Sensitive Sole

This is not a duplicate post, although it does have a very similar title to a recent one of mine.

It is just me demonstrating my limited vocab.

And yet again my wonderful boy showing off his softer side.

For my son’s first birthday, which seems like an eternity ago, I decided to get him a tropical fish tank.

It was a present I really thought about, hoping that it would be a good use of a few quid rather than a waste of a lot.

My theorem proved to be correct.

The vibrant colours and movement often kept my boy’s attention, and he also enjoyed our various trips to the local aquariums.

They also served well at plugging hour-long-holes in our daily routine.

Sadly, because we moved around a bit in the next couple of years, I left the tank with my parents. And while they – my mother in particular – looked after our set-up, our fish stocks dwindled just like that in The North Sea.

I did not forget about the tank, and earmarked several spots in our new property, once we were ready for it.

Eventually its new home became our hall, and it rather adds to the whole chic reception feel of this area of our house.

With Junior being older the appeal of the glass box has become even greater.

And its usefulness has increased too.

My son knows we have to look after the fish by feeding them and maintaining the water.

He also took great interest when we were re-stocking, as the guy at the local fish place – of the non-dead and unbattered kind – guided us on the number, type and order of fish we should be introducing back into our near three year-old Nemo look-a-like container.

A neon-tetra actually survived all that time, but strangely my son never asked what happened to the others.

The story was a bit different when we lost the first fish from our new pool of gill bearers.

I suppose he was much more attached to this lot, due to his age, and also because he had actually chosen these fellas.

He has not come up with names for them, not ones that have stuck anyway, but he knows the name of the four varieties we have.

We came home one evening, shortly before the holidays, and our black molly was no more.

Well, he was motionless on the bottom of the tank to be more precise.

Dead.

I did not bring it to my offspring’s attention immediately; more pondered how to deal with it.

My pondering did not last long, as I have always thought honesty, or a relative version, is the best policy.

“One of our fish is dead son.” I informed my boy.

He established which one it was, which immediately became his favourite.

“When will he be back Daddy?” He enquired.

The answer to that question was rather more a re-affirmation of explanations past.

Another chance to subtly drill home my where-Mommy-is philosophy, if that is possible.

Our emotions over the next sixty minutes or so were all over the place.

There were not a lot of tears, just a few, but he makes me laugh, and in the very next moment can pull right at the swinging brick inside my rib cage.

“I hope Mommy takes good care of him,” my bundled of joy explained.

At least better than us, was my un-uttered reply

“Does this mean they have a pond in heaven Dad?”

Errrrmmm.

“Well if they do Max, I hope it is appropriately heated.”

Over the next few days, and now weeks, we have both made reference to our lost fish, and I hope by giving consistent answers that my son's understanding and grieving process slowly move further along.

As does mine.

Relative Calm

In the two day slot we have between my son's birthday, and that of Christ's, I have taken to a policy of calm, with as little going on as is possible.

Last year was a nightmare, as I was here there and everywhere, Max got so ramped up he overheated, picked up a cold and took to his bed Christmas Day afternoon.

This year, to save me from tears, I'm not doing anything special.

That is quality pun-age right there.

And in any case, Max is more than enough entertainment for anyone.

Fourth Birthday, First Birthday Party

My regular un-frenzied and un-hurried state well and truly took a leave of absence 48 hours ago.

To such an extent that anxiety levels reached to a whole new level.

“Mom, I think I’m going to pass out.”

That was in the queue at Tesco, approximately 90 minutes before Max’s party guests were due to arrive

I did not actually feint, instead I went into a state of laughter, well, it was either that or tears.

It was my best option in a packed out supermarket.

As a one time logistics expert – did I really just type that? – I scheduled a rather plentiful amount of activities into the preceding few days, probably a little too much.

We were again out for Bombay potatoes on Friday night, which meant an overnight stay with friends 30 miles away. Saturday was action packed, we went along to a non-league football match, and then ten-pin bowling with friends from the village.

This only after I had dropped Junior off in the morning for a swim with his granddad. And it was at that point I realised I had not bought my son a birthday card for his fourth birthday.

