There’s s scene in the classic Australian movie, The Castle, where clueless suburban lawyer Dennis Denuto finds himself in the High Court of Australia. He’s assisting a Queen’s Council argue a complex case of constitutional law. Completely out of his depth, Dennis resorts to passing notes at key points during his colleague’s arguments to the full bench of judges. The note invariably reads: “would you like a glass of water?”
The QC looks at the note quizzically then goes back to arguing the case.
That’s how I felt just last week as my wife gave birth to our second child: attempting to give her a sip of water as she did something completely beyond my comprehension.
Now of course it wasn’t exactly like that, even if it felt like it. My wife told me (as she said before the birth of our first child) that I had to think for her and make decisions on her behalf during the birth.
Which, at first blush, sounds like she was asking me to do that ‘mansplaining’ thing middle class American progressives and Guardian readers are always going on about.
At first blush. But actually, my wife wasn’t saying: ‘I’m ceding my agency to you’, but rather: ‘I can’t concentrate on all that other bullshit while pushing a human out of my vagina’.
Which, you know, is reasonable.
My wife went through the Canberra Birth Centre, as she did with our first child. The place is essentially run by the midwife mafia, committed to drug and doctor free natural childbirth. And, well, it works. Doctors and drugs become involved when they must, of course, but as it turns out, mostly they don’t. Women going through the Birth Centre in Canberra have a ‘natural’ birth 89 per cent of the time. In North Sydney, that number drops to around 60%.
As an aside, in Vietnam, C-sections are performed nearly 80% of the time. This is primarily caused by mothers and their families wishing to have the child on auspicious days.
Anyway: there I was, wondering how to be useful as my wife was giving birth. As I stood and pondered this, I failed to notice I had placed myself in the firing line. A minor tsunami soaked me from the waist down when my partner’s waters broke. The comfortable tracksuit pants I was intending to 
sleep in that night at the hospital, were suddenly less comfortable.
The midwife laughed and said: well, I guess you had a water birth.
Hmm. Midwife humour.
Everything went well. I offered glasses of water, held her hand, cut a cord. All that stuff. Childbirth is, well, nothing less than the most amazing thing I’m ever going to see. Even Fury Road takes second place. My admiration for women, for my wife, vaginas, midwives – the lot – knows no bounds.
I mean: how great are vaginas?!
I can’t remember much of the first year after the birth of our first child. A blur of sleep deprived nappy-changing, rocking to sleep, sticking the crib on the washing machine maybe he’ll sleep now, driving the car around rain-shiny streets at 3 am god just please go to sleep, little man.
I can’t remember much and, you now, I’m a dude. I didn’t have to endure the full-body-exhaustion of sustaining the life another human being.
So now, one week in, I’m remembering or trying to remember all the stuff you’re meant to know one week in.
I’d completely forgotten all the safe sleeping rules. The first night back I was googling in the early hours whether the baby is allowed to have anything on its head at night (it’s not, as an aside). I’d forgotten 
how time just falls into a sinkhole. One day I got up, did some baby-connected tasks, turned around, and it was 1pm. No breakfast, no lunch, still in my pyjamas. I’d forgotten how the house quickly turns into a sinkhole of dirty dishes, sleep deprived and verbally incoherent family members, nappies, and visitors smiling politely at the chaos.
It’s reminded me, as well, how extraordinary single parents are. Doing all this without a partner. God damn. I’m a writer and a PhD student (which is another way of say: a goddamn bum) so I can be present and helpful around the clock. Single parents? Fucken saints, mate.
My baby – this future astronaut and first Australian to walk on Mars – this one’s pretty cool. So far. Touch wood. Throw salt. Sacrifice a goat. Look I’ll do anything for a baby that sleeps. Seriously. I’ll 
fucken do it. Anyway, he’s sleeping. It’s 2am as I write this, he gets the bottle at 3. This way my wife gets 6 hours uninterrupted. A godsend, seven days in.
It’s peaceful, out this late. I can read and write. Listen to my son coo and shuffle in his bassinet. There’s something deeply satisfying about it all. Serene.
For the next baby? Well, fuck that. Seriously. After my four-year-old shot me in the face with a hose on full power while I was reading a book out on the back lawn, my first though was: two little boys are all the serenity I’ll ever need. Two miracles are more than enough.