Week Eleven: Sunday 10 December – Saturday 16 December
One of the nice things about being a student is the holiday time. Granted I have a lot of work to do for my course over the next four (three now!) weeks, but being around without classes or work has meant that I have been able to do other things. Money may be scarce, but it doesn’t stop there being plenty to occupy my time.
The nicest thing I’ve done this past week is take my daughter to nursery, and collect her too. That’s when you get a sharp realisation that you really are a father.
Women, well my wife for one, know they are mothers from the moment they find out they are pregnant; probably before. In fact women are born to be mothers, so they know. But men? We’re slower to things generally than women. I mean, I know I am a father; but you really know when you take and collect your daughter (or son) from nursery for the first time.
Along with that moment of no less than profound realisation was an enormous sense of satisfaction. What can be better than walking along the road with your child, taking them to nursery? I don’t get the whole ‘kids are such a hassle thing’; if you feel like that, don’t have them.
I love being a father and I love being with my daughter. If I was economically secure I’d hang out with her as long as she wanted me too. Children are the greatest thing going; you’ve can't not love being with them. You learn so much and they are great teachers.
I enjoy the pleasure of my daughter’s company immensely and our relationship is extra special because of the father-daughter dance that we play on a daily basis.
The first time I collected my daughter from nursery school last week she was insistent that we walk home. I was fine with that, although Falmouth is a hilly town and can be a tiring walk for an adult never mind a not yet three year old. So, of we set.
I decided to take her a different route from the one her mama usually takes her, so we made a detour through some back streets and ended up at the top of Jacobs Ladder steps. Steep and slippery as they are, we tramped down them, counting them as we went. One hundred and thirteen!
The steps take you into the heart of Falmouth town: The Moor. Before I could say a word my daughter had her bearings and was leading me to a café where I had taken her a couple of weeks previously to see the switching on of the Christmas lights. Can we go inside for a drink she asked me; how could I refuse? So, in we went. Orange juice for her, latte for me.
It was starting to get late, dark and chilly by the time we left the café; my wife would be starting to wonder where we were, so best get a bus from here I thought. My daughter thought differently.
She wanted to go and look at the stalls that were set up in the centre of The Moor, so off we went. We stopped at a lovely stall selling beautiful Italian produce from ‘the boot of Italy’. We sampled olives, olive oil soaked in Italian bread, cheese and salami. I also sampled some sixteen percent proof wine from the same region as the food and poured from a five litre plastic water bottle as it is not a wine that gets bottled. We chatted to the Italian running the stall, learnt about olive oil and made a purchase.
Now it really was getting dark and cold and I really did think I should get my child home; but again she had other ideas. Let’s go to the library and you can read me a story, like mama does. So, the library it was. The Italian had topped up my glass of wine before I left the stall, so I walked into the library with a full (plastic) glass of potent red wine, sat down with my daughter and read her two stories. Nobody batted an eyelid; they just smiled.
When we left the library and got outside I was tempted to go back to the Italian stall for another glass of wine (why is it that home grown, local wine, served from a large plastic container tastes better than anything out of a bottle?), but again my daughter called the shots.
The art gallery is next door to the library, and you can draw pictures in the art gallery. It seemed silly not to! I phoned my wife at that point to let her know I was being led a merry little dance by our daughter, and loving every minute of it. And off to the art gallery we did go.
Nearing half five by this point, having been collected at three-thirty, we left the art gallery only because they were closing. Best get home I thought. My daughter agreed, but first a trip to the health food shop. We didn’t have anything specific to buy, but she loves it in there. Why not?
When it came to the big hill you have to climb to get to our house my daughter was finally beginning to tire. Up on my shoulders and off we went, eventually getting home just after six o’clock.
All the while we were on our journey, from the moment I collected my daughter from nursery, we chatted, sang, laughed, played and joked. It was a priceless few hours having simple fun with my daughter; money couldn’t buy it, nothing could compare to it.
If I was working I wouldn’t be around to have times like that. If my wife was working she wouldn’t be around to have times like that (albeit diluted) on a daily basis – an all three of us would be worse off emotionally and spiritually.
If we were a little better off and had a car, I might have picked my daughter up from nursery, but she’d have been straight into the car and straight home. We’d have missed out on our walk in winter wonderland, and again would have been worse off for it where it counts.
These are the good times!
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