Mother, baby and pregnancy magazines appear to be taking over the house. Jo has always had this unique ability to spend vast amounts of money on such things without ever seemingly putting any real effort into the task. But even so I can not believe that she has managed to purchase so much literature in such a short time. I can only conclude therefore that over the past few months she has been secretly stashing them away in anticipation of a more appropriate time to reveal her collection to me. And what could be a more appropriate time then than today; just a few days after finding out that she is pregnant?
Half in despair and half in awe of her foreword planning, I flick though the mags, passing by numerous articles on Birthing Methods, Best Buy Buggies and pointless quizzes on Discovering Your Perfect Birthing Partner, before stumbling across a token article directed towards the male half of the pregnancy; a feature dedicated to the greatness that is the Sperm, and men’s fertility.
Rudely interrupting Jo as she attempts to complete a Baby Gender Prediction test, I read out interesting snippets from the article:
“One amount of ejaculate may contain between 40 million to 600 million sperm depending on the volume and the length of time stored before ejaculating. Yet, the quantity of sperm produced will only cover the head of a pin”
“You're most likely to be fertile if you have more than 20 million sperm per millilitre of semen”
“It’s not enough just to have enough. Sperm shape and structure are equally important. You are most likely to be fertile if more than one third of your sperm are of normal shape and structure”
“To reach the target, your sperm have to move. Riding the semen wave will only take the sperm so far. To reach the egg, sperm have to move on their own — wriggling and swimming the last few inches to reach and penetrate the egg. Sperm movement is an important characteristic of healthy sperm. You're most likely to be fertile if at least half of your sperm are moving”
“The speed at which sperm has to travel to reach the egg is unbelievable – 500cm per second (that’s about 10 miles per hour). Only one sperm out of an average of 250 million will be successful”
Jo stares at me in silence for a few moments, before speaking. “Your point is…?”
It’s juvenile. It’s predictable. I know this; but I don’t care. I even perform a stupid little jig as I sing out the words:
“Who’s the Daddy?!”
Jo smiles. She has every reason to mock, but does not. The next nine months are pretty much all about her and baby. And they will of course get all the attention they need and deserve. But for now, this is my moment, and I’m allowed to revel in it.
Jo joins in with the jig: “You’re the Daddy!”
Friday
Wednesday
Daunted Dad to Be
It’s been a week since discovering Jo is pregnant. A week since finding out I am going to be a Father. A Dad. Daddy, Pop, Pa. It doesn’t matter which way I phrase it; it’s still stark sounding.
It’s not that the pregnancy was not planned. And it’s not that I’m worried about giving up my lad status; at thirty-nine years old I’m more than ready for a little bit of sensibility in my life. In fact whilst most men my age are carefully plotting, planning and scheduling in their mid-life crisis, it could be argued that I have been actively enjoying mine since I was seventeen years old. Converting my games room into a nursery and trading my sports car in for something a little more child-friendly, would therefore seem quite a fitting way of marking my forthcoming fortieth; the proceeds from the sale of my pool table should keep Junior in nappies for quite some time.
I’m excited. Thrilled. Made up. I’m walking around with the biggest grin on my face like some thirty-nine year old virgin that’s just been tasked with finding out which of the Minogue sisters performs best in the sack.
I’m scared too, for many, many reasons. But mostly I’m daunted.
Along with Jo it will be my responsibility to teach our child life skills, to guide him and show him right from wrong, even when there is no clear right or wrong: What’s my opinion on computer games versus outdoor activities? Should I let him play with guns and toy soldiers? What age should I buy him a mobile ‘phone? My position on scouting, in particular scout masters is very much undecided.
“Is any of this really worth worrying about right now?” Jo asks, as I price up the cost of buying and owning a pony.
Yes. It is.
The problem is that I can’t help but look at the bigger picture, even if it has yet to be drawn.
I’m already considering important birthdays, whether he should play an instrument and if so which one, sporting interests, driving lessons, first car, girlfriends and/or boyfriends, career choices (Legal Aid Solicitor – own practise specialising in helping the helpless), marriage and grandchildren.
