Monday 30 April 2012

Baby Steps



Dylan cries when I take him to nursery and it kills me. Every week it’s the same. He’s affectionate before we leave, cautious in the car and crying by the time we pull up outside. I hand him over and he stops crying long enough to flash me a look that says ‘How could you do this, Daddy? I thought we were friends…’ The sense of betrayal is overwhelming.

This week was worse than usual. Dylan's sneezing candles* again and we don't know if it's hay fever, teething or if he's catching a cold. Either way, he's more subdued than usual and I think maybe he takes after me. I cried when my parents took me for trampolining lessons and I was painfully homesick when they left me at boarding school. I guess fear of abandonment is in his genes.

The truth is Dylan's fine five minutes after I've left but I’m a mess for the rest of the day. I don't know how Holly's managed all this time but my coping mechanism isn’t very sophisticated—so far it involves listening to country music (for the pain) and staying busy (for the distraction). Holly says it’s okay to phone the nursery and make sure he’s all right, but I can’t do that. I want the nursery to be responsible for the children, not the worried fathers.

The funny thing is that Dylan enjoys his time at nursery, so why is he so upset when I drop him off? The obvious answer is separation anxiety—he's still grappling with object permanence (the idea that Holly and I still exist even though he can't see us). So what do I do? My chocolate bribe didn't pacify him and country music only makes him worse. He did get better for a while when Holly was taking him, but then I took over and it was the end of the world again. I guess the truth is that Dylan's gone from having one primary caregiver (Holly), to two (Holly and me) and will shortly be going back to one (me). Children like routine and we've dropped a bomb on his.

When I take him to nursery, I try to treat the morning like any other. I tell him where he’s going before we leave so there are no secrets or surprises (although I don't think he has the word nursery in his vocabulary yet—I'm working on it). I talk to him in the car and try to sound upbeat. I hold his hand and walk him to the door because the walk is distracting. I encourage him to say hello when we arrive, hand him to someone he knows, and leave promptly after saying goodbye. Of all these points, I think saying goodbye is the most important. My hope is that if I always say goodbye when I leave, he’ll get used to the fact that I always come back.

Is all this grief really worth it? Is nursery a good idea? Parents and grandparents seem to have wildly conflicting opinions on this. What I know is this: it would have been easy for my parents to give up on sending me to trampolining and boarding school, but I'm glad they didn't. I represented three counties in the trampolining and won team gold in the regional trials up in Scotland. And after my first term at boarding school, I didn't want to go home again. I felt like I owned the place.

I want Dylan to be confident, sociable and, to a degree, independent. I'm sure it's possible to instill all these qualities in a child without sending them to nursery but I also think that nursery helps. And just because it's difficult for me doesn't mean it's not the best thing for Dylan. My hope is that one day he’ll stop crying and start looking forward to to spending the day with his friends.

Until then, I'm going to have to learn to live with the tears.

*Holly's description






Sunday 22 April 2012

Bedtime Stories

(Photo by Clifton Photographic)


Dylan is sleeping face down on top of his duvet, rotated a hundred and eighty degrees from where I left him. The following night, I find him sleeping sideways across his cot with his pillow under one arm and his duvet under the other. This is how he sleeps until we rearrange him. A few nights ago, after I’d tucked him back in, he rolled over and whispered ‘Daddy’ quite contentedly. Forget all that continuity of the human race crap; this is the real reason we have kids. It’s for those perfect, priceless and unforgettable moments. I just hope he was having a good dream.

It takes a dummy and two ducks to settle Dylan down after his bath. Sometimes he’ll have some milk and we usually watch a few episodes of Ben & Holly, but it’s the dummy and ducks that do the trick. Our dentist wants the dummy gone by the time Dylan’s two and I'm thinking we're going to need a third duck—one for each hand and one to chew.

Last night, after lights out, he decided to have some fun at our expense. He was calling for me, so I went up to check on him and found he'd thrown his ducks and water bottle on the floor. Five minutes later, Holly went up and the ducks were on the floor again. He’s realised that if he throws his toys out of the cot, someone will come and put them back. We’ll see how long that lasts.

