In the Jungle

F had her first museum trip yesterday.

We've had family here over the Easter weekend, my sister and her husband along with my brother and his daughter. They're all staying nearby, but we're using our flat as the base of operations, on account of how hotels very unreasonably fail to provide bookshelves full of fragile detachables for the delectation of young children. V and I are happy to fill this gap in the supply chain until such time as it can be remedied.

It's been great, obviously. My family has undergone something of a diaspora over the last year, we're spread pretty wide across the UK, Europe and Malaysia. So catching up with everyone is lovely, as is sharing our daughter and meeting our niece again. The last time we saw her she was six months old, having a naming ceremony and mostly sleeping. Not so much with the sleep just now, but vast developments in all other areas.

As an opportunity to meet Swedish family, we spent the afternoon at the Göteborg Universeum. This is the kind of place I wanted to live in when I was five. It's a combined zoo, aquarium, tropical hothouse, climbing frame, play area and gift shop. With dinosaurs. Actually, it's still the kind of place I want to live. Who wouldn't want pirate-themed rope ladders in their bedroom?

F was in her Baby Björn, which is a sort of front-mounted rucksack for babies. I often take her for walks round the town centre in it. This is extra fun when she wears her heavy neon pink winter overalls, it makes me look like I've collided with a giant starfish. Although she is clearly curious about the outside world, the fact that it's always been freezing cold here makes her nuzzle into my neck and shut her eyes.

Not so inside the Universeum.

F spent the entire afternoon staring at everything with rapt attention. I therefore spend the entire afternoon staring at her with rapt attention. I think I missed a lot of the museum, which was a shame. The bits I caught were amazing, from the glow-in-the-dark phosphorescent scorpions to the walk-through live monkey cage. Neither were as good as the unblinking awe on my daughter's face.

She's never been awake for so long a stretch before, and has never used her neck muscles as much. She even started griping and slapping me if I wasn't facing the right direction. This clearly bodes well for the future.

It was great; it was also entirely shattering. F's two cousins, A and S, were both there. They're both a bit older and were both entranced with the opportunities for running around, so it was a good job there were spare aunties and uncles on hand to act as wranglers. At the very end, V tried to corral all three together for a group photo, but everybody was a bit frazzled by then. This was the best we got.

F had obviously had an amazing time at the museum. This evening, trying to settle her, I thought I'd pull some youtube footage of aquariums up to help hypnotize her into sleeping, as that had been one of her favourite bits during the visit.

I wrote, a couple of posts ago, about anthropomorphizing babies. The dangers of this have just been made even clearer to me. Rather than getting the same lucid fascination, as the video started up, F sat up in my arms, spat her dummy right across the keyboard, doubled the radius of her eyes and then started screaming like a scalded kettle. 'Dear God, Daddy,' the purport of her horror seemed to be, 'you're not taking me back to that nightmare zone, are you? I thought we'd escaped!'

With hindsight, it may not have all been rapt attention

Maybe she was just over-startled at the magical transformation of my computer screen into a fishtank, I don't know. And all the extra fun and people around have left her a bit over-stimulated this weekend. All the same, I can't help but feel that it's too early to go reading my own love of museums into my daughter. I should perhaps steel myself to start enjoying ice hockey, roller blading, or one of the countless other outdoorsy, non-nerdy activities I find incomprehensible yet dull.

Into the jungle indeed.

Sleeeeeeep

Five hours and ten minutes of consecutive sleep. That's F's new record. We're both still in shock, the kind of shock that so much sleep can bring you after you've missed it for a while. Let's skimp over the fact that a little over five hours is still not all the sleep you could wish for. It's a goddamn miracle as far as I'm concerned.

It took F by surprise as much as anyone. She woke up with a tremendous scream, the kind that the Nazgul make when they unexpectedly find a spider in their shower. Or something they're actually afraid of, you know, something truly vile, episode eight of the rolling Hobbit adaptation or something. I understand New Zealand is now an entirely halfling-based economy. They measure their GNP in how many chapters of the Silmarillion are made a year.

