What Do You Do?

I have always disliked that question, and my distain is growing proportionally with age and, I guess, situation.

It is a question that I have never found an acceptable short answer for.

‘As little as possible.’ Used to be my stock reply, but it was never funny, or clever enough to move the conversation onto the next small-talk subject.

See, I had various roles within an UK subsidiary of a multi-national, Danish originated, manufacturer of electric linear actuators and control systems.

Now if that confused you, some of my job titles would have too

Planning and logistics manager, I mean, what is that?

But now, if it is possible, my answers are even longer than before.

Thing is, I’m fudging it a bit at the moment.

Fingers in pies, big-time.

Parenting is number one priority, and as Junior is not at school yet, it does physically occupy a fair share of my time.

But ‘stay-at-home dad’, always prompts immediate intrigue in what my wife does.

I’m still plugging away at freelance writing, but it is very sporadic, and I do not earn a decent income from it yet, nor do I have regular paid jobs.

I have started mentoring, but again this is a work-in-progress, I’m checking it out, and being checked out at the same time.

At a house warming a couple of weeks ago, a youngish lad asked me this question, and I can’t even recall what I said.

Not because I was inebriated, but as I gave him such a long-winded and fumbled answer, he, and I, both wished he had never asked.

It turns out he works in forestry, disappointingly he did not have any logs in his pockets, – I did check - but how nice it would be to give a simple, yet interesting answer like that.

Not sure I’m quite cut out for life as a lumberjack, and I bet very few work part-time.

I think I’m always going to struggle to give a succinct answer, unless I suddenly take up lying.

And that really is not me.

So I shall just have to work on reducing my elongated answer, and continue to develop my career change/in-between jobs riposte.

Half-Term Is A Scream

In so many ways.

Well it is Halloween.

Not that I’m making much of a song and dance about it.

We do have a mutilated candle-bearing pumpkin.

It was part of our fun filled day yesterday.

Out spent with the in-laws, a beautiful autumn forest walk. So many vibrant colours, I just wish I wasn’t photographically retarded.

The walk ended at a small farm that had a charming café, a converted stable no less.

Then back to theirs for dinner and fruit lantern construction. Oh, and watching the new Star Wars cartoon series.

Gangster.

Time with friends and children earlier this week and tomorrow too.

A day at Coventry’s Transport Museum today, which was really, really, really good.

Better than expected - isn’t it nice when that happens?

And time spent with a couple of friends we have not seen much lately. Kids starting school, timetables changing, has meant these occasions are more fleeting than they used to be.

Nobody’s fault. Just life evolving for everyone.

Probably makes these days more enjoyable, as they are savoured rather than taken for granted.

Before Max was at nursery I used to hate school holidays, as all the bigger kids being off, buggered up most of our plans, or made some of our usually enjoyable haunts decidedly unpleasant places.

Now they are an opportunity for me to spend more weekday time with my heir apparent.

There are still places to avoid, and better visited in term time, one of the benefits of not having my child in full-time nursery.

In my experience planning and preparation is the key.

Fill the diary up with activities, and alternatives for adverse weather conditions, or any other surprises the week may bring.

People are important too.

Each day this week has been at a different place, and with different personnel.

A good mix of family, old friends, and Max’s new friends from nursery and around the village.

While it is exhausting, it has felt like a holiday.

We haven’t gone that far or checked-in anywhere. Holidays are more about a state of mind for me.

There has been the odd tantrum, both of us have thrown them, when our way has not been the chosen path.

Only one major incident, which I think we shall both learn from.

We are definitely on the same page this week, in sync.

Lots of ‘I love you’ and cuddles.

But as good as this week has been, I can not wait for nursery to come back online next week!

A Yes For Me, And A No For Him

I shall be going to my second wedding of 2008 this weekend.

And for the second time this year, I shall be going without Junior.

Well actually, the wedding earlier this year, he was a pageboy, but I arranged for him to leave, for much more interesting pastures, as soon as the formalities of the wedding and the photos were done.

My theorem is that for a formal wedding setting, lengthy service in church, posing for photos for a good while, a nice meal, that lasts a couple of hours, followed by another couple of speeches, where you should remain quiet, laugh, and applaud at the correct points, small children won’t really be queuing up to do all or any of that.

And if Max isn’t going to enjoy himself, that also means my time will be far from joyous.

