Baby product review: Baby Gap newborn trousers

Dear designers at Baby Gap,

What a stroke of genius to put pockets on trousers for newborns! So useful!

However, as much as Hastrobal and I try, we cannot manage to fit a flask or his corncob pipe in either the side or back pockets. In the future, please, please, please accommodate for these most essential elements of a newborn's life.



Past product reviews: The hippie baby sling

Man of steel and the parental martyrdom belt

When guests come to see me and the baby, my lovely wife likes to take every possible opportunity to verbally undermine the great sacrifices I make for the family. People will point out how tired we look, most often adding how terrible I, specifically, look, to which I respond with a detailed description of the horror that was the night before.

"But you were only up for eight minutes!" My lovely wife will screech.

I just roll my eyes and ask if I look like I was only up for eight minutes, thus publicly winning the ongoing battle for the great parental martyrdom belt.

But, of course, my lovely wife is right. After changing a diaper in the middle of the night, I generally last about 500 seconds before I collapse and wake my wife with those wonderful words, "I think he's hungry."

It would take a man of steel to last any longer. And I love my wife so much more, just knowing that we are in this together.

One day I might even let her try on the great parental martyrdom belt, not that it will fit as well as it fits me.

Great fatherhood advice – MacDad winner of second Oh Shit, I'm a Dad Appreciation Award

Thanks to MacDad of MacFamilyUnit for the best advice a man can possibly receive in life. MacDad wrote the following in response to my fear of losing my existential crises:

"I'm 4 months in and I have worked out a portfolio of solutions to this challenge.

1. Get up early and have your existential crisis with coffee, from say 5:15am to 6:00am. There's something about the quiet optimism of the morning that goes well with it.

2. Find a bar or a bowling alley in your neighborhood. Leave work at 4:00pm and go there. You will find a number of men who have already figured out that this is the best time and place to have their crisis. Seek their wise counsel.

3. If that doesn't work, just quit your job. Get up everyday, get dressed, kiss the family goodbye and go piss off for the day. You could probably get by with this long enough to figure out one or two big life questions. When wife finds out, unveil all the astounding answers you've found."

Thanks MacDad! Waking up in the morning and pretending to go to work is the greatest feeling I've ever had. I can't wait to see my wife's face when I answer all her so-called impenetrable questions.

Previous winner Mo D provided essential onesie advice.

Britain made Great again

It is true that I, Drake Studebake, of considerable shuttlecock fame and fortune, am but an immigrant in this blowy rather superfluous island of Britain. And it is also true that I will never leave. Small Achilles had doubts until yesterday when the cloud cover broke and the sun dipped her toe into an otherwise abysmal summer's day.

Our dryer had broke at some stage over night. After a little morning research using the powers of Google, little Kikuchiyo and I identified a lack of voltage as the cause. Off we went to buy an extension cord to test the dryer via various outlets.

Hastrobal in the stroller, pipe in hand, I in my cap, we arrived at our local cruddy ironmongers (hardware store to us New Worldies) and inquired of the man with a name tag whether they carried cruddy extension cords.

"You mean a lead." Said cruddy man with a cruddy name tag.

"Whatever." I thanked him for correcting my English. "Do you have one?"

"Downstairs." He pointed to a narrow staircase in the corner of the store.

"Well, you see, I cannot manage those stairs with this buggy." (The Brits call a stroller a buggy.)

"I will watch the baby then." Said cruddy man.

I stared at him for about 45 seconds. He didn't budge.

"Alternatively," I said without even a scent of contempt, "you could go downstairs and grab me an extension cord."

"I mustn't leave this spot." He pointed down.

I stared for another 45 seconds, recognized that some asshole manager had told him that his job was to stand there, on that spot, all day, then wheeled out Throckmorton mid-puff.

The cloud cover thickened.

Then off we went to the local grocery store on the off chance that they might carry a lead.

We wheeled in strong through the exit doors and grabbed coffee and beer on the way to the potential electrical promise land. And then it happened, Britain was made Great again.

Just past the heavenly beer aisle was a sight worth waking up Hastrobal for: A single malt whisky tasting trolley! Complete with an old cataract-eyed man peering over a dozen stinking bottles.

Needless to say, the sun came out and little Achilles and I got smashed all the while discussing the virtues of this generous glorious island.

Oh shit, I'm losing my hair

I've lost my dignity and I've lost my sanity. Now I'm losing the rest.

I was sitting in the living room with Hastrobal this morning debating whether Dostoevsky or Tolstoy had more influence on 20th century literature when my lovely wife strolled in. She stopped behind me and made a sort of wifely snort.

