Anti-Social

I was supposed to go out  last night. I didn't. It was an opportunity for me to connect with some of the new people I'm working with. I feel pretty shitty about not going because I said I would and then bailed. This isn't totally unusual for me. People think I'm anti-social, I'm not. I love being with other people and having a good time. I don't go out much for a few reasons. Well two really.

I find going out on my own with people I'm unfamiliar with to be difficult. It's not because I'm an asshole though. Not always anyway. I've never been a social butterfly, I always had my group of friends and that was enough for me. I didn't go out partying when I was younger except in the first year of uni and that was because I had friends who also wanted to go out or who worked behind the bar so I could get cheap drinks. When I get to a party or whatever social event it is I'm fine and 95% of the time I'll enjoy myself and be glad I went. Getting there is always a challenge though. Partly it's because I don't like to leave the kids at home with a babysitter. We use a great person and the kids love her, but I just prefer to be with my semi-insane offspring. I've said it before, I'm acutely aware that my kids are only going to be this little for a short period of time. Carys is already 5, she looks completely different now and is still changing everyday. Benny is getting bigger and more assertive, he's changing as well. I just never want to waste an opportunity to be with my kids while they still want to be with me. They amaze me everyday, and I say this without exaggeration. They also drive me up the wall and I want them to leave me alone sometimes, particularly when they wake me in the middle of the night by screaming my name across the hallway. Still, I'd prefer to be with them than out at a party. Mostly. So, reason one, I don't like to leave my kids but that's actually never a deal breaker and is something I can get over. On to reason two!

I get incredibly anxious before going out. I feel my body become more and more tense. There's a little voice in my head which tells me I'd be much happier if I just stayed at home. I could read a book, play games, be with the kids, cook or just rest. It's says "you know you don't really want to go. If you stayed home you be much more comfortable. No traffic, no 'meeting social expectations', no talking about things you don't really care about." The voice knows ever reason why I don't want to leave the house. "They'll be drinking and you don't really like that, they'll talk about 'the markets', finance, or maybe even sports. Nothing on the face of the Earth turns you off more than some alpha male blowhard talking about how great/shit their favourite team is right now. Or some wanker banker talking about the millions they've made in the blah, blah, blah money, blah, blah, blah, tiny penis. What do you care about it. You know you can't feign interest in any of that. Stay home. Be creative and be alone, it's what you say makes you happy." The trouble is it doesn't make me happy at all. I feel crushingly lonely while the voice is speaking, it's a physical sensation in my chest. The voice speaks so loudly it drowns out the other voice which quietly says "I rather like people actually, and I have a good time with them." If I'm with Sher I'll go because there's safety in going with her. The voice still shouts but Sher reminding me to get ready is far louder and more intimidating, not to mention her voice is actually real.

Being in a new country with new people makes things all the more isolating. Sher is incredibly outgoing. She literally made friends here before we even left Hong Kong. She's now well connected with a strong base of friends. I'm not. There are people I work with who I definitely would like to be with outside of work, but I don't know how to ask which sounds incredibly stupid but I just don't. It's not something I've ever really done. I didn't even ask Sher out on a date, we met at a bar and she asked/dared me to meet her in Macau the next day, I didn't have to do anything except turn up for the hot lady. We recently had a party at our house which was brilliant because the people were lovely and we played a game which is something I love to do. In this case it was Cards Against Humanity, if you haven't heard of it then watch the video below, in fact just watch it because it's fun (skip to 4:15 to see exactly how much fun...just make sure you aren't at work and the kids are around).

I love tabletop games. They afford me the opportunity to have a really good time and be really sociable too, both of which I enjoy. The trouble is, the moment you start talking about tabletop games is the moment people's eyes glaze over and they begin to fantasize about a runaway train crashing through the wall and narrowly missing them (but tragically not you). People associate tabletop games with three things. 

• First and foremost they think of those enforced games of Monopoly/Game of Life/Charades/Pictionary we all had to play when we were young because our drunk Aunt/Cousin/Friend thought it'd be hilarious. 
• Second they think of that guy who was ALL about winning in the last game they played; you know the one, he high-fived everyone excessively, sprayed you with spit as he exclaimed how hard he was going to own your ass and always, ALWAYS called you bro or bra. We shall henceforth refer to this type of person as FuckFace. 
• Lastly people think of awkward geeks breathing heavily as they recount their heroic D&D (Dungeons & Dragons) exploits, especially that time they rescued Princess Askaro'th from the High Priests of The Temple of Fire, the savages had made her wear a leather bodice at least 3 sizes too small so her endowments we thrust almost vertically, spilling out... (cue foggy glasses, wheezing and an inhaler puff). 

