The First Time Father

Fake Plastic Toys

One of the tools that Social Workers use to determine the dysfunctionality or otherwise of family life, apparently, is the number of toys that the children in the household have to play with. I've always thought that this test was a bit pants; it's not unusual for parents to use expensive gifts as a substitute for love and care. Conversely, improvisation rules, as anyone brought up on Blue Peter and Sesame Street would tell you.

Anyway, I was tidying up the First Born's room the other day when it occurred to me that pretty much all his toys are either hand-me-downs or of the  here's-one-I-made-earlier-with-an-old-washing-up-bottle-and-a-piece-of-string calibre. I wonder if we'll have the busies from Social Services knocking on the door soon?

Let me introduce you to a few of TFB's favourite 'toys'

(1) The Toothbrush. His mother often cleans her teeth with him clamped to one hip (I'm asleep in bed, since you asked). It was, of course, only a matter or time before he decided that he would like a nice toothbrush for himself, to stick into his own mouth. So Dr M gave him mine.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he had limited himself to brushing his gums. But the day I woke up to find him industriously brushing the bathroom floor with what was going to go into my mouth minutes hence, I know that things Had To Change. So I brought him his own toothbrush.

The problem, however, is that my son is a willful, stubborn and capricious little creature (just like one of his parents, actually), and had his heart set on my toothbrush. I, on the other hand, saw this as the first in a long line of capitulations and compromises that would only end when he left home, so I refused, and took to hiding my toothbrush.

After a few skirmishes, Dr M intervened, buying me a new toothbrush and ordering me to had over the old one to the boy. Which worked well for about a week, until he lost my old toothbrush, and grew designs on...

I am now forced to clean my own teeth surreptitiously, under cover of darkness in my own house, and to hide my toothbrush doubling as a toy, from my own son. God is good.

(2) The Broom - that said, he does have a genuine interest in wielding cleaning implements around. Now, if I play my cards right and train him properly, I may yet have him seeping the house before his first birthday...

He's always been obsessed with cleaning implements, I don't know why. At first, it was the dustpan and brush. Pretty much the second he started to walk, he switched to the long handled broom. He goes to fetch it from it's hiding place (there are times when I feel that I live in a big hiding place, there are so many things we need to conceal from TFB...) and charges out waving it about and shouting at the top of his voice. Filled with the martial spirit, no doubt, as Alan Clark might have said...and talking of Alan Clark...

(3) Margaret Thatcher - not the Margaret Thatcher, you understand, but her 'Spitting Image' squeaky rubber toy. (of course, she is pretty much a child's plaything nowadays, bless her, but she'll still spit small children out for breakfast - and take their milk away from them - given half a chance).

I used to work in a left wing - i.e. Thatcher-hating - municipal office, and they had her - the toy - hanging from a noose in a corner of the room. Everyone thought it was good fun. Eventually, however, the powers that be got to here of our Regicide, and sent the order for us to cut her down. I was quite fond of the rubbery old thing, so I adopted her. And now my son chews at her bouffant hair do when he feels like. There is some justice there, although I am not sure what.

(4) The remote control - evidence that I spend too much time watching television with him. I am a Bad Parent...in self defence, it is usually just half an hour in the morning before I've woken up properly, I watch with him and talk him through the programmes, and it gives him a chance to listen to spoken English. For some reason, he loves Big Cook Little Cook. That and the Tweenies.

(5) The telephone - proof that his mother spends to much time on it. He picks it up and tucks it under his arm as if it is an important piece of work. Yesterday, for the first time, he shouted into it (have you noticed that the first born does a lot of shouting?). It's all downhill from here...

(6) A purple plastic duck - The thig is, it is not even a proper toy - it's a fancy suction cap for his bath toy bag. Anyway, he fell in love with it the first time he saw it, and went everywhere with it for a week or two. The love affair has cooled slightly, but it is in his cot even as we speak...

(7) My books and cds and dvds. He carefully removes them from the bookshelf. Then carefully drops them onto the floor. Then walks away, whilst I pick them up. If there is a God in Heaven, one day...

(8) His food - 'nuff said. Why do you think he is so familiar with the broom?

(9) Hand Clothes - He favors two, Orange and Blue in particular. He takes one in each hand, then performs a rough approximation of a Morris Dance. It seems to keep him happy, I suppose...

