Birth [41st week + 3 days pregnant]

Induced.

Painful contractions.

1st Epidural - nothing.

2nd Epidural - nothing.

3rd Epidural + spinal block - blessed numbness.

Ventouse delivery in the operating room. Loads of hospital staff.

A very medicalised 'natural' birth.

Top Ten - [38th Week pregnant]

American Woman has generally enjoyed being pregnant. But the final couple of weeks are going to be rough, especially as she needs to keep working for a while longer. Here is her List of

Top 10 Rubbish Things About Being Pregnant

10. Inane Conversation. The usual pointless question "Hi, how are you?" has been replaced by "How are you feeling?" Why? No one ever particularly cared how I felt before. Why am I suddenly among the potentially poorly just because I am with child? And does anybody really want to hear that my pelvis feels like I'm an 80-year-old in need of a hip replacement? I doubt it. All too often I can't help myself by replying in a sarcastic, mock-sympathetic voice, "Fine. How are YOU feeling?" Almost as bad is the shift from varied conversation (film, holidays, news, work, whatever) to single-topic conversation: the baby. Although I have to say, this bothered me a lot more at first. These days, I'm probably as guilty as anyone else of talking LOTS about baby-centric issues.

9. Restricted Eating. Not that big a deal, but I will sure be glad when I can eat any old kind of cheese again, consume caffeine, or chow down on my usual snack of choice: nuts. It's a cruel trick of nature that I've really been thinking how yummy boiled peanuts are (don't cringe--it's a southern thing) at just the time that peanuts are off the menu for me.

8. Restricted Movements. O.k, I can't even WASH DISHES properly, because my girth prevents me from getting close enough to the sink! Sleeping usually results in numb limbs because I've been stuck like a beached whale in the same position for half the night. The stairs at work leave me more breathless than my 8-mile jaunts across London once did. Worst of all is probably the contortions I have to get into in order to throw myself into the Mini. Curses generally accompany this activity.

7. Touching. Oh. No. Do not even think about it. To their credit, as far as I can remember, the British have managed to maintain their DELIGHTFUL reserve in this department. I can't recall a single Brit who has attempted to pat my belly. Can't say as much for the Americans with whom I work (total strangers until 3 months ago), nor for our otherwise lovely Ecuadorian neighbor, nor for our equally lovely Indonesian tenant. I've managed to develop a strategy which works pretty well as a result of my aversion to this uninvited physical intimacy: when I spot someone closing in for a feel, I swing my handbag in between my baby and my assailant. I'm also pretty skilled with my "giant step backwards" maneuver when absolutely necessary.

6. Morning Sickness. This has abated, but it still deserves a mention. For someone who is never ill, much less of a vomitous inclination, daily upchuck was a pain. So much so, in fact, that I actually kept track of the number of times it happened: 41.

5. Low Pain Threshold. This isn't so much a complaint as a worry. I'm never ill, but when I am, look out. I am the world's crappest sick person. The worst pain I can remember, in as long as I can remember, has been from occasional headaches (which almost ALWAYS happen at work--go figure--or as a result of caffeine imbalance). I try to think Earth Mother thoughts about how I'll be able to handle the "discomforts" (HA!) of labor since I'll be focusing on the glorious arrival of our child. That's what all the books and folks at the National Childbirth Trust classes keep telling me. I'm pretty sure this isn't actually going to work at all. "Drugs," you may suggest. Here's a good one they told us at the hospital early on: "If you want an epidural, you can have one, as long as the anesthesiologist is available--which he might not be if he's busy somewhere else in the hospital. By the time he gets to you, it might be too late in your labor for you to have the epidural." So that's something to look forward to.

4. Where to put her? Have you seen our flat? 741 square feet. Do you know how big that is? My classroom at work is bigger. Enough said.

3. Mothercare. This is the only remotely affordable show in town as far as maternity clothing goes. London is peppered with delicious little boutique maternity clothing shops. I ventured into one the other week. Tops started, STARTED MIND YOU, at ₤215.

So that brings us back to Mothercare. The ever-patient Pad Dad accompanied me into the FLAGSHIP STORE on Oxford Street yesterday. My quest: to find nursing bras, since I as yet have none. After both of us scouring the racks of said undergarments (which could only be viewed/reached by clambering up on a footstool--always a good plan for the pregnant lady), Pad Dad and I managed to find two which were not my actual size, but were at least somewhat close.

