Archive for May, 2009

17
May
09

‘The new baby will fit around our lives’ and other lies you tell yourself pre-children

It takes a brave soul to offer a new mother advice about how to look after her baby – when someone tried it with me, the mood swiftly degenerated into something closely resembling a scene from Saw V.

The other day, while listlessly flicking through TV channels in a bid to bore myself to sleep, I came across a series that aired a year or so back on Channel 4 called ‘Bringing Up Baby’.

I figured that it might just be dull enough to banish insomnia (which is ironic, because insomnia was the last of my problems when I was bringing up babies. Babies bringing up milk in my face, however, was definitely on the list).

The programme tested three different baby care techniques, Truby King, the Continuum Concept and Dr Spock, to see which method is best for children and parents. My own choice ‘The Path of Least Resistance’ has perhaps been left for a later series.

The latter method, Truby King, is ideal for parents who, on the whole, would rather they’d given birth to Sky+ or an iPhone.

Having brought your newborn home, you then set out to ignore it as much as possible so you can start having loud dinner parties at 7.30pm the day after you’ve given birth to illustrate the fact that you’ve given birth to a robot who could sleep through Krakatoa erupting next door.

Truby King nanny Claire Verity, who tellingly has no children of her own, is often hired by the rich and famous for £1,000 a day to practice the method on their offspring.

The technique involves rigid four-hourly feeds, no cuddling during the feeds or at most other times (‘attention seeking!’) and leaving babies outside in their prams for three hours a day in Siberian temperatures so that they can scream themselves knackered enough to sleep through the night.

It lends a whole new poignancy to Tom Jones’ hit, Baby It’s Cold Outside.

Verity’s aim is to restore ‘normality’ to new parents as quickly as possible. As far as she’s concerned, a baby is a bit like a flat-pack wardrobe from Ikea: a nightmare to begin with, but it swiftly blends into the background to the point where you forget it’s even there.

In essence, ‘normality’ appears to involve getting the parents to have a bottle of wine at 7pm every night to prove what little effect having a baby has had on them.

Parents clink glasses and look unbearably smug as Verity lurks outside the baby’s room, muttering darkly about how she refuses to be ‘manipulated’ by a distraught baby who is screaming itself mental in a darkened room.

It’s a definitive guide to the class system: pay someone a grand a day to tell you to get bladdered while your baby screams for attention and you’re middle class, ignore your kid on your own initiative while you down a few cans of cider and you’re working class scum who can expect a visit from Social Services any day.

Using the Truby King method, parents can expect their children to be sleeping through the night from six weeks, goose-stepping by six months and uttering their first sentence (‘who are you again?’) by nine.

Being ignored as a baby never did me any harm!

'Being ignored as a baby never did me any harm!'

Another method on trial in the C4 programme was the Continuum Concept, also known as the ‘Osteopath’s Meal Ticket’.

Parents must maintain body-to-body contact with their baby at all times for the first six months of its life, carrying the child in a sling throughout the day and allowing the baby to sleep in the parental bed at night.

The concept was inspired by the child-rearing techniques of the Yequana, a tribe of Amazonian Indians, who carried their babies continually throughout their first few months and seemed to raise particularly well-adjusted, happy children.

There are many good points about the Continuum Concept, not least the fact that you’re not expected to ease a six-inch lip plate into your mouth like the Yequana in the spirit of authenticity, but the technique has its downsides, mainly the whole non-stop carrying thing.

Just for the record, I’d like to make it clear that I maintained body-to-body contact with my babies for nine, not six, months – I called it ‘pregnancy’.

Finally, there’s the Dr Spock method, which is the perfect baby-raising technique for anyone too lazy, tired or sensible to read a baby manual.

Spock babies are fed on demand, sleep in the parent’s room in a Moses basket and basically rule the roost like miniature dictators without the facial hair (some even have the facial hair – there were some monsters born when I was in hospital).

As a Spock baby myself, I am still feeding on demand, although I am making a concerted effort to cut out the 11pm and 5am bottles thanks to continuing support from Alcoholics Anonymous.

With my own children, I decided that I could either study baby manuals and equip myself with as much information about child-rearing as possible so that I could make an informed choice about which technique to use, or I could spend the time I’d have wasted reading claptrap sitting on the sofa watching Hollyoaks and eating chipsticks.

By the time I gave birth, I knew nothing about child-rearing but a great deal about Chester teenagers and the differing quality of own-brand chipsticks from several leading supermarkets.

As a result, I made it all up as I went along. We quickly established who was boss in the house (the babies) and what kind of routine would work for us (one that involved me not getting dressed for days on end and looking as if I’d recently escaped from an asylum).

Instead of trifling matters like routines and consistency, I concentrated on far more important issues, such as buying really nice babygrows, identifying which jars of Organix baby food caused the much-feared ‘up the back and into the hair’ nappies and honing my withering put-downs for non-parents who dared complain about feeling tired in my ear-shot.

There’s nothing that irritates a parent more than a non-parent telling them how tired they are. Even if the non-parent has plenty of good reason for being tired, parents never accept that it can be the same kind of ‘I just washed up the margarine and put a hair brush in the fridge’ tired that we suffer from.

In turn, non-parents feel patronised when new mums and dads claim to have the monopoly on being knackered.

Of course, both camps have valid points, although you’d think those disposable-income spending, mini-break taking, tidy house owning, wide-awake, well-rested childless gits could cut us a bit of slack now and again.

