He was meant to
come earlier. Wednesday, April 29th. His mother was certain he would
come right on the dot. As the clock struck twelve. As the bell tolled midnight. As the date flipped and the diary turned, she was sure he would arrive on time.
It did not turn out that way. The days dragged like a teenager with chores; the baby showed no desire to join Boris’ Britain. Why join the fray and
isolate behind bricks and mortar when you could do it within flesh and blood?
In the end, he was
booked in for an induced labour on Friday, May 8th. I drove Harriet up at 5pm.
I could tell she meant business. She was prepared to miss the final week’s
episode of House of Games to get this baby out of lockdown into – well –
lockdown. Just as Harriet was about to be induced, the contractions started. No
problem: nature would take its course. Only nature decided to take a day off.
Nay, two days off. The contractions came and went. Fluttered their eye
lashes, then ran off. Like some wicked cad in a Jane Austen novel.
 |
| Contractions can give you the come on, then scarper - just like Willoughby in Sense and Sensibility |
I really felt for
Harriet at this point. She had waited for her induction, and now had to wait
again. In fact, she has been remarkable since my dad passed away. Not only has
she had to carry a baby, but my grief too. Added to this, it hasn’t been
possible to have the usual support system going into childbirth. Her friends
and family are extraordinary; being denied their physical presence isn’t easy.
She’s had just me for company. And I’m good at many things. A whizz round with
the hoover. Remembering bin day. My famed chilli con carne. Knowing what’s
coming to Netflix. But what I can’t offer is first-hand experience of having
had a baby. (Thankfully, the dystopia of men having babies -see Arnold Schwarzenegger’s
Junior- has not come to pass.) It must have been tougher not having her
mum to give her a reassuring hug.
I went to bed
Sunday evening expecting Harriet to be back to square one. Induction, then wait
days for Zeus’ thunderbolts. At 5.20am my phone rang. It was my wife telling me
that I needed to get ready – the baby was coming. I was dazed and confused.
Caught between sleep and dream. Reality wasn’t in my eyeline. I said
something about having slept well and asked her if she felt great now her
contractions had started. She had the good manners not to say, ‘I’ve been awake
for hours. My uterus is a storm. A storm at sea. My back a shipwreck. Dashed against the rocks. My legs? Seasick, vomiting everywhere. But as long as you
slept well. As long as your wide awake. Well, that’s just David Bowie Hunky Dory.’
 |
| Evidence that the metaphor in the last paragraph is mainly just nicked from this. |
I got changed quickly, regretting every word I said. Then, didn’t get called for three hours
to go in. Cheeky really. Could have had a few extra hours in bed.
When I arrived I
saw the care Harriet was under. Leah, a midwife, and Mala, a student midwife. Although
their faces were covered, their kindnesses weren’t. They were reassuring and compassionate throughout. I could only marvel at how quickly the dynamic
between the three women changed. One moment they were strangers to Harriet, the
next a sorority. A sisterhood working together in tandem to
bring life into existence. As for me, I was very much an incidental character
in this great human drama. I wasn’t useless. I gave strokes to the arm,
water to the lips, words to the ear. But I wasn’t necessary. These women had it
covered. The midwives’ commendations and cajoles were magic spells that made pushes possible when they felt impossible. That and Harriet’s grit and determination.
Blood, sweat and tears is a sporting cliché. In childbirth it’s a reality. I’ve
never been more proud of her fortitude to get our little boy over the line.
The moment of
arrival is hugely emotional. The relief of knowing the person you love doesn’t
have to push through pain any more, along with the wonder at seeing new beating
life in front of you is extraordinary. Kit took to Harriet like a duck to
water. I smiled at the beauty of their kinship. Soon I cut the cord and
launched our ship off into the world. At this point, a baby doesn’t just belong
to his mother but the universe.
 |
| Two important people. |
After some skin to
skin and checks, I held him. My son. My boy. Initially, I was tentative. I’ve held
babies before, but I’ve always felt a bit awkward. They seem so fragile that I
worry about moving them, disrupting their equilibrium. I moved around
positions, then went on a little ramble. I returned to my starting
position and proceeded to rock him like Bebeto and Romario in '94. He fell
asleep in my arms and I felt like a father.
* * *
Two weeks ago, I
lost my father. Two weeks later I became one. The first fact affects the second. I’ve
made peace with elements of my dad’s passing: his great life; his happy final
years; the love he knew we had for him. I find it hard though that he never saw
this day. His torch though has been passed on. Kit’s middle name is Raj. They
can’t be joined in touch, yet they're knit in name. I’m so grateful to
Harriet and the midwives for delivering Kit James Raj into the
world.
Today, the work begins.
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