Goodbye, Pert Breasts: The Diary of a Newborn Dad

Can’t you please just ACT poorly?!

Ben Wakeling — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 18:54:26 +0000

No-one wants their child to be ill. I certainly didn’t want Isaac, our four year-old, to be unwell when he was pulled past me by the arm as I got home from work yesterday.

“I’ve got him an emergency appointment at the doctor,” said my wife as she bustled him into the car. “There’s blood in his poo.”

My face when.

And so, phone on charge, I pace around the kitchen, waiting for a phone call and worrying myself about the kinds of illnesses that have poo blood as a symptom – and, despite my brain yelling at my fingers not to type the words ‘poo blood symptom’ into Google, they did anyway, and you scan down the two-page list of illnesses it could be and all you see are words like CANCER and ULCER and DISEASE.

The phone rings: Jess has been told to take Isaac to hospital, and – as there are no beds on the children’s ward – she is to take him straight to A&E. Mother-in-law comes round to look after our youngest, whilst father-in-law drives me to the hospital (parking charges are a killer, you see). There’s small talk, but I’m not engaged. All that is swirling around my head is CANCER and ULCER and DISEASE.

I get to the hospital gates and run to A&E, in true hospital-drama style. All I needed was for ‘Wires’ by Athlete to play in the background and a couple of people to bash into as I run down the corridor in slow-motion.

But unlike the dramas, where I grasp the side of a hospital bed being wheeled to theatre as my son lies with an oxygen mask on and my wife chokes back tears, the reality was a rather more – dare I say it – dull affair. Instead, I stagger wheezing into the waiting room of A&E to find my wife and son just sitting there. The only indication he’s ill is that he seems a bit tired. And it takes me ten minutes to get my breath back.

And so, as is all-too common in hospitals, we wait. For four hours. During which my son poos no fewer than ten times, one of which my wife handily caught in a bedpan for the doctors to have a nose at. I took a sneaky peek. It looked like split pea soup with a raspberry jus, and I’m sorry for ruining every future episode of Masterchef for you.

The thing is, I know my son is ill. My wife knows he’s ill. The boy is pooing blood, after all. But he doesn’t look ill. He’s dancing around the waiting room, playing with toys, being a pain in the backside because he’s bored…basically, he’s doing everything a poorly child doesn’t do. And, for some reason, this grates on me.

Mooching around the waiting room, NOT LOOKING ILL.

I know full well that the doctor isn’t going to say to me, “Well, he looks happy. Look, he’s walking around and laughing and everything. Forget the fact that he’s pooing blood, we only treat patients who don’t look very well.” But it would be nice if he just displayed a little hint that he was feeling rubbish. My son is inherently British: when he was in hospital with tonsillitis a week ago he responded “Fine” every time a doctor asked him how he felt, despite the fact that he could barely move and looked like death. So, back in hospital a week later, my wife and I keep pulling him aside to tell him to tell the doctor he feels poorly, and to make sure he doesn’t say “Fine”, because he’s pooing blood and he might have CANCER or ULCER or DISEASE (we don’t say that last bit to him, of course). But whatever you do, Isaac, please just act poorly.

The problem is, my son has a thing for blonde women. His hairdresser his blonde, and for the entire duration of his haircut he sits in the chair with a soppy look on his face, a black pyramid of cape with a head on top which giggles every time the hairdresser so much as brushes his face. And so, when a tall blonde doctor finally calls us into a room and begins to diagnose him, he turns into a soppy giggling flirtatious ball of rosy-cheeked shyness. A soppy giggling flirtatious ball of rosy-cheeked shyness who doesn’t in any way look ill. The doctor tickles him: he giggles in the cutest way he can muster. She tries to listen to his breathing, pressing her stethoscope to his back: he makes daft panty breathing sounds and laughs at himself. She bats his foot with her notes as she leaves the room. “Ow!” he says, grinning. “Oh, that didn’t hurt!” she responds, smiling at him, and suddenly I’m in a room with a child who is like a three-foot version of Valentino.

