A friend of mine is eight months pregnant with their first child, and judging by a recent conversation between her and her hubby I’m thinking it’s going to be quite a shell shock for one of them, even before they get to the sleepless nights, dirty nappies and not a lot of sex.
The penny dropped about how unprepared the father-to-be is for the mental shift from a relative life of leisure and self indulgence to one of responsibility and consideration of someone other than yourself when they were discussing the new arrival of a friend the previous week.
Wife: “It went really well. She had a 10 hour labour.”
Hubby: “Seriously!? It takes that long?”
Actually, the young men these days don’t know how lucky they are, with their arsenal of mobile apps in their pockets to give them something to do. In my day we had to fill in time massaging our partner’s back and being supportive. It was a real drag waiting for your baby to come out, especially as the only telly in the hospital wing was inconveniently located in the waiting room. There’s only so many times you can reasonably excuse yourself to go make a cup of coffee.
Wife: “That’s nothing. Actually, it’s quite good.”
Hubby: “And I’ve got to wait around with you?”
Rooky mistake. If I rolled my eyes and chuckled a little at his naivety over the labour comment, I inwardly cringed for him at this point of the narrative. If anything, his wife’s response was notable for it’s lack of expletives.
Wife: “No. But if you leave, you just keep walking. You can have every other weekend.”
And no sneaking off to the toilet to phone your mates for the footy scores. They’re onto that one as well.
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