you do anything to annoy her - like say you haven’t been keeping to your pregnancy diet - she turns into this mighty Zulu warrior and gives you the flintiest, eyeball-straining look of displeasure I’ve ever seen. It makes me wee myself a bit every time.’
‘You want to change midwife?’ I asked her.
‘Are you kidding?’ she replied. ‘This woman has successfully helped give birth to children in a bloody war zone. Even if she does shout at me, she’s perfect!’
It’s not just Laura who gets it in the neck.
The other day Marigold wanted a one-to-one with my wife on how she felt the pregnancy was going. I objected, not least because there’s very little to do in a hospital other than kick the chocolate machine repeatedly until a Twix falls out, but also on the grounds that I was the father and had a right to be there.
‘You go away now, you stupid man!’ Marigold hollered at me. ‘She’s the important one here, not you and your dangly penis. It did its job months ago, now let me do mine.’ And with that, the door was closed on me for an hour, with no hope of re-entry.
On this particular day though, Marigold is in a very good mood.
‘We can tell the sex of the baby today Newmans,’ she beams. ‘We’ll see whether you’re having a sweet little girl, or one of those nasty, smelly little boys.’ Marigold throws her head back and laughs to the heavens. It’s like being around a force of nature imprisoned in a human body. ‘You want to know what the sex is?’
This is something Laura and I had discussed at length. While there is a certain thrill to remaining in the dark until such time as the child is squeezed from the womb, it comes with an inability to plan ahead properly.
Other couples may have the time and money to shop for both a baby boy and girl, but Mrs Newman and I are on a tight budget right now, with her working as part-time manager of the local
Thorntons
choccy shop, and me languishing in the bowels of the newspaper’s marketing division.
Also, we’re both testy buggers when kept in the dark, so decide it’s best to know the gender of our unborn child as soon as possible, to avoid stress, arguments and an ever so slight feeling of disappointment if it ends up being the sex we don’t want.
‘Yes, we’d like to know,’ Laura says.
‘Aha!’ Marigold grins. ‘Good for you! I hate these wishy-washy bastards who can’t decide, or want to wait until the baby comes out. The sooner you know, the sooner you can start worrying about what colour to paint everything. Am I right?’ I get the feeling that if I disagree she’ll smack me on the head until I’m permanently cross-eyed, so I nod vigorously.
‘Right, let’s go see Narinda.’ Marigold strides out and we follow along like the good little expectant parents we are.
Narinda is as pleased to see us.
I’m not sure if she’s happy to see Marigold or not.
Everyone has the same stunned expression on their face when the Namibian woman appears, so it’s quite impossible to say how they’re feeling about the situation.
In short order, Narinda has the ultra-sound going and finds the kid where it’s supposed to be, swimming around in utero and blissfully unaware of the insane world it’s going to be thrust into in a few months.
‘Okay then,’ says Narinda. ‘I can tell you the baby’s gender now. Are you sure you want to know?’
‘Yes,’ Laura and I say together.
Narinda smiles and shakes her head. ‘ Absolutely sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because once I tell you, there’s no going back!’
I get the impression Narinda is one for the big birth moments. It’s obvious she thinks it’s better to find out if your kid’s an innie or an outie when it escapes from between its mothers legs.
‘Oh, for the sake of the good Lord woman!’ booms Marigold. ‘Tell these poor buggers whether they have a boy or a girl!’ she says, giving Narinda the eyeball.
Narinda looks ever so slightly terrified and looks back to
‘You want to change midwife?’ I asked her.
‘Are you kidding?’ she replied. ‘This woman has successfully helped give birth to children in a bloody war zone. Even if she does shout at me, she’s perfect!’
It’s not just Laura who gets it in the neck.
The other day Marigold wanted a one-to-one with my wife on how she felt the pregnancy was going. I objected, not least because there’s very little to do in a hospital other than kick the chocolate machine repeatedly until a Twix falls out, but also on the grounds that I was the father and had a right to be there.
‘You go away now, you stupid man!’ Marigold hollered at me. ‘She’s the important one here, not you and your dangly penis. It did its job months ago, now let me do mine.’ And with that, the door was closed on me for an hour, with no hope of re-entry.
On this particular day though, Marigold is in a very good mood.
‘We can tell the sex of the baby today Newmans,’ she beams. ‘We’ll see whether you’re having a sweet little girl, or one of those nasty, smelly little boys.’ Marigold throws her head back and laughs to the heavens. It’s like being around a force of nature imprisoned in a human body. ‘You want to know what the sex is?’
This is something Laura and I had discussed at length. While there is a certain thrill to remaining in the dark until such time as the child is squeezed from the womb, it comes with an inability to plan ahead properly.
Other couples may have the time and money to shop for both a baby boy and girl, but Mrs Newman and I are on a tight budget right now, with her working as part-time manager of the local
Thorntons
choccy shop, and me languishing in the bowels of the newspaper’s marketing division.
Also, we’re both testy buggers when kept in the dark, so decide it’s best to know the gender of our unborn child as soon as possible, to avoid stress, arguments and an ever so slight feeling of disappointment if it ends up being the sex we don’t want.
‘Yes, we’d like to know,’ Laura says.
‘Aha!’ Marigold grins. ‘Good for you! I hate these wishy-washy bastards who can’t decide, or want to wait until the baby comes out. The sooner you know, the sooner you can start worrying about what colour to paint everything. Am I right?’ I get the feeling that if I disagree she’ll smack me on the head until I’m permanently cross-eyed, so I nod vigorously.
‘Right, let’s go see Narinda.’ Marigold strides out and we follow along like the good little expectant parents we are.
Narinda is as pleased to see us.
I’m not sure if she’s happy to see Marigold or not.
Everyone has the same stunned expression on their face when the Namibian woman appears, so it’s quite impossible to say how they’re feeling about the situation.
In short order, Narinda has the ultra-sound going and finds the kid where it’s supposed to be, swimming around in utero and blissfully unaware of the insane world it’s going to be thrust into in a few months.
‘Okay then,’ says Narinda. ‘I can tell you the baby’s gender now. Are you sure you want to know?’
‘Yes,’ Laura and I say together.
Narinda smiles and shakes her head. ‘ Absolutely sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because once I tell you, there’s no going back!’
I get the impression Narinda is one for the big birth moments. It’s obvious she thinks it’s better to find out if your kid’s an innie or an outie when it escapes from between its mothers legs.
‘Oh, for the sake of the good Lord woman!’ booms Marigold. ‘Tell these poor buggers whether they have a boy or a girl!’ she says, giving Narinda the eyeball.
Narinda looks ever so slightly terrified and looks back to
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