My Son's Not Rainman: One Man, One Boy, a Million Adventures

  I don’t have much of a memory for dates and times; birthdays, anniversaries, they merge into one. I couldn’t tell you where I was when John Lennon died or who won the 2002 World Cup. I can, however, tell you the two dates that have irrevocably changed my life. On 16 October 1991, I said goodnight to my dad for the last time. And then 3,825 days later, on 6 April 2002, I said hello to my son for the first time. These are the two people who have shaped my life, who will never, ever meet, linked only by my own fallible memory and a propensity for weight gain that I’m blaming firmly on genetics.

  You did all right, Dad. You did all right.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dream On

  There are over seven billion people in the world and the chances of two of those people ever coming together to make one… It means that one can never, ever be anything less than extraordinary. I still remember the day he was born, all those years ago. Ten fingers. Ten toes. We hit the jackpot. The Easter bunny, Father Christmas and the tooth fairy had all arrived in town that night and the streets were paved not just with gold but were laden with diamonds and emeralds; the night skies were lit with a thousand stars, and not one of them shone as brightly as that beautiful baby boy did. Dad’s got dreams for you, son.

  MY SON’S NOT RAINMAN BLOG

  I’d heard of other authors coming across stumbling blocks when writing books, pages that stumped them for some time. But surely they got further than the second paragraph of the second chapter before it happened? Especially when the first paragraph was something they’d copied from their blog.

  As a result, I’ve ‘come away for the weekend’ to try to write. I had visions of Agatha Christie sitting at a real fireplace in a small coaching inn, a hot toddy at her side as the ideas tumbled out of her head on to the page below. It transpires, however, that idyllic coaching inns are at something of a premium at the weekend and so, instead, I find myself in a Wetherspoons pub on the east coast of England, with a pack of fifteen broken pens from the local pound shop, cursing myself for having no companion to partake of the ‘two main meals for £7’ offer.

  You see, it never really dawned on me before I started to tell our story that in so many ways it’s easier to write about the dead. I think that’s why I started with my dad; the living are far more complicated to deal with. With the living there are other people and feelings to take into account, other lives to be lived, not least The Boy’s. And his birth, which I really want to write about, suddenly seems so difficult.

  The Boy’s mum and I have been separated for around ten years now, but she’s very much a part of his life. Mum lives around the corner and the three of us will forever be intertwined, knotted and wrapped together in it all. However, what I write here can only ever be my view and my perspective on the journey we’ve been on.

  It’s strange trying to recall a life with a partner before children; everything seems an entire lifetime away. The idea that the two of you once shared an existence before them just seems too strange to comprehend. What on Earth did you do all day long? In the evenings, when work had finished, how did you spend your time? What did you talk about?

  I made my big proposal at midnight at the start of the new millennium, 1 January 2000, as the fireworks exploded in the night sky and the first chimes of Big Ben rang in our ears.

  It didn’t really happen then.

  It was my intention to do that, honestly, but I never was any good with surprises or secrets, so I proposed six days earlier, on Christmas Day, instead. I’ll come clean, I panicked. We’d exchanged presents that morning and she’d bought me a lot more than I’d bought her. I felt bad. So I gave her the ring. We married fourteen months later in Scotland, on a cold, snowy day in March. And however things might have turned out, years down the line, it was a good day surrounded by family and loved ones. Maybe the best of days.

  A honeymoon in Thailand followed. My first (and, as it transpires, last) proper holiday since a memorable ‘lads holiday’ to Corfu in 1989. I liked Thailand a lot. I’m sure it has changed nowadays, but back then it really was the Land of Smiles. And my status was apparently revered. Here at home in the UK, I was just another overweight man who didn’t exercise anywhere near enough and ate far too much, but in Thailand a man of my size was a novelty. I found myself in the realm of Gulliver wherever we went. It turns out that the Thai people had elevated anyone with a BMI of thirty-five or over to the status of ‘rich landowner’. I’d finally made it.

  Once the initial excitement and confidence boost died down, I soon discovered that such a title earns you very few privileges, apart from being charged double what your new wife is when you go into shops. As a result, the rich landowner spent a large part of his honeymoon on the pavement or hiding round corners.

