One day

A single day was all it took.

In fact, just a morning, to have someone approach me and my son and make a comment about how unusual it is to see a man caring for a baby.

You may well be aware that I am now a part-time stay-at-home dad. Just one day a week. A 20% chunk of the working week where I'm solely responsible for the happiness and continued existence of my son.

My wife and I started talking about the possibility of me doing some SAHDing quite early in Cam's life. Those early days of colic, and the associated unhappiness, fuelled discussions about how we could facilitate a measure of respite for Mrs L.

Funny, really, that we hadn't already been considering it. Mrs L is the higher earner of the two of us (neither of us are high flyers, big earners, or particularly career minded) so it would have made financial sense to lose some of my earnings rather than hers.

But, despite a substantial rise in the number of men doing a share of the care, it is far, far from being "the norm".

Which is exactly what the elderly man who sat next to me on a bench in the shopping centre told me, as I fought through Cam's squirmageddon to give him his milk. I braced for what I assumed would be a torrent of negativity, but it never arrived.

"It's the age of the role reversal!" he said. "Some people might think it odd, but I don't see a problem" he said.

I was quick to agree. We are just two short weeks into Cam's new mix of childcare, featuring: Mum, Dad, grandparents and nursery all getting their share of his time. Just two weeks, but no disasters as yet. He seems as happy as before, I am enjoying the arrangement and I'm fairly certain Mrs L is too. Long may it remain harmonious.

The one reservation of my new friend?

"I just hope he doesn't get confused about which one is mum and which one is dad"

I assured him that there was little risk of this; I am far bigger, hairier and less attractive than my wife.

With perfect timing, Cam broke from his bottle to babble his agreement: "dadadadadadadadad".

So, yeah, it might be unusual. But it's fucking ace.

Conflict

If you follow me on Twitter you'll have heard me banging on and on about how tired I am today. Oh, lordy I'm tired. Tired as a very tired thing. Tired as a man who's only had a couple of hours sleep and now can't think well enough to come up with a decent analogy. Or simile. Or anything else.

I'm typing this on Word, and there's a big squiggly green line under pretty much that entire opening paragraph. Usually, I'd treat that squiggly line with utter contempt. Ha! Word. You think you know better than me? Piss off Word, piss off.  But today I'm tired, so I look at the green squiggly line and I believe it. That's how tired I am.

I'm this tired because my son decided last night that sleep was an optional activity. Usually amenable to a bit of shut eye, bed at seven, up at around half five. Usually one brief wake up sometime in the hours which are usually reserved for people who use Class A drugs to stay awake.

We're lucky. I know this. He's always been a pretty good sleeper. I like to think he got that from me.

Last night we got a taste of how different it could be.

Bed at seven. Up at eight. Inconsolable until well after midnight. Awake again less than twenty minutes later. It's all a bit hazy past there, but I reckon I can recall at least four separate periods of pacing his room, praying to a higher being I don't even believe in, willing him to let the sandman in to his tiny body.

But the point of all this is not just that he wouldn't sleep, or that I'm tired. We've all been there with babies, it's part and parcel. Everyone knows you trade in the right to sleep for as long as you want the moment that little genetic portmanteau of you and the baby's co-creator.

The point of this is that losing those precious hours of down time for your body makes you irritable. Maybe even angry.

Why, when all I'm trying to do is cuddle and comfort you, do you insist on bucking, writhing, kicking at my torso?

What do you want me to do?

What do you want me to not do?

Why can't you just give in, relax, drop off?

All these questions and more actually left my lips last night. In tones that were probably anything but soothing for the poor little mite. Not shouting. Tense. Bristling with barely restrained annoyance.

A baby which won't sleep puts you at war with yourself. All you want is to go to sleep yourself. Your body knows it's tired, even if the baby's doesn't.

