Close Encounters of the D'oh Kind...

A couple of days ago we went up at 11pm as normal to give the lad his final change and feed before our bedtime, and when we put the light on we saw he'd got a vivid dark blue mark across his crown - one that proved almost indellible, particularly as that is the soft part of his skull so scrubbing was not an option. Took me almost 15 minutes of gentle washing with a soapy flannel to get it off.

The missus espoused several worrying theories as to how this mystery might have occurred, including the possibility that he'd been 'marked' by aliens for abduction that night.

Turned out it was dye from her new blue sweatshirt, that he'd picked up earlier that evening while cradled in her arms......d'oh!

Still, better to cover all the options, eh?!

What am I like?

I've been thinking about whether fatherhood has changed me at all. It's certainly changed my lifestyle somewhat - I now look upon an evening out with the sort of fevered anticipation normally associated with small children on Christmas Eve.

Has it made me feel more mature? Yes, probably. I take my responsibilities to the nipper seriously, and my desire to be an adequate parent overwhelms all others. I think perhaps it's made me a bit more human as well. I've never 'done' people particularly well in the past, and have sometimes felt that being completely alone on a desert island would be preferable to having to be sociable. But now I can just sit and watch the nipper sleeping and be endlessly fascinated by every tiny movement, shiver or twitch, and I think that this basic human interest is permeating into my dealings with the outside world too.

The need to constantly communicate with him is also a bit of a change for someone who often prefers complete silence, although of course it will be better when his responses develop from cries, squeaks and grunts....

And we haven't even found the precision organisation required to do anything from a family visit to buying a newspaper particularly challenging - neither myself nor the missus are exactly noted for our spontaneity, we're both devoted planners anyway an neither of us particularly like surprises.

All in all it's basically a new life, much like the old life only without the beer.

Taking stock

The missus has taken the littl'un off to the in laws so she can get a bit of daytime support for a couple of days.

I've had the house to myself, which has given me a chance to take stock after the whirlwind first six weeks. It's certainly quieter, and having a couple of nights' reasonably unbroken sleep has been good for the soul. I'll be ready to have him back in my life tomorrow though, I miss the little feller.

The weekend sees him go on his first demo, the big climate change rally in Trafalgar Square. We'll be making sure we get a few stickers to adorn the Baby Bjorn on the day...

He's already smiling at us, and not just because he's about to fart or poo either - genuine smiles. Hopefully he'll remember who I am when we see each other tomorrow night?

More horror stories from our NCT friends of screaming, colic ridden sprogs has again emphasised how lucky we've been so far with our even tempered boy. He might have a hairline that's more receded than mine, and from certain angles he looks worryingly like Buster Bloodvessel, but he also seems to have a temper that goes a lot further as well!!

Famous last words....

I'm loving being a dad, much more than I ever thought possible. There's no way to describe the sense of pride I have when out in public with him - I want everybody to admire him and think he's as perfect as we do. Silly really...

This will almost certainly prove to be famous last words, but...whisper it quietly... it really doesn't seem to be all that much of a struggle so far, either. Obviously his excellent temperament is a big help in this case, but nothing I thought I'd hate (crying very loudly, puking on my t-shirts, nappy changing, etc) has proved to be anything of a burden.

Even the broken sleep, which is nothing new to me anyway, I'm managing to laugh off pretty easily with a few judicious cups of coffee. Although I must admit the missus' sterling night-time duties have played a big part in this!

There, now I've gone and said it. I'll get home tonight to find he started bawling at midday and he won't stop again for another eight years.

He sleeps, he feeds, he cries, he poos, he sleeps again.

Babies don't have a lot of variety in their lives at this stage, do they? And neither do new parents, truth to be told.

Junior is going through the aforementioned routine day after day. Of course he's still too young to communicate in any way with us, or to show any visual recognition, affection or any of that stuff. It'll come though.

I'm worried that he might be boss-eyed. If he is, he'll have got it from me, I had to have my eyes operated on as a very young lad, although they're OK now. My only spell as an in-patient in my life as it goes, and even though I was only about five or six years old, it was awful. I can remember one of my fellow patients was in there because he had managed to stick a pencil into his eye - the nurses had to hold him down mob-handed to force some medicine into him, the majorioty of which he used to sick back up immediately afterwards...little sod.

Anyway, I digress. Despite the lack of real action, we still love him of course. He seems a reasonably contented chap, he likes clasiscal music and Richard Hawley, but not the free jazz experimentalism that I'm quite into just now, which causes him to bawl at the top of his voice. I'll have to play that stuff with the headphones on, methinks...

