Today I’m over on the Feel Fit UK blog, talking about how attitudes to nutrition have changed across the generations in my family.

I had some really interesting chats with my Mum, my Gran and a friend’s daughter to get an overview.

We’d love to see you over there.

Click here to head to the blog

I went on a podcast!

The lovely Ellie at @feelfituk has a podcast called #projectbodyconfident and she invited me on to talk about transgenerational patterns in health and fitness, how things in sport and nutrition have changed since my Gran and my Mum were younger. We had a really interesting chat, and now its all up online!

You can find the podcast on apple podcasts, and our episode is also on YouTube:

https://youtu.be/nCogNzt6Npo

Let me know what you think!

Those of you who follow me, as opposed to the blog, on Instagram (@peta.obrien in case you’re wondering!) will know that Tracy Anderson, who’s workout programme I have followed for years, lost the father of her 8-year old daughter to cancer recently. For obvious reasons this news sent me down a bit of an emotional rabbit hole, and I found myself flashing back to a lot of the trauma and difficulty surrounding Mark’s death and the effect it had on Ethan.
 

I am the sort of person who wants good and productive results to come out of everything bad that happens. If something shitty is going to happen to you, then you might as well learn some lessons from it and find some positive within all of the sadness. So I thought I would have a think about what helped me, and Ethan in the time around Mark’s illness and death. Some are practical, some are emotional, some are purely tied to our particular circumstances, and not all of them will/would have been helpful to everyone.

A lot of my ability to cope with supporting a pre-schooler in losing his father has come from my 15 years as a youth worker. I gained indispensable knowledge of child development and had the huge benefit of attending training in helping children and young people deal with bereavement as part of my job 2 years before Mark’s death. (something which I’ve always found remarkably lucky).

I’ve also added some things at the end that, in hindsight, I think I did wrong. But in the spirit of using my experience to help others, here they are. If you have any to add, I’d love to hear from you in the comments.

Using age appropriate and clear vocabulary

One of the clearest lessons from the bereavement course I went on was on the importance of using the right terminology when discussing death. I heard countless stories of children being told that Mum, or Grandad, or the family dog, have “gone to sleep” or “gone away”, and growing up with huge anxieties surrounding going to bed themselves in case they never wake up, or another loved one going on holiday in case they never return. Children need clear and age appropriate vocabulary in order to talk about and try to understand what is happening. And they will only get it from us. However, as adults, we tend to shy away from using such bald words as “died” or phrases such as “never coming back”. Partly this is because we’re all scared to death (excuse me) of death, and don’t want to talk about it ourselves, but partly it’s because we think terms such as these as too adult for children to deal with. So we try to sugar-coat it. However, take it from me, no airy-fairy phrases are going to lighten the load of a child who has just heard that someone they love is dead. They will just be confused. I told Ethan that Mark had died the following morning. It was terrible. But I used phrases and words that I hoped would begin to give him a framework within which he could begin to understand what had happened. I used the word “cancer” and biological language where appropriate. And then, as he got older, we filled in the story.

There are many ways you can address this and it very much depends on the age of the child.  But, in our case this is what I said:

 “Daddy was very sick, and his body was very broken. The doctors tried really hard to fix him, but they couldn’t and so he died. He won’t ever be able to come back and see us. He loved us very much and he didn’t want to die, but his body was too broken and it couldn’t carry on working anymore.”

It helped that we had been open and clear (again in an age appropriate way) that Mark was sick from the point of diagnosis. Ethan had seen his Daddy deteriorate and been to visit him in hospital. So we had already set the foundation for his understanding and it all didn’t come out of the blue.

Having the patience to keep answering the same questions

Oh my word. The questions. I think about 10 times a day for the first 6 months I had to answer the question “Is Daddy coming back?” or “When is Daddy coming home?”. Over and over again. Other members of the family found this very upsetting, and I totally understand, I did too. But it didn’t mean that he had forgotten about the situation, he was just at an age where the concept of permanence didn’t make sense. It was heart-breaking to have to calmly repeat myself over and over again, frequently whilst crying, but it was so important for him to hear the same thing so that it made an impression in his mind, and so that he felt secure in what had happened.

