The thing with the second Sunday of Novembers is...

The Marathon. Again.

Projects don’t always start off with with a marathon, but this time the Athens Marathon does for me. It is that time of year, the second Sunday of November is tomorrow.

I have a love and hate relationship with the race. It is a bit like living in Greece. It is beautiful, hard, full of love, regret and distrust.  I love it because it is a hard course, you have to run it smart and you have to train well for it, both of which I have never succeeded in doing at the same time before and from the looks of things, I won’t be doing them again this year. Nevertheless, it is still its most redeeming feature for me. That’s about it for what I love about it though, oh, and then there is the finish. The race ends with a finishing straight right into the marble stadium first used in the 1896 Olympics. It just can’t be beat.

The things I hate about it though are many. The whole thing is just awkward. The race website is awkward. Registration is awkward, paying is awkward, and up until last year if you selected the English language version you were directed to a more expensive payment package. Getting to the start is awkward and getting home is awkward. But you are happy to forgive it all when you finish the race and you will find yourself signing up again the next year. Of course that means you will also follow the same cycle of displeasure with it all. Annoyingly the race was recently re-branded from the pleasingly pedestrian is what it says it is on the tin, the ‘Athens Classic Marathon’ to the new ‘Athens Marathon, The Authentic’. It smacks of having a chip on one’s shoulder, a sort of pained way of saying that this is the original marathon and the rest of you are all running a marathon-like races elsewhere. It's like the feta debacle, after years of squabbling, it is now a protected designated product of origin (despite the word feta being borrowed from Italian), everyone knows it is a peculiarly Greek salty cheese that just about only goes with a salad when you are on holiday, just like everyone knows that the Athens Marathon is the original one in a sense. It is why there are more foreign runners at the event than local. Although I am willing to concede that I am getting to be a tad grouchy as I get older and I just preferred the old logo. And as much as I may like feta, if it doesn't go with wine, I think it should be left to fend for itself.

But perhaps what I hate most is that I have never run it well. I have tried running it six times before but only managed to make the start line three times. The other no shows have more to do with my job that anything specifically to do the with the race per se yet it just contributes to a general unhappiness with the whole Athens Marathon thing. The race is well placed seasonally, in that it rides on the tail end of Autumn just before Winter starts blowing in on the northerly winds. As I am a teacher though it is like a near perfect storm - it coincides perfectly with the death march to the end of the school term, the seasonal change brings with it new and exciting viruses riding through the halls on runny nosed children on an almost daily basis. And so each year, despite my paranoia and refusal to talk to any sickly children if at all possible, they always get me.  

The route is an interesting one for a marathon in that it provides its own unique challenges. It starts off flat and then climbs in a series of long steps for 30 km before descending slowly towards the finish. There are hillier marathons and lumpier marathons out there, though this one tempts you to start of too quickly and you are lured into hitting the climbs too hard and then it is too late - the downhill is assuredly more of a curse than a blessing. It is a course that requires some self-restraint.

This year, almost miraculously for the first time in 7 years I haven’t  succumbed to the virus ridden children,  it has not been without its challenges though. For starters, I now have two small children of my own. My eldest is now in nursery and so there is now a direct conduit into our home for school colds. My youngest seems to possesses a circadian rhythm more in line with New Zealand and he objects vociferously to all pleas to return to sleep from 3 am onward. Tomorrow, I am clearly not running against a personal best from the same me without two kids. But this marathon is the start for something else, and this time I am running to absorb the atmosphere and experience it without chasing a time that always seems to slip ahead ahead of me. That is the plan anyway.

A little while ago, I shared a snippet from a fantastic book that delved into why young men are so predisposed to driving themselves into trees and other risky behaviour. My wife quickly chipped in that it was due to the fact that men’s prefrontal cortices haven't fully developed, and even though it was fascinating from an anthropological and evolutionary perspective, it was still the ultimate put down. But she is right, despite my best intentions I will be an idiot. Somewhere, a switch will click and I will leave all my carefully thought out plans behind and try to chase someone ahead of me.

So, the race plan will inevitably be as it was before: run fast at the beginning, run quick and hard up the hilly sections telling myself that it is okay in that it is all downhill from 30 kms.From there the idea is to let the hounds of hell loose but usually I find that they will already have been eaten. The last two kms involve me willing to sell my soul to whoever is listening.  I’ll enter again next year and go through this all again.

