School Daze

September 8th 2010 - Harry's first day at school. Pardon the lapse in the venacular but, Jeeeeesus - where has the time gone?

Michele is Catholic, we got married in a Catholic church so I expect it was always on the cards that the kids would be baptised Catholic and sent to attend a Catholic school. It irked me a bit at first - this seeming spiritual fore-planning of my childs' life - but I have to say, in the light of cold day, no harm done.

Harry goes to St Wilfrids Catholic Primary School and he is LOVING it there. Due to the juggle of hours necessary to acccommodate school life, I get to take Harry to school three mornings a week. His Gran (Michele's Mum) picks him up one day and Michele collects him the other four days.

My Dad used to work in local government up in Guildford, looking after all the schools in the area and often told of how he loved seeing the kids in the school environment. Being a grown-up now, I see what he was on about.

I delight in seeing the innocent cheer of children. By some strange coincidence, the school caretaker is called Mr Fitch - a letter away from Hogwarts' caretaker's name - and he is always a welcome site first thing in the morning when waiting for the outer school gates to be unlocked. By the time he arrives the few children waiting for him (Harry included) are all screaming "Mr Fitch!!!!"

Once let in, the children tear away across the playground to their respective class entrances. After waiting a short while, during which the number of excited kids and their accompanying parents (yes, including a number of yummy-mummies!), the gate opens and the kids go in.

I help Harry drop off his book bag, drink bottle and lunch box in the proper areas, then kiss and cuddle him goodbye as he enters the actual classroom. He never fails to turn and wave again, and I look forward to that last farewell.

Harry's teacher is Mrs Brown, an initially forbidding but actually a warm, caring person. Like the various girls at the hospital creche, I get the confident impression that when I leave the school to catch the bus, I'm leaving Harry in good hands.

I took the first week off so Michele and I could take Harry to school together and that first day was another milestone - a degree of separation that every parent goes through. I'd like to think we handled it well but I left with a lump in my throat.

And what better way to end this blog entry than with a picture of the boy himself - "proud parents" doesn't even come close... :-)

One Year On...

Wow, it's been over one year since I last added to this blog. Things have changed!

Unbelievably, Harry starts primary school this year. I can't believe that this blog has charted him from birth to primary school but there it is.

He'll be going to St Wilfrid's school in Burgess Hill in September, where he starts full time. He's already had three "settling in" sessions which he really enjoyed, and since he's been in creche for three years already, the transition should be easy. He'll actually spend less time at school than he did at creche!

Which is where a big change will have to come in... To accommodate his new hours, I'll have to change my working arrangements. On Monday and Wednesday, Michele will take him to school and pick him up, while keeping Thomas at home.

When she works, Tuesday, Thursday and half day Friday, she'll take Thomas to the creche at work as normal but I'll be taking Harry to school. Since his school day starts at 8.50am, I'll be at work later - which means I'll be leaving later. Bummer.

Michele will pick Harry up on the days she works.

Eventually, I guess I'll take both boys to school on those days while Michele will pick them up. Ugh - don't want to think about little Thomas going to school, that's too depressing!

I'll be sure to post a picture of Harry in his school uniform nearer the time - if I can wipe away the tears long enough!

Thomas is coming along great guns, and is walking on his own now. Seeing him toddle across the carpet, giggling with Harry, brings a great stupid smile to my face. It's great to see them get on so well, laughing and rolling about.

So that's what they look like now - getting on, aren't they?

No real progress on the speaking front, but Thomas can definately say "dada" now. Sweet.

What's in a name (again)

Powell Junior number two was born at 7.10pm on the 23rd March, 2009. Weighing in at 7lbs 5ozs he was slightly lighter than Harry, but had the same abundance of dark wavy hair.

It was an incredibly emotional birth, and Michele and I found ourselves in floods of tears - more so than with Harry. Why that is, I don't know; perhaps it was just that everything had happened so early and suddenly, perhaps it was knowledge that this was the last child we would make together, perhaps just the dawning enormity of what we had done again - created a whole new life, a brand new pair of eyes on the world.

Whatever it was, we were both drained by the time tea and toast came.

As the birth had been so quick, baby was coughing up a bit more phlegm than normal and was checked over by senior midwives and peadiatricians. All was ok.

Up till now, I haven't said what the baby's name is, and that is because, at that point, we just didn't know anymore. The "Thomas James" we were so certain of had lost favour in the last couple of days, and we were clutching at straws for a replacement. That evening we had narrowed it down to either Samuel or Joseph, but decided to sleep on it.

Paul kindly picked me up from the hospital and drove me home to where his fiancee was dozing off in front of the TV. After offering profuse thanks, they left me to cobble together some sort of dinner - unhealthy but satisfying.

Harry had gone to bed hours earlier like the good boy he has grown up to be, helped in part by the great relationship he has with his 'Uncle Paul' (although not officially an uncle until the wedding in October, he's all but an Uncle in name to our lad). Just after midnight, I crept into bed alone...

... and awoke to see Harry staring at me. Noticing that I had come to life again he greeted me in the only way he knows how - "Need some milk!".

That morning I had to tell Harry the wonderful news, that the baby in Mummy's tummy had come out last night, and that we were going to the hospital to see them both later on. Now our lad loves Thomas the Tank Engine, and I should have guessed that when I asked "What should we call your brother then, Harry?", he would look at the ceiling, tilt his head in thought then say "Uhhhmm... Thomas!"

I texted Michele with the suggestion of Thomas Joseph and, to my delight, she texted me back to say that she liked the sound of that name. So, Thomas Joseph Powell it was - and Harry could even claim that he named his little brother!

The Shortest Night

Talk about perfect symmetry...

If you look way on down this blog you'll find several entries called "The Longest Day" detailing Michele's labour and Harry's birth. In a complete turnaround, my second child was born under very different circumstances...

For the past few weeks, whenever Michele rang me at work I'd always get the reassuring "Hi love, everything's alright, I just..." whatever the message was. In other words, things weren't happening and there was no need to panic.

Come Monday morning and I get a phone call from Kamila, a colleague. She's poorly and can't come in today, would I let the boss know? All fine, except Kamila had previously offered to drive me home if I got "the call" while at work.

I get to work to find other people are off sick or off site, leaving only myself, my friend Vince and John, the boss. Just prior to lunchtime Vince went home with a bad headache - and then there was two. Then John announces that he's off into town to do some shopping - then there was one.

And then I received "the call" - Michele's waters have broken, but she's in no pain.

Oh. Bloody. Hell.

So, alone and in a mild state of panic, I fired off a few quick emails, shut everything down then prepared to leave. The plan was that I'd get a taxi to the train station and then a train from Brighton to Burgess Hill.

As luck would have it, I got a phone call from Paul, my friend and sister-in-law's finace - "You waiting to catch me?" he asked. Paul drives buses and today, he just happened to be driving the 2pm bus from the Royal Sussex County Hospital (RSCH) to the Princess Royal Hospital (PRH) - the bus route that I travel all the time. Paul said he'd hold on a few moments, so I made my way to the bus stop, bumping into my boss John, returning from town with armfuls of shopping on the way. Giving him a breathless run-down of what I had done, work-wise, I caught the bus and was on my way.
I got home at 3pm and met my wife with a warm hug. It was happening!

On the advice of staff at the PRH, we went in to hospital and arrived about 5.30pm, when Michele's contractions came on. About this time she looked like she did in the picture to the left.

After being examined by a lovely midwife called Marianne, things started to move - in a big way!

Contractions became more frequent and longer, sometimes while the midwife was still in the room.

Michele went into proper labour at about 6pm, and was tucking in to the gas and air again. :-)

At this time, I called home to speak to Paul who, together with fiancee Teresa and Michele's Mum, were looking after Harry for us. I explained that we would be there for the duration.

At this point, Michele started to let out a Banshee-like wail and I let out a strangled "Gottago!!". Paul's since told me that the mental picture he conjured up at that point will stay with him to the grave.

So let's recap here - we had barely had time to unpack the enormous kit-bag that Michele had prepared over the past few months with military precision, and we were already into labour. Contrast that to what happened with Harry and you'll begin to see what I mean about symmetry.

Back to the story and what happened next is almost unbelievable (to me, at least). While at her side sponging cold water on her forhead and gripping her hand, she made a push and the baby's head appeared! Michele was adamant that she wanted to feel the head at this stage and did so - even if, to her, it didn't feel like a head!

