Dads

PostingBlankety blank

Last Friday's arrival of the birth pool wasn't quite what I had hoped. Husband lugged semi-circles of yellowing plastic, hosepipe, filters, tap attachments, bolts, screws, sheets of blue plastic and boxes containing waterproof instructions and a book of birth stories up the stairs in several separate trips. He was dripping with sweat - though whether through nerves or physical effort, it was hard to tell. Within an hour, piles of disinfected plastic were strewn around the spare room like one of Beanie's jigsaw puzzles. The flat has since acquired a faint, though not unpleasant, aroma of local swimming pool.

"Is that it?" I wanted to ask my husband, looking at the assorted bits and pieces, wondering what had happened to the scented water sanctuary of my imagination. But I managed to refrain, since it seemed ungrateful to diss the pool after all his work. "Errr, where's the bottom of the pool?" I said, instead. "Here, I think," he said, rubbing sweat out of his eyes and pointing at a tarpaulin bag, with zips running along three sides. "I think it's made of foam. You put that on the floor, then you put the plastic liners on top. They said you can put a bean bag between the liners to sit on, if you like." He made it sound like having a bean bag would be a big consolation. A bean bag. A f***ing bean bag. Like we used to have in gym class at school. Not much to combat labour pain. Wouldn't a couple of paracetamol help as much? If not more?

I have become resentful of husband, though he does his utmost to be supportive of me. Seems unfair that I am the one who has to push 10lbs-odd of baby out through vagina, which I used to consider as private place only for pleasure, even though the possibility is obviously not open to him. Even worse is that I am under intense pressure from active childbirth lobby and competitive middle-class mums to do so without any drugs. All while facing humiliation of husband and group of complete strangers witnessing me struggle in pain, and, possibly, perform intimate bodily functions. And what happens to him? Nothing. He still has same lean, unblemished body as when we married. I am three stone heavier, forgetful, scared, have permanent black bags under eyes, am half-crippled by pelvic pain, earn a fraction of what I did pre-marriage and was hospitalised earlier this week with a gastro-intestinal upset that my midwife tentatively attributes to nerves over the home/water birth.

Husband might have known how low I was feeling because he said: "Here, look, you might enjoy this," and handed me the polythene-wrapped book of birth stories that came with the pool. But it didn't have the desired effect. Inside was only a handful of stories, despite the first entry being dated October 2006. One woman had no time to use the pool, her labour happened so quickly and husband took so long to put the kit together. One new father used the opportunity to bemoan the shortcomings of his hot water system. "Top tip from dad: make sure your boiler is in full working order; ours wasn't. Be prepared for a lot of topping up to get the temperature right in the final stages." I shuddered at the thought of this birth being about battles with combi boilers and water pressure, while I lay on the hall floor, wracked by pain. Midwives asked one woman to get out of the pool to examine her. And found - instead of the expected head - a tiny foot poking down at them. That story ended with the woman having to explain to her husband how to call an ambulance. Most pages were blank. I've done lots of thinking over the past few days. It's a shame we went to so much effort to organise a home birth, when it's not going to happen after all. But, as my midwife said, maybe we had to jump through all the hoops of structural survey, pool hire, interviewing doulas and so on to arrive at the right decision. My home water birth is going to be another blank in the book.

Posted 25 June 2008 15:10 | Number of comments: 14 | Comments

Angst Childbirth Dads Dilemmas Domestic chaos Home birth Husband Water birth

PostingAre older dads better fathers?

Entertaining piece here from a man who has just become a dad again - aged 54. One in ten babies is now born to a dad over 40 in the UK - and one in a hundred to a father over 50. So it's not just us 'older' mums whose numbers are on the increase. The writer, John Preston, is less apologetic about his status than many 'older' new mums, perhaps because society views older dads with more tolerance than it does mums.

Preston even suggests that older dads might make better parents than younger men. He cites research suggesting that older guys are less likely to do a runner on their family, more likely to 'help' with the housework (as if it's a woman's natural responsibility to work, look after the house and care for the children; and the man is doing her a favour by loading the dishwasher). He also suggests the wrinkly dads are more confident, affectionate, mature and responsible. Older dads are also apparently less driven by something called 'provider fever' - perhaps because they've made their moolah and so can relax.

