DAY 31 – COMMANDO KID

AFTER a few weeks off we returned to Baby Sensory to hear the teachings of The Leader.

Firstly a giant thunderstorm was piped through speakers at an intense volume, which succeeded in scaring the life out of all babies and parents. All part of the "awakening the senses" experience. Then we continued with the brainwashing by chanting "say hello to the sun... etc" before hundreds of bubbles were blown in our darlings' faces at the same time as bells were shaken aggressively in front of their tiny eyes. The grand finale saw the pre-toddlers smothered with chiffon rags while being bounced up and down on a waterbed. A-bomb smiled and laughed throughout but I cannot confirm whether or not that was through happiness or fear.

Post-Sensory the usual gang of mums and I (plus babies) treated ourselves to lunch at Cafe Nero... I know, high-rollers. While we inhaled our sandwiches and wraps the baby army got stuck into their respective bottles of milk and pots of solids. The highlight was when M'Lady joined her friend, codename "Z",  in a high-pitched duet. She "sung" her noises (I cannot call them words) and then "Z" warbled back high notes that are unattainable by normal folk. It was certainly lovely to watch because the pair of seven-month-olds were clearly enjoying communicating with each other, however I must say it was an awful racket and I'm not holding out much hope for a lucrative singing career for my daughter.

Back at the ranch we got through the naps, milk feed and solids session in excellent fashion (sweet potato and a first foray into cheddar cheese), which left us with lots of play time on the mat, with Wimbledon tennis on in the background. Calm down baby vigilantes... A-bomb wasn't watching TV she was busy hitting herself in the face with her wooden squeaky toy. Anyway, I set the munchbunch a task of chasing down her toys using only her body, i.e without me handing her what she wants or me lifting her over to the coveted items. Another rule that was impossible to enforce was: no rolling. The Lady has become an expert making her way to any desired location by flipping herself front to back then back to front, as many times as required, which is plainly unacceptable on the streets and not a practical method of travel. So with only her best interests at heart I had set the scene. Clearly the girl has got a steely determination, especially when it come to her beloved toys and as soon as the rattly squeaker thing was put on the other side of the room she launched herself forwards. M'Lady succeeded and I am putting it down as a full-blown crawl but I must say that her technique was less textbook baby crawl and more Royal Marine evading capture in a sweaty jungle. Lumpy legs propelled her forward as her left arm simultaneously reached out front, wedging her shoulder almost under her chest. From there she somehow sprung herself onward, reaching forward with her right arm but keeping her left arm under her body. All the while she was making the sound of a warthog with tonsillitis. Weird but effective. Top commando crawling Private A-bomb.

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 13 - SING WHEN YOU'RE WINNING...

WITH football's European Championships having just kicked off I thought it would be an apt moment to discuss the importance of songs and chants in the lives of parents and babies. It may be just me, but I think many parents are in the same boat in that EVERYTHING you say eventually becomes a song. No baby book tells you to bring a tune to your words, but that's what happens. Your kitchen floor suddenly becomes the boards of Broadway as you warble about making breakfast.

Much like the football stadiums and streets in France, my house is very much a song-centric zone. I hasten to add that similarities between football fans and anything else that happens Chez A-Bomb end with songs/chants. The Fans aren't really setting a great example to anyone are they? Well done mate, you've spent 20 years growing your belly, you've taken your shirt off and you're hurling racial abuse at a people you've never met... all in the name of 'the beautiful game'. Congratulations on representing your country abroad. Anyway that's the end of that tangent. Back to songs.

Conversations with, and statements to the baby end up in some form of song, either a freshly penned tune or a re-hash of old work. From simply singing (to the tune of Oh My Darling Clementine) "Oh ma goodness oh ma goodness, she's a lovely little poo, doing plopsies on the mopsie, oh ma darlin' little girl" when she's woken up with a filled nappy to "One WEE! She's only done one wee / she's only done one wee" in they style of football's "one nil/ we beat the scum one nil".

Given that everything ends up in tuneful verse I find lyrics from yesteryear popping up at the forefront of my mind and getting an airing in the shape of baby songs. Not that they make sense or resemble anywhere near a good tune, but they're there.

One of the recent favourites, when needing a muslin cloth is "Mus-lin Mus-lin Mus-lin, we're Mus-lin like that... " to the tune of DJ Pied Piper and The Masters Of Ceremonies' "We're lovin' it like that".

Others in the repertoire are, following a bath and a need to rid The Lady of excess bubbles, "Shake, Shake, Shake, shake that booty"(courtesy of KC and the Sunshine Band; "Hey Dir-ty, buddy you've done a plopsie in your nappy, I said hey" (with thanks to Ol' Dirty Bastard); and, if we're practising sitting up without slumping forward like a drunk, I'll sing "Oh sit down, oh sit down, sit down next to me...". Hours of fun.

The fact is the munchbunch (plonker, you're just a munchbunch plonker) really responds to some animated singing, especially if I throw in a little jig for good measure. These little ditties are often the difference between a smiling lady and a whingy one.

If she starts to whine, with a faux cry, I'll belt out "Hey, what's that sound?, everybody look, what's going down" (courtesy of Stephen Stills/Buffalo Springfield). That usually puts an end to the whinge.

Then there are the songs that keep their words but have their style mixed up a bit.

For the all important sleep-inducing sessions singing plays a huge part in the proceedings. As you no doubt know, Twinkle Twinkle is the bedrock of my successful sleeping system, however I do tinker with the style... because I can.

This week I've been busting out Jazz Style.. Twi-nkle Twi-nkle littlestar... howa/ wonda... whachoo are/ Zibbidee pap pap zibbidee staaar. There is also the Ba Ba Black sheep rap and Amazing Grace sung in the style of Elvis, of which A-bomb is a big fan.

The crux of my point is that since having a baby my life has become a genuine musical and with the Euros on everywhere in the background, the football chants will permeate my song choices.

I'll steer clear of a few muggy terrace favourites but all others are in the mix. No talk of managers being paedos or sha*!in' wives with carvin' knives here, thanks. Nice lads, the football people.

In other news, today I turned out for the famous nomadic Squirrels Cricket Club (@SquirrelsCC),  very much a beloved part of my extended family. The A-bomb didn't make the trip due to the forecast of wet weather and likelihood of a cancellation. Needless to say the weatherman was 100 per cent wrong and the sun shone down gloriously on our damp squib of a draw.

M'Lady was asleep when I returned home but I whispered "you could wait for a lifetime, to spend some time in the sun-sheeeeine" through the bars of her cot. Next time she will attend the Squirrels match, rain or shine.