Family Christmas

 

When we revisit childhood sites there can be a kind of temporal vertigo in which the years collapse in on themselves. This often happens on a return to school or university. Sometimes it happens in a family setting. This year my cousin kindly hosted Christmas at her home in which I spent numerous Christmases before the age of 10. It's in that life period real Christmas imprinting takes place. The template is cut against which all future Christmases are judged.

Returning to that house with children of my own but together too with my father and sister got me thinking about how families evolve both by degrees but also in leaps and bounds. There can be years in which family dynamics seem hardly to change, then there is a birth, marriage or death and suddenly the warp and weft of the family tapestry is fundamentally altered.

It can be very tempting to resist change and the big life events are an obvious challenge to that impulse but it seems to me important to remember that even in the quiet moments change is always happening. Family rituals can often obscure changes hence the disproportionate tension that can arise when a presents before lunch person marries an after luncher. Also, as often happens in life, close proximity can prevent a clear observation of developments.

Ironically it's in noticing and, even more so, in embracing change that family traditions remain vital and meaningful rather than stale retreads of what went before. Families are, of course, composed of individuals and constituent groupings but they are also or at least can be more than the sum of their parts. Christmas can be so freighted with expectation because people instinctively know this and when we gather there is inevitably an assessment of where we stand in relation to the whole but also of the whole itself.

Some families are very expressive and open about this process, some refer to it only obliquely and others leave it all unsaid but somehow manage to make their feelings known nonetheless. It certainly isn't always easy but I admire families that manage to gather and cohere. Sometimes it is necessary for people to stand apart from their family to safeguard their own wellbeing or because they are the victims of familial prejudice or even threat. But spurning family for no really good reason is perhaps a prime example of cutting off your nose to spite your face.

It's precisely because you don't get to choose your family that they hold a value that a friend never can. Even closest and oldest friends don't have the time, energy or interest to engage with and assess your development in a way that your parents, siblings and relations (often maddeningly) do. When we are able to value our family, both in terms of cherishing them but also in being unabashed about taking stock, the chances are the family will value us.

The Coffee Community

 

When we are born it is guaranteed that our mother will be in attendance. These days our father might be there too, although it might be a birth partner or a relative instead. Generally though we arrive into fairly select company.

When we die it's anybody's guess who will be with us. I'd venture that most of us hope it will be quietly in our sleep with our loved one by our side. Certainly few hope for it to be a public spectacle. But death is not the saying goodbye. That is the function of funerals.

At 41 I've still been to surprisingly few funerals. Four close family members and my nanny Jane, nearly ten times as many weddings. Yesterday made it six but what made it notable for me was that I wasn't just attending the funeral I was officiating.

As a consequence of being asked to perform that role I have been giving a lot of thought to funerals. I know that some people plan them meticulously and I know that others are absolutely indifferent to the send off they receive. There are public funerals watched by millions, Princess Diana obviously springs to mind, and there are funerals that go completely unwitnessed referred to, even today, as paupers' funerals.

In my view a funeral is an extremely important occasion, much more so than a wedding, but like weddings they can be overwhelmed by folderol and frippery, completely at odds with the person whose life is being celebrated. Rituals are the punctuation of life, a public recognition that a new life has begun or that a life lived has ended. Without funerals we miss a chance to take pause for thought and make proper acknowledgment of the lives and deaths of others; we fail to accord to people the respect that every human life deserves.

I have lived near a cafe for a while now owned by two magnificent men. This cafe, as well as serving absolutely ace coffee, is the lifeblood of the community. Out-of-towners tend to suppose that London is incapable of a sense of community but anyone who has lived in London for any time will know that London is an amalgamation of villages. That said, community does not arise from sheer proximity to others. Community is not just about place it's about people too.

If you head direct from home to work and back again, indifferent to the existence of those living around you, community will not come to you and you to it. People can be slow to engage with those around them through shyness, exhaustion or suspicion. Sometimes it takes somebody to take a lead and show the way.

This coffee shop organises a street party most summers, and this isn't a curling sandwiches and a few tins of beer affair, but first rate entertainment performed from a vintage Dreamliner caravan and delicious food stalls. Carols outside the cafe at Christmas. Rotating displays of art on the walls. Interest in the lives of their customers, a place to belong and make friends. And a place, in particular, for Sylvia whose funeral it was.

I did not know Sylvia well and my connection to her was the same as it was for everyone that attended her funeral: the coffee shop. Without it, and in particular without Matt and Nick who make it what it is, I don't like to think too much about what her funeral might have been and what, no doubt, many funerals are. But organising a funeral wasn't just a one off act of benevolence on their part, they embraced Sylvia in her last years ensuring that she unequivocally had a community to be part of. What she gave in response was character and a zest for life that would put many decades her junior to shame. When you value people they value you right back.

If you'd told Sylvia that I would be MC'ing her funeral she'd probably have asked who the hell I was but for me it was one of the honours of my life. 

Look about you and see what your community is and if you can't see one take a leaf out of Matt and Nick's book.

