A Tribe Called Dad

“Tribe  / trahyb / n.   viewed historically or developmentally, consists of a social group existing before the development of, or outside of, states.

Many anthropologists use the term to refer to societies organized largely on the basis of kinship, especially corporate descent groups (see clan and lineage).

Some theorists hold that tribes represent a stage in social evolution intermediate between bands and states. Other theorists argue that tribes developed after, and must be understood in terms of their relationship to, states. “

I therefore  suggest, with all the respect available, that the collective noun for dads must be a tribe

This has to be a tribe, what else could you call the collection of confused people all doing the same thing in a billion different ways. 

The condition that is Dad certainly exists outside any State and undoubtedly there is kinship, along with compassion, advice, support, reprimands, hints, tips and dinking buddies.

However we are a secret society, a hidden tribe, still be to discovered but loving in plain site.  As I have said before and will say again the condition of being Dad is great, mostly misunderstood and with only limited recognition in the child rearing arena.

Much is focused on Mum and the “new” have it all modern mum but the new dad is have less.  I have no interest in spending any Saturdays watching football, every Friday in the pub with my mates or working the 7 day a week late into the night shift.  I do not enjoy getting home to find the kids are already I bed and asleep.  I enjoy my daily fix of hugs, kisses and requests for chocolate at six in the morning.  The warm bodies that crawl into my side of the bed most mornings and wrap themselves around me are the very essence of love.  The morning negotiation that down shifts the breakfast request from Nuttella on crumpets to porridge is the best mental gymnastics anybody could need to get the synapses firing at 6.30.

Negotiating with a six year old is an act, often made the more challenging by the hand grenades tossed in my the four year sister.  No need for mind gym on the DS, although it would be cheaper. 

Developing a strategy to get uniform on, including socks, makes the senior management strategy meeting to look at contract extension look like a walk I the park.

Accurate identification of fellow tribe members is simple.  Look for the tied bloke displaying bi polar symptoms flitting from very happy to very cross to very busy and he will be a MAD.  I am always tied, always, even on holiday I never seam to be able to catch up on any sleep.  My wife appears to be able to switch off, walk away, cat nap, snooze etc.  Is this a girl thing, mum thing or just a “my wife” thing?

Are you tired, if not why not, tell me what I am doing wrong or what are you doing wrong.

I have no idea.

Obama Dadda Blogger

So the great day is here and the nonsense is reaching fever pitch.  I say this as a loyal Democrat, all be it a Hilary supporter, but never the less delighted that our man will be in the Whitehouse in about 4 hours time.  God bless you George because no one else will.  Enjoy your retirement, some suspect it started eight years ago, you will not be missed.

The nonsense I refer to is the “first African American to be President of the USA” .  Ella, my six year old was sitting at the breakfast table this morning watching the BBC broadcast live from Washington and asked why is this President so special.  I explained that he was Americas first Black President and this was something to remember.  She looked confused and asked what I meant by black.  I told her I was referring to the colour of his skin.  “Oh that’s boring, why else is he special”.

 I briefly considered telling her that he was going to closed Guantanamo Bay, reduce the troops I Iraq and that Israel had promised to get all there troops out of Gazza before he swore his oath of allegiance but opted instead for “ if, 10 years ago, you had asked granddad north if a black man would ever  by President of America he would have said I hope so but not completely believed it”.

Her response was “where does Granddad North come from?”

“Guyana”

“Where’s that?”

“The West Indies”

“Where are they?”

“on the other side of the world”

“Near America?”

“Sort of”

“Can Grandad North be President next”

“Why don’t you finish your wheatabix and go and get ready for school”

The nonsense is not to do with his race but  the expectation that he alone can and will change the world.  That’s not a deliverable , he can deliver any one a wide range of things, the spirit of change and the hope of integration (USA & the rest of the world) be at the top of the list.

After the last eight years and the spectre of  Sarah Palin (comedy value aside) it gives me real hope that we now have a leader of the free world who actually knows where the rest of it is.  With Hilary as his Secretary of State we have a first team that can understand the issues and think outside the box, which is where the solutions are.

As a Brit watching the dog and pony show that is a Presidential inauguration I am amazed.   Prizes must be awarded for all involved, on the stage and in the audience, for braving the weather.  I understand do not understand why it has to be outside in January.  Other prizes must go to the First Fidgets for sitting through what for a couple of kids must be hell.  I have no idea what life as a First Kid is like, nice in many ways but their Dad is far from a MAD and having your formative years in the Whitehouse has got to be a brain twister.

