"I want the RAZR," she whined.

     "The what?" I asked her.

     "The RAZR," she said, determined to grab my attention.

     For three months, phone conversations with my daughter, Marlee, had centered around a brand new cell phone I knew nothing about. It had become tiresome. Each time I changed the subject she managed to reel me back in.

     "Daddy?" she moaned.

     "Huh?" I answered.

     "Are you listening?" she asked.

     "Yeah, a phone, I know," I told her.

     "No, the RAZR!" she barked.

     "I heard you the first time," I explained.

     "Well?" she wanted to know.

     "We'll look into it," I said, trying to skirt the issue.

     "Ugh," she sighed, and then hung up.

     Seven months earlier, in December of 2005, I decided it was time for Marlee to have her own cell phone. No one knew my idea except for me. I had been speaking with Marlee on her mother's cell phone about a homework assignment one night when my ex-wife abruptly grabbed the phone from my daughter's hand. I was rudely told that my three minute time limit had elapsed. There was no compromising or reasoning. Each attempt was an open and shut case.

     "She has homework!" my ex-wife shouted.

     "That's why we're on the phone," I told her.

     "It's my phone! You've been on long enough!" she yelled.

     "Two and a half minutes is enough?" I asked.

     "I'll help her with the rest," she screamed.

     "We were in the middle of--"

     Click. Dead silence. She had hung up.

     I'd say to myself, "All I needed was another two minutes." Thoughts went through my mind. What if she's crying? How will she finish the assignment? At the age of ten, I felt Marlee was ready to own her own phone, to take on responsibility, and then we'd be able to chat as long as we wanted, with no interference.   

     The first weekend in January of 2006, we went phone shopping. Marlee was excited. She had never owned anything.  I had lectured her before walking into the store that this phone was to be used sparingly. I didn't want to see unnecessary calls or texts appear on the bill. The two hour browse-around session at the T-Mobile outlet on 89^th and Broadway ended with a successful purchase. Marlee had selected the newest Samsung, chosen a phone number, and picked out a case. No one on Long Island would know until minutes after I had dropped her off. As expected, that Sunday night, I got an earful.

     "Are you crazy?!" my ex-wife hollered.

     "Who is this?" I asked.

     "What do you mean, who is this? A ten-year-old with a cell phone!?" she clamored.

     "I have no idea what you're talking about," I told her.

     "I'm taking it back tomorrow," she said angrily.

     "That's fine, take it back. Good luck. It's in my name," I explained.

     "She doesn't need one. None of her friends have a phone!" she shouted.

     "My three minute time limit with you has expired," I stated.

     She continued to yap. I pressed "end" cutting her off, and sat in silence for a minute. I shook my head and wondered if Marlee's phone would be safe in that environment. Her friends might snatch it away, giggle, talk, and text for hours, and I'd get stuck with a thousand dollar phone bill. My imagination ran wild. I was flushed with anxiety, worrying that her mother might use the phone to save on her peak minutes. What had I done? Had I make the right decision? A week later, Marlee called and told me she loved the phone.

     "Be careful of the minutes," I warned.

     "I know," she said.

     "Just remember, during the week, the shorter the conversation, the better," I nervously told her.

     "Then why did you get me the phone?" she asked.

     "So I can talk to you without a chaotic interruption," I answered.

     "Whatever," she replied.

     In the weeks that followed, her mother calmed down. Marlee's grandmother was also thankful that I had purchased the extra cell phone. They were able to reach her anywhere. I felt relief knowing that at any time, I could text or ring Marlee's phone and either leave a voice mail message or speak with her.

     Six months after she had the phone, our dialogue centered on a cell phone that a friend of hers had at school.

     "You've only had your phone for six months," I told her.

     "But, the RAZR is so cool," she said.

     "Six months," I repeated.

     "So," she retorted.

     "So? You think you're going to change phones every six months?" I asked her.

    "No, but I want the RAZR," she groaned.

     "And I'd like a Mercedes," I mentioned.

     "You're weird," she said.

     "You'll need to keep your phone two years..."

     "Two years!" she exclaimed cutting me off. "That's not fair."

     One by one, her school friends started showing off their cell phones. Parents were buying their daughters the newest and most expensive cell phones on the market. They were different shapes, sizes, colors. After two months, Marlee's Samsung was considered outdated.

     She'd say, "My friend's Mom bought her a Blackberry and I have this crap phone."

     At other times she'd say, "My other friend has a Sidekick. She's so lucky."

     Some of her friends had rock-band ringtones. Others had flip phones. One girl even had a keyboard that popped out. Marlee's phone was plain and simple. That's what she had wanted on that January afternoon.  A half a year later, I was now the rotten Dad for not listening. In my eyes, I was the one who had recently meandered for two hours in a T-Mobile store while his daughter tried out every phone. I had signed up for unlimited texting, even bought her a nice rubber case. Now, my daughter believed she was the "unlucky one with a crap phone seeking the next best designer ring tone."  By the time she started sixth grade, her phone, in her opinion, had become an antique.

      With the holidays approaching, Marlee's constant nagging was unbearable. I had promised her I'd speak with T-Mobile about the cost of breaking the two year contract. She got her wish. On a frigid Saturday afternoon in late December of 2006, Marlee and I rode the subway down to 86^th & Broadway. We wandered into the T-Mobile store three blocks north to 89^th. There she picked out her second cell phone, a hot pink Motorola RAZR, the thin flip phone she had belly-ached about for half the year. When we got home she called everyone bursting with excitement. The old Samsung had found a new home, the dresser drawer.

     From the start, Marlee managed her new phones as if she owned her own business. She knew where her phone was at all times. It was in her coat pocket in cold weather, and in her front pants pocket in warmer weather. When she visited, the charger was stashed in the small zippered compartment of her suitcase. It traveled with her everywhere. The three month campaign for the Motorola RAZR was over. She finally received her dream phone. I was smugly satisfied at how smoothly it had all worked out.

     On a Sunday morning in Manhattan, in April of 2008, 16 months after I had bought her the RAZR, she walked into the kitchen and proceeded to aggravate me.