We then waited for ages for access to the ONE changing room they have available. A basic review of their customer demographic should indicate to these vendors that somewhere to SIT while queuing for the changing room would be really quite a good idea. Mais non.

When finally I made it into the changing room, I discovered that in a cunning use of resources, they had used a security tag to clamp both bras in a 2-pack TOGETHER. This would be, just, STUPID enough on its own, but they had strategically placed the bulky security tag right on the part that circumnavigates ones ribcage, thus making it absolutely impossible to judge whether the damned things fit or not. Now, when you're pregnant and standing in front of a giant, oh-so-well-lit changing room mirror, you're not at your most emotionally stable. Trying to remain calm and reasonable, I buzzed the little "help needed" buzzer. For about 2 minutes I overheard the staff trying to figure out the origin of this noise. When finally they worked it out ("Oh wait, could it be coming from the changing room?"), along came my rescuer. When I explained the problem and asked whether the bras could be unattached so that I could try them on, you know, SEPARATELY, she got all huffy, acted like she had no intention of humoring me, and told me that it was quite possible to try them on even though they were clamped together. My genuinely spontaneous, aghast reply: "Yes, but that's ridiculous! Can't you just separate them for me?" Off she went, hardly able to walk with the struggle of it all, and back she came with the garments detached at last. Just my luck, though, they indeed did not fit.

Pad Dad stayed behind and complained [about the idiocy and the changing room provision and the security tag provision] Apparently they agreed with everything he said, and he can expect a letter from the manager. Fan-flipping-tastic. That will make it all better.

2. Roz. This is the woman who conducts our weekly NCT (National Childbirth Trust) classes. Since I went on a quite therapeutic, lengthy rant about Mothercare, I shall try to be brief. There are two main problems with Roz. Firstly, the sound effects. She provides what I guess she must consider amusing little noises whenever she's describing physiological aspects of childbirth. Which is often. An example: apparently, when the baby is in the final descent through the birth canal, the sound we can expect to hear is similar to that produced by a donkey: "Eee--aww--eee--aww." I swear if I get through the next 2 weeks without slapping her it will be only through extraordinary self-restraint.

Almost as bad as this is the funny voice she puts on whenever she uses a word of more than 3 syllables. Which is often. I can't really convey this in cyberspace, but imagine the voice someone would use when talking to a small child or perhaps a puppy: high-pitched and squeaky, but with the cheeks (of her mouth) sort of squeezed together: "UUUU-ter-ISSS, cae-SAR-ea-ANNNNN, ep-EEEES-i-OT-omy."

1. Doctor vs. Midwives (plural). A quote from a midwife at the hospital several months ago: "Oh, you won't see a doctor AT ALL unless there's a problem with your pregnancy." AT ALL!

I have, in fact, got over the initial shock of this. O.k, so they do things a little differently here. Instead of an obstetrician, you have a midwife, who is a highly-qualified (if medievally-named) professional, perfectly capable of delivering your baby, just as she has delivered hundreds of others. It isn't as if we're living in the middle of the Sahara. This is a civilized country. They have fantastic health care, in the great scheme of things. It'll be fine.

Yeah, just when I got used to THAT, they lay the really good news on me: there is no way of knowing whether I will even have MET the midwife who delivers our girl before the actual "moment of truth" (or, more realistically, the actual "16 hours of truth"). We have seen about 6 different midwives so far--a different one almost every time we've been to an appointment--and it's perfectly possible that NONE of them will be with us in the delivery room. So basically I get whomever draws the short straw and has to work over Christmastime. Brilliant. I am awash with confidence.

Names [35th Week Pregnant]

I text my Irish uncle, asking if his daughter has grown out of the clan kilt she wore to our wedding.

'If so', I text, 'can my daughter inherit it'? He says he will ask his daughter, who in our family we simply refer to as 'The Child'.

My uncle, a Manchester United fan thanks to George Best, normally only texts me on match days to slag off Arsenal.

But today he wants to know what we've decided to call my daughter.

