On a more serious note … (or Jimmy Saville also ruined my life)

These are strange times. Everyone over the age of about 12 is currently being investigated as a potential paedophile. Especially if they’ve ever worked at the BBC. Yet even the word paedophile itself is taboo. I’m not saying it’s up there with the N word or Y word or that paedophile comedians should liberate the word by using it in their stand-up routines; but it’s one of those explosive combinations of letters that make people uncomfortable. Like mental health. Or disability. Or kumquat.

I recently dropped off the sausage at nursery (wearing my rather comfy parka jacket) and there was a new girl on the door. I was told that I’d have to wait outside because she didn’t recognise me. Responding in my cheery manner that I understood because I was, after all, “wearing my paedophile coat” I didn’t get quite the response I’d hoped for. She looked at me in the same way that dogs look at cats (distrust, hatred and feral rage all balled up in one) and replied, with no trace of humour: “Paedophiles are no laughing matter.” Most normal people would have probably left it there. Or humbly apologised, realising that perhaps, rightly, a nursery isn’t the place to joke about paedophiles. Unfortunately, I’m not a normal person. Conformity and regulation are my nemesis. And my response (“Well, they’re funnier than clowns”) resulted in her closing the door in my face while she went to get one of the more senior staff to confirm my identity. Or maybe call the police.

I thought about my behaviour afterwards to try and decide whether or not I was in the wrong. It was a very brief internal monologue. The problem is, all the while words like paedophile are verboten then it’s so much easier for the perpetrators to hide behind not only the shame of the victims, but the shame of us to even acknowledge the issue. And our fear of uttering the word. Or of hearing it. One wonders if that’s how the recent ‘cover-ups’ (I should probably use the term alleged to keep the lawyers at bay) within large media organisations took place. If you suspect someone of being a paedophile or of sexual abuse (and you’re not the victim) and even uttering those terms fills you with dread, then maybe you just keep quiet. As do all the other people who saw the same clues and remained silent. The media tells us that it was out of fear for the power these people held. I’m not so sure.

I was recently hired to write a screenplay which revolves around a female character who suffers sexual abuse during her childhood. During my research, I learned things that made my head throb with conflicted thoughts and emotions. One helpful therapist who deals in pre-adolescent abuse noted that once they’ve passed that milky-smelling phase, young children (and we’re talking toddlers upwards) give off the same sexually-charged aromas as a fully grown, sexually active adult. The same aromas that, assuming we are nothing more than highly evolved chimps, latch onto our basest animal instincts and trigger arousal, in pretty much the same way that the smell of chocolate makes us want to devour brownies. Which, according to the aforementioned therapist, can be very confusing for some people (largely men, although sometimes women) on a deeply primitive level. I actually think I shuddered (literally) after she imparted that repellent fact. I can’t comprehend it for a moment. Even standing back dispassionately and utlising the cold, scientific part of my brain, or analysing it like a writer accustomed to delving into the deepest and darkest realms of the human psyche, the father in me still stands there shaking his head. Partly unbelieving. Partly sad and disappointed that the world might possibly work this way.

But. And here’s the thing. I’ve held onto that piece of information, presented to me by the therapist, like it was a grenade with the pin out. I held it in my hand. For weeks. Too afraid to let go, lest it blow up in my face. It was just a piece of scientific information (albeit subjective). But it made me feel ashamed. Because I felt that it was something other people likely didn’t know. I was desperate to talk to someone about it, but I didn’t even discuss it with my wife. It’s such a horrible concept, however accurate, that to release it into the open would make me feel tainted by it. That to even utter such a thing made me somehow a bad person. But by opening it up here, it feels less of a burden, less something to be ashamed of. And something that I can actually discuss. Intelligently. Dispassionately. And maybe that’s why we should be more open to debate such topics, regardless of how unpleasant they might be. Because to do otherwise is the path to tragedy.

