George Driver and his daughter
The early days: George Driver and his daughter Nieke (Photos: supplied)

ParentsJanuary 5, 2022

A blur of vomit, shit, sleeplessness, and unrequited love

George Driver and his daughter
The early days: George Driver and his daughter Nieke (Photos: supplied)

Summer read: Nothing can prepare you for the first weeks of parenthood. George Driver finally emerges from the wilderness.

First published on August 28, 2021

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I’ve never worked so hard and been treated with such utter indifference. The first days of parenthood disappeared in a blur, defined by a never ending cycle of feeding, excretions and screaming. But vomit, shit and sleeplessness pale in comparison to the unrequited love of caring for a newborn baby.

I had only a vague idea of what to expect becoming a first-time parent. Television and a lifetime of overhearing parents complaining suggested recreation and a social life would belong to the “before times”. Our child would totally and indefinitely eclipse life as we knew it. But seeing young parents out in public, at cricket games and on camping trips, was evidence that there could be life after baby. There may be hope.

Fortunately, we had nine months to psychologically, and materially, prepare. However, we spent most of this period preparing for the birth. We spent weekends, evenings and hundreds of dollars on birthing courses and Plunket classes. We wanted to make sure that 24 hour period was as enjoyable, and endurable, as possible. We put somewhat less thought into what happened next. It was like we had nine months to prepare for the most important job of our lives – a job that we had no qualifications or experience for, that never ends and that you can’t quit – and we spent the entire time planning how to get to the office. Although I’m not sure you can ever really prepare for what comes next. And I had no fear of the job ahead. This was what I wanted. The very thought of meeting my unborn daughter filled me with overwhelming joy.

When Nieke was born, the sense of confusion and bewilderment was immediate.

George Driver and his daughter. (Image: supplied)

When I first met the lump of flesh pancaked on my partner’s chest – mouth gaping, eyes dilated and covered in blood and mucus – my first thought was “is that really our daughter?”. How could this tiny creature, with these strange reflexive puppet-like movements, be the person I had been dreaming of meeting for the past nine months? Based on TV, I expected to feel overcome with emotion. That this would be the happiest day of my life. But I felt bewildered and surprisingly flat. No one cried. In the surgical glare of the hospital ward, the miracle of life felt routine. Nieke was almost immediately taken from us for 10 minutes to be assessed and jabbed with vitamin k, while the obstetrician made smalltalk as she inspected my partner for tears (it turned out she wore my partner’s fashion label, ReCreate).

An hour later, holding my baby as she fell asleep in the crook of my arm, some fatherly instincts began to stir. But I began to realise that, for me and many others, becoming a parent does not happen like flicking on a light switch. It’s a journey.

The cold and sinking feeling of dread began within hours of her birth. Her first screams shattered any notion that this might be a doddle. She mustered a level of volume and a pitch which seemed entirely out of proportion with her 3.3kg frame. It didn’t stop. We didn’t know why. We didn’t know what to do. So this is what my life is going to be like now, I thought, with a rising sense of fear.

Fortunately, that first night in Dunedin Hospital we received the constant care of saintly nurses and midwives (give these people a raise) who checked on us whenever they heard Nieke’s howls echoing down the ward.

The first big endorphins hit arrived the following day. The overwhelming love buzz erased the sleeplessness of the previous three nights. Rocking her in my arms was incomparable to anything I had known. I was giddy. But by the third day we were both beginning to falter. My partner, having had almost no sleep in the previous five days, went from superwomen to sobs. The first time she spoke to her family back in the Netherlands, she cried almost the entire call.

Nieke wouldn’t breastfeed and for the first weeks we were on a perpetual three-hour cycle of attempting to breastfeed, breast pumping and finger-feeding with a syringe and trying to settle our baby. We watched jealousy as other parents at the birthing home in Alexandra seemingly went on with their lives – eating meals together as their baby slept, going for walks together with their newborn. My partner didn’t go outside for five days.

