Wednesday, September 22, 2010
prologue
Where does any story start? Mao would say it begins with the first step. Simple enough. Which foot? Left? Right? Are crossroads involved? Crosswords? Cross Words? I could begin this story in 1193. That year significant deaths occurred among some very high profile people. Several of them family members, which caused even more significant world changing events no doubt, that may have led to me being here at my keyboard, a 21st century middle aged man, possibly in crisis. If I could be bothered. I'm actually too busy to have one of these. Pretty sure it's for people that can't quite find something to do. They mustn't be looking after children. Want something to keep you busy, occupied, out of harm's way, engaged? Get a couple of kids and decide to look after them full time! At this point I might even get on and advocate like Debra-Lee Furness about the changes needed to just about any facet of human societal existence. Y'know, which story this week, about just another small impoverished child removed unilaterally by the middle classes from their cultural milieu for the sake of all those poor desperate prospective mothers and fathers unable to have children. Which of these approaches do we adopt? Are we providing 'civilisation' or depriving cultural context? What rule of thumb says this or these are better options? What I do know is raising kids is blooming hard work, they are not the christmas kitten or the easter bunny, but flesh and blood, struggling little fluffy bundles of pooh, urine and bruises.
During the first two years of our son's life a decision was made that would change my life - our lives - forever. And hopefully the lives of thousands of other men, some of whom may be reading these lines right now. A division of labour between myself and my partner sprang up, that was - if not seemingly equitable - mutually agreed. She would cook his meals, as he was - in my view - a fussy eater, and would not eat whatever mush I invented that day for his meals. [This involved slicing and dicing and interminably pureeing perfectly good vegetables and/or fruit until it looked basically like the stuff that was coming out the other end; I was on a mindless production line that went nowhere and seemingly achieved nothing; that is not to say there wasn't a lot of love put into the food because there was, hours and hours of love, loosely disguised as waste time] Later we discovered his colicky and irritable bowel syndrome [the “funny tummy”] that led to special diets and testing at the Royal Children's Hospital.
As part of the trade, I got to do the shitty jobs. Literally. For the years up to his toilet training I was responsible for [mostly] all the resultant faecal and urinal deposits [usually] neatly and peremptorily placed with monotonous regularity in his pants. Which I changed and disposed of without grimace. It was the conversation stopper at many parent parties for her to say “I'm so lucky, I haven't had to change a nappy in three years”. Well, maybe two. No, two nappies. In fact I think she understated it as might be illustrated later.
This arrangement arose as a result of being “pooed” upon. High price to pay I would have said, but no, she put her head where her heart is, and got pooped on by her eldest. Otherwise of course in tradition if she'd not done that I would have had to let him pee on me, you know the one the first boy baby does and you don't remember to 'hold over' when you change him, “Cor, right in the eyes, E-E-E-Er the mouth too!”As previously stated the boy had some 'issues' with his “foofer valve” [grandparents have the sweetest ways with naming!]. One evening before dinner she was changing the boy ready for bed. For some reason still not understood she was leaning down toward the lad's business end when it exploded in a shower of greeny yellow vegetable matter, pretty much in her ear and hair. Of course for us in another part of the house and not actually monitoring the other events going on it seemed that the house had fallen in, the scream and gut wrenching rush that came with it was indescribable. I sprinted away from my handiwork in the kitchen ato find my darling swathed in a towel in the boy's room, the little tike naked lying on his change table a meter off the ground; he was a grand kid on the change table, never struggling or rolling around and loved having his belly “pharped” [grandparents!]. My partner it seemed had driven a stake into her eye or the chain saw had bucked and sliced off her ear, some absolute mayhem had been practised upon her. I stood uncomprehending exactly what happened. She was speechless hovering between howling and whimpering, then, somewhere in there was a laugh, an hysterical shrieking laughter “He's shit on me. God! I got brown yellow goop all over my hair and oh my god its in my ear.” I put the boy's nappy on. She had made the supreme sacrifice and none had made it to the floor. Ж
The second baby, a daughter arrived two years [nearly] later. We replicated our previous roles for this one too. We were both working shortened 'parent' weeks to give our little tackers the best chance, the greatest possible exposure to two working parents. The stage then, was set for the next big move in life. She was returning to work, the demands were more for full time than the previous idyll and we had to adjust. My partner is a careerist, she has the Protestant work ethic in spades and a drive and acumen for the professional life I would never get. I had read Tom Collins' book 'Such Is Life' very early on and had the opening line firmly entrenched in my being, “Unemployed, at last!”. I prefer to call it 'creatively dis-employed'; it's so much more polite, suggesting one has taken some affirmative action in this regard, less of a victim of employment oppression, which of course is the reality, norm, wo'eva! Anyway, I digress. Here we were with the option of a parent at home full time, just like back when our mum and dad were parents [although I would hardly describe my upbringing as mundane or urbane – later]. We took the option. Here was how the discussion went. “Darling you earn three times the salary of a teacher and derive four times the job satisfaction doing what you do. You can burn water. I don't use recipe books and can still make a different meal every night. I could stay at home and look after the kids, and try and write a book.”
