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 28 - TIRED!

HERE we are, the inevitable day/night where time worked against me and the hours in the day simply ran out.

Of course, these words are words but that's about it. No real post because instead of putting down some thoughts on M'lady's behaviour at a friend's house (excellent) or giving my opinion on England's performance against Iceland in the Euros (dismal), I made the decision to go to sleep, in  a bid to start tomorrow fresh.

Eyes. Are. Closing.

I will save my musings on baby bath bubbles and the space undernath a pram for another time.

After a long day out and about, on the road, eating and drinking, it's time for a good sleep.

Back in action tomorrow.

Thanks.

DAY 24 – The Crying Game

Well, today was more disaster than success.

So far my time as the daytime parent-in-charge has been marvellous, wonderful, amazing. Not today.

Proceedings started on the wrong foot due to a lack of sleep for all of us because THE COUGH kept her awake while the Milk Lady and I were running around trying to find new remedies. Vapour rub on chest, vapour rub on feet (that's a new one for me), Olbas oil in water, and nasal spray. The patients was greased to the max while her room smelt like a cross between a sexy spa steam room and a rugby changing room. Didn't seem to work though.

A breakfast of blueberry muffin was given a bit of attention with some going down but the effort was lacklustre. The bottle of breast milk was guzzled but not at the usual rapid speed.

Then for nap one at the new, pushed back time of 0930. "Not a chance" was the vibe I was given via body language and eyes popping out of The Lady's head. After 50 minutes of songs, squats, reading and lunges, I gave up. There were no tears but she did not want a sleep.

During this farcical attempt to put her to bed I had received a message to say Baby Sensory was cancelled. Something about The Leader being stuck in traffic (or being drafted in to lead a brainwashing seminar elsewhere).

From 1100 onwards M'Lady made the decision to spend the day mostly crying or at least whinging. Fun times. I even took her into the loft room with all the window open to chill her out a bit.

After failing to get her to take a bottle I decided a walk was in order so we donned our voting attire and plodded off to mark an X on the EU Referendum ballot paper. I followed the advice of the creatures from Day 23.

The walk was punctuated by the sounds of half-arsed crying and a cough that was more smoking veteran than seven-month-old baby. Inside the polling station, aside from casting my vote, I was quizzed by a pregnant electoral officer on the effectiveness of Sophie the Giraffe, which was being chewed on by my partner in voting.

"It's a mandatory purchase," I explained. 
"Some things are negotiable but for whatever reason ALL babies must have Sophie. 
"Buy it. Soon". 

After voting it was onward to a cafe to buy caffeine and a sandwich. The motion sent M'Lady off to deep sleep, which was ideal – except the fact that she was snoring and sounded like a pickled tramp.

Woke up an hour later, crying. Crying didn't stop until 1500 at which point it was feeding time. Again, she didn't want any so I brought the 1600 solid food session forward to try to get some sustenance in her. Delicious selection on the menu too: Steamed Apple, Rice Cakes, and Tarragon Chicken. The miserable so and so had a suck on the rice cake and turned her nose up at the rest of it, while crying and making an annoying shrieking noise.

Sprints were then undertaken to try to stem the sadness and that was a winner, so much so that she fell asleep. We went to Deen City Farm to meet friends Rosie and her own A-baby, which was lovely if a bit rainy.

Back home, crying commenced and attempts at feeding were batted away by a little (fat) hand with  aggressive disdain.

So, very little food taken on and very few smiles dished out to me. Added to that was the general feeling that people might vote to leave the most successful union for peace in history.

Then while I was bouncing the little munchbunch on my lap she fell asleep mid-bounce, which was a tell-tale sign that she was not herself.

Thankfully Mama arrived at 1800, which brought some inescapable smiles from our girl ahead of bath and bedtime, which all went like clockwork.

Not long after, Wifey ventured into the loft for a shower. She returned quickly. That was Ominous.

"Did you open the windows?" 

Yes I did. 

"Yes, there's been torrential rain today hasn't there?" 

Yes, there has. Oh.

Oh dear. No excuses. I had left the windows wide open to allow cool air in for my daughter, allowing the monsoon to water the bedroom contents like prize plants at the Chelsea Flower Show. Not even my sleep-deprived state could be blamed for the oversight, which meant we had to sleep on a different mattress, which was about as comfortable as a concrete floor.

It was one of those days and goes down as the new LOW-POINT BENCHMARK.

DAY 21 - NAP-TIME NINJA

TO COINCIDE with me being desperate to catch up on some Zs the poor lady hardly slept which meant both of us parents were in action most of the night. The savage cough had returned. The Milk Lady insists that A-bomb hasn't been smoking but I'm going to start checking her pockets.