There are people like that in the world, but they aren't me and I'm not interested in socialising with them. All of these examples are misconceptions. There's a game for every type of person out there, from casual 15-20 minute games to hour long strategy games to the more prolonged and player driven narrative (Roleplay) games. Some favourite examples are at the end of this entry. I've started getting Carys interested in games and we'll see how long it lasts. We play My First Carcasonne together and she loves it. I so look forward to the day I can play more mature games with her and Benny.

So what to do. I can't not go out ever again, I can't not make new friends, and I definitely can't bail on people continually because then, whether I like it or not, I will be an asshole. I want to go out, connect with people and do what they're interested in. So what I'm going to do is be more sociable. I'll say yes a little more. I'm also going to actively seek out the things I'm interested in, and if those things don't exist I'm going to create them and hope they succeed. And if you're someone I've stood up before please know it wasn't personal and that I really regret it. It wasn't you, it was me and my anxiety.



Quick & Fun

Longer & Super Fun

Much Longer, Super Creative, & Super Fun

Moves Like Jabba

My body feels broken by continually lifting, throwing and carrying my kids. It’s broken because I’ve made the choice to be the best Dad I possibly can be. I never regret it, but it hurts A LOT some days, especially my back. I have a slightly crooked spine. I spend most of my day climbing stairs as I walk from one classroom to another. I sit on chairs designed for people literally half my size, my knees approach my chest as I hunch over to check student work or play games with them. Sometimes my legs are splayed down and out at an odd angle, making me look as though I desperately need to pee, all so they fit under the little tables I use with my students. Then it’s home to kids who have literally infinite  amounts of energy, which I know doesn’t come from the food we’re feeding them. I eat their food half the time and I’m like a freaking zombie, complete with grunting noises and an ineffectual shuffling gate. Still, I’ll pick them up, whizz them around till they pee or barf on me, because it’s fun and most importantly it tires them out!

A recent weigh in showed that wee Benny is close to becoming Big Benny, weighing just 10 pounds less than his sister who is double his age. When I carry them they wiggle and flop about like wild chimpanzees on The Crack. In my efforts to keep them balanced on me or stop them from plunging from my shoulders and smacking their heads on concrete, I find myself grunting, groaning and flailing like Jabba as he's being strangled by Leia.

For the love of Buddha STOP MOVING CHILD!

Carys in particular likes to link hands under my chin, around my neck specifically, then she’ll lean back as far as she can, cutting off valuable oxygen to my brain and rendering me incapable of any speech other than “ggggaaaaaccccchhhhkkk”. Now you may be thinking, “well jackass, just pull her off”, to this I say HA! Clearly you’ve never experienced the full might of a small human with a death grip on your neck. Also please don’t call me a jackass, it’s rude. Carys leans back so I can’t really reach her, sure I can grab her legs which are on my shoulders but then all I can do is push her off onto the concrete. The very thing I want to avoid and live in fear of doing. So I flail like I’m giving the Team America signal. You know the one.

Fun fact: If I had facial hair it would look exactly like his.

Sometimes I can reach her and pull her forward, which is why I always try the flail manoeuvre. She’s so good at this, she could take down a WWE wrestler without trouble. Grab hold, giggle manically while he flails uselessly and eventually collapses, then she’d laugh so hard she’d pee on him as her finishing move. If flailing doesn’t work I bend forward, almost bending over double. This pitches Carys forward and stops the grip of death long enough for me to ask her not to do it (other Dad’s I hope you’re taking notes, this is parenting gold). I can then stand straight and continue walking with whatever dignity I have left. Usually this is none at all because her wriggling and my flailing have caused me to sweat profusely through my t-shirt and down onto the tops of my pants, causing large sweat stains around my chest, arm pits, and the top of my arse. Since my nipples don't seem to sweat there are usually two small, circular dry patches which people naturally stare at, like I'm a topless Playboy bunny, only instead of envy or desire in their eyes they have more disgust and revulsion. On top of that my shirt has rucked up, revealing my man muffin tops as well as my pink boxers which had to be bought because I took Carys with me and let her choose which pairs to get. I promised she could choose so there was no backing out. I even tried the old "what about this pair instead love?", to no avail. So, along with every man’s staple of Star Wars, Superman, plain black and plaid boxers, I now have PINK, ORANGE and PURPLE. The caps indicate just how damn bright they are.

