Nature Grows the Seed

I need to change Dylan’s nappy and he’s not happy about it. He cries when I put him on his mat so I tickle his chest to make him laugh. When I stop tickling he cries again. Tickle, laugh; no tickle, tears. This goes on for a while. His emotions are shallow like those weeds that sit on the dirt with nearly no root, and I think that maybe this is the role of the parent—to provide the right soil for the good emotions to grow deep. Ah hell.

We have radishes! We have rocket! The first of the seedlings I planted last week are sprouting and I feel an enormous sense of achievement. We also have something growing in the Grow Rack but, since the shelf collapsed, I have no idea what’s what, so it’s a lucky dip. I don’t really care, as long as it’s a lucky dip with leaves and a stem.

Easter was busy—a by-product of all those so-called employed people having time off and making me do things. Thursday night I had a gig, Good Friday was Holly’s Nan’s birthday (with Dylan running laps of the restaurant, already hyper on Easter egg), Saturday we saw Show of Hands in London, Easter Day we had lunch with my mother-in-law (after which I may have reversed into my mum’s car) followed by an afternoon gig, and then on Monday we were supposed to be heading south to see my brother-in-law and his family, although this was cancelled at the last minute. How am I supposed to pursue my goals with so many distractions? I’ll tell you.

Before this started, I was a little wary about spending so much time at home with Holly—I’m sure it’s written somewhere that married couples aren’t supposed to see each other outside weekends, holidays and retirement. The truth is it’s been great. Without her support, I wouldn’t have had time to sort out our insurances and Wills, set up an ISA for the redundancy money, finish ‘Fallen Angels’ (for another short story competition), serve gammon poached in Perry with Nigel Slater’s luxury cauliflower cheese, read various Internal Comms white papers, book a trip to a Festival of Writing, and investigate a couple of local writers' circles for one that suits the needs of a stay-at-home dad. Not bad for a week’s work.

The downside is that Dylan has grown used to having us both at home. Sometimes this is manageable—when I’m working on the computer I split the screen so I can write on one half and Dylan can watch Peppa Pig on the other. But he craves attention, particularly from the busier parent, and we’re seeing a lot more tantrums and telling offs. Last night, he ping-ponged from one end of the house to the other, deliberately testing boundaries to see what he could get away with. In the space of ten minutes, Holly and I both shouted at him more than once, and his naughtiness didn’t stop until I took him to the high street. Twice as many stay-at-home parents should mean half as many opportunities to be naughty, surely? I’m learning it doesn’t work like that.

Clearly, until Holly goes back to work, we're going to need better soil. Ah hell.