Arthur - In Memoriam

The amalgamation of absolute horror and total bewilderment is so unsettling it can induce a feeling of disconnection from reality. I have been struck, in discussion with colleagues over the last 24 hours, most of whom have been involved in cases involving terrible things done to children, by how much of an impact the little life and dreadful, dreadful death of Arthur Labinjo-Hughes has had on them and on me also. 

We see children treated as sexual objects, we see children suffering the neglect of the substance addicted, the utterly inadequate and the unwell, we see children disabled or killed in spasms of rage and frustration. But only occasionally do we see children deliberately and gleefully tortured. The bewilderment in this case stems from it being a woman who instigated and orchestrated that relentless campaign of cruelty. 

Of course we should not be bewildered, anyone who knows anything of the evil humans do and the harm they are capable of inflicting upon the weak and the defenceless will know that men, contrary to some popular opinion, hold no monopoly in wrongdoing. And yet so engrained still is the conception of women as protectors and nurturers that a case such as this is nonetheless capable of provoking a feeling of astonishment. 

It was real, it happened and the most painful truth is it will happen again. We all knew the lockdown would enable the bad things that happen behind closed doors to get worse and here is the worst example of those bad things. There will be the inevitable review into the missed opportunities to rescue Arthur and save his life. The cliché of lessons will be learned is now as empty as the response to Arthur’s plaintive and miserable cries that nobody loved him. 

We know it takes a village to raise a child, unfortunately we don’t live in villages anymore but great anonymous cities and towns where although our lives are often shared extravagantly on social media ironically the atomisation of our existences only accelerates. Undoubtedly there were agencies and institutions that should have seen what was happening to Arthur and should have stopped it. Social workers and teachers noticing and enquiring and demanding satisfaction. 

But we must not kid ourselves that the safety nets are working and how could they be? Social workers are paid badly. Their caseloads are unmanageable. The children that are experiencing the most visibly problematic parenting are not necessarily the children suffering the most dangerous and merciless cruelty. I am often relieved as a barrister that although I am exposed to terrible things it is in a very compartmentalised way. My cases have a beginning and end. A social worker’s case is a child’s whole life, existence and upbringing. 

We have agency. We are also subject to a moral imperative. Every time we cast a vote at the ballot box we can send a signal that we will not tolerate this kind of thing. If we vote for politicians that will tolerate it then that is on us. Meanwhile, it is incumbent upon every one of us to practise ceaseless vigilance. Making a nuisance of oneself is a negligible price to pay when a child’s life and future is at stake. Trust your instincts, if there’s a child at your child’s school with regular bruising make enquiry and don’t be fobbed off. If you encounter professional inertia and complacency remind that person of Arthur. 

It is very, very easy to persuade oneself that other people’s lives are other people’s business but the lives of children are everybody’s business.

'Nil Benefit' - Part 2 of my Anthony Nolan Experience

So having had my blood drawn at home and my blood pressure measured (more greens, more sleep, more physical jerks, less booze clearly required) I had a restless wait to find out whether I was a match match. Just when I thought maybe Anthony Nolan had forgotten about me I got a voicemail and an email:

Thank you for providing your latest blood samples in August 2021. Testing is now complete and we are pleased to inform you that you are compatible with the patient in need of a stem cell transplant. You’ve now been asked to donate your stem cells to give them a second chance of life.

There then followed a much longer email with many attachments and much information. The net effect of which was that I needed to go for a medical in a week and I'd be donating within a month. I was assured there would be no treadmill involved at the medical but, unsurprisingly, some very careful scrutiny of my blood.

I'm signed up for peripheral blood stem cell donation. A short course of injections over a few days then blood out of one arm through a machine harvesting the stem cells and back in the other arm. As a long time blood donor I've long lost any fear of needles, although keeping my arms immobile for 4 hours or so sounds like the perfect opportunity to finally give meditation a proper go or get fully immersed in Gotterdammerung.

The extraordinary science that enables this is so far beyond me I haven't even sought to understand it, trusting instead that there is little to worry about (unless my spleen is tender which, apparently, is not good, unhappily I have no idea where that is). Instead I have decided that this is a form of magic and I am just the magician's assistant.

The medical was pretty thorough and even included some light wrestling with the doctor which was unexpected. In fact it was the sort of thing a private doctor would probably charge an arm and a leg for so it was certainly not time wasted.

Unsurprisingly the consent forms and questionnaires are very extensive including some rather bizarre questions. Have you ever been bitten by a monkey? No. Have you ever ingested gold? Are you kidding, have you seen Salt Bae's prices!

The very last consent form necessarily listed the (unlikely) potential side effects of the donation process and the nurse had written in the section above setting out the benefit to the patient 'Nil benefit'. I didn't want to quarrel with a medical professional but the suggestion that there is no benefit to me as the donor could not be more wrong when I hope to be able to look back at this one day and feel that it serves as some small mitigation against my every mean action and ignoble thought. 

In any event it will be an experience and what is life for if not experiences?

If you're not on the stem cell register please think about signing up: https://www.anthonynolan.org/help-save-a-life/join-stem-cell-register

The Meaning of Life

What is the one thing that all parents everywhere want for their children above all other things? If your answer is not happiness I’d be genuinely interested to hear what it is. There’s a familiar expression, you’re only as happy as your unhappiest child. Our children’s pain, physical and emotional, weighs on us as much, if not more sometimes, as it does on them. 

