As I approach two weeks of fatherhood, I wanted to process some thoughts. Some emotions.

This really is a rollercoaster. I’m someone who is generally seen — I think fairly — as calm and measured by friends and acquaintances. I don’t tend to feel extreme emotions, though I often experience frustration and a vague longing for purpose. Those close to me will sense when my mood drops. Still, I’d agree: I’m relatively stable in my character.

Fatherhood has made me more acutely aware of the ups and downs each day brings. Perhaps for good reason, given the stresses of a newborn. And yet I feel those fluctuations were always there — they’re just magnified now. Not wholly new. As to why that is, I can only theorise based on 12 days of experience. Maybe it’s the stress. The lack of sleep. The intensity of caring so deeply for my partner and baby. The sheer act of giving birth is powerful. Simply being there and supporting my partner, without doing anything else, could have been enough to change my life.

I love the little guy. His wellbeing is everything to me. He makes me smile and laugh with funny expressions, noises, and tiny glimpses of the character he’ll become. He’s adorable when he sleeps. When he feeds. When he grunts like a little pig rooting for milk on my neck while I prepare his bottle. I love the way he smells — always — but especially now that his stinky umbilical stump has finally fallen off! When he’s calm and happy, I feel the same.

He has his ups and downs too, and I go through them with him. He struggles with reflux, and I feel a deep frustration. I also feel shame and guilt — maybe it’s my fault he’s in pain. But on top of that, I sometimes feel resentment. Why won’t he stop crying? Why is he rooting for more milk when he really needs burping? I question whether I’m happy. Whether it’s worth it.

Am I feeling those first emotions — shame, guilt, sympathy — because I’m a compassionate father? Or am I just a man selfishly wanting to relax with his son, only to feel robbed of that chance when he needs me entirely? Or am I more the second set — the anger, the impatience, the selfish, egotistical man I fear I am?

Honestly, I don’t know. I can be selfish — I see that in myself — but I also genuinely want to do better. I guess I’m both, and I have to accept that. It’s possible to be the compassionate father and the immature man. And I don’t think I’m alone in that. Maybe I lean more toward one side than some men, and less than others. Who knows. We’re not always honest about these things — even with ourselves.

It’s hard to accept the more difficult emotions, but I want to understand my reactions to the stress. And, hopefully, improve.

Caspar just had his first bath. Total disaster for him — adorable chaos for us. And so the rollercoaster continues. I think that’s the point: I can love him completely, even as I wrestle with frustration. I can be both the man I want to be and the one I fear I am. Somewhere in between, life is happening. It’s beautiful. And hard. And mine.

72 hours ago, my first child — a son — was born. His name is Caspar. He weighed 3.5kg, arrived a little late, and needed a helping hand in the form of an induction.

Nothing can prepare you for your first experience of childbirth. Nothing. And yet, like a dream, the memory softens and fades — leaving behind only awe and gratitude. Caspar is healthy, even if I can’t quite get over how much he sleeps! Mum is doing great, and both are asleep right now. As I write this first paragraph, we’re about to leave the hospital and head home… a home that was still a building site just weeks ago. Remarkable times.

Fast forward 30 hours.

We’ve been home, back to the hospital, and now (hopefully) settled in again. Caspar decided to hold his bladder for an impressive 30 hours. After 24 hours, we were sent to A&E for an urgent referral to the children’s unit. Understandably stressful — especially for my partner, who should’ve been resting at home just a day after giving birth. Instead, we found ourselves navigating the nighttime A&E (anyone from a decent-sized town or city knows that’s not always a peaceful experience).

Naturally we felt anxious, particularly my partner who had given birth so recently. But it was fine. We were in the right place. Staff moved us through quickly, given the circumstances. Then, we waited. For a wee. Caspar was monitored closely and in perfect health the whole time. Totally unbothered. He arrived late. He urinated late. I’m starting to think punctuality might not be his strong suit.

Reflecting on my last post, I realise it was heavy on frustration — fairly, I’d argue — about the UK’s broken systems. That’s fine. This blog is my space to reflect in real time. But today, I want to offer a more hopeful story. Because our experience with the NHS, particularly during childbirth, left me genuinely moved. Yes, the system is flawed — but when it works, it really works. The staff at Ipswich Hospital were brilliant: calm, kind, skilled. They knew when to speak and when to give us space. They made us feel safe. And they gave me a new thread of hope for the healthcare system.

So: thank you. Thank you, the system I am gently rebelling against.

That leads me to something I want to make clear. This rebellion isn’t about negativity. It’s not blind, angry, or ideological. It’s about honesty. Sometimes that means pointing out what’s broken. But it also means recognising what works — and saying thank you when it’s due. If we want the right to criticise, we have to give others the same right — even when it’s aimed at us. I want this space — and especially this post — to reflect that spirit: to hold space for complexity, gratitude, and a more honest kind of hope.