A place in England

There is a place in England that I am in love with. A love affair now almost spanning over three decades. It is a place of wonder and amazement. Where legends live and history awakens from the deepest, darkest depths. It all comes to life with a thundering roar. Pay attention, and you will see the ghosts of young, gallant and brave men screaming past you where you stand in awe. You will become one with history. Live it, breath it. Even smell it. In some ways, we all gather in this place; those of us fortunate to live in todays free world, but also all of those that has gone before us. The ghosts. Those souls that sacrificed their lives for us. We all meet in this wonderful place where everything is alive, the past and the present. The living and the dead. This is where the clouds are vanishing as some by invisible force the moment everything is about to start. This is where the fog is thick in the morning, but clears when showtime lingers only an hour away. It is like a strong invisible force embrace it and protects it.

This is where I meet my heroes. My idols. The legend of man and machine fighting for freedom and liberty. The only place where I can reach out to my forgotten heroes and welcome them back into our modern world – if only for a few hours each year. Together we’re there, looking up at the sky in gratitude of what once was.

The effect this place has made on me has been second to none. Years and years of inspiration culminated in seven books over the years. This is place is where it all began. Like a jolt of lightning going through my body –  everything was clear to me once I had set foot in this place. This is what I would dedicate the next fourteen years on. This is where I belonged. It is still where I belong. This is where I took to the skies like my heroes and experienced it first hand. I will never forget it.

No one can and will take this place away from me. Ever.

Once my daughter grows older I will take her to this sacred place. I will point to these beatiful flying machines, and talk about the legends that once sat in them and fought for us. Fought for me. Fought for her.

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A bag of cheap Christmas ornaments

We bought them together. It was back in 2010. She had just arrived to this cold and sparsely populated country, and everything was new to her. Especially Christmas. Our apartment was relatively small, so we got a plastic tree at the same place we got the ornaments. It wasn’t expensive ornaments. They just came from one of these budget stores we have in this country. But, she was pleased. I was pleased too. We had just bought ourselves our first Christmas ornaments. We were slowly building common ground, a common life even – always intertwining our lives with possessions, interests and traditions.

I taught her my way of doing Christmas. My familys way of doing Christmas. When to do what – like decorating a Christmas tree – or what to eat. Perhaps we came too much of an indoor couple nursing our interests. Her academia and my growing in-depth history research. We decorated our tree on the 23rd of December. She seemed pleased. Actually, more fascinated than pleased. And so those cheap ornaments became one of our first common tradition with Christmas. They became rooted in our little family of two (later two and a dog – then another dog). Whenever Christmas came, I would bring out our small tree and those dark red coloured ornaments and decorate it. It was almost our first family heirlooms! As an added bonus, my mom hand made several ornaments herself, and gave to us as gifts.

Briging someone into a Christmas holiday is tricky. Everything I connected with this holiday didn’t mean anything to her. The TV shows I used to watch as a child did not ring any bell with her. The outdoors activities on skis were out of reach to her. And so large part of Christmas sort of obliturated without me noticing.

I kept decorating our tree with the same ornaments for seven years. Until I moved out. She asked me if I wanted the ornaments and handed me a plastic bag. Yes, I wanted them. One of the very few things that actually reminded me of Christmas. Of course I wanted to decorate my tree as always the coming Christmas.

In the end, I didn’t. I didn’t bother decorating anything that Christmas. Maybe it was because I was too lazy. Maybe it was because I didn’t feel like decorating anything to no one. Maybe it was because the ornaments reminded me of her. But, everything stayed in it’s plastic bag in a closet. It was the same the coming year, but that year I was barely home and celebrated a good Christmas with other people.

I brought the ornaments with me when I moved house once more. I had no specific plan with them. I didn’t reflect about what would happen if I decorated a new tree with my new family with the ornaments. Of everything that had been going on the past two years, the ornaments were at the bottom of that list. But I brought them down from the attic anyway just to og through them all. Maybe my girlfriend wanted to use some of it. Perhaps some of my mothers hand made ornaments would come in handy.

Of course she didn’t like them. She had our own tradition. Her own ornaments. Her own way of looking at Christmas and how everything should be. And so we decorated the tree I bought (where did that plastic tree actually end up?) with her ornaments. Nothing of mine. In fact, bringing it all down from the attic seemed to raise her level of panic to a certain degree as it suddenly became «too much Christmas stuff».

