Monday 24 December 2007
Happy Christmas
A couple of Christmas thoughts: Was Mary, mother of God disappointed that she didn't get to follow her birthplan? And wasn't Joseph told at NCT class that one of his responsibilities was to make sure Mary had peace and quiet after the birth? Peace and quiet? The place was crawling with shepherds and wise men. Once again, Old Saint Joe personifies the Not Too Bad a Dad mantra perfectly: fail again, fail better. happy Christmas, all! x
Tuesday 20 November 2007
Vote for the Daddy Party
Caught David Cameron on TV doing his Family Man routine, claiming to change nappies. He looks good on it. Not a hair out of place, barely a shadow beneath the eyes. I compared his shiny face on the TV screen to my own in the mirror this morning: eyes like dog’s balls, complexion of a deep-fried adolescent, hair like Bob Geldof nailed to a Van de Graff Generator.
Maybe I’m not so much Not Too Bad a Dad as just a plain, old-fashioned Bad Dad.
Either that, or ol' Dave is being economical with the truth regarding his hands-on daddy role?
Heaven forefend.
A thought: if he and Gordon Brown both really are the feeding, nursing, pramming, playing, up-to-the-elbows-in jobbies-and-sick, 50-50-with-mum kind of dads that they claim to be, then don’t vote for either of them. The sleep deprivation involved this kind of parent sharing renders both of them incapable of running their bladder off into a swimming pool, never mind running the country.
Maybe I’m not so much Not Too Bad a Dad as just a plain, old-fashioned Bad Dad.
Either that, or ol' Dave is being economical with the truth regarding his hands-on daddy role?
Heaven forefend.
A thought: if he and Gordon Brown both really are the feeding, nursing, pramming, playing, up-to-the-elbows-in jobbies-and-sick, 50-50-with-mum kind of dads that they claim to be, then don’t vote for either of them. The sleep deprivation involved this kind of parent sharing renders both of them incapable of running their bladder off into a swimming pool, never mind running the country.
Monday 19 November 2007
Diary: Neurotic? Me?
(Diary entry 26th June) Now I consider myself to be a pretty neurotic kinda guy. On my big days, I have been known to make Woody Allen in Annie Hall look like Owen Wilson in Starsky and Hutch. I thought I was at least the most neurotic person in our house. That was until tonight.
I’d noticed that my wife had “looked in” on the sleeping Isobella a little more often than usual.
“Are you checking,” I asked,”to see if her feet are getting any smaller?”
“No,” she replied. ”I was…”
The pause was thunderously Pinteresque.
“You were what?”
“Nothing…”
“What? Tell me.”
“Nothing…”
We ping-ponged this back and forth for a short-ish rally until Karen became more confessional:
“I was… well, do you do this? You probably do. It’s not just me, is it?”
“Do I do what?” I was intrigued.
“Do you go in to check that she’s still breathing?”
To be honest, even to me, the King of the Neurotics (a crown that I fret about losing on an hourly basis) that seemed a little excessive. Through a snort of derisory laughter I said, “No! Of course I don’t!”
But the thing is: I will now. Seventeen, forty-one, a-hundred-and-twelve times a night I will, from this moment forward. Now that the notion has been presented to me, I can think of little else.
Nice one, Karen. Thanks a lot.
I’d noticed that my wife had “looked in” on the sleeping Isobella a little more often than usual.
“Are you checking,” I asked,”to see if her feet are getting any smaller?”
“No,” she replied. ”I was…”
The pause was thunderously Pinteresque.
“You were what?”
“Nothing…”
“What? Tell me.”
“Nothing…”
We ping-ponged this back and forth for a short-ish rally until Karen became more confessional:
“I was… well, do you do this? You probably do. It’s not just me, is it?”
“Do I do what?” I was intrigued.
“Do you go in to check that she’s still breathing?”
To be honest, even to me, the King of the Neurotics (a crown that I fret about losing on an hourly basis) that seemed a little excessive. Through a snort of derisory laughter I said, “No! Of course I don’t!”
But the thing is: I will now. Seventeen, forty-one, a-hundred-and-twelve times a night I will, from this moment forward. Now that the notion has been presented to me, I can think of little else.
Nice one, Karen. Thanks a lot.
Wednesday 14 November 2007
Diary: It's a Man's World
(Diary entry 20th June) Out and about with the baby in the sling for the very first time. Popped into the local garage to buy a bottle of water. With Isobella sleeping peacefully in the sling, I approached the counter only to be met with a sneer from the guy at the till. Nodding in the vague direction of the slumbering parcel on my chest, he snarled: “Where’s its mother?”
Carrying a baby in a sling is no job for a man, it would seem, in the opinion of Petrol Station Guy.