The Athens Marathon is always an ugly beauty.

The thing with the second Sunday of Novembers is...

The Marathon. Again.

Projects don’t always start off with with a marathon, but this time the Athens Marathon does for me. It is that time of year, the second Sunday of November is tomorrow.

I have a love and hate relationship with the race. It is a bit like living in Greece. It is beautiful, hard, full of love, regret and distrust.  I love it because it is a hard course, you have to run it smart and you have to train well for it, both of which I have never succeeded in doing at the same time before and from the looks of things, won’t be doing again this year. Nevertheless, it is still its most redeeming feature for me. That’s about it for what I love about it though, oh, and the finish. The race ends with a finishing straight right into the marble stadium used in the 1896 Olympics. It just can’t be beat.

The things I hate about it though are many. The whole thing is just awkward. The race website is awkward. Registration is awkward, paying is awkward, and up until last year if you selected the English language version you were directed to a more expensive payment package. Getting to the start is awkward and getting home is awkward. But you are happy to forgive all of that when you finish the race and you will sign up again the next year and find yourself following the same cycle of displeasure. Annoyingly the race was recently re-branded from the pleasingly pedestrian is what it says it is on the tin, the ‘Athens Classic Marathon’ to the new ‘Athens Marathon, The Authentic’. It smacks of  having a chip one’s shoulder, a sort of pained way of saying that this is the original marathon and the rest of you are all running an imitation race elsewhere. It's like the feta debacle, after years of squabbling, it is a protected designated product of origin (despite the word feta being borrowed from Italian) everyone knows it is a peculiarly Greek salty cheese just like everyone knows that the Athens Marathon is the original one in a sense. It is why there are more foreign runners at the event than local. Although I am willing to concede that I am getting to be a tad grouchy as I get older and I just preferred the old logo.

But perhaps what I hate most is that I have never run it well. I have tried running it six  times but only managed to make the start line three times. The other no shows have more to do with my job that anything specifically to do the with the race per se yet it just contributes to a general unhappiness with the whole Athens Marathon thing. The race is well placed seasonally, in that it rides on the tail end of Autumn just before Winter starts blowing in on the northerly winds. As I am a teacher though  it coincides perfectly with the death march to the end of the school term, the seasonal change brings with it new and exciting viruses riding through the halls on runny nosed children on an almost daily basis. And so each year, despite my paranoia and refusal to talk to any sickly children if at all possible, they always get me.  

The route is an interesting one for a marathon in that it provides its own unique challenges. It starts off flat and then climbs in a series of long steps for 30 km before descending slowly towards the finish. There are hillier marathons and lumpier marathons out there though this one tempts you to start of too quickly and you are lured into hitting the climbs too hard and then it is too late - the downhill is assuredly more of a curse than a blessing. It is a course that requires some self-restraint.

This year, almost miraculously in that it is the first time in 7 years that I haven’t  succumbed to the virus ridden children,  it has not been without its challenges. For starters, I now have two small children of my own. Nothing is the same anymore, all is for the better except for when it comes to running. And sleep. My eldest is now in nursery, and so there is now a direct conduit into out home for schools colds. My youngest seems to possesses a circadian rhythm more in line with New Zealand and objects vociferously at all please to return to sleep from 3 am onward. Tomorrow, I am clearly not running against a personal best from the same me without two kids. But this marathon is the start for something else, and this time I am  running to absorb the atmosphere and experience it without chasing a time that always seems to slip ahead ahead of me. That is the plan anyway.

A little while ago, I shared a snippet from a fantastic book that delved into why young men are so predisposed to driving themselves into trees and other risky behaviour. My wife quickly chipped in that it was due to the fact that at that men’s prefrontal cortices haven't fully developed, and even though it was fascinating from an anthropological and evolutionary perspective, it was still the ultimate put down. But she is right, despite my best intentions I will be an idiot. Somewhere, a switch will click and I will leave all my carefully thought out plans behind a I try to chase someone ahead of me.

So, the race plan will inevitably be as it was before: run fast at the beginning, run quick and hard up the hilly sections telling myself that it is okay in that it is all downhill from 30 kms there on in.From there the idea is to let the hounds of hell loose but they will already have been eaten. The last two kms involve me willing to sell my soul to whoever is listening.  I’ll enter again next year and go through this all again.

The Athens Marathon is always an ugly beauty.

