7-12-2005
Daddy was late
to work today because he had to help Mummy and Baby out of the bath today. Baby
of course was a perfect gentleman, and did no more than paddle happily in the
water with Mummy. No accidents whatsoever. Totally unlike Daddy's experience
with him. This is par for the course. Sometimes Mummy will hand Baby over and
tell Daddy to just let Baby curl up his legs and cuddle up under Daddy's chin.
He always falls asleep straight away in this position with Mummy.
Needless-to-say, nine times out of ten, Baby will start screaming at Daddy. The only way
Daddy can get Baby to stay calm, if not fall asleep, is to sit him facing the
other way on Daddy's lap. Why is that? Mummy tells Daddy not to feel
jealous: Daddy will be able to re-read these pages with a wry smile after Baby
grows up and they leave Mummy at home to share "manly" activities (i.e.
all the things Daddy has never done in his life) like car shows, mud wrestling or football
matches. Daddy knows better. Baby will be always be his Mummy’s boy. [Weeping and
gnashing of teeth in the background.]
We are still
waiting for Baby's first unambiguous smile. You may well ask why Mummy and Daddy
are so bothered. The thing is we don't want a satisfied Baby at all. We want
him to be toe-curlingly, gurglingly, toothily (or more accurately toothlessly!)
happy. Daddy used to think that happiness was much overrated: Lots of really
impressive people are really miserable, and Daddy who is a happy-go-lucky sort
is precisely the opposite of impressive. That was, however, before Daddy was
given the Nicomedian Ethics to
read. (If one is going to get sucked up by a cult pamphlet, let it at least have
the merit of antiquity!).
Daddy is fairly sure Baby gave Cathrin a beaming smile
on Sunday. Baby was only four and a half weeks old and he already knew how to
spot the prettiest girls. Mummy, however, was upstairs so it didn't count. Now
Mummy has video evidence of Baby smiling. Unfortunately, because Daddy just so
happened not to be around at the time, Daddy claims, in his curmudgeonly way, that
the shot is ambiguous. This is not a contest but perhaps we shall just have to
put it on the website and let you see that Mummy is right after all.
8-12-2005
A busy evening for Mummy and
Daddy because we had three guests for dinner, one of whom we had not seen
since our wedding. Tim is now An Important Person in Edinburgh. It was nice to
persuade him to postpone his trip back. More on that below.
It has been noticed that the new
photos of Baby on the website are now captioned. We do apologize for their
uninspired quality though. (If you didn't notice the captions, I wouldn't bother
going through the photos again.) We did try hard but after hours of effort, we
would end up with no more than, umm, "mother with child" and a fair few "baby
asleep". We couldn't think of captions anyone else would find interesting
because we are so wrapped up in our own private cocoon of obsession with this
little bundle of joy. It is impossible for us to explain to ourselves let alone
anyone else why we should want fifteen shots of Baby sleeping from different
angles but we do. My apologies to those of our readers who are slowly gnawing
through their own knuckles.
One of the first things Mummy
learnt from the numerous baby books and magazines she has been devouring
voraciously is that new parents need a bunker mentality. Forget about one’s
friends and ignore the family and don’t venture outside the house. Concentrate
on your own sanity.
To our surprise, part of
the fun of Baby is being able to share him with friends and family, some
of whom we haven’t heard from or seen in a while. So yesterday, we were happy to have our first proper dinner with guests, even if they happened to be
three big, rowdy men. (Baby doesn’t mind rowdiness. He can make himself heard
anywhere, anytime.)
The evening could not have turned
out better. Simon, Richard and Tim took turns at baby-sitting and Baby was very
well burped. Over dinner, Baby was quite happy to stay in his swing watching his
strange visitors while Mummy and Daddy enjoyed themselves. The aquarium swing is
definitely proving its worth. We shall be even more pleased if it fulfils its
early promise as a flight simulator, just so long as everyone remembers that
Baby is going to play rugby and not be an astronaut. (Sorry. Tim. The swing
does not go all the way around and no, Simon, you don't get a go.)
9-12-2005
For any would-be fathers looking
for a special treat for their wives, Daddy would really recommend a professional
pregnancy massage. After eight or nine months of pregnancy, no one is more
deserving of a bit of pampering. Certainly, it work wonders for Mummy. That is,
it would have, if Baby had not arrived just before Mummy's appointment. This
evening, after a month of postponement, and now that she is not any more, Mummy
finally had her pregnancy massage.
It was a really good idea for
Mummy to dump Baby on Daddy for at least an hour to go out and enjoy herself.
