Becoming a father is not difficult... E-Book

Ralf Oesterreicher

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 191

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

This "diary" tells in short, likeable texts, in a relaxed and casual manner and with a good dose of humor and self-irony, what the author observed and experienced as a new father in the first year of his son's life. From the early days, when he didn't know what to do with this mewling little one, to the boy's first birthday. We witness the little one's first smile, hear his first words, observe how he first crawls, then learns to crawl and finally to walk, worry when something goes wrong, and rejoice with the parents over the big and small successes. Amusing for the experienced parents among our readers and reassuring and encouraging for those who are new to parenthood.

Leseprobe

Dedication

For my family!

Thanks to my family for making this great adventure possible.

and who made this first year possible in the first place

has also survived well.

And thanks to my son,

to whom we owe all this!

The birth

We had nine months to prepare for it. But now everything is different. I walk up and down the corridors of the hospital with my wife. Sometimes she bends forward a little. But I don't dare ask her if she's already in pain. We walk down the corridor of the women's clinic together, past a small open lounge from which a family is looking at us. A small, dark-haired boy with his mother, who is also visibly heavily pregnant and has taken a seat in the visitor's chair, and his father, who looks anxiously from my wife to his wife's belly. He must be wondering when they will be ready. It smells like food. And I wonder how you can think about food at a time like this. We continue along the corridor until we reach a large gallery with a view down to the first floor. An old man is standing at reception with a bundle of papers in his hand. A young lady takes them and they exchange a few words, which I can't hear from a distance. "Are you in pain?" I ask my wife. She is breathing heavily, but in a certain controlled way. That reassures me too. But there is no answer. I suggest going downstairs to the first floor. That should help to get the contractions going. She nods and we go down the wide marble staircase, step by step. Tamara holds on to the banister after I advise her to do so. I am quite anxious. Maybe even overly cautious. But the devil knows and she slips now. I could never forgive myself for that. Once downstairs, we walk slowly along the corridor of the same building towards the inside of the hospital. We turn right, where we have to take a forced break. "Is this a contraction now?" I ask. This time I get an answer: "What do I know? I've never had a contraction before!" A little intimidated, I settle for the answer. The way she contorts her face and the deep red color of her cheeks lead me to the conclusion: Yes, this is definitely a contraction. The whole spectacle only lasts a few seconds. And then my wife is frighteningly normal and encourages me to go on with her. I lightly grab the crook of her arm to support her. But I don't know if she's at all comfortable with that.

The contractions - and now I'm sure they are contractions - are coming more and more often now. As described in the numerous magazines and textbooks, they come at regular intervals. It's time to head back to the room. We no longer take the stairs, the elevator has to serve as a transport vehicle. Shortly before reaching the room, my wife decides to take the corridor on the right to the delivery room. We have to stop twice more on the way, during which she clutches my forearm with one hand and supports herself against the corridor wall with the other. It is anything but nice or pleasant to stand helplessly next to the person you love and not be able to do anything sensible to help. Finally, we arrive at the reception. Behind a large pane of glass sits a plump older woman, rummaging through papers lying in conspicuous disarray on the desk in front of her. "I think the contractions are coming more and more often," I try to make her understand as confidently as possible. "What happens now?" I promptly reveal my complete uncertainty and ignorance.

The midwife, and unfortunately it's not the midwife who had accompanied and prepared us before the birth, looks at my wife with the slightly disparaging routine that probably comes with every job after years. "We'd better take your wife's bed straight to the delivery room," she says with an unchanged expression. "Go to the ward nurse and tell her to bring the bed."

I'm actually happy to have such a clear assignment. I can finally prove myself and play my part in the story. I carry out the assignment, am visibly satisfied and make my way back to the delivery room with a feeling of a job well done. And that's the end of the brief feeling of elation.

Huddled together, Tamara leans against a small sideboard on which there is a baby scale with a heat lamp above it and other medical equipment that I don't know and which doesn't instill much confidence in me. A contraction comes and goes again quickly. The bed is still not there. Only after what seems like an interminable five minutes do I hear the conversation between the ward nurse and the midwife, who calmly discuss the state of affairs. Shortly afterwards, the nurse comes around the corner with the bed and places it next to the delivery bed, which already seems to be welcoming the next birth with outstretched arms.

