Sometimes in life we can’t avoid trauma. Sometimes we just have to face the things we fear the most and deal with them. We know it will be hard, but through adversity comes strength. When we face our fears, we overcome anything.
Today was Haircut Day.
I have managed to keep Haircut Day to a biannual affair. There was one year when I felt particularly brave and I took him quarterly. I couldn’t do that now. I’ve lost the fight.
There’s a fine balance between hair-cutting and letting it grow. If there’s one thing The Boy hates just as much as Haircut Day, it’s Hair-Wash Day. And sadly Hair-Wash Day comes around a lot quicker. And the longer the hair, the longer Hair-Wash Day takes. It’s a balancing act.
Now, I have been to most barbers in the south-east London area with The Boy over the last ten years. Most of them we only visit once. The battle scars for both cutter and cuttee have been too much.
‘Why not cut his hair yourself?’ I hear you cry. I did. Once.
I’m sure I made my ex-wife cry many times during our marriage but nothing will compare to the tears she cried when she saw the results after I’d cut her son’s hair. I think it was using nail scissors for the fringe that tipped her over the edge.
Now there is only one barber we go to. Nicholas, the Greek Cypriot. He is an old, gentle man who has been cutting hair for years. Nobody under the age of seventy goes near him. He is slapdash, has bad breath and is grumpy. He has no patience with children whatsoever. He is, however, the fastest barber I know. Oh and he’s seven quid. And there’s never a queue.
Nicholas reacts to the sight of me and The Boy like an illegal hot-dog seller might greet a Food Hygiene Inspector. Hiding his scowl, in one movement he removes The Boy’s coat, whips out the gown and bundles The Boy into it like a straightjacket. Nicholas knows getting in there early is key. He gets The Boy in the chair and spins the chair away from the mirror so The Boy can look out of the window. We learnt four years ago not to bother with the mirror. Then Nicholas attacks with the scissors. The dexterity of this old man’s fingers as the scissors dance over The Boy’s hair leaves me stunned every time. As he goes he repeats constantly, ‘Look at the big dog. Look at the big dog,’ while gesturing through the window with his elbow. We have never seen the big dog.
The entire haircut lasts approximately three minutes. No water sprayed, no noisy clippers used. Nicholas is a good man. The Boy climbs down from the barber’s chair and most of the hair that has been removed from his head is stuck to his face and neck with his own saliva. But he’s smiling. The battle is over and he knows that Hair-Wash Day will be quicker than before.
Nicholas retires to the till in the corner, battle-weary but relieved that this day will be over for another six months. I hand him a tenner. He knows not to bother with the change. Danger money.
Me and The Boy leave through the door. ‘I’m really good at getting my hair cut now, aren’t I, Daddy?’
Yes, mate. You’re just fine.
MY SON’S NOT RAINMAN BLOG
I’ve dropped The Boy off to spend time with his cousins – his favourite pastime by far – and I’ve come away again to do some writing.
I went on Airbnb and selected a self-contained cottage in North Wales. Oh, the exoticness. What it actually means is a lovely old dear has converted her garage into a bedsit. It’s December and I can’t begin to put into words how cold this place is. There’s a thermostat on the wall for the central heating that is set to 12°C.
‘Don’t go mad with the heating, will you, love?’ she said as she let me in. ‘I don’t charge a lot.’ On the first day I snuck it up to thirteen but I went to the shops yesterday and when I came back I noticed that it’d been put back down. I sit here writing and not fifteen feet away across the garden is her conservatory, resplendent with flashing Christmas tree lights, the windows covered in condensation as her own central heating blasts full-on.
I hadn’t realized just how emotional it is, going back in time. At every point I find myself suddenly sobbing over the bloody keyboard. Memories come flooding back, both good and bad. Beautiful moments of his childhood that were lost after the diagnosis. I suppose most of the sadness has come because I didn’t understand him then as I do now. And if I had, maybe some things wouldn’t have been quite such a struggle for him.
A few months passed after my brother first mentioned the a word. We’d put it to one side and carried on with life as best we could. I can’t pretend it was far from our minds, both myself and his mum, especially as The Boy continued to stretch the timeline for his developmental targets to the absolute limits. But on each occasion, just as we were about to raise concerns, he’d confound us and come through. For example, walking – he’d eventually started to walk, precariously wobbling. There had been no build up to it, no real crawling – another milestone missed – instead we had a brilliant bit of bum-surfing and that was it, he was away. It felt like he was just living a life on his terms, not ours.
He had the strangest little walk on him though. Legs turned in, no real balance and his shins and knees were forever covered in bruises, each one testament to a fall. We weren’t overly concerned – much like everything else, we simply thought he’d catch up one day. We mentioned it to the GP.
‘He has knock-knees,’ he reassured us. ‘He’ll grow out of it by the age of six or seven.’ We had no reason to doubt things: he was doing everything eventually. We had concerns around The Boy’s behaviour certainly, but that was put down to the ‘terrible twos’. He was a toddler, he’d grow out of this too, right?
Once The Boy started nursery, it became clear how difficult he found transitioning from one event to another. It’s something he continues to struggle with enormously to this day, that period where he must stop doing one task and start another. The morning routine was particularly difficult. It quickly became a skilled affair that required both parents. Every day it felt like playing with an old World War II bomb. It needed to be treated gently, carefully. It could go off at any point. Unlike a bomb, however, the worry was once The Boy went off he would continue to go off for the rest of the day.
