It's been exactly 1,410 days since I became a father. This completely arbitrary milestone has given me cause to reflect upon the effect parenthood has had on me. I can think of no other occurrence in someone's life that has such an impact on the way they live it - either for practical or philosophical reasons - and I'm certainly no different.
The practical alterations to my lifestyle (e.g. forgetting what the inside of a pub looks like) tend to be borne of necessity, and may last only as long as the circumstances that require them. But there are other differences in me which, I think, are entrenched. I'm a new man. Here are some examples:
Crying
The list of films I can't watch without my eyes leaking is an awful lot longer than it used to be. It was basically just It's a Wonderful Life before. Now it would be easier to document things that don't make me cry. Recent examples of things that do include Shrek, Pacific Rim (seriously), and that thing on the internet about the schoolboy who overcomes his stutter. When they clear Iranian airspace at the end of Argo: that set me off good and proper. That is a very tense film, to be fair. I hope I haven't spoilt it for anyone.
Also: absolutely anything depicting a child in jeopardy.
Exclamation marks
I used to be a strict advocate of the theory that an exclamation mark is the written equivalent of laughing at your own joke. I would tut smugly at the merest sight of such garish punctuation, with a vehemence I now reserve only for those who confuse 'lose' with 'loose'. Or 'their' with 'they're'. Or 'its' with 'it's'. There are loads, actually. But the point is, I am now entirely unperturbed by exclamation marks. I even use them myself on occasion, although I often put them in brackets, so I can reserve the right to have been doing so ironically, should the need arise.
I struggle to find a direct link between fatherhood and the softening in my attitude towards this or any other form of punctuation. But I am in no doubt that it, like my increased propensity to weeping, is a symptom of a softer, more sympathetic outlook upon life. It could be that being the father of two girls has encouraged me to engage more readily with my empathetic side. Or it could be the lack of sleep.
Either way, I must still insist that the use of more than one exclamation mark in a single instance is unforgivable. Even if you are a PE teacher(!)
Functional insomnia
Until she was about nine months old, our eldest daughter was really rubbish at sleeping. Then we got tough. A week of us just pretending she wasn't screaming like an angry demon with a stubbed toe in the next room, and she finally accepted that she'd need to learn to settle herself down. Boom. Problem solved.
And not before time. I had started to go a bit mad, fulfilling various cliches to do with being a confused and forgetful zombie. And things were an awful lot worse for my wife, whose share of the nightly burden had been greater. But now we could return to a sensible, coherent life, having bravely helped our daughter to overcome her issues.
Then we had another daughter. After several months of similar nocturnal problems with her, we reluctantly concluded that we would be unable to pursue a similar solution. Allowing her to scream it out would serve primarily to awaken her sister's hard-won, peaceful slumber. So, in desperation to keep our youngest quiet - thus preserving the success we had achieved with our eldest - we began bringing her into the comforting security of our bed. Here, she would settle happily and sleep as well as her sister. Unfortunately, her favoured position in our bed was a perpendicular one which enabled her to kick me and headbutt my wife throughout the night. Still no sleep for the grown-ups. Cliche zombie lifestyles were resumed.
Two years on, this situation has changed in no way whatsoever. Our youngest daughter still spends half of most nights in our bed, where we sacrifice our own rest and comfort so that she can enjoy both. We have only ourselves to blame. And yet, on reflection, we seem to have been surviving; living ostensibly normal lives by day. I have always been a person who values my sleep. If you had told me four years ago that I would play a significant role in raising two children, be vaguely competent at a mentally and physically demanding job, and do other things like shopping, decorating and writing an entertaining blog - all on just a few hours' sleep a night - my incredulity at your preposterousness would have known no bounds.
But here we are. I guess this is simply a good example of people being more adaptable than they think they are. Or more deluded than they think they are about how adaptable they are. I'm too tired to tell which.
Whatever the opposite of vanity is
Much as it pains me to say it, I used to be a bit vain. I should clarify that, in my considered view, there are two distinct forms of vanity: there are people with an unpleasantly high opinion of their own appearance; then there are people whose preoccupation with their appearance stems from the opposite - an obsessively low self-image. I was very much in the latter category. I would spend a lot of time looking in mirrors. Squeezing spots, sucking in my belly, that sort of thing.
Now, I don't really care. It's not that my opinion of my physical appearance has improved particularly (although my new jumper does seem to suit me quite nicely). It just doesn't seem very important. Mirrors occupy my eyes much less frequently. My choice of clothes occupies my thoughts less frequently. I now have a curious, burgeoning pride in my stomach's slightly convex nature.
Of course, this could very well be just a consequence of ageing: I'm in my mid-thirties now, so perhaps I'm learning to accept the limitations to my beauty now that the decline is increasingly inevitable. But I know people my age who go for runs! Even when nothing is chasing them! Draw your own conclusions(!)
I think this change in my priorities has more to do with time. I spend less of it looking in mirrors because I have less of it to spare, what with all the parenting.
Seriously though: you should see me in that jumper.
Courage
I had an argument with a man in a car park the other week. He had deemed putting his car in an actual parking space to be excessively inconvenient. So he had positioned it horizontally, a few yards behind mine. Unfortunately for him, he finished doing so just as I wanted to depart. In my car. A task made quite difficult by this man's selfish actions.
