Lads Night In
In order to cope with the triple demands of bi-hourly feedings, earning a living and getting enough sleep on which to survive, Rach and I have fallen into a hectic diurnal rhythm where we see not nearly enough of each other. I get home from work just after seven, whereupon Rachel goes to bed and I mind Baby Fluffy throughout the evening, if I’m lucky snatching a few minutes to eat, do the laundry and pay the bills before swapping over at 11:30 for an extended nap before getting up for work again at 6:40.
The world of parenting is mired in cliché, speculation, contradictory dogma and, predominantly and consequentially, guilt. Pretty much whatever you choose to do apropos your offspring, you can be certain that there’s at least one self-styled expert / family member at hand to advocate the opposite approach and prophesise catastrophic consequences for you negligence. Particularly invidious in this regard are the touted correlations between everything that exists or might exist and SIDS or – for non-parents – Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, which hangs suspended like the sword of Damacles above the infant’s cradle. Paradoxical advice streams across the new parent’s befuddled and sleep-deprived psyche in a similar pattern to the orations of Stalin broadcasted on infinite loop in the sensory deprivation chambers reserved for downed cold war pilots. You may have thought you were starting a family but you were in fact joining the moonies.
Essentially no-one has a clue how to raise a child beyond the obvious, lower-order rungs on Maslow’s needs hierarchy; they may think they do, but they don’t; or, more reasonably, they might, but there’s no way of knowing. That’s right, it’s politics, brothers and sisters.
Let’s face it, hardly spending anytime with my wife is a bit of a downer. But, on the other hand, it will only be a few months until he’s sleeping through the night and, until then, why not take advantage of this unique opportunity for a little father-son bonding? So there we were, Saturday night, relaxing on the sofa with our tipples of choice. I opted for a chilled 30oz Becks with a Baileys chaser (a bit outre, but circumstances have forced me back onto the 'whatever's in the fridge' school of alcoholism), whilst the little fella went for a couple of 3oz bottles of what he euphemistically referred to as ‘milk’, though, by their effect, I suspect of containing a perceptibly more narcotic substance. And for the entertainment, what better than The Transporter and The Transporter 2 back-to-back? I know what you’re thinking: it wouldn’t have happened on Rachel’s watch.
Baby Fluffy at 3 weeks. Sorry Simon - no posed snaps with the proud father this time, but they're coming soon, I'm sure.
Ethan reclining. The little fella lost a bit of weight to begin with but has made up for lost time as can be observed by his new wobbly belly. What is remarkable is just how much I love this little bundle of joy.
Conker reclining. Still cuter. So hang me.
The world of parenting is mired in cliché, speculation, contradictory dogma and, predominantly and consequentially, guilt. Pretty much whatever you choose to do apropos your offspring, you can be certain that there’s at least one self-styled expert / family member at hand to advocate the opposite approach and prophesise catastrophic consequences for you negligence. Particularly invidious in this regard are the touted correlations between everything that exists or might exist and SIDS or – for non-parents – Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, which hangs suspended like the sword of Damacles above the infant’s cradle. Paradoxical advice streams across the new parent’s befuddled and sleep-deprived psyche in a similar pattern to the orations of Stalin broadcasted on infinite loop in the sensory deprivation chambers reserved for downed cold war pilots. You may have thought you were starting a family but you were in fact joining the moonies.
Essentially no-one has a clue how to raise a child beyond the obvious, lower-order rungs on Maslow’s needs hierarchy; they may think they do, but they don’t; or, more reasonably, they might, but there’s no way of knowing. That’s right, it’s politics, brothers and sisters.
Let’s face it, hardly spending anytime with my wife is a bit of a downer. But, on the other hand, it will only be a few months until he’s sleeping through the night and, until then, why not take advantage of this unique opportunity for a little father-son bonding? So there we were, Saturday night, relaxing on the sofa with our tipples of choice. I opted for a chilled 30oz Becks with a Baileys chaser (a bit outre, but circumstances have forced me back onto the 'whatever's in the fridge' school of alcoholism), whilst the little fella went for a couple of 3oz bottles of what he euphemistically referred to as ‘milk’, though, by their effect, I suspect of containing a perceptibly more narcotic substance. And for the entertainment, what better than The Transporter and The Transporter 2 back-to-back? I know what you’re thinking: it wouldn’t have happened on Rachel’s watch.
Baby Fluffy at 3 weeks. Sorry Simon - no posed snaps with the proud father this time, but they're coming soon, I'm sure.
Ethan reclining. The little fella lost a bit of weight to begin with but has made up for lost time as can be observed by his new wobbly belly. What is remarkable is just how much I love this little bundle of joy.
Conker reclining. Still cuter. So hang me.
posted by Richard Tammar at 6:07 PM
2 Comments:
I'm concerned. To borrow from Oscar Wilde, "To watch one Jason Statham film, Mr Tammar, may be regarded as ironic; to watch two looks like carelessness." Should we send you some DVDs to keep you entertained?
yes, I rather thought that might be your attitude, so just to spite you I'm planning a night of Ultraviolet back-to-back with Aeon Flux.
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