Reflections

We have now passed from 2012, the year that I became a father, into 2013, the first year that I have begun as a father.  Henry is now 8.5 months old, crawling, eating mostly what we do, standing, teething and doing a million other things.  So what have I learnt?

Firstly, now that he is crawling, it does not matter how quick I am popping out of the room in the time it takes me to do X Henry will have travelled faster than a speeding bullet to the nearest available thing that I do not want him to play with.  He is incredible and seems to move quicker when nobody is looking.

Secondly, I have given up being anywhere when I think I should be reasonably able to get there.  Rule of thumb - if you think you will be somewhere by Y o'clock - say you'll be there at Y:30.

Thirdly, it is hard to describe how precious his sleep is to me.  When he doesn't sleep, guess who else doesn't?  (the answer is anybody staying in the same house as him).  So Emily and I do anything we can to keep him sleeping at night - obviously we don't induce comas during the day.  I have become Olympic standard at the 'up-the-stairs' dash, followed by a Bourne level of spycraft in getting into his bedroom undetected, followed by back patting specifically designed to clear wind yet be a comforting, soothing presence.  This may sound amusing, but if I could bottle the successful attempts, I would be a millionaire.

Fourthly, I will merrily do the most moronic things to get him to laugh.  I will then video me being a moron and willingly show this film in public because, frankly, I can think of nothing more amazing than Henry giggling.  I have also been heartily impressed by my friends' and colleagues' patience with me.

Fifthly, no matter what item of baby equipment you buy, if you have not had a chance to test-drive a friend's version, you will find it irritating and want to replace it within approximately four weeks of buying it.  This is particularly true of prams...

Sixthly, the rate that he grows is alarming.  I now have six vacuum packed bags of clothes in the loft, some of which he never got to wear because he grew so quick.  This rate of growth does not appear to be in any danger of slowing any time soon and no matter how many clothes you think you have, there will be always be some essential item that you never have enough of (ours seems to be vests).

Seventhly, muslin cloths are a close challenger for the wheel in terms of most useful invention ever.

Eighthly, becoming a parent introduces you to a club that you did not know existed before you had a child.  We have just seen in the new year with friends that we did not even know at the last new year.  Having a child creates a common thread with people that you may never have spoken to previously, and unites you in the tears, jubilation and day-to-day survival that raising a child creates.  It is a wonderful club to be a part of and I would recommend it...

...providing, at number 9, you have some dedicated support in your corner.  Neither Emily nor I could have done this without each other, and may have had a nervous breakdown if not for our parents and friends.  It is impossible to describe how amazing becoming a parent is, yet how utterly unprepared you will be.  It is the hardest thing either of us have ever had to do.  Yet, it is by far the most incredible.

And, finally, no matter how closely you watch your child, they disappear in front of your eyes, and they are always one step ahead.  But it is mightly fun to try and second guess what they will do next - they never fail to surprise, and more often than not, the surprise is delightful.  Unless it's a nappy.  That is rarely pleasant.

Happy new year everybody!

Everything hurts (I mean changes)

I have just returned from my work Christmas night out. A meal and some drinks. How lovely and inoffensive.

Or is it? I'm a teensiest bit drunk. I had no intention of this, but largely due to an administrative balls-up a pile of free wine arrived.

This means a drunk daddy. Not good.

People wanted to see Henry. I don't blame them, he's awesome! But I invited people for a lift. Mistake 1.

I then tried to calm him using standard dad tricks. Mistake 2.

I then offered a lift home to a friend. Mistake 3.

All in all...nice one dadhead.

But...I am home because of him, because gaining friendships paled into significance next to him. Drinking is attractive. He is more so. Life has changed, I'm playing catch up, but I will never stop running for him.

Night.

Teething and late nights

So it's 12:30 on a Saturday night and I have just spent the last half hour trying to convince Henry that going back to sleep is the right choice to make. I failed. At times like this there is only one thing that works - cue supermummy with her breasts of nectar.

I am making light of this because the alternative is despair. This has been going on for weeks now, and if the usual pattern is to be expected we will be up another two times between now and when we get up with him between 7 and 8am. It is exhausting, frustrating and stressful. After failing in my endeavours I came back to bed realising I felt targeted by him, that he wasn't helpless and somehow he was choosing to do this to me. Obviously he isn't and the rational part of my mind was telling me to stop being such a pillock, but for a couple of minutes the irrational side was on top.

