A New Man for a New Year

When you become a dad, you have this idea that you’re going to get to be a man. I say ‘get to be’ because manliness and masculinity are somewhat vilified these days. We’re meant to be in touch with our feminine side, have opinions about soft furnishings, sculpt our eyebrows, wax our nut-sacks, and take longer than a supermodel to get ready for a night out. It’s rather telling that the male sex symbols of yesteryear had chiselled jaws, gravelly voices and rugged good looks, while those of today are pubescent boys who can sing like girls and are incapable of growing body hair. There’s no way I can compete with that.

So it’s nice to have an excuse to release the savage beast.

I’m not talking about boorish lad culture – booze, boobs, birds and balls. I’m talking about what were considered the traditional manly virtues of strength, courage and inventiveness. After all, men built the wheel, crossed oceans on ships made of iron, and tamed the very landscape with the sweat of their brows. In a family, the man used to be the provider, the protector, the lawgiver and the master of all he surveyed. Who wouldn’t want that?

I pictured myself hunting mammoths, fighting off packs of saber-toothed tigers, and decorating my cave with the skulls of my enemies as I bathed in the tears of their women. I am masculinity incarnate, red in tooth and claw. See my chest hair and hear me roar for I am MAN!

When I’m a dad, I thought, I’m going to be a cross between Alan Quartermain and Rambo.

The reality of being a house-husband to two little girls is somewhat different.

I spent most of Christmas sitting cross-legged on the floor sipping pretend tea from a flowery tin tea set, and saying things like, ‘Mmm, lovely,’ and, ‘Thank you, yes, I will have another pink plastic macaroon.’ That’s when I wasn’t watching child-friendly crap like Nativity 3: Dude, Where’s my Donkey? and Frozen, and resisting my daughter’s entreaties to shave off my beard as it’ll make me look ‘very pretty’. Let it go, honey, let it go.

I cooed over little tinkles in the potty, gave her high-fives for eating her crusts, and hugged her through the night as she woke up with bad dreams. I changed nappies in three separate female toilets because despite it being 2018 already, many eating and drinking establishments haven’t yet realised that a man might be the primary carer. And I started to perfect my hair-plaiting skills, which is pretty far from the strong hunter-gatherer I thought I would be.

And then a couple of days back, I found myself sitting very still while my two-year-old got out her toy makeup kit and pretended to do my makeup – lipstick, eye-shadow, blusher, eye-liner and mascara. She even tried to fix a shiny plastic princess tiara in my hair, but failed as I have no hair.

Eventually she sat back to admire her work, nodded, pleased, and said, ‘Willy bustle.’

‘What?’

‘Willy bustle,’ she repeated.

Now, as somebody obsessed with words and their meanings, I rapidly extrapolated the following:

willy – n., British, inf., the male member; penis; symbol of masculinity.

bustle – n. a wooden frame worn under a skirt to puff it out at the back.

And so:

willy bustle – n. a cage beneath a woman’s skirts where she keeps her man’s masculinity imprisoned.

My God, I suddenly realised. She’s absolutely right. I’ve been completely emasculated. Since becoming a stay-at-home dad, my manhood has slowly and surely been removed until I no longer have anything down there. I am a Ken doll – an empty, de-sexualised piece of plastic that other people dress up and play with for their own amusement. I have no power whatsoever.

I don’t get to decide when I get up in the morning or what time I go to bed. I don’t get to decide when I eat, or whether my food will be warm or left to go cold. I don’t get to decide when I make myself a drink or when I go to the toilet. Oftentimes, I don’t even get to decide what clothes I wear – I throw on yesterday’s as I hurry downstairs so as not to disturb my wife’s beauty sleep. My life is a parade of doing things for other people. As a parent, so far, so normal.

But my powerlessness extends far beyond mere parenting: if an Englishman’s home is his castle, I’m clearly no Englishman. My wife and her father bought a house together, and a few years later, I moved in with her, so despite it being our house, it is still seen as hers. I have no say over what comes into the house or what goes out; who comes and when and for how long; where things go; how it’s decorated; what pets we have. I don’t decide where we go for holidays, what activities we partake in, or what car we drive. As my wife is a spendaholic and hoarder, I don’t decide what toys or clothes my kids get, or which ones are given away, no matter how horribly spoiled they’re becoming. I’m not allowed to say what I really think to her family members when they belittle my parenting abilities in my own home. And since my wife doesn’t want to be ‘controlled by a man’, she makes arrangements and goes out without considering me, leaving me at home alone with the baby.

She keeps my manhood locked up in a cage beneath her skirt.

Why don’t you put your foot down? I hear you ask. Simple. If ever I resist, I’m told that it’s her house and I know where the door is, and if I go, she’ll get custody of the kids because ‘the courts are always on the side of the mother.’ So even though we have established that I no longer have a penis, my sex will still be held against me. And that’s just not right.

As a man, I need my power, my respect and my dignity. As a human being, we all need that, but as a man, I need it especially. It doesn’t matter whether you believe gender difference is a social construct or something innate, or as I do somewhere in-between, it is an important part of a person’s identity, psychology and means of understanding their place in the world. It might be unpopular to say it, but I’m going to:

I am reclaiming my masculinity.

I am sick of being told that masculinity is something bad. I’m sick of how it’s totally okay to judge somebody simply because they’re a man. I’m sick of having to hide or suppress my totally normal masculinity because we are creating a society in which you’re meant to be ashamed of being male.

Things are changing. I felt so utterly powerless last week that I shaved my head in protest. And I am growing my beard long so there’s no mistaking that I am no longer going to be anybody’s bitch.

I’ve spent nine years making sacrifices to keep other people happy. I’ve spent nine years pussy-footing around, compromising on my needs, burying my instincts for fear of coming across as old-fashioned and chauvinistic. And where has it got me? Am I respected for being a martyr? Am I appreciated for going without while those around me take, take, take?

No. I’m a new man for a New Year, and I’m not going to take shit from anybody.

Wow, that got dark pretty quickly. So to lighten the mood, back to my willy bustle.

‘Honey,’ I called to my wife, with my pretend mascara and eye-shadow and blusher. ‘Izzie keeps saying willy bustle.’

‘She’s saying “really special”,’ my wife replied.

My daughter proceeded to add more lipstick to my face.

‘Really special, daddy.’

And that seems just as bad.

‘Daddy’s not special,’ I said. ‘Daddy’s manly and dangerous and he has a beard. And I’m in charge.’

‘Me in charge,’ she replied.

‘No, I’m in charge.’

‘No, me.’

‘It’s my way or the highway, kiddo,’ I said.

‘No,’ she giggled. ‘It’s my way.’