Parents can go to extraordinary and sometimes ludicrous lengths to try and protect their children from pain and life’s vicissitudes. That this is ultimately both impossible and also a profoundly poor preparation for the necessary evolution into adulthood does not stop the effort being commonplace. 

However natural it is to want happiness for your children it is profoundly misguided to teach them that it should be their goal in life. Chasing happiness is like running after a will-o’-the-wisp it usually remains tantalisingly out of reach and a huge amount of effort can be expended in its pursuit. 

Instead, if children are taught to identify what is meaningful to them they will usually find that happiness is a happy by-product of its cultivation. The other significant thing about meaningful endeavour is that it is far less susceptible to the corrupting influence of money. We all know that money can’t buy happiness but that does not stop us feeling in our weaker moments that maybe it can. The irony being that time spent meaninglessly leaves a hole in our lives and we mistakenly believe that money will fill that hole. 

Work provides purpose in life and work pays the bills. But it is a statement of the obvious that not all work is meaningful to all people. When the work itself is meaningful then the income it earns becomes almost incidental, assuming it enables a living. However, some mistakenly seek meaning in the income alone, overlooking the intrinsic value of the endeavour itself. When in fact the intrinsic value IS the value. 

Meaning isn’t solely found in labour and work can be a means to an end. Many toil at dull or repetitive jobs to enable that which is truly meaningful to them but many just toil. E. M. Forster’s mantra ‘Only Connect’ probably resonates with me more than any words in literature. Not in a vapid networking sense of the expression but in terms of genuine, real and, yes meaningful, connection. 

We all know, unless we are extremely unfortunate, how powerful are those moments in life of profound connection, friendships made, true loves met, sorrow shared, joy expressed. That for me is where meaning resides. But meaning isn’t exclusively found in people. Using one’s body to its utmost, giving oneself to artistic expression, being in and tending to nature: there is meaning in all that. For hermits it’s isolation and contemplation. Meaning is myriad as people and where meaning goes happiness is sure to follow.

Why am I?

 My grandmother was in MI6 during the war, her number was 0071. She spent some of it in Sweden. What she did there nobody in the family knows because, being the dutiful woman she was, she never spoke of it and the files are permanently embargoed. It is hardly uncommon in families with relatives that saw active service in the War that their service was not discussed, even with closest relatives, either because they weren't permitted to or because what they saw was so dreadful that a veil necessarily had to be drawn.

We are very shortly going to pass beyond living recall of WWII which, from a British perspective, means that a national experience of conflict, battle and death is going to evaporate. That sense of things so collectively and personally painful that they just couldn't be shared with those that had not perceived them will have disappeared. Sadly, of course, there remain many parts of the world where that doesn't merely remain a lived experience but a living experience too.

What has that got to do with parenting you might well ask? Well, just as some British people have an unhealthily partial understanding of British history so too do many of us have an unhelpful awareness of the lives of our parents and our parents' parents, and so on.

It is perhaps in the nature of things that it is hard to imagine the world before our arrival and harder yet to imagine it after our departure. And yet existed it did and so too did our parents unencumbered by cooking pasta and tomato sauce (again), wrestling with child seats, nagging about the state of bedrooms and pursing lips at first tattoos.

Unless people are orphans, adopted or have some peculiarly remote relationship with their parents they are likely to know the parental CV. Where and when born, education, chronology of employment, interests and hobbies. But as anyone who has ever had a hand in recruitment will tell you, judging someone by their CV is like thinking you understand what it's like to experience the Taj Mahal because you've read about it in a guidebook.

Most of us, of course, do get to experience our parents as well as knowing the key facts about them. But not all of us really get to know our parents. That may be because they're not telling but it's just as likely because we're not asking. In one key respect we can never actually know our parents and that is them without us. However the fact that it is literally impossible to experience that state isn't to say that journeying in that direction is time and energy wasted.

I sometimes think the best parents are those that are able to remain truest to their ultimate sense of self notwithstanding the arrival of a newborn (assuming, obviously, that their truest sense of self isn't a feckless drug taking dissolute). It's hardly a revelation that parenting entails self-sacrifice but if that sacrifice actually entails destruction of the self you will not teach your child how to be their own person. What is essential is having the courage and to show and share your real self with your children.

Most people, unless they're incurably incurious, reach a stage in life when they wonder why they are the way they are, some get there at 5, some at 50. In answering that enquiry it is almost always necessary to find out why your parents are the way they are. Maybe you're lucky and they've thought hard about that question and they're prepared to let you in on the secret. Maybe you're less lucky and their interior life is as secret as a clam's insides.

But just as history is public so too is it personal and knowing your parents' emotional timeline means you can progress from the who's who version of them to the why's who. Assuming they're still around, and even if they're not, it's never too late to start the treasure hunt: just don't expect them to give you the clues.

