Counting Toes

Love

2011-07-15T07:37:00.000-07:00

Amelie said she loves me. She wasn’t prompted, or under duress. It just came out yesterday while we were watching Come Dine with Me. Sadly, I wasn’t in the best of moods through one thing or another, mainly work, so the gravity of the statement was diluted and its weight added much later when Carla explained the moment again. It was a monumental statement that was lost due to issues that shouldn’t affect me as much as they do. And for that, I’m sorry Amelie.

On the way to work today I thought about this in great detail, and I wondered if Amelie knew what she meant by the word love. We’ve been saying it to her a lot. I generally tell her I love her before she goes to bed and before I leave for work. Carla, if Amelie hasn’t reciprocated, will prompt her to tell me she loves me too. But it’s forced and while nice to hear, I assume to Amelie it is no different than her saying hello, or asking to watch Baby Jake or Gigglebiz.

So when does saying love actually hold within it emotion? I’ll assume for the moment it is still a set response logged in Amelie’s mind that she has memorised and will deliver when it seems right. It’s hard for me to believe that Amelie knows what love is, when in actual fact the term is so wholly at times and infinite in its meaning. One person who declares they love another person might not be measured in the same way I measure my love for Amelie and Carla. Either could be at different strengths, or potency. I base my love on a visceral feeling. It has to stir every part of me and leave the spectrum of emotion in tatters. It can be at times an awful thing and makes me feel I would be better not to have ever loved. The reason being, I have two people in my life that I live for, and should anything happen to either of them every part of me would die, little by little, day by day, until I am wrecked and collapsed in pain. To love someone means to ache, to be bent over in agony, and to live out circumstances and scenarios that damage the heart forever. I do this a lot. If I’m travelling back home in my car and a traffic report details a crash on a road I know Carla might take after she’s picked up Amelie from nursery, the scenario plays out that she was the one involved in the crash, and it is not long before my eyes well and my throat aches. Illness, or the threat of something terminal, is another that bleeds me dry.

But love can also ascend you to the highest plain, mentally and emotionally. It is the best high and the worst downer. Loving someone means your life is never your own. It is someone else’s. If they become depressed, so do you. If they are happy, it lifts your heels. It is the need to exist and the want for an end. Love is a terrible thing, and some days, it best never to have had it. And this is why I am sure Amelie cannot comprehend its meaning.

But that said, recently she’s been running toward me, wrapping her arms around my leg and saying, “My daddy.” Amelie will do this in nursery, as if marking her territory and telling every other child that I am hers. She will also do it while I am talking to the neighbour, or Carla. To me, this is love in its infancy. She realises that I am someone special in her life, someone she can trust and who incites within her emotion that stretch from simple laughter to the comfort of protection. Maybe love does hold a meaning to her. Maybe her perfect little heart contains the vestiges of that which consumes mine. I am under no illusion there will be days she will hate me, but hopefully under all the angst, the bitterness, and apathy, the seed that is growing now will have developed strong roots, and when I’m gone, they will remains forevermore feeding her of my love.

The Flower That Refused To Be Red

2011-06-09T11:58:00.000-07:00

Amelie, should you ever doubt yourself for being unique, or ever be criticised by others for looking at the world in a different way; if you ever find yourself on the fringe of life looking in at everyone else, or feel alone because no one else understands you, remember that you are never abandoned when you are loved, and that the loneliness you may feel is my own, so you will never be far from my hand.

Read the poem here. Don’t ever compromise. And know that flowers don’t always need to be red, nor green leaves be green. Always be the child who sees all the colours. I love you.

The little boy went first day of school
He got some crayons and started to draw
He put colors all over the paper
For colors was what he saw
And the teacher said.. What you doin’ young man
I’m paintin’ flowers he said
She said… It’s not the time for art young man
And anyway flowers are green and red
There’s a time for everything young man
And a way it should be done
You’ve got to show concern for everyone else
For you’re not the only one And she said…
Flowers are red young man
Green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than they way they always have been seen

But the little boy said…
There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

Well the teacher said.. You’re sassy
There’s ways that things should be
And you’ll paint flowers the way they are
So repeat after me…..

And she said…
Flowers are red young man
Green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they've always been seen

But the little boy said…
There are so many colors in the rainbow
So many colors in the morning sun
So many colors in the flower and I see every one

The teacher put him in a corner
She said.. It’s for your own good..
And you won’t come out ’til you get it right
And are responding like you should
Well finally he got lonely
Frightened thoughts filled his head
And he went up to the teacher
And this is what he said..

And he said…
Flowers are red, green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen

Time went by like it always does
And they moved to another town
And the little boy went to another school
And this is what he found
The teacher there was smilin’
She said…Painting should be fun
And there are so many colors in a flower
So let’s use every one

But that little boy painted flowers
In neat rows of green and red
And when the teacher asked him why
This is what he said..

And he said…
Flowers are red, green leaves are green
There’s no need to see flowers any other way
Than the way they always have been seen.

–Harry Chapin

Going Potty

2011-06-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

That time has come around to potty training. Parents who have been through this process generally adopt a look of commiseration when you tell them this, or I have found that those who reflect on their own experiences age radically about ten years right before my eyes. I don’t really understand what the problem could be. How hard can it be to get your child to empty bowels and bladder on their potty? Well, very, is the short answer.

All that said, the process has been very relaxed so far. We’ve bought a potty, left it in the living room, and had Amelie sit on it a few times. We tell her to have wee, and she normally sits on it, stares enthusiastically between her legs, and after 30 seconds gets up and declares to us both, “I weed!” That the potty is dry as a bone doesn’t falter the smile on her face, or the praise we bestow upon her - and a few stickers as a reward for trying. In all, Amelie has actually weed thrice. There is something very exciting about this. I didn’t think the sight of urine would provide me with so much happiness, but these past three occasions have proved me wrong. Not too sure how my reaction will change once we begin “number two” training, but at the moment, she’s doing great.

Also, we all recently went to McDonalds. Shock, horror! I know, here I am preaching the benefits of having your child eat healthily, and how much hassle we’ve had getting the nursery to conform to our way of thinking, and we’re in the den of hydrogenated inequity. There’s no way to defend eating there other than it was cheap. Money, or lack thereof, can sway even the most rational of minds. We bought Amelie a Happy Meal. It came with one of those cheap toys, one we assumed would be something cute, or perhaps practical. Instead, it was a small music box that had a one minute recording of a famous pop song. The song was Jason Derulo’s Whatcha Say. There was no doubt the toy wouldn’t be of any interest to Amelie. How wrong we were. During the past few days we have been subjected to that excerpt at least four or five times a day. Amelie loves the damn thing! She’s also began to dance and sing to the song, using a marker pen as a microphone. It’s very sweet and makes Carla and I smile each time she does it. The lyrics are hard to understand through the cheap plastic speakers, so Amelie just mumbles a lot and finishes with a noise that sounds like “H-h-haaaayyy.” We’re thinking of downloading the song (and the lyrics) for a present. Maybe it can be her “deification” treat?

Bed Bouncing

2011-04-05T09:25:00.000-07:00

When my parents shouted at me for bouncing on the bed when I was young, I assumed it was because they didn’t want me to damage the mattress. It’s not until Amelie began doing the same thing that I realised it wasn’t the bed they were worried about getting damaged, but me. I only know this because on Saturday Amelie jumped on our bed, landed awkwardly, and damaged her leg. She was being supervised at the time. I was holding her hands, and helping her jump. But I guess some things are meant to happen, if only to teach us all a valuable lesson.

As soon as she landed on the mattress, Amelie began to cry. She rubbed her right leg and under the weight of chest contractions informed both Carla and I that it hurt. I picked her up and walked her around the room, asking her to name the pictures on the wall, a technique that usually distracts her enough to stop the tears. It took some time but eventually it reined in the sobs and turned off the internal stop tap behind her eyes. We assumed at first that she may have dislocated something, so we checked the leg, gently pressing the ankle, shin and knee. Amelie didn’t cry or yelp. We gave Calpol and then tried to get her to stand, but she wasn’t for putting any weight on her leg. It was late, so we left it and put her to bed. I spent the night fluctuating between slumber and then jumping awake whenever I heard her from the monitor. I was curious if the pain was still present, and if so, if it was causing her distress. I had no idea, and had to wait until the morning. Amelie awoke and her first words were, “My leg hurting”. Not a good start. We tried to get her to walk again, but she was reluctant and wanted instead for Carla and I to carry her. We decided it was time to pay a visit to the doctor. Sunday meant we needed to go to a walk-in centre. Carla found one in Todmorden, about a twenty minute drive from our home. It was a new build so we assumed it would be better equipped. We arrived to find that due to NHS cut backs which came into effect on April 1st, the hours for the walk-in centre had been reduced. This meant we had to go to Rochdale, a place not as well equipped or as modern, or for that matter, desirable in any shape or form. But any reservations had to be put on hold. It was Amelie, after all.

We arrived to a waiting room at the A&E department full of sorrowful faces. We waited in the children’s area. A young baby boy, no more than 10 months, called Callum and had the most infectious smile I have seen on a baby since Amelie was born. Every time his parents lowered him to the ground, he was off crawling at breakneck speed into the corridor. There another girl, around Amelie’s age, there too. And I guess it was seeing other children, or wanting to mimic their actions, but Amelie began to take tentative steps around the room, holding onto the backs of chairs for support. We tried not to draw attention to it all, and just watched with a look of amazement, pride, and indecision to whether or not we should stay. One can never be too cautious with falls, or maybe that’s bangs to the head? Regardless, we stayed and was seen some forty five minutes later. The doctor was a wonderfully kind and sympathetic woman that maybe, if I have a criticism to give, wore too much foundation. She was used to dealing with children and had a box filled with toys and trinkets. For hurting her leg, Amelie received a ring with large ersatz crystal, a purple heart-shaped bangle and a hand mirror. The items kept her quiet through the examination, until that is she was asked to lie down. Amelie freaked out at this stage and no amount of gaudy costume Jewellery was going to shut her up. The doctor believed nothing was broken, nor were there any fractures. Most likely she had bruised her leg somehow. Amelie was asked to walk a little so the doctor could assess her gait. Carla and I held her hands and we walked up and down the corridor. I was just happy Amelie obliged the request and didn’t through a hissy-fit in the assessment cubicle. After that we were told to encourage her walking, and to provide regular doses of Calpol, and should it get worse over the next few days, to return. Obviously, away from the children in the waiting room, and the doctor, Amelie began saying her leg was hurting again and wanted us to carry her again. She did this throughout the day and it was agreed that I would spent the day off work with her, in case it had got worse over night and she wouldn’t be about to attend nursery.

The following morning Amelie complained about her leg, but did begin to take steps, some of which reminded me of the first taken by fawn or calf. We spent the day in each other’s company with little to complain about; I bathed her in the morning, watched Something Special, made her dinner, she refused it so I made something else, she slept, and then, to test the waters, I took her to nursery for the last hour to see how she handled being around the other children. It mostly a pleasant day with Amelie, save for when she woke up in a mood and didn’t want to leave the house. But then again, I’m not the most affable person when I’ve just woke up. We assume all will return back to normal, that her leg will gather strength and her walk return to normal. But I may find myself rebuking any further demands to bounce on the bed, just as my mother and father rebuked me, because it’s not that I don’t want Amelie to enjoy herself, or gain pleasure from the simplest of things, but because sometimes the pain in one person extends further into the hearts of others.

Great and Small

2011-03-23T12:29:00.000-07:00

Before I began this blog, I intended it to document Amelie’s development, from her first steps to her first words. But what I have found from personal experience is that the BIG monumental occasions are firmly rooted in the mind, but all the little moments, that get lost in the flurry of life, are just as important as the big ones. I hope, when Amelie reads back on all these notes, there are enough minor achievements and quirks to form a greater picture of her youth as well as the larger because each is as important as the other. Which leads me nicely into one of the smaller moments. I picked up Amie from nursery last night. It was a warm, bright night, quite unusual for the time of year, so I promised her once we got back to the cottage we would go outside in the garden and kick the ball about. At first, she seemed more determined to watch “Justin” but once we got home and I had changed from work clothes to casual, and she into her wellington boots, her attention soon shifted to garden.

As promised, we began with a little kick around. Amelie favours her left foot when kicking, and as mentioned, prefers wellington boots to any other shoe (no surprise there). And so we kicked around a bit, and this then turned into me chasing Amelie, and then that turned into to a prolonged and tiring game of “up’ta sky”, and after that I pulled out the slides and Amelie spent a long time climbing them both and sliding down and climbing back up, and then sliding back down. It was nice, and gave me a few moments to catch my breath and rest my arm muscles after throwing her in the air. There was a moment of sadness too when the young boys from next door came out and began bouncing on their trampoline. Amelie heard them enter the garden and ran toward the fence, watching them from behind the wire like some little prisoner of war. And in those moments I tend to draw back to the garden bench and watch her watching them, and it’s such a sad image but I know that to try and call her over and engage with her would be futile because those boys are like the snake charmer’s flute. So I held back for a while, and then I sneaked up and lifted her over my shoulder so she was upside down and I pretended to be an ogre taking her away to his lair and she giggled and laughed and when I got to the top garden I sat her on the wall and we both remained quiet for a spell looking out over the fields and pastures and I then asked Amelie what she could see and she replied, “Boy...Man...Farm...”

Those quiet moments are some of my favourite times with Amelie. It’s not that I don’t enjoy her chattering or loudness, which I do, in moderation, but those muted exchanges pull me closer to her. I often remark to Carla how I love being around Amelie when she has just awoke after her afternoon nap, when she is between this world and that fashioned by dream. I am usually writing in the bedroom, and Carla brings her in, sits her on my lap, and I just watch Amelie’s face, the way her eyes dance from my eyes to my hand, from my hand to the duvet, and from that to her teddy. I ask her questions like did she have a nice sleep, and in a raspy and quiet voice she gives one worded answers, the nod of her head laboured. From being such an active baby, never stopping for a moment, these subdued moments give me time to look upon her like an artist admiring a finished painting. I am able to marvel at her beauty and wonder how the hell I helped to produce something so amazing.

