Meet Joe-Joe!

Joe-Joe and Me

The reason for this blog arrived at 7.25am today (U.K. time).  Meet Joe-Joe! 

A little star

Yes. Joe-Joe's mother really has just spilled the strawberry jam from her doughnut all over his sleepsuit!

Worth the stitches? Yes!

A very happy first-time Mum.

Are we having a wolf baby?

About 20 years ago I acquired the nickname 'Wolf Boy'. I can't remember which one of my friends who was downing pints of lager with me came up with the moniker that night in the Pilgrim Public House in the 'Gavin & Stacey' town of Billericay, but I do recall it came about after telling Chief, Merch and Woodsie that as an eight-year-old boy I had extremely hairy arms. I then also stupidly revealed that at that time my sister helped keep my hairy back under control by waxing it for me once a month. After laughing so much that they emptied their pints of Fosters onto the floor, one of them howled out the order my way: "Get the beers in Wolf Boy!" The name stuck and although they've afforded me the dignity of shortening it over the years to just 'Wolf', I've found myself explaining my nickname and the hairy back story to anyone who's been within earshot when I've been out drinking with the Billericay Boys.

I've told you this story because last week my wife told me that in preparation for our newborn's arrival  I should "trim up my hairy chest as Joe-Joe won't be able to feel your skin through all that wolf hair." Now, I must admit that I've been a bit lazy in recent weeks and although my back hair has been tamed after a session with my wife's Veet hair removal cream, my chest was about an inch deep in growth. I'm too much of a wimp to use wax strips for my chest, but I have a BaByliss for Men hair trimmer that does a good job on a number two setting. However, for this task I dispensed with both the number two and the number one settings and de-haired freehand by putting the blades as close to the skin as I could. On finishing I proudly showed off my now very white hairless chest to my wife, but the reaction I got wasn't the one I'd expected. She laughed (OK that was expected) and then she stroked my chest and blurted out: "You idiot! You've left loads of stubble! You can't give Joe-Joe skin-to-skin contact now as you'll give him a rash."

Deborah's been trying to persuade me to have a wax treatment to get rid of the remaining stubble, but I'm sure this will be as painful as childbirth. Anyway, I came up with a solution telling her that I will shave my chest the day before she goes into labour. This morning, as I was lookingfor a sharp enough razor for the job in hand I came across a very large bottle of Gaviscon in the medicine cabinet. I asked my wife why she'd bought it and she replied: "The doctor prescribed it for me. It's to treat the acid indigestion that I've been suffering from throughout my pregnancy. Apparently, it's a sign that Joe-Joe's going to be a hairy baby."

Maybe I won't have to shave my chest after all. Joe-Joe and Me can just have a hairy wolf hug together.     

Now that's what I call the best birthing album in the world ever!

Now that's what I call the SECOND BEST birthing album in the world ever!

With Joe-Joe due to arrive one week today, my nervous wife yesterday dragged me along to the Royal Bournemouth for a second visit aimed at familiarizing ourselves with the hospital's maternity suite. (She obviously didn't think I was paying attention when we visited six weeks ago!)

I'm proud to say that during our first visit with a group of about 10 other expectant parents I was the only man to ask the midwives a question.

"Are we allowed to bring our own CDs to play on the birthing suite's CD player?" The answer was "Yes". Shortly after the reply, my wife asked her only question:

"How many birthing partners can I have?"

"We allow two," said the midwife. To which Deborah replied: "Good. I'll also have my mum ready as I don't think I can stand my husband being there for too long."

Anyway, I'm going to make sure I'm there long enough to play the CD that I've made up for the occasion.

It took me over seven hours to study the 10,000 song titles available on my Apple's iTunes to come up with my essential collection of 18 birthing tracks. Three hours were spent just deciding on the running order as I found it difficult transporting myself into the atmosphere of a maternity ward's delivery room with me and my wife in it.  

Here goes, and apologies to Deborah who was expecting me to purchase 'The Best Pan Pipes Album in the World Ever!' for the occasion.

'NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL THE BEST BIRTHING ALBUM IN THE WORLD EVER!'