(10) My beard - I grew one because I wanted to cultivate a 'bohemian' look. (This is also known as an official mid life crises - I would buy the motorbike too if I could afford it). TFB, however, likes to tug on it, especially when he is half asleep and I have to bite down on my tongue to stop myself from yelling blue mirder and turning a peaceful sleeping child into a wailing dervish.

After reading through this list, I think that maybe Social Services should come and take him away.

What else is new? He walks, runs, spins himself around. He has eight teeth. He loves food, and hates sleep (which is, as you can imagine, something of a problem...) He enjoyed two wonderful weeks with his Grandmother, who came to visit for a fortnight. And he's almost one (gulp). WHere on earth has the year gone?

G'Night

I knew I was right...

...not that it matters to anyone other than me.

You may recall that I tried to coerce a pregnant Dr M to...erm...have a comfort break in a Policeman's helmet, on the grounds that it was a legal right available to all women in her condition.

Dr M being Dr M - sensible, responsible, boring - refused, claiming inter alia that I was insane to believe in the existence of such a law.

Well, the proof's here . It took a while, but I knew that I'll find it in the end.

The fact that it was voted the 6th most useless law in the United Kingdom is neither here nor there, of course.

The First Born's well, and I'll tell you a little bit more about him and his 'toys' tomorrow, after I finish my book review.

Au Revoir!

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

Two Legs Bad! Four Legs Good(ish)! (Or, why I am not a Socialist)

1 - Once upon a time, in a land not so far away from me geographically but light years away emotionally, I had a son who was incapable of locomotion, propulsion, independent movement. He would lie on his back all day, asleep or awake, except when he wanted to be fed or entertained, then we would carry him. These were halcyon days. Life was good. True, he demanded entertainment from time to time, but everything was so simple.

2 - Then my son learnt to roll over onto his stomach. Wow! we gushed. How clever, how active, how physically advanced for his age. (One might reasonably think that we were talking about a puppy dog. They may be right, but that is another matter altogether). Then he started to move. slowly at first, and on his stomach, but movement it was. Impressed, we were. The product of good genes, obviously. Starting to crawl when the instruction manual...no, sorry, the Baby Books say that he should just be learning to roll over. I would walk on the street and see other parents with their children lying helplessly on their backs, and think to myself, my son is cleverer than yours (I am sure there is a link between being able to roll over and being clever. Give me time, and I'll figure it out and let you know)

3 - Then Lo! and behold, he pushed himself up on all fours. He rocked back and forth for a day or so, as if he was trying to launch himself into space. We sat and watched in awe. He'll be walking before his first birthday, his grandmother opined. Walking before his first birthday? We whispered to ourself, unable to contain our excitement. What a wonderful son we have.

4 - Then he started to move. And it all went horribly wrong.

5 - The thing is, he crawls faster than I can walk most of the time. And he is an inquisitive little bugger too. Lethal combination. You put him on the floor, blink and Poof! he's gone. Of course he doesn't answer when you call. Fat chance. So I run round the house, dreading the moment when I find him face down in the trashcan, eating the night before last's leftovers, or in the bathroom, cheerfully glugging out of the toilet bowl. When I do track him down, He looks up at me and grins, toothy cheeky grin, almost as if to say 'I was just here, waiting for you - I would never go out of your sight.' Almost.

6 - So I am thinking of investing in a GPS tracking system to keep tabs on him. Or failing that, an old fashioned collar and bell that rings when he moves. We've also put childproof locks on all the cupboards. Which, incidentally means that I have to ask for Dr M's permission whenever I want to clean my teeth. Childproof locks my bottom.

7 - He has a curious, almost touching attachment to our telephone. Whenever he's bored, he makes a beeline for it, takes it of the hook (actually, he pushes the cradle to the floor then picks the telephone up carefully, then tries to devour it whilst pressing random buttons at the same time. Last week, he called Pizza Hut. Next week, he'll probably find a telephone pal in Ulan Bator or Calcutta.

8 - I tried to block his path to the telephone by building a maze-like arrangement with the dining chairs. It lasted three days. The first day, he tried to crawl underneath the chairs. the second day, he tried to elbow them aside. On the third day, he figured out a route around the chairs. Apparently lab rats take longer to figure out similar puzzles. So I was both proud of, and pissed off with the boy as he telephoned 911 with his tongue and new front tooth.

If this was not bad enough, he then learnt to stand. Dear Jesus...

9 - He pulls himself to an upright position, looks about him to make sure that no-one is within catching distance, then raises his hands to heaven. You an almost hear R.Kelly warbling in the background 'I believe I can fly...' Just before he topples to the ground, head first.

