The crying game

I've gone soft.

I remember observing some time after the birth of my first daughter that fatherhood had made me more sensitive: more prone to displays of emotion. As someone who had previously been troubled by my inability to fully engage with sentimental matters, I welcomed this development. To a certain extent. I was nevertheless hopeful that, by the time my second daughter came along, I would have found a way to rein in these weepy tendencies. I've got a reputation to uphold, after all.

It seems that I have failed to achieve this. Double the daughters; double the distress. I am struggling to convince myself that this is all simply a consequence of my burgeoning maturity; that I am no longer susceptible to the misguided social consensus that real men don't cry. On the contrary, I can proudly display my transcendence over this notion.

So why is it so embarrassing?

As the duty manager at work the other day, I was presented with a distraught young man of about three or four who had been separated from his parents. His anguish was quite understandable (most of us have a traumatic memory of a similar occurrence in our own youth) so I was unsurprised at the relief I felt when - before I had the chance to take any decisive action - his mum appeared on the far side of the shop, calling desperately to him as he sprinted at her, tears flowing and arms outstretched.

What I wasn't expecting was my reaction after this reunion had taken place. All too suddenly I knew I was about to cry. I was in the middle of a busy shop, of which I was supposed to be in charge, and I was welling up. I genuinely had to take myself away for a minute to compose myself. The more generous among you may find this endearing. Others will now be laughing at me, with some justification. Either way, it was unprofessional at best.

At least I was in a position of less responsibility today when an even more surprising source provoked my tear glands. It was my day off, and mid-afternoon before my wife and I were able to enjoy the sitting privileges granted to us only when both daughters are asleep. We chose to celebrate this by watching a recording made the night before of our favourite misanthropic, improvised sitcom, Curb your Enthusiasm. Larry David is capable of drawing various reactions from people: mirth, disgust, offence, guilty agreement, admiration... But he has never made me cry. Not even when Cheryl left him.

And yet today's scene, in which an entirely inconsequential character is urged to throw her baby from a burning building, to be caught by a former baseball player infamous for dropping catches, had me blubbing once more. The baby's jeopardy was nothing more than the setup for a joke about a baseball player. It was made abundantly clear that it was actually a plastic doll being filmed. But my new ability to collapse emotionally was immune to this fact.

Once I had completed the increasingly familiar task of composing myself, I was reminded of the aforementioned lost boy at work embarrassment. I turned to my wife to confess this tale to her. Only I couldn't get the words out, because guess what the memory of it made me do?

As I write this, there's a programme on TV about some soldiers' wives and girlfriends singing I'll Be There at a concert. I've got that tickle behind the eyeballs.

This has got to stop.

Advice for body builders

Cancel your gym membership; it is unnecessary. Return your Arnold Schwarzenegger body builder's bible (you know: the tome so mighty you need to be Mr Universe to be able to carry it home) to the bookshop whence it came; it is surplus to requirements. Dismiss your personal trainer; he or she is simply not needed. If you wish to beef up, all you require is a baby with a bit of gas in its tummy. I confess that there are times when I would be prepared to lend you mine for a couple of hours.

For although, on the whole, she is a calmer beast than her older sister, our beloved younger daughter's post-feed tantrums are like a good Arsenal counter attack: they develop quickly and result in a screamer. She can go from blissful gulping to lung-bursting wailing in seconds, and her lung capacity is matched only by the physical effort she demands from you, the pacifier, before she will abate. Several times each day she grants me this opportunity to tone muscles I didn't know I had.

Over the past five weeks my wife and I have developed various techniques which seem to hasten the placation. Their effectiveness is directly proportional to the effort required.

The classic rock

Basic cradling. Doesn't work in the slightest. Our daughter considers this an insult to her proud reputation, and as such will only raise the volume.

The fireman's lift

This is relatively easy, and until recently was quite effective. It entails hoisting my daughter on her front over my left shoulder and patting her firmly on the back with my right hand. Even in the glory days it would only work when accompanied by a rigorous number of laps of our living room. My wife used to refer to it as "Daddy magic" until it abruptly ceased to have any effect two days ago.

