Bernard reflected in the knobs of our new bathroom cabinet. At the time of writing, it’s not yet up on the wall. We’re going to need a bigger drill.
Category: Parenting
I am a dad. If I were a woman, I’d be a mum. But I’m not.
It’s been a busy week, which is why things have been quiet round here. Here’s what’s been going down.
Allotment
Karen and I have spent a lot of time on the allotment. Whereas it did look like this, it now looks like this:
We’ve cleared a lot of brambles, dismantled the rotted cold frame, had a big bonfire, and put some carpet down to suppress weeds. We also found some rhubarb of the variety *Hey, Free Rhubarb!* and planted it in an appropriate location. It’s progress, definitely.
My first MP3 player
On Wednesday I got my first ever MP3 player. As you can see, I’m right on the cutting edge here.
It’s not even a state-of-the-art device. It’s a Creative Zen Stone, a little thing with 2 GB of storage and no LCD display. For £30, you can’t go far wrong. I also got a little FM transmitter so that I can play it through my car stereo, which is now over 5 years old.
Electrocuting myself
While investigating a faulty kitchen light, I think that I may have accidentally electrocuted myself. I have a small blister on my thumb, and one on my forefinger, where I pinched a screw. As far as I can see, it’s not radiating heat, so electrocution seems the likely candidate. In hindsight, it should have been obvious that said screw would be live.
Playing Tomb Raider
I rented Tomb Raider Anniversary for a week. I played the original, many years ago, and it’s interesting to see what has been added and what has been taken away. I’ve bought a second hand copy so that I can complete it at my leisure.
Teaching Bernard to spell his name
Not putting too much pressure on him at this early stage, obviously, but it does yield such gems as this one:
Bernard: “R”
Me: “No, that’s not an ‘r’, it’s an ‘n’.”
Bernard: “Buck, buck.”
Me: “Heh, not ‘hen’. ‘N’.”
Categories
Santa
*This is a companion piece to a similarly-themed article on Karen’s site which, all things being equal, should be published at roughly the same time.*
Santa Claus is a big pile of bollocks. He’s what you get when you take two historical figures who are famous for gift bringing, blend them together, allow it to ferment for about 100 years until a dominant form emerges that bears little resemblance to either of the originals, hijack it for advertising purposes, and then continue using it for advertising purposes for another 80 years.
“You cynical bastard, ” some whiney git whines, “are you going to deny your son the tradition of Christmas?”
That depends, I reply. Are you talking about the tradition of giving? Or the tradition of demanding? The tradition of generosity? Or the tradition of shopping?
Once upon a time, Santa had good intentions. But now, he’s a corporate shill.
“But, ” the whiney whinotrope continues to whine, “children are innocent and beautiful. They don’t understand such foulness. They are incapable of conceiving such things. To them, Santa is a good man, for he brings them gifts.”
Exactly, I reply. Isn’t it our duty to protect children from the things that will cause them harm? If they don’t understand the dangers of wanton consumption and the worship of consumerism, surely we should be keeping them as far from it as possible, rather than burying our heads in the sand and saying “Oh, I’m sure it won’t do any long-term damage. We can always un-train them later.”
I’d love to be able to embrace Santa Claus. Like Jesus Christ, I agree with everything that he stands for. But his legacy has been poisoned by the people who have co-opted him for their own profit. I think that everyone knows this, but most people are too afraid to act on it. There’s pressure coming from all directions to perpetrate this destructive tradition.
And then there’s the whole magic/lies argument, which needs no introduction. In a nutshell (hmmm, apparently it *does* need an introduction) you’ve got “I shall tell my child the truth” versus “I shall let my child believe in magic, for innocence passes so fleetingly, and magic is fun.” Both sides of the coin have their pros and cons. I’m going to play that one by ear, I think. Half of my brain wants to encourage honesty, truth and trust with my son, but the other half wants to give him a memorable childhood that is full of wonder and awe and mystery. Pffft, exaggerated shrugging action.
*Next week’s stunt post will be on the subject of Christmas decorations – look out for it on Monday.*
In the last few weeks, we’ve started to exploit Bernard’s ability to understand the English language. For some time, he’s been able to respond to instructions such as “Go and get a book and bring it to me” or “Fetch your teddy from the other room.”
But now we’re advancing to the next level. My favourite is “Pick up your books and put them on the table.” Upon issuing this command, Bernard very happily wanders round the living room, picking up any books that are on the floor, and placing them in a relatively neat stack on the coffee table.
Karen’s favourite is “Can you bring me a bib?” Bernard will saunter over to the coffee table, open the drawer that contains bibs, grab one, and bring it over to the dining table.
I’m trying to think of other child-friendly chores that we can start issuing to him. Any ideas?