Another push and the baby's head was out, followed immediately by the rest of the body! I mean one moment nothing, the next moment there's a baby! Whooosh! Michele had given birth to our second baby - at 7.10pm, after just one hour's labour.

She had done it again - she'd given birth to another beautiful baby boy...










And all before Coronation Street had started!

The labour had been short compared to Harry's, the birth was a week early compared to Harry being a week late, this was a "traditional" panic-run birth while Harry was induced.

Like I said - perfect symmetry..!

The Excitement Mounts....

Incredibly, it's now just over a week until the due date and the midwife has confirmed that the baby is "engaged".

Experience dictates that we have a little bit more time to go after that, but everyone I've spoken to has confirmed that the second one is easier and comes faster/ earlier. So, I could be called away in the middle of writing this entry... scary thought!

Michele is baring up fantastically well, although she is very tiredl. Harry is in great spirits and I think he is catching onto some of the excitement Michele and I are feeling. We really are very much looking forward to meeting the baby now, and can't wait to hold him or her in our hands.

We also can't wait for Harry to meet the new arrival. A colleague I've spoken to told of how her little girl laid on the hospital bed next to her mum and the baby and was incredibly gentle and loving to her new sister. Something seemed to pass between the two of them, perhaps a mutual realisation that they had both come from the same place - had the same Mum.

Everyone is on standby and we are just waiting for things to happen now.

The next blog entry will be after the baby's born...

A Rose by any other name...

Hmmm, names.

Luckily, second time around (incidentally, one of my favourite Inspector Morse episodes) the task was easier.

The girl's name we rolled over from last time - Emily but this time the middle name would be Rose.

The boy's name was more tricky but after hours of conversations that went like the following...

Me : What about X
Michele : No, don't like it

or,

Michele : Well, what about Y?
Me : You kidding? No way.

we settled on a name that we both liked - Thomas. Yep, the very first name we were going to call Harry. Michele chose a new middle name - James.

So - Emily Rose Powell if we have a girl, Thomas James Powell if we have a boy. Simple.

What was I thinking?

What was I thinking? When did I think I'd have the time to sit down and write a new blog, with the demands of a day job, a toddler and a heavily pregnant wife!

Ok, so backtrack to last year, and we find out (to our delight) that we were expecting another bundle of joy. We always wanted more than one, as a playmate for Harry as much as anything else, and now it seemed like our wish would come true.

We went through the usual rounds of tests and scans (everything ok) and I have to be honest here - I was not amazed by it all as I was the first time round. Maybe that's a normal reaction, maybe I'm just so focussed on looking after Harry that I have this "take it as it comes" mind-set instead of jumping for joy at each little development.

Saying that, it was fantastic when I felt the baby kick. And whether (s)he has formed some empathic link with their brother, or whether they can just hear his high-pitched voice but, whenever Harry is laughing and giggling, the baby responds. Awww, cute!

Fast forward a bit and now Michele has a huge stomach again (and still doesn't like having that pointed out to her, not that I blame her) and Harry is growing and growing.

Ah yes - Harry. Remember him? (Time for a Harry interlude)

He's developed into a more rounded character, with his own set of nuances and idiosyncracies. He's cheeky, he's naughty, and he's very very loving.

Michele and I get a warm and fuzzy feeling when Harry runs up to one of us, arms outstretched, big smile plastered on his face, and goes "Cuddle!". We love the cuddles he gives us, and the way he his little hands hold our cheeks as he plants a wet kiss on our lips before running off chuckling.


He likes to help tidy things up, and help with the hoovering. Oh, and he loves Thomas the Tank Engine! We have some wooden track that we lay out for him and he's always good about putting it all away when finished.

He sounds like an angel, doesn't he? Rest assured, he has his moments. And he has had a few tantrums - not many, but a few, including several in public. Once was when we wanted him to go back into the buggy before going home but, having had a taste of walking (i.e. freedom), he was having none of it.

It was then that I was introduced to the "ironing board" tantrum. While trying to get him into into the buggy, he went as stiff as an ironing board, refusing to bend in the middle. In the end I managed to strong-arm him in - but it was a struggle. Even at two, he's got a strong little body, a surprising contrast to the frail little person he was a year or so ago.

Having seen a program called "Supernanny" on TV, I knew the concept of the 'naughty step', and have carried a sobbing Harry to the stairway when he was being a bit naughty. He always got the option to stop/start/whatever he was supposed to do, but when he persisted, out he went.

Our stairway is separated from our lounge by a door so I would stand at the door timing his penalty and making sure he didn't escape. When the time was up, I would go to him, squat down to his level and gently talk about why he was being punished. He would nod, say sorry. I would smile, say thankyou. We would hug then go off to play.

It's not the easiest thing to do, plonking your sobbing, pleading child onto the stairs and walking off but it has worked. It really has. Now, whenever he is being a bit naughty or refusing to do something I give him one last ultimatum - the naughty step - and it works, every single time. No need for any more tears and we're all happy. Of course, I'd be happier if he just did as he was told the first time but then he is only 2 and a half... :)

He goes to the hospital creche for 2.5 days a week - the hours that Michele works - and has done since Michele returned to work when he was about eight months old. I've already talked about the wrench that was leaving him with a stranger but, over the years, it has done him the world of good.

His social, play and interactive skills have all come along really well, and being in the company of other children his age - all learning and playing together - has been really beneficial. I'm also pleased that the staff there are big on teaching manners, something we drilled into Harry as well. It's nice to hear "Thankyou, Daddy" when I give him his milk.

And so, back to the new baby. We are a little nervous at how Harry's going to react to the new arrival, but all indications so far are good. From nearly day one, we told Harry that there was a new baby growing in Mummy's tummy, and he identified with it quite quickly. What's more, the loving caresses Michele gives her baby bump has helped endear Harry to it, and he's often come up and given "the baby" a cuddle and a kiss. Oh, and a raspberry.

Harry loves blowing raspberries on Michele's tum, and I'm sure the baby can feel the vibrations. At the moment, whenever there's movement within and we say that the baby is awake, Harry looks stern and corrects us - "No, no. Baby asleep".

I hope they'll be friends when the baby "wakes up"...

So, we're just about up to date now. Harry is a very cute little boy, loved by many (he has his own 'fan club' on the work bus we catch...) and we're all getting excited about the new baby. A friend of mine just had her second girl a month early, so Michele is going mad packing bags and writing lists.

I have to get out Harry's old pram, dust off the spiders and clean it down in time. The moses basket has had a wipe-over and all the old baby clothes/bedding that we stored has been washed, ironed and dried in preparation.

Of course, second time must surely be easier, right? We know roughly what to expect at the birth and first few weeks, so what's there to worry about?

Ooohh, maybe the fact that baby no.2 will be born in a different place than Harry?
Maybe the question of how the hell we're going to get to the hospital?
Maybe the question of who's going to look after Harry?
Maybe the question of what happens if Michele goes into labour at home in Burgess Hill while I'm at work in Brighton?

Oh yes - there are things to worry about and sort out.

Easier second time around? What was I thinking?

Coming soon....

It's 1.30pm on 22nd December 2008, and I'm sitting at my work desk typing this before leaving early to do some last minute Christmas shopping.

Wow. I can't believe it's been a year and a half since I last wrote in this blog, and it's even more amazing when I consider how much has happened in the intervening time.

First, a thank you to a friend who has kindly dropped in here from time to time in the hope that I would have added to this blog. A friend who has nagged me to return to it and update the world on things like Harry's progress.

Well I can promise her and everyone else that, with the 2009 approaching and the season of New Year resolutions nearly upon us, I plan to update this old blog as much as I can.

Until then, here are some nibbles to keep you all going...

- Harry can walk, talk and fart - all at the same time
- We have moved, from a one bedroom flat to a three bedroom house
- I still need to lose weight

Oh, and one last little thing - Michele has mysteriously fallen pregnant again and Harry will be meeting his little brother or sister at the end of next March.

For now, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Picture

And then there were two...

No sooner had his first little gnasher made an appearance, when another one decided it was time to show it's face.

He now has two mandibular incisors (the ones right at the front on the bottom)!!

