I stand in front of you
I’ll take the force of the blow

Protection

Something a father should always offer his children. Something I would like to think I offer to my wife; your mum.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget how much protection those around us really need. I can mollycoddle you to the point where you will push me away. I can be overly protective of your mum to the point where people would accuse me of trying to lord over her – not letting her be her own person. That’s a lie, in so much as your mum would quite frankly ignore me if I was being overly protective, but you’ll understand the reasoning at some point.

Then there are times when you think you are doing your best by someone, until you realise that – well – am I now putting them in danger? Have I taking a bigger risk than I originally planned for?

That thought danced across my mind when we drove home from your Grandparents house in London on Saturday night. We knew it would snow. We watched countless weather forecasts, saw umpteen photos on twitter – all showing snow in Leeds. But we, I, so wanted to get down to London to let those who love you, see more of you.

I was foolhardy. I thought I knew better. I always think I know better.

So there we were, in London after a 3.5 hour drive – already planning our exit route. Not because we wanted to get away. I wanted to see my family as much as they want to see you – but at the same time I didn’t want to get stranded in London. What if the snow was so bad it blocked the middle part of the country for a day or so? Left Ice and treacherous driving conditions for our journey back. See I was thinking about you, and your mum, even if in the end it seemed quite the opposite.

We left before the snow started in London. Technically we left their front door before the snow had started – but it began to fall by the time we reached the car; all of 20 feet away.

We pushed on hard. We got on to the M1, and although the snow was falling it was not really settling. That was London. Move forward two hours and we find ourselves at the bottom of a hill, following a lorry with snow and slush all around us. Not just on the verges or the central reservation. In three of the four lanes we were meant to be driving on.

I hit the steering wheel. I berated myself for taking on this drive. I apologised to your mum, over and over again. Where was the protection I was meant to be offering at this point?

My fear, amongst other things, was that we – like many of those around us – would have to abandon our cars. Take you out in to the snow. Wrap you in as many layers and sit there, waiting for help to arrive. Waiting for someone else to save you from the situation you were placed in by your own dad.

You’re oblivious to all of this. The pounding of the wheel, the skidding of the car, the countless apologies – all happened whilst you slept. Soundly, in the back, no doubt contented with your lot.

We reached a point where the intensity of the situation grew; where the fear grew. Where the anger within – directed from me, to me – continued to grow. Another abandoned car blocked our path, two more pulled over, acknowledging the futility of their struggle. Only a single lorry seemed confident of ploughing through the snow.

Your mum was great. She focussed. She kept reassuring, kept guiding – giving advice as well as the option to pull over – but there was this lorry, our snow covered, break light flickering, beacon of hope. We knew the lorry was destined for Leeds. We knew this hill would eventually reach its summit, we knew – I knew, my pigheaded nature knew – I had to get you out of there. So for best part of three hours we followed that lorry.

Eventually the lorry pulled over, the driver no doubt reaching the maximum time limit by which he was allowed to drive. My nerves faltered. The driver had guided us this far, now it was down to me. We decided to go on.

Thankfully a team of ploughs and gritters were hard at work, clearing a path from Derbyshire to home. They gave us just one lane – one track like lane that we would not come off until we hit the local motorway outside of Leeds. A three hour journey took close on six hours. We had plenty of opportunities to stop, even turn back around and head for the safety of your family home in London. But still I pushed on – pushing the car, my frustrations and your protection to the limit.

I did it because. Well, because by that point I had to. There was nothing else to do but to get you home- to get you out in the garden, building snow “things”, unaware of the night passed.

I’ll never do that again. Never risk such a drive, such a journey, where others could question, not only my sanity, but also how much protection I really did provide you at the time.

You’re a girl and I’m a boy.

You slept as we struggled.

At least that’s something.

Some days are close to being perfect.

When everything we do is in unison, in harmony – in a total understanding of what makes us feel right.

Other days are not so. Those are the days when we let our frustrations get the better of us. Where we raise our voices, our ire, and we clash like jagged rocks falling from cliffs, in to a turbulent whirl pool – in the angry seas below (too much?).

There are reasons for this. You mum will allude to the fact that I get easily frustrated. That I more often than not approach situations in a negative bent. That rather than come down to your level , I might increase the size of my frame – as though to indicate, in a sort of primal, primate manner – exactly who is boss.

You tend to laugh at this, causing my frustration levels to grow. You laugh some more, or – as happens in that rarest of occasions – you simply bite. You bite quite hard. Your mum intervenes. Then you say sorry.

Frustration is a difficult thing for us to deal with at this point in your life. I know you bite because you are frustrated, or tired, or you need to go to toilet but just can’t quite go. Naturally as a child you get frustrated when we won’t let you do something – or when we’re not fully paying attention to you. We’ve lost a couple of keys on the laptop through this degree of frustration.