I text, 'We've vowed not to tell anyone the name, after my brother and in-laws slagged off some of our options.'

Him: 'Tell me. I won't slag it'.

Me: 'I promised not to. But I can say it has an Arsenal connection . . .'

A blizzard of texts ensues.

Him: Is it 'Boring Boring Arsenal?'
Him: Is it 'Pat Rice?'
Him: Is it 'Martine Keown?'
Him: Is it 'Toni Adams?'
Him: Is it 'Terri Henry?'
Me: 'You can't just name Arsenal's Double-winning teams. There's far too many'.
Him: Too many? Too fucking many? Yer having a laugh. You're naming her Chelsea.
Him: Not Charlie Georgie?
Him: Is it 'Wewuz Robbed?'
Him: I know I know. Is it Arsenal runners-up?

And so the long night wore on . . .

Chanting - [35th Week Pregnant]

I always wake up the Host and the Bubby by singing Arsenal chants.

The morning after the Reading Arsenal game (1-3 to Arsenal), some more chants:

Reading fans (with deep irony, because we had no English players): 'Eng-er-land, Eng-er-land Eng-er-land . . .!'

Arsenal fans: 'You need more foreigners, You need more foreigners . . .'

Arsenal fans: 'Have you ever seen England play like this?'

Reading fans (outraged): 'You're not Arsenal any more.'

Arsenal fans (after our one English player, Theo Walcott, comes on, and misses a fairly easy goal): 'We need more foreigners . . .'

Baby shower [34th Week Pregnant]

This coming Sunday, my mother and sister-in-law are throwing a baby shower for us, mainly featuring women from my mother's church, who I grew up around.

AW doesn't like being the centre of attention. She didn't want to have it unless I would be there too. So it is something that she's doing for me, as I like the idea of the baby being part of as many communities of friends as possible.

AW's grandfather died last night, but she doesn't want anyone from the baby shower to know until it's over.

This should be interesting . . .

NCT Ante-natal classes [33rd Week pregnant]

We decided to go with the National Childbirth Trust in the town where AW works, rather than in London, because
a) it is cheaper, and
b) they met on Tuesday evenings, which fit in with both of our schedules, rather than the weekend classes that the NCT in London was offering.

But just before the classes began, we were told that 3 of the 6 had been moved to other nights, because the venue had been booked out.

The venue is a rather chilly and dispiriting Quaker meeting hall/classroom. The whole atmosphere is like being back at school, and not in a good way. It's not terrible (obviously the information is intrinsicly interesting), but . . .

The NCT organiser has the really irritating habit of putting on a funny voice when she 'teaches' us a technical word, or a word of more than three syllables. As these crop up frequently in Childbirth, you can imagine how tough the two-and-a-half hour classes get!

Especially for tired, small-bladdered pregnant women . . .

Paris - [beginning 30th Week pregnant]

Just returned from Paris, from a very necessary weekend break.

It was lovely, the perfect weather: cold and sunny. We sat an talked in the gardens behind Notre Dame for ages, mainly about names and ambitions for our baby.
The wine: expensive but decent with the immense amount of baguettes and cheese we had.
The Tour Eiffel: first time up there for me, despite living in Paris for a few months.
Shakespeare and Co: great bookshop as ever.
The Long Hop: reliable as ever for watching English football.
The Rocky Horror Picture Show, interactive with French drag queens. Ill-advised as AW's first experience of the film.
Sacre Coeur: we walked up the hill to AW's favourite cathedral, listening to the soundtrack to Moulin Rouge. Said a prayer for our daughter.

Too much walking for a pregnant bird, even though we deliberately took it easy.

C'mon 'en! - [19th week pregnant]

It's a jet-lagged Saturday morning and the Host is returning from America on Tuesday morning. We're missing each other much more than we normally would after being apart for less than a week.


This must be down to the pregnancy, as we're both fiercely independent.


I don't stop thinking about it, in both positive and negative ways, but mainly positive. I wish I could cut to the chase and just have it now.


I want to get on with raising my child, especially after infancy. I keep thinking about my lovely niece and nephew and having one of my own.

Chopped Willy - [19th week pregnant]

I pick the Host up in Vancouver and we stay with our friends Canadian Artist and Canadian Journalist, who had a baby seven weeks ago. Canadian Journalist was our bridesmaid.


