Man vs. Baby Read online

  So spoon-feeding is by no means a clean option. And there is one extremely important rule: never hand over control of the spoon.

  Giving Charlie power over the spoon is like weaponizing him. Having food on the spoon gives him the ability to launch that food farther. When he doesn’t have food on the spoon, he jabs it into his own eye or rams it down his throat like he’s a sword swallower. Try to get it away from him, and it’s back to “prison rules”—he wields it like a shank in a jailhouse dustup. He drums with it, conducts an invisible orchestra with it, and tries to force it into his nose. He does everything with it but use it to eat. Never relinquish the spoon. (Until you have to, obviously. You don’t want to get your child to eighteen and still be sitting next to him in the dining hall, spooning his food in with an encouraging “choo-choo.”)

  SCREW THE MESS

  I love watching Charlie eat. Screw the mess.

  The way he flings his food around, makes fart noises as he raspberries, hiccups, and burps his way through his meal. I love his facial expressions when he loves something and love them even more when it’s something he detests. I love the way he washes his face in his food and the wild-armed abandon with which he can approach a single bean or a mashed-up banana.

  It seems a shame that we are teaching him to lose that enjoyment. And maybe we are the ones who should be learning something instead.

  As adults, we take the whole food thing way too seriously. The pathetic way we section off our potatoes from our carrots, and divide our courses into savory and sweet, and eat them in the right order and with the appropriate cutlery and with our mouths closed. It’s sad.

  I have lost count of the number of times I have sat and watched an episode of MasterChef and, as the melodramatic music reached a crescendo, thought: For fuck’s sake, it’s not the Cuban missile crisis, it’s a fucking shepherd’s pie.

  Where did this seriousness about food come from? What happened to the pure enjoyment of food that we see when a baby eats well?

  I’m not saying that adults should return to eating soup with their fingers and throwing gravy at the walls when they are having a pub lunch (or maybe I am). What I am saying is that we have lost the true joy of food. And if we apply that seriousness to children and babies (even with the best of intentions), maybe we are spoiling something beautifully childish.

  So I think we’re going to let Charlie explore his food for as long as he likes, and fling it around until he decides not to. Maybe we’ll let him eat the occasional thing not on the officially sanctioned list of foods. Maybe not everything he eats will be organic. Maybe sometimes it will be from a pouch or a jar and have too much sugar in it.

  And maybe when he’s a little older and he turns to me one day and says, “Dad, I really don’t like these vegetables,” maybe one time I’ll say:

  “You know what, Charlie boy? Me neither. . . . Fuck it, let’s just have pie.”

  6

  * * *

  OUTSIDE

  A while ago I was on holiday and, while impressively drunk, was talked by a couple of mates into doing a parachute jump. The following day, just before we were due to board this shitty little plane, I was nervously filling out a disclaimer form when I noticed the small print: it said that in the event of something going wrong, we were insured “third party.” I asked the Australian guy running the place what that meant, and he said, “Mate, that means if your ’chute doesn’t open and you slam into a shed . . . well . . . the shed’s covered.”

  The way I felt at that moment is the same as I feel today as we are about to go outside for the first time with Charlie . . . like we’re about to jump out of a plane from twenty thousand feet. Home has become a safe place and leaving that safety is daunting. I know we’ll probably be fine . . . but I can’t shake the feeling that this is a real leap, and that there’s a chance that we will panic, we’ll get into a flat spin, our parachute will fail to open properly, and we’ll slam into the side of a shed.

  We’re only going to IKEA.

  OUTSIDE

  * * *

  On August 23, 1973, during a robbery, three women and one man were taken hostage in one of the largest banks in Stockholm. They were then held captive for several days by two ex-convicts. The hostages were sleep-deprived, hungry, and confused. But, in this state, something strange happened: they began to identify with the bank robbers, even developing affection for them. (Two of the women eventually got engaged to their captors.)

  Psychologists who studied this phenomenon discovered that this was a common response to being held hostage. So much so that, following the case, they gave the condition a name: they called it Stockholm syndrome. It had certain characteristics:

  • Perceived inability to escape.