But he is also honest enough to wonder whether younger men would suffer from what he calls "the exhaustion factor; the way in which my fuse has shrunk to the size of a gnat's tail, prompting me to froth up in helpless hysteria if anyone so much as dares to hoot their horn at me."  I was glad he mentioned that. It struck quite a chord with how I've been feeling for a while now.

Posted 15 June 2008 17:17 | Number of comments: 2 | Comments

Dads Older mother

PostingHer boyfriend is a twat

51AwEY1z0kLAA240_Small.jpg Blogger Zoe McCarthy has just published the highly entertaining book, My Boyfriend is a Twat, loosely based on her blog of the same name. I would recommend it to all who have ever been puzzled by the inexplicable behaviour of the men in their lives - in other words, all of us. Zoe has taken some time out from her life in Belgium with the Twat to answer a few questions I put to her about her new book, published by The Friday Project, who will be publishing my own book if I ever get my act together and start writing it.

Helen: First of all, many congratulations on the book.

Zoe: Thank you. You obviously haven't read it.

H: Could you tell us what inspired you to write MBIAT – the book?

Z: It was an idea from Clare Christian at The Friday Project.  Initially, she approached me about writing a book based on my blog.  B O R I N G.  So I said that I wasn't interested.  Then Clare twisted my arm and held it tight with other suggestions, such as making the book into a manual and giving hints to other women how to deal with partners who are a twat.  She even offered me an egg coddler so I said 'yes'.  My arm still hurts though.

H: Will regular readers of your blog find lots of new material in the book?

Z: Definitely.  Well, it's old material that happened before Quarsan (the twat in my life) and I met and therefore has never appeared on my blog.  He's been a bit of a plonker all his life, if you ask me.

H: What was it like going from writing a blog to a book?

Z: Very, very difficult.  As the book is about  Quarsan, I had to sieve through almost four years' worth of posts, discarding those that weren't relevant and then re-writing those that were.  I think I only cut and pasted two small parts of my blog - the rest has been entirely rewritten so as to be able to be read in book-form.  I'm not all that sure that I succeeded - but then, I haven't read the book.

H: What do you like best about blogging?

Z: Being able to share with my regular readers the daft things that go on in my life.  For some reason, people do come back to see what's going on - and many people have exceedingly good memories about the last time something happened.  Such as the last time I got a black eye ....

I also love reading back as I have a memory like a sieve, so it's fun to see the things that have happened, my children's development over the past (almost) five years, and the antics that Quarsan gets up to.

H: Any thoughts about the Twat and parenting (the subject of M@L)? What's his worst crime been in the step-dad department?

The Twat and parenting should never, ever be in the same sentence.  Having said that, I think that had he been given the chance, he would have made a great dad but he obviously forgot about getting on and having a family in favour of climbing mountains and travelling.

His worst crime in the step-dad department must be the fact that he takes sides with my children.  That is a Bad Thing.

H: Are all female bloggers married to/living with men in IT who do behind-the-scenes tech stuff? Or does it just feel that way?

Z: I know quite a few single female bloggers, if that helps.

H: Like you, I too have a partner who detests mobile phones. 'An inferior technology' he says. Any tips on dealing with that one?

Z: Don't let him have one.  Everybody comes round eventually, trust me.

H: Any suggestions for how to get a man to clear up in the kitchen after he's made a meal? The answer would be the Holy Grail of modern womanhood.....

Z: Oh, this is such a grey area.  I have been battling this one for the six years we have been together.  Standing over my partner and telling him to wipe all the surfaces doesn't work.  The kitchen table is always covered in molasses from where Quarsan has been preparing his shisha pipe, the area next  to the sink is covered in coffee stains and breadcrumbs - I think I'm trying to say that I really am at a loss.

H: How does Quarsan put up with all the abuse? Does he ever complain?

