Hymn

A Wee Problem

Nothing and no-one can prepare you for potty training.  It is an unspeakable thing.  What, after all, is wrong with a highly absorbent nappy?  And just going with the flow?

If you think about it, maybe all the fuss Freud made was right: delayed gratification can be confusing and stressful.  Even second hand.  Still we've been at it for a few of months now and, generally, it's going pretty well.  We have graduated from the incessant questioning about 'wanting to go' and the relentless plonking on potty whether she wants to or not, to trusting S to tell us in good time.  We have even stopped carrying a porta-potty around with us when we stray more than fifty metres from the nearest convenience.

But it can lull you into a false sense of security.  Too much fun is always a dangerous distraction; parties are fatal.

"I want a wee wee, Daddy" says S breathlessly after running around for half an hour. Despite her declaration of a desire, there is an ominous dark patch on her skirt that suggests we're a trifle late.

We change her clothes and off she flies like a ball out of a cannon back into the mêlée. 

Twenty minutes later and I am halloed  from across the hall.  S is standing in a puddle.  Other children are gleefully jumping up and down in it.  The other parents are frowning.

I change her into some jeans.

"You must tell Daddy when you want a wee wee."  I implore her.  "We don't have any more clothes to change you into.  Do you understand?"

S nods solemnly.

She is a good girl.  I know she'll come to me.

Ten minutes later, as I sit with a cup of tea, S comes over for a cuddle.  As I sit her on my knee, she gently leans over and whispers 'I want a wee wee, Daddy.'  Almost immediately I feel a familiar warmth spreading over my legs.

I stand up quickly, knocking my tea over and revealing to world a large damp patch on my jeans. I shout.  Then pretend to be invisible.  It doesn't seem to matter.  I notice the other parents seem to be curiously absorbed with other things.  Other things that all appear to be three or four metres away from me.  And move when I do.

S has exhausted our spare clothing supply.  But the party isn't over.  She barrels away wearing what few dry garments we have left and looking more suited to the beach than the local church hall.   Soon all the other children have followed her lead and are throwing their clothes away with gay abandon. 

Parents seem to be leaving early.

I scratch my head.  We don't have this problem at home.  I look at S.  She's happily slurping a beaker of squash.  Wait a minute.  Wait a minute.  It is our fault.  We are austere Victorian parents.  She only has milk and water at home: not fancy cordials.  I watch S hoover up the dregs of every half-empty beaker.  In five minutes she must have drunk a litre of pop. 

I think I see the problem.

Artist

S! Aged 2 3/4.  She's an artistic genius!

Friendly

I could sit and watch S play all day.  Her contentedness is contagious.  It's also fascinating.

I love the sociability of children with their ability to make friends without hesitation, restraint or complication.  I sat in the shallows at the swimming pool this morning as S went off to play with another little girl.

Her technique is simple but remarkable effective:  she mimics their behaviour, jumping as they do, splashing just like them and then she shares something with them, a float or her toy.  It works every time.  They play beautifully until one of us parents decides we're too wrinkled or cold from inactivity to sit watching them any longer.

It doesn't seem to work for me though.  Whenever I try to make friends by imitating a stranger I usually end up being thumped.  Or cautioned.

Fertile Ground

“Where are the pretty lights, Daddy?”

‘They are still there, sweetheart, we just can’t see them.’

We are in the car.  She sits behind me as I drive.

“Why can’t we see them, Daddy?”

‘Because we only have them on at night.’

“Why, Daddy?”

‘Because it needs to be dark so we can see the lights’

“Why?”

And I realised I’d been snared.  Two and a half years old and finally, her rampant curiosity has discovered the inexhaustible power of ‘Why?’

Now, I’m a Good Parent.  At least I try.  I don’t want to be dismissive.  I don’t want to be restricting.  I don’t want to be discouraging. 

So I answer.

Each

Successive

Round

Of

Whys.

She is a sponge.

I explain about day and night.

I give details of human vision.

I describe how the eye works.

I discuss at some length the properties of light.

I start to unpick the complexities of particle/ wave duality theory.

I hear a stifled laugh from behind me.  She has caught me.  She is giggling.

‘Silly Daddy.’ She chuckles.

She is not a sponge.  She is a sod.  A fertile, blooming sod.

Pie Eyed

It is a rite of passage.  We set up Santa Claus.  Carefully establishing each detail; emphasising every aspect like an illusionist priming an audience for the Prestige.

The mince pie.

Something for Rudolph.

The empty empty stocking.

Needless to say much of the excitement lay with us.  And helped to explain why S had an uncharacteristic lie-in this morning.  She left us adults to sit expectantly in our dressing gowns until she stirred.

