The Night Before DAY ONE (Shared Parental Leave)

JUST over six months ago a baby girl landed in my life. It wasn't by magic, my wife did a fairly remarkable job in delivering the little lady (not little - 9lb 8oz), but the whole whirlwind of emotions, sloppy excrement and "must-have" items came and went in a surreal blur. Now, after seven months of maternity leave, my other half aka "the milk lady" is returning to full-time, five-days-a-week work. As she dons her work clothes I will be hanging mine up and replacing them with a splash-proof all-in-one coverall outfit in preparation for feeding times. From May 31 until October 3 I will be on Shared Parental Leave, which means I take over looking after our lovely lady. I am very, very excited. 

It must be said at this point that The Milk Lady (her actual name is Lauren, but that's old news) has done a sensational job up to this point and I am well aware that although mother and daughter have had a lot of fun, I'm tagging in just as things start getting really interesting... eating solids, rolling, crawling etc. The sleep pattern is well established, the weekly routine is pretty solid and all in all my baby girl is a very happy, smiley and chilled out entertainer. I get it – I'm being handed a dream and I must accept that the first bit was the tough bit. 

Sure... so when M'lady walks, talks and catches a ball in her teeth after landing a backflip three weeks from now I will definitely credit all of the work that went before. Definitely. When she reads her first Roald Dahl at the age of 8 months, I'll absolutely say "That was because of Mummy's amazing preparation". Definitely.


I plan to log my daily progress with the Stinkbomb on here. I will also write about experiences up to this point – the NCT classes, the birthing process, the baptism of fire with health visitors at my door, the purchasing of baby items etc. However, as I have come to learn, the usual rules about deadlines tend to go out of the window when the baby is in play so sometimes through no fault of my own, I may get a bit behind with updates (Blame the little person!). These days best intentions come below mustard turds in the order of priorities. 

Hopefully you will keep returning to read how the messy adventure pans out. Feel free to comment and share. I now have a baby but I am still yet to have a troll...

Let's get this new regime started! 

Day One - A Vom, a Blowout and the wrong time

GIVEN that Alexa – that's M'lady's name – is a pretty good sleeper one can only assume that she knew what was about to go down; a transition from delicious bespoke milk sucked from a comfortable private tap to generic powder stuff delivered by a bottle. Rather than crack on with her usual 1900 to 0700 sleep, with perhaps a quick 0500 feed, the little stinker decided to sound the alarm at hourly intervals throughout the night. Full pitch wailing like never before. The girl is not a crier, so I can only surmise that this was some sort of noisy protest against the change of carer. That, or she had a cold and was very uncomfortable when laid flat. Totally fine when held upright, but unhappy flat. In the grand scheme of things it wasn't a big deal but this wasn't the plan. She was supposed to smile all the way through to the send-off of Mummy, with me painted as the hero. Instead, everyone was tired and a bit miserable. Actually, that's not true... the nincompoop baby slept in until 0730 to catch up on some shut-eye, delaying her Mum's breastfeed and thus departure for work, while I was just plain awake.

Thanks to the splendid efforts of the Milk Lady the A-bomb was exclusively breast-fed until about a week ago, when we tested out formula as well as starting the weaning-onto-food process. The plan from now is to give her the gold-standard milk from Mumma in the morning and evening, while I provide bottled formula and solids during the day.  This is very much an ideal and if it doesn't work out due to breast milk supply drying up or timings not working out, then so be it. As an aside, before I am lynched by the Milk Mob or labelled as a white-shirted activist for the The Breastapo, I hasten to add that I fully appreciate that breastfeeding is very tough and absolutely not for everyone – we have been very lucky that the latch was established early doors and things have gone well. When I say "we", I mean we are pleased for our daughter, not "we" have been breastfeeding. At this stage I have neither imbibed nor supplied breast milk. Glad that's clear. Phew. 

Post-feed it was nearly time to send off the adult of the house to earn a crust. I had a motivational goodbye speech ready. But first: 

"Where's my work pass? Is it in your car? Did you bring my jacket in? I bet it's in there. Can you check?!". Things were delayed. 

Not a problem. While my darling wife continued her own search by kicking the walls I put our little one (LO in forum speak – yeh i'm down with the Mumsnet lingo) down on her play mat and dashed out into the rain to hunt for the ID card. No luck, but I was sure I'd be crowned a champion for even attempting to brave the elements in my flip-flops. 

