Some unexpected side-effects of fatherhood

Everywhere. These things are literally everywhere.

So Kitty is now six months old, which has prompted me to muse on our experiences with her so far. Much of it has been as we thought it would be: nappies, a bit of sleeplessness, crying, tears, moments of wonder, moments of browsing Siberian boarding school brochures to see how soon she can start; that sort of thing.

However, there have been lots of things that I really didn’t expect, so for those of you embarking on the whole ‘parenting’ thing, or for anyone interested in what happens beyond the headline stuff I mentioned above, here are six examples in honour of Kitty’s first six months…

Oh god the laundry

Seriously, no-one told us about the fact that 97.6% of parenthood in the first six months is doing the goddamn bastard laundry. We are overwhelmed by dunes of sleepsuits, blankets and vests. I’m sure I saw a camel train pass by a few nights ago as I picked mournfully at the ragged edges of the infinite desert of dirty clothes. But! The flipside to this is that I unexpectedly became interested in actually, you know, doing the laundry properly for the first time since my mum stopped doing it. So now we have fabric conditioner and colour separation and tumble drying and our own clothes smell and feel like the fields of all Elysium. When we find them amidst the dunes, that is.

Faulty treat triggers

Kitty’s arrival has apparently damaged my treat trigger, meaning that I mistakenly keep telling myself I ‘deserve’ things simply because coyotes have as yet to kidnap the baby and raise it as their own. Mostly these things are cakes or one extra coffee, but then out of nowhere I’ll go and buy a guitar, to my slight surprise. Dr T is affected too, judging by the subscription boxes full of treats, makeup and random candles that keep arriving. The fact that we are a household supported financially by a freelance writer is singularly failing to register. At least we can sing around the guitar by candlelight when the power goes off.

Road terrors 

Back in the day, the Green Cross man came to my school (played, incidentally, by David Prowse – that’s right, I learned about road safety from DARTH FRICKIN’ VADER). We did the whole ‘Stop, Look, Listen and Think’ thing. I barely thought about it again until Kitty arrived, at which point I began crossing roads like a hyper-caffeinated gazelle crossing cheetah central, twitching left and right, stopping, starting, baulking in fear… I’ve even started reciting ‘Stop, Look, Listen…’ to myself, such is my terror that I’ll simply forget how to cross safely and leave Kitty fatherless.


I expected babies to make sounds. I really didn’t expect a) the huge range of them; or b) their sheer ear-squishing volume. Kitty’s latest efforts include a bizarre hyperventilating ‘heckheckheck’ and a low, stuttering rumble that makes her sound like the Balrog from Lord of the Rings. Weirder still is the blood curdling squeal that she deploys randomly throughout the day and night, unconnected to any mood she might be in. “What the fucking fucking fuck was fucking that?!” I cry, running into the room with blood trickling from my shattered ears, only to find her chuckling away in Dr T’s lap.

People’s reactions

A curious one, this. Some of the people we thought would be the most interested in our life with Kitty have withdrawn slightly, seemingly unsure how to be around us. (Or we may now be dickheads, of course.) Others that we thought might flee at once have been the most involved and supportive. (Or we may now be their kind of dickheads.) Friends and family have revealed hitherto unseen behaviour, and shared previously untold tales. Having a baby doesn’t entitle you to any special treatment, naturally – nonetheless, it’s interesting to see that Kitty’s arrival has produced side effects not just on us, but on our wider circle.

New perspectives

Becoming a dad has given me no profound insight into the world, nor any additional moral authority on anything. At all. What it has done, though, is offer an additional perspective on things: I can’t hear about anything happening on the news now without musing on the fact that everyone involved was as helpless as Kitty once, for example; or thinking how I might feel in the place of a family struck by tragedy.

It’s prompted some inner-reflection, too: having a daughter makes me feel mortified about all the times I treated people with less respect than I would want her to receive. This mainly means I now want to apologise to every single girl I was ever a rascal to. I’m really sorry. You deserved better. Please don’t set your dad on me.

