Boiling Over

Our hot water isn’t hot any more. It happened a couple of days ago but until the tank ran out we didn’t realise what was going on. Time then to reach for the well-thumbed directory of exorbitant London tradesmen. How much will it cost us this time? Somewhere between £200 and £300 if past experience is anything to go by. Just what type of person are these charges pitched at? The sort who don’t blink at spending half a million on a place to rest their heads between trips to the office I suppose. So I went to the gym to have a shower. While I was there I had a sauna too. So much more relaxing without the workout that should go before it. Gym membership is another ridiculous cost. Several hundred pounds a year to take my daughter swimming and have a shower when the boiler breaks. Mind you, compared to the cost of mending the boiler that’s quite good value.

Perhaps I should go on a DIY course. I should definitely be better at DIY with our cashflow situation as it is. I do what I can. I really do. But it's not just the DIY. There are other aspects of being a parent I just don’t seem to be able to get to grips with, no matter how much I might want to. Among these are:

Bag-packing.

It’s not so much that I forget to take my daughter's bag with us on trips and playdates, but that I don’t think of packing it in the first place.

Craft.

I was recently at a friend’s house admiring the intricate tiaras made of silver foil and little stick people she had fashioned from sparkly pipecleaners with her daughter. It’s just not me.

Baking.

I cook. But I don’t bake. Cupcakes are a mystery to me.

Shopping.

Spending half an hour choosing a fairy toothrush with my daughter like my wife does is beyond me. I just don’t have the patience. “How about this one? It’s pink.” is about my limit.

Mutual hairbrushing.

It seems to come so easily to mums. If my daughter wields the hairbrush in my direction I begin to feel a bit funny. “Great. Thanks. That’s enough!”

Nursing.

I kiss it better, of course. But extended sympathy for minor ailments doesn’t come easily. If she’s really sick I do leap into action though.

Imaginary play.

A bit of it is good. “Look, this is a pretend ice cream. Yes. Strawberry, Mmm.” That’s fine for a while, but eventually I just have to go on to something more…real. Like a newspaper.

Haircare.

I’m a shampoo man. Conditioner I don’t understand. Also, I never seem to dry my daughter’s hair enough for my wife’s tastes.

Milk.

I’m forever forgetting to buy milk when only a thin meniscus remains in the two pint bottle. (And quite often I find I haven’t bought any food either. Luckily I’m quite good at creating dishes from the contents of the food cupboard.)

Clothes.

I tend to leave my daughter’s discarded clothes (bath, bedtime etc) where they are taken off, meaning to pick them up later. Strangely, whenever I return someone else has already removed them…

Saying “I love you”.

Isn’t it about showing not telling? No? Well, I’m working on it.

Scooter Girl

It is such a nice evening that my daughter and I decide to go for a spontaneous scoot around the block before bathtime. She’s had the scooter – pink, three-wheeler, one on every street corner - for a few months now but has only just perfected her driving. Previously, every time she attempted to scoot she would crash into a wall and march away from the scene of the accident, windmilling her arms. Then, folding them, she would stamp her foot and exclaim “I’m NOT going to SCOOT any MORE.” Now, after plenty of practice during the school holidays she has successfully made it through the temper barrier and sails the streets in a flurry of pink.

The back streets near our house are empty so she is able to scoot freely along pavements and across roads, with me shadowing her like a bodyguard. We skirt the pub, with its leering Banksy rats in stucco, and arrive at Ledbury road. We turn left and sail past all the clothes shops and handbag shops, on towards another pub. The pavement is filled with drinkers, and men look on smiling, women giggle knowingly as we speed past. These are the rewards of childcare, I remark to myself. We motor on. More smiles, laughter. How the world loves us: a father and his daughter cruising the stucco streets of West London. Maybe they are laughing fondly at my daughter's pink satin glove which dangles from the handle of her scooter, I think.

Finally we complete our circuit and arrive home. After parking the scooter in the hall we tell my wife about our trip and how everyone was so happy to see us whizzing around the locale. My wife grins and points downwards. Suddenly I understand the smiles and the laughter. My flies are gaping wide open.

Fairy Tales

We have travelled west out of weekend London to Hughenden Manor and are sitting in a gently undulating orchard on a picnic-covered rug. The trees cast their shade in irregular inkblots. The sky is aquamarine and cloudless. A far-off jet engine echoes faintly. Our daughter is dressed in a pink gauze skirt and satin-effect pink top and looks a Midsummer Night’s Dream. She runs giggling through a clump of dead daffodils, fists pumping. “Oh it’s a woodland fairy!” says a lady in a kindly tone. Unseen birds toot and trill.

The orchard is planted in perfectly straight lines, which aren't obvious unless you are sitting next to one of them. Then you can see the rank stretching away. Tags dangle from branches, revealing unexpected names like Laxton’s Fortune. Lane’s Prince Albert. George Cave. Families sit at intervals quietly appreciating being near to the earth. I lie down on my back and let the breeze play on my face and tweak at my hair. Suddenly I am between sleep and consciousness, half-remembering fragments of childhood and holidays as my daughter’s shouts ebb and flow in the air. All the while the birds sing.

After some time we decide to investigate the gardens and wearily raise ourselves up from the ground. We pass a group of majestic fir trees. One, its needles pointing downwards, looks like it is dripping wax onto the earth below. On the other side we are flanked by a line of Horse Chestnut trees which is occasionally broken, giving tantalising flashes of raking Chiltern hillsides and buttercup meadows.

We plunge into the coolness of the woods, where cowslips and bluebells quiver in the draught. Two daffodils are flowering in the damp chill under a holly tree. We come almost into the sunshine again and our daughter runs under the shade of a wide and ancient fir tree, its trunk skeins of plaited wood.

We cross a broken fence into the meadow and our daughter runs ahead singing stories and entreating us to follow. “Come with me on my train!” We follow until she tires and then all sit down on a fallen tree trunk. She stands on the slippery bark and starts telling another story. She slides and falls – not far – but continues on in her excitement, incorporating the tumble into her tale. I get up and haul her to her feet. She realizes that she has scraped her legs and her eyes fill with tears. I look into their brown depths and see my wife, my mother and my sister, as usual. And hurt and sadness she doesn’t yet know. I hoist her up onto my shoulders and we return up the hill towards Disraeli’s grand house.

Time Decay

I've got a painful tooth today. ‘Sensitive’ I think they call it in the adverts. When I ran my tongue across it this morning it sent sharp, painful frissons along the surface. I'm getting to the tipping-point now, when illness and affliction become a daily constant rather than a periodical inconvenience. It’s a land inhabited by older people. When you ask the elderly how they are there is usually a list. And if you're not careful they'll go into detail. “Oh really?” I say, my mind deciding instead to freewheel down another avenue.

Personally I have become used not to talking about illness. Having lived with serious illness in someone close to me over the last few years it has frequently been the last thing I wanted to do. Sometimes though, I really did want to and couldn't. I suppose that's what separates the serious from the mundane. If you end up talking about it, its usually something minor. Have you noticed how nobody ever asks you how you are when it actually matters? The worse the illness the less likely people are to want to know. But when it comes to minor ailments like a sneeze, the world rushes to offer you their blessing.

My teeth, anyway. I suppose they are serving me right. I haven't always looked after them as well as I could. I haven’t visited the dentist often and when I have it has usually led to wrenching and uprooting and filling and injecting. My wife complains about my ‘gappy’ teeth. But actually the most obvious of those gaps - the one at the front - has gradually closed over the years. I still have a milk tooth too, which has done very well to keep going. I don't think it does much, crenellated between its younger siblings either side. But I appreciate it hanging around. It’s another symptom of my lack of oral conscientiousness and the result of a missed appointment when I was sixteen and didn’t care. It’s ok though, since I don’t smile much. Or perhaps that’s why I don’t smile much. In the future I'm expecting a lot more rebellion in various body parts, particularly from my teeth. But in the meantime I'll try to enjoy all my faculties, as my daughter does, unquestioningly. She didn't notice that illness surrounded her in her early years and continues to smile and a sing determinedly.

I'm looking particularly healthy at the moment in fact, due to a tan acquired in the normal course of life-not-in-an-office, something which I am pleased to report office-bound types find extremely galling.

Perfection

I woke this morning full of worry. Was I late? I wondered as daylight rushed in at me, accompanied by the ching-clang-ching of scaffolding up the road. Where was my wife? What about school? As a revving circular saw around the corner and a rumbling rubbish truck joined the party I began to make out familiar shapes around the bedroom. Gradually I realised that it was in fact my morning off. One day a week my wife takes our daughter to school, leaving me to get up when I want, unless I have something better to do than sleep. It’s a glimpse of freedom; a rear view mirror into life before parenthood. For one morning I can leave the plastic crockery in the cupboard and pass over the pink-cup-with-cats-on-it in favour of the china cups.