"Did you leave her on her front?" asked the female who knows how to speak. 

"Yes – tummy time..." was my response. 

"I wouldn't do that straight after a feed," added Wifey while pointing to the result of a projectile vomit onto her lovely red work dress. 

"Ah, good point. Soz."

Despite the setback of the worker having to change into a new dress, spirits remained high. My Churchillian speech was seemingly not needed as Lauren skipped off to the office to crunch some numbers and crush some skulls (no idea what she had lined up to be honest).

So, 0830 came round and it was time for round one of Daddy-led-baby-led-weaning with porridge fingers followed by banana on the menu (see bottom for recipes). As always we ate together but I'm not a neanderthal so I went for the more upmarket chopped bananas on a bed of porridge oats, heated in milk. As is the norm the fat-legged monster girl forced the good stuff into her mouth, swallowed the small bits she liked and gobbed the rest back out, before picking it up again, wiping it on her face and smearing it on her plastic eating outfit. I am genuinely looking into manufacturing adult versions of these eating coveralls, not X-rated versions for food perverts (although probably a decent market), but outfits to wear when eating the likes of ribs, soup and general slop. No doubt these already exist in America but I digress. The girl didn't choke. She was a star. 

0900- nap time. Always the same. Nope, not today. Today 0900 was Turd O'Clock. Not an issue... A couple of wet wipes and a rolled up nappy later and we were back in action. Vest on, Summer sleeping bag zipped up, three rounds of Twinkle Twinkle, a few sssshhhhs and she was out. Lovely stuff. 

She woke up giggling at 10am, fully refreshed. I dressed the lovely girl in a cute vest with "tuesday" on the front, an ironic T-shirt eblazoned with "Troublemaker" and some fetching stripy trousers. Then she played on the mat with her current favourite light-flashing gizmo. For now the "soft and fluffy cow" that repeatedly exclaims "THE BABY LIKES MILK... TIME TO COUNT... DO YOU KNOW YOUR ABCs?!" is on the back-burner. Real shame. Hope the high-pitched freak-show remerges soon, I really do. 

1100- Inhaled a full bottle of formula milk. Easy this baby business. Too easy. I'll probably crack on with some DIY, cut the grass and do dinner before lunchtime, I thought. 

1115 - BOOM. Not so much a strained face, more a raised eyebrow and knowing smirk preceded the megaturd. A toe-to-neck job. A complete blow-out. Farewell pretty outfit. You're wearing a bin liner from now on my lovely. 

It was time to take stock. The delicious little ball of podge was mugging me off and I needed to strike back with force. 

That bit wasn't true. This isn't a dire Mockney Gangster flick. She's a six-month-old baby – they do giant, yellow poos. If you're lucky they'll be seeds in it. If you strike the jackpot you'll get chunks of sweet potato. 

1230- walk in pram (more to follow in a later post on our choice of wheels). M'lady LOVES a sleep on the move so she was out for the count for a good 2 hours here. Spot on. 

1400 - my first foray into the NCT group's off-the-cuff play-date/coffee meet-ups. Yes, I've been drafted into an elite Whatsapp group of Mums (now plus me) who keep each other sane. It's been a brain-saver for the girls, so I've fully signed up to whatever they get up to. Obviously there is already a strict schedule in place, but the group will be great for the 20 minutes spare time i've got in the week around Baby Swimming, Baby Sensory, Baby Massage, Baby Yoga, Baby Mensa, Baby Powerlifting and Baby Bricklaying*.  

*some of those were not real things.

Anyway that was pretty much it. More milk was drunk at 1500 and a later than planned solid meal of sweet potaoe, baby corn and asparagus was taken at 1630. Mummy was home for bathtime at 1815. The baby girl was asleep at 1900. 

Now, I must confess that at one point during the day I looked at my phone's clock and it said "1651" and I thought "wow this day is going quickly and I am nailing it" and I fully accepted that it was the real time. An hour later I realised that for some reason my phone was showing the time for Jiangxi, China, which is SEVEN hours ahead of London. Clearly my mind has already turned to garbage.

Anyway, Day One was done, the baby is still laughing and I have survived, albeit with a few bits of slurry in my fingernails. 