The nice thing is, Harry doesn't seem to have suffered with his teeth - yet. He just drooled a bit more than usual and had flushed cheeks. There was no screaming, no hysterics.

He did pass a hard poo which brought tears to his eyes though. You probably didn't want to know that...

Harry's first tooth

It had to happen sooner or later - Harry has been teething for quite a while now, with bright red glowing cheeks and a penchant for chewing anything within reach.

The other day, as Harry was sucking lazily on my finger (something I often put up with as it calms him down), I felt a sudden, sharp, hardness. Wriggling my finger loose, I felt around his gums and, sure enough, right at the front on the bottom, I could feel what seemed to be the ridge of a tooth, albeit one that hadn't broken through the gum yet.

There's a bit of grey colouration to that area of gum so perhaps Harry's first tooth isn't too far away from making an appearance.

I wonder what Harry will make of it...

End of a Year

Well. The year 2006 rolls to a close, with just under three hours left.

What an eventful year it's been, the first half being the build-up to the birth, the second half being the turmoil that is coping with a new baby.

Christmas was wonderful, with Harry getting lots of presents (more than me and Michele, anyway...) . I had this idea of decorating the room and tree while Harry was asleep one night, and then filming his reaction the next morning. As the best laid plans of mice and men go, this never came to fruition, as I was forced to erect the (false) tree and decorations bit by bit. One thing that got his attention was the tree lights - we spent ages looking for coloured flashing lights and, not only did we manage to find them, but they went through a cycle of flashes, from slow fades to fast flashes. He was entranced! For at least ten minutes.

Christmas Day came and we all got up early, as usual, and helped Harry unwrap his first xmas presents. As expected, he loved the colours and sight of his pressies, but it was the paper that got his attention. I captured it all on film but amazingly forgot to take any still pictures - doh!

Have I mentioned that Harry has his own cot now? Forgive me if I have, but he has. There, I mentioned it.

So, as the year draws to a close, the only thing I can think of to end this year's blog entries is to share some of my favourite photos. Excuse the indulgence... :-)





He's come a long way in six months, hasn't he? And Michele and I couldn't be prouder.

The First Separation

Whoa ! How time flies when you're changing nappies...

It's now one week till Christmas Day and I've got so much to say I don't know where to start. Hang on, I'll go back and read the rest of the blog to see where I've got to. Back in a jiffy...

(One jiffy later)

Right - I'm up to speed now. I have to say, a lot of what I've written is pretty emotional, and I apologise if any of it seemed too "mushy" but, at the time, it was exactly how I felt. I must also thank those who have left nice comments about the blog, and to those who I know who have read and liked what I've written - you know who you are!

Harry is now almost six and three quarters months old, which takes me back. Not to when I was that age myself, but to when age was not necessarily quoted in integer years. You must remember what I mean - when your parents say that you're six and you chime in with "Six and a half, actually", as if that extra half a year makes all the difference.

And it does make a difference, especially if you're only half a year old when it's a literally a lifetime.

With Michele and I in our mid to late thirties, half a year is nothing, but the last six months have been amazing. Harry has grown so much, physically and mentally, and has developed a character all of his own. Instead of being a cute thing that just lay there, ingesting milk one end and filling nappies the other, Harry is now all that and mobile. Yes, mobile.

He can support the weight of his head, and he spends a lot of time swivelling that head around to look at whatever's caught his attention. And he's learning. Truly learning. You can almost see the cogs turning inside as he works out something.

My Dad and others have said that babies are like sponges at this age, soaking an immense amount of information up every single day. They're beginning to make sense of themselves and the world that they live in, in Harry's case a world inhabited by lots of mad, cooing people. And his Mum and Dad.

With the maternity leave coming to an end, Michele started the arduous process of getting into the frame of mind to return to work, albeit part time. The hospital we both work at is in trouble financially and decided to close wards, my wife's amongst them. She had to attend an interview for a post she was forced to apply for, and ended up working on a ward she wouldn't necessarily have chosen. And all this in the midst of a traumatic transition for us;

The First Separation.

Michele has several sisters who dote on Harry and, coupled with my family and my work colleagues, he has become used to being passed around like a parcel. He loves the attention and has become a very happy, sociable baby because of it - plonk him on the lap of a stranger and rather than cry, he'll spend five minutes staring at this new person, trying to work them out.

And so it was that Michele took Harry to meet the girls at the hospital creche. I couldn't make the orientation meetings, where Michele took a tour around the creche and then sat in the baby's room with Harry and the other kids. The second visit she was encouraged to leave him there for half an hour, to see how he got on.

It was a wrench but Michele was getting used to it, and it came round to my first time. As Michele was working shifts, she would be taking Harry to creche around lunchtime and I would be picking him up when I finished work, about 5pm. So I needed to know where to go, who to ask for and, for my own benefit, see what sort of environment Harry would spend the day in.

We both took Harry to the creche and had to press a buzzer to be let in. Security is paramount and we had to go through another set of coded doors before we were in the hallway. Taking Harry out of the pram (of which we were still making good use), we put blue plastic covers over our shoes and disinfected our hands with alcohol gel from a dispenser by the door.

Opening the door, I stepped into an indoor playground. The floor was strewn with soft toys, the walls covered in photographs and drawings, and two cots lined one wall. The nursery assistants there were dressed in uniform blue but very casually, with no shoes on. One was even wearing fluffy slippers.

I placed Harry down on a playmat and immediately started to play with him, showing him rattling things and crunchy things, passing them to him to take in his chubby little hands. Michele and I talked to one of the carers there, a mum herself, and I found out about what they do there during the day.

The little ones are kept separate from the more mobile tots, and they all get fed and watered (we had to provide the bottled milk), played with, cuddled and, weather permitting, taken out to the park and gardens (with our permission). It was all so lovely and friendly there and I felt right at home. Another child tottered up, I said a cheery Hello, and was given a toy to play with.

Surrounded by youngsters took me back to the days when I used to perform medical scans on children, and how I used to love playing with them - helping to put them at ease, drawing pictures with them.

And then came the time when I had to leave. I was already late for work and had a long meeting to go to. I gave Harry a kiss then got to my feet. I looked down at him then took a step towards the door. Another glance, another step. Harry was happy playing with toys and was taking in the surroundings with enthusiasm. One more step, and I was through the doorway. I said goodbye to Michele, who was going for a short walk, then made my way to work.

And then it struck me. I had just left my son with complete strangers, and he was happy about it. I was glad that he was happy in his new environment, but also felt a giant pang of pain, guilt and, being honest, jealousy.

He was my son, my baby. His parents should be looking after him, not strangers! I freely admit to feeling tearful as I went to work. He seemed so happy and, for the first time in his life, he wasn't dependent on his Mum and Dad. That realisation cut pretty deep, after spending so much time with him, attending to every need.

But then I looked at this First Separation as just that - the first of many, many steps that would see my son getting farther and farther away. He'd have his first day at proper nursery school, his first friend. His first stay over at a friend's house. His first school trip etc. Later, he would enter that awkward age when he'd be struggling with his hormones. He wouldn't want us around - we'd be "out of touch", "uncool", "too old to understand", and similar sentiments that I had levelled at my parents at one time or another.

Just as they had seen me grow up and grow away, so I too would have to watch my beloved Harry do the same. And the thought broke my heart. I was not good company during that meeting...

Subsequent visits to the creche to pick Harry up found him happy having a cuddle, or playing with other children near his age. It was a shame that Michele had to go back to work but, in the end, it was good for Harry as his social and interpersonal skills blossomed and developed. I think he will end up a better person because of it, not despite of it.

And when I pick him up, he always fixes me with a toothless grin, and comes willingly to my arms, putting up with my open displays of affection - the kisses on the cheek, the ruffling of the hair - and seems genuinely pleased to see me. I get a daily report from the girls there - what time he fed (and how much he drank), when and for how long he had slept, and finally if and when he soiled his nappy. For the last one, they use two codes, W and S.

W means "wet", obviously, and S means.... "soiled" (not "shit" as I first thought).

Anyway, with Harry settled into the creche, Michele and I began to adjust to a new rhythm - one in which we both worked, and one in which we had to make just that little bit extra preparation.

Perspective

Twenty one weeks.

I've counted the weeks, since Harry's birth, on the calendar and there's twenty one of them. Tomorrow (thursday), Harry is 21 weeks old and, in a couple of weeks, on the 1st November, he's officially 5 months old.