Z: Abuse?  If you think my blog or my book is abusive then you should hear what I have to put up with, hence the 'Twattisms' - Quarsan's snide replies to me.  But no, he never complains - I would never blog something about him that he wouldn't blog himself.  There are  things that Quarsan doesn't like to tell the world and they can be worked out from reading the book.

He loves the attention though, believe me.

H: Come on, admit it, you love him really, don't you? All this piss-taking is an English way of showing your affection for him, isn't it?

Z: Of course I love him - do you really think that I'd write a blog and then a book about somebody I didn't love?

I need to lie down. 

H: On that note, I'd like to conclude by wishing you every success with the book. It's a great read – sharp, entertaining and pacey.

Z: Thank you, and thank you for taking the time to write up these questions.  Good luck with your book!

Posted 05 November 2007 16:05 | Number of comments: 7 | Comments

Blogging Books Dads Domestic chaos

PostingGet your hankies out

brenda779_Small.jpgTragic story over at Alpha Mummy about a man advertising on-line to give his baby daughter away. A post on Postaroo.com by a man claiming to live in Nashville seeks to give away his baby girl Brenda for free “to your loving home”. The man claims he's been a single parent since losing his wife in an accident and that since a nanny is effectively bringing the little girl up at the moment, she'd be better with a 'proper' family than in his care. Sad, sad, sad - if true. Makes me come over all Mary Poppins and wish I could march over to their place with a magic umbrella, sing and dance on the chimney tops and put things to rights for them. I imagine whoever the US equivalent of health visitors are will have something to say on the subject too. Then again, he might be joking. Not very funny though.

Posted 30 October 2007 17:24 | Number of comments: 0 | Comments

Childcare Dads

PostingWorld's oldest dad

Age is all in the mind. Or so the world's oldest new dad would say. He has fathered his 21st child at the age of 90, and says he plans to continue breeding for at least another decade. After reading about these exploits I feel I hardly even qualify as a slightly older parent, despite having The Bean at 38. Next to this guy, I'm an upstart.

Nanu Ram Jogi, a farmer in the Indian state of Rajistan, told The Times he can't remember exactly how many children he's produced with his four wives but estimates he has twelve sons, nine daughters and at least twenty grandchildren. He attributes his success to eating all kinds of meat: rabbits, lamb, chicken and wild animals. "There is a dense forest around the village," he told the paper. "I go hunting most days and eat whatever I catch." The only slight hitch to meat eating in my home is that my husband, who's 39,  is staunch vegetarian. So while we're loving the veggie cooking ideas from Lily and Chew, there's no chance of imitating  Nanu Ram Jogi's lifestyle. Perhaps just as well.

Posted 23 August 2007 10:58 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Dads Food Older mother

PostingBaby police

Following my mid-week rant about acronyms polluting the world of mothering, one of my correspondents has gamely suggested I call myself Acromum. I'm flattered!

I could use the small remnants of my time not spent blogging, working or looking after The Bean, to fight acronyms wherever I see them, armed with nothing more than a hefty changing bag,  toddler reins, broccoli spears and some smelly old nappies.

That should bring people back to earth and get them to drop these silly titles like SAHM and WAHM.

The ultimate deterrant, of course, would be disemvowelling.

If I had an arch-enemy, perhaps someone from the acronym-rich military or medical professions, or even someone over at the Parenting Police HQ - Ofmum -  they could fight by wheeling out a copy of the Book of Acronyms that Ingenious Rose alerted me to.

At the sight of the dreaded volume, I would instantly wither into a pile of meaningless letters, spouting received wisdom set down by well-meaning but mostly childless bureacrats who equate life for a newborn in rural, war-torn Africa with arriving in a neurotic, middle-class family in the Edinburgh New Town.

Much of the advice on breastfeeding in the UK comes from global organisations concerned primarily with developing countries. Yet it gets applied across the board in developed, as well as poorer regions, even though the worst many of us have to contend with is a scrap over parking places in this city. Not exactly equivalent to civil war and the West Side Boys in Africa.

Though  talking of conflict, there's also the issue of differing parental opinions on the finer technicalities of parenting. For example, how best to warm a bottle - which can lead to vicious, internecine guerilla warfare.

