It’s difficult for me to say, pumpkling, what I was expecting from this weekend’s training events. It’s probable that at least some part of me expected to walk away from the sessions with a Hayne’s manual “Babies, 2003-2005, Australia”, much like the one I had for my ’78 Civic, but there was a significant other portion that was suggesting that the gory details of birth were best left to your mother.
It is likely that this second thought was driven by the dadbrain. The dadbrain, I think, may be some kind of a genetic throwback to the days when men would drive their wives to the horsepickle, and then pace up and down in the waiting room, or just go to the pub. This is, of course, Not The Way We Do Things in 2005, but it’s not so long ago that it was the norm.
When your Uncle David was born, at the Alfred Hospital in 1971, (I know, it seems like aeons ago, but believe me when I tell you that the 70s weren’t that long ago), your grandad was the First Ever Father to attend the birth. Of course, this model of fathers distancing themselves from the birthing process led to major issues in later life, with generations of men who found it difficult to emotionally bond with their dads.
Not that this isn’t still the case, punkling, but you and I are going to do everything we can to bridge that gap.
I’m alluding to something here that I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I think you’re a boy. I don’t know what’s telling me that, certainly at our ultrasounds I haven’t been able to tell, but there’s just a …. vibe in the air that’s telling me you’re going to be a boy.
Of course, given your parentage, now that I’ve said this out loud, I’m also fully expecting you to be a girl purely in order to prove me wrong. We should not forget, darling punkling, that you will be a Taurus, and, much like the aforementioned Uncle David, slightly prone to obstinance, notwithstanding the not-inconsiderable talents of your mother and father in this regard.
Love you.
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