Day Three – Cult Initiation and Mushroom Slugs

JUST a quick one today, mainly because my mind is frazzled from all the activities of a Thursday but also because I've posted a picture and it paints more than a thousand words. That little idiom should be adapted. Or is it a proverb? Whatever, move on. 

Anyway, after refusing to drink an acceptable amount from the Milk Lady at 0700, the producer of bespoke milk plugged herself into the pump. Sexy little number that. Sounds a bit like a hot tub when its motor is running but there's no water in the system, and there's rotten meat clogging up the pipes. BZZZZZJJJJ, BZZZZZZJJJJJ!!!. I speak from experience*. Anyhow, that's just the sound – the actual bit of kit (Medula Swing if you're asking) is quite remarkable and ensures that a) the elixir is not wasted and b) The Producer is not engorged with concrete ballons blown up to her chin and ready to burst (painfully unpleasant by the look and sound of things). 

*of a waterless hot-tub with rotten meat, not having my breasts pumped. 

Mummy went off to work while The Lady and I had a very successful solids session. I ate all of my peanut butter on malt loaf and oat-banana milkshake like a good boy and the A-bomb absolutely demolished a steamed apple, leaving just the skin. She knew it was Thursday and needed the energy stores. After nap time we would be heading to BABY SENSORY. OMG. 

1030 start, always the same. Sleep from 0900 and have a leisurely 12-minute stroll over to the venue. Possibly have a coffee before we start. Naaaah. Not on Alexa's watch. Woke up at 1020, did a lovely smile to melt my heart, stared into my eyes and soiled herself without blinking. A super-quick change was required and a new 800-metre buggy sprint was recorded in order to be on time. There's talk of snooker being let into the Olympics – cancel that and get nappy-change-buggy-sprints in. It's what the fans want. 

I've been to Sensory before, but not as the parent in charge, just as a guest. The different roles bring hugely different levels of responsibility, not so much from the perspective of needing to keep a human alive, but more the being expected to KNOW THE SONGS and understand what the hell the hand gestures correspond to. I parked up my wheels, legged it upstairs and joined the mums on the mat. It's a common theme that all the parents are mums except me and that's not an issue in the slightest, I'm just giving context. Some body shapes and parts are different and that's about it. We all sat around the edges of this big mat with our babies in front of us, all focused on The Leader. I'm sure she has a nice title like Class Teacher but I saw her as The Leader. We started the session with what clearly is the standard opening song to begin proceedings and it was at this point at I realised that I was now part of a cult. Nobody was being asked to sacrifice themselves or do irrational things, but we were definitely in a cult. I nailed the first few lines of the song (obviously brainwashed from my last foray into SENSORY)... "say he-llo to the corn/ shi-ning down on me / I love the corn because de de mmmmm", but then I was lost. I looked around and all of the mums were in a trance, belting out the lyrics and making strange hand signs (probably signals to a higher SENSORY being) towards The Leader. I kept my cool, but was conscious that I was floundering and that if I was outed as a non-singer/non-believer I could be ejected from class or worse, exterminated. As it turned out I lived to sing another day and now simply must learn the words. In fairness the class was excellent with lots of the old classics pumped out of the speakers into the minds of this new generation – you've got your One Finger One Thumb, your Wind The Bobbin Up and the rip-snorting crowd pleaser of a headline number... The Grand Old Duke of York, with real marching around the room and throwing the baby UP on UP, DOWN on DOWN and holding them HALFWAY UP on HALFWAY UP – genius. I actually thought Alexa was going to explode with excitement. Her smile was so big it looked like her giant red cheeks might fall of the side of her face. What a little munch bunch. 

The exit from the class was quite a harrowing experience and one that I'm not quite over yet. As I plodded back down the stairs carrying my daughter I realised that in the hour we'd been closed away some sort of apocalypse had taken place with only feral beasts surviving. Shrill screams filled the air while stampeding creatures rampaged across an arena of chaos. "It's Half Term," whispered one of the mums in a petrified tone. "This is what they become". The venue caters for all ages of children. M'lady needed to be fed but that had to wait. I ran for the nearest shelter; a pub. 

