half mad young dad!

After the cathartic experience of writing down Edie’s birth story I fancied a bit of a break from the whole blogging thing. Don’t get me wrong, I still scanned Tumblr every day but that was mostly because a lot of my friends post pictures of naked women like all the time. I’ve been super busy but general busy-ness isn’t interesting so I’m arsed writing about it. If you’re not inspired, then don’t write, I told myself. What am I gonna talk about now? My job? My piano? My lack of mo-HEY OH. Got it. I’m skint! Absolutely! I can talk about that, totally, and I can make it funny. 

Before we had our delicious baby I was making enough money each month to basically do whatever-the-hell I wanted. I wanted a beer, so I bought it. I wanted to go bowling, so I went. I wanted to be a scientist, so I purchased all the component parts and built myself a lab only to struggle with the morality of human cloning and eventually destroy my work with fire. Not entirely true, ok, but I could’ve if I’d wanted to. Nowadays I don’t have any disposable income. Literally not a penny - I had two but Abby took them off me when I started rubbing them together to see if they’d mate. A fiver in my wallet is like discovering an ounce of solid gold, a tenner like a 10 carat uncut diamond and a mythical twenty is like kissing Jesus on the wiener. I’ve never worried about money, and now it’s all I think about - I wanna give my baby the best stuff, the most awesome pram, the coolest pacifiers. For some stupid reason, that shit is important to me - I don’t want people to look at her and judge us, and though that might be mental, it’s how I feel.

Lucky for us we’ve got an extremely generous support network and Edie is basically treated like an exotic princess, and whatever money we have is spent on awesome things for her. So she’s fine, but then I see something nice that I like. Some shoes, perhaps. A tie pin, maybe a large hat. I look at these lovely things with sad longing. Having a child is the single most financially taxing thing that you will experience, but it’s ok, because it’s almost the single most emotionally fulfilling thing that you will do. Ok so I didn’t buy those jeans, but yeah, so what, this morning my baby laughed as I tickled her armpits. I have a hole in my knickers, but today when I came home from work Edie literally squealed with excitement. Money isn’t everything, and of course having it helps, but it isn’t the be-all-and-end-all; there is more to life than that. And a lot of it is beautiful.

By this time we were into the evening and Abby had been in labour for what seemed like forever. I’m going to be honest - from the epidural onwards, it’s mostly a massive blur, though I do remember parts of it vividly I can’t create a perfect linear narrative. I do know that Edie was struggling again, her heart rate was all over the place, and a very well-respected locum had arrived in place of Maxwell (Abby’s favourite). This guy was what middle aged ladies might describe as ‘dishy’, his dark looks complimented by his thick, exotic accent. I didn’t understand a word he said, but I do remember joking with Abby that she better not fancy him. 

This new fella (can’t remember his name but I remember calling him ‘Turk’ in my head, partly as an homage to Scrubs and partly because he looked Turkish) explained that he was going to let Abby get to as far as she could, have a bit of push, and decide from there whether or not any help would be needed - help in this case comprising of forceps, ventouse or maybe even caesarean. He came to check on Abby intermittently, maybe once every two hours, and I estimate that two whole years passed without much occurring. Time was all over the shop, messing with my head and making me question everything. I was worried, confused - I wanted my baby, but she wasn’t playing ball. Bad baby.

After the two years (ish) had passed, Abby thought she might be able to push. She got the urge, I got excited, she was sat up with her legs wide apart and the soles of her feet touching. I remember that the plastic tube onto which the electrode was attached was still sticking out of her, like at any minute she’d give birth to an old telly. She pushed and we all egged her on, she pushed and pushed, but the only thing that moved was the electrode. The midwife gave her 45 minutes before we decided that nothing was happening. I thought she’d given in quite easily, though I found out soon afterwards that every push was distressing the baby, and her heart rate was dipping quite severely each time. Turk arrived back on scene and again discussed the options, all but advising that caesarean was the best way forward. I agreed and Abby agreed - caesarean it was, and how bad could that be?