Not much shut-eye was had between 0500 and 0700 so my goal was to get a decent sleep shift in the bag at 0900. MLady did not want to cooperate though. She was pretty much asleep on my shoulder but each time I put her down in the cot she jumped out of her skin and began to cry. This was not the norm and my diagnosis was that lying flat as causing her discomfort. Half an hour went by, twinkle twinke had been exhausted in all of its forms, the little girl at the end of the lane had been given too many bags of wool, and nobody believed "life was but a dream" after the amount of boat rowing they had done.

Eventually, after another 15 minutes of speed squats laden with A-bizzle, she was in a deep sleep and I had successfully pulled my trembling arms from under her. That was the first part of Mission Nap done. Now I needed to conquer the next almost impossible task... the exit.

There were traps everywhere, from crinkly play-mats and perilous plastic ball trip-hazards to recently-filled nappies and musical instruments. A toenail brushing against any of those items would have seen my cover blown and the wannabe-sleeper's eyes pinging open.

A woken baby was not an option so I prepared myself mentally for the covert job. After uttering my final rendition of Amazing Grace I stooped down below the top rail. I was out of sight, even for the laser-eye lady. Next I was into a commando crawl, moving over the narrow carpeted thoroughfare being sure to dodge the Cow in case it wanted to "do you ABC". I had reached the end of the cot, located next to the final hurdle – the door. 

I was hunched down with one hand softly holding the silver door handle and the other stabilising my body. So far so good, no murmurings. As with most gauntlet challenges the last part was the most difficult...getting out of the room without being seen or heard, then re-shutting the door.

I carefully pulled down the exit handle. It creaked but I got away with it. At the precise moment of the pull-down, I rose to my feet and nonchalently removed my body using the means of a silent twirl. Once out I just had to lower the handle and wait for the little click. Click. I could breathe again.

Given the importance of a baby's sleep and overall routine to its well-being it baffles me that during NCT classes no time is devoted to operating like a ninja.

If it means your baby will stay alseep you must be prepared to throw yourself to the deck on the slightest flinch of your nemesis. You  must be ready to hurl yourself out of the room as soon as the gap becomes big enough.

If you are a heavy breather, you must hold your breath. A sleeping baby takes precedence.










                             

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.

DAY 12 - TOTALLY RELAXED, BUT FOLLOW THESE EXACT RULES

TODAY the Milk Lady and I attended the wedding of two of our good friends, which meant leaving the A-bomb in the capable hands of my brother-in-law, K, and his wife, R.  It wasn't the first time we've handed over control to others, as both sets of our parents have had a stint in the hot seat, but that didn't mean there wasn't a lot of preparation involved.

I would say that we're pretty chilled out as far as being in charge of a human baby goes. I mean we don't panic every five seconds that she's not developing in line with guidelines for elite specimens or burst into tears if she hasn't mastered a Mozart piece by her second attempt. When it comes to eating solids and getting messy, I would suggest that we are relaxed.

However, when the carers arrived at the prescribed time of 0930 – one hour and fifteen minutes before our listed departure – and we talked them through a dossier of how to look after our kid, it became quite apparent that we run a pretty tight (oppressive?) ship.

"Yeh, the thing is guys, she's a good baby and won't cause you any bother. Just have a fun day – feed when she seems hungry and put her to sleep when she seems tired," we said, with an air of nonchalance.

"And by that, I mean feed her at 1100, 1500 and after bath time which is at around 1815 (exactly 1815). Her next solids session is at 1600."

There were questions from the kind couple on things like when to change nappies and what to do if A-bomb doesn't sleep. Again our "relaxed" response didn't really paint us out as laid back parents...

"Just change her when she seems irritable or if she smells," we said.

"But if you refer to the specific page in the document it says to change nappies before and after each nap as well as if there is sign of turd, this will give you a minimum of of five changes.

"At sleep time sing some some songs, read a book and do whatever you want to send her off."

R interjected: "So we just sing any songs and calm her down?"

"You must sing Twinkle Twinkle three times in a row then put her down. If she cries, do a couple more Twinkle Twinkles. If you are still struggling, which would be rare, go into the 'Ssssshhh' techniques coupled with deep squats."

It clearly was not the chilled out liberal approach to parenting that we had fooled ourselves into thinking we were offering.

The thing is though, purely from the perspective of two parents of a baby girl that sleeps very well, eats like a champion and is healthy, our (apparently strict) regime works, for us.

On arrival back home from the wedding with a few sherberts under our belts we were told that the lovely munchbunch had behaved herself and had slept pretty well... because they had followed our guidelines.

It's not rocket science people... get a schedule in place and stick to it, within the realms of possibility. It is certainly not an exact science and watches should not be synchronised.

With a solid plan in place (yes, maybe like a regimented briefing system), we can hand the baby to a family or friends and it should be happy days.

Lovely stuff.