Over time the mechanics of caring for a baby settled into a routine. The things I feared turned out to be no problem at all. Nappies, containing a small scoop of pumpkin soup-like poop, were not an issue. My partner valiantly took the night shift. To my shame, I’ve never slept so well in my life.

I had expected it to be hard, but that an overwhelming feeling of love and a steady flow of endorphins would make it not just endurable, but enjoyable. But those first six weeks were pure survival. The endorphins didn’t balance the books. We were running up a deficit. I wasn’t alone. There were more tear-filled calls to the Netherlands.

Rocking my baby to sleep, I’d become overwhelmed by the feeling that I’d rather be doing anything else right now. Every day felt like Groundhog Day and I wondered if I’d ever have time for things I loved in life again. There was no way to know and no way out. I recall at the end of the first week cowering in the haven of the bathroom, understanding why dark things can happen to people in those first weeks of parenthood.

After three weeks, my partner – the strongest and most unfailingly determined person I know – became a husk of herself. “I don’t know if I love her enough,” she said, a month into our new life. I had thought that having a baby would bring us closer together, but it felt like it had brought a wedge between us, irrevocably changing our relationship in unforeseeable ways forever. I didn’t vocalise these thoughts. There was no time.

But the hardest part was the complete indifference of our child. There was little in our relationship between feeding, sleeping and screaming. Her interactions with the world were jerky and instinctual, her expression oscillating through the gamut of human emotions, trying them on like a mask.

I lived for our walks together. Pacing the streets of Clyde with her strapped to my chest was ecstasy. It was something we could both enjoy. A glimmer of normalcy. But the best times we spent together were when she was unconscious in my arms. Staring into that tiny peaceful face restored me.

Slowly our relationship evolved. Nieke began feeding on her own. My role as finger-feeder began to ebb away. We grew into parenthood. We began to fall in love.

(Image: supplied)

The biggest transformation happened about six weeks in, just as I prepared to go back to work. Her eyes began to focus. Her movements became more controlled and directed. Then she started to smile. It is impossible to convey how utterly life-changing it is to experience your child’s first smile. It felt like the first moment we shared a connection. There was a personality emerging. We could start to get to know each other. Then she began to talk – or at least try to – and it made me weak at the knees. The endorphins flooded in. My fear melted. I became utterly besotted. My partner and I felt closer than ever. I was beginning to see the light. I was in love.

Today is her hundredth day on earth, which we celebrate in her first lockdown (although, working from home in small town New Zealand, lockdown makes little difference). It should be a short enough time to remember each day of her life, but already it is disappearing into a blur. Those first six weeks feel like a lifetime ago. Two months ago she couldn’t communicate beyond a scream. Now she can play with us, she giggles, she can lie and talk ceaselessly for an hour in a series of coos and squeals. She looks into my eyes and strokes my beard. Two months ago I wasn’t sure how my life would continue. Now I can’t imagine a life apart. I’m slowly becoming a dad.

But I also know we have been incredibly fortunate. I can’t imagine the strain of parenting alone, or having to cope with other struggles along the way. For some, things don’t get better six weeks in ­– about 15% of mothers and 4.3% of fathers experience postnatal depression. If things don’t get better there are people who can help. You don’t have to get through it alone.

Keep going!
Bookworm Ben (Photo: supplied/Artwork: Tina Tiller)
Bookworm Ben (Photo: supplied/Artwork: Tina Tiller)

BooksDecember 25, 2021

Ben can read

Bookworm Ben (Photo: supplied/Artwork: Tina Tiller)
Bookworm Ben (Photo: supplied/Artwork: Tina Tiller)

Summer read: Books editor Catherine Woulfe shares a personal story about structured literacy, the step-by-step reading system that’s gaining traction across the country.

First published April 16, 2021. 

My boy is called Ben and he turns seven in October. In the battle over how kids learn to read, he is a data point of one. But he is my data point of one, and as he’d tell you, did you know that one can also be a whole?