  • Isolation from perspectives other than those of the captor.

  • The captive’s perception of small kindnesses from the captor within a context of terror.

  I’ve not come across many better descriptions of being a new parent.

  With this in mind, after a while it’s important to go outside for some fresh air and to meet other people—if only to be sure that you’ve actually bonded with your baby and you are not just suffering from Stockholm syndrome and identifying with your captor.

  And so, wish us luck as we go blinking into the sunlight for the first time. Outside: that place where we used to go before having a baby. A mythical, foreign place, of drinks and meals and other people.

  Unwashed, unkempt, and cripplingly sleep-deprived, we look like we’ve spent the last decade chained to a radiator in Beirut. But we are determined to leave the comfort of our nest, committed to living a life outside of four walls, eager to proudly venture, forthright in stride, in th—

  Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . we’ve forgotten something.

  MOBILIZE

  The amount of stuff required to keep a baby alive away from home is breathtaking. Napoleon took slightly less stuff to invade Russia than you now need to nip to the shops: wipes, diapers, diaper bags, toys, stroller, stroller cover, car seat, blankets, hat, clothes, extra clothes, extra emergency clothes, phone, phone charger, spit-up cloths, bibs, the slowly dissipating will to live.

  I’ve heard stories about people having to turn around and go back home for the baby. And I can believe it. This is a mobilization rather than an exit. Before Charlie, my preparations for leaving the house consisted of grabbing a Kit Kat and remembering to wear pants. But with a baby in tow, the entire contents of our house must now be emptied into the car. Or, if we’re venturing out on foot, into the tiny basket that hangs like a camel’s ball-sack from the bottom of our baby’s stroller.

  THE “STROLLER”

  So let’s assume, for our first trip, that we are venturing out into the world on foot. The most vital piece of equipment for this sort of expedition is what we British call the pram.I The pushchair. Or, as marketing bastards deceptively rebranded it when we weren’t looking: the stroller. (Because, in marketing land, new parents “stroll.” Rather than tear-ass around the place insanely, using their stroller like a chariot in Ben-Hur, as they try to get a week’s tasks done in the fifteen-minute window while their little one is sleeping.)

  I used to think that a stroller was just a way of attaching wheels to your child. He can’t walk, you can’t carry him all the time, so what could be simpler than a straightforward piece of equipment that has somewhere for a baby to sit, four wheels, and a pushing handle? I thought that a stroller was essentially a padded wheelbarrow. After spending six months wheeling 472 different varieties up and down the aisles of Babies“R”Us, I realize I was wrong. There are countless different types, all with dopey lifestyle-y names like The Windsor and Zest. Far from simple, these things are some of the most unnecessarily complex and complicated appliances ever created by humankind. And the companies that manufacture and sell them make the process of buying one all the more confusing with their bullshit.

  Here are two different descriptions:

  1. The frame is an ergonomi
cally designed carbon fiber chassis with aluminum alloy wheels and a four-wheel independent suspension, to handle the toughest terrain. The underside is coated in heat-resistant material that helps to maintain temperature.

  2. The lightweight frame is made of aluminum alloy and carbon composites, aluminum wheels are mounted on a rocker-boogie suspension so that the wheels remain on the ground over rough terrain. Each front and rear wheel can be individually steered allowing for 360-degree turns.

  So, example number one is a manufacturer’s description of the stroller we bought.

  Example number two is NASA’s description of the Mars Rover vehicle Curiosity.

  You see what I mean about unnecessarily complicated bullshit? Based on these two descriptions alone, I couldn’t tell you which is a stroller and which is a $2.5 billion engineering project to visit and collect data from the Red Planet.

  (In fact, if I’d ordered online, I could have ordered the wrong one. But for the lack of a $2.5 billion limit on my Visa card, we could easily have found ourselves pushing Charlie around Costco in an interplanetary research robot.)

