DAY 51-59 – TIME ESCAPED US BUT WE'RE STILL HERE

WELL that was quite the extended break from tapping away on the old keyboard wasn’t it?! Hopefully readers won’t hold it against me and the A-Bomb but we have been super busy, what with mastering commando crawls, falling off park benches, eating leaves… And launching a new business venture based on parents getting fit outdoors while their babies play in front of them.

On the crawl front M’lady has effectively shunned the standard technique, labelling it as inefficient and much too ladylike and similar to equestrian dressage. She has decided to perfect swift manoeuvres on her belt buckle in the face of any adversity or obstacle. A development from the chest-down shoulder-slither has been seen, where she pushes herself up to have straight arms while raising onto the tips of her toes to form a kind of “downward dog” yoga move. I am yet to see a full push-up or a spring into a standing position, which is somewhat disappointing.

Sticking with the subject of push-up… I have just launched a Spartans With Sprogs class under the Spartan Fitness London banner (www.spartanfitnesslondon.co.uk), which is an outdoor high-intensity fitness class that parents can bring their babies along to. The babies (all rolling or crawling but none toddling) play with toys on a large mat while their mums (so far we haven't had any dads) train hard with bodyweight exercise, weights and kettle bells. So far it has been excellent, with mums getting a real fat-blasting muscle-toning workout while the so-called “Sprogs” do their own thing in front of the adults. In fact, it appears that watching mummy/daddy run on the spot or hit boxing pads is rather hypnotising and leaves their youngster transfixed on the action. Of course now that I have tested the idea on a small group and witnessed babies on the best behaviour imaginable and on that basis decided to roll it out to a wider audience, the bigger sessions will now see crying meltdowns, turd explosions and crises that I can't even jokingly predict right now. Watch this space.
 

After the first Friday morning Sprogs session I received all sorts of messages from participants, firstly saying how much they had enjoyed it and secondly commenting on their inability to walk because their bodies hadn't been used to exercise. All good news! The aim of the game for Spartan Fitness London is to have people training hard while smiling, so the mission was accomplished for this first session.

A few days later the A-bomb and I went on a drive out to Runnymede to meet my friend Cara and her little girl, Chloe, plus Cara’s mum. During the drive I gave my passenger an in-depth lecture on how, while crawling and sitting in the upcoming field, she should be aware that we were to visit the place where the Magna Carta, one of the world’s most famous constitutional documents, was signed. She nodded and coughed to mark her appreciation for the information.

We plonked ourselves on a picnic bench near the lovely Magna Carta Tea Rooms https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/runnymede/features/magna-carta-tea-room-runnymede and chatted about all the things that now occupy our lives: nappies, wet wipes, children eating soil, the work-childcare balance etc. M’Lady enjoyed her al-fresco snack with me acting as the human high-chair while Chloe ran around in the grass. All the while we were sitting on a perfectly safe picnic bench. Mid-way through our conversation Cara took stood up from her seat next to me to grab an opportunistic video of her daughter in action. Good idea. Moments later, like a see-saw, the wooden seat I was on plummeted to the ground sending me flying backwards to fall on the floor, all while holding the Lumpy Baby. If anything had been on the other end of the bench it would have been launched into the next field. So, there I was, unharmed but very much on my backside, holding M’Lady with straight arms above my head. The other two adults had moved on from the initial shrieks of “Oh my God!” and concern for our (mainly A-bomb’s) safety, to full-blown laughter, while the toddler in our congregation was genuinely upset by the whole episode. A-bomb remained poker-faced throughout but her eyes said: “Seriously Dad, will there be at least one day when you don’t make a scene, this behaviour is rather tiresome”. On dusting myself down and checking the bench for faults – the seat wasn’t screwed in – I was a bit disappointed that a team of judges didn’t emerge from the bushes holding scorecards aloft with me being declared champion of the world. Never mind. Then we got a coffee and drove home.

