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 EIGHT – The Lady Enjoys a Bath

SOMEHOW I managed to screw up the porridge fingers for breakfast, which meant I felt bad for M'Lady and was obliged to steam up some apple. 3 Tbsp of Oats, 3 Tbtsp of milk cooked for 2 minutes is not a tough instruction, but disappointingly I will not be picking up a Michelin star anytime soon. The first course was like cardboard that had been left in a drying chamber for a few years. There were no real complaints from the LO, just a simple pushing of said oats onto the floor. The hold up with the food meant a delay in nap-time and thus me being concerned that the sleeping pattern had been destroyed... she was supposed to be asleep at 0900 and at 0920 she wasn't even in her sleeping bag. Oh the shame!

With the margin for giant error so small I was mildly panicked but I needn't have worried. The girl decided that given the waiting around and extra chewing that was forced upon her she deserved a lie in. For her 45-minute to 1-hour nap, she was zonked out of for 2.5 hours. Apparently she writes her own rules these days.

Another car trip followed – this time see my work colleagues. Once again the circus performer turned on all the charm and put on a full display of rolls, noises and wide-eye gazing to gain the trust of the audience.

Plenty of "tummy time" (known as Front Drills in this house) and  practising sitting up took place once we were home. We're both getting pretty good now.

Then came bath time, which always goes down well. The Milk Lady was back from work in time to take on the role of chief entertainer, while I was more of an assistant-to-the chief; a sous sponger if you will. Initially it was a standard smiley affair with splashes and some giggling, but then somebody flicked a switch in the nutcase and she could not contain herself. I'll give L her due, she earnt her enterainment fee on this occasion.Who would have thought that "AAAAAAH Peeeyoooo" could be so hilarious?! Here is how it played out

Daddyshortlegs Blog Bathtime

It wasn't the usual winding down process before bedtime but, sometimes, when you've got the crowd (6-month old) onside, you've got to keep providing the clever material they crave (aaaah peeeeyooo) and give them a night to remember. As a top act your shelf life is short. One minute you're the go-to performer, winning laughs at the drop of a soft, crinkly hat and the next you're washed up on the scrap heap alongside half-chewed oats and spat-out carrots.

Let's see what the munchbunch plonker finds funny tomorrow...

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?

EDINBURGH FESTIVAL WITH A BABY part one

A-bomb waits for her train at King's Cross

IT HAS been a hectic few weeks with lots going on.

I will start the catch up with a debrief on our trip to the world renowned Edinburgh Festival. We try to head up there every year to sample the comedy and culture but obviously this year was the first attempt to do it with a small human.  We knew it would be a case of trial and error. Our feeling was that of all the folk in the world those at The Fringe are up there with the friendliest and most welcoming, so a smiling baby shouldn’t really ruffle too many feathers. We didn’t plan to go to any intense plays that required utter silence.

First up we needed to get to Scotland, from London, which in itself was no simple task. We’d booked well in advance to secure First Class seats near a toilet and an exit from the carriage. M’lady is usually as good as gold but you cannot rule out a backdoor explosion OR a full volume meltdown. We would be departing London at 0800 and arriving in Edinburgh at 1215… so an early wake up, one nap, one milk feed and one solid feed on the train were on the agenda.

0530: wake up and pack my own things and fit into the one suitcase allocated for myself and the Milk Lady

0600: wake the Lady, one hour ahead of the usual schedule. At this interruption she gave mummy one solitary half-smile then was grumpy, which was fair enough. Nobody enjoys having their deep sleep broken and then being having food/milk forced down your neck. I too was miserable but would’ve accepted any food/milk.

Then came the real fun and games. In anticipation of being on a lengthy train journey to Scotland and then out and about without access to boiling water we had invested in the Tommee Tippee Closer to Nature Travel Bottle & Food Warmer (https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tommee-Tippee-Closer-Nature-Travel/dp/B002L3TEN8), which allows you to store boiling water and then use it to warm bottles. A very good bit of kit, when used properly. However, when you haven’t really tested the clever flask out and you’ve poured boiling water into it and packed it away at speed while rushing to get out of the door for 0630, things can and WILL go wrong. With everything packed up we were on for a record wake-to-exit time until the Milk Lady noticed that the flask was leaking. By noticed, I mean scalding water had dripped onto her bare skin. “fiddly dee”, or something similar was her remark. 

