I’m not sure if there is a single catch-all term to describe a daddy blogger.

We all know that nature abhors a vacuum so I decided to try and invent one.

The photo above shows me thinking hard.

Not pretty I know but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for your art.

Some of my suggestions.

A bladdy – sounds a bit weird, like I need to go to the toilet all the time or something.

A blagger- accurate certainly but makes me sound a bit shifty.

A dagger – sinister.

A blaggy- ?

A daggy – Makes me sound like a rapper. DJ Daggy Dogg.

A dogger – right, I think I’ll stop now.

WARNING* The following report includes mental images that some people might find disturbing *

I was considering how I now spend an inordinate amount of my time sorting various types of rubbish into various coloured bins.

Black, blue, brown, green. While I’m keen to do my bit for the environment it is a time-consuming chore.

The situation reached a critical point after my son’s birthday party when I seemed to spend days on end ripping up cardboard boxes and stuffing them into an already over-full green bin.

Come bin day, clothed in my rather aged pyjamas, I dragged the creaking bin to the end of my driveway to be mercifully emptied. 

But alas I discovered at the last moment there were still a few cardboard boxes to be disposed of. 

Looking back now I should have just settled for waiting until the bin was emptied and then put the new boxes in.

But no, I determined that there was still more room and began to attempt to crush yet more cardboard inside the bin.

Soon I realised more weight was required so I scaled the little wall at the end of the garden and climbed on top of the open bin.

Still nothing happened so I found myself resorting to jumping up and down inside my bin to try and force the material down.

To reflect for a moment. It’s eight in the morning, kids are going to school and adults to work and here’s this strange bearded man in ragged pyjamas jumping up and down on a bin.

Yes, I got some strange looks.

As I increased my physical effort in jumping something inevitably had to give.

Alas it was my pyjama trousers which cleaved with a sickening ripping sound.

It would not begin to do justice to the situation to say I had split my trousers. 

A better description would be to say that two pieces of fabric which had lived together peaceably for years were now divorced with a clause in the final agreement that they should stay at least a yard apart.

Now panicking and keen to avoid ultimate disgrace I started struggling to make my way out of the bin, but my wild writhing succeeded only in making my feet sink further into it.

For one desperate moment, as I saw a car approach and realised I was stuck, I actually considered ducking down and closing the bin lid over my head to conceal my identity. 

Eventually I fought my way out and scrambled back indoors resembling Dr Bruce Banner after he has changed into The Incredible Hulk. 

Except with a bare arse. 

Has this ever happened to anyone else?

Discipline has changed a lot since I was a kid.

The education system is unrecognisable to me now. Semi-psychotic primary school teachers and nuns patrolling corridors like rival drugs gangs have been replaced by thinking time and understanding the consequences of our actions. Thank Christ.

Keeping order at home is a bit trickier. The rules are hazier, the boundaries more fluid and the kids more likely to stretch or simply march right over the top of them.

I suspect trying to get my boy to stay on a naughty step in the house would be as easy as putting a jellyfish through a cheese grater.

My ‘skills’ as a disciplinarian met their sternest test this morning. Our son had woken too early. Well he always wakes too early but this was even earlier than too early.

Mummy brought him into our bed for a cuddle and tried to settle him down. For some unknown reason, and totally out of character, he reacted with fury, lashing out aggressively.

I put on my authoritative voice (don’t laugh!) and told him to settle down. He kept screeching and swinging his arms. It was clear he had gone into a rage and had no idea how to escape it.

The challenge for me is to try and be measured. Not to meet anger with anger. It’s always easier to simply lash back, trying to reason with him when you struggle to find reason yourself is the goal.

I’m fighting to remain calm as I tell him if he doesn’t calm down he will have to go to his room. He howls in defiance. I lift him to his room.

The stand-off begins.

I have to hold the door closed to stop him from simply walking out of the room.

As he struggles on the other side with the handle he screeches and kicks like a caged troll.

I tell him through the door that I want to have a conversation but it can’t start until he stops shouting. He shouts louder, it’s almost demonic.

Soon he has pulled at the door handle on his side so roughly that it comes off in his hand. At least this now means that I don’t have to hold the other side because he can’t escape now even if I’m not there.

I keep telling him how much me and mummy love him and how we are waiting for nice James to come back so we can talk to him. I’m surprised by the level of his anger and his stubbornness because he gives every indication of wanting to make this a long-running feud.

I tell him that he’ll stay in the room all day if he doesn’t calm down but secretly I’m praying that he cracks before I do.

Eventually, like a wild horse being broken, I can sense the fight going out of him. I hear him moving away from the door and sitting down with his toys.

My son’s bedroom is a veritable Aladdin’s cave of toys and he’s now playing with them. This would have been a holiday rather than a punishment when I was a kid.

He snaps at me a few more times but I know the end is in sight. Mummy tells him that whenever he wants to come out and have a talk he just has to knock the door three times.

