Some research has been recently published exploring the experience of fathers present at traumatic births. Broadly, it found that while things are undoubtedly tough for mothers, it's not all plain sailing for fathers either.
Unsurprisingly, some areas of the popular media have sensationalised the issue, while The Independent and The Guardian published excellent opinion pieces. I was approached by the Mumsnet blogger network to offer my views, so allow me to start by telling you about my experience.
Henry's birth was easier than some, harder than others, in the simple terms of physical complications. It was a natural delivery with the help of an episiotomy and forceps. No coneheaded ventouse delivery, no emergency Caeserian, no blood transfusions; a conscious mother, a healthy baby, a normal delivery team. So far, so good.
This is where I find Ally Fogg's Guardian piece overly simplistic. I did find the birth of Henry to be one of the more traumatic experiences of my life. I haven't been haunted by flashbacks and I'm not after sympathy. But there is something very harrowing about helplessly being beside your partner who is going through considerable pain, while a medical team slice, stretch, inject and, generally, violate an area that is particularly dear to your heart. The one focus of all of this attention is to deliver your child, a miracle that has been made possible by the magical work of the mother's body, and a tiny bit of goo you provided nine months ago. You are, in effect, helpless at a time when you want to protect your family the most and the only thing you can do is support, in whatever way is required. For me, this was hours of rubbing a back, followed by hand-holding and, finally, inspecting the needlework of the obstetrician. That, if I am honest, is an image I try not to revisit.
So why tell you all this? As I said, I do not want sympathy - my emotional experience pales into insignificance next to my wife's physical pain, that lasted far longer than those hours of labour and delivery. I have asked in the safety of my own family whether or not the experience is emotionally more traumatic for men, whilst physically more traumatic for women. I was not derided or divorced, so perhaps there is something in that. Whatver, the case may be I am writing about this because, and at this point I find myself in favour of Ally's article, it is important that fathers are there for many reasons.
Firstly, your child is coming into the world. No feeling can replace it. I was the first person to see that Henry was a boy (thank goodness, it's a rubbish name for a girl). I wept for the pain my wife was in, but also for the magic of seeing and meeting my son for the first time.
Secondly, I had to be my wife's rock during this time. Until you have seen what women must go through you cannot possibly begin to understand childbirth - much like you have no idea what parenthood is like until you become one. She needed me there, despite any hardship that I may have faced as a result of being there I would never change it. I cannot imagine her having to go through that without me, even if all I did was rub and ensure the gas-and-air remained firmly clamped to her mouth. Heaven help you if the tube falls off the mouthpiece.
Thirdly, you will respect and appreciate your partner in ways you did not realise were possible. She is terrified of anything creepy or crawly, squeamish around meat, frightened of birds, does not like to be last up the stairs in the dark, and will complain incessantly if she has a bruise. But never will I feel comfortable calling her a wuss again.
And, finally, because I agree with Mike Higgins in The Independent. There is still an expectation that fathers do not get affected by situations like this. We do. It is emotionally tough and it is important that this is recognised. I have not met another father who thinks differently, but nor have I met one who was not looked after by the delivery team. By talking about it we can be better prepared because I am sure that everybody wants to do whatever it is that is required of them to help their child enter the world.
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
Sunday, 17 February 2013
Ten months on
Henry is now over ten months old - the big one is on the horizon.
I have spoken in the past of parental paranoia and I have recently discovered a new manifestation of it. Henry has been going through a rough patch of sleeping. Personally, I never knew I could do my job on so little rest. We have put this period down to teething (I have spoken in the past of my thoughts with regards to these stone circles of misery). Henry is not a lad that appears to teethe well and we feel for him.