Five months.

Twenty one weeks.

It seems incredible to me, as I type this, that such a huge amount could have happened in such a relatively small time. It's less than half a year for us but, for Harry, it's literally a lifetime.

The pictures that I posted earlier help to see how Harry has physically changed over this time, but they can only convey a fraction of how he has developed emotionally and psychologically. He has grown from a creature driven by animal instincts of hunger, etc. to a fully formed "little boy" with a distinct persona - a character all of his own. And watching him change from one to the other has given Michele and I some of the happiest moments in our lives. Yes, I know that sounds over dramatic but it's true.

No matter how bad my day was at work, as soon as I come home and see my little boy greet me with a great big cheesy, dribbly smile, it all just melts away. It's like a drug. I suddenly feel warm and happy despite myself.

So just what has happened of note since I last put finger to keyboard? Well, I'm off work with a bad cold at the moment so, to stave off the madness that is daytime tv I thought I'd add some more to the story!

Harry likes his music

Specifically, a tune I started to sing to him at a very early age. I've always liked the tune "Around the World in 80 Days" - I think I had a music box with it on as a child myself - and I hummed the tune to Harry early on during a quiet moment. He seemed to respond by relaxing a bit and so, spurred on by the results, I've continued to sing it to him, about once a day.

When he's crying or in a state, I look him full in the face and start the tune. Immediately he stops and looks at me, into my eyes. Even if the tears come again, they never seem as bad as before. Since developing his face muscles, he always smiles when I sing the tune, and it's become sort of a "private thing" between us. I sing the song, and he knows I'm trying to soothe him.

Harry likes to play

Harry now has several play mats that he can lie on. They have different materials and hidden bells and other goodies to play with. He likes it for a while but then starts to cry so we take him off.

He seems to get the most fun out of the simplest things. We have a stock of muslin sheets, about the size of a large gentleman's handkerchief, and he uses them as comfort blankets, as well as impromptu toys. A game he loves to play is "peekaboo", with me throwing the muslin over his head saying "Where's he gone?" then, pulling the muslin away saying "There he is!" to his beaming face. Oh, and we've called the muslins "flobulators", after all the "flob" (saliva) they wipe off Harry's dribbly chin.

Harry is getting ticklish!

I know my Dad used to tickle me and I loved it, so it's time to pass on the great tradition and make my son roll about in laughter. A volley of short, sharp "raspberries" aimed at his back and neck makes him squeal and giggle and, if I join in the laughter it makes him laugh all the more. I've captured this a few times on my camcorder and it's lovely for Michele and me to play back these moments of fun.

A game I play now is, on coming home, to slouch down in a chair with Harry on my chest. He pushes up on his arms, looks around then giggles at me. I lift him up into the air and make silly noises - he loves it.

As a de-stresser, it's hard to beat...

Still growing....

He's still growing, and still smiling!

... and growing....

Yep, he's started smiling by this stage, and had even started to make a few rudimentary noises, apart from the normal burps, farts and crying. It's a fantastic feeling to see this little person become more self-aware and, even better, more aware of the world around him. Especially nice is the bond he's seemed to have forged with me and his Mother. He recognises us, knows our voices, and we can soothe him or make him smile.

Believe me, after a long day at work it's a joy to come home to a little baby who's face lights up with a smile when he sees me.

In two of the above pictures, you'll see that Harry is fast asleep on one of our cushions. One day I discovered that I could put Harry on a cushion, raise it slightly so he could see my face, then hold it such a way that I could rock him gently. It's fun for playtime but, handily, it also helps to send him to sleep.

All I have to do is lift the cushion (with Harry on it) and move him somewhere safe to have a snooze, without having to disturb him. It worked for a while, but he's grown too big now...

Growing...

So much has happened in the past three months it's hard to keep a record of all of it, but I was determined to keep a photographic record of how little Harry grows bigger. Above are the first five weeks. Compare them with the pictures of Harry just after birth, and it's amazing how quickly he developed.

More to come.

The Tea Maker

The first week went by in a daze of cooing visitors and sleepless nights. Michele's mum and youngest sister popped round the day we went home, so my job as the Tea Maker started in earnest.

Michele had it easy - all she had to do was to sit in the window seat looking radiant, happily cradling Harry.

Me? I had the pleasure of making pots of tea and making sure the visitors were comfy. We had more guests over in the first couple of weeks than we had had in the past eight years!

Harry's fingernails were surprisingly long and sharp, and he was prone to cutting himself as he flailed his arms about. He wasn't in distress - he was just beginning to learn about himself and his body, but even so we couldn't let him cut himself to ribbons. Before buying a special nail clippers, we invested in little mittens which, as well as keeping his face safe, made him look even more cuter!

We were going to buy a changing unit - that is, a chest of drawers with a special mat on the top to change nappies - but we didn't really have the room. That, and the fact that having the changing mat on the floor gave us access from all sides.

As he was slightly late, he came out looking shrivelled as a prune (just like when you or me spend a long time in the bath and our skin shrivels), and he also had dry skin over his body. We were told that olive oil would do the job so, as an evening routine, I "oiled" Harry's limbs and chest. Within a couple of weeks his skin looked lovely.

Oh yes, the smell.

We brought Harry home in the buggy and put a little hat on him. It's strange to say this but, when we got home I smelled Harry's hat and thought it was one of the most intoxicatingly pleasant aromas I had ever encountered. It smelled of "new born baby", and it was gorgeous.

He still smells lovely to this day, but that's getting ahead of myself again.

In the first few weeks a midwife came round and examined Harry, as well as chatting to Michele about support etc. I was still on paternity leave so was enjoying being a part of this aftercare. Michele turned out to be very on the ball, asking the right questions and taking notes of the answers.

And me? I made the tea...

The Rest of the Day

After having tea and toast, Nikki discussed discharging us. As over six hours had now passed since the birth, we could discharge ourselves as there were no problems. The alternative was for Michele to stay in overnight during which time she could re-charge her batteries, practise and get advice on breast-feeding, and spend "quality time" with Harry.

Although Michele looked refreshed after her bath and breakfast, she decided to stay in. May as well make the most of the hospitality, eh?

A short while later we found ourselves in a private east-facing room on Level 12, with Harry in a little cot beside the bed. Oh, I forgot to mention, I put Harry's first nappy on him soon after the birth. Nikki gave me a demonstration then I got on with it - we were using disposable ones and it was a piece of cake. I felt a "real Dad" after doing that! I also got to cut the cord again as too much had been left attached to Harry (not my fault). It took a few go's this time...

With Michele settled in, we both gave Nikki a hug and kiss, thanking her for all her hard work and help. It was only then that I realised what a unique job she had - for a short, intense period of time she becomes your best friend, taking you through what might be the most emotional event of a couple's life. And then, just as suddenly, she's gone out of your life. I thought of how she and others like her do this all the time, wondering if they ever got used to the magic of birth - and thinking what a shame it would be if they did.

It was at this time that I started to leave. I say started because it took me a good 30 minutes to get out of the room... I just didn't want to leave my new child or my wife. Eventually, I tore myself away from looking at Harry's angelic little face and kissed Michele goodbye.

Drained, both emotionally and physically, I walked through the hospital in a kind of daze. The world seemed totally different today, to me at least. For everyone else, life went on as usual. I walked to the department where I work and popped in to see who was there. At least half of my workmates were there and we stopped and chatted about the night before, me proudly showing pictures on my digital camera. After wishing me luck, I went to another department where I used to work, and was met by my old boss, who gave me a congratulatory hug.

I was another planet. I was a Dad now, and had the evidence to prove it. As I crossed the road to go home, I saw the husband of a lady who had made friends with Michele during Ante-natal classes. He was carrying a car seat and was striding towards the hospital. Seems I might not be the only new Dad that day!

The flat seemed strange now, full of items and accessories that we now had someone to use them on. Where before it was just another buggy, it was now Harry's buggy. It was now Harry's bath. Harry's little cot.

I collapsed onto the bed and sank into a restful sleep for the rest of the afternoon...

Later on I phoned the ward and spoke to Michele to make sure she was doing ok. She was tired, but happy, and Harry was sleeping soundly.

