Sex and Relationships -
Let's Talk About Sex, Baby
 It all started on holiday. One minute I was basking in the Scottish Spring weather and sampling the whisky trail, the next my wife Lindsay was showing me the contents of a little chemistry set that told me she was pregnant and that life was about to turn upside down, forever.
It was a moment I’ll never forget. Nothing could have prepared me for it, because nothing compares to it. I’d helped create a new life. I felt fantastic, like some kind of superhero - I was The Procreator. We’d only been trying since Christmas and suddenly we were parents-to-be.
I was stunned, excited, overwhelmed and very, very scared. I needed some help, but first of all, I needed a drink.
Reality bites
Bleary-eyed and hung over, I woke the next morning with a plan. We should enjoy the last day of our holiday, get home, tell the family and make a doctor’s appointment. I explained this to Lindsay, who watched me impassively as I trembled over a black coffee. Then she agreed. No argument, no ’don’t be an idiot’, just a simple nod of the head.
I realised it was the first time in our relationship when she was as lost as me. That left me really scared. I’m happy to negotiate uncharted territory, but only when someone with a good map and a compass is leading the way. Put me in charge and we’re all sunk.
I managed to get us home alright, but it started to go wrong from there. Rather than simply announcing our good news, I decided we should drop some subtle hints to Lindsay’s parents, which resulted in total confusion. After that, we just told my parents straight out.
The doctor was another disappointment – I was hoping for detailed tests and confirmation, a slap on the back, maybe even a cigar. But it was just a routine chat about what to do and what to avoid. I felt short-changed.
By then I’d lost control of the adventure altogether. I found myself wandering aimlessly in shopping malls, wincing at the price tags of all-terrain cots and Gucci nappy sacks. Everywhere I looked, men were sheepishly pushing prams, women in dungarees were clutching their bumps. What happened to our unique, incredible event? I even felt sidelined by the family - each time I answered the phone I had to pass it straight to Lindsay for a baby bulletin.
Nightmare scenario
Things got a lot worse before they got better. First there were the symptoms - morning sickness that became all-day sickness and hormones leaping all over the place, hers as well as mine. I was starting to eat for two, and was polishing off Lindsay’s untouched dinners as well. By nine weeks I was starting to show, soon I was going to need a whole new wardrobe. Then, just as we found a way of coping with the sickness, something happened that felt much worse.
One grey Monday morning Lindsay found that she was bleeding – it wasn’t necessarily a bad sign but it sent us into a panic. The doubts and fears I’d gone through about the baby vanished, all that mattered was that it should be safe. We dashed to the hospital in a shocked silence, and only relaxed when we saw the tiny, healthy jumping bean of our baby on the ultrasound monitor. All seemed well, but we’d had one hell of a scare.
After that things continued to get harder. We’d been told the threat of a miscarriage diminished at 12 weeks, so I clung to that milestone, not wanting Lindsay to exert herself or step outside the door before it arrived. Buying anything for the baby would be bad luck, I decided. All of this just brought the fears to the surface – and we weren’t even a quarter of the way through.
Baby talk
Fortunately, the clouds lifted as quickly as they’d descended. Life took over and we had a run of new activities to amuse us. First challenge was the midwife. There are no half measures with these people – midwives are either a friend for life who guides and reassures you, or they’re a sworn enemy who breathes fire, won’t look you in the eye and who thinks fathers-to-be should be locked in a cupboard for nine months. I was determined to show ours that I meant business so I went at her like a combination of a Rottweiler and Jeremy Paxman, firing questions left, right and centre. I didn’t get many answers, but I did get eye contact, so I reckoned it was round one to me.
Then it was back to the hospital for another scan, under less stressful circumstances. This one went fine, unlike the later anatomy scan where all the major organs and features are checked, during which the baby kept doing forward rolls - we had to do that one twice. It was during one of these pummelling sessions that I mumbled something about gender. Both Lindsay and the scan operator looked at me with expressions of ill-concealed contempt. Better to wait, perhaps.
The better half
Once we’d got past 20 weeks things seemed to settle down for a while. I was finally managing not to fly into a panic each time Lindsay had a twinge, and she was managing not to thump me every time I lapsed. Things were starting to get back to normal. Her appetite was slowly returning - fortunately she was back in the kitchen after my disastrous and short-lived attempts to take on the role of chef along with my other chores of cleaning, washing, ironing and moaning about my chores.
