Breadsticks

Supermarkets are big places. They've got lots of aisles, full of products which most of us probably never buy. Non-alcoholic lager, pre-grated cheese, Baconnaise, the list goes on.

Certainly I'd never given much thought to breadsticks until I had a baby. But since they became one of G's favourite foods, I'm pretty much single-handedly keeping the breadstick industry going in the midst of the current economic crisis.

It started a few months ago when G was first eating solid food, and someone handed out some mini-breadsticks to all the children at a baby group. G, already having teeth, was easily able to hold the stick in her hand and chew the end off it. After she'd finished one, she wanted another. And so, on every shopping trip since, I've bought at least two packets of the things.

I usually give one to G before every proper meal, which I suppose makes the humble breadstick a form of baby antipasti. If I break it in half, she'll hold one in each hand and take alternating bites, before eventually shoving what's left of it into her gob.

I fully expect her to get bored one day, and start demanding some Balsamic vinegar and olive oil to dip her breadsticks into. Obviously if she starts asking for Baconnaise instead, I'll know I've failed as a father.

Crawling

I went away for the weekend, and came back to find that G had started crawling. Well, when I say crawling, she's able to shuffle forward on all fours for a bit before flopping down onto her tummy again. It's close enough though. No doubt she'll be scuttling about with alarming speed before much longer.

Mrs J made some suitable changes to the house while I was away. G's playpen is now in the middle of the living room with all her toys in, so I imagine she'll be spending a lot of time in there to prevent her crawling all over the house causing chaos.

Crawling might also help G lose some of the comedy pot belly she's developed over the last few months. She was a big baby to begin with and has had a healthy appetite ever since, always finishing her bottles and rarely turning down food. It's not exactly time for a baby diet, but some exercise will probably do her good.

Three Meals A Day

Here's G looking thoughtful as she munches her way through her lunch today. She's now onto three proper meals a day, which usually consists of porridge for breakfast, a pot of some kind of baby food for lunch, and some of whatever we're having for tea. Her intake of milk is supposed to go down accordingly, but she's still greedily polishing off her bottles, which suggests she's not going to grow up to be a fussy eater.

She's been a bit miserable at times over the last few days, as her next teeth poke their way through. G has had her two bottom front teeth for a while, and now her two upper fangs are slowly coming into view. This might make her look like a baby vampire, but I know for certain she's definitely not because garlic breadsticks are one of her favourite snacks.

G was on angelic form during her latest election campaign stop this morning, at the office of the local Labour candidate, who's also a pretty well-known government minister. The minister's wife looked after G while I did the interview, and I just about had to prise her back afterwards. G also tried to eat her red rosette, although I think that says less about her support for Labour's policies and more about the fact that just about any object within reach currently goes into her mouth.

Baby-Led Weaning

Weaning G off milk and onto proper food is turning out to be more fun than I expected. We're having a go at baby-led weaning, which basically involves leaving bits of food in front of her, and letting her pick up and have a chew at whatever she wants. G is demonstrating this in the picture above, with some bits of breadstick, one of her early favourite foods.

We're not ignoring the traditional method of weaning, which involves mushed up bits of fruit and veg, baby rice and suchlike, but G seems to prefer eating real bits of food. She runs through a wide variety of emotions as she puts different titbits in her mouth. Sometimes she chews thoughtfully, occasionally she smiles, but often the reaction isn't so good. I had a go with some apricot this morning, and she produced the sort of face I imagine she'll pull in a few years' time when I insist she finishes her sprouts. Rather than the feeding, I think seeing my little girl grow up is the thing I enjoy about it most.

Sick

This weekend was my first time away from G this year, and I drove all the way to Aberdeen and back for the engagement party of two of my friends. While it was good to get away, by Saturday afternoon I'd already demanded Mrs J send me several photos of exactly what G was doing. Clearly I was missing her more than I expected.

I got back last night to find that G had thrown up her evening feed in epic style and had a bit of a temperature. Very unusually, she didn't sleep properly either, which didn't do me much good following my long and tiring weekend of drinking and driving (not at the same time though, of course). When G vomited up her first two feeds of this morning (the second all over my clothes, which I'd foolishly just put on) and kept whining and crying, it was obvious there was something the matter.

