June poll results

Thanks to all the readers who took part in the June Oh Shit, I'm a Dad poll. The turn out was enormous with people voting for names for young Studebake from five continents and two ocean floors.

37% voted for Achilles Renoir... A fine choice, dear readers. I believe this name originated in East London amongst a group of highly polluted ne'er-do-wells who couldn't make sense of my new world accent. All the same, a fine choice and a fine name. I have given it to young Studebake.

31% supported Exree Hipp Studebake... Excellent. Exree will be proud to know that his name is shared with such a fine young lad.

14% opted for Archestratus Clementinuis... I'm not really sure why people voted for this. As a token gesture for those lost souls I've included Clementino in the mix.

34% selected Throckmorton Vast Chamberpot III... A strong name worth replicating. Throckmorton reigns.

July's poll is now open to the public. As both my and my son's futures are at stake I would greatly appreciate your input.

(By the way, I recognize, even in my sleep-deprived state, that the above percentages do not add up to 100. If you have a problem with this, there are other voting mechanisms out there which claim more ethical procedures. We at Castle Studebake believe in a purely feudal approach to power and set up these polls as a mere activity for the vaguely literate masses.)

Dignity lost

I guess one of the oddest aspects of becoming a parent is the complete and utter loss of anything resembling dignity. Don't get me wrong, it is worth it, and I wasn't exactly dignified before the great event, but standards have noticeably dropped around Castle Studebake.

Changing soggy nappies (diapers) a few dozen times each day drops the bar dramatically. Shall I mention the spit up, gas and shitting sounds which seem to echo throughout the halls and towers of our grand estate, particularly around my dinner time? The conversation now revolves around projectile crap and what to do when he starts to pee when you are changing him. (I duck and blanket the flow like I'm defusing California brush fires.)

But what really bothers me, and what I wasn't prepared for is how the outside world turns into an infomercial. Every time I turn the corner some attractive female agent approaches me. Doesn't sound bad, but just as I've finished patting down my hair, zipping up my fly and wiping the spit from my shoulder she begins talking about some product I need to own in order to ensure the child will live beyond three weeks. Some Australian woman pulled me aside this evening and told me about something called the miracle blanket. Then there are the must-have creams and the videos about schedules, swaddling, breast-feeding, you name it. People swear by each and every baby-related product known to man. It's as if parenthood is just another excuse to become cultish, like junior high school.

I'm determined to maintain my dignity, although I just learned that our buggy (stroller) isn't as fancy as I thought it was. I guess I'll have to check that swagger on the high street next weekend. Oh well, one day I'll be dignified and old.

More onesie beef - Who buttons all three?

Why do onesies have three buttons? Who designs these damn things? I'll have you know that after 64 changes I have never once buttoned all three. I snap the outside two and call it a day. The middle one hangs out like a Buick on concrete blocks in an Atlanta suburb.

A difficult discussion with an unpredictable ending

This morning Throckmorton and I donned our capes at dawn and headed out into the wild streets of Hampsteadistan with a flask of fine Scotch and tobacco-filled pipes.

A difficult discussion arose as we neared the high street.

"Great father of mine," Young Hastrobal began, "I've given my future considerable thought during my three marathon feedings over the past eight hours."

"As have I, young Kikuchiyo. As have I."

As we walked little Achilles began to weigh the benefits of each possible profession with foresight well beyond his eleven days in the open air.

But deep within his words I noticed a fundamental misunderstanding which I hastened to delicately rectify.

"My young Exree Hipp," I interrupted, "Please do allow me to interject."

He nodded.

"I, your father Drake Studebake, he of shuttlecock sales fame, have reached my time for retirement."

Clementino pursed his lips.

"You see, while I appreciate your insightful words regarding your noble future, I must remind you that you are to consider me and my well-being."

Throckmorton looked pensive. He blinked. He yawned. He shat.

I forged ahead, "Need I remind you that we had discussed this matter while you were but a wombat in the great mothership."

He frowned and shat again.

"Our contract stipulates..." I trailed off, reaching into my cape and extracting a scroll emblazoned with the Studebake seal.

