I've said before that when you first have a baby in your house, not a lot happens. That's still true, but I've come to realise over the past two months since my last post that it's also very untrue.
You see, the past two months have been spent with each day following the relatively same routine, and it feels like nothing changes, but there have been small instances which have made me realise that, in fact, lots has happened.
Firstly, my wife was cleaning out Ellis' chest of drawers, bagging up his old clothing that doesn't fit him any more. She came across one particular sleep suit which could never have possibly fit him, but it did. He was once that small, and in the space of mere months he's grown into the 12-16 month clothing wearing, 18 lb 2oz behemoth that he is.
Secondly, I was carrying him to go upstairs and stopped in front of the hall mirror so that he could look at his reflection, and I thought, as he studied his features in the reflection, 'When did he start becoming so alert?' He watches my wife and I, our cats, and any other family members or friends he sees. He notices toys and has begun to thrash them around wildly in his hands. He reacts to lights and sounds.
I also noticed that I was stood there, holding him in the crook of my arm, but that my other arm was free, and no longer supporting his head. When he began to hold his head up independently, I do not know, but he's doing it now.
Finally is his smile. I remember when seeing his smile was something that only happened when he slept. It gradually crept into his waking hours, and now all my wife and I need to do is say hello to him to make the biggest grin spread across his lips. He hasn't started laughing yet - that's still reserved for his dreams only - but I have a feeling it's close.
I could never pinpoint the moment he started doing all of these things. It just happened, without me really knowing it did. So in truth, while it seemed like nothing was going on, in reality, everything was.
And it still is.
Kael
Monday, 18 November 2013
Sunday, 15 September 2013
Smiler
Having a newborn can be hard going. It can be repetitive, too. You wake up at some point in the morning, feed your baby, change them, talk with them and lull them to sleep. After a few hours they wake and everything repeats. Sometimes in between they cry and sometimes you're not sure why and can't always calm them down. You may wake up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of your child's upset, and you may be lucky enough to be able to get them back to sleep. Or you may not.
And the thing is, babies are helpless. Like, they would die if their parents weren't around. They can't so a single thing for themselves, and totally rely on their mums and dads to deal with their every need. And there's little in the way of thanks. You don't get a, "Cheers, Dad!" from your three week old, or, "Mam, thanks ever so much for feeding me just then!" You don't get a card, or a present. In fact, you don't even get a cuddle as thanks, because every cuddle you have with your newborn is for their own comfort, not yours.
So, like I said, it can be hard going.
Until they smile.
Ellis has been smiling in his sleep for a few weeks now, but until the past few days, they've been reserved for slumber only. Recently he's become much more engaging with my wife and I. Now when we hold him and talk to him, he really studies our faces. He stops and watches, taking in every word we say, despite the fact that he has no idea what we're talking about. He follows us with his eyes, turning his head to keep watching. The other morning, after a feed, I held him in my hands and began talking to him. What a damn handsome baby, I thought, so I decided to tell him. And as I repeated over and over what a handsome man he was, his mouth, usually reserved for neutral or upset expressions, curled upwards at the sides. His lips parted and there, in front of my eyes, was the biggest smile I had ever seen. In that moment I felt a love like I have never felt before. Every sleepless night, every fussy moment, every nappy change and every frustrating upset was now worth it, because with that smile he told me that he loved me, and appreciated everything my wife and I have done for him.
The smile soon faded and despite every attempt to bring it back, I couldn't. But the following day he did the same, and the day after that, and so on. He's smiling multiple times a day now, for all sorts of reasons, and it's the best reward I could ask for.
Don't get me wrong, I could go my whole life without a smile from him, and despite how difficult it can be, I'd still love every minute of being his father. But now that I've had something in return, I can't wait for even more, and my days count down towards every smile.
Kael.
And the thing is, babies are helpless. Like, they would die if their parents weren't around. They can't so a single thing for themselves, and totally rely on their mums and dads to deal with their every need. And there's little in the way of thanks. You don't get a, "Cheers, Dad!" from your three week old, or, "Mam, thanks ever so much for feeding me just then!" You don't get a card, or a present. In fact, you don't even get a cuddle as thanks, because every cuddle you have with your newborn is for their own comfort, not yours.
So, like I said, it can be hard going.
Until they smile.
Ellis has been smiling in his sleep for a few weeks now, but until the past few days, they've been reserved for slumber only. Recently he's become much more engaging with my wife and I. Now when we hold him and talk to him, he really studies our faces. He stops and watches, taking in every word we say, despite the fact that he has no idea what we're talking about. He follows us with his eyes, turning his head to keep watching. The other morning, after a feed, I held him in my hands and began talking to him. What a damn handsome baby, I thought, so I decided to tell him. And as I repeated over and over what a handsome man he was, his mouth, usually reserved for neutral or upset expressions, curled upwards at the sides. His lips parted and there, in front of my eyes, was the biggest smile I had ever seen. In that moment I felt a love like I have never felt before. Every sleepless night, every fussy moment, every nappy change and every frustrating upset was now worth it, because with that smile he told me that he loved me, and appreciated everything my wife and I have done for him.
The smile soon faded and despite every attempt to bring it back, I couldn't. But the following day he did the same, and the day after that, and so on. He's smiling multiple times a day now, for all sorts of reasons, and it's the best reward I could ask for.
Don't get me wrong, I could go my whole life without a smile from him, and despite how difficult it can be, I'd still love every minute of being his father. But now that I've had something in return, I can't wait for even more, and my days count down towards every smile.
Kael.
Monday, 9 September 2013
The first four weeks
Okay, so it's been four weeks since I posted. If this blog were the only source of information for you about my child, the last thing you heard was that he was born. A lot has happened since that, and I apologise for the drought that has fallen over this blog. It's been a vicious circle, as I've known that to cram all the happenings of the past month into one post will make for a lengthy entry, and that's made me dread writing it, leading to me procrastinating and essentially adding to the length of the blog. So sorry about that. Once the gargantuan task of updating you on the events of the past month is complete, I will be able to go back to Sunday updates and as-and-when happenings.