What unfolded was a farcical scenario where Mummy and I effectively launched a scorching vessel at each other for a few minutes in an effort to solve the Tommee Tippee conundrum. Somehow we survived without blistered faces and managed to work out that the button should be pressed OUT not IN to prevent water seepage. The change bag took a hit though, with the emergency clothes, nappies and general baby-nonsense saturated. All the while A-bomb was parked up in the buggy in front of the front door*
*The baby was not in the line of fire at any point during the throwing of molten lava. 
Finally we headed of to the tube station. Late. Halfway there (3 minutes of fast walking) and wifey decided that she had left A-bomb’s window open and needed to run back to close it. Off she went, at quite a pace. We pushed on, loaded with all of the luggage, much like a packhorse used to move entire households in rural mountain areas…

Of course when the ML returned, now saturated with sweat as well as flask water, she confirmed that the window had already been closed.
On the tube escalator (no lift at Collier’s Wood) the balancing of buggy, luggage and my the inner rage at what had proceeded was quite a challenge, but all was mitigated by the delicious wind in our faces. 
0715 (felt much later): At King’s Cross station ready for our train. I was playing a lovely hand-grip game with my lovely daughter. She was squeezing my hand and then releasing it while smiling. She was so pleased with herself and I could’ve carried on all day, it was heart-melting. 
0716: A-bomb ditched the hand-grip game. That was boring now. My hand was replaced by Tilikum, her toy whale. 
0730: When the Milk Lady asked if I had packed the baby spoons “because that was part of your list” I replied: “No”.

Oh dear. 
0740: We remained at the platform while Memory Mum zipped off to find spoons in Boots. To be honest, I think she likes to keep busy so it was good for her to have something to do*
*take cover! 
Aaaand relax. We got on the train, took up our seats and set about chilling out. We all congratulated each other on our excellent decision to book into the First Class carriage… “it’s a no-brainer… food, coffee, space, tables” etc... We were those smug people for a couple of seconds. Then we released that A-bomb was accompanying us and although she’s a hero, she does enjoy being noisy and smearing food everywhere. 


1100: Feeding time. 
Obviously, we were in need of some hot water in order to warm up A-bomb’s bottle, but luckily enough the very friendly Virgin train staff were on their way through the carriage to top up everyone’s cups with coffee and tea. My bright idea was to request some hot water from their jug to sustain the baby passenger. I had already had a chat with the staff and they were all smiles and tickles with M’lady so I was hopeful. 
“Any teas or coffees sir?” said the kind Geordie lady.

“Yes please. Also, would it be possible to pour some hot water into this container so that we can warm this bottle?”

“Oooo, I’m not sure about that, dear,” exclaimed the suddenly-very-official stewardess.

“Okaaaay and why is that?” I asked.

“We don’t do that sort of thing I’m afraid.

“Well, you kind of do when you pour tea or coffee – I’d just like the same, but without the tea or coffee added to the water.”

“Oh, let me see if I’ve got enough after I’ve done the rest of the carriage, but I can’t promise anything.”

I added: “I’m happy to get some water from wherever your kettle is but I’m assuming that you won’t allow that.”

“Oooo no, we can’t have boiling water being carried through the train. I will have to see what I can do.”
And with that, the ex-good natured woman was gone, on her duties to feed and water the adults. Meanwhile we had a hungry baby that was not too far away from kicking off in a big way at the lack of correctly-heated milk on offer. 
Managing not to throw a complete wobbly of my own, but quite enraged by nonsense I had been fed, I poured my coffee into the Tommee Tippee vessel and warmed the bottle in my own unorthodox method. I felt like a railway Bear Grylls. 
Moments later the Train Manager – probably a just a few rungs down from Ricky Branson himself – wandered down the aisle. She noticed my empty cup and then the brown liquid heating up the bottle.

“Oh sir, you didn’t need to do that!” she said.

“If you’d have asked one of the members of staff they would have got you some water.”

“I did ask and it wasn’t possible,” I replied, smiling. 
 “The stewardess needed to make sure there was enough coffee and tea for everyone first.”

