Dude of a dad
Im in the kitchen. Upstairs there are three people: my 13-year-old son, my partner and our new baby. Ive tried waking Isaac, the 13 year old. Ive switched on the light. Ive rustled an old lampshade thats sitting in his waste-paper basket. Ive pressed an old teddy into his neck. Ive dangled a belt onto his nose. My partner, Emma, is asleep and I havent tried to wake her up. And theres Elsie, our baby, who has staggered and amazed me for many reasons but one utterly incredible reason above all others. She sleeps.
Ive been involved in the upbringing of five children before Elsie appeared. Its a complicated story of children that share my genes and others who dont. And even the number five is complicated by the blunt and awful event that one of them died. Two years ago, my son Eddie, then nearly 19, died of meningitis. And as my mind tries to twist and turn around what being a parent and a father means, Eddie always stands there making the point that its not just a matter of being good or kind or doing the right thing.
(One moment, while I try to rouse my 13 year old. Incidentally, hes 14 in a couple of days' time. Any suggestions for a birthday present? Hes booked me in to take him out to lunch at the local Vietnamese restaurant. And he says he wants a ticket for the hip-hop rave at Hackney Marshes later in the year.)
I forgot to say that theres Joe, my 24 year old, still asleep in the converted stable at the end of the garden. When he was born I didnt know babies. I didnt know how they sleep, how they eat, what they do with their eyes, how they breathe nothing at all. Well, for years I had known that I would never be a father. I had carefully analysed the fact that I was too irresponsible, too selfish, too obsessed with thinking about other things. I was absolutely not father material. Six children later, maybe Ive learned something.
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