We were safe. 

A long (2.5-hour) sleep at 1330 meant the last feeding session was a fast and furious affair but one that the girl embraced like a true eating champion. First some formula, which was fine. Then came the good stuff: Portobello Mushroom (my dinner), baby corn and chicken strips (my dinner). As usual she stripped the corn with gusto, coughed a bit but dealt with it. The chicken was sucked to oblivion. Then came the mushroom, which I had had my doubts about because plenty of grown adults hate mushrooms, citing reasons of texture, squeakiness or not liking the idea of eating fungus. Kind of fair points. No drama here though. She piled in as much as she could and would not stop gumming it for a good five minutes. By the time she was bored with the dark item it resembled a rather dishevelled slug. Quite often I hoover up the remains of Alexa's plate/table as extra tummy treats for myself but I'll level with you, I passed on the sluggy shroom. 

It was time to get hosed down and go to bed. 

DAY FOUR – TWO DADS, Yoga and the Knowing Nod

*Since the time of writing, my main inspiration in life, Muhammad Ali, has died. His legend will live on and many of his lessons will be passed on to my little girl, mainly to be confident, be yourself and never let someone write you off.*

TODAY was a big day for the A-Bomb because she found out that she actually has TWO Dads. I was in the living room with her, just doing a bouncy bouncy fun fun fun fun kind of jig (like Pooh's mate Tigger), with The Lady over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, when it dawned on her that she has not one but two Dads. They don't often appear together but when they do, they are in very close proximity and they always wear the same clothes. Both are legendary creatures. Yes, the lovely lady lost her mind with excitement when she looked in the mirror and saw me. She could see the funny bloke who now looks after her not only from one direction in front of her face but also from her other side. This was a good half hour's fun and something I will probably go back to everyday until she works the magic out.

It was also a significant day for me because I was accepted into two more groups, one conventional and one that has no sign-up form and no formal acceptance procedure. There's not even a weird tickly handshake like that adopted by some secret societies.

In order to stick with the routine of the 0900 nap time I headed out to our Baby Yoga class in Tooting with plenty (too much) time to get there. Due to my hugely early arrival and with the baby in a deep sleep, complete with old-man snoring, I decided to go for a coffee in Nero. As I went to spin my three-wheeled vehicle round to take it in backwards a man sprinted towards the door to grab it and provide easy passage for me. I looked up, rather surprised at the kind gesture, to see the gent was with a 2-ish-old daughter. I said "thanks very much" and he looked at me intensely and replied "No, it's ok" and nodded knowingly. It was a very brief encounter but the loving pain etched in nice chap's weary skin told the whole story: "You are one of us now it growled wisely: it is a universal struggle to smash through doorways that are too narrow; keep a child asleep as a rude ambulance blares past unannounced; to know exactly why your child has gone from the happiest to the saddest person on the planet in a nanosecond; and to remember to ALWAYS wipe from front to back when, as a male you've never heard of that rule before". Lots of information in one smiley frown. I was in the society of Dads now and I was pleased.

We got to Baby Yoga (run by Northcote Baby) in good time and was able to chill out with the heffalump for a while. She didn't fancy any pre-exercise food and was content to rest up in her armchair, like a trucker on a tea break.

Rocking the Bonds Australia Wondersuit

Of all the classes The Milk Lady has signed us up for this one is the most focused on the parent, while completely incorporating the baby, which is brilliant. You basically do a decent yoga class while carrying or at least keeping eye contact with your little one. The instructor Siobhan Power, owner of Calmer Kids Yoga, certainly knows her stuff and while keeping things very relaxed, pushes participants to achieve difficult poses. I did have to mention at one point that she was demonstrating with a 10g dolly, while I was being asked to hold a 10-ish-Kg dead weight above my head in the "warrior" pose. I've had a word with my lumpy daughter and she'll be going on a strict slimming diet from tomorrow* so as not to make me look weak.  The babies all loved it too and they showed their gratitude in their own special ways... by stamping heels aggressively into the floor, falling asleep and chucking up over the mats. Alexa's sign of approval was a new move that I'm calling the SNURPART, which took place during the post yoga feed and involved her sneezing at the exact moment she was burping while simultaneously doing a fart, which on later inspection was confirmed as a shart. I was pleased she liked the class and ecstatic to be showered in sneeze-milk. Another class done and another group that had accepted me for what I am, a human parent. 

