I love my wife and son, I love my mother and sister, I love my nephew, I love dill and cinnamon, I love cakes, I love at least one of our cats.
There is another love that, every 4 years, comes to the forefront to consume my waking hours and a great many of the sleeping ones. I will for the next month make my wife a football widow and see if I can get the boy to be at least a little bit interested in the figures dancing around on the screen.
For now I've resolved to try to write a little about this and while it may be a shortlived thing it is, still, a thing.
So if you like you might want to visit https://armchairsocceroo.blogspot.com/ while I turn my attentions there.
Thursday 14 June 2018
Out and about...
There is a point at which you stop wanting to protect your new child from the outside world and to take him out to face it. For us that point came about a week in when we had to take him for an ultrasound and figured it was high time the government knew about him too and registered him for his paperwork so that if we encountered any "Papiere, bitte" moments we would be ready.
Amazed at how smoothly that all went we took him shopping and since he can't read or talk we breezed past the chocolate and chips aisle and didn't even hesitate in front of the toys. We went to visit his Aunty for her birthday lunch and then took him to his first licenced premises at the local Sports Club. Mindful of the lure of the pokies we had lunch outside but it was such a pleasant experience we ended up becoming members.
We were able to receive visitors as well and the little one was more than happy to be passed around like a, well, like a newborn baby and we marveled at what good parents we were and how lucky we were to have such an even tempered child.
We had lunches at restaurants but that was kind of cheating. We knew that the real test was going to be evenings. He was regular enough that we knew that early evening was his time to shine. By "shine" we mean be a complete cry baby. So we found a familiar family location and tried to see what happened. It was noisy and had many people while we enjoyed a trivia night in our regular haunt. Yes he cried a little but given the circumstance he didn't cry much and most of that was drowned out by all the ambient noise anyway. There's a lot to be said for crowded rooms. A crying baby stands out less and if they're comfy enough they'll just sleep anyway. Again, we kept him away from the pokies but there was Keno at the table. Luckily he can't grip the pencil to fill out the form yet.
Then it was time for some proper socialising by showing up to parents group.
Parents group, normally called mothers group but more accurately parents group because of my presence, is a mechanism where new mothers in a certain area are organised into a group to share their experiences and become a support network for one another. It was as awkward a start as you might expect with everyone testing to see how much they're willing to share with complete strangers. What I didn't expect was that a room full of newborns, and there were about 15 or so, could be as quiet as it was. Infact, and I'm sure we were not the only ones, there was some anxiety about which baby it would be to break the silence. That I don't remember which it was leaves me confident in saying it wasn't NotHeidi.
There were only 4 weeks of this facilitated weekly meeting after which the group was left to organise themselves which they did. In those 4 weeks a few more Dads showed up, I like to think it was my example, but the catch ups at various locations are father-free. It was noteworthy that many of the new mums were also new to the area and lacking the kind of support network that comes with being long term residents in one area. In that sense we fit that profile as well and that shared experience is also something that has helped bond the mothers despite the differences in personality, attitude and age.
NotHeidi thus is familiar with many children all sorts of adults and now it's time to give him access to some new locations. We took him on a bushwalk, though it must be said there was precious little walking done on his part. Where he didn't see a single fan but seemed quite intrigued by a few of the birds he saw. He enjoyed touching leaves and branches with his hands, though less so with the face. There's a price to be paid to have your child facing outwards in his BabyBjorn to see the world.
Having worked up a sweat walking around the bush we balanced it out with an experience of hustle and bustle (at least by Australian standards) of the city and dumplings in Chinatown. The trip to see his Grandma further west might be marginally longer distance wise but in terms of time spent in the car this was the longest one yet.
We went to visit the other Aunty and cousin, then have dinner with friends for what was, to that point, the longest time away from home (some 12 hours). Not once did he complain "are we there yet" or puke in the car. If he becomes someone who is keen on travel this might become chapter one of his book about his experiences.
Then, just before his 2month anniversary we took him back to where his parents were married and celebrated their love before all their friends and relatives. We explained to him the importance of love and finding someone who you are free to be yourself with and fear no judgement from. We kissed him and each other and reflected on how lucky we were to lead such wonderful lives.
Amazed at how smoothly that all went we took him shopping and since he can't read or talk we breezed past the chocolate and chips aisle and didn't even hesitate in front of the toys. We went to visit his Aunty for her birthday lunch and then took him to his first licenced premises at the local Sports Club. Mindful of the lure of the pokies we had lunch outside but it was such a pleasant experience we ended up becoming members.
We were able to receive visitors as well and the little one was more than happy to be passed around like a, well, like a newborn baby and we marveled at what good parents we were and how lucky we were to have such an even tempered child.
We had lunches at restaurants but that was kind of cheating. We knew that the real test was going to be evenings. He was regular enough that we knew that early evening was his time to shine. By "shine" we mean be a complete cry baby. So we found a familiar family location and tried to see what happened. It was noisy and had many people while we enjoyed a trivia night in our regular haunt. Yes he cried a little but given the circumstance he didn't cry much and most of that was drowned out by all the ambient noise anyway. There's a lot to be said for crowded rooms. A crying baby stands out less and if they're comfy enough they'll just sleep anyway. Again, we kept him away from the pokies but there was Keno at the table. Luckily he can't grip the pencil to fill out the form yet.
Then it was time for some proper socialising by showing up to parents group.
Parents group, normally called mothers group but more accurately parents group because of my presence, is a mechanism where new mothers in a certain area are organised into a group to share their experiences and become a support network for one another. It was as awkward a start as you might expect with everyone testing to see how much they're willing to share with complete strangers. What I didn't expect was that a room full of newborns, and there were about 15 or so, could be as quiet as it was. Infact, and I'm sure we were not the only ones, there was some anxiety about which baby it would be to break the silence. That I don't remember which it was leaves me confident in saying it wasn't NotHeidi.
There were only 4 weeks of this facilitated weekly meeting after which the group was left to organise themselves which they did. In those 4 weeks a few more Dads showed up, I like to think it was my example, but the catch ups at various locations are father-free. It was noteworthy that many of the new mums were also new to the area and lacking the kind of support network that comes with being long term residents in one area. In that sense we fit that profile as well and that shared experience is also something that has helped bond the mothers despite the differences in personality, attitude and age.
NotHeidi thus is familiar with many children all sorts of adults and now it's time to give him access to some new locations. We took him on a bushwalk, though it must be said there was precious little walking done on his part. Where he didn't see a single fan but seemed quite intrigued by a few of the birds he saw. He enjoyed touching leaves and branches with his hands, though less so with the face. There's a price to be paid to have your child facing outwards in his BabyBjorn to see the world.
Having worked up a sweat walking around the bush we balanced it out with an experience of hustle and bustle (at least by Australian standards) of the city and dumplings in Chinatown. The trip to see his Grandma further west might be marginally longer distance wise but in terms of time spent in the car this was the longest one yet.
We went to visit the other Aunty and cousin, then have dinner with friends for what was, to that point, the longest time away from home (some 12 hours). Not once did he complain "are we there yet" or puke in the car. If he becomes someone who is keen on travel this might become chapter one of his book about his experiences.
Then, just before his 2month anniversary we took him back to where his parents were married and celebrated their love before all their friends and relatives. We explained to him the importance of love and finding someone who you are free to be yourself with and fear no judgement from. We kissed him and each other and reflected on how lucky we were to lead such wonderful lives.
Getting to know you
Our house guest has now spent 4 months here and we're starting to understand him a little better.
His life is a simple cycle of eating or, more correctly, drinking, observing his world, crying as he finds another flaw in the way things are done sleeping and starting over. At intermittent intervals he will require a cleanup but don't we all. It's the moments he spends taking in his surroundings that are the most interesting and it's odd what catches the eye.
Much like cats deciding to play with the box their intended present came in NotHeidi will ignore the ever growing menagerie of stuffed animals and stare at the ceiling. Not in an idle head-in-the-air vacuous kind of way but a very intense stare at the item hanging from it.
He loves fans.
Whenever there's a fan in the vicinity and he sees it he will make an effort to continue seeing it. In an attempt to go with the flow I decided to humour him and tell him about how fans are quite useful in their own way, maybe not as much as ducted reverse cycle air conditioning but to illustrate the point of having them I switched one on. He became giddy with excitement, all his limbs twitching uncontrollably in utter delight that such a perfect thing could become more perfect still by moving in this way. It's then I became slightly envious of a man in a world so new that the sight of a ceiling fan could provide such an enthusiastic response.
His hands are enormous.
This is not to say I'm implying something that President Trump has previously been known to allude to, I'm not talking about that. When he was younger (not the incredibly ancient age he is now) his hands were semi permanently in a fist, with the thumb curled inside his other 4 fingers. As he slowly gains control of his muscles and learns to move them his hands have opened and now grasp things in ways that are encouraging. His hands are incredibly soft and his nails painfully sharp. It's an exercise in extreme patience and quite some concern to trim his nails. He will not hold still and the fear of trimming some finger along with the nail is frighteningly real. His hands can grasp his milk bottle and he will try to guide it to his mouth. Once in place it is possible to let go of the bottle for quite some time before his clutches fail him. I am thinking they might be goalkeepers hands.
Anything he does successfully grasp is usually guided to his mouth. Seeing him suck on fingers (both his own that those of others), books, toys, blankets and so on I am wondering if the term mouth is derived from the mouths of rivers. Bear with me. The mouth of a river is where water comes out into the ocean. So if you were going to name that geographic feature after a part of the body what would you choose? You'd go with penis, or vagina, or maybe bum if you're talking about the Ganges. No, it wasn't to protect the sensitivities of people who do not like to see those words that made them call it the mouth. It was the gushes of drool from a baby's mouth that did it. NotHeidi has an unending supply of saliva that falls out of his mouth at such a rate that we were left surprised at how many bibs we went through. Holding him on you for only a short amount of time will result in a wet patch where his mouth had been resting and any new bib is almost instantly soaked to the point where you start to wonder if maybe he is going to get dehydrated.
