Don't lose your bottle

Johny Cassidy was met by tuts and prejudice as his daughter’s main carer

I think it was Winston Churchill who said that when war begins, throw away the battle plans. That’s what it was like for my partner Angela and me when my first daughter, Oonagh, was born in 2001. It was incredible to think how much disruption a seven-pound little human being could bring, but bring it she did.

Three months into the campaign, we agreed Angela would go back to work. It seemed the sensible thing to do.

This meant I would look after Oonagh during the day. How difficult could it be? Poor naïve me.

I soon found that nappies and the inability to see don’t mix and at first found it easier just to bath Oonagh when she needed changing. This way I knew she was clean. Just whip the nappy off, a quick dunk in the tub and job done.

Looking back, Oonagh must have been the most bathed baby ever. After the regular mealtime foodfight, where I would put food up her nose and in her ears, she would get dunked again. The mashed carrots, or whatever culinary delight I had created, would vanish down the plughole and I’d have a nice clean baby again. For about two minutes.

I really loved my time with Oonagh (pictured above with the author) and took to it quite well but what I found odd was people’s reactions to a blind man looking after his daughter. Everyone had an opinion, from health visitors to friends and neighbours. This was my biggest barrier. Nappies I learnt to change; prejudices and ideas about childcare I did not.

I realise that social services and health visitors have a responsibility to see children are looked after. I think this is why Angela and I had more health checks than our friends. At the time they laughed at the preferential treatment we were getting because of my eyesight but I think it was mainly to monitor how I was doing as the main carer.

Public attitudes were interesting, especially among older people. I remember being in a shop when Oonagh was about six months old. She had been asleep in her buggy but woke up quite grizzly and hungry. I knew she wanted her bottle so she could go back to sleep again but before I was able to locate her mouth with my little finger, I had the bottle snatched from me and put in her mouth by someone else. On another occasion, a friend’s daughter’s christening, I had to contend not only with tuts and comments but the suggestion that I should join the men at the bar, as if my tending a child made me inadequate as a man and my being blind made me unfit as a father. I was told that I was holding Oonagh wrongly and that she needed winding or changing. When I did change her, I felt incredibly smug that there were no signs of nappy rash but it was hard to keep calm as my nappy-changing skills were publicly scrutinised.

In spite of these upsets the good definitely outweighed the bad. It was a massive learning curve for us all and we all gained. Oonagh is six now and there’s no doubt we have a special bond. My white stick has been every sort of toy from a horsey to a magic wand. Maybe some day she can use it to change the world, if she hasn’t already.