He leaves it another minute or two, just to prove he’s nobody’s patsy and then I hear three weak knocks.

I carry him out and set him on the bed. We talk to him about anger and how to express it. He’s playing distractedly with a rattly toy, trying to avoid making eye contact.

The last hurdle to be overcome is getting him to show some remorse, to understand that his actions can hurt other people.

Sorry is, inevitably, the hardest word. He doesn’t want to face up to what he has done, to confront bad behaviour. He’s trying to wheedle his way back into our favour through a side door.

We keep at it. I tell him that saying sorry is the hardest thing in the world and that you have to be really brave to do it. I tell him that superheroes say sorry because they are so brave (don’t laugh, I’m making this parenting stuff up as I go).

Finally he ducks his head so we can’t see his face and whimpers the word ‘sorry’.

I look at my watch and realise it’s not too early anymore. In fact it’s not early at all now. The confrontation has broken the morning.

Did we handle the situation well? Who’s to say. Were we too soft? Too rigid? Did he learn anything? I suppose we’ll find out.

For now I settle for giving my son a big cuddle. I always love him but now he’s my best pal again.

I see him well before he spots me.

This is good because it means I can watch without him knowing, see how he interacts with the other kids when I’m not there.

The children are playing outside. The edge has been taken off my emotions from earlier in the day but they’re still there. They never really go away.

He’s playing with another wee boy, one he knows well and is comfortable with. One who shares his aptitude for imaginative games. They are both red-faced with laughter and a burgeoning sense of comradeship. My boy is wearing someone else’s baseball cap. There are grass stains on the jeans said which I put clean on him this morning. I feel a lot better.

Soon he sees me standing at the gate and comes running. He leaps into my arms and hugs me like he means never to let go. I hold him for as long as I can. He’s too young and I’m too old to worry about looking cool.

I can feel his body quiver and see a tremble in his bottom lip. He struggles to contain his emotions, the way kids do. I whisper.

‘Daddy’s here son. Daddy’s here.’

I let him stay that way for as long as he needs to. Then he pulls his face away and becomes himself again.

‘Daddy, I went to do a pee pee today and I sat on the toilet for a long time but the pee pee didn’t come. Daddy, why didn’t the pee pee want to come?’

I’m laughing as I roll my hand through his hair. He feels important now, showing me where he sits inside and the art he’s been working on. I make an effort to chat to every member of staff. Soon we are on our way home.

A little bit later we’re sitting on the sofa at home. Bizarrely I’ve had to turn the lights on because the sky has turned threateningly and unseasonably dark. The air is heavy. There’s a big storm coming.

I’m going through the usual routine of trying to negotiate with my son to eat some dinner.

Then unexpectedly and without looking at me he speaks.

‘Daddy, I’m glad I went to nursery today.’

This may be the least likely thing that I’ve ever heard my boy say.

‘Why’s that son?’, I manage to splutter in response.

His eyes are still fixed on the telly.

‘Because of the thing you said this morning.’

‘What thing?’

‘You know, the thing about being brave.’

My heart almost leaps out of my chest. Real life trumps fiction every time. When I wrote my words in desperation this morning I couldn’t have even begun to have guessed this would be the conclusion.

I guess all parents talk to their kids all the time and are then left wondering how much, if any, of it has gone in. It’s like throwing a stone at a fence post, just hoping that every so often you get a hit.

Children have that wonderful capacity to surprise and amaze. I hope I’m not being too sentimental when I say that the unpredictability of the journey is the whole point. We travel from joy to despair and back again seamlessly.

He looks at me now, as if for the first time.

‘It’s hard being brave daddy, but you have to try.’

I’m not naive enough to believe that anything has been solved. I know it will be back to tears and tantrums in the morning. But for now I put my arm around him. We can deal with tomorrow when it comes.

Sometimes my thick culchie accent can lead to miscommunications or crossed wires.

I was in a Tesco in Belfast today getting some food in for dinner.

I asked a young lad who worked there if they had any pâté.

‘Aye mate, no bother,’ he helpfully replied. ‘Its in aisle six, I’ll show you the way.’

Dutifully I followed him to aisle six.

This is what he led me to…..

It’s the worst way to start the day. Awful. Simply awful.

My son goes to a private childcare facility three days a week. We think this is a good arrangement because it gives him a chance to meet lots of other children and improve his social skills. When he starts P1 in September several of his classmates will be children who he has known for years because of this. We know that it is going to be a tricky month but the relations he has already built up should ease the transition.

It also works for mummy and I, allowing her to work full-time and giving me a chance to do some writing and undertake some freelance jobs.

I love my son more than any words I can express here but I will freely admit that if I had to look after him every moment of every day of every week I wouldn’t last very long before I’d have to be carted off to a different sort of facility.

I need just a little bit of respite. Also every moment I spend away from him builds up the anticipation for the cuddle I will give him when we are reunited.

