December 27th, 2022, the first of one of those odd days between the anti-climatic Christmas and the even more anti-climatic New Years Eve. I also have my Birthday on the 26th, which given it’s the a*** side of Christmas makes that the cherry in what is (for me) a very anti-climatic cake. On the plus side I can drink from circa the 23rd right through to January 2nd, 3rd depending on when the return to work day falls.
The Christmas period was actually full on, activities planned each day, as anyone with small children will tell you. Just going to the local park or to the swimming baths makes you feel deserving of liquor after. This is of course perhaps how most blokes of my ilk will see parenting. We do a few isolated activities with our kids and after an hour we feel well deserved of a break. Christ, if I do bath time on my own I feel I’m owed a day off. This of course leads me to this story of how for 24-hours on Dec 27th from 4.30pm, I was in full isolated control of my near 2-year old son…I believe this is why God created alcohol so man could survive such overwhelming challenges.
It had been creeping up on Mrs Mum all day. She started the 27th as usual, up and about and full of beans but by lunch she had started to feel sick. Being a bloke, we assume only men know about true illness and when anyone else complains of sickness we see it as them trying it on. However, I’m lucky in that Mrs Mum is very resilient when it comes to illness. Rarely suffers and never goes to bed ill. Even when pregnant she was more resilient than me when it came to being lethargic or tired. So at 4.30pm on the afternoon of December 27th, the sun had set and Mrs Mum informs me she’s going to bed as she feels sick and that I would need to do dinner and bath time for the Boy. I puffed out my chest and saw this as excuse to crack open a beer and sail through the evening. I can do this, I thought. “You get yourself to bed, I’ve got this”; Boy would have other ideas.
The beer is opened and I ponder what to do next; A very telling moment straight off the bat. I’ll prepare dinner I thought, but then realise I can’t cook and manage this little terror simultaneously. “What’s quick and easy?” I ask myself. Low-bearing fruit (literally) for food is always easy, such as berries and banana. I’ll add in hummus on toast (exotic garnish) with cheese also. So this was dinner. I would have cheese on toast with some salami. Job done! Easy this. Of course what prevailed was me losing my rag, as my son decides to through the hummus on toast at the wall and generally smear it all over my life. The grated cheese is everywhere, his beaker is being launched like a Soldiers last grenade, as he goes out in a blaze of glory. Mr Dog of course can’t help get involved but then seeks shelter, as he often becomes the target of aforementioned Soldier.
It’s a crisis, and I’m already thinking I’m owed a favour from Mrs Mum. I open another beer and plough through. I clean up Boy and put him in the hallway. The hallway is separated from the kitchen by a baby gate so I can keep an eye on him but it separates him from the blast zone he’s just created so I can clean up. Of course I have the misfortune of being an uber clean freak when it comes to cleaning so I have to find every last grape, grated piece of cheese and hummus before I exit operation ‘Dad Alone’.
At this point I could quite easily put the little fella to bed and call it a night. I’m an hour into this solo mission and I’m tapping out. However, Mrs Mum insists on playtime after dinner so it’s off to the Boys play area. Yes, he has a play area. I could only have dreamed of such a space when I was kid. My bedroom doubled as my play area. No, little man has a large area for his toys alone. We go in there and I try to interact with him but he’s his Mothers son. Likes his solo projects and should I interfere he’ll launch missiles my way. I of course practice free kicks with his football nets, which he has zero interest in but at this point it works in my favour. I can play football while he plays with his cars.
We do this for a while before his boredom, frustration or both kicks in and the ‘throwing’ begins. Not sure what I’ve done to Mrs Mum or some family members but many of his new toys are lethal. His new Thomas the Tank Engine has proved most lethal. Cop one of them round the face and you’ll know about it. I battle through…is this beer 3 now?
