Mea Culpa, or what I did whilst on holiday

The casual reader would be forgiven for believing that I am a New Dad. Y'know, one of these hands on fellows who changes nappies, does the night-time feeds, plays with the infant for hours in the park. The chap that Does His Fair Share. The casual reader would be wrong.

In fairness, I thought fairly much the same of myself before we went on holiday in August (yes, I know it was a long time ago - but it always takes a while to recover from holidays, doesn't it?) But then, I had the shock of my life.

The plan was this. The First Born and I went to London, to visit my family, for a fortnight. Dr M swanned off the the United States for a week, the plan being that she'll join us in London for the second.

(Even here there is an untruth. Dr M had a very important commitment in the States, one that cold not be negotiated away or rescheduled. But it suits me to believe that she went a-rollicking without child and son for a week. I've always been shallow like that.)

We agreed, eventually, that it would be better if TFB stayed with me in London instead of flying across the Atlantic. The jet lag would have been a killer, for one thing. and two seven hour flights in under a week, bookmarked by two five hour flights, might have been a wee bit too much.

In any case, I argued, of course I can look after him myself. I am his father, after all. I do know how to put on a nappy, feed him, change him, bathe him and put him to bed. And, I reasoned, I'll be staying with my mother, and with my siblings at hand to spell me if I needed a break.

I'm not so sure, Dr M ventured tentatively.

Of course it'll be ok, I retorted indignantly. I know all there is to know about looking after TFB.

Famous last words.

The first difficulty was that I underestimated the physical toll of looking after a small child all day, every day. Grievously underestimated.

TFB is a delightful child - and I know that I'm biased, I am his father etc, but you just have to meet him to understand this - but he is hard work. An overactive little bugger, to use the technical phraseology. At this point, he could crawl, stand and walk with support. He believed that he could walk unsupported. Cue frantic dives to cushion his fall every two or three minutes. He also had (and still has) the tendency to put pretty much anything that comes into his hand into his mouth. Which isn't so bad when he feeds himself - which he does - but is a bit more problematic when he tries to pop outdoor shoes, pebbles, thread and fluff, and anything that catches his eye (and he has sharp eyes) into his mouth.

But that wasn't the hard bit.

Waking up three or four times a night (did I ever say that TFB is not a good sleeper?) does strange things to one's nervous system. On more than one occasion, whilst feeding him at two in the morning, I would hear, loud and clear, his screams in my ears. So I'd jump, realise that it can't be him because he is in my arms with a bottle in his mouth, dislodge the bottle and then hear him loud and clear, as he screams for the bottle to be put back where it belongs, in his mouth...

By the third evening, I took to going to bed at 9pm, something I haven't done voluntarily since...gosh, since I was about his age, I suppose.

Of course, it wasn't like I was all on my lonesome. I had my mother, my sisters and my brother who were, individually and collectively, wonderful. So even this wasn't the full-on solo parent experience.

But the real killer was the emotional drain.

Look, I know it was just a week, but the duty of being solely responsible for the wee one was almost overwhelming. When should he eat? Should I try and nap him now? Is he dressed to warm? Too cold? Should I take him for a walk? Am I being unfair dragging all over town? What should he eat? Is he happy?

Now, this is the stuff I had taken for granted up until then. When Dr M asks whether she should take him to bed with her, or let him stay awake since he doesn't seem tired, even though it is his nap time, I would usually roll my eyes and tell her to do what she thinks is best. It's a no-brainer after all, isn't it?

But it isn't. When one has the awesome responsibility of always trying to make the right decision for one's offspring, a second head is always helpful. And I realise, now, that I haven't always been that. Parenting can be a lonely business if you have to make all the decisions yourself.

I'm sorry.

(It's not like I am that second head now, even though I am a bit wiser. But I do try to disguise my eye rolling now, at least. One step at a time...)

The trip was great, if a little surreal. After twelve years in London as a singleton, it was really strange thinking about where to go and what to do with the added, novel consideration of whether it would be suitable for the First Born.

Like the time I went to my favourite restaurant chain (which will remain nameless, to protect the guilty), and I had to change his nappy on the floor in the gent's bathroom, under the sink and with my head almost in the urinal, because the only baby's changing table was in the ladies' toilet.

Won't be going back there.

(Jury's still out on smoke free pubs though - it's just not the same, is it? That said, it isn't really a good thing to take your ten month old child out on the lash, so this is pointless rhetoric.)

Or realising exactly why buses need wide floors and low door ramps. It's a little hard manoeuvering a pushchair in the nice red Routemasters that used to be the symbol of London- nostalgia be damned!

Or, what to do with a small child on a rainy day (yes, I know it's London, it's always a rainy day, but I hadn't really thought about it before now)

But it was great, if a little exhausting. And it does help a little if your child is an absolute charmer (i.e more social skills than his father) - people are always willing to extend themselves a little if a little boy smiles and paws at them as if he's known them all his life.

Anyway, I've recovered from the holiday now. Back to the present.

A lot has happened since the end of July. TFB now has eight, count 'em, eight teeth. He uses them wisely at least. He eats pretty much what we do, and enjoys it too. He likes to feed himself, which is a little messy occasionally (for this read: mealtimes are a cross between a food fight in a cake shop and thermo-nuclear devastation).

He's now taking his first few steps, arms outstretched (usually with a toy in each hand), lurching like Frankenstein's monster.

He has a favourite toy - a purple plastic duck that, technically, isn't a toy since it was designed to support a tidy bag in the bathroom. ut never mind - it's better than my toothbrush (I'll explain next time.)

He sleeps...well, better. Everything's relative, after all, no? In fact, he joins us in bed half way through the night and sleeps fine after that, so one can't complain. He had a short spell of waking up at 5.30, bright eyed and bushy tailed, which was a bit rough on everyone (TFB excepted, of course) but that's passed now, thank goodness.

(We had to dismantle our bed and put the mattress on the floor, so he won't topple off the bed when he wakes up. He can get off the bed safely by himself now, but I can't put the bed back together again, so it looks like we'll be living hermit-style for a while yet.)

Everyone's happy.

The First Born is 10 months old

Comments

[Alex F]

And he's cute! He gets that from Dr M, though.

[Idowu]

Hey,

Should he be sleeping on the same bed with you guys?

[alicia r]

Hahaha, you sound a bit like my husband.... swears up and down that he does EVERYTHING... but he's getting better too:)
Nayeli sounds like she shares the same sleeping habits as TFB. Which is more of a strain to me since I wake up with her and bring her to bed on my side... I havn't had a full night sleep since I got preggers! Anyway, Good luck with the little one and thanks for sharing.
I think I'll try to let her feed herself... we'll see how that goes.

[Firsttimefather]

@Alex F - Yeah, he has Dr M's looks, but he has my appetite - and I know which one's more important. Looks fade, after all...

@Idowu - when faced with a choice between sleepless nights and a happy child, the word 'should' becomes very flexible. Believe me, you don't know the half of what we do that we 'shouldn't'...

@Alicia - I must warn you - it's going to be messy. But TFB likes it, and he usually manages to actually eat too, rather than stuff it down the side of his chair, in his t-shirt or on the floor.