In those moments, those minutes, those hours of wailing, sobbing, tears and tantrums there is an internal conflict being played out. I never, not even for the tiniest fraction of a moment, doubt my unconditional love for Cam, but I also know that if he had been anyone's baby but my own I would have shut the door to his room, stuffed cotton wool in my ears, and ignored him.

Those questions, uttered through gritted teeth, were the physical manifestation of a desire to give up. To find a way to get my own sleep. Of an underlying selfishness and weakness. A doubt in my ability to carry one caring.

But I did carry on. Of course I did. How could I not? I carried on. I rocked, I jogged, I wore an imperceptible groove into the carpet of his room as I trudged back and forth, up and down, bouncing, whispering, soothing, hoping, wishing. When I wasn't doing those things, my wife was. We both greeted today feeling leaden, achy and wretched.

Of course, I hope that tonight will see an improvement. But, if it doesn't, at least I can be almost certain it won't be worse, and now I know that I can cope, it should be easier, right?

Thanks for reading.

Change

A few years ago I was employed by one of the many subsidiary companies of one of the big banks. I was in the Small Change Team. Contrary to how that sounds, I didn't spend my days counting coppers, though it may have been more use if I had. Alas, no. The Small Change Team was supposed to implement process improvements and whatnot, to make the business more efficient and cost less to run.

Eventually, the powers that be decided that the best change they could make was to make eighteen of the twenty-two members of the Change Department redundant. Including me.

No worries, it was a terrible job, and I miss it not one iota.

But it did introduce me, formally, to people's perceptions of change, which is sort of interesting.

Change is inevitable. We all know that, no matter how much we may dislike it (and some people dislike it a lot), change will happen and we are largely powerless to do anything about it.

Next week will see a big change for me, my wife and my baby.

My baby, who is already over nine months old. How did that happen? I have a photo blu-tacked to the cupboard next to my desk at work. It's Cam, just hours after he was born, wrapped in hospital blankets, cradled in the bend of my arm, tiny and screaming. I am looking down at him and smiling. It's a dangerous photo to have in the office, because every time I look at it I remember the swell of emotion fuelling that smile on my face, and it makes my eyes well up with tears.

My life changed that day, and it has changed every day since.

But, next week is a biggy.

Mrs L returns to work, part time. I reduce my hours at work, meaning a day at home with Cam each week. Mrs L's parents will look after him for two full days each week. The final day of care will be taken care of by a local nursery.

For me, this is a positive change. I'm not a great fan of my job, but I am a great fan of spending time with my son.

For my wife, I suspect, it will be harder to get used to the idea. Maternity leave hasn't been the soft-focus, warm and fuzzy utopia she may have liked it to be, but she's happy and comfortable being at home now.

We are immensely lucky to have Cam's grandparents close at hand. He loves them and they love him. They will provide him with the same care and attention as we would. Plus, they're a whole lot cheaper than a nursery.

The most important person in all of this is the cheeky faced little boy who now welcomes me home from work every day with a beautiful chuckle and an excited wave. Somewhere in that little head he'll be processing the changes and deciding how to deal with them. Will he feel it's acceptable for both me and my wife to leave him with other people on a regular basis? Will he still feel as loved, as cherished, as central to everything that we think, feel and do?

Nine months old and he'll be going through his first big change (well, there was a pretty major one when he was born, but he seems to have coped alright with that), and we're the ones putting him through it.

I'm nervous. I think we all are. Next week feels important and exceptional. But, soon enough, it will just feel normal.

Thanks for reading.

Sensitive

If you have met me you will know that I’m not at all scary. I’m generally possessed of a fairly cheery disposition, I like a chat and a hug and a laugh. I dislike confrontation and being made to feel uncomfortable.

It takes a lot to make me genuinely angry, and when it does happen it is usually a fleeting moment of rage.

I’ve never been in a fight, which is perhaps fairly unusual for a man. I did, once, get sufficiently consumed by the red mist that my brain fired the following message to my left arm: “throw a punch at that guy”. That message was immediately followed by another: “oh fuckshitballs, what are you doing, no, abort! Abort!”