With the scans safely navigated we decided to be a little more confident about the future. Unfortunately that meant converting my cosy, book lined study into a fluffy, toy strewn nursery. It was agony, but it was also good therapy. In the whirlwind of appointments, free gifts, meetings and scans, I’d actually forgotten that the result of all this fuss would be a baby and I’d be its father. I needed to do some serious thinking to prepare for this extraordinary, mind-blowing event.
Home stretch
For a while I thought we’d got it cracked. Lindsay was blooming and blessed with the kind of bump that would draw admiring glances at the World Darts Championship. I was calm and helpful and all seemed right with the world. Then the baby starting kicking, which was fine and normal and shouldn’t have been a cause for concern – except for when it didn’t kick. Any periods of inactivity would create unspoken tension in the house until a tiny elbow prodded Lindsay’s belly and order was restored. I started to regret not bidding on that portable ultrasound monitor I’d seen on E-Bay.
The most unsettling feeling I was experiencing as the weeks rolled by was that my courage and medical knowledge would soon be tested in the delivery room. I felt scared and totally unprepared – I needed ante-natal classes.
The day of the first class was burning hot, I sat and dripped sweat in a room full of flushed, seething women. No other partner had the bravery/stupidity to show up, so I bore the brunt of all the anti-men jokes alone. I didn’t learn very much about childbirth, but I quickly got the hang of the deep breathing. Needless to say, I gave up on that idea pretty quickly.
Events took over, as Lindsay began to suffer quite a bit of joint pain and I slipped back into hired slave mode for the weeks before the big event.
Labour day
Lindsay’s pain got so bad the consultant at the hospital decided to induce her labour. On the plus side, we knew it was going to be over soon, on the minus side I actually had a date, a deadline for behaving like a grown-up at last. After a few false starts, we got into the delivery suite and the induction started. We waited around, I read a few magazines. We waited some more, I went home.
Next morning I returned, we waited some more. Suddenly, Lindsay was in more pain than ever, the contractions were kicking in and I was dithering at her side, wishing I’d listened in the ante-natal class. A midwife took control, rushed us to a delivery room, decided Lindsay was in too much pain for normal delivery and sent us to an operating theatre. My concern for the safety of my wife and child were offset slightly by the impressive outfit they gave me, just like a surgeon’s.
That was as close as I would get to operating, as I was then ordered to sit on a plastic garden chair, keep quiet and comfort Lindsay while the doctor started a Caesarean section. In almost no time at all it was over and the doctor held up a bemused purple baby, which, after a magic valet from the midwife became a beautiful, if crumpled, little boy – not just any boy but the future England captain and ruler of the known universe. My son – ok, our son.
They made me give my outfit back, then it was off to the ward for mother and son, and home for dad to phone the relatives, drink a lot and shake my head in disbelief.
Future perfect
The following day was spent together as a family on the ward. Lindsay was almost pain-free, and the boy – by then formally known as Oliver – was flourishing. I felt certain that he would be walking by the weekend. Next day I drove everyone home at about ten miles an hour and we started to get used to our new lives.
A few short weeks and long nights later and it was Christmas once more. It seemed incredible that in one year I’d gone from the decision to try for a baby to celebrating the festivities with my son. Things weren’t that different, I suppose – there were more nappies, more toys, more broken sleep, more feeds and a lot less money. But all in all, and in spite of my best efforts, it had worked out fantastically.
By the book
While I’d been clinging to this rollercoaster ride of emotion and new experience, I wrote down all my feelings, hopes, expectations and moments of complete stupidity. My journal helped me make sense of the whole nine months and, with Oliver safely home and nestling somewhere beneath a pile of cooing relations, I looked back at what I’d seen and done and I began to fill in the gaps. I spoke to other new dads, found answers to my questions, and I found some new and interesting angles for surviving – and even, dare I say it, enjoying – a partner’s pregnancy.
Putting all this together has created a book that is practical and useful, but which is also a true and honest reflection of the emotions I went through, and that I shared with many men in the same position. Above all else, I wanted it to reassure – because if I can do it and survive to tell the tale, anyone can.
This feature first appeared under the title My Rollercoaster Ride from Lad to Dad in the Daily Express Newspaper.
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