Oh, give over. Stop clutching little Erin to your chest and looking at me as if I’m a monster. Sometimes our baby, Jemima, does a poo so big you almost end up having to muck out the entire room. She pukes on you, and then pukes again almost immediately. And Bin Laden was widely perceived to be evil, but I bet he never had diarrhoea so bad it seeped out of his underwear and up his back (although it’s difficult to say for sure).

I had the vague idea to start a gallery of evil babies: either photos you’ve taken when your child has inadvertently looked like a mini-Hitler, or by purposefully mashing their forehead skin with your hand. Heck, if it really takes off I’ll dedicate a whole page to it. By the end of it there’ll be a whole matrix of evil-looking infants for you to laugh your socks off at.

So prove just how evil babies are: whip out your camera phone (or dig out an existing photo) and send it to blinkben2k@hotmail.com. Do me a favour and put something like ‘EVIL BABY’ in the Subject field, so I can identify it amongst all the junk I get. I’ll be more than happy to link your photo to your blog as well, because I’m nice like that.

Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve never wanted to be a wizard. Who would want to be? Wizards are far from fashionable. And they have long, pointy beards which must smell pretty bad.

But it would be good to have magic powers, to be able to wave your finger at something and make it freeze, or whatever. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve tried to move things simply by staring at them, just because I read Matilda once and figured that if she could do it, so could I. (Turns out I can’t.)

Recently, though, I realised that becoming a parent does come with its own set of supernatural powers: the ability to get a particular response out of your child without even having to say a word. (Especially not random pig Latin. Yeah, I’m looking at you, J.K. Rowling. Also, thanks for stopping by my blog.)

The Glare. Some magic powers don’t need you to wave a finger, or whip a wand around the air like some kind of crazed orchestra conductor. The most important (and commonly used) weapon in a parent’s magic power arsenal is the Glare. (It’s so important, it deserves its own capital letter.)

The Glare tells the child that they are in trouble, even if they’re on the other side of the room and you’ve shot them The Glare over the heads of a hundred other children. It tells them that, at some point – probably as soon as you get into the car and the last door slams shut – they’re going to get told off. It makes leaves wither, and old men topple over.

We’ve all done it, and I think if we’re honest we’ll all agree: there’s a morbid sense of satisfaction you get when your child is being obnoxious and you get to wipe the smirk of their little fat face by shooting them your best eagle eyes.

The Raised Finger. I find this often works best when your child is pestering you for something, whether it be for a new toy, or to go outside and play, or perhaps just because they haven’t been fed in a few days because you’ve been browsing LOLCats. This gesture sometimes (not always) has the ability to stop the child mid-sentence, telling them in one wordless motion that if they continue to speak then they’ll bring down a world of pain on themselves. (When I say ‘pain’, I mean like you’ll prevent them from doing something they want to do, or perhaps confiscate a favourite toy. I don’t mean actual pain, of course. Bringing down a whole world of actual pain on your child is frowned upon at best.)

The Heel-Point. Used when calling to your child is not an option, the heel-point tells them that wherever they are at that moment, you need them by your side instantly. As far as what it looks like: it’s what it sounds like, a quick sharp point of the finger towards the ground by your feet. It could be as you walk to school, or through a supermarket; if they stray too far, a quick heel-point should bring them swiftly back, like a dog on one of those retractable lead things. Or a steel tape measure, when you press the button on the top. You get the gist.

It sounds like a preposterous thing to say, of course: every parent loves their children, apart from those abusive ones who eventually and deservedly get their comeuppance. But I can’t help but get a twang of guilt when I see a fellow parent update their Facebook status with something along the lines of:

Spent the whole day doing arts and crafts with little Timmy! I LOVE HIM SO MUCH!!

Of course, to find these statuses you have to wade through pages of ‘inspirational quotations’ (which inspire you for, like, five seconds) and those e-card things which were funny but are now annoying. But still, they’re there, and I think about what I’ve done with my kids during the day, and it normally consists of shoving a blank piece of creased paper under their noses, pressing half a crayon into their clammy palms, and telling them to draw a house.

Unless…it’s just bravado from the other parents. Why are they posting these statuses in the first place, other than to show off how great they are? Maybe the spaces between these status updates are filled with locking little Timmy in a room with a bunch of mirrors and telling him to play with his friends, and so with each little beam of good parenting comes a Facebook update or emphatic tweet to give the illusion of a happy family.

Or perhaps I’m just making excuses, and actually I’m a really bad parent. Which reminds me: it’s nearly Isaac’s bedtime, and I haven’t unhandcuffed him from the radiator yet.

We weren’t there to see Paulton, whoever he is. We had promised Noah we would take him to Peppa Pig World (which commands a large section of the aforementioned theme park) for his birthday, not really realising that:

a) Peppa Pig World was a two-hour drive away; and

b) At just three years of age, Noah isn’t really going to remember this for the rest of his life, and so it’s kind of wasted on him.

Also, these things cost money.

