DAY FIVE– Setting Strict Standards

THE weekend had arrived so there were two of us to attend to the lovely girl's demands. Change me. Feed me. Wash me. Hypnotise me to sleep. With a strong double act in operation there would be more time to get the other things done, the nice little touches, like change my pants, feed myself, have a wash and clean the house. Naaah, not a chance.

The Milk Lady made some delicious food (meatloaf) and I tidied the table by moving a pile of papers to a different location on the table. Turns out the Nicompoop has the ability to steal time. You wake at 0650, get ready for a productive day, then it's bed time. Somewhere in the middle you ensure the baby has a great day and you are absorbed in a time machine that roughs you up, smears banana and milk over your clothes and face while slowly chiselling  away at your hygiene standards. 

"Right, that is it!" I exclaimed to L.
"What's up?" she said.
"We need to get back to having a modicum of respect for ourselves", I continued, knowing it was too late. 

I was walking along the landing towards a pile of brimming nappies with a saturated breastpad stuck the bottom of my foot. I thought I'd seen the last of these pesky sour bastards, but no they're back – the Milk Lady is reducing feeds so becomes leaky during the mid-section of the day. Back at the start of November I was a somebody, a big-shot*. Now look at me.

*not really, I just wasn't caked in excrement. 

Somewhere in the day we had an amazing time in the swimming pool with A-bizzle, practising the moves she's been learning at Baby Swimming. While the other families laughed and played in the water we were dunking, belly-flopping and spinning the munchbunch underwater. Aggressive stuff, but she loved it and I needed prep ahead of my first lesson in charge on Wednesday. 

Right, back to my disciplined moisturising regime.

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 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 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.