There’s something inevitable about getting the flu at Christmas.

Just like a repeat of Love Actually. It comes around in December, you do everything you can to avoid it, you end up giving in and then feel angry afterwards about all of the wasted time.

I placed a curse on myself this year by looking forward to the holidays too much. The present shopping was done early and well. The baking was successful enough that I didn’t have to pretend that my mince pies were some ironic gesture against consumerist perfection.

And I was in my own house, where I’m most comfortable.

And where my son introduces every bug, infection and contagion he picks up at that breeding ground of disease some refer to as school.

I give him food, clothes, toys, emotional stability, love and the benefits of my experience and wisdom. He gives me the fecking flu.

And just to avoid confusion, it’s the real thing this time. Not the usual ‘man’ version which strikes me every few weeks, lays me low for an hour or two but then conveniently scarpers when it’s feeding time.

No, this is the real thing. Endless days in bed watching repeats of Dallas. Shivering, coughing, sweating, spluttering, aching, excreting, barking, wheezing, snotting, moaning, sweating, throbbing, wailing, suffering. It’s the ‘I almost had to put an appeal on social media to get someone to come round to take me to the toilet’ flu.

My wife and son fell first while I admirably marched on with the Christmas preparations.

The Santa experience was enjoyable, if a little more subdued than usual, as my boy battled bravely against a raging temperature.

I spent hours in the kitchen preparing Christmas dinner. I could feel the malign symptoms coming on but, like the climate change denier, refused to accept the overwhelming evidence.

I fed all the family, pulled the crackers, refilled the wine glasses, set the pudding on fire (by intent), exchanged embraces, smiled, waved goodbye, closed the door and…..crawled into bed.

I had just enough strength to Google ‘Winter flu 2017’ where the first two articles were entitled ‘Should I worry?’ and ‘Should we fear the worst?’ ‘Yes! Yes!’ I heard myself call. I read an article from some professor of molecular virology which said that this flu virus had come all the way from Australia and was in a bad mood.

I went on to read a few articles from the Daily Mail and Daily Express which said, essentially, that the flu was going to kill every living thing on earth (although I do accept I may have passed over into delirium by this point).

Christmas night was spent trying vainly to master techniques I used to be quite good at – sleeping, moving, breathing. Snot bunged up my nose like an inexperienced and over-enthusiastic glue-sniffer. I lay there miserably for hours suffering uncontrollable bouts of shivering and throbbing muscle pain (and not in a good way).

The morning brought little relief. My head felt like it had been put through a cycle of the washing machine without fabric conditioner. A journey of even a few steps felt like an expedition to the Antarctic. I eventually made it to the bathroom only to find that fecker Amundsen had got there 33 days previously and hadn’t bothered to flush the toilet.

But I had greater worries ahead. I needed supplies. My emergency stores of Lemsips were exhausted and I found the Calpol just wasn’t doing it for me.

I would have to leave the house.

More, I would have to leave the house and go to the shopping centre in the middle of Boxing Day sales.

Somehow I hauled myself upright and pulled on some old clothes. I stumbled outside like a baby antelope taking his first steps and began to defrost the car.

I saw a neighbour approach.

I tried to hide but there was no spot for refuge. I attempted to blend in to the colour of my car.

‘Hi Jonny! Did you have a lovely Christmas?’

‘Quiet.’

‘Aye, and did the wee man enjoy it?’

‘Um…I think so.’

‘It’s all really for the kids now, isn’t it?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘It’s all got so commercial now, hasn’t it?’

‘Uh, yeah.’

‘Well that’s it all as far away as ever now.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So, are you heading out?’

‘Just to the chemist, I’ve got the flu.’

‘Yeah, I thought you weren’t looking too good there. When you’ve got the flu you really know you’ve got the flu.’

‘Uh….’

‘There’s a lot of it going round.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘You know what you need? Some echinacea.’

‘OK.’

‘Make sure and keep wrapped up. And drink plenty of fluids.’

‘OK, thanks.’

Never has a windscreen taken so long to defrost.

