I'm knackered.
Absolutely shattered.
The baby is sleeping fine though. Lucky wee thing.
My problem is snoring.
Not little night time dozy zeds, but the enormous noise of a pig with sinusitis operating a road-drill.
Now, this wouldn't actually be a problem if I lived down the bottom of a sound-proofed well. I could sleep soundly through the night and then when I woke up there would be a tasty mossy snack and a friendly frog to play with. But I live in a small Victorian two-up two-down with a baby and a lady.
The baby, as I have already mentioned, is mostly fine with the noise but the lady who is now six weeks away from popping a sprog, is sleeping fitfully enough as it is. Add the current hot weather and my snout-sounds to the mix and well, let's just say she's not too happy.
In the night I get kicked awake "Jake, you're snoring!"
"What?"
"You're snoring."
"Yes, well I thought at least one of us should get some sleep." Then I go back to the land of nod. This happens about thirty times a night, the severity of the blows increasing with every instance. I am worried that one night heavy implements might be fatally employed.
I've tried sleeping on the couch but the big leather thing acts as a sort of sounding board, amplifying the sound to that of a prehistoric sabre-tusked pig dancing on kettle drums whilst using some sort of industrial electric toothbrush. It even wakes me up.
I went to the doctor, she referred me to the hospital, who did a sleep study for apnea. This is where you stop breathing but don't quite die about a hundred times a night. I thought it might be an interesting dinner-party-conversation-type-of-illness to have, plus I could use it to explain away the dozy fuckwittedness that has been facet of my personality since childhood. Alas, it turns out I am classified as a "simple snorer". (Simple? It makes me sound like I should be carted around in a mini-bus.) The answer? Loose weight. Less pies. Less bacon. Bugger!
I think snoring is a dad thing. I have always given it a few zeds, but since the baby has come its got gradually worse. My dad also snores. I think all dads do.
Being a bit of an amateur anthropologist, I have recently being concocting various hypotheses over why this should be. At first I thought that maybe its some sort of warning, the loud roar of the alpha male, scaring dangerous juveniles away from the nest. But all the snore really says is: "Fat dad. Knackered. Come in and take the stereo." So that theory was ruled out. Maybe it is just a 'dad thing' after all, I thought to myself.
There are other things that belong to the world of dad. Pajamas become quite essential fatherhood tools. It doesn't seem quite dignified having to get up in the night five times with your wanger flopping about the shop. Also, on a cold night, slippers top the costume off quite well. This is what my father wore. It is what I wear. They are 'dad things'.
But, I read some research recently that said that fifty-percent of British fathers are sleep-deprived.
When people are deprived in one way or another they often become ostentatious. People from the ghetto like to show their worth by sporting lots of bling. If you are a teenager from a poor area in Liverpool, you have to shell out for a £200 tracksuit* and a pair of scally issue Reebok Classics. And men who aren't getting any, drive long, willy-shaped cars. The important thing is to make a show of possessing what you have a limited amount of.
So, by applying this principle we can deduce that:
Snoring is an ostentatious sleep-display, a dad's way of shouting "Look at me everyone, I'm fast a-kip!"
Pajamas are an outward signal to the world that we are getting some (sleep that is).
And, do you know what?
Slippers are our bling.
It's true.
Trust me, it's a dad thing.
*These are also a type of pajama. For that matter, trainers are very much like slippers. Is it any wonder the level of teenage pregnancy is rising?
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Monday, June 13, 2005
I Q
Went down to the Albert Dock yesterday to see the tall ships sailing. There was, of course, the usual curfuffle* of getting ourselves and baby into the car, sorting the safety chair out, going back in getting the pram, the changing bag, baby food, emergency food supplies and bottle, bankets, spare blankets, toys rainhood, thermonuclear baby shelter etc. then driving there, finding and paying for a space, barging through crowds so we could get a glimpse of tall ship mast.
It was at that moment I realised:
A) I've never been that into ships, tall or otherwise.
B) Neither has my girlfriend.
C) The baby doesn't even know what one is.
and
D) We have a wonderful river-view from our front window.
Thinking back, it was actually the just about subliminal image of a tall ship passing the window that made me say "Ohhhh, shall we go and see the ships today?" Me Lady responded "Oh I was just thinking the same thing." Of course you bloody were! There's a massive bleeding ship just there! There! One that neither of us has even bothered to pass comment on!
But we are a family and we must do family things.
The thing families most like to do is queue.
