November
pass the parcel
noun
1. A birthday party tradition that desperately warrants going the way of the dodo.
2. Something that is falsely advertised as fun.
The Parenthood Dictionary Adventures in Dadding Edition
A Birthday Party For A Two-Year-Old - Friday, 19 November 2021
'DADDA! DADDA!’
Christ, what’s the time? I look at my phone – 6.15 a.m. ‘DADDA! MAMMA!’
Here we go again – welcome to parenthood: Year
Three.
At least we got a lie-in. Your mother and I get out of bed and traipse to the other side of the house, responding to the calls of a young man on his special day. ‘Good morning, Arlo,’ I say. ‘Do you know what day—’
‘I’m twoooooo!’
‘That’s right, baby boy,’ Mummy says.
We sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you, and then you hold your arms up, telling us to take you out of your cot. At some point this year, you’ll transition to your very own big-boy bed, and you won’t be so dependent on a parent to grant you freedom. But not yet – we’re not ready for that.
Last night, I devoted a considerable part of my evening to setting up your birthday present, a VTech Toot-Toot Drivers set. It has electronic cars that light up and play sounds, all manner of track parts, a parking tower – and even a car wash. Mummy found the bundle for sale second-hand on Facebook Marketplace, a platform that has become a financial ally in the battle to keep parenthood costs down. It was priced at £30. Had it been brand new, we would have spent over £200.
Other than your second-hand Toot-Toot set, we’ve got you a scooter. But that’s it. We’re putting a lesson we learnt last Christmas into practice and ensuring you don’t have too many presents. This is so that you’re not overwhelmed and the appreciation factor doesn’t diminish as a result of us piling gift after gift in your arms, replacing the one you’ve barely opened with another.
We’re seeing the value of this lesson immediately. You are 100 per cent absorbed in the world of your new car set. In fact, you spend so long playing with it that we cancel our plans to go to the park and test out your new scooter.
But that doesn’t mean Mummy can’t give it a try, so she takes it for a spin up and down the hallway, until you steamroll your way into her path, yelling, ‘No, Mamma!’
‘What do you mean, “No, Mamma”? You’re playing with your cars!’
You shake your head. Then you shuffle your body next to Mummy and barge her out of the way. I wonder if ‘sharing’ is on the curriculum this year. If it is, it’s apparently not scheduled for today.
Usually, you wear an eyepatch on your right eye for a couple of hours every morning to strengthen what doctors have said is the ‘weaker left eye’ – one that suffered from a congenital abnormality affecting the cornea. Patching the stronger eye forces the brain to work and rely on the weaker eye, and in doing so, strengthens it. Don’t ask me to go into any more detail than that, but what I can tell you is that we used to patch you for a lot longer than two hours. However, the treatment is working, and the performance of your weaker left eye continues to improve, and thus, the patching periods have reduced. But, like last year on your birthday, we’ve given you a hall pass from having to wear one today.
Knock knock.
‘Nana. Ooofer?’ you say.
‘It might be. Shall we take a look?’
You toddler sprint-waddle to the front door in time to welcome Nana Hoover into the house. She’s carrying a big bag of presents for you, which is another reason for parents not to go mad on gifts, because you can be assured everyone else will – especially grandmothers.
Nana Hoover is my mum. We originally named her Granny Smurf, but then you learnt to talk, and you claimed ownership of grandmother-naming conventions. Your first act was to change ‘Granny’ to ‘Nana’, so she became Nana Smurf. And now, ‘Smurf’ is out too, and ‘Hoover’ is in. Nana Hoover gets her latest title because you are obsessed with vacuum cleaners, and Nana owns a Hetty Hoover. She also allows you to watch YouTube videos of Hetty, Henry and other members of the same Numatic vacuum-cleaner family. If that sounds beyond fucking nuts, it’s because it is, both the obsession with Hoovers and the fact that there are so many YouTube videos dedicated to the topic.
My dad has never been involved in our lives (yours and mine), so there’s no Grandad Hoover, but Nana Hoover has the strength and capacity to love and care for you with the power of a million grandparents, so I promise you, neither of us is missing out.
Your favourite present from Nana Hoover is a tractor pulling a trailer that houses a chicken, a cow, a pig and a ‘baa-baa’. Getting it out of the packaging is fraught with frustrations. Seriously, what goes on in a manufacturing and marketing meeting? I suppose the marketing manager says something like, ‘We want the toy to be completely on show so it’s more appealing on the eye and therefore likely to sell, but we also want it to be impossible to unbox.’
After presents, it’s time for your nap. I’m about to put you down when a frightening thought invades my consciousness. Holy shit. ‘Will Arlo drop his midday nap this year?’ I say to Mummy.
‘No, don’t worry. He should nap now until he starts school.’
Is it me, or has a quartet of angels just appeared and begun singing ear-pleasing melodies?
Your mother is a wonderful mummy. She is quite simply superb at the job in every respect. She works in childcare, which means other children benefit from her maternal warmth too. I once referred to her as the Mona Lisa of motherhood, a title she embodies every waking minute. As with Nana Hoover, you and I are fortunate to have her.
Last year, Covid-19 restrictions meant you couldn’t have a party, so as I write this at midday, I’m wonderfully ignorant of the carnage that a two-year- old’s bash so often wreaks. However, I’ve heard horror stories recounted by other traumatised parents who were stupid enough to think that hosting a bunch of toddlers was a good idea. They’re still attending therapy. Luckily, we’re not hosting; that delight falls to Nana and Grandad See-See. Mummy is heading over there right now to finish hanging birthday decorations and set everything up while I stay at home with you, dreading the upcoming festivities and the destruction they’re sure to bring.