The ski Sunday

At least I get to sit down for this one. But that's as good as it gets. It involves holding her, facing me, on my knees and both of us swaying in tandem from side to side, as if slaloming quite awkwardly down the slopes of an Alp. In a chair. Um. It doesn't really have anything to do with skiing. I'm making up the names for these things as I go. This is also much less effective than it used to be.

The up and down

Holding my daughter under the armpits in front of me, and simply lifting her slowly up and down. This is really hard work. If you don't believe me, try it yourself with something that weighs about 14lb, or even with a child if you can legally obtain one. I usually can't last more than about thirty 'reps' (as I believe strong people call them) and I'm quite proud of that. But the trouble with this method is that it suppresses the screams only until the precise moment when your arms can take no more.

The indecisive croucher

This is when I hold my daughter out in front of me, one arm around her waist and one supporting her head (but leaning back, as is her wont, and as it inconveniently was when she was born), and bend at the knees (my knees), holding this position for a moment before standing again, and repeating until the screaming stops. This sounds simple enough, but an awful lot of repeating is usually required. And the longer this trial of endurance continues, the more the pain increases. I'm getting thighs like tree trunks. Seriously: I'll be in Roberto Carlos territory before long. But persevere through the burn and tranquility is often eventually restored.

The Status Quo

The current favourite. Similar to the indecisive croucher, but with added back and forth motion. Picture an ageing guitarist, too slow and tired to attempt star jumps, and settling instead for this deceptively strenuous activity. I discovered the efficacy of this technique only yesterday and was happy to make good, prolonged use of it, until I found that I could barely stand as soon as I stopped.

I don't remember it being this much hard work the first time around. If I'd put in this much effort, I'd have spent the intervening months painting myself orange and entering contests in Las Vegas. Or whatever it is that muscly people do.

In other pacification news, the eponymous anti-hero of our older daughter's placatory animation of choice - the gruffalo - has officially now made the transition from scary to hilarious in her eyes. When he made his appearance in her 467th viewing this evening, her surprising response was hysterical laughter. We seem to have desensitized her to fear.

Just in time for Halloween.

Four hands are better than two.

Tomorrow I return to work after my paternity leave/holiday combo. I am less than jubilant about this, as is my wife. I have tried to convince her that my contribution to keeping our two young ladies in check is really negligible, therefore my impending absence for forty hours a week should pose little threat to her sanity. One could even argue that she will now in fact have one less child to supervise.

My case was undermined last Friday night, however, when I was granted special dispensation to make a foray into Big London City to have a rare night of fun with my friends. Of course, these people are also my wife's friends, so I was extremely appreciative of her brave sacrifice in staying at home with the girls so that I could be the social representative for both of us. This appreciation became tinged with guilt when I heard my wife's anguished description of the nightmare that had been bath time that evening. Imagine the popular redneck refrain Duelling Banjos, but with the twangy instruments replaced by screams which escalate in almost endless competition with each other. So more Dante than Deliverance, I suppose. This was a harrowing experience for my wife to endure unassisted and her sense of trepidation has only increased as a result. At least nobody had to squeal like a pig.

So the relative serenity of having one parent per child on a full-time basis is now at an end. The difficulties we have for the past month overcome together will now be doubled. How, for example, will my wife transfer both children upstairs on her own? Daughter A can make this journey under her own steam, but must be carefully overseen at close proximity. Daughter B is unable to move anywhere under her own steam, and must therefore be carried. Each activity requires two arms. They must occur concurrently. My wife does not have four arms. As such she will be left with a choice between abandoning one child's safety to the hands of fate or not doing a wee all day.

Some mornings I get up at 6:00 for work. I will now be compelled to get everyone else up at the same time (bearing in mind that my wife and younger daughter are people for whom sleep is currently at a premium) so that I can assist with the washing, nappy changing, dressing and feeding of others before I depart. The alternative will be to eat my bowl of Krave and do my morning poo in absolute silence before sneaking away and leaving my wife to deal with the getting up of the girls by herself. Again, there seems to be no desirable option here.

