It's all over, Casanova

All good things come to an end....and so does this blog.

It's been fun to post my thoughts about the nine months leading up the the lad's arrival and the first year of his life, but, to be honest, I've lost interest in the blog, as the lack of posts recently would attest.

So, cheers to anybody who has read it, and if anybody stumbles upon it in months to come, feel free to delve below into my musings....

Over and out!

Bleeeeurgh!

Ah, the joy of vomit!

Boy, the lad has been sick this week, introducing us to a world that other less lucky parents have to live in all the time.

He picked up a bug that's apparently flying around, did the Big Spit most of Monday, then seemed to recover, then had a relapse last night in the early hours with more high tempo, technicolour barfing over himself, his bed and us. A little of it even made it into the sink...

Unfortunately a glut of work (I write for a living, believe it or not) has seen my contributions to this blog drop off more sharply than Phil Daniels' moped in Quadrophenia. Shame, because there have been lots of small bits of developmental progress with the lad.

He's now communicating much more, even if talking is still a while off. He's so close to walking it's not true, although I seem to have been saying that for months! His speed and efficiency at crawling is proving to be both a good and bad thing; bad because I think he sees no benefit in walking as he can get from A to B on all fours more quickly.

Best of all his sense of fun is undiminished. He loves a good laugh more than anybody I know, which is very handy given the work stresses and strains I've been under lately. He is a real tonic for the troops. In fact I'd much rather be at home having a giggle with him now, rather than finishing off a load of work at nearly seven in the evening....

Losing my audience with sloth-like posting schedule - sorry!

Shameful amount of time since my last post - apologies to anyone who actually does tune in to this drivel in the hope of seeing some fresh stuff!

I always was a bit of a one for starting a diary at the beginning of the year, then slowly losing interest by about March. Mind you, sudden fads are my stock in trade. Since discovering cycling again after many years I now have a fancy carbon-fibre racer on order and plans to do the climb of Mont Ventoux next year. That's the mountain that claimed the life of British professional Tom Simpson during the Tour de France in the 60s. So, no pressure then.

Anyway, enough of that nonsense and back to the subject at hand. I'm really enjoying being around the lad at the moment - he's reawakened my childish side, as if that needed any further encouragement. We chase each other around on all fours and he yells with mock fear and laughter when I pretend to chase/crawl after him - loves it!

One of our NCT babies is so advanced he's probably more adult than I am (walking, dribbling a football, eating his own dinner with a spoon etc etc) but I'm quite glad our boy is doing things in his own time. There's no rush, he's got a few months yet until he needs to talk eruditely about the French Revolution in order to pass the entrance test for that private nursery school we visited a few months ago (and which will still remain nameless!)...

I see no spots...only spots of rain

And of course the chickenpox never materialised. Not in any of the babies supposedly exposed to the infected one. So much for contagious diseases.

So, instead of sweltering in overheated Italy we sat and watched the UK slowly sink under the greatest deluge since the last one.

Oh well.

That's torn it....

We've had a very easy ride with the lad so far, but this week we got a timely reminder of the perils - and responsibilities - of parenthood.

Our summer holiday to Italy has been scuppered by the lad potentially succumbing to Chickenpox. Given the virulent nature of the disease and the fact that he was in close proximity to a baby who has now developed it at precisely the most contagious time to be in contact, it's a fair bet I reckon. But of course the spots don't come out straight away, so we don't know for sure - that's the Catch 22.

And that's where it all unravels. You see, we could fly out there if the spots haven't come out, but then if they did while we were on holiday we'd be stuck there or face a thousand mile trip back in our hire car. Or if he gets spotty beforehand we'd be barred from the outward flight anyway. And all of this pales into insignificance compared to what's best for the lad, which is to be at home if he's suffering, not in a strange - and hot - place.

So that's that - no Tuscany for us. Still, at least the weather in the UK has improved a bit - we even went a whole day without it pissing down yesterday.

And it's not like there's nothing to do in London in summer. And I still get a week without having to traipse into this bloody office.

So all's unwell that ends well...sort of.

Glastonbury here we don't come...

It's Christening time this weekend! Just a low-key affair with closest family and a few friends, but nonetheless an important day. The missus, of course, has a stinking cold, although the lad seems to have got over his so at least he's not likely to drop a load of snot in the font...