     "When can I get a new phone?" she asked.

     "What?!"  I yelled.

     "A new phone," she said again.

     "Where did that come from? What's wrong with your phone?" I wanted to know.

     "Nothing," she told me.

     "So, why do you need a new phone?" I asked.

     She sat on our light purple suede kitchen chair and said nothing.

     "The contract is up in December. We'll look then," I explained.

     "Ugh. That long?" she whined.

     "You just got this phone," I told her.

     "No, I didn't," she said.

     "Does it ever end?" I questioned raising my arms in the air.

     "All my friends have new phones," she told me.

     "Really. Good for them," I ranted.

     "You stink," she mumbled under her breath.

     "What was that?" I hammered.

     She sighed, then said softly, "It's not fair." Then, she got up, turned the television on, sulked on the couch, and waited until it was time to leave for Long Island. I shook my head and imagined the barrage of comments and questions being bounced around at the lunch table in school. "Oh Marlee, your phone is so old." "Marlee, tell your Dad to get you a phone that has the internet. How do have one with no internet?"  "Marlee, the RAZR is so "yesterday."

     We left the apartment at 3:30 that April afternoon.

     I had stopped driving back and forth to Long Island in October of 2007. After four and a half years of highway exhaustion, I had ditched the wheels for the rail. I'd leave work early on Fridays, catch a late afternoon train for Long Island. A family member would drive Marlee to the Hicksville station to meet me, then we'd take the train back to Penn Station. On Sundays, we'd hop on the LIRR to Hicksville at 4:30. At Hicksville, we'd taxi to the house, I'd drop Marlee off, and head back home. It gave me time to read, relax, and not worry about congested roads, or an unexpected detour. It was our routine.

     Under a pale gray sky, I wheeled her black suitcase down Broadway toward the subway station while she was in tow. It was a warm but overcast afternoon. She was still angry from our conversation. I handed her a metrocard on the escalator in silence. When we reached the top, I faintly heard the subway rolling into the station.

     "It's here! Let's go!" I shouted, making a mad dash for the turnstile.

     "Wait!" she yelled after me.

     "C'mon," I motioned with my arm. "I'd like to catch this one."

     She swiped her card at the turnstile and went through. I rolled the suitcase underneath the metal bar, she grabbed the handle. The sound of the subway was louder. She handed me the suitcase on the other side as I stuffed both metrocards inside my back pocket. The station shook, the subway screeched. 

     "Wait!" she said again.

     "What now?" I asked her.

     "I need to tie my shoe," she told me.

     "C'mon!" I barked.

     She rushed over to a wooden bench next to the turnstile while I waited. People were darting through the metal gate as if it was the last subway into mid-town for the day. Men were shouting, tripping. Women were running. I lifted the suitcase after Marlee finished and said, "Quick! It's gonna leave!" We galloped up the stairs. The doors closed as we entered out of breath.

     Thirty seconds after the subway began moving I looked at Marlee. She was touching the outside of her jacket. She patted the pockets.

     "Oh no, oh no," she uttered.

     "What happened?" I asked her.

     "My phone, oh no," she blurted.

     "Your phone?" I questioned.

     "It's not in my pocket. Oh God, no," she nervously reacted.

     "You sure you don't have it?" I snapped.

     "I don't!" she cried. "I think I left it on the bench."

     "You're kidding me," I told her.

     "Daddy, no, no, oh no," she stammered.

     "Calm down. We'll get off at 116^th and go back. That's all we can do," I mentioned.

    Marlee was still trying to catch her breath. She looked as if she'd seen a ghost.

     We got off and hopped back onto the uptown train. At 125^th, we raced down the stairs and looked. Nothing. We scanned the floor. Nothing. We hunted high and low, even searching on the opposite stairwell. Nothing. I asked a subway employee. Nothing. By this point, Marlee was hysterical. I stood at the bottom of the stairwell with the suitcase feeling as though I'd been hit by a car. I was drained. The hot pink Motorola RAZR was gone, stolen. Marlee sat on the wooden bench, nose running, tears streaming. I tried to settle her down.

     "It's OK," I told her. "We'll get you another phone."

     "But, (hiccup) Daddy, I (hiccup) want my phone," she wept.

     "I know you do. It's gone, Cookie," I explained.

     "No, (hiccup) Daddy, my phone (hiccup), no," she sobbed. "I (hiccup) put it down (hiccup) to tie my shoe," she told me.

     "Listen, let's get to Long island," I quietly said. "We'll come up with a plan."

     She cried for twenty minutes on the subway down to Penn Station. On the LIRR, I immediately phoned T-Mobile and temporarily canceled the service. Marlee wailed uncontrollably for forty five minutes. She kept saying that she missed her phone. The conductor walked toward our seat with a concerned look. I told him what had happened. He felt terrible.

     "Daddy?" (hiccup) she bawled.

     "What, Cookie?" I asked her.

     "I'm (hiccup) sorry I said you stink before,"(hiccup) she cried.

     I put my arm around her. "It's OK. I've been known to stink," I nodded.

     She tried to crack a smile through her tears. It was a traumatic day.

     The following day after school, her grandmother took her to T-Mobile. Service was temporarily restored on her old Samsung phone. On her visit two weeks later, we found out that Motorola had discontinued that particular RAZR. She reluctantly ended up with a new Samsung. It was a tough incident for a 12-year-old and her Dad to live through.

     December, 2010, 16 months ago. I picked up Marlee on a Saturday morning on Long Island. We rode the LIRR into Penn Station. On the subway uptown, I told her I needed to stop into the store to pay a cell phone bill.

     "How boring," she said sitting there.

     "Boring?" I questioned.

     "Do you have to pay the bill today?" she asked.

     "They're going to shut the service off if I don't," I told her.

     "You didn't pay it?" she moaned.

     She rolled her eyes.

     "Is it too much for you to come with me?" I wanted to know.

     "I want to do something," she moaned.

     "You just got here!" I firmly stated.

     "So," she said.

     "So? It'll take less than a minute," I told her. "Then we'll jog home with the suitcase."

     "You're so weird," she smirked.

