Just Bouncing Along On a Swiss Ball

For some reason Sophie has no intention of letting anyone be comfortable while they are holding her, When I walk in the door, all I want to do is give my daughter a cuddle and sit down.

Not an unreasonable wish, you'd think, but she gives me a choice, sit down with and hear her cry or stand up and hear her coo. Somehow she can tell whether I'm standing or sitting - it must be some sort of sixth sense because I've got my wife to measure the angles and nothing changes. Short of having an altimeter there can be no way she can tell the difference whether I'm up or down, especially with her eyes closed. Heck, sometimes late at night I'm not even sure if I'm standing or sitting. Even so, with some spooky sort of baby ESP, she knows.

But the other night while cleaning out some cupboards I came across an old inflatable Swiss Ball (a relic from the time I read in a magazine about the virtues of throwing away my office chair and using one of these instead. At the time I had delusions of increasing my core stability and decreasing my waistline).

A blinding flash of inspiration had me dust it off the Swiss Ball and blow it up - maybe it would give her the rocking movement of standing and me the comfort of sitting. Maybe I could bring my 30 plus years of experience in negotiation to bear on my 11 week old daughter. Maybe we could cut a deal.

So I picked her up, got her happy, then slowly sat down.

And stopped.

Silence.

Ding ding. A rare round goes to Dad.

Our house is now a happy one again. Dad can come home from work and sit down. Daughter can get her evening cuddle. Oh, and Mum can watch my progress towards core stability and a healthy waistline.

Yummy Dad, Slummy Dad

One of the hardest thing about having a new daughter is that the time for the things I used to take for granted has disappeared. Whether it's sitting in front of TV, reading a book or looking something up on the internet, there's now always a certain someone else wanting attention. More importantly, she's someone I want to give all my attention to.

I used to have a real need to get out of the flat, with all the parks around here it doesn't take long to throw on the running shoes and get some fresh air. But now it's winter and it's dark and cold out there while my warm daughter is inside and she is definitely the more attractive option.

So I'm now more likely to throw on an old polar fleece than my running shoes when I walk in the door. Like wearing out the shoes used to be a runner's badge of honour, now it's my shirt that's covered in baby sick (yes it's also washed every couple of days!) that is my uniform.

So the intellectual, athletic, serious non-Dad is slowly changing into a fun time, slummy Dad. Maybe it's just a phase, but I can see the cardigan, pipe and slippers cliche drawing ever closer. I'm not sure what's more scary - that I can see it happening, or that it doesn't worry me.