Monday, November 30, 2009


Television, the drug of the Nation
Breeding ignorance and feeding radiation

(Drug of a Nation, Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy)

I love TV. I have watched hours, millions of hours of it in my life. Reality TV, all the news I can get and of course, sport, sport and more sport …which reminds me, Day 1 of the 1st test against the Windies has been on for half an hour and I’ve been neglecting my obsession. (Quick score check – Australia 1 for 9, Watson the early man out, do you want my opinion on who should be at the top of order and omg, Channel 9 have a new technology toy, a heartbeat monitor to go with snicko et al – you get the picture) I’m sure I’m not alone in my hobby. I have actually shunned payTV because I do believe that you can get too much of a good thing.

I sometimes wonder whether I would have achieved differently had I harnessed the time I have dedicated to TV and applied it in a different pursuit. Definitely, I’m sure.

Skip forward to the next generation. Baby James seems to enjoy television too. Enjoy? No there is a better word, not quite love, but he’s fascinated by it. The movement, the colour, the changes in volume when something exciting happens, the music, it gets his attention all the time. Uh oh, is this a problem? Mmmmm, I’m not too sure how comfortable I am with this.

We’ve kept his hands off the remote control (that’s for daddy) and so there is an eagerness to get his hands on ‘the power’ whenever it’s left in his reach. He knows what it does, and when we have left it lying in a careless location, he’ll grab it, quick as a flash and he’ll press all of the buttons until the ‘magic’ happens. I’m often alerted to what he’s up to when I hear the clicking noise that our TV makes when its thinking about starting up or sometimes the volume suddenly increases, and I’ll think to myself, what’s going on here, oh, it’s the baby.

I’ve been mindful of the television factor since way back when. I had said to myself that I didn’t want to allow it to be a babysitter for Handsome James, but I had also said that as it’s a feature of a modern household, I didn’t believe that it should be quarantined. So, in the early days I didn’t believe that it would be harmful if Baby James had some exposure to TV. It intrigued him and I was controlling his viewing habits. And it suited me to plonk him down and let him be entertained by Iggle Piggle and his friends from In The Night Garden (Never seen it? Man, I’ve got mates from uni who loved the hooch and this program would have been right up their alley, maybe not the 9.00am edition, but certainly the repeat on ABC2 at Midday). It became part of James’ routine, In the Night Garden from 9.00am until 9.30am, while I stacked the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen and picked up toys, then when the announcer told us it was time for bed, well, then it was a bottle and morning nap time. It seemed to work well.

I guess the morning TV routine started when he was about 3 or 4 months of age. Our Baby James was a star sitter, he possessed a good sized base as his platform and he was happy where he was put. As he has grown, he has learned about spatial awareness, and so too his understanding has also developed of TV’s relationship in HIS space. From the time he could pull himself to standing position and then walk his way around the lounge furniture, he has gravitated towards the ubiquitous TV. The cabinet places the TV at an almost perfect height for James. As he stands in front of the flickering rectangle he is able to take in and absorb the movement he sees in front of him. Trouble is, from my perspective, he resembles the kid from the Poltergeist who is in a zombie trance in front of the ‘snow’ on the box. That, I guess is the worry. It’s also a worry to me that James can be pottering away with his toys and if I use the remote to turn the TV on, that soft clicking noise that signifies ‘action’ will cause him to prick up his ears and he will turn his attention TV-ward.

Lately, it’s been the case that we cannot give James either his breakfast or dinner with the TV news as an accompaniment for ourselves. I thought kids hated the news, not so, maybe it’s the fact that what we watch is only masquerading as news and James is actually only tuning in to find out what’s been happening in the lives of Britney Speers, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton et al. In any event, feeding and TV do not go together as one seems to distract the other and attempting a ‘clean’ feed is nigh on impossible when the food recipients mouth is at 45 degrees to the spoon.

I’m sure all parents find it difficult to judge the appropriate amount of TV exposure that their children should have in order to create a good balance. I’ve come to conclusion that it’s off most of the time, unless it suits me … let’s hope James enjoys cricket.


