DAY SIX – GANGSTA BABY

OBVIOUSLY as parents we are hoping our baby is on a path to greatness and will be a world hero in both academia and sport. However, I also hope that our six-month-old protege doesn't yet have the capacity to remember today's car journey.

The household was all packed up in the car, with the essential 15-tonnes of baggage for a quick trip to the park, with A-bomb cruising in the back in her Maxi-Cosi with us parents up front. It was 0900 so perfect for nap time on the move. Noise doesn't tend to bother the "LO" (touching every bit of wood I can see) so the stereo volume was cranked to a rebellious 12 out of 30. It was Sunday and we were rollin'.

Both the Milk Lady and I were "singing" along to a track, which just happened to be playing via my car's CD-player (yes I rock a CD, not an digital wave machine) and it was a good minute before we registered that our completely impressionable baby was also in the car.

I think the precise moment we turned to each other with look of "yeh that's not appropriate for now was when Dre nonchalantly belted out "So ?uck y'all, all o' y'all; if y'all don't like me, %low me!".

If our precious girl was listening up to that point she would've also learnt that if you wrongly doubt someone who has actually proven himself you had "better bow down on both knees". She might have also absorbed the valuable cultural lesson that it was Mr  Dre  (one assumes that he's made consultant by now) that brought us the "oldies" including the excellent toe-tapper "Motha?uck the po-lice".

Despite some serious life lessons being handed out in that gem of a track, it probably was bad parenting to blare it into the our pre-toddler's brain at such a young age.

That said, if my wholly middle-class, won't-wear-outdoor-shoes-indoors wife is known for anything it's her rap skills (should probably be banned for hustling in rapeoke comps) and once Dre had started spitting his rhymes that was it. The window was down* and L fired out Eminem's chorus like the ghetto* mum she is.

"Nowadays everybody wanna talk like they got something to say / But nothing comes out when they move their lips / Just a bunch of gibberish / And ?other*uckers act like they forgot about Dre... ". Poor little munchbunch was being subjected to this, but what can you do? If your Mama comes from Compton or a leafy suburb of Bristol, gangsta will be in your genes as well as your (ironed) jeans.

*up
*John Lewis card-carrier

Never fear, it was back to twinkle twinkle for bed time, albeit the two-step version.

EDINBURGH FESTIVAL WITH A BABY part one

A-bomb waits for her train at King's Cross

IT HAS been a hectic few weeks with lots going on.

I will start the catch up with a debrief on our trip to the world renowned Edinburgh Festival. We try to head up there every year to sample the comedy and culture but obviously this year was the first attempt to do it with a small human.  We knew it would be a case of trial and error. Our feeling was that of all the folk in the world those at The Fringe are up there with the friendliest and most welcoming, so a smiling baby shouldn’t really ruffle too many feathers. We didn’t plan to go to any intense plays that required utter silence.

First up we needed to get to Scotland, from London, which in itself was no simple task. We’d booked well in advance to secure First Class seats near a toilet and an exit from the carriage. M’lady is usually as good as gold but you cannot rule out a backdoor explosion OR a full volume meltdown. We would be departing London at 0800 and arriving in Edinburgh at 1215… so an early wake up, one nap, one milk feed and one solid feed on the train were on the agenda.

0530: wake up and pack my own things and fit into the one suitcase allocated for myself and the Milk Lady

0600: wake the Lady, one hour ahead of the usual schedule. At this interruption she gave mummy one solitary half-smile then was grumpy, which was fair enough. Nobody enjoys having their deep sleep broken and then being having food/milk forced down your neck. I too was miserable but would’ve accepted any food/milk.

