IT STARTED WITH A YIN YANG

I was seventeen years old when Michelle and I were introduced. I couldn't tell you what she was wearing, but I do remember that she had black hair with a bright blue streak through it. She was pixie cute, forward in a way that wasn't invasive, and I liked her instantly. While we had a good natured disagreement about what what each side of a taijitu represented, I became aware of a strange connection with her. Unfortunately we had been introduced by Mark, my oldest friend, and Michelle's new boyfriend.

Over the next few weeks, we saw each other a few more times, but I can honestly say that I never considered or thought of anything romantic between us. She was with Sparkie (Mark), someone who is as close to being family to me as someone can be without the shared chromosomes. Not to mention that I was somewhat distracted by the fact that I had started seeing a girl too. My first girlfriend in fact. And so the girl with the blue hair, my bestfriend's girl, was essentially forgotten about.

Time passes, relationships end, life moves on.

* * *

Sparkie had an active social life back then. He was, and remains, one of the most personable and naturally charismatic people I know. These talents served him well in life in general, but probably more often in love and lust. What I'm trying to say is, he saw a lot of girls. Or rather, he saw a lot of many girls. This being the case, in addition to a few alchopops, is probably why he didn't figure it out sooner. After all, she did look very different.

We were at a local nightclub and, while he was getting some drinks, I was dancing like everyone was watching (which is to say, extremely awkwardly) when somebody called out my name. I said hello to the girl who knew my name but I had no idea who she was. Surely I wouldn't forget a girl with bright red hair which was shorter than mine, would I? It took us maybe 20 minutes to figure out that Michelle with the short red hair was Michelle with the blue hair. After that we got to talking.

In those days (and probably still), when the clubs closed in East Kilbride, it was an unwritten social rule that the night could not end until you went to the local chippy, The Victor (or Victor's which everybody annoyingly calls it), for a half pizza and chips. This was always my favourite part of the night; everyone could talk without shouting, the booze was wearing off a little, and most of the choads had shambled off for the night.

It was there, still talking while we sat against the window of The Victor, that Michelle lay her head on my shoulder. It felt to me like she had always belonged there. I am typically awkward with people, I am very uncomfortable when given any affection, and was particularly so when that affection came from a pretty girl. I had even been like that with the girl I had been seeing. But not then, not with her. It was only after the door of her taxi closed that I realised I should have kissed her.

* * *

A few weeks later it was Sparkie's 18th birthday, and I was eager to see him and give him his gift, I had got him a wallet which was a replica of the one from Pulp Fiction, the one which said BAD MOTHER FUCKER. We lived opposite each other back then so I had went over as soon as I woke up. From that point on it was one of the best days of my life. I can't remember a day before that in which I was happier or had more fun.

By the time we reached Plush, the local club, we were giddy. Having been having as much fun as everyone else, and possibly because it was a special occasion, led Sparkie's dad, David, to decide that he didn't want the party to end just because we were leaving, he was going dancin'! As we made our way to the club to the tune of Bonny M's Daddy Cool, I couldn't have imagined that my day was going to get any better.

We met Michelle and her friends almost immediately on arriving at the club. Naturally I was pleased to see her, but I didn't realise how much until, on seeing her give Sparkie a hug and kiss to say happy birthday, I felt a little twinge of jealousy and a little pang of panic. After that I'm not exactly sure what happened but nevertheless, I found that Michelle and I were soon together on the dance floor. Just me, her, and David.

I was already feeling guilty about my feelings for Michelle, so you can maybe imagine how awkward it was that all that the only thing that stood between us was my best friend's dad, Michelle's ex-boyfriend's father. It actually didn't take long for David to catch on, but the guilt was still nagging at me. I excused myself, found my friends, and took Sparkie aside. Just as I knew he would, he laughed when I asked him if he would mind if I asked Michelle out (or probably, more accurately, if he would mind if I "got off" with her). With my friend's blessing secured I made my way back to the dance floor with Michelle. As Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl started playing, and I was still planning to make my move, Michelle kissed me.

My life changed after that. We were together most of the time, and spoke on the phone when were apart (actually spoke, there was no texting back then kids). We had found each other and didn't want to let go.

There have been a lot of changes in our lives since that night in July of 1999, some hard, some joyous, but the one constant which has never changed is that I love her, and she, I'm grateful to say loves me.

Hate/Apathy

While Michelle and I walking down Sauchiehall St. earlier there was an Asian girl and her boyfriend walking ahead of us, and a trashy looking girl and her friend ahead of us. We couldn’t believe our eyes as the trashy girl, completely unprovoked and without warning, reached forward and struck the Asian girl in the face.

Never once did it occur to me that the attack was racially motivated. Not to sound too much like a douchy liberal or anything, but I didn't even notice the girl was Asian, not until I heard her, that platinum blond piece of shit.

"You're not even supposed be here!"

You're not even supposed to be here? I couldn't believe it. I can't believe it. What could possibly possess a girl (or anyone) to just randomly attack someone? And to do it because the person is different from you? It was so odd, so unreal. It was disgusting.

