Have Passport, Will Travel

“What is that?” said the oversize baggage handler at Adelaide Airport pointing at our supa dupa orange carrier with the word ‘Pram’ emblazoned across the top. “A pram? I can’t touch that,” he said. I asked why not. “I’m not a baggage handler,” he replied. Was he perhaps a baggage whisperer, I wondered? I hoofed the baggage onto the conveyor belt myself while he glared at me.
Less than an hour into our first trip with baby Myles and things were looking decidedly shaky. First the Adelaide Independent taxi which I booked online specifically requesting a baby capsule turned up without one. I made an urgent call to the taxi company and was told that Adelaide did not have a single cab equipped with a baby capsule. “If you’re baby is under three months you can carry him in your arms,” said the dispatcher. And when he or she turns three months? No one seemed to know. (I’ve since spoken to Uber, but they do not seem to offer either baby capsules or child seats in their vehicles). 

Once through the normal security screening we sought sanctuary in the Qantas Club lounge, which proved to be remarkably baby-friendly, with good changing facilities and decent coffee for mum and dad. The Qantas flight was equally hassle-free (no, I’m not being sponsored by the Australian carrier), although Myles managed to throw up on the return leg from Sydney four days later. 

The secret of air travel with a baby, we discovered, is to carry several changes of clothes – for the baby and oneself – but keep the carry-on luggage luggage to a minimum. Once in the air, the next challenge is changing your baby’s nappy in the airline toilet – something which requires the dexterity of an escapologist.
Once in Sydney our biggest obstacle was finding a taxi with a baby capsule and enough space for our oversize luggage. This proved far simpler than we’d expected and our welcome at the Swissotel Sydney was equally delightful – although we’d requested a bassinet the hotel supplied bottles, wipes, a sterilizer, blankets, toys and even a baby bath. Myles had his best sleep in three months at the Swissotel and we are eternally grateful to the staff for their kindness and attention to detail; I later discovered that the hotel will actually decorate your child’s room according to his or her favourite superhero, something which I’d rather not contemplate at this stage.
This whistle-stop trip to Sydney was a dress rehearsal for a month-long journey around the United Kingdom. I’m already a little nervous. How will Myles behave on such a long flight? Will we be able to carry enough formula? Can we take him in a normal London black cab? “You’ll be fine,” a mother of three young boys assured me. “This is the best age to travel with children. They are just sleeping and feeding most of the time. The trouble starts when they get a little more mobile.”
I can’t wait to show my new son off to his 84-year-old granny, his 23-year-old brother and other English relatives. He’ll also visit that holy of holies, Upton Park (home of West Ham football club). And what about the perennial taxi problem? I think we’ve nailed that one too. We’ve hired a car – Europcar offer capsules and baby seats with most of their vehicles for a very modest fee. Yes, another free plug. Perhaps Europcar would like to sponsor this blog? Afterall, I’m going to be a very good customer for the next few years.

Another Day In Paradise

 A new word has entered my vocabulary: colic. It’s like a fiendish intruder bringing misery, anguish and pain into our lives. Our son Myles is one of an estimated 20 per cent of all newborns thought to develop the condition. A colicky baby is not just windy, he or she irritable, unsettled, fractious and unhappy. When a baby with colic cries, the noise cuts right through you, wrenching at your heart. Parents feel powerless, bewildered and guilty. I read a post from Jaimie Oliver, the chef, saying that he’d resorted to driving around for hours at night in an attempt to calm their colicky baby. But nothing seems to work. We’ve tried three types of kids’ medicine, including a herbal mixture of rhubarb and soda, but with little tangible improvement. “The first person who comes up with a cure for colic will win the Nobel Prize,” said our paediatrician. “One of my children suffered from colic and I was in exactly the same boat as you. I can recommend a couple of things to try, but there’s no guaranteed they’ll work. The good news is that colic usually only lasts for 12 weeks.” Twelve weeks! Lack of sleep frays your nerves. “Why can’t I do anything?” implored my wife at 3am one morning. “I just feel so useless.” For the past seven weeks (Myles is now nine weeks) we have approached night-time with a sense of dread. How many times will he cry? Why does he arch his back like that? Will he, and us, manage to get any sleep? As the skies darken, our cherubic young son turns into a tense, flaying dervish. We’re rechristened him Jekyll & Hyde. Our community nurse suggested tightly swaddling Myles at night. He broke free. Then she said it was imperative to keep him awake during the day. Splash some cold water on his face, remove his clothes, open the curtains and blinds, she suggested. We followed her instructions. Myles, naked and wet, lapsed into a blissful sleep. We’re tried bathing him at night just before bed. Vina has changed her diet. No improvement. One night I didn’t go to bed at all, just rocked him on sofa until dawn. My head felt like concrete the next day. The past nine weeks has been a period of intense highs and terrifying lows. I’ll never forget our first morning together at home, dancing to “Another Day In Paradise” by Phil Collins. But I feel sick remembering the sound of his wheezing when he caught his first cold (from me) – and the look of sheer dread written on his mother’s face. The last few weeks have taught me that despite his apparent vulnerability Myles is a very strong-willed child. There is a toughness in him which inspires me. Two days ago he gave me his first smile. I whooped for joy. Every day is a new milestone, a benediction. Soon, I hope, his colic will be a distant memory, but not that smile. I cherish his clear-eyed stare, his koala hugs, feet that can curl like a fist and those bizarre animal noises. But it’s that smile, that divine spark, I treasure. 

