My Two-Year-Old Teen

I’m watching a video of you taking your first steps – determined, quick, headstrong and potentially dangerous. Typically Myles. Facebook helpfully timelines the blurry vision: June 7, 2016. Is that possible? 

Two years feels more like two decades. I can’t help thinking about all those ‘firsts’ that have happened in the past 24 months; like learning to feed yourself, constructing sentences, mastering your green bike, kicking a football (almost straight) and developing a talent for mimicry. 

Sadly, you have still not learned to sleep through the night – or much past 6am. But my love for you is deeper and wider than ever and laced with a certain amount of astonishment. How did you learn so much about the world? 

“Daddy, Australia is the smallest continent” he tells me on the bus one night. “And Antarctica is the coldest – penguins live there.” 

Yes, you drive Mum and Dad to distraction some times, but none of this matters compared to the joy you bring us. And the endless laughter. You shriek with delight when I put a towel on my head and pretend to be a monster. “Go away, Monster, go away!” but we know you’ll soon beg for an encore performance.

Myles turns three on June 12. This birthday feels significant – at least for his parents, who have survived his fevers, vomiting, bed wetting, concrete stools, emergency visits to the hospital and other obstacles as he raced from babyhood to boyhood. 

Myles ran before he walked and approaches the world with boundless delight and wonder. His world makes mine so much more bearable; in fact, life without Myles is unimaginable. 

Even a trip to the supermarket becomes a mini adventure with my inquisitive, constantly chattering boy in tow. His approach to bike-riding is similarly vociferous as he leaps off the machine to shout down a storm water drain “Hello, hello!” as joggers, power walkers and adult cyclist veer off to the right and left. 

En route to the park we stop to feed some chickens. I do a passable chicken noise, but Myles’s impersonation sounds more like a frog. It never gets any better – like his whistling. Charming quirks of a smart, inquisitive little boy who is growing up far too quickly. 

The past two years have been tough. Moving cities, a spell of homelessness, a bereavement, a patchy work situation – all the normal things that life throws up. 

There have been times when I’ve felt ashamed that I cannot provide all of the material things that I would like for my son – spoil him a little more, give him a bigger room, a trip on a “big aeroplane” (he saw Peppa Pig on the plane once), but I know that he is growing up in a loving, secure family – with an extended network of friends and family who also love him as much as we do. 

Ask Myles any weekend what he’d like to do and the answer is always: "I want to see Grandad and the chickens." 

Over the past few weeks we’ve been looking at schools in Sydney, filling out application forms and, yes, handing over deposit cheques. The future is racing to meet us and I don’t like it much. 

I want Myles to stay almost three for just a bit longer, so we can continue doing all the things we love – laughing at Shaun The Sheep, making bad chicken noises, chasing each other around the house, shouting out “Oh, Vina!” at the top of our voices and gazing up at the stars. 

“Look Daddy, the moon!” he says as I wheel the pram down the hill at the end of the day. When I remember these days that is the image that will burn most brightly. My chatty little boy, the immaculate city skyline, a waxing moon and my heart brimming with love and delight.

Confessions of a Solo Daddy

Last night my two-year-old son threw the mother of all tantrums. Usually playful and happy Myles suddenly went ballistic: screaming, crying and clinging to me for dear life. I tried to placate him with cuddles, treats and then decided an early hot bath might calm him down; not the brightest move, as it turned out. First he refused to get in. Then he refused to get out. In between, he just sat in the bubbles and howled. His face grew red and snot flowed from his nose. He sobbed with theatrical intensity. I felt sorry for the neighbours – serve them right for banging around upstairs. When I gave him his favourite fish ‘Nini’ (he can’t say Nemo) to play with he tossed the plastic toy onto the bathroom floor. Since I had a bottle to heat, pyjamas to locate and other urgent chores I had no choice to leave him crying in the bath, my heart torn and yet angry – at him, at myself, at the world.