As for the rest of that day, I honestly can't remember what happened - I think exhaustion finally got the better of me and it was the next day before I was back on the ward with my wife and new child. In the night, Michele had been disturbed by various staff coming in and out to check on things, and to help her breast feed Harry. By the time I saw her the next day she looked shattered. And I had just had my last unbroken night's sleep.

I had put Harry's first nappy on, and another "first" was waiting for me that afternoon - my first nappy change. Michele had changed Harry's nappies throughout the night and had gotten used to it. Me - I'd never changed a nappy in my life!

Grabbing a pair of rubber gloves, I gently placed my son on the bed and went to it...

I'd been told how a baby's first poo is nasty stuff, but I had no idea. It was sticky like tar and smelled noxious. Still, I had the good feeling that I was making my son more comfortable. A few minutes later and he was cosily wrapped up in blankets again.

After being locked out of the ward for a couple of hours (I forgot that no visitors were allowed between 1pm and 3pm) we finally left hospital with Harry in the buggy. We called into my work place to show off our child, but as Michele was tired, we soon made our excuses.

As we slowly walked home, arm in arm, we looked lovingly at the new little life in the buggy and were both lost in our own little worlds. Our lives were changed forever and, from this point, we were different people.

We were parents.

Harry's first hours

Harry Oliver Powell was born at 3.16am on the 1st June - an easy birthday to remember! The birth was a wonderful thing - all I'd hoped for and more - but also not for the faint hearted. Michele had "torn" while giving birth, and there was a lot of blood. And I was just about to add to it... I'd always had a fantasy about cutting the chord, and when we first entered the delivery room (now, seemingly an eternity ago) Nikki asked if I wanted to do that.

So it was, with eyes still swimming in tears, I was handed a vicious looking pair of scissors - no, not scissors, more like pruning tongs. A plastic clip was put round the cord near Harry, and I was given the chord to cut.

I've been told that it's tough, almost gristly... and they were right! Armed with a suicidally sharp implement though, I cut through in one go. Blood spurted out of Harry's end, then decreased to a trickle. Thinking about it in the cold light of day, I just committed an act of assault. It's flesh that is connected to both Harry and Michele - so does that make it a double assault?? Better not think about that one too much.

Anyway, with the help of an injection to get things going, Michele's end soon emerged - the placenta. I won't go into much detail, but it was the size of a saucepan and the consistency of liver. I had a little "prod" of it before it was taken away; we had decided ages ago not to do anything with the placenta, like eat it or keep it wrapped up for a while. No - straight to the incinerator with it, bye bye.

Newly freed from his mother, Harry was placed in a position where he could get his first taste of breast milk (Michele had decided she wanted to give it a go). Nikki showed her how to hold Harry, and off he went. While he was being held by his mum, I got out the mobile phone and took loads of pictures, as I had promised to do beforehand. In my excitement I sent a picture to everyone I knew with a camera phone.

Before I go any further, if you go back and look at the pictures of Michele, me and Harry just after the birth, you'll see a bunch of towels stuffed inside my shirt. Just before the birth, Nikki had handed me some towels and asked me to not only keep them warm, but put my scent on them somehow. The baby would get to know his mother's smell very quickly, and it would help the bonding process if I could do the same. So, I spent the last half hour with these NHS towels next to my chest.

When Harry came out and had been cut free, he was placed on a weighing table and vented his first scream (those tables are cold...). He came out at a very respectable 8 pounds 6 ounces. After that, he was tagged around the ankles and I was then taught how to swaddle a baby. I wrapped Harry up in the warm towels, hoping that they didn't smell too sweaty.

When finished, he looked something like this...



Cute isn't he? :-)

I mentioned earlier that Michele had "torn" during birth. If you don't know what that means, I'm not going to explain it. Suffice to say there was a lot of blood on the bed and floor. The bottom half of the bed was unhooked and Michele, who still had her legs in the stirrups, now had two male doctors between her legs, sewing up her "torn bits" - a perfect time for her to reacquaint herself with the Entinox! Oh, and this was the point where the doctors told us that the bed Michele was lying on cost over £8000. That's one expensive bed...

A bit later we broke hospital rules by using our mobiles to phone our families to tell them the happy news, and soon after, Nikki took Michele away to have a welcome bath. That left just me and Harry together, and I took the time to hold him close - what Americans call "Quality Time".

Sitting there in the delivery room with the morning light streaming in behind me, I looked down at the small, shrivelled baby wrapped in blankets. His head was still slightly elongated after coming through the birth canal, and his ears were pointed like an elf's which, along with his frown, made him look more like a wizened old man than a new baby.

It was a fantastic moment when our eyes met and a sort of unspoken understanding passed between us. We both knew we were connected to the other in a special way. While holding Harry close I honestly felt a happiness and serenity unlike anything I've ever felt before.

When Michele and Nikki entered the room with tea and toast, Nikki took one look at me holding Harry and said "I see someone's in love..."

She wasn't wrong there.

The Longest Day - Part Three

Quite a while ago I bought a cheap MP3 player and later had the idea of making a compilation of Michele's favourite music, classical and modern, for her to listen to during labour. Making it was fun but it turns out that it wasn't used much - only during idle moments in the early stages of labour.

Something else that was different to what we expected was the labour pains. Instead of feeling contractions in her abdominal area, Michele felt her pains in her back, around the area of the kidneys. The reason for this would become clear as the night went on but for now it remained a mystery.

Having spent the day in that room on Level 11, we had unpacked our bag and spread our things around - just as you would in a hotel. Now that we knew someone was on their way to take us up to Level 13, I rushed about, making sure everything we brought went with us.

With bag packed and ready we waited, I sat on the edge of the bed, half looking at the darkened view, half watching Michele as she paced the room - her waddling steps punctuated by contractions that almost bent her double. The only thing I can think of, from a man's perspective, that might have been similar is chronic constipation. And that's not pleasant...

At 9.50pm, a young midwife dressed in "blues" walked through the door with a wheelchair. She introduced herself as Nikki and asked if we were ready to go. As Michele arranged herself into the wheelchair and was taken from the room, I cast one last look out the window - the next time I saw daylight I could be a father...

We took the lift to Level 13 and entered a delivery room with a west-facing view. It was dark outside and dimly lit inside, projecting a calming atmosphere.
















We unpacked our stuff and Michele eased herself onto the bed (an expensive one as it turns out). I plonked the bag down in the corner and tucked the car seat under the chair. I was asked if I wanted anything and minutes later Nikki returned with a tray of refreshments, including a steaming hot pot of strong coffee.

Because Michele might have to go on a drip, she was told not to drink caffeine, which left it all for me. Three cups later and I was buzzing, ready for anything.

At ante-natal classes, we'd discussed methods of pain control - Entinox ("Gas and Air"), epidural, TENS machines etc. - but we'd not really planned for anything specific. Michele decided she would go with the flow and see how she got on.

Before we really got into the swing of things, Michele had an ultrasound scan to check the foetal position. Michele was to be hooked up to a baby monitor as she had been downstairs, but Nikki had trouble finding the heartbeat. The U/S scan was done by a Oriental Doctor (more of whom we would see later on) and showed that the baby was still fine, but at an odd angle. Turned out that the baby's spine was parallel to Michele's, which might cause extra pain during delivery.

After several "internal examinations", we were left to it for the moment. Michele's contractions were coming on hard and fast now, and she was making friends with the Entinox. It was basically a complex-looking mouthpiece joined to the cylinder and everytime she breathed through it she sounded like Darth Vader or a deep sea diver. Nikki was soon back and, after a brief chat with Michele it was decided that we would go for a natural birth, with just Entinox to relieve the pain (for now).

The next hour or so had Michele getting into her contractions which began to get very uncomfortable and difficult to watch. She was putting her breathing exercises into practice, but coupled with the mouthpiece, she sounded like she was groaning in pain through a muffled microphone. And as the pain increased, the more she used the Entinox, and the more she became as high as a kite.

It was weird - one moment she was writhing around on the bed in agony then, when the contraction passed and I was there sponging ice-cold water onto her brow and neck, she was looking around dazed and confused. When Nikki asked if she was ok she replied "I feel pissed!" and smiled drearily at me. Her eyes were heavy and she blinked slowly, smacking her dry lips. I was on hand with a paper cup of cold water which she drank through a straw - a straw which I positioned in her mouth.

