In Loco Parentis

 

Discovering a person in adulthood whom you previously knew in childhood is one of life's quietly dislocating experiences. It's like realising a picture you thought you knew well was in fact just a child's sketch. Few children know the adults around them with an evolved intellectual awareness of the type of person that they are, but all children know how the adults around them make them feel.

These thoughts were much on my mind as I attended last week the Memorial Service of my House Master James Cook, whose obituary you can read here: https://www.thetimes.com/uk/obituaries/article/james-cook-obituary-eton-master-who-married-his-matron-vfrsv2tcr

I did not know James, or JNBC, as teachers at Eton are known by their initials, in childhood but in adolescence; that long liminal state in which we can be embarrassingly sure of our opinions and judgements. I can tell you how he made me feel: cared for and regarded. It was with good cause that something his eulogy emphasised again and again was his kindness. 

We like to assume that all children grow up surrounded by kindness but one of life's roughest lessons is discovering how often that is not so. When you are entrusted as a child to the residential care of an adult who is not your parent if that trust proves unfounded lifelong damage can be the result. I was blithely oblivious to that fact as a teenager but two decades in the criminal justice system has proved to be a hard education.

I wrote after the birth of my first child how there is nothing like becoming a parent to engender a sense of gratitude towards one's own parents, however deficient they may have been. But my real awe and wonder is reserved for those who are prepared to take on that mighty responsibility for children who are not their own. It is little secret that teenagers can sometimes come up short in the delight department; imagine what it is to be literally responsible for the health, care, and wellbeing of 50 of them. Exposed daily to their pranks, defiance, and churlishness it seems incredible that corporal punishment was relinquished so readily.

James Cook was a profoundly civilised man who cared that his boys should be civilised also. I shudder to recall how often we were anything but. However, it was only in listening to his nephew's beautifully delineated account of his life that a man was revealed entirely unknown to me and my complacent assumption that I knew him at all.

We live in a time when more and more are choosing not to have children or who have not, by force of circumstance, made that choice of their own volition. Men like James Cook are a reminder that the cultivation and development of young people is not the exclusive preserve or responsibility of parents.

The kit ain't it - Babying without the buggy

I feel like one of the strongest contrasts between a first time and a third time parent is quantity of kit. New parents are absolute suckers for the marketing man or woman and the erroneous if understandable belief that the more paraphernalia they buy the less terrifying the rollercoaster will be. I write this as the window closes on what is by far my favourite period of being a parent and unfortunately it only lasts about 8 weeks.

Our 3rd was born 7 weeks ago and he is, I'm glad to report, thriving. That is baby speak for growing and getting milk drunk as many times a day as he wishes and he wishes A LOT. While it would be an exaggeration to say that he has doubled in size where once there were sparrow wings and fretwork veins now there is chunk and ruddy cheeks.

All of that means that I am glumly counting the days until I can no longer safely and comfortably tuck him under one arm and go for a decent walk. Obviously, if it really came to it, I could probably give a prop playing teen a firearm's lift if their life depended on it. What I'm talking about is a leisurely stroll without perspiration or real effort.

Most firstborn parents enter such an intensive nesting phase that it's not uncommon for this entire golden period to be gobbled up without the baby so much as leaving its home. And if they do there is anxious zipping, swaddling, hatting and the accursed pram. It was a blessed moment in my life when the pram was finally banished from the hall when it was deemed that No. 2 could jolly well walk and a moment of some dismay when it returned to block, obstruct and generally encumber passage in and out of the house.

What the pram most particularly does is separate the baby from you and from the world and if I believe in anything it's in connection and not separation. Don't get me wrong I love a bit of a sky view but if you're just arrived in the world surely you want to see it and its people? For that reason I'm even a bit unenthused about slings and not because, like Piers Morgan ludicrously sling shaming Daniel Craig, I think they are unmanly but because I want my baby to turn out not in.

Unless you've done it it's difficult to describe the contagious joy and goodwill that is engendered by taking a tiny baby for a walk in your arms. Even surly faced men well versed in London's rules of studied disregard for strangers will stop you in your tracks to wish you congratulations. Walking past a full bus had the same effect on the passengers as if I had just walked past with a million pounds in cash in my hands. 

