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...

Silent Sunday - 15/04/2012

Zombie Apocalypse

I don't want to alarm anyone, but I've experienced a moment of clarity.  Sometime in the middle of the night, with the screams of Baby Babberblog as the backing track to my thought process.

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.

I Spy - U...

The lovely JB over at Mum of One hosts this linked meme every week.  She provides the letter, so all us lazy lot have to manage is taking a photo of something appropriate.  This week it's U, which is awkward.  Thankfully I have a newborn (you may have noticed...) so U hasn't been as difficult as it otherwise may have been.

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!

First Night

First Night at home.  Third night in total.

3:40am

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.

4:00am

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.

Dawn of the Dad

I didn't Google it, but I bet that's one of the least original blog post titles going.

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.

Silent Sunday - 08/04/12