I know I try to throw a little bit of humour into what I do, but even I don’t feel comfortable following that with one of my usually trite punchlines. This has been an act of catharsis, of sorts, so I’ll leave it to a wordsmith with far more ability than yours truly to close. I give you, the one and only Tim Minchin:

Ricky Martin Ruined My Life

I have today experienced the longest 45 minutes of my life. Yet it all started so innocuously. The words “Toddler Dance” should hold no fear for an experienced parent; but this was clearly a lesson in complacency. The sausage loves to dance. Whether or not she hears a snippet of trance on my iPod, a few bars of Vivaldi on a television advert, or the theme tune to Masterchef Australia, she will suddenly bust a move or two. Thus, it made perfect sense to introduce her to a dance class. Indeed, having been told about it the day before, it’s all she had been talking about. She couldn’t fail to love it. Or so I thought.

On arrival, the signs looked pretty good. She immediately abandoned me to go and play with the other children while I was left to endure the icy she-wolf glare of a dozen mothers, all of whom had come to enjoy this man-free zone (the class has been going for quite some time and the mothers clearly weren’t expecting male company). But when the class started, everything changed.

The fact that the teacher’s opening gambit was to put on some music and let the kids freestyle should have been an easy introduction. But no, my daughter didn’t want to play ball. In fact, while all the mothers danced with their children, the sausage stood on the spot, stiff as a board and immediately declared “I want to go home.” So I took her hands in mine and attempted a rudimentary ballroom manoeuvre. She instantly went limp and when I attempted to pick her up, she screamed like someone being water-boarded at Guantanamo. (Oh how I used to mock parents of the uncooperative child!)

With no alternative, I did what I would have done at home: I led by example and broke out some of my own moves in the hope she’d follow suit. In truth, I never expected my dazzling abilities as a dancer to be a curse, but so it was on this occasion. In my younger days, I spent six months on tour in a show as the only heterosexual male in a production consisting entirely of gay men. They knew how to party. Accompanying them four or five nights a week for half a year as they let down their hair, I probably shook my bon bon in more gay clubs than all of the Village People combined. Indeed, it made me the man I am today. Kind of. If there is one thing I learned from that experience, it was how to boogie. I never met a gay man who couldn’t move with the skill, grace and inherent sexuality of a python on ecstacy. After that six month tour, I had moves that make Ricky Martin look like my granddad.

Today, how I longed to be that granddad. In a dark, sweaty nightclub, my snake-like hips with their throbbing eroticism and slightly feminine shimmy are truly magnificent to behold. In a miserable church hall at ten in the morning, surrounded by mothers who have already decided I’m an interloper, my moves aren’t quite as impressive. They’re positively obscene. And I’m performing them alone. While calling out “come on sausage, move with me.” In retrospect, I can see how that might be misconstrued.

I endured this humiliating experience for the entire 45 minute lesson. My joy at escaping was indescribable. Never again. Or so I believed. My daughter and I were walking home afterwards and without prompting she turned to me and said “Daddy, I’m so proud of you.” A little taken aback, I asked her why and she simply responded “You danced daddy.” And that was it. The pain and humiliation washed away in an instant as a warm, satisfied glow flooded me from head to toe.

Of course, there’s only one thing I can do now. We’ll be there again next week. And the week after that probably. Regardless of those devastatingly agonizing 45 minutes of pure unadulterated hell, for that one spark of admiration from my daughter, well that’s worth all the accompanying pain. I’ll gladly go each and every week for that.

But I might just have to take some dance lessons from granddad in the meantime.

Al-Qaeda & the Baby-Snatcher

It’s been quite some time; work and a near-death experience can sometimes get in the way. It’s therefore taken something quite momentous to prompt me to put finger to keyboard. And, as is the way of the internet, I’m not here because of happy thoughts.