I hate the whole buying cards rubbish, but fear that not buying my son one to signify his ageing would be a step too far, even for moi.

Sunday was also fairly brisk.

We had friends come down from sunny Yorkshire, whose visit involved going out for lunch, then some grazing and boozing at home.

I even had to wrap Max’s presents in their presence (he he), as I had left no other time to do it.

Not ideal preparation for my child’s first REAL birthday party.

But if I had left myself plenty of time I probably would have still got things done at the last minute.

Lazy so and so.

When you run life this way, in a way that leaves most to the final moment, and planning that concentrates on having the minimum of excess, passing out sometimes seems the best option.

I got out of the shower approximately 10 minutes prior to our first guests arrival, and as they knocked our front door, I stepped in from the back, and my last minute, or few seconds, garden inspection.

The party went superbly.

Ably assisted by my parents and in-laws, who were assigned pre-designated, and various opportune driven tasks.

My sister even arrived right on cue to wo-man the Ipod controls for pass-the-thing-layered-with-newspaper-and-sweets.

The children, all 22 of them, arrived in fancy dress and enjoyed everything that was organised and offered.

So much to write about – which may or may not come later - but the important thing.

That which really matters.

Max had a knockout time.

Even though by the end of it I felt knocked out.

That makes it all worthwhile.

Still at least I have plenty of time to recover and act out my Christmas planning.

What did you say?

Holy s…………………….

It's Not Me

Kids have an answer for everything don't they?

Mine is no exception.



And as I say, there is a reason for everything.

I love they way a child's mind, or 'brayne' works, or doesn't, in this case.

Brilliant.

Cutting

I can be harsher than a harsh thing, when the mood and the moment strikes me.

And it well and truly struck this week.

Well, it started brewing last week actually.

As there had been a spate of children being off nursery with various ailments – Max being one of them – the manager decided, supposedly reluctantly, to cancel the kids’ nativity.

At the time it did not really hit me, particularly as I was nursing a poorly boy and had his party to consume what thought space I had left.

But at the end of the week I took Junior to our local playgroup’s Christmas shindig.

We usually go with another parent and their child from our village, to save using two cars, and also as we like a right gossip natter.

Last week was no exception, and we got chatting about the school and nursery.

She was disgusted, and I do not use that word lightly, to learn that the little ones’ play had been cancelled.

Or as she rather more dramatically put it; Max’s last chance to be in a nursery nativity.

It played on my mind a little.

Then early this week I also learnt that the nursery had not cancelled the visit of a clown - which VOLUNTARY contributions of £3-50 were welcome for - even though there was a supposed shortage of children currently in attendance.

I also let this go, preferring to give them the benefit of the doubt, and perhaps considering it was too late for them to cancel a heavily makeup strewn fool.

But then I was advised, that as the nativity had been scheduled for the last day of opening, that they were having their party instead, which they had previously lined up for the same time as the clown.

No problem, until I realised I was only being told this as they were bringing the finishing time forward by an hour.

Which was not a real logistical problem for me either, while it may have been for others.

Yet it was the point at which my annoyance broke.

“It hasn’t escaped my attention that suddenly your week has become a lot easier.”

I said to a somewhat silenced staff.

“I’m not going to get in to the ‘whys’ and the ‘wherefores’ but just so you know, from the outside, it may appear that your effort, heart and general ‘at-all-costs’ attitude are somewhat wanting at present.”

As I had said, I was not looking for trouble or an argument, but I just wanted to make my point.

A firm reminder, if you will.

I did not get one either, not that my words were taken as read either.

All parties have been a bit sheepish for the remainder of this week, and I had started to doubt if there was any truth in what I had thought, and eventually mentioned.

Then today, the day of the party, I unusually noticed that some older kids looked like they were also headed for the school ground.

Children, who had just finished for the holidays.

And would you know it, their school, in a neighbouring village, finished early, so they were arriving at the nursery to meet their mothers, right on cue for the earlier finishing time.

WHAT. ARE. THE. CHANCES?

Or am I just an evil cynic?

Anyway it re-affirmed my thoughts somewhat, and I hope that it does not continue into the New Year.