By the time he is diagnosed with some kind of bowel infection (I can’t remember the exact diagnosis, but it included the word ‘gastro’, which – unless it’s used in ‘gastro-pub’ – is rarely good news), Isaac is fast asleep. They even take blood from him while he is sleeping, which makes him seem all the more cute to the doctor. And we leave, glad that he has been diagnosed, but a bit miffed that he didn’t act just a little bit more poorly.

I Got the Girl

Ben Wakeling — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 19:18:08 +0000

I wasn’t the only admirer you had when we were young teens. I certainly wasn’t the only guy who would crane his neck towards the door at events which I knew you’d attend, waiting for a glimpse of your parents so I knew you were here, but then acting nonchalant when you came to say hello, because if I’d jumped up and down with excitement I wouldn’t be cool. Every now and then, when we finally admitted we fancied each other, we’d steal a hand hold or a quick kiss, knowing that we had graduated from friendship but still worried about the pubescent mocking that we would be subjected to. You would sit next to me, your left hand behind your lower back, and I would tickle the length of your fingers. We thought that no-one could see us, even though it must have been obvious.

Before our teens, the official line was that girls were stinky and liking boys was only something you would scribble about in your diary, words nestled among hearts and stars and practice signatures using my surname. But we both always knew we liked each other. There were some odd ways in which you would show your affection towards me, especially when egged on by other people: that time you locked me in my wardrobe and sprayed deodorant through the crack between the doors was especially hard to perceive as a sign that you ‘fancied’ me. Still, sat there, nestled amongst shirts and trousers with the pungent waft of Lynx Africa making me a little light-headed, I knew you were the one for me.

Somehow, even though you turned many heads, you saw mine, and we began going out. Everyone said they knew we’d end up together. We were still quite young, and so whenever you came to mine or I visited yours we were told to keep the bedroom door open. One day, we told your parents we were going to the cinema to see Toy Story, and we snuck into The Beach instead. Guilt-ridden, you told your mum. I still don’t think she’s ever really forgiven us. When the film was finished we laid on a bank of grass behind Showcase Cinemas and I kissed the little scar behind your right ear. This only happened after the third or fourth cinema visit, of course: the first couple of times I spent the film panicking about the fact that I had to kiss you when it finished, because that’s what people do, right? That’s why we would often be the only ones sat in the rows of seats long after everyone else had left and the credits had rolled; I was just plucking up the courage to kiss you. And when I did, it wasn’t a slow, faces moving together affair; it was more akin to a woodpecker drumming his head against a tree trunk. Again, it was partly nerves, and partly me not really knowing what I was doing. Sorry about that.

I remember the day I asked your parents for your hand in marriage. I was stood in the kitchen doorway; your mum was cooking at the Aga and your dad was reading the newspaper. I kept having to walk into the lounge just to regain my composure, take deep breaths, wipe my sweaty palms against my trousers. Eventually, I plucked up the nerve to blurt out the question. They said yes, that I was already like a son to them. Your mum remarked how she used to change my nappy when I was a baby.

That was the most nervous I’ve ever been, even when I actually proposed to you, although you did mention how you could feel my heart beating through my chest as we waited in the night for a taxi in front of a Les Miserables poster in London. Although it wasn’t a taxi, as I’d booked a limousine to take us to a posh restaurant. At the time, I thought it was the most romantic gesture ever. I wince when I think about it now. How cheesy. But I wasn’t that nervous: I knew you’d say yes. We’re soulmates, after all, even though I hate that word.

And now we’re married, with two kids, and although I don’t get that pocket of air caught in my throat every time I see you – like I did when I waited at the school gates for you every lunchtime – I do still catch a glimpse of you every now and then, when you don’t realise I’m looking, and think about how beautiful you are. Neither of us has the energy we had when we were kids – children happen to sap that out of you, after all, but now I love you for more than just your outgoing nature and terrible taste in music. We’re older now, we worry about things like mortgages and bills and work, but I know that whatever happens we will face it together, as a family, Team Wakeling.

I’m sorry for the slushy nature of this post, and no doubt both of us will get a bit of stick. I can’t really believe I’m clicking on the ‘Publish’ button; this is meant to be a funny blog, after all. But I just thought you should know how happy I am that I got the girl.

