Single/Lone/Stay-at-Home Parent (Delete as appropriate)

What is a single parent? Technically, and I haven’t bothered to consult the Oxford English, I guess it’s a person of either gender that happens to be single and is also a parent.

It is something I’ve laboured over, mainly to come up with the shortest possible title that explains my personal circumstances, without being too melodramatic or lumping myself into a stereotype.

Oh, those lovely stereotypes. People will think what that want and conclude what they will, regardless of the actual. Perception is reality, opinion and stuff.

It’s for those reasons I read with interest other accounts of people in similar vessels to mine.

As well as searching for hints, tips and inspiration I’m always interested to read how others have coped further down the road, and if they took a similar path to mine.

This piece stuck out, and I’ve now read it three times. At first I thought I’d found someone in very similar circumstances to myself, however with double the number of children and at a school age. An author to boot, writing titles that encompass being a single dad.

Brilliant. A possible idea of what’s coming my way and inspiration for my writing career.

Wrong. We're not living in the same world.

The article is essentially about men feeling the woes of being an empty nester. Not consulting the dictionary again, but I would have though this applied when children left home for University or to set up their own home, not when they opt to go to boarding school.

What works for one family won’t work for the next, and I’m not about to have a negative opinion on the likes of Hogwarts, but I can’t really see the sense in the actual piece. And this must be an incredibly rare situation.

I admire anyone who’s managed to balance life enough to give their children a sound upbringing and at the same time have their own sense of worth and successful-enough-career.

It’s all about choice and what’s best. And accepting what’s best even if those choices may not be your first choice or go against how you’d like your life to pan out.

In this instance it reads like boarding school was the best option for all parties, even if that comes at the expense of premature empty nest syndrome.

I can’t really see Max wanting to go to boarding school or me even being prepared to send him if he was. An au pair may be our solution, oh my god, could you imagine the stereotypes and perceptions with that?

Now I’m going to work on a hyphenated annex system for clearly identifying lone parents into their appropriate groups. Or should I just enjoy spinning a yarn once in a while?

Wham, Bam, Thank You Dad

What a Birthday.

I got to go on a Thomas, get that, Thomas steam engine. Daddy never said it was going be a Thomas, I think he forgot.

The Fat Controller was there, and I don’t mean Granddad (usually the Fat Controller). And so was Percy, Rocket and some smaller engines.

Grandma bought me a flag to wave on the way and we were off. Do you know where Thomas took me? He took me to see Santa in his grotto.

Before the grotto we got to see a model railway set, which Daddy had to hold me up for a better view and explanations in my ear-hole. I loved it.

I’m learning stuff all the time, I learnt where the phrase ‘Camp as Christmas’ comes from this Santa! He was a bit high pitched, but it was a nice key to here ‘Happy Birthday’ sung and I got a present.

We stopped for a drink and a mince pie. The Granddads took me back for another look at the model railway before we got back onto Thomas.

I waved my flag again on the way back. Then I went on the miniature railway with Granddad Bad-Back (who had a recurrence later on).

I got Nanny Ginge to buy me something from the station shop before we left.

Next stop was the building site. Nanny and Granddad hadn’t seen it, so I showed them round. Though Daddy thought I might have a nap through this on-the-way stop.

We got to my Grandparents and I started opening a few presents, there were loads. Granny made some soup, to keep me warm for the football.

Next, Daddy and the Granddads took me down to what Daddy calls, the home of football.

They had a merry-go-round, grotto, music and face-painting. But I wanted to get into the ground for a pre-match ‘beer’.

We’d got really good tickets which meant we were warm inside before the match started. I had some of Daddy’s fizz and Granddad’s beer.

The match was fantastic and I shouted ‘Come on you reds.’ They listened because we won 3-0. I danced to the music when we scored.

After the match we went home to open the rest of my presents and to have some party food with some of my family and friends.

I had loads of lovely toys and loads of party food. My Auntie dressed me up as Darth Vader, he's my favourite from Star Wars.