Ever since G was born I've heard people talking about how babies have a character all of their own, but at least in the early months of her life I never really saw it in her. She just seemed to cry and eat and sleep and smile like all of the other babies I've ever seen, often doing all of them in quick succession. But today I spotted her pulling the same kind of feeling-sorry-for-myself faces that I produce when I've got man flu. Not that I'm suggesting G was trying to get sympathy, I'm sure she's not quite devious enough for that yet, but I think it shows she's developing a personality of some sort. This is a very pleasing thing for a parent to experience, even if it is accompanied by large amounts of vomit and a need to keep the washing machine almost constantly in use.

Anyway, today ought to have been a miserable day spent nursing my poorly baby, but, as it always does on these occasions, Calpol came to the rescue. A dose of the purple goo was enough to calm G down for a trip out at lunchtime, and her next feed stayed down after I gave it to her in two separate goes. Then she caught up on sleep for two and a half hours, and now seems back to her usual self. It's fair to say Calpol has now replaced Irn Bru as the one product I would advertise for free.

First Solid Food

We gave G her first solid food the other day. She's almost five months old, and she's started to wake up a bit earlier in the mornings, which implies that just milk on its own won't be enough for her for too much longer. So Mrs J put G in her high chair and broke out some baby rice.

As you can see, I'm not sure how much of it actually made it into her mouth. Actually she seemed more interested in chewing on the spoon, although the two little front teeth poking through her gums mean she's chewing on more or less everything these days, so that wasn't too surprising.

I'm sure she'll be seeing these photos when she's older though. 16th birthday? 18th? 21st? Wedding day? I'm certain you're not supposed to look on these important events in your baby's life purely as a way to embarrass them in later life. But I can't help myself.

The End Of Breastfeeding

There aren't many subjects that get parents going as much as the thorny topic of breastfeeding. I now realise that mums often fall into one of two camps. The first group finds breastfeeding easy and can't help but tell everyone about how they wouldn't dream about giving their baby anything else. The second group finds breastfeeding difficult and so give their baby formula instead, which usually means a lot of nagging from health visitors and, in turn, a lot of complaining about this nagging on various internet message boards. The thing is, everyone seems to think they're doing what is best for their baby, and when confronted with conflicting evidence like this, it's not hard to see where the confusion comes from.

We fall somewhere in between those two groups. From about two weeks old G has had a mixture of breastfeeding and bottle feeding, with an initial one bottle feed per day rising to two and then three shortly before Mrs J went back to work last week. We decided to start giving G the bottles because she was a big baby and often seemed to be hungry, no matter how many breastfeeds she got, and sure enough she was a lot better once we switched. Not all babies are happy to take both breast and bottle (the milk flows out at different rates, which can be irritating for little ones) so we were pretty lucky with that too.

But now Mrs J has gone back to work breastfeeding isn't really practical. The less often you breastfeed the less milk you produce, and there just isn't enough to keep our little milk monster happy, so from this week we're giving her bottles only. It won't be for long though, because soon enough we'll have to start trying solid food. Another thing I've now learned is that, once you finally solve one problem with your baby, you're almost immediately confronted with a new one.

Sitting In Daddy's Chair

Here's photographic proof, if any were needed, of who is really in charge of our household these days. G has already taken my chair. Soon CBeebies will be on the telly every day, and the only book I'll be allowed to read will be The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Obviously I'm used to having one female telling me what to do, but I now realise that will increase to two before I know it.

As for the constant puking, it seems to have stopped for the time being after Mrs J started giving G drops along with her feeds. Not before a particularly epic sick-up earlier today though, in which G showed off the latest thing she's learned - projectile vomiting. Another reason why wooden floors are better than carpets.

Going To Sleep In Her Own Room

Baby G is ten weeks old today. It's already hard to imagine what we actually did with our lives before she turned up. Ten weeks doesn't seem like a lot, but I now understand that when you're a new parent and fitting in all of the new things you have to get done every day, ten weeks feels closer to about ten years. I also now understand that those people who say that time flies by and babies grow up before you even realise it are liars. Liars! I mean look at our baby, she's still a tiny baby! She can't crawl or stand up or explain the offside rule (as a girl, she may never be able to do this) or anything!

Anyhow, I'll grant you that she has grown up a little bit since she was born. Enough in fact for us to decide to put her in her own room at night from now on. G has actually been sleeping through the night reasonably happily for a while, so this measure is possibly more for the benefit of Mrs J, who usually finds herself being woken by G's every gurgle and movement even though the little one is doing it all in her sleep. So, the cot is now in the spare room, and G is currently in it, as the picture above (taken in the dark with a flash) shows.

