Walk On

This has been an exhausting month. Hence the lower than usual number of blog posts, I guess. Nobody is likely to read 'o god I'm so tired' over and over again.

F can walk. Also climb, run, and spin on the spot until she falls over whilst chanting 'go go go!' About two months ago, F would only walk if she could hold on to both my hands and use me as a giant walking machine. I'm convinced that the popularity of giant walking machines in sci-fi harks back to our childhood memories of being walked about by a seemingly omnipotent parental figure, as a passing note*. But back then, I'd have given my eyeteeth to get a reprise from perpetually zimmering her round the world.

She started walking properly around a month ago, roughly. And in a few short weeks, this is now how she gets everywhere. She can stand upright from prone unaided, occasionally with a bumped head and a sorrowful look. I'd never have thought this would be more tiring, more nerve-wracking and more trouble than being constantly called upon to ferry her about. Which I still am, of course - walking is all well and good for fifteen minutes or so, then you need a horsey ride. Or a lift over a wall, or up a slide, or something, and god help your dad if he doesn't deliver pronto.

But if all the backache is a bit better now, thanks, the mental torment of walking into a room to find her teetering upright on the edge of the sofa and clearly contemplating a stage dive on to the corner of the coffee table is much much worse. I know I can't fling myself four metres accurately in the split second it will take her to topple. I also know I will almost certainly try if she does. And almost certainly make things worse, of course.

There was one blissful afternoon a few weeks back, at a friend's outdoor birthday party, when F first exhibited the independence that comes with independent motive ability. Once we arrived, she instantly buggered off to play with her friend's toys and relatives and left me feeling a bit spare. It reminded me of the teenage parties I'd gone to with girlfriends who weren't all that keen to remain such. "Take my coat, see you in five hours," that kind of vibe.

Once I'd relaxed, it was great. F would swan past riding a toy car or clutching a ball from time to time. From the safety of a deckchair, I could monitor her whereabouts and rescue her if she was wandering too far off. In a nice safe enclosed garden area, this was fine. Somehow, in the comfines of our flat, it's not - she gets out of eyeshot all the time.

I need to get used to this. I can't. There's a razor's edge between concerned parenting and becoming a one-man Nanny State, and it's a razor I'm slowly sawing myself in half on.

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Bra adverts (bradverts?) irritate the hell out of me. They aren't marketing anything I'm likely to buy, and yet they're entirely designed to grab my poor, libidinous male attention. Manttention, if we're coining new words today. It's hardly difficult to get the lizard in my hindbrain to blink, so to speak, so it's inordinately aggravating to have that reflex manipulated by some lazy creative design nob lounging about in his relaxed penthouse office somewhere in Shoreditch.

Nothing about them really makes sense to me. If they want to sell to women, why have all the models got such provocative poses? If they want to sell to men, why are the models still wearing the bras? I 'm familiar with some of the theories touted about to explain this. That women apparently like to buy stuff they see on successful/attractive looking women and that men will basically buy rotting meat if you lean some on a partly-clad woman. But it all strikes me as the kind of reasoning put about by people, mostly men, who need to justify spending their client's budget by hanging out at underwear model shoots.

I am doubly annoyed that such ads work well enough that it annoys my wife when my hapless gaze falters on them. I'm trebly annoyed when they almost have my daughter's name printed over the pouting tresses of some artlessly posed harlot in a two-piece. Thanks very much, bra manufacterer Freya, for the awful dints you've delivered to my parental peace of mind with your recent carpet bombing of Gothenburg's tram stops. It's been the mental equivalent of a pogo stick to the balls every hundred yards on a daily basis for over a fortnight.

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We took F to Liseberg, the local Alton Towers Analogue, today. Today was Swedish Mothers' Day, and was lovely sunny weather. Sunny weather does to Swedes what a swift kick to the bike does to wasps - they come seething out in an agitated state, determined to get satisfaction.

Even if I hadn't had the mental equivalent of a pogo stick to the balls every hundred yards on a daily basis for over a fortnight, after a month of being slowly sawn in half by giant razor, taking your speed freak and strong-willed daughter to an amusement park for the first time in her life was going to be a shattering event. Not for the first time, I am reminded that parenthood is the brick wall that just keeps on hitting.

*In my current, depleted state, if I was a mech, I'd be an Urbanmech. Bonus nerd points if you understand why this is funny.