  A fortnight later we were home in time to meet the truck from Debenhams department store dropping off the gifts from the wedding list. What a weird and wonderful concept that was (and still is) – the wedding list. Although it’s lovely to ensure you get the presents you want, and grateful though I am, it still troubles me that on what was one of the most significant days of my life to date, my best mate in the entire world bought me a bin. Still, at least I now know what Egyptian cotton is. That, combined with now being in possession of a stoneware casserole dish, meant I had reached a level of maturity that I would not surpass in this lifetime. It could only mean one thing, it was time to have a baby.

  I suppose looking back we didn’t leave ourselves a great deal of time to enjoy being married before making this decision, but bear in mind that this was some years ago. I smoked, I drank a fair bit and, according to the people of Thailand, I looked like I not only owned but had eaten half of Manchester. Let’s just say, I thought things might take a while. They didn’t.

  The pregnancy itself went OK, at least from my perspective. To be fair though, it was never really going to be the greatest stretch for me. The first few months saw the two of us giddy with excitement. We took out a second mortgage to pay for baby magazines and every day another new book from Amazon, offering fresh insights into this seemingly unheard-of phenomenon called ‘childbirth’, would land on the doormat. We also compiled a never-ending list of Things We Wouldn’t Do That Our Own Mothers Suggested As We Preferred To Listen To The Opinion Of Strangers In Books Who By The Way Always Seemed To Be Australian. Ah, there’s nothing quite like the blind arrogance of a first-time pregnant couple. Neither of us really had a clue, but we hadn’t known anything about weddings twelve months earlier and now here we were, owners of a Le Creuset griddle pan. I researched prams and car seats. We’d be just fine.

  I thought, along with everyone else, that we were having a girl. (I hope I’m not giving too much away but, having seen the title of the book, you’ve probably worked out for yourself how this one ends). Girls were rare in our family – myself and my three brothers were testament to that. Grandchildren so far had all been boys. If nothing else, the law of averages said we’d have a girl and so did lots of people who claimed that you could tell by the shape of the bump that it’s a girl. I suppose deep down, I wanted a girl too. In my simplistic view I thought a girl might take after her mum. She’d be confident and outgoing. But a boy… a boy might inherit all the insecurities of his dad.

  Talking of insecurities, as a man, I’ve felt inadequate at numerous points in my life. There have been moments when situations have overwhelmed me, when the sheer complexity of being a tiny, fragile, minuscule thread within the rich tapestry of life felt like it might blow my mind apart. But nothing, nothing can compare to the inadequacy I felt as a male of the species when I found myself on a labour ward. If the phrase ‘surplus to requirements’ was invented for a particular moment in one’s life, it’s this one.

  Oh, they tell you how important it is that you’re there. All those self-help books say what a difference you’ll make to your loved one by holding their hand and offering words of reassurance. Well, gentlemen, let me share with you a little secret. Take it from someone who’s been there, someone
who has gone over the top, seen things he never thought he would and then returned to tell the tale. All those books you’ve read, they’re lying. Every one of them. From the moment you arrive at the hospital carrying her overnight bag for her so that in some pathetic, credulous way you feel you might be sharing the experience, you are in reality of no use whatsoever to anyone. You fit in like a vegan in a slaughterhouse.

  After the first four hours of the two of us being alone in that room, I sensed my endless stroking of the back of her hand was about as soothing as the sensory deprivation tactics deployed in Guantanamo Bay. Realizing what I was doing was maybe a bit much, I instead opted for my second and only other tactic. I asked her for the one hundred and twenty-second time if she wanted me to get her anything. ‘Yes,’ she replied. Yes! She said ‘Yes’! Granted, it was accompanied by a look that suggested her thought might be ‘a new husband’, but still, she wanted me to get her something. ‘A sandwich.’

  Finally, I had a purpose. ‘What sort?’ I asked. I was keen to get it right, this moment that had been one-hundred-and-twenty-two questions in the making.

  ‘Anything, John.’ Ah, the John at the end of the sentence told me all I needed to know. It was not a time to debate the topic further. I would leave her to relax in her bed while I took myself off. For now, I had a mission. The hunter-gatherer had to go and perform his best. I was needed. I was important.

