It could send me bananas
HIM PAUL HOGAN
IAM an expectant father and I have no idea what I am doing. All I remember from my high school health class was the teacher, an enormous man, showing us how to put a prophylactic on a banana.
I never looked at the grocery shopping the same way again. Although I’m proud to say not a single member of my graduating year fathered a piece of fruit.
When my girlfriend and I found out the big news, thanks mostly to a basket load of pregnancy tests –I really should have shares in Chemist Warehouse – I had to seriously Google what happens next.
There is an expectation that the future man of the house will know what to do. We don’t. All I do know is that we are experiencing this pregnancy. Men feel it. Believe it.
I took a bone chilling call on my radio show this week. A woman’s husband had started lactating when their baby was born.
Were we talking a drizzle? A carton? A puddle?
No. It was only a trickle. I feel quite powerful now that I know that I can make people do. But dairy is a whole new ballgame.
Then there are the cravings. Wow. At 6.45pm on Monday, my lovely well balanced girlfriend demanded that she be presented with a stir fry. Happy to oblige, I offered to scoot down to the local Chinese.
I was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to go to the supermarket. A shopping list was shoved in my direction.
A 20-minute round trip had me arrive home to a hungry, pregnant woman. She only had one thing to say; “Now I want a pie”.
I did what any assertive man would do. I got straight back in the car and headed to Woolies.
Sympathetic pregnancies exist. I Googled it. Male partners, like me, are known to experience nausea, vomiting, bloating and stomach cramps.
All symptoms I’m already familiar with this season as a Collingwood supporter.
There is an expectation that the future man of the house will know what to do. We don’t.