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From pints to prams, how it happened.

This time two years ago, I recall being stark naked in my local performing a string of Michael Buble’ anthems, until I was abruptly disturbed by the ever so angry bouncer and catapulted onto the pavement. Now, I’m on Amazon looking for a set of bottles that prevent colic for a new born. It’s official, I will have to take full responsibility of a tiny human being in around three months. My beloved Nan used to call me the ‘party animal’, or ‘the wild one’ of the family, unless she was under the influence of red wine, as  I’d then be labelled a stupid prick. Therefore I thought it would be interesting to document the transition from village idiot to super Dad.

Week 26, 6 days
Baby boy
Name not yet confirmed
Current mood of significant other – Hungry and tired

This blog is to document the magical and mystical, ‘miracle of life’ that myself and my beloved are embarking on after finding out ‘we’ were pregnant back in July. I’ve personally always been rather bemused by the notion of ‘couples’ being pregnant. For I, am definitely not pregnant. One too many mince pies and a taste for chicken pate’ has granted, bloated me a tad. However a respiring, wriggling, human being is certainly not growing inside me and luckily I don’t possess a vagina to push it out of when it is baked and ready. During this blog, I will ramble on incessantly, skipping from point to point, and my grammar is terrible, so bare with me.

After an impulsive move to Spain October 15, in search of pastures new, I met my best mate and soon to be mother of my child. She’s alright, has her moments. Anyhow, back in July we found out ‘we’ were pregnant. I remember the day well, the TV and wifi had miraculously synced in perfect harmony, and I’d managed to successfully stream the footy online. She shouted me into the bedroom under the pretences of a funny vine or comical meme, only for me to find her sat at the end of the bed silently sobbing into a piss soaked stick. Immediately it was quite clear, and the severity of the situation was instantly obvious. We proceeded to cry, patting each other on the head in a strange yet comforting manner, whispering ‘it’ll be fine’ over and over. Despite my vocal chords knotting together like old Christmas lights, I wasn’t actually scared, nor disappointed. To say I was elated would be a lie, I was very confused, but it wasn’t fear that caused me to respire more than Lee Evans doing stand up in a sauna.

The initial shock in my case sat me on my arse, I didn’t know what to think. However after a few hours of pondering, and four more pregnancy tests, the inevitable question of ‘how am I going to tell my…’ began. For me personally, it wasn’t an issue, my family are breeders. In between the army of nieces and nephews I already possess, we’d probably be able to raise the baby and sneak it on the Christmas card list without anyone cottoning on. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve already left one or two of the little ones at Lego land. For my dearest, it proved a tad more difficult to pluck up the courage. So much so, we decided the easiest way to fess up was to write her dad a card, equipped with 3 euros for a pint. I wasn’t all too sure whether it was the life-changing revelation of a grandchild that stunned him to silence, or the fact I was too cheap to give him a fiver.

The rest is history, and we are very happy. With just three months left to go, it’s beginning to feel real. I’ve quickly transcended from discussing where to stay in Ibiza next year, to researching the capacity of a cervix. Life changes for the better in ways you wouldn’t expect, and naively perhaps, I’m looking forward to the challenge (insert life affirming quote here).

Although I occasionally feel the pressure of the inevitable change that beckons, the male species must admit, that we have it so much easier in life. It really is impossible to deny. I regularly try to convince the other half that I’d relish the opportunity to bare a child, though this, is utter bullshit. Nine plus months of t total anger, swollen ankles, stomach inflation, heart burn, constipation, breakouts, uncontrollable wind and emotional turmoil. Only to be thanked in the end with agonising child birth and hairy nipples. Woman of the modern world, I salute you, sincerely.

Following on from this, I think its only fair to quickly congratulate the missus for the spiffing efforts displayed to date, and the hospitable environment in which she is roasting our little cherub. Despite the sudden and uncontrollable farting, the scattered bursts of emotion and the constant need for attention you’re doing a great job, and I am proud of you.

I will continue to document the progress of my dearest and the little man, for example she has just performed a forty-five second fart that sounded like a toothless school boy old attempting to whistle. The look of terror on her face is priceless, especially when the likelihood of me seeing her shit herself in labour is exceptionally high.

Mothers and fathers, I know it’s doable. Though I’d appreciate any tips or tricks to help prepare me for the big day, and the eighteen plus years to follow.

Cheers guys,

I’m off for a pint.

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