The Stroller Invasion

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Oh god they’re coming they’re coming

So here I am writing this at the yoga studio, while Dr T and Kitty do whatever it is mums and babies do at Mums and Babies Yoga upstairs. So far it sounds like they gurgle and gossip, although it’s hard to tell which is the mums and which the babies amidst the mellow hubbub drifting down to me.

Not that I’m mellow, because I’m fenced in by a silent guard of GIANT BASTARD STROLLERS. Look at the size of a baby. Then look at the size of these things. They have the grace, subtlety and turning circle of tanks and are about as easy to put in your car. And now they’re watching me in steady, coolly malevolent silence. It’s like being kept company by HAL, if he were fitted with an isofix base.

Which makes me wonder if these things have a plan. You need only spend about nine and a half seconds with one to understand that there is no earthly reason for them to be this big, unless we were somehow using them to confer status, and we wouldn’t do that, would we? That would be like making needlessly big cars in order to project a hefty sense of self worth into the world. Madness.

Even if there was something as horrifyingly shallow as self-validation to strollers (ours has lovely chunky tyres and a red seat, BTW), this wouldn’t explain their basic impracticality. They disguise themselves as useful with enabling terms such as ‘system’, ‘interchangeable’ and ‘collapsible’, but what they really want is to snap your wrists, or your will, or both, which they can do in seconds. Plus, they come to us via advertising campaigns so truly monstrous in their emotional manipulations (I saw one sunlit stroller billboard with the loathsome tagline ‘Perfect Family,’ making it clear that to choose a different option was to effectively admit you intend to punt your firstborn into a lake) that they can only, surely, be agents of a dark power sent here to destroy us.

They’re doing it through psychological warfare. Consider any parenting situation involving leaving the house. Shall we go to the coffee shop? Or the supermarket? It’ll be OK, we can put baby in the stroller and use the hammock underneath for storage. Except that will render it non-collapsible, heavy and awaken its innate desire to crash headlong into things. The certain knowledge that – even if you put it together without succumbing to the seductive longing for death as you wrestle with the grey buttons for the sixty-third attempt – your trip will be accompanied by an uncooperative leviathan that will be difficult to park and impossible to leave anywhere (it’s bad enough with just the baby) fills you with a kind of creeping existential dread until you drift into silence, staring at the front door, unable to go outside.

Should you make it across the threshold, they infect the driver with a false sense of virtue and self-importance. I find myself swooshing along the pavement with the Imperial March playing in my head, almost daring people to get in my way so I can toss out a vituperative ‘EXCUSE ME’ as the cattle-ram-like front of the Quinny Destructor (or whatever the hell it’s called) nerfs them into the traffic. Jesus, I wonder, is this what driving an Audi is like? It’s exhausting. I lost hours last week in a battle of wills with another stroller-driving dad coming the other way on the pavement, butting into each other like mountain goats.

Mentally weakened, the next stage is to physically chasten us. Think you’re strong? Able? Effective? Now lift this seat off the base of your Cruz Apocalypto. What’s the matter? Can’t press a few buttons and defy your own centre of gravity, you maggot? GET DOWN AND GIVE ME FIFTY.

Oh, sure, they’re safe, stable, secure. They said that about the banks. But alone in a room with twenty of them it’s clear: these are our overlords-in-waiting. They’re on a slow, silent mission to subjugate us. Lots of them have three wheels now and, well, you remember how splendidly the tripods worked out for humanity, right? Slowly, surely, they’re drawing their plans against us, one despairingly full car boot at a time.

Be warned.

The Force Awakens

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Oh God, how I loved the new Star Wars movie. Not in a restrained way where I cooly appraised it as an artistic endeavour – in a goofy, gleeful way that had me clapping, whimpering with happiness and leaving the cinema with tears streaming down my face. Twice. I am 38 years old.

Anyway, this unmitigated joyfest had one sudden, brief, very unexpected side effect. I should point out that there are plot spoilers ahead, but then if you haven’t seen this movie yet … I mean, what the hell, dude? Have you got young children or something?

First, some background: in the runup to Kitty’s birth (in March) one of my very best friends told me about the moment he realised he was going to be a dad. It was when, in the labour ward, the midwife told him to “go and get a nappy and some baby clothes.” He assured me this moment would arrive for me, and once Kitty was here, asked me when it had been. I said it was when they asked me to go and cut the cord.