The paranoia has come as a result of our desire to make things better for him. We have considered a number of factors beyond the teething that might be to blame for the poor nights and attempted to change or affect as many of them as possible. For example, he will frequently wake or cry in the middle of the night, then let rip with some powerful gaseous excretions. So we have considered:
But this is the difficulty with babies. They cannot communicate with you, and even experienced trained paediatricians make little more than well-informed guesses that appear to be frequently based on parental intuition. I know there is far more to it than that (I am certainly not denigrating them in any way - I hold the medical profession in a very high regard) but to speak plainly, at Henry's age they just do not know. So many of that list could be standard growing pains. But we are now putting it down to teething.
What we have learnt is that there are simply some things that you cannot change, avoid or do for your baby. We cannot get these teeth out any quicker than he is prepared to grow them. We cannot stop him feeling the side effects (although we are considering buying shares in Calpol with the amount that we attempt to ameliorate it for him with this wonder-fluid). We cannot predict what the next side effect may be. We can only do what we can with the available information and make him as comfortable as possible, or distract when needed. It is a distressing time for him, and is equally distressing for us because we cannot stop it. But what we are now trying hard to do is accept the reality rather than chasing phantoms because it is out of our control and we want it to be something we can control.
I have spoken in the past of parental paranoia and I have recently discovered a new manifestation of it. Henry has been going through a rough patch of sleeping. Personally, I never knew I could do my job on so little rest. We have put this period down to teething (I have spoken in the past of my thoughts with regards to these stone circles of misery). Henry is not a lad that appears to teethe well and we feel for him.
The paranoia has come as a result of our desire to make things better for him. We have considered a number of factors beyond the teething that might be to blame for the poor nights and attempted to change or affect as many of them as possible. For example, he will frequently wake or cry in the middle of the night, then let rip with some powerful gaseous excretions. So we have considered:
- a wheat allergy
- eating too late
- eating too early
- eating too much
- yoghurt is to blame
- yoghurt makes things better
- drinking bath water
- not moving around enough after dinner
- being fed too quickly
But this is the difficulty with babies. They cannot communicate with you, and even experienced trained paediatricians make little more than well-informed guesses that appear to be frequently based on parental intuition. I know there is far more to it than that (I am certainly not denigrating them in any way - I hold the medical profession in a very high regard) but to speak plainly, at Henry's age they just do not know. So many of that list could be standard growing pains. But we are now putting it down to teething.
What we have learnt is that there are simply some things that you cannot change, avoid or do for your baby. We cannot get these teeth out any quicker than he is prepared to grow them. We cannot stop him feeling the side effects (although we are considering buying shares in Calpol with the amount that we attempt to ameliorate it for him with this wonder-fluid). We cannot predict what the next side effect may be. We can only do what we can with the available information and make him as comfortable as possible, or distract when needed. It is a distressing time for him, and is equally distressing for us because we cannot stop it. But what we are now trying hard to do is accept the reality rather than chasing phantoms because it is out of our control and we want it to be something we can control.
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
Reflections
We have now passed from 2012, the year that I became a father, into 2013, the first year that I have begun as a father. Henry is now 8.5 months old, crawling, eating mostly what we do, standing, teething and doing a million other things. So what have I learnt?
Firstly, now that he is crawling, it does not matter how quick I am popping out of the room in the time it takes me to do X Henry will have travelled faster than a speeding bullet to the nearest available thing that I do not want him to play with. He is incredible and seems to move quicker when nobody is looking.
Secondly, I have given up being anywhere when I think I should be reasonably able to get there. Rule of thumb - if you think you will be somewhere by Y o'clock - say you'll be there at Y:30.
Thirdly, it is hard to describe how precious his sleep is to me. When he doesn't sleep, guess who else doesn't? (the answer is anybody staying in the same house as him). So Emily and I do anything we can to keep him sleeping at night - obviously we don't induce comas during the day. I have become Olympic standard at the 'up-the-stairs' dash, followed by a Bourne level of spycraft in getting into his bedroom undetected, followed by back patting specifically designed to clear wind yet be a comforting, soothing presence. This may sound amusing, but if I could bottle the successful attempts, I would be a millionaire.
