Monday, 2nd February 2015

When I was young, I kind of enjoyed hurting myself. Not on purpose. But I appreciated the accidents I had. I didn't like the actual pain but, within reason, I considered it a worthwhile price to pay for the prestige it could bring. My friends and I would compete for the best quality and quantity of A&E anecdotes. Bruises, wounds, bandages or - best of all - plaster casts were badges of honour. At primary school, if someone turned up on crutches they commanded awe and respect. When Mark Filby threw a stone in my eye at lunchtime one day, I genuinely felt that the attention my temporary eyepatch generated was enough to justify the 48 hours of literally eye-watering agony.

Then, as I reached my grumpy adolescence and developed a powerful aversion to any kind of commitment or social interaction, I would relish the potential benefits of injury; sudden disability, to my irrational teenage mind, represented the perfect excuse to avoid any awkward situation. Frequently, when driving to my part-time supermarket checkout job, I would fantasise about crashing my car, such was my resentment at being paid to sit down for a few hours in Tesco. Only a lack of courage prevented me from acting upon this misguided judgement, meaning that - instead of learning the hard way - I had to grow up before I would appreciate the ungrateful, insensitive arrogance of this attitude.

I certainly value my health now, and I have developed a sensible fear of pain. Yet I still have a residual sense of the benefits of injury. I think it's more of an emotional coping mechanism really: while I avoid the prospect of hurting myself, I still think the associated drama and attention would be of some consolation.

Throughout all of these phases, I have never really appreciated the impact upon those who care for me of my being in physical peril. But this morning I was provided with a stark new sense of perspective when I dropped my older daughter off at school.

A combination of my insistence the night before upon attempting to stay up to watch the Superbowl (I just about made it to half time before giving up when Katy Perry started prancing about), my snot-addled reluctance to get up in the morning, and the car being all icy, contributed to this morning's school run being rather more hurried than usual. I drove safely, of course - the big, slow lorry which insisted on being in front of me for most of the journey left me little choice - but I only parked the car on the road outside the school in the nick of time.

As I desperately grappled with my daughter's two unreasonably heavy school bags, the car door and the keys to lock it, I had to find from somewhere an extra hand to grab my daughter's as she spotted a couple of her friends, whose parents were only marginally more punctual than hers, and attempted to run across the road after them.

Somehow I managed to restrain her from doing so, before escorting her calmly and sensibly across the road, into the school grounds and up to the gate, where only the headmistress and an incidental secretary by now remained; all the other pupils were already in, with the exception of my daughter's two friends, about to disappear out of sight. She sauntered off in pursuit.

"WAIT!" I cried in sudden alarm, causing her to halt. I was still holding her bags (she normally only has one, but we had been asked to provide additional, dispensable clothing in service of muddy, outdoor fun). I've got form for sending my daughter in without her stuff. I had to go to the office and arrange for it to be delivered to her classroom. It was embarrassing. I wasn't about to go through that humiliation again this morning, so I beckoned my daughter back to me and weighed her down with her pair of bags. Finally, I watched her dash through the gate. She could still probably catch up with her friends before they got to the door. My work was complete for another morning.

And then she fell over.

Usually when you trip, putting out your arms to break your fall is an instinctive reflex. Unless you're a four year-old with a heavy bag in each hand. If you're a four year-old with a heavy bag in each hand, you land on your face.

If I was in any doubt about the integrity of my parental concern for my children, it was dispelled in this moment. I think I actually pushed the headmistress out of the way a little bit as I ran to my daughter's aid. I was now on the wrong side of the gate through which parents may not pass, and I didn't even care. I picked her up, subconsciously established the absence of blood, and just hugged her and hugged her until she stopped crying. But she wouldn't. Her chin had borne the brunt of the impact and she was in pain, and none of us were under any illusions about it being a good thing.

Mum, Dad: I'm sorry for all the times I saw hurting myself as a positive. I understand now that you probably didn't, did you? It probably quite upset you, didn't it? Sorry.

Of course, like any parent, I've seen my children hurt themselves many times. It's never pleasant - this is hardly a revelation - but somehow this occasion was so much more harrowing than all the others. Perhaps it was the dramatic nature of the events conspiring to cause the accident. Perhaps it was the setting: I had just successfully given her over to the care of trained, responsible adults in a safe location and was lulled into a false sense of security. Or maybe it was the fact that the incidental secretary turned out to be a crucial player in our story as she gently but assertively led my still-wailing child away from me and into the school, luring her with promises of an ice pack for her grazed and swollen chin. I could offer no more than a feeble goodbye as the doors closed on the secretary, my daughter and her distraught tears. I was no longer welcome in the effort to appease her.