So: Ben. He is kind and goofy and emotionally intelligent, and absolutely hellbent on rules. He adores puns. Pokemon. Making up raps. Mazes, logic. When he left kindy his kaiako said, “He’ll do great. Just maybe tell his teacher that Ben is very literal.” At the moment he is fascinated by Guinness World Records, and anything that spins. 

Before Ben hit school he was manipulating fractions in his head, for fun. I remember the day he realised there were negative numbers – a new world, stretching infinitely down; he actually pirouetted with the joy of it. He likes to shoot equations at us, ones he’s already figured out: what’s 20 times 20 plus 200 minus 700? He’ll whirl in the kitchen while he delivers these chants, punctuating each step with a sweet kung fu move. He counts himself to sleep. The other day, exhausted, self-soothing with maths, he woozily dealt with 37 times 12 as we drove to the supermarket. 

So it went with words. Ben started talking hard and fast on his first birthday. All the way through Playcentre, then daycare and kindy, he was precocious, voracious, collecting up words and stacking them into meticulous, towering sentences. No baby talk. No stumbling over tenses. 

I’d assumed my boy would be one of those kids who pick up reading simply by being around books. Who was born to it. But what happened was he hit school and abruptly plateaued. 

I was an education reporter for 10 years and I wrote many, many versions of the story that goes: “If you read to your kids and instil a love of books you’re doing all you can to set them up to be great readers”. Also the one that goes: “Parents: stop fretting. Your white middle-class kid will be just fine”. And yet. 

I started to watch my boy very carefully. And I started to worry.

Every afternoon he’d dig out his book bag and we’d sit down with whatever book had been sent home. He’d rattle through it no worries. But one day he explained that he’d already read the book in class. He’d memorised it. Same with the picture books all over the house. He would sit down and “read” to his baby sister, and the sweetness of it would break your heart. But he wasn’t reading. He was reciting. 

Two young children, photographed from above, surrounded by picture books
Ben and Leo, plus books (Photo: Catherine Woulfe)

I want to say here that the sheer volume of material this kid memorised was staggering. So was his ability to figure out what words must mean, by looking at the pictures. And all of that amazing brain gruntwork, that rote learning and jigsaw-puzzling – it all looks like reading, for a while. 

For us, his whole first year of school was an exercise in being very worried while trying very hard not to be. From somewhere, from everywhere, we had absorbed the idea that New Zealand is blessed with a chill and child-centred approach to learning to read. We were into it. The whole thing seemed at once sensible and kind of magical: put a child in a reading-rich environment and their own reading will eventually kind of … manifest. Oh sure he’d get taught the basics, plus a few tricks – look for clues in the picture, break a big word into chunks. But mostly it was about osmosis. Trust the teachers, the system, trust in the sight word charts and reading books they send home. Relax.

This all fit nicely with the ECE curriculum, Te Whāriki, that we’d just spent five years wrapped up in. It also fit with our ideas about parenting, which are basically: Reinforce the good stuff, ignore the bad. Read lots. 

So we did our best not to freak out. Occasionally we’d talk with Ben’s teacher. She was lovely, capable, smart, she tried to reassure us, told us Ben was doing fine, making good progress. We wanted to see that. But what we saw instead – this is hard to pin down – was our diligent, eager-to-please kid using all his energy just in staying afloat. We saw a light going out. After the first few months there was no joy for him in reading or, more precisely, in battling to read. He was another little boy deciding books weren’t for him. 

It became a slog. My mum, a former primary school teacher who later specialised in literacy, came up with all sorts of sticker charts and word games to try to fire him up again. Nothing worked for long. 

He didn’t like writing, either. More often than not, everything he wrote would be mirrored, flipped. It was extraordinary to watch. Once he made a card for his sister. Dear Leo, Love Ben. He copied words I’d written. It took him 20 minutes. I couldn’t tell him that every letter, and every word, was the wrong way around. I just marvelled at his brain, and I worried. 

But mirroring is not unusual when kids are starting to read. It might signal dyslexia. It might not. It’ll sort itself out. Relax.