It also meant I had a load of people to read bed-time stories to me, though I don’t remember them all as I was sooooo tired and must have fallen asleep through some of them.

And Then He Was 3

Right, countdown time. It’s T minus several wotsits until Junior’s third birthday.

Wow. He’s three already. I can’t believe it. Well, that’s probably a daft thing to say, or type. As it feels like he’s been around all my life.

It will be 365 all-too-short days from last year’s extravaganza. A wonderful day of trains, Santa and sandwiches.

Tomorrow will be a day of trains, Santa, sandwiches and football! Must think of another activity to add next year, go-karting maybe? We're having a proper boys birthday.

He’s been in great form this week. There has been a lot going on. The nativity, nursery party, play-group party, all alongside the ever-more-interesting house build project.

I think we are ready. But as long as there’s cake tomorrow and a few presents he’ll be chuffed, as will I with him.

Be sure that Max will provide a full review of his birthday, and the cake, in the next few days, or sooner if anyone is prepared to give him their ear.

Then there’s just the not-so-small matter of a visit from that fat bloke in the red suit. I hope he thinks I’ve been a good boy.

Ah, Now I Know Why She Moaned

What a nightmare. Can't believe how much of my life I have used up, shopping for Christmas.

I now know why I used to get really bad ear ache this time of year. I always thought women loved shopping, but I can understand how that love can be suspended, well at least until the January sales.

I did listen enough to know that a list is essential for successful shopping, but that is the start of the problem. It was difficult enough to list the people I needed to shop for, let alone fill the present idea column.

Some people just insist on buying for each other, or each others children. Regardless of the fact of how closely we are related or how often we may bump into each other.

At least most people with children are good. You can negotiate each other out of the present circle and just get exciting stuff for the kids.

This years shopping has really caught me out. I've had Max sorted for weeks, well it's wise, as his Birthday is only 3 days from Christmas so some of the stuff he wants will always run out. And buying earlier means you can spread the cost, as I'm not really in a position to run the accrual I used to.

I suppose it has been well down my priorities list, and my usual internet outlets have been out of action at crucial times. Not because there's been a problem with them, more some scallywags making good my card numbers, right at the end of November, bless them.

Anyway, today was the final BIG shop. I had a virtually complete list, well it had names on, and most had presents next to them.

Telford International (?) Shopping Centre was the venue. Never been before, but after its resounding recommendation by the nursery queue, it could not be ignored. It also meant I could drop in on the build without going out of the way.

Cracking place actually. Most of the high street names and some interesting others, like Hawkins Bazar. How my brother-in-law loves my Christmas 'gifts'.

All done now, seem to literally go round the Wrekin to get out. And that's the bit I'm supposed to be good at.

However it's taken me all afternoon to wrap the crap. I had to put Napoleon Dynamite on just so I could smile my way through it.

What A Performance

I, like I'm sure thousands of parents, have enjoyed my child's first school performance this week.

He reprised one of the Inn Keepers in the nursery's well directed nativity play.

The part fitted him really well, as he has a fantastic ability to say no, whilst simultaneously holding his hand up in a traffic cop style; he just needed to think Mary & Joseph were after his food or toys.

So job done. And a wonderful effort by the four staff and around 20 kids in the show. It must have been so intimidating for them. The room was absolutely packed out, and every other person was pointing something with Canon written on it at the children.

Sadly I didn't get any good shots, as I was forced to use my phone. The camera died just before the start, must be all the photos I've been taking of the other work-in-progress.

Still we had absolutely no tears, and all the children read their lines, sung and danced like a Pan's People tribute.

Max's most notable contribution was, obviously getting a bit bored, and reciting off all the Star Wars characters he could think of.

Couldn't have been prouder, he remained in his costume right up until his chip supper reward, bless him.

