Preparing to be a dad - a retrospective

This is a column that I've written for the esteemed organ that is the Colchester NCT and District magazine, on the subject of preparing to be a dad. For those who don't subscribe, here it is, by the power of cut and paste.

Dads! We’re everywhere these days. At ante-natal classes, in the birthing room, holding up our end at stay and play, and waiting in line for the nappy change. You can’t get away from us.

Research by bodies like the Fatherhood Institute has shown that men are increasingly looking to play a bigger role in the lives of their children. There is also evidence that active dads have a profoundly beneficial effect on the lives of their children across a range of measures, including happiness, academic achievement, and staying on the straight and narrow.

I always thought I would be a dad. It just seemed the natural state of affairs that I would look to start a family at some point.

However, looking back on that time when my wife and I discovered we were expecting our first child, I don’t think I really knew what we were letting ourselves in for. Like many dads to be, my feelings were a mixture of excitement, apprehension and anticipation. There was also a sense of the whole process being slightly unreal, especially for me. My wife, Charlotte had the benefit of morning sickness to remind her that, yes, this really was happening.

For me, the clincher was the first scan. At that stage there was little outward sign of what was happening to Charlotte’s body. The visual evidence from the scan suddenly brought home the fact that things were developing very fast. I remember particularly being amazed that the identifiably human shape displayed on the monitor at 12 weeks. Suddenly everything seemed very real indeed.

A big concern at this stage is wondering what sort of dad you will be. My own dad passed away when I was 13 so I was never able to ask him what it was like. However, I had strong and happy memories of him which are probably the basis of everything I try to be as father.

I wanted to be as involved as possible in the pregnancy, to understand what was going on, so I attended midwife appointments as well as scans and ante-natal classes with Charlotte. Maternity services are becoming more dad friendly so there is no reason why you shouldn’t be present. Being involved in as many aspects of the pregnancy as you can really does prepare you for what’s ahead. It also makes you a bit more able to make choices about the sort of pregnancy and birth you would like.

One of the great things about pregnancy is that it covers quite a long time – certainly long enough to consider the many and varied implications of the new life for your future and relationship. The first few months when practically nobody else knows are a lovely time of planning, dreaming and scheming, before you let the world into your secret.

Pregnancy is also a worrying time. In the early stages of the pregnancy I don’t think either of us wanted to get too excited about things in case anything went wrong. Like many first time parents to be, we were probably over nervous, and our second pregnancy was more carefree in this respect.

One thing that surprised me about my own feelings was how quickly I developed a sense of protection towards both my wife and my unborn child. It was almost a primal thing and I did start to feel a bit of a caveman which was something I wasn’t expecting. This was accompanied by the realisation that I was about to become the main breadwinner, which provoked more of a nervous gulp than Neanderthal roar.

If I could offer any advice to first time dads, it would be this:

                                        

·         Try not to worry and enjoy the pregnancy. It’s very different to being a parent. Not better, or worse, but different, and it’s just the start of a long and exciting journey.

·         Your partner is your closest ally in the unfolding adventure. Take care of each other.

·         Enjoy your last moments of being child-free. From now on everything is going to be very different.

There’s a great quote by screenwriter William Goldman in his book Adventures in the Screentrade. He says “Nobody knows anything.”

Goldman is saying that there is no replicable formula for creating a hit film. What works for one blockbuster will be box office poison the next time round.

There is a similar logic to fatherhood. You can learn valuable lessons from other people, but ultimately it’s a journey of discovery and there is no one route to becoming a great dad.

Sick of being sick

What can you say about kids being ill? Basically it's a pain in the frickin' neck.

Obviously, it's worrying too. You hope that it's nothing too bad, and that they get better soon. Our youngest has been poorly this week. We're not really sure what it is, but it doesn't seem life threatening. However it has been quite tedious, especially since he has been throwing up for a good part of the week and we've been confined to base for most of it. As his older brother has been fine it has been even tougher, as he's practically been bouncing off the walls. It might have been better if they had both been projectile vomiting.

I'm not an unsympathetic father, but there does come a point when you're rinsing vomit out of the umpteenth change of clothes of an evening, when doing a Reggie Perrin feels like a good career move.

Mummy has gone out this evening, which I don't begrudge her, but in the meantime, sick toddler has woken up and summoned a strength he hasn't had all week to demonstrate that neither me nor his beloved Nanny will do when it comes to wrestling him back into his cot. After lying like on the couch a limp rag all week, he's suddenly turned into Avocado Baby with the strength of ten.

It's good that he's back to his old self I suppose, but mummy, please come home soon, for all our sakes.

Dads on TV

They're blooming everywhere at the moment it seems. Well, two programmes in successive nights on the subject of fatherhood counts as a flood in my house. In this case, the programmes covered similar ground with a slightly different approach.

First up was Channel 4's Daddy Daycare, a series where flailing (or should that be failing) dads are given the opportunity to up their game by total immersion therapy. Three candidates, deemed to be slightly slack in the dad stakes, are parachuted into a nursery where they suddenly find themselves in charge of dozens of ankle biters.

Of course the obvious question is why not simply leave them in charge of their own charges for a week? This would give their put-upon other halves some, no doubt, much needed rest, as well as giving the dads a chance to reflect on what they are missing out on. But this is TV and that's probably nowhere near as novel as dropping them into a very busy nursery, where they soon flounder. Hardly surprising really. I don't think I'm a hopeless dad, but I would struggle to be in charge of a whole nursery class. It's not a fair comparison.

In true reality TV fashion, the dads eventually come up trumps, learn a few life lessons, and disappear over the horizon to make way for next week's chumps.

And that's one of my main issues with this type of programme, the way dads are set up to fail before they've even started. There's no show without Punch, and no daddy reality show without dads being made to look a bit foolish, as if they didn't really know what they were doing as a matter of course. Imagine if producers took the same approach with every programme about motherhood. They don't of course. Mothers are routinely presented as having some sort of inner knowledge that clicks into place as soon as baby arrives. The reality is that many mums struggle in the early days and that it is a learning journey for everybody, so why perpetuate these lazy stereotypes?

The second programme in this week's TV Dadfest was BBC's A Dad is Born. Again we are presented with three dads, 'to be' in this case. They were from slightly different backgrounds: a millionaire businessman; a recruitment consultant, and a Hungarian chauffeur. This being TV land, it almost goes without saying that they all live in London, quite possibly within Zone 2.

What was interesting about them was the extent to which imminent and then actual fatherhood levelled out some of the differences between them. Even the most immediately unlikeable of the three, Greg who made his mint from 'greed is good' style motivational, day trader training, became a more sympathetic specimen through the prism of fatherhood.

Hungarian Viktor wanted to be a better father than his own drunken, violent dad. He delivered a really touching piece on how, when his daughter asked him what he did in the parenting wars, he would have an answer. Basically he was nappy changing, singing to the baby and being supportive to his partner who seemed to have a case of the baby blues.

Jamie, the recruitment guy, was the kind of involved modern dad that I suppose many of my generation of fathers see themselves as. He'd done all the classes, read lots of manuals (I can't hold my hand up to that one, but I did listen as my wife precised the important bits), and generally seemed to be approaching the whole experience as one that would be appreciated better if in full possession of the facts.

