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bookmark_border24 years old

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Happy Birthday you old blog you!

It started with this nonsense about sunglasses, which feels appropriate as, at this very moment I am on holiday in France and have the beginnings of tan lined where my sunglasses sit on my face.

The publishing frequency has dropped but as life evolves I am not giving up on this dusty old corner of the internet just yet.

Plans for getting back out cycling are forming, Jack is more and more independent (not 2 yet but is happiest pottering about in his own wee world), and the act of writing still holds a part of who I am.

Still, 24 years is a long time. Well done little blog!!

bookmark_borderMoving Home

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Coming home I feel like I,
Designed these buildings I walk by

Guy Garvey (Elbow) – Station Approach

When I finally left Dumbarton, the town I grew up in, a place that holds more memories for me than any other, I never looked back. I’d long since felt like I’d outgrown the increasingly claustrophobic small town feel that is common when you live in a place where more people seem to accept they will stay than those that try to leave. The move away was one of necessity (I’d gotten a job in England) but it felt timely as I was still in my early twenties, newly married, and ready to see more of the world.

The world is a big place, but I did get as far as Aylesbury for a couple of tumultuous years and Dumbarton remained a place regularly visited to see family members a couple of times a year.

Scotland eventually dragged me back and I spent a few years in Hamilton, before a divorce pushed me to move to the West End of Glasgow, a place I finally felt at home in, even if I did move three times within the G11/G12 post code!

Now I’m a husband again and a happy father and, as seems to be the story arc of such things, I’ve just finished moving back to Dumbarton, which is both my and Becca’s hometown.

In the lead up to the move I was feeling decidedly odd about it, something wasn’t sitting quite right in my (admittedly sleep deprived foggy) brain.

Maybe it was because Becca grew up here too and although we’ve been chatting about our own histories and memories of this town, the age gap between us means we hadn’t crossed paths back then so there isn’t any common ground.

Maybe it was because I spent far too long deriding this town a little too harshly; the vigours of youth giving me a perceived insight to the downfalls of life in a rural town that hindsight tells me was more than a little false.

Or maybe it was because I was always so desperate to leave that coming back feels like some sort of step backwards?

Regardless, it was back to Dumbarton for us, a place we both know well and I have to admit that, putting aside all those remnants from my childhood, I find I’m looking forward to (re)discovering this place with my son. As it turns out, I find I do have more than a few fond memories of Dumbarton.

As we settle into this next chapter of our life here, I am wondering why I was so desperate to leave in the first place.

Dumbarton is, on the face of it, a fairly average town. It’s stereotypical in every sense, a dying high street, retail parks with all the usual fast food outlets and supermarkets, and few attractions of note. But it’s wonderfully positioned a short distance from Loch Lomond (the gateway to the Highlands), not far to the big city of Glasgow, it has a lovely park (with a ParkRun), and an added bonus that we are now a 10 min walk from my Mum and a short journey to my sister.

With all that in mind I’m keen to rediscover the town as I’ve not lived here for a couple of decades and I now have an inquisitive boy to show around. That will be the joy of it I think, showing Jack around all the parts of the town I enjoyed when I was a kid, exploring the Overtoun woods, playing at Levengrove Park, walks up the (Lang) Craigs and beyond, the excellent cycle path a few minutes from our door, and more.

Of course it’s hard not to compare Dumbarton to other places I’ve lived.

When I moved to the West End of Glasgow I finally felt “home”. It’s a wonderful place, a delightful mish-mash of cultures thanks to the proximity of the university and the desirable (expensive) location for those with money; Upmarket deli’s compete with basic boozers, charity shops sit alongside boutiques, the range of cuisines is extensive, and the numerous coffee shops buzz with gossip and laughter from groups of parents who’ve just dropped their kids off at school, whilst at the next table a headphone clad student is deep in study.