Daddy thought baby-sitting meant turning up next to the cot with a good book but
Baby needed changing and then he wouldn't go back to sleep for three-quarters of
an hour. Just when he was all settled in, purring away in his sleep, it was time
for Daddy to get Baby into warm clothes and take him to show off to Helen,
Mummy's nice masseuse. Baby definitely does not like being woken up
before his time (an inherited trait no doubt) and made this clear to all our
neighbours within a half-mile radius. Poor Daddy was so flustered that Baby only
had one sock on under his romper suit. Both of them would have got into trouble
with Mummy, but she was too busy laughing at the carnage left behind getting
Baby ready. Mummy thinks Daddy is beginning to appreciate more why it takes her
more than 10 minutes to get the kid out of the house (it took Daddy quite a bit
longer than that).
Just when we thought we were
getting used to Baby's habits, everything changes. What, you may ask, is the
latest cataclysm? Well, after much diligent searching, Baby has found his hands.
You may have seen an early photo on the web site with Baby sucking his (entire)
fist. That was a chance encounter between hand and face. Now they have regular
appointments. (We should not have mentioned gnawing through knuckles in
yesterday's entry.) He is going through a (non-Freudian!) phase where everything
that might fit into his mouth goes in that direction, and many things, like
Daddy's arm (he sucks at it sideways like chewing on a bone), which obviously
don't fit, are still worth a try.
The British Medical Journal has
published a study showing that dummies reduce cot death drastically in the US.
No doubt panicking parents all over the world are stuffing them into their
babies mouths as we write this. Careful reading suggests that it mainly helps
those at high risk of SIDS. We are less worried ourselves: Baby has done well to
cut down on his smoking and drinking over the past 10 months or so. Besides,
research from the University of Milan shows that dummies are bad for teeth and
palate development. Americans may think they have the best orthodontics in the
world, but Milan is so much more fashionable. We shall go the Italian way for
the moment.
10-12-2005
Daddy made his
yummy but extremely inauthentic Spaghetti Bolognese. Hats off to Baby whose
schedule compelled the dish to develop properly over an extra two hours of
cooking. Daddy has finally twigged that food which requires perfect timing is
not appropriate for our “flexitime”. It is, however, much easier to keep
postponing eight o’clock dinner on a Saturday night than a week day. We could
pretend that we were on Spanish time. 11 p.m. is a perfect civilized time for
any self-respecting dońa and her signor to have their banquete.
Mummy has
given up playing plain soduku. The puzzles are proving too tame by themselves
and she has taken to timing herself against Daddy. Mummy is not at all
competitive. She beats Daddy in the swimming pool not (only) to humiliate him
but as a matter of principle. We can’t wait for the all clear at Mummy’s
six-week medical check-up. Mummy will be happy to be back to hard training and
Daddy can return to slow-style sudoku without any pressure (or a helpful
spectator saying “that one”).
We are still
organizing the reception for the baptism. One of our regulars has suggested
various websites with details of entertainment at baptism receptions. They were
extremely helpful and most practical, thank you very much. Yes. We had
considering hiring the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment but you are right.
The Royal Ballet puts on a much better show. Let us see, they could change in
the kitchen if they squeeze between the refrigerator and the washing machine.
The space between the dinning table, the pram and the Baby swing would make a
really nice stage for, oh, at least six (really thin) ballerinas, if they didn’t
move too much and kept their elbows by their sides!
Baby is
definitely being frisky tonight. We think he is having tummy trouble. Daddy’s
boss says that this can last for days (and nights!). Help! We shall see how much
sleep we get tonight.
11-12-2005
Finally
staggered out of bed bleary-eyed at Noon.
Baby needed feeding.
Walked to Greyfriars for Baptism preparation. Returned home.
Baby needed feeding.
Walked to Greyfriars for Mass. Returned home.
Baby needed feeding.
Is there a
pattern we have missed somewhere? Daddy and Mummy feel like they are extras in
“Groundhog Day”.
We have a new
local el supremo (English) Franciscan for our parish. Daddy is not at all
sure about him, mainly because when he (i.e. Daddy) was minding his own business
during the sermon (snoring quietly) with Baby balanced precariously on his lap,
the celebrant suddenly decided to point out the newborn as a metaphor for
something or another. (Seed? Feed? Mead? Oops. Forgot.) Poor Daddy had to stay
awake for the rest of the sermon trying to keep his visual aid from bawling too
much in his newly acquired fame. Mummy, though, has a soft spot for Franciscans
and completely melted when he came up afterwards and started speaking to her in
perfect Spanish. Show off!
