First I had better introduce myself. I'm a freelance journalist who spends most of his time at home searching half-heartedly for work. My partner is a hard-working teacher of IT, French and Spanish in a pretty rough secondary modern, so I am de facto house husband and stand-in Mum to our two daughters, Elise, 9, and Lydie, 5.
It wasn't always this way. Just a few months ago I had a full-time job in London and used to arrive home, if I was lucky, just as my girls were being tucked up in bed. I would jump on them, cuddle up, read them another story, and ignore that an hour or so of tantrums and disobedience had preceded this moment. My partner would go outside to smoke with the neighbour and moan about me.
I craved more time with my adorable little girls. If only, I told myself as I wrestled for space with fellow commuters, I could be present for those "golden hours" between school and bed before they got really tired and stroppy.
Now I'm there, and you know, it's not so golden!
After five months of coaxing a five-year-old into school clothes and trying to brush food out of her hair, and arguing with a nine-going-on-16-year-old about why she should not twist her skirt up so that it looks shorter, the glamour of househusbanding has worn off. As a result I even had a little tantrum myself the other evening, accusing my partner of being a FCP - a Female Chauvinist Pig. I mean she takes the mickey: she stays at school marking until all hours leaving me to get the tea ready; she slumps exhausted in a chair every time there is a bath to run or parenting to be done. In fact she has become me six months ago and I don't like it!
But there are compensations. I now look at other fathers and wonder how well they really know their children. I feel that I have grown a lot closer to mine and vice versa. They now moan if I leave the house to go to work at all. Lydie even said the other day that I don't go to work because I can't afford to! In some ways she is right. I have sacrificed a fair chunk of income, pension, etc but I will look back on this last year at home with my kids as one of the most important of my life and of theirs. I can't remember my own dad much. He was always away working. Perhaps that's because I'm 44 and suffering from memory loss. But I bet my kids will remember more about me. That's worth a lifetime as a wage slave in London. Assuming their memories are good ones of course!
Post this entry to:
del.icio.us
|
Digg
|
Newsvine
|
Reddit