     We got off the subway, traipsed up the stairs, and walked into the store. The salesman approached me and asked if I needed assistance. I told him that my daughter was in need of a new cell phone. Marlee looked at me.

     "What?!" she exclaimed.

     "There's no bill," I chuckled.

     "You're kidding?!" she said flustered with excitement.

     "Go pick out that Blackberry Bold you've been whining about for months," I told her.

     "Daddy, this is so great!" she remarked with joy.

     "Just don't leave it anywhere this time," I jokingly stated.

     She gave me a hug and said, "I love you Daddy."

      We laughed all the way to the uptown subway. It was the start of a perfect weekend.

After many years of penning short stories, poems, essays, and bits and pieces of life's mishaps, Tom has finally unlocked the trunk where his best kept work has been hidden, dusted off some gems that need work, and set aside those that are magworthy. He's looking to add some humor and knowledge with his tales about fatherhood. Originally from New Jersey, he now resides on the Upper West Side in Manhattan where his days are spent in banking, and his nights are spent writing.

The subway car stood still. The doors opened. I kept reading. My daughter Marlee, in a trance from a song on her iPod, poked me.

     "Stand clear of the closing doors."

     Ding. The doors closed. Screech.

     "Will you cut it out?" I hollered.

     Marlee was becoming annoying.

     "Is it too much to ask to sit there and listen to music while I read?" I asked her.

     "You're always reading," she said.

     "Well, you're always listening," I told her.

     With that, my nose went back into the fine print. We'd been sitting on the uptown #2 train in Manhattan for some time.

      I had signed Marlee up for acting classes 18 months earlier. I logged on to the internet one afternoon and found a high profile actors Studio in mid-town offering a two hour session on Saturday mornings. Marlee had been selected in 4^th grade for the ensemble cast of "Tommy" by the Who, the 2005 Plainview-Old Bethpage High School production. I sat in shock through the play. Marlee was singing center stage. Too many thoughts ran through my head. "Maybe this is her calling." After four sessions at the studio, Marlee decided to sleep-in on Saturdays. She hated this class that much. She'd never get up from our brown, soft-cushioned couch.  

     "Marlee get up, time for acting."

     Nothing.

     "Marlee, it's enough, the fake snoring. I see you smiling."

     Nothing.

     "Now you've done it," I would yell.

     Out of the clear blue, Bob Marley and the Wailers would make one last attempt.

     "Get up, stand up. Stand up for your rights. Get up, stand up. Don't give up the fight."

     Marlee would moan, cackle, sniffle, and with reluctance, sit up. Then she'd make some lame excuse like she had a sore throat, or a stomach ache. Jan, my girlfriend, would eventually pull the CD out and shut everything off.

     I thought to myself, "There has to be a school that will teach her the essentials of acting." 

     I was seeking a professional who would help enhance her self-esteem, work with her one on one, not just have her read from a piece of paper in a room with fifty other kids. It was worth another try. With a click of luck several months later, we'd landed in the studios of Peggy Lewis and Biz Kids NY down at Pier 40. It would be a full day of acting, and singing; almost six hours each Saturday. The first time I took Marlee it was a 90 degree day. We had hopped onto the #1 local train from 125^th St. and Broadway on the west side of Manhattan, and rode down to the Houston St. stop. Then, we walked, and walked, and walked some more. We looked around and walked again. My feet were sore. The t-shirt I was wearing was soaked. My mouth was dry. I called them and said I was lost. They directed me in detail. It didn't help. Meanwhile the temperature had risen three degrees. I was out of steam. Were they trying to drive me mad? Where was this place? Was it a hoax? Marlee wanted to go home. She was uncomfortable. Her legs were like wet noodles. We sat on a bench somewhere and took a breather.

     "Daddy, what are we going to do?" she asked.

     "I don't know. How can we be lost? It's around here. I can taste it." I answered.

     With one last gust of fortitude left in me, I took a deep breath, looked up to the sun, licked my index finger, and raised it high in the air. I thought to myself, "C'mon sunshine, take me to Biz Kids, please."

     "This way," I told her.

     "How do you know?" she asked.

     "Earthling, have I ever let you down?"  

     "You're weird," she answered.

      The final limp to the steel door was momentous. From the time the subway doors had opened at the Houston St. station, it had taken 45 minutes to find. Biz Kids NY was stuffed down a narrow causeway by a kayak rental. That was a brutal Saturday morning. Nevertheless, she loved it and looked forward to going every other week.

     On this October afternoon, we were on our way back home from a day at Biz Kids. We had gotten on the #2, the express train, at Houston Street which was making all local stops up to 96^th St. because of construction. The #1 local train was not running uptown at that station that day. We would need to get off at 96^th St. and wait for the #1 train that would take us to 125^th St. and Broadway. If not, the #2 would continue, but veer off, making stops in central Harlem. It was cold. I wore my black leather jacket. Marlee had on a windbreaker.

     "I told you to put on something heavier this morning," I told her.

     "I wasn't cold," she said.

     "Oh, I see, you weren't cold. You're lucky it's not a long walk to the subway."

     At 96th St., she poked me. I wasn't paying attention. I was eye deep into Chapter 5. When I looked up we were at 116^th St. and Central Park North.

     "Oh crap!" I yelled out.

     "What? What happened?" she cried.

     "God damn it! This time, you were right and I messed up. We're going to have to get off at the next stop. It's 125^th St. but nowhere near my apartment.

     "Why?"

     "Why. Because we should have gotten off at 96^th St., that's why. I was daydreaming, or reading, or something. It's no big deal. We can just go across and get the subway going downtown or grab a bus. Earthling, I will lead you home, because I am Spartacus."

     "You are really weird," she smiled.

     We walked up the stairs and it hit us like bricks--rain, falling from the sky, in buckets.

     "Ho-lee shit," I mumbled to myself.

     "Oh my God!" Marlee shouted.

     "Now what?" I asked her.