On to bath time and I’m quite efficient at this. Mrs Mum enjoys this time, playing with his toys and letting him splash (bloody everywhere!). I of course prefer the ‘express wash’. Sort of like a car wash. I don’t need the extra turtle wax or under chassis wash, just the straightforward lather up and rinse approach. It’s like we’re washing out part of a car engine, give it a quick wash and leave it on the side to dry. I of course dry him off, quick dab with the towel before passing Sir his robe. Onto bedtime and I get him ready in his jammies, which Mrs Mum insists boy selects himself from the closet. I of course follow this routine, but if left to me he’d get what he’s given. I give him his milk before wrestling with his toothbrush. Mrs Mum has actually trained Boy to pull out his step stool, stand on it and hold the toothbrush in his mouth. He doesn’t quite clean his own teeth but it’s amazing where he’s at. I then intervene to do the actual cleaning, which incurs screaming, mouth closing and biting down on the brush to make my life more challenging. I win the battle but the war is far from over. Boy then relocates his step stool to the default position and off to bed we go…or rather he goes. I’ve still got plans to get an episode of Sopranos and more beer in yet.
I read one of his favourite books. Boy has around 60 books now but will only entertain ones with Thomas the Tank Engine, Little Blue Truck, Charlie Cook or one about Baby’s with 10 little fingers and 10 little toes. Even Gruffalo and Snail on the Whale don’t get a look in these days. Boy knows what he likes and hates what he doesn’t… “do you want me to keep you awake all night as well?”, I feel he says if I try to deviate…Thomas it is!
I get through this part and then wrestle him into his sleep sack. He likes to twist and turn over, as I try to apply this piece of attire, then when you think you’re done he sticks out a foot just before the zip is about to close. I do the ‘night night little one’, story before giving the little bugger a hug. He knows he has me on the ropes, one more round and he knows I’d be done but he sees I’m defeated so he goes down in his crib, and I watch him drift off to sleep on the monitor, as I crack open another well earned beer. I get half an episode of Sopranos in before falling asleep on the couch…
December 28th. We’re supposed to be off to Mrs Mums friend’ today for a festive catch-up. It’s pitched to me as a ‘couples catch-up’ but it’s not really. It’s Mrs Mum catching up with her friend, and both husbands who are grumpy as hell will co-exist in the same room, making idle nauseating small talk. I will manage Boy and he will shuttle between the kitchen we’re located in and whatever other part of the house the activity we’ve interrupted him from is located in.
However, Mrs Mum has conceded that she’s not going to make it out of bed for it. It’s sort of a false dawn moment, as although the idle small talk is avoided, it also means Operation ‘Dad Alone’ will run into a second day. I must add at this point, even in real Wars there’s a white flag option; Not this one. In fact, there’s no flag, there’s no ammo, there’s nowhere to hide. Boy has all the ammo (physical and mental) and I’m the unarmed fodder trapped in his War of mind games.
I find the energy and perhaps courage to go again. I rush to the kitchen to commence the morning prep in the hope I can get in front out of this situation before Boy (still asleep upstairs), who would have the Devil on toast wakes.
I get breakfast ready…not gonna lie, it’s pretty much what he had for dinner last night but luckily for me boy tends to eat like an actual person at breakfast. Less throwing, more eating. The tide changes as the day gets long for mealtimes.
He wakes, I change the diaper and get him up. I buy myself 60-seconds, as Mrs Mum requests a morning cuddle, from Boy, not me. It’s in these small moments of time when the other parent virtually runs from the room. Like being thrown into a game show with a 60-second timer. “WHAT THE F*** CAN I ACHIEVE IN THIS SHORT WINDOW OF TIME AND FREEDOM? THINK!!!”
Off to breakfast we go and it’s not too much of a struggle, which is ideal considering I’m trying to avoid drinking in the morning. I must add I’m also still tasked with Mr Dog too. He’s more low maintenance but when you’re trying to let the dog in from the garden and Boy goes out of sight for mere seconds you’ve no idea what damage can occur.
I of course have the gruelling task of walking Mr Dog with Boy also. Boy will be strapped into his stroller, which is reassuring but the main issue with this is getting Boys winter attire on. Since we live in Canada, where it drops to temperatures of -40 at worst, you don’t just throw a winter jacket and hat on. No, there are base layers, regular clothes then over layers. It’s not quite, as cold today but my son will still require his snow pants, snow boots, gloves, which are virtually oven gloves, a hat and his snow coat. These all go over the top of his regular clothes. As with his sleep sack, he will twist, roll over and splayed legs out to one side. Like dressing another person wasn’t challenging enough, a child who is vigorously resisting arrest, as you try to clothe them is bordering on impossible…can I start drinking yet?
