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 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 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 SEVEN - A GIRAFFE, A DOCTOR AND SHOWING OFF

Sophie – the favourite

DUE to the highly sensitive nature of the situation there was one detail that I hadn't mentioned in my previous notes. For reasons of my own safety, fear of political and socioeconomic fallout, and a simple hope that everything would be okay "if I gave it one more day" I was harbouring a terrible secret... I did not know where Sophie the Giraffe was.

For the uninitiated Sophie is a toy that every child in the land is programmed to be obsessed with and has the ability to calm any human beast under the age of one, even when they are in the throes of a cataclysmic meltdown. Those who are aware of the simple French creation, that has remained unchanged for 55 years, will testify that I'm not exaggerating – the smug-faced rubbery play-thing is, whether you like it or not, an essential item. Milk, wet wipes, nappies, Sophie – she is on the top list.

Since Thursday afternoon (I believe) M'lady had been giving me quizzical looks while being loaded in to the buggy. "Excuse me sir, but you don't seem to have handed me my best friend, the giraffe", said the face.

"You know the drill sunshine, when I'm on awake-time walks I get strapped in then you hand me Sophie and we all have a pleasant day". Oh goodness I was going to be in serious trouble.

I'd set a deadline of Monday lunchtime to find her (her! she's basically got a seat at the table), after which I would have to confess that I'd failed in my duties and also shell out (£12.95, at least) for a new one. Now, I do not believe in any higher being, black magic or outside forces – I'm evidence-led – but praise be to whoever or whatever guided me to the Special One (the giraffe, not Jose Mourinho – we don't need him). The time was 0830 and Saviour Sophie was staring up at me from underneath the City Mini Baby Jogger GT (buggy). I had looked there 100 times but I would not be questioning it.  I would live to fight another day.

Following a bout of unprecedented coughing at odd intervals throughout the night I decided to take A-bomb to the doctor. She's not usually a cougher and these back-of-the-throat sounds suggested she'd done 40 years in a coal mine on a diet of 40 roll-ups a day. A quick check-up revealed that she was totally fine, might have a cold and was indeed a healthy (fat) baby in possession of sizeable thighs. Happy days. The munchbunch was a good lady, lazily sitting there, sighing with exasperation while the professional poked and prodded away.

Next up we took a car journey to Teddington to meet our recently married friends Pedalo/Pete and Lizard – not their christened names. I can assure you that Lizard is simply an hilarious adaptation of Liz. I do not make friends with reptiles and I certainly don't hang around with men that marry them. I digress. A lovely time was had in the sunshine at The Anglers pub overlooking the Thames – decent food and a friendly vibe. The little punk even donned her sunglasses and had some suncream put on before demanding her food just as mine was served. What a precocious urchin (it was exactly her feeding time).

Today was yet another example of how quickly these young humans develop. It was only a few days ago that I mentioned that A-bomb hadn't really rolled over. With a lot of concentration and effort she could move from her front to back, in kind of slow motion. But since that time she is now flipping from front to back with ease and has added moving back to front to her repertoire (#proud). That was an ironic hashtag. What next? Break-dancing?

Back at PedaLizard Towers the suck-up crowd-pleaser was rolling both ways for fun and had also gobbled up all of her Cheese, onion and spinach muffins. She was showing off. "Ooo look at me, I can roll on demand. Please love me!". Pathetic. It was actually an excellent display and she was rewarded with numerous genuine cuddles and three kisses.

Back at the ranch The Lady was stripped of clothes and treated to some "no-nappy time". Turns out they love that. Gets some air into the nether regions and gives them a sense of freedom you don't get in conventional clothing. The Milk Lady arrived moments later and the LO thought that was the best thing that had ever happened. To demonstrate her gratitude for Mummy being home she laid a giant onion-infused brown log on the dry-night mat she was parading on.

A relaxing couple of minutes in the bubbles followed. A-bomb just leaned back while we polished and buffed away. Then came a new move, which I hope doesn't catch on. While reclining like a Brit abroad on a sun-lounger she casually looked to her left and burped out a bit of sick, with cabbage in it. She then assumed her original position. There wasn't much of the vom' and no bits made it into the water because she'd cleverly aimed it on the space reserved for Steve The Sponge. Still, a bit disgusting.

So, a lovely day rounded off with a turd and sick. University students pay a lot of money for that.

DAY NINE – Duck Waddling and Actual Swimming

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

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

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

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

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

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

DAY 10 – THE ANTI-SLEEP CORPORATE CONSPIRACY

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

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

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

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

"DOOR OPENING!" shrieked the wall.

No stirring. We were safe.

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

My baby as now awake and crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 49-51 - Sunshine, Lollipops and Dropping Food

NEARLY back on track!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very Messy (ahem, no relation to Lionel)

WOW. 

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

Never fear, the details are here... 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAN IN MULTI-TASKING SHOCKER

DAY 30 - DROPPING and STRAINING

I HAVE heard it from more than one source, both experts and the old wife who dishes out all the tales, that children under the age of one (or something) are unable to intentionally drop things.