But eventually I’m driving around the shopping centre car park searching for a spot. I win a game of chicken with an old woman as we both dart towards the last remaining space (I’m beyond caring and civility).

The crowds are formidable. It might be merely a reflection of my mood but the jollity of the pre-Christmas shopper seems absent now. There’s something more mercenary and ruthless about the sales shopper. There’s a ‘get out of my way’ look in too many eyes.

I find the Boots store but by now I’m overcome with a desperate desire to get back to my bed. I grab a basket and blindly empty a shelf-full of cough and flu remedies into it.

The front of the queue is like a distant mirage.

My nose is running uncontrollably so I have to grab a box of tissues from a shelf and bung my nostrils shut like a leaky dam.

I get to the counter. The assistant is matronly and peers at me over her glasses. I’m shivering, red-eyed, shrunken and with bits of paper protruding from my nose. I feel like I should be holding a bell.

‘Are these items for you sir?’ she asks.

‘No, they’re for fecking Lord Lucan!’ I have to try very hard to stop myself from bellowing.

‘You know you can’t take this with this. They’ve both got paracetamol’ she adds, pointing to two boxes.

Of course I can take that with that. What, I presume, she means is that I should not take this with this. But it hardly seems the moment for pedantry.

‘OK,’ I whimper.

I throw notes at her and flee the store. I don’t remember very much about getting home but I must have made it safely because I woke up this morning, still shivering, with bottles and boxes strewn around me like a heroin addict’s dirty needles.

I’m still in bed. I intend to stay here for some time.

It’s an elf I see first.

He’s bigger than me.

Tall and heavyset, dressed in garish green and red. Fake plastic ears. His beer-belly alone must weigh more than my son.

There’s a little bit of tension around, crackling in the air like static on a woolly jumper.

It’s the sort of tension that only parents giving their children a special day out can bring.

We’re in a queue waiting for the Polar Express, a little train that will bring us to visit Santa. Well, that’s the plan anyway. This evening, after looking forward to the event for weeks, my son has decided he doesn’t want to see Santa.

Mummy and I exchange quick, worried glances. Eyes which seem to say why do we keep putting ourselves through it. We’ve had tantrums at the theatre, petulance at the pantomime and now suffering at Santa’s grotto.

I’ve made sure to get us here early so we can be first in the queue. But small children keep jumping in front. I look for their parents but they’re indifferent and oblivious and I’m not sure what else to do about the injustice. It strikes me that if I start a row with a toddler about pushing in I might not come out of it very well.

On one side a little girl is trying to push me over the chain which separates us from the road. On the other a mother is holding her infant boy at the level of my ear and he screams relentlessly. I stare into the night.

The creaking train begins to approach. It’s actually has wheels and runs on the road rather than rails but I’m in no mood for pedantry. My son is both excited and horrified, alternating between yelling ‘It’s coming! It’s coming!’ and ‘I don’t want to see Santa!’

I take him into my arms to reassure him. The only way I can get him to see Santa is by telling him he doesn’t have to see Santa.

‘We’ll just go on the train buddy, you don’t have to see Santa. You don’t have to see Santa.’

Another oversized elf addresses my son as we board.

‘Are you looking forward to seeing Santa?’

I cut off his whimpering protests and meet his alarmed eyes with more whispers.

‘She’s just joking son. You really don’t have to see Santa.’

The train pulls away.

The driver yells: ‘Who’s excited about seeing Santa?’

And the thing is I know my son is excited. Really excited. He’s been talking about this evening since we booked it. He just gets a little spooked by the emotion and chilled by the crowd and the noise. It’s the process of finding some stabilisation between not making him do something he doesn’t want to do, but helping him to do something that he really does. It’s tricky.

But he relaxes as the train chugs and meanders around the hotel grounds. We even get a couple of stanzas of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer before I feel his little body stiffen again.

The porter meets us at the hotel doors.

‘Are you looking forward to seeing Santa?’

And then another two giant elves in the foyer give us our instructions. These include skipping, holding our hands up and chanting. Parents are not excluded.