Things were getting surreal as the hours wore on and I slowly passed through the barriers of tiredness then over-tiredness, catching my "second wind". Contractions were still coming thick and fast and, at 11.10pm, Michele's waters were artificially burst.

Standing there watching Michele writhe in agony was something I wasn't fully prepared for, and it shocked me to see a loved one in such pain. I knew it had to happen - I had seen plenty of "births" on TV where they scream their lungs out, but this was different. This was my Michele.

Something occurred to me during that time - my child could be born soon, and would have the 31st May as a birthday. Part of me was hoping that he/she would hang on for a few more hours - the 1st June just sounded easier to say and remember!

Nikki the midwife was with Michele all throughout, on hand with words of encouragement. Michele was turned this way and that through different positions - first on her back, then on her front grasping the front of the bed (which had been raised), then on her back again. Because the baby had his/her spine parallel to Michele's, it was causing extra stress but some light relief came when Michele, on all fours, let out a belter of a burp. Better out than in...

At 1.10am, Nikki suddenly told us that Michele was fully dilated, which for some reason was surprisingly soon. Michele's legs were hooked up into stirrups either side of the bottom of the bed now. It seemed that we were on the home stretch...

As she pushed and pushed, something dark and hairy appeared - the baby's head! I went "down there" to get a good look and was dumbstruck to see wavy black hair, matted to the top of the head with blood and fluids, but there nevertheless. I was convinced that I was going to cry when the baby was born, but I wasn't moved at all when I saw the top of the head - just curious, and mildy spaced out.

Talking of which, Michele was on another planet now, thanks to the effects of the Entinox. She smiled drunkenly at me with heavy eyes that had given up trying to focus.

"Do you want to feel the head?" Nikki asked Michele. "No!" came the slurred answer.

"Come on, push! I don't want anyone else in here!" said Nikki time and again. She was determined to help Michele deliver naturally, but was on a losing streak. It was just gone 3.00am and exhaustion was starting to kick in. Michele was pushing as hard as she could, but the head wasn't coming out any further.

Resigning herself to the fact that it would be an assisted birth, Nikki left to get help. As she did, I looked at my Michele lying there in pain, and choked back a tear. She was doing so well but had become so tired. I was incredibly proud of her and, as I stroked her hair, felt a great love for her.

The male doctors that we had seen before came in, and filled the room with machines and crash trolleys - just in case. As they were preparing to set things up for a Ventous (basically a suction cap to pull the baby out), there was a surprise - Michele had suddenly found another ounce of strength and had started pushing again.

Suddenly the head appeared. It was pointing downwards and looked misshapen, but it was there. Our baby's head!

I remember where everyone was for the next part; I was standing to Michele's left, Nikki and a doctor were helping the head to come out at the bottom of the bed, the other midwife and doctor were to Michele's right. Behind me, the first feeble lights of a new day were beginning to creep into the room.

"Go on!!" shouted Nikki.

Michele pushed.

A baby was born.

It just... appeared there. One second I saw the head, the next, the whole body was out, drooping feebly. Nikki and the doctors immediately checked the baby out.

"Is it alright..?" Michele gasped. "What is it?"

I looked and caught sight of genitals. The words I had practised saying in my mind a thousand times burst out for real; "It's a boy!"

The tiny body was handed to me and I placed him gently on Michele's stomach. As I did so, I softly said "Hello Harry"... and was completely overcome. I cried without sobbing, looking at our baby son, my vision blurred with warm, salty tears. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and pride and love like nothing I've ever felt before filled me to bursting. I gave Michele a grateful kiss. She was emotional as well and, despite her extreme exhaustion, wore a warm glow in her cheeks as she smiled at me and her child. She had done it.

I looked at the tiny body of this brand new innocent life, still connected to the inside of Michele, and tried to come to terms with what had just happened. In an instant, my entire world had been turned upside down. Somehow I remembered to ask a midwife if she would take some pictures. What she captured will tell you more about how we felt at that moment than any amount of words I could write...

The Longest Day - Part Two

I went to University to get a degree in Physics. I went on to get a Postgraduate Diploma in Radiation Physics. I learnt all sorts of weird and wonderful stuff, most of it forgotten within months, but nowhere do I remember learning that time runs slower in hospitals. It must have something to do with that fact that you're more aware of time passing. Every. Single. Minute of it.

So it was that most of the day passed by uneventfully, with me taking some photos of the easterly view over Brighton Marina, and Michele lying there watching daytime television. From time to time, Anna came in to check the traces from the machine.

The baby continued to pump out a good strong heartbeat, but there were very few contractions. Several times, Michele was advised to get up and have a walk about, so we walked around the the level, passing other rooms and wards where other women were having babies. There was a drinks machine near our room so I could keep us both supplied with tea and chocolate, and Michele also had some lunch when the NHS dinner ladies came round. I can't remember if they offered me anything, but I'd guess not as I wasn't the patient.

Anna had explained what was to happen that day. First, the Prostaglandin pessary would be inserted, then Michele would be monitored for contractions. If nothing had happened by about 6pm, there would be a second pessary inserted. If that didn't get things going, Michele would be hooked up to a drip of Oxytocin (another hormone). And, if after that, the waters still hadn't broken, she would have a procedure called an ARM - Artificially Ruptured Membrane - which would entail a long hook being inserted to physically burst the amniotic sack.

I hope you weren't eating while you read that last paragraph...

Well, we paced the room but nothing happened until, at roughly 6pm, Anna came in to put in the second pessary. I went to leave but was told that it was up to Michele , and this time I stayed. I did turn the other way though.

Time passed as the world darkened outside our window, and still the baby showed no signs of leaving it's comfy home... until, sometime between 8.30 and 8.45pm (I couldn't be sure of the exact time as I was watching Big Brother) , Michele thought that her waters had broken. I called the midwife to our room to check things out - it was a different lady as Anna had finished her shift - but she thought it was only a "hind break" - when the amniotic sack bursts slightly right up inside instead of near the cervix. Only a small amount of fluid would get through because of the pressure.

Finally, within the next hour, the pessaries started to have an effect, and Michele was up and about pacing the floor of the room like a caged animal, groaning with discomfort. The contractions, albeit small ones, had started. One minute Michele was ok, the next she was leaning against the window sill gritting her teeth and moaning as things started moving.

I, as husband and birth partner, could only stand about awkwardly and keep out of her way. During the respites between contractions, I put my own ante-natal training into use - giving Michele massages and saying reassuring things to help ease her.

The contractions came faster and the groans became louder. Michele stopped smiling and wore an almost constant look of discomfort, unlike anything she had experienced before (which, to be fair, she hadn't). I stayed out of her way one moment, then comforted her the next.

Around this time, Michele had a small "show" - a small smattering of blood - signalling that things were taking a turn for the more serious, and usually preceded the waters breaking. Level 12, the delivery suite, were phoned and someone was on their way to take us up.

Any sense of fun had gone as I watched Michele hop about groaning and after over ten hours of waiting around, things were definately moving. The outside world vanished as all I could think about and concentrate on were in the here and now - my wife in distress.



And it would get a lot, lot worse before it got better.

The Longest Day - Part One

In cases where the baby is late, the birth sometimes has to be "induced", which is artificially kick-starting the chemical processes which get the early stages of labour going. As the due date came and went without any signs of movement down below, it seemed like induction would be the only option.

When the midwife last came round to see Michele, she discussed induction and it was decided that an appointment should be made. If we needed it, at least we'd have a slot; if something happened sooner, then all well and good.

For some reason, we had thought that we were to go in "next Thursday", which was the 1st June. Our actual appointment was on Tuesday 30th May. Ooops. Despite the misunderstanding, it all worked out in the end.

On the 30th, I decided that I wanted the next day off as annual leave before we went in to have the baby induced. Saying my goodbyes, I went home that evening and flicked idly through Michele's notes. When we saw the appointment date, we exchanged a look of "Oh bugger" and Michele immediately phoned Level 11. They were very understanding, and booked us in for 11.00 am the next day. Luckily, I had decided to take the right day off!

That night was spent making sure our bag was packed and that we had everything we'd need. It wasn't just a case of taking toothpaste and a spare nightie, oh no. We had to pack nappies and clothes for the baby, various toiletries and a whole range of "support" items - electric fans, sponges and the like, all of which would be used. You see, as I had learned in the ante-natal class, I wasn't just there to lend emotional support. As the "birth partner", I had my duties, which included keeping Michele cool, hydrated, and as relaxed as possible.