Books

We based much of our conversation on a fabulous book by Elke Barber “Is Daddy Coming Back in a Minute?” which she wrote to help her 3 year old son process his father’s sudden death. It(and it’s companion “What Happened to Daddy’s Body)” are the most wonderful fabulous books. My mum found them for us and Ethan liked me to read them to him constantly. In it she explains in clear language and friendly pictures, what happened and what this means. When Ethan started at nursery, and then school, and his childminders we bought copies for each setting so that he always had access to them, whenever he wanted to revisit the subject, and so that staff members were clear about the kind of language we were using, and had something to help them deal with a difficult topic. He still occasionally asks to read them now, I think they are a sort of comfort blanket for him.

Having a strong network of support

Understandably, Ethan began to become concerned about other members of the family, particularly me, and whether I was sticking around. Again, sugar-coating things for children just leads to problems later on, and I have never believed in lying to my son (over and above “no, there is no ice-cream in the freezer”!). So I didn’t want to tell him that I wasn’t ever going to die. Instead I talked about how long people usually live for, and how far away 100 (!) was for me. I explained that I probably wouldn’t die for a very long time, but then we  took a giant piece of paper and wrote down all the people who loved Ethan on it. It was a very full sheet! I explained who would look after him if I died, and who would look after him if they died, etc. This might seem particularly morbid (And I’m not sure how my friend’s Ali and Bekka felt about me discussing their deaths!) but it helped him feel comforted that he would always be safe and looked after, and it reminded him (and me) of the wonderful and large network of support and love that we had around us at all times. We still have the piece of paper and we call it (the not so concise name of) “Ethan’s list of all the people who love him”. It will always make me smile.

Explaining to him what was going on when people showed hard emotions

People cry when someone they love has died. This seems obvious, but often we try and shield children from this inevitable and natural occurrence “in case we upset them”. They are already upset. But children thrive on certainty, and seeing a trusted adult hide in the corner or come out of the bathroom sniffing whilst saying “Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine” makes them feel insecure and frightened. If we don’t model how to deal with tough emotions for our children then they will never learn to do it themselves. There is nothing wrong with crying in front of your child. The important thing is to explain to them what is going on, why you are crying, and that it is perfectly natural to be sad. It’s also important to explain that you can be happy too. Even when you have gone through a bereavement, there are things which will make you laugh and smile (especially when you’re living with a small and very amusing boy!), and it’s important to convey to them that being happy doesn’t mean that you have forgotten your loved one, or that their death no longer makes you sad. All emotions are ok. Communication is the key.

Support at school

As I mentioned, when Ethan started nursery I spent a long time talking with the staff about the language we had used, and how we were dealing with Ethan’s emotions. I was very clear (possibly to the point of lecturing!) that we wanted them to use the same language. Generally this was dealt with very well, apart from the one member of staff during a holiday club who responded to Ethan’s “My Daddy is very poorly” (something he used to say more often than “My Daddy is dead”) with “Oh well, I’m sure he’ll get better soon”….I think this  well-meaning sentiment set us back about 6 months.

In the end, as Ethan grew, and aspects of his anxiety began to cause us concern and effect his academic performance, we made the decision to move him to a smaller school with better pastoral facilities. Teachers are wonderful, but many schools are strapped for cash and time, and his state of mind was getting missed. He’s now in a fabulous place with teachers who notice when he’s having an anxious day, and have the time to work with his need for security and routine.

Talking about Mark

I’ve talked in previous blog posts about how we, as a family, incorporate Mark into our lives. We talk about him frequently, and there are pictures of him around the house. Ethan and I often spend time watching videos or looking at photos, and Mark’s family are wonderful at relating memories of him or pointing out to Ethan the ways they are similar. This is so important to me. Ethan is so lucky to have a second father figure in Nick. But I always want to make sure that he feels as close to Mark as possible, and can tie his physical features, skills and interests back to his father when appropriate. We also, however, are careful to remember, not fetishize. Mark was not a saint, and we don’t want a shrine. He was a human being. I don’t want to hold him up as some paragon of virtue that Ethan can never live up to. We are realistic about faults as well as merits. We don’t move on, we find a different way to weave our loved on into our lives and walk forward.