As the more excitable of the two leads us down a dimly lit corridor she shrieks: ‘Who’s looking forward to seeing Santa?’

The children yell encouragement. My boy buries his head in mummy’s shoulder.

But first we have an encounter with Mrs Claus. Or rather we don’t. We talk gently to our boy while she puts on a puppet show for the others.

Then there’s a carousel ride which my son seems to enjoy. An elf with a guitar plays Jingle Bells and I think I can see my son’s lips moving.

Now it’s time for the grotto. The elf at the black curtain senses my boy’s nervousness and talks soothingly to him. He walks in slowly grasping mummy’s hand and mine.

And now he’s face to face with Santa. There’s an awkward moment when I’m waiting for the tears.

‘And what’s your name?’ Santa asks.

I answer for him. ‘This is James.’

‘And what would you like me to bring you James?’

I’m about to answer again. But then I hear a little, clear voice.

‘I would like a Supersoaker 2000 Santa. And I also want a red light sabre out of Star Wars and a blue light sabre out of Star Wars. And I want an electric guitar, and a Paw Patroller. And some surprises.’

I realise my son is not holding my hand now. Instead he seems to be having a discussion with Santa about who is the coolest character in Star Wars.

Then he poses joyfully beside Santa for a picture.

The photographer clicks, gazes at his camera and mumbles.

‘First time. That doesn’t happen very often.’

Santa patiently and kindly talks some more to my son, giving no impression at all that he may have done this already several hundred times today.

When we do leave the grotto my son is properly skipping, as if aware that he’s accomplished something. He won’t stop talking about Santa. Mummy and I tell him that we’re very proud of him.

He decorates a gingerbread man and does some colouring in. He mostly stays inside the lines.

After refreshments the experience ends with a surprise. A mini rollercoaster has been erected in the hotel grounds.

As I lead my son towards it I can sense him getting afraid again. He starts to look for an excuse.

‘Daddy, I don’t think I’m big enough to go on this.’

I squeeze his hand.

‘Oh, you are buddy and you’ll love it. You’ve been so brave today. And daddy’s going to be right there with you.’

As the little car speeds around the red metal track my son howls with joy and excitement.

‘Daddy! I want to go on it again! I want to go on it again! This is the best ever!’

It’s all about ups and downs.

And so, the end is nigh.

After three weeks The Challenge draws to its painful and inevitable conclusion.

For those who don’t remember (or care), I’d agreed to be an ambassador for Safefood’s START campaign. It encourages participants to instigate one ‘healthy start’ into their routine on a daily basis. Changing one thing about our diet and sticking with it. They call it the ‘daily win’. The philosophy is that big results begin with little changes.

It started with me experimenting with healthier breakfasts. My son’s Coco Pops were exchanged for the now infamous organic puffed rice cereal (https://whatsadaddyfor.blog/2017/11/09/the-challenge/).

It continued with the introduction of a daily walk into the family routine (https://whatsadaddyfor.blog/2017/11/16/the-challenge-ii-with-video/).

And now it’s done. I won’t pretend that it’s been easy. We’ve had a surfeit of rows and, yes, I did end up with a bowl of organic puffed rice cereal over my head at one point. As the semi skimmed milk dripped from my nose I did wonder why I was bothering.

It’s very hard to change a routine. None of us ever have the time to do all the things we want and we all fall too quickly back into the lazy old habits. Eating the same food, not being active enough.

But we’ve stuck with the concept gamely. At the very least it’s part of the conversation now. It’s on my son’s radar.

Today I was shovelling a slice of apple pie into my mouth. My son stopped me.

‘Daddy, why are you always eating treats? You have to eat healthily.’

True, he was eating a McDonald’s Happy Meal at the time, but you take one step at a time.

So the next question is what do I do now that it’s over?

I’m in the process of running myself a goose fat bath when I hesitate. Maybe now that I’ve started this thing is it not worth sticking with it? Maybe the little steps will grow into great strides for my son if I keep pushing the healthy eating and active lifestyle message?

