Dad’s World with Jonathan deBurca Butler

I HAVE waxed lyrical in these pages about the plight of parents and the apparent lack of support from the state. Today I’m in a good place and let me tell you why.

Luke had to go to the doctor’s recently. It had been on the cards for a few days.

He had gone through a period of throwing up and when that went away he got this awful chesty cough that made him sound like a born-again smoker.

Along with his lovely cackly laugh, he was beginning to sound like some old time poker player. We were half expecting to find him in his cot one morning with 20 Rothman’s (remember them?) and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand.

After a particularly bad night of coughing we made the appointment. It was decided that I would bring him.

Ciara had to work, my time is more flexible and, to be honest, there was a part of me that was curious. I heard that the Government was now giving free GP care to children under five and I wanted find out if the rumour was true.

“Don’t forget the medical card,” Ciara had said to me the night before.

She said it in such a way that it sounded like she was suspicious of the new system; that maybe if we didn’t do everything by the book — bring the card, bring the child, prove his age and so on — that somehow they might turn around and hit us with a charge that ‘We could claim back later’ but would actually end up taking ages or... something would get in our way.

I came back from work and off went myself and Luke. As we walked out the door, Fionn looked suitably concerned about his little brother. He gave him a little pat on the head and jutted his bottom lip a little.

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“OK,” he said chirpily and, turning to the babysitter, said: “Come on Laura. Let’s play!”

When we got to the doctor’s, Luke was his usual dreamy self.

“Aw, are you a little bit sick?” asked one of the receptionists with a scrunched up face.

Luke gave her a spluttery cough and right before my eyes two middle-aged women melted like blocks of butter in the Sahara.

“Little charmer,” I said to him going down the stairs.

In the waiting room I prepped Luke for his inevitable engagement with a stethoscope by giving him a few little tickles on his back. I was a little nervous. I wasn’t sure how he’d take to Dr Maura.

At first, Luke was a little quiet, I’d almost say sceptical.

He didn’t know where he was or who this smiley woman with glasses was but he seemed to trust her or at least he trusted me to trust her... if that makes sense.

Although the stethoscope was a little cold and we were taking off his clothes, and moving him from here to there and back again, he seemed to get the fact that we weren’t trying to hurt him or annoy him.

It’s a lovely quiet confidence — his mother calls it his “winning” attitude.

After ten minutes we were done.

“I’ll give you a prescription for some antibiotics,” said Dr Maura. “But only use them if you need them. He seems to be fighting it on his own.”

“Do I need to go up to reception or anything?” I asked.

“No I have everything here,” she said.

“So the rumours are true,” I said to myself. “We really don’t have to pay.”

I picked Luke up and after he had blown Dr Maura a kiss we put on our coats.

As we walked out the door, I felt a small surge of pride. For the first time since the boys were born I felt the hand of the state on my shoulder.

“We’ve got your back on this one,” said a faceless voice.

I paused momentarily.

“Thanks,” I replied. “It’s about time.”