      We looked at each other dumbfounded. Never thinking that it would rain, I never bothered to bring an umbrella or a hat. It smelled like rain-induced smoke, the kind you see shooting up from sewer plates, almost like exhaust from a car. I glanced around from the middle of the stairwell and had no idea where I was. The rain was thrashing down so hard I couldn't see anything. Dusk was setting in which made it even more difficult. I'd only been living in the city for less than two years and had never been in this neck of the woods. Which way was Amsterdam Avenue? Where did we have to stand to catch a cross-town bus? Where was the downtown subway? My train of thought had vanished. My sense of direction, gone. We stood for another minute and then I saw a heavy-set black man at the top of the stairwell with a doorman umbrella.

     "Excuse me, yeah, hi, which way to Amsterdam?" I asked him.

     "Fella, you got a long walk. It's that way." he pointed.

     "Damn!" I exclaimed.

     "You got an umbrella?" he asked.

     "I don't," I told him.

     He shook his head and wished me luck. I told Marlee that Amsterdam couldn't be that far. We'd walk.

     "But it's pouring, and I'm cold," she stated.

     "Great, now you're cold. Well, five minutes we'll be home, I promise." I told her.

     "You said you were Spartacus, Daddy," she said.

     "I did, and I am. Trust me on this."

      In the midst of a late afternoon torrential downpour we trudged across 125^th street to the west side of Harlem. The mighty wind gusted. Cars honked. Bright headlights flickered. Windshield wipers swayed. We passed men and women with umbrellas. Some were inside out, others torn to shreds. Store owners were closing up and running full speed to shelter. The rain didn't let up. I kept looking at Marlee.

     "You OK?" I asked.

     "Yeah," she answered back.

     I held her hand as we crossed Lenox. Water had seeped into my jacket, shirt, and pants. My shoes were flooded. My hair was drenched. My fingers and toes were numb from the cold. Marlee never said anything. We kept walking.

     "Just think of the sun," I told her. "Pretend the heat is beating down on us."

     "Can we tell the sun to keep us warm?" she questioned.    

     "Yes, you can tell the sun anything you want," I told her. "Just don't tell anyone I got us lost."

     Water had crawled into my eyes. I had to blink a few times to make sure my contacts were still there. After we crossed 7^th Avenue, I knew we were in the home stretch. It was so cold, Marlee's hands were turning blue. I had to take a few deep breaths to make sure my body parts were functioning. On and on we walked as the downpour got worse. We hit Amsterdam and I knew it was only a matter of minutes before we would be inside. It had been a memorable twenty-five minute excursion.

     When Jan opened the door to our apartment she stood there. Her jaw dropped. We were soaked. The two of us dripped all over the hallway. There were two puddles right outside the door. In a few seconds I had told her what had happened. We immediately took off our jackets, rung them out, and started to thaw. Jan wrapped us in blankets. We sat in the apartment telling her the story.

     "My Dad got us lost," Marlee told Jan.

     "Thanks, very much appreciated," I told her.

     "My Dad said he was Spartacus and he'd get us home," she told Jan.

     "Did I?" I asked her.

     With a towel on her head, her hand in mittens, and oversized wool socks on her feet, she smiled at me and said, "I had fun, Daddy. Thanks."

     "You're welcome, Earthling," I winked. "Now, how about some hot chocolate? Who's with me?"

Events following I was not aware of at the time but was informed later, but make more sense in the blog to put things in order. Charlotte had taken Willow to see the doctor due to her recent change in behaviour. They were waiting in the waiting room (the doctor was running a little late) and Willow decided it would be a good idea to fill the awkward silence in the room with a fart... and more farts... wet farts. The room laughed, my daughter, the physical comedian aged 3.5 weeks.

Charlotte was then brought into the doctor's room and on 'undressing Willow' revealed lots, and lots... and lots more lots of poo... EVERYWHERE. Up her back, down her legs, on her belly. Charlotte was extremely embarrassed and did her best to clean Willow up. The doctor was not worried about Willow's health in the slightest and asked Charlotte questions such as, "Is this your first child?" and "Do you have a supportive partner?"... she really didn't know what to think. Of course, give yourself the same scenario and perhaps you can see why they asked those questions. A mum comes in with a baby, covered in shit, but not unwell in the classical sense... not a good picture. Any way, advice was not very helpful and we're just having to 'roll with it' and come back if we are concerned... we were concerned before and wanted reassurance and that we hadn't received.

Unbeknownst to all this I arrived home and witnessed an extremely sleepy Willow. I gave her a cuddle and attempted to wake her ready for her bath. It took a while (and she wasn't happy about being woken - who is right?) but we managed to bath her, she seemed to enjoy the first few minutes but suddenly became extremely unhappy in the later moments of the bath.

Once out, she was hard to settle, the only soother was the boob but it wasn't 100% effective. Charlotte showered, leaving me with a relatively passive little baby, but not for long. Uncontrollable, inconsolable screaming occurred and no matter what I did she wouldn't and couldn't calm down.

I found myself entirely frustrated, stressing myself out and taking it out on my wife after she got out of the shower berating myself for being useless and feeling powerless to do anything. Again, my dear lady wife tried to convince me that I was doing a good job but I wouldn't listen, instead I was grumpy, and moody and fundamentally upset at myself. Eventually I calmed down, again feeling like a waste of space.

The evening transpired and Charlotte left me holding the baby while she went to bed at 22:30. 3 hours later (and + $200k fake poker chip winnings later) I went to bed, Willow was fed, changed, fed once more then put into bed. Then she was fed and put to bed... and fed and put to bed... and eventually fed and put to bed where she slept for the next 3 hours!

Saturday started well, I think. Willow had allowed us sleep, enough to ensure that I was up and by 9am I was taking part in a 5km fun run. I appreciate that some people will argue that fun and run should never be put together and I'll be honest, I don't enjoy it during the run, but I do feel a sense of achievement afterwards. It was wet and muddy and I put an extra minute on my usual time.

Willow was a little grumbly on my return home but was in general good spirits. My brother Stu, his girlfriend Debbie and their daughter Natalie arrived bearing a homemade casserole from my mum (who was unable to visit due to illness) and more gifts. In company Willow was in good form, only occasionally screaming like a banshee. Play, cuddles, chatter and lunch occurred and they were soon on their way back home leaving Charlotte and I with the place to ourselves (Willow was there of course). We almost didn't know what to do... unfortunately things took a turn for the worse as Willow decided that she wanted to do only one of three things. Sleep, feed or cry.

