We’re having a baby. My wife is in the family way, with a bun in the oven. I’m gonna be a daddy.
This news has come as a shock to my friends and family as most of them didn’t see me as the paternal type. And they were probably right. Up until recently, I’ve never given too much thought to fatherhood, as the strong, selfish streak in me has always abhorred the idea of the chaos it would bring to my scarily tidy house. And the obvious drain it would provide on my finances, especially in the current unstable climate.
But last summer, my wife and I went visiting. I’m sure I’m not alone in this, but a lot of my best friends live at the furthest stretches of the country from my home. I went to school in Newport and all my friends went to Universities around the UK, and some of them stayed there. I went to University in Northampton and made friends with people from all over the country. Some of them went home and some of them stayed there.
Which means that now I’m back in Newport and officially in my mid-30’s my closest friends are actually quite some distance away. I’m talking Manchester, Northampton, Birmingham and Romford. So we cover some miles just to stay in touch.
Last summer we visited many of these friends, all of whom have recently produced fledglings of their own. I’d never really been the broody type before, but seeing the happiness that a child (or two) had brought them made me rethink this. Don’t get me wrong, their lives were completely upside down, as it turns out there is no real user-manual for bringing up babies, but they had found a level of fulfilment which you don’t seem to achieve through a successful career or an away win which guarantees your team European qualification.
I figured that my life, with a pretty wife, a mortgage, two cars and a steady job, was fertile ground on which to grow offspring. So my wife and I talked about it and she was more pleased than I could imagine (presumably because she shared the same view as others about my lack of a paternal instinct). We kind of agreed the steps we would take, and ensure that the timing was right. No drunken fumble in the back of the car for us!
And now, only six months on from that first conversation, my wife is 14 weeks pregnant and my world is slowly changing. At first, my initial instinct was to change my car, our house, and my job, as I identified each of them as unsuitable for a child’s environment. Was my car safe enough? Was the house big enough?? Is my job well-salaried enough???
As it is, I’ve been talked down from that particular rooftop as I’m told it’s a perfectly normal male reaction. Men are doers, hunter gatherers. “If my wife is carrying my child, then it’s my responsibility to take care of everything else” etc. But it seems that as long as I provide a cup of tea when necessary, and put a beanbag under her feet when she’s watching TV, my responsibilities, for the time being, are quite limited. I must provide support, encouragement and understanding. These are vague words but I’m learning slowly.
My wife is blooming, and despite a slight case of anaemia is looking more beautiful than ever. But she’s made of granite, my wife, and is far tougher than me. So I have every faith that she’s providing a warm and safe environment for Joe Junior jnr to develop within.
Much more to follow, I’m sure.