While we're there they have the boy circumcised. Unfortunately I get to see the bloodstained gauze while he's being changed.


Like our other Anglo-American friends, we're sure we wouldn't have our son circumcised. It's fairly standard for North Americans, i understand, and Canadian Journalist intimates she feels it's a Christian thing as well. I don't follow the logic - Christians are not Jews, they're not the Chosen, and surely it's problematic to pick and choose doctrines from the Old Testament.


My favourite political blogger Andrew Sullivan, the British-born American Sunday Times columnist, calls it infant genital mutilation. Those who are not circumcised he calls 'the intact'.

Separated in Seattle - [18th Week pregnant]

In Seattle, I spend a day and a half with a close friend Amy, and her three-year old, Megan.

Amy and my friend David have separated only a few weeks ago. Better earlier than later for a child to adjust to divorce, I suppose.

I play with Megan in her room and in the park, teaching her to be more theatrical.

A week after I leave, Amy writes,

"Megan keeps saying, "Ladies and gentlemen ... WELCOME TO THE SHOW!"

Today we received an e-mail from a student of mine who just had a baby.
Megan looked at the pix and asked, "Is that Uncle [Pad Dad]'s new baby?!!"

I keep thinking about this little girl, and her two new rooms in different flats.

What's OK to have while preggers?

Zoe Williams argues that the advice against wine, coffee, soft cheese etc is not backed up by research.

Telling People - [11th Week pregnant]

These are the people we've told so far, mostly in week 9 and 10. That still seems a bit early to me, but it's good to process.

• AW's best friend, who's about to give birth any day now.
• My major ex-girlfriend and best friend, who has 3 kids.
• AW's major ex-boyfriend and closest friend in the USA, who has 2 kids.
• My work colleague and his wife, a couple very close to us, who have a six-month-old son. He confided a lot of his 'new parent' feelings to me during the pregnancy and early days. Because we're close, he didn't hold back on the negatives as well as the positives. I thin he's regretting his frankness now.
• My Parents - my mother had pretty much guessed, after seeing AW in her first and worst bout of sickness.
• Aw's sister, at whose birth AW was present and which made her swear off ever having kids.
• Her Parents in the USA - AW's sister sat them down and told them, just as AW had done when that same sister got pregnant years ago. Then they called together and were nicely excited and positive, healing some of the rift from our recent trip to Italy. We're still going to wind them up by telling them we're calling the baby 'Jamal', though.
• Two old friends from America I've done some theatre with. One of them is a Republican book dealer and lecturer we stay with when we visit Washington DC. He played Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream when I was playing Bottom. The other was the lead in the first play I ever directed, and we stayed with her in Japan during the World Cup. She is living in London with her Columbian boyfriend, and has just discovered she's pregnant herself.
• My fellow Arsenal-season-ticket-holder mate and his wife, at whose wedding I gave the main speech.
• AW's work and coffee-bitching-session colleague.

And the RAC repairman, who was the first person in the world I told, while he was fixing AW's shitty Renault.

We bonded

Article in the Observer about a music journalist who takes his 12-yr-old daughter to Goth and Punk gigs.

Not only has it solved his estrangement from her after his divorce from the girl's mother.

It's also transformed the little girl from a bullied loner into an articulate, confident teenager.

Breakfast - [10th Week pregnant]

AW's sleepiness has more or less gone away, but it's been replaced by morning sickness.

You know how the pregnancy books say you should eat healthily?

AW's most reliable breakfast defence against morning sickness is . . .

Pop Tarts.

Tear it up - [9th Week pregnant]

Reading in bed by a dim light at 2am, I am surprised to feel my eyes prickling.

A tear trickles down my nose and drops onto the pillow. A couple of others follow its rivulet.

What's this about? Why am I tearing up for no particular reason? I don't feel particularly emotional. Fascinated, interested, I lie there and make a list of possible semi-subliminal reasons.

