Rainbow staircase

Hey Sam,

this morning I got really angry with you. We were getting you ready for school, which may sound simple but I have to be honest, it’s not. There’s reading to you while you eat breakfast then sight word/wrestlemania on our bed. After that second breakfast (so that we don’t send you off with only Nutri Grain in your stomach) and bag packing, shoelace tying, teeth brushing, getting to the car.

Each of these small tasks is like a wormhole that can consume whole chunks of time. Inevitably they pile up one on top of another, like multiverses of negotiation overlapping and unfolding into a kind of Stephen Hawkings version of hell. Your Mum is currently doing the drop offs because you’ve requested afternoon pickups in Vera (our kombi) and the stress of getting you out of the house and in the car when the minutes are melting off the dial like some kind of Dali clock face, is exhausting.

Your Mum and I work hard to get you out of the house without any meltdowns. I usually invest in whatever imaginative world you are inhabiting at the time so that it doesn’t become a battle of wills. I speak monkey to you, or do a Yoda voice, whatever the current vibe is.

Usually it works but this morning you were excited. Somehow our success with sight word/wrestlemania amped you up. You were running from room to room, slamming doors, saying indecipherable things to yourself, or to us, I don’t know. And in the middle of all that excitement I became aware of time like a concrete thing that had run out.

You wouldn’t listen to me no matter what I said and I surprised myself when I grabbed your arm, trying to drag you from your room. You’re going to be late, don’t you get that? Your Mum is getting stressed. I was trying to take control of the situation so we could continue to enjoy our morning, like we had been, only moments before, laughing on the bed, sight words done and dusted, lingering on a couple of wrestling moves that were more like cuddles you had to get out of. Us. Together. Before I decided to act.

We both knew it was an act. An act of failure because I hadn’t understood the situation fully and I was ahead of myself, out of context with the moment, trying to push you through a wormhole into a future where you arrived at school on time, your bag packed, your manners impeccable, you and your Mum laughing together. Me at home writing something brilliant.

I had your arm in my hand and I could feel that I wanted to impose myself. I’m not sure I knew what I was planning to do. I tried to change tack and pretend it was your choice. You’re going to be late, you’ll have to go to the office and get a late slip. I raised my voice, if you don’t get moving there’ll no movie tomorrow, no movie on our special movie night. Is that what you want? It was a threat as empty as the dark blue school bag that remained unpacked on the couch. We both knew that.

Nobody ever mentioned to me that having a child would make me confront my own control issues.

I remember the first time I understood that part of the gig, a night when you were only a few months old. We hadn’t slept much because you were crying a lot so I decided to go for a walk with you cradled in my arms.

That was in our Coolongatta flat, the first place we rented after we unpacked our lives from Germany. A small place, but it sat on top of Kirra Hill with a view that ran all the way up the coast to Surfer’s Paradise. For months we’d been watching whales cruise past us on their way south, huge bodies jumping out of the ocean only a few hundred metres off shore. When the wind picked it up it would scream through the space between our apartment block and the next. Our windows rattled and we had to stuff folded bits of paper in the cracks to sleep.

We couldn’t believe our luck. You rarely cried. Our friends called you the happiest baby in the world.

Not on this night. Your tiny face, screwed up into a wail, a force of anguish coming out of your mouth. You’re like a tiny set of bagpipes, pounding out a marching tune. Normally going outside would fix something, but not on this occasion. I decide to take the rainbow steps next to our flat, each one painted a different colour, down to the beach.

The stairs are steep and I’m talking to you, taking them quickly.

Blue, orange, green, red, yellow, purple.

Almost running down because the night air hasn’t soothed you like I thought it would. If anything you are louder now, protesting the change, challenging the decision to remove you from your mother. I’m aware of the neighbours.

Green, pink, yellow, blue, red.

Halfway down I am bouncing you in my arms, talking quietly into your squelched face, trying to anchor you with my voice.

Orange, blue, red, red.

You’re getting louder and I am starting to understand the saying ‘you’re getting on my nerves’ because that’s what you are doing, shredding my nerve endings. I am suddenly very tired because I haven’t slept properly in days and you just won’t stop crying, even though I really need you to right now.

Red, red, red, red.

Anger bursts through me like a sudden wave appearing out of an otherwise flat sea. I don’t see it coming. I’m not prepared for it and in a moment I have the impulse to throw you.

It’s hard for me to admit. Even now. I feel a lot of shame, the same feeling I’m carrying with me after grabbing your arm this morning. Shame at my own anger and lack of control.

That photo, by the way, was taken on Magnetic island, just off the coast of Townsville. On your stomach is blood from an oyster cut I got when I was swimming and it’s on you because I just changed your nappy. The rest of the mess is avacado and sand.

You were going through a sand eating phase back then. Sometimes I called you gummy shark.

Before you were born I didn’t know I could be filled with so much love and happiness. It was a love affair, strong, intense, overwhelming. Nobody mentioned that. Emotionally we were linked together, all of us, wrapped up in our flat, whales calling as they lumbered south, sea and wind and salt and sand.

I don’t consider myself an angry person, it doesn’t happen to me often, but in that moment on the rainbow steps I realised how easy it would be to lose control when you’re emotional and tired and stressed.

I didn’t act on my impulse, just to reassure you. I didn’t throw you. Of course I didn’t, it was just a rush of blood. I ran back up the stair, flicking backwards through the colour spectrum and into our flat where I presented you to your Mum, arms outstretched, like I was holding something dangerous.

Take him. Take him.

And I knew also that we were fortunate because we had each other to turn to. I wondered what it would be like to be a single parent.

Later I spoke to Grayson about it. You remember Grayson right? Big guy, lives (lived?) in Berlin? Milo’s Dad? Anyway he shared a similar story. The lack of sleep, extreme tiredness, frayed nerves, leading to a sudden burst of anger where you are no longer sure what you might do. I don’t think it’s just men either, I think all parents deal with it in different ways.

And I’m thinking, why did no-one mention this? In amongst the recommendation for sleeping patterns, nappy use, feeding, cleaning, reading, raising, caring…

Why no mention of anger management or control issues?

In a moment of realisation I release your arm. I lower my voice. I step out of the room, breathing deeply. I quiet my heart rate. I ask your Mum to take over. I consider if it really matters that you might be late. I take a moment.

A moment away from action, from doing. Away from a mental pattern that is pushing me into futures that don’t even exist yet. I take the time to step back into a world that we inhabit together, the sun shining brightly outside, the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline.

Your face, cheeky as usual, looking up at mine, quizzing me.

Are you ready for me yet?

Are you?

Love,

Ragnar.