I Have a Name

Identity is something very important to me.

It was especially significant in the aftermath of my wife’s death. I was incredible keen, and fought harder, to establish myself as my son’s sole parent.

We were living with my parents, so I was aware it might be all too easy to become overly reliant on my folks, send confusing messages to my boy, and also end up, eventually, dependant on them to exist.

I was also mindful that I did not want to lose my fully competent parenting ability and tag.

I know a good few men, becoming fathers, who were almost fearful of their children, and the responsibility thereof. My only fear was that of the unknown, never taking much of an interest in other babies or children, I really did not know what to expect or how to perform the most basic of tasks.

But I was determined to get rid of that fear, and the only way I was going to do that was to get stuck in, and take responsibility, at times solely, for all the necessary functions of parenting.

I had great opportunities to hammer this home right from the start. When Max was born Samantha was confined to her bed for a couple of days, so it was left to me to do the first changing, dressing and bathing.

She also needed some unrelated surgery a couple of months after, and was again out of action for a while, so I took a lot of the responsibility for our son then too.

This is not to say that Samantha did not do a lot, she did, but at times she could not even pick up Max, and needed to recuperate herself.

In fact when she did recover, I decided she deserved some more time. One of her friends was living in Stockholm, so she went off for a girlie weekend, again leaving me in total confidence with our child.

There were other times where Samantha would go out, and indeed when I would, sole charge was passed between us.

This is how we wanted our lives to be as a family, not all that much time apart, but the confidence, and will, to be both able to do our thing when the right opportunity arose.

One leaving the other in sole charge of our brood, without fear or guilt.

If everyone is having a good time them guilt is even more unnecessary than usual.

To bring it back, basically we were strongly established, and identifiably, as Max’s parents, two people that took their responsibility very seriously, putting a lot in, and getting a lot back.

Being introduced as Max’s dad, was more an honour bestowed, than an irritation.

I know some people like using their own names, for fear of identity, and of course I am not just Max’s dad, I have a few other facets.

Which is where I have got to today.

For nearly 18 months Max has been trying to get a certain child from nursery round to ours for play and dinner. A combination of non-English speaking au pairs, illness, unavailability, and this kid not really being helped into the kids’ social circle, had prevented it, until this week, the penultimate nursery week.

Both children were delighted and apparently spent much of their day at nursery asking if it was time to go home yet. Eventually, of course, that time did come, and they both proudly wandered to our house, only stopping to announce their social occasion to anyone that would listen.

I was called on a couple of times, generally by my son’s chum, who addressed me as ‘Max’s Dad’.

Junior tried to correct him several times; “You can call him Ian.” He said.

With all their excitement, correct designation was low on their list of priorities, but still, I pressed with my ‘I have a name’ retorts.

Repetition did not seem to wash with this lad, and I could also see his mind working – you’re clearly Max’s Dad, what’s the problem, let’s move on, and can you actually answer my question?

And, as always, I am pleased when my son’s peers accept me as his parent, and are comfortable being around me, however I still would prefer this child, who I am likely to have an ongoing relationship with through school, to use my proper name.

Because my approach of correction seemed to be making little inroad I decided to go on the attack.

Each time I was referred to as Max’s Dad, I responded with “Yes, Max’s friend, how can I help you?”

I did not have to say it many times for it to work.

Seems everyone likes their own identity.

Teacher's Pet

I do not have fond memories of all the teachers I have had during my various forms of education. As I start typing this blog post, I am very hard pressed to even say I had a favourite, I do not think I did.

There were ones I respected, a few I would listen to, but lots I would look at with disdain and barely acknowledge – such a nice child that I was.

My own mother was my home economics teacher for a short time, and she would most definitely vouch as such.

In early education I suppose it was different, and I can not really recall that far back, but still, I do not have a teaching idol.

The point I am getting to, is that as the end of the school year looms, children arriving with gifts for their teachers has also started.

It seems like a strange practise to me, and at times, a very robotic and for-the-sake-of-it laden process.

Are we rewarding them for doing their job well, or because our children ‘like them’, or simply because everyone else in the class will be buying something?

