‘Excellent point. Probably you should be like Rosie—angry that I tried to control her.’
‘Rosie was angry?’
Now that I had said the word, I realised it was true. I did not need to be an expert at interpreting body language
to realise that ‘Fuck people telling me what to eat’ was an aggressive statement.
‘Correct.’
‘Are you two okay?’
‘Of course.’ The answer was accurate, assuming that I was employing the word ‘okay’ in the way it would be used to describe a meal or a performance:
The play was okay, not great
. I assessed Rosie’s current level of satisfaction with me as ‘not great’.
‘I’ll do my best, Don. But if you’re talking to Dave, can you let him know that I’m not like Rosie? Maybe give him your book if you don’t need it any more. I’d love for him to come home early and make me vegetable curry.’
The session with Lydia did not go as planned. I was only five items into my detailed list of events, enumerating instances of Rosie refusing help, when she interrupted and addressed Sonia.
‘Why did you not want Don’s advice?’
‘No man is telling me what to do with my body.’ Sonia said this calmly, but then paused and contorted her face in what I assumed was an impression of anger and hit the table with her fist. ‘
Bastardos!
’
Lydia seemed surprised. I hoped the surprise was at Sonia’s actions and not her use of a Spanish word. ‘It sounds like you’ve had some bad experiences.’
‘In my village, there is much oppression by the patriarchy.’
‘You came from a village in Italy?’
‘
Si
. A small village.
Poco
.’ Sonia indicated the size of the
village by holding her thumb and forefinger approximately two centimetres apart.
‘And has working in an IVF lab and studying at Columbia altered your view of men?’
‘I don’t want Don to tell me what to eat and how much to exercise and when to go to bed.’
‘And that’s what you feel he’s been doing?’
‘
Si
. That is not what I want.’
‘I can quite understand.’ Lydia turned to me. ‘Can you understand that, Don?’
‘Totally. Rosie does not require my help.’ I did not point out that this had been my original position until Lydia had demanded I interfere.
‘So, Rosie, last time we met, you seemed quite passionate about wanting some support from Don.’
‘Now that I’ve experienced it, I’ve decided it’s not such a good idea.’
‘I can see why. Don, support isn’t about telling Rosie what to do. If you want me to be blunt, the problem’s with you. Instead of telling her how to be a mother, maybe you should be doing some preparation for being a supportive father.’
Of course! The baby would have two parents, and I had been focusing all my energies on optimising the performance of one. I was amazed that I had not seen the problem earlier, but as a scientist I recognised that paradigm shifts appear obvious only in retrospect. Also, I had been focused on doing whatever seemed necessary to prevent Lydia giving me an adverse report, under the assumption that there was no actual problem with me as a prospective parent. But recent criticisms
from Rosie were evidence that Lydia’s original judgement was correct. My respect for her had increased dramatically.
I jumped to my feet. ‘Brilliant! Problem solved. I need to gain fatherhood skills.’
Lydia maintained a professional level of calmness. She turned to Sonia.
‘How do you feel about that? Do you think Don understands what’s required?’
Sonia nodded. ‘I’m very happy. I’m happy for all the things he taught me about pregnancy because I am too busy with the study, but now I’ll make sure he is thinking only about being a
papa
.’
Lydia picked up the police file that had been sitting on the desk and smiled.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘our time is up. Assisting with your parenting was never the official purpose of these sessions, and in that respect you’re going to be picked up by the Good Fathers program. I’ll be getting a report from them.’
This was the men’s group that she had referred me to at our first meeting to assess my propensity for violence. The program I had booked was still seven weeks in the future.
She waved the police file. ‘But as far as parenthood is concerned, if the two of you can keep reminding each other what you’ve said today—’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘A highly productive session. I’ll book the next available slot.’
‘She was going to let you off,’ said Sonia.
‘I suspected that. But what she said was so useful.’
‘She’s still got that police file. Couldn’t we—you—find another therapist?’
‘A significant percentage of professionals are incompetent. And she is familiar with us now.’
‘Us. You and Rosie, the Italian peasant.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Her insight was incredible. She solved the problem.’
In retrospect, I had been on the correct path when I observed the children at the playground. Had I not been interrupted—and sidetracked—by a legal technicality, I would have gained the required background on fatherhood, which I now realised was where my attention should be focused.
Recent experience had suggested that I could not ignore the pre-birth stage. Sonia was herself an example of a woman who was unsatisfied with her partner’s level of involvement in the pregnancy phase. After some reflection, I decided that there were at least four areas for action and skill development that did not involve interfering with Rosie’s autonomy:
1. Acquisition of expertise in dealing with very young children. The Book was clear that men should develop skills in baby management to provide respite for their partner. Although Rosie had been dismissive of my role as carer, The Book (and Sonia and Lydia) presented a strongly opposing view.
2. Equipment acquisition, including environment preparation. The baby would require protection from sharp objects, poisonous substances, alcohol fumes and band practice.
3. Acquisition of expertise in obstetric observations and procedures. The Book was insistent on the importance of regular medical appointments. Rosie was disorganised in this area and over-reliant on her own medical expertise. Also, there was the possibility of some sort of emergency.
4. A non-intrusive approach to the nutrition problem. I did not trust Rosie to maintain a diet within the guidelines. Her ordering of the meatlovers’ pizza suggested that factors other than rational analysis were influencing her choices.
The final item was the easiest. Rosie had implicitly agreed to the list of banned substances. I would make the conservative assumption that food purchased by Rosie outside the apartment had zero nutritional value and design our meals to include all the prescribed nutrients in appropriate proportions.