There has to be a balance. After all, he’s four years old. He’ll always want his treats and will gorge on chocolate if I allow it. I just have to try and balance it with fresh fruit, milk, the odd rice cake smuggled into his lunchbox instead of a biscuit.

And the message is starting to get through. I noticed in the news last week that Kellogg’s Ireland has announced it is to reduce the amount of sugar in its cereals. The firm says sugar in Coco Pops will come down by 40% next year – from 30g per 100g to 17g.

This announcement was made just days after I wrote about how I was replacing Coco Pops with the organic puffed rice cereal.

Coincidence?

I’ll let you decide.

It starts, as my stories often do, with a conversation in a coffee shop.

I’m chatting lazily with a friend. Inevitably we’re drawn into the Christmas conversation. The presents bought, not yet bought. The food. The time off off work (neither of us actually have a job so this is ironically done). The comfort of shared ritual.

“Are you going…” I ask, vacantly wiping the froth from a cappuccino from my beard with a paper napkin, “….to the carol service on Sunday?”

He shakes his head. A slight but definite motion.

“No, I don’t go to church.”

I’m startled. A momentarily loss of composure. It’s partly the directness of the response. The mentioning of a shibboleth. As an atheist living in a small society where Christian principles still maintain traction, I’m used to avoiding religion as a subject for polite discourse.

But it’s more than this. I’m caught by surprise. His response is so quaint that it disarms me.

I almost respond: ‘What the bloody hell has church got to do with a Christmas carol service?’

But, of course, it’s perfectly logical. I’m asking someone if they want to stand beside me singing songs about the birth of a child in a manger two millennia back. A story which forms the origin of one of the world’s dominant religions today.

For a clear mind, an uncluttered mind, it’s the obvious response.

“No, I don’t go to church.”

The open air carol service takes place a few weeks before Christmas in the centre of the little village where I live. In a small clearing an attractively modest tree adorned with oversized ruby baubles has been erected.

Several hundred people turn up. Mostly families. Excited young children on their daddy’s shoulders, straining for a better view of the tree. Our little boy has brought a glowing wand and pretends he’s turning the mayor into a frog during an opening prayer.

It’s cross-denominational with representatives of all the local churches in attendance. An elderly man stresses that people of all faiths are welcome. As, I have to assume, are those of none.

The ceremony starts with a silver band playing Joy to the World. Silver, not brass, as the mayor states.

Then a choir of children from the local school start to sing. There’s a lot of mumbling at first before the outline of something recognisable emerges. I enthusiastically join in. Other parents begin to step nervously away from me. Mummy points out I’m on the wrong page and am singing a different hymn from everyone else.

We count down from ten to zero before the mayor turns on the lights. We cheer and clap our hands and chat happily.

Happy because the carols come closer than anything else to unlocking something inside us. A feeling. An idea of something. Something which provides succour. They’re undeniably familiar. A link back to childhood and a sense of wonder around Christmas. A feeling that we casually cast aside somewhere in early adolescence and then spent the rest of our lives trying to recapture.

The melodies of the carols are wonderful and as instantly recognisable as my son’s smile. Lyrically, there are more womb mentions than necessary but nobody ever seems to remember anything past for first couple of lines so it’s alright.

Then there’s the joy in doing something as a community. Gathered together around a tree in the night in scarves and gloves chanting ancient rhymes while the frost, light as a glistening, silver web, descends on us. If I close my eyes and listen to the band playing God Rest Thee Merry Gentlemen, I can almost feel like a character in a Dickens story.

And then we go home to see what’s on Netflix.

The Christmas season is upon us.

I retune my battered little wireless to Classic FM because they play the traditional carols. I search for my old DVD of The Muppets’ Christmas Carol. I find it and triumphantly blow the dust from the case. Then I remember I don’t have a DVD player and put it back where I found it.

My mind is full of lists (I never help myself by writing anything down). Lists of Santa presents, mummy presents, other presents. The baking list – mince pies, Christmas cake, gingerbread, edible gifts.