I attended my gym recently. My gym has a crèche, which the sausage loves. They have a rather comprehensive collection of princess dresses and, as anyone with a daughter will attest, princess dresses are crack for girls. She usually throws off all of her clothes within 30 seconds of arriving, before slipping into something so hideous that even Katie Price would balk at wearing it. So, at crèche, she is happy. I am happy. Everyone is happy. Until now.

I made a fatal mistake. I took a photograph of my daughter.  In the crèche.  I fully understand that some people don’t want random strangers photographing their children; but these are not random strangers. We visit the crèche a minimum of three times a week. My daughter knows all of the other children by name. They know her by name. They embrace. They play together. They are friends. I, meanwhile, am the recognizable figure of grumpy fatherhood, often forced to read a book to one child or make choo choo noises for another. I hate making choo choo noises. In the canon of vehicle sounds, it’s the least dignified. But children have no time for dignity.

The only people who can gain entrance to the crèche (via buzzer) are parents of children who are registered there. Most of us recognise one another. We nod. We chat. We have conversations about our children that invariably end in the phrase “tell me about it!” Unless a cunning child-snatcher has had the foresight to steal a toddler, fill in the forms and then returned to the crèche several days later with that stolen child still in their custody (and without making Sky News) then I’m not wholly sure how taking photographs can cause any harm.  Personally, I think it’s rather delightful.

By and large, I’m a law-abiding individual. So on the couple of occasions I have taken photographs in crèche, I’ve marshalled the sausage into a quiet corner and made the effort to shoo other children away in order to ensure nobody else is in shot.  My wife, who works full time, misses so many of the constant joys of our daughter’s life that I try and take a photographic record of the day, which I immediately text to her so she can enjoy them while sat at her desk and feel somehow part of these magic moments.  To prevent me from doing so is to take something precious away from my wife.

But recently, while I was in the furthest recess of the crèche, with no other child in sight and having formed a barrier around my daughter utilising barbed wire and a particularly nasty type of landmine banned under the Geneva Convention, I was reprimanded by one of the crèche staff. She told me, in no uncertain terms, to cease and desist and that I could get banned from the crèche if I continued.  After a terse discussion with the manager I was told that while I couldn’t take photos in the crèche, I was more than welcome to take my daughter into the toilets and take photographs of her there.

Now, call me old-fashioned, but my complaint was that my actions were completely reasonable and not in any way inappropriate. Apparently, what I was doing was a heinous crime while taking a child into the gentlemen’s toilets and taking snap shots is considered good, wholesome fun.  This, to quote Chris Rea, is the road to hell. Or the road to Jimmy Saville, which kind of amounts to the same thing.

I do understand some parents don’t want people photographing their children without prior consent and a 30 minute consultation with a lawyer. I even understand the reason – in the same way that the media has convinced us that anyone not blessed with perfect white porcelain skin is a potential bomber, we can now be certain that around every corner is someone desperate to snatch our children away. What sells papers is one simple concept: TRUST NO ONE. However, there has to be a certain amount of common sense. If not, George (who lives next door) and has both dark skin and a bushy brown beard –and thanks to television we know that all paedophiles have bushy brown beards – well, George would be getting frequent visits from the police for being a paedophile terrorist. That’s a terrorist who also happens to be a paedophile, as opposed to someone who blows up paedophiles. I understand the latter is positively encouraged.

So, I won’t be defeated. I shall continue to take photographs of my daughter at crèche. Even if it does have to be in the gent’s toilet. A little bit of Photoshop might be required. Or the next photo we send to granny may have more than just the one sausage in shot. If you know what I mean.

 

Younger and Younger These Days

The father to an exceptionally beautiful little girl (well, I would say that) I’ve already thought about her impending marriage.  Or, more to the point, how I can prevent it.  Or prevent her ever having any interest in boys at all.  I’m thinking perhaps rather than kindergarten, I might send her to a nunnery.  I’m already using Pavlovian techniques and poking her in the leg with a fork whenever she sees a boy.

