Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir)

by Spalding, Nick

  And then comes the horror of the afterbirth.

  As much as I carry the lovely memory of my son entering this world with me at all times, it is irrevocably linked with the memory of seeing that placental sac sliding out of my wife like a harbinger of the apocalypse.

  I could tell you all about it, but if you’re a woman you’ll already know - and if you’re a man, I wouldn’t want to spoil the glorious moment for you when you do eventually become a dad. Wouldn’t want to spoil it for you at all.

  …yes, the face I’m making now is evil, isn’t it?

  I didn’t faint during all of this, I’m very proud to say.

  I looked away, yes.

  I looked back and wished I hadn’t, certainly.

  I felt nauseous and had to hide the look of horror on my face, so Sophie wouldn’t hate me for the rest of eternity.

  Childbirth isn’t pleasant…

  If it’s supposed to be a miracle, then I’ll take my chances without anymore in this lifetime, thanks.

  It features elements you don’t want to know about if you haven’t been through it. Suffice to say that I’ve talked about bodily waste already in this book and won’t bring it up again here.

  Yuck.

  Tom did not stop crying and make cooing noises as he sampled his first few minutes of life. He continued to cry, making it quite plain to all those in attendance that he was not fucking happy with being woken up and squeezed unceremoniously from the safety of the womb into the cold, harsh light of day.

  The nearest I can get to that feeling must be when you struggle awake from a disturbed night’s sleep, knowing you have to get up and go to work - multiplied by a million.

  I’d also like to think that when he came into the world, some part of him recognised the clock on the delivery room wall, knew the significance it would have in the next sixty-five years of life - and screamed with all his might.

  He continued to wail as they wiped him down and wrapped him in a blanket, ready for depositing into the arms of his parents.

  I was fascinated by the mechanical way the hospital staff did this.

  It was such a huge event in my life, I fully expected everyone around me to act like it was too:

  ‘This is the birth of my son!’ I wanted to scream. ‘He is more important than any other child! Treat him as such!’

  But instead of viewing my boy as the second coming, the delivery staff went about their business in a methodical and professional way which I found very disappointing. I wasn’t expecting them to start a close harmony rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus, but a bit of joyous weeping and genuflection couldn’t hurt, surely?

  Sophie took the baby in her arms once the doctor had decided he was healthy. This appeared to involve laying him on a table, poking him a bit, shining a torch into his orifices and squinting thoughtfully.

  Sophie held the boy close and - miracle of miracles - Tom did start to quiet down as his mother rocked him back and forth.

  There’s a moment when the enormity of it hits you.

  For me, it was looking down at my son as he stared back with an expression of stunned confusion.

  At that moment, I accepted that my life was going to be completely different from that moment on. I now had a responsibility to care for my son and make sure he was always safe and loved.

  The little bastard still looked like Winston Churchill though, and didn’t do anything more constructive than cry and chuck mucus everywhere.

  Sorry, but there it is…

  I’m not going to sit here and wax lyrical about how beautiful new born babies are, because they aren’t.

  This has nothing to do with not loving him, but you have to be objective, even at times like this.

  Tom was not a physically attractive proposition, what with the lumpy head, wrinkly skin and permanently baffled expression.

  Also, new born babies aren’t the most exciting things when you get right down to it.

  It takes a few months before they doing anything other than scream, shit and puke - and you often sit there wishing they’d at least try to do something more productive.

  Maybe I’m being a little unfair, but I never said I was a saint, did I?

  We took Tom home after a day and settled into the business of raising a child in this hectic, cynical world.

  Having a baby around really makes you appreciate the small things.

  Sleep, for instance.

  Never someone who has taken to sleep easily, I found the nightly routine of feeding and changing to be a never ending nightmare.

  There I’d be, just slipping down the slippery chute to kipsville and Tom would start crying. That ear-piercing scream - so natural to him at his moment of birth - became more perfected in the next few months.

  I started to think maybe he’d formed an unholy alliance with the birds outside; that the wood pigeon was periodically flying in through the window and giving him valuable advice about the best way to drive me insane. Teaching him lessons on the timing, rhythm, pitch and resonance of his scream that would combine to turn his father’s brain into mulch as quickly as possible.

  During the day, I’d start to enjoy the sound of silence more than ever.

  Sitting in a quiet room, while Tom was asleep or his mother had taken him out, was a state of nirvana I appreciated at every opportunity.

  Before my son, I would listen to pretty loud rock music as a way of relaxing. After he came along, the albums went into the cupboard and I grooved along to the sound of bugger all.

  This hell lasted three months until Tom started sleeping through the night and my senses had become so deadened to the sounds of screaming I barely heard them anymore.

  It’s a good job I never passed a burning building in that time. My brain would have tuned out the pleading cries completely and I would have walked straight past without noticing.

  As Tom grew, he became more interesting. He stopped being a lump - sitting there doing nothing much in particular.

  I’m sure he won’t go back to that kind of behaviour until he’s a teenager.