Time, which had ground to a clunking, heaving halt, suddenly pricked up its ears and started to move swiftly again. All at once I was stood in a back room, putting on some scrubs, and embarrassingly the first set of pale green trousers did not go around my arse. ‘Larger please!’, I said sheepishly. No matter, the baby would be here soon. Everything would be ok. Everything was happening so quickly - the anaesthetist, the surgeon, everyone talking - everything was urgent, panicked. I had imagined a peaceful birth, Abby had desperately wanted one, and it was clear now that this was just a pipe dream. I remembered that my mum had been sat outside the ward all of this time, patiently waiting for news - I told her what was going on, not to worry, she’d have a grandchild soon, and yet it still seemed so unreal, surreal maybe - so far away. This was happening to another me at another time, me and Abby were still home, or still on the quiz machine at the pub, or still dancing like dickheads at the Cockpit. I was to be father, any moment now. I’d have a baby to look after, to love completely for all of time. What if I didn’t have that capacity? What if I hated being a dad, or was rubbish at it, or the baby didn’t like me? My heart was beating a thousand times a second, no longer the distinct ‘buh-bump’, more of a vibrating buzz. 

When I went into the operating theatre, I could already see the panic on Abby’s face, and I used all of my strength to project calmness, serenity. Peace. I sat down beside her and she told me to talk to her. About what? Anything. What like? Just something.

I didn’t look over the barrier to see what was happening, and I’m glad I didn’t, but I was aware of some complications straight away. Abby screamed, cried out in pain and fear. It hurts! It’s hurting me! I remember that the surgeon shot the anaesthetist an exasperated look, as though he’d just used the last of the milk. I think the noises that Abby was making shocked me so much that I shouted at these men and women in green masks. Do something! Help her! It’s hurting her! They asked me if a general anaesthetic would be better, and I said yeah, thinking would be the best thing. At some point I was made to leave, but I soon came back, but Abby was still conscious and still not happy. I remember that being in there with her crying, screaming, was just too much. I couldn’t handle it anymore, I felt my heart breaking, I felt helpless, weak, tired. Ready to give in. Ready for it to be over.

Then, like magic, the surgeon looked over the barrier. ‘The baby is out’, he said. ‘Have a look’. I daren’t. For a moment, I thought about it. It’s real, now. This is all real. And then I looked, and then there she was, bent over in a heap on Abby’s legs. ‘What is she?’ asked Abby. ‘She’s baby girl’, I said, not really believing it myself.

A doctor picked her up and took her away, to clean her, to do whatever needed to be done, and I cried. I cried with relief. I cried with anger and fear at my still prone girlfriend. I cried because the instant love that I thought would be there was not there and I cried because it was. I think at that point both Abby and I were in our own bubble, and nothing else was happening. Everything was silent as we waited to hear our baby cry. We waited forever and just as the panic rose into my chest and starting to reach for my heart, she opened her mouth and her lungs and wailed. That wail was the best noise that I have ever heard.

Eventually they passed the baby to me, swaddled and grey, goo still lingering around her eyes and nose. ‘Hello beautiful’ I said to her. I showed her to Abby, and we cried again. Her head was swollen and looked like a cone. I didn’t care. She was here and was ours, and she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. More than a thing. A baby, a little girl that we had created. We had made her and she would not be here if anything that had ever happened had happened any differently. Everything came down to this, and she was alive. A miracle, I remember that I was struck by the dynamics of it all, everything that had brought us here had to happen just so. The odds are billions to one, yet I was holding her, and she even looked like me.

We were snapped out of this by further problems, and Abby was screaming again. Something had gone wrong, very wrong. It was obvious from the atmosphere in the room. There was no peace, Abby was crying out in real pain. She had begun to bleed quite significantly, I was told later, and the surgical team were doing their best to stop this bleeding. Someone had seriously fucked up. I was ushered out of the room, crying and stumbling, light headed. At some point someone took the baby. I sat in a room, sipping water, and someone brought the baby through. I held her, and this time it wasn’t love I felt. It was fear. Fear that Abby was still in there, still screaming, still bleeding. Fear that she’d die on the table. I remember that I couldn’t hold the baby, and that I was asking myself how I would live if Abby died because of this creature. I know that’s irrational, but that’s what I was thinking. How could I ever love the baby if Abby had died on the day she was born?

