Sadface #wickedwednesdays

The wee man wasn't feeling the best yesterday, all tired and sad. So what did I do?

Took a picture of course.

*sniff*

And yes, I am aware that I am in dire need of a shave.

I SLEPT! I ACTUALLY SLEPT!

Isaac slept for nearly 11 hours straight last night. Which meant Jenny and I got 9 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Praise be to the gods.

That is all. 

This is us this morning.

A Dad's Sense of Self

Hello, my name is Jonathan and I am my own man.

Or at least I was up until seven months ago. Up until Isaac was born.

Now please don’t think for a second that I’m resentful of the fact that my son being born stymied my life so much that it’s now irreparable. That couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s just that when you become a father, a parent, everything else sort of takes a backseat. The trouble is, as I’ve found, reclaiming your sense of self. But not necessarily because it’s difficult.

I used to go to the cinema a lot before the little man was born. It wasn’t my job or anything, but I sat in a darkened room in the Odyssey Cinema complex in Belfast at least once a week and reviewed what I watched for local website Belfast Times (click here to read what I thought of movies released over half a year ago). I loved it. I love writing about films as they’re a passion of mine.

When Isaac arrived that all stopped.

Again, not bemoaning the fact that the small matter of having a young child to look after overshadowed the obviously much more important act of reviewing the talkies, but it fell by the wayside. I always assumed I would get back into it eventually (more on that later.). As I was back at work since shortly after Isaac was born, and Jenny was on maternity leave, I couldn’t afford to take the time to go to the cinema. We live around half an hour away from the Odyssey, then I’d have to park, sit through the trailers, watch a two hour plus film, then half an hour back home. For sake of argument, let’s say that’s around 4 hours. As my son’s bedtime is around 7 PM, once I’m home from work I have around 90 minutes with him. Work being kind of necessary to pay the bills, I can’t do anything about that and I try to make the most of those 90 minutes, usually by wrestling on the floor or playing peek-a-boo, a game I’m still not sure which of us gets more enjoyment from. After seven, I’m not going to trek back up to Belfast to watch a film during the week. Especially seeing as my bedtime is around 9 o’clock these days.

But the weekends? They’re my time with my boy, and as much as I would love to go to the cinema I’m not taking four hours out of my Saturday or Sunday when I could be spending it wrestling or playing peek-a-boo. It ain’t going to happen. Also, I don’t think sodding off to the cinema and leaving the wife literally ‘holding the baby’ after she’s looked after him all week on her own would go down too well. So while I have (had) lost my sense of self in a way, it’s not like I feel bad about it. My self is just different now.

Jenny, by virtue of being housebound for a lot of the week, jumps at the chance to go out on a Friday night if asked. This isn’t a regular occurrence, once a month if that, but she always asks me if she can go out. Not because I’m a domineering husband or anything (if you met me, you’d automatically know that’s not the case) and needs my permission, but I think more because she knows I don’t often go out at nights since Issac was born – not that she does either; I can count on the fingers of one hand how many evenings there’s only been one of us in the house - and wants to make sure I’m fine with staying in, not because she doesn’t think I can’t look after the wee man or because she feels guilty.

And the truth is, yeah, I am fine with it. I love it. Even though Isaac’s usually in bed by the time she leaves, I love it being just me and him. For two reasons.

1)      Jenny gets to see her friends and not have to worry about Isaac for at least a few hours in the week.

2)      I get to catch up on my TV and gaming. Score!

Our friends too understand that we’re new parents, and accommodate our changed circumstances. We’ve had our pals over to our house for dinner and drinks more often after we’ve been parents than we did before because they understand that we can’t just drop everything and head out anymore. Yes, the length between shenanigans might be longer than it was before and definitely more subdued, but you can’t have everything. They know we’re not as flexible as we once were (in more ways than one) and change their plans accordingly. And I love them for that. The same goes for our parents; every Monday my mum and dad take Isaac for the afternoon, so Jenny can go about…whatever she needs/wants to do that day. It’s usually cleaning the house. It’s invaluable, and the benefits are twofold, Isaac gets time with his grandparents and, once again, Jenny gets some me-time, even if it is spent cleaning, though she’s one of those weirdos who actually likes cleaning.

