No, not the hilarious road movie starring Robert Downey Jr. and Zach Galafinakinakisansakis (which we're about to put on to watch in bed), but the fact that today, the 30th of July, is our son's due date.
And he hasn't made an appearance.
We even tempted fate by going out for some food, but still the little bugger didn't show up. Typical.
Yesterday, my wife's consultant made a plan with her. On Friday we have to go back to the hospital for a monitoring, and if he is still not here by Tuesday, they're going to induce her. We read some information and discovered that the whole induction process takes several days, where my wife will have to stay in hospital the entire time. We've already made a plan for movies and laptops to be ready so she doesn't get bored.
So, by the time I've clicked the 'publish' button on this post, it'll be the 31st, and our son will officially be overdue. How much longer for, I cannot say.
But I'll keep you posted.
Kael
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
Sunday, 28 July 2013
Anniversary
Today is me and my wife's anniversary. Not of marriage, but of the date we got together. July 28th, 2008. It's been five amazing years, and we were speaking earlier about how in that time we've moved in together, gotten married, and are a few days away from having our first child. It all seems to have gone by so quickly, but on the other hand, I can't imagine my life without her in it. It feels like she's always been here with me. Last night we went out for a celebratory meal, because we had to go back to the hospital for another claw... sorry, I mean sweep.
The midwife today was not as relentless to disappear as the other. She also explained that if she struggled, she felt it would mean my wife's not ready to have a full sweep. Whatever she did stirred something, though, because our son has been kicking non-stop since. Other than that, things are as expected. His head isn't fully engaged yet, despite us being told previously that it was, but my wife has a consultant appointment tomorrow, which may decide how and when Ellis is delivered. I'm personally not the biggest fan of my wife being induced, as it elevates her to the status of a 'high-risk' patient, which I don't want. I may post again tomorrow, to update on what's going on. At the end of the day, these next few days may be the last few days he spends inside his mummy's tummy.
Tonight, as another celebration of the fact that today is actually our anniversary, we're having a takeaway from Wasabi. For those of you who don't know, Wasabi is a Japanese-style restaurant that specialises in sushi. SHOCK! HORROR! A pregnant woman eating sushi!
Yes, we know. Trust me, we know. But never fear, she's not actually eating anything raw. It's all cooked through and through. That will most definitely not be the case when Ellis is born.
My wife has been excellent at eating carefully during pregnancy. When we first found out, all those months ago, we trawled the internet and books to check what she could, and couldn't eat. Rare steak, sushi, mayonnaise, seafood sauce, paté, houmus. The list went on and on. Unfortunately for her, the majority of her favourite foods were right at the top of the 'do not eat' section, so for nine months, she's eaten things she sort of likes.
We've got a deal. The day Ellis is born I'm going to leave the hospital and return with a buffet of sushi (with raw fish), rare steak, paté, houmus, a McFlurry and a hundred other things she hasn't been able to eat. Something I think will be well deserved.
Until then, cooked fish is just going to have to do.
Kael
The midwife today was not as relentless to disappear as the other. She also explained that if she struggled, she felt it would mean my wife's not ready to have a full sweep. Whatever she did stirred something, though, because our son has been kicking non-stop since. Other than that, things are as expected. His head isn't fully engaged yet, despite us being told previously that it was, but my wife has a consultant appointment tomorrow, which may decide how and when Ellis is delivered. I'm personally not the biggest fan of my wife being induced, as it elevates her to the status of a 'high-risk' patient, which I don't want. I may post again tomorrow, to update on what's going on. At the end of the day, these next few days may be the last few days he spends inside his mummy's tummy.
Tonight, as another celebration of the fact that today is actually our anniversary, we're having a takeaway from Wasabi. For those of you who don't know, Wasabi is a Japanese-style restaurant that specialises in sushi. SHOCK! HORROR! A pregnant woman eating sushi!
Yes, we know. Trust me, we know. But never fear, she's not actually eating anything raw. It's all cooked through and through. That will most definitely not be the case when Ellis is born.
My wife has been excellent at eating carefully during pregnancy. When we first found out, all those months ago, we trawled the internet and books to check what she could, and couldn't eat. Rare steak, sushi, mayonnaise, seafood sauce, paté, houmus. The list went on and on. Unfortunately for her, the majority of her favourite foods were right at the top of the 'do not eat' section, so for nine months, she's eaten things she sort of likes.