I would have asked him when selling fags and Milky Ways had suddenly become the apex of masculinity, only he had that look about him that suggested he was comfortable with violence. Plus, with the baby slowing me down I’d have never outrun him.
Carrying a baby in a sling is no job for a man, it would seem, in the opinion of Petrol Station Guy.
I would have asked him when selling fags and Milky Ways had suddenly become the apex of masculinity, only he had that look about him that suggested he was comfortable with violence. Plus, with the baby slowing me down I’d have never outrun him.
Friday 9 November 2007
Pass the Sick Bag No.2
Noticed today that my wife, Karen, and I now address each other as “Mummy” and “Daddy” even on the telephone.
If my 21-year-old self could see me now, he'd set about me with a cricket bat. And you know what? He'd have my full blessing.
If my 21-year-old self could see me now, he'd set about me with a cricket bat. And you know what? He'd have my full blessing.
Wednesday 7 November 2007
Travels With My Pram
The worst vice, as the old cliché goes, is advice. And most of what I heard during the nine months of Karen’s pregnancy was worse than useless. At the bottom of a very deep and dingy barrel I encountered an occasional colleague who, upon finding out our baby was to be female, imparted the following pearl: “A GIRL? Nah, you don’t want A GIRL, mate, too much trouble in later life they are. ‘Ave a boy, much better.”
Among the few nuggets of sensible advice was this from Steve, the ever-friendly and cheery husband of Janine and father of twin boys who, like me, is sharing the child-rearing chores:
“Whenever I felt like screaming because they were screaming, I just put ‘em in the pram and walked and walked and walked.”
Sound advice, as it turns out, providing both stimulation and fresh air to help baby sleep, and buzzy endorphins for the frazzled parent. I have taken to it so well that Karen now calls me Prambo.
As a result of my long rambles, I have covered parts of London hitherto unknown to me. Enclaves such as Herne Hill in south London, a kind of neither-Dulwich-nor-Brixton netherworld that should work but doesn’t. In an ideal world it could be as posh as Dulwich with the vibrancy of Brixton. Unfortunately, it comes out as posh as Brixton with all the vibrancy of Dulwich.
What blows away the pervading flavour of south London anonymity, however, are the shops. Particularly the shops on Half Moon Lane, where almost every one is concerned with children. Books for kids, clothes for kids, toys for kids, travel systems (that’s prams to you and me), you name it. The final shop in the parade is an estate agent and, as it hoved into view, I was almost surprised to find real properties in the window and not a selection of Wendy Houses with conservatories and off-road parking for pedal cars.
Nearby is a shop called Starburst, which does natty pop-art-ish tops and baby grows. We already have the blue Elvis and the pink Audrey Hepburn numbers, bought in the first flush of the let’s-treat-baby-like-Barbie stage. This stage passed for me when I turned my back for two seconds only to look back and find that Isobella had spewed up all over the face of the King of Rock’n’Roll. Gentle reader, in that moment I began to doubt her paternity, I really did.
Hanging on the rack was an all in one in devil’s red emblazoned with the legend “Drama Queen” in gothic lettering. I laughed out loud and reached for it, when an image flashed through my mind: it was four o’clock in the morning on what F. Scott Fitzgerald once described as a dark night of the soul. Little Macbeth - as played by my daughter Isobella – had murdered sleep. Her air raid siren scream of tired/wet/hungry/windy all-at-once was ripping the arsehole out of the sacred night. Would a devil’s red all-in-one with the words Drama Queen be quite so funny in this context, I wondered.
I put the garment back, made my excuses and left.
Among the few nuggets of sensible advice was this from Steve, the ever-friendly and cheery husband of Janine and father of twin boys who, like me, is sharing the child-rearing chores:
“Whenever I felt like screaming because they were screaming, I just put ‘em in the pram and walked and walked and walked.”
Sound advice, as it turns out, providing both stimulation and fresh air to help baby sleep, and buzzy endorphins for the frazzled parent. I have taken to it so well that Karen now calls me Prambo.
As a result of my long rambles, I have covered parts of London hitherto unknown to me. Enclaves such as Herne Hill in south London, a kind of neither-Dulwich-nor-Brixton netherworld that should work but doesn’t. In an ideal world it could be as posh as Dulwich with the vibrancy of Brixton. Unfortunately, it comes out as posh as Brixton with all the vibrancy of Dulwich.
What blows away the pervading flavour of south London anonymity, however, are the shops. Particularly the shops on Half Moon Lane, where almost every one is concerned with children. Books for kids, clothes for kids, toys for kids, travel systems (that’s prams to you and me), you name it. The final shop in the parade is an estate agent and, as it hoved into view, I was almost surprised to find real properties in the window and not a selection of Wendy Houses with conservatories and off-road parking for pedal cars.
