The last hurrah

There are few things that the Americans have given us that we have adopted with gusto. Halloween being one, which has been pushed so hard by the retailers that it's now almost a national holiday. Another one which has come creeping out of the woodwork over the years, is the baby shower.

Up until my wife became pregnant, I had no idea that baby showers even existed this side of the pond - how wrong I was. I was even (un)fortunate to attend my wife's, which I gather are usually an all female affair, however with a strong collective of male friends, my wife deemed it to be a unisex event.  Needless to say, I was subjected to eating baby food as part of a party game, whilst the female contingent pinned something on a man...

From my experience, a baby shower is to celebrate the imminent arrival of your little one, and is a great way to give and receive small gifts such as baby grows, blankets and teddies, as to prepare the mum-to-be with all manner of gear that she had no idea she needed.  There doesn't however, seem to be something for the man.

With the imminent arrival of our beloved daughter back in October last year, I made the most of a baby-free world and popped out for a few jars on a Saturday afternoon, only for it to turn into a Saturday night, and then a Sunday morning.  Jokingly as I left my friends house in the early hours to make my way home to my sleeping mummy-to-be, I slurred that I'd enjoyed my 'Male baby shower'... and so the tradition began.

Roll forward almost a year and our daughter's godparents are due with their little one in January and casually I dropped the hint to my friend Dan that he should plan his male baby shower, or 'Last Hurrah' as we'd now coined it.  Cue the Facebook group/event and before we knew it a full blown house party was planned to send him off into parenthood with a bang!

It worked out quite well for me too, with the wife away, my friend's wife came and stayed at ours and babysat for the night, and as she put it, spent the evening practising everything that she would inevitably be doing for the foreseeable future, whilst he on the other hand would be practising everything that he wouldn't be able to do again for the forthcoming years.

The night was fantastic, and with 70% of the attendees being fathers who hadn't had a break from nappies for almost six months, you can imagine the sort of bravado and subsequent hangovers that occurred - but in short (and under baby-stag code), we gave the father-to-be a send off that he'll remember.  Especially when he's sat up in the middle of the night with milky sick dribbling down his shoulder.

From what I hear wetting the baby's head happens less and less.  Whether this is because the man generally takes a more practical role at home once the baby has arrived, and the thought of being out of the house, in a pub after 8pm sends tiring, exhausting shivers down their spine, or actually that the male baby shower is catching on, I don't know.  For one, I think it's a great idea, with a generally guilt free night out with the boys... that is of course, until the second one comes along of which I have no idea how the baby shower system works - perhaps I'll ask the Americans.

Flying solo

Eventually it was going to happen.  With my wife being an air stewardess, eventually I was going to be "left holding the baby" whilst she flew through the skies.  It's not as though I don't know how to look after my daughter, it's just that generally I do it on my own for an afternoon, or an evening, or for twenty minutes whilst she pops to the shops - this time it was a whole weekend.

With the rather rapid realisation that the list of all the jobs I usually save for the weekend were out the window, I mentally pulled together some of the things that would keep me sane, and more importantly keep India entertained.  The worst part about it was the forecast of rain the entire weekend, and I'm not sure that I'm ready to subject myself to a soft play centre on a Saturday afternoon.  

On getting her ready to leave the house for a slightly less entertaining trip to the butchers (while the cat's away, the husband will have steak), it dawned on me that I would actually be able to dress my daughter, without having to worry about whether the shade of tights that I put on her, match the stitching of her dress.  This in itself was a small but significant victory over the weekend to come.

I came to realise quite quickly that this was a great opportunity for me to spend some real one-on-one time with India and regain some of the lost hours of the working week.  I devoted myself to this mantra so much so that I spent half an hour pushing her on the swings in the park, yes, half an hour, my arm turned to jelly and I waited ten minutes to get the feeling back before I could drive the car home.  To be honest hearing her constant giggles for the best part of thirty minutes was well worth it.

