Things I love about my daughter

My daughter is now six months, sixteen days and eleven hours old. What better way to mark the occasion than by outlining her most impressive and endearing characteristics?

So, in no particular order:

1. When she wakes up, invariably in a good mood, her beaming grin is often accompanied by an enthusiastic gargling noise, which emanates gleefully from the back of her throat. My best description of the sound is that it lies somewhere between the soothing white noise your television used to make in the good old days when BBC2 went to sleep, and the creaking inhalation made by the terrifying, inky mess confronted by Sarah Michelle Gellar in The Grudge (Incidentally, my wife has for years objected to my impersonation of this but, quite unfairly, is more than happy with our daughter's). Of course, these two references straddle quite a large expanse of middle ground. But rest assured that their audio average, as demonstrated by my daughter, is the sound of contagious joy personified.

2. She has a resilience which dwarves my own. Having spent a significant proportion of her existence fighting off one infection after another, she is now suffering from a particularly malicious cold, regrettably contracted from my wife (whose own resistance is similarly impressive). After spending yesterday evening being mildly amused by her own frequent sneezing, our daughter awoke not long into the night barely able to draw breath through the mucus which had suddenly plugged every sinus, and was embarking on an aggressive takeover of her throat. Fear, pain and panic caused howls of distress and streaming tears, as my wife and I struggled to pacify her. Ultimately we resorted to shutting the family in the bathroom with the shower turned up to eleven, in an attempt to exorcise the snotty demon with steam. Relative calm eventually ensued, but symptoms which would certainly keep me under the duvet have clearly persisted today. Yet my daughter has kept up her proverbial pecker, following with the usual tenacity her rigorous schedule of energetic banging, grabbing, sucking, pooing and grinning. Knowing the extent of her suffering, each burst of energy seemed like a stubborn little miracle.

3. She does an excellent poo. For the first five or so months of her life, I developed a naive assumption that my daughter would forever more only produce occasional bursts of pressurised orange liquid. On the contrary, of course, her introduction to solid food has heralded the dawning of a new era. And this era is brown, solid and regular. And it absolutely stinks. I am suitably proud.

4. The way she rolls. For a few weeks now, crawling has been only just eluding her. The will and the strength are there, but sadly the knees aren't. Once she overcomes this hurdle there'll be no stopping her, but in the meantime she compensates by rolling and spinning across the ground faster than I can run, and I was consistently the second fastest runner in my year at school. Until I started smoking. And drinking. How can I fail to be filled with pride at this display of physical prowess in my offspring?

5. She's very touchy-feely. This manifests itself in various ways, some more violent than others, but all equally charming. She demonstrates her affection for someone by slapping them swiftly in the face. And she's got a good arm on her. Furthermore, the slap often coincides with a scratch, but we consider this our punishment for not cutting her fingernails every five minutes, and thus love her all the more for it. She means well. In her less energetic moments, her favoured conditions in which to fall asleep involve being held in somebody's arms (preferably Mummy's), at just such a height that she can suck her thumb while simultaneously stroking their face with the fingers of the same hand. This is extremely adorable.

There are more than five things I love about my daughter. But that will do for now.

A bit self-indulgent and not as funny as usual but nevertheless very insightful.

I've recently been promoted at work.

Hurray. Go me, etc.

I'm not just showing off. As you might expect, this has brought with it more pressure and stress. I'm gradually getting used to these consequences of earning a bit more, and of being a little bit more proud of myself. But at first I really struggled to cope, as the added tension triggered some sort of depression in me and left me crying into my wife's arms and phoning my parents in the middle of their holiday to feel sorry for myself at them. I had a crisis of confidence which made me question my ability to do the job I had been given and, worst of all, to be a father. How could I fulfill my stereotypical role as protector, carer and role model when I had been reduced to a pathetic, quivering mess?

Believe it or not, I'm trying not to be melodramatic, and as I say, I'm adjusting to it all now with the help of those mentioned above as well as my colleagues, to all of whom I'm extremely grateful. But the experience has caused me to question where the balance should lie between being somebody you and your child can be proud of, and ensuring that you maintain a happy and stable demeanour.

My memories from my own childhood are of pride in my father's importance at work, and in his self-evidently hardworking nature, but also of worry at the obvious stress this caused him. Undoubtedly these memories have influenced my thinking in either direction. I'm sure most boys just want to impress their dad deep down. Mine made no attempt to disguise his joy when I told him of my promotion, and I think this was a factor in my applying for it in the first place. Yet I had decided long ago that I considered happiness to be far more important than wealth or status. So why the change of heart?

Of course, as a parent, it would be irresponsible of me to refuse a chance to earn a few more pennies for the family coffers, but I think pride was a bigger factor. I'm ashamed to say it, but I didn't like the idea of telling my daughter that I work in a shop. Now at least I can say that I'm a vaguely important person in a shop. To reiterate, I'm ashamed to confess to this feeling, but the lesson I'm learning here is that the responsibilities of parenthood force you to confront your ideologies. I'm still of the opinion that happiness is better than wealth or importance, but I no longer always feel that my opinions should come first.

So the balance has shifted, whether I wanted it to or not, but I'm also learning that you can still have it both ways. I come home from work a bit more stressed than I used to, but it is precisely by then being the best father I can that I can overcome the tension and the worry. It's a bit harder, but that's why getting the balance right is the real source of pride. Tellingly, it was the same stressed father of my childhood who used his experience to help me through my own little episode. Thus it all falls into place, and it turns out that everything's OK after all.

Hurray. Go me, etc.