Then came the real fun and games. In anticipation of being on a lengthy train journey to Scotland and then out and about without access to boiling water we had invested in the Tommee Tippee Closer to Nature Travel Bottle & Food Warmer (https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tommee-Tippee-Closer-Nature-Travel/dp/B002L3TEN8), which allows you to store boiling water and then use it to warm bottles. A very good bit of kit, when used properly. However, when you haven’t really tested the clever flask out and you’ve poured boiling water into it and packed it away at speed while rushing to get out of the door for 0630, things can and WILL go wrong. With everything packed up we were on for a record wake-to-exit time until the Milk Lady noticed that the flask was leaking. By noticed, I mean scalding water had dripped onto her bare skin. “fiddly dee”, or something similar was her remark. 

What unfolded was a farcical scenario where Mummy and I effectively launched a scorching vessel at each other for a few minutes in an effort to solve the Tommee Tippee conundrum. Somehow we survived without blistered faces and managed to work out that the button should be pressed OUT not IN to prevent water seepage. The change bag took a hit though, with the emergency clothes, nappies and general baby-nonsense saturated. All the while A-bomb was parked up in the buggy in front of the front door*
*The baby was not in the line of fire at any point during the throwing of molten lava. 
Finally we headed of to the tube station. Late. Halfway there (3 minutes of fast walking) and wifey decided that she had left A-bomb’s window open and needed to run back to close it. Off she went, at quite a pace. We pushed on, loaded with all of the luggage, much like a packhorse used to move entire households in rural mountain areas…

Of course when the ML returned, now saturated with sweat as well as flask water, she confirmed that the window had already been closed.
On the tube escalator (no lift at Collier’s Wood) the balancing of buggy, luggage and my the inner rage at what had proceeded was quite a challenge, but all was mitigated by the delicious wind in our faces. 
0715 (felt much later): At King’s Cross station ready for our train. I was playing a lovely hand-grip game with my lovely daughter. She was squeezing my hand and then releasing it while smiling. She was so pleased with herself and I could’ve carried on all day, it was heart-melting. 
0716: A-bomb ditched the hand-grip game. That was boring now. My hand was replaced by Tilikum, her toy whale. 
0730: When the Milk Lady asked if I had packed the baby spoons “because that was part of your list” I replied: “No”.

Oh dear. 
0740: We remained at the platform while Memory Mum zipped off to find spoons in Boots. To be honest, I think she likes to keep busy so it was good for her to have something to do*
*take cover! 
Aaaand relax. We got on the train, took up our seats and set about chilling out. We all congratulated each other on our excellent decision to book into the First Class carriage… “it’s a no-brainer… food, coffee, space, tables” etc... We were those smug people for a couple of seconds. Then we released that A-bomb was accompanying us and although she’s a hero, she does enjoy being noisy and smearing food everywhere. 


1100: Feeding time. 
Obviously, we were in need of some hot water in order to warm up A-bomb’s bottle, but luckily enough the very friendly Virgin train staff were on their way through the carriage to top up everyone’s cups with coffee and tea. My bright idea was to request some hot water from their jug to sustain the baby passenger. I had already had a chat with the staff and they were all smiles and tickles with M’lady so I was hopeful. 
“Any teas or coffees sir?” said the kind Geordie lady.

“Yes please. Also, would it be possible to pour some hot water into this container so that we can warm this bottle?”

“Oooo, I’m not sure about that, dear,” exclaimed the suddenly-very-official stewardess.

“Okaaaay and why is that?” I asked.

“We don’t do that sort of thing I’m afraid.

“Well, you kind of do when you pour tea or coffee – I’d just like the same, but without the tea or coffee added to the water.”

“Oh, let me see if I’ve got enough after I’ve done the rest of the carriage, but I can’t promise anything.”

I added: “I’m happy to get some water from wherever your kettle is but I’m assuming that you won’t allow that.”

“Oooo no, we can’t have boiling water being carried through the train. I will have to see what I can do.”
And with that, the ex-good natured woman was gone, on her duties to feed and water the adults. Meanwhile we had a hungry baby that was not too far away from kicking off in a big way at the lack of correctly-heated milk on offer. 
Managing not to throw a complete wobbly of my own, but quite enraged by nonsense I had been fed, I poured my coffee into the Tommee Tippee vessel and warmed the bottle in my own unorthodox method. I felt like a railway Bear Grylls. 
Moments later the Train Manager – probably a just a few rungs down from Ricky Branson himself – wandered down the aisle. She noticed my empty cup and then the brown liquid heating up the bottle.