Recipes for today: 

- Porridge fingers: 3 Tbsps real oats, 3 Tbsps whole milk, mush up in a cup. Microwave for 2 mins, cut into fingers 

- cut up banana into 4 chunks

- Oven cooked sweet potato cut into thick chunks 

-Griddle fried baby corn 

-Griddle fried asparagus 

Day Two – Cementibix, Squeezing Pins and Perks of the Job

THE day began with me beaming with pride, not because my darling had hit some sort of milestone like flipping from her back to her front (which she cannot do) or because I'd been accepted on the list for Baby Sensory, but because I had found time to have a full wash. While the Lady rested her eyes for a whole extra 15 minutes I launched myself into the shower and used at least two squeezes of body-silk shower gel – luxury. I reckon I washed at least 3mm of mould from skin. Ding Ding it was going to be a good day. 

At the close of play on Day One I had arranged that I would drive from London to Brighton to meet my parents at a caravan site they were staying at. Very exciting indeed. From past experience of packing several suitcases to venture to the shops across the road I was aware of the logistical obstacles that I needed to conquer in order to escape to the seaside... but I was willing to try my luck. The famous "change bag" was pre-loaded with the mandatory EIGHT nappies, feeding materials, numerous changes of clothes, backup toys/distraction devices and various tactical items such as nail clippers and drugs (Calpol – seal yet to be broken). I'm yet to find an umbrella with a parrot on the end, but I have suspicions that this bottomless Red Longchamp carrier has been stolen from Mary Poppins. So, the bag was packed; the buggy was ready to load into the car (more to add on this in a later post on KIT); a duffle bag with outdoor baby rugs was prepared and I had a chair packed for me (I'm not standing while the little chump sits there being waited on!). I was all set. Now to feed the fat-legged smiler. 

It was not to be a gourmet breakfast... sorry about that A-bomb but we had places to be. There were the standard ice-cream cone bananas to start and one Weetabix covered with a bit of milk. Never fear... I'm not handing actual ice-cream to the baby, I just leave the banana skin on with the fruit poking out of the top – better grip for little hands (not my idea, the idea of a very good book that I will credit another time). Last time I offered up Weetabix I didn't add enough milk and it was like watching a toothless pensioner try to eat a piece of crumbly concrete, so in my wisdom I added more milk. "I'll add enough milk to lubricate the food but not too much so that she can still hold it," I thought, sagely. I don't own a buzzer like they have on quiz shows for when a contestant gets things wrong, but if I did it would have sounded at the end of that thought. EEE-ORRR. In the 2 seconds it took for me to spoon some porridge into my own mouth Alexa had created a ball of the cereal matter in her shovel hands and smeared it all over her face, into her hair and into her ears. It was like some sort of sick dirty protest. Although, I think she ate a bit of it (huzzah). As connoisseurs of Weetabix will know, once dried on any surface it becomes Cementibix and takes some serious wire-brush scrubbing to remove it. Apparently it's not acceptable to wire-brush your kid's face while hosing them down with a pressure washer. While I toiled away with a wimpy wet wipe I saw my baby's face say "how's your early leave to Brighton going, bucko?”. Whatever. 

Ahead of jumping in the car I was right to suspect that a sneaky turd had been laid. Being the caring parent I am I decided to change M'lady instead of letting her sink into the car seat with sewage rising up and out of her collar as the journey progressed. I'm a good guy. I'm always a keen inspector of the faeces on show as it’s an excellent indicator of what food has been eaten and how well the baby/human is. This was textbook stuff – medium size, mustard, seeded. First class. While wiping up I realised that I was singing "The seeded poo do what you don't dare do" to the tune of Prodigy's Voodoo People. That was a new one. Adaptations of songs feature heavily throughout days but that’s for another post. 

She slept for 1.5 hours to Brighton. Ideal as the journey was during her morning nap time. Well planned me. 

In Brighton, the lady beamed at Nanny and Granddad for a number of minutes. They hadn't even put on a show. Just sitting there, being nice to her, getting easy laughs. Out of order. 