Thing escalated when, understandably, the couple where shouting at the girl, mostly just asking: Why? When the trashy girl started attacking again Michelle and I were snapped out of our initial shock and called the police. Five minutes passed and the trashy girl started walking away after having continued to try and attack the couple several more times. I called the police back, gave a description of the blond and her friend and was assured that someone was on the way. We were in the area for maybe a further five to ten minutes but nobody came. We then walked in the same direction in which the girl had fled and still nothing. Not only did no officers respond, but there was absolutely no police presence on Sauchiehall St. or Buchannan St.

In the end I have to say that, as much as I was disgusted by the attack, my feelings about the police response are close to equal.

Superman

This morning, my three-year-old saw a trailer for Long Walk to Freedom on TV, pointed to Idris Elba, and exclaimed “Superman!” I corrected him saying that that man was not Superman, but that he was playing somebody who is a real life superhero.

At the time I didn't really pay attention to what I had said, but my words were absolutely apt and completely encapsulated how I feel about Nelson Mandela. The world was a greater place with him in it and we are all richer for the knowledge that a man of such strength and such character existed in our lifetime.

I am very saddened by the loss of one the few good men of the world stage but concede that the great man has earned his rest.

MINDFULNESS

“Do you own a Yoga mat?”, This was the first question asked of me when I was introduced to Mindfulness. The man I met with was John Coffey (like the drink, only not spelt the same; and like the literary and cinematic character, only not huge, black, and magical) and he invited me to join my first therapy group.

The principal of Mindfulness (as it relates to psychology) is to bring your attention and awareness to the here and now; to live in the present rather that fester on the past and/or worry about the future. To achieve this, students of Mindfulness are taught meditation and some yoga based techniques.

The course was eight weeks long and each weeks session lasted roughly two hours. I wasn’t really sure what to expect, I had never even considered using the practices which John had spoke of as means of dealing with my depression; not because I didn’t think it would work, it wast just not something that was within my sphere of reference.

I was very nervous on the first night. For months before walking into the class I had only had a social relationship with one friend, my two-year-old son, my wife, and my mother. When I arrived I was greeted with weak smiles, little nods, and tension so thick that I practically could have swam to my chair. The question was this: In a room full of people with anxiety, who will speak first?

For the majority of the first session, the group introduced themselves, discussed rules, and were asked to say what they expected to get out of the course. In my case, I felt that Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT) may have taken me as far as it could, and I hoped this different approach may help me further along.

At the end of the session John told us to lay out our yoga mats (yes, I bought one.) and that we were going to try an exercise called the Body Scan. Despite my initial thoughts on hearing this — run! It’s a cult! They're going to touch you! — I actually found the Body Scan incredibly effective. It relaxed me in a way that I hadn’t been for months; even my shoulders (usually like blocks of concrete) felt loose.

Over the next few weeks we, the group, learned a variety of techniques on how be mindful. At first I struggled with how exactly Mindfulness could help me, but then I read something in the paperwork which made it all into place. The section described how people with depression/anxiety will often find outlets to take them away from their thoughts and/or ways to avoid interacting with the world. The paper referred to this as being ‘addicted to distraction’, a sentence which fits me so perfectly that it could be carved on my gravestone. When I read that I realised that, although Mindfulness itself is essentially a distraction, it is a much healthier distraction. Rather than say, busying yourself with ‘Angry Birds’, you would instead try to live in he moment, taking in everything around you and bringing awareness to the here and now.

The course ended on Wednesday night and ultimately I’m unsure if I will be able to use Mindfulness to my full advantage. I believe the theory is sound, I believe that the techniques are useful, but I have a couple of barriers which are holding me back. Firstly, there’s time; the process of learning mindfulness practices is described as being simple but not easy — meaning that the concept is easy to understand, but that the goal can be difficult to achieve. The key to learning how best to use mindfulness is the same as it is when learning any new skill: practice. It is advised in the course that you use what is called formal practice — the body scan, meditation, yoga based exercises — and informal practice, which is just bringing the principals of attention and awareness to your everyday life. Formal practice should be done for 30 - 40 minutes per day. Per. Day. During the course of any given day I have just over one hour to myself. Of course, you would think that this would be ample time for me to engage in my formal practice, and you would be right; if not for my second problem: the hangover. No, not unexpected comedy hit of 2009 ‘The Hangover’, the hangover I’m referring to is the after effect of the little mood regulating pill I take each night before bed. I get up just after 6:30am every morning (cheers, son.) but I wouldn’t say I really wake up until just before early afternoon. That free hour which I spoke of before falls dead centre of that time frame, and the chances of me not falling asleep while attempting formal practice and waking up in time to collect my boy from nursery is close to nil. Despite these barriers, I will endeavour to use Mindfulness as best I can.

Over the eight weeks of attending the group I found some practices were more helpful than others, but I almost always felt better at the end of each class than I did it the start; the main reason for this was the people I was with. Together, we all learned a new way to think. A new way to face the world. Whether or not I’m ever able to use mindfulness properly, I’m glad I was able to share my time with everyone involved.