The next day we, along with the NCT crew, took on a mammoth route around Richmond Park. The sun was out, the deer were running wild and ice creams were in-hand, all making a recipe for a glorious day. I must hold my hand up to confess that as the tour guide, who is a regular at this particular park, I failed to factor in the different speeds of a runner versus a buggy-walker (I usually attend as a runner). Soooo, when our 1-2 hour walk became a whole-day trek, with a few restless babies wanting to be carried rather than pushed and mum's arm's nearly falling off due to the carrying, the blame lied with me. I hasten to add that nobody complained and everyone was pleased with the exercise, but I was quite aware that I had dragged some weary-legged mums unwittingly on a sweaty yomp through the London countryside.

A couple of other updates just to round of this catch-up post…
1) A-bomb has been working on a new drinking technique, when supping from both the Milk Lady and the bottle: three seconds of slurps before swivelling her head round at rapid speed to check she’s not missing out on things, realising all is well and then returning to the drink. It slows things down somewhat. This is a sign that she has inherited the incurable FOMO disease from her parents. Fear Of Missing Out is something that does not leave you, so whether it’s good or bad luck, the Lady will always want to be part of all things at all times and as a result will always be tired.

2) I have realised that female clothing often has buttons or poppers down the back of garments. Hitherto my poor child has been parading an open back in such items #wardrobemalfunction

3) M’Lady now likes to eat anything that lives outdoors – she has really been taken in by Tomee Tippee’s “closer to nature" branding. An example: My good friend Morrey visited for a coffee after I had been at a Spartans With Sprogs session and remarked that it looked like A-Bomb had something green in her mouth.

“No no, she hasn’t had anything to eat yet,” I replied, with a look of "leave the parenting to me, mate"

“Cool, fair enough,” added Morrey, doing his best not to sound like he was telling me what to do.

“Oooh there it is again… there is definitely something on her tongue.”

“Really?! Oh, she must’ve grabbed one of the green vegetables the other babies were eating on the mat,” I ventured.

I squeezed M’lady’s cheeks to check exactly what might be on her tongue.

“Ah. Yes, you are right, she does have something green in her mouth,” I conceded.

“Not a vegetable though… a leaf. Yeh, that’s totally fine. Totally fine.”

It wasn't even a lovely fresh that could double as a salad, it was more of a horrible dirty leaf. Top parenting points for me.

4) According to the Milk Lady, baby bottle cleaners (the rubbery things with soft rubber bristles) are AMAZING for washing champagne flutes.

That'll do for now... more of a catch-up in the next post!

DAY 31 – COMMANDO KID

AFTER a few weeks off we returned to Baby Sensory to hear the teachings of The Leader.

Firstly a giant thunderstorm was piped through speakers at an intense volume, which succeeded in scaring the life out of all babies and parents. All part of the "awakening the senses" experience. Then we continued with the brainwashing by chanting "say hello to the sun... etc" before hundreds of bubbles were blown in our darlings' faces at the same time as bells were shaken aggressively in front of their tiny eyes. The grand finale saw the pre-toddlers smothered with chiffon rags while being bounced up and down on a waterbed. A-bomb smiled and laughed throughout but I cannot confirm whether or not that was through happiness or fear.

Post-Sensory the usual gang of mums and I (plus babies) treated ourselves to lunch at Cafe Nero... I know, high-rollers. While we inhaled our sandwiches and wraps the baby army got stuck into their respective bottles of milk and pots of solids. The highlight was when M'Lady joined her friend, codename "Z",  in a high-pitched duet. She "sung" her noises (I cannot call them words) and then "Z" warbled back high notes that are unattainable by normal folk. It was certainly lovely to watch because the pair of seven-month-olds were clearly enjoying communicating with each other, however I must say it was an awful racket and I'm not holding out much hope for a lucrative singing career for my daughter.