Nana and Grandad See-See are Mummy’s mummy and daddy. The naming – or renaming – of your second set of grandparents is just as charming as the renaming of your paternal grandmother. We used to call them Nana Feeder and Grandad Tools. Why Nana Feeder? Because she overfeeds all guests and house residents. Also, she was a ‘Granny’, but, like Nana Hoover, you changed that to ‘Nana’. Why Grandad Tools? Because he owns 50 per cent of the entire planetary stock of them. Tools, that is. So then, why the change of name? When we were in lockdown, you would often ask Mummy to video-call Nana, and she would oblige. But as soon as Nana answered, you would repeatedly say, ‘See?’ – which was your way of asking to ‘see’ your grandad. Over time, Grandad Tools became Grandad See-See, and even though you’ve just turned two, you’ve learnt the highly archaic – not to mention sexist – tradition that the woman takes the man’s name upon marriage. And that’s how Nana Feeder and Grandad Tools became Nana and Grandad See-See. Confused?
‘Arlo, what is it?’
‘Hooverrrrrr,’ you say. Your face brightens, irradiating your surroundings with the power of a million suns.
‘Is that a red toy Henry Hoover?’
‘YEAH!’
You are so bloody chuffed with this. Hat tip to Nana See-See for procuring a present that trumps all those that came before and probably a long list of others that will come after.
I guess now is the perfect time to tell you that the theme of your party is ... wait for it ... Henry Hoover! But also with a few Bing balloons thrown in, as up until a week ago, Bing was your favourite children’s television show (currently, it’s Cocomelon). But the headline act is the mischievous, smiling, red fella, as he’s the one who’s on the cake.
Guests arrive, and children soon warm up to the new environment. They begin a frenzied exploration of the house, searching for toys and sweets. Arguments are unavoidable. Luckily, every parent automatically qualifies as a hostage negotiator when their children reach toddler age. A quick tour of the room reveals half a dozen conversations at varying points. Parents take different approaches in defusing and placating angry little people who want things that other angry little people have taken from them either because they’re theirs or because they just want them. Here are a few snippets:
‘You mustn’t snatch. It’s not yours.’
‘Can you let Oakley have a turn now?’
‘You can have one more sweet, then that’s it.’ ‘You can play with anything in the house – the cutlery, the tools in the shed, any of the glassware – but please don’t go near Arlo’s Hoover as he will rage.’
More guests.
‘Happy-birthday-Arlo-I-got-you-a-dinosaur,’ says your cousin Haylee, who’s holding out a big wrapped- up box that I presume contains a dinosaur.
Soon, it’s time for you and me to battle through a negotiation of our own. Fortunately, we’ve got the living room all to ourselves so that we can conduct our business in private. Why is it in private? Because everybody else has moved to the kitchen in readiness to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and watch you blow out your candles. You haven’t noticed a single thing, because you’re immersed in playing with your Henry Hoover toy. Enter (evil) Daddy.
‘Arlo, shall we have a look at what’s in the kitchen?’ You shake your head without even a flicker of eye contact.
I change tack. ‘Henry looks tired. Shall we put him to bed?’ Nothing.
At this point, I realise that language on its own is futile, which is annoying because, as I said, your cake is of the red Henry Hoover variety, and I’m convinced you’re going to love it. But you won’t give in to reason, so I pick you up and explain that you have a cake in the kitchen.
‘Naaaa. Dadda. NAAAA!’
I move quickly, taking three extra-long strides to carry you into the kitchen while lifting you upright like Rafiki does when he presents baby Simba to the African plain inhabitants in The Lion King. My aim, of course, is to direct your attention away from your plastic Hoover toy and over to your edible Hoover cake so that your rage levels reduce and everyone can continue having a lovely time.
A second passes. Then another, and then ... ‘Ooofer,’ you say, pointing to your cake.
Thank God.
We sing ‘Happy Birthday’ while you yank Henry’s icing-covered hose, dislodging it from the cake before Mummy can get a picture. No matter, we carry out on-site repairs, take the photo and then let your grabby little hands get on with vandalising Henry. You’ve only had cake a handful of times in your life, but you know exactly what it is. You pick up a piece bigger than my fist and give me a look as if to say, ‘Can I, Dad?’
‘Yes, you can, son.’
Next, we move on to what I fully expect to be the shittest part of your party: pass the parcel. It’s a fun little game in the same way that hidden bank charges and stubbed toes are fun!
Despite this book being a brand-new parenting adventure, it was only five days ago – in Toddler Inc. – that I revealed a comprehensive list of debate-winning arguments as to why pass the parcel is the worst example of forced, manufactured fun in the universe. In short, all participants know it’s a fix. The person in charge believes they’re hilarious, using three rolls of Sellotape to make each layer unbreachable. Then there is the social anxiety, all because each round-winner struggles to tear the next layer of wrapping paper off, meaning every participant and onlooker (yes, adults as well) hurls impatient, judgmental scowls in their direction. And to top it off, the winner always gets a shit prize. It’s never an iPad. It’s usually something marginally better than a Christmas cracker gift.
Though, truth be told, I can’t remember the last time I physically endured this type of torture, so I’m curious to see if it still matches up to the low opinions that I have of it.
‘Didn’t you have a childhood?’ Taci says (pronounced ‘tah-see’).
