DAY NINE – Duck Waddling and Actual Swimming

YOU know the guys who are so desperate for you to know that they attend a gym that they walk like they've had a toilet accident? You know, the ones who "lift bro" and demonstrate that fact by waddling like a duck carrying a small coin in its feathered bum cheeks? Yes, well thanks to A-bomb's swimming class, I became one of those people today. Obviously it wasn't my fault that I forgot to pack my own underwear during the ridiculously quick preparation of the change bag vortex. Didn't leave enough time did I... Didn't factor in the need to make up a bottle for before and after swimming, deal with a new nappy situation, find socks, pack towels, pack swim nappies and pants, get myself dressed appropriately for society, put The Lady in her car-seat, find her socks again and put myself in the car. In that hurried hurricane of handbag administration my boxer shorts were never getting remembered. My poor inner thigh region would be left to suffer the chafe.

Before the realisation that I was sans pants the swimming lesson at The Baby Swimming Company (http://thebabyswimmingcompany.co.uk/) was brilliant. As with all of these baby classes I now attend I had been before, but just as the onlooker and not shouldered with the responsibility of not messing things up. For some reason, screwing up in the pool had been playing on my mind, not because I thought I might drown a baby (that would be less than ideal) but because M'Lady had been doing so well and I didn't want to slow her progress. Let's be clear, this was not splashy splashy fun and games, this was hardcore teaching a very small person to swim and be safe in water, with a lot of fun thrown in. I'm under no illusion that in approximately four weeks the little stinkbomb will be a more proficient swimmer than me... unless I get some sneaky lessons of my own. That'll show her.

Under the expert tuition of the instructor I was straight into submerging my daughter, before releasing her and awaiting her safe arrival back in my arms. That went better than I expected and from then on I was basically on fire – much aided by the fact that A-bomb was nonplussed by the whole "going under" thing. As this was Level Four, a far cry from the quick dunks that I'd witnessed in Level One, there was no messing around and soon enough my six-month-old was being invited to swim unaided. There's no armbands here. Ever. Yep, firstly the instructor held her, then gently pushed her forward, completely letting go, then I was asked to carry on. Mental. But absolutely spot on. All of the kids did it and without any guidance it was completely natural for them to start kicking their legs and using their arms as a means to stay afloat. Obviously we stepped in after a few seconds before they started to sink but still, I was amazed. The lesson ended with an insight into what we'll get to in Level Five in a few week's time.. "dive dive", the instructor said as she picked up each baby one by one, lifted them over her head, tipped them up and sent them headfirst into the water. "Dive Dive" indeed! What the devil will they learn in level six, a back-flip off the top board? Hope so.

After a quick feed, it was back home for a snooze. Not sure what she did but I was knackered. I jest. But I was tired.

The solids sessions was a roaring success as she tucked into a smorgasbord of vegetables and beef via a Hungarian goulash. The pieces of beef may have had a similar toughness to the sole of an old boot but she sucked the life out of them with a smile on her face. I looked forward to the nappy.

To celebrate another great day at the office I treated my favourite child to a Sky Sports round table interview with boxing greats Steve Collins, Joe Calzaghe and Richie Woodhall. She loved it.

DAY 10 – THE ANTI-SLEEP CORPORATE CONSPIRACY

A DISTURBING fact is impacting me, my baby and undoubtedly the wider public... shops and department stores across the UK have a policy of forcing babies to remain awake.

I'm not sure whether or not it's a sinister ploy to encourage the consumer to buy items in a frenzied panic or there is an even nastier motive at work, where corporate bosses just want to see small kids crying.

I'm not saying that there is definitely a highly organised force of professional sleep-deprivation operatives mobilised on the aisles of the big stores, or even that a surveillance team watches closed circuit televisions for signs of a potential sleeper. I'm just saying that it seems like there is. On no fewer than five occasions, in different locations, I have been pushing the sleep vehicle (buggy) with A-bomb either completely asleep or in the throes of slow blinking when an inexplicably loud burst of noise has been piped into my baby's eardrum. I will accept that these sound bombs haven't been focused attacks and other members of the public were also hit and were unperturbed. When you have succeeded in inducing sleep by any means though, and out of nowhere a public address system announces "please can a customer service assistant come to the checkout," in a chilling high-pitched tone, one has to ask questions about motives. PING! the once closed eyes are open and crying has been initiated.