We've got a deal. The day Ellis is born I'm going to leave the hospital and return with a buffet of sushi (with raw fish), rare steak, paté, houmus, a McFlurry and a hundred other things she hasn't been able to eat. Something I think will be well deserved.
Until then, cooked fish is just going to have to do.
Kael
Friday, 26 July 2013
Back in business
Hooray, my internet's back. Since the last, hurried blog post, more things have happened. It's never boring in our house, I can tell you.
So, on Wednesday night my wife wasn't feeling much movement again. We know that she has an anterior placenta - which is where the placenta sits in between the baby and your skin, creating a cushion - which is what we suspect is the main cause of our son's reduced movement, but we were sensible and went to the hospital anyway.
After a trace, the midwife explained that she'd been authorised to give my wife a 'sweep'. Frankly, the procedure should be described as a 'claw', because it consists of the midwife using her fingers to sweep around the inside of the cervix, to try and stimulate the release of hormones that bring on labour. It's not something that I'd want to go through, and my wife dealt with it incredibly well.
However, not long after that we were told that the decision had been made to keep my wife in hospital overnight, just in case. Recently, for every trip to the hospital, I have insisted on bundling our bags into the boot, just to be sure. Finally my caution paid off, so I went down to the car to get my wife's things, and I left her until the morning.
When I arrived back at 10am she told me that a lady in one of the opposite beds had spent the majority of the night screaming as loudly as she could, so she hadn't had the most sleep. One of the doctor's was very rude to her during rounds, and then we were left together.
After an hour (or maybe more) of monitoring where our son gave an absolutely terrible trace, she was visited by another, kinder doctor. He explained that he wanted her to have another scan, then another trace. If either of the two procedures came back unsatisfactory, then they would look to induce her. The scan came and went and the doctor was very happy with it, as was he with the trace, so fortunately, my wife was allowed to come home.
But not before another sweep. And this time, the midwife who performed it was on a mission. Obviously, I was sat at the head of the bed, next to my wife, because I didn't particularly want to see anything, but the midwife nearly disappeared. It appeared as though the sweep had some effect, though, as multiple times during the night I was worried my wife was going into labour. Not yet though, and if she doesn't before Sunday we have to pay another visit to the hospital.
Until then, the waiting game is on, again.
Kael
So, on Wednesday night my wife wasn't feeling much movement again. We know that she has an anterior placenta - which is where the placenta sits in between the baby and your skin, creating a cushion - which is what we suspect is the main cause of our son's reduced movement, but we were sensible and went to the hospital anyway.
After a trace, the midwife explained that she'd been authorised to give my wife a 'sweep'. Frankly, the procedure should be described as a 'claw', because it consists of the midwife using her fingers to sweep around the inside of the cervix, to try and stimulate the release of hormones that bring on labour. It's not something that I'd want to go through, and my wife dealt with it incredibly well.
However, not long after that we were told that the decision had been made to keep my wife in hospital overnight, just in case. Recently, for every trip to the hospital, I have insisted on bundling our bags into the boot, just to be sure. Finally my caution paid off, so I went down to the car to get my wife's things, and I left her until the morning.
When I arrived back at 10am she told me that a lady in one of the opposite beds had spent the majority of the night screaming as loudly as she could, so she hadn't had the most sleep. One of the doctor's was very rude to her during rounds, and then we were left together.
After an hour (or maybe more) of monitoring where our son gave an absolutely terrible trace, she was visited by another, kinder doctor. He explained that he wanted her to have another scan, then another trace. If either of the two procedures came back unsatisfactory, then they would look to induce her. The scan came and went and the doctor was very happy with it, as was he with the trace, so fortunately, my wife was allowed to come home.
But not before another sweep. And this time, the midwife who performed it was on a mission. Obviously, I was sat at the head of the bed, next to my wife, because I didn't particularly want to see anything, but the midwife nearly disappeared. It appeared as though the sweep had some effect, though, as multiple times during the night I was worried my wife was going into labour. Not yet though, and if she doesn't before Sunday we have to pay another visit to the hospital.
Until then, the waiting game is on, again.
