Sospan Fach

Sospan Fach, the Scarlets rugby team anthem, has fast become Elwen's favourite lullaby. Whenever on the rare occasions she has hysterics, if this wonderful Welsh tune is sung to her she instantly becomes calm and quiet. So our daughter is a Scarlet fan from birth!

Whoopee For Poopee

When I used to see couples applauding their baby for messing their nappy (diaper) my first thought was that were completely and utterly mad. Sad fools I concluded with nothing whatsoever of interest going on in their lives. The sort who would record soap operas and look back on holidays in Butlin's and go all fuzzy. (Whereas the norm is to shudder and run for therapy.)
Only now im the parent and find myself doing EXACTLY the same thing! (Not the Butlins thing, the poop one.) Every time my 2 week old daughter fills her nappy im hollering and cheering like ive hit a Vegas jackpot. Weird ain't it? How a bag full of crap can make even the hardest of people turn to cotton. My brain thinks filling your pants with the brown stuff is COOL. Whats up with that thought process?
It cannot be explained with any solid reasoning, unless you have been a parent its almost impossible to make any sense of it.

Heaven In A Nappy

First of all, please excuse me dear reader for having gone overkill on the word Heaven here on this blog. It is not due to a shallow vocabulary let me assure you! No, the reason I use it often on this site is that there can be no other word that goes so well beside the word CHILD than HEAVEN. The innocence, the peace, the gentle nature of both words, like butter or sherry on ones tongue. So there you have it, I am not some dedicated pew sitter nor a dunce with words. Its only that both words FIT, both compliment each other in the way words can music.
So on with the show! Elwen Maya (it is not a double barrel name but I like using them as so) is two weeks old tomorrow. I don't know where Time is in such a hurry to get to, or what it might be late for, but the clock hands sure are fleet of foot. (If they had feet.)

Ten Days Young

I cannot believe how quick time is going. Baby Elwen is already ten days old and getting stronger and more beautiful with each day. One thing I find myself doing, both of us in fact, is simply watching Elwen asleep in her crib. She looks so peaceful and she makes faces in her sleep, little smiles and sometimes frowns, and they are so lovely that they turn this morbid creature into a Disney butterfly. We are utterly smitten by our daughter.

Welcome Home Elwen

Monday 13th September and baby Elwen came home (at 7:48pm) for the first time. She enjoyed the short drive in her spiffing car seat and not once did she grumble. She is wonderful like that, and only cries when she's hungry. It was a typical September evening, dark and wet, but inside our heads it felt as if we were in a serene field filled with rainbows and rivers of *insert favourite drink here*
This is what its all about. One slight thing got me annoyed and that was the way some of the staff had failed to communicate with each other regarding our 'release'. Some were of the belief we were staying an extra night while other were positively encouraging us to go. That and the wait at the end for them to bring us medication. Still I won't belabour it, all in all we were treated brilliant.

Love's Young Parcel

Finally the pay off arrives! Our daughter, Elwen Maya Cayne Coppard Francis, was born by C Section on Saturday 11th September, 2010, weighing 7lbs 1oz. And what a beauty she really is. (I know all parents say this but this time im happy to jump in the same line.) I cut the umbilical cord too, without fumbling it. Suprising how one can summon up a steely, almost zen-like calmness even when the nerves at railing at your spine.
I must admit, waiting outside the operating theatre whilst the surgeons prepared She Who Must Be Obeyed was very trying. On a few occasions I thought I was going to crumple in a heap on the floor but thankfully didn't. It was a close thing methinks! I was dressed in scrubs with blue plastic 'bags' on my feet and this only added to the surrealness of it all.
Once I was allowed in the enormity of it all hit me like a belt of raw whisky; my beloved's head only visible to me, her body hooked up to pipes while doctors worked behind a green blanket to shield us from the actual surgey. I noticed drops of blood on the floor and on their smocks of course and it then became REAL. Really bloody REAL (pun intended.)
The delivery team were a nice bunch and not at all the snot nosed, patronising twerps I have come to expect from these types. They were all friendly and chatty and all in all it was very light hearted when I was expecting frowns and seriousness seeping from every pore. Teach me to be so judgemental of people of medicine.
We went into theatre at 11:12am and it was all over by 12:30pm. Im still amazed I got throught it without asking for a glass of water (or something stronger) but there you go, the higher power that we all possess at work.
It may be an everyday operation, and no doubt surgeons feel its all routine, but as I was walking back to my stool after cutting the umbilical cord I did glance at the area of She Who Must Be Obeyed's stomach that they were working on and it didn't look routine to me. It was a gaping, fleshy, bloody wound and hats off to the skill the surgeons have.
Huge relief when it was over. And so many different thoughts and memories to take from that operating theatre.

