When my wife Jessica announced her pregnancy in a Paris cafe, I was relieved more than anything. After three years of marriage and 'trying' – the worst euphemism in the English language – I finally knew I wasn't shooting blanks. I threw myself into expectant fatherhood with textbook zeal: giving up alcohol, blue cheese and sushi, devouring child-rearing books, and singing to my unborn child every night, despite Jessica's comment that I sounded 'like Boyzone being strangled'.
While many male friends complained of feeling excluded by their partners' pregnancies, I felt involved – like Andy Murray's coach, ready to dash onto the court. But at the 20-week scan, when we learned we were having a son, Jessica called me 'a little creepy' for emailing the picture to most of my contacts. 'You're a man, remember?' she said.
Yes, that was the problem. Men like to be in control, but pregnancy leaves us feeling powerless. So we faff around the edges, devouring information, researching car seats and travel cots. Yet my mania wasn't just about coping with powerlessness; I wanted Jessica to feel supported. Raised by a working mother, I was part of a generation determined to be wholly involved at home – to share the load of cooking, cleaning, and kids.
As the due date approached, my focus intensified. I obsessed over my phone's battery life, rushed to finish deadlines, and tested the birthing pool temperature at half-hourly intervals, sometimes in the middle of the night. On the due date, Jessica fell asleep at lunchtime. When she woke in the late afternoon, contractions accelerated. I called the midwives, boiled kettles, and flapped around like a big anxious bird while my wife gave birth.
Jessica was strong, focused, intense – she didn't use painkillers or gas, but went into herself in a way I admired deeply. I remained on the periphery, pacing like a caged animal, torn between extreme curiosity and immense terror. From feeling intrinsically connected, part of a two-person team about to ascend Everest, I felt suddenly and overwhelmingly alone – a hapless, useless bloke watching women make the world turn.
Then, a rush of activity, and a tiny thing was raised from the birthing pool water. As the head and limbs cleared the surface, the creature opened its lungs and wailed. But our son was silent. Esme was born still, and I learned what it truly means to be a father: to fight for your child even when there is no breath to fight for.