"Do you mean to suggest that I become a capitalist?"

Just then a Foxtons estate agent crossed our path. The aroma of his hair gel, the rigid cut of his suit and violent clack of his pointed Louis Vuitton loafers all suggested profit, revenue and a a future villa on the Costa del Sol.

Hastrobal cringed. I lit my pipe.

"Perhaps a tycoon." I put worth with a wave of my pipe.

I went on to outline the variety of industrial efforts he could engineer in order to bring the great Studebake fortune up to par with pre-recession expectations. I discussed potential poses for statues he would commission after his great successes, even explaining the significance of the breed of horses upon which he would proudly sit, and the return of the public's taste for military uniforms.

Unpredictably, the future magnate had fallen asleep. I safely tucked our contract back into my cape, returned to the castle and dreamed of handing him over to a team of nappy-changers.

The future is bright I told myself. The future is bright.

My son's future

I was raised without much direction. Despite my celebrated professional success selling shuttlecocks in Poppystan, my life has not always been driven by purpose. When I reflect, it seems I wasted a number of years in a daze of daydreams or hallucinogenic drugs. It is with this in mind that I intend to put young Hastrobal on the straight and narrow, right from the start.

I've thought long and hard about potential positions in life for the young Throckmorton. I do hope, however that you, dear reader, will contribute some ideas of your own. Keep in mind that I will likely pay little attention to your words, but there is nothing like other people's bad ideas to make one feel satisfied with oneself in life.

Here are my ideas thus far:

Dalai Lama

Belorussian Commissar of Culture

Bullfighter (of questionable skill)

Postman

As soon as I have nailed down the plan, I will spend an hour of each day of young Exree's life working toward it. And of course I will keep you updated on his progress.

Please help me, dear reader, in broadening the possibilities before we commit. His future, his life is at stake here.

Disheveled dad

I just went out to drop a letter in the postbox. I was walking along, an envelope blanketed in stamps in hand, pondering how difficult it is to determine how much postage to put on a letter. Suddenly I heard a girl burst out laughing. I gathered my wits, and searched about for a potential source of laughter, before discovering the guffawing girl standing about ten feet in front of me. She was talking into her iPhone microphone about something intensely funny and looking at me. I strutted past her. She continued laughing. My primal masculine instinct told me to look down and I did. It became apparent that the source of laughter was none other than my gaping fly. Wide open. Even framed by my untucked semi-unbuttoned shirt front. I zipped it up and did a quick look around. I calculated how many other people I had walked by on my way to the damn postbox. Four. All evidently stoic about open flies. As the kindly gal could still be heard laughing, I turned around. She was almost buckled over with laughter. This was too much. She turned to face me and plucked out an earphone. I thought about thanking her, but opted instead to just stare, fly zipped.

"Do I know you?" She called out.

"What? I thought you were laughing at my open fly." I awkwardly said, squinting for some reason.

"No. I think I know you."

"I don't think so." I replied. "Although some people say I look like Denzel Washington."

Her earphone went back in her ear and she walked away. At least she had stopped laughing.

I'm a bit disheveled these days. It's probably best that I go back to work soon.

Who is responsible for these sleeves?

I've now changed young Throckmorton at least 45 times. Fortunately, some enterprising soul stitched in a set of buttons at the bottom of these onesies (I can't stand that name either), so I don't have to actually try to get the damn things over the boy's head every time he smiles widely and thus shits. But, occasionally these second-world nappies do leak and therefore I have to change the stripped, starry, or polka-dotted outfits.

Now, these onesie genies apparently have the commonsense to ensure that the neck widens enough to allow a disproportionately large head to fit through. Smart. But, these same masterminds don't seem to realize that the sleeves would be a tad more, shall we say, user-friendly, if their circumference was more than 2.5 centimeters. Dicks. How the hell does one pull a sleeping baby's arms through a two-inch long tube with a circumference no less than .025 centimeters larger than the elbow? I ask you. Or perhaps my boy just has a set of guns...