"You know," she remarked, "your bald spot is coming along very nicely."

I slumped in my chair. (How else is a man to react to such a statement? Although having said that, Throckmorton just blinked and went slightly bleary eyed like Prince Andrei at Austerlitz.)

"I'm not being nasty," she said. "I honestly mean it. It's coming along nicely."

With this she made a circle with her hands in front of my face then slowly widened it as if she were demonstrating the ever expanding universe.

I slumped further.

Kikuchiyo shat.

I now lack dignity, sanity and hair. I hope I remember to reclaim my manhood at some stage in the future. In the meantime I'm still carrying a tote bag.

Maybe I'll take up ping-pong.

Sanity lost

I ran into my neighbor walking out of my building this morning. She asked how everything was going and I updated her on Throckmorton’s latest shit.

“I hope he isn’t keeping you up at night.” I continued.

“Well, no, he isn’t. But it does get a bit loud on occasion.”

“Oh? I’ll tell my wife to keep it down then.”

I began disentangling my earphones and stepped out of the doorway.

“No, it’s not your wife.” She said.

I turned back. “Do you mean to say it’s me?”

“Well, you are rather enthusiastic, don’t you think?”

Last night suddenly came back to me. Kikuchiyo produced a magnificent mustard colored shit around 3am and in my excitement I responded with an ebullient cry of delight. Fucking hell, I thought, I woke up the neighbors in response to a shit. I apologized and stumbled along to the station.

As the train pulled up, I caught my reflection in a window. I looked like hell. And then it struck me: I’ve gone insane.

Let’s count the ways:

1. I respond to healthy looking baby shit with enthusiasm normally saved for things like winning the lottery.

2. Any new addition to my mental to-do list lasts for no longer than 15 seconds.

3. I’ve started walking around with a tote bag.

4. When Hastrobal and I come across another baby, I call out in an inexcusably annoying baby voice, “Look, another baaabbbyyy!” Then I crane my neck around to catch a glimpse of it.

5. When handling domestic duties I refer to myself in a singsong voice as “dream husband.”

6. There is a 50/50 chance that my fly is open right now.

Conversation over

My lovely wife, aka the omnipotent Chairwoman and sole member of the Family Planning Committee, and I recently had the rare pleasure of sharing uninterrupted dinners for two consecutive evenings.

In our desperate attempt to savor these moments together we each made genuine efforts to converse on subjects beyond the color palette of Achilles's shit and our disappointment in not having bred with a partner in possession of a more dignified nose.

On the first evening we both commented that a variety of world events seemed to have occurred over the past five weeks since Throckmorton was born. Neither one of us knew what exactly had happened in Iran, China, Alaska and Honduras, but we were both in agreement that events had indeed taken place and were reassured that one day Exree would learn about them and enlighten us. We then sat in silence hoping that the little spider monkey wouldn't wake up.
The next evening we discussed swine flu. It wasn't long before we realized that I had every symptom of the disease. Unable to comprehend the situation, we quietly panicked for a few minutes until young Studebake squawked. The Chairwoman poured herself a glass of wine, and not only declared me fit for action but on duty. I crossed my eyes, marched into battle and mumbled something about her nose.

When I returned two hours later the conversation reverted to the subtle differences between French and English mustard... And thus the color palette of baby shit once again became the sole topic of conversation in Castle Studebake.

(Photo Credit: Shelbot Productions)

The great baby debate: Let him sleep or change his diaper?

Castle Studebake is abuzz. My feudal subjects have dropped their badminton racquets, allowed their nets to sag, and taken up the great debate; namely, when a sleeping Hastrobal shits, should he be changed or left to peacefully marinate? A hot subject, indeed.

My dear readers need not an explanation as to which of Kikuchiyo's ever so buoyant parents believes deeply in his heart of hearts that sleeping trumps all. But nevertheless, he, being me, Drake Studebake of shuttlecock fame and fortune, does recognize that it is a bit funky to leave one's heir to steep...

What the hell to do? Let him baste in waste? Or change his diaper, thus waking him and spending the next four hours rediscovering how absolutely futile it is to try to convince a baby that there are better things to do than cry.

A lamentable situation.

One can only hope that my feudal subjects come to a conclusion soon... Doubtful, I know.

Tips for a new dad: How to change a diaper

Little Kikuchiyo spent the past twelve hours screaming at the top of his lungs. Great joy. I'm quite sure he was detailing the 10,000 reasons he respects and adores me, but my lovely wife wasn't convinced (the exclusivity of the father-son bond reigns). To the point, over the past twelve hours, I had the sincere pleasure of changing noble Throckmorton a healthy ten times. My expertise jumped to the next level, and I have a few tricks to share with the unschooled dad or dad-to-be:

1) Plan ahead: Have a fresh clean diaper open and ready for action. The most dangerous moment in the diaper changing process is the diaper switch. The chances of a "release" during this crucial moment are 1/5. Not a risk you want to take. Trust me.

