Those were the days...

Time was when a typical Tuesday night in the Smoke would have meant a few beers after work, a gig, maybe a curry even? Tonight, on the other hand, I have a water birth workshop to go to.

Goody.

Still, I'm sure it'll be useful, as this has become our birthing method of choice, following recommendations from others, several of whom swear by its comforting properties.

The first of our NCT couples has had their baby. All seemed to go well and the missus was greatly relieved to hear that the mum in question found the whole thing less painful and hardcore than she was expecting.

As soon as we get into September (so he's not disadvantaged on schooling years) I reckon the missus will be wolfing down hot curry, drinking fruit teas and jumping up and down to get him out - she's fully into the maximum discomfort zone.

I'm just keeping my usual watching brief, helpng where I can and trying to keep my emotions in check. Not an easy task of late...having a little cry to Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah' is all well and good, but perhaps not ideal while on an exercise bike in a crowded gym...

Wow...

Wow! This weekend I had what alcoholics call a moment of clarity.

We'd put the new cot together and the missus decided to break out the little mobile thingy that hangs over it and spins round to give junior something to look at. And once that was done she set it off just to try it out. As I looked at it whirring round and listened to it playing that classic baby jingle (you know the one) I just felt a sudden realisation hitting me and almost knocking me over. It was almost as if he was lying there already.

In fact it was more a tsunami of emotion - took me a while to get over it and still had a few secret tears at night-time.

Strange days indeed....

Clanking to the top of the coaster....

We're a bit closer to the point of no return now; the rollercoaster will soon be tipping over the edge into oblivion...

Well, of course if you're being pedantic, the point of no return was in fact when we found out about junior last January. But my analogy wouldn't work then, since a rollercoaster that took eight months to get to the top would be a bit dull....

Anyway, nothing dull in our home right now, thanks to the almost daily deliveries of flat-pack baby furniture, prams, car seats and miscellaneous peripherals. At this rate we'll have to move house just to fit it all in, and this is before we've bought any brightly coloured bloody toys!

I see what they mean about the cost of child-rearing.

I still can't make it all real in my mind. I get occasional flashes, a bit like an acid flashback (not that I'd know about that of course), of life after he arrives, but my consciousness soon returns to child-free. It's weird.

Given that the missus is approaching the 'could drop at any time' window, this won't last for long, however...

That's your last, last hurrah over boyo...

...and now it begins to get very serious.

Safe in the knowledge that my carefree life really would be over soon I've had a series of "last hurrah" trips away with various mates, including a madcap jaunt down to Magny-Cours F1 cicruit to see ex-Pink Floyd man Roger Waters play, plus a racing/boozing trip ooop north with my best mate and former Best Man, who is coincidentally also about to become a dad.

But now all those fun and games are over, junior is just over a month away from making his scheduled appearance and I'm shitting bricks, to be honest.

I really know nothing of what I face, as the hilarity which greeted my hamfisted attempts to bathe a very realistic 'dummy' baby at the most recent NCT class would attest.

I haven't been able to bring myself to pick up any of the countless books on child-rearing that are piling up at home, but I guess I better make a start...it'll be less harrowing than watching news coverage of the rape of Lebanon anyway (ooops, bit political there, sorry).

What has seemed like quite an imaginary thing so far, almost an out-of-body experience, is no longer such, but, unlike the missus, I feel no bond yet with the wriggling thing hidden inside her. What if I can't feel the necessary unconditional love for him when he finally comes out? The prospect of being an inaequate dad haunts me and is driving me crazy...

I have the same feeling of trepidation right now as you get on the initial drag up the rollercoaster ride. We haven't quite crested the top and started to roll very fast under our own steam, but we're close....very close.

The baby whisperer...

Just been to the first session of our NCT ante-natal course. What I don't know now about cervical dilation and vaginal mucus just simply isn't worth knowing....

Actually, despite my substantial misgivings about taking part, it proved to be a reasonably insightful morning's work, in the company of a couple of other wide-eyed middle class dads-to-be who presumably I'm now expected to arrange trips to the pub with to 'talk babies'. Given that I hardly have enough time to see my actual friends these days, this seems unlikely, nice guys though they are...

