A little bit of self indulgence... I'm a proud Father; I make no other excuse...
I've been watching you
Wednesday
Week Eight
“Just try and relax now”, suggests the nurse.
“Okay” I reply.
“I think she was talking to me..?” Jo is lying horizontal upon the couch; her legs akimbo, anticipating the insertion of a probe.
“Oh, yes. You’re probably right”
Yes of course I’m right you arsehole. Despite not uttering a word, her sentence somehow arrives in my head telepathically.
I’m not deliberately trying to upset anyone. We’re here for an internal ‘reassurance’ scan, offered to us because of the previous miscarriage. I’ve been anticipating this moment for several weeks now, and my nerves are getting the better of me, causing my mouth to work completely independently of my brain portraying a somewhat inaccurate impression of an irritating prick, rather than a concerned and worried expectant father.
“When was your LMP?” asks the nurse, seemingly completely unaware of my presence.
“When was what?”
“27th March” Jo confidently butts in with a side glare towards me subtitled “Shut up Thicko”
“What’s a…”
“Okay. So that makes you now eight weeks pregnant”, continues the nurse, still oblivious to the fact that I am sat next to the woman of whom she has just stuck a large probe up between her legs.
“That’s right” answers my dearest, still glaring.
“No. That’s not right” I chip in. They both glare at me in unison, the nurse acknowledging my existence for the first time with a look that suggests she’s considering removing the probe from my wife to use as a weapon against me. Jo’s face tells me that she would happily sanction such action.
“It’s only six weeks” I helpfully offer.
“Eight weeks.” The nurse corrects me matter-of-factually; now no more bothered by me than she would be by an irritating fly.
“It’s definitely six weeks. We had sex on the 9th of April, a Wednesday. You must remember Jo? We got drunk and you did that thing you do with your…” I pause as I become aware of the increased intensity of the synchronized glaring. “…well, anyway, that makes it six weeks” I tentatively conclude.
“Ovulation, yes. But eight weeks since LMP, therefore you are into week eight of your pregnancy; eight weeks into the first trimester” she finishes her sentence smugly with one of those know-it-all smiles, whilst affirming her fondness for the word ‘eight’.
Trimester? Wasn’t that the name of a Klingon Solar System in Star Trek? I let it go.
“LMP?”
“Period!” Jo enlightens with a snap.
Oh.
The nurse and Jo continue in discussion whilst I wait for a penny to drop. Eventually I’m hit with a blooming windfall.
“So you are timing this from the day of Jo’s last period?”
“YES!” Again: perfect unison.
“So… you are saying that Jo was in week two on the 9th April?”
“Thereabouts, yes”. I sense that maybe I am starting to annoy them both.
“Which would make her somewhere around two weeks pregnant before we had sex?”
The looks have become quite sinister. Another penny crashes down shattering the deadly silence; this is woman’s logic. I cannot win
“Sorry – please carry on”.
The nurse swivels the screen towards us both. The hugeness of all this suddenly dawns upon me and, much to the relief of Jo and the nurse, for the first time this morning I’m speechless as I observe the image on the scan: a strange new life-form boldly exploring the ‘Trimesters’ on its nine-month mission. It’s our baby and his tiny, beating heart, twinkling like a solitary night star. I shed a tear and let out a huge sigh of relief. Pregnancy and impending fatherhood suddenly seem so very, very real.
I have a feeling that things are never going to be quite the same again.
“Okay” I reply.
“I think she was talking to me..?” Jo is lying horizontal upon the couch; her legs akimbo, anticipating the insertion of a probe.
“Oh, yes. You’re probably right”
Yes of course I’m right you arsehole. Despite not uttering a word, her sentence somehow arrives in my head telepathically.
I’m not deliberately trying to upset anyone. We’re here for an internal ‘reassurance’ scan, offered to us because of the previous miscarriage. I’ve been anticipating this moment for several weeks now, and my nerves are getting the better of me, causing my mouth to work completely independently of my brain portraying a somewhat inaccurate impression of an irritating prick, rather than a concerned and worried expectant father.