It is most disappointing, as to this point I have been so, so, so impressed by the nursery and the people manning, or womanning it.

I hope they rediscover their impetus in 2009, as they really do not want to be discovering my dark and less forgiving side.

It is not pretty.

Unlike all my other sides, that are positively delightful.

Winners

A natural fear of failing has driven me to be more of a winner than a loser.

It has also meant, that while I am reasonable competitive, I do not have that nasty streak and complete focus that I believe people like the top sportsmen and women have.

The fear of losing works both ways, it can lead to a sporting disappointment as it can restrict your performance or reduce your flamboyance when it is most needed.

I relate it to sports, because while not brilliantly talented at any one in particular, I can turn my hand reasonable well to many.

In my time I have played some sports to a decent amateur club standard.

Cricket and hockey were my normal summer and winter sports respectively.

I can also swing a golf club, kick a football and I was even in a table tennis team for a brief period during my middle teens.

While I have a will to win, it genuinely is not a win-at-all-costs sort of mentality.

Well, it is not when the victory means little.

And as I was never going to be a world beater it is safe to say, I have never, or most likely, never will, reach my achievable peak in any sporting discipline.

This attitude used to frustrate my team mates sometimes.

Those that obviously gave everything, every time, even if the end result was minimal.

It would rarely drive them wild on the pitch, or field of play. Because I would always give 100% when I was there.

Yet my practice was always minimal, and my appearance record was not what it could have been, as I was often distracted, and off doing other things.

My attitude earned me many friends from my time in sport, but perhaps it would not have hurt to earn myself a few more enemies.

Sportsmen often split opinion.

Some believe their focus, or selfishness is to be admired, but others – I put myself in this category – think it is no great shakes that they happen to be the best in THEIR field.

But I do appreciate what it takes.

The fear of failure is something I hope I do NOT pass onto my child.

And while I do not want him to be failure phobic, I also do not wish him to become a sore loser, or unlikable due to his competitiveness.

With the only exception, that if it makes him happy, I suppose.

I am not even sure if I will have any influence on this, but I am, at the least, aware of it.

If opportunities come along to rid him of fear I shall take them.

Like earlier this month, and a competition held by Max’s nursery and probable school.

It was sausage week, and a colouring competition was run alongside the promotion of eating mashed up, and then tubed, pig.

The timing was brilliant as it was the same week that Junior had got a Thomas painting set, as a Christmas gift, from Santa at the end of the show putting the X into Xmas.

We enjoyed colouring it in, while I simultaneously cooked dinner.

Multi tasking is for men too.

Our entry was made, and I thought no more about it.

However on my arrival to nursery this afternoon I was greeted by a very happy three footer who had just been informed of his win in the contest.

Apparently he was the only one who had gone to the effort of using paint instead of crayon.

Lucky circumstance.

But a win is a win.

Shame he is too young for this.

Yet as I was congratulating him on winning his Winnie The Pooh jigsaw prize.

He was rather insistent that it was a present rather than a prize.

Gracious in victory.

Just defeat to work on now.

The X In Xmas

It is fair to say, and therefore type, that I was struggling to get into a festive mood.

This is a perennial problem, one that I have had from early adulthood.

Christmas from about 16 became an absolute pain in the backside. The magic was gone, and I, as a growing borderline alcoholic, was not particular interested in recreating any magic through the giving and receiving cycle.

December would roll around and bring a shed load of ‘dos’, which were just glorified binge drinking exploits, albeit with different justification.

Not that I needed it.

Being reasonable close to a weekend was usually enough for me.

The actually business and formalities of this time of year would actually be an unwanted distraction, and would eat enourmously into my drinking and sobering up time.

Relations with, errr, relations would be tested, especially with those closest to me.

I was horrible, and at times, got my priorities in an order that would upset others.

Perceived as outwardly ungrateful.

I would like to think that I have always been real, and even though I may appear aloof it need not necessarily mean I am not grateful.

With a wife that told me to grow up maturity my performance and behaviour at Christmas changed. It is now somewhat improved, not that doing that was particularly difficult.

I still struggle to get excited about it, and the whole receiving presents thing.