The Realities of a Running Streak (if you have one too many kids)

Bottom of the barrel

I first got the idea of a run streak during the dark days of the holidays. I'd come across it before, but when rock bottom hits you'll try most things. This idea was spawned through the social loins of either Twitter or Facebook, and made me resent the idea even more. The problem with both of these forms of media is that everyone purports to live a better version of the life they live, and of course, yours. Photographs of better food, better holidays, parties, friends and better sleep. If you are a new-ish parent unfortunately all those things are true and you have long given up wondering whether the streaks upon your trousers, sofas, walls are mucous or food based. Standards are variable, food and the rigidity of the 5 second rule depends if anyone is watching.

I needed something to get me moving again. The secrets of how a run streak will propel you to a new PB marathon or discovering something zen.... are not here. Neither did I inadvertently unlock 5 secrets to successfully juggle a busy life and run fast, nor any particularly useful time management tips. Triathletes are probably the worst at telling you how the key to it all is the simple art of time management. "I have like, three sports, a job to juggle, a social life where I talk about bikes mostly, and the shredded remains of a largely ignored relationship." I know, I used to be one. Now there is no time for much of any framework, even the best laid plans fall to nappy mechanicals, disturbed sleep and the whims of a poorly child. One of my offspring seems to feel passionately against sleeping for any prolonged period of time at all, even more so during the night. No time management plan, should you be so delusional, should be to leave your partner of long suffering to pick up any more slack so you can pop out for a run. Its the quickest way for a toothbrush to be shaped into a shiv. About the best tip I can pass on, apart from the avoidance of a punctured kidney, is having the coffee brew on a timer and a hidden stash of chocolate digestives.

The reality is that a good proportion of your runs will be running when tired. I used to call them junk miles when I had time (i.e. I was juggling nothing other than self gratification sprinkled with Shimano or Campy). The idea of following a programme usually goes out the window. You run when you can. You try do hill repeats or a tempo run after you have had to Jedi-like will your child to sleep after the third bed time story. You get stronger, almost surprisingly. Some runs will feel great, but not many. But you are at least moving.

When the end is near

Eventually it will all end, usually without rainbows and fanfare. The problem with ending a run streak is that it is a little like self-checking out of the Priory. You are, I imagine, not sure if you could do with a bit longer or if the time is right. My run streak ended with a bender of a weekend with pizza, chocolate and red wine and no more running.  It was too soon. I might need to check back in.

The agony and the ecstasy tediousness of a streak

1 (29/1) Relief. Just feel relieved at having started. I am moving again.

2 (30/12) Now wondering if this is a good idea all. Running every other seems like a far more sensible approach. But Run Streak Every Other Day just doesn't sound like it'll catch on.

3 (31/12) It snowed - felt hardcore. Also managed to escape a family lunch early and not even a blizzard would have stopped me today.

4 (1/1) Misery breeds satisfaction. Awful weather really made the run feel like an accomplishment.

5 (2/1) Oddly beginning to feel some sort of commitment to the idea. Although 25 more days seems like to much to think about.

6 (3/1) Not feeling it. The sofa seems to have its own gravitational pull. Last day of holidays, tomorrow is when it starts getting tough.

7 (4/1) School term started. Little dears have sucked the life blood out of me and its only day one.

8 (5/1) Took kids on double buggy. Had better ideas before, but it was one way to see the kids and get the run it. Felt like doing the run in an ironman, where your  body feels like isn't your friend any more. Tougher workout than I thought. There is no flat where we live, like I said, better ideas and this wasn't one of them.

9 (6/1) Trail run. Tired. Began weighing up pros and cons of rolling my ankle on purpose to stop the streak.

10 (7/1) Third of the way. Feels good even though legs don't. Getting tired of washing the running kit. The wife is annoyed at the kit on the radiators. Kit is now being worn multiple times. It's okay, I run alone and in the dark.

11 (8/1) Last thing I possibly wanted in a Friday. Usually it's takeaway and beer after the kids are down to celebrate the end of the week. I almost jumped several motorbike delivery men as they were on their way to happy people. But I decided to stop whingeing and went for a long run.

12 (9/1) Woke up and resolved to start thinking about doing some stretching. Stiff and sore. Decided to drive to the flattest place I could find an just run laps. It rained. Yay.

13 (10/1) Muscles are sore but thankfully nothing else more serious seems to be amiss. First solid feelings in the legs for a long time. Began thinking about racing again. Idiot.