Kael
Monday, 22 July 2013
Internet problems
Apologies for my lack of blog yesterday. Our Internet has gone down, so my only method of posting is off my iPod using Tesco's free wifi. I hate typing on iDevices, so this'll be a short one.
He's not here yet, anyway. We've had a few false alarms this week, but no baby, but were going on daily walks to try and stimulate something, anything. Apparently Kate Middleton has gone into labour this morning, so if my mother wants to have any chance of claiming the silver penny you get if your baby is born on the same day as the royal infant, my son had better hurry up.
When the Internet is restore I'll post a proper blog. See you then.
Kael
He's not here yet, anyway. We've had a few false alarms this week, but no baby, but were going on daily walks to try and stimulate something, anything. Apparently Kate Middleton has gone into labour this morning, so if my mother wants to have any chance of claiming the silver penny you get if your baby is born on the same day as the royal infant, my son had better hurry up.
When the Internet is restore I'll post a proper blog. See you then.
Kael
Sunday, 14 July 2013
T-minus...
It's not going to be long. At least, judging by the events of this week - and more so today - it doesn't seem like it's going to be long.
My wife is now thirty seven and five, which I have discovered recently is the nippy little way that midwives refer to how far along in pregnancy someone is. Obviously, it translates to thirty seven weeks and five days, but I like saying it because it makes my wife sound like one of the Borg from Star Trek.
This week has been full of the usual aches and pains, but on Wednesday night, or rather early Thursday morning, we had to pay yet another visit to the hospital. He wasn't moving again, but more importantly, my wife was feeling new, more intense pains. So, as usual, my brain began to scream at me, "IT'S TIME!!!" but I managed to keep calm, lead the bags and make the drive to Bridgend.
The maternity ward was busier than I've ever seen it. Out of the six beds, four were taken up by women who all had their own unique way of pronouncing the word, "Ow." One couple, despite the lady's obvious pain, were really outgoing and made the situation as light as possible. She offered my wife the gym ball and then was made fun of by her partner, who also had his own way of pronouncing "Ow." They were soon sent home, but the other women stayed. We heard that one was 3cm dilated, which is ridiculously uncomfortable-sounding (regardless of the fact that there would be another 7cm to go), and the other girl's waters had broken at 25 weeks, but she was rather blazé about the whole situation. She was eventually shipped off to a different hospital due to her 'baby deciding to come along 15 weeks early' situation.
While all this was going on, my wife was finally attached to a monitor and her trace began. That night was one where my son decided to be awkward, so the midwives were unsatisfied with it, leading to my wife staying on the monitor for longer.
The friendly couple returned after a few hours and were soon sent to the labour ward. They both managed to shout a, "Good luck!" to us on their way. The 3cm lady finally made the agonising journey to 4cm and was also taken to labour ward, leaving my wife and I alone.
After more hours than I could even imagine, a tall, scruffy, tired looking doctor popped her head around the curtain.
"Hello..." she checked her notes, "...Nia. I'm doctor Fabazashabaz." Obviously, that wasn't her name, but he Dutch-cum-South African accent combined with her mumbling voice made it hard to understand her. "Have we met before?" she asked, and when my wife responded in the negative, she gave what I suspect would have been the same response had she have said yes. "Okay. May I touch you?"
I've never seen a manhandling like it, and I used to watch the WWE wrestling. But despite her complete lack of bedside manner and general air of unusualness, she clearly knew what she was doing. She apologised for any pain caused and then stood back. "Two things..." she said, leaving a prolonged pause, which I assume was for dramatic effect. "Number one. You can't feel him kick because the placenta is in the way." Another dramatic pause. "Number two. You had SPD."
My heart leapt into my mouth.
"SPD stands for Spinal Purgatory Dysfunction." Now that is not what she said, but it may as well have been. The doctor's dramatic pauses made SPD sound like my son was covered in spines that pricked the inside of my wife's womb. It actually stands for Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction, which the doctor then explained meant that my wife's pelvic bone and the surrounding muscles moved more than they should, which explained the pain, which will last for the remainder of the pregnancy. She gave a codeine for the pain, we were resigned to a few more hours of the monitor, then we went home to sleep.
And that was that. Except today (and yesterday evening), my wife has been experiencing cramping pains. They come regularly and are spaced roughly forty minutes apart. We've been wondering all day what they mean, and the consensus that we've agreed on is that, despite being thirty seven and five (watch out Jean-Luc Picard) and Ellis' due date not being until the 30th July, we are going to be welcoming our son into the world sooner than we anticipated.