It does not make any sense to me. I mean you are buying for someone else who is buying for you, why do we not just set our own budget and buy stuff ourselves that guarantees whatever is chosen, is indeed wanted?

And wrapping up stuff that you already know about or have seen.

Systematic madness.

Having Max should re-energise my festive batteries, and it does in part.

I am keen to make sure that every Yule time he enjoys is happy, that typed, I endeavour to make every day a happy one, regardless of its calendar relevance.

I expect to get more enjoyment from this one, compared to the last few.

We will be settled in our own place, and my son’s increasing awareness can only add to our most recent experiences.

Yet I was still coasting towards it.

Then, bang.

During a very enjoyable day out, we took in a Christmas experience show, performed in part, on ice.

Apparently this performance included a nice morale about kids not wishing for things anymore, instead just sending lengthy alphabetised lists to the Lapland department of Amazon.

However my noel slush-gates were well and truly opened by the sight of several ice dancers, come fairies, in very fetching, and very, very short outfits.

Now there is a reason to get onboard about Christmas.

And after that, when it snowed on the hour as The Fat Controller sang carols with his lady-friends, I really did start to feel more warmed to the prospect of December 25th and much more focused on the countdown.

I can not afford it mind, but that is a whole other story.

Party Panic

In a little over a week, Max and Me will be hosting his first proper birthday party.

And I am defining proper as having to make an effort, it is actually on his birthday, and we are inviting more than just the grandparents and immediate family.

Due to the closeness of Christmas, and the fact that I have seen little benefit in having parties for children before they can at least understand what they are, and also what sharing actually is. My son has not really had a birthday party before.

There has always been cake, and a few people around with a sprinkling of children, but we have, up to this point, spent his birthday out and about doing something I have thought he would enjoy.

Last year we went on a steam train to visit Santa, and then went to a football match, that was also billed as a family fun day with fair rides and the like.

18 months ago I did throw a party of sorts, a two-and-a-half birthday. Thrown half way through the year, so to space out his birthday celebrations from Christ’s.

He had a good time at that, but I really did not commit to it, as I was a bit self-conscious that it was not his actual birthday, and by inviting kids to a party you are also really asking them to buy him a present.

Last year, with the previous in mind, and with the house-build nearing the business end of the works, I did no such thing. Instead I promised my son he would get a proper birthday party, in our new home, on or very near his birthday.

It has obviously stayed in his mind, because he has often been saying to people, “I love (or like) you, you can come to my party.”

He has also been throwing out random, but quite specific requests.

A number four cake but decorated with Spiderman themed items.

The party has also become fancy dress.

As we are having it at home I thought this might put a few invitees off, so that is actually a very good thing.

But the guest list is a right can of worms, where do you cut it off?

Children seem to bunch up, you can not invite one without the other and so on.

There are also siblings to consider and account for. As my son’s birthday is timed just as the school term finishes everyone will be at home.

All was sort of coming into place. I eventually managed to get some party invites, what a ball-ache that was.

I had a list of people to invite, the selection criteria was final, and I had created a to-do list.

Then bam.

I lose the list, and Junior is sick.

Chaos.

Max has a horrible cough, but no temperature, so I am sure it will pass, and I hope by having it now, it means we shall have a healthy birthday and Christmas.

But it does mean he is off nursery, and it was this week I was going to carefully distribute the invites.

Giving everyone two weeks to get themselves sorted an outfit and my son a suitable gift.

Now as my son clambers over me, concurrently watching Over The Hedge, I really need to stop typing this and create a new action plan.

And I also need to think about how many of his party guests I can get in contact with via the traditional methods of dropping things through their known addresses, or by the less formal, telephone communications, even text message.

If Max naps this afternoon, like the last couple of days, it will give me time to formulate a new strategy. As I know it will need my undivided attention to get in right.

Or at least close to being that.

Cinco Questions

For one year’s summer months, way-back-when, I had a pretend friend. And I do not mean one in my imagination; I mean one I pretended to be friends with so I could enjoy the benefits that a genuine friend of this kid could expect.

He had an Atari ST computer, with a gazillion games and a family that enjoyed taking him and his ‘friends’ to the Banger Racing.