Click on the song to play the YouTube video!

1. 'CAN YOU FEEL IT' - The Jacksons
(The contractions have started!)

2. 'BABY DRIVER' - Simon & Garfunkel
(For the drive to the hospital) 

3. 'I HATE YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW' - Kelis
(Turned up loud to drown out my wife's expletives when the going gets tough)

4. 'TOO BUSY THINKING ABOUT MY BABY' - Marvin Gaye
(For when she's concentrating on the job in hand) 

5. 'WATERBABY' - Sneaker Pimps 
(When running the taps to the birthing pool)

6. 'PUSH IT!' - Salt-n-Pepa
(A personal favourite. I'll struggle not to laugh when doing the dance moves and singing to this at the top of my voice!)

7. 'GAS PANIC!' - Oasis
(Time for gas and air!)

8. 'RING OF FIRE' - Johnny Cash
(Special thanks to my sister-in-law Sarah for revealing that midwives refer to the moment when the baby crowns as 'The Ring of Fire')

9. 'IT AIN'T OVER 'TIL IT'S OVER - Lenny Kravitz
(A gentle reminder that a little more effort from the mother is required)

10. 'TO THE END' - Blur 
("You and I collapsed in love. It looks like we might have made it to the end.")

11. 'TAKE A BOW' - Madonna
(Well done Mummy. Joe-Joe's here!)

12. 'BABY DON'T CRY' - INXS
(My son might cry after being thrust out of his old home)

13. 'BABY, IT'S YOU' - The Beatles
(Joe-Joe will probably have Deborah's wobbly bottom lip and my big nose. Poor thing.) 

14. 'BLUE EYES' - Elton John
(Apparently most babies are born with blue eyes)

15. 'BABY, CAN I HOLD YOU' - Tracy Chapman
(Time for skin-to-skin)

16. 'MILK' - Garbage
(Something mellow for Joe-Joe to listen to when it's boob time)

17. 'YOU'RE TENDER AND YOU'RE TIRED' - The Manic Street Preachers
(Probably applicable to both mother and baby)

18. 'ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE' - The Beatles
(I've heard there's a good version by some Peruvian pan pipers)

Bonus track (only available in the U.S.)

'BORN IN THE USA' by Bruce Springsteen


You can buy the 'second best' birthing album in the world ever!

Lovin' the Alien protest

If you've seen the film 'Alien' starring Sigourney Weaver, then you'll be familiar with the scene when the baby Alien emerges from John Hurt's chest. Here's a clip here to remind you!

It's a great cinematic moment and one that Joe-Joe's been trying to recreate over the last few days with his Muhammad Ali style jabs and Bruce Lee kicks from inside Deborah's belly. He hasn't burst through yet, but I believe it's only a matter of time!

Even weirder than watching this alien spectacle of protruding limbs is the fact that Deborah managed to sleep through Joe-Joe's entire 10 minute bout last night!

It's got me wondering whether my alien baby is trying to communicate with me. Is he telling me that's he's getting too big for his surroundings? Or is he protesting at the lack of sleep? Me thinks it's more likely to be the latter.  I doubt he sleeps much at night due to his mother's fog horn snoring and during the day it must feel like he's on a non-stop bouncy castle ride as my wife's still wearing high heels 10 days from her due date!

Talking of Aliens, check this out: '10 ways to "Alienate" your daughter-in-law' sent to me by a rather nice lady in the U.S. (I think) called Lauren Diaz. She says of 'Joe-Joe and Me': "I hope you continue putting out great content through your blog. It has been a sincere pleasure to read."

STOP PRESS: It's here! Joe-Joe's treasure trove of "Chav" Tottenham Hotspur goodies has arrived. Lucky boy! See my entry 'Spurs lose at Joe-Joe's nursery, but Chirpy wins the day'

Happy 80th birthday Morris Keston! You can read about Superfan's amazing life in the book I wrote about him.    

Mother-in-law nightmare!

I returned home from a soul destroying day breaking down cardboard boxes at Halfords to discover that 'The Dragon' (my mother-in-law) is moving into a flat in the next street!