And that's a good thing, too, because nine months is a long time to wait to meet anyone, and I'm just about ready for out little family to grow by one.
Kael
My wife is now thirty seven and five, which I have discovered recently is the nippy little way that midwives refer to how far along in pregnancy someone is. Obviously, it translates to thirty seven weeks and five days, but I like saying it because it makes my wife sound like one of the Borg from Star Trek.
This week has been full of the usual aches and pains, but on Wednesday night, or rather early Thursday morning, we had to pay yet another visit to the hospital. He wasn't moving again, but more importantly, my wife was feeling new, more intense pains. So, as usual, my brain began to scream at me, "IT'S TIME!!!" but I managed to keep calm, lead the bags and make the drive to Bridgend.
The maternity ward was busier than I've ever seen it. Out of the six beds, four were taken up by women who all had their own unique way of pronouncing the word, "Ow." One couple, despite the lady's obvious pain, were really outgoing and made the situation as light as possible. She offered my wife the gym ball and then was made fun of by her partner, who also had his own way of pronouncing "Ow." They were soon sent home, but the other women stayed. We heard that one was 3cm dilated, which is ridiculously uncomfortable-sounding (regardless of the fact that there would be another 7cm to go), and the other girl's waters had broken at 25 weeks, but she was rather blazé about the whole situation. She was eventually shipped off to a different hospital due to her 'baby deciding to come along 15 weeks early' situation.
While all this was going on, my wife was finally attached to a monitor and her trace began. That night was one where my son decided to be awkward, so the midwives were unsatisfied with it, leading to my wife staying on the monitor for longer.
The friendly couple returned after a few hours and were soon sent to the labour ward. They both managed to shout a, "Good luck!" to us on their way. The 3cm lady finally made the agonising journey to 4cm and was also taken to labour ward, leaving my wife and I alone.
After more hours than I could even imagine, a tall, scruffy, tired looking doctor popped her head around the curtain.
"Hello..." she checked her notes, "...Nia. I'm doctor Fabazashabaz." Obviously, that wasn't her name, but he Dutch-cum-South African accent combined with her mumbling voice made it hard to understand her. "Have we met before?" she asked, and when my wife responded in the negative, she gave what I suspect would have been the same response had she have said yes. "Okay. May I touch you?"
I've never seen a manhandling like it, and I used to watch the WWE wrestling. But despite her complete lack of bedside manner and general air of unusualness, she clearly knew what she was doing. She apologised for any pain caused and then stood back. "Two things..." she said, leaving a prolonged pause, which I assume was for dramatic effect. "Number one. You can't feel him kick because the placenta is in the way." Another dramatic pause. "Number two. You had SPD."
My heart leapt into my mouth.
"SPD stands for Spinal Purgatory Dysfunction." Now that is not what she said, but it may as well have been. The doctor's dramatic pauses made SPD sound like my son was covered in spines that pricked the inside of my wife's womb. It actually stands for Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction, which the doctor then explained meant that my wife's pelvic bone and the surrounding muscles moved more than they should, which explained the pain, which will last for the remainder of the pregnancy. She gave a codeine for the pain, we were resigned to a few more hours of the monitor, then we went home to sleep.
And that was that. Except today (and yesterday evening), my wife has been experiencing cramping pains. They come regularly and are spaced roughly forty minutes apart. We've been wondering all day what they mean, and the consensus that we've agreed on is that, despite being thirty seven and five (watch out Jean-Luc Picard) and Ellis' due date not being until the 30th July, we are going to be welcoming our son into the world sooner than we anticipated.
And that's a good thing, too, because nine months is a long time to wait to meet anyone, and I'm just about ready for out little family to grow by one.
Kael
Monday, 8 July 2013
Worries
I can't wait for my son to be born. He's been around for nearly nine months but I've never met him, just spoken to him through an inch thick wall. That's a long time to know someone but never meet them. I know him, though. He's funny, the way he seems to respond to certain things I say or certain songs he hears. He's lazy, judging by his slightly-slower-than-average heartbeat and his lax attitude to generally moving around in his mother's womb. He's trouble, giving his mother and I multiple scares during the course of this pregnancy.
