DaddyBlog: No TV and No Beer Make Daddy... something... something...

No beer and no TV make Stephen... something... something

A Lament  An Epiphany by Stephen

As a child, I watched an inordinately large amount of television. We had a Rumbelow's rented 'Baird' brand TV with a top loading jet-engine of a VCR, and a membership to our local video shop. This combination fuelled my love of the moving image.

To cut a long story short, my mum was exceptionally ill with cancer for most of my childhood so quite a lot of my weekends involved the renting of a film or two from the video shop and watching them until the magnetic tape inside literally melted. By the time I was a teenager, I had seen a wide range of films (from Ferngully to Robocop and beyond) and had a passion for the little black-hole sat in the corner of our living room. 

This is a habit I have carried through my life and enjoy nothing more than to recharge in front of a well-acted or visually stunning piece of celluloid history. In fact, my wife and I first bonded over our love of the film 300. I believe Emi has also mentioned before about filling up your cup and watching films is one of mine.

Skip a few scenes (see what I did there?) to October 2012 and picture a conversation between my wife and I:

Emi: I think we should have a month without TV

Me: Sounds good. When? 2013?

Emi: November? This year?

Me: Noooooooooo! (with all the extended vowels of Darth Vader realising Padme was dead)

And thus it was decided, we were to experiment with a complete ban on TV/laptop based viewing for all Ralphs to see what difference it would make to Ru, and us, as a family. I'll admit I was sceptical, actually, I nearly cried! It had taken me near 4 years to convince my wife we needed an 32 inch LCD TV and now we were to neglect her for a whole month?! (That's right, our TV is female.)

To put things into context however, we don't watch that much television as a family because we don't own a TV licence - it's all above board, we have declared our TV usage to the licensing authority - so it is never on as background noise as we have been used to in the past, pre-children. More specifically, many of the children of Ru's age that my wife and I have experience of have tended to have more screen time than he does. Nevertheless, the decision was made as we started to notice the TV was beginning to be used more and Ru was becoming quite impressionable, often copying various parts of things he had seen - some good, some bad.

For example, he seemed to combat a small fear of dark corners/the unknown by yelling 'EXPECTO PETRONUM!!!' complete with wand-flick motion. On the flip-side of the magical coin, he would sometimes respond to our requests to do/not do something with a wand-flick and a spell cast noise as if it somehow exonerated him from the request.

I was prepared for the worst, genuinely convinced (being the soft-touch parent) that I would receive a barrage of requests for My Little Pony, Super-Hero Squad, or the Saw films (the latter from my wife I may add) but I have been surprised and by halfway through the month I could actually count Ru's requests on one hand.

Here comes the Epiphany

It dawned on me that this month was actually likely to be harder on (and quite possibly more about) Emi and I, so we introduced a new rule: No TV for Ru and minimal TV after he was asleep for us. (And certainly no Skyrim for my wife.)

I'm writing this now at the end of the month and there have been some very interesting things that we've noticed. (Heeeeeeeere's listy!)

1. Ru's creativity. He has asked to do 'an activity' far more than he has asked for the TV and we have more doodles than we know what to do with.

2. My relationship with Ru. I'm not the creative parent, I love spending time with my kids but I suck at arty stuff. This month Ru and I performed our very first, completely Daddy set-up, no intervention from Mama, art based activity. We painted a pirate ship on the sea! Check us out!

3. Ru's reading. Well, it should be 'reading' as he tends to look at pictures or have one of us read to him. Anyway, before now Ru has tended to fill his spare time with books... LOTS of books! Somehow he is now asking for reading time a lot more. In fact, I'm having to leave this post now to read 'Thomas and Friends 1001 Stickers Book'... Back in a mo'.

I'm back, we've counted everything on every page and discovered Ru can autonomously count to 10. Awesome!

4. My relationship with Emi. Please refer to the below diagram for an analogy, including wine as well.

To be honest, this month has coincided with Ru's 3rd month at nursery so you could put some of this down to his developmental stage or his recent socialisation with his new clique - and it *is* a clique, or maybe a posse? But there is an overall point to be made.

As I mentioned, I was sceptical about this idea at first. I wasn't that keen on it to be honest, but I've realised that a little more involvement from Mama and Daddy goes a long way. In fact, we've decided to keep it up (to a degree) by watching only *one* film together as a family on a Saturday evening. This will be Ru's only TV time.

I guess, that I should complete the title of this post now:

No beer and no TV makes Daddy...