I overcome his resistance and strap him into the stroller. With his oven gloves on, he’s virtually one down from a straight jacket, which now makes the process manageable. I take a minute to observe this little victory before layering myself up. I lead up Mr Dog and off we go for the walk. I use this time to throw on a podcast with the stroller in one hand, dog lead in the other and off into the winter abyss we go.
The dog walk obviously brings its own challengers, especially in winter. Mr Dog of course, like all dogs is most happy when he’s out. He also a keen sniffer, like a detective searching for clues. However, this leads to relentless pulling, which at this time of year leads to me slipping on the ice. I mean, as a spectator, a man pulled over by his dog his actually hilarious. I’ve laughed at myself on many occasions, but today is not one of them. On the other hand, since Boy is bordering on being an exhibitionist in that he likes removing items of clothing, regardless of temperature, he has the habit of kicking his shoes off - often! I’ve nearly thrown them in the nearby lake before now. Mrs Mum says it’s all about perseverance and I’m told “it just takes time”. At this ‘time’ of year, it could mean frostbite though if he kicks his snow boots off. Side note, annoying how kids shoes are easy for them to slip off, but Christ they are impossible to get back on. Luckily, Mrs Mum devised a method where it’s hard for him to kick off his snow boots. I do believe without this and my lack of patience with ‘shoe-gate’, Boy would have lost toes by now due to frostbite.
‘We’ work our way round and it really is a workout for me. I can feel the left arm muscles working with Mr Dog and my right hand wrist is certainly in for some RSI issues in the future, as I manage the stroller on the other. Throw in a few mounds of frozen snow to make this trip feel like we’ve really gone off-road with a ‘Robin Reliant’ stroller and I start to think I should be more ripped than I am. We arrive home and onto the next challenge of getting Mr Dog cleaned from his outdoor excursion in unison with unpacking Boy from his layered snow attire. I clean Mr Dog but leave my son strapped in his stroller. It’s easier this way. The other way would leave Boy in a free roaming roll around the house, which could lead anywhere. With his current capabilities he’d be upstairs in no time jumping on poor Mrs Mum, with no empathy for how she feels.
Onto lunchtime and it’s one last battle before the midday nap break. I serve lunch, which is another minor nuance of what he had for dinner last night and breakfast this morning. There’s some moderate throwing, as the day gets older. Fortunately, he’s not having pasta or specifically spag-bol. I feel Mrs Mum is punishing me when she makes this dish, as it really does take an hour if not more to clean up the outcome.
Boy finishes, I hurriedly clean what I can, aware there’s likely a piece of hummus on toast somewhere before taking him up to bed. I calm myself and change Boys diaper, read the goodnight story, battle him into his sleep sack again and place him in his bed, white noise machine on. The midday naps are a God-send and I will miss them when he grows out of them but for now, it’s the break any parent needs. As I write this, it’s during one of these said breaks. I should really nap myself but instead I opt to exercise. This is generally the time I exercise. It’s guilt free time. If I exercise while he’s awake and Mrs Mum is taking care of him, there’s always a feeling of guilt. In fact if I’m not looking after him and he’s awake the guilt is there, even when I’m cleaning the house, doing chores, cutting the grass, not things I necessarily want to do but need doing.
I optimise this free-time and as I workout I put on some Netflix. I’m currently in the middle of some documentary about the Nepal earthquake in 2015 and the stories of the survivors who were in Kathmandu and at Everest base camp. Unsure why I’m watching such emotional and high-octane TV on a day like today. Surely a more easy watch, such as comedy or football would’ve been a better option.
I conclude the exercise, rush to see what can be prepared and eaten within the 10-15 minute timeframe remaining before Boy wakes up. It’s of course a turkey sandwich or more accurately some meat slammed between 2 pieces of bread. It just doesn’t feel like a sandwich given how it’s thrown together. Food for purpose really.
I opt to double-down at this point and take Boy to an indoor playground called Treehouse. It’s ideal for kids and cheap. I enter the place, credit card and voucher ready (Mrs Mum always has a voucher, which although economical, when you’re carrying around a child who feels half your own body weight just prolongs the agony). For good measure, there’s also a waiver to sign. ‘Yes, just use your third hand to scan the QR code on your phone, complete the form and then you can go in’. Really! I could’ve really hurt the woman behind the till at that moment. I pass test number whatever and as I enter I find myself wondering if they’ll ever install a Bar here.
