When we left you last time we were celebrating two major events; we were through the first trimester so could now spread our baby news, plus we had managed to snag a huge special on Weetbix. Talk about a time for unbridled celebrations – I haven’t been this excited since Charlie from High 5 was confirmed as a participant on Dancing With The Stars.
The usual response when we tell people the news is an enthusiastic and heartfelt congratulations. I felt like a fraud accepting the congratulations though – all I really did was have unprotected s#x with my very attractive wife, and through a combination of sheer chance and minimal effort managed to impregnate her. It wasn’t like I had done something amazing like find Michael Clarke’s humility or crack the lyrics to a James Reyne song. The real congratulations should go to Krys for the sheer bravery of her decision to lower her standards and take a swim with me in a shallow pool of genetic deficiency in the name of procreation.
But the telling of people has made the whole ‘we are having a baby’ thing very real, and thrown up a broad range of complex issues to consider and work through. The first key issue is how many surf and ski trips I can squeeze in pre-birth, and still maintain the full complement of equipment required to make another baby down the track. I have so far squeezed in two trips, and to date have managed to maintain a testicle count of 2. I’m pretty keen to maintain 2 as a minimum so unless I fortuitously find a rouge 3rd sugar lump to sacrifice, I think the pending Queenstown snow dump will have to get by without me.
And the pregnancy has also introduced us to the sheer complexity of the childbirth healthcare system. So many decisions to make. Public or private? Midwife or obstetrician? Natural or caesarean? Gas or epidural (I’m going to hit the epidural – Krys hasn’t decided what she’s going with yet). And it seems every combination comes with its own unique, almost indefinable cost. From what I’ve figured out so far, it seems that if we go to a hospital with a roof pitch of less than 45 degrees that is made at least 68% out of brick, and have the baby delivered by someone whose name starts with J and has between 6 and 8 letters then we get back approx 35% of out of pocket expenses if we contact our health fund on a day starting with T. However if the hospital has more than 20 windows then the above doesn’t apply. I did consider suggesting to Krys that we resort to the backyard with a box of panadol and a warm towel. But I don’t want to set a precedent when it comes time for my vasectomy / castration. I can picture the satisfied smile and glint in Krys’ eye as she leads me to the backyard holding some Dettol and a blunt pair of nail scissors as she takes her surgical revenge.
Another issue to work through is whether to find out the sex of the child in advance. It seems pretty mixed between ‘planners’ and ‘surprisers’, with the ‘surprisers’ adamant that the suspense of not knowing until delivery adds to the moment. I figure my quota of ‘on the day surprises’ will be more than adequately filled by witnessing a watermelon squeeze its way out of a golf hole. So we placed ourselves firmly in the ‘planner’ category, and used our 16 week check-up scan as a first chance to see if we were having a boy or a girl. The obstetrician was non-committal about being able to tell at this stage, but after the usual check for the baby’s health the obstetrician moved in anyway for a look at the ‘action’ area. After checking various angles he came to an inconclusive ‘I’m not sure – I’d still leave it as 50/50 but there could be something small there’. My overly defensive reaction to the ‘something small’ comment was probably unnecessary. His apparent uncertainty was due to scan quality rather than implying anything about genital size or genetic pass through. But maybe Krys should attend the next few sessions alone while the Dr / patient relationship is rebuilt.
But our real chance of finding out the sex of the baby came at the big 20 week scan. Despite various twists and angles our little ‘undefined’ was obviously pretty shy, and was doing its best to ‘hide the junk’. Obviously this is one behavioural trend that wasn’t inherited from dad – I think by now Krys would be shocked if she came into the loungeroom and I actually was wearing pants. I think that helps to explain why Krys doesn’t entertain guests very often. But finally an angle was found and the sonographer could tell us whether our baby would spend its life weeing sitting down or standing up……. and it turns out we have made a little sitter!
Krys was over the moon. She has become so used to my feminine tendencies that the introduction of pure testosterone into the house probably would have been too much for her to take. As for me….. well I’ll finally be able to satisfy that deep seated desire to play with a Barbie Funhouse without getting strange looks. Probably helps with a cover story as to why I’ve had one in the garage for 5yrs as well. And I’ll be able to stock the backyard of the Funhouse with a stable of My Little Ponies as well. I think I should stop talking about this now. But the most important thing I need to buy now that we know we are having a girl is a shotgun. I need to be fully prepared if a young version of me knocks on our door in 18yrs time. I can see it now – some little dero looking guy with long blonde matted hair coming around, and in a slow stoned-like drawl asking ‘heeey mister…. is your daughter home aayyyy’. I will put aside any lingering sympathy for historical me and shoot that kid straight in the groin as I’ll know exactly what he is thinking. Some interesting times lie ahead….
smallthoughts 