Turning the corner

I found myself humming 'Birds singing in the sycamore trees' as I changed his nappy one morning and realised that we had turned the corner.

I felt in control, reasonably well slept and a powerful pang of love inside as I looked down at my grinning bundle below with his messy bottom. It was ~ week 6, and it was becoming plain to see (touch wood) that Barnaby was a contented baby. With the first signs of Spring in the air, I started to smile at the prospect of not going to work, and realised that motherhood was there to be thoroughly enjoyed.

That turning point gave me the confidence to push the comfort zone a little and attempt journeys that had felt like too much of an ordeal: I took the little man into central London a couple of times and to my office to be coo'd at in- articulately by former colleagues and my old boss. They looked up to see the former Ops Director, now humbled by her adorable son doling out smiles and curious frowns to all around as he dangled from my forearm like a tiger in a tree.

Later I lost my cool when he started to scream outside The Duke of Sussex (our foul Waterloo office local). Realising I'd forgotten his dummy and it was past feed time, I tried to discreetly slip him some milk, but unfortunately my nipple would slip out of his mouth and reveal itself like a damp beacon to an onlooking sales team as we continued a conversation on 2011 targets. His milk drinking farts were powerful enough to explode through his outfit, smearing leaked mustard poo onto my tight fitting diesel jeans, forcing me to change him awkwardly on the pub bench. At least the change served as a distraction to avoid answering the question 'how do you spend each day now', as I don't think 'I pull faces at him for the first hour' would really cut it.

Together with the poo incident, I was reminded of the indignity bestowed to new mothers when I had to beg a bloke in a suit to help me carry the buggy back up the endless stairs at Putney during Friday home time rush hou. I made a note to write to Putney's tory MP re 'lift required' at the busy commuter belt station.

With my new confidence I dared to read Gina Ford's book (slated in my last blog). Before I had unleafed to cover of the book - the word 'routine' had had militarian ruthless connotations for me that I associate with completely different personality types to the surfing chilled out new parents that I'd like to think Alex and I would be. However, on unfurling the pages, I realised that Barnaby was already in somewhat of a routine without us having realised - just with a few opt outs that worked better for me: It's a bit like when I used to manipulate my science experiments at schools to get to the right answer or the Excel fomulae at work to show we were on budget. Where Gina Ford tells you that the baby must be put to bed by 7pm - we do, but quite often in the carry cot on route to the pub to watch the football rather than the dark silent room with the door closed. And where she says bath time must take place at 5.30pm - we re-work it to incorporate bath time 5 mins after when Daddy comes home ~ 6.30. I reflect that Ms Ford could be responsible for thousands of London Dad's missing out on quality gargling bath time. Not being a parent herself, I'm not sure Gina really has a customer led approach to her book - the routine surely needs to work for the parents as well as the contented baby, or it's an oxymoran in my mind. Whilst I agree that sleeping through the night at 2 months would be an epitome, I think some compromises are worth making.