Pee Aye Are Tee Why?

I got invited to a house party this weekend. Yes I did. An actual party with people, and music and sambuca. This is a good thing (except for the sambuca, which was very very bad) It's been so long since I've been to a party that if I'd had a child during the last one, that child would have already finished school, fomented a loathing of me, stolen my car, had a spell in prison and written a book about me by now. 

I'm that popular.

Not to say that I haven't been to many parties. Back when I was in the last two years of school I spent so much time at parties I wrecked my exam results with a mixture of hangovers and ignorance. But this was when I was interesting talked about things other than the Kids. That's right, parents. The reason you're not getting invited to parties is not due to the difficultly of finding a baby sitter that isn't a convicted sex offender - it's because people know at some point you'll mention your kids. And from there it's only a matter of seconds before you've got your phone out and you're scrolling through pictures of them saying; "This is him sitting down. This is him standing up. This is him on the toilet. This is him playing with an electrical outlet..." And you'll be saying; "Oh, she's really very clever. I don't want to boast but she'll definitely be a doctor/lawyer/banker/rocket scientist/arms dealer" whilst everyone around you remembers the day they saw your precious little sweetums drinking out of the toilet. Eventually you'll find yourself sitting alone with the dim realisation that you're THAT person at the party. 

"Which one has the kid?"

"See those two people talking?"

"Yeah."

"See the bored one?"
"Yeah?"

"He's the other one."

Anyway, back to me. The friends throwing the party (who, for the sake of anonymity I will refer to as the Smiths) have a son who is friends with the Kids. Consequently we had to indulge in some subterfuge to get away without a drama. Fortunately two things worked to our advantage. Firstly the Boy has become obsessed with the educational benefits of television and has been so distracted he hasn't asked any awkward questions. This has not been without it's pitfalls.

"You can learn a lot from telly."

"Really, Boy. What have you learnt today?"

"Well... Finish Powerball tablets are great for getting rid of stubborn stains."

Secondly, they were having a sleepover at Grandma's. Grandma foolishly turned up a bit early to pick them up and unwisely said "Shall I take them now?" During the time it took her to ask this question the Wife and I had strapped the Kids in the car, shoved her out the door and double locked it.

At four o'clock the next morning the Wife and I were about 80% proof, comprised of a winning mixture of beer, Prosecco, red wine, bourbon and the aforementioned sambuca. I had been told four times by four different people that I looked a bit like Nick Frost (bastards). I had proved once again that when I dance I look like I'm falling downstairs in a set of leg calipers. At one point I had a massive geek out discussion about Japanese cinema and thereby alienated half the people at the party.

"Has he got Kids?"

"Worse. He's comparing Akira Kurasawa's 'Hidden Fortress' with Star Wars."

"Tosser."

 My favourite moment of the evening was when I was reading a note on the toilet door ("This toilet blocks easily. If you're planning something more... solid... please use the upstairs loo") when the Smith Boy ran up to me, yelled

"No poo! No poo!"

And ran away. Random.

Much enjoyment was had, and new friends made - until finally the Wife and I crashed in the Smith Boy's room (I hasten to add, he had been taken to his grandparents by that time). I caught a few fitful hours sleep before being woken up by the uncomfortable sensation of a full bladder and the discovery of a piece of Lego  jammed in my eye. And then the regret. Oh, the regret... The headache was bad enough. The cannonball I had somehow negotiated into my bowel was worse - there was a sense of foreboding about it. Like something awful that would happen out of the blue and all at once. It was bad enough to have it's own theme music. Like Darth Vader.

Some hours later I was in the toilets at the M4 services weeping silently and praying a travelling doctor would find me and administer an epidural. And then the toilet blocked when I flushed it. A battle ensued which I won't describe, but assume it was lengthy and undignified (although successful I should add. I'm not an animal). Heavens knows why by for some reason at bed time that evening I decided to tell the Boy what had happened in the M4 toilets.

"You blocked it?"

"Yeah."

"Wow! Awesome! It must have been huge! Like this big."

And to my distress he held his hands about three feet apart.

The Biz vs The Nuge*

"The trouble with being vegetarian is that you can only eat vegetables."

The Wife rather astutely noted this afternoon. I should point out that she was joking. But the Boy gave her a long, hard look as if to say;

"You're onto something there, mum."