  Tom came out with his first word at about seven months.

  To this day he’s the kind of child that likes to be different. The first indication of this trait was the first word that came out of his mouth.

  The usual words a baby says for the first time are along the lines of mumma, dadda or nunna. Easy words that require little effort - and make parents all misty eyed.

  Not Tom though. No such simple pronouncements for him.

  Tom’s first word was ‘Gorp’.

  I swear to God… Gorp.

  One minute nothing and the next Gorp.

  Everything was Gorp.

  I was Gorp. Sophie was Gorp. The house was Gorp. His nose was Gorp. Chickens were Gorp. Bruce Willis was Gorp. Contrails left by jumbo jets thirty thousand feet in the air were Gorp.

  I began to worry.

  I started to entertain the fantasy that Tom was not in fact my son, but was some kind of one man advance party for a massive alien invasion fleet.

  Sophie had secretly been impregnated by these fiendish creatures and Tom’s job was to let the whole world know the name of the monster who would become their alien master from beyond the stars.

  Gorp.

  Gorp The Mighty. Gorp The Powerful. Gorp The Emperor Of The Universe!

  I kept an eye on Tom, waiting for him to start saying things like ‘Gorp is coming. Bow down and kiss his tentacles’.

  This never happened, and Gorp’s influence on my rapidly developing boy slowly slipped away. Gorp would have to invade our planet the old fashioned way, with big spaceships and lasers.

  Tom then picked up the regular first few words with great speed. His pronunciation was never normal though. He never said dadda. It was always DAD - with a bold and clear tone of voice, which never failed to amuse me. The imperious way it would come out of his mouth made him sound like the Grand King Of Poobah-Land.

  He’d also started to mimic sounds he’d hear.
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  It became a bit of an embarrassment when he picked up the word fuck. He no doubt caught this from me on one of the many occasions I tested his bath water and found it too hot, or tried to put a nappy on with cream all over my fingers.

  Tom was like a parrot that sits in the corner of a room, shouting obscenities at anyone who comes into earshot.

  There’s nothing quite like the stony silence you get when your parents-in-law come round for a cup of tea and your kid starts swearing at them like a drunk Glaswegian docker.

  There they are, sending you to sleep with their deadly dull recounting of their weekend in Eastbourne, when from the crib comes the epithet fuck, in a clear and ringing tone.

  Repeatedly.

  God knows what they thought I was doing to him. I’m sure they harboured visions of me crouched over his crib every evening, try to get him to repeat as many swear words as I could, possibly using cue cards and illustrations.

  Tom walked at thirteen months.

  Before that, he’d got around in a very deliberate and robotic crawling motion. With pudgy little hands clasped together, he’d put his elbows forward and pull himself along like a soldier crawling through the long grass, while a heavy fire fight goes on over head.

  There’s nothing guaranteed to put the willies up you more than waking from a nap to see your baby crawling inexorably towards you, repeating the word Gorp over and over in a low growl.

  With walking came the barricading of the house to prevent injury.

  My wife erected child proof gates at both ends of the stairs and in the kitchen doorway. They also went up in the doorways to the lounge, dining room and conservatory.

  The house started to resemble a Stalag Luft designed for midgets.

  I entertained images of lots of little fellas - like that bloke who works R2-D2 - secretly tunnelling under the house in a bid for freedom.

  Tom would be leading them of course.

  He’d have special instructions from Gorp on how to get out.

  I thought these gates were overkill, but wasn't going to argue with Sophie. She became fiercely protective of Tom and would probably have murdered me in my sleep if I made the mistake of letting him bump his head while she wasn’t around.

  The gates proved no problem to Tom at all, who could open them easily after a few minutes careful contemplation - and would be delighted to see the look of abject horror on his mother’s face when she caught him halfway up the stairs, teetering between one riser and the next.

  Tom may have encountered no problem with the gates, but I bloody did.

  One specific incident ended with me in hospital, a hairline fracture to the left wrist.

  I’m not at my best first thing in the morning.

  This is doubly true when I’m late for work.

  In the first hour after waking my co-ordination isn’t what it could be and nor is my memory.

  I forgot all about the child proof gates at the top of the stairs.

  I came rushing out of the bathroom at seven thirty in the morning, with toothpaste still around my mouth and my hair stuck up in wild clumps, thinking of the verbal kicking I was going to get for being late.

  More immediate concerns, such as solid gates barring my path, were not in my head. The gate at the top of the stairs came as a complete surprise.

  I hit the damn thing at full pelt and my body flipped over, like a gymnast performing a clumsy vault on the horse.

  My arms went out in front as I shrieked at the top of my lungs.

  Gravity did the ugly business of ensuring I hit the stairs as hard as possible.

  My left leg got caught on the gate, slowing my speed and descent enough to change my injuries from absolutely horrific to just pretty damn painful, actually.

  When I landed - cracking my wrist - and came to rest, I looked up the stairs with a dazed expression. Sophie, who had been with Tom, came out of his room and looked down at me.