I have always wondered how I’ll notice when she goes from child to woman; just so I know when to start warning her about the perils of the darker sex.  This weekend, the wondering stopped.  It’s happened earlier than expected.  At the grand old age of 23 months, the sausage is now a woman.  I can only hope it’s not too late to repair the damage and recover some of her childish innocence.

This discovery began when she was watching a group of boys probably aged around 7 or 8 playing football outside.  She eagerly pressed her face against the glass of the window and shouted out “Boys!  Boys!  Boys!”  It wasn’t a call to arms or an attempt at seduction, just a word in her vocabulary which she enjoys repeating.  She does the same with the cat.  Or a ball.  Repeating the word over and over again like a form of Tourettes.

However, she then climbed onto the window ledge, peered out and strung together not only one of the most complex sentences she has ever managed to utter, but a phrase that chilled me to the bone: “Up here boys.”  My 23 month old daughter hailed a group of young men with the phrase “Up here boys.”  Now, if it were Marilyn Monroe and the boys in question were Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, I’d understand it.  The cheeky, seductive sexuality of those words in that particular order.  Coming from my daughter, it felt like someone had stuck an ice pick somewhere in the middle of my chest.

I can only hope that it was a mistake.  A chance of fate.  Three words that she didn’t quite understand which had been thrown together like pieces of paper put in a hat.  They just happened to have come out in the right order.

However, there have been other small clues.  Recently, when I climbed out of the shower, baring all, she pointed at my man parts, gave them a cursory prod and then burst into fits of giggles.  Now, every woman before her who has seen me naked has done pretty much the same thing.  Which would suggest she has genuinely joined the sisterhood.

This morning I decided there was only one remedy.  I bought her a toy car.  A really boyish one.  One with flames licking across the sides and huge, chunky wheels.  I thought this might counter-balance the strong sense of femininity already bursting forth.  Unfortunately, after about five minutes of playing with it, she had already taken off most of the paintwork and crashed into a wall while reverse parking.  Then she began to cry.  I asked her what was wrong and she just shrugged and said “nothing.”

Evidently I am too late. She is already a fully formed woman.

The Monster Within

Today I discovered the meaning of schadenfraude.  Having recently railed against a certain unhinged infant and its hapless parents, I now find myself the proud owner of a devil-child.

Several recent misdemeanours had already set alarm bells ringing.  One of my daughter’s favourite tricks is to poke someone on the nose, accompanied by a “beep”; which is fine when it’s a fully grown adult.  However, when it’s a newborn, it’s impossible not to feel a little nervous.  Unfortunately, having taught her this particular trick myself, it’s definitely a case of “blame the parents”.  I recall being outraged when boisterous toddlers would approach my fragile and priceless gem when she was much smaller – simply out of curiosity or to play – and I would always consider the parents somehow negligent.  Only now, watching the sausage bound excitedly towards unsuspecting children half her size, do I understand.   You focus all your efforts on moulding a friendly, sociable child and then find this very attribute the hardest to monitor.  Control it and you are confusing them with inconsistencies.  Give it free rein and you open the gates of hell.  If I’d known parenting was this complex I would have studied.

However, yesterday it became clear that she is, indeed, possessed by the devil.  I took her to a play area with slides and tunnels and all manner of childish delights where her excitement was all-consuming.  That was, until she found a rocking horse which was already occupied.  She resolved this by pushing the other child off.  In response, I quickly removed her from the horse, replaced the other child and very calmly tried to teach the sausage the correct queueing etiquette.  At this juncture she decided to collapse to the floor, roll around and cry like a loon.  She has never thrown a public tantrum before, but taking a leaf from the book of Parenting 101, I ignored her and wandered off until she calmed down.  This would have been fine if, over the course of the next 60 minutes, the scene hadn’t been repeated about half a dozen times, just with different toys and different children.  The shame was compounded by the fact that I was the only father in a room of about 20 mothers and during my daughter’s screaming fits, tears streaming down her face and snot bubbling from her nose, she would repeat the word “mummy” over and over again.  I could feel the cold, accusing stares from the mothers who circled the room like harpies.  “What is that strange testicled creature doing here … he does not belong!”