1. I'm reading the ninth-month final chapters of From Here to Paternity: The Diary of a Pregnant Man. Is it making me generally nervous about the birth and my role in that chaos?
2. The cat has taken to sleeping between us, stopping me from cuddling up with AW whenever I want. Do I feel lonely?
3. The sleeping cat has one paw curled over my arm. Do I want the sprog here right now?
4. Am I wistful for all the things a baby will stop me doing and seeing? Work, holidays, cinema, football?
5. Am I unsettled by today's news at work about possible redundancies? But I am planning to give up work anyway!
6. Am I distressed at the thought of AW in pain? I've been thinking about that a lot.

I've not got much idea. Possibly all of the above are contributing to this vague sense of melancholia.

But it's a bit weird, to have tears for no discernable reason.

I have wondered over the last few days if it's possible for a man to have sympathetic symptoms.

• AW has thrown up a few times over the last few days, and has felt generally nauseous. I felt nauseous this evening.
• One night last week we both went to bed at 730pm, feeling exhausted (although I didn't sleep).
• She gets up for work around 515am. Normally I sleep until about 615. But for the last week, I've been waking up about half an hour before her. Even though I'm going to bed well after midnight.

Rod reckons men definitely experience some mirorring of symptoms.

Telling Mum and Dad - [9th Week pregnant]

Today we told both set of parents. Grandparents-to-be.

Both sets already have grandchildren, by our younger siblings. AW's sister had a son nine or ten years ago. My brother's daughter is four.

My brother's son was two years old today. We went to my parents' house for a birthday meal and presents, and told them after all the others left.

Meanwhile, AW had already told her sister, who informed her parents over in the States. When we got home from my mum and dads', AW's parents called. They were quite nice.

This seems to have - has it healed the rift with AW's mother?

Countdown - [8th Week pregnant]

On the titles of these posts, I've been counting off the weeks. This is more to keep it straight in my own head than anything else. It's calculated from the first day of the last period they've had.

But I didn't actually know how many weeks there are in a nine-month pregnancy.

Turns out there's different opinions [still!] about how long an average pregnancy lasts! This is because only 3% are born on the due date.

But even so. I know nothing about statistics, but the number of births in the history of the world should have given some average.

But Nicky Wesson's Labour Pain: A Natural Approach to Easing Delivery mentions three calculations:

• 40 weeks - 10 menstrual cycles - (Naegele's Rule, 19th Century)
• 41 weeks and one day - for white women expecting their first child (Mittendorf, 1991). Black women, he says, and most women under 19 or over 34, are likely to give birth earlier than this. Can this be true?
• 42 weeks (Montgomery's Rule, 1837)

If my doctor says the due date is 19th Dec, but AW got a different date when calculating on the internet, I'd like to know who's right and which system they're using.

The online Medical College of Wisconsin's calculator also comes up with 19th Dec as our due date. It also helpfully points out

• the end of the first trimester (12 weeks) is Wednesday, March 28, 2007
• the end of the second trimester (27 weeks) Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Aha! The Babyzone online calculator similarly comes up with 19th Dec, and confirms that this calculation is a 40 week one. That's the Naegele Rule, 19th Century. Nicky Wesson is very disparaging about this one.

And if Mittendorf (1991) is correct, then our baby's going to be born on or after Christmas. Although AW is over 34.

It's going to be a bizarre Christmas.

NHS baby factory - [8th Week pregnant]

We've already selected the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital because we have a parking permit for there (and it's close to our Fulham Road cinema - though I didn't mention to her it was an added bonus). AW and I went on a tour of the maternity facilities yesterday.

The hospital is quite impressive, but the maternity tour unfortunately reminded us both of how much the wing is a factory production line of babies.

The group dynamic was rather cold, or, rather, people felt inhibited in asking questions. We hung around in the wide platform by the lift. Most of the 8 or 9 women were visibly pregnant, the 5 or 6 male partners with them silent but interested. I assumed everyone knew more than me. The tour organiser had a few well-practiced lines which were quite funny, but it wasn't exactly a welcoming visit.

One thing I've learned in life is not to be afraid of asking questions in group situations. I decided a while ago that, if I'm relatively intelligent and curious, and I don't understand something, it's likely that some other people don't as well. Numerous times after a meeting, especially if I'm the chair, people have said to me, 'thank you for asking that; I wanted to know but was afraid to ask'.