I can remember, when planning our own wedding, that the point of involving children was, or is, a contentious one.

Not something I’d really thought about, as I’d never needed to, and I wasn’t too bothered about people being offended or choosing not to attend based on whether we chose to cater for, or invited children.

I’m more sympathetic now, and it has been my choice to exclude my child from these weddings, I’m grateful that his name was on my, or our, invites.

It is horses for courses, and I’m sure as he gets older, and under different circumstances then we shall attend as a pairing.

In fact, there is a wedding on the agenda next summer, which personally I wouldn’t be bothered about attending, but I know my son will enjoy it, as his cousins will be there.

So I’m sure we shall go as a duo.

But this weekend is an opportunity for both of us to have a good and relaxing time.

Me enjoying a friends nuptials, and he, enjoying a stay at his grandparents.

What Time Is It?

I was fascinated at the beginning of parenthood to learn how your baby is supposed to know when to sleep.

What I mean is, I knew they’d sleep when tired, in their basic hedonistic existence, but why should they sleep longer when it is dark, rather than when it isn’t? It is all the same when you close your eyes.

It also made for one of my more interesting questions at our birthing classes.

But it wasn’t the only one I stumped the health professional with and raised cackle amongst the other soon-to-be parents in our class.

Some children take to the ‘normal’ pattern of being awake in the day, and having your longest sleep during moon-lit hours, very quickly.

Ours did not.

He was not a complete disaster, and would be quite easy to settle; initially he just liked a feed in the night, and thereafter a nightly disagreement with his father, usually around 2am.

By his second birthday he was generally sleeping through, and has since been fairly consistence with his sleeping time, if not location.

The timing of his routine has always been proudly adhered to with military precision.

Changes have been made as he has grown, and as the situation dictates.

I’ve always thought through each one, sought comparison, and information from parents of children of a similar age and inclination.

One of the things I was amazed that worked was bringing his bed time forward, to make him sleep longer into the following day.

Before he dropped a day time nap all together, he would sleep from 8pm till about 6.30 – 7.00am, but get tired after our various mornings exploits, and be back in bed, often before lunch.

By bringing his bedtime forward by half an hour, I found he would actually sleep to more like 7.00 to 7.30am, so he was getting the extra hour he needed, and the regular day-time nap went.

Now, I find the closer to 7.00pm the better, when he starts to get over-tired, he is perversely more reluctant to settle, and he still gets up at the same time the next morning, so we both pay for a late night.

Then there is the daylight saving adjustment, which we just had last weekend.

I really don’t get this, as we shouldn’t be wasting day light at any time of the year, not just the ones when the hours of day light available are deemed short.

And if I don’t get it, you can sure as hell not explain it to a soon-to-be four-year-old.

The start of half-term is probably the best time to change, errrm, the time.

There is no school or nursery bell to fight against, and any adjustment can be worked in over a week before we become slaves to the timetable again.

Our personal adjustment didn’t start well, as Max was in bed extra early on Saturday night, he was absolutely cream crackered.

He woke at god-knows O’Clock, as I hadn’t changed all our clocks. Some are automatic, some aren’t, what is that all about?

After accepting him into my bed, and convincing him to drop back off, I eventually answered yes to his recurring:

“Can we get up now?”

Then yesterday I started the subtle change of hour, bath at six instead of half past, and in bed just before 7.

He slept till the ‘new’ 7.15am this morning, which I never thought he would.

And I get the feel by the end of this week, this might be nearer our new norm.

But before then I will have varying degrees of panic attack, as I'm shocked by each unadjusted clock I encounter.

Making The Most Of It

I have always been a big fan of just getting on with it.

Moping is not sexy. And languishing is a better word for it.

This is not just an attitude borne out of my wife’s passing; it has always been part of my persona.

My family might argue, but I don’t even think I was that sulky in my youth. Sure, I was horrible, but not one to brood about perceived wrong doings for very long.

It is my belief that this attitude has helped me immeasurably to deal with grief, accept loss, and move forward.

Everyone is different, and will deal with their hand as they see fit.

While that is the case it doesn’t stop me observing others, and how they are dealing with their respective losses.

Always looking to learn.

There are those whose behaviour seems completely alien to me, but I suppose, so are their lives. They live in the world of sports and showbiz.

A couple of years ago now, one of Europe’s top golfers lost his wife after a long battle with cancer.