I think the road ahead might be bumpy.

Partners in the Marriage Business; or, what the hell happened to my sex life?

There’s a line in the Robin Williams movie RV: Runaway Vacation that really resonates with me. It’s not a great movie by any stretch, with the trite message that spending time with your family is more important than spending time at work, but it has a certain clumsy charm that makes it far more likeable than it ought to be.

Towards the end of the movie, when the family is at its lowest ebb, the wife opens up to a delightfully happy hippy couple about how when you first get together, it’s all romance and fun and affection, but then before you know it you’ve become ‘partners in the marriage business’ – this one needs taking to school, that one to football practice, you need to get the shopping on the way home from work, who’s paying the rent this month? – and somewhere along the way, you forget what it was that drew you together in the first place.

My wife and I have become partners in the marriage business.

Our relationship is entirely about who is cooking tonight, let’s get take-out, are we made of money, you need to pay the swimming teacher, I’d rather pay the pizza boy, do we have enough nappies, we’ve run out of wipes, why is there ink all over the carpet, you’ve shrunk my shirt, no you’re just fat, have you seen her dummy, where’s the lid to this bottle, I’ve lost the TV remote, well if the house was tidy we wouldn’t keep losing everything, so tidy it then, someone needs to get petrol, by someone you must mean me, you’ve spent how much on Christmas presents, no I haven’t even thought about it yet, can we please turn off Peppa Pig, I appear to be sitting in a wet patch, did you feed the cat, it’s your turn to change the nappy, I changed the last one, there’s poo on your jumper, I’m tired, I’m hormonal, how come we don’t connect any more, how can we possibly connect when we’ve got two kids, I hate my life, I hate your life too, oh God why’s she crying again, I don’t know I’m not a mind reader, really I thought you knew everything, oh go to hell, I’m already there, that’s because you’re the devil…and so on, and so forth.

Yes, the marriage business.

We’re so disconnected that the toddler has started calling them ‘mummy’s sofa’ and ‘daddy’s sofa’, and calling us ‘cheeky monkeys’ if we dare to swap. When we kiss or cuddle, as we’re trying to do to rekindle something of the spark we once had, the toddler shouts, ‘No fighting!’ because little signs of affection are so rare, she thinks we’re attacking each other.

It’s a little worse at the moment because my baby has a cold, my wife has a cough and a cold, and my toddler has a cough and a cold and conjunctivitis. In addition, we haven’t had an oven for three weeks as a two-day kitchen makeover has dragged on exponentially. And currently, the kids are tag-teaming me.

When they’re not screaming at the same time, they’re taking it in turns. Either way, there’s no respite. Two days ago I got up at 4.30 in the morning and didn’t get to bed until 2.30 am yesterday, which by my reckoning is a 22-hour day. Not even Amazon makes people work that hard.

So, as our marriage is on the rocks, and we’re aware of that, we decided we needed to reconnect physically, because everyone knows that if you solve the problems in the bedroom, everything else falls into place (yeah, I know it’s meant to be the opposite, but what else can we do, talk to each other?).

Unfortunately, intimate time when you’re married with a toddler and a baby is easier said than done. When I was up to my middle knuckles in shit the other day, trying to extract my baby from three layers of yellow-stained clothing and fighting to wipe peanut butter off her ankles, knees, belly button and nipples (no, I’m not joking, it was a bad one), my wife looked at me with a wink and a nod, and mouthed the word, ‘Later.’

I’m on a promise, I thought. Yay! But I wasn’t entirely convinced.

I’ve been on a promise for a fortnight now.

What tends to happen is, ‘Sex tonight?’

‘Yep, definitely.’

I put the toddler to bed around 7.30, and my wife goes to bed at nine with another hint of things to come: ‘don’t be long’, she says, seductively drawing her fingers across my shoulder as she leaves.

Whereupon the baby does her nightly cluster-feed, keeping me up till around midnight when she falls asleep in my arms. I go upstairs, put her in the Moses basket, rock her back to sleep since she always wakes up during the transfer. And then I look down at my wife in the bed.

Snoring away in a ball of misery and discontentment, wrapped up to the eyeballs in the least-flattering pyjamas she can find. Which, to be honest, is a relief.

I can’t afford the time or energy it takes to have sex. My kids climb over me all day so by the time I go to bed, I don’t want even the slightest trace of physical contact. Added to which, I’m knackered and I just want to sleep, knowing either of them could wake up any second and demand my attention.

But I figure I’d better go through the motions anyway and continue with the charade.

Nudging my wife with my knee, I say, ‘You still up for sex?’

‘Too tired,’ she mumbles without even waking up.

‘Thank God,’ I mutter, and collapse into bed.

We’re partners in the marriage business, and it doesn’t look like that’s changing any time soon.

The Wind Atlas

Oh Rosie. You might be my favourite 11-week old, but I can no longer pretend this isn’t happening. For the purpose of saving our relationship, I have to be honest with you. I love you, from the tips of your ginger-tinged hair to the tops of your tiny little toenails, but there is no denying it anymore: you are the fartiest creature I’ve ever met.

Your early weeks weren’t so bad. Yes, when I fed you, you puffed like a steam train against my thigh – puff, puff, puff – but they were quiet and polite, like little girl farts ought to be. What happened, sweetheart? Why did you change?

Was it to teach me a new vocabulary of wind? Was it so that I could experience such diversity of parps and pumps that I would never again take for granted the simple biological process of breaking wind? Well, honey, lesson learned – you have successfully educated me. Here follows a chart of flatulence, a wind atlas, if you will. And now it’s done, can you just stop it now?

The Wind Atlas

The broadside – a fart so loud and resonant it’s like all the cannons on HMS Victory firing at once – BOOM! Has been known to send the dog running for cover.

The fire at will – like the broadside, except the individual gun crews reload and shoot as fast as they can, leading to a ragged series of explosions.

The warning shot – this is a single cannon shot, with minimal powder, as though testing the barrel is clear. Often presages further shots to come.

The ripper – the sound of tearing cloth; short, fast, with a certain amount of vibration. Tends to make people check you haven’t burned a hole in your baby-gro.

The zipper – like the ripper, but longer and slower, like somebody zipping up the door to a tent or awning.

The follow-through – starts off like the zipper, but before the tent is completely closed, a lemon gets stuck in the zip and is loudly squished. Often followed by a shocked look on your face, as if to say, ‘How did that happen?’

The cough fart – quite a skill, this one, like patting your head while rubbing your stomach. It’s a simultaneous cough and fart, done in such unison it’s almost musical. Normally in clusters, two and two. Ringo Starr wishes he had your sense of rhythm.

