I was stood in the back garden with my woman nestled deep into my chest. The sun was setting, and glistening off of her hair in a beautiful fashion. I had to fetch the camera.
We had a miscarriage today. It happens, I suppose, and we were just unlucky.
We’re very upset, but it’s not going to be the end of us. We can see that it’s just one of those things that happens, and we have to ride it out. We’ll be pregnant by the end of autumn, and don’t you just know it.
So Karen is getting very happy in her new role as mother-to-be. She’s reading enormous pregnancy books, complaining that she hasn’t got a bump yet, and trying to get out of household chores wherever possible by saying “My book says that you’re supposed to take care of me while I’m pregnant.” My retort is usually to invent a quote, supposedly taken from my book, which says that I shouldn’t take any shit from her.
Contrarily, I’m aware that once the baby is born, and indeed in the months leading up to it, I’m going to be so incredibly busy taking care of a round, screaming monster, that I won’t have any time to myself. So I’m immersing myself into my usual hedonistic and selfish pursuits with gusto – a kind of farewell to Quality Me Time, if you will.
As a result, occasionally she’ll interrupt me when I’m concentrating, and say something random and baby-related. I won’t instantly make the connection, and subsequently I think I possibly come across as being a bit forgetful.
“A what? A baby? Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”
I’m looking around the house at all the junk that’ll need clearing. Fragile items eventually need moving to higher locations. Entire rooms, or portions of them, need clearing to make way for baby crap. I don’t know how we’ll manage.
Not too much else has changed, really. Most noticeable is that Karen is paying a lot of attention to what she is eating. Some foods are apparently completely forbidden, innocuous things like feta cheese. Obviously I’m trying to be as supportive as I can, but I can only go so far.
I may have to maintain a stash of unhealthy and dangerous foodstuffs, perhaps locked in a box in the attic where she won’t find it. Then I can maintain the illusion of supportiveness whilst simultaneously gorging myself silly on all the things that I never really used to be fussed about, but which suddenly seem so alluring.
I’m determined to stay off the cigarettes though.
Since we decided that we were going to be parents, my perception of other families has changed a lot. When we’re out for dinner, or walking down the street, or even when I’m just staring out my window at people walking by, I am analysing the families walking by. I suppose that specifically I am looking at fathers with their young children, trying to figure out what they are thinking and what their lives consist of these days.
On another note, I’m not a complete fashion slave, but I try to look my best. Once I’m a parent, I guess that the importance of looking smart takes a backseat. Instead of wearing clothes that look tidy, I’ll be wearing clothes that hide the vomit stains, I guess.
Ah well. It’s just another thing that changes, I suppose. Not better, nor worse, just different.
Karen returned from the doctors under a pile of pamphlets and junk. She’s got a pack of little tablets and is ordering books from Amazon, and indulging herself with sleep whenever she feels like it, because she’s pregnant, and so she can. What a life.
For me, she brought back one leaflet from the doctors – yes, just one. It’s called “37 things every man should know before he becomes a dad” and it is very concise. Some of it is a little patronising, and there’s not really much that a gentleman of average or better intelligence couldn’t work out for himself, but there were a few surprises in there for me. Especially point 30: apparently newborn baby poo doesn’t smell. I’m planning on training it to change its own nappies sometime in the first week.
Reading books is all well and good, but there’s no substitute for practice. I AM VERY EAGER.
Karen has an appointment with the doctor this afternoon, so we have to hope that he doesn’t say “Pregnant? No you’re not!” The odds of this occurring are so small as to be non-existent.
I’m currently very worried by faeces. I’m finding the whole nappy-changing thing to be incredibly offputting at the moment. I’m sure that it’s one of those things that you just deal with, and this post at dooce.com certainly gives the impression that it’s not so traumatising that one can not laugh about it, afterwards at least. So I’m taking some comfort in the fact that I’ll be able to deal with it on a turd-by-turd basis.
Karen’s behaviour has changed substantially since the test, partly due to the psychological effect (I am pregnant, therefore I must be permanently tired) and partly to protect the offspring. I think that I shall soon be looking for a new squash partner, or trying to find some other way of getting some exercise while she waddles around the place.
Last night we discussed how the grandparents will be referred to. My mother has always referred to her mother as “granny”, at least as long as I’ve been in existence. I’m quite looking forward to inflicting the same treatment upon her. I’m going to start as soon as possible, so that I can get into the habit. There is much potential for amusement here.