Pre-baby Body

I came home from work one day to find my partner in our bedroom with piles of clothes strewn across the floor. As I walked into the room I was nearly decapitated by a flying black and white polka dot cardigan. I peered into the walk in robe and saw my partner furiously sorting through her clothes.

“What are you doing sweetheart?” I asked nervously.

“I’m throwing out anything I can’t fit into anymore.” My partner replied in a tone which suggested ‘question my methods at your own peril’. I decided on a different approach.

“Uh, are you sure you want to do that?” I asked her in what I hoped was a delicate manner.

“Yes” she replied, so curtly that I should have realised the mess I had waded into.

“But what are you going to wear when you return to your normal weight?” I asked. She didn’t reply and instead refocused on what she was doing.

Looking back on it now my partner would have been well within her rights to pick up a shoe and lob it at my head but all I had to contend with was pair of black knickers flying past me. At the time I figured I should shut up and let her be. If she was that determined then there was no changing her mind anyway. I hadn’t realised the hurt I had caused her until later that day when my partner spoke up during dinner.

“You’re assuming I’ll be able to return to the weight I was and that might not even be possible”

For a moment I simply looked at her confused, wondering what was she was talking about until I heard myself saying the words ‘your normal weight’. At that moment I hated myself. I had a sudden flash of images – my partner trying to fit into her favourite jumper and crying when it was too tight, the slightly bitter look in her face when she was showing me photos of the holiday she took when she was in her early twenties and super skinny, her looking for wedding dresses online and complaining that all of them would be unflattering on her, her crying when she first got stretch marks, and finally, the hurt expression she had on her face when I talked about her ‘normal weight’.

She had put her body through incredible stress and transformation to provide us both with a child. Her body, her thighs that she had an emotional tumultuous relationship with, her flat stomach she rarely admitted was flat and smooth. Her body that caused her aches, cramps, bloating and discomfort. Her body that, despite all the energy used to deny it, she couldn't help but compare to friends, co workers and celebrities.To provide us both with our beautiful daughter she had put her body through hell and yet I saw it fit to inform her I was expecting her body to bounce back to exactly as it was before the pregnancy.

I held her tight and apologised profusely. I reassured her that I loved her and that she was and is the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on and all I wanted was for her to be healthy and happy, in whatever form that takes.

Forget weight, forget clothes, forget appearance. Health and happiness is the way forward. Health and happiness

A baby’s favourite time to pee or poop is after you’ve taken a nappy off

The Story:

Despite my partner’s concerns on how she would take to motherhood, a few weeks in and she was thriving in the role. It was a delight to witness, it was as if she found a new colour to wear that brought out her eyes. Every time she held our child I pictured her being clad in all white, an ethereal glow emanating from her body and harp music playing. The love I felt for her grew in an entirely new dimension and our connection was tightening every day. The angelic façade drops rather rapidly, however, every time our child craps herself straight onto the change table. My angel shrieks and runs away from her daughter whilst sobbing the word “Tag!”… I understand her reaction completely. Changing a dirty nappy is one thing, but it seems to be our daughter’s preference to poop after her dirty nappy has been taken off and before the fresh nappy is put on. She bides her time, waiting until she feels the cool air on her bare bottom then fires her excrement bullets without mercy. It is disconcerting watching our adorable wide eyed daughter stare right into my eyes whilst poop that is yellow, green, brown and black get rather violently shoved from her body onto whatever poor clothes would be her victim. As I stare at the carnage she has wrought a new horror emerges – the stench. It fills up every crevice of my skull, almost solidifying in the back of my mouth.  I grit my teeth, hold my breath and get to work. Once I’m done, I’ll track down my angel, stroke her hair, and tell her everything is gonna be alright.

The Lesson

If you are the father of a newborn and you are not in direct contact with excrement almost every second day, you’re an arsehole. It’s happening regardless of whether you are comfortable with it or no. On one hand it is a great gift to your partner to say “That’s okay, sit down sweetheart, I’ve got this one”. On the other hand one of the worst things you can do is refuse to help and confine your partner to the role of ‘poop handler’. This is especially true if your partner is at all squeamish about poop. So, if you’ve agreed to be the one with the clothes peg on your nose, here are a few things you should know:

•          Be very aware of where the baby is facing. Babies can projectile poop. I am not kidding. Projectile. Poop. I’ve seen projectile poop up to two metres. I am still not kidding. If you store your nappies in a drawer next to the change table and you need to bend down in front of your child’s bottom to retrieve the nappies, make sure you’re wearing some kind of hazmat suit.
•           If you open up your child’s diaper and it’s full of crap, don’t take it off yet. She’s probably not done yet. Look at her face and see what kind of expression she has. Is she clenching her fists? Often a baby will have a big poop, fill the diaper, and wait until that poop is removed before continuing her merry crapping.  Wipe a bit of poop off her bottom, and hold the front of the diaper up like a shield. If you can pin both of her feet together and lift her up off the change table a little that’s perfection.
•           If you suspect your baby has had a mega crap, run the bath before you change her.
•           You know how dogs sometimes stare at their owners while they are pooping and that’s weird enough? Well, occasionally babies will stare deeply into your eyes, wishing for reassurance as they shove foul smelling excrement into flimsy bits of fabric covering up their bits. It’s weird, confronting, and a little bit sweet.
•           If you’ve waited until your baby has done all her pooping, has unclenched her fists and seems happy, don’t celebrate yet. Often our baby will do a big wee after her poop, creating a poop juice that soaks her entire body. “Dammit!” comes the shout from my partner, followed by her lifting the lowers part of our babies body to try and get her body out of the dirty wee, which of course causes the change table to press down at our babies back, ensuring she becomes completely soaked. No removing the diaper until she is completely done!
•           Stock your change table and nappy bag with way too many nappies and nappy bags

Society wants you to be an overworked, distant father and her an overstressed mum. It keeps you in your place

The male species feels under threat. You can see it in the anti-feminist backlash. You can see it in casual sexism at the workplace. You can see it in the election of Donald Trump. Many men are seeing their traditional place in society (unquestioned power and authority) being challenged. It’s why female ambition is suspicious, why childless women are objects of confusion and pity and inflexible gender roles are excused and even promoted through television, movies, jokes, memes, conversation and even government legislation and business practises. They all exist, whether the perpetrator realises it, to humiliated, bully and coerce men and women into their ‘rightful roles’ where men are at work and have the power, and women are at home and have the babies.

Societal pressure comes in many surprising forms, even compliments. It can feel warm and uplifting to be put in your place, with the right phrasing. I first felt the societal pressure from a real estate agent of all people. My partner was looking for an agent to sell her house and was meeting agents (the fact it was her house and not ours was lost on the chauvinistic agent but that’s another story). This was 3 weeks after our baby was born so she came along for the ride too and was lying in her transportable bassinet when the first agent arrived. He, of course, was very polite, charming and made sure to compliment our child. During the meeting she began to cry and realising she needed a change and then a feed I picked her up, not wanting to distract my partner from her important meeting. As soon as I placed her on the changing mat and took off her diaper the agent boomed out “Wow, what an involved father you are!” I beamed, happy for the compliment (I’m a bit of a compliment glutton) and thought nothing more of it until a few days later when we took out child to a professional baby photoshoot. The same situation occurred and again I heard the same compliment. This made me realise that something larger was at play. Why was it so incredible to see a man change his daughter’s nappy? Wasn’t that just what fathers do?

These people, I’m sure, simply meant to compliment me on my parenting but without realising it they were feeding into a larger narrative. If a man is changing diapers, feeding their child and soothing and reassuring them without the mother’s involvement that’s fine, but it needs to be identified as an outlier, as outside of the norm. This is because if men were to do this regularly, if men were to realise they could be primary caregivers, then how long until more men realised they could be stay at home parents? Consequently, how long would it be until more women realised they could, without any feelings of guilt, properly pursue their careers, gain power on their own terms? Society can’t abide by this, therefore the societal manipulations kicks in.

One day in the process of writing this book my partner loudly scoffed after reading something on her phone and showed it to me. It was a meme that had a smiling 50’s cartoon mum (completed with apron, skirt and heels) next to the words “In our marriage, everything is 50/50 – I cook: he eats, I wash: he wears, he sleeps: I’m up all night with the baby”. In essence, it’s a wife’s job to do all the housework, all the cooking and cleaning and child rearing and while it may be infuriating that the husband will do next to nothing but their job, it’s also a wife’s job to grimace and bear it. I know this was intended as a harmless joke that gently spoofs traditional gender roles but is a joke harmless if it excuses and even reinforces unequal relationships? The joke originated from the website healthymummy.com, though with the mental and physical exhaustion that comes from following this joke’s ethos I think ‘healthy mummy’ is an inappropriate title.

