Fibs, Lies And Whoppers

Spud and I are really looking forward to the enormous lies we can tell Kit. There's a window of a few years when they believe everything you say. Mwah, ha ha ha!

But with great power comes great irresponsibility.

I'm not talking about Father Christmas or God, nor bearded people in general (though I will be telling Kit he can disregard anything told him by a man with a beard - or woman for that matter.)

Sure, we'll leave out carrots for the reindeer and some crack for Santa. And for the morning we'll make snowy footprints and leave a pile of steaming reindeer poo.

But why stop there, when there's an eager mind ready to be filled with nonsense?

By 7 though, it's over. A neighbour told me his 7-year old said: "I don’t believe God exists, because I know dinosaurs did."

Kids today.

I like Eddie Izzard's little fib, "Bees make honey and wasps make jam." And a friend of Spud's who, when asked where shampoo comes from told his kids that it's made from the poo of an animal called a sham.

Spud has already assured Kit that it's the spiders that make him sleep against his will, but the real problem is the worms, who are their overlords. The spiders, apparently, also perform the role of sock monster, as they have so many feet to warm.

My mate Andy convinced his youngest that he invented rice. Yes, rice.

He also told her invented all forms of motorised transport. And when she asked how he knew the punchline to her Christmas cracker joke, it was because he wrote it. Indeed, he wrote all jokes.

Won’t she be disappointed when she finds that none of it is true, apart from the one she didn’t believe: "I'm Santa Claus. It was me all along."

Sure, dad. Can I have some more of your rice?

Dina Murphy's brilliant 5 Things I Swore I'd Never Do As A Parent includes some magnificent porkie pies, like "Pigs are horses for gypsies" and if you stick your hand down the toilet it will emerge from a toilet in Albania where a monkey will eat it.

Is it so wrong to answer that L plates are only worn by the cars of lesbian drivers?

But the biggest lie we peddle to our kids is the one about the great man with a white beard who listens to everything we say and passes judgement. Rubbish. Rupert Murdoch doesn't have a beard.

Baby Babble

I've got it! Maybe babies are not babbling nonsense. Perhaps they are actually speaking French, the tongue of Baudelaire and Plastic Bertrand.

In such a monolingual society, how would we know? I put this compelling theory to the test by speaking only French to Kit one morning. Being so very English, my French is limited, but I hit him with what I knew.

"Parlez-vous Anglais?"

Nothing. Rien. Or was he just being, you know, French.

I persevered as my French lessons came flooding back to me. I say, flooding. I mean, trickling. And when I say French lessons, I mean, memories of the taut wonder of my French teacher's bra.

"Ecoutez et répétez! Jean-Paul est dans la bibliotheque."

Bibliotheque remains my favourite French word. It sounds like a book disco, something I'd be keen to attend should it ever come to South London. I imagine it full of inquisitive French girls with glasses, many of them bi-lingual, the little minxes.

I digress.

Kit returned a volley of baby babble in which consonants had been comprehensively overwhelmed by vowels. I was immediately transported to the banks of the Seine.

There, I could speak Slow French, only to be left clutching at nouns when a native responded at normal speed. Lost, I would thank them, then agree with them, and if they still wouldn't stop talking, offer them my trousers.

"Alors," I said to Kit. "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."

By the look of Gallic indifference, I'd say we're getting somewhere, but I'm running out of vocab.

"Deux bières, s'il vous plaît."

He looks at me like a Parisian waiter might, had I said "Le" instead of "La", making me feel ashamed, small and unlikely to tip.

Unbowed, I try: "Etre à voile et à vapeur".

Now, I realise the concept of bisexuality may not be appropriate chit-chat with an infant, but it is a lesson in elegance. We say "swings both ways", they say, "navigates by sail and steam." Who's le cons?

At last he makes a familiar sound and we understand each other perfectly.

"Ah, merde. Merde encore."

Our matin is over as the nappy calls.

The Experts

For almost everything you do there's an expert who says it gives you cancer; another who claims it reduces the risk of heart disease; a study that reports it makes you blind and a policeman who tells me I can't do that in public.

There is also a multitude of child-rearing theories and books to guide new parents through the minefield of bringing up baby. Mostly we just want to keep baby happy and healthy, but it would be nice if we weren't blamed for their later neuroses too, like poor Mr & Mrs Larkin.