"Why won't he sleep? Why is he doing this to us?"

led to:

"What are we doing that is so wrong?"

Maybe we are doing something wrong. We are responsive parents, rarely leave him to cry for long. Perhaps this is a rod for our own backs, but it doesn't even feel like a choice as the alternative is inconceivable to us.

The likely culprit is a tooth. Or possibly teeth, we are not sure yet. But it leaves me worrying - he has a whole mouthful of piano keys yet to sprout, how long is it going to be like this?

Unfortunately, for us, only time will tell.

All I want for Christmas are my two front teeth

Time marches on.  Our last two weeks have been amongst the hardest since Henry was born.  And today, the culprit, emerged from his gums like some ivory flag, proudly marking the reason for all the upset.  Henry has not had a good time of it cutting his first tooth, and for the last weeks has had regular doses of ibuprofen, paracetomol and Bonjela.  His appetite has been affected, sleep cycle and general happiness (we are very lucky and he is normally a cheerful wee soul).  But perhaps now he can rest a bit?  We hope so, because a tired, cranky Henry leads to two very tired parents.  Again and again I reminded of how difficult this would be if I didn't even have a partner to share the burden with.  Single parenting is not an easy choice I imagine.  If, of course, it is ever a choice.

And what else has changed in life in recent times?  Stinkpig is now independently mobile.  That's right adults, lock up anything you don't want chewed, slapped, pulled or slobbered on because it is now likely to be within his reach.  And if it is not within his reach?  Why, he will just stand up and attempt to bring it within his reach!  Henry is now crawling, and is on the verge of walking as he shuffles round various pieces of furniture.

This has led to new highs of parental guilt.  I challenge anybody living in an everyday home, looking after a newly moving child to protect them from knocks, bangs and scrapes.  In the last week, and only with me, he has:

• had a lump under his eye where he slipped in the bath (he even bloody crawls in that), banged his head off the side and slipped momentarily under the water.  I have never moved so quick, very nearly cracking ribs in the process of pulling him out of the water.
• pulled a pan rack, complete with pans, down.  It was only by sheer luck that it bounced beside him rather than on him.
• within the space of two minutes slipped three times on the kitchen floor and banged his head.
• slipped pulling himself the kitchen cupboard resulted in another banged head.
• trapped his hand under the pan while his other hand pushes down on it to lever himself into a standing position.
• pulled a cola bottle over onto his hand.
• pulled the bin down on top of himself.

The list could probably carry on.  And that is just with me. His mum could probably add an even longer list (because she his with him more, not because she less competent than me).  Being a baby is an extreme sport; being a parent is a continuous test of how good are your risk assessment skills and how much guilt is it possible to feel without breaking down into a gibbering, weeping wreck.  And, as a parent, the standard response is to quickly pick him up, laughing, and pretending it's all a game.  What a thoroughly confusing approach for the child!

"Oooooo...a tall thing.  I wonder what tastes like that?"

BANG!

"Owwwwwwwww - where are those people that supply the food and the wet wipes?  Ah, there they are...I have hurt myself, I feel like cryin...why are you laughing?  Why is that funny?  Why are you bouncing me up and down?  I've just banged my head, I don't feel like dancing.  Actually, this is quite fun...more, more!  Oooooo...what's that tall thing?"

If you have a newly crawling child - good luck.  Life is about to get interesting*.

(* for interesting read a terrifyingly stark reminder of how incapable you are of not only keeping a tiny baby safe but also how untterly incompetent you are at predicting, in a home that you have likely lived in for years, what will be of interest and pose a risk to said infant.)

Eating everything

Joy of joys Henry has now joined us at the dinner table (in his brand spanking new highchair that met the exacting specifications of my wife and simply could not be purchased from eBay - much like our pram, which she now hates.  Not that I'm bitter, you understand) for his evening meal.

The magical six month mark has been reached, so the kitchen is now open and he is joining the world of proper food.  Which has been slightly pureed and cooked without salt or any spices that might be too hot.  (Or dried chickpeas that are two years out of date and have been included because his dad is too tight to throw anything away and thought they would be ok.  You might want to read my previous post for the likely fall out of this.)  But apart from these slight stipulations, he is now enjoying a range of foods.

This is absolutely amazing.

I cannot describe how awesome (and I mean that in the dictionary sense) I find feeding my son food that I have cooked for the family and he appears to be enjoying.  Food is important to me and, thus, it is important to me that he enjoys it.  And boy does he enjoy it!  I love it.  We often have breakfast together to try and give mummy a little bit of a lie in and it is the most special moment of my day.