And so we sat and watched the landscape, and then I asked Amelie if we should go and wait for Mummy at the front gate, and she agreed. I carried her there and placed her on the wall, and I made a game of it all. I would look down the road and when I saw a car approaching I’d say to Amelie, “Is this Mummy?” and she would lean forward slightly, peer down the road and go, “Naaaaaaooooww.” And when it passed and I would ask, “So where’s Mummy?!” and Amelie would laugh. Another car would present itself in the distance and I would follow the same script, each time it ending with her laughter. We stayed like that for about fifteen minutes, the sun dipping behind the cottage, leaving us cloaked in a cold shadow. Carla never turned up while we were there so I suggested we walk a little down the road where the sun was still shining. As always, Amelie agreed, and being tall for her age allowed me to hold her hand. We walked for a while in silence, the sun on our backs, following our shadow’s lead. It was a lesser moment than many documented here, and one I am sure would have been lost over time, but hopefully now it will remain something greater than the time it took to live out, if only to prove that every part of being with Amelie is worthy of remembering, great and small.

Birdsong

2011-03-03T11:36:00.000-08:00

Along with the sound of the dentist’s drill, automated messaging services, and your boss telling you you’re fired, the sound of the alarm clock going off in the morning has to be one of the most dreaded sounds in the world. Of late, we’ve been less dependent on our alarm because Amelie has taken it upon herself to wake us up with her singing. As previously mentioned, she has watched Something Special so many times now she can sing the theme song, but more impressive than that, she has begun to recite the script. It’s true. This morning, both Carla and I heard this coming from the baby monitor:

“Harrow, harrow... how are’u...Harrow, harrow, good see you... I say harrow. Happy you came. I say harrow, please tell me... please tell me... please tell me your dame. Harrow, my name Justin. Magic dust, blow it. Going to football ground. I like football. D'you?”

Her speaking is still disjointed, but she’s stringing more words together. So much so, she’s been bumped up to the Farmers class at nursery, which in laymen’s terms is the class with all the big children in. Allegedly she was firing words at the other children in her class, but getting very little back in terms of conversation. What a two year child wants to talk about is beyond me, but her rambling proved too much for her class friends and now she’s in with children from the ages of two to four. Hopefully they’ll understand her more.

I’m also thinking of taking up yoga. My back is suffering from the evening routine that’s been established when Amelie arrives back from nursery. I’m usually upstairs, writing, and I’ll hear her shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!” I come down and pick her up. She offers her cheek for a quick kiss, and, if I’m lucky, a hug. Then she asks, “Up ta’sky?” Up ta’sky means Amelie wants me to throw her up to the ceiling and catch her, which, when she was one years old, wasn’t so demanding on all my limbs and back. Not content for a couple of throws, Amelie now wants three sets of throwing, and after one is finished, she curls her index finger into a hook and says, “One more?” One more in her mind means, keep going. Suffice it to say, my arms feel like they’re about to drop off and my back as fragile as glass.

Save for the kiss upon entering the house, if I ask for a second, she runs away and says, “Chase you?” which doesn’t me she will chase me, but I have to chase her. This is fine, but it tends to end with me scooping her up in my arms, and kissing her cheek, which again, after multiple up ta’skies, leaves me exhausted. Still, it’s lovely to see her so happy. Shame it ends with me wheezing and walking around like an octogenarian, but her laughter blows away the pain.
Other than that, Amelie’s personality is growing quicker than her feet, which, incidentally, have developed their own odour (she also knows now that her nappy smells, so her nose is getting well adapted to different scents, so “blaming the farts on the baby” routine might have to end ), and much to my father’s delight, she can say, “granddad” instead of “gaddad”.

The other day, I put Amlie on the phone to my mum, and she said hello, and then mentioned she went swimming. My mum then told me afterwards, “I’ve had a conversation with her!” Barely, but I’m sure it won’t be long.

2 going on 22

2011-01-10T08:35:00.000-08:00

A quick update on Amelie’s current progress:

She can now count up to 20, though seems determined to forget 15. Her vocabulary skills are still struggling, and if you were in the other room, earwigging, you’d think a little Chinese girl had entered because every number has a certain oriental lilt, especially 11, which comes out sounding like, “A-yeven”.

She has begun to sing, mostly nursery rhymes, and the theme song to Something Special. We have awoke many mornings to the sound of her sweet and incoherent tones through the baby monitor, which even now, as I’m typing this out, brings a smile to my face as I reflect on them.

Her tantrums seem to be on the increase, as too is her OCD, which I think are both linked. The other day she spent three minutes placing her boots together, and each time they were, “not right”. Eventually she settled on a configuration, but when I looked, both boots were placed oppositely beside each other, something that kicked in my OCD. I waited until she wasn’t looking before rearranging them appropriately.

She can differentiate between the colours, red, blue and orange.

There is still the incessant need to have everything confirmed that she says. For example, if Amelie says, “Watch Justin, Daddy”, and I fail to respond, she will continually say this sentence over and over until I repeat it verbatim, which is fine, unless of course she says something you can’t understand. We have tried to make the same sounds and mimic the same inflection and intonation, but it doesn’t wash with Amelie. She knows we are not saying the same thing as she, and so she’ll become frustrated and begin to moan and then cry. Normally, a distraction technique is adopted, but I find this is limited when you’re driving a car.

She has taken to jumping a lot, and enjoys being chased around the couch (she often instructs us to, “Come on” and beckons us with her hand).

Having mastered the alphabet, she now has begun to recognise the words associated with the letters. Cocky.

She thinks all Meerkats say, “Simples”, a lot.

We’ve noticed she’s favouring the left hand over the right when drawing and eating.

If she could, she would sleep in her Wellington boots.

Speaking of which, her sleep patterns are pretty solid now, generally 7.30pm to 7.30am, save for the time when Carla and I went to a party on New Years Eve and her brother babysat and rang us at about 10.30pm to say, “Amelie is freaking out, you better come home!” We arrived back some 20 minutes later to find her on the landing, lay on her back, and Mark, still reeling with panic, reading from an In the Night Garden book on the stairs. Strangly, it seems to work so we’ve logged it in our inventory of “ways to calm down Amelie”.

If the moon was made of cheese, I think Amelie would book a trip.

She seems to enjoy Deal or No Deal again, and has taken to referring to Noel as “Nice man, Noel”.

And her current favourite books are, Shark in the Park and We're Going on a Bear Hunt, the latter she calls, “Hunt Bear”.

You've got to love her.

The Christmas Gift

2010-12-26T08:33:00.000-08:00

A woolly genius from Liverpool once asked, So this is Christmas, and what have you done? For the most part, both Carla and I have been reliving a lost magic that is eroded with age.

The build up to December 25th is without doubt more significant now with Amelie. When we pulled out the decorations, there was no sudden realisation that 12 months had passed, like it did last year (and was noted in a previous entry). Instead, there was a kernel of excitement within our stomachs. The air had changed around us, the room a little brighter (aided by the hundred of tiny fairy lights). The miserable and bleak winter that raced before the window was not so terrible – it had become endearing, and appropriate. This is the impact a child has on an adult during this season. Carla and I abandoned maturity in favour of innocence, and for nearly a month relived what it was like to be young again.

The day itself was short-lived. We awoke in the morning and I scouted the living room to see if Father Christmas had been. The presents had been positioned, and this year, there were no dirty footprints in the carpet, just the mix of stale milk and the sickly sweet smell of digested cookies. We brought Amelie down, and there she saw her present, a large Playhouse, erected in the corner of the room, complete with indoor lighting. It was a squeeze, but the house warming party was a success. There more presents, though the task of ripping off the wrapping paper seemed the most exciting part for Amelie, rather than what lay within.

As if measuring the success of her well-mannered year (maybe that’s stretching it a little), Father Christmas broke the tradition of “staying undercover” to surprise Amelie with an impromptu visit, just like he did the previous year. I of course had to see to the reindeers and make sure they were comfortable so missed out again on seeing the two together, but from what Carla told me once he left, Amelie wasn’t afraid and seemed happy to see him.

A few hours later the grandparents arrived with Carla’s brother, my uncle and auntie. More presents were delivered and exchanged, and under a sea of wrapping paper and fluffy toys, Amelie was cordial to all, and animated at the flurry of attention thrown at her. Her granddad had his cans of John Smiths (the whiff of alcoholic breath seeming to repel Amelie), everyone else had tea or coffee. Bacon sandwiches were made, and everyone was offered a special biscuit that Carla and Amelie had baked the previous day, another tradition in its infancy.

Dinner was ham on the bone (its taste described later my Carla as synthetic), roast potato and mashed potato (it seems Carla cannot settle on one type of potato at Christmas), sprouts with lardons, long stem broccoli and thick gravy. Uncle Mark, who was spending dinner with us due to his wife being over in Ireland visiting her family, supplied the desert, a rich Thornton’s Toffee cake. Amelie had a smaller portion, and seemed to enjoy the sprouts and “nice cake”. We watched the Gruffalo and Mark spent some time in Casa Amelie while we caught our breath.

Once Amelie was safely tucked up in bed, there was a sense that the magic was over for another year, and that the practicalities of life were looming only a few hours away. Like with most things, sometimes the anticipation of an event is better than the reality, but this year, there was a genuine feel that Carla and I had recaptured a misplaced pleasure that only the young experience at Christmas. And I guess this was Amelie’s gift for us, to be, if only for a moment, young again and without worry. Thank you, Amelie.

Happy Birthday Amie!

2010-12-13T11:58:00.000-08:00

I’ve said this before, but when you have a child, time moves strangely. Two years have passed since the birth of Amelie, and while it seems only half that amount has gone by, I can not remember a time she has not been part of my life. Of course, she wasn’t always there, least not physically, but I sense she has always been there even before she was born, it’s just these passed two years have meant we have been able to see her, instead of imagine her and plan for her arrival. So yes, two years have passed, and yesterday Amelie celebrated with a fun-packed weekend.

It began on Saturday. Though December is his busiest month, Father Christmas finds time every year to attend the Santa Express, a train journey that begins at Bury town centre and travels to Ramsbottom (a popular of haunt of his because he likes to shop on the world famous Bury market). It is his only other commitment before the big day, which is why it’s a very popular day for young children hoping to get a glimpse of the jolly fellow before he descends down their chimney on Christmas Eve. Carla, her mum, Amelie and I were booked onto the first trip. The station itself was all decked out in pretty fairly lights and tinsel, and a stationary coach had been converted to a Santa’s workshop/gift shop. It was all very festive and endearing. On the coach we were met by elves, two elderly snowmen and a very emaciated reindeer, their costumes as threadbare as their jokes. There was also wine and mince pies for the adults and a good old sing a song accompanied by the Middleton Brass Band. They even played Happy Birthday for Amelie and everyone sang to her, which was definitely a real highlight of the day.

Carla and I were a little concerned how Amelie would react to Father Christmas. Still reeling from the whole Noel fiasco, we assumed anyone with a beard might freak her out. A few days before the trip we showed her pictures of Mr Claus and made a real effort to let her know he was a “nice man”. Amelie picked up on this and whenever she saw a picture of him would also say, “Fada Chibmas... nice man.” So, at the point when we heard the mass hysteria from the adjoining coach, and little children screaming his name, both Carla and I were looking at each other with more than a hint of apprehension. However, when he arrived and handed Amelie her present, she seemed okay. The heighten noise took her back a little, but after a moment or two she was smiling to him and seemed genuinely excited. I guess this year Father Christmas must have been very busy because as soon as he arrived, he was gone in a blur of red. Amelie’s present was a little handbag covered with tiger fur that contained a smaller tiger. It has since never left her side, and when I see her walking around the house with it in her hand, I can’t help but be reminded of Bet Lynch.

When Sunday arrived we were all a little tired. Among many of the birthday gifts she received, Amelie had been given a cold passed onto her by Carla (which originated from myself), and had spent most of the previous night coughing. But once she was up, she seemed in high spirits as if aware there was something very special about that day. Carla and I opened her cards in the morning and let her watch a Teletubbies’ DVD we had bought her (though it seems now her favourite show is Something Special starring Mr Tumbles – Amelie has since learned to sign “Justin” and “Parachute”). We dressed her in a pretty back and silver dress that we bought the previous week and did our best to tame her wild hair (we’re currently on the hunt for a toddler conditioner. Advice will be welcomed). We told people to arrive at 11am, knowing that Amelie would need her afternoon nap around 2pm. The first to arrive was Mark and Lindsay, followed by Carla’s mum and her brother, Alan. Presents were given and Amelie made little work of removing their packaging. My parents turned up shortly after with my aunty and uncle. From Carla and my own perspective, the day went very quickly because we were trying to be accommodating to our guests as well as preparing food for all. How parents organise children events is beyond me. We had a total number of eight adults and one child and we were both rushed off our feet. From what I could gather Amelie seemed to love the day. Her favourite gifts seem to be a Noah’s Ark given to her by my uncle and a talking Gerbil given to her by Carla’s brother. My father spent his time blowing bubbles and drawing on the carpet (sometimes even with Amelie!), and much hilarity ensued when Amelie did her impression of the cartoon Meerkat from those popular TV advertisements (simples!). It was a lovely day, not only because Amelie spent the time laughing and absorbing all the love in the room, but also because it was nice to get the families together.

So yes, two years have passed, every one measured in tears of laughter, joy and upset, but never regret. Here’s to many more. My little girl is growing up.

No(el) Man!

