– 9:53 am

I spent the night thinking about the best way to capture the last twelve or so hours. Do I start from the side, middle, or the now? You’ve been born, clearly. That much is evident.

You were sideways the last time we spoke. The oxy was supposed to push you down further and get you to turn facing the floor. You didn’t oblige. In fact, you did the complete opposite. You went from two o’clock to twelve o’clock facing upwards and counting stars. I laughed when PatPat said it. Typical.

Between him, myself, Chris, and Liza, we decided to proceed with a cesarean. The labour had stalled and way over-prolonged. A “failure to progress” as they call it. Your mother wasn’t fully dilated either. A dead end.

There were a lot more people in the room (than the photo suggests). One of the anaesthetists, Mark Esler I believe his name is (because he had it written on his clogs in marker pen), had a wittily funny way of delivering medical information. There were other quirky people in attendance. The ambience made everything less tense.

Chris stayed beyond her shift to see what you looked like. Despite her intrigue, she was also a great pair of shoulders to lean on. I gave her a big hug at the end. Your mother did too. We were truly humbled by the support we got.

Liza was very tearful in the build-up. Like many others, nothing went according to her birth plan. It’s not so much that, more that she really wanted a natural birth and got everything but. I was giving everything I had to hold back the tears. At one point, I wanted to leave my seat before returning. But that would make her feel worse because she would know. It would mean I was agreeing to the significance of a “natural birth”, which I wasn’t. As far as I’m concerned, whatever the best medical decision is at the time is the right thing to do. Nevertheless, I understood her anguish and frustration. I am a planner too.

The drugs made her quake, shivering as though she was cold with a fierce fever. Funnyman Mark said to embrace and not worry about it. Said it with finer words, of course, using some clever metaphor I can’t remember. You’d have to ask your mother what it felt like but it looked like a rocking ship at sea. With a C-section, the birth is rapid.

PatPat gave me a one-minute warning (to get the camera ready) and before we knew it, you were here. Born August 4, 2022, at 7:24 pm. You were massive at 4.025kg, long as a reptile. There was no way you were coming out naturally. As they pulled you up, the medical team kept going, “oh there’s more, there’s more him…” For small parents that we are, you’re a giant baby. You did not look pleased to be out either.

Everyone’s been asking your name since. A few moments ago, your mother and I agreed you look like a Lian. It’s the first syllable from Liza and the second half of Kilian. I think it’s a great name. But I’m not precious about it.

The close and stitch after you were pulled out took about another half hour. Everything went superbly well. No issues whatsoever. Back on the labour ward, we were handed over to Elaine. Irish lady. She had the vibe of someone who was doing 70 things a minute. Pacing up, down, in and out. But it all made sense when she said she was an aunt to fourteen children, grew up with four sisters and a brother. She couldn’t be still even if you tied her down.

She changed your diaper, which was full of some dark sticky stuff, meconium. Your “vitals” were also fine. Liza was sweating out the drugs. Her urine bag was on the dark side of brown, suggesting dehydration so she was encouraged to drink lots and given a drip. We were both famished so I ordered food via room service. Your mother had soup and a fruit salad which she walloped. I think I ordered myself the entire menu. It seemed to take an age but I was reluctant to press or chase. The food was surprisingly delicious. But my expectations were low. It’s “hospital food” I thought. Yes, but no. It was very good. I’ll probably do the same tonight.

We were stunned at how calm and self-soothing you were. Worryingly calm. You stayed under the warm light fiddling and trying to suck your fingers. You also love a swaddle.

But after speaking to Lucy this morning, this state of calm is normal for babies within the first 24 hours. They can’t be fucked about anything. Tonight will set the precedence for what to expect. Lucy is the nurse midwife teaching your mother how to breastfeed. I’ve been calling them nurses all along like the ignorant git that I am. There’s a difference.

I got Liza on the phone to her parents. The news went round to some close family members (who are now calling me “Pah boy” meaning “father to a boy”. We video-called Junior. Lyn called, crying with so much joy. We are the criers of the family she and I. But don’t let that fool you, she’s also a warrior. Turns out Fusi’s wife, Jem, has a sister who gave birth the same day. So there were congratulations all around. I also told T and Rozalia (who should be visiting today).

My dad was at a wake when I called. It feels like that’s all he does these days. Attend wakes. He had a beautiful story to tell me. The last time I was in Cameroon, Liza and I gave him an envelope on your behalf. We were already pregnant then. It had your ultrasound pictures and a gesture amount of money from a child to his grandfather. He hadn’t used it and told me he’d picked it up earlier that day. Something drew his attention to it, he said, sounding all mystical. I don’t think I’ve heard my dad this happy. His joy was contagious. He called me again this morning.

After the checks on the labour ward, we were taken to the post-natal ward. You won’t believe my relief at seeing two beds. It was just after eleven and I was functioning on less than empty. The nursery was full so we had you for the night. A nurse came in every couple of hours to check on both you and your mother. You were calm throughout and only cried when provoked. I was grateful for sure. You were very considerate and adult-like the one time I needed you to be. I doubt Liza slept much though. She still had that canola sticking out and was probably prying over you all night. Maternal instincts I guess.

It’s 2:53 pm now and so far, PatPat’s been in to see us along with a paediatrician to check you out. Pat’s an incredible doctor human. He fielded Liza’s questions about possibly leaving tomorrow evening, pain management post-surgery, recovery timelines and so on and so forth.

The paediatrician reaffirmed how big and tall you were and going to be. You have very long feet and fingers. Oh and a posterior tongue tie. You’ve also managed to scratch your face already with those Japanese blades you call nails. So there’s a long red line across your left cheek to your ear. Speaking of colour, you currently have a brick red shade. You are changing so quickly. You could be anything tomorrow.

You’ve been in your crib for the last hour, waking and crying yourself to sleep intermittently while your mother had some time to herself. I’ve been typing away and haven’t picked you up once. I spoke to you a few times to calm you down but that’s the most I did. In PatPat’s words, long may this behaviour continue. Probably won’t but we’ll wish for it anyway.

I’ll hang out with Rozalia when she gets here but only for a bit. It’ll be a great chance to take a walk and make some calls and announcements. I wanted to get this post out the way before the details escape me and inbound calls and messages start flying around. It’s done now.