Unfortunately for him, I'm a Dad now. I deal with stuff. I step up. I have grown used to expressing my reservations about the inadvisable actions of others. So I politely explained to this gentleman why I felt that the inconvenience caused to me was not justified by the convenience he had awarded himself. He disagreed. In years gone by, I would never have been sufficiently courageous even to reach this point in negotiations, but the new me pressed home my point with assertive and incontrovertible reasoning.
As I conducted the awkward eleven-point turn necessary to get my car out around his, I reflected proudly that he was probably feeling quite guilty indeed by that point. It had been obvious from the way he walked away from me.
Who's the Daddy?
Tuesday, 7 January 2014
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Repetition, repetition, repetition
It's been a while. Again. I think the reason I'm less prolific than was once the case is that, the longer my parenting experience continues, the fewer surprises it provides. If I were to describe it as thoroughly as I used to I would be at grave risk of subjecting you, my army of dedicated fans, to repetition. And nobody wants that. And nobody wants that.
Please don't infer that I'm unhappy about the predictable nature of my family life; children are big fans of routine and I'm something of a variety-phobe myself, if I'm honest. It's just that it doesn't make great reading. I could, for example, describe the horrors of the fever our youngest daughter has suffered for the past three nights, which has seen her temperature come within a sweat bead of 40 degrees celsius on each occasion. We've spent the early hours of the last two mornings plunging her hastily into a cold bath, in desperate and, mercifully, successful attempts to stave off hospital visits.
But my point was that this is not the first time I've detailed an ailment suffered by my youngest daughter. Her considerable abundance of qualities does not include her immune system. She's got a bit of a reputation for it. So no: I won't talk about that. She's been much better today actually, despite still suffering from the kind of rasping cough you'd expect from an ageing stoner. We'll see.
One development which is very new to us is the prospect of sending our eldest to school. She's not due to start for close to a year, but we must decide upon a shortlist of preferences for exactly where she starts within the next couple of months. What's curious is that nobody tells you this stuff. Without a conscientious nature and a helpful sister, this crucial requirement would have remained unknown to me. But fortunately I have a conscientious nature and a helpful sister, so I have spent a large amount of my recent spare time researching and phoning local schools. But there must be people who lack both of these advantages. How are the venues for their children's early learning decided? It's a sinister mystery. Anyway, I've sought advice from teachers and parents I know and I've made various appointments to be treated to guided tours of the more promising schools. I have behaved like a grown-up.
Tomorrow, I fear that this mask will slip. For the first of these appointments looms large, and I feel exposed and under-prepared. What do grown-up, prospective parents wear to school tours? What questions do they ask? Does it relieve or increase the awkwardness caused by the ridiculous, fledgling moustache they are sporting, if they explain that it's for charity? In theory, it should surely be the schools that feel a need to impress the parents, rather than vice versa. But we're told that places are at a premium, so the pressure's on.
I seek consolation in reminding myself that I have always claimed proximity, rather than ambition or attainment, as the primary consideration for primary school. But now the decision has advanced beyond the hypothetical, that conviction will be tested. Perhaps hidden pride is the exposure I'm really afraid of. We'll see.
As with all of these parental fears, we can at least take solace in the thought that experience will make this situation easier the second time around, when it's our youngest's turn. Thank goodness for repetition.
Please don't infer that I'm unhappy about the predictable nature of my family life; children are big fans of routine and I'm something of a variety-phobe myself, if I'm honest. It's just that it doesn't make great reading. I could, for example, describe the horrors of the fever our youngest daughter has suffered for the past three nights, which has seen her temperature come within a sweat bead of 40 degrees celsius on each occasion. We've spent the early hours of the last two mornings plunging her hastily into a cold bath, in desperate and, mercifully, successful attempts to stave off hospital visits.
But my point was that this is not the first time I've detailed an ailment suffered by my youngest daughter. Her considerable abundance of qualities does not include her immune system. She's got a bit of a reputation for it. So no: I won't talk about that. She's been much better today actually, despite still suffering from the kind of rasping cough you'd expect from an ageing stoner. We'll see.
One development which is very new to us is the prospect of sending our eldest to school. She's not due to start for close to a year, but we must decide upon a shortlist of preferences for exactly where she starts within the next couple of months. What's curious is that nobody tells you this stuff. Without a conscientious nature and a helpful sister, this crucial requirement would have remained unknown to me. But fortunately I have a conscientious nature and a helpful sister, so I have spent a large amount of my recent spare time researching and phoning local schools. But there must be people who lack both of these advantages. How are the venues for their children's early learning decided? It's a sinister mystery. Anyway, I've sought advice from teachers and parents I know and I've made various appointments to be treated to guided tours of the more promising schools. I have behaved like a grown-up.
Tomorrow, I fear that this mask will slip. For the first of these appointments looms large, and I feel exposed and under-prepared. What do grown-up, prospective parents wear to school tours? What questions do they ask? Does it relieve or increase the awkwardness caused by the ridiculous, fledgling moustache they are sporting, if they explain that it's for charity? In theory, it should surely be the schools that feel a need to impress the parents, rather than vice versa. But we're told that places are at a premium, so the pressure's on.
I seek consolation in reminding myself that I have always claimed proximity, rather than ambition or attainment, as the primary consideration for primary school. But now the decision has advanced beyond the hypothetical, that conviction will be tested. Perhaps hidden pride is the exposure I'm really afraid of. We'll see.
As with all of these parental fears, we can at least take solace in the thought that experience will make this situation easier the second time around, when it's our youngest's turn. Thank goodness for repetition.
