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.

So.

A lot has happened since I posted last week about doing the START healthy lifestyles challenge (https://whatsadaddyfor.blog/2017/11/09/the-challenge/).

Firstly, and most predictably, my son has decided he doesn’t like organic puffed rice cereal anymore. I’ve compensated by trying to introduce other healthy elements into his breakfast. Some fruit, a bagel, a little milk.

Despite the time pressures of getting ready for school we’ve managed to maintain the conversation about eating more healthily each morning. It’s in his psyche now. It wasn’t before. This is good progress.

There have been some tantrums and tears along the way but that’s not unusual for me before I get my first cup of coffee.

Second, I got chastised by my paymasters at the government body Safefood for using a photograph of a particular brand of organic puffed rice cereal in my last blog.

Just to clear things up. Other brands of organic puffed rice cereal are also available.

Safefood were also concerned that my consumption of organic puffed rice cereal might be seen as a little bit too elitist. Not quite accessible enough. To use their phrase, I wasn’t “on-message”. Apparently King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette used to bathe in solid gold tubs full of organic puffed rice cereal at the palace of Versailles. Anger over this among the working classes led directly to the French Revolution.

So, I’ll clear that one up too. There are other healthy foods apart from organic puffed rice cereal. For example a banana. Or a carrot. A melon maybe. All readily available at reasonable prices.

Following my last blog I got sent an email with rules in big red letters which told me not to mention organic puffed rice cereal again. Needless to say I’ll do my best to comply.

Right. Let’s all move on.

Having taken on an eating challenge last time, this week I decided it would be good to do something physical.

My son is very active. I go through phases of doing exercise, little bursts of energy and good intentions. And phases of seemingly interminable lounging and lethargy. I ran a marathon 18 months ago. Now I get out of breath looking for the remote control under the sofa.

We could all do with getting outside a bit more. And it seemed like a good opportunity to do something active together as a family.

I decided to integrate a daily walk into our activities.

And, just in case I should face any further accusations of elitism, I’ll point out straightaway that other forms of physical exercise are also available. Skipping. Jumping. Hopping…..

My plan was this. On days when we had a little bit of time we’d go somewhere nice for a stroll, like Hillsborough lake (other beauty spots are also available).

On days when we were pushed for time we’d be a bit more inventive. Perhaps just walking together to the local shop. Or walking part of the route to school in the morning.

I set us the minimum of walking 15 minutes together every day. Usually we’d do a lot more. I found it’s a great way of encouraging conversation, catching up on the news of the day. Taking time to listen to each other.

My wife made a little video (see above) of one of our walks. We’ve speeded it up and set it to the Benny Hill theme tune (other comedy theme tunes are also available).

As well as walking it gives my son plenty of time to engage in one of his favourite hobbies.

Jumping in muddy puddles.

Peppa Pig’s got a lot to answer for.

Other pig-based kids’ TV programmes featuring muddy puddles are also available.

Although I can’t think of any at the moment.

The schoolbag adventures continue….

After the beauty salon book yesterday, today in the schoolbag I found a voucher for £50 off teeth whitening.

The leaflet says ‘One of the greatest assets to your beauty is confidence, and the confidence that a nice smile can give you is invaluable.’

Overleaf it says ‘If you are not happy with your smile tooth whitening is a great first step.’

It also says ‘Smile bright this party season.’

Well at least I know what to get my four-year-old son for Christmas now.

I only half-read the email at first. But as I was quickly scanning the message a line jumped out at me.

‘We’d like you to be an ambassador….’

Ah! Finally the recognition that I’d craved for years. I’d always seen myself in an ambassadorial role. I started to imagine a scene where I was lounging on a couch, hosting the social event of the year in a grand country house while a maid carried around a big tray of Ferrero Rocher.

But hang on, there were so many questions. Who wanted me to be an ambassador? What would my duties be? Would I have my own butler?

I read the email in more detail. It was from Safefood, an all-Ireland public body responsible for raising consumer awareness of issues relating to food safety and healthy eating. They were seeking my blogging services to help promote a new family orientated campaign to encourage children to eat healthier.

Ok, no butler, but still a worthy cause. I agreed to help. Thus I’m being paid a modest sum for writing this blog. I’ve never used my blog for commercial purposes before and I’m only doing it now because, like many other parents, I worry about the food my son eats and would like to improve his diet.

So the challenge? The START campaign encourages participants to instigate one ‘healthy start’ 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.