Thanks for reading, as always, and do share your own unexpected side-effects in the comments!

A letter from the dog about the new baby

A complex being of rage and love, driven solely by the need to eat, sleep and play. Sat next to a baby.

Found this on the mat the other day, along with an invoice from a neighbourhood cat for typing and proofreading. We may not have adequately prepared the dog for Kitty’s arrival.

Caution: strong language ahead. She’s a rescue dog and a Jack Russell so can be, well, a bitch.

The letter in full:

Butler, scullery maid,

First of all: what the actual blistering holy fuck? Are you kidding me?

We have some problems. As no-one has paid attention at my previous staff meetings, despite my sitting and staring at you at the allocated hour, I haven’t been able to debrief you. (Or give you your annual reviews, which, let me assure you, you’re not going to enjoy.) So this is a written warning.

I can only assume that the weird naked puppy is your idea of a joke. But it’s gone on for five titting months now. I’ve had enough. The interruptions to my walk time, game time, snooze time, sitting on you when I want time and scattering infinite hairs over your lives time are unsustainable.

Not only do you disappear for a few days (although that guy who looked after me gave me more treats than you ever have, do you have his number?), you then return with this blotchy hairless puppy that does nothing but croak and squeal and keep me awake all bastard night long. Yet you never bellow “In your bed!” at it like you do when I prowl around growling in the dark – which I do for your listening pleasure, you godless philistines.

I tried to express my dissatisfaction at the start by weeing on the carpet, the bed, and one secret location that you’ve yet to uncover, every day for two weeks, but you just got upset. I still don’t see why you needed to sob as you mopped it up for the tenth time, or why you curled up in a ball and moaned when I knocked all the drinks off the coffee table a few minutes later. You should recognise constructive criticism and accept it with good grace.

So let me spell it out: the puppy is defective. It still can’t move, there’s no sign of a tail and it can’t communicate properly. I’ve tried to help with this by sitting next to you and howling every single time it ‘cries’, to teach it the proper sounds, but you’ve been most ungrateful. I don’t see how you “losing the will to live” is my fault. Go fetch it, as you always tell me. Maybe it’s behind the sofa, like my bone was that time.

Worse, you are not letting the puppy develop properly. If you don’t let me bite it every time it pulls my ears, how will it learn its position in the pack (which is right smack at the fucking bottom, I might add)? And how is it to stay clean or learn to play and fight if you go all high pitched and lose your shit every time I try to jump on it, lick its face or steal its toys?

I’ll admit that getting to sit in the front of the car now is pretty sweet, and you do seem to care less about stopping me sitting on the sofa, eating your yoghurts or getting into bed in the morning and lying with my head on your pillow. This relaxed attitude is a timely innovation and can stay.

HOWEVER. The music. Those songs about teddy bears, quacking ducks and the one about ‘horsey horsey don’t you stop’? The ones you sing all day? What an absolute clusterfuck. Have you been dropped on your heads or something? And how has it suckered you into wiping its bottom? You never, ever let me clean mine by dragging it along the carpet, but do I detect an aloe-vera softened wipe in my future? No I fucking don’t. This kind of inconsistency drives a dog to madness, or at the very least to attacking a pair of Great Danes. I could have taken them, you know, if you hadn’t dragged me away. Pacifist wankers.

Get it together, staff. I don’t sit silently behind you when you’re changing nappies, waiting to trip you up, for the good of my health. It’s to wake you up to reality: the puppy needs to know its place. It needs to be on a lead, not in a sling. It needs biting and sitting on, not rocking gently. Most of all it should share those lovely squeaky Sophie the giraffe toys. No, I don’t care how special or expensive they are.

Don’t make me write again.


Mistress Dog

ps./ Say ‘Gruffalo’ one more time, motherfuckers. I dare you.

A few practical tips for brand new dads

Got a Yoda-like being clamped to your shoulder? Here’re some tips on what to do about it.