“But we could fill your flask up in the kitchen,” said the boss.

“Nope. Not until she is finished and it’s too dangerous for me to carry it. Don’t worry we’re fine here.” 

The supremo smiled, apologised and then shot off in the direction of her workforce. One presumes she kicked the old bat out of the moving train. Shame.
To be honest the whole episode was quite comical and entirely predictable given this country’s poor attitude towards babies in public. Thankfully A-bomb was pretty chilled about the whole thing and didn’t mind her drink being a bit on the tepid side of her usual standards. 
On the solid food front we didn’t brave the likes of a lasagne, Bolognese or yoghurt… it was more of a muffin and rice cake affair. Still pretty messy but acceptable. In fact M’Lady’s manners, noise levels and general hygiene were a cut above that of the oversized fellow that joined our table at York. 
Let’s put it this way, the chap hadn’t had a bath for a while and found it a struggle to move his own body when it became wedged under the table. Aside from the reduced space and the overwhelming stench I was happy with this situation because it meant the eyes and noses of the carriage were drawn away from my dependent. 
We arrived in Edinburgh on time, dumped our luggage at one of those locker room places (for an unreasonable fee) and headed to the promised land of The Pleasance Courtyard, one of my favourite places on earth. 
We had made it. Next stop comedy. 
More on the Edinburgh Fringe to follow!

DAY 51-59 – TIME ESCAPED US BUT WE'RE STILL HERE

WELL that was quite the extended break from tapping away on the old keyboard wasn’t it?! Hopefully readers won’t hold it against me and the A-Bomb but we have been super busy, what with mastering commando crawls, falling off park benches, eating leaves… And launching a new business venture based on parents getting fit outdoors while their babies play in front of them.

On the crawl front M’lady has effectively shunned the standard technique, labelling it as inefficient and much too ladylike and similar to equestrian dressage. She has decided to perfect swift manoeuvres on her belt buckle in the face of any adversity or obstacle. A development from the chest-down shoulder-slither has been seen, where she pushes herself up to have straight arms while raising onto the tips of her toes to form a kind of “downward dog” yoga move. I am yet to see a full push-up or a spring into a standing position, which is somewhat disappointing.

Sticking with the subject of push-up… I have just launched a Spartans With Sprogs class under the Spartan Fitness London banner (www.spartanfitnesslondon.co.uk), which is an outdoor high-intensity fitness class that parents can bring their babies along to. The babies (all rolling or crawling but none toddling) play with toys on a large mat while their mums (so far we haven't had any dads) train hard with bodyweight exercise, weights and kettle bells. So far it has been excellent, with mums getting a real fat-blasting muscle-toning workout while the so-called “Sprogs” do their own thing in front of the adults. In fact, it appears that watching mummy/daddy run on the spot or hit boxing pads is rather hypnotising and leaves their youngster transfixed on the action. Of course now that I have tested the idea on a small group and witnessed babies on the best behaviour imaginable and on that basis decided to roll it out to a wider audience, the bigger sessions will now see crying meltdowns, turd explosions and crises that I can't even jokingly predict right now. Watch this space.
 

After the first Friday morning Sprogs session I received all sorts of messages from participants, firstly saying how much they had enjoyed it and secondly commenting on their inability to walk because their bodies hadn't been used to exercise. All good news! The aim of the game for Spartan Fitness London is to have people training hard while smiling, so the mission was accomplished for this first session.

A few days later the A-bomb and I went on a drive out to Runnymede to meet my friend Cara and her little girl, Chloe, plus Cara’s mum. During the drive I gave my passenger an in-depth lecture on how, while crawling and sitting in the upcoming field, she should be aware that we were to visit the place where the Magna Carta, one of the world’s most famous constitutional documents, was signed. She nodded and coughed to mark her appreciation for the information.