Mummy, son and I will be in our own house right throughout the holiday season this year. Just how I like it.

I’m cooking. All on my own. For the two sides of the family over Christmas Day and St Stephen’s Day. I won’t accept any help. Stay out of my kitchen.

My newborn infant nephew will be there, being tenderly passed around the adults. Precious as gold (or frankincense and myrrh).

It will all be stressful, expensive, unnecessarily lavish, wasteful and undoubtedly detrimental to my diet.

And I expect that I will enjoy every sentimental moment of it.

The carol service is done. Next on the list is the nativity play. My son is a shepherd. There seems to be about 200 shepherds at this birth.

He’s learning at school about the Christmas story. I took him to the hospital recently to visit his new baby cousin.

As we walked through the ward we had an unexpected exchange.

‘Daddy, do you know who the most special baby of all is?’

‘Who?’

‘It’s the baby Jesus.’

‘Actually son, it’s not. It’s you.’

I didn’t want to confuse him so I left it there.

But it did start a flea buzzing in my head. It was there also when my friend told me why he didn’t go to the carol service and when I was singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing while everyone else sang Once in Royal David’s City.

What is this mess of a thing called Christmas?

When I go to a church it’s to admire the architecture. Never to worship. But I throatily bellow out the religious sentiments in the carols with no evident sense of embarrassment or acknowledgment of hypocrisy.

I try to teach my son that Christmas means compassion, sharing and charity while simultaneously feeding his desire for more and more useless material possessions.

Which brings me to the two most common complaints I hear about Christmas. That it’s lost its true meaning. And that it’s become too commercial.

But trying to find a true meaning in the origins of Christmas is as elusive and pointless as waiting up all night to see Santa.

Start by taking elements of various folk and pagan festivals. Some Ancient Greek practices, the Roman Saturnalia, Jewish Hanukkah, Druid traditions.

There is nothing remotely Christian about the date of December 25. It’s not mentioned in any gospel. It’s an evolution of an ancient pagan midwinter festival. The winter solstice has passed, the days have finally begun to get longer. It’s as good a reason as any for a party.

The practices of decorating houses with foliage, cutting holly and mistletoe and even carol singing all originated from midwinter festivals.

But even if you leave all of this aside and concentrate on the Biblical origins of Christmas it’s not much more helpful.

Matthew and Luke’s gospels give wildly differing accounts. Matthew has an angel visiting Joseph. Luke’s account tells of an angel visiting Mary. Matthew has wise men led to Bethlehem by a star. Luke has shepherds led by an angel.

Matthew’s account mentions nothing at all about Jesus being born in a manger. He has Mary and Joseph living in Bethlehem and Jesus born in a house there.

Luke has the family coming from Nazareth but travelling to Bethlehem for a census and the birth in a manger.

The gospel of Mark, which may have been written earliest, does not mention the birth of Jesus at all.

Now I have no particular interest in starting a discussion about how all the differing stories and traditions can be made consistent, I merely highlight them to point out that searching for a true original meaning of Christmas is ultimately pointless.

And what of the other charge? That it has become too commercial.

Well, yes.

But then that’s our world. Untrammelled and unfettered attempts to make more and more money by seducing more and more people into spending more and more of it. Christmas and money have always been closely connected. Commercialism is out of control and drags Christmas along with it, not the other way around.

And it’s not a new thing for people to be uncomfortable with the lavish excesses of Christmas. In the 17th and 18th century religious puritans attempted to banish the holiday altogether, opposed to a festival which was so clearly orientated towards having fun.

It was only repopularised in Britain in Victorian times when Prince Albert brought a series of festive traditions with him from Germany, such as the Christmas tree.

Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol probably did more than anything else to set the template for what a Christmas should be that we recognise today. Ironically much of the success of Dickens’ book and the popularity of the Victorian Christmas seems to be down to nostalgia. An attempt to recreate the magic of Christmases from a distant time.

Some things, it seems, never change.

So now, when I describe Christmas as a mess, hopefully you see what I mean.

