The Frog Pyjamas

Two mums, one blog, two takes on parenting

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Double standards and the hands-on dad

They’re not as light as they look, are they, children? The picture of the buggy on the Mamas and Papas website portrays a svelte hipster in an achingly nice sweater propelling his Little Darling along without a care in the world. Probably he would glide casually up Gipsy Hill. Well, I’m no hipster. I’m an overweight 1990s throwback and I used to dislike climbing up that hill when all I had to do was pick up our curry for two from Crystal Palace. With my child in tow I have seriously considered crampons and a rope.

It’s the trips first thing that bite the hardest, when the air is cold and apparently serrated as it stabs its way down to my pounding lungs; my legs still ache from wandering aimlessly around the lounge the night before fruitlessly trying to settle The Boy; and my head aches from dehydration because for some days now there hasn’t really been enough time to pour myself a glass of water. When I reach the top I pause and gaze back over London. I pretend it’s to enjoy the view, but when you’re basically crying because you’re so unfit you can’t see much anyway. I stop simply so I don’t keel over. It is on such a morning and in just such a state of obliterated reverie that a woman stops her car at the traffic lights, winds her window down and yells at me: “Nice to see a father doing a shift for a change!”

I don’t react, partly because I haven’t regained the power of speech after my mountaineering exertions, but mostly because I am a little shocked at being screamed at, and bewildered by what might cause someone to reach such as state of agitation that they bawl at me in the middle of the road before driving on. How egregious must my gender appear to her to be, that it should provoke such an odd reaction to the sight of a man pushing his child up a hill?

The Boy is sick, a consequence of eating mud, or poo, or another child’s finger, or some such hostile infiltrator of our carefully and endlessly sterilised and disinfected existence, and I am off to Sainsbury’s to buy some form of chemical plug for his effervescent rear end. His front end is pretty volatile when it comes to that, and my lurch up Gipsy Mountain has been accompanied by bouts of prolonged, agonized screeching. All illnesses suffered by an infant are of course exacerbated by their immediately catching a cold. In short, his world is ending, the ravens are leaving the tower, all is lost, and worse still his teeth are all hurty. Happily we are still at the stage where the dummy is a pacifier rather than a useful projectile weapon, and so it is that, finally becalmed, we mooch forlornly around the aisles looking for his medicine.

I used self-service supermarket tills long before The Boy was born, essentially because I am a misanthrope, and any form of interaction avoidance technology is absolutely fine by me. But there is a flaw in the system, a loophole exposed by The Boy’s company and ruthlessly exploited by enemy forces. The prowling assistant whose job it is to relieve bagging areas of their unexpected items will make a beeline for any buggy. The one in Crystal Palace Sainsbury’s is particularly persistent. “Breathe on her,” I plead with The Boy inwardly as she inevitably approaches, “breathe on her hard. Give her your cold. It’s the only way she’ll learn. It’s too late for us, but you might just save others.”

“Isn’t he amazing?” asks the assistant, apparently rhetorically, bending over the buggy. I smile. As it happens I agree with her. The Boy glares. We routinely tell friends The Boy takes against that it’s random and he’s just in a bad mood. He isn’t. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just doesn’t like you, and he doesn’t like the persistent assistant in Crystal Palace Sainsbury’s.

“You’re amazing,” she continues, firmly unabashed, “but you don’t need that, do you.” With that she reaches into the buggy, removes the dummy from his mouth, and then wanders off to help someone buying a six pack of Tennent’s who can’t do so without its being verified that he is eighteen. That it’s 8.30 in the morning, and the singular odour of the individual in question suggests that he’s already put away three or four, is not an impediment to the persistent assistant’s willingness to verify, cheered as she is by her heart-warming encounter with my child, fortified by the sense that she has righted a hapless father’s mistake.

You will think I should have said something to this idiot. You might say I should have retorted with something sharp and witty to the woman who stopped her car to yell at me. I should certainly have said something unpleasant to the toothy Underground gate attendant who, having obsequiously held the luggage gate open for the improbably attractive mother pushing the ostentatiously vast pram, let it swing back on The Boy and me at Tower Hill. I might have been more aggressive in pursuit of a seat on the train home from London, when all those miserable bastards looked up, thought, “he’s a man, he’ll cope” and stayed exactly where they were. I could have pulled my colleague up when, after what I will admit was a fairly melodramatic, morning-after rendering of the story of what a nightmare The Boy had been when I tried to get him to go to sleep the night before, she replied with a sympathetic tut and the line “sometimes they just want their mum, don’t they…”

The truth is my stock reaction to all of these offences – and they are offensive, not innocent mistakes or me taking it wrongly, but considered, prejudiced views of fathers generally – is to smile weakly and walk on. The anger hits me ten minutes later, when having run the incident or conversation back through my mind I realise that it would not have happened had The Boy’s mother been pushing the buggy. The delay is caused by the fact that the prejudice is in me too. I can’t very well be morally outraged (I have a good go, mind) because ten months ago I would have made a lot of the same mistakes. Although I like to think that I wouldn’t have snatched a dummy out of the mouth of someone else’s child, and it wouldn’t have occurred to me to stop my car to yell at a dad in the street.

