Dadology

Nancy's World... In Her Own Words

2006-02-17T23:07:00.001Z

Nancy has finally come of age. That's to say she's reached fourteen months, the age where, as you'll know if you've read all my previous posts, (and if not why not?) my parents counted up the words I said and wrote them down.

I posted Jack's list for the insight I think it gives into the way a just-over-one-year-old's mind works. I find it fascinating. But then I am their Dad. If you don't, please forgive me for this self-indulgence and skip to the next blog entry.

Both Jack and Nancy seem to know loads more words than I did at that age. So either my kids are much cleverer than me (which is perfectly possible) or my parents weren't as anal as me in noting them down (which is also perfectly possible).

Over to Nancy....

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mummy
Daddy
Manma (grandma)
Da-dad (granddad)
Tree
Star
Butty (button)
Ball
Apple (an apple or any fruit)
Car
Teddy
Pretty (anything shiny)
Doll
Baby (any baby or herself in the mirror)
Eeveen (Evelyn)
Albar (Albert)
Cat
Baa [sheep]
Mulk (milk)
Hot tea
Cup
Pot
Teatime
Breakfa (breakfast)
Mm mm (I’m hungry)
Bamboo
Hi ya
Tis (yes it is)
Bye Bye
Hair
Oh Oh (dropped something)
Ears
Dropped it Book
Poo
(Fish mouth shapes) [fish]
Pop (Mr Pop toy)
Wow wow wow (in excitement)
Bread
Shoes
Toast
Nana (I’d like a banana)
Botty (bottle)
Music
Bird
Tweet Tweet [bird]
Box Ta (hands something to you)
Broc-li (broccoli)
Cot
Archie
Painting
Teeth
Aaaah (gives a cuddle)
Head
Boo
Cut it
Dig dig (digger)
What’s that?
Muck (any Bob The Builder toy)
Hair
Sticky
Yoghurt
Cheese
Cheers (holding up her cup)
Bubble
Bat (bath)
Up (meaning I want to go up or get down)
Out (I want to get out)
Picture
Bob-oo (Bob The Builder)
Tellys (Teletubbies)
Dance
Steps (toddling to you)
Good girl
Juice
Hat
Duck
Bib bib bib (put my bib on)
Door
Tick tock [clock]
Clip clop [horse]
Tractor
Brm brm [car]
Toot toot [train]
E-I-E-I-O (Old MacDonald chorus)
Hot
Chip
Ooh Ooh Aah Aah [monkey]
Os-car
Putty (Puppy – Albert’s toy)
Mogs
Archers (when she hears the theme music)
Get it (I’d like to…)
Touch (I’d like to…)
Moo [cow]
Miaow [cat]
Ee-ore [donkey]
Up-down (going over a speed bump)
Pat
Jocko
Potty
Ready (is my breakfast?)
Roar [lion]
Ee-ee [mouse]
Oink [pig]
Dee-dar (fire engine)
Fork
Pepper
Water
Emma
Bed
Bunny
Percy (all Thomas The Tank Engine trains)
Biscuit
Bounce
Bowl
Nap nap (nappy)
Who-woo [owl]
Ann’y (Andy)
Kate
Zip
Wee (spinning something round)
Purple
Hop Hop [frog]
Straw
Caw [parrot]
La-la
Po
Dipsy
Noo-noo
Man
Tis is (what is it?)
More
Dark
Put-it (I want to wear it)
Aah-aah [seagull]
Boy
Drink
Straw
Fruit bar
Walk (I want to walk)
Night night
No

Total: 144 words

UNDERSTANDS another 20+ including:

Where’s…?
Funny (laughs)
Wave
Eyes
Nose
Mouth
Tummy
Tickle (tickles her own chest)
Night night
Sit down
Lie down
Bounce
Clap (locks hands together)
Brush
Eat it
Push
Kiss (says “mmm”)
Chair (her high chair)
Put it in
Laugh
Singing (says “laa laa laa”)

In Scientology, Noone Can Hear You Scream...

2005-11-01T18:43:00.000Z

I don't know much about Scientology beyond the fact that John Travolta and Tom Cruise are its most famous followers.

But I do know that any man who can suggest this to his wife is either under the influence of a very bizarre cult or a total tosser.

http://www.femalefirst.co.uk/entertainment/98422004.htm

You decide.

Autumn Comes Early

2005-10-26T10:48:00.000+01:00

It's been a great Autumn and Jack has thoroughly enjoyed kicking through the leaves when we're out. But his new fondness for leaves has taken a (for me) rather tragic turn.

When Jack was tiny I built him a mobile out of some green and purple filigree leaves we'd been given by a friend and hung it above his bed.

Although it was just some leaves, bits of wire and cotton, it was a rather beautiful thing. House guests used to say how much they liked it. For two years it caught the gentlest of breezes and gave an air of calm to Jack's room.

I'm not given to making craft objects. Frankly, it was a fiddly thing to make and took far longer than I'd anticipated. It was the gesture of a proud Dad, the physical embodiment of my love for my son.

I say was, because the other day when I went to wake Jack from his afternoon sleep, he handed me a tiny piece of leaf.

"What's that?" Jack asked me.

"It's a bit of leaf." I said.

I looked up and saw that the mobile was dangling at a peculiar angle. Two of the leaves were missing completely.

"Oh dear. Did you pull the leaves off?" I asked.

"Yes" said Jack, without a hint of remorse.

I explained that the mobile was broken and couldn't be fixed. I told Jack that it made me very sad, which it really did. I put on my best serious face.

But instead of looking chastened, Jack gleefully showed me to a drawer in the corner of his room. "Funny one in there. Funny one."

Inside there was a brightly painted wooden mobile featuring cartoon fruit and insects faces. It had been there for over a year and I'd forgotten all about it. Clearly Jack he thought it was much better than my mobile.

I couldn't find the rest of the leaves. My wife found them later, torn up and hidden in Nancy's cot. Had Jack thrown them in there so his not-yet-one year old sister would get the blame? Abso-bloomin-lutely.

The demise of the leaf mobile has taught me several things:

1. Two year olds might be capable of feeling guilt.

2. But they're not very good at being devious.

3. You can't choose your children's tastes.

4. Don't make gestures of your love for your children. Just tell them.

Tomorrow I'll put up the funny one.

The Sons of Noah

2005-09-22T21:17:00.000+01:00

One of Jack’s very favourite books is a version of Noah’s Ark in which there are four wooden animals which can be placed onto the pages at appropriate points. It’s a really colourful, cartoon book and a good re-telling of the old Bible classic.

Jack loves the animals. “Aminals” of all sorts are very exciting and he can now reel off every pair, from kangaroooooos to toucans, spiders to rhinos.

Yesterday we got to the last page where Noah and his family are looking at the rainbow spreading out over the soggy land.

“Who’s that?” asks Jack. He often does this, even when he knows the answer.

“That’s Noah” I say.

“Who’s that?” says Jack.

“That’s Mrs Noah. Noah’s wife.”

“Who’s that?” he says, pointing to a bearded man next to Noah.

“That’s one of Noah’s sons” I say.

“What’s he called?” Jack asks.

“I don’t know" I confess, rattled, "he’s just one of Noah’s sons.”

“What’s he called?” Jack insists. Dads are supposed to know everything.

I don’t like letting the little fella down this early on in my dad-hood. So straight away I get on the phone to my mum, Jack’s grandma, who way back in the mists of time, did a degree in Theology.

“What are Noah’s sons called?”

Oh dear. She doesn’t know. Then in the background, I hear her ask the same question to her husband, my dad.

Quick as a flash he comes back with “Ham, Shem and Japheth”.

"Brilliant. Thanks Mum, thanks Dad."

See. Dads do know everything. Or at least, mine does. He can take apart a car engine and put it back together, plumb in a washing machine, plaster a wall, understand calculus, history, literature, find anywhere in Britain without a map…. and he always, always beats me at Trivial Pursuit.

A couple of minutes have passed but Jack is still on the same page. “That’s Ham and that’s Shem.” I tell him.

“Ham and Shem” Jack says, totally satisfied.

Phew. I’ve passed the dad test this time. But I’ve still got a LOT to learn.

___________________________________________________

Incidentally, how cool is this? The Brick Testament

Take Your Head Off

2005-09-15T22:40:00.000+01:00

Jack has invented a new joke. In the bath, or sometimes when I am carrying him, he'll suddenly put his hands around my neck, pull upwards and say: "Take your head off!" I tell him it doesn't come off and he tells me the same thing again: "Take your head off!"

The first time he did this it was such a strange idea I found it hilarious. Consequently it has become a running gag and we both find it very funny.

Sometimes he's only after a digit: "Take your finger off!" he says, pulling it hard enough to hurt.

I note it here not because it's cute child behaviour, but because I wonder where on earth he got the idea from. It's really quite marcabre, when you think about it. Tim Burton stuff. And this from a boy who cries when Pingu gets lost in the snow!

Anyone else out there had requests for decapitation?

Like A Pig

2005-08-22T22:00:00.000+01:00

We’ve been to a lot of farm parks recently. Maybe too many. Jack was at a play group recently and saw a mother, breastfeeding her second child.

Jack walk straight up to her, pointed at her and said: “Like a pig!”

It could have been a nasty moment if Jack hadn’t gone on to explain:

“Saw a pig yesterday. On a farm. Eating mummy milk.”

A little education is, indeed, a dangerous thing.

Boys vs. Girls

2005-08-15T22:28:00.000+01:00

Sexism is genetic. That’s the only answer I can come up with for the gender-specific play of my two children.