The lad obviously has no idea what's coming up, but he's got used to being in church so I don't think it's going to phase him - too bad if it does, really!

Under normal circumstances we'd be in a less than sober state at Glastonbury this weekend, but 'retirement' from all that nonsense acted as something of a precursor to the arrival of Junior, and having him on the scene guaranteed we'd stick to our guns.

I know the missus is having pangs about missing the festival, but I can't say I am - too old for that shit these days.

Although he's the only 'NCT baby' not yet crawling, I can't say I'm too fussed. He can virtually stand on his own so I guess he just couldn't be bothered with all that crawling malarkey, choosing instead to go straight through to walking.

He has developed quite a sense of humour, finding almost everything absolutely hilarious, particularly anything that involves me whirling him around or pretending to drop him then scooping him up again. If he gets fractious come Christening time perhaps I should suggest that the vicar gives this a go....

No sex,no drugs, no rock 'n' roll....only cycling

"Do you miss us?" asked the missus plaintively, on the first evening of a brief sojourn at her parents' place with the lad.

"Not had time to" was the honest answer, hardly surprising since pretty much every waking hour of my life is dominated by bloody cycling at the moment.

And it's her own fault - she was the one who clipped out a competition in The Independent to win a place on the British Cyclosportive, just the 120 miles of timed cycling that traces the route of Stage One of this year's Tour de France, from London to Canterbury (and for the benefit of overseas readers, yes I know that's not in France, but the race has a habit of dipping into neighbouring countries along the way, Britain included).

What a wheeze, I thought, despite not actually owning a road bike or having ridden any notable distance for a decade or more. And never in semi-competitive conditions...

But of course I won, and now, having had a racing machine cobbled together for me by my trusty local bike shop, I'm trying to cram a lifetime of road racing into about six weeks.

It's already taken it's toll - saddle-sore arse and aching knees are just the half of it. I even managed to acquire a kidney infection along the way, which resulted in my first ever trip in an ambulance as The Patient in 40 years on this miserable planet.

I'm crapping myself about my chances of completing the distance. I can foresee a tearful, humiliating exit via the 'broom wagon' (a support vehicle that sweeps up riders who abandon the stage) and I'll never be able to tell the lad "I've ridden a stage of the Tour - it was easy" when trying to encourage him to get off the couch and do some bloody exercise.

Wonder where I could buy some EPO.....

History already...

Since the lad was born I've been making a few home movies from the video of him we've shot from time to time. These have previously been circulated to relatives, but last night I finally got round to burning some DVD copies for ourselves, and watching them made me realise how much he has already changed, how many stages have been passed even in these few months.

It's made us more determined to be quicker with the camera in future - as once a moment is gone it's gone forever, especially with my sieve-like memory these days!

Looking back at the very early footage, he seemed to specialise in just lying there dozing or not doing very much. He's a lot more of a handful these days, but all the better for it - life with him now is a very interactive experience, his means of communication so much more than sneezes, yawns and yelps.

In just over two weeks he gets his first big moment in the spotlight - his Christening. Although not a massive affair, it is bringing the respective parents together for the first time since our wedding, which should be interesting! Hope they don't fight over time with the lad!

I'll be the one at the back, keeping out of the way, I think

My new best mate...

Mission accomplished. 48-plus hours of solo parenting and both myself and the nipper survived!

More than that, for the first time really, I feel as if we've got to know each other. With work commitments and all I've not really spent much 'quality time' alone with him, and that's really the only way to find out about his developing personality, what he likes doing and what he doesn't (being dressed very squarely falls into the latter category!).

It's just like making friends with somebody, only of course the bonds are much stronger. The whole thing seemed like a sort of holiday from my normal existence, which all the best experiences should be. Of course I'm now trying to pack the missus off for another break so I can have another crack at it!

It also makes me realise that we should be more concerted in taking as much video footage and as many still pictures as we can, because every stage he goes through he'll never go back to. One of my particular favourites at the moment is his very vocal eating style, not perhaps straight out of the Debrett's school of manners but very entertaining and certainly proof that's he's enjoying what he eats.

Oh well, back to the daily grind of work today. Wonder what he's up to this minute?