...more creative.



Emi's VersionIn the spirit of honesty, I too was dreading 'No TV November', as we dubbed it. I genuinely thought that no television meant that I would be the one who would be doing the extra activities, crafts, playing and games that Ru would undoubtedly need to occupy his bright mind. I was expecting more exhaustion and losing-of-temper on my part.

Boy, was I wrong.

In the best way possible, Stephen has stepped up to the challenge. So much so, in fact, that very little has changed for me in the everyday schedule of our home. Whilst I have obviously relished the extra time with Ru, more importantly, it seems to have opened a heretofore closed door in Stephen's parenting skills. As he has shared, he's not the crafty parent, and there have been many times where I have had to badger him into joining us in art-based activities. Not now.

Stephen and I are a very close couple anyway (Kendal says we're 'talkers'), chatting all the way through films, critiquing, debating and discussing. With far less film viewing, I've been surprised by the further increased amounts of talking we've actually we done. We even spent one glorious night playing one another favourite songs from our teenage years (and learning that Stephen likes more cheese than I ever knew previous to this. This may be the only bad part of No TV! *wink*)

(I have added this part in afterwards, after a request for more information on how no television has affected Ru. Many thanks to Jane for this.)Ru is a normal three year old boy. He can be loud, boisterous, rough, independent, opinionated, and aggressive, typical behaviours often exhibited at this stage in a child's development.

I know that I have had some conversations with Kendal a few months ago, expressing my worries that Ru was simply being too aggressive at times, and not knowing how to combat that. He went through a phase where physical retaliation was his first response to being asked to do something that he did not like or want to do. Myself, Stephen, once or twice Kendal have been on the receiving end of this, along with Pixie and even Ava.

I remember one awful occasion at a group we go to where Ru and a boy called Dexter were very much at odds with one another for the whole session. I was feeling very embarrassed that my normally loving boy was acting like... well... a bully. Luckily, Dexter's mother Nicola reassured me that this was indeed a phase, that she had gone through it, that I would get through it, that it would pass and that no one was judging me for it. I'm not sure Nicola knew exactly *how* helpful her words were and how much they were needed at that moment.

Stephen and I added a lot of physical, aggressive play into our daily routine after reading Playful Parenting which really helped. Combined with a move on my part towards being more 'gentle' as a parent (assisted by anti-depressant medication) and consistently addressing the causes of his actions rather than rectifying the actions themselves, Ru's overall aggression dropped massively. We were relieved at Ru's first Parent's Evening for nursery when his teachers reported that they had seen no hitting or other aggression towards classmates or staff from him.

However, no one likes seeing their child being unkind to others, and there were still occasions where Ru would be too rough, whether purposefully or not. This was one of the reasons that we chose to do No TV November.

At the end of it, we had noticed a further decrease in Ru's aggressive behaviour. Whilst I cannot attribute this ONLY to the lack of television, in fact, I think if anything it is a combination of that, as well as even more activities than usual, as well as more one-on-one Daddy-Son time, that has created this.

Kendal has mentioned in her Day in the Life post about how her home feels somehow calmer with the TV off. Now, I don't know about calmer (with my two, our home is anything OTHER than calm!), but it has had a subtle knock-on effect that has rippled outward to other aspects of our daily life.


There have also been occasions this month where I simply have been unable to complete general household tidying and cleaning, because I haven't had the television to occupy Ru. In these cases, I simply left it till later, which is frustrating for me, but ultimately I suppose is beneficial for Ru. We even had a couple of days where everyone was ill that would have been SO MUCH EASIER with TV! (Although I'm proud to report that we didn't give in!)

(Having said that, Ru tells us that he was put in 'Time-Out' at nursery this week for 'hitting Alastair', but as the teachers haven't mentioned this to us, we're not sure if this is pretend or actually happened - Hmmm... maybe a post about that annoying phase that children go through where they explore lying about everything is coming!)




The most wonderful thing that has come from no television isn't decreased aggression (although that is one of the good results!) or an altogether calmer atmosphere or a lower electricity bill.

It's the strengthening of the Daddy-Son bond between Stephen and Ru. Without screen time, BOTH of their imaginations have bloomed even further. To walk downstairs and see them painting together, doing an art activity that I didn't set up... Well, let's just say it's up there as one of my favourite Proud Of My Husband moments.

We will definitely be continuing with our hugely restricted screen time amounts, although after much discussion (okay, not *that* much) we've decided that Ru loves Harry Potter WAY too much for us to remove that from the dvd collection!