Taking his emotions and questions seriously

Small children are often ridiculous, but sometimes thoughtful. Ethan would occasionally talk about how he thought maybe Mark was in a cloud looking down on him, or how he was up in the stars. He would ask me detailed questions about how Mark had died, and sometimes he would say he was sad but didn’t really know why. Small people’s emotions aren’t small, and they should be taken seriously. At the same time, it was really helpful for me to know about “Puddle jumping”: Children don’t deal with emotions the same way that adults do – they are unlikely to stay in one emotion for very long, however deeply they feel them. There were occasions when Ethan would be very sad about Mark dying, crying even, and then he would wipe his eyes, ask me for a biscuit and run off laughing at something. I think that some of the family found this difficult, as if he wasn’t really bothered by the whole situation. But this is just the way his brain worked at that age. It was important to me to remember that it didn’t mean he had forgotten, and that it was totally normal.

Finding a consistent babysitter

Carole was my lifeline. She meant that I could go back to work (running my youth project meant 2 evening sessions a week) knowing that Ethan was safe and secure with someone who cared about him, rather than cobbling together a rota of loving friends and some family. This also meant that I wasn’t “using up tokens/favours” for work related babysitting and so could still ask them to cover for me to do other things. It It might seem self-indulgent or incomprehensible when you’ve lost a partner to want to leave your child for a few hours, it did to me at first. But it was key for me to feel as if I had a life outside of caring for him, even if it was just going to a church hall and caring for some teenagers! It was also really nice to come home after a few hours at work, and have an adult to talk to! Carole was privy to many a debrief and probably couldn’t wait to get back to her own, quiet home after a while. She also took on Ethan-sitting duties (he started to object to me calling it being “babysat”!) when I dipped my toe back into dating. So crucial was she to the beginnings of my relationship with Nick that she even came along to the wedding!

Getting in touch with the experts

 I was desperate when I contacted Daisy’s Dream. A few week’s previously I’d phoned the Health Visiting team in a panic, hoping that they would be able to help me with Ethan’s sleep – to work out what I was (without any sense of perspective) doing wrong. But after a 2 hour run of, increasingly intrusive, questions, she told me I had done all the right things and she really couldn’t think of any other advice to give me – it was probably a phase and he’d grow out of it. I cried tears of frustration and exhaustion when she left.

I called the Reading-based charity Daisy’s Dream as a last resort. They sent a wonderful lady out to see us. She watched Ethan play and talked to us both. Calmly and authoritatively, she told me that he wasn’t traumatised, that he was obviously a very well-adjusted child, and that I had done really well. To be honest, this was such a weight off my shoulders. I thought I was doing the right things, but to have someone experienced tell you this was invaluable. But then she helped me devise a plan that would be kind to Ethan and I, but also result in both of us getting a lot more sleep. There aren’t as many groups devoted to helping bereaved children as there are adults, but the help is out there. Winston’s Wish are another great, child-specific, resource.

Ok, now a few of the things (amongst countless others) that I should have done, but didn’t.

Let him in my bed

I spent a HUGE amount of time panicking about making a rod for my own back with regard to sleep. Ethan was never a good sleeper, but it got steadily worse after Mark died, somewhat unsurprisingly. He obviously felt some kind of insecurity and anxiety surrounding being alone in his bedroom. It got to the point where it was taking 2 hours of screaming to get him to go to bed, and then he would wake up every 45 minutes. I was a broken woman, and I’m pretty sure there were mornings when I wasn’t safe to drive to work I was so tired. I had decided to “stand firm” and not just let him come into bed with me when he woke up. Partly this was because he is, and always has been, a wriggle monster, and this would mean a not-very-restful night for me, partly because I still wanted to carve out a sliver of adult space in my life, and partly because I knew from the beginning that I didn’t want to be alone forever, and, to be honest, that would be a difficult sell to whoever did come along. In hindsight, I should have been kinder to myself, and to him, and not panicked so much about it being a habit he would never break. After speaking to the wonderful woman from Daisy’s Dream, I felt more confident about it being a stage. We also decided that sometimes life is about survival, and I couldn’t survive with the current situation. Having him in my bed from 2am so I got enough sleep to function wasn’t the end of the world. And we were right – granted, he didn’t sleep through the night consistently until he was about 5, but he didn’t spend all of the intervening years in with me.