Perhaps the highlight for me was finding the potential answer to one of the problems we have right now, which is that junior is not in the 'correct' position of head down into the pelvis facing his destiny. Apparently I have to get an empty toilet roll tube, place it at the bottom of the missus' belly and talk to him through it, as the sound and vibration will coax him down into the right spot and then gravity (his head is heavier than anything else) should keep him there.

No, that's not made up, I swear.

There are five NCT sessions, the first two on the labour process in all its gory, sorry glory, then others on things like caesarians (oh, goody!), breastfeeding and, most useful to me, what to do in the terrifying first days after the baby arrives.

I have no idea yet what will happen when junior leaves the hospital and comes home for (hopefully) good. How do I hold him (I'm legendarily crap at holding babies)? What do I do to keep him amused? How many hours should I spend studying his every motion with a pained look of worry on my face?

All this and more will no doubt be answered between now and the beginning of August...

So farewell then...

...to my study/office/den/refuge in our house.

Now cleared of all my stuff to make way for spare bedroom furniture. The first casualty of the impending familyhood!

I'll miss playing on the computer and watching baseball games online up there, although I won't miss the amount of junk that ended up collecting in the room - enough to take a whole day of clearing before I could even see the floor.

It makes me realise how materialistic I've been in the past, buying all sorts of stuff just because I could. Oh well, that spendthrift largesse is about to become the second casualty...

...and a big fella too!

Given that his father is one of the few people who can look Peter Crouch squarely in the eye, it's no surprise that Junior is a bit on the big side at this early stage of his life.

Well, no surprise to us, but plenty it seems to the NHS, who've dragged the missus in for diabetes tests as a result of seeing the rather large figure thrashing about inside her.

Needless to say, nothing's come up, so we can tick that particular problem off the list (and add another few quid to the NHS deficit - not our fault, guv).

The missus is ma-hooosive now though, even with another two-and-a-bit months to go. It's looking increasingly like an induced early arrival or Caesarian is going to be the order of the day - otherwise he'll be too big for the crib, let alone any of the (few) items of clothing we've already bought! Still, I've got a few spare t-shirts in the cupboard - some of the now shrunk-in-the-wash gig shirts may well be a perfect fit, although I guess the Foetus Interruptus one may have to stay where it is...

The missus' cousin has just had a baby boy, which is a good thing in terms of sharing experiences and also provides an occasional playmate on our visits there, which may well become more regular in future, and no bad thing too.

Is it really so long....

...since my last post? Time really does seem to zip by, especially with the World Cup as a big distraction.

We went to visit the maternity ward and labour rooms of our local hospital at the weekend, along with just about all of north London's expectant parents it seemed. As we packed, sweating, into one of the labour rooms I started to doubt the wisdom of this venture - it didn't tell me anything I din't know already ("there's the bed, there are the scales, that's a window, etc etc...") but the blood-curdling screams issuing from the other rooms certainly unsettled all the first-time mums and dads, ourselves included.

What it did confim is that this part of the process really isn't going to be a lot of fun. While I'm quite happy to sit around keeping the missus company in the interminably dull early stages, I don't want to be there when it all goes off anyway - the only piece of advice my dad has been moved to give me so far is to stay away from the business end of labour, so has a friend who has recently been through the experience. All the bullshit and "new man" machismo you read in the papers is just that, in my opinion.

Even the missus is doubtful that she wants me there when it really gets messy and unpleasant, and fair enough. I guess it'll all be decided on the day, but it's been a source of tension so far, so thanks for that to all the fucking blokes who can't wait to discuss the issue in the media - just leave us alone will you!

Days run away

If this blog seems to have slowed up a bit lately, it's naturally enough because these 'middle' weeks of the missus' pregnancy are fairly uneventful as it goes.

The calm before the storm I guess. Junior is starting to make his presence felt, kicking hard enough to be felt when he's up and about, which is a fair amount of the time. I do hope he doesn't inherit my difficulties with sleep, although at least the sleep disturbed evenings created by a newborn will have no fear for me, as that's been my life for decades anyway.

There also seems to be an unending amount of news and views about all things to do with pregnancy and children in the media at the moment, although perhaps this has always been there but I've successfully zoned out in the past. Maybe it's a bit like when you buy a new car and suddenly you notice all the other ones the same as yours out on the road.