And I love him. I've never met him and I love him with all my heart, because I know he's my son. He's going to be respectful and polite and hard working, and he'll look after his younger siblings when they come along, and his family will always be important to him, no matter where he goes or what he does. I know this because he's my son.
But I worry. I worry that I am not going to be important.
Let me explain. My mum and dad split up when I was quite young. We would go over every weekend to see him, but when I think about the type of father I want to be, it's not what he was like. He would take us to McDonald's every Sunday morning for a Happy Meal and we'd sit there, happy enough, but I think back and realise that we were sat there amongst all the other dads who were treating their children to a McDonald's on the last day they had them, until the next weekend, when the mums would drop their children off. I don't want to be a McDonald's dad. I want to cook for my son, my children.
We never did much over at my dad's house. Sat and watched TV, mostly. Of course, there's nothing wrong with sitting with your children watching TV, but now it feels as though he never tried. He only saw my sister and me for two nights a week, and we spent most of that time doing nothing. When I got older and started becoming a teenager, he didn't seem to know how to react to me. When my mum would drive by to pick us up I'd go to him for a hug, but he couldn't give me that. It was always some awkward 'man hug' with a weird pat on the back, as if to say, "You're nearly a man now, Kael. No hugs from now on." All I wanted was a hug from my dad. It's as if he didn't really know me.
We don't see him anymore. My sister and I, for reasons I don't need to go into (needless to say, it wasn't because he fed us McDonald's), decided that we no longer wanted contact with him. He tried, for a bit. Christmas and birthday cards with his mobile number scratched inside in his scrawl, but there never felt like there was any effort. I've always thought that if my children cut me off, I'd fight tooth and nail to find out why, and when i know why I'd do everything I could to fix it.
My mum's partner has been around for a long time. Since I was small, again. But he's never been a father. He's never tried, nor have I wanted him to be. He's been everything he needed to be, and I thank him for not trying to replace my dad. I only have, and will only ever have one father. I'll give him that, regardless of what he did.
So, essentially, I grew up without a real father figure. The biggest male role model in my life was my grandfather. I aspire to be like him, the way he was with him family, his wife, his children and grandchildren. But aside from him, my ideas of what I want to be like as a father are conjured from my mind alone. And I'm really worried that it won't be enough.
I'm a person who makes mistakes. I'm forgetful, I'm clumsy and I often do the wrong thing by accident. I'm petrified that these elements of my person will carry over into my fatherhood. My wife is carrying our son. He and her have been two persons joined as one since he first came into existence, and even after he is born, her milk will feed him for months. She is the most important person to him in the entire world, and will be for the rest of his life. I've stressed in my first post how important mothers are, and rightfully so. Mother's milk is a phrase for a reason. It's not, 'Daddy's hug'. I just worry that no matter what I do, I will never be an important person to him. And I need to be. The little heart that is beating inside my wife's belly is the most important sound in my life, and I want to be there every step of the way.
I don't know why I worry, but I do. It may be a combination of the things listed above, it may not, but there is a deep seeded fear inside me that he will never look at me in the way that I want him to. He'll never think overly fondly of me as he grows up. He'll never make his own blog about impending fatherhood and explain to his readers about how he wants to be a father just like his dad was and is.
I'm writing this, a rather personal look into how I worry, because I hope that any people who feel the same may know that they're not alone. It's not a cry for sympathy, and I am damn well not going to ever let this fear consume me, especially when he comes along, but it feels like it's something I need to get out, because then it'll feel like I'm not alone in feeling it.
So. Maybe this is how many new dads feel. Maybe even new mums. It may be because my dad was not how I'd want to be. It may be because I didn't have a proper father figure growing up. It may be because I make mistakes and I'm scared they'll carry over into being a father.
But whatever it is, I'm going to make sure that I do everything I can to be the best father my son will ever have, and I'll never stop trying. Not ever.
Kael.
And I love him. I've never met him and I love him with all my heart, because I know he's my son. He's going to be respectful and polite and hard working, and he'll look after his younger siblings when they come along, and his family will always be important to him, no matter where he goes or what he does. I know this because he's my son.
But I worry. I worry that I am not going to be important.