Stuck it out with counselling

The staff at the hospice where Mark spent his last few days were beyond lovely. They helped with arrangements and belongings, and they set me up with a counsellor once all the initial madness had settled down. There were 2 problems, however. One was timing. Looking back, it was far too early for me to even think about processing any of the shit that was going through my head, or the trauma I had faced. I was still having flashbacks to Marks final days, I was sleep-deprived as previously mentioned, and there were still so many practical things to deal with that I had no head space.

The second problem was me. I need to feel productive in every setting. I’ve always been rubbish at relaxing, and I needed to feel like this hour away from my son (something that was hard won, tough to organise, and didn’t happen very often) was a productive use of my time. This meant we had to actually talk about things and come to conclusions. Whereas, at that moment, what usually happened was I cried for a while, got cross about crying, and then tried to stop myself crying. Rationally, I know that this was a perfectly ok way to use the time and space, but I felt like I as wasting her time and mine, and that of whoever was looking after Ethan that week. In addition, I had, by this point, spent 10 years as a youth worker, specialising in mentoring young people through issues in their own lives. I wasn’t a trained counsellor, but I knew a LOT of the strategies and techniques needed to help people work through their emotions. The counsellor was a lovely woman, but she did a lot of reflecting back to me what I was saying or the stock “so how did you feel about that?” It sounds really egotistical, but I wanted someone to help me who knew more than I did. And it didn’t feel like the case here. A few years later, after realising that I really hadn’t dealt with a lot of the issues resulting from Mark’s death, I did find a wonderful counsellor, who did know a LOT more than me, and did have the confidence to call me on my bullsh*t. It was a revelation. And I dearly wish that I had come back to the process earlier, either by finding a different counsellor who was a better fit, or by waiting a few months and trying again. Either option would have resulted in much less heartache.

I think that is perhaps my greatest takeaway from all this: Finding help is important, but making sure it is the right help for you is invaluable. Just like boyfriends, you don’t have to settle for the first counsellor who comes along!

You will always do something wrong. There is no way of getting through being a parent without messing up your child in some way. This is the case even if both parents stay alive and together through the whole 20-odd years of their children’s lives. You can’t predict and mitigate every possible issue. And when a parent dies, the parent left behind has even more to deal with alongside having even less capacity. There will always be something you miss – and that’s ok. Love your child, love yourself, and know that everyone who cares about you is rooting for you. Including me. x

Today you can find me over on the Feel Fit blog, talking about how to incorporate health and fitness into life with children. I’d love for you to come join me!

Death makes you scramble for moments and memories, gathering them up like apples in your apron which tumble over each other back to the ground again.

I detest clutter too much to be a proper hoarder, but my house is too full of things which I cannot throw away – in case the person they are attached to is lost and I miss the memory.

I find myself battling between being determined to enjoy a moment for itself, and desperate to take the picture for a permanent record of something so fleeting.

And when time passes so quickly, as it does in the first 6 months of a baby’s life, I find myself at the end: looking back at what feels like 2 minutes ago when I was being wheeled into a theatre about to meet the newest member of our family for the first time.

I feel like I missed it.

All the important,  glowing, gleaming moments.

The smells and the stopping  in my tracks at the wonder of it all.

I missed it in the tiredness, and the stress and the fractions and the glue gun and lolly stick messes and the worries about money and the economy and people I love slipping away from me.

It swept past me in the candy crush games at 2am attempts to keep my eyes open, in the sheer, crimson flashes of annoyance at people walking past on the pavement, too loud.

It was eaten up by the monotony that makes up the majority of motherhood.  The mental calculations of how many pairs of shorts are clean and how many nappies are left and how many hours to go until naptime and what do I need to put on the shopping list so Ethan doesn’t actually turn into a baked bean and Erica gets to try something other than cucumber that I’ve sliced in 5 seconds whilst she cries.

It blurs beneath the unfinished conversations and Bake Off: The Professionals episodes and cold dinners and glasses of wine that we’ve pulled together in order to keep some semblance of a relationship between two individuals going through our bleary eyes and yawns.

And all these things that I swore I was going to do differently – better – that I never got around to because of the bloody pandemic, and now I’m standing next to a highchair putting a bib on a 6 month old and thinking “How the hell did we get to weaning already?!”

