So, I’m getting closer and closer to our due date and I’m worried that I’m not going to be there for Mrs DB at the time she needs to push the hardest. I worry that I’ll be in the clutches of another woman. A woman who has started to get a grip on me that I don’t think is entirely healthy.
It started innocently enough. If anything it was Mrs DB’s fault. She encouraged me. She suggested I talk to her, spend time with her, listen to her, let her smooth me, make me feel better.
And now I lie in bed at night thinking about her. She’s there next to me. She always there. I think about what she would say to me, about what I should do, about which chuffing travel system is the most convenient, about the weight of my night time feed. This woman is literally the ruddy Supernanny.
Oh my god, babies appear complicated.
With B, if he’s hungry, he tells me, I feed him. Until, after 5 weetabix, I decide enough is enough and I’m not willing to be responsible for supervising what comes out at the other end at an indeterminate time later that day. For God’s sake kid, get a routine. I can’t show my face again at the science museum after he shouted across the main hall “Dad, Dad, Dad, I’m going for a massive pile of poo, make sure you tell the dinosaurs”. I can’t look triceratops in the face again after that.
But babies, how do they work? Do they bounce? According to Supernanny they shouldn’t. Do they eat more Weetabix than 1983 and 1985 World’s Strongest Man, Geoff Capes? (Supernanny is surprisingly silent on The Capes issue.) Do I self sooth? Do I do baby ballet? Do I give up?
All I do know is that I’ve never read a set of instructions in my life and I’m not about to start now. The way I see it I can put together a Hemnes chest of draws with nothing more than an Allen key and a bottle of scotch, then why can’t that handtool and finest malt combination get me through parenthood?
So I’ll give it a crack. And if as usual I end up putting piece A6 in the B9 socket, I’ll revert to the usual back up and Mrs DB can just get a man in.