I gave her to her grandma and I went to get my mum. I needed her - like all kids do, at one time or another. We all sat together and I have never been so afraid in all my life. Each tick of the second hand on the clock seemed to last forever. I needed Abby to be ok. Please bring her through.

When our midwife finally came and told me that the bleeding was under control and that Abby would be with us soon, I cried. Great floods of tears. Relief is the best feeling in the world when everything is riding on it. She was alright. We were alright. I still couldn’t hold the baby - I didn’t feel strong enough. But then she came through the door, bringing with her real, honest, palpable love. Love that you can see, that you can smell - love that makes a room bigger, bigger, big enough to not be a room at all, to be a whole world. She took Edie and she sobbed and I saw that connection that I read about. Instant unconditional love. It hit me like a train to the chest and I honestly think that it hit everyone else, too. There is nothing else like it in the world, and I finally truly felt it: the love for your child. I still feel it right now, as she whinges in bed. She fills me with ambition, with hope. Everything that I do is for her. I will always be here for her, whatever happens, in one form or another.

So she was born, almost 7 months ago, and she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. The story of her birth is done, but there are more stories to tell, and I will be doing that here. I hope you’ve enjoyed.

Of course through all of this hidden panic we were becoming more and more tired, and Abby was in more and more pain. Time was moving soooo slooooowly, and it didn’t help that I looked at the clock every three minutes. Abby was examined intermittently, and midwives/doctors came in every now and then to give us an update. At some point or another we discussed our options with Maxwell, the doctor who Abby was seriously in love with, and Abby asked for an epidural. She was only 4 inches dilated after hours and hours and the pain was getting ridiculous. Interestingly she never raised her voice throughout all of the contractions but yelped with pain-glee when Maxwell told her that yes, Abby, you can have an epidural.

I knew basically what an epidural was - I knew a lot about pain relief because I knew that would pretty much be my role when Abby was giving birth - to make the pain go away, or find someone that could. I don’t mind injections, I’m really not a squeamish person at all, and Abby was so far out of it that she wasn’t bothered. The gas & air had done its job and got her through the first long stretch, and it was time for something more serious, and an injection into a space in your spine followed by analgesia/anasthesia admitted via catheter is as serious as can be. I was more interested than worried, really, but of course my heart went all a-flutter when we had to read and sign the disclaimers. One false move and you’re dead, paralysed - flinch and you’re done. 

The anaesthetist finally came with a trolley full of sterile stuff and explained how she was going to pay this thing - Abby would sit on the side of the bed, arch her back like a stuck-up cat, and remain perfectly still. If she was going to move because of contraction, trapped wind or needle-fear, then she needed to shout up beforehand, because if she moved when the catheter was going in then it would go in to her vein and the fluid would paralyse her heart. Any questions? 

Anyway all this talk of the needle being six and a half foot long and an inch thick is a load of rubbish - I have literally seen bigger needles next to wheelie bins on Leeds’ back streets. It was just a normal-ish, kinda-bigger needle, and Abby didn’t even really feel it - she was still on Planet Mental thanks to all the gas and air. The area was cleaned and sprayed with something-or-other, then the anaesthetist set about her work. It is worth noting that the lady was bigger than most men and looked like she could bench a family car. How she was so delicate still escapes me, but she was, and the needle went in, but then Oops! I’m in a vein there, she says. Let’s try again. Needle went in nicely this time, as did the catheter, as did the fluid, and quick as that Abby was calm. No more pain, just a plastic tail hanging out of her spine. 

The baby was behaving a this point, and Abby was still contracting, so they advised that she get some kip, which she did. I tried to get my head down as well, to no avail - I had waited long enough for the baby, and I wanted it to be there. There was a sense of calm in the room at this point, and I was happy. This would all be blown to shit soon enough. New midwives, new baby and a new scar. Coming soon.

