In a few short days I
shall be a dad again. And just like you never get the first pancake right now
is my chance to start again with a blank canvas. Except, unlike the first
pancake, I have not put my first child in the bin (however tempting that
sometimes feels). I am of the strong view that if any mother could remember
anything of what happened to them during childbirth they would neve ever have
another. And yet somehow a universal amnesia descends and as night follows day
where once there was one there soon are two.
We have been trying
to get the firstborn ready and after much show and tell and dramatic role play
he has just about grasped the concept of a sibling. However he has guaranteed
himself disappointment as his resolute and unequivocal order is for a big
sister and whatever’s coming it ain’t that.
In particular we have
been reading the bizarre ‘There’s a House inside my Mummy’ in which the newborn’s
arrival is hotly anticipated by his brother with this extraordinary verse:
“I just can’t wait to meet him
I hope that he’s all right,
My daddy says be patient
As his door is rather tight.”
In truth my son and I
do share a thwarted wish which is for a girl. I know you’re not supposed to
express a preference but I’ve seen mini-me and any further pint sized
replication seems extremely ill-advised.
Furthermore I feel the
age of men has run its course and I was rather relishing the challenge of being
a daughter’s father. The silver lining is that I have had more than one parent
comment on how ‘complicated’ girls can be; as if having a son is the quick
crossword to the daughter’s cryptic.
It seems to me that
being a parent to a child of any description is a fiendishly difficult
undertaking the absolute impossibility of which is never made apparent until it’s
far far too late. But I have always supposed that there is some difference to the
challenges.
Raising a son is like
climbing a mountain, the peak usually remains in sight, it’s physically hugely
demanding, dangers are usually clearly signposted and serious harm is the
likely outcome of foolish risk taking.
Raising a daughter is
like traversing a mature and dense forest, the path seems clear but suddenly
one can lose one’s bearings in a sickening moment of uncertainty, there is no
obvious reason to fear but a stray root can trip at any moment or a darting
adder draw blood with poisonous bite.
Anyway, I am not one
for generalising and I know my son will be his own person as are we all and I’ll
love him come what may.