Fourthly, I will merrily do the most moronic things to get him to laugh. I will then video me being a moron and willingly show this film in public because, frankly, I can think of nothing more amazing than Henry giggling. I have also been heartily impressed by my friends' and colleagues' patience with me.
Fifthly, no matter what item of baby equipment you buy, if you have not had a chance to test-drive a friend's version, you will find it irritating and want to replace it within approximately four weeks of buying it. This is particularly true of prams...
Sixthly, the rate that he grows is alarming. I now have six vacuum packed bags of clothes in the loft, some of which he never got to wear because he grew so quick. This rate of growth does not appear to be in any danger of slowing any time soon and no matter how many clothes you think you have, there will be always be some essential item that you never have enough of (ours seems to be vests).
Seventhly, muslin cloths are a close challenger for the wheel in terms of most useful invention ever.
Eighthly, becoming a parent introduces you to a club that you did not know existed before you had a child. We have just seen in the new year with friends that we did not even know at the last new year. Having a child creates a common thread with people that you may never have spoken to previously, and unites you in the tears, jubilation and day-to-day survival that raising a child creates. It is a wonderful club to be a part of and I would recommend it...
...providing, at number 9, you have some dedicated support in your corner. Neither Emily nor I could have done this without each other, and may have had a nervous breakdown if not for our parents and friends. It is impossible to describe how amazing becoming a parent is, yet how utterly unprepared you will be. It is the hardest thing either of us have ever had to do. Yet, it is by far the most incredible.
And, finally, no matter how closely you watch your child, they disappear in front of your eyes, and they are always one step ahead. But it is mightly fun to try and second guess what they will do next - they never fail to surprise, and more often than not, the surprise is delightful. Unless it's a nappy. That is rarely pleasant.
Happy new year everybody!
Firstly, now that he is crawling, it does not matter how quick I am popping out of the room in the time it takes me to do X Henry will have travelled faster than a speeding bullet to the nearest available thing that I do not want him to play with. He is incredible and seems to move quicker when nobody is looking.
Secondly, I have given up being anywhere when I think I should be reasonably able to get there. Rule of thumb - if you think you will be somewhere by Y o'clock - say you'll be there at Y:30.
Thirdly, it is hard to describe how precious his sleep is to me. When he doesn't sleep, guess who else doesn't? (the answer is anybody staying in the same house as him). So Emily and I do anything we can to keep him sleeping at night - obviously we don't induce comas during the day. I have become Olympic standard at the 'up-the-stairs' dash, followed by a Bourne level of spycraft in getting into his bedroom undetected, followed by back patting specifically designed to clear wind yet be a comforting, soothing presence. This may sound amusing, but if I could bottle the successful attempts, I would be a millionaire.
Fourthly, I will merrily do the most moronic things to get him to laugh. I will then video me being a moron and willingly show this film in public because, frankly, I can think of nothing more amazing than Henry giggling. I have also been heartily impressed by my friends' and colleagues' patience with me.
Fifthly, no matter what item of baby equipment you buy, if you have not had a chance to test-drive a friend's version, you will find it irritating and want to replace it within approximately four weeks of buying it. This is particularly true of prams...
Sixthly, the rate that he grows is alarming. I now have six vacuum packed bags of clothes in the loft, some of which he never got to wear because he grew so quick. This rate of growth does not appear to be in any danger of slowing any time soon and no matter how many clothes you think you have, there will be always be some essential item that you never have enough of (ours seems to be vests).
Seventhly, muslin cloths are a close challenger for the wheel in terms of most useful invention ever.
Eighthly, becoming a parent introduces you to a club that you did not know existed before you had a child. We have just seen in the new year with friends that we did not even know at the last new year. Having a child creates a common thread with people that you may never have spoken to previously, and unites you in the tears, jubilation and day-to-day survival that raising a child creates. It is a wonderful club to be a part of and I would recommend it...
