As my crash course in fatherhood gathered pace, here’s a post all about Tuesday – a.k.a the ‘difficult second album’…
Monday had gone far better than I’d expected, and it had given me an air of hubris. When my wife got home and asked about my day at the helm, I adopted an air of insouciance, as if it could be taken as read that a man of my years and experience could look after a 10-month-old baby without a second thought.
“Well? How did it go?” she enquired, with what I perceived to be the faintest whiff of condescension.
“It was fine.” I deadpanned.
“How was Clowntown?”
“Yeah good. It was pretty quiet.”
“Glad to hear it, that place is hell when it’s busy.”
“Yeah, I was the only dad in the whole place actually.” I said proudly, thus furthering my metropolitan, metrosexual credentials. (This wasn’t strictly true; I was the only dad in the whole place wearing a cravat, but this didn’t seem as impressive.)
After I’d regaled my wife with the pervious day’s adventures and we’d sat down to eat some supper, I realized I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Falling asleep in front of Police Interceptors isn’t a great look, but there was nothing I could do about it; a combination of chasing after a toddler in the hot sun all day and those afternoon ales had done for me.
Tuesday morning started early (6.15am as opposed to 7am), which didn’t bode particularly well. We’re lucky to have been blessed with a great little sleeper in Martha. She usually enjoys 12 hours of unbroken sleep (I fully expect the next baby to be completely nocturnal), but this morning she seemed a little tetchy; perhaps her little collection of stumpy teeth was bothering her? Either way, I really felt those extra 45 minutes as they were cruelly snatched away from me.
Having skipped my own breakfast the day before (I blame stress and the convoluted process of getting Martha up, changed, fed, dressed and in a general state of contentment), I decided that I would make myself a cheese toastie and sit down to enjoy a proper coffee from my espresso machine –after all, Clowntown meant I’d earned it.
Good luck enjoying a breakfast EVER AGAIN
The reality is that anything I choose to eat, drink or read is now fair game. If you have a toddler, accept that you’ll be sharing your food/drink/newspaper/laptop with a knee-high little fiend who has a handful of tiny teeth and sticky little hands. She drank my coffee and chewed, spat out and then chewed again my toastie.
Breakfast took most of the morning, so we just watched Toy Story 3 (because I like the Ken character so much) and she went down for her lunchtime nap.
After lunch I realised I’d mastered a handy method for disposing of soiled nappies called ‘the burrito wrap’, which I thought I’d share with you.
Grab your freshly soiled nappy and turn it so that the longer side tabs are at the top. Now pull them out fully, avoiding getting shit on your hands obviously. Then, roll the nappy up from the bottom – just like you would a halloumi wrap or beef burrito.
I rested on my laurels for the rest of the day…