The point of Dad....

...at this stage seems to be very much a support role.

As a result of her op, the missus cannot lift anything heavier than a kettle for six weeks. Given that we can't live on tea and coffee alone, it's meant an awful lot of fetching and carrying for yours truly, not to mention dusting off my less than stellar culinary skills.

It's amazing what you need to manage a small baby at home - almost none of which we actually own. I'm now on first name terms with the friendly staff at Mothercare after an unbroken run of six successive days' visits, never coming away with less than a stack of equipment/clothing etc etc.

This burden is all entirely fair enough of course, and scarcely matches what the missus has had to put up with. I had no dead weight to lug around for nine months, no agonising pain during delivery, no major hormonal changes to deal with, and no spending hours with my tits out while a small creature snuffles on them like an anteater over a termite hill.

I reckon I'm getting off quite lightly...

The most inappropriately-named blog in the world...

...as I realised in the early hours of Sunday morning when the surgeon held up the small, slimy wriggling blue thing that was - and is - my son.

Right now, I feel as though it wasn't just him that was born at that moment, it was me as well. It's almost as if the whole of my life to date has been pointless, or perhaps fairer to say that from that moment on I have become a totally different person, a child with so much to learn again.

I thought I'd lived a fulfilling life up to now. I've been to some of the greatest gigs in history, experienced the highest highs, visited wonderful countries and cities, enjoyed love, sex and all of that...but you could wrap all of this up in the most beautiful wrapping paper and I wouldn't swap the lot for a minute of holding him in my hands, watching his face pull all sorts of silly expressions as he learns what he can do now he's in the outside world.

Of course this Nirvana is sure to pass, but the point of a blog like this is to capture the moment, and that's how this moment is for me right now, as I sit here at 7am getting myself ready to go back to the hospital (it was a C-section job - more of a case of reluctant son than Dad in the end!).

I'm looking forward to getting him and the missus home - it was very lonely last night, although I guess I should be grateful for a reasonably unbroken sleep.

Bloody hell, who would have thought...certainly not me anyway.

Given how foolish I feel for all my previous reservations, I'm not sure whether I'll continue this blog. Probably will though, it's good to unload my hopes and fears safe in the knowledge that just about nobody is reading it anyway!!

And still...

Beginning to wonder if he wants to come out into the world.

Mind you, I'm glad in many ways that he's not looking likely to be born on September 11th - hardly an auspicious day for your birthday.

And still nothing...

...it's like waiting for bloody Godot this.

Two down, three to go...

That's two out of the five NCT couples who've dropped so far. We're still waiting, although the due date draws ever nearer, and the missus still believes that she'll conform to the tradition of her family and deliver early.

So it could be any time from the next couple of hours right through to the end of September. I really hope it's sooner rather than later - I can't stand the sense of powerlessness over proceedings, nor the seemingly random nature of these things.

We're starting on the pineapple, raspberry leaf teas, hot curries etc etc and will see what happens.

I just want to hold the little fella, to know that it finally is reality and my new role as a dad is underway properly. Naturally the missus is super uncomfortable, so she just wants to get something approaching her body back. Understandable.

The size issues appear to have receded - scans show that he's normal apart from long legs (just like his dad had when he was born) so no early induction or any of that nonsense.

Just counting the hours/days/minutes.....

Those were the days...

Time was when a typical Tuesday night in the Smoke would have meant a few beers after work, a gig, maybe a curry even? Tonight, on the other hand, I have a water birth workshop to go to.

Goody.

Still, I'm sure it'll be useful, as this has become our birthing method of choice, following recommendations from others, several of whom swear by its comforting properties.

The first of our NCT couples has had their baby. All seemed to go well and the missus was greatly relieved to hear that the mum in question found the whole thing less painful and hardcore than she was expecting.

As soon as we get into September (so he's not disadvantaged on schooling years) I reckon the missus will be wolfing down hot curry, drinking fruit teas and jumping up and down to get him out - she's fully into the maximum discomfort zone.

I'm just keeping my usual watching brief, helpng where I can and trying to keep my emotions in check. Not an easy task of late...having a little cry to Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah' is all well and good, but perhaps not ideal while on an exercise bike in a crowded gym...

Wow...

Wow! This weekend I had what alcoholics call a moment of clarity.