This doesn’t translate into wanting another baby. It didn’t with Ethan either. I have never been sad to see my children move onto the next stage, because what I love most about making tiny copies of myself and launching them out into the world like paper aeroplanes, is that i get to watch them discover all the things I already know. To be amazed by flowers and pooh sticks  and the way prisms make rainbows and music can make your tummy bubble.

There is still so much to come, with both of them, and I am so looking forward to it. This is all probably sleep deprivation talking. My camera roll is full of sparkling moments of my tiny family, regardless of the constraints of Covid. We are surviving, we have kept a whole baby alive for 6 whole months! My sense of time passing may be out of whack, I may suffer from an unfortunate tick to grab a camera every time someone pulls a funny face, the recycling may not have made it out to the kerb this week, I might have no idea who got thrown off by Benoir and Cherish last week…

But then there are nights when Nick goes upstairs to settle Erica and he’s gone so long that I come up to check on them and they’re both asleep in the nursery chair, and to wake him would mean waking her, so I leave them to their snuggles. Life is precious. And beautiful. And exhausting. And we get to live it.

I have been asked in the past (often by people who thought they were being kind by showing interest) whether, if I knew that Mark was going to die, I would still have married him. On the surface it sounds like a ridiculous question – purely academic anyway, and far too close to just torturing yourself. But it is interesting to contemplate. And, although in our situation it was unforeseeable, sometimes people enter into relationships knowing that the person they are joining has a severely limited time on this planet. In every interview I have read about this sort of situation the individual left behind is unequivocal in their answer – they would fall in love all over again given the chance. They often mention things they would do differently – plan better for the end, fit in more adventures, have children earlier, not have children, care less about careers….. But they would choose that person over again if they could.

I would do the same. If someone had walked up to me at that house party and said “You see that man over there that you’re thinking about talking to? Well, you’re going to get married, have a baby, and 9 and a half years from now he’s going to die.” I would still walk over and introduce myself. I would still spend 6 hours laughing with him in our tiny student kitchen. I would still walk around Rome with him, taking in the epic history. I would still say yes when he asked me to marry him on the beach in Devon. I would still stand up in front of our friends and family and take our vows. I would still have his baby, even if I knew that he wouldn’t be around to see him grow up. I would do all those things; because the joy that he brought to my life was worth all of the pain and trauma that came afterwards. And, most importantly of all, Ethan is worth all of it and more. I would do it all again.

There are things that I would do differently. Things that I would encourage him to do differently. Some of them I have tried to weave into my life post-Mark – lessons learnt from mistakes made. I would have been more realistic about his chances of survival once he was diagnosed. We didn’t talk about him dying, because to mention it felt like we were giving up. But what that actually meant was we never said goodbye; and we didn’t plan for how he would say goodbye to Ethan, or what he would leave him. We didn’t talk about how much we would miss each other. The narrative of being in a battle against cancer often leads people to think stoicism is more important than being emotionally present. There were days when I spent too much time focusing solely on the practical task in front of me and not how devastated the whole situation made me feel. I didn’t want to be the weak link in the chain, or the reason Mark gave up hope. So much energy was wasted on powering through and being positive, and not enough spent on being honest with each other.

So there we are.  On my darkest days, especially since I got pregnant, my mind wanders to what would happen if Nick died. Part of my brain almost assumes that this will happen as this is all my experience. I imagine being left with a 10 year old and a 2 year old, having to go through the whole process again. I almost can’t comprehend a man sticking around for the entire thing. Near the beginning of our relationship this coloured the language I used and the emotions I let myself feel. I couldn’t say that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him as I honestly believed that he would die way before me. That is a messed up thing to write down, but that’s where my head was (and sometimes still is).

But even if the worst were to happen once more, I would do it all over again. I would take the first – terrifying – step sat on Susan’s sofa, hitting the upload button on my Match.com profile. I would wait in the freezing cold outside the Town Hall to meet the stranger I’d only texted. I would open up my home, my life, my tiny family to this quiet, adventure-grabbing man. I would lay bare the effects that trauma has had on my psyche, and I would struggle to create an atmosphere where there was room for both men, past and present. I would say yes to the magical proposal at the end of a 20km uphill bike ride next to a lighthouse. I would promise to build a life with him in front of all our friends and family at our very own festival, with children running around sticky with ice lollies and apple juice. I would have his baby, and watch him grow even more as a father than he had already. I would do all these things again – even if the worst happened – because life is short.