He has started to smile and giggle.
His mouth curls up at the edges to reveal a toothless smile that is so delightful and heartwarming that I am convinced, if he set his mind to it, he could melt steel just be smiling at it. It's an interesting transaction. His parents are genetically programed to want to see him smile. Things that please him make him smile. Therefore the parents expend a lot of effort into making him smile by pleasing him. So far tickling is completely passé. He finds getting undressed amusing, Daddy dancing makes him laugh (he's not alone) and looking in the mirror is also up there for him. It looks like the goalkeeping dream might make way for a career as a stripper.
The only thing standing against this is an embarrassment of riches when it comes to gas. Forget fracking, just hook this guy up to some generator and watch him go. Thankfully he's not yet on solid food but when he is I suspect that we might have to get him some charcoal filtered pants. Possibly as tear offs incase his dream of being a stripper is strong enough. It's not like he's eating Sauerkraut yet, heaven knows what gelatin will do to him.
As much fun as he has having his clothes taken off it's sometimes the case that they will not fit back on at the next cycle. His incessant eating has resulted in some serious growing and while it's a good thing that he does you can't help but feel bad for the clothes that barely got a look in. There's some seriously cute outfits that barely got a showing before they go into the pile of too small to fit anymore clothes. Looks like I might have to buy some more supporters gear before he turns 6 months after all. I'm not letting go of the goalkeeper option. He could combine the 2 careers... it would make for an amusing penalty shootout.
His life is a simple cycle of eating or, more correctly, drinking, observing his world, crying as he finds another flaw in the way things are done sleeping and starting over. At intermittent intervals he will require a cleanup but don't we all. It's the moments he spends taking in his surroundings that are the most interesting and it's odd what catches the eye.
Much like cats deciding to play with the box their intended present came in NotHeidi will ignore the ever growing menagerie of stuffed animals and stare at the ceiling. Not in an idle head-in-the-air vacuous kind of way but a very intense stare at the item hanging from it.
He loves fans.
Whenever there's a fan in the vicinity and he sees it he will make an effort to continue seeing it. In an attempt to go with the flow I decided to humour him and tell him about how fans are quite useful in their own way, maybe not as much as ducted reverse cycle air conditioning but to illustrate the point of having them I switched one on. He became giddy with excitement, all his limbs twitching uncontrollably in utter delight that such a perfect thing could become more perfect still by moving in this way. It's then I became slightly envious of a man in a world so new that the sight of a ceiling fan could provide such an enthusiastic response.
His hands are enormous.
This is not to say I'm implying something that President Trump has previously been known to allude to, I'm not talking about that. When he was younger (not the incredibly ancient age he is now) his hands were semi permanently in a fist, with the thumb curled inside his other 4 fingers. As he slowly gains control of his muscles and learns to move them his hands have opened and now grasp things in ways that are encouraging. His hands are incredibly soft and his nails painfully sharp. It's an exercise in extreme patience and quite some concern to trim his nails. He will not hold still and the fear of trimming some finger along with the nail is frighteningly real. His hands can grasp his milk bottle and he will try to guide it to his mouth. Once in place it is possible to let go of the bottle for quite some time before his clutches fail him. I am thinking they might be goalkeepers hands.
Anything he does successfully grasp is usually guided to his mouth. Seeing him suck on fingers (both his own that those of others), books, toys, blankets and so on I am wondering if the term mouth is derived from the mouths of rivers. Bear with me. The mouth of a river is where water comes out into the ocean. So if you were going to name that geographic feature after a part of the body what would you choose? You'd go with penis, or vagina, or maybe bum if you're talking about the Ganges. No, it wasn't to protect the sensitivities of people who do not like to see those words that made them call it the mouth. It was the gushes of drool from a baby's mouth that did it. NotHeidi has an unending supply of saliva that falls out of his mouth at such a rate that we were left surprised at how many bibs we went through. Holding him on you for only a short amount of time will result in a wet patch where his mouth had been resting and any new bib is almost instantly soaked to the point where you start to wonder if maybe he is going to get dehydrated.
He has started to smile and giggle.
His mouth curls up at the edges to reveal a toothless smile that is so delightful and heartwarming that I am convinced, if he set his mind to it, he could melt steel just be smiling at it. It's an interesting transaction. His parents are genetically programed to want to see him smile. Things that please him make him smile. Therefore the parents expend a lot of effort into making him smile by pleasing him. So far tickling is completely passé. He finds getting undressed amusing, Daddy dancing makes him laugh (he's not alone) and looking in the mirror is also up there for him. It looks like the goalkeeping dream might make way for a career as a stripper.
The only thing standing against this is an embarrassment of riches when it comes to gas. Forget fracking, just hook this guy up to some generator and watch him go. Thankfully he's not yet on solid food but when he is I suspect that we might have to get him some charcoal filtered pants. Possibly as tear offs incase his dream of being a stripper is strong enough. It's not like he's eating Sauerkraut yet, heaven knows what gelatin will do to him.
As much fun as he has having his clothes taken off it's sometimes the case that they will not fit back on at the next cycle. His incessant eating has resulted in some serious growing and while it's a good thing that he does you can't help but feel bad for the clothes that barely got a look in. There's some seriously cute outfits that barely got a showing before they go into the pile of too small to fit anymore clothes. Looks like I might have to buy some more supporters gear before he turns 6 months after all. I'm not letting go of the goalkeeper option. He could combine the 2 careers... it would make for an amusing penalty shootout.
Didn't we have a sofa there?
To answer the question of how long it takes for your life to change in such a way that you cannot remember how it was previously I'm pretty sure the figure is about 10-12 weeks.
I can't remember any time not worrying about whether we have plentiful supplies of wipes, nappies and formula (NotHeidi is getting breast milk for the most part but the way that kid eats a little extra on the side is useful). I'm not sure where the bouncers, playmats, plush toys and books all came from but I've no idea what used to occupy the spaces they now take up. Eating dinners in turn so that one party can dedicate themselves to the needs of NotHeidi is basically how I assume I've always eaten. I mean intrinsically I know that can't possibly be the case... I just can't fathom how it would work otherwise.
Every day brings a new variation on the theme of parenthood. The rashes, the coughs, the expelling of fluids and other decreasingly fluid matter are not what you'd call highlights but they inform you of how utterly dependent NotHeidi is on us both for everything. I recall once having to take similar care of another, much older, part of the family tree and the feelings that engendered in both parties. At it's root both occasions were borne of need and the tasks were performed with a sense of duty but while one was a memory I'd gleefully forget the other is one I will come to cherish.
OK, I'll admit that "cherish" is not quite the right word. NotHeidi's shit certainly does stink and it happily sticks to everything it ought not to. Still, you are engaged in an activity you know will be limited to a fixed time period, the length of which the wife and I might disagree on, but it's all in aid of progress and a continuation of your place in the world. Once your life has come full circle and you're back in nappies, have no idea what's going on and have trouble making yourself understood the task of looking after you is not the fulfilment of potential and promise but more one of karmic insurance payments. NotHeidi is going to be in for a bit of a surprise.
It is also at this juncture that NotHeidi's mere existence is kickstarting some of the intentionally neglected grownup activities that previously were better off left alone. Reviewing insurance options, checking finances, setting up wills, considering the things we would all rather not consider. After all there's new episodes of your favourite TV show to watch. A child in your life is an interesting way to distill the things that are essential in your life. The results are sometimes surprising. I never thought I'd give up my football club membership but it seems pointless to pay to not attend any games. That they will lead a nomadic existence for a few years unless the state government comes to its senses (unlikely) isn't helping.
There's also the question of empathy. I've never really considered myself as unfeeling or without compassion. Still I'm now pondering why it is that halfway through watching the most recent series of the TV show Ash vs the Evil Dead I got a little squeamish. I'm not a huge fan of horror, at least not in the way that Homer Simpson is a fan of Donuts, but the jokesy stylings of Bruce Campbell as he and Sam Raimi flog the dead horse of the latters one good idea amused me. Until NotHeidi came along and then the demon fetus killing splatter-fest became a little harder to take. He's just a baby! Certainly one born of demonic incantation and with a thirst for human blood but it's hardly his fault.
I'm not always entirely comfortable with who I'm turning into but you have to accept that life is a constant series of changes and you change along with it or you end up being that weird 50-something guy on the train with the shoulder length hair, bell bottom jeans, platform shoes and brown shirt with giant lapels. Sometimes I don't miss getting on the train at Kings Cross. I mean it's one thing to forgo stretch denim, stonewash, acid wash, whiskers, rips, holes and the jeans that look like you walked out of the bathroom without having completed all the tasks. You can live without those. But if you end up in a place where everything you are, have and do are the best they will ever be then... well... aren't you done?
I'm pleased to say that as splendid as life is I am not done. There are changes left to go through and while I'm hoping that they're all positive I'm prepared for some of them to not be.
I can't remember any time not worrying about whether we have plentiful supplies of wipes, nappies and formula (NotHeidi is getting breast milk for the most part but the way that kid eats a little extra on the side is useful). I'm not sure where the bouncers, playmats, plush toys and books all came from but I've no idea what used to occupy the spaces they now take up. Eating dinners in turn so that one party can dedicate themselves to the needs of NotHeidi is basically how I assume I've always eaten. I mean intrinsically I know that can't possibly be the case... I just can't fathom how it would work otherwise.
Every day brings a new variation on the theme of parenthood. The rashes, the coughs, the expelling of fluids and other decreasingly fluid matter are not what you'd call highlights but they inform you of how utterly dependent NotHeidi is on us both for everything. I recall once having to take similar care of another, much older, part of the family tree and the feelings that engendered in both parties. At it's root both occasions were borne of need and the tasks were performed with a sense of duty but while one was a memory I'd gleefully forget the other is one I will come to cherish.