As I drove home I was helplessness personified. I even phoned the school in search of reassurance as to her wellbeing. But I could not be fully consoled until the time came to collect her some six and a half hours later. She emerged through the same, fateful gate with a ridiculous, Looney Tunes bruise disfiguring her chin, but she was smiling. She was fine.

And, to tell the truth, I think she's quite proud of that bruise. So am I, to be honest.

Friday, 14th November 2014

My week off work is drawing to a close. I was going to write about the bitter irony of being unable to enjoy the last few days of annual leave on account of the growing fear of it ending. But I'm trying to fend off that problem - and its mental health implications - by not thinking about it. So I'll leave that cheery subject for another day. Instead, I want to talk about something I've had the opportunity to experience more than usual this week: the slightly less perilous anxiety that is picking up my child from school.

I have always been on the shy side, but I have no recollection of it causing me any major issues when I was at school. Evidently, I was sufficiently polite and friendly by the age of four that little problem was posed by my need to know somebody for about six months before I'll have a proper conversation with them. I muddled through.  More recently, several years of working in customer service have honed my previously non-existent small talk skills. I can chat inane nonsense with the best of them, when I have to. I've even developed what I imagine to be a winning smile.

But my victory of sorts over these social demons didn't stop me fearing for my older daughter's emotional wellbeing when she started school in September. In her early years, she had shown signs of having similarly bashful characteristics. Everything we had seen of her at nursery suggested that she enjoyed her own company, as the euphemism goes. Of course, there's nothing wrong with that, but only if it's not because you have no other options. The thought of any four year-old being the one in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups he or she is excluded from, is heartbreaking. The thought of this being your own child is unbearable.

I needn't have worried. Within days, my daughter had made what promised to be good friends. Now, two months later, it's difficult to imagine her ever parting ways with some of her companions, such is the bond they've formed.  My pride in her for being a better mingler than me is matched only by the guilty relief I feel as a result of having doubted her in the first place.

No: the problem is still me. When I waited outside the gate for her at 3.15 this afternoon, I realised that my own demons are far from fully conquered. I stood in the corner, looking on longingly at the groups I'm excluded from. Some of these groups I shall lose no sleep over: the ambitious business types, tapping their expensively-shoed feet impatiently on the playgound in an ostentatious demonstration of how precious their time is, falling just short of resenting their children for wasting it by needing to be collected; or the young mums, who still have the energy and motivation to invest time in their own appearances as well as their children*. I have nothing against this faction; I just have nothing in common with them. I can't imagine them enjoying my company, which of course is really the root of all shyness.

But what really hurts is to find myself on the outside of one particular circle: the bald dads.

I'm told that baldness is a symptom of high testosterone levels in men. Perhaps this explains the surprisingly high correlation between fatherhood and being follically challenged. I was painfully aware of this phenomenon in my own case, but only discovered its prevalence when my daughter started school, and I was surrounded by gloriously reflective pates like mine. At that point, I dared to dream that I had found my people; here was somewhere I might belong. There was even an early trip to the park (with our children), during which I cracked a couple of funnies which seemed to go down well amongst my depilated comrades. I flashed them a winning smile. The early signs were promising.

But I rested on my laurels. Instead of pressing home my advantage and cementing my place as Funny Bald Dad, I fell back, too content on the periphery of the mid-afternoon circle, unable to bring myself to contribute to the conversation. I could blame it on the fact that I haven't been able to do the school run for a few weeks, due to my work schedule, and have thus missed out on valuable bonding, but that would be to overlook the simple truth that - for all the meaningless conversations about the weather or the football scores I have shared with customers at work - I'm still just really shy.

This week it has dawned on me that the ship has sailed. I can now only dream of the periphery. A couple of days ago, I took my younger daughter as a psychological prop, which gave me the courage to stand within earshot of them. Oh, how I yearned to chip in with my own thoughts on the pros and cons of the home-delivery of groceries! But I couldn't do it. Why would they care about my Asda Online anecdotes? They probably don't even remember that day when I made them chuckle politely at the park! Maybe things will change one day, but I can't help feeling that this was my last chance, and I blew it.

One of them's not even bald!

*Before you infer an accidental insult of my wife, here, let me be clear that she is fortunate enough to possess a beauty that requires no effort.