As with all things, the theory of evolution can be applied. And so it will be with this blog. I have previously intimated that when writing on a semi-regular basis it can be a bit monotonous using the same reference terminology, and if it’s monotonous for me as a writer, well, I feel for the reader. So, I have moved on from only referring to my patient wife as ‘My Sweet’ and I feel liberated for doing so. It's now Baby James' term to receive the treatment.

I’ve decided that as cute as it is to refer to him as Baby James and as much as I like the James Taylor ‘Sweet Baby James’ reference, its time to evolve. Henceforth I will mix it up a bit. I’ve decided to draw a line in the sand now that he’s a one year old, so, any pre-one stories he will still be Baby James, but post one, the stuff that’s happening now, he’ll be James, Jimmy James, Handsome James, Messy James, Noisy James, or whatever other adjective best describes the moment in time I’m capturing.

So, that’s all for this post. More to come very, very soon.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Who is My Sweet?

I started this writing caper in order to keep a record of my observations of Baby James. I had started to amass too many memories that were beginning to mesh together … he was growing and doing more stuff. I wanted a written record of events like his learning to roll, the fact that he could only roll in one direction and he would get stuck against things like the couch and walls and he would squawk his displeasure at being stuck, so I would turn him 180 degrees and he would roll contentedly in the opposite direction until he met another structural object. So I started jotting words, phrases and paragraphs with the intention of expanding at a later date.

Even though I had thought of blogging my record, I was more likely to use the old pen and paper method to journal, and then I came across a blog that is written by an old school chum ( and I was inspired to use this medium, rather than proceeding with my usual Luddite-like rejection of technology.

So I got onto the blogspot website and registered some details, ever mindful of the kind of information that I was putting out into the public sphere of the www, you know security and all that, I didn’t want to be a victim of identity theft, card scammers and Nigerians, who are crafty people or so I’m told by email. So, I’m Ben, no surname, from Brisbane, with a son named James, whose birth date has since been revealed. And I’m married too, her name is … My Sweet.

Referring to my beautiful wife as ‘My Sweet’ seemed to have a two-fold benefit. Firstly, it was a lovely reference that would gain me brownie points. Secondly, it was an anonymous reference that would keep her need for a safe environment satisfied. But over time I have discovered that this moniker is a difficult reference to maintain blog after blog. I have needed a new reference for My Sweet and given some of the people who are reading these posts know who I’m referring to anyway, and given those who don’t know us are still investing their time reading our stories, well, it seems an appropriate time to reveal a little bit more about ourselves. So, the name of my beautiful darling wife, the mother of our son, Baby James, is … Kylee.

Phew, I’m glad that’s out. Now I can move into a new world of blogging. I may however need to change the locks on the house, shut down my Facebook account and cease internet banking (which I don’t actually do anyway, remember my Luddite reference previously).

Thursday, November 19, 2009

What’s in a Name?

So, I’ve told you about the entry of our son James into the world and in that I wrote about how he was named. What I didn’t tell you at that stage was the undertaking that was given to My Sweet. In the umming and ahhhing process leading up to James’ arrival we had enjoyed the game that most expecting parents play, the one where you’re sitting in bed at the end of the day and you’re imaging what your life will be like when the new edition appears. And in that imagining is the ‘Name Game’. Our version of this game usually involved myself throwing up alternatives and My Sweet taking the role of the trap shooter, knocking them down with clinical precision. I set up some big targets to be sure, throwing out Hector, Manuel and Theo to test if she was really listening. Bang …. Bang …. Bang …. She was.

This game was played periodically over the months of My Sweet’s pregnancy. At times the name game was enjoyable, it brought us closer together as we wrote names on to a ‘possibles’ list or crossed them out, but at other times it felt like the impasse was akin to some of the Cold War negotiations between East and West. Thank goodness we had learned that we were having a boy because on occasion there were no acceptable boy names on the table; imagine if we were doing it for a girl too.

Eventually we worked our way down to a final two, James and Patrick. Both names had appeal as they were the sort of strong traditional names that we were looking for, both names featured in our family histories and both were solid names for a man. I was for James and My Sweet was for Patrick, in the end My Sweet, while holding our newly arrived and much anticipated cargo gave us James … with one condition. He was to be James, not Jim or Jimmy. And so I, with a great deal of difficulty and even with a contemplation to cross my fingers, agreed.

