Hey kiddo, I'm glad you've found your way here, hopefully in my lifetime. Welcome to yours. Whatever your current sentiment of me, you should know, I tried to father you the best I could. If you're looking for answers, it is my wish you find them here.
Piss on a stick
– 3:33 pm
Liza’s been complaining about a significantly more painful Premenstrual Syndrome (PMS). I don’t know how that’s even possible given how bad her symptoms tend to be. So that really is saying something.
We found a hot water bottle helps some, softening the belly cramps and deadening some of her (lower) back pain. I learned (the hard fucking way) that the best way to cope with her mood swings is to say ‘yes’ and agree to everything. It doesn’t need to make sense. And it doesn’t have to. Put all logic away. Nod and keep it simple. It’s for your own good. These are the things I reinforce to myself.
Premenstrual syndrome (PMS) refers to changes in mood and emotions, physical health, and behavior that develop between ovulation and the start of your period (roughly the 2 weeks before your period) lasting until a few days after your period begins. These changes show up consistently each month, and have some impact on everyday life and regular activities.
Today I asked how she was feeling. She said her period was late, a few days late. I didn’t know you could be pregnant with PMS symptoms, which she confirmed. She’d felt pregnant before, pre-Antoinette’s wedding in Brussels but the test came back negative. “Go piss on a stick then”, I said. She laughed and left to buy a “stick”.
The truth of the matter is, I am equally indifferent to having or not having children, 50/50. I could swing either way. Having one wouldn’t necessarily give me a greater sense of responsibility. Obviously, there’s more to it. But I could also fully get behind someone else’s dream. Liza’s in this case. If it makes her happy, then I’m all for it. I am under no illusions however as to how challenging this is meant and going to be. There are case studies all over this apartment block to choose from. I have also concluded that raising an upright and decent human being is an endeavour one cannot be entirely prepared for. Part of the prep is in the process. Again, these are things I tell myself.
I stayed in the basement trying to complete a crypto trade. She crept up and stood next to me. This time, I wasn’t startled. She could barely get her words out before bursting into tears, “I’m pregnant”, throwing her face into both palms. I met her with a big hug and growing excitement. She’s happy. We’re happy.
The doorbell rang not too long ago. Liza signed for the bouquet. It’s from her dad. Turns out, it’s also her ‘Name Day’ today. I don’t pretend to know what that even means. I googled it and stopped reading after the word “Christianity…“. The gesture is a great one however.
Go, no–go
– 6:31 pm
It’s already pitch black outside and feels like 10 pm. I can’t help but think that the sun’s still fully out at this same time in Cameroon. By now, the worst of that intolerable Douala heat has passed and the temperature is near perfect.
As a boy, any time after 5 pm was ideal football weather in the dry season. Turning up at different times after the hour, my friends and I would meet at the carrefour to play “Petit Goal” (meaning “Small Goal”). FYI, we have tonnes of such phrases, using English, French and Pidgin interchangeably in the same sentence. We make it up as we go and it sticks where it sticks. I had no idea Francanglais aka Francamglais was Wiki official.
Petit Goal is akin to regular 11-aside football, except there are no goalkeepers. The small goals eradicate the need for them, or for hands. Otherwise, the rules are the same. We never had dedicated pitches and typically played within neighbourhoods, off-road, or on side streets where erecting full-size goalposts would be disruptive and impractical. We only halted for cars, trucks and sometimes motorbikes. Passerbys had to walk through trying not to get hit by a ball.
To score at Petit Goal, your team had to get the ball through the “small goal”, which was usually two visibly large stones (or cones in the modern world). The goals are about four heel-to-toe footsteps apart. We used gutters, walls and fences to define the pitch area and refereed ourselves. I recall these memories as though created yesteryear.
