The first, overwhelming thought that almost daily comes to mind drags me back to 2022, to the endless, biting cold of a Melbourne winter in June. I was out with Oliver, my 18-month-old son, battling the damp, brisk, early evening darkness in a local playground. Just like countless parents before me. It was a day’s adventure desperately trying to keep him entertained and warm. This park was close enough to the CBD that you could clearly watch the last few office lights blink out in the nearby massive, towering skyscrapers – City folk, professionals in their sharp suits, all drifting home, or off to their excitedly planned nights out, or those even off to their evening classes.
But it was just Ollie and me. Not another soul. The only movement was the scurrying of workers and students, their uniforms blurring in the haze, darting across the nearby lawns toward the bright, almost menacing glow of the tram "Super Stops" – glass and tin shelters offering a temporary escape from the inconsistent drizzle and icy gusts. Headlights of cars, vans, bikes, buses, and every other vehicle imaginable snaked along the wide and narrow side streets like a slow-moving caterpillar, the front halves inching forward before the back half catches up. They were only a few hundred metres away, seconds away really, but for us, they felt like miles, oceans, a completely different world.
For those who know the incredible ‘Nature Playground’ in Royal Park, nestled between the Children's and Women's Hospitals – and even if you don't – it's a sanctuary, a simple place of fun for those doing it real tough. And we were doing it fucking tough.
In those moments, alone in the biting cold, I somehow almost organically found my purpose, my need, in a tumultuous, fucking scary time. A time of utter bloody surrealism, amazement, loneliness, surprising unity, and the harsh reality (later found out) that rose-tinted glasses never show true colours. All rolled in one. My role, my call to arms, was to hold our family together, to not just keep us afloat, but keep the momentum rolling on. It would be our anchor, a comfort, and a vital legacy for the future.
Or so I thought.
Rewind again six months and a few weeks. It was mid-December 2021. Christmas in the beautifully leafy, well-to-do suburb of Eltham, Victoria. Anne-Marie (AM), Ollie, the dogs, and I were about to welcome some extra Irish comfort. AM's parents were flying out from Ireland, swapping a dreary European winter for an Aussie summer, desperate for much-needed and treasured grandparent-grandchild time that Ollie had been severely missing since, well, 3 days after we brought him home.
A sunny Tuesday morning light filtered through the light curtains. I was playing with Ollie in the lounge room. He was in his playpen, building blocks, peek-a-booing, and just watching him bounce in his Finding Nemo jumper – all great fun. AM, I assumed, was as always doing her usual morning routine. Then she sauntered down the hallway, down the steps, and casually quipped, "We may have a problem."
"Why's that?" I asked, my voice nonchalant, still enjoying Ollie’s fun. Out of bread? Milk? Something equally mundane.
It wasn't. Not even close. It wasn't in the ballpark, nor the car park, or even the souvenir shop. It was bigger. Grand. More beautiful than I could have imagined.
She handed me something from behind her back. Then instantly and permanently burning itself into my mind, into all my memories to come, the two red lines on the pregnancy test. What a fantastic, utterly joyous, happy moment. Especially because we'd only just started trying for another baby. With Ollie, it had taken seemingly forever, so we’d mentally braced for months of negative tests. But here it was, in all its glory. We were having another baby, and a sibling for Ollie to rule the world with. You absolute bloody ripper!
Then, a hand brake of reality: AM’s parents were literally 30,00ft en route. "Shit!"
A massive dilemma hit us. Tell them the news super early, or hold it for 12 weeks – the point when the fetus has its greatest chance of survival. It's a brutal choice every couple faces. You're expecting the most marvelous thing, the pinnacle of your life, but going too early risks announcing the devastating, traumatic loss after you've spread the joyful news far and wide.
No. We had to do the right thing by us, by the fetus (who became known as "Nugget" because of the 12-week scans. Bluntly, she looked like a McNugget on the scan). We kept it to ourselves.
Well..., for about a week and a bit. AM’s pregnancy sickness became too much to hide. And thus, with that came the inevitable: "I guess we’ll need to tell my dad, and my brother and his family, and… well, the extended family”
Telling the family early came with the important caveats about the highly unlikely but possible risks before 12 weeks, which reduced some stress. We told them they were in a fortunate position that very few families get to be in these days, but to be aware there’s a reason for that.
(I'll dive deeper into Nugget's story later, in the aptly named 'Part: Up Shit Creek and over the Waterfall').
Prenatal nausea, cravings, soreness – it's all so different, mum to mum, baby to baby. Even with second or third pregnancies, some things stay the same, others intensify.
Let me be clear: this is my experience, a guy's experience. It’s not an attempt to understand what mothers-to-be go through. Only they truly know, and often, even they struggle to put it into words.
The months of premature baby awareness appointments at the Women's Hospital continued, and so did Ollie and my playground time fillers. Again, we opted to find out Nugget's gender, mainly so we could hit the ground running with clothes, books, and everything else. But this time, we made a spectacle of it. AM's great friend Erin (who was there for Ollie's birth) contacted the obstetrician's clinic for the ultrasound image and gender. She’d then get a confetti powder popper… thing. We'd release it later. It was such fun, mixed with a touch of nerves.
After getting the popper days before, on a quiet February Wednesday morning, we arrived at Alistair Knox Park in Eltham. Grandparents in tow, Ollie in my arms, we angled the camera to capture the truth. We counted down from ten… nine… eight… until, at one, a cloud of PINK mist blasted into the air. We’re having a girl! Happy, happy days. A sister for Ollie. One of each for us. The mist dissipated into the air and through the trees. What an experience. I know everyone says, "We don’t care if it’s a boy or girl, just as long as they’re healthy," which is completely true. But I was quietly, selfishly relieved the powder was pink. I think the dynamic of a boy/girl family works wonders for both siblings, not to mention for the parents.
Two months later, with the worst of the COVID pandemic a grim memory, the local Edendale Farm hosted a Jazz festival. We were ecstatic, relieved to get out, to experience the world again, especially for Ollie. Such a great, fun time was had. But we paid the price. COVID. Yep, Rona decided we needed to experience all her glory before long. It was truly...awful. My 16-month-old Ollie and a very pregnant AM all got hit. Them especially. We made do, turning the car seats and boot into an obstacle course, having "picnics" in the backyard, and "out-of-the-way coffees" on the back hill.
We eventually, slowly, got over it and returned to the usual obstetrician appointments, the hospital checkups in the city. After 27 weeks of this, AM was finally taken OFF the Premmie list. A glorious day! This meant she would actually get to term (36-42 weeks, to be precise). Everything we’d planned for Ollie's birth (which had been thrown out the window pretty quickly) could be dusted off. The calm birth classes, the possibility of a water birth, having everything done "on our terms," and most importantly, having Ollie there to personally experience the miracle of his sister's arrival into our family and world. For him to see what it truly takes for birth to transpire.
No. This was not going to happen.
At all.
June arrived. The third trimester was about to begin – the time when Nugget was supposed to grow and grow, when everyone on the outside would truly see how pregnant AM was getting and be ever more proud of her baby bump. A beautiful Sunday morning sun streamed through our Eltham blinds. The three of us for breakfast in the kitchen, as usual. We were discussing finally going out that morning to get Ollie his own bed and as he was outgrowing the crib. Then, out of the blue, for no reason, AM felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. Then another. Our calm, easy day was about to shatter, and the prospect of a happy birth had, too.
