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Diary of first time father Alan Beck (previously Gasolineros guitarist)
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Tonight the Haymarket 50th anniversary bash. The free food and booze always sounds promising, but these corporate beanos are invariably thronged with pissed 21-year-old ads gimps shouting idiotic slogans at each other.
Still, our great leader will make a speech to the assembled 1,300 and then I can at least pile into the finger food and neck a couple of bottles of Sol before beating a retreat to wife and child.
In his munificence, Lord Heseltine has granted the whole company a day off tomorrow (GENOFANV, Agresso-heads), so a spot of golf in the afternoon is threatening to happen.
(Tim Henman, meanwhile, is losing in five sets to Feliciano Lopez in the second round at Wimbledon)
Kate's finding the whole mattter of breastfeeding a bit trying and tiring right now. Alfie's a bit unpredictable and, of course, prefers the much-easier bottle. I must be more sympathetic as it's so easy for me - I come to work, get a break, sleep ok - for her it's relentless and she's so self-critical, that she doesn't need any more coming from me. Just be nice.
Still, our great leader will make a speech to the assembled 1,300 and then I can at least pile into the finger food and neck a couple of bottles of Sol before beating a retreat to wife and child.
In his munificence, Lord Heseltine has granted the whole company a day off tomorrow (GENOFANV, Agresso-heads), so a spot of golf in the afternoon is threatening to happen.
(Tim Henman, meanwhile, is losing in five sets to Feliciano Lopez in the second round at Wimbledon)
Kate's finding the whole mattter of breastfeeding a bit trying and tiring right now. Alfie's a bit unpredictable and, of course, prefers the much-easier bottle. I must be more sympathetic as it's so easy for me - I come to work, get a break, sleep ok - for her it's relentless and she's so self-critical, that she doesn't need any more coming from me. Just be nice.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Christ alive, is it really three years since I posted here? 2004, still clinging onto the threads of a rock dream that would never happen. Hey ho. Not the first and won't be the last.
Anyway, to the present. Alfie. My son, four weeks old today and an incomparable treasure. Just finished a week's paternity leave and now inhabit the weird, twilit existence of three-hourly feeds. Kate and I are on sleeping shifts - me staying up until 1.30am while Kate sleeps from 9.30. Then Kate takes over and sleeps on the sofa with Alfie in his moses basket on the coffeee table. I'm sure I have the better of the deal, which allows me a full six hours uninterrupted while Kate bookends the night with hastily grabbed rest. Most importantly, we have to ensure we don't spend our entire time away from each other in the service of looking after the little 'un.
If anything, though, it is the lack of attendant drama that has surprised me most. Three weeks of neonatal shuttling about offers, perversely, an excellent grouding for the rigours of parenthood. Yes, there is an abundance of washing, a liberal scattering of tissue paper everywhere and a simply staggering volume of nappies, but really - what were you expecting?
It seems parents belong in two categories: the first are the doom-mongers, forever pitching in with "ooh, just you wait" advice about the "life-changing experience" to come. Pat, sadly, is the archetype doom-monger, but in fairness to her she comes from a wholly different generation of parenting - more interestingly, I've found quite a few of these at work too, largely from failed relationships themselves; the second are the enthusers, who are happy to let you find out about the less palatable areas of the babysphere for yourself but are eager with advice when sought and offering a life-affirming touch when most needed. Witness this from Dave Evans before Alfie was born: "It is the most awesome, most fun, most loving, most scary, most tiring but most downright, undescribably incredible experience you will ever have." How true.
Anyway, to the present. Alfie. My son, four weeks old today and an incomparable treasure. Just finished a week's paternity leave and now inhabit the weird, twilit existence of three-hourly feeds. Kate and I are on sleeping shifts - me staying up until 1.30am while Kate sleeps from 9.30. Then Kate takes over and sleeps on the sofa with Alfie in his moses basket on the coffeee table. I'm sure I have the better of the deal, which allows me a full six hours uninterrupted while Kate bookends the night with hastily grabbed rest. Most importantly, we have to ensure we don't spend our entire time away from each other in the service of looking after the little 'un.
If anything, though, it is the lack of attendant drama that has surprised me most. Three weeks of neonatal shuttling about offers, perversely, an excellent grouding for the rigours of parenthood. Yes, there is an abundance of washing, a liberal scattering of tissue paper everywhere and a simply staggering volume of nappies, but really - what were you expecting?
It seems parents belong in two categories: the first are the doom-mongers, forever pitching in with "ooh, just you wait" advice about the "life-changing experience" to come. Pat, sadly, is the archetype doom-monger, but in fairness to her she comes from a wholly different generation of parenting - more interestingly, I've found quite a few of these at work too, largely from failed relationships themselves; the second are the enthusers, who are happy to let you find out about the less palatable areas of the babysphere for yourself but are eager with advice when sought and offering a life-affirming touch when most needed. Witness this from Dave Evans before Alfie was born: "It is the most awesome, most fun, most loving, most scary, most tiring but most downright, undescribably incredible experience you will ever have." How true.
