Look What I Made

Okay, it's time I put you all out of your misery and just told you about my newborn child. Hopefully this post will settle your curious minds.

So you want to know the story, eh? Well, it's a long tale, so sit back and pour yourself a drink. We may be here a while.

As you know, I am fiercely private online, preferring to dwell in the murky depths of anonymity rather than reveal my real name or post any pictures of Wifey or myself on this blog. Those facts being very firmly established, here's a photo of me holding my newborn child, as depicted through The Magic Of The Muppets:




As you can see, my offspring has my eyes. (And my webbed feet.)

But our tale actually begins on Wednesday night, shortly after watching Thank God You're Here (TGYH). My Dad rang us from Sydney, and amongst other things, mentioned that the following day was the anniversary of Grandpa’s passing (thirty years earlier). Knowing that the middle name we had coincidentally already secretly planned to give our baby if he turned out to be a boy was my grandfather’s name, I remained calm, got off the phone, and then immediately ordered a hot curry for Wifey so we could bring on the labour! Partly naming our son (if we had a boy) after my deceased grandfather was one thing, but how much more significant would it be if we could forevermore say that the kid was born on the ‘deathday’ of his partial namesake? Well, it was worth a try. If we ended up having a girl, we were now considering keeping the middle name to commemorate the date, because it’s sort of a unisex name.

Sure enough, by 9:30pm on Wednesday night, Wifey started having contractions, but it was early days yet (and could still have possibly turned out to be a false alarm). However, the contractions continued throughout the night and by 6am Thursday we were heading off to the hospital. Upon admittance, Wifey was discovered to be one centimetre dilated (as some of you will know, it’s roughly a centimetre an hour and birth doesn’t occur until you’ve reached ten centimetres) so it looked like being a long day.

An hour and a half later, things were picking up considerably. One of the doctors had manually broken Wifey’s waters, they had determined that the baby was covered in its own meconium in the womb, a pediatrician was standing by for the birth to ensure that the meconium wouldn’t be a concern, the contractions were hitting ‘the big league’, and the gas Wifey was using was having no effect because she was taking it incorrectly!

This meant that she back-flipped on her initial plan not to have pethodine during the birth, and the midwife explained that there really was no reason to avoid pethodine anyway. Satisfied with the explanation the midwife had given us, and knowing the pain she was experiencing, Wifey relented to having a pethodine injection. Suddenly, she was six centimetres dilated (only two hours after being one centimetre), and her parents (who were there as a secondary support system and to give me an occasional break from the mayhem – which was all at Wifey’s request) were ushered out of the room by the nurses who clearly knew things were getting serious rather more quickly than expected.

It was around this time that Wifey told me – between contractions – to find an envelope in the side pocket of her overnight bag in the corner. Not knowing anything about this, I had a look and discovered that it contained a letter Wifey had written me with the strict instructions; “Not to be opened until I am in labour”. I nearly cried when I read it. She apologised in advance for anything hurtful or offensive she said to me during the birth, and assured me that she loved me very much. She said that anything she screamed at me over the next several hours is only because of the pain she’ll be in, and not because she feels anything other than absolute love for me. She made it clear that if she tells me to get away from her when I try to help, she doesn’t mean it and it’s just the pain talking. Instead, she asked me to take the letter as gospel and stay by her side throughout the process, even if she screams blue murder at me to get out. She underlined that she wanted us both to share in this amazing experience together and she said how happy she was that I’m the father of her child.

What a superwoman.

In no time at all, the midwife announced that Wifey was ‘ready’. It had only been two hours since she was six centimetres, so this rapidly-escalating process at least kept things moving along and got us through the whole thing much sooner than expected!

Wifey soon found herself unable to control the need to push through her contractions, and she raised the roof with her screams. Yes, it was very hard to watch her in so much pain, but it would have been even harder if I had to endure it myself. I’m not about to complain about my own distress and discomfort when she was going through so much agony and fear. I’m just not going to do it. Apples and oranges? Try a vintage apple tree versus orange-flavoured lifesavers (she’s the two-hundred-year-old tree and I’m the two-dollar lolly, just so you get the intended perspective). The midwife taught Wifey how to push correctly (it’s not as easy as you’d presume, is it ladies!), and from then on she went through the entire birth without making another sound. And that includes everything that follows.

She simply took big breaths and strained, but did not yell or scream or call me names. Nothing like that at all. She said later that this was only because she didn’t have the breath to scream and call me names, but the point is she was doing it brilliantly and perfectly. The midwife was highly impressed. And to think I’d been steeling myself to receive a barrage of insults that simply never came! What a superwoman.

The doctors and nurses in attendance started increasing, and we went from one of each to two doctors, three nurses and a student (when asked an hour earlier if Wifey minded a student attending to watch the birth, her answer was a short, “I don’t care, just get this thing out of me!”). And without warning, the baby’s head was crowning. We were there. The moment had arrived. It was nearly over. The end was in sight.