‘Yes, I did. That’s how I know this is a shit game.’
Mummy steps up as the host. Thank God. This is her moment, Arlo. Her childcare experience means that she is more than qualified to guide this situation to a smooth and enjoyable conclusion. She will shine, soar and excel. Everyone in attendance will marvel at her intuition and her ability to control a group of the uncontrollable. Her first decision is to promote me. ‘Right, you’re DJ. If you stand out in the kitchen and shut the door, we can make it fair for the child—’
‘Ohhh,’ say all the parents at once, their collective ‘ohs’ accompanied by some collective head shaking. Evidently, they’ve been to more two-year-olds’ parties than we have.
Maybe Mummy isn’t set to soar, Arlo. And I thought children were fickle.
‘What?’ Mummy asks.
‘How is he going to keep track of who’s won?’ Taci says.
I’m not fussed about the whole ‘everyone’s a winner’ philosophy, because it’s bullshit and teaches kids nothing, but I also have something to add. ‘Can I throw my hat in the ring? As father of the boy whose birthday we’re celebrating, it would be kinda cool, if it’s not too much to ask, for me to have the opportunity to see him participate.’
Mummy scowls. ‘Fine! You can DJ in here.’
I start the music, but by the third beat of ‘The Wheels on the Bus’, I’ve got Taci and Rebecca (our midwife friend; you call her Auntie Raa-Raa) barking commands at me from the sidelines. ‘Remember, pause the music when only one set of hands is on the present,’ Taci says.
‘Oh, and make sure each kid gets a turn,’ Rebecca adds.
Shit. How many layers are there? I mouth the question to Mummy. She mouths back: ‘Ten.’ I quickly count the participants. Nine – phew. My heart rate is 90 bpm.
I’m playing the music through my phone hooked up via Bluetooth to a speaker. But the speaker is in the next room, and when I pause the music at precisely the right time, there’s a minor audio delay, resulting in two sets of toddler-sized hands on the present instead of one. Both children look at me: the Caesar; the fate-decider. Parents scowl and shake their heads: fucking amateur.
‘It’s not my fault. There’s a sound delay,’ I protest, feeling my heart rate jump to 120 bpm.
After Mummy conducts an investigation, comparing the two sets of hands grasping the present, she announces the winner of the first round. It’s Flint, one of Taci’s kids. He removes the layer of wrapping paper and discovers a pack of chocolate buttons. And now, Flint is squeezing the bag while pulling a face – something isn’t right. It’s Taci’s turn for investigative duties. ‘These buttons are melted. Where did you leave the parcel?’
‘Ah ... On top of the microwave,’ Mummy answers.
Does anyone else think we’re nailing pass the parcel, Arlo?
The game progresses with me continually fucking up every facet of my DJing responsibilities. It’s not just the pausing of the music, which I still can’t seem to master. I’m also criticised by parents for poor song choice, for not paying attention to who’s won a round and for letting the music play for too long, or not long enough. I protest, explaining that it’s hard to concentrate or, heck, even hear the music over people repeatedly telling me I’m doing such a shit job. But my arguments are trampled on by more head shaking. They look like a bunch of Newton’s cradles.
One of the older girls in attendance, a four-year- old, looks upon the scene dumbfounded, recognising the whole thing for what it is: a sham. As for the rest of the toddlers, you’re all savage, sugar-high, unstable atoms, ready to explode.
But the biggest farce is that you, Arlo, get bored with the game before we’re even halfway through. You make your excuses and take your leave, along with Henry, of course, though I note that you’re quickly intercepted by Nana See-See, who, thinking she can’t be seen, ushers a piece of cake into your mouth. This is the fifth time in as many minutes that she’s done this.
Eventually, the pass-the-parcel torture concludes, and my heart begins the long descent back down to a non-life-threatening rate.
‘I stand by what I said. Pass the parcel is the shittest children’s party game ever invented,’ I say to Taci.
We’ve made it back home. It’s been a difficult end to the day because you’re now one exhausted little boy, but you’re not too tired for a final tantrum. This one is over our decision not to let you take Henry to bed. But after we promise you that he will be here in the morning, you relent and allow us to read you a bedtime story.
I can’t believe you’re two. Everything about your life has been a wild ride for me, and that’s only going to increase. I wonder what life has in store for us this year. I know we’ve got potty-training and your eventual transition to a big-boy bed on the cards, but most of all, I’m curious to see how your language develops. If all goes well, we should be having full-blown conversations together by the time you reach three.
As we go into our third year together, I offer you no assurances that I won’t make mistakes and that I won’t get things wrong. Yes, I have parenting experience, but that was with a little boy who is not the same one I’m looking at right now. For the last two years, on your birthday, including on the day you were born, I’ve told you to rest up because you have a long year ahead. Something tells me that Mummy and I should do the same.
Happy birthday, buddy. I love you. Sleep well.
Holiday - Saturday, 20 November 2021
When you were Dory, I carried out a thought exercise, speculating on the rules governing instances of both parents going away together without their children. Since becoming your daddy, I’ve not had the chance to put that theory into practice, because of Covid-19.
But now we can, and that’s what we’re doing.
I’ve previously been skiing, but that doesn’t count, because Mummy didn’t come with me. She was with you. And Mummy and I have been away together once before, for her birthday this past summer. But that was in the UK – in the Peak District, only an hour up the road.
Today, we’re leaving you with your nanas, who’ll be sharing childcare duties while I take Mummy to Finland to see if we can catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights.
