Shout The House Down

Week Three: Sunday 15 – Saturday 21 October

So much for Sunday being the day of rest and relaxation. This week Sunday was spent doing work for my course: I am studying writing, so you have to write, as well as read, a great deal to make any sort of progress.

It can be difficult to settle down to do either seriously when your daughter is jumping about, itching to be entertained and occupied. That complication is added to when, in the true tradition of writers, so I’m led to believe, and happy to concur with, I find myself more than willing to entertain and occupy my daughter rather than knuckle down to the 'serious business'.

Wife to the rescue – as normal! She took my daughter and herself off for a long walk somewhere; hopefully somewhere nice, but anywhere really that could occupy a few hours and enable me to have some peace and make some progress. Or at least get some work down.

Despite the realisation of the marked difference between writing casually and writing for the purposes of passing a writing course and becoming a professional writer, I did get some work done.

I even managed a text conversation with my nephew who was at Easter Road in Edinburgh, watching my beloved Hibernian FC play our archrivals and city neighbours Heart of Midlothian FC. We (Hibs) were two up after twenty odd minutes: I bashed the keyboard with glee as I contemplated the final score; it ended up two apiece! Life is a roller coaster, Ronan Keating tells us; so can ninety-minutes of football be!

The other main event of the week was our daughter’s first day at nursery. She was booked in for a half-day on the Tuesday afternoon. We did all the preparatory work beforehand, so we thought. We talked about it with her in enthusiastic tones and made sure, so we believed, that she knew what was going to happen.

It was a rite of passage all round. My wife has been a full-time mother since our daughter was born, except for a four month stint when she worked twenty-hours a week while her mother visited us from Zimbabwe and took on the traditional role of Gogo (Sindebele for grandmother). While I have been the main breadwinner, I have been a very involved father and so our daughter has not had too much unattached time away from either of us.

All went well at the nursery until my wife explained to our daughter that she was leaving her for a couple of hours with the nice lady and lovely children. Before she was out of earshot of the building she could hear our sweet, gentle, innocent child shouting at the top of her voice in a deep, angry tone that a poltergeist would be proud of.

One half of my wife was cursed with pain at what our child was suffering; the other half with an unbridled urge to run in to the nursery, grab our daughter and never show face again. Being a man, she spared me the detail until I got home that evening; my fragile sensitivities would not have been able to cope.

At least we now know, without question, that our little miss has a voice, and she isn’t afraid to use it. I pity the first boy who crosses her!

It turned out our daughter was, eventually, repossessed of her more natural, pleasant nature and settled down; her second visit, on the Thursday afternoon, produced only a few tears before she joined in with all the activities. By Thursday night she was asking me to come along the next time so she could show me where she goes.

If only adults could relearn to live in the moment, good, bad or indifferent, like children do, and then move on without harm, damage or grudges.