As Boy is only 21-months old, I’m unable to let him off the leash and go entertain himself. No, I also have to crawl on my knees, go down slides and through ball pools with him. It’s again another workout. There’s other Dads up there, I see them, they see me, we don’t talk, but there’s a knowing look of ‘I know’. It’s the look I imagine Soldiers in trenches give each other.
I manage an hour before the meltdown commences, surprisingly Boys, not mine. He gets like this after a while, sort of overwhelmed. We take the shortest route between 2-points and slide down a circa 80ft slide to the seating area to get Boy some snacks and water. As he’s full on tears at this point, I feel other parents judging me, like I’m the 40-year old man-child having fun on the slides at the cost of my sons terror. Yes, this is where I come to blow off steam after a hard day…a hyper kids playground…
I nearly remove the locker from the wall, as I pull out ‘that bag’ for the snacks. Given it’s almost like you’re packing for a mini-break when you go anywhere with your kids, it always makes me laugh at how small lockers are in these places. Swimming bath changing rooms are another. It’s like the bag doesn’t really fit, so you wedge it in, then getting it out is another ordeal. That combined with keeping one hand on Boy before he runs off and slaps another child for no reason whatsoever, is another near impossible task. I’m sure I’ve burned some calories today…the beers will taste better later on!
Boy has his snacks, I calm him down and to conclude we head to the toddler ball pool. This is a separate room, for kids under a certain height although it’s not strictly conformed too. It’s more calm in there, to a point I even get talking to other parents, well Mums. I’m lauded with compliments and looks of shock. “You’re here alone?” The amazement that a Dad, came to an indoor playground on his own without Mum. “You’ll be getting big Dad points for this”, one Mum said. I can’t lie, I felt heroic, like how Jack Bauer probably feels at the end of most 24-series or maybe even a more narcissistic Cristiano Ronaldo when he use to pull his team out of the brown stuff and really made the most of the moment. I could’ve done a Ronaldo esque ‘Siuuu’ celebration right there in the middle of the ball pool.
I let this go on for 20-minutes before I realise it’s time to be going. I grab Boy, throw him over my shoulder and walk toward the exit, like John Wayne off into the sunset with my Mum admirers looking on.
We arrive home, the first beer is opened, that feels good. I make an omelette, he’s deserved some variety. I feed Mr Dog and then clean up. It’s off for a bath and at this point, Mrs Mum is up, still unwell but a lot better than she was and she shadows, as I do bath and then the bedtime routine. We put him to bed and have a bit of a catch-up. It’s been a long day and it made me realise that this is what Mrs Mum does most days, everyday! Yes I do ‘a share’ the workload, but it’s not the Lions share, it’s not the heavy lifting Mrs Mum does everyday.
The meals, the preparation, the bath times. Yes we share some parts, such as bedtime, but she’s still part of it. All this in parallel with researching what kids can eat, what they should be doing at such ages, places to go, things to do, all the daycare stuff, all the admin, doctors appointments, health risks, things to be aware of and lookout for, when to start getting him on waitlists for things, just everything, EVERYTHING! This is before Mrs Mum even starts to manage the finances, do her own work, exercise, get herself ready and occasionally sleep. I’m of course like the apprentice who never actually graduates to be an actual parent. I’m constantly shadowing and executing what Mrs Mum teaches me. I may come up with some football course he could do or throw out the rare tip I’ve heard on a podcast, but it’s already been thought of by Mrs Mum, she’s ahead of the game.
I already knew this was the situation of course, it wasn’t that one day where it all came together. I’d always made comments about Mums giving me praise for what is a typical day for a Mum. I was perhaps a hero for that one day, but Mrs Mum is a hero everyday. I of course have a huge safety net in Mrs Mum, if I fail or fall, she catches me and puts me back on track in this game of parenting. Mrs Mum of course is the last line of defence and I’m proud (and extremely lucky) to say it’s a defence that is impenetrable and doesn’t break and those are shoes I’ll never be able to fill.
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