There were no glorious moments, no gazing moments, just an incredibly beautiful little girl with a fantastically low mood!

Sunday

The 'growth' spurt continued, Willow continued to cry, feed or sleep and nothing else, this time including hourly feeds so Charlotte was in constant demand. Our friends Chris and Anne and their 11 week old daughter Amelia visited. Willow didn't perk up and although on occasion she was soothed, she spent the majority of the time being cuddled and distracted.

It was lovely to see them; even more lovely to see that Willow could be behaving like Amelia in 8 weeks time... it was a goal to look to. She was much more reactive and responsive and for the main, had flawless behaviour with only a few grumbles.

More presents were presented including Willow's first swim-friendly nappies and a swimming suit! They left and unfortunately Willow did not improve, her behaviour continued and perhaps, we thought, she wasn't having a growth spurt at all, perhaps her sniffles were developing into a horrible cold, or perhaps the whiteness in her gums were teeth coming through!

Monday

With little-to-no sleep for Charlotte, and a little more for me, I was glad to be going to work, but sad to be leaving Charlotte at home with a miserable baby. Charlotte had Cath over for company but Willow was relentless with her crying, sleeping and feeding. So much so that on return from work we booked a doctor's appointment for the following day. Suspecting it to be a cold we knew there was not much the doctor could do but reassurance would be enough for us.

She spent the evening asleep on my chest, or Charlotte's chest and while not ideal, it was a relief to know that she could still get 2-3 hours at a time.

I found myself cycling home this evening and the thought of coming home to my wife and daughter brought a huge grin to my face - moments later the grin disappeared as a transit van hurtled past me, arsehole.

On arrival to the homestead my little angel was relaxing having just had a feed, I walked over to her, crouched near her and said hello, she looked straight at me and smiled, I smiled straight back. I had time for a quick workout before dinner... in fact, Willow spent the next three hours asleep and it was only until about 21:30 that I had my first cuddle... and it was awesome. She wasn't content with me standing still but happy with the 'daddy-two-step' dance moves I was pulling off. We had a lovely chat, well, I talked at her of course, but when I did she smiled, and kept smiling, and each time she did I felt it necessary to show it to Big E and Charlotte. I sure as hell wanted to share this moment, it made my week.

We continued to cuddle, and jig, and dance, and sing until about 22:30 when Charlotte went to bed and Willow not long after fell asleep on my shoulder and I discovered something else I could do with only one hand free... play Nintendo Wii with Big E. I felt at a handicap but it was acceptable. Willow remained sleeping, with only the occasional stir until an hour later when I decided that perhaps we should all join Charlotte in bed. Of course, by we all I don't mean Big E as well, that'd be weird.

Charlotte mentioned that the dummies (unused until today) were sterilised and ready to go, "Don't let me stop you", I said and Charlotte made her way to the capsule of dreams. The first minute was priceless. Willow took the dummy straight in and began trying to feed from it, eyes closed, looking content. All of a sudden her face screwed up, where the **** was the milk??? She started to cry but in doing so the dummy slipped out a little and the fear of it falling out was enough to make her suck it back in, and cycle through the exact same process at least three more times. Eventually she seemed to 'get it' and was happily sucking away in her bouncy chair. The glorious moment of bliss was not to last long at all.

Why? I hear you ask. Was it because she started crying? No. Was it because she decided to poo and leak through her outfit? No. Did anything actually happen? No... well, not really. I felt something happen... guilt. We desperately wanted to not give her a dummy, and here we were, twenty days in, caving in. I didn't feel so guilty about that but I found myself thinking... she might actually be hungry or thirsty and instead of allowing her to feed we are teasing her with a substitute nipple. I mean, who in their right mind would settle for a substitute nipple? We, like many others, are now evil parents, but evil parents who live in a quieter house.

Willow was as Willow is... unpredictable. Quiet one minute, screaming the next, begging for boob the next and quiet again once more. We attempted to get her into bed about 10 but she wasn't interested so I was offered Willow, and accepted, leaving Charlotte to sleep and me watching poker (that's right, I took a break from playing it) with our housemate. Willow decided this would be the time to sleep now, and slept until just gone midnight (after I had played some poker of course) and settled into her Moses Basket.

The thing is, as I update this journal now, I do so knowing that any minute now Willow will wake for a feed, and the real question is should I sneak downstairs and sleep on the sofa or be brave and go to bed with my wife. I'm feeling brave.

The interview went well, I think, I'll know on Monday. The first of three people to be interviewed on the day and in total so my odds were pretty good, 33% I reckon. I've always been taught to interview your best candidate first so you have a benchmark, hopefully that rang true today and I'll have an exciting call on Monday. The interview was scheduled for 30 minutes but overran by 40 minutes so I think that's a good sign. All I can do now is hope I did enough, and that the other candidates just weren't up to scratch.

Two hours later... we felt it was just parenting to leave Willow in the car seat for an hour, there are studies saying its bad for long periods of time, but so far no one clarifies exactly what a long time is so I figure an hour is fine. I'll let you know if it all goes wrong. Lunched, changed and back in the car, we were heading off to drop Holly at the train station and go to the doctors. We suspected that Willow may have a cold... the doctor confirmed that maybe she might be catching a cold but couldn't really listen to Willow's chest and back properly due to uncontrollable screaming each time the cold stethoscope touched skin, who can blame her right? All in, the doctor thought she looked and sounded healthy, so to keep an eye on her. Top marks though when she asked if it was okay to call us the following day just to check on her progress.

Then, the moment we weren't waiting for. Her first official bath. No cotton ball washes, full, naked bath time. Advice can be conflicting on bringing up a baby, and bathing is no exception. Don't bath when they first wake up, or after a feed or when they are hungry... this translates to me as NEVER BATHE YOUR BABY because when Willow isn't feeding she is asleep, when she isn't hungry she is asleep, when she isn't asleep she is hungry or feeding... I hope you followed that. We bit the bullet and bathed her after she woke, in fact that's a lie, we woke her to bathe her. When all is said and done, it was a success with tears only starting to flow at the end of bath time, probably as she was getting cold.