‘Er indoors and I have always been very careful not to imprint male or female roles onto either of our children.

We’ve resisted as far as possible dressing Jack in blue for boys, Nancy in pink for girls (although the availability of interesting other colours in the shops doesn’t make it easy!) And we’ve always given them a range of toys to play with. Both have had access to cuddly toys, shakers, textured objects, blocks, books, dolls, puzzles… the works.

What’s totally bizarre to me is how differently they play.

From the minute he could crawl and he could choose what to play with, Jack went for anything with wheels. From about 10 months when visiting a play group, he’d generally head for the buggies and prams belonging to other children rather than the bright plastic toys on the floor. When he did play with toys with wheels, he'd turn them upside down and whizz them round for ages.

Once he discovered toy garages, Jack never looked back. There might be a hundred things to do in a room but he will always head for the garage to brrrm the cars and ideally crash them together.

Nancy, on the other hand, has always been into faces. She looks directly at people and smiles hugely if they look directly at her. She’s a cuddly girl and loves being held, whereas Jack will squirm out of a cuddle after a few seconds. And just recently, at 9 months old, she’s discovered dolls. She’ll smile at them with glee, grab them and thrust them under her chin, or dive for them, hold them in her arms and slobber their faces with wet kisses.

So before they’re even a year old, it’s cars for boys, dolls for girls. Is it the way their brains are wired up? Are their subtler influences at work to do with peer pressure, adult reactions to their play? Or is it some powerful behavioural programming in their DNA? Who knows. But it’s for real, and I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it happen with my own eyes.

Maybe Jack will discover a softer side later in life. Maybe he’ll go into fashion design or hairdressing. Maybe Nancy will develop a fascination for machinery. Maybe she’ll become a car mechanic or a physicist. I’d be delighted for this to happen. But I rather doubt that it will.

Books for Children

2005-07-27T15:49:00.000+01:00

The British government has announced that it's going to spend £27 million giving books to children under five:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk_news/story/0,,1535331,00.html

http://www.bookstart.co.uk/bookstart/parents/about.php4

This is good, I guess. I don't know what the books in the packs are going to be, but here's my recommended reading list for the under fives, based on Jack's favourites:

That's Not My... Tractor / Kitten / Train / Fairy / Car

Colourful touchy feely books with a good repetitive element.

Where's Boo? At The Farm

A lift-the-flap book, one of several in this series about Boo and his rather odd friends - laughing duck, growling tiger and sleeping bear. A TV show of the same name has Jack transfixed. Good for expanding vocabulary from nouns to adjectives.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar

Just great. I loved it. Now he loves it.

Ten Little Ladybirds

Another book with holes. A great way to learn insects, animals and counting.

Winnie The Pooh And The Ten Busy Bees

The first Pooh book - more holes. A good way to learn AA Milne's characters before embarking on the proper stories.

The Gruffalo

A magical story about a mouse and a monster. Brilliant.

We're Going On A Bear Hunt

One of those stories kids just love to learn by heart. Very exciting.

Each Peach Pear Plum

Plays around with nursery rhyme characters in a delightful new rhyming story. Bit girly, but good fun guessing where the next character will be.

I Will Not Ever Never Eat A Tomato

The ultimate book for fussy eaters. Very funny for adults too.

Maisy Goes Camping

Maisy mouse and her unlikely group of friends go camping. The page where they go "pop" out of the tent is probably Jack's favourite page in any book.

Bites and Bombs

2005-07-27T15:40:00.000+01:00

Jack’s second birthday is fast approaching. As an August boy, he’ll always be one of the youngest in his school year. He’s bright enough and doesn’t exactly lack self confidence, so I’m sure he’ll hold his own. But he is small.

The other day he was knocked over by a friend’s much bulkier two year old boy at one of the playgroups he attends. They were both holding the same toy at the same time, as often happens with two year olds. Jack gave a cry of pain and the bigger boy, who was on top of him, was pulled off by his mum. We dusted Jack down and dried his tears and forgot all about it. Only later at bath time did we discover that Jack had been bitten. A neat oval of pink tooth marks scarred his little shoulder.

I guess the marks will go. Jack probably won’t remember anything about it and it probably won’t happen again. I’m sure the boy’s mum was mortified to hear that her son had bitten ours. I don’t blame her. I don’t even blame the boy who did the biting. It’s just a thing children do. Jack nipped my shoulder once; he got a telling off and he hasn’t done it since. Children are no different from little tiger cubs or chimps, testing the boundaries, seeing what happens, seeing what they can get away with.

But the bite does make me feel very sorry for Jack. I guess it’s the start of a long process for him of discovering that not everyone in the world cares about you and wants you to be happy.

As a dad, it makes me feel very protective and at the same time very powerless. I can’t wrap my son up in cotton wool. How will I feel if he’s bullied at school? Or gets involved in a fight? Or gets caught up in some other random act of violence?

Maybe I’m just feeling a bit vulnerable. After the recent bomb attacks in London, I’ve had a couple of worried calls from my mum, wanting to hear that I’m OK. Although I work in central London, I’ve been nowhere near the blasts. The worst I’ve suffered is the inconvenience of having to walk across town.

I know that the chances of me being caught up in anything are remote. Millions of people use the tube every day. But the randomness of the attacks and the prospect of instant death does make you think. What would happen to my family if I got wiped out? What makes people want to die like that, and take other people with them? What kind of a world have I brought my children into?

I can understand why my mum wanted hear that I was OK. Because, at the end of the day, as a parent that’s all you can do.

Don't Write A Blog

2005-07-21T10:27:00.000+01:00

Not strictly an entry about being a dad, this.

Find out why you shouldn't write a blog:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2103-1631577_1,00.html

Having ignored the golden rule already, it comes a bit late for me!

Wise words, though.

Washing Krakatoa

2005-07-20T14:54:00.000+01:00

It’s truly incredible how much washing two small people generate. More than their own bodyweight in washing every single week, I reckon, and twice that if they’re ill and puking up regularly.

My wife and I feel like Mr and Mrs Twanky or Mickey and Minnie mouse in laundry based version of Fantasia. Every time we do a load, there’s another two loads to do.

The washing line in constantly full; the ironing pile grows like Krakatoa; and on those rare occasions when our lives aren’t accompanied by the thump thump slurp slurp wheeeeeeeeeeee soundtrack of the washing machine in action, we feel like we’ve gone deaf.

The cracks are beginning to show.

The plastic pegs on the line have started becoming brittle and snapping. They weren’t designed for industrial use.

I spent several hours of last weekend ironing. Ironing! This from a man who did no ironing ever before he got married.

Most worryingly of all, the washing machine is making a bid for freedom. It has broken free from its moorings and is heading across the kitchen floor at the rate of about 1cm a week. I think it’s hoping we won’t notice.

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

2005-07-18T13:06:00.000+01:00

Jack has a penchant for blondes. Not just any blondes, but attractive, yummy mummy blondes. I guess it’s not that surprising. After all, the Mrs is blonde (well, was. She’s now blonde with red streaks) and she’s obviously his ideal of yumminess. Freud, Oedipus and all that jazz.

But what’s interesting is his uncanny ability to seek out the most attractive blonde woman in the room and chat her up.

This has happened too many times to be a coincidence. Women at family parties, teachers at nursery groups, mums in playgrounds, hairdressers, shop assistants, waitresses. He’s the James Bond of toddlerdom.

Within two minutes he’s scoped out the room, made for the foxiest chick available and seduced her with his natural charisma and witty repartee. When he scores, as he invariably does, he scores big time. Within five minutes he’s being dandled on her knee, having his photo taken with her or being introduced to her daughter.

I have to say his taste is impeccable. If I’d thought of training Jack to go up to the prettiest blonde woman in the room so I could start a conversation with her, it would have been genius. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t have had the nerve. Nor would Jack have done what I wanted. He does it because he can’t help himself. He has a natural enthusiasm for the fairest of the fairer sex.

So, on a fairly regular basis, I find myself having to reclaim my son from the embrace of a stunningly attractive woman, apologise for his brazenness and take him back to the buggy. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

Of course there’s really no need to apologise. The blonde is swooning, captivated, unconcerned. She’s forgotten what she was meant to be doing. She calls him “gorgeous” or something similar and tells me he can come and see her anytime.

Clearly Dad is no longer in the pulling game. But when I was, was I ever this good? Emphatically no. The kid has talent.

For those still interested in seduction techniques, here’s what I have learnt from Jack:

Look cute. She won’t mind if you’re dribbling or holding a teddy bear as long as you’re basically clean and have shiny hair and (ideally) big blue eyes. Being short seems to be an advantage.

Don’t worry about your size, weight or age. Many women prefer the younger man. A smaller man may be unthreatening. And a little puppy fat just makes you look cuter.

Be direct. Just walk up, look at the woman with your big blue eyes, smile and say “Hello”. If she doesn’t notice you at first, keep saying it until she does.

Don’t bother with small talk. Ask them about themselves. “Who’s that?”, “What’s that?” and “What are you doing?” seem to do the trick. After this, laugh at anything they say.

Make physical contact early. Try to brush against her knee or lean against her. It helps if you are two foot tall and a little unsteady on your feet. If she offers you more, like a cuddle or hand to hold, go with it. Let her take the lead.

After a first encounter say goodbye properly and leave her with a kiss. Leave her wanting more.

And that’s all there is to it, apparently. The rest is down to charm, or pheremones or something. Jack appeal. If I could bottle it, I’d make millions.