Now, my wannabe-sleeper is pretty decent at grabbing some shut-eye and tends to go off with the assistance of songs, motion or a mixture of both. If she is over-tired or struggling to attain the coveted Zs a flat out sprint for roughly 400 metres without rest, regardless of obstacle or road, will do the trick. Today was one of the sprint days... the plonker had already bagged a long lunctime sleep iand the pre-bath quick nap was proving elusive. But armed with the sprint-and-sing technique (not sure if that is patented, I must look into that) I managed it. My inner smug face was on and all was good with the universe. Until, the in-house anti-sleep team at TK Maxx stepped in. I'd foolishly gone in to buy some trousers, on the first floor.

"DOOR OPENING!" shrieked the wall.

No stirring. We were safe.

"DOOR CLOSING," came the second attempt from the piercing voice.
"LIFT. GOING. UP."

My baby as now awake and crying.

A booming "BING!!!" to signify victory from the Waking Force was the sonic version of a kick in the teeth. Yes, they had won. There were no physically injuries but the mental damage was done. It was now too close to bathtime for me to achieve the early evening nap.

Pre-baby I definitely would have laughed aggressively in the face of a parent who said missing naps was a disaster.

"If they've had a long sleep in the day, they won't need a nap", I might have said.

"If they don't nap in the day it probably means they'll sleep for longer at night", I can imagine myself saying.

Wrong. I can only speak from my six months of experience with one case-study, but that is this: the human baby is the ultimate creature of habit that requires lots of sleep at regular intervals. Once their body clock has set itself you DO NOT mess with it. Well, you can... you can do what you want, but the baby won't thank you and you WILL pay for it.

Cheers TK MAXX – always 60 per cent better at waking babies up, are you?

Day 49-51 - Sunshine, Lollipops and Dropping Food

NEARLY back on track!

FIRSTLY, no complaints with the hot, sunny weather. It's a very British thing to moan everyday about the rain, or the darkness, or the cold, or how it's not like Spain, America, or anywhere else, but then within half an hour of any heat above 25 degrees Celsius and the same people are complaining about a lack of air conditioning, requesting a national sunshine holiday and calling in sick with heat exhaustion.

As a "stay-at-home" parent I'm not sure who I am supposed to call to request a day off because I'm too hot. Possibly the government. Yes, it's their fault that the sun's out. I'll get one of their people to look after M'lady while I cool down.

Of course, sane people realise that we get approximately 12 hours of summer so just crack on with it, feeling hot but accepting it for what it is; not rain. With regards to A-bomb I followed the rule that if I want to wear fewer items of clothing, she probably does too. Unluckily for me, I could not get away with wearing just a nappy or a walk to the shops whereas babies dodge judgement on that. Out of order really... just because they are small, fat and require being wheeled from A to B that exempts them from clothing too. What a life they have. More on that later.

So, reduced clothing. That put a smile on the face of the munchbunch plonker. Also, when it came to sleep/nap times in her cot, with the Egg Thermometer about to explode (it turns bright red when very hot) at temperatures of 26-28 degrees C I needed to take serious steps to cool the zone down. All windows in the house were opened in an attempt to get a draft going (it resembled more of a pathetic lisp effect), I cranked up the electric fan that was strategically placed in front of A-bomb's rouged face, and I took the unprecedented step of opening her window and thus allowing light in from behind the holy black-out blinds. All of this reduced the temperature by about 0.1 degree.

An excellent tip that was then put to use was placing freezer blocks in front of the fan so that rather than recycling hot air, the cool(er) air from the blocks was blown around the room. I also placed numerous ice packs in tubs by the cot, which did assist with cooling the place down. The main bit of luck was that M'Lady cleverly positioned herself directly in front of the fan so that she was effectively in a wind tunnel. She had quite the Elvis quiff after a few hours. These procedures combined with A-bomb being on good behaviour meant there were no real problems with day or night sleeps... The Milk Lady is like a heated up furnace at the best of times, with volcanic lava running through her veins rather than blood, so required "more space" to cool down. Therefore, my own sweaty sleeping scenario was like a nightly audition for Cliffhanger, clinging onto the side of the bed with beads of perspiration falling from my nose and the elusive Zs escaping my weak grasp. As long as the ladies of the house were okay, that was my only concern (sure, we'll see what karma has to say about that).

