Having a son means lots of early mornings.

Lots of early mornings means time. Time before many people are awake.

Time when my brain is at its most active, it’s most alive.

Time when I feel I’m just a tiny bit closer to having it all sorted out before the pressures of the day club me back into my normal state of idiocy.

I’m lying here on the sofa with my son at 6am. He’s eating Honey Puffs and watching Ollie The Little White Van.

I’m quite content. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

But my mind is racing, the mosquito thoughts are buzzing, wondering, creating, worrying.

And then I have an idea.

I’ll write a post.

But with a difference.

One with no plan, no structure, no narrative. No neat point to tie it all together. No fable, no moral lesson. No conclusion which makes you go ‘Hmmmmm’. No grand idea.

I’ll just start with a sentence and see where my mind takes me.

The sentence is ‘Having a son means lots of early mornings’.

So here we are.

Uh…..

Um……

Well it’s a grey start today, a little cool. Maybe it will brighten up later? (Blimey, you’ve built this thing up, you’re going to have to do better than that).

Ok. My son’s on my lap so I’m trying to write this on my phone.

It’s not that easy cause he wants a lot of attention and I’m not great with the tiny little keyboard on my phone.

I feel like a giant trying to carry out keyhole surgery on a gnat as my great fat clumsy fingers constantly hit the wrong keys, leading to a series of misspellings and blunders.

My poor old phone does its best to tidy up after me and predict my next move but, hey, it’s early.

A couple of paragraphs back I tried to type the word ‘maybe’ but ended up with ‘maypole’. Not a word I use in conversation very often.

I’ve often seen people using the wrong word in a text or email and then blaming it on auto-correct.

A service which is meant to prevent mistakes often leads to the introduction of them (and yes I’m sure there’s a way to turn the service off on the phone).

But it’s more than correcting. It’s predicting. My little phone often tries to end my sentences for me, suggesting the next word before I’ve even decided what it should be.

This thought first started rattling through my mind a few days ago when I was typing the phrase ‘nature abhors a vacuum’.

I had managed to get as far as ‘nature abhors a……’ when my phone inserted the word ‘woman’.

This completely brought me to a stop, both stunned and a little concerned. Nature abhors a woman?

Did I have a sexist phone? I mean I know it’s not the latest model but come on.

As I typed the same phrase just now the phone had completely reversed its position. 

This time it inserted the word ‘man’ as if it had picked up on my feelings of horror last time and went way too far in the opposite direction.

It doesn’t end there. A couple of months back I was Googling the phrase ‘General election results’.

I had got no more than three letters into the first word when my phone threw back the suggestion ‘genital warts’.

During Wimbledon I was texting my brother during a match.

My phone decided it didn’t like the name of the Czech player Berdych and changed it to ‘Nerdy chicks’.

I had sent the text before I noticed, thus leading to some confusion from my brother when I told him ‘Federer on top of Nerdy chicks’.

So now I think I’ll play a trick on my phone.  I’ll deliberately spell words incorrectly just to mess up its little brain.

I rmebemer bneig tlod yaers ago taht it deson’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod aepapr, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is the frsit and lsat lttetres.

The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit dficufilty.

Better still. I can throw a few numbers.

Y0UR M1ND 15 R34D1NG 7H15 4U70M471C4LLY W17H0U7 3V3N 7H1NK1NG 4B0U7 17.

My poor phone. It was trying its best with a few words before it abandoned all hope (there’s smoke coming out of it now).

The words were all jumbled up but we can still understand them even when the phone can’t. Does this mean our inherent code-cracking ability is more sophisticated?

Also does it mean that we all get too hung up on correct spellings? 

As a former journalist I have that infuriating habit of correcting spelling mistakes when people text me.

But if we didn’t know how to spell the word in the first place we wouldn’t be able to crack that code.

If there was a single wrong letter in there it would just appear as gibberish. The order of the words is also important.

I’m driving to Dublin today. 

Usually I would be a bit daunted by this, but now I’ve got a satnav so it will take me straight to where I need to go.

But is this a good thing? Does my brain lose something by not having the challenge of finding the location itself?

Does the lack of exercise lead to a lack of elasticity? A lazy comfort in letting technology do the job for me?

I really don’t know.

It’s not so early anymore. I can see life in some of the houses in my street now. People shaking off the rust to face another day.

