scoff. ‘They wouldn’t dream of moving in a million years. Remember when we tried to book them a cruise for their wedding anniversary and they turned us down because ‘there’s no place like home’? That’s Mum and Dad all over. A bomb couldn’t get them out of that house.’
Yvonne laughs and shakes her head and for a moment she’s the spitting image of the photo of Mum as a young woman that hangs in the front room. ‘I hate it when you’re right.’
‘I know,’ I reply, ‘but you’ll get used to it one day.’
I look over at my nephews, who are eyeing me carefully while playing with my dad. This is their warm-up game. They do it every time they see me even though we all know that in ten minutes’ time we’ll be racing around the house and battling each other with light sabres.
They’re much bigger than I remember and their features have changed too. Fat faces getting thinner, thin faces getting broader and more elements of our side of the family coming out. How is it possible that human beings can change so much in such a short space of time? How is it possible for them to have changed so much and me not to have changed at all?
‘Mum says you’ve been in the wars,’ says Yvonne, looping her arm through mine as we walk towards the house.
‘Just a bit.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that things didn’t work out for you and Lauren. I had no idea you were having problems.’
‘Neither did I until it was too late. I’ll live though. Down but not out and all that.’
‘And the word on the street is that you’ve given up your job as well? You’re not having some kind of breakdown, are you?’
‘There’s no such thing. Didn’t they teach you anything at shrink school?’
As well as being the smartest in our family Yvonne is also a trained child psychologist. She slaps my arm playfully. ‘They taught me enough to recognise when someone’s being evasive.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m not having a breakdown, or a mid-life crisis or any of that malarky. I’ve just run out of steam, that’s all. With a bit of TLC I’ll be back up and running before you know it.’
Once we’re inside the boys warm to me in no time. I start by catching up on their news and getting them to tell me stuff about what they’ve learned at pre-school and then once they start to lose interest in talking I move on to some gentle chasing around the living room with me being a monster determined to eat them before finally they hand me a light sabre and we move on to all-out war. It’s fun doing the uncle thing. I feel like I finally have a role I can play well. The downside is that seeing the boys makes me feel a little out of sorts because I know I would have made a terrific father.
Like most couples Lauren and I had talked in a general fashion about starting a family. We’d talked about the ratio of boys to girls that we’d want (one of each) and what names we’d choose (Connie and Samuel) and speculated about our own parenting skills (we were sure we’d be great). But we never set ourselves a deadline and maybe that made sense. With Lauren being seven years younger than me there was plenty of time for us to be casual about our imaginary family’s future.
Nevertheless, forty seemed like the perfect age to become a dad. Yes, there was the perennial argument about starting early so that you’d still be able to run about and play football with your kids but I’d already missed that boat and anyway, there’s more to life than football. At forty, I reasoned, I would’ve seen enough of life to be fully committed to the fatherhood thing; I’d be in a better position to push for a more strategic role at work that wouldn’t involve so much travelling; and above all I’d feel mentally equipped to take on the job of a lifetime because that’s how seriously I took the idea of being a dad. I wasn’t going to do it lightly. My dad had been the best dad ever and with him as a role model I was going to give it my
Yvonne laughs and shakes her head and for a moment she’s the spitting image of the photo of Mum as a young woman that hangs in the front room. ‘I hate it when you’re right.’
‘I know,’ I reply, ‘but you’ll get used to it one day.’
I look over at my nephews, who are eyeing me carefully while playing with my dad. This is their warm-up game. They do it every time they see me even though we all know that in ten minutes’ time we’ll be racing around the house and battling each other with light sabres.
They’re much bigger than I remember and their features have changed too. Fat faces getting thinner, thin faces getting broader and more elements of our side of the family coming out. How is it possible that human beings can change so much in such a short space of time? How is it possible for them to have changed so much and me not to have changed at all?
‘Mum says you’ve been in the wars,’ says Yvonne, looping her arm through mine as we walk towards the house.
‘Just a bit.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that things didn’t work out for you and Lauren. I had no idea you were having problems.’
‘Neither did I until it was too late. I’ll live though. Down but not out and all that.’
‘And the word on the street is that you’ve given up your job as well? You’re not having some kind of breakdown, are you?’
‘There’s no such thing. Didn’t they teach you anything at shrink school?’
As well as being the smartest in our family Yvonne is also a trained child psychologist. She slaps my arm playfully. ‘They taught me enough to recognise when someone’s being evasive.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m not having a breakdown, or a mid-life crisis or any of that malarky. I’ve just run out of steam, that’s all. With a bit of TLC I’ll be back up and running before you know it.’
Once we’re inside the boys warm to me in no time. I start by catching up on their news and getting them to tell me stuff about what they’ve learned at pre-school and then once they start to lose interest in talking I move on to some gentle chasing around the living room with me being a monster determined to eat them before finally they hand me a light sabre and we move on to all-out war. It’s fun doing the uncle thing. I feel like I finally have a role I can play well. The downside is that seeing the boys makes me feel a little out of sorts because I know I would have made a terrific father.
Like most couples Lauren and I had talked in a general fashion about starting a family. We’d talked about the ratio of boys to girls that we’d want (one of each) and what names we’d choose (Connie and Samuel) and speculated about our own parenting skills (we were sure we’d be great). But we never set ourselves a deadline and maybe that made sense. With Lauren being seven years younger than me there was plenty of time for us to be casual about our imaginary family’s future.
Nevertheless, forty seemed like the perfect age to become a dad. Yes, there was the perennial argument about starting early so that you’d still be able to run about and play football with your kids but I’d already missed that boat and anyway, there’s more to life than football. At forty, I reasoned, I would’ve seen enough of life to be fully committed to the fatherhood thing; I’d be in a better position to push for a more strategic role at work that wouldn’t involve so much travelling; and above all I’d feel mentally equipped to take on the job of a lifetime because that’s how seriously I took the idea of being a dad. I wasn’t going to do it lightly. My dad had been the best dad ever and with him as a role model I was going to give it my
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