"The golden dad whose wings fold three. If you were ever doubtful of your role or duty, now it’s writ large. Congratulations. Love and love and love. Bloom. X"
Role. Duty. Job. I had plenty of crap ones in my late teens and twenties. Leaflet distributor. Factory worker. Door-to-door sales. Fruit picker. Data entry. Customer service. Accounts clerk. Credit controller.
The other job I had while floating through this procession of gigs that were each as meaningless as they sound – looking after myself – I failed dismally at.
An editing job coupled with regular freelance writing offers more purpose now, but the lack of creative output and a modest income finds me continually questioning my work ethic, direction, and ability to provide.
It's the age-old internal dilemma for any writer-type: desperately wanting to fulfil creative ambition versus desperately needing to be realistic.
There's that, and the fact I’ve always been one to find something to worry about.
But while Jeremy’s message brought clarity as to what my most important ‘role’ is, a recent brief bedtime chat with Edie – my eldest and not yet four – really banged it home.
I’d been home a week or so following Bonnie's birth, and I mentioned to Edie, in between bedtime stories, that I was due back at work the next day.
"I don’t want you to go back to work," she said with a slight whimper.
"Why not?" I asked.
Where I expected a response akin to "because I’ll miss you", I instead copped an earnest and all-too-grown-up: "Because you need to stay home and help Mummy look after three girls".
It stopped me in my tracks. I smiled, grimaced. Felt proud of – and sorry for – myself (and for Edie, and partner Tash) all at once.
Here sat my eldest child looking out for her two little sisters.
Here sat an angelic being who, courtesy of a few cute, cutting words, put me in my place.
Far beyond worrying about myself, I now had three – nay, four – girls who needed me. All beautiful. All healthy. All wild. All female. Jaysus.
Responsibility is scary. There is no way in God's green Earth I could've, half a decade back, pictured this scene. Edie’s pregnancy caught us by surprise so that path wasn’t planned. It became a case of: Decision made. Done. Get on with it. I was thrust headlong into a boiler room that has become increasingly hotter with the arrival of Avie last year, and now with Bonnie – whose pending, oh-so-unexpected arrival I spent nine months battling to get my head around.
But this boiler room is a safe one. Snug.
Jeremy is right. My purpose is as obvious as the nose on my face.
This is my lot. My world. My job.
It’s monotonous, yet no two days are the same.
It's chaotic. Exhilarating. Tiring.
It’s unglamorous. As boring as bat shit.
It’s glorious. Golden.
It’s love. And love. And love.
Role. Duty. Job. I had plenty of crap ones in my late teens and twenties. Leaflet distributor. Factory worker. Door-to-door sales. Fruit picker. Data entry. Customer service. Accounts clerk. Credit controller.
The other job I had while floating through this procession of gigs that were each as meaningless as they sound – looking after myself – I failed dismally at.
An editing job coupled with regular freelance writing offers more purpose now, but the lack of creative output and a modest income finds me continually questioning my work ethic, direction, and ability to provide.
It's the age-old internal dilemma for any writer-type: desperately wanting to fulfil creative ambition versus desperately needing to be realistic.
There's that, and the fact I’ve always been one to find something to worry about.
But while Jeremy’s message brought clarity as to what my most important ‘role’ is, a recent brief bedtime chat with Edie – my eldest and not yet four – really banged it home.
I’d been home a week or so following Bonnie's birth, and I mentioned to Edie, in between bedtime stories, that I was due back at work the next day.
"I don’t want you to go back to work," she said with a slight whimper.
"Why not?" I asked.
Where I expected a response akin to "because I’ll miss you", I instead copped an earnest and all-too-grown-up: "Because you need to stay home and help Mummy look after three girls".
It stopped me in my tracks. I smiled, grimaced. Felt proud of – and sorry for – myself (and for Edie, and partner Tash) all at once.
Here sat my eldest child looking out for her two little sisters.
Here sat an angelic being who, courtesy of a few cute, cutting words, put me in my place.
Far beyond worrying about myself, I now had three – nay, four – girls who needed me. All beautiful. All healthy. All wild. All female. Jaysus.
Responsibility is scary. There is no way in God's green Earth I could've, half a decade back, pictured this scene. Edie’s pregnancy caught us by surprise so that path wasn’t planned. It became a case of: Decision made. Done. Get on with it. I was thrust headlong into a boiler room that has become increasingly hotter with the arrival of Avie last year, and now with Bonnie – whose pending, oh-so-unexpected arrival I spent nine months battling to get my head around.
But this boiler room is a safe one. Snug.
Jeremy is right. My purpose is as obvious as the nose on my face.
This is my lot. My world. My job.
It’s monotonous, yet no two days are the same.
It's chaotic. Exhilarating. Tiring.
It’s unglamorous. As boring as bat shit.
It’s glorious. Golden.
It’s love. And love. And love.