Science and studies claim that babies, although able to pick things up and grip them, are unable to then release their hold on purpose. It's just a development stage in their biomechanics that they have yet to reach.  

Well, without wishing to be contraire or to claim that I have created a unique being, I have to say that I fundamentally disagree with the claim. I have run a number of meal-time studies with my specimen and I am 100 per cent confident that A-bomb enjoys picking an item of food up, taking it to her mouth, feigning interest then nonchalantly dropping it off the side of her tray, with the sole aim of getting under my skin.

At breakfast time today, which offered both sweet and savoury French Toast with cinammon on the former and Worcester Sauce on the latter, the stinkbomb basically took the piss out of me. There I was, excited as she picked up a piece of the bread and swung it with a flourish towards her gummy cake-hole, only to be knocked off my proud perch as she tossed my culinary efforts on to the scrap heap that is my wooden floor.

M'Lady was in her element. She had my full attention and a pile of delicious food in front of her. Five times she collected a piece of the eggy bread with her lumpy hands before smiling at me, giving me a wink* and then chucking it on the floor, while saying "pick that up you idiot", in her mind.

*she can't wink, that was an exaggeration

After numerous failed attempts at my gourmet, painstakingly-prepared toast, I felt that the Lady hadn't eaten enough so I wheeled out Old Trusty, the banana. Obviously she gobbled that down while laughing heartily. She then returned to the original offering with some decent bites recorded.

Then, quite abruptly M'Lady stopped in her tracks. She placed her hands down in front of her and stopped the manic wriggling of her legs that had been going for a good 30 minutes. Her eyes became fixed on an unknown point directly in front of her and she took a deep breath. She then visibly braced her whole body. I was transfixed, interested in what was about to happen. Perhaps she was going to speak, to say "thank you for my lovely breakfast"...

Then all became clear as an almighty fart ripped out of her backside. I say "fart" because that's what I was hoping for. As it turned out it was more of a solid than a gas and I was occupied for quite some time with the old wet wipes.

After the sensational clay-like evacuation there were no more issues with feeding. All she needed was to make a bit of room. 

Day 29 - SING ME A SONG YOU'RE THE BUGGY MAN

"MONSTER. STOMPER... WHERE'D YOU GET YOUR ROMPER?!"...

That was just the first line of a song I was singing to M'Lady as I wheeled the lazy so and so home from the gym (she'd been in the creche not on the weights... again, lazy). I thought I'd been singing the catchy little ditty to myself in whispered tones but it became apparent that my in ability to do things quietly had struck again when a "trendy" person strutted past with a nervous look on his face which plainly said "I don't understand your kind, you are singing strange things, I'm scared, don't steal me in the wheeled vessel".

An episode of being caught singing to yourself or chanting at a baby in a buggy might be embarrassing for some, although not me because that is very much the least of my worries given the nonsense situations I find myself in (e.g practising Michael Jackson's dance moves from Smooth Criminal at a urinal, then realising there was a gentleman shuffling awkwardly behind me). However, I would suggest that once it's happened once, probably on the first day any new parent ventures out alone with a buggy, that's it, done. Songs, dances and full-blown musical performances are going to happen and the rest of the street population need to embrace all offerings. Sing loud, sing proud. My motto on this is: "If the baby likes your song, then sing it, regardless of any snotty-nosed chump that finds it weird, offensive, or not in keeping with their daily vibe, in fact sing it louder if someone stares". Yes, it's a long motto but it hits all of the points I need covered.

Going back to that first line of my unfinished masterpiece, the words to the lyric don't seem to mean anything, and in fact they don't mean anything. Nevertheless as becomes clearer everyday looking after this munchbunch nincompoop, words and thoughts might get forgotten, missed out and thrown into different sentences but they will re-emerge somewhere, either when I talk in my sleep ("yes, well done for your nearly crawling. Wow. Ice-cream." was one the other day) or possibly in song. Deconstructing the line and for the benefit of the skinny-jeaned, top-button-done-up, greased-hair-in-side-parting shell-shocked chap, I would suggest that I was telling my darling that she is a lovely baby (monster) wearing a beautiful romper (romper) suit while smashing her heels down on the pram (stomper).

Days are merging into one at the moment, what with all the singing... this happened on Tuesday, June 28.

DAY 23 - THOUGHTS ON EU REFERENDUM

SOMETIMES I can go hours or even days without speaking to another adult.

Of course I say bye and hi to my beloved wife at the bookends of the working day but if I'm talking about seeing and conversing with other real human adults, days can pass without any grown-up interaction.

If as a stay-at-home-look-after-the-baby parent you find and take one second to think about who you have spoken to on a regular day you will often find your chats have been with your baby as well as his or her toys.

I also find that I these days I tend not to speak my usual language, it's more of a gobbledegook noise that is the universal tongue that us adults think a baby understands better than English, or whatever the parents' tongue is.