Momentum carried the punch into the cheek of the person who’d riled me, but without the force of anger behind it I suspect the recipient thought I had intended to give them a gentle caress, not a knockout blow.

Actually, I know he didn’t, because he spent the next ten minutes taking the piss out of me for having such a feeble punch. The fourteen year old me happily accepted that he was right.

To adopt a cliché, I’m definitely a lover not a fighter.

Recent events are making me think Cam has managed to inherit my sensitivity and general wussiness.

Cam has a friend (well, Mrs L and I have some friends, and they happen to have a baby). She is about six weeks younger than Cam. She is a fair bit smaller than Cam. She is a mild mannered and contented baby.

Every time Cam spends any time with her, he cries.

Proper crying too, not just a bit of gentle whimpering. Full on, bottom lip curled out, streams of tears, bawling.

Why?

Because she shouts at him.

When this little girl gets excited she shouts. To the adult observer, it is cute. It’s a small explosion of noise which she seems unable to suppress. A verbal expression of joy which bursts from her mouth without much warning. It’s actually really lovely.

But Cam doesn’t like it.

Which, considering he’s off to nursery in three weeks time, is giving us a bit of cause for concern. What if our beautiful baby boy isn’t cut out for the dog eat dog world of Happy Hours Nursery? Will I be coming home from work to collect a tiny human exhausted and dehydrated from ten hours of uncontrollable sobbing?

Or, perhaps, like a stint in the army, nursery will be like baby boot camp for the little mite? He’ll go in a meek, easily upset cuddlebug and come out a finely tuned killing machine little bit less tearful.

Either way, we’ll soon find out, because there’s no alternative available to us at the moment. I just hope the other babies at nursery are nice and quiet………

Norovirus

A fair indication that you may not be having the best night ever: it is 4:21am, you are stood in your baby's bedroom. You are holding your baby, facing away from you, with one arm. Your other arm is covered in vomit. The carpet you are standing on is covered in vomit. The cot you have removed the baby from is covered in vomit. The baby is naked because its clothes were covered in vomit. You are wearing just your pants.

Last Sunday, all of the above applied to me.

Mrs L started feeling a little unwell around lunchtime. By three in the afternoon she was in bed. Apart from when she wasn't in bed because she was doing one of the things that Norovirus makes you do. You know the ones. Erk.

So the 4:21am alarm call (is there a worse alarm call than the sound of a baby doing proper vomiting for the first time in its life? I think not. I haven't changed the alarm sound on my phone to it.) was mostly for me. Mrs L did get up, because she's hardcore, but was soon back in bed.

Seeing your son lying face down in a two foot diameter pool of his own vomit is quite scary. Especially when he's not moving. Sleeps well that boy. Without thinking too much about it, I picked him up and started changing his clothes and nappy.

At the point where he was most naked, the viral invaders resumed their attack on his tummy. I picked him up to comfort him. He vomited over my shoulder onto the carpet.

I stood on the vomity carpet for a bit, feeling lost. I couldn't work out what to do first. Despite Cam's recent stomach and bowel evacuations he was in a ridiculously chipper mood. He certainly wasn't going to sit still while I cleaned up the rest of the room. Especially since Cam is to vomit as a magnet is to ferrous metal: irresistibly attracted.

Being a parent is weird. Things happen on a regular basis that make me think "I don't know what I'm doing", but somehow I muddle through. That's what we all do. There is no definitive manual for parenting (there may be things which THINK they're definitive manuals for parenting, but they're not). There is nothing in a book which will instruct you on how to grow a second pair of arms in order to hold the baby and simultaneously change the bedclothes and clean the carpet.

But we manage.

I don't remember what order I did things in, but somehow he ended up with a new sheet on the bed. A clean nappy, vest and babygrow. A hastily cleaned carpet. A dazed and confused father.

