Something Changed

To the untrained eye you would be forgiven for thinking that this Adventure started when I wrote the first post back in July.  You might think that it started when R was born.  You could say that it started when we realised that Z was pregnant.  I, on the other hand, like to think that this adventure has been going for a lot longer than that.  For me this all started on Thursday the 28th September 1995, 18 years ago today. 

I was settling into my first flat at university in Leicester having been dropped off by my parents on Sunday afternoon.  It was my first time away from home and I was definitely still learning the ropes of real life.  My new flatmates and I had already managed to find the local pub but on that fateful night one of them, Rich, decided that he wanted to go to the Student's Union and check it out.

I honestly couldn't be bothered.  Even at the tender age of 18 I was a pub kinda guy.  The only night club that I had ever been to and enjoyed was Happy Wednesdays, an indie club in Milton Keynes at the birth of Brit Pop.  The Union promised to be all the music I hated with worse beer than I could get in our new local, but Rich was adamant.  I relented but refused to get changed, instead keeping on my battered jeans, Adidas Gazelles and baggy black Joe Bloggs pullover.  If I was going out, I was going out on my terms.

It turned out that Rich had plans that night.  He was "on the pull" and I was to be his wing man.  This was a concept that was as foreign to me as doing my own laundry.  He spent the evening sharking around the dance floor talking to any girl that would give him the time of day and I spent the evening drinking watered down Flower's at £1 a pint.  As the night wore on and the alcohol took hold, I joined Rich on the dance floor.  I didn't join his quest to get off with a member of the opposite sex, but then something changed.

Rich bumped into a girl that he had been chatting to earlier.  He had thought that they were on the same course, but I think that was just a line he was using.  Like us, she was out with her new house mates and they were all happily dancing away to the cheesy tunes.  We joined their dancing circle and that is when I saw her.  Dancing opposite me was Z.  I'm not going to claim that it was love at first sight but it was something like that.  All I knew was that Rich was still on the pull and I didn't want him to get to her first.

In a move as cheesy as the music that the DJ was playing, I sidled around the circle so that I was at her side and, for reasons I cannot explain to this day, I held her hand.  This is not a move that I had honed over time, nor is it one that I would recommend to any budding Casanovas, but for some reason, possibly pity, Z didn't withdraw her hand and we danced.

As I said, that was 18 years ago.  9 years ago we got married and our first dance was Something Changed by Pulp.  It's been our song since we first heard it a month after we first met.  Its lyrics sum up how we met to a tee.  It turns out that Z didn't want to go to the Union that night either.  I owe Rich a debt of gratitude that I will never be able to repay.  If he hadn't insisted I wouldn't have spent half of my life with the woman I love, my best friend and the mother of my child.

When we woke up that morning we had no way of knowing,
that in a matter of hours we'd change the way we were going.
Where would I be now, where would I be now if we'd never met?
Would I be singing this song to someone else instead?
I dunno but like you said
something changed.

Lyrics by Jarvis Cocker

The Sound of Silence.

This morning, whilst draining a mug of strong coffee in an attempt to wake up, I read an interesting blog entitled 'Dear parents, you need to control your kids. Sincerely, non-parents.' by American DJ, blogger and father of twins, Matt Walsh.  Matt's is not a blog that I have read before, but the striking title of the post peaked my interest and raised my hackles.  However, I shouldn't have been so fast to judge.  The post was an open letter directed at a "fan", who had sneered at a woman whose toddler was having a melt-down in the local supermarket, telling him to mind his own business. 

I won't spoil the well written piece for you, you can read that for yourself.  However, it did make me think about my own experiences in public both with and without R in tow.  To start with, I'll lay my cards on the table.  I have worked in Children's Centres, so I was used to the cacophony that children can make before we had R.  That's not to say that I'm immune to the soul splitting shrieks that some of our bundles of joy can emit. 