Tamara wants to get through the first contraction lying down. But suddenly she jumps up again before my eyes and breathes in and out in front of me, moaning. Drops of sweat trickle down her cheeks and the midwife offers me a stool at the same time. "You don't have to stand the whole time," she orders, which makes the situation even more surreal for me. I see my wife writhing in pain in front of me and I'm supposed to make myself comfortable? I move the stool about a meter away from the bed and try to look as strained as the mother-to-be. But she only pays attention to me during the breaks. But even then, I'm afraid of not showing enough sympathy or doing something wrong. I kiss the back of her hand and she pushes me away. I take my hand away and she whispers to me to hold it out to her again. We just have to get used to each other, I think to myself.

The midwife gets some medical equipment together: "Let's see how wide the cervix is!" The cervix? How wide is it? Oh God, I think, here we go. It's actually starting. "The husband wants to stay with you?" asks the midwife, looking first at my wife and then at me. It's hard to admit that I'm thinking at this moment that I could come back in an hour and then take my son in my arms. "Yes, I want to be there," I say, "but behind the bed, please."

This is also the cue for Tamara to move from her hospital bed up to the delivery bed. I pull my stool to a position I don't mind and shortly afterwards we are left alone again. Unfortunately, my wife doesn't ask me if I can go and see when someone is going to come and finally take the baby out. No, I have to stay seated and continue to bathe coldly in my helplessness.

The contractions are now getting stronger and my wife's cries louder and more heartbreaking. Every single one hurts me too. And everything still seems to be routine for the midwife. Yes, damn it, a new life is being born here! Here comes our son into this world. How dare she go out again? Now she's even on the phone.

She comes back into the delivery room, looks at my wife briefly and advises her to have an epidural. We both nod in agreement and the midwife calls a doctor, gives her the values and gets an OK from the other side. Tamara's relief is immediately apparent. The pain will soon be over. Just a few minutes later, the midwife receives a call that there has been bleeding during an operation in another OR and it will take another 20 minutes. My wife looks at me and I feel so helpless again. All that comes from my lips is "We'll manage!". But the desperation is clear to see. When the midwife says after the next examination that the cervix is now six centimetres open and it's too late for the epidural, we both just stare at her in disbelief. She immediately picks up the phone and cancels the doctor's appointment.

So now it's official: we will have to endure a birth like 500 years ago. Without medication, with a full dose of pain and terrible screaming. For the first time, I feel really sick to my stomach. The next contraction comes and there is little time to think about the new situation. Thank goodness, actually! I can no longer distinguish between contractions, screams of pain and clutching at my hand. It all blurs into a uniform mash. The midwife and a young assistant doctor, who seems to have slipped in unnoticed at some point, cheer my wife on. "Push, go on, keep pushing!" It's just like in the movies, I think briefly and am torn from my reverie by my wife's screams. "I really don't need this every day," I think to myself. But what will Tamara think first? Is she even thinking right now? Hopefully I'm sitting correctly so that I only see what I want to see. Why is it taking so long? Is something not working properly? What if the little one isn't healthy? What if my wife ... Stop, I pull myself together and look at her hands, which are now firmly clasped in the back of the bed. And look at her hair, which is looking increasingly wild. She has her anger now. I know that. That's good. Push! Yelling at the midwife: "I'm pushing, damn it!" That's it. Shout it out. Push, pause. Push, pause. How much longer? "You can see the head now," says the midwife, "do you want to touch it?" Tamara doesn't pay the slightest attention to this strange question. Push, pause. Again. She screams, the midwife and the doctor continue to cheer her on: "One more time. One more time!" I no longer believe them. They've already said that a few times before.

"Look, he's here now!" She says that so easily now. I see the little shaky body, still smeared, the skin gray and pale, the eyes small slits. The little arms like tiny, thin tentacles desperately trying to reach for something. The little legs that rhythmically contract and stretch again. Hectic, but controlled. He lets out a small, bright cry and pees on the cloth that the midwife has spread out at the foot of the bed. I am a father!