In our personal situation I find it quite difficult. Max’s nursery is staffed, like I presume many others, with various people, doing different shifts and performing different functions.

Certain employees are designated as key, and also have to monitor the progress of allocated groups of children. But that does not mean they have exclusivity of care, or do not observe and encourage others.

My boy has enjoyed nursery, and made great progress, I am sure in no small part down to them, but I have absolutely no idea who, if anyone, is responsible for this.

He does not really talk about any one of the adult helpers, and if he did, it may be the one that lets him off the hook the most, or allows him to punch his peers in the face, I have no idea. Who could?

I have discussed this with a couple of the other parents, and the responses I have received range from the inevitable “They get paid don’t they?” to the similarly predictable “It’s only £20 you tight git.”

Things have gone well for us here, and I am very grateful that there have been only few minor problems with my son’s pre-schooling, but I am unsure if my gratitude should be made in the form of presents for its current staff.

Typing this out I realise that my boy also deserves reward, and I probably need to recognise his achievements at nursery as a collective too.

So, I’ll add an Optimus Prime to my shopping list already containing six bottles of plonk.

Or do you think a bushel of apples with cut it?

Who Got a Black Eye?

Last weekend was a little out of the norm for us.

The boy and I were parted, which is not a totally freak occurrence on its own, I have been on a skiing trip before, and later this year I will go without him to my third V Festival, but I am unsure how much longer he will let me do that unaccompanied.

But this time I was off to sample the delights of Magaluf, on a stag do, and he was off on an adventure between his two sets of grandparents.

As, I am sure is conveyed here too, I am generally sophistication personified, so a three day drinking bender to the worst place on earth is a smidgen out of my new comfort zone.

Whereas a weekend of grandparent manipulation is bread-and-butter stuff to Junior.

I originally agreed to this binge in foreign climes, thinking it would be a great laugh, and that it would be good for us to spend a few days apart before the summer holidays get in full swing.

With, what I thought was, a recent history of enjoying quaffing vast amounts of alcohol, I never really thought through how I may physically cope with such a ‘break’, considering it to not be a problem.

The guy celebrating his last few weeks of freedom is also one I really like, a person who has opened a few social doors for me since Samantha died, and for that I owe him gratitude, and his company is always entertaining too.

Therefore I quickly made a decision to go, on what was initially going to be a four day trip. However Max’s school scheduled a parents’ meeting on what was to be the first day, so I chose to shorten my trip in lieu of attending such meeting.

And as well as being the absolutely right thing to do for Max, it was also the right decision for me, in terms that I would not have enjoyed the extra day abroad anyway.

In the past when we have spent this amount of time apart, and shorter really, I have always tried to make it feel like it is also an ‘adventure’ for my son, as well as for me, never hiding from the fact of how long we shall be apart.

For those reasons, I have also found it works to have Max leave me, rather than the other way round. Like this time, logistically it may have been easier for us both to head to my parents, then me leave for the airport while he was asleep, but I did not feel comfortable with this, so instead I packed my mini-colossus off to my folks for tea, and I stayed put, leaving a little earlier in the morning to get everyone else picked up and to the airport for check-in time.

Once apart, my scheduled was basically full of drinking, no sleeping, staying in a hotel – come half-way house – full of large groups of youngsters, all with similar, if not more experimental, itineraries.

Nights merged into days, all spent in packed streets with drunken children falling over themselves, or their vomit, and a Civil Guard keen to pounce on any behaviour considered undesirable (a policy that needs a radical re-think).

The boy’s plans were full of fairy cakes, trips out, swimming, toy procurement, playing and topped off with a birthday party for one of his friends.

So, which one of us had a black eye when we reconvened on Sunday afternoon?

That is right, not me.

A clash of heads at the party had resulted in my heir getting a little purple around his right eye, which is now considerably purpler.

Prompting, one of my parenting peers this morning, to say; “I thought it was you that went to Magaluf?”

And thus, this blog post.

Bringing Down the House, or Beer Garden

Social acceptance, in our relatively new rural setting, has been something of immense importance to me, and us.

