Don’t do the Maths! – James Ellis in words

Passing the time with a six-month-old

One of the joys of being a second bloom parent is that when the Baby King looks closely at my face, he instinctively reaches for the loose folds of my skin.

At least he’s too young to comment. At his age there is only the bald unvarnished truth and for me, obviously, the truth is bald. But I’m going with my niece’s idea (when she was four) that I haven’t lost my hair at all, it has actually yet to grow. ‘There are already some fluffy bits at the back,’ she told me. My hair ebbs and flows like sea – and currently the tide is out.

A close inspection of my face is one of the ways in which my son and I pass the time. He pulls my lips out as far as they can stretch, prises open my eyelids and closes my nostrils until my ears pop. It’s great fun. Blowing raspberries is another excellent use of a few minutes. I pretend we’re practising the two different phonemes, “th”, but really we’re just making funny noises. You can keep your satire, wit and deconstructive comedy. If you want a really good laugh, blow a raspberry.

But these activities, brilliant though they are, are not sustainable for an entire day. It’s thirty years since I was last the father of a six-month-old baby and I had forgotten that at this age he will spend much of his time attached to either Sally or me. And he insists we are always be on the move to satisfy his vestigial instinct to keep one step ahead of the predators.

Carrying a baby around the house is how I imagine walking on another planet would be. Ordinary movements become planned manoeuvres and ongoing terrain assessments. When I walk down the steps I look exactly like Neil Armstrong descending from the lunar landing module.

I still have my muscle-memory from the old days: picking up, putting down, carrying around. It’s the muscles that are missing. However, as his royal pleasure is to endlessly bounce up and down on my lap, I can use him as a free weight workout. If I do five sets of twenty lifts every day I could expect a respectable pair of deltoids by the time he is three.

We take him out as much as possible, travelling light with just a buggy and/or a sling, a fully-equipped nappy bag, extra bottles of milk, thermos covers, a blanket, a rain cover, toys, hats, muslin cloths, bibs and a change of clothes (just in case). We can often be ready to go in under an hour these days.

… Incidentally, on the subject of clothes, a message for sleep suit manufacturers – please ditch the poppers and buttons. At three in the morning, in the half-light, with a squirming baby on a changing mat, lining up a set of poppers is not helpful. Zips: ankle to neck, with built in scratch mitts. Thank you …

We take him to swimming lessons as well. He’s doing fine having been dunked weekly for the last three months. His incredulous look that I would do such a thing to him has passed. Now he assumes that if I am in the pool then sooner or later he’s going under. He’s clearly biding his time for when he’s big enough to return the favour.

As often as possible, we sit quietly with a picture book. It’s nice to be reacquainted with such authors as Shirley Hughes, Jill Murphy and Judith Kerr. I recommend The Great Dog Bottom Swap by Peter Bentley and Mei Matsuoka. It’s excellent. I read to him and we discuss the characters’ motivations and our expectations as readers, but all he really wants to do is to eat the book.

… while I am recommending books, I am consuming a lot of fiction myself, especially in the wee small hours. So these days I appreciate a shorter book and I recommend the novella, A Month In The Country by J L Carr. It’s a quiet story set a small village after the end of the First World War. The hero is one of the few people in the country who can uncover medieval murals in churches, and his immersion into local life, his thoughts on his work and his fragile situation are a gentle study of bucolic life, love, death and the dull ache of regret for missed opportunities, both big and small. A Month In The Country is a Penguin Modern Classic and costs about £8.99 …

At night, with the Baby King falling asleep on my lap exhausted after a day of poking his fingers into my eyeballs, bouncing up and down, raspberry-blowing, swimming, travelling and book-eating, it is my turn to look at his perfect face.

It is the most wonderful moment. I gaze at him and become lost in the thought that soon, surely, the tide will turn and my hair will grow back again.

Still learning after all these years

We love our house. It’s quirky and unusual and a bit bonkers with unexpected nooks and crannies and secret doorways. But love it though we do, before our new little housemate was born I was concerned its very quirkiness might make it a not-very-child-friendly environment.

