It’s incredible how much I’ve learned about parenting in four months, like how many things fit inside my son’s mouth, the name for that soft bit at the top of his head, and the words to Baby Shark, Christmas Shark, Halloween Shark, and every other sequel in which the titular infant fish celebrates an increasingly tenuous series of seasonal festivals. More amazing still is the generosity with which I share this knowledge with others, like with my wife’s parents, who really must wonder how they managed to raise three kids without me around.
‘If he cries, pick him up,’ was one such timeless nugget. ‘If he needs sleep, just rock him,’ was another, in case their natural inclination would have been to throw the boy to some wild, scabby dogs.
This behaviour was mainly due to fear, since Alex and JP’s wedding was to be our first full day away from him. Not for the first time this decade, they endured my obnoxiousness with saintly patience. In fairness, it wasn’t even the first time this month. They’ve been over five times since the boy was born, I just stopped mentioning their visits because the last time I did, they said I made them sound like maniacs who constantly clean our flat.
‘Don’t worry,’ my mother-in-law insisted, gently scrubbing the individual prongs of a toast rack with a monogrammed kitchen cloth she carries in a special case. ‘We’ll be fine, just enjoy yourself.’
I suppose they can forgive our stress, since they must remember being as scared and clueless as we are. I presume they felt that same urgent, wretched angst about their first child. But, considering they eventually let said offspring marry me, I can only surmise a parent’s high standards must lessen over time.
We didn’t have the luxury of 30 years of lowered expectations, however; we had seven hours of wine, smart shoes and dancing to Irish trad music in central London, but discovered we unwound quickly enough. Sure, we plied them with WhatsApp messages, but looking around, we were content we weren’t the most stereotypical new parents on the scene. We had a smug chuckle at Julia and Jon, fellow new parents who were checking on a video feed of their own child so fastidiously it made us feel relaxed by comparison. That was until I realised that (a) I hadn’t told the in-laws how to get YouTube on the PlayStation and (b) the video our friends were glued to was not of their child at all, but live coverage of the rugby.
We returned to find the boy safe and well, and our home freshened, preened and studiously empty of wild dogs. They had, of course, managed to get him off to sleep, and worked out YouTube for themselves. As we tiptoed in, his grandad was mumbling along gamely to a video in which Baby Shark was probably wishing everyone a happy Diwali or something. He hadn’t learned the words, but then some things really are best left to the true experts.
Follow Séamas on Twitter @shockproofbeats