2010-10-31T10:39:00.000-07:00

One of Amelie’s favourite shows has provided us all with a few issues recently. Deal or No Deal, the game show where the general public pick boxes at random in order to gain weighty sums of money, has just had a Halloween themed week. This means the studio is decked out all spookily with dry ice and cobwebs, and all the players are made up to look like well known horror icons. You can see where I’m going with this, right? The host of the show is veteran TV entertainer, Noel Edmonds. His attire for this week was loosely based on the Pan character, an impish looking mischievous sprite with horns and goatee (no too far from reality). So, there we were, sat on the living room carpet watching Countdown. Amelie was on my lap and I’m pointing at the letters as they come out and she’s repeating them. It was all good. Then countdown finished and as the titles rolled off screen, there was a preview for Deal or No Deal, which was on next. Unbeknownst to us both, the trailer included Noel Edmonds in full devilish mode, skipping scarily toward the camera lens. You can imagine the surprise on both our faces. Amelie bolted from my lap and began backing out of the room. I looked over and she was shaking her head, saying “No...No...No...” I smiled and replied, “Yes, it’s Noel. Nooo el.” Obviously she wasn’t trying to say his name, but instead telling me to turn off the TV. At the point I realised this, Amelie burst into tears and began clambering over furniture to get away from the TV. I tried my best to reassure her that there was nothing to worry about, but she was having none of it. I picked her up, nursed her for a while and pacified her with soft words of encouragement. I didn’t want this to be a big deal (no pun intended) for her, so I decided to keep the TV on the same channel, with the view to explaining what was happening and that there was nothing to worry about. Bad idea. As soon as Deal or No Deal began, Amelie freaked out. She ran to the other side of the room and screamed hysterically for about five minutes. I turned off the TV and grabbed her. I paced the floor and every time I assumed she’d calmed down, she just burst into tears again. I tried taking her outside for some fresh air and to help ease the chest contractions. Nothing was working. I needed to play the trump card. I asked Amelie if she wanted to watch Teletubbies. Through all the snot and tears she gurgled a yes, but when I went over to turn on the TV she began repeating, “No man...no man...no man!” I was all for ringing Carla (she was out at the gym), but before I did, I picked Amelie up once more and held her to my chest. It worked; Amelie finally stopped crying. Halleluiah!

Amelie, from time to time, would get like this when she was a baby. Moments of hysterics followed by intensified bawling. It was generally in the dead of night when she had the snuffles. We hadn’t had any moments like that for some time, which is why it took me by surprise. The by-product of all this is – Amelie is now weary of the TV. And, the living room. In truth, she’d a little afraid of most places in the house. She can be often heard repeating the words, “No man” over and over while in a room, and then staring to a fixed point in space. Carla, though a little scared to admit it, thinks Amelie can see things, you know, like that kid in Sixth Sense. I don’t believe this. I think the image of Noel is still lingering in her head. We have made a game of it. Whenever we hear Amelie say, “No man”, we all shout back, “Go away, man!”, and then laugh and clap our hands. Amelie has cottoned onto to this and laughs a little too. We then follow it all up with, “Has he gone, Amelie?”, and Amelie always agrees. I hope it’s a passing phase, but should in the future you ever read this Amelie, remember that there was no demon, no devil, no monster trying to escape from the TV that day... it was just Noel Edmonds the TV presenter, and yes, while a little scary looking, you really have nothing to fear.

The Big Bang

2010-10-12T13:26:00.000-07:00

As previously mentioned, I have a tendency of late of becoming emotionally drenched when Amelie talks to me on the phone. Today, it seems even more so. I received another call from Carla. She told me she and Amelie were home. It was not yet time for them to be home, which meant something had happened with Amelie. I assumed it was something like a high temperature, or perhaps consecutive bowl movements (three strikes and you’re out). Sadly, it was something a little more serious than that. Carla had been called by nursery some hours before. For those observing Carla as she took that call, the words “turned” and “white”, were on hand to describe the panic that overtook her. Amelie had been taken to hospital and needed picking up. I can say with some confidence I too would have turned a whiter shade of pale had I been told this. It appears Amelie was riding a small bicycle in the playground adjoining the nursery and had fallen off, banging her head on something hard. The resulting fall had caused a large cut to appear. As a matter of precaution, and company policy, the manger of the nursery applied a cold compress and drove Amelie to the hospital to have her checked out. Carla quickly made her way to the hospital and as it was relayed to me, witnessed Amelie sitting on the nursery manager’s lap laughing and in high spirits, a mood that only changed when Amelie saw Carla approaching. I know from experience that the relief of seeing your parents can produce a surge of emotion that usually manifests itself in copious amounts of tears (I once got into a car accident that involved a heavily pregnant woman and ended up fearing for my life, and the unborn baby’s, in a hospital waiting room until my parents arrived). Amelie saw Carla and as if a switch had been thrown, she began crying. Carla was there when the doctors assessed her, and the glue was applied to seal the wound. All in all, everyone said she was very brave.

I heard all this on the phone at work, and my natural instinct was to down tools and get back home, but Carla said Amelie was doing fine and that you wouldn’t have known anything was wrong with her. She then brought Amelie to the receiver to say hello, and I swear to you now, her voice was so fragile that the world before me blurred instantly. Tears formed and I didn’t want to speak in case my voice broke. Carla got back on and I could hear the same in her voice.

Amelie was lucky, and while I know all children go through these little mishaps and accidents, I don’t believe I will ever take them lightly, or act any differently as I did right then. But as Carla said, she was brave, and for this and much more, I cannot help but feel so very proud of her.

Every Little Thing Counts

2010-10-06T11:57:00.000-07:00

Only a very quick entry this time. I couldn’t let the moment pass without documenting that Amelie is now able to count up to 10. She’s not even 2 years old and the other day Carla was driving her back from nursery and without being prompted Amelie began counting. We’d been teaching her 1, 2 and 3, but that’s as far as we'd pushed it, and we were impressed she mastered that, but then, right out of the blue, she accelerates to 10!

Today I went into nursery and asked a few of the key-workers if they’d been practicing counting, and they said they don’t at this stage. When I told them Amelie could count to 10, they were amazed. One of the key-workers then explained she might have picked it up from a song. I also told them she knew all the letters of the alphabet if asked to point to one, but could only verbalise a quarter of them. I had to qualify that I wasn’t boasting but that I thought it integral to her daily activities, and to help with her development. And I wasn’t boasting, honestly, but I am amazed by her. On the way out of the nursery, one of the key-workers bragged about Amelie’s triumph, and yes, I was walking on air.

Dawn of the Dad

2010-09-27T12:02:00.000-07:00

I write this just after receiving a call from Carla. She’d misplaced her house keys and rang me at work to confirm I hadn’t taken them by mistake. There was more than a hint of panic in her voice so I reassured her I hadn’t, making sure I didn’t use adjectives like, “forgetful”, “scatty”, and “absent-minded”. Fortunately, she found the keys while talking with me. I mention this call because Amelie is now able to say hello and bye to anyone on the phone. Even more heart-warming than this, for immediate family members, she will prefix our names. I could hear Amelie jabbering on in the background during the conversation and so Carla put her on to say hello. Imagine for a moment you’ve been walking outside in winter. A strong bitter wind has blown the rain into your face, making each droplet feel as sharp and cold as a thousand blow-darts. Your face aches, your toes are numb and your eyes are blurry. Then you enter your house, the fire is roaring and the heat warms you from the outside in. Well, that’s how it feels when I hear Amelie say, Hello Daddy. I feel like I’ve walked a hundred miles in a blizzard only to then be warmed again by her voice. I don't think I'll ever tire of hearing her on the phone.

Amelie is now able to greet and give farewells to both Carla and myself, and the Nanas. She has also mastered her uncle’s name, Mark, but is still struggling with Granddad, which comes out more like, Dash. Amelie is also able to count to three and can be frequently heard saying, “One, two, three...Go!” This she has picked up after a game we play where she stands at one end of the garden and awaits my instruction for her to run toward me. It’s proved to be a good way of getting her to stay still and waiting, especially when it comes to the top of stairs.

The skin condition on her back has yet to improve. It was almost free from any spots and blotches, but then the treatment finished and they've began to remerge again. We spoke with the doctor explaining that we were concerned about the reoccurrence of the skin condition, however, in light of the fact Amelie has been on oral antibiotics and topical creams for over a month, we felt it best to have a respite from any further medication and treatment. He agreed it was probably for the best, but prescribed an antiseptic bath wash that should reduce the nasty bacteria we carry on our skin, which he believes has found its way under Amelie's skin and caused the infection. We've been bathing her every night, and while it's not as bad as before, her back is still marked and blotchy. Speaking of bath time, Amelie has now progressed to the big bath. We've threw away her baby bath and now she has free rule to splash and slide along the big one. She enjoys splashing, especially if it gets Carla and I wet. Her aunty bought her a rubber duck recently from Ireland, which she likes me to fill with water and then squeeze the contents into her face. Amelie that is, not her aunty. Amelie also enjoys wetting me when she gets out of the bath. She always wants me to pick her up, and with her legs still covered with water, she thrashes them around until a noticeable amount has soaked my top and trousers. She seems very disappointed if my slippers are not wet too.

Other news - well, she has mastered the entire alphabet now. Of course, she can say only about 50% of them, but in terms of knowing what each one is, she has it down. Amelie began nursery again in September moving from Little Lambs to the Ducklings section. She has moved up with a few of her friends, Izzy, Harry and Rory. It’s a bit strange in the nursery now. Before, all the children were crawling around and unable to say anything, but now when you walk in the room they all gravitate to you like little zombies, shuffling their tiny feet and slurring the word, “dada”. Of course, I’m not their dada so I have to grab Amelie quick and make for the door, it’s a bit like that scene in Dawn of the Dead when they’re running through that shopping mall trying to escape the flesh-eaters. Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but it is a little freaky some days.

The first week back in nursery, we noticed at home a change in Amelie. She seemed more defiant, and whingy. It was Carla's birthday and I took us all out for something to eat. It was supposed to be a nice night but Amelie just began playing up as soon as we arrived. She wouldn't sit in her seat, she cried almost constantly and we couldn't pacify her at all. I took her outside at one point (I could tell Carla had had enough by the way she kept ordering more vino), and Amelie proceeded to run toward the road. I never raise my voice to Amelie because I feel that by doing so she will become accustomed to it and not differentiate from something serious to something like a simple command. But I raised my voice then. I screamed at her to stop but she didn't respond and kept on running. I caught her well in time and shouted at her that it was very dangerous to cross the roads because of the cars. She began to cry. This flux in her demeanour carried on for a few days so we scheduled a meeting with nursery. Her new key-worker is Lisa. We explained to Lisa what had happened and stressed the importance that there should be continuity regards to reprimanding Amelie if she does something wrong. Lisa said she had never seen that side to her and that Amelie was very well behaved. We put it down to the transition from being at home with Carla for 6 weeks and then going to nursery (or maybe I’m turning into one of those delusion parents that can’t see Amelie is twirling us both). Strangely, Amelie calmed again at home and since - touch wood- has been fine. Then one day at nursery Amelie had to have a “time out” because she stole some food from one of the other children and then later ripped off some pictures from the wall. She was reprimanded accordingly and thankfully, nothing else has happened. The But the incident was raised to us by Lisa and she made a point of telling us exactly what they did to explain to Amelie the error of her ways. It’s not that we want to be strict with Amelie. Quite the contrary. We have found Amelie will take advantage of certain situations if you allow her to. It's these little moments we foresee could be bigger problems in the future if not nipped in the bud now. What we're essential trying to do is avoid making a rod for our own backs. We hope then that by establishing certain etiquettes and rules from the start, and highlighting the consequences should they not be adhered to, we will be less dogmatic when she's older. But as John Steinbeck once wrote, the best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry.

Swing Low Sweet Amelie

2010-08-31T13:53:00.000-07:00

Despite all she is going through with her current eczema condition, Amelie has been in fine fettle of late. We have just come back from a week in the Yorkshire Dales. We stayed at a lovely converted barn in the village of Hebden. It was pleasant, and the Dales are lovely, but each village appeared identical to the next, as if each road that led out of one, led back into itself in some way. They all had a tearoom, a local pub and some stream running through it. I liken it to Mexican food, in that everything is the same but presented differently. Of course, Amelie didn’t care about any of these details. So long as there was a park and a swing, then she was happy enough. To be honest, the whole swing thing has become somewhat of a chore. For a long time Amelie didn’t take to the swings. We would push her lightly and no matter what the speed she appeared disinterested within seconds. Now, we have trouble getting her to leave a swing. As most parents know, there is a playground etiquette established over many years whereby each child must have a fair turn on any given playground attraction. For us, and Amelie, we push this civility to the point where we feel each mother, or father’s eyes boring into our skull as Amelie takes her 1000th swing. This I can live with, if I’m being honest. The glaring is nothing compared to the task of actually getting Amelie off the swing to allow another child on. It is like we are pulling the flesh from her body. She has even developed saying the phrase, “one more”, something we must have repeated so many times now in a bid to end the swinging that she now tries bargaining with us. We must work on this.

So yes, the Dales were lovely. We visited the usual haunts, Skipton, Harrogate, Knaresborough (a trip that can’t pass without a visit to Old Mother Shipton’s Cave and the Petrifying Well), and a few smaller, local villages like Grassington, Appletreewick,and Kettlewell. We even descended underground to Stump Cross Cave. But by far the most memorial point of the holiday was walking along the local stream at night. We arrived on a glorious Saturday evening and as dusk was settling, we made our way over Hebden’s very own suspension bridge. There was something beautiful about that night, the way the light was, and how it enveloped Amelie and my wife. It made them both angelic, and reminded me I am never without beauty by my side.

While there are many smaller details I could add to this entry, I wish only to highlight a couple of moments that really pleased me recently. The first was hearing Amelie laugh unaided by any intervention either I, or Carla, could impart. She was watching one of her Favourite shows, In the Night Garden (her other favs are, Zing Zillas, Something Special (with Mr Tumble), Teletubbies, Mr Maker and (thankfully), Countdown where she can now pronounce at least 10 letters) and the Tombliboos pants fell down. It wasn’t that funny to observe, but Amelie found it hilarious. Just hearing her laugh on her own made Carla laugh and myself. It was lovely. The other thing Amelie has begun to do is dance like a drunken Oliver Reed when he appeared on Aspel in the 1980s. Hopefully this is just a passing phase and as she gets older she’ll develop a degree of rhythm. Either that, or my bad “dancing “genes have been passed down to her.

We’re still none the wiser concerning her current eczema condition. She has been on the
penicillin now for two weeks but the rash and spots are still evident (though not as bad). We have booked a further appointment for her this Thursday. Hopefully the doctor will have another suggestion. Who knows.

