Definely funny weird, rather than funny ha-ha. Now I’m in my mid-thirties (I know it’s hard to believe with my youthful good looks…) I, like most people, have been in a few. Sometimes – say at the arrival of a child, it’s a happy time. Sometimes it’s just plain sad, when you’re saying goodbye to someone or watching the erstwhile strong fade away. Quite often, though, it just feels like something you do, something to get through, unpleasant in many senses but just kind of there, a gentle reminder that life doesn’t always go entirely to plan.

Which is a terribly roundabout way of saying that we’re here again. This time Rohan is the troublemaker: a cold turned into a bad cold turned into a chesty thing turned into what doctors now think is ‘Bronchialitus’ (no, I hadn’t heard of it, either). He’s gonna be fine, but is in a plastic hood whotsit while he fights the virus. He also has a feeding tube and an ET-like glowing toe attachment. It all looks alarming but is actually quite straightforward. The hood is the baby version of an oxygen mask to just help him breathe a bit easier, the tube means he doesn’t have to expend valuable energy and air on eating, and the glowing toe thing measures his heart rate and blood oxygen. I know about the latter because I – sadly – looked it up on my PDA and discovered that it works because light is absorbed differently depending on how the blood is oxygenated. It doesn’t, unfortunately, give Rohan the means to signal to alien beings, which is a shame because I’ve always fancied a ride up there and he’s way cuter than ET ever was.

Most of the time the defining feature of hospitals is the waiting. And that’s why I’m here, writing a blog post on my phone, waiting for the next feed, the next night, the next day and of course for him to get better.

In some senses I’m the ideal person to have around during times like this: I’m terribly calm, very pragmatic and generally fairly unphased. In other ways, I can see that I’d be a right pain in the arse: it just doesn’t come naturally for me to worry and I can see that I could easily come across as a cold fish. Working out the medical tech and blogging from hospital sound like echoes from a Daily Mail headline: “‘Mr Ellis sat cooly by’ said one nurse who refused to be named, ‘…all he cared about was the gadgetry…’”

Anyway. There was a funny moment last night just before I left Rach and Rohan here. He’d been miserable all day with lots of coughing and crying. Then the nurse put the hood on him and within about 5 minutes of the oxygen starting an enormous grin was on his face. He looked like a dodgy clubber coming up on a handful of E: red, watery eyes, pale skin and a huge ear-to-ear smile…

Anyway, young Rohan. Here’s the bottom line: you might be a little bit noisy at night and mildly grumpy from time to time. I do like you quite a lot, though, and much as I’m a gadget fan, it’d be better to play with them at home, ok? Get well as soon as you can. I miss you, and it’s only been 24 hours.

But before we go, do pass the oxygen….

Why is this important? Because he has learnt how to speak/walk/eat on his own? No. Because he can now fend for himself? No. Because he has started sleeping through? No (although he’s getting pretty good at the whole sleeping thing..). Because he has left home and gone to university? No.

Important though each of these milestones is, 2 months is more important.

It’s the point at which you can start giving your children Calpol.

Who only knows what this magical potion has in it? It is probably a secret more closely guarded than the Coca Cola secret formula. If I was in charge of Calpol Inc., I’d be guarding it closely, too. Anything that can turn a screaming maniac banshee child into a calm, restful, sleeping one is worth [insert large sum here] to a parent.

So far (so far: remember, I’ve done this before, and I know damn well that TEETH – the bastards – are just round the corner..), Rohan has been an absolute star. But to have the safety net of Calpol is a huge relief.

There are people out there (normally those without children, note) who swear they’ll never 1) put their kids in front of the TV or 2) use pain-relieving drugs. To them I say , simply, ARSE.

Now with a bit of random surfing on the infosuperhighweb I’ve discovered that not only are there apparently loads of people out there with the same fear, but it’s got a name, too: omphalophobia.