Of course, these proved to be completely useless in the face of the actuality of labour. Like all of us, I expect, he wasn't prepared for the enormity of the aftermath of the birth. You can't be told, or read up on it, you have to experience it. Nothing prepares you for how tired you will feel, how useless you will feel, or how scared you will feel at times.

But nobody can prepare you for how good it all feels either, although A Dad is Born did a pretty good job of conveying how starstruck these three guys were by their new babies.

Wobbly teeth

Our eldest started complaining the other day that one of his teeth was wobbly. He's quite an imaginative child, so I didn't take that much notice at first (bad dad). But sure enough, he's correct. The upper left incisor shows distinct signs of movement.

This perplexes me as it seems too early. He is four and a bit years old, and according to a cursory search, teeth do not usually start to fall out until about six. [Newsflash. Somebody else says they can drop from about four - he's not a freak.]

At the moment he seems quite unbothered by it, which is good. However I feel guilty that we haven't got him registered with a dentist, and that we've been pandering to a growing sweet tooth of late (he takes after me in that respect).

He does brush his teeth every day, which is good, but I'm now worried that he'll end up looking like a gummy lad who comes from a deprived household where your five a day is boiled sweets, biscuits, cakes, crisps and pop.

Growing up, I had cousins like that. They drank nothing but fizzy drink when growing up (according to my completely non-judgemental mother) and chomped on sweeties like it was the end of rationing. The result, I remember quite clearly was that they had gaping, rot infested cake holes for a good part of their childhoods until their adult teeth came in. Funnily enough now they look like the Osmonds, such is their toothiness, but at the time they were a cautionary tale about the perils of not looking after your teeth.

Coming from the Central Belt of Scotland, where tooth decay was a rite of passage, I'm rather aware of how important this is. In my extended family false teeth were the norm. It was partly a generational thing. People routinely has their teeth removed as dentures were considered to be less trouble. I'm currently reading a biography of Clash frontman Joe Strummer, who had appalling teeth, and apparently he refused to brush his teeth while at boarding school as a lad, so they would fall out and he could have fake ones like his dad.

Mind you I'm not surprised that people neglected their teeth in the Seventies as a visit to the dentist was quite a horrible experience. That's certainly how I remember it as a child. I can still conjure up the taste of the gas that they gave me for extractions. I don't think this completely knocked me out as I have a vivid image of spooky cartoon like figures dancing about in front of me, only to wake up soon after feeling really nauseous with a sore mouth. I'd leave the dentists clutching a blood stained hankie to my mouth, probably to be rewarded with a bar of Highland Toffee.

For years I didn't go to the dentist. I kidded myself that this was because of my semi-itinerant lifestyle as a student and in the post university years, but really I think it was because I was scared of going. About eight years back I noticed that my teeth were quite discoloured and I eventually plucked up courage to go back thinking that I was bound to have a backlog of dental work waiting.

Amazingly, after almost 20 years absence, I only needed a  bit of a clean. Since then I've tried to be a bit more conscientious with regular check ups.

I don't want to pass on my phobias to the kids, but was not sure when the right time to start taking them to the dentist was. The answer is probably 'before now' but the wobbly tooth incident has forced my hand and we'll have to get them both registered as soon as. I'm sure dentists have become a bit more child friendly over the years, so and I'm on the lookout for a good one in Colchester - suggestions please.

On a broader note, the toothy episode is a poignant reminder how kids keep growing. They don't stay little for long. I was giving J his night time cuddle a few days ago and told him that I'd have to make the most of this as soon he probably wouldn't want a cuddle (or a schnuggle to give it the rather icky name I created).

"Don't worry daddy, I'll always have a schnuggle for you," he replied.

[Heart breaks!]

The cost of bringing up children

Kerching: prices are rising

An interesting survey today puts the cost of raising a child until the age of 21 at £218,000. This staggering sum is produced by an insurance company, so there is an agenda here of getting parents to think more carefully about finance.

Initially the sum seemed way over the top to me, but on closer inspection, they are not that outlandish. The biggest two elements - making up more than 60 per cent of the total - are education and childcare. The education element assumes a child is going to college and the parents are picking up the tab, which may or may not be the case. For childcare, a large chunk of the £62,099 racked up over 21 years is accounted for by the assumption that your child is in full time nursery care from six months until they go to school. For many parents, this is simply not the case. One or both of them, may take shorter hours to spent more time with their child, so childcare expenditure is lower.

Elsewhere the costs assumed for items such as food, clothing and leisure do not seem unrealistic. That's not to say that many parents don't spend less on them. Clothing costs tumble when you have older siblings to pass on from, and not everybody has an annual holiday (here the annual allowance of £740 for your child does seem a little generous to me, especially if you're having a camping holiday in Norfolk, for example).

Cheap holidays: a day by the seaside won't break the bank

Overall though it's quite a sobering picture. All parents get to know how expensive children can be, but having it presented in this way is rather stark.

It goes without saying that this economic approach does not reflect the 'payback' that parents get from their children. You can't really tally this up in pounds and pence, and it sounds mushy to even talk about it, but what you get back from children is a very tangible thing. It lifts you when you are down, it makes you laugh harder than a ticket to the latest comic sensation, and it provides a sense of purpose that can seem lacking in the daily grind. I often feel skint, but I rarely find myself blaming my children for that. When you are a family, you really are all in it together.

Predictably a lot of comments on blogs and newspapers today are from the militantly 'child free' who leap upon these stories as a way to berate parents. "It's your life style choice, so don't moan about it," they say.

As opposed to the lifestyle choice of being an intolerant prick I suppose.

Fit dad

Since having child number two I don't think I've done any real exercise. He's 21 months now, so that's quite a long time without breaking sweat.

I used to be pretty fit before we had the kids - I ran, went to the gym, played five a side every week. I think I was in pretty good shape.

But when our first son came along it quickly became apparent that there weren't enough hours in the day to do what I wanted to do. Something had to give.

(It does make me chortle to myself when I hear from mums and dads to be who can't comprehend what time thieves babies are and grandly announce that they'll use the early 'quiet' months for a spot of self improvement - to learn a new language or to start making their own jewellery. I'm sure I was the same and thought I'd be able to tap out my long-awaited first novel with one hand while rocking the cot with the other.)

Anyway, it wasn't just the great Hackney novel that went by the wayside, but also any sense of myself as a person who had time to attend to his physique.

Initially you're just too tired to go for that run, or to hit the gym. It also quickly becomes apparent that such self-indulgences take second place to the needs of the new kid in town. To be fair to Mrs Holiday, she was more into the idea of me going off jogging than jogging down to the pub to wet the baby's head. I can still remember the first time I went out with a mate for a couple of pints after J was born. It was probably a few more than a couple, but I was only out for a few hours, however the put down I got when I got back in still sends shivers down my spine.

That was an early lesson in how things had changed. Suddenly you have to think of other people. Not just the nipper, but also the put upon mother who also wouldn't mind getting out for a couple of drinks thank you very much.

However with just the one child, there was the occasional opportunity to disappear for a run. The gym membership quickly became surplus to requirements though as there was no way I could justify being away from my station for that amount of time.

