How to fall on your face and give someone else the headache

The worst moment of my daughter’s life so far was probably the day she fell on her face. It was certainly a horrible moment for me.

I was watching the cricket on my computer at the dining table and she was sleeping peacefully in her pram. Her mum was on the sofa dozing right next to her. It was all very peaceful. Suddenly, there was an awful noise like a wet splat, a short delay and a mournful, agonized, yet slightly muffled wail shattered the tranquility. Somehow the wee one had managed to wake up unobserved, wriggle right off her buggy seat and smack , not arse first, oh no, face first onto the tile floor. I jumped up from the computer and my girlfriend from the sofa and we almost collided trying to get to the baby as quickly as possible. She wasn't really hurt at all, just shocked but she cried with a timbre of terror we had never heard before. There was no blood or bruises but it was still a sickening experience.

We worried for hours about brain damage, concussion and all the worst case scenarios. The baby was back asleep within twenty minutes or so. Of course, we obsessively kept checking her to make sure she was still breathing. We argued about waking her up to make sure she wasn't in a coma. It all seems a bit silly now but I bet I am not the first parent to react irrationally when their precious offspring has been injured or had an accident.

Needless to say we always make sure she’s securely strapped in whenever she’s in her pram now.  Back then she didn't move about much and I guess with the naivety of new parents we had not thought she needed to be strapped in.

She hasn't had any major incidents since that one but then she’s only three months old, so she hasn't too much time to get herself into trouble.

It is early morning at work as I write this; a slow day, obviously and I am considering getting a strong coffee from the wee Italian American man’s café up the road. Mornings are not my favourite time of day right now. The dog usually wakes me up around 7 am crying, not to get out, I’m certain but because she is lonely hanging out in the living room by herself. I drag  myself reluctantly, or sometimes in a murderous rage, depending on how little sleep I have had that night, from my comfortable corner of the bed, show her some love, or give her a look that says ‘just about any meat tastes good in a curry’ and let her outside.

Even though I desperately want to crawl back into bed with girlfriend and baby, carefully so as not to wake either one, I don’t. Instead I shuffle zombie-like into the shower and try to shock myself into wakefulness with cold water. I get dressed and go straight to work for around eight or so.

A familiar story to most new dads I am sure.

I have it easy compared to many. My commute is only ten minutes on a moped, door to door. A close friend of mine used to get up at five, do some work at home, help with baby duties and then still have a one hour commute to a full day’s work. He and his wife live in a big city with no parents or close relatives nearby to help out. They both work full time. Their daughter is now three years old and they are brilliant parents but how they got through that first year or so, I am finding it difficult to comprehend. I admire their perseverance.

The tiredness is having an effect on my usually placid, easy going personality. I am becoming quick tempered and irritable. I don’t want to do anything when I get home from work except eat, drink tea and hopefully watch some sport if it is on. I don’t want to do any sport myself and haven’t been to the gym in three weeks. I was trying to get fit before the baby came along but that’s back on hold.

The last thing I want to do is exercise. My dad and his tennis playing retiree mates warned me about putting on weight in your thirties, metabolism slowing down, joints seizing up, back pain, bad eyesight and on and on.

Excuses for laziness and copious amounts of beer, I thought. Keep fit, keep at it and you never have to get fat. They should know that better than anyone, I thought. After all they’re still playing a decent game of tennis and are now mostly in their sixties.

But perhaps they have all just put the early days of parenting in a shiny rose tinted corner of their brains? Perhaps middle aged spread is not caused by your metabolism slowing down. Perhaps your metabolism slows down because after you have kids you are too tired to do any exercise. Your bad back comes from carrying around little humans in awkward positions and your joint pain comes from sleeping in a contorted tangle at the very edge of your, quite large, bed for fear of waking up your fledgling family.

I was contemplating some of this last night as I lay on the sofa watching the last Ashes test on Crictime.com, a fantastic website for those of you who live in a non-cricket watching country, like me in Thailand. I was having some fairly dark thoughts, almost as dark as England’s debutante spin bowler who was being spanked all over the ground for copious amounts of runs by a hitherto low scoring Aussie batsman. I had finished my tea and biscuits and really didn't want to try and get up from the sofa to make more when my girlfriend said, ‘here hold your girl for a minute.’ My first reaction, I am ashamed to admit, was not one of paternal tenderness but more along the lines of bloody hell I am trying to relax here and now I have to hold a tiny child that will probably start screaming as soon as her mum leaves the room. 

This is the cheesy section so my world weary, cynical friends may want to skip this bit. When the wee angel was dunked unceremoniously in my lap it was like all my troubles sloughed off into the ether. Nothing else existed in the world except the big eyed, rubbery soft,  bundle of joy and perhaps and sideways squinty eye on the cricket score. 

As my daughter balanced on my knee

Her eyes transfixed on the cricket;

A wonderful feeling came over me

And England took a wicket.

So kids, next time your dad is tired and grumpy and doesn't want to play with you just remember. It’s your fault; you should be nicer to him. Go make him a cup of tea. Oh, you’re only three months old? Well, just keep your voice down a bit then, he's trying to watch the cricket. 

When the purveyors of coagulated milk protein proclaim in that smug, know it all, holier than thou voice they have that fatherhood is tough you know but it's worth it; instead of punching them repeatedly in the face, in my mind, like I usually do, I will be secretly agreeing with them. As much as I tried to disguise that sentence it still smells like a large chunk of Stilton left over at the end of a day's picnic in the sun.

In conclusion, the ups outweigh the downs and I love cheese.

If you managed to read this far here's a reward.

Yes, it's a picture of me covered in poo.