Last night was
rather ghastly for Mummy. Baby was feeling unsettled but he needed a nappy
change between two of his regular feeds. That obviously threw his timing
completely off because he woke up every hour on the hour for the rest of the
night. (Imagine sleeping next to a very loud, off-pitch Swiss cuckoo clock.) At
5 a.m. in the morning when Baby was screaming, Daddy wakes up and mutters in
broken English, “Is there anything I can do to help?” before falling back asleep
immediately. That is the point when the temptation to reach over and strangle
him (Daddy, not cute little Baby) becomes almost over-whelming. Pygmalion was
(almost) right. Why can’t men be more like sea-horses?
12-12-2005
We have had
several recent comments that Baby appears to have chubbed up in his most recent
photos. Actually, he had even more chins two weeks ago. Daddy has a theory that
a baby’s cheeks are the juvenile equivalent of the mythical Hottentot bottom (steatopygia
khoisanis). Baby gorges himself for two weeks before a Beauregarde-esque
(Violet-like?) bout of elongation in the middle of the night. We were quite
shocked the other day to find that Baby only has 3 inches of headroom left in
his Moses basket. We remember thinking how absurd he looked in the huge basket
when he first came back from the hospital. We thought we would have at least 6
months before we needed to thinking about cots and the like. Now we are not so
sure. Mummy has had to cut off all the toes in his baby clothes. Frayed
dungarees are definitely going to be the next in-thing for baby fashion.
We passed a
rack of baby magazines today and could not help get two which had “Do MMR jabs
cause autism” and “what you can eat while breast-feeding” on their covers. We
knew we shouldn’t have. What little that is not ill-informed is tritely obvious
in these magazines. Besides, we have already read the same stories twice in
other formats. But like all the other baby junkies out there, we couldn’t help
ourselves. Oh dear. Wait till Daddy’s boss finds out that all the best science
is to be found in Vogue, Marie-Claire and Cosmo (Not that Daddy would know one
way or other. Ahem.)
Baby has
started to respond to our voices with a series of incoherent noises. This is
terribly sweet but has caused some confusion in our family. Mummy is convinced
this is “cooing”. We know what pigeon cooing sounds like but neither of us has
encountered cooing baby outside of novels. How can one tell? Dr. Spock is
utterly useless on this.
Our parents
would perhaps be astonished, 21 years (give or take a few years )
after they relied on Dr. Spock (First edition 1946!), that we are still relying
on the same volume. It has bulked up a little over the years. The doctor himself
has been dead for a little while, but just as there always is a Wizard of Oz, so
long as the “Dr. Spock Company” keeps going and revising the books, no one
notices any difference.
13-12-2005
One of the
fashions that has changed over the years, as we might have mentioned, is whether
babies should lie on their fronts or his backs. It used to be that babies should
sleep facing down in case they should be sick at night. Then a few years ago,
research suggested that the likelihood of cot-death or SIDS goes down hugely if
they sleep in a supine position. Now Daddy’s Mummy has a friend who suggests
that, if Baby sleeps facing down, it will make him more intelligent because his
brain will have more room to grow backwards. Daddy just so happens to work in
the University Anatomy Department so he sauntered over to some colleagues who
one might have thought would know something about this. A few unhelpful guffaws
of laughter later, Daddy was asked just how he supposed one might go about
finding out one way or another. We think we shall allow Baby to keep his head to
himself for a little while and we shall just let the matter drop quietly. In any
case, Baby likes to sleep face down all snuggled up against Mummy. We shall
earmark that as his brainy time.
We didn’t
mention how much fun it was to have a dry (!) run with the Franciscan deacon who
is going to be baptizing Baby. Brother Paul is scarily sharp and young (from the
perspective of our hard-won maturity), but somehow still manages to look just a
typical Franciscan. Perhaps it is only the sandals and beard after all. We were
able to include all our favourite saints (obscure ones or not: Brother Paul is
going to try and find if there is a even minor out-of-the-way St. Iolo after
all), and Mummy is angling for her favourite Latin hymn which was vetoed by the
priest at our wedding. (She is going to get her way at some point.)
Apparently, it
is also the Irish superstition that babies are supposed to wail at the baptism
as a sign of the devil leaving. Poor Brother Paul rolled his eyes when Daddy
mentioned this, and said “Don’t worry, it might take a few months. So long as he
wails at some point, it will be all right.” One definitely needs a sense of
humour in his line of business.
[Practical
note: Those of you who are coming to the baptism on Sunday, you have found the
church if you see any Friar Tuck look-alikes. Friar Tuck was not actually a
Franciscan (Robin Hood outranks St. Francis in the antiquity stakes) but the
great saint in a piece of anachronistic daring, stole the costume from Friar
Tuck (from the 1938 Hollywood version to be precise).]