With Benny on my shoulders it’s different and only marginally better. He hasn’t figured out out to do the Carys Larynx Crush. Instead he does one of two things; beats on my head like it’s a bongo drum or grabs hold of the sides of my head and leans his full weight from one side to the other. This initially was a game I played with him, where I’d lean a little bit to the side and pretend I was about to fall. Cue hilarity! Then he realised I really would move with him if he had a firm enough grip and leaned with enough weight. So now I stagger like a drunk while he laughs hysterically. The best part is when he’s done with being on my shoulders, this is usually when he’s leant all the way over to one side and decides now would be a good time to get down. I have to catch him as he begins to slide off my shoulder, but not scare him by yelling “NO DON’T DO THAT!!”, instead I use my inside voice to scream it while I bring him safely down to the ground.

Having kids is fun. It really is. They are tough little nuggets. I love that they get such a kick out of playtime with me, and from something so simple as silly movement. I’m lucky that I have the strength and general good health to be able to do all this stuff. But it comes with a price some days, and it’s ok to say no sometimes. If I don’t I’d be in agony. On the plus side, all the jiggling, throwing, choking and flailing has led to me having great times with my kids, increased the muscle mass around my shoulders, chest and back, and it’s taught me that I can move with the speed of a fucking cheetah when I need to.

I GOT YOU!!

Breaking Point

Breaking Point

Everybody has a breaking point, it just takes the right set of circumstances to push a person to theirs. For some people reaching breaking point means getting laid off, bad days at work, or someone nagging endlessly at you. There are different degrees of reaction to all that. For some it means getting loaded on cheap wine, for others it's anger and resentment leading to news headlines. I reached my breaking point yesterday, when Benny was totally inconsolable, screaming and crying on me. I told Sher I couldn't have a screaming baby on me anymore, I needed a break. For me that's a big deal. I define myself as a Dad who is always ready and willing to help with the kids. To say I didn't want to be with or console my son was terrible and felt a little sickening. 

You might well think that since he's a baby, crying and screaming are nothing unusual, and you'd be right. The trouble is he's been crying and screaming on me day and night for what seems like weeks now. When I get home from work it's late in the afternoon and he's tired, about two hours away from bed. I can get a bit of cuddle time in when he's a wonderful, chubby bundle of joy, but then it's bathtime, followed by the nightly round of I'm-NOT-going-to-sleep-and-you-won't-fucking-make-me bedtime battle, where Benny screams, cries and flails about like an enraged seal until he eventually slumps into and exhausted slumber. Now I don't have to do the bath and bedtime routine every night, sometimes I do it just once or twice a week. It's what follows that has just worn me down.

Benny will wake up after an hour, crying again, then again about half an hour later, then again, and again, and again. This will continue with different intervals of time through the entire night. Consequently neither Sher nor I get a decent nights sleep. I can't speak for Sher, but I'm rarely getting into deep sleep because I'm being woken every 2 hours or so. Sometimes he'll go back to sleep quickly with a few pats on his back, other times, like on Saturday night, he'll be up for 2 hours or more. It may be teething or gas that's keeping him awake, we've medicated him recently and that's helped, but he's also a cuddle monster and hates being in his spaciously appointed cot. We have a very cuddly family, a wonderful thing, but we've also created a wee monster who doesn't like being put down. 

It's not the cuddles that have pushed me to my breaking point, it's the nights. I don't remember it being this hard with Carys, and she was a terrible sleeper for a while. Maybe it's the combination of two kids that's making it so damn tiring, they both wake at some point in the night. I don't think I'm more tired than Sher who is working her ass off in the day and still being woken at night. The thing is, saying that I needed a break from my son felt like I was saying I didn't want to be around him, which also made me feel like a shit. I love him desperately, but I can't stand the screaming, crying and flailing anymore. I can't fight him to sleep anymore. I can't go to bed gritting my teeth in the certain knowledge that I'll be woken again in a few hours by a smack from a grunting, crying baby.

