Baby + 49 (or Christmas - 2)

Snottie's Nurse has to date focussed on the theory of fatherhood. What practical observations there have been have typically been made from a safe distance, with mother in full control of the situation.

Last night, I ventured into my first lengthy stint of unaccompanied child care. From 6pm to 11pm I took sole charge of my daughter while my wife went to the theatre. Well, to be more accurate, my daughter took control of me - unrelentingly so.

I am not a fan of horror movies. I consider them a waste of time. But last night I existed as a man possessed, not in control, his every move directed by his daughter's penetrating eyes, and terrifying scream. I tried to resist. I tried to pacify. I tried to comfort. I tried to feed. By 10.30pm I was trying to hide. But it was all to not avail. I could not escape. Only when my wife returned did the nightmare end.

Today I have been unable to leave my bed, paralysed by a migraine that was brewed in hell. I cannot say for certain that this is the consequence of my night of child care, but there is a good chance that they are connected. I now yield to no man in my admiration for mothers.

Happy Christmas, or should that be a Peace at Christmas?

Baby + 47

I am 47 days into Snottie's Nurse and I have yet to post any comments on the reactions we have received from friends, colleagues, family and, oddly, strangers, to the fact Orla's birth. What follows is a gross simplification of these responses (all of which have, in different ways, been very touching), but for convenience I have applied the following categorisations:

The "you must be exhausted/are you sleeping?" response

That this should be someone's first response on hearing of the birth of a child raises a number of interesting speculations. As a rule, I have to say that this is the default response of the childless. This is important for statistical purposes, and we must adjust our sampling method accordingly.

I have chosen to interpret this response as evidence that this person values their sleep. Sleep is not an unreasonable thing to value. However, does it value increase in proportion to the quanity that is lost? In other words, is there an inversely proportionate relationship between sleep deprivation and the actions one is willing to take to, well, sleep?

In our house, she with the elbows which must be obeyed is very much of the view that it is possible to deliver a constant quantum of sleep over a given period if one evens out one's sleeping arrangements. Thus, a late night one night can, so her theory holds, be rectified by an early night the following evening.

But is this correct? Sleep lost is, by definition, lost. As with time, one cannot recover sleep. This may, therefore, be an example of the "earlier train fallacy", in which the deluded proponent puts forward the argument that he has "saved time" by catching a train that arrived earlier. One cannot save time as it cannot be stored for future use. Were this possible, retired people could do a good trade in time or sleep on eBay, and in the process solve the supposed pensions crisis at a stroke (as it were).

The "you must be proud" response

I fear that I shall be chastised as cold and calculating for my views on this response, but I have often wondered why I should, at this stage, be proud. Let me reference that statement to some facts:

• I have been fortunate enough that my sperm (well, the one who swam like buggery, and kept swimming, at least) is up to snuff. This is nothing to do with me, save except by omission, for example because I omitted to castrate myself at any stage of my youth.
• Our daughter is healthy. Again, this is a genetic event. I am sure that my genes are proud, but I struggle to be proud. (I am elated, it goes with saying, that she is well.)
• The birth was smooth (ahem...this statement could be controversial with the elbows, but it's all a matter of perspective...). St Thomas's Hospital to thank for that, I think.
• My daughter is yet to do or say anything for which I can claim to be responsible.

As I said, this won't be to everyone's taste, but I consider it important to use a term like pride in a manner that recognises that a virtue arises from what one does, not what one is, or what one believes. As such, I shall glow with pride when my daughter does something virtuous, which could be something as simple as rotating a teddy bear so as to understand its geometry, or it could, in later years, be helping a person across a road.

The "has it changed your life?" response

I assume that most people when they pose this question are really seeking to determine whether it has changed your being rather than your life. It would, after all, take someone of outstanding ignorance not to have noticed that the arrival of a baby generally introduces some basic logistical hassles. But I do wonder whether it should change one's being. Is this harsh? I am not sure. Let me try this: should one seek to have a child unless one is ready to do so, and has considered the consequences for that child (all too often, sadly, there is too much discussion of the consequences for the parents)? I would say that the tragedy of any society is that its adults fail to considered the consequences of their actions for its children. This is as true of government policy as it is the family.

This is not to say that I haven't changed. But I wouldn't say that I was a different being, or my life is so different as to be unrecognisable - far from it, in fact. I do think, though, that it would have been wholly irresponsible to have fathered a child without first having concluded that I was morally prepared for this event. I say this in full knowledge of the fact that I would not have been ready even two years ago.

I apologise if some find this moralistic. I don't mean it to be moralising, I should make clear. But I do think that one ought to be moralistic when it comes to being brash enough to perpetuate life.

I should say that I welcome reactions to Baby + 47.

Time to change a nappy...

Baby + 44

Smiles, smiles and smiles, with reports of laughter. Magic.

Correction to Baby + 40: daughter, wife, cat, me.

