It’s been a while since I posted on here, I probably should keep it up.  My wife thinks I should write the funnier side of being a dad, especially given my own experiences with Carnivals and such.  But for today, something else.

I was recently watching Kung Fu Panda 2.  I say I was, but the daughters were watching it as part of their bedtime routine.  I’ve discovered this is a possible trigger for me.  More specifically, the scene where Po (the titular Panda) remembers his childhood and what happened to his parents.  Every goddamn time I watch it, it sets off a vision in my head that messes me up.

I finally wrote it down:

Just This Once

“Another, please Daddy,” the little girl says.

She looks up at him with big wide but tired eyes, and he relents, retrieving another book from the shelf before sitting at her bedside.  She is tucked under her duvet, cozy and warm, cuddling her ugly misshapen teddy bear.  The bear, Mr Ted, was tucked in beside her, one of her arms around him.

“Just this once,” he says playfully.

He knew full well he couldn’t say no to her.

He read the short book, and saw she was still awake.

“Did you want another?” he asks nervously, seeing her yawn.

“Not tonight Daddy, I’m tired.”

“Just this once?”

She shakes her head, and he puts the book down.

“Can I have a goodnight hug, Daddy?”

“Of course you can,” he smiles.

He wraps his arms around her and she snuggles her face into his cheek.  It feels like an eternity.  It isn’t long enough.

He lets go, and trembles.

“I wanna go sleep now, Daddy,” she said, her voice tired.

“You don’t want to stay up, a little bit longer?  Just this once?”

She shakes her head, eyelids heavy, once again cuddling Mr Ted tight to her little face.  She looks cozy again, warm and content.  He feels the tightness in his chest, and his lip trembles.

“See you in the morning, Daddy,” she says.

He nods, not trusting himself.

“Na-night Daddy,” she says sleepily before her eyes drift closed.  “Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetie.  Goodnight.”

He reaches over and switches the lamp off.

The light rain blankets him and the colour is drained from the world.

He watches the workers reverently lower the tiny box into the ground, the Minister’s words barely a blurred mumble in his ears.  In his hand, he holds Mr Ted, as ugly and misshapen as it ever was, and now the most important thing in the world.

Tears flow down his face, and his knees wobble.

He drops to the wet grass.

“Goodnight Melody.”


My Little Spider-Melody

Again, this was written whilst blissfully unaware of what was to come just over a week later.  I’d been experiencing some issues with Melody fidgeting during nappy changes, and I was absolutely terrified of putting too much strength into holding her!  So this post happened….


Okay, so it’s been a week since the last blog, which has raised a few eyebrows, and raised a few questions:

“Was changing Melody’s nappy that bad?”

“What were you smoking when you wrote that blog?”

“Who the feth are you?”


“No, seriously, who the fething hell are you?”

Stuff like that.

Anyways, it’s been over a week since the infamous Battle of the Poop.  So, yesterday the nurses had me doing the same thing, full cares, with my wife expressing behind me.  I swear since last week the nurses have all started chomping cigars just to shit me up!  So, my hands shaking like a blancmange in an earthquake, I dove in.  The day before, she had had a blood transfusion, which naturally meant that that day was the day she was epically hyper.

I managed to get through the bed bath easily enough.

And then onto the nappy.  I took the dirty one off, wiped her, and she pooped again.  Got the second one on, and she pooped loads, all yellow and radioactive.

And thus began the latest episode madness.

I turned my head because my wife had chuckled at the sheer amount of poop.  When I looked back, she had gone.  There was a rustling sound and I looked at the top of the incubator to see her on all fours UPSIDE DOWN and wearing a Spider-man costume (although somehow she was wearing a nappy at the same time that I hadn’t put on her).

“Uh-oh,” I said.

She nodded at me and then extended her arm out, putting the two middle fingers into her palm.


Spider stuff hit me in the face, and she was swinging away, and out of the incubator, slinging strings of web across the big room.

“Come back dammit,” I shouted.  Spider-Melody stopped and turned, and put her hand out again.


I fell back against the incubator, trying to scrape the web off my face.  When I did, Special Care had been replaced by a New York skyline.