The sneeze fart – not as percussive as the cough fart, and not always exactly in time, either, this is nevertheless a worthy addition to your repertoire. Except when flying snot enters the fray; then I could do without it.

The laugh fart – it’s not that funny.

The tearjerker – despite the name, this is in fact a series of seven or eight farts, normally of either the ripper or zipper varieties, that results in tears. Strangely, the crying tends to arrive halfway through the sequence and then continues beyond the climax.

The snake – this is one of those farts that slips out when you’re all relaxed, and sounds like a gentle sigh, or a grass snake hissing away to itself under the sofa. Or the valve being released on a pressure cooker before it explodes.

The squirty cream – anybody who has ever used squirty cream from a can knows the sound it makes, that aerosol whoosh – schshhhhhh. Well. Somehow you do that. And it’s gross.

The South West train – I know you’re pushing; I can see it in the way your face is turning red and your legs are ramrod straight and lifting out of your chair; and then you relax because it’s obviously been cancelled and – bloop! There it is. Just a late arrival, that’s all.

The whale song – like a relaxing CD, this is a distant whistle that sounds like a cetacean trying to communicate. Normally has me searching the room to find the source of the sound before I realise it’s you. Makes me worry for your safety if you ever swim in the sea.

The disappointment – this imposter arrives when your belly is so hard I could bounce coins off it, and after half-an-hour of massaging your abdomen we’re treated to a piddly little, weak ass ‘phut’, that does nothing for any of us. Better nothing at all.

The rocking horse shit – after pushing and straining and straining and pushing, nothing comes out and your belly softens and shrinks by itself. A relief for all involved, and it happens so rarely, it’s practically a myth by now.

There. Now just stop it. Nobody should need to fart so often or in so many different ways. We’re feeding you milk, for crying out loud, not baked beans! Two-dozen farts per hour is damaging the Ozone Layer. So just stop.

But at least they don’t smell. If they did, well – then we’d really have a problem, wouldn’t we?

Parents as Partners

Nope, this isn’t a post about Appalachian sexual practices. If that’s what you were looking for, then I’m sorry – for so many reasons.

For everyone else, it’s about attempting to balance the twin roles of parent and partner.

I’ve said before that the person who is everything you want in a partner can simultaneously be frustrating as hell to co-parent a child with. No matter how well you think you know someone, you can’t ever be sure what kind of a parent they’ll make until that kid pops out, and nor do you know how having kids will affect the dynamic between the two of you. You just have to have faith that whatever comes up, you’ll deal with it and get through it together, because that’s the commitment you made.

What I am discovering, as a father of a two-year-old and a seven-week-old, is that the gulf between words and reality is filled with sharp sticks and broken dreams – and a hefty dose of disillusionment.

You see, when you’re a couple, how one of you behaves as a parent inevitably affects how the other behaves. In an ideal world, each individual parent will have a mix of playfulness and responsibility, to differing levels, and you’ll share the load as best you can.

Unfortunately, it is not an ideal world.

In my household, my wife has abrogated all responsibility and so is situated right down the playful, irreverent, impulsive end of the parenting scale, alongside the fun uncle and your friend’s older brother who lets you drink beer. Trouble is, the only way to balance things is for me to go ever further towards the responsible, controlled side – I’m sitting with the school librarian and the ticket collector who won’t let you stand on the seats of the bus.

And I hate that.

While my wife dodges the surf with my toddler on a cold October day, I fret about the fact that they’re both now soaked up to the knees, the shoes will have to go in the washing machine to clean away the salt, and they’re going to freeze on the way home – not to mention we’re going to get sand in the car. While they carve their Halloween pumpkins, I hover around them on knife patrol, groaning as every drop of pumpkin juice splashes down onto the carpet, and trying to catch the seeds before the dog eats them. And while my wife is happy to say yes to just about anything, I’m the one who has to say no, and then deal with the nuclear fallout.

The trouble is, not only do your differing parental styles annoy the crap out of each other, they change how you see one another as partners as well. I’ve started seeing my wife as irresponsible instead of playful, argumentative instead of passionate, stubborn instead of determined and inconsiderate instead of simply absent-minded. For her part, she now sees me as boring, controlling, uptight and dogmatic instead of reliable, sensible, safety-conscious, and by-the-book. It’s all in how you define it.

Of course, matters aren’t helped by lack of sleep (mine), the spectre of postnatal depression (hers) and physical exhaustion (both of us). And to be fair, she has gone a long way down Nuts Street lately, with her moods up and down like a yo-yo, her OCD out of control, and the language she uses enough to make a sailor blush. So she blames her unreasonableness on hormones, I blame my irritability on tiredness, and neither of us really gets to be accountable for our behaviour, even though we’re driving one another up the walls and out the door quicker than a gas leak. I don’t remember the last time our wires were so completely crossed.

Actually, I do. It was a month or so after our first baby. Hmm, I’m spotting a pattern here.

On that occasion, things got better after I asked myself what it was I was doing that was unhelpful to the situation, and it turned out that I was being controlling and dogmatic, though for the right reasons – I was trying to help.

In similar fashion, I think I have located the root of our problems here, but they’ll be far more difficult to solve – it’s not what I am doing, but what I am not doing.

It was a throwaway comment in an argument that contained a thousand other throwaway comments, most of them spurious, many of them said simply to hurt me. It was that I’ve replaced her with the children, and on reflection, it’s a charge that I cannot deny. I have, over the past seven weeks, largely forgotten about my wife.

Well, that’s not true. As an autist – or maybe simply as a male – I thought that the fact I do all the nights and let her sleep, make most of the meals, sort out the dog, cat, chickens and fish, take the toddler to nursery and swimming and ballet, and do the lion’s share of the baby care so my wife doesn’t have to, showed the level of my respect and my regard for her. But it doesn’t.

I’ve been doing my damnedest since the baby arrived to make sure my toddler doesn’t feel left out, so what my wife sees is a man hugging his kids, telling them stories, making sure they’re okay, and then falling exhausted into bed – basically, giving them all the affection and attention he used to give her. And she feels left out, and resentful, and self-pitying. So she snaps at me, which makes me cross as I think, ‘Why isn’t she appreciating me?’ And then we argue, and the cycle repeats.

The solution? I have to show affection to my wife. I have to make time to give her hugs and cuddles, and tell her she’s special, and make sure she’s okay. Basically, I have to make her feel special.

Which is tough when I’m so busy and tired, and is tougher still when she says such awful things to me that I’d rather clip her round the ear than whisper sweet nothings into it. It’s like cuddling a rabid pitbull that hates you.

But it’s something I’m going to have to do. These are the sacrifices you have to make when you’re a parent as well as a partner.