The galling thing about childcare is how near to perfection it is. If you weren’t sitting at home watching Lazy Town you could be watching the Cricket World Cup, sipping on a beer. The bus taking you on the school run could instead be bringing you back from a long lunch with friends. And of course if you weren’t spending half your money on your children then you could be buying a lot of exciting stuff for yourself. And to cap it all, what did you do before all this freedom was lost? You spent your days in the confines of an office, surrounded by people you wouldn’t ordinarily have passed the time of day with in the kitchen at a party where you didn’t know anybody and you were reeling drunk.

As the result of a complex process of negotiation I arrived to pick up my daughter from nursery on foot today. It turned out to be a bad day to choose, since it was raining and I hadn’t brought an umbrella. Still, this was unlikely to be a disappointment to her, since it meant a chocolate lolly from Waitrose. As she emerged, laden with bags and coats I couldn’t help noticing a crumpled piece of paper in her swimming bag, nestled atop a damp towel. I unfolded it and discovered a picture of a pink sheep with blue legs. “Who’s this for?” I asked, expecting the worst. “It’s for … you daddy!” she said, beaming, before adding “I couldn’t do it with white. I very love you.” Not a victory for her in the short-term perhaps, but a perfectly judged long term strategy.

Forbidden Pleasure

Most days my daughter has some small work of art in her hands at the school gate. A piece of A4 paper revealing a roughly coloured bunny or a ragged splat of paint. She taunts me with them. “Ooh, is that for me?” I ask hopefully. “No daddy. This one's for … mummy”, she replies, matter-of-factly. “Oh”, I say, downhearted. Then she produces another one from behind her back and says without a flicker “And this one’s for ….” I brighten momentarily, “…me.”

There’s never one for me. Yesterday she said she had one for me, but that it was still at school. It’s become a daily routine. I don’t know whether she sees it all as humorous or if it’s simply that by my ever-presence I don’t rate such gestures. It does make me a little sad though. I want to be given something just for me. As it is I have to steal other people’s pictures to fix on my pinboard. I probably made a mistake by showing my disappointment the first time it happened and she fastened onto it as a little battle she can win in a war in which I generally have the upper hand. In the difficult and confusing world children inhabit, these victories must mean a lot.

Back to School

The grey morning after a sunny day is a mood not often expressed. It’s like waking up with a hangover, or suddenly recalled guilt. Momentum lost. A car braked. Nothing, where something was. The grey London pelmet can be a dispiriting sight and aptly signals the end of the school holidays.

So how did I do?

Helped arrange nice holiday in Cotswolds. A+
Trip to see grandparents. A
A couple of playdates. A-
Went to the park a lot. B+

“This was Stay at home dad’s first proper school holidays and he tried hard, with successes in several areas. Notably he displayed skill in arranging a very pleasant spring break. Some subjects do need to be addressed however: namely a tendency to permit too much television viewing. Promising overall.”

Well that’s just my take, of course. And I realized it was time for my daughter to start school again when I found myself having a stand-up row with her in the street over the correct theme tune to new CBeebies show Mama Mirabelle. I said it was “Mama Mirabelle’s ho-ome mo-vies…” She said "Mama Mirab-e-elle’s home movies…” (I was right.)

Talking of television. Another week, another child survey. Dr Aric Sigman’s survey on TV watching was recycled after his meeting with MPs yesterday. While I don’t necessarily disagree with some of his conclusions – although no TV for under 3s is patently absurd - I do object to being told how to bring up my child by a man with his own website (never trust someone with their photo plastered all over their home page).

“I’ve got four children myself” I heard him declare proudly on the radio yesterday in response to a mother’s pleas. Hmm. According to his website he frequently travels to exotic locations halfway across the globe (why?) and on website City Speakers International is listed as a broadcaster, consultant psychologist, business speaker (charge band £4000-£7000) and after dinner speaker. Now it may be unfair of me to suggest, but apart from having a vested interest in being controversial, does he really have time for much childcare do you think? Trying to feed a baby while a toddler moans about being bored and wanting to watch CBeebies? Desperately attempting to finish a household chore or bit of work, with a child at a loose end? I would suspect not. Thanks doctor but I’ll see myself out.

Chicken

Watching men in suits delivering their children at school is one of my favourite pastimes. At least they are making the effort, I suppose. “Come on” they hiss as they tug their child along the pavement, itching to get onto their Blackberry and thinking about their ten o’clock meetings. Don’t get me wrong, I remember those days, when I wore a suit and thought about different things. But allow me my moment.

How long will it be though? It's scary, this game of childcare chicken that I’m playing. I’m probably at the clenched-hands-on-the-steering-wheel stage, on a scale of hairs-raised-on–the-back-of-the-neck to needing-a-change-of-clothing. There I am, bolting along, surrounded by the aroma of burning savings, while childcare rattles towards me with fire leaping out of its expensive twin exhausts. Will I brake before childcare piles into me head on? Or will I jump out before impact? I really don’t know. It’s a funny thing, living on savings. That’s what they are for, after all. But it’s not human nature actually to want to use them.

Occasionally a friend gets made redundant and rediscovers his children; but then eventually gets another job. “I’ll miss the boys” said one the other day, shaking his head sadly as he contemplated returning to work after six months. It reminds me why I am doing what I am doing. It’s a privilege to be able to spend time with my daughter. I love her foibles and good humour, she appreciates my reliability and the change in my pocket for an ice cream. I don’t envy the men in suits anything, except of course their bank balances.

Paid in Full

I’m always deeply suspicious of men who say “I like women.” Yes, I always think. I bet you do. “I just love being around them.” Men in the weekend supplements say it. Generally powerful, attractive men. What does it mean anyway, apart from the obvious? Is it code? I’m not sure.

Anyway, I am increasingly finding that I like women too. Well, mums, anyway. On the occasions when we meet up with other families I drift towards the mums and enjoy chatting to them. I want to listen and swap stories. I am like them, after all. They have often left something behind too – a career - or they feel unappreciated, or are teetering on the brink of a massive mental breakdown.

I’ve stopped calling myself a stay at home dad in male company now. “But what do you really do?” men will ask. “Oh, you know, a bit of childcare, writing.” (They don’t.) “He’s not doing anything!” they declare, looking around knowingly. Yes, they’ve found me out. The combination of childcare and part–time work amounts to really almost nothing.

What my life no longer contains are any outward signs of success. Childcare is a readjustment to the rulebook. Who is there to congratulate you on a job well done? Where is the end of year party? I’d actually welcome a performance review, but even that isn’t going to happen.

Today I had a strange sensation while reading Topsy and Tim Go on an Aeroplane to my daughter before lunch. I suddenly remembered business trips with fondness. I always hated them then, but there was the feeling, niggling. The glamour! The importance! I had a bit of standing then. But not any more. Now I am paid in sticky kisses and tired hugs. Noone even notices me.

Dirty Old Town

The pigeon poo is still there. An irregular dried-on patch of white that seems to represent much about coming back to London. And perhaps even London itself. A semi-permanent reminder of the city’s immutable grime and thoughtless waste. Even the crusty drips stop short, never arriving at their target; stopped in time.

I’ve decided that I’ll clean it up when I re-paint the window frame, which has now almost entirely sloughed its coat of paint. This winter it had a fierce raking from the Southwesterly winds which I guess bring with them the stray seagulls I see outside from time to time, swaying drunkenly on TV aerials. Now, only a few flakes hang on, not enough to hide the spongey interior.

There’s no point endangering myself twice over I tell myself. I’ll get to it soon. I always seem to have a paintbrush or filler in my hands nowadays, trying to cure the latest problem before another piece of the house falls off. We’ve become inner city landed gentry: leaking, peeling and cracking, and without the cash necessary to repair it all properly. Perhaps I can charge for tours. Or let the roof fall in and call the National Trust.

While we were away, staff at the now-pristine pub next door forgot to lock the door to the store-shed which abuts us, and someone has moved in. Someone who isn’t choosy about where they sluice unmentionable matter which I can smell as I come downstairs. I thought I'd make use of having a vulnerable daughter in tow and touted her in the pub to illustrate the health risk. They promised to fix it, but I have no faith in London promises.

Going Home

The day is shimmeringly hot. So hot that the birdsong is muted and time has become disconnected. The electric blue sky descends into hazy heat near the horizon. A jet scores the perfect blueness with twin vapour trails, which quickly blur and fade like a healing scar. The only things moving are something in the flowerbed and the shade creeping around the garden in slow motion. A frond trembles, then a rustle, then silence.

It’s afternoon and the lunch plates lie on the table outside in the stillness. We’re sitting on the grass in deckchairs. Our daughter is sitting in a paddling pool I found in the shed, covered in snail trails and earth, and hosed down. She’s splashing, and singing as usual. We’re all lost in the light and the heat.

An end of holiday air hangs heavy. I have the feeling that I’m going back to school, or I’ve finished a term. We’re going home to London tomorrow. My wife is starting back at work and with nursery still closed for another week I’m returning to a week with my daughter.

