Tag Archives: father

Who’s the Daddy? Part II

I wrote a blog post a couple of weeks ago.

It was all about the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine’s struggle at the beginning of fatherhood, both to bond with Frog and fit into his new “role” as a dad. The post had more comments than I’ve ever received on a single post. It was also highlighted in a video by Tara at Sticky Fingers in her talk about The Gallery at Cybermummy 11. And it was included in the Top Ten at Ten round up on the Tots 100.

None of that really matters though. Continue reading

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Filed under Baby stuff, Breastfeeding, Family

Who’s the Daddy? (The long road)

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon and I haven’t slept for two days.

I can hear our new baby screaming downstairs as her dad tries to comfort her. I close my eyes and sink deeper into the bath I’ve been looking forward to since giving birth 24 hours earlier.

When the screams get louder I run downstairs, naked and soaking wet, to check all is well. It isn’t. The (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine is pacing up and down with the tiny Frog on his shoulder, trying to calm her. He looks terrified. Continue reading

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The Apple Crumble Family

An Apple Crumble Family...

Do you ever have days where you wish you still lived “at home”? Or that your mum was just over the road? Or that you could just pop round for Sunday lunch with the in-laws?

We have those days. Quite often actually.

Frog’s Northern Granny came to stay from Up North this weekend. And now we miss her. We live four hours away so popping round for Sunday lunch isn’t really an option. This makes me sad.

But then, if we did live Up North, we would be even further from Frog’s Southern Granny, (and Grandpa too, if you’re reading this Dad) who we also love.

It’s a lose-lose situation. And one that makes me go all misty-eyed for those bygone days where families lived on the same street and you could just pop round to Mum’s with an apple crumble. Not that those days have ever actually existed in my family. My Nana lives two hours away and my other Gran wasn’t really the apple crumble type.

But you know what I mean, don’t you? Is it something that actually exists anywhere other than Corrie and Neighbours?

I keep reading about the Modern Family. About how today, it’s common for new parents to be “geographically isolated”. It’s all because of work and jobs. We move to where the jobs are, rather than making our life around where our extended family is. It’s not rocket science.

But I don’t want to be a Modern Family. I want to be an Old-Fashioned Family (I have yet to find this term, but you get where I’m coming from). I want the Apple Crumble dream.

This is something that is never going to happen though. I chose to have a family with a man from the North, while I’m a girl from the South. Whichever way you look at it, one of us is going to be a fish out of water. So we’re choosing to compromise and have neither family on our doorstep.

And actually, I don’t think that’s a particularly bad thing. It means we get spoiled rotten when we go to stay at Northern Granny and Southern Granny’s house. It means we always have places to visit during the holidays. It means every time we see them it’s that little bit more exciting.

And just between me and you, I was never that good at baking Apple Crumble anyway.

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The real Gary Barlow

The best thing about having a baby is becoming a pop star.

And a comedian. And generally, the best entertainer of all time.

In my head, I’ve always sounded absolutely fabulous. I’m the sixth (and only female) member of Take That. I just haven’t been discovered yet. In reality, though, I expect my friends and family probably would say something quite different.

Baby Frog hasn’t yet realised I have a voice that could smash a window. As far as she’s concerned, it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard. I love that about having a baby.

It’s not all rosy though. For some reason (disloyal child) she seems to find her Daddy more entertaining. I could put on a whole show for her, singing and dancing, while all he has to do is smile and she’s putty in his hands. I hate to be upstaged (Competitive Mum again I’m afraid).

So I choose to believe that it isn’t because I have a rubbish voice. It isn’t because I’m a rubbish dancer. It isn’t because she doesn’t like Take That (my main repertoire of tunes). It’s simply because her Daddy has a funny face. Who can blame her really?

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