My wife Penny is going to France to see her brother, leaving our
three-year-old daughter and me to fend for ourselves. Three days, two nights
of father-daughter bonding and I'm feeling apprehensive. Obviously, I don't
reveal this. Instead, I am full of encouragement: “Yeah, go. We'll be fine.
It'll do you good....”
I'm sure that I'm not the only father to feel a bit nervous about being alone
with the kid/s. There's a lot of time to be filled. There are the battles
over eating and the morning routine, which begins at 7 o'clock. Then, if we
leave the house at all, there's a whole extra level of planning: easy access
to a toilet, a change of clothes and the bribery box (dried fruit and the
odd sweetie - usually reserved for hair-wash day but now, I've decided, also
valid for Daddy-is-on-his-own day).
But there is another level of anxiety in my case as I am in a wheelchair. I
fell from a tree while working as a tree surgeon when my wife was five
months pregnant and since then I have been paralysed from the waist down. I
know, we men...the lengths we go to in order to get out of looking after the
kids. Having decided to give up the tree surgery - not the most difficult
career decision I ever made - I have turned to writing, which means that I
work part-time from home.
While there has always been an edge of nervousness about some aspects of
looking after Rosalie, we have managed to work it out as we go along. From
the first tentative outings with her on my lap, she can now get into the
booster seat in the car unaided, which gives us more freedom - I have a car
with hand controls that enables me to take Rosalie out for trips. Of course
there are ups and downs. Recently, the most notable down was Rosalie running
down a flight of stairs at the Museum of Childhood, and leaving me on the
landing, completely ignoring my best cross voice. A friend talked her into
coming back to me, but it took some time to get my confidence back.
(Thankfully, we live in a single-floor flat.)
Our first trips out on our own took place on Tuesday mornings. We would go to
a playgroup at a local church hall. Through these sessions I met a group of
mothers with children of Rosalie's age. There are three mums with a boy each
and me with a girl. I'm not sure if this is at all significant, or whether
my wheelchair-user status has helped to break down traditional barriers, but
the support that I get is invaluable.
Now it will just be Rosalie and me working things out together. It's a
challenge when your child falls and you have to wait for them to get up and
come to you. “Come around the side. The side, sweetheart.” I can't pick her
up if she's directly in front of me because I can't get the leverage.
Before she leaves, Penny asks me: “Are you sure that you will be OK?”
“Of course.” Of course? More like: “I hope so, because otherwise I will feel
utterly crushed.”
As the solo parenting approaches, I make some preparations. We are dropping
Penny at the airport and, as we have friends in that part of the country, I
arrange to visit them after the drop-off. They have two children, so it
should take care of entertaining Rosalie for a few hours. I also assemble a
large stack of DVDs for when we get home. I even plan a couple of meals.
Around the house things are fairly predictable, although Rosalie always
manages to find a need for objects that are difficult to reach. When we play
together, I try to get out of my wheelchair as much as possible and we have
lots of games on the floor. (I've been known to find myself on the floor
unexpectedly, as a result of her placing toys in one of my blindspots.)
The day arrives and we head off to the airport, all cheerful reassurance and
Charlie and Lola singalongs. But after a smooth drop-off, I get lost in the
meandering B-roads of Essex. By the time an hour has passed, the sun has
disappeared, the CD is on its third play and the cheerful holiday atmosphere
has been replaced with a sense of foreboding. Then come the words I fear
most: “I need a wee.”
We are nowhere near our destination, so I manage to find a place at the side
of the road. I stop the car, assemble my wheelchair, get myself out and undo
Rosalie's belt. As she gets out of the car, she stumbles and falls flat on
her face. An inauspicious start.
Tears stemmed with sympathy, we manage to negotiate the “comfort break” with
no further mishaps and even find our friends' house before mid-afternoon.
The late lunch is spent watching the children play with their food without
actually eating anything, but at least I can take comfort from watching
someone else's child being as uncooperative as my own. The journey home is
uneventful and when dinner goes smoothly, I start to wonder what all the
fuss is about. I fill her bath with far too much bubblebath, guaranteeing an
entertaining, though chaotic, bathtime. If you've never made bubblebeards,
then you're really missing out. We glide through bedtime, and I realise that
I probably know more about parenting routines than many fathers who are in
the office all day.
The next morning Rosalie climbs into bed with me at about 6.30 and promptly
falls asleep, something she never does when her mum is around. However, it
isn't long before she is poking pointy little fingers into my face and
telling me to “Stop snoring”. I heave myself into my wheelchair and we get
up.
As the sun is shining, we hit the playground in the park. This is another
environment that is gradually becoming less stressful as Rosalie gets older
and more confident. Shortly after my accident, and before she was born, I
remember watching a friend pluck his frightened toddler off the top of a
climbing frame and this image became a symbol for me of all the things that
I had lost as a parent-to-be.
But again we are learning together, with Rosalie's risk assessment based on
what she knows I am capable of. There is often another parent in the
playground happy to help, but I usually decline unless it is absolutely
necessary as it is important that Rosalie learns to stay within my
capabilities in case we are alone.
I feel a sense of satisfaction when we manage until mid-afternoon before we
drop by at my parents' house for a couple of hours (not so much cheating as
pragmatism). The day passes relatively stress-free and at bedtime - much to
my delight - I am allowed to carry out all the tasks usually reserved for
Mummy, once I have fielded a question about when she will be back. After
(two) stories, “kiss and a cuddle”, “fresh water from the kitchen”, “leave
the hall light on” and “don't close the door”, Rosalie settles down and I go
to find myself some dinner.
As I do, I think about the day and it feels as if something has changed as a
result of looking after Rosalie from first thing in the morning to last
thing at night. To have her look to me for reassurance, and come to me for
consolation after a fall. And then, when she wakes in the night, and I am
able to settle her again, this feeling grows even stronger. I feel more like
a proper parent.
Rosalie has easily adjusted. And when I think about it, the reason is obvious.
I am her dad. This is unconditional, as is her turning to me for comfort if
her mother isn't around. But to put this into practice has strengthened our
bond and made me feel more confident as a parent. An utterly exhausted
parent who can't wait for his wife to come home....
Things that work
Get on the floor if possible. It makes games easier and often more fun.
If you're in a wheelchair, it sometimes pays to strap yourself in.
A car with side-sliding doors provides more space for getting a child into the
back seat.
Good quality dungarees have lots of useful handles.
Television offers a great emergency distraction if you need time to get things
together.
Things that don't work
Leads and harnesses if you're in a wheelchair. You are likely to spend most of
your time trying to untangle the lead/harness/child from your wheels.
Tricycles with handles on the back.
Games that involve spreading lots of bits and pieces over the floor.
Hide-and-seek can be tricky, but it is possible if you have big cupboards and
if you are prepared to push your wheelchair away. Although this means you
are stuck until you are found.
Looking Up by Tim Rushby-Smith is published by Virgin Books, £7.99
www.timrushby-smith.com