Parenting isn't easy. When we first had Carys people would joke about the lack of sleep we would experience. They did it again before Benny was born. It's never really bothered me that my kids wake up at night and need me. It's my responsibility to help them because they can't help themselves. But I've hit some kind of wall and need a break. It feels selfish, like I'm somehow a failure as a parent or a bad person. I feel terribly guilty, as though I'm letting my family down and burdening my wife with extra care of our kids. But here's what no one ever said when they were laughing at how little sleep I would get: sometimes you need to be selfish as a parent just so you can preserve your sanity and maintain a healthy relationship with your family. Being SuperMum or Dad is all well and good right up to the point it starts destroying the other relationships in your life, or the relationship with the child you're working so hard to raise and love. 

So last night I slept on the couch, and I may well be there again tonight because it was quiet bliss. It will make the difference between going to bed tense, gritting my teeth and anticipating a hellish night, and going to be ready and willing to help my wee man feel better. If being selfish for a night or two is what it takes to be a better Dad and husband then that's what I'll do. 

Climas 2.0h no....

Sher, my wife, is pregnant and has been for the past 3 months. Tomorrow she won't be pregnant anymore. What was a joy has turned into bleakness. The baby that never was. The baby that didn't stand a chance. The pregnancy we had to end. This is not a terribly cheering posting. There are no happy endings to this story. I think it's rare you hear about the husband's perspective on these things. When a baby is lost, it's usually the mother who is the focus of attention and quite rightly so. The father will (hopefully) be supportive, solid, reassuring and loving during the time of tragedy; but he hurts all the same. This is my experience up to this point. I have no idea how I'll be tomorrow, that's for another posting.

Backstory!

Two weeks ago Sher had a nasty fall. She was trying to scan a document and our printer was at a height easily accessible to me, but not her. She used a chair to get at the printer and it shot out from under her. She fell, scraping most of her back along the edge of the desk and landed on her back on the floor. I got several calls on my mobile from her, clearly upset. I missed all of these calls. Fortunately she had called the school office and the word got out she wanted to speak to me. Within 5 minutes of being told by the first person, four others told me to call her. I did and promptly ran out of school (with permission), met her for a coffee and calmly proceeded to a doctors appointment. The doctor is a friend of Sher's and is very well respected within the community. Having said this, she's very feisty, and will push hard for her patients needs - something which is not always well received in a culture where loss of 'face' is taken so seriously, and people are generally expected to behave themselves, doing as they're told. Basically she's just the kind of doctor you want in your corner! It tells you a lot about Dr. Sally Ferguson that she came in after hours for us to do an ultrasound and check over Sher, I don't know many other doctors who would. 

The scan went well. She quickly found the heartbeat (huge sigh of relief) and showed us the baby as best she could. Bear in mind the baby was only 12 weeks at the time, we're not entirely sure because neither Sher nor I can remember the date of her last 'lady cycle', the fetus was only about 4cm long. This didn't tip us off at the time, but is sign that all wasn't as it should be. The baby should have been bigger. If Sher were 11 weeks, it would be less of an issue, but as we thought it she was 12 weeks it was a concern for Sally. The baby also had a round protrusion from it's belly, honestly it looked like a beer belly. Very round and very smooth. It was about the same size as the baby itself. Dr. Ferguson did highlight it, saying it may be something to be concerned about, but it may also go away in a week or more. We had a scan booked with the HK public health system for the following week, where they test for Down's Syndrome and Dr. Ferguson recommended we keep the appointment to check on things again. She wrote a letter detailing what had happened and sent emails off to senior doctors she knows within the system asking them to have a look over Sher. Again, a lovely thing to do, and we thought prudent given the challenges in Sher's last pregnancy; but again with hindsight I think Sally wanted expert eyes ready to see and confirm what she suspected at the time. We came away relieved, happy and optimistic.

Pat, Pat...Oh shit.