However, suggestions and recommendations of wonderful, gentle films are very much welcome!

"I don't watch television, I think it destroys the art of talking about oneself."
Stephen Fry

DaddyBlog: Is this your day?

~by Howard Mosley-Chalk

Is this your day: get up, get dressed, go to work, stay there until the agreed upon time, go home, engage in parental activities, put child to bed, go to bed yourself?

I’m sure that repetitive sequence is familiar for many people, particularly for fathers with a stay at home partner. And it is, unfortunately, my stripped-down, bare basics day. And although I don’t particularly dread going to work, or fear the next day being quite similar to the one before, it is a sequence that I’m working towards breaking.

I want to be a stay-at-home dad. Now that statement is often met with reactions including, “well, what will you wife do?” In answer I say that she’ll stay at home as well. It’s something that we’re both working towards, namely that I don’t have to leave each morning to ‘go to’ work. I’m a writer (obviously, you’re reading this) but I’m lucky enough to actually do it for a job. I do words for cash, by day at a York magazine, (in an office with a chair, desk and toilet that only employees can use) and by night thinking up things for imaginary people to say and do. Hopefully one day people will be able to read these things in a book which they paid money for. It is my aim (and Kendal’s too) that I will soon be working on a combination of these tasks from home.

No bus ride to the office, no hour for lunch, no being away from the family for nigh on ten hours a day – just home, with the wife and the kids (they’ve already been planned – I have no say in numbers) and the freedom to work as I want.

Head voice speaketh

But I'm a man – see my hairy chest and full beard– why the hell would I want to hang around the house all day with the sprogs and 'little lady'? What about my heroes? Do you think Isambard Kingdom Brunel spent all day with his Missus? No, he was out there in a top hat, looking at gaps and saying “Mmm, a bridge I think”. What about Emperor Hadrian – think he built all those walls while playing with his kids? No, he got amongst it, saying “Stick a wall there, a big one” and having homosexual sex. Don't I want to be like those men?

Yes. I like top hats and tall walls, but for me the world is a heavy place, one that can usually only be held aloft by pretending to be someone I'm not. That bearded guy that just bought four cans of fake Red Bull from the lady in the Co-op, casually joking about the sudden downpour of rain... not really me. Look, it's Howard, he's chatting to his neighbour. He's using his open, friendly face and nodding when the other person speaks... not me. Sometimes I wish I could just get on with the day, be it productive or not, without having to channel the character acting skills of Daniel Day-Lewis. Zero pretence and bullshit – that's what being at home is. Kendal knows me without my 'job-interview mask' on and seems to still love me. Which I'm both grateful for and a little surprised by.

Improving and planning

Put simply, working from home would make me a better, more productive person. I am unfortunately the kind of chap who can get rather grumpy if external forces beyond my control put pressure on my time. By staying at home each day to write I'll never be wasting time in pleasing the people that are further down my list of concerns. Ultimately everything I'm doing, be it working on the novel or planning to invade Jersey, I'm doing for 'them indoors'. We're an Unschooling family after all and we live by those principles; have done in fact since Ava was born. It makes complete sense that both Kendal and I should be present during the day, not only for Ava's sake but also for our own. We both respect the fact that we each have our own projects and interests to pursue, those that might not necessarily fit in with Ava's day. By double-teaming it, by having the flexibility of me not being out of the house from 8am to 6pm, we are able to give each other some time and space.

So, using the medium of the internet via words, I shall describe to you just what I think about when dreaming of the days to come; days in which the words 'commute', 'meeting' and 'sexual harassment investigation' are alien.

The Ideal Day (or A Look Into One Possible Future)

We get up whenever we want. Except on days that end with the letter 'y', in which we get up when Ava wants. This is usually around 6am and to a dawn chorus of “Gass of milt! Gass of milt!” We get Ava some milk. Then as the early morning progresses, we have breakfast as a family, never watching the clock, never rushing through the task of making oatmeal and tea and coffee and toast.

At some point in the morning, possibly even as the afternoon beckons, I ascend to my study to do some writing. In this version of the future, my study was once Kendal's hallowed craft room. I won the space from here after an extremely brutal game of Monopoly - a game of which I'd previously hidden my total mastery, always leading the wife to think I thought it was dull. I bankrupted the crap out of her – so now the room is mine.