Home alone...

Is it really almost a month since my last post? My, how time flies...

This is a big weekend for me. I'm flying solo with the lad for the first time, as the missus has gone away to a health spa for a couple of days. Needless to say I have instructions detailed enough to sink a battleship, which is probably no bad thing! I've managed to get his lunch into him OK so far, and obviously bath and bedtime is pretty routine as I've done that exercise plenty of times before.

He's napping now, but soon we're off to the woods for a session on the swings - beats working I can tell you. Tomorrow is Cup Final day, but rather than try to watch it with half an eye while trying to keep the nipper amused, I'm going to Sky+ it and go out for the afternoon with my best mate, his wife and their baby, and we'll then watch the match in the evening once all the kids have been put to bed - hopefully without knowing the result.

It will be just like that classic episode of The Likely Lads....come on you Reds!!

Home for barf time...

Two fairly spectacular projectile vomitings from the lad have enlivened our last two evenings at home. Luckily for me the missus took the bullet on both occasions, although of course I was quick to help out where I could.

Our theory is that he's managing to swallow so much snot thanks to his cold that it's playing his guts up. The old 'hawk-spit' routine will take him a few more years to master I guess...

We're very lucky that he's not a sickly boy normally - clearing up puke is a daily occurrence for some of our NCT-friends by all accounts. I wouldn't fancy that too much, I must admit.

Oh, well, he never seems to mind despite the rather unpleasant new sensation it must be. Maybe tonight I should fabricate a 'Tube nightmare' delay and have a pint in town until the coast is clear...

In the swim...but bugged out

The lad got his first taste of swimming this week, and it seems as though he took to it like the proverbial duck to water.

Indeed the instructor was amazed that it was the first time he'd set foot in the kiddie pool at our local baths, as he happily splashed about. I only have this on the authority of the missus of course, since naturally I was sweating away in the office while all the fun was going on.

Still, my colleague and I escaped for a lunchtime o'booze to celebrate his birthday yesterday, so all was not lost....

But back to the lad, and his love of the water is no surprise to me, since he goes absolutely crazy when we put him in the bath for his nightly splash. In fact it's a wonder there's any water left after he's thrashed it about for the ten minutes or so until my arms are cramping up and I have to haul him out. In fact, "holding on to the crazy bathing nipper" ought to become one of the endurance tests in World's Strongest Man, such is the awkwardness of the task and it's requirement for arm muscles considerably more developed than my own...

Sadly though, his trip to the municipal baths seems to have resulted in him catching a lurgy. The poor thing can't understand why he suddenly feels so rotten and his nose is running like a tap, so he's been in a very sullen mood since.

Given that we can hardly hand him a hanky and tell him to have a good blow, the missus has bought some sort of pipette-like device that's supposed to suck the snot out of his nose, but it doesn't seem to work so she's resorted to a more 'manual' process that's far too gag-inducing to describe in detail here (think snake venom extraction).

Oh well, summer seems to be here so hopefully this will be the last cold of winter in our household...

...of God and things...

If you'd said to me ten years ago that I'd be spending my Sunday mornings in church, as opposed to sleeping off the previous evening's excesses, I'd probably have rolled around the floor laughing.

Just goes to show what difference having a child makes to your life....

It's not that I've ever been particularly pro- or anti-religion, more of a fence sitter really. But for some reason once the lad came on the scene I wanted to have him Christened, even though the missus was quite against it. After all, she was such a self-professed atheist that she point-blank refused a church wedding.

But in the end she came round to the Christening idea, so it was natural to try out our local church for size. It's worth pointing out that (unlike many London parents exasperated by state schooling options) there is no school-oriented cynicism in this move. 'Our' church has no better-quality educational establishment that being a regular member of the congreation helps one's chances of gaining access to.

This probably explains why services are not exactly packed out - that and the fact that it is very 'high' in terms of cermonial, with plenty of 'bells and smells'. In fact the vicar himself described it to us as "high as a kite", provoking some quiet mirth from Yours Truly, who has been no stranger to such sensations in the past, but for very different reasons.

It's fair to say that, while I won't be going out looking to convert any sinners any time soon, I am getting quite into the whole thing. I find most things about our world today quite perplexing, and while it's easy (as I have often done myself) to blame religion for many of these ills, it's not really the case. It's human beings loaded to the gunwales with hate that are the problem.