A colleague came to me a few days before Christmas and asked if I had some old ornaments I didn’t use. She wanted to use them in a prank at the office. I thought about it, and remembered my ornaments now firmly placed back into the attic. Sure, I had ornaments. I went back up to the freezing attic, grabbed my bag of ornaments and gave it to her. She used them in her prank. I’m not sure what happened next, but they most likely ended up in the garbage after that.

And so that’s where our Christmas ended up in the end. As a prank. A joke. The ornaments we bought together and decorated our tree with for so many years. I just gave them away. Anything else would have been silly. They will never have been used again. And, I can always just get some new ones in the future. It’s not like they cost anything.

A plastic bag full of ornaments is just one more object from my former life that is now gone. Parts of me and my past slowly but always continuously wethering away. Things that meant something to me.

There’s almost nothing left of them now.

A letter to my two dogs

To the first one,

You know, I can’t believe it’s been six years since we got you. I was never too keen on having a dog, but when she asked me if we could bring you into our household, I immediately said yes. And from then on and for two years it was just us three. I felt so sorry for many switches in owners, and put you into bed at night to make you feel wanted. It’s a horrible mix and misunderstand of human and dog emotions, but I wanted to tell you that from here on out we would take care of you. You were always so kind to me. You showed me trust and love. You had no hesitations in accepting me as your new owner. I remember walking you around town, and I snapped a photo of you. Boy, did you look happy! For us, you were our little baby. Our common ground. When we went to bed at night, I always said “another day tomorrow little dog” and I often wondered when I would ever stop saying those words to you. I know you didn’t really like it when we got Shelly. You enjoy the quiet and comfortness of a home. Not to be attacked by a puppy interested in playing all the time. You were my first little girl. I find myself mixing the names of you and my daughter all the time. And do you know why I do that? Because you and my daughter awakens the same emotions in me. Parenthood, care, and love. And this is how much you mean to me, dear dog.

I am sorry I am not around like I used to. I am sorry you do not fit into my new household. I am sorry my girlfriend misundersands you, and think you’re angry. You’re not. You’re just an aging dog, and you don’t like children. Maybe some misbehaved kid did something to you when you were young. It’s not your fault. I understand.

I hope you can forgive me for disappearing like that. I didn’t mean to. I just can’t find a way to make it work. I really want to spend time with you. Give you cuddles, treats and nice walks. I wish I could lift you up into my bed at night and fall alseep next to you like I used to do.

I had to sacrifice something, and I am sorry it turned out to be you. It’s not your fault. I love you just the same, my aging dog. I just think you have a better life if you stay with people who understand you the most, and can give you the treatment you deserve. And she does. She loves you to bits, and your life is with her.

To the second one,

My best friend, my confidant, my little happy, playful dog. Can you believe I wasn’t too keen on getting you? I didn’t even say yes! Suddenly we just picked you up, and that was that. I am so happy that we did that in 2014.

You give me a feeling of unrequited love I have never felt before. From day one you trusted me, and chose me to be your leader and daddy. Between us there is a bond I have trouble explaining in words. I miss you when you’re not here with me. You let my step-daughter do anything she wants with you, and maybe you do it because of me. Because that is required if you are to be with me now. You welcome them with open arms.

Do you remember those long walks we did a year or so ago? Going out exploring. Just you and me. Best friends. Do you remember those sad, lonely nights when you stayed with me? When everything was shit, and you were the shining star in a dark night? That’s what you are to me, my dear little dog. I will never forget the moment when I looked into your eyes and I swear, it was like you spoke to me in my mind; I give you my unconditional love. Never before or since have I experienced something like that when I’m around dogs.

You scream of joy when I pick you up. Do you do it because we can be together? Because when you are with me, fun things will happen? When you’re with me, you refuse to leave my side. If I go to the bathroom, you want to come. You stay beside me. No matter what.

I am so sorry we can’t be together more than we are. I wish we could. Your place is with me. We have a special connection you and I. I feel like I let you down. How I push you away because others don’t want you around.

I am so sorry I have let you down. I can’t repay your trust and confidence in me. I failed you. My sweet and lovely dog. I am sorry.

To both,

Merry Christmas to you both. I miss you terribly. You are one of the few connections to my old life. One that is fading by the day. My two, lovely dogs. Know that I miss you with all my heart. I have let you down, and I am sorry for it. Know that I will see you again soon.


Like heavy, polluted air

I visited my old neighbourhood lately. I’ve been driving around there a few times before, but this time I was walking with my daughter in a baby trolley. It literally gave me the chills.