Let me explain. My mum and dad split up when I was quite young. We would go over every weekend to see him, but when I think about the type of father I want to be, it's not what he was like. He would take us to McDonald's every Sunday morning for a Happy Meal and we'd sit there, happy enough, but I think back and realise that we were sat there amongst all the other dads who were treating their children to a McDonald's on the last day they had them, until the next weekend, when the mums would drop their children off. I don't want to be a McDonald's dad. I want to cook for my son, my children.
We never did much over at my dad's house. Sat and watched TV, mostly. Of course, there's nothing wrong with sitting with your children watching TV, but now it feels as though he never tried. He only saw my sister and me for two nights a week, and we spent most of that time doing nothing. When I got older and started becoming a teenager, he didn't seem to know how to react to me. When my mum would drive by to pick us up I'd go to him for a hug, but he couldn't give me that. It was always some awkward 'man hug' with a weird pat on the back, as if to say, "You're nearly a man now, Kael. No hugs from now on." All I wanted was a hug from my dad. It's as if he didn't really know me.
We don't see him anymore. My sister and I, for reasons I don't need to go into (needless to say, it wasn't because he fed us McDonald's), decided that we no longer wanted contact with him. He tried, for a bit. Christmas and birthday cards with his mobile number scratched inside in his scrawl, but there never felt like there was any effort. I've always thought that if my children cut me off, I'd fight tooth and nail to find out why, and when i know why I'd do everything I could to fix it.
My mum's partner has been around for a long time. Since I was small, again. But he's never been a father. He's never tried, nor have I wanted him to be. He's been everything he needed to be, and I thank him for not trying to replace my dad. I only have, and will only ever have one father. I'll give him that, regardless of what he did.
So, essentially, I grew up without a real father figure. The biggest male role model in my life was my grandfather. I aspire to be like him, the way he was with him family, his wife, his children and grandchildren. But aside from him, my ideas of what I want to be like as a father are conjured from my mind alone. And I'm really worried that it won't be enough.
I'm a person who makes mistakes. I'm forgetful, I'm clumsy and I often do the wrong thing by accident. I'm petrified that these elements of my person will carry over into my fatherhood. My wife is carrying our son. He and her have been two persons joined as one since he first came into existence, and even after he is born, her milk will feed him for months. She is the most important person to him in the entire world, and will be for the rest of his life. I've stressed in my first post how important mothers are, and rightfully so. Mother's milk is a phrase for a reason. It's not, 'Daddy's hug'. I just worry that no matter what I do, I will never be an important person to him. And I need to be. The little heart that is beating inside my wife's belly is the most important sound in my life, and I want to be there every step of the way.
I don't know why I worry, but I do. It may be a combination of the things listed above, it may not, but there is a deep seeded fear inside me that he will never look at me in the way that I want him to. He'll never think overly fondly of me as he grows up. He'll never make his own blog about impending fatherhood and explain to his readers about how he wants to be a father just like his dad was and is.
I'm writing this, a rather personal look into how I worry, because I hope that any people who feel the same may know that they're not alone. It's not a cry for sympathy, and I am damn well not going to ever let this fear consume me, especially when he comes along, but it feels like it's something I need to get out, because then it'll feel like I'm not alone in feeling it.
So. Maybe this is how many new dads feel. Maybe even new mums. It may be because my dad was not how I'd want to be. It may be because I didn't have a proper father figure growing up. It may be because I make mistakes and I'm scared they'll carry over into being a father.
But whatever it is, I'm going to make sure that I do everything I can to be the best father my son will ever have, and I'll never stop trying. Not ever.
Kael.
I can explain
Last week I stated that every Sunday would be my 'update day' for this log, yet here I am, at four minutes past midnight, writing a blog explaining why there is no blog.
We've just got back from the hospital. Nothing to worry about, my wife was feeling some pressure and pains and we went to go get it checked out. Considering how late we got home, though, I've decided to leave my post until tomorrow. Bed is calling me.
Goodnight, and see you tomorrow.
Kael
We've just got back from the hospital. Nothing to worry about, my wife was feeling some pressure and pains and we went to go get it checked out. Considering how late we got home, though, I've decided to leave my post until tomorrow. Bed is calling me.
Goodnight, and see you tomorrow.
Kael
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
I need a schedule
Yeah... sorry. My wife and I were talking about this blog when I first started it. She's more active in blogs than me and explained that a lot of blogs that she reads stick to a schedule. They update every Wednesday, or twice a week, on Monday and Friday. "I'll be fine," I said. "I don't need a rota to make sure I blog."