14 (11/1) Decided I needed some accountability and so told my class. Made a competition where the pupil that predicted the closed total mileage would win some sort of prize. Gave them my average running speed and amount of time I would likely run. Estimates go in a jar to be opened at the end of 30 days.  One kid guessed 900 kilometres. Bless, but it make me worry about my teaching ability. I'll probably give him the prize for having the most misguided faith in me. Ran home. Picked up a small cold. It's a miracle I lasted this long. Children are highly efficient germ carriers. Schools are like the germ Death Star and I happen to work in one. Little darlings.

15 (12/1) Run to school. Imagined that this is like a marriage that has gone on too long, just going through the motions.

16 (13/1) Ran cross country with the school kids and then football club training in the afternoon. Ran home. Kept looking for wild dogs that would hopefully savage me so I wouldn't have to continue running.

17 (14/1) No sleep and one the contents of one nappy was breached the walls. Enough fossil fuel on everything to run a small household for a week. Much cursing and cleaning. Run pushed to this evening. Ended up running after bed time stories. Felt like I was dragging a dead mule.

18 (15/1). Can't quite believe I have run 18 days in a row. Although distance wise I have achieved nothing spectacular. Combined a run with an outing with the kids. Two birds one stone makes for an unfocused run, but a stone is a stone.

19 (16/1).  Weekends are easier and managed to fit a longer run in. Looking forward to finally have the time to do a long run in the trails.

20 (17/1).  Even the best laid plans don't always work out with babies, toddlers and tired parents. Resorted to another 'notch' run. Next weekend perhaps.

21 (18/1).  Sleet. Wind. Sleet. Cold. But fun.

22 (19/1).  Today's run was 30 mins and it felt like 30 mins too long. Squeezed in between bedtime stories and changing the flat tyre on the wife's car. Fairly sure my running kit has stopped smelling. Probably I have gotten used to it. Can't ask the wife to verify. Child no 3 might need to wait until after the streak.

23 (20/1) Mix of road and trail. Managed to run the entire length of an uphill, something I have never been able to do, even when fitter. Something might indeed be happening.

24 (21/1) wanting to go for longer runs although time isn't permitting. So that's positive.

25 (22/1) ran to work today. Quite enjoyable, usually I feel it throughout the day, so getting better.

26 (23/1) Snowed overnight, drove to the local mountain. Slow paced climbing, scrambling. Fun day out. Felt good not to 'run'.

27 (25/1) Knackered. A long day that began with one kid gleefully taking the largest dump that streaked down to the very bottom of his pyjamas. No sure how he did it so quietly either. Little bastard looked happy as anything. Rubbish day at work and the last thing I felt like is saving a streak. Ironically, I did hill repeats because I just couldn't face running a route that I have done multiple times. But I got outside and the glass of wine won't even touch the sides of my conscience. Dry Mondays are for wimps.

28 (26/1).  Energy levels are low. Wasn't looking forward to the run and it didn't improve as I went. I couldn't wrench my mind away for the images of red wine an pizza. Just general tiredness.  

29 (27/1) No unicorns sighted on my penultimate run. Rather disappointed. Running home after school football practice is always like running with someone else's legs.

30 (28/1) Last run. Would have been nice to do something interesting to mark the achievement, but I had to squeeze in a short run before I have the kids this evening.

The end, finally.

Run streaks. Are they a good idea. The honest answer is yes, probably. For me it is not possible to fit in the kind of running that I used to do.  I often skipped a run if it felt like it wasn't going to be worth it. Mostly I was tired. A streak was good for me in that it forced me outside. I had to work it around family life, the mileage has been low but I am out there. I am stringer and fitter that before I started it (duh) but compared to other times in my life, not a chance, but I am moving.

Top Tips

1) Bedtime stories and keeping the wife happy come first.

2) Coffee on a timer and carefully hidden digestives.

3) Much like the old army saying of sleep when you can, it is run when you can.

4) Accept that many of your runs will be a slog.

5) Accept that the run is often the least important thing of your day, keep it in perspective.

6) Alternate running shoes.

7) Accept that most of the time you will run alone, so its okay to wear your work socks. The more colourful the better.