I can best explain it like this; do you know when you’re in the bathroom and putting on your deoderant, then leave the bathroom but only to come back a few minutes later. The deoderant you put on are still lingering in the room, and you can smell it. That’s what it was like.

It’s like I have been walking around the neighbourhood in late 2016 and early 2017 leaving a scent of some sort. A scent that is sadness, frustration, anger, loneliness, and desperation even. It has filled the air around there like a perfume. I walked around with my daughter as a different person. Just two years later I am walking around my old neighbourhood as a completely different person. I could almost feel everything that I had been through when I walked there. Like some sort of heavy, polluted air. It was like a mix of two worlds that shouldn’t really mix at all. It was eerie as hell.

I expressed my gratitude out loud. Everything went okay after all.

However, the battle is never really won. Around the corner waits new battles to be fought.

Is this karma?

I am two months into my new life of being a father. I’ve done lots of thinking about this subject and my current life status, and I have come to some surprising conclusions.

I’ve asked myself; what is the most challenging aspect of my current life? What is most different from before? From my past life?

I think if I asked people, they would quickly point to my daughter. I could ask my girlfriend, and she would quickly say that the most challenging and changing aspect of my life IS indeed my daughter. I can agree to some point because this is a challenge that won’t go away any time soon. However, right now it is not my daughter that is mentally my biggest challenge. That is a surprise.

It’s my new living arrangements. Social life. Privacy, and lack of privacy. The erosion of what I am. The challenge of holding on to my interest and hobbies while transcending into this new way of life. And, it’s often those things you do not see coming that is the most challenging. This new way of living in someone elses house and amongst all her things caught me so much off guard I rate that above my daughter. Nothing has surprised me with her – I was prepared for it. I’m in control of it.

The house I live in now is my girlfriends house. It came fully equipped. I sold my house, and I gave away many of my possessions in order to seal the deal; my TV, my sofa, my bed, my comfy chair and so on. When I moved to my girlfriends house I did not bring even one large item. Just clothes, books, magazines, beer glasses and a few items that’s been in my family for a long time. Plenty of it are still in boxes. If I tried to bring some of my things at least out of these boxes, I will be told there’s no space for them – and perhaps rightly so – there really is no available space in this house. I fought to even get one photograph that meant something to me up on the wall. And so I live in an enviroment where nothing is mine. And because it’s not my house, I am not in charge of anything. Not even the internet connection and the TV tuner. This is a complete turn-around from my past life where I was in charge of basically everything. Everything from the TV to what went on the walls to the speed of the internet. In my past life, we agreed upon wall decoration together, and I got to put up what meant something to me in my office room. It was more of a mutual agreement and cooperation. Here, there’s no room. No office. No room for me. I feel like I live in someone elses house, and rightly so; I am.

Possessions are one thing. Social aspects another. I am not used to having so many people come by all the time. Mostly her family. While they are all lovely people, I can’t relax around them. They are not my family. Her father works on the house constantly, and we’re all grateful for his efforts. His investment in the house and care for his daughter is wonderful. However, as an example, last week he would suddenly spend all Friday with us doing work on the house. His wife was away in Oslo and so he was with us between 10am and 10pm. I dreaded that Friday for days. After a long week at work, I am often beat on Friday afternoon/evening and would prefer to not do much or even be social. Yes, I might be old and I might be introvert. I just couldn’t look forward to an whole evening like that. I dreaded it, and I feel bad for it as I like him and appreciate all his work. It’s just that I am on the alert when there’s people around and I can’t relax. If her mother shows up for a visit, she stays until minimum 11pm. Often, by that time, I am freaking out because I will not get enough sleep. And, I wasn’t really told about that Friday. She didn’t ask me; “hey, can my father come by for twelve hours this Friday?”. No, I heard about it when he spoke to his granddaughter and told her. If I think about that Friday, I can still feel a bit of panic in my gut.

I wonder; would she accept that my father would spend 12 hours with us on a Friday? Or my mother showing up at 6pm and stay until 11:30pm? Would she accept all of this? Is it because I am a man it seems to be ok to control wall art and decor? When I spoke to my sister about it, she said he had refused her boyfriend to hang photographs of his RC helicopters up in the living room and he accepted. I can understand that to some point, but is it culturally expected of males to just let shit go and just adapt in a household? I doubt she would have accepted this if she had moved in with me. She, like most females, would have taken control of the household and expected the male to just accept it.

