On fatherhood — Adam Freebarnett

I originally wrote this as a Christmas present for my dad, Nick. If I can be half the father he is, Heath will be very lucky.

The baby came out white, limp, and silent. As an anaesthetist, I’d seen stillborn babies before, but this time was different. This time the baby was my son.

Until that point I’d been in control - I’d seen many labours and nothing in ours had come as a surprise: when Laura stood up and blood gushed onto the floor; when the primeval momentum of labour took hold and my wife turned into a heaving, bellowing beast; when they told us we had to go to theatre for the mediaeval-sounding ‘trial of forceps’. I’d been a rock: supporting Laura every step of the way, insisting on a change of midwife at a crucial moment, advocating for Laura so she could focus on her labour. I’d been strong.

But when I saw my son’s pale, still body, I was unmanned.

I was expecting the birth of my son to bring an overwhelming rush of emotion: I just wasn’t expecting terror. It was total, it drowned me. Laura asked me if he was alright – my face said it all. I couldn’t move. This baby, my son, this out-budding of me was dangling between life and death and I would’ve gladly died if it would’ve tipped the scales toward life. I’d never felt attachment of such intensity – when the other’s life is worth more to you than your own. It was stronger than anything I’d previously called love.

It must have only been a minute of resuscitation before my son began breathing for himself. I’d say it lasted a lifetime, but it didn’t. I was frozen, there was no time. It was eternity and it was an instant.

I was standing behind the paediatrician. I watched my son take those first precious breaths, watched his body turn pink with oxygenated blood. Fear yielded to relief. I cut a ceremonial slice off his already-cut cord, then the midwife handed him to me - I brought him straight over to Laura and saw her exhaustion and anxiety swept away by love - she’d never been more beautiful than she was in that moment, holding him.

The hours after my son’s birth have the vaporous quality of a dream. We sat in a small curtained-off bedspace, shell-shocked. I held him – this tiny, twilight creature, still asleep to the world – red-faced, warm, and snuffling. Laura fed him for the first time, his mouth instinctively gaping to take the nipple. I read somewhere that a newborn baby, if placed on its mother’s stomach, can crawl up and latch onto her breast all by itself – certain survival instincts are hard-wired. We felt safe, cocooned in our curtain-y cave.

Not for long. All too soon I was ushered out by a nurse because of ‘current circumstances’ – fathers had to leave the hospital four hours after the birth. I drove home in a daze. It felt wrong to be leaving them, like I was leaving a piece of myself behind.

Over the coming days the realisation crystallised that I was no longer simply an individual. A new being had been born along with my son: our family. I was a part of that greater whole now - my own wants and needs were subordinate.

I found this hard to adjust to. It was different for Laura - the hormonal rush of birth and breastfeeding and the physical intimacy of caring for Heath (we’d named him by then) forged a strong bond straight away. For me, it took longer. I spent much of the first fortnight taking care of everything that wasn’t the baby – the cooking, the cleaning, the admin, the communication. My main time with Heath was changing his nappy – and having a baby piss on you for the third time that day gets pretty old pretty quickly.

My therapist helped a lot. He told me that the father’s job is to create a safe space in which the mother and child can bond – because that bond is the most important initial caregiving relationship. That resonated with me and helped me find meaning in the mundanity: I was giving Laura and Heath the conditions for their love to blossom. Even changing nappies became meaningful – that was my special time with him. I slowed down and began to use the time to kiss Heath and to chat to him, and I drew satisfaction from imagining how comfortable a fresh nappy must feel.

Still, I didn’t feel this overpowering love that people talk about. It was as if the fear surrounding Heath’s birth had stunned me, had caused me to retreat into a protective shell. I worried about that. What if there was something wrong with me? What if I was a bad father? What if the piece of me that was supposed to love him was just… missing?

‘This too shall pass.’ With parenting, as with life, everything is a phase. My mum tells me this often – though as with most wisdom, you have to live it yourself before you can internalise it. Nothing lasts forever. That was certainly true of my initial emotional numbness.

I remember the first time I really felt it, that paternal love. It was about two weeks in. I was sitting on our bed, with Heath asleep in my arms. His breaths were so small - little shivering gasps. He was draped over me, completely relaxed, completely trusting. He swept his hand across his face, a movement I’d seen many times before, but only then did I realise that I’d felt that same movement through Laura’s skin when he’d been in the womb. I felt a sudden, deep connection to him – this was my son – he was that kindling, that positive pregnancy test, he was that ball of cells with the flickering heartbeat seen on that first ultrasound, he was that unborn child who used to kick when I played dance music. I looked out of our bay window and I had a sense of the world pressing against the glass, trying to get to him. I held him tighter.

‘I’ll always protect you,’ I said.

I was filled with a dissonant, nameless feeling. I knew as soon as I’d said it that I couldn’t always protect him – I could raise him as well as I could, but one day he would have to face the world alone. I knew this, but I simultaneously wanted to enfold him and never let him go, to keep him safe here with me forever. The impossibility of that brought tears to my eyes.

For now, though, we can hold him. We can feed him, keep him warm, and make him laugh. We can watch him thrive and take pride in it, knowing that he thrives because of us. As he grows up, I hope that that pride will shift and become more rooted in him, in the decisions he’s made and the person he’s become. More and more, the credit (and the blame) will be his, not ours. But for now, we can look at him laughing and think, ‘we did that’.

