For once I have a decent reason for not updating the blog recently, beyond "I can't be bothered" and "I'm running bad so lets wait until I run good again to post and make myself look infallible" (sad but true).
Yes the missus finally dropped the little-un (read on before you call social services), and gave birth to our son Clark Robert David Atkin. He weighed in at a fairly hefty 8lbs 1oz, and we are very lucky in that he is perfectly healthy and mega cute!
She went into labour at about midnight, and I watched a bit of poker on tele and pretended it wasn't happening whilst she went to have a bath downstairs. I dozed off, and she was rather considerate given her current state (I certainly hadn't been pre-warned about her being considerate in labour!), and
waited til 7am to wake me up and tell me to get my arse in gear as she was in sufficient amount of pain to go to hospital (a much better measurement than time between contractions if you ask me).
They showed us to our room at the hospital (admittedly it wasn't the Ritz,
but it wasn't too shabby at all), and 3 midwives, a snooze each (aided by diamorphine...hers not mine unforunately...though this was the only drug she had at all and was solely to allow her to sleep in the still fairly early stages, brave girl), and a good 2/3 of a John Grisham novel later (if I hadn't finished the book, I do wonder if I'd have been much help towards the end of labour!).
As a guy you almost feel guilty for how much you are doing when your partner is putting in so much effort and going through so much pain. It's almost like you're on a motorbike with a megaphone shouting "you can do it, keep going" whilst tailing someone running a marathon. Obviously not guilty enough to give her the motorbike (thank God this isn't possible, metaphorically speaking). So I got my pom-poms out, told her she was doing awesome (which was no lie, infact it was more of an understatement) and held her leg back as she laid on her side pushing for all she was worth.
"Oh my God, Oh my God, I can see the head, I can see the head, it's got a head Liz" was something like what I said shortly after. The actual birth is so surreal and inexplicable really. I am the most squeamish guy I know. I was sent home from school age 10 because I went pale as a sheet when our teacher told a story about her boyfriend's glass eye falling out. I was sent home from Sixth Form age 17 (yes, 17) after I got a splinter from a pencil I was using in English class right under one of my fingernails and
eyewitness reports suggest I literally turned green. However I went through the whole birth without batting an eyelid, even cutting a cord and taking the obligatory glance at the placenta (you tell yourself you aren't going to look, but you just can't help yourself). Admitedly I wasn't hugely pleased when I discovered blood all down my shorts and all over my favourite trainers, but I really wasn't bothered either. The joy of seeing your own flesh and blood safe and sound on your missus's chest is like nothing I've ever felt before, it really isoverwhelming.
It's all been a bit hectic since then. We've had tons of visitors and went for our first walk with the pram today. So far he hasn't been too much trouble, although with Liz breastfeeding she might tell you a slightly different story as getting up every 2 or 3 hours during the night can't be all that much fun.
I was expecting things would have settled down by the time it came round to me playing the English Poker Open, but with Liz being 11 days overdue it's fallen a bit on top of everything. It starts tomorrow and I'll be hoping that Clark can be that lucky charm to help me take down the biggest tourney I'll have played for a couple of years now.