All that Glitters

Here’s the million dollar question most new fathers will ask themselves – when do I begin feeling like a father? For the majority of us there is no one defining moment. It just kind of happens unexpectedly. One day we are carefree, simple in our pursuit for happiness, and difficult in our need to be simple. Then one night we’re visited by the father-fairy who comes along, sprinkles us with paternity-dust and robs of us our selfishness, common sense, and most of the contents of our wallet. It is a strange and all consuming experience that takes us by surprise, and for those unprepared for the responsibility, can leave you shuffling around the kitchen in your moccasins like an extra from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

The truth is being a parent can be strange at the beginning. Movies and television have conditioned us to believe that from the moment our baby opens its lungs our backs will straighten, our chests will expand, and there will be an unworldly correlation between emotion and purpose. Instinctively we will know what to do, and when to do it, and more importantly, we will engage emotionally with this perfect little mirror image of us. But more often than this is not how it happens. In reality, a baby is like being handed a grenade without its pin, while locked in a room with no doors or windows, and the air con is set to sub-zero and you’re naked. I remember thinking I had failed as a father because I didn’t cry as soon as my baby daughter was handed to me. When she took my finger in her hand for the first time and my heart didn’t crack, I thought I was devoid of all basic emotional. And when she wouldn’t stop crying one night, and I heard myself scream aloud that I hated her, I considered myself a monster. Seriously, those Gillette moments are few and far between never. The important thing to remember is; it will change.

It took me the best part of six months to adjust to fatherhood. Amelie developed colic in her first few days. Most parents who have experienced colic will know it has a habit of kicking in around teatime, which was when I returned home from work. Every night, for about 12 weeks, I was met at the door by a screaming infant, and a very weary looking wife. It got so depressing that I began to stay late at work. Carla kept telling me Amelie was wonderful in the mornings, and most of the day, but I never saw any of that, except at weekends, but by then I was too tired to care. With every day that passed, I felt the emotional gap between Amelie and I growing further apart. One evening, when Amelie was asleep in her nursery, I turned to Carla and said remorsefully, "I feel nothing for her right now." It was my first open confession, and no sooner had the words left my mouth, I wanted to reach out, grab each one, and force them back into my throat where they could fester for the rest of my natural life. But it was too late. Carla and I had a long talk that night, and we both opened up our hearts, and all those little flawed feelings we both shared but never spoke aloud were delivered and received with patience and sympathy. I took some time off work, a few days to see Amelie’s pleasant side. It was wonderful. Every morning she met me with this perfect expression, one of recognition and joy. I was humbled to be around her, and equally stupefied that this baby girl, my daughter, could feel anything other than resentment toward me. In the days that followed, I played guitar and sang to her, and she sat there enchanted by my dulcet tones. I raised her above my head and made noises like she was rocket soaring through the sky. I did all the things I imagined I would, and it was bliss.

Then my defining moment came. It was a few days before Father’s Day, and I was at work. My phone went off and it was Carla. She sounded upset, worried. I asked her what was wrong, and she said she’d been to Tiny Treasures class and something had happened. Without deliberation I asked if Amelie was okay – and she said she was. I then asked her if she was okay, and she said she was. Then what? Carla explained the class was making Father’s Day cards. The idea was that each baby would place its handprints beside a touching poem. It sounded cute, but when Carla explained what they were using to cover the babies hands, she began crying. Between her sobs, I heard one word, "Glitter". I have a phobia about glitter. It’s an irrational fear I’ve tried to overcome several times, but nothing has helped. I don’t even think it’s the glitter, but more in its stubbornness to be removed. It’s the same every Christmas; we receive a card with glitter on, I freak out, and the card is evacuated from the house under close supervision. No matter how brief its stay, or how well we isolate the card from any other object, they’ll be a point in the day when the sun shifts and one of its flakes will glimmer in the carpet. Before long I’m combing the floor with the precision and attention of a forensics officer at a murder scene. More often than not, I never find them. Glitter represents my inability to keep control of a situation, or task. It makes me realise I can fail, regardless of what I do. Carla knew this, and she knew it meant an evening of decontamination the scale of which has only been witnessed in Howard Hughes’s home. When I returned home later that evening, Carla had already spent a good hour wiping Amelie’s skin – I knew because it was a brighter pink than it normally is. And though she had tried her best to remove all remnants of the day’s activities, I could still see those glittering golden flakes in Amelie’s hair, around her neck, and between her fingers. Normally that would be my cue to freak out, and begin rummaging under the sink for the appropriate cleaning agents and clothes. But if truth be told, it didn’t bother me. Instead of freaking out, I picked up Amelie and I held her close, untroubled I was running the risk of being glitterised. With little fuss, Amelie accepted my display of affection with a smile.

I knew then no matter what happens in the future, however big a problem or obstacle I have to overcome, so long as I can hold my daughter and she is well, then I can deal with it. For the first time since Amelie was born, I felt like a father.