Only Born

12th February 2012 There is actually an app now that tells you when to have sex in order to have the best chance to conceive. Squirty cream helps also. 19th February 2012 Missionary concern. 27th February 2012 - Nesting I have taken the day off today to take delivery of our new double door shed, the last one having ended up six doors down in the ginnel after a freak cyclone, its contents strewn across the neighbours’ otherwise totally unaffected gardens. I had requested that the shed be dropped off during the AM, the alternative option being the PM, Monday to Friday only that is. Business idea – ‘man with a van, delivers when you can.’ So, I rise uncharacteristically early and clean the house while I wait, afraid to even take the rubbish out back in case I miss the door. AM comes and goes, then passes completely into PM. I phone Sam at work, she has the shed company’s details, I ask her to call them to find out what in the Hell’s going on. Twenty minutes later, Sam phones back, the man with a van is at a funeral and the shed cannot be delivered today. Livid is not the word, so I request the shed company’s telephone number. Sam requests that I do not fly off the handle; the company is a small man and wife team. Calm, controlled, articulate, reasonable but clinical, I advise wifey that I have taken the day off in order to take delivery of, and then build the shed. I further advise wifey that I have been waiting all morning and might have waited all day had we not contacted them. Did people outside the shed industry not have work or private life commitments? I agree to take delivery of the shed later that PM. The shed arrives about mid PM, only two hours light remain, it is too heavy to lift into the garden all packed and wrapped. I remove the packaging and carry the shed into the garden in pieces. I ask the delivery man whether he has ever put one up, simply to gauge the level of my mission, he defensively blurts out that he is not helping and leaves. Upon opening the instructions I immediately read that every piece of wood must be treated prior to assembly, I have no wood treatment, the Heavens open. I establish after some time and significant anguish that the instructions I have are incorrect and for a different type of shed. So I begin to piece things together as best I can, breaking several drill bits, several screw heads, losing many nails and discovering that the roof panels and the floor panels have been omitted from the kit. I decide to at least make what is already botched together resemble a shed by putting the window in. I pick up the glass pane, note its very light weight and fragile feel, immediately realising that I am going to break it, I take extra careful care. I slowly put the glass in place, clip in the beading, hammer the first nail through the top of the beading to hold everything in place and stand back, the glass dislodges, slips to the floor and shatters into a million paw cutting pieces. Night falls, as does more rain. Consult shed company website, they supply 3000 sheds per month and are consistently reviewed as having the easiest sheds on the market to erect. Sam arrives home to Grizzly Adam, the most useless excuse for a man on record, the man who cannot abide not to succeed, never knows when to quit, and thus takes an awful long time to eventually fail, and all the more epically for it. A man who is so tenacious and then subsequently upset by lack of success, that not to complete a task becomes heartbreaking, despite regular practice. Not really a proper, real practical man. ‘So did you get my text?’ Sam asks, I look dumbfounded, ‘Why didn’t you answer?’ I have no answer. ‘What do you think? Are you worried? Are you scared? Is it not what you want? Why haven’t you answered?’ The text she had sent at 3:35pm read as follows; ‘Hi babe, how is it going, has the shed arrived yet? I have to tell you something as I can’t concentrate. You know how we were talking about possible dates yesterday? Well, I think I may have worked my dates out wrong. I will check again when I get home but I think I might do a test tonight. I had to tell you as I can’t think about anything else. X’ So the Clear Blue kits come out and my heart leaps around, excitement is predominant, but there is also the disbelief that somebody has actually contemplated having a baby with me, let alone looking likely to have gone through with it. A tiny part of me may well have made it all the way there, to join a tiny part of her, in something we had made together, something living, our own tiny being. So we dash up and down the stairs and eventually settle close to one another on the side of the bath. Huddling around a stick that Sam just peed on, it doesn’t just turn blue; it instantly beams with a vertical bold blue line. We run downstairs and sit looking at it, disbelieving, ore struck and silent. We repeat the process and read and re-read the instructions several times. We sit around two identical sticks in the front room, still not believing, ore struck and silent. My camera is close to hand, so I try to capture the moment. So as to ensure that I do so, I take tens of photographs of Sam in every expression, with sticks, without sticks, on phone, off phone. 