My Little Gift

I just received this little gift from my wife. Every morning, after having to drag me out of bed, she tends to our son, feeds our cats, and makes me a coffee before going of to work for 9 hours.

I was ill last night, loaded with the cold, so when I woke up this morning I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. My wife asked me many times how I was feeling and bought me medicine, something which I perceived as her telling me that I had to be okay, that I had to be all better because there was nobody else that could look after our son. I snapped and said that if were her that was sick then she could take a day off and why shouldn't I get to have a sick day. She told me that what I had was a cold and just to get on with it. I did not take that very well and said some nasty things. Things I did not and do not mean.

It's afternoon now and I more or less am feeling back to 100%. I would not have needed a day off, and even if I had still been feeling sick, I would have been able to look after our son until it was time for him to go to nursary.

I don't deserve this little gift. I don't deserve my wife. I don't deserve her care, or kindness, or love. Thank you for your love. Thank you for your care. And thank you for occasionally pushing me when I need to be pushed.

Thank you for my gift.

Be Smarter

People on benefits are greedy. People on benefits don’t deserve anything. People on benefits are parasites. This is what I see every day.

Well guess what, 99% of people on benefits don't want to be. People on benefits didn't expect to be put out of a job, didn't expect to fall ill, didn't expect to fail the people they love. People on benefits don't need to hear what you think of them. People on benefits are doing the best they can.

Do people cheat, and lie, and steal? Yes. But I don't. And neither do most of the people like me.

This government wants you to hate people like me so that they can slowly eradicate us. They would rather you blame us than ask questions. They want you to hate us so that they're greed and corruption can continue unchecked.

Don't fall for it. Be better. Be smarter.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS

Since 2004 I have wrote a series of Christmas messages with the partial aim to help people get into a festive mood in time for the big day. For the first time in 8 years I failed to write that message, I wanted to but I was finding it hard to come up with something in the tone of happiness and cheer which I aim for. I wasn’t feeling very festive you see. In fact I was feeling angry.

In a year in which I could have lost everything, in a year in which I could no longer see a path to continue on there has been one light ahead of me. One person who could always make me smile and laugh, even on the bleakest day. One person who is too small to have had to draw me out of darkness. My son. My Nathan.

Michelle is a rock. Michelle has been forged harder than steel. She has held me and us all together. My guilt for the struggles Michelle has to endure shadows the happiness that I feel with her. When we smile and laugh together I can’t help but see how tired she is; how hard her life has become. Nathan, however, knows no such struggle.

Nathan’s innocence to the realities of our life have made it possible to get lost in his world. Who could worry when they see their toddler run towards them with open arms? How could I feel low around a son who sings all day long? What is depression versus seeing the smile on the that smart and beautiful boys face, that smile which is just for me? I could not ask for a better boy. So bright, so loving, so caring. Just so good.

Since November it has been impossible to be around Nathan for any length of time without hearing him sing a Christmas song. He knows When Santa Got Stuck Up the Chimney, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and more words to Jingle Bells than I do. You might think you would have got sick of hearing them, but if anything I’m actually sad they will stop soon. His excitement about Christmas has been so prevelant in our lives that it has been almost palpable. As well as the songs, all he has wanted to watch is Christmas movies. Climbing the arm of the couch and jumping on the couch is “being Santa”. He has even taken to wearing socks on his hands as a substitute for Santa’s cotton gloves.

So why was I angry? On Thursday afternoon when I arrived to pick Nathan up at Nursery I found him being cradled and having his temperature taken. He was sick, and by Christmas Eve he was really sick. He had a small fever, wasn’t eating, had little to no energy and had a terrible cough.

Maybe you’re still wondering why I was angry? What you have to understand is: the universe hates me. It just really likes to mess with me. That’s fine, I probably deserve it, but, Universe, listen up: Leave my boy out of it. It just was so unfair. Nathan doesn’t have as easy a life as a 2-year-old should. Some days he has had to put up with a father who was barely functioning, who is too stressed to play or too depressed to be there for him. And yet, still he is so good. He’s still so kind. He’s still so happy. And yet what was his reward for these achievements? To be ill at Christmas. Not fair.

This morning, Christmas morning, Nathan woke up feeling better and continued improving as the day went on. He had a great Christmas. He loved his gifts, of course, but more importantly he loved the day. How do I know that? Because when his mummy was tucking him into bed tonight he turned to her and said “Mummy, I’m happy”. What more could any parent want at Christmas?

I hope you all had a happy Christmas too. I hope that happiness follows us all into the new year and beyond.

SIDE EFFECTS

Tonight, after a two week absence, I returned to work after having suffered from the ill effects of the withdrawal from, and subsequent reintroduction of, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRI) to my body. In other words I reacted badly to a change in anti-depression medication. What I want to talk about here however, is not nausea, fatigue or any of the other common side effects caused by SSRI's, but rather the effect that depression has had on me in relation to the world around me. The side effects of life with depression.

Each night that I sit down at work I think the same thing: You are worthless. Why? Because it's an easy job which I have done for a long time (over six years). Of course I know why this is the case, after having had a mental breakdown four years ago my employer and I have had a somewhat strained on again off again relationship; like Ross and Rachel with the laughs replaced by bureaucracy and the constant fear of unemployment.

