Down By The Water

I've got a mix CD in the car which has Down By The Water by The Decemberists as the first track. Over the last couple of weeks, every time we've got in the car, G has insisted I play it over and over again while she sings along. Whenever it finishes, she gives herself a cheer then says "Down by water song! Down by water song!" until I put it on again. At least it's a suitably good and trendy record for her to like. Thankfully, we've mostly been doing short journeys, otherwise I'd probably have got thoroughly fed up of it by now.

Obviously, G usually does the Gillian Welch part while I do my best Colin Meloy impression. I've spared you my singing on this video though. It was taken by Mrs J on our way back from the shops earlier, in case you were wondering how I was able to drive and film at the same time.

Sleeping Bunnies

Nursery rhymes, like children's TV and sweets, aren't quite like you remember. Everything seems mostly similar but just that little bit different, and not really as exciting or interesting as when you yourself were young. I suppose singing simple little songs can't really match the highly advanced things grown ups find thrilling, like video games and beer.

Although classic songs like The Wheels On The Bus and Row Row Row Your Boat remain staples at parent-and-toddler groups, the local favourite around here is a new one, Sleeping Bunnies. When I used to take G to a couple of groups every week, they always ended with songs, and the singing always ended with Sleeping Bunnies. At least twice.

G still enjoys doing it, especially now she's big enough to stomp about at the relevant part of the song. You can see her in action in the video above, a video which prompted another thought: I really ought to hoover that rug.

Teddy Bears' Picnic

I took G to a teddy bears' picnic last week. Because it was being held in our local Sure Start centre, not only was it free, but specifically you all paid for it. This photo shows G enjoying a taxpayer-funded sandwich. You'll be glad to know that she enjoyed it very much.

Before we left home, I had pondered filling G up with a second helping of breakfast, just so she wouldn't show me up by eating more than her fair share at the picnic. More fool me for not doing so. After polishing off her allocated sandwich and fruit, a mum next to me offered G the sandwiches that her little ones didn't want.

Unsurprisingly, G started chewing her way through a second sandwich. One of the leaders of the group came by and collected the half-finished plates belonging to all the other little ones, but still G ploughed on. By the time she'd polished off half of the third, I finally took it off her, because all the others were getting impatient waiting for the singing to the start.

As for the nursery rhymes, I noticed the woman leading the singing had one or two slight variations to the lyrics. For example, she finished Miss Polly Had A Dolly with "I'll be back in the morning with my bill bill bill" instead of "yes I will will will" which is how I've always done it. Perhaps it's just because I was brought up in the socialist utopia of Scotland, but I was shocked to learn that Miss Polly had apparently gone private. Clearly the waiting lists for dollies with unspecified illnesses are still too long.

Singing To The Nation

G has been on TV before, and today she did it again, as I was called on by my old colleagues at Sky News to do an interview about the latest government plans for more flexibility regarding maternity and paternity leave.

Now that she's a bit older than she was for her previous media appearances, G can't be relied on to sit quietly while daddy discusses the finer points of employment law (or rather while daddy burbles on in the hope the reporter can find a brief bit coherent enough to use in the final report). So, the reporter and cameraman needed to get lots of shots of G playing and doing various cute baby things, to use along with the interview.

One of the cute baby things G has learned is the actions to the nursery rhyme Wind The Bobbin Up, the sort of cotton mill-based rhyme I don't imagine they sing much down south. Anyhow, with G plonked on the sofa, I sang this to get her to do the actions, and smile winningly, which she duly did. It was only when I watched the story go out on Sky later that I realised not only had they kept the sound of my singing in, but they'd put it as the very first thing in the report.

I'm not sure the nation is quite ready to hear my singing. If I'd known they were going to do that, I'd have suggested they got the presenter to read one of those warnings, like "you may find some aspects of this report distressing" or whatever. I hope the sound of my dodgy singing voice didn't put too many people off the proposal, which as a stay-at-home dad I perhaps unsurprisingly think is a good idea.

You can watch the report, singing and all, at the Sky News website here.

As shown by the picture below, G watched herself back later. She started doing the hand actions again during the singing bit, and even played peek-a-boo with herself at the end. Yes, that was as cute as it sounds.

37 To One

I felt a bit outnumbered at G's singalong group this lunchtime. There were 38 babies, 37 mums and me. Usually there are one or two dads around, but not today.

I've clearly gone native since becoming a stay-at-home dad, as I took in some chocolate brownies to share around. The fact that none of the 37 mums had done any homebaking only made me stand out even more. I think this was probably in a good way, because everyone who had a piece said it tasted great. "It's all about substituting half the caster sugar for some soft dark brown sugar," I heard myself saying. At that moment, as I looked around the room, it occurred to me that I'd never really expected my life to turn out quite like this.

After the singing, G was playing on the floor with a boy of about her age. The boy had been stroking G's hair, but then picked up a drum and accidentally hit G in the face with it. This led to lots of tears. I tried to explain to G that the only way to deal with boys who do that sort of thing is to punch them back, but to no avail. Maybe that's a skill we can work on for the future.

A Cold Day

Here's G looking singularly unimpressed by a duck waddling past. I took this by the side of the River Colne in Marsden, after deciding it would be a good idea to drive over the top for a walk around the village. It's been one of those lovely winter days, mostly clear and sunny skies with a sprinkling of snow on the ground. We've had the odd mini-blizzard during the day, but we managed to get to Marsden and back without getting stranded.

Even though it's only a short distance away, Marsden seems to be much higher up than Dobcross, and it certainly seemed a lot colder today. Pushing G around I quickly found my hands going red and then numb, and she wasn't looking particularly warm either, so I called an early halt and stopped in at a coffee shop for a brew. It was selling some homemade ice cream, which seemed like an especially bold business decision in the middle of winter. I didn't try any.

Earlier, I went to the parent and baby group in the church hall in Dobcross. For the second week running I turned up with some homebaking to dish out in the form of millionaire's shortbread. This prompted some general discussion among the other mums along the lines of how I was putting them to shame. I can tell that if I keep bringing sweet treats every week, instead of becoming more popular (as you'd expect in, say, an office) it might actually have the opposite effect. Such are the paradoxes faced by the stay-at-home dad.

The group finishes with a little singsong for the kids (most of them are toddlers). Among the nursery rhymes I sang today, for the first time in at least 20 years, were Jack and Jill, The Grand Old Duke of York and Hickory Dickory Dock. G isn't old enough to join in yet, but when she is I hope she'll prefer something a bit trendier.

Singalong

So, here we are at our new home. Or at least here G is, asleep in her pram on the porch of our new home, at Dobcross in Saddleworth. The move itself was a bit of a production, with removal men that didn't turn up and Mrs J coming down with the lurgy, but it was all good in the end, even though most of our stuff is still in boxes.

Today I walked down the road to Uppermill, the nearest bigger village, to go to my first-ever mothers and toddlers group. It was a sing-along-with-baby sort of idea. Inevitably, once everyone was sat down I realised there were 18 babies, 18 mums, G and me. It wasn't too off-putting though, and I managed to get through it without doing anything that would lead to an outbreak of tutting, such as forgetting to warm up G's feed, or dropping her onto the floor. I'll go again next week.

In case you're wondering about the exact location of Dobcross, here's a mile post handily situated more or less outside our house. It reveals that we're almost equidistant between Manchester and Huddersfield:
But I don't fancy rushing back to the city this weekend, even if the shopping is better. There's plenty to explore around here. Not to mention a lot of boxes to unpack.