It was at this point that I made an interesting comment about the good amount of storage space in the new caravan. Everyone nodded. I opened one of the many drawers and saw what I assumed was a baby toy. I can only assume that all parents, especially when in charge of 0-3-year-olds test out any new plaything/gadget to see what it offers... is it a shaker, does it rattle, does it squeak etc. My first test is always for a squeak. Naturally I squeezed the toy from the drawer. It looked like a squashy person with a smiley face wearing an apron. Guess what? It wasn't a toy, it was a pin-cushion, full of pins. "Oh that's a pin cushion, from your Auntie," my mother helpfully pointed out after I had crushed a number of mini spears into my palm. "Oh yeh, that's nice," I replied calmly. "I thought it was a toy – I was checking for the squeakaaaaaaaaaah". 

We strolled down to the marina for some lunch. Lovely. For what it's worth Brighton is very hilly and rather than using cars, motorbikes or your legs, I'd suggest the best mode of transport is by kite land-board – the place is like a wind-tunnel. No big deal but the buggy was nearly airborne a few times, with my Mum on the end of it. Well held! 

Back at the caravan, with the windows and doors sealed, an awful stench filled the sealed container. It caused a reaction of debilitation that I'd imagine people might have when under chemical attack. "Blimey, Alexa must need changing again," my Dad exclaimed. "Yeh, seems like it!" I said. I knew she didn't. I knew where the toxic smell had come from. Sometimes the perks of being a Dad have to be taken. 

And then we went home. 

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 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 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 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 50 – CLASSICAL CULTURE

WITH Baby Sensory done and both M'Lady and I managing to evade capture by The Leader we found ourselves at a loose end on a Thursday. To stay at home having some sort of one-on-one coffee/milk morning would have been odd so luckily we received a message from our very in-the-know friend, Rosie.

Rosie is in possession of a 19-month-old (basically a grown-up), so is a seasoned professional on the baby circuit, which is a kind of stock exchange that lives online, in word-of-mouth and on noticeboards at places you probably don't know about (because you're not in-the-know). It's where sales and events spring up every second of the day and will be snapped/booked up in a flash... so you need to be on your game, if you want the good stuff.

So, thanks to our lady with a finger on the pulse, we had a hot ticket the biggest gig in town at 1030 on a Thursday – Bach to Baby: Swooning Bassooning at St Mary's Church in Putney (www.bachtobaby.com). The church was merely the setting... nothing religious here. 

At the beginning there was a dramatic hand-waving from the main man (I assume he had an official title such as lead tenor but I didn't catch it) in an attempt to hush the audience. It didn't work. Babies were still gurgling, burbling and crying and parents were still whispering. I hasten to add that I was complete silence per the instructions. At his point I was thinking "Ok mate, you've got an audience of predominately babies... this is as quiet as it's going to get so just crack on" and then he insisted on giving his silencing wave, with arms outstretched, another shot. I'll give it to him, it worked and if he learnt nothing else at classical music school, it was worth it. With silence achieved the acclaimed Bassoonist, Christopher Rawley and pianist Dominic John got to work. 

The opening piece was Gabriel Pierne's Solo de Concert and from the first blow of the double-reeded instrument all of the kids' eyes were transfixed on the musicians. I had expected the youngsters to be interested but this was amazing, like a hypnotism. Of course, the spell only lasted about one minute before the business of crawling, dribbling and dropping sippy cups resumed. 

The expert musicians rattled through a few more pieces, including Godfrey's Lucy Long, Mozart's Bassoon Concerto (2nd Movement, Andante ma adagio) and Debussy's Pour Les Arpeges Composes. This was a cut above the CD of Twinkle Twinkle and the attempt at a Broadway version of Incey Wincey Spider that I had become accustomed to on a Thursday...

One pointer I might suggest though, as someone with zero accomplishment with any musical instrument (unless you're counting my voice of a husky angel), would be to shorten the arrangements in order to harness the attention spans of the very young audience. It seemed that at the beginning of each composition the children came to life, excited and engaged, but after a minute or so they were drawn elsewhere. A four-minute piece from a bassoon was asking a bit much of an eight-month-old. However, this was only my first time and the Back to Baby series seems to be doing okay for itself with sold-out bookings everyday all over London including Buckingham Palace, so they can probably take or leave my advice. 

As well as the music there were some educational snippets about classical music and how the instruments work dished out for the adults (and the super bright babies). My favourite fact of the day was that Bach didn't actually write any music for the bassoon after he found himself in an unsavoury punch-up with a bassoonist. 

