Shit Actually Does Happen

If you can smell poo it's usually because there's poo. That is the new rule in this house.

There were times you could smell something disgusting and there were no need to roll up your sleeves and take a big breath. I'd be sat on the sofa watching some TV or just pottering around on the Internet, minding my own business, and my nose would twitch, eye brows would raise and I would glare around confused. It ALMOST always turned out to be a random drift from the drains or the dog farting and I would go back to my usual activity without a care in the world. 

Now if I catch a scent I'm in full alert mode.

Immediately stand up. Roll up the sleeves. Take a big breath. And go! It doesn't phase me what I might encounter, I have had it all. I've been to hell and back. It couldn't get any worse.

I've had the weetabix concrete that is impossible to get off, the chicken korma, the strange rabbit droppings, the green mucus, the Tarmac, the redecorated wall, the bath of poo and the full on hazmat suit required atom bomb explosion. And this week I've had the dog joining in on the fun. Literally, shit everywhere! It was like a shit farm in the living room. The shit was reproducing.

There's never a false alarm. Just shit. If I can smell it, it's happening. Somewhere, sometime soon in a place very near to me. Shit is coming. And if mum isn't around there's no chance I can pretend it's not.

How Dare YOU!

How dare you enjoy the British outdoors after 7.30pm this Summer.

Light nights as the sun sets turning the sky golden orange. Dripping water droplets from recently watered hanging baskets brimming with colourful petals. Warm air wafts through open windows as buzzing bees search for their next pollen raid. A ten year old girl riding her bike down the street clicking her gears and yelling 'Tracey!! Tracey!! It's this way Tracey!'. The boy from number 16 repeatedly bouncing his football on the curb. A car pulls up across the road with someone resembling Ali G driving to the heavy bass sounds of Rudimental with his windows wound down and whole car vibrating. The neighbour spends 10minutes clanging her empty wine bottles from their earlier BBQ garden party in the recycling bins at the front of the house (why the fuck does she have her bins at the front right next to Evie's bedroom window?!?). Dogs bark in the park at the end of the street calling for their master to throw the tennis ball again. An ice cream van turns the corner broadcasting his melodic tunes like some kind of ice cream pied piper. 

And I'm stood at my window, in my pyjamas already, staring out in disgust, thinking to myself...HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! Don't you realise it's 7.30pm? Babies are trying to sleep you know! Shouldn't you all be inside tip toeing around? Some of us have been up all night and will be again tonight. You bunch of selfish and ignorant happy carefree LUCKY bastards.

New for Old

I will never own anything new ever again.

Mum has been on maternity leave from work for 12months and goes back to work in a week. This is daunting and upsetting for us both. I work early mornings so up until now we've had lots of time together in the afternoons to hang out in John Lewis cafe trying to convince everyone we are rich enough to not have to work. I always used to wonder who those people were who could afford to hang out in cafes in the afternoon rather than be at work, turns out they're not lottery winners but skint parents seeking refuge from their brick cell of baby agony. But now, for us, that all ends.

And if you're thinking, well now mum is back at work we can stop trying to convince ourselves that statutory maternity pay is enough and begin to get back on track financially, You are wrong. When deciding to go back to work we had to decide whether to pay for Evie in a nursery or leave her at home with the dog and use the money to buy a small island in the Caribbean. Of course we chose to send Evie to nursery, after all who wants to hang out under a coconut tree in the Caribbean anyway?!

So we've had to buy a second car to get us all to work in the mornings. The budget was what some people would spend on a night out in Swindon. So as you can imagine the choice was bleak. There was the car with a list of failures on the MOT longer than Katie Prices' divorce list. The car being sold by Ali G's dodgy mate "Big Dave" that needed a coat hanger to get it started. And then the car that had a bloody cassette tape player...WTF!!?

The challenge of finding a safe, reliable car that didn't resemble something out of Fawlty Towers made me realise I will never own something new ever again. From now on I'll be scanning Gumtree for sofas that don't have 'too many stains' or a tumble dryer that 'just needs some tlc'. I'll be cleaning up second hand boots from ebay saying 'they'll come up as new after some polish'. Or Christmas shopping for gifts at the Car Boot. I'll never get that new smell, when you peal open the packaging and your nostrils are greeted with the intoxicating aroma of glue and styrofoam. And I'll never have piles of bubble wrap strewn all over my living room calling out to be popped, biten and stamped on.

So next time you take a delivery of your next new appliance, think of me sat at the lights calling out the RAC to come rescue me in my 13year old Ford Focus listening to 2Unlimited on cassette tape.