Every day makes F's personality a little clearer. I was thinking the other day about how people anthropomorphise animals. It's easy to do, they sort of think a bit like us in some ways, so you assume they've got basically human emotions and thought processes when they really really don't. I know we do the same with our baby, look at the odd squinty smiles and think 'awww, look, she's happy!' I wonder how much of it is really gas-based.

I don't think she thinks about things in remotely the same way that we do, not yet. But she changes so fast. In the last week, she's started actively playing with toys rather than staring sort of just past them whilst looking bemused. By playing, I mean awkwardly smacking or stroking them, to be accurate. I'm just desperate to make a connection with her that I can understand, I guess, so I read anything into anything and call it a conversation. You just pooped on daddy? That means you love me!

Mind you, my dad made this point about language generally the other day. I was chelping about not really understanding Swedish, how I often seem to follow but miss the finer points. Or how I find it hard to trust that I have understood something, like I don't quite believe that I could have yet.

"I'm just pretending to understand," I said.

"Well, we all do," he said. "That's how language works."

F is presumably looking up at us as we pull ridiculous faces and pick her up unexpectedly and shove pacifiers into her mouth and take her clothes on and off for no reason she can see and take her out in sub-zero temperatures at odd hours, and she'll be thinking 'ah, right,that scream just meant don't stop feeding me, but okay, you're close. I guess it all means you love me, let's go with that.'

She does smile more, for more apparent reasons now. And she's more specific about her screaming and grunting, or maybe we're learning her language a little. Or at least learning to kid ourselves that we do in a way that works, just like everybody does all the time. And that's fine.

Three Vignettes

We are out in Haga, a quaint district of Gothenburg known for its bohemian charm. It's a freezing afternoon, the low sun starting to vanish and leaving the streets full of icy blue shadows. After a few hours of sight-seeing with Farfar and Farmor, who are here to meet F, we're all tired and wanting a warm coffee. There's a place V and I have been to before that do giant kanelbullar, we head over and go in.

And are ejected.

It's a standard parental crime, and we feel the standard parental outrage - the cafe will only allow one pram in at a time, and they've already filled their quota. The waitress who tells us is quite abrupt, which adds insult to injury.

Worse, there are no coffee places we can find in Haga that have room for children.

We slog all the way to the other side, getting colder and wearier, before giving up and going back into the centre of town and a generic, accepting Espresso House (a sort of Svensk equivalent of Starbucks, who haven't got much of a foothold here). Less character, but less hassle.

A year ago, I would have been fairly unsympathetic to parents attempting to clutter up a coffee house with bulky prams.  Now I hate coffee house business practices, same as the next dad. I don't know if my immediate volte face proves anything revolutionary, but there it is.

- 

Farfar and Farmor have taken F out in for an hour's walk, leaving V and I at home. It's still cold out, tiny flakes of snow fluttering down in a disorganised way as the moisture in the air freezes. Will they be okay? Will the three-wheeled pram catch on a curb and tip over? Are the three layers we've wrapped F in going to be enough?

What if bears choose this morning to rampage through Brunnsparken? 

It's an odd peace I get when family borrow our baby. Half my brain relaxes and say 'yes, some rest! Without guilt or wailing!' The rest cripples me with anxiety, a great claw of reflexive parental panic resting over my heart and just waiting to clench.

- 

The first time Farfar takes F up in his arms and walks her round the flat, he starts singing. And the song he sings? Rockabye Baby, the exact same one I first sang to her in the hospital. Perhaps its coincidence, perhaps not.

It's funny, in the weeks before the birth, I kept having strange memories of being young surface in my mind. Little snatches of things we said or did, many of them specifically ones that Dad did. Watching him with her, I realise how much of the way I behave with my daughter is copied from him.

Both of us are very lucky to have that model, I think.

Love Bites

End of last week, I was cradling F in my arms as mummy got ready for bed. Mummy was a little too slow; F got tired of waiting and decided to tuck in to the nearest approximation of a boob, namely me. At first I was thinking 'aw, how sweet, she's kissing daddy's arm, look!'