And trying to make sense of it will only give you a sore head to rival that which follows your work Christmas party.

There is no set meaning of Christmas. Make of it what you will. It doesn’t belong to a Christian. Or a Druid. Or a parent. Or a child. Or a trader.

I’ve always loved it. I’m sure I always will.

And here’s why.

I’m going to get to spend two whole weeks with my wife and son. I’ll get to see all my other family members also. I’ll catch up with many old friends. I know there will be so many laughs.

I’ll spend too much money on presents. I get happiness from being able to surprise my wife by picking the right gift. It really is better to give than to receive. If I get socks and drawers then that’s just grand.

I get to bake and cook and eat far too much and feel that I have an excuse. I’ll roast a turkey, a ham, maybe a goose too.

I’ll watch a few films. I’ll listen to a load of carols, singing my lungs out.

I might even visit a church or two, to see the decorations or nativity scene. But I won’t be there to worship.

We’ll count the days down with my son, watching the excitement build as we get closer.

And then on Christmas morning we’ll wake early. I’ll take his little hand and we’ll go down the stairs. Mummy and I will be right there with him as he opens the door. We’ll see the look on his face. He might not always remember the moment. But I will.

It’s the closest thing we have in this world to real magic.

And it’s fine. It’s absolutely fine.

As a Christmas hero once put it, ‘Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.’

I dare not make a sound.

I’m creeping past the door. Softly, softly.

My senses are heightened and I can feel my bare toes rubbing against the individual strands of the thick carpet.

Don’t rush it.

I can’t help myself. I peek in, holding the door slightly open. He’s sitting on the carpet watching Peppa, eyes burning into the TV screen. He doesn’t know I’m there. Not yet.

Am I ashamed that I’ve been reduced to tip-toeing around the house so my son doesn’t notice me?

Absolutely not. When you’ve got a whole day of looking after a young child you do what you can to grab a moment to yourself.

I try to move past the room but there’s a tiny creaking sound. It might be the door. It might be my bones. Whatever; it’s enough.

He turns around, his little red face opening up in a smile.

‘Daddy!’

‘Hi son. Are you enjoying Peppa?’

The advantage is with him now and he know how to press it home. He stands to face me, arms in front, held wide open.

‘Hug daddy?’

What am I to do? I know it’s a trap but I’m inevitably drawn to it like a foolish man rushing towards his own ruin.

I step towards him and give him a big embrace. His arms go around me, tightening like vines.

‘Let’s play daddy.’

‘I will buddy, I just need to get the breakfast ready for you and mummy.’

But he’s already pulling at me. With the inevitability of a torpedoed liner sinking to the bottom of the ocean, I’m dragged to the floor.

Play consists of this familiar routine of him wrapping his arms around my neck and pulling me to the ground. Then he’ll order me to get up do it all over again. Each time he drags me over he yells ‘Timber!’

When he tires of this game he forces me onto my back. He sits on my stomach and bounces up and down chanting ‘Daddy’s got a big fat belly!’

I used to have a job, an executive role in an office. I used to have responsibility for a large team of workers and a budget. My phone used to ring incessantly.

Now I’m a belly.

And the phone never rings anymore.

I struggle to free myself and rush to the kitchen. I know mummy has to get to Dublin for work and it’s my job to get the breakfast ready on time. Tea, toast, boiled eggs (in a cup, the way she likes them).

I shout back to my son.

‘Do you want some toast buddy?’

‘No!’

‘What d’ye want for your breakfast then?’

‘Breadsticks!’

Always a picky eater, he has recently decided to test my nerves by moving towards an all breadsticks diet. The more I discourage it, the further he travels towards it with absolute conviction.

I make him some cereal. I’m pretty certain he won’t eat it but at least I can tick the box of saying I tried for one more meal. I give him a smoothie as well, the only way I can get him to eat fruit. And a few breadsticks.

Mummy and I breakfast at the kitchen table.

He remains in the living room pouring the milk from his cereal into the spaces between the cushions on the leather sofa.

Mummy has to leave for work now.