And so, it feels to me I have lost control of my life to a certain degree. I live in a house that is not mine, and doesn’t contain anything (except a small book shelf and a photograph) that is mine. My life seems to have either been sold, scrapped or is somewhat ignored.

Maybe this is karma. Maybe this is how my ex wife felt when she moved in with me. Even if we bought everything together. I wonder. I do wonder.

But there’s one thing that is rightly mine. She even looks like me. My daughter.


A former life

My life has changed so abruptly that I desperately seek experiences or things that comes from what once was. Almost like a person involved in the paranormal, trying to find feelings, items or places that can be connected to a former life. Because that’s what it feels like. And, the joy and happiness if I am to find something that reminds me of the person I was once – and still are.

A few days ago I hung a photo on the wall in our home. Wait, let me correct that; her home. It’s really her home. I put the photo up and I stared at it with wonder. Like an artefact from days long gone. Like a rope that connects two lifelines together. I was happy.

Yesterday I went to soccer practice. It’s my team. I created this so many years ago. Together with a friend I’ve managed this club for nine years. Nine years. I haven’t been there playing with them for over a month. They greeted me back with open arms. It felt like I just stepped back into a previous life. Like meeting old friends, long gone and forgotten. And, suddenly they were all there. I was myself again. This is what I was – and still is. It felt like coming home.

I have so few things intact from my previous life. Just fractions. Sometimes not even my interests are intact. One of them, in all seriousness, have to be hushed up because she doesn’t want to know about it. She doesn’t know shit about it, but she doesn’t want to know. And so, as I usually does, I go on the offensive and dig into this forbidden subject even more than normal. Who knows, it might just end up being a book just to spite her.

My dogs. Another lifeline back into to the old days almost torn to pieces. I’ve lost most of my relationship to my eldest dog. She doesn’t fit in. The younger dog, my confidante above all. My lovely dog. I talk about her and my eyes swell up. I wasn’t that moved even when my daughter was born. I held my own then. But for my little dog I feel I have left behind. I have disappointed her in my vanishing. The little dog who gave me all this unconditional love, and I return her love by disappearing – only to appear from time to time. She screams of joy when I come see her. I feel so guilty of leaving her behind.

I fight for what I am. What I used to be. To bring my old self into my new self. Photos, football, dogs… To make people understand. The feeling of sadness when I’m surrounded by people who don’t really know me. Don’t know my story. The new me. My new life. Like I was just born.

A Month Gone By

It’s been over a month now since my daughter was born. We have no name for her yet as her mother struggles to decide. This is symbolic of a difference between us. I would have decided on a name, and stuck with it – never regret the decision. The child and the personality forms around the name until it fits like a glove. Not the other way around. But her mother is more undecided. Lots more undecided. If I suggest one name, she suggest another. If I suggest that other name, she will revert back to the first one I suggested. So, if I say A, she says B. If I say B she will backpaddle to A. And off we go, and we can’t decide.

We have found a system that works as of now. I stay up with the baby until 2 or 3 in the morning, before I give her to her mother for feeding. Then I go to sleep. Usually not in the same room in order to give me a proper nights sleep before work. I am honestly not that tired. The breastfeeding makes her mother tired. I try to make her more comfortable by pressing orange juice or giving her massages.

I don’t often dwell or reflect on the past year or month and I often find my previous reflections to others as almost embaressing. However, there’s a few things I find to be a relief. First, it is so damn good to know that this girl doesn’t have any other father than me. I don’t have to relate to another father, and there’s no one referring to another father. It can be hard on step-fathers to have to deal with someone who will never step down from the throne as number 1. The father will always be the father. But for this girl, I am the father and I will always be the father. It’s a relief.

Humans would often like to fit in or feel at least on the same level as others. I more than before feel like this now. I feel like I am equal to other fathers. I am no less. I even dealt with birth better than many (I was completely calm and collected). The baby comes natural to me. I am a father, like many others and I’m currently doing it quite well. I like being a father as I expected I would. But there’s more to come. The baby is just a bit over a month old. When she starts talking, walking and relating to me – things will slowly become a tight relationship to my young daughter. It’s almost weird to say. My daughter.


So what the hell happened?

It is time to reflect a little. Well, “a little”. I’m sure it will be a lot. It is now October 2018. Two years since I moved into my own house after I purchased it. This after I moved out of my now ex-wifes house (it used to be our house) in September.