Then it started hurting.

I was thinking of posting a Facebook status to the tune of 'just got a hickey from my daughter' but I thought that might arouse undue comment. As it is, it's a sad indictment of my muscle tone that my upper arm could be mistaken for breast tissue.

That blemished red disc on my biceps took her about ten seconds to raise. My admiration for my wife has redoubled. She's enduring that suction far more regularly on a much more sensitive area. You'd have thought nature would have come up with a less painful solution, like osmosis or something. But who knows, maybe absorbing liquids directly through your outer membrane hurts even more. Next time you look at an amoeba, give a moment to consider its feelings.

It's our wedding anniversary today - three glorious years. That's a leather anniversary, according to the gurus who determine such things. I did try to find a set of protective leather suction-resistant breast pads, but apparently nobody has invented them yet. Look out Dragon's Den, here I come - hopefully they'll censor the modelling sequence for national television.

Beyond the Wall

I'm not sure there is a 'beyond the wall', actually.

I'd certainly run into it last week. The previous post was basically filler I prepared a while ago, just in case I ran out of brain at a later date. Bonus points for planning, me.

There were a couple of moments this week where I thought 'okay! I'm okay now. I'm past the pain barrier and still running.' Then I'd discover that rather than hurdling the exhaustion wall, I'd just backed up a bit in a confused manner and was now running into it again with the battered determination of a fly trying to ram through a window pane.

F is now sleeping better. Her favoured position is with her head carefully screwed into my armpit, something she'll be delighted to be reminded of as a teenager. Her greatest likes this week are staring onto lights, especially moving ones, and improving her favoured sleeping position by doing an impression of Jeff Goldblum eating doughnuts in The Fly into it.

Her greatest dislikes are getting out of the bath and not being held by a grown-up for more than five minutes.

She's also been persuaded that a pacifier is an acceptable substitute for our fingers again, after a rather fraught two hours of persistance from mummy. Disturbingly, she likes it best when I'm holding her, and then only if she takes it herself, worries it like a terrier for five minutes, then clamps it against my useless man-boob with all the power in her neck before sucking away with her eyes shut. You can almost hear the mantra  being mentally recited, 'This Is Really Mummy, This Is Really Mummy.'

I worry that the power of a child's imagination could eventually cause this to come true.

She now occasionally enjoys sitting up in her chair and gazing at Mr Peacock, a fabulous creature she was sent as a present by the excellent Forsyth family. Mr Peacock has a phosphor green plush face and wings in every possible configuration of texture, pattern and noise generation. I was unable to stop looking at him for at least ten minutes when he was unwrapped, he's hypnotic.

He hangs from our dining room table chandelier, squeaking on demand, with all three of us gazing up at him with bleary eyes. It's like something out of Lost In Space, a family held captive by the powers of a fluorescent moth creature. All we'd need is someone playing a theremin in the background to complete the picture.

I'm typing this one-handed, by the way, F is asleep on my shoulder. When I saw Tomorrow Never Dies, I felt very sure Johnathan Pryce was faking it in the scene where he types out some new headlines one-handed, villainously taunting Bond all the while. Maybe he practised a lot, and to be fair, he's holding a laptop, not a baby. But I reckon he's just typing any old garbage and putting a dramatic flourish on it. So am I, mind you, just a lot slower.

My parents arrive tomorrow for a week of holiday, which will be great. I told F this, giving it a big sell for meeting her UK Grandparents for the first time; she smiled, made cooing noises and then pooped loudly. That's how excited she is.