Tuesday, 17 September 2013
The stoics
Sometimes, I affectionately refer to my youngest daughter as 'Snuffles', based on the fact that, as a baby, she always, always had a cold. I suspect that most parents have these slightly embarrassing nicknames for their offspring. At least that's what I tell myself. I also tell myself that plenty of them are a lot worse than 'Snuffles', which has the added benefit of being quite accurate at the moment.
I spent a delightful morning with her yesterday. We really bonded with each other on the way around Asda, I felt. All was happiness and joy in the Youngest Child compartment of my brain. So imagine my dismay when, upon returning home from work yesterday evening, I found her sprawled helplessly on the sofa, drowning in a steamy lake of her own snot. She was not literally drowning, but the sense of alarm I expect you felt when you read that may just approach the heartbreak I experienced as I discovered my daughter's plight. She could barely breathe. Each violent sneeze provoked a panicked and tearful response in her. Her temperature has remained much higher than it has any right to be throughout the disrupted, uncomfortable, spluttery and mucusy night.
What is remarkable though is that, in spite of all this suffering, she has stoically retained her mischievously positive outlook on life. She woke up smiling this morning, imploring my wife and I to give her a tickle. Anything for a laugh. She's out now with her mum, buying dinner to make later for her Great Grandad. Admittedly, my wife will probably be doing the cooking, but just to contribute to such altruism in the face of her germ-based adversity is nothing short of heroic. And completely foreign to me.
I have, however, had to display some stoicism of my own this morning. I'm doing it right now, in fact - I'm only writing this as a distraction from my anguish. I have previously spoken at length about the troubles our eldest has had with separation anxiety when dropped at nursery. Usually my wife - who works from home and, frankly, is above me in our children's affection hierarchy - does the dropping. She understandably finds our daughter's distress quite distressing.
I have a day off work today so, to give my wife a break and to see whether the change in dynamic would help our daughter, I did the nursery run. I stayed with her for a little while, as my wife has taken to doing, to ease her in gently to her morning away from us. After half an hour though, my daughter had shown no sign of detaching herself from my side. As I finished reading what was quite an entertaining Bob the Builder book to her, one of the nursery nurses asked her if she'd like to go and play outside with her. After some desperate persuasion from me and every other adult in the room (whose collective concern for our situation was touching) she agreed to venture outside without me, but not before casting me one last, desperate and insecure glance. "Don't leeeeeeeaaaaave meeeeee," said her mournful eyes.
And then I left.
Another nursery nurse approached me with disconcerting urgency and informed me that my daughter was having the most delightful and carefree time in the garden, and that now would be my best chance to escape. (Escape? I was having fun!) I hovered indecisively by the back door, unsure whether to defy the advice I had just been given by going to bid my daughter farewell, when I was intercepted by yet another nursery nurse, who assured me that she would say goodbye on my behalf. The message was clear: it's better this way. They all seemed pretty sure, so I reluctantly took their advice and made my pitiful, cowardly exit.
But they didn't see the look in her eyes. I feel like I've betrayed her.
I'm no stoic. I think I might be the bad guy.
I spent a delightful morning with her yesterday. We really bonded with each other on the way around Asda, I felt. All was happiness and joy in the Youngest Child compartment of my brain. So imagine my dismay when, upon returning home from work yesterday evening, I found her sprawled helplessly on the sofa, drowning in a steamy lake of her own snot. She was not literally drowning, but the sense of alarm I expect you felt when you read that may just approach the heartbreak I experienced as I discovered my daughter's plight. She could barely breathe. Each violent sneeze provoked a panicked and tearful response in her. Her temperature has remained much higher than it has any right to be throughout the disrupted, uncomfortable, spluttery and mucusy night.
What is remarkable though is that, in spite of all this suffering, she has stoically retained her mischievously positive outlook on life. She woke up smiling this morning, imploring my wife and I to give her a tickle. Anything for a laugh. She's out now with her mum, buying dinner to make later for her Great Grandad. Admittedly, my wife will probably be doing the cooking, but just to contribute to such altruism in the face of her germ-based adversity is nothing short of heroic. And completely foreign to me.
I have, however, had to display some stoicism of my own this morning. I'm doing it right now, in fact - I'm only writing this as a distraction from my anguish. I have previously spoken at length about the troubles our eldest has had with separation anxiety when dropped at nursery. Usually my wife - who works from home and, frankly, is above me in our children's affection hierarchy - does the dropping. She understandably finds our daughter's distress quite distressing.
I have a day off work today so, to give my wife a break and to see whether the change in dynamic would help our daughter, I did the nursery run. I stayed with her for a little while, as my wife has taken to doing, to ease her in gently to her morning away from us. After half an hour though, my daughter had shown no sign of detaching herself from my side. As I finished reading what was quite an entertaining Bob the Builder book to her, one of the nursery nurses asked her if she'd like to go and play outside with her. After some desperate persuasion from me and every other adult in the room (whose collective concern for our situation was touching) she agreed to venture outside without me, but not before casting me one last, desperate and insecure glance. "Don't leeeeeeeaaaaave meeeeee," said her mournful eyes.
And then I left.
Another nursery nurse approached me with disconcerting urgency and informed me that my daughter was having the most delightful and carefree time in the garden, and that now would be my best chance to escape. (Escape? I was having fun!) I hovered indecisively by the back door, unsure whether to defy the advice I had just been given by going to bid my daughter farewell, when I was intercepted by yet another nursery nurse, who assured me that she would say goodbye on my behalf. The message was clear: it's better this way. They all seemed pretty sure, so I reluctantly took their advice and made my pitiful, cowardly exit.