After two weeks in charge of Myles (my wife is overseas at a family funeral) I am learning a great deal about life as a single parent. Indeed, I have a new respect for single mums and dads who have do this on a permanent basis. I won’t be so shocked the next time I see an exhausted mum giving young Shantil or Deezel* a bollocking in the supermarket. In fact, I’ll probably give her a high-five. Losing your partner, even temporarily, does not double your workload as a parent – it’s more like a 1000 per cent more pressure. The simplest things – like having a shower – become a major logistical exercise. Some mornings I leave the house without cleaning my teeth. Juggling a toddler in one hand and a toothbrush in the other is just too difficult. Meals are always rushed affairs. Just as I sit down to eat Myles thrusts a book in my face. “Animals, animals!” he pleads. After a couple of mouthfuls, I succumb. My meal often goes cold on the sideboard.

Each day I wake up promising to be a better dad, more organised and calmer. Then Myles spills water down his freshly washed jumper or proceeds to fill his nappy just as we’re leaving for childcare. The clothes need to come off, nappy changed, new sweatshirt found. My daily resolution goes up in smoke. I can feel my blood boiling. It’s hard not being able to share these frustrations with another adult – or hand over Myles for a couple of minutes while you get yourself showered, dressed and breakfasted. Harder still not to be able to share the worries and the delights of parenthood – or laugh together when he starts singing along with the Phil Collins CD in the car. Don’t get me wrong, I love sharing this bonding time with Myles – especially when he gives me cuddles and kisses – but I just wish I was so much better at everything.

None of this has come as much of a surprise. With such a strong-willed and energetic child, I expected to be stressed, exhausted and frustrated; at least some of the time. But I really didn’t anticipate the loneliness and isolation associated with single parenting. I often feel that Myles and I are the last people on earth. He clings to me, but I also cling to him. They say it takes a village to raise a child, well my village has been demolished and replaced by luxury mansions surrounded by high walls. Sydney is a cold-hearted place these days. Even the parents at the local playground seem reluctant to chat while our children share the swings. People are fearful and suspicious. My close friends are either single (and childless) or have grown-up kids. We have no family in Australia. So a kind remark from a stranger, like the old lady at Bondi Bondi who said “What a handsome grandson you have!” or the local newsagent who gave Myles a toy drill, can turn my day around.

Although family members in England have been wonderfully supportive, I don’t think I could have got through the past couple of weeks without the brilliant teachers at Myles’ childcare in downtown Sydney. The Montessori Academy in King Street is Myles' second home where is nurtured, fed, inspired and truly loved. The people who look after him are all remarkable: patient, affectionate, and highly motivated. Myles really thrives in that environment and has learnt to turn on the Chipperfield (or should that be Echeumuna) charm to get what he wants. I leave him in the morning in complete confidence that he will be treated with the greatest care. Montessori Academy King Street, I salute you! My stint as a solo parent has taught me that there is nothing easy or predictable about looking after a small child, that mothers deserve far more respect than we give them and, lastly, that children produce an obscene quantity of dirty clothes. I have never done as much washing, ironing and folding in my life. Anyone want to come over and give me a hand? Thought not. Come back soon, Vina. A husband needs a wife. 

 *These baby names were sourced from Things Bogans Like, an essential road map to working-class Australia.

Why Kids' TV Is The Best

Australia’s national broadcaster has not fared well in the digital age. Like many other free-to-air networks ABC TV has struggled to compete against Pay TV, Netflix and better-funded news and current affairs channels such as the BBC, Sky and Al Jazeera. Apart from lawn bowls and women’s football the ABC has virtually abandoned sports coverage and its locally commissioned drama is also, at best, patchy. No wonder the network relies on endless re-runs of Doc Martin and Father Brown.

But there is one market sector where the ABC is pre-eminent: children’s television. For millions of parents all over Australia, like me, ABC Kids is an absolute godsend. Peppa Pig, Dinosaur Train, Ben & Holly’s Little Kingdom, Mike The Knight, Thomas And Friends and The Clangers have been a vital part of my 18-month-old son’s upbringing – along with healthy doses of horseplay, outdoor fun and reading books. Like most kids of his age, Myles is obsessed with The Wiggles a show which has more bright colours and cheesy dance routines than the Eurovision Song Contest. When the Hey Duggee theme song comes on Myles goes into full James Brown mode, stomping his feet madly and waving his arms around in total abandonment. He couldn’t be happier.

