Just me and my girl

36 hours alone with my16-month-old daughter

Nick Duerden, xtra@mediacorp.com.sg

ELENA looks skittish, almost frisky. Odd. "I bought one," she says. "One what?" I ask. "A pregnancy testing kit."

She strides to the toilet, pees, flushes and comes back into the living room, the radioactive stick held tightly in her hand.

"And?" I ask.

"You're going to be a father."

I am not proud of my reaction. I place my head between my knees, as if in an aeroplane about to crash, and the room spins. A strong wave of nausea reaches my throat and I open my mouth, tongue exposed, to vomit. An empty wretch. I burst into howling tears.

"I was hoping for a better reaction," says Elena.

Nine months later, the mother of my child has her legs in stirrups. In the midwife's hands is a baby — mine.

From the baby comes a noise: A sigh, a weary grunt. It is then placed into my hands and I'm told to take the six steps back towards my girlfriend. Elena takes it from me and holds it against her breast. We look from one another to it, and back again.

"Happy?" asks one of the midwives. Truthfully? I have absolutely no idea.

It is 7am on a blazing Saturday morning when Elena leaves me fully alone with our daughter for the first time. She is going to a hen party in Dublin and will be gone 36 hours, promoting me to sole parent. I'll be fine, she tells me. Of course I will. Amaya is 16 months old now, walking and almost talking, a daily wonder to me. Parenthood has finally become fun.

A quarter of an hour later comes the familiar staccato cry from Amaya's room. I bound out of bed with an enthusiasm that scarcely represents my usual morning self, cross the landing in three steps and burst into her room. She is standing up, wailing from what she considers unforgivable inattention, but breaks into a sunshine smile at the sight of me. This bodes well.

We look down into the garden and she points to one corner with mounting excitement. There, we see a mother fox and her six cubs, tiny and gorgeous, the colour of autumn and full of the bounce of new life.

We are captivated by the sight until, after 10 minutes, Amaya wants to get down and do something else. I place her on the floor and stay by the window to watch the mother fox tending its young. From behind me, I hear a noise, the sound of choking.

I turn around and see my daughter still on the floor, her face now a bright and urgent purple, mouth gaping. Her eyes are huge with panic, and she is gesturing at her chest. I drop to the floor and begin to pat her back, gently at first, then harder. Nothing. I have no idea what I am supposed to do, and for several painful moments I draw a complete blank. She continues pointing.

I tilt her head back and look inside her mouth to see that something large and yellow has become wedged at the opening of her throat. It is half of the plastic casing of a Kinder Egg toy, slippery with saliva. It slides out with merciful ease.

Amaya is now breathing freely. She pants like a dog. She clambers on to my lap and hugs me tightly, pressing her hot body against mine. She has never done this before, and I hug her back with equal force, an avalanche of guilt mixing with overwhelming relief.

For the remainder of the day, I am a model parent. I feed Amaya, play with her, keep the television off. I push her high on the swings, accompany her on the roundabout till we very nearly see my Japanese takeaway from last night again, and help her up and down the slide until the sun sets.

At 8pm, she is lying in her cot with only the light from the rotating musical mobile keeping the room from total darkness. In the shadows, her eyes find mine and lock on. Tears flood my eyes.

I sit on the floor by the bars of the cot and allow her to fall asleep with my finger in her grasp, setting an unwise precedent for the nights to come, but right now I don't care. I just want to be right here alongside her, to draw out the moment for as long as I can.

Elena arrives home, finally. As my wife bends down to kiss me, she sees tears streaming down my cheeks. Instantly, she panics: "What is it? Is it Amaya? What happened? What have you done?"

I shake my head, smiling. "I think maybe my daughter loves me," I say.

She looks at me, confused. "And you've only just realised?" THE GUARDIAN

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From TODAYOnline.com; see the source article here.

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