I get frustrated because I don’t know how to manage the situation effectively enough to stop you reaching the point where you want to bite – to let us know how you feel – because you haven’t worked out an appropriate means yet.

I also get frustrated because I don’t know how to deal with the situation once you do bite.

It might have been perfectly acceptable to have hit you in a previous era – a little slap on the back of the legs to shock you in to understanding that you’ve over stepped the mark. But that’s not how we want to parent you. We don’t believe that is ever the best course of action – and I know, from experience, that it doesn’t actually stop the desire from within to do something wrong again.

It is a cycle of do wrong/hit/apologise/do wrong/hit/apologise etc – that appears to have no natural conclusion, nor benefit for anyone.

Your mum suggests I get down, bring my head to your level, and to talk through the right and wrong of the situation. Frustration levels mean I usually just want to walk out of the room (which I occasionally do) and let off steam, well away from you – not from fear that I can’t control my temper, but out of sheer frustration that I have no idea what to do next.

It’s my way of brushing it under the carpet until such time when you’ve had a sleep, gone to toilet – or your mum has defused the situation to the extent where we are all friends again.

The biting does highlight my inability to control my frustrations, just as much as it does yours. Not every day will be perfect. Not every day will extend from morning to night, with the house – with our lives – filled with laughter and positive tones. Some days will result in our jagged rock moods surfacing – will pit us together – will make at least one of us lose control.

But then, you are two and I am 36. If there is one person in this relationship that needs to keep a better check on their frustrations it is definitely me.

It would have just been nicer had you not felt the need to bite for me to fully understand that point.

This post also appears on What Lauren Did Next

I’ve had an epiphany.

I’m not sure when it happened. It could have been whilst reading back through my previous letters to you, or whilst listening to Danny Baker’s Desert Island Disc show (none of which may mean the slightest thing to you) – it might even have been whilst reading you, your dinosaur book.

Either way, what struck me with my epiphany is that no matter how much I pretend that I do not try to mould you – it is pretty clear that through these letters, the story books I buy – the manner in which I speak to you are all part of a wider plan.

I want you to be a you, that is a you, you may not necessarily want to be.

I told myself when you were born that I would not force my wants on you. That I would not make you a fan of sport; make my tastes in music, your own. Food is already an interesting topic as you eat a far greater variety of foods than I do – so it may well be you pushing me to try new things as we grow older together. But everything else is clearly being led by me.

So there are subtle things that I do with you, that clearly stem from an interest I have, that I want to pass on to you.

Take dinosaurs for example. The simple act of reading you a rhyming storybook – which focuses on individual dinosaurs, is not necessarily an innocent thing. It’s by no means evil – but it is a subject I would love to be able to share with you. So I’ve started to read you a book, which I hope softens a subject matter, so that when we walk through the main entrance of the Natural History Museum – you’re not so scared of the Diplodocus skeleton that you want to leave immediately. Those precious night time stories, where we go back over the cute, pink Diplodocus page, is more of a lesson than an aid to your sleep routine.

The same can be said for your Italian nursery rhyme CD. OK, so we didn’t buy that for you – and it is a dual language version – but it does sit alongside the Italian word books we bought for you. I want to learn Italian, I’d love to one day move to Italy – and so it’s a wise move to get your mutual interest ignited at this early stage. Admittedly you have a choice. You can fall asleep when the CD is on in the car, but it’s usually me who wants to put it on before you ever ask for it.

Where will this stop? I’m not entirely certain which of our dreams we will be fulfilling if we ever go to Disneyland. If you ever take up cricket or volleyball – will that be because your schools offer those sports, or because Daddy always has them on in the background?

If my actions are by no means innocent, they are at least carried out with the best intentions – to give me the opportunity to have as much quality time with you as possible. And I mean that from the selfish perspective of doing things “we” both want.

So at the moment – whilst you are young enough to mould, to encourage and to guide – I’ll get out of all the dolls play, tea parties and dressing up games I can; and focus on the story times, the dinosaurs and the strange Italian/Spanish hybrid counting you have picked up from Dora the Explorer and your CD.

But then I am acutely aware of the balance between what I want for you, and what you will eventually want for yourself. For there is no good in me proclaiming that your independence is the key defining quality that I hope will set you apart from others, only for me to then “innocently” push you in one direction or another.

If I am allowed one final push, it is that you one day pick up a teacher or parent on their misuse of the dinosaur name Brontosaurus – and correctly point them in the direction of Apatosaurus – especially if you can do it with a broad, knowing smile on your face.

But then that’s just because your dad can be quite petty at a times – one of those characteristics I’ll leave you to develop for yourself.

Image: Apatosaurus (Natural History Museum site)

Yesterday we sat around a table eating food with people we call friends. It was the second Sunday in succession that we’ve had reason to do that.

