Yesterday, by the best estimations of our doctor, my wife and I should have been holding a small baby in our arms and crying like a pair of fools. Instead, my wife is telling me about another visit to the doctor that ended with a “It’s not happening today”. Without hesitation my wife has decided the child is already too much like me. This isn’t an unfair assessment, our daughter is currently 4kg and has a head that puts most bowling balls to shame, her timekeeping is only another indicator that she’s is more Geordie than German. Is it weird that I’m proud that my daughter’s weight is above average, and easily dwarfs her older cousin by 800g? Obviously, it’s not a competition…

The last nine months have felt strange for many reasons, mainly because it’s the first time since I came to Germany that I don’t have a frame of reference from the UK. This is our first child, and although my older brothers have children, as a younger sibling, I wasn’t deeply involved in the day to day experience of my pregnant sisters-in-law. Lots of things are new and weird or exciting and terrifying. Also, there is a lot to take for granted about having a child in Germany.. Paternity leave is one of them; when I told a friend of mine over Christmas that I could well be taking 2 or 3 months off (German paid paternity leave is 14 months, which can be split between parents), he almost slapped me. The only thing stopping him was his own daughter sitting on his knee.    

Despite not having a wealth of experience with pregnancy or childbirth in the UK, there are still some things that I believe could only happen in Germany, the most obvious difference being the language. I learn language by doing, which is to say I have a terrible time learning new words without an anchoring experience in my own life. I learned all my anatomical vocabulary when I had an operation a few years ago, business terminology from sitting in meetings and even my car vocabulary was only retained after an emotionally bruising encounter with a Frankonian mechanic. The same is true for my pregnancy language. The problem I, and many learners of a new language, have is that I initially directly translate new words to better understand them. This has helped with simple words like Trinkgeld (drink money = tip) or Handschuhe (hand shoes = Gloves), but what the hell am I to make the first time I hear the word Muttermund?

The first time I hear it, I’m in a doctor’s office and as soon as the doctor utters Muttermund my brain tunes out all sound and I’m entirely focused on decoding this new word. “Muttermund, directly translated, means Mother mouth” I tell myself. What the hell is that? My brain tunes back in and the doctor says it again. I’m now obsessed, why is the doctor so concerned with my wife’s mouth? I’m still pondering this when I realise the doctor has stood up, indicating it’s time to leave. ”Why was he so concerned with your mouth?” I ask my wife as we walk to the car. She laughs. She laughs a lot. Finally, she stops, just enough to blurt out “It’s the cervix”. I go quiet and not for the first time, I feel my face flush with embarrassment.

It turns out that German, often a language of exactness, actually has a series of cutesy euphemisms for various aspects of the birthing process. My next language lesson comes a few weeks later as I sit cross legged on a yoga mat surrounded by pregnant women, my wife included, and their visibly uncomfortable spouses. We are taking part in a Antenatal Class, the only one in which the fathers must attend, and we all look out of our depths. For some unknown reason I’m flicking through a book on Native American birthing methods that has just been handed to me. I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to learn from it, except maybe that giving birth in outdoors is a complicated ordeal.

There is a weird mysticism that runs through the Bavarian middle class, I’m guessing it’s all the dreary Catholicism that most have been subjected to as children. It makes them yearn for something more exotic. As I hand back the book, I notice the poster of an elephant on the wall, with the words “Namaste” in pseudo Devanagari script underneath. Now I’m really confused. Suddenly I hear a new word MutterKuchen and my brain goes into auto translate: Mutterkuchen = Mother Cake. I’ve learned my lesson; I’m not going to make the same mistake as last time. It’s clear from the context that this is not a lovely German cake we bake especially for new mothers, but what is it? In seconds the context becomes clear: Mutterkuchen = Placenta. I vomit a little in my mouth.

A few minutes later, I learn Muttermilch (Mothers milk = breast milk) which makes me cringe as it sounds like the kind of phrase only uttered by theatrically depraved serial killers. I know, I know, it’s totally natural, but honestly, mothers milk? It’s far too precise, but I guess that’s the nature of German. A day later and I’m learning Elterngeld (Parent Money = State family allowance) which thankfully isn’t a euphemism for a part of my wife’s anatomy . Weirdly, this term is quite comforting as it speaks to something inherently German: bureaucracy. Germany wouldn’t be Germany if applying for a state financial benefit wasn’t a labyrinth of bureaucracy and complex forms that must be filled out in a very specific way. To give some sense of the complexity of the process, the information website has three ten-minute videos just to explain how to apply. That’s the kind of Germany I’ve grown to love.

Even after all this time, it still amazes me how Germany and the language can surprise. I’m sure over the coming years I’ll learn a lot of new language I wouldn’t have dreamed of before having a child, and I’m also certain I’ll inevitably embarrass myself because of it. It’s my thing, it would be a shame to stop. I’m excited about this new chapter of my life, one of cringe-worthy dad jokes and benign confusion. I just hope my daughter will see the funny side.