What's different now? Nothing, I think at first. I simply don't understand the scale of this. But I will! It all happens very quickly now. I'm still crouching on my little gray plastic stool when the midwife asks me to cut the umbilical cord. My wife looks at me for the first time since the little new life arrived. "Do you really want this?" she asks. Without answering and as if in a trance, I stand up and take a step forward. Always careful not to direct my gaze towards the birthplace. The midwife hands me a large pair of silver scissors, the kind you would use for paper, and guides my hand to the thin, greasy rope, which is secured on the left and right with plastic clips. I cut the cord like a thick shoelace or asparagus and then have a pair of dripping metal scissors in my hand. A viscous black mass drips down the cutting edges. It reminds me of melting chocolate. I feel sick and look for a way to get rid of the cutting tool. But the midwife is standing between me and the tray with the other device. "Where to?" I ask. But there doesn't seem to be any time for the poor, tortured father. I decide to just put the thing on the windowsill and retreat to my stool.

The midwife places the little something on my wife's chest. I somehow try to catch a glimpse and imagine that the little one has recognized me. Garbage, but it's reassuring. I put my hand on my wife's forehead, stroke it gently and say: "You're mummy now!" As I see the tears rolling down her cheeks, my eyes water too and my whole head gets hot. This feeling runs through my whole body. It's probably pride. We have made it.

The examinations, weighing and measuring pass me by completely. A nurse grabs my hand and says that we're going to bathe the baby now. I look desperately at Tamara again. But now I have to do it. I try to look confident. But you can probably tell by looking at me. I have no idea about anything. Nothing at all! The nurse pours lukewarm water into a small yellow plastic sink, tests the temperature a few times with her hand and finally places our little Michael in the cozy water bath. "So, what do you think?" she asks me. What can I say, I think. A tiny human is being bathed here, squawking and lolling around a bit from time to time. We don't know each other. And he doesn't say anything either. So, what can I say?

She rinses the little one carefully, removes blood residue and lint and hands me the cleaned young boy. She shows me how to place the head in the crook of my arm. As a proud father, I march back into the delivery room, see my wife lying there, smiling at me from the side, and hand the precious cargo back to the young mother. My first meters as a dad are done. And so have I. Slowly, the tension starts to ease a little. Mom will need some rest now and should also enjoy the togetherness with her child. So after another hour and once mother and son are safely tucked up in their room, I make my way to the young family's future home. Day one has been successfully completed.

The day after

When I wake up the next morning, I can't find my bearings. I'm lying alone in bed. I roll over and it pops into my head. All the events of the previous day. I quickly jump in the shower, drink a strong coffee, get in the car and drive the almost ten kilometers to the hospital. To see my son and my wife.

When I open room 4013, she is lying there. In her bed with him. She smiles at me. Exhausted, but smiling. She tells me excitedly about the difficulties she had putting him down to breastfeed, that they brought the little one in twice that night, that she herself was too restless to sleep and that she still can't believe it all. I kiss her on the forehead and hold her hand. Then I look at my son and frantically try to get used to the idea that I am now a father. But it doesn't work yet. The little creature is still so far removed from what I know from movies or from the little children frolicking around with relatives. So fragile, so little. "Have you got everything? Shall I get you something?" I ask. Also just to go out again and somehow get some distance. I'm still completely overwhelmed by the new situation. It's not rejection, it's not ill will, it's more like this helplessness coupled with ignorance.

On this day and the day before, six children are born in the small clinic. Unusual in these times and a bit of a fiasco for us. Because no one has the time to explain to us what we should do when the child cries, when it cries and how to tell the difference. At some point, little Michael falls asleep peacefully. A break. Rest.

The visits

Over the next few days, it was like every new little family: everyone wanted to take a look at the new addition to the family and so grandpas and grandmas, aunts and uncles, close friends and acquaintances came along. Sometimes in such droves that I had to leave during the rush hour and drive back home or go shopping for the next few days. I was still self-sufficient. But soon my little family would be coming home. Then everything should be ready.