When the second child came along, even the odd low level workout became pretty much impossible. Not only was there so much more to do, but the tiredness was cranked up another level. You also start to notice the toll that kids take on your health. Knees and backs come in for a real pounding with all the kneeling down and bending over you have to do. On the other hand, I've always thought that your arms get a pretty good work hoisting babies and toddlers - check these guns! They're better than any dumbbells with the added benefit that you get a smile as you're working out.

Now after ages of moaning about not having the time to do anything I've committed myself to getting off my butt and doing some exercise. Last night I went for my first run in a long time. It wasn't a marathon, but it was a start. The good thing was that I didn't simply keel over with exhaustion. Hopefully it's the start of getting back into some sort of shape before my two boys are pushing me around in a wheelchair.

Speak like a child

I've been looking after our youngest for a day a week for a few months now. He has turned 21 months and his language is really starting to develop.

There was a lovely moment today when he looked at me and said "Daddy kind."

It would have brought tears to my eyes if it wasn't for the fact that I was cleaning his bottom at the time. He'd just squeezed out the sort of mega poo, which is about as close as men get to giving birth, so I'm not surprised that he thought I was being kind.

What did surprise me was that he knew the word in the first place and had an idea of its context.

I had been at a stay and play earlier where one of the mums told me that a health visitor had told her that her 18 month old daughter should be able to say 50 words by now. That seemed a lot to me, and although it was only a few months ago for KidA, I'm not sure he would have made the target.

He's been a bit slower developing language than his big brother, or so it seems (memory plays tricks on you. I thought his brother was a walking, talking genius at roughly the same age until videos proved that he wasn't quite the prodigy I remembered.) One of the things about young 'un was that he had a highly developed sense of grunting which was quite expressive and got him a long way for a long time.

Recently I suppose he's discovered that grunting has its limits and is being more adventurous with his speech. It's quite a magical time and there's something new every day, some of it rather poignant.

From quite young he has referred to himself as 'you', which is understandable, as that's what everybody else calls him. But the other day he started using 'me'. It was a bittersweet moment - a little more clarity in communication, but a cute idiosyncrasy lost.

The whole language thing is fairly amazing when you think of it. Even children brought up in the most intellectually and emotionally deprived circumstances will develop speech beyond the abilities of any other animal. Kids just play with the building blocks of language until they find something that makes sense or amuses them.

At the moment KidA is starting to string together two and three words. It's still simple stuff, but it's the start of big changes.

Why don't more bands play Essex?

One of the things I miss since moving from London is the opportunity to see bands. Not that this was an opportunity I've been able to avail myself of very often since the kids came along, but at least the option was always there. Most weeks in London it was possible to find a few decent gigs that I would kid myself  I could get along to.

Since moving to Colchester I've found it rather odd that a town that is so obviously musical, is so off the map for touring bands. I'm not thinking here of Odeon-filling acts - the town doesn't have that sort of venue, and with a 'mere' 100,000 inhabitants, it's probably a little small. But what about the sort of up and coming bands that you can see night in, night out in London, and plenty of other towns around the UK? The sort of acts who are on their way up, but who are still 'paying their dues' (crikey, does that show my age?)

It's not just Colchester. The nearest large towns, Ipswich and Norwich (okay, not that near, but I'm struggling here!) are not especially well-served either. Why is East Anglia on so few touring schedules?

I noticed this today when Graham Coxon's tour dates were released. As a lad who grew up in Colchester, you could just about hope that he might play the town. Okay, no surprises that he's not, but what about the rest of the East of England? Nope, the nearest place to see him is Cambridge - or London of course.

And it's not just bands. Stewart Lee is one of my favourite comedians, and he is taking his latest show around just about every fleapit in the UK, but as far as I can see, there are no gigs anywhere in Essex, Suffolk or Norfolk. What gives? Our money not good enough for you?

As a relative newcomer here, I'm amazed by how much local music there is in Colchester. There's barely a night where there isn't a handful of live acts to choose from around town, and at weekends there are a huge amount of acts playing and no shortage of venues. There are also about four or five musical instrument shops and umpteen free listings mags.

So it wouldn't seem that there is a lack of appetite for music. Colchester is also a university town. Student Unions were awash with bands when I were a lad, but there doesn't seem to be much occurring on Wivenhoe Campus. Are students too engrossed in their books to want to see bands these days? I find that hard to believe.

It wasn't always thus as this clip of a young AC/DC playing at Essex University shows from 1978. Would this happen today?

There are honourable exceptions to my generalisations of course. Colchester Arts Centre has a varied schedule, but I'm sure there's room for a few more acts heading east and saving us from the trek up the A12 to London. Come on Essex promoters, let's get a few bigger names out here.

Christmas tree time

I dug the Christmas decorations out of the loft and we spent last night putting the tree up. I'm not sure whether this is a bit early - there are surprisingly few homes in our neck of Colchester with decorations yet. In Hackney they used to appear from mid-November.

Still, I'm thoroughly Christmas seasoned already. I've had three encounters with Father Christmas, been to two kids parties, and been on the Thomas Santa special at the nearby East Anglian Railway Museum. It's all kicking off.

Putting up the tree is one of those things that we're trying to turn into a bit of a tradition. I can't remember ever really helping put up the tree when I was a kid. Maybe I just wasn't interested. Mind you, we had a fairly uninspiring small, silvery fake tree that was wheeled out once a year.

Ever since I've had a place of my own, we've always opted for a real tree. Most years I find myself wondering why I bother. Transporting them in pre-car London was always a pain. You either had to carry it on your shoulder for a couple of miles, or risk the wrath of bus-users as you scratched past them. At least with a walk there was always the option of stopping for a livener at the local - I wonder how many trees are orphaned in pubs by over-festive owners.

Getting them home is only the start of things though as the annual fight to get it in the house, remove the netting and get the damn thing to fit into the holder and stand upright. Cue saw, lots of sweating and bad language at unaccustomed labour as you trim the trunk to fit.

Anyway, that done, said tree - £35 of Homebase Norwegian spruce, thanks for asking - wobbled atop a coffee table in our bay window.

The kids love dressing the tree, although their exuberance does tend to leave it looking a bit like the box of decorations has been thrown at it. Elder brother is also notoriously bossy, so within minutes the veto that no one would be decorating the tree if behaviour didn't improve, was brandished. This seemed to have the desired effect, and our tree was garishly clad. The promise of a tree party picnic of many 'bad' treats, also helped speed us along.

The final result - after mummy has redistributed some of the tinsel, baubles and bells - is surprisingly tasteful. Our accumulated decorations are anything but coordinated, but somehow it works. My wife tells me that she now understands how her mum was driven to distraction by not being allowed to throw away any of the old decorations by her and her siblings. But I think that's better than a designer, colour coordinated offering which lacks the personal touch.

Family life is all about small, and not so small compromises. Every year I want to sling out our old decorations and start afresh, but I know I never will. Some day I will pass on the baubles bearing the teeth marks made by younger son, along with the threadbare tinsel and distressed fairy. And then they can throw them out!

Parental bonding second time round

We've been in Colchester for almost exactly a year now. In many ways we've settled in really well. We all like the town. Our neighbours have been really welcoming. And we've met lots of new people. More than I anticipated we would actually.

Coming from London where everyone is a lot more insular, it has been a breath of fresh air how open Colchester folk seem to be.

