Egg related morning of terror.

Our daughter's diet is at least as varied as my own these days. Indeed, sometimes more ingredients are crowbarred together in one of her meals than I manage in an average week. But she seems to enjoy most of the ridiculous parsnip, prune and peach melba type combinations with which we experiment on her palette.

So, being a man who loves a good egg, I was overjoyed one recent morning when my wife suggested scrambling some for the three of us for breakfast. Sharing the meal with our daughter meant sacrificing salt and pepper from the recipe, but we agreed that this was a worthy forfeit to pay for the honour of enjoying such a hallowed culinary experience with our offspring.

She didn't really like it.

As I swallowed my disappointment at my daughter's failure to do the same with her eggs, she chose instead to carefully spread the remainder all over her face. This is a common response of hers to any reluctance to eat something, so we let her get on with it.

Within five or ten minutes, though, an alarming redness started to appear on her face, wherever the egg had been rubbed. At first I remained nonchalantly calm; confident that this merited less worry than finishing my coffee. But my wife's greater concern soon seemed justified, as the redness rapidly grew more angry, and was joined by some frightening blotchy-welty-rashiness. It was as if our daughter had developed years' worth of very severe eczema in a few minutes.

In what seemed at the time like the most sensible option, we bathed the patient immediately; vigorously and repeatedly soaping the affected areas. Even as we did so, these areas were multiplying, appearing all over her body - including in places where no egg to skin contact had been made. This development was the one which saw my panic level catch up with my wife's. I clearly don't know as much as I should about allergies, but suddenly horrific visions of closing airways and blue faces crept ominously across my mind. This could end badly.

Our next step was to decide between spending Sunday in the waiting room of A&E and phoning NHS Direct. Mercifully, there was still no sign of our daughter experiencing any respiratory difficulties, so we chose the phone option. The nice lady on the other end reassuringly established that our daughter was indeed still breathing quite happily before promising that a nurse with an equally calming demeanour would phone us back within half an hour.

By the time the nurse did get in touch, the initial blotches were beginning to subside, so her soothing Bristolian tones served more as confirmation than revelation of our daughter's immediate recovery. She explained that egg allergies are fairly common in babies and toddlers, and are usually grown out of. Serenity was thus soon restored. We were, nevertheless, left with instructions to steer our daughter well clear of all edible ova for the foreseeable future, as well as a mild, confused sheepishness caused by the fuss we had made, tempered only by relief that it had ultimately been unnecessary.

My wife was still overcome with remorse for some time afterwards. I did my best to comfort her by pointing out that an incident such as this was the only way we could have discovered that it was a possibility. Personally I found this more confusing than comforting. I think I had stumbled upon a paradox.

But I digress. The whole episode underlined to me the tenuous fragility of a baby's life. Maybe our panic turned out to be disproportionate, but we were lucky. I wonder how many similar events end in a tragedy which no amount of love or care could have prevented. Obviously, as responsible parents, we will always take every conceivable measure to ensure our daughter's safety, but from now on I'm going to keep my fingers crossed as a backup.

Pride update.

As my daughter's age approaches the eight month mark, the list of her achievements and abilities continues to grow at an impressive rate. She now has four teeth, which seem to have emerged in no particular order. The symmetry I naively expected has failed to transpire, but this has had no effect on the efficient use she makes of her gnashers as she munches away on whichever concoction my wife and I subject them to. Not that much of it touches the sides, mind you, such is the voracity of her appetite. Root vegetables seem to be a common feature of her favourite meals, which I think indicates a certain cultured maturity in her taste.

Decision making seems to play in increasing role in other aspects of her life. Like any child, she is developing a strong sense of what she doesn't like, and how to express this. At high volume. What I find more admirable - and more positive - is her ability to discern what she does like. Holding her in front of her toy collection is all the invitation she needs to make a carefully considered selection. The repetition in her choices suggests that they are good ones. As a man often plagued by indecision I sincerely hope that this quality of my daughter's stays with her.

Her mobility is also improving. Although yet to fully master crawling, she does occasionally struggle forwards on her knees and elbows, even if she doesn't fully understand how she has achieved this. I am confident that, with each such happy accident, she is programming the instinct which will soon take over.

Crawling may, however, soon be rendered unnecessary. Her legs have been capable of supporting her weight since she was about five minutes old. She has now progressed to the point where a slight balance deficit is the only thing between her and independent perambulation. Thus, when you hold her hands, she walks eagerly in whichever direction she's facing, eating up the ground like Usain Bolt. And nothing makes her happier.

Convenient, then, that she has recently mastered a useful means of expressing this happiness: clapping. I say mastered. Maybe that's a bit generous. Picture a weightlifter who has put too much flour on his hands. The thing he or she would do to remedy such a situation is what my daughter does. Frequently. I should clarify that she is yet to attempt weightlifting. Although she is very strong.

We still haven't identified the language, but she can definitely talk. One of her preferred statements is "Dadadadadadadadada". My wife's interpretation of this differs from my own. While she sees it as a meaningless, albeit entertaining phonetic, I see no problem in isolating any two of its syllables to leave the word every father yearns to hear from his child. Yes folks: my daughter calls me Dada. Sometimes I'm even there when she does it.

All of these excellent capabilities, and yet she still almost never sleeps. At least not for any significant length of time. All I want for Christmas is eight solid hours. And my wife, as a light sleeper, and the one with all the milk (and, if I'm honest, our daughter's first choice of nocturnal visitor), suffers hugely more than I do. Just imagine how much amazing stuff our daughter could do after a good night's sleep.

Daddy dreams.

It was my birthday last week.

It's got a zero and a three in it.

While you calculate the permutations of that, I shall inform you that the celebrations on the day began with my daughter awakening me (with my wife's help), resplendent in her new Arsenal kit. This provided me with far more joy and pride than I could have predicted. Of course I have no intention of goonering her up for trips to Asda. In fact I'll try to minimise the pressure I will inevitably put on her to follow my allegiance as she grows up. I think that, in order for it to be genuine, one's choice of football team must be a personal decision, rather than an imposed one. A bit like religion really. Nevertheless, my red and white fingers are firmly crossed.

I have subsequently concluded that this start to my birthday was the manifestation of one of those slightly embarrassing, idealistic visions of parenthood that you don't even realise you're having. This epiphany has compelled me to search my subconscious for other examples, to accompany that of my first-born dressing up as Cesc Fabregas.

Some, I am sure, are common to most parents, and therefore easier to admit to. The first time she walks, her relieved smile at the end of her first day at school, graduation, wedding, etc etc. So far, so obvious.

I suppose my more bespoke reveries are really based on the hope that my daughter will be like me, and share some of my interests. Football is one of these. I also long for the day when we discuss our favourite books. Even heated debate on this subject will be welcome. I want to take her to art galleries and see her gasp in awe at the understated power of a Mondrian. I can't wait until the day she shoots me down with some carefully pitched sarcasm, or enjoys studying a map for a bit longer than necessary.

I should stress that, if my daughter is reading this in twenty years' time and feeling any regret at the non-occurrence of any of the above, then she absolutely shouldn't. I will be proud of whatever tastes, hobbies, achievements or idiosyncrasies she develops, as long as she takes unashamed pride in them.

And as long as she doesn't support Sp*rs.