The web was slinging all around me as the nurses (curiously dressed in full NYPD uniforms) tried to grab Spider-Melody as she swung around the room.  I looked down and realised I too was wearing a Captain’s uniform of New York’s Finest.

“Get after her dammit,” I shouted.  “She’s making us look like idiots.”

The nurses all looked at me like I was mad, and I realised Melody (not Spider-Melody) was still in her incubator and looking at me with a little mischief in her tiny eyes.  My wife was shaking her head.


I swear, though, whenever the nurses change her bedding, I can see a little bright red and blue outfit under the sheets…

Adventures in Poop

This was actually written and posted when Melody was three weeks old, blissfully unaware of what was to come.  I do apologise, but I’m sure other dads probably have felt the same way?



Melody’s now over three weeks old, and we’ve got involved in her cares and whatnot, and I’ve helped (at least a little) with expressing breast milk.  We have had a wonderful team of nurses looking after Melody at Musgrove’s Special Care Baby Unit, and I can’t fault them at all.  They’ve had us doing her ‘cares’ as I mentioned before; basically, we clean her, head to toe, use cotton bud sticks to clean her mouth and change her nappy!  There in lies the core of this particular post.




περίττωμα (Greek).

excrementos (Spanish).

excrément (French).

Baw (Welsh).

pah (German).


Either way, there’s lots of it coming from my tiny little daughter’s backside, it’s yellow, and it stinks!  Yes, I know it’s supposed to stink, but it’s a bit of a shock when it comes from a person that weighs less than a bag of sugar, okay?  When she was born, I had visions of holding her up to the sky and announcing her birth to the world, like at the end of Peacekeeper Wars.  (See below).

Romantic, right?

Yeah, well, my experience has been this:

Yeah I know.  But I do not begrudge a second.  What?  Why are you laughing? I don’t!  According to the nurse, it’s to help us bond with her, and take the load (pun intended) off the nurses looking after her.  I’m not really sure why they keep laughing at me when I say I’ll do her nappy.  Is it a man thing?

My wife sat down behind me with a hand pump to express breast milk, and there was a smirk on her face.

This wasn’t the first time I’ve done her nappy, or an all-over bed bath, but what I didn’t know was that my ever-loving wife had already been informed by the nurses (who had sneakily taken a peak at the state of Melody beforehand) that she had a full nappy.

Thus began the Battle of the Poop.

So I opened up her nappy, and all the machines started pinging in random order.  I swear it sounded like lasfire.  There was some sort of work going on around the corner, one of the workmen using a large hammer that sounded like artillery.  So now I’m in the middle of a warzone, and the nurse turns to me and says, “Get into it then,” like some cigar-chomping sergeant.

I felt like I had been handed a rifle and told to storm the enemy position.

I got the old nappy off, full to the brim with yellow alien goop, and was about to put the next one on when she decided to poop on her nice clean towel-bed-thing.  I got the next one under her bum and she kept going.  Dammit.  I looked up and Special Care was gone, replaced by a grassy, muddy warzone.  The ping of lasfire ricocheting around me filled my ears and every now and then the artillery would slam through the air and I’d instinctively duck my head.

Then my wife chuckled, and something hit the back of my leg.

I turned to find my  wife holding herself and spraying milk on me.

The nurse, chomping on a cigar, said,  “Looks like you’re getting flanked!”

Don’t tell me that!  Get in a foxhole and help me dammit!

Melody started wriggling and fidgeting, the second clean nappy wasn’t going on properly.  Now one of the other babies was crying and the medics were attending to her.

“Jesus,” I thought, “How the hell am I supposed to do this?  I’m just a rookie!”

“You’re doing fine, son,” the sergeant-nurse bellowed over the noise, “just dig in and fight on.”

So I did.

The second clean nappy went on, got wrapped.  The pings and hammering went on, the warzone going on around me.  I had to wipe the sweat from my forehead and shout, “Will someone call in a fuckin’ airstrike or something?”

Then I remembered I was still in Special Care.


Melody looked at me curiously, my wife was trying not to smirk, and I swear every now and then the nurse in question occasionally has a half-chewed cigar in her mouth even now.

So I’m mad, right?

What?  Why are you all looking at me like that?