So, I do appreciate that this blog is so
dormant that if it was a physical object it would probably have moss or lichen
growing on it by now, but I did have grand ambitions to resurrect it as a “baby
blog” to detail the trials, tribulations and exploits of my marvellous young
son (suitably anonymised so as to minimise embarrassment for the wee fellow
later in life). Such ambitions have so far been thwarted due to the fact that I
have spent most of the six weeks since his birth either (a) holding a baby, (b)
holding something else while Julie holds the baby or (c) investing in one of my
periodic doomed efforts to catch up on sleep. So my baby blogging may be a tad
sporadic, but I will try to get as many details of this extremely joyful but
slightly exhausting time down as I can.
Junior was due on May 1st aka
Labour Day (which would have been quite ironic if it had come off).
Coincidentally this is also my father’s birthday, which is even more ironic
given that he is a lifelong Tory voter who would rather dig his own eye out of
his face with a rusty shovel than vote Labour. On the subject of politics,
incidentally, Julie and I took great pride in taking him (the baby, that is,
not my father) out to the polling booth for the local and European
parliamentary elections on May 22nd (even putting him in his House
of Cards themed onesie in an attempt to inject some fun into exercising one’s
civic duty – although judging by his reaction to this year’s Eurovision winner,
which involved copious amounts of projectile vomit, we’ll have to educate him
out of any tendencies he might have to vote Ukip! Clearly our visit to the
polling station was purely an attempt to get him into good habits while he’s
young, and the boy won’t be able to vote in his own right yet, but the good
news is that due to his dual citizenship, when he turns 18 he will be able to
vote both in the UK and Massachussetts (just in time for the 2032 election
between Chelsea Clinton and George P (“Son of Jeb”) Bush!)
Being our firstborn, and moreover a relatively
placid, cheerful baby (with a penchant for baroque music, weirdly enough –
anything post 1750 really didn’t float his boat while he was in the womb,
though his tastes have thankfully broadened since), we were bracing ourselves
for the likelihood that he would be arriving a few days late. Thus when we
settled down to order a Thai takeaway and watch Les Miserables at 8pm on 26th
April, having just spent a pleasant afternoon in the company of some good
friends followed by a quick stroll in Coldhams Commmon, Cambridge (near where
we live), I was knocked for six when Julie calmly announced that her waters had
broken.
What followed was my finest impersonation
of Corporal Jones from Dad’s Army. “Right…don’t panic, DON’T PANIC!” I yelled.
She wasn’t, and cheerfully suggested that I call to cancel our takeaway. I did
so, although I managed to persuade her that it might be best then to call the
hospital rather than wasting further time calling JustEat.com to secure a
refund (we eventually did sort this out, but Julie did acknowledge that the
baby was unlikely to halt its progress while we got our finances in order). At
this point Julie’s contractions were tiny as well as few and far between, so by
the time I had got us into the car and on our merry way to Addenbrooke’s
Hospital (a short ten minute drive away, with not much in between except an
absurd number of roundabouts) I was quite a bit calmer.
We arrived, and were greeted by a midwife
called Christine (Chris) who promptly sent us home again (unfortunately Addenbrooke’s
had lost Julie’s medical records, which did nothing to fill us with
confidence). There followed a detour to Tesco on a hunt for maternity
pads/underwear. By this time, however, faster and more painful contractions
were already starting to kick in.
Navigating supermarkets has never been my
strong point, and it was about 9:45 by this point so I do feel for the three
Tesco employees, presumably winding down to go off shift, who were suddenly
confronted by a panicking, red faced, arm flapping individual breathlessly
insisting that they needed to help him as a matter of urgency because his wife
was in labour. To her credit, the female assistant, who herself had 3 children,
rose to the challenge admirably (while her male colleagues backed away with averted
eyes) and I was in and out in about 5 minutes. By this time, however, it was
clear that our plans for a sneaky McDonald’s meal would have to be put on ice
and so it was that, before we’d even had a chance to get home again, and still
distinctly dinnerless, we found ourselves driving straight back to
Addenbrooke’s. This time, even the PG Wodehouse adaptation on the radio failed
to soothe us (if the voice of Martin Jarvis doesn’t calm one down it’s a sure
sign that something is really afoot), and by the time we arrived the
contractions were agonizing, and coming every couple of minutes.
Luckily Chris was still on duty, and I can
honestly say with hand on heart that I have never come across anyone before or
since who is as good at their job as she is. She immediately took control and
knew exactly what to say to Julie throughout the process (which is more than
can be said for me…I erred on the side of “silent support” throughout the
process, which Julie subsequently told me was all for the best!) and took us up
to the Lady Mary Ward. We were not able to use the normal delivery units as
Julie had been (erroneously, as it subsequently turned out) diagnosed with a
mitral heart prolapse some years before, meaning that we needed to use the
emergency unit to be on the safe side. In truth however we would not have had
much of an opportunity to avail ourselves of the rather swanky (is that still a
word?) facilities of the normal units in any event. It turned out this baby was
definitely not messing about!