A Trip to A&E

They say that some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue. I don’t agree with that at all, because it turns out that no matter what happens, or what day it is, I always seem to be the one who gets shat upon.

Even on my birthday.

I don’t think I was asking for much – just a day I could be free from the constant strain and responsibility of looking after a boisterous toddler, a demanding baby, and a wife who can be both. Alas, this was beyond the power of the Fates to grant me, so I chose the next best thing – a day out doing something I wanted to do in a place I wanted to go. Something that, for once, was not about ball pits, face painting or Peppa Pig.

Since I love old buildings, I love books, and I love learning, I’ve been hankering after a visit to Oxford – a day wandering among the dreaming spires with my family, losing myself in endless bookshops and fantasizing that I’m twenty years younger and attending one of the finest educational establishments on the planet, is exactly what the doctor ordered.

Only without my toddler.

I don’t want to single her out, but traipsing around a city centre isn’t anywhere near as much fun when you have a two-year-old pulling things off shelves, trying to yank her hand out of yours, and strangely determined to throw herself in front of traffic. And that’s not to mention the whining in the car all the way up, the awkwardness of keeping her settled on the Park & Ride bus, and the fact we can’t eat out anywhere without her behaving like a Ritalin-deprived bugwart (sorry, Izzie, but it’s true). So we decided to leave her at home with her Nana.

Given the way the week was going, I should have known it would all go to hell in a handbasket. I was meant to have two blessed hours to myself on Wednesday afternoon, but Izzie’s Granny fell ill, so that was nixed. Then on Thursday afternoon I was meant to have a couple of hours to myself, but the playdate that had been arranged fell through when the girl’s mother also became ill. And then on Friday, Izzie came back from nursery having bitten her lip and made it all bloody. Ominous signs that my birthday on Saturday might not go according to plan, but my wife reassured me that bad things happen in threes. How wrong she was.

My birthday started to go awry at 8.20 in the morning, ten minutes before we were due to leave. The moment I heard the phone ring, I knew. Halfway to our house to look after Izzie, my mother had vomited all over herself while driving. She had contracted a stomach bug, and was turning around to go home.

‘Well, that’s four,’ I said. ‘There can’t be any more.’

With no childcare, we decided, contrary to all sense and logic, to take Izzie with us after all. Sure, it’d make the day much harder, but we’d all be together.

I was pretty much spot-on with my predictions, and then some. As a naturally inquisitive and independently-minded child, Izzie was a bit of a pain, refusing to stand on the buggy board, pulling her hand from mine, grabbing everything that came within reach, and throwing herself down on the ground every so often because it’s really fun to do that on cobblestones. Eventually we went into a restaurant and ate a lunch punctuated by Izzie running around the table and shouting for attention, and me taking her outside and telling her in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t tolerate that kind of bugwart behaviour.

That’s when the accident happened, but it’s not what you’re probably thinking.

Midway through the meal I took the baby to the disabled loo and changed her on the changing table – one of those tall wooden things with all the shelves and drawers underneath. No problems. So after the meal, I took her sister to the same toilet, picked her up and placed her down on the changing mat.

And with a loud bang it flipped up to the side and flung my two-year-old daughter headfirst to the tiled floor.

I pounced forward but wasn’t quick enough. I will never forget it – the loud crack when her forehead hit the floor, the way her body slammed down, the screams from the pair of us, and the top of the changing table thumping back down into place.

As I cradled Izzie in my arms, watching her forehead turn grey over the space of ten seconds, I put my elbow on the changing mat. Sure enough, if you put enough weight left of centre it flipped up to reveal a plastic bathtub underneath. It hadn’t been put together properly or aligned properly or something – the top wasn’t even fixed to the base. It was not fit for purpose, and certainly should not have been put in a restaurant bathroom for use by the public. It was an accident waiting to happen.

I wanted to kick up a massive fuss, but the seriousness of your concerns is hammered home when you’re wandering about with a screaming toddler in your arms, her face a blend of grey, red and purple. The waiter, the maintenance man, the general manager all had a look at the table, and yes, it wasn’t fixed, and I watched as two of them fiddled with it, trying to work out how it was meant to go on, and how to stop it flipping up when you position a toddler on it slightly left of centre.

I felt awful, terrified, distraught. But I had the presence of mind to make sure an accident form was filled in and they arranged a taxi to the hospital. My wife, deciding she didn’t want something as insignificant as her daughter falling four feet onto her head to ruin her day, saw it as an opportunity to go do some shopping in Oxford with the baby while I took Izzie to A&E.

For the record, here is what my daughter looked like while waiting in Accident and Emergency some forty minutes after the fall:

IMG_20171028_162329 - Copy

Three hours and a lot of tests later, they decided that other than a massive headache, she was probably okay.

Getting another taxi back to the hotel, I carried my two-stone toddler a mile back into the centre in search of my wife, and after a quick look in a single bookshop – albeit the largest in Europe – and with the sun having set upon Oxford, I decided it was time to leave. After all, we had to get the bus back to the Park & Ride and load the car with my wife’s purchases for the two-hour drive home.

Which took three hours, as both kids decided the car journey was the time to cry, and scream, and keep saying, ‘Where my dummy?’ and ‘Where my water?’ The number of times I had to pull into lay-bys to find things she’d dropped, or feed the other one, I lost count. All I know is that eventually everyone fell asleep, and I drove on into the dark, alone with my thoughts.

Thoughts of the changing mat flipping up and throwing my daughter off; thoughts of her head hitting the ground; thoughts of failure for not having checked the changing station before I put her on it. But when do we check? We trust they’re going to work.

I felt a mixture of emotions. Guilt at not having protected her; anger at the restaurant for their negligence in not providing a safe and working changing station; vulnerable for how it could have been so much worse.

Getting home, I put the kids to bed then quickly followed suit, thinking that on my birthday, of all days, I should have been able to relax.

My wife reminded me the clocks were going back, and that we’d get an extra hour in bed. That was just before the baby started crying for the first of three feeds in the night I’d have to get up for.

I didn’t get to see much of Oxford. I didn’t get to go in many bookshops. I didn’t get to fantasize about being a student attending one of the finest educational establishments on the planet. And more importantly, I didn’t get to cast aside my cares and responsibilities for even a minute. Instead, I was shat upon by life again, as usual.

I will never be that pigeon.

My Gorgeous Baby (reach for the sick bags…)

In my previous post I wrote about how difficult my new baby is. I said she was demanding, noisy, awkward – in short, a bit of an asshole. And while none of that’s changed, one thing I mentioned has to be amended – that’s she’s not obviously beautiful.

She’s suddenly gorgeous.