More importantly the baby gets to see all these people and to see the world at its gladdest and most welcoming. If it takes a village to raise a child the village needs to see the child even if that village is to be found on the mean streets of North London. It also goes without saying, if you're a dad that is, that taking the baby out gives the mother a break and teaches the baby that it is just as safe, well and homed in the hairy arms of its dad as the more familiar ones of its mother.

Lastly, and most positively for me, there is the enormous impact on the father's wellbeing of spending time with a baby like this, mano a mano, not as combatants, obviously, but as collaborators. I was extremely interested to read recently a piece by Jonathan Kennedy in the Guardian which explained that fathers that engage in this kind of bodily contact and care experience a rise in their levels of oxytocin. Anecdotally I can absolutely attest to the amazing feeling of calm and wellbeing that is spurred by perambulating without the pram.

A Matter of Life

Having an English degree from a decent university means I should probably know the difference between fear and anxiety. Therefore it was probably not ideal that I was pondering their respective definitions sitting quietly in the corner of a room on the labour ward while an excellent midwife carefully explained the induction process to my wife. Eventually I decided that fear means knowing something bad will happen and anxiety is worrying it might. Consequently, it was the source of a great deal of anxiety that I realised what I felt was fear.

Husbands, birth partners, men in the birth room, call us what you will, are not there for the fellow feeling of shared experience. At best we can soothe, support and advocate but what we can never, ever do is speak from experience. It is intriguing, therefore, that so many women choose to be attended by their husband, partner or boyfriend for what is, inescapably, a uniquely female process.

What was clear to me was that was not the moment for such idle wonderings. My one job was to be a pillar of reassurance. But it is hard to sound reassuring when you are frightened. So I had to focus my efforts on transmuting sickening fear into, at most, racing anxiety. This was very hard to achieve because one thing my English degree did equip me to do was to detect and reject a euphemism at 1,000 paces. And the plain English word for induction of labour is force.

Freebirthers will have you believe that labour is an entirely natural process and that medical intervention of any description is an unforgivable interference with nature's way, they would rather give birth on the concourse of Euston Station than in a hospital. Conversely there are some medical professionals who take the view that the only truly safe birth happens on the surgeon's table. Being a man I've always taken the view that it is not really my place to have a view on this debate.

But even with no skin in the game I did not, do not, like induction. It is an oxymoron to say to a pregnant woman: We're going to do this naturally but we're going to force the naturally. You don't need to be a consultant obstetrician, gynaecologist or seasoned midwife to predict that the body's reaction to this is likely to be WTF, at best.

Often induction crops up as a late pregnancy solution. Sometimes, as in our case, it's a result of medical imperative. What that means is 'I'd rather not' doesn't really have anywhere to go. So when the midwife talks gently through the sweep, the gel, the hormone drip, the 'popping' of the waters I realised it would be facetious and inappropriate to ask when the emergency caesarian would take place.

Waiting for life is much like waiting for death. You don't know when the appointed hour will come and so once the door closes on the labour room you can't know whether it is for 3 hours or 3 days. As the man in the equation you are chief spectator and primary witness but, in an ironic finale to the process of conception, you are completely impotent. It is sometimes said that there is no torture worse than seeing one you love in pain and it's reasonable to ponder whether the movement to have husbands and partners present at birth was spearheaded by an emotional sadist.

Or, alternatively, it is a basic blow for equality that if you're going to share in the pleasure you should share too in the pain. And there is definitely no lesson in life that actions have consequences like being present at the arrival of a new one. It would be interesting to know the extent to which witnessing childbirth deters men from doing the dirty on their partners. The cowardice of desertion from a mother and child can only be accentuated by having seen what the mother went through to produce the child.

It is generally considered that it is testosterone that impels some men to do harm and cause pain. But I have wondered whether it is the agony of childbirth that causes most women to balk at the idea of inflicting physical pain. When you have suffered so much to give life who in their right mind wants to deal death?

Anyway, only a man could fritter time in such metaphysical wondering when there are nappies to be changed, a baby to be burped and a push present to be bought. So I will confine myself to saying this; I could not be prouder of my wife or love her more for all that she has endured and my admiration for her. and all those that have borne children, is unbounded.