I’ve been home a month already and it’s flown past. As well as housework, DIY and gardening, I’ve written three short stories (The Baby, Fallen Angels & Perfect Cadence), spent time on my diploma, and managed to find new recipes to try every week. This week’s highlights were tuna with courgettes and cannellini beans (from Jamie Oliver’s 20-Minute Meals Vol. 4), and cod with sweet and sour shallots (from Gordon Ramsay’s Healthy Appetite). Both were excellent recipes but I can’t believe how expensive tuna steaks are.

My DIY challenge this week is to squeeze a H870mm x W600mm x D570mm base unit into the H840mm x W598mm x D570mm space left by the built-in washing machine we gave to Holly’s cousin. I may need some help with this one.

The garden isn’t looking bad. The rhubarb didn’t make it and the rocket patch has been decimated; but the radishes look okay, the apple tree is in blossom and new buds have appeared on the grapevine (my Father’s Day present from last year). In the Grow Rack, we have Gardener’s Delight tomatoes, cabbage, basil, coriander, courgettes and two types of lettuce growing from seed; and the young strawberry and tomato plants are coming along nicely. I just hope I get to eat some of it.

I usually wake up between five and six am, earlier than I did when there was an alarm. I like to be downstairs an hour before Dylan (two hours before Holly), so I can have a cup of tea and do some writing before we start our morning routines. Dylan used to surface around eight but recently he’s been waking up earlier too. Maybe it’s the light spring mornings, or the woodpigeon I can hear over the monitor, but probably it’s just that he knows I’m home. Some mornings he chats to himself, some mornings he cries, but for the last week or so he’s been shouting ‘Daddy!’ And laughing.

Not this morning though. I don't know what that squawk is supposed to be but I'd better go and check.

post scriptum
Ten minutes ago, Holly put Dylan down for his lunchtime nap, and he’s been making thumping noises ever since. I’ve just been up to see what all the fuss is about and he’s emptied his cot. Toys everywhere. When I give him back his ducks and dummy, he lies down and pretends to go back to sleep. Five minutes later, he's banging again and it's the same thing. Trouble? Nope—just a little boy growing up. And he's beautiful when he's asleep.




Tuesday 17 April 2012

Small Talk



The water pressure in our house isn’t great so I usually let Dylan watch something on television while we wait for the bath to fill up. Tonight I’m watching Toy Story 3 while he reads The Rise and Rise of Internal Communications. This seems like an ambitious read for someone who still confuses mum with dad, up with out and on with off, but who am I to argue?

On Tuesday I had a four-hour meeting to cover the requirements of the diploma. Over the next six months I have to compile an evidence file, complete a project and sit an exam. I’m expected to do at least two hours studying a day and it’s not clear if this includes the time Dylan spends reading the course literature. It should.

Slugs have eaten my rocket. I’m so annoyed. The Internet tells me that egg shells and beer are the solution, and last night was the test run—with a bit of luck I’ll be able to save the radishes, but I'm not optimistic.

It was our wedding anniversary this week, and Holly treated me to lemon posset with grilled figs (from Rick Stein’s Food Heroes). If you do one thing this week, try grilled figs. And start adding chicory to your salads—it's crunchy! Next week, we'll be mostly consuming eggs and beer, and at the weekend we're heading up to Three Choirs Vineyard, babyless, for a romantic night amongst the vines.

Recently, we’ve been teaching Dylan to make animal noises. He’s still dropping the first letter of woof and meow but it’s fun to watch him talking to the tins of pet food in the supermarket. I’ve always wanted to learn another language and parents who raise their kids to be bilingual knock me out—I can’t help wondering if I should be doing more? Dylan says 'quack' so menacingly his rubber ducks have migrated.

But he’s pretty good at communications. He’s posted things to my Facebook profile, sent text messages to most of the people in my phonebook and not long ago he ordered the fourth season of The Big Bang Theory using Holly’s iPad. The old guard of Internal Communications better watch out because the new generation is here and they’re fully conversant with modern media by the time they’re two.