I had a chuckle when Father-in-law was introduced to his grandson and being old school he immediately referred to him as Jimmy. On occasion, I too have given it a bit of the old Jim or Jimmy, bumping my way through the annoyance that such reference creates, aware that I am treading a dangerous line close to breaking my promise. Jimmy James seems a more acceptable nickname, but from time to time I have to be careful not to catch the displeasure that this creates in the form of a good old ‘tisk tisk, that’s not his name’.

I know one thing though. And I can say it without needing to refer to any of the fine print relating to the condition laid down. If any of James’ friends choose to call him Jimmy, well I had nothing to do with it, and I might even secretly support it too.

But, I have made a promise and even though I’m not too sure about the hierarchy of promises, I’m fairly sure that the circumstances in which I gave mine would certainly rank with ‘On my mother’s life …’ or ‘so help me god …’. So there it is, we have a son named James and I am bound to my promise.

Post Script.

Since blogging and facebooking my experiences as a proud father, I have received comments suggesting that I cannot keep referring to James as ‘Baby James’ since he won’t always be a baby. I can see the logic in that. I can also see the formation of a nickname, like the reference to Baby John Burgess (a personal hero of mine) or Sweet Baby James from James Taylor’s song. So, I’m contemplating dropping the ‘Baby’ reference or replacing it with ‘Handsome’ because that he is…. What do you think?

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Another Side To The Story

Righto, so I’ve written a couple of blogs about myself and some of the mental hurdles I’ve had to leap in this house dadding business and I’ve got one or two more sitting around in draft form for a later date. But, instead of discussing new parenthood from that angle, I thought I might write a bit with My Sweet in mind.

What do I mean? Well, over the last 12 months I’ve been asked almost as an opening conversation starter when catching up with friends the “how’re you going?” question, or a version of it. This is great, it gives me a chance to talk about myself and even if they’re only being polite, I still have a forum in which I can debrief. If things have been good, I say so, if things are not so good, I say so too.

It’s dawned on me though, that people rarely ask My Sweet the same question. Well, that’s not quite right, they do ask her, but instead of it being “how are you going”, it becomes “how is Ben going”, I am, as a house dad, still a bit of novelty within society. Working mums, however, are everywhere. And, as I write this I actually can see why parenting full stop, can be tough. I guess those of us who are newest to parenting are still finding the transition tough, and the longer you do it, the easier it becomes because you create new routines.

And I think that’s my point, people can see the massive routine change that has occurred in my life but they don’t see the new challenges My Sweet has to overcome, and they’re present for all working parents too, but I’ll focus on My Sweet.

My Sweet, my beautiful wife has become the ‘go-to’ person in our house each morning. This came about from the early days when Baby James would wake through the night and I would take that bullet, she in turn tends to him when he wakes. She changes him, feeds him and enjoys his playful company while getting herself ready for work too. This task has become more difficult as our son has become more mobile and he is now proficient at interrupting both the showering and stocking processes.

As My Sweet hops in the car for her drive into the city, Baby James and I wave her goodbye from the drive and Baby James gives her his best smiles for her to take on the trip. I am sure this is small consolation. I would wager My Sweet would prefer to spend each day with her son having fun. I am reminded of a story My Sweet relayed about a woman she works with whose husband house dads, some days this colleague of My Sweet would arrive home to discover not a single chore had been completed and her husband and the kids were still in their pyjamas, well, you can only imagine the sort of fun that was had on those days.

And so the day goes on. Some times I get a phone call to see how we’re doing. And sometimes I get cross because the phone has woken Baby James or I get cross because he has been difficult. And I should have been more thoughtful.

And when My Sweet arrives home and I see the car in the drive, I have begun to switch off as take-over is about to happen. I don’t exactly take up a position on the couch, but heading into the kitchen to make dinner is usually the better of the two options at this time of the day, for even though I have gotten much better at timing Baby James’ sleeps so that My Sweet doesn’t walk in to find a hysterical child, the fun times at the end of the day are not as lengthy as those in the middle.