“Yes alright, what a good idea” she said.
I kind of knew what I had let myself in for – what was required of me – but I was not – and never have been – prepared for the looks. Trying to explain to friends and strangers that I am the full time carer of my two children, both under nine [not the babysitter, I refuse to be labeled the babysitter of my own kids!]. Men eye me jealously, and suspiciously, and found / find it difficult / awkward / untenable broaching the subject without deferring to the babysitter fall back position. This appears safe for men, doesn't challenge what could be seen as the province of male-dom, work and bringing the biscuit, providing a sporty sideline on weekends. There appears a social stigma - less and less as the currency of the stay-at-home dad becomes more of one of the norms [golly, soon we'll be acceptable]; men do though find it challenging, that one's masculinity – our 'Alpha-ness' should be called into question just because we're the one at home, doing dishes, changing sheets, mopping. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGhhhh! I need to stop, I'm scaring myself with my girly-ness! Modern society, the tabloids, the telly, all seem keen to pigeon hole ourselves and others; there is a category required and if you don't fit it that makes you odd and dare I say 'dangerous'. Women mostly praised me, shortly after the disbelief. When they actually meet our kids they gaze incredulously at their co-operative spirits, their exceptional manners, their innate abilities, to turn off the computer, to go outside and play, penchants for reading and writing, art and opinions and understandings seemingly way beyond their years. Personally I think it has nothing to do with their parents. These kids are genetically well endowed. And children do learn in spite of their parents.
So, as they say in situations of dire circumstance [a backs-to-the-wall siege mentality comes to mind! The “forlorn hope”], it has come to this. A book about the descent into the madness, or is this his rise into sanity, which is also probably mad, of a full time house husband. Here goes.
During the first two years of our son's life a decision was made that would change my life - our lives - forever. And hopefully the lives of thousands of other men, some of whom may be reading these lines right now. A division of labour between myself and my partner sprang up, that was - if not seemingly equitable - mutually agreed. She would cook his meals, as he was - in my view - a fussy eater, and would not eat whatever mush I invented that day for his meals. [This involved slicing and dicing and interminably pureeing perfectly good vegetables and/or fruit until it looked basically like the stuff that was coming out the other end; I was on a mindless production line that went nowhere and seemingly achieved nothing; that is not to say there wasn't a lot of love put into the food because there was, hours and hours of love, loosely disguised as waste time] Later we discovered his colicky and irritable bowel syndrome [the “funny tummy”] that led to special diets and testing at the Royal Children's Hospital.
As part of the trade, I got to do the shitty jobs. Literally. For the years up to his toilet training I was responsible for [mostly] all the resultant faecal and urinal deposits [usually] neatly and peremptorily placed with monotonous regularity in his pants. Which I changed and disposed of without grimace. It was the conversation stopper at many parent parties for her to say “I'm so lucky, I haven't had to change a nappy in three years”. Well, maybe two. No, two nappies. In fact I think she understated it as might be illustrated later.
