Steps

I grew up in the 90s.

The 90s were a bit of a funny decade, from what I remember. In the early part of it, lots of people lost their jobs, lost their homes and went to big parties in fields. All three of those things were probably a bit shit, but the last one was made good by little tablets which made everyone think the 90s were great.

Then, in 1997, everything changed. You probably know what I'm talking about. The dawn of a new era. A paradigm shift in the way we lived.

Not Tony Blair and New Labour.

Steps.

Look at them. Awe inspiring, no? (Photo courtesy of http://www.pop-music.com)

Remember those guys (and girls)? Inspiring lyrics, easy to copy dance routines, brain achingly uplifting. Wow. Momentous.

I think Steps were probably aware of how much of a game changer they were, which is why they decided to be called Steps. See, steps (without the capital letter) are a bit of a game changer themselves, and they're currently changing the game in my house.

Yes. The boy is walking. A bit. Sort of. He's quite good at falling over. And very good at tentatively letting go of things, taking two faltering, carefully considered paces, then dropping to his knees.

Both my wife and I were present for his first go at it (well, we're happy to assume it was his first go...) and it is one of those moments that reminds you how magical it is to be a parent. A big moment. A window into how things will be from now on.

Soon, we won't be crawling around the floor with him, chasing him out from under the table and watching him laugh as he leads us through gaps which we are really too big to get through. Walking is big. Walking is one of the things which makes us unique as a species (I know there are other bipeds, feel free to not point that out...).

Those first steps are a literal and figurative move toward a whole new chapter in our son's life. Unlike Steps, I think this will be a good chapter.

Change

A few years ago I was employed by one of the many subsidiary companies of one of the big banks. I was in the Small Change Team. Contrary to how that sounds, I didn't spend my days counting coppers, though it may have been more use if I had. Alas, no. The Small Change Team was supposed to implement process improvements and whatnot, to make the business more efficient and cost less to run.

Eventually, the powers that be decided that the best change they could make was to make eighteen of the twenty-two members of the Change Department redundant. Including me.

No worries, it was a terrible job, and I miss it not one iota.

But it did introduce me, formally, to people's perceptions of change, which is sort of interesting.

Change is inevitable. We all know that, no matter how much we may dislike it (and some people dislike it a lot), change will happen and we are largely powerless to do anything about it.

Next week will see a big change for me, my wife and my baby.

My baby, who is already over nine months old. How did that happen? I have a photo blu-tacked to the cupboard next to my desk at work. It's Cam, just hours after he was born, wrapped in hospital blankets, cradled in the bend of my arm, tiny and screaming. I am looking down at him and smiling. It's a dangerous photo to have in the office, because every time I look at it I remember the swell of emotion fuelling that smile on my face, and it makes my eyes well up with tears.

My life changed that day, and it has changed every day since.

But, next week is a biggy.

Mrs L returns to work, part time. I reduce my hours at work, meaning a day at home with Cam each week. Mrs L's parents will look after him for two full days each week. The final day of care will be taken care of by a local nursery.

For me, this is a positive change. I'm not a great fan of my job, but I am a great fan of spending time with my son.

For my wife, I suspect, it will be harder to get used to the idea. Maternity leave hasn't been the soft-focus, warm and fuzzy utopia she may have liked it to be, but she's happy and comfortable being at home now.

We are immensely lucky to have Cam's grandparents close at hand. He loves them and they love him. They will provide him with the same care and attention as we would. Plus, they're a whole lot cheaper than a nursery.

The most important person in all of this is the cheeky faced little boy who now welcomes me home from work every day with a beautiful chuckle and an excited wave. Somewhere in that little head he'll be processing the changes and deciding how to deal with them. Will he feel it's acceptable for both me and my wife to leave him with other people on a regular basis? Will he still feel as loved, as cherished, as central to everything that we think, feel and do?

Nine months old and he'll be going through his first big change (well, there was a pretty major one when he was born, but he seems to have coped alright with that), and we're the ones putting him through it.

I'm nervous. I think we all are. Next week feels important and exceptional. But, soon enough, it will just feel normal.

Thanks for reading.

Sensitive

If you have met me you will know that I’m not at all scary. I’m generally possessed of a fairly cheery disposition, I like a chat and a hug and a laugh. I dislike confrontation and being made to feel uncomfortable.