I mention something about our return to my wife.

“OH!” says my daughter.

She’s taken to saying this recently in a Brief Encounter sort of accent, to denote her permanent state of surprise.

“Are we going home tomorrow?” she asks, aghast.
“Yes, mummy’s going back to work.”
“But what will I do?”
“You’re still on holiday next week.”
“But what about mummy?”
“She’s going back to work.”

She is sitting up to her waist in warm water in a candy-striped pink swimming costume and pink lacy hat. She looks intently at something not there in the bottom of the pool and the corners of her mouth turn down.
“It’s ok, I’ll be on holiday too…” I say, to forestall tears.
“OH!” she says, without relish, still looking into the water.

Everywhere I look I see finality. Things will not be like this again. We will be older. Our daughter will be older. The season will be different. The light. The heat. Perhaps what I’m feeling is the end of normality. The return to being a stay at home dad.

Power Cut

We had a power cut this morning. My daughter was watching a cartoon. I was blogging. My wife was in bed. I carried on blogging on battery power. My daughter was most concerned and went to tell my wife about the event. It sends you back thirty years, a power cut. Not to the days of labour unrest necessarily, but just Sundays when the shops didn’t open and there was nothing on television anyway and you had to play games with counters and dice.

I got to thinking, what if all this running out of oil baloney is a government ploy to stop teenagers playing on their Playstations? It would be a sensible move. Strategic power cuts; a few library forms distributed through the post. And a side benefit would be to rid the world of reality TV (don’t get me wrong, if it’s on I watch it) and TV chat shows featuring people from other TV shows … and Jordan. But what would I do of an evening without all this ‘entertainment?’ I wonder for a second and then realize I could re-read Cider with Rosie.

We enact the modern equivalent of singing around the piano for a while in the silence. I can hear the children next door. Ramblers crunching past on the road outside. Wood Pigeons whooping in the garden. My wife starts reading a book to our daughter.

Suddenly the television bursts back in a blaring of colour and voices and the modern world is arcing in on us with appliances whirring and lights flashing. The book gets put to one side. Even I am watching the cartoon in fascination. I remember I’ve left my copy of Cider with Rosie at home anyway.

Sahd in the North

It’s grim up North. The North Cotswolds, that is. We whizzed out of our Gloucestershire village and were bowling north along the winding backroads when we hit traffic at Stow on the Wold. Suddenly cars were stuck bonnet to boot like a line of hungry slugs, inching through the Slaughters and the Chippings. Arms were hanging out of car windows, the temperature rising. Outside there were people on their knees trimming their lawns with scissors, as they obviously do in Oxfordshire. At the first turning I took evasive action using my primitive satellite navigation system. (A map held in my left hand against the steering wheel. I know it’s dangerous but we were going at 5mph.) Eventually the cars thinned out and we arrived at Hidcote Manor.

My wife’s parents very kindly enrolled us in the National Trust last year when we were with them at their local NT attraction and my face fell at the prospect of shelling out £30 for us to walk around looking at flowers and eat cake. So we are bona fide members, although I haven’t got round to affixing the sticker to the screen yet. Like many other National Trust destinations Hidcote reeks of middle age. Its car park is full of Hondas and MGs, everyone is polite and noone runs around.

It was an enjoyable day. The gardens weren’t crowded. The weather was good. There was no feeling that we should be getting the most for our money, since we hadn’t paid any. We had lunch, enjoyed tea and cakes and bought a few plants.

On the way back our daughter sings “I like to be-ee in the ca-aar!” into the dusk. I don’t know why. From my seat in the front all I can usually hear is back seat arguments. But very soon the singing has stopped. I crane to look back in the rear view mirror. Both passengers are sitting with their heads lolling at the same angle, mouths slightly open; both dreaming of gardens and scones.

Village Idiots

Well that’s the end of the Cider with Rosie idyll, then. This morning my wife went up to the village shop with our daughter to get the newspaper. (I stayed at home blogging, of course.) A few minutes later, she returned, red-faced, with a giggling daughter. What happened? I asked. Apparently, she (my wife) had pointed at the Chupa Chupp display on the counter and asked our daughter loudly which willy she would like. Laughter from both (male) shopkeeper and daughter, possibly for different reasons (I hope).

Mind you, while they were out I had a minor embarrassment of my own. I was blogging in front of a large window, which faces onto the street, with a three quarters-full bottle of wine beside me in order to describe it for Drunk Mummy. I turned round and found a group outside looking in, their eyes moving slowly from me to the bottle and back in true cartoon style.

Now we have been exposed as crazed nympho and desperate dipso we may be leaving sooner than we envisaged.

Simple Pleasures

Another hot day. It’s early but the last vestiges of moisture are quickly vanishing under the sun’s floodlight. Jackdaws shriek. Wood pigeons flap by with beaks full of twigs.

Welcome to the jungle!” says my daughter, beaming. “I’m the zookeeper. There are lions by the rhubarb, do you want to see them?”

It transpires there are also leopards up the slide, zebras near the trampoline and lions prowling by the see-saw. I visit the animals in turn and have brief conversations with all of them. “Hello. Are you well? Do you enjoy living in this garden?” “No daddy, it’s a JUNGLE.” “Oh sorry, er … jungle.” I feel like Prince Charles. My daughter is jumping up and down with excitement and skipping from one toy to the next to introduce the garden’s denizens.

There is a reason for this menagerie. The previous day we visited the Cotswold Wildlife Park with my wife’s parents. Our hearts sank as we handed over an assortment of banknotes and saw the blanket of parked cars stretching across the horizon. We left ours several fields away from the attractions and went off to get some lunch. With the queue for the canteen too long to contemplate we opted for the snackbar and came away with a selection of children’s lunchboxes, and chips smeared with translucent ketchup. As we grimly tucked into the processed feast, perched at a picnic table and silently bemoaning our misfortune, my daughter suddenly bounced up and down and said “This is the best picnic EVER!”

By her bed she has collected a holiday assortment of favoured possessions. A snail shell, a piece of felt, a pendant on a pink ribbon, a rabbit sticker, a padlock. I love the care with which she has assembled them so thoughtfully. Just by being there they mean so much. Right by her dreaming head.

Sunshine Dreams

Like everyone else, we are away on holiday. On Friday we rammed the car full of children’s toys, the remnants of the fridge and ourselves and set off west for the Cotswolds. Strangely not many others were on the roads and we zipped along the empty motorway, swept down the Chiltern escarpment and banked towards Oxford as the sun sent the thermometer ticking up by degrees. Eventually the motorway ran out and was replaced by single lane roads and a panorama of stone walls and farmland. The panorama slowly became dusty villages and the heat intensified.

It was getting to my wife and daughter, who started to argue.
“What can we do now?” asked our daughter.
“Read a book?”
“No, that’s boring.”
“No they’re not. Books aren’t boring.”
“Oohhhhhh…”
“Lets’ play flibbertigibit.”
“Yes!”

Flibbertigibit is a variant on a number of car games they play. This one entails counting 3 lampposts before shouting “flibbertigibit” to win. It’s a slow game though, on country lanes. On motorways it’s most entertaining. “Flibgibiflibgibflib…” stutters our daughter as the lights flash past. Other games in the series include “Jibbly jobbly” and “Jooby jobby”. When it reaches a crescendo of excitement and the shouting starts I have to admonish them like Topsy & Tim’s father on the motorway in Car Games.

In the end though we arrive at our destination in the South Cotswolds and pile out into the garden, the ice in our glasses clanking and footballs being punted. Here the stone is not the ochre of the North Cotswolds but a lighter grey, mostly covered in healthy-looking lichen. There are apple trees sheltering the lawn at the foot of the garden. Dainty flowers emerge from the mossy grass. If you sit still and listen, the noises are those of a child’s farmyard toy, with cocks crowing somewhere nearby, chickens clucking next door and the occasional dog’s bark.

And all the time the sun burns more brightly. I lie on one arm and my daughter lies near me looking at the daisies, singing contentedly. It reminds me of when I was young too. Lying on the lawn in the summer stillness, the faint buzz of aeroplanes above, the dank smell of earth below. The happiness of nothing in particular happening. Of everything being that moment.

“Time to unpack!” comes my mother’s voice, cutting through the birdsong. Only it’s not my mother, it’s my wife’s voice and our daughter is up, stumbling towards the house, churning turf beneath her feet.

It’s been a while; I’d forgotten about life in sunshine.

April Fools

I didn’t have a busy day yesterday. My wife took our daughter off to see a friend and I had nothing to do. So I headed straight for the PC with a hot cross bun in my hand and stared through the poo-stained window. Since I had some time on my hands I thought I’d pay a few visits. I dropped in on Wife in the North, Rilly Super, Mutterings and Meanderings, Pig in the Kitchen, Drunk Mummy. It felt like an extended coffee morning or something, without actually having to stick in my unshaven face and scare people. There were a couple of other places I stumbled into and felt uncomfortable. Where it was like being a man at a hen night. But I will visit the others regularly, especially Drunk Mummy, who serves wine rather then coffee.