See, while I always thought her sister could be a baby model, Rosie I considered a little – how shall I put this? – aesthetically unappealing by comparison. Whereas my first daughter Izzie looked like a photo from the side of a nappy pack, Rosie was more likely to feature in a painting hanging in the foyer of the Houses of Parliament. I mean, she had the triple chin, piglet eyes and a face so fat its BMI must have been around 35 – all she needed was a cigar and you’d have thought she led the government through World War Two.

But now that her milk rash and peely skin and swollen cheeks have cleared, and she’s making eye-contact and smiling and giggling like a good ‘un, she is the prettiest baby in the world.

Yes, I know I’m her dad and this is all pretty standard parent stuff – waxing lyrical about how wonderful your child is and how she’s more beautiful than anybody else’s, as though you’re the first people in history ever to procreate – but I have to do justice to the fact that I’m suddenly being stopped in the street everywhere I go by people telling me how pretty she is.

Like yesterday, when someone told me she was a ‘very bonny baby’, which, given somebody said practically the same thing to me last week, makes me wonder just how many Scottish people are living down here on the south coast. Or today, when the health visitor couldn’t get over how precious she is, and said her picture could grace the side of any nappy packet, which you might have realised is almost the greatest compliment a parent can be paid in my book. 

So it’s not just me – she’s objectively gorgeous.

What a difference ten days make!

Still an asshole, though…

My Difficult Baby

Contrary to the uninformed opinion that new born babies are personality-less little blobs, they’re actually all individuals. Take my two, for example. Now that my second baby has been with us for five weeks – long enough to see some of her individuality, not long enough to be numb to it – I figured it was about time I said what she’s like.

She’s an asshole.

Yes, I know, we’re not meant to call our kids that – babies are all moonbeams and unicorns and magic fairy dust. The reality is that some are perfect little bundles of joy who bring light and life to all who see them, like my first daughter was; and some can be whinging, whining, needy little assholes, like my second is now. An asshole with character and spirit, but an asshole nonetheless.

And I love her for it.

I love her for every time I find myself staring into her eyes at four in the morning, saying in an exasperated tone, ‘Why the hell are you so awake? Why won’t you go to sleep?’

I love her for every time I’m bouncing her on my shoulder, crying out, ‘Why are you still screaming!? I’ve fed you, changed you, burped you, cuddled you, massaged your belly, rocked you, taken you for a drive – for God’s sake, what’s the problem?’

And I love her for every time she cries on other people and then immediately stops when they hand her back to me. That’s my girl.

While her sister was a very easy baby and full of the joys of spring, Rosie is demanding, unsettled, noisy and determined. She’s happiest when lying on somebody, and starts to moan the second you try to move her to pram or cot or chair. She’s constantly asking for milk then refuses to drink it, takes the dummy only to spit it across the room, and sleeps only when you’re at your most awake, saving her wakeful times for when your eyes are propped open with matchsticks. She screams on every car journey for the duration of the trip, has a sixth sense for finding and pulling out clumps of your chest hair when you least expect it, and will feed as and when she chooses, even if that’s a single ounce every thirty minutes, thank you very much.

She’s quirky too. From the moment she was born – and I mean literally the moment – she’s been pulling funny faces and making funny noises. She has the Elvis sneer down to a tee and I’m constantly having to check if the cat’s got into the Moses basket, such is the caterwauling she makes – when she’s not snorting like a pig. She just seems to miaow and grunt away to herself while screwing up her mouth and sticking out her tongue, glaring about with one eye wide and the other just a slit like an infant Popeye.

In fact, that’s not such a bad comparison – she’s short and stocky and instead of the feminine grace of her sister, who looks like her mother, Rosie looks like me minus the beard – and I’m hardly a supermodel. That’s not to say she isn’t cute as a button – the other day a lady said she was ‘very bonny for a four-week-old’ – but it’s not an immediately obvious beauty. I mean, I think she’s adorable, but more in the manner of an owl than a falcon – or more like a middleweight boxer than a decathlete. Woe betide anyone who gets in her way when she’s learning to walk!

And that is my baby at five weeks. My adorably difficult, grizzly little bruiser, a perfect little asshole.

I wouldn’t change her for the world.

A New Little Sister

I was regularly told that having two kids wasn’t twice as hard as having one – it was exponentially more difficult. I can’t say that I’ve found this to be true as of yet. Sure, it can be a little tough supporting the baby with one hand, holding the bottle in the second, and then fending off the over-eager attentions of a toddler with the third, but overall I’d put the addition of another member to our family at around 1.5 times more difficult than before – so it’s not all that bad.

Of course, that’s probably because Rosie is four weeks old, so she mostly only sleeps, feeds, poops and cries. When she’s just as mobile, inquisitive and determined as her 28-month-old sister, I imagine I’ll revise that figure upwards, but for now we’re certainly coping.

But that’s not to say it hasn’t been bloody difficult.

When Izzie came to the hospital to meet her little sister, she was so excited that the first thing she did was to slap the bed twice. And then, without missing a beat, she grabbed the nearest bottle of milk and tried to ram it down Rosie’s throat.

You see, to Izzie, Rosie is a doll – a flesh and blood doll she wants to cuddle and kiss and feed and change and do all the things to that a parent does. Which is all well and good, except I’ve seen how Izzie treats her dolls, and Rosie wouldn’t last thirty seconds without a dislocated shoulder or worse. It’s a sobering thought that the greatest threat to my second-born is not the dog, not the cat – it’s my first-born.

It has been difficult convincing the wider family of this basic reality.

‘Well I trust Izzie,’ said one with great pomposity in response to this statement, as though trusting a toddler with a baby is a sign of virtue instead of gross negligence.

‘I think she’s lovely,’ I replied, ‘but you never know what a toddler might do.’

‘Only a child with mental health difficulties would harm a baby,’ this person went on to say, clearly believing toddlers are in complete control of their emotions, have mastered fine motor skills and hand-eye coordination, and fully understand cause and effect.

There’s no cure for stupid.

So the past month has involved extremely careful supervision alongside the usual aspects of baby care. We’ve had to keep a certain distance between the two girls until Izzie can understand how to be gentle, which has caused plenty of tears and tantrums. Izzie wants to hold Rosie, and rock her, and get in the pram with her, and stuff her dummy in her mouth, and open her eyes when Rosie isn’t awake, none of which we can allow. But we have taken steps to alleviate this tension.

I instituted a rule from the word go that when people come to the house they have to greet and make a fuss of Izzie before allowing her to introduce them to her little sister. Furthermore, we involve Izzie in all aspects of childcare by encouraging her to fetch the changing mat and nappies and wipes, and she sits with us during feeds, and we make sure we spend plenty of time hugging as a group.