Constantly running around after the little people for most of the day can challenge your sanity somewhat.  To counteract this I decided that it would be a fantastic idea to take the opportunity to tick a job off my "normal weekend list" - popping India in her cot; I attempted putting up her book shelf.  I'm pretty sure shelves are supposed to be level with the wall; mine was reminiscent of a ramp.

Moving my attention away from home improvements, and concentrating more on weaning improvements, I thought it a good idea to allow India to be a bit bolder with her self-feeding.  She's pretty keen anyway, normally battling to get hold of the spoon and then within the blink of an eye, catapulting its contents across the kitchen.  I went for the 'no spoon' option with her beef goulash and mash.  She delightfully scooped a great handful and promptly smeared it all over her face, and the floor.

I think what summed up my weekend flying solo most was India's latest vocabulary addition.  On more than one occasion, either when she dropped something, lost something, missed her mouth or fell on her bum, she mumbled "Oh dear".  I'm hoping that it's just a sound that she's picked up rather than a reflection of my parenting skills.  I guess we'll only start to find out once I've had a few more weekends of just the two of us.

The Christening

I'm not the biggest fan of religious events.  Christmas is all right I suppose, Easter has become commercially chocolate. Holi looks like a lot of fun, but Ramadan seems like a lot of hard work.  A christening or a wedding on the other hand I don't mind - I feel like they serve a purpose as important milestones in a lot of people's life, including my own.

The wife and I decided that we wanted India christened.  After all, we had to make the decision as she's only 11 months and probably not capable of making that choice herself.  We decided to keep it a low key affair, and opted for the ceremony to be held at the local church up the road, which incidentally, is the oldest building in Brighton and Hove - should India require bragging rights when she's older.  I also learnt from the personable reverend that it's actually called 'Baptism' in the Church of England - I stand absoluted.

We also opted to have a small afternoon tea style shindig back at our house afterwards.  I say small shindig, although I was secretly harbouring the desire to put on a reasonable sized house party, as since our wedding the opportunities to celebrate at scale with our friends has somewhat diminished.  Given my wife was to be studying for her cabin crew exams, the responsibility of organising the entire day, fell anxiously into my lap.  Don't get me wrong though, I'm a planner, so I was relishing the task at hand - although there are definitely a few rules that I will follow in future

·         Do a background check on your Godparents - "Legally", someone cannot become a Godparent if they've not previously been baptised.  We have two Godparents and two "Guardians" as a result.

·         Choose the short ceremony - There are two standard options for a christening, one with hymns and readings (1 hour), one without (20 minutes).

·         Remember it's not your wedding - It's centred around your baby, it's not going to turn into an all night rave.

·         Ensure there are enough cars for old people - You don't want the great-grandparents turning up to the church an hour after it's finished.

·         Book your on-line shopping slot - Don't leave it to arrive until lunchtime the day before, it'll just make you stressed.

·         Beg, borrow or buy gazebos - You can't predict the weather and you don't want 30 people squeezed into your lounge/kitchen.

·         Hire staff - This will mean that you actually say more than three words to each guest for the duration of the afternoon.

·         Bake in time, and then freeze - Remember you are not Paul Hollywood; you will only become tetchy when trying to whip up 40 scones in an hour.

·         Vary the drinks - Pimm's is nice, but you can't drink it all day and it's not everyone's cup of tea.

·         Vet the Vegan's - You don't want to embarrass yourself by serving a piece of roasted pepper on a cocktail stick.

The day actually went incredibly well.  The christening was great, and I think India enjoyed the attention.  It was tough to watch the reverend wipe oil in her newly washed hair (he later informed me that it was rose oil from the Body Shop - and who said catholic consumerism was dead...), and it was a very happy day overall.  I will however, should we have a second, be having the aftermath at a local pub, as scraping cake crumbs from your carpet, with a hangover, on a Sunday afternoon isn't fun for anyone.