We're Having Another Baby

2005-07-15T15:24:00.000+01:00

The first time the Mrs told me she was pregnant I literally jumped for joy.

She’d planned the surprise carefully. She handed me a book wrapped in Christmas paper, and told me it was an early Christmas present. I opened it up and saw a copy of The Expectant Father. It took a few seconds for the message to sink in, then I leapt off my chair, jumped in the air, span round 360 degrees and hollered.

The second time my response was much more muted. When the Mrs told me we were going to have another baby only fourteen months after our son was born, I was very happy and very surprised, but not ecstatic. I was worried about what this meant. Why didn't I feel the same rush of emotion I'd felt the first time round? Did it mean I didn't want to be a dad again?

I think now that my reaction was different because my life had already been changed so much. The prospect of creating a new life and bringing a baby into the world is so utterly incredible the first time; the second time it's something you know can happen. Also, you know this time round what it actually means to have a tiny baby: hard work, sleepless nights and all the rest.

I think I was also worried that I couldn’t possibly love a second child as much as Jack. He was such a gorgeous little baby boy, bright, independent, funny – he meant the world to me. How could there be room in my heart for another person? How could I love Jack as much with another child around? Later I discovered that my wife shared the same worry with me.

I'm not sure when we started loving baby number two. It was a gradual process and it happened almost without us noticing. As we'd decided that we'd only have two children, we began to realise that this was our last chance to experience some of the amazing things that happen in pregnancy: ultra sound scans, feeling the baby kicking and, of course, the birth.

By the time our daughter was about to be born, we were just as excited at the thought of seeing her as our first baby. The birth itself was an incredibly emotional experience and as soon as we saw Nancy we both fell in love with her.

Jack is two years old next month, Nancy will be eight months.

Last night I arrived home early and I could hear them laughing upstairs. They were in the bath together, both smiling up at me when I walked in. I hadn't seen them for a couple of days and seeing them again was just fantastic.

It seems as though there's no limit to how much love you can give or feel for your children. You can love your first baby with your whole heart, and your second with your whole heart too. They will both mean the world to you.

Tortoise's Dinner

2005-07-14T16:45:00.000+01:00

We went to visit my Mum and Dad the other day. They live in rural Somerset and when we were growing up they had quite a menagerie of goats, dogs, cats, rabbits, ducks and a tortoise.

It’s fifteen years since I lived there and all the pets have died except for one: the tortoise. Theresa was more than fifty years old she when was given to us to look after, so she must be in her mid-eighties now. A grand old Dame. She was called Terry for years until a visitor who knew about sexing tortoises looked at her shell shape and told us she was female.

Theresa spends her autumn days plodding around her hut on the lawn, bounded by a low fence about a foot high. Occasionally she eats a strawberry, a piece of banana or a salad leaf, or gulps water from a shallow terracotta bowl.

Jack was mesmerised. He’d never seen anything move that slowly before, I suppose. At first he was very wary of going too close, but we lifted Theresa up so he could see her closely several times over the weekend and eventually he became brave enough to touch her shell.

Just before we were leaving I was chatting in the back garden with my Dad. Jack was playing near the tortoise run. I turned away for no more than twenty seconds to point something out to Dad and heard a wump sound, followed by Jack crying.

Jack had been leaning on the fence to try and touch Theresa and pivoted on the fence. He’d tipped forwards and landed right in the tortoise’s water dish. He was dangling upside down, his legs kicking in the air, the top of his head in an inch of water.

I laughed so much I could hardly pick him up. I turned him the right way up and water dripped down his face and mixed with the real tears that were flowing by this time.

I comforted him, dried him off with a towel, changed his top and pretty soon we were on our way home. I told the Mrs what had taken place, and we laughed again. After that, I didn’t think any more about it.

But Jack clearly did. The next day were sat at dinner when the following conversation took place:

Jack: Happened? Happened?

Me: What happened Jack?

Jack: Grandma’s house

Me: What happened at Grandma’s house?

Jack: Oh-oh. Head. (puts hand on his head)

Me: You fell and bumped your head? Where?

Jack: Tortoise's dinner.

Me: You bumped your head into the tortoise's dinner? Then what happened?

Jack: Soggy (looks sad)

Me: Your hair got all soggy. Oh dear.

Jack: Had dry (looks happy)

Me: Yes, we had to dry it didn’t we?

And that’s Jack’s story. For the past two or three weeks, Jack has been telling anyone who will listen about the dreadful incident with the tortoise's dinner. The telling of it gets more melodramatic each time. He loves us to act surprised and thoroughly enjoys communicating the event.

I don’t think Jack is very worried about the accident; he just thinks it’s a story worth telling. Perhaps to illustrate his father’s carelessness, or to let us know that he didn’t think it was that funny.

For the record, Theresa the tortoise didn’t seem to suffer any ill effects. She’s seen it all before.

The Car I Want

2005-07-01T18:05:00.000+01:00

I’m having a mid-life crisis. I’ve never been particularly hip. I’m not really into designer brands. I’m not even particularly fussed by the music I listen to or the clothes I wear. But I’m buggered if I’m driving an estate car.

This is the latest wheeze from the Mrs. We’ve been putting money into a savings plan for ten years and it matures in November this year. I agreed ages ago that we’d use this money to get a new car and I’m really looking forward to it. Or I was. Until the Mrs pointed out that it would be really sensible of we got an estate car and did I mind if she went out to test drive a couple next week. She’s thinking a Mondeo maybe. And she saw a Skoda Octavia the other day and was surprised that she quite liked the look of that. Perhaps she’d try that too.

Ye Gods, has it come to this?

She has a point, I suppose. We go away a lot and with two children under the age of two, it would be great to be able to bung everything in a boot the size of Mars.

At the moment we have a family car with four doors, a big boot and a roof box. It’s regularly packed to the gunnels at the weekends and after twenty two months of packing for babies, I’ve got squeezing everything in down to a fine art. Admittedly it takes, on a good day, the best part of an hour to get it all in. But the satisfaction getting so much stuff in so little space is one of life’s small pleasures, like I imagine it must feel completing a Times crossword or one of those omnipresent sudoku grids.

Then there’s just the small challenge of posting Jack and Nancy in through the entry holes I’ve left between the piles of toys, wetwipes, bottles and sterilisers; shutting the passenger door on the Mrs before the nappies, bowls, food bags and books fall out; and pulling away from the drive, the flat suspension creaking under the massive load.

It’s not that I want anything fancy. I know I’ve got responsibilities. I’m not after a Porsche Boxter or a Lotus Elise. Not yet anyway. I just don’t want an estate car. It’s so square, so middle aged, so… dad.

Like singing in public, like the sick badge on my shoulder, like making goo goo phonecalls in the office, I guess this is just another thing I’ll have to embrace with a father’s pride. I’ll learn to love my sleek, new, long, hard-to-park, petrol-guzzling, deeply dull estate car.

I’m not convinced it’s going to work.

Still, it could be worse. At least she doesn’t want a Chelsea tractor.

The Delaying Lie

2005-06-08T13:56:00.000+01:00

I’ve never been a very good liar. But now that I’ve got a nearly-two year old boy who seems to need almost constant attention, I find myself lying all the time.

“See Animal Shelf?” asks Jack.

Animal Shelf is his absolute favourite video of the moment. He must have seen it ten times this week. I want him to find something more creative to do with his time. He’s got loads of toys.

“No” I lie, “The television’s not working today”.

Why should I feel guilty? It’s for his own good. It’s just a little white lie.

“Fruit bar?” he asks hopefully when we go for a ride in the car and he gets hungry.

Fruit bars are a great snack, healthy and easy to take away. We invariably have some in a bag in the car. They’re great for filling up Jack’s empty stomach when the trip out has taken a bit longer than anticipated and we should really have been home for dinner a while ago. If there’s a long journey home and Jack’s really kicking up a fuss, I might let him eat one in the car seat. But the crumbs go everywhere. It’s not a habit I want him to get into for every journey.

“No, the fruit bars are all gone” I say. Another lie.

“Washing up with Daddy?” Jack asks when dinner is over.

Jack loves washing up. It’s not really washing up, of course. He enjoys standing on a chair at the sink and splashing the water around, playing with the bubbles, pouring from one container to another. I attempt to wash up as we go, but it takes three times longer than if Jack wasn’t joining in. It’s a rare treat for when I have the time to mop up and change his soaking clothes afterwards. Today there are things I've promised myself I should get done.

So out comes the biggest lie of all: “Maybe we’ll do it later”.

Of course once the moment is past Jack finds other things to interest him. He’ll go and poke his sister in the eye, play with a bike in the garden or chuck jigsaw pieces around the living room floor. He’ll never remember the half-promise. I hope.

There are a number of variations on the delaying lie: in a minute; in a little while; very soon; maybe tomorrow; another time. But the technique remains the same. Promise you’ll do it later, distract the child with something else, then never do it. I probably use the delaying lie ten times a week.

But Jack has the most amazing memory. He remembers the exact details of a scene from an animation he saw on TV once three months ago, and the name of the friend whose house he was in at the time. How long will it be before he catches me out? “It is later," Jack will say, "Daddy do it now”.

Verbally, he’s already capable of this. He just has to understand the treachery, put two and two together and see his father for what he is: an inveterate schemer, a compulsive con artist who’ll lie to his son for a quiet life.

Does Jack already know I am a liar? Does he hear the TV working when he’s gone to bed? Did he see me put the fruit bars in the glove box?

What kind of an example am I setting to my son? What kind of father am I?

