Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Babies, Empathy, Family, Fatherhood, Jill, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
So this is going to be a weird post, but it’s an important one.
You see a few weeks ago, my wife wrote this …
“As I nursed my baby into toddlerhood I noticed a shift in the messages from outside voices. From supportive and encouraging in the newborn days to surprised, questioning or doubtful once he was a walking, talking toddler.
I like to think that most people want to help with their comments or advice, maybe they worry that our ‘extended’ nursing could somehow impact negatively on my son, after all, it’s not what most people do… Dependence seems to be something a lot of them are concerned about.
I want to show them how my beautiful, sweet, spirited, glorious little boy greets the world (and taxi drivers) with a wide smile or a cheeky ‘Ni Hao!’… how he chants ‘run, run!’ as his still chubby legs stride ever faster down little hills … how he bops and boogies to every kind of music, at every opportunity, in every environment … how he sometimes forgets to even look back to find me because he’s exploring his amazing, ever expanding world … but I guess they’re not completely wrong about him being dependent on me.
He depends on me for comfort, safety, security & connection when he’s sad or tired or hurt or frustrated or overwhelmed. As long as nursing provides this place of refuge for my precious boy I’m ecstatic I can be there for him. So I want those out there who question or doubt or suspect to know, we’re doing great thanks, our version of dependence is exactly as it should be …”
OK … OK … so she writes much better than me, but the fact is, I have been shocked how many people feel they have a right to be a judge on my sons upbringing just because they have their own child.
I accept most of them do it in a well-intentioned way [and fortunately, most of our friends have said, “the best rule to parenting is to only follow your rules and ignore everyone else”] but there has been more than a few – often relative strangers – who have used a judgemental tone or look when they’ve discovered we don’t agree with letting our son ‘cry himself to sleep’, let alone play with dolls or dance whenever music is on.
But here’s the big thing …
Given 50% of Otis is from me, the fact he is turning out to be such an amazing, wonderful little boy means it is 100% down to how Jill.
What she wrote is not an attempt to say ‘our way is the right way’, the purpose of it is to remind people that we have the right to decide what is the right way for us.
But what I find even more amazing is that given how well Otis is turning out, those who challenge our approach are trying to find fault in perfection … so I’d just like them to do me a favour and be an expert on their children, rather than other people’s, though this ‘know when to talk and know when to shut up’ could apply to far more than just raising children as I am sure many of you can appreciate.
Filed under: Comment, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
So yesterday went pretty well.
No one quit [yet] and everyone seemed to get along.
In some respects, that might be the most successful thing I’ll have achieved with The Kennedys.
Today we’re going to talk about emotion and the power it has over us.
I bring this up because on my holiday, I went to see some of my Italian family and I have to say that the whole thing was very emotional for me.
Part of this was because I stayed in the house, in the small town, in the small province where my Mum lived.
It was a place my Mum always regarded as incredibly special and important to her and to be there – with my family for the first time – was incredibly emotional for me.
Seeing my son run around a home that my Mum had run around as a child was both wonderful to see and hard to take.
Without doubt she would have been so very, very happy we were there, I just wish she was there to see it.
I looked at everything differently while I was there.
Everywhere I went I tried to imagine Mum as a child playing in the streets, visiting the park that she eventually took me to as a child [and that I took Otis too], laughing with her friends.
When I stood on one of the old houses balcony’s, I kept thinking Mum had done the same thing at one time.
In some ways, it made me feel I was near her again … that I had ‘brought her home’ and I loved that, though it also meant the rawness of her loss came to the surface again.
While I was there I met some of Mum’s school friends.
Some I had met before, some I hadn’t.
To hear them talk so wonderfully about my Mum really got to me.
It’s not that those words hadn’t been said by others before, it was just that these people knew my Mum in a way few did – certainly not me – and somehow that meant their words had even more power.
It was a privilege to be there and I am so glad I was able to bring my new family together with my old, but I don’t mind telling you I was emotionally exhausted when I left.
But there’s one story I want to talk about, because it’s a story I’m going to be telling The Kennedys students about today.
While I was in Italy, one of my relations showed me a bunch of old photographs.
One was of my family home in Nottingham and when I turned the photo over to see if had been dated, I saw this …
That’s my Dad’s writing.
Writing I had not seen for a long, long time.
And I have to say, it knocked me sideways.
I couldn’t stop looking at it.
Running my finger across it.
Like standing on that balcony in Mum’s family home, this writing suddenly made me feel close to my Dad again.
Not just emotionally, but physically.
It didn’t matter it was just an address.
It didn’t matter it was so old, I’m guessing it was when Mum & Dad had just moved into the area given he had spelt ‘Bridgford’ incorrectly.
It was my Dad and this had moved him from my past into my present.
And that was an amazing feeling. A precious, amazing feeling.
Now that’s what I call a real family holiday.
I am writing this on the 18th May at 9:50pm.
Everyone in the house is asleep and I’ve spent the last 10 minutes watching them.
Transfixed by them.
My family.
Wife. Son. Cat.
Each one breathing in and out in their own unique rhythm, occasionally interrupting themselves with a sigh … a sniff … a cough.
And it strikes me how lucky I am to have all this.
Three beautiful individuals forever entwined in my life.
Three beautiful individuals who seem happy about this fact.
Yes, even Rosie the cat.
It’s amazing.
And I am suddenly overcome with the feeling that if my parents were to walk in on this scene of filial tranquility, they’d look at me and smile … and that smile would mean one thing.
You’ve done well son.
And I have.
_______________________________________________________________________________
* Both of the photos in this post are old. I was going to take a new one but then I realised the moment the flash went off, this moment of domestic bliss would be replaced with a crying baby, a pissed off cat and a karate chop in the windpipe from the wife and I want this post to be something she can [one day] treasure, not bring up whenever she’s is angry at me.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Comment, Cunning, Emotion, Fatherhood, Jill, Love, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
As you read this, I’ll be on a plane to the UK for a weekend with my best friend.
I know … that sounds a bit indulgent, but the reason for that is because next week I’m in Amsterdam for work and to run a couple of classes for HOALA, so it’s not that too princessy.
So the good news for you is there will be no posts for all of next week.
The bad news – for Martin Weigel – is he is going to have to put up with me for 5 whole days.
Anyway, the reason for the title of this blog post is recently my wife sent me this message while she was in a cafe with Otis for a spot of breakfast.
I cannot tell you how proud I am.
Not just of Otis, but of my parenting skills, because they seem to be achieving real results in terms of nurturing a mischievous little sod.
Anyway, until the 14th …