These signs on the back bumpers of cars have always irritated me. Why should we be extra careful because we know there is a baby in a car? Are babies’ lives worth more than adults’? Logically they should mean less, as there literally is less. There is less body, less brain, less consciousness, less self-awareness, less personality, less knowledge and less hair (usually). The only thing they have more of is potentiality and that is a very slippery subject.

I now find myself in a new situation. If I could drive I wouldn’t hesitate to buy one of these stickers. In fact I’d encase the whole car in egg cartons and foam if I thought it would protect Billy. I’d look a right pillock driving such a vehicle, but don’t all fathers look inherently uncool anyway? Who cares anymore? Not me.

He seems so fragile that almost everything outside the apartment has become intolerably brutal. 10 ton hunks of metal hurtling down the street, rapists and lunatics ready to pounce at every corner, deadly viruses exhaled from the mouths of passers by and of course the nasty weather. I am so scared he’ll get pneumonia or frostbite I check his stroller every 5 minutes to see if a limb is protruding from his 15 layers of clothing and 5 blankets.

He had 2 red blotches on his neck and one on his leg this morning so I was worried today. He had a temperature when I got home and was acting strange, so I am worried now. It never ends.

Here is a video of him being a froggy this morning.

Click the TV for video. Quicktime 7 required.

This afternoon I was entertaining Billy by swatting the cord that dangles from the light fitting in our bedroom. The swinging motion utterly enthralled him; he kicked his legs squeaking with joy every time I did it.

Seeing any unusual occurrence in his immediate environment seems to delight him no end. Childhood is a bit like a prison. You go from being physically unable to effect your environment to being given strictures about everything you’d like to do by your parents. Wherever you are for most of your early childhood you aren’t there by volition you are there because your parents have put you there. Whether it’s in the back seat of a car, led in your cot, strapped into a high chair, or supine on an itchy rug.

It got me thinking about the little things I used to focus on to help the time pass when I was a kid. The most redolent memory I have is of following the tracks of raindrops as they snaked down the window of our car. I can still see them merging with their fellows as they fell, gathering speed toward the bottom and disappearing out of sight. I’d then pick a new one, usually a wee fleck of a drop, the underdog of the window, so a successful descent would be all the more rewarding.

I can also remember staring at patterns on wallpaper and carpets. I’d let my mind drift until a face or an animal made an appearance. Sometimes I’d get an image of a perfectly expressive face with perhaps a beard and a scowl. Then it would melt away in front of my eyes. I never saw the same face two days running and this always troubled me.

I liked to hold a finger so close to my face I could see through it, or poke said finger into my ear and taste the acrid wax.

I’d ruffle the sheets in my bed so they formed a rich moonscape. I’d then look at it side-on and imagine I was much smaller and could explore the ground I’d just terraformed.

I used to pick at the edge of the carpets to see if I could squeeze my fingers underneath; always wary of the nails that could prick me if I wasn’t careful.

I think I must have spent 2 full years of my life staring at the crack of light that filtered in through my bedroom door. This was pure torture. Listening to the rumblings of activity and seeing the flicker in the crack as my parents passed. Please come in! Please end the monotony!

I can only apologize in advance to young Billy for the hours of tedium we’re about to put him through. The only comfort I can offer is that it did me no harm, and it sure made me appreciate my freedom when I grew up.

At Home

In the Street

A Mate’s House

Down the Boozer

And on the Box

Click for video (Quicktime 7 required)

Shirt courtesy of R. Shepherd.
Trousers courtesy of F. McGarry.
Thermals courtesy of J. Hoe.

I sometimes think it’s a crying shame that I couldn’t have just cloned myself when it came to having a son. God only knows what kind of whacky DNA Heidi (the missus) has thrown into the mix. She’s from about 10 countries; it’s such a mental mix the poor thing’ll probably think he’s an ostrich when he grows up. Stick with what you know, that’s what I say, and he would’ve been much better off with 100% Simon Weaver genes. Most of my ancestors come from the same muddy field in Rochdale and we are better off for it.

Think of the advice I could’ve given him.

I could have told him: “never kick a football,” as the whole enterprise would be doomed to failure from the off. “And the game is bloody stupid anyway,” I would’ve said, “what kind of cretin spends their time kicking balls around a field?” There’d be no smelly boys changing rooms, no humiliating soccer classes, no stupid Panini stickers, no shivering in the cold, and no chatting to numbskull goalkeepers between bouts of fleeing that cold, hard, dirty ball. Not for Simon MK2.

I could have introduced him to his favorite food, curry, when he was 2 instead of having him wait until he went to university at 18.

And think about Simon’s Brain? In 30 years there could’ve been a new infusion of lifeblood into the old thing. I could’ve passed the cap onto him knowing he’s got the right stuff upstairs to keep it ticking over in style. Billy’s Brain? It just doesn’t scan.

I could perhaps have also warned him about the futility of such narcissistic fantasies as wishing he could clone himself.