Baby gastronomy

I remember the first bit of food we gave our daughter.  We were sat in our lounge, exhausted as usual, and yet a little excited.  As huge foodies, it was always going to be a monumental event, giving our precious little offspring her first taste of solid food.  Clearly it was going to have some logistical benefits too - such as not having to make twenty five bottles of formula every day.  

We'd gone with baby rice, like I think most parents do, smooth, easy to swallow, bland, essentially the polar opposite of everything that most human beings would class as food... and well, I think she liked it.  I'm not really sure, observing her screwing her face up wondering what we'd put in her mouth and then promptly swallowed - not much has changed in six months to be honest.

My wife and I would like to think that we are enabling India to develop an educated pallet.  We have tried her on everything from home-made Thai green turkey curry to fish pie and she has always demolished everything that has been put within six yards of her mouth.  As a parent who has always has that niggling thought in the back of their head of whether she'll magically turn into a fussy eater when she hits three, I'm loving the fact that she'll eat anything.  When I say anything, I mean ANYTHING!

It therefore came as no surprise today that she had decided to extend her gastronomic landscape quite substantially on her own steam - to the point where gastronomy didn't actually come into it any more.  On leaving for work this morning, and being no more than half an hour down the road, the wife called.  

Now this is generally quite unusual in itself, as I'm pretty sure that when I walk out the door on most mornings, she will pop India back in her room and grab another forty winks - not this morning.  By the sounds of things the total opposite had happened and whilst the wife was brewing her morning caffeine hit, India had decided that she'd like to sample the tasty delights that the living room has to offer.  From our gas fire, she had treated herself to a piece of the mock coals.  Apparently she had made rather light work of the outer coating and gnawed her way to the inner core - not bad considering she's only got eight teeth!

You can only imagine what might be next on her cartes du jour.  Later in the day when I popped to the local supermarket, she rediscovered one of her favourite delicacies, paper.  As I was nipping in, I gave the trolley a miss and carried her, meaning that within approximately three and a half minutes into the aisle wandering she started getting squirmy.  

Once at the tills, in order to keep her entertained I handed her one of the money off vouchers that you get in the orange supermarket.  I continued to pocket my wallet and pick up the food, when I turned to look at her once more, she had devoured half of it.  I'm not sure whether it was the excitement of 40p off her next purchase of spices that overcame her, or the bright coloured picture, but all I could see was a white mush milling around in her oh so innocent mouth.  

I quickly hooked my little finger into her mouth to retrieve as much as I could to be promptly met with a lurch of her head so that she could finish chewing on what she obviously thought was the tastiest treat she'd had that day.  The 'Please ask for assistance' guy stood near me, looked at me as though I'd not fed my child for a week as I whisked past, juggling baby, potatoes and the remainder of the voucher in my hands. That will be the last time I do that.

For afternoon snacks we've been heavily relying on baby rice cakes and toast.  Perhaps now, after this display of her culinary ambition, it's time to change it up a bit - coasters and cheese anyone?

Festival fun... but not like it used to be.

Taking children to festivals can be a hard decision.  My wife and I love festivals, it's a great way to let your hair down, get away from it all and forget about the outside world for a day or a weekend.  We met at Glastonbury, we love our music and we love camping, it's essentially in our blood.  So when it came to when we should introduce India to festivals, it was a little tough to decide how.  Initially I thought that we should just take her in a baby-backpack and lug her around all weekend, and then it dawned on me... I'd also need to lug her changing bag, favourite toy, spare dummy, blanket, coat and whatever else Mum decided she needed at the last minute - Going to a weekend long festival with a 6 month old was not an option, so we thought we'd do it gradually.

We started with a day festival in Hyde Park. I'm not sure about you (people that live outside the big smoke), but there's something off-putting about trying to lug something the size of a mini through the London Underground. Navigating it on your own steam is bearable, but when you've got half your hallway attached to a pram and you're trying to get down an escalator it's a completely different, sweaty experience.  We had bought a pair of baby ear defenders which we discovered were perfect for keeping the hustle, bustle and bass out of her tiny ears, and helped her to sleep during the afternoon.  To be honest, it was a breeze in the proverbial park, the pre-event stress was soon eradicated by the perfect day, and India just thought she was having some quiet play time!

