I’m now five months in to part-time employment and, as it turns out, I was both right and a little bit wrong about being at home. There are a number of things I have realised since spending more time with the boys, and I have had a bash at outlining these below. You’ll have to bear with me, I’m not a writer – that said, I know Sarah will edit this and then her editor will edit her, so this is probably the most sense my written work will ever make.
Being at home definitely has its perks
Sometimes Jude has a generous afternoon nap and, as he sleeps, I catch up with box sets on Netflix and chuckle to myself about all the work I’m not doing at my desk. I also get to drink coffee throughout the day, enjoy the company of my boys and, bar the school run, we don’t actually have to go anywhere. For the first few weeks I found that quite liberating, and when Sar returned from the library I told her that I was loving being at home. However …
It’s not easy
Any dads out there who read this and dismiss me as some kind of soppy sod with no bollocks should definitely give being at home alone with a toddler a go before passing judgement. As the full-time worker of the family, I have in the past been guilty of the ‘how hard could it really be?’ secret scoff – but I didn’t understand it then, not really.
It now regularly strikes me as ridiculous that at the end of the day I am knackered, when I don’t seem to have really achieved anything. Granted, I’ll have dressed the boys, fed them, completed the school run, tried to entertain Jude with something that isn’t the telly, nipped to the park and headed back for the school pick-up – but none of these are, on paper, things you would consider particularly taxing. However, they are never straightforward. In fact, even the most basic of tasks feels like pulling teeth when you’re dealing with a two-year-old and a four-year-old.
Getting Henry to put his school uniform on takes at least five prompts, followed by a shout and a final threat of a cross on his reward chart for not doing what he’s asked. Coaxing Jude to actually eat some of his breakfast (or any meal, for that matter) without him shouting ‘Urgh, dirty! No like it!’ or throwing it on the floor is equally as frustrating. These are tasks which shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, yet sometimes an hour has passed and I find that Henry is still roaming around the living room naked, casual as you like, picking up the Weetos that Jude has been catapulting from his high chair on to the floor. Then there might be a last-minute poo explosion from Jude just as we’re about to leave, or a meltdown from Henry because he can’t find his favourite toy (which he has declared as being his favourite only in this precise moment, when it’s nowhere to be fucking found).
Ultimately, my day is a sandwich of double trouble pre- and post-school with a whole lot of chasing Jude around in the middle. He is definitely not one of those kids who will sit contentedly or walk nicely alongside his parents – he’s more likely to bolt out of the park gate or crumple to the ground when he’s finished his snack (and it being all gone is my fault). When H comes home from school he’s quite often wired, as if they’ve put some kiddie crack in his lunchtime jacket potato. We were told to expect fatigue from him in the first term, but I don’t think he got that memo because I have to be on high alert the whole time. One minute he’s talking to me about who he played with at lunchtime and the next he’s left me doubled over in pain from a smack in the balls with his lightsaber. One day he will experience this pain for himself – I’ve heard it’s as bad as childbirth.
Often, by the time they are both in bed I am completely done in and find myself reaching for a bottle of beer or a glass of wine – something I generally don’t do after a day at work. All those ‘bring home some wine’ texts I’ve received in recent years make sense now.
Throughout my home days I have one recurring thought, and that is: how do single parents cope? I know we all cope in the end, because we have to, but Jesus, they must be shattered all the time. Some days I feel like I have gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight and am so relieved when I hear a key in the door, because it means that back-up has arrived.
you still have a boss
I have basically traded a middle-aged manager for a two-year-old and a four-year-old at home. ‘Not having anybody to answer to’ is a load of shit. The questions and requests are never-ending!
‘Can I have some juice?’
‘Can I watch some telly?’
‘Let’s play-fight!’
‘Can we go to the park?’
‘When are we going swimming?’
‘Were you in Nanny’s tummy in the olden days?’
‘When is snack time?’
‘Why are biscuits called biscuits?’
‘Can we play shops?’
‘Is there going to be a tornado in Exeter?’
Not a minute goes by after one demand has been dealt with before another comes in. And, generally, in order to please my tiny bosses, I do what they ask because I prefer a quiet life and sometimes giving in to the kids provides that. I often ask Henry who he thinks is the boss in our house and more often than not he will say, ‘You are, Daddy!’ In reality, though, we all know the bosses are him and Jude – and sometimes She Who Types All Day.
I am the king of bribes. You name it, I will use it. Snacks, TV, time at the park, a trip to their grandparents, a play-fight, a ride on one of those bloody annoying £1 musical cars that seem to be outside every supermarket. (I think they only have them there so parents can bribe their kids to behave when they have to do the Big Shop. It must be a great money-maker, as we parents are all mentally broken by the time we’re leaving the shop.)
Anyone who says they don’t bribe their kids is talking crap. I don’t care how you label it – incentives, rewards, positive reinforcement – it’s all one big, fat bribe. At the end of the day, little ones don’t have the self-control of adults, and neither do they get embarrassed about causing a scene, which is a deadly combination. When they go absolutely savage in the middle of a busy shopping centre, the only thing we can do to talk them down is to threaten them with something that is never going to happen (getting rid of all their toys/cancelling Christmas), or promise to reward favourable behaviour with something fun. We’ve tried taking toys away and retracting puddings/treats, but all of these things leave them even more hysterical. The ‘Stop whinging and you can have a biscuit’ promise is almost always the fall-back plan.