The parade was  highlight for me.  We swear in the leader of the free world, top dog on the world stage and then make him watch, amongst many strange drive bys, the Lawn Rangers, a group of  marchers pushing and dancing with lawn mowers.  Wow.

A final word on the atmosphere in DC might need to go the Jonathan Freedland of The Guardian, yesterday wrote in his article that;

“Washington DC, usually a city of strait-laced, sober-suited types has acquired the atmosphere of a child's bedroom in the first hours of Christmas morning”.

Thanks Santa, Hope is back on the world stage and I am glad to be a farter of daughters and feel that their life might very well be better than mine.

A child, he was just a child.

I received these photos in an e-mail on Wednesday morning whilst hot desking at one of our offices in Pembrokeshire.  The view out of the window was leafy and tranquil, odd as the office is in the middle of an Army training facility.  This made the brutality in the email even more apparent.  My first reaction was the scroll through the images and feel appalled at the brutality of the Sharia justice system.  It was one of those fast scrolls with the scroll wheel on the mouse, a bit jumpy as it was an oldish mouse and not the one I was not used too.  That slightly sticky mouse has resulted in 2 nights of poor sleep and bad breams.

I was in Pembrokeshire to carry out an internal process review (yawn, yes an audit).  Not my favourite task but one that has too be done and it falls to me to do them for my bit of the business.  I had low expectations of the West Wales team as I had had staff in the region for the previous week trying to help the team there get ready for our visit.  So the day was staring at a low ebb and not that keen to get stuck into what was probably going to be a difficult day, I showed the e-mail to one of my colleagues, also a dad of too young kids (not a MAD but getting close).  His reaction was the same as mine, “that’s barbaric” and he went off to find some files to pick over.  It was on the second viewing that I noticed the young boys eyes, the scroll wheel stuck even more and the images on the monitor didn’t fly by they crawled by and the face of this child looked out at me.

I do not even want to go back to review the pictures but the quiet calm, almost relaxed look on the boys face in picture one makes me feel almost sick as I know what is coming.  The comments on the e-mail just make me feel helpless.

I know I live a comfortable life, in a wealthy secular society.  I understand that there are a wide variety to cultures, faiths and societies that make up our world.  I know that in our cosy world it is possible to indulge in ideas around the primacy of children.

We are moved by the story of Baby P and the failings of our states safety net.  The needless deaths, distress, disfigurement of adults and children in Gazza, and any one of  a dozen stories of needles pain being inflected on kids and adults alike.  I still recall the day I sat on a train heading for Aberdeen reading a small article in the Ft on the follow up to the then distant Victoria Climbie case and weeping.  Now weeping at the FT is something normally reserved for investment bankers during the credit crunch.  And me crying is becoming a consistent theme in this blog but that’s what being a dad has done to me.

Actually not just me.  I forwarded the e-mail to my wife and she deleted without reading.  When I asked why she said that I had sub titled the e-mail nightmares assured and she had enough trauma in her life without me adding to it.  Neither of us want to sit through either Comic relief or any other telethon as it means we will end up even poorer at the end.  Not a bad thing if our cash helps reduce the suffering of other and I believe it does, but the silent blubbing as we sit on the sofa or in bed feeling absolutely helpless is hard to take.  People talk abut compassion fatigue and I am baffled.  My compassion is not tired, exhausted or even slightly knackered, it’s the feeling of retched inadequacy that is exhausting.

 

Back to this e-mail.  This is not suffering to a child as a result of a natural disaster or just the product of a society that has, through no fault of its own, been forced to focus on the here and now and developed a structure where some life is expendable to allow other life to go on.  I am not suggesting that’s right but it does happen and I can just about hang on to a rational corner of my brain and live with it.  These photographs appear to demonstrate summery justice, as I feel that even a Sharia court would not sentence any one to having there arm run over, with little due process and no opportunity for defence.  No child can adequately defend themselves in a summary situation control by adults.

Time has now passed since I first saw these pictures, there impact has not lessened, if anything it has increased, made the more vivid with thought.  I am not an apologist for criminals of any age, I am not a very good Christian, I have no axe to grind with any faith.  I do however feel that justice has too be fair not barbaric and that any punishment must fit the crime.  Permanent disfigurement and disability from a crush injury almost certainly means that this child will die young and in great pain.  That is not making the world a better place for anyone.