Back at the ranch we got through the naps, milk feed and solids session in excellent fashion (sweet potato and a first foray into cheddar cheese), which left us with lots of play time on the mat, with Wimbledon tennis on in the background. Calm down baby vigilantes... A-bomb wasn't watching TV she was busy hitting herself in the face with her wooden squeaky toy. Anyway, I set the munchbunch a task of chasing down her toys using only her body, i.e without me handing her what she wants or me lifting her over to the coveted items. Another rule that was impossible to enforce was: no rolling. The Lady has become an expert making her way to any desired location by flipping herself front to back then back to front, as many times as required, which is plainly unacceptable on the streets and not a practical method of travel. So with only her best interests at heart I had set the scene. Clearly the girl has got a steely determination, especially when it come to her beloved toys and as soon as the rattly squeaker thing was put on the other side of the room she launched herself forwards. M'Lady succeeded and I am putting it down as a full-blown crawl but I must say that her technique was less textbook baby crawl and more Royal Marine evading capture in a sweaty jungle. Lumpy legs propelled her forward as her left arm simultaneously reached out front, wedging her shoulder almost under her chest. From there she somehow sprung herself onward, reaching forward with her right arm but keeping her left arm under her body. All the while she was making the sound of a warthog with tonsillitis. Weird but effective. Top commando crawling Private A-bomb.

Day 29 - SING ME A SONG YOU'RE THE BUGGY MAN

"MONSTER. STOMPER... WHERE'D YOU GET YOUR ROMPER?!"...

That was just the first line of a song I was singing to M'Lady as I wheeled the lazy so and so home from the gym (she'd been in the creche not on the weights... again, lazy). I thought I'd been singing the catchy little ditty to myself in whispered tones but it became apparent that my in ability to do things quietly had struck again when a "trendy" person strutted past with a nervous look on his face which plainly said "I don't understand your kind, you are singing strange things, I'm scared, don't steal me in the wheeled vessel".

An episode of being caught singing to yourself or chanting at a baby in a buggy might be embarrassing for some, although not me because that is very much the least of my worries given the nonsense situations I find myself in (e.g practising Michael Jackson's dance moves from Smooth Criminal at a urinal, then realising there was a gentleman shuffling awkwardly behind me). However, I would suggest that once it's happened once, probably on the first day any new parent ventures out alone with a buggy, that's it, done. Songs, dances and full-blown musical performances are going to happen and the rest of the street population need to embrace all offerings. Sing loud, sing proud. My motto on this is: "If the baby likes your song, then sing it, regardless of any snotty-nosed chump that finds it weird, offensive, or not in keeping with their daily vibe, in fact sing it louder if someone stares". Yes, it's a long motto but it hits all of the points I need covered.

Going back to that first line of my unfinished masterpiece, the words to the lyric don't seem to mean anything, and in fact they don't mean anything. Nevertheless as becomes clearer everyday looking after this munchbunch nincompoop, words and thoughts might get forgotten, missed out and thrown into different sentences but they will re-emerge somewhere, either when I talk in my sleep ("yes, well done for your nearly crawling. Wow. Ice-cream." was one the other day) or possibly in song. Deconstructing the line and for the benefit of the skinny-jeaned, top-button-done-up, greased-hair-in-side-parting shell-shocked chap, I would suggest that I was telling my darling that she is a lovely baby (monster) wearing a beautiful romper (romper) suit while smashing her heels down on the pram (stomper).

Days are merging into one at the moment, what with all the singing... this happened on Tuesday, June 28.

DAY 25 – PINCER GRIP

THE SMOKER'S cough was still around but it looked like it was clearing up. Maybe M'lady took the hint and kicked the roll-up habit. The main thing though was that she didn't wake up during the night and at 0700 on the dot she was full of smiles and ready to be fed.

A-bomb was back in the game, which was great news. It also meant I didn't have to cancel Baby Yoga, which if I'm honest is one of the highlights of my week, never mind hers. Missed it last week due to knife-throwing on the Stag-do, so I would've been more than miffed if I'd had to skip it again because of a cough-cough Tell-Tiny-Tim-I-Won't-Coming-Home-For-Christmas plonker.