It wasn't as an emotional moment as I'd built it up in my head. I think it was due to the shear numbers involved and the fact that it seemed to be more of a song and dance, and less of a pressured performance, much as it should be.

All I Want For Christmas Is You

Eureka. At the top of most children's Christmas list is, no not a Nintendo DS, but, time, time with their parents.

The Children's Society, part way through a two year study into childhood in Britain, believes it has discovered some sad truths.

Children of these isles have put time with parents at the top of their priority list.

This is driven by the belief and sister research that finds that due to our long hours of work, we are spending less time with our children, and sitting to eat together is becoming all too rare.

Is it a sad fact of modern life, that parents have to spend more time away from their children in order to meet the growing cost of running a happy family? I don't actually know, and I struggle to comprehend how research done today compares with the hearsay of the past.

In order to combat this, the organisation has published a 16-page guide to assist parents through Christmas, and give plenty of ideas of how to make it an enjoyable and memorable one.

I'm all for ideas, and the theft thereof, however I believe on some levels such assistance can also be to the detriment of parenting.

If we have too much guidance we can become over reliant on it, and eventually pass responsibility to those dishing out advice rather than taking responsibility ourselves.

This may not fall into that category, but it does have some of its hallmarks.

Personally, I'll ask for and read such documents, but I really don't like being told what to do or what my child might want or need.

Max is pretty good at telling me what he wants, and it's my responsibility to know what he needs, and be acutely aware that my input will produce an output, or not, as the case may be.

Why are the highs so bad?

So, we’re on the building site that is going to be our future home. It’s the first time that Max has seen it since it has not been overgrown. Touch something not made out of MDF, it’s all going well.

Now I know there was a digger and a small dumper truck around but Max was a livewire. I held him so he could see over the hedge. There are absolutely glorious views over the soon-to-be broccoli growing fields.

I’m telling Max where his room is going to be, and he’s joking with me that he’s having my room. We’re both enjoying the views. Max is watching the builder excavate the footings avidly. And then it hits me.

When I get these highs, I almost instantly feel sad. At these points I’m always totally overwhelmed by how much I miss Samantha, Max’s wonderful Mother. It’s a mixture of missing her, not having her to share our highs with, Max not having her around, and a totally irrational feeling of guilt. Me being here and feeling happy.

The three builders on site helped, if only their very presence encouraged me to keep my emotions in check.

These moments are real reminders of what happened and the situation we find ourselves in. Now, those around me will know, I don’t shirk and I’m not ignoring what’s going on. It’s just when things are going well, I think about what could have been, and was.

I almost dislike everything going well. It gives me an eerie feeling of exactly how I felt, from literally the moment I met Samantha, until the very moment I realised I’d lost her.

Absolutely ridiculous. Totally irrational. But it’s how I feel.

Still, the alternative is much worse. A spiral of nothing, or feeling sorry for yourself is very dangerous and life destroying.

In some perverse way, I do actually like a little weep. It reassures me that Samantha will always be part of our lives. And in a way, will be with us during our experiences. Highs and lows.

Prozac or Work?

The academics are telling us how we feel again, well not me exactly. I have a similar existence to some SAHMs but I have tinky winky and the la las (Max speak for a cock and balls).

Apparently mothers that stay at home to care for their children are more miserable than their peers that return to work. Even women working over 45 hours per week are recording higher levels of ‘life satisfaction’, whatever the monkeys that is.

However the part I liked the best, and by that I actually mean, disagree with laughably, is that the study concluded that the arrival of children brings no increase in life satisfaction for men.

Sometimes, or is that always, these studies based on sample data from a relative small number are totally irrelevant. All this data is subjective, what works for me, won’t work for the next, and so on.

Personally I think a full-time return to work would have been soul destroying. Ok, I’ve got exceptional circumstances, but I can still remember crying the night before my paternity leave finished.

I think this report would have been better weighed towards encouraging parents to find a happy balance. Obviously there is a need to make the books add up, but I think there’s always an argument for parents to maintain independence, that may well include work. Alpha Mummy agrees.