More Lollygagging By The Crib

The trouble is (carrying on from the title) the crib is still empty. She Who Must Be Obeyed was due a Caesarian Section yesterday (9th September) but due to other emergency C Secs ours was delayed. Fair enough but it was a crushing disappointment to both of us. We had both been deliriously happy and eager to meet Pickles so the set back was a bitter pill to swallow.
It almost brewed resentment in me towards the hospital, not the staff in particular (they have been fabulous) but the cackhanded way the NHS sometimes deals with things. By and large im not overly critical of the healthcare system and believe it does serve its purpose well but as with most things there are elements I would certainly change.

Empty Minutes For Fat Hours

Waiting around the maternity ward can be SO boring at times. At least when one is ill and on a regular ward there is pain and discomfort to take away the dead hours but its all so different waiting for a baby to arrive. The couples are healthy and clock watching is the only thing to do, even if there is television, videogames and books on offer. I know that the waiting is nothing compared to what is at the end of the wait but its still a time I wish I could speed up and fast forward.
I also have a bad habit if there are other women and visitors in the beds opposite, I cannot stop myself from glancing over at them every five minutes. Im sure some if they catch me doing so, think im making eyes at them or something but its nothing like that and neither am I being nosey. Its just an irresistable urge that I get and I simply HAVE TO look. Luckily we have mostly had the ward to ourselves so I haven't been doing it but its a strange urge when it comes.

The Beauty Of Small

She Who Must Be Obeyed has the ward to herself im pleased to report. She went into Glangwili hospital at 8:10pm last night (Monday 6th Sept) to begin being induced and although there is no word on the Her Majesty yet, we do at least have the privacy that only small hospitals are able to afford. Last night there was another expectant mother on the ward but now that she has gone into labour and moved to the labour ward, we have it to ourselves once again. (This also happened on our last visit.)
And grand it is too, we have space and the full attention from staff which is always a good thing. I would hate being stuffed into one of those large city hospitals where patients seem to be on top of one another and doctors and nurses are rushing around without even time for a friendly smile.
It all looks so cold and uncaring, the opposite of what a hospital ought to be. Staff in the bigger places seem to be doing their job purely for the sake of the job, whereas in small town hospitals they are there because they love it, and there because they actually care.

A Responsible Monster

A wave of responsibility has washed over me while waiting for the birth of our daughter. I have been six (thats right 6) days without a drop alcohol, apart from shandy, in order to be clear headed when the time comes. Its no big deal as alcohol has always been a WANT for me, not a NEED, but I am proud of myself nevertheless. (Funny how humans are able to be proud of even the smallest of things like not picking up a glass but there you go, thats humans for you.)
I am glad ive not felt the urge for a few tipples because when I indulge, there are no half measures and extreme drunkeness ensues and I dont want to be standing around a hospital maternity ward looking like death without its mask. Im enough drunk on excitement and anymore intoxication would be fatal. Im as giddy as a Weeble (1980s childrens toy) and bouncing from one hour to the next in the hope the next 60 minutes brings signs of Pickles' arrival.
The spiritual side of me is also believing that I am getting help from beyond the veil. *Cue Twilight Zone theme tune* There is no way I have gotten so responsible, so grown up, on my own in such a quick time.

Stone Sunday

Still no sign of our precious bundle of happiness. My chips if I were a betting man (what do you mean IF? - sarky ed) are on a Monday arrival now, with a late push (no pun intended) into Tuesday. I was a Monday child, fair of face and all that and it would be cool if Pickles followed her dad and appeared on Monday. Still, as with everything worth waiting for, she will come when, and only when she is ready. I think of her now as getting ready to leave a hotel room one has spent an enjoyable holiday in, just taking one last look around before leaving it behind.
I doubt pickles will arrive today as nothing interesting ever happens on a sunday. Or it shouldn't do anyway. Sundays were made for being walruses and sloths. The only effort required on these days should be getting a slice of beef or a roast potato into your mouth, followed by a bottle (or three) of wine.
The midwife is due later to check blood pressure so for now its a waiting game. In fact its always been a waiting game.

