Saturday, April 28, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
None of the above has anything to do with the fact that today is the day where we all join in with the lovely @jbmumofone's fabby I Spy linky.
She provides the letters and the link-a-doodle, we provide the brain befuddling photos containing said letter within them. This week, the letter in question is G. G for green, grass, grey, galapogos, gorgeous, gimp and Gary Barlow. Also, something else, can you see it?
Guesses in my comment repository if you please:
Then, click on the badge below to allow the internet fairies to magically transport you to the rest of the participants, to guess their Gs as well, or to join in yourself!
Monday, April 23, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Fourteen WHOLE DAYS and we haven't managed to break him yet, he hasn't gone significantly wrong and (touches wood, caresses rabbit's foot, eats four leaf clover, nails horseshoe to self, seeks out seagull to entice into pooing on me) having a child actually feels kind of, well, *whispers* normal.
Obviously, I still look at him several times each day and think "bloody hell. That's a baby, and it's mine". I don't know when or if that will ever change. He's a tiny life and, in partnership with Mrs L, I'm responsible for him. Sometimes I emit an involuntary squeak when I remember that.
I can't quite believe how quickly he's changing. Every day, in amongst the nappy changes, the screaming, the little bits of sick, the lengthy naps, there are new things. I know they all do this, but this is my one doing it.
Eyes which are a little wider every day.
Starting to look over my shoulder rather than AT my shoulder.
His hair is already longer.
I'm pretty certain the tiny hands are just a tiny bit less tiny.
His cry has developed; from the steady pitch of the newborn to the incredibly insistent, anger and desperation infused wail he is now capable of.
|Demonstrating his crying skills (also uppercuts)|
If you're already a parent you probably read the above with a wry smile. Perhaps you thought "yes, but wait for the tantrums, the colic, the myriad challenges ahead of you. Just you wait, rookie, remember these peaceful days of teeny tiny baby time".
You're right. I know there's a bumpy road ahead of me, Mrs L and The Creature. But we're looking forward to it.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
|Marmite: Not Made of Poo|
|We don't have Nutella in our house. Apart from in nappies.|
Friday, April 13, 2012
Zombies. I know where they're going to come from. I have unravelled how the apocalypse will befall us. Revitalised dead people? No. Carriers of some mysterious disease, passed on through germ ridden bites? Again, no.
Really, really tired people who've got young children? Yes. As I shambled around the downstairs of my house last night, alternating between bouncing on the Swiss ball (Godsend! Thank you Switzerland!) and singing Soft Kitty (that moment when you realise the only lullaby you know is from a TV programme? Upsetting.) to the beautiful creature I held in my arms, I could sense a change.
I felt fuzzy around the edges. My brain felt as if parts of it were falling away, like the end of a biscuit when you've left it in your tea too long. Or a simile which you couldn't really make work because you were a bit tired.
As I wandered around, inconsolable ball of cute held tight to my chest, I could imagine how I might end up walking out the door and finding all the other parents, drawn together by their shared plight. We would then rampage (slowly) down the street, attacking anyone who looked like they may have had more than a few hours sleep. Maybe we would feast on their brains, to get at the juicy sleep that must surely lie within them. Almost definitely we'd get covered in mud and assorted other muck, our sleep deprived brains would make staying upright a near impossible task.
Yes. Definitely. This was it. Tonight was the night. Zombies were coming and I would lead the charge.
Luckily, before my wobbly brain went any further wrong, Mrs L woke from her slumber and rescued me. We had a loosely sensible adult conversation, without any rhyming couplets, we co-operated to get the little one fed and changed, then settled into a blissful sleep. Then I went to bed. At seven in the morning.
Zombie apocalypse averted for one more night.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
What do you see fellow I Spy-ers?
Click on the picture below to be whisked off to Mum of One and see all the other photos from this week!
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
First Night at home. Third night in total.
He is asleep. Finally. She is asleep. Finally. I am watching them both sleep and hoping it can last more than the five minutes it already has. It is the one thing in the world that I want more than anything at this precise moment.
Everything everyone has ever told me about this is true. I have already felt wracked with guilt for sleeping while she does not, for not having the physical means to feed this tiny person who I am so utterly fascinated by.