OK, I'll admit that "cherish" is not quite the right word. NotHeidi's shit certainly does stink and it happily sticks to everything it ought not to. Still, you are engaged in an activity you know will be limited to a fixed time period, the length of which the wife and I might disagree on, but it's all in aid of progress and a continuation of your place in the world. Once your life has come full circle and you're back in nappies, have no idea what's going on and have trouble making yourself understood the task of looking after you is not the fulfilment of potential and promise but more one of karmic insurance payments. NotHeidi is going to be in for a bit of a surprise.
It is also at this juncture that NotHeidi's mere existence is kickstarting some of the intentionally neglected grownup activities that previously were better off left alone. Reviewing insurance options, checking finances, setting up wills, considering the things we would all rather not consider. After all there's new episodes of your favourite TV show to watch. A child in your life is an interesting way to distill the things that are essential in your life. The results are sometimes surprising. I never thought I'd give up my football club membership but it seems pointless to pay to not attend any games. That they will lead a nomadic existence for a few years unless the state government comes to its senses (unlikely) isn't helping.
There's also the question of empathy. I've never really considered myself as unfeeling or without compassion. Still I'm now pondering why it is that halfway through watching the most recent series of the TV show Ash vs the Evil Dead I got a little squeamish. I'm not a huge fan of horror, at least not in the way that Homer Simpson is a fan of Donuts, but the jokesy stylings of Bruce Campbell as he and Sam Raimi flog the dead horse of the latters one good idea amused me. Until NotHeidi came along and then the demon fetus killing splatter-fest became a little harder to take. He's just a baby! Certainly one born of demonic incantation and with a thirst for human blood but it's hardly his fault.
I'm not always entirely comfortable with who I'm turning into but you have to accept that life is a constant series of changes and you change along with it or you end up being that weird 50-something guy on the train with the shoulder length hair, bell bottom jeans, platform shoes and brown shirt with giant lapels. Sometimes I don't miss getting on the train at Kings Cross. I mean it's one thing to forgo stretch denim, stonewash, acid wash, whiskers, rips, holes and the jeans that look like you walked out of the bathroom without having completed all the tasks. You can live without those. But if you end up in a place where everything you are, have and do are the best they will ever be then... well... aren't you done?
I'm pleased to say that as splendid as life is I am not done. There are changes left to go through and while I'm hoping that they're all positive I'm prepared for some of them to not be.
Honeybunny
In all this discussion about NotHeidi and how I'm affected and changing because of him I'm intentionally glossing over how his mother is changing too. One of the axiomatic pieces of advice for any writer is to write what you know about and when it comes to that I am, at the very best, only the second most qualified person. However there are some things about motherhood that, when viewed from the fathers side, do bear mentioning.
This is not the woman I married.
I mean it is. Obviously. It's not like she walked off into the sunset and I just replaced her with a suitable facsimile. No, but you can't help but notice some changes.
Let's start with coffee. Like most nine-to-fivers there was a certain ritual to a cup or three of morning coffees. When the barista knows your name, and your favourite coffee you officially have a habit. NotHeidi's mum had a habit. Then, slowly, there was a conscious effort to remove that stimulant from the diet to the point where there was a slight embarassment as she walked past the coffee shop trying to avoid the eyes of the barista as he (and they were all "he's") got ready to greet her only for her to continue past leaving him a little deflated. "Maybe tomorrow...", he might have thought to himself.
There is always a benefit to having others to share your guilty pleasures with. It's why smokers tend to go out in groups because nothing bonds you quite like emphysema. It's why people only eat dessert if they can convince someone else to have one too, though I've never had that problem. What about when you can't stop talking about that stupid reality TV show you like so much when you find someone else does too. It's a camaraderie that you can share, a common experience and a talking point. So too with coffee.
How often have I been invited out for a coffee and I politely decline saying I don't drink it? It's like you're in a club called the human race and having to admit you're not actually a member. You become an outcast, people discuss you and whether your ability to sustain a morning without coffee might be linked to a rampant addiction to uppers. Perhaps it wasn't icing suger from a doughnut that was on his nose. Is he on some sort of disgusting health kick? Obviously my physique quickly dispels that last hypothesis. The only thing that could be worse is being a member of the club and then choosing to leave. This is what NotHeidi's mother did.
Then NotHeidi himself came along and because consistent sleep deprivation is something that simply cannot be overcome without help the coffee returned. It got called go-juice, I understand both interpretations of that name are apt.
My beautiful wife with coffee, her after giving it up and after resuming it again are not so different from each other. What has changed is that where before there was tenderness and an unending supply of optimism we have a newly found sense of steely resolve. There is pragmatism and there is a new, unspoken air of "If you don't like it I don't care and while you're at it please get the fuck out of my way". She would never utter those crude words but she doesn't have to and it's nice that I imagine she would still say "please". I put this down to a complicated result of what is best described as PTSD.
This is why mothers groups are generally so successful. No matter what else you might have opinions on or what you do each of you have carried around a human being for far too long. Each has gone through all sorts of prodding and probing for the health of their child. Expelled it through an opening natural or man made but in either case with lasting damage left behind. Then, on top of that, have this child continue to drain you of fluid through one of the more sensitive areas of the body and now it stops you from sleeping as well. If that kind of shared experience doesn't bond you what will?
There is a single mindedness and a willingness to overcome any obstacle that changes your stance, your attitude and your tolerance for idiocy. If my baby needs something I shall go get it. Store's closed? No problem, there's somebody with a key. Oh look, there's one right here.
Ummm... honey, that's a brick.
1000-yard stare.
I'll just start the car, shall I?
Having a child is like Occam's razor for life. I love my wife, I love her values, her humour and her unquenchable desire to do what is best for our child. She personifies everything that I could ask for in a mother and nothing of what she does is ever in any way too much trouble, or part of a convoluted quid pro quo arrangement. It's a selfless love for one human being and ensuring that everything is right for him to make his mark on the world without wanting for anything a child can reasonably expect.
I'm just here trying to help her do it. And not get in the way.
This is not the woman I married.
I mean it is. Obviously. It's not like she walked off into the sunset and I just replaced her with a suitable facsimile. No, but you can't help but notice some changes.
Let's start with coffee. Like most nine-to-fivers there was a certain ritual to a cup or three of morning coffees. When the barista knows your name, and your favourite coffee you officially have a habit. NotHeidi's mum had a habit. Then, slowly, there was a conscious effort to remove that stimulant from the diet to the point where there was a slight embarassment as she walked past the coffee shop trying to avoid the eyes of the barista as he (and they were all "he's") got ready to greet her only for her to continue past leaving him a little deflated. "Maybe tomorrow...", he might have thought to himself.
There is always a benefit to having others to share your guilty pleasures with. It's why smokers tend to go out in groups because nothing bonds you quite like emphysema. It's why people only eat dessert if they can convince someone else to have one too, though I've never had that problem. What about when you can't stop talking about that stupid reality TV show you like so much when you find someone else does too. It's a camaraderie that you can share, a common experience and a talking point. So too with coffee.
How often have I been invited out for a coffee and I politely decline saying I don't drink it? It's like you're in a club called the human race and having to admit you're not actually a member. You become an outcast, people discuss you and whether your ability to sustain a morning without coffee might be linked to a rampant addiction to uppers. Perhaps it wasn't icing suger from a doughnut that was on his nose. Is he on some sort of disgusting health kick? Obviously my physique quickly dispels that last hypothesis. The only thing that could be worse is being a member of the club and then choosing to leave. This is what NotHeidi's mother did.
Then NotHeidi himself came along and because consistent sleep deprivation is something that simply cannot be overcome without help the coffee returned. It got called go-juice, I understand both interpretations of that name are apt.
My beautiful wife with coffee, her after giving it up and after resuming it again are not so different from each other. What has changed is that where before there was tenderness and an unending supply of optimism we have a newly found sense of steely resolve. There is pragmatism and there is a new, unspoken air of "If you don't like it I don't care and while you're at it please get the fuck out of my way". She would never utter those crude words but she doesn't have to and it's nice that I imagine she would still say "please". I put this down to a complicated result of what is best described as PTSD.
This is why mothers groups are generally so successful. No matter what else you might have opinions on or what you do each of you have carried around a human being for far too long. Each has gone through all sorts of prodding and probing for the health of their child. Expelled it through an opening natural or man made but in either case with lasting damage left behind. Then, on top of that, have this child continue to drain you of fluid through one of the more sensitive areas of the body and now it stops you from sleeping as well. If that kind of shared experience doesn't bond you what will?
There is a single mindedness and a willingness to overcome any obstacle that changes your stance, your attitude and your tolerance for idiocy. If my baby needs something I shall go get it. Store's closed? No problem, there's somebody with a key. Oh look, there's one right here.
Ummm... honey, that's a brick.
1000-yard stare.
I'll just start the car, shall I?
Having a child is like Occam's razor for life. I love my wife, I love her values, her humour and her unquenchable desire to do what is best for our child. She personifies everything that I could ask for in a mother and nothing of what she does is ever in any way too much trouble, or part of a convoluted quid pro quo arrangement. It's a selfless love for one human being and ensuring that everything is right for him to make his mark on the world without wanting for anything a child can reasonably expect.
I'm just here trying to help her do it. And not get in the way.
Please Dad...
We want to give the world to our children. It's a rubbish gift in many ways but essentially what it means is we want to do everything we can for them, but sometimes what we can do is not enough. NotHeidi was born with an abnormality in one of his ureters and that was picked up in-utero. We were assured that these things are not uncommon and usually resolve themselves soon enough.
Yet scan after scan continued to be of concern and we were given a referral for two tests to be conducted at Westmead Childrens Hospital.
Westmead is a sprawling complex providing care for sick children throughout Australia. Going to the doctor is natural enough, if not for yourself then certainly for your child. Being told to go to Westmead brings you two feelings. One of dread that it should be required that you go where the sickest of children need to go and one of confidence because you believe that this is where you get the best care for your child.
Now, as a parent you are conflicted about the correct course of action. The tests were explained and neither seemed what you might call pleasant. The medical professional has explained the potential for this condition to cause further problems and the tests will explore how real and imminent that potential is. Yet you want to prevent any discomfort to your child. We went ahead with the tests and arrived at Westmead early one morning.