Sundays, bank holiday week-ends, any glimpse of moderate weather and what do we do? We all get in the car and drive until we find a nice log-jam of traffic. Here we shout and swear and bang the dashboard and act all frustrated. But this is all an act, a ritual in fact. We are not really unhappy. This is what we have come for. When the whining from the back-seat has become more than unbearable and inside the car is the same temperature as the filling in a McDonald's apple pie, this is when we are most at ease. We are thoroughly elated.
Once that queue breaks, we scurry as quickly as we can to a theme parrk, such as Alton Towers or Chessington World of Standing to enjoy a variety of differently ordered and shaped lines for an entire afternoon. At last, an activity that we can moan about as a family! By now we are in our element. All we need now is to wait an hour for a slice of plastic-coated bacon and a cup of warm weak tea in a bleading Little Chef and a further hours traffic jam on the way home to justify the £150 quid that we have spent.
It could drive you a bit mad.
After seeing the top of a few masts, we changed tack ourselves and scurried off to a nice restaurant for extra rations. Not a Little Chef but a nice little dockside eatery. We then went home for puddings, coffees and cuddles.
If you stop following the leader, freedom can be ascertainable.
So long as there's not a queue.
* Curfuffle is a confused shuffle with lots of elbow movements. I think.
It was at that moment I realised:
A) I've never been that into ships, tall or otherwise.
B) Neither has my girlfriend.
C) The baby doesn't even know what one is.
and
D) We have a wonderful river-view from our front window.
Thinking back, it was actually the just about subliminal image of a tall ship passing the window that made me say "Ohhhh, shall we go and see the ships today?" Me Lady responded "Oh I was just thinking the same thing." Of course you bloody were! There's a massive bleeding ship just there! There! One that neither of us has even bothered to pass comment on!
But we are a family and we must do family things.
The thing families most like to do is queue.
Sundays, bank holiday week-ends, any glimpse of moderate weather and what do we do? We all get in the car and drive until we find a nice log-jam of traffic. Here we shout and swear and bang the dashboard and act all frustrated. But this is all an act, a ritual in fact. We are not really unhappy. This is what we have come for. When the whining from the back-seat has become more than unbearable and inside the car is the same temperature as the filling in a McDonald's apple pie, this is when we are most at ease. We are thoroughly elated.
Once that queue breaks, we scurry as quickly as we can to a theme parrk, such as Alton Towers or Chessington World of Standing to enjoy a variety of differently ordered and shaped lines for an entire afternoon. At last, an activity that we can moan about as a family! By now we are in our element. All we need now is to wait an hour for a slice of plastic-coated bacon and a cup of warm weak tea in a bleading Little Chef and a further hours traffic jam on the way home to justify the £150 quid that we have spent.
It could drive you a bit mad.
After seeing the top of a few masts, we changed tack ourselves and scurried off to a nice restaurant for extra rations. Not a Little Chef but a nice little dockside eatery. We then went home for puddings, coffees and cuddles.
If you stop following the leader, freedom can be ascertainable.
So long as there's not a queue.
* Curfuffle is a confused shuffle with lots of elbow movements. I think.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
The Ministry
I went on a brief shopping trip today. I had set out to obtain some electricity and gas prepayment cards.* I actually came back with with two paperbacks, a Hagendaaz ice lolly, a coconut smoothie and a meat and potato pastie. No cards though.**
When I returned I noticed they had been.
A single, small purple glove had been posted through the letterbox.
That is how I know I had received a visit from THE MINISTRY.
The Ministry of Strange Things was a cold-war initiative set up to bewilder, confuse and befuddle the general populous so much that they were unable to understand what was really going on. By the time the Soviet Union was finally dismantled The Ministry had done such a good job, that even the politicians had gone a bit loopy and were incapable of getting things together enough to close the department down. This is how we have ended up siding with the United State of Confusion to invade Iraq so we can recover imaginary weapons that they sold to them. I can think of no other explanation for our country's odd behaviour. But then again I am a bit befuddled.
The Ministry's main weapons are shoes and gloves. Here is an excerpt from their top secret manual (that one of their agents accidentally left in the gentlemen's restroom*** of my local boozer)
"One glove to be left on every 1007th railing of each provincial town. This to be doubled in times of hose-pipe bans.