Yes, it’s a fear of belly buttons. Stop laughing at the back there…phobias aren’t supposed to be rational…

There are two big moments where omphalophobics (?) really suffer during parenthood:

1. With the question “Do you want to cut the cord?”…Sorry? Pardon? Come again? I can’t even begin to find the words for how much I completely don’t, in any way whatsoever, ever, under any circumstances, even if my life and that of my family were at risk, want to cut the cord. I not only don’t want to cut the cord, I also don’t want to see it, touch it, go near it or think about it. And frankly, I also want to stop writing about it as soon as possible as well.

2. When that damn plastic clipped nastiness that is the remains of the fooking cord falls off. Usually somewhere unexpected (like in your damn bed), usually when the omphalophobic is in charge. No. Bad arrangement. I vote for leaving your newborn in hospital as a matter of course until that fucker is sorted out, cleaned up, no longer an issue. In fact, I vote for a surgical procedure to seal up the belly button as soon as birth occurs. If we did that for a few thousand years surely evolution would just start producing kids without the need? What would be wrong with just simply NOT having belly-buttons? It’s not like they bring anything to the party, apart from fluff.

Do you think it’s alright to be completely in love with 99.8% of your new son, but not the last 0.2%…?

Anyway, what was this blog post about again? Ah yeah, Rohan’s plastic thingy dropped off, mercifully early, and I didn’t have to deal with it. Thank fuck for that.

The yoof has been home two nights now (and a couple of days too, apparently, although it’s a bit of a blur) and I’m being reminded of what it means to not get a good nights’ sleep.

I have to say that it’s a load better it being summer time: Dan was born mid-December so once we were installed at home and had got Christmas out of the way it was pretty much January. And how shit is January, really? It’s dark, cold, cash-poor and you spend most of it with that post-Christmas “must eat salad and lose 10 pounds” feeling. Miserable. They should ban January, same as Tuesdays. (If I haven’t drunkenly ranted to you before about Tuesdays, here’s my theory: Monday = ok, still a blur from the weekend. Wednesday = ok, middle of the week and the end is in sight. Thursday = ok, pretty much Friday. Friday IS Saturday. Saturday and Sunday = obviously ok. Which leaves Tuesday. Rubbish.)

Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. Sleep.

The boy is starving all the time and, I guess not suprisingly, doesn’t much like being places other than lodged on top of me or Rach. Given he’s spent 9 months with loads of gurglings and heartbeats and body movement that’s not altogether suprising. Last night at about 2am I was lying there inventing a kind of artificial chest thingy to attach new-borns to, with a heartbeat sound, some breathing movement and a little body-temperature heater. What do you think? Can I retire yet?

So here I am writing a blog post. Dan is out shopping with the parents-in-law, and Rohan is in a sling just in front of me. Which proves I’m a new man, surely?

Everything certainly seems a lot less dark this time around, both mentally and I guess cos it’s not January, physically, too. Having Dan around is just so hilarious it takes the focus off the inevitable inward-lookingness of these first few weeks. But ask me again once the sleep-deprivation starts inducing hallucinations.

(Really) short version of labour:

7am: small contractions
2pm: bigger ones
4pm: really, really big ones
6pm: hospital (didn’t get lost. Yay!)
7pm: expecting birth any second now…
8pm: in the bath.
10pm: things slowing down!
11pm: things speeding up!
11.18pm: pop

Turns out he started OP (Second dad, see, I know all the terms. For you amateurs out there that means back to back, hurts a lot, not a good thing..). This was even after Rach had spent weeks sitting on inflatable balls, not slouching, doing yoga and eating pizza while hanging off the ceiling (I made that last one up). The midwife was incredible in persuading him to turn around: loads of different positions and some hocus-pocus down the “other end” (the place to which we, as dads, do not go during labour..) which all worked spectacularly in the end.

So, he stayed chilled all the way through, came out with a big cry and then started rooting for food almost straight away. He’s absolutely lovely – LOTS of hair (more than me, goddamit), amazing fingers and toes and incredibly alert – already looking for any gadgets to fiddle with, I reckon.

My thoughts on the whole experience: fucking amazing, but ouch.

