Trepidation

We're getting really close to the big day now. And - like on the morning of our wedding, when I woke up at 5 o'clock in the morning with diarrhoea - the tension is mounting. There's an almost tangible sense of excitement and trepidation in the air, the two of them battling for the honour of being our overriding collective emotion.

We've both been growing more impatient for a while now. Firstly because we're rather looking forward to seeing our daughter who, as a direct descendent of my favourite person and my wife's favourite person - decide for yourselves whether we are narcissists or a loving couple (it's the latter) - is bound to be worth meeting.

Secondly, my wife's adverse symptoms are piling up. The swelling is almost permanent, and affecting every extremity (by which I mean her hands and feet rather than anything untoward). Her SPD (extreme hip ache) is relentless in punishing her for any attempt to stand up for more than about five minutes a day. She has also developed carpal tunnel, which basically means her hands are constantly midway between numbness and the pins and needles which immediately follow numbness. And, as a result of our daughter being a typical girl and demanding a lot of space, and the consequent repositioning of my wife's stomach, acid indigestion is an almost constant foe.

All of which seems to get even worse at night, which means that sleep has been very hard to come by for my wife. And, despite her best efforts, my sweet dreams have also been disturbed. We keep telling ourselves with a kind of self-congratulatory irony that this is good practice for the inevitable sleepless nights to come. But a part of me thinks that it would be nice to get in as much slumber as possible now, to build up some sort of sleep credit, as it were. I'm not sure if it works like that, but I guess we'll never know.

Anyway, last night trumped all previous efforts. It seems that our daughter is making preparations to leave, and has made a move towards the exit. In real terms, this means acute lower backache for my wife, as well as various other symptoms which politeness prevents me from describing, but all of which can be grouped together under one general heading: labour pains.

Time and the cold light of day have revealed that they were not labour pains. The nice lady at the hospital has revealed (over the phone - we didn't actually go there) that they do, however, indicate that we can expect labour pains soon. That's not entirely accurate: they reveal that my wife can expect labour pains soon. Either way, the whole experience made it all seem very real and looming. And flippin' scary.

Also very exciting, of course. But trepidation is edging it at the moment.

Don't panic.

Up until the last couple of weeks I've found the pregnancy/impending parenthood combo surprisingly ineffective in the face of my calm, dignified and frankly quite enviably self-assured persona. "Easy for you to say, man," reply, doubtlessly, any mothers or feminists reading. Probably all of the women, actually. And the more reasonable men.

And you're quite right. If there's one cliche which the experience thus far has confirmed - and I hope my musings have reflected this, even though I am fairly confident that they haven't - it's that it's all much easier for nearly-Dad than it is for nearly-Mum.

But so heavy now is the burden on my wife, that even my cracks are beginning to show, so to speak. The last week or so has seen her fluid content increase dramatically, resulting in hands, ankles and feet that look a little bit more like those of the humans in Wall-E than they used to. I'm allowed to use that comparison because my wife came up with it.

Also, her midwife this week revealed some minor anomalies in her protein levels. I'm still resistant to panic, but it seems that she is now only a nasty headache away from pre-eclampsia. For those who don't know, pre-eclampsia can lead to eclampsia, which can be as terminally serious as it gets. I should stress that everybody else is quite relaxed about this possibility, precisely because it is a very small one, but I found myself in the unusual position of being the one who allowed paranoia take hold of my sense of reason for a day or two.

I have now been convinced that your wife's midwife mentioning the name of a condition is not the same as your wife having the condition. Sensible serenity has been restored. But I think the doubt will linger in the corner, occasionally waving frantically in my peripheral vision, until our daughter is born and I can tell it that it is no longer needed, thank you.

Strangely, I was a bit disappointed at remaining much calmer than I would have expected when, this morning, my wife believes she had her first braxton hicks contraction (a false alarm contraction, basically). The first I knew of it was when she interrupted QI (which we had recorded the night before because you go to bed very early when your wife is 33 weeks pregnant) by saying "I think I just had a braxton hicks contraction" in the same tone of voice as she would usually use to tell me what she wanted for lunch, for example.

I suppose my calmness was a reflection of hers. But I'm quite retrospectively excited about it now. To my simple man-mind (a phrase which hopefully will get the feminists back on side), this represents the precursor to the beginning of the beginning of the end which immediately precedes the actual beginning. Which, when you think about it, is really very important.

Hip hip hooray.

Because I'm quite vain, I've been reading back over my previous posts on this blog, and I've realised that, because I'm quite vain, I've said a lot about how I feel, but not enough about the welfare of our main protagonist: my wife.

In my defence, some of her symptoms would have made unnecessary or unpleasant news. To mention them would have been cruel on either their victim or the reader. Or both. Also, so well has she coped with what is, after all, a massive physical ordeal, that I have been far less aware of her suffering than I expected. (That's supposed to be a compliment, as well as an excuse).

But in the last couple of weeks, my wife has started to suffer more noticeably. We have tentatively diagnosed her with SPD, which has nothing to do with a short-lived eighties political party, and everything to do with very, very achy hips. The cliche I expected to see manifested months ago - mother-to-be struggling to sit up, let alone stand or move, and then suffering for hours as a consequence of her efforts - has finally arrived. Or, as my wife puts it, she feels like a barbie doll who has had her legs pulled out and then put back wrong. Her sense of humour, mercifully, remains unaffected.

