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 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 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