Generally R is a very well behaved child, but that doesn't mean that he isn't prone to the odd tantrum.  I'm told that the terrible 2s last until stroppy teenage tendencies kick in and I can well believe it.  The thing is, even when he is screaming blue murder in a public situation; supermarket, restaurant, train, swimming pool, more often or not I end up laughing at him.  After the initial feeling of wishing the ground would swallow me up, reminding myself to stay calm, assessing the situation and trying to stick to my guns, we can normally get through the situation relatively quickly.

I have been on the receiving end of countless disgusted glares from members of the public.  But for every one of those there are a good handful of knowing glances from parents who have already walked a mile in my shoes.  Unsolicited advice is hard to take at the best of times, but when you're trying to coax a whirling dervish down from the ceiling it's seldom appreciated, especially when it's being proffered by a stranger.

And this is the thing. We don't actually want to torment passers by with the tears of our children.  Everybody brings their child up differently, we have to, they don't come with an instruction manual, we have to make it up as we go along*, hopefully learning from each situation.  There is one thing that has happened to me since the arrival of R though, it's almost as if a switch was flicked the moment he was born.  From the moment he arrived, 2 months early, the cries, screams and groans, the giggles, burps and constant babble, remind me that he is alive, in spite of the troubled early days.

The switch has also made the cries of other people's children a joy to hear.  They too are as precious to their parents as R is to me.  Also, rather selfishly, I'm not the one who has to calm them down and deal with the tuts and moans of complete strangers.  Don't get me wrong, I love the sound of silence at the end of the day once he's snuggled up in bed, but I'd hate to live in a world without his voice in it.

*with the help of those whose help we seek, our parents, friends and health professionals.

Two wheels, or not two wheels

R's 3rd birthday is fast approaching and my thoughts are full of birthday present ideas for him.  I keep coming back to a new mode of transport for his main present.  We got him a wooden trike for his 1st birthday and, although he still plays with it, it is now a little small for him.  He sees children on bikes and scooters every time we go to the park and I can sense a tinge of jealousy from him.  I think it's the speed and freedom that he longs for.  Who doesn't love the wind whistling through their hair as you free wheel downhill at break-neck speed?

I remember my first real bike.  It was red and had solid rubber tyres that were always picking up gravel.  It also had badly positioned stabilisers which meant that I was always listing to port or starboard whilst furiously peddling up and down the road outside our house.  I was 3 at the time, I can't remember if the bike was a birthday or Christmas present, but if I had a bike at 3 why shouldn't he?

Well it's not that simple.  Back when I was 3 there wasn't really much choice.  It was bike or no bike once I had graduated from the push-along police car, which constantly took chunks out of my shins.  Now though there are bikes, balance bikes and the ubiquitous scooter.  So what is it to be?  No matter what I choose one thing is guaranteed, I will end up, like most parents, lugging the thing around once R is bored of it.  That thought may well be the deal clincher.

*** UP DATE ***

R's birthday has come and gone and of course I made my mind up and got him a present.  One which had his eyes on stalks as he wandered still half asleep into the living room, where it stood on display covered in ribbon.  In the end it was R who made my mind up for me.  I chose a scooter for his new mode of transport.

I pick R up from nursery every day.  More often than not the children are all outside playing when I get there.  The nursery has a nice outdoor play area with slides, climbing frame, sandpit, everything you could hope for.  There is also a road painted onto the playground.  Regardless of what R has been doing in the moments before I arrive, there are two things that inevitably happen.  First I get a hug.  This is, without a shadow of a doubt, the highlight of every day.  Second, R runs off, grabs a scooter and races around the street circuit.

The joy on his face as he shows off how fast he can go is contagious.  I couldn't get him anything else for his birthday.  The clincher was when I found a non gender specific black and green scooter which can convert from 4 to 2 wheels as his confidence grows.  We have done the sensible thing and bought him a helmet as well, although why they are kept in the narrowest and busiest isle in Toys R Us* is beyond me.

Next up is Christmas and I guess a bike will be on the list, I hope Santa has plenty of room on his sleigh this year!

*Other helmet shops are available.

A couple of days in the sun.