Being regularly absent means that I am unreliable, which in turn means that I am rarely given additional responsibilities, which in turn again means that I am unable to progress in the business and left with the simple and unchallenging duties of my current grade.

Even those times I do go to work I show little promise. Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) is a byproduct of my depression and often causes me to be away from my desk. Other side effects I experience are a lack of concentration and fatigue, which means that, even at those times where I am at work and able to sit and do my job, that my productivity is awful and that, despite my employers patience and understanding, my opinion of myself at the end of each night reinforces that which I had at the start of the night: I am worthless.

My opinion of myself is, I perceive, shared by many of my peers and superiors. And why not? I'm always off and never do much when I'm there. Certainly, when I was younger, I once worked with a woman who I met briefly and then who was off for the next seven months. Depression, yeah right, more like a paid holiday! That's what I thought about the absent woman, so why wouldn't my colleagues think that about me? All of which is not to say that those people with whom I work, or even my former self, are ignorant, uncaring or cruel, far from it. Each time I return to work I am welcomed by 'how are you', 'nice to have you back', and the polite understanding that I don't want to go into the reason I was off. What I am talking about is my own anxiety about how I am seen by these hard working people, each with worries of their own, who manage to do what I frequently cannot: show up.

Naturally things at home can be difficult too. While my wife Michelle and my parents are supportive and always reliable, they too have to live with the disease while being powerless to do much of anything about it, which of course can lead to frustration and worries of their own, which I then feel guilty and anxious about.

My family's worries, especially Michelle's, expand past me to our son, Nathan. As a full time dad with depression, it is unfortunately unavoidable for Nathan not to be affected by my illness at times. For some time now a combination of my anxiety and fatigue have meant the Nathan has rarely been given the opportunity to be out and interact with other children. Recently he has become increasingly withdrawn while out out of the house and shy, sometimes to the point of being fearful, in crowds. Above all my failures with my son are the hardest part of living with my depression, I can only hope to try to be better for him.

In the months ahead I will soon begin regular therapy sessions and, hopefully, my new medication will be of greater help too. I hope that in reading this you have not found me to be self pitying or seeking pity, but rather that you might have gained a better understanding of a greatly misunderstood disease. At least I hope that you might have a better understanding of me, and life as I know it.

If you have mental health problems or know someone who has, I have found these organisations helpful: Mind, Breathing Space and Action on Depression.

Location:Columbia Pl,Glasgow,United Kingdom

13 Pages

It started with a trailer. This trailer: -

Awesome, right? The Movie is the US adaptation of the international bestseller THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. Michelle had read the book and watched the Swedish movie before seeing the trailer and was excited to see the new version. I hadn't read the book or seen the original film but, not being either blind or deaf, I knew of the story and wanted to see what David Fincher (director of SE7EN, FIGHT CLUB and ZODIAC) would do with it. I just wanted to do one thing first: read the book.

Given that the trailer above debuted in June, I didn't think getting through the 538 page novel would be a particularly difficult undertaking before the film was to be released on 26 December 2011. Yes, I am a full time dad with a part time job and interests other than reading, but, by calculating my average reading rate, I have worked out I would only have needed 9 hours and 43 minutes within six months to finish the book.

As of last night, 3 December 2011, I had made plans to see the film, which had been released on Christmas Eve, with Michelle. It's rare for Michelle and I to share a night off due to our conflicting work schedules, and we were lucky to have someone available to babysit. So this was it, at 20:00 on 4 December 2011 we would be at the Odeon cinema in East Kilbride watching Rooney Mara bring the titular character to life. I was on Page 36 when these plans were penned in, leaving me with 502 pages to get through.

I started reading when I went to bed just after 1am, but got through maybe only 5 or 6 pages, before Nathan woke up unexpectedly. On the rare occasions when Nathan cries out in the night it is usually a very brief affair; a missing dummy, sore teeth, a heavy nappy, or a windy tummy. Last night was different. Nothing was wrong with Nathan, but he did not want to lie down in bed. All my little boy wanted was to cuddle into his daddy for a while, and though the hour was late, I was happy to oblige.

I had only lost an hour, but an hour between 1am and 2am when your trying finish a book, is a long time. As I started to read again I was fully aware of the mammoth task and the long night-into-day ahead, but I would try damnit! I could do it! I cou-

I woke up 4 hours later.

But I could do it! I could get though it! I… Ah forget it! I may not know when I'm beaten, but I know when I'm dead. My highly possible goal, to finish a book within 6 months, which had turned into very improbable task, was not achieved.

I got home from the film an hour ago with only 49 pages having been read. For those of you keeping count, of the 502 pages I had hoped to read last night, I only managed to get though less than 3% of that target: 13 Pages.

Go see the movie, it's excellent.

2011

2011 has been an exciting year for our family. Words were spoken and steps were taken for the first time, and our tiny baby became a little boy, with his own personality, attitude, sense of humour, and attitude (he has a lot of attitude, no idea where he gets it from). I'm looking forward to what's to come next.