It’s had the effect of avoiding any jealousy, giving Izzie some sense of ownership of the situation, and encouraging her to love her little sister.

And, without a doubt, love her she does.

When Rosie cries, Izzie tries to comfort her – well, on those occasions she doesn’t put her finger to her lips and shout, ‘Shush!’

She’s also rather conscientious about keeping Rosie involved, telling us to take Rosie with us, to give her a hat, to give her milk, to change her nappy – which is lovely.

And Rosie responds to Izzie in ways she doesn’t to us. Now that Izzie is finally cottoning on to the fact she’s not allowed to touch the baby, when Rosie lies on the floor or sits in the bouncy chair, Izzie often lies and sits in front of her and tells her stories and sings and giggles, and you can see that Rosie is being stimulated by it. They have a connection to each other, as siblings and as infants, that we don’t seem to have with them as adults.

I mean, there are some teething troubles – Izzie doesn’t want to go to bed because the baby’s still up; she wants to be carried because the baby’s carried; when I’m rocking the baby in my arms I find Izzie clinging to my legs; and whenever Rosie is out of the car seat, Izzie climbs into it and makes it her own – but these are all normal, I think. Other than the clumsy roughness, Izzie is the very model of a doting big sister.

Although tere has been a really weird development: Izzie has become incredibly squeamish about poo.

Every time the baby poops, Izzie says, ‘Me not touch it, daddy, me not touch it.’

‘You don’t have to touch it,’ I reply. ‘Nobody’s making you touch it.’

‘Not touch it, daddy.’

The most hilarious manifestation of this was the first time Izzie held Rosie on her lap. I surrounded her with cushions, including one across her thighs, sat close beside her, and gently placed Rosie down. Izzie looked like the cat that got the cream, the happiest I’ve ever seen her.

And then Rosie did a noisy poop.

I’ve never seen Izzie move so fast. ‘Not touch it!’ she screamed as she somehow slipped out from under the cushions and over the arm of the sofa and off in the blink of an eye.

We think it’s because she went to her mother’s baby shower shortly before Rosie was born where they played a game involving putting strange substances into tiny nappies – peanut butter, chocolate, Marmite – and getting people to sniff and taste it to correctly identify the substance.

And now Izzie is traumatised.

Thanks mummy.

The Hidden Disability and the Hands-On Dad

I’m a pretty placid guy, I think. I take as I find, try to treat others as I’d like to be treated myself, and generally endure massive amounts of abuse before I fight back. I can be irritable, sure, and I can be a dick, but I try to make the world a better place by being in it.

All that being said, there’s one thing that drives me freaking insane: when people assume I’m somehow less of a parent because I’m a man.

Yesterday, I arrived home from nursery at around 6pm with my little girl in tow and unloaded her from the back of the car. A neighbour was out in the street and asked me how I was.

‘Knackered,’ I replied.

‘Well, if you’re knackered, imagine how your wife feels,’ she replied. ‘It’s harder for her – she’s the mother.’

Wow. Considering we’ve only ever exchanged a couple of words before, it seems awfully forward to express such derision for my physical and mental state.

Allow me to respond.

‘Well, actually, my wife has autism and a learning disability and I’m practically her carer; I can’t leave her alone with the kids more than an hour or she becomes overwhelmed; she goes to bed at 9pm and sleeps right through till morning, so until 8am, I am a single parent; and every time the baby cries, she passes her to me.

‘For every five nappies I change, she changes one; I cook four nights a week while she cooks twice, unless she decides she’s not in the mood, in which case I have to throw something together or we go hungry; I look after the dog, the cat, the chickens, the fish; I do all the driving; and if I try to nap in the afternoon, I’m told I’m selfish and don’t care about the family.

‘When the baby cries, my wife cries; when my wife cries, the toddler cries; and then the toddler tells me I’m naughty for making mummy cry. So I soothe the baby, then soothe the toddler, which soothes my wife.

‘I’m the only one who baths our toddler; I put her to bed every night, even when she’s screaming to stay up because the baby’s still awake, which is every night; I take her to nursery twice a week and pick her up; I hold her hand when she wakes crying in the night; I cuddle her because since her sister arrived she needs three times the love and reassurance; I console her when mummy’s too busy playing with her phone to pay her any attention; and I’m the only one who disciplines her, gives her stability and clear boundaries, and remains consistent in my behaviour.

‘I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in two years, while my wife gets ten hours a night; haven’t had more than a few hours in a row ‘off’, while my wife goes out several times a week; bear the full responsibility for everybody in this household; and I am not allowed to get ill, or feel tired, or have a headache, or else everything falls apart.

‘If I go out, I have to arrange for someone to come in and sit with my wife; and everywhere I go, everybody asks me how my wife is coping, and how we can make things easier for her, and whether she needs more time away from the children.

‘My life revolves around my kids, as though I’m in a bubble of childcare; I don’t have the time, energy or inclination to do any of the things I used to do; I eat all the time and am so tired I barely know the day of the week; I feel as though I’m just going through the motions; and I read a pamphlet that said these are all signs of postnatal depression in women, but, damn it, this is just normal for me.

‘And now let me tell you why I’m knackered today. Between feeding and changing the baby last night, I worked on my speech till 1am. The baby was up at two, four and six this morning, an hour each time, and then my toddler once again got up at seven. I have had three hours of sleep in snatches of 45 minutes a time, and that’s the way it’s been for a month.

‘After breakfast I took my toddler to nursery, where she spent all day because I was out this afternoon and my wife wasn’t capable of looking after them both. After making lunch, I packed everything up for my wife and drove into Bournemouth. I then set up the pushchair, loaded the baby into it, and bid my wife adieu as I headed for a hotel.

‘Upon arrival, I was seated at a table beside best-selling author Kathy Lette and her son, Holby City actor Jules Robertson, and across from comedienne Rosie Jones. I was both overwhelmed and terrified, but I hid it well.

‘After a bit of chit-chat, I got up and gave a speech to 140 local business leaders, the mayors of Poole, Bournemouth and Christchurch, an MP and a Lord, encouraging them to provide work placements for people with special educational needs. After my speech, several people approached me and told me they had been sufficiently moved by my words to offer employment to people with autism.

‘Oh, did I forget to mention that I’m autistic too? And that I’m also susceptible to depression and have been on a high dose of antidepressants for fifteen years? And that nobody seems to give a damn about whether I’m coping?

‘So, my speech over, I picked up my wife, loaded the baby and pushchair into the car, and drove home. The baby apparently hadn’t woken up at all, but she was wet as my wife hadn’t changed her. I changed her clothes and nappy and fed her, then went to pick up my toddler from nursery.