It dawned on us recently that we hadn't had a holiday, just the three of us, without it involving visiting other family members, since R was born.  We were never big on foreign holidays anyway.  A week abroad every couple of years was plenty for us.  City breaks were the norm.  Other than that, our only holidays away from visiting relatives, were usually tagged onto family visits.

One thing that we had really enjoyed was camping.  It started with our childhood family holidays to the New Forest or North Wales, moved onto festivals and back full circle to the Yorkshire Dales.  We had finally got our perfect tent (three man with an awning for our gear), two stoves, thermal sleeping mats, decent sleeping bags.  We hadn't gone mad, but we could cope from Spring into Autumn.  Then, of course, pregnancy occurred, R turned up, and camping was shelved. 

As well as the pressures of dealing with a premature baby we had the added self-inflicted pressure of living far from our families.  Granny lives in Edinburgh while Nanna lives in Windsor.  A 4 hour drive in either direction means that we can't just pop over for Sunday lunch.  Even a weekend trip seams a little daft so most of our annual leave entitlement involves either the M1 or A1 for hours at a time.

This weekend however we decided to make some time for ourselves and try to rekindle our love affair with camping.  Gone is the 3 man tent in favour of a family friendly 6 man tent, giving us space for more family members in the future.  The stoves have been augmented with a portable barbecue and our thermal sleeping mats have been replaced by a queen sized airbed as Z is demanding her creature comforts.  What could go wrong.

If you hadn't noticed, this weekend was the August Bank Holiday weekend and, in England, that means one thing and one thing only, rain.  I had checked the weather forecast in advance so this came to no real surprise.  We had taken an emergency "pop up" tent with us for R to shelter in while we shouted, swore and got soaked to the bone.  The combination of the torrential summer rain, coupled with a brand new tent that we hadn't erected before, made for an entertaining half an hour.  Of course, with the tent up, the rain eased off.  R quickly made himself comfortable, spread some toys into every corner of the tent and set about exploring the five meters of canvas that was to be our home for the next two nights.

 

The rain didn't stop until the middle of the night.  That didn't stop me from lighting the barbecue, nor did it stop us from finding the steep path down from the cliff to camp site to the beach.  We explored the ruins of the second world war pillboxes that had fallen from their elevated positions to become high tide homes for stranded sea creatures.  Z even found a fossil although I'm not sure what it's a fossil of.

The next morning we woke to discover a flaw in our bargain tent.  With the wind in the right direction rain was being blown under one of the ventilation windows and into R's bedroom.  Luckily he was sleeping at one side of the room so didn't wake up in a puddle.  The rain had at least stopped, but the clouds hung to the site like the barnacles which covered the pillboxes.  We made the decision to leave our tend and explore Filey, somewhere that I had been to a couple of times but neither Z or R had had the pleasure of.

 

We had made the right decision.  A ten minute drive later and we were in brilliant sunshine, paddling in the sea, building sandcastles and eating fish and chips.  The only down side to our day trip was that R had his first encounter with a wasp.  We were worried because his grandfather, Poppa John, is allergic to wasps but happily it looks like that particular gene hasn't been passed down the line.

Back at the site the weather had finally lifted.  Now that we could see past the end of our guy ropes R started to get brave.  Just how far away from the tent and from us could he get?  We were all happy as long as we could see each other, it was only when he rounded the side of a tent a couple of hundred meters away that I put my running practise in to use and shepherded him back where we could see him again.

Our second night passed without a hitch.  Putting R to bed and having to stay around the tent meant that we could spend plenty of quality time together.  We played cards, chatted and managed that rarest of things, an early night and eight hours of sleep.  The next morning we were woken by what passes for the dawn chorus on camp sites, families screaming at each other as one child complained that their sibling was in their part of the tent.  The mothers attempt to calm things down was even louder and more shrill than the original complaint.  I'm glad it wasn't us but it made for a reminder of things hopefully to come.

