Edition 68: "A Long Weekend...."

Good Evening Negative Soundbyters! I made it! Three days with my little man and both of us have emerged unscathed. The baby monitor is to my right – he is quietly snozzling away (I made that word up in case you were wondering) – and my soda water (pushing the boat out there Hoddy – I say sensible parenting (ha!)) is to my left. The house is quiet and in relative good order. I hope that I have done Mrs H proud.

Read on and see what you think...

Big Love

Hoddy X

I got a small taste of what it is like to be Mrs H over the last few days and I am in no doubt you need an iron nerve, infinite patience, a sense of humour (at times I can imagine it’s a choice between laugh or cry) and a willingness to be surprised every day to keep up with Rafe – and probably babies in general. He is on a journey and this is the first time I have experienced it over a prolonged period where Mrs H hasn’t been directing proceedings. And that’s not meant critically; given that Mrs H has been doing this for over eight months, it doesn’t surprise me that she has a certain way of “managing” Rafe – it comes with bucket-loads of love, but he has his routine, so don’t be messing with it!

The weekend started with the sort of mistake I am famous for. Mrs H departed very early on Friday morning and Rafe and I were left in bed to our own devices. We were playing together (I had one eye open; the other was doing its best to revert to a sleep-state) when I received a panicked call. “Chris, Chris….I’m on the train….I’ve just opened my passport….and it’s Rafe’s passport…” I was like….(now both eyes were wide open)… ”Um…er….” “Can you drive to St Pancreas and meet me there…?” I was like….”Um…er….” - now thinking about the ramifications of a) getting Rafe into his car seat b) crossing London in rush hour with Rafe giving his finest strangled egret impression and c) Rafe’s opinion on missing his 7:00am breakfast feed.

All those options sucked – I needed an alternative plan. “Babe (I don’t call her Mrs H all the time) here’s what you do…” and I laid out plan B in short order. Surprisingly I didn’t get any push back. She was to get off at the next stop, catch a return train to Streatham where I would be waiting with her passport. If we timed it perfectly, she would catch a later train that would get her to St Pancreas in time for the Eurostar. One small snag – I (I mean “we”) had to get to Streatham station in 10 minutes.

Rafe’s pram and I have never been on the best terms; invariably I leave Mrs H to fasten him in because I can’t work the bloody clips and clasps! Well Mrs H wasn’t in the vicinity – it was up to “New Dad” to get the job done. It is unlikely that Rafe will ever again cover bed to pram to Streatham station in such short order. We literally flew; Rafe was facing outwards and I can only imagine his expression – surprise followed by sheer delight at the speed at which he was moving. Social services might have wanted a quiet word however. A lanky man with bed hair wearing pyjama bottoms, a hoodie and weaving in-and-out of the morning foot traffic pushing a pram with a baby with equally questionable hair wearing a one-sie flailing about in the seat with wild eyes and a big gummy grin! Ja Nee.

Needless-to-say Rafe and I made it with a minute to spare. We exchanged passports with Mrs H like relay sprinters; Rafe and I high-fived each other and tootled home to have breakfast. Mission accomplished.

I mentioned above that Rafe’s pushchair has presented some difficulties in the past.

We had just finished up at the pub (obvs place to go with a baba when the wife’s away) and given that that our house is just around the corner, I thought I would just plop him into his seat and steer him home. No mess, no fuss. Um…no.

So my mate is with us. He’s walking a few metres ahead of the pram. All is quiet; just the din of the traffic is noticeable. Then the strangled egret starts warming up. Noting that it is close to feeding time, I pick up the pace. Rafe is not having as much fun as before and the screech becomes a full bloodied howl. I am like…”Faster Hoddy Faster….anything to make it stop!”

The hood is up on the pram so I cannot see Rafe, but I can certainly hear him – as can most of Streatham Common. My mate turns round and says…”Er Hoddy, is he supposed to be like that….?” Unsure about what he means I peer under the bonnet only to discover that Rafe has slipped down the chair to a point where his chin is just above the roll bar that sits across the seat and both his little hands are clinging onto it for dear life. His feet are practically dragging along the ground (he is a bit longer than most babies his age!); another few metres and I probably would have driven over him in his own pushchair! Not a happy baba. A rather inept father. And a mate who was super polite in trying to point out that I was about to run over my own son!

Bar that little episode I think I did really well. Rafe woke up once in the middle of the night. I broke into a cold sweat as Mrs H has the touch when it comes to late night disturbances. Invariably with me he quickly works out that a boobie is a physical impossibility and the siren starts cranking. However this time I picked him up, fired up some soothing noises, and hey presto, he went back down without as much as a peep. Just call me the “Baby Whisperer”. You wish Hoddy….

All said the weekend was fantastic. I didn’t deviate too much from his routine (which benefited me as well!) and I handed him back to Mrs H well-fed, well-watered and well-rested. I think if you were to ask Rafe whether Papa did a reasonable job, I am sure he would agree.

OUT :)

Pic of the Week

Fun times with Papa!