Unfortunately for me though, I used to and still bruise very easily. I seldom went home without cuts or injuries. And this worried your grandparents a great deal, my dad especially I think. But I carried on playing and mostly wore trousers at home. One glance at my legs and you’d think they raised me crawling on broken glass. These scars can be stretched out for miles. There’s a hole on my right tibia that stands out the most. I came back from a game, as usual with a new wound and with every intention of hiding it from my parents. I hid for so long that it got infected and went septic. When your grandmother found out, it was so deep you could see my bone. Another week and I surely would’ve lost my leg.
They sent me to a house I already knew all too well, about 10 mins from ours, 6 mins from the carrefour, to Captain Kingyang’s. He was a retired medic from the army who had an infirmary at his house for the likes of me. He always wore a stern expression. You had better not cry or show any weakness while on his bench. He only had to stop and look you dead in the eye to command your silence. I heard he passed. I remember him as firm but fair. He has my utmost respect for his service to his community.
As you can imagine, my parents spent quite a bit treating my injuries and didn’t like me playing football much. They tolerated it. I think they only just stopped short of ordering me to give it up altogether because it was the lesser of all the other evils around me.
Nevertheless, and despite our unspoken agreement, I still got into trouble if I got caught at the carrefour playing. But I could always rely on my dad stopping at the bar on his way home though. So word would reach the pitch before I could be spotted. If he didn’t and drove straight home, I banked on seeing his car from the top of the road. After a while, I could pick out his engine noise from a distance. I would dash home, run to the backyard, pull a bucket of water from the well, and wash the sand off my legs, hands and face, at speed. Could he tell? I always wondered…
I just realised all of that came from the weather. Right. Anyway, at around 6:30 pm yesterday, black as coal outside, your mother and I were talking about the feasibility of these standing plans to spend Christmas in the US. You have quite a bit of extended family out there so visiting would be great. I’d love to see Lambert (Lyn’s husband) again, and their kids. Your grandmother always talked about him with so much pride, like a mother would a good child, and with good reason. He’s a good man. Blood couldn’t make us any more brothers. Your uncles Manu and Junior will also be there. You’ll get to know them better over time. I’ll introduce you.
We haven’t booked any tickets yet because we don’t know whether you can handle a long-haul flight just weeks into your existence. Miscarriages have been normalised and evidently more common than what is publicised. You have a scan coming up so we’ll offer the doctor a penny for their thoughts on the matter.
A grain of rice
– 6:21 pm
On Thursday, your mother and I went in for your first scan, to make sure you were coming along OK. We left home at about half two-ish towards Oxford Circus, getting on the Victoria line from Vauxhall. I suggested we walk through Carnaby Street so I could see what shops had remained from my time working at Lee Jeans.
Most of them had left, probably bust with the free-falling economy. The COVID era has been a terrible time for people and businesses. Rich or poor, no one has been spared. I hear there’s a new variant now, Omicron. Blimey! I wonder if it will be talked about as much by the time you are able to read or formulate sentences. Either way, you should know it was a devastating historical event. I would know. I felt its impact directly, with your grandmother.
From being the birthplace of Swinging London in the 1960’s, the home of Mods, Skinheads, Punks and New Romantics to the street style tribes of today. Carnaby has and always will be the epicentre of culture and lifestyle in London’s West End.
That probably explains why Christmas decorations always looked better on Carnaby Street, artsier, than anywhere else in Central London. The same article says it gets its name from Karnaby House, the first house built on the street.
1665 was the year of The Great Plague. ‘Pesthouses’ were built for plague victims, the first one in London being on Carnaby Street.
We took a left before the end of the street and walked straight down, onto Berwick Street. We popped into a Clarks so I could “touch and feel” some Originals I’d seen online. It looked different in hand. We then went to Duck & Rice. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been there. Generally, if I’ve got time in the area, it’s a near must. We’d have to return after your scan however, the kitchen hadn’t re-opened post-lunch.
Your mother has been eating a lot lately. I suspect you might have something to do with that. So unsurprisingly, she was quite famished. We left to find a coffee shop and found a Gails. A friend of mine (whom I admittedly haven’t spoken to in a while) Imran, and I used to frequent the one just behind the Blue Fin building when we worked at HSBC. It’s probably still there.