If you ever want to get some perspective in your life you can spend a lot of money on a retreat where you detox, learn mindfulness and practice some yoga. You could help out in a charity. Or you could just sit and watch the comings and goings in a place like Westmead. There are children with afflictions that would cast the best of us into pathetic self pity and incapacitate us. Yet here these young children are bandaged, propped and augmented managing a smile as their tireless yet exhausted parents stoically and proudly help them in the fight of their lives. For their lives. There's no lamentation or pity, just an acceptance of reality and the knowledge there is no choice but to go on. The bustle of the place is chaotic but at every moment there is care and warmth and the effort to ensure that we treat the sick so that they won't have to come back to this place.
We are eventually ushered into a room with an x-ray machine to test whether NotHeidi's bladder is allowing fluid back to the kidney. This involves a catheter feeding fluid into the bladder until it's full and x-raying what happens. I can't even type the word without squirming and it's a mighty small tube you're dealing with. To mitigate there was some numbing creme for the entry point and magic capsules of sugar water that make a bothered baby instantly forget what's going on and concentrate on the sweet, sweet nummy coming into its mouth. The cheerful dog, cat, zebra and other motifs on the x-ray gowns were a nice touch but you were keenly aware of the fact that you had lead plates protecting your body from the x-rays while your son was being exposed to them. Several capsules later we were done and while we wouldn't receive any definitive results until our next doctors appointment the suggestion was there wasn't anything to worry about on this count at least.
My son had fared infinitely better than I would have in the same position and cried a lot less. He certainly didn't enjoy it though.
The next test was to determine that the kidneys themselves were functioning as normal and involved getting a cannula inserted, feeding radioactive material into the bloodstream and then tracing the movement of that material as it was processed through the kidneys and out the bladder. We were assured that the process was safe and would not result in NotHeidi gaining superpowers to help his fight against villany. The biggest issue here was with inserting a cannula. Finding a vein is tricky at the best of times, getting one in a baby is not easy. After the first unsuccessful attempt another limb was tried with a similar lack of success. Already having gone through several capsules of the magic sugar water it was then that NotHeidi turned to look me directly in the eye with an expression that haunts me.
As if to say "Dad, please help me", he conveyed a look so earnestly pleading that it might have fractured my heart. That look is the entire reason I am writing this entry. The best I could do in response was to say to him "I know this isn't nice, but we need to do this to make sure you'll be OK". I don't think he was impressed but at the 3rd attempt the cannula was in. The material was put through and he was strapped into the sensor for 20 minutes to watch his kidneys perfectly clean his blood and create radioactive pee. He even managed a little sleep while that was happening.
As we left the hospital I wanted to buy him the world's largest ice-cream as reward for his courage. Instead I just shed a little tear as I got the horrible feeling that perhaps this was the first time I had failed him.
Yet scan after scan continued to be of concern and we were given a referral for two tests to be conducted at Westmead Childrens Hospital.
Westmead is a sprawling complex providing care for sick children throughout Australia. Going to the doctor is natural enough, if not for yourself then certainly for your child. Being told to go to Westmead brings you two feelings. One of dread that it should be required that you go where the sickest of children need to go and one of confidence because you believe that this is where you get the best care for your child.
Now, as a parent you are conflicted about the correct course of action. The tests were explained and neither seemed what you might call pleasant. The medical professional has explained the potential for this condition to cause further problems and the tests will explore how real and imminent that potential is. Yet you want to prevent any discomfort to your child. We went ahead with the tests and arrived at Westmead early one morning.
If you ever want to get some perspective in your life you can spend a lot of money on a retreat where you detox, learn mindfulness and practice some yoga. You could help out in a charity. Or you could just sit and watch the comings and goings in a place like Westmead. There are children with afflictions that would cast the best of us into pathetic self pity and incapacitate us. Yet here these young children are bandaged, propped and augmented managing a smile as their tireless yet exhausted parents stoically and proudly help them in the fight of their lives. For their lives. There's no lamentation or pity, just an acceptance of reality and the knowledge there is no choice but to go on. The bustle of the place is chaotic but at every moment there is care and warmth and the effort to ensure that we treat the sick so that they won't have to come back to this place.
We are eventually ushered into a room with an x-ray machine to test whether NotHeidi's bladder is allowing fluid back to the kidney. This involves a catheter feeding fluid into the bladder until it's full and x-raying what happens. I can't even type the word without squirming and it's a mighty small tube you're dealing with. To mitigate there was some numbing creme for the entry point and magic capsules of sugar water that make a bothered baby instantly forget what's going on and concentrate on the sweet, sweet nummy coming into its mouth. The cheerful dog, cat, zebra and other motifs on the x-ray gowns were a nice touch but you were keenly aware of the fact that you had lead plates protecting your body from the x-rays while your son was being exposed to them. Several capsules later we were done and while we wouldn't receive any definitive results until our next doctors appointment the suggestion was there wasn't anything to worry about on this count at least.
My son had fared infinitely better than I would have in the same position and cried a lot less. He certainly didn't enjoy it though.
The next test was to determine that the kidneys themselves were functioning as normal and involved getting a cannula inserted, feeding radioactive material into the bloodstream and then tracing the movement of that material as it was processed through the kidneys and out the bladder. We were assured that the process was safe and would not result in NotHeidi gaining superpowers to help his fight against villany. The biggest issue here was with inserting a cannula. Finding a vein is tricky at the best of times, getting one in a baby is not easy. After the first unsuccessful attempt another limb was tried with a similar lack of success. Already having gone through several capsules of the magic sugar water it was then that NotHeidi turned to look me directly in the eye with an expression that haunts me.
As if to say "Dad, please help me", he conveyed a look so earnestly pleading that it might have fractured my heart. That look is the entire reason I am writing this entry. The best I could do in response was to say to him "I know this isn't nice, but we need to do this to make sure you'll be OK". I don't think he was impressed but at the 3rd attempt the cannula was in. The material was put through and he was strapped into the sensor for 20 minutes to watch his kidneys perfectly clean his blood and create radioactive pee. He even managed a little sleep while that was happening.
As we left the hospital I wanted to buy him the world's largest ice-cream as reward for his courage. Instead I just shed a little tear as I got the horrible feeling that perhaps this was the first time I had failed him.
Sunday 18 February 2018
Do Babies dream of Electric Sheep
What do babies dream about?
NotHeidi is not always sleeping, but he gets his fair share. He has his ways and little by little you start to know his idiosyncracies. Some are fairly universal, he'll cry when he's got air needing to escape, the exit strategy appears to be immaterial in this regard. He cries in a slightly different way to alert anyone who is lactating in the immediate vicinity that he'd like to do business and... somewhat more unusually when he likes to do the other kind of business I find it is best to wait until he's had 3 audible movements unless you want to bear witness to something I assure you you do not. He'll spend the remaining non-sleeping hours curiously contemplating the world for long stretches as he exercises his fingers, arms legs and toes all at the same time in a transcendent dance that captures your entire attention and sucks the time straight out of the universe. It would surely become the next gym craze if you could somehow formalise the movements.
Finally he will sleep for long stretches, usually after a food coma has been induced and the burps taken care of. He will sleep in the bassinet at night and during the day he will variously use the baby bouncer/rocker or the chest of either parent. On the occasions he uses me as a mattress I note various levels of sleep including what I would assume his dream sleep. His eyes are too pudgy (and slightly gunky) when closed to really discern REM but he does the same thing that cats do as they sleep and dream which is to make weird face twitchy movements and periodic jittering of arms and legs.
So the question is... if he's dreaming, what's he dreaming about? His total life experience is less than 2 weeks. His life is a bewildering blur of boobs, people and having his undercarriage cleaned I shudder to think what kind of dream you might contrive from these limited experiences. He's met a few people, and when I say "met" I mean has been held, stroked, cooed at, smiled at and prodded by the kind of people we can afford to associate with. This includes random grannies who spontaneously burst into tears when looking at something so sweet and innocent and the man at Centrelink/Medicare who, when we revealed Centrelink was his first post-homecoming excursion, said "well young man, I hope you won't make a habit of coming here".
You might wonder why you would need a Medicare number when aged barely 1 week but rest assured that bureaucracy does not discriminate based on age. When we went to get his referral ultrasound to check on a condition discovered in-utero we struck 2 problems. One, his name was not on the referral slip because at the time he didn't have a name. Two, we were advised when making the appointment that unless he, not us, had a medicare number we would have to pay the full amount of the service.
To tackle the first problem the referral was re-issued by fax (finally I understand why this technology still exists). The second was a bit trickier. After an initial interchange upon our arrival I felt I might have burned all my bridges. Still, I managed to return when it came to pay and remain cordial enough for the receptionist to offer to look NotHeidi up on "the system". Lo, he was there with Medicare number that was shared for my future use and I did not have to pay $170. Sometimes things work out.
He's been shopping with us and did not pester us for chocolate, chips or soft drinks and on the checkout we had no need for the school sports dockets. I don't know which of those things are more evil but I hope it's not chocolate.
He has also partaken in the greatest of all Aussie pastimes, the Bunnings sausage sizzle. It was for the local Rotary club, they used hotdog buns, which I feel is not traditional, but they were fresh and the sausages were above average so I'd rate it a 7/10 sizzle. Side note - to get a 10/10 I have to really be on board with the charity in question, so a 7 is pretty good.
So if I had to construct a dream from that... maybe stuck in a Bunnings with shelf upon shelf of boobs while hungry for breast milk but unable to buy any because he doesn't have the right card all while being chased by a sonographer. Or maybe stuck in a car with your parents while boring 80's music is playing and all you can see is trees running away from you. As of last night he has the ultimate nightmare of seeing the Sydney FC ladies team losing the grand final. I tried to turn his bouncer away before full time... his football team will have plenty of opportunity to disappoint him in future.
Though am I coddling him by sparing him painful truths? Should I show him the matches from the 2008/09 season?