Worse was to come when she snatched an apple from the hand of a child enjoying a quiet snack.  When I gently scolded her, she hurled it (the apple, not the child) across the room so that it exploded on the floor like a wet fruit grenade, covering children nearby with juicy pulp.  I didn’t even have to look up to know that all of the other parents were stood there, arms crossed, shaking their heads and thinking “I blame the parents.”  Sadly, if it had been someone else’s child, I would have been thinking exactly the same.

My only consolation was that, while I was contemplating our exit, the sausage pushed another child out of the way – a boy a few months younger – who then proceeded to pursue her round the play area trying to punch her.  When the boy’s mother told him off, he desisted for all of 30 seconds, before beginning the chase again; doing his best to bludgeon my daughter into submission with his tiny baby fists.  Ordinarily I would have been filled with rage at this uncontrolled beast and his negligent mother, but as all eyes now turned from my daughter to this mini Mike Tyson, I found an inner calm.  Far from being outraged, I just wanted to thank the vindictive little bugger for proving my little one wasn’t that bad after all.  Indeed, as I watched this stumpy reprobate try and apprehend my daughter, her long legs keeping her at a safe distance, like a gazelle elegantly outwitting a lion, I had an overwhelming urge to hold the boy aloft and declare loudly to the room “Behold, the true devil child!”

But, of course, I didn’t.  There is, after all, such a thing as schadenfreude.

Instruments of Torture

I had something of a moral quandary this afternoon.  Is it ever right to stab someone else’s child with an item of cutlery?  My family and I had met up with a family friend who has a young child a couple of years older than the sausage.  I shall retain this child’s anonymity, merely referring to it as Satan.

Satan had a cuddly toy.  Satan thought it would be particularly amusing to wave said toy in front of my daughter’s face.  Or bop her on the head with it.  Or mash it into her face and just to generally antagonize her.  It was clear from the second time this happened that my daughter was uncomfortable, if not even a little scared and intimidated.  She was in a high chair, so couldn’t escape, and most of the time was actually leaning over as far as she could to avoid contact with Satan, until she was almost bent double.  The parents of Satan told their hideous malformed devil-child to refrain in a rather half-hearted fashion.  It won’t surprise you to hear that Satan’s favourite book is Mein Kampf and its favourite food the still-beating hearts of baby squirrels.  I’m not making any of this up for comic effect, it’s all completely true.

Now, I’m an even-tempered kind of guy, but I do have a strong sense of morality and what is right and wrong. I don’t tend to get angry, I simply feel a sense of pity and disappointment in my fellow man which results in me acting in what is probably a slightly pompous manner in the face of injustice.  I’m not claiming to be some caped crusader, meting out justice, but if wrong is being done I think it’s only right that wrong should be highlighted.  I’m more Frasier than Batman.  I remember a particular occasion in a supermarket when a delightful youth brazenly by-passed an entire queue of about a dozen people (queue-jumping, as we all know, is tantamount to double-homicide and interfering with small children) and went to pay for his items.  No one said a word.  So very British.  So I marched up to him and used a phrase that still haunts me to this day.  I tapped him on the shoulder and without irony uttered the words “Who do you think you are you little punk?”  I don’t know to this day why I found it necessary to harness the power of Dirty Harry.  In terms of manliness I couldn’t be further from Clint Eastwood.  Indeed, in a line-up of Clint Eastwood, Dolly Parton, a vagina and me, in a poll of which was the most manly, I’d probably come last.  Indeed, all that resulted from my actions was that I found myself in a staring competition with a youth twice my size and had suddenly become a queue jumper myself (indeed in a moment of delightful irony I was served next).  I also had to go home and inform my wife that I could no longer attend that branch of Tesco’s anymore because I might be stabbed.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that anger and violence are not my bag.  On this occasion, however, ninety minutes later Satan was still abusing my daughter and the “parents” (I employ the inverted commas, as that term tends to assume a certain amount of responsibility) were continuing to politely ask Satan to refrain.  Meanwhile, this even-tempered father was genuinely looking at the knife and fork in front of him and trying to decide which would be the most effective in gutting Satan’s cuddly toy.  In a particularly savage manner, to ensure the most profound psychological impact.  Ninety minutes is a very long time to watch your daughter being made unhappy, with no one doing anything about it.  As a father, I felt impotent and worthless.  Due to the dynamics of the situation (in terms of boundaries and family ties), I’d decided I couldn’t make a scene.  I thus, rightly or wrongly decided that it wasn’t my place to intervene and that it was up to the parents of Satan to do so.  I now regret that decision.  Completely and wholeheartedly.  One of the most important roles of a parent is to make your child feel safe and protected.  Only a yard away from my daughter, I have a horrible feeling that I destroyed some of that trust.