“Oh sir, you didn’t need to do that!” she said.

“If you’d have asked one of the members of staff they would have got you some water.”

“I did ask and it wasn’t possible,” I replied, smiling. 
 “The stewardess needed to make sure there was enough coffee and tea for everyone first.”

“But we could fill your flask up in the kitchen,” said the boss.

“Nope. Not until she is finished and it’s too dangerous for me to carry it. Don’t worry we’re fine here.” 

The supremo smiled, apologised and then shot off in the direction of her workforce. One presumes she kicked the old bat out of the moving train. Shame.
To be honest the whole episode was quite comical and entirely predictable given this country’s poor attitude towards babies in public. Thankfully A-bomb was pretty chilled about the whole thing and didn’t mind her drink being a bit on the tepid side of her usual standards. 
On the solid food front we didn’t brave the likes of a lasagne, Bolognese or yoghurt… it was more of a muffin and rice cake affair. Still pretty messy but acceptable. In fact M’Lady’s manners, noise levels and general hygiene were a cut above that of the oversized fellow that joined our table at York. 
Let’s put it this way, the chap hadn’t had a bath for a while and found it a struggle to move his own body when it became wedged under the table. Aside from the reduced space and the overwhelming stench I was happy with this situation because it meant the eyes and noses of the carriage were drawn away from my dependent. 
We arrived in Edinburgh on time, dumped our luggage at one of those locker room places (for an unreasonable fee) and headed to the promised land of The Pleasance Courtyard, one of my favourite places on earth. 
We had made it. Next stop comedy. 
More on the Edinburgh Fringe to follow!

DAY 16 - SOCKS APPEAL

VEST on, dress/romper/T-shirt and trousers on, neckerchief on and socks on. There doesn't tend to be too much fuss about this getting dressed scenario, other than possibly a few squirms when arms are required to go in  arm holes. However, three seconds after it's all done, I'll look back and without fail at least one of the socks will be missing.

In the early days when the pretty socks kept coming off I blamed the foot accessories for being too big. They weren't but I was a wet-behind-the-ears naive new parent. Then as the weeks past I thought that the fact that socks never stayed on A-bomb's feet must be to do with her having slippery skin. Nonsense I know, but as a brand new Dad you struggle to blame your baby for anything, even offensive nappy bombs and urinating over your new carpet

Now though, I know that the little deviant yanks the socks off as part of her plan to chip away at my mental wellness. Today was swimming day, which involves quick changes so that nobody (me or A-bizzle) gets cold post-pool. That all went well and I was feeling pretty smug, then I looked down at her feet. Nowhere to be seen. Another pair of socks lost into the ether.

"So what?" Might say anyone who is not a parent. 
"You lost some socks, big deal."

But there are a few things in play here:
1) If I've put socks on it's because it is cold, so the baby needs them.
2) Socks aren't free, so it's annoying to lose them.
3) The kicking and pulling off of socks is a blatant two fingers up to me, the parent. If this sort of insolence isn't crushed with an iron fist who knows where it will lead. Probably with me on the streets and her in prison.

If I'd have walked out off the swimming changing rooms with no socks on The Lady, I might've been labelled "the dad who wants his daughter's feet to freeze off" or worse, "the dad who forgot his daughter's socks", so I saved face by putting a spare pair on. I always carry a spare pair in the event that the minx tries to show me up.

With the new socks on I fed the girl, put her in the car-seat and went home. The whole way back I could hear A-bomb's mind plotting her next sock move. Needless to say when I unclipped her, one sock was missing. I found it, in the gutter of the car-seat. Kids these days have no respect.

I'm off to buy some elastic bands and super-glue. It's a slippery slope.

If A-bomb doesn't literally and metaphorically pull her socks up I'll have to consider electric shock  therapy, for both of us.

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.