This is what William Blake wrote some 230 years ago:

Sleep, sleep, happy child!

All creation slept and smiled.

Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,

While o'er thee thy mother weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face

Holy image I can trace;

Sweet babe, once like thee

Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:

Wept for me, for thee, for all,

When He was an infant small.

Thou His image ever see,

Heavenly face that smiles on thee!

Smiles on thee, on me, on all,

Who became an infant small;

Infant smiles are His own smiles;

Heaven and earth to peace beguile

A Cradle Song

The Father's Strength

Now we are three. Our son Myles Dylan Ikenna Chipperfield was born in Adelaide on June 12 at 7.58am by caesarean section. A flawless delivery by Dr Karen Chandler and her team at Burnside War Memorial Hospital – the only hiccup was that Vina required two doses of anaesthetic (spinal block) to do the job. Amusing to hear the surgical team chatting about their own family lives (school outings, buying party dresses and the like) while we waited for our own family to begin. If Vina looked nervous she hid it well behind smiles and jokes. 

Then the blue screen went up and the surgical chitchat slowed. There was a momentary lull from the other side of the screen and then my son appeared, held high in the air by Dr Chandler, screaming his lungs out. Like a mini prizefighter, bloody but triumphant. Is there anything more dramatic than birth? The glare of lights. The audience. And the star of the show, fresh from the placenta and still attached to his rope-like umbilical chord: a tiny astronaut, stepping naked and alone into deep space. From the dark to the light. 

Modern childbirth is a highly choreographed affair – there is the cutting of the umbilical chord, a quick once over by the paediatrician, the wrapping of the baby and first hug from mum and dad. This is a hug like no other, when the whole world, the universe and stars under God are cradled in your arms. It’s like a slow motion bungee jump into a giant bed of happiness. Except that nothing is moving, apart from the gyrations of your heart. I feel the pinprick of tears, but I do not cry. You cannot really cry if you are this happy. Punch drunk happy, you might call it. 

There is so much to say about that sparkling Winter morning in Adelaide, but what stays with me is the time I spend with Myles alone, waiting for his mother to return from the operating theatre. I listen the gurgles and sniffles and tiny little cries coming from his crib. There’s a watermelon grin across my chops. This is my son named Ikenna (“The Father’s Strength”) to honour his African heritage. Our journey is about to begin. But for the moment I am content just to listen, to marvel, to breathe. The rest of the world can go hang. I have a newborn son.

IVF Dads Need A Voice

Heartburn, indigestion, flatulence, bloating, occasional headaches, nasal congestion, nosebleeds, ear stuffiness, sensitive gums, leg cramps, backache, pelvic achiness, haemorrhoids, protruding naval, leaking nipples and varicose veins. Sounds tempting, doesn’t it? Actually this is just a sample of what a woman, such as my wife, can expect in the ninth month of pregnancy according to What To Expect When You’re Expecting (HarperCollins Publishing) – our constant companion over the past few weeks.