The baby's likes and dislikes

The likes and dislikes of the young Kikuchiyo are becoming apparent as he approaches the one week mark.

Likes:

Samurai films
Boobs
Sleeping during the day

Dislikes:

Having his nappy (diaper) changed
Curbs
Sleeping at night

When he is not sleeping, feeding or watching samurai films he hops into the buggy (stroller) and we go for a ride. He enjoys rolling along and generally falls into a comatose state (although he occasionally awakes and blinks for about five minutes before falling back asleep). He doesn't approve of Hampsteadistan's ubiquitous curbs, nor its cobblestone patches of sidewalk and protests emphatically whenever we confront such hindrances. He has absolutely no interest in sleeping during the few hours of darkness this northern island sees in late June, and finds the normal daylight hours to be perfectly suited for slumber.

"The Seven Samurai" might be screened yet again this evening...

The finest father's day gift

Little Xree couldn't wait to celebrate my first father's day this morning. He knocked on my door just before dawn and asked me to join him on a stroll through the neighboring gardens. We stepped out under a solstitial mustard-tinged sky and hands behind our backs, slightly forward bent, the two of us walked.

The philadelphus blossoms glowed and the roses welcomed the solstice with gaping mouths. Achilles lit his little corncob pipe and turned to me, his old man.

"Great father of mine," he began, "I have but one concern after these first six days. A concern that only a father can resolve."

I pointed toward a stone bench tucked underneath a purply leaved plum tree. We sat upon it, and each sighed a tiny Studebake sigh.

"Tell me, young Throckmorton, what is this concern of yours?" I followed the smoke of his pipe as it caressed the plump fruit above our heads.

"Well, it's a matter of nomenclature."

"Nomenclature?" I queried. "Are you displeased with your names?"

He pulled from the pipe. The burning embers glowed and enlightened his little thoughtful face.

"Oh no. It's not that. I am proud to carry such noble names."

He fell silent and turned away.

I awaited his words with patience. What nomenclatural concern could young Achilles Renoir Exree Hipp Throckmorton Hastrobal Clementino Studebake hold within that two inch chest of his?

He shifted his posture signaling a willingness to continue.

"I feel slighted, dear father."

"Slighted?"

He turned to me.

"Indeed, slighted. Why so few names? Don't I deserve more?"

"Do you mean to say that you would like more names?" I asked. "Eight is not enough?"

"No, eight is not enough. That is why I would like you to bestow upon me a new name every father's day."

I nearly leaped from the bench through the thickly branched plum tree into the now peach tinted sky. What joy. What a wonderful father's day gift!

"I accept, my worthy son."

We embraced vigorously as fathers and sons do.

"On this first father's day of mine I bestow upon you a new name: Kikuchiyo."

Young Kikuchiyo nodded with satisfaction. He knocked out his pipe and reached deep into his cape. He turned his wrist causing a single metallic click and slowly pulled out his hand. He brought out the handle of an ancient katana, followed by less than an inch of blade reflecting the pink clouds above.

"I am pleased with this name, father. I will place it after Clementino and before Studebake. Thank you."

And with this he swiftly brought out the sword and swiped two ripened plums from the tree above. Both of which fell softly into my lap.

"Happy father's day." He said to me as he sheathed his katana.

The two of us spent the long morning of the solstice underneath the purple tree, eating its fruit and tossing the pits. All the while we shared our favorite samurai stories. A fine father's day this is.

A more evolved species than me

This morning Hastrobal and I went for a wander down the shaded back paths of Hampsteadistan. Our conversation took a few turns before arriving at Pushkin's famous letter to Chaadayev. I delved into the subject, which I, of course, feel so passionate about. As I proudly recounted the poet's view that Russia had protected Western civilization from those primitive Tatars, I noticed Exree kniting his brow. He pensively raised one of his ten fingers to his chin.

"Well, great father of mine," he said, "I hadn't been made aware of your Western leanings while I was but a wombat in the great dark waters of the mother ship. You must know that you are on the wrong side of the issue."

I brought the buggy to a standstill and bent over to speak to the wee sage.