I have given gravitas to carrying favour with the nice families around us, not least because I want my son to have a happy social existence, filled with children, and with the absence of the planned siblings (there would have been at least one, and I was angling for two) I need others to want to be around us in order to procure such a regular reality.

When I take a step back on our lives, and more specifically Max’s, and have a look, I see that we now have a lot of ‘new’ people we interact with.

Not something I have ever considered a strength – making chums - but it appears that I have managed to convince quite a few mugs to spend time with us.

My son’s charm and entertainment value have played an enormous part in this, as has, I suppose, my openness to shiny new folk.

Junior is very sociable, and always asking where, or who, we are going to see next.

He does not keep an exclusive company, and I am proud to observe that he is much more open to playing with members of the opposite sex than some of his peers.

This, in part, may be down to our situation, and that he feels a need to be less choosy, but it is a trait that I like to see in him.

Last week, after a successful nursery sports day, we were invited to join a girl from the school, and some of her family, at one of the local pubs, that has excellent outdoor facilities for the children.

In the glorious weather, we were more than delighted to accept.

The people that had invited us are great company, and have always lived on or around farms in this area, so they know it well.

For those reasons, they are also very useful to know.

It is a nice feeling to be accepted by folks like this, especially when we were joined by a few of their extended family.

They must not be fussy either, right?

Meeting new people can be exhausting, and especially emotionally zapping when we are called on to explain our situation.

Totally worth it though, and I love people that ask questions, taking it as a great sign, I am much more likely to get on in the long-term with someone prepared to ask questions that might trigger difficult answers, than those that ignore them.

That typed, I have not really developed a formula, or stock answer, for questions about becoming a widower, or where my wife is.

You can see it coming sometimes, or feel it brewing, but still, I am inconsistent, yet always honest, with my replies.

On this occasion I dangerously assumed that the adults that joined us knew of our situation, and as the conversation went in certain ways, I knew, that they knew.

However the same was not true for the children.

And kids ask questions too.

I suppose the sight of a floppy haired man with his son, versus a backdrop of women with their offspring, induces a certain train of thought.

That train being; “Where is your mom?”

Again, this is a situation I like to encourage, I am interested in how my son reacts to these queries, and also if there is anything to learn from either parties’ behaviour.

Not sure if I could hear the sharp intakes of breath, but ears definitely pricked up. I was comfortable than no one tried to interfere, or apologise.

My matter-of-fact protégé offered his simply explanation; “She died.”

Interestingly, well for me anyway, the other children, then asked me to clarify, almost double-checking that they were not being lied to.

After my re-affirmation, that indeed, such information was correct, they returned to my unruffled boy for further explanations.

Pointing to his heart and mind, my wonderful creation said “She is in here and in Daddy’s too.”

Ignoring everyone else for a moment, I asked Max how he gets to see his mom, and he replied, as expected, with “I just close my eyes and think.”

I then suddenly became acutely aware we had stirred a lot of emotion around us, and seeing that my son was OK, I assured him he was right, and opted for a bit of silence and composure.

Silence which was broken with; “Oh, Daddy, we can also dream about her.”

That really finished them off.

But it was not long before tranquillity returned, and conversation moved on, acknowledging what had just happened, but without dwelling on it.

These moments are enormously emotional, and personally, I feel a vast array of emotions, for myself, for my boy, for Samantha and for those around us.

I hope my son’s future is full of bringing people to tears in beer gardens, but, perhaps, by very different means.

Glitterati and Drayton Manor Park and Zoo

This past weekend has been a bit of a humdinger.

One was perhaps chewing a tad more than it is reasonable to consume. Speaking, or typing, both figuratively and actually.

Friday evening was spent at a friend’s stag do, which involved dog racing, lasagne, bar brawl witnessing, excessive amounts of alcohol, dodgy dancing and man hugging.

Not the best preparation for hosting my favourite blogger and his family on the following day, but I think I got away with it.

I really do not miss going out on the town on a regular basis, I enjoyed Friday night, but it was with some reluctance, and at times I was incredibly bored.

And I really am pathetic for the 48 hours that follow such events.

