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 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.