Anyway, after a few hours clickety clicking on the old 'puter, no doubt adding the finishing touches to my magnum opus in which an autistic boy... I don't know, fights dragons or summut, I come back down to join the family for lunch. We head out to the park with a picnic (its July, right now in the future) and we spend some time with the children/robots (depending how far in the future this is) exploring outside and generally being 'unschooly'.

Home. More writing. Maybe the dragon learns a vital lesson about love. More play time with the kiddies. Dinner. Story time. Bed. Repeat the next day in a completely different and refreshing order.

Nice, eh? That's the dream anyway, one that seems to be asserting itself over the current reality a little more each day. But although I'm full of dreams, I'm also a person who is tragically ruled by logic. That is why, although the above is the desired future - the life-goal - it hasn't stopped me imagining a alternate possibility; one in which I am still working from home, but in more challenging circumstances. Namely, after nuclear war tears a hole in the fabric of existence. And so...

The Ideal Post Apocalyptic Day

We get up when we want. Mostly because we haven't slept - not since the Octo-wolves got a taste for human blood and we must stand guard all night. Ava declares she wants a “Gass of milt” and tenderly extends a purple tentacle to receive her drink. I nod, utter “Okay” and head out back to milk one of the colloso-bees. We have breakfast in the bunker because between 6 and 9 am is when the demons roam the dining room. We never rush. We can't, its -5 degrees Celsius down there.

I head up to my study to write. On opening the door I discover the study has fallen into the nth dimension. I close the door and tut. I sit on the toilet and type out chapter 23 of my picture book for the blind on my phone.

For lunch we head out to the park. Its the only area of open land not yet claimed by the clam people. Ava plays in the pond. At the bottom of the pond. Kendal comments that she's surprised how quickly Ava's gills have come in and how hopefully this means the end of nightly calpol doses.

While Kendal strips to the waist, daubs herself in Celtic blue and hunts squirrels with her teeth, I head to Costa to do a bit of writing. I order a latte, sit back and get cracking in relaxing, tranquil surroundings (n.b. Costa Coffee survived the apocalypse due to their espresso's high lead content which helped shield them from the initial blasts. Plus all the staff have horns).

We return home. Its fallen into the void. We tut. Story time. Bed. Repeat the next day in a completely different and terrifying order.

I've also made a plan for the eventually that Ava turns out to be the new Jesus, but won't include it here. Suffice to say, it's amazing.

DaddyBlog - The Magic of The Written Word

~by Steve

(AKA. "You want to read that book AGAIN?!"

Well...

I've learnt something about myself recently. I can apparently write, creatively, but I need inspiration! That little spark to prompt me, to set the creative juices flowing... It just so happens that my muse is also my wife.

Sat thinking about topics for this month's Daddyblog, she makes me aware that it is National Children's Book Week. That little board meeting of tiny Stephens that I imagine are in my head every time I'm trying to think of something, suddenly start brainstorming. They fire up an interactive whiteboard covered with a spider diagram with "kids books" at the very centre in bold. Ideas are fired back and forth between the suited individuals, each one shot down in a chorus of "Nay!"

Suddenly, the hands of the anthropomorphically named Ikea clock start spinning faster and settle at 3am. Everyone is tired, the coffee pot is dry, the idea pot is even drier when a tiny, sore throated voice pipes up "Can't we just review a book?". Everybody cheers and they fill in the necessary paperwork required to make my mouth work...

"I'll review a book" I say...

"Nope" says my wife "I'm doing that... Why don't you talk about how hard you initially found it to read to Ru?"

There it was, the spark she always gives me.

I believe I mentioned in my very first post back in August that I'm not a big reader. I can read (at the age of 8, I had the reading age of a 15 year old) but I don't particularly find enjoyment in it. When I think about it, most, if not all, of the books I have really enjoyed reading in recent years have been film based - Jurassic Park, Close Encounters Of The Third Kind, Harry Potter - but I can't seem to pick something up if I have to create the character images myself. This particular feeling of ambivalence towards the written word caused a small issue for me when faced with a certain life changing event and I was suddenly presented with a Son who loves books and loved having Mama and Daddy read them to him.

At only mere moments old he would sit, mesmerised, as my wife regaled him with the suspense filled thriller 'That's Not My Monkey!'. It had everything - mystery and heartache at the loss of a beloved primate, the feelings of disappointment that no other simian could live up to the fluffy-tummied wonder that once filled the life of the main protagonist, and the eventual elation and happiness at the discovery of the missing orang-utan. I'll admit, I was looking forward to having him look at me in the same way as I read to him, so I gave it a go....