NotHeidi is not always sleeping, but he gets his fair share. He has his ways and little by little you start to know his idiosyncracies. Some are fairly universal, he'll cry when he's got air needing to escape, the exit strategy appears to be immaterial in this regard. He cries in a slightly different way to alert anyone who is lactating in the immediate vicinity that he'd like to do business and... somewhat more unusually when he likes to do the other kind of business I find it is best to wait until he's had 3 audible movements unless you want to bear witness to something I assure you you do not. He'll spend the remaining non-sleeping hours curiously contemplating the world for long stretches as he exercises his fingers, arms legs and toes all at the same time in a transcendent dance that captures your entire attention and sucks the time straight out of the universe. It would surely become the next gym craze if you could somehow formalise the movements.
Finally he will sleep for long stretches, usually after a food coma has been induced and the burps taken care of. He will sleep in the bassinet at night and during the day he will variously use the baby bouncer/rocker or the chest of either parent. On the occasions he uses me as a mattress I note various levels of sleep including what I would assume his dream sleep. His eyes are too pudgy (and slightly gunky) when closed to really discern REM but he does the same thing that cats do as they sleep and dream which is to make weird face twitchy movements and periodic jittering of arms and legs.
So the question is... if he's dreaming, what's he dreaming about? His total life experience is less than 2 weeks. His life is a bewildering blur of boobs, people and having his undercarriage cleaned I shudder to think what kind of dream you might contrive from these limited experiences. He's met a few people, and when I say "met" I mean has been held, stroked, cooed at, smiled at and prodded by the kind of people we can afford to associate with. This includes random grannies who spontaneously burst into tears when looking at something so sweet and innocent and the man at Centrelink/Medicare who, when we revealed Centrelink was his first post-homecoming excursion, said "well young man, I hope you won't make a habit of coming here".
You might wonder why you would need a Medicare number when aged barely 1 week but rest assured that bureaucracy does not discriminate based on age. When we went to get his referral ultrasound to check on a condition discovered in-utero we struck 2 problems. One, his name was not on the referral slip because at the time he didn't have a name. Two, we were advised when making the appointment that unless he, not us, had a medicare number we would have to pay the full amount of the service.
To tackle the first problem the referral was re-issued by fax (finally I understand why this technology still exists). The second was a bit trickier. After an initial interchange upon our arrival I felt I might have burned all my bridges. Still, I managed to return when it came to pay and remain cordial enough for the receptionist to offer to look NotHeidi up on "the system". Lo, he was there with Medicare number that was shared for my future use and I did not have to pay $170. Sometimes things work out.
He's been shopping with us and did not pester us for chocolate, chips or soft drinks and on the checkout we had no need for the school sports dockets. I don't know which of those things are more evil but I hope it's not chocolate.
He has also partaken in the greatest of all Aussie pastimes, the Bunnings sausage sizzle. It was for the local Rotary club, they used hotdog buns, which I feel is not traditional, but they were fresh and the sausages were above average so I'd rate it a 7/10 sizzle. Side note - to get a 10/10 I have to really be on board with the charity in question, so a 7 is pretty good.
So if I had to construct a dream from that... maybe stuck in a Bunnings with shelf upon shelf of boobs while hungry for breast milk but unable to buy any because he doesn't have the right card all while being chased by a sonographer. Or maybe stuck in a car with your parents while boring 80's music is playing and all you can see is trees running away from you. As of last night he has the ultimate nightmare of seeing the Sydney FC ladies team losing the grand final. I tried to turn his bouncer away before full time... his football team will have plenty of opportunity to disappoint him in future.
Though am I coddling him by sparing him painful truths? Should I show him the matches from the 2008/09 season?
Sunday 11 February 2018
Coming home
Some words are absolute.
Either you are pregnant or you are not. You cannot be a little bit pregnant. Either something is real or it is not. You might have a nice argument about what "real" actually means and did just that in my first year at University but today things got more real.
We came home.
Hospital is never a nice place to visit, very few have tripadvisor ratings (although in checking this i came upon the UK's NHS site which appears to do just that) and if they did you might expect some sharp criticisms. "Food was average at best", "people kept walking into our room and jabbed me in places I'd rather not be jabbed", "the view was rubbish"... that sort of thing. Also you will go batshit bonkers insane staying in a small room with only some hallways to walk for exercise. However when you've just had a child, particularly when it was delivered by what was variously called the vaginal bypass or via the sunroof, there is something very reassuring by having a rotating shift of experienced staff advise and monitor you.
Even with the wealth of experience aiding you you can get a surprise because you are not told everything (eg did you know you get the shakes when colostrum gives way to milk production, we didn't but if I'd known I would have worked harder to contrive a milkshake joke out of it). Also you are sometimes faced with advise that doesn't exactly align with that of the practitioner on the previous shift. You're left to navigate that advice and pick and choose a path for yourself. But mostly there's always someone on hand to pick up the baby and have it go instantly silent when you've spent an hour trying every which way to settle him down, to deliver some formula, some pain relief or another tray of food that sounded a lot better on the menu than it looks in real life.
Then you go home. You fill out the paperwork, sign off that you're a responsible human in charge of someone else's life and you're on your merry way. Think of it as a slightly less complicated process then getting some Codeine from the Chemist before you needed a prescritption. We didn't exactly expect a lineup of nurses high-fiving you as you exit but if you think about it when you buy an iPhone on release day that's exactly what you get. For a phone. For humans... critically less enthusiasm. I fear that as a race we may have lost sight of what's important because while both are very similar only one will last more than a few years. You stare at them for hours on end, they interrupt you with calls when you're busy with something else and they both cost a bomb. We three left the hospital alone, down the corridor and into the lift unseen by so many eyes that until barely an hour before had known more about your toilet habits than anyone, ever, including yourself.
You then spend 10 minutes getting the capsule properly hooked up and speed off at 10km/h... in a 60km/h zone. You inherently feel you may be travelling too fast but you've seen too many dashcam videos to risk slowing any further. I bought a new carton of eggs the previous night and in retrospect I feel I might as well have been doing the Dakar rally in comparison to what was going on with a child in the back. Apparently this too is common.
On the bright side he slept through the entire trip home.
Then you get home and ... stop. There's nobody here, you've got to do it all yourself and it all just gets more real. Wife and I are a team, we will do it... we're not always convinced how and we largely keep those doubts to ourselves because it really helps to think the other person has it covered. It's the socially acceptable lie where we each know we're faking it but in the absence of any admission of that fact we are willing to deceive ourselves into believing we'll be fine for the common good.
Meanwhile the cats, much like when a new student is introduced into the classroom, quickly scrambled to claim their spots as theirs just so the new arrival doesn't get any funny ideas about that space in the bouncer or the bed or basically any spot in the house except for the laundry where the noisy machines live that really harsh their mellow. NotHeidi took it in good humour and continued to lie in the detachable capsule with his head at a comfortable right angle to the rest of his body. I mentally note that next time we should try to find something that wedges his head a little less comfortably into position.
Fortunately the rhythms of the hospital are somewhat replicable. Feeding, burping, sleeping and then we set about unstrapping NotHeidi and doing the same to him. There's beautiful moments captured on camera and shared with family and slowly rhythm of the day winds down and you ready yourself to start working through the riches of frozen bolognese that were handily prepared for this time where not much is available to prepare meals.
You notice that home is a far more quiet place than the hospital. There are no beeps, hallway conversations, doors opening and closing (this will no doubt bite us in the bum when NotHeidi becomes mobile) in short the tension you've built up over the past few days slowly cakes off and gives way to a sense of calm. Inside you fervently hope it rubs off on the little one.
As with most parents you are convinced he's very advanced. He can lift his head, he can push his body along the ground if he has something to brace his feet against and the eyes already appear to be taking in his surroundings. Quietly judging his new surroundings and after a look that says "This'll do... for now" he drifts back into sleep and you wonder how you will ever give him all that his potential deserves.
Either you are pregnant or you are not. You cannot be a little bit pregnant. Either something is real or it is not. You might have a nice argument about what "real" actually means and did just that in my first year at University but today things got more real.
We came home.
Hospital is never a nice place to visit, very few have tripadvisor ratings (although in checking this i came upon the UK's NHS site which appears to do just that) and if they did you might expect some sharp criticisms. "Food was average at best", "people kept walking into our room and jabbed me in places I'd rather not be jabbed", "the view was rubbish"... that sort of thing. Also you will go batshit bonkers insane staying in a small room with only some hallways to walk for exercise. However when you've just had a child, particularly when it was delivered by what was variously called the vaginal bypass or via the sunroof, there is something very reassuring by having a rotating shift of experienced staff advise and monitor you.
Even with the wealth of experience aiding you you can get a surprise because you are not told everything (eg did you know you get the shakes when colostrum gives way to milk production, we didn't but if I'd known I would have worked harder to contrive a milkshake joke out of it). Also you are sometimes faced with advise that doesn't exactly align with that of the practitioner on the previous shift. You're left to navigate that advice and pick and choose a path for yourself. But mostly there's always someone on hand to pick up the baby and have it go instantly silent when you've spent an hour trying every which way to settle him down, to deliver some formula, some pain relief or another tray of food that sounded a lot better on the menu than it looks in real life.
Then you go home. You fill out the paperwork, sign off that you're a responsible human in charge of someone else's life and you're on your merry way. Think of it as a slightly less complicated process then getting some Codeine from the Chemist before you needed a prescritption. We didn't exactly expect a lineup of nurses high-fiving you as you exit but if you think about it when you buy an iPhone on release day that's exactly what you get. For a phone. For humans... critically less enthusiasm. I fear that as a race we may have lost sight of what's important because while both are very similar only one will last more than a few years. You stare at them for hours on end, they interrupt you with calls when you're busy with something else and they both cost a bomb. We three left the hospital alone, down the corridor and into the lift unseen by so many eyes that until barely an hour before had known more about your toilet habits than anyone, ever, including yourself.