However I have been attempting to put together a meet-up for localish bloggers that are part of the British Mommy Bloggers community, and this weekend was one of very few that I could squeeze it into.

Drayton Manor were kind enough to host five of us, and our families, this past Sunday, and I plan to review their excellent facilities very soon as a result.

As mentioned this get together was originally intended for those of us that live in the middle of England, but I had not accounted for the gall of some.

Dan, he of allthatcomeswithit.

He who really narrowed my eyes to the world of blogging.

He whom is the UK’s premier Daddy Pig impersonator.

The guy organising the most awesome walk along Hadrian’s Wall ever.

Well, anyway, him, he got in touch to enquire as the possibility of being included in our rendezvous, and because I fear he may have sat on me if I’d said no I really wanted to meet him in the pork, I was accommodating.

Very.

To the point that I gladly offered to house his clan at mine the night before, so it might break up the excessive travelling for his kids, and so we could all perhaps enjoy the actual gathering a bit more, and relaxed.

I was delighted, but fearful, when he agreed to come down on the Saturday. It is a weird feeling meeting people you have ‘met’ on the internet. Made even weirder when you try to explain it to other people, especially those that are only four-years-old.

I was nervous about meeting Dan and his lovely family, as I had painted a picture in my head of these people, and how we may get on with them if we were ever to meet. My fear was that I had got our compatibility terribly wrong.

But I need not have worried, despite my relatively fragile state, their whole visit felt effortless, our conversation naturally flowing, way later than it should have, and without having to feel for subject matter, certainly from my point of view anyway.

The kids, blimey, they got on incredibly well. Max and Amy, Dan’s daughter, were virtually inseparable from the moment they met. And Evan, Amy’s younger brother, was certainly not excluded either, and there were some really wonderful moments between the three of them, that alone made their visit worthwhile (mind I also got some Penguins, and a bunch of flowers out of it).

After a good night’s sleep we were off to Drayton Manor Park and Zoo, to meet three other bloggers and their families, and my meeting internet folk anxieties returned. Again these people, Jo Beaufoix, Rosie Scribble and Tara Cain, were people I was really looking forward to meeting, and had developed a relationship with online.

They all proved to be very nice people, and great company, even Tara. All the children were lovely too, and pretty much proved that all you need when you have kids, are other kids to play with.

There was a plethora of things to do and ride on, but the offspring seemed genuinely happy to mess about on the adventure play areas, and most of them pined to go and play together in the soft play zone.

That is not to belittle the park and its facilities, far from it. If it was just me and the boy, then I am sure that he would have held no interest in the playing parts of the theme park. And he was still very excited to go on all the rides we did manage.

We were both knackered last night, and are really still recovering today. Max had his first day time nap for an age, and I am in a state of overtiredness.

But it was all worth it, and I hope to meet these wonderful people again soon, people I am now comfortable, and proud, to call friends.

Silent Escape

I am an appreciator, or more accurately, an observer, that routines are subject to change.

They change with age, with mood, with season and without any notice.

In the early-ish stages of single parenthood simple changes to the routine, like sleep times moving, different food types being consumed, or newly rejected, used to really mess with my yin and yang.

I would be well and truly out of kilter, wherever that is.

These would only have to be tiny amendments, and I suppose being taken out of my evolving comfort zone, however subtly, my discomfort was amplified by my newly widowed, and sole parenting, statuses.

Rationale always helped, and a new normal, and my relief within it, was never that far away. Although it may have felt like an age at the time.

The bed time procedure has always been one I have applied consistency to. Well, from my end anyway.

There are exceptions, but never enough to have a sizeable impact on the effectiveness of the general, and practised, process.

At the moment the status quo is; bath time, dry and comb hair in front of the television, a drink and biscuit, toilet, teeth brushed, bottle of fresh water for night time drink, in bed, stories, kiss, cuddle and mutual love declaration, then sleep.

The number of stories usually reflected by the hour, and how close we are to my target bedtime, also extra for positive behaviour, and there may be more stories if shorter books are chosen.

But we have always entered into a negotiation. A process I always seek clarification and acceptance of, before we actually start the reading.