Back when One I Made Earlier was born the baby instruction manual of choice was Dr Spock's. She turned out brilliant and beautiful yet is still unable to perform the Vulcan mind meld. Consequently I've asked her to leave.

Oprah Winfrey has since propelled the What To Expect… series to the fore. Co-author Heidi Murkoff (why do I always laugh at that name?) has no medical training and early editions included some bonkers warnings on death from hiccups and oral sex (not at the same time, silly, though a study shows this can cause chafing).

None the less, Murkoff's (ha!) woman-to-woman, 'been there' tone strikes a chord and even makes me feel like a natural woman.

Secrets Of The Baby Whisperer is another one. When I say another one, I mean another book with Whisperer in the title, of which there are legion. As far as I can tell, apart from the magical incantation, "Shh", there's not a lot of whispering in it, which is a relief as surely it can only teach children to be secretive and annoying in libraries.

Before Spock, there was much more discipline in child rearing and previous generations would like to see a return to these values; values that include a good clip round the ear.

"I got the cane and it never did me any harm," is a familiar refrain. No harm apart from an indifference to violence against children, you aged loony, no.

The father of behaviourism,  John B Watson (1878–1958), advised parents to retain a degree of emotional detachment. "Never let them sit on your lap," he suggested. He also warned parents against hugging their children. 

"Shake hands with them in the morning," he recommended. He was being serious too. Look at is serious face (above). 

Unlike many of his contemporaries however, he did come out strongly against spanking. I'm right with him there, except in cases of very naughty au pairs with saucy European accents.

Unfortunately, Spud won't let me hire one now we've got a child.

Hold On Tightly, Let Go Lightly

The first and only rule of middle naming is not to give kids ammunition to ridicule your child at school. On that front, we have failed as parents and could face a fine.

The only time a middle name comes up is when some smart-arsed teacher wants to make their day more interesting by reading out the full register, leading to weeks of misery for boys with middle names like Flower, Pendragon, Aloysius or Wang.

It's tempting to pre-empt that teacher by using a rude word, forcing him to read out: "Joshua Robert Howard…? Thomas Titwank Jones..?"

But when you're 12, invisibility is vital – at least in the UK where Embarrassment is an Olympic sport. Mostly, you want to be like the other kids. It's only later you realise how rubbish that is.

My middle name is John. But being ginger, skinny, spotty and speccy, it was not a victory over conspicuousness I cared to celebrate.

Spud's middle name has more letters than the alphabet but we briefly discussed names that carried family heritage, like our fathers'. You can get away with Anil if pronounced 'Aneel', but that is not going to happen with 12-year-old boys. It would be Anil Sex, Anil Probe, Anil Entry (or Fissure if they're bookish). 

It does however mean Lord Of Wind, which could have been prophetic.

My Dad's name had been taken by my nephew, though both Adolf and Enoch are still available.

Dad has now accepted and welcomed Kit, having swallowed his pride over our having a child out of 'wedlock' (an appropriately 13^th century word) and his being a racist fuckwit. He is still struggling with the name Kit, however and asks me every time I see him: "How do you spell it again?" Anyone would think we'd called him Balamugunthan or similar.

"K-I-T!"

"Oh. It's not English, is it?"

Jesus. "Yes, it is. Unlike our surname."

All the way to Brixton to register his name, we debated: Rooster or Rocket. Then we agreed on Golightly - a name and a philosophy in one.

Not from Truman Capote's Holly Golightly, but from a book Spud was reading while pregnant; Mr Golightly's Holiday. OK, we just liked the word.

When I told mates they were incredulous, being au fait with the first and only rule of middle naming.

"You are kidding? Is this a joke?" asked Andy, slightly cross with me. Pete was equally aghast, having suffered with the middle name Magnus for too long. Rock Bob (whose middle name is Bob, I suppose) had a similar reaction. 

But when Andy told his youngest, an actual teenager, she said, "Kit Golightly! That is the coolest name ever. They are such cool parents. I wish they were my parents."

Touché, Andy Moonbeam.

Come To Daddy

It's a long established Dad Fact that holding a baby makes you more attractive to women. Suddenly you're a gentle protector, strong but tender, and liable to impregnate at any given moment.