My partner and I find pure joy every day in being with, taking care of, playing with and raising our daughter. We also find an obscene amount of joy in singing along to Beatles records in different accents. The point is, both of these things are not for everyone. By insisting that having children is for every woman, people are also insisting women fulfil their gender roles. Most people are supportive of women in their mid 20s who do not have children on the way and don’t see them in their lives ever. By late 20s some people start to suggest these women need to change their outlook soon. Doom and gloom begins to creep into conversations with childless women in their early 30s. A happily married, childless woman in her mid 30s could inspire panic in greater society, followed of course with the despondency childless woman in their late 30s and early 40s may face. Nevermind how happy the lady may be. A happy, healthy 40 year olf woman who is at the top of their game professionally, kis in a wonderful relationship with the love of their life, who views life as one giant adventure is still an object of pity. Jennifer Aniston is one of the highest earners in her field and by all accounts is happy, healthy and in a fulfilling marriage but is still viewed with sympathy. If she had had been broke, struggling single actress but had two boys society would understand her much easier.

In the first couple of months at pregnancy my partner and I looked into parental leave through both out respective employers. My partner was nervous about being the caregiver of an infant and I was excited by the prospect. My partner liked to remain busy, constantly moving and improving especially at work and I preferred my downtime and was not particularly ambitious or driven at work. It made sense for me to be the stay at home parent initially. Unfortunately, due to antiquated paternity leave at both of our places of works the only financially viable option was for my partner, the woman, the mother to stay at home and I, the man, the father to return to work. Society had stepped in, and was attempting to redirect us to our expected roles in our marriage. Of course we rail against that idea; I cook most evenings, we share chores, we interact with and take equal responsibility with our child but the having to fight for it is wrong. Couples arrive at parenthood with society constantly telling us to behaved in an archaic manner that fosters tension, frustration and exhaustion if not addressed. Men need to recognise everything that is standing in the way of them being good fathers, mentally engage and banish them. 

The novelty of other women touching your partner’s breasts wears off very quickly

The Story:

The forward, explicit nature of maternity ward nurses was a shock to me, and the ease in which my partner accepted it even more so. I wondered whether she was truly nervous and not showing it, whether she had mentally prepared herself for this during the pregnancy, or whether there was a hormone released in a new mother that makes casual nudity with strangers acceptable. She acted as if it was the most natural thing in the worlds that every few hours a stranger would walk into our room, ask my partner to reveal her breasts and woman-handle them until they were satisfied. My disbelief was very quickly overtaken by joy as I began to see the benefit of everyone in the room acting as if two quite lovely women caressing my partners’ breasts at once was perfectly acceptable. After all, the depraved part of my brain reasoned, isn’t women attending to my newborn child’s only food supply just a step away from a threesome? A sinful grin crept into my face the first few times this obviously erotic ritual transpired; the action played out in front of me in slow motion, the midwife locked eyes with my fiancé, Marvin Gaye crooned softly, and the lights dimmed low. Nevermind the mechanical way these nurses were squeezing as if milking a cow, nevermind the wince my partner made every second, nevermind the wailing baby in my arms crying because she somehow knew her supper was being prepared nearby – this was SEXY.

That fantasy quickly drained away sometime during the process of a tired, middle aged midwife swatting my partner’s hands away, forcibly grabbing her breasts, rearranging them into a shape they had never been before and squeezing them harshly until a strange yellow liquid seeped from them. The fact the midwife cheered as if she had won a hand at poker didn’t help. She triumphantly held up the liquid she had sucked into a syringe as if it was the heart of a dragon she had just vanquished.  Also not helping: the way she cut off every damn question my partner had about breastfeeding with a patronizing demand for her to do something she had never done before in her life. “No no, make the nipple pointy whilst moving your babies’ head so the nostril is touching the top of the nipple. No you also need to push your breast from behind.” I’ll admit that last part puzzled me. How can she push from behind her breast? The midwife seemed unaware that whilst her entire working life was made up of women manipulating what used to simply be fashionable top fillers into cow udders, to the women she was assisting the entire process was confusing, painful and depressing. If this is what a threesome would be like I decided monogamy was for me.

The Lesson:

The first few days in the hospital contain experiences that you will both never experience ever again. Depending on your personality, your religion, your upbringing, or any phobias you possess they may be extremely confronting or shocking. The nudity part to me was very surprising but I never felt completely uneasy as to what I should be doing (the answer was keep my trap shut). What was shocking was when a midwife lifted up my partner’s legs to find her laying in what must have been at least a litre of blood. “Oh dear” was the midwife’s response to that. Oh dear…. The point is you really need to learn to roll with the punches, communicate with and help your partner, trust that the hospital staff know what hell they are doing.