Video: Guy Dances Awesomely

Ben Wakeling — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 11:58:58 +0000

His name, if you’re fussed, is Nathan Barnatt.

The Joys of Parenthood

Ben Wakeling — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 19:29:42 +0000

What’s Your ‘Thing’?

Ben Wakeling — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 22:13:31 +0000

Everyone has their ‘thing’. It could be one ‘thing’, it could be two ‘things’…in my case, it’s several ‘things’. Those little quirks and strangeties (yes it’s a word, I just made it up) you have which, when other people are talking about you, they’re like ‘Yeah, that’s his ‘thing’.’ Let me give you an example from Friends.

Here are my ‘things’:

I can’t leave a workplace toilet cubicle if I know that there’s someone else in the area, be it at the urinal or washing their hands at the sink. I think this must stem from middle school, where you’d leave the loo and everyone would be like ‘Errr, stinky head, stinky done a massive poo!’ I’m sure people in the office would be slightly more grown up, but I don’t want to run the risk of them either mocking me out loud or thinking it. I like to remain an enigma. Earlier today, I tweeted about this; unfortunately, once I did decide to venture outside the cubicle after remaining motionless for the best part of twenty minutes, I was met with the sight of a colleague – who must be the most quiet-footed guy in the West – washing his hands. My face must have been a picture.

I can’t shower in the mornings, purely because I’d have to get up in the middle of the night to do so. You see, I have to be completely bone dry before I can put any clothes on. ‘Why not just towel yourself down?’ I hear you cry. Can’t do that, either. I have to drip-dry, sometimes stood in front of our fire in order to warm my giblets.
I can’t stand the feel of sponges. It sends shivers down my spine. Once I was stood at a sink when someone sneaked up behind me and put a sponge on my neck. I nearly yakked everywhere.
When I brush my teeth I move my head as well as my hand, so I look as if I’m repeatedly and quickly shaking my head at something.
I hate steam. Can’t go into a steamy room without freaking out that the water is getting onto my skin and sticking to my clothes. It is for this reason that I don’t like steam rooms.
I dance when I’m eating. Half the time I don’t even realise I’m doing it, but I just bob from side to side, elbows tucked in, wrists at chest height, boogying to an imaginary tune. Only when I’m eating, mind. Never on the dance floor.
When queuing in a shop I feel an almost irresistible urge to yell my PIN at the cashier as she scans my items. Fortunately, I’ve managed to keep quiet so far.

That list is just the tip of a very weird iceberg, honestly. I guess everyone has a ‘thing’. And if you reckon you haven’t got a ‘thing’, your ‘thing’ is being a big fat liar.

Great Deals on ‘Goodbye, Pert Breasts’ and ‘Teething Pains’

Ben Wakeling — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 07:26:48 +0000

I’ve decided that this year I need to put more effort into selling my books, hence the relentless plugging during ‘One Born Every Minute’ each Wednesday, which I’m sure has bugged the heck out of many a follower.

Anyway, there are two great ways at the moment that you can go about buying my books at a lower price. But first, a very quick overview of the books themselves:

Goodbye, Pert Breasts: the Diary of a Newborn Dad is a week-by-week account of my experiences during the pregnancy and birth of my second son, Noah. It gives a unique insight into the sticky nine months through the eye of the father, and is brutally honest about the emotions that we experience. The second half of the book features several chapters on different aspects of fatherhood and parenting, such as dealing with your finances, the rights of the father, and how nursery rhymes are EVIL.

Teething Pains: How to Survive Being a Dad looks at fatherhood from the ages of 0 to 4, holding your manly hand and guiding you through practically every aspect of parenting, such as common illnesses and how to treat them, teething, bonding with your baby, and choosing a decent school. Watch out for the ‘feature pages’: random illustrations such as ‘What a Baby Dreams About’. ‘The Father’s Creed’ is also a must-read.

As well as being insightful and informative, these books will make you laugh. I can’t guarantee you’ll learn anything new, but you can bet your bottom dollar you’ll guffaw a good few times. Please check out the reviews on Amazon if you don’t believe me.