"He's only a week old, Steve! Slow down!"

I suddenly became very aware that, yes, I was indeed rushing to reach the end of the book. There was no logical reason for it, I just wanted to finish it as quickly as possible. Then it hit me; for no discernible reason, I was embarrassed to be reading out loud. I'd always been an introverted reader, at book time when I was 6, the other kids would tell the teacher I wasn't reading because I wasn't joining in with the deafening din that was 20 or so fledgling Yorkshire accents spouting verses from Ladybird books as my classmates read aloud to themselves. I didn't need to, I could hear the words in my head. All of a sudden, 20 years has passed and I'm reading these words out loud...

and...

I'm uncomfortable with it. To make matters worse, I was reading him my favourite childhood book - 'The Magic Faraway Tree' by Enid Blyton. This is a book that I have fond memories of my Dad reading every night as I fell asleep, and I longed for the same to happen in my relationship with my son. He clearly has no concept of what I'm saying nor any concept whatsoever of the cringeworthy position I feel I am in and he actually seems to enjoy me reading to him. As he gets older, his interest in books only increases, as does our parental feelings that we should encourage this as a healthy habit. Unfortunately, although I have put my initial feelings behind me for his sake, my enthusiasm for reading has nowhere near grown as much as his.

I'll be honest with you, I genuinely felt guilty for this. He would come up to me, book in hand, the look of adoration in his eyes that only a Son can have for his Daddy. And there I would be, knowing deep down that I was not enjoying it as much as I should...

Then one day it happened; my spark, my muse, my wife.

I'm not sure why, but I was slowly beginning to enjoy our reading sessions more and more... And I thought to myself, I'll put a bit of effort into this new one. It just so happened that Ru had brought me 'A Squash and A Squeeze' by Julia Donaldson. It was written with a comfortable rhythm for me, I particularly loved the rhyming couplets used.

In my head I suddenly became Jay-Z, spitting rhymes on the mic of steel over a reworked Motown classic, anticipating the responses that Kanye West would provide me and preparing to, essentially, read the shit out of that book! I reach the final sentence with the suspense filled staccato of a William Shatner monologue and I feel a hand on my shoulder....

"That is the best I have ever heard you read to him."

The spark alights a pile of discarded newspapers in the deep recesses of the basement of my mind, and I notice the long forgotten headlines. I remember things from my childhood, actually I remember *a* thing from my childhood; my love of The Magic Faraway Tree and a particular incident when out for a walk in Dalby Forest. I can remember it now as vividly as it happened... There was an old, rotten tree with a hole right through the trunk, it was just me and my dad, I can't have been much older than 3 or 4, my imagination kicked in with the fine prowess that only a toddler has...

"Daddy! It's the Faraway Tree!"

Without a moments hesitation, he positively affirms my suspicions, hushes me to silence and, urging me to watch carefully, he creeps behind the tree in search of the inhabitants. A small face made using the fingers of the right hand of a fully grown man appears at the hole in the tree, (this mattered not to me as I was in imagination mode), and then a familiar voice rings out...

"What are you doing looking in my window?!!"

It wasn't my dad's voice, it was the voice of the angry pixie from the book!

The spark had now become a roaring house fire! I remembered that story time was a Milligan-esque cavalcade of characterisation and enthusiasm. This was why I loved having *my* dad read to me...

And so it began, I became a method actor of Kirk Lazarus proportions (infinite respect to anyone that gets that reference...) and I decided to give my voice box a workout. All of a sudden the Wise Old Man in 'A Squash and A Squeeze' had the voice of Bane from Dark Knight Rises, whose voice is based on a bare-knuckle boxing champion. It amuses me to picture the bearded, long-coated purveyor of living-quarter space-based knowledge from the book dipping his hands into glue and broken glass like a scene from Rambo 3 (or Hot Shots Part Deux).

I followed in the footsteps of a good friend of ours and turned the mouse from The Gruffalo into an overly confident rodent, hailing from somewhere just outside of Solihull.

I've also adopted my wife's version of Marjorie the Cow in 'The Cow That Laid An Egg'. Let me illustrate why:

"I've laid an egg!"

Read that out loud in your own voice... Go on, trust me - this is going somewhere.

Now...

Read it aloud again, except this time, with the Lancastrian twinge of a surprised Jane Horrocks (a-la 'Chicken Run').