The authors then describe the woman’s potential emotional state, which veers between trepidation, excitement and absentmindedness. Not exactly Myra Hindley territory, but you get the idea.
As an IVF dad I feel that I have a duty to warn other men about the emotional rollercoaster that awaits them. No one else seems to consider the male contingent to have any role in the IVF process – apart from the obvious, ahem, initial contribution. I’ve scoured the Internet for advice, but without success. Our own IVF clinic in Adelaide has no resources aimed specifically at men and websites such as yourfertility.org.au discuss issues such as sperm mobility but nothing on the emotional front. What To Expect When You’re Expecting does have a chapter devoted to expectant fathers (including some advice on how to “warm up” a pregnant woman for sex) but nothing specifically about the IVF dad. The tone of the writing is, frankly, a little patronising.
The fact is a woman going through IVF is extremely vulnerable to violent mood swings, going from elation to despair in seconds. This emotional sensitivity is exacerbated by the large amount of hormones injected to stimulate egg production during each IVF cycle.
Getting pregnant via IVF is a high wire act, no question. Your partner is going to need your unequivocal support – even if you feel faintly panicky yourself. For a woman in her 40s the stakes are even higher and the fear of failure even more extreme. This can act like a pressure cooker on a relationship. Wannabe IVF dads out there be warned!
Some women become so obsessed with having a child they will undergo 20 or 30 cycles. Stories in the gossip mags about wafer-thin celebrities having “miracle babies” only heighten the sense of frustration. NB there is no such thing as a miracle birth apart from the one in Bethlehem and none of the IVF specialists I have met has a God complex.
“We do what we do, but in the end nature will decide whether you have a child or not,” our consultant said. “If possible we tilt the odds in your favour. We’re not magicians.”
Being an IVF dad is a demanding role for which few of us are really prepared. Men might discuss the embarrassment of sperm donation, but little else. Jokes about wanking at the clinic are about the closest most blokes get to emotional bonding. “I took one look around the room and I knew could say without contradiction that I was surrounded by wankers,” said a fellow IVF dad, now the father of two.
I think we could and should do better. Over the next few days I’m hoping to persuade a leading IVF clinic to partner with me to create some support material specifically for IVF dads. Given the fertility issues facing many countries, not just the affluent West, men need to be better informed, more involved and less invisible. Let’s get the debate started.

ends

Am I Too Old To Become A Dad?

In eight years’ time, Tony Abbott willing, I will qualify for the pension. In 16 days, God willing, I will become a dad again – 22 years after my son Courtney was born on a cold winter’s day in Sydney.
I am 57 years of age. My wife Vina is 45. In just over a fortnight we will become parents; she for the first time. Our son, Myles Dylan Chipperfield, is due to arrive in this world on June 12 at Adelaide’s Burnside War Memorial Hospital.

I was tempted to give him an additional middle name: “7 per cent”. Despite all of the advances in IVF technology, those are chances of a woman in her mid-40s becoming pregnant in Australia today. Our fertility consultant was brutally honest about our chances of conceiving a child. “Once you turn 40 the odds are not good,” she told us. “The older you get, the smaller your chances of conceiving become.”

It was like a kick in the guts. But my fit, youthful wife was unfazed. “Someone has to be in that 7 per cent band, why not us?” she said as we left the clinic. Vina, a proud Black Brit, never doubted she would get pregnant. A steely determination and a healthy lifestyle are two essential pre-requisites for an older wannabe mum – alongside a tough skin.
The average age of mums (and dads) might be going up, but the prejudice against older parents persists – as do the plethora of myths and bunkum about IVF.

IVF is not a walk in the park. It is not a magic wand waved over the infertile. It has nothing to do with designer babies or strange genetic experiments.
My wife endured three IVF cycles, countless hormone injections, scans, probes, disappointments and sleepless nights on her journey to a successful pregnancy. But I sometimes wonder whether these pale into insignificance against the negative mindset we sometimes encounter.
We have been accused of being selfish, irresponsible and even foolish for wanting a child at our age. Why is it that people cannot share our joy, rather than judge and condemn from afar?
I do not worry about my wife. She is made of sterner stuff, but I think about myself and the other older dads out there destined to endure snide remarks,  withering stares or those clunky “Oh I thought you must be the grandad” jokes.
Even celebrity is no protection against this small mindedness. Singer Rod Stewart was roasted in the UK media when he became a dad (again) at the age of 66 and even Simon Cowell, the English TV personality, raised a few eyebrows when he became a father at the advanced age of 54. And let’s not mention Rupert Murdoch and his contribution.
“Isn’t there a nagging doubt that Rod Stewart might just be far too old to be a new father?” wrote Amanda Platell in the Daily Mail. “He’s heading for his 70s, for Heaven’s sake! If he were a mother who’d already had seven children we’d all be appalled.” Would we?
Judging by the demographic trends, Rod, Simon and myself are not statistical aberrations but foot soldiers in a new societal battle around fertility. We are living longer, and having children older. Indeed, one in 25 children born in Australia is now the result of an IVF process of one kind or another. Today, I am one old man with a pram, but I hope to live long enough to see the parks, crèches and schoolyards of Australia full of responsible, energetic older fathers with their happy, well-adjusted kids. Bring it on.