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| Nathan with Tracey and Bump |
I'm not sure what the protocol is here. Every woman I've spoken to about the run-up to the birth has explained an intense period of 'nesting' before the big push.
It's a time when they clear out the wardrobes, tidy the under-the-sink cupboard, put pairs upon pairs of unworn shoes back into their boxes ready for the charity shop and generally ensure the house is spick and span in time for the new arrival.
I had visions of a Tasmanian Devil whirling around our house with a hoover in one hand and a duster in the other: no surface left unwiped, no corner left uncleaned.
So why is my wife just going out for lunch?
Admittedly she's earned her time off, having worked solidly for the last 15 years, but I was quite looking forward to her 'nesting' phase as there's so much to do. The garden is covered in leaves, the garage is a tip and the loft has been so neglected that even the squirrels can't be bothered to run amok.
Not that I'm trying to turn this into a competition or anything, but I've painted the nursery, put the cot together and assembled the pram. I've moved the home office from one room to the next, given up booze so she doesn't feel left out and driven her around from one appointment to the next.
Naturally this is nothing compared to Tracey carrying our child for nine months – trust me, men couldn't do it - but I didn't think the task of choosing from either an a la carte menu or the specials' board counted as 'nesting'.
In truth, there's not much time left to nest. The due date came and went on Sunday (November 9) without a peep from the wee chap.
With the element of surprise well and truly gone, we're just sitting and waiting for the event to happen. If Death Row is waiting for the end, Life Row must be waiting for the beginning. And we are.... waiting.
Mock-tightenings of Tracey's bump, laughed off as Braxton Hicks a few weeks ago, have taken an altogether more sinister turn in the last few days.
“Oooh, that feels strange....” prompts a flurry of activity from yours truly, sprinting up the stairs to grab the bag, her 'green book' and the video camera before I realise she's simply rubbing the hard skin on the bottom of her feet with a pumice stone.
A similar panic arose while we were driving on the motorway as she mumbled that she'd had a big movement. “Don't worry, darling,” I said reassuringly. “The services are only a couple of miles away and we can pull over and clean you up.” The look of confusion on her face underlined which end of the stick I'd grabbed. “Not me, you idiot,” she laughed. “I said the baby's just had a big movement.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Not only do I hate pulling into motorway service stations when I'm making 'good time' on the motorway, but the seats in my car are a devil to keep clean.
My wife doesn't panic. She's Irish, which should explain everything. The Irish are notoriously laid back about most things, except when it comes to making a damn-good cup of tea. You don't feck around when you're dealing with the drink of kings. So although she's already got her bag packed, the rest will take care of itself to be sure.
Bizarrely, Tracey's actually looking forward to the 'birth' part; the physical push, the getting to meet our new bundle of joy/noise for the first time. But that's probably because her pregnancy has been almost entirely trouble-free: no early morning sickness, no heartburn, no lack of sleep, no stretch marks. Indeed, although she was Frodo-footed for a couple of days when her ankles swelled, they soon returned from Middle Earth to take their rightful place in Middle England.
Perhaps there will be some payback during labour in which the misery of a million mothers dogged with all manner of ailments during their pregnancy come to haunt her, but I doubt it - she's the type who will probably sneeze it out with not so much as a huff or a puff.
As for the nesting? Well, she has given the cleaner an extended list of 'to do' jobs in the next few weeks. Now where did I put my chequebook.......
by Nathan Rous
November 2008 |
Baby Beau's Birth
