5th February

10:35

Growing up, I have often marvelled, with a retrospective wry smile and shake of the head, at my uncanny ability to fly in the face of current trends. By default, rather than design, one must understand. I decided to go for the undercut haircut, just as the undercut’s star began to wane. And not all the way around, but just at the back, where the hair was deemed long enough. I have also been guilty of wearing a bandana, and a vest with no outer garment, neither in return for money nor for joviality. Misguided.

Regardless, as a late teenager built like a racing snake, one could be forgiven for assuming I would be quite at ease in the celebrity-obsessed, sickly slim culture of the early noughties. On the contrary and true to form, I found myself searching for that magical ‘get-fat-quick’ diet. Not fat per say, just a bit of extra mass, in order to add a bit of weight to the tackle on the football field.

With this in mind, fast forward ten years, and I find myself empathising with my son’s impending challenge – to multiply his current mass 27 times before he is fully grown. But I need not fear. It appears that he may be quite the little expert in his field, although his methods demand time and unwavering dedication. In short, the key seems to be this: spend one third of your life feeding.

The lad’s got it down to a T. It is a demanding schedule for Mum. While Sir enjoys an hour long feast, Mum is relieved of all of her vitamins and vitality, and left with a mere two hours to recharge her batteries and re-stock the store cupboard. He spends eight hours a day feeding. That’s an occupation for the common man.

In a few days, 6lbs 13oz has become 7lbs and 3oz. This should come as little surprise, but as many anxious parents would confess, it is nevertheless a relief to see Squire gain some much needed weight.

This signals the Day of the Papoose. Yes, the papoose shall have its day.

Fortuitously, this coincides with the visit of my sister and brother-in-law. We arrange to meet for a morning stroll, and as is now often the case, my party is late. This only adds to the level of frenetic activity involved in securing the papoose about my person, ensuring that Solomon is sitting safely and comfortably. There appears to be a fine line between the two. I am slightly embarrassed at standing motionless in the middle of the pavement as my wife wraps various straps around me. Onlookers look equally bemused, no doubt querying my inability to take charge of the situation and wrap my own papoose.

This is like the toilet roll game from children’s parties, where one child is tasked with making another disappear behind a roll of toilet tissue. Fortunately, it is relatively short lived, and we are off and walking. We make swift time, and catch the rest of our party up to take in the splendid scenery the walk has to offer. It is marvellous to be out, with the boy strapped tightly to me, taking in the elements. I immediately drift off with thoughts of tackling the Lake District. Man and boy, adventuring. And why stop there. I can hear Everest calling.

But, the sharp, albeit paved incline of the first 100 yards brings a fresh revelation. The snug fit of the now infamous papoose means that I am unable to extend my stomach in order to take proper breaths. This presents three very clear options: 1) Take shallow, quick breaths 2) Breathe deep, selfish, life giving air and crush the newborn or 3) Tell the wife and be re-wrapped.

Shallow breaths it is. The rest of the walk passes without incident, apart from a slowly rising temperature on my part, probably due to oxygen deprivation. On the odd occasion where I push the boundaries of stomach extension, I am reminded of my selfishness by a groan from the boy and instantly feel guilty. Alternatively, this could be wind.

The loop is completed and we reach the car within the two hour window before the next feed is due. I gleefully pull at the tie holding the many folds and wraps of the papoose in place. Aaaah, this will be like removing an ill fitting shoe after prolonged wear. In reality, it is like removing the pin from a hand grenade. What follows genuinely makes me jump, and I am concerned and amazed in equal measure. It appears that the boy’s groans were not caused by the extension of my stomach into his body, but by his concerted efforts to rid himself of the waste products from his previous feed. It also appears that the papoose’s tie was the only thing holding it all in. His whole body shudders as his centre of gravity moves south.

After a hasty decision to make the short drive home before changing him, I find myself wondering if there is a quick route down from Everest, in the event of a repeat scenario. No, probably not. I shouldn't imagine there is.