Psychiatrists warn about the dangerous impact of television (and other screen exposure) on young minds. In Australia the recommended daily dose no more than two hours – the American Academy of Pediatrics says babies and toddlers should watch no television whatsoever until they turn 18 months. Although these guidelines are presently under review, children’s TV is often depicted as a type of malicious electronic nanny. That is not the experience in our household, where Myles watches small but intensive segments of his favourite programs before heading back to his room to play with his toys, ride his trike or just run down the corridor laughing.

Unlike the vacuous mental floss that adults endure each evening on the free-to-air networks, the shows on ABC Kids are mostly stimulating, well written, fast-paced and grounded in old-fashioned moral values. Programs such as The Octonauts and Dirtgirlworld are highly educational, dealing with issue such as species loss, pollution, sustainable agriculture and the importance of recycling household waste. Sesame Street and its offspring the hilariously madcap Furchester Hotel teach about the importance of tolerance in a diverse, multi-cultural and multi-lingual society, while Fireman Sam, another Myles favourite, demonstrates the need for personal heroism in order to preserve community life. Set in the fictional Welsh seaside town of Pontypandy, the program features the unflappable Sam, his fire tender Jupiter, the accident-prone kid Norman Price and Italian café owner Bella Lasagne. The original idea for the series was developed by two retired firefighters from Kent.

Some of the shows on ABC Kids are clearly designed to appeal to adults as much as their offspring. Few fathers will fail to identify with Daddy Pig, the well meaning but ineffectual head porker from Peppa Pig, now one of the world’s most successful entertainment brands for tiny tots. Some of the episodes have an absurdist comic tone similar to that of the early films of Jacque Tati. I particularly enjoyed the episode when the children have a furious argument during International Day. “What is going on?” asks Madame Gazelle, the class teacher. “America, Russia, Spain and Greece won’t share the sandpit,” explains a pupil. The well-horned teacher gives the class a right ticking off: “Is this how you think the countries of the world behave?”

But adults will struggle to penetrate the alien world of the Clangers, a community of knitted beings that live on a blue planet, communicate in high-pitched whistles and whose only interest seems to be eating soup. The ubiquitous Teletubbies, a fixture on our screens since 1997, presents a similar challenge for anyone over four years old. Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa Laa and Po, the four asexual protagonists, spend every episode saying “hello” and “bye bye” to their audience, with only short breaks underground to eat Tele Custard. Is this the kiddies’ version of Seinfeld? 

Despite its paper-thin narrative Teletubbies has been the subject of great controversy over the years. The nonsensical babble spoken by the Teletubbies has been condemned by psychiatrists and early learning experts. In 1999 Tinky Winky was falsely “outed” as a gay role model by the Reverend Jerry Falwell because the male figure is purple (the colour of Gay Pride), has a triangle on his head (another Gay symbol) and carries a women’s handbag. The Polish Ombudsman for Children Ewa Sowinska was also worried about the handbag and ordered a full investigation, but Tinky Winky was eventually declared fit for Polish consumption. 

First launched as a stand-alone channel in 2001, ABC Kids has survived many challenges, such as the withdrawal of government funding, management indifference, network amalgamations and constant time slot changes. There was much fanfare when Play School turned 50 last year, but that show, however worthy, represent steam-age children's entertainment. The atmosphere is like a Sunday school class – wooden and patronising. Clever, informative and gorgeously illustrated programs, often using the latest CGI techniques, such as Mike The Knight, Ben & Holly's Little Kingdom, Dinosaur Train and The Octonauts demonstrate that with a little imagination, and humour, children's television can match adult program-making in every department. And the kiddies'  tunes are so much better than ours. 

One Boy, One Gun

 

As a farm boy I grew up with guns. The Old Man had a double barrel shotgun tucked away at the top of the wardrobe and professional shooters regularly came onto our land to hunt hares, rabbits and pheasant. I often found limp, bloody animal carcasses on the front porch in the morning. Death is a constant presence in the country. I once heard a neighbour tell some city cousins: “This is a farm. We kill things here.” In the 1960s the Second World War still loomed large in the imagination of British schoolboys. My boy’s newspaper, The Hotspur, was chock full of men with guns – stout Tommies with Bren guns and cold-faced Germans with Mausers and flamethrowers. 