Similar logistical nightmares will apply to preparing meals, leaving the house, appeasing the wounded, entertaining the restless, and pretty much every activity that takes place in the course of an average parental day. All require disagreeable compromise when there are more children than parents on hand. And these are just the examples we can think of now. If only I didn't have to go to work.

We have started buying lottery tickets.

Oh dear

When I was born, I am reliably informed, my sister (who at the time was two years and twelve days old) suddenly developed a limp. On the whole she took to her little brother reasonably well. I'm still here to tell you about it, after all. But she persisted for some time with this limp.

It's an attention thing, you see.

We've been wondering what our older daughter's equivalent of the limp would be in response to the birth of her own younger sibling. In general she has adjusted to the change in circumstances with a maturity and grace which has surpassed my wildest expectations, and which belies her tender age. I have to keep reminding myself that she is only 19 months old.

Each time she sees the little person who keeps distracting Mummy and Daddy, she continues to gleefully exclaim "It's a baby!" When she can't locate her sister, she enquires "Baby, where are you?" Most adorably of all, she insists on showering her with gentle stroking, kisses and, more recently, loving hugs. Only this evening she took it upon herself to curl up on the sofa with Mummy and baby and I cried with joy a little bit.

But mature, graceful and adorable though she may be, she would be abnormal if she displayed no reaction at all to the small reduction in the amount of time her audience devotes to her. A few signs of this reaction have begun to leak out, each one a contender to become The Limp.

Screaming

This was the first indication of insecurity in our eldest, having begun almost as soon as our youngest arrived home. It is also by far the most troublesome, so mercifully it seems to have subsided. Although these assaults on the ear drums usually take the form of happy squeals, I would much prefer a nice, quiet smile.

Having a lie down

I'm not sure if this counts because I think it may have started when she was still an only child. But it's all been a bit of a blur really, so I can't be certain. Occasionally, when something perturbs her, she will simply throw herself onto her bum and then onto her back, before staring with relative serenity at the ceiling/sky/whatever's up there, until someone demonstrates concern.

I actually quite like this idiosyncratic little piece of behaviour, in the same way that one might secretly admire a man in strange shoes, for just being unpretentiously odd enough to pull it off.

Fake choking

This is a bad one. Occasionally, like anyone, she will have a drink and allow a bit to go down the wrong hole. Much coughing, spluttering and alarm will duly follow. A few days ago one such incident occurred and we could metaphorically see the proverbial penny dropping as she was instantly surrounded by worried adults anxious to establish her wellbeing.

Ever since this moment, we have become increasingly reluctant to leave her alone with a drink, having watched her rapidly perfect a very convincing cough and splutter, invariably accompanied by a martyr's assertion that she's OK. As recommended by all the experts, we resist rewarding this attention-seeking behaviour with attention. However, this approach exposes us to a perilous Boy Who Cried Wolf style crisis. Thus I hope to see a swift end to this particular habit.

Oh dear

This is the contender which I think, sadly, may abide to become our older daughter's Limp. At first it was extremely endearing to hear her adopt my own simple phrase in response to misfortune: "Oh dear." By day two of this my delight had begun to give way to a weary hope that she may soon grow as tired of those two words as we had, after hearing her repeat them ad infinitum. By day three, she had progressed to creating problems of her own - engineering a carefully controlled fall, or 'dropping' her lunch on the floor - in order to generate a reason to say the magic words. Now she cannot resist saying them even before she has contrived a cue for doing so.

I pointed out to her today, after one such gambit, that the sincerity of her regret was called into question by its being expressed before its cause had taken place. She neglected to invoke in response the recent discovery that neutrinos can travel faster than the speed of light and that - by implication - cause can in fact follow effect (this would have really impressed me), and instead played the only-19-months-old card; feigning incomprehension and, consequently, innocence.

In the face of this belligerence, I fear that we may be stuck with these two words. The worst thing is that I was the source.

Oh dear.