Working 9 to 3 - Making School Work

I've blogged before about the classic milestones of childhood being far less interesting than those that go unrecorded and often unremarked. The first time your kid's a hypocrite, anyone? Without doubt one of the real biggies is First Day at School. This phenomenon has an extraordinary effect on even the most social media averse. The obligatory doorstep photo really does seem as compulsory as the NHS clap was during the first lockdown. If an Englishman's home is his castle his doorstep is definitely his family's shop window.

And yet in the Hardy household this particular moment of my child's life (unlikely practically every other millisecond) went unsharented. This might be for the basic reason that I was belting off to court at exactly the time Hardy 1 was making his scholastic debut. It might also be that the school that we just managed to drag ourselves into the catchment area for (and I really mean just, with a waiting list place being made available a couple of days before term started) has no time for such spirit crushing and independence stifling things as uniforms. Something which, for me at least, has been rather discombobulating. My educational endeavours involved more uniforms than Lord Mountbatten would know what to do with. They included brown knickerbockers, gold and russet cravats, tweed jackets, grey flannel trousers, tail coats, stiff collars, white bow ties, mortar boards (even pink carnations for heaven's sake!). Is it any wonder I've ended up in a job involving wigs and 17th century cosplay?

In reality though I think it's because starting school has provoked some intensely, I might go so far as to say, aggressively ambivalent feelings in me. Obviously I am hugely excited that formal education is underway and that his days of making mud pies in the nursery sand pit will fast be a thing of the past. But the fact of the matter is that school and specifically the school day is a complete grenade in the functioning of the family timetable. Drop off is after the start of the working day and pick up is hours before the end of it. In a fully employed household that creates a real childcare conundrum, apparently there are these mythical concepts 'Breakfast Club' and 'After School Club', but I have more chance of winning a place in Valhalla than getting my kid into either of those.

It is very difficult to avoid the conclusion that those in government responsible for administering the education system just do not want both parents in work and it's pretty obvious which parent it is they expect not to be. When I grumbled about this on Twitter someone reasonably observed that small children can't be expected to engage in formal learning until 6 pm and I quite agree. Expecting a 5 year old to be hard at work at their Latin Primer gone cocktail hour is absurd. But sport, art, music, theatre, play, is that not an education also? I know, I know, I know, there are no playing fields, there's no money for instruments and the too few teachers that there are need to get home to plan to Ofsted's satisfaction.

I have absolutely no doubt that I'm about to discover there is a very good reason why school chuck out time falls right in the middle of the afternoon court session but as a newcomer to the game it does seem a very strange rule.

When Anthony Nolan came knocking - Part 1

 

There aren't many decisions you make 20 years previously which out of the blue suddenly demand your immediate attention. Investing in Premium Bonds, if you miraculously one day become a winner, might be one of them. Another is finding out you're a match.

When I was at university I decided to give blood donation a go. While there Anthony Nolan were swabbing; as I was about to have a needle stuck in my arm having my mouth swabbed seemed a trifling imposition by comparison. So I signed up without hesitation. For some days afterwards I wondered when I would hear back. But the days turned into weeks, then months, then years and finally decades.

All that time I knew I was on the register but it wasn't exactly at the forefront of my thoughts. Until last week: I emerged from court, turned on my phone and saw a missed call and a text message. The voicemail and the text said the same thing. I was a match and needed to call back as soon as possible.

I'm ashamed to admit that my very first reaction was that maybe this was some kind of weird scam. That was quickly followed by a restless excitement, then nervousness and finally the classic barrister's worry of how this would fit into my diary. I rang straight back and spoke to an extremely nice man who explained all the next steps.

He said I would need to provide a blood sample and asked if he could arrange for the nurse to see me during the call. I idiotically thought for a moment he meant literally then and there on a street corner in Huntingdon. He clarified that while they were keen they weren't that keen. Instead he asked if the following day would be convenient. I said it was.

After the call I was sent a questionnaire to complete with my health history. It also asked me to confirm my contact details and I was briefly thrown by seeing my childhood landline. Fortunately I have only ever had one mobile phone number and email address but I realised in that moment what a headache it must be when a match is found and contact details are years out of date. IF YOU'RE ON THE REGISTER PLEASE UPDATE THEM TODAY.

The next day a nurse turned up promptly in mask and apron. She had a blood pressure cuff on my right arm, an oximeter on my left hand and a temperature gun against my head within a couple of minutes. I made a note of the stats and have already taken steps to address a rather higher blood pressure reading than I would have liked to see.

For now my blood is in the lab for final checking of compatibility. I do not yet know whether I will be found suitable for donation or not. There is no doubt in my mind that I will do it if I am. I was told there is a 1 in 900 chance of being a match.

While I'm on this wholly unexpected journey that I put my name down for all those years ago I thought I might keep a record of my thoughts and experiences. Most of all however I want to take this opportunity to urge you to register if you have not. Almost every one of us would accept a donation if we were gravely ill and, in my view, this is one of those occasions in life when it is genuinely better to be able to give than to have to receive:

https://www.anthonynolan.org/help-save-a-life/join-stem-cell-register

Parenting at See Level

There are occasions in life when you know before someone has even tied their laces or stepped on a stage that they will make a match winning footballer or a scene stealing actor. But then there are times when Escoffier like skill in the kitchen or Dürer-ability with a pencil can come as a complete surprise. One of the many joys of parenting is seeing your children’s more predictable talents come to fruition but then being blindsided by their hidden talents appearing like a conjuror’s rabbit. 