Another lesson I learnt last year was that packing to go away in the presence of a toddler was like trying to chop down an oak tree with a used condom. Luckily, we’ve got our newly inducted third parent – Henry Hoover – who’s willing to babysit you for an hour.
Please don’t hate us for going on holiday; I know we’re going to Lapland to see Santa ... Shit, I didn’t tell you that, did I? Arlo, we’re going to Lapland to visit Santa. OK, so at first glance, we’re selfish parents, going off to see the big jolly guy without taking our only child, but hear me out. Rovaniemi (where we’ll be staying) is bitterly cold this time of year. It will likely be the coldest environment we’ve ever travelled to, and if we took you with us, we wouldn’t be able to do much, apart from not letting you go outside.
We’d all be confined to the hotel, so what would be the point?
Finally, it’s my and Mummy’s seventh anniversary. We’ve not been on holiday together since before you were born – we need and deserve this!
Final, final point – we got you a kick-ass scooter for your birthday, so if you think about it, you owe us this ... right?
We’re not worried about you missing us. We learnt that lesson the hard way when we went to the Peak District. Upon our return, you performed a dispassionate and quite frankly indifferent welcome for us when we reunited. We’ve also packed your calendar with stuff to do, so you’re a busy young man and in no danger of being bored. Nana Hoover will stay at our house for a couple of days and will probably encourage you to trash everything in sight, just for a spot of fun. Nana See-See will collect you Monday afternoon, feed you leftover birthday cake and perform drop-off and pickup duties at nursery on Tuesday and Wednesday. When you wake up on Thursday morning, it will be Mummy and I who will greet you. It would be lovely if you could at least pretend you’re pleased to see us.
After we’ve packed, it’s time for us to say goodbye. ‘Arlo, can Daddy have the biggest cuddle ever?’
You nod your head and comply, and then you repeat the action with Mummy. Despite all of my justifications, I’m nervous about leaving you behind. Of course, I don’t tell Mummy this, especially as she hasn’t stopped announcing how much she can’t bear to be parted from her only child – to the extent that I’m now thinking of leaving her behind as well.
We say our goodbyes and march out the door before it becomes too difficult. In the car, Mummy is like a statue.
‘Are you going to be OK?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I just need a second.’
Five minutes later, we’re on the road, and Nana
Hoover sends us what I fully expect to be the first of many videos. This one alleviates our guilt; it’s of you playing with your cars. Once again, I ask you not to hate us for going away.
Flying, And Find My iPhone - Sunday, 21 November 2021
We’re staying at an airport hotel because of the unsavoury flight-departure time. Our alarm goes off at 3 a.m., and Mummy’s first action – ahead of breathing – is to load up your monitor, which she accesses through an app on her phone. ‘He’s not wearing a vest. He’s too cold!’
‘He’s fine,’ I say.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he’s flat out asleep and not awake shivering.’ We dress, grab our luggage and walk over to the airport. The pre-parenthood Mummy and I would never have booked a hotel the night before. Instead, we would have driven through the night and saved on hotel costs. But when you’re a parent, you learn to cherish sleep above everything short of your kids reaching a precious milestone – and even then, it’s a toss-up. Now, I’m struggling to reconcile why, in my mid-thirties, I’ve only just learnt to adjust my behaviour.
Say what you will about Brexit (I voted to stay), but at least we now collect passport stamps when travelling in Europe. I’d like to see any adult look me in the eye and tell me they’re not fussed about that.
The next few hours pass uneventfully, and we soon find ourselves taking our seats at the back of the plane, where one of my justifications for leaving you at home is validated. Many children are on the flight, and they’re all a lot older than you. They’re excited but well behaved. I can hear them talking to their parents about Santa, asking if they’re really going to visit him at his real, actual house, where he really, really, actually lives. It’s a magical scene.
‘What if we die?’ says Mummy, who, if you couldn’t tell, is brimming with Christmas spirit and excitement about our holiday.
‘We won’t die.’
‘But what if we do? What if the plane crashes?’ she says without tapering off a few decibels of her talking volume.
‘Shhh, inside-plane voice,’ I say, casting glances at nearby passengers, hoping none of them are battling any flying phobias.
‘What if we die?’ she whispers.
‘Well, then we die, and there’s not an awful lot we can do about it.’
‘But what about Arlo?’
‘We know exactly what would happen. I took care of our wills before he was born. He will be well cared for.’
‘But we won’t be there to see him grow up.’
‘What possible response are you expecting from me right now? Look, we’re not going to die, and if we do, then we won’t have any control over it. But we’ve taken care of the things we can control. We have life insurance, our wills are in order, and he has an auntie and two grandmothers who would ensure he’s OK.’
‘OK. I just don’t like us both being on a flight together.’
I’m about to tell her to shut up when I wonder, just for a split, split second, if we should have each taken separate flights as an insurance policy. But then I scratch the thought away and cast a scowl at Mummy for killing the mood.
‘This is your captain speaking. The “fasten seat belt” sign is now on, and we are preparing for take-off.’
You’ll be pleased to know that we didn’t die. However, let’s not pop the champagne cork just yet, because Rovaniemi is as suspected: BLOODY FREEZING! I thought I was prepared. I’m used to skiing in the Alps in winter, but this is something else. It’s midday, and because of where we are in the world, the sun hangs low in the sky, veiled by a thin sheet of cloud cover that gives the life-sustaining orb an opaque, milky polished-glass look. The temperature is already minus five. We take a taxi to our hotel, wrap up in as many layers as possible and head back out into the cold to the aptly named Santa Village.