However...

I am finding the mess somewhat difficult to deal with.  Weaning has coincided with a streak of independence and developing hand-eye co-ordination that can whip food off a casually wielded spoon in a blink of an eye.  Does that food make it to his mouth?

Of course not.  It makes it just about everywhere but, smearing across whatever he is wearing, his chair, the table, his face, bits squeezed between his fingers, down his legs, on the floor.  Daddy struggles with this.  A lot.  Mummy does not appear to have a problem with it.

Daddy also struggles with occasional lumps.  Mummy, again, is considerably better at this.  I have, occasionally, needed to leave the room as he chews something a bit troublesome as my instinct is to whip him out of his chair and perform a paediatric heimlich manoeuvre on him.  Not wanting to communicate this sphincter-tightening anxiety to him and develop a fussy eater I instead extricate myself from the situation when it becomes too much to bear.  Henry, thankfully, remains oblivious to this and has happily gobbled up anything he can get his sticky little mitts on.  Daddy, meanwhile, has bought shares in antibacterial wipes.

Hospital...again.

Henry turned six months today.  He spent the last night of his first half year at A&E.  Vomiting.

There is nothing more worrying, nothing that induces more of a sense of utter helplessness, than watching your poorly baby knowing there is nothing you can do about it.  Between being sick he appeared largely fine, he had no temperature, he was not sore, no rash, not crying, and, generally, himself.  Apart, of course, from the oral excretions.

Which highlights for me how utterly illogical being a parent is.  It matters not what you know to be true, what you deem to be ok for you, what the rational part of your brain tells you.  When there is something wrong with your child you enter a Twilight Zone of paranoia and great, galloping leaps of thought that in the cold light of a day when considering ANYTHING else you would scoff loudly at people for coming to those conclusions.

As it happens, Henry is now, and was rather quickly last night too, considerably better.  It is always a highlight, I am finding, when a highly qualified and pleasant medical professional wakes up your son - who has just nodded off because, as far as you are concerned, he could be at death's door and is trying to eke out some last moments of comfort - and proceeds to examine him, eliciting great beaming smiles from your hapless infant as he does so. 

"Ah, he would appear to be considerably better, doctor.  Sorry to waste your time.  We'll just get our coats."

I am fairly sure these Health heroes see this frequently.  And whilst on the topic, I would like to praise how incredible it is look up information on the NHS Direct website, subsequently speak to somebody on the phone, and an hour later be seeing a nurse followed by a doctor, and all for the pittance I pay out of my monthly salary.  The NHS is a wonderful institution and the two times I have needed to visit with Henry (and the countless times for myself) they have always provided an excellent service and do so thousands of times a day.  Like social workers we only hear about it when it goes wrong - it goes right an awful lot more.

Thank you to all those that helped us last night.  As parents we felt listened to (vital) and reassured (immeasurably vital).  My wife still slept on his floor through the night, but as we hoped he is much better today and we have made it through to tonight without falling asleep, whilst Henry sleeps upstairs utterly oblivious to the grey hairs that I have sprouted.

Weaning and blockages

Well I can honestly say I have never been as delighted to see the sloppy brown contents of Henry's nappy as I was yesterday. Henry had not had a poo since last Thursday and Emily and I were beginning to become a little concerned as this coincided with our first foray into foods other than booby juice.

One of the delights of my morning over the summer break has been letting him give some of my breakfast apple a darned good gumming. He has loved it! Pulling my apple-filled fingers to his mouth and gnawing and licking to his heart's content.

We moved from this to a little bowl of puréed apple last Wednesday, carrot on Thursday and banana on Friday! Banana didn't appear to agree with Henry though and we may wait a bit before we try that again.

However, all this excitement was soon interrupted by a powerful bout of parentanoia - he hasn't pooed for days! Have we blocked him up with our cursed attempts at weaning?!

The advice we received from a friendly health visitor was that we shouldn't be starting to wean before six months as his gut won't be filtering anything out yet and there is evidence to suggest this period is particularly sensitive for developing allergies. As we had started though, now the advice was to give a little more to try and push through the blockage. More puréed apple then, was the order of the day.

And we have now had three nappies in the last twelve hours, bless him. So we are happy again and daddy can go back to letting him give my apple one hell of a licking!