Distances

Distances

From sitting to running

No stretching

Aching of cold muscles

Achilles tendon straining

But I will make it

Feeling every part of my body

My mouth dry,

Body sweaty

And a long drawn out recovery

Muscles have memories too

Can recall some part of them

Each run

Each missed ball

Or driving run at Kenwood

The upward slope from school

Each run in each tendon placed

But one run

Dominates them all

Two or three hundred meters

Flat conditions

Sand, shells, water

Wind behind

Sun in front

Towards cabbage creek

From the end of five bridges

One moment head and torso

Were in view

The next he was below

Running thoughtless only looking

Unaware I had began

Before I was splashing

Through shallows

Towards him

The girl, the thin, older, one,

Had his head up

His face towards me

Carried him across the sand

Not out of breath

No pain

Our two wet bodies as one.

The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games.

Other people’s babies as poems

Some of these pieces were written originally as poems but have been reworked as prose. Here are the two original poems that the prose piece, other people’s babies is based on.

First Words

Years later

DADDA

MAMMA

Is debated.

Elevated to the choice.

Who did she love more?

Who did she want more?

But in fact

Her first word

Was “Fruits”.

This leaves us all looking at the floor.

First Step

Legs push

Face red

Struggles alone

Every part of him

Except one hand

Strains forward

That hand

Holds up his nappy

He.                   Will.                 Walk.

He.                   Might.              Talk.

One day.

It depends.

But, today:

He.                   Will.                 Walk.

“All by myself”

The PM’s face maps the strain

The nurse makes it ok, then yawns

The marine grunts, charges, falls

The bus driver warms us with her smile

The surgeon’s knife falls

The teacher tries to inspire

The baker sweats out his loaves

The mechanic fixes my tyre

My stress.        Work.     Calls.  Emails.  Funding.

And then I think of him

Just one step

“All by myself”.

Now that’s a hard day’s work.

Other People’s Babies

It is not really the case that everyone else’s babies look the same. It is the case, though, that whenever I see a baby, now that my two are in double figures, I first of all see my two as babies like the child’s face over the sun in the Teletubbies. Then I see the actual baby on display and it is always of course a disappointment that it is not one of mine. Of the many surprises that fatherhood brought, none was as overwhelming as the pride, amazement and admiration I felt for my two when they did things for the first time. It is often said that the harsh reality is that all of these moments are most intense with the first born but in my experience it is a myth that the same feelings do not return with number two. The feelings are just the same. The surprise alone is dulled by repetition. In the case of my daughter, the youngest, her first words seemed especially miraculous. Did she say dada first? Did she say mamma first? The question debated and subconsciously elevated to a choice. Who did she love more? Who did she want more? But in fact, her first word was “Fruits”. And when she reminds me of this it leaves me looking at the floor. For my son, the eldest, the first memory is of his first steps. His little legs pushing out from his nappied waist, until, his face red, he manages a step forward. Every part of him, except one hand, strains forward. That hand, holds up his nappy. He. Will. Walk. He. Might. Talk. One day. But, today: He. Will. Walk. As would later often say: “All by myself”. Every child makes their first move and every child makes their first sound and for every parent there is nothing to compare. Objectively speaking, no babies ever did either of things as impressively as my kids did.

Women, Windows, Mirrors, Diaries

Women, Windows, Mirrors, Diaries.

Harbinger of Autumn

Harbinger of Autumn

 

Sky hangs low

A drizzled, damp time

One more swim

Stroll along the quay

Buckets and spades

Soon to be put away

An end of season day

We like to look in

The chandlers shop

Close to the pavement

The SUVs fast

From fish and chips in wells

Small bones

Crushed as he grabbed for comic

Hand not correctly grasped

I wake

intermediate night

my ear against his door

his breathing

I don’t know how to talk to him

I snatched him up

Pushed him hard against

The white washed wall

The car swerved

He cried.

Lived to be more than four

Remembrance of babyhood passed

On Wednesdays I collect my kids for my half of the week. Walking through the mid afternoon bustle of the Moorgate area of London I have a Proustian moment: the perfect recall of the past sparked by the unique aroma of SMA milk vomit on a muslin cloth dropped in the road and stuck to the bottom of my shoe. That smell, and the layers of sterilisation steam and nappy cream that surround it, will forever mean for me my thirties – the baby decade.  Children are like time bombs into the lives around them. We wait and wait for them to be born and then suddenly we are overcome by their presence. Later we will be devastated by their absence. Like bombs they shatter our way of life and we feel their consequences immediately but understand them only much later. Their tears are like flames from bombs, we wipe and wipe away: never sure what will work to damp them down. Their shrapnel cheeks we squeeze and stroke and remember. Their explosions we clean up and as their tears stop, their cheeks flatten and they learn how to control their explosions, so we try to learn how to let them go. Some people never get over the experience of war, not because it was the worst of times, but because it was the best. I will never recover from the baby decade, sometimes in those baby years, I forgot myself; I forgot their mother and I lived only for that sense of self my babies gave me. But children are not abstract things to be consumed for therapy. They are not leitmotifs, pieces of designer fabric. A child is not an adjunct to give meaning to my life; nor can a baby be accommodated to your life. She is not an accessory or a solution. A baby is a time bomb in the lives of those around them. When mine went off, I finally understood the meaning of words I had often used before: nothing will ever be the same again.