2) Pull the flaps: Ignore those little insignificant-looking ruffled wings at your peril. Ensure the flaps are facing outwards before you pick up the baby and head out to the pub.

3) Make a fuss: If your partner is within hearing distance, ensure she is kept up-to-date with your work. Loudly exclaim details using a plethora of superlatives and dramatic sighs. The ultimate goal here is to reach the celebrated breaking point where she prefers to change the sprog herself rather than listen to your nonsense.

4) Shit stinks: Throw it away.

I miss my superfluous existential crises

With four weeks of fatherhood under my belt, I'm now confident enough to make sweeping generalizations about life. My first one is this: existential crises and babies don't mix.

Before Exree was launched, I dutifully moved from one existential crisis to the next. It was a satisfying way to live, assuring even. When I found myself at the depths of some insoluble pickle, I could always sleep at night knowing that another similarly impenetrable dilemma would soon pop up, thus liberating me from the last.

However, it has become evident that young Achilles Renoir has little respect for his father's most endearing and defining quality. I might go as far to say that he considers such crises as superfluous.

Sigh. I'm beginning to miss my existential crises. I'm also beginning to wonder if my lovely wife and samurai son are conspiring to change me. Conspiring to strip me of my beloved treasures. First it was sleep, now my crises.

My manhood is clearly in danger.

What will remain of me in four more weeks? Generalizations and a bald spot (if I'm lucky).

The dreaded "F" word: Formula

The dreaded "F" word is being used with alarming frequency around Castle Studebake. May the gods take pity on me! My lovely wife is threatening me by introducing FORMULA into the diet of my little samurai.

Unlike the absurdly judgmental authors of just about every baby book lying around my flat, I really have no opinion when it comes to breast vs. bottle feeding. However when I hear the "F" word, all my selfish instincts tell me one thing: the breast is better. The breast means I get to sleep most of the night. (Oh beautiful worshipful sleep, how I adore and long for you and all associated with you.) Formula means I, Drake Studebake, might be asked - gasp! - to wake up at 2, 3, 4 and 5 am to feed little Throckmorton.

I'll die.

The only solution is to leaf through all these damn books, especially the ones with all the disturbing illustrations which remind me of learning about sex before I really understood what it was. Ack, that's something I would rather leave behind, but I must sacrifice. My sanity is at stake. I'll have to become as judgmental as one of these damn baby book authors. The things I do for my family... The things I do.

Reason #426 to have a baby: Bootees

The Baywatch effect

One of the more annoying habits of being a new (read: clueless) parent is what I call the Baywatch effect. Every time my lovely wife and I sit down to a meal or have just fallen asleep one of us is struck with a bolt of panic and asks the other: "Do you think he is breathing?"

Regardless of the situation this results in general hysteria and one of us stripping down to our bathing suit and racing across the flat to young Achilles, who is of course fast asleep in his crib and taking in oxygen like a surfaced whale.

(Yes, this post was simply a gratuitous excuse to upload a photo of Caroline. Credit.)

Baby product review: Hippie baby sling

As one of twelve men in Hampsteadistan who doesn't own a German automobile or wear a fat watch with four useless mini dials, I occasionally notice a look which suggests that I smell like a hippie. Never was this more pronounced than Sunday afternoon when young Exree and I went to our local pub to watch the Wimbledon final. My hippiness level was at code blood orange due to the BabaSling wrapped around my chest and torso, out of which hung little Throckmorton's smoldering corncob pipe.

I have serious beef with the BabaSling. The primary purpose of a sling is to ensure that I don't have to hold on to my burping sprog. While wearing a sling, I should be able to walk into a pub, wave to the bartender, count my change and buy a pint. I should then be able to sit quietly in the corner and savor every sip of my bitter while Hastrobal sits comfortably in his hammock, smoking and pondering the existence of narwhals.

Unfortunately, the BabaSling isn't up to task. The problem is a lack of head support. I spent the entire match, which just happened to be the longest final in Wimbledon history, supporting Achilles's noggin and neck with my right hand and forearm. Both of which, I should add, were numb by the time Roddick blew it.

