Dummies for dummies

Our eldest daughter never really got into dummies. She's always been a thumbsucker. Mercifully, it doesn't look like she'll be one of those who find the habit impossible to break in later life. I had a friend at secondary school who still found the temptation difficult to resist, even in that world of intense, adolescent, social stigma. I do not wish to imply that I thought any less of this person for the longevity of his habit but, on balance, I would prefer that our daughter doesn't have to even consider the risk of ridicule. So I am relieved that her opposable digit now goes between her dentures only when she is on the verge of sleep. We allow this on account of it being cute.

We did at one stage offer her a dummy, on one of the countless occasions when we had desperate need to quell a scream. It just didn't do it for her. In hindsight, this was an early example of her admirable capacity for independent decision making, my own, distinct lack of which capacity makes it all the more impressive to me. When we inevitably had similar cause to offer the same solution to our younger daughter, during one of her early, screamy outbursts, she quite understandably went the other way, decision-wise, and has been a strong advocate of the pacifying device ever since.

Please do not infer that I am against the use of dummies. Most parents will attest to their valuable practical applications (they make babies not scream. Sometimes) and our youngest in particular is similarly cute when sucking away on hers. Think Maggie Simpson, but less yellow. Where our eldest has always had an emotional need for her three soft puppy toys (or "puppies," as she sensibly calls them) in order to get to sleep or leave the house, our youngest relies for the same purposes on one of her collection of dummies. They are much easier to store and transport than puppies, inanimate or otherwise, but also easier to lose.

And our youngest facilitates this with an uncanny prowess in the art of dummy hiding. Like some sort of confidence trickster she'll perform her blink-and-you-miss-it feats of concealment, gleeful at the frustration of Mummy and Daddy as they resign themselves, from under the contorted and ultimately fruitless awkwardness of under the sofa or behind the radiator, to another visit to the dummy aisle at the supermarket. I briefly referred to myself in the third person there, in the middle of a quite complicated sentence. Sorry about that. We buy a lot of dummies because our daughter keeps hiding them, basically. Archaeologists of the future will marvel at the hundreds of children we will appear to have entertained here, when they find all the dummies we couldn't.

Until now, this alarming propensity to stow them away has been the only negative aspect of our daughter's dummy habit. But, since she turned one, it has begun to dawn on us that, like all habits, the problem of quitting it will soon loom large. But where to start? Each morning we promise ourselves that we will embark on the painful process of denying our daughter her dummy fix. Thus far, it has not worked. We have, in fact, somehow regressed to the point where her standard requirement is two at a time. She takes curious pleasure from holding the spare in her hand and switching them at ten second intervals. It is surprisingly entertaining to watch, to be fair, but does not represent the progress for which we hoped. There is a real danger that this could become an issue.

Maybe we'll have to go cold turkey. I'm going to give her a motivational speech about the time(s) I quit smoking. That's bound to do the trick.

Then we can start thinking about getting our eldest out of nappies.

I used to joke that my first two children would be named Smorgasbord and Juxtaposition because they were my two favourite words.

My blog's a Daddy blog

The wife is pregnant, and I think that what I am going to do is to use this previously redundant blog to talk about life as a Daddy to be. I'm not sure how this is going to pan out - I may have nothing to say, I may be unable or unwilling to express it, or I may express sentiment which is unentertaining, uninformative and unimpressive. This is quite likely. However I'll try to be honest, eloquent and amusing and maybe someone will read it and be glad that they did.

The pregnancy is currently somewhere around the six or seven week mark, which I believe makes my progeny about the size of a blueberry. We found out that we were expecting two weeks and two days ago. This is the second time we have found ourselves in this position.

Some background

The first time was last September and it ended in tears after about two weeks (of us knowing about it). I'm not even sure of the medical terminology, but I think it was a missed miscarriage, followed by a week of basically waiting for the failed remains to drop out. That is not a pleasant sentence, so imagine how enjoyable an experience it was. And I am aware now as I was then that this must all have been much, much worse for my wife than it was for me. Ultimately, nothing happened in that week, other than the shedding of a lot of tears, and the guilty resumption of smoking, so my wife then had to go back to the hospital for a D & C, also known as a scrape, which leaves little to the imagination.

The physical and particularly emotional pain that my wife went through during and after this was extreme and long lasting. My own experience was of confusion and bewilderment. In two weeks I had gone from shock and fear through glee and pride to paternal determination and focus. This was as steep an emotional slope as I have ever struggled up, only for it all to be torn away in one unexpected moment.

I would like to say at this point that I'm really not one for self gratifying claims to emotional torment (I'm English), and I feel uncomfortable trying to put all this into words. Furthermore, I'm well aware that many other people have suffered the same and much worse. But I'm hoping it will help me, my wife, and anyone else going through this sort of thing who feels, as we did at times, that they're the only ones. If, like me, you tend to cringe at shameless expression of this nature, then I sympathise, but shall nevertheless continue.

This time

It was my wife's birthday, and also the day before our first wedding anniversary. To celebrate these occasions, and to alleviate some of the stress of imminently moving house (still hasn't happened), we went for lunch with some friends and family. The previous night, we had been to our local pub to drink a lot of beer with some friends before returning home so that I - according to tradition - could fall asleep on the sofa while everyone pointed and laughed at me.

