Mummy's Boy

I’ve noticed in these few entries I haven’t written much yet that is unique to fathers, as opposed to mothers. Partly it’s because I was able to take some time off with Rachel and Barney – Rach still spent more time with the boy than I did but the difference in our experience probably wasn’t as extreme as for couples where the dad is straight back to work. Although I still haven’t taken Barney singing which does sound like a very different experience. In my defence I should note that I tried but the Saturday morning session had been called off due to the following Monday – yes, 2 days away – being a Bank Holiday. For American readers (given I only have about 1 reader, and she is British, or more accurately Cornish, this may seem an unnecessary diversion) this is so called due to the British tradition of Bank workers being allowed to take occasional Mondays to burn sausages in the rain and drink lager, which proletarian release enabled them to focus on their work for the rest of the year and avoid the temptation of stealing rubber bands and other valuable items of office stationary. The sausages originally contained a powerful psychotropic drug which rendered rubber invisible and made money look like shells – countable but worthless.

Also – back to the point - since we are such terribly modern parents we share all tasks absolutely equally such as cooking, washing up and changing nappies (unless Rach says she really doesn’t mind changing the nappy. Sometimes I have to ask her several times to discover that).

However, there are differences – or rather differences are becoming more apparent, leading me to wonder whether Barney is, in fact, a mummy’s boy.

Phrases like this in common currency don’t take on a meaningful existence until you see it in action. Until you try to give your baby his breakfast or put his trousers on but panic has set in because his mother is in the bathroom. Or out of sight in the kitchen making his dinner.

Or 3 feet away.

And Barney can’t bear it! He is inconsolable! Tears, sitting down, the lot. That this phase has coincided with his first few tantrums is not great news. They are not huge – or truth be told entirely convincing – tantrums, although I’m sure with practice he’ll get better, but that I can’t do much about it is not nice. It’s a terrible feeling, in fact, you want to say “Hey, I love you too! And I’m not sitting on the toilet.” (For example. I could have said standing round the corner making dinner but didn’t want to highlight the useful things I’m not doing. Who does?). It also happens with hugs before sleep – Rach gets lots of hugs and Barney is in a blissful, full of mlk and charming state, but cries if Rach tries to hand him to me for my hugs – I have to bundle in on a shared hug, like the last kid picked for football I’m only allowed in because no-one wants to see me moping around alone.

I too am frequently tired and woken in the night – in fact I’m more often woken in the night as my (alleged) snoring has trained Rach to be a heavy sleeper (she should be thanking me).

Now intellectually I know, of course I do, that Barney isn’t really rejecting me he just well, erm, wants his mummy, and he is more used to Rach than me as he does see more of her than of me but emotionally it’s a different matter. It’s hard not to feel rejected or at least a bit useless.

I can absolutely understand where the stereotype comes from of dads being soft touches indulging their children’s every whim, while mums lay down the rules and do the telling off. Dads don’t want to be authoritarian with their kids because they feel they have to work that much harder to get a little loving back, that they know the mums will get anyway. Maybe it’s different with girls, after all there is apparently such a thing as a daddy’s girl….

The only real consolation at the moment is that none of Barney’s phases last very long and there are signs already of a balancing out – I’m getting my fair share of big pre-sleep hugs now and when I came in from work I got the biggest smile ever. So maybe it’ll all blow over, like every other worry we’ve had so far.

And if it doesn’t I’m sure I’ll take it in my stride, secure in the knowledge that he’ll need me to teach him names of planets and how to survive in the wild (make sure to pack string, matches, a change of socks, and your wife / mum to keep you warm with cuddles).

Then, eventually, as he grows into a young man, he’ll mature and in time will find us both equally embarrassing and endure the hugs we still insist on giving him with a manful, stoic, silence.

Coming next – The Wedding!