IT'S NOT A COMPETITION

Our youngest daughter last week reached the grand old age of one. The mathematical implications of this are literally severalfold. She is now a year older than she was, not to mention only one year younger than her sister. She is eligible to play with toys which enthusiastically state "12 months +!!!" on the box. (Actually I've never seen one with exclamation marks, but they're definitely implied.) Don't tell anyone, but she has in fact dabbled with such toys before. The difference is that she can now do so with a clear conscience, because overnight her throat rapidly expanded to allow the safe swallowing of small pieces of plastic. Similarly, she has developed a sudden tolerance to medicines and must now consume double the amount to achieve the same effect.

Just sixteen years remain until she can learn to drive. We're already behind on our savings for the lessons. In seventeen years she can begin to absolutely never, ever drink or smoke. Best of all, our daughter is one percent of the way to her letter from the grandchild of Wills and Kate. I wonder if monarchs will still write letters in 2111. I wonder if taxpayers will still fund the extravagant lifestyles of arbitrarily determined families in supposedly democratic societies in 2111.

Anyway, controversial cynicism aside, I can't help but use this landmark as a point at which to compare and contrast the progress made by each of my daughters. I am, of course, very clear that IT IS NOT A COMPETITION, but I think it's natural to find interesting the different routes their respective journeys have taken.

The most obvious comparison involves a notable skill our youngest daughter has just mastered: walking. She is now fully bipedal. For a couple of weeks she had Theo Walcott Shooting Syndrome (TWSS): she could only do it when she wasn't thinking about it, or when she was confident that nobody was looking. But, aged one year and two days, she decided it was time to go public and spent the day toddling between different people and pieces of furniture. With each such venture her confidence visibly grew; now she is ready to give lessons in perambulation to other babies. From memory, her big sister reached the TWSS stage at roughly the same age, but it lasted much longer. She broke through the barrier at about fifteen months, so if it was a competition, WHICH IT IS NOT, then that would be 1-0 to the young pretender. This is commonly held to be normal amongst younger siblings; they have the advantage of daily demonstrations by their elders from which to learn.

The scores, WHICH WE ARE NOT KEEPING, are drawn level by the other obvious development: talking. Although not what one might call fluent, our eldest had mastered a few phrases not long after her first birthday. Daughter 2.0 will have to accelerate somewhat to meet this target. Her noises are definitely becoming more varied and discernible from one another, but none of them could yet qualify as words. Laughter, on the other hand, is to her what the word 'snow' reputedly is to eskimos. She has a complex and useful system of variations upon the theme of mirth, each more delightful than the last. Who needs English when you can communicate all of your needs by adorable chuckling? Still: 1-1.

In order to prompt other interesting comparisons, I have just re-read the blog post I wrote upon the occasion of our first daughter's first birthday, some nineteen months ago. What I learned was this: I was really self-involved nineteen months ago.

It was all about me. I barely mentioned the progeny at all. Shameful, really. In my defence, I did - in the course of discussing myself at such length - describe myself as vain. Furthermore, though, I proposed that fatherhood doesn't really change one's characteristics. Well, the evidence nineteen months on begs to differ. I have today managed five paragraphs - many of them featuring more than two sentences - before talking about me. So perhaps parenthood has changed me. I am now, clearly, not even remotely self-obsessed.

In paradoxical summary then: parenthood has made me less inclined to make the subject of parenthood all about me. I suppose I'll need a few more years of it before I become fully modest. Watch this space.

Manly manness.

Towards the end of my first week at secondary school, I had what was probably really just a bit of a tantrum, but felt to me like a harrowing nervous breakdown. This was as a result of the realisation dawning upon me that I had entered a cycle of responsibility that seemed infinite. Lessons were followed by homework, which was followed by a bit of sleep (during which I was asleep, and therefore unappreciative of my freedom), followed by lessons, and so on.

Of course I soon discovered that I could still make time to watch Neighbours and play football, and subsequently felt a bit silly about my nervous breakdown. But I concluded that silly was preferable to harrowing, and was therefore happy with this progression.

Since discovering that my wife was with child, my quite self-involved nature dictated that I wondered whether fatherhood would change me. Would I become more assertive, decisive and generally manly? Or, conversely, would I enter a new cycle of infinite responsibility, and be paralysed once again by its unrelenting pressure?

Upon our daughter's birth, therefore, I relished the chance to assess the imminent evidence in relation to these questions. For a few days I bravely smiled at strangers and spoke clearly in public. But then the initial euphoria wore off and the real test began. My subconscious prepared to sit back and observe with studious interest what was to become of me.

I did have previous experience of cooking, cleaning, washing and that sort of thing. But I had always carried out these activities with a sense of reluctance which is only apparent to me now because it has all but disappeared. I don't think this is down to any increased sense of responsibility; rather - when compared to trying to stop somebody you love, whose only means of telling you what's wrong is by crying, from crying - hoovering doesn't feel like such a chore.

So these sorts of tasks have become minor distractions, like cleaning my teeth in the morning. I used to hate doing that until I had to start shaving. It's all relative.

I also found the motivation to do the big, butch jobs which I had previously found easy to put off. In one act of afternoon spontaneity, I cleared the ominous jungle which has dominated and rendered useless our greenhouse since we moved in. I drew on hidden reserves of testosterone to hack away at the stubborn triffids, courageously avoiding all the big spiders and bees. The resultant mountain of rubbish and garden waste was quickly and efficiently despatched to the tip that very afternoon.

This is how dads spend their time. I was settling into my role nicely. I even considered washing the car afterwards, but everyone has their limits.

I've been back at work for a week now, and am yet to truly rediscover the air of jaded cynicism I traditionally bring to my job (whilst always performing it to the very highest standard, of course). Is this the result of a new, more mature and paternal perspective?

So the early signs are, on the face of it, that fatherhood is making a man of me. I'm more responsible, hard working and mature.

And yet I still play computer games on my lunch break. I still think flatulence is quite funny. I still find myself unable to resist manipulating any possible situation towards me watching football. So maybe the early signs are misleading. Or maybe these are simply the necessary means of relieving the pressure, thus avoiding another tantrum. What I have learned - which I hadn't when I was eleven - is that you cope with the responsibility because you have to.

The one thing about which I can be conclusive is that I care a lot less than I did six weeks ago about whether anybody else thinks I'm a manly man. I just want my daughter to be happy. Which I think means that, manly or not, I'm definitely a dad.