And my last place of residence – Bothwell – has a lovely village feel whilst still having all the desirable mod cons, was a great gateway to the surrounding area, with a local walk along the Clyde a wonderful hidden joy stumbled across when I was walking Dave one day.

Of course, such comparisons aren’t fair if only for the changes to my own circumstance these past 18 months or so.

With a new outlook on life and new requirements on where I live it became very easy to move back here. It wasn’t such a bad place to grow up after all, and Becca and I turned out ok so there is every chance it will be the same for Jack.

I always enjoyed the accessibility of the great outdoors – 30 mins one way – and the ‘big city’ – 30 mins the other – and it’s got everything you really need (although I’d kill for a good sushi place locally!), and after that the re-discovery of it is a little bit of an, admittedly nostalgia tinged, adventure!

There’s the pub I used to drink in (long since shuttered and dormant) and, across the road, that’s where the other one was (now knocked down and a foot path to a new housing association development. That’s where Woolworths was, and that big boat engine used to be in the town centre… and on and on and on.

So it turns out that those unsettling feelings that had crept into my brain weren’t driven by negativity towards this place, nor were they dredged up from my past rather, it seems, it is the familiarity and sameness that has caught me off-guard. Whilst there are a few new establishments here and there (although most have gone the way of most small local businesses recently) it still all feels the same as it ever was.

Given that one of my constant joys of having moved around so much was getting to know my local area, exploring the lanes, the local businesses, and learning how to fit in to the feel of the place, is it any wonder moving to some place I know so well was me a little off-kilter?

But I realise that perhaps it’s better this way, returning to some place familiar. I don’t need to explore it, it holds no surprises for me. Instead I can embrace the familiarity and use it to my advantage and perhaps I can start to see this town anew as I explore it all over again, through the eyes of my beautiful boy.

bookmark_borderThe Disappearing Dad

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And here we are, half past three in the morning.

I’m the only one awake, in my lap my son is gently snoring, my wife is asleep in our bed, the dogs are asleep on the sofa downstairs. The dark is punctured by a night light, the stillness outside broken occasionally by a car, it feels like the world has retreated, stepped away from this place where I sit alone.

There is nothing wrong with being alone, or feeling alone. In fact I quite like time to myself alone and always have. My sister was born about 7 and half years after me so until she showed up I was an only child, content with my solitude. Then everything changed. Babies have a habit of doing that.

When my niece Lucy was born she was, to me, an amazing tiny bundle of wonder. The first few times I held her I remember instantly feeling very protective towards her, she seemed so small and vulnerable in my big arms. It was the same when her sister Daisy was born; holding these tiny little people made me realise the responsibility of being an adult in their world.

Of course they weren’t my kids so whilst I love them and dote on them when I can, I was always aware that the responsibility I felt towards them was relatively small. While they will always be important to me, their arrival didn’t impact my busy life; with so many places to visit, bands to watch, new foods to try, friends to catch up with, cycling routes to plan, and events to attend that visiting my nieces just slotted into my schedule as and when it could.

I’ve always been a planner, always had a schedule of sorts in my head (or in my calendar because my memory is shockingly bad). It’s safe to say I’m the type of person who likes to be busy, scratch that, I like to be focussed. That can be on any manner of things, a new hobby, watching a movie, or reading a book, but I’m not one to sit too long whiling away the hours doing nothing much so my free time was usually planned out to some extent, even if I did have to include planning days ‘off’ to make sure I found the time to do nothing (harder than it sounds!). The joys of perfectionism and all that.

Then I met Becca and my busy life was suddenly even richer; long wanders together, hills to climb, my love for the great outdoors was fed like never before and as we spent more and more time together my heart grew and grew. We talked often about our hopes and dreams for the future, honestly and openly, including having kids together. Life was good and with our future together agreed, we both knew it was soon going to get even better.

And so it did when along came our beautiful boy, our son Jack.