Some of those friends we get to see on a weekly or at least monthly basis. Others, we haven’t seen – or may not see for years. Yet we still use the same word to describe them – to categorise their presence within our lives; to mark the special relationship we share.

I’ve written to you about the importance family will play in your life. I think my view of family is often dictated by the hours of Irish/Italian American themed TV programmes I watch – positioning myself as the patriarch of a big family – that brings his loved ones together to celebrate a big event; or to be there to support each other when we need to.

Now it’s highly unlikely that your mum and I will have another three or four children, or need a dinner table to accommodate 10 grand children – but it’s not hard to think that we could replace those faces around the table, with that of our friends – your friends.

It’s hard to explain the concept of a friend without drawing parallels with family. We don’t get to choose our family, but then in some ways we don’t always choose our friends. Sometimes we are simply thrown together. We meet them at school, at work, through our partners (in the boy/girl love each other sense). We even meet them on train platforms, on dance floors, in darkened corners of pubs or in the wide open space of fields and festivals. It’s true we can choose whether we want to keep them or not – but if there is an initial spark, that makes you want to engage further, then that person will be a friend for as long as you still find them engaging.

The best friends are the ones you don’t have to try with. You simply pick up the relationship from where ever you left it – bridging the gaps with simple dialogue about what you’ve been up to, or even what you saw on television last night. They are the ones where you don’t have to run through the list of family members who live under your roof; or regurgitate the same conversations about work – that thing you don’t even like talking to yourself about. There’s no floundering, no awkward silence – just clinking of glassware, laughter and the occasional interruption of each other’s personal space.

For real friends still seem to be able to keep an eye on your life, even from a distance. Of course we have email or social media to update those we may not see on a regular basis – but there’s still something about a great friend where they can get up to speed in an instant, just by referencing a name, a place, a memory. Back in to the old routine once more.

It’s not to say that acquaintances – friends without loyalty cards – are any less important. They can flash in and out of your life, yet be there at profound moments when close friends are not. The only difference here is that you’ll share the immediacy of those memories – but won’t necessarily remind each other once the moment has passed. Close friends on the other hand, will know about the moment and share the joy or sadness with you, even though they were never initially involved. That’s how important your bond is.

But what happens when friendships change – when things go sour, or you simply move on? Well, that highlights the fragility of the bonds we share. I’m not in regular contact with anyone I went to school or college with; couldn’t even tell you how to get in touch with anyone I went to university with – and have lost touch with countless people I would call a true, lifelong friend – simply because I moved house, left work; no longer like what brought us together in the first place. But that doesn’t mean the relationship is over. We could casually bump in to each other – decide to call each other; be reintroduced by mutual friends. We could argue the reasons we fell out. We could simply shake hands, hug or kiss our way back in to each other’s lives – or worse still, we could simply talk about family numbers and the job we now do. Only memories will stop us from being true friends again – but the thought of making new memories could be too irresistible to turn down. Only you can decide whether it is worth it in the long run.

Friends aren’t part of our nuclear family, but they are part of what you might call our wider family – and at times they will be more important to you than your mum and me. They will be the first person you turn to, the person you share life with, the reason for your happiness – and in some cases, why you feel down. They won’t necessarily be with you all your life – you won’t always be able to run around the garden with them in just your pants – but you will find yourself sat around a dinner table with them, on a frequent basis, talking about everything other than the number of kids you have or what job you do.

Embrace the good in all the people you meet, for that will draw out the attributes that turns someone from an acquaintance in to a friend. A good friend will then be born from the desire to share as many memories as possible with. A brilliant friend will come from all of that, without you even thinking about it.

As I sit here listening to Daphne “Change” (great track by the way, you’ll love it – or at least I will try to encourage you to love it), it’s starting to occur to me that change is somewhat dominating our lives at the moment.

We watch a cartoon called Humf, where the main character this morning proclaimed his sheer delight at the fact he could change his mind on the things he likes. Obviously the lyrics of the record I’m listening to are all about people changing their minds – I even opted for a beer from the fridge, when I had initially gone to the kitchen for a glass of wine before I started to write this.

But then those examples of change are nothing compared to what you are going through right now.

Every day it is as though something happens to flip your whole world upside down – making you do something completely different to how you start the day each morning.

Looking at them in their simplest form, it usually involves an adult telling you that we need to do something that goes against what you actually like doing. Encouraging you to grow up, without actually asking you if that is what you want to do.

In the last week you have moved up a class at nursery. This will undoubtedly mean a change of scenery, key worker, possibly even a change of classmates – though you will know most of them. It will mean leaving behind your familiar play room, the key worker who has always been there to encourage you over the last year; even those friends who haven’t quite reached the age where they can move up.