After Edie had decided to have a big wee all over the floor, I was mopping it up and Abby’s mum was helping her get dry. As she dried her off, she noticed that Abby was losing quite a bit of blood, but wisely decided not to tell either of us. Instead she let the midwife know and the midwife went off to get the doctor to examine Abby again. I was totally oblivious to all of this happening, but I’ve since found out that this is what happened. 

Abby was still acting all messed up on gas & air, but was now seriously suffering when she was having contractions. She eventually got back on the bed and puffed away on the entonox like Dot Cotton on a silk cut - at this point, Maxwell arrived. Maxwell was a bad ass African doctor who, unfortunately for Abby, had hands like shovels - though he was lovely to Abby. He examined her and I watched again, hoping that we wouldn’t see anything untoward; I felt a wave of fear and panic wash over me as he finished his examination and wiped a handful of blood and clots away. I dismissed the panic and sat with Abby, holding her hand, kissing her, telling her everything was alright. She was still four centimetres and asking for more pain relief - entonox, however useful, just didn’t cut it anymore. 

At some point or another, heart and contraction monitors had been attached to Abby’s bump and were reading normal. These paper was constantly fed through the machine, which looked like a seismometer, or maybe a lie detector, and I found myself wishing what the peaks and troughs meant. The medical staff were finding it difficult to keep a constant trace on the baby’s heartbeat so it was decided that an FSE would be attached to baby’s head, to ensure the heartbeat could be constantly monitored. Thinking back, there must’ve been some worry about the foetal heart rate at this point, as I remember hearing quite a few decelerations when I’d had chance to listen. One of our midwives later explained that some changes to the heart rate are normal, but what our baby was experiencing was not normal, and that she must’ve been in some distress. It breaks my heart to imagine her confused, frightened, maybe even in pain - all we wanted was to get our baby out safely, but everything we were doing, what we were inexorably heading towards was hurting her. I imagined that she wouldn’t know what was happening, but whatever it was, she didn’t like it. 

So, the FSE was attached to the baby’s head - a tricky little operation which involved popping a pencil-width piece of plastic into Abby’s vagina and gently slipping the little hook up through this tube and, with a twist, sticking it to Edie’s head. She still has a little mark there now from when it pierced her scalp, but she shouldn’t have really felt it.

They managed to find a trace through this electrode straightaway, though it had taken a while to stick it onto Edie. Straightaway we could see issues, and we could see that the medical staff were getting quite serious. The baby’s heart was not behaving - she was being really naughty, and she was in serious distress. It was at this point that an emergency caesarean was first mentioned, but each time they were due to make a decision, the heart rate went back to normal, and it was decided that we’d play wait-and-see again. Throughout all of this my imagination was running away with me - I fought hard to ignore images of the cord around her neck, emergency operations, a blue, silent baby - all of these were hurtling through my mind. I was choking on it, experiencing real, palpable fear - the kind you have to chew, swallow and digest. We listened to her little heart fight through every worrying moment, every dip, and we held hands. 

We arrived at the hospital with Abby in some considerable pain and leaking fluid like an old fridge. I held her all the way as we walked around to labour ward, and we were seen straight away. We were put straight into a room where we would spend the next forever - Abby stripped off almost instantly. One thing she always does quickly is get her kit off. Anyway the first midwife we saw was just an absolute diamond, she was lovely and her daughter had recently had a baby too. She delighted in telling is about how easy her daughter’s labour was, which, in hindsight, she probably wishes she hasn’t. 

At this point I think we were all pretty confident. Abby’s mum was there keeping us all calm and talking to the midwife, and my role was mostly holding Abby up and mopping up everything that came out of her. Awful. Abby was still doing alright but she had begun to complain about feeling the need to push. We were very excited as the midwife thought this meant that the baby was on its way. In fact, she didn’t specifically state that she needed to push. She just kept repeating the following mantra: “I need a poooooo!” The midwife asked her to wait before nipping to the toilet as she needed to examine her, and as she did so, she introduced Abby to entonox.Entonox is the famous mixture of gas and air and it was definitely taking Abby to another dimension. For the first half of labour, entonox as Abby’s best friend -  she absolutely bloody loved the stuff and was off her face very quickly.