Julie coped remarkably well and there was
not nearly as much “biting my head off” as I had expected there to be, in spite
of the fact that labour progressed very quickly indeed, which was great in one
sense but did mean that there was very little time to recover or take a
breather between contractions (which were back contractions, and so were pretty
unpleasant). Even more impressive wasthe fact that she managed to get through
it all without any form of pain relief (she took one inhalation of gas and air
and decided that any more would make her gag). She did end up plumping for a
water birth (despite having been skeptical of these during most of her
pregnancy) albeit that she ended up having to stand up at the last moment in
order to get the baby out. We
would highly recommend it.
I am afraid that my first glimpse of my son
was perhaps the most traumatic moment of my life. The poor little blighter, in
his eagerness to get out and see the world, had managed to get over excited and
turn over three times, meaning that the umbilical cord (a big thick one at
that) had wrapped three times around his neck, which meant that he came out
blue faced, in shock, and (as far as I could tell, at least) not making any
sound. It turned out later that he was never in any real danger, as his
heartbeat remained rapid and his initial Apgar score was a respectable 7, going
up to full marks at 5 minutes and thereafter, but it was pretty frightening in
the heat of the moment.
However, it turned out that all he needed
was a bit of extra oxygen, which the paramedics quickly provided (swooping in
from nowhere like Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition and disappearing again
just as quickly) and my most anxious moment quickly gave way to my happiest as
the little lad got enough oxygen to scream and otherwise make his displeasure
abundantly clear. Luckily Daddy was on hand, and the first thing I told him
(after “Blimey, Junior, you really know how to make an entrance”) was that that
was the most traumatic experience he would ever go through (which I understand
is generally true of births) and that it was all “uphill from here” in the very
best sense of the word. He calmed down remarkably quickly after his unpleasant
ordeal, and by the time we had sung a few lines of “Anything Goes” (the ones we
could remember) and he had had a bit of skin on skin time with his mummy, he
actually seemed pretty cheerful.
We had not known whether it would be a boy
or a girl, having decided to keep it a surprise, but once he was out and about
there was certainly no ambiguity. As is often the case, Junior’s private parts
(do they still count as private now I’ve blogged about them?) came out
seriously swollen, and I am afraid that in the heat of the moment both Julie
and I made slightly inappropriate comments – Julie’s was “those have GOT to be
a pair of testicles” and mine (worse) was “Good God, they’re bigger than
mine”. Julie’s exhaustion was
demonstrated by her not entirely accurate comment that “gosh, so he’s the first
male Crockford since your dad!” Um…pretty sure you missed someone out there, my
love!
Julie needed a couple of stitches but was
able to keep baby on her chest for some bonding time while Chris saw to this.
Junior, being a true Crockford, quickly decided that the best way to celebrate
having come through that horribly traumatic experience was to have a big slap
up banquet, and promptly started feeding. And kept going for most of the next
24 hours! He is clearly a comfort eater, but in spite of that he came out (and
is still) very long and thin (like his parents) and although he weighed a
chunky 8 lb 12 oz, the additional weight came from extra length rather than
body fat.
After a few hours left on our own (which
was very welcome) in the delivery unit with some toast and jam (also welcome in
that we never had got our dinner), Chris came in, swaddled Baby and took us out
into the main “recuperation area” with various other new mums. There we stayed
from about 6:30am until about 8pm, which I have to say was not the most
comfortable experience of my life (I was sat in an armchair right by the window
being bombarded by the sunlight and feeling very overheated as well as
extremely sleepy). Understandably, the Lady Mary Ward focuses on the well being
of the mothers and babies rather than the dads, and whilst I freely admit that
of the three of us I had had by far the least draining and traumatic
experience, it was still a bit galling to have to buzz to be let back in every
time I had to go to the toilet (which, as it was Sunday, meaning fewer staff,
often took several minutes to be answered). Nevertheless, all had gone well and
whilst we were exhausted and uncomfortable we were also extremely happy.
We took this opportunity to finally agree
on the name. We wanted to wait to be sure until we had taken a few hours to get
to know the little chap (although if we had based it on those few hours alone
he probably would have ended up being called Snuffly Windypops Crockford, but
luckily, being forward thinking folk, we had had a shortlist for both sexes,
and it only took us a few hours to make a decision as to which one suited him
best). We also told our parents the good news (but sadly my phone ran out of
battery before we could disseminate the news more widely, although I just about
managed to get a text out to my sister beforehand). And then we waited…
Personally I was very relieved when the
powers that be at Addenbrooke’s finally decided that they had done all they
needed to do to discharge us. We pretty much crashed as soon as we got home,
but, as I suspect is the case for all new parents, the first few nights were
pretty difficult, not because Junior was himself not sleeping (he is actually a
very good sleeper, albeit a noisy one who likes to make animal noises in his
sleep…at times it’s like sharing a bedroom with Gollum) but because as new
parents we were not quite sure whether those noises signified breathing
difficulties or whether (as in fact turned out to be the case) they were just
“his thing”. I was particularly bad and had some extremely disturbing dreams –
the worst one being when I woke up, handed Julie an object in a state of abject
panic saying “This one’s really floppy! What’s wrong with him?” “That’s a
cuddly toy, Alex”, Julie explained slowly, before gesturing in the direction of
where the real baby was sleeping perfectly calmly.
