Postcards

Well... this is new.

It's August 2019. You're eight-and-a-bit years old. And I'm writing a message to you which you may not read for ten, twenty, who knows how many years? Maybe never.

But there's things I'd like to tell you. About me. About you. About our family. And as our lives are busy maybe it's easier for me to put some of these things down on a blog, where you might read them some day.

I don't know where this is going, but as I've got older (I'm fifty years old right now) I think more about my parents and my childhood, and maybe it would have been comforting or interesting or downright hilarious to read some of my parents' memories occasionally.

Maybe it'll even help you one day, if you have a family of your own, see that you're not alone.

Maybe sometimes there'll be some melancholy sad stuff too. But hopefully not too much.

Love you, Dad.

I'm in the house alone this evening.

The reason is that you and Mum have just left to go camping at some Christian festival in Sussex. I don't like camping, but I'd put up with it to be with you – but the Christian thing doesn't sit easily with me.

The car was packed up to the gills, with barely any room for you – let alone me – to squeeze in. As you reversed out of the drive and started to head down the hill I ran alongside the car, trying to keep up. You laughed, your window wound down, waving and cackling...

Hopefully you'll Facetime me later. I really miss you guys when you're away.

Earlier today you were at a sailing course at the reservoir. You've been there all week, messing around in boats with your friend. Some days you didn't want to go, or complained that you felt a bit sick, but I think you were just nervous.

I watch you from afar in a crowd sometimes and you hold back, shy to get involved. I'm the same. But then, like me, you are able to turn the “razzle dazzle” on when you want to and become the most entertaining funniest eight year old I know. You are very clever with your humour, your mimicry, your gags and physical comedy. I love that about you.

I'm proud of you for doing the sailing course – despite a fish (apparently) jumping into the boat and biting you. Great to see you doing something physical and outside during the summer holidays rather than being plugged into an iPad.

Love you, Dad.

Yesterday I went to pick you up at the sailing club. You asked me if I could buy some chips for you (you said they were “the best chips you'd ever eaten” and I had to try them.

I asked how your day had gone, and it sounds like you'd had a good time. But there was one kid who had upset you.

You said he hadn't believed you were eight years old, and told you you were actually six. Despite your protestations, he insisted you were six years old as you had a “baby face”.

I don't know why the only thing kids have to ask each other when they meet is how old they are, as if they want to assert a pecking order, but hey...

You asked me if I thought you had a baby face. I said you didn't, but that you were a bit smaller than your friends. I told you a story about a guy I used to know who was much shorter than me, and then when I met him as an adult he must have been a good 6 foot 3, towering over me. I told you there was plenty of time to catch up, and people grow at different times.

The truth is though that you are small for your age. You're a good head-or-so shorter than your pals, and that might make other kids think you're younger than you really are.

I don't care if you're shorter than other kids. I just want you to feel confident about yourself, and I don't like to think people might pick on you.

Mum and I try to encourage you to eat more. You just peck at your food, and leave a lot of the good stuff. We don't really know what to do about it, as you claim you're full. All we can do is tell you that you'll run faster, be stronger, grow taller if you eat more than you do at the moment.

It's weighed on our mind for years, since you first started going to school and we noticed you were smaller.

I worry that as you get older it might become more of an issue – teenagers can be mean, and call people names. I just want you to be happy.

Love you, Dad.

The other night, a few days before you were due to go back to school to start Year 4, we were chatting at the dinner table about the need to speak up so teachers would know how smart you are.

You see, you're super loud and outgoing at home, but we know you're quieter at school – especially in lessons – and we're worried teachers may not be seeing the best at you.

So we were chatting about the need to put up your hand, reassuring you that no, it wasn't “showing off” to let the teacher know that you knew the answer (and even if it was, so what...)

Anyway, you responded: “I do put my hand up! In fact I did it today in History!”

“Oh good! What happened?”

“Well the teacher was talking about King William who fought at the Battle of Hastings, and she wanted to know what his other name was...”

“And you knew?”

“Yes Dad!”, you replied proudly, “I put my hand up and told her.... 'William the Bastard'”

Mum and I looked at each other trying not to laugh. You smiled broadly, knowing it was a bit naughty.

By the way, it turns out it's true!

We were still laughing about it hours later.

You told me you'd found this out in a YouTube video, and told me a story of how a king had snuck out of his castle, past the guard, claiming he was visiting a tannery, and that there was some lady there who wasn't his wife, and well.. you can fill in the gaps.

All I can think about is your teacher, expecting to get the answer “William the Conqueror” and receiving “William the Bastard” instead. I can see her polite reaction, and wonder how she handled it, and what she must have said when she got back to the staff room later...

And hey, I found the YouTube video you must have watched.

So funny...

Love you, Dad.

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Coronavirus

You're on Easter break now, not that you'd know it.

School closed a week earlier than it should have done, but I'm glad it did.

Things have gone crazy.