We as parents have lied to you for the first time (I think?). We’ve taken your dummy away from you – because we feel that at two, you shouldn’t be so reliant on something comforting to get you to sleep. We did this by collecting all your old dummies up and putting them in a bag. Mum then hung them on the outside of the front door. We told you that if they were gone by the time you both went to check – that other babies wanted and needed them more than you. In reality your Mum simply went out, took them out of the bag and threw them away. I don’t doubt that it will be the only time we ever use such a tactic, but it’s still something new to us; a change to the way we parent.

You’ve recently moved from a cot to a bed. This has been a massive change, as it enables you to exert some control over how you go to bed. Previously we’d give you a bottle, a dummy, put you in your cot and you’d be contained – seems a better word than trapped – until you really wanted to get up in the morning. Now you just get out of bed, open your door and let us know exactly how you feel about being stuck in your room. If it’s still night time, then we have to come and sit on your floor and wait for you to be ready – this change affects us all.

On top of all of that, we are also in the process of potty training you. This change will mean we no longer have to change you – a double change then. You will soon be able to go to toilet just as big girls do – being a big girl is important to you. It’s a difficult process. You don’t always go where you should – often behind the curtains – but your command of when you want to go is improving.

This may seem like a lot for you to be going through at one stage, but then it’s clear to me that this is just the start. We’ve night time bottles to get rid of; new likes and dislikes that will emerge. There’s another class at nursery; then there are new schools for you to go to. The biggest change I fear will come from the changes to your body. I think I might need a book to teach me how to explain everything to you properly – that, or hide behind your Mum.

The thing we most want you to understand as you grow older is that whatever changes do happen, you do not approach them on your own. Mum and I have both been through a lot of change – school, work, where we live and who we have in our lives. Just talk to us, open up to us – we are here to reassure you that nothing is set in stone. If you don’t like something – you have the power to change it; just as we have. We wouldn’t know each other had we not changed something – so plenty of good does come from new beginnings. It’s not all about lost dummies and wet carpets.

You even forced us to change.

Before you there was one life; after you were born, a completely different one. Yes we still do a lot of the same things we did before you were born, but very little matters as much as you. You were a change worth embracing, and we are grateful that you gave us the opportunity to change.

But with all of this talk of change, be sure in the knowledge that our love for you will never alter; no matter what arguments we may have, how you may feel you are being punished or even when we are being “unfair”. Our love will remain our one true constant to you.

That feeling will never change.

… Eat bubbles!

A simple statement – said by you to Hooch our dog, as she chased around the garden after a bee. A bee so engorged by a feast of nectar from our neighbour’s garden, that it could barely lift itself above and beyond the snapping jaws of the chasing hound.

There is clearly context to this episode – for Hooch likes to eat, or at least pop bubbles as they float around the house – blown either by you or the machine that gives amusement to you both. They can’t taste nice. We did buy bacon flavour bubble liquid, though I’m not sure if that’s advisable for either of you.

So as Hooch tried in vain to capture, and then eat the partially flying blur of fuzz and buzz – your advice drew laughter from both devoted parents – laughter that only comes from slapstick comedy, or perfectly timed – often misguided comments that children make. No, dogs shouldn’t eat Bees – but bubbles? If man cannot live on bread alone, what good is soap as a dietary supplement to a dog?

But such events often pose a dilemma to me. With the advancement of technology and applications on mobile phones – I could have captured your words digitally, hosted them on twitter or facebook (I do wonder if this is like a history lesson for you?) and then put a couple of lines up telling my friends how funny you are; how perfectly adorable everything you do is.

I didn’t. I don’t.

Admittedly there are times when you are very funny (though not intentionally – the notion of a two year old telling gags and having material is a bit farfetched, even for a parent who thinks the world of their child). You are adorable. But then there are also times when you scream, cry, slump to the floor, tell me you don’t like me – slapping, scratching or occasionally biting as you do so. But then you are two. You can’t yet articulate your mood or all of your wants, so occasionally – through tiredness and frustration – the stuff we don’t want to capture on film, to host online, dominates what you do:

“Ha ha – Lauren just told me she hated me whilst hitting me. Kids say and do the funniest things” – it doesn’t have quite the same impact.

But then sharing should be a continuous thing. We can’t expect people to simply lap up the great bits about you and pretend there are no trying aspects to your growth – your ever changing development. If you are to believe what some say of my childhood – I was angelic – a near genius in terry towelling (reusable, material nappies). That can’t all be true – the nappies yes, but there must have been some – hmm, I word this cautiously as nothing about you is negative, though there are details of sleepless nights, tears, a reluctance to wear your own nappies we will share – in public, in front of you; as all parents should.