My cousin and his partner had their first child recently, which got Dr T and me thinking about the first few weeks we spent with Kitty. Amazingly, most of that time has already vanished into a misty haze with the occasional pinsharp image – normally of the Purple Faced Hissy Demon – which I suppose is nature’s way of helping you process the trauma of a baby-sized grenade going off in your life. That, or all the gin we subsequently drank did its job.

Anyway, over the first few weeks we picked up some helpful tips from midwives, health visitors, friends, family and the Internets. With freshly minted fathers in mind, here they are: practical things you can do, buy and say to make things easier in those early days. Every single one is something I didn’t know at first.

1 – Sometimes they’re just tired. Although I sort-of-knew this, it never truly registered, so we definitely spent more time trying to feed / change / clothe / return Kitty to Dog’s Trust than we needed to. One year at Glastonbury I awoke from a cosy, womb-like sleep to discover that some mushroom sucking psy-trance goons had set up a trailer and PA next to my head, and were very keen that I should get up and have a dance. I imagine a newborn baby’s experience in the world is not dissimilar to the tiredness, grumpiness and unwelcome overstimulation that ensued. So definitely check nappies, temperature, food and so on, but don’t forget that the little people mainly want to be back in their sleeping bags in the dark. (And don’t play them any psy-trance, either.)

2 – A hand can be all it takes. Settling a screaming Kitty was often a half hour endurance trial of walking up and down with her and singing Simon & Garfunkel songs until I would gladly have jumped into a river with copies of Graceland weighing me down. But! Actually all she needed to sleep sometimes was a gentle hand laying on her chest as she lay in her cot. Try it: it won’t always work, but it can save you time and them stress.

3 – Bottom first, head last. An amazingly simple tip that I got from another dad: when putting your baby down to sleep, put the bottom down first and the head last of all (not at the same time – last). They’re so floppy at first that it’s easy for the back of a baby’s head to hit the mattress in the lead, but because it’s been through the birth canal and is made of what appears to be squidgy play-doh, it’s very sensitive and the contact is likely to wake them up. Get the rest of the body down first, though, and they should stay snoozing.

4 – Sock Ons. A friend sent us some. They’re brilliant, and will stop you fretting about the sinister dimension that seems to open up and swallow your baby’s socks.

5 – Those pesky hands. It’s hard to get a baby’s hands through the sleeves of a vest or sleepsuit. They seem to have infinite fingers. Add crying or wriggling into the mix and it gets even harder. A midwife showed me to pull, not push: roll the sleeves down, reach in, clasp their wrists and fold their fists up into your hand, then gently pull their arms through the sleeves. On a related theme, get the feet in first, not last, as it helps to hold everything in place.

6 – Come up with your response to the ‘how does it feel?’ question. As a wise friend of mine said, “I bet you have no idea how you feel, do you?” and he was right. But having a harmlessly generic “oh, it’s both beautiful and terrifying,” kind of answer ready to go will stop you from grabbing at people and attempting to lick the traces of caffeine from their last coffee off their lips, while whimpering “there’s a dog loose in the woods,” like some demented, haunted dad-rabbit.

7 – Get some instant food, for the love of god. Time goes right straight to hell once a baby arrives, and you will be amazed by the number of appointments you seem to need to go to. We would go entire days without eating. This is not helpful, so get plenty of nutritious, instant food that you can eat with one hand: nuts, bananas, protein bars, dates, that kind of thing. Not a sustainable diet long term, but it will help during the first weeks. Also, you’ll think you’ll make it to the shops: you won’t. Get online and get the nice 3D people to bring it to your door.

8 – Tell the mother loudly, often, every day, that you love her and that she’s doing great. Yes, we have our own male reactions and needs too, and yes, they matter. Nevertheless: do it. Every. Single. Day. Dr T is my favourite human and the greatest person I have ever known, and yet still I know I didn’t say it enough. You can’t say it enough. It’s important for the new mum to hear, and whatever your relationship to her – friend, partner, family – it models loving behaviour for the baby. Always a good thing.