But what do I know about children today? Nothing really; it’s been far too long since I was one and things have changed somewhat; Nintendo Wii’s, DVDs, IPods, a million and one channels on TV, Internet chat rooms; I had none of these things, rather I would keep myself happily occupied from early morning until the streetlights came on, engaging in some strange, now long forgotten activity we cutely referred to as ‘playing outside’.
But is childhood still a safe and acceptable activity? Not according to the daily news. They suggest that a diseased, violent and blame-ridden society awaits my child; and that’s a daunting thought.
“You’re going to make a great dad!” Jo reassures me.
But why? What do I know about being a Dad? The only point of reference I have thus far is taking care of Lily, my dog, which surely has to be discounted on so many grounds, and of course my own Father. I reckon he did a pretty fine job, exceptional in fact. As I enjoyed a carefree childhood, I now know he contended with sickness, unemployment and severe money shortages; these were the days before benefits and assurances, but of course I was blissfully unaware that we were in anyway deprived. It’s only now as an adult looking back do I realise just how hard things were and how I was protected from that fact. I could have easily grown up to be an undesirable thug and blamed it all on a deprived childhood, but my Dad’s love, hard graft, determination and example ensured that I didn’t turn out that bad.
And now it’s my time to live up to, emulate and pass on that example. It’s my turn to be him. My turn to be Dad. And I guess that’s what I’m finding really daunting.
It’s not that the pregnancy was not planned. And it’s not that I’m worried about giving up my lad status; at thirty-nine years old I’m more than ready for a little bit of sensibility in my life. In fact whilst most men my age are carefully plotting, planning and scheduling in their mid-life crisis, it could be argued that I have been actively enjoying mine since I was seventeen years old. Converting my games room into a nursery and trading my sports car in for something a little more child-friendly, would therefore seem quite a fitting way of marking my forthcoming fortieth; the proceeds from the sale of my pool table should keep Junior in nappies for quite some time.
I’m excited. Thrilled. Made up. I’m walking around with the biggest grin on my face like some thirty-nine year old virgin that’s just been tasked with finding out which of the Minogue sisters performs best in the sack.
I’m scared too, for many, many reasons. But mostly I’m daunted.
Along with Jo it will be my responsibility to teach our child life skills, to guide him and show him right from wrong, even when there is no clear right or wrong: What’s my opinion on computer games versus outdoor activities? Should I let him play with guns and toy soldiers? What age should I buy him a mobile ‘phone? My position on scouting, in particular scout masters is very much undecided.
“Is any of this really worth worrying about right now?” Jo asks, as I price up the cost of buying and owning a pony.
Yes. It is.
The problem is that I can’t help but look at the bigger picture, even if it has yet to be drawn.
I’m already considering important birthdays, whether he should play an instrument and if so which one, sporting interests, driving lessons, first car, girlfriends and/or boyfriends, career choices (Legal Aid Solicitor – own practise specialising in helping the helpless), marriage and grandchildren.
But what do I know about children today? Nothing really; it’s been far too long since I was one and things have changed somewhat; Nintendo Wii’s, DVDs, IPods, a million and one channels on TV, Internet chat rooms; I had none of these things, rather I would keep myself happily occupied from early morning until the streetlights came on, engaging in some strange, now long forgotten activity we cutely referred to as ‘playing outside’.
But is childhood still a safe and acceptable activity? Not according to the daily news. They suggest that a diseased, violent and blame-ridden society awaits my child; and that’s a daunting thought.
“You’re going to make a great dad!” Jo reassures me.
But why? What do I know about being a Dad? The only point of reference I have thus far is taking care of Lily, my dog, which surely has to be discounted on so many grounds, and of course my own Father. I reckon he did a pretty fine job, exceptional in fact. As I enjoyed a carefree childhood, I now know he contended with sickness, unemployment and severe money shortages; these were the days before benefits and assurances, but of course I was blissfully unaware that we were in anyway deprived. It’s only now as an adult looking back do I realise just how hard things were and how I was protected from that fact. I could have easily grown up to be an undesirable thug and blamed it all on a deprived childhood, but my Dad’s love, hard graft, determination and example ensured that I didn’t turn out that bad.
And now it’s my time to live up to, emulate and pass on that example. It’s my turn to be him. My turn to be Dad. And I guess that’s what I’m finding really daunting.