I’ve never been a fan of Peppa Pig. If you’ll pardon the farmyard animal confusion, I think Peppa Pig is a cow. (Or, perhaps, to make things simpler: a little swine.) She is rude to her parents, who in turn are spineless. She has a really irritating voice. And she’d look great fried, covered in BBQ sauce and sandwiched between two slices of white bread.

This is not a sponsored post, so I’m not going to bang on about the park itself, save to say that the rides are good, the toilets clean, the weather was undecided (not strictly the park’s fault), the kids were happy, and the café sells sausage rolls and hot dogs - which I think has a kind of fiendishly mischievous juxtaposition to it, as children fresh from hugging Mummy Pig run into the café to stuff their grubby faces with assorted pork products.

A couple of memorable things that I thought I’d share, this being the age of social networking and all:

• The father who convinced his children to go on the pirate ship, only to look a little sheepish as they sobbed and screamed into his chest as soon as the boat started rocking;
• My eldest son Isaac, who shirked his usual shyness and general hatred of anything remotely dangerous, and insisted on going on the fastest and highest rides available;
• My wife, who seemed to forgive me relatively quickly for deciding not to tell her that the ride she was just climbing onto span around quite violently (she suffers from motion sickness);
• The people manning the fair, for scamming me out of a few quid by preying on my kids’ imploring eyes and asking me to throw bouncy balls into bouncy buckets for a stuffed toy, which proved to be an impossible task.

As we walked back to the car, I passed the same dad who I’d shared a moment with (James Blunt-style) on the way in. His expression hadn’t changed. His kids, however, were deliriously giddy. And, at the end of the day, I suppose they’re what it’s all about.

It would show me painstakingly transcribing every interview, sitting in a darkened room bathed in the glow of a laptop monitor, punching out other people’s stories and trying to put them in an way which even begins to justify how momentous they are. It would show emails shooting back and forth, conference calls, a front cover being designed, a website being created, and it would end with today.

Because today, after two long years, my book for charity is finally published.

‘How I Came To Hold You’ looks at the emotions and challenges faced by parents who have suffered the loss of a baby and gone on to have more children. It describes the darkest days of their lives, how they learned to live with their grief, and the obstacles that had to be overcome – physically, emotionally and mentally – when they discovered that they were expecting again. It allows those fortunate enough not to experience the loss of a child a small insight into the lives of those who have; it is a source of inspiration, of advice, and testament to the endurance and strength of the human spirit.

Every copy sold raises money for Sands, and the incredible work they do. You can buy a copy from Amazon, or from the Sands online store, and it is available in paperback or ebook. If you’d like to find out more about the book, please visit www.sandsbook.co.uk.

It’s been a long old journey, but in reality it’s only just beginning.

But now I find myself with three young children, all of whom are going through important life milestones, and all of whom want ALL of my attention RIGHT NOW. The thing is, I was completely oblivious to it until I read a comment on my latest ‘Figuring Out Fatherhood’ piece for Parentdish:

This lady, despite being a bit bossy, may have a point. Could my son, who spends most of his time running around like a lunatic, actually be some kind of manipulative genius? If I put him in a high-backed black chair and plonk a white cat on his lap will he spin around and give me a wild, Joker-style grin? With his hair wet and combed back, he looks like Stewie from Family Guy. Is he an evil genius?

Because we’ve been giving Noah so much attention recently due to the fact we’re potty training him, and he’s peeing all over the carpet and filling the back of his pants with little poo bulges, our eldest child – Isaac, 5 – is hankering for attention. He either does it obviously, like putting his face right in my face and making a ridiculous expression, or by just being incredibly naughty and rude.

The baby, Jemima, is a baby, and therefore requires constant attention because she does very little apart from laugh, cry, puke and thrust her hips whilst lying on her back.

And so, over ten years after standing in the playground on my own, I find myself at the other end of the spectrum, with three children desperate for my undivided attention; apart from the fact I have to divide it. Into three.

Maths question: what is the result when you divide the attention of two parents by three demanding children? The answer: bad behaviour, stress and poo.

I mulled this over whilst scurrying hurriedly to the nearest shop to buy an emergency can of Vanish and a pack of kitchen roll following one of these aforementioned accidents in which Noah (nearly 3 years old) took it upon himself to curl off three separate turds on the lounge carpet, instead of in his potty. We got pretty angry at him, I’ll admit, but for good reason: a) we’d shown him where the potty was, he knew what it was for – plus, he’d pood in it before, and b) there was poo on our carpet.

When I returned from the One Stop, Vanish mousse in hand, my wife had laid three Wet Wipes over each cocktail-sausage-sized deposit, making the lounge floor look like some kind of miniature murder scene. The room smelled a bit. Noah was running around, naked from the waist down, occasionally straying a little too close to one of the small white rectangles on the floor for comfort, and Jess looked like she was ready to scoop one of the poos up and hurl it at him.