None of those things was true, but we didn’t realise it at the time.

The midwife told Wifey to push with all her strength, hold it, take a big breath, and keep pushing. I don’t know how she handled it, or where she was drawing her strength. I stood there, holding her hand, dabbing her forehead with a damn cloth, holding the back of her head so her chin was on her chest for each push, and kept assuring her that she was doing a great job. It wasn’t hard to say such things, because I was truly blown away by the job she was doing.

Suddenly, I was introduced to my new “Most Hated Word In The English Language EVER”: Episiotomy. The sound of the scissors cutting through my wife’s nether regions as if a seamstress was snipping away at a piece of material with those thick ‘snippy’ scissors made my knees go weak, and had me even more amazed that Wifey’s only reaction was to stare unseeingly at the wall (she wasn’t doped out, either). I can’t imagine the pain.

A few more pushes later, and they had the head out. It was very brown, with lots of (seemingly) black hair, but I knew that could just be the meconium at work. Either way, it was a much larger head than anyone had predicted. It also turned out that the baby had its arms crossed in front of its chest (as if it was folding its arms in attitude – that’s my baby!), and the midwife immediately set to work helping the doctors pull the baby out of Wifey. We were told later that it’s a good thing the episiotomy had been done when it had, because otherwise it would have had to be done at this point, which would have slowed down the birth and resulted in further – and far graver – complications later.

The baby, looking very brown indeed (was I really the father?) was unceremoniously pulled from Wifey’s body and placed on her abdomen so they could cut the ambilical cord and scoot the bub across to the waiting pediatrician on his nearby table so he could ensure that the meconium had caused no problems.

I looked down at my (surprisingly large) child and saw its gender for the first time. As it was my ‘role’ to announce the sex of the baby, I immediately turned to a relieved and exhausted Wifey and said, “Guess what it is!” My excitement must have given me away (I was hoping for a boy all along – but would also have been delighted with a girl), because she smiled and asked, “Is it a boy?” Instead of saying yes, I confirmed it with the name we’d chosen for a son, “It’s a Sweetums!” *

* Not the baby’s actual name.

We were delighted! We had both hoped that we’d start our family with a son. But our happiness took a quick stab in the guts when I heard the pediatrician turn to a nurse and say, “Call it.” She ran around the bed to the phone on the wall and dialed someone. We could immediately sense the seriousness and urgency of the matter.

Then I suddenly had a new “Most Hated Phrase In The English Language EVER” to join the “Most Hated Word”, and that was: Pediatric Code Blue.

In other words: “Oops, this baby’s not breathing. Hurry, everyone. Run in and see if you have any ideas on what we can do about this.”

Wifey’s parents were by now seated in the waiting room (it had been around an hour since they were sent packing from the birthing suite), and panicked when they heard “Pediatric Code Blue to Birthing Suite 6” repeated across the hospital PA system, immediately followed by doctors and nurses of all sorts sprinting past them for our room as if their lives depended on it. Unfortunately, it would be another twenty minutes or more until someone thought to tell them what was going on, so they were left to sit and stew in their own juices with no further information for all that time.

Meanwhile, Wifey and I could hear the PA system announcement as well, and we looked at each other in dread. “It’s alright,” I told her reassuringly, “they know what they’re doing”. This helped prevent her from panicking, and she returned to what the doctors and nurses around her were dealing with (placenta, bleeding, stitching, etc). However, although Wifey was blissfully unaware of the issues on the pediatrician’s table across the room, I was all-too-aware, as the twenty or so medical personnel flooded into the room, rushed up to the baby, and immediately used a pump on his mouth in an effort to resuscitate him. It was a very long few minutes while they worked on him and I watched, trying desperately not to let the fear and panic show on my face (because Wifey was taking her cues of what was happening from me).

As the doctor who delivered the baby started working on fixing Wifey up, the other doctors crowding around Sweetums and worked on getting him to breathe. It only took a few moments, but they were the longest few moments of my life. It started with them wiping him down and revealing a very grey and blue complexion underneath the brown muck. Grey is okay (he hasn’t had any sunshine, after all!), but blue is bad news. They finally got him breathing, then put him in an oxygen-incubator thing, but he was taken away for tests shortly thereafter.

I got to sit with him in the ICU ward (hugging and talking to him for over twenty minutes) while Wifey was being ‘seen to downstairs’ downstairs, and the pediatrician was called away to another emergency birth. When he finally returned, he was immediately called away again, so he told me to take Sweetums down to Wifey until he was free again. As Wifey was GBS positive (if you don’t know what that means, I’m not going to enlighten you), it meant Sweetums needed another bout of injections to ensure that his vitals and levels and other such things were okay. He also needed a one-time shot of antibiotics. And when the pediatrician finally returned and took him away for his (by that time) long-overdue tests, it meant Sweetums didn’t get his first feed for four-and-a-half hours after his birth.