But they didn't see the look in her eyes. I feel like I've betrayed her.
I'm no stoic. I think I might be the bad guy.
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
Crawkward
Bless me Blogger, for I have sinned. It's been two months since my last post.
Sorry about that. Bit of writer's block, or something. In fact, I think it's more to do with my altruistic desire to be relentlessly entertaining; to always provide new and original excitement. And the truth is, our parenting lives have been relatively stable recently. Not entirely without incident, but not sufficiently dramatic to awaken my sharing impulse.
Also, I read an article in the Guardian a while ago - one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section - bemoaning the phenomenon of 'sharenting': the practise of enriching the lives of others by flooding social media with evidence of your offspring's shenanigans. "Stop imposing your joy upon others," it commanded. I was ever so satisfied with my smug rebuttal of this theory. "I've got thirteen followers who disagree with your complaint, Johnny Guardian Journalist," I bravely proclaimed (to myself), "Thirteen!" Seriously, though: I'm firmly of the belief that any subject under the sun is of potential interest to somebody and therefore merits writing about. If you don't like it, don't read it. I refuse to read things I'm not interested in all the time. It's easy. Having said all that, I'm a sensitive soul, so perhaps it's no coincidence that I've had a bit of a 'sharenting' hiatus ever since.*
Also, we got Netflix recently, so I've been really busy.
Whatever the reason/excuse for this hiatus, I feel that the time has come to draw it to a close. Here, then, is an exciting summary of What We're Currently Concerned About in Our House:
Poo
Our eldest has long-standing issues with her evacuations. Since being potty trained, she has been through alternating phases of being an accomplished toileteer on the one hand, and suffering from an abject fear of any form of faecal expulsion on the other. There have been weeks when her powers of retention caused her serious physical trouble. There was an anal suppository involved on one occasion. There was some screaming that night.
This is the stuff the 'sharenting' haters object to, isn't it? Oh well. Stop reading then.
Hello?
Good. I'll continue.
Even now, with the suppository days hopefully consigned to the past, we do occasionally have to break out the Lactilose to keep things moving. Only this afternoon I endured half an hour of hysterical anguish from my beloved daughter, because she successfully pooed in the toilet. It was a textbook excretion, yet this left her devastated. Personally, I'll always be a boy who thinks poo is a little bit funny, but our daughter is in danger of having a serious psychological issue with it. I sincerely hope it's a phase which will end naturally, and soon.
Rejection
When our first daughter was a bit younger, she used to have a strange reaction to my having time off work. Or, rather, to my going back to work at the end of it. I would be punished by her for my rude insistence upon returning to spending all day out of the house. I would arrive home each evening, only to be shunned by her; forbidden from demonstrating any assistance or affection. All this would mean sadness for me and hard work for my wife. Mercifully, our eldest is now three, going on sixteen, and her subsequent maturity means that she has no such unreasonable reaction to the ends of Daddy's holidays anymore.
Unfortunately, our youngest has filled this particular niche effortlessly. I recently had a week off work which inevitably ended. Thus, no longer will she treat me to a kiss goodbye in the morning. When I come home in the evening she imposes a restraining order upon me, punishable by screaming if I encroach upon her three metre safe zone. I can't pick her up, fetch her anything, even look at her without high-pitched admonishment. It breaks my heart but I stay strong: I know it's really a form of indirect affection. It's just very, very subtle.
School
I may previously have discussed the problems our eldest had with separation anxiety when she started nursery school. She loved the environment, the staff, the other children, the activities; everything. But she could not abide spending five hours apart from Mummy three times a week. It was extremely traumatic. After a few weeks, there were signs that this terror was beginning to subside. Then she broke her leg. By the time she had recovered it was nearly the end of the term, so we opted to wait until the new term to restart the arduous process of settling in.
The new term starts next week.
I'll level with you: we're a bit scared. But we understand that this development of independence is precisely the reason we must persevere with nursery school. For it is but one year until she'll start at Actual Proper Compulsory School.
This, of course, means that Mummy and I have our own hurdles to overcome. We must do research. I've spoken to a couple of teacher friends about how to choose a school for your child and they were very helpful, suggesting that we use websites and Ofsted reports as a starting point, before taking them with a pinch of salt and arranging to have a look around some likely establishments. The feel we get for them then, I'm told, will be the most reliable factor in finding a place whose educational ethos most closely resembles our own.
But do we even know what our own ethos is? Without wishing to get all political, I'm very much of the opinion that primary school should be about engaging children in the ideas of curiosity and exploration; equipping them with the tools to learn happily and meaningfully when the serious stuff starts at secondary school. It should not be about test-oriented memory training. Recent developments at the Department for Education, however, seem to suggest that schools which share my way of thinking are not at all de rigueur. They should be more de rigour, according to Michael Gove, the despicable idealogue who has somehow been given responsibility for this sort of thing. All of which fills me with more trepidation at the thought of embarking upon this necessary research than my daughter is filled with at the thought of going back to nursery next week.
Sorry. I get a bit carried away sometimes. That must have read like one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section.
*Perhaps I'm being some sort of snob, but the word 'sharenting' itself riles me up. I'm instinctively wary of the 'Brangelina' style conflation of two words. It's just a bit crass and awkward. Or 'crawkward'.