Talent at parenting is not a quality we are very well trained at perceiving or indeed cultivating before the moment comes. And yet I would suggest it is a top three prerequisite when it comes to mate selection along with certainty that they’re not a feckless swine with the household finances and that they won’t forget your birthday. 

How do you tell if someone will make a good parent? Well, an obvious starting point is to see how they are around children. By which I obviously don’t mean get them to hang around the local school at chuck out time. In fact, this particular example of ‘try before you buy’ can be quite hard to engineer as first you will need to procure a child. Unless your parents had a really serious accident that is very unlikely to be a sibling. Here, definitely, nephews and nieces come into their own. 

Suggest to your prospect (not on the First Date!!!) hanging out one afternoon when it just so happens you’re doing the babysitting. Are they washing their hair even though they’ve been bald since 25? Then there’s your answer. Try to ensure that they are actively involved. Anyone can feign parenting potential in the passive mood. Does their jaw clench at the first sign of infant restiveness? Or are they down on the floor faster than a Navy Seal. 

And here’s the Max Hardy secret patented parenting assessment. I have learned that there is one absolutely unimpeachable litmus test for parental promise. How are they on the floor? I don’t mean like that, obviously. I mean are they content at child level, quite literally. Good parenting requires good communication and good communication requires good eye contact. Unfortunately, small child eyes are about 3 feet from the floor, what I like to call the ‘see level’. 

If they get down there like a horse at the knacker’s yard then you’ve got a problem. They might talk the talk but if they don’t walk the walk, by which I mean crawl the crawl, then you’re looking at a parenting passenger. And I can tell you it takes one to know one.

Breastfeeding and Blokes

 

'About which you know nothing say nothing' is a maxim I try to bear in mind when yet again I imprudently decide to venture my opinion in a public forum. I sometimes think an international moratorium on opinions and takes would do more to achieve world peace than the UN has ever managed to do. Therefore it is with a significant dose of caution that I set out here some thoughts on World Breastfeeding Week which ends on Saturday.

Just as it remains something of a mystery to me quite how many gynaecologists and obstetricians are still men there are few topics where the views of men are perhaps less welcome or useful than breastfeeding. I would not countenance to address such views that I do have to women or mothers, other than to observe that a fed baby is a healthy baby and a fed baby is a happy baby. If that remains your lodestar you're unlikely to go far wrong.

Where I feel I am qualified to speak is to men and fathers. The first thing I have to say is that this week applies to you too. If you think breastfeeding is only of concern to women and mothers then you think babyfeeding is only of concern to mothers, then you think babycare is only of concern to mothers, then you are an absent father, whether you're under the same roof or not. 

If you're thinking of having children, if your partner is pregnant, if you're driving home from labour it is never too early nor too late to talk about babyfeeding. The important thing, however, is that you do talk. You may never have given a moment's thought to breastfeeding or you may have read every study ever published on the topic but if you don't talk there is no dialogue and without dialogue there is room for confusion, assumption, anxiety and, worst of all, guilt.

Guilt afflicted parenting in the early days and weeks is about the most destabilising thing a parent, particularly a mother, can go through. If you the father are offering unconditional support without judgement then guilt should wither before it can take root. But offering support without judgement requires you to examine your opinions and views. What they are and, more importantly, where they come from.

Like all genuinely useful things in life, how to apply for a mortgage, how to change the wheel on a car, breastfeeding is not taught in schools. One of the greatest misconceptions in life is that because something is 'natural' it is easy. Breastfeeding is not easy. It requires teaching, it requires learning, it requires patience and it requires support. If your partner wants to or is trying to breastfeed then agitating against that and impeding her is the worst thing you can do. Do not EVER think that you have any claim on her breasts, still less imply that you do.

Because many women do not, these days, have the benefit of being surrounded by supportive and nurturing old hands to show them exactly how it's done you need to consider what they (and you) are surrounded by and that is advertising. Advertising that says that a paid for product is the answer to any and all difficulty. Sometimes it may be but sometimes that difficulty can be overcome with advice from the right source and reassurance from the right direction. Find that advice and be that reassurance.

All the statistics suggest that in Britain we don't breastfeed very much or for very long. If you think that is a shame or a problem take the time to consider why and take the trouble to investigate the reasons for that. It is a complicated issue but it should not be a frightening or alien one. Most of all it's not just a mothers' issue.

Geared up for parenting: Fitting it all in

 

Whether you have a rich and expansive imagination or you're Mr Literal you will understand, on one level at least, that having a baby will change your life. A child adds complication, exhaustion and joy, it subtracts time, money and sleep. Much (much, much, much) is written about the sleep deficit. In the middle of the night or at 0500 for the 10th day in a row that stolen sleep feels like a heist on your life force. But in truth even the worst sleeping baby eventually works out that night is night and day is day.

The financial hit most certainly does not go away and the brutal reality is that having a kid is like trying to fill a bath with no plug when it comes to money. But you cut your cloth, you do what you have to in order to manage. And you do, you survive, if lucky, you thrive.