I resolve to be more truthful to Jack. I’ll even stop using the delaying lie. I will.

Very soon.

Jack's First Words

2005-06-01T01:20:00.000+01:00

When I was fourteen months old, my adoring mum, who was very proud of my vocabulary, made a list of all the words I could say. There were about 100.

I made the mistake of compiling a similar list for Jack. There were 130, and more he could understand.

It's quite unnerving discovering that your son is cleverer than you.

I've attached the list below as an exercise in child psychology. What matters when you're fourteen months old?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Jack SAYS about 130 words including:

Mummy
Daddy
Grape
Shreddies
Shoes
Puppy
Up (stairs)
Down (stairs)
Toes
Hand
Foot
Eyes
Hair
Car
Tractor
Teeth
Ear
Knee
Finger
Flower
Wee
Poo
Pooey
Willy
Apple
Fruit
Yoghurt
Bubble
Kiwi
All gone
Water
Chair
Oh-Oh
Steady
Wow
No
Yuk(y)
Raisin (“ryas”)
Toast
‘tatoe
Jack
Grace
Lily
Mary
Sara
Archie
Emilia
Laura
Sarah
Nanny
Swing
Go
Book
Bee
Star
Pretty (lights)
Keys
Milk
Ta
Bib
Nap-Nap (nappy)
“Shut the door”
Lorry
Truck
Hat
Trousers
Shower
Sock
Arms
Sneeze
Atishoo
Sniff
Blow
(put) Back
Wheel
Cow – moo
Cat – miaow
Dog – woof (“foow”)
[Mouse] – ee ee
[clock] – tick tock
[horse] – clip clop
Sheep – baa
Frog – hop
Duck – quack
Lion – roar
Tiger – roar
Jocko (neighbour's cat)
Whale
Spider
Fish (“shish”)
Teddy
Tree
Kiss (action)
Ball
Blocks
Spoon
Cup
See…? (as question, to be lifted up)
“So big” (+hands up action)
Hiya
Hello
Seeya
Bye
Goodbye
Strawberry
Step
Buzz (bee)
Tongue
Sticky
[monkey/gorilla] - ooh ooh
Brush
Pull
Push
Ticket
Tebbies (teletubbies)
Go
Here
(get) Out
Shh!
Digger (“dig dig”)
Detol (“duhtuh”)
Rake (+ action)

Jack UNDERSTANDS all the above plus:

Potty
Hungry
In a minute
Here we are
Wait
Round and round
Roly poly over
Ready steady go
‘Fingers’ (as a warning not to get them trapped)
Garden
Coat
Pram
Buggy
Where
Eat it
Head
Tummy
Banana
Hot
Sit Down
Grandma
Grandad
Albert
Walk
Bounce
Bottle
Dance
Transporter
Funny
Fire Engine
Helicopter
Lid

Splash Splash Splash

2005-05-22T17:10:00.000+01:00

One of the things about being a 21st century dad is that you’re expected to attend various activities with your kids. Play groups, gym sessions, farm centres, birthday parties and even ‘play-dates’ with their little friends (god bless America). There are some things I positively enjoy.

The local activity place is called ‘Snakes and Ladders’ and is a huge warehouse full of ball pits, slides, an enormous padded assault course for our little commando. Jack goes in running and never stops. Occasionally I’ll get in there too. There’s huge fun to be had burying daddy in a pile of balls, going down the big slide together or playing peekaboo behind swinging lumps of foam-rubber. After a couple of hours, pink and wringing with sweat, we both go home utterly exhausted.

Birthday parties are a blast. It’s always good fun to see how your kid matches up against other kids of the same age. You eat all the really nice food the kids don’t like while they fill themselves up with marshmallows, meat-free sausages and ready salted crisps. And you get to feel better about your own hang-ups when you realise how many other parents have the same ones. And more. And stranger.

Play groups are the tricky thing. More often than not, I’ll be the only man in a large group of women, some of whom will be breastfeeding, others heavily pregnant with second or third children. I’m not the only man who ever goes, but because the other dads are at generally work during the week like me, there are never two of us there with a day off at the same time.

After a while you get used to being the lone man. You drink tea or thin orange squash; make small talk about pregnancy and child development to mums yummy and otherwise; and stop your child from battering or being battered by others.

At one of the groups the Mrs regularly attends, there’s a stay-at-home dad. Rather than make me feel more comfortable, having male company, he makes me feel even more out of place. He’s an über-Dad totally in touch with his son’s every need because he’s with him all the time. The mums all love him, for going through what they’re going through. And being a bloke, he laps up the praise.

He’s a nice guy, really nice, don’t get me wrong. He’s just not in the same position as me. I’m on the outside of the group, looking in. He’s the Alpha male.

I know this because he sings loudly and without fear in the group sing-songs. In every nursery that Jack attends (there are about four in all, ranging from gym activities to informal church play groups) at some time during the session the mums gather their little ones into a circle and sing songs.

The repertoire is remarkably similar at each gathering. The Wheels On The Bus is a dead cert. If You’re Happy And You Know It is odds on. Row Row Row The Boat at evens. I’m A Dingle Dangle Scarecrow a 4-1 shot. And at the end, the firm favourite, 1-3 on is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

I’m happy enough singing these and other equally silly songs to my children in the privacy of my own home. But singing them in public is just toe-curlingly twee. I can’t bring myself to do it. Action songs are even worse.

I once endured the exquisite embarrassment of a swimming pool singing session. I’d taken Jack to a toddlers swimming session, and we were minding our own business in the deep end when a woman in a yellow T-shirt shouted “OK, everybody, gather in a circle. It’s singing time. Everyone to the shallow end.” I should have known.

Picture the scene. Thirty mums of assorted shapes and sizes, acres of lycra under varying degrees of tension. Thirty red-eyed babies. Jack. And me in my Speedos. Singing about Ten Fat Sausages Sizzling In A Pan.

As any two year old will tell you, The Wheels On The Bus go round and round. Not at the pool sing-song. There, they go splash splash splash. In fact everything went splash, even Humpty Dumpty.

If I were a good dad, I’d probably advise you to embrace the embarrassment. You don’t know these people. You’ll probably only see them once or twice in your life. Your child is loving it. Sing your heart out.

But I can’t with any degree of honest say you’ll enjoy it. Singing to your child is laudable. Singing in public is fine, if you’re drunk and won’t remember it. But this isn’t karaoke. You’re stone cold sober.

It takes more of a man than me.

Daddy’s Nose: Why You Need A Photo Mobile

2005-05-15T13:56:00.000+01:00

The call came through from some pimply teenager in a northern marketing office asking if I wanted an upgrade: “It doesn’t cost you anything. It’s free, as long as you keep your account with Orange” said my new northern friend.

“But I like my phone.” I argued. “It’s simple, I know how it works. All my numbers are in the address book.”

“But you’ll get them all when you put your simcard in your new phone. It’d cost £200 to buy new. It’s much better than your old phone. It’ll be with you tomorrow.” And so on.

Deciding I couldn’t be bothered to talk about this any more, I caved in.

Sure enough, the following day, my new, sleek, silver phone arrived with its colour screen and a little hole in the back for a camera lens. Cool.

A couple of days later I bought a Comic Relief nose and took a picture of me wearing it. I looked an idiot, so I thought it might amuse my wife. I sent it off.

When I arrived home from work my two year old son greeted me: “See Daddy’s nose”. My wife told me that she’d shown the picture to my son and all day after that he’d been pestering her to see the picture of me in the nose. When I put the actual nose on for him to see, he wasn’t very impressed. It was the special picture he liked.

The next day my wife started sending me pictures of the kids. Jack in the high chair, covered in food. Nancy lying on her play mat. Jack on a swing.

There is nothing better than being interrupted in the middle of the working day by these pictures. Of course they make it harder in one way, because they're the evidence of everything I miss out on by not being there. But they give me a connection, and one I can reciprocate by sending a picture of myself back. I’ve started sending them other pictures too. Diggers. Buses. Bridges. Boats. Shops. Trains. Cranes.

I’ve noticed my phone bill’s increased a little. But the couple of quid I spend a month is the best investment I could make. It’s not much, I know, but these little picture messages mean I’m a bit closer to home through the working week. Better than that, they keep me grounded at work. I’m not the big man. I’m just a dad, of a son with painty fingers and a daughter with a smile that could melt icebergs.

Bringing Up Babies

2005-04-08T17:40:00.000+01:00

One of the less delightful aspects of bringing up babies is just that: bringing up. It’s amazing how much they puke. The minute they start drinking milk, they’re loaded sick bombs, just waiting to go off.

There are times when you’re prepared. Burping after a feed is one of them. You expect a little milk to reappear. Your lap or shoulder is probably covered in a muslin, a towel or an ‘urp cloth’ and urp the little one obligingly does. The Victorians had a cute word for it: posset. Reminds me of dairies and clotted cream.

But you’re never prepared for the big one.

Remember the following formula:

man X holding (baby Y)

=

puke P
------------------------
(over) clean shirt Z

It’s an incontrovertible law of nature.

Certain people seem to attract posset. Every single time my sister-in-law holds either of our babies, she gets covered in it. Maybe it’s the perfume she wears?

The most alarming sight of all is the projectile vomiting of a whole feed. Most likely when the baby has a cold, it’s a truly remarkable phenomenon. Like ‘old faithful’ in Yellowstone Park or wherever (forgive me, American friends) it begins with a distant rumbling which increases in volume to a roar and then suddenly there’s a geyser of yellow milk reaching a good foot vertically or, if the baby is at an angle to the floor, travelling two, three or four foot.

