The Fourth Trimester

Fourth Trimester

I wake a little sore and a lot disoriented. The room is as large as our two bedroom apartment, but somehow cosier. In the corner, a clawfoot bathtub is filled with ice and what looks like craft beers, French champagne and those fancy ‘all natural’ sodas Charlie prefers we drink. Vases of flowers, the remains of a chocolate fountain and a tower of fresh fruit crowd a table by an open window. I can hear the ocean.

A banner comes into focus: Congratulations new parents!

Oh, no. The baby.

The panic that leaps into my throat is interrupted by a nurse entering the room.

‘Hello, sleepy head, how’s our champion baby birther doing?’ She comes straight to the bed and starts adjusting the pillows. ‘You comfy, hon?’

Before I can answer she picks up the remote next to me and points it at a TV. A colour image of a pink, puffy but peaceful baby fills the screen. Phew. There she is.

‘On Channel 1 you have a livestream of your baby going twenty-four-seven, so you can see her any time. This button orders room service, this calls the masseuse, Channel 6 is the…’ her voice lowers, ‘adult channel, then, of course,’ her voice picks up again, ‘FOX SPORTS, movies, all the streamers and most importantly, this red button at the bottom calls a nurse. We can bring the baby in for feeds or cuddles whenever you feel like it. Want me to bring her in now?’

‘No, no, she’s sleeping, I don’t want to disturb her.’ Even I am surprised by how quickly this comes out.

But the nurse is a pro. ‘Totally understand. The next three months are really all about you. They don’t call it the Fourth Trimester for nothing, hon. That baby has a lot of growing to do and you have a lot of healing and recovery to focus on. Press this button here if you need anything at all. Congratulations again.’

I relax back into the cloud bed, the surge of guilt extinguished before the nurse gets out the door.

Charlie said I should take it easy after such a big surgery. I order a dozen oysters. A dirty martini, extra dirty. The steak frites, rare. Pepper sauce on the side. The menu suggests this pairs well with a Burgundy. Why not?

I flick through the channels, probably a bit early for porn, though regular masturbation is now strongly recommended by doctors both during pregnancy and recovery. In the last weeks before birth my record was seven orgasms in a twelve-hour period.

The phone rings.

‘Babe! How are you feeling?’

‘Not bad, a bit sore but…’

‘How’s our baby?’ Charlie’s never been shy of interrupting.

‘Ah, she’s good. Sleeping. She looks like you babe!’ A fact I’m trying to be excited about.

‘Awww. Can you believe we’re parents? We did it!’

I murmur a ‘mmm’ because saying, ‘well I did it’ probably won’t help anything.

‘And her smell, oof, can you believe how freaking amazing her head smells? Have you just been sniffing her non-stop since I left?’ I can almost see Charlie’s head cocked to the side, waiting for me to say the right thing.

‘Umm…’ The problem is, Charlie can always tell when I’m lying. It’s prevented me from exploring even a light flirtation over the ten years we’ve been together. ‘The nurses have had her since you were here.’ Not a lie.

Silence.

‘But I just woke up and there's this call button I press to bring her in.’ I say this quickly. Maybe too quickly.

‘Okay, babe.’ I hear the judgement in Charlie’s voice. Charlie was like this the whole pregnancy. Always watching for a sign that I didn’t care enough, wasn't enjoying the “miracle” happening inside my body. Never mind the sacrifice I was making with my body for the baby we wanted.

We hang up with I love yous, but the guilt lingers.

I press the call button. The nurse brings me the baby. I’m shocked once again by her fragility. Crossed eyes, floppy neck, thin veiny skin. One mistimed sneeze and she could slip right out of my arms. I hold her tight and wait for the flood of love to come.

Nothing.

I remind myself of the doctor’s reassurances that the surgery can create a disassociation. You go to sleep pregnant, wake up not pregnant. And a parent.

The machine next to me beeps. I’ve forgotten about the emotion monitors that are currently sensing my ambivalence. The nurse enters. I want to say, ‘No, please let me hold her a little longer,’ but I don’t, because I don’t mean it. Instead of taking the baby, the nurse connects the IV in my hand to a tube that, she explains, pumps oxytocin straight into my blood stream. The love flood comes and I’m overwhelmed by the feeling we belong to each other. Everything will be ok.

Dinner arrives and the nurse removes the baby as a message appears on the TV screen: Goodnight. Your baby is safe and happy. Enjoy your time here.

So I do.

The next three months are a blur of oxytocin shots, drinks with tiny umbrellas, and three-course meals. I sleep better than I have in years. I forget what it feels like to be hungry. To want. To long for anything. I am full and fulfilled.

Charlie comes and hangs out most days. We gush over the baby, who gets stronger and more alert by the week. The other parents and I gather in the lounge for Taco Tuesdays, Friday night football, and a Hawaiian-themed cocktail evening for the Married at First Sight finale. We bond over our baby’s development, the confidence we’ll do a better job than our parents, and whether Matty and Jo will make it outside the reality television show experiment. I receive daily full body massages from the sports therapist, who may be flirting with me. And though I don’t share this with the nurses, or Charlie, I feel pretty much healed by week two.

I befriend the sommelier, who secures the butteriest chardonnays, full-bodied Shiraz blends and even some rare Japanese whiskeys to pair with meals or celebrate milestones like when the baby smiled for the first time, or I accurately predicted the father was the killer in the true crime podcast we’re all binge listening to. I have a healthy and personal relationship with Channel 6. I occasionally frequent the gym, and go for daily walks on the rooftop garden. I’m back to my pre-baby physique by month two, despite eating with abandon. It must be the daily shots they give us. Vitamins, apparently.

Friends and family have to submit applications to come by during visiting hours, and I learn pretty quickly the nurses mean it when they say visitors are only there to support you. Mum was halfway through a graphic play-by-play of how her bladder remains prolapsed 40 years after my oversized head wrecked everything for her, when a nurse interrupts with a mug of weak tea to usher her out the door. I haven’t had to see my mother-in-law since she asked how I could actually bond with the baby when we spent so much time apart.

If I ever feel even a hint of doubt about my parenting abilities, the emotion monitors alert the government-issued therapist who pops in to reassure me that I’m doing an excellent job and I’m one of the best parents she’s seen come through the program.

Guilt has no home here.

Then it’s my last day. I get hugs and high fives as I go to my final exit interview. A doctor and psychologist sign me off as fully recovered physically and mentally. I feel confident. I have everything I need.

The birthing-centre manager presents me with a gold statue of a muscular man holding a baby. It’s inscribed: Congratulations, Ben James: 2001st Cisgender Male Birther of Life.

Cheers and well wishes follow me to where Charlie is waiting by the car to take me and the baby home. Now three months old, our daughter holds her head up on her own, sleeps through the night, and laughs at my jokes.

We’ll retain the help of an on-call support nurse, of course, who’ll help us adjust to our new life. Part of me can’t believe all of this is free, though I guess when you account for the two decades of taxes I’ve paid, it’s only fair.

Besides, when I do choose to return to work, the promotion I’ll get for the new skills I’ve developed as a parent will push us into the next tax bracket.

As we drive away I can’t help but wonder why women have been complaining about this for centuries. I could never say this to Charlie – she’d be furious – but they should have let men handle this whole birth thing in the first place.