Did my wife really mean it when she said I didn’t have to be present at the birth?
By the time you read this, I will be the proud father of another baby. That is the plan, anyway. My wife has had enough of being pregnant and has booked herself into hospital to be induced. The actual due date is 19 June, but her midwife says it is perfectly acceptable for the baby to come out a week early.
When Caroline informed me of this I was a bit put out. ‘But darling,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a lunch date with an important television executive that day. It could take months to reschedule.’ ‘In that case, why don’t you keep it?’ she said. ‘I honestly don’t mind if you’re not there this time.’ ‘Really? Are you sure?’ ‘Absolutely.’ I was cock-a-hoop. To be honest, I did not care for being present at the birth of my first three children. I know it is customary these days, but there is still no proper role for expectant fathers in a delivery suite. My wife doesn’t go in for hand holding and, being a grown woman, she does not need to be told when to ‘breathe’. On all three occasions I had the sense of being an interloper at a secret feminine ritual.
Part of the problem is that I simply have no grasp of delivery-room etiquette. For instance, after the birth of our first child I spotted a young black baby in the adjacent bed and suggested to Caroline that I photograph her holding this baby instead of our own. My plan was to email that picture to all our friends. No explanation, just the words: ‘Marcellus was born at 6.15 this morning. He weighs 7lb 15oz.’ Needless to say, this suggestion went down badly — so the prospect of not having to worry about sticking my foot in it again was very appealing. Then I spotted a fly in the ointment. If Caroline did not want me at the hospital, would I have to rush back from my lunch and single-handedly take care of the children? Suddenly, being in the delivery suite did not seem so bad.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve arranged for my mother to come over.’ The news just got better and better! Friday was shaping up to be something of a holiday. After dropping Caroline off at Queen Charlotte’s, I could go back to bed with a cup of tea and actually read the paper for the first time in five years. After that, I could catch up with some of the Euro 2008 highlights backed up on my Sky Plus and then, when my mother-in-law arrives, head off to my lunch, followed by a trip to the Shepherd’s Bush Vue. Has The Incredible Hulk opened yet? If not, there is always Iron Man. Presumably, this is exactly how expect thers behaved in the Good Old Days.
was not until the following day that my e was shattered. I was at the opening of a new alfresco restaurant at Fulham Palace called The Lawn — lovely, by the way — and bumped into Clare Margetson, the former women’s editor of the Guardian. I boasted about how ‘enlightened’ my wife was, not holding with the politically correct view that husbands ought to be present at the birth of their children.
‘She didn’t mean it, you idiot,’ said Clare. ‘What? No, no, no, I’m sure she did.’ ‘Are you insane? Of course she wants you to be there.’ ‘But then why —’ ‘Women say that sort of thing all the time. It’s a test. She doesn’t want you to be there under duress — she wants you to be there of your own free will.’ ‘Are you positive about this?’ ‘Believe me, if you’re not there, she’ll hold it against you.’ A quick straw poll of the other young mums at the party confirmed that Clare was correct. Having got into trouble before by taking things Caroline has said at face value, I decided to listen to their advice. In these situations, men are expected to be metrosexuals, not red-blooded heterosexuals. Iron Man would have to give way to Ironing Man.
My father-in-law, a wise old bird called Ivo, telephoned to tell me I was doing the right thing. He recalled that a friend of his had been unable to attend the birth of his youngest daughter because of a ‘business dinner’ and he still had not heard the end of it. ‘That was 33 years ago,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve made the right decision.
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