What does fatherhood mean to me?

http://thehood.net.au/blogs/news/61856387-it-isnt-always-easy-but-fatherhood-has-made-me-a-better-man

X Years, 9 Months extract: Chapter 2 - 'Finding Out'

It's a Saturday morning, early April 2009. I'm lying in bed with a nipping head. Tash is up, restlessly banging around. Unlike me, she isn’t hungover, having forgone alcohol at last night's dinner with friends. She’s pacing our upstairs bedroom. I stare up at the ceiling, thinking about nothing in particular.
Then, just as my eyes close over and I begin to lapse into a gorgeous mid-morning snooze, a terse whisper hits my ear. “I'm a week late.”
I bolt upright. “I'm going to the chemist,” she adds.
And with that she's gone, the door downstairs shutting behind her.
I sit there, glassy-eyed and befuddled, for more than a few seconds. Then I try rolling back over but sleep's impossible; my heart rate is up now. I dig out some Panadol from the bedside draw and head to the bathroom where I take some solace in early morning business. With the door shut I feel safe from the adult world. There's too much happening out there!

I'm in the kitchen making an omelette when she returns. She heads straight upstairs to the bathroom. I hear the faint rustle of a bag, and then silence. Rage is on TV. The animated film clip of Daft Punk's One More Time has me oddly transfixed – and queasy. I stare at the stairwell for two, three, five seconds – then back at my omelette. In the end I turn the frying pan off, give the bug-eyed cretins on the television one last look, and head upstairs.
When I get there Tash is sitting on the bed, a goofy smile on her face. “What’s up,” I say, knowing all-too-well what’s up.
“Looks like I'm pregnant.”
“Bullshit.”
She hands me the test stick. I can see two blue lines criss-crossing. “Check on the box,” she says, pushing it into my palm. Highlighted on the cover are the symbols to look out for. It's a no-brainer, really: the plus symbol indicates a ‘positive’ reading and the minus, ‘negative’. It doesn't matter which way I look at it – side on, upside down, standing on my head – it's positive. Positive!
“Shit.”
Yes, I know I should use more appropriate words than “bullshit” and “shit” to convey my reaction. But, truth be told, I am shitting bricks. I give her a hug, a wooziness in my guts that's not linked to red wine. We sit quietly on the bed.
“But we weren't even trying,” I eventually say. “How did it happen?”
She pinpoints the exact bedroom encounter from a month before. Even offers some specifics to refresh my memory. Apparently my swimmers are stronger than I gave them credit for.
She's still talking, her tone increasingly chirpy, as I struggle to move away from that frolic (at her parents’ house, of all places): “... so we weren't careful enough.”
She’s looking at me; there’s expectation in her eyes, like she’s trying to prise the words – any words – out of me. “Let's not think about it too much until Monday,” she eventually offers. “When we get confirmation from the doctor.”
“Okay,” I mumble.
I head to the toilet again.

But of course, we do think – and talk – about it for the rest of the weekend. We go out for coffee, scanning the papers as usual, but the ‘p’-word hovers above us like some candescent halo. While Tash – whose yearning for motherhood has been a long-term thing, and became evident early in our relationship – struggles to conceal her excitement, thoughts criss-cross in my head just like the lines on that fiendish little pregnancy stick.
But I've just quit work to be a writer...
What about my freedom...sorry, our freedom...
We haven't even been together two years...
We're not engaged yet...
What if I’m not mentally there?
Aren’t you supposed to have a career and money – a solid base – behind you?
I'm still a boy!

On the Monday we discover the ten-dollar pregnancy test is spot on; the doctor's confirmation a mere formality. A due date is offered: December 4.
“Of course,” the goose-necked female GP says, “the baby could come later, or – just as likely – earlier.”
And so, here I am. In less than nine months I'll be a dad. The fact that nothing has visibly changed – no morning sickness, no bump – ensures the enormity hasn’t yet sunk in. I’m to go back to my daily routine (or what constitutes a routine, given I’m just settling into life as an unemployed ‘writer’ after a scatty, self-doubting beginning), and Tash will go back to work as normal on Monday, preparing sandwiches for herself and Rach in the morning as she always has.
Funny, on the same Saturday morning that we found out, Rach told Tash she’d dreamt she was pregnant. Tash hid her shock well and laughed it off. As her twin sister and closest friend, Rach would be the first to be told, but even she would have to wait a few weeks. Just until we got used to the idea.

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Buy the book here for under a fiver.

X Years, Nine Months published through Kindle Direct Publishing

eBook's up...

https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B00IRNC9VK

X Years, Nine Months is an edgy, yet light-hearted recollection of the nine-month build-up to being a first-time dad. Written from a (fragile) male’s perspective, this pathos-filled, warts-and-all memoir swells with universal themes, swinging between the past and present to examine relationships and new beginnings; the purging of demons; embracing the unexpected; and the many milestones and obstacles along the magical path to the birthing suite.
Thanks to Phil Van Bruchem for the front cover, and to Saralinda Turner for an early edit.