  THE DEATH STROLLER 1000

  In fairness to the lady who sold us our stroller, she did her best to simplify the attributes of each model we looked at. Janet explained that “carbon fiber chassis” just meant that it was light, “enhanced steel frame” meant that it was tough, and so on. But, as a salesperson, Janet was also keen to stress the added value of the more expensive models.

  (My responses were in my head, by the way):

  Janet: “This particular model has independent suspension and all-weather and -terrain wheels.”

  That’s great, but we want to be able to take him to IKEA, not up Kilimanjaro.

  Janet: “This particular model is the same one used by Prince William and Kate for Prince George.”

  I’ll be honest, Janet, I don’t give a shit if the Pope pushed Jesus around in it. It’s expensive. Even if it came dipped in gold, with diamond handles, and fired a confetti cannon every time the baby crapped, it would be expensive.

  Janet: “This particular model has a UPF 50+ UV sun canopy.”

  This is England.

  Janet: “This particular model has a retractable sun parasol.”

  This is England.

  Janet: “This particular model has a mosquito net.”

  Janet? You do know this is England, right? So far, I’m being sold the perfect vehicle to take a baby up a mountain, across a desert, and through a malarial swamp.

  Janet: “This particular model has a lifetime guarantee.”

  Great . . . if we lose a wheel when we’re pushing Charlie around in his forties, we’ll be sure to cash that in.

  Janet: “This particular model comes with an easy three-stage folding mechanism.”

  Okay, sorry, Janet, but no, it doesn’t. You’ve just spent fifteen minutes with a vein popping on the side of your head trying to collapse the thing, and you work here.

  Finally, Janet, with something of a flourish, pointed out the remaining attributes of this top-of-the-line, all-singing, all-dancing kid barrow:

  Janet: “This particular model also has leatherette trim, a plastic hook for a shopping bag, and a cup holder.”

  . . . A cup holder?

  I wasn’t impressed at the time, and I am even less so now. I have no idea who designs strollers, but I’m pretty sure that any of us who have shoved one around, for the shortest amount of time, could come up with better features than a cup holder . . . and I’m not talking about leatherette trim.

  These things should be customized, like the cars in Mad Max, with flamethrowers and armor: people wandering toward you with their heads buried in their cell phone screens should be bouncing off the thing. Or chewed under its wheels. And pity the poor bastard who gets in the way of, or doesn’t open the door for, a mom pushing the Death Stroller 1000 while frantically looking for a baby-changing room. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

  While we’re at it, the thing should be fitted with spiked monster-truck wheels and a klaxon car horn, or better still, speakers blaring Norwegian death metal or “Highway to the Danger Zone.” And screw a cup holder—what about a bar shelf along the handle or a sidecar for a keg? This thing could be fucking awesome.

  On a more practical level: forget the plastic hook. The basket underneath should be the size of a house. The whole thing should be weighted to the front so that no matter how many bags you hang from the handle, you don’t tip the baby upside down. The canopy should absorb sound and have built-in GPS to the nearest Walgreens. It should have a wet-wipe dispenser, be self-cleaning, and have an alarm that goes off to remind you that you’ve put an entire box of Krispy Kremes in the bottom of your stroller before you collapse it to put it in the car and turn your donuts into a custardy abomination.

  . . . But back to Janet.

  And here we were, being told that this “particular model” was great, simply because it had a plastic holder where we could put a can of soda.

  As I daydreamed about the Death Stroller 1000, Janet concluded her sales pitch about this one particularly expensive stroller (it was called The Inspire, or some markety bollocks like that). We had listened for more than half an hour as she demonstrated and explained the many attributes of this “beautiful stroller.” And I distinctly remember chuckling to myself as she told us the total price. I thought: This woman must think we’re idiots; that we are the ones born yesterday.

  I smiled and threw Lyns a sideways glance, a brief knowing look to convey how ridiculous it was that Janet could think us so dumb.

  I waited for a glance of agreement back, but in return Lyns gave me a look that said: “This is the one.”

  . . . And so I handed over the best part of a month’s salary, and died a little inside.

