Sleep: part two

AS I’VE said before, sleep becomes something of an obsession when you’re a parent. Not just your own sleep (although that is high on your list of priorities), but your baby’s too.

There’s certainly no shortage of advice on babies’ sleeping habits but, typically, we’ve taken very little notice of this, opting for our own ‘make-it-up-as-you-go-along’ approach.

Until a couple of weeks ago, we’d keep Harry downstairs with us (usually asleep) until we went to bed but we’ve now started putting Harry to bed on his own.

On the face of it, this should have helped us to relax more in the evening. In fact, it has had to opposite effect. Both Melissa and I will sit downstairs listening to the monitor intently in case Harry stirs, meaning we can’t even concentrate enough to watch television.

And we race upstairs at the slightest hint of movement to check on him. All in all, it’s pretty stressful.

We are getting used to it – slowly – just in time to start worrying about when is the right time to move him to his own room.

Official guidance seems to suggest putting babies in their own rooms from about six months onwards. If we follow this advice, that gives me another few weeks of decent sleep – before Melissa starts kicking me in the middle of the night to go and check on Harry.

Am I going soft?

I’VE been getting a bit of stick recently from one or two people who think I’ve gone soft since Harry arrived.

I know this because, during a recent visit to The Trap, one of the regulars, Wyn, told me to stop turning into a woman and start writing about Wrexham Football Club instead. I think he was joking – and anyway, there’s not much to say about events at The Racecourse at the moment, except that I sincerely hope things improve next year.

But Wyn’s comment got me thinking. Have I gone soft now that I’m a parent? Well, I’m not sure. Since having Harry, my whole outlook on life has certainly shifted – I now worry about feeds, baby changing facilities, the ease with which pushchairs fold, and whether we’ve got enough nappies. Naturally enough Harry is number one on my list of priorities. My music collection has also expanded – somewhat against my will – and you’re now as likely to catch me listening to nursery rhymes as Ryan Adams or Radiohead.

Having said all that, I’m still interested in life’s little essentials – a good pint of real ale, Wrexham FC and, of course, cricket – it’s just that they have to fit in with Harry.

Both Melissa and I are starting to relax a bit more now after the initial shock of parenthood. We’ve even left him with the grandparents a couple of times, which was initially a little nerve-wracking but does get easier.

Thankfully, Harry is still a very good baby. As long as he’s fed regularly, he rarely cries (as long as you don’t try and dress him) and he’s usually quite happy bouncing around in his little chair – at least this helps me feel less guilty when we do leave him behind.

Having said that, when we have left Harry, we’ve found ourselves talking about him most of the time anyway; I’m still not sure either of us can quite believe we’re responsible for creating something so, well, amazing.

So maybe I am going soft after all, although I’d rather think of it as becoming a more rounded human being if it’s all the same to you.

Growing up fast

I can’t believe how quickly Harry is changing. The other day I came across some pictures taken shortly after he was born and it’s incredible how much his features have changed and developed already.

I’ve started to notice other changes too. Harry’s now discovered that he controls his hands and he’s becoming quite adept at using them to throw his dummy around, take off his own bib and grab his blanket while attempting to eat it.

Then there are the other, less obvious changes. He’s now much more aware of his surroundings and his eyes follow me when I enter or leave a room (although he still gets far more excited if he spots Melissa).

But Harry’s also decided he doesn’t like some things – and he doesn’t mind letting us know. Two things in particular seem to upset him.

The first is getting dressed in a morning. He’s absolutely fine until you try and put anything on over his head (T-shirt, vest, and so on). Even if he’s been smiling happily for the previous hour, as soon as his head is covered – even for a second – he screams. And boy does he scream. In fact, he screams so much he can hardly breathe, which was pretty scary the first time it happened.

The other major problem in Harry’s life is his car seat. He hates it. As soon as he is put in the seat, he cries, screams and refuses stop until we’ve driven at least two miles in the car.

Melissa says it’s just a phase and he’ll grow out of it soon. I hope she’s right because all the crying has started to make me a bit forgetful– last weekend I managed to get him into his car seat without waking him and was so excited, I almost drove off without Melissa. For once, Harry and his car seat were the least of my troubles.

Talking babies...

I’m now convinced that Harry has started talking to me.

It may not be in any recognisable language, but I’m sure that his gurgles, shouts, squeaks and squeals are his way of telling me something. What it is, I don’t know, but that’s really beside the point – we’re both quite happy squeaking at each other for hours on end.

And whatever it is he’s saying, Harry’s definitely become more vocal in recent weeks – or, as Melissa puts it, he’s found his voice. I first noticed it in the early hours of the morning a couple of weeks ago. Harry was wide awake and hungry but, instead of his usual sobbing and crying, he was shouting and squeaking, presumably to attract my attention.