When we moved into our new house, two weeks before we had our first baby, it was fitted with plain cream carpets. Now in every room in the house somewhere on every single carpet there is a pattern a bit like a sunflower. They’re faded by scrubbing, of course, but the marks are still there months later, a little reminder of Jack and Nancy in full flow. What do they put into formula to make it yellow? I think I’d rather not know.

The milky days are on the way out now. Only yesterday Nancy dropped (by which I mean wasn’t interested in) her afternoon bottle. All too soon I will be able to walk around the house or down the street in a shirt which doesn’t have the tell-tale sign of fatherhood, a little splash of regurgitated milk on the over the left shoulder. A badge of honour? I like to think so.

The Power of Puppy

2005-04-02T13:05:00.000+01:00

Jack chose Puppy. Admittedly he’d shared Jack’s bed since he was in the plastic tub they put babies in at the hospital. But Puppy was pretty obviously Jack’s favourite toy from day one. What we couldn’t see back then was that Puppy was blessed with special powers.

To understand Puppy, you need a brief description. He’s a bean bag dog with a smile, dots for eyes, floppy legs and velvety soft ears. He wears a light blue all-in-one with a picture of a train on the pocket on his belly. He sits. His lies down. He is dragged along in the dirt, bounced, thrown and generally abused. Most of all he is dribbled on. His ears are sucked. At night when Jack goes to bed, he sucks a thumb, holding puppy’s ear in his clenched fist and plays with the other ear with his other hand.

From just a few weeks old, from a vast selection of stuffed bedfellows, Jack always chose to play with Puppy as he went to sleep. Quite often we'd find that he had gone to sleep with Puppy actually on his face. Pretty soon, whenever we gave Jack Puppy, he knew it was time to sleep. We knew we were on to a winner.

Even now, at almost two years old, when we give him Puppy his eyes glaze over and his head lolls. He relaxes. He can’t fight it. It’s Puppy’s magical power. The best thing is that it doesn’t matter where Jack is - at grandma’s house, a friend’s house, the pram, a blanket in the garden – Puppy’s sleep-inducing effect seems to work just about anywhere.

Like all magical charms, the user has to pay the price. Oh yes, there is a dark side to Puppy’s power.

Sometimes in the middle of the night Jack wakes up and can’t feel Puppy next to him. He's fallen out of bed. A wail like the end of the world lets us know this. We duly tramp blearily into the bedroom and pick Puppy off the floor.

Every time we go away, Puppy has to come too. He’s an essential item on the packing list, often hidden in the glovebox of the car ready for Jack to get fractious in the back.

We try to keep Puppy in the bedroom as much as possible, to enhance the Pavlovian effect. But sometimes Jack sneaks him into the pushchair or carries him out the door, only to drop him halfway down the path. “Oh-Oh” says Jack. The Teletubbies have got a lot to answer for.

We pretty soon realised that if Puppy were ever lost, so would we be. Like the ravens leaving the Tower of London, doom and destruction would rain down upon us. Worse than that, we wouldn’t ever sleep again. That’s where Imposter Puppy comes in.

For months we scoured the nation’s supermarkets until finally we found another Puppy. The manufacturers have changed the design, so he’s not quite the same. The train picture is a little bigger; the smiley face not quite so endearing. But the subterfuge worked: on the first night Jack looked quizzically at Imposter Puppy, but went off to sleep as usual. We gave a silent inward cheer.

Real Puppy has been washed about twenty times in the two years since Jack was born. He sits in the airing cupboard with his train suit hanging on a peg next to him looking for all the world like an overweight businessman in a sauna, naked and proud. I don’t blame him. I’d look smug if I had special powers.

And next to him on the pine shelf is Bunny. At six months old, our daughter Nancy won’t sleep without her. They’re like Batman and Robin, Puppy and Bunny, preservers of the peace, keeping the night hours quiet, defenders of our sanity.

Now I come to think of it, it’s about time we started looking for Imposter Bunny.

The Breastfeeding Nazis

2005-03-29T17:02:00.000+01:00

Breastfeeding Jack was a nightmare. The Mrs was nervous about breastfeeding from the start. She’d not been breastfed as a baby because her Mum ‘couldn’t do it’. But the Mrs had read up about it and was determined to give it a try. Breast is best, the books all chanted. Breast is best, the leaflets replied. All hail the breast.

Jack was born mid-August 2003, slap bang in the middle of the worst heat wave we’ve ever had. All the babies were sleeping in just their nappies and each one had a desk fan playing over their cot to try and keep them cool.

They all did a lot of sleeping. The last thing they wanted to do was to be held next to their mum’s hot and heaving bosoms for a feed.

It’s quite a palaver trying to manoeuvre a tiny and angry baby into the right position for feeding. The angle of dangle is crucial. But whatever The Mrs did and however much instruction she had, Jack didn’t want to ‘latch on’. All he wanted to do was to be left alone. I can’t honestly say I blame him.

Stress levels ran high. Only at night did the Mrs have any success. The nurses on the recovery ward finally resorted to a giving Jack bottle from the ‘milk bank’, a supply donated by caring mums who had more milk than they needed.

The heat wave continued for four days, by which time the Mrs was deemed fit enough to come home. Breastfeeding was only intermittently successful. It hurt her to do it and it seemed to take hours and hours of patient struggling for Jack to get enough milk. Every single feed ended with a screaming baby and a distraught Mrs. Joyful it wasn’t.

A week on, Jack was loosing weight. He had jaundice. We were worried. Unsympathetic health visitors didn’t help. This wasn’t how we’d imagined the first week at home with our baby.

The Mrs eventually asked me to take her back to the maternity ward for another breastfeeding lesson. Maybe there was something we were doing wrong. Back in the ward, under the watchful eye of the Breastapo, Jack fed quite well for quite a while. We’d cracked it.

But no. Back home, things were still the same. By this time I was getting to be quite an expert. Put a stool beneath her feet. Make sure she has a glass of water. Support the baby’s head. Brush the baby’s nose. Wait for him to open his mouth really wide. Get him on quick. If it’s not working, try the underarm method. Tickle his feet or blow on his cheeks to keep him awake. Don’t let him get too hot….

My advice was well-meaning, but really didn’t help. Jack would tense up his arms and legs and push himself away from my wife’s body. He wasn’t having any of it.

Then came the milking machine. Rather than resort to formula, the maternity nurses supplied us with a silver monstrosity with yards of rubber tubing and two funnels, to which The Mrs could be attached. Half an hour of sitting at the machine would produce half a bottle of pale yellow fluid. It worked, but it was hideous. The Mrs felt like a cow as she sat at the infernal pumping machine, its little silver cylinders going up and down in monotonous succession.

I felt terrible for her. But nothing I said could persuade her to give up. The breastfeeding Nazis had brainwashed her. The tin of formula milk, bought for emergencies, sat unopened in the cupboard. Even the sensation of ‘hot needles’ in her breasts every time she started feeding Jack couldn’t dissuade her from carrying on.

Worse was to follow. I won’t go into all the details, but suffice it to say the pain of cracked nipples got insufferably bad. The Mrs began to get seriously depressed.

The crunch came after about six weeks. She began to get mastitis, which was threatening to make her quite ill.

Crying, feeling like a complete failure, she finally decided to give Jack a bottle of formula.

The effect on Jack was almost instantaneous. He became calmer. He was getting enough food, so when breastfeeding time came, there was less desperation. The battle was over.

‘Mix feeding’, half bottle-feeding, half breastfeeding was the way forward. We’ve since discovered that loads of people mix feed. It works brilliantly. The baby still gets lots of goodness from the mum’s milk, even if that’s not his exclusive diet, and can fill up on formula feeds.

So why don’t the health services tell you about mix feeding? Maybe they want to give out a clear message that just breastfeeding really is the best thing for a baby. But of the dozen or so health professionals we met, not one suggested that it could help. It seems they’d rather my wife went through mental and physical agonies than deviate from the ideology. Breast probably is best. But there are limits, ladies.

Eventually the bottle took over completely. My wife’s mastitis came back, as did the cracked nipples, and with a sigh of resignation, she decided she’d had enough. Incredibly, she’d been breast feeding through the agony for fourteen weeks.

I told her then that I thought she was amazing, and I still do.

Strange to tell, our second baby breastfed really well from the very first time. I don’t know if it was because the Mrs was less worried, or if the fact Nancy was born in December meant that she rather enjoyed snuggling up to her warm mum for a feed. Maybe both.

I don’t know who was happier about how easy it was this time: Nancy, the Mrs or me.

What Happened To My Sex Life?

2005-03-22T12:20:00.000Z

trauma n. pl. trau·mas or trau·ma·ta (-m -t )

- a serious injury or shock to the body, as from violence or an accident.

- an emotional wound or shock that creates substantial, lasting damage to the psychological development of a person, often leading to neurosis.

- an event or situation that causes great distress and disruption.

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Birth is a traumatic experience, in the true sense of the word. For nine months your partner nurtures and harbours another life. Her body adapts incredibly to cope with this extra burden. She has thirty percent more blood than before; her heart works harder; she even grows a whole new organ, the placenta, to nourish the baby. She is told she “blooms” with health, and comes to love her amazing, active and much admired bump.

Then, within a night and a day, all those delicate systems are torn apart. However expected and planned it may be, birth a serious physical shock to the body. Many women actually go into shock during or immediately after the birth. My wife certainly did. She felt cold and shaky, her legs visibly trembling.