On our next instalment we were slightly braver. We managed to get hold of some tickets for Secret Garden Party which is, shall we say, slightly less child friendly than a London royal park, but nevertheless we gave it a go for a day.  This time, the kit had doubled.  We needed warmer clothes for the evening (for all of us) and enough food and nappies to last, on the slight off chance there was an apocalypse and we couldn't get home till the following Wednesday.  The bottom of our pram looked like we'd been shoplifting at a jumble sale.  This festival went down a treat, India was still dancing in her pram with her ear defenders on long after we'd slurped a couple of coffees to enable us to tackle the long journey home.

Last weekend we went the whole hog.  Two nights, three days and stinking hot weather at the Big Feastival.  Thinking back to my twenties when I used to chuck a tent, a small bag and a case of cider in the boot of the car and shoot off down to Devon, this in comparison, was like preparing to move house.  I don't think I've ever managed to squeeze as much into my car as I did on Friday lunchtime - from formula to flip flops and travel cot to tent, it was all in there, I actually thought the wife was planning not to return home at one point.  Entertaining a little one (or two for that matter, with the addition of our friend's 3 year old) for the duration of the weekend was actually easier than we had anticipated.  It turned out that the biggest challenge of the weekend was the sober attempt to cocoon our darling daughter in her sling on the Saturday afternoon, only to stare at each other with a mix of confusion and bemusement whilst recalling the much easier attempt the previous evening, when we'd managed it in 20 seconds flat after a fair few ciders. As a result I was left carrying her on one arm for the remainder of the day and returned my back to it's crooked shape for the fifteenth time this year.

 I must say, if you're passionate about music, being outdoors and introducing the little people to a whole new world of experiences then I would highly recommend taking them to a festival, there are loads of family friendly ones out there, from Camp Bestival to Lollibop.  They will probably cost you a months mortgage, and then some, but the smile you get on their face when you're dancing and singing out of key to Mr Tumble's version of the hokey-cokey is well and truly worth every penny.  Trying to change a nappy on the side of a barrel, or feeding lunch whilst angrily fighting off dozy wasps can have it's challenges, but life is never simple - so you just tend to suck it up.

A word to the hedonistic wise; if you want to have a carefree and nappy free weekend away without feeling like you've been used as a buckaroo for the entire duration, then drop the kids off at the grandparents and head off into the Friday evening sunset on your own!

The first word.

I find, as a parent, we seem to be constantly overshadowed by 'developmental milestones’.  When will they first smile?  Is your baby rolling over yet?  Has she got any teeth coming through?  As if the first few months aren't stressful enough, we're also under the microscope for something that is essentially left up to nature... And then there's the big two - walking and talking!

It's fairly safe to say that for the last seven months of her nine month tenure here on earth, our little India has been, what most people would constitute as vocal.  From the early gurgling sounds that would ricochet off the nursery walls to the rather loud obsession with the wa-wa sound, and of course not forgetting the ear piercing squeal that she found hilarious, yet made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  And now, with bated breath and a sense of anticipation that I’ve not experienced since waiting for my first kiss, I spend most of my time when at home, waiting for the inevitable first word.

And here's the thing, I didn't think babies and/or toddlers actually spoke until they were about two.  Call me naive, call me uneducated, but in my mind, I'd never really needed to know - until now!  As the months tick by, and the sounds become more pronounced you start to wonder when you might first hear it, and then panic slightly inside that you might actually miss it due to an overhead jet/the doorbell/CBeebies (delete as appropriate), your mind then starts to wonder if they'll ever actually speak.  A friend of mine did actually manage to lay my worries to rest when she quipped "I'm yet to meet an adult who hasn't yet mastered how to walk and talk, I think you'll be fine".

And then yesterday it came...I think.  Amongst the gargles, raspberries, moans, clucks and giggles came a rather distinct, and crystal clear... NO!  Then as if she wanted to ensure we both heard it, for reconfirmation she belted it out again, NO!