This method has operated with only minor glitches for a good time, probably nearing something like two years.

And sleep has usually quickly followed our kisses, without the need for me to be in the room.

However recently, and with a dawning grief process, my son has needed a little more reassurance and thus this protocol has been somewhat amended.

I have been staying with my boy post cuddle and kiss, while he settles down. Mindful of slipping into a trap of having to always be there to get Max to sleep, I have limited this, and still leave the room prior to the sleep descending.

This has not been without reluctance, and I have quite frequently left the room to only return to re-settle my boy down, before eventually leaving him to get of to the land of nod successfully.

My usually rule of thumb is if I leave the room to silence, sleep will ensue.

But if I get a ‘daddy’ it will be quickly followed by a ‘don’t leave me’ and then the re-settling process.

That has been fairly consistent, as has been my sighing before I about-turn back to his bed.

Then one night this week the ‘daddy’ - the ‘sighing’ - and the ‘about-turn’ were played out, but what followed was new to the process.

“I love you daddy.”

Now that is a change, and addition, that can stay.

Karate Kid

It is all about the balance.

That of having enough of this-and-that in your diet, your daily routine, your life, your disciplining protocol, and all your general decision making.

There is also the ability to stand upright for a prolong period of time without falling over. Seems simple enough, but sometimes, for me – and the boy – it is a challenge.

I have an amazing ability to fall from a standing position, which also applies, sometimes disastrously, when I am in motion.

Clumsy, awkward and maladroit are words often used in association, OK, maladroit is not used all that often, but it could be.

These traits are things that I hoped, and still hope, my son would avoid. Where I would like him to be a little less like me.

My dreams have so far been unfulfilled, and Max is shaping up, literally by taking chunks out of himself, to be just like his daddy.

This is something I have pondered, and typed about before. Thinking this is perhaps something I can help him with, rather than just accept it.

Not thinking huge remedy is necessary, and accepting there is only a limited effect I can have on my boy’s physique and agility. However I think there may be activities that could assist in his early years.

A few people commented before about state of mind, and almost an unconscious acceptance of just ‘being called clumsy’, believing means that you actually just will be.

My thoughts are about preparation, cutting corners, and generally a lazy approach to everything. I can walk into things, fall over and break things easily at home, but if I was to do a Health and Safety investigation on myself, and all these incidents, I think the most common finding would be negligence, or lack of attention to detail. Rather than their being a material or system failure anywhere.

I could so be a HSE badass.

Sport would be the same, a lot of injuries I got could put down to cutting corners, turning too sharply, changing direction without accepting one’s limits, or simply not paying attention to the hard round thing making its way to my head.

I think this, as when I concentrate, things like catching a ball, not a feat normally associated with an all-thumbs-person, would could naturally to me.

Naturally, being totally the wrong word.

So my thought process has been stretched to include ways in which I could perhaps influence my lad’s ability to concentrate in his early years.

Gymnastics, dancing and trampoline classes are all activities to hit the grey matter appraisal zone, but as yet remain un-acted upon, and perhaps are nearing towards a definite no.

He has to enjoy these things, to not rebel against them, and for them to be worthwhile, and I am not convinced that he would these.

Then I got led down a martial arts path.

As it stands my son will start school in a small class dominated by boys, and some of the parents have been discussing this, and if there is any problems we perceive, or more so, any opportunities we could exploit for the good of the children.

One of the dads suggested Karate, he had been in a club himself as a child, and was highlighting its merits.

I have always just had it pegged as organised violence, and I have always preferred team sport activities rather than those for the individual.

But his argument, and clear enjoyment of learning Karate, was one I really listened to.

Balance is important, and practised, as is learning to control aggression, and to use skills learnt only in self-preservation.

So it could certainly tick, or kick, a few boxes.

It may also help the boys to regularly develop their relationships outside of school, and perhaps how they can help each other.

And as a community thing it may bring a little extra income to our village hall revenue.

This is very much a work in progress, and I do not think it will be under serious consideration until they physically start school at the very earliest.

But it is closer to getting the green light, than the chop.

Hiya.