I share by letting others read this blog post. It is a means by which they can grow to understand more about you, and I guess in some ways, more about me – especially people that don’t, nor will ever really have the chance to meet or truly get to know us. That’s what the internet enables readers to do. This is their window in to our life. They don’t have to peer through it for too long; though if they find something that resonates – the bond between parent and child – then I hope they get some pleasure from our one sided conversations.

Though there is a part of me that is hesitant in sharing too much. The overriding reason is because I want to keep you, your actions, your best bits, all to myself. I’m conscious that if I flood the world with your photos and comments – that it starts to feel repetitive, and simply becomes a means to an end. People are no longer sharing an action they are merely reading the words on a screen. Friends might actually end up bored with that side of our interaction. As though a personality becomes almost one dimensional once you become a parent. I still want the world to know I am the same “exciting” man I was before you arrived – even if, internally, you dominate my thoughts like nothing else on earth. For I could set up a whole blog devoted to just these letters – but where is the variety in that; for anyone involved – writer and reader alike.

I also don’t want to feel like I am pushing you on to anyone – for there is time enough for you to do that yourself.

As with all parents, I am naturally inclined to think that there’s something special about you. I am convinced that you need no aid in a promotional sense. That, even though you can be shy and retiring, there is a glint in your eye that warns of something magical readying itself to burst out. That you are a natural entertainer – that you can captivate, enthral – command a room without prop or prompt. That you will rise to something far greater than your Mum and I could ever achieve.

That your star has been in ascendancy from the day you were born.

But then that is just a dad talking.

That glint may remain unexposed. May sit comfortably in your eye; happy to let other idiots – like me – try to hog the limelight. For who knows what you will do – what you will want to do. All we can do is be there to support you, be there to encourage you and do everything we can to help you achieve your dreams.

For in the same way you guided Hooch on the most appropriate floating objects for a dog to eat, we to will try to provide the same level of reassuring guidance throughout your life.

Don’t eat bees – eat a well balanced, nutritious diet.

The intention of the letters up to this stage has been a way of introducing you to us, to your world – to try to explain how you came to be with us.

The intention of this letter is to try to offer you some guidance, to explain to you the importance of family – and to explain why family means so much more than just us, your parents.

I’ve never been great with my extended family. There is no negative reason for this, it is purely because I am lazy – I tend to get in touch with people when I need to, rather than just to keep a steady flow of communication going with them.

Family members are different. It appears that even if you think they are OK, or that you know what is going on in their lives – that it’s still a good idea to check directly with them. To keep up a level of dialogue even if it is far removed from your usual way of dealing with people. This is something I’m not always great at. For I will send an occasionally text, a social media contact or a phone call – but they do tend to be before/after we are due to see each other – there really should be more.

My advice is that you shouldn’t be lazy where family are concerned – better to be genuinely interested. Your Mum tells me that it makes life easier.

You have a great family. Beyond us – on your Mum’s side you have Grandparents who have substituted a working life, for a retirement that involves looking after you for two days a week. On my side, although it was often a negative thing at school to have parents who were no longer together – for the grandchildren this means double the love, double the support – hey, let’s be serious about this – double the presents. Admittedly you see Nonna more – but that’s purely a distance thing

We both have brothers and sisters – which mean that you have uncles and aunties. Alfie is Aunty Polly’s little boy – who is a cousin to you. Our cousins are your cousins – though this gets complicated as you are a removed cousin – or is it second cousin? Or even first cousin twice removed? I’ve no idea – the easy thing within our family is that we rarely refer to family members by their family title – so my Uncle Pete is always just ‘Gurney’ and my cousin Simon is simply to be known as one of the untrue Kings. Does that make sense?

It can get even more confusing if people who are our friends refer to themselves as aunties or uncles. Imagine me as a young boy, being brought up knowing a friend of my Dad as Uncle Ernie. Not only was he not a relative, there was no link through marriage – nor did we even have the same skin colour. I never gave it a second thought until I was old enough to fully understand the relationship – purely friendship. But it did teach me the importance of friendships, and how these friends really are just an extended part of your family.

I do make more of an effort by not having to try with friends (err, I know what I mean) – again, this is not from a negative perspective – more because, as you will find out, the older you get the more you relate to people with similar interests to yours. I clearly love my Mum but I choose to live with your Mum because of our likes, our wants and what makes us happy. It’s the same with my brother – who I care a great deal about and want only the best for him – yet he doesn’t drink alcohol (I’m not sure I know how to explain this) and plays videogames for enjoyment (he is very big in a virtual world – and Denmark). Sometimes it’s difficult to know where to start when trying to strike up a conversation. In the end it falls to base level grunting, and me far too often poking fun in his general direction. Not because I want to upset or embarrass him – but because I am often helpless and need to talk to him about something.

