In preparation for Father’s Day this Sunday I’ve been trying to plan something special for Teach. I attempted to mark the occasion last year but seeing E (or ‘Grug’ as he was known during the gestational period) wasn’t born yet my efforts were more comical than serious.
Teach loves buying and giving presents to his nearest and dearest. My first Mother’s Day earlier this year was very special. Celebrations started with a generous sleep in, a delicious bacon and egg fry-up, followed by two blissful hours at a Thai Day Spa sans child! He knew exactly what I needed and I loved him more for knowing me so well. Needless to say, the pressure is on me to return the favour and celebrate his first (official) Father’s Day with the pomp and ceremony he deserves, because let’s be honest, he deserves a bloody medal.
I’ve been known to complain once or, um, thrice. It was during my pregnancy that my colourful complaining (a.k.a asserting my views loud and clear) seemed to expand at the same rate as my burgeoning stomach. As the months went by my views on everything from ‘There’s not enough chocolate chips in my 4 litre tub of Triple Chocolate Ice Cream,’ to ‘Why do shoe designers only make strappy sandals for women with long narrow feet and not short stumpy fat pregnant feet?’ became more prominent and obvious to all who dared look in my direction. I was pregnant and there was obviously a conspiracy raging against me in the big bad world because all I wanted was SOMEONE TO OFFER ME BLOODY COMFY SHOES GOD DAMN IT, and so on.
Those turbulent months were trying times for Teach. He always knew if I was on the verge of boiling over he could offer to make me a cup of tea and leave me to watch one, or seven, episodes of Sex and the City and I’d be back to my ‘normal’ self soon enough. You’ve got to give it to the man, he knew when to hold ‘em, knew when to fold ‘em and knew when just to walk away. I believe I survived those nine months of roller-coaster emotions because of his impeccable learn-to-survive defence mechanisms.
Not many other people have seen me in such a vulnerable position. Closest friends might have an idea of what I’m capable of, but I’ll always put a smile on my face and say ‘It’s not so bad’ with my fingers crossed behind my back. Perhaps my parents and brothers are the only people (still talking to me at least) that understand the depths of pain and suffering Teach goes through day-to-day after their own tour of duty at Sian Boot Camp.
Mum and Dad have definitely seen me at my worst be it illness, broken limbs, black eyes, severed tendons, drunkenness or just a good, old-fashion tanty. At the end of the day I know I will still be loved because you’re allowed to be vulnerable in your family. But how many times have we let others, outside the family, in on our scary, neurotic, paranoid, delusional, hyper-sensitive self? Add pregnancy to the mix and you’re a barrel of laughs that would put Hamish and Andy to shame!
During those months Teach took it all, and more, in his stride. Now, as a learner parent, when emotions such as this raise their ugly head I do the only thing a ‘sane’ person would do and revert back to basics...complain and cry. His support never fails. He picks me up when I’ve (emotionally and physically) crashed on the living room floor after yet another sleepless night with E, brings me a cup of tea and tells me he loves me. What better way is there to tell someone you love them too than to show them everything you’ve got, warts and all?
If your relationship can get through pregnancy, complaining, crying, emotional outpourings and temper tantrums, from Mum and Bub, surely a gift of socks and jocks on your man's first Father’s Day is a sufficient way to show him just how much you truly appreciate everything he does for you and your son. No? Maybe I’ll just let my guard down, prop my eyes open with tooth picks, start crying over breakfast while covered in puke and say, ‘Happy Father’s Day Baby. I'd kill for a cuppa tea.’
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