Nearby is a shop called Starburst, which does natty pop-art-ish tops and baby grows. We already have the blue Elvis and the pink Audrey Hepburn numbers, bought in the first flush of the let’s-treat-baby-like-Barbie stage. This stage passed for me when I turned my back for two seconds only to look back and find that Isobella had spewed up all over the face of the King of Rock’n’Roll. Gentle reader, in that moment I began to doubt her paternity, I really did.
Hanging on the rack was an all in one in devil’s red emblazoned with the legend “Drama Queen” in gothic lettering. I laughed out loud and reached for it, when an image flashed through my mind: it was four o’clock in the morning on what F. Scott Fitzgerald once described as a dark night of the soul. Little Macbeth - as played by my daughter Isobella – had murdered sleep. Her air raid siren scream of tired/wet/hungry/windy all-at-once was ripping the arsehole out of the sacred night. Would a devil’s red all-in-one with the words Drama Queen be quite so funny in this context, I wondered.
I put the garment back, made my excuses and left.
Friday 2 November 2007
Don't Say…
Redundant Things to Say to a New Father – No.1 in an occasional series
Don’t say “Did you read that article in the paper the other day?” I won’t have.
When I last had time to read a paper, the front page carried a picture of Neville Chamberlain waving a piece of paper in the air and the headline was “Peace in Our Time”.
Don’t say “Did you read that article in the paper the other day?” I won’t have.
When I last had time to read a paper, the front page carried a picture of Neville Chamberlain waving a piece of paper in the air and the headline was “Peace in Our Time”.
Tuesday 30 October 2007
The Centre of the Universe
Godfather Pete arrives. He informs us that, until around the nine month mark, babies believe that everything that they see – from daddy to a bus to the moon in the sky – is a part of them. That they are, in short, the whole universe and the universe is them.
This fascinating fact immediately clarifies two things:
1. It explains Isobella’s Take Take Take attitude over this past four months. Four months in which she has yet to wash a dish, do a little grocery shopping or even offer to put the hoover round. And;
2. People are divided into two distinct subsections: Those who, after nine months, accept that they were wrong and are not, after all, the centre of the universe, and get on with being a small part of the universe, rubbing along nicely with all the other little parts of the universe. And those who, upon hearing the LIE that they are NOT the centre of the universe spend the rest of their days trying to right that terrible wrong, drawing attention to themselves and generally being an egomaniacal, sociopathic mess. Which category do I fall into? Well, I’m writing a blog, aren’t I? And like all bloggers, I am a high-ranking officer in the latter camp.
This fascinating fact immediately clarifies two things:
1. It explains Isobella’s Take Take Take attitude over this past four months. Four months in which she has yet to wash a dish, do a little grocery shopping or even offer to put the hoover round. And;
2. People are divided into two distinct subsections: Those who, after nine months, accept that they were wrong and are not, after all, the centre of the universe, and get on with being a small part of the universe, rubbing along nicely with all the other little parts of the universe. And those who, upon hearing the LIE that they are NOT the centre of the universe spend the rest of their days trying to right that terrible wrong, drawing attention to themselves and generally being an egomaniacal, sociopathic mess. Which category do I fall into? Well, I’m writing a blog, aren’t I? And like all bloggers, I am a high-ranking officer in the latter camp.
Sunday 28 October 2007
Pass the Sick Bag
Cutesy Pie Stunts That You Once Thought Were Infuriatingly Naff But That You Will Indulge in Unashamedly After the Birth of Your Child
1. Mother’s/Father’s Day/birthday/Christmas/etc. cards written on behalf of a child whose vocabulary consists solely of the word “Ak”. (See earlier post.)
2. Writing letters/emails on behalf of your child starting with the line, “My daddy is typing this so please forgive his spelling…”
3. Captioning photographs of your child and sending them to friends/relatives. You will laugh your own socks off at your wit. But in truth, the captions will be no funnier than the old “You Don’t Have to be Mad to Work Here… But it Helps!!” posters.
4. You will make your friends pose for pics with baby, forgetting completely how much you once hated being handed such parcels of jobbies and sick and how the forced smile gave you a pain behind the eyes.
5. You will purchase scandalously over-priced hats adorned with cute animal ears for your child to wear. For this last, you should be truly ashamed of yourself. And somewhere I AM ashamed of myself. But not ashamed enough to stop buying, and making her wear, the hat.