Poxy Infection

2010-08-16T13:54:00.000-07:00

While I have a lot of respect for doctors, I was recently put in the position of doubting their expertise. My last entry went on to tell you that Amelie was going through the Chicken Pox, a childhood illness better contracted when young. As it turns out Amelie was not suffering from Chicken Pox but instead an eczema infection. This explains why the symptoms were not as drastic as we were led to believe, but instead isolated to her back and belly only. The reason we know this is because the sores did not crust over after the five day mutation period. They remained red and weepy. A second visit to the doctors confirmed this and led myself and Carla to berate the Gods for not helping the doctor’s diagnoses, something which would have saved us time away from work to avoid Amelie infecting anyone else.

So far, Amelie’s skin has been through several creams to help combat her eczema. Diprobase was the first, followed by Epaderm ointment and recently (to fight the infection), Fucidin H cream and Magnapen syrup. To make matters worse, we followed the instructions and ran the course of Fucidin H cream and it seemed to be helping. The sores had all but gone, save a few red marks still at the top of her back (where it originated). But now it seems to have come back. We have booked another appointment with the doctors tomorrow to see what else they can suggest. Presumably it’ll be more of the same.

In other news, I’ve taken some time off work to spend time with Amelie and Carla. So far (it’s been only two days) we have been to Lytham St Annes (well St Anne’s Pier) where we ate at a wonderful Greek restaurant, enjoyed a live act and played on the beach. Amelie was in a wonderful mood and had me nearly crying as she walked the promenade saying goodbye to everyone that passed. An old couple in the aforementioned restaurant waved goodbye to her to as we were leaving, and the old woman blew Amelie a kiss, which Amelie returned. And it’s these moments that hit me like a wrecking ball. No matter whom Amelie spoke to that day, or looked at, the people changed. From their passive faces she brought smiles and a warm glow. It was if she was putting people under an enchanted spell that I hoped remained long after we left.
Today we went to Shibden Hall, the same place I wrote about in a previous entry. It was a sunny day so the park was cram-packed with kids. To be honest, the playground was too busy making it near impossible for Amelie to get on anything. We’ve had a few problems of late with Amelie’s attitude toward sharing rides. She’s of the impression they are her own, and that any other child who uses it is being disrespectful. Her possessiveness manifests in bouts of hysterics whenever she can’t get on something. Therefore, Carla and I have made it our main priority to empathise the importance of sharing. During meal time we share our food, and make a big deal of this. Carla and I hand each other things and make an effort to say the word “share”, and how good it is to do it. We think it might be paying off too because today Amelie never cried when the other children were using the swings. Amelie also had her first trip on a rowing boat. She didn’t seem overly impressed, but at least she didn’t try jumping overboard.

Tomorrow we plan on going to Littleborough to the soft play area there. Carla has taken Amelie before and said it was very good. This will be after the doctors. What the next week has in store is anyone’s guess, but so long as Amelie is happy and well, I’m sure it’ll be great.

A Pox On Her!

2010-07-12T12:18:00.000-07:00

Nearly everyone I’ve spoken to about Amelie’s recent childhood sickness delivers the same line, “It’s better to get it when they’re young.” And there seems some truth in the saying. On Thursday night we took Amelie to the doctors. We noticed the day before a collection of red spots on her back. We’d just picked her up from Nursery and because Amelie is a creature of routine, every evening she must give her “previous” care-worker a hug before leaving. It was during this Amelie’s t-shirt rode up, revealing to us the first of the spots. Carla brought everyone’s attention to it, and the two care-workers present at the time remarked that it could be Chicken Pox. However, it seems the first signs of the illness manifest behind the ears, which in Amelie’s case were clear of any spots. A visit to the doctors was then arranged for the following day, and confirmation given five minutes into the examination. So yes, Amelie has Chicken Pox. Carla did a little research after we left the doctors, and in the most severe of cases the spots can build up everywhere, including places like the eyes, and inside of the mouth. Amelie has delicate skin, something she has inherited from me, so if anyone was going to get a full dose, then it would be her. But – touch wood – the spots have been isolated to her back, with a few venturing over to her stomach and arms.

She has taken the illness quite well. In truth, she’s not even indicated any discomfort or itching. It is said Chicken Pox has no real effect on the child other than the visible signs, and itching. The child may have cold-like symptoms on the run up, but that’s about it. And as I cast my mind back to the days before discovering the spots, I couldn’t remember Amelie being at all unwell. Carla and I have remarked how well she’d dealing with it. The only real complications that have immerged are the usual time management issues. The doctor said any child with Chicken Pox needs to be grounded for 5 to 7 days, which means pulling her out of nursery. Luckily I had Friday off (Carla and I were meant to meet up and have a romantic lunch, and I was going to spend the morning writing), and we’ve arranged for the Grandparents to help out Monday and Tuesday, meaning, all going well, Amelie can return back on the Wednesday (6 days). We were also instructed not to let Amelie near any woman who is pregnant, or anyone undergoing Chemotherapy. Understandable. But 5 days in and we were all getting cabin fever. We decided a little fresh air might be good for us all. To avoid any close contact we decided to visit the Yorkshire Sculpture Park on the Sunday, a place so large that even if a thousand people turned up all at once, you wouldn’t even notice. Amelie seemed to enjoy it, especially the fountain sculpture in the old house, and climbing up the limbs of a Pooka-type creature.

So again – touch wood – things have been okay. The doctor said during the examination he remembered “Chicken Pox parties” where if a child contract the illness, the parent would invite the local kids to their house with the view to them getting infected. Not thinking of having a party, but if things go well, I maybe celebrating the brevity of the illness with a glass of wine, or two.

Parent's Evening

2010-06-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

We attended a parents evening the other day. It was with Amelie's careworker. I have been to one before, probably about six months ago. It's strange because I never expected to be doing this sort of thing so early on in her age. But it's a good because we get to know how Amelie is progressing, and developing away from us.

By all accounts she's doing very well. While sat on minature chairs, we went through Amelie's folder, and various acheivements were pointed out and explained. I'm unsure how much negativity, at this stage, the careworker would have divulged. It's not like Amelie could "wag it" from nursery, or get caught smoking behind the see-saw, is it? But there were no areas of improvement, no extra help needed.

The one word I remember was, "confident", which is strange because as a child I wasn't, and neither was my wife. In truth, the way Amelie was described to us by the careworker was one of a person poles apart from the children we were. And for some reason, this made me feel very proud because none of the things that held me back, and my wife, when we were young, have bled over into Amelie.

The careworker also said that if the nursery could have ten identical children, then she would have ten Amelies. Sometimes, I wish my heart was made of stone.

Carrot Cake and Good Manners

2010-06-04T08:26:00.000-07:00

Carla had decided she wanted afternoon tea at a small organic café in Hebden Bridge. We had previously spent a Sunday afternoon there, pursuing their menu and sampling their scones, which were, probably the best I’ve ever tasted. Ever since, Carla has been champing at the bit to get back.

It was bank holiday weekend, so the place was suitably busy. After steering Amelie and the buggy through the maze of wooden chairs we finally took our seats next a large group of thirty-somethings. Now I’m not adverse to different methods of parenting. As long as the child is happy, and not hell-bent on mass destruction and world domination, then who am I to cast judgement. But I believe all children, regardless of their situation, require basic social skills in order for them to simply survive in a world that, at the best of times, is unsympathetic. So it surprised me that the parents of two children from the group next to us had failed to pass down common decency, and good manners to their children. Let me explain:

To cut a very long story short, having finished her dinner, Amelie had made it known she wanted out of the highchair because there was a box of toys available to guests. We indulged her request and she promptly headed toward a small table where a girl of three years of age was playing with some building blocks. Amelie joined the girl and picked up an assembled structure resembling a car. From behind her, a boy called out in disgust. He was sat at the table with the group and was at least five or six years of age. The parent reminded the boy was that the blocks were not his but the café. He then went on to sulk. Back at the table, the girl had snatched the crude looking car from Amelie, to which the same parent had to tell her to hand it back to Amelie, which she did, begrudgingly. You may find this very common practice among small people, but what matters is what happened next. Having seen the diluted reprimands from the parent, Amelie decided to hand the girl other various toys and building blocks. She was sharing, as if she wanted the girl to be happy. Every time Amelie handed her a toy, Amelie said, “ta”, as if she was thanking her for the gift. The girl, of three years old, remained solemn and did not reply with s simple thank you or smile.

In that moment, I could have wept with admiration. To see Amelie being to selfless, and good-mannered to a girl who you would assume came from good moral standing melted my heart. It’s true that we may not have had the money they did, or maybe not even the intelligence, but at that moment, I felt a much better person, for I knew we had done alright.

How Beautiful Yesterday Is

2010-05-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

It’s been too long since my last entry, and too much has happened. As I sit down to type this out, I’m reflecting on the past few months, trying my best to remember all the strange, wonderful and humbling achievements made by Amelie. But before I attempt to list a few, I think it’s worth while mentioning the past few weeks. A little after the Easter holidays I was struck down with a chest infection. It was a secondary infection from a head cold I had just before Easter. For those of you unaware of the affects of a chest infection, rest assure it’s not pleasant. The most debilitating part of it all is the lack of energy you have. All you want to do is sleep, but sadly, sleep was in short supply. Around the same time Carla was rushed into hospital to have an operation on a bulging disc in her spine. It was all very quick, and terrifying, but fortunately the operation went well with the only lasting damage being a five inch scar at the base of her back. For obvious reasons, she was instructed not to lift anything, which meant my duty of care to Amelie was ramped up. To top things off, Amelie is only in nursery term time only, which means when Carla is off, we pull Amelie out of nursery and she takes care of her. And yes, it was the Easter holidays, which meant Amelie was at home with a father coughing and spluttering every ten seconds, and a mum who could do little but lie down and rest (and who was also getting over a cold). The poor girl must have been bored to death. And although we tried to interact with her the best we could, her thirst for stimulation, combined with her incalculable inquisitiveness, left us both knackered. For this, I apologise Amelie, and hope one day you’ll understand that while our bodies and enthusiasm had waned under the affects of our recovery, our hearts were all yours.

So, what’s new with Amelie? Below is the most comprehensive list of achievements both I and Carla could recall. And while I’m sure there have been more developments, and changes, the below strike us as the most significant, and as always, the most endearing:

Vocabulary – Amie’s inventory has increased two fold. She’s got the “Bs” master now, exclaiming, “ball” and “bye” whenever the moment suits. She also has a wonderful way of saying, “hello”; she’ll pick up her V-Tec telephone, place it to her ear (the opposite way around of course), and say, “Harrow”. Well, we assume she’d saying hello, but she could just want to visit the town near Middlesex. She can also say yes and no, but favours the latter over the former. Carla is trying her best to teach her say, “quack”, but it sounds more like a sneeze, which is ironic because I was teaching Amelie to sneeze and it came out sounding like a quack.

Cognitive Recollection – sounds impressive, but really it’s just matching shapes with words. That said, Amelie has mastered quite a few now. I think I’ve already mentioned the house with the shapes cut out. Well, we now place the corresponding shapes on the floor, and ask Amelie to pick out each one. We started out quite basic: circle, square, triangle. We then moved onto to more complex shapes, star, heart and pentagon. My parents came over one day and we showed them how well Amelie was doing with this, and when I asked Amelie, “where’s the pentagon?” and she pointed to it, my father interjected with, “Even I don’t know what a pentagon is?!” There are also letters and numbers that make up the shapes. If knowing which shapes wasn’t impressive enough, Amelie can actually phonetically read out both A and B.

Reading/Testing: Story time has become a moment of wonder, and a test of patience. Amelie loves books. She especially loves looking at books with animals in them. She can stare at farmyard animals till the, erm... cows come home. My understanding of my role in her develop with books is to read them aloud, and point at the different animals, which I have done. But it’s now got to the point where Amelie doesn’t want me to read the story, but instead, test her on which page each animal lives. Ask her where the cow is, and she’ll open the book, thumb through the pages, and stop at the relevant page. I’ll clap, and she replies with, “Gen..Gen...Gen...” (her way of saying, “again”). Over the past month or so this has developed into asking her where other things are on the pages, like the sun, and the sea, and the grass. After a few uncertainties, she was pointing away at the relevant drawing and beckoning us on to test her more. Carla and I, believing she was getting a little too cocky, threw out the challenge of pointing out objects in our living room. Much to our amazement, she got almost all the things we asked her to find. And while we were reeling in admiration, Amelie was looking at us both saying, “gen... gen... gen...”

Confidence – It’s grown. She now allows immediate members of the family a kiss and a hug, something both Carla and I were only permitted to do a couple of months ago.

Motor Skills – Amelie can now climb all the stairs unaided, and mount and dismount various steps around the house. She also has a rocking horse, which is shaped like a cow. It was bought for her by my parents at Christmas, but until recently, Amelie was unable to climb on its back without help. That’s no problem now. She can kick a ball too, run at a fair speed (well, I say run, but really it’s more a trot), and dances like a drunk Oliver Reed on Aspel.

Preferences – In the Night Garden is the big thing for Amelie at the moment. She can’t get enough of Igglepiggle, Makka Pakka and Upsy Daisy. Carla’s mum bought her a book based on the show, which Amelie has us read over and over. She still has a soft spot for Deal or No Deal, but prefers Countdown over the two (her favourite adverts seems to be the Go Compare with the Tenor, and Direct Line with the animated phone and computer mouse voiced by Paul Merton and Stephen Fry). A few other favourite shows are Teletubbies, Tweenies and Chuggington (the latter is one of Carla’s too).

Sleep – it’s getting better. Providing she isn’t suffering with the snuffles, Amelie is more than happy to go down at night and not awake until 6-7am. She’s also accepted the cot during the day too, which has saved us a small fortune in petrol.

All in all, she’d doing well. We’ve had a few issues with her skin. Her eczema flared up quite bad on her back, which meant numerous trips to the doctors and a cocktail of different creams, but fortunately, things seem to be dying down now. But it seems no matter how much you prepare yourself for what the next day will bring, when you have a child, you are never without a deepening sense of loss. Their unnatural gift of rendering tomorrow a place of expected wonderment and hope, sadly casts yesterday in a shadow of wistful reflection. Even now, just 16 months in, Carla and I are looking back on the times when Amelie was a baby, remembering her little peculiarities with bloated hearts and wide grins. She is changing so damn quick that I want to pull back the lever of time and grind the world around us to a halt. For selfish reasons, I never want to forget how beautiful yesterday is.

Stacking of the Fourth Brick.