Although the glorious sunshine and the blistering heat was the main thing going on, other things did happen in the three days under scrutiny here...

Monday: I noticed that M'Lady has developed a very useful new skill. She can eat her own feet. I am working out the best way to monetise this but as yet I haven't secured a financial backer or any sponsorship deals. She showed off the impressive capability while I was changing her nappy – as I whipped the fresh one under her sizeable backside she just grabbed her right foot and put it in her mouth. Obviously I then attempted to copy her and failed. I fear this may become a running theme.

For the Lady's evening meal we chose to dine al fresco with the highchair in the garden. Courgettes were on the menu and life was good. Then the little turd repaid my efforts by chomping of a decent lump of the soft vegetable, spitting it on to her chin, scooping it up with her fingers and flinging onto my arm. It had all of the characteristics of phlegm, which wasn't ideal, but to be fair it was a great shot.

Tuesday: This was a very exciting day because A-bomb and I hosted the main man Harry, one of M'Lady's good friends from the NCT gang. His mum, Janna, had an appointment in town and we were happy to welcome him for a few hours. A-Bizzle gave H a lovely welcome by putting a mammoth sleeping shift in, so for a while it was just the lads. Actually, two other mums came round with their girls to join the fun in the garden so we had a little tea party, complete with ice lollies for adults and water and carrots or the babies. The little guy was as good as gold, happy to sit up with his perfectly straight legs while the girls fussed around their business (toys). I had been well briefed but still the logistics of a nappy change for a boy took a moment to get used to... I was ready for the out-of-control hose, but there were no issues. Eventually A-Bomb arose from her slumber and all in all it was a lovely day with the gang; Harry just chillin' with his ladies. A very cool customer.

Wednesday: By the powers of social media (Facebook) it had come to my attention that my old boss, from the glory days of landscape gardening during holidays, was on a job nearby so we packed ourselves up and went on a mission to find the old team. After a short walk and a couple of stops on the Northern Line we were at the work house (not in the Victorian sense, that would be brutal and illegal... I mean the house where the guys were working). We were armed with ice-creams and cold bottles of Coke, which A-bomb took great pleasure in holding to keep herself chilled. It was great to see the grafters from Bracknell in town (Clapham South) toiling away in the heat! After a quick interview process M'Lady now has a couple of shifts on the wheelbarrow for Fordy in the coming weeks. She could certainly move some weight job with those arms.

While purchasing the cold treats I had splashed out on a delicious looking lemon chicken salad sandwich, from the special range. You know"deluxe" NOT standard. I was ever so pleased then when, on our return journey, that due to the packed nature of the City Mini Jogger GT's undercarriage the sandwich popped out, landed in front of the buggy and before I'd noticed I ran over it. Obviously the expensive item still got eaten but I feel that the experience would have been better without the tyre tracks.

As it turned out this was not my day for handling food. Much later in the evening, when M'Lady was long asleep and the Milk Lady had taken herself to commandeer her sleeping area, I had prepared my meal... a splendid looking arrangement of last night's chicken with some bread and cheese accompanied by a pint of milk. On my way into the living room I stopped to collect the baby monitor. I rested my plate of food on the high-chair tray. SMASH! Yep, the high-chair tray does not take the weight of adult portions. All of my food was on the floor, along with a pool of milk, which had poured out of my glass as I bent down to see what I could salvage. It was now trickly through the floorboards. The tragic part of this tale is that I already I knew the rule about the high-chair because I did exactly the same thing last week with a lovely chilli. Anyway, I swept up the mess and ate it. I was hungry.


 

DAY 39-41 - Fell Off Wagon And A Couple Of Mistakes...

I HAD hoped that would dodge the whirlwind, but the inevitable happened... I got swamped. Snowed under with the baby stuff and the actual baby needing looking after. So I missed quite a few days of blog posts. That's the bad news. But the good news is that me being out of time is the result of A-bomb, others and me being busy, which means there's lots to discuss. I'm talking serious stuff like an auntie (my sister) landing from Australia, a family holiday to Bognor, vile mothers calling their 4-year-old an F-ing Wan*$r, Pear-squelching... oh and me forgetting to take a post-yoga feed for my child.

