Reflections On My Daughter Turning 8

She’s 8
She’s growing up fast
Too fast, in fact
You can hear the moments swoosh by in painful Doppler-effect
I can’t make her stay young
But I’ll miss the 8 year old, like I miss the 6 and the 3

She’s 8
Lives in a world filled with friends
But she’s beginning to get puzzled
At why some people don’t play with her

One day
Someone will tell her she’s not cool enough
And no matter how hard I will try to convince her otherwise
She’ll believe them and not me

She’s 8
Soon she’ll be 10
She’ll want things that are new and expensive
That are essential to helping her to fit in
Right now, she doesn’t care
Thank God for that
May it remain in the future

She’s 8
She can see the World now
She sees the news, and realises it affects her
She sees the faraway country, and feels the connection
I am proud and sad
“Saoud”? “Prad”?

And she makes me happy
All breathless and giddy and funny and shouting
She’ll still make me happy in five years time
But the giddy and excited will make way
For quiet moments in her room
The wide-eyed wonder will be pushed back
And her instinctive automatic affection will embarrass her

She’s 8
And she name-drops Jaguar
She thinks it’s the best car
Because she knows I want to drive one
And she can spot Led Zeppelin
Doesn’t care if her friends can’t
In five years
They’ll tell her she’s sad
Then she’ll tell me I’m sad
Then I’ll actually be sad
But not teenager-sad
Adult-sad
Properly sad
That I’m the embarrassing Dad
She will put empty space between what she likes
And what I love

She’s 8, and she has summoned Shai-Hulud #prouddad

She’s 8
And I’m still Daddy
I’m not Dad yet
I know it’s coming
I want Dad to be kept at bay
It’s a name that can lengthened
Into a Daaaaaaaaad! of annoyance and frustration
Daddy can be in this house a little longer
Even though the insistent monotone
Daddy…
Daddy…
Daddy…
Follows me around the shops

She’s 8
Soon she’ll be swearing
I’m looking forward to not having to mind my language
But I don’t want that open, sweet face to utter a curse

She’s 8
She’ll soon want to kiss
And whoever she kisses
Had better be good to her
Fist-shakey father
Terrifying the spotty teenager
Who dares to be overly polite on our doorstep
And calls me ‘sir’ on first meeting
LOL
Taking pleasure in his angular awkwardness
“Sado-Dad”

She’s 8
Staying indoors
When I was 8, I rode the town
On a bike across busy roads
Into deserted back lanes
And ran pathways in woods
Encountering hostile bigger kids
And stashes of creased magazines
Full of naughty hair

And bought bright green teeth-gouging sweets
With sweaty coppers
And sometimes crossed the road
Without waiting for David Prowse to bleep at me
Knocked on familiar doors without invitation
Played on wheel-worn tarmac
Watched skin concertina up my knee

I’m still too scared
I can’t bring myself to let her cross the road solo yet
Or walk to school alone
Or buy things in the shop
Or walk round to a friends’ house
Or make a phone call
Or type a word into Google
Because everything leads to porn, you know
Cars don’t stop for pedestrians
And all strangers are terrifying monsters
The world outside these comfortable brick walls
Is full of broken glass and needles
Blade-edged crushing cars and perverts
I’m the one who is scared, not her

“Why haven’t you won a fucking Oscar yet??”

She’s 8
She writes and talks and sings and dances
And sticky inept fingers on piano keys
Pick out idiot melodies
Words come out jumbled and charming
Without thinking any of that is wrong
And one day, and it’s a day hurtling towards us
She’ll write properly
Talk politely with a filter

She will be too scared to sing
Because other people are listening
She’ll refrain from sudden public dancing
because other people are watching
And the music will be corrected
And she’ll speak like the rest of us
Just to avoid the tuts and sneers
Just because other people want her to be normal

And she makes me happy
She’s so breathless and giddy
And talking without fader
When we’re both shouting and snarling
She’s usually crying
And I’m towering
I’m usually winning
But she hasn’t hated me yet
Or sworn or slammed doors
Or run out of the castle into the tangled Disney forest
Or scrawled on walls
Or turned up the volume
Of yelping, excoriating words
From paid miserablists
Who in their twenties and thirties
Articulate for teenagers
Or turned inwards and loathing
Writing words on secret paper
Refusing my courtesy
Sour respect

It’s John I feel most sorry for. Not so awful to be a never, and not a DEFINITELY!! Just a dismissive ‘Not really’. Poor Not-really John

She’s 8
And soon her body will disobey
Bits poke out and make her distinct
Skin will swell
Tiny volcanoes
Angry red swarm on cheeks
Clothes feeling tight
Skeleton rearranging
New pituitary chemicals
The doorway of womanhood

And then the pointing
Sly giggling
Innuendos and slurs
Developments are early or late
And others will be having it better
Whatever she gets, she’ll feel it is wrong
The inevitable exile
From self or army of others

Right now
She’s a blank larvae
Teeth the only sign
Of growth and maturity
And height marks on a doorframe
Long hair and dress sense
Inspired by fairy-tale and dream
Her trusting eyes
Long sighted
Blue and open
Always hopeful

And she makes me happy
And she makes me so, so happy
All breathless and giddy
We love the same things
She’ll still make me happy in five years time
Will she still love the same things?
Or will she want to lengthen her arms
Keep me and my things at the tips?
Put the blinker-hand to her eyes
And walk a little bit quicker than me?

It was right after this picture was taken that one of the Dads said “…and remember, girls. Always use a condom”. Pick your moment carefully, fathers.

She’s 8
8 is vanishing
Soon she’ll be 9
Soon she’ll be 12
Soon she’ll be 15
She’s halfway to 16
A decade from voting
Sex and drinking
Driving and smoking
Separate living
Not daily talking but sometimes calling
The aged parents
Our duty done, her duty to contact

The silent house
Is very distant now
10 years or more
But soon will be close
She’s still golden
While I’m still dark, but snow is forming
And the body will lengthen
She’ll look me in the eye
And ask for freedom
My wife and I
Praise the quiet
At the end of each day
Talk boring adult things
Mortgages and roadworks

But when clocks stop
And lights switch off
On the final closing of doors
Emptied drawers
The relinquishing of house keys
Her terrifying adventure
Enriching, engorging and full
Will be a solo flight
We’ll be left behind
My wife and I
Clinging to each other
Like shipwrecked beavers on a raft
Wishing for the chatter
And streaming prattle
To return as soundtrack
I write it down
So that I can always hear it

She’s gone, cannot return
She changes, grows, and blossoms
I carve gouges in my face
My hair turns to birch-bark silver
And mother becomes a cheerful apple
Rose-red and comforting
To the new names and beautiful hands
A kitchen and a front room to visit
Pot-pourri walls and confident with nails
Our beloved garden
Books and photos in the attic
Always visited
…So far away
Getting closer
Return to this room now

She’s 8
And I’m 40
She’s soaring upwards
And I’m sauntering down.

How I see mine and my daughter’s relationship unfolding as the years go on. Your parenting role-models might differ from mine.