I’m sitting here next to my wife as we plough through more of the boxset of the month, and I catch myself glancing sideways at her every now and again, silently checking for early signs of labour. For two days now I have felt what I would describe as a premonition that today is the day, and I’ve made sure I always know where the car keys are, but nothing yet has transpired, so it turns out I’m not clairvoyant after all.
We’ve discussed how useful it would be to know an exact date so that we can set a plan of what more we need to prepare. Of course this is a fruitless discussion because we already have as much warning as we’re going to get, and we’ve know that for at least seven months when we were told the due date.
We’ve packed the hospital bag, built all the nursery furniture, washed all baby grows and sleep suits and put them in piles of size order. I’ve also shown my wife how to collapse the pushchair, how the nappy bin works and tested how to strap the car seat in, but all this is just filler; we’re pottering to make sure that we feel like we are making best use of the wait with further preparations, knowing that we are as ready as we are going to be.
There’s nothing much more to do, and I can’t bring myself to read another one of the NHS emails for expectant fathers, so I’ll just get on with planning a handover of things at work, so that I’m ready to take my two weeks leave at the drop of a hat.
My wife tells me about getting braxton hicks more frequently and that she thinks they are slightly different to ones she has experienced in the weeks before now. We look at each other and agree that it really is any day now that we are going to welcome our daughter into the world, and rather than more preparations we’ll just sit here and watch another episode.