Seemed like a good moment to share some wisdom.
There are three layers of ephemeral here:
The ripples eventually disappeared, and the surface of this lake at Trent Park went back to being perfectly still.
This book cover only existed as an option, in the end I went with Image & Other Stories, and the picture of a rose. The title of this option was too unwieldy, the colours didn’t work and the font was too fussy.
The story Stillness and Dancing is in part about the transitory nature of childhood dreams. It had a different title until I recalled these lines from Eliot’s East Coker:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing
The extract from the poem features at the beginning of the story.
Other things ephemeral here.
Nothing in the world beats being a dad to daughters; no one loves you like your daughter does. Your mother thinks you could have done a bit better, your wife is all too aware of the faults she puts up with, and your sister may forgive, but won’t forget the years of childhood antagonism. But to your daughter you are a heroic amalgam of Super Man, Bob the Builder and Bagpuss. She will believe you are awesome until you overwhelm her with evidence to the contrary, so you owe it to her to be awesome.
That’s not to say being dad is easy. Daughters have their own super power, which is getting you to do what they want. From the moment you first pick them up wrapped up in a hospital blanket you can give up any pretence of free will. They know from the cradle that you are utterly subservient to their whims, which makes being a parent very tricky. So here are a few tips and tricks I have picked up along the way, trained in the school of two daughters, now ten and eight.
(Before we start I was reminded of how difficult parenting is in this beautiful and brave post about motherhood in adversity which is well worth a read.)
- Don’t make eye contact
Daughters are born with the knowledge of how to make the big eyes at you. It does not work on mum because she did the same thing to her dad. But for you the big eyes are kryptonite. You are helpless before their power, and the only way to protect yourself is to not make eye contact.
Of course it is harder than that. They know your weak times, the fact that you will be distracted while watching the football for example, when they can sneak in under your guard. You need to develop a sense for when mum has said “No!” to something. Soon after that you will hear their footsteps, and then the fateful intonation of “Da–ad…”
Those are all the cues you will get. Do not look away from the football. Do not risk your peripheral vision. Right now she is making the big eyes at you and is about to ask for the thing her mother has just denied her. Turning to face her now is like opening the lead lined box with the glowing green crystals, your dad powers will be lost. Look into those eyes and you will be in a quagmire of submission to daughter and going against the express wishes of your wife. Look at her and you have lost.
If you have made it this far then it is time to go to tip 2.
There are swathes of your daughter’s life you won’t be party to because it’s girl stuff. Everyone is profoundly grateful for that. (My unending respect goes out to those fathers raising daughters on their own. God bless you merry gentlemen.)
The first rule of parenting and the second tip for raising daughters is to present a united front with your wife. So when you hear the “Da–ad…” precursor to a request your answer should be on the tip of your tongue: “Go ask your mother.”
If your opinion is asked on something, which is usually a slippery slope to being trapped by girl logic, then the alternative is: “What did your mother say?”
If your opinion is sought first then the right answer is “Let’s check with your mother.”
You never, ever, say mum is wrong about anything. That way lies complete chaos.
As with many things that involve women, of whatever size and relation to you, the rules are unbalanced. Your wife is free to tell her daughter that you are wrong about all sorts of things, although in fairness this is usually about what they are wearing, and whether it needs to be ironed. TBH objects to me letting the girls dress like Cyndi Lauper. Apparently clothes have to match, hair needs to not only be detangled, but brushed into a style. I’ve given up pretending that I understand.
There are of course some things in which you are the expert: Cruyff turns and the offside rule are two obvious examples. It’s the 21st century, teach your daughter these. For everything else Mum Knows Best.
- Suck it up Buttercup
When you go out they will wear jewellery, frequently plastic and brightly coloured, and sun glasses, and they will want to carry a handbag. You’ll be at a theme park, and they will need to divest themselves of all this gear to go on a ride. Mum’s handbag will be full with useful and unmentionable things. Your pockets will have all the accoutrements of male life – wallet, phone, keys, knuckle dusters etc. At this stage your only option will be to wear the accessories. You may have thought you looked cool and manly, but all that is worth nothing. You will be adorned with bracelets and necklaces, glitter laden sunglasses will hang from your shirt, you will be carrying a woven handbag with a big flower on it. If you want to be dad these are the table stakes.
Easier to bear, but harder to accomplish is the carrying. She will get tired, you will have to lift her. This may last for a considerable amount of her life, and a considerable amount of time each time you have to do it. When it comes to carrying I recommend seating her on your shoulders. Most importantly this means you can go on for longer, as your arms will not get tired. Your arms will also be free to do other manly stuff: paying for things, carrying bags, fighting ninjas and the like.
There is a plus side, you will be her hero, and you will look heroic doing it. I had strangers taking pictures of the younger one sleeping with her chin on my head all through the queue for the cable car at Genting Highlands. You also stack up loads of parenting credit, and can delegate all parenting activity from then til the next day because of all the hard work you put in.