Which? Mattress - Baby's Choice

	Traditional Mattress	Daddy Mattress
Basic Features	Wide selection of Cores Wide selection of Colours Wide selection of Sizes Wide selection of Materials Easily replacable	Basically just one model plus you’re stuck with it for life
Stabilization	Broadly good, although variable from mattress to mattress	Broadly good, although can decrease with excessive usage. The balance of your Daddy is affected by sleep deprivation, dehydration and other complex emotional factors, and care by one of our licensed professionals (Mummy) is advised Prone to infuriating shifts in position when you didn’t ask for them, although responds well to corrections through the medium of shrieking
Claimed vs Measured Firmness	Depends largely on the brand, filling and price range, but usually pretty close to model  specifications as stated in stores	Generally lags behind model specifications as stated in clothing stores, online database descriptions, etc
Ease of Movement	For the average two-month-old baby, extremely poor	All-Terrain coverage on 4-limb drive Multiple speeds Can be easily summoned to your location through amazing new ScreamResponse technology
Warmth	Very dependent on local climate	Self-heating, plus monitors your body temperature and can adjust your clothing as appropriate
Responsiveness	Extremely limited Generally immune to criticism or physical violence	Incredibly adaptable, will move to support your every weird pose, including random position shifts accompanied by heart-rending howling at 0330 In-built entertainment system, includes yankable ears and hair, endless supply of nonsense speech and suckable digits, plus can import favourite toys and games on demand Monitors your health and can fetch medical attention or, better still, Mummy at a moment’s notice Surprisingly tolerant of physical shocks. In later life, prone to anxiety or regret unless occasionally reassured that he remains useful and loved
Durability	Will need flipping or rotating every few months Highly absorbent of fluids Some symptoms of a broken or worn-out mattress include visible permanent sagging or deformity, lumpiness, excessive squeaking and springs that can be felt poking through the upholstery layer Depending on the foundation and core materials, your mattress can last you 7-10 years	Responds poorly to flipping, rotation may cause dizziness Poorly absorbent of fluids, but basically self-cleaning so not a big problem Some symptoms of a broken or worn-out Daddy Mattress include visible permanent sagging or deformity, lumpiness, excessive weeping and neuroses that can be detected poking through the smiling exterior Lifetime guarantee, although may become void when you start bringing your own partners home to sleep

Man Down

I hit some kind of wall yesterday. More teaching through the week, which means very early starts, plus some quite tough and stroppy nights with  F? Or just the sum total of the last two months of broken sleep finally hitting home? I don't know.

Whatever it was that gave, it gave quite fully. The internal joists keeping my sunny disposition erect sagged, the roof fell in, and the attic abruptly met the basement. V told me this morning that she'd asked me, around six a.m., if I could take F for a bit. Apparently I said "No, I'm not awake enough," rolled over and carried on snoring. I have no memory of this, but it sounds accurate.

Suddenly, from a sort of ragged but functional ability to keep going, I just couldn't. Couldn't wake up on demand, couldn't put on a smiley face in the teeth of a shrieking gale, couldn't really work out what time of day it was. We're thinking of joining the gym down the road, we'd popped in to ask about trial membership. "What do you think?" the girl at the counter asked me after explaining the options. I stared into the middle distance for almost a full minute. Part of me is still in there, trying to remember why I was there at all.

Thank God for Mormor, who came round today to give us an afternoon off. Sleep! Blessed, healing, lovely sleep. The ravelled sleeves of our care aren't perhaps entirely knitted up, but at least the heavy fraying (Frejing?) has been temporarily arrested.

This was the first time we'd let Freja out of our sight for any period of time. Neither of us expected to do anything other than sit by the door anxiously, occasionally whining like a punished dog as we waited for the return of our mistress. Luckily, physiology trumps even the best intentions, and we slept solidly for three hours or so.

Actually, I'd guiltily admit to feeling very relieved that we got a bit of time off. It came at a very necessary juncture for me. V didn't feel relieved at all, she was waiting for that sentinal peeping that alerts one to imminent waking the whole time. She's clearly the better parent.

All three of us are much calmer and more relaxed this evening. F is in a very smiley and calm mood, I can think in a straight line for more than thirty seconds and V has started laying plans for the next few days instead of the next few hours. Planning things is a good sign with my wife, it means she's looking forward to the future.

Wait, what, I've joined a gym?