Granny Mary and Grandpa Mike have been trying to sell their three-bedroom house in rural Dorset for over a year with no luck - and now their woe has become mine following their decision to rent for the summer a stones throw from Joe-Joe and Me in sunny Bournemouth.

The walk from our flat to theirs took just TWO MINUTES AND 35 SECONDS when I timed it on the way to the locksmiths on the high road where I bought a new lock and set of keys for our front door. I'll change the lock before the wife gets home tomorrow evening and reclaim the back door key from her keyring just in case that finds its way into Cruella de Vil's handbag.

Granny Mary currently spends two days a week at her other daughter's house where she has her own key and spends most of her time looking after grandson number one, drinking gin and washing her son-in-law's underpants - but not necessarily in that order.


 

Spurs lose at Joe-Joe's nursery, but Chirpy wins the day.

(Dedicated to my late father Roland who would have been 65 today). 

I'm sad to report that a last-ditch attempt to persuade my wife to dump the pirate theme in Joe-Joe's nursery for a Tottenham Hotspur one - has failed. Locked in discussions until the early hours, it seemed at 2 a.m. that my wish for navy blue curtains with the cockerel motif of my football team (soccer, if you are reading this in the U.S.) might be acceptable to the one that makes the decisions. Alas, my hard sell tactics only resulted in getting me red carded and sent to the spare room. The last words she screamed my way as I carried my pillow out of the bedroom were: "Joe-Joe's not going to be a 'Chav' like you and his nursery isn't going to be 'chavvy'. 

(For my American and Australian readers - 'chavvy' is an adjective used to brand something, such as an item, object, activity, TV show, even a moral choice etc, that would stereotypically appeal to a Chav. 
e.g: Burberry, Bling, casual sex and associated low morals. The word is pretty much always used in a negative sense by non-Chavs, as to them the thing in question is undesirable.)

 

Of course, Joe-Joe won't care too much in the early stages of his development, but I'm nevertheless determined that his indoctrination into the Tottenham Hotspur way of life begins as early as possible. Therefore, it's with great pleasure that I can exclusively reveal on 'Joe-Joe and Me' (and to my wife) that thanks to the end-of-season sale in the Spurs Shop, Joe-Joe is now the proud owner of the following Chav accessories promoted by Chirpy, the club's kids' mascot.  

(I wonder where I'll be sleeping tonight?)

Another Cup for Spurs - this one's a training Cup.

The cockerel stands proud on Joe-Joe's first bottle

Two sets purchased. One for home and the other for use at grandparents.

Thinking ahead, but couldn't resist these at the sale price of just £3!!

A beanie to cherish in the kit worn the season  that Joe-Joe will be born!

I'm in love with these 'Tottenham 82' trainers!

Joe-Joe's rather boring Tottenham Hotspur free zone.

"I have a cunning plan"

The countdown to Joe-Joe's birth is well and truly underway in the Hawkins household. Deborah went to see the midwife today and she confirmed that our little boy is "engaged" and ready for Mama's "big push".

Apparently, Deborah discussed her "birthing plan" today with the midwife. When I asked her exactly what her plan is, she just shrugged her shoulders and admitted she didn't really have one. "I don't really know. I think I'll just get in the birthing pool when the water is hot enough and sweat it out."


Personally, if I had to produce something the size of a large melon out of me I'd want to have something more in my locker than just a hot bath and a wing and a prayer! With this in mind, I promised to come up with a cunning plan to aid my wife during labour and in the meantime advised her to read 'The Paul Daniels book of magic tricks'.

I've read that steady breathing can be used to help relax women through painful contractions with The National Childbirth Trust advising that breathing steadily in through the nose and out through the mouth while focusing on the out breath works wonders. I though have come up with surely a better relaxation technique... a puppet show. Fear not friends and family, it's not my version of 'Puppetry of the Penis'. After all, that's what put my wife in this tricky predicament in the first place!

I'm thinking more along the lines of a few clown puppets and an hour long performance complete with Ken Dodd jokes and funny script to perform when the going gets tough. I could set up my Punch and Judy tent opposite the birthing pool in the delivery room and charge the other waiting Dads and families a tenner to watch with all money raised going to the hospital. I've read that laughter is the best medicine. I'll put my birthing plan to Deborah and let you know what she thinks. 

