It pains me to muse on my psychological shortcomings, even now as a life-worn 36-year-old father-of-two, but the fact is I still suffer an infliction that I’m now trying to discipline my three-year-old daughter for: jealousy.
That’s right. Good old-fashioned, soul-sapping, stress-inducing jealousy.
It’s always been a problem – and the context has never mattered.
At primary school, my two best subjects were sport and English, and, even though I was above average in both, there was always the kid – or kids – who could spell and write better, and run and jump faster. I'd always eye them off with awe; trying to bridge the gap, unable to understand why I couldn't be the numero uno – or at least be exceedingly above average – for my age-group in something.
In high school I envied the guy with the masculine broken voice; the other guy with the cooler undercut; the cool cats in $200 sneakers (my $30 Trax Idahos from Kmart never stood a chance against their leg-hugging Nike Air Jordans and Reebok Pumps); and the ones who, despite zit-littered faces, garnered most of the eye-fluttering female attention.
Then came early adulthood and the real world – and the myriad peers with better jobs (or, at the least, occupations they weren’t ashamed of). Oh, the dread of meeting someone, waiting for the question: “So, what do you do?” Being confronted with this simple, polite, stock-standard line of inquiry delivered a heart-sinking reminder of just how unhappy I was in my default field of credit control and dead-beat finance. Work didn’t (and still doesn’t, despite finally landing somewhere near my desired field as a writer and would-be media professional) define me, but it didn't make me feel any less ostracised when pressed by those with 'better' jobs – or those whose ‘careers’ ruled their worlds.
While I'm now more at ease explaining to well-meaning sorts about what I 'do', the flame of jealousy, now that I'm living the all-engulfing life of a parent, is more alive than ever. Everyone else, it seems, has a better handle on the gig – as if having children is merely a small bump easily navigated in the road of life. While Tash bemoans the milestone-bragging of rookie-mum peers on Facebook (“Another one whose baby is sleeping through! Why do they have to tell the world?”), I've observed other dads thriving in their career or in extra-curricular interests, achieving great things while juggling parenthood with perceived ease. It’s as if there’s some sort of undercurrent of competition among parents out there: Who can look the busiest? Who can juggle the most balls?
On the celebrity scale there’s a whole bunch of people for whom parenthood hasn't hampered their 'busy people make time' ethos. There's Jamie Oliver, a gallivanting, globally-sought celebrity chef and savvy businessman who has four kids and wants more. If anything, his career has thrived since adopting the Dad hat. In my beloved world of AFL there’s former player Shane Crawford, who has four young boys while staying on top of numerous media and business opportunities. And what about Yahoo CEO Marissa Meyer returning to work within weeks of pregnancy? It's like she's saying to the rest of us saggy-eyed, time-poor mortals: Labour, schmabour. Newborn, schmewborn.
And while fatherhood – and the necessary evil of full-time work – has stagnated my progression as a writer, my struggles extend also to the other extra-curricular activity at the core of my universe: running. Pounding the pavement has become an intrinsic part of my weekly routine; I can’t get through two days without feeling its pull. It’s a mixture of vanity (and being able to eat and drink as much as I like), ego and escapism. In 2011 I completed my first half marathon. Last year I planned to replicate that feat in a quicker time, with a view to a marathon. It didn’t happen that way; life got in the way. Training for a marathon, therefore, seems an impossible dream for now. The hours the average training program eats up seems akin to that of a part-time job. And it’s for this reason that I’m bewildered at how the likes of Olympic marathon runner Marty Dent – who has three young children and a newborn – combines a full-time job as a public servant with a chequered running career that peaked last year with a top 30 finish in London. He obviously has a very understanding wife – and possesses an uncanny ability to make every minute count.
Yes, I know Dent is an extreme case in point, given he's an elite athlete, but on the other hand he's tied to the office chair just like the thousands of less talented ‘weekend warriors’ across the nation who, too, manage to fit it all in.
But back to my writing. While I bang out odds and ends and reviews for a culture supplement of a national paper, creative work rarely moves past the infancy-of-idea-and-rough-note stage. And yet, I see evidence around me of people still churning out a decent amount of work; none more so than a work colleague. This bloke works full-time. Does comedy shows. Writes for a national rag and for various websites. Maintains a widely-read blog. And had his fourth book published last year. Oh, and he has three small kids, including twins. He says he fits things in because he has to; that he always gets there in the end. By his own admission, he's also somehow found a way of enduring the perpetual-jet-lag feeling of minimal sleep – something I'm not great at managing.
It’s human nature, apparently, to want what we haven't got – and I'm certainly no exception. Why do I beat myself up about what I’m not doing, or what I don’t have? Why can’t I just bottle up the simple beauty in playing a vital part in raising two beautiful girls and run with that for a few years? Why can't I be content that I’m on a good wicket – that these hard times won’t be forever – that I’ll eventually have my 'me-time' back again?
As a hard-living single mate pointed out recently, I have a life that many others would envy. He might have even said he was jealous.