Where I struggle with my brother, with a mate I can just call him up – see if he wants to go down the pub and spend a night drinking, reminiscing or simply regurgitating what we read in the sports pages earlier that day. It’s easier because we don’t have to try – we can spend a night in each other’s company and find nothing out that we didn’t already know before we got to the pub, yet it was enough to keep things bubbling along. The opposite often applies with family, where we need to divulge the infinite details of our lives within the first thirty seconds of walking through the front door – something I’m never truly comfortable with.

The key then is to strike a balance. To understand that your family are just genuinely interested to know how you are, what you are up to – to which you should reply as open as you choose to be, but at least engage with them. Seek them out yourself – check they are OK – drop them the odd email, text or whatever fangled communication devices you will use when you grow older. Don’t keep them at arm’s length, but let them in as much as you do your friends – for even though you will see your friends more than your family, there’s still a bond worth working on – even if it is to ensure you meet up for dinner just once a year. Where you will reply to the same questions, eat the same food and wonder why you don’t do this more often (that will be because I’m too lazy to sort anything out).

You are lucky in that you have a family where, the odd argument aside, is pretty much happy and intact – and very grateful that you are part of their lives. Don’t be like your Dad. Don’t be a miserable, uncomfortable, standoffish person – embrace your family as you no doubt will your friends. For even if they serve a different purpose, they will be there for you whenever you need them – even if you may never really need to call upon their help.

Better to know the offer is there, that they know you feel the same – than to grunt something about being OK before ignoring them all in favour of the football results on your mobile phone.

Here endeth the lesson.

Dear Lauren,

Fear is a strange sensation that comes in many forms. It can be a unifying bond between us, as you look to me for comfort and protection. You are usually the root cause of my fear, whilst your fears come and go; change and return without good reason.

There are times when you have no fear at all – like when you run to the top of a flight of stairs, or tap dance on tables. Then there are times when Hooch runs towards you and you cower, expecting her to knock you over – only looking out from behind your hands when she has long since passed. On the very next pass you will throw your arms out to catch her – almost as if you have forgotten the previous five minutes; or is it because you are confident that nothing will happen?

You shy away from new – people, places, situations – is that fear, or is it because you are not as open as you could be? If it is the latter, then you really are your father’s daughter.

There are still many things you have yet to experience a positive or negative outcome from – and, given half a chance, you will run out the front door and in to the middle of the road without consideration for what might happen.

You climb, you love to climb – on tables, chairs, on your high chair – there is absolutely no fear as you leap and clamber, with what looks like a tentative grip at all times. This is where my fear kicks in – fear you will fall, fear you will hurt yourself; fear you will lose that free spirited nature of yours should you crash back down to earth.

You attack our cupboards, washing machine and fridge – anything heavy that might close sharply on you without good notice. Rooting around; putting your hands in to tight, darkened places without a care for what might be there – like a dog’s mouth; lucky then that I’m the only one of the family that Hooch is rough with.

There will be a time where everything you currently fear, will no longer prove to be of harm to you. It’s simply down to your size – and how big the world currently looks. The more you grow, the steadier you become on your feet – the less there is to fear; until you become a parent that is.

For my fears are, in the main, currently linked to wanting to be the best father I can be to you.

The true fear there is that I fail in my task.

I fear there may be a time when I’m not there for you when you need me; not there for the whole family when I need to protect you. I fear being utterly helpless when you are not well and unable to communicate what ails you – to watch you cry, to not know how to help – crushes me in a way I’d not experienced before you.

I fear I may become far too over protective. Not letting you roam or explore your surrounding environment – boys, drink, nightlife, clothes – in the hope that you don’t make the same mistakes I did. Trying to keep you as a young child, my precious daughter, rather than letting you become a girl, then a woman – with your own ideas and agendas.

I fear I will let you down by not giving you the right guidance, not being involved in the aspects of your life that will become to mean so much to you. Or no doubt worse still, be the sort of father that is constantly involved in your life; always trying to get you to do things, pushing you on – not letting you just be the person you want to be. I don’t mean living my life vicariously through you, just wanting you to do something with your life. Something you will be proud to look back upon.

I fear I may expect too much from my bright, wondrous star.

My biggest fear is that there will be times when you are unhappy and there will be nothing I can do to change the way you feel. Even the thought tears me up inside.

Most of my fears are misplaced, irrational and unlikely to pan out. Hooch may knock you over, you may fall off of a table or you may not like a new school – but you will come through it all. I may sit up all night when you first go out. I may be wary when you first bring a boy home, or stay out overnight with people I don’t really know – but that doesn’t mean that I have to permanently live in fear that something will happen to you.

We both get jumpy, we both have times when fear takes a grip – yet we both know we are only a cuddle away from the fear passing; from our happiness returning.

Forget Everything And Remember… that I will always be there for you.

Lyrics: Ian Brown – F.E.A.R.