We packed up our tent and made our way home happy in the knowledge that we had survived our first family holiday.  We had also rekindled our love affair with pitching a tent and sleeping under canvas.  Best of all R had a great time.  In his words "I love camping." and with those words spinning around my head I'm already planning our next camping adventure.

Children's Menu - Sukhothai

Anybody who knows me probably knows that this is not my first attempt at blogging.  What you are reading is actually my fourth blog, but I have not started writing this one at the cost of the others.  My other blogs are all food related, so I guess it was only a matter of time before food reared its head here.  The thing with children is that they constantly want feeding!

At home R usually tucks into most things that we put in front of him, mood permitting, but we are not always at home.  We do venture over the doorstep and brave the big wide world and that is when trouble can start.  This summer we have been taking picnics with us when we have been venturing out, but every now and then a more substantial meal is called for and that is when we run into the Children's Menu.

As I mentioned, R likes his food, however there are a lot of Children's Menus out there that consist of burgers, bangers and mash, fish fingers, spag boll, chicken nuggets and not a lot else.  We're not food snobs* by a long shot and, apart from the chicken nuggets, we feed these types of meals to him at home.  The difference being, at home I can vouch for the quality of the produce, in a pub, cafe or restaurant I cannot.

Recently however, I was made aware that Leeds based Thai restaurant chain Sukhothai had a children's menu.  I was determined to give it a go as; a) I had never eaten in Sukhothai and had heard good things, and b) We had never given R Thai food.  He loves pasta and noodles so we thought we would be onto a winner and this week we got our chance to try it out.

As it was a midweek lunch time the restaurant, on South Parade, was quiet apart from a few suits.  The business people didn't look too happy about a buggy being pushed into their midst but the staff were happy to see us and got us seated very fast.  Speed is key when dealing with hungry toddlers so while R counted the butterflies on his menu we chose dishes from the Express Menu.

Complimentary prawn crackers kept us occupied until the main courses arrived, but when they did I started to wish I hadn't allowed him to eat so many of them.  His children's portion of Pad Broccoli with noodles was as big, if not bigger, than my Pad Kee Mao.  He was never going to finish all of it but he did give it a good go.  He even insisted on using chopsticks which completely blew me away as he'd never used them before.

Yes, that is a children's portion!

Even though he ate a lot there was still plenty on his plate by the time he'd finished.  Of course he still had room for ice cream and he wisely swapped the chopsticks for a spoon.  His two course meal was £4.95 which, given the portions, was superb value for money.  It was really healthy too, packed with fresh vegetables, even the ice cream came with fresh fruit.  Our meals were good too, so good in fact that I think we'll be going back for more.

If you are in town, or close to any of Sukhothai's 3 other restaurants with children in tow, you should give it a try.  For the record this is not a sponsored blog, I was not invited to eat at Sukhothai and I received no freebies.  I just had a really good lunch with my family.

*well we might be a bit snobby.

What's in a Name?

Baby names are always in the news and no more so than this week, with the naming of George Alexander Louis, His Royal Highness Prince George of Cambridge.  There was a lot of media speculation about what the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge would call their bundle of joy.  There continues to be analysis of the name and people pontificating over their choice.

Celebrities like the Beckhams have followed a trend of famous people giving their children unusual names.  Recently, Kanye West and Kim Kardashian named their daughter North.  Quite nice until you realise that she will take her fathers Surname.  There were sections of my family who were not happy with the middle name that was given to my little brother.

It seems that all of us, from princes to paupers, are scrutinised by what we call our offspring.  It is the first thing, other than DNA, that we bestow on them.  We hadn't given much thought to what we were going to call our baby until the day he arrived.  In our defence, we thought that we still had two months to go before making the decision.  We had a girl's name in the bag but as we didn't know what gender our baby was we needed a boy's name too.

We spent the early part of labour going through the alphabet trying to find a name starting with each letter, that we both liked.  We skipped Q, X, Y and Z.  By the time he was born we had chosen a first and second name for our little man.  The following day, in my first act of fatherhood, I registered the birth and named our son.  I know that I could have waited but we didn't know at that point if he would survive the trauma of being born prematurely and we wanted him to have a name.

