The Next Generation...

On the DVD commentary to "Resurrection of the Daleks" Peter Davison, in his typically self-deprecating manner (a quality that by now he probably lists on his CV) claims that the one advantage he felt he might have over his predecessors was that, being younger, he could move that much quicker. In a similar vein, although I can't compete with the sheer quantity and quality of the other columns on here I can perhaps corner the market, as it were, in giving some consideration to the child's point of view, if only on the grounds that I have one to consult. It occurs to me then, that when I don't have some dusty old kids TV show to rattle on about, I can perhaps give some thought to what I may have derived from the experience of parenthood (so far).

As a rule I'm at work before my daughter goes to school, but on those occasions when I have taken, or collected, her I've been struck by how very properly 'Mumsy' (or indeed 'Dadsy') all the other parents seem. Having spent much of my adult life feeling like a child accidentally let out to play, I now find myself feeling equally unprepared for parenthood. If only for the sake of my sanity I have to believe that I am not alone in feeling this, but the fact is that I find parenthood to be mostly a case of improvisation, of ad-libbing, of literally making it up as you go along; rather than a clear sense of what is right, of how things should be done, of a definite plan and a set of guidelines. Which of course leads to one of those questions which can only give you a headache - my memory of childhood is of my parents being very organised, very sure, very clear as to what to do. But did they in fact feel at times just as out of their depth and totally bewildered as I now find myself feeling? Or are my memories in fact correct, and it is just me? (Which leads to another question - which answer would be preferable?!)

Having been left totally cold by the first series, I have to my great surprise become a huge fan of "Sex & the City" in recent years - as an aside, I clearly don't have an eye for talent; I would never have recommissioned Ian "Dragonfire" Briggs, which would have left us without Fenric; nor would I have gone for a second series of "Ever Decreasing Circles" on the strength of the first. But I digress... In a recent episode (we're back to "Sex & The City" now, by the way, before you start puzzling over which character is played by Richard Briers) one of Carrie's old friends, now married with children, more or less says to her that once you have kids you start having a real life, whereas a single, child-free life is really just an irrelevancy, or at least a 'second-class' existence. In the same episode, having arranged a christening party of sorts for the latest arrival, the parents insist that all their guests take their shoes off for the sake of hygiene. I hate to hear such things from parents where, to be honest, sanity and rational behaviour are simply abandoned, and I dearly hope that I am not like that. Whether I am or not is, I suppose, for others to decide (maybe in twenty years or so my daughter can have her own column and tell 'the other side' of the story - My Hell With Dad! Curnow - the True Story! something like that) but I have to say that the comment that a single life was somehow of lesser importance to a life with children made me feel the same irrational guilt, as a parent, that men sometimes feel when rape is discussed.

As an absurdly unhelpful generalisation, I find that people seem to be divided into two groups - namely those who want children and those who don't. Some people seem to have spent all their lives just wanting to have children; whereas others want anything but. In terms of children in the abstract, I openly admit that I am in the latter group. In the case of specific examples of real children (my daughter, obviously, various of her friends, her cousins, etc) then I do love them, but even having one of my own I don't think I could put forward a reasoned and compelling argument as to why anybody who doesn't have any ought to get themselves "sprogged up" (to quote Bridget Jones' diary (or at least her major motion picture)). Unless you particularly like years of wiping bottoms, changing nappies, cleaning up mess, being sicked on, weed (or peed) on, and generally (new word alert) latrinised, followed by mood swings and blazing rows and slammed doors and interminable arguments and calls to collect said sprog from some unsavoury location at three o'clock in the morning, not to mention worry and anxiety and the occasional wash of complete dread, then there's the cost of shoes and clothes and... Well, anyway, unless that particularly cocktail floats your boat (yes, mixed metaphor I know, sorry) then what precisely is the attraction of having children?

I was planning to end the column there, with 'answers on a postcard please' but that would just be very naughty and self-indulgent of me (heaven forbid)! Having asked the question I ought to at least try and prod an answer out of myself, didn't I.

For some people, there is the element of 'posterity', of leaving a permanent sign that they have themselves been alive after they have gone. I don't think that applies in all cases, certainly not my own - going back to the two types of people generalisation above, I never consciously set out to become a father, which is not, I hasten to add, to say that I am not pleased I am one. But nevertheless there was no coherent decision to go out there and 'carry on the line', as it were.

But the suggestion that there is an element of selfishness involved, in whatever form, is perhaps true - people more often than not say they 'want to have a baby'; not that they 'want to be parents'. There is a difference between the two, as important a distinction in some ways as 'getting married' and 'being married', and in the case of having children it is more often than not the fact that a couple want to have a child that is the primary motivation, not the fact that they want to raise a child who will then go out into the world as a proper, well-balanced adult, etc, etc. That is the implicit 'end-result' from the initial desire of course, but it is not often consciously considered. When my wife was pregnant there was an awful lot (make your own mind up as to exactly what I mean by awful...) of information, advice, etc about being pregnant and about giving birth - but very, very little (if anything) about what happens afterwards, about being parents.

