SINCE my beautiful daughter, Roisin, was born, less than six months ago, I have found myself more in sympathy with the Labour Party. In the past, I have expressed scepticism when members of that party have tried to tell us that some relative of theirs appointed to some public sinecure or other had got the job not, on account of fortuitous connections but because he or she was the "best person for the job". Such logic used to bring a thin smile to my lips. Now understand the desperate frustration in having it heard.
I have a similar problem telling people how beautiful my daughter is. I know that all babies, are beautiful in their own way. I am aware, too, that all parents believe their offspring to be the most beautiful children made by God, and that fathers are especially prone to being rendered hyperbolical by their daughters. But I have acknowledged all this and have already allowed for it. I have factored in the possible margin of error, which statistical theory recommends in order to avoid running foul of probability aberrations.
And at the other end of all this, I feel utterly confident in declaring that Roisin Waters is still, unquestionably and objectively speaking, the most beautiful little girl the world has ever seen.
And still, some people refuse to believe it - until they see her with their own eyes. Oh, they will nod and smile condescendingly when, in an attempt to prepare them, I say that of course Roisin is the most beautiful girl they will ever set eyes upon. I tell them that her mother and I spend most of our waking hours thinking about how ridiculously beautiful our daughter is. I say that," although I have already acknowledged how beautiful she is, it still takes me a few moments to recover every time I set eyes on her, so great is the difference between her beauty and the degree of beauty that my merely human mind is able to retain. I know they don't really believe me, that they imagine I am saying what they would expect any father to say.
But when they meet her they just stare with their mouths open. "She is the most beautiful baby I've ever seen," they say. Even the ones who don't say it are thinking it but are too dumbstruck to speak. "What do you think I have been trying to tell you?" I say, with just a hint of exasperation. "Yes, but we thought you were only saying that because you are her father," they say. "I am a journalist," I reply stiffly. "I report the facts."
OF course, sometimes I detach myself from my objectivity and become simply a doting father. This state is nothing like I would have imagined, which is to say that is infinitely better than anything I have ever heard about. For all of 40 years I had laboured under the impression that babies are nothing but trouble. I had understood about the dirty nappies and the sleeplessness, but not about the magic. I am willing to allow that, to an extent, this may have been because I was paying less than full attention, or that descriptions of the positive aspects of parenthood had become so threadbare that I heard them only as cliche.
When parents, for example, refer to their latest offspring as a "bundle of joy", the response of the average childless male is to say to himself: "That is an inaccurate description of what I see before me, for what I see before me is a screaming baby. "And so, in the same way that I had shut myself off from the paeans of doting parents, I had let all information pertaining to the joys of parenting go in one ear and out the other.
I do recall that from time to time it occurred to me to wonder why it was, if it is such hard work, that people bothered to have babies at all. But now I believe the reason I have not been told how magical babies are is that this is one of the great secrets of the universe. Men, for obvious reasons, have not known about it, and women, for even more obvious reasons, have kept it to themselves. As evidenced by the caricaturing of men who would look after their children, the world is working very hard to keep us from knowing what we are missing. Looking after a baby is truly an immense responsibility. It is also, no question, very tiring work. I am told that it will become more so when Roisin starts to crawl, which will be any day now. But to be honest, I cannot wait, because I cannot get enough of her, because she gives me: more than I can fathom of things I never dreamt of.
Of the two of us, I am the more childish, troublesome and inadequate. I have read that certain forms of Eastern mysticism hold that babies come to Earth in a Godlike state and are only gradually infused with human limitations. I know it is true. From the moment Roisin was born I have felt that she was already infinitely wise. I watched her watch the world not with curiosity or wonder but with tolerance and amusement and felt a little sad that, in order for her to live on this planet, she would have to lose some of her cosmic innocence.
It is true that for those periods when Roisin is in my care, she is totally dependent on me for certain basic needs such as food and clean nappies. This is the version of the relationship I had been told about. What I had not been told was the extent to which the provision of these basic services "should be repaid in magic and joy. I do not say this as a doting father, but as a detached, objective observer. The things I bring to the relationship are as nothing compared to the things I get back. As yet, I do not even know what some of these things are. All I know is that they are immense and that I am storing them away until I can better understand them.
I NEVER think of Roisin as a baby, in the sense of someone less knowing than myself. When I say that Roisin Waters is a bundle of joy, what I mean is that every atom of her consists of joy in its purest form. Although I know that I am expected to teach her things, in truth it is the other way around. Although I speak to her, I have found that silence is the best form of communication between us. (I know, too, that as soon as she speaks back to me I will have to be carted off to the cardiac unit.)
One of the things she is teaching me is how to be in the present moment. Because I have spent 41 years living in what passes for civilisation, this trick has long escaped me. I can live in the past or the future, often 20 or 30 years in either direction, but never in the now. This is the modern condition: when and where we are is inadequate and ordinary - every other place, time or company is steeped in a seductive exoticism.
I don't believe it has been observed before that babies are the most powerful antidote to this process of pseudo modernisation. (Write it down - it's a good one.) With babies, it appears, you have no choice but to be wherever you arc. At the start of a day when Roisin and I are to be together, I am full of apprehension on account of the responsibility involved. But once we are together, everything except the spark between us becomes dim and incidental. By the day's end, I am totally in her presence.
I just thought I'd write that today, to thank God for sending us his angel.