Dad, Dad, Dad


Gabe has decided to change what he calls L and I. Out goes ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ and in comes ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’. It’s a very conscious change and so one that he has some battles over with his subconscious. For a couple of weeks, the parental address has tended to go along the lines of “Daddy, oh, Dad, Dad.” He now seems to have mastered the change, but he seems to be missing the extra syllable so compensates with repetition of ‘Dad’ or ‘Mum’.


Robin’s volume is not in my control. Weekend mornings, despite urgent whispered requests for quiet, he shouts and laughs loudly. He hollers at us sat together around the dining table. Close proximity to us, when in the house, seems to lift not temper his volume. Out of the house, things are different. Walking to school, his head a couple of feet below mine, and tilted towards the ground, traffic rumbling to our right, I’ll hear a mumble I guess is directed at me. “Pardon, Robin, what’s that?” I ask two maybe three times, but too often end up nodding or grunting to indicate I agree with something I haven’t heard.


Conversations with each of the children can be perplexing as they progress erratically through what appear to me to be non sequiturs. Now they are a little older, questioned carefully, if I’m being patient, I can sometimes recreate the link. “A boy wore an infant school shirt to school and had to change it,” Eliza told me as I was preparing to say goodnight. I asked her to say it again, which confirmed I had heard correctly. Gently, I asked why she was telling me this. “Because you told me you had to change your suit before going to work,” she explained. And yes, there was a connection, but one I wasn’t attentive enough to perceive unassisted.


One response to this post.

  1. […] din and provocation of the City fans. The boys were both absorbed and Robin characteristically stayed silent when the opportunity for making noise was so great. City equalised, dominated with neat football, […]


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