Then silence.  Almost as if to allow us to gather our chins from the floor and to allow our stunned minds to race, thinking about what she might say next.  I'm not really sure still if it was her first word, as doesn't it need to be intentional?!  I think what she's really trying to tell us is, with all intent and purpose, that she's not ready to talk just yet...

Rainy day savings

Now I'm a bit of a planner, so much so in fact that I pretty much planned most of our wedding (leaving the frilly bits to the wife-to-be), and my wife, she is just a doer.  We make a perfect pair as ultimately things generally get done, whether its because its been planned well in advance or we've just managed to sort it out on the fly.  However, when it comes to money, we're generally the other way around - Jane squirrels little bits away, and I put big bits away when I have it.

One of the things I've not really had to think of before is planning someone else's finances.  How do you go about giving your children the best start in life - or by the time inflation kicks in over the next 20 years, giving them at least a small foot up?  As the tiredness of the first couple of months of fatherhood subsided, I started to explore options for starting a nest egg for when India contemplated flying the nest.  Now not to say that I would expect her to actually move out on her 18th birthday, but having some money aside for things such as putting a deposit down on a first house/flat, university fees, purchasing a clapped out Ford Fiesta, or even to pack a backpack and jet off round the world as so many teenagers do these days.

Feeling proud that I'd had the foresight to plan eighteen years in advance, partly to avoid becoming bankrupt by the age of fifty, I embarked on some research for the best savings accounts for India. What became instantly obvious was that whilst there were hundreds of products out there, they were all pretty much the same!  The only clear differences were the three varying options of account type; Easy Access, Fixed Rate or Regular Savers.

What became quickly apparent was the lack of savings stability, each of the aforementioned account options only really promised a decent rate (varying between 3-6%) for the first year, and then decreases to a lower rate in year two, meaning you probably need to top load the account to take advantage of the introductory rate (which is clever on their part, as most parents are fairly broke in their first year due to mat/paternity leave or coming to terms with the cost of feed/nappies etc).   I wanted something that was a bit more adventurous when it came to my investment, as that is essentially what it all was, investment in my daughter's future.

First thing was first, I at least needed to get an account set up for her, and I opted for the Halifax Kids Regular Saver which has a fixed 6% AER for the first 12 months.  With monthly deposits between £10-£120 it had everything I was looking for whilst my wife and I dealt with our new-found baby induced financial hardship.  The most important thing was that I had got the savings ball rolling, albeit with a small starting amount, but the way I figured, deposits would go up as my salary did over time. 

Once signed on the dotted line (it's worth noting that you can only open this account in branch), the spotty uni-grad assistant informed me of the onward options once the annual 6% had come to it's natural end - standard procedure is that this account gets switched into a Halifax Young Saver account which gives you a decent enough 3% AER (on anything under £20k) or another option was to look at a Junior ISA.  This product comes in two variations, a cash version and a stocks and shares option.  

On further research since that conversation it is clear to see why this might be a good option, especially as something like a 0.5% interest for the best part of 20 years is going to be akin to stashing a load of fivers in a shoe box and sticking it under the bed.  On viewing the benefits of a stocks and shares Junior ISA, it was made easily understandable that your savings are essentially spread across the FTSE 100 and a number of minerals (such as gold and copper), thus lowering the risk and increasing the possible gains.  Chelsea Financial Services, one of the leading sources of information on investments endorses this as a safe option, given that a realistic annual return of at least 5% over the course of an 18 year period far outweighs what you would get from a traditional account.  Unlike Child Trust Funds (which ran their course in January 2011) where the government also put money in, any form of Junior ISA enables the parent/grandparent to save or invest £3,720 per year.  This means tax free interest or earnings when any money is withdrawn in later life.

