The Limits to Being a Dad (Again)

See also Absent Fathers

The endless round of re-organisation that accompanies a house move is, well, endless. Post needs re-directing, milk people cancelled and new ones hired, utilities cancelled and new ones started, address changing, the acquisition of endless rounds of goods that fit the new house rendering boxes of curtains ill-fitting, painting, cleaning, settling the kids, finding the nearest chippie (I speak of restaurants not trades-people - though please don't disregard the latter either), and so on. The Tinternet is a great boon in these days as we can do much from the sofa in the new lounge. The world is, we have discovered, almost entirely remote controlled.

But not all of it.

As responsible parents to gawjuss kids it is requisite and necessary as well for the mind as for the soul to register the little darlings with a doctor's surgery. I am not worried for myself as I am never ever ill, ever - but needs must when sprogs go splat! To the doctors we all toddled. Of course we had to find proof that we have been actual humans for all of the months that we have breathed air, proved our address, proved our last address and the eight prior to that, offered DNA samples, retina scans, fingerprints and psychometric profiling. With all this information lovingly gathered, we went about our business. 

Me - I was registered in a trice. Excellent. Not Mrs Acular though - she has nothing with her name on it at the same time as our new address. We can sort of understand that. We might be international terrorists (and she looks pretty dodgy it has to be said), but we pleaded our case. Nope. She may not register (but a letter from the bank would help our cause). 

Well, let's do the kids. We have all we need for them, and we are here all together. 

This is where I learned much about our world in 2011, and especially those bits I do not understand or like. The (very nice, incredibly helpful, and a little awkward about what she was about to say) receptionist told us that they couldn't register the kids until the mother was registered ... "in case there are any problems". Let me repeat the scenario: I was there in person, with my wife, already known to be the 'vicar' (not that that makes any substantial difference save perhaps for the fact that I carry a CRB and am professionally nice), with my children and as a member of a family clearly and manifestly working as a unit to do a job together. Mrs Acular and I appeared to be on civil terms, the kids on my lap illustrated that I wasn't a fruit-loop (in their eyes).

But no - they may not receive the care of a doctor until mum was registered. Didn't I feel like the child-beating village pervert all of a sudden! I can only guess that because a small handful of male deviants abuse children that all men are relegated to the place of designated driver in the legal lives of their children. Aren't mothers also found guilty of mistreating their children? Perhaps I just dreamed that. 

Lesson #1: Being a loving Dad to two adoring children is not sufficient any more. 

Not happy. Not happy one little bit.

Holidads

During my summer sojourn to the coast of the extreme South West, I managed to fit in some very noble people-watching. This yielded many results, the most striking one I have already described in 'Naked Woman Flesh'.

However, I observed another phenomenon: holidads.

These are not just normal dads but dads on holiday with the kids and The Missus, hence 'holidads' - holiday dads (but shortened for poetic effect) ... keep up, dear!

Anyway - holidads.  For the sake of clarity, I was not a holidad. I was quite the opposite, I hope. You are intrigued now, aren't you? I can tell!

Holidads are that breed of men who seem to expect wifey to run around after them and the kids while they take in the Stocks and Shares in the be-minatured Times at breakfast time. In our hotel, there were a number of such geezers. Wifey would haul screeching Tarquin down to eat (and all the parafernalia of kiddihood) while Holidad brought nothing but the paper. Holidads don't even look up when wifey, having desposited the snot-and-tears Tarquin, scuttle around gathering the food for them all from the servery. Holidads don't bat an eyelid or so much as pause between column inches when the incandescent sprog throws a paddy. They leave their rather flustered and embarrassed significant-others to deal with all that malarky. These chappies are conspicuous and they are out there in their millions and billions. 

I have never understood why some dads just let the mother get on and deal with it all. Yes, maybe in some (and not all, this is the Third Millenium) cases they have the fancy job while mindful wife does the domestic stuff - and there may be some balance in that division - but ignoring the kids, letting them be as invisible presences before their newspapers? Once, I was at a party where a little kid was playing happily with mum and dad looking on. The little love spilled their drink; daddy tells mummy that this has happened and she ought to clear it up. This echoes in all things; dads that never clean the manky touche of a post-poo poppet; dads that never get up in the night to deal with the lung exersions of a yelling infant; dads who, while on holiday with the family, seem to take a holiday from them in their very presence. 

Domesticity may be split  - parenthood isn't. You might be the Duke of Financial Headquarters, that that is your child there - get involved and be glad you can!

That's as much as I have to say about that.