In the beginning we were sleeping in separate beds because, as Mrs G says, I’m a Stradivarius of sleep. I must have everything “just so” otherwise I can’t relax. Pillows and sheets have to be in a particular way, light minimised and sound below a whisper. Anything else and I drive myself mad and prevent the ability to drop off. So when Baby G was waking in the middle of the night it meant I had to start all over again.
Having a two month old baby was like having a broken alarm that was ready to go off at any point, with a 90% chance it being around 5am. In those first few weeks it was hard but every day started to get much, much, better than it was. Yet I was still at the limit of rest.
The first time Baby G slept the night was one of my proudest moments. She went down at midnight and was then up at 7.30am, even if I was awake at 5 waiting for her to stir. It seems that she wanted to do something special to celebrate eight weeks out in the wild and this was better than a card.
Shortly after that she started smiling, and started the path to becoming a proper little person. For the first seven weeks she was just a mass of crying, eating, pooping and occasional sleep so the firstnight of lengthy sleep heralded the moment that she started growing up.
This reminded me of a conversation I had with Mrs G, that while I enjoy the infant we have today I am really looking forward to the child we will get.
There have been few occasions recently where I can say “I agree with someone in Government” but expert promise-breaker Nick Clegg actually came out with something worth listening to. There are plans afoot to allow fathers to spend more time with their new arrivals rather than just the fleeting two weeks of screaming and sleep deprivation before being thrust back into the world of work.
After three weeks of Baby G’s arrival I still didn’t feel ready enough to return to work, I didn’t want to abandon Mrs G and I would have liked to spend some more time with Baby G. It is like being forced to step aside as a parent and turn into the person who provides the family income.
As I continue the countdown to the 1st Anniversary of Baby G’s emergence I’ve found a copy of the playlist I created to motivate Mrs G during the big push. What I needed was some music to inspire and encourage her and although I would have loved to add music I like on there I’m not sure Fight Like Apes is exactly soothing birthing music.
Instead I aimed for some kind of theme to it, I know that on Mrs G’s iPod she has tried the same thing but all I could see was Coldplay and snippets of Les Mis. I suppose for all the occasions when I have forced musical taste on her eardrums it is only fair she gets to listen to what she wants during labour.
So here is my first chapter from my NaNoWriMo attempt. A warning, this has been written with no outline, no sense of where I am going with it and no edits. My writing style is just to get words down on paper, or in this case screen, so please bear with it. As I was writing I changed my mind as to where this literary exercise was going.
Any feedback is welcome (although please make it narrative/plot/syntax specific as spelling and grammar are pencilled in for the edits). So here we go…
Gets your attention, the mere thought of smut and filth acts like honey for a bear. It draws you in, grabs you and takes hold. Your curiosity is piqued and is insatiable. It is exciting, it makes you feel alive.
Feeling alive is not something the 7.43 to Canterbury provides.
Nothing about the Class 375 electric multiple unit train is erotic. Not it’s twenty point four metre length car nor the maximum speed of one hundred miles an hour can set the pulses racing. The Dellner coupling system is not as exciting as the Scharfenburg system and the selective door opening is unlikely to have that effect on any legs.
Indeed, the 7.43 was not as tantalising as a multi-page description of a high-end computer. It was after all a train, and trains are not sexy.
Having a baby is adding a few centimetres to my waist, running around is burning off the calories but I am adding more than I am losing. Partly this is because I keep having to try the food we give Baby G. Most nights she gets the same meal just a bit more mushy, but on occasions we have to resort to a jar.
We could be better prepared and fill the freezer with ready-made food, but that wastes perfectly good resting time and most of the jarred food is now organic (and a whole load cheaper than buying fresh ingredients).
In fact Baby G eats better than I do
Putting on a little bit of baggage is nothing compared to the size increase of pregnancy. During the final phase of maternity Mrs G started feeling down about how she looks and feels. As a man I don’t know the half of the pain that having a baby entails especially what it does to the body and self image of a woman, so I am unable to empathise but I can certainly sympathise.
Now I like to keep what is private between Me and Mrs G away from the glare of the public domain, what happens indoors stays indoors. Instead I’m going to talk about this from a man’s perspective about why being pregnant is both a blessing and a curse.
Yesterday we decided upon the arrangements for Baby G’s first birthday party. 365 days ago we were still preparing for the big arrival, it seems so long ago.
Everything is exciting now, we have all the fun of dealing with a rambunctious eleven month old yet it was not always like this. In fact the late stages of pregnancy were a little boring.
There had already been the obligatory delivery scare. At the last scheduled scan little Miss Fetally Contrary 2013 decided she only wanted her head measured from her best angle. That meant that the plotting on the chart was completely out and caused the socialist health service we have in Europe to go into overdrive. With no cost to us or our health insurer they decided that to make sure there was nothing wrong Mrs G would need to be checked and scanned twice a week until the bundle of joy was in our arms.
After years of threatening to do so I’m going to pull my fingers out and have a go at writing 50,000 words on some semi-coherent document. I’ll be putting to the test the theory that everyone has at least one novel in them by seeing if mine is easily accessible.
Those forty nine words took only a few minutes to do in the middle of a Game of Thrones ad break, based upon that maths this should be a doddle. If only there weren’t likely to be a few problems along the way, and that’s not worrying about my prose or characterisation.
Gillette and the shaving industry have me on a blacklist. My DNA could bring down the whole shaving industry in one swoop ruining their ‘cheap handles – extortionate blades’ model. I am the Anti-Remington.
It is almost impossible for me to grow facial hair.
I only really shave once a week, and that is just because I need to reduce the length of the hairs coming from any freckles or moles. I cannot remember when I put the latest blade in my razor, but I have a feeling it was when two blades was the pinnacle of face gardening technology. I don’t really need it to be sharp, a vigorous face wash tends to do the trick.
Conversation at work today touched on weddings, a subject that still fills me with fear. Not over the fact I did it, or the day itself, but the panics that were totally unnecessary in the run up to the big day.
I had to deal with a wedding booking situation that was so highly stressful that I was ready to call the whole shebang off. The worst thing about it all? There was no need for it.
As the then Future Mrs GeekErgoSum had yet to see the location for the wedding in August I decided to ring the reception venue we have booked to ask if we can go and have a look around when she came over to visit. Now this should have been a routine wedding booking call but turned into a test of my nerves. Below is, as far as I remember, the conversation I had (with added notes). Names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.