Heaven Burnt

And so it is Friday 3rd September 2010! She Who Must Be Obeyed has carried Pickles to full term, and if the delivery times of babies were as straightforward as those of the pizza palaces then I would be sitting here with our beloved daughter, a newborn in my lap. But alas life is never that simple and the stork always early or held up in some celestial traffic behind the clouds.
I think I was late for my fleshy first steps into the spotlight (probably finishing off a swift beer before curtains up) so its not suprising we are being kept waiting. And its hardly a chore, waiting around for the birth of your first child. I could think of worse things to be hanging around for. Dentist. Buses. Deadly disease reults. The barman informing you of a Jagermeister shortage.
The sun is making the wait more bearable I must admit. We get better Septembers than July/Augusts nowadays (global warming my foot) and if Pickles is born on a day like this one, she will think she's entered paradise. Of course a few more years on this earth and she'll realise there is no paradise but for now it will be so. Everything feels lighter in the sun, as if no burden is to heavy or awkward.

The Sun And The Waiting

Its 10:12am on a bright, sunny Thursday morning. In half an hour we must head to Glangwili once again to hook Pickles up to the baby monitor and hear that delightful sound, that precious music to our ears, our unborn daughters heartbeat. As loud to me as if a prophet had bellowed from the Heavens.
Im happy the sun has made an appearance, bathing everything in a buttery glow, because it feels to me to be a good omen of things to come. Its like a visual shot in the eyeballs of calm and reassurance, something in the air telling us everything is going to be fine. And im grateful for it. We both are.
Pickles is due tomorrow, on the 3rd of September, so who knows what lays ahead? Its a fantastic journey which ought to be experienced by all. Ive been on many spiritual rollercoaster rides in my time on this earth but this has been the most pleasant. And its one where the outcome is something bigger than anything I have handled before.

Welcome To The Ultrasound

The ultrasound scans are over for us now. Our last one was August 18th and in all honesty I am happy for them to be an appointment of the past. Please dear reader, do not misunderstand me; in the beginning, when we had the 12 week and 20 week scans I was thrilled, both of us were of course. But now they have become so 'standard' the excitement had become almost (note 'almost') second nature. Where there was fascination and wonder, by the end there was routine.
It is something I would not have missed for the world of course, and watching the beautiful image of my daughter move in black and white waves on a screen in the corner of the ultrasound room filled my spirit with no end of happiness. It was as if I were filled to the cheeks with potent drugs as I sat there transfixed, looking at a Life I had had part in creating. It is something I urge every father to be a part of because it is not simply 'just a picture on a television', which is how ive read some people think of it as. That is such a miserable outlook; indeed to me its offensive and indecent.
Those first scans (especially the 12 and 20 week ones) were joy in its purest form. Ive experienced many thrills in this life, whether induced by chemicals or naturally, but these early scans where as if somebody had pulled out my brain stem and dunked it in a magical elixir only found in the Heavens. Nothing has ever brought me to a standstill like these scans did, and the crocodile engine which usually powers my invincible energy and enthusiasm was brought to a furious halt whenever I saw them, or whenever I heard my unborn childs heart.

Theatre of Sunrise and Sunset

It has happened on a few hospital visits now; we park the car, get out with the sun shining and a spring in our steps, eager to see Pickles on the ultrasound or hear her on the monitor, only for everything to be put into a sobering perspective upon seeing a frail looking person (a woman usually) sitting in a wheelchair just outside the main entrance being looked after by a nurse. Sometimes they are accompanied by a cigarette or oxygen tank like stubborn bolts of reality but more often than that you see defeat, wavering in their sad eyes.
I feel pangs of guilt everytime I walk past them. I feel awkward knowing that we are using the hospital for a happy purpose, we are looking toward a new Life while these terminally ill looking people are at the end of theirs, chasing their souls for a shred of comfort. It is a reminder that life ends just as easily as it begins and I am fully aware of the morgue, which is just as much a part of being alive is as the cradle and birthdays are. Both shawl and shroud, equally as welcoming.