He did survive and, looking back at our short list of names, we definitely made the right choice.  He fits his name well.  But does it make that much difference?  Shakespeare's thoughts on the matter in Romeo and Juliet would suggest not.

Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.

Does it really matter what we call our children?  As parents we love them unconditionally, no matter what they are called, even when they are royally winding us up.  There is their future well being to think about, but other than that, What's in a name?

The Long Weekend. Chapter3

Back in the days when I looked after R every Friday, we started to go swimming.  Due to the unique way the Council makes decisions, our local pool, South Leeds Sports Centre, closed down so I had to drive to Morley for our weekly splashing session.  This week the decision was taken to demolish South Leeds Sports Centre but you can read about that at South Leeds Life.

I'd arranged a play date for our swim and we decided to go to Armley Sports Centre.  R was giddy with excitement as we looked out his swimming trunks, swim nappy and water wings.  We chose an octopus to take with us and got in the car.  R was still bouncing as we picked up our dates and ran into the sports centre.

All was fine until we got into the changing room, that was when the spell was broken.  Suddenly R wanted to be anywhere but where we were and he certainly didn't want to go swimming.  In the two and a half years since he was born I have never seen him have such a tantrum.  Crying so hard he was almost fitting.  Backing away from me like I was about to eat him.  I managed to calm him down, soft gentle talking, making sure he was ok.  But when I suggested that he might like to have a swim it all kicked off again.  In the end we got dressed and our dates had a nice swim without us.

I was stunned to see R in this state.  I was upset too.  Firstly and selfishly, I wanted to go swimming and he had ruined my plan for the morning.  Secondly, I can still clearly remember the fun I had learning to swim with my dad, although I was a little older than R is now.  Thirdly, I don't want him to be traumatized by the idea of swimming.  I'll leave it a while before we try swimming again, perhaps it will be easier with mum in tow as well. 

Other than today's epic disaster this weekend has been great.  I do love spending so much time with my little boy and I think he like hanging around with me too.  Going back to work tomorrow morning will be a struggle but it wont be long until next weekend and more fun.

The Long Weekend. Chapter2

After yesterday's foray in to Leeds' cultural heart I decided to get back to earth for toady's daddy daycare adventure.  Earlier this year I sponsored a pig at Swillington Farm, with the sole intention of eating the whole beast from nose to tail*.  We have been visiting the farm every couple of weeks ever since to check on his progress.  Today we took the short drive out of Leeds to visit Breakfast.

Although it was only a short visit it was clearly an exciting one.  My piggy was sleeping in the shade of his sty but some of his younger cousins were happily running about the place.  We also saw the chickens and turkeys.  It was all enough to wear R out completely.  After yesterday's nap fail, I got a good two hour nap out of him this afternoon.

One of the things that saddens me about living in the UK at the moment are the constant reports that children don't know where their food comes from.  That milk comes from a cow and that chicken comes from chickens shouldn't be a surprise to teenagers.  As a bit of a food obsessive I refuse to allow this to happen to R.  He already knows where milk, chicken and ham comes from.  He has eaten whole fish with gusto.  He has eaten a wider variety of food in his two and a half years than I had eaten by the time I was 18.

Taking him to the farm reinforces the early message that animals free to roam around are happy.  In turn, I hope that this turns into knowledge that happy animals make good food.  You have to start these things at some point and there is no time like the present.

Z comes home tomorrow but not before our final adventure of the weekend.  I hope R will have lots to tell her about his time with daddy.

*to read more about my adventures in pork click here.

The Long Weekend. Chapter1

We've been quite lucky with the way things have panned out since we had R.  Yes the start was far from ideal, but everything seems to have worked out for the best.  Even having my hours at work reduced to save the company money meant that I could dedicate more time to being a dad.  Every Friday was "Daddy Daycare".  We went swimming, fed the ducks and generally mucked about together.