One shoe to be discarded at exactly every 2003yrds on each 'A' road. Never discard shoes in pairs unless they are to be suspended from a lamppost or telephone wire.****"
The Ministry is also responsible for discarded pornography in railway sidings and hedgerows, the disappearance of white dog-poo, one-way systems that send you back to where you came from, that wonderful curry house that you go to one night when drunk but can never find again and the longevity of Cliff Richard's music career. They also, I believe, are responsible for filling babies up with far more snot and poo than the actual volume of their little bodies would otherwise allow - therefore making stay at home parents even more bewildered, muddled and literally wiped out than they should be.
So now you have an excuse. If your boss blames you for not being on the ball, blame The Ministry. If your partner accuses you of never listening, blame The Ministry. If your psychiatrist accuses you of having paranoid delusions.... Actually, best not mention anything about secret government departments. Trust me, its not worth the arguments and you get home sooner.
They said they might let me out tomorrow.
Nannoo, Nannoo.
Over and out.
* The most impractical things on earth. They are only given to a) the financially irresponsible, b) the disorganised and c) the poor. All of these people are not exactly qualified to operate the things, as they depend on 1) Good budgeting 2) Pre-planning and failing that, 3) A constant supply of ready cash. We inherited the meters from the last person who lived in the house. He was evicted. Must have failed on all three counts.
** This isn't bad for me, because I didn't lose any money or misplace the baby, plus I returned home on the same day. (I am easily bewildered.)
*** I've never understood the word restroom. Who the hell goes off for a little rest, a nice lie down say, in three inches of stale piss?
**** My girlfriend has asked me to mention a tree in our local park that has at least twelve pairs of shoes hanging from it. Surely the work of the ministry.
When I returned I noticed they had been.
A single, small purple glove had been posted through the letterbox.
That is how I know I had received a visit from THE MINISTRY.
The Ministry of Strange Things was a cold-war initiative set up to bewilder, confuse and befuddle the general populous so much that they were unable to understand what was really going on. By the time the Soviet Union was finally dismantled The Ministry had done such a good job, that even the politicians had gone a bit loopy and were incapable of getting things together enough to close the department down. This is how we have ended up siding with the United State of Confusion to invade Iraq so we can recover imaginary weapons that they sold to them. I can think of no other explanation for our country's odd behaviour. But then again I am a bit befuddled.
The Ministry's main weapons are shoes and gloves. Here is an excerpt from their top secret manual (that one of their agents accidentally left in the gentlemen's restroom*** of my local boozer)
"One glove to be left on every 1007th railing of each provincial town. This to be doubled in times of hose-pipe bans.
One shoe to be discarded at exactly every 2003yrds on each 'A' road. Never discard shoes in pairs unless they are to be suspended from a lamppost or telephone wire.****"
The Ministry is also responsible for discarded pornography in railway sidings and hedgerows, the disappearance of white dog-poo, one-way systems that send you back to where you came from, that wonderful curry house that you go to one night when drunk but can never find again and the longevity of Cliff Richard's music career. They also, I believe, are responsible for filling babies up with far more snot and poo than the actual volume of their little bodies would otherwise allow - therefore making stay at home parents even more bewildered, muddled and literally wiped out than they should be.
So now you have an excuse. If your boss blames you for not being on the ball, blame The Ministry. If your partner accuses you of never listening, blame The Ministry. If your psychiatrist accuses you of having paranoid delusions.... Actually, best not mention anything about secret government departments. Trust me, its not worth the arguments and you get home sooner.
They said they might let me out tomorrow.
Nannoo, Nannoo.
Over and out.
* The most impractical things on earth. They are only given to a) the financially irresponsible, b) the disorganised and c) the poor. All of these people are not exactly qualified to operate the things, as they depend on 1) Good budgeting 2) Pre-planning and failing that, 3) A constant supply of ready cash. We inherited the meters from the last person who lived in the house. He was evicted. Must have failed on all three counts.
** This isn't bad for me, because I didn't lose any money or misplace the baby, plus I returned home on the same day. (I am easily bewildered.)
*** I've never understood the word restroom. Who the hell goes off for a little rest, a nice lie down say, in three inches of stale piss?
**** My girlfriend has asked me to mention a tree in our local park that has at least twelve pairs of shoes hanging from it. Surely the work of the ministry.
Monday, June 06, 2005
The most beautiful baby in the world
Our daughter Mali is the most beautiful baby in the world.
Now I know what you are thinking: "Every parent thinks that their child is the most wonderful, most attractive, best behaved little angel that God could gift to a family. And also a credit to their excellent parenting skills".