Sorry about that. Bit of writer's block, or something. In fact, I think it's more to do with my altruistic desire to be relentlessly entertaining; to always provide new and original excitement. And the truth is, our parenting lives have been relatively stable recently. Not entirely without incident, but not sufficiently dramatic to awaken my sharing impulse.
Also, I read an article in the Guardian a while ago - one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section - bemoaning the phenomenon of 'sharenting': the practise of enriching the lives of others by flooding social media with evidence of your offspring's shenanigans. "Stop imposing your joy upon others," it commanded. I was ever so satisfied with my smug rebuttal of this theory. "I've got thirteen followers who disagree with your complaint, Johnny Guardian Journalist," I bravely proclaimed (to myself), "Thirteen!" Seriously, though: I'm firmly of the belief that any subject under the sun is of potential interest to somebody and therefore merits writing about. If you don't like it, don't read it. I refuse to read things I'm not interested in all the time. It's easy. Having said all that, I'm a sensitive soul, so perhaps it's no coincidence that I've had a bit of a 'sharenting' hiatus ever since.*
Also, we got Netflix recently, so I've been really busy.
Whatever the reason/excuse for this hiatus, I feel that the time has come to draw it to a close. Here, then, is an exciting summary of What We're Currently Concerned About in Our House:
Poo
Our eldest has long-standing issues with her evacuations. Since being potty trained, she has been through alternating phases of being an accomplished toileteer on the one hand, and suffering from an abject fear of any form of faecal expulsion on the other. There have been weeks when her powers of retention caused her serious physical trouble. There was an anal suppository involved on one occasion. There was some screaming that night.
This is the stuff the 'sharenting' haters object to, isn't it? Oh well. Stop reading then.
Hello?
Good. I'll continue.
Even now, with the suppository days hopefully consigned to the past, we do occasionally have to break out the Lactilose to keep things moving. Only this afternoon I endured half an hour of hysterical anguish from my beloved daughter, because she successfully pooed in the toilet. It was a textbook excretion, yet this left her devastated. Personally, I'll always be a boy who thinks poo is a little bit funny, but our daughter is in danger of having a serious psychological issue with it. I sincerely hope it's a phase which will end naturally, and soon.
Rejection
When our first daughter was a bit younger, she used to have a strange reaction to my having time off work. Or, rather, to my going back to work at the end of it. I would be punished by her for my rude insistence upon returning to spending all day out of the house. I would arrive home each evening, only to be shunned by her; forbidden from demonstrating any assistance or affection. All this would mean sadness for me and hard work for my wife. Mercifully, our eldest is now three, going on sixteen, and her subsequent maturity means that she has no such unreasonable reaction to the ends of Daddy's holidays anymore.
Unfortunately, our youngest has filled this particular niche effortlessly. I recently had a week off work which inevitably ended. Thus, no longer will she treat me to a kiss goodbye in the morning. When I come home in the evening she imposes a restraining order upon me, punishable by screaming if I encroach upon her three metre safe zone. I can't pick her up, fetch her anything, even look at her without high-pitched admonishment. It breaks my heart but I stay strong: I know it's really a form of indirect affection. It's just very, very subtle.
School
I may previously have discussed the problems our eldest had with separation anxiety when she started nursery school. She loved the environment, the staff, the other children, the activities; everything. But she could not abide spending five hours apart from Mummy three times a week. It was extremely traumatic. After a few weeks, there were signs that this terror was beginning to subside. Then she broke her leg. By the time she had recovered it was nearly the end of the term, so we opted to wait until the new term to restart the arduous process of settling in.
The new term starts next week.
I'll level with you: we're a bit scared. But we understand that this development of independence is precisely the reason we must persevere with nursery school. For it is but one year until she'll start at Actual Proper Compulsory School.
This, of course, means that Mummy and I have our own hurdles to overcome. We must do research. I've spoken to a couple of teacher friends about how to choose a school for your child and they were very helpful, suggesting that we use websites and Ofsted reports as a starting point, before taking them with a pinch of salt and arranging to have a look around some likely establishments. The feel we get for them then, I'm told, will be the most reliable factor in finding a place whose educational ethos most closely resembles our own.
But do we even know what our own ethos is? Without wishing to get all political, I'm very much of the opinion that primary school should be about engaging children in the ideas of curiosity and exploration; equipping them with the tools to learn happily and meaningfully when the serious stuff starts at secondary school. It should not be about test-oriented memory training. Recent developments at the Department for Education, however, seem to suggest that schools which share my way of thinking are not at all de rigueur. They should be more de rigour, according to Michael Gove, the despicable idealogue who has somehow been given responsibility for this sort of thing. All of which fills me with more trepidation at the thought of embarking upon this necessary research than my daughter is filled with at the thought of going back to nursery next week.
Sorry. I get a bit carried away sometimes. That must have read like one of those provocative opinion pieces designed to get people all riled up and generate furious debate in the comments section.
*Perhaps I'm being some sort of snob, but the word 'sharenting' itself riles me up. I'm instinctively wary of the 'Brangelina' style conflation of two words. It's just a bit crass and awkward. Or 'crawkward'.
Sunday, 23 June 2013
Words
My youngest daughter can talk like a good'un nowadays. She stubbornly refuses to put together more than two words at a time, but I'm confident that this has more to do with her well-developed sense of mischief than with any lack of verbal ability. She takes a cheeky and obvious pleasure from gently winding up her loved ones: smiling exuberantly, for example, as she denies obvious truths, such as her own name, to her sister; enjoying the mild frustration this causes, but sensitive enough to avoid overstepping the mark. Usually.