Drake's review of the BabaSling:

How does it look? "Hampstead hippie"

Does it work? "Yes, if you share DNA with the headless horseman"

Final say: "Too hands-on"

Great onesie advice - Mo D winner of Oh Shit, I'm a Dad Appreciation Award

Thanks to Mo D for sharing her husband's single button onesie technique. What the hell was I doing buttoning the outer two? The center button does the job. What a relief.

My lovely wife still buttons all three of course (like Mo D, I should add). In fact she evens buttons all three when she folds them away in his drawer. Terribly annoying when you are changing him at 4am. We'll see how long that lasts.

Anyway, Castle Studebake asks you all to join us in celebrating Mo D as the winner of our first Oh Shit I'm a Dad Appreciation Award!

Drake's Decorum: Upon meeting a newborn

After three fun-filled weeks of fatherhood, my respect for the human race has fallen to an all time low. I've therefore decided to write a new etiquette column called Drake's Decorum. Watch your back Judith Martin! Run for the hills Emily Post! Drake is on the scene.

My first step in writing this column was the arduous task of figuring out how to spell etiquette. My research, according to Blogger's spellcheck, eventually proved successful, giving me the confidence and perseverance to make Drake's Decorum a daily read in bathrooms worldwide. Please enjoy my first column below as printed in the respected bi-monthly Studebake Journal.

Drake's Decorum by Drake Studebake presents: Upon meeting a newborn

Upon meeting a newborn:

A) Don't stick your damn dirty finger in his face. It's unsanitary and generally annoying. Just look at him. Unless you are blood-related and didn't piss away the family fortune or a good enough friend to have experimented with drugs with one of the parents as a teenager, please keep your fingers to yourself.

B) Don't stick around for too long. It's exhausting being a new parent. If you come by to meet the baby, don't stick around for more than an hour. Unless you a) make a fantastic martini, b) have come to tell the parents that you have recovered the family fortune, or c) feel like changing diapers.

C) Don't wake him up. On average it takes 18 consecutive hours of feeding, walking, cooing, rocking, pleading, crying and changing diapers to get a baby to fall asleep. Wake him up and feel the wrath.

D) Make up an elaborate reason for the father to have to meet you out for a drink one day in the near future. This is a sign of true friendship and you will be excused for failing to observe the above three pieces of advice.

Let the father sleep

I'm awoken every morning with a broadside pillow attack, the ruthless placement of which depends on how joyous a night I have just had the misfortune of missing. Unfortunately, I'm virtually impossible to wake up in the morning so the pillow quickly transforms into the latest tome detailing the crisis in which I now exist. This morning's was "What to Expect the First Year". Paperbacks are now a house rule.

Once awake I'm expected to perform a series of miracles resulting in both my lovely wife and the noble Throckmorton sleeping peacefully for the following century. But of course, the pillow attack causes me to say something ill-thought like, "Oh, I'd like to sleep in this morning." Rousing responses ranging from: "Sleep in? I am never going to sleep again, you selfish fucking bastard" blah blah blah to "If you fall back asleep I will beat you mercilessly. Every day. Of your life." Neither of which are a nice start to the day, much less an impetus for continued sleep.

But once past my well-honed petty bickering talents, my lovely wife seems to think that I have somewhere up my sleeve an arsenal of useful fathering skills. I really do not know where she got this impression, and I constantly assure her that I am as useless as the day we met.

This morning, for example, I was awoken via mysterious means and found myself nose-to-nose with a bellowing Hastrobal, the lovely wife making delicate whimpering sounds in the background. I wouldn't say I sprung into action, but compared to most mornings, today was impressive. I got up, ignored my lovely wife's detailed recount of the night past, reached over for my little samurai Kikuchiyo and brought him to the living room. Here my virtuoso fathering skills were put to the test.

We paced around the flat, we listened to music, we discussed our distinguished ancestry, we bounced, I pleaded, we went for a walk outside, we watched the northern sky turn from dark gray to light gray (thus signaling a new day in this fine country), we played the let's change your diaper and then you shit game, actually we played that twice. All to no avail. Young Achilles appeared to have as much interest in sleeping as I have in New Jersey turnpike traffic patterns (did I mention the outlaws are here?).

Defeated, I curled my shoulders and dragged myself, son in arms, to the great mothership, who was fast asleep. I lightly poked, I whispered, I rubbed her shoulder, then Exree screamed at the top of his lungs. She woke up, young Studebake fed, and I tried to go back to sleep.

This is all just a plea to let the father sleep. We are useless from midnight until 7 am. There is really nothing we can do. We should just sleep.

It is in everyone's interest that you, motherships worldwide, let the fathers sleep.

Sleep deprivation

Little Hastrobal loves his father so much that he sleeps all day while he is at work and then stays up all night. Super.