Goodbye, Pert Breasts: The Diary of a Newborn Dad

I know I’m not the one giving birth, but I still regard the impending due date with a bit of anxiety and (dare I say it) fear. Sure, it’ll be easy for me; the hardest thing I’ll have to do is use a net to pluck a turd from the grimy waters of a bath, if we use one – but as any partner will know, they do not like to see their loved one in pain. To counteract this, and minimise any potential stress, good preparation is vital.

Swiss Army Knife probably not required, although still awesome.

Here’s something about me: I’m stingy. I hate spending if I don’t have to, hence the pathetic wedge cushion I bought Jess a few weeks ago which has served only as a good weapon to beat me with when I say something sarcastic about her. However, I’ve given in and shelled out the cash on an all-singing, all-dancing maternity cushion that goes up between her legs, under her head, probably everywhere a cushion could go.

I hope it works, though; seeing Jess scooching down the stairs on her bum because her back hurts is awesomely funny to watch, but can’t be a barrel of laughs for her.

Like a slinky, only about 10% as graceful.

We had a midwife appointment this week, in which they took some more blood from Jess to check for various things – one of them being anaemia. It turns out that Jess is anaemic, which would explain the general paleness and tiredness, and as a result she’s been put on iron tablets – which, she tells me ever so matter-of-factly, make her poo jet black. This, she says, makes her feel like a devil woman. I’m inclined to agree.

It also turns out that the baby is breech, which means instead of lying head down, it’s instead adopting a rather more horizontal approach. To help fix this, Jess has been advised that she should sit with her knees below her hips, and do plenty of exercise. If none of this works, then the next step is acupuncture – which, with Jess’ inherent fear of needles, is probably a bad road to go down. The only other option is the baby being manually turned by a doctor, which I’m told hurts a lot; so here’s hoping the exercise works…

"Uhh, yeah, did I mention? Not a big fan."

According to the midwife, swimming is the best form of exercise, as it takes pressure off aching joints. Therefore, Jess has deemed it fit to drag me to the local pool once a week to go up and down, up and down, doing what I think is breast stroke but which is more likely to be a mixture of doggy paddle and panicked flailing.

I’m an alright swimmer, and it’s not the swimming itself that I don’t like, it’s the stuff that comes with it. I hate the revolting nature of the changing room floors, I hate the fact that the lockers are always too small for your clothes, and I detest the fact that every other man in the changing rooms has no modicum of modesty, instead insisting on dangling their giblets in your face with not even a half-hearted attempt to cover themselves up. I do love, however, the funky machine that gets your shorts dry really quickly.

Oh, also, forgot to say: I look like this.

Your baby is now about 35cm long from head to bum, which is pretty impressive. Watching Jess’ bump move around as my baby does is both fascinating and incredibly freaky. Gestation is weird, man.

The retinas of your baby are continuing to form, and his eyes open more often. His brain, liver and immune systems are still developing, but your child will still stand a great chance of survival if born right now.

Some experts believe that babies begin to dream around this time. How they can tell that, I don’t know, but I can’t imagine that the baby dreams about much anyway. It’s not like it’s watched Saving Private Ryan a few hours earlier and will dream about storming the Normandy beaches. They must just dream about floating around in a cramped ball of fluid, then wake up and think “Aww, man, it’s real life as well! How dull!”