We'd put the new cot together and the missus decided to break out the little mobile thingy that hangs over it and spins round to give junior something to look at. And once that was done she set it off just to try it out. As I looked at it whirring round and listened to it playing that classic baby jingle (you know the one) I just felt a sudden realisation hitting me and almost knocking me over. It was almost as if he was lying there already.

In fact it was more a tsunami of emotion - took me a while to get over it and still had a few secret tears at night-time.

Strange days indeed....

Clanking to the top of the coaster....

We're a bit closer to the point of no return now; the rollercoaster will soon be tipping over the edge into oblivion...

Well, of course if you're being pedantic, the point of no return was in fact when we found out about junior last January. But my analogy wouldn't work then, since a rollercoaster that took eight months to get to the top would be a bit dull....

Anyway, nothing dull in our home right now, thanks to the almost daily deliveries of flat-pack baby furniture, prams, car seats and miscellaneous peripherals. At this rate we'll have to move house just to fit it all in, and this is before we've bought any brightly coloured bloody toys!

I see what they mean about the cost of child-rearing.

I still can't make it all real in my mind. I get occasional flashes, a bit like an acid flashback (not that I'd know about that of course), of life after he arrives, but my consciousness soon returns to child-free. It's weird.

Given that the missus is approaching the 'could drop at any time' window, this won't last for long, however...

That's your last, last hurrah over boyo...

...and now it begins to get very serious.

Safe in the knowledge that my carefree life really would be over soon I've had a series of "last hurrah" trips away with various mates, including a madcap jaunt down to Magny-Cours F1 cicruit to see ex-Pink Floyd man Roger Waters play, plus a racing/boozing trip ooop north with my best mate and former Best Man, who is coincidentally also about to become a dad.

But now all those fun and games are over, junior is just over a month away from making his scheduled appearance and I'm shitting bricks, to be honest.

I really know nothing of what I face, as the hilarity which greeted my hamfisted attempts to bathe a very realistic 'dummy' baby at the most recent NCT class would attest.

I haven't been able to bring myself to pick up any of the countless books on child-rearing that are piling up at home, but I guess I better make a start...it'll be less harrowing than watching news coverage of the rape of Lebanon anyway (ooops, bit political there, sorry).

What has seemed like quite an imaginary thing so far, almost an out-of-body experience, is no longer such, but, unlike the missus, I feel no bond yet with the wriggling thing hidden inside her. What if I can't feel the necessary unconditional love for him when he finally comes out? The prospect of being an inaequate dad haunts me and is driving me crazy...

I have the same feeling of trepidation right now as you get on the initial drag up the rollercoaster ride. We haven't quite crested the top and started to roll very fast under our own steam, but we're close....very close.

The baby whisperer...

Just been to the first session of our NCT ante-natal course. What I don't know now about cervical dilation and vaginal mucus just simply isn't worth knowing....

Actually, despite my substantial misgivings about taking part, it proved to be a reasonably insightful morning's work, in the company of a couple of other wide-eyed middle class dads-to-be who presumably I'm now expected to arrange trips to the pub with to 'talk babies'. Given that I hardly have enough time to see my actual friends these days, this seems unlikely, nice guys though they are...

Perhaps the highlight for me was finding the potential answer to one of the problems we have right now, which is that junior is not in the 'correct' position of head down into the pelvis facing his destiny. Apparently I have to get an empty toilet roll tube, place it at the bottom of the missus' belly and talk to him through it, as the sound and vibration will coax him down into the right spot and then gravity (his head is heavier than anything else) should keep him there.

No, that's not made up, I swear.

There are five NCT sessions, the first two on the labour process in all its gory, sorry glory, then others on things like caesarians (oh, goody!), breastfeeding and, most useful to me, what to do in the terrifying first days after the baby arrives.

I have no idea yet what will happen when junior leaves the hospital and comes home for (hopefully) good. How do I hold him (I'm legendarily crap at holding babies)? What do I do to keep him amused? How many hours should I spend studying his every motion with a pained look of worry on my face?

All this and more will no doubt be answered between now and the beginning of August...

So farewell then...

...to my study/office/den/refuge in our house.

Now cleared of all my stuff to make way for spare bedroom furniture. The first casualty of the impending familyhood!

I'll miss playing on the computer and watching baseball games online up there, although I won't miss the amount of junk that ended up collecting in the room - enough to take a whole day of clearing before I could even see the floor.

It makes me realise how materialistic I've been in the past, buying all sorts of stuff just because I could. Oh well, that spendthrift largesse is about to become the second casualty...