So, a bit of play time, a bit of a catch up and then it’s quickly dinner time for Baby James, either with us or by himself depending on the meals I’ve made. After dinner My Sweet baths Baby James, again a task that has become more difficult as he has become more able to stand and squirm. The second to last task involving Baby James is one that we both dread. Drying and dressing is a two part process that Baby James has objected to since his first bath in the hospital. It is made all the more unpleasant as he is by this stage quite tired and therefore in no mood for being contorted into his wonder suit. So, My Sweet usually tackles this task by herself and I can often hear the objections that Baby James is making while I’m downstairs. If they’re really loud I’ll provide a second pair of hands and some distracting singing.

From there its bottle time for Baby James and then bed. This process, at least, is pleasant, a quiet and appreciative baby snuggling into your arms as he readies himself for sleep. It is at this time that My Sweet reappears at the bottom of the stairs looking for her opportunity to relax.

As you can see, when all things are considered, I get to enjoy the best time with Baby James and My Sweet is left to steal moments here and there in between some of the tougher baby rearing jobs. And after she has read this, I hope I can be excused as I don’t ask My Sweet how she’s handling the juggle of mothering and working often enough, but hopefully I’ve shown that I understand that she has a tough gig too, equally as hard as those mental challenges I’ve had to hurdle and that in essence is the partnership needed when parenting.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

A First Birthday

Oops. I’ve just noticed that it has been toooo many days since I last added a blog. And here it is, not that long ago, that I was patting myself on the back for being organised and writing regularly. I know it’s been a while by the number of people who’ve told me so, which is of course a good thing for me, it means that people find my writing interesting … or useful as my brother-in-law revealed when he told me he had had a read one night when he couldn’t sleep, so if you know any insomniacs, feel free to pass on the web address.

In any event, I haven’t been resting on laurels, I’ve been gathering idea, upon idea, upon idea and am now trying to work out if I’m to write and post random events or should I try to apply some organisation. I like the idea of being organised … I’m just not so good at applying it, but we’ll see. And apologies in advance, I think this will be another long one.

So … you last read about the day that Baby James arrived into this world, well, My Sweet and I celebrated his 1st birthday last Friday.

Like all first events, there was even umming and ahhhing about the correct way to approach this one too. It was sure to include all of our love and hopes for our son’s future, that of course was a given. So what decisions needed discussion. Well, in my childhood I think I had maybe two or three birthday parties … I can actually only really remember one. The norm for me was usually a smaller family affair, still involving cake and presents and for some reason I remember apple cider too. And that experience of course has framed my world view. The opposite experience seems to have been the case for My Sweet. Lucky for us we are both Catholics, not just because we can both confess our angry thoughts.

I’m not all “bah humbug” when it comes to celebrating events. I’m just more comfortable with the smaller rather than the larger scale. I’ve heard of 1st birthdays with a hundred or more guests that turn into a giant booze-up, if that’s what you want and that works for you, great. It just doesn’t work for me. Now, I wasn’t up against anything of that magnitude. In actual fact, My Sweet and I were able to agree on most things. I did, however, put the kibosh on a jumping castle and I think lolly bags too, but I might debate that point, I just think My Sweet forgot to make them up.

We decided to ask My Sweet’s parents if they would mind hosting Baby James’ party, a request with multi-faceted benefits. Mother-in-law and Father-in-law are hugely involved in My Sweet’s life and are great supporters of us (as are my parents too) and they are also doting Grandparents to their 1st grandson. So, benefit number one was that we were able to give them an opportunity to be actively involved in an event with a great deal of symbolism.

Such a location seemed best when considering travel and accommodation arrangements. As our agreed guest list was pared down to only include direct family, even if we only considered My Sweet’s side, as my siblings are scattered, there would still be seven people needing to travel the three hours to our house and they couldn’t be expected to drive home after, so we would be opening the storage cupboard under the stairs to find an extra room. So, here’s benefit number two, general travel would be cut down (and I wouldn’t have bucket loads of washing to do too). So the major part of the plan was in place and the finer details came together too.