However in recent weeks I've felt myself a bit of an outsider again. I've been looking after our second born for a day a week now that Mrs Holiday is working a couple of days a week. As such, I've been back on the parenting circuit. Having looked after Number One Son for a good part of his early days, it's not an unusual experience, but it is definitely different this time around.

With our eldest I really threw myself into the whole 'stay at home dad' role. (This is actually a bit of a misnomer as most of the stay at home dads I knew were anything but. There was a well beaten track around Children Centres, stay and plays, singing clubs and child friendly cafes, so we were mostly everywhere but at home). As most of the people I met were first time parents like me, there was a puppyish level of enthusiasm and a sense of all being in it together.

What I'm finding with my second time as a caring dad is that it's a bit harder to break into the established groups and cliques. As soon as people have more than one child, they are a bit more set in their ways, and I plead guilty to this myself.

At any rate in recent weeks, I've noticed a bit more that everybody seems to know everybody else, and I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself as Billy No Mates. Well, not quite no mates, but very few, so that when they disappear to chat to one of their other acquaintances, there is that an awkward sense of being alone in a crowd.

Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough. Maybe I'm not around enough - one day a week isn't really enough to get yourself known. Maybe I'm going to the wrong places in the first place. Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing.

Whatever it is, I think I need a plan B to try and get over this feeling that I'm missing out. As J gets nearer to school age, there is a mild, yet creeping panic concerning the power of the school gate Mafia. We're already damned by geography to be banished from the sharp-elbowed parent's local school of choice. And with that I fear a whole round of birthday parties, play dates, and Masonic preferential treatment from the Colchestratti. (Not to mention dad's nights out - yeah, what about me!)

I'd hate to think that I've blighted the lives of our two young innocents by not getting my A into G. One thing is for sure, it's only going to get tougher from here onwards.

Guising

... or Happy Hallowe'en as you might say in the beautiful South.

When I was a kid in Scotland, Hallowe'en was a big deal for kids, but it was slightly harder work than Trick or Treaters have today. The idea was that you had to sort of sing for your supper, or tell a joke, do an impression, or a dance. Basically you had to do a turn before  being gifted a handful of monkey nuts or an apple. I can't remember much in the way of sweeties. Nuts were definitely the makeweight in my day in exchange for the ritual humiliation of our performances.

I'm struggling to think what my star turn was, and am blushing slightly that it may well have been a Frank Spencer, by way of Mike Yarwood impression - doggy doing a whoopsy on the carpet and all.

The balance has definitely shifted in favour of the Guisers (it comes from 'disguise') these days, but to be fair to them, the amount of effort and expense that they go to is a lot more than in my day when a bin bag over your snorkel parka was often as inventive as it got. Today's costumes, wigs, masks and make-up are in a different league.

This year is the first time we've done anything for Hallowe'en. The kids were a bit younger when we lived in Hackney, and if truth be told, the prospect of opening your door at a godforsaken hour 'round our old manor did not appeal that much. Luckily our doorbell worked only intermittently and the kids were not patient enough for us to descend from the first floor flat to the front door having decided that, yes, there was somebody at the door.

Round here there is more of a system. If you have a lantern on show then you are open to a knock on the door.

We had our rudimentary pumpkin lantern flickering on the window sill for a a couple of hours after the lights went down. It was put to shame by the altogether more artistic efforts of the guy a few doors down - point noted for next year. The Essex massive definitely take Hallowe'en seriously.

We had a bowl of sweeties for the kids who came to the door, who were very polite and well behaved with no surly behaviour or demands for cash, that you hear about. Our two initially came to the door to see the assorted ghouls and ghosties, but were soon freaked out by some of the more realistic costumes.

They were definitely up for Hallowe'en this year though, with the eldest demanding 'spooky toast' for breakfast. Cue quickly carved piece of bread in the shape of a pumpkin - I couldn't do a vampire.

After that they had a Hallowe'en themed stay and play session at another child's house and then back here for some apple bobbing and donut munching. I'm not sure how traditional that is, but it went down very well.

Hallowe'en is now done. Bring on bonfire night.

Dipdap at Firstsite

I know there was a massive fuss about the new Colchester arts centre, Firstsite. It cost too much, it took too long to build, it shouldn't be in Colchester... er it cost too much. Well, I love it.

Addressing the cost issue first, I think that £26m for such an iconic building, which will put Colchester on the map, is a snip. That wouldn't have got you the wet changing area at the Olympics site, and most of the facilities there will be mothballed for a couple of years pending works required for their post-Games function. I actually think the Olympics is a great thing for London, and indeed Britain anyway, but in comparison Firstsite is great value.

I've been there a few times since it opened. Amid all the things I like about it: the design, the cafe, the way it has opened up the bottom end of the town, and the way the people of Colchester seem to be warming to it, I particularly like its child-centricity.

Today I attended a half-term event in the theatre where the animator and producer of a children's TV programme called Dipdap were showing the kids some films, demonstrating how Dipdap is drawn (basically he's a stick man, so that didn't take long) and then letting the kids loose with a load of felt tip pens on a massive sheet of white paper taped to the floor.

Floored genius: let the kid art commence

This was the best bit for the kids, obviously, and for the parents, who could sit back and let their offspring get on with it. I particularly liked how unprescriptive it was. I was at the opening of Firstsite and had a bit of a giggle at the expense of one of the artists who must have been brought in to create an immersive artistic experience for children. There were a few too many rules and the kids had basically just grabbed it and created their own game with it. The poor, harassed man was being comforted by a colleague who was assuring him that it would all be a bit better on subsequent days when the kids were less excitable.

As if that ever happens.

Anyway, back to Dipdap. It was a great show -  a few cartoons, a quick bit of 'what would you like Steve to draw?' and then unleash the mayhem.

Well done Firstsite. Keep it coming.

Hackney in the Fall

London Fields: looking golden

Yesterday I had cause to pass through Hackney, for possibly the first time since I left and certainly the first time since the disturbances.

I had to come into 'Town' (as we country mice call it) for work. Usually I let the train take the strain, but there were one hour delays reported, so I was forced to jump in the car and hammer down the A12.

My mental map of the capital is so hard-wired around Hackney that I almost had to come through there to get to where I was heading - Hammersmith. I know how to get to Hammersmith from Hackney having driven the route many times. I just couldn't picture another route - I am a satnav-less driver by choice and like to think that I can get anywhere by innate road sense and judicious use of a map.

Anyway, my chosen route took my right past the end of our old road. What would you do? I couldn't resist driving past our former flat, feeling guilty in case anybody spotted me in the car.

Despite reports that it is now London's, or possibly the world's coolest street, Wilton Way was reassuringly scruffy, and had parking issues that I don't remember from when I lived there. So it's not just our street in Colchester where you move your vehicle at peril of ever regaining a parking slot.

The street, and Hackney did look lovely in the autumn sunlight. And I was particularly pleased that the buyers of our flat hadn't done much to the exterior. It's not that it was a monument to our exemplary taste or renovation skills, more the fact that after living there for more than 10 years, I was slightly embarrassed that I'd never got round to fixing the dodgy doorstep or replacing the battered front door.

And neither have they.

Given that they seemed to be young, trendy things, with a design background, I was also delighted to see that they had rather ugly Venetian blinds hanging in the front windows. I know it's sad that I noticed these things. At least I got round to hanging curtains, and put up the curtain rails that would have allowed them to do the same. Maybe curtains, like carpet, are a sign of getting old man!

