WITH OUR FIRST baby due in mid October, myself and Cat, my wife, struck upon a unique way to celebrate the last days of our selfish devotion to each other — a week’s holiday abroad.
Proud of coming up with the notion of a trip away to Sweden in early August, I laid out the travel plans to a work colleague. The response was a knowing nod and the word(s) ‘Babymoon’. Apparently we were not the first couple to plan our escape before being moored to prams, miniature bath-tubs and baby monitors.
Armed with a ‘this pregnant lady is safe to jet’ letter from the local GP, we set off for Stockholm and watched in amused awe as the tot punched and kicked during take-off. The warnings of crazy expense were proved right but Stockholm treated us well.
The Swedes, we found, have a knack of charging you for just about every little extra you can imagine. I got a jacket back from the lost and found at the train station and was duly charged €10 before they handed it back over with the remark, “You are lucky. It must be St Patrick’s Day.” Not quite but, sure, we’ve invented Arthur’s Day while we wait.
Public toilets were sparse on the ground and we needed a pocketful of change as Cat’s bladder-impressioned days are now punctuated by nigh on 20 trips to find relief.
After five fantastic days on the island of Gotland, we were back in Stockholm to fly home. Having a baby does not occupy my every thought but a week away from work focused the mind and ruled out some names, such as Theo Huxtable McCarry.
I’m often asked if I am excited to be having my first child and I nod my head, rather than explain that I am but it is hard to stay excited for nine months and some change. Nonetheless, getting away and having some more time together gave me a chance to experience what Cat’s days are like with the ever-growing bump and the grace with which she carries herself.
I now find myself studying other families with young children or parents handling babies. I spotted a stressed mother of two berate a man for trying to jump the line for our flight home. In the past I would have no interest in this scene and return to feigning disinterest while clutching my ticket and waiting to spring when I heard my row number. Now, I thought ‘I can skip queues with my baby?!’
Tips and advice are never far away. They come hand-in-hand with the ‘wait and see’ warnings from bleary-eyed friends on the rare occasions our gang of friends can meet (weddings, first day of the Premier League season). The one bit of advice we are following to the letter includes taking every piece of baby equipment, gadgets and paraphernalia that is offered us. As we cram our loaner goodies into the back bedroom at ours, I often feel as if we are stockpiling for a coming tornado.
This weekend, as it may be the last time before our hands get full (of baby stuff), we are welcoming our two nephews for a sleepover. As requested by the lads, World War Z has been hidden from the bookshelf and all zombie DVDs thrown out.
We had the deadly duo over last month and sought to tire them out by placing a blanket and pillows in the sitting room while they watched Diary of a Wimpy Kid. By end credits, Cat was asleep on the blanket and the lads were taking turns to jump on my head.
Lesson No. 1 of being a new Dad: Don’t tell children you are a zombie.
Patrick McCarry is sports reporter and rugby correspondent for TheScore.ie. Playwright of shows that have appeared at Vicar Street, Electric Picnic, Bulmers Comedy Festival and New Zealand Comedy Festival. His latest show, Moonshine Travellers, is at The Sugar Club this September 10 & 11. He is a Dubliner, living in Kildare. Happily married for one year and counting.
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