10 - Somehow (and no thanks to me) he has managed to avoid serious injury. He has actually learnt to lower himself, gently, to about three inches from the ground before letting himself drop onto his bottom. Then he grins. Oh, what fun!

11 - Less fun is the fact that he has learnt to climb the staircase. Which is all well and good, until he decides, round about step twelve, that he needs a break, and tries to lower his bottom into thin air.

Which leads me, in a round about way, to why I am not a Socialist.

12 - I believe in the market economy. I believe in outsourcing, globalisation, etc. I am a devotee of Milton Friedman and Frederich Hayek.

13 - In practice, this means that I do not believe in doing things if I can pay someone else cheaply enough to do it for me. I see it as my small contribution social cohesion. If I do not pay the workman to do things for me, he will be out of work, his children will go hungry, he will turn to crime etc

14 - Of course, Dr M is the exact opposite. Which can be problematic at times. Such as now

15 - After the First Born's first adventure on two feet, Dr M suggested that we put up a stairgate. I say that we need to buy one first. Dr M tells me that she bought one months ago. So I say that we need to get someone to put it up. She asks me why I can;t do it myself. I pause, rejecting lame excuses and looking for the killer argument. Eventually, I tell her that I need a drill, to attach it to the wall, and we don't own one. Dr M tells me that, in anticipation of this argument, she bought a drill at the same time.

16 - So, armed with nails, screws, drill and stairgate, I go to work. I'll draw a veil of most of the proceedings, as they features a choice selection of four letter words, and a growing realisation that, as a man and home maker, I am thoroughly incompetent. Suffice it to say that the stairgate is hanging loosely and uselessly from the wall as we speak. I know that I should go back to it (and doubtlessly, I will be forced to after she reads this), but I just cannot face it right now. My fingers are still sore.

Explanation of the title for this blog - The Two Legs Bad - Four Legs Good cry comes from george Orwell's 'Animal Farm'. I was thinking about it last week for some really odd reason connected with a pigeon nesting i my windowbox and hatching two eggs in it. There is a connection, but it'll take too long to explain now. The other bit (Why I am not a Socialist) is self explanatory. I'm much more of a Michael Douglas 'Greed is Good' kinda fellow. Of course, Orwell had a difficult relationship with Socialism too, and it just seemed to fit.

Whatever. I'm off now. See you soon

The First Born is 7 months and a bit, has three (razor sharp) teeth and is asleep. For the moment.

6 months on...

...and I'm beginning to understand that the First Born is probably smarter than his father.

His latest party trick? When he wakes up in the morning, he needs to have his nappy changed. Since I usually get up earlier than Dr M, the jobs falls to me. So I remove the sodden, wee-soaked nappy and slap on a nice new clean one.

Then five minutes later, I need to change him again because he has let loose a smelly one (and I do mean a smelly one - since we've started to incorporate solids into his diet, his poos have taken on a new depth and range of smell, texture, aesthetic appeal...).

Not a problem. I put off the change for a half hour or so after we get out of bed (soory - after he gets us out of bed), to give him enough time to do his business. Fat chance. He waits, zen-like in his patience and tranquility, then lets rip with his farts the second the clean nappy is strapped onto him. So I wait even longer. Same result.

My sister in law pointed out in his defense that I wouldn't do my business in a smelly toilet. She does have a point there. Even so...

Anyway. The boy was six months old last week. Time flies when you're having fun, no? Well, this is what I've learnt since last December

1 - The mouth is, given the right conditions, as versatile as a hand. You can pick things up, hold them, wave them around and given said things to another person if both hands are occupied.

2 - Under certain experimental conditions, so is the top of the head. It takes a bit of balancing, and is usually useful only for fabric, soft material and stuff that you don't mind breaking if you drop.

3 - All the books say that small infants love travelling in cars, and that it is a great way to put them to sleep in extremis. Unfortunately, The First Born hasn't read this chapter in his instruction manual yet

4 - At best, the age guide in children's clothing is a very rough approximation. At worst, it is worse than useless. As I write, TFB is wearing a T-shirt that proudly proclaims that it is for children of age 12-18 months. Now, he is a big lad, but even so...

5 - When buying t-shirts and anything that goes over the head, always buy the ones with poppers or buttons at the neckline so you can widen the neck. There is nothing worse than a small child howling his head off with a t-shirt stuck half on, half off his head.

