The Phantom Belly

I was once in a play in Dublin that involved a complicated costume change during the interval. Shortly into the second half I found myself front of stage during a long speech by one of the other actors. During a pause I noticed an elderly lady with a distinctive blue rinse hairstyle pointing at me. I should say that the front rows at amateur drama are usually reserved for people who are aurally challenged, so I wasn’t surprised when she spoke loudly to her partner.

“Who’s he?” she said, keeping her finger pointed straight at me.

Her partner (who was obviously equally hard of hearing) replied in a similar booming voice “He’s the fat bloke from act 1”.

Yes, it’s time I admitted that I struggle with my weight. I have done so since I was a teenager. I got a job in a pub and used to sneak out with crisps, chocolate and anything else I could find (with the strange exception of alcohol). In no time at all I had developed a belly, or a spare tyre as my Mother so cruelly called it.

Then I went into my last year at school and had to give up work, due to the pressures of study. I went back to a frugal existence of three meals a day and soon returned to the scrawny shaped youth I was before I started work. Then of course I discovered beer and the belly returned. Over the years I guess it has fluctuated but the sport I played in my twenties probably kept it under control.

My next challenge was pasta. I didn’t start eating it until I was in my late twenties and moved to Luxembourg. I wouldn’t exactly say I was jockey like when I arrived there, but after 3 years of Tre de Pate every day I came back looking like the Michelin man. Luxembourg is squeezed between France and Germany and has developed a culinary tradition that takes the rich style of cooking from the former and portion sizes from the latter. It might be the smallest country in the European Union but it boasts some of the biggest people.

There followed 10 years in Ireland, which could best be described as an odyssey of Guinness and fried food. As the years passed, I played less and less sport and in one of those cruel games that nature plays I started losing hair in direct proportion to the weight I gained.

Moving to Australia was partly motivated by the desire to live in a healthier, outdoors type culture and this has worked to some degree. I’m five kilos lighter than I was when I got here and have the motivation to drive this further.

But recently I’ve noticed that despite my weight remaining steady, my stomach has bulged outwards. Last night I started getting cramps in the belly department and I was hit with a sudden realisation. I have developed a phantom pregnancy! My good wife is now eight months into her confinement and perhaps I’m subconsciously feeling jealous. I’ve had a well-structured belly for years after all but now she’s getting all the attention, including small children who want to touch her bump. The only people who have ever wanted to touch my bump are Chinese tourists who think I might be the reincarnation of Budda.

Jealousy or not, it is very strange. I find myself struggling to get out of sofas and hold the small of my back while waddling around the house. I’ve also started getting up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night as though some small creature was pressing against my bladder.

It seems odd though that men should want to share in the trials of pregnancy. It looks a pretty uncomfortable experience. I hope my own phantom experience doesn’t extend to the labour stage. I cry when I get an injection after all. I shudder to imagine what it would be like to have a thing the size of a melon pass through me.

However, I am pleased that my belly will become useful in a few weeks. The biggest thing I’m looking forward to is having our new born child rest on my stomach while I introduce him/her to the delights of football on TV. Skin on skin contact in the best bond a parent can develop with their child and I have enough skin to last the kid until adolescence.

We got into a bit of a panic a few weeks ago when we realised we had nothing bought. But a couple of laborious Saturdays spent in Mothercare and Baby Buntings has sorted us out. Junior now has somewhere to sleep and to wash and enough cute baby clothes to bring a tear to an ogre.

All that is left is for him/her to make their grand entrance. The doctor told us this morning that the baby’s head is now “engaged” which makes it sound like we are involved in a space mission, where we have hooked up with the rocket ship that will take us into the great unknown.

We are certainly on the cusp of something life changing and amazing and that might be a more realistic reason for last night’s stomach cramps. I don’t have much experience with kids after all, apart from once being one myself (and that was so long ago I can barely remember it). So I will admit to being a little nervous. Will I be a good Dad? Will I raise somebody to be my best friend, as my Father has been to me?

All expectant fathers have these fears apparently and all we can do is sit back, let our wives do all the hard work and then hope that instinct kicks in. If I can be half the Dad my Father was to me I will do well. And if our kid can be half the offspring I was, they will also be doing well. Because that means they will be unlikely to have a bulging belly.