My benign pride compels me to conclude that it's the same sense of mischief that causes her to refuse our suggestions for three-word sentences. So "Water!" is yet to advance to "Water please Daddy," but it's because she won't, not because she can't.
Why am I so confident about this? Well, I'm strongly encouraged by the size of her vocabulary. She employs an efficient dual-usage system for some words, as I seem to recall her sister did at the same stage. I think we can all learn something from this. For your pleasure, and/or evidence, here's an enjoyable glossary:
Bubbaiii
Goodbye; goodnight; so long, suckers.
Daddy
Daddy; any man (usually) with glasses and/or only a modest coverage of hair on his/her head.
Disoooooaaaaaaaaaar
Dinosaur; anything with teeth.
Dum-dum
Dummy.
Dummins
Doc McStuffins (Disney character. Not my favourite. Not anyone's favourite, except perhaps for my daughters).
Elloooooooooo
Hello.
Fock
Fox (I know. We're working on it).
Horses
Glasses; horses.
Mine
Any toy or foodstuff that somebody else wants.
More
I'm hungry.
NO!
No; I wish to annoy you at great length, for my own amusement. I can do this all day long, you know.
Nottar
Water.
Paintball
Paintball; pumpernickel (don't ask).
Phone
Phone; anything rectangular which can potentially be held near an ear.
Poopoo
Poo; guffers (an inability to distinguish between these definitions has caused us to waste a large number of nappies)
Scissors
Danger; fun.
Sorry
It may or may not have been an accident and I cannot guarantee that I won't do it again. But I'm really cute.
Tangled
Rapunzel (you'll get this if you've seen it).
This is but a selection of her favourites. There are more whence these came. Every day I am surprised and impressed to discover the rapidly growing number of things for which she already knows the right names. But I had a late night last night and my memory is not at its best.
I'm trying to think of a witty summation to finish with, but I can't find the words.
My benign pride compels me to conclude that it's the same sense of mischief that causes her to refuse our suggestions for three-word sentences. So "Water!" is yet to advance to "Water please Daddy," but it's because she won't, not because she can't.
Why am I so confident about this? Well, I'm strongly encouraged by the size of her vocabulary. She employs an efficient dual-usage system for some words, as I seem to recall her sister did at the same stage. I think we can all learn something from this. For your pleasure, and/or evidence, here's an enjoyable glossary:
Bubbaiii
Goodbye; goodnight; so long, suckers.
Daddy
Daddy; any man (usually) with glasses and/or only a modest coverage of hair on his/her head.
Disoooooaaaaaaaaaar
Dinosaur; anything with teeth.
Dum-dum
Dummy.
Dummins
Doc McStuffins (Disney character. Not my favourite. Not anyone's favourite, except perhaps for my daughters).
Elloooooooooo
Hello.
Fock
Fox (I know. We're working on it).
Horses
Glasses; horses.
Mine
Any toy or foodstuff that somebody else wants.
More
I'm hungry.
NO!
No; I wish to annoy you at great length, for my own amusement. I can do this all day long, you know.
Nottar
Water.
Paintball
Paintball; pumpernickel (don't ask).
Phone
Phone; anything rectangular which can potentially be held near an ear.
Poopoo
Poo; guffers (an inability to distinguish between these definitions has caused us to waste a large number of nappies)
Scissors
Danger; fun.
Sorry
It may or may not have been an accident and I cannot guarantee that I won't do it again. But I'm really cute.
Tangled
Rapunzel (you'll get this if you've seen it).
This is but a selection of her favourites. There are more whence these came. Every day I am surprised and impressed to discover the rapidly growing number of things for which she already knows the right names. But I had a late night last night and my memory is not at its best.
I'm trying to think of a witty summation to finish with, but I can't find the words.
Tuesday, 14 May 2013
Broken
Imagine you're in your most familiar and comfortable environment: at home. It's Saturday evening; you're feeling relaxed and good about things. It'll be dinner time soon. You run, as you do a million times a day, from the living room to the hall, en route to the kitchen. You can't even remember why now. You probably should have slowed down a bit: you slip slightly on the hall floor (which remains arguably your parents' greatest DIY achievement to date, but that's not really relevant). Never mind: you're always running around, falling over and crashing into things.
Oh, but hang on a minute. Something's different this time. Fear, confusion and an overpowering sense of injustice are competing with excruciating discomfort in a sudden, almighty battle for your attention. You've had countless cuts and bruises before but you weren't ready for the astounding pain now bursting from your leg like a shapeless, violently angry beast exploding through your every sinew.
It really hurts, basically. Also, you're only three years old.
So you scream and scream for at least an hour; the closest your voice can possibly come to expressing the sheer terror of your situation. But the only people who can help you don't seem to understand. They're concerned that you fell over; keen for you to feel better. But they clearly don't fully appreciate your plight: they eat their dinner before taking action. So do you, to be fair.
Your Mummy and Nana eventually take you to the hospital, by now convinced that this crisis is more extreme than usual. Your Daddy stays at home to look after your little sister, although it should be stressed that he is equally concerned for your welfare. (He's also rather handsome, but that's not strictly relevant either.) Their discussions about you prior to this excursion have become increasingly fraught and anxious, which is curiously reassuring and worrying at the same time. They speculatively mention something about sprained ankles. But their anxiety can't accelerate as fast as the howling agony in your leg.
