morning head: Thursday, 24th July, 2015
The heady sense of freedom that accompanies several days to oneself, like the early days of a smack habit one imagines, is a dangerous high, a false and short lived euphoria. Like the junkie curled up in the pee-drenched corner of the supermarket parking lot, one soon finds themselves crushed beneath the weighty comedown.
Infants are creatures of the moment, like goldfish, and anything prior to the last fifteen seconds is vague and irrelevant. Certainly after three days of being away with mum (that would be “mom”, America) the child looks at me like I’m a stranger. All previously established routines are null and void.
Familiarisation and comfort training, begin all over again. Indoctrination by the Tiny Dictator. Stroller-strike is the flavour of the day: waiting until we’re at the furthest point from home and then deciding that I’m to carry him the entirety of three kilometres home, without switching arms so often, thank you very much.
Tomorrow we’re onto nap-strike, and the day after it’ll be the food. I can only assume that this is eventually going to morph into the refrain of set-upon dads everywhere:
That’s not how mum does it.