This arrangement arose as a result of being “pooed” upon. High price to pay I would have said, but no, she put her head where her heart is, and got pooped on by her eldest. Otherwise of course in tradition if she'd not done that I would have had to let him pee on me, you know the one the first boy baby does and you don't remember to 'hold over' when you change him, “Cor, right in the eyes, E-E-E-Er the mouth too!”As previously stated the boy had some 'issues' with his “foofer valve” [grandparents have the sweetest ways with naming!]. One evening before dinner she was changing the boy ready for bed. For some reason still not understood she was leaning down toward the lad's business end when it exploded in a shower of greeny yellow vegetable matter, pretty much in her ear and hair. Of course for us in another part of the house and not actually monitoring the other events going on it seemed that the house had fallen in, the scream and gut wrenching rush that came with it was indescribable. I sprinted away from my handiwork in the kitchen ato find my darling swathed in a towel in the boy's room, the little tike naked lying on his change table a meter off the ground; he was a grand kid on the change table, never struggling or rolling around and loved having his belly “pharped” [grandparents!]. My partner it seemed had driven a stake into her eye or the chain saw had bucked and sliced off her ear, some absolute mayhem had been practised upon her. I stood uncomprehending exactly what happened. She was speechless hovering between howling and whimpering, then, somewhere in there was a laugh, an hysterical shrieking laughter “He's shit on me. God! I got brown yellow goop all over my hair and oh my god its in my ear.” I put the boy's nappy on. She had made the supreme sacrifice and none had made it to the floor. Ж
The second baby, a daughter arrived two years [nearly] later. We replicated our previous roles for this one too. We were both working shortened 'parent' weeks to give our little tackers the best chance, the greatest possible exposure to two working parents. The stage then, was set for the next big move in life. She was returning to work, the demands were more for full time than the previous idyll and we had to adjust. My partner is a careerist, she has the Protestant work ethic in spades and a drive and acumen for the professional life I would never get. I had read Tom Collins' book 'Such Is Life' very early on and had the opening line firmly entrenched in my being, “Unemployed, at last!”. I prefer to call it 'creatively dis-employed'; it's so much more polite, suggesting one has taken some affirmative action in this regard, less of a victim of employment oppression, which of course is the reality, norm, wo'eva! Anyway, I digress. Here we were with the option of a parent at home full time, just like back when our mum and dad were parents [although I would hardly describe my upbringing as mundane or urbane – later]. We took the option. Here was how the discussion went. “Darling you earn three times the salary of a teacher and derive four times the job satisfaction doing what you do. You can burn water. I don't use recipe books and can still make a different meal every night. I could stay at home and look after the kids, and try and write a book.”
“Yes alright, what a good idea” she said.
I kind of knew what I had let myself in for – what was required of me – but I was not – and never have been – prepared for the looks. Trying to explain to friends and strangers that I am the full time carer of my two children, both under nine [not the babysitter, I refuse to be labeled the babysitter of my own kids!]. Men eye me jealously, and suspiciously, and found / find it difficult / awkward / untenable broaching the subject without deferring to the babysitter fall back position. This appears safe for men, doesn't challenge what could be seen as the province of male-dom, work and bringing the biscuit, providing a sporty sideline on weekends. There appears a social stigma - less and less as the currency of the stay-at-home dad becomes more of one of the norms [golly, soon we'll be acceptable]; men do though find it challenging, that one's masculinity – our 'Alpha-ness' should be called into question just because we're the one at home, doing dishes, changing sheets, mopping. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGhhhh! I need to stop, I'm scaring myself with my girly-ness! Modern society, the tabloids, the telly, all seem keen to pigeon hole ourselves and others; there is a category required and if you don't fit it that makes you odd and dare I say 'dangerous'. Women mostly praised me, shortly after the disbelief. When they actually meet our kids they gaze incredulously at their co-operative spirits, their exceptional manners, their innate abilities, to turn off the computer, to go outside and play, penchants for reading and writing, art and opinions and understandings seemingly way beyond their years. Personally I think it has nothing to do with their parents. These kids are genetically well endowed. And children do learn in spite of their parents.
So, as they say in situations of dire circumstance [a backs-to-the-wall siege mentality comes to mind! The “forlorn hope”], it has come to this. A book about the descent into the madness, or is this his rise into sanity, which is also probably mad, of a full time house husband. Here goes.
# posted by Unknown : 12:00 PM
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