He has been going to the same nursery for most of his short life. The staff are amazing, continually astonishing me with their skills in dealing with so many differing personalities and ages. It is often the jobs which are considered the most standard by society which are most worthy of our admiration.

Despite the continuity my son still struggles desperately every day when I have to take him there. He is a shy and sensitive boy, sometimes intimidated by the rough and tumble and clatter of large groups of young children. It takes him time to adjust to different environments. He tends to avoid rather than confront.

And so it is that we are sitting on the sofa on Wednesday morning watching Peter Rabbit. I think he must know what’s coming because he hasn’t said much in a while. I’ve simply been too cowardly to warn him. I feel that he is storing up the emotion.

I tell him it is time to get dressed. There’s a little bit of fear in his eyes as he asks ‘Am I staying with you today daddy?’ My shoulders tighten. ‘No son, you’re going to see your friends in nursery.’

He explodes in a ball of tears, wails and swinging arms and legs. Several blows strike me so I have to hold him close against me to restrict his arms. This is not a tantrum in the sense of demanding a new toy or a packet of sweets and I always try hard not to treat it like that. The hardest part of parenting is trying to understand why.

It’s a desperate struggle to get him dressed. As I fight with the little trousers and jumper his snot, tears and anger are all over me.

He screeches at me. ‘I hate it! I don’t want to go daddy! I don’t want to go daddy!’

I hold his little blond head close to my face. He is my son. He is desperately upset and I can’t seem to do anything to help him.

‘It’s ok son, you’re going to have so much fun. All your friends can’t wait to see you.’

‘But daddy, I just want to stay here with you and mummy.’

As he says this I feel something break inside of me and I have to pull him even closer so he can’t see the tears glazing over my eyes. I feel my resolve disappearing like sand down an hourglass.

He says it again and again. ‘I just want to stay with you daddy.’

For a moment that seems fine. Let’s just go back to bed and pull the blankets over our heads and I’ll hold you in my arms and we can laugh and giggle like we did before. The world won’t be able to get anywhere near us.

But I can’t do that. I have to try and do something which I have no idea how to do. I get that familiar low feeling that I am a failure at this. Someone has made a mistake putting this precious wonderful life in my care. I fight against the emotion that rises out of my stomach and tastes bitter in my throat, the feeling that I’m going to fuck it all up.

I lift him onto my knee and look into his eyes, shining from tears. I try.

‘You know son, daddy gets scared when he has to do different things too. I get scared when I have to leave you and mummy. That’s when I have to try really hard to be brave. And the reason I can be so brave is because I know we are all going to be together again at the end of the day. No matter what happens.’

I hear the words as if they are coming from someone else. They sound pathetically inadequate. I don’t know if I’m helping.

I lift him out to the car and strap him into his seat. He is crying more quietly now.’

‘Daddy, can I have two crackers? And can I eat them in the car before I go to nursery?’

The futility of the gesture almost breaks my heart. Trying to delay what he knows must happen for just a few seconds more.

I get the crackers and we soon start the short drive. He is a little calmer and wants me to sing. I try a few verses of Bare Necessities and he bravely gives me a smile.

I ask him if there’s anything he needs me to tell the grown-ups in nursery. His nod is so short that I barely notice.

‘I need you to say that I can’t flush the toilet on my own, I can’t get it to flush. Can you tell them I don’t want chicken supreme for lunch? And I don’t want to watch TV because I can’t sit still for a long time.’

‘Of course I will son.’

His concerns sound so inane as to be almost laughable but I have to remind myself to think like him. He’s not worried about bills or Brexit or Trump destroying the world; in his universe these things are way more serious. I nod gravely and assure him I will deal with it.

It is only a short respite and when I carry him through the nursery front door the sobs start again. He buries his little face deep into my shoulder. The staff are as wonderful as ever and are straight over, talking gently to him, encouraging, soothing. I try to hand him over but he clings to my neck and won’t let go. He just won’t let go. Eventually I break his hold and leave immediately. I know from experience that if I stay it prolongs the torture for everyone.

Before I go I sneak a look back through the window. My son sitting in a woman’s lap. She is talking patiently and kindly to him.

I’m back home within minutes but still agitated. How long can I reasonably wait before I phone without them thinking I’m a crazy daddy? I make a coffee but it tastes bitter, almost metallic, and I end up pouring it down the sink.

I turn on the wireless. It’s The Nolan Show and they seem to be having a debate about paramilitary commemorations. A flood of anger rises in me and I snap the dial to turn the programme off again within seconds.

I force myself to wait 20 minutes and then I call. They know even before they answer that it’s most likely me. The soothing optimism of the voice telling me that he has settled down and is now playing happily with his friends. I thank them profusely as always.

I set my phone down and sit for the first time in a while. Mummy is working away from home today and the house is quiet like a funeral. I begin to sob. Deep, uncontrollable spasms of despair pouring out of me.

This lasts for some minutes and then it is over. I dry my face. I think about what needs to be done. We all have to get on.