Life is short, and you never know how long you will have it for. So I will grasp every opportunity for love, joy and connection. I want to experience life and adventures. I want to enjoy my weekends instead of worrying about mortgages and pension plans and “working hard now so we can enjoy it later”. Mark’s entire psyche was overwhelmed by the need to be prepared for the future – to be responsible adults who overpaid into our pensions and scrimped and saved to get a good mortgage rate, and worked very long hours so that he would get promoted and retire early to spend time with his family. But he put in all the hard work and never got to enjoy the reward. I’m not saying his life was miserable drudgery, but his focus was the future, at the expense of the present. Near the end he said that, if he’d known what was going to happen, he would have worried less about his pension and more about the experiences he was having. He would have bought a little sports car, come home earlier and given Ethan tea, had more lie-ins. And eaten more cheeseburgers.

So my head is a messed up place, with regrets and weird connections and assumptions that probably bear no relation to what is actually likely to happen. But that is why I  use the best china, wear my dry clean only clothes, drink the good wine, go to the concerts and the festivals, go to friends’ houses for lunch and end up staying until the following evening, regardless of how much washing needs doing, have pyjama days with Ethan – and now Erica – snuggled on the sofa, make life NOW worth living, and worth remembering – however long we get to be here.

Today is a weird day…let me count the reasons…

My Dad died in 2014, rather suddenly of a heart attack.

We had a complicated relationship in our 31 years together. He was charismatic, often larger than life, full of stories and hugs; political debates and brand new music to share. He taught me that you should treat everyone equally because everyone has something to teach you. He championed LGBTQ+ rights and anti-racism to me alongside a (possibly unhealthy) hatred of Margaret Thatcher. He taught me to use a band saw, change a spark plug, and carve on a lathe. He encouraged my music – and was so proud of me at every concert, exam and performance. He showed me the different plants and flowers and insects on forest walks, and had such high hopes for my future career paths. I always knew that he loved me unconditionally.

But he was also an alcoholic, and an expert emotional manipulator. As a child he would wake me up at 3 in the morning to watch old films, so that he had someone to keep him company and regale with old military stories. He was embarrassing when drunk, and volatile when hungover. Even now I freeze at raised voices and conflict in any space. I often find myself telling Ethan off for shouting and then realising that he wasn’t really, I am just super-sensitive. His habit meant my childhood was financially insecure and led to a tense and distant relationship with much of his wider family – something which saddens me as the new generation grows.

He was the best and worst of fathers. And Father’s Day when he was alive was conflicting enough. Now that he is no longer with us it is even more so. There is so much he has missed – he would have delighted in Ethan, with his enquiring mind and blossoming musical talent. They would have had long talks about engineering and politics. And a granddaughter would have brought an extra twinkle into his eye, he loved little children so much. He has also missed much of me, and although he wouldn’t have been particularly impressed with my stilted career path when I always promised to be Prime Minister, he would have been proud of my writing and the lives I shaped with my youth work.

7 months after my Dad, Mark died. 2014 was a shitty year.

 It has sometimes, in my adult life, been difficult to know what it is that a “normal” father is meant to do. I tend toward self-sufficiency, and away from asking for help. Mark was a wonderful father. His joy in Ethan was evident from the moment we found out I was pregnant. His entry into actual fatherhood was raw and terrifying, beginning with him sitting in a room holding a baby, contemplating the possibility that he would have to raise it alone. But after that tumultuous 72 hours, he came into his own – relaxing into a role that he had been looking forward to for so long. He was hands-on (if a little nervous) and spent as much time as physically possible with his beautiful son – watching first food and first steps and first rugby ball throws.

He showed me a wonderful example of a steady, loving, consistent father, and I am so happy that Ethan had him as an influence in his life for even that short time. As we continue to tell Ethan stories of his Dad, favourite songs, quirks and habits, this influence will continue. Mark continues to be celebrated on days like today, with a card delivered up to the cemetery and some time spent watching old videos. This part of the day is particularly difficult for me – the tightening of my chest and holding back of tears – too many emotions all rushing together. For the first few years there was also the policing of over-enthusiastic nursery and school teachers excited for an easy craft activity. The furtive word at drop-off explaining that this is our circumstance, and that there will probably be tears and/or matter of fact “my dad is dead” explanations during the class discussion. These were almost always met with well-meaning apologies and a heavy dose of pity – neither of which I’m that comfortable with. There was the Daddy’s Day at playgroup that meant well (getting fathers more involved in their children’s education is a wonderful cause) but that resulted in a tearful phone-call to my 21 year old brother asking if he’d step in for the morning.