I should also add that we're not vegetarians. Well, we are sort of. Right up until someone offers to cook a Sunday roast. The Boy's musing may have been in part due to his lunch at his my Ma's today. Ma is a creature of habit and has given them. Chicken for dinner since the Boy was weaned. But in the spirit of change today she cooked lamb kebabs for them. As always happens when we cook the Kids something new there was a frisson of anticipation as they approached the table and peered at their plates. Normally you get

"What's that?"

Not sneering, more enquiring. How interesting. Something on my plate I hadn't expected. I shall enquire what it is, and if the answer isn't "chocolate" I shall reject it out of hand, throw myself on the floor and cry until I have snot in my hair.

Bizarrely, this didn't occur. Instead this did.

"Ooh! Look, Girl! Meat lollies!"

"Lollies? I LOVE LOLLIES!"

And thus they both ate not just the kebabs, but all of their dinner. Admittedly the Boy insisted eating his peas with the kebab stick which was like watching glaciation, but still.

They've both been quite philosophical over the weekend. Yesterday we took the Kids to a park so they could meet the kids of the Wife's friends (you might want to read that sentence a couple more times. I've written it twelve different ways and still can't get it to make sense...) This must have been a bit weird for the Wife, seeing all those people you used to sit outside the off-license (for my American chums - Liquor Store) smoking Silk Cut and trying not to go green. And now all with kids, or bumps. When this has happened to me it always makes me feel even more estranged from my old friends. Instead of talking about old times I find myself talking solely about my Kids. The only other time I do this is with total strangers at the school gates. I was thinking about this in the car on the way down when the Boy shook me from my reverie.

"Why do we wear seatbelts?"

Before either of us could answer the Girl jumped with her pearls of wisdom.

"You need to wear a seatbelt if; you're sitting down, or standing up, or of it's raining, or if it's sunny, or if you've blown off..."

She does do some powerful farts, so she's talking sense.

This is all part of the Girl's maternal instinct. She's forever telling the Cat that "It's all right. Don't worry." Which rather misses the point that it's her, and more precisely what she did to him during the "spoon incident" that's making him edgy. Today she was playing with her baby doll which she's inspiringly called "baby" and giving it/her/him cuddles and kisses. Then she threw it on the floor and stamped on its head. Right up until the premeditated murder it was a scene of maternal bliss. Oh, and then she did a magic trick and made herself disappear. Here's a photo to prove it.

If you look carefully you can just about see her

* This has nothing to do with the blog, I've just been listening to Beastie Boys recently.

Birth

Last week at work, amongst topics of conversation ranging from the state of the economy to vaginal flatulence, I was asked a series of questions about birth. So I thought I might do an entry here.

In the autumn of 2006 the Wife woke me up with the words "Guess who's water's broken?" to which I, in my semi-conscious state replied "I don't know... whose?" And at this point I'd like to take the opportunity to break a few myths

Myth 1

People always panic in the films, don't they? Its all "get hot water and plenty of towels!" and people passing out.

I have to say, there was no panic. There were corn flakes, there were some phone calls... the Wife had a bath. No panic. I know that's not as funny as running into walls and bags of clothes bursting open, but I wasn't at all nervous. Its true what they say. Ignorance is bliss. I boiled the kettle for hot water, but only because I wanted a brew. At no point were towels involved.

After an hour or so the Wife's contractions got to the point that we needed to phone the birthing unit. It was all very calm and pleasant, we drove through the middle of the night to the unit and got parked up, dragged the small bag containing the ENTIRE CONTENTS OF THE HOUSE inside, popped the Wife on a birthing ball (for the uninitiated, a massive beach ball you sit on and bounce up and down on) and set in for the wait. It took about ten minutes for me to realise that the birthing room was about the temperature of the surface of the sun. By the time the Boy was born four hours later I was about half the size I was when I went in. A tip - dads, dress for summer regardless of weather conditions.

The Wife bounced up and down on the ball until the labour pain got so bad we put the TENS machine on her. This is like one of those abdominal exercise machines that electrocutes you to a six pack. It did feel a bit like pouring salt in the wound - wiring her up to the national grid, but it seemed to work for short while until the gas and air came in and the good times rolled. Well, at least between contractions. The Wife was steady as a rock, calm and collected, focused on the task at hand. She only offered me violence once when she was gesturing for the gas and air and I misread the situation and handed her the cup of ice chips. They promptly flew through the air as she snarled through gritted teeth; "No motherf****r, THAT!" and stabbed a finger at the gas.