So here I am, nearly three weeks after my last post. Hi. I need to stick to a schedule. So from this moment on, every Sunday will be my blog day. Yes, I know today is Wednesday, but I will also post when I see fit, and right now is as good a time as ever.
A lot of things have happened the past few weeks. Multiple trips to the hospital, monitoring twice a week with a weekly scan. Last Saturday I was woken up at three in the morning to my wife stroking my hand and saying, "I'm getting pains every few minutes." The possible birth of my son that morning, coupled with the fact that my brain was attempting to wake up, led me to sit in bed muttering:
"Right... Hmmmmm... Okay... Right..."
As you can tell, I was on the ball.
He didn't come along, anyway. She took some pain killers, settled back down and the pains subsided, but the following day we paid a trip to the hospital due to his lack of movement. That's something that has happened a lot during this pregnancy. It's resulted in us having to change delivery venue from the birth centre in Port Talbot to Princess of Wales Hospital in Bridgend. At the time, we were both quite upset by the prospect. The birth centre allows for constant visitation by the new father. Some rooms have double beds and, within reason, there are no strict visiting hours. In comparison, Bridgend allows fathers to be there from 10am to 8pm, there are the usual visiting hours for friends and family and no double beds. No saunas or full length swimming pools, either.
Since then, however, we've both become more positive about Bridgend. Yes, I won't be allowed to stay continuously, but we do have three very demanding cats that I would have to return home to anyway. It'll give my wife some alone time with our son and it'll make going into the hospital that extra bit special (not that it'll need any extra special sprinkled on top, though). My wife is also liking the idea of the wide variety of painkillers that are available to her, something not present in Port Talbot.
Because of the multiple visits for diminished movement, the consultant has been speaking of inducing. That's up in the air at the moment, but despite the fact that my wife was 36 weeks yesterday, we may be meeting our son sooner than in four weeks.
So our bags are packed and ready in the boot of the car. As of today, the nursery is ready for him (except for blackout blinds, which are on their way). We're only missing one thing. Our baby. And despite our worries, I feel like we're just about ready.
Kael
So here I am, nearly three weeks after my last post. Hi. I need to stick to a schedule. So from this moment on, every Sunday will be my blog day. Yes, I know today is Wednesday, but I will also post when I see fit, and right now is as good a time as ever.
A lot of things have happened the past few weeks. Multiple trips to the hospital, monitoring twice a week with a weekly scan. Last Saturday I was woken up at three in the morning to my wife stroking my hand and saying, "I'm getting pains every few minutes." The possible birth of my son that morning, coupled with the fact that my brain was attempting to wake up, led me to sit in bed muttering:
"Right... Hmmmmm... Okay... Right..."
As you can tell, I was on the ball.
He didn't come along, anyway. She took some pain killers, settled back down and the pains subsided, but the following day we paid a trip to the hospital due to his lack of movement. That's something that has happened a lot during this pregnancy. It's resulted in us having to change delivery venue from the birth centre in Port Talbot to Princess of Wales Hospital in Bridgend. At the time, we were both quite upset by the prospect. The birth centre allows for constant visitation by the new father. Some rooms have double beds and, within reason, there are no strict visiting hours. In comparison, Bridgend allows fathers to be there from 10am to 8pm, there are the usual visiting hours for friends and family and no double beds. No saunas or full length swimming pools, either.
Since then, however, we've both become more positive about Bridgend. Yes, I won't be allowed to stay continuously, but we do have three very demanding cats that I would have to return home to anyway. It'll give my wife some alone time with our son and it'll make going into the hospital that extra bit special (not that it'll need any extra special sprinkled on top, though). My wife is also liking the idea of the wide variety of painkillers that are available to her, something not present in Port Talbot.
Because of the multiple visits for diminished movement, the consultant has been speaking of inducing. That's up in the air at the moment, but despite the fact that my wife was 36 weeks yesterday, we may be meeting our son sooner than in four weeks.
So our bags are packed and ready in the boot of the car. As of today, the nursery is ready for him (except for blackout blinds, which are on their way). We're only missing one thing. Our baby. And despite our worries, I feel like we're just about ready.
Kael
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