"But, you mustn't be a Slavophile." I implored. "I hold great left-leaning hopes for your future, for the world's future."

Little Throckmorton relaxed his brow. "Come now, father." He stroked my hand. "The world has changed greatly since the 1830s, and along with it this debate."

I gasped.

"I know," he continued, "It is a timeless debate. But you must recognize that the world has evolved."

I took a knee.

"Yes, my great shuttlecock selling father," the little Studebake stared deep into my eyes. "It is true. Just look at the two of us."

I did so.

"Just as Russia in the 21st century has evolved from Aleksandr Sergeyevich's time, I, your heir, have evolved from yours."

I lifted an eyebrow.

"Yes, father, simply put, I am a more evolved species than you."

He is right, the little Achilles. This creature I'm pushing about in a buggy is more evolved than me. I am but a finned, gilled, cold-blooded fish, squirming limbless in the great ancient waters compared to this fine-tuned masterpiece of evolutionary (and I dare say, Slavophilic) progress.

Oh, what would Pushkin and Chaadayev have to say about this?

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Cheese and crackers, chores and Kurosawa

Little Achilles has just finished his first Kurosawa film, "The Hidden Fortress". He laughed at the peasants' high jinks and watched the noble Mifune with grave knowledgeable eyes - although at age 3 days, it's apparently difficult to keep them open. But physical developments are no hindrance for our little Throckmorton. He laughed at all the jokes before his old Papa had time to read the subtitles. It appears that the torch has been passed...

Well, this is what paternity leave appears to have in store. Chores and samurai films. Cheese and crackers, too. I'll likely gain 25 pounds over the next two weeks. I look forward to it. The little Hastrabal does as well. Tomorrow's viewing will be the "Seven Samurai". How will I ever go back to work?

(Photo credit: The Criterion Collection)

Domestic fucking superman

I've become a domestic fucking superman. Nester par excellence. My dish washing skills are unparalleled. Need some fresh strawberries from the village? I'll be back in two minutes flat. I vacuum with the left hand while preparing baba ganoush with the right. I can assemble buggies (strollers), change nappies (diapers), fetch pillows, fold blankets, find creams, make tea for the midwives, water the flowers, polish the silver, manage 45 loads of laundry, all in a day's work for Drake 'El Nesterito' Studebake.

Oh shit, I'm a dad

It has happened. I am a father. I am Drake Studebake Senior, just another Studebake in a long line back through the primates into the early days of noble shuttlecock selling carp. Little Achilles Renoir Exree Hipp Throckmorton Hastrobal Clementino Studebake is heir to the great fortune. May he live long and be strong.

Nesting

I'm exhausted. Not that I have done anything remotely useful, nor do I have any biological role to play in these final days of my lovely wife's pregnancy. Nope. I haven't really done a damn thing. But watching her, just watching her, I'm exhausted and soon heading back to bed.

My wife is currently nesting. Actively, at this very moment, at every moment, she is nesting away. In fact she just surrounded me with a variety of bottles each accompanied by pale blue and green instruction booklets with moist lilies pictured on the front pages. I am to read these booklets, along with pages 12-26 of "What to Expect: the First Year", page 135 of "Ina May's Guide to Childbirth", pages 46-58 of "Birth" (complete with hair-raising illustrations), pages 32 and 74 of "Breathing Through Pregnancy", and so much more. But I digress.

She is nesting. I awoke this morning, as I awake every morning to the sound of the buzzer and a loud groan. The buzzer is the postman with another package and the groan is mine. I stumble to the door with my pants on backwards, greet the postman, discuss the weather for twelve seconds and retreat into my flat. This happens every day.

Fortunately my body is well trained to make coffee. As I stood staring at the trembling kettle this morning, I could hear the packages being ripped open, the content of each greeted with a few curt comments (no Yankees gear this time, thank god), and then the footsteps coming toward me. I steeled myself for conversation. My lovely pregnant wife entered the kitchen with a toolbox and a few round wooden discs. She ignored me, and I maintained eye contact with my kettle. She began emptying the shelves in the cabinets with a certainty that said: men are a lazy and useless bunch. Frightened, I stirred my coffee and muttered, "Why don't you let me do that?" She began to hammer.