But this wasn’t true. The first moment happened much earlier, in December, watching The Force Awakens. As Han Solo confronted Kylo Ren – his son – resigned to the fact that this was probably the final act of his life, a little internal voice muttered to me that I was going to be a father, with all the responsibility that entails. My chest tightened and for a few moments I genuinely teetered on the precipice of a panic attack. After all, if Han Solo himself couldn’t stop his progeny becoming a psychotic Sith loon with grandaddy issues, what hope did I have? Hey, I didn’t say this was rational, it’s just what happened. Then, of course, the loon murdered his father, Chewie howled and I was back in a galaxy far, far away.

I forgot all about it until quite recently, but I’m now certain that moment of flickering terror, daunting though it was, was my first true realisation that I was going to be a dad. So I’m especially fond of that movie these days, and not just because it utterly transported me from the opening frames; but because it provided me with a little awakening of my own. Nice one, JJ.

(BTW, I couldn’t find a credit for the lovely pic above. If it’s yours, let me know and I’ll amend things!)

What does a dad look like?

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Here’s hoping the hillbilly hipster parent look is in this year.

Something has happened to my reflection. I’m generally a scruffy fellow – there are tattoos and beards and all kinds of hair and crumpled clothes going on – and this hasn’t really altered in the few weeks since Kitty was born. But as I shambled into the room the other day, Dr T took one look and sent me back into the hall.

“Look in the mirror,” she said, and I did. I looked at the familiar chap standing there.

“You’re a dad,” Dr T said.

Oof. Instantly, the reflection altered to become a source of amused bafflement: that guy is a father. I mean, look at the state of him in the pic above. You spend so long preparing for the birth, hearing what a life-changing event it is…I think I’d expected the mirror guy to somehow vanish in a puff of Adult the moment Kitty arrived. I don’t know what I’d expected in his place – maybe sensible shoes, or at least a haircut – but the fact that he was still there, just the same, with his ink, bangles, skull scarves and superhero paraphernalia, was a surprise. It seemed absurd that he could have survived the birth.

It’s one of the many strange things about my experience of new fatherhood so far, reconciling the fact that I don’t look any different (the odd bit of baby drool aside) with the equally sturdy fact that I manifestly am different: a whole other being, the precise result of my genes colliding with someone else’s, now exists, and I am her dad. So now my reflection poses more questions than “can we get away with these antique Cons?” He wonders whether we ought to feel differently, he and I; whether or not we should somehow change the way we present ourselves to the world; when, basically, we’ll start looking like a dad. I’m not sure strapping a baby to you necessarily does the job, it just makes you look, as Dr T opined, like a hipsterish version of that Athena poster from back in the day.

But maybe we do look a bit like a dad. Maybe the cultural notion of a Dad Look, to accompany Dad Jokes and Dad Dancing, is nonsense. Maybe it doesn’t matter, or maybe I’ll wake up one day, get a short back and sides and shop exclusively at M&S (their baby stuff is awesome, after all). But the mirror guy and I will keep putting the Cons on for now and see how we go.

Kitty Boing

Kitty cropped

Why the name? Well, when Dr T (my wife) was pregnant with our daughter, we needed something to call the bump. I suspect most expectant parents come up with some way of referring to the tiny human in there, if only to make what otherwise seems like a pretty abstract idea more concrete. After all, the notion that an actual fresh bit of life was growing inside my best friend, the person whose hair I used to dye black in the toilet before going out to the indie club, seemed unlikely.

So we called the bump Kitty. We didn’t know the sex until birth and Kitty was a nicely non-specific label for something we only half believed was real anyway. As the pregnancy progressed, Dr T would say “Kitty Boing” whenever the baby stirred. They became the most comforting words I would hear throughout the pregnancy (other than “here, drink this beer”): to me, they signalled that all was well; that Kitty was moving around regularly and was content.

Now, of course, she’s out in the world. When Kitty goes Boing I’m expected to do more about it than goggle at Dr T’s stomach or mutter into her abdomen. So this is a blog about that. Thanks for taking the time to read it!