‘On the way back, I thought how exhausted I was and how desperately I needed some rest, but I knew I still had to make tea, put my toddler to bed, and then, after my wife went to bed, get up up at least three times in the night to see to the baby.

‘And then I saw you, and you asked me how I was.

‘”Knackered,” I replied.

‘”Well, if you’re knackered, imagine how your wife feels,” you replied. “It’s harder for her – she’s the mother.”

‘Now, I’m not going to tell you how offensive your assumption is that my wife works harder at parenting than me. I’m not going to harp on about how while from the outside we might look like a nice, normal family, you have no freaking idea what goes on inside. And nor am I going to roll out that old adage that to assume makes an ASS out of U and ME. No.

‘To assume makes you an ass, period. And that’s all I have to say about that.’

That’s what I could have said. Instead, I dug deep, took it on the chin, and said, ‘Yep, it’s much harder on the mum.’

Because the situation in my household is the situation in my household. It’s not ideal, sure, but I’m surviving, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow my neighbours to know what’s really going on, and talk about it among themselves, and judge us.

They call high-functioning autism the ‘hidden disability’, and it really is – in every way that matters.

Baby care: what you should know

Looking after my second baby girl, now twenty days old, I really feel I have a handle on what this baby-rearing thing is all about. While all babies are unique, it seems to me to be a difference of degree rather than of kind. As I’ve said before, baby care is mostly a case of putting stuff in one end and cleaning it up when it comes out the other, and in the interim making sure she isn’t too hot or too cold. If you keep that in mind, and don’t sweat the small stuff, you should do fine.

That said, becoming a parent for the first time is an incredibly scary, difficult thing. I know that some of my readers are planning on having children, and some are soon to become parents themselves, so for your benefit I thought I’d share my take on parenting – all the facts you need to confidently raise a baby. At least, the facts as I see them, and the things that I’ve found invaluable in my own life.

The General Stuff

  1. There’s a lot of sentimental guff spoken about babies. You hear people on the way out of the delivery room saying, ‘I love her so much, she’s perfect in every way, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’ There’s this expectation that you’re going to feel an instant connection. In my experience, new born babies look like asthmatic Smurfs – blue-skinned, gasping for breath, and stuffed into oversized hats. You look and think, ‘What on earth have I done?’ If it takes you a few days to warm to the little creature, a few days to work out how you feel, a few days to get your head round things, that’s okay. You’ve got a lifetime of emotions to come – don’t expect too much too soon.
  2. New born babies feed every couple of hours, sometimes for a couple of hours. If it feels like you’re always feeding your baby, you are – their stomachs are very small and with all the growing they do, they use up what they’ve drunk very quickly. Luckily, it settles down and they get into a pattern, sometimes having a big feed and a three hour sleep, sometimes cluster feeding every thirty minutes before drifting off. And when they’re finally asleep, I have one word of advice: sleep!
  3. Baby poo changes rapidly over the first few days, from black tar to green whole grain mustard to yellow mush. This is normal and nothing to worry about.
  4. Babies aren’t made of porcelain. They’re designed to make it through the birth canal, so unless you’re really clumsy, you’re probably not going to break them. But don’t put that to the test!
  5. You might not think of yourself as a particularly violent or jealous person, but you may find that when people pick up, touch, or even look at your baby, you feel like scratching out their eyes. This is normal, but try to remember you’re not the only one excited about your child, and you’ll have more opportunities for cuddles than anyone else can ever hope for.
  6. Even though they seem to prefer lying on their front, when you put your baby down to sleep, always put her on her back. If your relative tells you that the advice in their day was to put them on their front, ignore them – the advice was wrong. Babies on their front are eighteen times more likely to die of cot death than babies on their back.
  7. Though it is lovely to let your baby fall asleep on you, and such cuddling is to be embraced, be sure to transfer them to the cot or Moses basket for a proper sleep – you don’t want to get to the point where they will only sleep on you, or you’re setting yourself up for a very tiring couple of years.
  8. Babies communicate. Try to learn the little signs that they’re hungry (rooting, poking out tongue) or need burping (fidgeting, gasping) or need changing (a slightly shocked facial expression accompanied by the smell of sour milk), and deal with these things before they start to cry – it makes life much more peaceful.
  9. Babies cry as a form of communication – mostly because you haven’t met their needs quickly enough (i.e. within about thirty seconds!). It can be distressing for a parent to hear their child wail, seemingly in despair, but don’t take it to heart – it’s how she’s talking to you. It’s your job to figure out what she needs.
  10. Babies only have a handful of needs. They need to be fed; they need to be winded; they need their nappy changed. Do these things and they are normally happy.
  11. Babies are sometimes unhappy. When they have belly ache or a non-disclosed need, or simply want to hear their own voice, they can cry and keep crying. This can be upsetting for you, but there’s not really a lot you can do about it except rock them and hug them until they fall asleep.
  12. If you suspect something more serious is wrong, don’t be afraid to get advice or seek help. If you go to an out-of-hours doctor or A&E, they’re jam-packed full of new parents with young babies. It’s part and parcel of being a new parent, so don’t ever feel like you’re being neurotic.
  13. In the womb, babies are lulled to sleep by movement, light and noise (i.e. during the day, when mum is busy), and come awake when all is still and quiet and dark (at night, when mum is exhausted). Why, then, do we expect them to sleep in a dark, quiet room? If you’re struggling to get your baby down at night, a Moses basket on a rocking stand at the bedside, a night-light and some quiet music or a radio tuned to static can really help give you some well-earned rest.
  14. Make sure you have plenty of everything. Taking off a poopy nappy at 3am to discover it was the last one is nobody’s idea of a good time. That said, there will be occasions when you need to buy something in a hurry, so be sure to locate a good 24-hour store long in advance of actually needing it.
  15. You’re going to be tired, you’re going to be crotchety, and the baby is going to push your buttons. That’s just the way it is. If you ever feel yourself at breaking point, put the baby into the cot or Moses basket – somewhere safe, at least – and walk away. Take some deep breaths. Make a cup of tea. Ask for help. Don’t keep going until you break.
  16. Forget the housework. Sure, do enough to keep the place ticking over, but you don’t need to live in a show home. Provided it’s clean, don’t get too hung up on it being tidy or spotless, unless you’re prepared to add extra stress to your life in pursuit of perfection.
  17. Babies are better off being too cold than too hot. Older people are paranoid that your baby isn’t warm enough, but being too hot is actually dangerous for babies as their brains are vulnerable to increases in temperature. In fact, the recommended temperature to keep your home with a baby around is 19 degrees centigrade – colder than we like it.
  18. Eat. Drink. Sleep. You might think you can keep going forever, but trust me – if you neglect your own needs, eventually you’ll be good for nothing.

