‘I’ve considered it. I suspect the most useful contribution is to stay out of the way to avoid causing problems.’ This was consistent with the assessment of me given by Lydia during the Bluefin Tuna Incident and in keeping with the medical maxim: First do no harm.
‘You know, you may get away with it. Rosie’s a rusted-on feminist, so philosophically she wants you to wear a skirt, but she also thinks she’s Superwoman. Independence is an Australian female trait. She’ll want to do it all.’ Gene drained his Midori and refilled both glasses. ‘Whatever women say, they’re biologically bonded to the baby in a way we’re not. It won’t even recognise you for the first few months. So don’t worry about that. Look ahead to when it’s a toddler and you can interact.’
This was helpful. I was fortunate to be able to source advice from an experienced father and head of a psychology department. He had more.
‘Forget everything you hear from psychologists. They fetishise parenthood. Make you paranoid you’re doing something wrong. If you hear the word attachment, run a mile.’
This was extremely helpful. Lydia doubtless belonged to the group Gene was describing.
Gene continued. ‘You don’t have any nieces or nephews, right?’
‘Correct.’
‘So you’ve got no real experience with kids.’
‘Only Eugenie and Carl.’ Gene’s children were almost familiar enough to be included in my list of friends, but too old for toddler orientation.
Rosie emerged from her office and walked towards the bedroom, making hand motions which I interpreted as You’ve had enough to drink, both of you, and it’s time to come to bed instead of sharing more interesting information.
Gene started to get up and collapsed back in the chair. ‘Here’s my last bit of advice before I fall over. Watch some kids, watch them play. You’ll see they’re just little adults, only they don’t know all the rules and tricks yet. Nothing to worry about.’
9
Rosie was sitting up in bed when I joined her.
‘Don, before you get undressed—could I ask you a favour?’
‘Of course. As long as it doesn’t require mental or physical coordination.’ Gene’s topping-up of my glass had resulted in an accidental overdose of alcohol.
‘What time does the deli close? The one where you got the smoked mackerel?’
‘I don’t know.’ Why did I need to remain dressed to answer the question?
‘I’d really love some more.’
‘I’ll buy some later today.’ It was 12.04 a.m. ‘We can have it cold as an appetiser.’
‘I meant now. Tonight. With dill pickles. The ones with chilli if you can find them.’
‘It’s too late to eat. Your digestive system—’
‘I don’t care. I’m pregnant. You get cravings. It’s normal.’
Normal had clearly been redefined.
I predicted that finding smoked mackerel and pickles after midnight would involve significant effort, especially as my intoxication precluded the use of my bicycle, but this was the first opportunity I had been offered to do something directly related to the pregnancy.
Random jogging in an unfamiliar neighbourhood failed to uncover any smoked mackerel. The streets were still busy and my directional choices were being influenced by the need to dodge pedestrians. I decided to proceed to Brooklyn where I knew there was a well-stocked all-night delicatessen on Graham Avenue. Statistically, my expected time to find mackerel was probably lower if I continued to search Manhattan, but I was prepared to pay a price for certainty.
As I jogged over the Williamsburg Bridge, I analysed the problem. It seemed likely that Rosie’s body was reacting to some deficiency, the intensity of the desire magnified by the importance of proper nutrition during pregnancy. She had rejected the mushroom and artichoke risotto but wanted mackerel. I made a provisional conclusion that her body required protein and fish oil.
As with the management of my increasingly complex life, I saw two possible approaches. An on-demand sourcing of nutrition, driven by cravings which probably occurred only after the deficiency was recognised by her body, was going to be disruptive and inefficient, as my search for mackerel was demonstrating. A planned approach, recognising the specialised diet required for pregnancy and ensuring all ingredients were on hand in a timely manner, was obviously superior.
When I arrived home at 2.32 a.m. in the City That Never Sleeps, I had run approximately twenty kilometres and acquired mackerel, pickles and chocolate (Rosie always craved chocolate). Rosie was asleep. Waving the mackerel under her nose did not stimulate any response.
When I woke, Rosie and Gene were already preparing to leave for Columbia and I had a headache again, this time doubtless due to lack of sleep. The correct amount of relatively undisturbed sleep is critical to optimum physical and mental functioning. Rosie’s pregnancy was taking a severe toll on my body. Purchase of pregnancy-compatible food in advance would at least obviate the need for midnight excursions. As a short-term solution, I took a day’s leave to concentrate on the Baby Project.
I was able to use the freed-up day productively, first to catch up on sleep, then to source further information on Rosie’s statement about the link between cortisol and depression. The evidence was convincing, as it was for the link with heart disease. It was definitely important to minimise Rosie’s stress levels in the interests of both Bud’s health and her own.
I allocated the remainder of the morning, after completion of scheduled body-maintenance tasks, to researching nutrition in pregnancy. The time I allowed turned out to be manifestly insufficient. There was so much conflicting advice! Even after rejection of articles that helpfully advertised their lack of a scientific basis by the use of words such as organic, holistic and natural, I was left with a mass of data, recommendations and recipes. Some focused on foods to include, others on foods to avoid. There was substantial overlap. A commercial but impressive baby-oriented website offered a Standardised Meal System for each trimester, but its meals included meat, which would be unacceptable to Rosie. I needed more time, or a meta-study. Surely others had faced the same problem and codified their findings.
The pregnancy websites also contained vast amounts of information about foetal development. Rosie had been clear that she did not want a technical commentary, but it was so interesting, especially with a case study progressing in my apartment. I selected one of the wall tiles above the bath and labelled it ‘5’ to represent the estimated number of weeks of gestation up to the preceding Saturday. I made a dot the size of an orange seed to represent Bud’s current size, then added a sketch. Even after forty minutes’ work, it was crude compared with some of the diagrams available online. But, as with the schedule on the tiles opposite, its production gave me a distinct sense of satisfaction.