Now imagine that you get to the hospital and see a doctor, whose concern is sufficient for him to insist on having you taken to an ominous room where a huge contraption is employed to aim a lens at you and capture your skeleton. What new agony is this? You do not enjoy being x-rayed. Nana, temporarily separated from you and Mummy, will later comment that she easily found you during this torture, simply by following your screams.
Ultimately, though, this ordeal serves its purpose: Mummy's horrified understanding of your suffering is at last complete when the doctor shows her the picture of what was once your shin bone; twisted, splintered, useless.
Broken.
Of all the people to whom I am grateful for their generous and sympathetic reactions to this incident, the one to whom I owe the most thanks is our other daughter. The one who remains bipedal. By the time my wife returned home with our poor little casualty in plaster from hip to tiny toes, our youngest was not quite asleep, but had mercifully consented to being bathed and becalmed, all without the usual input from Mummy. I'm certain that our second-born forgave her mother's absence on account of an understanding of the seriousness of the situation. Which is quite emotionally mature for a 21 month-old.
We pulled out the sofa bed in the living room that night; Mummy shared this with the patient while I shared a bed upstairs with our youngest. None of us slept much though. Harrowed, we were, and overcome with trepidation at what was to follow.
The next 24 hours actually went better than expected, if I'm honest. I was encouraged by some extremely understanding colleagues to abandon the day at work for which I dutifully arrived on Sunday morning. Our brave little soldier displayed more stoicism than we could have hoped for in the circumstances, aided by a steady flow of visits and sympathy from friends and family. But this could only last so long: have you ever tried keeping a three year-old still for more than a day? Or perhaps you've attempted to keep an inquisitive one year-old away from her three year-old sister for more than a day? It's a logistical nightmare which promises to go on for weeks. Having only recently mastered using the potty, our daughter is now tragically compelled by her plaster cast to hold her leg at such an angle that her wee trickles up it rather than into the potty. I'm open to solutions to this.
By Monday afternoon, frustration had set in. The well-documented under-plaster itch had already reared its ugly head, as had the inevitable tedium caused by nothing but sedentary activity. Today she got a paper cut from her umpteenth drawing of the day. This led to hugely disproportionate distress. I think what we were looking at here was a touch of emotional leakage: the upset thus far heroically contained by her stiff upper lip had found its escape through the paper cut. It was sad to see, but at least interesting from an amateur psychology point of view.
Shortly, we're off to the hospital to get the temporary plaster cast replaced by by a harder, longer term version. I think they're also going to x-ray it again. I am not looking forward to this (see above). We're selling it to our daughter as a chance to scratch the itch during the blissful window between casts. We've also promised to request a pink one this time. I really hope they do pink, which is not something I thought I'd ever say.
In case this story is yet to convince you of the perils of running in the hallway, consider the following: yesterday, during one of her understandably more self-pitying moments, my daughter looked at me and said: "I don't want to have a skeleton anymore, Daddy."
Oh, but hang on a minute. Something's different this time. Fear, confusion and an overpowering sense of injustice are competing with excruciating discomfort in a sudden, almighty battle for your attention. You've had countless cuts and bruises before but you weren't ready for the astounding pain now bursting from your leg like a shapeless, violently angry beast exploding through your every sinew.
It really hurts, basically. Also, you're only three years old.
So you scream and scream for at least an hour; the closest your voice can possibly come to expressing the sheer terror of your situation. But the only people who can help you don't seem to understand. They're concerned that you fell over; keen for you to feel better. But they clearly don't fully appreciate your plight: they eat their dinner before taking action. So do you, to be fair.
Your Mummy and Nana eventually take you to the hospital, by now convinced that this crisis is more extreme than usual. Your Daddy stays at home to look after your little sister, although it should be stressed that he is equally concerned for your welfare. (He's also rather handsome, but that's not strictly relevant either.) Their discussions about you prior to this excursion have become increasingly fraught and anxious, which is curiously reassuring and worrying at the same time. They speculatively mention something about sprained ankles. But their anxiety can't accelerate as fast as the howling agony in your leg.
Now imagine that you get to the hospital and see a doctor, whose concern is sufficient for him to insist on having you taken to an ominous room where a huge contraption is employed to aim a lens at you and capture your skeleton. What new agony is this? You do not enjoy being x-rayed. Nana, temporarily separated from you and Mummy, will later comment that she easily found you during this torture, simply by following your screams.
Ultimately, though, this ordeal serves its purpose: Mummy's horrified understanding of your suffering is at last complete when the doctor shows her the picture of what was once your shin bone; twisted, splintered, useless.
Broken.
* * *
Of all the people to whom I am grateful for their generous and sympathetic reactions to this incident, the one to whom I owe the most thanks is our other daughter. The one who remains bipedal. By the time my wife returned home with our poor little casualty in plaster from hip to tiny toes, our youngest was not quite asleep, but had mercifully consented to being bathed and becalmed, all without the usual input from Mummy. I'm certain that our second-born forgave her mother's absence on account of an understanding of the seriousness of the situation. Which is quite emotionally mature for a 21 month-old.
We pulled out the sofa bed in the living room that night; Mummy shared this with the patient while I shared a bed upstairs with our youngest. None of us slept much though. Harrowed, we were, and overcome with trepidation at what was to follow.