Is there anything I as a middle aged dad, with liberal leanings and a propensity to crying can do to stop this sort of thing happening. Yes write it down an publish it.  So here it is.  Do as you see fit with it.  Agree, disagree, just talk abut it and I may be wrong but deliberate suffering to children, in the name of common law cannot ever to right.

Boden Vs Meursault

I had one of those slightly odd Facebook  friends online chats a few days ago.  You know the ones, the little box in the corner of your screen says that 5 of your friends are online and you click it in a voyeuristic sort if way to see who it is.  In my case 3 of the friends instantly disappear and you are normally left with the usual suspects, the people who have Facebook open on another tab and are actually doing something else so ignore you.

 

In this case it was a newly announced dad to be.  We had heard the great news from a couple of other mates who had either been in for dinner or sent Christmas e-mail with news.  So a quick “congratulations and how are you? Along with a very heart felt “you will make a great Dad” pinged or slithered or wandered through the wires and strands of glass that connected Wiltshire to the Welsh borders and then it was all over with a “I’m due to be in your part if the world next week so we should meet up and have a beer” and a “see you then”.

 

So what other words of wisdom could I have offered in the little box in the corner or in the pub, if we actually do meet.  What would have been helpful advice for me when the first of my two were on the way.  Is it that different being a MAD?  Is it ever possible to be as cool as some of the Dads your mates had when you were growing up, or for that matter the effortlessly relaxed and in tune “Daddies” that wander the streets of my life.

 

Not certain that being cool or effortless is loftiest thing to aim for.  The sagest thing I have been able to think of to say to most of them is “be prepared to start crying at Halfords ads”.  One recent MAD still updates me on a regular basis that he has been into to the aforementioned car parts emporium and has yet to feel any moistening of the eye socket at all.  I must admit to alternating between not believing him, as I do not wish to be alone in my sobbing behind the Haynes Manuals and minor envy as it would be nice to not to have to sit in the dark at the end of the latest Dreamworks cartoon hoping my eyes will dryout.  As yet the girls have not registered that whilst they find Desperaux either totally terrifying or poleaxingly, mesmerising, their Dad just wells up.  It even happened at the end of High School Musical 3!

 

What, if any , words can be offered.  I have started to say that anything “that makes you smile if not laugh out loud every day has to be good”.  That’s glib and almost Christian (oh yes Hopes chosen reading for the new year is the bible, staring with the old testament of course) but true.

There are others who will provide advice the poverty, the sleepless nights the irrational fear of peanuts, the constant reading of ill-informed web sites and the paranoia any programme made by Robert Winston instils in all MADs, normally made worst if they are middle class as well.

 

The joy of agonising about educational attainment, the secret sharing of snooped information about the reading levels of their school friends.  The discussion of “how unhealthy it is to hot house kids”.  The unfathomable delight at finding any item of Boden clothing in a black bag of hand-me-downs. 

All this awaits all new parents, is it any different for us MAD’s?  having never been a young dad I have no idea.  I am sure they have shorter hang over’s, that may be cheaper by unit volume, and their wounds inflicted by small people with limited special awareness heal faster.

What is it about kids that they have no idea how lethal their heads can be when propelled upwards into Daddy’s unsuspecting jaw whilst reading Princess Dora for the 350th time.  Anyway that’s a whole new blog

Snow, school and the most depressing day of the year

First day back after the holidays for most of us.  I was worried that we would all struggle to get out of bed this morning.  M and I have spent much of the last two weeks diligently training the kids to stay in bed until a civilized hour, well at least upstairs on their floor of the house, until its is "properly daylight".  I was convinced that they would be rushing into school, half dress and with their breakfast in their hands and I would the last one into the office.  I even practiced getting up before 10 o'clock yesterday.  

Well all to no avail.  The sound of gymnastics came through the floor above our bed at bang on 6.15 am, this is made all the more surprising by the lateness of bedtime on Sunday night (stories were finished by eight and the last ground floor visit was around 9.15).  We are talking about one four and one six year old girl here not a couple of teenage boys fueled by sugar and hormones.  So first Monday back we were all dressed, fed and ready to go by 7.30.  I was the first in the office, which was warm not the normal ice box and the view out of the window was Wiltshire at its snow covered best.

The only thing to spoil the start to the working 2009 was the Today programs constant discussion of some research that said Monday 5th January 2009 was blue Monday and we would all be silting our wrists over the water cooler.

I cannot say this has been the greatest day of my life but far from the worst and if 2009 doesn't get any worse than today it will turn out to be a great year.