My Christmas wish for all of you is that Norovirus doesn't come to visit.

Justin Bieber and the Apocalypse

I saw an absolutely fantastic tweet this morning. There's a picture of it somewhere in this post. I don't know where because I'm posting from my phone which makes the formatting pure guesswork.

It made me do an actual LOL. I laughed out loud at the idea of Justin Bieber as the saviour. The averter of the apocalypse. Then I laughed at the idea of the apocalypse. Then I laughed at Twitter for giving so many people a platform to spout 140 character snippets of hilarious bullshit.

I'm imagining Justin Bieber standing atop a blackened mountain, his shirt torn open, the sky behind him burning with the fury of a world ending.

His hair is defiant. Immaculate. It is our first clue that he WILL NOT STAND BY AND LET HIS BELIEBERS DOWN.

Apocalypse Now? Apocalypse NO.

Staring into the sulphurous sky The Bieber awaits the arrival of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, or whatever the Mayans (didn't) believe was going to carry out the annihilation.

At the foot of the mountain, practically orgasmic in their froth of fanaticism, stand the Beliebers. Thirty one million, seven hundred and two thousand and nine hundred and fifty five of them; screaming. Not in fear at their imminent doom, but in abundant ecstasy at the sight of their teenage deity.

The ground around them begins to crack, rent asunder by the cosmic forces working to reduce humanity to dust. The Beliebers stand strong. Arms linked, faces set in grim determination.

It is time. Bieber draws breath and prepares to unleash his world saving vocals. Mayans be damned.

He opens his mouth, sings the first word of Baby (baby? Probably) and the mountain collapses. The gaping earth swallows Justin and the hordes of Beliebers. The rest of the world is left unscathed.

Justin Bieber the saviour? Bitch please…

Preference

Sorry, I know I'm a bit late to this party, but what about that David Davies?

He's a Tory MP, so it should come as little surprise to hear him saying something I disagree with. Par for the course that, and something I can usually bring myself to ignore. Good job really, since if I wasn't able to ignore the blatherings and blusterings of Tory MPs I'd probably collapse in on myself like an imploding star. The resultant black hole would probably be no good for people of any political preference.

Which leads me (sort of) to the specific thing David Davies was going on about which got me wound up enough to blog about it.

Preference.

We all have preferences. It would be a dull old world if we didn't. They're very personal for the most part. Some are less so, driven by a sense of right and wrong. There are also many, many things where people have no preference.

For example: Given the choice of kicking David Davies in the left shin or the right, I would have no preference. They would be equally enjoyable and amusing. There would be, as far as I can reasonably foresee, no advantage to doing one or the other.

Mr Davies told us on the weekend (in the midst of the wider, tedious discussions on gay marriage) that he "thinks most parents would prefer their children not to be gay".

This has been irritating me since I heard it.

He's not being homophobic by saying that you understand. He can't be homophobic, because he once sparred with a gay boxer. Not only that, he LIKES AND RESPECTS said gay boxer. Obviously this is the best argument in the world; I use a similar one when my mum asks why I don't like Brussels Sprouts: I can't dislike them, I ate one when I was seven.

Erm, anyway, he thinks parents would prefer their kids not to be gay because they want to be grandparents. My sister is gay. She has a four month old baby. For goodness sake David, this is 2012, of course gay people can have children.

But that's not the point. It isn't the role of anyone's child to simply pander to the whims of their parents. Even if Davies' statement is true (and I really, really hope it isn't) it doesn't matter one bit. Just ask the millions of dads who would prefer their sons to become professional footballers. What a parent might prefer and what is actually going to happen can (and probably should) be a world apart.

Among my list of non-preferences is the gender of the people my son ends up doing the naked pentathlon with. I honestly couldn't give a solitary shit. And if I did give a shit, I would hope I'll have raised my son well enough to know that he should tell me to fuck off.

Which is exactly what I'd prefer David Davies to do.