Time's Up, Shorty

“I don’t know, Albie.”

We’ve come to see the Martin Creed exhibition, What’s the point of it?, at the Hayward Gallery. We’ve come because I’d seen posters for the show featuring a room filled with thousands of balloons. What could be more fun for a two-year old than a room filled with thousands of balloons, right?

Well, as it turns out, the balloon room (or to give it its proper title: Work No. 200, Half the air in a given space) was a bit of a disaster. There were so many balloons, it was almost impossible to move. Once we’d managed to fight our way through the door, Albert was paralysed with fear and claustrophobia. Instead of frolicking about with wide-eyed glee as I had imagined, he pressed himself up against a wall and screamed for help. So far, so traumatising.

The next piece of contemporary art to be scrutinised by my fledgling critic was a silver Ford Focus (Work No. 1686), that every few minutes would spring into life, doors flapping, horn beeping, engine revving, wipers swishing, radio blaring. A car that comes to life? What small child wouldn’t find that magical and exhilarating? Or utterly, utterly terrifying.

Unfortunately, this pattern was to be repeated for the entire exhibition. The musical lift (Work No. 592, a piece for harmonica and elevator): terrifying. The hidden speaker that blows wet raspberries (Untitled): terrifying. The piano that unexpectedly slams its lid shut (Work No. 569): terrifying. The tower of LEGO that Albert is ABSOLUTELY NOT ALLOWED TO TOUCH (Work No. 792): deeply upsetting.

In fact, I was beginning to regret this entire expedition. If I’d wanted to listen to Albert cry for hours on end I would have taken him to Tesco. I managed to locate the exit, but to get there we had to go through one last room. This is the room where I am now standing. This is the room with the lady doing a poo (Work No. 660).

You’ve got to admit it’s a pretty brilliant practical joke. Martin Creed has created an entire exhibition almost explicitly designed to attract families. Balloon rooms, animatronic cars, musical lifts, possessed pianos; it practically screams HALF-TERM ENTERTAINMENT for parents who are too cool for Alton Towers. And sure enough the place is buzzing with children. And yet, there’s a scatological sting in the tail. You can lark about with balloons for as long as you like but you can’t leave without having to explain to your child why there’s a lady pinching off a loaf on the floor. Exit through the gift shop, mind where you tread.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Albie.”

“That lady’s lost her potty.”

“My name is Kayla,” declares my new buddy.

“Nice to meet you, Kayla. My name is Stuart,” I reply.

“Fill my shoes with sand,” says Kayla before thrusting a pair of dainty, pink sandals under my nose.

Our burgeoning friendship has taken an unexpected turn. I look around the sandpit for some kind of adult guidance on the matter. There’s a woman a few yards away shepherding a small boy down the slide. She meets my panicked gaze with a benign smile. She must be the little girl’s mother, I think. Her daughter probably does this kind of thing all the time – asking strangers to fill her shoes with sand. And really, where’s the harm in that?

“Ok,” I say, taking the girl’s sandals. “That’s what friends are for.”

I kneel down and start scooping sand into them.

“More! More!” she commands from her lofty perch.

This friendship is already starting to feel a little one-sided.

“Ok, that’s enough,” she says.

I stand up and offer the sand-filled shoes back to her.

“Pour it on my head,” she laughs.

“What?”

The little girl stops laughing and fixes me in the eye. “Pour it on my head,” she repeats with deadly seriousness before solemnly bowing her head.

I look over at her mother. She just laughs and gives me sort of apologetic shrug, which I take to be a tacit endorsement. I sheepishly hold the shoes aloft and carefully empty their contents over Kayla’s messy, blonde locks. This elicits a hysterical cackle, which echoes across the playground. 

“Do it again!” she cries.

At which point I realize I’m no longer aware of my own son’s whereabouts. I cast about the immediate vicinity to discover that he’s wandered off towards the swings. In doing so I also notice a stern looking woman marching in my direction.

“KAYLA!” shouts the woman.

The little girl spins around and waves at the approaching woman.

If I were to labour the analogy, I’d say Albert entered his Neolithic period at the turn of the year, having mastered the use of basic tools such as the stone, the stick and the grown up spoon. Not to mention his evolution from quadruped into Homo Erectus.