You then spend 10 minutes getting the capsule properly hooked up and speed off at 10km/h... in a 60km/h zone. You inherently feel you may be travelling too fast but you've seen too many dashcam videos to risk slowing any further. I bought a new carton of eggs the previous night and in retrospect I feel I might as well have been doing the Dakar rally in comparison to what was going on with a child in the back. Apparently this too is common.
On the bright side he slept through the entire trip home.
Then you get home and ... stop. There's nobody here, you've got to do it all yourself and it all just gets more real. Wife and I are a team, we will do it... we're not always convinced how and we largely keep those doubts to ourselves because it really helps to think the other person has it covered. It's the socially acceptable lie where we each know we're faking it but in the absence of any admission of that fact we are willing to deceive ourselves into believing we'll be fine for the common good.
Meanwhile the cats, much like when a new student is introduced into the classroom, quickly scrambled to claim their spots as theirs just so the new arrival doesn't get any funny ideas about that space in the bouncer or the bed or basically any spot in the house except for the laundry where the noisy machines live that really harsh their mellow. NotHeidi took it in good humour and continued to lie in the detachable capsule with his head at a comfortable right angle to the rest of his body. I mentally note that next time we should try to find something that wedges his head a little less comfortably into position.
Fortunately the rhythms of the hospital are somewhat replicable. Feeding, burping, sleeping and then we set about unstrapping NotHeidi and doing the same to him. There's beautiful moments captured on camera and shared with family and slowly rhythm of the day winds down and you ready yourself to start working through the riches of frozen bolognese that were handily prepared for this time where not much is available to prepare meals.
You notice that home is a far more quiet place than the hospital. There are no beeps, hallway conversations, doors opening and closing (this will no doubt bite us in the bum when NotHeidi becomes mobile) in short the tension you've built up over the past few days slowly cakes off and gives way to a sense of calm. Inside you fervently hope it rubs off on the little one.
As with most parents you are convinced he's very advanced. He can lift his head, he can push his body along the ground if he has something to brace his feet against and the eyes already appear to be taking in his surroundings. Quietly judging his new surroundings and after a look that says "This'll do... for now" he drifts back into sleep and you wonder how you will ever give him all that his potential deserves.
Friday 9 February 2018
NotHeidi's arrival
One of the most emphasised points the antenatal class (both the hospital one and the more woo-woo one) was not to listen to other people's birth stories. I think I understand why. So let me tell you about ours.
We planned to induce and when the hospital asked the obstetrician why she replied "Patient sick of being pregnant". The pregnancy had gone full term, it just wasn't looking like it was going to end. So we booked in, arrived and kicked it off with some synthetic hormones to simulate the process of labour. After a night of waiting the labour finally came and we started off with our carefully practised pain management breathing techniques, then started the massage, went with the water and then the gas. The nursing staff assured us that the gas isn't really considered a drug and given we managed to go several hours that was a pretty good effort. I say "we" but really I mean "her". At any rate whomever we were trying to impress would really have been.
Things escalated quickly from there. After making the request for the epidural the on duty nurse said something that I'm pretty sure would have meant the birth would have been a zero-sum change to the population. She suggested that perhaps it was too late to administer, we explicitly stated we wanted a window of opportunity to be communicated to us before there was no more epidural option.
Thankfully the midwife was a bit more understanding and the call went out to all the anaesthetists and administered some pethidine as a stop gap measure because the gap was widening faster than the divide between rich and poor. The call was answered remarkably quickly and much to mother-in-laws delight there was a handsome young man with a ready smile and the power to ease her daughters suffering at the door very quickly.
I like to think I am relatively self-confident and while I know I am very far from perfect I'm not particularly bothered by stronger, smarter or better looking men. Even in combination those qualities are still just nature's way of reminding you that there's always a new model coming and it has more horsepower, gets more mileage, is more reliable and generally nicer to drive. However if a man is all those things and on top of that can stick a needle into your wife's spine, feed a tube through and then wash fentanyl into it to make all the speaking-in-tongues-inducing pain go away while you're pathetically rubbing shoulders and incanting assurance statements... well I felt like less of a man at that moment.
On the bright side the wife had her back to him for most of the time.
I'd like to end the story here and say it was all smooth sailing from there on in. It wasn't.
While the pain was now eminently manageable and the contractions continuing on their merry way NotHeidi was not enjoying the ride and after an assessment by the obstetrician the call was made to go for the cesarean to prevent any further distress or complications. This was not part of the plan. I am infact now firmly convinced the making of a birth plan serves mainly as a means to have you research and understand the process, but not to affect it in any way. It's as if there is a midwife at the door as you enter who Z-snaps you as she says "you in my world now bi-atch" and proceeds to tear up your plan while unblinkingly staring at you, daring you to react.
In many ways the neck snapping speed at which the events hereafter unfolded were a blessing as overthinking the process would certainly just have served to raise anxiety levels for no real benefit. Turns out while an epidural takes away most of the pain it does nothing to remove fear.
So after 8pm in a theatre staffed by enough people to fill the other kind of theatre we listened to our wedding playlist as a doctor cut open my wife and took out a child. If that wasn't enough the doctor was standing on a footstool. There were people pushing on wifes stomach to make the baby pop out and finally the forceps came out to complete the task. It appears the parallels to his father include not just a passable resemblance but NotHeidi has the same forceps bruises almost half a century later.
The whole thing was quite a growing-up exercise. I survived my squeamishness, and I have to say I needed to. I didn't look over the curtain but there was ample blood on the floor and the gowns that made me wonder if, infact, this was Rosemary's baby. However I'm not quite rid of the juvenile in me yet as I looked at my son and may or may not have said out loud "his junk is bigger than mine!".
However I am glossing over the most powerful part. That is the moment the baby is alive and breathing of his own accord and shown to you and you hold him. Made of the very essence of yourself and the person you love and imbued with life, yours to pass on your wisdom and foibles but also a stranger you will spend the next few years meeting. The moment you join the most inner workings of nature itself and replicate and, hopefully, improve the human race. You feel utterly insignificant and at the same time inconquerably powerful. I can make my own people.
Before you know it everyone files out of the room, surgical masks are removed, colleagues quiz each other on plans for the rest of the night and you've forgotten to pass on the message from the retired anaesthetist you met while getting changed as he tells you girls destroy your brain and boys destroy your house. He has 3 girls, so I guess he has no need for alcohol... and a nice house to not keep it in.
Wife and I spend just under an hour in the eerily dark and empty recovery ward making sure she doesn't suddenly explode and that NotHeidi has recovered from his rude entrance to the world. The wife is parched and downs ice water like it's a race to save the oceans. We eventually return, spent, to the waiting grandmothers who have endured a too-long day to be a part of the process but sadly missed out on the money moment. There's a lot of love in the room but there is very little energy in the tank. The goodbyes said the machine swings into action and observation checks and weighings and immunisations all replace one another in turn until finally we get our first chance at sleep well into the small hours of the new day.
Wife has a bed she is confined to until at least the next morning. I get a recliner that does not live up to its name and endure the most uncomfortable nights sleep I've had since I slept on a table by an open window after a day of 46C in a house with no air conditioning.
All in all the process of becoming a father has its benefits and drawbacks, it's not for everyone and I was convinced for many years it was also not for me. Now comes the hard part... because as the coffee mug I once gifted to a man who proved the point said
"Any man can become a father, it takes someone special to be a Dad"
We planned to induce and when the hospital asked the obstetrician why she replied "Patient sick of being pregnant". The pregnancy had gone full term, it just wasn't looking like it was going to end. So we booked in, arrived and kicked it off with some synthetic hormones to simulate the process of labour. After a night of waiting the labour finally came and we started off with our carefully practised pain management breathing techniques, then started the massage, went with the water and then the gas. The nursing staff assured us that the gas isn't really considered a drug and given we managed to go several hours that was a pretty good effort. I say "we" but really I mean "her". At any rate whomever we were trying to impress would really have been.
Things escalated quickly from there. After making the request for the epidural the on duty nurse said something that I'm pretty sure would have meant the birth would have been a zero-sum change to the population. She suggested that perhaps it was too late to administer, we explicitly stated we wanted a window of opportunity to be communicated to us before there was no more epidural option.
Thankfully the midwife was a bit more understanding and the call went out to all the anaesthetists and administered some pethidine as a stop gap measure because the gap was widening faster than the divide between rich and poor. The call was answered remarkably quickly and much to mother-in-laws delight there was a handsome young man with a ready smile and the power to ease her daughters suffering at the door very quickly.
I like to think I am relatively self-confident and while I know I am very far from perfect I'm not particularly bothered by stronger, smarter or better looking men. Even in combination those qualities are still just nature's way of reminding you that there's always a new model coming and it has more horsepower, gets more mileage, is more reliable and generally nicer to drive. However if a man is all those things and on top of that can stick a needle into your wife's spine, feed a tube through and then wash fentanyl into it to make all the speaking-in-tongues-inducing pain go away while you're pathetically rubbing shoulders and incanting assurance statements... well I felt like less of a man at that moment.
On the bright side the wife had her back to him for most of the time.
I'd like to end the story here and say it was all smooth sailing from there on in. It wasn't.
While the pain was now eminently manageable and the contractions continuing on their merry way NotHeidi was not enjoying the ride and after an assessment by the obstetrician the call was made to go for the cesarean to prevent any further distress or complications. This was not part of the plan. I am infact now firmly convinced the making of a birth plan serves mainly as a means to have you research and understand the process, but not to affect it in any way. It's as if there is a midwife at the door as you enter who Z-snaps you as she says "you in my world now bi-atch" and proceeds to tear up your plan while unblinkingly staring at you, daring you to react.
In many ways the neck snapping speed at which the events hereafter unfolded were a blessing as overthinking the process would certainly just have served to raise anxiety levels for no real benefit. Turns out while an epidural takes away most of the pain it does nothing to remove fear.
So after 8pm in a theatre staffed by enough people to fill the other kind of theatre we listened to our wedding playlist as a doctor cut open my wife and took out a child. If that wasn't enough the doctor was standing on a footstool. There were people pushing on wifes stomach to make the baby pop out and finally the forceps came out to complete the task. It appears the parallels to his father include not just a passable resemblance but NotHeidi has the same forceps bruises almost half a century later.