But we're here now.
My wife and Ellis stayed in hospital for two nights after he was born. Because his head was tilted back in the birth canal he had severe swelling all over his face. It looked like he had been in a terrible bar fight. The moments after he was delivered, when my wife and I were sat back in her room, were filled with silence. On one hand, we were over the moon that our baby was finally here, but we didn't have him because he'd been taken straight to the Special Care Unit. On top of that, in the fleeting moment that we were shown him all we saw was his little misshapen and, dare I say it, ugly face. I visited him several times before I had to leave for the night. He stared at me with his squished up eyes, but made no sound.
When I returned the following morning, the swelling had already gone down. My wife met me at the door to the maternity ward and we went to see him. He had a tube dangling from one nostril as the swelling made it difficult for him to feed through his mouth. Again, he lay there doing little, but all three of us in the room together felt special. The staff in the Special Care Unit explained that the only thing they were unhappy with was his ability to keep food down and if he was able to keep his dinner time feed in his belly without any spit up, they'd be happy to discharge him to us.
Luckily, he did, and we finally got to feel how we were supposed to when he was born, like a little family. We spent the day relaxing together and were advised by the midwives that we could attempt to feed him orally. His throat must have eased, because he happily guzzled a bottle of formula down. My wife took to breast feeding, too, which surprised both of us. I may have mentioned before that she had been unsure about the whole process during the entire pregnancy, but when she tried, she was a natural, and we fed him on a mixture of breast milk and formula.
Leaving in the evening was one of the hardest things ever, but I knew that I was going back in the morning, and if we were lucky, it would be the day we could bring Ellis, and my wife, home. To my delight, the swelling had reduced again, and a text I received that morning that talked about a surprise waiting for me in the hospital turned out to be the fact that his feeding tube had been removed from his nose. In the hospital I watched other dads hold their new babies and fretted at the difficulty I was having picking my son up. The worrying side of my brain began to tell me that I'd never be able to hold him safely, but I overcame it and began to practise. Eventually the doctors visited and discussed their satisfaction with both my son and wife, and explained that once they had completed their paperwork, we could go home.
The walk to the car was a careful one. When we reached the entrance I left my family in the foyer and brought the car to the door. A kind old lady offered my wife her seat, but we were ready to go before she could accept the offer.
I have never driven so slowly in my life. Speedbumps were tackled at a ferocious two miles per hour, corners were rounded wider than the world's fattest man, and I may have generated a queue of cars behind me long enough to measure a football field, but eventually we made it home. Well, I say home, but first we went to Tesco because the one thing we had forgotten to buy was formula, and despite my wife's decision to breast feed, we wanted to have it just in case. Checkout ladies fawned over him, asking how old he was and what he was called, and when they said things like, "He's so handsome," I thought, Yes, yes he is. Then we visited my wife's father, who lives down the road from Tesco. For a man who is typically very dry and tends to show no excitement for anything or anyone, he lit up, and truly looked like a proud grandfather. He's going to be called 'Grampa', something he's not very happy about. He'd prefer the less traditional 'Wayne', but that's not going to happen.
And then we were home. Somewhere I had barely been for the past week, and somewhere my wife hadn't been for the past week. We were back, and we had someone else with us, and he wasn't going to leave. Our cats were very happy to have us back, and their reactions to the baby ranged from indifferent to, "I must protect this creature". Morgan, our smallest and newest cat, whom we joke about being my wife's 'Spirit Animal' because she's so protective of her, seemed to instantly adopt this attitude towards our son, preferring to sit as close to him as possible. The other two, while understanding that he wasn't just another piece of furniture to sit on, seemed to not pay much attention.
Sleeping is something that I miss. In hindsight, if I had realised that the gift of a full night's rest was going to be cruelly torn away from me the second my son came home, I would have never spent those long summer holidays staying up until five o' clock playing my Game Cube. I would never have squeezed in an extra episode of a television programme I was engrossed in. I would have slept every hour I could, just to make up for when I became a father.
My wife agreed, begrudgingly, that she would sleep through the nights, because she was beginning the six long weeks of recovery from labour and the cesarean. Six long weeks that still aren't over. She needed, and still does need her rest, so I insisted that I would take the night shifts. That's where the formula came in handy, and later on, expressed breast milk. The first night was a breeze. As I said, I've spent many a night awake until the early hours, so waking to the sound of his stirring was fine. He fed, had a cuddle, and went back to sleep in his swinging crib that sat next to my wife's side of the bed. He woke two more times before morning, but tending to him was a pleasure. The next few nights were similar, but then came the Night of the Five O' Clock Bed Time.
My wife drifted off at around midnight, while my son was still a little fussy. I laughed to myself. I may have called him a 'scamp' or a 'rascal', and lulled myself into believing that he would soon be asleep. Five long hours later my wife awoke to me and Ellis both wide eyed, having had not a single minute of sleep between us. She came to my rescue, insisting that I slept for a few hours.
Since then, he's had good nights and bad nights. There was a delightful phase of sleeping at midnight, waking at three or four for a feed and then sleeping until seven. I loved it. I'd wake with him and then bring him downstairs to watch The Office or Flight of the Conchords or any other show on DVD. There have been several four o' clock wake up, where he has woken me screaming and not slept until nine or ten. Those nights caused me problems. I'm not a person who typically naps. I don't like them. I wake up feeling confused and disoriented, so I tend to avoid them. However, in recent days my body has been crying out for rest, leading to me sleeping on the sofa, the armchair and on the floor, at random points of the day. Luckily, the past four nights have been a blessing. We've gotten him to sleep at midnight and he's managed to rest until six o' clock. Six hours may not seem like a decent sleep, but for me it felt like I had awoken after a Sleeping Beauty-esque length of time, on a bed of the finest silk, with angels caressing my face with their wings. And that's where he is with his sleeping right now. And where I am with mine.