Fed and cuddled by mummy, I was free to catch up with paperwork and more importantly, this journal of our life so far with our daughter. The evening continued in a loop. Charlotte breastfed, Willow fell asleep in Charlotte's arms, Willow was passed to me, Willow woke, was passed to Charlotte, breastfed, fell asleep and transferred. Eventually Willow was transferred into the Moses Basket and there she remained, asleep, until at least now (22:22) - who knows what the night will hold?

Within 20 minutes I was on my bike, cycling in the rain, the heavy rain, getting soaked inside and out. While waterproofs are good at keeping rainwater out, they are fantastically warm too and keep sweat locked in. Nice! As yesterday, significant moments at work were few and far between and not worth mentioning in the whole. Highlights including selling 4 copies of my self-published book 5Hit Stories to colleagues and buying Willow a gift... Fantastic Mr. Fox by Roald Dahl. She may be a little young for reading but she is old enough to be read too and this was (and is) my favourite book so it can be hers too. I'm intending on narrating it and recording it so we can use it as a soother if I'm not available for fatherly duties.

I returned home much later and within half an hour I was turned around again to collect our friend Holly from the train station. Willow behaved like a perfect little lady with limited whinging until around 10pm - the witching hours were commencing. She would settle on occasion but would unsettle just as quickly. Each time I thought I had the perfect combination (jigging and singing, jigging and talking, not jigging, holding her facing down, holding her away from my body) she soon informed me that it was only a temporary solution to a longer term problem... she was hungry... and wanted feeding... NOW!

Charlotte began feeding and remained in bed for the duration. I joined, with the intention of sleeping downstairs once Willow was settled - this was Charlotte's suggestion so that I could get some decent sleep and be 'fresh' for my interview tomorrow. At 1am, following 3 attempts, Willow finally fell asleep, I left Charlotte and Willow to sleep and comfort one another as I proceeded downstairs to sleep. Holly (who was staying over) was already in bed, all the lights were off and no-one had set up a spare mattress or covers for me. In the dark I donned a sleeping bag and crawled onto the sofa where I would remain unconscious for a good few hours.

But it wasn't over, oh no, that'd be too easy. I could hear her grumbling, not crying yet but it wasn't far off. I waited, and waited and eventually it died off but moments later it started again. Please, I prayed, please just let her sleep just this once, not just for me, but for Charlotte, the "feeder" who really needed a sleep. It then occurred to me that prayer helped me last time, so what did I have to lose. I prayed to the almighty (whomever that may be) for Willow to sleep until at least gone 2am, if divine powers could do that for me, in return I'd delete all my illegally obtained movies and boy did I mean it.

Before I knew it Willow was crying for a feed, Charlotte leapt to attention and rushed to feed her. I remember thinking it had gone 2am but I wasn't sure, and I was too tired to try and figure it out. I slept some more.

I remember waking up for the 4am feed (although I'm told there was also one around 3am which I must have missed) and the 6am feed (although I'm told there was a 5am too...). I felt tired at each wake (but probably not as tired as my poor wife who fed at each occasion while I did nothing). At 6am I decided that I'd go and sleep on the sofa for an hour. This was so that if Willow was put back to bed she may be disturbed by my 7am alarm - hindsight tells me that was pointless but I had a great one hour nap. I readied myself for work and heard baby cries... Willow was going for hourly feeds it would seem and was awake for 7am. We said our goodbyes and I left for work - before doing so I checked our Willow-log and would you believe it, Willow did not wake until after 2am. Divine intervention or coincidence - I care not, I'm a believer now. Subsequently I've just deleted my illegally obtained movies - time to ask for Superbad for my birthday I guess.

I cycled my 8 miles to work without incident, sat at my desk by 08:15 and worked my day. Work was as work is (except I was of course asked lots of baby related questions and we received some gift vouchers and presents - awesome) but the only part worth telling was that I informed my boss that I had been head-hunted and had an interview for Wednesday working closer to home and possibly for lots more money. She supported my decision but would be sad to lose me. I also told her I would be asking for a pay-rise regardless. It's doubtful during the dark days of my workplace with dismissals, pay cuts and redundancies looming but you don't get if you don't ask right?

Moving on, I cycled my 8 miles back home again after nearly 9.5 hours of 'work'. I arrived home to a sleeping baby (who remained so for the entire evening only waking for feeds) and a well looking wife. Willow had slept most of the day but only in Charlotte's arms. I worked out (manly style), ate dinner, spoke to a good friend who recently became a father to a daughter and so it was cathartic to share our joys and woes, chilled out with the wife and friend/tenant and now here I am, about to jump in the shower, go into the bedroom and no doubt cuddle Willow until gone midnight and the circle will continue. If tomorrow is anything like today, I'll be happy.

Of course, it's Valentine's Day - not that I'd forgotten, its just this year we are in a bit of a different situation. I know people hate Valentine's Day - think it was created to milk people of money and it's all a bunch of fake nonsense but I love it. For me, it reminds me that I spent many too many Valentine's Days alone, and they sucked and more importantly it forces me to give thought to how lucky I am, to have a darling wife who adores me so (even when I'm being a dick), spoils me with love and affection and now a gorgeous baby girl too. However, I really should stop typing, get in that shower so when I get out we can exchange cards while it's still the 14^th...

Our first outing... our health visitor arrived and we received the 'thumbs up'. We didn't have long so jumped in the car, together, and drove to the hospital for a hearing check. She checked out (and I was pretty funny to the nurses... at least I thought I was). From there we headed to Homebase, then Tesco, then Mama's & Papa's where we experienced our first 'poo up the back' scenario and usage of a baby changing room... there didn't seem to be much room to do anything. Add in a trip to John Lewis, Marks and Spencer, Mothercare and Tesco Homestore and we were pooped.

Once at home we relaxed and all was quiet... well, as quiet as all could be.