The Problem with the Holidays

The problem with holidays is that they are a long dark glimpse into your soul

The Christmas holiday season really is the worst time of year, for me at least. For a few days you can leave your day job behind, wind down, and spend more time with the family. Predictably and all too soon a little listlessness sets in. You start growing a holiday beard because you have no reason not too. You pick up the odd jobs that you had started but never finished the last time you were on holiday. Every morning you tidy the same kids toys away. Throw in a few long and tetchy family get-togethers and, well, the holidays are why there is gun control. 

I have always found the transition from work mode to holiday mindset difficult. One night, the family all tucked in, tired and beginning to resent what I was seeing on the mirror, I started browsing a few running websites. I find it always works for me, the commitment to start thinking about exercising again. Of course that resolve vanishes sharply the moment you tread on some unseen and un-tidied away piece of Lego or Stickle Brick the following morning. It was in this moment of delusional sloth that I came across an article on why starting a running streak was a good idea. Not in the mood for cheery good news, I obstinately read the length of the article only because I was convinced it was a ludicrous idea. Even though I wasn't persuaded, I knew I had to do something. I floated the idea past an old London mate mine, Rob. When we first met, my liver and knees were in the process of looking for a replacement sport for rugby, and I fell in with the wrong crowd. Robby and his triathlete friends. Despite my protestations that I could not swim he had me entered for an Ironman race for later that summer. 

A run streak, for those that lead a life of normalcy and otherwise healthy pursuits, is a period of consistent daily running. Some continue for a few weeks, others, fervently for years. From what I had read, all you had to do was run everyday. That much was straight forward. There weren't specifications on mileage and encouragingly a 'run saver' was employed. This was a get out of jail card that allowed you to jog for a only mile, because if you know, life were to happen in the midst of your streak. This preserved your run streak. I liked it. I could run a mile. For a few days in a row. Robby like the idea but insisted on no run saver and a minimum of 30 minutes a day. Misery usually loves company and I couldn't back out now. 

Thou Shalt Judge. Often.

Now, the first rule of a running streak is that you need to talk about a running streak. This is because it makes it harder to quit if other people know what you are up to. But you need to think carefully about who you tell. There is a definite pecking order with runners and even though they are as wholesome a bunch of people that you may wish to find, you will always be asked what your times are for certain distances and once you reveal your times, you are slotted above or below them and their immediate running circle. Don't tell your better and fitter athlete friends because they'll be quick to sniff out, correctly mind you, that it is a last ditch attempt to pull yourself up from out of the gutter. Don't tell your normal friends because they'll be quick to place you in a category of people they like to avoid, like dentists and Mormons. My advice is to tell little children because almost anything is amazing to them and you'll feel immediately better about your endeavour.

You can't choose your family...but keep them on your side.

Support from your family is critical. Unless of course you want out and then this is one of the quicker and better ways to turn your spouse against you. Initially mine was doubtful of the practicality of the idea and the realities of life with two small children. But she acknowledged with mild concern a few warning signs had started to tally up recently; I had begun to talk of brewing my own beer, restoring old hand tools and taken to sharpening all of the kitchen knives with zeal. With several long family dinners looming over the Christmas break, she threw her support in with the idea.

And so, so far I am out there trudging along. I have made it 13 days. 

You weren't supposed to blow the bloody wheels off

How hard can it be? That was the last blog post I wrote - in August. 2014. Clearly I had no idea what I was in for. Reading back on the blog, it all seemed so frivolous, so carefree and unconstrained to time. It was life before kids, me time, wife time, all the time in the world. Then it all nosedived. To be fair though, at first it was a stall when the first child arrived, but we sputtered for a bit, recovered and then the second one hit and that was it. Death spiral to the ground and all was black. 

Perhaps the worst thing about being a parent is that you don't really get to complain about it in the open. You can complain of course, about how little sleep you get. That is a given and is as much as part of social interactions as is what the weather is up to kind of small talk. People without kids usually try their best and always ask how little sleep you are getting. Before my life changed, I used to think of it as living with a permanent hangover. Which wouldn't be so bad because clearly something good had to have happened to have caused the hangover. Usually hangovers, or the type of hangover is proportional to the effort and enjoyment given to attain a hangover. Now, I rarely talk to people without kids. I despise them for their lack of continual suffering. 

Talking then, to people whose kids are older than yours is interesting. Although its not obvious, they delight in your misfortune because they have suffered through it. It is schadenfreude for parents. If its one thing I have learnt, other people's misery makes you happy. It doesn't make you a bad person, just a tired parent. It is why I love talking to people with newborns. It makes my day. 