I've said this to multiple people, but I'll say it on here. For a creature that spent the first nine months of his life having all of his waste ferried off through a convenient little tube, Ellis has taken to pooping like a champion. He still doesn't show much in the way of emotion, but I'm pretty sure he loves going to the toilet. We'll be there cuddling, or feeding him, or he may even be sleeping, and suddenly he'll go crimson and being making a noise that can only be written as: "HHHHHHHHHHHHHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGHGHHHGGGGGGGGG!!!" and then there will be the worst sound I've ever heard. Unfortunately, I don't have access to heavy duty waste cleanup crews, so we have to make do with baby wipes, which we use a lot of. Two nights ago I experiences my first projectile pooping. No, it wasn't diarrhea, it was a normal poo, but it shot out like a Nerf dart and hit me in the arm. I've been urinated on, one time in the presence of the health visitor. You may be thinking, "God, all these poop jokes, how juvenile," but guess what? We're talking about a baby here. And I am pretty childish anyway, so yeah. Besides, the fact that he has a healthy toilet life is a really good indicator that we have a healthy baby.
He's getting hungrier, too. The very first tub of formula that we bought was labelled, 'Extra Hungry', and it really set the stage. It details that by this point in his life, he should be consuming roughly 150ml of feed every four hours or so, but he drinks anything from 180ml to 230ml. He's a gutsy boy, and he shows us when he's hungry. We tell people that he doesn't cry, which is almost true, but the one instance when he really goes for it is when he's hungry. With no warning, he makes this squealing noise that sounds as if we are sticking the soles of his feet with burning needles. We all have our ways, I suppose. My wife's tummy rumbles. I smack my lips. My son shrieks like a madman. Unfortunately, my wife's breast milk stopped after about two and a half weeks. It upset her, but ultimately he did end up getting the most nutritious of breast milk, and they do say that the best time for a baby to breast feed is the first few weeks.
Up until recently, my wife has been feeling pretty down on herself about being a mum. Don't get me wrong, she's been an amazing mum so far as anyone is concerned, but because her recovery from the C-section has limited what she can physically do, she's seen it as her being a bad mum. I try to remind her that her belly was cut open completely across, and that's not something a plaster and some antiseptic cream fixes. The trouble was that every time she began to feel a bit better, we'd leave the house for a mini day out. But then the stress on her body of walking for an extended period of time would hurt her and slow her recovery. Over the past week she's seeming a lot better. She's on her feet more and complains of pain less. It still hurts her, but luckily we're visiting the doctor tomorrow for her MMR booster, and so we'll discuss the scar then. It kills me to hear her fret about being a good mum, though, because she's amazing. Ellis can be fretting and fussing and screaming his head off, but five minutes with his mum and he's calmed right down. Tudor men do love their mums. She's calm, loving, considerate, and needs to give herself far more credit.
Every day brings something new with him. Little developments and changes that may seems like nothing, but are big enough for us to notice them. He started gripping really well after two weeks or so, and could find a finger (or lip) with his hands with ease. Recently he has begun to watch far more. When I used to hold him he's stare blankly in every direction other than my face, but now, when I talk, he watches and listens. He makes all sorts of expressions for everyone except me, but I'm still happy that he watches me, with his big, gorgeous eyes. He's also begun to smile, but they're always in his sleep, or when he's half conscious. It's not enough for me to proclaim, "My son can smile!", but I don't think he's far away.
We've also survived three midwife visits and two health visitor visits. Ellis' weight, as of the last visit, is a huge 10lb 4oz. During one of the first visits, in a time period that I consider when we were finding our feet as parents, the midwife told us that we were doing amazing, and that she thought we were coping better than some parents that were on their second or third child. Talk about a confidence booster! We were signed off from home visits, too, which means that we're doing something right. We've had multiple visits from friends and family, too, and all I can do is sit by and beam as they coo over my son.
So, without going into any greater detail than what I have, that's a summary of the first four weeks of my being a dad. I'm tired, but happy. It's the greatest job in the world, and I promise that from now on (now that I'm used to this job), I'll keep regular updates.
Kael
But we're here now.
My wife and Ellis stayed in hospital for two nights after he was born. Because his head was tilted back in the birth canal he had severe swelling all over his face. It looked like he had been in a terrible bar fight. The moments after he was delivered, when my wife and I were sat back in her room, were filled with silence. On one hand, we were over the moon that our baby was finally here, but we didn't have him because he'd been taken straight to the Special Care Unit. On top of that, in the fleeting moment that we were shown him all we saw was his little misshapen and, dare I say it, ugly face. I visited him several times before I had to leave for the night. He stared at me with his squished up eyes, but made no sound.
When I returned the following morning, the swelling had already gone down. My wife met me at the door to the maternity ward and we went to see him. He had a tube dangling from one nostril as the swelling made it difficult for him to feed through his mouth. Again, he lay there doing little, but all three of us in the room together felt special. The staff in the Special Care Unit explained that the only thing they were unhappy with was his ability to keep food down and if he was able to keep his dinner time feed in his belly without any spit up, they'd be happy to discharge him to us.
Luckily, he did, and we finally got to feel how we were supposed to when he was born, like a little family. We spent the day relaxing together and were advised by the midwives that we could attempt to feed him orally. His throat must have eased, because he happily guzzled a bottle of formula down. My wife took to breast feeding, too, which surprised both of us. I may have mentioned before that she had been unsure about the whole process during the entire pregnancy, but when she tried, she was a natural, and we fed him on a mixture of breast milk and formula.
Leaving in the evening was one of the hardest things ever, but I knew that I was going back in the morning, and if we were lucky, it would be the day we could bring Ellis, and my wife, home. To my delight, the swelling had reduced again, and a text I received that morning that talked about a surprise waiting for me in the hospital turned out to be the fact that his feeding tube had been removed from his nose. In the hospital I watched other dads hold their new babies and fretted at the difficulty I was having picking my son up. The worrying side of my brain began to tell me that I'd never be able to hold him safely, but I overcame it and began to practise. Eventually the doctors visited and discussed their satisfaction with both my son and wife, and explained that once they had completed their paperwork, we could go home.