So what’s the point of it all? Well, as I said earlier, there isn’t one.

I almost started this post with an entirely different line. It was almost ‘Sugar Puffs are now called Honey Puffs’.

That would have been entirely different. I suppose that’s the beauty of it all.

Good morning.

I took my son to watch the Belfast Pride parade today.

Mummy was covering the event as part of her job as a journalist, so it seemed to make sense for us all to meet up in the city.

I’ve previously taken my boy to see a St Patrick’s Day parade and a July 12 march.

He seems to have a genuine interest in any event with a sense of pageantry.

While he doesn’t understand the issues, I want him to absorb the ethos that there are causes or events that people feel so strongly about that they are prepared to go onto the streets.

The sun shone and we had a great time. He loves rainbows and the overall spectacle, a caravan of love, held him fixed.

As the floats snaked their way through the city the largest cheers were reserved for a group of uniformed police officers, some from the PSNI, who were taking part.

Their satisfied smiles as the volume of the crowd grew were heartening.

The overall atmosphere was welcoming and I could see no street drinking. A couple of times I was accidentally jostled by members of the crowd but they always met me with a smiling apology afterwards.

At no moment did I feel that it was not a safe or appropriate event to bring my son to.

The energy of the parade was driven by young people. Reminding me that the next generation and the one after that have already overtaken us. Good thing too.

The only downside I could point to was the street seller behind me repeatedly yelling ‘Get yer flegs er garlands!!!’ in a Belfast accent as thick as cough syrup.

I moved my location a couple of times but he always seemed to be able to find me, positioning his wares at my feet and screaming ‘Get yer flegs er garlands!!!’ until it felt that my brain was rattling in my skull.

When I go to any public event with my son I plan an escape route. A way to get back to the car when the inevitable and usually imminent moment that my son gets bored and tired occurs.

But it didn’t happen. He insisted on me lifting him high so he could get a better view. In the end it was my poor old back which gave way before his attention did.

My son likes to ask questions. To try to understand why.

As we’re about to go home he points to a placard being carried by a young woman, brightly attired.

‘What does that sign say daddy?’

‘It says ‘Love is a human right’.’

‘What does that mean daddy?’

I think for a second, just to make sure I say the right thing.

‘It means that any person should be allowed to love any person they want.’

Hey, you can’t send a superhero out to save the world with a wrinkled cape 

No, I can’t believe they let me back in the building either.

But then again, maybe I’ve found my broadcasting niche.

Last week they wanted me to talk about how I’m so hard-hearted that I leave my son in a crèche even when he gets upset.

This week it’s why I’m so irresponsible as to share photos of my child on social media.

Inevitably they will have another parent going up against me on air to argue why she would never take the risk of putting a picture of her child online.

I’ve a feeling I’m being pigeonholed. I imagine there’s a big book somewhere in Broadcasting House with my number stored under G for ‘Godawful parent’.

I imagine next week they’ll be having a debate about the merits of sending children back down the coal mines. Some producer will be scratching his head and then excitedly proclaim, ‘I know, phone McCambridge, he’ll argue for it. He loves to be on the wrong side of the great questions of our time.’

Anyway I’m back in the green room waiting to go on Radio Ulster again. It’s practically my second home now (but still no jelly).

It’s Evening Extra I’m doing this time. I’ll be interviewed by Seamus McKee, a broadcaster and journalist I’ve admired since my youth. We’ll be talking about ‘sharenting’, a word that makes me shudder each time I have to say it.

I’m told author and columnist Lucy Mangan will be giving the other side of the argument. I’m beginning to worry it won’t be a fair fight. She’s got 54,000 Twitter followers. I’ve got 13. She’s won awards for her writing. I got second place in the egg and spoon race when I was in P6.

My mind wanders to an alternate universe.

I’m sitting in the studio of the Jerry Springer Show. Lucy Mangan is sat beside me. Jerry introduces the topic, that phlegmatic half-smirk permanent on his lips.

‘Well Jonny, tell us why you’re comfortable putting your child’s image on social media?’

‘Well, Jerry, thanks for the chance to….’

Before I can go any further Lucy Mangan interrupts me by shoving her hand in front of my face.

‘Talk to the hand cause the face ain’t listening!’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Talk to the hand!’

