Over the Easter, we hit the point where my wife was about to be no longer allowed on an airplane. We decided to jet over to the Spanish town we were married in, and enjoy our last holiday alone together for many years to come, by the looks of things.

It couldn’t have worked out better, apart from the fact that it rained a lot of the time, and every night the town ground to a halt for an hour-long parade of what appeared to be three dozen Klansmen carrying five tonnes of wooden Jesus around the perimeter.

All we really wanted, though, was a little pause in life to appreciate each other before somebody else crashes the party, and that’s what we got.

I had been coming to the realisation that the imminent arrival was going to change things and that, regardless of how much of a blessing the child is, the relationship between my wife and I was going to be redefined. Parenthood is coming, and, as with tornadoes, volcanic ash, and civil unrest, I respect its power as a force of nature, to change – restructure, destroy even, if you’re unprepared – that with which it comes in contact.

The holiday had reassured me that we were ready for impact, though; that, whatever happened, we have a tight enough bond to survive metamorphosis, and I was quite chipper about everything in my life as we left the apartment on the last day and drove to Malaga.

There was already a significant queue at the Aer Lingus counter by the time we got there, pretty much everybody else that was going to be on the plane. We sidled in behind a couple – not much older than us, maybe five years or so – and their three kids, all probably born in that five year period. The kids were cute and carefree looking, two little blonde girls with their little pink wheelie-cases and then the youngest was a boy, not quite old enough to be worthy of his own luggage, but walking and talking.

“Why didn’t you check the bags in online?” the mother asked the father.

“They don’t do that here,” he replied.

“I’ve done it befo-”

He cut her off. “That’s Ryanair. Aer Lingus don’t do it from Malaga. It’s the only airport they don’t do it from. I’ve flown through here a million times.”

“You didn’t check it, did you?” At this point the kids were watching the argument like a tennis match, wondering just how much trouble Daddy was in.

“Yes.”

I left the scene for a toilet break, and by the time I returned my wife had a look of abject horror on her face. The father was missing.

“Let’s give them some space,” my wife whispered, hanging back as the queue moved forward, “She kept chipping away at him, and then he said ‘Right!’ and stormed off… I think he’s gone up to ask at the counter if they have online check-in…”

He returned, silently fuming.

“Is it, Daddy?” asked the eldest girl. “Is there the checking?”

“No,” he said, with no eye contact.

When we got up to the counter, I said “Any chance of getting seats as far away from those guys as possible?” to the girl behind the counter, who clearly understood.

What scared me was the fact that he did not look like somebody who, at some point in the past, thought to himself “She’s a total bitch, but I’ll marry her”. His wife didn’t look like she’d ever thought “He’s obviously an idiot, and I hate him, but he has money”; yet, this total animosity was now their reality, and they were obviously comfortable enough to live it out in front of their children.

My money says that he was making her a shrew and she was making him an idiot.

Was it parenthood that had somehow taken two people that loved each other and turned them into this? If so, I hope to God we’re as ready for impact as I feel we are; but as with tornadoes, volcanic ash, and civil unrest you never really know how you’re going to respond until it hits…

We had terrible trouble naming our children. We have two now, a small number compared to the index cards, name dictionaries and websites used to identify, analyse and collect names that could be suitably applied to a girl or a boy.

As anyone reading this will know – that name is monumental, you really feel like this is going to influence, perhaps even chart, your child’s whole existence. Every name has a dictionary-like meaning, a sound that may, or may not suit your surname. Most importantly, I think, every name has a resonance and experiential meaning for you and your partner (you know what I mean “I once knew a Karl, but he was…”).

Also, I hope I don’t offend anyone with any of the names mentioned, or who have named their child. Remember, as much as meanings, you go through the whole process of matching it to your surname to make sure it’ll scan right. Preaching over, let’s go on. Our, or, my wife’s – organisation was impeccable. Our discussions, impractical. We’d be watching The Sopranos and say something like “Anthony for a boy?” A mad rush to the list of lists to identify the list that the name “Anthony” was on, only to find it at last struck off beside the ominous comment “Anthony Soprano. Or worse, AJ!” This despite our derisive laughter whenever we hear the name “Britney Kylie Hoorihan” or “Shilo Suri McGinty” or somesuch.

Then, I adopted the Homer Simpson Approach. Every name was diligently reconfigured using each letter from the alphabet to avoid the evident rhyming slang. That got rid of Doc, Regina and Bob, among others that I couldn’t bring myself to spell here. (Famously, Homer went through “A-art, B-art, C-art, D-art, E-art… yeah, that should be fine. Bart”).

My wife soon lost her patience with all this. I was primarily a negative influence on our discussions. She would suggest names, which I would complain about for some reason or another – they wouldn’t be named after family members, they wouldn’t be those preppy American names, they wouldn’t be difficult to pronounce Irish names (as I know no Irish myself), and they couldn’t also be other words. “If you had your way” she would say “they wouldn’t have any names at all! What would you call them? Numbers?” I thought about this, but couldn’t stand the thought of yet another PIN in my life. There are too many in the world already. So I put my shoulder to the wheel, took out the index cards and said “Frank”.