...providing, at number 9, you have some dedicated support in your corner. Neither Emily nor I could have done this without each other, and may have had a nervous breakdown if not for our parents and friends. It is impossible to describe how amazing becoming a parent is, yet how utterly unprepared you will be. It is the hardest thing either of us have ever had to do. Yet, it is by far the most incredible.
And, finally, no matter how closely you watch your child, they disappear in front of your eyes, and they are always one step ahead. But it is mightly fun to try and second guess what they will do next - they never fail to surprise, and more often than not, the surprise is delightful. Unless it's a nappy. That is rarely pleasant.
Happy new year everybody!
Tuesday, 18 December 2012
Everything hurts (I mean changes)
I have just returned from my work Christmas night out. A meal and some drinks. How lovely and inoffensive.
Or is it? I'm a teensiest bit drunk. I had no intention of this, but largely due to an administrative balls-up a pile of free wine arrived.
This means a drunk daddy. Not good.
People wanted to see Henry. I don't blame them, he's awesome! But I invited people for a lift. Mistake 1.
I then tried to calm him using standard dad tricks. Mistake 2.
I then offered a lift home to a friend. Mistake 3.
All in all...nice one dadhead.
But...I am home because of him, because gaining friendships paled into significance next to him. Drinking is attractive. He is more so. Life has changed, I'm playing catch up, but I will never stop running for him.
Night.
Or is it? I'm a teensiest bit drunk. I had no intention of this, but largely due to an administrative balls-up a pile of free wine arrived.
This means a drunk daddy. Not good.
People wanted to see Henry. I don't blame them, he's awesome! But I invited people for a lift. Mistake 1.
I then tried to calm him using standard dad tricks. Mistake 2.
I then offered a lift home to a friend. Mistake 3.
All in all...nice one dadhead.
But...I am home because of him, because gaining friendships paled into significance next to him. Drinking is attractive. He is more so. Life has changed, I'm playing catch up, but I will never stop running for him.
Night.
Sunday, 16 December 2012
Teething and late nights
So it's 12:30 on a Saturday night and I have just spent the last half hour trying to convince Henry that going back to sleep is the right choice to make. I failed. At times like this there is only one thing that works - cue supermummy with her breasts of nectar.
I am making light of this because the alternative is despair. This has been going on for weeks now, and if the usual pattern is to be expected we will be up another two times between now and when we get up with him between 7 and 8am. It is exhausting, frustrating and stressful. After failing in my endeavours I came back to bed realising I felt targeted by him, that he wasn't helpless and somehow he was choosing to do this to me. Obviously he isn't and the rational part of my mind was telling me to stop being such a pillock, but for a couple of minutes the irrational side was on top.
"Why won't he sleep? Why is he doing this to us?"
led to:
"What are we doing that is so wrong?"
Maybe we are doing something wrong. We are responsive parents, rarely leave him to cry for long. Perhaps this is a rod for our own backs, but it doesn't even feel like a choice as the alternative is inconceivable to us.
The likely culprit is a tooth. Or possibly teeth, we are not sure yet. But it leaves me worrying - he has a whole mouthful of piano keys yet to sprout, how long is it going to be like this?
Unfortunately, for us, only time will tell.
I am making light of this because the alternative is despair. This has been going on for weeks now, and if the usual pattern is to be expected we will be up another two times between now and when we get up with him between 7 and 8am. It is exhausting, frustrating and stressful. After failing in my endeavours I came back to bed realising I felt targeted by him, that he wasn't helpless and somehow he was choosing to do this to me. Obviously he isn't and the rational part of my mind was telling me to stop being such a pillock, but for a couple of minutes the irrational side was on top.
"Why won't he sleep? Why is he doing this to us?"
led to:
"What are we doing that is so wrong?"
Maybe we are doing something wrong. We are responsive parents, rarely leave him to cry for long. Perhaps this is a rod for our own backs, but it doesn't even feel like a choice as the alternative is inconceivable to us.
