Gina, you rock my world

The wonderful Gina Ford: an unlikely, slightly squashy looking angel.






Returning to life is pretty hard once you've had a baby. All of a sudden your day's normal activities are replaced by a constant barrage of baby crying, nappy-changing, feeding, burping and rocking. Throw in a huge dose of anxiety and the continual worry that you've mistakenly killed your newborn, and you're suddenly alone in a cold, sleep-parched landscape, finding it impossible to keep up.

Until a couple of weeks ago I was stuck in that place. It would often get to 6 or 7 pm, and there I'd be: sitting in just my pants with the curtains open, having managed to eat a whole slice of ryvita and suddenly realising I hadn't been to the toilet for over 24 hours.

Now then, flashing the neighbours a bit of arse and dining frugally on rye is all very well, but when your urine starts to turn orange, you know its probably time to act. And thankfully I did, with the purchase of The Contented Little Baby Book written by one Ms. Gina Ford.

For the uninitiated amongst you, Gina Ford is nanny extraordinaire to the Stars and proles alike. Her philosophy is a simple, if fantastically strict, one. Babys need a structure, apparently, and to achieve any kind of peace from your squawking monster, you need to turn your home into a tough boot camp.

On Gina, a 7am wake up call and nappy change is followed by a 39.678 minute breast feed, 20.2 minutes playing with an odd red cube, and 2 seconds of noisy gurggling whilst you look on adoringly. You're then allowed the breakfast of your choice before selecting the least drool-covered outfit to wear for the day and putting the baby down for a short nap. The afternoon continues in much the same vein, and you finally get to go to bed no later than 11.27 at night.

Jesus. Pre-Lucy if anyone had so much as suggested I try to turn up at work at the same time everyday, I'd probably have punched them. And yet here I am, slavishly lusting after Gina's every breath and marching through the regime like a demented Sergeant Major.

And the odd thing is, it really does work. Though I can account for mine & Lucy's movements down to the last half second of the day, I do know there'll be at least a period where she'll be quiet and not crying or hungry or hot, cold or indifferent. At the moment, for example, Lucy is sleeping sweetly whilst I am strapped to a milking machine, singing a rousing World War II battle song and rinsing all the neighbourhood's smalls through an 80 degree hot wash programme.

Ah Gina. Gina, Gina, Gina...With your weird squashy face and frighteningly processed hair: you're a hard taskmaster, but from the bottom of my heart I thank you. Your regime may be as punctilious as a Nazi parade, and I still feel all a bit helpless, but at least it means I can now attend to the important things in life.

Like passing water, for a start.