“When was your LMP?” asks the nurse, seemingly completely unaware of my presence.
“When was what?”
“27th March” Jo confidently butts in with a side glare towards me subtitled “Shut up Thicko”
“What’s a…”
“Okay. So that makes you now eight weeks pregnant”, continues the nurse, still oblivious to the fact that I am sat next to the woman of whom she has just stuck a large probe up between her legs.
“That’s right” answers my dearest, still glaring.
“No. That’s not right” I chip in. They both glare at me in unison, the nurse acknowledging my existence for the first time with a look that suggests she’s considering removing the probe from my wife to use as a weapon against me. Jo’s face tells me that she would happily sanction such action.
“It’s only six weeks” I helpfully offer.
“Eight weeks.” The nurse corrects me matter-of-factually; now no more bothered by me than she would be by an irritating fly.
“It’s definitely six weeks. We had sex on the 9th of April, a Wednesday. You must remember Jo? We got drunk and you did that thing you do with your…” I pause as I become aware of the increased intensity of the synchronized glaring. “…well, anyway, that makes it six weeks” I tentatively conclude.
“Ovulation, yes. But eight weeks since LMP, therefore you are into week eight of your pregnancy; eight weeks into the first trimester” she finishes her sentence smugly with one of those know-it-all smiles, whilst affirming her fondness for the word ‘eight’.
Trimester? Wasn’t that the name of a Klingon Solar System in Star Trek? I let it go.
“LMP?”
“Period!” Jo enlightens with a snap.
Oh.
The nurse and Jo continue in discussion whilst I wait for a penny to drop. Eventually I’m hit with a blooming windfall.
“So you are timing this from the day of Jo’s last period?”
“YES!” Again: perfect unison.
“So… you are saying that Jo was in week two on the 9th April?”
“Thereabouts, yes”. I sense that maybe I am starting to annoy them both.
“Which would make her somewhere around two weeks pregnant before we had sex?”
The looks have become quite sinister. Another penny crashes down shattering the deadly silence; this is woman’s logic. I cannot win
“Sorry – please carry on”.
The nurse swivels the screen towards us both. The hugeness of all this suddenly dawns upon me and, much to the relief of Jo and the nurse, for the first time this morning I’m speechless as I observe the image on the scan: a strange new life-form boldly exploring the ‘Trimesters’ on its nine-month mission. It’s our baby and his tiny, beating heart, twinkling like a solitary night star. I shed a tear and let out a huge sigh of relief. Pregnancy and impending fatherhood suddenly seem so very, very real.
I have a feeling that things are never going to be quite the same again.
Monday
Week Seven
“Well?” I inquire, fingers crossed for some positive news although the expression on her face says it all.
“Nope” Jo solemnly replies.
“What, nothing at all?”
“Nothing” Her face drops. My heart sinks. A few minutes of awkward silence follows, and then I have an idea:
“What about a spicy vegetable curry?”
“It might work” she replies, now just a little bit more upbeat “I’ll get the menu”.
We repeat a similar ritual to this every time Jo exits the bathroom; she is constipated, and hasn’t had a crap for three days now.
Since we started planning for a baby Jo has been taking vitamin supplements on a daily basis. These contain folic acid, to reduce the risk of the baby being born with any neural tube defects such as Spina Bifida, and iron, to seemly reduce the risk of her having a poo.
The painful constipation is understandably making Jo unhappy, moody and very tetchy, which in an ironic turn, is making me crap my pants.
She is certainly going through some changes, both emotionally and physically; externally and internally. Particularly internally.
First is the, as expected, morning sickness. Typically one big chuck post breakfast is followed periodically throughout the day by what can only be described as a ‘Mini Sick’; each puke accompanied by a proud announcement of: “I’ve just brought up a bit of sick”. Unsure exactly what to do with this information or how best to respond, I can only congratulate her with a genuine heartfelt “well done!”