They claim that they don't, but I would. Thus, I assume that they are lying.

So when, just before leaving for lunch, my wife told me she felt a bit funny and had a strange feeling that she might be pregnant, I calmly assured her that she was merely hungover and would feel perfectly normal after a cigarette. After lunch, a pregnancy test disagreed quite strongly with me.

Smoking

Yes. We have both been smokers for many years. During this time neither of us has ever really wanted to quit, and we have both always quite enjoyed it as a frequent and satisfying hobby, despite being very well informed thank you about the considerable health risks. We summoned all our resolve and determination to quit during our short-lived first pregnancy, but wasted no time in taking up the habit when that ended in disaster. It felt at the time like the only consolation available, and we grabbed it eagerly. This tiny drop of relief in an ocean of sorrow (apologies for all nauseating metaphors) made us feel very, very guilty.

You may well be thinking that of course we should feel guilty because smoking is bad for you and may even have played a role in the miscarriage, and you are absolutely right, but have obviously never quit smoking. Or had a miscarriage.

We have, of course, quit again now, and it occurred to me the other day that if we can successfully make that sacrifice for our baby, then we should fear no other challenge presented to us by parenting. Probably quite naive, I know, but I was quite proud of myself at the time.

This time (continued)

In view of our prior disaster, we have been generally shitting ourselves about something going wrong this time. With this in mind, we persuaded our doctor to persuade our hospital to give us an early scan, at 5-6 weeks. This was last week, and imagine our relief upon seeing the 3mm blob indulging in some sort of blurry pulsation which apparently constitutes a heartbeat. Having missed the one, doom-laden scan involved in our first pregnancy, I was obviously overjoyed to be here for this, altogether more happy effort. All was as it should be, we were told.

I have deliberately ended that sentence in an ominous fashion.

Not again

After learning about our first pregnancy, it did not take me long to become overwhelmed by feelings of paternal pride. I was surprised and a bit worried to discover that this didn't happen this time around. I'm sure that this was because of my fear of another miscarriage. Of course I hadn't taken any conscious decision to adopt this guarded, frigid mindset, but it makes sense to me. This probably explains why my overriding reaction when it seemed to be happening again was more detached bewilderment than devastation.

Last Friday, I arrived home from work to find our dog alone in the house. My wife works from home and so is usually there when I get in. nevertheless I was unconcerned enough to have a poo before picking up the phone to see where she was, at which point she walked in the front door with her mum.

I had only seen that look on her face once before, and immediately knew what had happened.

She had been unable to contact me at work that afternoon when she had started bleeding heavily. She had phoned her doctor, who had given her a number for the maternity ward at the hospital. She phoned them and explained the situation, to which they replied that there was nothing they could do, and suggested another ward. She phoned this ward, who were equally helpful. Her only remaining option was to get her mum to take her to A&E. After a two hour wait there, she was seen by an apparently heartless doctor, who seemed frustrated and angered by her tearful inefficiency in communicating her symptoms to him. He offered the popular refrain that there was nothing he could do, but booked her in for a scan FOUR DAYS LATER.

Guilty confusion

I defy anyone to cope well with the situation we faced for the next three days. We found that we could only manage by assuming the worst. My wife's symptoms suggested this anyway. By Sunday we were starting to console ourselves to another failed pregnancy. We would forget the whole thing ever happened. We would be selfish, and concentrate on ourselves, with no worries about being sensible, responsible or healthy. We could start smoking again.

By Monday evening my wife's pregnancy symptoms - having apparently faded during the previous three days - were returning. What if, by some miracle, everything was OK. This would be incredible. But it would also mean that we had been massively premature in consoling ourselves with these selfish promises. With the scan the next morning, we were faced with the ridiculous worry that we might feel relieved if it was bad news, or even somehow disappointed if it was good news.

Phew

We needn't have worried. As the nice lady put the thing up there to do the scan, she inhaled to speak, and we braced ourselves for the inevitable, familiar sorrow, tinged with the shameful possibility of relief, only to look at each other, bemused, when she described the baby and its heartbeat, bigger and stronger than a week ago.

We were relieved. Because - and I could immediately tell that my wife agreed with me - there was no disappointment, only delight at the unexpected reprieve for little blueberry. We were back on course. This was this morning so I'll adopt the present tense now I think - we're back on course. We're back to being parents to be. And, far from being disappointed, the paternal pride which had been so conspicuous by its absence is now upon me.

The worst either of us feel is embarrassment at the fuss and upset we've shared with people over the last few days. I only hope they can understand the confused state we were plunged into.

I could easily just be saying all this. But I'm not.

Going forward

There are still worries. There was bleeding which - although far less serious than we feared - does mean that the baby is at a slight risk. My wife's nausea and fatigue are back in full swing. We will in all probability never smoke again, and it will be a long time before I have the epiphany which makes me happy about this. Most of all, I'm worried because I'm going to be a dad.

I've caught up now on what's happened so far. I plan to comment upon these worries and anything else I deem relevant or interesting, albeit hopefully more briefly, so watch this space.