I could tell my girl was back on form because she stuffed a muffin in her face, guzzled her milk and slept for nearly an hour in the pram while walking to the pre-yoga breakfast (for adults) location. Happy days.

Yoga was excellent – we did the usual "You Are My Sunshine" routine with legs and arms moving and little kisses to wake the tiny turds up and we practised various poses, which certainly got a few clicks out of my spine, ever-compressed from carrying around The Lump. We also did "The Grand Old Duke of York" routine, which involves holding your baby at down, half-way and top with straight arms as is appropriate with the lyrics... Now I may have mentioned this before, but the fact that A-bomb expects me to lift her, in rhythm, to the Top, Half-way Up and Down, is frankly out of order. I looked around the room and saw some seriously long and lean kids. In comparison I was dealing with a baby cannon ball. I've had a word with A-bomb and she's going on a strict diet of exclusively fat-loss pills*

*CHILL OUT. This little piggy will be eating as much roast beef as she wants. She just won't be getting hoisted up to the top of the hill unless Daddy gets some serious gym work done*

*I jest, I've got it covered. Sure.

It was like having a different baby given the switch from sad-face Thursday to smiley Friday!

Back at the ranch we spent the afternoon in the garden in the play pen (it is our travel cot, which serves EXACTLY the same purpose as a stupidly expensive "play pen" from Amazon) and I was over the moon that my jokes and little skits were once again receiving the laughs they deserved. My revamped "aaaand boo" sketch went down particularly well, with lots of giggles and out-of-control foot stamps. Then, my new bouncy-bouncy questions act also went down well – bounce on knee while shouting aggressively "WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THE EU" – although she had zero answers for me, just breathless pants while poking her tongue out. Not too different to when I played with some UKIP voters.

Food time was a real treat for M'Lady because she had the fritters that she didn't eat yesterday as well as Tarragon Chicken, mushroom and green beans. She had her gobbling face on so I was looking forward to a big eating session.

Fritters were a great success as a starter.

I tend to take the approach of not staring at A-bomb while she eats because I don't like it when people do that to me. It happens when you're last to finish and others are waiting for you. "Get out of my grill mofos" is what I might say to that. However, after a good minute of no chicken or mushroom being eaten I took a look and saw a frustrated face. She couldn't pick the slippery stuff up.

"Poor little lovely," I thought.
"She can't manage it"
"Oh look she's picked up the mushroom up by pincering it with her fingers!"

On closer inspection it emerged that on putting on her splash-proof cover-all outift I hadn't pulled her thumbs through, so she was operating with just four fingers. Pretty poor from me and impressive from the youngster to battle her frustration and succeed. Who needs thumbs?

A quick sleep sprint to finish off before a Milk Lady bath time and that rounded off a great day*

M'lday also excelled herself by doing a sneaky slash on her Mum just before the bath. High five to her. 

*aside from the fact that we were mourning the loss of the EU and facing up to a dystopia where the UK has opted to be cut-off from it's old allies and our seven-month-old faces a lifetime of austerity.

 

DAY 23 - THOUGHTS ON EU REFERENDUM

SOMETIMES I can go hours or even days without speaking to another adult.

Of course I say bye and hi to my beloved wife at the bookends of the working day but if I'm talking about seeing and conversing with other real human adults, days can pass without any grown-up interaction.

If as a stay-at-home-look-after-the-baby parent you find and take one second to think about who you have spoken to on a regular day you will often find your chats have been with your baby as well as his or her toys.

I also find that I these days I tend not to speak my usual language, it's more of a gobbledegook noise that is the universal tongue that us adults think a baby understands better than English, or whatever the parents' tongue is.

So, with the EU Referendum looming over the UK, I have found that my discussions and debates on the merits of REMAIN and LEAVE have been held largely in my own head, with the people on television and radio, with my seven-month-old and her friends.  Her friends are, on the whole, cuddly and plastic toy animals.

Now, without becoming too political on what is a blog about being on Shared Parental Leave to look after my baby, I thought it was only right to at least mention a vote that will undoubtedly have a huge impact on my family. For the first time I have had to (well I didn’t have to but I have) think about how the result will affect my daughter, who has no say on things.