The midwife quickly discovered that the baby wasn’t ready to come and that Abby did, in fact, need a poo. Whilst she was examining her, she performed what’s called a “stretch and sweep”, which is a wholly unpleasant name for an equally unpleasant procedure. From what I understand, the midwife popped a couple of fingers into the opening to Abby’s womb and basically gave it a bit of a wiggle, the idea being that if the cervix is stimulated then the widening process will be quicker. Kathy (the midwife) pulled her hand out of Abby and, along with it, a huge blood clot and quite a lot of blood. I remember that moment vividly because it was the first time that I realised that something could actually go wrong. The look on Kathy’s face told me that this was unusual but, as she noticed I was watching her, she quickly regained her composure and gave me a “don’t worry, it’s fine” look. She has told us since then that she was petrified when this happened as it had never ever happened to her before, and that she laid awake all night after her shift worrying that she’d hurt Abby, the baby or both.

I have always been a worrier and that will never change, but as Abby lay there oblivious to what was going on, I clearly remember thinking that I couldn’t worry or panic. I had to be strong because she needed me to be. The weight of responsibility hit me at that moment but it was more like a breaking wave than a tsunami - that would come later.

After that first examination, Abby was allowed to go do the poo that she had been whinging about, and then somehow-or-another it was decided that she’d get in the bath. She was quickly naked (see?) and jumped into the nice warm water - all the while puffing away on a portable entonox cylinder like a crack addict. She was honest-to-God absolutely off her tits. Like those girls that you see at the end of the night - the embarrassing ones who I avoid and some of my mates would definitely go talk to. She was naked and didn’t care, her giant tub bobbing around on the surface of the bath like a buoy in a storm, one boob in the water and one out. As she sloshed about her facial expressions were hilarious, ranging from serene water-baby to boggle-eyed madwoman. I felt guilty but it was really, really funny - and made even funnier each time her mum fed her a sandwich. Somehow she managed to smile when her mum took a picture and it still makes me giggle: 

She eventually managed to get out of the bath, and she fought and clamoured for the entonox all the way back to her bed, and as she rested her hands on the bed (still completely naked) she whispered to me “I need to wee.” I took her hand and began to lead her back to the toilet, thought I quickly realised that there wasn’t much point as Abby had pissed all over the floor. My duties returned to mopping and, as I cleaned up the wee, I realised that we were definitely there for the long haul. Our baby was nowhere near being born, and Abby was wet naked, covered in piss and drugged up to her eyeballs. Things were about to get interesting.

We didn’t really sleep after we got back from the hospital the first time, thoughts of baby coming soon kept me pretty much wide awake. The initial experience at the hospital had been underwhelming - I think I’d imagined that Abby would be examined, she’d lie back and a beautiful and fully-formed baby would gently ease out. I’d then kiss them both and nip to the pub to wet the baby’s head. This is another example of living in dream land, which is one of my favourite places to be.

Abby started to have actual, real life contractions, and I got more and more excited. She didn’t. She was very quickly suffering quite severely, and the steady stream of ‘water’ was still weeing out of her. I can’t remember with confidence the exact chain of events but I remember that, at some point, she was advised to get in the bath and so she did just that. Whilst in the bath she started to feel pretty sick and for some reason wanted food. I brought her a bowl of Rice Krispies, with sugar, and she she laid on her side in the bath and did her best to eat. Every so often she’d pull me close, in obvious pain, but she never gave in and never really complained. In fact, throughout the whole of labour and delivery, she never raised her voice once - other than during the terrible caesarean experience.

As she laid there, munching away, the occasional grimace creeping on to her face, I couldn’t help but sneak a look at the area from where, I imagined, my baby would emerge later. What I saw will haunt my dreams until death releases me. There was a blob, and blob is really the best way I can describe it, and it was hanging out of her. It looked like a chunk of snot. “Abby,” I said, “your plug is hanging out.” Without flinching, she slowly rolled the blob out of sight. We did not mention it again.