To this, my wife laughed. She couldn’t see herself having a Frank. “Besides,” she said, “What about a ‘Frank’ discussion? Your rule about names that were words?” She had me there. Our debates continued, erratically, at odd times and in odd locations and moments. Often, we’d pitch three names and see how the other took them. “What time is it?” Would be answered with “Andrew, Jeffrey, Leo.”

Some time into all this, my wife says: “What if we have a girl?” A mad rush, and the whole cycle repeats itself. “Emily, Charlotte, Anne?” as we look up at Wuthering Heights on the bookshelf. “Heathcliff for a boy?” comes the reply. We were stuck on this boy thing.

And then our first daughter was born. We had a name picked out, but I cannot remember it. Almost immediately, we knew who she was, we knew her name. Then we realised we each knew a different name for her. After some discussion we agreed on one of the names (in these blog posts, that name is “Sunshine”). Our second child was not so lucky. Again, we were only really prepared for a boy. Ben was the one name, male or otherwise we could agree on. In fairness, the second time round, we were better prepared for the possibility that a child could be born female. There was a list of girls’ names as long as the pregnancy. But when ‘she’ was born, none fit her properly at all. We had to try a few on before we found the right one. It was late, and the name itself snuck up on us, as if we glimpsed it in the corner of our eyes, but had to turn to see it properly. In these posts, that name will be “Starlight.”

We are now in the 40 weeks plus days grouping. Beanie has decided to wait for a grand arrival at a time of his/her choosing. I don’t know why I would be surprised. D’Better Half is at the stage where every day longer is just another day of restricted movement and discomfort. The mobile phone bill will be huge this month with all the phone calls home just to make sure everything is all right. And I am trying my very hardest to be considerate.

“Would you like a stool to rest your feet on?” = Good Husband.

Asking if there’s anything needed in the shops = Good Husband.

Asking Nearly-Four if she wants me to read a story = Good Daddy.

Telling Nearly-Four if she has to stop wondering where the baby is; Beanie wasn’t here ten minutes ago, and still isn’t here, so stop asking! = Bad Daddy.

Telling D’Better Half that Liverpool play Everton and Ireland play Italy next Saturday, without expressly stating that it isn’t a deadline for delivery = Bad Husband.

I remember being stressed at the impending arrival of our first child but I really don’t remember being this physically worried. I am worrying about every little thing. I am trying to plan every eventuality. There are routes planned from home to the hospital, from work to the hospital, from work to home and then to the hospital, even work to crèche to home to hospital. Every eventuality is planned. or so I would like to think. I have enough two euro coins in the car to make a parking meter feel like your auld uncle on Christmas day after his third helping of pudding! D’Better Half’s bags aren’t just packed they are in the boot of the car already.

We have been through this once before so why should we be so panic filled this time round. Possibly because last time it all happened so quickly and we didn’t have a lot of time to sit waiting and twiddling our thumbs. Last time there was a stay in hospital a couple of weeks early and then a second trip to the hospital and a sudden rush to the delivery room. This time I am having visions of a midnight dash to Holles Street with a three year old being unceremoniously deposited on the first of her grandmothers to answer their phones!

I am trying hard not to get stressed as that will make D’Better Half stress and then the perpetual cycle of stress will have started. The more I stress, the more she stresses and that causes me to worry more etc. But still I am finding it hard to relax in work and just wait for the call. Every text message or phone call causes me to tense just a little bit as I see who it’s from. I know D’Better Half is finding it hard to sleep at night too. I know this because I am there unable to get a full night’s sleep either. Every twist or turn by her is leading to me preparing to jump out of bed and get her to the car.

So, for both of us the stress builds, the patience wears away, and Nearly-Four believes her parents are slowly going insane and Beanie is undoubtedly laughing loudly at the fuss they are causing before they are even born. The only consolation is that when the time does arrive I know D’Better Half will be brilliant and cope admirably. I also know that I will stop stressing and find a reserve of calm from somewhere.

That’s what happened last time, after all. So here’s hoping that it happens when Beanie finally makes their arrival.

D’Better Half has finished work for her maternity leave now and I think that was the last slap in the face with a wet fish that I needed in order to realise that our family of three is very close to expanding to a motley crew of four. As mentioned last time it’s not that I didn’t realise we were expecting, it’s more a case of everything being put on the long finger. And then there is some trigger or triggers that jolt you back to reality.

As a result the weekend was spent in a lot of re-evaluating the jobs that need doing and figuring out which need doing first! The nursery doesn’t need to be painted this week. That can wait. Primarily because Beanie will be in our room in a Moses basket for the first few months anyway, but also because there was a realisation that one neutral yellowish colour on the walls looks pretty much like every other neutral yellowish colour to a newborn!

