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I took my daughter to the pub this afternoon, though even with all that choice of drinks she still went for milk. I guess if you know what you like then you stick with it, but she has only ever tried that, water and Calpol (and though she doesn’t mind H2O she was unimpressed with this medicine - “that’s not milk!†her disgusted face told us as she screwed up her nose and tried to let it ooze down her chin).
We were at a friend’s birthday party and I realised we have forever crossed the Rubicon. We are now at the parents’ side of social gatherings. Once I would have looked at the poor saps with their babies in papooses with pity as I drank myself to oblivion, tried to get off with girls and then stumbled home alone and crying, but now I am one of the idiots cuddling a baby, rather than the geniuses who are free of all ties and secretly sobbing. I am not allowed to go back even if I wanted to, but I don’t. Sitting with other parents, discussing our kids or how difficult it is as a comedian to find a responsible adult to sign your baby’s passport form (I really know hardly anyone who qualifies) or whether it’s worth buying a Perfect Prep machine (it is, but shop around because prices vary wildly) is actually much more fun than it looked from the other side. Or at least equally as rubbish as the conversations you have to have when you don’t have a child to give you a false sense of connection with friends and strangers.
There were lots of comedian parents at this do and it is quite unusual to socialise with comics and their families. As my wife observed you usually only see them slagging off their spouse and kids in their acts, so it’s strange to see them having a real, non-joke life with tiny human beings who rely on them. But rather charming too.
We’d been a bit tired and irritable on our way out (though reassuringly ever couple with a pram we passed were lightly snapping at each other on this Bank Holiday Sunday) but it was worth the effort as some booze and cake and company soon made us forget about delicious sleep. I had really made Phoebe giggle today by singing her a little song and then kissing her cheek four times after each line and as a comedian I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to make your own child laugh (I am sure it is for everyone, but we’re so needy) but one of the other comic’s kids was old enough to be telling jokes and I am really looking forward to that. Even though the jokes were bad and barely made sense and he’d occasionally start one without knowing where he was going with it, “Knock Knock†“Who’s there?†“um…†“You really need to plan what you’re going to say before you start…†though I’d admired his confidence about his improvisational skills.
It takes a while for baby’s to be able to focus properly on stuff, but Phoebe is now really looking around and very curious about the world. A day like today with a walk and dozens of new people to look at was an overload of stimuli, but she refused to go to sleep, trying to take it all in. So far we’ve been very lucky, she’s healthy and happy and only really grizzles and cries when she has something that needs urgent attention, then she’s quickly placid again. Her first hour on this side of my wife’s body had made me terrified that she was going to be a screeching unhappy monster, but although she screamed the hospital down while only her head was out of her mum (and for another 60 minutes afterwards) since then she’s had a very calm temperament. I have only heard her scream like she did immediately after birth once. In that first hour I listened to the sob and the high pitched catch in the back of he throat between each wail and thought, “That’s going to get gratingâ€, but luckily the Stockholm Syndrome kicked in quickly and she seems to like being with us. And everyone. I hope she can be more sociable and less awkward than her stupid father. Though if I’d had a baby twenty-five years ago I would have found it much easier to get into conversations. But of course I really needed to get into a conversation in order to have a baby. It’s a Catch 22.
Now I am a dad though. I noticed looking at photos of today that without consciously realising I had tucked my shirt into my jeans today. I would never have done that before. But now I am conforming to expectations. Maybe it’s me who has Stockholm Syndrome. I resisted loving my kidnapper for the first hour, but since then I have come to accept her imprisoning and torturing me as normal. I even like it. No wonder she’s laughing at me.