6. You will make a DVD-slide show of pictures of all your friends visiting the infant. You will chose Paul McCartney’s Let ‘Em In (that’s the one that goes “Someone’s knockin’ at the door/Someone’s ringing the bell”) as the soundtrack. Somewhere in the sleep-deprived recesses of your rational mind you know that this is neither funny nor cute. But like a brainwashed patsy from some bad sci-fi flick, you will be unable to stop.
The worst thing of all is that you will have lost the ability to spot this because your child is involved and your child is the greatest event the world has ever known, more important even than reversing climate change. You will do well to remember this when you are bemoaning the fact that nobody visits you anymore.
1. Mother’s/Father’s Day/birthday/Christmas/etc. cards written on behalf of a child whose vocabulary consists solely of the word “Ak”. (See earlier post.)
2. Writing letters/emails on behalf of your child starting with the line, “My daddy is typing this so please forgive his spelling…”
3. Captioning photographs of your child and sending them to friends/relatives. You will laugh your own socks off at your wit. But in truth, the captions will be no funnier than the old “You Don’t Have to be Mad to Work Here… But it Helps!!” posters.
4. You will make your friends pose for pics with baby, forgetting completely how much you once hated being handed such parcels of jobbies and sick and how the forced smile gave you a pain behind the eyes.
5. You will purchase scandalously over-priced hats adorned with cute animal ears for your child to wear. For this last, you should be truly ashamed of yourself. And somewhere I AM ashamed of myself. But not ashamed enough to stop buying, and making her wear, the hat.
6. You will make a DVD-slide show of pictures of all your friends visiting the infant. You will chose Paul McCartney’s Let ‘Em In (that’s the one that goes “Someone’s knockin’ at the door/Someone’s ringing the bell”) as the soundtrack. Somewhere in the sleep-deprived recesses of your rational mind you know that this is neither funny nor cute. But like a brainwashed patsy from some bad sci-fi flick, you will be unable to stop.
The worst thing of all is that you will have lost the ability to spot this because your child is involved and your child is the greatest event the world has ever known, more important even than reversing climate change. You will do well to remember this when you are bemoaning the fact that nobody visits you anymore.
Friday 26 October 2007
Diary: Fathers' Day
(Diary 17th June) Yesterday morning, Karen went out and left me alone with Isobella for the first time. Exhilarating and terrifying experience. Felt short-changed that there was not more praise upon her return. After all, Isobella had been neither injured nor lost during the whole, complete and entire 17 minute (nearly 20, in fact) period during which she was in my sole care. I am obviously cut out for this fatherhood malarky.
This morning, the reason for Karen’s trip to the outside world was revealed. She was buying my Father’s Day present from Isobella. And the perfect farty old dude gift it was, too: the Travelling Wilburys triple CD box set. Ten days ago I would have blanched at both such a Jeremy Clarkson-ish gift and such a cutesy-pie stunt. Today I am overwhelmed with joy.
This morning, the reason for Karen’s trip to the outside world was revealed. She was buying my Father’s Day present from Isobella. And the perfect farty old dude gift it was, too: the Travelling Wilburys triple CD box set. Ten days ago I would have blanched at both such a Jeremy Clarkson-ish gift and such a cutesy-pie stunt. Today I am overwhelmed with joy.
Wednesday 24 October 2007
Jesus, Mary and Whatsisface?
Thumbing the New Testament for words of wisdom from Christ’s earthly father on parenthood, I find that poor ol’ Joe has not one single line to his name. On reflection, what was he going to say anyway? With all the relatives squeezed into his family home in Nazareth gazing at the new arrival, the lack of paternal likeness must have been something of an elephant in the room. “Oooh!” did they coo, “he’s certainly got his Father’s omnipotent streak.”
Tuesday 23 October 2007
Diary: It's Competition Time
(Diary entry 14th June) A visit from nearby neighbours, one child, another on the way, in full-blown competitive mode. Isobella, it would seem by their reckoning, at six days old, is way, WAY behind their own daughter at that stage. Sharp intakes of breath through teeth and raised eyebrows as they brighten with each revelation.
“Not sleeping through the night yet? Our little Georgie slept from the moment she got home!”
“She sleeps in the same room as you? No, no, no, you need to show her who’s boss from the word go. Our little Georgie is very obedient!”
“She’s very small. We didn’t breastfeed little Georgie and she thrived, simply thrived!”
Karen remains serene, a satirical smirk dancing the edges of her mouth. I, however, rise to the bait.
“Well Isobella just finished reading À la recherche du temps perdu in the original French. And you know what? She didn’t rate it.”
Did I really say this? No, of course not. But what’s the point of a blog if you can’t make yourself Stephen Fryishly wise after the event?
