As I mentioned in my previous articles I had been lucky enough to get people to share their personal stories on their parenting tales.
Here is the first of those
(Male 40, dad at 16)
The date is October 15th 1987. “Pump up the Volume” is number one in the UK charts. In the UK Michael Fish is busy convincing people that there isn’t going to be a storm over the next few days (there was); whilst in the US the public are watching the TV with trepidation to see whether 18-month old Jessica McClure would be rescued from a well-shaft (she was).
I however noticed very little of this. I was still celebrating the fact that simultaneous equations and the subjunctive tense were ancient history, having left school three months earlier. I was also celebrating finding a bar in town that would serve me without ID despite me being a week short of my 17th birthday (mmm, strawberry wine and Diamond Blush!). And on October 15th 1987, I was also celebrating becoming a father.
“Celebrating” is probably too strong a term. I’d actually split up with my girlfriend a couple of months earlier. It was inevitable; she was a few years older than me, and far more grown-up in every sense. I was still a child – although frankly I imagine people who knew me then would find very little difference now, three weeks shy of my 41st birthday – and what we had was never going to last.
She was strong-minded and independent, whilst I was a typical teenage boy – obsessed at that time with football (still am), Batman comics (still am), and cross country running (yeah, right!). I was simply too young to really appreciate the events that were put in motion during that heady period in early ‘87 when we were together.
“Simply too young” was still an accurate summary when, four years later, I wrote and asked if I could be more involved in my daughter’s life. I thought I had grown up; looking back I clearly had no idea what that even meant. I started to spend time with my daughter and get to know her. We spent Sundays and occasional weekday evenings together. I was surprised at how bright she was. I distinctly recall us watching the opening scene of “Look Who’s Talking” and being amazed, at the age of about five, that she knew what the little things were that were happily swimming along to The Beach Boy’s “I Get Around”… By the age of six/seven I was teaching her algebra and French – she could count backwards from about 50 quite naturally in French. She was voraciously learning new things and very interested in computers.
I don’t pretend that it was all brilliant. I made mistakes. I think – I’m sure – I made tons of mistakes. I didn’t have all the answers, which was something terribly difficult for me to admit as generally I was/am very confident in my own abilities. I had to ask other people for help, which in my early twenties was really difficult for my ego to take. I couldn’t ask my peer group because the very few that had even started families were still coping with nappies and teething, not arguments with teachers and moodswings at home. I asked my Dad a lot of questions. I probably never thanked him.
Between my daughter’s 5th and 11th birthdays I think I grew up faster than she did. I was still single and, ahem, enjoying my batchelor status. I learned patience (what little I have!) from being with her. I consistently put someone else first for the first time in my life and I learned from that. I learned different ways to serve cheese, potatoes and bread, which was all she would eat for the longest time. I introduced her to all my friends, especially the new ones, because I wanted people to know that she was an important part of my life. I worried, I argued, I cajoled, I pleaded. I got through it, somehow.
So if you were to ask me for advice for people in the same situation based on what we went through, I would say these things:
– Speak up; don’t suffer in silence. People want to help and it’s okay to ask them without feeling like you’re a bad parent or that you’re taking advantage. Whether it’s asking about babysitting or why they don’t like having a bath, it’s okay to ask questions. Swallow your pride and talk to the people around you.
– Manners matter. I really believe that. If your child is a brat, you’ll find that help and advice from other people is far less easy to come by. As they grow up, your interactions with them will be far more difficult. Teach them the basics of good manners and teach them to be mindful of other people, and everyone will find them much more pleasant to be around.
– Recognise your strengths. I had the book smarts and was happy to spend time on activities like Egyptian long division. My ex had enough common sense for both of us (I, still, have none) and the courage of a lion. Between us we did okay and we made a half-decent team. Our daughter has both of these qualities (she still has all the common sense).
– Finally, and most importantly, follow your instincts. You will make mistakes and sometimes it will feel like you’ve hiked backwards 15km just to take a single step forward. You know what? It’s okay. You have the long game in mind whereas your child just wants to stay up ten more minutes to watch TV. If you have anything about you at all, if your heart is in the right place, you’ll be doing the right thing anyway even if you don’t know why. Go with it.
I’m happy to say that the story has a happy ending. My daughter is planning her wedding, and is mother to the two most amazing twin girls. I don’t mind admitting that she’s already a million times better as a parent than I was, so I guess that we didn’t do that badly. She has such a strong instinct for parenting that if I ever had any more children, she’d be my first stop for advice.
My thanks to this guest piece :). This is what triggered the Age of parenting question for me. This piece was a response to my life begins at 40 article. For this guy, life restarted at 40 and as you read it’s all been good.
My next article will contain further personal stories of the age of parenting
Soapgirl