He is angelic, kissing and hugging her and putting on his best little boy smile as she walks out of the door.

I wait.

Mummy drives off. I see the back of her car disappearing around the corner.

It’s very quiet. I wait.

Then.

‘I want mummy.’

‘Now buddy, you know mummy’s gone to work. She loves you very much and will be home really soon.’

‘I want mummy.’ A little bit louder, more threatening.

‘Yes I miss mummy too but it’s you and me now. It’s a daddy and son day!’

I get that feeling I’ve said the wrong thing.

He takes a moment, as if deciding which sort of tantrum to go for.

The rage tantrum is more direct, gets the point across quickly, allows for a bit of foot stamping and some object throwing. You get to shout a lot too. Easy to see the attraction for him.

Ah, but then there’s the sorrow tantrum too. A good old bawl, tears dripping onto your clothes. Lying inconsolable on the ground. Much to be said for that too.

He decides on rage. But he’ll blend a bit of sorrow in there as well. Just to keep it fresh.

The feet stamp. That’s how it begins.

‘I hate daddy! I hate daddy! I hate daddy!’

‘But I love you son.’

My words sound utterly impotent in the face of his anger, like trying to stop a tsunami with a jam jar.

I move towards him. I know that despite his show of anger I need to give him comfort. To address his insecurity with reassurance.

A breadstick bounces off my nose.

Then another flies past my ear.

‘Now son you can’t throw food, that’s not good behaviour.’

‘I hate you daddy! I want mummy!

He starts to make a noise, something between a scream, a screech and a wail. He’s my boy and I love him but I have to say it sounds a bit demonic.

I put him in his room to calm down. I want him to know that he’s not being punished, I just want him to think about his actions, to learn to take responsibility for them.

‘Now wee man, daddy loves you very much. I just want you to think about why I put you in there.’

He screams again, kicking the door to add to the sound effect.

‘Yes I know you’re angry, but we all need to learn to control our emotions.’

He’s been through this before and knows the drill. He soon quietens, knowing I’ll crack and open the door. I pull him into my arms and give him a consoling cuddle.

I can hear myself saying sorry again and again even though I’m thinking it should be the other way around.

‘D’ye want some breadsticks? And some juice?’

He nods a grumpy assent. Not talking to me. Making it clear I’ll have to go a bit further to atone for my wrongdoings. I’ll have to think about my actions.

‘And we can go to the park later if you want? Or to feed the ducks?’

We go back to the front room and he sits on my lap as we watch more TV. He munches determinedly and soon I’m covered in a thin layer of breadstick crumbs.

At some point we’ll have to tackle getting dressed. Then there’s lunch. Trying to persuade him he can’t have breadsticks for lunch. Leaving the house. Going to the shops. Going to the park. Dealing with the tears when we leave the park. Starting dinner. Trying to persuade him he can’t have breadsticks for dinner.

But they’re all a bit too daunting to think about at the minute. Too many mountains. For now we just enjoy sitting in our pyjamas and watching Peppa.

Soon I’m feeling sleepy. Exhaustion is pouring through my body like ink in water. I must have dozed off because when I come around I’ve got breadstick crumbs on the side of my face. I rub them away.

I look at my son. Eyes still burning into the TV screen. I look at my watch. It feels like we’ve done a lot already, like we’ve been to the other side of everything and back again.

It’s 8:47am. Only 8:47am.

I hold a weary arm up to protect my eyes from the sting of a weakening watery sun which is sinking into a coppery sky.

My son is jumping in the garden, playing some imaginary game known only to him. His golden hair plastered across his forehead like wet grass. Anyone can see he is tired. Anyone apart from my son.

I’ve already let it go on longer than I should have. Sometimes it’s hard to let go of a special day.

Picking the right moment to put him to bed is an exercise in timing, like trying to snatch a young salmon out of a fast-flowing river. Too early and he’s still got energy and meets you with rage. Too late and he’s overtired and meets you with rage. I think it’s the latter now.

