedos. If you don’t believe me ask her about Randy Orton or Kofi Kingston both of whom she describes as “Daymn Fiiiiiiiiine!!”

Marina though did not see it this way. She sighed and mumbled something about me “trying the patience of saint” and surreptitiously moved the remote control beyond my reach.

Oblivious to the annoyance I was causing I said “C’mon babe lets get this show on the road!”

“Fine,” Marina said, “So what do you want to do? You can either write the names on the invitations or address the envelopes?”

“I’ll address the envelopes,” My voice was full of gusto.

Marina handed me a pen and I picked up the nearest envelope. In next to no time I had neatly transcribed the first address from our guest list. I gave it to Marina, stuck out my chest and with a sincere smile asked her “What do you think? Pretty spiffy right?”

Marina studied what I had written and placed it next to a sample of her writing. She did not say a word. She did not have too. The difference between our handwriting was stark. Marina’s style had a flair one might find in calligraphy handbook. Mine on the other hand was akin to something a chicken might write in the sand. Naturally, I was relegated to official envelope stuffer.

With the two of us working in tandem and me focusing my energy on the job at hand and not on smart ass comments we finished Marina’s side of the family by midday.

“I can’t believe we are half way there,” Marina said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “at this rate we will finish by this arvo.”

Famous last words.

Within forty five minutes of my previous statement, I was true to my name sake and made a complete Ass(ey) of myself.

During the weeks leading up to our invitation writing extravaganza Marina never ceased to remind me that I needed to compile the invitation list from my side of the family. Some may call this nagging. I prefer to think it as having my own personal secretary who comes complete with efficient reminders, stern expressions and old world discipline that occasionally involves a firm spanking.

In true groom style, and fully aware of the consequences to my posterior, I delegated this task to my mother who, unlike me, promptly did what I had asked her to do.

The issue was however that what Marina had instructed me to do was not given verbatim to my mother. This faux paux landed me in the dog house quicker than you can say “play dead”.

I had assumed that my mother would not only write the name of the family group and the amount of people per family, but also the most important piece of information required for the guest list: the name the individuals in each family.

She didn’t and my oversight landed me firmly in the crosshairs of not only Marina but my mother also, who was left exasperated by my constant telephone calls asking her about every single family member, their relationship to us, where they lived and the status of their beloved pet.

By days end, and as a result of my ineptitude, we only managed to get through about seventy five percent of my side of the family. But all was not lost however, because I now have a better appreciation of Brides-to-be. For one, they are the only people capable of pleading “Not Guilty to murder and get away with it, because their grooms frequently drive them to insanity and two I am also extremely grateful Marina is organising the wedding. If not for her lists and folders not only would you get your invitation a day before the wedding, but it would be nothing more than an event request on Facebook and your meal would come in three different sizes: Regular, Medium and Large. But if its any consolation you would have at least had the option of fries on the side.

Nevertheless, I am sure that this incident will not be easily forgotten. If it is not the numerous female friends who love to take Marina’s side and rub it in (I don’t need to mention any names do I, Palak and Sarah) then I am sure it will be Marina telling our kids “Don’t be your like your bloody father and (insert various acts of stupidity here) and make an Ass(ey) of yourself?” But before I have a chance to demonstrate what I mean by “Acts of Stupidity” I will end this blog here, but you should never fear, there are still many blogs to come and knowing me, countless “Stupid Acts” to be blogged about.

Little did I know how involved my proposal would be!

A week before the infamous Hallmark holiday I suggested to Marina that we should go through the list of suggestions supplied with the Myer bridal pack and highlight the items we wanted on the gift registry. Marina’s lips curled into a smile, before she dragged me into her room and handed me a piece of paper.

I looked it over and wondered what I had gotten myself into. Marina had not only selected the entries that appealed to her but added ticks, crosses, post it notes, mind maps, diagrams and helpful hints. Compared to Marina’s list, mine was nothing more than a “rough guide”. For example, whereas I was content with any mug, Marina wanted a mug to match the kitchen bench tops and add contrast to the curtain colour scheme.

Drinking utensils weren’t the issue however, fine china was.

