Baby + 25

There is lots more activity from the baby. Her eyes open for longer as she absorbs her environment. This is a stirring, life-affirming process.

Baby + 24

Almost a month has elapsed since our daughter became a very physical reality in our lives. I feel a combination of emotions: sadness at the passing of time we can't have again; but happiness at the time we have had so far. It can be difficult to pause and enjoy a moment, but so many times in the past weeks have I hoped that time won't pass.

Baby + 24 also means a week between postings. As I don't have a brilliant or convincing reason for failing to post, I offer an apology to my daughter now for this break in the record. A short summary of the week gone may go some way to offset my negligence:

• Father back at work (bad).
• The first Thanksgiving dinner, and the world's largest turkey, courtesy of Uncle Marc W (good).
• England draw in Pakistan (neither good nor bad).
• Bach Cantatas arrive in the post (good).
• Collect new motorcycle from Leicester (cold).
• Lunch with the Farmers and paternal grandparents in Camberley (good).

Returning to the subject of the challenge of being a father, or rather a good father, the dictionary gives a clue as to the span of possible ways in which I can define my role as a father. So, the most limited interpretation would be to stick with the most basic definition:

A man who begets or raises or nurtures a child.

The presence of the the or is interesting. Am I more a father if I raise or nurture than if I simply beget? A purist may say that one simply qualifies for the title of father if one is involved in the act of creation. Were I to limit myself to this and nothing else I suppose I could believe I was a father, and I might even delude myself that I was a good father. However, a morality that relies on what I believe myself to be, rather than what I do, seems to me deficient. In the same way that I cannot torture others and claim that a belief in x or y makes me a good person, so I should not claim to be father if my limit is to have begat.

An answer to how I might define myself as a father must therefore encompass raising and nurturing. I think I know what this means for a child of two, ten or fourteen as I have experienced being a son at these ages. It is more difficult to know how I should nurture our tiny infant as I cannot remember what it was that I experienced at that age that felt - and I suppose I must use that verb as I could not reason until later - loving or reassuring.

But perhaps for this reason it is not that difficult, not something that can be intellectualised. The baby cries: hold her close. That is nurturing, at its most profound and simple. Love thy creation in order to be a father.

Baby + 17

Just when we thought we had this baby sleep thing cracked...

Extensive sleep deprivation to one side, I return to Uncle Ed's digibox dilemna. The question gripping the nation is, of course, what Uncle Ed should do. It seems to me that he has many choices. Here are a few:

a) Seek to have the box fixed under guarantee. A time-consuming but righteous path.

b) Buy a new box. £30 gets him a nice one.

c) Give up on the digibox. He is, after all, on the last lap of his PhD work and non-academic distractions might prudently be avoided.

d) Re-wire the digibox as per the method used in ET and speak to aliens.

Other suggestions received gratefully at Snottie's Nurse.

Baby + 16

A momentous day: baby's first bath. I have been looking forward to this moment for months, and have rashly promised that this will be my exclusive responsibility (at least when at home). A brief description will suffice:

Run bath, hot water first, cold second; roll-up sleeves; lay baby towel on floor in a position that minimises the time between removal from water and post-aquatic dunk; test water temperature with elbow; test again; move out of way so that wife can test (she insists - wife that is); test again; remove nappy; carry baby to water; lower her in, being careful to hold her head above the surface; watch in disappointment as daughter's face works itself into a wonderfully expressive mask of disdain; no tears yet, though; lift her from bath and lower her onto her brand new towel; watch her pee on her brand new towel; dress her again; and hand her to she with the elbows which must be obeyed.

All in all, a simple exercise, but which should become more fun as she comprehends that floating ducks and boats are excellent ways to extend bath time.

On the subject of ducks, we were given our second toy duck on Friday. The original duck received a mention in this blog, so it is only fair that duck two has his/her place in this record. Like duck one, duck two is yellow. I know of no yellow ducks living in the wild, but if anyone does I would be grateful to be told.

The Fazer is dead, long live the TRX 850. Like our yellow friends, ducks one and two, the TRX 850 is a very rare bird indeed: a V-twin Yamaha sportsbike/sports-tourer. I may be deluding myself, but I reckon I have managed to get hold of it for £1500 less than it should cost. Is this the consequence of fiendish dealing, or have I bought a bag of bolts and rust? It is too early to say, but the trip back from Leicester on Saturday should give a good indication. Anyhow, I have turned the Fazer into a new bike and £1000 in cash.

Finally, Uncle Ed's digibox is bust. I may discuss the ramifications in a future post.

Baby + 13

Life update thirteen days on:

a) I still haven't finished the book I started reading before the baby arrived;

b) My back has got worse, prompting a trip to the GP and Osteopath;

c) I have sold my motorcycle;

d) I have re-discovered an enjoyment of cooking, albeit non-intricate dishes; and

e) I have not completed my last will and testament pack (which I bought two years ago).

