I just decided that this sounds a bit like a Tom Hanks vehicle, in which he plays an itinerant musician, crossing New England, beginning and ending in the titular towns, in search of the man who saved him from certain death at the hands of the Viet Cong. Crikey! Where did that come from? Hollywood producers, you know where to find me. Probably.
Back to the plot, also known as my journey to fatherhood. As you may have calculated, there was something of a gap between the two fictitious New England towns, or rather the actual events. Having realised that I needed a reason to get up in the morning, I filed that thought away while I got on with my travels and (eventually) my years as a mature student in Loughborough. In the meantime, I (re)discovered a passion for cycling, more of which in future posts, no doubt. Thus, wandering, reading and cycling fashioned my life’s routine for the next ten years or so.
In early 2011, I became the proud father of our beautiful son. It wasn’t a surprise. We knew he was a he. Mildly amusing story. Went for a scan in Kaohsiung while visiting the in-laws; doctor placed his ultrasound wand (I think that’s the correct term) on mum’s belly; look at screen. BAM! Legs akimbo and no room for doubt. Male. I went outside and shed a few tears. I was going to have a son and heir. Unthinkable. I knew there and then I would name him after my dad. It seemed appropriate.
His birth was pretty traumatic. I’ll spare you the details, but not the fact that I shed plenty of tears and not a little snot, such that a sympathetic nurse felt compelled to pass me a large sheet of paper towel as I had clearly forgotten the handkerchief lurking in my jeans. You see, it’s details like this that make it so much more real. It was real. I was there. Probably the most emotional day of my life, ousting the previous holder of that title, namely the day my dad returned to Portsmouth from the Falklands conflict on The Hermes, streaked with rust and looking like crap. The ship, not dad.
I spent much of next six years in tears. Tears of joy, tears of frustration, tears of pride (is that allowed?), tears of despair. Taking care of a child is bloody hard work. I have so much more respect for mothers (and fathers) now. I often think about my grandmother, widowed early in the Second World War, bringing up four children on very little. How the hell did she cope?
Much of that six years was here in Taiwan, trying to adapt to a society so different to that in which I grew up. Taiwan norms are not like British norms. Learned behaviour here is very different to the learned behaviour with which I am familiar. I have had to discard most of my ideas about how to bring up a child. There is simply no changing what is deemed acceptable here. There are no support networks for aging, immigrant fathers who speak little Chinese. It’s tough. Not in a single-mother-bringing-up-four-children-in-wartime-England tough, but tough for me. An aging immigrant with bad Chinese.
The second child conversation was inevitable. You may be surprised to learn that I really could not face going through the whole thing again, but… I agreed to play my part, largely for the benefit of my son – surely he would appreciate a sibling – and indeed for the benefit of my wife who clearly wanted another. It took a long time – again, I’ll spare you the details – and after all but giving up on the idea, suddenly, mission accomplished. Yes, it was almost like a military exercise, at times. More scans. I was going to have a daughter. More tears. She would be named after my senior aunt. Again, that seemed appropriate, but sadly, the two were never to meet. Expected daughter was due to arrive just at the very time my son was to begin school. Out of the window flew any ideas about getting a job to keep me occupied. The little sod was upsetting my plans while still in the womb. The next six years would be work enough.
Now, with two in tow, I find myself struggling to cope much of the time. I want to get away and not have to worry about getting up in the morning. Funny how it’s come full circle. I find myself thinking about how I have failed to control what’s happening in my life, and how I have failed to teach my children what I expected to teach them. Although I am the primary carer, most of my ideas have no place here, so I am constantly fighting to keep my head above water. I try, but the tide is strong. As per Canute (or was it Thatcher?), this tide’s not for turning. Furthermore, like the hotel in that song, sometimes I want to “check-out […] but [I know I] can never leave.”
My children are everything to me, and they are the best thing I have ever done with my life. I’m proud to say that I taught my son to ride a bike, and to read and write (English), while school has taken care of his Chinese. I expect to do the same for my daughter. Those are just two things at which I dare not fail.
As for Mr Hanks, his character never did find his way to Conception. He was stopped for speeding on the I-91 and was found to be carrying 10kgs of heroin in his guitar case, so he got locked up for the foreseeable. The end.
2020 - A Year of Perfect Vision 