The walk to the car was a careful one. When we reached the entrance I left my family in the foyer and brought the car to the door. A kind old lady offered my wife her seat, but we were ready to go before she could accept the offer.
I have never driven so slowly in my life. Speedbumps were tackled at a ferocious two miles per hour, corners were rounded wider than the world's fattest man, and I may have generated a queue of cars behind me long enough to measure a football field, but eventually we made it home. Well, I say home, but first we went to Tesco because the one thing we had forgotten to buy was formula, and despite my wife's decision to breast feed, we wanted to have it just in case. Checkout ladies fawned over him, asking how old he was and what he was called, and when they said things like, "He's so handsome," I thought, Yes, yes he is. Then we visited my wife's father, who lives down the road from Tesco. For a man who is typically very dry and tends to show no excitement for anything or anyone, he lit up, and truly looked like a proud grandfather. He's going to be called 'Grampa', something he's not very happy about. He'd prefer the less traditional 'Wayne', but that's not going to happen.
And then we were home. Somewhere I had barely been for the past week, and somewhere my wife hadn't been for the past week. We were back, and we had someone else with us, and he wasn't going to leave. Our cats were very happy to have us back, and their reactions to the baby ranged from indifferent to, "I must protect this creature". Morgan, our smallest and newest cat, whom we joke about being my wife's 'Spirit Animal' because she's so protective of her, seemed to instantly adopt this attitude towards our son, preferring to sit as close to him as possible. The other two, while understanding that he wasn't just another piece of furniture to sit on, seemed to not pay much attention.
Sleeping is something that I miss. In hindsight, if I had realised that the gift of a full night's rest was going to be cruelly torn away from me the second my son came home, I would have never spent those long summer holidays staying up until five o' clock playing my Game Cube. I would never have squeezed in an extra episode of a television programme I was engrossed in. I would have slept every hour I could, just to make up for when I became a father.
My wife agreed, begrudgingly, that she would sleep through the nights, because she was beginning the six long weeks of recovery from labour and the cesarean. Six long weeks that still aren't over. She needed, and still does need her rest, so I insisted that I would take the night shifts. That's where the formula came in handy, and later on, expressed breast milk. The first night was a breeze. As I said, I've spent many a night awake until the early hours, so waking to the sound of his stirring was fine. He fed, had a cuddle, and went back to sleep in his swinging crib that sat next to my wife's side of the bed. He woke two more times before morning, but tending to him was a pleasure. The next few nights were similar, but then came the Night of the Five O' Clock Bed Time.
My wife drifted off at around midnight, while my son was still a little fussy. I laughed to myself. I may have called him a 'scamp' or a 'rascal', and lulled myself into believing that he would soon be asleep. Five long hours later my wife awoke to me and Ellis both wide eyed, having had not a single minute of sleep between us. She came to my rescue, insisting that I slept for a few hours.
Since then, he's had good nights and bad nights. There was a delightful phase of sleeping at midnight, waking at three or four for a feed and then sleeping until seven. I loved it. I'd wake with him and then bring him downstairs to watch The Office or Flight of the Conchords or any other show on DVD. There have been several four o' clock wake up, where he has woken me screaming and not slept until nine or ten. Those nights caused me problems. I'm not a person who typically naps. I don't like them. I wake up feeling confused and disoriented, so I tend to avoid them. However, in recent days my body has been crying out for rest, leading to me sleeping on the sofa, the armchair and on the floor, at random points of the day. Luckily, the past four nights have been a blessing. We've gotten him to sleep at midnight and he's managed to rest until six o' clock. Six hours may not seem like a decent sleep, but for me it felt like I had awoken after a Sleeping Beauty-esque length of time, on a bed of the finest silk, with angels caressing my face with their wings. And that's where he is with his sleeping right now. And where I am with mine.
I've said this to multiple people, but I'll say it on here. For a creature that spent the first nine months of his life having all of his waste ferried off through a convenient little tube, Ellis has taken to pooping like a champion. He still doesn't show much in the way of emotion, but I'm pretty sure he loves going to the toilet. We'll be there cuddling, or feeding him, or he may even be sleeping, and suddenly he'll go crimson and being making a noise that can only be written as: "HHHHHHHHHHHHHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGHGHHHGGGGGGGGG!!!" and then there will be the worst sound I've ever heard. Unfortunately, I don't have access to heavy duty waste cleanup crews, so we have to make do with baby wipes, which we use a lot of. Two nights ago I experiences my first projectile pooping. No, it wasn't diarrhea, it was a normal poo, but it shot out like a Nerf dart and hit me in the arm. I've been urinated on, one time in the presence of the health visitor. You may be thinking, "God, all these poop jokes, how juvenile," but guess what? We're talking about a baby here. And I am pretty childish anyway, so yeah. Besides, the fact that he has a healthy toilet life is a really good indicator that we have a healthy baby.
He's getting hungrier, too. The very first tub of formula that we bought was labelled, 'Extra Hungry', and it really set the stage. It details that by this point in his life, he should be consuming roughly 150ml of feed every four hours or so, but he drinks anything from 180ml to 230ml. He's a gutsy boy, and he shows us when he's hungry. We tell people that he doesn't cry, which is almost true, but the one instance when he really goes for it is when he's hungry. With no warning, he makes this squealing noise that sounds as if we are sticking the soles of his feet with burning needles. We all have our ways, I suppose. My wife's tummy rumbles. I smack my lips. My son shrieks like a madman. Unfortunately, my wife's breast milk stopped after about two and a half weeks. It upset her, but ultimately he did end up getting the most nutritious of breast milk, and they do say that the best time for a baby to breast feed is the first few weeks.
