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