So sleep returns, the books are balanced. But time? Well there are 24 hours in a day and it doesn't matter how old your child is that won't change. Likewise, high earner or low, you can't remake the clock. And reconciling with this reality is one of the most fundamental and yet most difficult tasks of parenthood. I don't know about you but when I'm short on time I get stressed and when I'm stressed I get angry. Being stressed and angry is great if you're the Incredible Hulk, it's pretty lousy if you're a barrister and bloody terrible if you're a dad.

One of the problems I have to wrestle with is that if you're a barrister you have a court day, you have a prep day, you have a life evening and you have a sleep night. When you insert a child or two into that routine you have to contract something else. You can't contract the court day because it's not yours to contract. If you contract the sleep night you will come a cropper very fast. That leaves the prep day and the life evening. Obviously the life evening is the first to be sacrificed. But when that's done for it leaves the prep day.

The prep day is personal to every barrister. Only you know when you feel ready. Only the judge and the jury get to decide if you actually are ready. Going to court when you don't feel entirely ready is genuinely one of the most uncomfortable experiences I know. Like starting a marathon when you haven't done the training or turning over an exam paper when you haven't done the revision. Apart from being uncomfortable and frightening it's obviously extremely unprofessional.

So the prep day has to remain as sacrosanct as possible but that then puts it into conflict with the parenting day. The most difficult thing being that the parenting day is actually pretty predictable, after all, children thrive on routine. But the barrister's prep day is never, ever predictable. Sometimes there is no prep. Sometimes the prep wipes out the parenting day, the life evening and a good chunk of the sleep night. And that can go on for days or even weeks. Quite often you expect no or little prep then suddenly a skeleton needs drafting or a trial comes in without notice. Occasionally you anticipate heavy prep and it all goes away because your client pleads or a court hearing is vacated.

However bad this is for you it is an utter, utter nightmare for your co-parent. Successful parenting depends first and foremost on good communication but only a pace behind is predictability. Being reliable. Showing up on time, ready to go. If you prioritise the prep then reliability goes out the window. However if you sacrifice the prep the parenting is stressed and you're angry. Children are emotional barometers and sponges and the outlook has to be fair and settled if you want them asleep and settled.

I can't pretend to have found a complete solution to this problem, other than chuck it in and get a 9 to 5, but two things that really help are enormous self-discipline and gearing. In relation to the former that means doing one thing at a time and not just with your hands but with your head as well. If your head is stuck in a case when you're looking after a child you're not looking after a child. Likewise if you're getting to your feet in court turning over what you want to say at the Parent/Teacher evening you're cheating your client.

By gearing I mean learning how to transition from one activity to another. When divers ascend they have to do so at a particular speed to avoid the bends. It's exactly the same with work and parenting. Switching immediately from one mode to another guarantees that you will be in the wrong head space. Like the gears on a bicycle you can't expect to switch straight from top gear to bottom gear. You need to keep the gears oiled and you need to learn how to use them adroitly and quickly. When you manage this the transitions between the parts of the day become at least bearable.

The End of Parenting - Getting the job done

 

When babies are born they're all me, me, me. Agonisingly slowly they come to be aware that other people exist. Even more slowly they come to care about other people's feelings, including those of theirs parents. Then eventually, many, many years later, maybe they come to care about their parents' needs (maybe).

One of my earliest blogs commented upon the blinding realisation of what your parents did for you, however inadequately, that comes upon you when you have a child of your own. Because until you are a parent yourself the parent/child dynamic between you and your parents will remain just that, whether you are 6 and they're 36 or you're 66 and they're 96. When you have a child the equation becomes parent - child/parent. 

It is just as well that most children are entirely oblivious to their parents' needs. Imagine how miserable childhood would be if you were constantly alert to your mother's grievous lack of fulfilment or your father's career disappointment? Obviously the brutal reality for many children is that there is some undeveloped awareness of just those issues but ultimately actually being an adult and seeing your parents as adults rather than just caregivers takes the time it takes.

It sometimes feels that a large part of parenting is protecting children from adult problems, experiences, temptations and disappointments. When those things come prematurely they're perceived but not understood and thereby are planted some very unhealthy seeds for the future. If, on the other hand, all that shepherding and shielding succeeds then, like film classifications, all your child's life experiences will be age appropriate ready for the full smorgasbord when they hit 18.

What sometimes gets lost in the paranoia and hysteria about what children may be seeing and doing online and 'too soon' adult content and experiences is that children don't, can't and mustn't remain children forever. Proper parenting involves getting children ready to be adults so that when they fly the nest (assuming they do) they don't hurtle straight to the ground.

Keeping your child in a state of arrested development, interestingly, can actually be a lot easier than ensuring they go through all the gears in the right order at the right time. The penalty for failing to ensure that happens is they never lose their L plates as adults. And, as my wife can periodically attest, there is nothing more unattractive than a 40 year old child.

The Holy Grail of parenting is having your child one day look you in the eye, metaphorically if not literally, and say I see you as your own person with your own hopes, wishes, needs and desires and, what is more, insofar as I can I will support you in achieving them.