Happy New Year to you each when it comes. Raise a glass to the ones you love, the ones you lost, and the ones still on their way. I'll see you in 2012.

A Wonderful Christmas Time

It first began to feel like Christmas for me on December 12th. Nathan woke up that morning and toddled through to find the strangest of things. At first he seemed frightened, but as he slowly approached, I saw it was not fear, but awe, that I could see in his face. He stood in front of the tree for a good few minutes, looking the lights and baubles with a look of pure wonder and pointing and babbling so as to share his discovery with Mummy and Daddy.

Many of those that I know will be experiencing their first Christmas with their children this year, a special day for each new parent. The babies of course have no idea what is going on, it's only as the years pass that children can appreciate what is happening. With each passing year they themselves experience the magic of Christmas a little more, unaware that they are the source of that magic. That their excitement is the fuel for the mirth of their parents.

Nathan is still too young to fully appreciate what is going on, but he is enjoying the tree, the lights, the singing, and the shiny parcels very much. He even seems to to be quite taken with Santa Claus ("Santa! Oh oh oh!)" without really knowing the significance of the character. His smile and the way he bites his bottom lip with his top lip (just like his daddy) with shy excitement tells me that, though he may not know what is coming, he knows something is coming, and that he can't wait until it gets here.

I hope you each have a great Christmas. I hope that you are spoiled, that you eat too much and that you drink and be merry. But mostly I wish that each and every child has a wonderful Christmas, and that in experiencing that wonder they fill our hearts with joy for one perfect day.

Merry Christmas everyone, have a wonderful time.

Sleep

I lay in bed
I sit and read
cats curl up around my feet
I think of things
then nothing at all
eyes open
eyes close
no darkness will fall

My stare has no focus
an aimless blank glare
endlessly searching
for what is not there

Where are you?
come back!
taunt me no more!
I want you
I need you
without you I'll fall.

Fall!
What a joke!
I'd dive if I could!

I know you will come soon
I'll know you'll return
but the morning will banish you
and I'll have to run
In daylight you'll chase me
thieve all my time
then when night returns
you'll be nowhere to find.

The Spoon

09:13AM
A spoon, wet with milk, flys briefly through the air before landing on my living-room carpet. The small specks of milk which land on the carpet could be easily wiped, so there was no point crying over it, but the milk was not the issue; the spoon was the issue. Specifically the fact that my 15 1/2 months old son threw the spoon (under protest that his breakfast had ended) was the issue. A few moments later I utter the words that would soon ruin the, so far, pleasant morning which Nathan and I had had.

"Pick the spoon up, Nathan."

I didn't shout the words, they were not spoken harshly, nor was I unduly firm in my request.

Nathan toddled over then and picked the spoon up, but no sooner were the words "Good boy." forming in mouth, than the spoon was thrown again.

There was no anger in the second throw, Nathan's post breakfast tantrums are always very brief, so no, this time there was only defiance in my boy's eyes. I know it was defiance because, although Nathan has his mothers eyes, his nature is more like my own. The shape and colour is all Michelle but the look behind them is all me.

09:34AM
Nathan howls in tears as I ask for the spoon every few minutes. Despite my original intent not to move from my seat I am now sitting on the carpet just in front of where the spoon landed. I pick Nathan up from the floor. I cuddle him, tell him I love him and hold him until he is calm. Once I am sure he is okay, I ask him to reach down from where we sit and give the spoon to daddy. The tears and howls start again.

09:46AM
I am a terrible father.

Despite regularly comforting Nathan he is getting more and more upset.

I've taken this too far. He's just a baby! How could I do this to my-

Nathan reaches out and touches the spoon.

Oh my God! I was right!

Nathan nudges the spoon and then his hand moves cautiously over the handle.

He's going to pick it up! I've taught him who's boss, that he has to listen to mum and dad! I am a wonderful father! I'm so proud, I'm... Why hasn't he picked up the spoon yet?

Nathan's out reached hand turns to a tiny fist which darts away from the spoon.

10:00AM
Nathan lies on the floor beside the spoon, occasionally poking at it, but never breaking his resolve not to pick it up. My head rests against the couch. I'm exhausted and Nathan is too. This is not about the spoon now. There is no spoon! We are locked in a battle of wills.

I don't want this. I'm just going to pick the spoon up... Unless... Maybe he'll trade it? I offer the trade: a dummy for the spoon. Nathan is tired now, he wants the dummy.

"Just reach over and give the spoon to daddy"

He does not break.


It all ended ten minutes later when my shopping was delivered. When the door chapped I silently cursed and picked up the spoon. I was beaten. I was beaten as soon as I offered the dummy for spoon trade, at that point, if Nathan had given me the spoon, he would not be doing what he was told, but rather, he would do it to get what he wanted. I'm not even certain he knows the concept of a trade.

I went too far. I know that. I was not a great dad today, but nor was I a terrible dad (I hope). My baby boy was very upset by what had happened, but perhaps he will think twice before throwing another spoon, or maybe not, I'm sure I will soon find out. I do know this though, should Nathan throw another spoon, fork, plate or cup I'll defiantly be trying a different tactic.