We plonked ourselves on a picnic bench near the lovely Magna Carta Tea Rooms https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/runnymede/features/magna-carta-tea-room-runnymede and chatted about all the things that now occupy our lives: nappies, wet wipes, children eating soil, the work-childcare balance etc. M’Lady enjoyed her al-fresco snack with me acting as the human high-chair while Chloe ran around in the grass. All the while we were sitting on a perfectly safe picnic bench. Mid-way through our conversation Cara took stood up from her seat next to me to grab an opportunistic video of her daughter in action. Good idea. Moments later, like a see-saw, the wooden seat I was on plummeted to the ground sending me flying backwards to fall on the floor, all while holding the Lumpy Baby. If anything had been on the other end of the bench it would have been launched into the next field. So, there I was, unharmed but very much on my backside, holding M’Lady with straight arms above my head. The other two adults had moved on from the initial shrieks of “Oh my God!” and concern for our (mainly A-bomb’s) safety, to full-blown laughter, while the toddler in our congregation was genuinely upset by the whole episode. A-bomb remained poker-faced throughout but her eyes said: “Seriously Dad, will there be at least one day when you don’t make a scene, this behaviour is rather tiresome”. On dusting myself down and checking the bench for faults – the seat wasn’t screwed in – I was a bit disappointed that a team of judges didn’t emerge from the bushes holding scorecards aloft with me being declared champion of the world. Never mind. Then we got a coffee and drove home.

The next day we, along with the NCT crew, took on a mammoth route around Richmond Park. The sun was out, the deer were running wild and ice creams were in-hand, all making a recipe for a glorious day. I must hold my hand up to confess that as the tour guide, who is a regular at this particular park, I failed to factor in the different speeds of a runner versus a buggy-walker (I usually attend as a runner). Soooo, when our 1-2 hour walk became a whole-day trek, with a few restless babies wanting to be carried rather than pushed and mum's arm's nearly falling off due to the carrying, the blame lied with me. I hasten to add that nobody complained and everyone was pleased with the exercise, but I was quite aware that I had dragged some weary-legged mums unwittingly on a sweaty yomp through the London countryside.

A couple of other updates just to round of this catch-up post…
1) A-bomb has been working on a new drinking technique, when supping from both the Milk Lady and the bottle: three seconds of slurps before swivelling her head round at rapid speed to check she’s not missing out on things, realising all is well and then returning to the drink. It slows things down somewhat. This is a sign that she has inherited the incurable FOMO disease from her parents. Fear Of Missing Out is something that does not leave you, so whether it’s good or bad luck, the Lady will always want to be part of all things at all times and as a result will always be tired.

2) I have realised that female clothing often has buttons or poppers down the back of garments. Hitherto my poor child has been parading an open back in such items #wardrobemalfunction

3) M’Lady now likes to eat anything that lives outdoors – she has really been taken in by Tomee Tippee’s “closer to nature" branding. An example: My good friend Morrey visited for a coffee after I had been at a Spartans With Sprogs session and remarked that it looked like A-Bomb had something green in her mouth.

“No no, she hasn’t had anything to eat yet,” I replied, with a look of "leave the parenting to me, mate"

“Cool, fair enough,” added Morrey, doing his best not to sound like he was telling me what to do.

“Oooh there it is again… there is definitely something on her tongue.”

“Really?! Oh, she must’ve grabbed one of the green vegetables the other babies were eating on the mat,” I ventured.

I squeezed M’lady’s cheeks to check exactly what might be on her tongue.

“Ah. Yes, you are right, she does have something green in her mouth,” I conceded.

“Not a vegetable though… a leaf. Yeh, that’s totally fine. Totally fine.”

It wasn't even a lovely fresh that could double as a salad, it was more of a horrible dirty leaf. Top parenting points for me.

4) According to the Milk Lady, baby bottle cleaners (the rubbery things with soft rubber bristles) are AMAZING for washing champagne flutes.

That'll do for now... more of a catch-up in the next post!

Day 50 – CLASSICAL CULTURE

WITH Baby Sensory done and both M'Lady and I managing to evade capture by The Leader we found ourselves at a loose end on a Thursday. To stay at home having some sort of one-on-one coffee/milk morning would have been odd so luckily we received a message from our very in-the-know friend, Rosie.

Rosie is in possession of a 19-month-old (basically a grown-up), so is a seasoned professional on the baby circuit, which is a kind of stock exchange that lives online, in word-of-mouth and on noticeboards at places you probably don't know about (because you're not in-the-know). It's where sales and events spring up every second of the day and will be snapped/booked up in a flash... so you need to be on your game, if you want the good stuff.

