Gurgles and muffled farts...

Under different circumstances the sight of a 33-year-old man talking utter nonsense and making an array of bizarre gurgling noises would suggest a large amount of alcohol, or that the afflicted individual has been subjected to more than half an hour of Channel Five. In our household, however, it is merely a side effect of early parenthood.

Three months into life as a new dad, I now find myself whiling away hours with my increasingly interactive baby son, mimicing his bizarre sounds (think dolphins with flatulence) and sporting a permanently exagerated Joker-style smile to encourage him to do the same. I am, in fact, reverting to an infant myself, thankfully without the need for my wife to clean my posterior and wind me after dinner!

Yes, it's still hard work - and Mrs B is doing awe inspringly well - but now it's less paniced and more enjoyable.

For the first few weeks of Baby B's existence we lived in constant fear. Is he breathing? Is he tired? Is he hungry? Is he in need of a change? Is he too cold? Is he too hot? Each question dealt with through a combination of fear and ignorance, all exaggerated by often crippling round-the-clock tiredness.

Indeed, even now, whenever I wake in the night and all is quiet, I strain to hear a breath from the cot, unable to drop off again myself before hearing a life affirming rustle or muffled fart. Come the morning, meanwhile, I still see my son's ability to survive the hours of darkness as a miracle worthy of the utmost thanks.

But today, as I sat with Baby B on my lap, and as he broke wind with admirable ferocity, I felt for the first time that our little man is beginning to grow up. He may not be taking his driving test or buying us dinner just yet, but it's a start.

Just don't grow up too fast little man, we're enjoying this too much.

The rise of the stay at home dad?!

The Government has announced today that, from April, fathers will be able to share maternity leave with their partners. So, is this it, the dawn of a new era, the rise of the stay-at-home-dad?

I'd like to think so.

It's ridiculous that, at a time when paranoid HR departments across the land quiver at the mere thought of being sued by employees for biro-related trauma, let alone inequality tribunals, we new dads are given a paltry two weeks' paid paternity leave.

I can only imagine that the childless Whitehall pen pushers who originally set down the two week decree naively imagined that, by the end of their14 days, fathers would have settled their newborns into an unbroken routine of 12-hour sleeps, while also enabling their wives to have recovered enough from birth to fly around Tesco and juggle washing, hoovering and cleaning. I mean, you can do almost anything in two weeks!

The reality, of course, is somewhat different. Two weeks is hardly enough time to nail nappy changing, let alone the infinite intricacies of parenthood. Going back to work at the end of it, meanwhile, and in my case leaving a wife at home who is still recovering from major surgery, can be traumatic for mum, dad and baby.

Dads should be allowed to stay at home to help ease families in to parenthood and to settle newborns in to their new lives. The choice of who stays at home and who goes to work - even solely over the maternity leave period - should be open and equal to men and women.

It's also a decision that shouldn't be taken likely and, in the B household, it's still one that has to be decided. There is lots to weigh up, of course, but in my opinion the decision rests with Mrs B. If she wants to stay at home and bring up our little man - being there for him at every step of the way - then that is her right to do so and I will do everything I possibly can to support her and him.

Should Mrs B really wish to return to work, however, I would have no qualms whatsoever about becoming a stay-at -home dad. Much better that than sticking him in an expensive nursery, where we'll effectively miss much of his early development and be unable to oversee those who are caring for him.

I have a feeling, however, that stay-at-home dads are a rare breed in our neck of the woods, one undoubtedly viewed with scepticism by the female-dominated buggy-pushing hoardes. Indeed, the prospect of turning up at a playgroup like a rookie cowboy in a Wild West saloon (cue silence, turning heads, whispered comments and tumbleweed) actually makes me more nervous than the thought of round-the-clock nappy changes and tantrums.

It's a brave new world.

Farewell blessed sleep!

Regular readers of this blog may have been wondering why it has been particularly irregular of late. Well, rest assured I haven't been knocked down by the 264 bus, I have in fact just joined that exclusive club otherwise known as fatherhood.

