The New Dad Bubble...

A friend of my mine had his first baby the other day, a medical miracle.

We hadn’t spoken in a while, so when I heard on the grapevine, I rushed over to congratulate him, and ask how it was going.

Which are all reasonable things to do.

I had no idea of the damage I might do.

Congratulations, I just heard!

Thanks, it all went well

<Big smile>

How’s it all going with the little one?

<Big smile back>

Yeah, yeah its… er... well all going well, pretty easy really!

<Big smile>

Ah yeah, that first month <Big knowing smile>

First month?

<Look of fear and concern>

Oh…

<Realisation of what I have just implied>

<BANG! New Dad bubble everywhere>

(Mwah ha ha haaaa!)

With just a few, tiny, words I burst his new Dad bubble.

I took him out of his 'ignorance is bliss' and 'this isn't so bad, what's all the fuss?' bubble, slapped him around the face, hard, screaming ‘IT GETS SO MUCH HARDER’, and then I shoved him back in his bubble, so he could watch it pop all around him.

Quite a thing to do, I know.

I feel terrible. The new Dad bubble is important. I think it protects the Dad from a huge life change they are not ready for.

I think it's the Dad way of handling a bonkers situation: You're about to be given a child by someone.

Without that bubble I don't think Dad's would cope as well as they do.

I like to think I was an active pre-Dad. I read books on the baby, I did my research on pregnancy, and birth. I attended classes and even listened whilst there. I really thought I was ready for what was coming.

Oh course, with hindsight (butt eyes), I realise I had got myself entirely ready for the birth only. Birth-wise I knew what to do, when, and how, and when not to. I had considered all the horrible things that may happen, and at least knew roughly what I might do. (The book 'The Blokes Guide to Pregnancy' helped a lot)

Sure, I knew I'd get a few things wrong along the way, but as I was prepared I felt I'd handle them well enough.

However I know realise that I had utterly, utterly, UTTERLY failed to learn anything about what to do with a baby, once it arrived.

Bit like buying a Jumbo jet before you can fly or have a runway, or fuel for it.

Luckily Mrs. Amazing had been learning what you need to do with a baby, from books, websites, friends, from all the Mum's she could find. Which is lucky as I didn't have a clue how to build a runway, or how to get high-octane fuel into a jet, or the best ways of taxing a jet, or why you should flush its engines regularly (burping) (not sure where this metaphor is going).

Without Mrs. Amazing's baby knowledge that first month would have been a lot harder.

Of course some things we learnt together. As some things you can't learn in a book, people don't share, or can't be found online.

Like, how do you get up for a wee when two people are fast asleep on you?

Fast, and then run like the clappers You don't, you just enjoy it and ignore the numbness.

But there was lots I didn't know. Lots that my support network, me boys, didn't prepare me for.

I think men don't help each other when it comes to babies (and lots of things). We don't really seem to talk about the details. It's more winding up the new guy or tales of doom and gloom, smugness, pissing contests, or just plain boasting.

‘Oh man I didn't sleep for seven years when my nipper was born!’

Seven years? That sounds terrible, I like sleep.

‘I was so tired I ate my shoes’

<shudders>

‘You'll never go to the pub again. Ever’

But I like the pub, they sell me beer... They have pork scratchings!!!

‘You're gonna get puke and poo on you daily’ (actually this is a fair warning)

I won't look like one of those Dad's, with puke and poo on them will I?

Yep.

Why??? <Shakes fist at sky>

Make sure you don't do X, I did X and man, it took a month to clean up. Avoid X.

<Adds X to huge mental list of things not to do>

Let her do it all, she loves it.

Piss off Neanderthal, what century are you living in Oh ha ha... yes... hmmm... moving on... probably best we don't speak again… mind your knuckles on the door step as you leave...

No one ever said which way nappies go round (Sticky bit underneath, by the bum).

No one ever suggested that I practice nappies on my a teddy before baby arrives, so I don't end up doing my very first in the hospital with my Mum, Mrs. Amazing and Grandma watching.

No one said how often you need to feed the little smegger and how best to prepare a bottle. That would have been really handy for when Mrs. Amazing was resting.

No one said how just listening and talking things through was better than rattling out book advice and declaring the problem solved. (Although I should know that anyway).

