Becoming a Parent

Peter Andre won dad of the year (two years running?!), how hard can it be?

Joshua was born at Harrogate District Hospital on 18th November 2017, weighing 8lb, 10oz. This was, of course, wonderful. The 40 hours before he arrived, not so much. Contrary to what you see in films — water breaks > baby in arms of beaming mother —  labour can drag on a bit. When Louise’s contractions started at 5 am, I drove us to the hospital, but we were turned away by the midwife.

‘Just go home and relax for a few hours,’ she said.

Relax?

Back in our living room, I tried to make myself useful by massaging Louise’s back but made the error of offering some shushing noises.

‘What the hell are you doing, Andy? Are you trying to get me to sleep?’

In a more successful distraction tactic I put Kitchen Nightmares on the TV. After ten minutes, I was hooked and, with Louise’s contractions becoming more intense, tempted to shush her again so I could fully focus on a heated dispute between Gordon Ramsey and a lazy sous-chef.

Ten hours later, we returned to the hospital where, mercifully, Louise was now deemed ready for the maternity ward. Assuming this meant the baby’s arrival was imminent, I started my motivational mantras.‘You can do this! I’m so proud! I love you!’ — far too early, as it turned out. After 4 hours and 45 minutes Louise had to settle for silent, increasingly feeble forehead dabs before I nodded off, drooling on myself in a plastic chair.

I woke to loud cursing, unsure how long I’d been asleep. It appeared things were progressing. I’d cricked my neck but thought better of complaining and frantically resumed forehead dabbing.

‘GET OFF ME!’

‘Are you okay?’

‘DO I LOOK OK?’

She did not.

How could I help? Surely there must be some way? I cast my mind back to our NCT classes Our teacher, an eccentric lady with wiry hair, specialized in guru-style advice rather than practical tips. When Louise asked which foods to avoid during pregnancy, she said, ‘Eat whatever you want.’ When asked for breastfeeding advice, she paused for a moment, then, told us ‘Just go with the flow.’

As much as I resented spending £250 on the classes, I suddenly remembered the “Advice for birthing partners” list. One of the points was about supporting your partner’s pain relief decisions, but I was unsure this needed stating. ‘She’s sticking with paracetamol. End of,’ didn’t feel like the right thing to say in this moment. I could see the writer of the list had clearly struggled to make ten points, because ‘back rub’ and ‘shoulder massage’ each had  their own bullet point. One bullet point, though, had caught my eye: ‘Create a birthing playlist.’ Perhaps I attached disproportionate importance to the task, but I spent an entire Sunday afternoon creating a relaxing Spotify mix I thought Louise might enjoy. When the midwife predicted our baby would be here within an hour, I sensed my time to shine. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got this…’ I said and produced two portable speakers from my rucksack. Louise, admittedly occupied, would have been hard pressed to give less of a shit, but the trendy Australian midwife nodded in approval,  likely hoping it spelt the end of my inane small talk. ‘Which part of Australia are you from?’ ‘Is it hot?’ ‘Do you like cricket?’

A couple of tracks in, the midwife looked at me without smiling and said, ‘What is this rubbish? The Dawson’s Creek soundtrack?’ I felt attacked.

Sadly ‘within the hour’ turned out to be wildly inaccurate and it was a further six hours before Joshua arrived. When his head, then body finally emerged, it was, as the cliché goes, the best moment of my life; scrunched up, covered in gunk, and much hairier than I’d anticipated. He was perfect. As my amazing wife held our tiny son for the first time, I felt overwhelmed and started to cry. I couldn’t believe he had entered this world to the accompaniment of a Red Hot Chili Peppers album track. What was I thinking? 

I’d been advised (by Louise, not NCT class teacher) that skin-to-skin contact helps dads bond with their baby, and I was looking forward to this special moment. However, as I took my top off in public, for the first time since that wedding reception with a free bar, it became clear there’d been an issue delivering the placenta. The colour drained from Louise’s face, and she was losing a lot of blood. In scenes reminiscent of a Grey’s Anatomy season finale, the room flooded with doctors, nurses, and complicated medical equipment, while I stood topless, helpless, and more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. Amidst the chaos, the midwife passed Joshua to me.

‘Um. Hello,’ I said, sweating, shaking, and sobbing.

Solid first impression.

Thankfully, the staff were incredible and calmly fitted an intravenous blood transfusion, which worked, and the doctor told us Louise would be okay. Mum and baby were both going to be okay, and that’s everything, isn’t it?

 Louise, who leaves nothing to chance, had found out the gender at 16 weeks, paying £60 for a 4D scan at a clinic on an industrial state in one of Leeds’s less salubrious areas. I told my Bulgarian colleague, Dragomir, that we were thinking of calling him Joshua but he didn’t seem impressed. ‘Hmm. Joshua? That’s okay, I guess, but you could have called him a stronger name like Otto or Helmut.’ I was not calling my son Helmut.

Given the complications, we stayed in a private ward in the hospital for the next four days where we lived on Quavers and Lucozade and learned how to look after a tiny human that so far did only three things on repeat: cry, feed and poo. Sleep deprived, emotionally drained, and wearing the same undersized t-shirt for 72 hours, was a disorientating start to fatherhood, but witnessing Louise and Joshua’s early bonding was beautiful and, as she smiled and chatted to him, I was astonished by her Wolverine-esque recovery, while I was still struggling with my cricked neck.

Eventually, the nurses deemed Louise fit to leave the ward, so we tentatively put Joshua in his car seat and walked out of the hospital in a jubilant mood that even the £78 parking ticket could not quash.

‘Um, can we use your card, Louise?’

(I’d spent a lot at the vending machines.)

Having only just passed my test, I was petrified about driving home with such precious cargo. My driving instructor, Barry, was a man in his sixties who liked drinking Carling, ‘not at work though,’ he’d assured me with a chuckle. Several times. Barry had never met Louise but, for some reason, held the conviction that she was a dangerous driver.

‘I bet your missus would have overtaken that truck. Believe me, Andy, that would have been a bad move.’

This wasn’t the only thing Barry made assumptions about. During one lesson, we were practising reversing around a corner when he said.

‘Once I was driving at night and I saw a cyclist with no lights on. I didn’t hit him, but I could have done. What was he thinking?’

‘I don’t know, Barry.’

‘Do you want to know my opinion, Andy?’ He said, looking out the window. ‘I think he’d decided this world was no longer for him. He’d had enough.’

I thought this a rather bleak conclusion to draw and worried about how many other people Barry had deemed suicidal over the years, but I kept driving and he got me over the line in time for Joshua’s arrival, for which, I will always be grateful.

Heart pounding, hands at 10 to 2, I drove no faster than 30 mph, earning several critical comments from Louise without her lifting her adoring gaze from Joshua. When I pulled up outside our house, my relief at getting us safely home was soon overshadowed when I couldn’t work out how to unclip the car seat and had to ask Louise for help. As we opened the door, I made a mental note of this huge moment in our lives and vowed to cherish it.

‘Welcome home, son.’ I said aloud, and he started bawling.

‘I think he’s done a poo, Andy.’

And so, it begins.