The whole thing was quite a growing-up exercise. I survived my squeamishness, and I have to say I needed to. I didn't look over the curtain but there was ample blood on the floor and the gowns that made me wonder if, infact, this was Rosemary's baby. However I'm not quite rid of the juvenile in me yet as I looked at my son and may or may not have said out loud "his junk is bigger than mine!".
However I am glossing over the most powerful part. That is the moment the baby is alive and breathing of his own accord and shown to you and you hold him. Made of the very essence of yourself and the person you love and imbued with life, yours to pass on your wisdom and foibles but also a stranger you will spend the next few years meeting. The moment you join the most inner workings of nature itself and replicate and, hopefully, improve the human race. You feel utterly insignificant and at the same time inconquerably powerful. I can make my own people.
Before you know it everyone files out of the room, surgical masks are removed, colleagues quiz each other on plans for the rest of the night and you've forgotten to pass on the message from the retired anaesthetist you met while getting changed as he tells you girls destroy your brain and boys destroy your house. He has 3 girls, so I guess he has no need for alcohol... and a nice house to not keep it in.
Wife and I spend just under an hour in the eerily dark and empty recovery ward making sure she doesn't suddenly explode and that NotHeidi has recovered from his rude entrance to the world. The wife is parched and downs ice water like it's a race to save the oceans. We eventually return, spent, to the waiting grandmothers who have endured a too-long day to be a part of the process but sadly missed out on the money moment. There's a lot of love in the room but there is very little energy in the tank. The goodbyes said the machine swings into action and observation checks and weighings and immunisations all replace one another in turn until finally we get our first chance at sleep well into the small hours of the new day.
Wife has a bed she is confined to until at least the next morning. I get a recliner that does not live up to its name and endure the most uncomfortable nights sleep I've had since I slept on a table by an open window after a day of 46C in a house with no air conditioning.
All in all the process of becoming a father has its benefits and drawbacks, it's not for everyone and I was convinced for many years it was also not for me. Now comes the hard part... because as the coffee mug I once gifted to a man who proved the point said
"Any man can become a father, it takes someone special to be a Dad"
I'm married to Kane
There's something deeply unsettling about watching your wife's stomach move because there is something inside it that's alive. Your mind inevitably snaps to that scene in Alien. I'm not proud of what I said the last time I saw this happen but I want you to understand that as a human I am constantly watching the world and wondering what might be, could be and should be. Right there and then seeing it move I wondered what it else it could do... in a moment that my inside voice should have kept for itself I idly wondered "Imagine if it started screaming while it was still inside you".
I'm not sure what damage I did to my stomach muscles from laughing but I'm sure she was reconsidering her choice of partner in between gulping mouthfuls of air. Nothing you do while pregnant is graceful anymore. To underline that point wife managed to fracture her pinkie toe in the final weeks of pregnancy. Partially because she can no longer see where her feet are and partially because the cats make you change direction when you're not ready to. The upshot was that she now sports a waddling limp where once there was a confident stride.
The changes in the body of a pregnant woman are numerous and as an interested observer I am sure I am missing the bulk of the changes. Relocating organs, a mix of hormones that even a gym junkie would baulk at, loss of grip, baby-brain and an ever expanding wardrobe to accommodate a similarly expanding body. If men had to bear children the human race would die out. I know it's not the first time those words have been strung together but it's true. But for a cameo role in the first few moments the level of participation is skewed heavily towards the pregnant party. When it comes to the bacon and egg roll the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed. I am the chicken and the wife is... umm, no, that's not right. Where is the delete key?
The point is that for one reason or another the pregnant party is building a bond with the unborn child that will ultimately never be matched by the partner and when it comes to how we perceive the world, the value of a life and the importance of compassion and sacrifice women have it all over us men. We hate it when they remind us, and deny it's true... but it is.
Ask me what I'd give up for the continued existence of humans. Go on...
Sugar? Cinnamon? Ice-Cream?
Nope, hell no and you've met me, right?
How about Football, earning money or the internet?
Now you're just being silly.
I might... and I say "might" be persuaded to give up alcohol but even then I'm really just a very casual drinker and would instantly break that promise if someone were to put a beer in front of me.
Maybe the human race would die out even if men did willingly bear children because they'd all be stupid from the effects of alcohol. There'd be a planet of Bam Margera's which would certainly test the limits of anyone's will to live.
Not long to go now...
I'm not sure what damage I did to my stomach muscles from laughing but I'm sure she was reconsidering her choice of partner in between gulping mouthfuls of air. Nothing you do while pregnant is graceful anymore. To underline that point wife managed to fracture her pinkie toe in the final weeks of pregnancy. Partially because she can no longer see where her feet are and partially because the cats make you change direction when you're not ready to. The upshot was that she now sports a waddling limp where once there was a confident stride.
The changes in the body of a pregnant woman are numerous and as an interested observer I am sure I am missing the bulk of the changes. Relocating organs, a mix of hormones that even a gym junkie would baulk at, loss of grip, baby-brain and an ever expanding wardrobe to accommodate a similarly expanding body. If men had to bear children the human race would die out. I know it's not the first time those words have been strung together but it's true. But for a cameo role in the first few moments the level of participation is skewed heavily towards the pregnant party. When it comes to the bacon and egg roll the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed. I am the chicken and the wife is... umm, no, that's not right. Where is the delete key?
The point is that for one reason or another the pregnant party is building a bond with the unborn child that will ultimately never be matched by the partner and when it comes to how we perceive the world, the value of a life and the importance of compassion and sacrifice women have it all over us men. We hate it when they remind us, and deny it's true... but it is.
Ask me what I'd give up for the continued existence of humans. Go on...
Sugar? Cinnamon? Ice-Cream?
Nope, hell no and you've met me, right?
How about Football, earning money or the internet?
Now you're just being silly.
I might... and I say "might" be persuaded to give up alcohol but even then I'm really just a very casual drinker and would instantly break that promise if someone were to put a beer in front of me.
Maybe the human race would die out even if men did willingly bear children because they'd all be stupid from the effects of alcohol. There'd be a planet of Bam Margera's which would certainly test the limits of anyone's will to live.
Not long to go now...
Friday 2 February 2018
Future Fears
NotHeidi is definitely not in a rush to appear in this world, which bothers his mother a little more every day. Nevermind that neither her calculated due date, let alone the Doctors, has yet passed there is a growing sense of restless expectation. This has made the day to day movements of everyday life a little more tense.
Should I have a shower now, should we go watch Star Wars, should we go out to eat... each question comes with the implicit rider of "What if we go into labour while we are doing this?". That kind of thinking definitely improves the chances of us doing nothing when labour does arrive but we both know that not everything changes at the first contraction and we could easily do whatever we pleased safe in the knowledge we have time to react. Of particular benefit is breaking waters into a movie theatre seat or a restaurant chair where, as terrible as this may sound, you don't have to clean it up. Anyway there will likely be much time before we actually depart to the hospital and get into the serious business of bringing a new person into the world.
The most stressful thing will be ensuring that those who need or want to be notified when the process begins are indeed notified. Neglecting to do so can be the start of decades of misgivings and emnity. I expect the Montagues and Capulets were close friends until one of them forgot to ask the other how their Christmas was.
The other fear stems mostly from me being myself. Among the plethora of pieces of advice coming my way was to ensure I not fall asleep while notHeidi was being born. It sounded odd until further probing revealed that this was exactly what happened to said advice giver. Given that the result of this labour was now a family man in his own right it seems clear that some actions are hard to live down.
At this juncture I am reminded of a joke that is not appropriate to retell here but missteps can be a minefield of consequence, particularly in a birthing suite.
Forewarned is forearmed and if you can learn from other people's mistakes instead of committing them yourself so much the better. I have learned to be a dab hand with eye shadow and makeup and painted some passable eyes onto my eyelids so that I won't have to use the old "I was just resting my eyes!" excuse.
On the other hand I may have to explain the unblinking stare I was giving to everyone in the room and assure the recipients it resulted neither from maniacal belligerence nor from grave suspicion.
Other pieces of advice include ensuring there's lots of water (both frozen and liquid) on hand for the process and to have some sugary snacks for energy boosts when needed. We've tried to combine these suggestions and bought a packet of zooper-doopers. The last time I had one I bought them off an enterprising pre-teen in Hunters Hill (if you wonder how the rich stay rich...here's a clue) on an ill-advised 7 Bridges Walk on a hot day. I found them refreshing and energising. Also I learnt something about opportunity cost because at $1 each I feel I might have been ripped off when I can have a pack of 24 for single digit multiples of that from a major supermarket chain. To be fair the young entrepreneur also had a pair of scissors on hand to facilitate consumption.
The most bizarre piece of advice in an array of suggestions that had already set the bar very high was to bring a can opener. Quizzed on why, the response was a knowing look accompanying the words "you'll see". It smelt distinctly of the kind of pranks played on young apprentices to go to the hardware store to buy a left handed screwdriver. Yet there's a small part of me that is intrigued enough to ponder the possible uses.
In all these, often unprompted, discussions about imminent fatherhood I also noticed two distinct points being made. Like the preceding paragraphs many are about the immediate future, the birth, the name, the trip to the hospital and the bloody mess of entrails and fluids I am determined to avert my gaze from. The other theme that emerges is from the other extreme. "Make sure he puts you in a good home" and "you'll be glad when he finally moves out". It is tempting to re-fashion the DISC assessment (or any of the other personality tests) and base it on your opinions, fears and presumptions about birth, parenthood and your general disposition towards can-openers.
When NotHeidi finally does arrive I have no doubt that many of the plans and preparations will be for nought in much the same way as the playing instructions for a football team are wiped by crossing the sideline as mentioned in the previous article. What I hope is that the process is unhindered by misfortune and misstep and if I ever find out why a can-opener might be useful I promise to share that with you.