9 – Speed bumps are not a new mum’s friend. Slow the hell down.

10 – High fidelity madness. You may be tempted to spend the first few days of your child’s life doing something like, oh, I don’t know, obsessively buying and returning audio equipment to Richer Sounds. Consider not doing that. (I may have gone a bit weird at the start.)

There you go. Not an exhaustive list, but hopefully something useful in there. I’d love to know what your tips are, so share away in the comments if you like!

Encounters with the Mole People, or, trying to leave the house with your baby for the first time

Our first outing. Just out of shot: a goose with a switchblade

Kitty was nine days old when we attempted our first walk and it was an unmitigated disaster. Karaoke nights down at the Monastery of Profound Vows of Silence have been more successful.

In my head, I’d imagined a serene stroll, lulling her to sleep in the pram, dog trotting alongside us, taking it slowly and getting some air and sunlight to help Dr T with her convalescence. Instead, the dog contrived to fall down the stairs as we attempted to leave the house, Kitty wound herself into a purple faced whirlwind of hissing fury, we couldn’t work out where to go or how to drive the pram and we made it one hundred miserable yards – in tears – before giving up and scuttling indoors in case the guys on the building site several streets away complained about the noise.

As we got inside, I swore to the old gods, the new gods and the gods yet to come that we were never setting foot outside again. We’d simply be one of those mole families you hear of, living in bunkers and gradually learning to love their rickets. Also, the dog didn’t speak to us for days.

It’s not an unusual experience, I’m sure. We all know the benefits of getting out with baby fairly soon: the fresh air, the vitamin D from sunlight on the skin, the lovely serotonin kick from exercise, getting to see all the nice 3D people…but the Voice of the Mole People points out the reasons not to go:

“Where will you go? What, there? There are ROADS there, with CARS, you THOUGHTLESS MANIAC. Anyway, what if you’re out for too long and an ice storm hits, while baby is only wearing a sleepsuit? Why are you risking her life? What do you mean, it’s April? WINTER IS COMING. Plus, those geese in the park definitely want you DEAD and I’m almost certain the kids on the corner are into airborne ANTHRAX at the moment. OK, how many blankets is enough? No, that’s not enough. Ooh, too many, are you trying to overheat her? You’d best put two on her, one on your shoulder, another on the stroller handlebars and then take nine spares. You only have six blankets? Jesus wept, sit down. Look, if it rains, even for a second, she will DIE, or at the very least spawn GREMLINS. Are you certain you know how the rain cover works? Like, properly certain? And actually, have you checked that she’s breathing while we’ve been having this conversation? She looks very still to me. We’d best stay in and Google ‘TERRIFYING BREATHING CONDITIONS’. Look, you’re bound to inadvertently spill something on her or simply blurt out something so savagely ignorant that she’ll be ASHAMED and embarrassed by you forever, and besides, the stroller doesn’t look well maintained enough. The police are going to stop you and she’ll be in PROTECTIVE CUSTODY by the end of the day. Yup, I can DEFINITELY smell EBOLA in the air this morning…”

And so it goes on. It’s very easy to succumb to this sustained campaign of self-undermining doubt, but in the end it benefits no-one. Of course there was no rush to take Kitty out, but it turns out babies don’t come with a ‘Remove From House On This Day’ sticker, so we had to start somewhere. And on reflection, rickets didn’t sound great.

So we decided we wouldn’t, after all, spend Kitty’s first month in semi-darkness behind locked doors and ventured out again the next day, which is when we took the picture above.

The key to success was, as with all baby things, not trying to do too much at once. Walk Kitty to the park and back, don’t take the dog this time, wait until she’s been fed and is sleepy, and aim to be out for about half an hour.

Sure, we were twitchy as all hell as we sat in the cafe and I burned my mouth trying to neck the coffee before she woke up, and I’m not convinced that the geese weren’t harbouring murderous thoughts, but we managed. Nothing broke. No-one died. Things felt vaguely normal out in the sunshine.

