Man vs. Baby Page 3

  THE FINAL PUSH

  So, after what seems like a lifetime, everyone is exhausted. The mother is exhausted by pain and pushing, and the father is exhausted because it feels like he’s spent the last umpteen hours trying to bathe Predator. (Again, men, for Christ’s sake don’t mention how tired you feel. No matter how tired you are, times it by ten and that’s how tired your partner was yesterday. Mention any sort of discomfort on your part at this stage and she will use her last shred of energy to tear your penis off and make you wear it as a tie. The midwife will hold you down.)

  And so comes the final push. A single burst of pure animal desperation. A primal, guttural scream of pain that has been heard a million times and hasn’t changed since we were cave-dwelling Neanderthals giving birth by firelight, and caveman fathers tried to shuffle their rocks away from the action and into the cave parking lot.

  I swear there was a moment of pure cut silence, before I heard Charlie’s first cry.

  And it felt like my heart and brain were taken out, rearranged, made better, and stuffed back in. I’m not a particularly spiritual person. I wouldn’t use an Oprah Winfrey quote as a profile picture. But everything in that moment was heightened, everything was clearer. I was instantly less cynical, and in those moments I finally understood the sentiments I’d heard, an annoying number of times in the months before, about all this stuff being life-changing.

  I’d seen the pictures of a newborn covered in the goop and mess of the womb, as though it’s been swimming in a butcher’s drains, and I should have been repulsed. I wasn’t; I was mesmerized. And, as they placed Charlie on Lyns’s chest, I knew that the two people in front of me were the most perfect of humans, and that I would love and protect them until my spine was dust.

  We congratulated ourselves as the cord was cut on our old life, and I consoled myself with the fact that the hard bit was over.

  . . . What a fucking idiot.

  * * *

  I. One Born Every Minute is a popular docu-series in the UK that briefly aired in the US. It chronicles the reality of life on a maternity ward. (It’s not one to watch while eating your dinner.)

  II. “Wanker”

  2

  * * *

  HOME

  “There’s no place like home . . .”

  When you first become a parent, your home is just like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz: it is suddenly picked up by a tornado and spun around in a dizzying mess. It’s scary.

  But after a few weeks the tornado abates, and the house lands. Don’t ask me how, but it lands intact and in a world less gray. And your fear has not been destroyed, but it has been squashed just enough that you can barely see its stockinged feet.

  But, fuck, are we not in Kansas anymore.

  HOME

  * * *

  I could never understand why any woman would choose to have a home birth. When the idea was suggested to us and we were given the option, I remember thinking: Mmm, decisions, decisions. . . .

  Did we want to have our baby in a building packed with health-care professionals—doctors, anesthetists, pharmacologists—and the most sophisticated monitoring technology available to humankind? Or did Lyns want to give birth on our living room floor, in a slowly deflating paddling pool, watching Duck Dynasty?

  I understand the argument that home is where some women feel most comfortable, and maybe I’m missing the point. I feel most comfortable at my pal Don’s house playing Xbox, but I wouldn’t arrange for my prostate exam to take place on his settee. “Screw the hospital, Donald, this is where I feel most comfortable.”

  I thought the whole idea was insane. Still do.

  But, as we prepared to leave the hospital, I realized there was one great advantage to having a home birth: when your little one is placed into your arms for the first time, you are already home.

  You don’t have to deal with the terror of leaving the hospital to return there.

  And I was terrified of going home. Terrified of leaving the safety of the hospital and the supervision of people who knew what they were doing. It’s a recurrent theme, but I just wasn’t ready. I was under the impression that, having given birth, women stayed in the hospital for a while. (I was once again fooled by screen depictions of labor and stories from past generations about their weeks convalescing in hospital rooms afterward.) In reality, childbirth has become so routine that, as soon as junior exits the womb, winks, and gives the thumbs-up, there is no shortage of people handing you your coat and implying you should fuck off.

  I tried to be reassured by this. Yes, we would have preferred a week in the hospital to process and adjust, to get used to the idea. But maternity wards are conveyor belts of raw humanity, and we were just one family among thousands about to fall off the end of the conveyor that day and into real life.

  Handing Charlie over, and trusting that we knew which end was which, was an expression of the hospital’s faith in us. It was time to suck it up. Ready or not.

  . . . But as we walked to the car, with Charlie swinging in his car seat, I felt sick. I envisioned us at home and I saw myself as one of those monkeys at the start of 2001: A Space Odyssey: a primitive idiot, scratching around in the dirt. Home would be my desert planet and Charlie would be this terrifying ever-present monolith . . . there to force me to evolve.

  Going home was a leap into the unknown.

  GOING HOME

  Actually, as it turns out, it’s more of a leap into a constant flow of tea and visitors.

  Any fear that you will be left alone to get on with the bones of parenting disappears, as, for the first couple of weeks, your house turns into a drop-in center. A place of pilgrimage for a succession of relatives—some of them welcome, some of them not so welcome, and some of them you are surprised to discover are still alive.

  Our living room was standing room only for two weeks. It was packed to the rafters with people, foil balloons, and strangely formal flowers, which gave the odd impression that someone had just had a birthday party but then promptly died.