Second hand uniform sale

Monday morning, 7.30am. The class rep – alpha mother, blond hair woven tightly into a bun, skirt a little too short, her gin overwhelming the tonic – sends another email round. Subject line: second hand uniform sale, this Wednesday. Oh God, it’s in my half of the week.  We need new school shirts because some had got so small we used them for dressing up the larger members of the teddy collection. But I feel a dread that will now hang over my childless Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday until I arrive early for Wednesday pickup. My fear has different parts. I am simply scared of another task. The dual custody single parent life is ruled by to-do lists and there is a constant worry that my head will actually explode if anything else is added. I am scared of anything involving money. Maybe next month there will be more left on the overdraft – but right now how can I pay for more bloody uniform? Mostly though, I am scared of the second hand uniform sale as a social experience.

Non-working mothers hunt in packs. They live by linguistic rules of natural selection. They smell fear in men. The alpha mothers, the mums of older girls and the mums of girls going or gone to senior school preside over the food chain – or rather stand behind the trestle table. It will be like the first time. “You drew the short straw did you” “What?” “Day off is it?” “What?” I genuinely did not understand. Early in divorce you tend to assume the whole world knows the shared custody arrangements are half and half. Later you realise it is not actually written across your forehead. “Oh, well actually….” But they are gone because you are only a man after all. You cannot have any useful information about senior schools. You are not the real competition. The single Dad is quickly invisible in the world of mums. So when the second email of Monday morning goes around, at 7.36am, it reads: “All mums welcome to coffee on Friday”.

Later in the corridor after school a hand touches my arm. It is alpha mum. “I am sorry about that email. I didn’t think, do please come and always assume you are one of us”. Overwhelmed by gratitude I mumble thanks. Most men make a choice to absent themselves from parenting. I wonder if any would step if there was an opening in the ranks of the alpha mums. Perhaps none. Or perhaps fear of uniform sales and not being invited to coffee mornings is making me paranoid.

Our daughters …

Our daughters

Strolling along the beach bank

My two daughters

Play their silent game

Walking arm in arm

The older suddenly younger

The younger, later born

They embrace, giggle

Strike up a chorus of the cow song

Giggle more

They were not born like this

Step sisters

Thrown by life

Into each other

Like the marshlands

Formed by our choices

Their lives

Like these wetlands

Dependent

This happiness may drown

If we get it wrong:

The fear of flooding for family

Created, not born.

The Church of St Peter and St Paul

The church of St Peter and St Paul

Walking in North Norfolk one overcast afternoon, I tramp down a lane with my kids. Varying levels of complaint arise from the children who cannot see the point of walks that do not end in seaside or swings. It was our first visit to Norfolk after the divorce. Using my half of the week and one of my every other weekends we carve out a little half term holiday. Slowly we are becoming a unit of three instead of four. Visiting the same spots begins strangely but we seem to be reclaiming them for our new existence, doing things differently, in different orders, with different sandwich fillings. We come across a new stone wall. The pointing is sharp and the bricks and flint more perfect than the usual line of Norfolk walls. This wall defends what we quickly call the secret graveyard. It is attached to a tower which has lost its church. The graveyard is dense, overgrown, reclaimed by weeds over many decades. Popping out from between the grasses I can see names carved into the stones. I wonder if there is someone somewhere that remembers the names on these stones. Perhaps they were once well kept, when there was a village here; now this church tower is all alone, the homes long gone, dissolved into the landscape’s memory. It is a Saxon round tower, with boarded windows, broken bricks and echoes of old conflicts in smoother surfaces around the windows that the iconoclasts left behind. Years of battle were resolved and witnessed by the stones that are now ruled over by weeds. When the village died I wonder who gave up first: the priest or the publican? The memory of the buried strikes me now like a love lost by slow years of indifference. These unkempt memorials reproach me because I did not try harder to save my marriage. Who gave up first, you or I? A tug on my jacket’s sleeve: “Come on Dad, can we go to the marshes?”. I promise the tower to come back when the kids have grown up and will forgotten our first trip to Norfolk after the divorce.