Up until recently, my wife has been feeling pretty down on herself about being a mum. Don't get me wrong, she's been an amazing mum so far as anyone is concerned, but because her recovery from the C-section has limited what she can physically do, she's seen it as her being a bad mum. I try to remind her that her belly was cut open completely across, and that's not something a plaster and some antiseptic cream fixes. The trouble was that every time she began to feel a bit better, we'd leave the house for a mini day out. But then the stress on her body of walking for an extended period of time would hurt her and slow her recovery. Over the past week she's seeming a lot better. She's on her feet more and complains of pain less. It still hurts her, but luckily we're visiting the doctor tomorrow for her MMR booster, and so we'll discuss the scar then. It kills me to hear her fret about being a good mum, though, because she's amazing. Ellis can be fretting and fussing and screaming his head off, but five minutes with his mum and he's calmed right down. Tudor men do love their mums. She's calm, loving, considerate, and needs to give herself far more credit.
Every day brings something new with him. Little developments and changes that may seems like nothing, but are big enough for us to notice them. He started gripping really well after two weeks or so, and could find a finger (or lip) with his hands with ease. Recently he has begun to watch far more. When I used to hold him he's stare blankly in every direction other than my face, but now, when I talk, he watches and listens. He makes all sorts of expressions for everyone except me, but I'm still happy that he watches me, with his big, gorgeous eyes. He's also begun to smile, but they're always in his sleep, or when he's half conscious. It's not enough for me to proclaim, "My son can smile!", but I don't think he's far away.
We've also survived three midwife visits and two health visitor visits. Ellis' weight, as of the last visit, is a huge 10lb 4oz. During one of the first visits, in a time period that I consider when we were finding our feet as parents, the midwife told us that we were doing amazing, and that she thought we were coping better than some parents that were on their second or third child. Talk about a confidence booster! We were signed off from home visits, too, which means that we're doing something right. We've had multiple visits from friends and family, too, and all I can do is sit by and beam as they coo over my son.
So, without going into any greater detail than what I have, that's a summary of the first four weeks of my being a dad. I'm tired, but happy. It's the greatest job in the world, and I promise that from now on (now that I'm used to this job), I'll keep regular updates.
Kael
Monday, 12 August 2013
Sunday, 11 August 2013
Birth Day
I'm a daddy.
Yesterday began like every day in the past week. I woke up and piled extra bowls of food and water for the cats, checked all my essentials were in my bag, and set off for the hospital. The difference was that on the way to the hospital I received a text from my wife explaining that today she was being moved to labour ward.
It was a slow day. We played some Scrabble and chatted for a while, but ultimately the day boiled down to waiting. The room, which had six beds, slowly emptied as each woman was admitted to the labour ward. Everyone except my wife. We were used to the slow pace at the hospital - it once took a doctor and hour and a half to get two headache tablets - but still the wait consumed us. We could have done something to take our minds off the wait, like watching a DVD or playing more Scrabble, but we didn't. To know, for certain, that we were so close to the end of the beginning of our journey was too exciting to try and distract ourselves from the fact that it could take most of the day to get to labour ward.
As it did. We were finally called for and moved over to the ward at quarter past six. For the maternity ward, visiting times were only between ten o' clock and half past eight, but for maternity ward I could stay until our baby had arrived. No problem, I thought. Hopefully he'll be here by tonight.
Nope.
Before the midwives could start my wife on her hormone drip, they first had to get a satisfactory trace of our baby, something easier said than done with Ellis. Luckily, the trace ran smoothly and the midwife was happy to begin the drip. The drip would gradually release the hormones that would induce labour, and the dose would be increased manually as time went on. Unfortunately, it meant that my wife would be tied to a monitor for the whole labour. She made it clear that she was interested in having an epidural, but that wouldn't be administered until she was getting contractions regularly. The gas an air would be available immediately, however, and when she started getting twinges, she took the midwife up on her offer.
Gas and air made my wife act like she was drunk. She giggled and laughed, but it really helped with the pain, so it was good enough for me. She began to grow concerned that she wouldn't know her limits with the gas and air and wouldn't be able to ask for a epidural, but as the contractions grew stronger and the pain grew worse, she knew. A doctor soon arrived and administered the epidural, a process I found fascinating. Like the gas and air, the epidural worked brilliantly, and my wife was able to lay back and relax.
The time came for an examination, but the midwife found that my wife's cervix had softened, but barely dilated. She also thought that, contrary to what we believed, my wife's waters hadn't actually broken. She called the doctor, who managed to both confirm the suspicion and then break the waters. 'Tubular, dude!' would have been an apt thing to say, because the gush of amniotic fluid nearly carried the hospital staff away. The doctor explained that the hormone drip would work a lot more effectively now, and also attached what they called a 'clip' to the baby's head. They had been having trouble monitoring him through my wife's belly, as usual, so the 'clip' provided a direct trace of his heartbeat.
Unfortunately, the epidural wasn't working as effectively. I think that my wife's waters breaking may have loosened the plaster holding the drip in place in my wife's back. Regardless of the cause, the doctor who administered the first epidural come again, removed it and redid the process. Luckily the problem had been resolved and the pain relief began to take more effect. The midwife had explained that she'd be examining my wife again at four o' clock (in the morning), and it was already three, so I decided to keep myself awake and then sleep after the examination. I failed, and dozed in and out of sleep in my chair. When the examination came around, my wife had progressed to four centimeters dilation and our son's head had begun to descend. She was due to be examined at eight o' clock, so I decided to sleep. Unfortunately the maternity ward's sleeping facilities for dads left a lot to be desired, so I had to settle for either the chair, with a pillow cuddled inbetween my arms for me to lay my head on, or sprawled on the bathroom floor. A sort of sleep-dementia took hold and I sampled both.
The next few hours were a slight blur due to tiredness, but morning came, along with another examination. My wife had progressed to eight centimeters and our son's head had lowered even more. The epidural was still working well, but the building pressure was becoming uncomfortable for her. She coped well, though. In fact, I'm incredibly proud of her. In our time on the maternity ward during any of our hundreds of visits I have witnessed women wailing like banshees, screaming like babies and even woofing like dogs, but the most she complained was to say the word, 'Ow.' At times it was more drawn out, like, 'Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwww', but still, it was really the only complaint, and I'm proud of her. I wouldn't have thought any less of her if she had begun barking, but she was determined not to scream, and she didn't.