Friday
The Test
“Can I help you?” the pharmacist inquires.
I blush bright red.
“Condoms?” She second guesses.
“Actually, I need a pregnancy test”
“Oh!” You can almost hear her brain registering the irony. “Any preference for the type?”
The Piss-on-a-stick type? The words form in my mind, but somehow I resist from uttering them out loud. I shake my head. I’ve yet to establish a preferred method for pregnancy testing.
The pharmacist passes me a box with a reassuring warm smile. “This one will be just fine”
I hurriedly exit the shop, feeling like some naughty schoolboy. But at nearly 40 years old, I am anything but.
An unfortunate series of events has led me to this moment. My wife Jo performed a test two days ago without reading the instructions; and it was a day too early. Yesterday she peed all over one causing the test to be unusable and this morning she dropped another blooming one down the toilet.
We attempted to buy another in the supermarket this afternoon. Jo perused the various tests available (apparently she has established a preferred method for pregnancy testing). I perused the Sky TV packages in the next aisle. I was accused of showing no interest. She pointed out that if we were to have a baby we need to tighten our belts and give up such luxuries. I, in hindsight stupidly and inappropriately, highlighted the fact that the amount we were currently spending on pregnancy testing kits could easily pay for a year’s subscription to Sky’s most comprehensive package including the porn channel. An argument ensued which I lost and we left the shop test-less and porn-less.
Hence the lone trip to the chemist followed by the florists. Flowers and a pregnancy test; possibly not the most romantic gift but it did the trick. Now back at home, working as a team once more, I supervise a controlled test under strict laboratory conditions; this time we had to do it properly.
“Two Minutes”. I begin a verbal countdown as if commentating on a space shuttle launch.
“One minute thirty”
“Dearest…” Jo butts in, but I continue in my role as Controller
“One Minute”
“Please…”
“30 seconds”
“Shut up!”
My stopwatch bleeps, announcing the arrival of the moment of truth.
We stare at each other in silence for a moment before I flip the test over.
“Well?” Jo begs.
My heart sinks. Negative. I don’t know if the words even leave my mouth by Jo gets the message. I put my head in my hands.
“Never mind – it doesn’t matter” She lies. “We can try again next month – trying is always fun! Tell you what – let’s get the porn channel to get us in the mood!”
It’s the kind of sentence some men will wait their entire lifetime to hear; it should raise a smile at the very least. But I don’t even look up. Jo starts promising me all sorts; my bowed head indicating to her the level of my distraught.
But I’m not distraught. Through the gaps in my fingers I am staring at the test window. I’m staring at the very faint blue line which is starting to appear. I can hear Jo’s voice somewhere in the distance, but I daren’t take my eyes off that line. Come on! You can do it! I will it on as if we have just fast-forwarded nine months to the birth.
“Yes!” Now I’m shouting out loud.
“Er,yes what?” Jo asks, worrying which hasty promise she had just made that I was in agreement with.
At last I can afford to look up at Jo.
“Yes. I’m going to be a Dad!”
I blush bright red.
“Condoms?” She second guesses.
“Actually, I need a pregnancy test”
“Oh!” You can almost hear her brain registering the irony. “Any preference for the type?”
The Piss-on-a-stick type? The words form in my mind, but somehow I resist from uttering them out loud. I shake my head. I’ve yet to establish a preferred method for pregnancy testing.
The pharmacist passes me a box with a reassuring warm smile. “This one will be just fine”
I hurriedly exit the shop, feeling like some naughty schoolboy. But at nearly 40 years old, I am anything but.
An unfortunate series of events has led me to this moment. My wife Jo performed a test two days ago without reading the instructions; and it was a day too early. Yesterday she peed all over one causing the test to be unusable and this morning she dropped another blooming one down the toilet.
We attempted to buy another in the supermarket this afternoon. Jo perused the various tests available (apparently she has established a preferred method for pregnancy testing). I perused the Sky TV packages in the next aisle. I was accused of showing no interest. She pointed out that if we were to have a baby we need to tighten our belts and give up such luxuries. I, in hindsight stupidly and inappropriately, highlighted the fact that the amount we were currently spending on pregnancy testing kits could easily pay for a year’s subscription to Sky’s most comprehensive package including the porn channel. An argument ensued which I lost and we left the shop test-less and porn-less.