It takes a lot to make me genuinely angry, and when it does happen it is usually a fleeting moment of rage.

I’ve never been in a fight, which is perhaps fairly unusual for a man. I did, once, get sufficiently consumed by the red mist that my brain fired the following message to my left arm: “throw a punch at that guy”. That message was immediately followed by another: “oh fuckshitballs, what are you doing, no, abort! Abort!”

Momentum carried the punch into the cheek of the person who’d riled me, but without the force of anger behind it I suspect the recipient thought I had intended to give them a gentle caress, not a knockout blow.

Actually, I know he didn’t, because he spent the next ten minutes taking the piss out of me for having such a feeble punch. The fourteen year old me happily accepted that he was right.

To adopt a cliché, I’m definitely a lover not a fighter.

Recent events are making me think Cam has managed to inherit my sensitivity and general wussiness.

Cam has a friend (well, Mrs L and I have some friends, and they happen to have a baby). She is about six weeks younger than Cam. She is a fair bit smaller than Cam. She is a mild mannered and contented baby.

Every time Cam spends any time with her, he cries.

Proper crying too, not just a bit of gentle whimpering. Full on, bottom lip curled out, streams of tears, bawling.

Why?

Because she shouts at him.

When this little girl gets excited she shouts. To the adult observer, it is cute. It’s a small explosion of noise which she seems unable to suppress. A verbal expression of joy which bursts from her mouth without much warning. It’s actually really lovely.

But Cam doesn’t like it.

Which, considering he’s off to nursery in three weeks time, is giving us a bit of cause for concern. What if our beautiful baby boy isn’t cut out for the dog eat dog world of Happy Hours Nursery? Will I be coming home from work to collect a tiny human exhausted and dehydrated from ten hours of uncontrollable sobbing?

Or, perhaps, like a stint in the army, nursery will be like baby boot camp for the little mite? He’ll go in a meek, easily upset cuddlebug and come out a finely tuned killing machine little bit less tearful.

Either way, we’ll soon find out, because there’s no alternative available to us at the moment. I just hope the other babies at nursery are nice and quiet………

Blues

Going back to work sucks.  There.  Simple.

I tried REALLY hard not to have to come back.  You know, did all the right things.  I bought lottery tickets for EVERY DRAW during my time off.  Euromillions and National Lottery.  Nothing.  Not even a measly tenner.

So I’m back.  Clocking in.  Logging on.  Reading through the multitude of emails sent to me in my absence.  Deleting seventy percent of those emails.  Trying to get back into the flow of the office.

But it sucks.

Two weeks is not enough time to get to know your new life, to support the mother of your child and to appreciate the cute squishy thing that now lives in your house.

Obviously, The Creature agrees with me.  He decided that the night before my return to work would be his worst in almost a week.  Nice one son.  It wasn’t too much of a big deal; Mrs L was her usual lovely self and dealt with all of the graveyard shift.

Sleep didn’t come easily.  A combination of not wanting to go back and crying (his, not mine) saw to that.  But I slept enough to wake up and go to work.  Enough to forget to spray myself with anti-perspirant.  Enough to leave my laptop at home; prompting an eruption of expletives when I realised, ninety percent of the way through my commute. 

I won’t lie to you all, I am jealous of Mrs L just now.  I know that her maternity leave will be hard work.  Harder work than if she was going to work.  Harder work than I will be doing at work.  But I still covet it.

Last week I posted about the range of things I’ve already noticed changing in our little boy.  Now, when I sit at my desk, I’m wondering what new things I’m missing.  I looked at him last night, he looked back at me, and he looked different.  What will have changed come the end of the week?

I now understand the plight of the working mum, who feels cheated when they miss the first words, or the first steps.  Perhaps this is dangerous grounds for complaint, but won’t somebody think of the dads?  Rare are those of us who don’t miss out on almost all of those fantastic firsts. 

I’m probably soppier than the average man when it comes to things like this.  Maybe most blokes just don’t care.  Maybe they all just want to go back to work so they can escape the screaming.  So they can talk about football and other man things.  I don’t know.  I just know that for every hour I spend at work there’ll be somewhere I’d rather be (frankly, it was ever thus, even pre-baby) and something I’d rather be doing.

No doubt I’ll get used to it.

This has panned out to be rather a whingy post, sorry about that.