I’m not afraid of saying I love you. It’s just all the rest of it that scares the living crap out of me.
I’m afraid of what people will say if you don’t play soccer. Afraid of the shame. The nicknames. The being left out. Afraid that they’ll… you know.
I mean, maybe you’d rather take up sailing or ballet or pole vault or figure skating instead. And that’s all right. I really want to be a father who says that and means it. It’s okay! I want you to do whatever makes you happy, regardless of what anyone says.
I just want you to be prepared for the ignorance and the prejudices.
You don’t have to like soccer. You can play chess. Or sing. Hell, if you decide to devote all your time to that thing they do in the Olympics where they run about on a mat in a gym hall accompanied by the Titanic soundtrack, waving two sticks with that kind of ribbon you use to wrap presents with at each end, I’ll come to every bloody training session.
I’m just worried I won’t understand it.
See, I don’t want to be the dad all the other kids shake their heads at. The one who doesn’t fit in among the rest of the parents. Someone you’re ashamed of. The one who doesn’t understand the thing you love. The one who disappoints you.
I know soccer. I don’t know much about much else, but I know soccer. I barely know anything about art or fashion or literature or computers or building a roof or changing engine oil. I know very little about music. I’m not always great at talking about feelings.
And I know all kids sooner or later reach a point in their lives where they realize their dads aren’t actually superheroes. I’m not stupid. I just wish for it to take as long as possible. I wish we could at least have a couple of Sunday afternoons together, you and I. Something that’s ours. Something I understand. Because I’m not afraid to say I love you, I’m just so deadly scared of all the rest.
Scared of the day when I lose my place in your life.
You don’t have to like soccer.
I’m just trying to let you know that I’m really terrified of what things will be like if you don’t. That feeling of being left out. The awkwardness. The loneliness.
Mine.
Chaos Theory
ME: You know that old saying “I feel less like his dad than I do like his parole officer”?
MY WIFE: That’s not a saying.
ME: Well, it should be.
A-papa-calypse Now
Conversation with a good friend who has just finished his paternity leave
ME: So how was being home with the kids?
HIM: (Scratching his beard nervously, glancing reflexively over his shoulder every now and then, mumbling absently) Mmm. Definitely. Really good. Best thing I’ve done…
ME: Did you and the kids develop a bond like—
HIM: (Pointing to my coffee cup in frustration) What the hell, did you have to put that there?
ME: Huh?
HIM: (Pointing furiously) Do you have to put that cup there? It could tip over and BURN someone!
ME: (Looking under the table) Like who? There’s no one down there…
HIM: (Wide-eyed) Not NOW, no! But it only takes a second! They come out of nowhere, the bastards!
(Silence)
HIM: (Fingers drumming the table compulsively, staring up at the ceiling) You’re laughing, but just wait until you’re there. Up to your neck in it. With no one to rely on. You get paranoid, let me tell you. You think you know where they are, that you’re in control, but they’re silent. Like snakes…
(Silence)
MUTUAL FRIEND WHO DOESN’T HAVE KIDS: (Glancing nervously at me) When you said he was on “paternity leave,” did you mean with kids or with the Vietcong?
We are searching for the AllSpark.
ME: What about this one? Where the hell’s this one meant to go?
MY FRIEND J: Here, isn’t it?
ME: Yeah. Must be. Put it there.
J: Doesn’t fit.
ME: Put your weight into it!
J: I’m telling you it doesn’t FIT!
ME: I don’t understand how it can be this damn hard to put together a high chair.
J: It even says that it’s “portable.” What the hell do they mean by that?
ME: What about now? What about that?
J: I don’t know… is that thing there really meant to stick out like that?
ME: No! But YOU fix it, then!
J: It feels like the whole thing is the wrong way round or something…
ME: These instructions are CRAP. Does it say anything useful on the box?
J: Yeah.
ME: What?
J: “Easy assembly.”
(Silence. Both studying what really doesn’t look like a correctly assembled high chair at all.)
J: We would’ve been terrible Transformers.
Your Parents’ Marriage: An Introduction
Boy meets girl. Girl meets shoes. Shoes meet shoes. Boy empties basement. Shoes fill basement. Boy empties wardrobe. Shoes fill wardrobe. Girl goes into guest room and comes back out of walk-in closet. Boy and girl have baby. Girl meets baby shoes. Boy meets a more “practical” car. Girl meets shopping mall. Boy puts down foot. Girl is forbidden to buy new shoes before girl throws out old shoes.
Girl throws out boy’s shoes.
Yes. Yes. Childhood trauma this and childhood trauma that.
I drew ONE small butcher’s chart on the picture on the front of the packet of animal crackers. And suddenly, I’m referred to by my first, middle, and last names?
I think that’s a bit much.
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT STUFF
All right, so someone scratched right down one side of our car with a key last night. But hey, it’s fine.
I’m not angry at that someone for doing it.
Yes, it was completely unnecessary. It was. But that someone surely had their reasons. Someone might have had a bad day. Someone’s girlfriend might have broken up with him. Someone might be a Tottenham fan. We shouldn’t judge. We should have empathy.