The village is quiet. The winter season only kicked off yesterday, and, of course, many people are understandably reluctant to travel because of the virus. But I don’t think anyone is missing out, because the place is, sadly, one giant tourist trap. We’re struggling to find options for food, but we’re plenty spoilt for gift shops.
We arrive at Santa’s ‘real, actual house’ and get to spend five minutes with the main man. His English, filtered through a Nordic accent, gives heightened authority to the proposition that the man we’re speaking to is indeed the real Santa. I look around the room; he has letters from children stuck to the walls.
‘Children from over one hundred and fifty countries write to me, and I have over fifty thousand more of their letters in my office.’
‘You keep them all?’ I ask.
‘Every single one.’
How wonderful. And so many countries commemorating Christmas. I had no idea the festive period was celebrated so widely across the planet. There’s something incredibly unifying knowing that it is.
There’s a strict no-camera policy in Santa’s house. Instead, the ‘elves’ are here to cater for your photography needs personally and then sell you a copy for the same amount of money it costs to buy a spaceship. But rules are made to be broken, especially ones concerning photography, and especially by your mother. Your first swimming experience (covered in Dear Arlo) is evidence of that. Mummy sneaked her phone into the baby pool and was told off by the manager – but only after she’d taken the pictures she wanted. And so, Mummy sneaks behind a display shelf of soft-toy reindeers, and she films a few seconds of Santa in action, conversing with another family. The video is for Haylee, who has reminded Mummy on many occasions that she wants to see footage of the real Santa and that she will be most upset if we don’t provide her with some.
Next, we find the one open restaurant and order food. Being inside warm and not rushing around affords us an opportunity to video-call you. We’re a couple of hours ahead, so you won’t have gone down for your nap yet.
Ring, ring.
No answer ...
‘I’m going to try again. I bet your mum has her phone on silent,’ Mummy says to me.
‘Probably,’ I agree.
Ring, ring.
Again, no answer ...
‘Why is she not answering?’ Mummy says with ruffled feathers.
‘Are you expecting a helpful response from me?’ Twenty minutes pass. Mummy tries again.
Still no answer ...
I’m now a little fidgety myself. I know we can’t
fuck off out of the country and expect an immediate response to every message and phone call, but we did confess our anxieties on leaving, and we were assured that we would be kept up to date.
‘Oh, I know, I’ll check the Find My iPhone app as I have your mum’s phone linked.’
Her app check confirms that you guys are at home, or at least Nana Hoover’s phone is. Hopefully, you’re not on your way to the hospital.
‘If her phone is at home, then surely she would have checked it by now,’ she says.
I don’t respond, but the same thought crosses my mind. We’re in a tricky spot: we’re fortunate enough to have a support network that has allowed us to go away, and knowing that my mum raised me as a single parent means I’ll never take that for granted, but at the same time – Mum, pick up the fucking phone!
Just then, Mummy’s phone lights up – Ring, ring. Thank fuck for that!
‘Hello,’ Mummy says.
‘Hi, sorry, we went out for a walk, and I left my phone at home. I’m really sorry.’
This was always the most likely scenario, but it’s tough to remain rational when we’ve flown abroad without you for the first time. But now we know you’re OK, we can get back to relaxing and enjoying our trip, especially as you were far too busy trashing the house to talk to us.
After we eat and pay for our meal, we wander outside and over to a prearranged meeting point, ready to begin the next item on our itinerary: hunting for the Northern Lights with a photography tour operator.
It’s dark. It was dark hours ago. At this time of the year, the sun rises a little after 9.30 a.m. and sets again at around 2.30 p.m. The temperature is now ten below. The minibus arrives to collect us. We exchange pleasantries with the other tourists and set off in search of the elusive green aura.
When it comes to travelling, I’m happy to hold my hands up and say I’m like a spoilt kid at Christmas: I always want more – no matter how many incredible places I visit and experiences I collect. I shouldn’t, but I do. And one of the most sought-after experiences on my wish list is a glimpse of the Northern Lights.
We drive to two locations. No lights.
Next, we park up on the edge of a frozen lake that’s collected a thin layer of snowfall. Silver-white light emanating from an almost full moon reflects off the surface. The skies are clear; the thin veil of cloud from earlier has long gone. There is a small congregation of stars spread out across this tiny patch of the cosmos that we’re observing as eager onlookers – anticipators – hoping to share in the beauty of the spectacle we’re all so desperate to see.
Come on. Come on. Show your se—
‘Look!’ says the guide, pointing.
But pointing isn’t required.
Tranquil green mist tears a seam through the sky, arcing, almost like a rainbow but with a less defined curvature. At the end of the curve, the green mist spreads, diluted by the night sky, like unsettled dust particles, as if a godlike being held the lights in the palm of their hand and then dispersed them with an almighty puff of air.
The sight is beautiful and awe-inspiring. Another once-in-a-lifetime, emotionally rewarding experience collected. This is why I love to travel.
I wonder what I’ll collect next.
Batteries And Apple Bobbing - Monday, 22 November 2021
We’ve received the following updates from Nana Hoover about your well-being today:
- Henry is on his third set of batteries. He’s averaging a pack a day.
- Henry now has an eyepatch on the same eye you wear yours.
- You do not miss us at all.
