 Daddy
cool
Author Stephen Giles's first father day was as uneventful as his
son Oliver's first Christmas and birthday. But give him another box of toffee
and a novelty football over a private Caribbean island and a Lamborghini
any day (honest).
Beggars can't be choosers, and neither can fathers
It was my first Father's Day last year and it wasn't a success. Just
like my son's first Christmas and first birthday, it was marked by my
giddy excitement and his total lack of interest.
I was hoping for some kind of universal pat on the back for surviving
fatherhood to that point. Instead I got a box of toffee and a novelty
football. Scant reward for long nights settling him to sleep, slimy nappies
and impromptu pee fountains and the collapse of routine, sex and social
life. But beggars can't be choosers, and nor, it seems, can fathers.
He wept or slept through every England game
I had to get my rewards in other ways. I took my eight-month-old son
out the following day and bought him a ludicrously oversized England kit
to wear during the latest football tournament. Though he slept or wept
through every game of the tournament (he's so much like his dad), he did
beam with satisfying pride each time I draped the kit over him. His shuffling
crawl resembled the sort of crazy goal celebration he might choose to
mark his winner in the 2022 World Cup. Reward number one - someone on
whom to project my insane, personally thwarted dreams.
Reward number two is only available to the rolled-up sleeves, switched-off
senses type of total immersion father. Suitable characters include anthropologists,
mountaineers and anyone who used to have those 'I-Spy' books on long car
journeys. It's a question of ticking the boxes of new experience and then
trying to master these strange and unnatural tasks. Changed a nappy? Change
it faster, or without spreading poo all over the floor, or without swearing
or kicking things. Fitted a car seat properly? You've a special talent.
Fastened a million poppers on body suits and sleep suits without constantly
missing one out and getting it all skewed? Liar.
He thinks I'm really cool because I can
blow bubbles
For every ill-judged trip to a library or historic monument there was
a fun shopping spree or an afternoon sprawled over the floor watching
cartoons. I wouldn't have missed or traded a moment as he changed from
a helpless newborn to an aware, responsive crawler. Then when my wife
left work and I went back full time, we shifted the boundaries again,
onto more traditional lines. This put me back into dad mode - a playmate
and fellow conspirator against the suspicious rules of good behaviour
that were creeping into everyday life.
Which brings me to reward number three, the opportunity - no, the necessity
- to act like a child with your child. I've lost count of the times I've
been so engrossed in a toy that he's wandered off and started the washing
up without me noticing. We giggle together and invent stupid games that
revolve exclusively around fart noises. He thinks I'm really cool because
I can blow bubbles. I haven't been thought of as cool since…well, I haven't.
More toffee please
If these rewards aren't enough, there are also fringe benefits, like
the chance to brag about your child's milestones and achievements with
lesser dads (only works if yours is gifted or if you're a gifted liar)
and the opportunity to drive as if you're in a remake of the film Speed
(but the bus has been replaced by a sensible family estate car and the
bomb is set to go off if you pass 35 mph).
Ultimately, if the effort put in by the average father in the first year
of their child's life was measured out in material worth, we'd all wake
up on Father's Day as proud owners of Caribbean islands or fleets of Lamborghinis.
But the best I can hope for this year is more toffee - and I wouldn't
change it for the world.
Where to next?
|