I can, like most parents I'm sure, vividly remember the day (well, night) my daughter was born. But I can also remember waking up the first morning after she was back at home and thinking... So what now? For the first few days (ten I believe unless that's changed since the turn of the century) the midwife makes a daily visit which I suppose is intended to wean the new parents off the support of the medical establishment that they have been so enjoying for the past six months. But once the child has arrived that 'support' is no longer in an encouraging sense, but rather seems to be a case of being checked up on. After three or four nights of breast-feeding, my wife was so tired that she didn't wake up when our daughter did - so I got her a bottle, fed her, sorted her out and put her back to sleep. You can doubtless imagine the preening of the proud and suddenly capable new father, liberated and enthused by his independence. But oh no! The midwife's reaction stopped only just short of having me sectioned - baby shouldn't have mixed breast and bottle, baby should only have one sort, breast is best, blah blah blah.

That's where it starts, of course, but does it ever stop I ask myself? After those first few days we launch into the regular check-ups - teams of midwifes and nurses trying to tag your baby as too heavy or not heavy enough, or not eating the right food, or not combing their hair properly, or burping with an accent or whatever. Their mission seems primarily to find something, anything, that can be pointed out as a failing on the part of the parents. Maybe it's inevitable in this day and age, and to be fair it should (in theory at least) help identify those parents who for whatever reason aren't coping, or worse those who really don't care. But, and going back to the start of this column it may be just me, it seems an uphill struggle to prove yourself. It's not confined to the department of health either - there's the department of education to deal with, first the all-but compulsory playgroup (or 'pre-school' as they call them nowadays) and then school itself. The school homework diary was a kind of mutual joke when I was at school; but now it has to be authorised and signed - more checking up on the parents? (And don't even get me started as to whether I think five and six year olds really need to be getting homework anyway...) What next I wonder, in fear and trepidation, what is to come in the next decade or more? Is it any wonder I don't sleep at nights!

But, in as far as I actually have one, I'm getting off the point. The question put, seemingly months ago now, was "What is the appeal of having children?" Maybe it's the same joy people get in their gardens, that of watching something grow - first it's just a puny smudge of green poking above the ground, but then it develops, becoming taller, straighter, stronger, finally flowering and reaching maturity. There is some kind of satisfaction, I suppose, to be had in not only seeing that development, but in feeling that you have played at least a part in it. Maybe... I can certainly understand somebody looking back on the experience and claiming that was the joy of it, but at the sharp end, as it were, while the child is actually growing, I don't believe it's always easy to take that step back and philosophise so.

Having already established that it may be just me, then, can I offer one more possible reason, partially a 'selfish' or at least a self-based reason. I think when people have always wanted to have children they are missing an important point - which is that having children is not a goal in itself, merely another stage of the journey (gosh, I'm sounding like a self-help pamphlet, steady Curnow). One of the 'joys' for me in having a daughter is the change it has made in me, in my perceptions, and also the new perspective it has given me on me. There's the reminder of simple delights from simpler times, reacquainting oneself with old friends almost - after a gap of twenty years I now once again find myself thinking about stepping over the gaps in the paving stones, or kicking through piles of tumbled Autumn leaves (I told my daughter last week that they used to be a lot crunchier when I was young, but she naturally missed my point). It almost forces one to see things from a child's point of view, a perspective that however hard we try to keep we always, to a greater or lesser degree, lose sight of.

There are also situations when I find myself 'through the looking glass' - my mum taught me to read before I started school, a fact I more or less take for granted; but now, helping my daughter with her reading homework from school, I can see how enormous an undertaking that was, and what an achievement it must have been. There will be more of these 'sudden realisations' to come, I'm quite sure of that: when I was in my late teens, my Dad gave me one of his Biggles books to read. He had quite a collection of them, and they had clearly been very important, very dear to him when he was younger. And in getting me to read one, in trying to get me 'hooked' there was obviously an attempt to pass on something of that 'importance'. The one he gave me was actually very good, but none of the other two or three I tried caught my imagination at all. Clearly a canny man, he had given me one of the best ones to start with - just as we would try and hook a newcomer to the Target range with "The Auton Invasion" or "The Doomsday Weapon", rather than with "Image of the Fendahl" or "An Unearthly Child." One day I can see myself on the other side of that situation, trying to pass on something of that emotion and significance to my daughter, offering her my battered Terrance Dicks or Malcolm Hulke books to read, trying in some way to convey what they mean to me.

Perhaps, then, at the end of the day this is the 'indefinable magic' (to coin a phrase) of being a parent. Because it isn't simply a one-way street of feeding and giving and helping your children, but in finding new strengths or even just new corners in our own personalities, and also in passing a new light over half-forgotten memories and thoughts. Without consciously meaning to, perhaps our children have the ability to make us improve ourselves, showing us that we have not reached any sort of destination but encouraging us to keep trying; just as at the same time we try and guide them along those parts of the trail we have already walked. Maybe...

Going right back to the start of this column, it occurred to me that on those occasions when I cannot think of some ancient kids show or movie to ramble on about, I might share thoughts, feelings, even simple experiences and anecdotes ("yes, the toilet is blocked up again") which the curse/burden/honour/thrill (delete as applicable) of parenthood has given me. For next week, however, have no fears - I'm sure I can think of a creaky old TV show to write about in the week ending 23rd November...

7th November 2003