It's a bit of a mind boggling market out there, and there are some pitfalls to watch out for, such as with the fixed rate accounts where you're unable to withdraw during the saving period and are subject to a periodic interest penalty - so if you need to save for stair gates, save elsewhere.  Nevertheless, if you're serious about setting up your little ones future, and you've got even a small amount to put away each month then it's well worth exploring your options.  When opening the account, make sure you go in armed with birth certificate, proof of address, hospital release forms and a copy of your family tree to avoid being turned away until you next have a day off!  

Things have changed since the grandparents' favourite option of premium bonds (which generally offer very limited returns) and it's wise to shop around for the best deal.  Part of me is quite excited that I'm able to provide a platform for my daughters financial future, and I can't wait to try and explain to India on her 18th birthday how she grew her savings through stock and shares, only for her to then go and spend it on the latest iGadget - but that's what makes parenting fun, right?!

All the gear, but no idea.

It was when I first attempted to put up our travel cot that I realised I'd been completely duped.  Not by the cot itself, but by the all those articles on websites and in the Mother & Baby magazines that had started to litter the house with all the "family to be" must haves.  Up until the age of 29, I had no idea what a travel system was and I would have been pretty sure that 'Isofix' was a type of grout that was used on igloos.  And here I was, grappling with a piece of baby equipment that I hadn't got the foggiest how to construct!

I'm your standard bloke really, I love a gadget as much as the next guy.  You see, the thing is, with most electronic items or nifty garden tools, the only persons safety that you need to consider, is your own - now all of a sudden you have the single most precious thing you've ever had responsibility for, and one switch out of place or the catch clipped in the wrong way round... Your darling apple of your eye could quite easily become part of the pram.

When it comes to prams, there's a certain level of excitement that creeps up in a father-to-be's stomach.  It's as though you've been given carte blanche to go out and buy the car of your dreams.  Before I knew it I was stood in a baby shop in the Sussex countryside, and had been lured into discussions on turning circles, quick wheel release and front steering suspension; this was just like standing in the showroom of BMW, but with a slightly more "motherly" sales assistant.  I felt that excited feeling in my stomach sink slightly when the aesthetics of the pram were somewhat compromised when the conversation turned to rain covers and footmuffs.  Furthermore the added extras started to mount up - detachable cup holders, travel system adaptors, adjustable parasol and not forgetting the lambswool fleece lining.  My dream pram/car was starting to morph into a glamorised golf buggy.

This I learnt, was only the beginning of my troubles.  We were kindly lent, what I can only describe as a baby lazy-boy   With a built in speaker system, multi-swing toy arms and three different soundscapes built in, this was probably the most advanced piece of baby equipment I had yet to encounter.  There were two simple settings in terms of seat positioning - Toddler and Baby.  Simple you might think?  Well, it took two of us, three different screwdrivers and the best part of an hour to work out which bracket needed to be removed and reattached in a different position, not my idea of a relaxing Saturday afternoon.  Those of you who have ever taken home a piece of flat pack furniture from the big Swedish blue box will know exactly how I felt afterwards.

So back to the travel cot... at this point I had one hand holding onto the clip-in sides trying to get them to stay level, whilst pushing down on the middle and keeping one eye on the one page instructions that might have well been the solution to a Rubik's cube.  I realised that for the foreseeable future that at least every other week I was going to be blighted with a new challenge, and not a challenge that I had carefully selected, but one that was thrust upon me, without prior consultation.  Surely as a new father I had prepared myself for this, surely I had read all the manuals that clearly stated that as a brand new parent you were expected to understand the ins and outs of a three tiered position cot and a Moses basket stand - no not me, I was, and still am destined to be the dad with all the gear, but no idea!

My advice, should there be any, is fairly simple.  Buy only what you think you need, think compact and think light.  Don't worry about what your friends in your NCT class are thinking of getting, and certainly don't listen to your mother/mother-in-law who will quite happily reiterate the benefits of a Silver Cross until you realise you've made the worst retail based decision since your Hi-Tec shell suit in the early nineties.  Either way, you'll end up with gear that you love, gear that you hate, and gear that you simply loathe.