Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Now, I’m not complaining. It’s not a case of poor me, but rather what the fuck am I doing? Being a dad isn’t intuitive, it seems. As I understand from Keir, when your newborn babe is placed in your arms, you feel a primal surge of love and protectiveness. Louis isn’t a newborn, and I just don’t feel that connection. I try, I really do, but at best, all I can muster is the feeling of tiredness. I’m guessing it’s the same for him. We’re just rubbing along together as best as we can.
I found him a wee school to attend three days a week, and tonight, we’re going for his fucking mutt, but since my parents left, he’s withdrawn, and what I’ve begun to refer to as the long good night is wearing me down. It takes so long to get Louis to sleep, I’m beginning to think I should start the process of getting him there when he rolls out of bed first thing in the morning. It takes hours. I bargain, plead, and promise, but the little fucker just won’t go to sleep until he’s dropping. He literally has every excuse in the book at his disposal from questions to things he needs to tell me to stories that need to be read. And when he does eventually drop off, his night terrors kick in.
I’m so pleased he’s asleep when they happen and he has no recollection the next day because, quite honestly, they’re terrifying.
‘These things are to be expected,’ Mum tells me over the phone. I’m on hands-free on my way to work after dropping Louis off at school. No pre-workday workouts for me these days. ‘The wee darlin’ has just lost his mother.’
‘Aye, but apart from avoidance of bedtimes and the screamin’ he does in his sleep, he seems okay. Honestly, he never mentions her.’ And he barely talks to me, but I’m not telling her that.
My mother chuckles wryly. ‘I hope to God you don’t think you’ll get over my passing as easy as you seem to think Louis has. He barely knows you, Mac, and he’s too young to understand the finality of death. All he knows is she’s gone, and he’s got you instead. It’s no wonder he’s wary of you.’ Mother intuition for the fucking win.
‘Cheers, Mum. So I’m essentially the booby prize.’ I run my hand across my cheek. How many days since I last shaved? Along with that thought comes another of my failings. Where my work pants once had knife-sharp creases, they now have double pleats, and my shirt looks like I slept in it.
‘Give him time. Give yourselves time.’
Time. Fat chance of that. I’m either feeding, cleaning, or entertaining him, and on the days he’s at school, I’m busy squeezing five days of work into three. I haven’t had a game of rugby, a workout, or a pint with my mates since he arrived—and that’s okay. I’m not resentful. Much. We might both have had our worlds turned upside down, but I get that his lot is way worse than mine.
But time? That’s the one commodity I seem to have no longer.
‘Are you still there, Mac?’
‘Aye. I’m at work now, Mum. Talk to you later, yeah?’
‘Where’s the little one?’ Anna asks as I trudge my way past reception. Okay, so I might’ve brought him into the office for a few hours once or twice this week.
‘He’s at school today.’
‘Oh, good. Has he settled in okay?’
‘As well as can be expected, I suppose.’ I feel the familiar tug in the pit of my stomach. I hate leaving him there. He looks so forlorn as I hand him over to the teacher, peeling his little hand from mine. It tears my fucking heart out as he stares up at me with those big, brown eyes as if he’s being abandoned all over again. To make matters worse, he’s only been twice so far, and both times, I’ve been late to pick him up, so I can’t even tell if he’s made friends or if he’s happy come the end of the day. I felt like a total fuckup, but juggling work and traffic and him is bloody hard!
‘Have you sorted something for the holidays?’
I stop dead in my tracks, turning to face her slowly. ‘Holidays?’
‘The summer holidays?’ she says, also speaking to me as slow as I feel.
‘Louis is too little for proper school.’ That starts September next year, not that I’m desperate or anything. I’d just . . . asked. ‘It’s more like a wee playgroup.’ Learning through play, though with structure and stuff. With not so tiny fees.
‘Oh, I thought you’d enrolled him in the Montessori system.’
‘I have.’ Another reason I’m looking forward to September next year. School is fee free. But Keir recommended the place, and he knows more than I do. Plus, the school is halfway between home and work, so logistically, it’s the best we’ll get.