No one ever said midwives would visit almost daily for a bit, yay!, and then stop, boo, and when they are gone, you'll miss their experience SO much.

No one said getting right royally whammed at the baby's head wetting, may go down badly. Actually they said the opposite (well not quite, but you know what I mean).

(Urban Dictionary helping me understand slang and abbreviations, for years. PDOMA)

In fact the male advice I got was pretty useless. Unless you enjoy being warned of hardship and toil over and over. I got given so many things to avoid and not do, it was like being at work.

I remember I got to the point where I would start either, ignoring the tales of doom and gloom and switch off, or just change the subject.

Men are bloody irritating sometimes. Isn't sharing information quickly and simply, without emotion, what we are supposed to be good at? I certainly can get all the latest sports results without problem. yay.

But knowing the England captain's batting average when it's 4am and the microwave is being a git, baby is screaming blue murder, isn't really all that helpful.

But there were a few men that told tales that were full of promise and wonder, a few. And I thank them for that. Their words filled me with hope and I doubt I'll ever forget what they said to me.

"It's like everything changes and all the things you used to love doing, you don't get to do any more, well maybe sometimes, but not very often. But that's OK, the new stuff is way better and you won't want to do that old stuff so much anyway"

"It's the best thing I've ever done. Ever. We have so much fun!"

"Enjoy every moment, it's brilliant"

They were all 100% right.

Fair enough their advice didn't help change a nappy, but it made me look forward to what was coming and embrace it, which did help change my first nappy and beat the microwave into submission.

So back to my friend and his new Dad bubble. Which I may have broke.

With a bit of luck my friend is like me and just ignored my doom laden comment and he is just going to carry on with blind, naive, optimism and excitement, because someone else told him it is going to be brilliant.

It is going to be brilliant.

Ant Attack!

We are just about to start the bed time.

The daily battle of convincing three knackered, but full of energy children, that despite what the sun says and the chirping birds, and all the other children outside screaming, shouting, having the time of their lives... It's bedtime.

So we can do adult stuff (housework and sleeping).

I am sat with Boy8 and Miss4 watching cartoons, consuming cereal and milk (I have tea obv).

When Mrs. Amazing appears (like magic) in front of me, BabyBoy1 attached to hip and says:

'Boy8's room is full of ants, flying ones!'

Oh no!

That's terrible...

How are you going to deal with them?

Who am I kidding?

Pest control is my area. I don my black hood, sharpen my axe, and take Boy8 with me to see just how bad it is. If it's really bad I may be able to offer him up to our new Ant overlords whilst I make my escape.

And because Boy8 likes squishing ants.

(Ants rave)

I open the door to the ant farm and compared to last year.... It's not that bad! Bonus.

Still there are about 1000 ants running around Boy8’s room, some flying like drunken fools.

There's ants all over his Lego, over his desk, all through the pile of crap he's hidden under his desk. I have my suspicions he may have hidden a bag of sugar behind his desk, hence the ants. But it also could be the little buggers eating through the mortar and getting into the house to watch TV.

An audience appears behind me: Mrs. Amazing, BabyBoy1 and Miss4 and they all watch me as I tackle the ants. Who made popcorn?

I've no idea what to do.

They didn't mention this in basic Dad training. There wasn’t any basic Dad training. I can't remember watching my father remove thousands of ants from a bedroom. It doesn't come up in the pub chats. So how am I supposed to know what to do?

I suppose with hindsight I could've googled it. Grabbed a book and read it. Asked Mrs. Amazing if she had any ideas. Anything really to help myself. But obviously I didn't.

I blame the others.

They are all watching me with ‘expectation’. I hate that!

I can almost hear the chatter behind me.

'Don't worry Daddy will sort it out'

'Oh Daddy knows what to do, Daddy knows everything'

'<DAAAADAAAAAAA>'

The pressure is huge. I bet this is one of those moments that define Dads in the eyes of their children forever.

Crap. I'm not ready.

I'm the Dad, which makes me the leader of this tribe. The alpha male (I bloody am), the head honcho, King dude, and my tribe is under attack. Thousands of fierce invaders are running amok in our village, threatening to take over and throw us out of our own home. And in this moment of need, in this moment of terror and fear... the tribe has turned to me.

Bugger.

Dumb ideas rattle through my head. Brainzilla awakens from her slumber...