...and a big fella too!

Given that his father is one of the few people who can look Peter Crouch squarely in the eye, it's no surprise that Junior is a bit on the big side at this early stage of his life.

Well, no surprise to us, but plenty it seems to the NHS, who've dragged the missus in for diabetes tests as a result of seeing the rather large figure thrashing about inside her.

Needless to say, nothing's come up, so we can tick that particular problem off the list (and add another few quid to the NHS deficit - not our fault, guv).

The missus is ma-hooosive now though, even with another two-and-a-bit months to go. It's looking increasingly like an induced early arrival or Caesarian is going to be the order of the day - otherwise he'll be too big for the crib, let alone any of the (few) items of clothing we've already bought! Still, I've got a few spare t-shirts in the cupboard - some of the now shrunk-in-the-wash gig shirts may well be a perfect fit, although I guess the Foetus Interruptus one may have to stay where it is...

The missus' cousin has just had a baby boy, which is a good thing in terms of sharing experiences and also provides an occasional playmate on our visits there, which may well become more regular in future, and no bad thing too.

Is it really so long....

...since my last post? Time really does seem to zip by, especially with the World Cup as a big distraction.

We went to visit the maternity ward and labour rooms of our local hospital at the weekend, along with just about all of north London's expectant parents it seemed. As we packed, sweating, into one of the labour rooms I started to doubt the wisdom of this venture - it didn't tell me anything I din't know already ("there's the bed, there are the scales, that's a window, etc etc...") but the blood-curdling screams issuing from the other rooms certainly unsettled all the first-time mums and dads, ourselves included.

What it did confim is that this part of the process really isn't going to be a lot of fun. While I'm quite happy to sit around keeping the missus company in the interminably dull early stages, I don't want to be there when it all goes off anyway - the only piece of advice my dad has been moved to give me so far is to stay away from the business end of labour, so has a friend who has recently been through the experience. All the bullshit and "new man" machismo you read in the papers is just that, in my opinion.

Even the missus is doubtful that she wants me there when it really gets messy and unpleasant, and fair enough. I guess it'll all be decided on the day, but it's been a source of tension so far, so thanks for that to all the fucking blokes who can't wait to discuss the issue in the media - just leave us alone will you!

Days run away

If this blog seems to have slowed up a bit lately, it's naturally enough because these 'middle' weeks of the missus' pregnancy are fairly uneventful as it goes.

The calm before the storm I guess. Junior is starting to make his presence felt, kicking hard enough to be felt when he's up and about, which is a fair amount of the time. I do hope he doesn't inherit my difficulties with sleep, although at least the sleep disturbed evenings created by a newborn will have no fear for me, as that's been my life for decades anyway.

There also seems to be an unending amount of news and views about all things to do with pregnancy and children in the media at the moment, although perhaps this has always been there but I've successfully zoned out in the past. Maybe it's a bit like when you buy a new car and suddenly you notice all the other ones the same as yours out on the road.

Still, I reckon it's about the only time I've been up with fashion in anything in my life, if all the media comments about kids being the latest fashion essential are to be believed...

The missus has now moved into the "I'm tired all the time" third trimester. I have a big book on fatherhood, bought for me by my father-in-law, to plough through - it'll probably be as tiring on my patience.

And all the while the days count down. I'm in a nervous, "slghtly troubled by the whole prospect" sort of phase right now. Hopefully this will lift before long. I'm keeping it to myself and this blog anyway.

Boys will be boys....

Although there's always the potential for 'Daddy's girl' style affection, I guess if you ask most men whether deep down they'd prefer a boy or a girl you'll get the answer "a boy".

And while the nipper's health is my main concern I fit into this group as well, if I'm being honest with myself. It's probably becuase I'm a fairly unreconstructed male (interests: beer, music and sport) as well as a big kid (I own both a Scalextric and a Stiga table ice hockey game) at heart.

I like the idea of a bit of rough and tumble and making a mess around the place. Take this comment from an email a mate sent to me the other day:

"Another thing about boys... is that they can be disgusting. At the moment Daniel is doing an experement, to find out the best thing for mould to grow on. We have got seven plastic bags on the kitchen window sill (nice and hot, plenty of sun!!), all containing different things like soggy bread, cheese, cake, tomato etc. In five days' time (according to his book), we will have to compare all the different types of mould etc, and see which one has flourished the best!!"

Bring it on I say!