Later, I was reading the Evening Standard and the April Fool thing got to me again. Big Brother microphones on posts? Fulham manager’s car bugged by wife? New Generation Game with Brucie? Bob Geldof’s outfit? Surely they had all slipped through late. I had to sit down, suddenly my head was throbbing.

Then I saw it – “Too many hours in nursery ‘turns toddlers into yobs’” the headline yelled dumbly. The topic comes up frequently of course. This government funded study concluded that long hours in nursery (more than 35 per week) “had both positive and negative effects” on children. They were “more sociable”, but also “more antisocial”. Eh? Why on earth do they bother? Oh yes, to elicit feedback from the likes of Councillor Chris Cooke from Tamworth who emails in his advice that children need “whispered parental love and care” interspersed with “occasional play”. Oh yes, and I bet he’s done a whole heap of that. I think I’ll stick with Allyson from Wolverhampton and Debbie from Leicester who choose to send their children to nursery and pay the mortgage. I mean, really.

Pigeon Poo

We’ve been very normal over the past few days. First we visited Windsor and met some friends for pizza and ice cream. It was nice, as far as the new UK weather system - which entails getting a suntan in the rain while getting your head blown off by a freak gust of wind - will allow. Then we went to Lewes, where we ate organic sandwiches and vegetables we’d never seen before in the sun/cold. Lewes is a lovely town, which reminds me of growing up. It has proper shops and nice green spaces and people who smile and speak to you in the street. It really felt like we were on holiday. We sat in our friend’s back garden with white wine and crisps, while our daughter responded to the countryside feel by playing vets.

On our return to London I found that a pigeon (I assume) has defecated on my window at the top of the house. It must have sat on the flashing with its nether regions (or wherever they do it from) over the edge and trickled it down gently. No mean feat. And a unique avian insult which I am aware of every time I look outside. I may even have to take my life in my hands and clean the window. If this is my last entry you will know what has happened.

Happy Holidays

Is it just me or is there something insidiously disturbing about April Fool’s Day? I end up scanning the paper for something jokey, but suddenly everything looks bizarre and I can’t tell anymore. Yesterday I found something in the Observer about Blair taking up acting, which I assume was a joke. But it could well be true. And there might be others I missed. It’s like when I read Time’s Arrow , a book in which everything runs backwards, and after extended periods in its pages I was confused about what I was meant to be doing next, or before, or… It devalues the news for me. I can no longer take a war hero’s funeral seriously or a childkiller being sentenced to life, for fear of being caught out by some fake piece. And for the rest of the year I frequently have to remind myself that it’s not April 1st, or on April 1st that it’s after 12pm. Or am I missing the joke?

Anyway, the contractors turned up to fix the road over the weekend. It was a very impressive endeavour, which I watched with a knot of shopkeepers and passers-by. We all looked on intently with folded arms as huge bleeping lorries unloaded molten asphalt, which was then artfully laid in smooth black blankets by big men with complex mechanical machinery. Then came the rollers. Huge contraptions that rattled and ground and shook the street with an otherworldly bass roar. It was, I imagine, a foretaste of how the end of the world will start. After this climax, all that was audible was the sound of alarms chirruping the length of the neighbouring street. Now it is back to the comparative quiet of the thundering buses.

My daughter starts her spring holidays today. Was it my imagination, or did her teacher hand her over on Friday with visible relief? Other children have already been on holiday for a week. When I visited the park with her last week we were approached by a large group of women and children of varying ages. As they passed by, I overheard one of the mums say “Well, that’s the first week over – another two to go, though.” [Sigh.] “Absolutely”, they all agreed. It wasn’t surprising in itself, I suppose, it was just the contrast with what was, at a distance, a happy scene; and the way she said it: so resigned to the lack of pleasure. My wife is taking time off work to spend the holidays with our daughter and me. So we will be a normal family group for a while. That might take a bit of getting used to.

Stop Press

She was in a better mood. I picked her up from school in a flurry of spray and windscreen wipers and got her home for a regulation lunch of chicken goujons, pasta and veg. Halfway through the meal I leant down to say something to her about broccoli and she kissed me firmly on the nose.

“Daddy, I love you” she said. And as a grin crept across my features “I like your face … and I like your voice”.

The grin is still there.

Mellow Fruitfulness

Weather? As I gaze out on the autumnal mist, spring already seems faraway. Raindrops hang morosely from the railing outside the window and the birdsong sounds low and lamenting. The thermostat, casually flicked down two days ago has been hastily turned up again, but the house stubbornly refuses the radiators' advances.

It wouldn’t surprise me if it is autumn before the roadworks around the corner are completed. The entire road is currently an empty concrete tundra, pockmarked by watery hollows. That’s half a kilometre of prime London street. I wondered why and then saw a notice pinned to the metal fence, which emerges from concrete shoes like a beach windbreak.

“There is no work being carried
out at this time as we are waiting
for the concrete to set. This will take
approximately 5 days depending
on the weather”

So there you are. I’m sure they’ll be along shortly.

Perhaps it’s the newly bad weather that has affected my daughter’s mood. Or maybe it was just my insistence that she is always happy. Yesterday we went over to my sister’s for another family gathering - the baby is very nearly here and we all seem to want to experience the fragile ephemerality of these last moments. My wife was in the car this time with the curly-cornered A-Z (this was were I was going wrong last time I realized – it dates from the 1980s and so doesn’t show half the one way streets in London) and although I didn’t have any major directional problems we did have a few terse exchanges:

“Is it left? Is it left? IS IT LEFT?”
“I don’t know where we are.”
“You’ve got the MAP.”
“Yes but where are we?”
“Look at the map!”
“I don’t know the name of this street.”
“It’s on the MAP!”
“Yes, but WHERE?”
“PAGE 95 G3!”
Silence.
“I’m never coming with you in the car again.”

On second thoughts maybe it was that that did it. Anyway later on, when my daughter was already tired she glimpsed her Easter present from my sister and husband and when we wouldn’t give it to her she started crying uncontrollably until she fell asleep on the journey back.

This morning she was still a bit weepy and not herself. It’s a lesson in the tenuous balance in children's emotions. She suddenly seems sad and frail and vulnerable. She’ll be over it by this afternoon I’m sure, but it reminds me I’m the one in charge, things are down to me, her happiness is not to be depended on.

Tea for Two

It’s nice, all this weather. Driving through Hyde Park I was hit by the heat haze, and the sparks of sunlight coming off the Serpentine reminded me of midsummer beaches. We were on our way to the Orangery – a café in the middle of Kensington Gardens which is a candidate for the grandest teashop in the country. It’s a little known spot and a favourite destination for West London mums, passed on by word of mouth in hushed tones down the generations. To enter is to enter a pushchair showroom. I was meeting a friend who I hadn’t seen for a while and who now has a two year old and a newborn and a nanny. She had arranged to meet another friend with a young daughter and we all sat down and ordered tea and flapjacks. I had the vague sensation that I was at the wrong table, but I always do when I’m out on trips like this. We chatted. The mum referred to me as “Mr Mom” and laughed, which might have been ironic, or perhaps not. The conversation got round to children. She wanted four and quickly. “So sad just to have two” she said. I smiled indulgently, thinking of our poor dysfunctional family. Were people staring at my daughter and me? “Call the social services. The police. Anyone.” Invariably things like this come to the fore when I’m in groups of mums. It’s never a particularly easy experience. Comments emerge like teabags shaken out of a teapot - eventually and in messy clumps. But then why should it be any different? I didn’t spend time with groups of women before, so why should things have changed now?

We said we really must meet up again, sooner next time. I swung my daughter onto my shoulders and headed in the direction of the car park. I don’t suppose we will. She doesn’t need me for any reason and I can’t say I’d get much out of it either. “Look daddy, I’m reaching out but I can’t touch the sky” said my daughter and I knew what she meant.

Happy Days

It occurred to my wife and me over the weekend, what a cheerful girl our daughter is. You might think that’s not too much of a surprise. That children are essentially happy until the realities of adult life are foreshadowed by the furious onrush of hormones at puberty. And you might be right. But for us it’s mainly of note because we’re not always – how should I put it - the most happy go lucky of people. And because her birth was accompanied by some hairy times of the post-natal type that they don’t (dare) tell you about in NCT classes. In the midst of the childbirth melee she was all calmness and emerged with little need of tears. And afterwards, through all the difficulties, a faint mewing and a wobbly bottom lip were her main methods of complaint.