2010-02-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

I have always felt a little uncomfortable around boastful parents who feel it’s their duty to reiterate how well their child is doing, and what they’ve achieved. Therefore, I have been a little stingy, or a better description would be, reluctant, to overplay Amelie’s development. But I mention it today because recently Amelie has began to collapse under the pressure of gaining perfection. For example, she has been practising the art of stacking blocks at nursery. I was met by one of her carers when I came to pick Amelie one evening. She was keen to tell me that Amelie had stacked four bricks on top of the each other. To bolster this achievement she showed me a picture taken of Amelie placing the last block on the previous three. I agreed that it was a momentous success. The carer then went on to say how clever Amelie was… no, actually that’s wrong; she wanted confirmation from myself that she was clever. Advanced is a word I’m hearing more of recently when conversation turns to Amelie’s progression. Due to the aforementioned reasons, I was reluctant to just rush in and agree, feeling to do so may make me one of those delusional parents who think their child is the best child in the world. Instead, I pointed out that being Amelie is out first child, I have no frame of reference if her achievements far exceed her age. I then added, to hopefully deflect from the fact I was feeling very uncomfortable, that I didn’t know where this cleverness came from. In retrospect, I should have said she gets it from her mother, so if you’re reading this Carla, sorry (but it’s true – that clever gene has definitely been handed down from yourself). I then went into the room, picked Amelie up and took her back home. At home, I retrieved four wooden blocks we had purchased months ago, and called Carla into the room. I placed them in front of Amelie and asked her to show Mummy what she’d learnt, expecting very little from the demand. Surprisingly, Amelie began to stack the blocks, and on first attempt balanced all four. The room quickly filled with clapping and cheers. Amelie then proceeded to remove the blocks and try again. On the second attempt she failed, only stacking three blocks instead of the four. The fact that she failed was of no concern to myself, or Carla, but for Amelie, based on her emotional outburst, it was the end of the world. We tried to comfort her the best we could, but her frustrations had already taken over and nothing was going to calm her down, save for maybe a few grapes (Amie can’t get enough of them).

This isn’t an isolated case, either. We have noticed her falling on the floor in moments of despair, bawling uncontrollably, at the slightest fault, problem or obstacle she cannot master. If she wants something, and cannot articulate what her needs are, or we cannot understand her demands, then again, she falls to the floor in a heap. If she wants to go into the kitchen, and we close the door, because her hands haven’t mastered the latch, she cries her eyes out. We have also noted her engaging in acts that could potentially be dangerous. We have an open fire, one of those wood burning fires. We never use it, but Amelie has a habit of grabbing the guard and shaking it. With no fire, the act is just annoying. But that’s not to say that one day there won’t be a fire. So we said repeatedly, No. No. Dangerous, Amelie. This didn’t work. We raised our voice slightly and addressed her at the same level. Still nothing. We picked her up and moved her to a different part of the room. This just made her laugh. We repeated this action over and over, and it turned into a game for Amelie.

It appears we, as parents, are not supposed to take these outbursts personally. Amelie is frustrated, and is unable to communicate in a way that would allow us to understand what is triggering her frustrations. It takes a little detective work on our part. Post-collapse, we have to look at what events led up to the outburst, and work backwards. Can we prevent them from happening again, and if not, what other means can we implement to reduce the risk of her becoming upset. It is not conducive to a baby to hear the word No repeatedly. They are new to the world and everything they touch, see or hear is fascinating. For a child to grow up unable to experience the world around them without hearing the word No, could potentially end in the child becoming very negative later in life. Distraction is the key, or so I’ve been told. If a child is doing something they shouldn’t, for example, shaking a fireguard, the key is not to say No, but instead, introduce something that looks more fun than the act they’re currently engaged in. Distraction. If they become frustrated and begin to cry, for example, being unable to stack the fourth brick, make encouraging noises that suggest failure can be okay. To summarise – implement distraction techniques and encourage failure. Or roughly translated – help temper your child’s motivation by encouraging attention deficit disorder. Okay, I’m being flippant, something I’ll assume came from growing up in a world surrounded by people saying no to me a lot. Regardless, I hope it’s just a phase she’s going through.

Christmas with Santa

2009-12-25T21:26:00.000-08:00

It’s been an exhausting day. As I sit down to write this, Amelie is in bed dreaming, I hope, of the day that started with a visit from Santa. Yes, Kris Kringle, Santa Claus, Father Christmas and various other nom de plumes, came to our house in the morning. I heard the knock on the door about 8am, and when I opened it, there was the jolly old man with all his reindeers. He was running late after a fiasco involving a blocked chimney and rottweiler in Rochdale, so he didn’t have much time. For a man that must have spent the entire evening racing around the world, dropping off presents for all the good little children, he didn’t seem at all tired. In truth, he was in very good spirits. He asked me to hold his reindeers while he gave Amelie a few presents. Normally Santa wouldn’t visit a child on Christmas day, but because this was Amelie’s first proper Christmas, he was willing to make an exception. I didn’t see the next few minutes (I was stroking Rudolph’s bright red nose while feeding him a carrot), but Carla filmed it on our camcorder. While Amelie wasn’t entirely sure who Santa was, she seemed really excited about seeing him. Her face lit up and she had this perfect smile on her face throughout the visit. Santa spoke in an unusual American accent and told Amelie she had been a very good girl. Presents were handed over and Santa offered his lap to her, but Amelie refused (already she’s street smart). After a few compliments to Carla, he came back out to the reindeers. Before he left, he pulled me to one side and whispered, “No gift could ever match that of a child’s smile.” He was right.
I could go into the rest of the day, the visit to see all the grandparents and the wonderful gifts Amelie received, but I think it’s time to settle down with a hot cup of tea and watch a film (and no doubt fall asleep half way through it). But I want to take this time to wish my daughter a very Merry Christmas. Santa was right, your smile was the best present I could have hoped for this Christmas. Sweet dreams. Your mummy wants to say something to….

Amelie, my love

Its such a shame you won’t remember your first visit from Father Christmas. Or it may well be a blessing, as I think of phoney American accent and red baggy trousers split at the crotch! He must invest in a better suit next year.
It was lovely watching your eyes widen with each word he spoke and your looks of reassurance from me.
Today was a lovely day but I look forward to the Christmases when you understand what’s happening and delight in all the gifts and attention from people.Sleep well my angel, you are the best present I could ever wish for xxxxxxxxxxx

Mince Pies and Sherry at 3am

2009-12-24T14:29:00.000-08:00

He's checked his list, and tonight, I'm sure he'll be squeezing his rotund backside down our chimney with a bag full of goodies for our beautiful little girl. Yes, Santa Clause is coming to our town tonight. I'm sure he'll be leaving plenty of wonderful gifts. With all the snow we've been having recently, I was worried he wouldn't be able to make it, but I checked his Twitter page and it seems the reindeers are in good form. To help with traction on those slippery roofs, the Elves have added extra grip to their hooves. I've helped all I can by digging away the snow on the path leading to the front door, in case Santa feels the roof is a little dangerous and decides instead to enter though the letterbox. We'll make sure he's got a few treats awaiting him too, to help fill his tummy for the long night ahead.

If you're reading this Santa, Amelie wants you to know she's been extra good this first year of her life, and that she's really looking forward to opening whatever presents you leave. Take care, Santa, and try not to leave soot footprints on the carpet.

One Year On

2009-12-12T23:40:00.000-08:00

Twelve days after Christmas, when we’re packing up the decorations into the boxes ready to be stored away for another twelve months, I say to myself that this year I’ll be conscientious and carefully reel in the fairy lights so they don’t become entangled. I also promise that the fake plastic Christmas tree will be dismantled with consideration and all its colour coded branches will be placed in order and grouped in their associated lengths. And no matter how much I endeavour to follow this through, the following year, on the twelfth day before Christmas, I always open that same box and curse myself as I pick out not one, but two large bundles of knotted fairy lights and a tree with various limbs missing. Not this year though. Yes, I had followed through with my habit of never listening to myself, but instead of cursing at my careless approach to festive disassembly, the first thing I did was ask myself if twelve months had passed since I last did this.

I mention this because a baby has the power to manipulate time. They can make an hour feel like a day, a day a month, or a year a lifetime. And while it seems they have always been there, when you arrive at a monumental day in the calendar, and then project back to that same day twelve months ago, it seems so fresh in one’s memory, like it only happened a month ago. It’s hard to explain, and I’m sure this became the hypothesis behind Einstein’s theory of relativity, but a whole year can go in the blink of an eye, yet five minutes with a wailing baby can feel like eternity. This time twelve months ago I had taken all the Christmas decorations out of the box, spent hours de-tangling the fairy lights, and several more putting the tree up, all in preparation for Amelie’s arrival. And now I was doing it again, and my beautiful baby daughter was soon to have her first birthday.

Carla and I spent the night before Amelie’s birthday putting the decorations up while she slept. A good half hour was spent rearranging the furniture to form a boundary around the tree so Amelie wouldn’t spend the whole of Christmas pulling it to pieces (we decided in the end it would be best to move it to the dinning area of the room, as far away as possible). I awoke the next day to Amelie’s whimpering around 7am, and brought her down to show her the tree. I turned on the lights and held her in my arms. I saw fifty or so tiny white lights pressed into her pupils, and saw their simple beauty raise a smile on her face. I then sat her on my lap (she is generally quite submissive in the mornings) and quietly wished her a happy birthday before kissing her forehead. Half an hour later Carla came down and wished Amelie a happy birthday too. We had started well.

A good friend of mine arrived a couple of hours later and dropped off a present. He has a son about six months older than Amelie. I always enjoy seeing her around other children. Her demeanour alters slightly. Not in a bad way. She is aware of the child but does not obsess with competing for the limelight. She is endearing most of the time, but when in the presence of another child, her subtlety and enquiring glances leaves me spellbound. After my friend and his son left, Carla took Amie for a drive so she could get a little sleep before the rest of the clan arrived after dinner. She had about forty minutes, and woke in good spirits. We dressed her in a pretty dress with embroidered flowers, and like at her Christening, Amelie knew by all the cooing and deep inhaling from both Carla and I, something special was going to happen.

Family arrived bang on time, and from quiet serenity the room exploded with more fussing and flapping, all of which left Amelie stunned. I held her for those first few moments, reassuring her the best I could that the smiling faces and high pitched notes of flattery from the Nannas were all good things, and not to be feared. It wasn’t long before Amelie began to savour the moments of consideration, and drew attention to her happiness by smiling at every face pushed into hers. I say smiling, but for a while now Amelie has taken to practicing the lost art of gurning. She raises her head toward the ceiling, closes her eyes and bares all her teeth while scrunching up her nose. The end result is both hilarious and slightly disturbing. Of course, uncles, aunties, and grandparents all thought it was wonderful and spent most of the time trying to coax her face to contort even more.

I have to admit, I woke in the morning feeling a little under the weather. For the past few weeks all of us have suffered with some variation on the common cold, be that aches and chills, chest infections, stuffy noses, sore throats or all of the above. Mine was still lingering, and to top it all off I had a headache. And while I would have probably been a little more talkative had I been hale and hearty, the calmness of being ill detached me from frenzied conversation, and allowed me to observe the room and everyone in it with much more thoughtfulness. People gravitate to babies. It’s a gift they have. And though every child is born with this same gift, there are few that awaken the innocence we lose as adults. I’m sure most parents think the same as I, and that Amelie is no different, but for a moment I saw the years fade from everyone’s faces. I saw my parents as children themselves, young and happy. I saw the same of Carla’s parents and her brothers and sister in law. It was as if staring at Amelie had reflected back her innocence and for one solitary moment, each of those people became childlike too, blameless and pure. It was a wonderful sight, and one, for personal reasons, I will remember for a long time.

My baby daughter is one. It’s been a hell of a year. And like the wires of those knotted fairy lights, it’s been frustrating and demanding to get through, yet the outcome, for all the effort involved, is beautiful. Happy birthday, my love. X

Mamma Mia!

2009-11-25T11:23:00.001-08:00

While we try and encourage a fair and diplomatic atmosphere around Amelie, it is evident that Carla and I have an underlying rivalry brewing. On occasion, this manifests itself in a few jibes concerning parenting skills, or lack thereof; all done in jest you understand, but still, there is no joke without truth. And while I like to proud myself on being a very considerate and loving father, I am average in comparison to Carla’s mothering skills. Without getting too mawkish, Carla is always with heart when the incessant bawling weakens mine. She has energy to keep Amelie’s spirits high whenever I am exhausted. And more importantly, she has patience when mine has given up the ghost. Without her support and unconditional love, I would have wavered and Amelie would, I am sure, not have awaked, or entered each room of our home, without meeting a smiling face. I owe her happiness to my wife, that much is true.

That said, there is this competitiveness between us. For example, while Carla was on maternity leave, she assumed most of Amelie’s significant achievements would be for her to observe first and recounted to myself later. As it was, Amelie kindly waited until evening or weekends to sit up without support, take her first steps, drink from a cup, clap her hands and other various jaw-dropping moments. And while happiness ensued for us both, there was a sly remark made by Carla after each occasion, each sullied with a hint of resentment. Only a hint, mind. Amelie also, much to my wife’s irritation, was able to say Dadda first. This is not uncommon, as the baby’s verbal skills master the “d”s before the “m”s. Still, no matter how much I tried convincing Carla of this, it comes as no surprised she was a little disappointed. In truth, she has spent at least five minutes of every day thereafter trying her best to get Amelie to alleviate the heartache of not hearing her name.

And it was yesterday her efforts finally paid off. In the presence of Carla, and no one else, Amelie said the one word Carla had been aching to hear for months. With her sweet and underdeveloped voice Amelie said, “Mamma”. “Mamma”. And it was no fluke either, for later that night Amelie mimicked Carla once again and allowed me the privilege of hearing it for myself. I must admit, it sounded much more delicate and delivered with much more emotion than any of my Daddas. But this time, I wasn’t bitter. There was no sly remark delivered. It was overwhelming to hear, and so very pleasing to witness the expression of complete happiness on my wife’s face.