I wasn't just going along for the ride - I'd have my work to do too.

That night was a strange one for both of us. We had been caught off guard with the change of appointment, and it was now suddenly very real and scary - we were going to hospital to have a baby - tomorrow!! We let our families know what was happening, and both agreed not to contact them again until we had some news. I thought it a bad idea for Michele to contact anyone when labour began - I was there for her and it would only mean other family members waiting around. No, we'd phone them when it was all over, either way.

Yes, I say either way because that small nagging voice in the back of my head returned - "What if it goes wrong...?" - and I had a specific worry. I am epileptic, the first in my family to have this condition, and I was afraid that I'd pass it on to my child. It would be heartbreaking if my little baby had fits, knowing that I had probably been responsible. Michele and I talked about this, and agreed that although the chances of it happening were very small, if the baby did have epilepsy, it wouldn't be my fault and - most importantly - we wouldn't love it any less.

After reassuring each other that everything would be ok and, if it wasn't, we would be there for each other, we gradually fell asleep. Michele has always been able to fall asleep within minutes of hitting the pillow; I always took much longer, and tonight was no different.

Taking no chances, several alarm clocks ensured we were awake and up in good time. When packed and ready, we called a taxi. I decided to leave the buggy at home for now, as we lived so close it would be easy for me to pop home and get it when the time came. I did take the car seat with me, just in case.

Michele was understandably nervous and I could feel her anxiety as the taxi wound it's way through the streets to the hospital. Outside, people carried on their lives as normal, totally unware that we were about to go through a life-changing experience.

We arrived at the hospital's Accident and Emergency department and paid the driver. Hauling the bag from the boot, I cast one last wistful look at the outside world before heading into the hospital with Michele. This had all been so different to how we had imagined it. There was no sudden breaking of waters (something the Michele became so paranoid about that she refused to go to any supermarkets in case it happened), no sudden waking in the night to find Michele having the pains of early labour. It had all been so... organised. Almost like a routine appointment.

We found the lift and made our way to Level 11. Approaching the front desk of the ward, we got our first pleasant surprise.

Working in a hospital can be like being part of a huge family, especially if you work in clinical areas. Nurses swap wards and jobs as they progress through their careers to a point where they know, or have worked with, a lot of people. And so it was nice to see a young midwife smiling at us as we entered the ward.

"I thought it was you on the phone!" she said, as she saw Michele. "Let's get you straight into a private room". The midwife, Anna, had done some of her nurse training on the ward where Michele worked, and remembered her well. She had obviously decided to change jobs from nursing into midwifery, a change in direction which wasn't uncommon. Michele had the choice of being attended by Anna or a male midwife who was also on duty. She chose Anna.

We were shown into an east-facing room, complete with en-suite toilet and shower. Michele got comfy on the bed while being hooked up to a machine that monitors the foetal heartbeat and contractions (via abdominal surface tension).

Things were left like this for half an hour, to make sure the baby was happy. Then, at 11.45am, Anna ushered me out of the room - she was going to administer the Prostaglandin pessary that would hopefully trigger the chemical processes to make the cervix soften, thus allowing the contractions to begin.















The game was on.

Everything changes...

As I write this, the time is 7.40pm on July 7th 2006. That means it's over six weeks since the Due Date.

Did we have a baby in the end?

If so, was it a boy or a girl? What did it weigh? When was it born? And who won the sweepstake?

All in good time, although if you've read from the top down chances are you'll already know some of the above. For now, let's keep it a surprise.

When I was in Blackpool this year for a Magic Convention, a friend suggested that I make a diary as I went along, to keep track of the experiences of parenthood, so I started to write this blog. Starting at the very beginning meant there was a lot of back story about the actual pregnancy to cover before I got to the main event.

And finally, I'm there. The day I'll never forget for as long as I live, a day that would take numerous entries to do it justice.

The day my first child was born.

The best things are worth waiting for

And so the weekend passed baby-less and I was back to work on Monday morning, much to my workmate's surprise and chagrin (there was a sweepstake, remember). Michele and I kept reassuring ourselves with the knowledge that most first babies were late. In fact, our midwife had told us that most first babies are, on average, 8 days late. Not that knowing this helped much, but we kept saying "Well, we knew it would probably be late..." while casting reproving looks at Michele's swollen belly.

Talking of which, it's amazing how saying something innocent at the wrong time can cause offence. Michele was big, there was no doubt, but the number of times someone we knew commented "Oooh, you are big!" was amazing and, at first, funny. Michele knew she was big with her baby, but didn't want to be told that she was big. This was best summed up when, one day in the hospital shop, one of the staff said "I saw your wife the other day, she isn't half looking big!", to which another lady added, quietly, "Don't tell her that though...."

Because I like to be as prepared as I can, I suggested that Michele and I have a talk about what to do if things went... well, wrong. I like to think of myself as a fairly happy, optimistic fella, but there was no doubt that something could go wrong on the day and we could end up being consoled instead of congratulated. It was always someone else's problem before but now, being nearly parents ourselves, it was a very real possibility. Luckily for me, Michele is also a happy, optimistic person but also has a (fairly) sensible head on her shoulders, and agreed to talk about it.

Just considering something as awful as stillbirth was actually quite upsetting, given that we had seen our baby grow into a little peson inside Michele. I used to work with someone who had a framed picture of a baby on his desk. When I asked after the baby, I was told that he had been stillborn and, although my work colleague had had other children since then, he still kept that picture as a tribute to his little boy's memory. I remember feeling very sad, not knowing what it feels like to lose a child like that, and hoping that I'd never know.

I'm a firm believer in organ donation, and Michele and I discussed the implications of this. We decided that if the worst happened, we would give permission for organ donation, taking a little comfort in knowing that our baby bravely helped another little boy or girl live. It was a sad thing to talk about but I was glad when we both agreed on this. With this subject out of the way, we could concentrate on all of the positive and exciting aspects of the birth.

Like names.

I'm constantly surprised at how some parents get in a tizz about naming their baby, leaving it till the last moment. I mean, come on folks, you've only had nine whole months to talk about this! I know that's probably harsh of me, but it's almost like those people who wait for ages at a bus stop, only to pull out their purse just as the bus pulls up. Why not get the money out earlier, and stop me getting angry as I wait for you to count out your pennies...??

Grrr. Sorry about that, went off-topic there for a bit.

Names.

We both decided that we wouldn't inflict a "trendy" name on our child. "Apple Turnover Powell" or "Dingbat Zoobrush Powell" just didn't seem to fit. No, we'd need a more conventional name, but nothing too boring. It only just began to strike me what a monumentous decision this was, as what we named our baby would help to shape their character as well as affect how others perceived them.

We finally settled for Thomas Oliver for a boy and Emily Alice for a girl. As far as we knew, there were no Thomas', Olivers, Emilys or Alices in the immediate family so they would be "fresh" names. I was also aware that the boy's initials would be T.O.P, so he would always be "top"! I thought it was funny. "Eap" for a girl didn't have as much meaning but as least could be pronounced as a word, unlike my names - Mark Nicholas Powell.

We stuck with these until about two weeks before the due date, when I suddenly said "What about Harry?" to Michele. "Umm, I like that" came the reply and that was that. TOP became HOP.

Truth is, we had names from Day One - the day we found out we were expecting. Befitting his/her stage of development, we christened our baby "Blob" at first. After seeing the first ultrasound scan, we could not longer call it a blob, so had to think again. As Michele was showing know, the second name came easily - "Bump". And so it remained until the final scan, when we saw much more detail - jaw line, spine, nose, feet, fingers. We were now looking at a little human, and so "Bump" became "Little One", the last pre-birth name.

Which brings me nicely full circle, to the birth.

D-Day

Now the ante-natal classes and the scans were over, we could concentrate on preparing for Delivery-Day, May 20th.

The rooms were re-arranged, the bits and bobs were bought (even the buggy) and we were left waiting (im)patiently for the birth.

But first, back to that buggy. I never knew that shopping for one thing would be so difficult, but this proved to be a mammoth task. The more we thought about it, the more criteria we came up with, namely...

1) Cheap - Didn't seem worth spending a fortune on something we wouldn't be using for very long.