Two years. Two years since I slept alone in a big empty house for the first time. I missed by dogs that night, and I missed my old house. I had no idea what to expect when I went to bed that night. I was alone and confused. But I know one thing, I slept alone in that empty house for the first time that night in October 2016 because I really wanted a family, and I couldn’t get that with my ex-wife. But let’s make it clear; I did not leave her for it. It was a mutual agreement.

Stuff was painful, and little did I know that it would be even more painful in the months that would come.

I started this blog in April 2017. I was on the mend.

And, so I sit here now with my laptop in a completely different house in a different town. The house I bought in 2016 is already sold. Five meters away from me is my girlfriend with our daughter in her arms having a visitor over. My daughter just turned two weeks old. Two weeks old. My own daughter. People greet me, say congratulations and telling me I’m a daddy. Excuse me, but what? I am?

I got one simple question;

What. The. Hell. Happened?

How did I manage to fullfill a dream of mine in that short amount of time? Did I do all this myself by simply making the right decisions? Decisions are quite something when it comes to these serious matters. They were so hard that it drove me insane. It was so difficult to make the right decisions that one night in February 2017 I simply opened up a bottle of wine and drank it all within fifteen minutes. It didn’t help, but I was desperate. I tore my brains out trying to do the right things. Perhaps I actually did? Maybe I was just lucky? And I know that this is not end of hard decisions. It is simply one hurdle overcome and onto the next.

If I only could send myself a message back to December 2016 and tell myself I was doing the right things and just keep going. But, hey, that’s exactly what I did. I knew what I had to do, and I had to work towards that goal. And I did. I kept going.

There were small and larger elements to my depressive state of mind back then, but the feeling of loneliness and not having children on my own was a large part of it. Feelings of failure and guilt as well. Of simply being a failure as a man. I constantly talked myself down. But when it comes to the feeling of loss of children or missing a child, it was a like a hole in my body constantly bleeding.

Suddenly, now, the bleeding have completely stopped.


But I still miss my dogs. I feel like I have let them down. I think about my ex-wife and mourn the fact she is no longer my dearest friend. I don’t miss her as my lover, but I miss her terribly as my friend and confidant. It hurts. I am still filled with sadness and shame when I think about that terrible phone call I had to make to inform my mother about what was going on in my life back in June 2016. However, I am so happy to see that she is over the moon with being a grandmother.

Think about that; my mom is now a grandmother. And that is the most important part of it all, the happiness I see in her eyes. I made my mom so happy.

My grandmothers coffee set

I inherited an old coffee set from my grandparents several years back. I always kept it in a closet, not being used. I never even washed them. Just stored them. I doubt it’s any sort of fancy, expensive coffee set. The value lies in the heritage. It’s made in Bavaria, Germany in what I suspect was the 1950s. It has light coloured flower decorations and “gold” around the edges. It is light of weight and it automatically makes you touch it very carefully. I say it’s my grandmothers because I am convinced she was the one cleaning it and taking care of it. Not my grandfather.

I recently moved in with my girlfriend, and obviously brought all my belongings. However, there’s almost no room for anything here so most of my books, items and memorabilia are packed away in boxes. I’ve touched upon this subject before.

I don’t know if it’s my daughter coming along that made me unpack my grandmothers coffee set or the deep desire to have something in this household that is mine. And so I brought it forward. My girlfriend wanted me to wash it before finding room for it – if there is room at all.

So I carefully unwrap the coffee cups and the plates from the newspaper wrapping and start to clean them. It dawns on me that these coffee cups have been held in my grandmothers hands so many times through the years. So many of my family members drinking from them. When looking at them, cleaning them – I was filled with a sense of deep nostalgia and a longing for my grandmother that died when I was barely into my teens. Longing for a time that is no more.

I remember times at my grandparents house, and especially extraordinary evenings when so many of my family on my mothers side were gathered together. Birthdays, jubilees, anniversaries. My grandparents had five daughters which made for relatively large gatherings of aunts, uncles and children of all ages.

I imagine my uncles and my father sitting in my grandparents living room only used for special occations drinking coffee from these cups and talking about society or politics. My grandfather pouring coffee into his cup, and slowly drinking the hot wonder liquid often not saying much. I pick up one cup and study it. I wonder how many people have touched it, been drinking from this very cup, and how many of them that are still alive. My grandfathers sibblings? Now all gone. My grandparents friends which I do not know the names of? How many? These cups have passed through the hands of so many people through so many decades.