Indeed, whereas for the past few months I have been writing on an almost daily basis - no doubt boring you all silly with tales of pre-birth nerves and baby shopping stress - I have been preoccupied of late with looking after Mrs B and our wonderful new bundle of pooing joy. Hence the spare blogging time of my pre-baby days has been inevitably sacrificed for the nappy changing, winding, changing, rocking, watching, cuddling, filming and photographing of our little man.

The photographing and filming have been particularly prevalent in our household as I seem to endlessly follow Mrs B and mini-B around, with hands full of assorted cameras ready to capture every yawn, sneeze and fart for prosperity. The luxury of digital cameras, of course, making it possible to take hundreds of shots of each magical moment. Whether any of them will ever reside anywhere other than on my computer's hard drive is uncertain but, eighteen years from now, at our son's coming-of-age birthday party, I am at least confident that we'll be able to suitably embarrass him with slow-mo nappy changing highlights and a gallery of his best breast-feeding moments.

But what an incredible few weeks it has been. Baby B's entrance in to the world was far from easy as my incredible wife went through the mill for six long days of failed inducement, eventual labour and, finally, a hugely emotional emergency c-section.

Nothing could have prepared me for the event - for which I ironically felt so totally prepared beforehand - suffice to say that as I was by her side for the duration, the experience gave me a whole new, infinitely higher level of respect and admiration for her and for womankind.

"Why on earth do we give children presents on their birthday?" noted my utterly exhausted wife, shortly after cradling our newborn son in her arms for the first time. "They should be giving their mums presents for going through this!"

And so I hereby launch the 'GIVE ALL MOTHERS PRESENTS ON CHILDREN'S BIRTHDAYS' campaign. Who's with me?!

Benefits and big feet...

I am officially on tenterhooks. Mrs B is 38 weeks pregnant and I cannot let my phone out of my sight. As I type, I have it nestled in my pocket, set on the loudest ring tone possible and with maximum vibration. The result, unfortunately, is that I jumped out of my skin and let out a slight yelp this morning when a text arrived from T-Mobile telling me something utterly irrelevant.

Everyone also keeps telling us that the baby could arrive any time now which, although well intended, is actually intensely annoying. It's as if they expect us to drop everything and start panicing as a direct result of their insightful advice.

"Really Mrs Jones?! You mean, this full-term baby could actually be born today? Blimey, it's a good job you told me, I clearly haven't read enough over the last nine months or attended enough antenatal appointments to have any idea what is likely to happen at the culmination of this life changing event!"

But then again, maybe my ever increasing nerves are getting the better of me and snapping at well-meaning pensioners isn't the best idea!
                                                                     
With parenthood imminent, meanwhile, I've found myself glued to the Conservative Party Conference this week as debate rages over the coalition government's plans to scrap child benefit for those earning over £44,000.

Are cuts necessary? Yes, I can't argue with the fact that the country's in somewhat of a financial mire at the moment and we need to tighten the purse strings. Is the child benefit proposal fair? Absolutely not. It's outrageous that a single income family with one parent earning £45,000 is denied child benefit, while a double income family earning £88,000 can rinse the system for the full whack.

I sense, however, that there might be some subtle backtracking along Whitehall in the months ahead, so I'm not going to set to work on my picket plackard just yet!

Closer to home this week, Mrs B has been enduring baby feet to the ribs. Indeed, it appears that our son or daughter will be born with Size 10s if the size of the various protrusions are anything to go by!

Let's just hope the government doesn't impose a tax on shoe leather anytime soon!

Man flu misery...

I may have a Lemsip problem.

Over the last few days I haven't been able to get enough of the lemon-flavoured good stuff as I have fought, far from courageously, against a particularly nasty early-autumn cold. Indeed, I am the first to admit that I have not been a pleasant sight of late, dressed as I am in pyjamas and dressing gown, armed 24/7 with a tissue-replacement muslin and looking generally fit for nothing more than a starring role in Night of The Living Dead.

Mrs B suffered the same virus last week although it is evidently clear that this particular bug hits the male half of the population much harder. Despite being 36 weeks pregnant (yes, regular readers, we're almost there) I can only put my wife's ability to shrug off this cold down to the fact that it is a male-hating virus. How else can I explain the fact that, while she was back at full capacity after three days, I am strenuously typing these notes - and straining my bloodhsot eyes to read them - on day five of my seemingly endless battle.