Categories
Facing life after losing your son
As Paul puts it, in the affluent West we consider there to be a natural order of things. People die in the order that they were born. You assume that one day, you will attend your parents’ funerals, if you have not done so already.
> “No man should have to bury his son.” — *Theoden, Lord of the Rings.*
About a year ago, a 17 year old boy was killed in our town. He jumped over the barrier at the railway station because he was afraid of missing his last train home. He didn’t notice the train that was leaving the station, and it hit him at about 30mph. It happened right outside the house where we used to live. And all I could think about was his parents, and all that time and energy and love that they invested in him, only for him to throw it away.
This might sound a little morbid, but I regularly force myself to spend a minute imagining myself in the shoes of a parent who has lost a child. I read the articles that they write, not for pleasure or thrills, but because the danger exists and I do not wish to belittle it.
My mother always thought that my father was emotionally cold because he seemed, to her, so unaffected when his parents died. She would openly criticise him to me, and instruct me not to turn out like him. But as time has gone by, I’ve realised how wrong she was about him. He’s a rational man. He prepares for the worst, and hopes for the best, and if the worst does happen, then he’s the guy who keeps his head so that he can offer support where necessary. I realised that his reaction to his parents dying wasn’t due to emotional detachment, but because he had known that it was going to come, and that it was always a question of ‘when’, not ‘if’.
It strikes me that he probably also used to spend a minute every day thinking about the possibility that I, or my sister, would not make it to our 18th birthday. I don’t think that this would make him a monster. I think that it would make him a strong man, who isn’t afraid to confront the things that scare him on a daily basis. Like him, I want to be able to stare death in the face and acknowledge its power, and by doing so, also limit its power.
I know that it’s impossible to be prepared for such a tragedy. I don’t think that the human mind can possibly grasp the magnitude of the situation until it is drowning in it. But maybe I can take the edge off, slightly. If I’ve already simulated it in my mind a few thousand times, maybe it will make it easier to accept reality when all hope of return is lost. Or maybe I just do it to remind me to appreciate every day as if it is our last.
Yesterday, I taught Bernard to give a “high five”.
Categories
The Bathtime Routine Revisited
About a year ago, I wrote about Bernard’s bathtime routine. I stumbled across the entry just now, while looking for something else, and marvelled at how things have changed, and how glad I am that I wrote it down for posterity.
These days the routine goes something like this…
Shortly after 6:30pm, I pull up to the front door and fumble about in my bag for my keys. Bernard waddles towards the front door in a futile attempt at escape, and Karen holds him back while I park my bike in the garage and take off my cycle helmet. I am not allowed to sit my sweaty ass down on the sofa until I have had a quick shower, so I usually do this.
We read books until about 6:55pm, at which point we announce “tidy up time!” and all the toys and books go back into the appropriate boxes. We open the stairgate, and lure Bernard towards the stairs. One of us goes ahead, to start the bath running, while the other follows Bernard, just in case he slips (which never happens, but you can’t be too sure). Once upstairs, we close the top stairgate. Whoever went up ahead closes all the doors on the landing except for the doors to Bernard’s bedroom and the bathroom, to prevent him from going off and finding lots more interesting things to do. The landing light and bathroom light are switched on, Bernard’s bedroom light is left switched off.
Bernard is usually either on the landing at this point, or stood by the bath throwing toys into it. He is undressed, his nappy is removed, and by now the bath is ready, so he is lowered into it.
He may or may not sit down in the bath. We generally take turns to give him his bath, though if the other person is nearby, they may help with the rinsing of the hair. When he is clean, he is hoisted out, wrapped in a towel, and I brush his teeth.
He is then released back onto the landing, and encouraged through to his bedroom, where his new nappy is put on. We then sit him up to put his arms into his pyjamas, lie him back down to tuck his legs in, sit him back up to put his arms into his grobag, stand him up to tuck his legs in, sit him back down to zip it up.
He then climbs onto my lap and selects a book for his bedtime story. Karen goes to change into her pyjamas, and then comes back through and sits down on the POÄNG. When Bernard decides that he has read enough for this evening, he leans towards her and emits a little whine. We put the book away, he is hoisted up on to Karen’s lap, I kiss him on the head and wish him goodnight, and head off to do the washing up. Karen feeds him, and he goes to sleep. For a while.
Categories
Top 5 leisure activities
*This is a companion piece to a similarly-themed article on Karen’s site which, all things being equal, should be published at roughly the same time. We have not read each others entries before publishing, and have taken care not to discuss them.*
Cycling
At long last, I have found an enjoyable way of getting regular exercise. Going to the gym is dull as dishwater. Karen and I used to play Squash, but haven’t done so since halfway through her pregnancy (though we are going on holiday at the end of the week, and have a Squash court booked). My fitness is returning, and it’s having a major positive impact upon my overall mood.