Also, my home office can wait. It hasn’t been used properly in months anyway. My “office” now consists of a laptop and a laptop bag crammed with books and notepads. The actual room that is meant to be the office has taken on many of the qualities of Dr Who’s Tardis. In truth, it has taken on one quality; it seems to expand to meet the requirements.

I have lost track of how many trips I have made, crate of “stuff” in hand, to store in the office for a few weeks until I get around to it. I would have thought it was completely full a few months ago but still there are boxes and boxes of things going out to it. Things we have hoarded and kept for some unknown reason in many cases. Things we will never, ever use and may never have used at all in the first place. So the task of “sorting the office” has transformed into my “Fools and Horses” task. Boot sales or EBay is calling and Wicklow Independent Traders will start getting rid of stuff from the office!

There is also very little point in my accumulating books to read in the coming months! We will have our hands full and the closest I am likely to get to a book or a story is as I sit on the end of Nearly-Fours bed reading “one more” story in the hope she will finally go asleep.

D’Better Half and I have decided to cram in a few outings before the new arrival as they will pretty much be postponed for a while as well. A few trips to the cinema would be enjoyable we thought, and the one trip we managed so far was enjoyable. It was the three abandoned attempts in two weeks caused by one or other of the three of us being ill that proved stressful. (Well worth the wait by the way, Avatar – a stunningly beautifully made film with a good storyline. You can tell when a film that’s nearing three hours long is good in that you aren’t squirming around in the seat after the first half!)

When the panic eases and we relax a bit I then see an advert for the six nations coverage and realise again that the new arrival will be here and home before the first ball is kicked in the tournament. So one more trip before the big day and we are off to see “We Will Rock You”. And the kind and supportive members of our respective families are betting we don’t even get half way through the show before we have to make a detour to Holles Street! I really hope they are wrong. But if midway through the event I get a dig in the ribs from D’Better Half and turn to see an anguished look on her face telling me its time, then I will endeavour to calmly bring her to the hospital and be the tower of support that she wants.

Of course if you are at the show over the course of its run and see a hysterical man clearing people out of the way of his embarrassed and pregnant wife with roars of “She’s having a baby! Make way!” be sure to say hello as I am just as likely to react that way despite all the best laid plans.

There’s just over three weeks to go now before D’Better Half’s due date and it’s getting to that nervous time at this stage. Any little moan or gripe caused by indigestion, or just her being uncomfortable is amplified about a hundred times in my ears and I am instantly heading towards action stations: Bags are grabbed and brought to the door, phones are collected up, and Nearly-Four is being bundled into her coat and heading for the car door wondering all the time, what has gotten into Daddy now?

All the while D’Better Half sits patiently while I go into mild panic mode. I would almost think that she realises that and plays up to it for her own little amusement at times by waiting until I am dozing off and then letting a sudden groan escape and watching my reactions. I could swear I have seen her mouth curl into a maniacal smile but I must be wrong, as she wouldn’t do that, would she?

Once we hit only a month to go I think something triggered in my head. Maybe it was once we hit the New Year but suddenly the arrival of Beanie, our second child, wasn’t some distant event. It wasn’t something happening next year. It was just around the corner and once I realised that I realised just how much I needed to get sorted in the coming weeks. There’s tidying and cleaning to be done and things to be bought or at least found from storage after Nearly-Four no longer needed them. And then there’s the increased workload in making sure Nearly-Four is prepared for the arrival of a new brother or sister.

Nearly-Four has started to shown an ever increasing interest in her Mammies bump. She is also realising that she will have new responsibilities, some of them are fine with her, such as teaching her baby brother or sister something new. I get the feeling that she translates “teaching” into “bossing”. Other things such as sharing her toys are currently being met with a bemused look, which asks us why she would have to do that!

She has also enlisted in her own mini-police force. Throughout Christmas anyone who raised their voice even slightly, laughed too loud, coughed loudly or made any other decibel increasing utterances were confronted by the ‘Keeper of the Quiet’. A wagged finger, occasionally with one hand placed on the hip and the very definite ordering of the offender to remain silent or they will “wake the new baby in Mummy’s tummy”, left the guilty parties suitably admonished and restored the tranquillity to the living room as everyone tried very hard to stifle their laughter.

And so with Christmas over we are now returning the tree(s) and decorations to the attics and carefully stacking the boxes for another eleven months. The house looks huge when we get rid of the festive dressings. The feeling of space won’t last long though as Nearly-Four is filling the newly created clean spot with more of her must -have-handy toys and books. The recent snow showers have confused matters somewhat – I was asked why Christmas was over when there was still snow around? I explained that there didn’t have to be snow at Christmas, but Nearly-Four was adamant that we shouldn’t finish Christmas just yet. Whilst the thought of a few more days of turkey and ham, biscuits and cakes, old movies showing for the fourth time that week and repeated seventies Christmas specials wouldn’t fill me with joy perhaps the idea of Christmas and keeping an eye out for others is what we need to keep for a few more weeks at least until the snow goes…