Similarly, one's own parents and parents in-law should also be avoided. You'll never do as good a job as they did, all without the help, ran a tidy house and all this after giving birth in a barn in the snow or something equally ridiculous that you can't live up to. Your children will always be underfed, undressed and living in a hovel in their eyes. 

You get to complain about your work and people immediately empathise. Complain about your kids and you are the turd in the room. If you are with your parents or in-laws you already are the offending item and you may as well be honest. Not that I am complaining, my life is infinitely better than it was, despite that many of my meals are mashed leftovers that the kids would not eat or being followed into the loo and with avid interest in what number is daddy producing. 

My wife tells me I am good at this dad thing, but I am not. I am a drooling mess most mornings and am unredeemable until I have had coffee. I have yet to take the kids and the dogs for a run on the beach while we all wear white flannel shirts and rolled up jeans. Just buckling the thrashing kids into their car seats has seen their vocabulary veer off colourfully into unwanted territory. Weet-a-bix is often used as a hair product when I oversee breakfast. 

Things though finally seem to be settling down. Its time to stick the head above the parapet and try venture out into what was once familiar territory. The plan now is to get back on my feet and out the door. Small steps and a bit of a restoration here and there and hopefully a quickish marathon somewhere in the next few months. 

How Hard Can It Be?

...A road less travelled to fatherhood

Norman Rockwell - Maternity Waiting Room - 1946

The usual scene is the father to be sitting anxiously in the hospital waiting room. Diligent and tired, he has been waiting until the early hours of the morning. The doctor eventually strolls out into the empty corridor, he too is exhausted and grim. With slow and measured steps eventually he stops before the man and gives him the good news. It is a boy or perhaps a girl or it is just fine. A cigar is slipped into his breast pocket by a best friend. It was the traditional man's man of rites of passage, a defining moment.


Skinning A Cat Differently

Times have changed and now the father is right in there amongst the action, half listening to his wife's earnest and personal recriminations and him muttering positive inanities to his grunting wife, recording it all the while on his iPhone. Quite who will ever have the inclination to watch the birthing video is beyond me and as far witnessing the miracle of life, some things are best seen only by doctors or until edited by the BBC with the soothing tones of Sir David Attenborough. In fact I am sure it puts you off the whole thing all together and the availability of the hand-held camera in recent decades correlates perfectly with the steady decline to less than two children per family in the developed world. Call me old fashioned but I'd rather court lung cancer by cigar a couple times that get stuck that deep in the trenches. Of course neither option had been available to me, so this is all theoretical, but I am quite sure my feelings are bedded correctly in the squeamish ground of ignorance and avoidance. I am also rather keen on the stork alternative, for everyone involved. No mess and a freshly changed baby is dropped down the chimney. But I think The Stork has retired to Florida along with Elvis and Father Christmas.

My date with fatherhood also involved a waiting room, in which I waited and fidgeted nervously. I was called in to see the judge who leafed through my file that had taken over a year to fill. Then I was legally pronounced

a father. I don't think there was the smack of a gavel, but it was just as stern and definitely not a memory to be video recorded. There was no cigar, no sweating and exhausted wife nearby that rued the day she ever met me. Just me. Next I caught a taxi and half an hour later I was at the orphanage. Not the usual scene by a long shot. Of course I am brushing over the long journey of becoming an adoptive parent. The angst, procedure and uncertainties need not be delved into. It was a moment my wife and I had been longing for, for over a year. Except it was nothing like we had envisioned. I had had to come alone and now I held a one-year old that I had met nine months ago and seen grow up through photographs. I was unprepared. How hard could it be? It was all I thought about as the two of us strangers blinked at each other in a the back of a taxi on the way to the hotel.


Too Soon To Panic

To say that I was wholly unprepared for the experience is an understatement. Whatever your views on adoption are, it is a process that is lengthy, intrusive and designed for introspection. I had developed an idea of the values and importance of parenthood over hours of discussion with my wife, social services and other experts, but now, face-to-face with it I realised I had really only dealt with the conceptual side of it. I had received one hasty nappy changing lesson, brought along various rattling toys and could not remember more than a snippet of any nursery rhyme from my childhood. I avoided restaurants that were child friendly and viewed prams with disdain. Even though I work in a school, the reception and nursery areas remain the most unsettling and intimidating to me. A trip to the infant and kiddies store the day before I flew did nothing to reassure me that I had made the transition. Most of the toys in the store looked like they could be used by consenting adults who were used to using safety words. The toys, placed in a different setting, perhaps down a certain side street in Amsterdam would fit right in.