*that was a joke – I'm feeding this one up to have the tastiest thighs ever known. Any suggestion that babies should lose weight she be met with spoonful of shut the hell up.

Any uncertainty we might have had regarding the amount of food that she is actually taking down has been blown away by the evidence of this morning's nappy. That 0850 pre-nap nappy change was quite the spectacle. She blasted out her waste with such force that it shot up the back of the nappy and lodge on her white vest – it was a fully formed piece of baby corn. I have a picture but I thought that might be a but much for this medium.

On the food front today we had: 
Breakfast – one-egg omelette, which went down very well.
Dinner – Sweet potato chunks and baby corn – looking forward to seeing that in its next life.
All in all another marvellous, poo and pride-filled day.

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.

DAY EIGHT – The Lady Enjoys a Bath

SOMEHOW I managed to screw up the porridge fingers for breakfast, which meant I felt bad for M'Lady and was obliged to steam up some apple. 3 Tbsp of Oats, 3 Tbtsp of milk cooked for 2 minutes is not a tough instruction, but disappointingly I will not be picking up a Michelin star anytime soon. The first course was like cardboard that had been left in a drying chamber for a few years. There were no real complaints from the LO, just a simple pushing of said oats onto the floor. The hold up with the food meant a delay in nap-time and thus me being concerned that the sleeping pattern had been destroyed... she was supposed to be asleep at 0900 and at 0920 she wasn't even in her sleeping bag. Oh the shame!

With the margin for giant error so small I was mildly panicked but I needn't have worried. The girl decided that given the waiting around and extra chewing that was forced upon her she deserved a lie in. For her 45-minute to 1-hour nap, she was zonked out of for 2.5 hours. Apparently she writes her own rules these days.

Another car trip followed – this time see my work colleagues. Once again the circus performer turned on all the charm and put on a full display of rolls, noises and wide-eye gazing to gain the trust of the audience.

Plenty of "tummy time" (known as Front Drills in this house) and  practising sitting up took place once we were home. We're both getting pretty good now.

Then came bath time, which always goes down well. The Milk Lady was back from work in time to take on the role of chief entertainer, while I was more of an assistant-to-the chief; a sous sponger if you will. Initially it was a standard smiley affair with splashes and some giggling, but then somebody flicked a switch in the nutcase and she could not contain herself. I'll give L her due, she earnt her enterainment fee on this occasion.Who would have thought that "AAAAAAH Peeeyoooo" could be so hilarious?! Here is how it played out

Daddyshortlegs Blog Bathtime

It wasn't the usual winding down process before bedtime but, sometimes, when you've got the crowd (6-month old) onside, you've got to keep providing the clever material they crave (aaaah peeeeyooo) and give them a night to remember. As a top act your shelf life is short. One minute you're the go-to performer, winning laughs at the drop of a soft, crinkly hat and the next you're washed up on the scrap heap alongside half-chewed oats and spat-out carrots.

Let's see what the munchbunch plonker finds funny tomorrow...

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 12 - TOTALLY RELAXED, BUT FOLLOW THESE EXACT RULES

TODAY the Milk Lady and I attended the wedding of two of our good friends, which meant leaving the A-bomb in the capable hands of my brother-in-law, K, and his wife, R.  It wasn't the first time we've handed over control to others, as both sets of our parents have had a stint in the hot seat, but that didn't mean there wasn't a lot of preparation involved.

I would say that we're pretty chilled out as far as being in charge of a human baby goes. I mean we don't panic every five seconds that she's not developing in line with guidelines for elite specimens or burst into tears if she hasn't mastered a Mozart piece by her second attempt. When it comes to eating solids and getting messy, I would suggest that we are relaxed.

However, when the carers arrived at the prescribed time of 0930 – one hour and fifteen minutes before our listed departure – and we talked them through a dossier of how to look after our kid, it became quite apparent that we run a pretty tight (oppressive?) ship.

