Breathing Difficulties Part 2
And has not been for some time.
There are many things They do not tell first-time parents. Because they are Bastards and want you to suffer terribly.
They do not tell first-time mothers that actually it is going to hurt LIKE FUCK. Really. And that odd things will happen to their brain when the tiny life they have been carrying is plopped on their strangely flat belly.
And that they will never want to sleep ever and just stare and hold this small life.
They do not tell first-time fathers that they will never feel so helpless and proud. And that if you delve in with the scissors too quickly the umbilical will actually EXPLODE with pus and blood and give them such a bad fright that they foolishly jump back and have to then go in for an embarrassing second attempt.
And that they will be made to feel quite rude when they are confronted with the news that ‘the head is crowning’ and do not then enthusiastically head south to relish the mind-boggling sight of a PERSON emerging from somewhere they had been previously accustomed to entering in a lesser capacity themselves.
Frankly, in the weird-but-good trauma stakes, the ladies win. Obviously.
But. They do not tell you that a tiny person the size of a fat cat is capable of covering a full-grown adult with vomit from head-to-toe. And that always happens to the gentleman. So it’s not like we don’t have to pay for not having stitches in our nether-regions.
Many years ago.
Favourite Daughter is very tiny. She sleeps in a cot.
One night. She just stops breathing.
They don’t tell you about this. Nobody says in any of the ‘classes’ you attend - where you are nervous and over-chatty - and make the other expectant Dads feel o.k. because you are stupid enough to say:
Me: What? Nipple stimulation? You must be joking. That sort of thing has got us in quite enough trouble thank you. Why do you think we’re here? Jesus. And I doubt either of us would be much in the mood for that kind of thing at such a time!
I think for a bit.
Me: Oh. Right. I see. Yes. Right. That makes more sense. Sorry. Not me doing the stimulating. The baby. To encourage the afterbirth and that. Ur. Right. Obvious when you think about it. What? No I can’t really see the video terribly well. Real childbirth is it? Mmm. No, I don’t need to move. The sound is quite enough. No. Really. I don’t actually want to see. She doesn’t sound happy does she?
They just don’t say ‘Good luck then with your new infant. They’ll probably never stop breathing ever but if they do try not to panic too much. It’ll probably be ok.’
Favourite Daughter is panicking. What with not being able to breath.
Tired Mam is panicking. What with our daughter not being able to breath. It is two o’clock in the morning.
I am oddly calm, as I am in all such situations.
Coughing had turned to hyper-ventilating which had turned to non-breathing which had turned to general blue-ness and boogly eyes.
At least her head was not hanging by a single thread.
Frankly, I feel inconvenienced. I was fast asleep. ‘Trouble breathing’ for fucks sake. It’s not as though a drug addict with what turned out to be a rather lengthy criminal record has anyone by the throat in some rubbish public house after losing an argument over the price of a drink.
I take Tired Mam to one side before she turns blue.
I take Favourite Daughter and hold her infant precious body close to my chest. I let her feel my warmth, steady breathing and slow heartbeat.
Tired Mam is tweaking. This is a reasonable reaction. One that adds to FD’s panic. What FD needs now is a bleary-eyed man who doesn’t get worked-up about important things but will fly into irrational rages concerning his inability to find his nail clippers.
TM steps back, and FD is left in the arms of a perfectly calm although half-asleep man.
Favourite Daughter relaxes. She begins breathing normally. I feel a hand smaller than my ear on the back of my neck. A room filled with tension and panic is slowly filled with my doziness.
Croup. According to NHS Direct at three in the morning.
They don’t really mention that one before they let you take them away. Bastards.
There was no mention of the fact that they may acquire undesireable boyfriends when they are thirteen either. It’s like They actually want us to breed.