Yes, you’ve just climbed Mount Everest with a fridge freezer on your back for charity and you’re moving house again, but I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since 1997.

I see your stress at work and I raise you impetigo, head-lice, threadworms and children’s entertainers. Now tell me you’re bloody tired again and I’ll brain you.

As I see it, I am selflessly continuing the human race so that there are enough care workers to wipe the backsides of the people who won’t have any sons or daughter to do it for them when they are old and infirm.

Obviously it won’t be MY children doing that particular job because they’re both going to be architects, but my point remains the same.

The least the childless can do to repay us is to let us have the upper hand when it comes to being shattered.

Oh, and maybe they could babysit a bit more often; say twice a week, preferably on the nights one of the kids has got tennis and the other one has football, simultaneously.

**** I’ve been away. I am going away again. But I’ll always be back ****

05
May
09

Camera phones at gigs: how to spot an arsehole in a matter of seconds

Many years ago, I stood in a field at Glastonbury listening to The Waterboys and wishing I had a lighter with which to mark yet another interminable Celtic folk sing-a-long.

In the half-light, the small flames swaying in the air looked quite magical.

I was, as you can imagine, absolutely rat-arsed at this point, and full of Glastonbury spirit (cider) therefore keen to see the magic in everything, even the portaloos and the goths vomiting snakebite and black outside my tent at 4am.

Having got hold of a lighter, I swiftly realised that marking a ballad with fire isn’t remotely magical, especially when the skin on your thumb starts melting and you realise you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere without any plasters.

Fast-forward a few decades and the new ‘ballad lighter’ on the block is the camera phone and it’s not just used during ballads, it’s used throughout entire gigs.

 

I used to use my eyes. But they were shit.

'I used to use my eyes. But they were shit.'

Last week, I somehow found myself partaking in the grime revolution at the request of my daughter, who is a budding urban princess with an iTunes library packed with N-Dubz, Tinchy Stryder and Dizee Rascal.

Apologies if I’ve lost 95 per cent of you. For those in the dark, I’ll spark up a lighter: grime is an amalgamation of UK garage with a hint of drum ‘n’ bass, a soupcon of punk and a splash of hip-hop for added flavour.

No? It’s marginalised youths shouting really fast while wearing ill-fitting trousers. That just about covers all (drum ‘n’) bases.

The moment Tinchy Stryder exploded on stage (not literally. That was poetic license) the camera phones were in the air. Rather than watching the gig, half the audience were recording it on equipment that made my archaic home video camera look state-of-the-art.

Without exception, the footage they were recording was as clear as the water in the aforementioned Glastonbury toilets.

It appeared that a huge number of people were intent on recording a pirate-quality gig they were supposed to be watching with those other high-tech lenses – the ones implanted in our skulls.

One girl next to us recorded five minutes of blurry shapes moving in the far distance and then excitedly told her friend she was sending it to her Mum. She’d have done better to wait until she got home, where she could have drawn a hasty picture with some crayons and passed it to her old girl while shouting about getting her gums whipped (it’s grime slang. Keep up, granddad/grandma).

Even worse, one of the amateur lens-women next to me had the worst BO imaginable.

Every time she raised her arm in the air to capture another pointless, blurred shot of other people’s arms in the air waving camera phones it was as if she had raised the lid on hell’s sewage treatment works.

At some points, all I could see was LCD screens waving in the air: it was like that scene in Clockwork Orange when the Minister of the Interior clamps open Alex DeLarge’s eyes and forces him to watch disturbing televisual images in order to de-programme his violent, sociopathic tendencies.

This is ironic, because after the third or fourth blast of camera phone BO, I was feeling both violent and sociopathic (I almost said something, but the woman in question was quite burly. And agitating her may well have increased the BO).

I don’t remember this sea of LCD at the last gig I went to, which – as memory serves – was the Happy Mondays.

I first saw the Happy Mondays at Manchester’s infamous Hacienda club when I was at university in Liverpool and they were at the height of their anarchic, chaotic brilliance.

Fifteen years and an industrial quantity of controlled drugs later – the band, not me (I’m a journalist. I have to put my alcoholism first) – they sounded tired and jaded, much like the 30-something audience they were playing to: there’s a certain irony in singing ’24 Hour Party People’ at 10.30pm in order to finish in time for an 11pm curfew.

Holding a mobile phone above your head in the Hacienda days would have involved a bionic arm, anabolic steroids and a reckless disregard for muggers.

Holding it above your head at the comeback gig would have meant you were searching for a signal so you could send a text to the au pair reminding her to make Grace take her Omega-3 tablets before bed.

Maybe I’m just too old. Maybe memories really are better if you download them to FaceBook or maybe I just realise that if I’d tried to capture N-Dubz and Tinchy Styder on my camera phone I’d have been stuck in a sub-menu trying to work out how to use the zoom until the house lights were up and everyone had gone home.

Not captured on my camera phone. This is N-Dubz. And no, apparently hes not being ironic.

Not captured on my camera phone. This is N-Dubz. And no, apparently he's not being 'ironic'.

**** Life keeps getting in the way of blogging. My work has ‘relieved’ our freelance cover (got rid of, rather than sexually pleasured) and I am now working even harder than I did when I worked really, really hard. Interview went well. I felt your vibes. Even the slightly dirty ones from Tannerleah. ****




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