“She’s so happy today” my wife remarked as our daughter sat in her little chair amusing herself bending pipecleaners, juggling pom-poms and lustily singing an assortment of nursery rhymes. “She’s always like that” I replied, realizing, suddenly, that she is. She’s always singing some tune or other and keeping herself amused with a game of some sort. And her speciality is leaping out of bed with a smile on her face and an observation about the world which seems inappropriately amusing for that time of the morning. And that’s when she’s not giggling in machine-gun tones as I tickle her on the sofa or lift her upside down. I often start laughing along with her for no good reason. It’s like the effect sun on London brick has on me, or a premium bond cheque, or a cocktail on the beach, or more like all three rolled into one.

In fact it is almost the case that the more miserable I am feeling the more happy and uplifting my daughter is. It’s an extraordinary thing. To me, anyway.

Altogether Now

It looks like another of my fantasies is on the way to being fulfilled. I came across a UK dads’ group - HomeDad UK - while I was researching stay at home dad topics the other day. (I’m getting quite passionate about all this : “Rights for dads!” “What do we want? Equality! Equality! Equality!”). I joined up and tapped a tentative post into the electronic buzz. “Hi, we all go to the Model Village and are regulars at Bunny World “ the answer came back. In fact there’s even an upcoming day out at the Model Village in the diary. I only wish I’d found this two years ago, but I guess I was distracted by changing nappies. (It’s God’s way of emptying your mind – have you ever noticed how this period coincides with having no useful thoughts of your own?) It’s a great idea - there are a million sites like this in the USA – but this is the first I’ve found in this country. The founders, Nick Cavender and Simon Windisch, started it up in 2000 and it has over 500 members and a huge amount of information and support.

By popular request, here are a couple of weekend jokes from my daughter: “Why does the t-shirt go in the bath? Because it thinks it’s a shoe.” “Why does a necklace stick on the wall? Because it gets all gluey.”

Must Try Harder

It always happens, doesn’t it. Self-congratulation is to be avoided at all costs. I may have made it to nursery in good time after a 50 mile trip, but with one mile to travel I found myself well behind schedule yesterday. And as a result a magnet for the slowest drivers on the road: wobbling bike riders, never-ending bendy buses, stalled eighty year old learners.

Finally I arrived at the nursery, leapt out of the car and pressed the buzzer of shame. "Ah yes, good afternoon, your daughter is downstairs in the older children’s class." came the polite but unimpressed response.

In the middle of the classroom sat the teacher and a large group of young children, all of whom turned to stare at me as I entered. My daughter was sitting in the corner unhappily sucking her thumb, surrounded by her belongings: backpack, cuddly toy, drawing. "I made this for you daddy!" She said, brightening.

The teacher looked on disapprovingly. I expected her to say: "Well you’ve let your daughter down and you’ve let us down. But more importantly you’ve let YOURSELF down…"
Instead she just said "Best get her home." and looked at me pityingly.

I gathered up my daughter and her belongings and exited behind a barrage of thank yous, determined to arrive half an hour early on Monday. I can't escape the feeling that I have let down stay at home dads everywhere when that sort of thing happens. I really must try harder.

Daytrip

I went to the Oxford Literary Festival for the day. I grew up there and find it strange yet vaguely comforting. It’s all honey-coloured stone and leering gargoyles and it looks like the 21st century has elbowed its way in, only to find a forgotten tribe of 14th century architecture ganging up on it. Only in Oxford would I find that a curry house I knew has been converted into a bookshop, reversing a countrywide trend. Only there would I wander up a slender alleyway I had forgotten and discover a pub I had forgotten, which, on further inspection hasn’t changed a bit since I was last there in 1983.

Talking of change, is the move to calibrating petrol in litres some kind of trick perpetrated by the people in charge of the country? I suspect that it is. Yes I know we are going metric, but if so, why is mpg used for fuel consumption when you buy your petrol in litres? Easy, mpg is a bigger number, price per litre lower. The price of unleaded petrol is now around £4.00 per gallon. I discovered that when I was working out that the cost of the journey in the Prius for the 100 mile roundtrip (2 gallons, or 9.1 litres of fuel = £7.90 - I’d bought cheap petrol at Waitrose). Plus wear and tear of course. Which got me thinking. My journey was carefully planned. I’d allowed no time for delays. What if broke down on my way back? Who would pick my daughter up? What if my wife were uncontactable? I’d probably be arrested as I stepped down from the cab of the AA lorry. “We’re usually quite understanding when a mother does that sir, but seeing as you’re a man it clearly demonstrates that you are incapable of childcare. So it’s straight down to the slammer with you.”

On my way through a typical cobbled and leafy Oxford street I saw a whisky shop (only in Oxford etc) and thought “Oh my father would like something from there”. I do this all the time. I’m always wanting to point things out to my daughter while I’m driving along and she’s asleep in the car or not even in it.

Anyway, the journey back went well and I arrived at nursery early. “You were quick” said my daughter as she tripped down the steps.

Pretty Ballerina

Well on the bright side (thank you for your messages of support and medical advice), the pub refurbishment is over. And it looks great. So now I have a nicer view when I hobble round the corner to buy my milk. Sadly I am no closer to actually going inside, although I want to be in there more than ever. It’s a constant torture and an unlikely but nevertheless very real reason for not living next door to a pub. The foot is much better too, although my daughter doesn’t appear to understand the arrangement whereby I am the one relaxing on the sofa demanding food and drink.

Anyway it’s probably time to mention another side-effect of blogging. What with all this blogging about childcare I have found myself doing less of the actual childcare itself. “Daddy can we play?” my daughter asked the other day. “Not now, I’m writing about what we did yesterday.” I found myself replying. “Why?” Why indeed. Thus chastened I immediately dropped onto all fours as instructed and pretended to be a cat eating a bowl of polystyrene chips. What had I been thinking?

I got my due reward later that evening. When my wife came home from work my daughter disappeared upstairs, returning shortly afterwards with her musical box. She opened it, placed it on the coffee table in front of us and as we all watched the pink plastic ballerina rotate regally, reflected in the backlit mirror, she sat between us, linked her arms in ours, pulled us close and said “This is nice isn’t it.” It was.

Crocked

I’m suffering from Blogger’s Foot. I was blogging on my laptop with, it would seem, intense concentration, resting my foot sideways as I wrote. After a while I got up to make a cup of tea, or get a chocolate toffee finger, or both, still thinking about some topic or other. I took a stride, but when I planted my right foot I suddenly realized it had gone numb. It gave way onto its side, accompanied by a sickening ripping sound. Hopping around on my left foot I waited for the pain. It didn’t come straight away of course, due to the numbing, but it arrived soon afterwards. There is some bruising, but actually it’s not as bad as I feared and I can limp around and do most things, including blogging.

I’m reckoning on my daughter keeping my spirits up during my convalescence. She has recently started telling jokes: “Where does the chicken go for an ice cream? Because it eats all the ice cream.” “Why does a rabbit go to dance? Because it gets to dance.” “Why does an elephant go? Because it is!”

Yes, I have great hopes for her on the comedy circuit too.

Roadtrip

I don’t know about you, but all this weather reminds me of a Hollywood disaster movie. Hailstones like golf balls, searing heat, angry cloud formations that creep up on you as soon as you nip out for a newspaper. Still, as long as I don’t end up like Kevin Costner on an upturned boat it’ll be ok.

We braved the weather and the cross London journey to visit my heavily pregnant sister. It was a salutary reminder that while inside the congestion zone a Prius might nip around looking vaguely sensible, as soon as you leave this enclave you look like you are driving around in an orthopaedic armchair or something on hire from Shopmobility to fetch the groceries. You might as well be displaying a bumper sticker that says “Can you tell me where Waitrose is?”. Still, we got there in the end, surviving a trip up a one way street in Brixton (suddenly BMWs were approaching me on both sides of the road. I was either contravening a road traffic regulation or I had stumbled into a covert Police operation.)
“What’s wrong daddy?” asked my daughter, picking up on a squeaked expletive. “Just, er, going up the wrong road” I hissed, doing a U-Turn (surprisingly good turning circle the Prius) and bumping my way over the pavement, pursued by a bunch of irate locals. We also survived the severe climate change, with the coats required in arctic West London proving too much in the South London heatwave. My daughter fell asleep in the high temperatures, I just overheated.

We arrived in a tizz and a sweat, and I turfed my daughter out of the car, barely awake. “What’s wrong, are you a bit grumpy?” I asked as she looked at me with obvious disgust.

This is by way of an apology. I grab her from the school gates, strap her in the car, drive jerkily for hours across the capital in stuffy conditions, rudely awake her and expect her to be in a good mood? Sometimes parents expect nothing short of miracles from their children. I think she’s just about forgiven me now.

Love

Over pizza yesterday my daughter announced "I love you daddy; I love you mummy..." And then, as we sat there beaming "...and I love handbags."

She's three and a half. My wife has the normal amount of handbags for a woman (one on the go, a portion of the wardrobe dedicated to rejects). I have the usual amount for a man (zero). How has this happened?