Her farts are sadly unannounced. Of course I know she breaks wind; we long since passed that milestone in our relationship where we became comfortable farting in front of one another. In fact these days we can barely distinguish between each others; the tangy aromas having seemingly amalgamated into one household odour all of their own. But this is very different; I’ve not experienced anything quite like this since Christmas 1975 when my older brother was given a chemistry set by a well-meaning aunt. The results of his experimentations overwhelmed the usual festive aroma of freshly baked mince pies with an unmistakable stench of rotten eggs.
Her increased flatulence is, in some part, my fault; in an attempt to ease the constipation I have been practically force feeding her a strict diet of beans, green vegetables and lentils.
And Jo is hot in bed. I’m not bragging; she really is hot in bed. Her body temperature seems to have increased somewhat and I fear this will react with her farts, creating unnatural and quite possibly harmful greenhouse gases underneath the quilt.
At the same time she has become much tactile in bed. She likes to cuddle up close to me, which is all very nice except that it makes me uncomfortably warm, which, along with her frequent visits to the toilet, is keeping me awake throughout the night. Although constipated she is still pissing like a pregnant racehorse. Apparently this is due to her growing uterus pressing down on her bladder, but I reckon could equally be due to the six pints of prune juice she’s drinking every day.
But I mustn’t grumble; I’m not the one in pain. But I’m likely to be if the curry
doesn’t do the trick.
Are you a dad? Please take part in my survey
“Nope” Jo solemnly replies.
“What, nothing at all?”
“Nothing” Her face drops. My heart sinks. A few minutes of awkward silence follows, and then I have an idea:
“What about a spicy vegetable curry?”
“It might work” she replies, now just a little bit more upbeat “I’ll get the menu”.
We repeat a similar ritual to this every time Jo exits the bathroom; she is constipated, and hasn’t had a crap for three days now.
Since we started planning for a baby Jo has been taking vitamin supplements on a daily basis. These contain folic acid, to reduce the risk of the baby being born with any neural tube defects such as Spina Bifida, and iron, to seemly reduce the risk of her having a poo.
The painful constipation is understandably making Jo unhappy, moody and very tetchy, which in an ironic turn, is making me crap my pants.
She is certainly going through some changes, both emotionally and physically; externally and internally. Particularly internally.
First is the, as expected, morning sickness. Typically one big chuck post breakfast is followed periodically throughout the day by what can only be described as a ‘Mini Sick’; each puke accompanied by a proud announcement of: “I’ve just brought up a bit of sick”. Unsure exactly what to do with this information or how best to respond, I can only congratulate her with a genuine heartfelt “well done!”
Her farts are sadly unannounced. Of course I know she breaks wind; we long since passed that milestone in our relationship where we became comfortable farting in front of one another. In fact these days we can barely distinguish between each others; the tangy aromas having seemingly amalgamated into one household odour all of their own. But this is very different; I’ve not experienced anything quite like this since Christmas 1975 when my older brother was given a chemistry set by a well-meaning aunt. The results of his experimentations overwhelmed the usual festive aroma of freshly baked mince pies with an unmistakable stench of rotten eggs.
Her increased flatulence is, in some part, my fault; in an attempt to ease the constipation I have been practically force feeding her a strict diet of beans, green vegetables and lentils.
And Jo is hot in bed. I’m not bragging; she really is hot in bed. Her body temperature seems to have increased somewhat and I fear this will react with her farts, creating unnatural and quite possibly harmful greenhouse gases underneath the quilt.
At the same time she has become much tactile in bed. She likes to cuddle up close to me, which is all very nice except that it makes me uncomfortably warm, which, along with her frequent visits to the toilet, is keeping me awake throughout the night. Although constipated she is still pissing like a pregnant racehorse. Apparently this is due to her growing uterus pressing down on her bladder, but I reckon could equally be due to the six pints of prune juice she’s drinking every day.
But I mustn’t grumble; I’m not the one in pain. But I’m likely to be if the curry
doesn’t do the trick.
Are you a dad? Please take part in my survey
Friday
The Miracle of Sperm
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!”
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!”
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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