WE DONE A BABY AGAIN

Well that was a bit of excitement.

Legend has it that second births are quicker, easier and even relatively serene experiences.

This is nonsense.

Our second beautiful daughter (I don't have any ugly ones) was born on Tuesday 20th September 2011 at 6:15pm, weighing 9lb 8oz, placing her first by a single ounce in the well documented League of Birth Weights of My Children. Exciting stats, I'm sure you'll agree. Well, that's just the interesting tip of a riveting iceberg.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Prologue

On Monday morning my daughter and I accompanied my wife to her fortnightly appointment with the midwife. Initially we were directed to see a substitute, who was reluctant to conduct the cervical sweep we had been promised (on the quite reasonable condition that we had not had the baby by this point) by our regular midwife. I regret to say that I do not fully understand the workings of a cervical sweep, other than that it is intended to stimulate things into action.

This reluctance proved immaterial just as we were preparing ourselves to sigh and wander off, disappointed, when the original midwife reappeared, like a cervical guardian angel. Quick as a flash, she whisked my wife away and provided all the sweeping necessary.

Slightly exceeding the speed limit

On Tuesday I was back at work, struggling as I had for the previous month or so to overcome the persistent distraction offered by the likelihood of my wife having a baby at any moment. Despite the midwife's proactive intervention the previous day I was beginning to resign myself once more to another day of distracted impatience and concern for my wife's discomfort.

So it seemed odd, even to me, how calm I remained when I received the phonecall I had been awaiting for so long from my wife. It was about 1 o'clock, I think, when she made contact to reveal that she was almost certainly in labour and was en route to the hospital with her mum and our daughter. I should forego the long standing plan of driving home to collect her and instead meet her at the hospital. This minor adjustment to the plan was enough to convince me that this was no false alarm.

I maintain that it was my impressive sense of responsibility, rather than blind panic, which made me briefly consider finishing what I was doing before I strolled over to my colleagues to announce my departure and the reason for it. A few excited hugs later, all that remained was the decadent pleasure of interrupting my boss and his boss, who had been deep in what was undoubtedly very important conversation, to announce that I was sorry to interrupt (I wasn't) but my wife was in labour so I would see them in four weeks.

The good wishes of these important people still rang in my ears as I hit the road. The first half of my journey was plagued by guilt resulting from my failure to have phoned my parents before I left (my dad was tasked with delivering my mum to the delivery suite so that she could proudly assume the role of second birth partner). The second half of my journey was plagued by guilt resulting from my having phoned my parents while I was driving. Under the circumstances I dismissed all this remorse on the basis that two wrongs do make a right when your wife is in labour.

By the time I arrived at the hospital the first signs of panic were apparent as I realised that I had no recollection of where I should go next. The second ward I dramatically burst in upon turned out to be the right one, but not quite at the right time. Now, I confess that I may slightly have exceeded the speed limit on my way to the hospital, but I was shocked, and only slightly proud, to discover that I had beaten my wife there. After a few minutes of shamefully stereotypical pacing around the ward's waiting room I looked up to see my wife, daughter and mother-in-law struggling up the corridor towards me. My first, distant glance at my wife's face confirmed that this was most certainly going to be it.

You're doing really well

Not only are second births quicker, easier and even relatively serene experiences, but we had confidently chosen for this one to take place underwater. Our midwife had successfully sold water birthing to us as a zen-like treat; almost as enjoyable as not giving birth at all.

A nurse then employed medical knowledge to confirm what I already knew: that my wife was in labour. This was followed by some minor confusion about where the hospital bag had got to, before Nana departed with our impeccably behaved daughter in tow. Meanwhile my wife was in agony in a wheelchair in the birth pool room and I was failing to do anything useful as the midwife and her very keen student helper struggled to fill and heat the pool faster than my wife's cervix could dilate.

I should at this point clarify that the midwife by which we were now being attended was different to the one with whom we had ben keeping antenatal appointments. This is not really significant, but both ladies were very nice and helpful, and deserve to be considered as distinct entities.