In the aftermath he played a very big part in The Ryder Cup. Winning plaudits for his attitude, and very participation, as well as his outstanding golf.

While I can not really relate to that, I can understand why he might have put himself in that situation. Very few people ever get that opportunity, and it would have given him great focus and been a distraction for the few days that it lasted.

He continues to be a professional golfer, a great career, and something he must love doing and give him real satisfaction.

I remember thinking, and still do to this day, that no amount of money or fulfilment could make being apart from my child worthwhile.

How much money does one need? What does it mean if that is all you have?

But that wasn’t really an option for me anyhow.

Then last night I watched The X Factor, the annual Simon Cowell cash-cow search.

I’ve not always been a big fan of the live shows, or the early performances, as there is often a clear difference in the calibre of the ‘artistes’.

This year the standard is very high, which sadly, for a fellow widower, means his appearance is going to end in tears, and not the good ones.

He is an okay singer compared to the competition, world-class compared to me, but he has made it this far in a weak category, and is certain to make an early exit.

His exit hurried if not for his compelling story.

Last night he was in the sing off, and his emotional rendition of Josh Groban’s ‘To Where You Are’ dedicated to his late wife, made it virtually impossible for the judges to send him home.

Although it may have been a fitting end to his journey.

It actually made me feel uncomfortable watching it.

And I fear that when it does end, it won’t be with the dignity that this guy so clearly deserves.

For me showbiz and grief are not the best combination. But it isn’t like a lot sits nicely with grief.

It is crossing a line that really need not be journeyed over.

I sincerely hope his time in the spotlight has a positive long-term effect on his life.

His Bark Is Worse Than His Bite

How loud can children be?

Forget expensive electric sucking public address systems; just get a gaggle of kids to read out what needs saying.

That way they can learn to read, improve their pronunciation and perform a service all at the same time, ultra efficient.

My little boy wonder has a right set of lungs on him.

I’m glad they dug the foundations deep here, as I’m sure the place vibrates when he belts out a;

“DAD-DEE I NEED YOU.”

It is one of the current lessons I’m trying to deal out.

I suppose it fits under the whole improving our patience banner.

It might actually be a family thing. My sister and I suffered with the same condition, her terribly.

She would bellow for our mother to come and turn her bedroom light off to save her getting out of bed, or if she wanted a drink bringing upstairs.

Max is continuing in a similar vein, or at least trying to.

First up in a morning we’ll come downstairs, usually with Junior riding on my back, switch off the alarm, and then I’ll set him up with some warm milk and, depending on the time, some breakfast.

I then usually head back upstairs for a snooze, shower or both.

Then the shouting starts, for more milk, breakfast – if it is yet to be served – DVDs to be put on, or just general daddy whereabouts enquiries.

I’ve been ignoring these yells, attempting to teach him that shouting is not the way forward.

It has been working, and not working, on several scores.

Let’s just say it is not the best policy when your little one wants their derriere polished.

Ignoring that one back-fired, quite literally.

But generally it seems to be getting through that barking might not be the best way to get assistance from his father.

And brilliantly, when my sister stopped last weekend, she was woken by his persistent bawling and my matching ignorance.

I was just surprised she didn’t join in.

Patience Is A Virtue

If I was appraising my parenting, and the subject of it, I would sure make a few observations, and mark some areas down for improvement.

Perhaps I should delve into my old work self, dig out the appraisal stuff I used to use, and sit down with myself for an hour or two.

‘This is your time,” I used to say to my numbers valued staff.

However I don’t need to do that to know there are several areas we both need to work on.

Patience would probably come out top of my recommendations.

Both in myself and my offspring.

Mine has improved, and is definitely at its best when parenting.

It is still absent on tasks that I find boring, and require persistence, I usually find something else to do, and someone else to finish what I’ve started.

And I’m not sure that those that know me would say I was very tolerant.

But when coaxing child into using the toilet, dressing and generally improving his dexterity, I’ve been pretty good.

I’d score that high on my self-appraisal chart.

However, and I think I partly know why, my son’s patience is not the Mae West.

This is really highlighted at home, as when in the care of others he seems to show it in abundance.

Here he shouts for everything, heads for dessert half way through dinner and can’t wait a minute for me to do anything he has asked of me.