 "Don't add the powder before you heat the water, I've told you a million times!"

"What difference does that make? You're undermining my parenting!"

 "You've got to add the powder afterwards. It's the microbes in the milk."

"Microbes? You're making this up. Oh, don't tell me you read it in one of your books."

Guess we forgot to be grateful there was no trip to a dank well involved. And took sterile water for granted.

Perhaps the Ofmum bureaucrats are right - and there's something to be said for one-size-fits-all parenting (oh dear, almost felt an acronym coming on there) - with baby police around the world marching to the same step.

Then again, important differences remain. At least in Africa the enemy isn't someone who's meant to be on your own side.

Posted 07 July 2007 11:41 | Number of comments: 10 | Comments

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PostingDaddy's girl

The Bean and her dad on beach June 28 2007The Bean is getting ever fonder of her dad. I've become boring to her.

I've suspected she might be transferring her affections for a while. It started with the end of breastfeeding when she turned a year.

Something happened today that proved it's official.

Her dad woke up this morning complaining he was poorly. Not quite at death's door. Not yet. But bad enough to work from home.

That meant we were able to go together to pick The Bean up from her nursery in the afternoon.

We did our usual paranoid inspection of the nursery gates, checking they were all locked.

Then located our daughter behind a plastic partition. She was engaged in what the nursery calls in its daily report cards "floor play" and "interacting with other children".

The Bean looked up, saw me and gave a friendly wave. The kind of wave that says: "Fine, I see you, but please don't hang about and embarrass me." The Bean is 15 months old. What her teenage years will be like, I dread to think.

I stooped down to pick her up. She gave me a perfunctory cuddle. I covered her face in kisses. She tolerated one or two, then wriggled away.

Then she spotted her father. Stretched out her arms towards him. Mewled and cawed like the little traitor she was. I had no choice. I handed her over to him.

What a transformation.

As soon as she was in her dad's arms, peace was restored.

The little ingrate.

The best I can say for myself is that I didn't actually say out loud: "After all I've done for you."

No, I just thought it.

Posted 02 July 2007 19:26 | Number of comments: 21 | Comments

Breastfeeding Dads Daughter

PostingA good man

"Then get down on your knees and thank God for a good man," says Granny.

I am telling Granny how the Bean's dad gets up every morning at whatever very un-Godly hour his daughter awakes, then looks after her until it's time for him to go to work, while I enjoy a lie-in. Not bragging. Just casually explaining household workings.

"He's more of a morning person than me."

I'm lying sick in bed with flu, as she berates me. Too sick to genuflect as instructed. Too sick even to blog. Much too sick to disagree with anything she says. Even when she calls the Bean a little potato.

I give a humble, token nod at the carpet to indicate I take her point about knees. Just a gentle nod, though. Don't want to hurt my sore head.

Then I reassert myself: "Mum, it's not just him. It's this generation of men. They all help out more with childcare, the house."

"Even so," says Granny, in a certain tone of voice. "Even so. To have a man who'll get up every morning and look after your child, leaving you to sleep..... "

She used this exact annoying tone years ago, obliquely reproaching me for some poor judgement in my love life via discussion of the novel Vanity Fair. This is what comes of both being English graduates. An end to direct communication. Everything couched via easy-to-misunderstand literary references.

Needless to say, she was enchanted when I met Jack (also, surely no coincidence, an English grad). The afternoon I first took him to meet her, he bounded down the pathway to her house, huge bouquet of flowers and chocolates in his hands, desire to please writ large on his eager, honest brow. She almost visibly melted.  I could see the relief in her eyes that I'd picked a good 'un.

Three years later, and in between the chaos of looking after the Bean, both of us working, me trying to get established again professionally and keeping up with friends, I do forget to be grateful for how much he does to help me. It's easier to pick holes in his bottle-warming technique than remember to be grateful he does it all in the first place, even if it's not quite to my personal specifications.

Then this morning an article in The Times "Need a child-friendly dad? Then get divorced" reminded me to count my blessings. The writer of the article made the sad claim that divorced women get more support from their children's fathers than married ones do, saying many married dads spend more time at the office than they need to because it's less exhausting than the bath-and bed-time rigmarole at home. How grim.