This inspiring tale of progress, however, was suddenly put into reverse last month when, quite mysteriously, Albert stopped walking. There was no accident or heavy fall preceding this turn of events. There were no signs of injury. No swelling, no bruising. No feasible explanation whatsoever. He just stopped walking. Or, more precisely, he stopped being able to put any weight on his left leg.

The first time it happened he’d been sitting in his high chair, happily enough, spooning food in the rough direction of his face, but after I helped him down from the table, he crumpled to the floor in a heap. While alarming at first, after 40 minutes or so, he seemed to shake it off and was running around like nothing had happened. We breathed a sigh of relief and put it down to a bad case of pins and needles.  

Until two days later when it happened again, this time several times in one day. Worse still, in the moments when he was walking, it was with a discernable limp. The next morning we took him to A&E, where they x-rayed him and took blood samples. We’ve been through this before with his various asthma-related shenanigans, but it doesn’t get any easier. Getting the blood samples is a particularly emotional endeavour requiring one parent to hold Albert in a vice like grip, the other parent to dance about, sing songs and blow bubbles like a crap clown, and a team of five nurses to extricate the blood, most of which ends up on the floor, walls and any passersby unlucky enough to be in the vicinity. It would be easier, of course, if Albert didn’t fight but he takes a ‘better in than out’ approach to his blood and I can’t say I blame him.

Unfortunately, once we got the x-rays and test results back, the doctors were none the wiser. There were no indications of a break or fracture. And the blood samples seemed to rule out all sorts of other nasty stuff – like bacterial infections and infant arthritis. He was a perfectly healthy boy, they said, aside from the fact that, y’know, he can’t walk anymore – come back in a few days.

In a few days, Albert had given up limping entirely and taken up crawling again. Our adventurous, little toddler seemed to be regressing back into a baby before our very eyes – like a tiny version of Benjamin Button. And just like Benjamin Button it was incredibly painful to watch. He looked, frankly, depressed. All the strides he’d made in the last few months had been for nothing; his newfound independence, cruelly snatched away. Albert’s fledgling attempts at talking were also aborted, as if there was no point trying anymore. He was going to be a baby forever.

Over the course of the following two weeks, we made another five trips to A&E, two visits to the fracture clinic, and had two overnight stays in the children’s ward. Each time necessitated more blood tests and more x-rays. In fact, the only bones in his body that now haven’t been x-rayed are his arms and his skull. What’s more, after all the prodding and poking the diagnosis was exactly the same. “Congratulations. Your son is a medical mystery.”

Thankfully, this story has a happy ending, although not an entirely satisfactory one. Three weeks after he first stopped walking, Albert decided enough was enough. On a trip to the local playground, possibly inspired by the hordes of other toddlers scurrying about on their hind quarters, he clambered out of the sandpit, raised himself up on two wobbly legs and with all the determination he could muster limped forward a few paces. He could still barely place any weight on his left leg, but it was clear he wasn’t going to settle for a life on all fours anymore. I didn’t cry when he took his first steps, but there were tears in my eyes this time.

This poses a bit of a problem for me. I like to consider myself an enlightened member of modern manhood (hehe, member… manhood) who undertakes an equal share of parental duties. And also, I am utterly rubbish at mending things. The fact is families simply don’t operate like that anymore. We’ve moved on. Society has progressed. And yet, somehow, that’s exactly what our family has become. In the 18 months since Albert was born, my wife and I have unaccountably slipped into a pastiche of retro domesticity. Daddy goes to the office and Mummy stays at home and runs the household. It’s like the last 60 years of social progress never happened. We’re stuck in a time warp.

I’ve tried to assume more responsibilities wherever possible, but the reality is that I’ve only got an hour or so so either side of work in which I can pitch in. This means I’m in charge of Albie’s breakfast and, assuming I’m not working late, his bath time and bed time – leaving a whole 9 hours' worth of domestic drudgery for my wife to take care of. It’s somewhat ironic then, that work is my saving grace. My trump card. My raison d’etre.

I’m a provider.

There’s something faintly risible and self aggrandising about the sentiment, but it taps into an undeniably potent part of my psyche. I know it’s an out-dated cliché, just like the list of mum jobs and dad jobs, but I’m beholden to it. It’s almost primal. I’ll never be rich or powerful, I can’t mend the sink, or put up shelves but damn it, I provide for my family. This, I’m rather embarrassed to admit, makes me feel like a man. I like to picture myself as a longshoreman in depression era New York working the docks under intolerable conditions just to make ends meet. Occasionally, if we slip behind on the bills, I’ll enter an illegal, bare knuckle boxing competition. I don’t tell my wife about the fights but she sees the bruises when I come home. She doesn’t like it but neither does she say anything, because deep down she knows we need the money. And that’s why she married a provider.