I think I know why she's suffering: our daughter's enormous. We had another scan the other day, during which they took more measurements than a hyperactive cartographer before estimating that she is already nearly 5lbs. With two months to go. That's going to trouble anybody's hips. And she does like to push her weight around. Another excellent example of maternal humour saw this described as "using my cervix as a trampoline." I did laugh. Apparently it's normal for a baby's size to double in the last month or so, which is why we really hope she emerges early.

I try to avoid gushing, physically or emotionally, but it would be rude not to acknowledge and praise my wife's effort and resilience for the cause. Thanks wife. You won't regret it.

Decoration

We took the plunge last week and decorated the nursery. It never occurred to me beforehand how seminal this is. We were going to pay a man to do the job, but time, money and frustration determined that we chose instead to do it ourselves. So I spent last weekend lovingly painting walls and even woodwork an exciting shade of white. And I'm so glad I did. I feel like my daughter and I have bonded by proxy.

Maybe this seems so significant because we moved here not long ago, so every change we make to the house represents our first (and therefore extremely meaningful) mark on that particular part of it. I do generally feel a slightly excessive amount of pride upon surveying the fruits of our decorating labour so far. In fact, self congratulation is one of my many talents.

But I think this is a parents-to-be thing. It's difficult to stop thinking about my impending fatherhood, thus I feel increasingly emotionally prepared. However, I can naively daydream all I want about what my daughter will sound like when she laughs, or how I'll handle our first disagreement, or what she'll say about me to her friends in 15 years - but with my pragmatic hat on, I realise that nothing compares to decorating the nursery as a real, tangible indication of a baby on the way.

We can now stand in a space created exclusively for our daughter. We can look at the walls, floor and furniture that she will gaze upon in her formative years (although hopefully she'll have more interesting considerations to attend to than staring at the walls). Furthermore, the toys, clothes and various other equipment so far accumulated by our daughter now have a home, which seems to instill in them a purpose.

Another side to this - which I only recognised while I was painting away - is the fond memories I have of watching my Dad decorate my room when I was young. He used to teach me about nouns and verbs while he was painting away. It has been suggested to me that this particular aspect of the memory is not so cool, but my English GCSE begs to differ. Thanks Dad.

It seems obvious that this association has shaped my bizarre emotional connection with decorating. But I should also note that I have been displaying bizarre emotions all over the shop lately. As an example, I have recently been reduced to tears by The Sopranos, Doctor Who, and a predictably predictable Nicholas-Cage-showing-his-sensitive-side vehicle called The Family Man, which ordinarily I would be ashamed of even watching. Well, I still am, and yet I feel obliged to admit that it had me weeping like a hormonal drama queen who's just seen the end of The Champ, having not blinked for ages.

I can only assume that this is some sort of sympathy-hormone issue. I can't decide whether my newfound emotional vulnerability will be a timely aid in my relationship with my daughter, or an embarrassing affliction, from which I hope to recover immediately. I think it depends on who asks.

P.S. Eagle-eyed readers who haven't done already can discover our daughter's name in the accompanying pictures. So now you know. Sorry for being shy about it.

Grown-ups.

What makes people grown up? I've been considering this a lot recently - for what I think are obvious reasons - in both senses: what defines somebody as grown up, and what causes somebody to fulfill that definition? And is it supposed to be hyphenated?

My wife and I have just left the wedding reception of one of a family of dear old friends. We saw some very lovely and interesting people, with whom we very rarely get a chance to spend time. And it was, predictably, a very lovely and interesting occasion.

And we left before 9pm. Disgraceful.

Now, are we just a boring couple who use our bump as an increasingly convincing excuse to flee from amusement at the earliest opportunity? In my darker moments of self loathing, I fear that this is the case. But there are two problems with this outlook. The first is that self loathing is not technically a luxury available to a married man - the "self" includes someone else now, and I have neither the right or the inclination to project my shortcomings onto her. The second is that I don't think it's true.

Rather, I think that we are merely becoming more sensible: saving our money, and our energy for a long drive in the morning, and of course considering the health of mum to be. My transition to prioritising these concerns over drinking lots of beer and dancing until it comes back out again, has been recent enough for me to be aware that it does sound a bit boring.

Which brings me to my realisation that being grown up is defined, not by what you see as boring - contrary to my prior beliefs these perceptions never actually change - but by the fact that you can willingly choose the boring path. Furthermore, you can choose it and still escape the tsunami of regretful despair and humiliation which I had previously assumed would be unavoidable. (I've mixed a few metaphors there, haven't I? Oh well.)

But what brought me to this realisation? If this really is the definition of a grown-up, then what made me grow up? The obvious answer is that I'm going to be a daddy soon, and I have had to accept the responsibilities that this entails. But it hasn't felt like that much of a struggle. I think it's simply a part of getting older and wiser: I just happen to have reached that point in my ongoing emotional development. And that just happens to have coincided with a very real, baby related need for me to have reached that point in my ongoing emotional development. (That does make sense if you read it again.)