So, for the record, I am grateful that Jack doesn't mind getting up early with the Bean, often around 6am, to supervise her loading and unloading items from various receptacles she's commandeered for her corner of the kitchen: waste-paper bin; laundry basket, computer packaging. A couple of mornings last week she was so tired by this ritual that no sooner had Jack gone to work than she was ready for a nap, meaning I got to lie in until 9am. Even I can't find anything to complain about in that.

Posted 23 June 2007 12:50 | Number of comments: 8 | Comments

Childcare Dads Daughter Dilemmas Domestic chaos Husband

PostingFathers' Day

It's been months now, and I still haven't got over the demise of Ottakars' bookshops.

Every time I walk past the scaffolding in front of their old Edinburgh shop, I suffer a small pang of loss.

Now book-buying is either on-line or at a well-known chain of supermarkets masquerading as book shops. Hobson's Choice.

Maybe it's the funereal decor they use at the Chain. Maybe it's the taciturn assistants who look so wretched. Whatever the reason, I rarely linger.

Yesterday The Bean and I visited the Chain to buy her dad Kevin McCloud's Grand Designs Handbook for Fathers' Day today. Part of my master plan to build and live in our place in the countryside.

Also a sad reflection on how much early-evening telly we watch.

Kev's books live in the windowless basement. He wouldn't like it there. Bet his books don't either. Not inspiring, or heart-felt, uplifting or architecturally coherent. No irony, no fun, no taking the mick. Just lots of black. Someone should write and let him know.

Another downer is the lack of proper customer lift.

An assistant insists on accompanying us in the service lift. Presumably lest The Bean and I disappear, steal their books and vanish.

Try getting her to talk about books, though.... they might as well be selling sausages.

The service lift lowers itself down to us with impossible slowness. I wheel The Bean in; our minder follows. The outer door closes. The assistant reaches across to the inner gate. It draws shut with a resounding clang.

Posted 17 June 2007 16:25 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Dads Daughter Edinburgh

PostingTagged.... 8 facts about me

My dear fellow blogger Omega Mum tagged me a little while ago, so here goes:

1. When it comes to bedtime I wake up and become energetic. However, I have great difficulty waking up most mornings. I am the reverse of my husband in both respects.

2. Although I am Scottish, I speak with an English accent. Despite this, I become offended if people express doubt that I am really Scottish.

3. My husband and I spent our first night together in a Spanish mountain refuge surrounded by fifty unwashed and flatulent fellow hikers. A trip to the 'toilet' involved abseiling down a nearby cliffside, past a pack of wolverine hounds, complete with camping light strapped to my forehead.

4. Speaking of dogs, I have a pathological terror of the beasts. When I was four I nearly drowned running into the sea to escape one of them. My father ran in after me and pulled me out. I remember sitting in the sand dunes afterwards with my Grandpa, holding my dad's wet trousers out to dry, while my dad wrapped himself as best he could in a towel.

5. The first boy I ever kissed had gargled beforehand with TCP. He was diabetic and had needles for his insulin in his pocket. The worst bit is that he was the one who dumped me.

6. In 1984 I won a letter-writing competition in The Scotsman to be a judge for the Perrier comedy awards at the Edinburgh Fringe. I spent two weeks watching four or five comedy shows daily. I also got to hobnob with lots of journalists and comedians. It was lovely. Except for a minor faux-pas at the final dinner. I misjudged a skittish vol-au-vent that shot out from my plate onto the middle of the table. There was a ghastly pause in which I debated whether to haul it back in or not. Greed eventually got the better of me.

7. I love being outdoors. It is one of my favourite things in the world and where I feel most at peace. I am nearly 6ft tall and a good walker.

8. When I was at university I sank a punt. I cringe now, looking back. My fellow punters and I were so drunk and wet no taxi would take us, so we had to walk home, an hour's trudge via the city's ring road. What's worse, I let someone else explain to the authorities what we'd done.

Posted 15 June 2007 13:35 | Number of comments: 6 | Comments

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