Good Afternoon Negative Soundbyters!! I am sitting writing this on a gentle Sunday afternoon – South Africa is once again getting trounced by England in the cricket – but there is something different about the composition of the Hodson household; Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No – it’s a BABBEEEEEEEEEE!
It was this time last weekend that Mrs H and I were wondering when he might appear. He seemed in no particular hurry, and then suddenly on Tuesday afternoon I got a call from Mrs H: ”I think my waters have broken...”. I had just stepped into a meeting which turned out to be the shortest of my career, but also the most memorable.
As it turns out Mrs H had hooked up with some of the other Mums from the NCT group and one of the babas, called Martha, sat on her lap for about an hour. She must be pretty cute, coz I think that was the trigger for Rafe. I reckon he was like: “Yeah it’s been cool and comfortable in this here womb, but it’s time to get out there into the world and start mixing things up. Let’s do this.”
But my word did he give Mrs H a working over. Rafe was a baby-on-a-mission that day. The contractions were so intense that all thoughts of a gentle build up to the main event – maybe even firing up the birthing pool – went out the window. Mrs H sucked so hard on the gas-and-air that I thought she was going to inhale the canister. But not even that did the trick and finally relief came in the form of an epidural. From literally writhing around in agony to sitting up in bed sipping some water and chatting easily to the midwives – yes it’s a bit more invasive, but that injection saved Mrs H from hours of severe pain.
The big push was scheduled for twelve o clock that evening. As they say “Cometh the hour, cometh the man…” or in this case Mrs H, who pushed like no mother has ever pushed at St Georges. The midwives said afterwards that they had never seen anything like it, especially given the epidural. What usually takes well over an hour, Mrs H wrapped up in 42 minutes. At one point I did think that her head, now a deep beetroot colour, was going to explode, but nothing was going to stop her from bringing her little man into the world as quickly as possible – although at times the midwives needed to tell her to slow down a bit!
I stayed north, but I did catch a glimpse of the head and then suddenly this very pink, gangly little baby appeared. The midwife quickly transferred him to Mrs H’s chest (skin-on-skin being the one aspect of the birthing plan which went off without a hitch!) and that was it – Rafe Leighton Hodson born at 00:42 weighing in at 8 pounds 3 oz measuring 56 cm in length. Over nine months of cooking, a little bit of basting, some spices and lots of TLC and Baba Rafe had arrived. “Howzit everybody, I’m here. I know how cute I am naked, but for the love of God can someone please put me in my dinosaur baby grow that my Dad bought me from Sainsburys and Mom, it’s time for a feed…pass the boob please.”
Rafe and I have just been for a walk. Mrs H and I installed him in the Baby Bjorn – lots of arms and legs and loops and catches and straps and clips – and off we went. I thought it important to show him his hood and he was equally keen to get some fresh air. I know this because he snuffled approvingly when he felt the light breeze on his hands and the warmth of the sun through his very cool 100% Egyptian cotton beanie – with ears!
I now have a very small taste for what Mrs H experienced in pregnancy; ok not the giving birth part – obvs! – but the carrying part. We trundled around the neighbourhood and by the time we got home I knew that I had carried a small human for all of thirty odd minutes, minus the odd prod in the ribs from a tiny foot for good measure. Mrs H, you rock!
While I managed to navigate our way comfortably through the neighbourhood streets, nothing has really prepared me for the air raid siren! When Rafe is not happy about something – usually it has to do with access to the boob or when we are changing his nappy – he slowly starts clearing his throat, fills his lungs with more air than a champion free-diver and then lets rip with such force that it feels as if the Seven Horseman of the Apocalypse are charging through the house. And he likes to time these performances for about three o’ clock in the morning when Mrs H and I are not exactly in the best shape, especially Mrs H who has been pulling some serious hours to keep him well fed and watered! But four-day-old babas have no real concept of time so who can blame him!
But would I change anything about the first few days – absolutely not! It’s a magical rite of passage – sleep deprivation; changing nappies (I still need Mrs H’s help on this especially when he does a pee-pee that arcs over his head and lands on the freshly pressed outfit that I have laid out for him); having my eardrums tested by sounds that I didn’t think were possible from a somebody so little; a few arched eyebrows from Mrs H when I proffered an opinion on how to breast feed and making sure that I don’t accidentally drop him when trying to wind him!
I am sure like all new Dads the world over, I look on my little boy with absolute wonder. He is wrapped in this innocence that is something to behold and this soft aromatic glow that does make me think that miracles are possible. He is a gift from God.
OUT :)
Pic of the Week:
Blogging, cricket and chilling with Rafe. Multi-tasking!