Fire? No. This is our house.

Water? How would that help, it wouldn't would it. No. Bad brainzilla

Build something wooden? Like a house? Oh fun! But no.

Access computer game database for helpful skills? <NONE FOUND> No ant killing sims played yet. Crap!

Leap out of window and escape? Er... quite tempting actually. But no, my comics are in the loft.

Get comics out of loft, and then leap out of window? I'd need a huge rucksack?

True.

Get the blue one whilst you're in the loft.

Good plan...

I snap out of it and panic make a decision. Like men of old, and young, and middle age, I resort to my base desire to protect and just start squishing stuff.

<Squish><Squish><Squish><Squish><Squish><Squish>Ewww!<Squish><Squish>

Boy8 gleefully rushes into help. But the rest of my audience looks unimpressed. I don't really blame them. Its a poor show and it's going to be like this for ages. There's a lot of ants.

<Squish><Squish><Squish>

This is the best I can come up with? Feeble.

(Ant: a common house pest <Squish>)

Mrs. Amazing throws me a bone.

'Would the hoover help?'

Bloody genius! Love her!

<Runs off to get hoover>

We have an awesome hoover. I choose and bought it (obv). It cost wayyyyy too much, but it is awesome . It also is hand held, and has a little pokey fitting that was made for this moment!!!

When I get back everyone else has gone off to have a bath. Which is a right shame, as now armed with the right tools, I can be that tribal leader that does look all cool and alpha-maley.

Damn you universe.

<shakes fist>

I'll just have to tell them about it later. Lie and exaggerate Juice it up a bit too.

The hoover works brilliantly on so many levels. If you have to remove thousands of ants from your house, I heartily recommend using the hoover as:

a) I don't have to kill thousands of ants like some vicious, vindictive God! Yay!

b) It's easy. Point and suck Just like Justin Beiber, when he's pointing.

c) You can even see them through the clear glass chamber of the hoover. How very Buddhist!

d) You can suck the flying ones out of the air. It's awesome!!!

E) YOU CAN SUCK THEM OUT OF THE AIR!!!

Me and the ant-buster (hoover) work our way into the corner of the room looking for the source of the ants. Boy8 has come back to help (concerned what I may find in his room), me hoovering up any ants I find, Boy8 checks stuff as I pass out for any missed ants.

I pull out his Lego drawers and find a pair of pants ew!, a sock EWWW! and loads of other weird crap only a little boy would keep.

'There's my sock!' as though he had been looking for it.

We had.

'And my pants!' as though he had been looking for them.

We had not.

Shouldn't they be in the laundry basket?

<Boy8 shrugs shoulders>

As we work I talk about what we are doing and how it will affect this ant colony. I try to be an educational and thought provoking Dad. I figure that if I get him thinking about what we are doing then he won't see it so much as a 'LET’S KILL STUFF' bit of fun. More a pest control requirement.

It backfires terribly as after a few chats, he no longer sees this as a 'LET’S KILL STUFF' bit of fun. In fact he sees it for it is, decimating an entire colony of ants. Boy8 requests to be relieved of his duties so he can watch cartoons.

Smeg.

I continue solo, cursing my own mouth and feeling pretty lonely, and mean, for what I am doing to the ants. They just want to live too.

When an ally that I really didn't expect comes into the room and sits beside me.

'Can I help?' says Miss4 all ready for bed, wet hair, jammies on.

It is really nice to see her and I am surprised she has stopped what she is doing to come see me. She could be downstairs watching her Peppa's and eating her supper-breakfast snuggled up to Mrs. Amazing. Instead though she is Boy8’s room, which is an utter mess, stinky as it's full of ant poison, next to hot and sweaty me, also covered in ant poison.

I suck up a few rogue ants and give her a smile.

<Ooooooo>

'Can I have a go?'

Sure.

And we sit there together, just for a few minutes, sucking up a few ants with a hoover together. I finally get to be the tribal leader I'm meant to be and we have a right laugh. Thanks Miss4.

I show her the hoover chamber full wriggling ants.

'Ew cool!'

'There's one, get it Dad!'

<Oooooo>

I love her, she rocks.

The flow of ants still hasn't quite stopped so I go outside to check what's going on. It's quite biblical.

