In the name of the child

I'm writing the introduction to a new book, and looked back at the last one I wrote - and got kinda nostalgic. It was done pre-Blog so there's no record of it here. Or at least there wasn't...  

Before you start reading this book or this introduction or anything, do this for a minute. Close your eyes. Imagine your children. Imagine them growing up. Imagine them getting a star at school for tidying their desk and them being thrilled about it. Imagine their friend having a birthday party and them coming home with a party bag. Imagine them losing a tooth, the bright red gappy smile and their excitement because they know that this means that the tooth fairy will come. Imagine them growing up. Now imagine all that happening somewhere else. And you’re not there. You know it’s all happening but you’re not there. You can’t see them and they can’t see you. They’ve just fallen over and banged their head. You’re not there. They’re crying. You’re not there. They’ve just come home from school and they’re really upset because they’ve just had an argument with their best friend. You’re not there. It’s bath-time. You’re not there. Story-time. You’re not there. Bedtime. You’re not there. You know it’s all happening but you’re not there. It’s not nice, is it?

When I agreed to help Dave with this book I didn’t really know what to expect. I didn’t know Dave, I didn’t know his situation. I’d heard about Fathers4Justice in the way that you hear about things on the news that have got nothing to do with you: it was interesting, but didn’t make much of an impact on me because, well, because it wasn’t happening to me. I thought these blokes who dressed up as superheroes were quite funny and quite smart and thought that, as a peaceful protest it was just about perfect: it made people notice, it made people smile and no one got hurt. I also wondered what on earth it must feel like to be deprived of your kids. As the father of two young girls, I tried to think what on earth it must be like but I couldn’t really get near it. Then something else would come on the news and I’d think about that.

When I was approached to help Dave with this book there might have been a small part of me that thought “Hmmm, no smoke without fire”. I can’t deny that. I’ve got friends who’ve split up and none of them have ended up hanging off a crane in fancy dress. They argue, they bitch, they get angry, they cry. What they don’t do is dress up like Spiderman or Batman.

You can’t help but think something like “that’s not what happens to normal people. Life doesn’t work like that.” And so I agreed to take on the book. If I’m completely truthful, I thought, in a detached kind of way, it would be interesting. After all, what Dave had gone through and what he was still going through was completely alien to me. Our situations couldn’t be more different. I’ve been happily married for over 10 years. My wife and I both work from home and we share the household and parental stuff down the middle. I’ve got two lovely girls who I take to school every other day and who I pick up from school every other day. I take them to their friends’ houses, pick them up, moan about being nothing but a taxi driver… the whole parent thing. The very idea that I couldn’t see them whenever I wanted was so alien that I couldn’t even conceive of what it must be like. Every time I tried to imagine, I’d hear the kids screaming or fighting or wanting something.

So we started working on the book together, getting to know each other, checking each other out. Apart from growing to like him as a person, my respect for him has grown immeasurably. The pressures that Dave found himself under would have crushed most people. The emotional trauma, the drain would have made most people either behave irrationally or, more probably, badly. Dave has done neither. (Some people might think that dressing up as Spiderman and risking his life off a crane is irrational: I don’t. I think it’s desperate and sad and shocking, but it’s not irrational. It’s what someone does when they’ve run out of choices, when there’s nowhere else to go.

This is Dave’s story. Every story in life has more than one side and, no doubt, you could tell this story more than one way. But this is Dave’s story. It’s his story told in his words and maybe it’s true that my sympathies are with Dave. We’re both men and both know what that feels like. We’re both fathers and both know what that feels like. But it was more than that. It’s more than Dave’s story. It’s Lauren’s story because whenever adults argue, it’s the kids who pick up the tab. The parents hammer away at each other, but it’s the kid who gets the bruise. And that – to use one of my kid’s favourite phrases – is just so badly unfair. Lauren gets the bruise because she’s not allowed to see her dad. Her dad gets the bruise because he’s not allowed to see his daughter. Dave’s story is also the story of a personal journey. I know from personal experience that having a child is like turbo-charging the journey from youth to adulthood, from kid to grown-up. When you have a child, everything changes. It’s a new life – for them and for you. You become a different person. The things that used to be important aren’t so important anymore. The things you used to be concerned about… None of it means anything anymore. What’s important is this baby you’ve created. New parents – all new parents - go from being selfish to being selfless, from irresponsible to responsible. We all go through this. To have the catalyst for this change – your child – taken away so quickly… I can’t even think how horrible that must be. When I agreed to help Dave with this book I didn’t really know what to expect. What I know now is this – and it’s quite simple: He’s a decent, human being who just wants to be with his child. Just like me. And very probably just like you.