6 - Children's clothing is obscenely expensive, taking into account the amount of use one gets out of it. If you intend to have another child, hang on to them.

7 - or better yet, if you have friends and family with infants a bit younger and a bit older than yours, start up a swap club and let the clothes go around

(note - this doesn't really work once the infant is old enough to crawl, walk and wear their clothes into shabby threads five seconds after purchase)

8 - Friends and family of the new born - clothes are always good presents. Gift vouchers for children's clothing stores are even better - the parent can pick precisely what they want, when they want.

9 - There are enough hours in the day. It's just a matter of how you use them. Some things have to be sacrificed, like lie ins, the cinema, channel surfing, etc

10 - We were told after the birth by at least 10 medical professionals (midwife, doctor, health visitor etc) to get ourselves sorted out contraception wise, so as to make sure that we do not have an unexpected surprise before the infant is walking and talking. What they forget is that, even if one were so minded, the combination of lack of sleep and lack of energy makes the chances of a conception extremely slim.

11 - Mind you, if you and your beloved are hardy enough (and other things besides), please do remember that the myth of breast feeding serving as an effective contraceptive device is precisely that. A myth.

12 - I understand that breastfeeding is the best way of losing the pregnancy pounds. Now all I need to do is to convince TFB that I am just as good as his mother...

13 - Once they start moving independently, you do need eyes in the back of the head. We've just come back from the park, where TFB spent a full half hour waiting for my attention to wander so he could grab handfuls of grass to shovel into his mouth. The cunning little rascal did the same yesterday at the beach. He waits patiently, smiling winningly at innocent passers-by and pretends to be the perfect child until one's attention wanders for just a second...then he's off, commando style towards the forbidden fruit.

14 - I've always been bothered by these child care experts who talk about a child 'learning' to express his needs, eat, drink, sleep and generally behave. Never quite sure why. Figured it out now. Of course the child learns. But so do the parents. They learn about their children, what they need and the sometimes very indirect ways that they choose to communicate these needs. And they learn, sometimes, just a little bit about themselves too in the process.

Ok. Time for a nap.

Bye.

There really isn't any excuse this time...

but I'll get myself sorted and rectify this disgraceful state of affairs in the next day or so. Just after I've had a nap...

Daddy DayCare

The good thing about living in a country where I do not speak the language is that I can't seek gainful employment, even if I wanted to (which I don't, but that's another matter altogether).

The bad thing about it is that someone in the household has to go to the coalface. We cannot live on thin air. So, for us, this means that the good Dr M is back at work (albeit part time), three months after the arrival of the first born.

This isn't a bad thing in itself. Unreconstructed neanderthal chauvinist that I am, I am quite comfortable allowing the wife to go to work whilst I laze at home. The problem is that I don't laze at home. I look after the First Born instead. Alone. Scary, no?

But it can't be avoided. She works, so that we may eat etc.

I have looked after him alone before now, but only for short periods of time. Previously, the main logistical difficulty is that Dr M breastfeeds, which I cannot quite do (no sniggers at the back. No fault of mine that I have manboobs. And that's another thing: why doesn't anyone talk about how difficult it is for men to shake the post-pregnancy pounds? Bloody conspiracy, if you ask me.) But now, courtesy of a contraption that would do Torquemada proud, she is able to express milk for later use.

Anyway, our first date was a week ago. I think I am sufficiently recovered now to talk about it. This is how it went:

9.30 - Dr M has checked us both one last time. We are both dressed, fed and not playing with matches. We shoo her out of the door, and settle down in front of the television to watch the news. He is quiet. Is this what she had to do every day? This parenting lark is easy.

9.45 - The First Born demands entertainment. I change channels, and find a replay of the previous night's derby between Real Madrid and Barcelona. We both watch intently, gesticulate rudely at the screen, shout, dribble down our chins. I wonder what country he'll play for? He has four to pick from. That said, if he plays cricket, that narrows the choice down slightly. No-one in their right mind would want to play cricket for England.

10.00 - He tires of the football. I place him gently in his cot, cover him up to his armpits, as I have seen his mother do. He looks content. I amuse myself by reading the newspaper. There really isn't anything to this. I could become a professional stay-at-home dad...

10.02 - He isn't amused, however. H kicks off the covers, and starts on the cot railings. Reluctantly, I put down the newspaper and play with him. After a while, his attention is caught by a fascinating piece of fluff, and he ignores me. Gratefully, I slink back to the newspaper.