I should point out that c) is not a move in the direction of conservative parenthood. On the contrary, I plan to replace what is a very practical and reliable 600cc machine with something more powerful, less practical and less reliable - a Ducati, perhaps. All being well, the wife and I will escape for a weekend on the new machine in 2006.

The cause of b) is a slipped disc. As work surfaces and furniture continue to be designed for men who lived in the fourteenth century, nappy changes are painful. Still, the pain provides an impetus to effect the change quickly. It also gives the job a macho edge that some claim is absent from this activity. For more on why it is manly to change the kid's pooh pocket http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,,1640038,00.html

I tried to interest my daughter in her mobile today. Her response was to be sick, which I think was a function of an excessive lunch rather than the movement of the shapes hanging from the mobile. I guess that one cannot expect too much too soon.

Baby + 7 days

The new arrival continues to find her way in the household. The apocalypse of our sleeping pattern that many forecast has not occurred. Ok, she wakes at 3am, but that's it, and therefore less challenging than, say, a failing prostate. Aside from this early morning disturbance, she is as good as gold.

Of course, past performance is no guide to future performance.

The hospital prescribed some her some antibiotics to deal with a skin infection. I have fed her these, and can't say I have enjoyed the experience of rousing her to a scream very quickly.

Good news on her waste: it looks like a high-quality wholegrain mustard. We are very proud of her pooh.

A great story on some drunken elks attacking an old people's home at http://www.guardian.co.uk/international/story/0,,1639965,00.html

Baby + 4 days

At last: mother and baby are home. I spent Sunday and Monday in hospital with both of them, changing nappies, reading the paper from two days before, and trying to persuade my wife that not being able to breastfeed immediately is not a failure. I can imagine why she would think this - the baby that was so safe inside her is so much more fragile in our world, and the bond between them so much more exacting for the mother.

As I type these words I am looking down on my daughter. Has the fact of my being a father taken root? I am not sure. I keep expecting to be in control of my time again, to be able to drop one thing and move to another at will.

The cat is pacing the flat, unsure of what the genetic force wrapped in blankets portends. He has taken some hesistant steps to understand the purpose of this human intruder, but has retreated to survey the scene from a safe distance.

On a completely different topic, those interested in the use and mis-use of language might want to check out http://www.state.gov/secretary/rm/2005/50346.htm A "transition co-ordinator" might, one could suppose, be a person available to oversee a domestic move. It could be that such a profession exists. A question that Waugh fans would understand: has the US got the wrong Boot?

Baby + 6 hours

What? Baby +6? Yup: baby has arrived a week early. Dad received the call at 1pm in Winchester (65 miles from London). He raced up the M3 and, after some ugly labour pains, took mother to hospital. Baby was upside down, and mother was in agony, so baby was pulled out with a C-section. Dad watched. Words can't do this experience justice.

Baby - 11

The inexplicable struggle to say in the womb continues. Is this kid not longing to explore the world for itself? It is now so large, and thus so obvious, that decency suggests it owes its father some quality time outside its mother.

A question for techno-phobes and philes alike: is there anything wrong with one of the prospective grandfathers (mother's side, I would add) learning of the arrival of grandchild one via an email on his Blackberry? Or, to put it differently, is there anything I can say on the telephone that cannot be communicated as effectively (deliberate choice of adverb) by an email? And thanks to the clever use of punctuation I can even communicate an emotion. For example: :)

In practice I would think that they would be equivalent messages: the message in the strictest sense is the same, after all. And for two examples of the male species whose first instinct when the phone rings is to hope someone else answers it, and whose second instinct, assuming that said males have picked-up, is to hand the phone to the nearest female, email is a most pleasing solution.

I find this to be an intriguing if ultimately futile set of questions as I am bound to have to call for fear that that my mother-in-law would quite properly ex-communicate me. However, it is a question that resonates. Why? Well, although British Telecom has told us for years that it is "good to talk", the development of email, and Blackberry in particular, suggests that we believe the opposite to be true. To illustrate this point, I would note that I once received an email that said "Can you please call me urgently". Surreal.

One positive of Blackberry use is that it reveals its owner's true thoughts. Any boredom said owner experiences during a conversation soon translates into serious thumb action. I tend to think that this must ultimately force us all to say more interesting things, which can only be good for family relationships.

Another positive whilst on this theme: for the Blackberry owning grandfather it means he has a means of answering questions from his grandchild to which he doesn't know the answer, or where he thinks it would be imprudent to answer on the hoof. If I were grandmother I would be seeking to achieve parity.

Of course, the Americans are already one step ahead. My friend's child already has its own Blackberry. See for evidence http://jason.reusch.net/

Information for Crackberry addicts at http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4279486