Suddenly more interesting isn't it?

That feeling you have now... that sudden realisation that words are more than just a collection of letters scrawled upon a page, that they are a gateway to a theatrical and comedic event - that's how I feel when I get the chance to crack out my very best (albeit west country) pirate voice.

"But Steve...." I hear you cry, "do you have any tips/handy hints if I'm facing the same situation?"

Well yes, as I appear to like ending my posts with lists, here you go:

1. Youtube. 

Absolute minefield of inspiration. Whether it be watching 'Jackanory' to remind yourself how the professionals do it or (my personal favourite) watching an old cartoon to try and emulate the voices... I do a mean 'Fat Controller' even if I say so myself.

2. Practice Makes Perfect.

Genuinely, I find myself reading Ru's books without him just to see what characters there are and to decide what regional accent they need. My default is Geordie!

3. Repetition, Repetition, Repetition!

The worst bit about reading to your kids? When they ask you to read them the same book for the third time... and the sixth... and the ninth... over and over until you want to poke pins in your eyes till they bleed. This is a good sign. (The repetition, not the pins-in-eyes bit). Repetition of stories cements the ideas and memories in their heads. Much loved books can then be 'read' back to you, just from memory alone (and we all know that a good memory is something many of us lack!).

And, to be honest, the only tip you need,

4. No-one's Judging You.

Whether it's theatrical re-enactment on a Royal Shakespeare Company scale, or impression skills to rival Jon Culshaw, your effort makes it something special. Your child is not judging your terrible 'pirate' or 'troll' voice, all they see is a beloved parent, who cares enough to share the magic of literature with them.

Reading time is important bonding time - don't miss out on it like I nearly did.

Love of the written word is the best gift I can give my children. And one of the best ones they have given me.

"I surrendered to a world of my imagination,
re-enacting all those wonderful tales my father would read aloud to me."
Andrew Wyeth

DaddyBlog: Bedsharing

~by Howard

Once upon a time I could spread out like a king in my king-size. I would curl around the missus whenever the fancy took, lie in until the PM on weekends and generally be Lord of Bedfordshire. You see, for me, bed had always been a refuge – a safe haven into which I would retreat when the rigours of the world became too great. When all around me was chaos I knew that at the end of the day I would return to my feather-padded fortress of solitude and commune with the spirits of sleep. All that changed in the autumn of 2010 – along with most other things in my life.

It went like this: Our daughter, Ava, was born. Then some stuff happened. Then Kendal said “We’re a bedsharing family,” – vocal confirmation that the discussion we’d been having for several months would in fact become a reality. And so the fortress fell, resigned to 15-Tog legend, whispered guiltily by other ousted fathers. Yes, we sleep with our baby; have done for nigh on two years now. And despite my colourfully imagined losses and sarcastic moans whenever someone mentions it, I would not change it for the world.

Put simply, the highlight of each day is cuddling up in bed with our sleepy warm cherub. The bliss I experience through bed sharing is indescribable – as joyful and eventful as the journey that got us here.

Kendal, of course, did all the research. When it comes to any baby/lifestyle/decorating decisions, my wife will attack the subject with vehemence, scouring the internet, inhaling books and questioning those in the know, Gestapo fashion. And so, with a newly-born Ava held tightly to her chest, Kendal pointed out (with a smirk) that although the mother is instantly attuned to the baby’s movements and is completely aware of it in bed, it can take up to six months for the father to adjust. Fearing the next half year sleeping on the sofa, she then went on to ease my worries by playing piggy in the middle – namely, she would sleep between me and Ava until my inferior male brain caught up and wouldn’t confuse Ava’s little sleeping form with an extra pillow, fold her in half, and stuff her under my head.

So there we were; book-ending Kendal with Ava protected on the far side by a bed guard. It was designed to stop her rolling out of bed, out of the bedroom door, along the landing, down the stairs, out of the front door and into the street where she would invariably join the circus. Apparently (so I am told) my awareness of our new little sleeping buddy kicked in quick, and I would often wake in the middle of the night to gently rock Kendal, whispering “there, there baby.” In no time at all I had passed the test and for the first time in several years I could lie in bed and peer into the eyes of another woman.

To begin with, the amount of sleep Kendal and I managed to get varied – I got a full, uninterrupted eight hours each night, whereas Kendal averaged two or three. Looking back, it’s difficult not to feel a pang of guilt, and certainly at the time I pitied Kendal’s disrupted slumber. It was those lovely boobies, however, now constantly within Ava’s reach, that caused the lack of sleep. Ava was a baby that certainly ‘got milk’, and fed near-constantly from Kendal, especially when her breasts were so accessible.