Image: The Scream by Edvard Munch

Once upon a time – at approximately 7.30pm, give or take how long dinner has taken, or if you’ve had a bath.

In a castle with three bedrooms and off road parking, a little King is being readied for bed. Part of the little King’s bedtime routine, is for a big King to read them a story (or three). They usually involve animals; tired animals that need to go to bed.

The animals are the only tired participants of this piece.

So the big King, shall we call them Mummy or Daddy, starts to read the first of three books to their little baby King. The books tend to follow the same format. Someone wants to find someone or something. Through the medium of rhyme they ask others to help them out. With help found, it isn’t long before the tiny creatures are happy, home and are being tucked up in to bed (something the big King is hoping the little King will take a steer from).

You never do go straight to sleep though. You often demand one more book, or a cuddle, or on occasion perk up and bed is the last thought on your mind. But then reading the books is more than just a pre-bedtime routine – it’s a perfect excuse for us to spend some quality family time together.

For it’s at this time of day when, as a family sat together, I start to take in both the importance of what I have in the room, as well as understanding how quickly you are developing. How quickly you are moving from a little to not so little King.

You love to be read to. You have a preferred selection of stories you like to turn to. These have changed as you’ve got older. Simplistic picture books have been replaced by tactile, popup books with storylines which have a song base or counting plays a part. Those are your favourite types.

Reading time really is a window in to your development. In a week you can go from being scared of a popup Crocodile, to purposefully asking for that book (you love Crocodiles, they do scare you – but you soon over come that). In the last week you’ve started to understand, and say, words like Ladybird and Snail. You can count characters on a page – though how much of that is actual counting or repeating a sequence of words, I just don’t know. Your memory for a book also surprises me. You know the next character to appear, next rhyming couplet to follow – even before we’ve turned a page. This could all be normal, but to me it is amazing, special; rewarding.

It’s not just you that loves the stories. I do to. It’s my chance to act out – to make up voices, to breed life in to the characters. When I was a little King, I was always performing in school plays – always acting up; when allowed to and when it got me in to trouble. I loved being someone or something else, even if it was for a brief period – two evening and one matinee performance before the Christmas holidays.

One minute I’m an old horse, a yappy dog, a demanding duck and a playful pig. Barking, oinking and snuffling my way through adventures and mishaps as we turn the pages. You have no fear of people not reading with you – as long as you can put up with a duck that sounds slightly robotic, or a horse that sounds like a Victorian town crier, then you have all the stories you want; and more.

And if there’s a song involved, then your Mum is always on hand to take over and add a different, better, voice to the adventure. She reads other stories as well – but I don’t always let her get the chance. The books are our cast, the bed is our stage – Lauren and Daddy are the star turns here. Mummy takes top billing elsewhere – let me have the books and your undivided attention in this instance.

We also have your Grandparents to thank, as every week you seem to come back from being with them with a new book to add to your collection. They keep story time vibrant, musical, a joyful experience. We might have to give them a little nudge, as we seem to have fallen on the same three books of late. That or we’ll have to make use of the local library and pick out as many new books as we can find. That’s a topical point at the moment – come the time you read this, there may be no such thing as a local library.

And all of this can only get better. The older you get, the more demanding the book, the more voices and characters for your parents to pretend to be. My robotic duck and to the manor born horse may no longer get an airing, but I’m sure there will be the need for a masculine sounding princess or lacklustre wizard along the way.

No matter what the story is nor who the characters are, when ever you want a book read – or an adventure played out – you’ll know where to find me.

I’ll be the one in the spotlight, who’s up on the stage – just before it’s time for you to go to bed.

Dear Lauren

You may never read this. Given the fact that you can’t read and that by the time you can, this blog may no longer exist.

However your Mum asked me to write something to you when you were born, as a keepsake of who we are, and how you’ve changed our lives.

Admittedly I’m a mere 21 months behind schedule with this, but that’s nothing for me. I am an open procrastinator. One of the finest you will find. Actually, that’s a lie. Give me a deadline, tighter the better and I will produce the goods to an exemplary standard. Give me an open brief, a jaunty wave of the hand and tell me to go off and do something – and chances are I will go off and do something entirely different.

I also have to admit that it’s taken me 21 months just to get to the point where I can sit down and actually write something to you. I thought I had to mark the event of your birth with something so profound, that you would return to read it yearly; to remind yourself of how special you are. Every time I thought about what I should write, the pressure to encapsulate our thoughts, in to words, was far too intimidating a task. How can I put in to words how much you mean to us? Nothing I write can convey those feelings, nor do you or us justice.

Then it struck me. Why one letter? Why not make it a fairly regular thing – and rather than being profound, why not use it as a means to map your life, sometimes through our dreams, our goals, and our actions – though selfishly, as the author our may become my at times.