Having a child is, rightly, life changing. It’s the single biggest commitment I’ve ever had and I can still remember the whirlwind of thoughts and worries that raced through my brain in the weeks leading up to his birth. We’d (skim) read some of the books, taken both an ante-natal class and a hypno-birthing one, so the birth itself was pretty well covered and we had a fair idea of what to expect in the first few weeks once we brought him home but, after that, it all started to be a little vague.

The sense of responsibility for a newborn feels huge, almost overwhelming. How do you figure out if the baby is hungry, or tired, or sore, or… or… or…. the old joke of there being no manual for having a kid holds true and the fact that so much of parenthood turns out to be guess work is, frankly, a little scary. We were lucky that Jack took to breastfeeding straight away, and adjusted our home routines to make sure Mum was always available for a very hungry boy, and (touch wood) he’s been a very calm and settled boy from the off.

Of course there were challenges to get through but it was all manageable, even with the stresses and worries that came along for the ride. Most of these we half-expected from chatting to the various parents we knew – I cannot emphasis the benefits we got from the NCT Ante-natal classes, not just what we learned but having a group of new parents to lean on was a huge bonus – however if you fall into the ‘over protective’ category of parenting, which I do, you may be more prone to worrying about things that might happen and spend a little too much energy trying to plan against those things and, well, let’s just say that I found the first few months of being a parent a little stressful. It feels like I spent most of that time veering between utter joy and delight, and something akin to crippling fear and despair.

With those thoughts in mind, as I recently finished reading The World According to Garp, I found a lot of the thoughts and worries played out in the novel seemed to reflect my own. The outlandish freak accidents that COULD befall my son might as well have had me chasing down speeding cars in our neighbourhood a la Garp. For those who haven’t read the book it is partly “about a man who is so fearful of bad things happening to his loved ones that he creates an atmosphere of such tension that bad things are almost certain to occur.”.

I don’t think I’m that tense nor as overbearingly protective, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there is always that low level fear in my mind. I joke about wrapping Jack up in cotton wool to make sure he comes to no harm but the truth is if there was some way to guarantee he’d never get hurt I’d take it in a heartbeat., Oh yes, it’s quite a transition from spending your every day not thinking about things that could hurt or maim a child, to spending every second with your son as he charges around the living room keeping half an eye on the corner of the coffee table, or the hard edge of the marble hearth that looks ripe to inflict damage on my precious boy as he stumbles face first on to it.

The nurse handed Jack to me the minute he was born, all wrapped up in a towel that he was already chomping on and I immediately, if slowly, started to dissolve. Looking down at my son, I was at once deliriously happy that he and Becca were safe, full of wonder that he was in my arms, and terrified that I wouldn’t be a good Dad, or be able to protect him from EVERYTHING BAD THING IN THE WORLD EVER. A perfectly rational response, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Of course there is more to looking after a child, and we very quickly realised that finding a routine is everything. My usually week day goes something like this: Wake up, get Jack out of bed, have breakfast, take some time to sit and play before I have to go to work (upstairs). Depending on my day I might have an hour or so free time in the afternoon but mostly I won’t see him until I finish working, then it’s play, dinner, play, bath time, and in bed by 7:30pm. I’ve been the one putting him to bed each night and I cherish that time, sitting quietly with my boy in my arms as he drifts off to sleep.

It seems like a long time ago that going to bed around 11pm was the norm, most nights I’m lucky to make it to 10pm, but I love every minute, but between making sure the routine is kept as well as we can, and making sure Jack is clean, and fed, and stimulated, and safe, it very quickly (and rightly) becomes an all consuming job.

And so, without even realising, life as you used to know it has receded. Your world has shrunk.

You’ve started to disappear.

Disappearing isn’t something you do with a mighty gesture, as tempting as that might be sometimes. Instead it seems to be a slow process with little changes here and there, decisions made with a different mindset than you’ve had in the past, and all with an eye through this new view you have of the world. At some point, months later, you look around and realise you are somewhere entirely new, and you are not the same person you once were.