  Unlike the wise men and the shepherds traveling from afar to see the Messiah, these visitors may not have followed a star (they followed the GPS currently suctioned to the windshield of Uncle Brian’s Toyota Corolla), but all are here to see and bear witness to the new arrival. And, absent frankincense, myrrh, and gold, they bring opinions, casseroles, and photos of their recent trip to Europe (it was nice, but they wouldn’t go again).

  It is said that a man’s home is his castle, and this is a castle under siege.

  A QUEST BEGINS

  In those early days, as you try to adjust to your new home life, it’s easy to think of these persistent visitors as a distraction or an annoyance. But maybe they serve an important role?

  According to experts who study mythology, the story of “the quest” teaches us something so fundamental about ourselves that versions of it exist in cultures all over the world. The story always has a common theme: a journey in which the hero must overcome his own weaknesses in order to become a mature person, able to accept adult responsibilities.

  So, maybe the visitors are aides in your quest to become a capable parent. Returning home from the hospital is your first step on this path, and, as annoying as these interlopers might be, it’s just possible that each of them fulfills a vital role in the success of all erstwhile heroes as they venture forth.

  So, here is a breakdown of your aides, the cast of characters now permanently occupying your living room. . . .

  The Shaman

  In mythological quests, there are certain recurring archetypal characters. Think of almost any book or film and you will come across them: The Hero, The Antihero, The Fool, The Shaman. The Shaman is a mentor, a teacher (like Yoda or Mr. Miyagi). A character who advises the hero and reveals the path. These mentoring characters are often depicted as oracles or wise old women. In your living room, these are the Nanas.

  Nanas are the true tea drinkers. Capable of consuming vast quantities while seemingly never needing t
o urinate, they are characterized by their obsession with whom the baby looks like and their insistence on not giving you any advice . . . before giving you hours of advice.

  The most notable thing about these handy hints and tips is that they are consistently in direct contradiction to everything you have ever read, or been told by a health professional. Advice from older generations usually consists of telling you that modern parenting is bullshit, germs are great, and in their day they had asbestos cribs and lead pacifiers, and they “turned out fine.”

  (Actually, they didn’t turn out fine. Have you ever wondered why your parents and grandparents never know whether to click the left or right mouse button or work a basic remote control? It’s not just because it’s newfangled technology, it’s because they spent their formative years licking formaldehyde-based paint off of their dolls’ faces.)

  Older generations are incredibly defensive of their ancient parenting techniques. But, while a lot of these old methods probably aren’t as deadly as we are often led to believe, it’s probably best to listen with a bit of healthy skepticism. Each generation has its own ideas and, generally speaking, those ideas have improved over time, otherwise we would all still be putting a couple of drops of opium in the little one’s nighttime bottle. So, with all due respect to Nana, it’s probably best to take what she says with a pinch of laudanum.

  That said, there is something comforting about talking to someone who has successfully kept a human alive into adulthood without all the modern equipment we now consider vital when raising a kid. Think about it: she managed to bring up a baby without disposable diapers, baby monitors, microwaves, breast pumps, electronic thermometers, leggings, car seats, sterilizers . . . and the Internet, for fuck’s sake!!

  Let that sink in. She raised a child without Google.

  . . .

  Also, while Nanas’ opinions on sleeping positions, feeding, and clothing would probably horrify the modern child-health expert, there is a welcome surety in what they have to say. Particularly as modern advice is so conflicting: Does anyone know whether swaddling is allowed or banned this week? Is co-sleeping lethal? Because it seems to be okay on US websites but not on their UK equivalents (which is weird—I can’t see any reason why American babies are different, just because when they grow up they won’t say the word tomato properly). The Nanas are right in one respect: modern advice is often bullshit, and trends frequently masquerade as wisdom.

  And so, The Shamans are vital to our hero’s journey. They have completed this quest before and traveled the road you are on when it was just a dirt track. Respect them, give them tea, and try not to argue. Even if their views are dangerously outdated, one day soon you will want them to babysit.

  The Fool

  Again in quest mythology, there is the recurring character of The Fool. The comic relief. In your living room, this is the idiot perched uncomfortably on the arm of a chair, trying to look inconspicuous.

  This was me before we had Charlie. The childless man. The most clueless dick in the room. In the presence of a newborn, I would become like an emo teenager, staring at my shoes and avoiding the fearful prospect of being invited to hold the new arrival.

  Like a lot of men without kids, I just felt awkward and embarrassed holding a baby. I didn’t dislike babies, but I was frightened of handling them all wrong and having a head or a leg come off in my hand. They just always seemed so fragile and susceptible to breakage. Also, I couldn’t shake the feeling that babies had some sort of sixth sense (like a canary down a mine), and that if a baby burst into tears in your arms it was revealing to everyone that you were a bit of a prick.

  Of course, everyone else in the room can smell this fear, which culminates in a seven-part comic ritual, which all Fools will recognize:

  The Fool’s Ritual . . .