- Don’t be afeared of the fart jokes
Mum will want her to be demure and genteel and a proper little lady, but she is still a kid and kids of any gender love fart and snot jokes. One of my kids’ favourite stories is of a little boy who hides in a tree and gives away his location by farting. So why would you give away a guaranteed laugh from your armoury of keeping the kids amused?
It goes beyond fart jokes, she may not be a boy, but while she is little you can wrestle and roughhouse with her. TBH complains “Be gentle, they’re girls.” But I don’t buy that, tickle fights and tossing them up in the air, and hoisting them over my shoulder are all part of the repertoire.
- Know your “go to” moves
There will be times when she is grumpy, or upset, or sleepy, or not sleepy or any of a dozen different moods. You need a range of techniques to have at your fingertips to lift her out of it. My younger one is a simple creature, you can deal with most things by picking her up and giving her a cuddle, but the elder altogether more complicated animal. Something as simple as waking her up can require two or three different approaches. She loves stories, so telling her a story on the assumption she is listening is a favourite, she wakes into the story and after a while can’t resist asking a question or offering an embellishment. We also have a wake up song, and the rule is that once the wake up song has been sung she has to get up.
The classic conundrum is what to do when you hear the dreaded “I’m bored”. For mine stories are again the key, and now they are a little older I just need to start them off and then they make up the rest of the story on their own. In fact the elder one, inspired by Avatar has made up her own world of the Sky people and Star people and goodness knows what else, and she can be distracted quite easily by asking for the next installment of her own creation.
The point is quite a simple one, you need to know your daughter and develop the tools, so that she learns the response by instinct: when she hears a story she embellishes, when she hears a song she gets out of bed before mum starts scolding.
Of course she will be as strong willed as her mother, and there will be times when you need to separate madame and little madame, and if she is in a state of high dudgeon all the stories and songs and nose kisses in the world may not bring her down. Be prepared to just hold on, sometimes all you’ve got is to pick her up and say “I’m here and I ain’t going anywhere.” Unless of course it is time to pull out “the magic”.
The Magic is the go to move to end them all. I get it Padawan. Sometimes all the “there is no try” or “fear the path to the darkside is” doesn’t cut it. Yoda just has to lift the damn X Wing out of the swamp. When she has morphed into stropolopogous you need to break the cycle of the “little me” narrative in her head, where everyone is against her. She’s in the swamp, get lifting.
The Magic is a trick. Hold your breath. Say “gooble boolie”. Breathe out. That’s it. Tell her it is impossible to do this and not smile, and everytime she does it she will smile. You can replace the phrase with any other nonsense sounds that work in your linguistic / cultural context (and if gooble boolie is a profanity in your patois I refer you to no.3). I have it to the point now when I can just say “Take a deep breath…” and she know what is coming and smile. Or I can pretend to forget the magic words, and we play at trying to remember the right formula. By that stage you are in, there is a chink in the tantrum armour, and you can begin the slow process of de-escalation.
- Make the most of it
There will come a time when carrying them around is no longer possible and telling them silly stories isn’t cool. Be the superhero while you can, and show them what it means to be loved. One day someone will come along looking to take first place in their heart, and if you can’t fill the suitor full of buckshot you can at least make sure your daughter has grown up so surrounded by love that she isn’t dazzled by the first guy to take an interest.
The fact is she will grow up, but as wise old mother’s will tell you:
Your son is your son til he takes a wife, your daughter is your daughter for life.
You can’t give her any guarantees, life ain’t like that, but you can be Jedi Dad. There is no try.
If you are interested in my storytelling look here.
“In many mortal forms I rashly sought
The shadow of that idol of my thought.
And some were fair – but beauty dies away”
from Epipsychidion – Percy Bysshe Shelley
Beauty is momentary and lasts only in memory.
The perfection of form – being handsome/ pretty/ attractive – is a more common thing, lasting and yet more transitory. It is gifted by fate or genetics, sometimes with seeming randomness and abandon. Form can be grafted and crafted; pinched, plucked and tucked to create an image. Easy on the eye but appealing only to the cheaper senses.
Age can wither it, and custom will stale its infinite variety.*
Beauty is not a mundane thing of structures and symmetry. It is an energy, a crackle of lightning that can take any face, however pleasing or misshapen, and in the moment lift it to something instantaneously striking. It is the product of a rare and perfecting set of circumstances in conjunction: a febrile mood in which the mind is receptive to influence; a connection that understands: for a breath, a moment, the subject and object are in perfect harmony; a catchlight in the eye; the reflective properties of skin; the sudden breeze that plays with an errant hair.
It is the piece that for a heartbeat fits seamlessly into the puzzle. It is an ache of loss to realise what is missing.
And then it is gone, all that is left is the recollection and a sense of abiding affinity. The moment is lost but the memory remains. From then to the end of life and time the person retains in your head that stain – indelible, neither age, care or privation can change that sudden shift in perception.
It is the fertile ground in which love can grow.