It broke the spell that the previous day’s misadventures had cast. A great piece of advice we received before Kitty was born was ‘don’t beat yourself up over the little failures,’ and this was the first time we managed to put that advice into practice. We accepted the first failure, and realised that there’s no such thing as a perfect outing. You just do your best and sort of muddle through.

As Kitty has got bigger the Voice of the Mole People hasn’t gone away (more of that another time), but we’re gradually learning to tune it out. Because if she’s going to enjoy the world, she’s got to see it first-hand.

Still think we needed one more blanket, though.

Your baby’s first cry: a guide for dads

Kitty’s first cry: an artist’s impression

First things first: this post is a lighthearted sort of affair about various child-generated wailings. I’m not here to give actual advice about crying – after all, I’ve been doing this less than twenty weeks. Guys wearing red shirts on Star Trek have lasted longer than that.

However, if you’re reading this and you’re really struggling to cope with your baby’s crying, there are places that do give advice, and they are:

Cry-sis – they have trained volunteers who can talk to you

Family Lives – offers a 24-hour free helpline

NCT – they have lots of information on their website, or you can attend a group

Need help? Call them up!

Right then. So I’ve read that babies have three cries: basic, pain and angry. This is of course wildly misleading, suggesting they only make three sounds. Kitty at four months has a repertoire of ‘basic’ cries that includes:

  • melancholy

  • give me the bastard dog’s bastard ear, right now

  • I’m so hungry I’m milliseconds from starvation. Also, get this nipple out of my mouth

  • a crushing sense of ennui

  • you sneezed and woke me

  • I rolled over! Kitty FTW! No, wait. I rolled over. FML.

  • I cannot bear this traffic jam, so am going full Negasonic Teenage Warhead to help daddy stay calm

Each has its own subtly varied tone. It’s sort of a miracle, of course. But none of them are as shattering as the first cry, and here’s where things get tricky, as you actually get a couple of false starts before the first one.

False start number one is the very first sound they ever make. It is and will always be the single most wonderful sound I have ever heard in my life, and I’ve seen Springsteen and the E Street band play the entirety of the ‘Born to Run’ album live, in order. But it’s not really the first cry. It’s the soundcheck. It’s tentatively winding up and opening the musical box to make sure everything works – Kitty made a beautiful, tinkling kind of sound when she emerged.

Then there are the various cries on the maternity ward. They don’t count. I was surrounded by intimidating, amazing midwives and was so saturated with hormones and coffee that my brain had checked out for a while. So I defaulted to acting like dads I’d seen in Friends and suchlike, sort of cooing and rocking and basically play acting. Anything to avoid getting a telling off from a midwife.

No, the first cry doesn’t come in hospital, or while the midwife is there for your home birth, or indeed anywhere you have company. The first cry, the true introduction, is when you’re finally alone, and it’s you, and it’s night, and mum is slumped somewhere else, and the tiny splotch of matter you’re cradling, the microhuman shorter than your forearm, shudders, inhales, and lets rip.

When Kitty did this for the first time she transformed from microhuman to Purple Faced Hissing Demon of Infinite Fury. She cried so loudly she went silent. Or maybe my ears simply gave out. The physical effects are genetically hardwired and impossible to ignore, and in my case felt exactly as if someone was inflating a balloon inside my skull while I held a rabid goblin against my chest. My skin prickled. I felt my temperature soar. In subsequent crying fits, according to Fitbit, my heartrate went from 52-ish to 184 BPM, so lord alone knows what the first one did to me. It was a sonic boom and when it was finally over, I felt pummelled.

It’s apparently not clear why babies cry the way they do, although there are some fun theories. One is that they’re trying to stop adults making more babies, in which case, I tip my hat to you, babies: it’s a solid gold solution. Dr T and I don’t even hold hands anymore lest we unwittingly summon another Hissy Demon into this dimension.

