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.
Tuesday 20 November 2007
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”.
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