Baby Daddy

 

It took me a long time to house train Superdad.  When we met he lived with a group of rugby boys and his house smelled of wee, sweat, feet and heavy petting. He slept on a mattress on the floor – I don’t know why because he had enough money to buy a BMW so I assume he had enough to buy a bed – all of his belongings fit in one chest of drawers and I don’t know if they owned a cooker never mind knew how to work one. Life was simple. Food was supplied by KFC, drinks were supplied by the local pub and as a result there were no dishes to wash. When I met Dad, he didn’t know how to peel a banana, had never eaten pasta and couldn’t put his own contact lenses in. Welsh Nanny told him and his brother that they had a cheese allergy because she wanted to eat all the cheese in the house herself (I might try this with chocolate). Dad discovered that he didn’t have an allergy when he accidently bit into a cheeseburger at McDonalds and didn’t die. And he realised that he really likes cheese.

 

Then along came Supermammy who began to teach him some skills for independent living and he developed these skills very well. Superdad learned to put his dirty clothing in the wash basket, he’s been introduced to food from around the world and is even able to cook it (he can knock up a smashing chicken korma and he loves a carbonara), he can peel a banana, hoover, sweep and mop and he’s the household dishwasher. He has no choice but to put in his own contact lenses as I won’t touch his bloody eyeballs and we’re currently working on how to put the empty packets from the daily disposables into the bin. He has learned not to open the door to strangers who ask for money after he bought shopping vouchers from a doorstep seller –

Dad: Guess what, I’ve just bought £100 worth of shopping vouchers and I only have to pay back £5 per week.

Me: How long do you have to pay £5 per week?

Dad: I can pay it over 30 weeks

Me: So you have to repay £150?

Dad: Errrm.....

Me: Where can you spend these vouchers?

Dad: B&Q

Me: What do we need from B&Q?

Dad: Errrm...we could buy some laminate flooring

Me: Okay. Let’s go and buy £100 worth of laminate flooring for £150.

 

He didn’t learn his lesson. He recently paid for a subscription to the Evening Chronicle even though he doesn’t read a newspaper. But...we’re slowly getting there and at times he can even recognise that the house is untidy without me having to leave a list of jobs to be done.

 

Then after nine years of training, sweat, tears and nagging...Welsh Nanny will arrive to stay with us for a few days, all of my hard work goes out the window and Dad reverts back to the little boy who needs his Mammy to butter his bread. He forgets that he’s a 31 year old father of two with responsibilities and capabilities and he morphs into my third child and sadly pouts at his Mother with eyes that say “I don’t know how to do it.” For example, note the difference between these two conversations –

 

Typical day at home...

Dad: Oh I’m so hungry, what do we have for a snack?

Me: You could make a sandwich or have some toast or a bowl of cereal?

Dad: I think I’ll make a ham sandwich

 

Typical day when Welsh Nanny is visiting...

Dad: Oh I’m so hungry

Welsh Nanny: What would you like love? Do you want me to make you a sandwich?

Dad: Oooo I’ll have a bacon, sausage and egg please Mam

 

I’ve tried this a few times myself whilst visiting English Granny. This was the outcome –

 

Me: Oh I’m so hungry

English Granny: You’d better go home then and make yourself something to eat

 

Eh???!!!!! How is that fair???!!!!! What happened to equality between the sexes? Welsh Nanny will have sandwiches prepared for Dad when he returns from a night out at 2’o clock in the morning. Though I think she does this to stop him from raiding the fridge and eating tomorrow’s lunch. One Christmas she found the beef joint had two bite-size chunks missing out of it. We knew it was Dad because he has a gap between his two front teeth and a teeny tiny mouth. Luckily he left the turkey alone because bones freak him out.

 

When Welsh Nanny is visiting, Dad will suddenly forget how to use an iron and his jeans will keep falling to the ground from the ironing board. He’ll huff and puff and complain about how our iron is rubbish and the board is too low and his jeans are stitched awkwardly, and I’ll observe with a twist in my mouth and deadpan eyes whilst Welsh Nanny takes the iron from his hands and says “here love I’ll do it.” I’m sure the Welshies think I’m the most neglectful wife he could have chosen – that poor boy has to make his own breakfast, he wipes down the benches, she doesn’t iron his clothes for him and he even changed a nappy today! And when Supermam comes home from work all she does is nag at him because he’s watching some TV, because he’s been home all day and hasn’t made anything for her to eat, because he had a nap for an hour, because she tripped over his shoes in the passageway and because he didn’t flush the toilet after his last plop. Poor lamb. And it’s not just Daddy’s parents, my own family assume he’s hard done by, including my grandmother Supergran who is always singing his praises because “that lad goes to work all night then he has the kids all day on his own. He does very well.” Errrrmmmm....I go to work all day and have the kids all night so where’s my round of applause? Dad gets to go to the cinema and have meals at Taybarns then he gets to sleep at work. He recently admitted that he probably gets more sleep than I do when he’s at work, as I have to contend with broken sleep when Ava is thumping the walls for juice or kisses and when Dad’s home I lie awake listening to him snore and count all the ways I could murder him.

 

From my suffering I have learned that I will always be a Mammy to Owen but I will not always be his Mother. If he can reach his teeth he can brush them, if he can reach the sink he can wash his dish, if he has arms he can pick up his toys. I tell myself this is for his own benefit, but it will also benefit his future wife (or husband) and it’ll benefit me too because I’m not making bacon sandwiches for any 31 year old unless there’s one for me too.