21 months is a long time. Happy, fulfilling and always rewarding; but ever changing – you change daily, and even though adults may feel as though their lives stop evolving past a certain point, we change almost daily as well. Our expressions change, our expectations change, our love grows and our ability to be surprised, to be astounded is magnified by everything you do.

You’ve moved from being a babe in arms, to crawling, to walking and now to knowing what you want. Telling us about things you like – constructing sentences so that we understand. You use cunning and guile to attract our attention – you have a clever knack of throwing a dummy behind beds so that we have to get up, have to interact rather than lay in bed. You are very much an independent spirit in a body that can’t always do what you want it to; though that doesn’t always stop you trying.

We are a happy family. We always have been. You just make it easier.

It’s not all been plain sailing. We had some issues over sleeping – you didn’t want to when we really did. I even felt a bit uncomfortable changing you at times as well – let alone having a bath with you. For some reason I was worried what people might think if they found me on my own changing you. It was daft and wholly irrational of me. Thankfully your mum was very understanding and did a lot of the changing at the start and as quickly as the unease came on, it went away; though I’ve always been a shower man so it’s partly understandable. Living with you is a learning curve and I shouldn’t over analyse my fears or the fears other people may have. I should just embrace the time we have together – not in a morbid, it may not last sense – but in a live and enjoy our lives, our family sense.

As much as we have welcomed you in to our lives, we also have to stop and remind ourselves that we did both have a very good, happy, active life before you came along. Life is all about you, but it doesn’t always have to involve you – does that make sense? Occasionally we need to pull the ripcord, let your grandparents look after you at a time when we are not at work, and devote a bit of our attention to each other.

I need to take your Mum out more than I do. As you grow older, you won’t be surprised that your Dad manages to sneak a few hours in down the pub from time to time. At the same time, I’ve been selfish and I’ve not been good enough at ensuring your Mum also gets out of the house – either with me, with friends and even on her own. We used to go to pubs, to clubs, to the cinema or concerts. Life doesn’t stop when you have a baby, but occasionally the desire to sleep; to rest or to just curl up in front of the television overtakes any want to go out partying to the early hours of the morning. You are now far more assured, far more comfortable with being around others that the odd night out a month for your parents would be good for us all; especially the grandparents who dote on you. Everyone dotes on you.

In thinking about your Mum, if you do want some advice going forward – to keep her happy, do your washing, tidy the house, write her a letter or buy a small bunch of flowers. With your Mum it’s not the thought that counts, it is the action – but the required action is so small, so effortless that we and I include myself in that, should do something to make her happy every day. It’s not hard – and it is worth it.

We’re off to Italy soon. Italy is a big part of our lives – it was where we got married, it is where you went on your first holiday – it is where we would go time and time again; and we do. It is somewhere, where we would eventually like to live. I’d like to live there now. It’s usually at this point where I say that we can’t because Nonna lives in Leeds, we don’t speak the language fluently enough or have enough money to go out there without a job. Or that it would be hard for me to convince an Italian company to employ your Dad over a local who is fluent in language and local customs.

I tend to use a lot of excuses not to do the things I really want to. It’s a defence mechanism. Better to find a reason why you can’t do something than start and fail at it. Sometimes I do this at work, often refusing to put myself forward for better, more demanding roles as I fear failure at the interview stage. Which is that daft, irrational side to me once more – as I’m paid to work on projects that are open to failure, open to rejection, and it is my job to ensure that the solutions are there to overcome those hurdles. How is it easy for me to overcome the excuses of others on a daily basis, yet throw up my own on a personal level? It has to stop.

So this year, with your help – as I do talk to you about these things – I need to put myself in a better position to realise any career aspirations I have, or to open up the opportunity to live and work in Italy. I can put myself in a position to get a job with more responsibilities (thankfully I have an excellent boss that is giving me the skills and experience to make this happen). We will learn the language. We will find jobs, Nonna can move out once we’re settled and you will learn new and wonderful things. It doesn’t have to happen this year, or next year, or even this decade. It may never happen, which is fine. But it shouldn’t be my excuses that stop us, if we really want it to happen.

Writing to you has been cathartic. My biggest want is to write more. To write more, with passion, about the things I love – so to write about you, for you, is a lot easier than I thought it would be. Your Mum always says I should write more. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she has always been right – for me, for you, on everything. If ever you need someone to look up to, to learn from, to use as an example – you will find no better person than your Mum.

You are, and you will be your own person; there is no doubt about that. But there’s no harm in asking us for help, for guidance, to be there for you and to show you the way. We’ve made the mistakes that you undoubtedly will. We’ve come through them, and I’m sure you will come through them. Strength lies not only within, but within the family as well.

We are a happy family. We always will be.

Love Dad

xxx