The Snuffles

2009-11-11T08:42:00.000-08:00

While the days of colic and 3 hourly feeds are long behind us, but are still an agenda item during my counselling sessions with the local psychiatrist, I can say that for the majority of our time with Amelie, it is smooth running. But there is at least one week within each month which isn’t so pleasurable. Like that scene from Jurassic Park where the pulsating plastic cup on the dashboard represents the horror of the T-Rex looming in the distance, the onset of a runny nose heralds a similar terror to us. I’m sure there is a medical name for it, probably Rhino-something, but the doctors generally refer to it as the "snuffles". Don’t let the cuteness of the name distract from the evil that it is. For those of you not familiar with the snuffles, it is when the nasal passages of the baby become blocked due to inflammation of the blood vessels surround them, and not mucus, as one might assume based on the runny nose. And yes, seeing it written so simply, it doesn’t sound that nasty. But let me tell you, I would gladly consider doing another week of 3 hourly feeds than having to deal with the ramifications of this condition.

The main concern is Amelie’s welfare. A stuffy nose for an adult can be annoying, and on occasion, hinders a restful night’s sleep. But as adults we have the skills involved to quickly change from nasal breathing to mouth breathing with little effort. The furry tongue is an obvious and unpleasant by-product of this technique, but it is a necessary evil considering the alternative. But it’s the alternative that is the only option for a baby. As a result, the routine we so painstakingly implemented over several months verges on falling apart, because Amelie begins, over time, to hate sleeping. It’s not that she doesn’t want to sleep. It’s more that she can’t sleep, and if she does, the nasal blockage forces her to breathe in heavily, thus pushing the mucus down her throat. The fear of waking up retching violently (and, at times, vomiting) is something she has become weary of, and so bedtime quickly becomes a place of both physical and psychological darkness for her.

We’ve been to the doctors about this several times, and because of her age there has been very little they could do or prescribe. The usual suggestions are saline drops, which would help break down any mucus (though this contradicts the theory that it’s inflamed blood vessels blocking the nasal passages) combined with an aspirator to draw the mucus from the nose (the 21st century version of sucking gunk from your baby’s nose using your mouth). If all else fails turn to the trusty Capol, which acts as an anti-inflammatory reducing the pressure around the blood vessels. At one stage we were even prescribed antihistamines to rule out allergies, but we didn’t really see any improvement after using it. After all measures and suggestions by the professionals were failing, we turned to the Internet. I don’t condone doing this in the first instance. Any health issues, especially those concerning your child, should always be dealt with in the doctor’s surgery. But considering the condition wasn’t anything life threatening and it was only suggestions we were looking for, we saw no harm in getting a little advice from those going through a similar situation. A few suggestions we stumbled on were running a hot shower and allowing the steam to help break down congestion. Vapour rub (baby version only), rubbed onto the chest before the baby goes to sleep was another. And a couple of others were placing a pillow under the mattress to raise the baby’s head, and using a humidifier to keep the air in the room from drying out, a common cause of nasal blockage – though I fail to really understand how dryness can produce so much wetness. Of all the suggestions and advice given, only the humidifier is the one we haven’t tried.

Amelie is, as I’m typing this out, suffering with the snuffles. Her nights are broken, and we’re up periodically, working together to help calm her down and alleviate the forced breathing. I sing Golden Slumbers by The Beatles, and rock her in my arms. And while I would like to think it’s my sweet melodic tones that help coax her back to sleep, I have a feeling it is more the angle of her head bringing on a shift of mucus. Fortunately, this has put me off applying for X Factor next year. Carla adopts a similar practice, and through the baby monitor I hear her sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Days like this are very challenging. A lack of sleep, combined with the distress of hearing your baby coughing like an aged smoker is both exhausting and heart wrenching. And while I hope it is just a matter of development, and in time her nasal passages with grow and so the tiniest amount of build up won’t be so traumatic for her, I find myself every couple of weeks listening to her breathing while she’s sleeping, waiting for that first forced breath, and the clatter of the snuffles.

One Giant Leap

2009-10-26T17:33:00.000-07:00

When Neil Armstrong took that first step onto the lunar surface in 1969, I wonder if his parents looked on with the same happiness as the first time he took his first steps as a baby. While one was more monumental for mankind than the other, to a parent both could be measured with equal satisfaction. I am sure of this because recently Amelie begun walking. She had been taking tentative steps for a few weeks now. We have a three seater and two seater couch, both of which have been pushed together to form an L shape. Amelie built the confidence to let go of one, and shuffle forward to the other without support. She did this over and over, practicing her balance as best she could. To help her progress, Carla and I began to sit opposite each other and coax her to walk toward us. Again, the first step or two were solid, but then, with the momentum building, the walk became a lunge to our arms. And so it was like this for a good month, until the past couple of days where it seems, overnight, her motor skills developed enough to allow her the strength and balance to support her weight on just her feet alone. And similarly to the affects zero gravity had on Mr Armstrong, as both Carla and I observed for the first time Amelie taking more than two wobbly steps, our bodies became light, and our expressions lifted.

She has, of course, become over confident since then. Amelie now likes to walk around unaided without forethought of the consequences and dangers that surround her. So of late, there have been more moments were we find ourselves moving from a cheer to a sharp intake of breath in matter of moments. From elation to concern in 0.2 of a second puts a lot of unnecessary pressure on the heart, I can tell you. But there it is, she is walking. Recently Carla took Amelie to a Bumps and Baby class, where Amelie proceeded to show off her new skills to all the other babies. One of the mothers asked Carla how old Amelie was, and when she replied 10 months, the woman was astonished at how far advanced she was. It was my intention from first hearing that Carla was pregnant, all the way up to the birth, that I would never put pressure on our child. I would never demand anything from them, nor push them to be something they were not. Equally, if they were slower than a child of a similar age, I would not see it as a failing, but instead see it as a means to spend more time nurturing them until they caught up. But when Carla relayed that comment to me later that night, I thrust my hand through the air and adopted the demeanour of an overzealous American football coach after his team just won the winning touchdown. It was, in retrospect, wrong of me, but I guess my admiration for my daughter’s advancement was something I felt could only be articulated in Neanderthal.

Other noticeable changes and advancements in Amelie have been the ability to act confused when something has been removed, or taken away. The simple shrugging of shoulders and her evaporating catchphrase of "huh?" is so endearing we find it near impossible not to give her objects and then intentionally take them away just to ask her, "Where’s it gone, Amie? Where it’s gone?" She has also begun recognising words. For instance, if she is asked, "Where’s the ball?" Amelie will instantly turn to locate said ball in the room, and on occasion, go over to it. She knows that I am Daddy, and Carla is Mummy. Sadly, she has not fully grasped the concept of "no" yet, and finds it amusing to test our use of the word when venturing too near the fireplace, or the dangerous corners of the table. She has also learnt to give a High Five. It’s true. If I raise my palm high and say, "High five, Amie", she presses her palm against mine and quickly moves it away. Worryingly, she has also found much amusement in her tongue, and enjoys sticking it out and grabbing it. The whole process is fine, but there are times she doesn’t follow through with the last stage, and so remains frozen in a state of silent raspberry blowing, a lasting impression one would try to avoid when in public. All in all, these past couple of months have been monumental is her life, and ours. I sometimes wonder if so much can happen in such a small amount of time, what wonders await us in a year from now? Whatever they may be, I’m sure it’s going to be an amazing time.

The Heaven Ticket

2009-10-18T21:40:00.000-07:00

Today Amelie was christened at St Bartholomew’s church. For months we were playing around with the idea of renting a function room and inviting more people, but sadly we have very little disposal income due to nursery fees. So it was only a small affair, immediate family members a couple of friends. We chose St Bartholomew’s because it sat at the foot of Ripponden village. Tucked away on a cobbled road, it has that typical rural charm of having aged well under the ferocity of the elements – character, they call it. There are a lot of people in Ripponden with character. The vicar, a red headed woman with a Eastern European lilt, had attended our home a couple of weeks previous to explain the ceremony and to go through a few formalities. She seemed nice enough and Amelie appeared comfortable enough to pick at the laces of her Nike trainers throughout the visit. As my religious beliefs stretch only so far as to accept a supreme architect and very little else, Carla agreed to have Amelie christened Protestant, and not a Catholic like she. And while I like to think of myself as well prepared and bright, I confused Christian for Catholic, and as such spent most of the time silently cursing my wife for duping me into following the Catholic route instead of the Protestant.

I must admit, I was a little worried Amelie would play up most of the day. She woke up at 5.30am, and fortunately, after a short drive in the car at 8am, she fell back to sleep for an hour. She must have known something was happening because as soon as we dressed her in the ivory Christened dress, she didn’t stop smiling. We had bought her a little hand band too, white with a large white flower on the top. Her shoes were ivory with an embroidered pattern. In the full outfit she appeared much older. A proper little girl. I couldn’t stop smiling back at her in those first few minutes. Carla and I had our pictures taken with Amelie (separately of course), and then we made our way to the church.

For October the skies were surprisingly clear. The church looked impressive and as family and friends arrived, I couldn’t help but feel so very proud that the weather had been kind enough to allow a respite from the usual grey skies and rains, and that I was there, holding my baby daughter, the prettiest girl on the planet, in my arms for all to coo at. Mass lasted an hour, in which two other baptisms were conducted. There was a small play area for children at the back of the church where Amelie spent most of her time drawing on her face with crayons and banging a small wooden chair against the exposed polished floorboards. But considering it was strange venue, with voices united in pious harmony, she was well behaved. She didn’t even flinch when the vicar anointed her brow. We were encouraged to have complimentary tea and biscuits, but we declined and returned to the cottage. There we popped champagne bottles and toasted out little girl’s big day (something Amelie missed having fallen asleep in the car on the way home). My father said he felt like he’d won the lottery with all the champers, and seemed content to take the lion’s share. We stayed at the cottage for about an hour before moving on to the Malt House where we had arranged a sit down meal. I could go into great detail about this, but my lasting memory of it all will be being there among friends and family, and seeing their faces so very happy for us all. Amelie remained the princess throughout, and didn’t demand attention, or affection from any of the guests, yet her beauty and innocence alone demanded it.

Food for Thought

2009-09-24T18:28:00.000-07:00

I have to mention this because it something I feel very passionate about. Amelie has started nursery. It is a great place full of attentive employees. It is local to Carla’s work and I am only 25 minutes away in a car. Amelie loves the place too, and I can’t be more happy because there is always that fear your child will not take well to a strange environment, filled with overly attentive strangers. But she has, and it’s a relief. But there is something that is bugging me.
Carla and I have always tried to maintain a healthy diet for Amelie. We try to balance the right vegetables with an equal amount of protein, and we do our best to keep things as natural as possible. Once Amelie’s stomach had developed enough to take solids, we prepared all her meals from scratch so we knew what was in them. No salt, no saturated fats, nothing but fresh produce. We pulsed each meal and froze them in small plastic containers, which were then thoroughly heated, and cooled, before consumption. For deserts, we purchase fresh fruit and organic yoghurts with no added sugar. And this has been the way from the start. It is not that we are concerned about her weight. It would not bother me if Amelie grew to be a blimp. If she were healthy, and happy, then I could ask for no more. We have adopted this natural and stringent process because we want Amelie to remain strong, and in the pink. Our philosophy is that a baby has no concept of what is good food or bad. The parent will introduce those foods into their diet, and it is the parent who is responsible for maintaining the right balance of proteins and vitamins. But there are those that appear to think it's a child’s want, and right, to sugary snacks. I don’t agree with this. I don’t believe a child should be refused these treats (and I’m ephasising the word, treat), I just don’t think it should be a regular part of their diet. Which leads me back to the nursery. Amelie is now nearing 10 months of age, and her daily "nursery" diet consists of 6oz of formula milk and one weetabix (or oats) for breakfast. Lunch is a main meal followed by yoghurt. Evening meal is again a main followed by desert. And this is every day. Now, save for breakfast, after each main meal Amelie receives a desert or something sweet. You could argue that the yoghurt provides the calcium a child needs to allow their bones to strengthen. Can’t really argue with that. But why must a desert follow the evening meal? So you understand what the deserts consist of; they are generally pulped fruit, for example, a banana, on a bed of thick custard or semolina. To a baby/child, this combination of savoury followed by sweet is something they quickly grow accustomed to, and to me, it seems a little odd to begin this practice so early on in their lives. It is as if each meal at the nursery is structured in a way that rewards the baby/child for finishing their main meal. Eat up your sausage casserole because you’ve got custard for deserts – yum, yum. The sweet following the savoury appears nothing more than subterfuge, a scheme set to trick the child into eating their meal. And this practice doesn’t stop at meals. How many times have you walked past a screaming child and they are being offered a sugary snack to pacify them? Or how many times have you seen a child sat in their stroller eating from a packet of crisp? My argument is that, if the custard or semolina weren’t introduced into her diet, Amelie would have no idea what they taste like. Likewise, if only fruit is presented after a meal, then a child will eat it regardless of what it is sat upon, or mixed with. In short, if processed sugary products are not introduced, then how will a child no what they taste like, and consequently, grow accustomed to their taste?

We approached the nursery about this very thing, and for the following few days, we were questioned by three different staff members who tried to convince us that their custard and semolina were made on site and had no added sugar in their ingredients. Here are the ingredients needed to make custard from scratch:

1 pint of milk
2 fl oz of single cream
1 vanilla pod/or ½ tsp pf vanilla extract (the extract includes: alcohol and caramel)
4 egg yolks
1oz of caster sugar
2 level tsp of cornflour

Regardless of it being homemade or not, how can caster sugar, cream, and if we’re being pernickety here, egg yolks and the sweetened vanilla extract be beneficial to the child when compared to only fruit?

To stop any further questions stemming from Amelie’s desert exclusion, I arranged to meet with the manager of the nursery, who, after detailing some of the points raised above, was very supportive of our thought process and actually praised us on being so proactive when it came to her diet. Like any nursery, they are led by the parent. And while I was a little taken aback by her comment, suggesting I was the only parent of this mindset in the nursery, they have been very accommodating to the request.

In a time where obesity and diabetes is on the rise, and we’re being literally forced healthy eating incentives, then maybe we need to address the eating patterns of our children as early as possible. Food for thought.