Fortunately everything quickly stabilised, to the point where Ava will now happily sleep all on her own prior to us joining her in bed. The issue of Ava’s increasing size has not been an issue at all, thanks to the clever positioning of an open-sided cot, lashed to the side of the bed, into which she will (sometimes) gravitate during sleep, leaving Kendal and I (sometimes) with the bed proper.

For a time we toyed with the idea of creating a super-bed – two king-size mattresses laid out together on the floor of the bedroom. It’s something many bedsharing families ultimately invest in, particularly those with an increasing number of offspring, and its not difficult to see why. Ava might only be two feet tall and weigh as much as one of my legs, but when stretched out in crepuscular comfort, she don't half take up a lot of space, guv. She has a tendency of lieing perpendicular to Kendal and I, jabbing her little tootsies into our ribs and being difficult to shift (her nocturnal weight apparently ten times what it normally is). Considering Kendal has designs on at least four more little Mosley-Chalks joining us in the family bed, I think I better start shopping around for mattresses.

Of course, there were and still are nay-sayers. “It’s not safe,” declared some, “you’ll roll onto her and crush her!” This causes the grumpy old Darwinian in me to grumble and emphatically point out that bedsharing is nothing new. Human evolution has done pretty well for itself over the past 20 million years, which is about 19,999,450 years longer than the cot has existed. Occupying the same space as our children while sleeping is as natural as the need to breathe air and ingest nutrition. “But,” continue those same people, still clinging to ideals formulated during the Victorian era – a time when one's children were of less importance than one's hat, “how do you both… you know?” 

“What?” I ask.

“You know, how do you… have sex?”

I immediately break open my Big Boy’s Book of Human Anatomy and point to the crude yet strangely erotic drawing on page 64. “We know how you have sex,” they say, “but how do you do it if your baby is sleeping in the same bed?” At which point the anatomy book is put away and the Kama Sutra (pocket edition) is produced. If you are unable to conceive of having ‘mummy and daddy time’ anywhere other than your bed, then I pity you and will not be responding to that swinging party invitation. Also, sex is not restricted to the hours between 9pm and 6am when your Little might be sleeping soundly in the bed. “Sky rockets in flight, BOOM – afternoon delight.”

But this isn’t for us. We don’t sleep with Ava just to hear the random things she says first thing in the morning; we bedshare for her. The list of benefits is as long as the reasons are obvious. The connection created between mother and baby and (more importantly for we of the Y-chromosome) father and baby by sleeping together is immeasurable. Sure, I could wax lyrical about the scientific explanations, citing circadian rhythms and parent/infant synchrony ad infinitum, but the glaring fact is that any time spent in close physical proximity to your child (be it while conscious or not) is going to strengthen your bond. 

Only the other evening Ava, while sleeping next to Kendal, reached out a tentative hand and gently touched her Mama’s face. Once satisfied she was there, our still sleeping Little rolled into Kendal’s arms and stayed there for the rest of the night. For Ava bed sharing is certainty, security and the constant loving embrace of family – and in our case, a family so completely in tune that we will find one another even in our sleep.

(Yes, that's a dribble spot on the pillow)

DaddyBlog: Breastfeeding Is A Team Sport

~by Steve

I guess I should introduce myself.

I'm Stephen, the husband of Emi, and I have the great honour of writing the first monthly CBN 'DaddyBlog'. This is an honour I will share with Howard, who you will meet next month and no doubt decide is far funnier and more charismatic!

This is me.

I've chosen, this month, to discuss breastfeeding, to tie in with the fact that it's Global Breastfeeding Week. Now, I can hear a chorus of lactating Mamas singing the first verse of 'But You Don't Own A Set Of Mammaries' but, give me a chance here, I'm going to explain why I think breastfeeding is a team sport.

First things first. Men intrinsically do not understand breastfeeding. We can't. Our nipples are pointless. One of the most prominent thoughts that runs through the mind of a first-time (and some second-time) Daddies when faced with the sight of a tiny human sucking on his partner's boobs is "Erm, excuse me. I'm pretty sure those are mine.". This is in no way meant to be misogynistic, far from it, it's just a very hard concept for the male of the species to come to terms with - here's someone you've only just met, who's allowed multiple moments of intimacy with your partner. Let's face it, if a new work colleague did that the first time they met her, you would punch them. Hard. Probably in the nether regions.

