The forgotten son

It really hit me while we were on holiday last week just how unequal life is when you're the younger of two children, especially when you're an immobile three month old and your brother is a hyperactive, attention-seeking, clingy two year old. (Okay, just 'toddler' would have covered that last bit sufficiently, wouldn't it?)

Sadly, that's Toby's lot in life right now. While Zac is haring about all over the place, filling his days with swimming and slides and (I kid you not) Angelina Ballerina stage shows, having the entire day's schedule planned around his activities and middle-of-the-day sleep, Toby has to be content with being wheeled around from pillar to post, a barely remembered afterthought in the midst of a toddler tornado.

He will never know what it is like to be the sole focus of his parents' attention. (True, Zac is too young to remember what that's like as well, but he will still have had it.) And while we will coo in enthusiasm and support as he progresses through his young life's little milestones, it will never be quite the same as experiencing your first-born's first roll, first crawl, first step or first word.

From my perspective, our holiday couldn't have come at a better time in terms of building my relationship with Toby. He stopped breast-feeding in the week before we went, meaning that Heather now doesn't always have to be around to feed him. Before then, when we needed to divide resources she had to have Toby out of necessity while I got Zac (which in itself was great as it has transformed my relationship with the former mummy's boy).

Last week, though, the shoe was on the other foot, which was fantastic for me. Liberated from his human milk supply, it meant Toby and I could spend long periods alone together while Heather took Zac swimming, say. (Conversely, it had been three months since she had had some proper one-to-one time with Zac, so it was good for her too.) Before, Daddy/Toby time had been extremely limited; I had always had Heather nearby, or had him on my own for, at most, half an hour at a time. But to be able to spend extended periods playing, feeding and talking, just getting to understand his reactions and his personality a whole lot better, was hugely rewarding.

So now I have a much better idea of his likes and dislikes, and in what ways he is similar to and different from Zac. More importantly, I have a much greater degree of confidence in my ability to look after him. And for Heather the end of breast-feeding, while saddening in many ways, has been like watching the shackles melt away. A social life is now once again a possibility for her. I can see many boys' days out and nights in the weeks and months to come. I'm not complaining. It now finally feels like I am properly the father of two sons, rather than a father of one and the occasional carer of another.

A long time in parenthood

Originally posted on 26 January 2010

It was Harold Wilson who said "a week is a long time in politics". Well, it's a pretty long time in the world of parenthood too.

Today is Toby's one-week 'birthday', and already the circumstances of his sudden arrival are starting to feel slightly surreal. (We have joked about marking the spot on the living room floor where he was delivered with a ceremonial 'X'. Me, I'd go for one of those round plaques you see on the side of famous people's homes.)

Apparently, in certain circles I am now unofficially 'Superdad' or alternatively 'The Coolest Dad In Town' (I'm thinking about filing for the latter as a personal trademark). I have to admit, though, I don't feel particularly super; I've certainly never been cool. In fact, looking back, the sum total of my achievements appears to be (a) I was there, (b) I didn't pass out and (c) I didn't drop Toby. So, I wasn't down the pub, I stayed awake and I am overqualified to play cricket for England. Hey, if people think that's cool or super, then who am I to question them?

So, what's happened this week while I've been at home with my feet up? (Yeah, right, ha ha.)

Well, Toby has taken to breast-feeding like a real natural, eating for England at every possible opportunity, a trait clearly inherited from his dad. (I'm thinking about putting a vending machine in his room.) He also seems to have settled into a three-hourly routine during the night, which is good news. He seems pretty bright and alert too; he is certainly awake for more of the day than Isaac was at a week old.

You talking to me?

Speaking of whom, Zac has taken everything in his stride reasonably well. Given that he's always been a real mummy's boy, he doesn't seem too jealous for the most part (although he keeps demanding a cuddle whenever he sees Toby being fed) and he's even being quite helpful at times. When Toby cries, Zac will wander over to the crib, peer in, say "Toby's crying. I'll sort it", and then give it a rock. Quite cute, really. He might get a bit more antsy once I'm back at work next week and he can no longer demand both our attentions, but he's doing okay.

Heather is understandably tired but seems to be recovering well, and managing the sudden transition back to night feeds without too much trouble. She's certainly pleased to be able to see her feet and tie her own shoelaces again. And it has helped that she has had a steady stream of friends coming to visit too.