Taking photos
I wouldn’t consider myself to be a “photographer”, by any stretch of the imagination, but I have recently acquired my first DSLR (a Nikon D40) and am enjoying learning about shutter speeds, aperture, and all that guff.
Playing with Bernard
“Ball!”
“Baw!”
Followed by a bout of wrestling. It’s awesome.
Drinking beer
I like beer. Not in huge quantities, nor on my own in the evenings, but its deliciousness can not be denied.
Eating pie
I like pie. In huge quantities, and on my own in the evenings.
Categories
To have a second baby?
*This is a companion piece to a similarly-themed article on Karen’s site which, all things being equal, should be published at roughly the same time. We have not read each others entries before publishing, and have taken care not to discuss them.*
I haven’t done the sums, but I don’t think it would be inaccurate to say that the majority of our parenting peers ((by which I mean the people that we met at ante-natal classes etc)) are now expecting their second babies.
There’s clearly a pattern here – people who are planning to have n+1 babies (∀ n ≥ 1) will tend to aim for an age difference of no more than two years between their babies. I can see many good reasons to do this – it means that your children are of a similar age, so they can play together comfortably, and support each other through growing up. It means that you can dress the second child with the first one’s hand-me-downs, without having to store unused clothes for a prolonged period. It means that you won’t still be battling with teenagers in thirty years time.
Maybe it’s not even any of these excellent reasons. Maybe it’s much more emotionally driven – the desire to have another one of those cute little cuddly fluffy wuffly bufflewunnies perhaps. Or maybe mum enjoyed that six months off of work, and she wants to do that again.
Either way, it seems that answering the question “should I have a second child?” should be treated with a matter of some urgency – it’s not one of those questions like “should I defrost the freezer” which can safely be left unanswered for years and years.
There are lots of good reasons for having more than one child (for example, you need at least three people to start an awesome band, and also with two kids we’d be able to play 4-player Bomberman) and lots of oft-quoted but actually rather stupid reasons (for example, this mistaken belief that the only child is anti-social and crap at sharing, and the “what if something happens to one of them?” question). But the list of reasons for sticking with one is magnificent. Here it comes, bitches.
**It’s cheaper.** Having one child is cheaper (than two) right now, and will continue to be cheaper for the rest of my life. We can give Bernard a comfortable standard of living, and hopefully with all the money that we save, he won’t have to stump for my care when I’m old and decrepit.
**It’s less stressful.** Karen and I are coping pretty well with one child – if anything, our relationship is even stronger as a result of it. Maybe having a second child would make us even closer, but I don’t want to disturb this perfect equilibrium that we’ve found. Also, kids have a tendency to gang up on you. So, say one of them is whining because they want a sweet, or a cigarette, or a turn behind the wheel of your Vauxhall Astra. And you’re telling them no, but they keep nagging and whining. Well, what will happen then is that the kid in question will give their sibling a secret signal, upon which the sibling will create a distraction (for example, setting fire to the footstool). In the furore, you will crumble, and you will give the first kid what they wanted, just to shut them up, so you can deal with the new crisis. This is all real factual stuff, direct from my imagination.
**The social aspect.** The argument that children without siblings are socially disadvantaged has been shown to be false, providing that the child still gets plenty of contact with other children of his own age (as Bernard does). However, some studies have concluded that they relate better to adults, have higher self-esteem, are more self-reliant, have a wider vocabulary, and are more motivated. Maybe this is true, maybe it isn’t, but I can see the logic behind it, so my gut feeling is that there will be some truth in this. Of course, it’s going to be crucial to find the right balance, because I don’t want his self-esteem to be at the expense of enjoying his childhood, but I’m fairly confident that we can nail this one.
**The world.** The environmental impact of having an extra child is very significant. This planet is struggling to contain the people that are already on it, let alone loads more. Having a child has always been important to me, but having more than one strikes me as a bit greedy.
**Actual statistical analysis.** I performed an actual statistical analysis, with rigorous methods and all that shit. I concluded that there is an inverse correlation between the number of kids that a couple have, and their average IQ. In a separate study, I discovered that every single person in the world with more than two kids is a moody fucker (sample set: my co-workers).
**The house.** We have a lovely house. It’s perfect for three. If we were going to enlarge the family, we’d have to move house again, which I’m not going to do.
**Video games.** If we had a second child, and it was another boy, then when they get a bit older then they will always be playing 2-player games together, and there will be no room for me. This is an unacceptable risk.
**The plan.** Having one child has been the plan for a long time, and I see no compelling evidence to change it, so we shall proceed with the original plan, subject to periodic review, naturally.
