Category: Parenting

Dear Boy,

Farting isn’t cool. I know that sometimes when I fart, we both find it really hilarious, but the official policy on farting is that it isn’t cool. You should know this. It’s antisocial and a very very bad habit to get into. As of now, I’m going to make an effort to stop doing it, and I expect you to do the same.

Oh, okay, maybe just one more. Parp. Heheheheheh.

Love,

Dad

*P.S. Parp. Heheheheh.*

I was inspired by a post on Grayblog to say something that’s on my mind.

Someone with whom I have daily contact has a teenage son. Daily contact frequently involves some sort of joke drawn from the hat of *and you’ve got lack of sleep to look forward to in a few months* remarks.

I’m never quite sure how to respond. I could matter of factly say yes, I am aware that when I become a father in 3.5 months, there will be sleep loss of some degree. I don’t see much point in trying to fight it. Sleep loss is not something which I have a lot of experience of, so I don’t see much point in investing a lot of time worrying about it in advance. My expectations are almost certainly wrong.

I pick away at the issue like meat from a drumstick, and ultimately come to this final conclusion:

**If it wasn’t worth it, then we’d be extinct by now.**

Here’s another indicator of impending fatherhood: my opinion on the word “fuck” has changed considerably recently, even over a very short period of time.

My attitude towards it used to be that it was a heavily trafficked word, generally used gratuitously beyond the point of diminishing returns, but if used at the right time it could often add the necessary spice to a presentation.

Today, I looked at some of my old writings elsewhere on the web, and it suddenly seemed excessive and inappropriate. I think to myself, is this really the example that I want to be setting for my son? I personally consider it a harmless enough word, but I am aware that grandparents and teachers are less impressed when it sprouts from the mouth of a four year old. Not that I really care what they think, but it would make life unnecessarily difficult for both me and the child.

Obviously sheltering a child from unsuitable language is an impossible task, so I suppose that the best that I can hope for is to make it clear to the child that these words are just words, though considered offensive by some. This is probably one of those concerns that takes second place to more pressing matters as soon as the baby is born, so it’s probably not worth getting too worked up about at this stage.

The slight improvements to which I alluded in my previous post have become significant improvements. She now suffers from very little morning sickness whatsoever, and though still experiencing some tiredness and moodswings, she’s pretty perky for the vast majority of the time.

Today was our 20-week ultrasound scan. The image on the screen was slightly harder to read, probably because there is less free space around the foetus, making it harder to detect its shape. But we saw much more detail – its spine is very clear and well-defined, and I remember well one brief moment where I could see every bone in its hand. The evidence also suggests that it will be a boy. This is a slight problem, as we have managed to come up with many superb girls’ names, but we are struggling with boys’ names at present. Ah well.

On a personal level, my role continues to consist of reassurance and lower back massages. I look forward with relish to fatherhood. I crave the challenges, the purposefulness, the augmentation of my identity, the stimulation. But then I wonder – what happens if I don’t get any of them? What happens if fatherhood turns out to be just mindlessness repetition of the same old tasks? Sure, I’ll be able to point to my achievements, and take satisfaction in a job well done, but I was hoping for a little bit of mental stimulation from this whole project as well. I suppose my only choice is to sit tight, not put all my eggs in one basket, and accept that what happens will happen. I should not abandon the search for mental stimulation elsewhere as well. It was not so long ago that I was just a kid, changing houses and jobs every few years. With so much variety, life is never dull. But now that I am settled down, this search for mental stimulation is crucial. I used to be definitely smart, but these days I’m not so sure. This must stop.

Sometimes I find myself fast-forwarding and practising conversations that are not due to happen for years and years and years. The “where did I come from?” conversation. The “can I have a computer in my room?” one. The “what does cuddy bufter mean?” one. The “you just don’t care about me, I hate you” conversation. Ah, rich tapestry of life.

Hormones are funny things, when you’re a pregnant mother-to-be. Karen goes from jubilation to paranoia at the drop of a hat. The jubilation bit is great, of course – I just went into the kitchen, where she proudly declared “I yam making biscuits!” – and I suppose that the bad times just have to be endured. There’s not really much that either of us can do about it, apart from hold tight and hope that it passes sooner rather than later. Generally I find that putting her to bed works quite well too.