Room with a view

My favourite part of the weekend papers is the ‘Writer’s rooms’ feature in the Guardian on Saturday. You actually get to see inside the house of one of your literary heroes. It’s priceless information. No matter if they all talk about their ergonomic office chair, or their tilting desk, or how they transfer work from page to PC and then back again 50 times. It’s the room itself that’s the thing

From the window in my room I look out on a petrified forest of rooftops, chimeys and defunct television aerials. Generally I have to keep the blind jammed down so I can see my laptop screen. But sometimes on grey days I look across the still urban vista, fix on a point in the distance and float away. It is recommended practice that a writing desk be positioned at right angles to any window to prevent just that kind of diversion. But I find it reassuring looking at all the chimney pots and back windows that nobody else ever sees.

There are books all around me. A dartboard with a dart still embedded in a double-missing position. A lot of papers. A printer. Laptop. Various family photographs. On the shelf next to me is one of my wife when she was half the age she is now (we met a long time ago). Beside that lies my late father’s razor, an old-fashioned brass model covered in verdigris. (It was always old fashioned and covered in verdigris as far as I can remember). It’s the sort that has a twisty bottom which turns to open the jaws, so that a new blade can be inserted. (These come in little plastic boxes.) I pause and take it off the shelf to look at it, as I often do. It reminds me of a small bathroom in a small Victorian terraced house. Of damp towels. Pears soap. I can see the razor lying on the shelf under the mirror, a film of Palmolive shaving cream adhering to it. And here it is now. Where is my father to use it? I constantly expect him to come by and claim it. And demand to know what I thought I was doing when I took it. When he lay in his coffin I kissed him as I had seen people do on television. He was cold and clammy and it wasn’t the experience I had hoped for. He looked peaceful, as they tell you people do. But it wasn’t peace. He just wasn’t there. Like someone who’s asleep and having a nightmare. That’s not peaceful, really, is it? I remember as I put my lips to his cheek I felt the faint brush of stubble. He needed his razor then.

I wonder what my daughter will remember of our time together. Then I gaze at a distant chimney pot and float away.

Playdate #2

My daughter declared herself fit for nursery the next morning, an assertion born out by the thermometer. And it turned out that her playdate had the class cold as well. So I strapped the spare child seat into the back of the car and headed in to collect both of them at lunchtime.

I wasn’t looking forward to it. I hadn’t been looking forward to it for a while in fact. For someone with one child, the idea of two to look after holds a great deal of uncertainty. And one of them genetically unrelated and therefore presumably immune to the usual cajolings. I arrived at school and feeling like a kidnapper collected both of them. “Where’s my mummy?” asked the playdate. I felt this wasn’t a good start, but he was easily placated and spouting reassurances I whisked them both off for lunch at home.

It was all very sweet. They are like a little married couple. My daughter tells him what to do and he (mostly) obeys. She showed him round the house and he sprayed toys around like a New York fire hydrant. I’ve almost forgotten the wonder I felt when my daughter first started having conversations with other children. But I still enjoy eavesdropping on these poignant little exchanges. She wanted to pretend they were at school and he wanted to take all his clothes off, but, hey, as long as they weren’t crying...

Lunchtime came along. In desperation to provide him with vegetables he would like (I believe that to be one of the toughest challenges involved in childcare) I had cooked up a great assortment. The tactic somewhat backfired though, as he made me pick out all those he didn’t like. It’s hard making other children eat. You can bully your own child into it but it doesn’t feel right with someone else’s somehow. Anyway, after the usual "If you...", "Just one, then..." dealmaking we departed for the park. The ball was a stroke of genius (to the extent that taking a boy to the park and providing a football can be genius) - he set off after it immediately like a golden retriever. We went to the playground. He fell off a slide, cried. I bought biscuits. And then - after looking at my watch only a very few times – it was soon time to deliver him home again. As we all said goodbye his beaming face told me he it had all been ok. Or was it that he was overjoyed to be home again.

'Flu

Yesterday I did what I always do when I’m in poor spirits. I went to browse in the local charity bookshop. (Peaceful; nice décor; bargains galore.) And then onto Woolworth’s for some Quality Street pick-and-mix. It seemed to do the trick and I wandered home in appreciably higher spirits, chewing a chocolate toffee finger. It was another of those indeterminate days when the weather still wasn’t sure of itself. If anything, the winter chill was ahead on points against the spring sunshine and I was a little uncomfortable in my thin corduroy jacket. But the weak sunlight was pleasant on the eye and enjoying the look of it bouncing around Portobello market I very nearly tripped over a man crouching on the pavement doing something with telephone wires.

It seems at the moment as if the whole area is in the grip of one huge refurbishment. There’s the pub and the closed main road of course. Then there are the basement conversions conveying clods of foul-smelling earth into skips, and the numerous localized utility jobs in progress. I negotiated the excavations and crossed the closed road to my house. When it was closed last year for the first time and before it was dug up, residents traversed to and fro smiling and chatting about the exciting development. There were children on bikes, impromptu games of football. It was a street-party; a mini urban circus. This time they’ve already dug it up and there has been no chance of a repeat. Ah, the good old days.

When I collected my daughter from nursery I knew all was not well as soon as she appeared at the gate. Eyes downcast, she showed no interest in the fact that we were going home on the tube, which she usually loves. I felt her forehead and while not burning it was certainly hot. “I’m tired daddy” she said, quietly, and miserably. I packed her into a taxi and we headed home. Puffy-eyed and downcast she sat watching CBeebies while I fed her Calpol. Through the pain the vital question occurred to her - was she still going to have her playdate tomorrow?

Springtime

“Is it spring yet?” my daughter asks urgently from the back of the car. It’s the second time she has asked this question on this one journey already. Multiply that by the number of minutes in the day and you can imagine how often the query comes up. “Erm ... nearly.” is my stock response. “Why?” she asks. “Because it’s getting warmer.” “Why?” It’s a pantomime. She has had a fascination for the seasons since I started trying to explain the weather some time ago. Initially spring came about a day after winter, which in turn followed autumn by about two minutes. Now her appreciation is becoming more subtle and she seems to be on her way to grasping the concept. Not as quickly as I am losing my sanity though.

But is it spring yet? Some say nowadays that it starts on March 1st, and it certainly feels like it has. But I am sticking to the old-fashioned March 20th, the date of the vernal equinox. I want it to be spring for her sake, but I don’t want to mislead her. I hardly dare dream of the joyful day when spring finally arrives. Mind you, then she’ll start asking about summer.

Bad Vibrations

The scaffolding outside the pub has come down. That meant plenty of tattooed yelping and clanging and more peering through our windows. “Look they’re coming into our house” said my daughter of the forest of poles outside, as we attempted to exit. It did look that way, but when I got back from the school run it had all gone. And with it some of the noise - the daytime banging had turned into 24 hour banging – which has now diminished somewhat to an insistent grinding.

Taking over from the pub refurb is the road resurfacing. It’s a long story. (Still, I’ve got a blog for that.) The houses in our road don’t have foundations and what with the double-decker buses grinding their way up and down all the time, they were gradually being shaken apart. With the likely result a pile of some of the country’s more expensive rubble, the council acted. The re-surfacing was done at great length and expense and disruption, but it seems a crucial layer was left out or the materials were faulty and the cracks are starting to widen once more. So they’ve all come back for a second go.

Maybe it’s just the incessant tearing apart and putting together going on around me, but I have been feeling a bit dispirited recently. Of course for every Bunny World up there is a down. Days when you just can’t take the screeching children, the desperate inanity of it all. Days when life becomes a mobius strip of chicken goujons and Numberjacks and playgrounds and games involving crawling around on the floor. I felt in need of a boost so I searched the internet for succour. I logged hungrily onto stay at home dads’ websites and read about their experiences. It made me feel worse. I’m not a subscriber to the theory that reading about others’ misfortunes is any aid to happiness. In my experience it tends to have the reverse effect. Perhaps I just need a good talking to from Supernanny.

Spidergirl

As if to make up for her absence over the weekend my daughter reverted to her old dependency yesterday. She hung onto my back pockets (a bungee sort of experience in my stretch jeans), wrapped her arms around my leg and called upon me to carry out the usual amount of menial tasks, which I completed with more than the usual enjoyment. “It’s a pleasure to serve you” was on the tip of my tongue. However it wasn’t all fun and games.

She’s taken to irrational outbursts of petulance. Ostentatious crossing of the arms and huffing into a corner: “I won’t do that”. If she gets no joy the list soon escalates into “No, I won’t listen to you”; ”No I won’t do what you tell me”; “No I won’t live here any more” etc etc. She was at it in the playground yesterday. Frustrated by her inability to scale the spiderweb rope arrangement she stormed into a corner, huffing and wobbling her shoulders up and down.