But in this situation, looking at AW's flat stomach compared to most of the others' sizeable bumps, it was clear that they would definitely know more than me/us, because they were that much further down the track.

So I shut up. But these are some of the questions I would have asked if we'd been on a tour of people at the same stage as us.

• We've got a doctor, but how and when do we get a midwife? Every bloody book and magazine I read talks about 'your midwife'. Who is he/she, and when do they turn up in our lives?
• My impression is that we have to have selected a hospital to get a midwife connected to there - is that correct?
• When do ante-natal classes begin?
• What do they entail and how much do they cost?

The midwife was frank and open about everything to do with the labour, which wasn't the most reassuring thing - it just revealed the time, staffing, and finance pressures on a maternity unit.

AW cried. We had had a few tense words in the few moments we had between meeting up and going on the tour. (Not a strategic move on my part). Then being on the tour, I could see, was bringing the enormity of the fear (labour pain/baby disability/change in our great life/British NHS vs American healthcare) home to her.

Can't sleep - [8th Week]

Came home from work late, got leftover Indian takeaway, had a minor argument with AW about finances, and fell asleep in my chair in front of Newsnight.

Woke up to a late-night programme on BBC2 about 'rites of passage' through childhood, and how modern life has eradicated, changed or blurred some important rites of passage for kids and teenagers: Christenings, the 11-Plus exam, past 'free-range' children vs present 'battery farm' children, transitioning from primary to secondary school, Bar Mitzvahs, confirmations, summer camps, puberty, proms, drinking, GCSE's, driving tests, Gap Years.

As you can see, quite an acceleration through the next 18 years of my life. I was left with vertigo, and now I can't get to sleep.

While cleaning my teeth, I read an article in Junior magazine about scans during pregnancy. I've kept coming back to the possibility of Downs, and talked about it with my close mate at work (one of only four friends who know about the pregnancy). He has a six-month old. Neither of us are sure how we feel about abortions, but are both married to wives who would be extremely unlikely to consider it.

The possibility of Downs has been nagging for a while now. It's more likely because AW is over 35.

Bank holiday - [8th week pregnant]

A lazy bank holiday while AW at work. Main event was lying in bed watching Arsenal Ladies beat Charlton in the Women's FA Cup Final, and clinch the quadruple (League Cup, UEFA Cup, Premiership, and FA Cup). Not a bad game, although taking Pat (Chelsea fan) to Ashburton Grove yesterday and clinching their failure to retain the title was a lot more fun.

Went to WH Smith on Notting Hill Gate, specifically to buy a Pregnancy/Baby magazine. Have never really looked in the women's section before. All a bit bright and breezy.

Picked Junior magazine, but needed a dose of testosterone afterwards. A boxing mag was in the sports section opposite, and I read a long article reflecting on the Marvin Hagler/Sugar Ray Leonard Superfight. I remember staying up late for that fight with my mate Victor when I was around 16. That was such a golden age for boxing, when you could regularly see great fights on terrestrial TV. Sugar Ray Leonard, Tommy Hearns and Hagler in the USA, Eubank, Benn and Watson over here. Barry McGuigan, Bruno and Tyson.

Happy days. Victor just visited us the other week, with his three kids, and we had a kickabout and picnic in Hyde Park. Come to think of it, AW was pregnant then, but we didn't know it at the time. I'm sure I would have paid more attention to the kids' football technique at their different ages.

Had a takeaway at my parents' house. I'm OK with waiting a few more weeks to tell them, but I have this nagging thought that one of them might die before they know. Where does THAT come from?

Dream Weaver - [7th Week pregnant]

Just woke up from my first dream about ineffectually looking after a kid. I assume there will be others. It’s panicky, like the dreams you have when you have a major role in a play and you dream you’ve forgotten all the lines.

Can’t really remember the beginning of the dream, but somehow I end up responsible for looking after an old schoolfriend’s kid. We’re not particularly close [in the dream or in real life], but for some reason Neil has asked me to take care of his son.

Anyway, in the dream the little boy is old enough to articulate some of his feelings, but young enough to still be wearing nappies. I wake up and he has run himself a bath, stripped off his nappy and got in. I feel a wave of relief and guilt that the water’s the right temperature, and begin to wash him, knowing that after the bath he’s going to have to explain to me how to put a nappy on him. Little bits of shit are floating around in the water. But I push that to the back of my mind as he begins to tell me how lonely he is at the nursery, because all the other kids have mummies and daddies, but his are divorced.