For some women (not all) it is an emotional trauma too. Unless she is very fortunate, she will suffer intense pain. If the birth doesn’t happen as she imagined or intended it to, she may feel bitterly disappointed with the situation, the medical team or most likely herself.

For the Mrs, one of the worst aspects of birth was being out of control. Her body took over, closely followed by the midwives.

There may be medical intervention she didn’t want, hours of uncertainty, a difficult delivery or and the surprisingly common but rarely mentioned possibility of a tear or episiotomy (cut) to get the baby out. Eye-watering statistic of the day: episiotomies are performed on over 90% of first-time mothers delivering in major U.S. hospitals.

So the most private and delicate part of her body is publicly scrutinised and quite probably injured. It’s very hard for men to imagine how this might feel. My wife said: “Just imagine your penis has been chopped off and sewn back on again. You wouldn’t feel very much like sex after that would you?”

No, you’re right, I wouldn’t.

So there’s all that going on in your partner’s head and then there’s the situation she now finds herself in. There’s the instant and amazing compensation of a lovely little baby that smells of fresh baked bread, which certainly helps. But there are also sleepless nights. The endless visitors. The newborn baby's crying. Breastfeeding or bottle feeding all the time.

She can’t get out as much as she once did. She can’t see friends as much. Some friends without babies of their own probably aren’t interested in her new life. She is constantly questioning herself: How do I do any of this? How do I get it all right? What is a 'mother'? Where did the old me go?

She can’t blame the baby. She can’t really blame you because you talked about having a baby months ago and agreed that it was what you both wanted to do. So where does she focus all this angst? The answer is four little words: “I hate my body”

While the Mrs may have joked about feeling fat when there was a baby inside, now she really does feel fat. The truth is she is a bit fat. Unless she goes on an unhealthy crash diet, it’s going to take nine months to lose the reserves she put on when she was pregnant. Her breasts are big and uncomfortable, dripping with milk. She doesn’t feel sexy. She feels deeply unsexy and bovine. She really hates her body.

And of course her girlie bits are going to take time to heal, even if she’s been lucky enough not to have been injured. As the last thing that happened to her sexual organs hurt like hell, she’s obviously going to worry about how sex will feel – and not just the first time.

So don’t be surprised if for a few months (yes fellas, months) all she wants is a kiss and a cuddle. Even that might be off the menu for a while; she doesn’t want to get your hopes up. Or anything else for that matter.

You will get a sex life back, of sorts, eventually. Women do have sex again. How many people do you know who have brothers and sisters?

Until then, be patient. Be nice to the Mrs. Tell her you love her. Tell her how proud you are of her. Tell her you still find her attractive.

When the moment is right, go slow. And don’t be surprised if she changes her mind.

Remember: It’s not you she hates. It’s her body.

Face Time

2005-02-15T14:24:00.000Z

Bonding with your baby is supposed to be easy. You were there when she was born, or shortly afterwards. You cuddled her close and explained who you were. Then she was put back in the plastic crate and the next time you saw her, after a hospital visit or two, was when you brought her home. You don’t feel like you’ve bonded. That’s fine. You probably haven’t yet. You’ve just got a bit of catching up to do.

So, how can you make up for lost time? You can’t breastfeed. You can change a nappy or change her clothes. But most of the time she’ll cry when you do this. If you’re lucky, you might get to give her a bottle from time to time. But what about when you can’t? The answer for me was this: give the baby face time.

I can’t remember when I first started doing face time, probably when Nancy was a month or so old. The best way to do it is to put the baby on the floor, ideally on something soft like a changing mat, and kneel on all fours over her. If she’s got her eyes open she’ll almost certainly react to seeing you. Babies, girls especially, love faces. Even before they can see properly, they can make out the shape of a face. Let her get used to you. Don’t worry about not having anything to say. Don’t worry if you don’t feel like singing. She won’t mind. Just look at her.

Do this a few times and see what happens. She might even make a noise when she first sees you, which is encouraging. Try moving your face close, rubbing your nose on her nose. Rock forwards and backwards. Play peekabo with your hands. Blow gently on her forehead. Kiss her under the chin or tickle her ears. It’s all good stimulation and she’s already getting the message that you’re fun and interesting. Let her play with your hands. Babies find hands and fingers fascinating. They’re the world’s cheapest toys. She’ll spend ages just holding your fingers, or more likely trying to put them in her mouth.

Face time doesn’t have to last long. A few minutes a day will probably do. Sometimes you’ll get absorbed and you might be there for ten, twenty minutes. Especially when she discovers how to smile. It’s a great moment and you’ll never get bored of how her face lights up when she sees you.

Later when she’s strong enough to hold her own head up, you can give her face time sitting on your lap. When you walk into a room, she’ll hear your voice and look for you. She knows who you are. But what’s equally important is that through face time, even before she can speak, you know who she is. When you do the occasional nappy or feed, you can use the same tricks on her that you learnt in face time.

Before you know it, you’ve bonded. She’s the most important thing to you in the world. Close you eyes and you can still see her face, even at work. It’s like falling in love all over again.

Welcome To The Sofa

2005-02-08T15:03:00.000Z

Welcome to the world, little baby. Welcome back mum. And welcome to the sofa, dad. It’s where, if you have any sense, you’ll be spending quite a bit of time over the next few weeks.

I’m not just talking about chatting to visitors or dandling the wee one on your knee. No, I’m on about the twilight hours of the morning when the baby wakes for the fourth time in a night and you really need to get a solid couple of hours of sleep before the alarm goes off for work.

The sofa is your refuge, your own quiet space. If you’re really lucky, you’ll have a spare room far enough away from the baby’s nursery not to be able to hear the particularly piercing wail emitted by the hungry newborn who thinks he’s been abandoned to the wolves. If not, it’s the sofa for you, my man.

Your wife may well decide it’s less troublesome to have the baby in your room. She may even feed the sprog in bed. Forget trying to sleep through that. The combination of sighs, suckles, kicks and shhh’s will make it absolutely impossible.

So get the hell out of there. Go west, young man. Fetch a spare duvet and a pillow and run away to the sofa. Don’t feel guilty. It’s about survival. You need sleep. You’re probably working harder than you ever have before on far less energy than normal. And now would be a really bad time to lose your job. You need the sofa. You know it makes sense.

But don’t think it’s all one-sided. Your poor partner will probably be even more knackered than you. If she’s breastfeeding on demand then she’s getting up every single time the baby wakes, which can be five or six times a night for half an hour. After each feed, it could take twenty to thirty minutes to settle the baby off to sleep again. It doesn’t take Einstein to figure out there’s not much time left for her to actually sleep.

That’s where the sofa comes in again. Once in a while the baby should join you in the living room. Let mum keep the bed. She needs the sleep more than you, believe it or not. You sleep on the sofa, the baby in its basket or cot next to you, or just on a blanket on the floor.

If you’re bottle feeding the baby, or if your wife can express some milk into a bottle, you can do the hideous 3am feed. Even one or two nights off a week will give her a chance to recover enough to function the following day.

Although at the time it feels like it’ll go on for ever, this tricky sleep-deprived time really only lasts a little while. For me it was about two months.

Of course you’ll miss the warm embrace of the Mrs during this time. And she’ll miss yours. But don’t worry that you’re missing out on anything else. She won’t want you anywhere near her for a good few weeks yet.

So, as she cradles the new little love in her life, you can give in to yours. There is no love on earth like the love between a man and his sofa.

Bringing Home The Baby

2005-01-15T17:50:00.000Z

You can spot a dad about to bring his baby home from across the hospital car park. He’s the one with brand new car seat. He gets it out from the boot or the back seat of the car and swings it awkwardly in one hand as he walks, like a handbag he’s been asked to hold onto for a minute.

But there’s a spring in his step. It’s his big day, the day his baby finally comes home. With a strange mixture of pride and trepidation he makes his way to the maternity ward to claim his new family.

For some people there’s only a day or so after the birth to wait. For some dads with babies born prematurely early, it might be as much as six weeks. For me, there was a wait of about four days before the hospital would allow Jack and the Mrs to check out; and not much less with Nancy.

It felt like a long time. Most days I went to the hospital twice during visiting hours, once by myself, once with a posse of relations.

Collecting Jack, I went alone. There was a fair wait for the formalities of being discharged to happen, but eventually after a couple of hours they were released. Jack looked tiny in his chair, but was calm enough considering he was being handed over to the care of two rank amateurs.

Getting the chair set up in the car was proof enough of this. Now, with almost two years of practice, it takes me about twenty seconds. Then it took a good ten minutes and a few cross words before we were both satisfied that we’d got the seatbelt in the right place.

Driving the car with my wife and baby inside was a big moment. Up till now the nurses and midwives were in charge. I’d become a father, but I’d not really done anything to justify being called a dad. Suddenly I was responsible for this new life. I found I was driving more carefully.

Getting the baby in the house was an even bigger buzz. We brought the car seat into the living room and lifted Jack out onto the carpet. Our baby was home. While the experiences we’d been through in the hospital might have been surreal, this was very real indeed. There was a real live baby on our living room floor. It was, as the Mrs said, as if an alien had landed. Jack was calm and quiet. He looked perfect, angelic and very vulnerable. We took lots of pictures and admired him for about half an hour. It was a magical time and I’m really glad there were just the three of us there.

Our sense of pride was gradually replaced by a sense of inadequacy. Especially when he started crying. What on earth should we do now? How should we know what he needs?