Still, I reckon it's about the only time I've been up with fashion in anything in my life, if all the media comments about kids being the latest fashion essential are to be believed...

The missus has now moved into the "I'm tired all the time" third trimester. I have a big book on fatherhood, bought for me by my father-in-law, to plough through - it'll probably be as tiring on my patience.

And all the while the days count down. I'm in a nervous, "slghtly troubled by the whole prospect" sort of phase right now. Hopefully this will lift before long. I'm keeping it to myself and this blog anyway.

Boys will be boys....

Although there's always the potential for 'Daddy's girl' style affection, I guess if you ask most men whether deep down they'd prefer a boy or a girl you'll get the answer "a boy".

And while the nipper's health is my main concern I fit into this group as well, if I'm being honest with myself. It's probably becuase I'm a fairly unreconstructed male (interests: beer, music and sport) as well as a big kid (I own both a Scalextric and a Stiga table ice hockey game) at heart.

I like the idea of a bit of rough and tumble and making a mess around the place. Take this comment from an email a mate sent to me the other day:

"Another thing about boys... is that they can be disgusting. At the moment Daniel is doing an experement, to find out the best thing for mould to grow on. We have got seven plastic bags on the kitchen window sill (nice and hot, plenty of sun!!), all containing different things like soggy bread, cheese, cake, tomato etc. In five days' time (according to his book), we will have to compare all the different types of mould etc, and see which one has flourished the best!!"

Bring it on I say!

It's a boy, Mrs Walker, it's a boy!

Not wishing to tempt fate by using the immortal opening lines of The Who's Tommy (after all, despite being a pinball wizard young Tommy Walker was deaf, dumb and blind of course) but it neatly sums up in as rock 'n' roll a way that I can the latest news...it is indeed a boy.

It's funny, we were utterly convinced this was the case, despite any actual evidence to support it, beyond a lot of old wives tales about morning sickness (absence of) and the last doctor who examined the missus syaing the babay seemed "rather large" - a claim totally refuted by the ultrasound-wielding quack who did the honours this morning and said Junior was aboslutely standard size.

So...it's a boy. That means tough times during the 'terrible twos', no moments of peace and quiet while he hyperactively tears the house apart, incessant video games, a need to stay fit for garden/park sports well into my 50s...however, once he reaches his teens at least we'll probably start to reap the benefits of not worrying ourselves to death every time he goes out of the house....

Now the gender is determined, it will soon be time to begin horse trading over names. I've already laid down the law that I want him to have three first names, like a lot of my old cricket heroes used to have. Beyond that, all bets are off.

Oh, youth....

The missus is looking proper pregnant now, more than four months in. We've done the scouting for nursery furniture, baby buggies etc. but not bought anything yet due to severe superstition.

Two events, one just passed and one coming up, are going to add some closure to our youth for sure. The first was a trip to see the new movie about Glastonbury. Hard to see how the director could have captured the essence of that festival any better - it was brilliant. Glasto was where we met so has a special place in our hearts, although we'd decided to 'retire' even before the imminent sprog became an issue.

That, plus hormones, was perhaps why the missus blubbed like a baby throughout most of it. It was tears for her youth, for our youth (we were 'only' 30 when we met) and for times now gone. There was also an element of fear for the future too - something I'm well familiar with.

Now we're preparing for our last 'proper' holiday as just the two of us, also a watershed moment. And where better than Las Vegas to mark this particular rite of passage. It's an incredible, crazy fantasy land, inspiration for my favourite book (Fear and Loathing...) and something of a historial obsession for me in recent years.

When that's done, we'll be seriously knuckling down to preparations, including the NCT courses and all that jazz.

In two weeks time we also get to find out the gender of the nipper....gulp!

April in Paris...

...as the old master Sinatra once sang. We're off for a night in the city of love this weekend, part of a farewell tour of places we like to go that will hopefully be complete come September, when it's Center Parcs or bust from there on in.

Latest medical bulletin is good, although the doc did point out that the sprog is quite 'large' - this will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me...