Now, it seems that in modern times the concept of the Bucks Night has turned into a Bucks Weekend - well that’s become my experience – so too was Baby James turning his birthday into a weekend of festivities. He had started the day with birthday presents from us, wrapped in tissue paper and with a ready-made bow on top, it seemed that we had given him two presents in one as he laughed his way through the ripping process. My Sweet organised for a long weekend on the Friday and the four of us (we had been visited by My Sweet’s Nan) drove out to my in-laws. Upon arrival it was present giving part two, same experience as the morning, two presents in one with the box providing lots of entertainment.

The rest of the day was a usual routine for Baby James, but while he was having his afternoon sleep, together with My Sweet and her parents a bottle of French bubbles was enjoyed and Baby James was toasted at precisely 2.36pm or maybe it was 2.39pm as we couldn’t quite synchronise watches.

Skip forward to the Sunday which was party day (planned to enable my parents to make it more easily). Some fretting by My Sweet that not enough was happening to get ready for the arrival of our guests was soon alleviated by a) pretending to look busy, b) light hearted humourous jibes and c) actually doing as requested. We were soon ready, but Baby James wasn’t. He had woken from his morning nap with a temperature and as much as he tried to be his usual convivial self, he couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for those who had gathered in his honour. With the exception being his enjoyment for revealing the surprises wrapped within the colourful paper that he was being given. Seems we’ve found someone who enjoys a present.

He gave My Sweet some shy smiles in appreciation for her efforts at themeing an ‘In The Night Garden’ birthday but I don’t think he even tasted the cake his aunt had produced with Iggle Piggle emblazoned in the icing on top. The old adage of not working with animals and children eh? We enjoyed the BBQ and Baby James seemed to enjoy the singing of ‘Happy Birthday to him’ but for the most part he was uncharacteristically attaching himself to either myself or his mother in koala fashion.

As late afternoon arrived people began making a move to their usual lives and we organised ourselves for our trip home. People were thanked and the car was packed and we hit the road. Baby James fell promptly to sleep and My Sweet and I discussed the success of the day, family, friends, presents for a one year old, cake, singing, party hats, balloons and blow horn thingies. So in the words of Goldilocks (and me) James’ party wasn’t too big and it wasn’t too small, it was just right.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

The Arrival of Baby James.

A year of firsts is set to continue with Baby James approaching his 1st birthday (3 more sleeps) and it’s got me thinking about this time 12 months ago. In actual fact our bundle of joy was scheduled on the calendar to arrive this very day, but like all good things we were forced to wait. The waiting game was pleasant enough, lazy days in the shade with cool breezes and healthy salads, and after debating the pros and cons of it, My Sweet and I also had developed a contingency plan, we would accept some medical intervention if Mother Nature didn’t kicked in by herself … she would be given an extra 3 days.

And so it was on the morning of the third day that we rose early (sounds kind of biblical) and readied ourselves for the adventure of a lifetime that was about to occur. We had received advice against answering the phone in the morning as it would likely be the hospital trying to bump you until another day. Not likely we had said, we were ready ... today WOULD be the day. In fact, the phone did ring, but who was on the other end of the line we will never know.

I had been nervous about this day for the full 9 months, we men are now duty bound to be by our wives side at the birth and I was afraid of the unknown. I had seen footage of births on TV, in movies, soap operas, documentaries, at baby school and even in an educational film in Year 10 Science. I had heard of labour’s lasting ten, twelve, 16 hours, longer even. I didn’t know how I would go seeing My Sweet in pain with our child, that was my fear.

The reality was nothing like my imagination.

On our arrival, we completed the relevant documentation, were greeted by our midwives and shown to our birthing suite. Our lovely, relaxed doctor arrived shortly thereafter, he had already brought new life into the world and it was only 7.30am. My Sweet was induced and then for the majority of the morning she sat comfortably propped up on the bed, hooked up to monitors and tubes.