Most of our schoolyard games involved shooting, wounding or blowing up our scabby kneed mates. Emptying a couple of shotgun cartridges and making an improvised bomb was a particular highlight but required a certain amount of subterfuge. I remember my older brother blowing up a rat in a barrel – it was as big as butcher’s dog. For a child of my era the greatest prize of all was an Action Man figure, complete with bazookas, grenades and the whole arsenal of death. Australian culture, too, is saturated in militarism. At the museum in the Victorian goldfields city of Beechworth there’s a photograph of boy soldiers rehearsing for the Great War. Most look no older than 12. Oddly enough there is something touchingly innocent about these pint-size soldiers. The same is true of the ludicrous xenophobia which permeated my childhood. 

But today’s world, with its 24/7 terrorism, gangland shootings and violent video games, is far nastier and more brutal. Is it still acceptable to let your kids run around with toy guns?  My wife, who learnt to shoot as a girl in Nigeria, sees no problem about Myles having a water pistol; in fact she wants him to learn about guns when he is older. I have canvassed the opinion of many parents over the past few weeks. Most seem to accept that guns and war play are an unescapable part of boyhood. “We try to limit our son’s access to toy guns,” said one mother. “But I don’t think you can have a blanket ban – they’ll just turn a tree branch or a broom into a gun if you do that.”  Other parents report having a “disarm” a visiting child who arrived at the house with a vast assortment of pistols, knives and grenades. “We had a weapons crate at the front door,” said one mum. 

My eldest son, now 24, was raised in a gun-free household but didn’t display any obvious pacifist tendencies. He once had stitches over one eye following a violent clash with plastic swords.  Indeed, many childhood experts do not subscribe to theory that early exposure to guns will turn your child into a violent adult. American parenting author Christine Gross-Loh says there is no evidence to suggest than engaging in gunplay is bad for your child – quite the reverse. “It can actually help teach children to read each other’s facial cues and body language, figure out their place in a group, and learn how to adjust their behaviour in social settings,” she says. But toy guns and aggressive war games are understandably frowned upon in progressive Western countries such as Australia, New Zealand, Britain and Canada; although I suspect rural parents are less PC around guns than their city counterparts. 

I actually think we should remove toy guns from the whole debate. We cannot shield our children from the evils of the world. Gun violence exists. The slaughter of innocents is played out on our TVs and computer screens daily. Will denying Myles a water pistol make him a better, more compassionate person? I don’t think so. Like the mother I quoted earlier, it’s probably best to monitor his access to toy weapons but not to impose a total arms ban. He can terrorize his little mates with a replica Mauser but blowing up live rats is verboten.

Surgery or savagery?

A day after he came into the world my son Myles was due to have a small operation. The procedure, male circumcision, sounds innocuous enough. I certainly thought so until the paediatric surgeon walked into our hospital room for a pre-op chat. “I just thought you should see what’s involved before we go ahead,” he said, firing up his iPad. “It is a pretty routine operation – but you need to understand the risks involved.” 

The images that flashed before me were truly gruesome: bloodied and scared penises; the faces of baby boys contorted in pain. I looked at my tiny son sleeping in the crib and felt numb with guilt. Was I really going to expose my tiny child to such a harrowing ordeal?

Our surgeon explained the procedure, possible complications and the recovery process, which can take weeks. Like other medical professionals in Australia he was careful not to express a personal opinion about the merits or otherwise of male circumcision – given its immense cultural baggage this is understandable.

But I had one burning question I needed answered. “What are the medical benefits of putting my son through this horrible ordeal?” I asked. The surgeon thought for a moment before replying carefully. “Well, none really,” he replied. “There are some American studies showing that circumcised males are less prone to contract sexually transmitted diseases – but plenty of other studies that contradict those findings. I cannot give you a compelling medical reason for doing this operation.”

My mind was made up. I would not consent to the operation. My son was a day old, small and vulnerable. I turned to my wife expecting some resistance – although born and raised in the UK, Vina’s family is from Nigeria where male circumcision is universally practiced. Perhaps exhausted by the delivery or maybe just sensing my emotional outrage, she agreed with my decision and Myles was saved from the snip – and a long and painful recovery. His foreskin would remain unmolested.

Our paediatrician looked equally relieved not to wielding the knife, even though he would forego the modest surgical fee, which incidentally was not covered by our private medical insurance. “Put it this way, when a boy is around 12 he falls in love with his penis – whether its circumcised or not,” he said. “It’s a lifelong obsession.”

