Dave the Dad 28 - Love and Hate
I love Tom, Jane loves Tom, everyone should love Tom. To start with he’s right loveable: cute, friendly, happy, funny, sweet and bright as bob-tail rabbit. Of course there are times when he fudges some of these attributes.Having a cold is one of these rare occasions. Now I have changed Tom’s nappy since birth, worked my way from viscous tar through to splattergun slop, sudden squirts and biscuity froth. Not nice, but never so awful that it is capable of altering my perception of our lovely son.
Having a cold, in my mind, is a bit worse and just a bit more of a test. Those sudden moments when Tom sneezes and 15lbs of slimy, bright green ooze shoots out, only to dangle precociously before morphing over his top. Even this used to be manageable as we were usually able to grab a tissue before the worst of the smearing happened. The problem is that in the last few months he has become more sensitive and each sneeze grants you less than a couple of seconds before a random arm or hand wipes the mess over his entire face. Or, even worse, substitute ‘his entire face’ for: my arm, Jane’s skirt, my trousers, Jane’s spanking new blouse. It’s horrible.
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Crap is universal, let’s face facts, even the Pope sees it every day. But as adults we (and I include Catholics in this) tend to get rid of snot before the dangling mucus stage. I obviously love my son unconditionally, but it’s hard to cuddle up on the sofa with the same warmth when that creature from Ghostbusters appears to be attempting to emerge from Tom’s nose. And yet there are some who appear to take a more general dislike to our gorgeous offspring. Well, ‘one’ rather than ‘some’. We first encountered him at our gym, a sly, wide-eyed, silent figure, a bit of a maverick, one who clearly knows his mind and acts decisively, swiftly, pitilessly. Now you may say I exaggerate as he’s only 2, but Dennis Nielson was only 2 once. In his favour at least he doesn’t look like a serial killer; in fact he looks quite striking, rather like a short, albino Bobby Ball. Of course I see through his curly haired innocence to the darkness beneath, although I admit I’m starting to feel the heat from a surprising source as recently Jane has started telling me off for whistling Carmina Burana whenever he approaches.
Make your own mind up. First encounter; Sunday morning, Tom running around, having a laugh, ABB sprints up from a distance of several feet and pushes Tom over, Tom cries. Second encounter: Saturday afternoon following week, Tom running around, having a laugh, ABB shuts door on Tom, Tom cries. The latest encounter happened not five minutes from our door in the beautiful environs of Queens Park. Jane walking with Tom, Tom running around, having a laugh, buggy passes and a chubby albino arm lashes out and misses Tom by a whisker, Tom doesn’t notice as a plane has just gone over.
It’s all very well saying ‘Oh, they’re only kids, they don’t even know what they’re doing, just testing the boundaries’. I know. I said this very thing to one of my friends some years back when her child was being pushed around a soft-play area like the chilli sauce in a kebab shop. But now it’s different as it’s my kid. Sod sagacity; when it’s your own child threatened your innermost instincts take over. It’s only natural. If I was a lion I would probably have bitten this kid’s head off by now but instead I’m forced by middle-class conventions to smile at his mum and mutter ‘Kids eh’. Not that she understood such a complex sentence.
Still, it’s ying and yang in this life. Around the corner from Tom lives a little girl called Millie and from the very first moment their eyes met it was Burton and Taylor, Lizzie and Darcy, Abelard and Heloise although obviously without all the nastiness with the shears. Well, maybe not the very first time as I think Millie cried and Tom filled his nappy but soon afterwards things started to brighten up. They now go to the park holding hands over the cruel abyss that divides their buggies and last Friday Jane reported that both she and Millie’s mum had to get involved at the final kiss goodbye, for tongues were unsheathed and those two crazy youngsters weren’t afraid to use them.
I was a touch concerned about this relationship at first; after all there was a time when Millie was twice Tom’s age. What self-respecting parent wouldn’t worry about their son getting involved with a woman so much more experienced in the ways of this capricious world? Of course Millie was only 4 weeks old then and since that time the gap in their ages has mysteriously faded. Now that Tom is bigger than her (and is decidedly more violent) I figure it’s easier to live and let live.
I’ll end this rhapsody of emotion with a moment from last week that granted me a flashback to when Tom was so little that he hardly caused any damage at all. Way back. Way, way back. Mondays we swim and I was bent over, changing him after a good half-hour splash around. The cheeky chap looks up, damp and happy, full of love and fun and vigour and he smiles into my face. Then leans casually back and grips two meaty fistfuls of chest hair before trying out one of those fancy moves from ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’. I tried my best not to scream as it’s frowned upon in naked male society but those tears in my eyes weren’t solely those of a proud, adoring dad.
3rd July 2007
Dave Fouracre
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