It is right that A-bomb doesn’t have a vote, because what she says is largely drivel and in fact, dribble. Nevertheless, if talking unintelligible garbage was a reason to withhold voting rights a fairly large chunk of the population, including members of both the LEAVE and REMAIN campaigns would be denied their ballot papers. The fact is that you only need to be of the correct age to be given permission to put an X in a box and decide a nation's future. 

So after having the various arguments with myself and attempting to work out what truths were hidden in the carpet bombs of lies, damned lies and statistics dropped by politicians via the media, I decided to conduct my own interviews with a cross-section of society that I associate with most at the moment.

Before I set out the thoughts of my interviewees I should give a few opinions on the prominent figures in the so-called BREXIT/BREMAIN campaign:

 - Boris Johnson, a hugely intelligent man, has let himself down for feeling the need to peddle lies on stats rather than give intelligent reasoning

- David Cameron has inspired nobody

- Jeremy Corbyn has shown himself as a weak leader by not speaking up strongly enough for either camp. 

- Michael Gove has excelled himself in making himself even more hated than when he attempted to destroy the education system

- Nigel Farage has done himself justice by sticking to his principles and living up to expectations. He has remained utterly xenophobic/racist, myopic, ill-informed and utterly useless.

Now to the interviews, with the most sensible bunch I could find at short notice:



SOPHIE THE GIRAFFE

I can see what all of the OUT lot are saying about immigration. I agree, there are loads of 'em coming here. But getting out of the EU isn't going to stop 'em coming in. We will have even less power to stop the flow of immigrants if we are acting alone. Also, I don't have a problem with Johnny Foreigner coming in to work... it seems that they're doing a bloody good job at fair prices. There are plenty of BRITISH freeloaders milking the system... can we have a referendum on getting rid of them? Don't get my blue tongue started on the Jeremy Kyle brigade.


WEIRD CRINKLY DOLL FACE

I've listened to all the debates and it seems like a lot of lies have been told, especially about us paying this £350 million a week to the EU. It's simply not true. I'm sure there are other stats that would support an OUT vote but the Out campaign chose to use an untruth. Weird.
Also people are banging on about us losing our sovereignty. I disagree. We have been blocked by the EU so few times in comparison with when our wishes have sailed through.


TWO COWS AND PIGGY

As a collective we find it ironic that a lot of nationalistic, chest-puffed-out Brits want OUT. These are the same people that are proud and humbled by our Armed Forces. Do they not realise one of the key reasons why the EU was formed? It was borne out of the Second World War, when the smart European nations decided to club together to make sure that never again would they fight each other. Its seems to have worked. We are so proud of our current boys and girls in the Army, Royal Navy and Royal Air Force and we are in awe of what their predecessors did in the World Wars... it seems remarkable that we want to opt out of a system that these men and women fought for,  and that has served us well in terms of bringing relative peace.


LITTLE BEAR

Get me out! Bunch of refugees coming in here nicking my porridge. Let's close the borders, get Boris in charge and get rid of anyone without a British passport. Does anyone know if I'll still be able to get into Europe with my current passport? Will it still be easy to fly to Spain?
Actually I've got mates and grandparents that have retired in Europe, will they have to come back the UK?! Can we close the borders if we are just the UK? Will I still be able to get my loft converted by foreign workers?... it's just that they are the best value and get the job done at rapid speed...? I don't mind the Eastern European lot if they're doing the manual jobs because they're top notch and don't charge silly money. And they're on time. The rest can get out though. Except the doctors. And nurses. They're good too. But the others! Bloody immigrants.


SMUG SHEEP

If people are voting OUT just to get David Cameron OUT then they are maniacs. We chose Cameron at the General Election and if we want rid of him now we will have to wait until the next General Election. Yes he is weasel of the highest order but I am pretty certain that Boris is even more of a right-wing nutjob and will systematically destroy the NHS, tighten the purse strings on the poor and will look after his own people. He is a dangerous man.