I know parenting isn’t an exact science, but surely, after the third time your child does something wrong, unpleasant or downright nasty (which this seemed to be becoming) you say “right, this is your last warning.”  But when twenty, thirty times later (as was genuinely the case on this occasion), it is still taking place and you are doing nothing about it, surely you have to question your parenting skills?  I’d like to keep to type and finish this blog on a happy note, free from the vitriol which accumulated during the meal, but there wasn’t a positive on this occasion.

All I can content myself with is that I have a delightful girl who has no interest in Hitler or torturing small animals, and doesn’t have a face permanently furrowed with a look of pure evil and malevolence.   My wife told me that what I can take away from it is that I am a good father and if the roles were reversed I would never have let the sausage behave like that.  However, I came away feeling exactly the opposite.  Sometimes, just like with that queue jumper, you have to forget the consequences and do what’s right.  On this occasion I just stood back and stayed in line.  So I suppose the one thing I can take from it is the knowledge that I know what to do next time and that I have made a very important decision.  The fork.  Most definitely the fork.

The Upper Hand

There’s a joke told by comedian Ed Byrne about being sat on a train, a mother and son opposite him.  The boy is repeating the word “mum” over and over again.  “Mum, mum, mum, mum, mum” like some form of Chinese water torture.  Eventually she turns to her son and says “I can’t believe how happy I was the first time you said that word.”  Well, I suppose you had to be there, but it made me laugh at the time.  Now it just resonates with a painful twang of recognition.

Don’t get me wrong, my parental moniker is one of the few words the sausage can repeat ad infinitum and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing it.  It’s the odd enunciation that makes it particularly endearing.  Just a slight hesitation before the second syllable so I am regularly called “Da-deee” (with that elongated last vowel peculiar to all children).  I still marvel at the seemingly random nature of which words she picks up and those with which she still struggles.  But today, I wished she’d never uttered a word in her life.  Because she mispronounced my name.  Today, rather than Chris, I became Cliff.

“No, sweetheart – Chris,” I replied.  She looked up at me angelically and repeated: “Cliff.”  “No, it’s Chris … Chris,” and I emphasised the letters one by one.  There was a pause as I could see the cogs turning, before I received another “Cliff.”  Thus, I became Cliff for most of the day.  This might not seem important, but I’m very fond of my name.  Names define us.  Chris: you know what you’re going to get with that name.  Wit.  Charm.  Good looks.  Cliff on the other hand, Cliff has a shed.  Cliff listens to Shirley Bassey.  When Cliff bends over you can see his bum crack above the elasticated waist of his trousers.  I don’t have a problem with any of those, but they are certainly not Chris.