Well, all other parents are wrong. Ours is the best.
It's so annoying when parents with, obviously substandard babies make a fuss of their own child's beauty without paying deference to the fact that ours is obviously a better model. "She maybe is a bit cute in a none-conventional way," I want to say, "But surely you must of noticed the obviously buckled head and constant drooling. Maybe you can have her fixed."
I say nothing of course except "ahhhh isn't she gorgeous..." I say this with my fingers crossed behind my back.
I also judge others in relation to our standards of parenting. Because our if baby is the best, most well behaved, sleeps all night, smiles all day, most socially charming child in the known universe etc. then it must surely transpire that everything we do must be ENTIRELY RIGHT AND THE PROPER WAY TO DO THINGS.
If people are having a bad time with their infants this is because they haven't been ENTIRELY RIGHT or done things THE PROPER WAY.
WE ARE, OF COURSE, DAZZLED BY OUR OWN CLEVERNESS.
My girlfriend is very beautiful and also a parenting skills specialist, so I suppose that these things are really down to her (I look like a gnome and have never been able to keep a houseplant alive for more than a fortnight.) She also earns the lions-share of the income and organises everything as well as telling me what to do, how to behave, what to say and how to dress.
Thinking about it, her parenting skills are damn fine. She's doing a great job on me!
I don't feel so clever now.
My daughter is still gorgeous though.
Better than yours.
Now I know what you are thinking: "Every parent thinks that their child is the most wonderful, most attractive, best behaved little angel that God could gift to a family. And also a credit to their excellent parenting skills".
Well, all other parents are wrong. Ours is the best.
It's so annoying when parents with, obviously substandard babies make a fuss of their own child's beauty without paying deference to the fact that ours is obviously a better model. "She maybe is a bit cute in a none-conventional way," I want to say, "But surely you must of noticed the obviously buckled head and constant drooling. Maybe you can have her fixed."
I say nothing of course except "ahhhh isn't she gorgeous..." I say this with my fingers crossed behind my back.
I also judge others in relation to our standards of parenting. Because our if baby is the best, most well behaved, sleeps all night, smiles all day, most socially charming child in the known universe etc. then it must surely transpire that everything we do must be ENTIRELY RIGHT AND THE PROPER WAY TO DO THINGS.
If people are having a bad time with their infants this is because they haven't been ENTIRELY RIGHT or done things THE PROPER WAY.
WE ARE, OF COURSE, DAZZLED BY OUR OWN CLEVERNESS.
My girlfriend is very beautiful and also a parenting skills specialist, so I suppose that these things are really down to her (I look like a gnome and have never been able to keep a houseplant alive for more than a fortnight.) She also earns the lions-share of the income and organises everything as well as telling me what to do, how to behave, what to say and how to dress.
Thinking about it, her parenting skills are damn fine. She's doing a great job on me!
I don't feel so clever now.
My daughter is still gorgeous though.
Better than yours.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Holding The Baby
I haven't posted much this week. I've been away, see. With the in-laws in Wales. Lovely.
You see, my girlfriends parents live an idyllic life in a little seaside resort. They have a castle at the end of their road. Like, a massive castle. One that was smashed up by Owain Glyndwr (Welsh hero and architectural vandal). And an enormous, never ending sea-view that can hold you for hours, transfixed. I have heard tales of sailors who have thrown themselves overboard because the sea was calling for them. I was ready to jump in when I realised it was just my girlfriend calling for me to make up a bottle.
She often gets a bit bossy when we go away. I think she might by trying to demonstrate how well trained I am (which is very). It does get my goat* a bit though. Eventually I get stroppy and sulk for a day or two and then demand to be driven to Beddgelert for double helpings of ice cream.**
During our stay I took the dogs out on long walks. I feel obliged to do this when we stay because one of the dogs is actually ours who was sent away when careers got too heavy for responsible dog ownership. At one point she looked from the kennels, through the window, to see me holding the baby. Her eyes were full of sadness and perhaps a glimmer of resentment. I think it would be wise to keep the baby away from her.
The walks gave me time to reflect on the last few months.
I don't want to be a bloody martyr here, because so many people face real adversity in their lives, but staying at home with a baby is hard sometimes. Bloody hard.
Its taken me six months to realise this. There has been a gradual dripping away of confidence and an increasing sense of isolation that has only recently surfaced in my consciousness. At first, not having the daily pressures of running this project, writing that report, directing this play, lighting that set etc. seemed wonderful. I was a bit burned out to be honest, sick of having to pull at the hem of inspiration's increasingly frayed dressing gown five times a day. Being at home was a welcome relief.