They seem a nice bunch down there and they've really welcomed the lad, who will be their first baby Christened in a good while, it seems. Plus they've got our names and address now, so we'd better keep going along in the build-up to and after the event or we could get a thunderbolt from on high!

God he's cute...

Not one but two independent witnesses have recently described the lad as "pretty". And, with no hint of parental bias, I have to agree that he is a rather cute individual, despite not having much hair to speak of yet.

Perhaps it's his sunny disposition - God knows where he gets that from, certainly not me, I'm a miserable bastard at the best of times. He laughs a lot, and he happily repeats the "da da" mantra, though sadly not when looking at me so it's fair to say his cognitive powers are not yet fully developed...

He's also close to standing under his own steam, something he seems particularly pleased about but which gives the missus the collywobbles because it means he's soon going to be mobile.

And he's developed a trick of hauling himself 360 degrees around in his cot, so you put him to sleep pointing north and you wake him up pointing south. We're thinking of installing a webcam with infra-red capabilities to see just how he manages this, given that his legs and body are wrapped in a sleeping bag.

Easter is just days away, and it's going to be great - four uninterrupted days of family fun. Bring it on!

Schools....yes, you read that right, schools

The lad is only just getting used to sitting up, memorising his times tables and reciting the kings and queens of England are but a twinkle far off in his distant horizon....and yet we've already had a look around his first potential school.

Thanks to the outstanding generosity of my father-in-law, junior is going to benefit from a private education. To anyone unfamiliar with the quality of state education in Britain - and London's schools in particular - that might not seem a big thing, but believe me it is.

However, just throwing money at the problem is not, in this case, a guaranteed solution. You see in London we have a glut of wealthy types to whom a few grand a term for young Tarquin or Yolanthe is small beer indeed. Barely more than it costs to run the Range Rover or pay for the full time nanny so mummy and daddy don't have to get their hands dirty with the offspring.

Thus, even among the private sector a clear pecking order has formed, and the school we visited today (which will remain nameless, just in case we get into the mixer for a place and somehow this blog gets attributed to yours truly) is up near the top of it - at least in our neighbourhood anyway.

And very nice it is too. Very nice. But with more than 400 serious applications for 32 places each year the lad's got about as much chance of getting selected for it as he has of going to a madrassa.

In fact the clear message from today's tour was "don't get your hopes up, folks". Our guide talked about their desire to have a spread of abilities, but clearly that spread starts at extremely bright and goes to Steven Hawking.

Fair enough. At least the process of selection seems reasonably fair. The missus was telling me of some schools elsewhere in the Capital where selection is done more on the 'first come, first serve' basis, with a birthday early in the month offering an advantage. Thus some mums are having elective Cesarians to ensure their offspring are born on the first or second of the month, with dad having the application forms ready to fill in while his wife is still being stitched up. What a world we live in today.

From our Middle East correspondent….

So, here I am, away from the family on my annual business trip to the Gulf. Unfortunately, since my last stay here my hotel has been discovered by The Germans. No surprise I guess, given the perpetual sunshine here and that race’s seemingly insatiable desire to sunbathe.

What it does mean, of course is that any attempt to get near the hotel pool or its private beach means running the gauntlet of overweight bodies wrapped in overcooked skin…not that several days of a ‘hotel diet’ have exactly worked wonders for my physique either.

Solo business travel is never a happy scenario for the naturally glum and unsociable, and sure enough the void of human company has been filled with watching too much rubbish foreign TV and pigging out on too much rich food, along with other unsavoury activities….

Needless to say my insides are already protesting vehemently at this onslaught, and we’re only just over half way through the trip.

Missing the lad furiously, of course. The missus had thoughtfully secreted one of his little vest tops in my suitcase, as a reminder of him while I’m away. A nice touch, although I’m sure the hotel cleaner thinks I’m some sort of perv, as I’ve hung it over the suit stand and there’s no other evidence of a childly presence in the room…

If I’m totally honest I’d also admit I’m glad in a way for a few days’ break from the responsibilities of fatherhood, to have only myself to look after (however poorly). I’ve questioned why new mothers go back to work even though it makes little sense financially…I’m now coming round to the belief that this choice comes down more to a need to share the burden of 24/7 responsibility that is a child with somebody else – even a stranger – than to any desire to rejoin the rat race. While explaining it, this still doesn’t justify it in my mind.