I needn’t have worried. It turns out it is very child-friendly indeed. Unusually friendly. Particularly in a certain corner which, to my untrained eye, is just a point where two walls meet and has a few hooks for our hats.

However, every time the boychild looks at it he starts smiling and chortling, chatting and chuckling. His eyes follow movements I can’t see and if I insert my face into his line of vision he tries to look around me. It happens without fail any time; day or night. As soon as he looks into that corner his eyes light up and he becomes thoroughly entertained.

Obviously, the plausible explanation is he can see people who aren’t there. Who they are, I don’t know – although I have tried to see them (squinting eyes, photographs, dimmed lights). Are they previous residents? Mischievous imps or poltergeist? The ghosts and phantoms of our ancestors? (I hope so.) Or is it a portal to another realm? Whatever he sees, they/it makes him very happy. So, I’m fine with it and they’re all welcome. I think.

As I write this, the little cherub is two months’ old – and not so little any more. Quite a sturdy seraph. He’s doubled his birth weight and moved up two nappy sizes. It won’t be long before he’s doing bench presses. This is entirely down to Sally’s infinite motherly bounty. In years to come when he is striding around like a Goliath, robust and resistant, bonded and attached, I shall remind him of all the sleep his mother sacrificed for his comfort – and invoice him.

Having already had three children I was vain enough to think I had all the Dad bases covered, but I was wrong. I am still learning the most basic facts about parenting, not least the astonishing absorbency of today’s nappies. Here are a couple of things I’ve discovered recently. Ever heard of cluster feeding? We couldn’t have been paying attention at the breast-feeding workshop because we hadn’t and apparently it’s very common.

‘In the early months a baby will occasionally want to breast feed almost constantly for 24 hours.’

You might want to read that sentence again. I won’t dwell on how exhausted an already tired person will be after 24 hours of no sleep, or how painful constant feeding can be on a person’s mamillae (let’s face it, I am never going to discuss family body parts in a public blog), but it’s not good. I can best describe it in terms of a sci-fi film where a benign alien is brought back to the spaceship and shortly afterwards it turns into a screaming, open-mouthed monster that eats all the crew. That’s the little cherub when he’s cluster feeding. There is no negotiating with him.

Another thing new to me was tongue tie. I thought that was just a phrase but it is another of these very common conditions – and our son had it. But it only took one fast procedure, literally seconds, and he was free. How have I got this far and not known about these things? I really like the fact I am still learning, that I am being shaken from my complacency, that having a new baby in my life is bringing me back to the beginning – which is exactly where I should be with him.

Some people have asked me how I’m coping with a new born child at my age. I try not to take offence at that qualifier because I know they mean it kindly and don’t intend to push all my buttons. The truth is, I’m not ‘coping’ at all. I am more than coping. I am positively thriving. I change his nappies with one hand while I push his pram with the other (that’s not true but you catch my drift). I bound, I leap, I lift and I carry. I’ve never been so vigorous. (Although, obviously, my knees are shot and I’m a martyr to my back and don’t get me started on my tendonitis.)

But more than any physical consideration, I have been surprised by an unexpected calmness, a mindful attitude that has come with being a second bloom parent. I think it’s because I have grown-up children and I’ve lived the journey from their babyhood to the wonderful adults they are today. I have experienced the parental transition from being the star around which their lives revolve to a supporting actor with a walk-on role.

I probably owe them a big apology. I’m sorry I wasn’t better prepared and informed and perhaps most importantly, relaxed, during their early years – not relaxed in a ‘leave the baby on the car roof’ kind of way, but in a ‘I don’t have to spoil the moment by worrying about it’ way. I want the soundtrack of this baby’s childhood to be one of ‘yes’ and ‘do’, and not of ‘no’ and ‘don’t’. He may not have the fastest dad in the playground (and I do intend to challenge that assumption at some point) but he will most definitely have one of the most mellow.