So, with the EU Referendum looming over the UK, I have found that my discussions and debates on the merits of REMAIN and LEAVE have been held largely in my own head, with the people on television and radio, with my seven-month-old and her friends.  Her friends are, on the whole, cuddly and plastic toy animals.

Now, without becoming too political on what is a blog about being on Shared Parental Leave to look after my baby, I thought it was only right to at least mention a vote that will undoubtedly have a huge impact on my family. For the first time I have had to (well I didn’t have to but I have) think about how the result will affect my daughter, who has no say on things.

It is right that A-bomb doesn’t have a vote, because what she says is largely drivel and in fact, dribble. Nevertheless, if talking unintelligible garbage was a reason to withhold voting rights a fairly large chunk of the population, including members of both the LEAVE and REMAIN campaigns would be denied their ballot papers. The fact is that you only need to be of the correct age to be given permission to put an X in a box and decide a nation's future. 

So after having the various arguments with myself and attempting to work out what truths were hidden in the carpet bombs of lies, damned lies and statistics dropped by politicians via the media, I decided to conduct my own interviews with a cross-section of society that I associate with most at the moment.

Before I set out the thoughts of my interviewees I should give a few opinions on the prominent figures in the so-called BREXIT/BREMAIN campaign:

 - Boris Johnson, a hugely intelligent man, has let himself down for feeling the need to peddle lies on stats rather than give intelligent reasoning

- David Cameron has inspired nobody

- Jeremy Corbyn has shown himself as a weak leader by not speaking up strongly enough for either camp. 

- Michael Gove has excelled himself in making himself even more hated than when he attempted to destroy the education system

- Nigel Farage has done himself justice by sticking to his principles and living up to expectations. He has remained utterly xenophobic/racist, myopic, ill-informed and utterly useless.

Now to the interviews, with the most sensible bunch I could find at short notice:



SOPHIE THE GIRAFFE

I can see what all of the OUT lot are saying about immigration. I agree, there are loads of 'em coming here. But getting out of the EU isn't going to stop 'em coming in. We will have even less power to stop the flow of immigrants if we are acting alone. Also, I don't have a problem with Johnny Foreigner coming in to work... it seems that they're doing a bloody good job at fair prices. There are plenty of BRITISH freeloaders milking the system... can we have a referendum on getting rid of them? Don't get my blue tongue started on the Jeremy Kyle brigade.


WEIRD CRINKLY DOLL FACE

I've listened to all the debates and it seems like a lot of lies have been told, especially about us paying this £350 million a week to the EU. It's simply not true. I'm sure there are other stats that would support an OUT vote but the Out campaign chose to use an untruth. Weird.
Also people are banging on about us losing our sovereignty. I disagree. We have been blocked by the EU so few times in comparison with when our wishes have sailed through.


TWO COWS AND PIGGY

As a collective we find it ironic that a lot of nationalistic, chest-puffed-out Brits want OUT. These are the same people that are proud and humbled by our Armed Forces. Do they not realise one of the key reasons why the EU was formed? It was borne out of the Second World War, when the smart European nations decided to club together to make sure that never again would they fight each other. Its seems to have worked. We are so proud of our current boys and girls in the Army, Royal Navy and Royal Air Force and we are in awe of what their predecessors did in the World Wars... it seems remarkable that we want to opt out of a system that these men and women fought for,  and that has served us well in terms of bringing relative peace.


LITTLE BEAR

Get me out! Bunch of refugees coming in here nicking my porridge. Let's close the borders, get Boris in charge and get rid of anyone without a British passport. Does anyone know if I'll still be able to get into Europe with my current passport? Will it still be easy to fly to Spain?
Actually I've got mates and grandparents that have retired in Europe, will they have to come back the UK?! Can we close the borders if we are just the UK? Will I still be able to get my loft converted by foreign workers?... it's just that they are the best value and get the job done at rapid speed...? I don't mind the Eastern European lot if they're doing the manual jobs because they're top notch and don't charge silly money. And they're on time. The rest can get out though. Except the doctors. And nurses. They're good too. But the others! Bloody immigrants.


SMUG SHEEP

If people are voting OUT just to get David Cameron OUT then they are maniacs. We chose Cameron at the General Election and if we want rid of him now we will have to wait until the next General Election. Yes he is weasel of the highest order but I am pretty certain that Boris is even more of a right-wing nutjob and will systematically destroy the NHS, tighten the purse strings on the poor and will look after his own people. He is a dangerous man.


BLUE WHALE

Farage makes out that he is the champion of fishing while stating that fishermen are better of OUT of the EU. If he's such a hero of the fisherman why did he only attend ONE EU meeting on the matter when he had access to loads? To be honest, I don't think I would be welcome in Farage's country if we're not in the EU - I'm not white and my parents were not born here. Oh dear, all of my lot will be frogmarched out if we don't vote IN.


Good to get a few views from my new mates.

Now to vote to protect ourselves and the future of the next generation.