Potty training is hard. It requires unparalleled patience. I don’t remember it being this difficult when I was a child. But it’s one of those things you have to endure, something which you can’t get away from. Or can you? They say that you should wait for the child to decide when it is the right time to potty train: and, after all, that time will inevitably come. It’s not like you get 30-something-year-olds sitting behind their desk at work suddenly standing bolt upright as urine seeps through their suit trousers and onto the floor, and when someone asks them why they’ve wet themselves they throw a minor strop and shriek: ‘Well nobody TAUGHT me where to pee when I was growing up!’

So maybe we’re going about it all wrong, and I propose a change of strategy: we leave Noah in nappies until he’s, say, nine or ten years old, and then one day we take him into the bathroom, point at the toilet, and say: ‘Next time you need to take a dump or do a wee, just do it in there from now on, please.’

Surely potty training can’t be that simple…can it?

I’ve started writing mine now, and my daughter is only seven months old.

It’s not that I’m desperate for the kids to move out, or anything; but every now and then moments will happen which I can easily imagine telling everybody about whilst standing in that room, champagne in one shaky hand, a few notes in the other. Today held one of those moments.

-

It had been a bad day at work, for a number of reasons, so much so that by the time I got home I was still feeling down, and pretty angry. You were handed to me by your mum, and you gave me a big smile, which lifted the clouds a little. Your mum left to teach piano and go to the gym, and I was under strict instructions to get you into your pyjamas and sleeping bag, which I did, whilst singing to you, which for some reason you found hilarious.

Once you were changed, I lay you on my bed whilst I got out of my work clothes and into my stinky jogging bottoms and hoodie. I lay next to you, and looked at you, and you looked at me, and I spent the next five or ten minutes telling you all about my rubbish day and how low I was feeling, and the whole time you had your thumb in your mouth, looking at me with those huge brown eyes. After I’d told you my story of the Rubbish Day, I said: ‘So, what do you think about it all, Mimes?’

You looked at me for a few seconds, took your thumb out of your mouth, and gave the throatiest laugh I’ve ever heard. And then you farted. Suddenly, it was all okay.

This is the obligatory post which begs for votes, but instead of me asking you, I’m going to let Ben Wakeling do it. Confused? Don’t be, it’s really quite simple. This is a much cooler Ben Wakeling, who lives in America and takes awesome photos and is all musical and whatnot.

Us Ben Wakelings have got to stick together. American Ben Wakeling wants you to vote for English Ben Wakeling in the MAD Blog Awards. How can you possibly say no to that?!

Please follow this link to vote…

That’s not the actual guy. That’s James Franco. He’s an actor, and a darn good one at that.

For weeks now, thanks to illness, Jemima has been spending her nights whinging, crying and rubbing snot all over her face with the back of her chubby evil fists. It’s reached the point where I’m so tired I can feel my eyes moving in my skull. You know when you can feel your eyes moving, like you’re some kind of human chameleon? No? Then screw you.

People keep balking at my paleness and asking if I’m ill. No, I answer, I’m a parent. And then they tell me that their child slept through from birth, and I press my fingernails into my palm, mutter something spiteful, and stride off as fast as my tired legs will carry me, but they’re so tired I end up walking like Bambi and completely ruining my dramatic exit, instead collapsing in a heap on the floor in the middle of the corridor and crying softly before nuzzling the short-pile carpet and drifting off.

I’ve never known sleep deprivation like this. ‘Sleep deprivation?!’ you scoff, from out of reach of my flailing claws. ‘Where do you think you are, Guantanamo Bay?!’ Well, I could be. They actually use the sound of babies crying to torture those poor terrorists.

Thanks to the Internet, I know that there are seven signs of sleep deprivation. Let’s take a look, and start ticking some boxes.

1. Irritability. Earlier this week someone at work asked me why I laughed at them, despite the fact that what they had just said was both accurate and helpful. I told them that they ‘just had one of those faces’. Next.

2. Tiredness. No kidding. A symptom of sleep deprivation is tiredness. That’s like saying a symptom of acne is spots. You’re making me irritable.

3. Socially Inept. Sometimes I start sentences with no idea what I’m saying, or why I’m saying it, and then I get bored of my own sentence halfway through, and – oh, you know the rest.

4. Stress Cracker. The other day I cried at work because my coffee was the wrong shade of brown. (That’s not true. I almost cried.)

5. Memory Loss. This has become so bad I’ve forgotten my own kids. I remember the eldest two, but Jemima is a blur. I get home from work, see Jess holding a baby, and say ‘Who’s this little one?!’ whilst coochy-cooing her under the chin.

6. Bad Concentration. Last night I started to watch a film on Netflix. Next thing I know it’s two hours later, I’m dribbling all over my chest and the end credits are rolling. You do the math.

7. Appetite Changes. I barely eat anything any more, to the point where I sang a bit of Take That too loudly on the drive home last week and started feeling light-headed. A while ago I started a pizza, but couldn’t finish it. THIS IS UNHEARD OF.

The solution to sleep deprivation? Get more sleep. Wouldn’t that be nice?