  As I strode out of the ward, instead of turning right towards the hospital canteen, I headed towards the main entrance of the hospital and the car park. Wonderful though our National Health Service is in so many ways, it’s not renowned for the catering. If I was to provide a sandwich for the birth of my son, it would be the finest sandwich I could lay my hands on.

  A Sainsbury’s supermarket was up the road. And not just any Sainsbury’s – this was their flagship store with a grass roof and everything. The stars had aligned that day. They would offer an array of sandwiches like no other. I pulled into the car park and brought the car to a stop in the middle of a parent-and-child space. I knew technically I wasn’t and, technically, he wasn’t either – at least, not yet – but if ever I felt justified in parking there, it was that day.

  I wanted someone to stop me. To dare challenge me so that I could fix them with a steely-eyed glare and bellow in my most masculine voice, ‘I-DON’T-HAVE-TIME-FOR-THIS! MY-WIFE-IS-IN-LABOUR-AND-I…’ (at this point I would turn away from them, maybe throw in a little flounce and then stride purposefully towards the store doors) ‘I HAVE-A-MISSION!’

  No one said anything. I shuffled quietly to the entrance, took a basket and went to peruse the sandwich aisle. I thought back to the Aussies and their self-help books. They’d mentioned packing some nuts and raisins together with a favourite drink, but not a single one of them explained the hidden meaning behind someone in labour saying that they don’t mind which sandwich you choose for them. Does it mean the pain is so unbearable they just want something plain? Or does it mean that they really crave something more exotic but they don’t like to say as they don’t want to come across as a burden? You can see the dilemma I faced that day. And all along my wife is lying in the bed up the road, oblivious to it all.

  In the end I opted for a selection of sandwiches. A veritable buffet, carefully selected from the ‘Taste the Difference’ luxury range. Only the best for you, my son.

  Crisps! We would need crisps to go with the sandwiches. I shunned the Hula Hoops and Quavers; they didn’t have the gravitas the situation demanded. Kettle Chips. Salt and black pepper. We would dine on Kettle Chips at the birth of our first child. And a packet of pickled onion Space Invaders for the drive back to the hospital.

  Fruit. She’d want fruit after all that savouriness. I silently congratulated myself as I considered the selection. A lesser husband and dad-to-be wouldn’t be so thoughtful. They wouldn’t consider taking back a palate cleanser. As I put a fruit salad and some grapes into the basket I reminded myself just what a lucky wife she was. Drinks. Of course, drinks. Still or sparking? I’d better get both, just in case.

  Twenty-nine pounds I spent in Sainsbury’s that day. I strode back into the hospital, my three brimming, orange carrier bags swinging freely by my side. I walked with the swagger and importance of someone delivering a heart to the transplant ward. It would all be OK. Man. Provider. He had returned.

  ‘I DON’T WANT A F*CKING SANDWICH, I WANT THIS THING OUT OF ME!!!!’ were the words that greeted me. I slumped back into the chair in the corner of the room, out of the way where I belonged.

  It was another twenty-five hours that my wife spent in labour. For all the talk around which sex suffers the greater burdens in life, there’s not a single word spoken that isn’t silenced by the actions that each and every mother takes simply to give the gift of life. And her reward that day for giving every part of herself? She was to lie there, drained and exhausted, as her pride and joy was handed to the sobbing buffoon sitting in the corner, smelling of pickled onion Space Invaders.

  And son, one day when you read this I want you to know that all those thoughts of ever wanting a girl melted away the minute I held you. From that first moment, I realized that all I ever wanted… was you. And I’d like to tell you that in those first precious moments of life, we looked into each other’s eyes and that your dad leant down and whispered something profound and meaningful that we will both carry with us for the rest of our days. I’d like to tell you that, but I can’t. Because the minute you were put in my arms, I panicked. ‘He’s too perfect,’ I thought. ‘He’s too good. Look at him. I’ll just mess it all up.’

