The Sleep

The traditional bloke approach, best described by the words, "That'll do", doesn't really work with babies. It works with cleaning, washing, cooking, work and gift buying, but with babies it's a false economy.

Patience, something we only have in abundance when watching five-day cricket, is a necessary evil. If one small burp makes you think, "That'll do", you'll soon find the baby awake and screaming, putting you back to sub-square one.

Going backwards like that is abhorrent to all man. We like to go forward, at speed and with as little effort as possible. That's why we invented the car, and my particular favourite, the escalator.

It's tempting to put your baby down as soon as it drops off and run to the pub, or at least the fridge. Wrong. If you don’t put in the full 15-20 minutes of arm-numbing walking around while they doze on your shoulder, they won't reach the deep level of sleep that you can only dream about. Or would if you got some sleep.

For my New Year's Resolution I'm going to try not to bore people about tiredness. Those with kids nod knowingly and slightly annoyingly and those without really don't give a shit.

Yes, it's tiring, but so is going to the pub every night. And no one thanks you for that.

It's perfectly acceptable for new parents to tell anyone who'll listen, "God I'm tired. Little Tarquinella restricted me to 1 hour 27 minutes sleep last night." Yet sympathy is thin on the ground when you say: "God I'm tired. I drank an alphabet of ales and my little deep fried kebab restricted me to 1 hour 27 minutes sleep, in a gutter, lying in my own poo." So unfair.

It's been suggested that it's a shame we had Kit so late in the year, with the wintry weather restricting our trips outside. But they didn't consider the timing of The Ashes.

With the cricket kicking off at 2am in the UK, I tend to jump out of bed for the night feed with a chirpy, "Leave him to me. You rest, my love. You deserve it," making me appear selfless and heroic for at least 25 days of the winter.

God, I'm tired, though. 

The Talisbaby

Dear Charlton Athletic

So you don't sell Charlton Babygros anymore. Are you under the impression we no longer reproduce now we're in the Third Division? Surely, along with strong cider, that's all we have left.

Yours, Miffed of South London

---

Dear Muffed of South Lindon

We currently stock newborn football kits.

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Dear Charlton Athletic

How very perspicacious! So I can entomb my precious baby in something both useless and polyester for £27.99?

Do you sell strong cider?

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Dear MUffed

Just in stock! My First Soft Football with its very own mascot inside.

---

Dear Charlton Athletic

You've had the cider, haven't you?

How about some Charlton nappies? Branching out into incontinence pads for the fan who can’t wait till half time?

You can have that.

**************************

I have received some stick from concerned friends who point out that by saddling Kit with support of Charlton, I am resigning him to a life of disappointment.

But what choice do I have? The form for registering birth and football team support has to be completed within 6 weeks of his arrival or he automatically becomes known as 'Dave' and is randomly assigned one of the Sky 4: Manchester United, Chelsea, The Woolwich Club or Liverpool.

Scally was obviously angling to recruit another Liverpool fan. "He's from South London, he can't support Liverpool." I told him. "If I wanted him to be a glory-hunting muppet, I'd've bought him a Man United top," which made him wince and squirm.

"Alright, but not Charlton, surely," he pleaded, from his role as the Oddfather.

So who? Chelsea are the current champions but the only good thing about them is that you don't need to explain why you wouldn't want your child supporting them.

And due to family history, support of The Woolwich Club is impossible. They left South London, whereas I'm very fond of it.

The registrar informed me that during the first six weeks of Kit's life The Woolwich Club lost 4 times, as did Chelsea. West Ham and Fulham lost 3 times, and Spurs once. As Charlton hadn't lost at all during that period, clearly Kit is a talisman, or a talisbaby.

And so, in the name of glory hunting, Kit Golightly became an Addick.

Sorry mate.  

The Baby

The baby still wasn't real to me when the first ultrasound revealed one head, some organs, limbs, ventricles and a spine. "Tidy your womb," I said, giving Kit his first telling off.

It seems he had been listening after all and later tidied up his umbilical cord with a series of life-threatening knots. Maybe he intended shimmying down it in some Stewie Griffin-inspired escape, to destroy Parliament before the entire country dies of sighing at the Coalition.

But no. Unable to rustle up any dynamite, his first act was to wave his arms about, prompting a comely nurse to say "Aw. He's stroking me."

Ten seconds old and stroking a nurse. That's my son, that is.

There was concern that he might be born a Gindian, a ginger-Indian combination of his parents. Instead he had his mother's dark hair, his father's eyebrows and his Great Aunt Maud's penis.