Fathers Day Gifts

What do dads want for Father's Day?

As I begin to write this post another email notification on my phone pops up. This time it's from NotOnTheHighStreet.com and it is advertising some potential Fathers Day gift ideas. I've had lots of these recently. 

Card websites are bombarding me with promotions for personalised Fathers Day cards all containing cliché football, gardening or car designs. I don't understand the offside rule, I absolutely hate anything in the garden except the BBQ and my favourite thing about my car is the Bluetooth phone connectivity.

Then there's 'family friendly restaurants' offering dads the chance to "enjoy free pie & chips this Fathers Day". They're those chain restaurants that claim to be super family friendly because they have a folding table you can change your babies nappy on in the disabled toilet but to gain access you have to ask for the key which is weighed down by a tree stump size keyring. The menus are often covered in gravy and there could be a runaway roast potato that's fallen off the Carvery station and squashed into the carpet but atleast the coca cola is refillable.

Even the garden centre is cashing in on Fathers Day, suggesting a plant pot or vouchers towards a new fence would be the "perfect gift for dad".

Meanwhile for Mothers Day, mums get spa day deals, boxes of thorntons chocolates and bottles of wine. So why do dads get macho cards, cheap meals out and gardening vouchers?

I'll tell you why. Because men are simple. We just want an I love you in a card, the family together for a meal and something to keep us busy next weekend like a new shed to put up. And as much as I hate to admit it, I've become a typical dad. I can't wait until my first Fathers Day as a dad and the free refillable coca cola.

Long Journeys with a Baby

Me, Evie and Mum live in Bristol which is over two hours away from where both sets of grandparents live. I still haven't made my mind up if this is a great thing or absolutely terrible. There's definitely pros and cons. For example we don't get any unexpected grandads at the door on a Saturday morning for a cup of tea but on the other hand there's no freebie baby sitters on tap whenever me and mum need a break to feel normal again.

So today we did the two and half hour drive to see the grandparents. Not really out of choice, mum had a hen night to go to so we've combined it all by using the grandparents house as a bed and breakfast.

A two and a half hour drive with a baby can easily be a five hour journey of hell. But we seem to have discovered some skills that meant today we did it within the time quoted on the sat nav. We've started to get so familiar with this now that it's abit like a military operation that begins the moment the morning alarm sounds (by morning alarm I mean Evie waking up). Here's how we did it...

Firstly it's the dads duty to ensure the car is full of petrol before departure. And that mum has everything to hand she may need including a pillow for a nap, if mum doesn't get a nap it will bite dad in the ass later. Secondly, time departure to when you would be putting Evie down for a morning nap (usually between 8.30 and 10).

There's an art to mastering the correct speed. You need to stay steady at a speed that gets the journey over quickly but that's not so fast the drone from the tyres are too loud to prevent Evie from sleeping. Avoid stopping at all costs, you have to predict queues, hold ups or when some fool might decide at last minute to cut across lanes to overtake a lorry going 30mph on the motorway. As you approach a potential stopping moment take it out of gear and slowly come to a halt gently using the brakes only when necessary, if you can come to a natural stop gradually that is favourable. Stop too soon, and she WILL wake up turning the journey into chaos. And then there's switching lanes, do it swiftly, so the tyres don't clip on the cat eyes for too long. Never blast the horn during a sleep, no matter how much of a total bellend the other driver is (this is the most difficult thing for me to stick to), and never open windows mid nap, not even if the dog has farted.

I know this all sounds too precise, calculated and cautious but it's necessary in keeping Evie quiet and mum happy. And if mum is happy i get to stop at the new Gloucester services on the way home for a sausage roll. Happy times.

 

All the time in the World

It's almost 11months since I became a Dad to Evie. That's 11months I've had to adjust. It seems whenever I've felt well adjusted the goal posts have moved and more adjustment has been required. To be honest I've given up adjusting and am just getting on with being a dad day by day. I have no idea what I'll need to do tomorrow when Mum goes out on a hen do and leaves me to bedtime alone, well apart from curling up in a ball rocking side to side mumbling to the dog.

Before Evie there was this magical land I could go to when I had any problems and all seemed right with the world again. This place was filled with logical, wise old men with endless supply of magic potion to sooth my stresses. It was called The Bridge Inn and it served amazing chilli and chips. But the truth is, now I have Evie, I no longer want to OD on beer, chips and banter. I just want to go to bed.

So, with all the time I have in my hands just lying around doing nothing, I've decided to write a blog. Somewhere I can moan and gloat, but mostly moan.