* A deliberate misquote from Anthony and Cleopatra 2:2
If you are interested in my writing please check out more here
Brooke and I have been together for fourteen years. She has been at my side as youth and vigour have slowly failed us both, and I have nursed her through the ailments that inevitably plague a classy French dame.
After all the years, the dents and the damage, the four times around the earth we have driven together, the overloaded trips to the tip which broke my back and her suspension, she is still willing and eager. Somehow there is no group of people too large, no burden too great for her to carry.
We know the end is nigh, we only travel a few miles together now at the weekends running errands and ferrying the kids. She starts up first time, every time. In deference to the spiders that live in her wing mirrors we don’t drive too fast anymore, but we remember all the speeding tickets.
She’s quite partial to Celine Dion, so for her sake when we are alone together I’ll belt out It’s All Coming Back To Me Now at the top of my lungs and she’ll accompany me with squeaky springs.
As for the name, well what else would you call a Blue Laguna?
You’re at the airport, your flight is delayed for six more hours, and none of your electronic devices is working. How do you pass the time?
Some of us still travel with pen and paper.
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to plumb the handbag dark,
And choose the card that hits the mark
No time to rummage diligent
Despite the queuing time we spent
No time to see, with groceries packed
The line behind grow long and stacked
No time to turn at Anger’s glare
White knuckles on its cash prepared
No time to make its face go red
With our refusal to think ahead
A poor life this if, fill of care
We have no time to stand and stare
With apologies to WH Davies
In response to DP: Game of Groans
A Question of Moments
by Ruswa Fatehpuri
In a life made up of moments
Of which I was but one
What will you remember
When I am dust and gone?
Will the page on which I met you
The page on which we kissed
Be well thumbed and worn
Or passed over and missed?
Will you ever turn to us
And plot the path we took?
Will you smile or will you weep
Or will you never look?
Will you tell your children
Of all that we forsook?
Or will we be forgotten
And torn out of the book?
In response to the turn back time prompt
My Do Over post is also of some relevance
You can find more of Ruswa Fatehpuri here
DP: Mr Sandman – The Terror of the Mirror
Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep”—the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
I am a careful chatelaine. Each door is pulled shut and locked before another opened. I step lightly from moment to moment, each diligently separate, never meeting myself on the way in or out. Masks and costumes hung on the hook inside each door.
If I keep you in a room you do not know me.
Sleep is my enemy. She steals the keys and leaves the doors wide open. The scents of separate lives, cheap coffee, starch, stale cigarettes, Baldessarini blend unbalanced.
Tales told in each domain dance a Viennese waltz, eyes searching behind the masks for lies and truths and hints of what the whole might be.
The friend of my enemy is my enemy. Sleep sets all the small parts free. Somewhere in the puzzle there is me. And so I fear to sleep and sleep in fear. Not falling to the welcome clasp of pillows but captured and manhandled by exhaustion, body fallen at odd angles.
For all my great to success to keep them all apart, in sleep the parts of me can coalesce unchecked and untamed until in that dim corridor, lamps turned low in deference to the hour, I see a shadow solidify, blank face accumulate expression, and I beg the sun to rise before the animation can complete.
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If you are but an eye aligning scales, and I a weight like coin, then who in truth is God? Should I be awed to know you so capable at trade? A deal done for eternity, and salvation so cheaply purchased.
The sun has burned my shoulders. Photon flail. I found you where the salt of dripping blood and sweat crept beneath the peeling skin. My wounds. I welcomed them, easy as standing still, unflinching. You offered something other than the grave, and I gave. But the moment of clarity came when my raw flesh cried. A bargain of burn for burn.
Salt proves you capable of humour; a poison to complete each meal.
Your codicil of curses, taunts and ridicule has left me clothed in garbage, waste and humility. I will leave a trail of stench throughout your garden, beneath the laden boughs and grassy banks, but tears and tresses have washed my broken feet. You need not fear, I will not flinch when laughter chimes in harmonies from hanging harps, nor cry when tremens tips my cups across the sward. I do not begrudge the statements of fidelity, the false trails of timidity, the kiss. I forgive them and I forgive you, and the kiss.
This is the moment of transference, for what is done cannot be undone. Long before you raised me up, excruciate, the pit was dug, and light was just a faint reminder of the sun. But as the sweat of toil, the blood of blisters beaded and intertwined my shovel stopped. How was I to know the imperative of bracing walls? they trembled with the threat of falling in. At last you let me learn the art of climbing, fall by aching fall, until back braced on filth I reached upwards and out. Why did you not warn me that the light burns hot as fire?
Is salvation mercy or just a means of keeping busy?
You salved the cuts and placed the pitiless crown upon my head. Fatted calves poured their throat libations: alizarin, carmethene. I was succoured and symbol. Then you hoisted me aloft, hands nailed to heartswood. Everything comes down to price, and I was always too proud to haggle.
You are no God, and I am not your son. You are a merchant, and we have made a trade. Burning, wounds and salt on one side of the scales. I will foul the sweet air of your sanctuary, but tread lightly on the turf.