All this being said, I think that I detect slight improvement. She is, as I may have mentioned, very worried that the entire pregnancy will be as uncomfortable as these first three months, when she had been “promised” by various literature that the worst should have passed by now. At risk of tempting fate, things do look marginally better with each day that passes.

Yesterday, and I apologise for any gruesome details that you may not wish to hear, as she dressed, I asked her why she was using a sanitary towel. She shyly looked to her feet, and explained that due to various factors, a pregnant woman suffers a slight loss of bladder control, which can result in a small mishap accompanying any coughing that may occur.

I, naturally, am finding great sport in asking “Did you…?” each time she coughs. I got a really painful pinch on the arm yesterday, as a result. But I am not going to stop. Hoh no. Too much fun.

Karen is having a hard time dealing with the various symptoms of pregnancy. She’s still suffering from morning sickness, and has decided that this means that it will continue for the next six months. I can understand why this worries her – it can’t be very pleasant. However, at least now we’ve told everyone, there’s no need to tiptoe around – if she needs to run off to barf, no-one’s going to hold it against her.

She’s enjoying shopping for maternity clothes and other such nesting activities. If we owned our own palace, I’m sure that I’d be decorating the nursery right about now, but as we are renting a house I find myself twiddling my thumbs trying to think of something productive to do. I draw a blank, and do the washing up instead, irrespective of how small the pile of dirties is.

She’s also a bit hormonal at times, which can be hard work, as I’m never quite sure what her mood is going to do next. It keeps me on my toes, but I can take it.

Telling the families at Christmas was about as much fun as could be expected. We had it all planned out, with champagne corks popping and hurrahs, but inevitably circumstances would leap up and everything would go topsy turvy. I dunno, I’m not really the centre-of-attention sort – I don’t like being asked all sorts of dumb questions. And the inevitable moment where everyone has said “Congratulations” but can’t think of what to say next… gah. Thank God it’s over.

I’ve tried talking to the bump, but I can’t really think of what to say. I can imagine the little foetus in there, tapping its toe, grumbling “Come on, quit it with all the baby talk. Say something worthwhile, or shut the fuck up.” Perhaps I should grab a good book and read it stories.

She continues to struggle on in a similar sort of vein. She’s got about enough energy for one hour of usefulness per day, the rest of the time she spends lying on the sofa or on the bed or in the bed.

We’ve started making certain preparations. An opportunity arose to acquire a rather spiffing pram/buggy device, which she capitalised on, as well as picking up some other guff too under similar circumstances. Though this will save us a lot of money in the long term, it does mean that the house is now full of crap.

She remarks that she can now feel the weight of the little fella, which must be quite peculiar. She’s very apprehensive about the ordeal which she faces in the not-too-distant future, but there’s no turning back now. I suppose I should probably rein in all this cocky swagger, because I doubt that it will all be meadows and flowers for me either, but I consider that it’s my role to be relatively optimistic. I think that this might help her.

Yesterday was our 12-week scan, and I’m very pleased to report that all signs were good, and it was wonderful to watch baby-to-be moving around. The downside of this is that Karen is now extremely conscious of baby-to-be’s existence, and every time we drive over a speed bump, or she goes to the toilet to be sick, she is worried that it is upsetting the foetus.

I’ve told her that the foetus is perfectly used to vomiting and speed bumps by now, but I’m not sure if this is any help. I guess she’s going to try and stay as still as possible for the next six months.

We’ve decided that having made it through the 12-week scan successfully, we are free to get excited and attached. So we’re telling people when the opportunity arises, and also tossing possible names back and forth.

Six months suddenly doesn’t seem like that long. Which is good, because I’m very eager. I’m also hoping that the baby takes on Karen’s tendency to sleep pretty much all the time, and my tendency to spend all waking hours perma-smiling.

As a general rule, babies don’t make me gooey – I think that they are hideous things, with a propensity to defacate into their own clothing and insert anything that isn’t tied down into their mouths. But this one’s mine. Which, quite frankly, makes it the best one, and it’s obviously not going to do any of these disgusting things.