  Incidentally, it would ordinarily be me who displayed the kind of gullibility required to buy an $800 chair with four wheels. I once spent our last twenty bucks on a limited-edition Boba Fett voice-changing helmet. So this whole experience was a bit of a role reversal. But Lyndsay was already in love before Charlie was even born. A love I didn’t really discover until he crash-landed. And the only way to convey that love, without him being there to care for and hold, was to buy him shit. And not just any old shit, but the best of shit. It isn’t reasonable and it isn’t sane, but Lyndsay convinced me with a pat of her belly that we needed to spend more than we could afford to get the perfect stroller. And, without a model that had flamethrowers attached to it, this was as good as it got.

  Actually, as it turned out, the one we chose was quite a good buy. Janet was a lying harpy, though. The all-terrain stuff was bullshit: it was all-terrain only so long as that terrain wasn’t mud, sand, grass, ice, snow, decking, gravel, slightly cracked pavement, or somewhat rough tarmac.

  Also, it turned out that Wills and Kate did not own the same stroller as us. I checked: according to the papers, they bought one for about $23,000, so unless we got a fairly hefty discount on ours (or the future heir to the throne got properly shafted by Janet), it wasn’t the same one.

  And the claim that it had an “easy three-stage folding mechanism” was actually true, but only in those rare circumstances when you’ve got both hands free. With just one hand free, you have to fight the fucking thing, parking lot rules, until it gets tired. (If you’re really lucky, it’s less than an hour of hand-to-stroller combat before the bastard thing begrudgingly surrenders and pops open.)

  But, all that said, The Inspire was comfy and it was warm and Charlie seemed to like it.

  Until he didn’t.

  STROLLER WARS

  Babies reach an age when they don’t want to be in the stroller all the time. I’m guessing they get sick to death of always being at balls level and want a different perspective. The problem is that this desire to be free comes before their ability to walk. So, them not being in the stroller means you have to carry them around all the time like an idiot farm boy with a sack of potatoes. The good news is that, if you decide that the
y should stay in the stroller, babies don’t have the intellect to do anything about it. Their brains aren’t fully formed, they can’t compete with your superior intelligence, and therefore they can’t possibly come up with any way of avoiding it.

  Only joking. Of course they can. In fact, they’ve got two really effective ways of avoiding it.

  Technique 1

  The first way a baby avoids being placed in his stroller is by refusing to bend. If a baby decides that the stroller is not where he wants to be, he can and will arch his back and stiffen every muscle in his body until he is about as compliant as a block of wood and it is impossible to make him fold or flex or comply. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, whether you’re built like Betty White or The Rock; all parents are helpless against this previously unseen power of rigor mortis. It’s not just a battle of strength, it’s a battle of awkwardness. It’s kind of like trying to put skis into a bread bin. The move is brilliant, really. A simple alternative to fight-or-flight and an awesome way of avoiding pretty much anything you don’t want to do. The next time I’m at work and I’m asked to do something I don’t want to do, I’m going to try it:

  “Matt, could you just take a look at the figures for the last quarter.”

  “Fuck you, Carl” . . . as I stiffen my entire body and fall to the ground and lie there like a plank.

  Nothing anyone can do. Ingenious.

  Technique 2

  If somehow, by speed or by distraction, you successfully origami-fold your baby into her stroller, she still has another tried and tested method of avoiding confinement.

  When threatened, Malaysian ants and French Guianese termites will react by exploding. These things literally blow themselves up, and babies have a similar “nuclear option” at their disposal. It is a method of defense that babies will use in all manner of scenarios, precisely because it is so effective. In layman’s terms: they will lose their fucking minds. Kick, bite, wrestle, claw, and scream hysterically until everybody within fifteen feet feels like their face is going to burst. And as you notice that bystanders, with blood pouring from their ears, are falling to the ground, begging God for it to stop, you concede. You give in. You lose. You take your baby back into your arms and she is instantly calm, instantly quiet, and you say to yourself, Okay . . . but next time . . .