Because it is just me and him, he generally has my attention for the majority of the time, thus he gets a pretty good response time from his daddy.

Another good score on my form.

Well his form anyway, as a by product of this action is he gets used to it, and doesn’t like having to wait for a response, a drink, a pencil, a biscuit or whatever else he’s requested.

As he grows he is able to do more for himself, and I genuinely believe that nursery has aided with this, as he has to do it there, just like everyone else.

Which leads to another good point.

Peers are great way of learning that the world doesn’t revolve around you, as much as this woman thinks it should.

Without the planned brothers and sisters, I’m becoming increasingly aware that I have a different role to play, if I want to mimic some of the benefits of having siblings.

Not giving him first refusal on everything, or allowing him to always get his preferred option every time.

Sometimes I don’t even realise I am doing it.

I mean if he wants the red cup, and I haven’t already poured his drink, he gets the red cup.

Having other kids around is good, because then he doesn’t necessarily get first dibs on everything.

I do encourage having others here as much as possible, and thankfully it isn’t a rare for us, or Max, to have guests.

Last night he had a little friend round for tea.

His little friend is an absolute belter, very well behaved, into all sorts, and listens to instructions.

He is a slow eater though, and that drove my mini-colossus a little crazy, but it was an opportunity to dish out a portion of patience training.

Max reluctantly understood that he must wait for his friend to finish his dinner before pudding could be chosen.

Though he had got it on the table the very instant his chum’s last mouthful was in his cake hole.

Progress.

A bit anyway.

You Are What You Eat

Which, if true, I would do a great impression of the gingerbread man from Shrek.

My diet is fairly varied, and therefore, in my head, healthy.

Which it can be at times, and if it needs to be.

I do like sweet things though, like these.

It is all about balance, isn’t it?

I’ve tried to encourage a health eating habit within my son. But also including some tat, that means he can be fed in any circumstance, and hopefully, will not gorge on the bad stuff in the future.

Even in the immediate aftermath of my wife’s death I insisted on a strict diet of healthy stuff only.

My idea being, if I established a taste for healthy wholesome foods in the first twelve months, it was a sound start, and other foods could then be added to it.

His first birthday came, and so did his first chocolate button.

And ever since I’ve given him all sorts of stuff.

The current policy is, if you eat your healthy stuff you can have what you want in-between, as long as you brush your toothy-pegs often.

This was an agreed tactic, I was the main champion of its application, but Samantha did agree with me.

And now there is no one to argue with me, well, apart from the victim himself.

In the times I’ve sought food guidance from the nation's army of health ‘professionals’ I've been saddened at the general lack of knowledge during our various updates and checks.

There was a memorable visit when I was asking about sticking with advanced formula, in lieu of cow’s milk, as I believed my son would benefit from the additional iron – he wasn’t eating a lot of meat at the time.

If I’d have asked the question in Russian I’m sure I would have got the same look, and quite probably the same waste-of-time response.

Amongst the gems of information, was the classic:

‘If that’s all they’ll eat, we say give it to them.”

And I was the only person not being paid to be in that room. Poor show.

In their defence perhaps answering technical questions from someone who has already searched the internet for the answer, probably isn’t at the top of the job specification.

Instead they are dealing with parents like this;

“No you can’t have any chocolate, you won’t eat your McDonalds.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I overheard that.

Well, I type that, but there weren’t any tears.

Now I don't want to come across as being the proud parent whose child has the best diet, he doesn't, he prefers chips to carrots and chocolate to cauliflower, but luckily he will still eat those things.

It is just frustrating when you see, or in my case, hear children being reared on an inevitable obesity laden diet.

I mean why would you want to do that to those most important to you?

Blimey, this post has turned into a bit of a rant.

Embarrassing Dad

It was, and is, always inevitable that any parent doing their job properly will at times be an embarrassment for those they are parenting.

In my case I’ve managed it before my son’s fourth birthday.

Impressive in my book - out soon.

I really didn’t think it was possible, as I’m literally, maxed out of embarrassment due to the things I’ve got up to with my child.

For his enjoyment, amongst other activities, I’ve pranced around a basketball court complete with pink chiffon scarf, during a toddler and parent music session.

It doesn’t get more red-faced than that.

So I was really surprised that I was able to put that boot on the other foot.

We returned home last night, and our guests were already here, my sister had let herself in, and had taken control of the television.