And it’s just a car, you know?
It’s just a thing. It’s just stuff.
And you should know that you’ll collect a whole load of stuff during your lifetime, so you can’t get too attached to any of it. It’s not healthy. Because there’ll be a lot of stuff. Long before you were born, an incredibly smart man called George Carlin taught your dad that. It’s just as well you find out right away.
There’ll be a LOT of stuff.
Small stuff. Big stuff. Bad stuff. Machine stuff whose only purpose is to produce more stuff. There’s stuff that’s meant to be part of the inside of other stuff. There’s stuff that isn’t even stuff, stuff you’ll be holding at the checkout counter of the store while a nineteen-year-old who smells like hangover and cheese puffs gives you a condescending look and asks whether you have “the rest of the stuff you need to use this stuff?” And when you ask, “What stuff?” he’ll shake his head so slowly that you’ll think it’s about to spin all the way around like an owl’s and snort, “The accessory stuff! Without the accessory stuff, this is not even stuff! Without the accessory stuff, it’s just a… thing!”
He’ll say the word “thing” the way your grandma says very bad swear words. Like he’s spitting it out. So you’ll take it for granted that he knows about this stuff and ask to look at the accessory stuff, and then he’ll sigh loudly and answer that you could have said that to begin with. Now he needs to go and check some stuff in the warehouse to see whether they have any of that stuff left. And by then you might start to feel that he’s just making a thing out of this. But it’s not your thing to point that out.
Because people like stuff. New stuff. Even newer stuff. Stuff to replace old stuff with and old stuff that is so old it becomes retro stuff and starts being used instead of new stuff. Let me tell you: it’s fun stuff.
Sometimes we have to get rid of stuff to make room for new stuff, and then we start to miss the old stuff so much that we have to build new stuff that pretends
to be the old stuff.
Like when we put TV screens on the treadmills at the gym and then play videos of trees on them, so that we feel like we’re running through the forest. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: “Why don’t you just go running in the forest to begin with?” And it’s completely okay to wonder that. You don’t know any better. But, you see, we had to cut down the trees in the forest in order to build a highway so we could drive our cars to the gym. And yes, I can already see what you’re thinking: “Why did you have to cut down the trees?” But hey, what did you want us to do? They were standing in the middle of the highway!
It’s complicated stuff to explain.
So let me just make it really clear that I’m not angry at this someone for scratching the car. The car’s just stuff.
And we can never allow stuff to become more important than people. Like you. I mean, I’ve thrown away all my best stuff to make room for your stuff. Because your stuff is more important. And my God, you have a lot of stuff. All parents with small children love to complain about your stuff. “These kids sure have a lot of STUFF!” we say as soon as we see one another. As though it’s your fault. As though you’re the ones buying it all. As though you’re the ones at the store staring at lumps of black rubber or whatever with some stupid ghost painted on it that cost sixty dollars, thinking, “Am I a bad father if I don’t buy this crap?”
And then the guy at the store grins and thumps you on the back and says, “You really can’t put a price on a child’s safety, can you?” And you don’t grin back because it’s all too clear that actually you can: sixty dollars. It says so right there. And then you buy the crap. Telling yourself this is what parenting is.
And if you only knew how much crap for children there is out there. The worst crap is actually the crap we bought before you were even born. Like a toy sheep containing a speaker that was meant to simulate “whale song” and help you sleep better. Why wasn’t that crap shaped like a whale? Huh? That still bothers me.
Crap. Everywhere, crap. The overwhelming majority isn’t even good crap. It’s just crappy crap. And as soon as you have a child, you need crap for everything. You need special crap just to become compatible with the crap you already own. Crap for the car. Crap for the kitchen table. Crap for the bathroom. Don’t even get me started about the amount of crap you need for poop. I came home from the store right after you were born and your mother shouted “Did you buy diapers?” and I was all “Of course I bought diapers!” and she took them out of the bag and looked deeply skeptical and read the packaging and was all “You bought diapers for babies aged six to nine months?” and I was all “Yeah, but that’s just a recommendation, really” and she was all “He’s nine days old!” and I was all “Don’t you think I know that?!” and she was all “Apparently not!!!” and then she looked into the bag again and said “These wet wipes are perfumed” and I was all “No” and she was all “Yes” and I was all “No” and she was all “It says ‘perfumed’ on them” and I was all “That’s what they want you to think, yes!” and she looked in the bag again and said “What’s this?” and I was all “I think it’s a rain cover for a charcoal barbecue grill” and she said “Why the hell did you buy a rain cover for a—” and I was all “BECAUSE I PANICKED!!! ALL RIGHT???” and then she said “Okaaay…” and rolled her eyes and I was all “You go ahead and roll your eyes! But you don’t know what it’s like out there! There are five hundred goddamn different sorts of diapers! The baby section is as big as an airplane hangar. I tried to find the kind you wanted but there were so many! So, so, so many diapers! Perfumed, unperfumed, with Winnie-the-Pooh on them, without Winnie-the-Pooh, with Velcro fastenings, with elastic, like pants, not like pants, some hypoallergenic ones, some that come with a free computer game, some that give you frequent flyer miles, like… WHAT THE HELL!?” and she said “Just calm down, Fredrik” and I was all “YOU calm down!” and she was all “Why are you getting so angry?” and I was all “Because a load of other fathers appeared! And they were all bam-bam-bam, knew exactly which ones they needed. Boom-boom, straight in the basket! And I was standing there like some clown, feeling like everyone was staring at me, until eventually I just GRABBED SOMETHING!”