Flash forward to a week later. I was nursing a cold and Sher was bracing herself for the public health system. Expectations were not high, but neither were they as low as they could have been. We expected we would see a senior doctor and that the hospital would have the emails from Sally. Our appointment was at 3pm, we were seen around 4pm. So far, so normal. The sonographer was a young nurse, not what we expected. She also asked a lot of questions which we had already answered. Many, many times. As it turned out, they were in the file when she looked. She did a fairly good scan, aside from poking Sher rapidly in the belly trying to get the baby to turn. I half expected it would just so it could give her the finger. Sher was a trooper, she was quiet and calm and at no point did she assault the nurse. After the initial scan the nurse said she would get a senior doctor to look at the baby because the belly protrusion was still there. We waited a short while before Dr. Mary Tang arrived. 

Dr. Tang is a very soft spoken, gentle and kind person. She is also extremely good at her job. We didn't know any of this at the time, but it is totally apparent to us now. We all went into another room to have another scan. The lights were dimmed, the machine hummed in the corner and the aircon pumped cool air into the room. All of this combined to make me very drowsy. Well that and I didn't read the label on the box of panadol I had just used to medicate myself with, if I had I would have seen the words "may cause drowsiness". However I managed to stay awake for the scan. It was a long scan, with lots of very hushed conversation in the corner between Dr. Tang and another Sonographer. I caught glimpses of the baby, it's heart pumping, it's brain (so cool!), legs, spine, head, and that tummy. I did wonder while I looked at it, why the baby's legs were crossed. Dr. Tang finished the scan, cleaned Sher's tummy of the gel they use, patted her on the leg and said we should talk. 

Something new I have learned from this whole experience; when a doctor pats you gently on your leg, hand, arm or shoulder while looking into your eyes it means you're in the shit. Bad things are going to be said. You're probably fucked. If they pat you elsewhere...enjoy I suppose?!

Mary sat us down and took us through what she had seen. She explained that the protrusion from the baby's tummy was very large, basically the same size as the baby itself, and likely contained the baby's liver and intestines, possibly other organs as well. This is not a disaster. Babys are born all the time with this sort of problem, doctors simply perform surgery immediately to put everything back in place. Ours was different though because everything was encased in such a smooth sack, for lack of a better word. This is a telltale sign of bigger problems. 

Next Mary told us the baby's arms and legs weren't in the right position. At 12 weeks a baby's hands should be floating up beside it's face with it's arms bent at a right angle. It's legs should be floating straight out in front of it. It was difficult to see our baby's arms at all. The right arm appeared to be down beside it's body, with the humerus (big bone connected to your shoulder - thank you wikipedia) and hand visible, but not it's forearm bones. Basically there was a big gap there. It's hand was also flexed in towards it's body, if you flex your hand towards you so it makes a right angle with your forearm, that's what the baby's hand was doing. The left arm wasn't visible at all, baby may have been lying on it. On to the legs! Our baby's legs were crossed over making an X. 

Genetics 101

Based on this information Mary told us the baby likely had a chromosomal abnormality. Mary gave us the 3 types of abnormalities which are most common, I'm willing to bet you've only heard about 1 of them unless you've been through the same as us. First off though, some jargon, the word Trisome  means you have three copies of a chromosome in each cell instead of two, this is bad and doesn't give you super powers as you (I) might expect. So there's T21 otherwise known as Down's Syndrome. T13 or Patau Syndrome and T18 known as Edwards Syndrome. Based on the scan, Mary thought the baby had T18, Edwards Syndrome. 

You've heard about Down's Syndrome right?! Of course you have, you've also likely seen many kids with Down's and hopefully you will have experienced how lovely and 'normal' (what's normal?!) many kids with Down's can be. Chances are you haven't heard about Patau (T13) or Edwards Syndrome (T18), we certainly hadn't. The reason is simple and awful. Baby's with  Patau or Edwards syndrome usually die. If not in utero then within days of birth. Their brief lives are a constant struggle just to survive. Their major organs are often defective, their bone structure is usually abnormal, their nervous system is shot, and they are likely to have massive neurological problems. 80% of all babies born with Patau Syndrome will die before the end of the first year of their lives. For  babies born with Edwards Syndrome it seems their chances are even smaller, 92% will die within the first year. The average lifespan for a child with Edwards Syndrome is between 5 and 15 days. And I imagine that's two weeks of agony for the parents and the baby. (All this info is available through wikipedia and other support sites for both Patau and Edwards Syndrome)