For me, I’d always planned, that the wife and I would have lives outside of our children. I know too many people that have hit middle age and seem to have nothing because their kids aren’t interested anymore.

Obviously my planning was fatally floored, quite literally, but the principle is still the same. I enjoy writing, always been one of my ambitions. And I do believe it makes me a happier person.

Let me be on the survey next time. My findings will confuse them cleverer-than-me academics.

Multi-Tasking, Minus a Vulva

Man, perhaps not the best start to a multi-tasking post, but I've been on fire this week. Will somebody please put me out soon? I've landed some new writing gigs, and been very busy with the ones I've already cultured.

I've finally managed to sell my story to a woman's weekly. Max's potty training remains a work in progress, but I believe we are making some. My self build house project has finally physically started. I've been on the phone semi-permanently to the various parties involved in that process.

Max's nativity costume has arrived. Our learning of the lines and songs has begun. My name is attributed to various party items and raffle prizes for the nursery party day. I've got stuff in the fridge for one of Max's playgroups parties tomorrow.

There's a couple of blogs, you might have read, I still manage to get to, as well as the usual mundane stuff of washing, ironing, cleaning et al. It's a good job I haven't even got Sky Plus as it would have been given its cards this week.

Just the small, and it will have to be, matter of christmas gifts to get off the to-do list.

I must also announce delight at the the healthy birth of some of my best friends' second child, and before you ask, I've managed to find time to get a card and everything.

To Pee or Not to Pee?

Fingers, and legs for that matter, crossed. We have a cunning plan. Max’s first nursery session of the week was today (Wednesday). And after the toilet failings there last week, I decided that we needed a different tact.

I can’t praise the nursery staff enough, they have not asked for nappies to be re-applied or for me to accompany Max for a session at nursery. This means that they are either very sound child care staff, or they have shares in 1001 carpet cleaner. My trust is in the former.

Having been sold the virtues of reward rather than reprimand, it’s an approach that’s been liberally applied in Max’s upbringing. There’s no formal reward chart and no specific ongoing targets for us to achieve. But believe me, I have a carrot at the end of my stick.

A new system of stickers on the toilet door at home, has appeared to have motivated Max enough to regulary use the toilet, which then grants him the necessary authority to apply a sticker to the growing number on the door.

Shortly after our parent-carer chat this morning, the nursery thought it prudent to also adopt this approach. So right now, in trap one at the nursery, is a picture with Max’s name above. The good news is that it had three stickers on it when I went to collect him earlier. Now I’m not sure if they’re doing arithmetic yet, but in my book, and on Max’s wall; 3 Stickers = 3 Pees.

Now the real test is tomorrow, as he is there for a full day and they have more children on the full days. He’s adamant that he will continue to perform in the stalls, but alas, the proof will be in, well, the toilet or his trousers!

Daddy, while you may be in agony, there’s jobs to be done.

Love for a child can sometimes be very painful, and can cause the most extreme range of emotions. Most recently, I went through the physical and the emotional and all after only 90 seconds of the day starting.

On a very recent morning, Max’s rustling wasn’t enough to wake me, so instead I was awoken with a solid tap on the shoulder. Then the conversation, or more accurately the instructions came something like this “Daddy, Daddy, I’ve got two jobs for you. I need milk and the potty!”

As I’m a man that knows his place, I merely muttered ok and stumbled to my feet. On my way to complete these tasks, I reached full walking pace about a millisecond before an unplanned meeting with the end of my bed.

Fluke me it hurt. The minor mark or soon-to-be-scab on my left knee, goes no way to record the immediate pain I went through, as I crashed against the wooden frame and then on to the ground.

This is where the love of my child was truly tested. As I lay on the ground using all the restraint I could muster to not scream out the obscenities such an occurrence surely justifies, I again received the shoulder tap.

“Daddy, two jobs, milk and potty!”

Don’t you just love them?