Benefits and big feet...

I am officially on tenterhooks. Mrs B is 38 weeks pregnant and I cannot let my phone out of my sight. As I type, I have it nestled in my pocket, set on the loudest ring tone possible and with maximum vibration. The result, unfortunately, is that I jumped out of my skin and let out a slight yelp this morning when a text arrived from T-Mobile telling me something utterly irrelevant.

Everyone also keeps telling us that the baby could arrive any time now which, although well intended, is actually intensely annoying. It's as if they expect us to drop everything and start panicing as a direct result of their insightful advice.

"Really Mrs Jones?! You mean, this full-term baby could actually be born today? Blimey, it's a good job you told me, I clearly haven't read enough over the last nine months or attended enough antenatal appointments to have any idea what is likely to happen at the culmination of this life changing event!"

But then again, maybe my ever increasing nerves are getting the better of me and snapping at well-meaning pensioners isn't the best idea!
                                                                     
With parenthood imminent, meanwhile, I've found myself glued to the Conservative Party Conference this week as debate rages over the coalition government's plans to scrap child benefit for those earning over £44,000.

Are cuts necessary? Yes, I can't argue with the fact that the country's in somewhat of a financial mire at the moment and we need to tighten the purse strings. Is the child benefit proposal fair? Absolutely not. It's outrageous that a single income family with one parent earning £45,000 is denied child benefit, while a double income family earning £88,000 can rinse the system for the full whack.

I sense, however, that there might be some subtle backtracking along Whitehall in the months ahead, so I'm not going to set to work on my picket plackard just yet!

Closer to home this week, Mrs B has been enduring baby feet to the ribs. Indeed, it appears that our son or daughter will be born with Size 10s if the size of the various protrusions are anything to go by!

Let's just hope the government doesn't impose a tax on shoe leather anytime soon!

Man flu misery...

I may have a Lemsip problem.

Over the last few days I haven't been able to get enough of the lemon-flavoured good stuff as I have fought, far from courageously, against a particularly nasty early-autumn cold. Indeed, I am the first to admit that I have not been a pleasant sight of late, dressed as I am in pyjamas and dressing gown, armed 24/7 with a tissue-replacement muslin and looking generally fit for nothing more than a starring role in Night of The Living Dead.

Mrs B suffered the same virus last week although it is evidently clear that this particular bug hits the male half of the population much harder. Despite being 36 weeks pregnant (yes, regular readers, we're almost there) I can only put my wife's ability to shrug off this cold down to the fact that it is a male-hating virus. How else can I explain the fact that, while she was back at full capacity after three days, I am strenuously typing these notes - and straining my bloodhsot eyes to read them - on day five of my seemingly endless battle.

The recent sleepless nights, however, have given me time to ponder and to be thankful for the fact that we have at least  endured the Cold War now, a month before Baby B's arrival. I can only imagine how hard it must be to look after a newborn child whilst constantly blowing your nose. Not only would I be worried of passing anything on to my vulnerable son or daughter, but I'd also be terrified that a combination of sleep deprivation and Lemsip would cloud my judgement and see me depositing dirty nappies in the fridge, or putting the little one down to sleep in the washing basket.

So, what am I complaining about really? I'm lucky to be suffering like I am, aren't I?

Swede dreams!

Thirty-five weeks and counting.

The big day is rapidly approaching now and, having put it off for as long as possible, we buckled earlier this week and found ourselves eating meatballs in Ikea. It was the culinary precursor to the inevitable Market Place sweep for last minute nursery bits and bobs.

Prior to arrival at the Swedish furniture mecca, however, Mrs B and I had sworn an oath to enter the building, head directly to the nursery section, pick up the changing mat and covers we needed and aim directly for the checkouts. It was a simple mission, in and out in as short a time as possible and head home for supper and Coronation Street.

Needless to say, it didn't go to plan.

Within seconds of walking through the insanely large revolving doors we had talked ourselves in to eating out, or rather in Ikea. It took nothing more than a quick; "ooh, the meatballs look good," to ensure that we found ourselves with trays in hand and time ticking away. The oath had already been forgotten.