Dads are treated differently. Fact
There are certain circumstances in which I am made to feel like I’ve got two heads for looking after my own children – and I take offence at that. I did initially wonder if people were looking at me because I was wearing a baby-changing bag with bows on it across my body, but I’m not convinced that’s the reason. I can be pushing the pram along in the street and people will do a double-take. Occasionally, a comment will be made about how nice it is to see a ‘hands-on dad’. I smile graciously at these (usually elderly) well-wishers and resist the urge to ask if they’re equally as pleased to see a ‘hands-on mum’. Eye-roll territory. I was also asked, as I bought Jude a sausage roll from the bakery in town, whether it was ‘Dad’s day off so Mum could do some shopping’. I mean, fuck me, is it really that odd for a dad to be looking after his own child?
If I didn’t already have a slight complex about the fact that I am no longer the main breadwinner, nothing makes my penis shrivel into a mangina quite as much as discovering that some baby-changing facilities are located within ladies’ toilets. That’s just not on. Is it assumed that dads are happy to carry on with their day as their child sits soiled in the pram? Come on, people.
Regardless of shared paternity leave and all the supposed advances in parental equality, generally it is mums and babies or mums and toddlers at classes and events. It’s more difficult for dads to integrate or make new friends at these groups – though, to be perfectly honest, making friends is the last thing I would want to do anyway. I’ve got friends. What do I want new ones for? And don’t say, ‘for playdates’ – I will never go on one of th
ose. I have watched with admiration as Sarah potters off to another baby activity or for lunch with someone she has only just met, but I’m not going to start popping along to a tots’ group at a church hall and play in the Wendy house. It’s not really my scene.
Even when I take Jude swimming, I have to mind where I’m looking because it’s always me standing in my trunks amidst a sea of women in swimming costumes or bikinis, and even if I do the standard awkward-parent thing of saying to a mum, ‘Oh, hello! How old is your daughter?’ it kind of looks like I’m staring at her tits.
Luckily, now H is at school I only have to entertain Jude. As the second child, who’s never really been taken to any structured weekly activities, I quite honestly think he’s just grateful to have some undivided attention.
Being at home can indeed feel tedious, but the school day is surprisingly short and by the time we’ve had lunch I am already starting to think about picking Henry up. How Sarah did full days with a toddler Henry and a newborn Jude I don’t know. Then again, she did send me ranty and abusive WhatsApp messages providing a full commentary of events unfolding at home, such as the time all three of them ended up crying at the doctor’s, so I sort of feel like I lived through it.
Reflecting on the last five months, I do think I am one of the lucky ones who has the balance right – enough time at work to feel like I’ve not lost my identity completely, but a decent amount of time with the boys, too. And even though being at home is no picnic, it does, mostly, beat being at work. Though if I had my dream job of test-driving supercars, I might feel differently.
I’m well aware that being able to spend quality time with the boys is not something every dad gets to do, and I reckon lots of dads feel guilty that there just isn’t the time to do all the things I am now able to. When Henry and Jude are older, I hope we will look back fondly at all the time we spent together – and I guess we have Sarah’s blog to thank for that. The satisfaction I get from seeing them having fun and growing up exceeds the satisfaction I get from doing anything else, especially work.
If only I could get them to listen when I ask them to do something, and to stop causing me bodily harm. And Jude really needs to stop shouting rude stuff in public places. Having said that, the last time we got changed together at the swimming pool he shouted, ‘WOW! BIG WILLY, DADDY!’ which I must admit went some way to easing the emasculation I’ve suffered since becoming Daddy Daycare.
I shall leave the rest of this diary for my good wife to write. I haven’t read any of it yet, but I imagine she’ll be nothing but complimentary about me, noting that I’ve just thrashed out two thousand words for her.
Monday 21st
We set up Jude’s ‘big-boy bed’ over the weekend, and as we (James) dismantled the old cot I had a massive attack of the Stop-Growing-Up pangs. In fact, the whole weekend was full of nostalgia and wistful sighing on my part, because Jude’s bed upgrade happened to coincide with me going through loads of old photos on the computer in an attempt to free up some storage. We’d also decided that the time had come to get rid of the last remaining baby bottles – after a year of being reluctant to accept milk in a beaker, Jude is all of a sudden OK with that, too – and it all felt a bit too much. As we said goodbye to the cot and unearthed pictures of me cuddling the boys as tiny babies, I was fairly certain my heart couldn’t take it. I looked over at the two of them playing trains (well, fighting each other for the same train) and they suddenly looked like giants.