I personally did not see the need to have a set of plates for everyday use and another set in case the Queen dropped by around for a cup of tea and cucumber sandwiches. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I usually appreciate the meal rather than the plate it is served on, even if it is hand crafted by a blind monk in China and painted using techniques passed down since the dawn of time.

Another aspect about formal dining ware that confounds me is that if it is that special and pretty, why do girls insist on covering it with food and getting it dirty? Wouldn’t it be better on display for everyone to appreciate? I know for a fact that if a guy likes the appearance of an object, be it a dish, a car or anything else for that matter, the last thing he wants is to cover it up. Sure he may want to get the aforementioned items dirty, with say, mud or even jelly, but he certainly does not want them hidden from view.

This point notwithstanding, our discussion about the need for proper tableware continued until I my ears were ringing and I had no option but to relent, not realising our conversation was “Part one” of a two part extravaganza.

I continued reading until I noticed a piece of kitchenware that I deemed unnecessary. Rather than get into the specifics, I will simply relay the fiery conversation that took place.

“Why the heck do we need that?” I questioned.

“We just do!”

“I have never even heard you talk about using anything like that.”

“I’ve used my mum’s!”

“When?”

“Before I met you.”

“Isn’t that convenient?”

Marina said nothing and aimed a teacher’s look in my direction.

“Tell me something else babe…” I asked.

Again, there was silence.

“Where exactly are we going put this contraption of yours?”

“I have a place in mind,” Marina shot back.

Needless to say I did not get anywhere and ended up choosing the smartest, if not only course of action available to me; something that my grandfather, Bourke, Rudolph and every other man in a relationship, married or otherwise, has done since the dawn of time for the sake of his sanity, I waved a white flag.

The “Day of Love” arrived and City Rail decided to make it extra special by placing bright, happy yellow signs around Penshurst station that boldly proclaimed to every commuter that “Track work” was in full swing.

As a result, we arrived at Myer ninety minutes late and were greeted by Margaret, a lady with a welcoming smile and cheerful disposition who made no mention of our tardiness and simply got down to business.

After recording Marina’s details, she directed her questions at me. I gave her my name and address, but was stopped short at my phone number. Margaret held up her hand, stared me straight in the eye and told me “not to worry,” because she “had all the information she needed.” I was taken aback. Again, my role in the wedding had been downgraded from dashing groom to handsome bystander. But as Matt, Shannon’s husband told me, I’d “better get used to it.”

The next question concerned the delivery address of our new apartment (more on this in later blog).

“How do you spell that?” Margaret asked.

“C. O. U. R. A. Double L. I. E.” Marina said.

Without hesitation, I disagreed. “There is only one ‘l’ ”

“There are two honey,” Marina rebuked.

“No there aren’t.”

“Yes they are!”

Margaret’s head swivelled from left to right, engrossed in our tennis match of words. I wanted to continue but we were running late enough as it was and instead of wasting any more time agreed with Marina.

Marina though, like me, knew this debate was not over. After the relevant data was entered into the computer and we were given our PDA and told to “enjoy ourselves” Marina propositioned me: “Honey, if you are that sure about the spelling of new street name, we should have a bet as to which one of us is right?”

“What are the stakes?” I asked.

“The loser buys the winner a CD.”

I did not even have to think about it. “You’re on babe, be prepared to visit JB!”

“We’ll see,” Marina said and led me into the zany world of Royal Dolton and Part 2 of our discussion – “Fine China: Hidden Fork, Crouching Gravy Boat.”

We browsed through the vast array of crockery on offer and I was again completely baffled as to why women insisted on paying a premium price for these items which were, in reality, nothing more that grains of sand heated to over thousand degrees and decorated in random designs? This fact did not deter Marina from studying each set in such minute detail, I almost expected her to pull out a microscope. Finally, after careful examination of the sets on display, and with a high pitched squeal that brought the glassware near breaking point, Marina spotted the dining set she wanted.

Like every dutiful fiancée before me, I cooed and “Ahhed” at the appropriate times until Marina informed me she would like ten sets.

I did a double take and a quick head count. There was one of her and one of me. That made two people. At most we might have a couple of extra people over for dinner. This made four. To be safe and prepared for unexpected company, I thought six would have sufficed.

