November
Thursday, 19 November 2020 – Happy First Birthday
Today is your first birthday. You’ll never remember it, but your parents will, and I don’t care what anyone else says – that’s important. It’s a big day for us too. We’ve completed the first year of parenting and you didn’t die! I’ll admit it was touch-and-go at times, like that incident where Mummy dropped you out of a trolley and onto your head. Or what about that time when you had an allergic reaction to eggs that resulted in your first ride in an ambulance? I say we sweep those under the rug – along with the regular trips to A & E and the multiple calls to the NHS 111 phone line. If we bury all those near misses and pretend they never happened, then I believe we can go ahead, grab a megaphone, turn the volume dial to max and announce to the world that we’re wonderful parents who know exactly what we’re doing, right?
OK, maybe not. But do any parents know what they’re doing? After a year on the job, I’m almost certain they don’t.
For your birthday celebrations, Mummy has caused the living room to undergo a rainbow-themed transformation. If you show no interest in the balloons and the coloured streamers, Mummy will be gutted. Come to think of it, so will I, which is something I never would have expected, but if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about parenting, it is that we surprise ourselves every day about what matters and doesn’t matter so far as our children are concerned. Right now, what’s important to us is your approval of your birthday decorations.
Your mummy is thirty-six. We’ve been together for nearly six years, and she is about as phenomenal a parent as you could ever wish for. She’s patient, tender and affectionate. The three of us are lying in bed having cuddles while you devour a bottle of milk.
Usually, we affix an eyepatch onto your right eye for a few hours each morning, to help rehabilitate your left eye which suffered a congenital abnormality affecting the cornea. You also wear glasses. The patching treatment is working well, in part because we ensure you almost never miss a day of wearing it. However, we’ve decided today will be one of those rare instances you’ll traverse the morning without one. Mummy says it’s for you, but I know for a fact it’s for her. She wants to take some nice, memorable family pictures and it would seem that colourful eyepatches clash with her artistic vision.
You drain the last drop from your bottle, which means it’s now time for the big birthday reveal. I scoop you up in my arms and the three of us shuffle downstairs so that you can pass judgement on Mummy’s production design. The first test involves the streamers that hang down the side of the stairs from the first-floor landing – a frozen fruit-juice waterfall. It took Mummy and me ten minutes to arrange them last night, but it takes less than three seconds for you to begin vandalising the display, an action you perform while squealing. We take this to mean that, so far, you approve.
Next, we walk into the living room, and your face lights up like the New York skyline.
Thank God.
There is colour everywhere. It’s as if someone decorated a Christmas tree and then stuck a grenade in the middle of it. Your gaze darts from the balloon arch to the loose balloons scattered on the floor to the tassels that hang round the back of your high chair, and then back around to the curtain of coloured streamers that are draped behind us – the ones you’ve just attacked, maimed and killed.
We got you a climbing … thing. I still don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m calling it a climbing gym. It’s a rocking horse, a slide, a climbing arch and some other things that Mummy told me, which I’ve since forgotten. Whatever it is, you approve of it, particularly the slide element. You also approve of the cake. I know this because you sneezed all over it as soon as Mummy presented it to you, and sneezing means you like something, right?
We open more presents. One of them is a wooden train that carries ducks on it. You love the train, but you don’t love it when you swing it around and one of the carriages smacks you in the face, welcoming in the first mishap of Year Two – one that is quickly followed by tears. You don’t normally favour one parent over the other (which we both love), but if you’re hurt or upset, it’s usually Mummy you go to.
After the tears stop falling, we return to presents. You get more toys, clothes and lots of books. When opening your cards, I do something I’ve not done in a long time, and that’s hold them upside down to see if any money falls out. It doesn’t. Tight bastards.
Because of Covid-19, we can’t invite anyone over to the house. The UK is midway through its second national lockdown of the year. But there is hope. Two recently developed vaccines show promise, and early results boast an effective protection rate of around 94 per cent. Fingers crossed that it works! I miss our friends, and I miss going to the cinema.