So... going back a few Fridays we had the usual breakfast-yoga routine but I also needed pack as much as possible for the afternoon car departure to Butlins (Bognor), where were heading for a few days to see my family (Mum, Dad, two brothers, one brother's fiance and one sister). Nevertheless, not everything could be pre-packed because the awkward A-bomb required much of the stuff for a simple trip to baby yoga... pram, baby bag, bottle, toys etc. The likes of the travel cot, play-mat, clothes, food, formula had been squeezed into various bags but I knew there was still much to do. The plan was to finish my yoga business at 1130, feed The Lady with the bottle I had already made up, get home by 1215, finish packing then get on the road to coincide with my passenger's nap time (starts at 1300-1330).

All was well; breakfast (sausage sandwich and flat white coffee at www.tota-restaurant.co.uk) was delicious and yoga (http://northcotebaby.com/) was excellent – but tough now M'Lady weighs in at Hefty on the Lard Scale. I just needed get the feed done and get my skates on to get home. After the hour of exercise the babies are always very hungry and thirsty so an immediate feed is required. Cue: jaw hits floor and hand hits self in the face. I had forgotten the milk! In the rush to pack and leave promptly (to get to my own lovely breakfast) I had failed to pick up the expertly prepared bottle. Oops. I instantly felt that this was the worst thing I'd done during my stint as the parent-in-charge... simply forgetting the means to feed your baby is not a good thing. Being the legend she is though, A-bomb didn't even murmur she just gave me a nod as if to say "very well Father, just use those short legs of yours to run faster than you ever have to deliver me to my white juice". And so I did. Sure, she nearly sucked the teet from the bottle's seal but there were no tears.

Things were thrown in the car and we pulled away bang on 1330. Perfect.

The plan was for my passenger to sleep for most if not all of the 1 hour 45-minute journey to set her up nicely for the evening an to ensure she wasn't agitated in a hot car-seat. That wasn't overly ambitious because like many babies (and me), for her, motion promotes sleep. Imagine my anger and despair then when I heard "READY TO SING YOUR ABCs????!!!" blurt out from the back seat. In my hasty packing I had handed A-bomb the "soft and fluffy cow" and I'd left it with her in the car seat. This was an epic #DADFAIL because while driving  I couldn't reach back to snatch the cow and the blasted thing kept going off everytime M'Lady flinched... "THE BABY LIKES MILK!!! TIME TO COUNT!!! I'M A SOFT AN FLUFFY COW, HUG ME LOVE ME ALL DAY LONG!!!" Other drivers on the A3 would have though I was having a seizure, given my helpless convulsions at the noise and my inability to stop them. Eventually the torture stopped. It was a miracle that the girl didn't wake up. Once again she played a blinder.

She slept the whole way and we met the clan, including Marcia, freshly landed from Sydney Australia, where lives. It was so great to see her and although she's been inundated with pictures and videos it probably shocked her to see how much the munchbunch has grown since she last saw her in November, when M'lady was brand new.

Unfortunately the Milk Lady couldn't join us after work because she had been double booked at a wedding of a one of her good friends, also over from Australia. Sad times. 

Everyone had the obligatory cuddle, squeeze of the play-dough legs and aggressive bounces on knees then we had a bite to eat and a few drinks. Then it dawned on me that the apartment did not have a bath and that the baby girl definitely needed a bath. Yet another #Fail from me. TO THE SINK SHE MUST GO, EE AYE EE AYE EE AYE OOH, was the song of the evening. It was far from ideal for the lumpy 7.5-month-old but she loved it. All of her bath mates were even closer than usual and everyone was watching her. Somehow I got away with this error too. My luck was running strong.

Dinner was eaten and the lovely girl slept like a dream.

