First published on Nov 13, 2026
Quick housekeeping before we dive in. I've started a Substack dedicated to fatherhood writing. This piece is cross-posted there. If that's your kind of thing, check it out.
It’s 07:56. Six minutes later than intended, which is a success given we are marshalling a three-year-old out of the door. Bag packed, coat on, no, not that coat, the other one. The other one doesn’t have a hood and it’s due to rain. Okay, the other one.
Out of the house, up the steps. “I want to go on your head!” Always on my head (shoulders). Two hands under the armpits, up and over the head. I hope his shoes aren’t dirty. He’s heavier now. Day after day, nothing. And then one day, he’s a lot heavier. At some point he’ll be too heavy.
“Hold my legs!” He likes me to hold both legs, which makes carrying his small backpack a little difficult. But I do it anyway.
Rubbish collection today so we count the bins as we walk to the end of our road. Blue bin today–his favourite. Any bin that is overflowing is met with “Cheeky monkey!” The little brown food waste bins have already been emptied and many lie knocked over, which is, in his world, a serious concern. I manage to negotiate not having to pick each one up; he settles for the half-promise that I’ll do it later.
We reach the top of the road and wait at the lights; I press the button to request the green man. I don’t even think about it any more. A little over a year ago, when we started doing this walk, I would have to put him down, watch him struggle to reach and then gently lift him a few inches so he could press it. Then a few months later he could reach it all on his own. If ever I forgot and instinctively pressed it, all hell would break loose. We would then have to wait for the green man to pass so he could do it himself. A month ago I teased him as we approached and said “Maybe I’ll press it today.” “Okay,” came the reply. He hasn’t pressed it since.
After crossing we walk up a slightly busier road for a few hundred yards. In the distance he points out a spinning concrete lorry but it’s too far away and we haven’t got time to admire it today. A police car passed once; he waved, and they slowed down, turned on the blue lights and waved back. He hasn’t really recovered from the excitement since.
The house on the corner is beautifully kept, with creeping vines, immaculate hedges and a bright yellow front door, flanked by even brighter yellow flowerpots. Yellow is his favourite colour so the house has become something of a morning landmark. I used to take great joy in altering the expected colour as we approached: “I can’t wait to see that bright purple door,” I would mutter, as if speaking to myself, and immediately feel his whole body contort in feigned frustration as he corrected me. As we approach I ask out of habit “I wonder what colour the door is?” but there is no reply.
Up ahead is the barrier; his nursery is situated within the grounds of a Victorian estate. Each day the various concierges eagerly await our arrival, anticipating the big grin and wave they receive as we’re buzzed through. I wave too, but am quickly reprimanded for letting go of his legs.
Painted on the road is a large white circle with “20” inside to indicate the speed limit. Not long ago he pointed and said “circle”; weeks later, “Two! Two!” He knows “twent-teem” now and doesn’t bother pointing it out.
Halfway between the entrance and where we are headed is a magnificent old tree; I wish I knew what type, maybe a willow. It has been adorned with Christmas lights and two illuminated reindeer. I remember his wonder when he noticed them last year. “Look, Daddy!” But his finger is pointing the other way. “A big yellow leaf!” I squat down and pick it up. “Keep it for later, please.”
We cross the road. I step onto a speed bump and make an exaggerated jolt upwards. “BOMP!” we cry in unison.
In the small, leaf-covered car park he clambers down. “I’m going to win, I’m going to win!” He runs as fast as he can. I run behind him, pretending to pant loudly, with awkward small steps so as not to overtake. He reaches the ramp first and raises his hands above his head in victory.
We walk up to the first door, which I open for him. He stands slightly too close and has to shuffle back to make space; same as yesterday, same as last year.
We wait patiently. Ellie comes and unbolts the door. “Good morning, Elijah.” He walks in without saying a word as I hand over his backpack and water, and exchange brief pleasantries. “Have a great day, buddy!” I call in as the door closes. Sometimes he waves. Today he doesn’t.