Dave Smith is coming to terms with the realisation that he's turning into his Dad....
 Dave Smith |
I’m a Dad. I must be – I’ve got a daughter. I’m also a free-thinking independent human being, with full control over what I like and dislike. I’m my own man – or so I thought. However much I told myself that fatherhood wouldn’t change me because – hey, I’m different! - there are certain aspects over which I have no control. However much I resist – I’m slowly becoming my Dad.
I was so determined that I would stay the same old me, do things my way, with my new baby fitting in around me and my way of life, but soon after Lily’s arrival, my steely determination had withered.
Within days, I found myself driving everywhere at an irritatingly sensible speed, shaking my head, and tutting at other road users. My once robust and healthy swearing quota dwindled to almost nothing, and I started to drink in moderation. I started to take more than a passing interest in DIY, which now seemed like a perfectly acceptable way to spend Sundays, and, to my eternal shame, I even allowed Country Music in the house.
What was happening to me?
The most noticeable change in me was my language. Never mind that I now had the restraint and diction of a nun. Out of nowhere, I started using words and phrases that I had never used before in my life. Little things, that must have been locked away safely in my subconscious, until such a time that I was a card-carrying member of the Dad Club and entitled to use them. Some phrases caused me to stop talking, and look sharply over my shoulder saying, "What?" out loud, as though someone else had said it.
For instance, Lily would be having lunch, and some food would go down the wrong way, resulting in a bout of light coughing and spluttering. Patting her gently on the back, I would just find the words forming in my mouth, "Choke up chicken!" followed quickly by, "Huh, where did that come from? I never say that. What’s going on!" But these were all terms my Dad used to use when I was small. I had inherited his language. It always seemed to strike when I least expected it. At her bedtime I find myself with an irresistible urge to say, "Come on then, up the stairs to Bedfordshire."
Then came my choice of vehicles. Until fatherhood, my taste in cars had been strictly ‘oomph’. They had to look good, go like the clappers, and have just enough boot space for a toothbrush. The redder the better. I suppose you’d call it a young man’s taste.
Then it happened. I was sat in traffic with my sleeping two-year old, when I found myself giving a camper van next to me a bit of a sideways glance. I think it was something approaching lust, and I may or may not have said aloud, ‘Cor, I wouldn’t mind one of those!’ I couldn’t help it. I was just thinking of all that lovely space for travel cots, bedding, toys, trikes, and the other three hundred-weight of child ephemera which comes with you on any road trip. Not only that, but I thought of the great holidays we could have, sleeping where we stopped, cooking in the van, having nowhere decent to wash – you know, free spirits.
Then it dawned on me that these were the holidays that I had had as a child. Nearly all my childhood holiday photos feature us leaning into the wind on some bleak moor, with our trusty camper van in the background, groaning under the weight of nearly everything we owned.
Then came the incident which finally made me realise there was no denying the fact - I was going through ‘the change’. Ambling past a shoe shop with nothing better to do, my daughter and I paused to look in the window. For the first time in my life I found myself looking right past the trainers, the boots, and anything else remotely hip, my eyes drawn to the small section of the window devoted to slippers. Before I knew it, I was in the shop, and, cleverly using my daughter as cover, spent a happy half hour trying on footwear that had sheepskin on the inside and tartan on the outside. I bought a pair. Mmm, nice, comfy, warm and sensible. Just like the one’s my Dad used to wear.
You draw on past experiences to deal with whatever life throws at you, so I suppose it kind of makes sense to cope with bringing up a child by acting like your own Dad.
I’m not suggesting for a moment that my Dad did a bad job – well, I wouldn’t would I? He was a proper Dad – you know, strong, tall, reliable, good with bonfires - but I’ve been ploughing my own furrow for so long now, it comes as a bit of a surprise to have no control over what I say, or which direction my tastes are going in.
Surprising as these changes are, I suppose it’s all pretty normal. Combing your remaining hair over your bald patch, and referring to trousers as ‘slacks’ however, is not. I’ll do my best to resist, but on current form, I’m not promising anything.