Its possible that it would be easier to forget about these little rituals, but good dad’s should be celebrated, even when they are no longer with us.

Mark’s father took me under his wing after Mark died. He phoned to check up on me regularly, he fixed patio lights and wardrobes, he (and Wendy) fed me red wine and let me sit while they had water fights with Ethan. He solved problems in the no-nonsense, ex-policeman way that only he can. He deserves to be celebrated on a day like today; he raised 3 lovely boys and is a constant caring and secure figure in all our lives…

But each day like this reminds him that he is missing a son, that his family unit is no longer complete, and that under celebration there is often sadness. I know that Ethan brings him much joy, and I try to use this day to let him know how valued a father-in-law he is.

Then came Nick. Nick’s dad died a few weeks after we starting dating, the night before our planned, child free weekend away in Edinburgh. I’m so happy that I got to meet him once before he passed away, at a birthday meal in a cute little pub in Wanborough. I met his sister, brother-in-law and Uncle all at the same time, thrown in at the deep-end! He was quiet, and I could see behind the ravages of Parkinson’s disease the strong and humorous man that he used to be. I know that Nick saw his death almost as a kindness, with all that long-term illness had done to his body. But, however kind, losing a father is losing a father.

It is Nick’s first Father’s Day with Erica. But I feel weird about calling it his first Father’s Day, as he has been the most incredible father to Ethan for 4 years. Coming into our unique situation was daunting, I’d imagine. It was tricky for both of us to work out how much of the parenting role it was right for him to take on at different times. He was a natural with Ethan, and their bond has always been so special, even now we’ve hit grumpy 8-year-old hormone territory. We all felt our way, and often let Ethan lead. Nick’s graciousness allows space for Mark and himself as father figures in Ethan’s life. And, honestly, it’s as if being a father was what he was always meant to do. He is firm but fair, always ready to be ridiculous, has never balked at the 2am wake-ups and interruptions, builds dens, and has the most accomplished range of accents for story time – his cockney fish is a firm favourite! Without replacing Ethan’s daddy, he has been everything Ethan has needed these last 4 years.
 

Having jumped in to parenting starting at  4, I know that Nick was nervous about never having done the baby thing. He needn’t have worried. Apart from being unable to close doors quietly while she’s napping (cue mummy-rage), he’s been just as good at the nappies, trapped wind, late nights and teething as he was at learning all the names of the Disney Cars characters, listening to solar system facts on repeat and battling with hair washing. He’s got this down. Erica and Ethan are both incredibly lucky to have him.

Male role models in my life have sometimes been hard to come by; we are something of a matriarchy, and I have had to collect them for myself. So there are many others to be celebrated on a day like today:

My Grandad – who was always the best clothes shopping companion in the January sales (Dewhurst men have an uncanny ability at picking outfits for the women in their lives!), and took 2 weeks one Easter to teach me the whole GCSE Physics syllabus so I didn’t fail my exams.

Uncle Martin, who taught me the joy of disobedience and blaming other people for farts at the table, who shows me that you don’t need to be loud to have a presence in people’s lives. And who gives the best hugs.

Pete Wilderspin, who, without being in any way related to me, will forever be remembered as opening his home in a quiet, generous way to a bunch of teenagers who monopolised his living room and ate copious fried egg and bacon sandwiches; and who taught me how to cook English Breakfasts “Caff-style”.

Then the Uncles. Daniel, Bryan, Chris and Taddy; in all their longbow practising/Dr Suess reading/rugby playing/science conversation having glory. All of whom show me every day how much they love their nephew, and are the best examples to him of how to be a man, in all it’s varieties.

And so many of my wonderful friends who have shown me what being a father means – the kindness and capability of men and the beauty of watching them love their children to distraction.

So today is not as simple as sending cards and saying thankyou to one or two people. It isn’t completely joyous or completely sad. It is a messy, complicated and unexpected reflection of my own situation. And it gives me one of those teary smiles. Which is fine by me.