At the moment both books are £3 on the Kindle: and both ‘Goodbye, Pert Breasts’ and ‘Teething Pains’ boast a five-star rating and often frequent the Top 50 books on fatherhood. Please click on the book title to go to their Amazon page.

If you’d rather have a paperback version, there’s 25% off any purchase if you buy through Lulu. All you need to do is enter the code LULUBOOKUK305 at the checkout. This offer ends on 31st January, though, so be quick! Unfortunately I have little control over the Amazon pricing of paperback versions of my books, but there are often discounts – 10% at the moment.

So, there you have it. My books have been reviewed by leading parenting magazines and featured all over the Internet, so please take a look and see what you think! Let’s face it – we could all do with a good laugh…

Video: Dad Melts Baby’s Brain With Motorboat Sounds

Ben Wakeling — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 20:07:10 +0000

VIDEO: Soldier Returns from Afghanistan at Christmas, Surprises Daughters

Ben Wakeling — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 19:08:27 +0000

It’s nice to have a tearjerker once in a while.

From the upload description:

My brother-in-law, Ryan, came home for a few weeks of R&R after fighting for us all in Afghanistan since June. His two daughters didn’t know he was coming home, and were surprised with the best (slightly late) Christmas present ever.

What a baby thinks during a Caesarean section

Ben Wakeling — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 21:36:22 +0000

This is what I imagine goes through an unborn baby’s mind in the moments before and during a Caesarean section. Yes, I know babies don’t know words. But if a dog can talk in Family Guy, a baby can talk in this humble blog post.

Incidentally, the following should be read in the same voice as Bruce from Family Guy, which I may have mentioned just a few lines up there.

So I’m about ready to come out now.

Gonna go through that cervix any minute.

But I’m tired, just gonna sit tight for a few minutes.

Just gonna think about stuff. Perhaps whistle.

Oh no! I can’t whistle in all this amniotic fluid.

Never mind.

Dum-de-dum…

Whoa, contraction! That felt funny. Like a big uterus hug.

So, placenta, I’m gonna go through that exit right there any minute now.

Gonna make my momma push for a while.

Might get lodged in there for a laugh, start as I mean to go on.

Anyway placenta, it’s been fu-

WHOA!

What the?! ARGH! WHAT’S GOING ON?!

THE WORLD JUST LITERALLY OPENED UP ABOVE MY HEAD LIKE A SUNROOF

Wait…what’s a sunroof?

Who are you? What are you doing here? I’m meant to go through that hole the-

What are you doing? Get your hands off me you weird masked man!

YOU’RE NOT MY DAD!

Argh! My eyes! Can you turn down the lights? What’s going on? Oh no!

Oof. Now I’m on someone’s chest.

Are you my momma?

Just so you know, I’m gonna cry because you were too posh to push.

I don’t care if what you just did was for medical reasons. I was saying goodbye to placenta.

I’m gonna cry. A lot.

This is gonna be fun!

Caught in a Blog Bromance

Ben Wakeling — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 10:18:10 +0000

Yo, let’s drop a beat, or something! This is one for all you daddy bloggers out there! Word! (That means ‘cool’, I think.)

Embrace the bromance.

Oooohhh…

Caught in a blog bromance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!

Roma-roma-maa

Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!

Want your blog bromance

I saw your message

On your Twitter feed

It said you’d posted

And I wanted to read

I read your blog

Blog-blog-blog I read your blog.

Thought it was funny,

It blew me away;

I want to comment

But don’t know what to say

I read your blog

Blog-blog-blog I read your blog.

You know that I want you

And you know that I need you

I want it bad, our blog bromance

I read your blog and

Fell in love at first glance

You and me we have a blog bromance

Think you should join me

In a daddy breakdance

You and me we have a blog bromance

Ooohh…

Caught in a blog bromance

Ooohh…

Caught in a blog bromance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!

Roma-roma-maa

Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!

Want your blog bromance.

Found you on Facebook

Thought we should be friends

Saw you out walking

Through my long-distance lens

I read your blog

Blog-blog-blog I read your blog

Send you an email

You didn’t reply

Stalked you on Twitter

‘Cos you’re such a nice guy

I read your blog

Blog-blog-blog I read your blog

Etc., etc.