The likely culprit is a tooth. Or possibly teeth, we are not sure yet. But it leaves me worrying - he has a whole mouthful of piano keys yet to sprout, how long is it going to be like this?
Unfortunately, for us, only time will tell.
Monday, 10 December 2012
All I want for Christmas are my two front teeth
Time marches on. Our last two weeks have been amongst the hardest since Henry was born. And today, the culprit, emerged from his gums like some ivory flag, proudly marking the reason for all the upset. Henry has not had a good time of it cutting his first tooth, and for the last weeks has had regular doses of ibuprofen, paracetomol and Bonjela. His appetite has been affected, sleep cycle and general happiness (we are very lucky and he is normally a cheerful wee soul). But perhaps now he can rest a bit? We hope so, because a tired, cranky Henry leads to two very tired parents. Again and again I reminded of how difficult this would be if I didn't even have a partner to share the burden with. Single parenting is not an easy choice I imagine. If, of course, it is ever a choice.
And what else has changed in life in recent times? Stinkpig is now independently mobile. That's right adults, lock up anything you don't want chewed, slapped, pulled or slobbered on because it is now likely to be within his reach. And if it is not within his reach? Why, he will just stand up and attempt to bring it within his reach! Henry is now crawling, and is on the verge of walking as he shuffles round various pieces of furniture.
This has led to new highs of parental guilt. I challenge anybody living in an everyday home, looking after a newly moving child to protect them from knocks, bangs and scrapes. In the last week, and only with me, he has:
"Oooooo...a tall thing. I wonder what tastes like that?"
BANG!
"Owwwwwwwww - where are those people that supply the food and the wet wipes? Ah, there they are...I have hurt myself, I feel like cryin...why are you laughing? Why is that funny? Why are you bouncing me up and down? I've just banged my head, I don't feel like dancing. Actually, this is quite fun...more, more! Oooooo...what's that tall thing?"
If you have a newly crawling child - good luck. Life is about to get interesting*.
(* for interesting read a terrifyingly stark reminder of how incapable you are of not only keeping a tiny baby safe but also how untterly incompetent you are at predicting, in a home that you have likely lived in for years, what will be of interest and pose a risk to said infant.)
And what else has changed in life in recent times? Stinkpig is now independently mobile. That's right adults, lock up anything you don't want chewed, slapped, pulled or slobbered on because it is now likely to be within his reach. And if it is not within his reach? Why, he will just stand up and attempt to bring it within his reach! Henry is now crawling, and is on the verge of walking as he shuffles round various pieces of furniture.
This has led to new highs of parental guilt. I challenge anybody living in an everyday home, looking after a newly moving child to protect them from knocks, bangs and scrapes. In the last week, and only with me, he has:
- had a lump under his eye where he slipped in the bath (he even bloody crawls in that), banged his head off the side and slipped momentarily under the water. I have never moved so quick, very nearly cracking ribs in the process of pulling him out of the water.
- pulled a pan rack, complete with pans, down. It was only by sheer luck that it bounced beside him rather than on him.
- within the space of two minutes slipped three times on the kitchen floor and banged his head.
- slipped pulling himself the kitchen cupboard resulted in another banged head.
- trapped his hand under the pan while his other hand pushes down on it to lever himself into a standing position.
- pulled a cola bottle over onto his hand.
- pulled the bin down on top of himself.
"Oooooo...a tall thing. I wonder what tastes like that?"
BANG!
"Owwwwwwwww - where are those people that supply the food and the wet wipes? Ah, there they are...I have hurt myself, I feel like cryin...why are you laughing? Why is that funny? Why are you bouncing me up and down? I've just banged my head, I don't feel like dancing. Actually, this is quite fun...more, more! Oooooo...what's that tall thing?"
If you have a newly crawling child - good luck. Life is about to get interesting*.