Your mother ordered a quiche and some tea. I took a black decaf. Any milk or sugar would break my fast. We got a six doughnut box at Crosstown before deciding to walk to the clinic. Maps is quoting 18 mins.
The Portland Hospital gave us new face masks and had our temperatures taken when we got there. Liza had to fill in some paperwork before we could be seated. Not long after, her name came out the hallway and we were behind closed doors moments later.
I sat down quietly facing the screen as the doctor summoned her orchestra of tools and machines I’d never seen before. I observed passively, equally elated and amazed the entire time. We got to see you onscreen and hear your heartbeat. You were doing just fine. Granted you were no bigger than a grain of rice at this point, magnified about a million times bigger. It was a brief but very memorable encounter.
A few flights of stairs from there and we were in another doctor’s office, Dr Erskine. I was later told she’s half French. I tied that to the beautiful blouse she was wearing. Her office also had lime green walls which I surprisingly really liked. And I was mid-telling her how much I did when I noticed a piece of art on her wall, stunning. Behind me on the left were shelves of baby pictures, a tonne of them, probably (and hopefully) from happy parents. She has three kids herself. “I don’t even remember the third pregnancy,” she said, “it was all a haze”.
She explained the dos and don’ts of pregnancy, with a sonically calming tone. For the most part, I was again silent while she played tennis with your mother. Liza had a list of questions that were answered before they could be asked, bar a few. So the sit-down was shorter than I expected.
I remember “…you’re not out of the woods yet. At 6 weeks, a miscarriage is still possible and normal”. I also remember “Folic acid”. Liza has to take Folic acid. As you grow and develop, we’d have to come back for more tests and scans. If there are any pitfalls we can avoid, we’ll do our very best.
This is your first ultrasound
Check-in
– 6:46 pm
Week 8 begins today! 👶🏾 size of a wild strawberry 🍓
That’s the Whatsapp message I got from your mother earlier this morning, all the way from upstairs. She reminded me along our walk into Kingston (upon Thames). That was at midday. I left her shopping around, returned to the basement to work.
Jeans, it’s getting difficult
– 9:34 pm
Your mother is the type of person who wears shorts in January and winces about being cold, albeit indoors. Today she walked past in a shirt, a cardigan and no pants saying, “it’s getting difficult to wear jeans these days”. This time, however, I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the weather. You’re just getting bigger.
We’re getting ready for the airport, Gatwick. Your maternal grandmother is visiting so we’re going to pick her up.
Nothing, I feel nothing
– 2:24 pm
Your mother and grandmother went in to get a scan, to see what you’ve been up to. I think it’ll make for a great mother and daughter experience as I can’t go. It’s a working day for me. Everyone seems to have broken off for Christmas though and the comms are quiet. Splendid for uninterrupted reading.
Last Saturday, Liza and I did some yoga together, for the first time. In the days that followed, she worryingly reported spotting. I recall the doctor saying this was normal and nothing to panic about. But panic she did, naturally, unwilling to take any chances. I googled around, presenting evidence for reassurance.
The day it first happened, I told her to contact her friends who were parents for advice. She also messaged her gynaecologist in Riga. I can only assume they were heartening and encouraging because we didn’t go to A&E like she first suggested. She booked a scan earlier this week, for today.
Her message a few hours ago said, “all is very well”. “The due date has been pushed to July 29”. It still fascinates me they can get that level of accuracy (and adjust it as needed). We’ll see. They also told her to rest more. It feels like she just sleeps and eats at the moment so I have no idea how she could do more resting. I think she’ll struggle to get back to work in a few weeks. It worries me. She assures me she’ll readjust just fine.
It’s been an emotional day for her and she’s rightfully elated and now has some peace of mind. She’s “overwhelmed at the notion of all this happening in her body”. I can see that, especially for a first-timer. But I don’t feel anything new. She sent me some scans. I can’t make sense of them. I said, “nothing,” when she asked how I was feeling (after seeing the scans). She said I was being cold. But it’s like watching a great film at the theatre and sending me a picture of it, expecting the same emotional response of the experience you just had.