I remember thetre was once a jubilee of some sor at my grandparents hosue. My mother and her siblings had composed a song to their parents. Most of them singing out of tune to my fathers rythm guitar. I remember buffets of cold cuts of food that evening. My older cousins laughing at me when I only went to pick up a piece of tomato from the lush table of food. I remember one of my uncles loud, but warm laugh between his soft southern accent – different from the rest of us. I remember looking up to one of my cousings about seven years older than me. I was very myuch influenced by his taste in music or interest in RC model cars. He was tall, cool and knew everything.

By simply touching the coffee cups I could almost hear my uncles and aunts talking, see my grandfather drinking his coffee and see myself as a child running around being asked silly auntie-type questions about school.

After everyone had gone home that evening,  I am sure my grandmother washed the dishes by hand. She had no dishwasher. It is a poignant feeling to know that she’s been touching and cleaning this coffee set through so many decades.

Now I was doing the same thing.

These days are long gone now. There are no more gatherings at my grandparents house. While most of the people involved are still alive, some are not and others are now at the very end of their lives. Time has moved on.

Birth from a mans experience

I didn’t really know what to expect from childbirth. People giving me information about what to expect was all over the place. Everyone from my girlfriend to co-workers to friends and family. Not one story was the same, and not one attitude towards it was alike. Some women almost hostile to the idea, and being vocal about the hell they went through. Other women being more relaxed saying they “have had worse” than child birth coming to them. And what was more annoying was how everyone kept asking me about it. “What do you think? What do you expect? Are you excited? Are you scared? You haven’t done this before, have you.”

What am I supposed to answer these questions with? I can’t say I’m excited because my girlfriends friend had just been on a 20 minute long rant about the hell she went through. I can’t say I’m scared either because another friend said childbirth was not all it was hyped up to be. I didn’t know what to say if I was asked what I expected. Once, I said I didn’t really expect anything because it was impossible to get a clear cut view of the matter from anyone. Once I said; “well, the baby have to come out one way or another” and my girlfriend ripped me a new asshole for it. Still don’t get why though, as a month later she said the same thing repeatadly to me and her family.

So, all in all, very confusing stuff. So I thought, for those dads-to-be that have not yet been through this – I will give you the real deal. The truth. This is what you can expect to happen. As a man. Not as a woman. As a man.

Here’s the deal; it’s all individual. There’s three people in the room. Mother, father and child (we don’t count those midwives), Everyone of those three will experience this differently, but it is the mother who is in charge of the event. If the mother is in pain or scared out of her mind, it won’t be very pleasing and the father will be dragged through a process of watching a loved one in desperate pain. She might scream her lungs out. It will all be like a nightmare. Or, it could be the complete opposite. A woman in control of her pain and focused towards her task with no hellish screams. Make no mistake, the task is very tough, but women deals with it differently. How your loved one will react to this if she haven’t been through it already is anyones guess (and births can be very different). All you have to do is come along for the ride and try to help out in any way you can (and those options are few). If you as a man does not like a bit of blood or the look of a placenta coming out you might want to look the other way. Some guys might feel a sense of panick. Other may find themselves in calm and focused control of themselves. There’s just no way of knowing. It’s even about you as well. Are you uncomfortable in hospitals you might be in for a troubling time!

So, if people ask you about this matter. Try to answer as proper as possible, but the key is this; “individuality”. You can’t expect this or that. There’s no way. You simply have to roll with the punches and see how things unfold. If you’re overly excited and happy, you might get a shock of how serious birth can be. If you expect World War One to happen, you might feel that it wasn’t such a big deal after all. But if you’re gonna speak of your experience afterwords, make sure you speak only for you and recognize your girlfriends pain and what she went through.

And as for me, I honesly expected more of the bad stuff. Everything was done so quickly I had no time to think (individuality once again). We got to the hospital about 1645, and the baby arrived 17:37. My girlfriend was in deep pain, but instead of screaming or cursing the midwife out, she went some place deep inside herself and just focused on the task. There wasn’t really much I could do, but I am pleased to know that I calmed down and felt focused during the process. I expected World War One I guess, and was pleased to find out it was not a situation I couldn’t handle. The blood and gore was fine. It felt more natural than I expected. There wasn’t much of anything from my point in the room.

And, then she arrived. This little creature with eyes scared shitless of the process she had just been through.

If I meet a man with a pregnant girlfriend and he asks me for what I think, I won’t say this or that. I will simply say it’s all individual. Expect the unexpected. There’s nothing really I can say either way.

That was birth. Then there’s the rest. More on that later.