‘Uh right, well as I was saying…’

Lucy Mangan is now wagging a finger in front of my nose.

‘Oh no you didn’t!’

‘Eh? I’m just saying….’

‘Oh no you didn’t!’

‘But……’

Lucy Mangan now begins to beat me over the head with her chair. As security rush the stage the crowd chant excitedly ‘Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!’

My mind returns to focus. I’m led into the studio.

Seamus is there. So is…..John Campbell!

John Campbell, BBC NI Business Editor. John Campbell who I last week described in a blog as having a scowl like a little boy who has been told he can’t wear his Spider-Man wellies to school.

I sit uncomfortably beside him. For the first time ever I’m hoping that someone hasn’t read one of my blogs.

The population of Northern Ireland is 1.8m. That blog was one of my most popular, it was read about six times. I subtract the three times that I clicked on it. I’m trying to work out what are the odds that John Campbell might have read what I wrote about John Campbell. But the truth is you’d need to be John Campbell to figure out the maths.

He’s talking to Seamus about Brexit. I try to follow the argument and nod knowingly a couple of times. But soon I’m lost and I start to wonder what the implications would be if I gave John Campbell a wedgie while he’s live on air. I decide against it.

He gives me a quick look as he leaves the studio but it tells me nothing.

Then I’m broadcasting to the nation again. Lucy Mangan is lovely and not at all confrontational. Indeed it seems that we’re mostly making the same arguments, but just coming to different conclusions. This has the strange effect of being both reassuring and making me feel intellectually illiterate.

Seamus is polished and professional as ever, not even missing a beat when I accidentally eat part of my microphone after the first question. As ever it all passes in a blur.

My wife and son have made the trip to Belfast with me because we’re going for pizza afterwards.

When I return to the car my son overwhelms me with hugs and kisses. He just about understands what is happening, that daddy was on the radio. Mummy tells me he almost burst with excitement when I mentioned his name on air.

There’s a strange look in his eyes, something I haven’t seen before. For a moment it’s almost like he respects me. But then he pulls up my shirt and grabs a handful of stomach fat, shouting ‘Daddy’s got a squidgy belly!’

Of course he doesn’t entirely understand the concept of the radio just yet. He can hear me but doesn’t know why I can’t seem to hear him.

Apparently the whole time I was on air he was yelling at the radio ‘Daddy, tell them I like doughnuts!’

There’s a general principle in life which has always served me well.

When you’re ahead keep your mouth shut.

I broke the rule yesterday. I posted a blog about the vexed issue of dropping my son at childcare (https://whatsadaddyfor.blog/2017/08/03/the-morning-run-revisited/). It was an update to my original post last week which received such a huge response (https://whatsadaddyfor.blog/2017/07/26/the-morning-run/).

Yesterday I wrote that we’d had a good week. Other than a few tears, the trauma involved in handing him over the to crèche staff had been diminished. I suppose I wanted all the people who had contacted me to know that it was going well.

What a fool I was.

Today, almost inevitably, we fall off a cliff. A really, really high cliff.

Mummy is away, working early. He hasn’t slept well. The factors are stacking up against me like a crooked pile of china. Soon it topples.

The tantrum in the house is quite breathtaking in its force; a visceral display of sorrow and anger. Nothing I can say or do seems to be able to bring any peace or relief to his mind.

The handover is even worse. I simply don’t have words to describe the show of naked distress he displays as I try to leave him there. It’s heartbreaking. I do what I always fear I will. I fall apart.

I start to sob right in the middle of the crèche, in front of children, parents, staff members. I just can’t do it anymore. My resolve has been extinguished.

I go outside and sit on a step, still weeping, dabbing a grotty paper hanky at my eyes.

I’m not a religious person. I don’t really understand what it means to be spiritual. But there’s a phrase which keeps going through my mind again and again.

‘God help me, it’s just too hard. God help me, it’s just too hard.’

One of the staff members comes out and sits beside me. I pull myself together and within a couple of minutes we’re laughing about it all. She checks that my son has calmed down and then I leave.

I go to my favourite coffee shop and order a flat white. I sit down and open my laptop. This is where I do a lot of my writing.

The structure of this post is forming in my mind. I decide I’m going to call it ‘The worst morning ever.’

But funny things start to happen.

I phone my wife for a chat. As ever things don’t seem anywhere near as bad once I talk to her.

