Up the Damien

I'm pleased to report that Mrs New York Addick is fifteen weeks 'Up the Damien' as they now say in Newcastle.

When the wife told me the news (ironically on our first anniversary) I welled up with emotion, put a caring arm around her, then naturally reached for my diary to check the Charlton fixture list. All being well she is due on March 2nd, just a day before what could be a vital relegation six-pointer at Watford.

Had I been living in the UK, this could have worked out well; I could have left her at Watford General next door and nipped along to the game. After all my Dad proudly tells me how he went to Wembley to watch Jan Tomaszewski's heroics for Poland in 1973, just days after my birth; it's a family tradition if you will.

Until then however, we are being cared for by a medical system which is risk-averse to extraordinary extremes. At some level this is obviously reassuring (so long as the insurance company pays the astronomical bills), but such is their concern about not being sued, every potential risk is explained to us in incredible detail. Hence each time the wife complains of an ache or pain I rush onto the internet to confirm my worst fears; as a result, she's not the only one relieved when it turns out to be trapped wind.

All being well, my life will be enormously different in five months time, and to be honest it hasn't begun to sink in. Right now I'm selfishly concerned for example at how what would previously have been an all-day drinking session with the lads, will now be a swift half on the way home from the Early Learning Centre. On the plus side however, the new arrival will receive a US passport which I intend to use tactically to avoid the immigration queues at JFK Airport.

I'll be the father of a fully paid-up American child, how scary is that? Rest assured however that as soon as they begin to pronounce the first syllable of 'vitamins' like 'bite' instead of 'bit', I'll be on a plane home quicker than you can say 'herbal' (whilst pronouncing the 'h').

The more observant amongst you may have spotted a strange coincidence. Determining the probable date of conception isn't as easy as counting back fifteen weeks from today; strangely (to me at least) a woman is considered about two weeks pregnant before the newly expectant father has even fallen asleep. Imagine that, two weeks seemingly gone by in a split second...it's just like your annual summer holiday.

And thirteen weeks ago, what other exciting drama had several twists and turns before building finally to a monumental climax? (that's not how I recalled it - Mrs NYA) Yes of course, it was the unveiling of Iain Dowie as new Charlton boss - who said football and life weren't intertwined?

At some point we'll have to think about possible names. Back in 1997 when we first started dating, during those heady days when we still enjoyed each other's company, she promised me that if we ever had a child, we could call him or her "Charlton". It's the sort of daft thing you agree to when you're trying to impress a new mate. Naturally nine years on, her memory has handily failed her, but I haven't lost hope yet thanks to a cunning plan I have in mind. I will propose that we each write five boys names and five girls names on a piece of paper. If it's a boy, she has to choose a first name from my list, whilst I choose a middle name from hers, and vice versa for a girl. As I'm sure you'll agree it's a great compromise. Here are my lists:

BOY: Charlton, Bartram, Rufus, Floyd, Harvey.
GIRL: Charlton, Valley, Kinsella, Mendonca, Curbishley.