Anyway. Today we may well be experiencing the beginning stages of labour, apparently. It all has to do with (look away now if you’re squeamish): mucus plugs and shows, about which I don’t want to hear any more, ever, thanks. Anyway, this is new to us – last time, the rip-cord pulling ensured that 3am the day before was the first we knew – none of this slow glide, week long circling approach to the runway of childbirth.

So here I am, just writing a quick post while, er, not much happens. After that, I’m off out into the garden to finish wiring up the network to my dad-shed, popping back to the house every so often to see if anything has changed. We could be all finished by this time tomorrow, or hanging around for another month. Who knows.

All this tech together with all this baby stuff brings to mind a question I’ve been pondering: could I live-blog the arrival of my second child? I’m sure I could work out a network connection in the hospital, maybe a webcam? I mean, if techies can do it at conferences, surely I could…? No? Maybe you’re right…

“Alright, Rach?”

“Yes darling. Just some mild back pain.”

“…’normal back pain’ or ‘coming and going’ kind of back pain…?”

“I’m not sure”

“…’really not sure’ or ‘sort of not sure’…?”

“I don’t know, really”

“…’don’t know’ in what kind of a way…?”

“In a really, really don’t know kind of ‘really don’t know’ kind of way. I REALLY don’t fucking know.”

“…what does that mean, exactly…?”

etc.

11am: Nothing. Obviously just “normal back pain”…

Being aware of the space around me – that feeling of change you get when you move house and go around it one last time to check you haven’t left any socks, suits or pianos in the empty rooms – is really starting to make the whole new baby thing feel very real. With that reality, I’m suddenly finding lots of memories are returning. I’m not big on memory – that’s what computers and lists are for – but it’s just come back to me, for example, that there was a period of time during the dark days of the first 6 months when I used to have earplugs hidden under my side of the bed.

Now, before you go thinking that I’m one of those “works all day, therefore I’m entitled to a good nights’ sleep, woman, and while you’re at it where’s my damn supper, stop moaning, nothing wrong with the missionary position?” type husbands – I’m not. I’m big on getting up, helping with feeds, sharing the tiredness, sympathising about sore nipples, breast pumping and all that stuff.

The fact that I had earplugs, however – not just any earplugs, but sneaky ones that I used to pop in when Rach wasn’t looking – says a few things to me in the cold light of day which I’d only admit to my nearest and dearest:

1. I was obviously stupid, because everyone knows earplugs don’t work,

2. I’m actually a bastard – the worst kind, because I masquerade as a caring kind of guy,

3. I should watch out because I have also been known to wear an eyemask, and not many marriages are built on the sexiness of sensory deprivation

In my defence: at the time, these factors disappeared into the blur. In fact anything sensible disappeared into the blur. There was a night, for instance, when I set up my laptop screen saver just in front of the Moses basket because I thought Dan would like it. Another night when I spent hours downloading and editing a heartbeat sound so I could leave it playing next to his cot. And don’t mention the projecting mobile Disney light thingy which I bought from Mothercare. Then too I was convinced that it would be the answer to all our problems. Only later did it become clear that Dan couldn’t see nearly far enough away for him to give a shit about the picture of Tigger dancing on the ceiling, and that actually he found the whole projection thing more unsettling than calming.

So the question is: have I learnt any kind of a lesson?

Maybe ask me at 3am in a couple of weeks as I strap my eye/ear combo on, plug in the lappie and power up the projector…

I was sitting upstairs in my office just now when my ears started pulsating with the sound of what sounded like a murder outside the house. Where we live is a long way from being unpleasant but I have discovered a mild addiction by passers-by to SHOUT a lot. Usually it’s at around 2am, when I really need to be on the ball the following day…

Anyway. The shouting continued, so being a top curtain-twitching kind of person, I snuck through to our bedroom so I could see what was going on. Across the road was a small boy, probably 6 or 7 years old, not being murdered, but screaming – and being screamed at – by his heavily-tattooed mother. I only caught the end of the argument and it had all got a bit heated by then but what happened next shocked me.

She didn’t hit him, or box his ears or anything physical.

Instead, she opened her bag, pulled out one of his toys, put it calmly on the floor…and stamped on it.