Myth 2

Some people (I'm guessing men here) still claim birth is actually painless.

My arse. It wasn't painless for me, let alone the Missus. She was in so much pain she squeezed my hand tight enough to dislocate my finger.

(I realise at this point I'm about to lose the mother's in the audience, but hear me out on this one)

 Now here's a thing - imagine you're in the birthing unit, your wife is in the throes of labour, you're surrounded by women all of whom have had children. There's a slight iciness when you speak or you're spoken to because, on some level you're being blamed for the pain your wife is in. Like (true story here) when your "mates" tell you to meet them in a certain pub before a Charlton match and you turn up wearing your Charlton top to discover its where all the Millwall fans are. Like that, except without flying barstools and a mounted police officer to rescue you. You are, in short, not particularly welcome. Your wife squeezes your hand and dislocates your finger. You yowl in pain. The midwife looks at you and asks you what's wrong and you find yourself - amongst the blood and screams - saying; "I think I've hurt my finger."

For once I chose the wise path and didn't say anything. Not because I'm brave but because I'm a coward. And regardless, I was watching her go through child birth. I had bigger worries.

Whilst we're talking about the pain, I'd like to dispel one other myth though.

Myth 3

Whilst the Wife was pregnant with the Boy a colleague showed me an article in a women's magazine. It was one of those classy, 60p magazines that have headlines on the front cover like "I Was Sold into Slavery By My Mum" or "My Dog Exploded Doing a Wee". I think it was Vogue. In this article it said that it was; "not unheard of for women to orgasm during child birth."

That is likely in the same way that being struck by an asteroid made of jam is likely.

Moving on...

The Boy was a water birth. The best way to imagine this if you're a prospective dad and a film fan is this; watch the scene in Jaws where Quint gets eaten by the shark. But play it backwards at low speed so it takes about three hours.

 The best thing about a water birth is that as a dad you get a role to play. Aside from giving encouragement (don't, in your exuberance, yell "GIVE IT SOME WELLY!!" or people will judge you), you get given a sieve. Yes. A sieve. This was handed to me with the words, "just in case something pops out" to which I rather naively thought; "I'm never going to fit the baby in this."

No. I was on poo duty. However, it is my pleasure to say that the Wife behaved impeccably. Even when she was completely off her tits on the gas and air. Because the thing is, it only works if you breath a bit of gas and then take it out of your mouth to breath some air. My Wife in her befuddled state couldn't understand what the mid-wives and I were saying when we were trying get it off her. I ended up putting my foot on her shoulder so I could pull it out of her mouth. When she wrestled it back off me (she held my head under the water)* she actually knocked out one of her teeth putting it back in her mouth. Since I'm quick on the uptake, I formed the conclusion she rather wanted it back. After that I didn't argue with her and when the mid-wives tried to get me to do it again I simply replied, in a quavering voice; "But I want my child to have a father!"

Myth 4 

Childbirth is awful right? Wrong.

After all this you may be wondering why you'd want to go through it. I'm not a particularly schmaltzy guy (partly because I don't know what it means) but it really is the most amazing thing in the world. And as a bloke you're pretty much a spectator, so you might as well enjoy it because you can bet your arse your other half won't. I got as involved as I could, checking on his progress, cutting the umbilical cord, dressing him for the first time. The only thing I didn't do was look at the placenta. I saw a picture of one once. It looked a bit like something that you used to see eating small towns in B movies.The Girl was born at home, the Wife only bothered waking me up when it was time to call the mid-wife and by the time the gas and air arrived it was too late for it to work. So the Wife gave birth to the Girl with no pain-medication at all. I have never been so proud of and amazed by anyone as I was that day.  I don't think any experience in life can compare with childbirth, and the moment you hold your kid for the first time. Even if they crap on you. Which they might. And then you get to watch them sleep which is one of the most beautiful experiences life can bestow on you,

Myth 5

You'll never sleep properly again.

Actually, that's not a myth. You won't.




* Its possible I made that up.