Over ten minutes now. The most sleep my wife has had in over 24 hours. Her soft snores are music to my ears, with my son's short, tiny breaths adding a second track to the mix.
He looks grumpy even when he's asleep. He is almost too cute to bear. It still hasn't all sunk in yet.
Fifteen minutes. Thank you little man, not just for doing it, but for proving that you can do it, and for saving your mum's sanity in the process. Maybe she'll stop hallucinating for a little while now, and have a little respite from the raging headache she's been enduring.
Me, I am the lucky one. Tonight my prize is watching my two sleeping beauties. I've also grabbed more sleep already than the other two combined.
He's stirring now. But I feel like I'm already winning.
Disclaimer: typed on a phone, any and all spelling or typing errors are its fault, not my tired brain's.
Monday, April 9, 2012
You know what though? I don't care.
Oh my days, it's finally happened. I have a baby. I have a son. I am a dad. *does dance of ecstatic joy*
This post isn't going to be a birth story or anything as deep and meaningful as that. I may do one some time, I may not, I'll see how I feel.
Right now, I'm sat at home on my own, for the second night, while my baby boy and my amazing wife remain at the hospital. Hopefully they're doing well. Maybe they're not. I have no way of knowing. But this post also isn't about not being able to stay at the hospital.
This post is to say that I feel a new understanding, respect and connection to all those other dads out there. And all the mums too. I thought I got it before our baby was born. But I was wrong. I didn't get it when I was a broody young man. I didn't get it when my wife was pregnant. I didn't get it during my wife's labour.
I got it when that tiny little fragile body made its exit from the womb. I got it when he was placed, still covered in all manner of goo and stuff, on to my wife's body moments later. I got it when my face contorted into a display of emotion which I had no hope of controlling, of tears and sobs and snotty sniffles of pure, joyous happiness.
Even our first day as a family has shown me that there will be challenges. That all the talk of how difficult it is to have a child is true. But it has also shown me that there is a whole world of support out there for new parents, a world of experience and knowledge that we will be able to draw from to help us, to pick us up when we are down, to cry on, to complain to.
|Cute, but with a penchant for pissing up your arm. I don't mind though, because I'm a dad.|
This is the dawn of a new era then, an era where my BabberBlog actually has a babber to blog about. I can't wait.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
One day this week, as I walked from one end of the store to the other, I passed a family: Mum, toddler and Granny. This is not unusual in this particular ASDA, lots of people seem to think their kids should learn the ways of Smart Price early on.
A little more unusual was the snippet of conversation I heard as I passed them:
Granny: "do we need to get cutlery?"
Mum: [shouting] "she don't need a fork, she'll use her fucking fingers"
Which was nice.
Now, I'm in no position to give parenting advice, nor am I the sort of person who is likely to tell someone else that what they're saying to their child is possibly, maybe, just a tiny bit inappropriate. But it was, and I didn't think it was a technique Supernanny would have been proud of.
I'm very happy to litter my speech to adults with swearwords, I don't attach any greater significance to them than I do any other word. But this made me feel sorry for the child. Maybe it was the first and only time the mum had ever sworn at her, or maybe it was a regular part of their relationship. I don't know. But it just seemed so unnecessary. It was swearing as filler, swearing as punctuation, not swearing for effect or emphasis. Even if it had been the latter, not in the direction of a toddler surely?
It made me judge the mother too. I wondered what other things she might think were okay which I might not. I wondered what the girl would be eating with her fingers; bolognaise perhaps? A tasty curry? Perhaps this mum also thought that a bowl of cereal should be eaten without a spoon?
Two days later I heard another mother tell her son "you can't go on the fucking ride, and you're not getting any fucking sweets, now shut up". That was in ASDA too. The boy didn't look to be misbehaving, but he did look like he hadn't enjoyed being spoken to like that. Not an isolated case then.
Am I wrong, or being prudish? Maybe everyone swears at their kids (and I don't mean the under-the-breath frustration swearing, I mean swearing AT their kids) and it's all part of their growing up experience.
Perhaps when I'm a dad myself I'll understand it, but for now I'll just remain dumbfounded.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
It took my sleep addled brain a few dozy moments to process that. Then, assuming that the baby had decided it was time to make an entrance, I did the natural thing. Panicked. A thousand thoughts went through my mind. Well, a couple at least. They were: "ohmygodshittingshitit'sfinallyhappeningthebaby'scoming" and then: "calm down, calm down, find out what's going on".