PS. "NotHeidi" comes up in the spellcheck as "monotheist". Now I have a whole other lot of things to worry about.
Saturday 27 January 2018
Becoming the person you want your child to see
I know my life will change.
People who are already parents point this out to me at seemingly every opportunity and with altogether too much barely concealed glee. I don't begrudge them their fun and I'm not quite delusional enough to believe I won't suffer the sleeplessness, haplessness and defencelessness that those who have gone before me have endured. I am still secretly hopeful that the degree to which I will suffer those things is far less and I will have the opportunity to offhandedly say things like "I don't know what all the fuss is about" and "He woke us up early... it was just after six". Then pause to look into their eyes as the fires of their rage are furiously quelled by decorum and the subject is quickly changed. There may not be much time to enjoy TV but entertainment is there to be had if you look hard enough for it.
One becomes much more aware of the messages about child rearing information that surround us too. I do not Facefriendspacetwoot so it isn't the sophisticated analysis that the internet giants employ to discover that you are a liberal voting, double espresso drinking, concert going, ford driving, non-condom buying soon-to-be father. (To be fair I am only the last of those). Instead I think it is more that we tune in and out of the constant stream of information that tires us out so completely each and every day. So now I am much more likely to read and notice things like "5 ways to know your child is a psychopath", "How young is too young for chores" and "Is coal mining a chore or a viable career path for the young post millennial?".
As is always the case the confirmation bias is strong. Articles that encourage the traits you already believe in are held up as the definitive way to ensure your child will be happy, successful and, most of all, willing to look after you when you no longer can. Articles that go against your established, or at least intended, plans are dismissed as the barely coherent ramblings of an alcoholic journalist trying their had at a subject they know nothing about.
A bit like when the cricket guy gets roped in to write about the FIFA World Cup (I only put "FIFA" in because I assume you're an idiot) and can't help himself when he uses phrases like "kick a goal", "known as the Bradman of Brazil" and "11 players per side just like the older game of cricket".
The funny thing is none of that information you read is likely to sway you, even if you want it to, because we are very instinctive and outrageously forgetful. Even if you would like to believe that we are guided by rational thought and open to change. If you doubt this I suggest you attempt to coach a football team and I'm not restricting myself to the realms of the local U5's here. Though it's probably too much to ask for you to gain the qualifications and experience required to coach, say, Barcelona. You can come up with the most rudimentary of game plans and practice it all week long but as soon as they cross that white line they instantly forget every instruction and simply revert to type. For the U5's that means forming a tight huddle around the ball and trying to propel it goalward by sheer force of numbers and for Barcelona it's show off a bit to stay on contract until the defender gets too close and then pass it to Messi.
Both methods work, that's why they continue to be used. Optimal they ain't.
So what do I do? More importantly, what's my "revert to type"? If I'm to be worried about doing something wrong then surely step 1 is to figure out what I'm likely to do, figure out if that's OK and if it isn't try to change that specific path. This is hard to do if no part of this path has been walked by me before.
I would like to instil the virtues of knowledge, confidence, sound motor skills and the value of honesty and community. Actually I'm not sure about that last one but I appreciate that no man is an island (thank you John Donne) and it's very hard to get by without at least a little bit of social skill and communitymindedness. After all, Messi needs someone to pass the ball to him.
One point that has stuck with me so far from all this ad-hoc research into how to grow a human being is that like the apes we are our young will take a lot of their cues on a wide range of attributes from their parents. Which gives me pause to make some uncomfortable self-assessment.
My son is likely to stare into a screen when he isn't busily picking his nose or thinking about where his next piece of cake is coming from.
Maybe it's not so much about raising a child as it is the ultimate motivator for self improvement.
People who are already parents point this out to me at seemingly every opportunity and with altogether too much barely concealed glee. I don't begrudge them their fun and I'm not quite delusional enough to believe I won't suffer the sleeplessness, haplessness and defencelessness that those who have gone before me have endured. I am still secretly hopeful that the degree to which I will suffer those things is far less and I will have the opportunity to offhandedly say things like "I don't know what all the fuss is about" and "He woke us up early... it was just after six". Then pause to look into their eyes as the fires of their rage are furiously quelled by decorum and the subject is quickly changed. There may not be much time to enjoy TV but entertainment is there to be had if you look hard enough for it.
One becomes much more aware of the messages about child rearing information that surround us too. I do not Facefriendspacetwoot so it isn't the sophisticated analysis that the internet giants employ to discover that you are a liberal voting, double espresso drinking, concert going, ford driving, non-condom buying soon-to-be father. (To be fair I am only the last of those). Instead I think it is more that we tune in and out of the constant stream of information that tires us out so completely each and every day. So now I am much more likely to read and notice things like "5 ways to know your child is a psychopath", "How young is too young for chores" and "Is coal mining a chore or a viable career path for the young post millennial?".
As is always the case the confirmation bias is strong. Articles that encourage the traits you already believe in are held up as the definitive way to ensure your child will be happy, successful and, most of all, willing to look after you when you no longer can. Articles that go against your established, or at least intended, plans are dismissed as the barely coherent ramblings of an alcoholic journalist trying their had at a subject they know nothing about.
A bit like when the cricket guy gets roped in to write about the FIFA World Cup (I only put "FIFA" in because I assume you're an idiot) and can't help himself when he uses phrases like "kick a goal", "known as the Bradman of Brazil" and "11 players per side just like the older game of cricket".
The funny thing is none of that information you read is likely to sway you, even if you want it to, because we are very instinctive and outrageously forgetful. Even if you would like to believe that we are guided by rational thought and open to change. If you doubt this I suggest you attempt to coach a football team and I'm not restricting myself to the realms of the local U5's here. Though it's probably too much to ask for you to gain the qualifications and experience required to coach, say, Barcelona. You can come up with the most rudimentary of game plans and practice it all week long but as soon as they cross that white line they instantly forget every instruction and simply revert to type. For the U5's that means forming a tight huddle around the ball and trying to propel it goalward by sheer force of numbers and for Barcelona it's show off a bit to stay on contract until the defender gets too close and then pass it to Messi.
Both methods work, that's why they continue to be used. Optimal they ain't.
So what do I do? More importantly, what's my "revert to type"? If I'm to be worried about doing something wrong then surely step 1 is to figure out what I'm likely to do, figure out if that's OK and if it isn't try to change that specific path. This is hard to do if no part of this path has been walked by me before.
I would like to instil the virtues of knowledge, confidence, sound motor skills and the value of honesty and community. Actually I'm not sure about that last one but I appreciate that no man is an island (thank you John Donne) and it's very hard to get by without at least a little bit of social skill and communitymindedness. After all, Messi needs someone to pass the ball to him.
One point that has stuck with me so far from all this ad-hoc research into how to grow a human being is that like the apes we are our young will take a lot of their cues on a wide range of attributes from their parents. Which gives me pause to make some uncomfortable self-assessment.
My son is likely to stare into a screen when he isn't busily picking his nose or thinking about where his next piece of cake is coming from.
Maybe it's not so much about raising a child as it is the ultimate motivator for self improvement.
Wednesday 24 January 2018
Fatherhood
I'm going to become a father.
It has taken a while for that reality to hit home, and it probably still hasn't even now after the antenatal classes have been had (x2), the room has been set up and the child seat installed in the car. Even though I have purchased a onesie from the merchandising shop for my football team I fear that I am still not ready. Of course it is rare that anyone is really truly ready, and at the time the decision is somewhat clouded by the prospect of sex.
As I grew up I periodically had visions of what it might be like to have a child and to be able to pass on various wisdoms I had accumulated over many years of often painful lessons. Occasionally I would also fantasise about how that child might casually discard all advice I was imparting in favour of whatever their friends would proclaim to be the absolute truth. For example the certain death that results from eating spinach. Perhaps my subconscious was passing judgement on the value of my collected wisdom. At any rate my life experiences were such that I had decided that people suck and putting more of them on this planet would be doing a disservice to the child, the planet and my ability to do what I wanted. Of course what I wanted was mostly to stay home and not put up with the sucky people.
So for nigh on half a century I was satisfied that I would be the end of my particular line and enjoy the consequences of that. Chief among them the freedom to eat what I wanted, go where I pleased and control my own finances. Being able to afford to eat and service a mortgage at the same time provides a powerful rush of superiority when you are surrounded by people who cannot. This is probably a Sydney thing.
They say the only constant in the Universe is change, and as big a fan of change as I am not it ultimately caught up with me too.
I'm not sure at which point in my life my father went from looking after me to me looking after him. Mum has some strong opinions on this but as he slowly deteriorated from a man who liked to drink and smoke to a man who suffered from the consequences of those pastimes I pondered what he had taught me and how those lessons would come to any use. In all fairness he was not particularly scholarly, though he had a degree in political science, and wasn't inclined to sit down and explain his thoughts and beliefs to me. That in itself was a lesson because as much as we think we understand of the world when we are young age gives us the wisdom to know, in retrospect, we were idiots. Idiots who managed to survive the world through sheer dumb luck.
There is also my sister, who appeared to be equally happy to end the family tree in this generation, but then announced she was pregnant by handing me a picture of an ultrasound. The technology is constantly improving to the point where I have seen a remarkably detailed 3D image of my unborn child but that particular image was more like the static of an analogue TV (lack of) signal. I know that comparison is rapidly losing currency but the takeaway here is that it took me several moments to comprehend what I was looking at and the message it was conveying. At that point I knew my life was changing, hers much more so but that wasn't really my focus. As it dawned on me what she was telling me shock and delight jockeyed for the theme of my response to her. To this day I'm not sure which of them won that race in the photofinish and I am much too cowardly to find out by asking the only other person who might know the answer.
It's OK to change your mind. People will be surprised, but they won't care.
My nephew is a delightful young man now, though I am assured that is not always the case, who will have all the opportunities he could want for.
So there it is. I can change my mind, I can apply the lessons I learnt to make a better human being and in doing so I will address the imbalance between people who suck and those who do not. I am choosing to be the change I want to see in the world, and it scares me.
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