"I will do my homework" - now repeat 1,000 times!

On returning home from a day teaching at her all girls' school, my wife took me to one side and asked: "Did you do the homework I set you?"

I sheepishly looked to the floor and admitted that I hadn't.

"Well you'd better do it tonight as I'll be testing you in the morning." She then thrust the copy of 'Practical Parenting' that was gathering dust on the coffee table into my hands and demanded that I read pages 8 to 42.

I'll admit to you now that I only read pages 8 to 16 of the chapter titled 'Your New Baby' finishing after the section 'Your Baby's Appearance' when I got sidetracked Googling 'ugly baby photos'.

'Practical Parenting' warns that "the bones of your newborn's head are soft and will overlap slightly as he is squeezed down the birthing canal...your baby's head will return to its normal shape within a few days."

The text continued: "Your newborn baby's skin will probably be mottled and may turn white and blue in patches due to his immature circulation." It gets worse.

"Your baby's eyes may look a bit puffy and swollen after the birth, and it's also common to have a burst blood vessel in the white of the eye from the pressure of birth." Add to that possible "stork marks" "strawberry marks" and "feet that turn in because of their position while curled up in the womb" and the image of Joe-Joe that I now have is something like this:

Butterfingers! Joe-Joe's dropped!

"Look! Look!," urged my wife when she arrived home from work this evening.

Fearing she'd spotted another mouse in our kitchen, I jumped on to the nearest chair as if I were Mammy Two Shoes, the heavy-set middle-aged black woman in the 'Tom and Jerry' cartoons. It wasn't my finest moment and probably on a par with yesterday's mousetrap episode, when I pleaded with her to dispose of Mickey as the poor dead rodent scared the living daylights out of me.

"No, you idiot! Look at my belly! Joe-Joe's dropped!"

"How do you know?"

"I could see my belly button this morning and now I can't," she replied. At the time that was a good enough technical explanation for me, but when she went to bed (at 9pm) I searched the Net for a better one. I wish I hadn't. According to babycenter.com, after your baby drops "some pregnancy complaints may get worse [is that possible?], while others may improve [Thank God for small mercies]. On the one hand, your baby will be taking up more room in your pelvis [cue more moaning], so you'll probably find that you have to urinate even more often than before.[More than six times a night! Surely not!] You may get an uncomfortable feeling of pressure deep in your pelvis, feel increasing discomfort when you walk [no more high heels] and even begin to waddle a bit.[I'll try my best not to laugh!] 
"On the other hand, with less pressure on your stomach, you'll be able to eat a little more without feeling uncomfortably full [more late night demands for chocolate from the corner store], and if you've been suffering from heartburn, you may get some relief.[knowing my wife it will get worse!] You'll probably find that breathing feels easier, too." [hurrah, she might not snore quite so badly!]

All the same, I think I'll sleep on the sofa tonight but will keep one eye open so I can laugh at her waddling to the loo at 2am. Pee! Hee!

"To infinity and beyond!"

When my wife told me that she was going out with her mother to spend her father’s hard-earned pension I was naturally very pleased. And when she whispered, “Dad’s buying our pram” before setting off on the journey to Mothercare we traded high fives in delight.

I’ll admit that I was actually rather keen to take a hands-on role choosing Joe-Joe’s pram, but on hearing about the Basing’s generosity felt it would sit more comfortable with me if I allowed Deborah rather than me to choose the best (and probably the most expensive) pram in the shop.

On her return, Deborah excitedly told me: “We’ve bought the travel system. It’s a Quinny.” My jaw dropped and I pulled what probably looked like a very ungrateful face.

“You’ve bought a Queenie? Please tell me it hasn’t got ‘Queenie’ written anywhere on it.”

“Not Queenie. Quinny!”

“It still sounds a bit gay,” I replied.

“Well, it’s not. It’s a ‘Quinny Buzz’ and you’ll love it when you see it.”