After some initial euphoria, the young mom was also annoyed by the mass visits at some point and so we pointed out as subtly as possible to everyone involved that they were welcome at any time, but that my wife and the child needed to have a rest. Somehow you feel sorry for them, they all just want the best. But there was just a little too much of that. So we managed to reduce the visits to a bearable level.

On the fourth day, Tamara had a small hope that she would finally be allowed to go home. Because her roommate - also a young mother of a son who was born a day later than Michael and after endless inductions - seemed to be pinned to her bed and never actually left the room. Zero privacy! I could understand this, but unfortunately I had no influence over it. Because when the pediatrician announced after the U1 that mother and son would definitely have to stay another night due to elevated jaundice levels, I could already see tears gathering in my wife's eyes. You are simply helpless at times like this. "It will definitely work out tomorrow," I assured her. But my mood was gone for the time being. The rest of the day was spent rebuilding both morally and physically.

Departure

The day of departure had arrived. My wife called me in the morning as agreed and I packed the Maxi Cosi into the car for the first time and drove to the clinic. When I arrived at the gate, I proudly pressed the bell and said I wanted to pick up my son. And the wife too, of course. The barrier went up and as I walked past the heavily pregnant women with their helpless husbands in the corridor of the women's clinic, I knew that I was already one step further. But still infinitely far from my goal.

When I entered the room, I was greeted by a smile that I had really missed over the last few days. Tamara had already packed everything, so all we had to do was fill out the check-out papers and we were off to the car. Tie up the little one, lift the barrier and off we went towards home. The hospital chapter was over.

At home

Our little son was quite restless when we entered our home. Everything was there, from quiet mewling to full-blown cries of complaint. We initially put it down to the excitement, the new surroundings. But it was now early afternoon and he had always been quite calm and well-behaved in hospital. We thought this would continue. But we were wrong.

When he didn't stop crying at any point after an endless eight hours, my wife called our midwife, desperate and close to tears. Another endless hour later, she was there. With a few deft moves, she wrapped the little one up into a handy package, put him on her shoulder and successfully calmed him down. It was done - we thought. But she had hardly been gone ten minutes when it was back: first the mewling, then the roaring.

At some point we went to bed. With his cot tucked in next to our bed, we switched off the light. And shortly afterwards we switched it back on. He wouldn't stop complaining. We didn't know whether it was anger or pain or whether something just wasn't right. I felt guilty, but at some point I went to the guest room. At least one of us should get some sleep and stay fit. At around three o'clock, an angry shout rang through our house. "You take care of your son, I want to sleep now!" was the order. I sat down by our tiled stove, took Michael alternately in one arm and the other and put him back in the little bed we had in the living room, while Tamara had probably actually fallen asleep a little on the sofa. After two hours, however, I had to put an end to her sleep again. Junior was hungry. And that's where daddy is relatively useless. She put him on - she was already pretty good at this on the second day in hospital, it's probably just instinct - but between sucking and roaring, that kind of desperation arose again that you only experience at such moments and that you don't know beforehand.

Afterwards, we found out what caused the whole disaster: my wife had been given laxatives in hospital. And had probably passed this on to Junior with her breast milk. As a result, there was chaos in his stomach.

The next day was much calmer and we got to know our child as the nice, calm and approachable young man that we appreciated so much in hospital. When you're at home and your child is there, everything is different. Everyone told us that too, but you're still unprepared. Things are left undone, are unimportant and have to be postponed. The rhythm has to settle in first.

Hamster

We were now home for a few days and I had taken the whole week off. That was also necessary. Because when nothing is routine and everything is new, it eats up time like cotton candy melting away in the rain. The days were soon relatively relaxed: Feeding, changing, pooping shortly afterwards and feeding again. You'd think he enjoyed keeping mom and dad on their toes. When visitors came, he was an angel. No more screaming or whining. Although he was often blatantly passed from one visitor to the next, he was often impossible to wake up. Statements such as "such a good child" or "a dream" were the order of the day. But as soon as it got dark, the strange transformation took place and the dissatisfaction about the impending night made itself felt in a penetrating background noise. In his defense, it must be said that he could never please his mother: If he slept too long at a stretch, there was a fear that he would starve to death right then and there. If he demanded the breast too often, he would get a tummy ache, spit up and sleep was impossible.