Plan C
In this last week I had a chance to spend more time with baby Freya. She has now started eating food from a spoon, which was not quite the mess-fest I thought it would be. She very nearly got interviewed by the Daily Telegraph too. But that's another story.
Every Saturday J takes Freya swimming. I found it impossible to go into the pool room though. I would sit outside listening to the group of mums and dads with their babies, singing badly and performing routines to make the babies more confident in water. Something stopped me from joining in and I was reminded of miserable years being invited to parties, refusing to go and then being both sure that I would have hated the parties and annoyed that I wasn't at the party. I've lightened up a lot since then.
As luck would have it my pal Richard convinced me to follow him in this Saturday so I got to watch my amazing wife and her friend Sarah singing badly and dunking the babies. It was thrilling. Sarah has been a friend for a long time now and I was ridiculously pleased when I found out that her and Richard were expecting a baby within a few weeks of J and I. It's been good for both of us to have people we like and respect going through something similar.
J and Sarah had a chance to see The Police in Cardiff. Richard had suggested we treat them to a night out as we had previously seen the band play while they were at home with the babies. This is a long story but the short version goes like this.
Plan A: J and Sarah drive to Cardiff, watch The Police and drive home while Richard and I take care of the children and play and/or talk about guitars.
Plan B: J and Sarah are driven by me in a mad dash to Swindon railway station (while Richard bravely takes care of the children), miss the train, get to Cardiff late, run around the stadium to the main entrance and then watch the last few songs after J spends time in the medical tent because she didn't bring her asthma inhaler. Richard then drives to Cardiff to pick them up and bring them home (while I sit with the children and listen for outbursts of crying) as there are no late night trains from Cardiff to Swindon.
OK, Plan B wasn't a 'plan' but it was the reality.
Maybe next time we'll find a less complicated way to treat our wives.
Every Saturday J takes Freya swimming. I found it impossible to go into the pool room though. I would sit outside listening to the group of mums and dads with their babies, singing badly and performing routines to make the babies more confident in water. Something stopped me from joining in and I was reminded of miserable years being invited to parties, refusing to go and then being both sure that I would have hated the parties and annoyed that I wasn't at the party. I've lightened up a lot since then.
As luck would have it my pal Richard convinced me to follow him in this Saturday so I got to watch my amazing wife and her friend Sarah singing badly and dunking the babies. It was thrilling. Sarah has been a friend for a long time now and I was ridiculously pleased when I found out that her and Richard were expecting a baby within a few weeks of J and I. It's been good for both of us to have people we like and respect going through something similar.
J and Sarah had a chance to see The Police in Cardiff. Richard had suggested we treat them to a night out as we had previously seen the band play while they were at home with the babies. This is a long story but the short version goes like this.
Plan A: J and Sarah drive to Cardiff, watch The Police and drive home while Richard and I take care of the children and play and/or talk about guitars.
Plan B: J and Sarah are driven by me in a mad dash to Swindon railway station (while Richard bravely takes care of the children), miss the train, get to Cardiff late, run around the stadium to the main entrance and then watch the last few songs after J spends time in the medical tent because she didn't bring her asthma inhaler. Richard then drives to Cardiff to pick them up and bring them home (while I sit with the children and listen for outbursts of crying) as there are no late night trains from Cardiff to Swindon.
OK, Plan B wasn't a 'plan' but it was the reality.
Maybe next time we'll find a less complicated way to treat our wives.
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