The next day I decided that if possible ACJC must show off our swim moves (I feel that I am part of the show so I should be credited) so we headed to the resort's water centre to see what it offered. All we needed was a small area of deep-ish flat water. We required no arm bands and no shallow baby pool... we weren't there to mess around. Exiting the changing rooms and entering the pool area was like walking into a watery Armageddon with sirens going off, loudspeakers wailing and high-pressured hoses blasting into people as they attempted to meander between areas. Anyway, after fighting through the hellish scenario we found a suitable spot and A-bomb made it clear that she would be ignoring the loud noises, which was good of her. With the eager audience watching we went through our repertoire of splashes, breathing exercises, dives, underwater spins, jelly-on-the plate, grand-old-duke-of-yorks and more. Needless to say it was a great success and The Lady is now expected to be at the next Olympics. Alongside the intense swimming show, which A-bomb absolutely loved, some calm fun was had with everyone having a hold of the superstar. While this was happening I noticed a little scenario playing out with another family (not with us) a metres away. Picture the scene: two women (sisters or friends) in their late 20s/early 30s standing in the water chatting. A 4-5-year-old, who was either a daughter or a much younger sister of the older pair, walked over to them and splashes one of the women, in a playful manner. I saw this and thought nothing of it (It was no more aggressive than what M'lady was doing to us). One of the women grabbed the youngster's arm and shouted in her face: "DON'T F-ING SPLASH ME YOU F-ING WAN&$R". Despite the verbal abuse the little girl didn't really flinch, which suggested to me that this was the standard of conversation she expected. It was eye-opening to say the least. Perhaps I should have suggested that the women use a different approach to speaking to infants, or anyone, but my focus was on making sure my own child didn't drown. It really did make me think though... there are many, many different ways to go about parenting and dealing with young people and they can all be effective. However at no point, ever, will a little splash from a 4-5-year-old warrant the perpetrator to be showered with language that would be deemed excessive at a Millwall versus Chelsea match. 

During the rest of the stay at Butlins there were some real highlights: On being drafted in as sous chef to toast a crumpet for A-bizzle my Dad trod on a half-eaten slice of pear which squelched in between in his toes and caused the exclamation (in jest) of "dirty cow, chucking her food on the floor!); the revelation that my younger brother (26) and sister (31) still operate on the same nap and feeding schedule as my baby daughter; the never-ending white noise humming from Bultin's arcade games (reminiscent of the Pleasure Island fairground when it all goes a bit dark in Pinnochio) serve as good sleep inducers for the Lady; and it turned out that as long as the full sleep routine was followed after bath time A-bomb was happy to sleep in the pram so that she could join us in restaurants.

There were some forgetful moments from me and a few undesirable specimens on site but all in all it was a fantastic time away, which could only have been improved by the Milk Lady being there.

Day 37-38 – Rave Sleeping and Reverting to the Dark Ages

Very Messy (ahem, no relation to Lionel)

WOW. 

So much for me getting recharged. Monday was the jab just to sharpen me up for the week and Tuesday's tearaway tikes was the solid uppercut that I thought I had recovered from. Then with a relatively decent sleep, Wednesday (Day 37) hit me from behind like a speeding freight train only for me to peel myself off the canvas for Thursday to mow me down like an out-of-control combine harvester running late for its wheat order. Nothing major happened, I just never quite caught my breath from the moment I woke to the the second I turned in.

Never fear, the details are here... 

Of course Wednesday was swimming day and M'Lady woke up raring to go. At 0650 I found her limbering up with a few stretches and activating her core muscles with a side-plank exercise. In reality, as I walked into her room she was arching her back in an attempt to dislodge her cankle from the cot's bars before the momentum of being released caused her to roll over. As the lardy lady went to roll a second time both gravity and the Law of Moments gave up and left her beached on her side. She was there for quite some time. Then I stepped in to rid her of the night's wee-fest. 

This week's foray into the swimming pool was another great success with my champion performing beautifully on the commands of Hold On, Turn, Swim Swim and Dive Dive. We really rattled through the moves and the kids spent most of their time being dunked or thrown face down into the water. To the layperson the training could seem ruthless and to those weeds who wear woolly cardigans and scarves in the summer it would certainly appear as abuse, however all of the babies loved it and swimming is easily A-bomb's favourite part of the week.

At the end of the session, after diving off a giant float while we chanted jelly on the plate in their faces, the tiny people were given the chance to run along the float, into the pool. Yes, run. So the other TODDLERS (aged 15-18 months ish) were held by the instructor and their mums and guided off the foamy mat while they walked quickly. 

