We’d been happily settled in our new house for oh, all of three days when we decided to take a pregnancy test. I say we, my girlfriend Susie essentially took care of that, (although if we’re showing off excellent urination skills then I’d like it known I have pissed on demand after many a competition and my aim’s now near-on impeccable).
It turned out the littlest room we’d jokingly mentioned being made into a nursery at some point in the near future, was about to become the nursery in approximately eight and a half months, and in the midst of telling my dog Gus off for chasing after a family of rabbits for the 18th time that hour, Suz and I stared at wee covered plastic for the next 20 minutes while trying to take selfies which weren’t blurry from us laughing.
About a week later, the laughter kind of stopped because Suz had developed some really fun morning sickness and resembled the girl from The Exorcist. It’s an odd stage, full of pukes, the sweats and yet endless need for grazing. I’d wake up at 2am having rolled on to a particularly spiky cracker crumb only to come downstairs to find Susie wide-mouth crying because the local fish and chip shop didn’t open for another 7 hours and she really needed a saveloy. She said she’d rather be forced to watch Mrs. Brown’s Boys on repeat for a week than go through another month of morning sickness so I can only presume it was diabolical. Things I’ve learned from this stage of pregnancy? Knock-knock jokes don’t help. Saying ‘at least you’re poorly for a nice reason’ gets you a look that could strike a giraffe down dead. And motion-sickness bands will become the best purchase since your first titty mag.
Around the time the voms were coming to an end, I was heading off to the U.S for training. I’d debated changing the dates of my flight because leaving meant I missed the first scan by one week and believe me I was gutted, but we made the decision to keep them as they were and agreed Suz would just let me know if anything terrifying showed up, like the fact we expecting quintuplets or a fire-breathing dragon. Luckily, we got the brilliant news all was well; the baby was healthy, balancing a treat on Suz’s bladder and most importantly, wasn’t chilling out in there with five brothers and sisters.
I got home six weeks later and arrived back to a blooming tummy at the airport (Suz’s obviously. Some fat bloke hadn’t surprised me at the arrivals gate) and since then we’ve been practising putting prams up and down at various department stores, bought more animal-related clothes than you can wave a zoo at and read up on which breast pump beats the other. (I’ve offered to grab my bucket and just milk her but she’s not buzzed at the idea). We’ve been asked repeatedly when we’re getting married. Answer; when we feel like it. Will it be a long jumper? Possibly, but it might also be a magician or Cliff Richard impersonator. Aaaand the obvious, will it be ginger? It might very well be ginger. It wouldn’t be a shock if it came out ginger. It would be a shock if it came out black.
I’ve looked forward to having a little family of my own for a long time so I couldn’t be more overjoyed and it’ll undoubtedly take a lot of strength not to transform into a net-mum with balls over the next few years. Suz comes from quite a large family and having children together was something we discussed pretty early on in to us dating, so we’re really enjoying waiting for our little arrival to turn up. Over the next few months I’m going to try and blog about what it’s like planning for fatherhood and becoming a dad without hopefully turning into that weird guy you avoid in the pub, and it’d be great to hear stories from other dads and dads-to-be. Once baby’s born I’m sure this will turn into a bit of a sanctuary, where I can just headbutt the keyboard after two hours of sleep and complain about stinking of baby dung and talcum powder, but until then… I’m off to go bake a chickenpie like a real man, GRRR.