Except, maybe she didn’t. Because this week I did something incredibly boneheaded. I quit my job. I shan’t bore you with the particulars but essentially I’d stopped enjoying it some time ago and I decided I needed to leave sooner rather than later, even if that meant not having another job to go to. This kind of shatters my 1930s longshoreman delusion, of course. Dock workers don’t quit because they’re unhappy or some other vague notion of career ennui. Their level of job satisfaction begins and ends with having a job. Which I guess is one reason why I’m a delusional, unemployed writer and not a 1930s longshoreman.

The upside to all this is that I’m about to have a lot more time on my hands in which I can make amends for our uneven domestic arrangements. I’ve got some serious snot-wiping to catch up on, after all. Maybe we’ll even go one step further – my wife could go back to work while I stay at home and look after Albie. Who knows, frankly? It’s kind of exciting. But mostly, it’s kind of scary.

I’m not entirely sure what happens next, but as of right now our family has no provider and a limited supply of provisions. We’re not watering down the milk formula just yet, but if you know of anyone who needs a copywriter, or hear of any bare knuckle prize fights going down, then please do get it touch.

Thankfully, I do not need to go for a piss. Yet.

The rest of our accommodation is just as snug. In a neat mirror image of the bathroom our bed fills 99% of the floor-space, leaving a gap either side just big enough to walk sideways down. Our backpacks are rammed underneath the bed, while Albert’s buggy blocks the hallway.

I find myself in these intimate surrounds because we are flying to Spain at five in the morning and it was decided that it would be less stressful to stay in Luton the night before, rather than stay at home in south London and get up two hours earlier. It’s only now that we’re here that we’ve realised the folly of our ways. Any decision you make which involves spending more time in Luton is the wrong decision.

It’s not all bad though. Albert is asleep, after all. There’s a flat screen TV at the end of our bed. And the room service menu promises to “delight and entertain” our taste buds “with flavours from around the world”. In fact, I’m starting to feel like I’m on holiday already. Who cares if I can touch the TV with my feet when I lie down? That’s actually pretty convenient. I turn the telly on with my big toe and we watch The X Factor with the sound off so as not to wake Albert. The X Factor with the sound off is a marked improvement on The X Factor with the sound on. We play a little game which involves guessing which songs the contestants are singing by reading their lips. A group of non-threatening teenage boys perform something called “Quorn Meat Baby” followed by a scruffy looking busker who does a rousing rendition of “Can’t Take My Arse Off You”. This is fun.

I decide to delight and entertain my taste buds with a spinach and ricotta ravioli (“an Italian favourite”) and a bottle of red wine. When it arrives the ravioli is peculiarly grey however the red wine is reassuringly red, and surprisingly excellent at that. My wife has gone down a slightly less adventurous route and opted for fish and chips (“a British classic”), perhaps unaware that our holiday has started already. All things considered, I think we can call the evening a success.

Once X Factor has finished we decide to turn in for the night. I switch the telly off with another ostentatious flick of my big toe and crawl under the covers. I fall asleep while counting planes coming in to land, pleasantly cocooned in our cosy, new holiday home.

A couple of hours later and my stomach rumbles me from slumber. I open my eyes. It takes a few seconds to adjust to my alien surroundings. My stomach rumbles again. A thought flickers to life: what colour is ravioli supposed to be? Kind of yellow. Beige, maybe. Not grey. Definitely not grey. Another rumble. Oh fuck. I think I’m going to be sick. Wait… yes, I’m definitely going to be sick. I quickly slither out of bed and clumsily grope my way along the wall in the dark towards the bathroom. It’s not until I get to the bathroom door that I appreciate the true gravity of my predicament.

Me: “Hello.”

My wife: “Don’t panic but I’m in an ambulance with Albert. Can you come to the hospital?”

Me: “Yes, absolutely. I am definitely not panicking. And I will be certain not to panic at any point along the way or, indeed, upon my arrival.”

I may have misremembered the exact words, but I think that captures the mood of the conversation fairly accurately.