  1. Someone suggests/demands you hold the baby.

  2. You try to avoid it.

  3. Everyone then pressures you to hold the baby (with passive-aggressive comments like: “Go on, he/she won’t bite,” etc.).

  4. You hold the baby awkwardly, as if it’s a drunk squid, as everyone screams at you to “support the head!” like it was your fucking idea in the first place.

  5. The baby cries . . . or shits . . . or vomits.

  6. Everyone laughs.

  7. You hand the baby back to its mum, feeling like a dick.

  Of course, to avoid the ritual, the easiest thing to do would be to simply refuse to hold the baby when you are invited to. But, let’s face it, no one is invited to hold a baby any more than you are invited to do karaoke. The more you refuse, the more the whole room thinks you’re a miserable shithead.

  I had been through The Fool’s Ritual many times in the years before we had Charlie. And now that I’ve become confident about holding a baby without him coming to pieces like a Mr. Potato Head, I feel dopey that I was so averse to it.

  In hindsight, I now realize there was a purpose to being The Fool, a help to the parents in their first stumbling steps upon their road. And that is to make them feel capable. Nothing makes someone feel better about their progress than seeing someone being more inept than they are. For a new mum and dad, seeing some clueless dickhead juggling their firstborn can be a real boost.

  The Broken

  The Broken are characters who foreshadow what is to come. A glimpse into the future.

  These are the parents with multiple older kids, and they are visiting you and your new baby as part of a crippling schedule of kids’ parties, karate lessons, and tuba practice.

  These brave, weary souls are further on in their quest than you, and so the novelty of being a parent has begun to wear off. Consequently, they’re looking at you like you’ve made the greatest mistake of your life.

  They look fucked. Like refugees who have wandered into your home because theirs has just been bombed. They have lost that early adrenaline-fueled smile of the new parent and instead are wearing a vaguely haunted expression. An expression that doesn’t change as kid one and kid two smash the place up, punch Uncle Brian in the nuts, and scream like they’re trying to tear a hole in time.

  The Broken are characterized by bits of banana, chips, and pudding in their uncombed hair, and their stain-hardened clothes, which haven’t been washed or ironed since they had TIME: the commodity they crave even more than sleep.

  They have the appearance of tramps, an impression not improved by the fact that they are looking for a suitable moment to ask if there is any wine. And, if not, does anybody mind if they open one of the bottles they’ve been clanking in a plastic bag since they walked in?

  Every quest has a low point, and in your living room The Broken represent the darkest hours, a reminder that there will be moments in the future when it will be tough beyond measure. But take solace in the fact that, after everything they have been through, they are still alive and they are here to introduce you to one of your greatest allies in the quest ahead: cheap supermarket alcohol.

  The Rebel

  Finally, there are The Rebels—the antiheroes: the aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends who are too young to have kids. Or have decided not to have any children at all, simply because their lives are way too cool to fuck up on purpose.

  Just as The Broken foreshadow what is to come, so The Rebels echo what is past. And as they call in to visit, on their way to or from some hip new bar or restaurant, they are a reminder of what is now gone: the freedom that comes with a lack of responsibility. They represent the carefree blowouts, the weekends away, the spontaneous parties, and that time you drank an entire box of wine and face-planted into a trash can outside KFC.

  Rebels say things like “I’m not ready for kids” or “I love kids, but it’s nice to hand them back at the end of the day.” What they actually mean is: “It’s nice to hand them back at the end of the day . . . because it’s Friday and it’s two for one on Jell-O shots at WildKatz. Good luck with the piss, shit, and tears. Peace out, you fucking losers!” And who can blame them? That was us, such a
short time ago.

  Or was it? It’s years since we’ve been to a club (the last time I went to a club, the DJ was playing a floor-filler by *NSYNC). The last spontaneous party we had was for the 2010 season finale of Dancing with the Stars (I made lasagna). And, given the choice, I would rather watch Storage Wars with a nice cup of tea than go to an underground rave. . . . But that’s not the point. We may not have exercised the freedom to live the lives of hedonist party animals before the baby arrived, but now that that freedom is gone, we miss it.

  You will come to envy the carefree lifestyle of The Rebel more and more. But these free spirits are not visiting and taking up space on your sofa to make you feel bad about the life you have chosen. In these early days, their value to your quest is clear. Heroes take note: You must wave good-bye to your own rebel. Good-bye to your meaningless, shallow, cool-as-fuck old life. It is time to prepare for the new one. Your quest to become a functioning parent has begun, and every great journey begins at home.

  HOME ALONE

  And so, after a week or two, the living room encampment starts to dwindle. Eventually, the nanas, the cousins, the aunts, and the uncles sod off. And you are finally left alone to begin the process of coming to terms with what you’ve done.

  This was the point at which I began to realize that my preconceived ideas about what it would be like to have a baby in the house were entirely inaccurate. And, in actual fact, were the imaginings of a naïve moron with a brain the size of a walnut.

  What the experts had said about returning home was that there was an “adjustment” to be made as the first few weeks unfolded. This turned out to be a woefully inadequate word. Our new home life was an “adjustment” in the same way that the asteroid that hit the earth in 65 million BC was an adjustment for the dinosaurs.