I’m little more than the support act to his mum. Now the boy is making eyes at Grandad, too
‘Everything is fine here,’ I say on a videocall to my wife. I haven’t seen her for four days . I’m not even looking at her now, too distracted by that rectangle in the corner of the screen, which contains my own sleep-deprived face. I know images taken with a front-facing camera are never flattering, but this is ridiculous. There’s room to plant marrows in the bags under my eyes, and my jowels are so shapeless and blotchy, it’s as if I’ve sent away for a novelty bean bag in the image of my own face.
She’s in New York visiting Auntie Carmel and Uncle Todd while her dad and I mind the baby. She and her mum left carrying Irish biscuits, homemade jam and a generalised suspicion we’d have the house burned down by the time they returned. Sleep deprivation aside, I’ve actually enjoyed it. My son definitely favours his mum, and I’ve always been considered the Andrew Ridgeley of his parents. Nine months in, his face says: ‘Mum! I can’t believe you’re here!’ With me, it’s more like: ‘Ah, Mum’s friend, I hope you’re well.’ He smiles at her like his heart is on fire and at me the way you might while talking to someone whose name you can’t quite remember.
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