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.

My son told me he could not bring himself to eat this gingerbread man because of the cute look on his face.

I can sort of see where he is coming from.

Perhaps if they made gingerbread men which looked like Adolf Hitler or Charles Manson this difficulty could be avoided.

Maybe this would work as a business model? 

You effin paparazzi!

Get that camera out of my face!

You find a pair of jeans at the back of the wardrobe which you haven’t worn in ages.

You think ‘these are nice, wonder why I stopped wearing them?’. 

You put them on and they are very comfy.

You wear them out and about all day, to mini gymnastics, to nursery, to the cafe, to rugby tots.

You get lots of looks. You assume people are admiring your jeans.

You get home. You take jeans off. 

You realise there is a great big hole in the arse of them.

Teach yourself how to bend balloons.

When your child wants a toy sword you can make one from a single long balloon.

They will be very excited to receive it and, more importantly, it’s much less painful when you get bashed over the head with it. 

My first mistake was wardrobe. It had been cool and cloudy in the morning. A little bit of air made the leaves on the trees quiver nervously.

‘Hmmm, not quite shorts weather,’ I thought as I glanced out the window, the weight of the decision to be made resting uneasily on my shoulders. I went for jeans and a shirt. How was I to know what would follow?

As the day grew old it became steamy. Hot, sticky and sweaty. Not a classic sunny summer day but something greyer, more uncomfortable.

My jeans were already quite a tight fit. My waist has been expanding like boiling milk in a saucepan in recent months. I ran a marathon just over a year ago. Now just bending over gives me a similar sense of athletic achievement.

The seeping heat had seemed to make the jeans contract even further. They felt like warm custard poured onto my legs. I found it was almost impossible to bend my legs at the knee.

My shirt was moist like a sail in a yacht. My ‘It won’t let you down’ anti-perspirant had hoisted the white flag at the first sign of moisture. My sweaty, cherry red face completed the effect.

We were at the park. Again. I had been pushing the swing for what seemed like hours and my arms were damp and tired. I always get envious of other parents when I take my son to the playground. They all seem to be able to sit on the bench happily chatting to each other and enjoying the sun while their kids play.

It’s not that way with my boy. If he is going down the slide then I have to go down the slide. If he is at the top of the climbing frame then I have to be up there too. If he is playing on the pirate ship then I’m usually Red Beard and have to stomp around pretending I’ve got a wooden leg and shouting ‘Waaaar me hearties!’ while other parents look on bemused.

Now I just wanted to sit down. The place on the bench next to the mummies appeared to me like a mirage across the park. I had an idea.

I lifted my son out of the swing and asked him if he thought he could beat the world record for running around the grass strip which encircles the park. Never one to duck a challenge he was immediately excited. I told him the starting line was at the park bench. I barked ‘Ready, steady, go!’ and off he went, panting and spluttering. I sat down on the bench and stretched my legs. I was satisfied. Some of the mummies even started to make small talk with me. For just a short moment I knew what it felt like to be normal.

Some moments later my son arrived back gasping and looking at me expectantly. I glanced at my watch. ‘Bad luck son, just outside the record, you’d better have another go.’ And off he went again.

This might seem to you cruel. It was. I sat back pleased with myself.

However my masterplan was about to become my second, and much more serious mistake. After my son arrived back at the bench this time he demanded, ‘Daddy, you run with me!’

‘No, no,’ I said with growing alarm. ‘I’m too old to run.’

I could see the tears gathering in his eyes and I knew a tantrum was not far away. Some of the mummies started to shift uncomfortably.

‘Please daddy, please run with me,’ he whimpered pathetically.

The mummies were watching me. I knew I was trapped. I pulled my creaking joints and bones up from the bench and started a light jog.

‘Faster daddy, faster.’

I tried to run. It felt horrible in the tight clothes and oppressive heat. As I mentioned before I couldn’t bend my legs effectively in the jeans so the run was more like a robotic straight-legged waddle. I could almost hear a voice behind me yelling ‘Run, Forrest Run!’

After I had done a couple of laps I noticed that as well as my son there were two other young children following me. I started waving my arms to shoo them away but it only seemed to make them more determined. Soon other children began to join in until it became like the scene in the Rocky movie where he goes for a training run and hundreds of children follow him like a swarm of persistent bees. The park was full and more than half the kids seemed to be chasing me.

I became aware that many of the parents were watching me now. Some were amused, some confused, some bemused and some plainly horrified

I started to worry that they might see me as some sort of sinister Paedophile Pied Piper who was going to run straight out of the park and not stop until I had led all the poor unfortunate children to my secret cave.

I had to bring the situation to an end. I was knackered. I was being followed by a group of unknown children. I looked downright stupid.

I thought the best thing to do would be to collapse there on the grass in a comic simulation of mock exhaustion. The mummies would all applaud my wit and the children would understand that the game was over and go quietly about their business.

It turned out not to be the best thing to do.

As I went down onto the grass my son followed, without missing a step, by leaping on top of me. He must have seen it as a continuation of our wrestling games.

The rest of the kids, whether innately or by decision I couldn’t tell, did exactly the same thing until I was buried under a pile of laughing pre-school children. For a moment I couldn’t get a breath and panicked, considering that this was not the way I had imagined it all ending.

It got worse. Encouraged by my son who views the dishing out of extreme violence as a way of measuring affection, the children started to batter me. I reckon I could have taken any of them on their own but as a group they were irresistible. One small red-haired child, still in nappies I noticed, started to kick me repeatedly in the face. Someone else was behind me pulling my hair. I felt teeth on my shoulder. One little girl was ripping up handfuls of grass and attempting to shove them down my throat. I screamed for mercy.

The ordeal seemed to go on forever but I’m sure I’m reality it was no more than 90 minutes or so. Then a couple of the mummies moved over and summoned their kids. I heard the mother of the red-haired child ask him if he was alright.

Dazed and beaten I climbed back to my feet. My son was there waiting. His face full of innocence and hope.

‘Daddy, did we beat the world record?’