So, thanks to our lady with a finger on the pulse, we had a hot ticket the biggest gig in town at 1030 on a Thursday – Bach to Baby: Swooning Bassooning at St Mary's Church in Putney (www.bachtobaby.com). The church was merely the setting... nothing religious here. 

At the beginning there was a dramatic hand-waving from the main man (I assume he had an official title such as lead tenor but I didn't catch it) in an attempt to hush the audience. It didn't work. Babies were still gurgling, burbling and crying and parents were still whispering. I hasten to add that I was complete silence per the instructions. At his point I was thinking "Ok mate, you've got an audience of predominately babies... this is as quiet as it's going to get so just crack on" and then he insisted on giving his silencing wave, with arms outstretched, another shot. I'll give it to him, it worked and if he learnt nothing else at classical music school, it was worth it. With silence achieved the acclaimed Bassoonist, Christopher Rawley and pianist Dominic John got to work. 

The opening piece was Gabriel Pierne's Solo de Concert and from the first blow of the double-reeded instrument all of the kids' eyes were transfixed on the musicians. I had expected the youngsters to be interested but this was amazing, like a hypnotism. Of course, the spell only lasted about one minute before the business of crawling, dribbling and dropping sippy cups resumed. 

The expert musicians rattled through a few more pieces, including Godfrey's Lucy Long, Mozart's Bassoon Concerto (2nd Movement, Andante ma adagio) and Debussy's Pour Les Arpeges Composes. This was a cut above the CD of Twinkle Twinkle and the attempt at a Broadway version of Incey Wincey Spider that I had become accustomed to on a Thursday...

One pointer I might suggest though, as someone with zero accomplishment with any musical instrument (unless you're counting my voice of a husky angel), would be to shorten the arrangements in order to harness the attention spans of the very young audience. It seemed that at the beginning of each composition the children came to life, excited and engaged, but after a minute or so they were drawn elsewhere. A four-minute piece from a bassoon was asking a bit much of an eight-month-old. However, this was only my first time and the Back to Baby series seems to be doing okay for itself with sold-out bookings everyday all over London including Buckingham Palace, so they can probably take or leave my advice. 

As well as the music there were some educational snippets about classical music and how the instruments work dished out for the adults (and the super bright babies). My favourite fact of the day was that Bach didn't actually write any music for the bassoon after he found himself in an unsavoury punch-up with a bassoonist. 

For the last couple of minutes of the performance the musicians took Nursery Rhyme requests from the floor. My shout out for Ba Ba Black Sheep was snapped up with gusto and belted out by the trio of bassoonist, pianist and singer. What happened next left me baffled... the parents on the other side of the auditorium to me were asked to choose the next nursery rhyme and the response from every single one was "we can't think of any". Now, that is simply unacceptable. I thought it was the law for every parent in the land to have a catalogue of songs to sing on loop for their babies. Maybe Putney is too posh for nursery rhymes... "No darling we don't do Twinkle Twinkle, we do Dvorak's Song to the Moon". Never fear, Rosie stepped in to save the day with a request for the classic Grand Old Duke o York, which was brought to life by our woodwind leader.  

Overall, this was an excellent activity for both parents and babies! 

The inspiration from the music stayed with me for the rest of the day, so much so that when I was in Sainsbury's on a quick trip to buy four very specific items for the Milk Lady, I found myself singing (too loudly) in a Gnarl's Barkley kind of style:

Double Creeeeeam, Lemons,
Fresh Tarr-a-gooooon.  
And dooooonchooooo  forget that washin' up Li-quiiiiid. 

Then later, in the lift, I was singing my old favourite to A-bomb: 

She's a Stinkbomb Lady, 
Doin' Stinky plopsies. 
She's a Stinkbomb Lady, 
Doin' Stinky plopsies.

The shame was that while singing my bluesy verse with my head in the buggy a rather sweaty woman in ill-fitting leggings had walked through the lift doors. I looked up and knew that the crease-faced shopper had heard me. It was a long 10 seconds descending to the ground floor. Nothing was said but we both knew that although my song was not aimed at her, the woman could've done with a spray of deodorant. 

That wasn't being mean, it was just a fact of life.