Whoa ! How time flies when you're changing nappies...
It's now one week till Christmas Day and I've got so much to say I don't know where to start. Hang on, I'll go back and read the rest of the blog to see where I've got to. Back in a jiffy...
(One jiffy later)
Right - I'm up to speed now. I have to say, a lot of what I've written is pretty emotional, and I apologise if any of it seemed too "mushy" but, at the time, it was exactly how I felt. I must also thank those who have left nice comments about the blog, and to those who I know who have read and liked what I've written - you know who you are!
Harry is now almost six and three quarters months old, which takes me back. Not to when I was that age myself, but to when age was not necessarily quoted in integer years. You must remember what I mean - when your parents say that you're six and you chime in with "Six and a half, actually", as if that extra half a year makes all the difference.
And it does make a difference, especially if you're only half a year old when it's a literally a lifetime.
With Michele and I in our mid to late thirties, half a year is nothing, but the last six months have been amazing. Harry has grown so much, physically and mentally, and has developed a character all of his own. Instead of being a cute thing that just lay there, ingesting milk one end and filling nappies the other, Harry is now all that and mobile. Yes, mobile.
He can support the weight of his head, and he spends a lot of time swivelling that head around to look at whatever's caught his attention. And he's learning. Truly learning. You can almost see the cogs turning inside as he works out something.
My Dad and others have said that babies are like sponges at this age, soaking an immense amount of information up every single day. They're beginning to make sense of themselves and the world that they live in, in Harry's case a world inhabited by lots of mad, cooing people. And his Mum and Dad.
With the maternity leave coming to an end, Michele started the arduous process of getting into the frame of mind to return to work, albeit part time. The hospital we both work at is in trouble financially and decided to close wards, my wife's amongst them. She had to attend an interview for a post she was forced to apply for, and ended up working on a ward she wouldn't necessarily have chosen. And all this in the midst of a traumatic transition for us;
The First Separation.
Michele has several sisters who dote on Harry and, coupled with my family and my work colleagues, he has become used to being passed around like a parcel. He loves the attention and has become a very happy, sociable baby because of it - plonk him on the lap of a stranger and rather than cry, he'll spend five minutes staring at this new person, trying to work them out.
And so it was that Michele took Harry to meet the girls at the hospital creche. I couldn't make the orientation meetings, where Michele took a tour around the creche and then sat in the baby's room with Harry and the other kids. The second visit she was encouraged to leave him there for half an hour, to see how he got on.
It was a wrench but Michele was getting used to it, and it came round to my first time. As Michele was working shifts, she would be taking Harry to creche around lunchtime and I would be picking him up when I finished work, about 5pm. So I needed to know where to go, who to ask for and, for my own benefit, see what sort of environment Harry would spend the day in.
We both took Harry to the creche and had to press a buzzer to be let in. Security is paramount and we had to go through another set of coded doors before we were in the hallway. Taking Harry out of the pram (of which we were still making good use), we put blue plastic covers over our shoes and disinfected our hands with alcohol gel from a dispenser by the door.
Opening the door, I stepped into an indoor playground. The floor was strewn with soft toys, the walls covered in photographs and drawings, and two cots lined one wall. The nursery assistants there were dressed in uniform blue but very casually, with no shoes on. One was even wearing fluffy slippers.
I placed Harry down on a playmat and immediately started to play with him, showing him rattling things and crunchy things, passing them to him to take in his chubby little hands. Michele and I talked to one of the carers there, a mum herself, and I found out about what they do there during the day.
The little ones are kept separate from the more mobile tots, and they all get fed and watered (we had to provide the bottled milk), played with, cuddled and, weather permitting, taken out to the park and gardens (with our permission). It was all so lovely and friendly there and I felt right at home. Another child tottered up, I said a cheery Hello, and was given a toy to play with.
Surrounded by youngsters took me back to the days when I used to perform medical scans on children, and how I used to love playing with them - helping to put them at ease, drawing pictures with them.
And then came the time when I had to leave. I was already late for work and had a long meeting to go to. I gave Harry a kiss then got to my feet. I looked down at him then took a step towards the door. Another glance, another step. Harry was happy playing with toys and was taking in the surroundings with enthusiasm. One more step, and I was through the doorway. I said goodbye to Michele, who was going for a short walk, then made my way to work.
And then it struck me. I had just left my son with complete strangers, and he was happy about it. I was glad that he was happy in his new environment, but also felt a giant pang of pain, guilt and, being honest, jealousy.
He was
my son,
my baby. His parents should be looking after him, not strangers! I freely admit to feeling tearful as I went to work. He seemed so happy and, for the first time in his life, he wasn't dependent on his Mum and Dad. That realisation cut pretty deep, after spending so much time with him, attending to every need.
But then I looked at this First Separation as just that - the first of many, many steps that would see my son getting farther and farther away. He'd have his first day at proper nursery school, his first friend. His first stay over at a friend's house. His first school trip etc. Later, he would enter that awkward age when he'd be struggling with his hormones. He wouldn't want us around - we'd be "out of touch", "uncool", "too old to understand", and similar sentiments that I had levelled at my parents at one time or another.
Just as they had seen me grow up and grow away, so I too would have to watch my beloved Harry do the same. And the thought broke my heart. I was not good company during that meeting...
Subsequent visits to the creche to pick Harry up found him happy having a cuddle, or playing with other children near his age. It was a shame that Michele had to go back to work but, in the end, it was good for Harry as his social and interpersonal skills blossomed and developed. I think he will end up a better person because of it, not despite of it.
And when I pick him up, he always fixes me with a toothless grin, and comes willingly to my arms, putting up with my open displays of affection - the kisses on the cheek, the ruffling of the hair - and seems genuinely pleased to see me. I get a daily report from the girls there - what time he fed (and how much he drank), when and for how long he had slept, and finally if and when he soiled his nappy. For the last one, they use two codes, W and S.
W means "wet", obviously, and S means.... "soiled" (not "shit" as I first thought).
Anyway, with Harry settled into the creche, Michele and I began to adjust to a new rhythm - one in which we both worked, and one in which we had to make just that little bit extra preparation.