I could make out they were watching Strictly Come Dancing, so without even thinking about it, and wary that Max was flagging a bit, I suggest we dance into the room.

A few years ago I would have never thought about or even contemplated doing such a thing, but see-above.

Max was a very reluctant dance partner.

When we got into the lounge, he turned around, demanded I stopped dancing, calling it ‘em-ba-wee-sing’ returning to the hall, and refusing to come back until I’d quit.

Quitting wasn’t problem, as I’m no Fred Astaire, more Flintstone.

But I was gob-smacked that I’d managed to embarrass him.

Our guests thought the whole affair was funny anyhow.

And then tonight, during bath-time I was despatched to get some plastic fish from downstairs, and on my return stair journey, inspired by Diana Vickers last night, I was singing ‘Man In The Mirror’ by Wacko Jacko.

When I got to the line ‘I’m asking him to change his ways’ I was interrupted – rather rudely I thought – by my bathing buoy (sic).

‘Well change then Daddy, and stop singing, or you can’t play with me!” the 3-going-on-30-year-old shouted.

I kid you not.

No one else could hear me; all our visitors were long gone.

He was being well harsh, and a little timid and self-conscious for my liking.

Oh well, I’ll get on with knocking that well and truly out of him.

How Do You Do It?

I’ve been asked a few times recently about how I parent.

It’s a very difficult question to answer in any great detail.

The short version is of course very easy.

I parent the way I’m built to.

My way, or the highway sister.

These questions have come as a great compliment really.

Several of the regular playground moms have asked me how I get Max to listen to me, and be so adorable.

I firstly was amazed that they think he does listen to me, I sure don’t get that impression all the time.

And as for adorable, it can’t be genetic.

See, after nursery, and generally while some of the kids wait for their older brothers and sisters to come out from school – they finish 15 minutes later – the younger ones play around.

There is a trail thing they are allowed to use until the older ones come out.

And not a minute more I might add.

Max is often the ring leader, he’s one of the bigger little‘uns, and he is confident across all the challenges that this adventure equipment poses.

Now I was under the impression that Max was no worse and certainly no better behaved than his peers that use this equipment.

I do have to intervene sometimes, tell him to go the right way, stop pressurising the kid in front – that sort of thing.

But no.

He was going home with one of his friends, for dinner at their house, something both he and I love him doing.

The family he was going to be eating with are great.

A real lovely bunch.

We’re getting on really well.

When I went to pick Max up, I was told how good he had been, and how a couple of the other moms had commented on his behaviour in the playground.

Sharp intake of atmosphere moment.

But, it was all good, back-handed compliments.

When drawing up our parenting blue-print many moons ago, we devised a scheme that had an objective, amongst others, that we could take our child anywhere.

I didn’t really understand it at the time, I mean, if you’ve got a car seat and a passport the world is that way man.

I get it totally now.

And I think I’m actually putting that part of the plan into action.

For this week anyway.

Happy Birthday Wifey

On Tuesday, had she still been with us, my lovely wife, Max’s devoted mother, Samantha, would have been 34.

Anniversaries since my wife’s passing have been a bit awkward.

Not in the sense people might expect either.

I remember being told the first set of anniversaries would be difficult, the worst to get through. I only sort-of agree.

They probably are the most difficult in the fact that those particular days are closer to the death you are being affected by, but not in the sense that those days are any more significant than the day before or the day after, just because you happen to have been born, married, or, in fact, widowed on that particular date.

It probably means I’m not ‘normal’ in that I don’t make a big deal out of these so-called dates of significance.

I miss Samantha everyday, not anymore on her birthday or our wedding day.

More-so on new days, Max’s first words, steps or even when he is just good for a nano-second, is when I miss her most.

This year, as much by chance than planning, I actually celebrated her birthday by having a proper ‘me’ day.

I knew the day was going to be a good one, as just before we left the house to drop Junior off at nursery, I asked if he’d checked on his fish.

“Why Daddy? He can’t get out, those sides are hard,” he enthused matter-of-factly.

When I’d stopped laughing, I pointed out that I was more concerned that we hadn’t fed him for a couple of days – he only has one at the minute – and that he might be hungry.

But, I much prefer my boy’s thinking.

After dropping him I laid flowers at Samantha’s grave. Lilies, a collective favourite, and not always easy to get this time of year.