From that moment on although your child will remain forever your child your fundamental task as a parent has been fulfilled. It also augurs well as a realisation on your child's part that the inexorable ravages of time will one day see them ministering to your needs when you are no long able to attend to them yourself.

This is me - Children the unforgiving mirror

If you can't handle me at my worst you don't deserve me at my best was not in fact Marilyn Monroe's quip but it's a declaration that enjoys increasing impact in our times of self-actualisation and aggressive authenticity. It is the misfortune of many children that they see too much of their parents' worst and too little of their best.

I thought, absurdly, before becoming a father that I was inching towards some basic level of self-knowledge. The kind of man that I was and why. How wrong I was. Forget the mirror in Snow White, if you want to know yourself just have kids. Be warned, however, that you are very likely to find that you are not the fairest of them all.

Just as adversity provides the truest test of character having a child reveals you for who you really are. Are you patient? Are you hard working? Are you compassionate? Are you fun? In my case the answers being no, no, no and, just for the sake of consistency, no. In many respects the world of work represents a blank canvas upon which you get to choose, or at the very least have some agency over, how you depict yourself. Not so parenting.

When your baby is born a remorseless spotlight switches on and there is no hiding place, there's no covering up your weak spots or delegating the dull bits. That is unless you're prepared to pay, (and pay, and pay).

The more you pay for childcare the more you gain in terms of time, sanity and sleep. But just as if you paid someone to sit your driving test for you if you pass the buck while handing over the pounds you may just find that while you have your parenting licence you haven't the faintest idea what makes your child work and when their engine packs up on the side of the road you can only stand helplessly watching steam billow from the bonnet.

I have found that, in many respects, I'm not the father I hoped or thought I would be, which amounts to discovering I'm not so much the man I wished I was. This domestic voyage of discovery is apt in some parents, particularly fathers I might suggest, to conjure some rather difficult feelings. Little wonder it is then that some seek to suppress those feelings by throwing money at the problem or by running away.

But the thing about feelings is that if you don't sit with them you will find that they sit on you, not today, not tomorrow but some day when it's least convenient. I have, without doubt, learned more about myself in the last 4 years that I have in all 40 that I have lived. That I have enjoyed the lesson about as much as I enjoyed learning the past tense in Ancient Greek is not really the point.

If we're not tested we never discover what we're capable of but worse than that we never really find out who we are.

Consent in Crisis - Sexual Entitlement & Solutions

 

Unless you're a parent, police officer, teacher or teenager the chances are you haven't had a look at Everyone's Invited. What sounds like the website for a music festival or immersive theatre experience is instead an avalanche of anguish. At the time of writing it hosts over 8,000 written accounts of rape, sexual assault, sexual harassment and predatory behaviour. The vast majority authored by young women or teenagers, many of them pupils of private schools. I got 15 pages in before stopping in sadness at the ceaseless torrent of trauma. 

What it reveals is nothing short of a crisis. And just as your ears are left ringing when a bomb has gone off you know that the full scale of the damage can not be surveyed until you've come to your senses and recovered your wits. One certain effect is that the police are about to become very very busy. Individual institutions are examining their practices and their safeguarding policies but it is obvious that this is about much more than one school.

This is most certainly not a problem confined to the private sector but it is revealing how many well known schools are finding themselves in a very unwelcome spotlight. Likewise what lies behind and facilitates this abhorrent behaviour is quickly identified: limitless porn on tap, camera phones and social media make for a dark triad of influences and platforms.

But what of the schools? I've written before about privilege and what it is that parents are purchasing when they assume the significant financial burden of paying school fees. They want the best education that money, or at least their money, can buy. If private education conferred no advantage on the children of those paying for it they would not pay for it. Familiar is the expression 'You get what you pay for'. That can be turned around as you paid so you get.

The ethics of getting a better education for your child because you paid for it is not for this post but what other lessons do some children learn about the power of money? Money buys entitlement. Entitlement to better universities, entitlement to better jobs. But what of sexual entitlement - It is an incontrovertible fact that nobody is entitled to sex or sexual activity. But if everybody believed and acted on that there would be no sexual offending.

The discovery by a school that sexual wrongdoing is being alleged by one pupil against another ought not to cause the school a conflict of interest. And if the school is not a business there is unlikely to be a conflict of interest. But if the school is, and the parents of both those pupils are paying for a place, and the school's reputation is at stake, then things can become difficult. Whatever their charitable status may be private schools are run like businesses. If costs exceed their income they fail. Issues that jeopardise their income jeopardise the school. It's worth remembering that before signing the cheque.

Of one thing I am certain it is the absolute responsibility of parents to prepare their children for the world and their conduct within it. That inescapably should include their children's sexual interactions. I say should because the reality is that still far too many parents delegate sex education to schools. Of course schools provide it as a necessary back up but even the most enlightened school is going to be second best to a parent taking a genuine and concerned interest in their child's development and sexual coming of age. If the thought of that embarrasses you then you have no place being a parent.