I won't pretend to be an expert on British law, but I'm pretty sure this kind of act is frowned upon when performed on a newborn infant.

Nevertheless, men are left with these conflicting feelings of love and crotch-punchery, which leads me to the flip side of the patriarchal coin... One emblazoned with the phrase 'Okay, So I Love This Child... How Come It Likes Her Better?!'.

As a man, you've gotten over the initial shock of this midget userper, began to even enjoy having them around, but what happens? They don't seem that bothered about having a connection with you! As hard as it seems to understand, there is a genuine jealousy there in regards to bonding with your child. Luckily, we find other ways to bond, however. But there is still this Mama-Baby time that we can't be a part of. Right, guys?

WRONG.

As stated earlier, it is a team effort, and it can even strengthen the relationship between Mama and Daddy which, let's be honest, can be quite strained at times. So, I've compiled my best Daddy-of-two expertise tips on how to support your partner during breastfeeding.

1. The magic phrase - "Do You Need Anything?"

Utter these four words when she sits down to feed, and you'll be surprised just how supported she can feel. Whether it be a hot drink, or a nutritious snack, your partner will need sustenance, as an average nursing mother will burn and extra 500 calories a day (which is a Quarter Pounder with cheese from a well-known, Scottish-sounding High street fast food restaurant).

2. It doesn't matter what time it is.

Yes, you're tired, yes it's 3.47 in the morning BUT your partner STILL has to nurse. If she needs something (see above), provide it. She WILL be more knackered than you, trust me. Although, if you're smart, you will have provided a cornucopia of energy-giving snacks on a bedside table for pre-emptive kudos. And more sleep for you.

3. Learn to see breastfeeding for what it actually is...

...A completely fantastical wonder of nature. Once you've learnt this, TELL YOUR PARTNER! Let me put it this way, (drawing comparisons to a 50's B-movie), she grew a human - a real live functioning person! Not content with the minor miracle of turning one cell into about 50 trillion (eat your heart out, Jesus!), she then decides to produce sustenance for this human using her breasts, body parts that previously were naught but 'fun sacks' for your entertainment.

It's pretty damn amazing, isn't it?

4. Here's one I still have trouble remembering... Breastfeeding Can Be Ridiculously Uncomfortable.

Having only minimal personal experience of this, (we bed share, it's dark, newborns eyes are crap at the best of times) I'm going by what my wife has told me, so I'm guessing it's true. Add to this, toungue-ties, chafed nipples, teeth, and mastitis, and suddenly breastfeeding doesn't become the magic 'off-button' that many men feel it is, myself included sometimes.

5. Be The Knight In Shining Armour. Defend Her Choice.

As crazy as it sounds, your partner will still receive those tuts and 'looks' when she partakes in the most natural activity know to mothers. Let's face it, she has balls for doing it in the first place, she needs not the judgement of others for doing something that will be showing less flesh than the average British 12 year old.

Puff out your chest, grow a pair, and calmly explain how proud of her you are for nurturing your child. Failing that, "...And why, pray tell good Sir, were you staring at my lady's chest?! You have insulted her honour, and I demand satisfaction!" accompanied by an angry fist clench, and possibly the production of a rapier usually gets the point across.

Plus, legally, she's entitled to do it anywhere!

As a side note, I've always been ready for the above, but have never had the chance! All the old women that come up to Emi congratulate her on her choice!


And finally...

6. Remember earlier when I mentioned Daddy bonding with Baby? Find A Way To Do This.

Whether it's carrying them in a sling, or reading them stories, Find A Way. The reason I feel this is so important is because it means breastfeeding no longer becomes the answer to every question.

Your baby bumps herself? Feeling safe with Daddy can make it all better.

You have a tired, whiny little darling? A cuddle and a bounce with Daddy can be the balm for a blissful night's sleep.

Your partner feels empty, 'touched out' and to put it mildly 'like a cow'? "That's ok, darling. I'll take her for a bit while you read 50 Shades Of Grey and relax for a while."

Trust me. Get over it. Get involved. Make it a team sport. (Just always remember your wife is the Captain. Or star Quarterback. Depends which country you're reading this in.)

Until next time,

Steve


"There are three reasons for breast-feeding: the milk is always at the right temperature, it comes in attractive containers, and the cat can't get it." ~ Irena Chalmers