My son is one week old, and I don’t know who he is. Understandably, he’s probably a bit too young to reveal his personality to us. At least I hope he hasn’t – if he has, it would mean that I’ve somehow sired a nightmarish cross between David Koresh, Alan Sugar, Rip Van Winkle and Sauron.
At this stage, I’d identify myself less as a parent and more as a woefully underappreciated employee of Heritage Jnr Industries Incorporated. The boy, plain and simple, is a tyrant. His demands are total and constant, regardless of the time of day. If we’re not feeding him, we’re changing him. If we’re not changing him, we’re wheeling him around our living room in increasingly abstract loops, desperately hoping that he’ll somehow become disoriented enough to stop crying. Even if it’s just for a moment. Even if he stops crying for the tiniest of moments, it’ll be worth it.
One thing we’re not doing much of is sleeping. The conditions of the boy’s birth were so traumatic that our health visitors visibly blanch whenever they see his notes and, because of this, he steadfastly refuses to be apart from us.
We’ve been assured that this will pass. But for now, moses basket soundly rejected, my wife and I are taking two-hour shifts throughout the night; one sleeping while the other cradles him in another room. We’re averaging around three hours a night. As a result, our tiredness has become planet-sized. We’re both too tired to talk, unless barking involuntary responses to auditory hallucinations brought about by prolonged exhaustion counts as talking, which it probably doesn’t.
His first night at home was the worst. To my eternal regret, it sent me into meltdown. The enormity of the situation blasted me between the eyes and, faced with a terrified newborn who wouldn’t stop screaming, I leapt to the stupid conclusion that I was out of my depth. This, this whole thing, was a giant mistake. I wasn’t cut out to be a father, let alone the father of this roaring pink interloper sent to direct his laser-blast of rage at anything dumb enough to wander into his peripheries. I wanted out.
Nothing we tried would stop his tantrums. Only a feed from his mum would quell his ferocity so, whenever trouble reared its head, I had no choice but to hand him over to someone better qualified. Pregnancy had been an exercise in helplessness, but this was so much worse. This was standing next to a nuclear bomb and not knowing how to dismantle it. In that horrible moment, I hated the baby, I hated myself and I hated that I’d have to do this for ever.
But fatherhood, I’m learning, offers a funny kind of love. Without the hormonal surge that mothers endure, you experience a love that sneaks up and ambushes you when you’re not looking. The following morning, exhausted by our all-night hostile stalemate, my baby and I flopped on to the sofa, switched on the radio and braced ourselves for the worst.
And then he smiled.
I mean, obviously he didn’t smile. He was three days old. Realistically it was just wind or tiredness or the face he pulls whenever he craps himself. But, still, it was enough. The sight of his features in that combination, not sleep or fury, was enough to burst my heart. It was enough to remind me that he was my son, and not just a frustrating series of zero-sum firefights. That smile was enough to get me through the next night, and the next, and the next, and the next.