I quickly got the nick-name of The Spanish Inquisition within his household, granted by the fact that I asked so many questions.

Well what else do you do when you are bored senseless, apart from find out all the Atari's selling points, so I could get one installed at my own address and rid myself of this false friendship as quickly as possible?

I do like questions, asking and answering.

Interviews have always been enjoyable for me rather than stressful, except when the person at the other end is not paying attention is blissfully dull or totally unemployable.

When I saw Avitable’s Five Questions post I was intrigued.

There are a lot of tag-like post games around cyberspace, many I do not understand, or get onboard with.

But this one seemed a bit different as you are supposed to send a choice of questions to those interested.

Which Mr Avitable now has, and here they are, together with my responses. And a quick word of warning, there will be swearing.

1. Is it true that kids are babe magnets?

Depends how close you get them together. I mean there isn’t a womb magnetism I’ve discovered or anything like that. It is also true that I haven’t tested this theory enough. Babes do not tend to hang out at playgroups and Thomas Land. And if they did I would be a little freaked out by them anyway. I do hope to prove this true at some point. I mean the boy has got to have his uses, somewhere.

2. What's your greatest hope or dream for your child?

That he is happy. I know that is a bit simple, just like me, but surely is what we are all striving towards, and we choose goals that we think will give it to us. I hope that he accepts his mother’s death and holds a sense for what she did for him, over what he missed out on.

And if he can do all that while playing Baseball for The Padres while I manage his other affairs from the beach that would be OK too.

3. Will you be the first UK blogger to openly admit that Marmite tastes like shit?

The first? Surely not. But I can confirm it tastes like shit. It even looks like shit. They only need to add a different aroma and surely it would have to be re-branded. Shit-In-A-Jar.

4. As a single parent, do you get to pursue your own interests or do you find yourself completely consumed with your son?

I prioritise my son’s existence, as I did my wife’s while she was in this world. But I also believe that a child needs a happy parent, as a wife needs a happy husband etc. So when I’m doing my own thang, out at an away football match with the lads, enjoying a few pints perhaps, I reassure myself in the knowledge that I’m not just doing it for me.

Pursuing work interests without harming our family-life balance is hard, and will get harder, as at the moment what we are doing is not sustainable. Something will have to give. I’m hoping that when Junior goes to school full-time, it will allow me the time to get the incomings at least matching the outgoings, plus, in a pursuit that I enjoy, but I’m not convinced that this will be easily achievable.

5. What's your biggest pet peeve?

At the moment it is numpties on reality shows completely missing the point. How can you be devastated at finishing in the top ten of a nationally primetime televised singing contest, when the previous highlight in your life was skipping 5 minutes of your shelf-stacking shift. Give me an AK-47, a license to kill, and a decent vantage point in that television studio; I’ll give you devestation, just need to look for the similarly disadvantaged wearing badly produced t-shirts with their name on.

So, negativity in real positive situations I suppose.

Want to be part of it?

Follow these instructions:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

You may need to drop me an email in truth, blogger is a shade inconsistent in picking up commentors email addresses. Emails to singleparentdad [at] bigfoot [dot] com. Please be patient, and I'll get back to you with my own questions.

This Time Last Year

A lot has occurred over the last 12 months, and a great deal has been achieved.

Amongst our accomplishments in the last 365 have been toilet training, dummy dropping and building a new house.

The process of planning, arranging and organising a self-build project has been a lengthy, yet worthwhile experience.

At the start of this week a year ago, the physical work was commencing on the site.

The lines were actually being drawn.

A year on, and on the anniversary of dragging the site, I spent the beginning of this week chaotically picking up furniture, and then putting it together to get the final room of the house into shape.

This was a very different sort of stress to that of last year, when I really did not know what to expect, and I was having to deal with nosey and narked neighbours, on top of project managing the site.

The roller coaster of seeing something planned on paper come to fruition is a marvellous, yet sometimes traumatic, thing.

I find it difficult to remember when, and how things happened. This is one of the reasons I am glad that a took a shed-load of pictures, and kept a regular update of the goings-on.