Just as the midwife announced that the waters in the pool were only seconds away from being ready to receive a pregnant lady, the waters in my wife broke, revealing themselves to be full of meconium (baby poo, for the uninitiated). I was unable to fathom the abject disappointment which immediately appeared upon everyone else's face until I was informed that meconium in the waters implies a risk of the baby inhaling the poo and contracting a lung infection. This risk necessitates careful monitoring and swift suction of the baby's lungs after birth, neither of which are possible in a birthing pool. Thus, we made a despondent procession to the next room, with its conventional bed and lack of warm water.

Soon after this, my mother arrived into what must have been a somewhat awkward situation for her. This was at about 3 o'clock, by which time my wife was fully dilated and ready to push. Her fears that a repeat of the torturous six-hour marathon that this stage entailed in the birth of our first daughter were confidently allayed by the midwife, who proclaimed that six minutes would be a more accurate timeframe.

My wife had made it abundantly clear some time ago that I would risk being punched aggressively in the face if I offered her the patronising encouragement that "you're doing really well." But it felt so very inadequate to provide only "that's it my darling"s, "take a deep breath"s and "well done"s that I had fallen on back on the truthful but forbidden phrase by the time these six minutes had become two hours. My wife was now demanding an epidural with the vehemence that can be summoned only by a lady who has been through this before and been denied such relief. Of course there are serious risks and drawbacks with such a course of action, which is why such vehemence was necessary to convince the midwife to seek a doctor's opinion on the matter.

Enter the villain of the piece.

Doctors

I cannot recall the name of the doctor who came into the room and told my wife, in sentences broken up by my her frequent and excruciating contractions, that she just needed to push a bit harder really. Our midwife later expressed her surprise that my wife had not hit the doctor at this point. She settled instead for shouting quite aggressively that it was physically impossible for pushing to be done harder than she had been demonstrating for the previous two hours. These were not the exact words she used. The doctor was obviously scared by this outburst, and performed a swift volte face, suggesting that maybe an epidural would be a good idea.

An unsettling lull followed this, as the midwife and her assistant followed the doctor out of the room, leaving my mother and I to console my wife through her continuing agony. Eventually the midwife returned with a different doctor, who wasted little time in conducting a very thorough examination of the baby's position and establishing that it was this which was of concern, and rendering futile my wife's intense and sustained pain thus far. The baby was facing backwards, which had somehow caused her chin to become jammed on the birth canal. My wife's pushing had indeed been textbook stuff, but would continue to be unsuccessful unless drastic measures were taken.

This new doctor's opinion, then, was that my wife should be immediately rushed to the operating theatre for a faster acting spinal epidural, followed by an attempt to forcibly extract our new daughter with forceps. If this failed to work, then an emergency caesarian would be necessary. This announcement triggered a chilling sense of terror in the room. The anaesthetist was suddenly on hand, as if this new torture had always been inevitable, describing the considerable dangers to which my wife must consent for he and the doctor to subject her to in order to save our baby.

Theatre

I was now more scared than I can ever remember having been. And this was not the usual, self-interested fear of pain or inconvenience, but genuine, altruistic terror over the fundamental wellbeing of those I love. I left my mum in what must have been a state of uninformed bewilderment as I hurriedly changed into the scrubs with which I was provided before following my poor wife into the operating theatre.

In other circumstances I might have marvelled excitedly at the Houseesque surroundings in which the aforementioned anaesthetist struggled for much longer than anyone was comfortable with to insert a needle about a metre long into my wife's spine. We were left in no doubt as to the seriousness of the consequences should my wife move a muscle while this was taking place. Yet time and time again, I saw the anaesthetist shake his head in disappointment at his failure to hit the right spot, as my wife battled heroically through half a dozen contractions with no pain relief and no movement.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he at last achieved his goal and calm descended upon the room. Suddenly my wife was sharing jokes with me as she resumed pushing, but this time with the surreal inability to feel the pain which had accompanied it for so long, and with the doctor using medieval instruments to wrench on our baby's head. This was traumatic in so many ways, but at least my wife's pain had for now abated. And these draconian measures ultimately got the job done.