Perhaps what he sees in that friendly corner in our house are not just ghosts from the past, but a view into a happy future. I hope so (I hope even more that I’m in it). Our quirky house has turned out to be a calm-and-kind-child-friendly environment. And if a baby can find delight in a blank corner with a few hats hanging up, then that is just wonderful. I hope I can learn from him the art of finding joy in the commonplace. Knees permitting.

A note to my newly born son

Dear little one – you might have noticed a change of surroundings and are asking yourself, what the hell happened the other night?

Well, you’ve been born.

Don’t panic. We’ve all been through it. The experience will fade and you’ll remember it only in dreams that leave you feeling strangely wistful in late middle-age. And no, I’m afraid there’s no way back.

I know, it is very light and very loud, and not always as warm as the 40C you’ve been used to, but we will keep you wrapped up in sleep-suits that have ears and humorous cartoons on them. Yes, a tailored jacket would look more stylish but I couldn’t find one in your size. And don’t worry about the masks – we’re not going to burgle you. It’s the preferred dress code on Planet Earth at the moment.

I was there for the whole thing – and before you ask, I’m fine. There was a bad moment when I ran out of snacks but other than that, it was a breeze. I chose not to cut the cord. I hope you don’t mind. I just thought giving a sharp pair of scissors to an over-tired man who had been playing with the gas and air all day was a risk we didn’t need to take.

I did take lots of photos and videos, though. When I was born only my mum and dad knew it was happening – and our dog Scamp (who was no use at all as a birthing partner). And no-one had a camera. You have over a dozen WhatsApp groups being updated with your progress. Your arrival was greeted by more than two hundred messages of love. You have Facebook and Instagram likes, and already more people know of you than I have physically met.

Our midwives, Cecile and Izzy, were wonderful. And even more so was your mother: pushing and pausing, holding and catching, doing everything right for you – as she will for the rest of her life. I’m afraid I did take a few shots of your actual arrival. I know, where is the dignity in that? But I thought in years to come as you grapple with existential questions you might want to see that most amazing moment when you left the warmth of your prenatal home and joined us.

Because suddenly, there you were, Day One, looking a little outraged (but who could blame you) as you were pulled free, wrapped in towels and given to your mother for the first of a centillion kisses. A baby. Already a brother, a cousin, a nephew, a grandson and even an uncle. And our beautiful boy. Perfect in every conceivable way.

Welcome. I am so unbelievably pleased to meet you. x

P.S. your mother has made it clear that the close-up slo-mo video of you actually being born will not be shared with any group, family or otherwise.

A Christmas message to my soon to be born baby

Dear little one, it’s your father again. You may have noticed your accommodation has less legroom than before. That’s because you will be born soon! I know. It’s amazing. Did you read that pamphlet on Ontology and Existentialism by Heidegger? No? It’s okay, I’ve put a copy in your cot.

If you are studying your exit route and think there’s a mistake in the diagram, I’m afraid there isn’t. (Your mother raised a similar concern.) Just push south and keep your head down. I imagine there will be a buzzer or a bell to let you know when to go. Remember, tidy up and hold on to anything you want to keep. You won’t be able to go back for it.

I have begun ‘bending down and picking up’ exercises. Throwing things onto the floor, especially food, will be a great game for you. The trick is to throw one thing, wait for me to bend down, and then throw something else so it hits me on the head. With a little practice you should be able keep this going for hours, or until I start weeping.

Do you like soft toys? I hope so because we have gathered quite a collection here. In fact, your belongings-to-be take up most of the house. But you can keep everything you want for as long as you want. Your things are your things and we will never get rid of them without your permission. We have also cornered the market in nappies and between you and me, it would be financially disastrous if you’re not incontinent. So, fill your boots or, to be more precise, your underwear.