We video-call you, and this time Nana answers immediately. It seems we’ve caught you at lunchtime – well, sort of. Nana Hoover is allowing you to go bobbing for apples, but with a few modifications: there are no apples or water, just a bowl full of ratatouille and couscous. Nana’s justification for allowing you to eat your dinner like a dog is that the other day you said ‘shit’, and we all laughed. Naturally, this prompted you to repeat the word.
And then again.
And again.
And then a few more times for good measure. What that has to do with eating habits, I’ll never know, but it would seem Nana has identified a legal loophole in the parenthood manual that says something to the effect of: ‘Mum and Dad did something they shouldn’t, so that means Nana can do, and has done, the same.’
Oh, and another thing. I’ve lost count of how many messages we’ve had from friends and family asking us how much Arlo is enjoying his trip to Lapland.
Awkward ...
Holidays Should Mirror A Toddler’s Schedule - Tuesday, 23 November 2021
‘You’ve designed our holiday around a toddler’s schedule,’ says Mummy, who I think is impressed with how I’ve cross-pollinated our parental and travel experiences.
‘How so?’
‘You always say that the secret to navigating a day with a toddler is to have one main activity in the morning and then one in the afternoon.’
She’s right, Arlo, I do say that. Time passes quickly in parenting, like flour falling from a sieve whose holes are too big. Even if all you have to do that day is get dressed, leave the house and walk to the shops, it’s a full-scale operation. Three hours feel like three minutes, and life is always stressful when you’re continually battling a clock that is consistently outmatching you. But having one activity to focus on in the morning and another in the afternoon provides anchor points throughout your day, keeping you grounded and hopefully reducing stress levels.
I’m not saying there’s no stress, because stress is one of the many shadows sewn into the parenting gig, along with tiredness, hair loss and an absence of sanity. Still, less stress is much more tolerable than lots of stress, and my secret to less stress is to have two activities spread out, with a nap thrown in in the middle. It’s simple toddler management ... No, it’s simple one-toddler management. God help parents who have more than one small human in their care, although I’m sure in that instance, ‘God’ comes in the shape of a bottle of gin that’s steadily topped up by a parent’s constant flow of alcohol-contaminated tears. Whatever works for them, Arlo. You won’t find me passing judgment.
Staying with the toddler theme, yesterday, Mummy and I didn’t have time for an afternoon nap, and we were exhausted and a bit grumpy. Today, however, we’ve had some time in between activities to nap, shower and otherwise relax. Now we’re energised and looking forward to our afternoon activity – which is more of an evening activity, but you take my point.
Finally, to round off toddler comparisons, the tour company we’re using has been lending us their all-in-one snowsuits to help us defend against the cold. Mummy especially, because of her petite frame, looks like a toddler in an all-in-one Babygro. But, they’re warm and snug, so despite our ridiculous appearances, there are no complaints.
There we have it: fun, naps and warm, comfortable clothing. Oh, to be a toddler!
Lessons Learnt From Holiday - Wednesday, 24 November 2021
Having the opportunity to get away means I’ve finally been able to put my theory of parents going on holiday without their children into practice, and, harnessing lessons I’ve learnt from this trip, I can now complete the reflection exercise.
My belief that parents need time to themselves, including the odd holiday, remains unchanged. And I will encourage other parents to come around to my way of thinking (if they haven’t already). But there’s a caveat: they need to go away without falling victim to guilt and self-loathing all because they’ve prioritised themselves over their children (for once).
Understand, Arlo, you are and will always be the biggest priority in my life, but I can’t be the father I want to be if I don’t give care and attention to all aspects of my identity. If I succeed in doing that, and I do so free of guilt, then I stand a chance of becoming the best version of myself – a version, or state, that’s emotionally fulfilled. And it’s a state that you have the potential to absorb too through osmosis. On the flip side, parents who don’t achieve this risk their children absorbing unfulfilled emotional states from them, which is tragic. For them and the human race.
If I’m fulfilled in every aspect of my life, then, in turn, I can provide you with the necessary energy and tools for you to grow up and become the best possible version of yourself – fulfilled, motivated and thirsty for adventure.
In some respects, I like to think I’ve begun my tenure as a grandfather already because by embodying an example – or framework – that I believe is right, I’m able to teach you to do the same while, of course, respecting your individuality. This framework is then set up to be passed down from generation to generation.
That might sound like cheap manipulation tactics to justify a child-free holiday, but I assure you it’s not, and I often bang on about this stuff because I believe the majority of parents ignore what should not be ignored. And while I take the point that many parents may not be lucky enough to have access to the kind of support network that our family has, many do. But they cannot get over that hurdle of self- manufactured parental guilt that distorts a parent’s understanding of how much care and attention they should be diverting to themselves.
I’ve missed you every day I’ve been away. But the sheer joy of having the experiences I’ve had overruled the periods of being a dad longing for his son. We’ve had an incredible few days. I went into detail about the Northern Lights, but that doesn’t begin to capture what we’ve experienced. We visited a private husky farm and went sledging on a frozen lake; we went ice swimming; we trekked in a nearby national park where they had frozen waterfalls – all truly spellbinding stuff. In the years to come, I’ll always be able to look back fondly on that trip.
Also, it doesn’t feel like we’ve taken the piss with childcare. Both of your nanas were able to chip in, and everyone had a wonderful time with you. Throw in a couple of days at nursery on top, and it’s worked out very well for everyone.