I got two bunches, the other is for the house, I like to take the square edges off our butch place.

Then I treated myself to breakfast.

An early cinema showing was next.

Simon Pegg’s latest offering,I enjoyed it, and had an occasional laugh.

Sadly it was then time for a little tidying, and the small matter of the lad’s unnessary, yet necessary injection.

He was brilliant, although understandably reluctant. The nurse was so impressed she went and fetched a chocolate from somewhere, and with my Spiderman candy sticks, he was probably happy to go through the ordeal just for them.

Next it was off to grandma and granddad’s for tea and stowage.

My best friends had scored some tickets for an Oasis concert, and generously offered me one.

I’m not a huge fan, but thought why not, and it only ended up costing me a round of drinks and sharing platter thingy.

The folks were happy to look after grandchild numero uno, and I was happy to let them.

Midweek stuff is never easy, as I like to stick to the routine, but I allowed myself this exception. And to be fair the actual routine was barely interrupted, just a temporary location and personel change.

I enjoyed the concert, had a few beers and a good laugh with people I don’t get to see often enough.

It meant for a bit of a saw head in the morning, and I did try to type this last night, that was a waste of time.

Enjoying yourself seems such hard work as a 31-year-old.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying.

Don't Give Me None Of That Jibba Jabba

I don’t like incompetence. I do like The A-Team.

That much is clear.

Incompetence is especially frustrating when it makes you look like an idiot and worse still, a liar.

A few weeks ago I took Max for his almost mandatory inoculations.

He was an absolute star; the nurses were pretty good too. And daddy armed with a bagful of praise, and a Ben 10 chocolate lollypop, even turned out to be useful, and actively contributed to a successful jabbing team.

It is never an easy thing to do, taking your kid for an injection.

Necessary evil, if you like, or not, as the case may be.

My late wife wasn’t a big fan, so it is something I’ve been doing since Max was born.

That responsibility started minutes after his birth when I had to hold him for his first jab. I didn’t even know that vitamins went up to the letter K.

I thought after the last set, bar emergency treatment, I’d done my duty – his next booster is due at school - but I was wrong misguided.

The doctors’ surgery called to say that there had been a problem with the batch of medicines that had been injected into my nearest-and-dearest.

Short-term panic attack, and the obligatory glib response.

“He’s OK? He’s going to be OK?”

And then I realised he was holding my other hand on a stroll to the park, obviously in no short-term danger.

Panic over.

“He’s fine. The supplier has notified us that those particular shots did not have all the strains they should have done,” the clever medical person informed me.

My then response was one of mixed intrigue and anger.

How did it happen? How did they detect it now? Nice traceability?

She wasn’t interested in any of these questions, or giving reasonable answers.

It was more important to her to get my son booked in for another shot, of the stuff that was missing last time. So much so I felt hurried.

Hold on, having trusted you to inject my child with your serum let me first digest the information, and mistake, you are telling me about, then you will get my full co-operation.

After all, the most important thing is that Junior’s immune system is topped up fully.

It wasn’t a pleasant telephone call, and I made damn sure that it wasn’t a walk-in-the-park for the lady that had made it as well.

I’m more annoyed that I’ve unwittingly lied to my son, and this week he’ll have to go through this unpleasant experience again.

Trust to me is vital in parenting.

I always attempt to give my son the truth, even when he isn’t going to like it. At least then he can take what I say as gospel.

Trickery, while still useful, is not usually my method of choice.

My father suggested I tell him the doctor made a mistake, and didn’t give him enough medicine last time.

Which is somewhat correct, a good idea, and I think my new short-term strategy.

Men are brilliant when it comes to raising kids.

So, this week, instead of having his friend over for tea, we are trekking to the doctors to right this wrong.

My frustration and annoyance will be on display in the form of distain and question probing for all the medical staff, and probably most of the waiting room if there’s a good wind.

I know it is not directly anyone at the surgery’s fault, but I shall be letting my feelings known, if just to get these other feelings, albeit indirectly, off my chest.

Just For You Daddy

I have a fantastic relationship with my boy.

He’s my best friend, most of the time, and we enjoy each others’ company in any scenario, well, almost.

We bring out the best in each other, and probably the worst. But I think it is funny how he reserves certain behaviour, or changes it, just because of my very presence, that of others, or even just as the day gets older.

