Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) (20 page)

Not Tom though. No such simple pronouncements for him.

Tom’s first word was ‘Gorp’.

I swear to God…
Gorp
.

One minute nothing and the next
Gorp
.

Everything was Gorp.

I was Gorp. Sophie was Gorp. The house was Gorp. His nose was Gorp. Chickens were Gorp. Bruce Willis was Gorp. Contrails left by jumbo jets thirty thousand feet in the air were
Gorp
.

I began to worry.

I started to entertain the fantasy that Tom was not in fact my son, but was some kind of one man advance party for a massive alien invasion fleet.

Sophie had secretly been impregnated by these fiendish creatures and Tom’s job was to let the whole world know the name of the monster who would become their alien master from beyond the stars.

Gorp
.

Gorp The Mighty. Gorp The Powerful. Gorp The Emperor Of The Universe!

I kept an eye on Tom, waiting for him to start saying things like ‘
Gorp is coming. Bow down and kiss his tentacles’.

This never happened, and Gorp’s influence on my rapidly developing boy slowly slipped away. Gorp would have to invade our planet the old fashioned way, with big spaceships and lasers.

Tom then picked up the regular first few words with great speed. His pronunciation was never normal though. He never said
dadda
. It was always DAD - with a bold and clear tone of voice, which never failed to amuse me. The imperious way it would come out of his mouth made him sound like the Grand King Of Poobah-Land.

He’d also started to mimic sounds he’d hear.

It became a bit of an embarrassment when he picked up the word fuck. He no doubt caught this from me on one of the many occasions I tested his bath water and found it too hot, or tried to put a nappy on with cream all over my fingers.

Tom was like a parrot that sits in the corner of a room, shouting obscenities at anyone who comes into earshot.

There’s nothing quite like the stony silence you get when your parents-in-law come round for a cup of tea and your kid starts swearing at them like a drunk Glaswegian docker.

There they are, sending you to sleep with their deadly dull recounting of their weekend in Eastbourne, when from the crib comes the epithet
fuck
, in a clear and ringing tone.

Repeatedly
.

God knows what they thought I was doing to him. I’m sure they harboured visions of me crouched over his crib every evening, try to get him to repeat as many swear words as I could, possibly using cue cards and illustrations.

Tom walked at thirteen months.

Before that, he’d got around in a very deliberate and robotic crawling motion. With pudgy little hands clasped together, he’d put his elbows forward and pull himself along like a soldier crawling through the long grass, while a heavy fire fight goes on over head.

There’s nothing guaranteed to put the willies up you more than waking from a nap to see your baby crawling inexorably towards you, repeating the word
Gorp
over and over in a low growl.

With walking came the barricading of the house to prevent injury.

My wife erected child proof gates at both ends of the stairs and in the kitchen doorway. They also went up in the doorways to the lounge, dining room and conservatory.

The house started to resemble a Stalag Luft designed for midgets.

I entertained images of lots of little fellas - like that bloke who works R2-D2 - secretly tunnelling under the house in a bid for freedom.

Tom would be leading them of course.

He’d have special instructions from Gorp on how to get out.

I thought these gates were overkill, but wasn't going to argue with Sophie. She became fiercely protective of Tom and would probably have murdered me in my sleep if I made the mistake of letting him bump his head while she wasn’t around.

The gates proved no problem to Tom at all, who could open them easily after a few minutes careful contemplation - and would be delighted to see the look of abject horror on his mother’s face when she caught him halfway up the stairs, teetering between one riser and the next.

Tom may have encountered no problem with the gates, but I bloody did.         

One specific incident ended with me in hospital, a hairline fracture to the left wrist.

I’m not at my best first thing in the morning.

This is doubly true when I’m late for work.

In the first hour after waking my co-ordination isn’t what it could be and nor is my memory.

I forgot all about the child proof gates at the top of the stairs.

I came rushing out of the bathroom at seven thirty in the morning, with toothpaste still around my mouth and my hair stuck up in wild clumps, thinking of the verbal kicking I was going to get for being late.

More immediate concerns, such as solid gates barring my path, were not in my head. The gate at the top of the stairs came as a complete surprise.

I hit the damn thing at full pelt and my body flipped over, like a gymnast performing a clumsy vault on the horse.

My arms went out in front as I shrieked at the top of my lungs.

Gravity did the ugly business of ensuring I hit the stairs as hard as possible.

My left leg got caught on the gate, slowing my speed and descent enough to change my injuries from
absolutely horrific
to just
pretty damn painful, actually
.

When I landed - cracking my wrist - and came to rest, I looked up the stairs with a dazed expression. Sophie, who had been with Tom, came out of his room and looked down at me.

I peered up at her shocked face for a second, before clumsily getting to my feet, supported on legs made of jelly. I told her in a quivering voice that I was alright, but it might be a good idea if I went to the hospital for a bit of a look over.

I was there for three hours – and  had a good excuse for being late for work that day.

I got home that evening to find Sophie had taken down the gate at the top of the stairs and put it across the door to Tom’s room. When I went to give him a kiss goodnight, he favoured me with an expression that seemed to say
‘Yeah, thanks a lot for that. Now I really am a prisoner. You just wait until I see Gorp.’

It saddens me to say that my experience of Tom’s mental and physical development was cut short when Sophie and I divorced. 

While I’m still able to see him, I don’t have the continuity that comes with being in the same house all the time.

I try to look on the bright side and think that for the most part I’m getting the pleasurable highlights, while Sophie has to deal with the tantrums and naughtiness.

But who am I kidding? I’d give anything to be around for those too.

I see enough of my son to make the pain of missing him bearable and I love doing things like taking him to the park - to watch him run around the field chasing invisible friends.

