There was scurrilous conjecture that I wouldn’t make it to the Jake Bugg gig when I revealed I was expecting a child on February the ninth. “Two weeks is plenty,” I cockily retorted. Junior, of course, had other ideas about arrival date and thus I was genuinely starting to think I might miss the show because I was going to be at hospital being useless.
“I will still definitely be going,” I announced via a text message. I was less cocky now. The couple of days after the birth I was keen to ensure someone would be at the Life In A Day of House towers, so my partner was not abandoned. You hear talk of a ‘crash’ around the fifth day when a mother can feel terribly down and distraught. Typical, I thought, if this were to happen just before I went out meaning I wouldn’t really enjoy my night out as I would constantly be thinking of my partner sobbing in a ball while my son screamed into the darkness.
Fortunately her parents were visiting and thus I was fine to cut loose. Also there were no signs of these heralded dark hours of postnatal sadness. Well not from her anyway. I’ve been a mess, a real emotional firework. Not a good firework, not one of those that costs millions on New Year’s Eve. One of those disappointing ones that people are embarrassed to look at as they splutter to an unexciting conclusion.
I am crying at some rate. In fact I am crying more than my progeny. Babies don’t produce tears so he is just shouting really. I occasionally just sneak off and sob under a duvet ‘because I love him so much’. And that’s one of the more tangible reasons that I have sobbed.
Therefore the truth is I could have used a fictional emotional breakdown of my partner to get out of the concert, masking my own meltdown. But bravely I didn’t. I remind me of one of these World War I soldiers that people are always talking about (i.e. brave).