There’s an extent to which we bring this nonsense on ourselves. Just one in 172 fathers take Additional Paternity Leave. Certainly among the couple of dozen fathers at my office I am the only one who has done so to date. Worse still, four in ten fathers don’t take paternity leave at all. Statistically, therefore, fatherhood is a relatively rare public sight. I can be as upset as I like by it but I ought not to be surprised.

A recent Frog Pyjamas post makes the point that the very terminology of fatherhood is wrong. I am not “happy to help out”. Happiness doesn’t come into it. (For the sake of clarity, I am well beyond merely being “happy” to be a father, and never more so than when I returned to Sainsbury’s the following weekend and saw the persistent assistant sneezing heavily.) But I know dads who refer to looking after their kids alone in the evening as “babysitting” without thinking it’s at all an odd way to put it. When I breathlessly announced my impending fatherhood to my male colleagues, my trembling hand clasping the grainy picture of what we had been assured by the medical staff was some form of human life, I felt the searching glances of more than one of them, trying to determine whether I regarded these tidings as wonderful or a dire, personal tragedy.

My own father, for whom such things as Additional Paternity Leave were not available, gazed sagely down on his grandson on hearing these complaints and remarked that such sexism will probably be a thing of the past when The Boy is staggering around with his own buggy. I’m not so sure. Equality tends only to come to those who campaign for it. At the very least it requires dads like me to stop grinning and walking on.

Guest blogger: Steve

Grumpy father trying and failing to resist the unbending and thus far all-powerful will of his first child

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Tantrums and improvisation: our DIY naming ceremony

Before my daughter’s naming ceremony, I didn’t understand why most parents hold any such events before their babies are mobile, and hire professionals to do the talking. I do now.

I’m choosing to assume it was teeth, and not that she hates what we called her, but when we “officially” named her she was upside down in her dad’s arms, a protesting bundle of limbs resisting all attempts at distraction. When we vowed to try to make her happy, she was screaming her head off. We drank her health in relative peace, but only because she was busy sticking her hand into my glass of Prosecco, then licking it off her fingers.

We lost the thread of what we were saying a dozen times and forgot half the sentences I had carefully penned. When we did get the words out, they were probably inaudible over her outraged squawks. I make my living, in part, by speaking to rooms of people, but give me a lecture theatre of hungover students any day – or even of intimidatingly senior academics – over one raging toddler.

For all that, I’m glad we did it and (mostly) glad we did it our way. The delay – until she was a toddler – was mostly down to disorganisation. The lack of anyone who knew what they were doing was more complicated.

If we’d been the quietly sincere Christians my grandparents were, we could have had our little girl splashed with font water in our local church, ushering her with practiced words into a ready-made community. If we’d been sufficiently traditionally-minded, like my parents – and insufficiently irreligious for it not to be hypocritical – we’d at least have had the grandparents’ church, and an excuse for making use of the music and the sense of occasion. But we are agnostic almost to the point of atheism, so that was never an option.

Still, we wanted formally to acknowledge our daughter’s central importance in our lives, and to bring together some of the people whom we hope will play a key role in hers. We also wanted her to have a secular equivalent to godparents, although we had no idea what to call them. (Mentors? Too much like work. Sponsors? As though we expected them to pay to have their names emblazoned across her T-shirts. Guide-parents? As though they were dogs. We ended up with godless parents, because that was what they called themselves.)

It wasn’t straightforward. For all there’s a blooming industry in non-religious marriages, it felt unusual to be having a secular naming ceremony. The Humanist Society hire out celebrants but we felt uneasy about involving a stranger in such a small-scale, family event. Presumably, they would work in line with our thoughts, but there was always the worry they would insist in doing so in their own words. So I made it up, with a bit of help from the Internet.

It was small-scale for financial reasons, and local (i.e. our garden) on the same basis. We also kept it short (although nothing, it turned out, would be short enough for little A.’s tolerance), because toddlers don’t have the longest attention spans and all her cousins are under six.

We said a bit about how our daughter had transformed our lives, and how we had chosen her names. We made promises: to love and care for, educate and nurture her. To do our best to help her to grow up happy and healthy, secure in herself and considerate to others. To help her, in time, to live a life she has chosen for herself. We asked our close family to commit their love and support. We asked her godless parents to pledge their time, advice, and emotional support, and to read children’s poems they love and wanted to share with her. (Which they did, impressively, in the face of the A.-induced havoc.) We had asked her older cousins to draw pictures, which they solemnly presented to her, and we gave her a necklace we had chosen by way of memento. Then we all sang a song she loves, drank a toast, and ate barbecued food and cupcakes.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it? At least, I hope it does. And it was, except that in all our tidying, writing, gardening, baking, and worrying about the weather, we had failed to factor in the biggest risk: that the main attraction would do her Monster Baby act.

Our guests, being sweet people, made the party go with a swing despite the fury-filled soundtrack, and even found complimentary words for the muddle-through ceremony. “Genuine.” “Informal.” “Relaxed,” I think, featured repeatedly. “Chaotic” would have been more appropriate. But then “chaotic” pretty much sums up our life as parents so far, and having her is still the best thing we’ve ever done. So perhaps, in officially welcoming this small, determined person to the family, I shouldn’t have aimed for anything else.