He also unmistakably has my hands and feet, only in miniature, obviously. Otherwise he'd represent a very challenging birth, but an amusing test for people who really want to say 'He's gorgeous!' when they mean, 'Big-footed monster!'

He also boasts some fine earbrows - downy hair over the top of the ears that would have got you burned at the stake a few hundred years ago. Or made king on the Isle of Sheppey.

I'm savouring the inscrutable period before the smiles begin. It all goes irresistibly Disney then, after a long period of dour European cinema. I like European cinema; the sparse dialogue, ambiguity and unspoken nuances. Babies have a similar mystery and presence, though with more poo.

Staring at him, wondering what on earth is going on in there, you get no clues. I'm pretty sure the look he gave me the other day though equated to: You wanker.

For now, there's no language, no means of expression beyond crying. It’s a bit like being a Premier League footballer.

Currently I'm trying to master burping, but something is awry in my technique. Once Kit has been fed and looks thoroughly stoned, I get him on my shoulder and pat his back. Without fail, I burp. I burp copiously and volubly, before handing the visibly upset infant back to his mother, unburped and slightly horrified.

The Hospital

When Kit arrived, at 6.20pm, on Halloween, he was slung onto Spud by a rough-arsed doctor, like a fisherman throwing a catch ashore.

We were left with our baby under a lamp, like warmed canteen chips, and our mid-wife, a strange but sweet Belgian who had been seriously top notch. We heart you.

She did however, give me more information about her ‘back passage’ than I could possibly have wanted. Spud is screaming in pain in the birthing pool and she’s telling me what might happen to her ass. Then she starts telling me what happened to hers. Do I look like I want to know about your ass? I haven’t even looked at your tits.

Anyway, lady, I’m here to get a baby.

Kit is tiny. 5lbs 13 and a half ounces of nervous impulses. His arms are waving about like Bez doing kung fu. The newborn nappy is so baggy it looks like Bez as a sumo wrestler, yet, in truth, Kit bears no resemblance to Bez whatsoever and I don’t know why I brought him up.

Everybody thinks their baby is beautiful, that’s only natural. It’s almost certainly some evolutionary trick to stop us seasoning them and chucking them in the oven. They taste like chicken, apparently (Note: always add ‘apparently’ when discussing devouring your young).

That's another trick. I mean, I like chicken, but on its own, it's a bit meh. If they said, ‘they taste like cheeseburgers, apparently,’ we’d have a serious population problem in this country.

Or, if you’re in the Portland Hospital and the rumour gets round that they taste like foie gras, apparently, a generation of toffs and celebs could be wiped out. (Note to self: Add to Just Might Work list)

If Kit could see properly, his first vista would have been the Houses of Parliament. It would have been a good first lesson on something that is beautiful on the outside and ugly on the inside, like Sarah Palin, or Myra Hindley's handbag.

He can only look forward to better examples of humanity, unless he's going to get the good burghers of Britain to pay to clean his moat, or be responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of people, puff his cheeks out and say: "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Want to buy a book?"

And so, with thanks to St Thomas' Hospital and the NHS we took Kit home, along with the hope that he always ignores Wittgenstein: "I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves." The fool.

Photo by: Maurice from Zoetermeer, Netherlands

The Names

Naming a child is a difficult process, given that they are going to have to live with it, and, in a way, be defined by it, until they are old enough to fill out their own deed poll form.

You can’t, for instance, name a child Beastslayer when he’s under 6lbs. Nor if he grows up to be a quiet, sensitive lad. Called Beastslayer.

While he was just an (utterly amazing) ultrascan image to us, we used to call him Guido, after Guy Fawkes, as the initial due date was November 5, though this horrified One I Made Earlier, who'd met one too many many Guidos while living in New Jersey. She's grateful it didn't stick.

These are the kind of names we wanted to avoid:

Zowie Bowie

Audio Science Clayton

Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily

Moxie Crimefighter Jillette

Pilot Inspektor Riesgraf Lee

Speck Wildhorse Mellencamp

Diva Muffin Zappa


Moon Unit Zappa

Far be it from me to criticise another parent but I’m reluctant to name my child to reflect my morning mescaline intake.

Taken by surprise by the birth of a boy, we were fortunate to have so much unsolicited advice from people who either had no children or had called theirs Bob.

So, thanks everyone for these:

Lord

Lord Death
Ozymandias, King of Kings

Andy (suggested by Andy)

Paulie (suggested by Paulie)

Wheatsheaf (suggested, via Mike, by everyone at The Wheatsheaf, where Spud and I met.)