Again, we had discussed the various options available to us to assist in the birthing process and we had decided that our birth plan would include the use of an epidural. My Sweet now laughs at a communication breakdown that occurred at this point. We had advised the midwives of our birth plan and they had been quizzing My Sweet about her contractions and not knowing what she was supposed to be feeling, she confirmed that they had commenced. The anaesthetist was notified and she attended to apply her skills. Looking back, My Sweet thinks that she felt two, possibly three contractions and on the pain scale, they didn’t really rate.

So, we had a pleasant day, talking to one another, discussing name options, reading the paper, drinking coffee and all the while relying upon the machine’s graph paper to spike which indicated another contraction. The experts kept telling us how well things were progressing and speculating as to which side of one o’clock we would see our son. Well, we had to wait a little longer than that, but, as the clock ticked closer to the E.T.A. I became more fidgety. Then Dr Doug appeared with his sleeves rolled up, he’d been busy elsewhere and he was about to become busy with us. (Hopefully I get around to writing a separate blog about Dr Doug, but if I don’t, he is a most relaxed professional, with his own brand of charisma inspiring confidence.) An examination was conducted and confirmation of imminent birth.

This next part is written from a male’s perspective, so please, no letters if I upset anyone.

From the time we took up battle stations, to the time Baby James arrived seemed to go very quickly. There was some huffing and puffing, there were some facial contortions and there was a sweaty brow … and that was just me. I felt inept, unhelpful and clumsy. My Sweet however, was brilliant; she focussed away from me and concentrated on Dr Doug’s instructions. As the action increased I was called into the fray to lend assistance. Now, I’m not saying I delivered my son. No siree, I’m certainly not suggesting that at all. I guess the best description of my involvement is to use a cricket analogy. Say, Dr Doug is the wicket keeper, I took up a position somewhere between gully and point, close to the action but not too close and certainly not relegated to the boundary.

Baby James was born into this world at 2.36pm on Thursday 13th November 2008. I have never witnessed anything more amazing, I have never seen My Sweet looking more beautiful and I have never felt as proud as I did at that moment in time. I’m even getting a bit misty eyed as I write about it now, but I do tend towards the emotional side, you should have seen me at the end of The Green Mile or Max and Mary.

We had brought a son into the world. We knew that he was a boy. We didn’t however have a name. Both James and Patrick were equal on our list. I leant towards favouring James and I think My Sweet was leaning towards Patrick as her favourite. In the instant that I saw him, I loved him and it wouldn’t matter to me what he was named, it was My Sweet who decided, he would be James Patrick and I was prouder still. My Sweet had given me the privilege to name our son and I love her for that too.

After, the weighing of Baby James, other medical checks and the lovely skin to skin experience we were brought to the ward where we would spend the next few nights. We were at the new Mater Mother’s Hospital in Brisbane with its modern facilities and thoughtful appointments, including a day bed for us dads to sleep on at night and meals accompanied with a glass of wine were enjoyed.

On our last night in hospital a seasonal storm cell descended on Brisbane, exploding over the north-western suburb of The Gap. It caused great devastation only a handful of kilometres from where we were nestled. In fact, as our room overlooked an internal protected courtyard, our view was merely of a dark, rainy sky, we were blissfully unaware of the trouble without, we were secure inside, perhaps an appropriate metaphor. I hope so.

We checked into the hospital as a couple and left as a family. Absolutely Amazing.

Thursday, November 5, 2009


It has been said that having children will change your life. Well whoever came up with that little chestnut was a master of the bleeding obvious. Of course, we all know that the arrival of a little bundle of joy is going to alter your experience and understanding of the world, we’re just a little unsure as to how. And as David Bowie sang,

Pretty soon you're gonna get a little older
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

I remember in the first few weeks after My Sweet and I brought Baby James home. We were both on leave from work, me permanently, and the whole baby thing seemed like a piece of cake. Our son seemed to sleep all the time, nappy changes weren’t too horrendous and as he was being bottle fed, we could both take a hit for the team when it came to middle of the night feeds. In fact, one of my strongest memories from the time is when My Sweet and I were sitting on our front verandah, both reading the paper, drinking coffee and enjoying the early summer weather and as Baby James stirred we quibbled over who’s turn it was to attend, not as it is at times now, but instead we were debating in order to be the one to have a turn with the new play thing.