And it’s wonderful, simply because you have a tiny bundle of smiles and energy that lights up your heart each and every single day (even when he’s having a meltdown because you won’t let him eat his own shoe).

It’s not always easy though and perhaps it’s through the hardest times, the darkest hours of the night, that the disappearing takes it’s true form. It’s just you and your poorly child who wants nothing more than to be in your arms all night, and so you settle in to the chair holding his tiny squirming body and hope that you manage to at least nap. Or the nights when he just won’t sleep and both parents are frazzled and nothing seems to help.

Those times make disappearing from your life to solely focus on the thing that needs you the most the easiest and most obvious decision in the world. It’s what you should do, it’s what is needed, it’s what is right. The rest of the world, the rest of your life can wait a while.

But it does mean that, at times, I’ve caught myself feeling irritated that things aren’t as easy as they used to be and, for someone who can be grumpy at best when he’s sleep deprived, I’ll admit there were times I questioned a lot of things. Being the only person lying awake in the dark, unable to sleep, is an oddly lonely feeling and makes you realise just how far you have retreated from your life, how transparent you have become in your disappearance.

I do wonder how much my feelings of isolation were impacted by the fact I work from home these days, my interactions with others limited to a few moments before and after meetings, and there are some days I don’t even make it outside. Add that to the gigs missed, catchups postponed, my bicycle gathering dust in the shed… it’s no wonder there have been some dark days.

Ohh but you can’t say any of this, no no, you are a new parent and everything must be ‘wonderful’ with this beautiful ‘gift’ you have been given! You can’t talk about it being hard, or depressing, especially as you are just the Dad, it’s Mum who’s done all the hard work!!

And with those thoughts permeating social media, and society at large, it feels harder still to put a voice to the many worries there are to contend with, each day bringing something new to consider to make sure we are doing the very best we can for our son, and I admit I struggled in the early days whenever something didn’t go right, or I made a mistake, the magnifying glass of parenthood meaning I regularly had thoughts of failing our son, failing at fatherhood.

Some days were a struggle, but I am proud that I always showed up and did my best and I know, deep down, that I’m a good Dad and, no matter what, I will be there for Jack and Becca whenever and however they need me. They are my focus, they come first. I’m lucky that throughout all of this I’ve had such a strong, supportive partner, who had helped guide me when I faltered, and is relentless in her desire to make all our lives better and happier. Seriously, the woman is a powerhouse of amazing positivity who has been such a rock for our little family, and I have no doubt Jack is the bright eyed, curious, vibrant and cheeky little boy because of her efforts to nourish his body, heart, brain and soul.

In the darker moments I used to catch myself looking at my life through the lens of the past and wonder when I’ll get back to that busy, easy life I enjoyed. Yet more and more I’ve come to look at the slow dissolution of what I value spending my time doing with a gentle smile. As the changes to my life made themselves apparent I realised that I didn’t miss the things I used to do, at least not as much as I thought I would. Instead they’ve been replaced with new sources of joy, getting a kiss from my son, the way he laughs when I say ‘silly Dad’ and most recently when he points at me and says ‘Dada’.

In an instant my heart is full of joy and whilst I’m not really sure what the rest of the world is up to, I’m confident it is still out there waiting for me, as and when I decide to return to it.

I still can’t really figure out if it was me who disappeared or if the rest of the world that quietly retreated; either way it feels like it was a necessity, a way of creating space to figure out how to live as a father, to reevaluate how to best care for my wife and son. It’s taken almost 18 months but I think we are in a good place, Jack is flourishing, growing, learning, and I feel happy that I am doing the best I can for him.

I am content. I am a good Dad.

And with that I am starting to lift my head and look around again, trying to figure out how to reappear into life. I know it won’t be the same life I had, how could it, but it I know however it turns out I’ll have new perspectives and a different focus. Yes, I think it’s time to look forward, time to add myself to the list of people I care about, and figure out what my new life could look like, as a father, as a husband, a new(ish) me.