We started to develop our own way of doing things. A sense of humour and the ability to turn every task into a game certainly helped. Years later after the diagnosis we would use little pictures stuck to doors and cupboards – visual reminders for The Boy to prepare him for what came next.
GET DRESSED > BREAKFAST > TELEVISION > BATHROOM > SHOES > GET OUT OF HERE
It is incredible just how much being able to visualize things helps him. But in those days there was none of that. Looking back I understand that each morning was like Groundhog Day for The Boy. He seemed to have no real memory of what happened the day before. As parents we knew what was coming next, as we’d done it all yesterday and the days that preceded that. But without a visual reminder for The Boy, there was no link. Each morning it seemed as though he was doing it all for the first time and his refusal to comply wasn’t based on a ‘toddler tantrum’, as we thought, but rather came because everything was new and scary and he wanted it to stop. Eventually, we’d get there.
By far the most precarious stage, the one at which it could and so often did go horribly wrong, was the bathroom, even if the rest of the morning had gone relatively smoothly until this point. Teeth-brushing was a case in point. Or, to give it its full title, Hey, I’ll Tell You What, Mate, We’ve Had Not a Bad Morning Getting Ready, How About We Head Into the Bathroom for a Fight? As with most things, with patience, practice and perseverance it became easier over the years. Different strategies have worked, some better than others. Musical toothbrushes, Toy Story toothbrushes, electric toothbrushes, flashing toothbrushes and soft toothbrushes, they’ve all played their part. Strawberry toothpaste, banana toothpaste, bubble-gum toothpaste, you’ve served us well. Mint toothpaste, you will continue to be the root of all evil. Bicarbonate of soda toothpaste, you’re beyond words.
Once teeth-brushing was complete (I say brushing, it was more just holding a toothbrush in his mouth for two minutes – it might as well have been a thermometer) we moved on to washing. To this day, we have to use ice-cold water. We never use the hot tap even to lightly warm the water – anything above freezing cold burns during the washing process. First The Boy puts his hands in the freezing water. He holds them there for longer than would appear humanly possible. On no account should his hands be rubbed together. Next he touches a bar of soap with the very tip of his fingers. That’s the soap bit done. Now he throws water all down whatever clothes he is wearing that day. He is careful to avoid his face at all times.
Perfect. Face and hand washing done.
Every now and then things would go OK, as they do for every child. The Boy was nothing if not consistently inconsistent. It was on the days that the morning routine went really smoothly that we’d suddenly be lulled into a false sense of security and, like a fool, I’d reach for the hairbrush.
And so life went on. Each day The Boy eventually left for nursery with a mop of unkempt hair, water down his front and a smudge of toothpaste across his cheek.
Whatever struggles he had with the day-to-day routine of life, it was the monthly or bi-monthly events that caused him real anxiety. Take Toenail-Cutting Day, for example. Even now, ten years later, I still carry the battle scars from going into this one unprepared. He was around two years of age when we came up with the routine and it has largely remained unchanged. As for all great events, the key is in the preparation. Twenty-four hours is the optimal period to prepare The Boy for Toenail-Cutting Day. Any longer causes anxiety, any shorter and I might as well be performing open-heart surgery on him with a blunt teaspoon and no anaesthetic.
In order for Toenail-Cutting Day to have any hope of success we must follow these simple steps. Stage one:
Empty the bathroom of any items that aren’t stuck down. Find the largest bath towel in the house and place it at the foot of the bath, ready. Put the nail scissors discreetly behind the toilet cistern, ready. It is of the utmost importance that these aren’t spotted in advance. Lower the toilet seat lid. This will be the operating table.
Now we’re ready for stage two:
Run the bath. Don’t add any cold water. Only use boiling, almost scalding hot water. After calling, ‘Bath’s ready!’, prepare for a ninety-minute battle to get The Boy into the bath, by which time the water will be at an ambient temperature. Now The Boy is in the bath he didn’t want to get into, he will refuse to get out. Don’t try to be clever and take the plug out. He will sit in a cold, empty bath quite happily. Instead, frighten him. Tell him that these horrible little creatures called bacteria live in the bath and they eat children’s skin, starting at the fingertips and that’s why they go all wrinkly. (Yes, I’m horrible, but needs must.)
As he leaps out of the bath wrap him in the large bath towel that was put in place earlier. Keep his arms tucked inside, that’s key – imagine a roll of carpet with a head sticking out of one end and feet at the other. Still holding him, he can be lowered on to the toilet seat in the same movement – there should be just enough give in the towel for him to be bent into the sitting position. Now take out the nail scissors. Remember, speed is of the essence.
Now comes the weird bit. Each of the toenails has been assigned a name. The left foot is always girls, the right foot boys. The left big toe is always Fiona. On the right, it’s Fred. The other names are allowed to change. And so the toenails are cut with phrases such as ‘Oh, Florence, haven’t you grown since I last saw you?’ and ‘Come on, Ted, be a good boy and get your haircut.’ Sometimes… sometimes it’s a blessing he bites his fingernails.
However, as bad as Haircut Day and Toenail-Cutting Day got, it was the nights that were the hardest. Even as a toddler, he raged and fought against going to sleep. It was starting to become obvious that The Boy hated being alone. It almost felt as if he might stop existing if someone wasn’t with him. Constantly. We’d tried controlled crying, we’d tried wrapping him tightly. Nothing in those bloody self-help parenting books that still dominated the bookshelves seemed to work. It was exhausting, for all of us, not least The Boy. More often than not, I’d fall asleep lying with him as I read a bedtime story or his mum would. Without really even realizing it, she and I were spending less and less time together as a couple.