  I peered up at her shocked face for a second, before clumsily getting to my feet, supported on legs made of jelly. I told her in a quivering voice that I was alright, but it might be a good idea if I went to the hospital for a bit of a look over.

  I was there for three hours – and had a good excuse for being late for work that day.

  I got home that evening to find Sophie had taken down the gate at the top of the stairs and put it across the door to Tom’s room. When I went to give him a kiss goodnight, he favoured me with an expression that seemed to say ‘Yeah, thanks a lot for that. Now I really am a prisoner. You just wait until I see Gorp.’

  It saddens me to say that my experience of Tom’s mental and physical development was cut short when Sophie and I divorced.

  While I’m still able to see him, I don’t have the continuity that comes with being in the same house all the time.

  I try to look on the bright side and think that for the most part I’m getting the pleasurable highlights, while Sophie has to deal with the tantrums and naughtiness.

  But who am I kidding? I’d give anything to be around for those too.

  I see enough of my son to make the pain of missing him bearable and I love doing things like taking him to the park - to watch him run around the field chasing invisible friends.

  I always appreciate these times and pay special attention, because they’re not as common as I’d like.

  That’s partly why I’m able to write this, because whenever I’m with Tom, I soak up the experience and memorise the details. They’re very clear in my mind, so it’s no trouble to put them down on a page.

  Kids grow up fast and if you don’t commit all the funny incidents and sweet moments to memory, you’ll find yourself unable to remember how gorgeous and wonderful they were as children - rather than as they are now: seventeen, miserable and hating your guts.

  It helps to have a camera on stand by a lot.

  Not only will you take lots of pictures of them in their charming infancy to look at in later years, it also gives you something to embarrass them with when they bring their first dates home to meet you when they’re fourteen and only mildly dislike your guts.

  Whenever I think of my relationship with Tom, I always end up asking myself the same question:

  Am I a good father?

  It’s the question of a man naturally disposed to neuroticism.

  I think I am. I certainly hope I am.

  Despite the fact I’m not around twenty four-seven, I’d like to think I provide the kind of support a father should give their child.

  I never wonder if Sophie is a good mother or not, I know she is.

  That makes my dilemma worse…

  It’d be far easier to claim that I was a good dad if I didn’t have to compare myself to the high standards Sophie sets.

  I spent a huge amount of time until a year or so ago dwelling on this and never reached a satisfactory answer. I’d weigh up the pros and cons ad infinitum, until I ended up confusing myself no end.

  The answer I finally arrived at is simplicity itself:

  Whether I’m there enough of the time, whether I handle discipline properly, whether I provide a good example or not, I know I love my kid to bits.

  As far as I’m concerned, that does make me a good father.

  Perfect?

  Absolutely not.

  But I’ll always care, and I’ll always be there for him.

  For me, that defines what love for a child should be.

  Even when the little bastard is drawing on the sofa.

  6.25 pm

  46931 Words

  Fanfare please!

  We’ve reached the twenty four hour mark! Well, we did twenty five minutes ago, but I was too busy writing about Tom to notice.

  Who’d have thought it, eh?

  That I’d be able to sustain this project for an entire twenty four hours without rest?

  Excellent!

  I had my doubts. I bet you did to.

  It was touch and go there for a while - back in the cold, dark watches of the night. A
nd you’ll notice from the time checks that I’ve slowed down in terms of productivity per hour.

  But I’m still going. Just like that bunny in the battery advert from a few years ago.

  Part of that is down to you, my friend.

  Without having you sat there, prompting me to greater heights of creativity, I imagine I’d have quit after three hours and gone to watch some porn or the Saturday night movie.

  I’d have probably sat through Armageddon in a grumpy mood, knowing that I hadn’t stayed the distance, and would have gone to bed in a huff, cursing my lack of will-power.

  But instead, here I am - all down to you, my muse and confidant.

  Thank you.

  Let’s examine my general state of well being, then:

  Hmmm. Peckish.

  Not just peckish actually, but starving.

  I shall now nip quickly to the kitchen to rustle up some grub.

  Anything you fancy? Or should I just grab as much as I can from the cupboard?

  …yeah, I thought you’d prefer that.

  I know you’ve got a thing for cookies, so I’ll take a look and see if there are any.

  …

  Nope, no cookies. Sorry.

  But, we do now have half a barbecue chicken to pick clean and some of that strange ham with slices of egg in the middle.

  How do they do that? It’s like putting the egg in scotch eggs - a complete mystery.

  There’s some bread and a nice jar of sandwich pickle. The one with small chunks, so the sandwich doesn’t look like the surface of the moon when you’ve finished making it.

  There’s a bottle of Diet Coke there as well - with cherry in. I though it would taste disgusting - like the lemon one does - but the geniuses at the Coca-Cola Company have come up trumps on this one. Very tasty indeed.

  With our refreshments in front of us, let’s examine the thorny topic of self-analysis.