So my 9 month pregnant wife installed a lazy Susan on a shelf above her head this morning. After this, she vacuumed the flat, rearranged the contents of the refrigerator, made a loaf of bread (currently in the oven), polished the faucet, updated her address book, wrote two letters (which somehow involved scissors and paste), wiped down the kitchen cabinets, and is now in the other room producing sounds that suggest she is soldering the door hinges.

The worst part is that I have sworn to handle all the household chores over the next 72 hours. Well, I have just about finished my coffee and will be of service in a few minutes. Oh damn, I need to read these instruction booklets... I'll take a quick nap first. She'll understand.

The look

Walking around London with an eight-and-a-half month pregnant woman is an insane experience. One's biological instincts roar from the depths as drunken chanting forty year-old Arsenal fans stumble past, girls with yellow Selfridges bags swinging from sharp skinny elbows awkwardly strut toward the little helpless wombat on stiletto heals, and pink pie-crusted joggers trot doggedly by, often brushing the mother-ship with their undulating jelly rolls. North London footpaths (sidewalks to us modern New World types) are about as easy to negotiate as Poppystan's finest (although, admittedly, there are less piles of human shit, insensitively placed generators, lazily pointed Kalashnikovs and bullet-proof burqas).

Amongst these native beasts are a strange breed of generally round-faced, doe-eyed, often attractive women who gaze at me, an old Strindbergian Frö, with a look, I dare say, only seen by procreant primates like myself. These Pre-Raphaelite damsels all conduct precisely the same routine in which they first recognize and celebrate the existing womb by widening their eyes, tilting their heads 15 degrees to the left, and spreading their lips into a slow meaningful smile. They gush internally for a few moments, then turn their widened eyes to me. Now, for those who haven't seen me lately, my general disposition borders on the distressed, as fatherhood looms and I realize with fright that I am no longer 14 and will thus have to cease acting as such one day very soon. (A shocking predicament, indeed). But when these glazed eyes meet my fearfully widen peepers, my physiognomy races well beyond the frothy borders of distress toward the nether regions of the pathetic. A self-conscious sigh will well up within me. What are they thinking? What have I become? What is it about my conspicuous fertility that causes them to look at me so? How do I escape? How will this look manifest once the critter is out?!

How does one cope with the look?

Baby mattress

How hard can it be to buy a mattress for a crib? Let me put it this way, I just spent 30 minutes on the phone listening to Louise (God knows she doesn't look like the photo from the website) in Hoddlesden (God knows where that is) run through the 45 most popular mattresses made bespoke by the imaginatively named BabyMattressesOnline.co.uk. The highlight of the phone call occurred somewhere after the in depth description of the "Deluxe Honeycomb Mattress with Spactec" and before the "Naturalmat Coco Crib Mat and Organic Waterproof Protector Pack - Crib Size" (this one looks like a white chocolate thin mint - see photo). Unfortunately (I will interject before I go on), it appears that I've been influenced by the Brits' penchant for awful laddish humo(u)r. So when Louise told me about the Pocket Sprung option, I laughed. Then, oddly enough, she laughed as well. Needless to say, I bought it. And it has Spactec and Coolmax. Imagine that.

May poll results

The results of the first Oh Shit, I'm a Dad poll are in!

21% advise me to flee to Waziristan... When I mentioned this over a candle-lit dinner last night, my wife showed me a loaded Colt 45 she apparently inherited from her Grandmother. Women are so hard to read. I'm more confused than ever whether or not to remain in Hampsteadistan or open a toll booth in the Khyber Pass.

14% suggest I quit my job... So much for polls being useful.

50% encourage me take a nap... My faith in polls renewed! Thank you dear readers.

35% suggest I do the dishes... Poor misinformed souls. They know not of the womb-friendly sink.

Thank you generous readers for participating in this widely influential poll. June's poll is now posted to the right. Please read through the options and give it some thought before voting. The democratic process is occasionally worthy of respect.