We’d read a few books and the Mrs had some basic baby skills training in the hospital: how to bath a baby, change a nappy and how to breastfeed. But everything we knew about looking after babies could have been written on the back of an envelope.

Fortunately little babies need very little. Feeds, sleep, nappies and the occasional change of clothes. A bath once in a while. And that’s it.

The first few days seemed to revolve entirely around Jack’s routine - not that there was a pattern of any sort. But we got the hang of it, in much the same way as you get the hang of a new piece of software or a new electrical appliance. You don’t need to read the manual. You do the things that are obvious and use a bit of trial and error. Once you’ve played with it for a while, you start to discover the other tricks you can do.

Contrary to popular opinion, tiny babies need tons of sleep, in the first couple of weeks particularly. There’re still getting over the shock of being born, I guess.

One of the first tricks I discovered was that when all the other needs had been satisfied (feed, burp, nappy, clothes) and Jack was still crying, I could soothe him. I’d sit or lie on the sofa and hold him with his chest to mine, his head just beneath my chin, his little legs splayed out across my tummy. His head smelled of freshly baked bread, his tiny perfect hands gripped my fingers and he made tremendously cute little mewing noises.

After a while he’d stop crying and if I kept still and breathed nice and slowly, the rhythm of my chest rising and falling would send him to sleep, like a great sighing mattress.

His warmth made me warm. I didn’t want to move, or do anything else. It was the best feeling in the world.

Life After Birth

2005-01-08T12:34:00.000Z

One of the many things people never tell you about having babies is how much time and energy they take up before they even get home. I was buzzing with the excitement of being a new dad and had plenty of energy to spare, but in the four days between Jack’s birth and his arrival home I never stopped running.

Of course I wanted everyone to know about Jack. I called the immediate family and best friends from my mobile outside the hospital and texted a few other people for good measure.

When I got home I set about scanning in a photo and writing an email to all the people I thought would be interested to see him. It was great to send it off and even better to get loads of responses which I could print out and take to the hospital for the Mrs to see.

Within a few hours of the news the in-laws were already on the way. Bunches of flowers and teddy bears began to arrive, followed by a small avalanche of packages and parcels from friends and family.

I visited Jack and the Mrs twice a day, for a couple of hours at a hospital which was a half hour drive away, once by myself, once with family. Not out of a sense of duty – I really wanted to spend as much time with them both as I could.

In between times I was fielding phone calls from people wanting to know how it all went and when the Mrs would be coming home.

It was madness. There was barely enough time to eat and keep the in-laws fed. Once or twice I managed to take some food in to the hospital for the Mrs, which was certainly appreciated.

Before the baby was born I was talking with a father and asked him how it had changed his life. He shrugged and told me: “Just remember, from now on you come third”.

It had started already.

Lessons learnt:

* Paternity leave isn’t a holiday. Take two weeks if you can.

* Stock up on food in the days before your baby is due. You’ll be feeding lots of extra people and won’t have much time to shop.

* Get a digital camera so you can take loads of pictures of your baby’s early days and make sure someone takes photos of you with the baby too.

* Get all the baby shopping done before the baby’s born.

* Don’t bother taking more than one bunch of flowers into hospital. They don’t have many vases and you’ll only have to bring the flowers home in a day or two

* If people ask what to get you, or if you’re thinking of what to get people with a little baby, you can’t go wrong with a large basket of fruit. My kind employers sent one to me when we had our second baby. Instant healthy food which took no time to prepare and no effort to think about. Fantastic.

Birthing Pains

2005-01-02T11:44:00.000Z

Warning: honest and slightly distressing story to follow.

But I’ve spared you the gory details.

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Once upon a time a woman about to have a baby went into ‘confinement’ and the father's only involvement with the whole process was being told: ‘Congratulations Sir, you’ve had a boy’.

Even in my dad's day (the 1970's) it was considered quite normal for a father to go to the pub when it all kicked off. In fact my dad was present at my birth and my sister's, and through the years more and more men have taken the plunge. Apparently nowadays an amazing 92% of dads attend the births of their children. It’s pretty much expected that you’ll be in the delivery room holding Mum’s hand as she pushes.

I guess it’s no bad thing. I’m very glad I was there. I think the Mrs was glad I was there too. It was an incredible experience, a huge emotional rollercoaster which left me exhausted and elated. But it wasn’t much fun along the way and there were a few things I wish I’d been told, which is why I’m writing this now.

Our first and only experience of natural childbirth was the arrival of our second child, Nancy. Our first child, Jack, was born by Elective Ceasarean. The antenatal classes we’d had the first time round were a distant memory, so we didn’t really know what to expect.

It was December 7th 2004. The Mrs had been having twinges all day. She knew she was in labour, but she wasn’t letting on to her parents, who were staying with us at the time. The day came and went without much incident. In the afternoon we went shopping to take her mind off things. But by 10pm in the evening the contractions kicked in.

Seeing your wife racked with pain is a very unnerving experience. At first it seemed to come slowly, peak after about twenty seconds, then die away gradually. Then she was left alone for a few minutes until the whole thing happens again. It was like a spell or a voodoo curse. Someone somewhere was twisting the pin once in a while.

Feeling useless, I offered verbal support and rubbed her back, which was aching badly.

At 11pm we went to bed. Neither of us slept. The pauses between contractions were shorter and shorter now and they seemed to be more intense.

At 1am we decided to call the hospital to say we were on the way, the Mrs couldn’t talk and asked me to make the call. They wanted to talk to her, but as soon as they did, they told us to come in.

The bags that were waiting for so many weeks were finally put into the car. We woke up the in-laws to let them know we were going in and off we went. It was about 1.30am.

The contractions were really building up as we drove along. By this stage I was getting really uncomfortable with the situation. My words of support didn’t seem to be getting through the pain. The Mrs was in the birth zone, a strange twilight place where men can’t go and even women see to forget afterwards.

By 2am we were in the waiting room. The Mrs couldn’t sit comfortably for long. After a few minutes we were shown into an examination room. She was hooked up to some monitoring equipment and we were left to it. It would be familiar theme.

Perhaps twenty minutes later a nurse came to examine the Mrs. What followed is among the worst moments of my life. Suffice it to say that the examination was insensitive, invasive and really hurt. I felt absolutely terrible that I couldn’t do anything to help. She was crying out in pain. Under any other circumstances, I would have stopped the nurse - or anyone - inflicting pain on my wife. But I was totally ignorant. Is this normal? Or was the nurse totally incompetent? I still don’t know.

My wife was very traumatised by this ordeal. She was crying and I felt like doing the same. We were sent via a lift to a bathroom where we were advised to fill the bath with water and lavender so that she could relax.

The bath helped enormously. I massaged her shoulders and she felt much calmer. So much so that the contractions began to ease off. After an hour or so in the bathroom, we were told that all the maternity rooms were full and that the Mrs would have to spend the night in a normal ward.
There were four beds in the ward, three of which were occupied by teenage mums-to-be in there under observation. They were wide awake and chatting inanely. We didn’t fancy sharing the business of contractions with them, so for a while we made a camp in a communal lounge area.

When the contractions came on strongly again, I asked a nurse for a TENS machine to ease the pain. Half an hour later I saw the same nurse and asked her where the machine was. She apologised and said they hadn’t been able to find one. She’d look again. Ten minutes later she came back with the TENS machine and we were shown how to put it on.

The Mrs felt some relief immediately. If nothing else, it was a useful distraction. We eventually decided to try and get some sleep in the ward. It was about 3am and the girls had stopped talking.

There was no bed for me. I found a spare pillow and laid down on the floor next to the Mrs’s bed. It was cold, hard and smelt of disinfectant. Her contractions were really strong again, but with the TENS machine the Mrs seemed to be holding it together. I held her hand for a while, then laid down and had a go at sleeping. Not for the first time, I couldn’t believe this was really happening to me. I don’t think I got more than a few minutes.

At 6.30am two large African nurses clattered into the ward, turned the lights on and shouted out “who wants breakfast”. I couldn’t even feel angry. It was just surreal.

We decided to ship out and I asked at the front desk if there was anywhere else we could go. This nurse was sympathetic and found (miraculously) an empty ward down the hallway. Why the hell hadn’t they put us in there before? We moved in. By now I’d lost count of how many different rooms we’d been in.

I ached all over. I was knackered, slightly spaced out. The Mrs was doing amazingly well. She’d suffered nearly twelve hours of proper contractions.

Finally we were taken to the delivery suite. We were introduced to our midwife, a man from Australia. Fortunately the Mrs was happy with this idea. She’s always been comfortable in male company. He was very reassuring, very no nonsense and she felt she could listen to what he had to say. Frankly it was good just to have someone who seemed vaguely interested in what was happening.

The Mrs was hooked up again to the monitoring machines and we heard the baby’s heartbeat pounding away. All was well. The Mrs was examined again and after about half an hour we were left alone. The gas and air seemed to be helping a little with the contractions. Suddenly the monitors went mad. The Mrs cried out in intense pain. The needles drew huge peaks on the graph paper, indicating massive contractions. After twelve hours of gradual progress, the last stage was coming on very quickly indeed.

After two or three of these epic and agonising contractions the Mrs was in despair.

For the first time, thank God, there was something I could do. I rang for the midwife, who arrived promptly and told us that either she was making a lot of fuss about nothing or the baby was coming very soon.

After a quick examination, it was clear that the second option was the case. I was hugely relieved. I couldn’t stand seeing my wife in that much pain any more.