Later, Willow was not playing ball, she was playing something entirely different, and it wasn't a game I enjoyed. I found myself stressed, frustrated, annoyed and disappointed all over again. I left Charlotte to 'deal with her' and jumped in the shower. How many times am I going to do this? How many more times will Charlotte forgive me, allow my mood swings and impatience? I physically slapped myself in the face, a little dramatic but it felt like the right thing to do. I'm going to be better, I told myself once more, this time it'd be different. I took some deep breaths and felt better. I've never classed myself as a religious man although I do believe in something and I hoped that something was listening to me. I spoke a non-silent prayer. Give me more patience, I asked, I'll be better but if I could have some help that'd be grand. Praying couldn't hurt right?

Maybe, just maybe I'll be a better believer; I came out of the shower, with renewed patience and willingness. I entered the bedroom, prepared for anything, but instead I had nothing to do. Charlotte was asleep in the bed, and Willow was asleep in her crib. Thank you, I thought, and crawled into bed, cuddled my wife and closed my eyes. It was time to dream. I smiled as I closed once more.

Saturday

No stressing, no moaning, no grumbling, no grumpiness, Saturday was fantastic. Charlotte, Willow and I were in great moods and the day was brilliant. Cath had stayed the night before and we spent the day relaxing. We had a visit from friends Jodie, Gavin and their daughter Kaylin which was very pleasant, especially my game of hide and seek with Kaylin although I was told off for making loud noises when found.

Later that evening Big E and I went for a jog to keep in shape, it was a good jog. I'd love to be able to fill you in with what occurred in the evening but in all honestly I can't quite remember - which means that it was very tame or very stressful - either which way I won't try very hard to pull it back into the brain.

Sunday

What a day... deliberately we did nothing. I was due to go back to work the following day so wanted to do as much nothing as possible... we did a lot of nothing but I didn't feel ready to go back to work. I didn't want to leave Charlotte to do it all by herself but what choice did I have? What sensible choice that is!

At about 3am our self-set alarm went off reminding us to wake and feed our child. Charlotte got up and sorted her out. I dozed but couldn't quite get back to sleep until Charlotte joined me.

Just two hours later Willow was ready for another feed and a nappy change! Again, Charlotte tended to our daughter and I tried desperately to get some more sleep on the pretence that I would get up for 'fake' work at 07:00 and relinquish all fatherly duties from 07:30 until 18:00. Both Charlotte and I were ready for this, or so we thought. All of a sudden my ears were treated to the delightful sound that I soon realised was a fart. Not only was it a fart but it was a projectile poo and wee. Not only was Charlotte subject to small particles of poo being dashed on her but Willow had rainbowed (it may not be a term but it should be) wee a good two meters away from her position. It was hilarious, despite my best efforts and the fact I was supposed to be keeping away from fatherly duties I had to help. Although for a while I just didn't know what to do, we giggled and eventually got ourselves together and progressed with the day.

Willow wouldn't settle so I took up more duties and held Willow while Charlotte showered, of course this gave me time to play... you guess it... online poker!

Our midwife visited early in the morning and fortunately we were again given the all clear, she had continued to put on weight so we were extremely pleased.

Charlotte had to return unused goods so jumped in the car and drove like a madwoman. I had expressed milk to use if I got desperate but Willow decided to do nothing but sleep. This is the kind of fatherhood I can handle... watching. As Charlotte returned home I officially clocked off and Charlotte assumed all duties and I managed to get on with busy work... paperwork... yay!

About 18:00 I arrived home from fake work and re-assumed dad duties and they were pretty good for the majority. Willow decided she would stay awake in my arms - she looked so adorable, staring intently at me, I don't know what she was thinking but I didn't care, she was so alert, so aware, so amazing. It so didn't last.

We tried to get her to bed but she wasn't happy, not only would she not behave for me but she didn't relax listening to her tranquil CD, she wasn't even content with a breastfeed or two. Despite best efforts she was eventually passed to me, and she settled, leaving Charlotte to sleep and me... well, I fell into old habits... POKER!

Willow became self-aware at 5am Greenwich Mean Time, 9^th February 2011. In a panic, I made the fundamental mistake of falling asleep facing my wife, and she had also fallen asleep facing me. I awoke (although I cannot honestly remember if I saw anything) and Charlotte (also waking) outstretched an arm toward me (probably stretching and not realising our positions) and probed one of her fingers into my right eye. It felt like she went in as far as the knuckle. I recoiled in pain, I think I may have even thrown out a swear or two and clasped my eye. It daren't open it for a few seconds; I was genuinely concerned that I might be blind. After a few seconds I opened it, I could see but boy did it hurt. It hurt to open it, hurt to keep it open, hurt to close it, hurt to have my left eye open and right eye closed and hurt at all other times too. I would apologise for the repetition of the word hurt but I think it's important you feel it with me. My aching eye continued to ache for the next while.

I wanted to help with the nappy change but figured sight would be quite crucial while attempting that task. Instead, I blindly wandered from the bedroom, to the bathroom and returned with some warm water for a change of nappy.

Not long after I figure I must have conked out due to the pain and at the 7am feed I rolled over the cuddle my wife, at the same time she was adjusting her position and elbowed my left cheek. This was less severe than the first attack (which still hurt - and still aches a little while I type this blog) but none-the-less was very undeserved in my opinion. Charlotte apologised and eventually we moved on.

We had guests due at 11am and begrudgingly I held Willow in my arms while Charlotte tidied and had breakfast. I of course decided this was the perfect time for which to play some online poker, and came 2^nd, which was good for me - Charlotte tried to share my feelings of success but I knew she didn't understand.

There I sat in bed, cradling my daughter in my arms while she drifted in and out of consciousness occasionally staring up at me. I must remember this moment, I said to myself, remember this when she is screaming and I can do nothing about it and remember that this is worth every cry and moan.