The next 24 hours actually went better than expected, if I'm honest. I was encouraged by some extremely understanding colleagues to abandon the day at work for which I dutifully arrived on Sunday morning. Our brave little soldier displayed more stoicism than we could have hoped for in the circumstances, aided by a steady flow of visits and sympathy from friends and family. But this could only last so long: have you ever tried keeping a three year-old still for more than a day? Or perhaps you've attempted to keep an inquisitive one year-old away from her three year-old sister for more than a day? It's a logistical nightmare which promises to go on for weeks. Having only recently mastered using the potty, our daughter is now tragically compelled by her plaster cast to hold her leg at such an angle that her wee trickles up it rather than into the potty. I'm open to solutions to this.
By Monday afternoon, frustration had set in. The well-documented under-plaster itch had already reared its ugly head, as had the inevitable tedium caused by nothing but sedentary activity. Today she got a paper cut from her umpteenth drawing of the day. This led to hugely disproportionate distress. I think what we were looking at here was a touch of emotional leakage: the upset thus far heroically contained by her stiff upper lip had found its escape through the paper cut. It was sad to see, but at least interesting from an amateur psychology point of view.
Shortly, we're off to the hospital to get the temporary plaster cast replaced by by a harder, longer term version. I think they're also going to x-ray it again. I am not looking forward to this (see above). We're selling it to our daughter as a chance to scratch the itch during the blissful window between casts. We've also promised to request a pink one this time. I really hope they do pink, which is not something I thought I'd ever say.
In case this story is yet to convince you of the perils of running in the hallway, consider the following: yesterday, during one of her understandably more self-pitying moments, my daughter looked at me and said: "I don't want to have a skeleton anymore, Daddy."
Sunday, 28 April 2013
Long walks and chicken crisps
I don't recall very much about my time at nursery school, other than that it was very far away from our house. It was the eighties: the world was a bit less 'developed'; a bit more spread out. Also, my Mum was getting her carbon off-setting in early during this period, by not driving a car. So my abiding memory of nursery was the epic walk there and back. It was the final alleyway, about 100 yards from home, which always broke me, psychologically. It's possible that I cried once or twice at this point. I still feel a sense of exhausted dread if I pass that spot when visiting my parents now. Having said that, I'm renowned these days as a first class walker, which, in hindsight, I suppose I owe to this frequent ordeal.
We made jam sandwiches once. (At nursery; not on the journey home.) My Mum let me get some crisps to accompany my creation. I daringly went for chicken flavour, which turned out to be a bit disappointing, but I appreciated the opportunity. Thanks Mum. My memory seems to favour quality over quantity.
All of which fascinating nostalgia is failing to bring me to my point: nursery school is extremely important. The particular activities undertaken there may not be entirely memorable thirty years later, but they form the basis around which children learn precious practical and social skills. I don't believe children should have to worry about learning calculus or studying Shakespeare at this stage; but they're much more likely to engage with the academic stuff when the time does come, if they're already equipped with the abilities to mix with others, listen and converse. Which is why my wife and I have bravely overcome our fear of losing our three year-old to the big, wide world and allowed her to start her own nursery adventure.
This fear was quite considerable. We have gone overnight from knowing every last detail of her activities and thoughts, to having these five-hour interaction blackouts, three times a week. As well as the obvious fear of her suffering distress and injury when we are unable to help her, our only knowledge of what our daughter's up to comes from our her own reports, supplemented briefly by the staff at the nursery - the (no doubt very lovely and well-qualified) strangers with whom we have entrusted her.
Our daughter's reports vary in quality, if I'm honest. I asked her the other day if she'd made any friends there yet. She enthusiastically confirmed that she had, with someone apparently called "Fanana". My doubts about the accuracy of this information quickly gave way to heartbreak when this new acquaintance's habits were described to me: "Fanana likes to say 'Leave me alone!' "
Sob. Whimper.
On the whole, though, one bad day (which followed a spectacularly sleepless night) aside, she does seem to be thriving. The nursery staff speak highly of her, assuming you take 'willful' as a compliment, as I choose to. Last week she brought home a flag she had made to commemorate St. George's Day. Personally, I don't count patriotism amongst my most cherished qualities, so I was quite pleased that her subversive effort was more Japan than England. But the point is that - while our walls are proudly covered in examples of her considerable artistic skills - this was the first time that she had gone out, made something and brought it home. This landmark feels significant on some fundamental level.
I think it's too early to tell whether the experience is changing her. There does seem to have been a lot of heavy tantrumming recently; it's quite feasible that this is a reaction to any stress her change in circumstances may have caused. But it could just as easily be down to the cold she's had. Either way, we're confident that this will pass. And if we're speculatively attributing things to her new lifestyle, then it deserves credit for the ease with which she charmed the son of some friends we spent the day with yesterday. They held hands and everything.
Our younger daughter, meanwhile, is starting to strongly appreciate the exclusive attention she is suddenly granted for fifteen hours a week. Again: it could be coincidence, but her personality is rapidly emerging, and I think it's going to be a good one. This young lady has mastered cute. Like most qualities I don't possess, I find this cuteness difficult to describe in any precise terms. It's something to do with the looks she gives you, and the voice with which she expresses her burgeoning vocabulary. Like many one year-olds, she's a bit of a butter fingers, but any spillage can be forgiven when followed by my daughter chirruping: "Drop!" She has also recently perfected 'dinosaur' which, as Peppa Pig's little brother George will tell you, is an irresistible word in the hands (mouth?) of a toddler.
So, all in all, I think that this notable development in our family's life is going as well as can be expected. I just hope Fanana learns some manners soon.
And, in case you're wondering, we drive to nursery. It's a really long way.
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