They leave us a copy of The Contended Little Baby and I reflect that it is the first book recommendation they have ever given us. Feel like suggesting that all the parenting advice they’ll ever need is in the first line of Anna Karenina: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Germane, I feel, as I reflect that I’ve never seen the prodigy Little Georgie smile even once in two years of life.
“Not sleeping through the night yet? Our little Georgie slept from the moment she got home!”
“She sleeps in the same room as you? No, no, no, you need to show her who’s boss from the word go. Our little Georgie is very obedient!”
“She’s very small. We didn’t breastfeed little Georgie and she thrived, simply thrived!”
Karen remains serene, a satirical smirk dancing the edges of her mouth. I, however, rise to the bait.
“Well Isobella just finished reading À la recherche du temps perdu in the original French. And you know what? She didn’t rate it.”
Did I really say this? No, of course not. But what’s the point of a blog if you can’t make yourself Stephen Fryishly wise after the event?
They leave us a copy of The Contended Little Baby and I reflect that it is the first book recommendation they have ever given us. Feel like suggesting that all the parenting advice they’ll ever need is in the first line of Anna Karenina: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Germane, I feel, as I reflect that I’ve never seen the prodigy Little Georgie smile even once in two years of life.
Monday 22 October 2007
Diary: Rose-Tinted Spectacles
(Diary entry 12th June 2007) Our friend Kate arrives, laden down with lovely presents for Bella. Conversation turns, inevitably, to the size of Isobella’s feet (see earlier posts), and once more I smugly congratulate myself on my ability to see my own child without rose-tinted spectacles. It is already clear that I am not going to be one of those nightmare parents who think the sun shines out of their feral child’s fundament. How impressive am I?
Kate joins in with our observations on Isobella’s titanic tootsies, agreeing that they are, indeed, on the large side of big. We make jokes. It is fun. We each embroider upon the last remark, laying exaggeration upon exaggeration. Until Kate cracks: “It’s not her feet I’d worry about. It’s her ears.”
It is an impeccably timed joke, delivered with vaudeville aplomb. Karen laughs on cue. I, on the other hand, merely shoot her a cold stare – after a checking glance at Isobella’s PRISTINE, PERFECT, BEAUTIFUL, EXEMPLARY, COVETABLE, PROBABLY-SOON-TO-BE-AWARD-WINNING AND REALLY VERY PETITE THANKS-FOR-ASKING ears. All this from behind my newly acquired eyewear: a pair of solid gold Ray-Ban Aviator Rose-Tinted Shades.
Disappointment at my new-found inability to laugh at a joke at my child’s expense will come later. In the meantime I find myself editing Kate’s name out of the Christmas card list, compiling a list of reasons why she can never come to our home again and wondering if assassins advertise in Yellow Pages.
That night, while Isobella sleeps, I peer over the Moses basket to check on those ears again. They are fine. The feet, however, remain the same. I reflect that the number of feet – two of them – is infinitely more important than their size. Count my blessings and marvel at the explosion of another myth:
Not ALL babies, it would seem, look like Winston Churchill after all.
Only OTHER PEOPLE’S babies.
Kate joins in with our observations on Isobella’s titanic tootsies, agreeing that they are, indeed, on the large side of big. We make jokes. It is fun. We each embroider upon the last remark, laying exaggeration upon exaggeration. Until Kate cracks: “It’s not her feet I’d worry about. It’s her ears.”
It is an impeccably timed joke, delivered with vaudeville aplomb. Karen laughs on cue. I, on the other hand, merely shoot her a cold stare – after a checking glance at Isobella’s PRISTINE, PERFECT, BEAUTIFUL, EXEMPLARY, COVETABLE, PROBABLY-SOON-TO-BE-AWARD-WINNING AND REALLY VERY PETITE THANKS-FOR-ASKING ears. All this from behind my newly acquired eyewear: a pair of solid gold Ray-Ban Aviator Rose-Tinted Shades.
Disappointment at my new-found inability to laugh at a joke at my child’s expense will come later. In the meantime I find myself editing Kate’s name out of the Christmas card list, compiling a list of reasons why she can never come to our home again and wondering if assassins advertise in Yellow Pages.
That night, while Isobella sleeps, I peer over the Moses basket to check on those ears again. They are fine. The feet, however, remain the same. I reflect that the number of feet – two of them – is infinitely more important than their size. Count my blessings and marvel at the explosion of another myth:
Not ALL babies, it would seem, look like Winston Churchill after all.
Only OTHER PEOPLE’S babies.
Saturday 20 October 2007
Diary: Pain. It's All Relative
(Diary entry 12th June 2007) To King’s College Hospital where Isobella was born just a few days ago. This time on very different business. An endoscopy. “So called,” laughs Godfather John, “because it goes up your end.” He apologises for such a lame “crack” and for making me the “butt” of his jokes. These three merely the tip of the iceberg of bum gags. I wonder to myself at my choice of Godfather and role model for my child.