But while in evolutionary terms an apocalyptic cry seems like a fairly quick way to get tossed to the sabre toothed tigers by a tired hunter-gatherer, it’s mitigated by the fact that we’ve evolved to react sympathetically. The thing they say about how you learn to interpret your baby’s cry turns out to be true. To my amazement, in a matter of a week or so I could hear the difference between cries (top tip: it’s the rhythm of the cry as much as the tone that tells you what they’re saying).

Realising that you’re actually managing to communicate with this tiny being, that it’s able to tell you things without language, is extraordinary. Not that it always feels amazing when your ears are ringing, it’s three AM and you’ve run out of soothing things to say and are now simply hoping an asteroid will impact reasonably close at hand.

But most of the time, it’s remarkable. And it all started from that first true cry. It shocked me. It was challenging. But, as I remind myself often, the Hissy Demon was also Kitty saying ‘I’m here, Dad. Help me.’

And what could I do but shake my head, take a deep breath, and do what the Demon asked? That’s the power of the first cry. It’s your wake up call. Time to step up, daddy.

The Cato Reset


Kitty is now four months old and, as yet, is not on fire. So we’re calling that a parenting win. But! There have been some interesting (read: oh Lord, please bring me the sweet release of death) lessons along the way that at the time made me feel very far from being a winner.

Take, for example, the moment when, having successfully settled Kitty to sleep in her first weeks, I took the dog for a walk and allowed myself a moment to think ‘you know, I think I’ve got the hang of this.’ Naturally, I returned to a storm of unstoppable screaming and tears so cataclysmic that at one point I’m sure I saw Tom Hanks sobbing as a basketball drifted out of reach. Lesson learned: hubris has teeth, and it will savage you.

Or the moment when things were ticking along OK, so my brain figured it would be a good idea to jokingly tell a mournful, exhausted, hormone-soaked, post-caesarean Dr T that her low mood meant Kitty was effectively being mothered by Eeyore. What a catastrophically moronic thing to say. I deserved the world of pain that followed. Lesson learned: SHUT THE FUCK UP. FOREVER.

These are examples of what I’m calling the Cato Reset. Or maybe the Solo Safety Switch. I’m not sure yet.

It’s basically life’s little way of guarding against complacency by gleefully pulling the rug from under you every time you start thinking ‘hey, nice rug. I like how it feels between my toes’. I can see the evolutionary merit in this: complacent parents might otherwise take their eyes off their offspring, at which point said offspring will be eaten by wolverines.

So it’s good to throw the odd spanner in the works to keep them on their toes, in much the same way as Clouseau needs Cato to attack him at random, to keep his edge. Or Luke needs Han’s growled “Great, kid. Don’t get cocky,” to remind him that shooting one TIE fighter isn’t all that. Hence the Cato Reset / Solo Safety Switch.

It happened again yesterday. Last weekend, I managed to keep Kitty asleep in her sling for a couple of hours. When she woke, I reached behind me, grabbed her bottle from my backpack, fed her in the sling as we walked through town, she settled down. Boom. Ninja dad.

So yesterday when she’d been asleep for a few hours in the sling again and woke up grumbling, I did the same thing. It worked, but not as well. So I took her out of the sling. (Cato crept up behind me.) Bounced her a little. (Cato tensed.) Thought her leggings and nappy might need readjusting but didn’t bother because, hey, I’m a ninja and we scorn such things. (Cato pounced.)

At which point she smiled and detonated a nappy-bursting explosion of hot mustard poo gore all over my hands, the sling, my jeans, my Cons [what does a dad look like now, motherfucker?], the car park, herself. Oh yeah, we were at a neighbourhood street party sort of thing, so she did this in front of many, many witnesses. (Cato repeatedly slammed my head against the fridge.)

Voila: the Cato Reset.

The only thing to do at that point was laugh, wipe up as best we could and totter home to better manage the situation. (Cato was wrestled to the ground and subdued.) Another lesson learned, another day where Kitty didn’t catch fire. Great, kid. Don’t get cocky.

(Cato waits.)

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The Stroller Invasion

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.

What does a dad look like?

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!