Finally, and this one is bittersweet: you didn’t miss us. Apparently, you asked after us the odd time, but you didn’t get upset. You behaved beautifully for both of your nanas, and you went into nursery fine. A bit of me is gutted about that. As a family, we’re very affectionate. Plus, we’ve had the whole pandemic business that’s meant you spent most of your first year of life with just Mummy and me. For you to cope as well as you have done without us is, I’ll admit, a little sore to weather. But, of course, the alternative scenario is that you missed us like crazy, and knowing that would have put a dampener on our trip that might have been too hard to shrug away. So, of the two, I’d rather you didn’t miss us than did. But also, fuck you.
Does this mean Mummy and I will be going away again without you? Yes, absolutely. We spoke about it at length on the plane journey home. Mummy said she doesn’t think she could cope with going away any longer than we did, and I agree – we’ve been away for four full days. And she doesn’t want to make this a monthly habit, but one or two times a year will be OK.
To cap off this reflection exercise, I also mentioned in Dear Dory that we’d bring you back a fridge magnet any time we went away. I’ve made good on that promise and then some. Not only do you have a fridge magnet, you also have a postcard en route from Santa’s post office and a reindeer soft toy. You’re most welcome!
I have bloody missed you!
Punishment - Thursday, 25 November 2021
6.30 a.m. ‘Nana, Nana!’
Mummy and I leap out of bed and bound across to the other side of the house in response to you calling out. I wonder if you’re as thrilled to see us as we are to see you.
The sight of our smiling, loving faces triggers a response: first, a look of shock, then one of disdain and finally one of despair. I can’t tell which arrived first – you screaming for Nana or you bursting into tears, but it would seem you’re not quite as thrilled to see us as we are to see you.
You’re in a horrible mood with us, and it doesn’t let up all morning. Tantrums occur every other minute.
Mummy tells me this is you punishing us for going away.
I don’t understand. You hadn’t shown us any interest on the phone. Did I misinterpret that? Had you been upset with us all week? And is that why we had little in the way of enthusiasm from you during our video calls?
Confirmation that this is holiday-related behaviour arrives shortly afterwards, when Mummy tells you that you’re getting in the car to drive to Nana See- See’s. You immediately run over to me, wrap both arms around my waist and begin crying, ‘Dadda, Dadda.’
I’ve fucked up.
I’ve really fucked up.
Despite my reflection and rumination about our trip away being a success, I’ve failed to realise that this has affected you. And I feel awful.
‘Hey, buddy, it’s OK.’
‘No, Dadda,’ you say, still clinging to me.
‘Can I talk to you for a second?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Listen to me. You’re only going to Nana See-See’s for a little bit while Daddy goes to work, and then you’re coming back home, where I’ll be waiting. I promise I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay at the house. You’re only going for a little bit, and then you’re coming back.’
I accompany my explanation with a lot of arm waving and body language to land the message that I’m not selfishly fucking off on another holiday.
And the message does land because you untangle your arms from me and allow Mummy to put your shoes, coat and hat on. You leave the house without further protest.
This behaviour has shaken me. I check the accommodation emails from the weekend Mummy and I spent in the Peak District for her birthday last year – the same weekend when you had no issues with us being away – to see if we were away for two or three nights.
It was two.
Still, though, what gives? Is this separation anxiety? I thought that was a baby phase. I thought we had left that behind long ago.
I guess not.
It’s bedtime, and we’re battling another frustration resulting from us having gone away. This one is over your blanket. Usually, you select what side you want, then Mummy lays it out like a rug, and we sit on it for story time. But it would seem you and Nana Hoover have changed things up a bit because you’re trying to explain the new amendment to the routine, and Mummy and I aren’t exactly getting it.
‘I think he wants us all to get under it,’ says Mummy – who is usually bang on with her translations. But not this time. We ask you to show us, use different words and then repeat both the words and the actions. But we’re still not getting it.
Hmmm, what now? Oh, I know. ‘I need my phone.’
Ring, ring. ‘Good evening, Mother – I need your help with something.’
Nana Hoover fills in the gaps in our knowledge. What we should have been doing is sitting against the wall, placing your cover over our legs, but with our toes poking out the bottom so that we can perform the toe-wiggle dance.
How the fudgicles did we not get that?
Drunk Mummy - Friday, 26 November 2021
It’s 3.30 a.m., and Mummy has just stumbled through the door, having had a night out with one of the NCT mums. A drunk Mummy means I’m forced to play the Drunk Mummy board game, one that relies on patience, strategy and tenacity. I’m definitely not in the mood for board games, but then, who is at 3.30 a.m.? I wish there was an option to opt out, but there isn’t. So, I begin mentally cycling through a list of priorities ahead of meeting my opponent: territory, communication, eye contact and hydration.
The game is set.
The board is our bed and the objective is sleep.
Soon after, I hear her approach.
Let’s begin.
Territory: if I remain too close to the outside on my side of the bed, she’ll come in for a cuddle, restricting my freedom and pinning me in place. She’s like a sea lion on land, undulating her body, shifting sideways until she obtains skin contact before falling asleep.
The science is baffling, I know, but a drunk Mummy is somehow three times heavier than a non- drunk Mummy, and I simply don’t have the strength for a move-drunk-Mummy-over-to-her-fucking-side- of-the-bed manoeuvre. So, I quickly shuffle to the middle of the bed, ensuring I have plenty of room to retreat when she does inevitably fall asleep.
She opens the bedroom door. ‘Oh, zchello, baby.’
