Sage

Before long, my eldest daughter will start school and my youngest daughter will start nursery. It feels like a landmark. They're not babies anymore. I'm not suggesting that we've finished parenting, but I think I've probably dragged this blog out for as long as I can get away with now. So I'm going to stop it. But before I do, I'm going to indulge my enduring dream of spouting pretentious wisdom, under the guise of imparting profound advice to be enjoyed in the future by my daughters.

Oh, how useful what follows will inevitably be to them. And how impressed by me you'll all be in the meantime. You'll nod slowly and go, "Hmmm," reassured and somehow invigorated by how bloody sage I am.

Ahem. Anyway:

Nothing is simple

There is a natural inclination in all people to see things in black and white; to see them as being straightforward: easily defined and in obedience of simple rules. 'Easily' is the key word here: water naturally flows along the path of least resistance, and humans naturally want their lives - including the ways they think about things - to be easy. So we reduce the infinite complexities of things down to a set of rules we can stick to, in the hope that the world we live in will oblige us by sticking to the same rules.

This is all my own amateurish conjecture, by the way. I've got no proof of any of this. I'm basing it on a simplistic reduction of things down to a set of rules. So it's either a brazenly hypocritical paradox or ironic genius.

The trouble arises when the world around us doesn't oblige, because it's not as straightforward as we want it to be. This creates insecurity, tension and conflict. Some people are so invested in their blinkered views that they get really angry when the subjects of their assumptions contradict them. This is why people whose assumption that their race is superior to another is brought into question overcompensate by treating the other race with violent or oppressive disdain. It's why companies with a lot of money invested in exhausting fossil fuels or producing carbon emissions spend a lot of money denying the existence of climate change, and on irresponsibly convincing others of this denial. And it's why people who have taken for granted their right to a comfortable existence are happy to watch their government scapegoat the most vulnerable members of their society when their economic wellbeing is under threat.

There is little you can do to prevent these tendencies in others. But you can do your bit by always thinking critically; always questioning your assumptions and being prepared to adapt them. This is easier if you avoid investing too much in your assumptions, financially, emotionally or otherwise. Stay on your toes. You may even find that others will be inspired to follow your lead. but most of them probably won't. Life's not that simple.


Nobody really knows what they're doing

Sometimes I get a bit down. Like a lot of people, I let things like self-doubt, paranoia and pride cause me to question my self worth, in relation to my perception of the worth of people around me. So, basically, I see other people as being really good at stuff and it makes me feel like I'm really bad at stuff in comparison. On particularly bad days, this perception is magnified to the point where I feel isolated in a psychological mire of incompetence. I'm the only one in my mire; all the other people are safely stationed on solid, self-assured terrain, getting on happily with their easy lives. And it makes me feel quite unimpressed with myself. It makes me sad.

But here's the thing: on good days I can tell that most other people have bad days too. Pretty much everyone gets a go in the mire. But there's an unspoken convention that you have to guard this fact from discovery; you must - according to this convention - always appear self-assured; you must never let anyone know you're anything but confident; you must let them feel isolated in their own, pathetic mire.

And it strikes me that this is silly. Because we're all left feeling isolated by an insecurity we all feel.

I hope you never have a bad day. But, realistically, you probably will. And when you do, be honest about it. It might help someone else who's having a bad day to feel better. And remember that, no matter how it might seem, you're not the only one. It might help you to feel better.

Nothing is really that important

You are one of over 7 billion people on the planet; one of eight or nine planets in the solar system (depending on how you feel about Pluto), the star at the centre of which is one of an estimated 400 billion in our galaxy, the Milky Way. The Milky Way, in turn, is one of around 170 billion galaxies in the observable universe. And don't forget that there might be an infinite number of universes.

So, in the grand scheme of things. that spot on the end of your nose doesn't matter as much as it might seem to. Try not to worry unduly about the petty squabble you had with your friend yesterday, or the latest Arsenal score*.

If all of this sounds a bit depressing, then you have misunderstood me. Or rather, I have failed to explain my point properly. When I feel stressed or anxious about something, I find nothing more comforting than the sense of perspective I gain from the thought process outlined above. Nothing quite takes the pressure off like an awareness of how utterly insignificant you are.

Just do what you want, really

So far, we have established that there are no rules, that even if there were nobody really knows what they are, and that even if they did it wouldn't really matter anyway. The logical conclusion of all this is that you should feel liberated to trust your own judgement in acting pretty much as you please. The caveat is that your judgement has to be good, and tempered by the knowledge that you may at any moment be forced to change the assumptions upon which your judgement is based. So tread carefully with this, and be realistic about consequences. But consequence is not the same thing as prohibition.

So if, for example, your boss at work asks you to do something you don't want to, then you simply do not have to do it. But keep in mind that you might lose your job. That might be okay, but if, say, you have children dependent on your income, this increases your moral incentive to keep your job. But it is still your decision. Basically we're talking about free will, here. It's up to you whether your reluctance to perform your boss' task outweighs the necessity to feed your children, although personally I'd go for the more conventional response to that dilemma.

