- 28 weeks today!
- Baby boy
- Name, still not confirmed
- Mood of significant other : Initially happy, she even proceeded to confess her undying love for me, which was nice. She then however discovered a dirty sock in the bed and told me she hates me.
As we near closer and closer to the big day, it’s dawned upon me that babies need a lot of shit. I mean, I was a baby myself for a good few years, and I swear I didn’t have half of the equipment required by health and safety at present. I remember ‘The good old days’, being sent out to play at the crack of dawn with a plastic bag containing two jam butties and a banana. I’d then not be allowed back until the street lamps came on unless under exceptional circumstances, like mislaying a limb or suffering significant blood loss. Lord only knows why they wanted us out of the house all day.
Once upon a time, I was under the impression babies needed the following; A cot, a pram, a bottle, an assortment of comical clothing and a constant flow of nappies. To say this was extremely naïve would be an understatement. I could write a book thicker than Katie Hopkins on all of the gear we’ve had to purchase, it really is never ending. Most of it at the minute doesn’t make much sense to me, though I’m assured essential. However certain items like my new super modern baby carrier is rather exciting, mainly because it looks like a parachute. I test drive it around the house, substituting the little human due in twelve weeks for an old pumpkin we couldn’t be arsed carving at Halloween.
If you didn’t know, I moved over to Spain last September. Since then I’ve regrettably lacked the effort to learn the lingo as much as I should have. Attempting to order chicken, I spent the first couple of months asking for ‘Mucho Polla’. This loosely translates to ‘lots of Dick’. Though I did occasionally get a sausage on my plate, thankfully the waiters never fully obliged to my order.
We have been requested by the midwife to complete a ‘birthing plan’ checklist. My plan was to run around in sheer panic, whisk her to the hospital, and refrain from ordering penis in the hospital canteen. There is about forty different options to choose from, which is interesting as there is only one probable outcome. Some of the questions are mind boggling, here are a few that I kindly answered for her ;
- Would you prefer a tranquil environment? No thank you, I’d like a brass band to be playing ‘Sweet Caroline’ as I attempt to push a water melon out of my fanny.
- Would you allow a group of students to observe during labour? No, crack on Pablo, invite them all in. I mean, I get embarrassed farting in front of my long term boyfriend but I’d love to aggressively shit myself in front of a group of spotty teenagers.
- Would you like to receive calming and emotional support during labour? I don’t think so, I’d rather you put Metallica on and scream obscenities at me.
- Finally, would you like staff to present themselves to you? No, certainly not. I’d much prefer the Doctor to enter the room in masquerade reciting Shakespeare.
My partner in crime speaks fluent Spanish which is extremely handy now we’re expecting, and luckily our midwife is understanding and speaks good English so I’m not kept in the dark. The healthcare out here is really efficient, as they don’t carry the strain of the NHS. That said, the Doctors and Nurses of the UK are absolutely fantastic, inspiring even. Anyone who dedicates their life to helping others should be applauded for what they are, heroes.
In Spain, there are certain procedures that are hard to swallow during the whole pregnancy experience. For example, strictly only one person is allowed in the room for scans, and only one person in the room on labour day. I can understand implementing a rule to stop a crowd entering with a crate of beer singing ‘Buttercup baby’, but a birthing partner and the Father should without question have access. So someone is sadly going to miss out.
Partner update, her belly button is now completely flat so she’s crying on the toilet.
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