"Yeh, the thing is guys, she's a good baby and won't cause you any bother. Just have a fun day – feed when she seems hungry and put her to sleep when she seems tired," we said, with an air of nonchalance.

"And by that, I mean feed her at 1100, 1500 and after bath time which is at around 1815 (exactly 1815). Her next solids session is at 1600."

There were questions from the kind couple on things like when to change nappies and what to do if A-bomb doesn't sleep. Again our "relaxed" response didn't really paint us out as laid back parents...

"Just change her when she seems irritable or if she smells," we said.

"But if you refer to the specific page in the document it says to change nappies before and after each nap as well as if there is sign of turd, this will give you a minimum of of five changes.

"At sleep time sing some some songs, read a book and do whatever you want to send her off."

R interjected: "So we just sing any songs and calm her down?"

"You must sing Twinkle Twinkle three times in a row then put her down. If she cries, do a couple more Twinkle Twinkles. If you are still struggling, which would be rare, go into the 'Ssssshhh' techniques coupled with deep squats."

It clearly was not the chilled out liberal approach to parenting that we had fooled ourselves into thinking we were offering.

The thing is though, purely from the perspective of two parents of a baby girl that sleeps very well, eats like a champion and is healthy, our (apparently strict) regime works, for us.

On arrival back home from the wedding with a few sherberts under our belts we were told that the lovely munchbunch had behaved herself and had slept pretty well... because they had followed our guidelines.

It's not rocket science people... get a schedule in place and stick to it, within the realms of possibility. It is certainly not an exact science and watches should not be synchronised.

With a solid plan in place (yes, maybe like a regimented briefing system), we can hand the baby to a family or friends and it should be happy days.

Lovely stuff.

DAY 11 – Bright Baby Smiles Always Help

WE returned to Baby Yoga today and were given plenty of poses to wake up the muscles. You certainly know when you've been in a class... "warrior" pose while holding onto a baby, especially a monster baby, is no easy task. Try throwing doing a sun salutation with 10kg kettle bell wriggling in your arms. Go on! Straight after the class I gave the A-bomb the rest of her milk then headed for my hometown to see my parents and family.

Unfortunately our visit was borne out of bad news. It was my uncle's funeral. I had thought about taking M'Lady to the service but decided that it was unfair on her to request silence and no moving for an hour. I'm not sure she would've obeyed those polite commands. I also felt that the funeral service was a time to focus purely on my uncle, to celebrate his life and reflect on his legacy – not to listen to the excited garglings of a baby too young to understand what was happening. I was fortunate to be able to leave the munchbunch with my brother's fiance for the duration of the ceremony. As usual she behaved herself. Good girl, she earned her dinner. 

No funeral is a happy affair. However some do mark the end of a long life with members of the congregation leaving the ceremony with a sense of "he/she had a good innings". I must say that this was not one of those events. My uncle had lived a great life, made lots of people happy, enjoyed himself and now leaves behind a loving family, but he wasn't finished. He had more things to do. He had many more goals to achieve. This was was one of the unfair ones.

I had planned to collect my baby immediately after the service and shoot straight back down the motorway to beat the Friday traffic and have her home in time for bath time and bed. I changed my mind though. On seeing the rosy-cheeked ball of smiles, so oblivious to the harsh, sometimes awful nature of the real world I decided that I needed to take her for a quick trip to the pub, to see the family. If there is one thing a baby can do it's brighten up a room (or beer garden).

Of course, every day is filled with proud moments for parents of babies. Wow, they blew a bubble; OMG they did another mustard poo; quick look, they splashed me in the bath. All genuinely incredible, memorable things. But today, taking The Lady to The Admiral Cunningham pub to see my family members in their moment of real grief was a true proud event. For a couple of minutes, as she bounced around on my arm, my smiley girl beamed some sunshine into what was a grim day for the relatives and close friends of my uncle. I told the girl that she did a good job but she just laughed and motioned that it was time for sleep and time to return to the Milk Lady.

It was a grey day and one that highlighted the fragility of life. Thankfully, A-bomb, starting out on her own journey was there to provide some gummy smiles.