I started thinking about it. My four-year-old is the pickiest of eaters. A daily win usually involves getting him to eat anything at all, healthy or not. He eschews most fruit and all veg and seems to have an inbuilt radar that sniffs out anything which might be remotely considered healthy.

In my mind this became more than a challenge. It was The Challenge.

Breakfast seemed a good place to start. My boy is in P1. I send a healthy packed lunch with him everyday to school but I’ve no way of controlling how much or any of it he eats. It’s often stated that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and this is underlined when you know it might be the only thing your son eats until you pick him up in the afternoon.

But as it stands his breakfast consists of Coco Pops. Or Honey Puffs. Or a combination of both (Coco Honey Pops Puffs?)

I’ve tried him with various healthier options but it usually descends into a tantrum (him, me or both) until I give in. Better that he eats something sugary rather than nothing, I reason.

My bold, and rather hopeful idea, is that I’m going to replace Coco Pops with organic wholegrain puffed rice cereal. Essentially Coco Pops without the coco. And the pop.

To ease the passage I start eating the puffed rice for my breakfast a couple of days before him so my son gets familiar with the idea. I can’t sell them to him as organic wholegrain puffed rice cereal so we both settle on the name ‘daddy rice’. Catchy.

They’re a little bland but I can sex them up a bit with pecans and blueberries. But I know I won’t have this option when I introduce my son to the new breakfast.

I briefly flirt with the idea of making my own puffed rice. The logic being that if I can get my son interested in making them he might be interested in eating them too.

But when I google it the method seems desperately complicated. One recipe suggests using a miniature cannon to create the high pressure necessary to puff the grains. Reluctantly I abandon this idea following discussions with my wife. Me and a cannon. It would end in tears.

The night before The Challenge begins I sit my son down to talk to him about it. Make him aware, keep him involved, get him excited about it. He seems to like the idea. We do a high five. My hopes are lifted.

Then he says.

‘But I’ll still get my Coco Pops, won’t I daddy?’

Hmmm. It could be a tricky morning.

The hour before school is always frenetic. Rows over dressing and washing. Add The Challenge into the equation and the potential for an overflow of tension is very real.

My son’s watching some TV when I produce two bowls, one small, one large, of the organic puffed rice. I sit beside him.

‘Wo-hoo! It’s time for The Challenge.’

His face screws up in disgust.

‘I want Coco Pops daddy.’

‘We’ve talked about this son. Remember we said we were going to try the new healthy breakfast.’

This debate goes back and forward for a few minutes. I spoon rice into my mouth while going ‘Mmmmmmmm!’ He remains unmoved.

I’m left with no other option. I’m going to have to dance.

I hastily compose a little song. Basically it goes like this:

‘How nice is daddy rice? How nice is daddy rice?’

I move around the room singing this while doing a crazy marching dance reminiscent of Suggs from Madness when he sings One Step Beyond (note to Safefood. I’m really earning my flipping money here).

My son laughs and softens. I take the opportunity to stuff some rice into his open mouth.

He doesn’t completely hate it.

He begins to feed himself merrily. Every time I try to sit down he shouts:

‘Daddy do the song and the dance again.’

I keep doing it. He keeps eating.

He’s eaten about two thirds of the bowl when he decides he’s had enough. I pull another old trick.

‘Just take five more spoonfuls son.’

‘That’s too many daddy. Two.’

He’s a better negotiator than me and we settle on three.

I feed him two spoonfuls and then pretend I’ve lost count and have to start again. By the time I’ve finally got to three the bowl is empty.

Then he drinks a fruit smoothie. Strawberry and banana. Tomorrow I might try a little sliced apple as well.

As he goes happily off to school I remind him that I’ve made him a healthy packed lunch, but his mind is already in the playground with his friends.

That’s day one. I have to do this for three weeks.

I think I’m going to need some new dance routines.

To be continued…..

For more information about the START campaign visit http://www.makeastart.org

Continuing my occasional series on the educational books and leaflets sent home in my son’s schoolbag.

Today in his bag I found a book advertising the services of a local make-up and beauty salon.

Now I’ve always been open minded about boys and make-up, but my son is only four and, at the risk of sounding like Victorian dad, I just wouldn’t feel comfortable sending him to school wearing make-up.

The book offers everything from facials to manicures to Brazilian waxing, full-body tanning to massage.

It’s well produced and laid out. It seems a shame to throw it out,

I’ll keep it until he’s older and can make up his own mind about these things.