Sentences formed out of single words written on cardboard
“Caterpillar sentences”, one of the many strategies we tried at home (Photo: Catherine Woulfe)

At Ben’s sixth birthday party, when he’d been at school for a year, I set up a treasure hunt with simple written clues. Most of the words were ones we had drilled, ones I thought he knew. “You look in me every day.” “I am big and red. Bees love me.” There were 12 clues. So 12 times over, I watched my boy stand mute at the back of the pack while his friends read out the note in two seconds flat. Letterbox, he’d yell then, first to solve the riddle, tearing off down the drive. Bottlebrush

It is a hard thing to watch your kid learn to mask, to compensate. That day, the worry finally rose up and shouted down all the magical thinking. 

That’s when we found him a ladder. 

A structured literacy approach explicitly teaches systematic word identification and decoding strategies, which benefit most students but are essential for those with dyslexia.

A structured literacy approach provides explicit, systematic, and sequential teaching of literacy at multiple levels – phonemes, letter-sound relationships, syllable patterns, morphemes, vocabulary, sentence structure, paragraph structure, and text structure.

[Teachers using a structured literacy approach will] explain each concept clearly. Provide guided practice. Students are not expected to discover or intuit language concepts simply from exposure to language or reading.

– From Te Kete Ipurangi, the government’s education resource site for teachers

“Explain each concept clearly.” I reckon that’s the heart of it.

Instead of seeking a diagnosis we set about organising a tutor. Here is what you’ll need in your privilege toolkit to make this option feasible: money; networks (finding a tutor can be tough); the educational capital to realise there’s a problem in the first place and the bloodymindedness to refuse to relax about it. You’ll also need a parent or other adult with time and flexibility, who knows enough about reading to be able to help. 

In six months we have spent more than $1000 on private tutoring. I’ve taken Ben to something like 13 hours of lessons, most of them at 7.30am, and almost every afternoon we practice with special games and apps and decodable books (crucially, in these books kids can sound out all the words, rather than having to guess). 

It worked. As soon as someone told Ben the rules, the patterns – the beautiful maths of reading – he got it.

Here’s the first structured literacy book he read, in its entirety. I look at it now and I see a poem. A ladder. 

Sam

Pip

Tim

Sam sat. Pip sat. 

Tim sat. 

Sam, Pip, Tim. 

Twelve words. He read them all and it was a tiny triumph, our first in a really long time. You should’ve seen his face. 

Here are the first two pages of the book we did yesterday:

It was spring. 

The sun was out and the bees were buzzing. 

Pip and Tim were playing in the long grass.

“It’s like a jungle in here,” said Tim.

“Let’s go hunting for animals,” said Pip. 

It is still a triumph, every single time. 

More and more schools are introducing the structured literacy approach, even though they have to pay to do so. Over the last couple of weeks the Ministry of Education has also been distributing new books that focus on phonics, one of the pillars of the system. Professional development for teachers is on the way. 

I’m relieved that change is happening, and also that it is happening by degrees. Things have a way of shattering when new systems are slammed down on schools. And of all the wars in education, the one over how we learn to read is perhaps the most bitter. Godspeed to the teachers and officials – and kids – picking their way through it all. 

But honestly, it all feels very far away and across the hills. Because right here at home our boy is off and racing, he’s flying – a week ago he woke up and some switch had flicked and all of a sudden he was reading the Weetbix box, the milk bottle, the sunscreen. I cried buckets in the kitchen while he did a lap of his room, reading the certificates on the wall. Ss-tah-rrr of the week. For being ka-i-nn-d and tah-ry-ing his bah-es-t with his ill-err-nn-ing. A trip to the fruit and vege shop took half an hour longer than usual. Mummy! There are so many signs! Later I found him transfixed in front of the turned-off TV. Pa-nah-soh-nic, he breathed, not noticing me. And then he grabbed a book he had never seen before and sat down beside his sister.

We are here thanks to you. The Spinoff’s journalism is funded by its members – click here to learn more about how you can support us from as little as $1.