When all is said and done I was disappointed that Nathan did not do as I had told him, however, a part of me - maybe a little too big a part of me - is a little bit proud that he stood his ground. After all; that's my boy.

The Hackney Incident

Michelle and I completed 90% of our Christmas shopping today, a wonderful achievement in the long run, but one that left me laden with heavy and awkward bag fulls of gifts to manoeuvre round the gradually increasing Christmas crowds One trip to Sainsbury's and four more bags later I was ready for home. Michelle's suggestion of the bus was quickly vetoed (she had forgotten that, although I am a big man, I have the soft and dainty hands of a princess.) and so we soon on the way home in a hackney.

A hackney or a people carrier is, as all non driving parents of babies and toddlers know, the only range of taxi available to take a pram, and so, over time, the drivers become familier. I like the driver we had today, an older man with a dry wit, a real character who is polite without putting on airs, and who takes a few seconds out to talk to Nathan and make him laugh.

When we arrived home our driver dutifully jumped out of his seat and made his way round to open my door. As I bent down in my seat to pick up the many bags we had accumulated I realised that my door had not opened. I looked up and saw that the driver was no longer at my door and instinctively turned too see if he was at Michelle's side. He wasn't their either and I quickly realised why: we were slowly rolling down the hill! I heard him then, the driver, trying with all his might to stop his behemoth means of income from gaining momentum; a mammoth task at the best of times, never mind with a baby, his mother, his overweight father and piles of thier shopping inside.

I quickly opened my door to jump out and help the poor man, before even more quickly slamming it shut again as I reallised it was about to smash into a parked car. The other door was blocked by Nathan's pram and so I had no choice to watch the driver struggle from the back window. The hack kept moving and, although I was aware we were gradually going faster down the hill, the time it took to pass the car which blocked my door seemed to pass unbearably slowly. At last I was able to spring out from my seat and join our exhausted driver to stop us moving. The driver asked me if I could hold the cab steady while he fixed the hand break and, of course, I said 'yes'.

I expected a struggle to hold the car still but instead found that there was really nothing to it. I was a little confused by this; although I am bigger and probably stronger than the driver, he did not seem as if he would be significantly weaker than me. I realised then that the universe had a plan and that I was destined to stop that hackney rolling. If this unfortunate incident had happened a day earlier, or even that morning, I too would have been unable to hold the vehicle steady. Four hours of shopping and holding an inhuman amount of bags later however, and I had strength beyond that of the average man! The taxi was weightless compared to the flesh slicing plastic bags and the awkwardly contained goods within!

With the handbrake applied the grey and shaken driver put on his shoe, which had come loose in his efforts, and opened Michelle's door to let her out. While I grabbed the bags he helped Michelle with the pram, and once we were sure he was okay, we paid our fare and bid him farewell. I hope he wasn't expecting a tip though, the old fool could have bloody killed us!

A Glimmer

Something was given to me yesterday, something which I feared I may have lost. I dare not say that which gave it to me for fear that to name the thing might ensure it's loss. I have, for the first time in a long time, just a little, perhaps just a fraction, nothing less than a glimmer of hope.

I've known hope before, or at least, I have been fooled by lies which have disguised themselves as such. These, ultimately, false hopes should always have been perceived as such; they presented themselves as quick fixes and easy outs. But this, this is different. This would require hard work, sacrifice and tough choices. Surely this is the kind of hope which is deserved?

I am ahead of myself. I have to remind myself that what I have is a peek at a possibility and try not to imagine what's behind the curtain. In truth I'm not even close, the curtain hasn't even been bought yet, even that, (my metaphorical curtain) is nothing more than a dream at the moment. Less of a dream though and more of a possibility, and what is possible can be obtained.

For today though just the glimmer is enough, it's casting some light onto the future.

First Christmas

Five years ago I wrote of the traditions of Christmas that were ending for me, due to the changes in my life, and I spoke of starting new traditions. There are a few customs which I have started since then, a message such as this being one of them, but I am looking forward this year to rekindling one tradition that my Mum and I used to share. Every year on Christmas Eve, from when I was a baby until I was maybe eight years old, my mum would read me a poem which is entitled He Comes in the Night, and this year, before Michelle and I relax on the couch with some hot chocolate and watch It's a Wonderful Life I will read the poem to my son.

This is Nathan's first Christmas and our first Christmas as a family. At nineteen weeks old Nathan is, of course, too little to understand Christmas, though he does like the tree and seems to enjoy the Christmas songs we sing to him. Last year I had written, quite stupidly, that I did not see the sense in getting baby gifts at Christmas. While I still remember the logic of that line of thought, I know that if I had not said it and heard it elsewhere now I would find the very idea abhorrent. Nathan's daddy is very much looking forward to helping his sons tiny and uncoordinated hands rip open the gifts that he has gotten his baby boy.