On the way back I also popped along to London Field to use the facilities - it's a long drive back to Essex. Navigating by public loos is quite a skill too - call it satlav if you like.

The park, as always, looked lovely, and was full of the usual mix of dog walkers, late lunchers, parents with kids, and fixed wheel cyclists. I don't know what I expected really. It was the same old Hackney. Maybe I was anticipating some scars following the riots, but there were no obvious dents in the borough. It's so careworn generally, that it is hard to notice any. Plate glass has been replaced, bus stops rebuilt, paving slabs replaced and life goes on.

Scooter power

Hackney Holiday doesn't do sponsored advertorial, but if it did, it would go something like this...

Although I'm a journalist, I've never been a great blagger. There are people who see absolutely no shame in it. I remember a colleague telling me once how she'd been bought a leather coat on one lavish press trip after expressing an interest in it.

"Oh, I couldn't accept it."

"Go on. We'll put it on the client's bill anyway."

"Alright then. Hmmm, nice fit."

I'm really not in that league, and frankly find the whole thing a bit embarrassing, not to say rather compromising. It's particularly cloying in the blog arena where there is a whole school of uncritical authors of PR puff, happy to receive stuff for free and witter on about how great the products are.

So, cards on the table. My son has a Micro scooter, which we bought, and have subsequently bought spares and accessories for. Recently it started to get a bit shuddery and I noticed that the back wheel was actually square through excessive braking over the two years he's had it.

The square wheel: once they were all like this

As I'd recently written about the company for a small piece, I'd been in contact with the PR, so I did something I don't usually do. I dropped her a line and asked if the company would send me a spare wheel. I admitted that I knew this was a bit cheeky and that she could tell me to sling my hook, but hey, there was no harm in asking.

She said it was no problem and that she'd get them to pop one in the post, which duely arrived this morning and is now on the scooter.

Here comes the puff part.

I wouldn't have done this if I didn't think that the scooter was a great product. I'm actually amazed that a company that sells a product some would see as 'disposable' actually sells spare parts anyway. It costs around £50, which isn't cheap, but compared to the price of some kids toys that don't stand being tested to destruction, the Micro is good value I think. You can basically replace every part and reconstruct them in different colour combinations, plus add lots of funky accessories. I ony wish they did an adult version - oh, they do!

HackneyBoy's scooter has been a real boon since he got it. Not only is it great fun for him to zip about, but it saves us from having to lug him around. They are supposed to be for three year olds and upwards, but he's been on his since he was two after another Hackney parent let him have a go on his daughter's. He is really quite adept on his scooter and I think it has given him a bit of an insight into dealing with traffic as well as a bit of independence.

I also love the fact that Micro are so near here, in Mersea. We've popped into the office/warehouse for spares in the past, so there is a local connection.

On one such visit I noticed they had a letter from No 10 on display. The PM and his wife were thanking the company for the scooters - the kids loved them.

Hmmm! I'm betting Dave didn't pay for them. I hope they were declared. Suddenly I'm not feeling so bad for being a blagger.

I wish I was a better dad

God, it's exhausting sometimes.

I love my two boys, but there are times when my patience and my ability to reason are exhausted. I'm talking here about our eldest, who is almost four. He's our first child, so I probably love him more than the younger one at the moment, because we have more history.

Not that this cuts any ice when it comes to one of the day's most stressful points - bath time.

Every night it becomes a battle of wills. He doesn't want a bath, he doesn't want one with his brother, he only wants to wash his hands, face and teeth, he doesn't want his hair washed... every night. We're all tired and fractious by this point, so it's not a great advert for happy families.

Tonight he was being particularly irksome. Kids get more manic the more tired they are and at this stage J gets hitty, bitey and a bit verbally abusive. It sounds awful typing this, because he's still only three, but it's still not very pleasant to be called stupid daddy constantly and told that you're hated and that there is a special lotion he will rub on you that will kill you (where did that come from?)

Anyway tonight I snapped. Not in a 'feel the back of my hand' way, but I was a bit rough, dragging him to the bathroom and dumping him in the bath where he received a thorough wash including a hair wash, which he wasn't due for tonight. Strangely he was a subdued after this - maybe he was in shock. He came out of the bath chatty. I combed his hair into a blonde quiff, which he thought was funny. It was like he was a different boy.

This now makes me feel awful for reacting in such an over the top way. He's already forgotten what went on and tomorrow is another day. (Except that at some point he will lay a little morality line on me about how we shouldn't be rough with each other, which is what I tell him and is what I should practise.)

And he's right. I knew this while I was grabbing him and being rough with him. I knew it was wrong and that it was self defeating because it's just showing him that might is right - not a message I want to convey when he has a younger brother.

It's hard to be consistent with children. There are times when you feel a complete failure no matter what you do. And there are times when you just want them to obey you... just once, without it turning into a junior version of the debating society. "Why? Because I say so."

I dread to think what he'll be like when he's older because at times he seems beyond my limited powers of rationalisation already. Again, I realise how ludicrous this sounds when levelled at a three year old, but he's a smart child and I'm already wondering how he's going to make me feel when he's a cocky, sneering teenager.

Maybe I should just disinherit him now.

It's a zoo in there

Since moving to Essex, one of the kids' favourite places to hang has become Colchester Zoo. It's so expensive to go once that most parents who live locally seem to opt for the annual ticket deal which allows unlimited visits. It pays for itself in about three visits.

Meerkats: resisting a caption that uses 'Simples'

My wife has taken our two monkeys there on lots of occasions since she got membership back in March. It's about five to ten minutes drive from our house, and you can also get a bus there (although due to the ubiquity of Dad Cabs, they haven't tested that one yet).

I hadn't been myself until last week, when she was off for a spa day and I was looking after the boys. The elder one J has been going on about when I'm going to take them to the zoo, so it seemed like a good time to do it.

To be honest, like anyone who's seen too many animals in distress documentaries, I'm a bit ambivalent about zoos. I appreciate that they do a lot of work in studying animals, as well as breeding them and reintroducing them to the wild. Some animals are now so rare, that zoos may well be their last hope of survival.

However, there is something infinitely sad about seeing any living creature behind bars, especially when it's passed off as entertainment. I remember going to zoos as a child and being struck by the dichotomy of the animals I saw on nature documentaries like Survival - running free on the savannah, and killing and eating their neighbours - and those I saw in places like Calderpark Zoo in Glasgow, which was a slightly depressing place, and is now closed.

I have visited zoos since, with nephews and the like, but they've never really intrigued me. But I have to say that I was quite impressed by Colchester Zoo.

Zoos have definitely changed. One of the things that struck me was the size of the enclosures that the animals were in. Not only were they a decent size, but there has obviously been an attempt to provide stimulation for animals as much as possible, and to replicate something of the routine in the wild.This extends to 'starvation days' for many of them, mimicking the fact that in nature food isn't delivered daily on a plate.

This, and quite a few other facts I learned from the staff who were knowledgeable and enthusiastic. I don't know how many local kids work at the zoo, but I reckon our two would love to have part time jobs there one day, if we're still living here.

Other highlights were the flying displays where large predatory birds pluck large chunks of meat from just above the heads of aghast spectators, the impressively huge tigers, and the ever popular meerkats. Truth be told though, there was a lot we didn't see as, in true Radio Times fashion, there's so much in it.

