Three weeks. Three years

Yesterday brought to a close the belated 2020 edition of the Tour. Le Tour. Although I wasn’t able to follow procedings as closely as I would have liked (we should have been in England during the race, had it been held as scheduled and had the world not gone into meltdown in the meantime), at least I could see a fair bit of the ITV4 coverage. I guess I could have seen more, but I don’t work well on too many late nights, especially since I have to be up early every morning to see the lad off to school, or to get out for a ride at the weekends. Which brings me nicely to the mysterious three years of the title…

Actually, it’s hardly a mystery. Yesterday also marked the third birthday of my daughter. Three years have simply flashed by, causing me, once more, to ponder the meaning of life and how little time we have. If and when she reaches my current age, I will then be 113 years old. Somehow, I think that I ain’t gonna be there to see that happen. Ever the pessimist, eh?

Anyway. I feel the need to declare publically that I was not favour of having a second child. Coming late to fatherhood, I was absolutely bowled over the day I learnt that I was to have a son (thanks to an accidental revelation of his undercarriage during routine scan). Multiply that sentiment by about 1,000 on the day he was born, and I will readily admit to being the most happy, proud, relieved, tired and scared I had ever been up until that point in my life. I shed multiple tears that evening as I sat with him in my arms for the first time. Then, as I looked into his eyes, I realised that one day he too will shuffle off this mortal coil, just like the rest of us. More tears.

Then followed six years of mixed emotions. The usual dad/parent stuff, no doubt, but because I had found the experience so difficult, it seemed folly to want to create another little person who would end up in exactly the same way as their parents and sibling. When I say difficult, I mean difficult. Yes, being a dad has probably been the most rewarding experience of my life, and, undoubtedly, it has literally given me a reason to get up in the morning, but it has been difficult in ways that many would probably not have experienced. Cultural differences have meant that virtually all of my ideas about how to raise a child have had to be compromised, if not entirely scrapped. Here is not the time nor the place to elaborate, but just imagine being an ageing foreigner in a strange land, the primary carer of a toddler (as was firstborn on our arrival here) with almost no support network (inasmuch as I’d come to understand and appreciate such things back in the Old Country), and unable to communicate effectively with family members. Of course, it was my choice to come – the option was unthinkable – but I have had to work around multiple obstacles, while others remain impenetrable to this day. So, back to my beautiful daughter. The second child. The ostensibly unwanted second child.

Clearly, I could not be without her now, but when the idea of a second child first cropped up, all I could imagine was a repeat of the previous three or four years, so I voted against the proposal, not wishing to spend several more years of my life re-living the pain, fear, anger, disappointment, hurt and despair I had somehow managed to survive. Inevitably my vote didn’t count, and to be fair, I conceded that should I be successful in providing the key to the creation of a second little person, it would be entirely for the sake of their brother and for their mother. Not for me. Ultimately, as the more astute among you will have calculated, the *ahem* providing of the key took rather longer than anticipated, so even getting to the blue cross moment was fraught with angst, frustration, multiple tests and procedures, such that it seemed we had missed the fertility boat altogether. Probably too much information, but there you go. Major moments in my life cannot be simply swept under the carpet just to save you from feeling a little queazy. It’s your imagination at work, not mine.

Now, here I sit, contemplating a good fifteen years ahead of me (should I manage to survive the perils of pandemics, road mayhem and cycling too much), rising each morning for the school run until my daughter is ready to pack her bags and head off to some university, kibbutz or Thai beach gap year.

Unwanted she (or, more precisely, it) may have been, but I’m dealing with her in the only way I can, safe in the knowledge that I will make the same mistakes, feel the same pain, despair and frustration as I did with number one. I have given up trying to change anything.

We’ll all end up the same way, so what’s the point?