I put more poison everywhere I see ants. It's windy so I get covered in the powder, in my hair, in my eyes. #livingthedream

BabyBoy1 sees me at the window outside and totters over. He thinks this is great. Daddy is outside! Ha ha!

He slobbers on the window at me.

I smile back at him and he does it again.

I still have a job to do so I carry on.

I find myself smiling and winking at BabyBoy1 trying to make him smile, giving him attention... Whilst careful, and very purposely, killing thousands and thousands of ants, decimating whole colonies, families, with poison.

It feels a bit weird. But very tribal leader as well.

It’s not all glory then.

"... and though she be but little, she is fierce!"

Miss4’s poorly again.

She has some bug in her that is making her poorly. It's not doing much, it's just loitering. Like a gang of 17 year olds with fags and cider, it's just hanging about. Not really causing any serious trouble. But man do you wanna call the police on them...

... I digress.

I hate when Miss4’s poorly, I worry.

I worry because she’s only little and she doesn't have much padding on her and padding is really handy when you’re tiny and sick.

I worry that I won’t be there when she needs me. She’s a tiny little girl. I worry.

She is not poorly enough to call the doctor, not poorly enough for an ambulance (thank 12oz steaks and chips), but poorly enough that sending her to nursery seems pointless, as they will just send her back and still charge for it.

On the sick-o-meter (real thing), she's probably about a 4.

0 - Not sick at all, stop faking.
1 - Ahhhh have a cuddle, now get to school faker.
2 - Drink this Calpol, and eat these sweets. Now go play.
[Above this text Miss4 still has to go to nursery, because we have to pay her welfare is paramount. (Not comedy)]
3 - Drink this Calpol and rest. I said rest, get down from there…
4 - Drink Calpol. Rest, why won't you rest? You keep falling over!
5 - Hmm Calpol's not doing it... Drink this Nurofen as well. Rest and sleep please.
6 - Calpol and Nurofen administered as often as the instructions allow. Even waking in the night to administer. Ah hell just glug it (Never do this)... Rest is now voluntary, but she still won't sleep.
7 - Doctor time. She's sleeping and resting too much.

(Calpol: One of the main reasons we get any sleep. Thank you Calpol)

(and Tesco’s cheaper equivalent, for when things are tight, Crapol)

I'm stopping at 7 because it's not fun to think about my kids being that sick, next is ambulances and stuff like that. We've been there, it's crap. I would only go back to those thoughts if I had to. I feel the same about painting edges and plumbing. Only if I have to.

So Miss4 at 4 on the sick-o-meter means she mumbles constantly is a bit quiet, doesn't eat enough, doesn't rest enough, doesn't drink enough, looks poorly and needs constant company.

Poor little lady...

... oh and every now and then, because she's a bit poorly and feeling emotional, she becomes a screaming banshee of fury.

Bless. Bless her volumetric lungs.

Like the other morning as I was loading the kids into the car…

BabyBoy1 is not happy to be put in his car seat, but his fight is short lived and once locked in, there really is no choice.

Boy8 has switched the boosters round, so he can sit in the front. He assures me it's his turn. I believe him. You would.

Miss4's seat is in the back of the car and ready for her to climb in.

'I want to sit in the middle'

No no, it's safer if you are on the side.

'I won't wake up BabyBoy1 by talking to him'

Oh! Good. Thank you for not.

But safety and all that, hop in!

Miss4's face drops and tears of anger quickly flow.

'NO!'

Oh go on! I'll let you drive

'NO!' <becomes kicky>

I try to coax her into the seat a bit more, but fail. Then rather than force her into her seat, I decide to leave her to burn her strop out, and go reclaim Boy8, who was in his seat, but is now absent.

I find Boy8 engaged in very super important Lego play.

We discuss my feelings about this, involving throttle mimes and fist tapping.

I am sure I got through to him this time. (I did not).

When I get back to the car, I find Miss4 still by the car door. Good start!

And more importantly, she’s calm.

Boom POW! Dad skills! <Self fives> (which is a clap).

I smile at Miss4:

Come on, in you hop!

'I want to sit in the middle'

You're on a booster!!! Why do care where you sit???

But it's not as safe...

'NO!'

<Tears, shouting, refusal to get in car> (not me).

I change tactic.