1st March 2012 – First Doctor’s Appointment Today is the first visit to the GP in the company of me. I ask a lot of questions about what’s safe to eat and what isn’t. The GP is a youngish woman with a student in tow. She was no doubt the clever girl with frizzy hair; she has a red face and is of medium to heavy build, a sensible older sister type. She works out how many weeks pregnant Sam is and recommends a website called, ‘Emma’s Diary.’ This is a daily guide with information contained on which foods to avoid, what bodily functions take place, symptoms to expect and baby development. There is no doubt that Sam will be confirmed as pregnant she tells us, the home tests nowadays apparently being incredibly sensitive and reliable. Two positive tests was a sure thing according to the doc. We find out about the role of the mid-wife, a little about the various scans, exercise and what activities can still be undertaken during pregnancy. We ask a little about the birth procedures, my view being that if Sam wants drugs, then by God she will have them, I blame nurture for my predicament, not the drugs! I ask about the possibility of a water birth, I’d heard the NHS was offering that option now. The good doc is happy to inform us, but then perturbed when I explain that there is a good chance the child might have gills. According to ‘Emma’s Diary’ the little being is by now looking like a tiny tadpole, we name him, Terrence the Tadpole. 18th March 2012 – Mothering Sunday We are delighted to announce the second coming, that’s Jesus 2 to you two. Decide to wait until Mother’s Day to announce it to the mother’s on my side. I do so with a big bunch of flowers and a customized card to my mother, announcing that she is to be a grandmother again. My Grandmother on the other hand, I send a box of chocolates of course, with the news spelt out on 32 chocolates with fondant letters on top. I speak to mum and dad on the phone, joking that both Sam and I have very busy lives and that those lives have to take precedent over the kid, we will therefore be looking to offload it as much as possible. 20th March 2012 Gran phones, the chocolates having been delayed. Gran’s elation is somewhat humbling; I am on the train whilst I speak with her and am finding the conversation extremely poignant and deeply happy. I am lost for words and silence becomes me on a couple of occasions as my mind locks in smile and emotion. I enter a sort of happy trance, as if caught in a spell of elation or semi hypnotised by the kindness and genuine warmth of response for the news. 21st March 2012 I don’t mind learning the sex of the child before birth. I don’t mind if it’s a boy or a girl - that is not my call; it is the decision of fate and is made without me. I am simply happy to embrace what I cannot control. I am however concerned that knowing the sex may cause an attachment that could cause difficulty if anything went wrong, but I guess practicality outweighs that argument, not to mention Sam. For some reason I know, and have done since the start that Terrence is a boy. Sam would like a girl to go shopping with. Trevor once told me that to determine the sex of your child you must think either boy or girl at the moment of ejaculation. I know I did this but I cannot remember which one I chose. 22nd March 2012 Sam’s sense of smell has become ultra sensitive, she says, ‘I was lying in bed, and as soon as the front door opened I could smell that you’d had a kebab.’ There was a hall, a staircase, a landing and a bedroom door between us. They say that because a foetus contains the same cells as their mother, their thoughts are connected, hence the unusual cravings. I argue the same is the case for the father. 23rd March 2012 Mazza texts me a picture of a van in front of him on the motorway, it is lettered up; ‘ADAMSON.’ Timeless Sam’s Nan, Annie, dies during the course of the pregnancy; we decide to name the only born after her if it’s a girl. Before her death, Annie used to say to her pregnant granddaughter, ‘You can drink what you like, just make sure it’s not too strong, why not have a nice Gin with a little orange?’ 23rd March 2012 – First Scan We go for a special private eight week scan today. A bit earlier than your standard NHS scan, just to re-assure Sam that there is nothing to worry about and everything is as it should be. The Bridgewater Hospital lies in the underbelly of where Moss Side meets Hulme, right under the imposing loom of the Manchester Brewery, and just around the corner from the more traditional looking Hyde’s Brewery. I enjoy the smell of hops, beer and gun powder in the spring sunshine. So we meet the being/Terrence the tadpole in Moss Side next to a couple of breweries in a tiny flash hospital with a very secure forecourt full of Jags and Beemers. Forms, of course forms; forms form society and without forms society can’t do shit. The admin officer wants to know Sam’s height in centimetres. Sam is on the loo as usual, so I make a hasty and educated guess based upon my own height. I state it confidently and authoritatively, not forgetting that because of all the forms, without bullshit in the world, things would break down. She laughs at first, what man would possible know that of his female partner, however, upon seeing my assertive face, she quietly jots it down. My guess is that my guess is wrong; she is right on that I am sure, but then I am right to shit her, to do so is essential to move on. We soon go in, the nurse is so lovely and well spoken it hurt. I’d have been taken in by it had I not just witnessed her viciously bully an ugly black receptionist. Sam clambers onto the bed and the mid-wife, or possibly doctor, asks me to sit close and says, ‘if you can slip your pants down to just below the navel for me.’ I pretend to oblige. Heartbeat as strong and as clear as an Ox, 1.80 centimetres in length, new name; ‘one hundred and eighty!’ There he is, all curled up and fast asleep on the floor of a great empty cavern. He looks cosy, comfortable, content and protected, tight up against the buttress of his empty Cathedral’s supporting wall. To think that part of me had made it into there, and to still be alive now with part of Sam, amazing, if just a little nauseating too. The feeling is hard to put into words, a very strong feeling, very difficult to articulate, a feeling that a wonderful life experience is beginning to unfold, right there to see. Sensing our emotions the hard sell commences, the nurse and the mid-wife tag team in an attempt to sell us more procedures and healthcare, but the information amongst the barrage of sales is good and the process important – making a direct and physical link between the imagination and the reality of the matter. We have met now. 24th March 2012 We announce the news to Gus, Dee and Hattie over a pre-arranged Skype call. Dee shows off her own bump, their second girl due in just seven weeks. Sam is relatively lucky with her symptoms, the only significant hardship being no Friday night wine, somewhat of a religion over the past couple of decades. Gus has just the solution, placebo drinking – fixing Gin and Tonics with plenty of ice and lemon, on occasion with a little Gin, on occasion without, the trick being never to announce which is which. They also suggest the online Chinese gender test, it having correctly predicted the sex of their own two. We undertake the Chinese test after the call, it predicts a boy and suddenly the prospect of looking like less of a geek whilst playing with radio controlled models seems likely. 5th April 2012 Take the grandmothers to be, out for tea; Damson’s no less, Jude on route to Dubai. We discuss names and whether or not we have come up with any. Sam and I have already anticipated the prospect of such conversations and agreed not to tell anybody about our serious ideas, just in case they were frowned upon, or worse, copied, (there is a baby boom amongst friends forthcoming). So, on the basis we do not share a surname, and on the basis we are not completely certain about the sex, we decide upon the unisex combination of our first names, and dead pan, we announce – ‘Sadam.’ Later that evening, my mum told us of parenthood, ‘In my day as young parents we just didn’t drink, I was scared to, just in case we would have to take the boys to hospital.’ Sam responds, ‘Oh its fine, nowadays we just get a taxi.’ 21st April 2012 The Bridgewater Hospital’s hard sell fails; we opt for our 12 week scan at the notorious Stepping Hill Hospital. He won’t stay still and is driving the radiographer nuts! I take a ticket from the machine to collect our photograph, extraordinarily enough, its ticket number one hundred and eighty, although he is now six centimetres. At no point do I get the feeling he is in fact a she. The picture isn’t very good. 18th June 2012 Twenty week scan today, so I’ve taken half a day off. We’re called in, this is the big one. They give us the option to learn the sex so we take it. Our student mid-wife, who has been assigned to us on account of Sam being low risk, struggles to pin point the sex, the baby is wriggling a lot and won’t stay still, nothing new there! While Sam is up an about baby rocks off to sleep, but as soon as Sam lies down baby wakes up for a play! The mid-wife in charge has a go, she fairs no better. Eventually, after I have seen what I think is a willy several times, they make out what they believe to be a line. They check again whether we want to know, we agree, I know now anyway. The mid-wife explains that the line would indicate that we are having a little girl. I fall silent in disbelief. 2nd to 3rd November 2012 Sam’s due date is tomorrow, but something is afoot, she keeps having shooting pains up her bottom and it isn’t me. We’ve decided to go for a curry for tea; we’ve heard it can get things moving, in pregnancy too. We go to the Swardesh restaurant in Didsbury as a treat; it’s quite a nice one. Sam gets a strong pain as she climbs out of the car, not like anything she’s had before. The restaurant is packed and we haven’t booked so we have to wait for a while near the back of the restaurant in the toilets, kitchen and bar area, and in a bit of a queue too. Sam is clearly heavily pregnant and looking likely to drop at anytime, I thought it might spur people on to let us in front of them in terms of being seated at a table, instead it only gets her a seat in the queue, courtesy of the waiter. Sam is having all kinds of strange goings on and pains, she is convinced that it will be tonight, I am convinced she is already in labour, I offer to take her home but they clearly both want their curry and we wait it out. We are seated near the front of the restaurant close to the front door which is rather fortunate. For the first time ever, following an awful lot of starters, Sam orders a very hot curry; it might even have been some kind of posh take on a