Your mother doesn’t understand what it was like. She sat here at home like some kind of bureaucrat, giving out orders. But out there in the field, the shit was real! In the jungle, you only have a few seconds to make the right decision!
And… crap. You end up drowning in crap. You think you’re going to be the cool young dad who just chills and never loses his temper, but then one day you’re standing in front of the baby food shelf and realize that there are, like, seven different types of milk substitute and then you just lie down on the floor and cry.
So. You know.
I’m not angry about the scratch on the car. I’m not angry that I had to call the insurance company. I’m not angry that we’ll have to do without our own car for over a week while it’s repainted.
It’s just that half of all the crap you need once you have a child isn’t even ready-to-use crap. It’s the kind of crap you have to assemble. It needs screwing and fastening and applying until your hallway looks like MacGyver has been smoking Black Afghan in the bathtub at the house of an old woman who never throws away newspapers.
All my weekends now look like an episode of Handy Manny that Disney decided to cancel because Manny went crazy and started screaming swear words and threatening to “punch the mother#%&^er who wrote these b#%&€#%t instructions in the f#!&#%g face!”
So I’m not angry at that someone because that someone scratched the car. Not at all.
Not angry that someone took what the insurance man referred to as a “probable key-like object” and dragged it along the whole rear of the car, the entire back door, and a bit of the front one.
Not angry about all the paperwork.
Not angry about the whole thing itself.
There’s just one tiny, tiny, tiny detail I still want this someone to know.
And it’s that I had to spend an HOUR today refitting your baby car seat AGAIN just because we were going to be using the rental car. I’ll track someone down for that.
And I’ll kill someone.
But, I mean. You know. Other than that: I’m not angry.
It’s just that before you become a parent yourself, you think all parents are superheroes. You think that everything about having kids seems incredibly messy and hard, but you’re counting on nature just solving it for you somehow. You’ll get bitten by a radioactive midwife or be in a mysterious “accident” and wake up in a secret military hospital with a steel skeleton or something like that. It’ll sort itself out.
But that’s not what happens. The only superpower I’ve seen so far was when your mother developed an incredible sense of smell during pregnancy. And I’ll be completely honest with you, that was the most useless superpower ever. I wasn’t allowed to cook bacon at home for almost a year.
So it’s without superpowers that you come home from the hospital with your newborn child and feel utterly abandoned and terrified. You look at the hospital staff as they discharge you from the maternity ward like they’re leaving you to die in the desert. Like they’re refusing to open the door to that village of survivors at the end of I Am Legend and just letting the zombies catch up to you.
You get home and you sit and watch your child sleep and wonder exactly who’s meant to take responsibility for this now. Because it can’t possibly be us. I drink juice straight from the carton and your mother never puts the DVDs back in the case. We’re not cut out for this kind of thing. Someone should have done some kind of test. Put their foot down. When Sims 2 came out, I stopped playing because I felt like it was too much responsibility. I’m pretty sure that’s not being “parent material.”
So what do you do?
You panic. And you buy stuff. That’s what you do.
Ergonomic and organic and pedagogic and anatomically correct stuff. You hear people say, “You h
ave to have one of these!” And you immediately think, “Yeah, maybe we do, that does actually sound sensible.” Cuddly animals and laser thermometers and teething rings and a potty that looks like Jabba the Hutt and a plastic tortoise that plays Mozart when you poke it in the crotch with a stick. It’s like when you watch the shopping channel drunk and realize that your life won’t be complete until you own a tool for cutting onions into stars. Or when you go to Thailand for two weeks and decide that dreadlocks make you look great.
So, you buy all that crap. And then you buy even more crap, telephone crap and video camera crap and computer crap, just so you can document yourselves using all the original crap. As though your children were some kind of scientific experiment. I’m not exaggerating when I say that nothing has revolutionized the way my generation interacts with yours more than when the iPhone 4 came out with the camera on the front, so we could actually sit next to one another while I watched you on the display. There was a time before selfies, you know. And it was HORRIBLE.
This is my life now.
I’ve become one of those parents who decides that their kid is a genius because he worked out how to turn up the volume on the stereo. You pay seven hundred dollars for an iPad and then call up Mensa because your child manages to work out how to unlock the keypad by the time he’s one and a half. And the woman on the other end doesn’t say it straight to your face. But you can, so to speak, tell from her dogged breathing that she wants to shout “It’s a KEYPAD LOCK! It’s hardly the genetic code for a cure for prostate cancer, it’s a frikkin’ k-e-y-p-a-d l-o-c-k. Have you ever thought that maybe your kid is not a genius, but it might just be you who’s a bit of an IDIOT?!”
Things My Son Needs to Know about the World Page 3