This morning, he was a tad reluctant to go to nursery. I think it is a delayed reaction to some of his friends crossing the playground to proper school in September.

He moaned all the way round, on our usually pleasant walk.

Enter his friends, and a transformation.

Happy as a pig not in a sandwich.

Still needed me to accompany him over to the big group of kids trading Pokemon cards.

I have my uses.

Then we have our respective days at play, and at nursery.

Upon collection, as we were off to Grandma’s for tea, and I expect Max to want to play for a bit with his friends before we headed there, I suggested he went to the toilet.

Cue the grizzles.

“That’s the first moan we’ve had all day,” said the genuinely surprised nursery leader.

Still, he went, and so did we, eventually, for our free feed.

Once there, he then told me to stop talking to his grandma, I must either wait for his granddad to come home from work, or play with the toys he had suggested.

I ignored him, and pointed out, that the time he’d spent trying to ostracise me would have been better used playing, which I wasn’t really interrupting.

Granddad did return, and he was invited to play, as I was again reminded that I was not necessarily needed.

Dinner was cooked, and I was again his friend.

“I want the same as Daddy.” He told all that would listen.

Afterwards, and as he tired, my stock grew.

I was on toilet duty, and became central in the game playing.

And simply had to be the one to get him ready to go.

Some of the reasons we visit, is for a bit of a break, and so the grandparents get to do some of the things usually reserved for moi.

Therefore I deliberately held back from going to help him wash, brush his teeth and get his PJs on.

But, no sooner had I not followed him up the stairs, could I here his little feet coming down them to fetch me.

We negotiated briefly and Nanny was re-included in his support team.

Though he wasn’t too keen.

“I want Daddy to do it,” repeat to fade.

Like two hours ago, if he’d had his way, I wasn’t even allowed to talk, now, only I was allowed to hold his tooth brush.

Barmy.

My popularity index must have had more movement than the FTSE today.

And most likely, so will it tomorrow.

Bachelors' Pad

We’ve well and truly settled into our self-built home.

The wood burning stove is in situ, and I’m in the process of procuring wood via the most cost effective method.

And trying to sort out an operating protocol that means I keep my fingerprints on the end of my digits.

All good fun, and I’m already reaping the benefits as the Autumn truly kicks in.

Something quite homely about it, and watching my son dunk ginger nuts into a cup of tea, in front of it in our living room, is very nice indeed.

I’ve been complimented by many on the design of my property, my kitchen and bathroom choices, the decoration and general way I’ve furnished the property.

I can tell it is genuine when some of the women keep asking who helped me with this, or who chose that.

It was me.

Who else is there?

Well actually, I can’t take all the credit, the boy did choose his own colours and light fitting. And even his choices have been revered.

Must run in the family.

My wife and I did actually make those sorts of decisions together previously.

And what turned out to be our only family home was redecorated, and modified from top to bottom, by ourselves.

Some of the colours I’ve transferred to our new home.

I was mindful, of trying to not go too boyish with our place.

After all, I am trying to be the most balanced parent I can, so why not have a well balanced environment to do it in?

Problem is, I’ve had one room left to furnish – the hall, and it is still not complete, but I have started it.

And start it with putting in stuff of a somewhat masculine nature.

They included a gum ball machine, my late wife bought me. A table-type vintage game machine, I’ve acquired via my lovely sister. And a fish tank that I bought for Max’s first birthday present.

I’ve also earmarked a clever storage system for under the stairs, and thereafter will be adding a desk.

My thinking, was, or is, I’m going to create a kind of reception area for my home.

Which, while being quite quirky, would be practical on so many levels.

Fish for us to maintain.

Games for us to play.

Sweets for us to dispense.

And a desk and for working at, dumping post, and eventual paperwork stowage.

But it is turning into a bachelor’s dream area.

A play room for both father and son.

Well after all I suppose that it is home to two boys, and by walking beyond this room, our visitors, especially the regulars, will quickly realise it isn’t like that throughout our home.

We’ve even got fresh flowers sometimes.

Perhaps I should make that a more regular thing.

Hi, I'm A Widower

Late last week I was banging-on about others speculating about my circumstance, rather than simply asking me outright.

When I started that post I was actually going to stretch it to talking about how it feels to tell someone the truth, or my version of it anyway.

With the September changeover, kids off to school, and new kids in at the nursery, there have been a new set of parents, and some new staff, to get acquainted with.