Which is just as well as I've got 15 months' worth of membership (due to a promotion when I bought my Gold card) and visiting ahead. In an ideal world, I suppose the best place for these animals would be in the wild, but it's not an ideal world, and with that in mind I'm giving Colchester Zoo a qualified thumbs up.

Tears for Hackney

We moved from London in December and I periodically find myself getting wistful about our previous life in lovely London Fields. The seemingly endless pieces about how our old road, Wilton Way, is an increasingly hip hangout, combined with the excitement of the coming Olympics, and the sheer variety and dynamism of Hackney, make me pine for what we had there.

The pictures from yesterday are so shocking, it's almost as if they were from another country. Yet it's one that I'm strangely familiar with after 11 years of living there. Mare Street was a stone's throw away - probably not the most appropriate description in the circumstances.

Clarence Road, where the evening's standoff took place, was near my son's nursery. We'd often come walking back from Pembury Nursery down that road to go to the shops in the Narrow Way. It was one of the poorest shopping streets in a poor borough - mainly second hand and cheap stores. The grocers that was looted was probably the biggest business along there. There was also a second hand book shop run by a local lady who supplied the nursery with any children's books that came her way.

Did many of these businesses have insurance? I doubt it. If the book lady's shop window was put in, I can't see how she'll get up and running again.

Ironically, given its image as an underprivileged area, the Pembury Estate, which seemed to be the centre of things yesterday, has benefitted from a great deal of investment in recent years. It is by no means a sink estate, and consists of tidy and quite appealing looking flats. It is also round the corner from Mossbourne Academy, one of the most successful academy initiatives in the country, and a non-selective school that many hard working local children attend. A large swathe of un-used land is slated for a major housing and retail developent - Pembury Circus.

Of course, that's not the whole picture. Pembury Estate was raided by drugs police a few weeks ago as part of a major swoop on dealers in the area. The surrounding streets have also seen the deaths of too many young men in recent years.

Hackney has always enjoyed an edgy reputation, but in all the time I lived there, I don't think I ever felt as if I was living in a scary area. I doubt I'd feel that now, especially with two young children. How must parents in the area be explaining to their children what's going on, and when it's all going to stop.

If all of this makes me sound like one of those people who suddenly 'disses' London as soon as they leave, that's not the intention. I loved living in the capital and might do again one day. It really is one of the most exciting cities in the world, and it is full of the people of the world. And Hackney, in some ways, is like a miniature version of London.

What has happened seems to sad and pointless. I don't know why it happened, and I don't know what will make it stop. There are plenty of theories flying around - it's the bankers, it's the cuts, they're just criminals, it's family breakdown, it's all down to the police ... I'm sure we've all got our own pet favourites, but do any of us really know?

Answers on a postcard please.

Look at my Dinky

Sweeney mobile: Corgi Jaguar Mark X Saloon

A visit to my mum's this weekend produced a bag of treasure and nostalgia aplenty.

"Do you want these?" she asked, handing me a sack that she'd ferreted from the garage.

Inside were about 20 old Dinky, Corgi and Matchbox toy cars and trucks. I could only dimly remember most of them from my childhood. I suspect this is because they were second-hand even then, having been passed on by older cousins. As kids are more impressed by new stuff (well, I was), I suspect that I didn't actually play with them that much.

What impresses me now about them now is how well made they are. All are proudly stamped 'Made in Britain' or 'Made in England'. I suspect some will have been produced at the Lesney factory which was located in Hackney for many years and was only recently levelled for a housing development.

The cars and trucks are solid diecast pieces, which is probably why they've survived three or four generations of rough play by a host of young boys. The scuff marks tell a tale and show their age, but I think they are scars that add to their character. Given the weight of them, I'm sure that they could have produced a few scars of their own when hurled at annoying friends or younger brothers.

They also possess a host of lovely details such as opening doors, boots and bonnets, and a tipping trailer in the case of the ERF truck. They really are lovely things, with so much more character than the plastic tat that so many modern toys seem to be (old git alert).

Strangely they are not as valuable as I thought they might be. A quick check on Ebay reveals that you can pick up many of these for a fiver plus postage, often in mint condition and with a box to match. It almost makes you feel sorrow for a toy that's never been played with, especially as it hasn't turned out to be an alternative pension plan. These things were produced in their thousands, and they are so indestructible that there must be thousands of them left, even if they are a little worn.

Postscript: I am now beginning to understand the desire to conserve. Having survived more than 40 years of rough play, our youngest has managed to eat the tyres off one of the cars within a day. They are now being packed away until our two turn 40 and then they might be entrusted with them.

Keep on truckin': ERF tipper

Flat ERF: look at that detail

Welcome back Lollibop... but not to Hackney

It looks as if last year's Lollibop Festival was enough of a success to run it for a second year. This time however it will shift from Stoke Newington's Clissold Park to the more high profile Regents Park.
I'm interested to hear that Lollibop has 'outgrown' its old home, as one of the things I liked about it last year was the fact that it was pleasantly uncrowded. There would have been scope to grow the event in Hackney. Rather, I suspect that the push this year will be for the organisers to scale things up a bit to get closer to break even or even into profit, which they probably didn't do in 2010. I'm guessing here, but it was the first year, so set up costs would have been high. It wasn't particularly well marketed, hence the low attendance. However it must have been enough of a success to take a punt at putting on a bigger version this time round.
The website indicates bigger acts and more potential for TV tie ins this year with mentions of Dick and Dom, Cerrie from Cbeebies, and the all conquering Rastamouse. Ticket prices are up accordingly. Last year, a family ticket for four on the day was £53. This year it is more than double at £108, and the early bird tickets are reportedly already sold out.
We recently went to a country fayre in Colchester Castle Park where it was a £6 for adults and under fives free. It's an unfair (pardon the pun) comparison in some ways as the target audiences, content and location were so different. However the bottom line is that we had great fun there ferret racing, shire horses, real ale tasting and all.
If this seems like so much carping, I have to 'fess up that I didn't even pay for my tickets last year, having won entry through a local website, for which I supplied a review. The tickets seem a bit pricey this time, but the organiser's costs must be up considerably this year.
Last year's event was lots of fun and a great day out. I hope it works for them this year and that they haven't miscalculated on pricing.