I can’t wait.

And yes, I’ve touched on some of this already…

bookmark_borderRabbie

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For many years my Dad performed at Burns Suppers; singing, reciting poems, or delivering various parts of the usual speeches, including the ‘infamous’ Toast to the Lassies. Latterly he became involved with Dumbarton Burns Club holding various positions on the committee, and whenever Burns Night rolls around my thoughts immediately roll back to memories of my Dad rehearsing a song, or writing a poem or speech for the occasion.

Some years he’d attend 6 or 7 different Burns Suppers, with many local clubs keen to harness his talents and as a ‘well kent face’ he was never short of offers. Just as well he liked haggis…

Since his passing, I’ve always paused for a few moments on this day each year and let the memories wash over me. In Scotland, Burns Night is a tradition that we were taught about in primary school, learning some of the songs and poems (with Cutty Sark being the most famous given that the ship of the same name was built in my hometown of Dumbarton). Memories of Braehead Primary music room, Burns competitions, and later as an adult attending my first Burns Supper and realising just how rich a seam of culture and tradition I had grown up in.

It’s no coincidence then that I included a verse from a Burns poem in my Dad’s eulogy, and I find myself reaching for this poem each year, hearing his rich voice and practiced cadence delivering the lines.

To a Mouse

by Robert Burns

On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss ’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

bookmark_borderGood advice

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Stop trying to define yourself with negative labels

“Labeling yourself is not only self-defeating, it is irrational. Your self cannot be equated with any one thing you do. Your life is a complex and ever-changing flow of thoughts, emotions, and actions. To put it another way, you are more like a river than a statue.”

Don’t get hooked on praise

“The price you pay for your addiction to praise will be an extreme vulnerability to the opinions of others. Like any addict, you will find you must continue to feed your habit with approval in order to avoid withdrawal pangs. The moment someone who is important to you expresses disapproval, you will crash painfully, just like the junkie who can no longer get his “stuff.” Others will be able to use this vulnerability to manipulate you. You will have to give in to their demands more often than you want to because you fear they might reject or look down on you. You set yourself up for emotional blackmail.”

Hat tip to the Book Freak newsletter for throwing this at my inbox.

bookmark_borderBye bye 2022

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Another year draws to a close, a very different year for me as it was the first full year with my son.

Looking around the internet, blogs are full of recaps and ‘best of’ lists all of which only go to re-enforce how much of a (good) impact Jack has had on my life. Working at home has helped hugely, but spending time with my son means I’ve eschewed watching movies, reading the latest ‘must read’ book, and TV has largely been an episode or two of something easy to watch after he’s gone to bed. I haven’t managed to do much exercise this past year, my bike is sorely neglected, but I’ve signed up for Etape Caledonia for next year (and coaxed a friend to do the same) to give me something to focus on.

It sounds like I’ve missed out but the truth is I wouldn’t have had it any other way. All of the cliches say to enjoy these times as our baby boy becomes a cheeky toddler, so I’ve been doing just that. Spending as much time with my son as I can, playing with him, caring for him, and just watching him develop and grow. He started walking a couple of weeks ago just to add to the fun!

From the outside, and definitely from a social media point of view, it may look like I’ve had a very insular and quiet year, and whilst my media consumption has gone down, I’ve still managed to read 15 books (mostly thrillers for ease), watched some new TV shows mostly on AppleTV as the quality of production seems better than most others – Trying, Slow Horses (which prompted reading all the books), For All Mankind, Black Bird, Foundation, Amazing Stories, Mythic Quest, Watch the Sound, Andor, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Book of Boba Fett – but no movies other than rewatches. My Strava account has been very quiet too.

Things will be a little different in 2023, but I’m not expecting it to all that much of a change. We will move home (again), adjust to life back in our hometown, and continue to watch and guide our beautiful boy through life as best we can.

No resolutions, no goals, just life.

I can’t wait.