Moreover, I’m not sure the sausage doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing and is, in fact, an evil genius; brilliantly undermining my authority in the simplest of fashions.  Only the other day, having taught her the previous night the words “moon” and “star” we were taking a walk in the sunshine.  She was in her pram and pointed to the sky and said “moon”.  I responded slightly patronizingly “no sweetheart, it’s the daytime, the moon only comes out at night.”  She pointed to the sky again and repeated “moon”.  “No sweetheart, in the daytime it’s the sun, at night time it’s the moon” then I too pointed to the sky to emphaise my point.  And there was the moon, as clear as day, hanging in the crisp afternoon sky.

I looked at her, unsure what to say.  In return, she looked at me and said rather flatly: “dumbass!”  Which is strange, because I don’t remember teaching her that.

All Downhill From Here

I had an odd moment of clarity today.  Grandparents frequently utter the phrase “they grow up so quickly” in that sad, wistful way and I’ve never really understood the impact of what they’re saying.  But today, for the first time, the painful truth finally sunk in and I realised that I need to make the most of every single moment. 

Since my last blog the sausage has shifted almost imperceptibly from baby to little girl.  Whether putting nappies on her toys, choosing her own clothes or walking beside her mother, hand in hand, the fact that she’s no longer a baby really hits home.  Her long hair and eyelashes are finally starting to give an indication of the pretty grown-up who (Yoda willing) will develop in the future and she’s now starting to grow a true personality of her own; and, like her mother, her three favourite words seem to be “no”, “mine” and “moo”. 

Sometimes all those instants of pure parental magic merge into one and it’s easy to take fatherhood for granted.  Today wasn’t one of those days.  The event that precipitated my moment of clarity began – as so many of my tales do – with tears.  I was at my desk when from another room I heard a squeal.  I dashed into the living room to find the sausage on her back crying – I never did find out why.  I simply knelt over her on all fours and went through my usual bag of tricks.  Tickling.  Poking.  Prodding.  Anything to prompt a giggle.  It’s a tactic that has worked with most of the women in my life and I don’t intend to change my ways now.

Today, however, it was different.  She stopped crying, but my efforts didn’t precipitate the usual delighted laughter.  She simply stopped crying, smiled and looked up at me.  By this time I was cradling her head in my hands and she looked at me, her face illuminated by the warmest of smiles, and she seemed to stare into my eyes, as if trying to read what was inside or communicate something of her own.  She remained like that for some time, her eyes examining me unabashedly and it occurred to me that at no time in my life before had I ever been in such a position; staring unselfconsciously into another’s eyes with simple adoration, they reciprocating, without there being any subtext, any complicated emotions or the requirements for words.  Never before.  The nearest equivalent would be my wife, but there would always be countless thoughts flashing through both our minds (“what are you thinking?” “are you happy?”  “this close you only look like you have one big eye”) or a sexual  tension simmering beneath the surface.   It was a moment of pure, heartfelt joy, a bond I’d never experienced or truly understood before, the ability to hold someone in my arms and share that moment, a moment so perfect, so pure, yet so rare that in all my years I’d never comprehended it.  I found myself laughing involuntarily at the realisation and my daughter smiled back all the more. 

Yet, that wasn’t the moment of clarity.  That came a fraction of a second later when I realised that this might be it.  That might have been the one moment in my entire life when I experienced this and there would come a time when my daughter will likely be uncomfortable even with a bear hug, let alone such open affection.  That this most perfect moment may never be repeated.  I was contemplating that, her head still cradled in my hands, her eyes looking deeply into mine, when she shifted, lifted a leg and kicked me in the balls.  And normal service was resumed. 

I like to think that the perfect alignment of baby girl foot to man spuds was accidental, but maybe she was just giving me a warning of what is yet to come.  Enjoy moments like this while you can daddy, because it’s all downhill from here!