My mouth hadn't quite finished booting up yet, so I said something like "nnngggghhhmmmddight?"
Luckily, Mrs L is good at deciphering my incoherent mumblings.
"It's cramp, really bad cramp in my legs".
I asked whether she was sure, because, y'know, I'd imagine cramp in your legs feels pretty similar to contractions. I blame the fact I was barely awake. Pretty soon I was back to sleep. An hour later it happened again.
Since that night, I've been on code red, Defcon 1 (or 5, I forget which way round that works), super-alert-phone-checking mode. Because it could happen any time now. I might have to exercise the full accelerative ferocity of the almighty Skoda to get to the hospital at the drop of a hat. I've started fending off new pieces of work which people try to give me (to be honest, I do that anyway) and trying to wrap up outstanding bits and pieces. I'm ready for the call, whenever that call may come.
Every single thing we do I find myself thinking "this is probably the last time we'll [insert activity] before the baby arrives".
We're in a period of lasts. Last restaurant meal. Last visit to the cinema. Last game of basketball. Last trip to the supermarket.
It's harder for Mrs L, having to ferry the baby around within her, but the uncertainty is having an affect on me too. I'm not sleeping well (and not just because my Mrs L has developed a very impressive talent for snoring in recent weeks) and I feel a bit fuzzy around the edges. I got all snappy at someone in the office the other day, which is not at all like me. It's quite stressful, having a baby, and we don't even have ours yet.
So come on baby, get a wriggle on. We want to meet you, and I want to stop feeling a compulsion to check my phone every thirty seconds.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
This week the letter of the alphabet she is interested in is R. Beloved of Bristolians, it seemed this was an appropriate letter for me to make my I Spy debut. Without further prattling, here is my photo:
What do you see?
Clickify on this here badge and find yourself in a world of other R based pictorial joy:
“Until this week I never really understood the term 'Trolling' — used to describe when anonymous people viciously attack others on the internet. Now I do!”
|Not a toy.|
Monday, April 2, 2012
I've been amazed through this whole nine month process that there hasn't been more in the way of aches and pains. The books all say a woman should expect to start hurting far earlier than one week prior to the due date, and I'm sure most do. Mrs L has been toughing it out though, that or extremely lucky.
But not any more.
Every movement is accompanied with a breathless sigh. A trip to the shops is akin to a major expedition to some hitherto undiscovered corner of the globe. Even resting is no longer a rest, rendered unpleasant by the sheer size of that baby oven.
No combination of pillows, cushions, duvets and assorted other ephemera yields the comfort my wife so desperately craves. Her anatomy is at the mercy of the baby, stomach squished up inside her so that she's never hungry, her hips, knees and ankles working under conditions that have their union rep threatening strike action, her feet swelling into caricatures of their normal selves.
Yet through all of this, there is hardly anything by way of complaint (there's certainly a lot less whinging than would be happening if I was carrying all that around). Not once have the words "I just want this baby out of me" passed her lips.
She's bloody amazing, and I, in turn, am bloody amazed.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
|Meet my son, his name is Sexy.|
It's difficult though, isn't it? Without realising it, I've been going through my life marking names up with little tags: John is too common. Luke, Leo and Liam would all be alliterative with the surname. Isaac is already taken by a close member of family. I was bullied at school by someone called Jason, and someone else called Antony. Colin sounds too old. Matthew is too biblical.
Mrs L has a separate list of names which she wouldn't want to bestow on the boy, some of which I quite liked.
We want something a bit different. But not too different. Something with no negative connotations from people we've known, or people from history (not too many Adolfs around these days, wonder why?)
Options one, two and three: they're nice, safe, popular names. But that's the problem, they're a bit dull.
Option four: is shared with a current politician, whose policies we don't like. We'd like to avoid the inevitable "is he named after...?" questions.
Option five: is of French origin. Neither of us is remotely French. We're a bit worried that it might be a touch silly.
When the little guy does make an appearance though, I'm sure all our concerns will melt away. We're not going to love the boy because of his name, but because of what he is. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and a son by whatever name will be amazing.