I guess it won’t be long before Dylan's writing his own blog. I wonder what he'll say about me?



Thursday 12 April 2012

The First Rule of Tantrums is...


  1. Empty your hands—throw or drop whatever you are holding
  2. Clear the area—frantically swipe objects off all surfaces within easy reach
  3. Hit something—preferably a parent or, failing that, a freshly cleared surface. As a last resort, hit the air around you. Try not to hit yourself but don’t hold back
  4. Stomp or kick—lie down if it’s easier
  5. Make a lot of noise—shouting is good, wailing is better
  6. Cry—it’s like hitting parents where it really hurts
  7. Move on—when you’re ready, hug and make up and then go back to playing
Hands up if you were expecting the rules for dealing with tantrums. Me too. The thing is I’m pretty new at this and I can’t pretend to have all the solutions, so I’m relying on instincts. A writer needs to know his readers, a singer needs to know his listeners and a father needs to know his son. Empathy is key.

Toddlers have tantrums. They want to do things and sometimes they can’t because parents say 'no', and sometimes they can't because their bodies, brains or both aren’t sufficiently developed. Either way, it’s frustrating for them and tantrums are the result.

So Dylan’s little stomping fits are here to stay. In fact, they're becoming more frequent and will probably get worse. I can’t change this but I can change how I respond to them. I need a way to deal with tantrums. Here's what I'm going to do:
  1. I mustn’t overreact. If Dylan wants my attention so badly he’s prepared to do the flailing limb dance, it’s probably not a good idea to ignore him; but I must remain calm
  2. I shouldn't try to stop him. Tantrums are as natural as crying or laughing; Dylan needs to work his way through them
  3. If he throws something to the floor, I'll take it off him (unless it’s medicine or food in which case I'll try again). If he makes a mess, he can help me tidy it up when he's calmed down
  4. I need to make sure he knows it’s not okay to hit another person. However, as long as he’s not going to hurt himself, I guess all other stomping, kicking or waving of fists is okay
  5. I'm going to let him cry. Negative emotions are better out than in. Dylan’s dummy is part of his sleep routine; it’s not for shutting him up
  6. When he’s ready to calm down, I'm going to help him, hug him, talk to him and basically let him know it’s okay
  7. Holly says I mustn't, under any circumstances, treat tantrums as a drinking game. It’s not okay to keep a bottle of wine handy and have a glass every time there’s steam shooting from his ears
I don’t know if any of this will work but it's what I'm going to try for the time being. Here goes...

Tuesday 10 April 2012

Nature Grows the Seed


I need to change Dylan’s nappy and he’s not happy about it. He cries when I put him on his mat so I tickle his chest to make him laugh. When I stop tickling he cries again. Tickle, laugh; no tickle, tears. This goes on for a while. His emotions are shallow like those weeds that sit on the dirt with nearly no root, and I think that maybe this is the role of the parent—to provide the right soil for the good emotions to grow deep. Ah hell.

We have radishes! We have rocket! The first of the seedlings I planted last week are sprouting and I feel an enormous sense of achievement. We also have something growing in the Grow Rack but, since the shelf collapsed, I have no idea what’s what, so it’s a lucky dip. I don’t really care, as long as it’s a lucky dip with leaves and a stem.

Easter was busy—a by-product of all those so-called employed people having time off and making me do things. Thursday night I had a gig, Good Friday was Holly’s Nan’s birthday (with Dylan running laps of the restaurant, already hyper on Easter egg), Saturday we saw Show of Hands in London, Easter Day we had lunch with my mother-in-law (after which I may have reversed into my mum’s car) followed by an afternoon gig, and then on Monday we were supposed to be heading south to see my brother-in-law and his family, although this was cancelled at the last minute. How am I supposed to pursue my goals with so many distractions? I’ll tell you.