Which brings me onto the second caveat: don't cause harm to other people in the course of doing what you want. Apart from being a basic tenet of being a decent person, this principle has more pragmatic applications too, which relate to my final suggestion...

Be nice

Bit of controversy here: I don't believe that altruism is necessary to a peaceful society. For the same reason that a state which distributed assets and services fairly would have no need for philanthropy, people shouldn't need to make any leap of faith - spiritual or otherwise - to be convinced of the need to treat other people well.

Rather, my slightly cynical interpretation of human nature leads me to the conclusion that people are more likely to do something for you if you do something for them. I describe this as cynicism but, actually, I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of. It's really just bartering, and I can't help feeling that if everybody saw the world this way then greed and selfishness would quickly become a lot less profitable.

If you do feel compelled to help others out of the goodness of your heart, then well done. Carry on. But in the more likely event that - as a human - you don't, help others because it serves your ego to be thought of as someone who helps others, or because it comforts you to know that you've increased the likelihood of them helping you in the future. The person you help will still have been helped, whatever your motive.

For example: if I'm brutally honest, I've shared all this profound advice with you mainly in the hope that others will nod slowly and go, "Hmmm," reassured and somehow invigorated by how bloody sage I am. But that doesn't mean it's not profound advice.

Thanks for listening.

*Actually, the latest Arsenal score is one of the most important things in the universe. But this is the exception that proves the rule.

Advice for body builders

Cancel your gym membership; it is unnecessary. Return your Arnold Schwarzenegger body builder's bible (you know: the tome so mighty you need to be Mr Universe to be able to carry it home) to the bookshop whence it came; it is surplus to requirements. Dismiss your personal trainer; he or she is simply not needed. If you wish to beef up, all you require is a baby with a bit of gas in its tummy. I confess that there are times when I would be prepared to lend you mine for a couple of hours.

For although, on the whole, she is a calmer beast than her older sister, our beloved younger daughter's post-feed tantrums are like a good Arsenal counter attack: they develop quickly and result in a screamer. She can go from blissful gulping to lung-bursting wailing in seconds, and her lung capacity is matched only by the physical effort she demands from you, the pacifier, before she will abate. Several times each day she grants me this opportunity to tone muscles I didn't know I had.

Over the past five weeks my wife and I have developed various techniques which seem to hasten the placation. Their effectiveness is directly proportional to the effort required.

The classic rock

Basic cradling. Doesn't work in the slightest. Our daughter considers this an insult to her proud reputation, and as such will only raise the volume.

The fireman's lift

This is relatively easy, and until recently was quite effective. It entails hoisting my daughter on her front over my left shoulder and patting her firmly on the back with my right hand. Even in the glory days it would only work when accompanied by a rigorous number of laps of our living room. My wife used to refer to it as "Daddy magic" until it abruptly ceased to have any effect two days ago.

The ski Sunday

At least I get to sit down for this one. But that's as good as it gets. It involves holding her, facing me, on my knees and both of us swaying in tandem from side to side, as if slaloming quite awkwardly down the slopes of an Alp. In a chair. Um. It doesn't really have anything to do with skiing. I'm making up the names for these things as I go. This is also much less effective than it used to be.

The up and down

Holding my daughter under the armpits in front of me, and simply lifting her slowly up and down. This is really hard work. If you don't believe me, try it yourself with something that weighs about 14lb, or even with a child if you can legally obtain one. I usually can't last more than about thirty 'reps' (as I believe strong people call them) and I'm quite proud of that. But the trouble with this method is that it suppresses the screams only until the precise moment when your arms can take no more.

The indecisive croucher

This is when I hold my daughter out in front of me, one arm around her waist and one supporting her head (but leaning back, as is her wont, and as it inconveniently was when she was born), and bend at the knees (my knees), holding this position for a moment before standing again, and repeating until the screaming stops. This sounds simple enough, but an awful lot of repeating is usually required. And the longer this trial of endurance continues, the more the pain increases. I'm getting thighs like tree trunks. Seriously: I'll be in Roberto Carlos territory before long. But persevere through the burn and tranquility is often eventually restored.

The Status Quo

The current favourite. Similar to the indecisive croucher, but with added back and forth motion. Picture an ageing guitarist, too slow and tired to attempt star jumps, and settling instead for this deceptively strenuous activity. I discovered the efficacy of this technique only yesterday and was happy to make good, prolonged use of it, until I found that I could barely stand as soon as I stopped.

I don't remember it being this much hard work the first time around. If I'd put in this much effort, I'd have spent the intervening months painting myself orange and entering contests in Las Vegas. Or whatever it is that muscly people do.

In other pacification news, the eponymous anti-hero of our older daughter's placatory animation of choice - the gruffalo - has officially now made the transition from scary to hilarious in her eyes. When he made his appearance in her 467th viewing this evening, her surprising response was hysterical laughter. We seem to have desensitized her to fear.

Just in time for Halloween.

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.