“A Buzz Lightyear. That sounds much better! Does it look like Nasa built it? And will it take me to ‘infinity and beyond’? ‘Yes’ was the answer to one of those questions and ‘stop being a dick’ was the other.

Joe-Joe’s Buzz 3 travel system arrived today and it’s cooler than Woody, Mr. Potato Head and Slinky Dog put together. The lightweight silver frame could easily have been used as construction material on the International Space Station and the wheels are surely made from the same rubber as Jenson Button’s all-weather Formula One tyres. It’s got “a unique and revolutionary folding system” so I can unfold it with one hand whilst changing my Fantasy Football dream team with the other, and “a highly manoeuvrable front swivel wheel that can be locked”. Other features include; a sun canopy, Buzz Box (for keeping nappies, Mars bars and Iron Maiden CDs), a rain cover and an XL seat for when Joe-Joe is 18 months old.

Joe-Joe and Me are definitely going to customise it with Toy Story stickers so we can go to infinity and beyond!!!!  

'Thank you' Jennifer Aniston!

Ten years ago I hadn’t even heard of a ‘baby shower’, but then in a moment of weakness I watched an episode of American sitcom ‘Friends’ called appropriately ‘The One with the Baby Shower’. I vaguely recall that Jennifer Aniston’s character Rachel was expecting Ross’s baby, and his sister Monica invited Rachel’s friends and family along to drink wine and dispense wisdom on how to bring up children. Their advice to Rachel wasn’t exactly free, as they had to bring gifts to the party for mother and baby. I guess that’s the part of the story that my wife liked, so last weekend her good friend Deneen organised a secret one at our home. It wasn’t much of a secret though, especially after Deborah caught me writing an email to Deneen about the arrangements and then loading enough barbeque food in our supermarket trolley to feed her many friends that made the 200 mile round trip from North London.

Deneen did brilliantly pulling off the “surprise”, gaining access to our home whilst we were at antenatal classes to decorate the living room, hall and garden with blue balloons and ‘Baby Boy’ bunting. Best of all though was the huge cup cake tower that made a fantastic centrepiece and served as a nice lunch for me before the guests arrived.

When the baby shower girls arrived I was told to make myself scarce. From my garden office I could hear them having a good time – the screeching reminded me of junior school sports day – the girls’ egg and spoon race. And at the end of the party it was pretty obvious which of the ladies present had never had any children themselves – they were the ones drunk on Cava and begging me to give them a lift to the off-licence so they could buy some beers for the late night party at their B&B.

Anyway, thanks to Jennifer Aniston and the lovely ladies, Joe-Joe’s nursery is now overflowing with books, clothes, teddies and potties. And I’m still eating cup cakes five days later! 

Two fat teachers and three winos 

Grannie's not amused

I've managed to upset my mother-in-law twice this week - not bad going even for me! My first gem was to tell 'The Dragon' that as I'm going to be Joe-Joe's main carer it's up to me to educate him as to what to call his grandmothers. I announced yesterday that in order not to confuse him over who's who, my mother is to be known as 'Nannie Jean' and she'll be known as 'Grannie Mary'. I didn't go down well to say the least! It's taken her months to get used to being called 'Nannie' by her first grandchild - two-year-old Benjamin. She'd originally told me that Benji would have to call her 'Mary' as she felt too young (she's in her fifties) to be called 'Nannie' and 'Grannie' was definitely out of the question. I rubbed salt in the wounds today with my reply to her ridiculous question: "Who would play me in 'Joe-Joe and Me - The Movie'?
"Got to be Barbara Windsor" I replied. How was I supposed to know that Babs - The Queen of Bingo - is 73! 

"You cannot be serious!"

I was awoken from a deep sleep this morning with the words: "Get up, get ready. We've got our ante-natal class in one hour".

"What? It's a Saturday! How long does it last? Three hours! YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!" John McEnroe would have been proud of the strop that followed. I was already in a bad mood having been woken at least six times during the night by my weak-bladdered wife's trips to the loo. At 3 a.m. I helpfully suggested that she buy some Tena Lady incontinence pads "so I could at least get some sleep"  - and received a painful blow to the ribs for the advice.