It was the sort of situation tailormade for Supernanny. She would have created some naughty corner or anger step and sent the cowering child there while the parent lay weeping uncontrollably from a mixture of embarrassment, rage and general parent overload. Personally, I find the best thing to do in these situations is to ignore her. Supernanny would probably have fixed me with her gimlet gaze and done that tutting she does, while adjusting her skin tight shirt and secretarial glasses. “Fill up these plastic boxes with her toys and for goodness sake buy a wallchart.”

Eventually my daughter came back for another go, succeeded in scaling the ropes and declared “I’m very proud of myself.” I was proud too. It’s good to have her back.

Growing Up

My daughter saw her cousins this weekend. She has two: sisters - one a couple of years older and one a few years older. She sees them from time to time and when she does, we don’t see her. Suddenly, we, her parents, who still do everything for her: who dress her, because she won’t yet dress herself, and take her to the toilet, because she feels more comfortable there in our company and on whose shoulders she lays her fraying chestnut curls when she is tired; suddenly we are no longer the most important people in her life.

It is a window into a future time, when she has gone (or we have gone) and she no longer idly strokes our faces or bounces on our laps or gorges herself on a bedtime story with thumb in mouth and head hard against us.

The window shuts with the end of the weekend. But a faint chill remains. I’m ready, although it’s a skill that is not yet needed.

Bunny Girl

There was really no contest for our Friday afternoon out this week. It had to be Bunny World. Or Mummy World, as I discovered it is in early March. I’ve never seen so many mums in the same place at once. We walked into the play barn and as I reeled back from the hot gust of oestrogen the entire place went silent and hundreds of mums turned in my direction. (I may be exaggerating.) There were mums there from 16 to 60. Mums with babies, mums with twins, mums with triplets. (I saw my first 3-abreast pushchair there: a knot of mums had formed around it like a group of men around a sportscar.) Fortunately my daughter seemed to feel the same way
“There are too many peeeeple daddy” she complained. So we fled through the nearest exit and went to find bunnies.

The bunny experience took a little longer then usual on this occasion, since my daughter had grazed her knee earlier in the day and was affecting a limp. So she limped from bunny to bunny offering them bunny food (it was nothing, really; in the league of grazes strictly Championship level), and twizzling their long ears (yes I had washed, Savloned and plastered it thoroughly).

Afterwards we visited the gift shop (a bunny mask, in case you are interested – and at 50p quite a bargain.) Then we ate triple chocolate shortbread in the cafe. Finally we returned to the play barn, now a lot less busy.

As we loitered, a friendly four year old came and introduced herself to us and invited my daughter to slide down the Astra Slide with her.
Taking full advantage of my unthreatening beardlessness I started chatting to her mum, who was standing nearby holding her one year old. All very pleasant.

Now, one of the clearest lessons my role is teaching me is not to share my childcare theories with mums. It’s tempting: my views are in no way controversial and God knows I’m sure mums spend half their time swapping ideas on the subject. I just don’t think they really want some beardy guy, no matter who he is or what he does, telling them how he thinks the world of children works. For me it’s just chat, for them I suspect it’s like listening to their husband coming home in the evening and telling them exactly where he feels they are getting it all wrong.

Many, many slides later, when both girls have finally had enough, they run off towards the gift shop.
“Come on, let’s get some sweets” says friendly girl.
“No, that’s not a good idea” my daughter replies in a schoolmistressy tone.
"Very impressive" friendly girl’s mum exclaims, looking impressed.
“Well, you know – I just refuse point blank to buy her sweets” I half joke. (In fact my daughter prefers chocolate.)
Friendly girl’s mum’s face drops. She suddenly looks crestfallen and utterly miserable.
“Well, you know, sometimes you just have to give in, don’t you?” she responds, pleadingly.
“Yes, absolutely, of course, definitely, completely” I gush.
After an uncomfortable pause and sensing it is time to go we head off smartly for the car park. As we near the Prius I look over my shoulder and see friendly girl dragging a harried-looking mum towards the extensive sweet display.
I ruffle my daughter’s hair ruefully and strap her in her car seat.

You know how to wiggle don't you?

After my shave and what with the sunshine and everything I’m in a good mood as I gambol upstairs with my daughter to her classroom. Then, as I walk through the door, I see playdate mum. She’s nice and all, but I felt in need of a couple more days before seeing her again.
“Hi.” I say.
“Well, hello!” She beams. “Thank you for the thank you card!”
“Thank you for the thank you!” I parrot, horribly.
She laughs gaily. It may be that she just doesn’t notice or care about my solecisms. Or perhaps it’s the lack of beard.
We fuss around our children for a while and then troop downstairs together.
Outside in the limpid pre-Spring sunshine we circle around each other on the pavement in readiness for our appropriate departure trajectories. Then suddenly I say it. “We really should arrange a return playdate.”
“Great”, she beams.
“But you’re having a baby soon” I say, “So, er, obviously…”
“No, that’s fine, I’m not going to let the baby affect the children”.
I squeak with laughter. She sees me laughing and laughs too, but I'm not sure we're laughing at the same thing.
“Right well, er …”
“How about next week?” she suggests.
NO! I expected it to be a constantly postponed, always–a-few-weeks-off type arrangement. Not this.
“Of course. I’ve got nothing on.”(I haven’t … ever.)
“Sounds great. How about Friday?”
“Friday. Great.”
So that’s it. All arranged.

In the car on the way home I wonder what I’m going to do. There’s no room in our house for running along corridors. No boys’ toys. No Wiggles videos. In fact unless you like running up and down stairs it’s not a whole heap of fun. Then suddenly, while swerving around yet another road-crosser unaware of the silent menace of the Prius, it occurs to me what to do. I can give them both lunch. He likes football. I’ll buy a football and take them to the park and have a kick around and then onto the playground and then back for biscuits and hope that he doesn’t notice the lack of Wiggles. Easy. I don’t know what I was worrying about.

Close Shave

Obviously this whole blogging malarkey is an interactive opinion exchange sort of thing, and some of the feedback I’ve already had has been very useful. Yesterday’s advice on playdates in particular was extremely enlightening.

So the beard has gone. I’d been considering it for a while. I mean you don’t really want to be the guy with a beard do you? A short-lived fashion statement is one thing. John Virgo or Dave Lee Travis is something completely different. The other day I was in the bathroom standing in front of the mirror. Was I washing my face? I may have been putting on some moisturizer. Or perhaps I was just looking at something. Anyway, my daughter strolled in, as kids do. She looked at me for a moment, her expression denoting some interest, and asked eventually “Are you making yourself beautiful daddy?” I looked at the jumble of hair and the unruly beard in which flecks of grey had started to set up base camp. I felt somehow I was letting her down. So it’s gone and in its place is a light covering of stubble. I may go smooth, but it’s a big step all at once. Needless to say, when I presented my daughter with the new me she merely asked if there were any biscuits going.

Playdate

The building seems to be starting earlier every day. Today we’re woken by what sounds like machine-gunfire next door, punctuated by shrieking. I wonder if they’re using the work as a cover to reduce the pub’s staffing levels.

Life has taken an exciting turn: today we’ve been invited over for a ‘playdate’ by one of my daughter’s classmates. (Why playdate? I hadn’t heard of the word until a few months ago. Who felt it necessary to invent a description of two children playing together that included the word date? I mean it’s not as if I don’t already have enough difficulties camouflaging myself in a female world. I have to keep reminding myself not to call it a date by mistake. I can see it now. Police called. Husbands rung. Ignominy. Graffiti on my door.) The boy’s mum is the sort of eminently capable, cool and calm type that many mothers at nursery seem to be. Certainly not the flary-haired, beard-nested Worzel Gummidge that I am.

At lunchtime we walk from school together to their house, all holding hands (well the kids are holding hands and we’re either side holding our child’s hand - anything else would be weird, obviously) and eventually we get to their place overlooking one of London’s more exclusive garden squares. All very nice.
“A drink?” I’m asked. “Tea, coffee…?” “Err…” I usually find the longer you err, the more exciting the list gets. But in this case it stops after coffee. “...Tea please” I answer, finally, a gin & tonic suddenly appearing in my mind's eye. The mum is nine months pregnant with her third child and the hormones are really sluicing around - it takes her three attempts to make me a cuppa, what with putting coffee in first by mistake and then forgetting what I wanted and then asking about milk twice. I can’t help laughing (but sympathetically).

I never really know what to say in these situations. I feel like I have to reassure every mum I meet that I am actually doing it for love, I do know the basics of childcare and no, it’s not a ruse to go round to women’s houses when their husbands are out. I really need a certificate I can show them or something. Then the nanny comes in and it transpires that she’s pregnant too. They’re both grinning. Do they know something I don’t? I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable. I can handle my daughter, I can even handle her and my wife. But two pregnant women. At the same time.
I’m holding it together until the mum announces she needs her 40 minute pregnancy nap. I wonder how to respond “Would you like some help?” WRONG! “Have you got cable TV?” Mmm, perhaps. In the event it becomes obvious that she’d really rather I left, so I leave the kids chasing each other along the many corridors and dive home to do a bit of work.