Apparently its size is going to be closely monitored in the coming months and if it gets too big it will be induced early, so spare the missus from undue punishment. Guess this means it might be a boy, although there's always the possibility of a strapping lass I suppose, perhaps a candidate for the England women's cricket team?

All will be revealed anyway at the next scan.

We've signed up for the NCT course that everybody goes on about. This will mean 'networking' with other prospective parents - yuck! I'd just so rather keep myself to myself. Still, needs must...practical nappy changing, here I come!

Reality bites...

Went to a crap concert on the South Bank last night....well not crap so much as just not my thing- we expected experimental jazz and we got something akin to incidental music from a BBC Sunday evening drama of the 1980s.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point, such as it is, was that my gig-going friend and myself were chatting in the bar having refused to go back in for the second half of the show and we started making tentative plans for the missus and I to see my friend and his wife in their new house in the country.

I finished the conversation with "Well we'd better get this sorted while we can, becasue it'll be a right pain in the arse to venture down to you come September..." This is especially apposite to my friend and his wife who are child-free and, it's fair to say, have been something of a role model couple to us in living a lifestyle full of art, culture, music and campaigning politics.

And at that point I had a moment of realisation... my life in its present form really is going to end soon. It's not hit me that much so far because the idea of being a dad is still so hypothetical. We're no longer going to be able to live our lives to our own heart's desire, going anywhere will require intricate planning and pin-sharp project management... and time to ourselves? Fuhgeddaboudit!

Regular gig-going? You can forget that too, buster. Disappearing off for evenings of fun and frolics while the missus grapples with dirty nappies to the soundtrack of ear-splitting crying is likely to make me about as popular as a pork pie at a Bar Mitzvah.

Oh well, I've had a spectacularly good innings. For Christ's sake I'm almost 40! What I haven't managed to do by now I'll probably never be able to afford anyway, sprog or no sprog....

All quiet...

Been a bit quiet on the old nipper front lately. I guess these periods of nothing much happening are all part of the process. Missus isn't even getting much fatter, at least not noticeably.

Going slightly off-topic, I'm feeling quite pleased with myself at completing a half marathon in an OK time. Given that in my school days I once failed to finish a 400m race due to fatigue, I reckon that represents good progress.

My utter lack of sporting skill is bested only by the missus, who lacks neither the basic hand/eye co-ordination to be a hacker at tennis nor the concentration to play golf. Not a good omen for our offspring if it happens to be a boy - it's all but certain to be a ginger and to be crap at sports as well just about guarnatees exclusion from any "cool clubs" within the playground jungle.

Oh well, there's always the Dungeons and Dragons society I suppose....

No God only religion

It's not (just) a rather contrived way to get a Spiritualized song title into the headline bar, there is a real purpose behind this post as well, because we've been discussing the issue of Christening, etc.

I must admit that I was keen from the outset to do this, although I expected a degree of resistance from the missus, who is an atheist, and I would have let her hold sway should that have been the case.

But no, she seems happy to go along with it, reasoning quite fairly that it can make its own mind up about these matters in due course, but that baptism as an adult is a bit embarrassing to all concerned, so why not at least get that part done early doors.

There are several spin-offs to this:

1) It gets the in-laws together for the first time since the wedding, always good for a giggle
2) It's an excuse to get the boys together to "wet the baby's head"
3) We get to nominate God-parentage, which, although it's a ceremonial role is nonetheless a nice thing to bestow on someone.

I've no idea how to go about sorting any of this out, but I'm sure that, just like with every other minutiae of child rearing, there will be no shortage of help and avice from the world of publishing....

And now, the tears subside....

...but thank God they're tears of joy and relief!

Never, ever in my whole life have I undergone anything as butt-clenchingly stressful as the last week. But finally we've got the 'all clear'...or at least as all clear as these things can be.

In fact the doc used the very words "as good as it could be" about our test result, with the risk of Down's or similar nasties dropping to a much more comfortable 2,400 to 1. At last the benefits of the missus' healthy lifestyle bear fruit!!

I've only just stopped shaking enough to be able type properly (I still wouldn't fancy my chances of holding a cup of coffee without it ending up in my lap) and there'll be more tears yet before bedtime, to be sure.