 The Controversial Stuff

  1. Breast is not always best. Since breastfeeding has become something of a sacred cow these days, you might be treated like a pariah by the sisterhood if you shun its self-evident benefits. But not everyone can breastfeed, despite their best efforts, and you shouldn’t be made to feel a failure because of that. Faffing about with nipple shields while you’re tired, the baby’s tired and hungry, and you’re both crying does not help either of you. It can harm your self-esteem and mental well-being, and make it more difficult to bond with the baby. If you don’t feel you can cope breastfeeding then switch to the bottle – it’s as easy as that.
  2. Dummies (pacifiers) shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand. Like bottle-feeding, these simple tools have earned the opprobrium of the ‘all-natural’ brigade, but unfairly so. It’s not a means of making a baby shut up but of meeting her needs. Sometimes, between feeds, a baby needs to suck to soothe, and giving either the nipple or the bottle is inappropriate. As with anything, it’s a personal choice and nobody has the right to judge you for what you decide is best for your baby and family.
  3. Never underestimate the utility of swaddling. A fidgety, unsettled baby can be transformed into a contented sausage roll by wrapping her in a blanket and gently rocking her.

The Little Everyday Stuff

  1. When a baby breastfeeds, if done right, the first part of its body that comes into contact with its mother’s boob is its nose. If you’re breastfeeding, using a bottle or trying to keep a dummy in, and having little success, rub the baby’s nose – it often triggers the baby to latch-on.
  2. If your baby is distressed, has a rock-hard belly but isn’t able to poop, sit with your knees up in front of you and rest her in your lap, facing you and leaning against your thighs. Using two fingers, rub her belly in a clockwise direction centred on her belly button. After a few minutes, switch to gently pushing her knees up towards her chest. Alternate between the two. If this fails to work, pick her up under the armpits and allow her to stretch out in the air – oftentimes, gravity will cause the world to fall out of her arse.
  3. Whether male or female, while changing nappies you will get explosions from front and back. Before removing the nappy, be prepared: make sure you have cotton wool, water, nappy bag, clean nappy, and toilet paper. Keep them out of the way so that if things do go flying, they don’t get soiled too.
  4. Urine has a chemical in it that can’t simply be scrubbed out of the carpet with soap and water. I’ve tried. A couple of days later, you start to smell stale wee and go mad trying to locate the source. If there’s an accident and baby champagne goes everywhere, you need to use a proper cleaning product. I recommend the spray cleaners sold in pet shops as they contain enzymes that neutralize the odour while also disinfecting the area.
  5. When bottle-feeding a baby, an armchair or a sofa with a cushion – or even putting your knee beneath your elbow – prevents you getting a dead arm. Make sure you’re in a comfortable position that you can maintain before you start feeding or you’ll regret it.
  6. Always burp your baby after feeding. Babies have immature digestive systems and inefficient swallowing reflexes, so gulp down a great deal of air along the milk – air that causes wind and discomfort. It’s sometimes tempting in the middle of the night when the baby falls asleep at the breast or bottle simply to place her gently down and return to bed. Don’t. You’ll be getting up again in 5-10 minutes to burp an unhappy baby, right when you’re falling asleep, making both of you grumpy.
  7. Check out Dunstan Baby Language. This is the idea that all babies are born with five ‘words’ that they use for the first three months – ‘neh’ (I’m hungry), ‘eh-eh-eh’ (I need burping), ‘eairh’ (I’ve got belly ache), ‘heh’ (I’m uncomfortable/please change my nappy), and ‘owh’ (I’m sleepy). Though this hasn’t been scientifically scrutinised, it has undoubtedly worked for both of mine, especially the first three words. It makes it so much easier to know what she wants, and this leads to a calmer household.
  8. Make a record of every time she eats, poops, sleeps, for at least the first couple of weeks. You can very quickly spot patterns to her behaviour, and knowing when she last ate or had a bowel movement is very reassuring. It’s also helpful to be able to tell to doctors, midwives and health visitors, in case there is anything wrong.

The Annoying Stuff

  1. If you’re female and you go out with the baby, nobody will bat an eyelid.
  2. If you’re male and you go out with the baby, you’ll be stopped by every old woman you see. But they’ll only ever ask you how the mother’s coping, and then congratulate you on ‘doing your part’.
  3. People will give you advice. Lots of advice. Much of it will be wrong and directly contradict what you’ve been told by the midwife. Much of it will be against your principles. Luckily, advice is free and is not mandatory. You might as well listen, smile, and say ‘I’ll think about it.’ And then do what feels right for you.
  4. People will give you opinions. Lots of opinions. You will feel judged, because they are judging you. But the only expert in your baby is you, and everyone else can bugger off, because opinions are like arseholes – everyone’s got one and they’re mostly full of shit.
  5. People will make out like modern parents are useless because when they were parents, they never had car seats and parent/child parking, or washing machines or paternity leave or Perfect Prep machines. They’re just resentful they didn’t have these conveniences, and criticising us makes them feel better about the fact that their infant mortality rate was about ten times what it is today.
  6. You will feel patronised because people will be patronising. This is my second baby, yet I’m still told to ‘make sure she’s warm enough’ and ‘support her head’, as though without these instructions I would somehow flush my baby down the toilet without realising I was doing anything wrong. Unfortunately, there’s no way I know of not to get annoyed by these ‘helpful’ comments.
  7. Your family and friends will no longer talk to you, except about the baby. They’ll come to see the baby, but not you. And they won’t listen. You can break off mid-sentence and nobody will notice. You’re not going to have a grown-up conversation for a while.
  8. Unless you’re really weird (or single), you and your partner will argue. You’re both tired, you’re both under stress, you’re both trying to adjust to this new life you find yourselves in, so don’t expect your relationship to be perfect. In my experience, you’ll have a crap time for a few months but it’ll pass. Don’t take your disagreements too seriously. Don’t throw in the towel too quickly. It all works out in the end.

The Good Stuff

  1. Being a parent is awesome.
  2. Looking after something that is entirely dependent upon you for its very existence is an honour as well as a responsibility.
  3. You get to use parent/child spaces.
  4. When you hop about, sing, dance and act like a clown, you can say you’re doing it to ‘entertain’ the baby.
  5. You gain a new understanding of your own parents.
  6. You watch more sunrises than you ever knew existed.
  7. You get the morning news before anyone else.
  8. You realise it’s the best thing you’ve ever done and you’re grateful to experience the ever-changing miracle that is your child.

And that, mums and dads, is baby care in a nutshell. Here endeth the lesson. Now go forth and multiply!