Change has been the defining characteristic of this year. There have been beginnings, endings and new beginnings over the year, and not just for me. Some were happy changes like mine, some were sad and some were bittersweet. Lives and relationships have altered dramatically as priorities and perceptions shifted. It has not been an easy year and the same can be said for too many of the years recently past, but now more than ever I look forward to what the new year will bring. For quite a few people I know there is much to look forward to indeed.

Christmas has always been a time for me when I try (I said try) to be positive. Santa's rules of no shouting, pouting or crying are a good rule of thumb for this season, and good will to all men (and women) seems to me to be a reasonably good idea too. For a few days I urge you all to enjoy what you have rather than bemoan what you do not. There will be plenty of time to worry another time.

Have a great Christmas everyone, I wish nothing but the best for you all.

I'll leave you with the poem I will be reading to Nathan:

HE comes in the night! He comes in the night!
He softly, silently comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
Are dreaming of bugles and drums.

He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,
While the white flakes around him whirl;
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home
Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;
It will carry a host of things,
While dozens of drums hang over the side,
With the sticks sticking under the strings.

And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,
Not a bugle blast is blown,
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,
And drops to the hearth like a stone.

The little red stockings he silently fills
Till the stockings will hold no more;
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills
Are quickly set down on the floor.

Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,
And glides to his seat in the sleigh;
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard
As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,
Of his goodies he touches not one;
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast
When the dear little folks are done.

Old Santa Claus doeth all he can,
This beautiful mission is his;
Then, children, be good to the little old man
When you find who the little man is.

Standstill

At least 8 inches of snow has fallen today in East Kilbride and the wold has come to a stop. The heating in my work broke and so the building was closed. Then the schools closed. Then the Town Centre closed.

I went to the shops to get cold medicine for Nathan. The paths were so deep that I had to walk down the main road and I had to push three cars to get them moving-
Hold on a minute-
Sorry, I had to run out and push another car there.

Where was I, oh yeah... Snow.

My brother is stranded in Eastwood Toll. My aunt (sorry Eileen) has been stranded in Bellshill since before 9am and hasn't been heard of for over five hours now. My Father-in-Law, a bus driver, had to stop in the middle of his route and ask the passengers to get off, he too is (you guessed it) stranded. Twitter and The Facebook tell different variations of the same stories.

On the other hand, the views are spectacular.

Inconsolable

So, it was Michelle's works Christmas night out tonight meaning that Nathan and I had the night to ourselves. I've looked after Nathan myself now a few times without any problems what so ever.

Just before 6pm Nathan inexplicably, uncontrollably and inconsolably started to sob. And then cry. And then scream. He didn't stop for over an hour.

Nothing calmed him. I cuddled him and he screamed. I gave him his dummy and he screamed. I tried to feed him and he screamed. I rocked him. I danced. I sang. I begged. I cried. I sacrificed a goat! He screamed. He screamed He screamed. He took a big deep breath... And then he screamed.

So what could I do? I knew what would calm him. If you're a mother reading this, you probably know what would calm him too. And so, frantic myself at this point, I reluctantly and regrettably had to make the call and bring Nathan's mummy home from her first night out in eight months.

And so Michelle fed him and consoled and, being a nice person and a good wife and mother, claims not to mind at all being called home. She told me that he was upset just because he's not been himself today (he had a bit of a sore stomach and is teething) and that I did the right thing to call her home. Maybe. All I know is that my little boy was upset and his daddy couldn't do anything to help him.

Brown Windows

Every time my mum drives round to my home she makes the same two remarks. Firstly that she should call the council about the parking in the culdesac where we live (getting round the road in the car is very tight) and secondly she comments on my upstairs neighbours windows. Friday past was no exception, though this time she added to her usual lament saying "I didn't know he had a cat."

As soon as Michelle and I had looked up to see her I was running up the stairs and pounding on my neighbours door. No answer, but in the course of the weeks of looking for Fudge I had met to a woman who lived round the corner from us and she had told me her father lived above me.

I quickly ran round to her door. I was furious. When her husband answered I told him that his father-in-law had my cat and that I wanted a key to go in and get her. The daughter was very cagey I felt but then I was far from calm after she had told me that her dad had "brought in a cat" about a month ago "a fluffy one". I had spoke to this woman at length about the cat being missing, I had shown her a picture of her, and I had put a leaflet through her door. She knew. I don't know at which point she knew, but she knew her father had taken our cat.

I kept calm in the daughters home. If I wanted in that flat I had no choice. She did not have a key but she told me she was on her way out to meet her dad for lunch. Her husband told me that he would be back with the key within the hour.

A little past her husbands self imposed deadline the daughter phoned and told me her dad had not yet arrived where they had to meet but that I would get my cat back that night. I didn't like her tone. Too nervous. I decided I would wait no longer than an hour and if my neighbour had not returned by then I was going into his flat by any means I could.

Thirty minutes later the old man was walking up the path and I came out to meet him. His daughter had got it touch with him but they were not meeting for lunch as she had claimed. Why she would lie about that I have no idea, but at the same time I was not surprised that she had done so. The old man claimed that whatever he was told had been obscured by the sound of the bus so when I told him the situation he acted surprised. "I saw a cat behind the telly a couple of weeks ago" he told me "but I never found it again". He never found it again? So, what did he think? That he imagined it? That it somehow escaped? His story changed a little every time but at that point I was ignoring him and telling him that I was going into his home to find my cat.