The pastry crumbs, the carrot stump, the sack full of presents and the Delight of a Child’s Christmas.

Made me feel like a proper grown-up.

Soft Play

One of my dear friends is, as he gets older, increasingly uncomfortable in enclosed spaces.  It started with lifts and now extends to aeroplanes.  He knows it is happening but cannot help himself.  I am developing my own irrational fears too.

S is a truly sweet little girl.  She has the sunniest disposition.  I know I am prejudiced but she is so utterly innocent.  Like I say, I know I prejudiced.  I’m not claiming that she’s not wily.  She already knows how to charm.  And she can be as wilfully mischievous as the next Cheeky Monkey but it’s of her own making in a largely benign environment.  What she hasn’t experienced so far is spite.  Meanness.  Malice.

A horrible little boy pushed her over at Soft Play.  Not because he needed to get past.  Not because he accidently caught her.  No.  Just because he could.  Just because he was being mean.  The shock, not the bump, reduced S to tears.

Now you might be thinking she needs to toughen up. Stand up for herself. Punch back.  Maybe you’re right.  But I’m not so sure I want her vengeful.  Resilient, yes.  Irrepressible, hopefully.  But not blindly retaliating at the slightest incident or bitterly savouring every slight.

She did not understand what had happened.  Such malice was incomprehensible.  She was simply playing.  There was no challenge over a toy.  No contest over some thing.  Nothing said.  No warning.  Simply unmotivated animus.  A simple unprovoked shove. 

She knew some upset had happened.  She knew something was wrong.  It challenged her worldview, of a life where people make things better.

So she got up. 

And she hugged the boy. 

Because that helps make it better.

And he pushed her over again.

And a growing dread grips me.  A terror deep within.  Of someone really hurting her.  Precisely because he can.  Precisely because she’s so untroubled.  Carefree.  Vulnerable.  Precisely because she reaches out to people. 

My Little Girl.  And my irrational fear.

Brilliant

Everything is brilliant to S.  The sky is brilliant.  Animals sounds are brilliant.  Grass under foot.  Rain.  The sofa.  Keys.  Singing.  Whispering.  Running, jumping, laying down.  All brilliant.  All exciting.  All delivering undiluted joy.  All providing good cause for unrestrained laughter.

I love this.

Fit and Well

I've got to admit, it's not been the nicest Sunday I can remember.  And I don't think it's one I'll easily forget.

I thought my beautiful little S was dying.

We went out for a walk this afternoon.  Not long after S woke from her customary nap.  And after she'd had her 4 o'clock milk.  We set out for the park.

We'd just left our close.  We were saying the colours of the pretty flowers.  We were holding hands.  When she just stopped.  Literally stopped.  Almost dead in her tracks. 

At first I thought her two-day constipation was over.  She tends to stop like that when she's got to go.

But her eyes glazed over.  She didn't respond as I knelt beside her.  She crumpled.  I caught her as she fell.  She was limp and lifeless.  My little girl.  My little girl.

I picked up her tiny body and turned for home.  My head was spinning.  I kept telling her that Daddy was here, that she'd be all right, Daddy was here.  T phoned 999, struggling to remember where we live.

S lolled in my arms.  It took a lifetime of moments to walk the fifty yards home.  I clung to her.  I kept talking. 

An ambulance was coming. 

T was banging on the neighbours door, howling with panic.

I laid my little girl down.  She was grey.  Her lips were blue.  Her unseeing eyes wide open.  My God, I was losing her.  I couldn't believe what was happening: a couple of minutes ago we were laughing together.  Now I was watching her die. 

I kept talking, whispering to her, my lips brushing her cheek.  Can you hear me, Scarlett?  Daddy's here.  It's going to be all right.  Can you hear me? 

In the background I could hear T crying and the neighbours' confusion and the scream of a siren.

I couldn't understand.  She'd been fine.  Giggling, talking, playing.  Then this.  Nothing had happened but now this.  She wasn't choking.  She was breathing although it was so shallow, almost not there at all.  She almost wasn't there at all. 

She was hot, though.  I took off her little flowery dress.  As I did she sighed.   Then she spat out what looked like simple water.  She started breathing more deeply.  A hint of colour returned to her face. 

A doctor materialised by our side.  Her immediate assessment was that S was over the worst.  That it had been some sort of fit.  A convulsion.  That her body had simply shut down temporarily to deal with a fever.  That it was quite common.  That she would be all right.  We climbed into the ambulance, S in my arms still, and still glazed and still but with colour and breathing returning to normal.