The problem came when the morning doctor examined my wife at the start of the afternoon. He had visited earlier and explained the plan - the dose of hormone drip was to be upped to get my wife dilating the remaining two centimeters, she would continue to labour on the epidural for an hour before she began to push, and within two hours our son would be born - but during his second visit he explained that our son's head was angled backwards, so that his chin was facing out. Combined with the direction his back was facing, this was a problem. "I'm going to have to deliver him differently," he explained, referring to a C-section. Despite joking about having a caesarian from the beginning, this news upset my wife. The medical staff explained that this was nothing to worry about and that they'd deliver our son with the utmost safety to both him and my wife. Then they prepped her and took her to the theatre.
I had to wait until I was called. I donned the scrubs a midwife had given me and paced the room, waiting. After fifteen minutes i was told that the doctors had to reset my wife's epidural to ensure that she was numb during the procedure. I waiting another fifteen minutes and was finally escorted to the theatre where my wife was waiting. A blue cloth has been set up to block her view from what was going on, but I sat with her as the operation began. As a first time parent, no noise scares the life out of me, but we had a friendly doctor with us who was peeking over the sheet to dampen our worries. He began to smile as a midwife cheerfully chirped, 'Happy birthday!', but we heard to crying and saw no baby. They had whisked him off to clean him and examine him.
Finally, a cry permeated the air. It was enough to bring tears to both me and my wife's eyes. A small bundle was brought over and shown briefly, before being taken away for more checks. His eyes, cheeks, nose and forehead all looked swollen and red, but it had happened.
On August 10th, 2013, at 3:10PM, Ellis William Jon Tudor, our son, was born.
The doctors explained that he would need to be kept for a while to be examined, then began to close up my wife's belly. I was taken back to the room to wait, and not long after my wife was wheeled back on her bed. Then began to agonising wait for the pediatrician, who would explain what was going on with our baby. It was a strange anticlimax. You expect your child to be born and to have them in your arms within moments, but our son had been taken away, and we knew nothing. We didn't speak, but I think it was painfully obvious that both of us were worried. Finally the doctor arrived and explained that because of his awkward head position in the birth canal, our son has swelling on his face. He was breathing on his own and was stabilizing, but would have to be kept and observed for at least a few hours. I was offered to go and visit him, however, which I eagerly did. My wife, with her numb legs, couldn't come yet, but I took her phone to get photographs.
Ellis lay in a plastic crib under a warm lamp, loosely wrapped in a blanket. The swellings and cuts covered all his face and gave him the look of a boxer after a rough match. His tiny black eyes could only just see out from between his swollen eyelids, but when he looked at me I knew. What I knew, I can't explain in words, but seeing him stare at me, with a face that he wouldn't have in a few days, I just knew, and I will continue to know for the rest of my life. With the midwife's help I carefully dressed him, to keep him warm, and left him to return to my wife.
I visited him several times during the next few hours, and each time the swelling had noticeably regressed. I spoke softly with him and tickled his hands, but wanted me wife to be able to do the same thing. Luckily, a midwife arranged for him to be brought into my wife's room, only for ten minutes, so she could properly meet her son. He cried, but the second she took him in her arms he stopped. He looked at us with his black eyes as the three of us sat on the bed for the first time as a complete family. I know that he was unable to comprehend the situation in the same way that me wife and I could, but sitting there with the two of them was one of the most special moments of my life.
He had to go back to the special care unit, so I wheeled him over in his little plastic crib and gave him a kiss goodnight, then returned to do the same for my wife. I've never been so proud of a person in my life. She carried our son for over nine months through all the difficulties we've had with him, laboured with him with little to no complaints, and delivered him in a terrifying situation with the bravest face. This isn't the post where I'll write about it (that'll come another time), but she is going to be an amazing mum. Ellis is lucky that he has her, and so am I.
So, I'm a daddy. After all this time, all these worries, it's finally happened. I thought it never would. But like I said earlier, this is only the end of the beginning of our journey. Being a first time dad starts at birth, and I've got a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to have a lot to write about.
For now, though, bed. I need to be well rested. I've got a family I need to visit in hospital tomorrow morning, and I want to get there early.
Kael
Yesterday began like every day in the past week. I woke up and piled extra bowls of food and water for the cats, checked all my essentials were in my bag, and set off for the hospital. The difference was that on the way to the hospital I received a text from my wife explaining that today she was being moved to labour ward.
It was a slow day. We played some Scrabble and chatted for a while, but ultimately the day boiled down to waiting. The room, which had six beds, slowly emptied as each woman was admitted to the labour ward. Everyone except my wife. We were used to the slow pace at the hospital - it once took a doctor and hour and a half to get two headache tablets - but still the wait consumed us. We could have done something to take our minds off the wait, like watching a DVD or playing more Scrabble, but we didn't. To know, for certain, that we were so close to the end of the beginning of our journey was too exciting to try and distract ourselves from the fact that it could take most of the day to get to labour ward.
As it did. We were finally called for and moved over to the ward at quarter past six. For the maternity ward, visiting times were only between ten o' clock and half past eight, but for maternity ward I could stay until our baby had arrived. No problem, I thought. Hopefully he'll be here by tonight.
Nope.
Before the midwives could start my wife on her hormone drip, they first had to get a satisfactory trace of our baby, something easier said than done with Ellis. Luckily, the trace ran smoothly and the midwife was happy to begin the drip. The drip would gradually release the hormones that would induce labour, and the dose would be increased manually as time went on. Unfortunately, it meant that my wife would be tied to a monitor for the whole labour. She made it clear that she was interested in having an epidural, but that wouldn't be administered until she was getting contractions regularly. The gas an air would be available immediately, however, and when she started getting twinges, she took the midwife up on her offer.
