Blogging. What is it good for?

I’ve been dad blogging for a while now. Until recently it was only a hobby. Now, well, it still is a hobby but it’s a hobby I share with other people. Previously I’d been writing it just for a bit of fun more for me and my wife to read rather than for public consumption but lately I’ve come to know - as much as you can know a group of online strangers – a network of fellow dad (and mum) bloggers whose trials and tribulations in the world of parenting I’ve found myself devouring these past few weeks.

It’s been eye opening, as well as reassuring.

I’ve written before about how despite what you see in fiction and in those perfect Facebook profiles of parents of apparent wonder kids, no one really has a handle on life, let alone the daunting world of parenting. As I think I said earlier, everyone is more or less winging it through their existence.  

And as much as it’s easy to convince myself of that, actually reading about the very same fact in black and white from other mums and dads is the most reassuring thing on the planet.

In fact I feel more confident in my parenting, by virtue of reading blogs where parents sound like they’re the least confident people on earth. It’s good to know that others struggle with feeding, dressing, sleeping, winding, existing. That weirdly makes me feel surer in myself, that what I’m doing – what we’re doing – difficult as it is, is going ok. Everyone will go through tough times as parents. Reading about other people’s tough times is almost comforting; sometimes because you read about someone who is having a far worse time than you making your problems seem tiny by comparison, sometimes it’s a hilarious tale that’s relatable to your current situation and gives you a much needed laugh, sometimes because you read about someone who’s going through exactly what you are and has advice. Or you can advise them. It’s a hobby that provides reciprocal support and help. 

Kinda like this, but not really.

Blogs are much better, in my humble opinion, than the thousands of cold, sterile ‘advice’ pages because, to use a fairly hyperbolic metaphor, the bloggers are in the trenches, and on the front line. An NHS page feels like it was written by a robot that’s never been near a real child, a blog is a real person pouring out their heart and soul (and sometimes, if you’ve read my blog, bile and vitriol) about how they’re finding the wonderful world of parenting.

And I’ve found it’s helped me to open up a bit more as well. Now, naturally I love my son, more than anything in the world. But that fact is taken as a given. This past week, I posted this to a private dad blogger network I’m part of on Facebook.

Nothing out of the ordinary, but I was admitting this to a group of men. Strangers on the internet. That sort of thing is almost unheard of in my circles. People I know in real life, my family, my friends, I wouldn’t just randomly profess my love of my son to them. It’s assumed, but I think the fact that I – and many others – happily gush about their offspring signifies a shift in how men interact with other men, or at least since I’ve become a part of such a group. It’s almost the opposite of what social media normally is all about, presenting a fake persona to impress any and all who view it. This was me, laying my soul bare and telling a group of like minded individuals - all dads - how I feel.

Me!

A man! (more or less)

Talking about my…feelings!

To other men!

And, not to put too much significance on, you know, talking, but I think it’s made me a better father (and a more prolific blogger). Or at least made me feel like what I’m doing as a father is right. It may not be perfect and it may not be how other fathers do it, but my son is happy and healthy and I’m the happiest I’ve been in my entire life.  

What more could I possibly ask for?

Well, more views on my blog would be nice.

=)

The Smelling of the Arse

Picture the scene.

You’re sat at the dinner table with your partner, and either your or their parents. You’ve prepared a lovely dinner for everyone and as you’re halfway through the main course of a meal throughout which you’ve been regaling your family with some tale about that annoying fella at work, or this totally unbelievable thing that you saw today when you take a quick sniff of the air.

Then another.

And then your partner does the same.  

You both look at each other.

You then turn to ones of your guests and rhetorically ask - because you already know the answer - in a cutesy voice, “Have you shat yourself?”

And then you pick them up and smell their arse.

Wait, what?

Sounds weird, right? Except, in the past six months it’s a practice that’s become frighteningly normal. Although admittedly, it’s not mine’s or Jenny’s parents’ arse that I’ve been having a sniff of. It’s my son’s.

Now, I’ve done this so many times over the past half a year and I don’t even bat an eyelid anymore (unless it’s a particularly stinky nappy in which case I go blind for a few seconds) but this strangest thing is this form of doo doo deduction isn’t even that weird to the assembled masses. Well, those who already have kids anyway. God knows what childless folk think of it.

When you think about it as a rational human being, it’s disgusting. You’re literally sticking your nose as close as humanly possible to the rear end of someone you’re already pretty certain has soiled their britches.  I don’t know about you but if my wife, mother, father, anyone came up to me with an inkling that they’d shat themselves my first thought would not be to immediately smell their arse. I’d laugh my own arse off, sure. But smell yours? I’m not a dog.

“Here, mate. I think I’ve shit myself. Would you smell my arse and check?”

*dials 999*

Yet when it comes to Isaac I’m become a connoisseur of crap. I can tell whether this nappy will be a fairly solid one, or a dreaded wet one. I can tell the difference between a lingering wet fart smell and a definite poo. Yet despite my refined olfactory senses, I still defer to my wife to see what she thinks. It becomes something akin to a wine tasting – “Hmmm, it has nutty aroma that causes a sting in the back of the throat. And eyes.”

I don’t know why The Smelling of the Arse is such a big thing. It’s not like poo isn’t a distinctive smell. I mean, everyone knows what shit smells like.

And it ain’t roses.

Superparents

My wife is a goddamn superhero.

I mean, she’d have to be to look after Isaac on her own for five days a week while I’m at work. In fact, all stay at home mums and dads must have some sort of superhero gene in their DNA that gets them through the day, while still managing to do other stuff.

Me? I don’t think I have that gene. Not that I’m not a good dad; I’m frickin’ great in my own humble opinion, but on the rare occasions that it’s just been me and Isaac in the house for a few hours, I’ve struggled to feed myself, let alone do all the things that Jenny manages to do while looking after him.

Did I wash any dishes? No.

Was I able to tidy anything up? Nah.

Was I able to put any washing on? Nope.

Did I even have a shower? Ha, you’re kidding, right?

Yet somehow, my amazing wife has it in her to not only keep the house in a state that I could not - i.e. liveable - she also then makes the dinner for the two of us whenever I get home so that I can have my time with Isaac before he goes to bed, an hour and a half or so after I get home from work.

And she manages to shower. Most days.

I wasn’t able to do anything between feeds on the one occasion (one!) I’ve been on my own with Isaac for longer than a few hours besides wait however long it was from the end of one feed until the start of the next. And that was only from 11AM til 4 in the afternoon, not the half 7 to half 5 shift that Jenny does every day.

Like I said…superhero.

I tell her she’s amazing, every day without fail. And sure, she tells me that some days are great while others are hellish, but I know she wouldn’t change it for the world.

Now, earlier on I said that I don’t think I have the superhero gene that my wife and countless other stay at home supermums and superdads have. And I know that’s not true. It’s there, dormant. I just haven’t had the time to hone my skills as my wife has as I have to go out to work every day. I’m fairly certain if I were the stay at home parent, I’d be just as good as my wife is.

Because I reckon everyone has the capacity to be a superhero.

And if you’re a stay at home parent, you already are one.

Just without the cape.