Questions Arising

2009-08-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

Carla and I have reached a pinnacle stage in our relationship with Amelie – communication. Where before we would talk to Amelie and receive nothing back but the usual blank stare and drooling mouth, she has now began to mimic certain facial expressions, gestures, and body movements. Don’t get me wrong here, she’s not advanced enough to be using sign language (least not yet), but there is now the sense that the strange faces we pull, the phonemic narrative we adopt when holding certain objects, and the grand gesticulation whenever she does anything "good", has not been practiced in vain.

For example: Amelie has recently begun "checking for Indians". For those of you ready to bring up the diversity card, I’m referring to the traditional method practiced by cowboys when they place their ear to the ground and listen for the deep rumbling of hooves on the horizon. It seems my daughter is keen to use this practice, but less to assure herself of danger, and more to engage with us in amusement. If she tilts her head to the ground, and we do likewise, she will stay for a moment before returning upright. Once we have done the same, she will tilt her head back again, and wait for us follow. It is the same if we instigate the action. The first time I noticed this we were on a routine check up at the local doctors. Amelie began titling her head to the female GP. Sadly, the doctor wasn’t taking the bait, and because I had never seen Amelie do this before, I tentatively enquired if that was normal (I began to worry it was a side effect of neurological disorder). My worries were allayed when the doctor pronounced it as nothing more than a game of "peek-a-boo".

Other additions to her repertoire is lip smacking whenever she is hungry; raising her arms above her head whenever we remove her clothes; raising her arms above her head whenever we go to pick her up; raising her arms above head whenever we say, "So big!" (In truth, the whole arm raising thing is wearing a little thin); grinning whenever we grin; laughing whenever we laugh; waving whenever one of us leaves the room, or arrives (that one still floors me), and handing us objects whenever we say, "ta" or "thank you". But the single most amazing thing Amelie does at the moment is to question. With every new object she picks up, Amelie will stare at it, lick it regardless of its size or texture, and then say aloud, "Huh?!" That’s all, "Huh?" This is not restricted to objects either. If the television set is on, she will crawl over, hoist herself up using its stand, lick the monitor, and in falsetto deliver her query to whoever is onscreen. So when Tony The Tiger pronounces his cereal as "Grrrrreat!" Amelie wants to know why. When Noel Edmonds asks, "Deal or no Deal?" Amelie questions his intention. It is beautiful in its simplicity, and reminds me that every thing in life is still new to her.

It’s easy to forget how young a child is. You assume they are much older than they are because it seems they have always been there. On the contrary, they are untested, new and living in a world where the bland and the ordinary is mysterious and enchanting, the dull and the dreary, exciting and fascinating. For this reason alone, one should remember life is still full of little surprises, and marvellous in its simplicity. You just have to see it through a child’s eyes.

Sweet Georgie Brown

2009-08-16T19:24:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those days you know won’t leave you in a hurry. It didn’t start well. Grey clouds had settled over our cottage in their usual dreary fashion, and a playful wind wanted to shake every tree and bush it ran through. It was also a Sunday, which meant today was usually set aside for long walks and roast dinners. When I looked out the bedroom window, I fancied neither. I turned to Carla and asked what should we do? She spoke enthusiastically of a Jazz band that was playing at Shibden Hall in Halifax. It was billed as Jazz in the Park, which was strange because Shibden Hall was in fact a stately home and the park in question was really just its grounds. But who am I to judge? I looked out of the window again and saw two rooks huddled together on a phone line, shaking. It doesn’t look like Jazzy-kinda weather, does it, I said. She then looked at me the way she does when she knows I’m going to say no to something she really wants to do, and while disappointed, she will agree with me because she knows me and knows I will only be miserable if I’m forced to a place I don’t wish to go. But I was feeling quite bold that day, brave you might say, and a little annoyed with the English summer, so I agreed. Even Amelie, who had been sat quietly on her rocking chair, let out an audible gasp, as if she too was taken aback by the remark.

We arrived in plenty of time, and because a car drive is akin to a healthy dose of chloroform for Amelie, she was asleep. The sky was beginning to show signs of improvement too, and when we got out of the car with the usual ten ton of provisions needed for any trip, the wind had run out of steam and was now lazily drifting among the rest of the visitors while whistling a merry little tune. Shibden Hall is a pleasant place. It has a small café that serves the usual fare, along with various different coffees that would please even the most staunch city dweller. It also has a small boating lake, which is split in two halves, one is for the aforementioned boats (and peddalos), and the other is for some wild ducks and geese. A miniature railway track runs around the lake, and not five minutes will pass without you hearing the small train ring its bell aloud. At the top of a large hill sits the impressive Tudor style Shibden Hall. For a small fee, you can walk its rooms and learn more about its history. To the south of the park is a small playground, which leads to a short woodland area. Its appeal is its size, for it is not too big to attract the wrong type of crowd, and not too small you run the risk of becoming overly friendly with any of its visitors.

The band was due to start at 1pm, which meant we had 30 minutes to our disposal. Amelie was now awake; the smell of fresh air combined with the cry of lively children had been the smelling salts needed to wake her from her slumber. We took to the café and bought two crapocinos so we could feed Amelie her cod and vegetable slop without feeling guilty. The place was full of young couples doing the same thing, and like it is at such venues, most of the time was spent comparing our child to theirs, their buggy against ours, and how deep and dark their eyes are to our own. I think we came out of it okay, considering. We then left and found a spot on the grass before the stage where the Jazz band was due to play. After a long wait, five men dressed in black shirts, black trousers, and bright red ties, came over and began tuning their instruments. If I tell you the youngest was probably in his mid-fifties, and the oldest was nearing his seventies, and that their groupies were three frail old women with blue-rinses and walking sticks, then you’ll understand why we weren’t expecting too much. In truth, they had a lot of energy about them. As soon as they broke into the first song, When You’re Smiling, I felt my foot tapping. I looked around, and other people were doing the same. I looked to Carla, who was holding Amelie, and both were staring toward the stage, rocking from side to side, and sharing the most wonderful of expressions – one caught between shedding the vestiges of their mistrust for simple enthusiasm. Even the sun peeked its head from the clouds to see what was going on. It was strange, but the music was actually making people happier. We let Amelie down on the picnic blanket, and she, with the determination of a whippet released from the cage, set off down the hill on all fours. Though the music was drowning out most of the ambient sounds around us, we could still hear her pants of pleasure as she took each stride toward the unknown. When it became too much, she stopped, and look around for us, and we were there, smiling. She smiled back, and then turned again, as if the joy in our faces was the permission she needed to carry on at break-neck speed. A small terrier dog stopped her in her tracks at one point, and instead of fearing the animal, which was only small must have been the same as a grizzly bear on its hind legs to Amelie, she smiled and offered her hand to stroke its fur. Of course, like most dogs, it had better things to do and ran off, but her gesture warmed me inside. When the distance between us was becoming less impressive, and more worrying, Carla ran toward her, gathering her safely in her arms and swinging her skyward. She planted a kiss on Amelie’s cheek, and I noted both mother and child were sharing a moment, one of complete and utter joy and love. She then carried Amelie back while two stepping, and swinging her hips in time with the music. She sang the lyrics in Amelie’s delicate ears, which made her smile and wave her arms at me. I silently prayed to God to allow me one more minute of sight, because seeing the two most precious people in my life so happy was humbling.

We stayed for a short time before taking a long walk around the grounds. When we reached the Hall, I took Amelie in my arms and ran down the hill that overlooked the lake, much to her enjoyment. When Carla arrived, the band were playing Sweet Georgie Brown, and for whatever reason, be it the music, the sun on our backs, or the natural high obtained by seeing your child so happy, Carla and I took each other’s hand and danced. We danced like young lovers, swaying our hips and twirling each other pirouette style, and all the while Amelie looked on between us, smiling in her own unique and touching way. And while it must have looked a little silly to those sat watching, or passing by in their expensive buggies, I knew that one moment in time would be with me forever. With all my heart, I am indebted to those elderly jazz players for giving me memories that will cleave to my every part, and allow me to never take life for granted.

A Cry for a Cry: A Tooth for a Tooth

2009-08-12T18:12:00.000-07:00

When you arrived back from work and find a small urine receptacle and something called a U-Bag on the dining table, the first words out your mouth are not going to be, "Nice day?"
Instead, I asked Carla if she’d been to the doctors, and should I be worried. She said she had, but it wasn’t for her. The three or four seconds that followed ground the world around me to a halt. I recalled Amelie’s temperament from the morning when I lifted her out of the cot, which was its usual mix of relief, excitement and mischievousness. I delved further back. The previous night Amelie had a warm head. Carla asked me to feel it, which I did (using the back of the hand, not the palm), and while it was a little warmer than usual, I didn’t feel the need to crack the seal on the reserve bottle of Capol just yet. I then thought about why a doctor would want urine.

In my late 20s, I had developed an unhealthy interest in illnesses, so much so I had purchased an encyclopaedia that would enable me self-diagnose potential life threatening illnesses before they manifested. The book was the size of a small loaf, and included a chart with various symptoms that brought the reader to a happy, or worrying, diagnosis. For obvious reasons, the book was placed deliberately beside my toilet, and helped me attain the unenviable title of hypochondriac within two weeks of its purchase. During the summer of 1997, to the spring of 1998, I was a regular attendee of my local doctors complaining of such diseases as Yellow Fever, Trench Foot, and Tuberculosis. At my height, I was so paranoid about falling ill I asked my doctor if protruding veins along the arms was a condition of heart disease! Because of all this, I remember urine can be tested for all manner of disorders ranging from a simple urinary infection, diabetes, kidney or renal dysfunction, or worse case scenario, a tumour. I looked over to Amelie, who was chomping on a slice of cucumber. I made a funny face, and she smiled. She was eating, and happy, so how bad could it be?

Carla said that after I left for work she had checked Amelie’s temperature using one of those digital ear thermometers – it’s the same brand and model they use in our local doctors. The little LCD flashed up digits that lit the power trails straight to her heart. 38.1 degrees. Amelie had a fever. Notwithstanding a little hay fever we suspect she has, and the colic, Amelie has been fine and healthy from day 1. She rang the doctors and he went through a few investigative questions; was she eating; had she been sick; any weight loss etc. And though the answer was no to all these, he asked Carla to bring Amelie to the surgery. While there, her temperature had risen to 38.4 degrees. He checked her lungs, listened to her chest, and checked her skin for rashes. He then explained how to use the U-Bag, which is a small bag for babies that collects urine so it can be transferred into a container. Amelie had issues with us putting on nappies, and now we were supposed to attach a bag? I don’t think so. I checked her temperature again – it was down to 37.3 degrees. We gave her a dose of Calpol. I then stroked her hair and did my best to keep her spirits up by calling upon my inventory of entertaining faces, noises and funny walks. I also threw a few new ones in there to keep the act fresh (Amelie seems to like us mimicking her every movement). And behind the strange faces and weird voices, I was dying inside. Here was my little girl, my beautiful baby, and something was inside her, causing her to feel unwell.

That night Amelie’s sleep pattern was restless, at best. She usually goes off quite well and only needs a gentle coaxing should she wake, but that night she was inconsolable. Every time she fell asleep in our arms, and we placed her in the cot, she’d start crying. Whenever we walked away, she let out a noise that sounded like a cat being de-skinned. Carla and I both dug in and spent turns rocking Amelie in our arms, and trying again to lay her down. But nothing was helping. For whatever reason, I suggested we place a little Anbasol on her gums, because she might be teething. It was a long shot, but it was all we had left. Shortly after, Amelie finally fell asleep on her own. I went to bed, and Carla stayed in the nursery. I heard her three times let out that God-awful cry, and each time my heart fractured a little more. I’m sure you’ve done this yourself, but when your child in hurting, be it from a fever, headache, or something worse, you ask God for one favour – let it be me. No child should suffer. They are pure and innocent, and we are blessed to have them in our lives because if nothing else, just their smile alone can lift our heels and make us look at this world more kindly. They are gifts, and gifts to be treasured and protected to the very last. Guess God was too busy that night.

The next day I took Amelie from her cot and held her tight. I brought her downstairs and kissed her brow, which was reassuringly cool. I checked her temperature again, and it had lowered. I then changed her, attempted to make her laugh, and stroked her hair, like I do most mornings when my wife is lay sleeping. Before I left, I woke Carla and told her the good news. When I returned home that evening, she too had good news; Amelie was teething. This explained the fever, and the crying. My girl is growing up.

All that Glitters

2009-08-06T12:07:00.000-07:00

Here’s the million dollar question most new fathers will ask themselves – when do I begin feeling like a father? For the majority of us there is no one defining moment. It just kind of happens unexpectedly. One day we are carefree, simple in our pursuit for happiness, and difficult in our need to be simple. Then one night we’re visited by the father-fairy who comes along, sprinkles us with paternity-dust and robs of us our selfishness, common sense, and most of the contents of our wallet. It is a strange and all consuming experience that takes us by surprise, and for those unprepared for the responsibility, can leave you shuffling around the kitchen in your moccasins like an extra from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

The truth is being a parent can be strange at the beginning. Movies and television have conditioned us to believe that from the moment our baby opens its lungs our backs will straighten, our chests will expand, and there will be an unworldly correlation between emotion and purpose. Instinctively we will know what to do, and when to do it, and more importantly, we will engage emotionally with this perfect little mirror image of us. But more often than this is not how it happens. In reality, a baby is like being handed a grenade without its pin, while locked in a room with no doors or windows, and the air con is set to sub-zero and you’re naked. I remember thinking I had failed as a father because I didn’t cry as soon as my baby daughter was handed to me. When she took my finger in her hand for the first time and my heart didn’t crack, I thought I was devoid of all basic emotional. And when she wouldn’t stop crying one night, and I heard myself scream aloud that I hated her, I considered myself a monster. Seriously, those Gillette moments are few and far between never. The important thing to remember is; it will change.

