Pregnancy, Baby & You Magazine II

The new issue of Pregnancy, Baby & You mag is out now (their website is at www.thinkbaby.co.uk). My next column appears in the April issue, but for those of you who missed the mag last month (shame on you!), here's my April 2008 column:

Whatever happened to pacing up and down the corridor, a big stogey poking out of the breast pocket in anticipation of a celebratory smoke after the happy event? I blame the 60s. Those Hippies going all gooey over “the miracle of birth”. Move away from the joint, dude, that’s what I say. That and King Louis the somethingth-or-otherth of France who, keen to get a view of the, erm, proceedings, had his Queen lie on her back, as opposed to the more natural squatting position. So at least, among all your squeamishness, there is an upside: you get to blame the French.

It’s the unwritten 11th Commandment: thou shalt attend the birth of your child. Pulling a sickie is not on the birthplan. Oh, you’ve got tickets for the Cup Final, have you? And your team hasn’t won the Cup since 1991? Tough dung, buster. And no one will believe that the dog ate the birthplan so, no, you can’t be excused.

But what, you ask, if I faint at the sight of blood? What if I throw-up? Here’s a tip: At the birth, just sit on the side of her weaker hand and any blow she lands on you should have trouble breaking the skin, let alone drawing blood. Indeed, this is good advice for life, let alone childbirth.

Worried about pain? So you should be. There is a period of the labour known as Transition – or The Zone – during which you may well find your partner’s fingers meeting behind your Adam’s apple as she clasps you, viscously yet lovingly, by the throat and bellows words that, these days, would get her ejected from a football match. Chances are this will cause you a very great deal of pain indeed.

Rationalise it by adding it all up: sick, blood, pain, losing consciousness. Don’t try to tell me that at least one of those doesn’t feature in the aftermath of – if not during – your average night out. Looked at like that, it doesn’t seem too bad, does it? Now, just one tiny extra little mental gearshift will cure your fears for good. Move your thoughts away from the Y-word – “You” – and on to your partner.

It’s an old chestnut, this, but it works. Take your mind off what you are worried about. Your partner will most certainly appreciate it. Just a slight shift of focus and bob’s your uncle, you’re a dad. It would be a shame to besmirch your birthday with a whole load of unnecessary worries, wouldn’t it?

Hang on: don’t I mean your child’s birthday? Nope. I mean yours. This, as those aforementioned Hippies were so fond of saying, is the first day of the rest of your life. You’ve just been killing time until this point. This is where the good stuff really begins. And it would be a pity to miss the first day of the rest of your life, wouldn’t it? Perhaps, like me, you’ll even emerge so changed, so enhanced, so unrecognisable from the ante-natal wimp that you once were that you’ll even consider eating the placenta. Be sure to email me your recipes.

They Hate Babies Here No.1

They Hate Babies Here: No.1 in an Occasional Series: It’s strange, but before Isobella was born, I would never have been seen dead in an All Bar One. Indeed, on the only occasion I ever found myself crossing the threshold of this dreary and homogenised chain of “aspirational” (ahem) bars was the birthday bash of a friend of a friend. And even then I, in the best News of the World investigative hack tradition, made my excuses and left as soon as I could. (A snob? Me? Absolutely.)

So when I found myself drawn to the empty branch of ABO (one letter away from ASBO: how appropriate) at London Bridge one morning recently, it was something of a surprise. But it was, as stated, empty (this being just after opening time); the smoking ban was in place and so pubs were now in bounds for babies (I had Isobella in the pram); and my companion’s nappy was full of poo. So ABO it was.

Upon entering, however, a member of staff swooped down on us in a boiling fury: “You have to be 21 to come in here!”

“That’s okay,” I smiled, “I’m 22.” (Ahem ahem).

“Not you, not you!” screeched the next CEO of ABO, “HIM! HIM! HIM!”

If she hadn’t been pointing at the pram, I’d never have known that she was talking about my daughter.

As I struggled back through the swing doors and down the steps (she wasn’t so keen to eject me that she helped me off the premises by holding the door open), you could almost smell her sense victory. “Gotcha!” her whole being seemed to say. So if you’ve ever wondered who the One was in the name, then the mystery has been solved: It’s your baby.

Clocked

31st March 2008: Woke up all off kilter yesterday morning completely unaware that clocks had gone forward by an hour. That’s how all-encompassing childcare has been: I am so separated from my old media habits (watching TV and reading newspapers) that I can’t even keep up with rudimentary events such as the change from spring to winter. I’m prepared to bet that Prime Minister Tony Blair, Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho or the movie star Heath Ledger didn’t have the same trouble yesterday morning.