I know that I’m looking after him because his father asked him to. But the kid atarts talking about how wonderful his mummy is. Kathleen. Now I remember Kathleen [in the dream and in real life] from school as a dumb slag, but I go along with it, and agree with him, because he’s clearly not been able to convince the other kids at nursery of his mother’s worth.

I take him out of the bath and wrap him in a big towel, and sit him on my lap and turn on the TV. I remember I always used to love being envelope in a big fluffy towel after I’d just got out of the bath. But then the film on the TV is, like, American Pie or something, (it’s a comedy about sex, anyway) and I realise:
a) the rating for this film is too high for him
b) sitting here with someone else’s naked child on my lap lays me open to accusations of kiddie-fiddling.

That wakes me up.

I won’t be listing all my dreams on here, even though I suspect there will be others, because reading other people’s dreams are mostly boring. But as it was the first about kids since I found out we were pregnant, I wondered why it had those components?

First doctor consultation - [Seventh Week]

We went to the wife’s first contact with a doctor since discovering. We were registering her with a new practice, just round the corner.

We agreed on 14th March as the first day of her last period, which puts the birthday on 19th December. That’s right in between the day of our registry marriage, and the day of our church wedding service.

The quite nice doctor told us to look round hospitals and choose between St Mary's in Paddington and the Chelsea and Westminster on the Fulham Road. Then we come back to let her know next Friday.

There's not really a choice - we have resident's parking outside the latter, so that's where we'll be going for scans and any classes. By the time of the birth, we'll be near AW's work in Cambridge anyway, so we'll have to become familiar with another hospital.

The discussion about scans for Downs sent me worrying when we got home, but I only had twenty minutes to brood before I had to go to the Globe Theatre to meet Farah and Jane for the opening night of Othello.

Going to the Globe for work or a play, I always catch the Central line to St Paul's Cathedral, then walk across the Milennium Bridge towards the Tate Modern. If you can have stunning vistas, you should.

Had lamb cutlet, chips, houmous and pitta in the Greek restaurant, then stood at the side to 'hear' the play. Tim McInnery (Percy and Captain Darling from Blackadder) played Iago, in a decent production. He only dried twice (that day in rehearsal he forgot loads of lines), and everyone was emoting a bit too much, but I think it will settle down into a good show. Freezing cold night, after a few weeks of warm weather.

AW has the heat on in the flat, thank God.

In the doctors' waiting room, and in the consultation, and afterwards at home, the real possibility of Downs Syndrome was discussed.

AW is 36, 37 next month, and obviously the risk is higher. But AW will not have an abortion, and I knew that before I married her. I’m not sure where I stand on abortion, but having the decision made for me means it’s easier. The way I’ve been feeling recently, that my whole life is going to change anyway, I feel, ‘bring it on’. But at the same time, that was my lowest point so far.

Throughout the last two days, I’ve been dwelling on all the things which could go wrong. Downs, hospital error on the birth-day itself (thanks to a terrifying BBC doc last night), kid becoming a chav. It’s terrifying!

New Surgery - [Seven Weeks]

The surgery where we used to live can fuck off. They don’t think it’s necessary to see the Septic until she’s 12 weeks’ pregnant. American Woman’s best friend Canadian Journalist, who is seven months pregnant, thinks this is bizarre.

We need to change our surgery to somewhere close by in Notting Hill – and so, today, I do that.

It’s literally a few doors away from us. The bonus of this surgery is they interview you when you register, so American Woman’s first interview will necessitate a doctor getting on board with this pregnancy.

We need to know stuff!

Yummy Mummy - [Seven Weeks]

According to The Yummy Mummy Survival Guide, my regular all-black attire will have to change once I have to look after a baby.

There will be just too much food, shit and vomit flying about to keep black clothes looking decent. I suppose I’m going to have to buy some dishevelled denim outfits. Luckily Retro Man Exchange shop at Notting Hill Gate do decent denim stuff.