It took me the best part of six months to adjust to fatherhood. Amelie developed colic in her first few days. Most parents who have experienced colic will know it has a habit of kicking in around teatime, which was when I returned home from work. Every night, for about 12 weeks, I was met at the door by a screaming infant, and a very weary looking wife. It got so depressing that I began to stay late at work. Carla kept telling me Amelie was wonderful in the mornings, and most of the day, but I never saw any of that, except at weekends, but by then I was too tired to care. With every day that passed, I felt the emotional gap between Amelie and I growing further apart. One evening, when Amelie was asleep in her nursery, I turned to Carla and said remorsefully, "I feel nothing for her right now." It was my first open confession, and no sooner had the words left my mouth, I wanted to reach out, grab each one, and force them back into my throat where they could fester for the rest of my natural life. But it was too late. Carla and I had a long talk that night, and we both opened up our hearts, and all those little flawed feelings we both shared but never spoke aloud were delivered and received with patience and sympathy. I took some time off work, a few days to see Amelie’s pleasant side. It was wonderful. Every morning she met me with this perfect expression, one of recognition and joy. I was humbled to be around her, and equally stupefied that this baby girl, my daughter, could feel anything other than resentment toward me. In the days that followed, I played guitar and sang to her, and she sat there enchanted by my dulcet tones. I raised her above my head and made noises like she was rocket soaring through the sky. I did all the things I imagined I would, and it was bliss.

Then my defining moment came. It was a few days before Father’s Day, and I was at work. My phone went off and it was Carla. She sounded upset, worried. I asked her what was wrong, and she said she’d been to Tiny Treasures class and something had happened. Without deliberation I asked if Amelie was okay – and she said she was. I then asked her if she was okay, and she said she was. Then what? Carla explained the class was making Father’s Day cards. The idea was that each baby would place its handprints beside a touching poem. It sounded cute, but when Carla explained what they were using to cover the babies hands, she began crying. Between her sobs, I heard one word, "Glitter". I have a phobia about glitter. It’s an irrational fear I’ve tried to overcome several times, but nothing has helped. I don’t even think it’s the glitter, but more in its stubbornness to be removed. It’s the same every Christmas; we receive a card with glitter on, I freak out, and the card is evacuated from the house under close supervision. No matter how brief its stay, or how well we isolate the card from any other object, they’ll be a point in the day when the sun shifts and one of its flakes will glimmer in the carpet. Before long I’m combing the floor with the precision and attention of a forensics officer at a murder scene. More often than not, I never find them. Glitter represents my inability to keep control of a situation, or task. It makes me realise I can fail, regardless of what I do. Carla knew this, and she knew it meant an evening of decontamination the scale of which has only been witnessed in Howard Hughes’s home. When I returned home later that evening, Carla had already spent a good hour wiping Amelie’s skin – I knew because it was a brighter pink than it normally is. And though she had tried her best to remove all remnants of the day’s activities, I could still see those glittering golden flakes in Amelie’s hair, around her neck, and between her fingers. Normally that would be my cue to freak out, and begin rummaging under the sink for the appropriate cleaning agents and clothes. But if truth be told, it didn’t bother me. Instead of freaking out, I picked up Amelie and I held her close, untroubled I was running the risk of being glitterised. With little fuss, Amelie accepted my display of affection with a smile.

I knew then no matter what happens in the future, however big a problem or obstacle I have to overcome, so long as I can hold my daughter and she is well, then I can deal with it. For the first time since Amelie was born, I felt like a father.

Straight From Cassandra's Lips

2009-08-01T15:04:00.000-07:00

If you’ve not already experienced this, then I ask all new fathers to prepare yourself. You will, at some point in the early stages of being a father, become invisible to new mothers. I can only assume this visual glitch stems from some kind of molecular disruption within the genetic makeup of a man once he has a child. Possibly our pheromones exude less of what attracts a woman, and instead replaces it with a scent that modifies a woman’s vision, rendering anything "mannish" dreary to her intelligence (I dare say it’s the same thing that forces a woman to take no interest in football and Formula 1). Whatever it may be, I’ve lost count of the times it’s happened to me. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not on a personal misogynistic quest to berate women for not being, "sensitive" to new fathers, nor am I rebuking women for not listening to me – my wife’s being doing it for years so I’ve gotten used to it. I mention it because it’s a natural phenomenon worthy of attention.

I realised I had the powers of invisibility when Amelie received her second set of inoculations at 12 weeks (it’s the two that consist of diphtheria, pertussis, tetanus, polio, hib, and pheumococcal). I was meeting Carla at the local doctors after I finished work. She wanted me there in case Amelie freaked out, a precautionary measure in the eventuality she couldn’t rein in the "burning bird" within her. The traffic was in my favour and I arrived twenty minutes before the appointment. The waiting room was packed to the gunwales with new mothers, each carrying an infant and an air of apprehension about them. I took a seat next to a woman who was feeding her newborn from an unusual looking bottle while simultaneously engaging in light conversation with another mother who was pacifying her baby with a rattle. When a noticeable lull presented itself, I asked the mother what kind of bottle she was using. Because I was still sat alone, I added quickly that my daughter, who was having her inoculations today and would be here any second with Carla (phew!), was using Dr Brown’s. Amelie contracted colic the first few days after being born, and after searching around the Internet, I found this was the bottle of choice. I even went so far as to go into the preferred medication that might assist hers, or any baby break down the bubbles that cause colic. All of it sounded reasonable, and plausible, so I expected nothing more than a congenial conversation to ensue. That wasn’t the case. Instead, and unbeknownst to me at the time, I was undergoing a metaphysical change. Sure, the mum did acknowledge me to begin with, but then, as if by magic, I began to fade away, and all talk was quickly redirected to the other woman. It was very confusing, but I assumed at the time she believed it was "mother’s talk", and wouldn’t be of any interest to a man, regardless if it was the man who asked.

The same thing happened a few weeks later when, at the Malthouse drinking a cappuccino or two, one of the barmaids came over and began cooing over Amelie. We were used to such attention because Amelie radiates an aura of adorability normally only reserved for Andrex advertisements. She did the usual thing and asked how old she was, and then drew a comparison to her own child at Amelie’s age. And it was with genuine interest I asked how old her child was, but you guessed it, she threw the answer back to Carla. We’ve spoke with this particular barmaid two more times since that first meeting, and on both occasions when I’ve asked her a question, the answer seems to precious for me to receive.

These are not just isolated incidents either. I’ve asked a couple of fathers I know and they’ve experienced this same trend. One of them referred to his experiences as the Cassandra Syndrome. For those of you unfamiliar with Greek Mythology, Cassandra was a beautiful woman loved by Apollo, so much so he granted her the gift of prophecy. When she did not return his love, he placed a curse upon her so no one would believe her predictions. For my friend, the Cassandra Syndrome was about warning other mothers about the problems he predicted, or could foresee happening to their children based on his own experiences with his. I don’t need to overegg the pudding by telling you the outcome.

I tried getting the woman’s perspective on why this is, you know, before I reached a conclusion that inevitably would end with me offending most women in the world. Carla believes it is this: Mothers listen to mothers. It’s not that they don’t believe a father can be interested in baby matters, it’s just more comfortable, and normal, for them to believe a mother would be more interested. I guess what she was trying to tell me was, until the day I pass a melon through my urethra, don’t expect too much eye contact.

Tapas & Tantrums

2009-07-26T10:33:00.000-07:00

We ate tapas at a small Mediterranean restaurant near Carla’s mother’s. It’s the type of place where fake clematis crawls up wooden rustic beams, fairy lights hang from the ceiling, mandolin music plays through hidden speakers, and candles poke up from old wine bottles. It’s also the nearest to Spain we were going to get this year. During the meal we talked, mostly about Amelie, her christening, and how strange it was not seeing her sucking the edge of the table – Amelie is currently going through the stage where the only sense she truly has confidence in is taste. We ate tapas and drank cheap wine and then we left. Two minutes into the drive back home, we got the call. As soon as I heard Carla’s mobile play Sweet Home Alabama by Leonard Skynard, I knew it was her mother. Carla didn’t even say hello, her first words were, "What’s happened?" I interjected, and she whispered back that Amelie is hysterical. Regrettably, I knew she didn’t mean funny. As it turns out, Amelie didn’t take well to being in a strange bedroom, in a strange bed (well, actually it was a travel cot), so decided to let everyone, including the adjoining houses know of her unease. Amelie gets like this. She is, at times, inconsolable when she’s upset, and we’ve found the only way to calm her down is to pick her up and take her outside. There’s something about the fresh air that really confuses her. I had the same problem when we moved to the country two years ago. Alas, fresh air wasn’t an option those first couple of days after Amelie was born.

While it’s implausible for her to know for sure, it did cross my mind more than once that Amelie chose to enter this world during a time when the days are short-lived, and nights are relentless, to make our inauguration into parenthood that little more challenging. Carla went into labour at 3am on a cold December Friday, and it took another 15 hours before Amelie opened her lungs for the first time. She must have liked the sound of her own voice because she didn’t stop again for almost 20 hours after that. The physical strain Carla had been under had almost dissipated upon seeing Amelie. And after consuming three rounds of what she considered the "best toast" she’d ever eaten, she began to take to the role of mother much better than I was at being a father. It was decided, considering there was 24-hour mid-wife support on tap, that I should go home and rest. I wasn’t going to argue. That night was very strange. Although an angry wind blew outside our window, all I remember hearing when I closed my eyes was Amelie’s cry. All I saw on the inside of my eyelids was Carla’s face bent with agony.

I returned the next morning, early. I had purchased a newspaper to document the occasion (Carla’s idea), a small teddy for Amelie, and little chocolate treats for Carla. I imagined, before entering the delivery room, to find both mother and baby on the bed together in peaceful slumber, held in the warm hue from the bedside lamp. I saw myself tiptoeing in, kissing both on their forehead, and adjusting a blanket that had slipped from Carla’s shoulder. It was all so perfect. As I passed the reception, a midwife greeted me with a smile, one that lent itself more toward sympathy than simple cordialness. I thought nothing of it and carried on my way. In the distance, I heard the shrill of a newborn baby, the noise not too dissimilar to a tropical bird dancing on a hot skillet. I laughed to myself, and pitied the poor bastards who had to deal with that child. It was only as I neared the delivery room, and the noise grew louder, that I realised those poor bastards would be us. There had been one shift change since I left the previous night, which meant Carla had the support of at least four different midwives with a wealth of experience between them. None of them, it seemed, could shut Amelie up. Upon seeing Carla’s dark eyes, pallid skin, and the mix of both panic and relief upon seeing me, I knew all the advice given, all the warnings that being a new parent is the hardest job in the world, was more than just polite conversation.

Amelie fell asleep at 2pm, a full twenty hours after she was born. With impeccable timing, the grandparents arrived 30 minutes later and woke her up again. After stories were exchanged, more advice given, and multiple pictures taken, they left and I bedded down on the floor for the night. Amelie was still adamant she wanted all the other parents on the ward to count their blessings she was not their child. I found the only way to stop her from crying was to insert my little finger into her mouth. I can say with some confidence that I have fallen asleep in some very strange places in my time, but I had never gone to sleep stood upright with one hand lent against the wall, and my other feeding a newborn.

Leo J Burke once said, "People who say they sleep like a baby usually don’t have one". So, if you’re an expecting parent about to settle down for the night, consider the silence. Remember and savour it, commit it to memory, for there may come a time in the near future when you’ll need reminding that sleep still exists, unbroken, and faultless in its simplicity.

Foreman's Punch

2009-07-25T12:24:00.000-07:00

I start this on a warm, Saturday afternoon in July. Above the cottage where we live in West Yorkshire, bruised clouds huddle in conspiratorial discussion, possibly debating if it’d be fair to lighten their bellies again before heading east, over the Pennines. They’d been doing this for the past week now, making it one of the wettest beginnings to July for many years. When it rains, the only options you have living in the country is to stay at home, or go to the pub. We have just returned from the Malthouse, a local bar/restaurant that serves the best cappuccinos this side of Yorkshire. My wife, Carla, is getting together blankets, clean clothes, the teddy bear comforter, the Tommee Tippee monitor, and various other essentials needed to assist in the duty of babysitting, because tonight, our daughter, Amelie, is staying over at her Nan’s. this is the first time my wife and I have abdicated responsibility our child to another person, and it’ll be the first time we’ll return to the cottage without watching our every step, and sniffing the air for the rancid odour of a full nappy. And as I type that line out, those same group of morose clouds move over to allow in, for the briefest of moments, a ray of sunlight that finds my nape. It seems even God approves of this timely stay over.

It’s been eight months since the birth of our daughter, Amelie, and it’s only now I’ve found time to begin this journal. Ask most new parents, and I’m sure eight months is about the time they too caught their first breath. As I think back on those eight months, it seems so frenzied.
I guess this starts with a dream. I was fighting the world heavy weight, Gorge Foreman (yes, to those unsure of the grill salesman, his origins lie in boxing). He was young then, in his prime. The crowd were pulsating, hands raised high punching the air, jeering and screaming for blood. It was all very exciting. The bell rang, and both Foreman and I shuffled to the centre of the ring. Foreman threw the first punch, and I raised my guard, my fists taking the first strike with ease. He threw a second, lower this time, and I adjusted accordingly. We danced around each other, bobbing and weaving to the cadence of boos and chants. Foreman dropped his huge arms momentarily. His face was exposed. I gathered all my strength from within, and swung back my right arm before throwing through the air. Then I heard it, distant, but haunting enough to rise above the screaming crowd. It’s the sound that, until it arrives, can either make a man a withering wreck, or bring into being a part of him he never knew he had. It is the sound of your wife calling your name in the pastel shades of night. It is your wife telling you, "I think it’s happening".

I never did find out if my punch would have dropped Foreman to the canvas, a punch that would have crowned me champion of the world. Instead, I was too busy counting the minutes between each contraction, making tea, reassuring my wife this was going to be a wonderful day, gathering together her overnight bag, and I dare say becoming excited to what lay ahead. And looking back, those series of moments and actions that I undertook are now comparable, you might say, to what my wife is doing as she gets Amelie’s belongings together before we embark on the journey that marks our first night of freedom in eight months. Though the difference is, there will be no panic tonight, no tears as I watched my wife place that gas tube in her mouth for the first time; their will be no hopelessness as I watch her cry out every three minutes in agony, no thoughts of haemorrhaging, of a life without her beside me. No, tonight my heart won’t ache, my palms will remain dry, and from my mouth no words of reassurance will be needed. Tonight, I won’t be the man who needs to bring into being the thing he thought he never had – courage.
Well, maybe just a little bit. I might need it when I wave goodbye to my daughter.