Two wheels good

Mr Halford gives Colchester the thumbs up

Last night the Tour of Britain came to town. In my youth this was known as the Milk Race as it was sponsored by the Milk Marketing Board. However, this was abolished in  2002 and the Tour is currently sponsored by Halfords, the bike people.
Milk or no milk, it was the most exciting thing to hit Colchester since the severe winter snap. The town centre was closed to traffic to create a circular route up the High Street, down Head Street, along St John Street and up Queen Street.
The riders headed off at 7pm for an hour of cycling. Usually this timing would have ruled out my seeing it, but our young 'un had a massive unscheduled kip just before bed time, so there was no way he was going to sleep on time. His brother, by contrast, was shattered and practically crawled to bed.
This coincidence meant I was able to walk the five minutes to town with Baby A in his buggy. There was a decent crowd lining the streets on a beautiful, T-shirt wearing evening. (It has to be said that after a crap winter, the summer is shaping up to be lovely - end of long range forecast).
While the ToB as I believe it's called by fans, doesn't quite match the Tour de France as a spectacle, it wasn't half bad. The fact that the 40-50 cyclists were racing round a tight, street circuit, helped. They were whooshing past about every minute once the leaders had lost the peloton, so there was plenty to see.
Mr Halford was there for photo opportunities and various cheerleaders were handing out flags promoting prostate cancer awareness, and inflatable Halfords' hands (I didn't get one of these unfortunately).
There was a cracking sound system on the high street, keeping the crowd buzzed with fast beats (not sure if that is the proper term for the toons. Young people, please help!), and a helpful MC informing us who was doing well. I can't remember any names, apart from one chap from Holland, who was almost obligatorily labelled the Flying Dutchman. Not to be confused with mobile chippy that frequents my old home town - the Frying Dutchman.
Little 'un loved it and was spontaneously applauding the riders as they whizzed by. And after all that excitement, I'd like to say that he was as shattered as his brother and slept like a log.
I'd like to say it, but unfortunately he was his usual screamy, wakeful self, and had me up by 5.30am.
Beside that, a good evening was had by all. Come back to Colchester soon ToB!

Strictly come cycling

My Royal Wedding Mercy Dash

I was really looking forward to the Royal Wedding. Not as an event or even as the multimedia spectacular that it was. No, my interest in it was as a theme for kids activities - a way to keep eldest son's fertile imagination fed. Unfortunately for me, I was beaten to the punch by his nursery, which had royal puppet shows, crown making and the like, and my wife, who got on with the bunting making first.

Maybe I overestimated the ability of the events of yesterday to hold his attention anyway. Come the day, he was as wriggly and bored by the whole affair as I suspect any other three year was. I can't blame him really. You've seen one Philip Treacy fascinator, you've seen them all. Which was a bit annoying for my wife in particular as she wanted to see the wedding through without a whiny, running commentary - HackneyBoy, not me. "Where is the carriage with the window? Will the Queen be on the balcony? Why is this so long? Turn it off. Play with me. No one is looking after me!"

When he started complaining about sore legs, it seemed at first just another attempt to steal Wills' and Kate's day by the Attention Fynder General. However after a while, my wife became concerned so I took him to the local walk in centre at Colchester Hospital. I have to admit, I thought he was laying it on a bit thick and that I'd be send home with the usual Calpol and fluids advice.

The doctor will see you

As it was the congregation of symptoms he had made them refer us straight to the Paediatric Assessment Unit. This proved to be quite a long drawn out affair and it quickly become apparent to me that we would possibly be there for the night or the wee, small hours at least. He had to had an X-ray and blood tests, and although all of the people we saw stressed that there was only a small chance that he might have the worst case scenario, they wanted to be absolutely sure he was okay. 

It was quite sobering - and I hadn't even been drinking. With health matters, my default assumption is that there's nothing to worry about. Which is fine when it's me - I usually get better from most things with minimum intervention, which is my favoured, doctor-phobic male way of dealing with health stuff. Hey, it hasn't failed me yet - I'm still here.


With kids it is different, and my wife is much better than I am at spotting when there's something to worry about. She's more likely to call the doctor and make the appointment, or reach for the meds than I am. Last night taught me that I have to be a bit more alert about these things, and more prepared to get them checked out.


As it happens, J is fine, although he was kept in overnight for observation. I'm glad I was there with him. In a strange way, it was a bonding experience. We're close anyway, but I'm glad it was me who had to distract him while he was getting stuck with a needle for blood samples, and having his knee X-rayed, and just being there with him in a strange place. Those are the kinds of things that dads are for after all. My wife gave me some good advice before we went. "Make it an adventure for him," which was genius. As uncomfortable as some of it was for him, it's amazing how quickly fear and pain get overridden by the desire to go on and explore a strange building in the middle of the night. Boys love it. Hell, I loved it!


As usual, when dealing with the NHS, the experience left me grateful that we have access to such a great institution. It's not perfect - what is - but imagine what it must be like in countries like the States where every health decision is conflicted by the ability, or non-ability to pay. Would I have had a check up for something that I was sure was nothing? What if I was on minimum wage?

Here, we were seen by paediatricians, bone doctors (what are they called?), haematologists and X-ray professionals, as well as being looked after by caring staff who are really good with kids - they brought us books and toys and had a great manner with children. They even found a bed for me.


The next time I moan about hospital parking fees... well, I won't!

(Although £10 was a bit steep.)

Not squeamish

Flexible friend

This morning while watering a house plant we found this little fella asleep in the mulch. Well, he was asleep until I drenched him in ice cold water. Can caterpillars suffer from shock?
This one seems to have faired okay and was equally unbothered to be handed to J who delighted in the beastie crawling over his hand and up his sleeve.
I don't know if I'd have been as cool as him at his age. I was a bit of a feartie when it came to creepy crawlies - still am if truth be told. J on the other hand thought his little friend was great fun and was thoughtful enough to keep him at arm's length from baby brother, who he correctly surmised would probably squish him.
After this great adventure we took Mr Caterpillar out into the garden where, after dropping him on the slabs a few times we managed to release him on to a tulip. I don't know if caterpillars are fond of tulips. Unfortunately for him we had no apples, plums, pears, strawberries or oranges to hand. Let alone slices of chocolate cake, Swiss cheese, cherry pie, watermelon etc.
Given the looks he was attracting from the local birds, I'm dubious of his chances of making butterfly.
Still, it will have made for a great tale at nursery this morning.

Just a nice green leaf for me please

Long time, no blog...

I hate those entries that start something like "Sorry it's been so long since I last blogged, the house burned/I've had a breakdown/the dog ate my laptop..." like some penitent pleading for forgiveness from the great digital god. I'm under no illusions that people are waiting for my words of wisdom, but I do feel bad at not having been very diligent with my entries.

It has been really busy recently what with work and the incessant demands of our two boys, plus there are so many things around the new house that I feel I should do. I wish my head was bluetoothed up some times and I could simply transfer my thoughts straight to page without hammering away on the keyboard. I expect this will arrive at some point in the next five years, although by then we will simply bypass Blogger and Wordpress for the new B2B blogging tool - that's brain to brain blogging. No sooner have you had a thought, than it will drop into the inbox of your subscribed brains. It should do wonders for road traffic accidents.

The other thing I hate on catch up blogs is when people try and recount everything that has happened in the last month, year, decade since their last entry. This quickly becomes tiresome for all concerned, so the tendency is to resort to a list, especially if you are a man. Actually, I quite like lists, and as blog entries they probably have quite a lot going for them. Let's give it a try:

- baby brother has started to walk
- had first birthday party for baby brother
- local cat has taken up residence in our front garden
- assembled a Homebase barbecue and had first BBQ of the Spring
- went to the seaside (Frinton)
- thoughtless neighbour has scratched the bumper of the car
- mate visited from so we enjoyed a night out in Colchester (mate is now convinced that The Only Way is Essex is factual)
- work is piling up
- visited Guernsey and Ireland with work
- off to Amsterdam in a few weeks with work
- wife and I enjoyed our third or fourth night out of the past year
- kids nipping my head
- still only have four TV channels
- mustn't grumble...

What a fascinating insight into my life. I must do this more often.

About a Boy

After the last entry's exercise in navel gazing, normalish service is resumed.