I’m sure, well I hope, it doesn’t ruin their day. Inner city London is always fun and bright to see during Christmas. The lights, displays and decorations are seasonal treats to savour. As for me, I’m going to break my fast before I get back to work. They should be back soon.
Blech!
– 12:12 am
Your first Christmas was uneventful, nothing to report.
Tonight’s been tough for your mother though. She’s complaining about being nauseous and hungry, at the same time. What a bizarre predicament. I feel for her. She googled around and it seems a common symptom among other pregnancies. I found this thread on what to expect. And it checks out. Pretzels, dry cereal, ice-cold watermelons, and popsicles are recommended remedies. She just ordered some crackers on Amazon. I hope for her sake it helps. There’s nothing else I (or anyone) can do about it.
Off the pedal
– 9:14 am
Liza and I come from cultures where raising a child is not a “man’s thing” to do, more so for me. Combing back through time, I don’t recall ever seeing my dad (or any other male African at that) with a baby and feeding bottle, in the same frame. You just won’t see it, not at night, in sunlight, and definitely not in public. You’d expect more help, perhaps from jobless fathers with plenty of stay-at-home time. But nope! Not a chance. It’s been completely normalised and accepted by that society, babies belong with their mothers, full time.
Every so often, especially on weekends, your mother and I would be out in town and notice these dads with buggies, no free limbs, and backpacks full of… diapers (I presume, among other runaway gear). These walkers have had far from enough shut-eye. They’ve been beaten and shabby looking, in rag-like outfits they clearly picked out in the dark. Next time you’re out, scan around. These zombies are hard to miss. They usually ride solo or in little cliques, typically a band of two. I’m not sure why but a duo of dads seems to be their sweet spot. You’ll catch them trudging along, and trading prolonged small talk.
So it always makes for belly-aching laughter watching them trying to keep up with those loose canons for kids, chasing them out of the ponds they’ve decided to dance in, dragging them out of ditches, or hush-hushing the little devils to sleep. We’d joke about it being the day the mums gave up on the “little shits” and the only peaceful way forward was immediate distance and separation. And so the fathers had to step in to prevent a crime scene investigation. In many ways, I’m going to become the butt of this same joke. Fabulous!
For the first time yesterday, your mother became free of any nausea and sleep-inducing fatigue. She also hasn’t felt like eating an entire forest of fruits. She said, “I feel 97% myself”. I guess both of you have decided to take a day and give each other some “distance and separation”. It’s any man’s guess how long this breakup lasts but I hope it helps and you both come back stronger than ever. It’ll be my pleasure to mediate if needed. She just left for Waitrose. Took you with her. So I’m guessing it’s not all hatred. I’ll pick you guys up later, got work to do in the interim.
Too soon, too soon
– 4:12 pm
Yeah. So. Umm… Your mother is back to being pregnant. The symptoms are back. Spoke too soon. “Tut tut!” Rookie mistake. Jinxed it.
Things haven’t let off for some time now. It’s arguably worse. She has such a strong aversion to meat and fish. In fact, I have mutton chops – which she loves – in the oven right now. She can’t even stand the smell. So much so that she’s had to migrate upstairs till my business is done.
We also did a Harmony Test on Thursday. I just googled it and it’s
one of the most predictive and accurate non-invasive tests available to predict the chance of your baby having a chromosomal abnormality.
We basically want to find out if you are likely to have any disabilities. To put it plainly, your life depends on the results. We spoke about it. And agreed we couldn’t. Your mum will return sometime next week or so to do the final part of the test. It needs to happen when you have a spine I’m told. Ten days thereafter and we’ll know whether you’re in clear or muddy waters.
O’Yes there was a scan as well. And the doctor supposedly went, “your baby won’t stop dancing” smiling at the challenge of trying to get a crisp enough picture. Most of them are blurry though. Your mum seems to think that’s got something to do with me. Mmkay! I’ll see for myself next Friday.
My timer for the chops just went off. Gtg!