I would vary the detail of the Standardised Meal System (Pregnancy Version) by choosing different fish varieties and
green vegetables, thus hiding its underlying structure from Rosie. It would be simpler now that she was a meat eater. She had also entered the second trimester of the pregnancy, where the risk of damage to Bud by toxins that she might ingest from her unsupervised meals had lessened. The hard work had been done, at some cost to our relationship, but I could now relax a little.
Things were looking much more positive.
Rosie was back at university for the fall semester. She had a tutorial on the Saturday morning and told me that, having made the journey to Columbia, she would spend the remainder of the day there.
I began my solo day by drawing a one-to-one scale, apple-sized Bud on Tile 15. The Book noted that Bud’s ears had migrated from his neck to his head, and his eyes to the middle. It would have been fascinating to discuss with Rosie, but she was not present. And I had not forgotten her admonition about providing technical commentary.
The obvious starting point for the equipment-acquisition project was a pram: all babies require prams, and I considered myself better qualified than Rosie to select mechanical items. My bicycle represented the result of a three-month evaluation process, culminating in the selection of the appropriate base model plus a list of modifications. I expected the experience to be largely transferable.
At the end of a fulfilling day, interrupted only by food purchasing, lunch and essential bodily functions, my internet-based investigation had produced a set of requirements for the
ideal pram and a shortlist of available models, none perfect, but all potentially viable after some modification. I had a satisfying sense of making progress, but decided not to share this with Rosie. It could be another surprise.
There was a second item of equipment which was more critical, at least in terms of the lead time required for thinking and implementation. Rosie had identified the problem of noise from upstairs. However, I had not informed her of the exact agreement with George, which allowed for unlimited music practice at all hours.
The Skype call came through on schedule at 7.00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time; 9.00 a.m. Sunday, Australian Eastern Standard Time.
‘How’s the weather there, Donald?’ said my mother.
‘Minimal change from last week. Still summer. The weather is normal for late August.’
‘What’s that in the background? Are you in the toilet? You can call back when you’re finished.’
‘This is my office. It’s very private.’ Rosie was home and I did not want her listening while I worked on the second surprise.
‘I should hope so. How was your week?’
‘Fine.’
‘You’re well?’
‘Fine.’
‘And Rosie?’
‘Fine.’
If we were using only text messages, I could have replaced myself with a simple computer application. The
Fine application. Possibly it would be better than I was at interspersing the occasional ‘good’ and ‘very well’. But this evening/morning, a variation was required.
‘I need to speak to Dad.’
‘You want to speak to your father?’ The speech quality was excellent—
fine—
but my mother no doubt wanted to confirm the unusual request. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Of course. I have a technical problem.’
‘I’ll get him.’ Rather than getting him, my mother shouted, ‘Jim! It’s Donald. He has a problem.’
My father does not waste time with formalities.
‘What’s the problem, Don?’
‘I require a soundproof crib.’ Although earplugs provided a simple solution, it had occurred to me that insulating a baby from sound might affect its development in a negative way.
‘Interesting. I suppose breathing is the problem.’
‘Correct. Communication is solvable electronically—’
‘No need to tell me things we both know. But I’m struggling to imagine a soundproof material that air can pass through.’
‘I’ve done some research. There is a project in Korea—’
‘You mean
South
Korea.’
‘Correct. They’ve developed a material impermeable to sound but permeable to air.’
‘I presume it’s on the internet. Send your mother a link. You’ve given me enough to work on for now. I’ll get your mother back. Adele!’
My mother’s face appeared in front of my father’s. ‘What was that about?’
‘Don wants some help designing a crib.’
‘A crib? A
baby
crib?’
Baby crib
seemed to be a tautology. My father pointed this out to my mother.
‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Donald, is this for a friend?’
‘No, no, it’s for Rosie’s baby. Our baby. It requires protection from noise but needs to breathe.’
My mother immediately became hysterical. I should have told her earlier, of course it was relevant, for God’s sake we speak every Sunday, when is it due, your aunt would be excited, is Rosie all right, I hope it’s a girl, I don’t mean that, it just came out, I was thinking of Rosie, girls are easier, do you know what it’s going to be, isn’t it amazing what they can do these days? Vast numbers of questions and observations that eventually occupied an additional eight minutes beyond the time I had scheduled for the discussion with my father. I have learned that tears do not necessarily equate to sadness and, despite my mother being understandably disappointed that we were in New York rather than Melbourne or Shepparton, she seemed pleased with the situation.
I spent almost two weeks with
Dewhurst’s Textbook of Obstetrics and Gynaecology
(Eighth Edition) and looking at videos available on the internet before deciding that these materials needed to be supplemented with practical experience. It was like reading a book on karate—useful to a point, but not sufficient for combat preparation. Fortunately, as a member of the medical faculty, I was in a position to gain access to hospitals and clinics.
I booked a meeting with David Borenstein in his office.
‘I’d like to deliver a baby.’
The Dean’s expression was difficult to interpret, but ‘enthusiastic’ was not one of the options.
‘Don, when I hired you, I expected some strange requests. So instead of me telling you all the practical and legal reasons why you can’t deliver a baby, how about you tell me why you want to do it?’
I began to explain the need to be ready for any emergency, but the Dean interrupted, laughing.
‘Let me put it like this. The odds of you having to deliver this baby in Manhattan without assistance are quite a bit lower than the odds of you having to do a competent job of raising it once it’s born. Which are 100 per cent. You agree?’
‘Of course. I have a separate sub-project—’
‘I’m sure you do. And you’ve just planted a seed in my mind. How’s Inge doing? How long has she been with you now?’
‘Eleven weeks and two days.’ She had started on the day of the Playground Incident, the day that led to my second meeting with Lydia, the recruitment of Sonia as an actress and my obligation to attend a group for violent men. The day the secrets began.