For the next hour the Mrs worked incredibly hard to deliver the baby. More gas and air and a painkilling injection were administered. I put a cold damp flannel on her forehead and tried to offer reassurance and encouragement. It wasn’t always appreciated, but mostly it was.

An hour later our little girl was born.

It was an extraordinary moment. As the baby appeared I felt a huge rush of love and gratitude. I cried as the Mrs held the baby to her. It was no less extraordinary than the first time. If anything it was more emotional because we’d both had such a difficult night.

Don’t think for a minute, ladies, that I am comparing my minor troubles with the difficulty of childbirth. I know it hurt like hell. My wife was heroic. I can’t use any other words to describe how brilliant she was. How she kept sane throughout it all, I’ll never know. I’m really not sure I could have gone through it had the roles been reversed. I just thank God I’m not a woman.

I was glad beyond words that it was all over. The midwife offered me some surgical scissors to cut the cord, which was just weird, and I was given the baby to hold.

Baby Nancy was cleaned up a little, weighed and tagged. I think she was allowed to breastfeed a little, but I may be wrong. She was certainly put under a lamp to keep her warm.

The Mrs was not well. The baby had arrived in too much of a rush. The midwife had mentioned the need to control the last stage, but hadn’t really explained how or done much to help The Mrs actually do this when the time came. Consequently she’d been quite severely injured in the process. A consultant arrived to examine her and it was agreed she should go off for surgery.

My elation was tempered by this news. Nancy and I were directed to a recovery ward where we waited for the Mrs to return. I was told the operation would take about an hour. I stared down at my beautiful new daughter and from time to time cradled her in my arms. She was sucking the air and mewing, clearly hungry. I tried to reassure her that her mummy would be back to feed her very soon.

Finally, after almost two hours, my wife came into view, wheeled in on her trolley bed. I’d really begun to worry that something had gone wrong and it was a massive relief to see her again.

Nancy fed again and we began to come to terms with what we’d been through and the amazingly beautiful little girl we’d been given.

After a while together, I left the two of them alone to get to know each other and went out into the car park to call people with the news. I was totally blown away, an emotional wreck and cried tears of relief and joy through the first three or four phonecalls. I took a good hour to pull myself together.

I said my goodbyes back in the ward and drove to a little French style café not far from the hospital. I was absolutely starving. I ate a full breakfast and slowly, slowly came back down to Earth.

So that was natural childbirth. On paper, not even a very unusual one. No medical ‘complications’. But it was terrifying. I wouldn’t want to put the Mrs through that again. Ever. Or myself, for that matter.

Elective Caesareans: The Truth

2004-12-15T13:39:00.000Z

The first weird thing about an elective caesarean birth is knowing when it’s going to happen. Waiting for a natural birth is like falling off a tightrope; you know it’s going to happen some time, you’re just not quite sure when. A caesarean is a like bunjee jump. You buy your ticket, strap yourself in and off you go, jumping into the abyss.

That’s certainly how it felt to my wife and I as we drove to the hospital. We were thrilled at the prospect of finally seeing our baby in person. We chatted about baby names and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to the bump on the way in.

On arrival at the hospital my wife was ushered into a ward of six other mums who were all to have caesareans that day and plugged into a heart monitor of half an hour. Once the readings had been approved, we were told that we’d be the first operation of the day.

Then came the next weird thing. My wife was taken away straight away to have her spinal epidural anaesthetic. I, meanwhile, was given a green gown and a little green hat and told to get dressed and wait until I was called.

Knowing how nervous my wife was about the anaesthetic, it was the longest forty minutes of my life. It seemed bizarre that I could be at the birth, in the operating theatre, holding her hand all the way, but while she had the scariest bit done, I couldn’t be anywhere near. So there I stood, dressed like George Clooney, feeling like George Formby.

It was a huge relief when I was finally told I could go long to the operating theatre and a complete surprise to see my wife lying there smiling. A dark green curtain separated us from the business of the operation, which was already underway. We’d been told we could have a CD on, so I found the ghetto blaster and put on the track we’d chosen. We chatted with the anaesthetist, a smiley man who counted down the minutes for us until the baby would be born.

We’d been given the option of a caesarean because our baby was in the breach position, sitting upright, rather than upside down. They’d tried to turn him twice on other hospital visits, but he stubbornly refused to be upside-down. Consequently we’d had quite a few scans and were used to the idea of seeing our baby folded double with his legs around his ears. We joked that when they finally pulled him out they’d have to open him up like an oyster to reveal what sex he was – we didn’t know yet.

The anaesthetist told us they were a minute or two away and asked if we’d like them to drop the curtain. We both said that we would. The view wasn’t in the least terrifying. Just a damp patch in a sea of dark green sheets. Suddenly, the surgeon reached inside and pulled out something grey and white. The baby! Bottom first, then head and feet. It took maybe ten seconds. He cried straight away and peed all over the surgeon!

Then, just as we’d predicted, the surgeon literally unfolded him and held him up for us to see. At this point we were utterly speechless. I think we might have said “wow”, or “oh my god”. Words just couldn’t describe the sense of complete wonder at what we’d produced. There was a new person in the room and he was our baby, we made him. His little wrinkled face was strangely familiar.

They handed him to us and cut the chord. A minute or two later we were still transfixed when someone prompted us: “So, what is it then?”. “Oh yes, it’s a boy!” we said, having completely forgotten to check.

The whole operation had only lasted ten minutes.

They filled in the little ankle bands, Boy, then weighed and checked him over. In the meantime The Mrs was being sorted out, her placenta removed and things being put back together. She told me later it was like they were doing the washing up in her stomach.

Twenty minutes later she was being wheeled back to the recovery ward where she would spend the next couple of days.

Recovery took a long time. Anyone who thinks that by having a caesarean you have a painless birth is way off the mark. It’s a major operation. Your stomach muscles take a long time to rebuild themselves. But The Mrs healed well and there were no lasting effects beyond six weeks of what the medical profession call “discomfort”. Even the smile scar on her lower belly has almost faded completely away.

When our baby was very small, I had to help a little more with fetching and carrying things than I might otherwise have done. The Mrs found getting him in the right position to breastfeed difficult and he was generally not an easy baby. But that’s another story.

As far as births go, I don’t think it was any less wonderful or much less stressful than a natural birth. The Mrs felt disappointed initially that she’d not been able to deliver the baby naturally, but having done that with more trauma the second time round, I think she was glad she had a caesarean the first time. I don’t remember taking off the gown, although I’m sure I did.

I drove home from the hospital just a couple of hours after I’d arrived, a fully-fledged dad. All I could think of then, and all I can think of now as I write, is the image of that baby, my son, appearing in the surgeon’s hands.

Scans

2004-12-08T14:03:00.000Z

Scans are fantastic. Fathers don’t usually get time off work, so like me you’ll probably have to ask a favour or skive somehow to be there. But do it. Go along to as many scans as you can. It’s really worth the trouble.

You should probably be there for your partner just in case there’s any bad news. We had a scare on one occasion when we were told that our baby's organs might not be developing properly. The kidneys looked too big. It turned out that it was nothing serious; my wife had been drinking so much water just before the scan (to make the image good and clear) that his kidneys couldn’t cope with the excess fluid! But it made me realise how much The Mrs depended on me being there for her if anything had been seriously wrong. So go for that reason.

But go for yourself too.

I'll never forget the first time I saw my son at his 14 week scan. I don’t know why, probably because I’d seen a scan picture or two, but I was expecting to see something quite still. The reality couldn’t have been more different. There was a bit of business with gel and tissues, then as soon as the handheld scanning thing went onto my wife's belly, the very second it made contact, there was the image of the baby wriggling and kicking on the screen.

I think it was the first time we both believed that we really were going to have a baby. Until then the two lines on a pregnancy kit and the slight illness of my wife weren’t really enough to properly convince either of us. The pregnancy didn’t feel real, like it was happening to someone else. But now there was no doubt about it. There was a small alien creature in my wife’s belly, with toes, fingers, and as the operator zoomed in on his face, a mouth which opened and drank a little of the fluid he was in. His heart was pumping away and when they switched on the microphone to hear it again there was no doubt: doof, doof, doof. The little fella was in a hurry.

The Mrs held my hand throughout and squeezed my fingers till they went white. Not from fear, but excitement. It was an amazing thing to share. I went to two or three more scans after that, when the baby was bigger and the pictures clearer and sharper, but nothing could ever beat the first time.

I remember we walked away through the reception of the hospital grinning from ear to ear because we had a secret no-one else knew. We had seen the future, and it was very, very cute.

So go. Don’t let work get in the way. It’s the greatest show on earth.

What's Dadology?

2004-12-01T12:15:00.000Z

There are as many different kinds of Dads as there are children. Some are good, some are terrible. Most muddle through.

Dadology is a series of observations on things I’m learning as I do just that.

The entries are written a little after the events they describe, from what I hope is a position of objectivity; but recently enough to make them real.

One of the first things you learn when you become a Dad is that a lot of the time there are no right or wrong answers. Being a good Dad is an art, not a science. In spite of this, there are loads of parenting books out there, some even written specifically for Dads. I’ve skimmed a few of these, and read one or two. There’s wisdom in most of them, even the really bad patronising ones.

Dadology is not a 'how to' book. It’s just a record of what I’ve done and what worked for me. I hope it will be entertaining and occasionally helpful for other Dads.

To that end I’ll make a few suggestions as I go along, but my main suggestion is this:

take what works for you and disregard the rest

Good luck to Dads and Mums everywhere. Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

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For the record, the names of my children are not called Jack and Nancy. But I do call the Mrs the Mrs.