After a mystery tour of Christchurch courtesy of my crap Sat Nav we eventually arrived at the health centre 10 minutes late for the start of the lesson. (A crime of mammoth proportion to my teacher wife). On arrival at the car park it appeared that I wasn't the only husband to have received an ear-bashing and then the silent treatment from his other half for his poor planning. Three other soon-to-be-Dads were loudly blaming their Garmin Sat Navs for having sent them down the wrong road. (My brother-in-law claims in his sales pitch at Halfords that Garmin is the chosen manufacturer of the British and U.S Army. It's probably why it took them almost 10 years to find Bin Laden.)

The German midwife who took the ante-natal class looked about 21 years old and could have been a gym instructor. I noticed that she wasn't wearing a ring on her wedding finger and pointed this out to Deborah, whispering: "If she says it doesn't hurt, don't believe her. She's obviously never given birth."

For the first 90 minutes the midwife gave an in-depth explanation of the medical procedures that might be suggested during our baby's birth. These included details on how to monitor the baby electronically and the pros and cons of having an epidural. I tried to lighten the oh-so-serious mood by playing the clown for a few seconds, but the Gestapo wasn't too impressed when during her 'guess the medical instrument game' I pulled my shirt cuffs over my hands before passing the plastic vaginal dilator to the next horrified man. "Don't be zilly. Is been cleaned," she exclaimed. I then got the evils after pretending  to bash an imaginary set of the drums with a set of crotchet hooks. "Tell your husband those aren't drumsticks, they're used to break your waters!" At this point, the enormity of what she'd let herself in for began to dawn on Deborah and she left the room to have a little cry. After five minutes, the mum-to-be sitting next to me suggested I went outside to see that my wife was OK. I did and found her deep breathing and looking as white as a sheet. I'm proud to say that I managed to persuade her to return for the second half of the class and the tips on relaxation techniques by revealing that most women in Botswana give birth in a cattle shed before returning to attend their crops the same afternoon.

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One photographer and four fat teachers!

I was rather annoyed with myself yesterday after missing out on a cool photo for this blog. Two of my wife's colleagues at the all girls secondary school where she is Head of English decided to pop into my garden office to say "hi" before taking Deborah out for the three Cs (coffee, chat and custard creams). IT teacher Victoria's eight-month bump was first through the door followed by French teacher Clementine's not quite so impressive five-month belly. After some brief small talk the two pregnant ladies were quickly whisked away by my own Budda bellied wife before I could get my camera out for a group shot of the three fat teachers. On her return after the three Cs, my wife apologised for not bringing her two friends back for a photoshoot and assured me that a much better 'four fat teachers' photo opportunity could be in the offing this weekend when her bridesmaid Hannah - a Primary school teacher - visits the Hawkins home to check out Joe-Joe's nearly completed nursery. I wonder if they'll consider doing an arty semi-naked group pose?

Snooker loopy... and how far can women walk when they're in labour?

I was engrossed in BBC2's coverage of this evening's final session of the World Championship snooker final between John Higgins and Judd Trump when my wife delved into the pregnancy and birth books that have been gathering dust on the bookshelf for the last seven months. My enjoyment of the tight final few frames of snooker were ruined by delightful tit-bits on birthing positions and anal tear risks. At one point, she started to ask about perineal massage - just as Higgins gloriously potted the brown! My biggest fear of being at my son's birth is the risk of witnessing my wife engaged in an uncontrollable bowel movement. Although, she has helpfully pointed out that if we have a water birth I will at least have a job to do - I just need to purchase a fishing net for the occasion! Our conversation then moved on to our preparations for the big day or night. I was told that I would need to know the daytime and evening telephone number of Bournemouth General's maternity unit as she might not be able to call them when we reach action stations. Also on the list of 'need to have items' presented to me was "a pocket full of pound coins for the parking meter at the hospital car park." On reading this I told my wife: "No need, we'll park in Tescos for free. It's only a 7 minute walk!" She replied by going to bed and asking me to think about it. Pray tell me. How far can a woman walk when in the early stages of labour?


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