Although it doesn’t sound a particularly significant development, I lay there feeling totally in awe of nature. My little boy was almost talking. It was certainly a refreshing change from crying. Goodness knows what I’ll be like when he manages to say something recognisable.

Speaking of which, now that Harry has found his voice, it goes without saying that Melissa and I are locked in battle over that all-important first word.

Whenever Melissa leaves the room, I look Harry in the eye and repeat ‘dad’ over and over again. I have to make up for lost time because I’m convinced that the moment I leave for work, Melissa sits in front of Harry repeating the word ‘mum’ until I return. That gives her five full days advantage over me every week so I’ve got my work cut out.

It’s a competition that will run and run. I’ll let you know who wins the race…

I'm an embarrassing dad already

I’ve noticed something worrying in the last few weeks… I’m already becoming an embarrassing dad.

It’s not good. Throughout Melissa’s pregnancy, I vowed not to be one of those parents that bring shame upon their offspring. You know, the ones who talk in those loud, baby-like gurgling voices to their children. But you know what, that’s exactly what I’ve started to do.

What’s worse is that I don’t care who can hear me. I even caught myself doing it in a busy pub while grabbing a bite to eat during a day out in Llandudno. Poor Melissa looked mortified as a group of people standing at the bar turned round to watch as I tried to coax a smile from Harry by squeaking at him.

As I’ve said before, I’m sure Harry only responds because he enjoys seeing his dad making a fool of himself.

In any case, he’s certainly learning how to play his parents off against each other. The other night, Harry decided to have a bit of a scream. I tried to calm him down by walking around – and failed. Melissa took him off me and played with him while sitting on the sofa; he was smiling happily within seconds.

Half an hour later, Harry was screaming again so I took him back and finally managed to restore some tranquillity after marching around the house (upstairs, downstairs, the kitchen, garden, dining room) for about 15 minutes. As soon as I returned to the lounge and sat down, Harry screamed. The minute I stood up, he dropped off again.

Perhaps he’s getting his own back for having an embarrassing dad, but I can always play my trump card. Now where did I put my socks and sandals?

Pushchairs and dog mess

Becoming a parent presents many challenges. Some of these are quite straightforward, such as changing nappies; others are more testing, such as how to stop your baby screaming while trying to pay for your shopping in a busy supermarket.

But for me, one of the most eye-opening has been learning to push the pram.

I know it doesn’t sound too problematic but I’d never appreciated just how difficult it is even to get into some shops.

And when you can get in, it’s amazing how narrow the aisles are in some places – I’ve also lost count of the number of people I’ve had to apologise to after accidentally bumping into them while trying to negotiate a particularly tricky special offer display.

The problems don’t end there. Dog mess is a real issue – there’s nothing more annoying than rushing into the house with a hungry baby only to find you’ve left a stinking trail of muck behind you.

Then there are those people who think it’s ok to park their cars across the pavement, leaving you with no choice but to walk on a busy road. It’s not only inconsiderate, it’s also downright dangerous.

But it’s not all bad news. While walking across Chirk Aqueduct last Sunday, we were approached by a dog walker asking if we had any spare nappy bags. “I’ve left my bags at home and I think my dog’s about to go to the toilet,’ she explained.

At least that’s one less pile of dog dirt for me to avoid.

Progress...

THIS week has been a week of major progress. Harry has started sleeping through the night.

I’ve said before that we’ve been lucky with Harry. After the first couple of weeks, he settled into a routine of just one night feed, which was certainly manageable and far better than I expected.

To be honest, the night feeds weren’t too bad (although Melissa might well have a different perspective given that I was only doing two nights a week – Friday and Saturday – compared to her five).

These feeds always seemed to follow a similar pattern: wake to the sound of Harry crying/grumbling; fumble round for a bottle in the dark; drop the bottle on my foot; swear; battle to get the bib round Harry’s neck; give up; then, finally, feed while trying to keep my eyes open.

Thankfully Harry had usually fallen asleep before the end of the bottle so, after winding him of course, he’d be back in his cot and I’d be asleep again within the hour.

But last Tuesday Harry slept through the night without feeding. We put him down at half nine and, although he did stir a couple of times, he didn’t wake up for a feed until about just after six the next morning.

I must admit, I thought it might just be a one-off but, sure enough, the following night he slept through again.
It was one of those too-good-to-be-true moments and Melissa and I are still celebrating more than a week later.

I’ve heard stories from friends about babies who sleep through the night almost from the word go. While that would have been nice, 13 weeks of night feeds isn’t bad. Now if I can just train him to have a lie in at the weekend…