Baby + 40

40 days and 40 nights. This, perhaps more than any other numerical construction, has a particular resonance, at least to Western sensibilities. I shall not seek to imply that in any way the first 40 days with our daughter has been a time of privation. Nor, indeed, has a Satanic figure sought to turn us from a generally just parenting schedule (as it might be put were we writing the Bible in contemporary English). However, the fact that 40 days are almost up feels as if it ought to be special because of the inherent symbolism of this construction.

Have I changed? I have reflected on this thought a number of times. I would say not, but others may be better placed to judge. Any change that there has been would, I suggest, be best described as a reversion to a set of values that one can lose set of in circumstances where the responsibilities are less profound. I don't mean this to sound portentous, in any sense of that word. What I mean, I believe, is that in deciding what moral framework we are required to erect around our child, I have been obliged to re-visit and test those values I take to be important.

But enough about me, you say: what about the baby?

Tonight is the second night at which she has gone to sleep (or, rather, put to bed) at what I would call NBT (Normal Baby Time) - 7pm. Is this good? For me, no, as I won't see her until she wakes for food at midnight. But it is good for my wife, who is rightly keen to have a break.

Daughter. Wife. Me. Cat. The new order.

Excitingly, our daughter is now officially in existence. Kafka may have had fun with the fact that our daughter has not existed until 11.30 this morning when her birth was registered. She is now, therefore, a statistic. I will tell her this when she wakes at midnight. I hope she too is excited.

Question: is it more antithetical to democratic principles that a person claims to be the law, or that a person claims to be the state? Answers to Snottie's Nurse please.

Baby + 37

Today has seen my daughter make a very serious attempt to explore, with her eyes, her immediate environment. I have attempted to interest her in me, with a succession of warbles and gurgles. I am convinced that she has smiled more than once in response to this effort. I am told, though, that she won't be smiling, merely contorting in response to a bout of wind. If true, this is disappointing. For what it is worth, I don't think it is true. I have seen in her eyes a tell-tale flash of happiness.

Last week I completed the first feed from a bottle. She with the elbows which must be obeyed stood over me like a drill-square Sergeant Major, and relayed instructions about the optimal elevation of the teat. I duly complied. 4oz of milk (of the breast variety) later and junior was, briefly, content. Alas, it was only briefly, and the breast had to summoned into action. We shall try again on Monday when junior and me will be home alone. I plan to go into battle with no fewer than 8oz of mother's best. This is a baby with a demanding stomach.

Uncle Ed's digibox dilemna has morphed into Uncle Ed's Christmas gift list crisis. I sense that it would be unwise to comment on the evident turmoil. This said, I believe that I have witnessed an internet non-shopping marathon of peerless duration this afternoon. Never have so many hits been made, by so few, for such little result. Still, his careful scrutiny of the options proves he cares.

Are we leaving London? After six happy years in the metropolis, we may (emphasis on this condition) have commenced our exodous. Much depends on the effectiveness of the necessarily smooth London estate agent. I am not sure that I want to go; neither am I sure that I want to stay. I suspect that I will only miss the convenience of being in the centre of town, but I have become attached to our community.

Baby + 31

It is December, so time for Handel's Messiah. She with the elbows which must be obeyed has already exposed our daughter to Bach, Beethoven and Mozart. There is a school of parenthood that subscribes to a belief that playing a baby classical music is a good way of increasing its intelligence. I am not persuaded. Does reading one's baby Proust have the same effect? Would holding junior in front of a Holbein or Picasso deliver a similar uplift in IQ?

Aside from the doubts I have about the science, I have a more emotional objection. It seems to me that the only reason for playing a baby, indeed anyone, classical music is to introduce them to the joys of this music. The proposition that there is a brain gain to be had from music is to miss the point of music.

Baby + 29

It is the baby's first trip to her maternal grandparents residence, which for guests and hosts is an important occasion.

The only member of Team McMahon not to be impressed is the cat, who swaggers out of the car into one of his favourite killing fields: the Essex countryside. He has been a regular visit for two and a half years, knows the terrain, and either doesn't sense, or perhaps does not care for, this momentous homecoming.

The saga of Uncle Ed's digibox takes a new twist in Essex, not because of anything that Uncle Ed has done, but rather because his parents have pushed ahead of him in the technology race. To have supposed 6 months ago that it would have been possible to update Snottie's Nurse from the in-laws kitchen would have been a daring, nay fantastical activity. All is change though, and I am now sitting in an environment where once dial-up was supreme. I thus cannot but conclude that Uncle Ed's digibox crisis is actually the sympton of a larger problem: the fate of a man behind the hardware curve. He is at least one pace back from a generation which he may have assumed would cease to be a threat once they had purchased a microwave or infra-red mouse. How much longer can he delay replacement of the digibox?

My daughter's curiosity continues, with longer periods of movement and exploration. I am trying to resist talking like a Tellytubby, but for some unknown reason I am apt to gurgle and burble. Why? I am not sure, but I have a sense that she responds to changes in sound or intonation. And, unlike she with the elbows which must be obeyed, the attention is rapt and uncritical. Wonderful: an audience.