Within minutes our daughter was born, about five and a half hours after the labour had started. For the hour or so since the drama had intensified, I had been visibly struggling to rein in my emotions. Medical staff who should really have been focussing on my wife kept stopping to express their concern for me. Finally I let my guard down and had a bit of a weep as our new child was placed awkwardly in my anaesthetised wife's arms. It was her turn to feel bewildered as she was confronted by a precious child whose hard earned emergence she had been unable to feel. She felt like she had cheated. I tried to convince her that she had put more than enough into the project.

The delighted relief I was now sharing with my wife gradually gave way to renewed terror, in the manner of a self-indulgent horror film which doesn't know when to call time on its climaxes, as our daughter was whisked away to a far corner of the room where two doctors tried with increasing urgency and panic to get her screaming. As I saw one of these doctors start pumping our baby's chest I started to develop a grim certainty that this would end badly. But just as I was about to start screaming, our daughter did.

I should take this opportunity to offer my sincerest gratitude to the many staff who have helped us throughout the pregnancy and birth. I have eulogised before about the sacrosanct wonders of the NHS. This traumatic experience has been an excellent demonstration of the value of this institution and its staff. It's no exaggeration to say that, in a time or country with fewer or less knowledgeable staff, not to mention the equipment at their disposal, I could by now be a single father of one. I will never find the words to fully express how much I owe to the people - not least our midwife - who took the actions they bravely decided were necessary to make everything ok.

Epilogue

It is now just about Thursday. Our second daughter is over thirty hours old. On Wednesday afternoon she and my wife were allowed to leave the hospital to return home with me. She looks nothing like our first daughter, but is nevertheless beautiful. She has a surprisingly good covering of hair on her head, big blue eyes and a ladylike mouth which is somehow capable of expressing a knowing superiority. The horrific bruising left on her head by the forceps has already begun to subside. Her fingers and toes are as long as they are perfect. She is very good at breastfeeding.

My wife is still in considerable pain. Amidst the climactic conclusion to the birth, I am ashamed to say that I failed to fully appreciate the effect upon her of the frightful forceps. Only tonight has she completely lost the benefit of the morphine with which I understand her epidural was laced. I don't think she will tonight add to the 3 hours' sleep she has managed in the last two days. I am going to work hard tomorrow.

Our older daughter's reaction to her new sister has been an issue about which we have speculated for many months. Upon their first meeting she smiled and exclaimed: "Baby! Baby! It's a baby!" This was as good as we could have hoped for, but it was quickly tempered by the tears and screams as she witnessd her sister being breastfed by her mum. A welcome afternoon nap later though, and she was stroking and kissing the new arrival with her best approximation of a gentle, loving touch.

It's a start.

Also: I look pretty good in scrubs.

Desperate measures

We really want to have a baby now. Why is she still in there? My nerves are increasingly frayed, having spent every waking minute of the last few weeks expecting it to happen at any moment. But our imminent second daughter is evidently too comfortable where she is to instigate the change of scenery which is customary for phoetuses her age.

I can't begin to imagine how my wife feels. Well, I have an inkling, because she has told me, but my point is that this indefinite wait is much worse for her than for me. She must withstand continued discomfort, insomnia and immobility, all of which are now increasing exponentially their devastating impact upon her life. My wife is left in the ridiculous position of yearning desperately for an event of which she is absolutely terrified. The fact that she has previously survived one such event offers her little consolation; it only gives tangible form to her terror. Yet such is her current condition that yearn she does for labour to come.

And so we have reluctantly begun to give credence to some of the solutions offered by legend to our impatient plight. The fact that I am writing this, rather than a joyous recollection of birth, is indicative that these solutions are yet to bear fruit. We have failed to have any joy in the following ways:

Curry

We eat curry fairly regularly anyway. It has never been closely followed by either of us having a baby, so I was sceptical about its efficacy even before we had one (curry, not baby) last week. Admittedly we played safer than the labour-inducing theory demands, sticking with our usual korma and massala. Nice aftertaste; no babies.

