Oh dear. Relations with the Baby Daddy have reached an all-time low.
We hadn’t spoken at all for a few weeks, then as soon as we did, we argued. And as a symbolic gesture of our mutual disgust, we’ve even unfriended each other on Facebook. Ai!
To be honest, I’m not sure if he did it or I did it. The unfriending, I mean. I know I’d thought it was a good idea, but I wanted to copy our correspondence first, in case it came in useful later on. As soon as I’d done that, I went to unfriend him, and realised we were no longer friends.
Now I can’t remember if I did it straight after our argument, or he did it the morning after. But I suppose, really, it doesn’t matter. It’s enough to know that we just don’t want to be friends.
Although on the one hand I feel dreadfully sorry about it, on the other hand, it’s a relief. Every time we talk – and by “talk” I mean “chat on Facebook”, for such are the limitations of our communication – we end up arguing, which does neither of us any good.
But even in the cold light of morning, and being as objective as possible, this time I really don’t think I’d said anything inflammatory or provocative. All I’d asked him to do was to read about the birth if he wanted to attend, which doesn’t seem to me like an outrageous request.
Of course, instead of just saying yes, he perceived it as a slight on his good nature and got all upset, telling me that women have given birth alone for years and years and nobody died, so why should I be any different, sitting there with a team of experts around me?
To be honest, I’m not remotely worried about the technical side of things. I’m just petrified that he’d come along and be combative or argumentative while I’m trying to squeeze our little sproglet into the world.
So when I said that I would need whoever was with me to be supportive, he got even more upset. Wasn’t he being supportive?
Anyway, he’ll surely have a perspective that conflicts wildly with mine, in which he’s the hero and I’m the villain, and fair enough to him. There are two sides to every story. But it seems our viewpoints are so very far apart, we haven’t a hope of meeting in the middle.
I really try to understand him, to see the situation from his viewpoint … but he’s not one for sharing his feelings. And he’s so angry with me that he can’t even begin to empathise with my position. He sees the very fact that he’s speaking to me as evidence of his unfailing support. So really, we’re aiming for two different things.
And so, as sad as it sounds, I’d really prefer him not to be at the birth.
Although I’d like Bub to know his daddy right from the start, giving birth is, I imagine, not an easy experience at the best of times. If I’ve got someone taking umbrage at everything I say or do, it’s going to make it a whole lot harder.
I need whoever is with me to be on my side 100%, to forgive me if I curse at them in the heat of the moment, to understand that even though thousands of women give birth every day that doesn’t make it easy, and to soothe my furrowed brow when things get difficult.
In short, I need someone who cares about me, not someone who is so angry with me that they find offence in my every word and deed.
And so, as sad as it makes me, I’d also prefer to cut all contact until the baby is born. I just don’t need the hassle. I’ve got enough to worry about: work, money, accommodation…. I don’t need to add the Baby Daddy to that list.
But it is undeniably sad. I’d hoped that even if we weren’t together as a couple, we could work together to give Bubba a good life, with parents that love him dearly, albeit from two different houses.
Now, I don’t doubt the Baby Daddy’s ability to love his son, but I do doubt our ability to have a peaceful friendship around that. Anyway, there’s no point worrying about it right now. The door is always open and I’m sure we’ll find our equilibrium sooner or later.
The good thing is that little Bub is blissfully unaware of all this. Lazing in his amniotic, temperature-controlled world there are no arguments or discomforts (beyond a slightly tight waistband), just a broadening awareness of his newly developed senses and an umbilical cord for a plaything.
Depending on who you listen to, he’s now around 25cm from head to toe (though I find it hard to believe that anything that big is lurking inside my mini-bump) and is fattening up nicely. If he were to be born in just a fortnight’s time, he’d have a 40% chance of survival.
I’m already incredibly proud of him, and I’m looking forward to being one of those insufferable mothers who’s always banging on about her baby’s brilliance. I’m sure he’ll be a little fighter, just like his mum and, despite the circumstances, I’m equally sure his daddy will love him with all his heart.
He might not have the perfect family life, but he’s going to be one lucky little Bub.