Over the past few months I’ve read widely about the politics of male circumcision and canvassed the opinion of friends, family and work colleagues. The issue is deeply polarizing. Some of those opposed to the procedure describe it as little more than “butchery” – a medieval practice which is on a par with female circumcision and one with devastating results for male sexuality.

Advocates, including Professor Brian Morris from the University of Sydney, point to a number of recent American studies which suggest that circumcised males are less likely to contract diseases, such as herpes and syphilis, and have lower rates of urinary tract infection and even penile cancer.

Apart from the US, where two-thirds of boys are still circumcised, male circumcision is becoming less and less fashionable in the western world; only around 32 per cent of Australian men under 30 are circumcised. This is in stark contrast with the 1950s when the procedure was almost routine – the legacy, it has been suggested, of the many clean-living American GIs who were stationed on these shores during World War 2.
Male circumcision is still widely practiced in both the Jewish and African communities where the ritual has compelling religious and cultural significance. But the medical consensus, at least in Australia, is that the procedure is unnecessary and in many ways undesirable – the Royal Australasian College of Physicians says, based on available evidence, that the level of protection against disease offered by circumcision does not “warrant routine infant circumcision in Australia and New Zealand”.

So why do otherwise sane and rational people subject their baby sons to such a painful and potentially dangerous procedure? According to the BUPA website around 4 per cent of all newly circumcised babies suffer complications, such as bleeding, infection and permanent damage to the penis. Death from uncontrolled bleeding, meningitis and septicaemia are rare, but not unheard of.

Given the advances in personal hygiene (and the questionable benefits mentioned above) male circumcision should be as popular in 21^st Century Australia as witch burning. So why is it still being practiced?
Could it be, as Professor Morris argues, that vital facts about this ancient and controversial procedure are being withheld from us by the medical establishment? Or does it simply come down to aesthetics? Does the world still prefer the neater look of a circumcised penis?

Now You Are 9 (Months)

My wife once said her only major concern about being a mother was that she loved our son, Myles, “just too much”. I understand that sentiment completely. When he was first born I used to fret about my work deadlines, rushing back to my desk with dark mutterings after helping with a bottle feed or a particularly nauseous nappy change. Now I tend to linger over playtime, savouring the feel of his squirming, inquisitive body against mine or kicking a squidgy football around on the rug as Myles, like a highly strung Teletubby, trots on all fours around my feet. Occasionally I find myself watching Peppa Pig long after Myles has returned to his building blocks. “Don’t go up the room,” Vina warns me as we watch TV in the evening. “You’ll only wake him.” But there’s a special delight in watching my baby son slumbering in his cot, one fist loosely bunched and Flopsy, his loyal bedtime toy, tucked under the other arm. Truth is, I’m besotted with Myles. I marvel at this speck of humanity who has already gone from wrinkled baby to athletic boyhood in such a short space of time. The other day I composed a list of all the things that delighted me about my son: his first attempts to say “Dadda” (Vina tells me all babies say that first and not to get big headed), the way he hauls himself to his feet only to tumble over onto his amply padded bum, the look of utter concentration as he plays with his building blocks or pushes his wooden car, his pre-dawn chats to Flopsy before the rest of the house stirs. Best of all is his distinctive wave – an oddly artistic even Royal twist of the wrist. But what really melts my heart is his warm brown eyes, so serious one moment and scrunched up in laughter the next. When people ask me what has changed in the 23 years since my first son Courtney was born, I could say medical technology, children’s TV or nappy design (all true) but the biggest shift is in me. I try to enjoy every single moment with my son, whether that’s a simple walk in the park, a cuddle on the sofa or trying brush off a trail of goo on my jacket. At nine months Myles’ personality, confident, questioning and I suspect slightly anarchic, is already beginning to shine through. He may not have acquired much of a vocabulary beyond “gee” and “dee” but my son speaks to me through his laughter, his smile and, from time to time, his operatic sobs. It is sobering to think that human beings learn to laugh before we talk. Myles reminds me that we are here to be joyous, passionate and curious. Not glum and pessimistic. As all parents know you can never love your child enough – only be grateful for everything that they bring into your lives. I can’t wait for his first birthday!