Fadoom Part 1

Maaaaaate, 

Five weeks? 7 weeks tomrrow? I did send this 6 weeks ago, thai post mate.

You have been busy. I have been distraught. I wish I knew more.

Some of the questions. 

How do you deal with a child with skin falling off?

What do you do when a child will only sleep in your arms?

Do newborns always look so fragile in a car seat?

Will they remember any of it, any of the inadequacies, any of the pain, any of the fear that seeps through your skin.

Is he dead, I can’t hear anything, he must be, maybe I should just watch him all night.

Enter a world where everything is plausible, anything can be a signal of imminent death, mums net rules all, not being comfortable in pjamas leads to cold and vulnerable night time parenting.

Soooooo Chapt one. 

Fadoom. Thwack. Thud. Very loud noises. Massive crater in my life being created. Explosions. Almost all birds from local trees startle and fly off. Native Indian man touches ground in native India and senses great change is afoot.

Apologies for my tardiness, I don’t mean to be aloof. It’s actually F$%@ing happened hasn’t it.

Flashback *wavy blurred image or concentric image spiralling, your choice*

“Are you? You’re not? Oh congratulations, fantastic news!” kiss kiss. Then began the idyllic build up. “yes, it’s a boy” “we have a few names in mind” ha ha ha haahahahahhahaahhahahow its all ends so abruptly. One minute the pair of you are strolling along promenades like in images from a Victorian zoetrope. Thinking of how idyllic the new arrival with make your life, his little button nose, those cute little suits, dressing him up like the little girl you wished/longed for and that instant bond, the unbreakable, inseparable and unconditional bond. Laying the foundation for an altruistic voyage to furnish the babe with anything and everything possible within your grasp. Eating cake, drinking coffees, being driven as she can’t drink even though you said “its probably best if I drive for the babies safety”, but you can’t just have one can you.

I imagine that you had a similar mental pre curser to Thailand, a whole new world, a new fantastic point of view. Then when you look down and smile at Carpet and he lifts up his corner tassel for a Hi5 you see the 100% nylon / 0% magic label and plummet down. You are right, I probably would be repelled. I guess the idea of getting to some of these places and being met with disappointment or a load of happy people that describe themselves as a bit “mad” has always put me off the big travel.

I’m not saying the child is a massive let down, just to clarify.

Nine months is a game of 5 sections. I know this now.

  1. Excitement, apprehension, crippling self-doubt that the magic dust in your wand lacks sparkle.
  2. Massive Fu$ks and Sh£ts all round when its confirmed.
  3. The telling of people.
  4. The long drag of expectation, towards the end of which you have almost forgotten it’s going to happen. Most people have stopped caring or actually forgotten.
  5. FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK, WHERE IS THE FACKING BABY BAG, NO I DON’T WANT A FACKING SOFT TOUCH FACKING MASSAGE, WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHES NOT ACTUALLY IN LABOUR YET?                                                                          THERE IS A VERY SMALL CHILD STARING AT ME FROM THE BOTTOM OF A BIRTHING POOL.

 

I was not ready. I thought I was. Waters breaking, contractions and the helplessness. From start to finish you feel sick. All the unhelpful commenters don’t give warning of this. Relaxing music, smack the pony and greenwing on hand, were they serious? Snacks. Of course a top shelf nut bar or flump will make the pain go away.

It’s mainly anger you feel initially, I’m passed terror now, these people who are meant to be medical professionals, don’t they know we are on the final straight. Yes her waters have broken, go home and wait till the contractions are 3 elephants apart. They have clearly never encountered a pregnant woman who’s water has broken before. Then you come home and it’s an onslaught of over attentiveness for the female. Food, drink, soft touch massage, calming humming, native dancing, tuna pasta, crunchie, tea, tea, tea, tea, tea more pasta salad. Fast forward a bespoke time period and you are arguing with an obvious naïve idiot at the birthing suite, over the phone, that you said call back when the contractions are less than 3 minutes apart. Is there someone else I can speak to because you patently have never encountered this situation before? He must make the tea…. Finally the gravitas of job in hand is taken seriously, and you are enroute.

The details are hazy (for the sake of this captains log at least). We had an intermediate room, there was a bolsh instigated and we entered the suite. “Incompetent F%^king people here, I’ve always been a tory anyway, this would be much better if it was privatised…..” I will apologise for the rest of my life after this. It was all there, birth pool filled up, music on, soft lighting, everything, two incredible people there to do nothing but help. Squash, jam on bread, total care and security for the most uncertain period of anyone’s life. I’ll fore go the faulty heartbeat monitor that left us in utter despair.

 

So he is here now. The son. The farther. The father son relationship. A bug. TBC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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