Tom woke up with an eye the size of Greenland this morning, all stuck together with a green gunk that i’m thinking of marketing as a new superglue. It’s left him with the sort of look that would make him a shoe-in to play Ernst Blofeld when they re-cast Bond films with babies.
After redialling the doctors for 15 (fifteen) minutes, I finally got through and was allocated a spot with a nurse practitioner. I don’t think we’ve ever seen a doctor down there, maybe there aren’t any.
Initial thoughts of conjunctivitis were confirmed, although the precise sort of conjunctivitis is still under debate – most likely it’s hay-fever related – his little tear-ducts can’t cope with the pollen and ‘stuff’ in the air reckoned the nurse, here have some eye drops, 4 times a day, come back on Friday if it’s no better.
Now, have you ever tried to give a baby eye-drops? On your own? You need a hand for the bottle, a hand to hold him still and a hand to open his eye. That’s three hands: one more than is usual, even for rural Dorsetshire. It was interesting to say the least, he didn’t seem to mind though. We’ll see what he’s like next time, when he knows what he’s in for.
No music bugs tomorrow though. It was going to be Easter Bunny week too. Bah.
We’ll see what he’s like next time edit: Not happy.
And the time after that: Wouldn’t open his eyes. He’s a bit smart.
is not easy.
I appear to have turned into the BIGBADISAIDNO
for instance: you put the boy in front of the telly for 5 mins while you get the sheets in, you look round and he’s trying to eat the record player
TOM, NO
and then he’s trying to eat the playstation
TOM, NO
pulling everything off the coffee table? cd racks? eat the cat?
NO, NO, NO
Wait, you need some background information. Tom is just coming up to 9 months. He already has the attitude of a teenager. Myself, I am approaching 36. Barely old enough to look after myself, let alone a baby.. so how has this all come about?
Simply put, we didn’t want to put Tom into nursery full-time at 6 months old and, god bless feminism, I earn less than my partner. An ameniable arrangement was struck with my employer and now on Monday & Tuesday I’m at home with the boy and Wednesday-Friday I’m in the office.
Let me say, however, I’m not *that* sort of stay at home dad. I do not have children called Troilus and Cressida & I do not knit yoghurt sandals.
When I say it’s not easy, the looking after Tom part is rewarding, challenging and no matter how much he cries or is grumpy, or does what he shouldn’t be doing, he will stop crying, he will cheer up and he will, when offered a rice cake, stop being wilful. He will also SMILE the best smile in the world.
No, the ‘not easy’ bit has nothing to do with Tom and more to do with me. Or people’s attitudes toward me when they see me out, when I should be at work, with him. You can see the thought forming before they’ve even thought it. It has to do with joining baby groups and being the only person there with a beard (obviously, the woman with the really *ugly* baby has a beard but that’s unfortunate, not a choice). You do not belong. You are on the outside looking in and for as much as you will be smiled at and asked how old Tom is, you won’t really feel accepted. When the group leader says about hoping all the mums have a good weekend you will want to say ‘and dads’ but you don’t want to seem churlish.
In short, it seems that being a man looking after a baby is just a short cut to an existential crisis. And I thought it would be a few chores and an afternoon film if I was lucky.