A-Bomb, aged seven months, was last up. 

In her wonderfully clipped tone the excellent South African teacher asked: "Can Alexa walk yet?" 

"No," I responded, almost apologising before catching myself. 

"Ah, of caws, yis. She is younga."

Not a problem, my specimen popped up on the float, rose on her feet and we dragged the little munchbunch in feet first. As she came to the surface she was all smiles with bloodshot eyes. Superstar. 

Back at home she was so tired that she slept for more than two hours. More impressive than all of her efforts in the pool though was the fact that she managed to stay zonked out despite the full-blown RAVE that my next door neighbour decided to have at 1.30pm on weekday. My baby's ability to keep her eyes closed through the high-pitched 80s synth notes was commendable. 

The fact that she didn't flinch means I can keep that particular complaint in my locker for when I received a knock regarding my own (much worse) bad habits in future.  

THURSDAY saw us – a duo now being dubbed AC-JC by the fans (just the Milk Lady) – attend BABY SENSORY armed with spare clothes, because we had been forewarned that it was to be "messy play". Finally a fully sanctioned time for us forgotten folk who can't help but destroy things and end up covered in spinach and bin juice! Sadly the messy bit had to wait until THE LEADER had finished her six-minute Broadway-ready version of Incy-Wincy Spider with pom-poms. But the wait was worth it... one delicious pile of cooked spaghetti and one wobbly and very sticky mountain of jelly to play in. Of course there was the mandatory safety statement from THE LEADER along the lines of "It's all safe to eat if your little one puts it in his or her mouth, but it is not suitable for vegetarians" which was followed by the inevitable "why is it not for vegetarians, is there meat in it?". One day, in some kind of promised land, a giant shovel will appear from the sky at moments like these and scoop away (possibly into a bin of raw meat) those who ask questions that don't deserve an answer.

Anyway as the babies faced down their prospective messes I opted to place A-bomb directly in the middle of the jelly so that she got the most out of the experience. Other babies soon followed suit by smashing the hands and feet into the gloriously soft and squishy stuff. M'Lady then made me super proud by falling backwards into the pile of yellow sludge to ensure was completely covered. With time called on the fun called far too soon I quickly threw some pasta on my darling's head, just to make sure she was as messy as possible. I did not want her to feel shortchanged. 

Just before we returned to the mat to wipe down our offspring I received the the most outdated, sexist and regressive comment yet from one of the mums. I was not meant to be offensive but that didn't mean it wasn't. 

On seeing A-bomb covered head-to-toe in jelly, with her hair matted and eyes caked, the sweet woman said: "Ooo wait until you get her home, her mum is going to go mad at how messy you've got her". 

I replied: "Her mum is at work, it's my concern. The aim was to get messy".  

I left it there because I had no intention of having a debate about how it's the seemingly innocent comments that reinforce negative gender stereotypes. 

On reflection though, outside of the jelly pasta arena the comment made me think about the ridiculous parameters some people squeeze their lives into: Man earn money, woman cook food, man look after child sometimes for treat, woman keep child clean, man go to pub, woman get angry at man if he does thing different with child than woman might. 

On the whole people seem to get it now: men and women can both be parents and rules do not have to exist that mean only mothers take time off work to raise their kids. 

If only the woman from the 1940s knew what I ended up doing after messy time, she would have had a heart attack. I washed my own baby and put her down for a nap, then fed her from a bottle all by myself, then put her on a mat to play in the garden while I HUNG WASHING UP that I had washed myself using a WASHING MACHINE. So much multi-tasking it should be and might well be illegal. 

Come on people, we are all humans. Men and women have a few different body parts that serve a few different purposes but other than that, move on from dark ages and get over the gender thing.

MAN IN MULTI-TASKING SHOCKER

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 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 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. 

DAY 15 – Step In Time!

VERY quick one, much like what I am about to talk about. One thing, among a million, that NCT classes, midwives and baby books don’t give you much of a steer on is how to get things done when a baby is capable of movement. In the beginning it was kind of okay to leave the chubster alone in a room for a 30 seconds (or more) because she was essentially beached. It was ideal, she was happy to lie there and was physically incapable of shifting her considerable body mass.  Times have changed. In the time it takes for me to fill a kettle for a much-needed cup of coffee the nincompoop will have carried out numerous commando rolls and ended up wedged under the sofa. Not that that has ever happened. Definitely not.