Of course there is sacrifice. Your needs take a back seat. For much of Heath’s life I have been unshaven, unshorn, unrested, and unexercised. A flight used to be a few hours of peace - to think and read, to watch a film. Our recent flight home from Greece was three hours spent awkwardly cradling Heath, gritting my teeth against the cramp in my back, refusing to move because moving might wake him up. This sacrifice, this loss of autonomy, was what I feared most about having a child. And it’s true – it’s a thing – but what people don’t emphasise enough is that you don’t care. Or at least, not as much as you’d think. I was glad to hold him on that flight. Each untroubled sleeping breath was a victory. The feeling of his warm weight in my lap was worth every scream of pain from my muscles. The famous sleeplessness was far more endurable than I had expected because of the simple fact that I loved him. Even when he cried for an hour non-stop. Even when he woke up at 2am, 3am, 3.45am, 5am, 6.15am, and 7am when it’s time to start the day! Even when he shat through all of his clothes at the start of an hour long flight during which the seatbelt sign was never turned off (the poor guy who sat next to us may never fly again).

That’s not to say that there aren’t lows – of course there are. Crushing lows. At four months, Laura and I hit a wall. The accumulated weight of sleep deprivation, the relentlessness of childcare, of life in lockdown, and a bout of the flu brought us to rock bottom. The world leached of colour, we were bickering constantly, and I lost my sense of joy. I was depressed, properly depressed – I’d been sad before but this was different. This was…nothingness. A fog of nothingness. I saw nothing in the future but more of the same and for the very first time in my life I felt truly hopeless. I lacked the motivation to even get out of bed. But the very thing that brought me low – fatherhood – was also the thing that pulled me up again.

Even in my darkest moments, when I saw Heath lying naked on the changing table, bringing his heels crashing down on it again and again in a manoeuvre we call ‘big kickies’, and shrieking with delight at the noise he was making, it pierced the fog which clogged my mind and brought me joy when nothing else could. My son’s happiness sustained me when I had none of my own.

My wife helped too. That month brought Laura and I closer than ever. We realised how much we needed each other by seeing how hard it became when the other had nothing left to give. We learnt to face our inner battles, to name them and own them, rather than to blame the other person for them. We’re still not perfect – who is - but we’re better than ever before. Stronger. More unified.

Hügelflumpf. That’s a word Laura and I invented. It means the love you feel for someone who loves something you love. You feel it when someone plays with your dog, or strokes your cat. You like that person more, you feel warmly towards them. But there’s no hügelflumpf like the hügelflumpf you feel when someone loves your child.

It’s strongest with Laura. She’s a natural mum – I’m sure everyone says that about their partner, but for her it’s true. She’s tender, patient, and kind. When I see her singing to Heath, stroking him, calming him down when he’s upset, it’s hügelflumpf. I love her more.

Laura is determined not to let covid limit Heath’s early experiences. She treks for miles across London to find baby classes that are still running, and campaigns with the organisers of others to re-open them. Parents and babies need these classes, she argues, now more than ever. They need a reason to leave the house, they need new experiences, and above all they need the warmth of social interaction, even if it’s just a shared glance over a mask.

Heath loves strangers – he smiles and hoots at them, and laughs when they smile back. In the times relatives have been allowed to visit, he’s loved being cuddled and passed from lap to lap. Laura’s bloody-minded refusal to allow Heath’s social development to be stunted by covid gives me a major case of hügelflumpf. I love her for it.

I have hügelflumpf for Heath as well, for what he does for Laura. He brings structure and an imperative to live – he is a reason to go out into the world and experience all it has to offer. Laura has flourished along with our son, and I love him for that; the world should love him for that, too, as Laura is one of those people who enriches everyone she meets.

The hügelflumpf doesn’t end with our nuclear family. Seeing our extended family or friends with Heath makes me love them more. My sister’s delight when he smiled at her, my brother’s first nappy change, Heath meeting his cousin for the first time, a childless friend who held him as if she’d been a mother all her life, asking close friends to be godparents. These moments are mortar which cements our relationships.

Becoming a dad has given me a new perspective on my own parents. Once or twice, on the phone to one of them, I’ve said something along the lines of: ‘I can’t believe you did all this’ – but they did, three times over. I remember them always being around, always being available to read a story or play a game, always ready with a hug and some kind words when I felt sad. My brother, sister, and I grew up completely secure in their love - so secure, in fact, that it wasn’t until well into my twenties that I realised that this isn’t the norm. I feel very fortunate to have my parents as a model.

Becoming a dad has given me a new perspective on everything, come to that. Pavements – I now instinctively scan for the dips in the curb that you can negotiate with a pram. Films – any child is automatically associated with Heath, so watching scenes of bullying has become unbearable (and I wouldn’t dare attempt anything like The Exorcist). Friendships – having ‘crossed the chasm’ I’ve suddenly discovered a rich seam of wisdom in the same people who used to share my sweat in dimly lit basements at 3am.

Most of all, it’s given me a new perspective on myself, on my life. I have reserves of patience and strength that I never knew existed. I have a new motivation – to live a life my son will be proud of – as a result I’m harmonising my actions with my values: living more sustainably, more lovingly. I have a renewed commitment to writing – I want Heath to be able to read my books one day. My commitment to Laura is stronger than ever – as my parents often say, that relationship is the foundation which will allow my family to thrive, and it needs to be nourished.

Fatherhood. It’s an experience that’s so commonplace you’d think nothing new can be said about it. Yet each iteration is as unique as the person who experiences it. It’s by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done. By far the most meaningful. And it’s only just begun.