But recently, with Jenny’s maternity leave coming to an end soon, we’ve discussed a kind of reshuffle in our lives. Nothing major but enough of a change so that we get back some semblance of ourselves. For Jenny, going back to work will probably help her get back to being ‘Jenny’ and not just ‘Mummy,’ although she will obviously always be that. And for me, well, I’m getting back into the reviewing game, as well as hopefully pursuing several other avenues that interest me, but I’ll still always be Daddy. These past seven months I’ve been solely Daddy and Jenny has been solely Mummy, not forced upon us (well…) but through choice. Anytime since July I could have got back into reviewing, or gone out for the night, I just didn’t want to. I wanted to spend as much time as possible with Isaac.

I still do, but I’d like to spend some time with my hobbies. My friends.  My wife.

Myself.

He’s old enough now and we’re both confident enough in our parenting, that the other person can go out for the night (on a schoolnight???) and not have it be A Big Deal. We’re also confident enough in our choice of babysitters that we can leave Isaac with them and not have to worry. Who knows, the wife and I might even be able to go on a date(!) soon without having to bring the baby bag along too.

I can’t wait to get my sense of self back.

I love my son more than life itself but I can’t wait to get back into feeling like me again.

It’s just that feeling like ‘me’ also means feeling like a dad now.

Which is the best my self has ever been.

Babies = Lemmings

Did you ever play that game Lemmings?

You know, where dozens of little green haired dudes poured out of a tube at the start of the level, and whose onward march never ceased, meaning you had you had to build stuff to keep them from throwing themselves off cliffs, jumping into death traps, or getting stuck in places they’d never return from?

Yeah, looking after a crawling baby is exactly like that.

Except without the green hair.

You’re caring for a little near suicidal life form whose only purpose in life, at the minute anyway, is to cause themselves injury. I can’t take my eyes off him for a second or he’ll either have crawled under the bed, or fallen off it. He’ll either have bonked his head on the floor, on the wall or on me. Or get his fingers stuck in the door. Or dive head first off the sofa. Or BREAK MY XBOX!!!

Right now Isaac is crawling so fast and getting himself into lots of fun situations, but aside from the odd head bonk, he hasn’t done any of those above things yet - except for breaking my Xbox, sob (*) - but as much as I pretend the task of keeping him safe is insurmountable for the sake of a funny blog intro, it’s so great to see him up and about. Well, on his knees and crawling anyway. You’re probably sick of blogs where I tell you how proud I am of him, but I really really am. He’s only seven months and is flying about with a speed I wasn’t expecting at this early stage. I’m not going to say he’s advanced for his age because I think that’s a load of rubbish when anyone says it, as if there’s a set age when all babies just start doing something (“Oh, I’m eight months old now. Better start saying dada and baba”(**)) and any baby that does something at an earlier age than they’re “supposed” to is somehow ‘advanced.’

But going into this new stage of baby development is properly exciting and frustrating in equal measure. I can’t be too frustrated though, and I’m not. Not really. He’s only testing the boundaries and I have to accept that there will be bumps and bruises and falls and bonks along the way. It’s all part of growing up.

And he’s growing up fast.

He’s pulling himself up onto his feet now.

So advanced for his age, I’m telling you.

The cat is less excited.

(*) Don’t worry. It’s only temporarily broken. I hope.
(**) He is actually saying dada and baba now. Well before 8 months.

A Letter to my Boy.

Issac,

You’re six months old now and you seem to do something new nearly every day. I couldn’t be more proud of you. I know that all babies and all parents go through much the same processes and feelings at this age or thereabouts, but you’re the only one who’s mine.

Every time I see you do something you’ve not done before, or try your hardest to perfect something you’ve been working on for weeks I can’t help but smile and/or break into tears. Right now you’re trying so so hard to get up on those knees and start crawling and you’re almost almost there. Every time you manage to raise yourself up on your knees and try to hold that position for as long as possible, before faceplanting into the mattress, or usually the floor, my heart swells with pride. Or when you’re doing it and you pause for a second and look up at me and your mummy, big smile on your face, drool dripping down your chin, but with a look of sheer determination on your face (you get that frustrated frown from me, sorry), sometimes how happy I am is too much to bear.

There are days when I honestly can’t quite believe you’re here. That these last six months have been some amazing dream I’m going to wake up from. It usually happens when I’m just sitting watching you try out something new, and I realise that I’ve been just staring at you for ten minutes. Or when we’re playing horsey on my knee. Or when you laugh your head off when I sing the theme to The Pink Panther while you get your nappy changed. Or when you smile that big beautiful smile when you watch mummy and daddy dance around the kitchen like idiots just to make you smile that big beautiful smile. 

But you are here.

And you are mine.

And I love you so very much.

Dad. 

*sigh*

Time to baby proof, I guess.

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.

=)