Routine

Since Mrs L's return to work, it is largely my duty to sort Cam out in the morning and ensure his timely arrival at wherever he'll be spending the day.

On the day I am not at work this is blissfully easy. I get up when he does, do the usual morning things, nappy change, feeding, playing, etc. and if I manage to squeeze in a shower for myself then that's great. If not, I hope that no-one gets close enough to smell me.

The main thing is; there are options. Flexibility.

On the days that both me and Mrs L scuttle off to our respective offices things are a little different. Mrs L catches her train at 7am, so needs to be up at 6am. There is little leeway in her routine, so sorting out Cam is pretty much impossible.

I get up at 6:15am.

We creep around, trying our best not to disturb the delicate slumber of our son until seven. A still snoozing son means I get to shower without fear of my shoe being thrown into the bath to keep me company.

The remainder of the morning routine is finely honed. Change the baby. Get the baby dressed. Give the baby his bottle. Make my porridge and leave it to cool a bit. Entertain the baby. Throw work stuff in my bag. Pack bottles into baby's bag. Eat porridge. Bundle baby into car. Leave.

Because I hate being late to arrive at places I know exactly what time all of the above things need to happen in order for me to drop him off and get to work on time.

But there is a problem. Sometimes, the morning throws a curve ball. Routines don't allow for curve balls, but babies show little respect for routine.

This morning, there was a curve ball. Cam had been given his bottle. I was about to start sorting out my porridge when a noise came out of my son. A noise which made me wonder whether perhaps he had somehow managed to swallow an eighteenth century factory during the night.

The sound did not indicate a normal poo. The sound made me fear for my nostrils. I contemplated grabbing the Marigolds prior to dealing with whatever was inside that nappy.

I needn't have worried, since there was as much outside the nappy as there was contained within it.

(Question: when putting on a nappy, do you pull the elasticated leg bits out as far as they'll go, such that the evacuated excreta has the maximum possible room OR do you leave them contracted, in order for them to act as a device to SLOW DOWN the brown projectile as it comes out? Answers on a clean Pampers please…)

You know there's been some significant evil force at work when the poo looks like a Korma and has escaped from both legs and the top of the nappy. When the answer to the (rhetorical, rhetorical!!!) question "has this leaked" is answered by finding a wet patch on each of the baby's feet.

Still. Shit ain't shit. I'm used to this by now. I wrote another post about poo almost a year ago.
The clean up operation is quick. Deftly dealt with. Clean the bits you need to hold first. Assess the cleanliness of the various items of clothing. Remove as necessary (all of them in this case). Don't spare the wipes. Suppress the wince as Cam's (brand new, from his great gran) soft toy is deposited into the nappy while you're not looking. Dry the bum. Apply the Sudocrem. New nappy. New clothes. Wash hands.

Of course, you'd expect this tale to culminate in me being late to drop him off at his grandparents, but I'm a step ahead of the game. I've got enough contingency time for TWO nappy changes built into my routine.

Which will be fine, until the day he needs three.

PS: One poo post every eleven months, that's fine, right?

Fathers' Day

I was going to post about Fathers’ Day yesterday, but I was far too busy having Fathers’ Day.

My son has a sense of occasion already. My wake up call was my wife shouting for help with a truly apoocalyptic nappy. The classic “up the back and all over the arms” variety.

Happy Fathers’ Day dad, here’s your present, a baby, babygro and vest covered in runny shit. Nice.

Following the clean up operation I was given my card, a copy of Teething Pains and a lovely canvas with tiny, painty footprints on it. Definitely preferable to The Creature’s original offering.

A bottle of milk later and The Creature fell asleep. Seizing the moment, so did me and Mrs L.

Naptime over, playtime began, followed by more milk. Then, somewhat unusually, another poo. Clearly I hadn’t looked like I enjoyed the first one enough. The Creature mixed it up a little; this poo went down the left leg, out the bottom of the babygro and onto my jeans.

Variety is the spice of life, I’m glad Cam has learnt this lesson early.