10.30 - The First Born has fallen asleep. I resist the urge to stretch out in front of the television and read the newspapers at the same time, and go to do the washing up. I promise myself that I will loaf for at least half an hour, or until TFB wakes up after I have done the dishes.

11.00 - Wash the last plate. Stretch, yawn, settle on sofa. Pick up newspaper. I hear a cry from the bedroom. F@%!

11.01 - It wasn't a cry. It was a scream. TFB has woken himself up, hungry. I congratulate myself. I have already taken a bag of Dr M's good stuff out of the the fridge, and I have boiled the kettle to warm it. I put the bag of milk in a cup of warm water. Trick TFB by snuggling him up to my manboobs and sticking his dummy in his mouth.

11.10 - Try to put bag of milk in bottle. It won't fit. WTF??? This worked a dozen times in practice! Why won't it work??? Screaming starts again. I am sure he can see the panic in my eyes. I almost knock over bag of milk.

11.20 - I finally succeed. Silence. I stop screaming. TFB looks warily at me, a new respect in his eyes.

11.45 - He finally stops feeding and lets rip a belch that I would be proud of. A true son of his father. I place him in crib. He smiles up at me beatifically, the little fraud. I wonder whether it is too early for a drink. Or two.

12.05 - TFB is bored again. We have a funny sounds competition. I declare myself winner, with a perfectly synchronised raspberry and fart serenade. TFB looks suitably impressed.

12.10 - Monologue by self. Doubt, fear, the wish to shirk responsibility by doing a runner. How on earth do parents cope? The First Born sits and listens in solemn silence.

12.30 - I put him in his sling, and potter about the house. He falls asleep. Praise be!

12.50 - I pluck up enough courage to take him ut of sling and put him in bed. Almost wake him up. I feel slightly giddy with fear, then recover - so what if he wakes up? I've sort of managed so far...

13.20 - I finish my newspaper, including the SuDoku challenge. He is still asleep. I do sit ups and press ups. Clearly, I have taken leave of my senses...

13.40 - Hollering from the bedroom. He is awake, and clearly hungry. I feed him again. Things go better this time.

13.50 - Mother-in-Law telephones to make sure I haven't exchanged her grandchild for a ham and mustard sandwich. Sensible move, that. I have been tempted...

14.00 - We are having fun. He actually smiles at me, unbidden. The tiredness melts away. Perhaps I am not so much a failure at this after all.

14.30 - Dr M telephones. Her day went well, and she hopes to leave work soon.

14.50 - He has fallen asleep! By himself!! I slump in front of the television, exhausted. I suddenly appreciate the charm of daytime television - after a day like that, anything would be intellectually stimulating, up to and including the commercials.

15.00 - Dr M calls. She is on her way home.

So that was it. I didn't burn the house down, sell my child into slavery or become King Herod (pathological distrust of the first born etc. It's all in the New Testament)

So I guess we have a date, the First Born and I; same time, same place, next week.

Maybe I'll even tell you about it.

The First Born is three months old. And I am going to bed.

G'night

I'm here! (Or There. Or Somewhere, anyway)

So where have we been, The First Born, Dr M and I?

Well, I've been lazy. But that's only half the story. The other half works better as an excuse, and also has the distinct advantage of being true.

We've been moving house. Which, in itself, might excuse a temporary hiatus, but certianly not as long as four weeks. Except if one moves country at the same time, which is precisely what we have just done.

It is not at all strange for people to move flat, or house, or town or city when they have an addition to the family, for all sorts of reasons. Bigger house. Bigger garden. Fresh air. Better schools. Move closer to family. Move further away from family.

In our case, we've moved closer to Dr M's family. The fact tht this is further away from my family is, of course, unconnected. In fact, the move was not prompted by The First Born's arrival. It had been on the cards for some time, and actually was delayed for a bit when M became pregnant.

Anyway, in practical terms, this meant that I was apart from the other two for a fortnight after they left, tending to bits and pieces in London, like clearing up the flat, fleeing from various creditors (and conversely, pursuing various debtors), and so on and so forth.

It was strange, being able to do fairly much as I pleased after they left. No need to wake up when he demands that we wake up, sleep when we have the chance to, no call to constantly operate with eyes in the back of my head and a spare pair of hands at all times (which makes me sound like a mutant.)

But I missed him. Terribly. I missed the fact that he had just finally started to smile and laugh at me, rather than at the ceiling, the spot about four inches above and to the right of my head, the postman, or indeed anyone else other than me.

