Waiting for the Stork Part 1

Helen runs our local breastfeeding class and is a slightly intimidating lady. “Do you have any experience with babies?” was her first question.

“Well, I used to be one” I said. “I was a lot fitter back then, mind you. I weighed 9 pounds, 4 ounces but I’ve been stacking it on ever since”.

She didn’t laugh. Years’ working as a midwife obviously numbs you to baby jokes. I was going to try my old favourite “I like babies but couldn’t eat a whole one” but thought better of it and slunk away to find a place among the other parent’s to be. It was a motley crew it must be said. Two lesbian couples who looked a little smug. This is probably due to the fact that they have double the output capacity of the other couples. Two women who arrived on their own and muttered darkly whenever they mentioned their absent husbands and just three blokes (including myself) who had turned up with their partners.

We were asked to introduce ourselves to the group and I had the honour of going first. “Despite my bulging tummy and man boobs”, I said. “I just want to point out that I’m not actually pregnant”.

The fat bloke two seats to my left glared at me and said “You’ve stolen my bloody line”.

I also mentioned that I’m Irish and breastfeeding is about as common there as ham sandwiches are in Israel. Helen looked at me as though I was a caveman and shook her head. I slunk back into my seat and buried my head in the handout we received at the start. The first thing I noticed was a glossy colour pamphlet with the heading “poo chart”. To my disappointment it contained nothing about a cuddly bear called Winnie, but had lots of pictures of excrement. I’m learning new things every day, but apparently it’s OK for a small child to have bright green poo, and they don’t even have to consume a bottle of Creme de Mente like their father does.

I now know what to expect when I open those 72 nappies that will be needed in the first week of juniors’ existence. To be honest, I’ll probably be more concerned about the condition of my own poo in that week as I don’t respond well to lack of sleep and a diet of takeaway food.

The class was pretty boring, until they introduced the live demonstration. Two women had brought along their little boys and we were expected to stand round in small groups and stare at their mammaries. I was a little uncomfortable. The last time I’d paid that much attention to boobies, outside of a loving relationship, was when I first stumbled upon a topless beach in Spain. I say stumbled, because I tripped over an elderly German tourist on a sun lounger while staring at somebody else.

The little boys were 4 and 8 months and the younger one fitted the breastfeeding stereotype that was in my head. It was brought to the feeding station and held there while he filled himself up. The older one was more mobile and he treated his Mother as more of a self service option. Every hour or so, he would crawl over to where she was sitting. He would then climb up and start unbuttoning her blouse. Pretty soon he’d be getting a mouth full while his Mother read a book. We were there to learn how to breastfeed but the thought struck me that she would actually have a harder job teaching her kid when to stop. If it’s that easy, why would you ever bother with the pureed vegetables that other kids are forced to eat?

Two weeks later, we went to our first ante natal class. I’ve been talking to a lot of Dads recently and one thing that always comes up is the horror movies that are shown at these classes. Thankfully, ours was more old school and the presenter decided to showcase her acting skills by playing out most of the action that would normally be seen on screen. This involved lots of moaning and face pulling that would not be out of place at a Pentecostal speaking in tongues festival.

The gathering here was much more conventional with equal numbers of Dads to Mums. Naturally, it focused on the females but we men did get the occasional mention. It’s our job to drive to the hospital (and home again two days later) and to be the chief forehead wiper and back masseuse. We are also expected to be strong and supportive, particularly during that point in labour when it is pointed out that all this pain is actually our fault.

In two weeks time, we get a tour of the hospital. Apparently these days, the delivery rooms are en suite with TVs and vending machines. We’re expecting an 18 hour process, so I might bring along a Box Set of the Sopranos. It’s all very different to when I was a nipper. Mammy won’t be lying down for the delivery it seems. These days you are encouraged to lie across a large exercise ball or to be on all fours. It all seems terribly undignified to me, but then there is very little dignity involved at the start of the baby making process either.

The first class was fun and it gave us a chance to meet other people in our area who are also close to becoming parents. We feel we are part of a club now that lets you into the secret of life. In a few weeks we will become responsible for a little person. To mould them and to teach them and to give them the confidence to set forth into this mad world.

But the thing I’m learning now is that this small child has so much to teach me. He or she will make me a Father and that’s the greatest gift I will ever receive.