Mother and child are doing well. Dad will look after himself.

Captain Parent

As I await the arrival of our 3rd I’ve decided it would be prudent to conduct some research into advice and guidance for multi-child parenting. There are the obvious tomes: How to talk so kids will listen & how to listen so kids will talk; Siblings without Rivalry; Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids; and so on and on.

Wherever one looks there is an expert or a guru on hand to foster secure attachments, to encourage baby led weaning and to emphasise the sanctity of your child’s autonomy. I mean no disrespect to any of them in saying that I eschew all of it in favour of the absolutely inviolate parenting template that is The Sound of Music. 

Before you get completely the wrong idea I am OBVIOUSLY not talking about that meddling nun. Instead, I’m taking about the GOAT of parents, the original Big Daddy -Georg Ludwig von Trapp. It is a shame that so little of the film is devoted to an examination of his first-class parenting methods for let us not forget the scale of his task. 

In a time in which many two parent families are completely undone by the stresses of rearing just one child Captain von Trapp was single-handedly raising 7, and just consider the age range: 

Liesl 16 

Friedrich 14 

Louise 13 

Kurt 11 

Brigitta 10 

Marta 7 

Gretl 5 

That’s a whole 7 Aside team of pre-schoolers, tweens and teenagers. Without rules, boundaries and discipline that schloss would have been reduced to the state of a menagerie in a trice: Liesl snogging Rolf under the pergola; Friedrich sneaking off to Salzburg to neck Schnapps with his mates; Louise Tik Tokking on the parterre and Brigitta blaring out Taylor Swift from the drawing room. 

You probably weren’t counting the last time you watched the film but he has ALL of those children on parade in under 10 seconds and the one that’s late is late because she’s reading a book. This is Olympic gold medal parenting. And lest you rashly suppose that actually this can’t be good for them given how beastly they are towards the hapless succession of failed governesses think on this: they drove those nannies away because they already had the perfect parent. 

 So here are my 7 reasons for tipping my cap at the Captain: 

 1. The whistle – permissive parents might balk at the Captain’s manner of summoning his ratings or ‘children’ as they’re known on land. But think of the frequency with which you have to shout to gain your kids’ attention and you too will see that the £25 you spend on your very own Boatswain’s Pipe will be one of the best investments you ever make: https://www.acmewhistles.co.uk/whistles-accessories/acme-classics/boatswain-pipe 

2. Individuality – it’s modish to feel that perhaps the children might be inhibited by their uniformity at the start of the film when in fact the Captain has taken great pains to give every one of them their own distinctive call, a system so successful that even Gretl gets it. 

3. The uniform – Speaking of uniformity those children are in a turn out smart enough to bring a tear to any Hapsburg eye. You want your children to act smart then get them dressed smart. You want your children capering about in public embarrassing the family name then dress them in curtains. 

4. Routine – Mornings are spent in the classroom and afternoons are spent marching. Mens sana in corpore sano worked for the Romans and it works for the Captain too. And as an Anti-Anschluss family those children are going to need to know how to handle themselves when the time comes. 

5. The stage – Like any civilised parent the Captain recoils at the idea of exposing his children to showbusiness. He knows too well that it starts with folk songs and before you know it there’s a film crew in your home trashing the parquet and smashing the Meissen. 

6. The Baroness – Until Maria turns up with her innocent ingenue act the VT children are on the point of being blessed with a step-mother for the ages. The whole point of a step-mother is that she’s supposed to fall for the dad in spite of the kids not because of them. When Liesl’s 20 who’s she going to want to be taking style tips from soignée Schraeder or milksop Maria? 

7. The flag – The Captain can spot a tinpot blackguard at 40 paces and if parenting is about leading by example his flag rending isn’t just one of the most stirring scenes in all cinema it’s proof positive to the Von Trapplings that their old man is made of the right stuff.

3 is the Magic Number

If you ever ask a parent of 3 children what it’s like there’s always a pause. It might be a second, it might be 4 (I know because I’ve counted). The answer is then invariably some euphemistic spiel about the challenges heavily caveated with an insistence about how they wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 You often hear about ‘one and done’ or ‘two and out’, this blog is about ‘three fall’. My interest in the concept of 3 child families has grown significantly since my wife announced that we are to become one. That particular pregnancy announcement hit very differently to the first. Less bouncing off the walls jubilation and more staring at the crayon streaks on the walls apprehension. 