All in a day’s work

Here’s a fact.  My daughter has me wrapped around her little finger.  We were in Sainsbury’s the other day and in the long lead up to Christmas they had balloons attached to the tops of the shelves, bobbing above the aisles.  The sausage spotted them and began to squeal, reaching out to indicate that she desperately wanted one.  So desperately that her lower lip began to tremble in that awful precursor to tears.  So I climbed up and retrieved one while no one was watching.  Which was essentially an act of theft.  A message subsequently came over the public address system (I’m not making this up) which began “would the customer …” and part of me genuinely thought the remainder of the message would be “…who just stole a balloon, please hand themselves into the police.”  But I didn’t care, because she took the balloon with a peal of laughter which made my chest burst with warm pleasure.  Nothing I’d ever done in my life, at that moment, felt like such an incredible achievement as stealing that balloon.

The simple fact is that her giggles are the best sound in the world.  And like any parent I’m willing to do pretty much anything to make my child happy.  The other day she put a peg on my finger.  And then pulled it off.  It snapped shut with a click and for some strange reason this amused her considerably.  So I let her do it again.  Even though, as she removed the peg, it gripped onto some skin and pinched my finger like a mini wooden vice.  And it was just a little bit painful.  So what did I do?  I put a peg on all ten of my fingers and thumbs and let her remove them one by one.  Which essentially multiplied the pain by ten.  But you know what, it also multiplied the giggles by ten. 

Only this morning, I was standing in the shower drying myself and my daughter watched me and giggled.  I wasn’t sure why at first (to be fair, I’m used to women laughing at me when I’m naked), but as I continued drying myself, I followed her eyes and realised that what was providing her with such amusement was the pendulous swing of my testicles.  So I wiggled my hips a bit and the more they swung, the louder she laughed.  Eventually I was gyrating like a hairy Shakira, the bathroom ringing with the flapping sound of soft flesh on soft flesh.  Only this time, it was my lower lip that was trembling.  

I seem to go through a lot of pain to make her happy.  And I’m sure I’ll go through a whole lot more.  But if that’s what it takes, so be it.  I’m sure there’s an alegory for fatherhood in there somewhere.  On the plus side, I contacted Toys R Us and they’ll be releasing my patented Dingly Dangly Scrotum toy just in time for Christmas.  Result.

Difficult decisions: baby food or wine?

I took the sausage for a wander around the supermarket today.  Oh yes, I know how to show a girl a good time.  Standing proudly amongst the baby food section I found a lonely bottle of red wine.  Jacob’s Creek to be precise.   This has always fascinated me.  The random items left around a superstore.  Was someone shopping, only to suddenly feel guilty about their potential descent into alcoholism, or was it a specific choice.  Baby food or wine.  A choice between getting hammered or feeding little Timothy.  Maybe, with bottle in hand, they turned to Timothy, his puppy-dog eyes staring up at them, and decided to give the drinking session a miss just this once.  And little emaciated Timothy breathed a sigh of relief.   Or that’s how it played out in my head anyway.

My particular favourite example was a few months back when I was in Sainsbury’s.  I have a sweet tooth.  So to find me wandering through the cake section for about three hours isn’t uncommon.  And the chocolate section.  And ice cream section.  And the sugar, lard and flour section (because that’s just cake waiting to happen).  Me in a cake aisle is a bit like letting a child loose in Toys R Us, I just want to run up and down, squealing with delight, excitedly pulling everything out.  And then crying when I learn I can’t have all that’s on offer. 

On this occasion I found myself confronted by a stack of Victoria sponge cakes.  My mouth’s watering just thinking about it.  But sitting amongst them, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, was a pack of condoms.  Ultra fine, for your added pleasure.  The condoms, not the Victoria sponges.  I would have loved to have seen that debate.  “What do you think sweetheart, cake or rumpy pumpy?”  “That’s a toughie.  Sod it, let’s eat cake and throw caution to the wind with some irresponsible unprotected sex.”  “I like your thinking!”

I was fine with that scenario.  Until I got to the checkout.  And waiting in the queue in front of me was a little frail old lady. Seventy if she was a day.  With a Victoria sponge in her shopping basket.  She looked at me and smiled through her false teeth, a naughty glint in her eye.  I reciprocated, but felt a little queasy.  The dirty old cow.