  And although the years have rolled away since that moment, I don’t really think that feeling ever has.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Build

  And so we took you home. And the light, it skipped and shone off those glasses with a rose tint that your dad wore every time he looked at you. Then that little baby started to grow, up and out into the world. Then people started whispering, ‘Shouldn’t he be talking by now?’ ‘Shouldn’t he be walking by now?’ But what did they know? They were comparing him to everyone else, but you couldn’t compare him to anyone else, because everyone else was only ever like that fake diamanté stuff from a TV shopping channel, but this boy… This boy was the Koh-i-Noor.

  MY SON’S NOT RAINMAN BLOG

  Some people are natural parents. Instinct kicks in – they just know what to do. Looking back, I’m not sure either of us were. His mum was certainly better at it all than me. I remember the midwife leaving us to dress him for the first time in a baby grow. We were terrified. Even though the midwife was horrible and rude and bossy, I wanted her to come home and live with us forever because she knew how this all worked.

  The trouble was, I’d never really held anything so fragile before. At least, not since I was seven years old and my brothers and I found a dying magpie lying in the road and decided the best course of action was to bring it home, put it in a cardboard box with some bread and milk, and watch it slowly die, much to the delight of my mother. I remember how small and frail that magpie seemed, but even then nobody asked me to put it in a bloody cardigan. You see that was the problem with The Boy; at any point I thought I was going to snap him. There wasn’t a chapter on how-to-bend-an-arm-that-won’t-move-into-a-baby-grow-so-you-don’t-smash-it-into-a-thousand-little-pieces in any of the baby books. Too basic even by their standards. I’d even done the prenatal course. Me and lovely Dwayne the carpet fitter (the only other bloke who turned up) had a practice with a doll, but at least a doll’s arm moved when you wanted it to. They prepare you for the head being fragile; all the books mention how delicate the skin is on their head. But how come no one mentioned the neck? The neck was next to useless – the head would have been fine if it had a decent neck to sit itself on in the first place.

  Every time I picked up The Boy I just felt clumsy and awkward. I thought parenting was going to be all storytelling and puppet shows and finger painting but it wasn’t, not in those early days. To b
egin with it was practical. I’ve never even put up a shelf before, I still can’t tell my left from right properly and I can’t use a tin opener. I tried to be hands-on, but it soon became apparent that I couldn’t even put a nappy on properly. I never secured the fastener tightly enough because I thought I might smash his pelvic bone into smithereens. Parenting, it just never came naturally in those early days.

  And I had good reason for feeling clumsy. I’m renowned for it. I can’t carry a cup of coffee across a room without spilling half of it on the floor, so how on earth was I meant to manage with a living, breathing child? As our families excitedly arrived at the hospital to come and visit the new arrival, whenever I went to pick him up I’d hear a collective gasp from whoever was around the bed at the time. Instinctively, people would just cry out in unison, ‘Watch his head, John.’

  ‘He’s fine,’ I’d reassure them, his ear narrowly missing the edges of the bedside cot as I desperately tried to make it all look as natural as possible. It was a constant reminder that I was responsible for someone else now. And I’d do it right. I should have known that was easier said than done.

  The next day it was time to take my son (‘My son’ – every time I uttered those words my heart swelled) and his exhausted mum home. I arrived on the maternity ward on a boiling hot day in April, wearing my thickest coat that I couldn’t take off as I hadn’t ironed any of my clothes and without a belt to keep the trousers where they should be.

  ‘Have you got any pound coins for parking?’ I said to his exhausted mum who was sitting patiently on a ready-made bed, belongings packed, son in her arms. ‘I forgot to bring my wallet…’

  There was something profound about the journey home from hospital that I hadn’t been expecting. In the hospital none of it had quite seemed real. If we were unsure of anything, a midwife was a call-button away or there was always someone visiting. Yet suddenly here we were, alone in it all. Mum sitting in the back seat outwardly calm, her nervousness betrayed by her white knuckles visible as she clasped both sides of his car seat tightly, as if this oh-most-precious cargo might spontaneously combust at any point. As I started the car I adjusted the rear-view mirror to ensure I had a clear view of his face and we slowly moved off. The outside world fell away and for the first time it was just the three of us. A family.