A basic starting point is this. Unless all parties depicted are 18 or over if your child sends, has, views or solicits nude images of another they commit a criminal offence. EVEN if it's their girlfriend or boyfriend, EVEN if they consent. Children and teenagers need to know from their teachers and their parents that the moment they send a nude image they should assume that it will be everywhere, for everyone, forever.

Children need to learn about consent, of course, but much more than that they should learn about joy. It is ironic that one of the smash TV hits of 2020 was called Normal People because so many people commented about how refreshing it was, how abnormal, that the sexual exploration depicted was so clearly dependent upon explicit confirmations of consent sought and given. When teenagers understand and practice consent they demonstrate that they understand that sex is not about taking and entitlement but about giving and sharing and, ultimately, about joy; that of the other party as well as their own. 

Ask your sons today whether they're giving joy because if they're not they may just be taking it.

Don't just stand there, do something! - Teaching boys to become men

 

Good parents instil in their children that most basic biblical maxim of all: All things therefore whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, even so do ye also unto them. Although if Saint Matthew was laying down the Golden Rule in 2021 that would probably be rendered as 'Don't be a dick' or 'Be kind'.

As a father of sons it is (sadly) necessary to consider not just the harms that might befall them but to counsel them against the harms they might inflict on others, particularly women. Obviously, as a starting point, an age appropriate conversation about the importance of not committing literal criminal offences. That is, however, most certainly not the end of it.

There is a whole spectrum of conduct that falls short of actual criminality which tarnishes the Golden Rule. It may be the basic discourtesy of 'ghosting' someone you've been dating or intrusion into a conversation in which you're not involved (a social media solecism I have definitely committed). More troublingly it may be the failure to take no for an answer or a slut shaming response to a sexual rejection. Then there is the cat calling and obscene gestures which instantly reveal the Mr Hyde in the men that engage in them.

All of that is not OK and it is a gross failure of parenting if your son grows up not understanding that.

But here's the hard part. Being a good man isn't just about not being a bad man. No man should define his character by what he is not. It is hardly a badge of pride to declare that you are not a rapist. Instead I would hope that my sons will grow up evidencing their character through their actions, through who and what they are.

A lot of that should not be difficult. Good manners cost nothing, as they say, and giving lone women a wide berth at night is a simple demonstration of that. Listening and acting on the concerns of women causes you no harm or loss.

But the inescapable fact is that there is more to it than that. A good man takes action when he sees another man letting the side down. And if that sounds an absurd forms of words don't think that the wrong actions of other men have no impact on you. That impact may not be directly felt by you but women at the receiving end of unwanted attention and worse from one man will naturally hesitate in the vicinity and company of other perfectly blameless men including you.

Policing the behaviour of others does carry a potential cost. If you're with a bunch of mates that indulge in group jeering and you step in you run the risk of ostracism. Likewise if you're on a train and you stand up to a man hassling a woman you risk a fist in the face. But in the first situation you need to ask yourself if the price you pay for friendship with such men is really worth it. In the latter the quiet unmanly shame of going home having stood by and done nothing.

Women pay the price every day for the inaction of 'good' men. Actively contributing to a culture of intolerance for lesser sexual aggressions not only improves the lives and wellbeing of women at the receiving end of them but it helps focus attention on those intent on serious sexual offences.

The lesson for my sons will be a simple one: Don't just stand there, do something!

Cry Baby Cry - The Soundtrack to their Tears

 

No ante-natal class can ever prepare you for quite how much crying will become the soundtrack to your life for a good two to three years after your child is born. That is probably just as well because babies and small children cry A LOT. I sometimes think that if social media is good for anything it would be good for an annual day of uploaded clips of your children crying so that you can stand in solidarity with parents the world over. As it is only psychopaths would do something like that.

Among the many new senses that parents, especially mothers, come to discover when parenthood is upon them is the ability to discern their child's cry from amongst a tumult of wailing children. However, just as we mercifully are unable to recall physical pain it's remarkable how quickly when your child stops crying that amnesia sets in. It wasn't so bad really. This, by the way, is the only reason any woman can have more than one baby

In the early months of first time parenting even the slightest cry is met with a Defcon 1 level of immediate response. A few years and children down the track and the threshold changes quite dramatically. We have recently moved house and the baby/toddler is in a new and much smaller square room. This has an impressively magnifying effect on the acoustic so that his cries get the best possible amplification from every surface. I'm sure the neighbours have been marvelling too.

I was recently engaged in that most favoured of parental tasks namely sitting in a small dark room while your child goes to sleep (howls the house down). Needless to say the experience does remarkable things to one's heart rate and nervous system. After a while, probably 5 minutes but felt like 5 hours (crying time is remarkably elastic), I noticed something extraordinary. I stopped hearing the crying and instead I started feeling the crying, after I time even that feeling passed and I
was the crying. I had passed into another dimension. Fortunately at that moment the baby threw in the towel and nodded off before I lost all touch with reality.

So modish has mindfulness become over the last years that we're probably well into the backlash but I am yet to meet anyone who can explain how you're supposed to parent mindfully when your baby is screaming like a banshee. As I have said the only certain solace comes in the reminder that this too shall pass. Until it does there are always headphones and many, many copies of Gina Ford to be found at the charity shop.