For the last couple of minutes of the performance the musicians took Nursery Rhyme requests from the floor. My shout out for Ba Ba Black Sheep was snapped up with gusto and belted out by the trio of bassoonist, pianist and singer. What happened next left me baffled... the parents on the other side of the auditorium to me were asked to choose the next nursery rhyme and the response from every single one was "we can't think of any". Now, that is simply unacceptable. I thought it was the law for every parent in the land to have a catalogue of songs to sing on loop for their babies. Maybe Putney is too posh for nursery rhymes... "No darling we don't do Twinkle Twinkle, we do Dvorak's Song to the Moon". Never fear, Rosie stepped in to save the day with a request for the classic Grand Old Duke o York, which was brought to life by our woodwind leader.  

Overall, this was an excellent activity for both parents and babies! 

The inspiration from the music stayed with me for the rest of the day, so much so that when I was in Sainsbury's on a quick trip to buy four very specific items for the Milk Lady, I found myself singing (too loudly) in a Gnarl's Barkley kind of style:

Double Creeeeeam, Lemons,
Fresh Tarr-a-gooooon.  
And dooooonchooooo  forget that washin' up Li-quiiiiid. 

Then later, in the lift, I was singing my old favourite to A-bomb: 

She's a Stinkbomb Lady, 
Doin' Stinky plopsies. 
She's a Stinkbomb Lady, 
Doin' Stinky plopsies.

The shame was that while singing my bluesy verse with my head in the buggy a rather sweaty woman in ill-fitting leggings had walked through the lift doors. I looked up and knew that the crease-faced shopper had heard me. It was a long 10 seconds descending to the ground floor. Nothing was said but we both knew that although my song was not aimed at her, the woman could've done with a spray of deodorant. 

That wasn't being mean, it was just a fact of life.

DAY 42-48 – Bitesize Bits Of A Whistlestop Week

SINISTER FACE ON THE MONITOR

IN a bid to get back up to date with what is happening in the present rather than chasing my tail, (sweaty work in this heat) out of the past, I am going to run through the highlights/lowlights of the past week with brief comments. Think of this post like that excellent publication The Week but with a focus purely on my eight-month-old rather than world politics, current affairs and culture.

Monday (Day 42):
Made the Lady an omelette with cream cheese, which went down very well. The lunchtime sleep was going nowhere, with A-bomb staring wide-eyed at me while sniggering, so I launched her out of her cot and straight into the pram. It was a snap decision so I hadn't given much thought to my attire or where I was headed. Ten seconds after turning left out of my house the dry air turned decidedly wet as the heavens opened up. The monsoon lasted a good ten minutes, which was more than enough time to make sure that every thread of my white T-shirt had stuck to my skin and that my shorts had become almost impossible to walk in. As I waddle-sprinted to the nearest shopping area two helpful women covered in tattoos and smoking roll-ups offered: "You've gone see-through darlin'". 

"Many thanks," I answered. 

Tuesday (Day 43): 
Breakfast of frozen fruit and oats for me and porridge fingers for M'lady. Porridge fingers dipped in fruit/oat smoothie was a real crowd-pleaser.
Created a gladiator-esque arena around A-bomb's play-mat using cushions. It was an attempt to prevent her mounting a rolling escape. Worked a treat. I could sense that the girl was already plotting a new route out of the room though so watch this space.
Developed a new move that involves clicking fingers while singing like a maniac. The inaugural showing of this was to "Burn Baby Burn", which was playing on the radio. Click-dancing could become a"thing".


Wednesday (Day 44
Swimming. M'Lady's favourite. Managed to dive of the giant float and give a big smile

Thursday (Day 45)
Last visit to Baby Sensory... it was not very good. Essentially singing at the kids for 45 minutes, with a few breaks to shake bells in their faces. Maybe The Leader's mind is on the next subjects.
Lunch at a lovely awesome restaurant (the Belgian Brasserie – www.belgianbrasserie.com) before rushing home to get the girl to sleep before our afternoon rendezvous with a photographer.
A friend of one of the NCT gang is getting into professional photography of families and children so we were just offering some models in exchange or some smart images. I'm yet to see the pictures but I imagine the will be great, even the one of all our babies falling backwards into a flower bed.