Filling the property with colour, furniture, a kitchen and bathrooms was not something I worried myself with dreadfully at the start of the project.

It was more important to get things moving. Finally get everything agreed with the planners, the architect and the builder.

Once we were on our way, I soon got stuck into that side of it, giving sufficient attention to detail to achieve a look in each part of the house that I am now happy with.

Finishing rooms off has been a very positive experience, the spaces seemed to get bigger as they were furnished – I know that does not make any sense – and even touches like the right light shades can absolutely change or make an environment better.

I was delighted with my choice of bulb coverer for the hall, which was the last area to be tackled.

It had become the holding, or dumping, zone for the house. Which I suppose is the function it should perform really.

Yet because it was not properly furnished, it was a mess, and not a good start to find right behind the front door.

But now it is transformed into one of the best parts of our home, and certainly one of the most functional.

I found the perfect wardrobe to act as coat, hat, shoe and wellington storage.

The office-under-the-stairs works very well.

There is still amply room for our retro electronic games table.

And to top it off, the fish tank looks at home in its new position.

So 12 months on from last year, bar tinkering and probably some additions to the internal walls, we are finished.

Ready now for Max’s 4th birthday, and Christ’s two thousand and eighth.

Sensitive Son

One of things I have concerned myself with, since my wife’s death, as a one-parent-family, is providing a balanced upbringing for my boy.

It has worried me that being a male, last time I checked anyway, that I would miss something glaringly obvious, or not provide Max with the proper mothering he deserves.

I did think about what a mother does, as opposed to a father, what tradition dictates if you like.

As I made the decision really quickly to become a full-time hands-on parent, I believe others around me had similar concerns.

There is nothing more thought provoking than the unusual.

And a man raising a baby single-handedly probably falls into that category.

Thinking, observing, and probing others did not really highlight anything clearly.

Some mothers would make it look easy and others would make it look like the most difficult job in the world.

And it is a job, by the way.

All I really discovered was that, the learning curve will never have a higher gradient.

The nurturing part of parenting is constant, providing comfort, safety and love are all important, in my humble opinion.

My belief is that those facets come pretty naturally to me, and I find that balancing them with a firm-hand, less difficult than others I have scrutinized.

But I do remember watching a bit of TV, I think it was even before Samantha was pregnant.

It was quite possibly part of the ‘Child of Our Time’ series, but I cannot be sure.

They did a test with ice cream.

The parent, or parents, would be eating ice cream with their child, then the parent’s spoon was booby-trapped to break.

They were looking for the reaction of the child, if they would provide a solution to their parent’s problem, ignore it or even take advantage of it.

The results they got I suppose are not definite, but for some strange reason have always stuck in my head.

See, the boy from the single-parent-family made no reaction at all, whereas some from the 2.4 families either offered their spoon to their parent, or at the other end of the scale, took their parent’s dessert for themselves.

The programme suggested, or argued, that in the balanced upbringing the children had witnessed parents being nice to one another and had simply learnt to copy that behaviour.

I agree to a point, and accept it is harder for a single person to demonstrate empathy, as there is not always someone there to be compassionate towards.

As my only child, and being the first and only grandchild to two willing sets of elders, there is a huge danger of spoiling him, and him living in a sort of hedonistic toddler world, not really caring about the well-being of those that surround him.

His life is a tad indulgent. He gets treated, not only with regular gifts, but also with peoples’ time and undying attention.

Yet along the way he has become a very sensitive being, one that clearly cares about his friends and family.

While we were out dining on India’s finest, he demonstrating his caring side.

They brought out the food warmers, you know, those silver trays with tea-lights inside, warm enough to keep your food sizzling, if you do not just load it all on to your plate in one go, like me that is.

I explained what they were, and that he must not touch them as they were very hot.

He looked a bit sad and concerned, so I asked him what the matter was.

“I don’t want Ruby (my friends’ 3 year-old daughter) to touch that and burn her fingers.” My mini colossus considerately whispered.

Moments like that really WARM my heart.

And even as I type this, my boy has advised me that he has not eaten all his raisins, as he wanted to leave me a few.

So proud.