The last days will hopefully fly, as will I back to the family seat. Wonder if I’ll be able to look at him when I get home without blubbing???

Every time you go away....

It's been a while since I've been on here - just the usual too many other things to do and not much to say scenario!

But an interesting time coming up - an extended business trip that will see me away from the lad for the longest period since he was born. Thanks to the utter incompetence of Dell Computer my sparkly new machine at home has proved to be a dud, and sadly the old one that I've pressed back into service cannot cope with such innovations as webcams, so my best laid plans for regular videoconferencing with the missus and sprog have turned to dust. Bugger.

So it's going to be over a week until I see him again...wonder how much he'll change in that time? He's just learned how to laugh, well chuckle would be more appropriate, which is disarmingly cute and cannot fail to raise a smile on my own lips.

I'll miss him to be sure. Hope he remembers who I am when I get back....

Part time Dad....

In my group of mates there's an oft-said comment that "working is losing". Not that most of us have a choice of course - when last I checked none of us had a billionaire uncle ready to pop his clogs, nor the likelihood of discovering oil or gas in the back yard.

So work we must - which is a Bad Thing at the best of times, but for me it means being something of an absentee Dad. I go off to the office before the lad is awake, and I get home after he's gone to bed. Only the late evening nappy change/feed offers any chance to commune, and the whole point of that is not to wake him up too much! In any case, now he's starting on solid food (gulp!) that feed will disappear anyway.

It means weekends are precious in a way that I could never have imagined. It's the only time I can get to know him, study how he's changing and play a part in that change. As I stand at the freezing cold bus stop of a morning, I absolutely cannot understand how mums can choose some drab office job - the financial rewards from which are mostly soaked up by child care costs anyway - over being at home nurturing their kids. What is wrong with these people? And more pertinently why did they bother with the whole kids thing in the first place?

My job hardly pays a fortune, but sadly the missus shows no sign of wanting to take over the breadwinner duties, so a life of house-husbandry remains as big a pipe dream as discovering I'm somehow related to the Duke of Westminster...

Waaaaaah!

Now that I've spent some time in close proximity to one for the first time, one of the things that's most surprised me about babies is just how much they cry.

They cry when they go to sleep
They cry when they wake up
They cry when they're hungry
They cry when they're tired
They cry (or at least ours does) at every sudden noise, such as a slamming door or somebody sneezing
They cry when they're bored (i.e. you've stopped giving them your undivided attention for three seconds)
They cry when they're bunged up and need a poo
They cry for no apparent reason at all

It can be rather wearing, but they so easily make up for it when they give you that big smile of recognition as you make eye contact. No adult smiles as much as a baby...which is a pity really, when you think about it.

And a Happy New Year!

Nothing like a busy run-up to Christmas and then all the festive nonsense to keep one away from blogging.

I've always said how lucky we are to have such an even-tempered nipper. Well, we were until New Year's Eve when he started teething! That changed things somewhat...

Poor little mite didn't really know what was going on. Neither, embarrassingly, did we until my sister diagnosed the problem with a quick feel of his gums. To be fair to us, she's been there and got the t-shirt, having two kids of her own.

So we had a mad scramble for some teething gel - not an easy thing to buy at 8pm on New Year's Eve in Great Yarmouth. Luckily a bit of local knowledge prevailed and said gel was secured from a petrol station convenience store (funny, I always thought they only sold engine oil, Cornish pasties and porn mages). Thus we managed to settle him, if not ourselves.

A fun evening was duly had while my parents minded the littl'un, and then it was back home to face a new year of work for me and child-rearing for the missus. Having had a few days of the latter over the holidays, I reckon there are pros and cons to both.

Child rearing is more intense, less well paid but infinitely more satisfying, especially as the 'developmental stages' are passed. I'm sure to miss him rolling over for the first time, his first words, even that first tooth finally breaking through.

Work, by contrast, is just a bit shit really, but at least it allows me to own a fast car and buy pints of beer and CDs more or less when I want to. Who says men are shallow?