When I get back they’re sitting happily watching the Wiggles, scoffing gingerbread. It’s been a lovely playdate, apparently. It was certainly good for me. But I feel guilty, and expect the kiddie police to be arriving any minute in a frenetic squeal of ABS, before leaping out and giving me a caution for lazy childcare. “End doo yoo mind telling us hixactly wot yoo ev been dooin for the larst hower… sir?”

We make our exit in a blitz of gratitude and head for home. My step is light on the pavement, until the terrible truth dawns. We’re going to have to have a return playdate.

Back to Reality

The pub next door is being refurbished. You know the sort. Gastropub. (I used to say that without wincing). Open kitchen in stainless steel, leaping flames, sizzling meat on beds of veg being ferried to and fro. Always packed with young people with bags and big coats and without children.

Anyway, noone told us, but suddenly there was scaffolding outside and planks positioned cleverly over our front door so that emerging in the morning gave rise to a sort of Laurel and Hardy moment. “Hey Stanley, careful with that scaffolding pole… Doooohh!” So there we are with builders peering into our front window (why do they need to be there, the pub is next door after all) looking surprised to see me sitting on the sofa playing aeroplanes with my daughter. I could of course go round and ask them not to plank us inside our own home and get angry about them staring in through our window like baboons. And I can. Because I’m a bloke they might actually listen. (Or maybe look concerned for a moment and then laugh once I’ve vanished round the corner). But I’m not angry like I used to be. Plus they know where we live. Plus I’ll be able to do it in person soon when the constant banging away at our hallway ends in one of them bursting through the wall like Rutger Hauer in that scene in Blade Runner where he sticks his head through the plaster upstairs in the wet old hotel where doves are getting ready to flap poetically into the bright night sky. (It’s a famous cinematic continuity error, but I guess it’s difficult to film doves flying into a dark night sky.)

It sounds like someone’s got a pneumatic drill and they’re ramming it straight into the other side of the wall. I mean what do they think is going to happen? Isn’t it obvious that it’ll come out the other side? It’s like a nightclub for demented builders around here - dull thudding mostly, then manic bursts of staccato banging. Don’t they know I’ve got a bloody blog to write?

Fantasy World #2

Since one of my fantasies has now been fulfilled, let me tell you about another. (By the way, it was every bit as good as I had dreamed – I drearily log on and suddenly the comments digit has miraculously morphed into an 8. Or did the moderator box reveal itself first, with its treasure of 8 unread messages? I can’t remember. It’s all an Oscar Night-type blur. If there had been a hidden camera - like on one of those shows where for the purposes of popular humiliation they surprise an unknowing, blank-faced victim, slumped open-legged on his sofa - my face would have been a picture.)

Anyway, back to the fantasy. I get up in the morning and while I’m sleepily transferring chocolate covered cereal into a cracked plastic bowl, the phone rings. It’s Bob. “Hi Bob”, I say, unsurprised to hear his voice on the phone at this time of the morning. “Hi Stay at home dad” he replies. “What say we get the kids off to school and then round to mine to watch the cricket?” (It’s quite a timely fantasy, this one.) “Great.” I say, “Then we can meet Tom down at the Cow and Bottle for lunch and a couple of beers.” “Perfect”, says Tom “And we can all collect the kids together, get them home and settle in for a session.” We agree that it sounds an excellent plan and ring off.

It could happen. No? No, probably not. Back to chipping off encrusted Coco-pops then…

Fantasy World

Recently I’ve been having these recurring fantasies. They involve people actually reading my blog. I know it’s ridiculous. You’ve got better things to do. Other things to read. Your own lives to document. But, still the fantasies come unbidden. In one I log on and instead of the usual 0 comments, the digit has changed to 1. I feverishly click the button and the comment reads “Beautifully written and crafted, this really hits the spot. I congratulate you on your courage and inner strength.” In other fantasies I feverishly click, but then discover all manner of abuse, blackening my character so darkly that I have to call a lawyer.

It all raises that central philosophical blogging question: why are we doing it? Is it for ourselves or for other people? Does it make it any more or less valuable if there is noone out there reading it? Don’t worry, I don’t expect an answer.

Model Behaviour

In the end the Model Village won. I have to admit I was instrumental in the decision. All that tiresome post-petting handwashing at Bunny World (yes, really) and the big draughty barn and the hyper-gift-shop with its legions of pink fluffy toys. Anyway, I picked my daughter up at lunchtime after nursery school, whizzed home (inasmuch as you can whizz in Kensington traffic, which, particularly in the morning rush hour, is reminiscent of the final stage of the Tour de France, or that Sylvester Stallone film where they mow people down for points), and then whizzed back, after realizing we had left her bag at the school gate. I say we, but in my daughter’s eyes it was of course my fault, and an unforgivable lapse at that. It wasn’t so much forgetting a bag as abandoning Dora the Explorer (river!; lake!; MAGIC CASTLE!!), whose pink face gurns from its flap. Anyway, after rescuing Dora, and a light lunch of ham and olive sandwiches, we set out for Beaconsfield and the Model Village.

If there’s anything more pleasant than whirring silently along an empty road (there’s a button on the Prius’s dashboard bearing the ghostly outline of an italic car, which, when depressed, means it does its utmost to travel only on electricity, and which the owner’s manual advises, with typical Japanese benevolence, is ideally to be used in built up areas late at night to avoid annoying the neighbours), warmed by shyly emerging spring sunshine, fragments of nursery rhymes floating forward from the back seat, then I haven’t come across it.

As usual, the Lilliputian splendour that is the Model Village doesn’t disappoint. It is our first visit of the year and while my daughter races round and round following the model railway I complete a leisurely circuit, engrossed in the attention to detail and workmanship. Other groups move around the village at a similar speed. Generally mums on their own with children, or mums in groups with children. Or mums and grandparents with children (“Pleeease don’t give Johnny chocolate grandpa…”). There is never another dad with his children. I’m used to it after nearly two years, but I still wonder where they all are. They exist, I know. There are possibly millions of stay at home dads, judging by all the blogs. But I never meet any. So my childcare is just her and me. No friends to drop by on. No coffee mornings. No girly lunches. Still, I’m mostly happy that way. And my daughter seems to be too.

As we sit munching Wagonwheels together at the end of our tour, I ask her “What’s your favourite thing at the Model Village?” She looks quizzical for a few moments. “Eating”, she replies, straight-faced.

Heavy Metal

I’ve had complaints already. Well, one. From my wife. I emailed her to tell her I had a blog and awaited a few vaguely positive comments plus some (constructive?) criticism, as usual. Some minutes later the answer came back “Sorry I’ve never really understood blogs. You’re a massive Metal Head with two kids?”.

The answer, I found, lay in a full stop. I am wwwstayathomedad. The Metal Head is www.stayathomedad. I can see that might cause problems in future. But after that unpromising start I got to thinking about Metal Head. “Well it's Monday and the first day of my first ever Blog.” He starts off breezily. But he posts only once, in June 2003. What happened to his beautiful children? His wife? His smiley son? Was there some horrible accident? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

In a desperate effort to avoid the same fate, I rush to make another entry. I thought a few strengths and weaknesses might be useful to illustrate my life in childcare. What am I good at? Making up bedtime stories that make my daughter cackle and scamper around the bedroom like an excited dog. (They involve an excited dog.) Coming up with afternoon expeditions we can both stomach (the Model Village or Bunny World this Friday?) I’m also quite good at combining unlikely kitchen ingredients to produce a meal apparently quite edible for a three year old. (Tuna and sweetcorn spaghetti anyone?)

My faults could of course fill three blogs. Poor shopping habits, leading to the need to combine unlikely kitchen ingredients (see above). Lack of sympathy for grazes, scratches, bumps etc (“Well you’re alright aren’t you?”) A seemingly limitless capacity for CBeebies, to the extent that sometimes I find myself watching it when I am meant to be watching Sky Sports. Difficulty mixing with mums. Frequent lapses in commitment to the concept of childcare. I could go on. And I will, tomorrow.

My Dark Materials

A while ago I wrote an article about myself for a national newspaper. I was in the first flush of pride after giving up my job in the City to look after my then eighteen month old daughter, while my wife returned to work. The article was well-received: friends and family congratulated me on my journalistic achievement, a literary agent was keen on a book deal, and somewhere I believe children are even reading about my experiences in a school text book.

Sadly though, interest waned, the book fell through and I'm not sure I rival Philip Pullman in many schoolchildren's affections. So, eighteen months later, with no audience for my ramblings - here's my story. If you're interested in how a stay at home dad, at-home father, house husband - there are a lot of names for it considering how many men seem to do it - operates in a mum's world, read on. And if you're a publisher, film producer or newspaper editor, I'm still available...