Accessorising with a baby brings you more attention from hot girls than money, cars or buff pecs - whatever they are.

However, the shocking truth is that those girls are actually interested in the baby. It's not a ploy to relieve you of your sperm.  There's no reflected glory that makes you as irresistible as Hai-Karate. You are just transport.

Which is why I've resisted Scally's request to rent our baby so he can pick up women.

That and the terms: He's after a 'no shag, no fee' arrangement, which relies far too heavily on his ability to seal the deal. Especially when his opening gambit often includes an offer of tea and anal sex. Well, he's from the North. They like tea.

I remember the unsolicited female attention I got pushing One I Made Earlier around the supermarket in 1980s' Virginia. A New Romantic with an English accent and a baby, in a state where 'Dagnabbit' is an actual word? Even I’d find me difficult to resist.

But the baby is fairly hefty evidence of a Significant Other. And what sort of a cad would deny her existence/fake her death for a fondle?

"Oh my God! She's so cuuute!" said a Southern honey, who we shall call Sugar Lumps.

"Oh thank you. Such a shame about her poor mum."

"God, no! Don’t tell me she passed. In childbirth?" she asked.

"No, conception," which didn’t work as well as I'd hoped.

Kit also has the girls cooing at my side, only to dominate their attention, leaving me invisible and unheard. Imagine my frustration when approached by Super Boobs, after Spud nipped into the Costcutter.

"Oh, look at him! He's sooo sweet!"

"Thank you. Shame he'll never have a little brother."

"Look at his cheeks!" she squealed. 

"Which is tragic given my current spermatozoan burden,"

"What a lovely smile!"

"And my amazing human sex tripod manoeuvre."

"How old is he?"

She has noticed me. "Two months," I purr. Sort of. 

"Two months! Oh, he's gorgeous!"

"Yes. He looks sweet on my… buff pecs."

Spud then comes out of the shop to ask, "Is he charming the ladies again?"

"N-no, I wasn't. We were just chatting."

"Yes, he is," said Super Boobs. "He's so beautiful."

"Oh him? Yes. Charming."

On cue, he smiles and we all melt a bit.

"Aww."

"Aww."

"Aww."

Lullabies On Acid

My New Year's Resolutions for 2011 are: Put on weight, start smoking, drink more and exercise less. I'm not sure the latter is actually possible but you've got to have goals. Maybe I'll get a stair lift.

2010 was remarkable. This time last year, Spud and I had no thoughts of babies and only a vague idea that we might live together. And we expected to be living in edgy Zone 1 South London, with its characters and chancers, not leafy village South London, where there is a boulangerie, yet no kebab shop. *splutters*

The arrival of Kit meant that our housing priorities changed. An extra bedroom became 'essential', rather than 'desirable' and drive-by shootings dropped off the radar altogether.

So singing lullabies on acid to an entirely new person hadn't crossed my mind a year ago.

To be clear, I haven't whacked myself up with blotter and floated above the infant, singing out of my eye - those days are gone. But I realised that whoever wrote these ditties had access to some powerful gear.

You won’t find it in the baby books but it seems the main function of parenthood is to coax the little darlings into unconsciousness as often as possible, for as long as possible. One desperate night I turned to song, the last trick up my sleeve before brandy. A lullaby came instantly to mind:

Rock-a-bye-baby

On the tree top

A baby on the treetop? That's a health and safety nightmare right there. Who puts a baby at the top of tree? Batshit mad people, that's who.

  

When the wind blows

The cradle will rock

If the bough breaks

The cradle will fall

Down will come cradle

Baby and all

My point exactly. If the cradle isn't tethered and harnessed within health and safety guidelines an otherwise avoidable accident becomes inevitable.

Extensive research reveals (OK, Wikipedia reveals) that a likely origin of Rock-a-bye Baby is a dark tale of a royal baby swap, committed to provide a Catholic heir to King James II.  The "wind" being a wind of change that would see William of Orange depose James in a revolution. So not only is the lyric a nightmarish tale of parental stupidity, its hidden meaning is one of religious bigotry and royal twattery.

Vowing never to darken his cot with such trauma again, I tried Rockaway Beach but was drowned out by wailing. 

Ultimately you have to go with whatever works.  The tree death song it is then…

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.