You Sent A Man?

Meanwhile, word had crept through the neighbourhood that we were adopting. In fact we hadn't told anyone, but you can only keep a secret for so long when when elderly Greek ladies are concerned. A crack in a curtain across the road was all it took to see the delivery of the baby's mattress. Of course, the eagle-eyed neighbour, armed with some information had been left no choice but to directly confront my wife the next time she spotted her leaving the house. And so the secret was outed, that we had applied and gone through the adoption process for over a year. When my wife explained that I alone had gone to collect our child - and would be sole carer for two weeks she was truly horrified. "You sent a man?" Incredulous and of course quite convinced that I would not manage to bring the child back alive. You see in Greece, men are not really involved in the rearing of children. After the age of seven, men get more involved, but until then the mother is in full command. Of course they never ever let go entirely.

While the legal formalities were processed, Joe and I spent two weeks in the hotel room getting to know each other. He for the first time came to see that the same person would be there for him when he fell asleep and when he awoke. I was in the deep end, slowly building up his trust and getting better at getting food in his mouth. Initial attempts ended up with more food around his face and or down the back of his shirt than where he wanted. The weeks that passed were the most tiring that I have ever been through. I longed to be home for a short break or even just a change of scenery. But looking back those days are best I have ever spent. Playing Hide 'n Seek with a one-year old is usually a one-side affair but the smile that began to creep over his face has never gone away. The toys I had brought elicited little interest and he seemed happier climbing over me or finding out where all the plug points were. Listening to The Beatles seemed to work better than any nursery rhyme I could try sing. We were bonding in our own little way, perhaps it was a bit Stockholm Syndrome-ish while we waited to come home, but it seems to have worked no matter how unorthodox. Of course we were never quite on our own and thanks to the wonders of Skype and FaceTime my wife was able to be part of the daily routine and even the quiet criticism from my mother-in-law was even able to find its way into our little world. Quite how the baby never caught pneumonia or some other dreaded disease in my care she will never know and, not so secretly thinks it is a small miracle.



The Miracle of Life

Time and dementia go hand-in-hand and it is why grandparents love children all over again. My wife's mother was perpetually fretting that the child was not clothed warmly enough and that any area outside the cot was heaped with germs and so should not come into contact with the baby miracle. In the two weeks I think Joe must have licked everything that was from the floor to mouth height. He seems okay. My mother too on the other hand was full of the miracles of life and bursting with questions about what it was like to be so close, finally, to a small bundle of miraculous goodness. I could never supply a good enough answer containing a satisfactory enough amount of wonderment. I hadn't, even after several days, quite got over the contents of my first nappy change. Even now, I still flinch if I think back to that first morning. At home, the nappy inspection is something my wife is quite fond of and takes an avidly forensic interest in what foods seem to complement and solidify well together. I am still of the opinion that the devil lies in the nappy.


The Road Ahead?

I wrote recently that we teach the way we were taught and that we parent the way we were parented. Change only comes when there is a concerted effort to break with the pattern. My wife and I have our own ideas as all shiny new parents do. Although I am not sure what I need to change just yet. If I follow my mother-in-law's approach, the world is a germ abundant and dangerous place. Meaning Joe will never think of leaving the house until he is past the age of 30. On my side of the family tree, I would like to think my childhood was similarly conscious of danger, but I do know that I spent a good deal of my toddler years buck naked from the waist down and enjoyed playing with wet concrete. I also seem to have spent a lot of it crouching happily in a bucket. At least that is what the family photo albums depict. I guess we'll find a middle way of sorts. I have seen enough bad parenting to see that it is very easy to make life very difficult. Social media too seems to be rife with the look-at-me-good-parent-brag photos. Making 5 hour cakes of some favourite cartoon character or posting links to read "10 Jaw Dropping But Shockingly Good Lessons I Want My Toddler To Read Before He Goes to Nursery School - But Can't" is on my not to do list. Clearly it isn't easy. Marriages fail and children become their own persons - despite your parenting and careful nappy changes. I know that the most difficult part of it all is consistency and has been the glue in the start of our relationship. I will need to be more consistent than I have ever been in any other area of my life. Day after day. His little grin when he sees me every time is what makes it all worthwhile. The rest we can figure out along the way.