(* for interesting read a terrifyingly stark reminder of how incapable you are of not only keeping a tiny baby safe but also how untterly incompetent you are at predicting, in a home that you have likely lived in for years, what will be of interest and pose a risk to said infant.)
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Eating everything
Joy of joys Henry has now joined us at the dinner table (in his brand spanking new highchair that met the exacting specifications of my wife and simply could not be purchased from eBay - much like our pram, which she now hates. Not that I'm bitter, you understand) for his evening meal.
The magical six month mark has been reached, so the kitchen is now open and he is joining the world of proper food. Which has been slightly pureed and cooked without salt or any spices that might be too hot. (Or dried chickpeas that are two years out of date and have been included because his dad is too tight to throw anything away and thought they would be ok. You might want to read my previous post for the likely fall out of this.) But apart from these slight stipulations, he is now enjoying a range of foods.
This is absolutely amazing.
I cannot describe how awesome (and I mean that in the dictionary sense) I find feeding my son food that I have cooked for the family and he appears to be enjoying. Food is important to me and, thus, it is important to me that he enjoys it. And boy does he enjoy it! I love it. We often have breakfast together to try and give mummy a little bit of a lie in and it is the most special moment of my day.
However...
I am finding the mess somewhat difficult to deal with. Weaning has coincided with a streak of independence and developing hand-eye co-ordination that can whip food off a casually wielded spoon in a blink of an eye. Does that food make it to his mouth?
Of course not. It makes it just about everywhere but, smearing across whatever he is wearing, his chair, the table, his face, bits squeezed between his fingers, down his legs, on the floor. Daddy struggles with this. A lot. Mummy does not appear to have a problem with it.
Daddy also struggles with occasional lumps. Mummy, again, is considerably better at this. I have, occasionally, needed to leave the room as he chews something a bit troublesome as my instinct is to whip him out of his chair and perform a paediatric heimlich manoeuvre on him. Not wanting to communicate this sphincter-tightening anxiety to him and develop a fussy eater I instead extricate myself from the situation when it becomes too much to bear. Henry, thankfully, remains oblivious to this and has happily gobbled up anything he can get his sticky little mitts on. Daddy, meanwhile, has bought shares in antibacterial wipes.
The magical six month mark has been reached, so the kitchen is now open and he is joining the world of proper food. Which has been slightly pureed and cooked without salt or any spices that might be too hot. (Or dried chickpeas that are two years out of date and have been included because his dad is too tight to throw anything away and thought they would be ok. You might want to read my previous post for the likely fall out of this.) But apart from these slight stipulations, he is now enjoying a range of foods.
This is absolutely amazing.
I cannot describe how awesome (and I mean that in the dictionary sense) I find feeding my son food that I have cooked for the family and he appears to be enjoying. Food is important to me and, thus, it is important to me that he enjoys it. And boy does he enjoy it! I love it. We often have breakfast together to try and give mummy a little bit of a lie in and it is the most special moment of my day.
However...
I am finding the mess somewhat difficult to deal with. Weaning has coincided with a streak of independence and developing hand-eye co-ordination that can whip food off a casually wielded spoon in a blink of an eye. Does that food make it to his mouth?
Of course not. It makes it just about everywhere but, smearing across whatever he is wearing, his chair, the table, his face, bits squeezed between his fingers, down his legs, on the floor. Daddy struggles with this. A lot. Mummy does not appear to have a problem with it.
Daddy also struggles with occasional lumps. Mummy, again, is considerably better at this. I have, occasionally, needed to leave the room as he chews something a bit troublesome as my instinct is to whip him out of his chair and perform a paediatric heimlich manoeuvre on him. Not wanting to communicate this sphincter-tightening anxiety to him and develop a fussy eater I instead extricate myself from the situation when it becomes too much to bear. Henry, thankfully, remains oblivious to this and has happily gobbled up anything he can get his sticky little mitts on. Daddy, meanwhile, has bought shares in antibacterial wipes.
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