Marina shook her head, admonished my mental ability and like a true Indian, started haggling with me, aiming to bargain me up. Being of similar heritage, I stood my ground and tried to talk her down. Unfortunately this approach is only successful if the two parties involved are not stubborn. We were still negotiating with each other five minutes later, and by then it was fairly obvious that getting us to meet in the middle was as going to be as difficult as parting the red sea…Harder even.

“Ring your mum,” Marina challenged. “Ask her how many sets we think we should get.”

I happily dialled my mum’s number, thinking that since I am her only son, she will definitively take my side. Boy was I wrong. I told her my side of the domestic and she instantly asked to speak to Marina.

Obviously my opinion as handsome bystander did not matter and rather than fight two women, which is as painful as having a root canal performed without anaesthetic, I dutifully did what I was told. I barely finished scanning the relevant barcode when Marina spotted the matching coffee jug and creamer and began salivating.

Look folks, I could continue to ramble on about another heated discussion, but I am going to be honest with you. If you pop around and Marina is at work, giving her credit card a work out or at her night class – “Advanced Nagging: Make him submit with facial expressions!” – you will not be offered any food on fine china. Paper plates would be more like it and as for the coffee jug and creamer, I call it a kettle and the milk is in the fridge. Feel free to help yourself. Personally, you should be thankful there is not a cow nearby because I would happily hand you a bucket.

We continued on to kitchenware and again I was mortified by the price tags. Who knew that a spot that changed colour when it got hot was worth over 200 dollars? Then of course there were the salt and pepper shakers. Seventy dollars each? I think not. Here’s a tip for all of you, if you want cracked pepper, take some peppercorns, stick it in a tea towel and use a hammer. Wullah! Cracked pepper! Cheap and easy, not to mention flavoursome!

Obviously I could go on for hours about what a cheap (insert a word of your choice here) I am, but you know that already and are probably more interested in finding out who won our bet about the spelling of our street? When we returned to Marina’s place, she hurriedly checked the name in the street directory.

“You see!” a triumphant grin spreading across her face. “It’s spelt with a double ‘l’.”

“And what does that prove?”

“It proves you are wrong!”

I disagreed. “How do you know that the street directory is not wrong?”

Used to my stubbornness Marina pulled out the contract of sale.

“So I suppose the contract is wrong too.”

“Well it could be a snowball effect. A typo in the street directory is transferred to the lawyers and hence the contract.”

Marina placed her hands on her hips. “Let me get this straight. You’re an ass who thinks one single typo has infiltrated map makers, lawyers and society in general.”

“It can happen,” I told her.

“Can it now?” She questioned.

“Yes it can.”

“You’re an idiot!”

No doubt you all share Marina’s disbelief at my obstinate nature. To prove that spelling is not as gospel as everyone thinks it is, I have inserted two “missing” paragraphs from Between Borders and Buses in its complete unedited glory:

You know what amazes me the most about the Colleseum? That even after 2000 years, people still cannot spell it correctly. When I was writing this chapter, I thought Microsoft Word was playing funny buggers, because every instance of Colleseum would come up misspelled. I decided something crazy was going on (and it’s not my lack of ability it spell either) and so turned to that overflowing font of information, the Internet. You would think the world’s largest information repository would get it right, but no, Google too was throwing up a different spelling to what Word recognised.

I decided to check the Macquarie Dictionary and found they chose to spell Colleseum like this – “Coliseum”. This matter intrigued me no end (and yes, I know I need to get out more and maybe I will someday, just not now that’s all) and after some digging on the net, I found there were six other ways to spell Colleseum. As a guide, I provide them for you now – Coloseum, Colisseum, Colliseum, Colleseum, Colossium and Colissium.

You see, if the spelling Colleseum can be vary, then why not the spelling of Couralie either. To further prove my point, I want to bring to your attention the name of Eric, which can be spelt with “c” or a “k.” Couralie too, if a person so desires, could also be spelt with a “C” or a “K” and as such, what is stopping someone from using two “l’s” instead of one.

With such overwhelming evidence proving just because a word is spelt different to the norm does not necessarily make it wrong, how can I conclusively say that either Marina or I won our bet. Therefore in the spirit of ambiguity (not to mention B.S.), I declare our bet null and void and this blog, unlike our registry which is still a work in progress, done, dusted and at an end.

Till the next one, happy shopping.