Castor oil

Apparently this works by flushing out one's system, causing internal movements of such magnitude that one's uterus is disturbed into action. This, by all accounts, entails some rather unpleasant experiences. You have to be very keen indeed to give birth in the next 48 hours if you are to tread this path. Which is why we spent some time looking for castor oil in Asda today. The drawback with this method? We couldn't find any.

Twelve pineapples

This is a ridiculous notion. The thinking is that pineapples contain a labour-inducing chemical called bromelain, but only in such quantities that the consumption of one of these spiky fruits would get you about a twelfth of the way to the maternity ward. Clearly the prospect of eating the requisite dozen in one sitting is more daunting than infinite pregnancy.

One useful consequence of this theory is that I can at any time effectively express my sympathy for my wife's ongoing turmoil by offering to buy her twelve pineapples.

A long walk

If my wife's heavily pregnant condition allowed her even to contemplate such physical activity, then she would be far less inclined to take this or any other measure to bring the pregnancy to a climactic end. Thus, this possibility is rendered paradoxical at best.

Nipple stimulation

The idea of this is to make one's body think it is breast feeding, the result of which presumably is to induce in it a better-late-than-never style panic, causing it to cough up someone to be fed. This sounds almost sensible, and not altogether unpleasant until you discover that, to produce the desired effect, the stimulation is required for five hours a day. Outrageous.

Other methods

There are other methods, but my Mum reads this, so all I will say is that they are fun but they don't work.

And so we wait.

Get ready

My wife keeps thinking she's about to have a baby. Normally, as a responsible husband, I would be obliged to seek help for a spouse with such an alarming delusion. Except that this is no delusion. I also keep thinking she's about to have a baby. She is about to have a baby. I keep issuing warnings to my boss at work:

"I may have to disappear for four weeks at any moment."

"Yes, yes. Not due for another month though, is it?"

"Well no, but..."

"I shouldn't worry then."

I don't think he believes me. Of course it should and could be another month until labour day. But our first daughter arrived a month early, and my wife is experiencing portents of birth with increasing frequency. Her sleepless nights have been made yet more uncomfortable by the acute backache she suffers at sudden intervals. Her bump is dropping like a stone. A really heavy stone in her womb. There is no delicate way to add that she keeps feeling like she's being poked from within down there. This makes it difficult to resist imagining our next daughter knocking impatiently on the exit door.

Our only plausible reaction to all of these omens is to get ready. The hospital bag has been packed and waiting in the hall for a week or so now. I have taken to illegally keeping my phone on me at work. (On silent, of course.) Today we have reluctantly turned down an invitation to a friend's birthday lunch on the grounds that the venue is more than ten miles from the nearest maternity ward. I have become less prone than usual to taking risks with the volume of petrol in my car. Most dramatically of all: I can at no point drink more than the legal driving limit. Not that this is something I regularly do anyway, but not being allowed to makes me curiously thirsty.

Another addition to our preparation is that we have the grandmothers on call, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to cushion the forthcoming frenzy of child-based activity with generous helpings of love, attention and maternal wisdom. One of their main responsibilities will be to ensure that our first daughter retains an acceptable level of attention throughout the drama to come. I will be the sole birth partner for this birth, as the product of the previous one is kept company by Nana at home.

But it's in the long term that we must continue to make our daughter know how much she is loved, needed and wanted. And she, herself seems alive to this issue already. She has recently become extremely cute, being unprecedentedly forthcoming with the hugs and kisses. Even more impressive, though, is the acceleration in the growth of her vocabulary. She has, in the last couple of days, mastered the words apple, beans, ball, star and circle, all of which she will describe while eating, pointing at or bouncing as appropriate. I'm increasingly convinced that she is familiar with the numbers two and four. Clearly she is an even numbers kind of girl.

She also knows her favourite toys by name now, and will regularly request the company of or converse with Puppy, LaLa, Lola and, most pertinently of all, Baby. This will soon be a very useful word around here.