My baby girl thinks I’m pretty great

I took her to the shops today.

She had a massive poo whilst driving there and she handled it like a champ. So did I.

In the rear-view-mirror, her face was doing the typical contortions of one expelling, what I’m sure we can all agree is amongst the worst things ever, a poop – whilst Daddy is singing along to Jessie-Jay on the radio in an attempt to make the whole scene more…musical?

By the time we arrived, her complexion had returned from hellish-rouge to healthy-human, and the gargles and goo-goos were back aplenty, ready for a nappy-change.

Then came my might – the thing of which I am without question the best of in the world:
distractingly amusing sounds and funny faces.

It’s a big difference between babies and men. I’ve never encountered a face so funny, or a sound so amusing, that I wouldn’t know my nappy was being changed.

My daughter was oblivious. At seven months, she generally is.

The amount of things my daughter doesn’t pick-up on is only dwarfed by sheer number of things she picks up and puts in her mouth.

But in the car’s boot, with nothing in reach to distract, it was down to the irresistible power of my face and the sounds that come out of it to make the following two minutes less awful.

There was poo, there was laughter, and there was the risk of each overwhelming both of us – but we persevered, and went shopping.

The dirty nappy went in the shop bin, my daughter went in the pram, and I went into performance mode.

An integral part of fatherhood is taking blows to the brain.

They’re both the height and depths of humour, and like her older siblings, my youngest baby girl loves to laugh at when I do what I do best.

A proportion of those impacts are something I suppose I’m proud:

• My son (6) hitting me in the head with sporting equipment, for humorous purposes.
• My eldest daughter (4) hitting me in the head with props, for amateur dramatics purposes.
• Me (36) hitting myself in the head with whatever is nearest to hand, for competitive purposes (can’t let me son out-do me)
• And my wife (N/A) hitting me in the head, for reasonable purposes.

The third of those – hitting myself in the brain – goes down something-smashing when it comes to fathering a baby girl.

If you’d like some hints as to what to grab for self-brain-bashing, I’d recommend whatever is nearest to hand for the sake of speed, but noise and colour should be appreciated for the awesome power they hold: like tins of beans and tinsel.

There’s a lot of tinsel at the shop, for arboreal/cultural purposes at this time of year, but no one there knows it’s also for brain-bashing purposes. Same for the tinned beans – it’s got nothing to do with fibre.

I’m struggling to write this blog, due in part to the regular severity of the impacts to my brain which cause such delightful bursts of laughter or, even better, the shining smiles of pure happiness from my baby girl.

It’s also due to the effects of the lychee-liqueur which has thus far turned out to be a wonderful purchase, with the promise of it being less-so tomorrow morning.

Then came the pram ‘uh-ohs’ – in which I push the pram, daughter nonchalantly perched within, away and panic in what I’d best describe as in a ‘flappy headed’ way, before pulling her back with a hint of a jolt but with my own laughing smile upon arrival – matched and soundly beaten only by hers.

She really is the most adorably scrumptious of little things that there ever could be, and you might feel the same about your offspring but I’m right because this is my blog and I’m right.

Take your own kids shopping – I’m occupied with the best thing since someone had the bright idea of having things under the sun, and sliced bread.

Due to what I presume to be a clerical error (by which I mean ecclesiastical rather than administrative) – I find there are no baskets proffered in the shop entrance, meaning I have to load items for purchase beneath the pram itself.

Here’s an opportunity to vanish and return, aka ‘Peekabo’.

With each item loaded onto the conveyer belt towards the till, I duck out. Briefly (and I really do mean briefly – I doubt I’ve ever been briefer), I’m away and suddenly I’m back – and sure enough I’m hitting myself in the same head from which funny noises and faces are emitting.

And she’s smiling joyously. The kind of joy you don’t remember.

From there it’s pay, parking ticket, load stuff in the car, daughter in her car-seat (featuring multiple checks on the way home to ensure I definitely packed her), visor down as the sun sets early this time of year, bish, bash, bosh, I’m a dad.

And the smiles and laughter, in addition to the excited little kicks of the even-littler legs, tells me all I’ve ever really needed to know: my baby girl thinks I’m pretty great.

Sam