Even though we’re in lockdown, we’re using a couple of loopholes to our advantage. First, we’re going to see Granny Smurf, my mummy, for brunch. We named her Granny Smurf because she had Smurf-shaded blue hair. She was devastated to learn later that Smurfs don’t have blue hair and that only their skin is blue, so now, almost as a protest, she’s revamped her look and gone for grey dreadlocks. She resembles an albino African warlord, and she somehow pulls it off. Despite the wardrobe shake-up, we’ll continue to call her Granny Smurf although I for one think the name ‘Granny Warlord’ is badass.
The reason we can see her legitimately is that she lives alone, and she is your carer for one day a week, so we’ve been able to form a ‘bubble’, which means we won’t go to prison for taking you over to see her for an hour while we’re in a nationwide mandatory lockdown.
For your birthday, Granny Smurf has bought you a height chart and some craft bits, and she has contributed to your climbing gym. As a show of thanks, you retrieve a ball of wool from a nearby basket and unspool it for her. The front room looks like one of those spider diagrams you see in a crime procedural, with red string linking photos of victims to locations. Granny doesn’t mind – she loves watching you explore.
Later in the day, we drive up and visit Granny Feeder and Grandad Tools, Mummy’s Irish parents who moved to Northampton before she was born. The reason we can see them is, and I don’t believe I’ve told you this before in previous books, that the four of us (Mummy, Daddy, Granny and Grandad) own a modest property company[1]. It’s hardly an empire, just a few single lets, but we have some items to discuss and paperwork to sign, so we’re having a meeting to talk about said business and sign papers, and obviously we’ve timed it purposely to coincide with your birthday.
Our business meeting features the tearing of yet more wrapping paper and a lot of smartphone activity. Granny Feeder gets her name from boasting burgeoning food cupboards and from the fact that no guest has ever left her house hungry. Grandad Tools is Grandad Tools because he owns about a billion tools, and he’s able to use every single one of them masterfully.
Witnessing your first year come to a close has been difficult for me to endure, particularly yesterday, while we were preparing your birthday decorations. Understand, Arlo, that for me, my dadding adventure has so far been almost note-perfect, and because of that it’s passed by in rapid fashion. And I don’t like that.
Nonetheless, it has been an unforgettable time watching you arrive into the world and begin your new life and your journey into the unknown, with me and Mummy by your side as we all guide each other one step at a time. It has been, and will always be, the greatest tale I’ll ever have the honour of being a part of. But it’s a tale I only get to experience once, and the first chapter is at an end. I can’t run around and queue up for the ride again, I can’t rewind and rewatch it, and I can’t attend a weekend matinee to catch a repeat performance. There is simply no way for me to relive the adventure.
I guess that makes it all the more sacred.
And anyway, that’s not entirely true. I can remember and revisit it by rereading the words that I write to you or by looking at the endless pictures and videos we have that document your development. And I can take moments out of my day to remember the firsts. Like cradling you in my arms, hearing you cry, seeing you smile, listening to you saying ‘Daddy’ and watching you take your first steps.
Besides, while yesterday was a miserable day for me, today has been very special. And I go to sleep excited about the year ahead. What new tales will we tell, what adventures will we have, and what memories will we build in the next chapter?
I can’t wait to see your personality continue on its journey. Your communication and language skills will develop. Your stability on your feet will improve, equipping you with enhanced explorative capabilities. I’m told by people who know about such things that your play and imagination are advanced for your age. You can play a basic form of hide-and-seek that will become more sophisticated as time goes on. I can’t wait to see that unfold. Mummy says we should expect this thing called a dirty protest. I have no idea what that could possibly be, Arlo, but I can’t wait for the experience.
Last year, I told you to get some rest because you would need it. I dispense the same advice to you now. Get some rest. You have an energy-taxing year of growing, learning and developing ahead of you, but once again, Mummy and Daddy will be here to help guide you, and we will do the best we can.
Happy birthday, my boy. Sleep well.