Gas and air made my wife act like she was drunk. She giggled and laughed, but it really helped with the pain, so it was good enough for me. She began to grow concerned that she wouldn't know her limits with the gas and air and wouldn't be able to ask for a epidural, but as the contractions grew stronger and the pain grew worse, she knew. A doctor soon arrived and administered the epidural, a process I found fascinating. Like the gas and air, the epidural worked brilliantly, and my wife was able to lay back and relax.
The time came for an examination, but the midwife found that my wife's cervix had softened, but barely dilated. She also thought that, contrary to what we believed, my wife's waters hadn't actually broken. She called the doctor, who managed to both confirm the suspicion and then break the waters. 'Tubular, dude!' would have been an apt thing to say, because the gush of amniotic fluid nearly carried the hospital staff away. The doctor explained that the hormone drip would work a lot more effectively now, and also attached what they called a 'clip' to the baby's head. They had been having trouble monitoring him through my wife's belly, as usual, so the 'clip' provided a direct trace of his heartbeat.
Unfortunately, the epidural wasn't working as effectively. I think that my wife's waters breaking may have loosened the plaster holding the drip in place in my wife's back. Regardless of the cause, the doctor who administered the first epidural come again, removed it and redid the process. Luckily the problem had been resolved and the pain relief began to take more effect. The midwife had explained that she'd be examining my wife again at four o' clock (in the morning), and it was already three, so I decided to keep myself awake and then sleep after the examination. I failed, and dozed in and out of sleep in my chair. When the examination came around, my wife had progressed to four centimeters dilation and our son's head had begun to descend. She was due to be examined at eight o' clock, so I decided to sleep. Unfortunately the maternity ward's sleeping facilities for dads left a lot to be desired, so I had to settle for either the chair, with a pillow cuddled inbetween my arms for me to lay my head on, or sprawled on the bathroom floor. A sort of sleep-dementia took hold and I sampled both.
The next few hours were a slight blur due to tiredness, but morning came, along with another examination. My wife had progressed to eight centimeters and our son's head had lowered even more. The epidural was still working well, but the building pressure was becoming uncomfortable for her. She coped well, though. In fact, I'm incredibly proud of her. In our time on the maternity ward during any of our hundreds of visits I have witnessed women wailing like banshees, screaming like babies and even woofing like dogs, but the most she complained was to say the word, 'Ow.' At times it was more drawn out, like, 'Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwww', but still, it was really the only complaint, and I'm proud of her. I wouldn't have thought any less of her if she had begun barking, but she was determined not to scream, and she didn't.
The problem came when the morning doctor examined my wife at the start of the afternoon. He had visited earlier and explained the plan - the dose of hormone drip was to be upped to get my wife dilating the remaining two centimeters, she would continue to labour on the epidural for an hour before she began to push, and within two hours our son would be born - but during his second visit he explained that our son's head was angled backwards, so that his chin was facing out. Combined with the direction his back was facing, this was a problem. "I'm going to have to deliver him differently," he explained, referring to a C-section. Despite joking about having a caesarian from the beginning, this news upset my wife. The medical staff explained that this was nothing to worry about and that they'd deliver our son with the utmost safety to both him and my wife. Then they prepped her and took her to the theatre.
I had to wait until I was called. I donned the scrubs a midwife had given me and paced the room, waiting. After fifteen minutes i was told that the doctors had to reset my wife's epidural to ensure that she was numb during the procedure. I waiting another fifteen minutes and was finally escorted to the theatre where my wife was waiting. A blue cloth has been set up to block her view from what was going on, but I sat with her as the operation began. As a first time parent, no noise scares the life out of me, but we had a friendly doctor with us who was peeking over the sheet to dampen our worries. He began to smile as a midwife cheerfully chirped, 'Happy birthday!', but we heard to crying and saw no baby. They had whisked him off to clean him and examine him.
Finally, a cry permeated the air. It was enough to bring tears to both me and my wife's eyes. A small bundle was brought over and shown briefly, before being taken away for more checks. His eyes, cheeks, nose and forehead all looked swollen and red, but it had happened.
On August 10th, 2013, at 3:10PM, Ellis William Jon Tudor, our son, was born.
The doctors explained that he would need to be kept for a while to be examined, then began to close up my wife's belly. I was taken back to the room to wait, and not long after my wife was wheeled back on her bed. Then began to agonising wait for the pediatrician, who would explain what was going on with our baby. It was a strange anticlimax. You expect your child to be born and to have them in your arms within moments, but our son had been taken away, and we knew nothing. We didn't speak, but I think it was painfully obvious that both of us were worried. Finally the doctor arrived and explained that because of his awkward head position in the birth canal, our son has swelling on his face. He was breathing on his own and was stabilizing, but would have to be kept and observed for at least a few hours. I was offered to go and visit him, however, which I eagerly did. My wife, with her numb legs, couldn't come yet, but I took her phone to get photographs.
Ellis lay in a plastic crib under a warm lamp, loosely wrapped in a blanket. The swellings and cuts covered all his face and gave him the look of a boxer after a rough match. His tiny black eyes could only just see out from between his swollen eyelids, but when he looked at me I knew. What I knew, I can't explain in words, but seeing him stare at me, with a face that he wouldn't have in a few days, I just knew, and I will continue to know for the rest of my life. With the midwife's help I carefully dressed him, to keep him warm, and left him to return to my wife.
I visited him several times during the next few hours, and each time the swelling had noticeably regressed. I spoke softly with him and tickled his hands, but wanted me wife to be able to do the same thing. Luckily, a midwife arranged for him to be brought into my wife's room, only for ten minutes, so she could properly meet her son. He cried, but the second she took him in her arms he stopped. He looked at us with his black eyes as the three of us sat on the bed for the first time as a complete family. I know that he was unable to comprehend the situation in the same way that me wife and I could, but sitting there with the two of them was one of the most special moments of my life.