Z's maternity leave came to an end at the same time as I was asked to go back to work full time.  Since then Daddy Daycare has been limited to the odd Saturday or Sunday so that Z could have a day to herself.  This weekend Z is off gallivanting around Wales on a Hen Do and I am back holding the reins.  I've tried to organise at least one thing for each of the three days with the express hope that R's afternoon nap won't let me down.

Today, with Z dropped off at Leeds Train Station, I made a small picnic and we set off to spend the morning at Leeds City Museum.  This is, without a doubt, one of my favourite places in Leeds.  I have and will continue to spend hours walking around the museum.  Perhaps one day, when R is a little older, I might get to look at some of the exhibits instead of toddler wrangling may way from Stone Age Yorkshire to modern Leeds.  Until that day I'm happy enough.  The place is full of child friendly interactive activities, which R gets more out of with every visit, and he loves toddler town and the tiger.

We left the museum and made our way across town to Park square to have our picnic.  There were probably too many "suits" for the squirrels to be out and about but that small detail couldn't spoil our lunch.  R is a good eater but the promise of cake for pudding made the sandwiches disappear in double quick time.

I was ready to go home after lunch but he had other ideas.  Our route to Park Square had taken us past the City Gallery and R wanted to look around there too.  Sadly this extra jaunt knocked my afternoon plans for six.  I'd hoped to get him home before the afternoon nap kicked in but alas he slept on the way home and promptly woke up the second I put the key in the front door.

I still had the chores to do that I was going to tackle while he slept, so I moved some of his toys into the kitchen so we could play while I cooked and cleaned.  The afternoon could never match up to the fun morning that we'd had but it was no disaster.  The only tantrum of the day came at bath time.  For some reason R has decided that he doesn't like baths.  That is until he is in one splashing around and then it's impossible to get him out and dried.

We said good night after a couple of stories and the day was made complete as he muttered "love you too daddy" as I laid him in bed.  There is only a day and a half left until Z gets home, we both miss her but I love spending time like this with my son.

Leeds 10k

On Sunday, along with almost 10,000 other people, I took to the mean streets of Leeds to take part in the Leeds 10k.  This was my first proper run since deciding to try and get fit in the middle of last year.  I'd taken the decision to do something about my fitness after realising that my son, R, would only be getting faster, as I was getting slower.

I got to Millenium Square at 8:10am and started to wonder what I was doing there.  Everywhere I looked there were people limbering up, stretching and generally looking like they knew what was going on.  A thought dawned on me.  If I just set of running, there and then, I could complete the course and be on my way home before the race had even started.

I didn't start running.  Instead I nervously stretched, took on water and tried to vanish into the crowds.  Now, I know what I put on my application form.  I know that I had estimated my time as around one hour and twenty minutes.  I do not know why I was corralled in with the elite athletes.  This did not do my confidence any favours.  The slowest section I could put myself in was sub forty five minutes, half my expected time.

We were ushered, by the army, to the start line, and there we continued to wait.  Finally, after standing around like cattle, whilst the morning sun beat down on us, a local radio DJ got us under way.  I was aware that I tend to run too fast but there was no slowing down.  Running in a crowd is infectious, you become part of a pack.  It's the closest I have come to feeling like a zebra on the Serengeti.  Luckily the crowds lining the route were a lot more friendly than the packs of lions that encourage the zebras across the plains.

The cheering on-lookers did help, as I'd be told they would.  The volunteers handing out water bottles and soaked sponges definitely helped.  Being passed by a panda and a banana didn't help my confidence at all.  But it was the thought of seeing my son at the finish line that kept my legs moving.  That and the thought of the money I'd raised for Bliss, got me over the finish line in one hour and seven minutes.

I know that I'm not going to challenge Mo Farrah any time soon but for me getting over the line was a great achievement.  If I can run for an hour, walking every now and the to catch my breath, then I'm sure I can kick a ball around a park with R without the need of an oxygen tank on stand by.

I chose Bliss, the premature baby charity, to run the 10k for as R was born 8 weeks early.  We were lucky that we didn't actually need their support but we witnessed first hand the work that they do for families who really need support when their dreams of a normal family life are in turmoil.  I know that my run is over but you can still support Bliss by donating on my Just Giving page.