2) Portable - Whatever it was, it shouldn't weigh a tonne. We had to use Public Transport so would have to cart the buggy on and off numerous buses over time. It'd be no use buying a tank of a buggy.

3) Easy to use - Sounds obvious, but we saw buggies that had fancy one-handed folded mechanisms. Easier said than done, judging by our feeble attempts!

4) Car seat included - Although we don't have a car, the baby could be transported in a car sometime, and we'd need, by law, a car seat. In fact, we were told by the Hospital that we weren't allowed to leave with the baby unless we had a car seat (I think they're assuming we'd drive or get a taxi home)

5) Four/six wheel, not three wheel - Looking at the three-wheelers, we decided that they looked more like fashion accessories than good, functional buggies. The wheels were huge, complete with inner-tyres (i.e. susceptible to puncture...) and would be brilliant for traversing the moors of Devon or Cornwall, but maybe a bit too much for the streets of Brighton. Also, we'd never fit one on a bus without taking up too much space, earning the sorts of disapproving looks we'd seen before.

In short, what we needed was a "travel system" (a sort of all-in-one buggy), and we concentrated on looking for one of those. First, we started at the local Mothercare, where there was a very reasonable system for sale which included a change bag, rain cover and other bits and bobs (that we probably didn't need).

We checked out various websites and I drove my workmates mad by continually asking if they could recommend a good buggy. We even went to a huge shop in Haywards Heath where an entire floor was devoted to just buggies. After "umming" and "ahhing" over things, we looked at one another, thought a collective "sod this for a game of soldiers" and left. Well, Michele bought some blankets, just so it wasn't seen as a wasted trip.

Thanks to luck, fate, or some trick of irony, we ended up going back to the local Mothercare and buying the very first travel system we saw. As Americans say, go figure.

The girls there put it together for us (not that I'm incapable, just that they assured us it wouldn't be any bother) and I ended up wheeling an empty buggy to a nearby taxi rank. It was the first time I had pushed a buggy, and it was a weird feeling....

As the time approached, Michele went on Maternity leave from work, and received lots of lovely presents and cards from her workmates. She started this on May 1st, reckoning that she had about three weeks before Junior made an appearance.

As the weeks went by, my work colleagues could sense me getting edgier by the minute, and made special allowances. I was due to spend the day in another hospital working on their x-ray machines with one of my colleagues, but she suggested that I didn't come, just in case the baby came early. A very nice thought, and one that was greatly appreciated.

I had set up several sweepstakes for when the baby was born, the sex (as we still didn't know), the weight, and date/ time of arrival. There's always someone who puts a late date in there, and I was hoping against hope that he wouldn't win, as that would mean a late baby.

It finally came round to the 20th May, a Saturday, and my workmates had all wished me well on the Friday, thinking they would not see me for another three weeks (I had booked two weeks paternity leave, one week of annual leave). I was expecting something to happen at night; you know, that scenario when the wife wakes the husband up in the small hours and breathlessly says "Honey, I think it's coming!". Nothing like that happened on Friday night, and Saturday morning came just as uneventfully.

What do you do when you're waiting for something like this to happen? Play scrabble? Have a cuppa? Talk about world politics? I couldn't remember Dr Stoppard saying anything about the actual waiting in her book. We sat there in the lounge twiddling our thumbs, exchanging the occasional nervous glance, trying not to ask aloud what was screaming in our heads - where was this baby, then?

By the evening, we decided to stuff it all and go out for a meal (the "last supper", I called it) and we went to a local place we often eat at. It was fairly quiet for a Saturday, and we sat in the back section, enjoying the change of location and the fact that we were doing something "normal" that "normal" people do, "normal" meaning "not due to drop a sprog at any moment". I very unselfishly gave up watching that night's Dr Who so we could have an early meal. It was the least I could do.

You can't ignore a pregnant woman's bump. It's too obvious (unlike, say, an ingrowing toenail) and people will react to it, mostly nicely. Throughout the later stages of pregnancy, especially, people had given way to Michele, allowing her to go first through doorways, giving her the best seats on the bus etc. - the milk of human kindness in action. Whatever the reaction, you just can't help noticing a pregnant bump and, if appropriate, commenting on it.

"So when are you due?" asked the waiter as we finished our meal and paid using those new portable credit card reader things.

"Oh, today", answered Michele.

The waiter took a step back. "Oh, really?" he nervously asked.

We assured him we were ok and he went on to tell us about how he was "a little bit late" himself. It was all very pleasant and we had a lovely meal, but I bet that waiter's wages that he was standing there thinking to himself, "Please don't let this lady's waters break on my shift...!!"

The rest of the evening went quietly, with Michele having a bath to relax herself.

As we settled down to sleep, we both sighed inside - the due date, which we had concentrated on and worked towards, had come and gone with no sign of the baby.....

Back to School

When Michele first went to the GP to have the pregnancy confirmed, she came away with a folder full of paperwork and leaflets. Forms to fill in for child tax credit and when and where to get the baby registered, that sort of thing.

There were also details about the Ante-Natal classes.

Maybe I've watched too many "Carry On" films, but an AN class, to me, conjours up an image of a room full of pregnant ladies lying on the floor, legs akimbo and all breathing heavily. And somewhere amongst them, there's always a man looking uncomfortably out of place.

It was with this image in mind that I accompanied Michele to the first of two AN classes, held at the hospital.


Time for an interlude...

The Royal Sussex County Hospital sits on Eastern Road in Brighton and has served the county for many, many years. The main building, once the hospital in it's entirety, now acts as a classy entrance to the rest of the site. New blocks and buildings have sprung up and filled just about every nook and cranny on the site (and off...), creating a mini city in which it is all too easy to get lost. As I type, they're building a monumentous hospital within a hospital, which will house what used to be the Royal Alexandra Hospital for Sick Children (presently in Dyke Road, Brighton).

They're moving the kiddies from a lovely old red-brick site to a huge glass and concrete "Ark" (as in Noah). Hopefully centralising everything will save money in the long run, but it's a shame to see the old building go - especially as I have many memories of being there as a patient, but that's a completely different story.

Back to the RSCH site, and to a building I've yet to mention - the tower block. A huge monolith of white concrete and windows, the tower block holds A&E at it's base and all the maternity wards at it's top.

Level 11 is the pre-natal (or ante-natal) ward, and is where pregnant women "check in" when they think that things are beginning to happen. It's made up of small four-bed wards and private rooms, together with ultrasound scanning rooms and the ante-natal clinic.

Once it's established that the baby is indeed on their way, the patient gets transferred to Level 13 - the delivery ward. This is basically a level of private delivery rooms, together with a birthing pool (for those who want to give birth in a bath), and theatres for carrying out C-sections (Ceasarian sections, also known coloquially as "Ceasars") and other emergency procedures.

After the baby gets born, the patient (and child) are transferred to Level 12, the after-care ward. Again, this is made up of four-bed wards and private rooms, and is for the mother to recover/bond with her child/practice breast feeding etc. before being let loose into the outside world again.

I was born on Level 13, and Mum said that you could feel the tower move when there were strong gusts of wind.

Anyway, back to the class, and Michele and I found ourselves riding the lift in the tower one evening, bemoaning the irony of having to "come back to work". Stepping from the lift, we entered the ante-natal clinic, the location of the classes, and I got my first shock.

Far from being the only Dad there, Carry On-Style, the room was filled with couples, all bearing those looks of pride and sheer terror of impending parenthood. The class was held by one of the Hospital's midwives, and she was a real live-wire. At the end of the first class I was eagerly looking forward to the next, having seen a baby doll shoved through a polo-neck jumper as a simulation of childbirth!

The second lesson was just as mad as the first one, and the midwife had the ladies in a circle in the middle of the room, all leaning forward on chairs. They then all rocked or circled their hips as they found comfortable, to simulate movements they could make to help relieve pain durng the various stages of labour.

I never knew a room full of pregnant women could move so erotically, but the icing on the cake for me was when the midwife (who was not unnattractive) demonstrated the "all over" massage technique on one of her young, nubile, midwife students...

We made many friends there, most just "class-room mates", but we also met people that would become friends in the future. I left the last lesson thinking "Well, this is it - no more classes and no more scans until the birth.... Shit!"

I say "last lesson", but Michele had another class on another day - Breastfeeding. Apparently, one of the Dads turned up to that one, the pervert....