Daydream Believer - [Six Weeks]

The news has put a severe dent in my research. I too feel legitimised at not buckling down to work. Daydreaming about what our life will be like is now actually important.

And keeping up thinking about names. American Woman has not mocked, or even commented, on any of my suggestions until invited to. I’m ranging widely, and mainly over boys’ names.

Slumbaland - [6th Week pregnant]

American Woman is sleeping a hell of a lot. Just comes home from work, crashes on the couch for hours.

I’m not completely convinced that it’s down to the pregnancy. She gets up for work at 5 every day, so was always tired before, and always had the capacity to sleep a long time on weekends, but her finely honed guilt reflexes never used to let her sleep in the evenings. She always had things to do.

Now she has legitimisation, and she is taking to it with a passion.

Weetabix - [6th Week Pregnant]

American Woman’s never asked me for Weetabix before.

I’ve got a vague memory of her disliking it. Certainly I don’t remember her ever eating it before.

But that’s what I’m sent out to get.

Education, education, education - [6th week pregnant]

I’m reading stuff online and in books compulsively.

Stuff about pregnancy and parenthood, but more stuff about how tough it is to be a stay-at-home-father.

Apparently it's much more accepted for fathers to be the primary caregivers, but there's loads of little issues of language and society that cumulatively gets extremely demoralising.

House husband? Stay at home father?

It’s all so freaky because we’ve both known for a while that if we ever got pregnant, I would be the one to stay at home to raise the Bubby, at least initially.

The Host earns almost twice as much as me, so that’s that. Our jobs are location-specific, and the new job she’s starting this summer means we will be out of commuting distance.

So we were prepared to have a more-or-less weekend marriage when it was just two of us. But now that we’re three, we will all have to move close to her work near Cambridge.

Paradigm Shift

I wake up looking forward to a great Notting Hill sunny day. Reading the papers, getting some breakfast from Portobello Market (the crepe stall, or the new bread shop, Gail’s?), watching Spurs Arsenal at the pub, then showing my Australian aunt and uncle around London. But by the end of the morning, we have been to Sainsbury’s, got two pregnancy tests, dipped them in a cup of urine, and my life has veered off into a new direction.

When she gets up, American Woman mentions again, just like she did two evenings ago, how sore her breasts are. This time she says she reckons it’s in reaction to her period being a few days late. Obviously, my ears perk up at that! But neither of us take the concept of pregnancy particularly seriously because we both know how little sex we’ve had in the last couple of months.

[Defensively] The lack of recent sexual activity between us (as opposed to independently) is because of an unusual combination of recent factors. It’s not the usual - me being a morning person and her being an evening person.

• She’s been most ferociously busy taking online courses in an attempt to become qualified for a particular job within her organisation. She got the qualifications, just in time to get the job.
• We went to Sicily with her mother, to track down ancestral relatives. Because of costs, we all stayed in the same room throughout the trip (two double beds). My, THAT was fun . . .!

Anyway, I type ‘sore breasts’ into google and it’s soon clear that that’s a major sign of pregnancy. American Woman doesn’t believe it’s possible, really, but my brain goes into overdrive. We get the test, I read the instructions while she unconcernedly puts the groceries away, I convince her to bring me a cup of fresh pee, and then conduct my experiments. It’s instantly positive.

We talk for about an hour, rather happily and excitedly, and then she urges me to go watch the football at the pub. We agree to keep texting each other during the match. Rather irritatingly, Spurs draw in the final minute, but this doesn’t dampen my mood. I walk back up Portobello Road, collecting calamata olives and bread for American Woman.

Then when my aunt and uncle arrive, we go to Evensong at St Paul's Cathedral. We hold hands, and every now and again, think a couple of garbled, silent prayers.

This is followed by a seven mile walk across London (across the Milennium Bridge, along the South Bank, across Westminster Bridge, eat a picnic in St James’ Park, up past Buckingham Palace to Hyde Park Corner, then across Hyde Park to Notting Hill in the dusk).

Because we’re at tourist pace rather than normal pace, it takes a long time, so we have a chance to have a few words when we’re not pointing stuff out to my aunt and uncle.

But those words are mostly always the same. It’s what we’ve both been thinking all day, sometimes negatively, mostly happily: ‘Fucking Hell!’