The Things You Do For Love

Making furniture selections on the basis of what goes best with chunder is a clear concession to parenthood. Having a built-in fridge in a La-Z-Boy recliner in front of a Sky Sports-boasting telly is no longer a requirement. Something cheap, washable and pride-free is. 

You throw away your dignity when you have a baby, as there is nothing too embarrassing for you to do if it makes your little one laugh that cackle of abandon. 

Being a little self-conscious, I struggled to surrender to baby babble to get that winning gurgle at first. I tricked myself into it by singing a few lines from a Tom Waits song to him while jiggling his belly:

A-zeeba zabba zeeba zabba zeeba zabba zoo,

Skriba dabba deeba dabba, deeba dabba ziy

Luckily he's chuckling his tiny arse off by this point so I elect not to include the next verse:

Cleavage! Cleavage!

Thighs and hips

From the nape of her neck

To the lipstick lips

Along with the verse about Chesty Morgan and Watermelon Rose ("Raise my rent and take off all your clothes"), it wouldn't be appropriate.

Sometimes getting Kit to laugh is a necessity, just so I can fit a spoon in his mouth during a reluctant meal. This also requires an absence of self-regard and may take any number of animal noises, songs about poo, or an impression of a dinosaur eating a muffin. Anything, really. Anything.

I do worry though that it may lead to lifelong laughing phobia in which Kit is scared to guffaw in case someone shovels avocado down his throat while reminding him it's a superfood. But then what are parents if not sponsors of the psychiatric trade?

Attempts to make bathtime fun also require songs and jollity. A ditty that has become "In The Nuddy" to the tune of "In The Navy" announces the slow down of the day towards bedtime, via the bath. I do wonder though, why I bother to mangle songs for his pleasure, when, given his current level of understanding, I could be singing about photosynthesis in a light-depleted environment for all he cared - though that would be a challenge to a Village People melody.

Then there are those other things you do - a whole lot of walks to parks and ponds. When a friend with a baby the same age announced a birthday picnic, I said "Great! Scotch eggs and pork pies!"

"No, there won't be any pork pies," she said. "We're all vegetarians. It will be all lovely vegetables and fruit."

"That's not a picnic," I complained. "It's an allotment."

We met at an idyllic spot in Greenwich Park, with a fantastic view spanning London old and new. As the numbers swelled, the smaller I became, until I was ready to opt out and find a pub just the right size.

When Kit started to get fractious I offered to take him for a stroll so he'd have a nap and I'd have an escape. He dropped off immediately so I headed to the Plume Of Feathers and had a lovely pint in the sun while Kit dozed in the shade. Heaven must be very like this, I thought.

After a while, the phone rang. It was Spud, still at the picnic.

"Are you in the pub?" She guessed, uncannily.

"The pub? Certainly not." Technically, I was outside the pub, doing my duty as a parent whilst not forgetting to nourish myself. I'd like to think we're all winners in this tale.