So there it is, confirmation from another new parent that life has changed. That, I’m sure maintains a 100% strike rate for that particular survey. Again, Bowie sings,

Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

(Although, I think the ‘different man’ in this chorus was a reference to his own sexual confusion or transvestism or something of that nature, but nevertheless, taken at face value, I think the lyric is appropriate for the change facing a house dad.) Anyway …

So, here’s a list of changes that have either already happened or that I’m working on. In no particular order, I…
- Walk lightly around the house when Baby James is asleep, trying to avoid the loose floor boards that squeak incredibly loudly, or so my brain tells me.
- Refer to My Sweet as ‘Mum’.
- Use a firm grip and open the door to Baby James’ room slowly to minimise noise when checking if he’s still asleep.
- Am trying to become a patient person, remembering expressions my own mum uses like, ‘there’s more than a dozen ways to cook a chook’ or ‘what’ll it matter in 10 years time’.
- Stopped smoking. Well, technically I did that before Baby James arrived. But I did it for the thought of him and for My Sweet and the rest of my family as well as myself. (Wouldn’t mind a bunger from time to time though)
- Share meals with Baby James, moving on from scrambled eggs, baked beans on toast are pretty good at the moment.
- Sing nursery rhymes and kiddy songs all the time and if I can’t remember one of those to help ‘soothe the savage beast’ that is Baby James at dressing for bed time, then a few lines of any Beatles tune will do.
- Am trying to stop using bad language (little ears you know).
- Used to find myself standing in the nursery looking down on Baby James checking that he was breathing.
- Now find myself standing in the nursery looking down on Baby James and I smile.
- Look forward to being able to bowl to Baby James in the nets and kick a footy with him.

So, there you have it, some of my changes. I could’ve added heaps more to the list, but I think you get the drift. I’m betting too, that if you’re a new parent, or an old parent for that matter, that you’ve found yourself doing some of the things on the list too and that life is not as recognisable to you as it once was.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Is There a More Enjoyable Sound?

Baby James had a bad night last night. It wasn’t a case of continual crying or anything like that. I think he just had one of those nights where he could’t find a comfortable sleeping position. I know this because his cot is on the other side of the very thin wall to our bed and I could hear him … all night.

He was moving around at 11pm, needed settling at midnight, given his dummy at 1am and after continuing to rattle the sides of the cot with his arms, legs and I’m sure the odd clunk signalled he was also using his head, I gave Baby James a bottle at 2am. And that wasn’t the end of Baby James’ efforts to give me an insight into the life of an insomniac.

I’m a bit tired this morning and I’m possibly not the best person to be an advocate on behalf of babies. Well, that’s the position I could take if I only had last night to refer to. But it’s not and I think it’s in Baby James’ and my best interests to talk about the one thing he does that always brings a smile to my face. And that one thing is laugh. There is no sound more enjoyable to hear than that of your own baby’s laugh. When Baby James laughs, it’s infectious and I laugh too.

He squeals with delight when I play hide and seek with him. I will crawl around on the floor getting Baby James’ attention and then I’ll slink around a corner or hide behind a piece of furniture. And when I sense he’s near, I’ll pounce. And Baby James’ eyes light up and his mouth forms an open smile and he’ll laugh … hard … and loud … and I’ll laugh … and if My Sweet is at home, she’ll come and see what ‘her boys’ are doing, and even though she might shake her head at us … she’ll laugh too. After I’ve pounced, I’ll sometimes tackle Baby James and hold him to my chest and as I roll on the floor with him I can feel his laugh and I can hear it close to my ear.

If I make the bed with Baby James around I can guarantee he’ll become excited. Since he has shown how much he enjoys the parachute at Gymboree I have improvised with the bed sheets. And now, he associates bed-making with fun and games. So I’ll scoop him up and put him in the middle of our bed and I’ll flap the sheet up and down, on his head or in his lap … does he LOL (that’s a reference for the Gen Y readers), you bet.