Shortly afterwards I arrived at A&E dripping with terror. My last visit to this hospital was just over a year ago when Albert was born. I have fond memories of that occasion but the hospital itself has become freighted with heavy portent in my mind. This is a place where significant things happen. Significant, life changing things. And I’m not quite ready for any more life changing right now, thank you very much.

After a rather desperate interrogation of the receptionist, I managed to locate Albert cradled in his mother’s arms, hooked up to a machine and breathing through a mask. He’s had an asthma attack – except the doctors refuse to call it asthma. They’re not allowed to diagnose asthma until a child is five, but my wife and I (and I suspect the doctors too) know that’s exactly what it is. We’ve been mentally preparing for this news ever since we found out about Albert’s allergies. Together with my own history of asthma it seemed to be a sure thing.

When Albert’s breathing failed to stabilise over the next few hours it was decided that he’d have to stay overnight, so around 11pm I went home to fetch a change of clothes, some toiletries and various other essentials.

One such essential is the flask of tequila that my wife is now trying conceal from disapproving eyes. (I know what you’re thinking, by the way: “Isn’t tequila more of a debauched student party drink?” All I can say is, you try selecting an appropriate liquor for an all-night bedside vigil. It’s harder than you think.) I hand my wife the lid which she screws back on before slipping the flask inside her handbag. We return to the foot of Albert’s bed where we slump into a pair of chairs and contemplate the sleeping creature before us.

Maybe it’s the size of the hospital bed, as opposed to his cot at home, but he seems smaller than usual, cowed by the experience of having to fight for breath for the first time in his life. His little pot belly is still heaving, working overtime to fill his lungs. He’s going to be ok. I’m absolutely certain he’ll be ok. That could be tequila fuelled confidence, but it’s also because whenever we try holding the oxygen mask to his face for his hourly medication he resists it with all the strength of a wild dog refusing to be muzzled. He’s a fighter. I’m sure I’ll come to lament that stubborn streak, but right now, I’ve never been more proud.

A lot’s happened since my last missive so I should probably just crack on. First things first: Albert has turned one. We had a little party for him and everything. We weren’t going to bother initially because, frankly, he’d be none the wiser but then we realised he might ask to see some photos someday so we rustled something together in a hurry. Unfortunately, we then forgot to actually take any photos. If you’re reading this in the future, Albert, it was a lavish affair with elephants, jugglers and Nicki Minaj. We gave you a pet Llama which you loved and cherished for a few weeks before you got bored and forgot to feed it, so it starved to death and THAT’S why you can’t have a puppy.

Traditionally this is where I remark that “time has flown” and “they grow up so fast.” Except it hasn’t and they don’t. Truth is, this has been the longest year of my life. Thanks to Albert’s idiosyncratic timekeeping I have been awake for more of this year than all my previous years – at a conservative estimate I’d say this year has been about 25% longer than the others. Which is mildly depressing because I’ve achieved about 50% less – unless you count wearing a path between bedroom and baby room to retrieve yet another jettisoned dummy, which I don’t.

I never understood those people who describe having children as their proudest achievement. It’s hard work to be sure, but you’re not doing anything that hasn’t been done by literally EVERYONE since the DAWN OF TIME. Well done, you had sex and made a person! It’s not exactly conquering Everest, is it? In the annals of human accomplishments, breeding is quite some way behind space exploration and only just above breathing. Having kids isn’t your proudest achievement - it was just the last thing you did, before your brain turned to soup.

The other big piece of news is that I no longer have a baby. I have a toddler. He toddles. Occasionally he topples, but mostly he toddles; legs bowed, arms aloft, belly out, mouth agape… like a tiny, drunken, ever-so-slightly camp Tyrannosaurus Rex. This, clearly, is a monumental development. People often use “baby steps” to describe incremental change, but as far as I’m concerned baby steps are quantum leaps. It’s what separates us from the apes after all. Actually, some apes can walk, can’t they? And smoke cigars. And wear funny hats. Which is more than Albert can do. Seriously, what is the deal with you babies and hats? We’re not trying to strap them to your head for the good of our own health, you know? I’ve forgotten my point now.

Anyway, Albert is finally up and toddling. To be honest, I was beginning to worry he didn’t have it in him. Every other child his age seems to have been walking for months now, as if it’s some kind of stupid competition – “That’s amazing. You must be brilliant parents. Your child will probably grow up to be a professional walker!” – and it was starting to get embarrassing.