WHEN I first started going out with my husband, D, who at 21 is 11 years younger than me, there were one or two acquaintances who remarked – rather unimaginatively – that  was a cradle- snatcher and cougar, among other things.

Upon hearing a year later that we were expecting, one uncharitable person commented: "Oh, so you'll have two babies to look after then."

My best friend S had the best comeback to this certain someone, who happened to be an ex of hers.

"If you must know, D is more of a man than most former boyfriends," she told him pointedly. I laughed at that, but a month ago in the delivery room, her words rang true.

It was a long labour to say the least. I had chosen to do a water birth: drug-free, with minimal medical interference. Halfway through what was to become a 24-hour labour, I was struggling hard to remember what possessed me to go down the drug-free path.

I was in pain and retched fluid at 30-minute intervals.

D, who was present and patient throughout, did more than just hold my hand. He massaged me with lavender oil, held a container to hold my puke, took abuse smilingly and  climbed into the tub (twice) to comfort me.

Our sweet baby, K, arrived eventually without the help of painkillers, but on a bed instead of in water, as we’d planned. D snapped photos of the big moment, proudly cut the  umbilical cord and, most importantly, did not flinch at the gory sight of blood and amniotic fluid gushing from me.

"Can't say the same for most husbands I’ve seen around here," said my obstetrician, who was clearly impressed. When we brought K home from the hospital, I braced myself
to handle the hurricane of a mess in our bedroom. Having delivered earlier than expected, our helper had not yet arrived to assist with cleaning, nor had we been able to get the baby’s things in order.

D had me sit in the living room and rest with K.

"I'll do what's needed. You just be with baby,” he said. And so it has been since then. Obviously, there are certain things that he cannot take care of, not being gifted with a pair of lactating mammaries.

But the division of labour was clear, albeit unspoken: I take care of the feedings, and he takes care of the poop.

There was one incident that caused me to doubt his ability to handle his new family.  K, now five weeks old, was angelic for the first few weeks, until he discovered that he had a set of strong lungs.

For D, the wailing seemed unbearable at first. That caused the first blow-up between father and son.

During one midnight feeding, D yelled at our baby to stop screaming. All my maternal instincts were aroused.

So this is what it comes to, I thought. D has lost it and just isn't man enough to tolerate his crying son. Just when I thought D would not address the incident, he apologised.

"It's not that I'm sick of this," he said. "It just breaks my heart to hear him cry when I can't do anything for him."

What mattered to me was the apology. I realised then that, like so many parents before us, D and I can't plan our every reaction, and there are bound to be less-than-ideal   things which will happen. But the fact that he's man enough to step up, analyse what went wrong and apologise for it, means more to me than I can say.

Like the water birth we'd planned but which didn’t pan out, certain things will never be perfect.

But that's life, isn't it? I think there is enough joy in our lives together to see us through the first trials of parenting. Now, if you'll excuse me, I’m going to start my day by wishing my new family a merry Christmas.

I hope you'll have a good one too!

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