I begin the process by calling out to him. He pretends not to hear. I let it go a couple of minutes and then do it again with the same result. I move towards him.

‘Come on now buddy, time to go up.’

Still no acknowledgement, he’s concentrating on two toy cars, one in each hand.

‘We’ve had a great day buddy, we’ve played football and pirates, but it’s storytime now.’

I move towards him and, although pretending not to see me, he darts away as I get close. I entertain the game for a short time, enjoying his manic giggles as I chase him around the garden.

Soon I have to lift him. He goes through the motions of roaring at me and swinging his arms but I can feel the exhaustion seeping out of his limbs and I know his heart’s not in it. His growls soon soften and he rests his burning cheek against me and we go upstairs.

I know I should really bath him but it’s late and we’re both weary. I settle instead for washing his face, hands and arms and brushing his teeth. He gets a new jolt of energy as I’m undressing him and we play-fight on the bed for a few minutes.

I help him with his pyjamas. I know he can do it himself and I know I should let him but there’s a comfort for both of us in doing it together.

He asks where mummy is on several occasions as I read his book of choice. His mother and I almost always try to both be present for the nighttime ritual, as if it holds some sort of secret, mystical importance. We both hate not to be there at the end of his day. However, there is the rare occasion where one or other has to be away. Tonight she is working late.

My son is lucky to have a wonderful mother, always kind and caring and forever putting the needs of others before herself. Her calm and supportive parenting is the perfect foil to my often chaotic and rambling incoherence. My son rightly worships her.

He asks again. ‘Where’s mummy?’. I feel a stab of jealousy and don’t like myself for it.

My son wants to sleep in our bed tonight. Not an uncommon request which I go along with. I suspect I probably should encourage him to go to his own bed. But then he’s my boy. My only child. I know it won’t be too many more years until he won’t even want to sit in the same room as me and will think the guy who pushes the trollies around the Tesco carpark is cooler than his daddy. If he wants to sleep in our bed then that’s just fine with me.

I take off my shirt and cuddle in beside him. He puts his face against my chest. There’s an unspoken intimacy in his skin against mine, a link which goes back to when he was a baby and I had to get up in the middle of the night to feed and wind him. Then he was so small that he could fit in the palm one of my hands and he would rest his soft little head against my shoulder. It made me feel that I was his whole world.

Soon he is asleep, snoring softly, moving around the bed like a drunk man. I could leave him now, go downstairs to watch TV, surf the web or check in with people I don’t really know on social media. I decide to stay and watch my son sleep.

As he murmurs quietly I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in his head. What dreams and fears are trying to form which he doesn’t yet understand? His pale skin is slightly illuminated by the soft bedside lamp and as I watch I’m so in love. The tantrums, questions, demands, insults, slaps and the early mornings all feel gloriously inconsequential.

Now, like this, with his thin chest rising and falling, I want time to stop. I want to throw something around him to protect him from the journey we all must take. I feel that I couldn’t bear it if he were to ever suffer or be unhappy like I was. I feel that I want to take all the pain in his life and absorb it into my own body.

He turns over, his twig-like arm reaches out, as if searching for something. It comes to rest on my stomach and a little bit of his warmth of his hand transfers into me.

I know I’m being selfish. I know to even think about denying anyone any aspect of their journey is the worst sin.

People often tell me I’m a good daddy. Good because I care so much, do so much, put so much of myself into it. But here, as the last of the evening light disappears like a snubbed candle, I don’t feel that way. It’s always at night when you are least certain, when the doubts attack your mind like hungry crows. I wonder if other parents get these thoughts.

I do what I do because I want to feel needed. I want to feel that he depends on me entirely. I need to be part of everything that he is and does and will be. What’s one of the hardest parts of parenting? Letting go. Letting go that little bit more every time the sun rises.

He doesn’t fit in the palm of my hand anymore and I don’t feel like I’m his whole world now. But I’m still his daddy.

Tiredness is coming on me now like the returning tide and I sink down into the bed. I put an arm around him and he moves in close. We’re protecting each other. We’ve got plenty of time.