Araminter is rather vocal; she likes to make little noises and jazz hands, she’s very good at jazz hands and urban style gangster hand gestures. Oh god, how old does that make me sound? I’m a teenage tearaway I promise; I got my girlfriend pregnant at fifteen, honest, well give or take twenty years. She also like sounds, especially music. I sing to her when trying to calm her down. She likes Daisy, Daisy; Row, Row, Row Your Boat; and Sympathy for the Devil. I’m hoping I can educate her properly about music, and keep her away from manufactured rubbish for as long as possible, but I know full well that at some point in the next sixteen years she’ll put the iPod (or 2020 equivalent) on in my car and play me some ghastly pop poo.
Mind, it’ll be a nice change from actual poo. So far in my journey through fatherhood I have found I’m rather good at the whole interacting with Araminter and getting her to do what I need, bit. Time for a few actual tips: Lottie likes to have a go at winding her, and to be fair she usually manages fine, but I invariable get her passed to me if nothing happens after a couple of minutes as I can get a burp in no time where upon she sounds like Jim Royle. The secret; men have larger hands so can pat a larger area, and I’m just prepared to use more force than mum. When she won’t sleep and just keeps crying it is I who steps in to calm her down while Lottie can get some sleep. The secret, when she won’t stop crying, is to distract her. She stops crying to pay attention to what ever it is I’m doing instead. Then she stops and thinks, what was I doing, oh yes I was crying. As long as she doesn’t get the chance to build up momentum then it doesn’t become one of those, full volume, crying simply because she’s crying.
She also likes Top Gear on Dave. She rolls over to watch it and even though her visual cortex is still forming and she can’t even see in colour yet, let alone tell the difference between the diesel and petrol versions of the X5, she enjoys the movement and rapid changes in contrast. Personally I am a bit worried that she thinks Jeremy Clarkson is her dad.
What I’m really doing is avoiding the real issue. It’s important to listen to your baby, important that I understand and learn about Araminters little noises. Only then can I have any protection from the SuperSoaker filled with poo that is somehow contained within her tiny frame. She has this amazing skill, the ability to project a stream of whole grain mustard a distance equal to her own body length; no really, it looks just like it. Take her nappy off, clean her up, get the barrier cream ready, the little white blob on my finger approaching that cliché soft object, and then I realise, something’s different; time slows, the mood changes, somewhere a dog barks, a look in her eye, that slight sound; you got to be fast. Duck and cover. Dodge and roll. Sand bags would be good. It’s incredible how something so small and vulnerable is capable of such pressurisation! We keep a pile of ten small towels next to the changing mat (ASDA, pound a pack), and on one infamous occasion seven of them were on the dryer at the same time.
Still I can’t complain too much, not now that I’ve cracked getting her to sleep through the night. That’s right everyone, then next instalment is the mother lode.
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