If it's Broke - Fix It!

It is often quite easy to spot, but my problem is - I am a Dad. And as all Dads, and most Mums know, Dads don't respond well to subtlety. The yukky, gooey, (and sometimes smelly) stickiness is all it takes to know that all is not well. But I guess that's part of being a Dad - kids get sick.

It looked like something might be wrong. The first indication was great green-grey globs of gelatinous stuff oozing from the nose, in its way to colonise the upper lip, hand and then sleeve. I am not altogether slow, there had been coughing and snuffling the day before. Hindsight tells me it was the rallying cry for the infection to gather its' resources and gird its' loins for the final assault. But at the time it could have been the development of a strange new dialogue, the attempted imitation of a wild animal or the vocalisation of a new cartoon character. How was I to know? It's not as if it introduced itself!

So, first port of call - the doctor. Wait patiently in the reception dodging projectiles of phlegm as they attempt to launch into orbit. Carry the weakened soul into the consulting room. I guess this is much the same when any parent seeks medical help - but here the similarities appear to stop.

This digression became apparent at a birthday party shortly afterwards, and after a miraculous 30 second turnaround, following a liberal dosing of sweetened red syrup that would not have seemed out of place on ice cream with nut sprinklings - but back to the story.

Having had some experience in overcoming the barriers to the conversational arena of mothers, I am often now welcomed for the softer, gentler more generic opening rounds, before the chatter turns to matters more oestrogen backed. On this occasion, given the season, the topic at hand was sniffles and coughs and snot. Various remedies were exchanged, symptoms discussed, (in all the minute detail that only other Mums and Dads could appreciate), recommendations sought and strategies dissected. In all of this I was able to participate as a willing and capable, if junior, team mate.

There was one area where I was, however, outplayed - guilt.

While the discussion was largely factual, contained in tales of sneezes and coughs, there was an underlying emotional tone. It took a while of listening to recognise its existence, and it took one of the Mums to point out what it was, while talking about going to the doctor. (Hey, I said I am not too good in the subtle department). It seems that a visit to the doctor's rooms is entwined with a guilty feeling of not being a better nurturer. Of not being able to administer a cure, of not raising a healthier child, of not being a good Mum. This was not just foreign territory for me; it was a glimpse into an alien culture.

Subtlety I might not have, but I seem to missing a good dollop of self-recrimination as well. Guilt? If my boy is sick, I go to the doctor. No guilt, just a request;

"My boy's broken. Can you fix him?"

A Different Shade of Dad

I live in a boy's house. It's great! We can leave the toilet seat up, we can watch movies that are "skop, skiet en verspoeg" we can even leave the house with about 3 seconds warning; to go absolutely anywhere - sometimes to dinner, sometimes to sport, sometimes to nowhere. Of course putting down the Bionicle and focusing on actually getting into the car can take a while for a six year old, sometimes, but the point is we are comfortable going "as we are".

My son has someone to show him the ropes, to kick a ball with, to bowl to him, to wrestle with him, to imitate in clothing style, (is this a good thing?), to shout with the goodies, and yell at the baddies, to join him in eating chips out of the packet and drinking out the can. What more does a boy need?

Who to kiss the scraped knee? Who to go to when the team loses, and he just needs a hug? Who to tell when his best friend has said that they are not friends anymore? Or even when the day has just proved a little long.

I am the first port of call, there is no doubt about that. Even when he was a baby, Dad was the source of the first hug. Even with sympathy and solace, there is no doubt that there is a need for a softer, gentler hug.

I saw it yesterday. He played at a friend's house. When I went to join them for dinner, the mom of the house mentioned that he had curled up next to her on the couch, under the blanket, for about ten minutes late in the afternoon. And then off he went, new worlds to invent, explore and reign over.

I am so fortunate to have women in my life that are able and willing to "adopt" another son for short periods of time. Thank you to all of them, for the gap they fill in his life. And for the opportunity to show him that sometimes there is a different side to life than "skop, skiet and verspoeg".

The Conversational Quagmire

One of the dilemmas is more easily illustrated by recounting a birthday party.  It does not call for a change of behaviour - just points out that solo Dads face some unanticipated challenges.

It's a Friday afternoon in summer.  It's the perfect day for a party for five year olds.  We arrive with present in arms, ready for an afternoon of play (for him) and sitting and watching play (for me).  I sometimes struggle to think that I had that much energy; once upon a time...

He heads off towards the loudest noise in the house and I am shown to where the parents are sitting and chatting.  I walk through the door, and the conversation - stops.  All the parents turn and look at me. Not unwelcoming, just in amazement, with the unasked question; "It's 1pm on a Friday afternoon, what are you doing here?"  Then as I sit, and the silence continues, it grows a little uncomfortable.  "What are we going to talk about now?"

All the parents, except me, are Moms.

With tea and cake offered on the table, the level of disquiet is manifest in the offering; "Would you like a beer?"

I decline, help myself to a cup of coffee.  The conversation re-starts, stilted at first and then flows easily, as we all ease into unfamiliar territory.  I am asked my opinion on hair colouring and stylists.  My opinion is as limited as my locks.  Conversation shifts to doctors and antibiotics, runny noses and discipline.  I am familiar with this territory, and add in my two cents worth.

The rules of engagement in this conversational game are different to what I am used to.  There appears to be no hierarchy so prevalent in Dad only circles.  

It's a new game, with new rules, and I am learning fast...

Does the name really say it all?

Maybe it's just me.  Maybe it's a sensitivity to semantics.  Maybe it's just force of habit.  At a school gathering or in a newsletter, when teachers want a message to get home it is so often directed at moms?

"If any of the moms would like to help...."

"Could all the moms please..."

It's not going to change the world, but it would be nice to be acknowledged as me.  And not just me as an individual as in "Could all the moms and Gordon..."  That would just be embarrassing.  

Is there an alternative? "Could all the primary care givers..."  Mmm, just doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

So maybe it's just me.  Maybe I will just take pride in my difference.  But looking at the school parking lot, and seeing who drops off and picks up children, I wonder how long it will be before it's not just me?  Before other solo Dads also say, "Hey!  What about me?"