God knows what the poor buggers who were going into the clinic thought as they passed us leaving both in floods of tears - if I'd have been them I'd have turned tail and fled...if only I could have actually spoken words at that point I've have told them it was tears of joy not pain, but my mouth was refusing to issue anything more than a pathetic whimper by then.

I think I'm going to start a campaign to ban hospitals from revealing these ridiculous generalised odds of problems occurring until they've actually done the proper bloody tests! Keep it to yourselves, you fuckers, you've no idea of the heartache you've caused!

So now we call tell everyone the good news, which will be a complete relief. Some will be very surprised indeed, especially anyone who has listened to me talking on this subject before.

And we can start to think properly about the challenges ahead, which to be honest fill me with dread right now. However, all being well there's no turning back, we're at the top of the rollercoaster and just about to pass that point where you pick up speed and your stomach starts to move skywards.

Hold tight!

Tomorrow never knows....

Well, just one day to go before the big test.

The shock of our last visit to the hospital has given way to a degree of resignation (after all, there's nothing I can do) coupled with some optimism after hearing a number of stories from people who've been through this and found their chances of dodging the bullet significantly improved after the tests.

By the way, if I ever I wanted to demonstrate my lack of knowledge in these matters I managed it quite easily in my last post. I've discovered that the syndrome in question is not "Downs", as in the former Norwich City defensive stalwart Greg Downs, but is in fact "Down's". Apologies to any pedants out there.

I haven't been able to get my mind away from this situation all week. I can't bear to look at the scan photograph of the foetus they gave us at the hospital, in case it tempts fate. I've even been ill, and I am never, ever ill.

For someone who has previously viewed children as a royal pain in the arse to be avoided at all costs these are strange times indeed...

Fingers crossed.

A bad day...

I'm a keen gambler so I know quite a bit about playing the odds. Unfortunately you can store what I know about the childbirth process on a back of a stamp.

These two factors have conspired to make this a bad day, when it should have been a great one. You see we've had the initial scan that shows there's actually a baby there, which is great.

Then they sit us down and tell us that because of the missus' age the risk of it having Downs is potentially 1 in 190 or worse. Jesus.

I was aware that these risks got higher the older the mother is, but I always assumed that we were talking about one in two thousand rather than, say, one in a million if mum is in her early 20s.

How wrong I clearly was. An optimist might say that it still represents about a 99.5% chance things will be OK, but look at it another way - if I was in a room of 190 people and we all had a raffle ticket, I would wait around for first prize to be drawn coz I'd think I had a puncher's chance at those odds.

And I'm sorry for any pro-lifers reading this...I am barely going to be man enough to cope with fatherhood if everything is tickety-boo, I'm certainly not going to be able to cope with a Downs child.

So now we're on tenterhooks until some more definitive tests can be done next week. If we're lucky our risk factor will move up the scale into the 'safer' categories of 1 in 340 or higher (still not great, but beginning to be comforting odds).

If we're not, it could go the other way, then we have to think about nasty invasive testing that is definitive but opens up a small but significant risk of miscarriage. What a position to find yourself in, having to make that judgement call....

This is a very bad day...with luck it will prove to be the worst day and things will be OK. I'm not ready to contemplate worse days ahead right now...

The seven ages of me...

I'm not sure who first said that kids keep you young, but so far the complete reverse seems to be happening to me.

Since finding out about my impending parenthood I've felt the crushing onset of middle age - many would say not a day too soon....

Luckily it's not the accompanying decrepitude - I'm slimmer, fitter and healthier than I've been all my adult life.

No, it's more of a cultural and psychological shift. Over the past 20 years I've basically been doing the same things as I did when I was 18 years old. Pubs, gigs, movies, football etc etc. It's easy to see why women often complain about their men not growing up!

Now, though, I've felt a real change come over me. I've become utterly disinterested in the "indie" guitar music that sustained me through literally hundreds of gigs over the years. I'd so much rather listen to Frank Sinatra than the Arctic Monkeys.

I find I'm preferring to stay at home rather than go out, eat nice home-cooked meals (some even cooked by myself!) and watch a DVD rather than stand in a smoky pub with a pint of over-priced lager - Jesus, what's come over me?

Still, I guess it's great preparation for when I have to do all this through necessity rather than by choice. Maybe I have finally grown up after all.