BLUE WHALE

Farage makes out that he is the champion of fishing while stating that fishermen are better of OUT of the EU. If he's such a hero of the fisherman why did he only attend ONE EU meeting on the matter when he had access to loads? To be honest, I don't think I would be welcome in Farage's country if we're not in the EU - I'm not white and my parents were not born here. Oh dear, all of my lot will be frogmarched out if we don't vote IN.


Good to get a few views from my new mates.

Now to vote to protect ourselves and the future of the next generation.

DAY 22 - RHYME TO BUY TIME

Thoughts on breakfast?
Houmous? Cous cous?
Banana and a spinach bake.
Went down okay but more effort I feel I should make.

Pack her up, need to get moving. Drop off then to a work meeting.
Granddad initiates smiles
Feeds, plays, walks miles
While my office foray is fleeting, some people need a good beating.

"Important views"
But new real news
..."We promise its not about dole queues"

Just a few boo hoos. For those that get the chop. 

"It's for the best"

"Yes!"

"Exciting for all!"
Except for "those"
More efficient. 

Proficient.

Race back to original HQ.
Phew. 

M'Lady's been lovely – all fed, changed, happy 
But we are late
Bath time delayed
And fear grows about the nappy.

Traffic
Manic
Panic

Bath
Mum feed. Pure greed
Smiling face, beaming.
Final change. STEAMING 
WOW 
HOW?

Day done. Not the best
Need a rest.  Tomorrow, swimming
Back to winning.

DAY 21 - NAP-TIME NINJA

TO COINCIDE with me being desperate to catch up on some Zs the poor lady hardly slept which meant both of us parents were in action most of the night. The savage cough had returned. The Milk Lady insists that A-bomb hasn't been smoking but I'm going to start checking her pockets.

Not much shut-eye was had between 0500 and 0700 so my goal was to get a decent sleep shift in the bag at 0900. MLady did not want to cooperate though. She was pretty much asleep on my shoulder but each time I put her down in the cot she jumped out of her skin and began to cry. This was not the norm and my diagnosis was that lying flat as causing her discomfort. Half an hour went by, twinkle twinke had been exhausted in all of its forms, the little girl at the end of the lane had been given too many bags of wool, and nobody believed "life was but a dream" after the amount of boat rowing they had done.

Eventually, after another 15 minutes of speed squats laden with A-bizzle, she was in a deep sleep and I had successfully pulled my trembling arms from under her. That was the first part of Mission Nap done. Now I needed to conquer the next almost impossible task... the exit.

There were traps everywhere, from crinkly play-mats and perilous plastic ball trip-hazards to recently-filled nappies and musical instruments. A toenail brushing against any of those items would have seen my cover blown and the wannabe-sleeper's eyes pinging open.

A woken baby was not an option so I prepared myself mentally for the covert job. After uttering my final rendition of Amazing Grace I stooped down below the top rail. I was out of sight, even for the laser-eye lady. Next I was into a commando crawl, moving over the narrow carpeted thoroughfare being sure to dodge the Cow in case it wanted to "do you ABC". I had reached the end of the cot, located next to the final hurdle – the door. 

I was hunched down with one hand softly holding the silver door handle and the other stabilising my body. So far so good, no murmurings. As with most gauntlet challenges the last part was the most difficult...getting out of the room without being seen or heard, then re-shutting the door.

I carefully pulled down the exit handle. It creaked but I got away with it. At the precise moment of the pull-down, I rose to my feet and nonchalently removed my body using the means of a silent twirl. Once out I just had to lower the handle and wait for the little click. Click. I could breathe again.

Given the importance of a baby's sleep and overall routine to its well-being it baffles me that during NCT classes no time is devoted to operating like a ninja.

If it means your baby will stay alseep you must be prepared to throw yourself to the deck on the slightest flinch of your nemesis. You  must be ready to hurl yourself out of the room as soon as the gap becomes big enough.