I always appreciate these times and pay special attention, because they’re not as common as I’d like.

That’s partly why I’m able to write this, because whenever I’m with Tom, I soak up the experience and memorise the details. They’re very clear in my mind, so it’s no trouble to put them down on a page.

Kids grow up fast and if you don’t commit all the funny incidents and sweet moments to memory, you’ll find yourself unable to remember how gorgeous and wonderful they were as children - rather than as they are now: seventeen, miserable and hating your guts.

It helps to have a camera on stand by a lot.

Not only will you take lots of pictures of them in their charming infancy to look at in later years, it also gives you something to embarrass them with when they bring their first dates home to meet you when they’re fourteen and only mildly
dislike
your guts.

Whenever I think of my relationship with Tom, I always end up asking myself the same question:

Am I a good father?

It’s the question of a man naturally disposed to neuroticism.

I think I am. I certainly
hope
I am.

Despite the fact I’m not around twenty four-seven, I’d like to think I provide the kind of support a father should give their child.

I never wonder if Sophie is a good mother or not, I know she is.

That makes my dilemma worse…

It’d be far easier to claim that I was a good dad if I didn’t have to compare myself to the high standards Sophie sets.

I spent a huge amount of time until a year or so ago dwelling on this and never reached a satisfactory answer. I’d weigh up the pros and cons ad infinitum, until I ended up confusing myself no end.

The answer I finally arrived at is simplicity itself:

Whether I’m there enough of the time, whether I handle discipline properly, whether I provide a good example or not, I know I love my kid to bits.

As far as I’m concerned, that
does
make me a good father.

Perfect?

Absolutely not.

But I’ll always care, and I’ll always be there for him.

For me, that defines what love for a child should be.

Even when the little bastard is drawing on the sofa.

6.25 pm

46931 Words

Fanfare please!

We’ve reached the twenty four hour mark! Well, we did twenty five minutes ago, but I was too busy writing about Tom to notice.

Who’d have thought it, eh?

That I’d be able to sustain this project for an entire twenty four hours without rest?

Excellent!

I had my doubts. I bet you did to.

It was touch and go there for a while - back in the cold, dark watches of the night. And you’ll notice from the time checks that I’ve slowed down in terms of productivity per hour.

But I’m still going. Just like that bunny in the battery advert from a few years ago.

Part of that is down to you, my friend.

Without having you sat there, prompting me to greater heights of creativity, I imagine I’d have quit after three hours and gone to watch some porn or the Saturday night movie.

I’d have probably sat through Armageddon in a grumpy mood, knowing that I hadn’t stayed the distance, and would have gone to bed in a huff, cursing my lack of will-power.

But instead, here I am - all down to you, my muse and confidant.

Thank you.

Let’s examine my general state of well being, then:

Hmmm. Peckish.

Not just peckish actually, but
starving
.

I shall now nip quickly to the kitchen to rustle up some grub.

Anything you fancy? Or should I just grab as much as I can from the cupboard?

…yeah, I thought you’d prefer that.

I know you’ve got a thing for cookies, so I’ll take a look and see if there are any.

…

Nope, no cookies. Sorry.

But, we do now have half a barbecue chicken to pick clean and some of that strange ham with slices of egg in the middle.

How do they do that? It’s like putting the egg in scotch eggs - a complete mystery.

There’s some bread and a nice jar of sandwich pickle. The one with small chunks, so the sandwich doesn’t look like the surface of the moon when you’ve finished making it.

There’s a bottle of Diet Coke there as well - with cherry in. I though it would taste disgusting - like the lemon one does - but the geniuses at the Coca-Cola Company have come up trumps on this one. Very tasty indeed.

With our refreshments in front of us, let’s examine the thorny topic of self-analysis.

It’s a pretty good subject to tackle, as we’re all guilty of doing it at one time or another.

I’ve already answered the question of whether I’m a good father to the best of my ability - it’s up to you to decide if I did it well or not - but there are plenty more questions of its type rolling around my head, creating a dreadful racket.

Here’s a few examples:

Am I nice?

Am I attractive?

Am I a good writer?

Am I respected by my peers?

Am I good in bed?

Am I thinking too much?

Answers on a back of a postcard, please.

As you can never really arrive at conclusive answers to these questions - with maybe the exception of the last one - it’s a more valid use of your time to wonder why you ask them in the first place.

It’s back to that human nature thing, isn’t it?

We’re all cursed with questioning our lot in life and how we could make it better: How we could be better looking, better dressed and more sophisticated at cocktail parties - instead of nibbling on a few dry canapés, getting blitzed and spending the entire evening talking to a pot plant.

Darwinian followers will stroke their beards and say its part of survival of the fittest, which drives the engine of human achievement - and they may well be right.

If we’re analysing our faults and trying to do something about fixing them, then we’re trying to lift ourselves above those around us. Trying to reach the top of the tree where all the best bananas are, so to speak.

I’d argue there’s more to it than that, though.

Part of the reason we obsess about ourselves is because the world we live in
makes
us.

Take a good look around next time you step out of the front door. Make a mental list of the amount of times you see something that preys on your self-esteem.

Bet you get to at least fifty in a day.

Here’s the most prevalent example:

Am I attractive?

Well…
are you
?

Looking at advertising hoardings and magazines it would appear you’re
not
, actually - and neither am I.

If we were, there wouldn’t be so many companies trying to sell us products that are meant improve our looks.

There wouldn’t be as many posters featuring beautiful, air-brushed models, mugging away to the camera - convincing us that we just
have
to buy this new shampoo that makes your hair look like silk and feel stronger than steel.