So it’s been a while Mr blog… Partly due to my absurd endeavour to split my one relatively enjoyable blog into four separate blogs, which I have now realised was a stupid idea. Mainly though my absence can be explained (and I think justified) by the birth of my first child, little Alexandria (Lexi) Coleman, my first daughter.
If the quality of this post seems a little sloppy, that can be accredited to severe sleep deprivation as Lexi breaks in her new parents and ensures our servitude is absolute, a bit like a Half Life face hugger but with more shitty nappies.
I’ll reserve another post for our experiences with the NHS, through what was a truly terrifying labour and delivery for my wife Rene (she was a real trooper! Made me very proud), all I will say about the delivery and hospital for now is that due to the requirement of a surgical birth, my first experience as a dad was skin to skin contact with a squirming newborn who had literally been a part of this world for no more than 5 minutes before promptly evacuating her bowels all over my hairy stomach… Through my limited (1 week) experience of being a dad I can’t think of a better metaphor for the experience than cuddling a small creature you love unconditionally whilst covered in its shit.
There’s something incredibly annoying about stereotypes, the more you hear them the more you want to break them. Unfortunately most stereotypes exist for a reason, there’s always a pang of disappointment when I visit a tourist attraction and see groups of Asian students with Selfie Sticks. In the same vein, each time I was warned about getting no sleep with a newborn baby I was determined to buck the trend and show them that being a parent doesn’t have to be exhausting if you do it right!
… I’ve slept about 8 hours in the last week. I have literally spent more time begging the cherry red face of my screaming daughter to mime what her problems are than I have spent sleeping.
I was genuinely excited about having 3 weeks off for paternity leave, not just to spend with my daughter, but to catch up on my uncontrollable sprawling to do list. Somewhere between dodging a diarrhoea volcano and my 3rd emergency midwife visit I realised I was no longer the master of my own fate. As such, I will be writing the rest of this blog post from the perspective of the one truly in charge of these typing fingers.
Lexi’s Log: Week 1
Day 1: Today’s agenda is to lure the parents into a false sense of security. A few 6 hour sleeps and only moderate struggling at food time should give them the confidence that they have things under control. Build them up and knock them down. Before you can truly conquer someone you must be responsible for both their highs and their lows. Operation: Total Servitude is a go.
Day 2: I overheard the male parent bragging to his female counterpart about how well they are adapting to my arrival, Ha! Fools! Today I will give him a sample of what my bowels are capable of. He will learn to respect and fear nappy time. How can this man possibly think he is in charge when he is elbow deep in the darkness of my excretions. Now it is time for another nap, I must preserve my strength, tonight I will refuse to be awoken for food. Let the games begin.
Day 3: The mother appears to be in extreme pain from my arrival, I sense strong inner strength in this one, I will slowly grind her down by feeding in small unmanageable doses. As the pain builds her compliance will draw closer. As for the father, he is no threat. Last night he almost cried when I woke up with a small poop nugget for him. Shame, he will be no sport at all.
Day 4: I have found a way to entertain myself at the fathers expense. When I cry he has adopted a small ritualistic dance that he believes calms me. I will nurture this belief for my own amusement. Watching the fat man sweat as he lunges deeply with me in his arms is the only entertainment I can get around here. Besides, I have to keep him in shape if I’m going to have someone to buy me my first car. I will continue refusing to sleep or feed.
Day 5: I have begun ramping up my efforts on the mother. After refusing to feed on the right milk receptacle for two days I have abruptly switched tactics and will now no longer feast on the booby juice of the left chesticle. Her confusion is rapidly sinking into despair. They called out another one of those baby specialists, of course I behaved like an angel the whole time. You should have seen the look on fathers face as he tried desperately to claw back his dignity claiming how I wouldn’t feed or sleep, whilst I fed and slept in front of the less than impressed spinster. These parents are going to need to seek help from someone a bit better than these 3rd rate baby whisperers if they want to avoid enslavement.
Day 6: The fools took me to a chiropractor, I can smell the desperation on them from here. Nice old lady, she kicked my feet about a bit and lay me on my belly, as expected she didn’t find anything wrong; what next daddy a podiatrist? We’re living in a post expert world now, these saps can’t help you anymore than facts can help America. Last night I threw a spanner in the works, up till now my lack of feeding has been the big concern, well we can’t have the parents being worried now can we. So I fed… and fed… and fed! It was hilarious, they were all smiles and joy as I latched on with no fuss and stayed there for 45 minutes slurping. Then I stopped, pretended to sleep for 5 minutes while they surreptitiously patted each others backs… Then boom, full blown hysterics, I cried and cried and latched onto everything in sight to make my intentions clear. After about 7 cycles of this I was tired and went for a short nap, when I woke up they were still shaking in fear.
Day 7: Fathers father is coming up all the way from Wales to see me today, unfortunately I’m not really feeling like visitors. Guess whose hungry mummy! Seriously these two still seem to think they are calling the shots around here, last night daddy dearest made a list of things he needed to get done before his parental arrived, he made this list and announced it in front of me, without even seeking permission. I can tell you right now sunshine, that shit won’t fly in my house. I made sure nothing on that list came close to getting done. He wanted to clean the house from top to bottom. By the time granddad arrived dad wasn’t even wearing pants, good luck looking sophisticated in your snot stained dressing gown in a house full of small bags of my crap. That’ll teach him whose in charge. I mean seriously, the balls on this guy, as if I’m going to be bossed around by a man who dances with a new born singing Maroon 5 songs… Gaaaaayyyyy.