Dr. Tang didn't tell us any of this at the time. There was lots of patting of Sher's knee, lots of questions answered, lots of information given on what we could do next, and a brief mention that the baby would likely not survive. Speaking for myself, I left with enough information to be almost certain the pregnancy was beginning to end. In my mind there was a clear path to where we were heading. I wasn't upset by it, not teary anyway, just very, very sad and shocked. Dr. Tang suggested we have another test, a CVS, essentially a biopsy of the placenta, to confirm the T18 abnormalities. To say we were stunned would be an understatement. We had picked out a name. We had told our friends and families. How do you take that back? How do you not be 'that' couple? When people see us with our beautiful, perfect 18 month old daughter, will they now say quietly that we 'lost' a baby? I remember reading a mother's description of being told her child had severe special needs I think while she was still pregnant. She described is as like going on holiday. You're packed and ready to go to Paris (for example, not everyone's cup of tea though), holiday of a lifetime, luxury awaits. Only you get on the plane and they tell you you're going to Libya instead. You'd be pretty pissed and disappointed wouldn't you, before seeing the positives (sun, sand, history!). For us the plane wasn't going to Libya, it was on fire, plummeting to the ground. We sat out in the waiting area talking about what to do next. We were both on the same page and fairly clear about where we were now heading. We asked Mary just a few more questions about testing for future reference, i.e. is there something wrong with us, or was this just a freak of nature? 

Somehow the conversation turned to the termination and this is where the breath stuck in my throat, and I started to tear up. Dr. Tang said we would be given the choice, after the termination, to see the baby before it was taken away. This was devastating for me. I often think in pictures, so the images that came to mind were profoundly sad. That I'm a dad already and have known what it's like to see my baby pop out of her mum, all goey and blue, makes the images in my head even worse. I just can't imagine seeing my child, lifeless. And that's what it comes down to. That's my baby in there. It's a part of me. Pregnancy is incredibly abstract for me, I honestly don't know and can't imagine what it's like being pregnant. My wife has tried explaining it to me, as I'm sure many other wives have to their husbands, but I just don't get it. The closest I can get is doing an extremely satisfying fart, after a few minutes of discomfort. I think you'll agree the two are in no way similar. But none of this changes the fact that once that baby is out in the world, it's my job to look after it. I can be hands on, like I am with Carys. It is something I have such great pride in. I don't understand dads who aren't involved in their child's life. Yes they drool, fart, barf and shit their way through their first few months of life. No you can't take them out to play sports, yes you have to sit with them, feed them and be gentle with them, but that doesn't mean you're being any less of a man or the things you're doing are somehow a woman's job. Quite the opposite, your wife needs you to be the man by doing those things, in this case it's ok to be slightly neanderthal, take charge a little, tell your wife to go sleep - you got this. In the words of Bruce Willis, Cowboy the fuck up. It is so important for me to be involved in my daughters life, it is part of my identity. Dad, Hubby, Geek, Baker, Teacher. That's me. You don't get the title of Dad just because you procreated. You have to be part of that child's life before you get that title, and it can be taken from you anytime. All this to say (sorry for the rant there) I won't be able to do any of this for Climas 2.0. Instead I have to choose, with my wife, to end his or her life.

The CVS test was not fun because it involved a very large needle going several inches into my wife's abdomen. The results came in on Monday and confirmed what we already knew. "Very positive" were Dr. Tang's words. We were counseled in a follow-up session, with a different doctor who was nice but either didn't understand everything or wasn't listening properly. We confirmed we wanted the termination as soon as possible.

Goodbyes

So where does this all leave me? Sher has been asking me this all week, which I appreciate because I'm stuck on that question. Sher has go-to people she can talk to. I don't really have go-to people. I'm used to keeping things to myself and working through the problems over time. This works for me, but can be lonely. There's my Mum, a qualified bereavement and relationship counsellor. But she's my Mum, you know what I mean. I can talk to her about anything but I don't always want to because it's not always right to or at least doesn't feel that way. I have lifelong friends I can go-to, but they're at very different stages of their lives. They don't have families, they aren't in relationships or they're focusing on their careers. I don't know who to talk to about this. I'm sure I'll figure it out, and it could simply be to talk to all of these people, spread the load as it were.