Just wish he would apply this same caring nature to the advent calendar chocolates.

Great Day In Lieu Of Grating Day

Monday is usually the day assigned for jobs.

My mom and dad look after Max, and I generally shop, clean and put away.

I have also been doing some of my mentoring work, and from time-to-time I research and write up my football stuff.

This week was different as my regular secondary care providers were off sunning themselves in Tenerife.

So I decided to go again to a place we have had fantastic days before.

Thomas Land, is brilliant, and the dry, yet freezing conditions, meant it could be enjoyed again.



We even topped the day off with a carvery dinner on the way home, and it was a bargain too.

The day time special no less.

Ignore the girlie screaming on the rollercoaster.

I could not help it.

Delhi Belly

Taking children out for dinner can often split opinion.

Those blessed with children, and the bless-ed without them, can agree and disagree in relative measure.

When Max was in the conception stage, my wife and me discussed our thoughts on child raising and what sort of lifestyle we were planning to have, if the stork ever flew a little one to our door.

We agreed in the main, but did argue on some points.

I could not much see the point of taking young children on holiday abroad, but my wife successfully argued that, as I would be working full time, and she probably in some capacity, these holidays would be more for the family unit than for any one person with in it, least of all the sprog.

Plus she loved the sun, and the ski actually.

One subject we were unanimous on was the impact any child was going to have on our social existence.

We appreciated that this may not have been without allowance, like going to the restaurant earlier or not staying as long at parties.

But we were both committed to involving any child of ours within all aspects of our lives.

In his very early months, while we did get about, our life was far from our normal routine for many reasons, not just due to a new born.

Samantha had open heart surgery six weeks after Max was born, and that kind of put pay to any immediate social jaunts.

It did not take my beautiful and brave wife long to recover and we were soon into a happy normal. A travel cot, or two, were purchased very early on and normal-ish service was resumed.

Then you really start to notice it is no great shakes, and I suddenly started to notice other parents out with their children.

After Sam’s death this aspect of our lives did take as big a hit as any.

I was struggling to keep it together, and had no great reason to go out for dinner, so I simply did not.

This did slowly change, with some reluctance on my part.

I would go with friends for lunch and would always have junior in tow. And I got plenty of reminders why my confidence was a tad shattered.

Particularly when people would innocently comment on how nice it was to see a man taking his child out, and that his mommy must be very proud.

Nothing like crying into a prawn salad to get people to regret ever making my acquaintance.

However, if I wanted to go out, it would be very rare that I would let the fact that I was a parent change that.

We went on a foreign holiday about 12 months after being widowed, it was a self-catering holiday near Murcia in Spain.

There was not much self-catering going on, bar one barbeque, and indeed we ate out at all sorts of restaurants around our complex.

As an 18 month old Max was introduced to many new things, like noodles, paella and burgers.

He reacted differently to each type of food, but I insisted he at least tried everything. I am hoping not to breed a boy that will turn his nose up just based on appearance.

That holiday taught me quite a lot, the main thing was that without being a larger family unit they were more trouble than they are worth.

But also that a child requires decent social skills and a parent needs to be able to exert a certain amount of control, to make visits to eating establishments pleasurable for all.

At 18 months that is a little tricky, an army of family helpers did improve matters, as did a giant bag of attention occupiers, toys and books mainly.

Little pencils are handy, as are tiny bubble makers for children of that age.

Wifey’s portable DVD player came in useful eventually, as did my PSP.

At the end of last week we went with friends, their kids, a niece and nephew for an early evening Indian meal.

It total there were three adults and five children, ranging from 11 months to 9 years-old.

The baby slept through the whole experience, which was fantastic, and the children were brilliant too.

Especially as they only really had themselves for entertainment, that and a first floor window overlooking the car park, which did seem to offer some random amusement.

Max had Bombay Aloo, Pilau rice, the mandatory chips and poppadoms with mint yoghurt.

It delights me when he tries new stuff, even more so when he actually likes what he has delved in to.

Alas, it did not delight me to assist him in the toilet the morning after.

His virgin guts were well and truly rotten.

But hopefully his semi-decent table manners are still intact.