I missed the fact that he had began to babble, loudly, verbosely, indiscriminately.

I actually missed trying to keep him entertained at four in the morning when I would rather be doing other things, like sleeping (fear not, this only happened once. Dr M does the night shift, because she has to feed him. I tend to do the early morning shift, because I am half capable of hauling myself out of bed before noon.)

I was also a tad apprehensive; suppose he didn't remember me when we met up again? Paranoid, I know, but think about it.

Einstein tried to describe his theory of relativity in layman's terms once by comparing the experience of chatting with a beautiful woman to placing one's hand on a hot stove. The former, he suggested, could last for an hour but seem like a minute; the later may not last longer than a minute, but still feel like an hour.

Einstein was a very clever man, and I am sure he was correct (I personally had limited experience of talking to pretty girls, women or anything of the female persuasion before I met Dr M; hot stoves, however, I have painful experience of, thanks to my older sister and a childhood argument). Anyway, my fear was that two weeks, in relative terms, was an awfully long time for TFB. One quarter of his life, to be precise.

In the event, my fears were foundless. They met me at the airport, and within minutes I had almost poked his eye out and he had puked all over me. Business as usual.

I remember reading somewhere once that the onset of incipient neurotic behaviour in small children can be, at least in part, attributed to undue pressure placed upon them, directly or otherwise, by their parents or their parents behaviour. The technical term, I think, is projection. Time to try and reign in my groundless fears, no?

Anyway, all this is neither here nor there. TFB continues to sprout in all directions, although particularly around the cheeks and jowls. When he sits in his little bouncing chair and waves, he looks like a particularly despotic monarch accepting, gracelessly, the adulation of his grateful populace.

Of course, he does have two adoring subjects.

Digression:

Yesterday, the cable guy came round to hook us up (my excuse is that it is the only way I'll get to watch any English language TV ever again. That and MTV.) (That said, why would I want to watch English TV ever again? Big Brother and Dr...no, sorry, Ms Gillian McKie's semi-coprophilial obsessions? And BBC News? [Domestic news, that is, not international. The international output is first rate. The s*** they put on domestically, however...] Essentially, we have cable just for MTV. And the sports channels. The Cricket World Cup starts next week.)

After he left, Dr M popped to the shops, and I plonked myself in front of the screen to sort out the channels. The First Born sat beside me in his throne. After a minute, I had to get up to put on the kettle. Then sort out the laundry. Then do a thousand other things that I had tried to avoid doing.

After about five minutes, I realised the I hadn't heard a peep out of him. So I peer round the corner from the kitchen, expecting to see that he had nodded off.

No. He was glued to the screen, his mouth agape, dribble forming a pool at his feet. Not at all dissimilar to me, actually.

It's probably the first time in my life that I've turned off the television without being told to do so.

I'm not at all a snob about television, but it can't be a good thing for a three month old to fall under its mendacious spell, can it?

Mind you, it is tempting. Free babysitting...

The First Born is 12 weeks old

Food, glorious food

When the first born is hungry, his eyes glaze over, his tongue pops out of his mouth and he begins to smack his lips and make strange sucking sounds. This doesn’t last for very long; after a minute or so, he starts to shout and wave his hands and legs about, demanding immediate attention.

Just like his father.

He does like his food, though. He eats in the morning and he eats in the evening. If he had the physical capacity, I think that he would eat around the clock. In the middle of the night, hunger rouses him from the deepest of sleep. He starts to suck the air in his sleep, growling and flailing his arms about. For a moment or two, one can actually watch an engrossing battle between two seemingly implacable forces: sleep and hunger. Of course hunger wins. He rouses himself, and the rest of the house, then clamps himself, limpet like, to Dr M’s breast until he is satisfied.

Random observation: I rather think this breast feeding wheeze was thought up by some indolent man, eager to avoid night time feed duty*. Not that I am complaining; as observed a couple of posts ago, I remain happily unaware of his nocturnal activities (and long may that last!)

Actually, that is not, strictly speaking, true. A couple of nights ago, he woke up at four in the morning and was determined to play. Usually, I can escape responsibility for any of his actions because he cries briefly, clamps himself to the source of all goodness, and sucks himself into a stupor.

This time, he cried for much longer than usual. Eventually, I roused myself, knowing that only the deaf or a liar could feign sleep in such conditions. Slipping smoothly into ‘new-dad’ role, I offered, insincerely, to take control for a little while.

Dr M accepted. This was not part of the script.