Lucky me. And, more to the point, lucky my family. I grew up in the nick of time.

I should point out that I'm still really cool and I could drink you all under the table. Twice. I just choose not to. See?

Thanks, wife.

You might find the following a bit mushy and sickening if you're as cynical or emotionally repressed as I usually am. (I'm making an exception here because I'm talking about my wife and my first born child. They are, I hope, not your wife and first born child, but hopefully you'll be able to feel at least a bit of the love.) I'm about to attempt to gush unashamedly, and yet not before time (and not literally), about how bloody amazing my wife is.

It's easy for me - or any expectant father - to take the role of the mother-to-be for granted. Yes, we can and should pay lip service to the obvious, various physical strains they go through, and the melon through a hosepipe analogies they try desperately hard to ignore, in an heroic attempt to maintain sanity's fragile superiority over fear. But do we really understand and appreciate what they endure to the massive extent that we should? I'm not sure that I have.

I'm ashamed to admit that it was only recently that I made a concerted effort to imagine what it feels like, to have an actual living being inside my tummy. I really visualised our daughter wriggling about inside myself. I could almost feel it. And it scared the funk out of me. Of course I may have been imagining inaccurately - I'll never know, unless science makes some rapid and frankly unnecessary advances in the near future - but this brief glimpse was enough for me to reach an improved understanding of the huge undertaking my wife is currently, um, undertaking. She is responsible, in the most extreme, physical sense, for two lives. She has been for five months, and she will be for four more. Nothing it is physically possible for me to do can ever pay my debt of gratitude.

I'm sure I'll regret making that concession at some surprise juncture during a heated disagreement in about seven years time, but hopefully the fact that I've said it may at least delay that juncture.

All this, and yet she still manages to be the best cook I know. She still allows me to watch pretty much all of sport. She still finds the reserves of patience to nod in vigorous support of every misguided and insignificant opinion I offer to her, the internet or anybody else within earshot. She still produces, from thin air, better ideas for christmas presents for my own family than I have managed in 28 attempts. She still effortlessly outclasses me by a large distance in aesthetic terms. There are countless other examples, but I'm starting to sound like some sort of lazy misogynist, which I'm not, so just one more:

She still spent this afternoon making a craft-tastic book (the creative standard of which would, I imagine, cause Martha Stewart to betray her ladylike manner in a fit of uncontrollable jealousy) about how much she loves me. It made me cry with joy a little bit. I've been struggling for six paragraphs now to resist resorting to cliche, but I can no longer avoid the conclusion that I'm the luckiest man in the whole wide world.

You may now make sarcastic vomiting motions. But I know you're really crying with joy for me on the inside.

Getting my kicks.

Maybe it's my laid back nature - which brings with it the mixed blessing of instinctively prioritising sarcasm over genuine emotion - or maybe it's simply the ultimately inconceivable nature of the miracle of life, but I never seem to be quite as engaged as I think I am with the fact that I will soon have a living child. I know this because I generally think I am fully engaged with it, and yet there always turns out to be another level of awareness, the existence of which I discover only upon reaching it.

I have commented previously on one such surprise: discovering the probable sex of our baby meant that we were incubating a she, rather than an it. We now refer to her constantly by name, which makes it much easier than the uninitiated might suppose to conduct in-depth discussions about what she might be up to at any given moment. The possibilities for this are admittedly quite limited, but that's really not the point.

So I was feeling smug and content with my conversations about which of the numerous available activities our daughter-to-be was indulging in, when she found a new one.

Apparently it's normal for first time mothers to feel their baby kicking after about 18 weeks. So imagine my wife's horror when, after 18 weeks and a couple of days, she was yet to feel anything. At least nothing that could be distinguished with any certainty from some gas. And we can all feel that. I feel it quite often.

But then it began. I'm not sure how my wife knew that this time it was genuine baby movement. I think it's just one of those things that a woman knows. But our (probable) daughter was suddenly kicking away and rolling about all over the shop. There was - and still is - no apparent pattern to what she does when (despite our ongoing analysis and discussion of this), but I can always tell because it brings instant, unconditional joy to my wife's face, in a way that I only wish I could achieve. And also because she tells me.

So, already, I'm playing second fiddle to the fruit of my own loins, and the fruit hasn't even been, um, picked yet. But I don't mind, because sometimes, if I put my hand in just the right place on my wife's tummy at just the right time, and apply just the right amount of pressure, I can feel it too. And it instantly scythes through all my prior smug assumptions of complete engagement with my daughter's impending existence, and makes me very happy. And my wife and I share an immediate glee which is exclusive to us, in a way which I would previously have been quite aggressively cynical about.

And I think this has something to do with why parents are a bit embarrassing sometimes; a bit lacking in self awareness. I think they all have this special secret knowledge that some things transcend that sort of thing. They never speak of it to outsiders, but they all know how it feels, however briefly, to be unashamedly happy.

I feel like I'm getting a bit carried away here. I'll show some decorum while I still can, and stop there. If you think I'm being silly, though, make a baby and then see how emotionally restrained you are.