“We’re going to insert a camera,” I am informed by the doctor, “about the size of an index finger.” I wonder if I get to choose whose index finger we are using as a yardstick. Isobella’s index finger is tiny and would be perfect for my purpose. Unfortunately, it seems that one size fits all. And it would seem to be the Incredible Hulk’s index finger. With a bad case of swollen joints and arthritis. Perhaps a bit of water retention, too. And without having removed his rings.
Reflect, as I watch my innards in glorious technicolor on a screen that, a) I have indeed finally disappeared up my own arse as so many before had predicted and, most importantly, b) that I wont be able to complain to Karen about my discomfort given that she is still walking like a giraffe taking a drink and sitting on a rubber ring. “You would be, too,” she growls, “if you’d just passed a ping-pong ball through the hole in the end of our knob.”
“We’re going to insert a camera,” I am informed by the doctor, “about the size of an index finger.” I wonder if I get to choose whose index finger we are using as a yardstick. Isobella’s index finger is tiny and would be perfect for my purpose. Unfortunately, it seems that one size fits all. And it would seem to be the Incredible Hulk’s index finger. With a bad case of swollen joints and arthritis. Perhaps a bit of water retention, too. And without having removed his rings.
Reflect, as I watch my innards in glorious technicolor on a screen that, a) I have indeed finally disappeared up my own arse as so many before had predicted and, most importantly, b) that I wont be able to complain to Karen about my discomfort given that she is still walking like a giraffe taking a drink and sitting on a rubber ring. “You would be, too,” she growls, “if you’d just passed a ping-pong ball through the hole in the end of our knob.”
Friday 19 October 2007
Diary: M.I.C.K.E.Y M.O.U.S.E
(Diary 9th June 2007) Out to work. Being a freelancer, there’s no such thing as paternity leave for me. Console myself that it is only for a couple hours, bite the bullet and get on with it. Pass the Disney shop on my way. Against my better instinct, I go inside. Once in, the slushy side of my disposition floods my common sense, and I buy a cuddly Mickey Mouse for Isobella. Odd, this, as I never found MM particularly funny, being more of a Daffy Duck man, myself. The awesome power of The Disney Brand at work.
When I get home, I present it to Isobella and find myself swelling with pride when she ignores it. That, I tell myself, is her innate distrust and contempt for such a symbol of the corporate world of greed and exploitation. Daddy has been a sucker and his daughter has taught him a valuable lesson.
Nothing to do, of course, with that fact that she is only two days old and cares for nothing but milk and having her nappy emptied.
When I get home, I present it to Isobella and find myself swelling with pride when she ignores it. That, I tell myself, is her innate distrust and contempt for such a symbol of the corporate world of greed and exploitation. Daddy has been a sucker and his daughter has taught him a valuable lesson.
Nothing to do, of course, with that fact that she is only two days old and cares for nothing but milk and having her nappy emptied.
Monday 15 October 2007
The Myth of the “Head End”
Years ago I worked beside an Australian guy who was going to be a father for the first time. He was touchingly keen to be all New Man about it – that’s how long ago it was: New Man was still currency.
“Are you going to be in at the birth?” I asked. “Sure,” he said emphatically. Then he paused. Then he repeated, “Sure…” only this time with a little less conviction. There was another, longer pause, after which he added, patently aware of the horrific magic lantern show that had begun to flicker in both our minds’ eyes, “At the head end, of course, mate. Head end, definitely…”
From that moment on, the concept of the “Head End” consoled me through any contemplation of childbirth. And I’d like to pass that consolation on to you now. I’d really love to. But the thing is… well, let’s just explode the myth of the Head End once and for all.
1. Head end? What length is your wife/partner if you can stand at one end of her and have absolutely no sight of a baby emerging from between her legs? Is she related to the Welsh one out of the Fantastic Four?
2. You think you will have a choice as to where to look? What else is there in the delivery room that will distract you from a woman who will have grasped you so firmly by the throat that her fingers will be meeting behind your Adam’s apple? Not even the spectacle of the two surviving members of The Beatles jamming by the birthing pool with the two surviving members of The Who will tear you away. (It would work, that, too. The Beatles and Who thing, I mean: drummer and bass player (Ringo and Paul), singer and guitarist (Daltrey and Townshend). Whether they’d be called The Whotles or The Boo is a debate for another blog.)
3. Midwives can smell male squeamishness at fifty paces. And, when it comes to men, they can be a merciless bunch. The withering looks and well-honed satire of a tired midwife will leave mental lacerations deeper than the sight of any labour ever could.