The rest of the day was spent soothing, playing, napping, chatting, watching some TV, drinking cups of tea and eating cake. It was a day with a baby. A day with friends. A day as a dad.

I’ve never been too keen on days like Fathers’ Day. I’m fairly sure it’s just one of those “Hallmark Holidays”, fabricated by businesses to sell more cards and make more money out of people who just can’t say no.

But I think we did it quite well. No excessive spending, no over the top celebration, pretty much a day like any other since becoming a dad ten weeks ago.

I don’t need a day designated to celebrate being a Father. I celebrate it every day. I feel elated every time I pick up that dinky person I helped create, I feel loved every time he fixes me with his eyes or rests his head into my chest for a cuddle. I hope that we will raise Cam to have the same quiet but obvious appreciation for his parents as I have for mine.

Parenting is hard work. Far too hard to give each parent just one day each year to think about it.

My first Fathers’ Day was great, and I hope all of you had an ace day too. But that’s my hope for every day, not just the ones we mark with cards and presents.

*instigates group hug*

Thanks for reading.

The Many Faces of Faeces

Yes, that's right folks, one week into parenthood and I'm writing a poo post.  

In my defence, at one week old I have a limited choice of topics regarding the baby; sleep (lack of), breastfeeding (difficulty of, tentative overcoming of) and poo (lots of).

If you're reading this you've probably got kids.  You know the score.  The initial period of worry when the baby DOESN'T DO POOING.  Will the baby poo?  When will the baby poo?  What happens if he doesn't? All these questions and more race through the mind of the new parent.  Lucky for me, our little bundle didn't keep us waiting too long to render them all moot. 

"Hooray!" we thought, "the boy can poo!"  This reaction is the start of an alarming process.  The conversion of your brain from an organ of rational thought and reason into one which cares an awful lot about poo.  Colour of poo.  Consistency of poo.  Frequency of poo.

All things poo are on the cognitive agenda.  Not only this, they are on the conversational agenda (please tell me that's not just me, I've been talking to my non-parent friends about poo...)

But, for those who don't know already, baby poo is not the same as adult poo.  Where adult poo can be categorised using the Bristol Stool Scale (another claim to fame for my fair city) baby poo can not.

Baby poo is categorised, at least by our midwife, by comparison with various foodstuffs.  

Initial poos, we were told, should have consistency and appearance of Marmite.  Nice.  Amid the worry of the run up to the first poo, with all the aforementioned questions, now I had the added concern that I may never be able to spread delicious yeast extract on my toast again.  The Horror!

Marmite: Not Made of Poo

I needn't have worried.  I didn't have to deal with the Marmite poos (or, more accurately, Meconium. Thanks Google.) because he did all those at night when still in the hospital, with only Mrs L to clean the tar-like substance from him.  So, obviously, I can still enjoy an umami filled breakfast.

Once the Marmite days pass it's onto stage two poo: Nutella.  No worries about falling out of love with that one, I'm not a big fan of Nutella anyway.  Phew.  Just as well, because I did get to do battle with one or two of these.  You know how sticky Nutella is, yes?  Well.  That.  But smeared on the delicate skin of your beautiful newborn.  Delightful.

We don't have Nutella in our house. Apart from in nappies.

Next up, and our current stage: chicken Korma.  I don't have a photo of chicken Korma, because I don't like it.  Similarly, I don't really like chicken Korma poos.  Though I've never actually tried eating the latter.  It's less sticky than Marmite poo.  Less sticky than Nutella poo.  But what it lacks in sticky it more than makes up for with coverage.

Liquid can't flow uphill.  It's against the laws of physics (and, before anyone starts, capillary action doesn't count).  But guess what?  Korma poo is anti-gravity.  It comes out of the same hole as all the other poo types, but instead of staying in the region of said hole it creeps all the way up the baby's back.

Don't worry, I've told NASA.  I anticipate space suits coated in KormPoo (my trade name, hands off) before the end of the decade.  I'll be retiring off this discovery I reckon.

So, yeah, poo.  Sorry.  Hopefully he'll do something else soon...