All the time, I kept talking.  And even though the doctor reassured me, still a terrible dread held me.  Why was S not responding?  Why did she keep grabbing at her leg like that, over and over again?  Why didn't she seem to see me?  Had it been longer than it seemed?  Had I done something wrong?  Had something terrible happened?  Had our little girl been damaged?

I called some friends to pray.  I choked trying to explain.  I bit my lip lest S should hear my fear.  Saying it out loud somehow made it real. 

I returned to my quiet daughter.

'We're going to the hospital.  Where you were born.  We haven't been here for a while.  Where the doctors will help you feel better.  Look Scarlett, can you see the lights?   Can you see the cars on the road?  See if you can count then with me.  One...two...three...four...  What colour is that car?  Is it red?  Is it red, Scarlett?  Like the flowers?  Do you remember the flowers, Scarlett?  Don't worry, it will be all right.  Mummy and Daddy are here.  Oh, look, Scarlett!  Can you see the cows?'

"Yes" she whispered.

'Good girl' I managed as tears broke from my eyes, 'Good girl.'

It was a febrile convulsion, apparently. She has a virus.  It had raised her temperature.  The hot weather had just been too much.  Her body simply 'reset' itself.  No long term harm done.  As many as one in thirty kids suffer from it.  And in almost every case, it only happens once. 

Even once feels too much to me.

Pitch Battle

Ah, the first days of Spring.  And a Bank Holiday to boot.  Who’d have thought it?  What a coincidence. 

We had a Family Day Out.  To a sweet local town.  Where the tourists flock in the sunshine.  Thankfully today it rained.  Not all day mind, just until lunchtime, by which time, we’d made the place our own.

Now going out is always a little tricky because of little S’s afternoon sleep.  She always has a couple of hours right after lunch.  It sears through the day like the magician’s guillotine through his hapless assistant.  Of course it’s fine at home – gives us some space to potter in peace.  Not so great when out.  It’s not that I object to relaxing in some quiet place for a couple of hours.  Perhaps with a beer.  And a newspaper.  The problem is finding somewhere S will sleep.

She will sleep in the car.  If it’s moving.  Otherwise it’s a quiet room or nothing.  Today we had nothing.  Still, although she’d been as good as gold for way past her normal nap time we know that a tired toddler tends to tantrum terribly towards teatime if she hasn’t had her forty winks.

She was tired.  She was nodding.  She’d actually dropped off in her pram until a juggler on a unicycle started to warm up a crowd.  It was warm and sunny.  So we found a quiet spot in the park.   

We laid out our picnic blanket.  We laid her down.  We laid down.  The psychology of the herd, you see.  She closed her eyes.  A game of football started beside us. 

I know that we live in a world suffocated by obesity, where fat threatens to swamp us and evolution promises to redesign our hands to hold games controllers more efficiently but really, did these boys really need to start playing soccer right next to us? 

At first it was just a couple of them.  Then more joined.  I felt my blood begin to boil.  How selfish, I thought to myself.  How irresponsible.  Couldn’t they see our baby trying to sleep?  I glared.  I tried to shield my little girl from the noise and the inevitable near miss. It felt like dozens of boys were running around us now.  We laid resolutely on our blanket. Like silly Cnuts trying hold back the sea.

S started to cry.  Enough.  Enough already.  I stood up to give these idiots a piece of my mind.  It was then I saw the goal posts.  And the spectators at the edge of the pitch.  And the Ref having an intense conversation with a group of concerned parents.

We took S home to bed.

Wet Nurses

Sometimes I wonder about the nursery S attends.  Don’t misunderstand me, it is a marvellous place; excellent pedigree, top marks in all the official tables and all that and S adores her time there.  It’s just that, sometimes, every now and again, I’m not entirely sure what’s going on.

Tonight she was the last child remaining. 

I couldn’t get an answer from the bell.  The cleaner let me in.

Even for last thing in the day, it was quiet.  I peered through the door into the Pink Room.  I witnessed a scene that astonished me. 

S was in the middle of the room.  Giggling.  Lined against one wall stood the six nurses.  They were calling excitedly and waving their arms.  They were giggling too.

‘Scarlley-woo, pick me.’
‘No, me, pick me!’
‘Scarlley-woo-wah.’
‘Pick me, pick me, I want to be your favourite.’

S saw me at the window, lost interest in the clamouring girls and ran over chirping ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.’

The girls looked crestfallen and a little embarrassed. 

‘We were just playing a little game.  Where S picks who she has a cuddle from.’ Said one sheepishly.  ‘Because we keep fighting over her.’