Our friends Becky and Chris arrived and witnessed an extremely awake Willow. She had not properly slept since 9am and continued not to sleep until about 7pm. During this time she wasn't a pleasant little angel, she was a monster. Our soothing tactics only worked for so long, including breast feeding which used to be the ultimate settling tool. We danced, we sang, we watched music television, we jumped around, we rocked, we jiggled, we fed, and fed.... and fed! But nothing, nothing would send her to sleep and when each thing failed (be it after 1 minute or ten seconds) she wailed, and wailed and wailed. Nappy changes, outfit changes, removing layers, adding layers, changing holding positions, ignoring her... none of it worked.

We decided a couple of hours later (after Becky cooking our lunch and Charlotte and I taking it in turns to eat ours while the other distracted Willow) to go for our first walk, with the push-chair-pram-all-in-one beast. It was assembled and readyish to go. All we needed to do was inflate the tyres. Of course, this would have been simple had all the inner tubes been in good condition. The back left inner tube decided it would inflate unevenly making the all-in-one a little unsteady at times and always pulling to the left. I felt a complaint letter coming on but we had no time. We were off.

Some children fall asleep while going to walks right? Not Willow... sigh. She didn't scream or cry, which was great, instead she stayed wide awake - amazed by the entire thing and remain motionless and subdued until we arrived home where she continued to wind us up by not settling. I'm not too proud to admit that I didn't think I could handle much more and found myself, once again, entirely frustrated at a baby. I remained partially calm, but mostly not and of course, on reflection, hate myself once more for losing my rag. That doesn't mean I'm going to apologise to the person who took the brunt of my frustration - the man on the end of the phone from BT Credit Card, who would not credit my £1 overcharge. Bastard. He deserved my scorn, as did the online complaints wizard which received angrily typed words by my fingers alone - the online complaints wizard which I think related to BT Home Phone as opposed to Credit Card so will fall on deaf eyes. But never mind, I felt better after I vented.

Eventually Willow crashed out about 7pm; once she woke once more she behaved relatively well (in so much that she was on occasion soothed by the boob - and in their right mind - who isn't?).

I'll be honest with you, I honestly don't know what happened on day ten... it's more of a blur than days two to six. Charlotte's mum visited and I went to the dentist - but that's all I remember... so I won't dwell.

Day Ten

Ah, Tuesday, glorious Tuesday.

It started with a bang... well, with a bottom bang anyway. Charlotte had the 4am feed slot covered perfectly allowing for me to intermittently drop off and wake, snuggling up to Charlotte who was sitting up in bed, tired and looking after our precious daughter. It was about 7am where I was called into action... nappy changing dad to the rescue. My eyes ached and I felt like there was no way I could physically move, yet I agreed that I would indeed drag my sorry butt out of bed and change Willow's nappy. Of course, I fell back asleep and then when prompted (probably for the third or so time) eventually stumbled toward the bathroom to get some warm water for bum cleaning.

Now, I'm not trying to boast but I think I have this nappy changing business down to a fine art. This of course is a fine art where the final result is good... not necessarily the method. If you watched me change a baby you might well think, "what in the hell is he doing?" but once you see the fully clothed, clean and happy daughter - you'll be most impressed.

The day progressed and we were visited by Bee, Davy and one of their daughters, Laura (still very much a baby but walking around and at least twice as big as Willow). It was nice to see where Willow was headed; fundamentally I'm looking forward to her being able to support her own head properly, crawl and walk around and have some basic understanding of how to behave. I shouldn't wish it away, people say, but seriously she can stay 1 for 1 and a half years if she wants, I just want her to be 6 months old now!

Once our guests had parted (not before of course furnishing us with gifts... yay!) I had a task. To travel to the nearest town and buy some breast pads! I had a sub-task to pay in my first royalty cheque for my collection of short stories (5Hit Stories) but this was exactly that, a sub-task. I'm a father first, husband second and author third. In fact, I'm probably an employee third and being an author is slowly slumping its way back to the bottom of the pile. I digress... I was in search of breast pads. Missing cycling 8 miles to work (well, not entirely missing all 8 miles but the nice down hill chunks are fun) I decided to ditch the car (not literally of course) and cycle a mere 3 miles to the nearest town.

Boots was on the agenda for breast pads. The Chemist brand did not stock the correct ones, and neither did the High Street store. Some time later I emerged with different branded but hopefully satisfactory breast pads - I was of course waiting for an opportunity to make a joke that the breast pads were for me and not my wife but it didn't present itself and that's probably for the best. Asking the sonographer if we could 'sonograph' my tummy did not go down well, on any of the 7 appointments - still, once an idiot, always an idiot right?

The evening and night panned out without much incident but nothing was to prepare me for the beginning of the following day. If someone had told me that was what was going to happen - I'd have slept downstairs...

I arrived home and Charlotte was busy breastfeeding... this was my chance, I told myself, and I fled downstairs to write the card I had purchased yesterday and put the card and present in the mail catcher.

Not long after that, Charlotte's Auntie Lynne, Lynne's partner Rod and Charlotte's Granny Cathy arrived for their first visit since Willow's arrival. Charlotte meanwhile was upstairs still taking part in a mammoth hour long feed. Tea was made and eventually Charlotte appeared and the gang were introduced to a very subdued Willow. Charlotte found the card and present but decided she would open it later - and a good job too as it was a little soppy and likely to cause a sob or too from us both. Lynne and Rod are photographers, complete with confusing camera's and equipment and started taking snaps of the little lady, more so with me, more so because I was changing her lovely smelling nappy and trying to comfort her.

A few hours passed, including lunch, LOTS of tears from an unsettled Willow, more feeding and more photos and the gang departed.

Not long after Charlotte opened her card and present, and my desire was fulfilled, she was extremely touched and cried happy tears. We cuddled and kissed and cuddled some more. I needed her to know how much I love her, how amazing she is with our daughter and how sorry I am that I'm on occasion a grumpy, impatient little prick for no good reason.

It then transpired that I figured I deserved a break from all the business of the day (that and I was feeling a little under the weather) and so Charlotte made me a cup of tea and I crashed out on the sofa, under a blanket, drifting in and out of consciousness watching the recording of the Wales versus England rugby game. The break from responsibility felt good and I took that feeling to bed with me and slept with ease... until I was woken of course.