He had to go back to the special care unit, so I wheeled him over in his little plastic crib and gave him a kiss goodnight, then returned to do the same for my wife. I've never been so proud of a person in my life. She carried our son for over nine months through all the difficulties we've had with him, laboured with him with little to no complaints, and delivered him in a terrifying situation with the bravest face. This isn't the post where I'll write about it (that'll come another time), but she is going to be an amazing mum. Ellis is lucky that he has her, and so am I.
So, I'm a daddy. After all this time, all these worries, it's finally happened. I thought it never would. But like I said earlier, this is only the end of the beginning of our journey. Being a first time dad starts at birth, and I've got a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to have a lot to write about.
For now, though, bed. I need to be well rested. I've got a family I need to visit in hospital tomorrow morning, and I want to get there early.
Kael
Thursday, 8 August 2013
Induction day 3
The title of the blog is misleading, because today was what the doctor's called a 'rest day', where they gave my wife nothing in the form of drugs to continue bringing on labour. Technically then, today was not part of induction, while at the same time it was.
However, despite the doctors not doing anything, my wife's body decided to kick it up a notch. All day she has been getting contractions. They started properly this morning, in the early hours. I received a phone call just passed six o' clock, informing me of tightenings. As the name of my blog suggests, I've never had a child before, so my first reaction was to get dressed and get to the hospital as fast as I could.
I met my wife outside the ward, realised quickly that, no, we weren't having a baby just yet, and then went and sat in the waiting room because, regardless of my ten to seven arrival, visiting hours for dads don't start until ten o' clock.
The day went more slowly than yesterday, which was nice, because my time with her felt like it lasted longer. Her contractions continued all day, fairly irregular at first, but gradually building up to five every ten minutes. I've found that as a first time expectant parent, uncertainty takes up a lot of your thinking time. My wife confirmed that the same applies to her when she said, "I think my waters have broken... maybe?" We informed the midwife, who gave my wife a pillow - sorry, a sanitary pad (the size of both are very similar) and after checking the... contents, confirmed that yes, the waters had broken.
I think that the two of us were expecting to be ferried over to labour ward, but after an examination the midwife explained that my wife's cervix was still quite high and long, when it needs to be low and short. So, no labour ward yet, then.
So after multiple walks, a visit from my wife's father, exchanging gifts on Animal Crossing, some snacks and a bath (not for me), it was time for me to leave. Again. The clanging of the bell the midwives ring made sure of that.
So I'm here, at home with the cats, waiting. Bed time is approaching, and I wonder if tonight is the night I'll be woken up to a phone call, or will I wake with my alarm and make my way to the hospital for ten o' clock.
It's a journey, regardless, and it's only really just begun.
Kael
However, despite the doctors not doing anything, my wife's body decided to kick it up a notch. All day she has been getting contractions. They started properly this morning, in the early hours. I received a phone call just passed six o' clock, informing me of tightenings. As the name of my blog suggests, I've never had a child before, so my first reaction was to get dressed and get to the hospital as fast as I could.
I met my wife outside the ward, realised quickly that, no, we weren't having a baby just yet, and then went and sat in the waiting room because, regardless of my ten to seven arrival, visiting hours for dads don't start until ten o' clock.
The day went more slowly than yesterday, which was nice, because my time with her felt like it lasted longer. Her contractions continued all day, fairly irregular at first, but gradually building up to five every ten minutes. I've found that as a first time expectant parent, uncertainty takes up a lot of your thinking time. My wife confirmed that the same applies to her when she said, "I think my waters have broken... maybe?" We informed the midwife, who gave my wife a pillow - sorry, a sanitary pad (the size of both are very similar) and after checking the... contents, confirmed that yes, the waters had broken.
I think that the two of us were expecting to be ferried over to labour ward, but after an examination the midwife explained that my wife's cervix was still quite high and long, when it needs to be low and short. So, no labour ward yet, then.
So after multiple walks, a visit from my wife's father, exchanging gifts on Animal Crossing, some snacks and a bath (not for me), it was time for me to leave. Again. The clanging of the bell the midwives ring made sure of that.
So I'm here, at home with the cats, waiting. Bed time is approaching, and I wonder if tonight is the night I'll be woken up to a phone call, or will I wake with my alarm and make my way to the hospital for ten o' clock.
It's a journey, regardless, and it's only really just begun.
Kael
Wednesday, 7 August 2013
Induction day one
So I'm home, it's late and I need to go to sleep to ready myself for tomorrow. But first, a blog.
Today felt like it went by really quickly, but very slowly at the same time. Not a lot happened, really. A midwife used a pessary tablet, which will be left to do its thing for 24 hours. During the day we went on several walks around the hospital and grounds to try and stir things into action, to no avail. There were a few tightenings, but they seemed like nothing out of the ordinary.
At half past eight, I begrudgingly left my wife, only to be texted and told that the partners of the other pregnant women had stayed for up to an extra hour. Great. I don't want to be apart from my wife, and it turns out I could have stayed a little longer.
During the past hour, however, I've been texting back and forth with my wife. She's getting contractions. They may be part of the latent stage of labour and would mean that she's not going to be giving birth in the next few hours. Even though I'm going to sleep now, I'm on high alert.
Apologies if this post is badly written, too. I'm rather tired and wanted to give a quick update. I'll write better tomorrow. promise.
Kael
Today felt like it went by really quickly, but very slowly at the same time. Not a lot happened, really. A midwife used a pessary tablet, which will be left to do its thing for 24 hours. During the day we went on several walks around the hospital and grounds to try and stir things into action, to no avail. There were a few tightenings, but they seemed like nothing out of the ordinary.
At half past eight, I begrudgingly left my wife, only to be texted and told that the partners of the other pregnant women had stayed for up to an extra hour. Great. I don't want to be apart from my wife, and it turns out I could have stayed a little longer.
During the past hour, however, I've been texting back and forth with my wife. She's getting contractions. They may be part of the latent stage of labour and would mean that she's not going to be giving birth in the next few hours. Even though I'm going to sleep now, I'm on high alert.
Apologies if this post is badly written, too. I'm rather tired and wanted to give a quick update. I'll write better tomorrow. promise.
Kael
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