We've just got back from a visit to that London to see a lovely production based on Oliver Jeffers Boy books.

Bandits at 11 o'clock

It was the first time that we'd taken J to see anything like this and I wasn't sure that his patience would last the course, even though he's a fan of the books.

How wrong could I be. He, and his friends, were rapt. As were the three babies, who are all under a year. Well done Big Wooden Horse.

Afterwards we had a mostly pleasant lunch at a nearby Italian, where J had a meltdown which I didn't handle especially well. However, all was well that ended well, after ice cream all round. Then we headed for a local adventure playground, which seemed like a lawsuit waiting to happen. It's not a good idea for two guys, slightly the better of a good Italian lunch to try and shepherd three full of beans kids around a splinter infested deathtrap. Still, we didn't lose too many fingers.

Then it was home again, home again, on the not very fast InterCity service and straight to bed for two very tired, but hopefully happy kids.

Being a dad

I was recently asked to contribute to a feature on what it's like to be a dad in these modern times.  The feature itself isn't due to be printed for several months, and as a journalist myself, I doubt they'll use much of what I provided. Hardly surprising as I got a bit over-excited and came up with a screed of self righteous copy about what a great father I am. It was particularly ironic as the day after submitting it I proved my fathering skills by letting our three year old tip over on his scooter on to his face resulting in a fat lip, grazed nose and lots of blood.


Anyway, I was asked to comment on a few areas, and on the basis that I don't necessarily practice what I preach, this is what I said.


ON DADS' DEPRESSION 

Luckily for me I didn't experience anything that I would call depression, although I know somebody who did.
I think it is something that many dads are not even aware of. We're all primed to look out for symptoms in our wives and partners, but don't really consider it among ourselves.
Becoming a parent is harder than many of us imagine. Nothing you are told can really prepare you for the lack of sleep, worry about doing things properly, and frustration when things don't go right (the baby won't feed, won't sleep, won't stop crying). The first few weeks in particular are like baby boot camp.
It's a real eye opener and the wonder is that more men don't crack up. You're trying to be the strong, capable male role model you've read about and seen on TV, and often combining this with work. It's like having two jobs at once.
I got through it the first time by just getting on with it. I expected it to be a challenge and it definitely was, but it does get better eventually. And because it's all new, there is a sense of discovery and joy as the child develops which overcomes the bad times. The slightest thing, like a smile, can turn a really crappy morning around.
Funnily enough I found the birth of our second son tougher, because I underestimated how hard it would be with two kids. I thought that having done it once before, it would be a walk in the park, which is definitely wasn't.
Kid A was a worse sleeper than his brother, and suffered really bad colic when he was very young. Both my wife and I had this rose tinted idea that as our first son had been such a bad sleeper, we would be blessed with a sleeping scond son, and it was almost like a slap in the face when it didn't work out like that. There was almost a sense, of "Here we go again!" this time round. You've also got the other child demanding your attention, so it's a real plate spinning challenge.
I've definitely been less stoical this time round, and more grumpy at times. It probably made it a bit harder to bond with A  if I'm honest, although that has passed and I love him to bits now. It does strain your relationship unless you talk about it. Both parties inevitably think that they are getting the rougher end of the deal and that neither understands the other. Just being open about how you feel is a great release, as is humour. There are times when it gets so bad that it's hard not to laugh - perhaps a bit hysterically.

ON DADS' ROLE IN THE FAMILY
 
I always assumed that I'd have a central role in bringing up our children. As much as things break down along gender lines to a certain extent, we try and have equal roles. Obviously I can't breast feed and my wife can't assemble flat pack furniture, but we try and do the same things for the boys, whether it's cooking, playing, reading bedtime stories or bathing them (although this is something that I've found that I do, mainly because my wife was nervous about doing it when they were young).
I've never been a man that thinks it's beneath him to change a nappy. As far as I'm concerned, if you want a full role in your child's upbringing, then you need the full range of skills.
And they are skills. Very little we do with our children is completely innate. You have to pick stuff up by trial and error. You need to be able to soothe your child when they are upset and not just think that mummy will do it. She's not always there!
My dad died when I was 13, but my memories of him are of a family man, and that's what I wanted to be.
So, right from the start I've thrown myself in and got involved. In the early days I would even wake up in the night when my wife was breastfeeding as I felt I should be doing something. It seems like madness now, but at the time I think I felt I was being supportive by not getting any sleep as well - duh!
I don't think I've ever felt excluded, even when the boys have preferred to go to mum. It's understandable that they have a closer relationship with her in the early days, and I've never felt threatened by that. They quickly become individuals and you realise that even quite early on you will have your own relationship with them. As they get older (ours are 3 and 11 months at the moment), I'm probably the go to guy for boisterous play, which I absolutely adore.
My relationship with my wife has changed because we have less time for each other. We can both be irritable with each other because of tiredness and perceived lack of empathy from the other person. It can get like the Monty Python four Yorkshiremen sketch in the "I'm more tired than you" stakes. But at the same time we're closer than ever because of what we have in common. I don't think either of us truly wishes for our pre-children lives back. (Although a bit more time for personal interests would be lovely).
I didn't join any dad's groups as there wasn't one where I used to live in East London. However I did spend about 18 months working part time and looking after our first son, when my wife went back to work. During that time I gravitated to a number of dads that were doing the same thing. As much as the mums I met were lovely, I think there is something about the dad experience that makes you want to share it with other blokes. It was fun to hang out with them. Dads groups definitely have a role though. I'm quite confident about my role as a dad and wouldn't have a problem going to a class or group where I was the only man there. But I know that some men don't feel that and value an exclusively male group. It probably makes it easier to ask some of the many dumb questions that occur to us all. We're probably less worried about feeling silly in front of other men. And how can you feel intimidated by a hulking bloke who is carrying round a pink dolly and pastel shades changing bag.

ON PATERNITY LEAVE AND RIGHTS
 
I'm a freelancer, so I didn't have any paternity rights. At the same time, I have more flexible time, so I knew I would be able to spend as much time as required or desired at home.
Having said that, the nature of my work is feast or famine, and some work came up about a week after J's birth that I felt I had to take. It was just beginning to sink in how hard it was all going to be, so at the time I was a bit guilty about leaving the house knowing I was making my escape from the crying fury that was our baby. Then I'd come back to a wife in floods of tears who would thrust him into my arms and disappear upstairs for a break. Tough times.
I'm used to being around, so I think I would have found it hard to be content with just a couple of weeks paid paternity leave. My temptation would have been to set aside some money and sound out my employer about the possibility of taking a sabbatical from work to spend more time with the child. The benefits are obvious: you're a help at home, you can bond with your child, and it gives you a bit of perspective on your career - what are you working for in the first place?
Would I like to see better paternity rights? Probably I would, although I can appreciate the concerns of small companies especially who worry about all the new fathers suddenly wanting six months to spend with their child. Not everybody wants this, but I think the option should be there.
In a wider sense I hope that Sure Start doesn't get broken up. Both my wife and I found the Sure Start groups in our area a great resource and a great way of meeting other parents. It would be a real shame if they suddenly became unavailable to a few parents. 

As I said, it's pretty self righteous stuff, but it's a snapshot of how I feel that in a few years time may be a handy reminder.


More light-hearted posts to follow.