Well when we left you last time we had just brought home a pram requiring an IQ 3x what I possess to operate, and I had likened childbirth to a nasty case of constipation. Obviously ‘lucky’ does not even begin to describe the situation my wife finds herself in. What an exceptional catch I am……
Anyway, talking of ‘lucky’, as our little belly baby has continued to grow it has begun to throw up some interesting issues in the ‘getting lucky’ stakes. For a start, the complete lack of alcohol in Krys’ system has meant that convincing her to take a ride on the Trent Train has become infinitely more difficult. How I miss the old Friday night passion, where my advances after Krys had drunk 3 glasses of wine would be met with an resigned ‘fine honey – just get it done quickly and try not to wake me if I drift off to sleep’. But now even when a ticket to ride is accepted, the whole thing has become like a convoluted and extremely difficult geometry exam. A big round belly creates some significant impediments to regular action stations. I am now convinced that the Kuma Sutra had its genesis in an Indian man trying to work around a 6 month pregnant partner without dislocating a hip. Although I am still searching for the pose that involves 3 pillows and one leg on a window sill. And just to add to the complexity are considerations around an appropriate level of baby shaking. I’m sure little Zuzu doesn’t want to feel like she’s in a vigorous (albeit short) washing machine spin cycle. It’s almost easier these days for all concerned if I just discretely sneak off to the bathroom with the underwear section of a Kmart catalogue.
And talking about sexy, we have also begun exploring the wonderful world of breast pumps. Just the thought of seeing my beautiful wife hooked up to an industrial style milking machine will mean that I will never drive past a paddock of jersey cows unaffected ever again. Unfortunately for me, the introduction of a breast pump into our proposed feeding repertoire opens up the possibility of me being more involved in feeding time. I had previously been hiding behind the lack of physical capability as the reason why night feeds were to be firmly in Krys’ domain, but such an excuse will now be redundant. Although the introduction of the breast pump will probably be the best outcome for me in the long run; I think if Krys heard me say ‘but I can’t be milked hon’ one more time in an attempt to avoid a commitment to a 3am feed, I think she would have attempted to overcome 1000 years of physiology by taking to my left nipple with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch until a drop resembling something like milk was eventually extracted.
We had the ultimate baby trial run last weekend when Krys and I babysat my 2 1/2 yr old niece and 6 month old nephew for the day. I had taken down some work to get through, thinking that surely in a 12hr stretch there would be blocks of free time to get some things done (how come people I mention this to who already have kids laugh out loud at this concept?). Anyway, I could not have been more wrong. Between feeds, vomits, nappies, painting, swimming, jump jumps and watching Dora I had a fantastic time, but didn’t even get much of a chance to see what the kids were up to for the day. Maybe if Krys helped me change my nappy rather than insist on this being a solo activity it may have opened up some time for me to help more broadly with the babysitting responsibilities.
When I did get involved, the babysitting flushed out two main areas of weakness that I need to address before we ‘go live’ in just over 2 months time. Firstly, my swaddling skills are nothing short of pathetic. After completing what I thought was a rock solid swaddle, rather than my little nephew looking like a well rugged up infant ready for sleep, he instead resembled a half-eaten kebab that had been mauled by an overly enthusiastic drunk. My follow up swaddle wasn’t any better, so my attempt at indicating sleep time by wrapping his body up tight in a light blanket was reduced to me pinning his arms by his side with my hands until he fell asleep (or at least pretended to so that the weird man holding him in an elongated wrestling pose would release him and leave the room).
The other weak spot which I desperately need to address is the nappy change. While holding my nephew I felt a familiar back door explosion. Given that my nephew’s diet did not yet contain any beer or lamb korma I thought ‘how bad could this be?’ and volunteered to take the nappy change task on. As I strutted down the hallway with my soiled nephew in my arms I felt I now understood how the great explorers felt – pushing off into the unknown but with an overriding sense that I could handle anything that came my way. So I made it to my unknown frontier (also known as the change table) full of confidence, ripped open the tabs, undid the nappy and then…… bang….. it belted me in the face like a vicious punch from a merciless poo bandit. The smell was so strong my head recoiled violently back and to the left – and hung with such an intensity that it felt like it was attacking not only my sense of smell, but sight and taste as well. For something this bad I was convinced there must have been a second sh#tter on the grassy knoll. With my head spinning, I pushed in again, determined that I would not be beaten by a half processed blend of milk and mashed pumpkin but was stopped dead in my tracks by the feeling of my recently eaten spaghetti bolognese trying to escape from my throat – yes I almost reversed roles and threw up on the child (although in hindsight I don’t know why I held back – it only would have closed the spew count to 4-1 for the day).
Anyway there I was in the doorway, hunched over on all fours, helplessly wailing for help from either Krys or my mother (who had popped over to check on the progress of the babysitting proceedings) in between dry retches. My exploration bravado was over – I had been beaten by the most brutal of faecal based ambushes, and had to offload the responsibility to what appeared to be a highly disappointed mum. But I know I can’t avoid the nappy change forever and have started formulating a plan to get through it. I have already sourced a chemical mask and hazmat suit, and have ordered a high pressure gurney. Now I just need to test the boundaries around social acceptance of taking a child out to a backyard and hosing it down from a distance while dressed like someone who is trying to get through an anthrax attack.
I have been dealing with an obstetrician who doesn’t appreciate my humour (how is that possible?) by preparing asparagus based meals before Krys provides urine tests, but more on that later…….
Trent, Krys and Zuzu
smallthoughts 