The recent sleepless nights, however, have given me time to ponder and to be thankful for the fact that we have at least  endured the Cold War now, a month before Baby B's arrival. I can only imagine how hard it must be to look after a newborn child whilst constantly blowing your nose. Not only would I be worried of passing anything on to my vulnerable son or daughter, but I'd also be terrified that a combination of sleep deprivation and Lemsip would cloud my judgement and see me depositing dirty nappies in the fridge, or putting the little one down to sleep in the washing basket.

So, what am I complaining about really? I'm lucky to be suffering like I am, aren't I?

Swede dreams!

Thirty-five weeks and counting.

The big day is rapidly approaching now and, having put it off for as long as possible, we buckled earlier this week and found ourselves eating meatballs in Ikea. It was the culinary precursor to the inevitable Market Place sweep for last minute nursery bits and bobs.

Prior to arrival at the Swedish furniture mecca, however, Mrs B and I had sworn an oath to enter the building, head directly to the nursery section, pick up the changing mat and covers we needed and aim directly for the checkouts. It was a simple mission, in and out in as short a time as possible and head home for supper and Coronation Street.

Needless to say, it didn't go to plan.

Within seconds of walking through the insanely large revolving doors we had talked ourselves in to eating out, or rather in Ikea. It took nothing more than a quick; "ooh, the meatballs look good," to ensure that we found ourselves with trays in hand and time ticking away. The oath had already been forgotten.

Dinner over and having deposited our trays in the tray racks (for some reason eating at Ikea reminds me of school dinners), we grabbed our compulsory yellow bags and headed for the Market Place, pausing to study the floor plan before entering. For some reason we couldn't see the children's area and, assuming it was an oversight on our part, began following the arrows through the Market maze.

It was clear from the eager faces of our fellow shoppers that we had all fallen in to the Ikea trap, wondering as we were whether we could actually live without the bargain cutlery sets, over-sized mugs, mixing bowls, storage boxes, picture frames, shelves and lights that gravitated towards our trolleys or yellow bags.  How easy it would be to come home with a new kitchen, when all you went in for was a spare bulb for that annoying lamp in the lounge!

Bereft of daylight and any indication of the time - despite the miriad of clocks on offer - Mrs B and I trekked aimlessly around the Market Place, eventually realising that the children's zone was upstairs in the showroom and that we had, in fact, wasted the past half hour perusing curtains and bedding (despite being fully equipped with all the curtains and bedding we could ever need).

And so it was that Ikea stole our evening. Coronation Street was missed and we returned home with a bag of odds and ends that we didn't know we needed.

Mind you, the meatballs were good!

Back to school biology

Walking nervously into the grounds of a local primary school earlier this week, Mrs B and I embarked on the first of our NHS-funded 'Parent Craft' lessons.

Literally going back to school the pair of us took our seats (thankfully not toddler-size) in a neat semi-circle, largely consisting of puzzled-looking mums and dads, in an empty primary classroom. The setting for our introduction to the miracle of childbirth was as sterile as it was uncomfortable. The NHS, bless their souls, had, however, laid on a wealth of refreshments for us, namely two jugs of water and at least five glasses. We were, it was fair to say, instantly sceptical of the two hour lesson that lay ahead.

We needn't have worried. Our community midwife tutor - a bubbly, calm and motherly figure who instantly put us at ease - wasted no time in whipping out the labour diagrams and explaining the intricacies of the birthing process to us. Mrs B and I were utterly gripped. We thought we knew the basics, but it was clear we knew nothing.

Jenny, adopting the role of biology teacher, began by detailing the various signs of labour. The breaking of waters may not, we were told,  actually mean the start of labour. In fact, the whole process may not start until hours or even days afterwards, which was news to us. As were the intricacies of the various stages of labour - all expertly demonstrated to us by an enthusiastic Jenny with the aid of a 30 year-old baby doll and a plastic pelvis.

Needless to say we left the school grounds wiser than we had entered and thankful that the free course had given us such a brilliant insight in to what we can expect in a few weeks' time. What's interesting now, however, is how NCT will compare? I have a feeling that there may be a few more cushions, and maybe even a selection of biscuits, but will the quality of the information and the delivery match that which we received from the NHS? Watch this space to find out.