Finally, me. I'm having a really good time. Other than finishing a few bits and pieces, I've been able to take my mind off work and actually enjoy my paternity leave. I've been able to spend some quality time with Zac - well, I appreciate it, I'm not so sure he does - taking him to playgroup sessions a couple of times and generally keeping him out of Heather's hair. Being home during the day also means I have time to indulge in proper cooking - a saltimbocca last night, and I'll be hand-making gnocchi tonight - in between all the household chores. (How can one small baby get through so many clothes in one day?) And I've even had the chance to start catching up on my large collection of unread books and unwatched TV programmes.

Just chilling with my dad

All in all, it has been about as smooth a first week as we could have ever hoped for.

What's next? Well, I don't go back to work until Thursday week, so we're hoping to get out and about a bit more over the next week. We're taking Toby down to see Heather's mum for the first time tomorrow, then hopefully the three of us (minus Zac, who will be in nursery) will head into Oxford for lunch on Thursday. And then I've got dinners to plan, and photos to sort out, and ...

It's a busy time, but I wouldn't change it for anything.

And then there were four

Originally posted on 20 January 2010

If this was a cricket scorecard, it would have read: Liew c Liew b Liew.

Allow me to explain.

Long story short, by the time I got home at 6:30 last night, Heather had been having regular contractions for a couple of hours, so we knew we were in for an eventful evening. Having phoned my parents - who had been on yellow alert for more than a fortnight - and asked them to head westwards out of London, we decided to settle in and have as normal an evening as possible under the circumstances to take our minds off things. Which meant putting Zac to bed, followed by takeaway curry in front of Countdown and Hustle on TV.

So far, so mundane.

The grandparents pitched up at about 9:30, quickly followed by our midwife, Amanda. A quick physical exam suggested everything was fine and we were still several hours away from serious action, so Amanda headed off, suggesting we all get some sleep.

We were preparing for bed at around 11:10 when, without any warning, all hell broke loose. Two huge contractions sent Heather scrambling downstairs while I dashed around phoning Amanda, grabbing towels, firing up our birth playlist on the iPod and so on. Although things had moved on too far too fast to make use of the birthing pool, fortunately everything else was proceeding without complication. Textbook stuff.

The only problem was I hadn't actually read the textbook. I had literally just been settling down with the book to revise the details I had so studiously memorised when Zac was born when I was suddenly called up to perform my practical exam. And as the contractions came harder and faster, it became clear that Amanda wasn't going to get here in time. I was on my own.

Fortunately, earlier in the evening I had watched an episode of the American TV drama Brothers & Sisters which - instructively - featured a birth scene. They didn't actually show the detailed process, but I nonetheless followed carefully as a group of actors in matching, pristine surgical gowns glided purposefully around a delivery room in beautifully choreographed slow motion to the strains of Coldplay's 'Fix You'. Surely that's all you need to know to deliver a baby yourself? (The sequence also featured the father-to-be collapsing in a car park as he rushed to the hospital, with what turned out to be a non-fatal heart attack. I thought it best not to try and replicate that particular bit.)

Anyway, I had enough of my wits about me to project an air of calm reassurance for Heather (in truth, there simply wasn't enough time for panic to set in), to remind her about her breathing at the appropriate moments, and to be in position as the baby manoeuvred itself into launch position with one contraction, crowned with the next one, and finally with a deft wriggle of the shoulders slithered gracefully out where I was waiting to make the catch with a towel at the ready. A quick glance at the clock to note the time of birth, and a pause to register which song was playing on our randomised playlist - Sinead O'Connor's classic version of Prince's 'Nothing Compares 2 U', in case you were wondering - and job done.

Amanda arrived five minutes later. Which was good, because (a) I got to cut the cord without having to worry about cleaning up the surrounding mess and (b) I really didn't fancy filling in the paperwork myself.

(Incidentally, I wonder if there is a separate name for the male equivalent of a midwife - 'midhusband' doesn't really sound the part, does it?)

By 1 o'clock, everything that needed to be done was done (including a beer for me to balance the slide down from my adrenalin high). We started the evening as a household of three; we ended it as a family of four.