For all our fear and trepidation – on the eve of our child’s birth my wife and I felt prepared.
We’d done our homework.
A quick glance at the books piled by our bedside would have revealed us to be noted authorities on parenting.
She’d read dozens of tomes with brush script-fonted titles such as Fabulous Baby Yes for You – the kind that dispenses highly judgmental guidelines on precisely what weight your child’s elbows should be – every nine minutes of its life.
Being a man I was left with more masculine fare – books that interspersed calming pictures of speedboats and rugby with easily digestible reminders that I was not under any circumstances to eat the baby.
We were prepared.
We downloaded apps that used cutting-edge scientific formulae to compare our unborn child to different fruits or vegetables each week.
We even switched to locally made apps when American veg names like zucchini and eggplant began to annoy.
We were surely overprepared.
We’d woven the fabric of time itself around our preparations by going 10 days overdue before entering the hospital for our induction.
To me this marked an extra 3.57% prep time – a sort of deluxe gestation experience that I would term Pregnancy+.
I believe the doctors only decided it was time because their apps suggested there were no veg left to which our child could be reliably compared.