The thing about having to meet all those varying challenges constantly is that it is well... challenging. Being at home is also challenging but in a monotonous way. Its the same challenge: How the hell am I going to remain alert and interested and stimulating and be a wonderful parent today? Who the hell will I speak to? Will I manage to get out today? How am I going to get through another episode of bastard Ballamory?
I have been, in my usual flippant way, ignoring these feelings. Although I love to moan about petty things, I really am too good at counting my blessings. I'm an awful optimist. My outlook is usually depressingly positive.
But the genie is out of the bottle now. It feels good just to let it go free. Just saying "Fuck, I've been a bit depressed!" is incredibly liberating. I've just had the best afternoon at work for months, I feel very free, just by admitting that actually, parenthood isn't just flowers around the bloody door and group hugs. Its a slow, uphill struggle at times. One that, at moments, might not seem worth it.
We know it is. But its hard sometimes.
Bloody hard.
Pass the ice cream.
*Apparently this phrase originated because it was once common to put a goat in with a skittish thoroughbred racehorse to help calm it. Enterprising villains capitalised on this by gambling on the horse to lose and then stealing the goat. Bastards.
**Wonderful ice cream is available in Beddgelert. It is also the resting place of Gelert the faithful dog of Llewellyn (the last Welsh Prince of Wales) who, due to a misunderstanding, was murdered by his master. The bastard.
You see, my girlfriends parents live an idyllic life in a little seaside resort. They have a castle at the end of their road. Like, a massive castle. One that was smashed up by Owain Glyndwr (Welsh hero and architectural vandal). And an enormous, never ending sea-view that can hold you for hours, transfixed. I have heard tales of sailors who have thrown themselves overboard because the sea was calling for them. I was ready to jump in when I realised it was just my girlfriend calling for me to make up a bottle.
She often gets a bit bossy when we go away. I think she might by trying to demonstrate how well trained I am (which is very). It does get my goat* a bit though. Eventually I get stroppy and sulk for a day or two and then demand to be driven to Beddgelert for double helpings of ice cream.**
During our stay I took the dogs out on long walks. I feel obliged to do this when we stay because one of the dogs is actually ours who was sent away when careers got too heavy for responsible dog ownership. At one point she looked from the kennels, through the window, to see me holding the baby. Her eyes were full of sadness and perhaps a glimmer of resentment. I think it would be wise to keep the baby away from her.
The walks gave me time to reflect on the last few months.
I don't want to be a bloody martyr here, because so many people face real adversity in their lives, but staying at home with a baby is hard sometimes. Bloody hard.
Its taken me six months to realise this. There has been a gradual dripping away of confidence and an increasing sense of isolation that has only recently surfaced in my consciousness. At first, not having the daily pressures of running this project, writing that report, directing this play, lighting that set etc. seemed wonderful. I was a bit burned out to be honest, sick of having to pull at the hem of inspiration's increasingly frayed dressing gown five times a day. Being at home was a welcome relief.
The thing about having to meet all those varying challenges constantly is that it is well... challenging. Being at home is also challenging but in a monotonous way. Its the same challenge: How the hell am I going to remain alert and interested and stimulating and be a wonderful parent today? Who the hell will I speak to? Will I manage to get out today? How am I going to get through another episode of bastard Ballamory?
I have been, in my usual flippant way, ignoring these feelings. Although I love to moan about petty things, I really am too good at counting my blessings. I'm an awful optimist. My outlook is usually depressingly positive.
But the genie is out of the bottle now. It feels good just to let it go free. Just saying "Fuck, I've been a bit depressed!" is incredibly liberating. I've just had the best afternoon at work for months, I feel very free, just by admitting that actually, parenthood isn't just flowers around the bloody door and group hugs. Its a slow, uphill struggle at times. One that, at moments, might not seem worth it.
We know it is. But its hard sometimes.
Bloody hard.
Pass the ice cream.
*Apparently this phrase originated because it was once common to put a goat in with a skittish thoroughbred racehorse to help calm it. Enterprising villains capitalised on this by gambling on the horse to lose and then stealing the goat. Bastards.
**Wonderful ice cream is available in Beddgelert. It is also the resting place of Gelert the faithful dog of Llewellyn (the last Welsh Prince of Wales) who, due to a misunderstanding, was murdered by his master. The bastard.
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