The first born likes his reflection (vanity – again, just like his father. At least, he has something to be vain about…). So I propped myself up in front of the bedroom mirror and allowed him to amuse myself, whilst I idly wondered whether it was possible to sleep standing up (the answer, incidentally, is yes. But please do not try this at home, particularly if you are in charge of a small child – your child will not thank you for this).

Usually, however, I am only vaguely aware of the night time goings-on, which suits me fine.

It is remarkably difficult to leave them all day most days to go to work (or, in the interests of accuracy, I should say go to pretend to work), and I would cheerfully swap the drudgery of the office for all the sleepless nights he could possibly give me.

But I ramble. What does he first born actually do?

He eats. Copiously. Repeatedly.

He sleeps. Not quite in the quantities that one may wish, but…

He farts. The boy could fart for all Africa. You can always tell when he is about to let rip, because he goes red in the face and begins to wriggle his little bottom before…this is particularly fun when he lets loose a corker on a visitor’s lap. The look of shock/surprise/awe is always one to treasure.

He smiles. The most beautiful, engaging, heart-melting toothless smile that one could ever hope to see.

He dances. Honestly. The other night, I found out that he likes ‘Silent Morning’ by Noel (an old electro hit from the late 80s). We rocked to it together for half an hour. The down side to this serendipitous discovery was that he then refused to go to sleep until 1 in the morning. Memo to self: no loud music and dancing late at night. That comes later…

(He dances better than his father, incidentally. He hasn’t quite managed the hand foot co-ordination business yet, but that’s only to be expected. He is only five weeks old, after all. Me, on the other hand…)

He can say the word ‘Daddy’

Ok, the last one isn’t true. And, in any case, what are the odds on his first word being ‘Daddy’? But one can dream…

Dr M took him to Baby Clinic to be weighed last week, and we finally got to find out where all the milk has been going. He is a big baby. A very big baby, actually. I forget the exact numbers but he is longer and heavier than most babies of his age. I feel very proud.

I like playing the part of the proud parent. Before the first born came along, I could never quite understand how new mums and dad could talk about their offspring ad infinitum (or ad nauseum, if small children are not your thing). Now I can bore with the best of them. I have actually caught eyes glazing over a couple of times, whilst I regale my captive audience with tales about bowel movements and night time feeds and the like. Of course I ignored them.

Obligatory poncy, (allegedly) highbrow digression: The political theorist Hannah Arendt liked the idea of birth and new beginnings. ‘Birth (she wrote) means the arrival of a new being that would, or could, say or do things no one had said or done before. The appearance of such a being might move others to speak and act in new ways as well’ (Italics mine).

If I can laugh at my son’s farts, then I haven’t been moved to act in a new way myself. Not yet, anyway. There’s hope for all of us yet.

The first born is six weeks old.

*This is a joke, obviously. Breast is best. Particularly if you lack access to potable water or adequate sanitation. And if you eat healthily and look after yourself. And only up until a point. It isn’t healthy to breastfeed a ten year old, whatever you may think. But that is a matter for another time and another place…

Life after Birth - The first fortnight

I haven’t updated my blog for about…oohh, two weeks. How remiss of me. Can’t imagine why I’ve been so slack.

Oh. I remember. I have a two-week-old son. That might have something to do with it.

In truth, the arrival of the First-Born has very little to do with it. I’ve been floating on a cloud of euphoria for much of the last fortnight. I can sit and hold him, or lie beside him in bed and watch him, all day, easily. The outside world and the distractions that it offers are, fairly much, irrelevant.

It has been a remarkably steep learning curve, the last fortnight. Everything from when Dr M went into labour late in the evening of 14.12 up until now. And it continues. And will continue for the foreseeable future. It is fun. It is demanding. It is changing my life in ways that I wont realise for quite some time yet.

A few highlights from the last couple of weeks:

• The most appropriate treatment for the incorrigible chauvinist would be for him to watch a woman, preferably his wife or partner, go through the agonies of labour and childbirth. If he is still able to consider women as the weaker sex after this, then he should be tied to a lamppost and shot; clearly, he is not fit for anything else.

• I will talk about my experience of labour another time. Suffice it to say that I have never felt so absolutely, totally, completely useless in my life. I set the bar for uselessness pretty high, so this is something of an achievement. It’s not entirely a bad thing, though. I’ll talk about that another time.