I am also becoming the master of silly voices, faces and noises, and the word ‘splodge’ said with different emphasis usually proves to be a winner. Other guaranteed winners for generating laughs from Baby James include the obligatory fatherly activity of tossing baby into the air and catching him (an interesting side-note from My Sweet pertains to the alleged fact that fathers are usually the first to drop their children, hmmm, I wonder why, perhaps it’s because we tend to be the ones who encourage risk-taking behaviour). Running the bath is usually met with excitement. I’ve also noticed random laughs emanating from within Baby James now that he has started to walk, goodness knows what he’s seen that has produced a laugh or maybe it just feels funny. And since I’ve mentioned funny feelings, rubbing Baby James’ tummy or tickling him beneath his chin or on the back of his neck often produces shrieks too.

So, when Baby James is not quite at his best I remind myself that it’s just a stage and when I find myself becoming frustrated I try to remember all the times he brings happiness to my world, because I know once he’s had a good sleep and re-charged his batteries, he’ll be ready to smile and play and laugh with me again.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Another Lesson Learned the Hard Way

I learned a valuable lesson on the weekend. It’s a lesson My Sweet learned the week before. It’s also a lesson that explains why some friends of ours have gone into a socialising cocoon since becoming parents. The lesson: Alcohol, late nights and young children do not mix.

Some weeks ago we heard from some uni friends of ours to tell us that they were going to be in town and it would be good if we could catch-up. As I had been meaning to get a few of our mutual friends together for some time I welcomed this as the opportunity for such an occasion. I had described it as a BBQ but it was soon being referred to as a ‘party’. In the background, deep in my sub-conscious, there were some alarm bells ringing but alas they were too faint and they were soon drowned out by all the other peripheral noise associated with getting organised for the event.

So, Saturday rolled around and our guests duly arrived with their children in tow and plates under their arms and eskies in hand. It became clear early on that we had all combined to over cater by a factor of at least 50%, again another alarm bell should have sounded. I know I should have been worried when a big bottle of rum and a bottle of port were placed on the kitchen bench, but I honestly didn’t think they’d be touched. How wrong I was. Friends in their mid thirties who’ve know each other since their teens or early twenties often think they’re back ‘in the day’ when re-telling old tales. Now, My Sweet was wary of the signs, as I said, she learned the lesson I was about to learn the weekend before when she was incapacitated for a day following a long-lunching session with her work colleagues.

The night went well, there were many laughs, we ate and drank in style, had some good laughs, the kids seemed to mix and play well and there were only a few ‘tales being told’ and that was just the adults. The last of the guests departed around midnight and inside I went. My next mistake was to turn on the TV and discover Australia playing England in the league, I’ll only watch to half-time I thought and so I continued to be festive … by myself.

And then the pain began.

Baby James was clearly unaware that our/my sleeping pattern had changed the night before. Had he been aware, I’m sure he wouldn’t have woken up so early and if he had, well then I’m sure he would have been happy to play quietly for an hour or three. But no, he wasn’t aware of this fact. And so it transpired that through the day, each time Baby James had a sleep, so did I.

But it was more than just the sleep issue. Baby James decided that my ‘day after’, would be the day that he might try out just how whiney he could be. I might be exaggerating a little, but it seemed at times as though nothing My Sweet or I did would satisfy our little man … he knew, didn’t he? How could he know? Perhaps it was the fact that I was lying prone on the lounge unable to move, I was a captive audience.

And so it came to pass that I suffered through my hangover with a new aspect to include, because the jobs that a baby requires you to complete on their behalf do not go away. I still had to change the nappy of a twisting, turning, grisly baby. I still had to bath a boy who does not want to sit down when I attempt to brush his teeth and I was, for the day, unable to recall a single line from any of his Gymboree tunes that seem to placate him while going through the dressing ritual.

It was quite a painful day to endure, complete with little sympathy from My Sweet as I had made the poor call of ‘encouraging’ her to take Baby James to his swimming lesson when she was in a self-inflicted state the week before.

So, it’s now the day after the day after and with a clearer mind I believe that instead of ‘OcSober’ I think I might proclaim ‘SobVember’. And as for any festive invitations that come our way, well, we might just well become the couple who avoid socialising now that we have a child.