Page 30 of Dr. Single Dad

“Like I said, I don’t have any plans and I’m offering. It’s efficient—I get the walk and you get to play football. Then you’re not letting anyone down at the last minute and you have some time to figure out if you can make something work for Sundays.”

He fixes me with a stare that I feel between my thighs. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

He pushesthe pram to the park while I walk alongside the father-and-daughter duo. They’re beyond cute—Dax is so tall anyway, and next to the pram, he seems even more elongated.

“I’ve noticed a lot of people have their babies in a buggy-thing where they sit up. But Guinevere is in the cot wheely thing,” he says.

I don’t respond. I’ve learned over the years not to offer my opinion on the raising of children unless it’s immediately life threatening or explicitly solicited.

“Is that better?” he asks.

“Not in my opinion,” I say.

There’s a beat of silence. “You’re not going to elaborate?” he asks.

It’s a weird response. The usual response to invite elaboration might be something like, “Oh really? Why don’t you think so?” or some other such question. I get the impression Dax doesn’t comply with a lot of social norms.

I can’t help but smile. His lack of instinct to make things comfortable, his refusal to dance the usual steps in this situation, is disarming.

“Two reasons. Babies as young as Guinevere should be flat most of the time, which is why thepramis good. It helps the development of the spine. When she’s a little older, she can go in a buggy or a pushchair—two words for the same thing. And the second reason is, studies suggest the higher up prams and pushchairs are, the more they protect children from pollution.” I glance up at him to find his eyes narrowed. There’s a ridge between his eyes that suggests he’s listening. “Studies show that all prams should be a meter from the ground. Below that level is where most of the pollution is found. So, given Guinevere is in a pram in central London, I think it’s good to keep her as high as possible. The pram is higher than the pushchair.”

“Sounds reasonable,” he replies.

“As opposed to?”

He shrugs, “You know, some kind of kumbaya, eating-your-placenta type shit.”

“I read it inNew Scientist, so that’s really not their vibe.”

“New Scientist?” he asks. “Is that your usual bedtime reading?”

“It’s my job to understand how I can best help the children I work for. Childrearing is all about science. And love.”

He grunts from beside me. “I’m interested in the science bit.”

The love bit is coming, I don’t say.

“I can send you some age-appropriate studies,” I say. It might be a way to nurture the bond between Dax and his daughter—give him the science, let him apply it, let it foster interest in his daughter. Let it help him love her.

He doesn’t say anything and we keep walking, past the black wrought iron railings of Coram’s Fields Park. He opens the heavy green gate as if it’s made of paper and backs the pram in, exactly as I would have done.

“I bet you know a lot you never tell anyone,” he says out of nowhere. “You don’t want to tell parents how to raise their kids.You don’t want to be overbearing.” He’s not asking me questions—he’s making statements. And he’s nailing my approach to nannying. “But you have all this knowledge inside.”

He stops abruptly and turns to me. “I don’t want you to hold back. Guinevere shouldn’t be at a disadvantage because I’m not…a typical caregiver of a child. I want her basic needs catered to. So if you see me doing something you would advise against, or if you see something she needs, I want you to tell me.”

My heart squeezes in my chest like a child’s fist around the string of a balloon. Okay, so he can’t bring himself to say father or daddy yet, but the bond between Dax and Guinevere is starting to grow like a crocus poking its head out of the ground after winter. He worries she’s not going to have what she needs, that he’s not going to be enough. It’s every parent’s concern.

“You’re doing just great,” I say. “Remember, I had two years of school to help me deal with kids. But new parents never have that training. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to love her and put her first.”

“Love her, huh? Did you read that inNew Scientist?” He shakes his head and starts to walk again, pushing the buggy.

I let the little barb roll off my back. Maybe he doesn’t think he loves her now, but he will. He’s starting to.

Dax strikes me as a person who’s previously been used to dealing in logic. And now? As a father? The first whispers of love are beginning to infiltrate his heart. He just doesn’t realize it yet.

“It looks like we’re early,” he says.

There are a couple of players on the pitch, and I’m surprised he hasn’t released the pram and headed over there already. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe he’s having second thoughts about leaving his daughter. Does he have new mum syndrome, where he wants the freedom to do things for himself, but at the same time, doesn’t want to leave his daughter?

---