4. NB. Try not to deploy the phrase “Head End” around your partner/wife too often. She already feels more than a little bit like a big, fat cow, and such agricultural, indeed objectifying terminology as “Head End” (see also “Business End”) can tend to exacerbate her need to knee you in the “Testicles End” – an act of violence that she can chalk off to hormonal confusion. And, as we all know, there’s not a court in the land that would quibble with hormonal confusion in pregnancy.
“Are you going to be in at the birth?” I asked. “Sure,” he said emphatically. Then he paused. Then he repeated, “Sure…” only this time with a little less conviction. There was another, longer pause, after which he added, patently aware of the horrific magic lantern show that had begun to flicker in both our minds’ eyes, “At the head end, of course, mate. Head end, definitely…”
From that moment on, the concept of the “Head End” consoled me through any contemplation of childbirth. And I’d like to pass that consolation on to you now. I’d really love to. But the thing is… well, let’s just explode the myth of the Head End once and for all.
1. Head end? What length is your wife/partner if you can stand at one end of her and have absolutely no sight of a baby emerging from between her legs? Is she related to the Welsh one out of the Fantastic Four?
2. You think you will have a choice as to where to look? What else is there in the delivery room that will distract you from a woman who will have grasped you so firmly by the throat that her fingers will be meeting behind your Adam’s apple? Not even the spectacle of the two surviving members of The Beatles jamming by the birthing pool with the two surviving members of The Who will tear you away. (It would work, that, too. The Beatles and Who thing, I mean: drummer and bass player (Ringo and Paul), singer and guitarist (Daltrey and Townshend). Whether they’d be called The Whotles or The Boo is a debate for another blog.)
3. Midwives can smell male squeamishness at fifty paces. And, when it comes to men, they can be a merciless bunch. The withering looks and well-honed satire of a tired midwife will leave mental lacerations deeper than the sight of any labour ever could.
4. NB. Try not to deploy the phrase “Head End” around your partner/wife too often. She already feels more than a little bit like a big, fat cow, and such agricultural, indeed objectifying terminology as “Head End” (see also “Business End”) can tend to exacerbate her need to knee you in the “Testicles End” – an act of violence that she can chalk off to hormonal confusion. And, as we all know, there’s not a court in the land that would quibble with hormonal confusion in pregnancy.
Friday 12 October 2007
Diary: The Labour – A Review
(Diary 9th June 2007) Wake up to carnage in the bathroom. Just before we left for the hospital, Karen’s waters broke and brought with them an explosion of blood. Our smallest room looks like a scene from the play Marat Sade. Or a particularly imaginative Quentin Tarantino set piece.
I review the labour. For a man prone to squeamishness, a squeamishness that can often manifest itself in an effeminacy surpassing the outlandish, I feel I have coped admirably well. I begin to make a mental note to ask Karen for congratulations on my performance when I remember: she has just undergone 26 hours of labour with no pain relief save a tens machine and a boxset of Waltons DVDs.
The tens machine – a battery pack with electrodes that attach to the lower back – is as effective a pain reliever as having someone you don’t really like standing nearby and shooting you withering looks while barking from time to time “Try not to think about it, ducky” and “Focus on something other than the pain, you big wimp”. The Waltons, on the other hand, was invented to sedate 250,000,000 Americans at the height of the Vietnam War into believing that the world really was a lovely, folksy, apple-pie place. And, according to Karen, it worked a treat for her, too.
After cleaning up the bathroom, I head for the hospital where I find Karen and Isobella dumped in a room partitioned by a makeshift curtain. Joy at our little bundle (with the big feet) tides us over for the first eight hours of being ignored. When, as we head for nine hours in purdah, I ask when the paediatrician will see us, I am met with a filthy look from the young Irish midwife on duty, who seems to be mimicking some demonic matriarch from a Victorian penny dreadful. The look says: “How dare you question my authority you big-mouthed NCT ponce.” The tone, when she finally barks, backs it up.
Our own midwife – the midwife who brought Isobella into the world – has gone off duty long ago. And with her she seems to have taken 99 percent of the ward’s sunshine and compassion. Her performance was particularly impressive given that she only seemed to be marginally older than Isobella herself. Only one complaint: when I asked if we could try the gas and air – Karen hadn’t used it during her frantic labour – she, the midwife, just laughed. Her tinkling laughter was utterly charming and only doubled when I insisted, “No really. I’m not kidding.”
Home by eight p.m. to ignore the phone and doorbell and just gaze at our new daughter. Karen had noticed the feet thing. I felt a little less of a bad parent.