Dinner over and having deposited our trays in the tray racks (for some reason eating at Ikea reminds me of school dinners), we grabbed our compulsory yellow bags and headed for the Market Place, pausing to study the floor plan before entering. For some reason we couldn't see the children's area and, assuming it was an oversight on our part, began following the arrows through the Market maze.

It was clear from the eager faces of our fellow shoppers that we had all fallen in to the Ikea trap, wondering as we were whether we could actually live without the bargain cutlery sets, over-sized mugs, mixing bowls, storage boxes, picture frames, shelves and lights that gravitated towards our trolleys or yellow bags.  How easy it would be to come home with a new kitchen, when all you went in for was a spare bulb for that annoying lamp in the lounge!

Bereft of daylight and any indication of the time - despite the miriad of clocks on offer - Mrs B and I trekked aimlessly around the Market Place, eventually realising that the children's zone was upstairs in the showroom and that we had, in fact, wasted the past half hour perusing curtains and bedding (despite being fully equipped with all the curtains and bedding we could ever need).

And so it was that Ikea stole our evening. Coronation Street was missed and we returned home with a bag of odds and ends that we didn't know we needed.

Mind you, the meatballs were good!

Back to school biology

Walking nervously into the grounds of a local primary school earlier this week, Mrs B and I embarked on the first of our NHS-funded 'Parent Craft' lessons.

Literally going back to school the pair of us took our seats (thankfully not toddler-size) in a neat semi-circle, largely consisting of puzzled-looking mums and dads, in an empty primary classroom. The setting for our introduction to the miracle of childbirth was as sterile as it was uncomfortable. The NHS, bless their souls, had, however, laid on a wealth of refreshments for us, namely two jugs of water and at least five glasses. We were, it was fair to say, instantly sceptical of the two hour lesson that lay ahead.

We needn't have worried. Our community midwife tutor - a bubbly, calm and motherly figure who instantly put us at ease - wasted no time in whipping out the labour diagrams and explaining the intricacies of the birthing process to us. Mrs B and I were utterly gripped. We thought we knew the basics, but it was clear we knew nothing.

Jenny, adopting the role of biology teacher, began by detailing the various signs of labour. The breaking of waters may not, we were told,  actually mean the start of labour. In fact, the whole process may not start until hours or even days afterwards, which was news to us. As were the intricacies of the various stages of labour - all expertly demonstrated to us by an enthusiastic Jenny with the aid of a 30 year-old baby doll and a plastic pelvis.

Needless to say we left the school grounds wiser than we had entered and thankful that the free course had given us such a brilliant insight in to what we can expect in a few weeks' time. What's interesting now, however, is how NCT will compare? I have a feeling that there may be a few more cushions, and maybe even a selection of biscuits, but will the quality of the information and the delivery match that which we received from the NHS? Watch this space to find out.

Ventouse the daddy?

Having watched enough episodes of ER over the years I am - should I find myself in charge of an emergency situation - certain that a prompt CBC and Chem 7 would assure a speedy recovery for my unlucky patient, whatever the blood curdling trauma or injury. Afterall, it worked for Clooney and Goose from Top Gun for years!

Pregnancy, however, is a wholly different kettle of fish, complete with its own terrifying technical terminology.

This week, for instance, I have been researching the decisions Mrs B and I need to make with regards to our 'birth plan' - a term that itself sounds a bit too tree-huggy, new age for my liking - and been once again faced with the daunting labour ward language that we're going to have to adopt over the coming weeks.

Ventouse, pethidine, entonox and epidural - they may read like the cast of a Spanish soap opera, but unfortunately they're actually the choices that face us with regards to how Baby B will enter this world. A cocktail of drugs and a plethora of equipment that we can choose to use or ignore when it comes to B-Day.