Start at the end.

I never thought I would be writing this post when I started Further Adventures.  I certainly never thought that it would be the post that I would go "live" with.  But events over the last few days have changed the course of or future family history.  While the massed hordes of the worlds media are gathered at St Mary's Hospital in west London, lenses and microphones trained on the doors, waiting for news of a new Royal baby, we had an appointment the Early Pregnancy Unit at St James' Hospital to make sure everything was going to plan.

While happy with our lot we have been trying for a second bundle of joy for a couple of years.  We had an early miscarriage last year at around 4 weeks so we have been nervous and protective of our news about this pregnancy.  There had been signs that all was not well this time around either, but NHS Direct, Midwives and the staff at Jimmy's EPU had all allayed our concerns.  Everything was "perfectly normal" and "nothing to worry about" at our stage of pregnancy.

The first time around was plain sailing.  No morning sickness, no odd cravings, no extreme fatigue and no "spotting".  Along with the advice we'd been given from the professionals, we were trying to convince ourselves that this time things were just more normal.  In the back of our minds there remained a black and nagging doubt.

Yesterday that doubt was confirmed.  At 11+2 weeks we had another miscarriage.

Today's scheduled scan at the EPU has been cancelled.  A fourth pregnancy test within the next 10 days should be the final act in this adventure.  We are, as you can probably guess, devastated.  We'll take solace in the joy that our little boy gives us and we'll keep trying to give him someone to play with, somebody for him to share our love with. 

I had wanted use this blog to capture my thoughts and feelings during this pregnancy, as well as reflecting on my experiences last time around.  I was also going to write about looking after a toddler and my adventures in childcare.  I may well continue with the blog, only time will tell.

Running up that hill.

I'll admit it.  I'm not getting any younger and I'm certainly not getting any fitter.  Quite the reverse in fact.  That I haven't managed to any sustain any kind of exercise regime since I was 18 hasn't helped matters.  Before going to university I used to play Rugby Union, but I didn't fancy getting involved in the "Uni Club" lifestyle.  Instead I started making serious inroads into developing a drinking habit.

I've had the odd dalliance back into getting fit but nothing ever stuck.  I joined a gym and went a couple of times.  I only found out that it had closed down when I went to cancel my membership.  I bought badminton rackets and shuttlecocks but I didn't really look too hard to find an opponent.  I did manage to lose some weight after somebody mistook me for Jack Black but that was through diet not exercise.

I am an avid sports fan, but exercise for the sake of it just isn't something that inspires me.  Then, last summer, I had an epiphany.  We had had some friends visiting for the weekend with their little girl.  It had turned into a nice afternoon so we took a trip to the park to let the tiddlers run off some steam before bed time.  We also took a football with us, admittedly for the benefit of the dads and not the children.

After twenty minutes or so kicking the ball around I was in a mess.  My son, not even two at this point, on the other hand, still had energy to burn.  I know it's hard to believe but I was a child once myself.  I knew that running around, a lot, is one of the things that children do best.  I also knew that in my condition I was in no shape to run around for long periods of time without keeling over.  I needed to do something about my lack of fitness before it was called on.

The London Olympics came and went and I still hadn't done anything about getting fit.  The memory of that day in the park was still vivid in my mind, but I didn't want to become a gym bunny and the thought of humiliating myself in front of strangers if I joined a sports club terrified me.  If I was going to do this I was going to have to do it myself.

I decided to start running.  I've been known to mock joggists in the past, but I needed to do something or face a lifetime of fat gags from my son*.  I asked around and took some advice, the most important piece of which was to spend some money on a pair of running shoes.  There were two reasons for this. The first was the advice.  If I started running in my battered old trainers I'd probably injure myself and stop running as soon as I started.  The second was the thought of an expensive pair of trainers taunting me every time I saw them unused.