I scrolled through some more cute-as-a-button baby pictures: Henry in his bouncer, Jude having ‘tummy time’ on his playmat, and then, just as I was about to stop scrolling and shut down, I came across a picture that put a stop to those wistful pangs. It was taken on Christmas Day 2012, and at first I didn’t spot myself in the photo, as there were other family members in the foreground (I was obviously either not aware that I would be in it, or purposefully opting out of family photo time, as I wasn’t looking directly at the camera), but sure enough, there I was. As I peered at the screen to get a better look, I had to catch my breath. My God, I looked a sorry state. I was sitting on the sofa with a baby Henry on my lap. My face was ghostly pale, the bags under my eyes were so big they had bags of their own, and my expression spoke volumes about how I was finding motherhood at what would have been ten months in.
It didn’t say, ‘Yay, Christmas!’ or ‘Tired but worth it!’ and it certainly didn’t say ‘#blessed’. No, the expression clearly said, ‘Fuck my life.’ I wanted to shake my forlorn old-photo self and say, ‘It gets better! They weren’t lying! One day you will sleep again!’ but then I realised I was talking to myself and that, sometimes, I still wear that fuck-my-life expression – I just have a bit more colour in my cheeks these days. If the ovary-stimulating pics of the boys’ toothless grins were the photo equivalent of the ‘reasons to have another baby’ list, I think it’s safe to say the photo of me looking desperately shattered and glum illustrated the reasons not to.
Perhaps it’s fate that my nostalgic photo-browsing session ended with that one and I should print it to stick on the fridge.
Must not forget the eye bags.
Must not forget the eye bags.
Must not forget the eye bags.
Tuesday 6th
Jesus, Mary and (a slightly startled) Joseph! Henry’s first nativity was just about the cutest thing I have ever seen. It had all the makings of a classic. One star picked her nose, the baby Jesus was lobbed unceremoniously into the manger by his foot, at least two sheep were doing the need-a-wee jig and there were stifled giggles from the audience when the Angel Gabriel spoke of that well-known journey to ‘Bethany-hem’. It was all kinds of cute, and I fought back happy tears as Henry, in his shepherd’s headdress (wah!), joined in with singing ‘Little Donkey’ and delivered his two lines.
I was a total parent cliché, leaning forward in my seat and mouthing along with every word. I looked around at the other mums and dads with a little ‘that’s my son’ smirk and was a bit surprised to find that no one else was looking particularly spellbound by his blatant flair for performing arts. Of course, I realised, they only had eyes for their own future BAFTA winners.
Henry genuinely does seem to enjoy singing, dancing and performing, even at home, and the nativity was one of many occasions in the last few months when I have started to think that maybe I ought to look at getting him involved with some kind of drama or theatre club. I honestly never understand how parents decide just what they should be signing their kids up for. What if you get it wrong? What if the club you don’t sign them up for is the one sport or activity they were destined to excel in? And where do you draw the line between encouragement and pushiness? I sometimes think we’re not pushy enough.
After his initial enthusiasm, gymnastics soon lost its shine for Henry. I didn’t want to force him to go when he’d clearly lost interest, so after two terms we decided not to renew his membership, which I’m now doubting was the right thing to do (perhaps it’s up to us to make sure he perseveres with things for a little longer?). Since then, he’s started going to Rugby Tots on a Saturday morning, and he seems to enjoy it, which I keep telling myself is surely the most important thing. However, I’ve now observed more than eight weeks of ‘try-scoring’, which, for Henry, consists of skipping distractedly to the end of the hall (alongside the other children, who are actually running) and then half-heartedly lobbing the ball in any direction. I could be wrong, but I just can’t see him becoming the next Jonny Wilkinson. He can keep going for as long as he wants to, of course, but I’m pretty certain we should try a few other activities to find the one (or ones) he’s most suited to. The trouble is, you can’t try them all, can you? A term of anything is bloody expensive, not to mention that it’s a ball-ache to get there on time every week with a two-year-old in tow. I honestly think we can do no more than trial a few more activities and pray to God that his true calling in life isn’t something we haven’t even considered.
For now, though, I’m going to stop wo
rrying that he could have been a world-champion fencer and let him bask in the critical acclaim of his debut nativity performance.
Sunday 11th
This time last year I had a bit of a moan on my blog about how fancy Christmas is getting. I questioned the necessity of Christmas Eve boxes and slagged off panettone because I was feeling nostalgic about Viennetta. This year? Well, this year, I’m already feeling pretty much the same, so it looks like an annual ‘What the fuck has happened to Christmas?’ rant might be on the cards. It’s not a Scroogey rant, though – far from it, in fact. I’m a massive fan of Christmas, but earlier this week I found myself getting stressed over all the impressive things other people are doing/planning that I haven’t been doing/planning in the run-up to Christmas and, after reading back through all the comments on last year’s post, I suspect I am not alone in this festive anxiety.
I blame the internet. And the telly. But mainly the internet. Quite frankly, I’m bewildered by some of the Christmas-based conversations I’ve seen online lately, and the final straw came when I stumbled across an entire thread dedicated to mums debating which ‘Christmas theme’ to go for this year. What do they mean, which theme?
I read on and discovered that one mum is having a ‘monochrome Christmas’ because it looks classier and she can’t stand ‘the tat’. Another is accessorising in pastels because the bright colours clash with her sofa, and a third isn’t sure yet what to go for but ‘Crikey, isn’t it hard work coming up with the decorative theme every year?!’
The Unmumsy Mum Diary Page 20