Hence the lone trip to the chemist followed by the florists. Flowers and a pregnancy test; possibly not the most romantic gift but it did the trick. Now back at home, working as a team once more, I supervise a controlled test under strict laboratory conditions; this time we had to do it properly.
“Two Minutes”. I begin a verbal countdown as if commentating on a space shuttle launch.
“One minute thirty”
“Dearest…” Jo butts in, but I continue in my role as Controller
“One Minute”
“Please…”
“30 seconds”
“Shut up!”
My stopwatch bleeps, announcing the arrival of the moment of truth.
We stare at each other in silence for a moment before I flip the test over.
“Well?” Jo begs.
My heart sinks. Negative. I don’t know if the words even leave my mouth by Jo gets the message. I put my head in my hands.
“Never mind – it doesn’t matter” She lies. “We can try again next month – trying is always fun! Tell you what – let’s get the porn channel to get us in the mood!”
It’s the kind of sentence some men will wait their entire lifetime to hear; it should raise a smile at the very least. But I don’t even look up. Jo starts promising me all sorts; my bowed head indicating to her the level of my distraught.
But I’m not distraught. Through the gaps in my fingers I am staring at the test window. I’m staring at the very faint blue line which is starting to appear. I can hear Jo’s voice somewhere in the distance, but I daren’t take my eyes off that line. Come on! You can do it! I will it on as if we have just fast-forwarded nine months to the birth.
“Yes!” Now I’m shouting out loud.
“Er,yes what?” Jo asks, worrying which hasty promise she had just made that I was in agreement with.
At last I can afford to look up at Jo.
“Yes. I’m going to be a Dad!”
Introduction
Lily is my little girl. She is eighteen months old. She is gorgeous. Of course I love her, despite her occasional bouts of naughtiness.
We do everything together. We play together. We go for walks in the woods together. She is spoilt rotten; I’m always buying her new toys because it makes me happy to see her happy.
I’m hands on; I have always insisted that I play a positive role in her feed times; I believe this to be important, and of course when it comes to ‘accidents’ I do my bit.
I work from home which gives me a very privileged opportunity to enjoy far more time with Lily than perhaps is usual. She will often sit with me in my office, watching me with intrigue; no idea of course what I am doing, but intensely fixated never-the-less.
When Lily is very tired she will snuggle up close to me and fall into a deep sleep that one can only enjoy when feeling totally safe and protected. These moments are precious.
I’m not perfect; I make mistakes, but I sincerely believe I am doing more than just an okay job of looking after her upbringing and taking care of her welfare.
Lily is my little girl. Lily is an eighteen month old Labrador, Staffordshire Bull Terrier cross breed dog that my wife, Jo, and I rescued from the dog kennels. Lily is the only experience I have to date of fatherhood and upbringing. I’m not sure if my Idiot’s Guide to Puppies is going to be of any particular use, but for now, as we plan a family, it’s the only point of reference I have.
We do everything together. We play together. We go for walks in the woods together. She is spoilt rotten; I’m always buying her new toys because it makes me happy to see her happy.
I’m hands on; I have always insisted that I play a positive role in her feed times; I believe this to be important, and of course when it comes to ‘accidents’ I do my bit.
I work from home which gives me a very privileged opportunity to enjoy far more time with Lily than perhaps is usual. She will often sit with me in my office, watching me with intrigue; no idea of course what I am doing, but intensely fixated never-the-less.
When Lily is very tired she will snuggle up close to me and fall into a deep sleep that one can only enjoy when feeling totally safe and protected. These moments are precious.
I’m not perfect; I make mistakes, but I sincerely believe I am doing more than just an okay job of looking after her upbringing and taking care of her welfare.
Lily is my little girl. Lily is an eighteen month old Labrador, Staffordshire Bull Terrier cross breed dog that my wife, Jo, and I rescued from the dog kennels. Lily is the only experience I have to date of fatherhood and upbringing. I’m not sure if my Idiot’s Guide to Puppies is going to be of any particular use, but for now, as we plan a family, it’s the only point of reference I have.
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