Waggy (as the scorer of Charlton Athletic's winning goal while the baby was labouring to exit the womb)
Carl Leaburn Raison

Rhymenor Raison

Bad Moon Raison

California Raison

Bear

Slam Man

Pint

Sid

Romain Raison

Succulent Raison

Cinnamonand Raison

Charlton

Charlle

Juicy Raison

Arizona Raison (so it would appear in the phone book as Raison, Arizona. Ian, who suggested this, followed up the suggestion with “I am on fire”.)

Rumand

Herrod

Laird (so he’d be known as L. Raison)

Lazarus

Fun D Raison

Mojo Raison

Scorpio Raison

Perversely, we chose to discard these thoughtful suggestions and name the boy, Kit Raison.

Now for the middle name: Rooster or Rocket?

The Birth

It took 42 hours of painful labour to deliver our tiny baby boy, but somehow I survived.

It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. Firstly, your girlfriend, or if you’re from the Isle of Sheppey, sister, is in extraordinary pain. That means you have a simultaneous need to both be at her side and be somewhere else. Anywhere else. It’s a close as we come to multi-tasking.

“Give me a ring if, you know, you get bored during the labour,” said Scally. “I’m happy to meet you for a pint.”

Bored? Scally clearly operates in another realm of gender relations.

“Look, love, I can see you’re in agony squeezing out something the size of a bowling bowl out of a frankly unsuitable orifice. However, the cries of pain have become repetitive, so I’ll be back stinking of booze when there’s something to look at.”

It goes without saying that men would simply not put up with childbirth. We would have invented a way round it by now if it happened to us. Even Scally appreciates we got the better deal. “All we have to do is shave,” he says. Though he does point out we have to do that every day.

Spud said childbirth gave her a whole new scale of pain and I wonder how far most men would go up that scale for their baby? The pinching of new shoes? Man flu? Stubbing your toe on furniture?

I’d go as far as tennis elbow. 

Everyone thinks they’re baby is beautiful and that’s only natural. But claims that your baby is bright when all it can do is drink, poo and sleep are a little bizarre. Having said that, our baby boy did come out speaking three languages, the clever little thing.

Imagine how we laughed when he described Martin Amis’s latest novel as “flaccid”. Where do they get these words?

The News

“I’m late,” said Spud.

“Yes, isn’t it?” I replied, hoping to get off to sleep quickly in case she was telling me she’s pregnant.

Sleep can make many things seem better in the morning. Imminent fatherhood is not among them. Having thought I’d got it over with early in life (25), I had congratulated myself on my good fortune. The rest of my time stretched before me like an endless sea of good rockin’ times. I was almost jealous of my own superb life. The only cloud on my horizon was a death that would come all too soon; and I still wondered if I might escape it with a false moustache or by throwing my voice.

Holy. Fucking. Shite-on-a-bike, I’m going to be a dad again. 23 years after the last incident, as I like to call her.

I sat the Incident down to give her news of her impending sibling. “Ha! Your life is over,” she remarked, all too cheerfully.

“I mean, till you’re like, 70,” she said, trying and failing to pull the punch after delivery. We’ll see how she likes being known as One I Made Earlier from now on.

Next I had to tell my mate, Andy. Luckily, we were sitting down in a pub. Actually, it’s not that lucky. We’re always sitting down in a pub. Except when we’re leaning in a pub.

I could see in his eyes the realisation that our search for the best pubs in the land for a good lean would be affected. We, armed only with the Racing Post and a tiny bit of weed, sat overlooking the bay of a decaying seaside town in the drizzle. When would we next know such heaven?

But he recovered quickly, to say: “So when are we expecting little Andy?”

“Lord!” Said Spud's best mate, Scally, a large Scouse sinner who casts a deafening shadow, even in the dark. “You should call him ‘Lord’. What do you think?”

“Genius!” he replied, to himself. 

“When he gets stopped by the police and his ID says Lord so-and-so, they’ll let him on his way.” Funny, I hadn’t considered what name would be best should he/she be stopped by the police.

When I told Mike, he squeezed me so hard I may have impregnated him too. He’d like that.

Jamie cried, bless him. And my brother asked: “Do you know the mother?”

Everyone else was as pleased as Mike without expressing it physically. Except my dad.

“You bloody fool,” he said, wheeling himself out to calm down.

It’s understandable though. He is a cunt.