When the contractions got too much, Abby got out of the bath and we got dressed. Both of us were tired out, we’d had only a few hours of sleep, and I was hungover from my gin-fest the day previous. That day seemed like a million years ago. As we both got dressed, we cuddled, and we both knew that by the end of that day we’d have a baby. Abby was having serious contractions and as we drove to the hospital she was really feeling every bump in the road. Incredibly I remember thinking that the bloody council ought to get the bloody pot-holes filled in, as though women in labour were driving up and down these roads every single day. We got back to the hospital and slowly made our way to labour ward. This was it now - I was more excited and scared than I’d ever been, but most of all I was ready for our baby to arrive. We were to face another 20ish hours of those feelings.

I was intending to write the next part to the much-requested labour story tonight but couldn’t face it after the day we’ve had. It started like any other day - I got up, I got dressed, I put Edie in bed with Abby and I disappeared off to work. At work we chewed the fat and got on with our standard stuff, when my phone rang. It was Abby, and I knew something was wrong. She might text saying “Call me!” or prank me but never has she ever called. I nipped around the corner and answered, and she told me that Edie was covered in a rash, all over her torso, that did not disappear under pressure.

I heard the obvious fear in her breaking voice and I knew that she was petrified. My stomach crept up my throat and jumped ship - an empty space remained, a vacuum inside me. I knew that I couldn’t panic, I knew that I’d have to keep everything under control. On the surface I remained completely calm, but underneath I was pulling myself apart. It’s like there was a huge blackboard in my brain and on each part someone had written all of these god-awful things and I was trying to read them all at once.

I told Abby to ring the doctor, which she did, and he told her that she needed to take Edie straight to A & E for a proper check. Abby called me back and told me, still in tears, and at this point I could hear Edie in the background - I could’ve sworn she was quietly whimpering - she was probably just talking. My colleagues had noticed that I was pale, sweaty and up and down like there were pins in my chair and using their Sherlock-rivalling powers of the deduction they figured it out and sent me on my way to the hospital.

I haven’t run anywhere in ages because I genuinely can’t be arsed but today I tried to run to the hospital because I needed to be there for my child. Wheezing as I arrived, I’m sure the paramedic that stared at me for a minute thought that I was the patient, and I waited as Abby pulled around in the car. I ran down to her, pulled the door open and looked at my baby, not knowing what I would see, imagining a purple rash, enormous boils, oozing scabs.

She looked at me and giggled quietly. I smiled back and tickled her chin. She laughed and looked genuinely excited to be having such an adventure.

Still terrified at this point, I took her right through to A & E and, because she’s a baby, we were seen straightaway. The rash was covering her and it broke my heart to see my beautiful daughter covered in these horrible marks. I wanted to pick her up and wipe the blemishes away, make her perfect again, but as I stood there I realised that this wasn’t a meningitis rash, it wasn’t measles, it wasn’t chicken pox…what could it be? Surely some exotic disease? My poor baby - is she in pain? Is her skin burning? What’s happening?

As each nurse and doctor examined her, she giggled and played. She really did not give a shit. Every test came back normal, oxygen levels, temperature, chest was good & clear etc etc. Eventually, after a few hours and a more senior doctor signing us off, they let us go, telling us that she’s pretty much fine. Maybe a viral rash, maybe a strange reaction to something, but nothing to worry about.

She’s been alright since, maybe missing a little bit of milk, but still seems ok. I’m still on edge, fighting to control my imagination, thinking positive, PMA, PMA…I know she’s ok. I really do, but I still do not like this. This was horrible - but we managed. And she’s here, still smiling, still happy. And other people aren’t so lucky. And I’m grateful for every single minute that I have with her, which is why the idea of something taking her away from us is the most terrifying thing that I’ve ever experienced. 

I don’t think that I could ever really do the story of Edie’s birth justice - every anxious moment, every nap, every sandwich. On a couple of occasions I’ve written half the tale only to realise I’ve missed out a vital moment, and I’ve struggled so much to fit that detail back in that I’ve scrapped the whole bloody thing. What I’ve decided to do is write bits and pieces of what I remember from that day in the faint hope that, over time, the whole story will become clear to you. 