Furthermore, websites and birth plan guides tell us that now's the time to decide on how Mrs B wants to give birth. Standing, sitting, in bed, kneeling, in the water or, bizarrely, on a birth ball - all are possible, even though this last option conjures up images of Mrs B in one of those giant, transparent, roll-down-the-mountain zorb things, hardly the most relaxing of scenarios.

And then there's the question of my role, what on earth am I going to do on the day? Of course I want to be there by my wife's side, but how much of a role can I play? My fear is that, in the process of doing as much as I possibly can (calming words, massage, relaxation techniques, breathing exercises, sponge duty etc), I'm actually just going to annoy the hell out of her. Either that or I'll just be hogging the gas and air!

Would I like to cut the cord? Um, yes, of course, and would I like to tell my wife the sex of the baby? Um, yes again. These are all important questions, but things never quite go to plan in our family, so I'm fully prepared for the moment that I pass out while cutting the cord, or when I tell my exhausted wife that we have a baby boy when she's actually about to cradle her daughter in her arms!

But then again, maybe I'm just starting to panic.

Wham bam Sam Cam's a mam...again

The Prime Minister has become a father again today after Mrs C gave birth to a daughter while on holiday in Cornwall. Great news for the Cameron clan, but is it good news for the country?

Whenever I read about newborns - and I have been reading a great deal on the subject of late - it seems that the words 'sleep deprivation', 'exhaustion' and 'stress' are never far behind. Indeed, the BBC today posted a story on life as a new father alongside that of the PM's new arrival. Unsurprisingly the piece told of one father's shock and emotional anxiety when it came to looking after his newborn son.

Is it therefore not perhaps a good idea for someone to temporarily look after the keys to the big red buttons in Downing Street, just in case a sleep-deprived DC accidentally leans on one while helping Sam with the 3am feed, launching a missile attack on Cardiff in the process?

Mind you, the next few months could prove valuable for junior ministers and backbenchers wishing to push through the odd piece of controversial legislation.

"I know it's late in the day, you've got your hands full with a particularly dirty nappy and bath time's around the corner, but do you mind just quickly signing this tiny little tax on oxygen Mr Cameron, sir?"

These could be dangerous times good people, watch out!

Size doesn't matter, or does it?

"Oooh, haven't you got a tiny bump," said the midwife as Mrs B strolled in to her office for her 31-week check-up yesterday.

"Really? Oh," was  my wife's startled and instantly worried reaction.

It wasn't exactly the A to Z of Midwifing's text book way of putting a first-time mum at ease upon arrival at one's clinic. A plastic surgeon wouldn't, for example, welcome a nervous nose-job patient in to his surgery with the words; "Morning big nose."

Anyway, despite causing momentary panic for Mrs B, the midwife went on to explain that, although her bump was on the small side, all was well. A measurement was taken and it transpired that Baby B's bump measured 30 cm and, we were told, that anywhere 3cm either side of your number of weeks is fine. Cue a giant sigh of relief.

However, this has got me thinking - and searching Google images for comparitive 31-week bumps - and it does seem that, at this stage of pregnancy, bump sizes vary hugely. Friends of ours, for instance, visited us for lunch at 31-weeks pregnant and clearly, in my humble opinion, looked huge. Others, according to Google, are similarly petite.

Does this have any effect on baby size or sex? Apparently not. There are a huge number of factors that affect bump size; a woman's height and pre-pregnancy weight, the amount of exercise taken during pregnancy, the position of the baby; diet during pregnancy etc.

What I'd like to know, however, is whether genetics plays a real key. Mrs B is always on the phone to her mum discussing progress and takes comfort in hearing that her mum's pregnancies were very similar. My mum, meanwhile, revealed last night that I was in fact small but "long and lean" - something that hasn't changed much in the subsequent 33 years.

As for determining sex, however, our mum's are no help. My mother-in-law's small bumps resulted in two daughters, while I am one of three boys.

There is a chance, of course, that Baby B is saving him or herself for a final push as we head towards B-Day, so we're bracing ourselves for some serious bump expansion over the coming weeks.

Whatever happens, I'll be watching, tape measure in hand.