I phone the crèche. They tell me my son is now playing happily.

Then, unexpectedly, an old friend walks into the coffee shop. She joins me at the table. She has read some of my blogs. We talk about it.

The next hour rolls along in a blur of shared mental health and parenting experiences. I’ve known this person casually for many years, but now she tells me things that I could never even have begun to guess.

She is one of the most ‘together’ people I know. Except she has all the same problems as me.

I say goodbye to my friend and check my phone. I have a message from a number I don’t recognise.

It’s a message from my son.

I realise that the staff member who sat on the step with me has gone to the trouble of sending it on. Just to make me feel better. For my sake. She didn’t have to do it. But she did.

It’s easy when you spend a bit of time on social media to believe that people have become very cynical. There’s so much aggression and anger. So much apparent intent on hurting each other.

And then there’s this. Simple gestures, like a gift from a child.

Now the piece I’m writing has a different tone. I’ve found the hope again. Now I decide to call it ‘The best worst morning ever’.

I’m looking for a conclusion. The innate need my mind has to pull it all together into a neat point. The storyteller’s desire to have a meaning for it all.

I don’t know. I was desperate and now I’m happy.

It’s Friday. The three of us are going for a hotel break this weekend and I’m beyond excited about that. My mind is already racing ahead, coming up with jokes for my next post.

Things are good. But it’s scary how we exist just inches away from that step.

Sitting there saying ‘God help me.’

It’s never so bad once you share.

That’s the theory anyway. Tell other people, find out it’s not just you and then paddle in the pleasant warm waters of empathy.

And I’ve certainly been doing my bit in the sharing stakes. Since I revealed my struggles with dropping my son off at childcare last week (see https://whatsadaddyfor.blog/2017/07/26/the-morning-run/) I’ve been invited onto the radio to talk about it and been swamped with advice, sympathy and tales of other people’s experiences. The original post has now been read more than 1,200 times.

But the sun continues to rise and fall no matter what I write and soon it is time to rinse off the drips of self congratulation and put myself back where it all started; taking him to childcare.

I’m always looking for signs of progress. Not huge leaps, just enough to reassure that we’re moving in the right direction. And I’m really pleased to report that this week has been better.

Through gentle pressure and reassurance we’ve been able to get him out of the house without any tears or tantrums. Those who’ve read last week’s piece will know how big a step this is. A special thanks to the correspondent who suggested I try giving him little photos of him with me and mummy to bring with him. This worked really well.

The trip in the car has passed without incident. In fact the only problem has been the handover, that’s when it still all goes wrong.

He’s still clinging limpet-like to my neck and still melting into a mush of tears as I leave. Holding his little arm out to me, pleading, pleading.

This is where I have to go beyond my own powers of reason and experience. In my mind the reaction he is showing is one of catastrophe. One reserved for death, permanent separation, Scotch broth for dinner.

But to him this reaction is one that merely relays a bit of anger and annoyance. I also have to consider his subconscious power of manipulation. His innate ability to know how to react in the way which pushes certain buttons to get the result which he wants.

I have to force myself to believe this because, well because, what other choice do I have?

It remains the case that he calms down within minutes of me leaving. It remains the case that he is always playing happily when I go to pick him up and talks fondly about things he does in the crèche when he is not there.

All of his little pals are there. He talks about them constantly. Indeed he has announced on more than one occasion plans for his forthcoming marriage. Unfortunately it hasn’t always been to the same girl.

I watch my son closely. I know his reactions, his habits. I don’t feel there is any lasting trauma being caused to him by the process. I simply wouldn’t allow it to continue if I believed there was. My point from last week still holds. It’s harder for the parents because we project our emotions onto them. Kids always surprise us with how robust they are. We’re the ones who are made of china.

But even the most stressful experiences can still provide a memorable moment, a feeling that you know will still be with you when the specifics of the incident have faded. Facts are quickly forgotten, feelings stick with you.

There’s often a chink of light to be found when you’re lost in a cave, a diamond in the deep mine, a pearl in the black ocean.

This morning mummy was showering my son with kisses as we prepared to leave the house. She told him the kisses were like sunshine and if he kept them in his tummy then he would have sunshine all day.

He looked at her, thinking. Then he responded.

‘Mummy can you give me some rain as well? Because then I’ll have a rainbow in my tummy.’