 I’ve heard it all. No more man marking: it’s zonal defence with 3. Stupid big car. Impossibly expensive holidays, impossibly expensive outings, impossibly expensive meals. Impossible. Expensive. It’s getting your draft papers when you haven’t even finished your Hail Marys for making it through the first two tours. 

 Obviously, there are also the ecocidal reservations but learning that the childbirth rate has fallen off a cliff means that perhaps signing up for a 3rd rodeo is actually a form of public service. Whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing it’s definitely a thing. When my wife prevailed upon me to take the leap I said I would do so whole heartedly but warned her that there would obviously only be one outcome to her rolling the daughter dice for a final time. 

 Quietly, I too was looking forward to a girl, variety is the spice and all that and different flavour parenting certainly holds an appeal. As fate would have it, however, Nancy Drew will not be joining the Hardy Boys, at least not this time around. Still, it’s going to save a fortune on the hand me downs; although we might want to put the redecorating on hold for another decade. 

 Any lingering doubts I had about the endeavour were dispelled by a friend who has just welcomed his 3rd. Once you’ve had 2 kids you are, unequivocally, a parent, he said. So why stop at the GCSEs when you can get the A Level as well. The other thing you realise is those bloody hard days, weeks and months at the beginning really don’t last and not because everyone tells you this too shall pass but because you know it does. And isn’t there something enticing about rearing a baby without the fumbling terror of the ingenue? I joked to my wife that perhaps we should go back to NCT classes, this time as grizzled veterans rather than anxious neophytes. 

 I will not pretend that I took to parenting at the first like a duck to water, more like a duck in a Chinatown window. But 7 ½ years down the track this is definitely who I am now and I’m looking forward to giving it a go having got the angst and petulant dismay at the loss of my unencumbered life out of the system. 

 On that note I’m off to explain Middle Child Syndrome to the 4 year old.

Absent Friends

 Marjorie & John Somers Cocks

 

Lee & Elizabeth Hardy           

If yours is the sort of family that engages in toasting the likelihood is that over Christmas you will have raised a toast to absent friends. In a family context absent friends is generally a euphemism for close and sometimes not so close relations. But to mourn someone's absence you have to have known them and not everyone sitting down to Christmas lunch will have known those that are called to the minds and hearts of others sitting around them.

I was fortunate enough to have had both my grandmothers figure prominently in my life into adulthood and can readily and pleasurably recall numerous Christmases spent with each of them. Their influence on me was marked although they were chalk and cheese. One a disciple of duty who worked for MI6 during the War and the other a raconteuse who lived for leisure, fashion and entertainment.

Unfortunately, by way of contrast, I knew neither of my grandfathers, one of whom died when I was 2 and the other nearly twenty years before I was born. I've sought as I've grown up to get a sense of the men they were but that sense is, of course, almost entirely dependent on the recollection and accounts of others, primarily my parents.

Obtaining those accounts depends to a very significant extent on time, energy and inclination and even the most minute account necessarily only conveys the idea of a person. One of the chastening discoveries of early parenthood is the realisation that as far as your child is concerned your life before their arrival is a matter of little consequence or even supreme indifference. The more curious children do of course want to learn more in time to fit the puzzle of their existence together. But as their parent you don't get to see that puzzle and therefore the possibility that their sense of a person, so vivid and real to you, is in fact wildly inaccurate or misapprehended.

Unless someone is really obtuse and dull it seems to me to be a near universal desire for people to try and understand who they are and where they came from, by which I don't mean from Milton Keynes but the nature rather than nurture part of themselves.

If you have a difficult relationship with your parents and you did not know theirs it's worth trying to know more about that relationship. But, more importantly, it's worth trying to imagine that relationship. I don't necessarily subscribe to the maxim that to know all is to forgive all but so often, in my experience, with understanding comes at least forbearance. At the very least when we try to imagine the childhood of others we are exercising empathy and sometimes a little empathy can stitch even the greatest rifts.