Our new routine calls for her to be in her room from after her mid-evening bath and feed (about 7ish) onwards. Tonight, during the time between that and her usual late feed at 10:30pm, she kept waking up. This meant both me and Mrs J trooped in and out of the room all evening making increasingly useless attempts to settle her down by cooing at her, turning her mobile on (it's amazing how irritating that tinkly sound becomes after, oh, let's say the second time), putting her dummy back in, or just staring at her blankly in the hope she might stop crying (this was me). However, we didn't give in, and at no time did we remove her from the room. This, apparently, is important, and, also apparently, we will be grateful for it later.

After the late feed Mrs J went to bed and I tried to get G back off to sleep. Mrs J manages this by cradling her and softly whispering in the classic motherly style. Alas, when I attempt that, G cries and fidgets and tries to grab on to the collar of my t-shirt and, if that's successful, a clump of my exposed chest hair, to surprisingly painful effect. For the last couple of weeks, the only way I've been able to get her to sleep is on my knees, with her facing away from me. I like to call it the Superbaby position. Here's G demonstrating it a short time ago:

There are two things to notice about this photo. The first is that baldness is obviously hereditary. The second is that it doesn't look very comfortable. But G seems to like it, and that's all that matters. Another thing about being a new parent is that getting baby to sleep is of paramount importance, so if baby develops a taste for drifting off in the airing cupboard or tumble dryer (note - don't try this at home) you'd probably let her do it. Right now, the baby monitor gadget in front of me tells me that G is indeed fast asleep. So it's time I got some sleep too.

Eyes Bigger Than Her Stomach

G was very peckish at lunchtime. Mrs J had given her a feed but she still seemed to want a bit more. So Mrs J decided to make up a little bottle of formula to make sure G didn't go hungry. We'd done this a couple of times before and it had gone ok, and sure enough after the top-up G was quickly into a deep sleep. Feeling smug, we took her around town and even stopped off at Common in the Northern Quarter on the way back for a hot chocolate (Mrs J) and a cheeky pint of Marble Manchester Bitter (me).

This smugness lasted until shortly after we got home, when G sicked up everywhere. Then, after a brief interlude during which Mrs J changed her clothes and calmed the little one down, G was sick again. This prompted a bit of low-key whining from G, and a more heartfelt outburst from Mrs J: "I've only got two pairs of trousers that fit, and she's just been sick over both of them!" Still, looking on the bright side, it was baby's first proper vomit. As reasons to celebrate go it's not exactly up there with first words or first tooth, but it's better than nothing I suppose.

As you can see from the picture, Mrs J has forgiven G. We all eat too much every now and again after all. But we're going to Birmingham tomorrow for a friend's wedding on Saturday, and if G throws up all over Mrs J's dress during the reception, I don't think she'll be quite so forgiving.

In The Middle Of The Night

I've landed myself with the night shift. After we had tea earlier, Mrs J took G off to the bedroom with the idea they'd both get some decent sleep. But, when after a few hours had passed and I heard the already too-familiar sound of G squirming and whining and went in to check on them, Mrs J said she'd only managed to drift off about 20 minutes before. Even in the half-light I could make out the sort of thousand-yard stare common only to new mums telling you they haven't had any sleep, and deranged Vietnam veterans telling you about the time they led the assault on Gobbler's Ridge. So I took G for a nappy change and have managed to get her back to sleep in the living room, in the hope Mrs J can pile up some Zs. As you can see from the picture, we're now well into the wee small hours.

It's not as easy as it seems for the dad to help out in the early days of a newborn's life. G's only main interest besides sleeping is feeding, and until Mrs J can start expressing milk in a week or two feeding remains firmly her department. I can try to calm G down when she wakes up and starts crying, but although it sometimes works for a while, there's really only one thing (or, if we're being honest about it, two things) she actually wants. Which means the long-suffering Mrs J has to be pressed into service again.

I suppose this leaves me feeling a bit left out. But even if I could do it, I think male breastfeeding is a gender equality step too far. It's the sort of thing you don't see outside such classic Hollywood movies as the 1994 Arnold Schwarzenegger comedy Junior (actually, I'm only guessing as to whether the movie features male lactation; I haven't watched it and, it seems, neither has anyone else). There's a whole Wikipedia page about the idea, but then there's also a Wikipedia page about series 11 of Last of the Summer Wine (check out the one-line plot summary for the third episode), so I don't think we should read too much into that. In fact, the chances of male lactation catching on are probably about the same as the star of Junior doing something outrageous like, say, going into politics and being elected the governor of somewhere. As if that would happen.