By that point, his blood-sugar levels had also dropped, so all of these things combined to mean that the staff wanted to keep him in the ICU ward for observation for a few days, just to make sure everything leveled out the way it was supposed to.

And it did, but the intervening time caused some heartache for Wifey in particular, who was on level 5 and in considerable pain from being sewn up, while her baby was on level 2 and plugged into the wall. We got to see him often enough, but while I was able to walk in there whenever I felt like it and in relative comfort, for Wifey it was a whole different situation with a wheelchair and someone to assist her each time. I didn’t stay at the hospital, but I was there until 10pm each night and back again at 8am or 9am the next day. Throughout it all, Wifey was as strong as I’ve ever seen her, being understanding and patient with everyone and everything even though she’d easily just been through the most horrific experience of her life. What a superwoman.

My parents (as well as my 99-year-old Grannie, my sister and my brother-in-law) all traveled down by car, setting off when I rang them at 6am to tell them we were off to the hospital, so they all managed to arrive late on the day of Sweetums’ birth for a cuddle. (I should point out that Wifey’s parents, her sister and brother-in-law were all present for a cuddle as soon as visitors were allowed into the birthing suite following Wifey’s “stitching”. They were all very relieved to hear that the Pediatric Code Blue had been resolved happily.) Only my brother was unable to make the trip to meet his new (and first) nephew, but he’ll be making it up to Sweetums when he comes down to Melbourne for the Pearl Jam gigs in November.

To top it all off, Saturday 7th October was Wifey’s birthday. Unlike last year, I was unable to prepare a whole host of surprises for her – but both sets of parents transpired to throw her an impromptu birthday party in the maternity ward (by first apologising to the woman sharing the room and asking if she minded, which of course she didn’t). Chocolate cake, balloons, a HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign along the curtain rail, drinks and so on made it a birthday she’ll never forget.

Late Saturday she received the best birthday present she could ever hope to get: Sweetums was released from the ICU and permitted to spend the night with Wifey in her room. By midday Monday I’d picked them both up (as each of them had been given the ‘all clear’ by the doctors) and brought them home.

We’ve been spending the time since feeding him, changing him, cuddling him, and watching him sleep. I’ve been told that it’s a full time commitment to look after a baby … and I agree. Just admiring him and how wonderful he is is a full time commitment!

The real name we gave Sweetums includes the planned middle name, taken from my Grandpa’s name. Grannie was delighted to hear that her late husband had been honoured in the naming of her first great-grandchild. Dad was chuffed, too (because Grandpa was his Dad). I’m just happy we have a healthy baby.

As I type this, Wifey is asleep on the couch. She spent a goodly portion of the day attending to Sweetums’ every need. She is an absolutely bloody marvel, that woman. So generous, so giving, so tireless, so loving.

What a supermum.


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Here are the reasons I’ve decided to call my son ‘Sweetums’ on the blogosphere: He’s large, was brown and hairy when I first saw him, is utterly cute and adorable beyond words, has a gorgeous and generous temperament, and is simply unforgettable. That’s good enough for me, because it also describes his Muppet namesake.


The "original" Sweetums.
And look! He's holding a little BEVIS!


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And now it’s time for the real photos. I hope you enjoy them.

There's gonna be a RATE MY OFFSPRING post over on Ms Fits' blog at some point soon (I've sent her the pics but of course it's up to her when she chooses to post them), so feel free to contribute to that rating event when it happens.

Adam will also feature an exclusive interview with Sweetums in the next few days (again, I don't know his 'publishing schedule', but he's a pretty excitable guy, so I'm sure he'll get onto it pretty quickly when I send him Sweetums' answers shortly).

With regards to the following photos, although it’s not my usual custom, if you click on these pics and open them in a new window, you can view them at a high resolution if you so desire.





Sweetums having his first bath.
Still unsure about it at this stage.



No, okay - he's decided.
He doesn't like it!



Wifey's hospital bed was watched
over by a 'special' guardian angel.



Already goofing off for the camera.
Like father, like son.



BEVIS meeting his son for the first time.



BEVIS kissing his son for the first time.



BEVIS patting his son for the first time.



Sweetums hugging his new toy.
That's not a yawn; he's squealing like a gutted pig.



For the family album (and Sweetums' 21st).



Great-grandma and great-grandson.
There's more than 99 years between them,
but they're almost the same height.



Listening to his first walkman.
"My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard ..."



Gorgeous and settled, with a mini-Kermit for comfort.



Rugged up for a good night's sleep.
How precious!



The only thing left to point out is that Sweetums is definitely the best thing that's ever happened to me, and Wifey is the most amazing person I've ever met. Of course I have a newfound respect, admiration and love for my own parents, and a far better understanding of what parents worldwide (since the dawn of time) have gone through to give their kids the best. But most of all, Sweetums likes to grip my thumb (ONLY mine) with his tiny little hand, and he likes cuddles with Daddy at 2am.

... which suits me just fine.


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