I don't like giving in, but really it wouldn't be so bad to let her sit in the middle. She is poorly and her sitting in the middle won't destroy the universe, a city maybe, a few countries, but I’m fine with that.

OK, as long as it fits, you can sit in the middle

<Instantly stops tears, shouting, stubborn refusal to get in car>

I push her booster across the whopping 50 cm that is difference between, the seat that is not acceptable no way, to the seat where she is happy to sit, in unsafe-land.

It doesn't fit. The physical world is working against her (and me) and she can't have what she wants.

With BabyBoy1's tank-sized car seat on one side, Miss4's booster seat just won't fit, unless she's happy to sit at a weird angle. Which I am sure she would be. But I am not, on her behalf.

Sorry. But it just won’t fit <braces self>

I am sorry.

I'm really sorry, because for some reason, it’s really important to her right now. And I like to make her happy, especially when she’s poorly and not really in control of her emotions as normal.

Her response is as expected.

She bursts into tears, and makes it clear she doesn't want to get into the car, through modern dance.

(Similar to Miss4 in a strop)

Mrs. Amazing arrives on scene wanting to know what the problem is, as they need to leave now. I explain, whilst we both dodge kicks, scratches, and general stropping attempts to hurt us whilst we ignore her.

A quick vote is taken over who has to put the screaming little girl into the car, and then fight her into her seat.

I demand a recount and accuse the vote counter of being utterly biased, and unable to count.

But claiming I got four votes, and won by a landslide, Mrs. Amazing has already buckled herself into the driving seat and wished me luck.

If you've never had to move a tiny person that doesn't want to be moved, you're lucky. Because it's kind of like picking up a angry cat, but bigger, more dexterous and better at unbuckling themselves.

Essentially you've got to try to avoid the bits that can hurt, which isn't easy, as most bits can hurt. Feet, fists, pointy little elbows, nails, TEETH!

Technique is king in these situations, and not being cross. A basic understanding of self defence and grappling skills are also helpful. Kevlar optional.

I pick her up, careful to make sure her legs are pointing kicking away from my groin. Learnt that lesson the hard, painful, gasping on the floor, eyes crossed, way before. Then I jam her into the seat facing the right way round.

With the speed of a puma (puma, puma, puma) she is backwards, facing the wrong way in the chair. Which she has done totes on purpose.

Leading with the legs, as legs lead the body, I twist her back round the right way. All the while avoiding the flaying hands and feet. I reach over her to buckle her in, which Miss4 takes this as a cue to try and dive out of her seat head first, into the foot-wells.

Luckily for me, and her (face landing), suntan lotion had not been applied today, I manage to stop her and put her back into the seat.

Her escape for freedom thwarted and clearly feeling frustrated and out of control.

Miss4 deploys her sonic-based weapons. She screams.

She screams as hard and as loud as she can, right into my ear. As I'm leant over her fighting with the stupid buckle.

Owwww! Gosh that was loud.

She screams again and I have white spots before my eyes, my head is rattling, and all I want to do is shove her flip flops in her mouth into my ears.

ARHGGGGGGG My word, you've some strong lungs there!

I am pretty sure my brain has had enough and has legged it to somewhere quieter, as all I can hear now is a buzzing in my head. Like something has been unconnected but not powered off.

Miss4 lets loose one more scream for luck, as I finally manage to shove the smegging buckle in and I calmly, yes calmly (+1000 Dad points), close the door.

Job done.

The rage and screams continue from inside the car.

BabyBoy1 is watching in fascination, taking notes, learning all the time.

Boy8 is still sat in the front, being a paragon of virtue. Wise choice, but transparently sucky.

For a moment I stop and watch Miss4 (from outside the car, where it’s safe).

My word she is magnificent. Such fury and fire in such a tiny little person, she really is very impressive.

#proud #bitdeaf

Ooooooo she’s going to be so much fun to watch grow up. I can’t wait! (really, looking forward to it).

"... and though she be but little, she is fierce" - William Shakespeare, A Midsummers Night’s Dream.

I'm not sure if William had any kids, but if he did, and one was a 4 year girl, that little girl may have been the inspiration for this brilliant line.

I consider telling Miss4 how awesome she is, and how much I think she rocks \m/.

<screams continue from car>

Maybe later, when she’s less screamy and kicky..

\m/