Communication: this is a tricky one. If I don’t respond, then she treats this as hostile rudeness on my part and will no doubt begin shaking me – something that would in no way benefit my life. But neither can I respond like it’s the first time I’m seeing one of my besties in over a year. No, the trick is to garble some sort of acknowledgement back, slurring my words so that she can’t possibly understand anything coming out of my mouth.
‘Babyyyyy?’
‘Ershes ahsdh yawn yawn yawn.’
‘Oh, you’re not really awake, are you? That makes me very sad. I want to talk.’
‘YAWN.’
Eye contact: even though I’ve played my communication part expertly, Mummy will still suspect a ruse, assuming that this is a game I’ve been waiting up all night to participate in. She scans my face like it’s a word-search puzzle with only one more word left to find – one she suspects is lying underneath one of my eyelids, eyelids that I can promise you are shut, firmly, to the point where I’m now in quite a bit of pain.
This sounds easy, but it’s not. Mummy is more silent than silence – stiller than a statue and more patient than a loving parent. I’m desperate to see if she’s still out there waiting to pounce. This is psychological warfare, a battle of wills: predator versus prey. I mustn’t give in. And I don’t.
Eventually, she abandons her campaign, gets undressed and notices something on her bedside table.
‘Oh,’ she says.
Hydration: as a precaution, I prepared a glass of water for Mummy before I came up to bed. I did this for two reasons. First, it’s a nice thing to do. She always does this for me, and she’s quick to point out when the deed is not reciprocated. Second, Mummy having a lubricated throat reduces the chances of her breathing sounding like a dragon inhaling a large draught of air before burning down a village full of farmers, and then exhaling like ... you guessed it: a dragon burning down a village full of farmers.
Night night, Arlo. I guess I’ll see you in a couple of hours – maybe even three if I’m lucky.
A Prelude To Potty-Training - Sunday, 28 November 2021
Though it’s not something we’ve tried to initiate, potty-training is fast approaching. A combination of you watching Mummy or me or your cousin Haylee, who is potty-trained, on the toilet has fostered curiosity and a desire to have a go yourself.
At first, you wanted to sit on the toilet with the aid of a potty seat just for the sake of sitting. But that quickly became part of your evening routine, and you’ve since performed a few wees on the toilet. The three of us are incredibly proud when you do this. Another charming element of the weeing-on-the- toilet activity is, when you finish up, I remind you to ‘shake’. But despite me showing you how you do this, instead of shaking your willy, you shake your hand. But it’s a shake of the hand that’s very different from, say, waving. It’s its own thing, a signature choreographed handshake – which I find charming, and I’m in no rush to correct.
That covers wee-wee. What about poo-poo?
So far, it’s not happened, but I am trying to teach you. I do this by squatting down in front of you when you’re on the toilet, pressing my hands together as if praying, and then I lean forward and release an exaggerated straining sound. You mirror my actions. I’m not sure if you understand what I’m trying to teach you or if you’re just playing along because it’s a fun bit of silliness (I suspect it’s both). You follow my movements with interest like a student does when their teacher imparts wise words – or actions. It’s a slightly surreal scene and might sound ridiculous the way I’m describing it to you, but it’s oddly intimate, and to be honest, it’s a phase I’ll look back on fondly. At least this element of it; I appreciate we’ve not begun ‘proper’ potty-training yet.
And that brings us nicely on to what’s happening right now. It’s evening, and Nana Hoover is here. You make the following pronouncements. One: you don’t want to wear your nappy. Two: you need a poo-poo. Interesting. This could be your first code brown on the toilet.
Mummy rids you of your nappy and says, ‘Remember, as soon as you feel it coming, run to the toilet, and you can do poo-poo, OK?’
‘Yeah.’
We sit back and let you crack on with life. The objective here is to create an environment where it’s not apparent that three adults aren’t brimming with excitable energy, all because you might do your first poo on a toilet. We don’t want to put you under pressure.
Fifteen minutes pass. Mummy and Nana are in the kitchen, and you and I are in the living room playing with your cars.
‘Dadda. Poo-poo.’
Oh my fucking God – it’s happening. OK, OK, OK. Let’s everyone just calm down and not overreact.
‘You need a poo-poo?’ I say.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you want to sit on the toilet?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK, go on then, walk over.’
But you’re hesitant. I expected you to bound over, full of confidence. But you haven’t. Something is wrong, but I’m not sure— Oh fuck! ‘Arlo, have you started doing your poo-poo already?’
‘Yeah.’ You look and sound guilty.
‘That’s OK, buddy, we can clear it up if it goes on the floor. It’s no problem.’
I skirt around the large toy-car-park apparatus that’s between us. A quick inspection reveals you have indeed begun your business.
Fuck, fuck, what do I do? What would Mummy do? Thud – I’ll let you deduce what that was.
‘Erm, can I have some assistance, please?’
Mummy enters the room. She takes one look at the floor and springs into action. Within the space of a microsecond, she’s carried you over to the toilet, placed you on it and made it back to the living room with tissue to clear away the mess.
Now, three adults are loitering nearby, waiting to see what happens while you remain sitting on the toilet.
After a minute or so ...
Plop.
‘Good boy, Arlo,’ say the three adults in unison.
Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. You did it! You did your first poo on the toilet. Admittedly, it was half a poo – the second half. But no one here is going to take anything away from you. We all clap and cheer and congratulate a young man who’s reached a huge toddler milestone.
Your first poo in a toilet!
Well done, buddy – I’m so super proud of you.
