Pick it up and drop it down, pick it up and drop it down, pick it up and drop it down….

This is my son’s favourite new game. The rules are simple and go something like this – I hand him an object, he takes it, looks interested in it, shakes it a few times and then holds it over the side of the pram or high chair and drops it to the ground.

This action is then repeated until he loses interest or I lose my patience. So, it normally goes like this – Pick it up. Drop it down. Pick it up. Drop it down. Pick it up. Drop it down. Pick it up, “Here, just hold it Noah, hold it, that’ s it, good, give it a shake, keep hold of it, don’t…don’t… don’t! Why you little…. Aargh!”

According to the books it’s all part of your child’s development and they don’t realise they are simply dropping the object into thin air. However, given that my son is actually the reincarnation of some evil genius I fully believe he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s all about the power you see – who has it and who does not, and he very much has it!

There’s a look in his eye as he holds the object over the side of his high chair, toying with me as a cat would a mouse. Once, twice, three times he fakes the drop and is amused as each time I lurch forward snatching at thin air.

“Oh yes, Daddy,” I can almost hear him smirk. “Who’s the Daddy now?”


Bouncing Back

January 29, 2010

10 months after my partner Becky gave birth to our son Noah I feel that I am finally starting to get my figure back – Yes, you did read that right.

At first there was a sustained period of inactivity after the boy was born, mainly to do with the fact that I spent most of my time looking after him and not looking after me. This resulted in the well known but highly contagious condition known as “Dad Fat” (see previous entries).

For a while there the Dad Fat had got the better of me and I did think I may turn into one of those fathers who wear ill fitting v neck jumpers to disguise their paunch. I even found myself admiring my neighbour’s Chrysler Grand Voyager People Carrier. It was then I knew the Dad Fat had spread to my brain!

However, as we enter the 11th month of my son’s life I have found things starting to change. At this stage babies start to dream, realise who their parents are and become very needy. Noah has become very, very needy. As a result I can either let him wail and bawl as he crawls around the house after me or I can pick him up – so I pick him up.

I now find myself carrying him around the house for long stretches while I go about my daily chores, and the upside to this is that I have found it better (and cheaper) than any gym work out. My shoulders have grown stronger while my arms have become toned.

This, combined with the fact that I spend hours a week walking with him in his prams has strengthened my legs like never before.

Ah, but what about that paunch I hear you question? I think it’s only fair that after all my exertion I deserve a pit stop on my long walks for a nice milky coffee and a slice of cake… er, every day. And after all, there’s no rush is there? Who knows what the next stage of my baby work out will bring.

See! It can happen to the best of us!

In The Night Garden….

January 27, 2010

Where the hell are the Wottingers?

I have to admit that I am worried about them! For those of you who are not familiar with In The Night Garden, the Wottingers live next door to the Pontipines.

Now, this I do know – the Pontipines are fine. All ten of them are doing just marvellously. I see them almost every night as my son and I sit watching the adventures of Iggle Piggle, Upsy Daisy, Macca Pacca and the rest of the garden’s inhabitants.

However, I have not seen the Wottingers in weeks and, if I am being frank, it looks like their side of the semi detached house they share with the Pontipines is completely empty.

I fear that the Wottingers may have fallen foul of this dastardly recession and had to vacate their beautiful home and the salubrious surroundings of the Night Garden for a lesser, more affordable area of…. well, wherever the hell these guys live.

Perhaps they have been relocated to Salford Quays in Manchester by the BBC – how will they survive!?

Maybe I will never find out what has happened to them. Sometimes life can be like that. If you do happen to see the Wottingers in your travels…. then frankly you are probably drinking too much!

"You are shitting me!? Manchester? I have never even heard of Manchester!"

How to Cure Nappy Rash….

January 17, 2010

The scourge of nappy rash visited our house last week.

The bottom of my poor son looks as if it has been napalmed! One minute he was fine, a bottom as fine as a peach and absolutely no complaints, the next it would have given a mating female baboon a good run for her money in a “whose bottom is reddest” competition.

So, I search the interwebs, post on forums and read all I can looking for something that will soothe my infant’s suffering… and, as you can guess, there is a whole host of medications designed for just the task.

Cream after cream we tried and nothing seemed to work until, during a phone conversation with my sister in law she suggested egg white! “It’s what my mother used and it’s what I used on all three of my children. Never mind with those fancy pants creams that will cost you a fortune, egg whites are what you want. Spread it on, let it dry and then stick his nappy on.”

And so it was with great trepidation that I tried the egg white nappy rush miracle cure…. and it turned out to be just that! Within 48 hours the nappy rash was all but gone. The only downside was that every time my son broke wind during this time I was positive someone nearby was making an omelette!

My mistake was not to remove the shells!

Why is it that only those that you love the most can drive you right to the very edge of your sanity?

Strangers I really could not care a jot about. Cut me up in traffic and I am the kind of person who takes it in his stride. Get bad customer service in a shop and I am pretty forgiving, rationalising that I do not envy these people their roles so I can kind of see why they get stroppy.

I can even tolerate traffic wardens and, worse still, estate agents. It’s not their fault they are not God’s chosen people.

Throughout all these trials and tribulations I am calm, serene, even laid back. I forgive people for all that they do not know. My real crazed, homicidal, irrational emotions I save for the two people I love most in the world – my partner and my son, both of whom have the innate ability to make me want to… well, it’s probably best not to say in this current climate. I may get put away for thought crime!

After nine months of broken sleep and my tiny son headbutting me like a professional Glaswegian I think I finally know what it is like to be inside the head of a crazy person!

After the better part of a year surviving on four hours sleep a night, finding that all my clothes have either cheese puffs, milk stains or yoghurt mashed into them and going out socially with my partner just four times during this period I could now give Ted Bundy a run for his money, as far as homicidal tendencies are concerned.

Somewhere between two thirty and four thirty in the morning the transformation takes place from mild mannered father to Velociraptor Dad. I am mad, bad, dangerous and utterly and completely irrational. I would sell my only child for just a few hours more sleep and anything that my partner Becky says to me translates in my mind as tantamount to asking for a fight.

When will my life return to ‘normal’? When will my child allow me to sleep undisturbed through the night? How much does it cost to rent a one bedroom flat or suitably insulate my garden shed?

These are the questions making my world turn in 2010!

If you do not go to sleep immediately I will eat you!!!