One thing I'm certain of right now is that this is nobody's fault. I don't blame myself and I certainly don't blame my wife (read it again and again love, I will never, ever blame you for this - you did nothing wrong, nothing at all. You're an exceptional Mum and a wonderful person. Please don't ever doubt yourself about this.). This is all just nature taking it's course. There's no avoiding what we have to do, because if we don't nature will and it will be much later on and so much more painful for everyone.

Here's where I'm at now, the night before our baby is gone forever. I'm so, so sad. I'm so sad that what was supposed to be a wonderful experience, an exciting adventure lasting a lifetime is being cut savagely short. I'm so sad that I won't get to meet my baby. I'm sad that I can't help my baby. I'm sad that all the images I've constructed in my head without even knowing I've been doing it, of a life with two beautiful children no longer apply. I don't preclude the possibility of more children, I want and expect more but there will never be another life like the one we have now. I'm also scared about tomorrow. I don't want anything to go wrong, but when your mind is already in a dark place it's hard not to think dark thoughts. I want the day and the 'mini-labour' to go quickly. I want this over with. I don't want our baby to suffer at all, I dread this so much. Most of all, I'm sad and at times feel terribly guilty, that I'm choosing to end our baby's life. It's not rational I know, the statistics don't lie, our baby is going to die no matter what; be it 6 months from now, a year or possibly more. I can rationalize the choice extremely easily and clearly. I know why we're doing this, but the Dad part of me can't stand it. And I'm all Dad now. I know people will want to tell me why this choice is best, and I agree with them, I've had the conversation with Sher and with myself and with the doctors. I know. But I'm the baby's Dad, he or she is precious to me like nothing else. Rationalizing isn't about feeling, it's about logic and intelligence, it's about not feeling. As a Dad I can't switch off the emotions I feel for my children.

So, to finish. I'm so grateful for Climas 2.0. The past few days have been both terrible and lovely, but this event won't define my life. My life will be defined by the family I have now, and in the future. By my wonderful wife, who is so incredibly strong, and so devastatingly beautiful (hawt in the lingo of today's youth). I'm so lucky to have her, and her love. And it will be defined by my exceptional daughter, who brings me such joy every single moment of every day. And it will be defined by the sons or daughters I have yet to meet or even imagine, but know are part of my future.

To Our Baby

I will never forget you. You are a part of me and I'm a part of you. I'm so proud of that. Know that you did nothing wrong. Know that I love you so much. I will miss you terribly. Thank you for being part of my life, even so briefly. You're family. We were going to call you Devon, I hope you like it. Goodbye for now little lovely.

Love Dad

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Read this... or don't

I'm a baby daddy and have been for 11 weeks now. I change diapers, I feed little bubs, I burp and change her. I'm as involved as I can be without breasts or a moob. For those who don't know what this is, it's a fake man-boob used by some men to feed a baby in a more 'natural' way. My wife threatens to buy me one every now and again.

The trouble is it took me a few weeks to get to the stage where I can say I unconditionally love my daughter and will do anything for her. I had to get past a stage of anxiety and feeling totally alien in my own home, adjusting to a totally new life. I'll give you a run down of how my life as a papa started. I'll tell you things that people just don't tell you because it might put you off being a parent (as if you somehow have a choice about being a parent once you're partner is pregnant). There seem to be an extraordinary number of taboo things that you just mustn't say to someone when they're expecting a baby. These are things that, generally speaking, aren't in any of the millions of books about pregnancy and parenting.

The thing is these are all things that I wanted to know, they are things that make me feel as though I'm normal and going through normal parenting feelings and anxieties. So I'm going to say some of these things in the hope that you read this and pass it on to someone, hopefully an expectant dad because there is a so little out there for expectant dad's to read, so they have a little more info for fatherhood.  Parents to be need to know that as well as being a wonderous, emotional and exciting experience, parenting can also be incredibly shitty too. You're fed so much positive crap when your partner is pregnant that when you're left alone at home covered in baby barf, desperately clinging to a screaming, wiggling demon child you can't help but think that either you're a terrible father or someone lied to you. Big time.

You should also tell whoever you send this to that they don't have to read this at all. God knows the one thing people expecting a child hate more than morning sickness or doctor's bills is well meaning advice from others.