Friday (DAY 46)
Last visit to Baby Yoga run by the fabulous http://northcotebaby.com/  Lots of focus on the baby this time rather than asking us to hold a 10kg weigh above our head for minutes on end, which was not bad thing.
Sadly we won't be re-joining the yoga class next term just because it's time to find new activities... and she weighs too much to complete each class. For any parents of newborns up to eight-ish months
On returning home, M'Lady went to sleep super-quick and was well and truly out for the count.
Half an hour later I checked the monitor to see how she was getting on. At this point I think I lost my lunch and actually shouted in shock. On the screen, instead of a sleeping daughter I was faced with a man with a hat on. It was the scariest thing I've ever seen. It
turns out that I had moved the camera by accident using the remote control buttons and the camera was facing a box (Scatch Head), which has a man in a hat on the front.


Saturday (DAY 47
A new party trick: Wait for Daddy to fill plastic bowl with natural yoghurt, watch Daddy put bowl on high-chair tray, smash fist into tray so that whole bowl flips in the air and lands the right way up on video, while showering me with aforementioned yoghurt.

 Sunday (DAY 48) 
A-bomb attended (www.spartanfitnesslondon.co.uk) and played on the mats provided. 
It was a return to moving like an animal and the plethora of bodyweight moves for the NUNS netball team.

DAY 33 – ICE TRAINING (MINI MILK)

 

AFTER a very English medium-to-average morning of drizzly weather the sun decided to put its hat on and come out to play, which was lucky because we had arranged to have a barbeque, with a few friends coming over. It was to be M'Lady's first foray into outdoor cooking. Well, it is frowned upon to actually ask babies to take up the tongs, but you know what I mean. 

Homemade burgers, amazing sausages from Chadwicks Butchers (www.chadwicksbutchers.com) and the famous (in our house) Milk Lady potato salad all went down very well, especially with the munchbunch kid who very much enjoyed her al fresco highchair. Despite being a decent distance from the Weber grill A-bomb did seem to have ash in her hair but we'll skim over that detail because at no point was she on fire. Pat on the back for all the adults.

Spirits were high, meat had been inhaled, prosecco/beers had been supped and all was right with the world. "Shall we give her a mini milk!" exclaimed the jubilant Milk Lady, drunk on life. 

"Could do," I said, with some reservations. I was wary of plying the girl with too much delicious stuff in case of refusal to eat the garbage that we'd like her to eat (courgette balls) on other days. 

Out came the beautiful strawberry creation and immediately our darling started pawing for the dreamy dessert. At first I held the wooden stick and stroked the soft ice over her lips. The result was immediate elation. Much like the ice-cream of a few days ago, in her joyous delirium A-bomb was unsure what to do with herself and started kicking her legs uncontrollably while trying to swipe the Mini Milk from my grasp. Again I pushed it towards her mouth but this time she wasn't accepting my control – she wanted to feed herself, which is exactly how we've been teaching her to do things.

I pressed the nincompoop's fingers around the wooden stick. She was so excited to have more of this unbelievably tasty "food" in her mouh.  I have no idea if this is unique to our my child or whether it is a phenomenon with all babies but M'Lady insists on holding food at the point which she wants to eat it. This is fine with a rooom temperature or slightly warm item, but not so pleasant if dealing with a block of ice. 

She grabbed the ice and recoiled. She tried again and winced. She grabbed it one more time and then refused to let go, because she needed to eat it. It was the ultimate dilemma: It is so delicious that I must eat it but it is so cold that my fingers are numb and I am in real pain. 

In my job as a defence journalist I have written about many military tests and this feat of endurance that A-bomb was putting herself through was not dissimilar to the Ice Plunge that soldiers undertake in Norway as part of their Cold Weather Warfare package. I will hand it to her, she was determined. 

However, the whole thing was actually quite harrowing because we had created this situation and we now had a very upset baby girl, who desperately wanted to taste more Strawberry Mini Milk (who wouldn't?) but also wanted to maintain the feeling in her hands. For a seven-month old that is too much to think about and led to a momentary breakdown.

After a few minutes of real tears and trying to feed the dessert to her without success the executive decision to call off the torture had to be taken. It was bath time and the outdoor disaster had to stop. 

Luckily the stinkbomb seemed to forget about the sad time by the minute she was in the bubbles but we must remember that ice-cold goods are not to be handed over to A-bomb any time soon. 

On the plus side we know that she could probably withstand a military exercise in extreme cold weather. 

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 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.