His flat was thick with dirt and stagnant stinking air. I quickly found where the cat had been doing the toilet - the corner of his livingroom. "In here? It's done the toilet in here?!" said the old man. He went on to claim he didn't live there. A lie; We hear his TV blaring and his toilet flush every night.

At this point you may start to feel sorry for this man. I've referred to him as an old man, yes, but in truth he is only in his mid to late sixties. He is quite deaf but by all indications he seems to have his full mental capacity. He is not to be pitied. I have thought about this for a long time and for the cat to enter his home he would have to have let her do so. She may have entered his home of his own free will but she would have done so slowly and cautiously. This is not a man who would leave his door ajar, not with the filth that could be seen by peering inside. No, he has let her enter and then shut her in. Not to care for her it seems given the frail and dehydrated state we found her in but just... I have no idea why. To reemphasis: he is not a creature to be pitied.

Fudge ran from her hiding place in his wardrobe when she saw me. She was scared. I picked her up and left him in his filth without saying a word. Back downstairs I put Fudge straight into a cat carrier to take her to a vet. The vet couldn't see us immediately and so I let her out. Only then did she realise where she was. She rubbed her face on my hands and let me pet her for the first time in a month. She was gone. She was dead. Yet suddenly she was home.

As for the old man, his claim to not have known Fudge was in his home is, to put it mildly, extremely unlikely. When I brought her home she still had her collar on which has a loud bell attached and the vet told me that her throat was red from shouting. Above all else though, the biggest reason that what he says is untrue is that despite being timid, Fudge would have approached him at some point of the course of a month if only to be fed or get water. Add these facts to his and his daughters ever changing stories (she called me that night and said that she didn't think her dad had had my cat all that time, despite telling my earlier that her father had brought a cat in a month ago) and I come up with... what? Are they crazy? Certainly that or just plain evil.

All is well that ends well though. One week later Fudge is more like her old self and, though still a little jumpy, she seems very happy. And the old man? An environmental health officer will be visiting him any day now.

Here Comes the Son

"That one was was just over four minutes... That was just under three... Jesus! That was barely two minutes apart for the last two! We need to phone them."

And so I phoned Wishaw General's Maternaty Triage Unit and, in a short time later, Michelle and I were in the back of an ambulance on the way to have our baby. Finally!

Having been due on 1 August our boy was, at that point, 10 days late. A length of time which put a strain on Michelle's resolve and my ability to come up with daily Facebook puns. Nevertheless he was on his way; with contractions averaging three minutes apart we knew it wouldn't be long before we could see the face we'd tried so hard to imagine for the past nine months.

Once in the hospital Michelle was taken in a wheelchair directly to a delivery room where we met Tina, the first midwife, who dealt with us right through the night into the morning. Tina was great; very nice and she didn't sugarcoat anything, which is a quality I always appreciate. After some checks and tests were done Tina told us that things were not all as they should be and, in particular, that the baby's heart rate indicted that he may struggle in what was likely to be a long labour. As this was the case it was Tina's assessment that Michelle should have a caesarian section.

The final word on whether or not Michelle was to have a section was to be the decision of the pediatrician, Dr DeRoy. As soon as the doctor came through the door she was greeted by Michelle, drunk on gas and air, calling her by her first name. It turns out that Sabine was a client at Michelle's salon and though Michelle does not personally cut her hair she obviously remembered her. Looking back on it Michelle remembers the small small voice inside her screaming "shut up you blithering idiot!" as she called out the doctors name.

Dr DeRoy did not want to be too hasty about the surgery but decided that Michelle should be given an epidural as the eventually of the surgery might have been inevitable.

After the epidural things seemed to calm down. Tina's shift ended and she was replaced by Linda (who I keep wanting to call Janet for some reason) and Karen, a trainee midwife. as the baby's heart rate was erratic there was always someone in the room and various checks were done regularly. It was hours of waiting and though the hours seemed to pass quickly it would be dishonest to say that the wait did not seem long.

And then Michelle was told to push. And she pushed! She put everything into each of those pushes and then pushed some more. She never even made a sound because she was so focused on pushing. She was tough.

Durning the course of Michelle's labour our soundtrack had been the erratic heartbeat we could hear on the monitor as well as see. Over the twelve hours I had got to know what the digital readout was when the heart rate dipped. As Michelle pushed and I encouraged her I tried to hide the fear on my face as I watched the the numbers on that display fall lower with every push. And on the the last push the heartrate stopped and for a terrible moment my heart stopped too until... Nathan was here. All of a sudden he was lying on his mothers chest as I cut his cord.

I had been told by many that the birth was disgusting. "Don't watch" they told me "it's horrific!". What a bunch of jessies! It's a life! It's beautiful! Truly the most amazing thing I have ever seen (and I've seen Cirque du Soleil!).

Twenty four hours after his birth we were all three of us on the way home, ready for a new life, new challenges and all the stories yet to be told.