Cloud

Sitting with Edie in the girls' swimming pool this afternoon, and I say to her: Daddy was home a bit later today, wasn't he?
She nods: where were you?
And I say: at the doctor's.
She looks me up and down for bandages, sees none, and says: what for?
I needed to talk to him.
What about? she asks.
About the cloud in my head.
Frowning: what does THAT mean?
I needed to talk about why I worry all the time.
And she says: you don't need to worry, Daddy.
Why not?
Because I love you, she says, hugging me warmly.
And that's that. Who needs a shrink when you've got a beyond-her-years four-year-old?

My Job

Of all the lovely messages I received following the birth of my third daughter, Bonnie, one – from Jeremy Massey, a mate and fellow writer – especially struck a chord.

"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.  

Parenting Curveball #1,526: Jealousy

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.

Seeing Things from My Folks' Perspective

** Extract from my rookie-dad memoir X Years, Nine Months; circa November 2009 **

My mother, in her most wistful moments, talks of me as a little boy. I was her "little man", blessed with sufficient nous to keep a necklace bought from a primary school fete hidden away until Mothers’ Day; imaginative enough to pretend I was America’s Greatest Hero every Tuesday night in the early 1980s, flying around the house in the Ralph Hinkley costume she designed.

While the necklace gave her a rash and the blood-red Hinkley costume induced more than a few bumps and bruises, I didn’t give her – or dad – much trouble. In fact, I’m told I was a little too good at times during my earliest years, if the hours I spent cross-legged on the lounge room floor reading dictionaries – instead of playing matchbox cars or riding training-wheeled BMX bikes like the rest of my peers – were anything to go by.

But when pressed for memories of me as a baby, Mum’s stories are less vivid. She says the first years of each of her four babies were all a bit of a blur, particularly with her first three, my two sisters and I, who were all born within four years – and especially with me, her eldest.

The three decades that have passed since may have further clouded any recollections, but my status as a soon-to-be parent has me wondering how my parents – 23 and 21 when I came kicking and screaming into the world – coped. It must have been a crazy, bewildering time: next to no money; their high school days not long behind them; their peak years spent in a selfless daze.

I think of my old man becoming a father at 23, and then I think about myself at the same age: living in Ireland, pissing and, sometimes, puking away my pay on to the cobbled steps of Dublin’s Temple Bar, or into the muck water of the river Liffey, with nary a care in the world aside from my girlfriend – whom I met while backpacking two years before and was blindly, inexorably, in love with – and where my next pint of Guinness was coming from.

Of course, the early-adulthood whirlwind of marriage and children was as normal back then as the people of today partying away their twenties and living by the ‘30 is the new 20’ adage. As my folks and many of their peers (including Tash’s parents, who were even younger than mine when they started out, and they had three children in two years) point out, the youth of their era had significantly fewer options. There was no easy credit at banks. People just didn’t jet off travelling for years at a time. A job for life was something to be treasured. My old man didn’t miss out on living the high life in his twenties – he didn’t know any different. As far as he was concerned he’d done the responsible thing, the noble thing. The right thing.

At 32, almost 33, I’ll be almost a decade older than Dad was when he became a father. I wonder if my baby’s childhood will be different because of this. Dad was always running around with us; a fit young man, even with the smoking. I want to be able to keep up with my child, too. So I’ve begun exercising more, and intend cutting down my drinking while wiping out the final stage of my affliction to cigarettes: social smoking. To be short of breath while chasing my son or daughter around the park in a few years’ time won’t be cool. Neither is the possibility of leaving him or her early.

The years of bingeing may have imparted an ever-lingering yearning for self-destruction in my head, but I’ve become stronger, harder. I’m about to become a daddy with daddy responsibilities and daddy decisions to make. My old man, 10 years my junior as a rookie father, gave us a great childhood. I want my child to look up to me proudly like I did my dad. I want to bring home footy cards to my son, or a doll to my daughter. When I was five or six we lived in Mildura and Dad would take me, most Sunday evenings, to the nearby market for cashews. It was our time. I want my child to rely on me for these little excursions, the ones that only I – and not even their mother – can take them on.

And in a few years, once I’ve lived it, I want to be able to say to other soon-to-be dads that "you’ll be fine; if I can do it, anyone can."

I know I have the next few weeks to worry about first, but I can’t help thinking ahead. I’ve changed, man. Earlier in the year, during the self-denial-plagued first few months of pending parenthood, I wished that time would slow down and take a chill pill; now I’m looking ahead like a motherfucker. I’m like a late-blooming flower, gloriously opening up to the world.

Calm down, boy.