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.’

Life as an oversized clothes peg was tough.

Most people didn’t realise how much of a curse gigantism could be.

But now, to be branded like a common criminal.

To be numbered like a farm animal.

It was the final indignity.

​

For instance I probably wouldn’t write ‘I avoid clichés like the plague’ (oops I just did).

But I might write ‘I avoid clichés like   daddy trying to get out of cutting the grass by saying his chilblains are playing up’.

One of my favourite pieces of writing is Orwell’s monumental essay ‘Politics and the English Language’.

In it he argues that you should avoid using any phrase you are used to seeing in print.

And while this is impossible to follow prescriptively, it’s a wonderful aspiration.

Use of tired terminology demonstrates lazy thinking on the part of the author and encourages it in the reader. 

But there’s a problem with clichés.

They can turn out to be true and sometimes wise.

For example the commonly remarked fact the aging process in your children appears to the parent to be in a state of perpetual acceleration.

So consider the following paragraph to be a pleasing lapse.

They grow up so quick! Where do the years go? It seems just yesterday he was a tiny wee baby! He’s shooting up!

Phew! Glad to have got that off my chest (hey, that’s another cliché, you’ve ruined yourself).

All of this is my rather long-winded (another!) way of introducing this great video my wonderful wife has put together of our great wee man, proving yet again she’s a thousand times more talented than me.

Hope you enjoy it xxxx

1 My belief that I’m knowledgeable at things I clearly know nothing about.

‘I am a bit of an expert at building children’s playhouses.’

2 My refusal to accept blame when things go wrong.

‘It’s no good, these plans for this playhouse are nonsense.’

3 My method for fixing electronic devices.

‘Try switching it off and on again.’

4 My terrible sense of direction.

‘Yes, the fact that there was a strip of grass in the middle of the road should have alerted me that I’d gone the wrong way.’

5 My DIY prowess.

‘Well just move the chair over there, no one will ever see it.’

6 My beard only grows in certain parts of my face.

‘No, it’s not meant to be a goatee!’

7 My child likes to bounce on my stomach.

‘Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Shall we watch some..Ow! Ow! Ow!

8 My stubborn refusal to listen to mummy’s advice.

‘Give over, I’ve been reversing cars for years. Shush, I’m nowhere near the wall….aw shite!

9 I smuggle things into the shopping trolley.

‘I forgot the milk, and the bread. No I didn’t get the potatoes either. But look, I got a 12 pack of Monster Munch.’

10 My refusal to acknowledge the size of my belly.

‘For the last time I’m not putting on weight. Here give me a hand up, will you?’

The text arrived in my phone at one minute past 11.

‘Reminder: Blood donation session in Hillsborough today.’

I quickly redrew my plans. Well, to be fair, I didn’t have any plans before. But now I did.

I’ve been giving blood for the best part of a quarter of a century. That sounds like quite a noble statement but the truth is that within that time there have been long periods, stretches of years, when I didn’t bother.

It’s not that I’ve done it a lot, rather, I haven’t done it nearly enough. I deserve no compliments for it.

I know that I don’t do enough for charities. I know that I usually I fall well below my own standards in terms of being generous and helping others. I’ve always been selfish in my core.

Giving blood is the one thing I do which I can truly say is not for my own benefit. When I get to the end of my life I know there will be people whose health is better, possibly even people who are only alive, because I did this tiny thing.

Plus I’ve got O Negative type blood. For the uninitiated that’s the only blood type which can be given to any person in an emergency. It’s the type of blood which is used when there is no time to ask questions. Less than 7% of the population have O Negative blood.

To me to have it and to have gone long periods of time without donating it, well, it’s frankly unforgivable.

But to get to the stage of giving blood I first have to go through the processes. Form filling, iron test, checking for medications, etc.

It almost seems like being able to give blood is a vindication of a boring lifestyle.

Have you travelled to any exotic countries?

Er…..no.

Have you had multiple sexual partners?

Er…..no.

Have you taken drugs?

Er……no.

Well what the heck have you done?

An unexpected complication has arisen. I tell the attendant that I’m just back from holiday in Italy and her brow furrows. She asks me how long ago? I’ve trouble remembering what I had for breakfast this morning, never mind the date I returned from holiday.

I consult my phone and we work out that it was 28 days ago. Her brow furrows deeper. They can’t take me if I was in Italy within…..28 days. She tells me there could be a risk of West Nile virus. She asks me how I’m feeling. The truth is until this very moment I was feeling wonderful.

She goes off to consult the senior nurse. Immediately I’m Googling West Nile virus and within 30 seconds have convinced myself I have it. Google can be dangerous this way. I once convinced myself I had Housemaid’s Knee by doing too many searches. I start to recover my poise.

The attendant returns and tells me all is fine. I’m taken straight through to a bed.

A kindly attendant called Maurice takes over my care. He prepares my arm until a senior nurse inserts the needle into my left arm. Most people are a bit queasy about this but I’ve always enjoyed watching the bit where the needle goes in and the thick blood rushes urgently through the tube.

We try to make conversation but it’s a challenge. I’m not good at smalltalk in any situation but quite what the social rules are for chatting to a man who has a two inch needle stuck into your arm are beyond me. I end up asking really inane questions and making daft observations.

‘So, how’s business? Well I’m sure it will pick up a bit later on.’

There is a time issue here. If the blood is removed from the arm in less than 15 minutes then the platelets can be removed and used to help leukaemia patients. The red blood cells are stored separately for transfusion. Beyond 15 minutes and this process can’t be done.

Luckily my blood is flowing readily today and we’re comfortably within that time. He dresses my arm and I sit up. Painless and stress free as ever.

I go to get a biscuit and a cup of juice with the other donators. This is the point where I usually put on my best scowl, scaring people away from talking to me.

But I’ve kinda been on a journey the past couple of weeks so I decide to try something new; being nice. I meet a lovely family, Amy who has just qualified as a geography teacher and her mum Julie. Amy tells me about her career plans and they listen with interest as I tell how I crashed mine.

Others join in the conversation, talking about the need for more people to come forward. We all have wee plasters on our arms. It feels good, as if we are all part of something together.

I’m in a good mood as I leave. I’m on my way to pick up my son, mummy is on her way home too, I’ve given blood and I’m certain I don’t have West Nile virus. What more could you want from a day?