You might be wondering if you have a name. Well, that is a BIG topic. At the moment we rotate through ‘bump’, ‘baby’, ‘little one’ and ‘that thing in there’, none of which would work well on your first day at school. We have a shortlist and I promise there are no anagrams of our names, no words used by an ancient druid, and no nouns selected at random from a dictionary – although I was drawn to Biscuit and Womble during the summer. The good news is, you will grow into whatever name we give you and because it is your name, we will all love it immediately.

I have put together a list of early reading for you, but you can throw it away if you like because I never want you to feel that reading is a chore, or that books aren’t fun. I won’t even mind if you don’t like reading. But, just in case:

Peanuts by Charles Schulz – I have them all. Don’t worry if you drop them in the bath. I did. We can dry them on the radiator.
The Complete Calvin & Hobbes by Bill Watterson – yes, you can have a toy tiger; no, not a real one.
The Crab With The Golden Claws by Hergé – when you go to school ask your reception class teacher what opium is.
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell – this might be a stretch.

You can watch any film you like as long as we say you can, and listen to any music you want – especially if we say it’s awful. Music your parents don’t like is the best music to play loudly. Oh, and if you get into Gaming would you mind if I occasionally played along? I hear things have moved on since Mario Kart 64, and I have some catching up to do.

Anyway, aside from all this, the reason I’m writing is because I want to wish you a Merry Christmas. Christmas is a big deal out here. It is all about peace and goodwill and helping those who find it hard to help themselves, and the gluttonous commercial commoditisation of the act of giving. You will be spending Christmas with us because you are literally inside our family bubble (I’ll tell you all about this another time). Everyone should get a present at Christmas, even if it’s just a kind word or a few minutes of someone’s time. We are lucky; you are our present.

Merry Christmas, little one x

P.S. don’t worry if you didn’t have time to send a card. It’s fine.

A note to my yet to be born baby

Dear little one, it’s your father here. How are you doing in there? Do you have everything you need? If you want any extras, put them on my bill.

Now you’re minus-three-months-old I thought I’d write because there’s something I need to tell you – I’m probably going to be the oldest parent in the playground. Sorry. There is nothing I can do about this and I promise if I could make myself younger, I would. But as things stand, you are stuck with an older father.

What does this mean? Well, when I bend my knees they sound like grit in a tumble-dryer. I say ‘Ahhhh’ whenever I sit down and sometimes my skeleton forgets to join in when I stand up. My cultural reference points are mostly in the last century and, as I’m sure you’re already aware, I whistle a lot and shout at the television all the time (it’s a family thing).

You’re probably now considering your options, such as adoption, fostering or joining a circus. But before you make any plans here are some benefits you may want to consider: you will be able to outrun me as soon as you can walk; you can hide my glasses and become, for all intents and purposes, invisible; and best of all, we can synchronise our naps in the afternoon.

Also, apart from having the most amazing mother in the cosmos (that’s universe, not cocktails – although both apply), you have three grown-up siblings who can teach you how to play me to your maximum advantage. They have honed their manipulative techniques over many years and they’re all there for you to use, for free.

And you will be the beneficiary of the immense knowledge I have accumulated. For example, I am really good at long division (I’ll probably teach you that before you start school). And you will have access to a library of books it’s taken me a lifetime to read, the best mid-century British film collection outside the BFI – and don’t get me started on my playlist of 70s prog rock… actually, I’m serious, don’t get me started. I’ve been warned about it.

So, that’s a good package, isn’t it? And I won’t be one of those needy, high-maintenance, hysterical fathers desperate to make their children something they’re not. I’m through with all that. I want you to be exactly… you. I won’t even get picky with your grammar (I will really). I’ll be focusing my energies on low-impact parenting – like having fun, looking for where you’ve hidden my glasses, and respecting the afternoon nap.

Anyway, that’s all for now. Don’t worry about writing back. Oh, there is one other thing, I may well be the oldest parent in the playground, but you will be the most loved, the most precious, the most adored little boy or girl or gender-fluid non-binary entity in the whole school – or anywhere else for that matter. And I won’t negotiate on that.

P.S. a message from your mother: would you mind not jumping on her bladder so much? Thanks.