Back in the olden days when M’lady was a baby, not nearly SEVEN-months-old we could strap her into the bouncer if we wanted to get something done, like tidy up or even make some breakfast. Now though, she has piled on so much weight that the bouncer would buckle under the strain and has been consigned to history. Until I purchase a holding pen to kettle the hooligan I have to remain on guard at all times, or carry her, which is fine until my arm withers.

Picture the scene: The Milk Lady had gone to work, solids session was successful, clean-up was done. It was 0845 and we were on track for a textbook 0900 nap-time. By 0850 mid-sleep-sssshhhes I was practically salivating at the prospect of having a shower and attending the lavatory. Our cleaner (yes I draft someone in to assist with the carnage) was due at 1000 and didn’t have a key. Plenty of time.

Nah. The A-bomb was too full of beans to have a nap, until 0950. Knock Knock went the door. It was the cleaner. I was still itching with uncleanliness and busting for the basin, to put it mildly. Without having time to say much more than hello, the scrubbing operative had steamed into the bathroom and I was left knocking my knees, doing a dance like Bert on the rooftops in Mary Poppins.

Eventually the cleaner emerged and I explained that I would be in the shower. If she needed to clean the toilet or shower in the next ten minutes, she was welcome to wash around me. Thankfully it didn’t come to that.

All of this was because the A-bizzle was now too mobile to be left alone and also too obstinate to go to sleep when asked.

She is grounded.

DAY 14 - COFFEE SHOP CONNOISSEURS

BEFORE being a stay-at-home-look-after-the-baby Dad I saw coffee as a means to an end. I liked the stuff and I could tell the difference between a flat white and a cup of instant from the supermarket saver range but its main job was to wake me up and keep me from falling asleep while driving. Most coffee was bought at Service stations on the way to work and I had no real need to frequent a bespoke coffee boutique.

Things have changed somewhat. I've always wondered where the people with fixed impenetrable stares pushing prams were marching to and now I know. This army of mainly women are pounding the streets in search of a coffee shop. Not because they need a caffeine fix, although they probably do if their offspring is an early riser, but because they crave a different setting. Parents who are at home to care for and protect their babies can spend a mentally debilitating amount of time in their own home, possibly even in one room, filled with chattering toys – "The BABY LIKES MILK... DO YOU KNOW YOUR ABCs? I'M A SOFT, AND FLUFFY COW.." – so they bust out of their front doors and search out an establishment to sit it for a drink. It is frowned upon to hit the pubs and bars to neck beers while in charge of a small child.

I am far from bored at home, in fact I'd go as far as to say that I am as excited each day looking after A-bomb as I ever have been at work, however the hunt for coffee (sometimes iced) in surroundings that are not my house is one that I relish on an almost daily basis. I view my fellow pram-pushers not so much as parenting colleagues as co-members of a mass reviewing body ready to cast their quizzical eyes over cafes, coffee shops and eateries any time, any place.

With lots of time on my hands and a wish to stay out of my house for a good few hours, my requirements have gone far beyond the A-road caffeine stop-off. Now, armed with a baby, I demand coffee that is so delicious that I will sip and savour, rather than bolt. I would like a comfortable chair please, not too firm and certainly nothing plastic. It's a given that I need good space for a buggy to fit through – I once had my fingers burnt when a small gap between chairs led to my smashing the front wheel into a table and jolting M'Lady into awake mode. So, excellent coffee, comfy chairs, wide spaces. I'll also be looking for a relaxing ambience, access to reading material and the option of food. If the barista station is close to or part of a place that sells convenient goods such as face wipes, bin liners and surface cleanser then all the better.

Yes Starbucks, Nero and Costa, you may tick a lot of the boxes (possibly with a rating of 6-7 out of 10) but what clientele are you attracting? Does that affect my vibe? Probably. So far I have found that the non-chain and in-house coffee providers at garden centres and small department stores are winning. Of surprise today was the atmosphere and treats offered up at Dunelm – quite the sneaky treasure trove.

Goodness what have I become.