• Remember that I said that I have a blood phobia? Well, it’s gone. Gone forever. Dr M lost a bit of blood during the birth (I think she did this just to spite me, but there you go); not enough to place her in any danger, but enough for her to be taken into hospital for the night, as a precaution. Which meant that after the excitement and exhilaration and the pure, unrefined joy of the arrival, I had to go back home and clean up the bedroom. Boy, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

• He’s a big lad. A very big lad. This has its advantages. He is easy to carry, and not at all fragile. I spent most of the morning after walking up and down the ward in the hospital, cradling him in my arms as M rested, glaring at other fathers as they did the same (‘My son’s bigger than your son, nyeh nyeh nyeh-nyeh, nyeh’).

• God, I am childish. And competitive. The worst possible combination.

• Everyone asks whether we were able to sleep well. My stock answer was yes, surprisingly well. He only wakes up twice a night and settles down immediately afterwards.

• This was my stock answer until Dr M took me aside and informed me that I only wake up twice a night. The first born, on the other hand, woke up quite a few more times. After this conversation, I stopped answering the question.

• On our first night home, Mother and Child went to bed early. I cracked open a bottle of Wine, put Coltrane on the stereo and settled down to read a book. I felt good with myself. This parenting lark wasn’t so difficult after all. Then he started crying…

• Changing a bigger baby is somewhat easier than changing a small baby. They are not so fragile, for one thing.

• Even so, the first time I changed his nappy, I managed to put it on back to front. Not my fault, though. The things (nappies, that is) don’t come with an instruction manual. (Not that I would have read it in any case, but it’s the principle that matters.)

• Talking about changing nappies, Wet Wipes are proof that God exists and that He loves us.

• I had forgotten quite how much I hated the smell of sour milk

• But, when your child pukes it up, you forget again very quickly. In fact, you forget to change your clothes when he throws up all over you. So, if I smell a little…ripe in the near future, you know exactly why.

• We have formed a close, dependent relationship with our washing machine and dryer. I really don’t think we could survive without them.

• Our son is gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. I know that every parent says this, but really…

• Everyone says that he looks like me. I don’t quite see this (see above; I do not usually fit in the same sentence as the word ‘gorgeous’), but I won’t argue.

• Someone said that he has his mother’s eyebrows. She pointed out that that would mean that they visit the same beautician.

• I quite like paternity leave. I don’t miss work (surprise, surprise!). Or Television. Or the Xmas sales. For the first time in living memory, I do not know what the Xmas number one was. And I don’t care.

• Everyone says that I’ll miss the time and luxury of leisurely reading the Sunday Papers. Well, as it happens, I did get round to reading them. And I realised that I couldn’t give a monkey’s about anything in them. Miss them, I won’t.

• We’ve kept things relatively low key. Seen very few people.

• As of this morning, Dr M and the First Born are yet to leave the flat. Don’t blame them. The weather was awful until a couple of days ago.

• Which makes me the de facto Foreign Minister for the household. I go out, I negotiate with shopkeepers and officialdom whilst the Mother and Child rest in our little enclave.

• Or, one could describe me as the archetypal hunter-gatherer, seeking and acquiring on behalf of the new family.

• I’m not sure which I prefer, Foreign Minister or Hunter-Gatherer Alpha Male type. I’m clearly not of Alpha-Male stock, so I feel a bit of a fraud, masquerading as such. Never mind

• Did I say that his is gorgeous? Adorable?

• It was difficult settling on a name. How does one name perfection? Clearly, however, we could not continue with Lieutenantjohnmcclane. Too much of a mouthful. So, after debate, arm-twisting and blackmail, we settled on…The First Born. Or TFB for short.

• Talking about names, I discovered that midwives propagate the most horrendous perfidy; the ultimate blackmail tool for mothers to use against fathers if they can’t agree on a name. As it happens, Dr M didn’t use this on me; but I still think it is my duty to alert all prospective fathers to this treachery.
• But not today.

• My mother and my mother-in-law have both been, in their individual ways, wonderful. I cannot thank either of them enough.

I’m going to go now. The First Born is stirring, and he probably needs a nappy change.

I don’t usually dedicate my ramblings – it’s just a blog after all, let’s not get ideas above our station? – but I will with this one, to three people.

To my friend AB, who, from the perspective of the father of a two year old, thinks that I will no longer have the time or energy to keep this up. I intend to prove you wrong, friend.

To the late Cyril Connelly, who memorably opined once that ‘there is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.’ What a horrid thing to say. I feel duty bound to spend the rest of my life trying to disprove this.

And to our son, The First Born. Welcome to the world.