Amongst them are the parents of twin boys, who I’ve discovered live on the very road that we do, and will be in the same school year as Junior.

The boys have been playing, one in particular, very well with Max at nursery by all accounts, which is absolutely wonderful.

I love watching his friend circle grow.

I’ve got into a few chats with both these boys parents. They seem really nice too.

As they live on the same road, our walks home have coincided a little, the boys continue their play, which leaves the adults to observe and natter.

Nattering wasn’t always a strength of mine, but through sheer hard work, and much practice, I could now add it to my social CV.

I learn all about the family and where they are from, what they do, the plans for the kids, all sorts of stuff. And all the time I’m thinking – I’m going to have to tell them in a minute – in fact, my aloof and unfocussed expression probably makes me look rather rude.

I’m at peace with our situation, I’ve accepted it, and I’m dealing with it, on a breath-by-breath basis.

It is the mixed emotions I get in others when I tell them about our status quo.

It is pretty emotionally charged stuff to tell someone that you’ve suffered huge loss, and the wonderful little boy in front of you will never get to know his mother.

And the thing is, if you’re not expecting it, it can hit you even harder.

The other side of the coin is I don’t covet sympathy, I don’t need it.

If people want my friendship, they can have it, but I don’t want anything out of pity.

In the past it has made the immediate aftermath uncomfortable for everyone. Generally it is best to tell people just before we would naturally part anyway.

They can go and deal with the information outside the pressure of my gaze.

I had a situation on Saturday, on a train trip back from a football match.

Due to the marvel that is odd numbers, I ended up sitting by an ever-so lovely 30 something lady.

We got talking and I established she had a young son, was divorced and thus, like me, was a single parent, albeit by a different route.

I told her about Max, but chose not to elaborate on our circumstances unless pushed.

Thing is, we were going to be stuck on the train for a good while, and it had been a long day, which I didn’t want to lengthen.

Luckily she didn’t probe well enough, and was satisfied, with my - he lives with me –answers.

But, it did feel a bit like lying, even though I know it isn’t.

This isn’t going to go away, and I’m unsure if there is a better tact for me.

Just something to live with and learn from, and perhaps I could find less dramatic means of explanation. But I supposed they will ultimately all involve death.

Gives a whole new meaning to the devil is in the detail, doesn’t it?

We Don't Get To See Max's Mom Much

No?

Neither do we.

Except, as I tell my child, when we close our eyes. Then we get a good look at her, a cuddle and maybe her opinion.

Earlier this year, my sister checked in for a spot of baby sitting, while I was off sunning myself. Well, not sunning myself exactly, I was ski-ing, and in general the weather was rubbish.

Anyway, one of the mornings she dropped my son at nursery she was mistaken, by one of the other parents, for his mom.

An easy mistake I suppose, a young-ish woman at the nursery door with a toddler, two and two often make four.

However, I’d been taking my son three times a week to the same place for nearly six months.

It isn’t a big place. Last year they had a maximum of a dozen children per session.

There would often be, and I would be involved in, chat amongst the collecting/depositing line of parents, grandparents, aunties and others.

I know people’s own conclusions can be more interesting than fact. And I don’t like to play the widower card very often.

But in this regular situation, where most likely our kids are going to be chums, I’d rather people just asked.

It is an unusual situation.

One that would prompt intrigue in me if I were on the other side of it.

I mean it is a man, dropping his son off to every session, attending the nativities and sports days solo.

There’s maths to be done there.

People can be too polite, and as it happens I’ve tended to befriend the ones who are more comfortable with asking questions, and don’t appear to have hidden motives.

Interested, not nosey, if you know what I mean.

I understand that during infrequent situations people will wrongfully identify women in my company as Max’s mom. I’ve played dad to many a friend’s kid at soft play places, the zoo, in restaurants and at the odd wedding.

Wrongful identification can be a wonderful thing.

I do think it best that people ask, rather than me explaining the situation unprompted.

The best never inquire directly, or cast aspersions on a potential mother not being around or disinterested in their own child.

If I was a single mom or widow, I think the other mothers would have established my marital status quicker.

I could be wrong, I wouldn’t like that, but being the same sex does seem to make it easier to ask relationship questions of strangers.

My currently separated neighbour would probably vouch for that, he’s been on the receiving end of some investigative belters from me.