I review the labour. For a man prone to squeamishness, a squeamishness that can often manifest itself in an effeminacy surpassing the outlandish, I feel I have coped admirably well. I begin to make a mental note to ask Karen for congratulations on my performance when I remember: she has just undergone 26 hours of labour with no pain relief save a tens machine and a boxset of Waltons DVDs.
The tens machine – a battery pack with electrodes that attach to the lower back – is as effective a pain reliever as having someone you don’t really like standing nearby and shooting you withering looks while barking from time to time “Try not to think about it, ducky” and “Focus on something other than the pain, you big wimp”. The Waltons, on the other hand, was invented to sedate 250,000,000 Americans at the height of the Vietnam War into believing that the world really was a lovely, folksy, apple-pie place. And, according to Karen, it worked a treat for her, too.
After cleaning up the bathroom, I head for the hospital where I find Karen and Isobella dumped in a room partitioned by a makeshift curtain. Joy at our little bundle (with the big feet) tides us over for the first eight hours of being ignored. When, as we head for nine hours in purdah, I ask when the paediatrician will see us, I am met with a filthy look from the young Irish midwife on duty, who seems to be mimicking some demonic matriarch from a Victorian penny dreadful. The look says: “How dare you question my authority you big-mouthed NCT ponce.” The tone, when she finally barks, backs it up.
Our own midwife – the midwife who brought Isobella into the world – has gone off duty long ago. And with her she seems to have taken 99 percent of the ward’s sunshine and compassion. Her performance was particularly impressive given that she only seemed to be marginally older than Isobella herself. Only one complaint: when I asked if we could try the gas and air – Karen hadn’t used it during her frantic labour – she, the midwife, just laughed. Her tinkling laughter was utterly charming and only doubled when I insisted, “No really. I’m not kidding.”
Home by eight p.m. to ignore the phone and doorbell and just gaze at our new daughter. Karen had noticed the feet thing. I felt a little less of a bad parent.
Diary: Isobella’s Birth Day
(Diary 8th June 2007) Isobella arrived at 21.55 yesterday night (7th June, the 8th as I write).
Six pounds, four ounces. Blue eyes. Gorgeous. The most beautiful thing – the most beautiful person – in the world.
With huge feet. Vast. Really. I wonder if Karen has noticed, but decide not to mention it until she brings it up.
Six pounds, four ounces. Blue eyes. Gorgeous. The most beautiful thing – the most beautiful person – in the world.
With huge feet. Vast. Really. I wonder if Karen has noticed, but decide not to mention it until she brings it up.
Why Blog? The Intro
Why Blog?
Emerging from beneath a pile of self-help books on how to be the perfect, superhuman 24-carat parent, I felt a little overwhelmed.
Sharing the parenting duties with my wife Karen, I strive on a daily basis for that ever-elusive parental perfection. Unlike the authors of all those books, however, I am only human. Thus I end up each bedtime having been merely NOT TOO BAD A DAD. Luckily, my daughter, Isobella, doesn’t seem to mind…
I’ve started this blog as an adjunct to my occasional column in Pregnancy, Baby & You magazine, to let off steam at the frustrations of first-time parenting, as well as to capture the many joys of this startling experience.
First, the frank truth. Give it to me straight, Doc. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin: No number of NCT classes or books can fully prepare you for the fact that life as you know it is OVER. Really. Done. Finished. Kaput. That’s it. Sayonara. Goodnight Vienna.
And that’s the good news.
The even better news is that you’ll be so happy/overwhelmed/tired/blissed out/fascinated/challenged/besotted that you won’t care. It really is the best drug known to mankind.
I hope you’re enjoying life with your new arrival - and that you enjoy the blog, too.
All best
Adam
Emerging from beneath a pile of self-help books on how to be the perfect, superhuman 24-carat parent, I felt a little overwhelmed.
Sharing the parenting duties with my wife Karen, I strive on a daily basis for that ever-elusive parental perfection. Unlike the authors of all those books, however, I am only human. Thus I end up each bedtime having been merely NOT TOO BAD A DAD. Luckily, my daughter, Isobella, doesn’t seem to mind…
I’ve started this blog as an adjunct to my occasional column in Pregnancy, Baby & You magazine, to let off steam at the frustrations of first-time parenting, as well as to capture the many joys of this startling experience.
First, the frank truth. Give it to me straight, Doc. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin: No number of NCT classes or books can fully prepare you for the fact that life as you know it is OVER. Really. Done. Finished. Kaput. That’s it. Sayonara. Goodnight Vienna.
And that’s the good news.
The even better news is that you’ll be so happy/overwhelmed/tired/blissed out/fascinated/challenged/besotted that you won’t care. It really is the best drug known to mankind.
I hope you’re enjoying life with your new arrival - and that you enjoy the blog, too.
All best
Adam
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