Also, we had bought him a Moses basket to
sleep in next to the bed, but it ended up being a bit problematic because we
couldn’t see him so, especially in the frantic state our minds were in at the
time, we had to keep getting up every few minutes and checking he was OK. We
ended up hiring the NCT Bednest, which means that he is sleeping next to the
bed at the same level as us so we can see him, but he is not IN the bed so
won’t get squished when we roll over. I would highly recommend this fine
contraption for all new parents.
My employers had very kindly allowed me
three weeks off (my two weeks’ statutory leave plus another week of holiday)
which went by disappointingly quickly but was great fun (albeit not terribly
restful). Julie’s mother, Lucy, arrived from the US on the first Wednesday and
stayed for over a month, which was fantastic both for her and for us (an extra
pair of hands was a godsend and Junior got to spend some quality time with his
Nana, which was lovely).
We didn’t venture very far afield during
those weeks and still haven’t (his first trip to London is due this weekend)
but we did get to the supermarket a couple of times in the first week and into
central Cambridge a number of times in the second and third weeks (I
particularly enjoyed showing him my old college about 8 or 9 days in). The baby
likes travelling in our car (nicknamed “Father Jack” for reasons which I won’t
go into here), or rather enjoys sleeping in the car (it is one of the few
guaranteed ways of getting him off) but shares his father’s distaste for
traffic jams and is not shy in expressing his displeasure when the car is not
moving.
Junior is a lively and affectionate lad,
but it took him a couple of days to get the measure of me, I think, as I was
clearly no help at all on the milk front and to start off with I was the one
changing most of the nappies, a process he is not a huge fan of at all. But
being a bright lad, I think he soon realized that there was more to things than
the black and white picture of Julie as “the feeder” and me as “the manhandler”
and that both of us were there to provide him with love and affection as well.
I cannot sing the praises of Cambridge NHS
Trust highly enough and it was a huge weight off our shoulders to discover that
we were to have midwives visiting us more or less every day during the first
week to check on Baby. The midwives and health visitors have been uniformly
excellent, and I am pleased to report that the little fellow is thriving and,
after the standard weight loss in the first few days, started putting on weight
again immediately and has now shot over the 5kg mark, and has overtaken our
cat, Watson, in terms of weight (probably for good, unless Watson has a massive
binge in a bid to stay competitive!)
Watson was initially a little nervous of
the baby (probably smelling the blood from labour). He had been very fond of
Julie’s bump, even allowing it to nudge and kick him while he was on her
lap, and I think his initial view
was that we had made a poor trade in exchanging bump for Baby. I think he has
probably now realized that the two are one and the same and whilst he doesn’t
generally come too close to this strange noisy new addition to the household
(thankfully), he has decided that the little chap needs protection and that Julie
and I are decidedly not up to the task on our own. So he, together with his
favourite toy squirrel sidekick (“Squeak”, a scruffy, blinded creature who has
not actually been able to squeak for a couple of years but despite such
shortcomings is the only person Watson would entrust with a task of this
magnitude) camps out outside our room at night on “guard duty”. Fortunately he
is now willing to actually let his guard down and go to sleep every once in a
while – a sleep deprived cat is not a pretty sight (I swear there were bags
under his eyes at one point!)
Now I am back at work, the rate at which
Junior is growing is much more obvious to me (there are evenings when I have
come home and could swear that he has grown an inch over the course of the
day). Whilst he is still not a large chap, he has lost that “newborn” look, and
it has become much more obvious at first glance that he is a boy. He still has
a bit of jaundice but it was never serious and is now clearing up.
We have already got some smiles out of him
(and something that sounded like a chuckle, although I think it was probably
mimickry rather than a response to the rapier like witty banter you get in our
house!) Even more fantastically, he is now able to roll over from his front
onto his back, so he is nicely ahead of the curve on that one. Whilst I get the
impression that he is more naturally “chilled out” than either of his parents,
he is also a bit of a perfectionist and is already desperately trying to crawl,
and bawling his head off about the fact that he can’t do it (I think “operation
babyproofing” may need to be expedited).
In summary, fatherhood is fantastic, and I
am hugely looking forward to doing more with the little fellow as he grows and
develops. The wonderful thing is that all my favourite books, films, places etc
are completely new to him (often I find myself wishing that I could forget
reading books like Lord of the Rings so that I could experience them “for the
first time again”, similarly with some of my favourite mysteries I would love
to be able to forget the identity of the murderer and have another crack at
guessing correctly). But at least I can experience at second hand his wonder
and delight at experiencing all those things for the very first time (and no
doubt he will enjoy many experiences of his own which I have never encountered
myself). Exciting times! Watch this space for developments….
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