Article Navigation

I'm a child-rearing BATMAN!


Right now, I’m walking on poop-smeared, vomit laden sunshine.  My MAN-gina is on overdrive, my effeminate feelings of nurturing so powerful that I’m an inch off snuggling strangers in the street and asking randoms if they need to be burped or changed.  …And it feels great!

I feel like my second child is vindication and validation for my partner’s life choices.  When she met me I was a mess.  I was getting divorced, I already had a kid, my friends and I went separate ways (except Mike—Hai Mike!), my dad died…  Short version, every person in their right mind—including me—said “this guy is an emotional train wreck with more baggage then sense… what are you doing getting involved with him?”

But six years later? I’m a godsend. 

People who don’t like my opinions, my politics or just me personally, all still have one positive thing to say, “… He’s a hell of a dad.”

This is my partner’s firstborn but every time she thinks she’s about to lose her mind, any time she starts to feel overwhelmed by hormones, new parental insecurity or sleep deprivation, all she has to do is wordlessly look at me with those big beautiful eyes to receive a, “don’t worry sweetie, I got this… Do you need a cuddle too?”  Because by choosing a man who already had a child, my partner acquired a parenting veteran. I’ve seen all the horrors, I’ve done all the trips to the emergency ward, and I’ve already dealt with all the normal complications of child rearing.

Complications during birth? No problem Doc, want me to pull out the kid while you work on mum?
Sleepless nights? I went twelve months with one-hour sleep and feeding cycles.
Fountains of vomit? My firstborn performed the puke scene from The Exorcist directly into my open, unsuspecting mouth… while I was hung-over.
Explosive poops that refuse to unstick from anything they touch… LOL!

At two years of age the only way I could get my firstborn to let me change him was to gaffa tape his nappy shut.  Alternatively, instead of crying or asking for help when he pooed, he constantly undid pooey nappies and then wiped them on every flat surface including walls, beds, sheets, change tables, toys, carpets and the entirety of his body, before covering said poop with all of the wet wipes and baby powder in the house. 

You know things are bad when you are seriously considering a can of gasoline and a match as a room's cleaning solution.

My first born was like my sister, but my second child is just like me. My mother’s favourite description of my sibling and I went like this, “When your sister came out, she started screaming and hasn’t stopped since.  Dan, you screamed twice and went straight to sleep, and haven’t woken up since.  You were such an easy baby…”

My son sleeps, he coos, he sleeps.  As long as you meet his very simple needs, keep him clean, fed and loved—he is constantly content.  Just like me.

Sure that could change.  He could go ‘dark-side’.  He could even out-do his brother for all the infantile horror that he put us through, and if he does all I have to say is this:

“Come at me paternity. I’m a child-rearing Batman.”

No comments:

Post a Comment