A few months down the line, I'm about to take part in my first 10K.  I'm not ready for it by a long way.  I'd wanted to set a decent time but I'll settle for finishing and not being humiliated.  It's the thought of future summers running around with my son that will get me across the line.  I'm also raising money for Bliss, the premature baby charity, but that is for a different post.

*probably the same fat gags I levelled at my dad and he wasn't fat.

Mum's the word

It was the second midwife visit today and I was glad to be involved.  My important role was to get the star of the show to the meeting on time, which I achieved with flying colours.  After that I was sent packing, back to work, while the Midwives poked, prodded and pried for the best part of an hour.

I know I would have been little more than in the way if I had been there too, but my curious nature always seems to get the better of me.  What did they ask? What did they say? When is the next appointment? Is every thing OK?  I'm sure I can't be the only man who would like to be at their partner's side every step of the way, but our work, to a certain extent, is done for now.

What I do know is that by their calculations we're now at 10+1.  That's a quarter of the way through this adventure already.  Next up is the dating scan when we get to see the newest member of the family for the first time.  After that we'll go public and start telling everybody our good news.  Until then, mum's the word.

Keeping Mum

A lot has happened in the last three years and I am only human.  It's to be expected that there would be some things that I would forget.  I'm sure I'll remember how to hold a teeny baby.  I hope I'll remember how to cope with sleep deprivation.  I definitely didn't remember how hard it is not telling people that we're expecting.

Last time around we employed every trick in the book.  Every white lie from food poisoning, hangovers, long weekends ahead, anything to throw people off the scent of our impending joy.  We didn't want to announce anything until after the first scan*.  We wanted to make sure, to see it for our own eyes before we told the world.  We also wanted to tell the grandparents before our friends.

This time around our feelings are the same, we're keeping mum until after the first scan.  The difference is, this time we have been lying for much longer.  We didn't really have any pressure with number one, apart from years of laughing off hints from eager grannies-to-be.  This time around everybody has been asking when we're going to go for number two.

Friends, family, neighbours, the postman.  You name it everybody seems to have a vested interest in when we are planning to extend our family unit.  To start with I was happy with telling everybody that I'd forgotten what it was that I was meant to do!  Having a baby can squish the libido out of a relationship.  Then I started telling people that we were "enjoying the practice" of making a baby.  But when we had been actively trying to have a baby every question was a reminder that we were failing as parents to be.

We should find out next week when our dating scan is.  Until then we're going to keep our heads down and continue the subterfuge.  We haven't even told number one just in case he lets slip at nursery.  Life will be so much easier once the cat is out of the bag.  I don't like fibbing and planning in private but that's just what I'll have to do...don't tell anyone!

*also known as the dating scan

Starting Over

Just when I thought it was safe. Just as I could see light at the end of the tunnel. Just as we are nearing the bliss of no more nappies with our son, we go and get pregnant for a second time.  Don't get me wrong, this was no accident, we've been trying for a second child for some time.  There was a brief moment last year when the touch paper was lit, but sadly, as happens all too often, we miscarried very early.

I'd started to think that we were destined to be a three person family.  I think I had resigned myself to dealing with only child syndrome.  I'd even got the proper big boy Lego out of storage.  But I'm going to have to rethink my childcare strategy again, hide all sharp and small objects, as I am happy to announce that we are pregnant. 8 weeks to be precise*.

Today was our first visit to the Midwife so now it all feels official.  Plain sailing from here on in, right?  Wrong.  We're rightly nervous.  I know we've been through all of this before but we have had one scare already.  NHS Direct and the Early Pregnancy Unit both said it was nothing to worry about but after last year we are a little jumpy.

I hope to use this blog to chart our journey through the next 32 weeks.  To share my thoughts and fears about becoming a dad for the second time.  To give an insight into what I'm doing while the star of the show is being measured, probed, tested and has the world telling her how to live her life.  I'll also reminisce about the first time and how that almost ended in disaster.  Fingers crossed this will be a smooth ride.  Let the adventure begin.

*I'll come back to the vagaries of due dates on another post.