The Spinoff Book by Toby Manhire

Author:Toby Manhire [Morris, Toby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780143774204
Publisher: Penguin Random House New Zealand
Published: 2013-04-08T00:00:00+00:00

Dads don’t babysit

BRANNAVAN GNANALINGHAM

9 MAY 2017

A call to cease the jokes about incompetent fathers.

You know, things would be pretty sweet if our own incompetence was celebrated. Imagine every mistake at your day job being comedy gold: “Haha, Brannavan, he’s so shit, what a joker, good one Brannavan.” Yet there is one job where incompetence is still turned into everyday comedic gold. And that’s being a parent. Or rather, a male parent.

Obviously this doesn’t apply to mothers. Mums are expected to lean in and be the perfect Type A while pretending to be a Type B genius in everything they do, including parenting. For dads, our starting level is set at “incompetent”. Many people are surprised if we do much more than 10 per cent of parenting duties.

Now, I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky fellow. When it came to most baby-related things, I had no idea what I was doing in the early days. I still don’t really. I had never seen a nappy since I was toilet-trained, excluding that one time we did that prank in high school involving Marmite. I hadn’t realised the first time I did the baby bath by myself that I should have the towels and change of clothes ready before the bath. My sneaky attempts to propagandise vegetarianism via lentils backfired about 12 hours later. I probably should have learned how the car seat worked before I tried to put a baby in it for the first time, coming home from the hospital. And did you know babies need to nap?

But how many mothers know their shit before a baby is born? Unless they were the oldest child of strict Catholics, most of my new-mother friends had little to no idea what they were doing, either.

But boy was I given a lot of rope. I couldn’t imagine a mother getting that sort of leniency. How dare your baby cry in a restaurant? Or on the plane, when I’m trying to get drunk by myself because it’s one time drinking alone isn’t judged but actually encouraged. God, why are you taking 20 minutes to strap your kid into the car seat while I’m waiting here blocking a lane of rush-hour traffic because I’d really like your park?

When I’m looking after the child by myself, I’m “babysitting”. No. If I were a teenager earning sub-minimum wage and drinking a bottle of vodka on the sly, then maybe I’d be a babysitter. Otherwise, it’s called being a parent. “Daddy Daycare” is apparently what my home turns into the moment my wife steps out of the house. I’d love to run a daycare. It’d play DAF’s Der Mussolini on repeat while the kids were forced to practise their slip catching, and parents would pay me in solid gold and overseas holidays. My home, though: nah, it’s child-proofed, kinda, and features three square meals a day.

“Ooh, your wife is having a night out? How will you cope?” Dunno, the same way that I’ve managed to take care of myself the majority of my adult life.

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