Vindaloo. We knuckle down and tuck in, I allow myself one beer, a small bottle to wash down the food; it’s going to be driving duty for me tonight, no doubt. We go to bed as soon as we get in, it’s about 9:00pm; Sam is in quite a lot of discomfort generally and may be having contractions, we count the time between the pains, there is too much time and not enough consistency. We’d been advised at the ante-natal classes to remain in the comfort and familiarity of our own home for as long as possible to avoid any stress, but also the possibility of having to be sent home again. Indeed, advice had been that it was better to get through as much of the labour as possible in your own home and that there would be a mid-wife available on the end of the phone whenever required. They advised us that to help with this it was a good idea to do something to take Sam’s mind off what was going on, such as cooking. So I took her downstairs and made her watch three episodes of Robson Green’s Extreme Fishing back to back. It seemed to do the trick, she watched intently whilst we timed the pains and she controlled her breathing, the times between the pains still did not suggest they were contractions and there was no sign of her waters breaking. I went to put a fourth episode of Extreme Fishing on, it was great being able to rattle through so many and get them deleted from the planner, Sam put up her arm and said, ‘Right, I don’t care if these aren’t contractions, they’re getting stronger now and I need to go to hospital, I want to go now.’ I agreed and dashed into the kitchen to make up a picnic, something that the fathers had been advised to do at this stage to delay going to the hospital for a bit longer, but also to sustain both parents to be through what could be a long and energy sapping period. I know that Sam is at the end of her tether and that I should be getting to hospital now, so I didn’t mess about, rattling off a few rounds of cheese and pickle sandwiches and grabbing a bunch of bananas, ‘Now, I need to go now,’ she shouts from the living room. I dash out to the car, get her started and the heaters on, I run back in for some water to douse down the frozen windows and then wrap up her ladyship and walk her slowly down to the passenger door, splitting it open like a time machine freshly back from November 5th 1955. Gently, carefully I lower Sam in and then get the door shut quickly to let the heat build. That good old VW Polo 1.4 automatic, over a decade in age and still it starts first time, not only that but as I clamber in it’s already getting warm. There’s nothing on the roads and we’re at the hospital in no time, warm as toast, talking freely and excitedly all the way there, between pains of course, which are still too far apart to be contractions. I park in the car park right outside the maternity ward and slip a note in the widow, ‘Baby coming.’ We’d been told by the mid-wife this would ensure free parking so you didn’t have to mess around finding change, getting a ticket and then coming and going to top up the meter. We walk in and take the lift up to the third floor where we meet a mid-wife; they are expecting us because we’d phoned a couple of times to be told that Sam was not yet having labour contractions. The mid-wife was packing us off home again, but just before we left, possibly in order to gauge when we might be back, she measured Sam’s dilation. To everybody’s surprise it was ten centimetres, Sam was into advanced labour, she wasn’t going anywhere and there was now a sense of slick, calm professionalism about things. Sam remains on the bed whilst they make our birthing suite ready, we’d been shown round previously; each suite had a little kitchen area, bathroom, CD player, chairs and of course the multi-functioning bed, the special addition to our particular suite however was the ensuite birthing pool. We’d opted for a water birth if possible. We are transferred in and encouraged to feel at home, Sam preferring to stand, bent over with her elbows and forearms on a table, they start to fill the birthing pool, it’s massive, so better to start now. I understand they intend to call our student mid-wife, we are her case study so she has requested to be with us whatever the day or time. Sam is doing well, breathing well, finding her stride, finding a rhythm, but struggling to manage the great waves of pain that increase with intensity and take her to the brink of being overwhelmed with each contraction. Calmly and reassuringly, the mid-wife asks Sam if she would like a little gas and air, we both agree. The gas and air is an instant hit with us both, Sam asks for some rave music, I oblige and hook up to Spotify. I had prepared numerous playlists for the occasion, from the calming and soothing sounds of whales and spa music, to the uplifting and nostalgic storytelling sounds of our lives, all out of the window for ‘Rave Generator 2’ and ‘Get Ready For The Rave Alert.’ Not a genre of music which Sam has listened to before, but I had, intently for many years, and mixed with the gas and air I got where she was coming from. Between contractions Sam developed a technique which made her look like she was running through the pain, like she was tackling things head on by sort of running on the spot whilst bent over a table listening to hardcore dance music and toking on gas and air. She could have been on an invisible step machine set to ‘Everest’ taking hits of oxygen, all in perfect harmony to the multiple beats. This was going on for some time, there was something wrong with the hot water supply for the birthing pool - there wasn’t any. Eventually, we lower Sam into the pool and get down to business. Annie’s head is showing, a little crown matted with loads of dark hair already, she is still contained in her waters, the mid-wives,’ who are not that busy tonight take the view that there is a chance that Annie is looking likely to be born in her waters, something which is thought to be extremely rare and lucky. There is now a period of stale mate and nothing is happening, whilst Annie continues to show no signs of distress whatsoever, because there is no movement, a decision is made to burst the waters and get Sam out and back onto the bed. By this time, between us we’ve done two and a half large bottles of gas and air. For the next few hours we have a good heave ho, but not so much movement, Sam is an absolute trooper, she’s ditched the gas and air and grafts like crazy. The mid-wives can see the effort Sam is putting in and they are all willing her to do this on her own and without the need for the lower levels and the doctors, and drugs for that matter. Annie remains calm throughout so we keep going. By the end there are four mid –wives, two on one leg, one on the other leg with me, and another bohemian type massaging her home mixed essential oils into Sam’s feet. We’re all cheering Sam on as she tries between lying on her back and flipped over on all fours. By this time Sam is past caring about her dignity and yet maintains it none the less, for there is something magic happening. At the lead of a rather hoarse and good honest practical sort, no doubt from the old school of mid-wifery, we chant and shout and encourage Sam, we tell her that each contraction she is having will be the last and exaggerate how far out Annie’s head is. This goes on for an hour or so and I really feel for Sam, she had put everything she had into her final push at the start of this hour thinking that would be the last, there had been many more of equivalent magnitude since and she was by now getting exhausted. The old mid-wife knew this and on the next push, she made a snip and out explodes our Annie, all folded up into a tiny package, but then her ears pop out, she straightens up and her limbs just come out of nowhere, I can’t believe that she’s come out of Sam, you certainly couldn’t get her back in there. She weighs 8lb 1oz. Sam and Annie are eventually placed on the ward after we have a few visitors clutching pink balloons. 3rd November 2012 We are spending the rest of day in the hospital. Sam goes off to the toilet and leaves Annie in her tiny plastic crib. I can see the dark brown profile of her little face from the other side of the bed, her eyes are closed, and she looks warm and snug in her tiny white hat but incredibly fragile. I stare at her and feel connected. Later in the day I give Annie her first bath in a sink under the guidance of a mid-wife, she is barely longer than my forearm and seems to weigh less than an 8lb Salmon would. Annie cannot be discharged until she has had her hearing tested, and her first poo and wee, just to make sure nothing is blocked or tangled up in there. She has her first and last feed from Sam; the antibody serum that if the cosmetics industry could bottle, we none of us would ever age again. We check Annie’s nappy regularly, she has weed, and her small brown rubber like cork has discharged from her bum, so the brand new seal is now broken, but no poo yet, so she’s set to stay in overnight. I leave late evening after Sam is set up with some television and the two of them are in their PJ’s. I drive home on cloud nine but ready for some sleep, the texts and well wishes are flooding in. Rich had thought we'd been partying because of the tunes we'd been playing in the early hours, they'd been coming up on my Facebook page throughout the night, it been linked in to my Spotify account. 4th November 2012 As soon as my eyes open I’m wide awake and almost bursting with pride and life. I normally take ages to wake up, gain my senses, become fully alert and fire on all cylinders, not today. I’ve already packed a bag and the car seat is fitted in Sam’s car ready for their collection. I get an incredible text from Sam saying, ‘Morning daddy, we have slept well and cannot wait to see you.’ I levitate to the car and clamber in; the soundtrack is carefully selected for the home coming. Annie has a poo when she sees me; her hearing has to be double checked, but she’s signed out. I drive very slowly and carefully all the way home, Sam sits in the back with Annie, it’s an amazing time. Once home we take Annie out of the car, tie her balloons to her baby seat and carry everything in. The neighbours all gather to meet her on the doorstep and wish us well. Once inside we put the sleeping Annie down in front of the sofa on the foot stool, light the fire and tuck in to a Champagne picnic of soft cheeses, seafood, pate, and all the things Sam hadn’t been allowed to eat for the last nine months. We drink two more bottles of fizz and Annie doesn’t stir, just sleeps like an angel - bliss. 8th January 2015 Thank God she is. Nature knows me better than I know myself, I was always meant to have a girl.