How appallingly cruel, and shit, and gutless is that? How much of a pit have you got to have crawled into in order to lose your rag that much at your child? What a completely stupid, fuckwit arsehole of a parent are you to be that far out of control?

Now, I haven’t got a 6/7 year old (yet). But I’ve got a 2.5 year old, and yes, he can test the patience of a saint at the worst of times. But always – always – there’s a sense of keeping control, having to rise above it, remembering that kids are still people, and little ones at that. Sometimes it’s hard – really hard. I’m not as good as I could be, and sometimes I lose it and shout when I really don’t mean to. But I have also learned that kids always test the boundaries, and a losing-the-plot type moment does absolutely nothing for anybody – in fact if anything it gives them more attention and makes it more likely that they’ll do it again next time.

Take what happens when you stamp on your childs toy, for example: Small boy goes apoplectic. Screams get louder and more obscene (he starts calling his mum a “willy”), mum stomps off down the street. Neighbourhood is treated to 5 minutes of boy lying on the floor crying before he heads off to do some more shouting. Street covered in broken-toy litter. No one wins. And that’s all the practical stuff, without even mentioning the damage done to the poor kids’ psyche.

Enough ranting. I hope it works out. But I’m betting after another 10 years of that, he’ll end up being the one kicking the shit out of someone else smaller than him.

Having not done a huge amount of either one, I’m probably not best placed to comment but it always seemed to me that with both you’re either incredibly, terribly bored or absolutely shitting yourself because something fast and heavy is likely to hit your head any second.

Sitting and eating lunch with my wife just now, I realised that expecting your second baby is very similar. Not the heavy thing hitting your head – that would indeed be a remarkable labour – but the boredom. I’m actually pretty bored with the whole thinking and talking about pregnancy thing now (says the half of the relationship who doesn’t actually have to do anything – but she says so too…) but also terrified that it’s going to be a huge amount of worry all over again. Frankly, I’m scared of Going Over The Top. Or Batting. Or something.

Don’t get me wrong. Hidden behind both fear and boredom is a huge dollop of excitement. So fear ye not, #2 child, when you dig out this “blog” thing from the “internet” (whatever that was) and find that your father once wrote about your imminent arrival – I’m already in love with you, and looking forward very much to meeting you. It’s just that, well, doing it for the second time you have the HUGE advantage of knowing what’s coming up. But also the HUGE disadvantage of knowing what’s coming up. If you see what I mean.

With my lovely boy, Dan, who is now 2.5 (“nearly 3, daddy”, or so he keeps telling me), things seemed hard. Exzma (ezxma/exma/ecszma/whatever – still after 3 years I can’t bloody spell it), a long labour, depression, all compacted by not having a fookin clue about anything – all made for an interesting ride. I mean, the fear you feel not knowing when the end of the tunnel is coming – in fact, the complete lack of any understanding at all about the tunnel, the train, the journey or even what day you set off – is insanely intense. It’s no wonder you get to about month 3 – I did, anyway – and think “Fuck. This is it. The end of my life. No more going out, ever. No more friends. No more holidays. Just shit, puke, crying, broken nights. From here on up, until the end of eternity.”

Thinking about it, I had a moment much earlier on, minutes after Dan was born. I’d just wandered over to have a look at my beautiful new baby, a minute staring lovingly into his face. And what did he do? Stopped breathing and turned blue. Probably the shock of seeing me. But at that moment, I had a flash of “I will never, ever be able to stop worrying, ever again”. And then, a few days later at 4 in the morning with him in his Moses basket snoring/rumbling/spluttering like a sailor after a 60 Senior Service evening, I imagined the bad comedy camera shot starting on my face and then zooming out to show both me and Rach staring upwards, fear in our eyes, each pretending to the other that it was all ok.

In the end, of course, it is so much more than ok. Mine is a world surrounded and immersed in my first child, and shortly to be surrounded and immersed in my second. We have a lovely life – and a beautiful, funny, clever little boy. Now, of course, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

The secret is that babies, to be honest, aren’t actually terribly interesting, are they? They are, however, the means to about the best end you could hope for.