Before this started, I was a little wary about spending so much time at home with Holly—I’m sure it’s written somewhere that married couples aren’t supposed to see each other outside weekends, holidays and retirement. The truth is it’s been great. Without her support, I wouldn’t have had time to sort out our insurances and Wills, set up an ISA for the redundancy money, finish ‘Fallen Angels’ (for another short story competition), serve gammon poached in Perry with Nigel Slater’s luxury cauliflower cheese, read various Internal Comms white papers, book a trip to a Festival of Writing, and investigate a couple of local writers' circles for one that suits the needs of a stay-at-home dad. Not bad for a week’s work.

The downside is that Dylan has grown used to having us both at home. Sometimes this is manageable—when I’m working on the computer I split the screen so I can write on one half and Dylan can watch Peppa Pig on the other. But he craves attention, particularly from the busier parent, and we’re seeing a lot more tantrums and telling offs. Last night, he ping-ponged from one end of the house to the other, deliberately testing boundaries to see what he could get away with. In the space of ten minutes, Holly and I both shouted at him more than once, and his naughtiness didn’t stop until I took him to the high street. Twice as many stay-at-home parents should mean half as many opportunities to be naughty, surely? I’m learning it doesn’t work like that.

Clearly, until Holly goes back to work, we're going to need better soil. Ah hell.

Tuesday 3 April 2012

Daddying for Dummies



I’ve been trying to take his dummy off him since we got up. This isn’t going well. And then, shortly before breakfast, he gives it up of his own free will. I place the dummy out of reach and watch him run across the room to retrieve a dummy he has hidden under his high chair on some previous occasion. He smiles with his eyes and chomps victoriously. Day one belongs to Dylan.

It’s been a while since my last post, longer than I intended. My final week in work was patchy and inglorious because I caught Dylan's flu. I hobbled in for my last day, still feverish, still with a temperature, and managed to stay long enough to hand over my laptop and receive my parting gift—a wine decanter—before Holly steered my hacking cough home to freedom.

The following week, I conceived and wrote a short story, ‘The Baby’, which I’ve entered into a competition. I intend to write and submit entries to all the short story competitions I can over the coming year. This is my new challenge: win a short story competition, or have a short story published. It's important to dream short.

The weather has been unseasonably good. I’ve built the Grow Rack (a kind-of greenhouse) and installed a water butt. I’ve cleared the debris (broken glass, a rusted bike frame etc.) from the rear of the shed—a gift from the previous owners. I’ve pruned the trees and given the swing a permanent home. I’ve planted seeds: basil, sage, rosemary, tarragon, coriander, courgettes, spring onions, radishes, rocket, four types of tomatoes and four types of lettuce. I’ve re-potted the strawberries and planted lavender and rhubarb. I don't have green fingers but I want Dylan to grow up with a working garden. At the moment he's obsessed with the watering can, and it's me who has to keep refilling the damn thing.

Holly doesn’t go back to work until the middle of May, so we’re splitting the housework. I’ve taken over the weekly shop, ably assisted by Dylan who has his own shopping list (flour, dates, linseed etc. - whatever he can throw in the trolley). I’m also doing all the cooking, which has given me the opportunity to try making some new things: onion rings (yummy), onion bhajis (not bad), balsamic syrup (fantastic on lettuce and goats cheese salad—I hear it’s also good on ice cream) and Gordon Ramsey's Stir-Fried Duck with Noodles.

Dylan likes having me at home. Whenever he hears me coming, he yells 'Daadddyyyy' and comes charging out to meet me. He yells the same thing for Holly. In the past week, we’ve been to the park, library, playgroup and soft play, and next week we're going swimming. Dylan still empties the saucepan drawer into the washing machine but he’s not stupid. A few days ago he wanted me to pick him up but I was busy and refused. Seeing a glass of cordial on the worktop, he reached up and said ‘juice’, so I bent down to give him a drink. He immediately threw his arms around me and held on tight, forcing me to pick him up. If he’s this devious at twenty months, what's he going to be like at two?

I know: terrible. Bring it on.