If you are a heavy breather, you must hold your breath. A sleeping baby takes precedence.










                             

DAY 20 – FATHER'S DAY - DARTS AND SAUSAGES

 

Bowl of Sausages

IT was 0830 and I was on the end of a 90-minute lie-in thinking about how, for one more day, I didn't need to worry about preparing porridge fingers or steamed apple for my baby girl's breakfast. I really missed the little munchbunch but for a few more hours I still only had myself to look after.

Wrong. I was still on a Stag-Do and I the bunch of ne'er-do-wells remained on my booking – which apparently meant I was chief hand-holder, feeder and bottom-wiper.

I meandered downstairs to the gourmet spread laid on by the Holiday Inn Express and fixed myself some apple juice (note: too sweet; clearly has sugar added) and some muesli, ahead of beans on toast. I then looked across the table to see that one of the esteemed stag-party members was tucking into a bowl of sausages, or at least excuses for sausages. 

"First time eating breakfast, mate"? 

"Oh I wasn't thinking, I just got a bowl, not a plate. I forgot". 

"Ok, well remember not to pour milk and cereals on to a plate".  

High calibre stuff. 

Being thrust into the world of child rearing makes you more organised, better able to act quickly and 500 per cent more capable to think on your feet, in situations like projectile liquid missiles being fired from down below. However, one skill I didn't expect to gain from the being a new Dad, was the capacity to deal with 25-30-year-old neanderthals on a "lads" weekend. It does though, for if it wasn't for my time spent with the A-bomb I wouldn't have been as well prepared for these chaps. Sorting their meals; making sure their rooms weren't too cold or indeed, too warm; ensuring their nap times were on schedule and that they achieved enough sleep; and giving everyone the right amount of play time to suit their needs, were all essential. Thankfully almost everyone managed to change their own nappies. 

Breakfast was gobbled and we hit the road. A thoroughly enjoyable time was had but I needed to get back to my baby. It was Father's Day after all and no doubt she was waiting for me with a handwritten card and her latest piano composition.

Out of the car, into the house, up the stairs. A crying A-Bizzle was handed straight to me... "she won't sleep, please assist". Hi darling.

Sure... no problemo. Trainers on...  and into a 200-metre buggy sprint. Aaaaannd she was asleep. "Won't sleep? You mean won't sleep for you," I said in my head and after checking the Milk Lady was out of sight. 

It was understandable though, the Lady had been waiting for Daddy before catching some Zs. Too many amateurs around, not knowing the right sleep-inducing techniques*. 

*I have hidden all sharp objects and other potential weapons

On waking I mentioned that in the 2.5 days that I'd been away The Stinkbomb had grown to resemble a professional darts player... her mullet haircut was in good shape, the pot-belly was in peak condition and her arms were particularly Popeye-esque. 

"Dya wannabe a dart's player?" I shouted in her face.
"Go one ma darlin', be a darts player!
"Darts! Darts! Darts!" 

She loved the proposition and signed a contract with her gumdrop smile. I will admit that for the next couple of minutes I lost my mind but it was worth it. 

"One HUNDRED AAAAAAAND EIIIIGHTY! (180)," I bellowed into the air, while A-bomb sat on her Mum's lap. Both looked at me bemused. 

I repeated it... "180!" 

The baby laughed. I continued, with each rendition getting louder, more aggressive and involving more jumping and twirling. 

After round ten my little lady was laughing so much that she nearly burst. For the grand finale I ran to the front of the house (10 feet away - It's no mansion), hit the floor and crawled along so that I was out of my audience's eye-line. I moved into position right under A-bomb's nose then sprung up with a shout of "ONE HUNDRED AND EEEEEEEIIIIIIIGGGGGHHHHTYYYYY (180)". 

She jumped out of her skin and laughed for about a minute while struggling to breathe. And, for me THAT is what Father's Day is all about. It was my first as a Father and if I can get that reaction to my fairly simple, oft misunderstood, yet genius comedy, a few more times on this day, I will be a very happy man.