Abby was 7 days overdue and we had tried all of the old wives’ tales to get Edie moving with no success. Edie was happier than ever in that giant belly and we were at our wits end when someone suggested to Abby that she drink a gin and tonic because that had worked for her cousin’s-best-friend’s-daughter’s-mate. Or something. I prepared a gin and tonic for Abby, my conscience buckling under the weight of the knowledge that I was pouring hard liquor into my pregnant girlfriend, but at that point I would’ve tried anything. I would’ve pot-holed in there myself if I’d thought it would help (I might’ve done that for a laugh anyway). With a degree of sophistication I thought beyond a 9-month-pregnant 21 yr old, she daintily sipped at her tall glass of labour-speedalong, bouncing on a gym ball. I remember that the glass of booze juxtaposed with her bouncing bump made me giggle wickedly, as though we were being naughty schoolkids.

I finished off the bottle of gin with Phil, Abby’s step-dad, and at the end of the night I was pretty steaming. We got into bed together and spooned (couldn’t get my arms around her) and I honestly thought this would be another lovely snooze and we’d wake up a little more exasperated at the fact that she still wasn’t pushing our baby out.

At 3am-ish, Abby leapt out of the bed like a cat. I’d barely managed to mumble “What the fuck…!” before she looked at me with serious fright in her eyes and said the famous movie line: “I think my waters just broke.” I daren’t look down, imagining a pop and a sudden waterfall of amniotic fluid that would cover Abby’s legs, the carpet, the bed, me and potentially beyond. As it happens her waters had broke, but at the top of the membrane, so we got more of a trickle…it basically looked like Abby was having a piss for ages. We stood in abject fear for a minute or two before Abby woke her mum (we were over at their place) and then we stood around panicking for a while. Panic is now, and has been since then, my de facto setting. 

We called the hospital, explaining the situation, and were advised to go in for a check over. At this point Abby was not contracting at all and was in high spirits - we were running on the fumes of excitement and cheap gin - though we didn’t know what to expect. I don’t remember the journey to the hospital at all, I really don’t, and truth be told I don’t really remember much of that first visit of the night. They tested Abby’s waters and found that yes, it wasn’t a massive piss, and this was the real deal, though because labour hadn’t properly started we were sent home. Sent home! At first I was pretty miffed but of course I realised that we couldn’t really do much because Edie didn’t want to come yet, even though her house had recently become much more uncomfortable. So home we went, and as we got back into bed, I really tried not to think about what the next few days might bring. As it turns out, it did go pretty mental.

I’m currently experiencing my second ever night away from Edie (other than when she was first born and stayed in hospital with mum). Abby has taken her on a little mini-holiday with grandma and Auntie Lola. I thought this would be a great chance to catch up with my guitar, with awesome movies and with other things (read: porn). I thought I would enjoy the freedom, the independence. Tonight was rubbish.

As the day wore on I felt panic - not the instant OHMIGOSH panic, but a gradual tightening of the stomach and back. I don’t really know why, because yesterday I honestly felt that I was looking forwards to having the house to myself and being able to chill-hard like the old me. The old me didn’t have a baby daughter, though, and that’s where the plan has fallen down. I really miss her. The idea of coming home to an empty house made me feel queasy. I’m still queasy now, having been sat here all night I told myself that I’d play some guitar, watch a movie maybe. A late night, like old times. Guns, movies, explosions and boobs. Instead, I watched How to Train Your Dragon and wept like a child during the sad father/son parts. What has happened to me?!

The truth is that her being away from me just doesn’t feel right. I miss her and I miss Abby. I feel incomplete - a really important piece is missing, and I can’t finish the puzzle without it. 

Of course, parenting never stops, ever, and it’s very easy to fall into a day-in-day-out routine. I come home, we chill together, she goes to bed, we go to bed - that’s the basic structure, and anything other than that is a bonus (or a nightmare, depending on the situation). As with anything else, though, the beauty is in the detail. She might laugh all night, she might cry, she might roll over for the first time or sit and watch TV with me. This is the truth of a dad’s life: anything can happen, and, especially at this time, anything does happen. The minutiae of this life is what takes life from quite interesting to the whirlwind that it is. Fun stuff is still fun stuff, but sharing it with family is even better.